#and her sickly countenance

[degrees-of-fuck]

A lil, really fucking rough idea for the clara Design Update. it’s pretty minor.

#clarabelle my wretched belle #my evil sleep deprived beast #my silly rabbit #basically the clothes r different #i draw her hair a bit differently #she's more fucked up and disheveled as she should be #i decided she has a leedle glasses chain #for fun #but yeah i think people are just inconsolably attracted to her miserable aura #and her autism stare #and her sickly countenance #and that's the plot of the game to me #Clara (DoL PC) #my art

[huntingingoodwill]

honey, honey (s.h.）

masterlist

pairing: family video! steve harrington x f! music store! reader

desc: after eddie drags steve into the music store across from family video, steve finds himself with a huge crush on the girl who works there, a crush that turns him into a mumbling, blushing mess. they bond over steve's love for abba (well, he doesn't love abba. but for her, he might!) ( also reader calls steve steven it's all very that 70s show jackie and hyde <3 )

“Stevie has a crush!” Eddie sang, voice doused in a sickly sweet lilt. The declaration rang through Family Video, announcing Steve’s infatuation to the dwindling midday crowd. 

“I do not.” Steve hissed, the burn that began to blossom in his cheeks contradicting his words. 

“You totally do.” Robin called out, her voice flat and matter-of-fact in between the clacking of tapes as she restocked the shelves.

Eddie arched his dark brows in a smug look, boots knocking against the counter as he sat atop it, swinging his legs. Steve frowned, drumming his fingers against the cash register. 

Steve’s eyes, the brown hues of his irises honeyed in the sunlight, wandered toward the window. He looked toward the music store adjacent to Family Video, eyes cruising past the crush of band posters plastered against the glass to search for you. 

You seemed to glow, and he envied the sunlight that touched your skin. He watched you tinker with a cassette tape behind the counter, winding the unspooled mass of tape with a pencil. He felt the dip of longing in his stomach. 

Suddenly, you turned toward his direction, and it took everything within him not to duck behind the counter and hide. 

Instead, he turned back toward the store in an attempt to act like he wasn’t looking, only to be met with the unamused countenance of a customer who had been trying and failing to catch his attention. 

“Cup or cone?” Steve blurted, eyes widening as he realised his mistake. “Sorry,” he mumbled, taking the tape from the disgruntled customer’s hand, “Force of habit.” he explained. 

Eddie and Robin dissolved into laughter as soon as the door closed behind the customer. 

“Admit it! You’re, like, totally obsessed.” Robin snorted. 

He was a little obsessed. 

He hadn’t even taken notice of you before Eddie had dragged him into the record store the week before. Now, you were all that was on his mind. 

He was reluctant to give up his lunch break to help Eddie scour the store for a record he didn’t even care about. But as soon as he saw you, it all changed. His brash protests against Eddie dragging him into the store diminished, and he became completely quiet, lingering behind Eddie as a debilitating shyness seemed to rip the ability of speech from his voice, reducing him into a blushing mess. 

“Hurry, Munson,” you had tapped your finger against the corkboard that was tacked up against the wall. A polaroid of Eddie, his tongue sticking out in defiance, was posted beneath a crudely scribbled “BANNED 4 LIFE” sign. “My boss will kill me if he finds out I let you in here again.” 

“I got caught using the five finger discount a few too many times.” Eddie paired his explanation to Steve with a completely unapologetic grin. “This is Steve, by the way. Works over at Family Video.” Eddie jutted his chin toward Steve. “And Steve, this is… well, you can read.” 

Steve hadn’t stopped thinking of your name since, the fading, scratched letters that were etched onto your employee badge now engrained onto his mind. He hadn’t stopped thinking of the way you smiled at him, even when he couldn’t find the courage to say a proper hello. He hadn’t stopped thinking of the way you laughed, even as you chased Eddie out from behind the counter when he tried to switch out the record you were playing for one of his own favourites. 

“You’re going over there.” Now, Eddie leapt off the counter, snapping Steve out of the memory he was indulging in, boots thudding against linoleum as his ring-clad hands grasped onto Steve’s shoulders, dragging him toward the door. 

“What? Wait, no, Rob? Rob?!” Steve’s sneakers squeaked in protest as he attempted to dig them into the floor, Eddie mustering a surprising strength as he shoved him out the door. 

“Good luck, Harrington.” Robin’s indifferent voice was punctuated by the ring of the bell hanging over the door as it swung shut.

“Eddie, lay off! I’m not going in there.” Steve exclaimed, shrugging Eddie off of him just as the latter was about to shove him through the door to the music store. The low hum of the music playing within the store buzzed in Steve’s ears, the song pounding to the rhythm of his anxious heartbeat. 

Eddie’s flat, open palm met Steve’s cheek, the cold sting of his rings biting the side of Steve’s jaw. 

“Snap out of it!” Eddie exclaimed, hands latching onto the broad expanse of Steve’s shoulders as he shook him. 

“Dude.” Steve said, kneading the freckled skin of his cheek, the dull buzz of the slap already subsiding. 

“Okay. Sorry. Too much.” Eddie conceded, giving Steve a light tap on the cheek. “But come on. You’re Steve Harrington. Certified loverboy-” 

“Don’t call me that.” 

“Certified.” Eddie emphasised, jabbing a thick finger into the hardness of Steve’s sternum. “Turn on the charm. You like her? Get in there and talk to her! You can do this!” Eddie grit his teeth, a veil of determination falling over his expression. 

“I… can do this.” Steve said, voice faltering with uncertainty. 

“Let me hear you say it. You can do this!” 

“I can do this!” Steve exclaimed, the blaze of determination flaring in his chest. He turned to open the door, pausing for a moment before turning back to Eddie. “How do I look? My hair okay?” 

“Beautiful.” Eddie grinned. “Go get her, champ!” He called out, flinging the door open and shoving him into the store before he could change his mind. 

Steve stumbled through the door, the resolve he had just moments ago draining out of his body as soon as he saw you. 

He summoned all the strength in his body to will himself to approach the first shelf he saw, immediately flicking through the records in order to appear occupied. Like he knew what he was doing, and that his heart was not going to leap out of his throat at any moment. 

Having rushed toward the closest possible shelf, he was in the “A” section, hands roving over ABBA records over and over again for an unreasonably long time as he stole the occasional glance at you. His eyes tilted upward once more, trying to catch another look at you, but he realised you weren’t in his line of sight anymore. 

“Can I help you with anything?” Your voice, a lilting, lovely thing, made him nearly jump out of his skin. You were standing beside him, the proximity making him heady. 

“Um, I was just checking you out- I mean, I want you to check me out, I mean-” He tried to steady his breath, hoping it’d control his faltering tongue. “Can you please help me check this out?” His fingers plucked at whatever record was closest to him, handing it to you. 

“ABBA!” You amiled, gazing upon the glossy cover. “You like ‘em?” 

“Love ‘em.” A nervous laugh bubbled from his lips. “Who doesn’t?” 

He knew nothing about ABBA. Now he’d have to actually listen to them. 

“You’re Steven, right? Eddie’s friend.” The buttons of the register clicked as your fingers tapped against them, ringing him up. 

You remembered his name. He didn’t even bother to correct you, to tell you that his parents were the only people who ever called him Steven, and that was only when they were pissed at him. None of that mattered. You remembered his name.

“Yeah.” He mumbled, hardly able to form the syllable through the aching smile that began to grow on his face. 

“I should head over to Family Video sometime. Maybe you could give me a recommendation.” You smiled, handing the record over to him. “See you ‘round, Steven.” 

He practically floated out of the store. 

“Thanks, come again.” Steve muttered to the customer, sliding her receipt over the counter. 

His eyes wandered toward the window again, something he found himself doing more often than ever, hoping to get a glimpse of you. It was embarrassing, how often he did that, how he practically almost died when you caught his eye and waved at him. 

His fingers skimmed the countertop absent-mindedly as he gazed out the window, the kick of his heartbeat quickening in pace as he saw you walk out onto the sidewalk, arms crossed as your eyes followed the delivery van that cruised up to your storefront. The deliveryman placed two weighty new crates of records onto the concrete with a dull thud as you signed the clipboard he handed you. 

Your shoulders heaved as you sighed, bending down and attempting to lug the heavy crates into the store. 

Ever the gentleman, Steve was out of Family Video in a flash, ditching all responsibility to head out and help you.

“You need help?” He called out, not even waiting for a response before striding up to the crates, the muscles of his tan arms taut as he lifted them for you. 

“Thank you so much. The other guy on shift was supposed to help, but he just had to have a smoke break.” You said, rolling your eyes. 

You held the door open for him, and he placed the crates on the countertop with a thump. 

“Thanks, Steven.” You smiled, and it was enough to root him into place. He was lost in a daze, dizzy with the idea that that smile of yours was for him. He felt gooey inside, like he was due to melt right there, reduced to a puddle on the floor of the music store. 

You glanced toward Family Video, and he missed your smile as soon as the edges of your lips downturned. 

“I think you have to get back there.” You said. 

He followed your gaze, watching as a line of confused customers line up at Family Video, waiting for assistance.

“Shit.” He gathered his composure, rushing toward the door. 

“Oh! Wait!” You reached into your pocket, producing a cassette tape, the shrinkwrap taut around its shiny exterior. 

“I kept this for you. You like ABBA, right? It’s new. Latest cassette shipment.” You grinned, handing him the tape. 

He ran his thumb over it, heart pounding in his chest. He was lost for words, the ability to speak having completely left him as his cheeks tinged pink, heat burning in his collar. 

“It’s on the house. Just don’t tell my boss, alright?” You smiled. 

He was in so much trouble.

If he wasn’t in love with you before, he was now.

#steve harrington #steve harrington imagines #stranger things #eddie munson #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington imagine #steve x reader #steve #eddie #steve harrington one shot #steve harrington x reader #platonic stobin #steve x eddie #steddie #steve harrington thoughts #steve harrington hc #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fic

[hisui-dreamer]

such lengths

Pairing: Floyd Leech x f!reader

Synopsis: if your fiancé is the one to kill you in an arranged marriage you can't refuse, then why not seduce said fiancé so he won't kill you?

Tags: fluff, cliché isekai plots, reincarnation, female reader, historical setting, arranged marriages

Word count: 1.7k+

Notes: how did i write more for floyd than malleus💀

anywaysss early birthday prize for everyone's second favourite eel!!

✧Jade's Villainess✧ ✧Malleus' Villainess✧

Masterlist

The tale of this noblewoman is nothing short of a pitiful one.

Though born into a lineage of high prestige, her family's former glory had withered away, drained dry by the toils of generations past. Yet, the count and countess, bound by love and tenderness, still showered their daughter with affection, sparing no effort to ensure her well-being.

The noblewoman yearned for this fleeting happiness to linger, but destiny rarely extends its benevolent hand for long. On her eleventh birthday, her mother, weary from the ceaseless burdens of the household, succumbed to a devastating illness and became bedridden. In a desperate gambit to procure funds for the cure to his wife's illness, the count embarked on treacherous voyages to distant shores, seeking business opportunities in the coastal realms.

But alas, the wheel of misfortune turned relentlessly. On her fourteenth birthday, while returning home with promises of a prosperous business deal, the count met his untimely end in a harrowing carriage accident.

As the sole heir to the county, she was burdened with the weight of the title, a mantle too heavy for an adolescent to bear. She undertook the grim task of orchestrating her father's funeral. During the somber ceremony, a peculiar party of visitors arrived, their countenance unsettling, teeth like razors and stature unnaturally tall. She soon learned these were the Leech family, the very traders her father had forged deals with.

They dangled an irresistible proposition before her, one she could not refuse; in exchange for becoming the betrothed of the eldest Leech son, her mother's well-being would be safeguarded, and the finest remedies would be at her disposal.

Thus, the noblewoman, too foolish and naive, chose to secure her mother's future. Their union was sealed when she reached the age of eighteen. Yet, not even a year passed before a sinister illness overcame her, her constitution ravaged by a poison slowly administered by her own husband.

The Leech family, though incredibly wealthy and influential, had always hungered for the societal standing that had long eluded them. The noblewoman, unknowingly, was their golden ladder to ascend into aristocracy, for deceiving the aristocratic circles into believing she was sickly, much like her mother, proved a simple task.

And so, the noblewoman passed away pitifully, her title passed into the hands of her husband, and her mother soon followed her beloved daughter.

of all the characters you could've have reincarnated as, you had the worst luck of all when you woke up as Floyd's late wife

heck, Floyd wasn't even the main character of the novel, it was some businessman that grew up to be greedy and cruel, but had to learn how to love again after meeting the heroine

his late wife was just briefly mentioned for a paragraph about how the leech family, basically the mafia from "fathoms below", started gaining more influence and helped the businessman with his schemes

though Floyd and his twin brother jade did gain a large fanbase, they were a pretty striking duo and when did red flags ever stop fans from simping

you yourself were a huge fan of the twins, but even you didn't instantly recognize you became Floyd's late wife

it was only when you were grieving with your mother about the passing of your caring father and the leech family showed up at the funeral

the striking teal hair, mismatched eyes, and carefree grin stood out almost immediately

Mr. Leech, an formidable figure, cast a shadow of authority as he shattered the oppressive silence that had draped itself over the elegant garden. His voice, deep and resonant, possessed a commanding quality as he addressed you. "My condolences for your loss, my dear. Your father and I were business partners... He spoke very highly of you."

With a sense of poised grace, you offered a nod at his words. "Thank you, Mr. Leech. It is an honor to have made the acquaintance of your family, even under these less-than-fortunate circumstances."

Jade, his sharp and composed eyes keenly focused on you, joined the conversation. "I'm very sorry for your loss. I'm Jade," he offered his hand in greeting.

You shook his hand, your voice filled with gratitude. "Thank you, Jade."

In stark contrast, Floyd, exuding an aura of indifference. Mr. Leech took it upon himself to introduce him, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. "And this is Floyd, my eldest son."

You extended a polite greeting to Floyd, your tone warm and inviting as you curtseyed. "Hello, Floyd. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Floyd, maintaining his stoic demeanor, made a "hmph" sound before turning away, his demeanor aloof.

Sensing the tension and his apparent disinterest, you scrambled for a way to interest him. "Oh uhm, you must be tired from your journey. Would you care for some refreshments? We have some pastries prepared, if you'd like."

He turns back to you, a glint of interest flickering in his curious eyes. "Hmmm... Alright, why don'tcha show me what you've got prepared, Shrimpy?" He responds, the edges of his lips curling upward.

thankfully, the funeral came to a close peacefully, and Floyd seemingly got along with you

from then you awaited the offer letter from Mr Leech to arrive

you remembered that Floyd, though easily bored, could be really dedicated to something if he wanted to

so what better way to survive, than to make Floyd like you?? only then will your mom get the medicine she needs, and you'll survive without struggling in poverty

worse case scenario, he gets bored of you when you're older and you'll just divorce

and if he's the one asking for the divorce, he can't really make you pay compensation for the past medical fees

so, you decided to accept the proposal nonetheless

but not without precautions!! you started studying intensely on all sorts of poisons and antidotes, just in case Floyd randomly gets bored and tries to unalive you

though if he wanted to end your life with brute force, you knew you wouldn't stand a chance against him

as fiancés, there's not much improvement in your relationship

sometimes he's bored and finds hanging out with you a chore, other times he's following you around like a curious puppy, and there are also moments where he pranks you to see your reactions

you've tried becoming closer to him by getting him cool shoes and playing instruments, but he's far too aloof for you to know if he likes you or not

but thankfully, your mother's complection has improved a lot, and it does look like she's recovering

and once you're both officially adults and married, you start attending public events with floyd to establish your connections

or more accurately, for the leech family to establish connections with aristocracy

this time, it was a tea party held by some business competitors of the leech family

The elegant garden was a tranquil haven for the tea party, the soft murmur of leaves rustling in the gentle breeze providing a soothing background to the clink of fine china and hushed conversations. You, Floyd, and the other aristocratic adolescents settled around a beautifully adorned table, the porcelain teacups and dainty pastries tempting you all.

Floyd lifted the delicate teacup to his lips as he rolled his eyes, having grown weary of the incessant chatter and polite pleasantries that surrounded him. Just as he was about to take a sip, you noticed a faint, unusual scent wafting from his cup, a scent that sent a chilling realization down your spine.

With lightning-quick reflexes, you reached out and pressed your hand against Floyd's, preventing him from taking that fateful sip. "Wait, Floyd, don't," you whispered urgently.

Startled, Floyd's gaze darted to your eyes, confusion etched across his face. "What's wrong, Shrimpy?" he asked, taken aback by your trembling hands.

You carefully take out the silver hairpin gifted to you by Mr Leech from your hair, murmuring, "Please explain this to father-in-law later..." Carefully, you submerged the hairpin into Floyd's cup, and both of you watched in horror as the pearly hairpin rapidly transformed into a sinister shade of black.

His eyes widened as he looked down at the poisoned tea, realizing the danger he had been unknowingly on the brink of. Anger simmered beneath the surface, his emotions stirred by the audacity of someone attempting harm. Swiftly, he plucked the hairpin from the cup, using his handkerchief to conceal the incriminating evidence before the guests could catch on.

"I'm bored," His voice carried throughout the venue, capturing the attention of the other guests. "Let's get out of here." He said as he pulled you up from your seat with a firm yet gentle gesture, placing an arm around your shoulder as he guided you away from the tea party.

Once you were far from prying eyes, he pulled you close, wrapping you in a protective embrace. His large hand moved soothingly over your back, attempting to calm your trembling form.

"Thanks, Shrimpy. I owe ya one" he whispered into your hair. After a brief moment, he pulled back slightly, his intense gaze fixed on your eyes. "But how'd ya know my tea was messed with?"

Anxiety seized your body at the question, the weight of your response holding immense consequences. If you answered wrongly, Floyd might suspect your intentions. In a panic, you blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

"I wanted to protect you!"

Floyd blinked. "Protect... me?"

"Yes!" You affirmed. "I thought maybe there would be attempts on your life since your family's incredibly influential, and I wanted to be able to protect you..." You murmured the last bit, praying that you were making sense.

With an expression of genuine astonishment, Floyd stared at you, unblinking. It was clear that your explanation had taken him by surprise, the notion of your dedication leaving him momentarily speechless.

"You... you went through such lengths... to protect me?" Floyd finally managed to utter, a hint of incredulity in his voice. A glimmer of warmth crept into his eyes as he studied your face, taking in the sincerity in your actions.

Before you could conjure up an answer, his grip on your shoulder tightened, drawing you closer to him. "You're really something else, Shrimpy," he murmured, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Hahaha! I wouldn't mind having you around!"

needless to say, floyd started following you around even more now

it seems this event really helped you gain his trust and affection

soon after the party, he gifted you a new hairpin, with "pearls he found himself" he says

he starts getting jealous when you spend more time studying poisons with jade but if you say you're doing it because you want to protect him he melts again

looks like you're not losing your life anytime soon, but i also don't think that eel is letting go of you ever

Masterlist

if you liked this post, don't forget to reblog!

#i love the dynamic of floyd being like 🥺💕 you learned about poisons for me #and reader's like uhm sure (no i did it to protect myself) #twstnexus #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst imagines #twisted wonderland floyd #floyd leech #floyd leech x reader

[ddarker-dreams]

Do Puppets Dream of Electric Sheep?

Yan Scaramouche x F Reader.

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, mild not SFW implications. Word count: 2.1k.

“What am I to you?” 

He stills. Your voice is as gentle as a mother crooning a lullaby to her newborn. Sweet, mild. Not intending to startle the sensitive creature who is unaccustomed to this world. It regurgitates memories of his progenitor. He can never clearly recall her countenance or the exact pitch of her voice, there are only formless blurs and warbled words that sounded far away. 

It is a small mercy that he never made out the specifics of her face. For it allows him to envision her in whatever manner suits him best. She can be the scheming Niwa Hisahide who sought to manipulate him, the sickly child who left him behind, or the mendacious kitsune whose promises for aid went unkept. His mother is the locus of his rage that branches out and bears rotten fruit.

You cease your previous task of combing his hair from behind. Artificial heat burns his cheeks when your chest presses against his back, your arms coiling around his slender shoulders like tendrils. The hold is tight enough to almost hurt. 

“Say, are you listening?” Your lips brush against his ear. He shivers. “Well, puppet?” 

Furniture clatters in a cacophony of noise. 

He stares at you, incredulous, his lips parting only to close again. He cycles through emotions and is unable to settle on one. 

How do…? You shouldn’t know that!

You pay him no mind. You fix the victims of his outburst, setting the stool upright and straightening the vanity’s various implements. Then you sit where he sat, smoothing the wrinkles in your skirt as you do so. You face him instead of the mirror, which has cracked into three disjointed fragments. 

The scene before him arouses confusion, then suspicion. His eyes eventually find their way to the mirror behind you. He barks a laugh at what he sees. The sound reverberates in the tiny room. Electro concentrates in his hands, crackling and ready to stain his surroundings crimson. He gives a malicious grin. 

It reflects in the cracked mirror, whereas your form does not. 

“A cheap parlor trick,” he muses. “I should’ve figured.” 

You aren’t her, he thinks. And how grateful he is to realize it. 

“I’m not?” You challenge, raising an eyebrow. What is this being capable of hearing his thoughts? The curve of your smile epitomizes everything you’ve never been: cruel and provocative. This ignis fatuus who dares to assume your form makes no attempt to flee from the attack writhing in his palms. “Well, I suppose there’s some truth to that. What you’re looking at now is what I am to become, not my present, corporeal self.” 

He studies “you” carefully. The pigmentation of your eyes, your intonation, and your body language; it lines up uncannily well, but your word choice is peculiar. There’s a callousness begotten to those burdened by esoteric knowledge, an experience he’s intimately familiar with. This can’t be a poorly executed emulation devised by that medical charlatan excommunicated by his peers, or an experience that aligns with the continuity of Teyvat’s laws. 

Is his conscious being tampered with by the gods? 

“I’m afraid not. We both know that panopticon has no interest in you. No, discarded prototype, think back to your creation. When was it determined you’d be of no use to Beelzebul?” 

He grits his teeth. That intrusive introspection is coming into play again. It’s as if his innermost sentiments have been printed out in large lettering for you to scrutinize. 

“So you’ve finally realized, although you’re hesitant to think it. I can’t blame you, nothing good ever comes from your dreams. Since you don’t require sleep, you were able to avoid this for some time… in trying to play human with me in reality, you’ll be judged by me in the one state where you are utterly powerless.” 

The energy gathering in his hand dissipates without him willing it. He tries in vain to summon it again, but the element no longer heeds his command. Clicking his tongue, he sits on the edge of the bed, then crosses his arms over his chest. He chastises himself for not noticing sooner. This room may appear to be an exact replica of the one you share, but the slightest details in its geometry betray the realm of possibility. Certain angles bend in inconceivable ways, the ceiling itself is drooping down like a viscous gel, the descent so slow, it’s near imperceptible. 

Dreams, pesky as they may be, are always destined to end. He need only wait for this torment to run its course. 

“If that’s the stance you’ve decided to take, why not answer my question?” 

He feigns ignorance for a beat, despite knowing full well the inquiry you’re referring to. You allow him his temporary repose. 

“What you are to me is a nuisance. A meaningless manifestation that I’ll forget about as soon as I wake,” he replies. How strange it is, taking this baleful tone toward an image of you. You are the sole individual he doesn’t regard with pure loathing, and as such, he treats you with a tenderness he thought himself previously incapable of. He can’t recall a time when contempt felt unnatural, like the first time he mimicked human breathing. 

This veneer of nonchalance is forced and he knows it. The mirage taking on your comely likeness is seeping under his synthetic skin, spreading malaise and decay. 

“Oh? That’s an awfully bold statement, but, nevertheless, let’s entertain it a while longer.” 

You clap twice and the surroundings shift. 

His limbs are dragged upward by an unrelenting force — red strings as formidable as piano wire. He struggles out of instinct. This futile act only serves to tighten the binds. Upon realizing this, he goes limp, noting that your presence is no longer visible. 

He has an unobstructed view of the cracked mirror, its jagged edges displaying three different images. 

To the left, he sees himself wearing the outfit he first awoke with, the golden feather dangling from his neck. The middlemost portion is accurate in its portrayal, unlike the others. It shows the glint of the mitsudomoe symbol upon his chest which he considers his birthright. The right fragment is nearly indiscernible, aside from hues of teal that swirl as if spurred on by the wind. 

The mirror shatters.

Light footsteps circle around him. He wrenches his head in the direction of the ambient sounds, identifying no clear source. 

“Even if you forget about me now, according to your designs, we’ll meet again. This “me” that’s been tainted and corrupted by your selfish intent. In trying to preserve me, you’ll be my ruin. You already know that though, don’t you? That your desperate clinging will drag us both down to unfathomable depths. It’s true, that by never letting me die, you’ll have an eternity with me…” 

You materialize in front of him, standing with your hands behind your back. The casual stance is at odds with the venom you spew forth. Just as before, everything about your physical appearance is correct, save for a single, damning detail. Your eyes glow a luminescent violet — that of Inazuma’s reclusive deity, whose gnosis he intends to commandeer, even if he must tear it from her himself. 

“But is that the eternity you truly wish for?” 

It isn’t. Of course it isn’t. 

What else was he to do? 

Watch helplessly as your biological clock ticks on while the hands on his remain frozen in place? Witness your final until you breathe your last breath, then allow your husk to be buried in the cold, unfeeling ground? His is a life of apprehension. That by some cruel twist of fate, you’ll fall victim to the many pitfalls mortals are vulnerable to. Illness, injury, violence, the list goes on and on. His overactive imagination serves as a personal purgatory that churns out images of your downfall every moment he is not by your side. 

Upon returning to your quaint little cottage on the outskirts of civilization, trepidation eats at him like maggots upon a corpse. If he can’t find you tending to your garden, baking in your kitchen, or lounging on the swing hanging from the old oak tree in your front yard, madness slithers at his heels, ready to pierce him with its fangs. 

You may never forgive him, but he couldn’t forgive himself if he let the one thing he cherishes in this joke of a world leave him behind. 

“I won't look at you the way I once did. The me who speaks your true name, spends days wondering when you’ll return from your traveling ‘job’, gladly welcomes you into her bed, granting you access to her most sacred body and soul; you will never see her again. She will exist in your memory alone.”  

Your pointer finger hovers over his trembling lower lip, then descends, over his Adam’s apple and in between his collarbones. 

“Having savored these pleasures once freely given, you’ll have no choice but to take them by force. You’ll defile me and insist it’s worship. Bitterness might whet your palate, but you’ll never have your fill. Can you call that love, poor puppet? Or will you rightfully refer to it as ownership?” 

All verbal exchanges cease. 

In this nightmare blurring the lines of what if, where he is but a spectator rather than an active participant, he laughs. It echoes in his hollow chest cavity where no fleshly heart beats. Your physiognomy goes blank in the face of such blatant malignity. He hangs here, a tossed-aside marionette, consumed by a paroxysm of emotion he once swore to wipe clean from his chest. 

“If this is an attempt to appeal to my conscience, it won’t work,” his grin nearly splits his face in two. “Harass me every night, for all I care. I’ll accept it. I’ll accept anything. Every form of you… every possible iteration, no matter how unsightly, beautiful, indifferent, or anything in between, I want it. There isn’t a version of you that can deter me. The real you offered herself to me for a lifetime — who am I to turn down such an alluring offer?” 

You pull away from him. 

The absence of your touch is worse than any physical torture you could inflict. He’ll take your loving caresses, your hand ripping into his chest, so long as he can familiarize himself with your genuine warmth. Such is the resolve of a puppet who has endured the biting blizzard of loneliness. Destroy him and he’d rebuild. Ignore him and he’ll pry the words from your mouth. Attempt to leave him and he’ll ensnare you in a trap that neither of you can escape from. 

This advocate for your future is washed away in a sea of ink, black as night, untouchable and ever-present as a shadow. The cascading wave swallows you whole. 

You depart with a final threnody.

“Until we meet again, then.” 

…

…

…

Something brushes over his cheek. 

“... Kuni? Kunikuzushi? Ah, what do I do, you aren’t waking up…! Insults? Do I try insults? Uh, you’re of less than average height—”

“Quiet down, woman, you’re loud,” Scaramouche complains with a groan.

You’re hovering above him. It’s a heavenly sight — if he were a believer in such things — the upturning of your eyebrows, the flow of your hair tousled by interrupted sleep, and the temptation of your soft, parted lips. Warmth emanates from your body. He delights in it. Swears a silent oath to himself that he’ll never be without it. 

“The insult worked,” you whisper, content with your quick thinking. Then, remembering the situation, you’re back to fussing over him. “Are you okay? You must’ve been having an awful nightmare.” 

His lips form a thin line. “... Something like that.” 

“What was it about?” 

“You,” he forces an unperturbed tone. Although he’s still hazy from sleep, he’s used to bending the truth. Or in this case, covering the parts he doesn’t want you to see. “I have to deal with you in the realm of conscious and unconscious now. Terrifying, right?” 

The sarcasm successfully draws your attention elsewhere. 

“Absolutely. So terrifying, in fact, I better sleep elsewhere so as not to frighten my— oof!” 

“Oh no you don’t,” he pulls you against his chest, preemptively ending your getaway, “You’re not going anywhere.” 

You willingly collapse into his hold, laughing softly. Though you’re no longer trying to wriggle away, his grip is ironclad, his arms trembling. He interweaves himself into you with a tangle of limbs. Once he’s content, he presses his face against the thrumming pulse in your neck. This stream that maintains your life is temporary — a subpar placeholder until you’re imbued with immortality. Still, he cherishes it, this special rhythm that has sustained you long enough for your paths to interconnect. 

He gives your pulse a chaste, reverent kiss. 

Your paths are bound to never diverge, even if damnation is where they'll lead.

#scaramouche x reader #yandere scaramouhe x reader #yandere x reader #yandere #genshin x reader #yandere genshin impact x reader #yandere kunikuzushi x reader #my stuff

[lovelyladyabsinthewrites]

Birth of Dragons Pt.2

Pairing(s): Aegon i Targaryen x Targaryen!Reader, Aegon i Targaryen x Rhaenys Targaryen, Aegon i Targaryen x Visenya Targaryen, Rhaenys Targaryen x Targaryen!Reader

Warnings: canon Targcest, rivalry, jealousy, targaryen kid ocs

Words: 7167

Summary: Aegon the Conqueror’s family has grown to a substantial size. But with so many young and cocky dragons, someone is bound to be burned. 

Part 1

*Also it’s raining like a motherfucker in CA rn

The birth of your twins had been a joyous occasion for the Targaryen king. You’d given him two heirs who were strong and robust babes. 

The seed of the dragon would prove to be resilient. Two years later, you gave birth to another son. A beautiful boy named Rhaelor. He reminded you of your Renoxa for he possessed the pale lashes and resplendent crimson irises. When Visemarys and Baelyx first met their baby brother, they were terrified of Rhaelor’s eyes and burst into tears.

Another year passed before Rhaenys would be round with Aegon’s third child. Everyone expected her to be the next one to bear the dragon king another heir. The third son of Aegon was named Aenys. He, unfortunately, had not been blessed like his older brothers in health. Aenys was a sickly baby. Small and his limbs unbelievably stick thin. It was a wonder how he survived through infancy. You and Rhaenys would stay up so many nights watching vigil over the babe. She was beside herself and for the first time you were her pillar of strength. Fiercely supporting her, you treated Aenys as your own and did your best to care for him when you forced Rhaenys to rest. By the grace of the gods, he thrived.

Visenya however took longer to produce a child. Not until the year your twins turned seven did she finally conceive. Even then, she absolutely hated the entirety of being pregnant. Loathed the restrictions it put on her body. While Rhaenys hadn’t been too thrilled about the rounding of her body, you had absolutely adored your pregnant belly for it housed your boys who were the greatest joys of your life. At the same time she was pregnant with her first child, you were already showing symptoms of your fourth pregnancy. Visenya gave birth to a large boy she named Maegor. His screams into the world shook the glass in the windowpanes and had Aegon flinging his hands up to his ears in a vain attempt to block out the ear piercing wail.

A few months later your only daughter Aella was born. The first contractions hit you when you were flying in the air alongside Visemarys’ small dragon, teaching him how to direct Rahu to where he desired to go. Neither Renoxa or Rahu were too far off the ground in case an emergency landing was needed. A good thing considering you would have to land quickly to alert your family who had been watching from the ground. Aegon was quick to get to you with Rhaenys and Visenya (little Maegor was back at the High Hill with plenty of nannies since he was to young to be out and about) running after him. Baelyx watched with wide eyes but also kept vigil over his smaller brother Rhaelor and half-brother Aenys. You were hauled back to Aegonfort.

To your surprise, Aegon was absolutely thrilled to FINALLY have a daughter. Sons were revered above all in both Valyrian culture and Westeros. For him to be so joyous over having a daughter to call his own was heartwarming. 

“I have enough sons to hold up the Targaryen legacy.” He earnestly told you. “Five to be exact. I want to gift Westeros with another you though. A Targaryen princess will be much loved indeed.”

You and your family learned early on though that beneath her sweet and innocent countenance, there lay a headstrong and spirited personality that was as delightful as it was unpredictable. Aella was a remarkable blend of her family's qualities: tenacious like Aegon, valiant like Visenya, playful like Rhaenys and. . .

Aegon had put his hand to your chest. “She has your heart.”

A mighty heart.

As much as you were scolding the boys, you had to discipline Aella just as much. She happily got the skirts of her dress dirty when playing outside with her brothers. Little spitfire would even lick at any scrapes she got and carried on her merry way as if nothing happened. Falls did not phase, not even as a baby when she was first learning how to walk on stumbling feet. Visemarys and the younger twin Baelyx thought it was the funniest thing to teach their sister how to be an absolute gremlin. And she adored her older brothers for it. They were the ones to teach her words that were not something a lady should say (although you and your sisters said plenty of the same words). Aella got herself into many brawls with the young sons of different lords who dare say a harmful thing toward Rhaelor’s odd eyes or Aenys’ weak constitution. She would always be there to rouse them up and offer her support in any way possible. 

Then there was Aella and Maegor. . . Gods help anyone who fell upon their mischief. They were especially close having been born but months apart. If you were being honest, you did not particularly like Maegor’s influence over Aella. You loved your sister, but her son was another story. He was made of grittier material than the other children of Aegon. You knew if the throne ever fell into the hands of Maegor, well, that would be a dark day for the seven realms. Maegor would not be a kind or virtuous ruler. Thankfully, Maegor’s way to the iron throne would be a long way. Something terrible would have to happen to Visemarys first and as he grew, it was becoming unlikely that anyone besides his own father could defeat him in a sword fight. He was tall with broad shoulders and lithe limbs. You’d seen your son unarm many men who were twice his age and more seasoned a warrior. Motherly pride made you glow every time you watch him train with the others. For being the youngest son though, Maegor grew like a weed. Resilient like one too. When sparring against Rhaelor or Aenys, Maegor was the usual victor. Rhaelor despite his adventurous heart was not much of a fighter. Instead of honing his skill at the blade, Rhaelor would take off on his dragon Imorth. The dragon’s serpentine body, sinewy and elegant, stretches to an impressive length across the sky. Imorth shimmered with a myriad of greens, from deep emerald to a vibrant jade green. Many times, there would be sightings of your son and his dragon all over Westeros when he became an independent young man. He was your diplomat in spite of his odd appearance. His fair complexion and red eyes tend to spook people on the first meeting but he had quite the charming personality and managed to win over even the biggest skeptic. And Aenys, poor Aenys would never be the swordsmen the twins were or even young Maegor. Not even like Aella who had been loudly vocal on her desire to learn whatever her brothers were learning. But he was a kind boy and a scholar and had the sweetest voice when he sang. Even not being a warrior like his brothers, he still managed to receive his own female admirers.

Perhaps it was for the best she learned. Both you and your sisters were trained with a blade and fought alongside Aegon when he called upon you for assistance. Aella would be able to protect herself if the occasion called for it. She wouldn’t have to rely on any man and could fight atop of her mount, Yldri. Yldri boasted a mesmerizing appearance, scales shimmered with the softest lilac hue, like the petals of the most exquisite flowers in the kingdom. If anything, at least Aella would have a traditional Valyrian dragon rider death like her aunt Rhaenys. Rhaenys died in the war with Dorne when Aenys was just three years old. Both her and her silver dragon Meraxes. You kept yourself together for her son. You were the closest thing he’d have to his mother even though you ached for the loss of your beloved sister. 

There were moments in your grieving when you would momentarily forget her death and turn to say something to her, only to be painfully reminded that she was no longer there. Neither Visenya nor Aegon knew how to console you when you’d grow quiet in realization at your own blunder. The tears that would prick at your eyes fell without Rhaenys there to wipe them away as she always did. It was considered an honor though for one to die atop of their dragon. A fate that you and the remainder of your siblings desired. 

Your grief for Rhaenys lasts for years as you’re slow to come to terms to her no longer being by your side. Late at night you longed for her arms and her kisses. The way she completely molded to your body. She was the one you always turned to as both your sister and lover. Constantly your bedmate whether it be in a sexual way or just to sleep and protect one another. Aegon’s presence was a comfort but by no means a substitute or replacement. No one could take Rhaenys’ spot in your heart. 

**

After the Dornish War, there was a long time of peace where the children grew and prospered under its influence. The skies were filled with dragons as was the High Hill. 

**

Two dragons fly side by side with ease. The beautiful, sleek body of Imorth is larger than that of the younger Yldri. Even so, both dragons boast the most magnificent scales among the Targaryen’s seven dragons. 

Atop of the lilac mount Yldri rode the only Targaryen princess, Aella. Her silver hair grew tangled among the beating of the wind but her smile was ever prominent and cheeks bright pink. Yldri felt her joy and released a happy crowing noise as her wings beat against the open air. In response, Imorth shrieks out his own noise of enjoyment. He dives underneath the she-dragon, giving Aella a perfect glance of the top of Rhaelor’s snow white head. His emerald robes billow behind him, almost fusing with Imorth’s color. The two dragons spiraled around one another, a beautiful dance of dragonkind, their wings brushing against each other in a show of camaraderie. All the while, their riders laugh in a carefree spirit. Their responsibilities were not like those of their elder twin brothers: Visemarys and Baelyx. They were freer to goof off and spend their days in the skies with their dragons. They were not bound by the constraints of the world below. Roars reverberated across the open horizon, not in aggression but in exuberance.

An ear piercing dragon’s cry has their laughter dying down and turning in their saddles to see the larger form of Zypheros, Baelyx’s smoke gray dragon, advancing on them. Stilling their dragons into a steady gliding in place, Zypheros easily catches up with them.

Baelyx’s bangs whip around his face, his long ponytail like a ribbon behind him. When he smiles at his younger siblings, the indentation of dimples grace his face. “Both of you are requested by mother.” He calls over to them. Speaking so high up in the air tend to be difficult, especially on blustery days. “Aunt Visenya and Maegor will be arriving soon.”

Really, all Baelyx had to do was mention Maegor to get Aella’s attention. She can’t help but perk up at the prospect of seeing her other half-brother. Maegor lived on Dragonstone with his mother Visenya. Unlike herself and her other brothers, Maegor had no dragon. For as long as she could remember, Maegor always said the only dragon worthy of him was Balerion. Maybe it was true, maybe not for Balerion was a fine mount; the largest in the continent. 

Rhaelor knew his sister better than he knew anyone else. He rolls his scarlet eyes at her obvious excitement to see him though he was not as keen to see his aunt and half-brother. 

Her face plastered with a wide grin, Aella urges Yldri to land just outside of the newly constructed capital of Westeros: King’s Landing. The populace still jumped at the cry of dragons above but were slowly getting used to being around them. Aella tries to squint her eye in an attempt to see across Blackwater Bay to Dragonstone in hopes of catching sight Maegor atop of Vhagar with his mother. 

Getting closer to the Red Keep, the other dragons of her family rouse their heads as Yldri screeches her greetings. She glides by the training yard where she spots Visemarys, Aenys and Aegon the Conqueror. Their father was the picture of masculinity and authority. Already Visemarys stood at the same height as his father and only required a few more years before his muscles matched Aegon’s. Compared to them, Aenys could be a waif. Not as skinny as he used to be, he still lacks the bulk of his brothers and father. That was okay. Aenys made it up with his kind nature, smarts, and singing voice. Aella appreciated each brother for who he was. She didn’t think any less of Aenys for the fact that he was never going to be a great fighter. 

Aegon lifts his head up first to catch his daughter’s lilac dragon pierce through the sky like an arrow. He smiles to himself. She shined brightly, just like Rhaenys and (y/n). Catching even Visemarys gazing up with an expression of pure softness and affection. He’d been seeing it for some time now since Aella came of age. Visemarys AND Baelyx. 

(y/n) had noticed it as well and concern flashed on her face when she took note of her twins squaring the other up when Aella was between them. She didn’t want there to be strife among her children. Especially fighting over another sibling. Something like this would certainly prove to be a problem when Aella decides when she is ready to marry for even her mother was loathe to have her marry. After all, the mother and daughter duo was always close. As a babe (y/n) would strap Aella to her chest and take her on flights with Renoxa. Aella would be full of giggles the entire time, loving the open air and wind brushing against her fat cheeks. Her family’s pride and joy despite how often she’d be naughty. 

Taking into consideration both of his son’s interest in Aella, Aegon had thought about the perfect match for her. A union between her and Visemarys would be beneficial. She’d be queen once Visemarys was crowned king. She wouldn’t have to face any major life changes. The Red Keep would still be her home and she’d still be near (y/n) and Aegon. But he took into consideration Baelyx’s feelings as well. He was second son, youngest of the twins and the closest in line to the iron throne. An excellent marksmen with a bow and a well phrased in politics. The perfect weapon in the Targaryen belt. Baelyx even wield an assassin’s marked blade. Visemarys was brawny in strength but Baelyx was sleek like a predatory cat. Each movement he made was calculated.

Neither parent had an idea if Aella was aware of the twins’ affections for her. They’d try to support their daughter any way they could though. Whoever she chooses. Similar to his wife, one thing Aegon would never be able to get behind was Aella with Maegor. Thinking of it didn’t sit well with him. Maegor would never hurt Aella, that was not what concerned the conqueror. She’d sooner have his head on a spear if he tried to force himself onto her. His youngest son’s ambitions worried him. He saw the hunger in those eyes, the hunger of another conqueror. Westeros didn’t need one anymore. They needed a king who could continue to keep the peace and balance of the land. He’d be an amazing general were he able to be satisfied with just that. No, Maegor longed for the pinnacle of authority. Aegon didn’t want to scare Visemarys with the potential of an assassination by his own blood. That was the reality. He hoped he would be wrong in the end and perhaps Visemarys and Maegor could work things out civilly. 

A few miles away, Yldri finally lands her feet firmly upon the earth. Easily sliding off her back, Aella dusts off her skirts and pats her she-dragon on the neck. They walk the rest of the way to the mouth of what would become the Dragon Pit, a place where her family’s dragons could call home after long hours of being with their rider. Workers were still buzzing around, building the walls higher and higher to especially accommodate Belarion’s great size. 

She inhales deeply, happily. Her home was a beautiful one. Her kingdom even grander all thanks to the efforts of her father and his sisters. Aella felt immense pride in being a Targaryen, even more for being the daughter of the conqueror himself. 

Yldri playfully shakes her neck, bumping the girl in the back with her large snout. Her giggles are light as she watches her she-dragon make her leisurely way to the entrance of the Dragon Pit, already knowing that as her home. Workers scramble immediately at the sight of her and make way.

Aella scampers down the hill where the pits were situated to the outer walls of the Red Keep itself. The iron portcullis groans and lifts up from it’s stationary position in the ground. She waits patiently, waving to the guards on duty who greet her cheerfully. Above she hears the screech of Imorth and Zephyros gradually catching up to the trail she’d blazed with Yldri. 

“Welcome back, princess.” A knight smiles at her. His own eyes glance up to the smoke gray and jade green dragons twirling in the sky.

“Did you hear Maegor’s coming?” She excitedly replies. The reminder makes the knight grimace in response. There was little love for Maegor in the Keep. 

She doesn’t pay attention to the disgruntled grunt he gives her. Aella moves right past him but not to the front door of the castle. Walking around the outer bailey leads her to the training grounds where knights and soldiers alike practiced the dance of swords. The shrieking sound of steel against steel rings in her eardrums like the beginning of a song. That’s how she felt whenever she held a sword and trained with her brothers. It was all so much like dancing except more fun. There was a thrilling element to it. The dance of swords was also the fine line between life and death. One balanced on the razor’s edge when performing the intricate steps that were required to assure your life was safe. 

Men from either side of her stop what they do to give her the briefest of bows or acknowledgment. Not many men in Westeros approved of a woman taking up a weapon. But she wasn’t any woman. She would be like her mother and aunts, who didn’t need a man to protect them from danger. They could very well take danger by the horns and force them into submission. Although Aella had only seen her mother use a sword once in front of her it made a lasting impression. She became a different person when there was a sword in her hand. In that moment, (y/n) had resembled her eldest sister Visenya. 

Aenys’ hair, with pieces of hay sticking out of it, looked like a porcupine when he noticed Aella happily wandering on the training grounds. His watery hyacinth gaze crinkles as he smiles. “What has you all smiles, jorrāelagon mandia (dear sister)?”

Chipper as a bird, Aella grabs his hands and twirls him around now drawing the attention of her father and Visemarys. “Maegor and Aunt Visenya are coming!  Mother sent word out to me and Rhaelor. Isn’t it exciting!”

He shared the sentiment of everyone else as his own smile dimmed. Forcing his mouth to keep the shape of a smile, Aenys attempts to sound as lighthearted as his sister. “Is that so?”

At that moment, (y/n) Targaryen appears. Normally when she went to watch her husband and sons train, she’d shed her lovely gowns and dawn her leather trousers and tunic. Not that day. She was dressed in a gown of the softest green, perhaps thinking to match her son Baelyx. This was something endearing (y/n) did. Often she wore colors that matched those of her children’s dragons. Yesterday had been burgundy, taking after Rahu’s dark red hue.

Immediately Aegon catches the emergence of his youngest sister-wife. If possible, there were hearts in his eyes when he gazed upon her like it was the first time. Every edge of his face softens and he pats Visemarys’ back before sprinting to the stone steps that led up to the door. (y/n)’s grin is wide as she lets him sweep her up in his arms. The affection they showed to one another publicly tend to make the boys uncomfortable but Aella loves seeing her parents still enamored with one another after so many years. That was the kind of love she wanted. One to last a lifetime. Visemarys turned his face away when Aegon captures (y/n)’s lips in a passionate kiss. When he spots Aella giggling, he pretends to gag. Aenys chuckled at his family. While his mother was no longer alive, (y/n) became his surrogate mother. She cared for him the same as with her four other children. In Aenys was the last piece of her beloved sister Rhaenys left to the world. 

(y/n) whispers something to her husband that has him drawing away partially. “So Visenya is finally returning.”

His sister nods enthusiastically but her smile was stiff and Aella, from the shapes her lips moved in, knew her mother was talking about Maegor being with her as well. Aegon’s long silver-blonde hair had been tied into a braid for sword training, courtesy of (y/n)’s skilled fingers. It trailed down his back, almost to his rear. Swaying as he steps back and holds (y/n)’s hand as they both descend the stairs. 

Periwinkle eyes take in her daughter who bounds up to her. She chuckles and smooths the hair on Aella’s head even though the girl was almost the same height as her. “I see the news has reached everyone.”

“Baelyx is an efficient messenger.” Aella happily nods and holds her mom’s hands in her warm grasp. “I’m happy that Aunt Visenya and Maegor are coming after being away for so long, but is there a specific reason?”

The males of her family pay even more attention. This was something they had all been wondering. Four years ago, Aegon cut off contact with Visenya and subsequently Maegor. A big fight tore the elder Targaryen siblings apart. To begin with, Aegon held almost no romantic feelings towards Visenya. That was well known. Evidence being that (y/n) gave birth to four of Aegon’s children while Visenya only conceived one son. (y/n) however still kept in contact with her last sister. 

“It has been too long since I’ve seen my dear sister.” (y/n) confesses. By then Baelyx and Rhaelor were now entering the grounds and caught the last words of what their mother had said.  

“How long until they get here?” Rhaelor asks after giving his mother a kiss on the cheek which always delighted her. 

In return she pats Rhaelor on the cheek. “I can’t imagine it will take them long. Possibly within the hour. All of you are to wash and dress in your best. And boys, please, try your best to get along with Maegor.”

All of the Targaryen boys, even Aegon, look down at their feet. All having been guilty (except for Aenys) of antagonistic tendencies toward Visenya’s only child. 

Their maids were already waiting for them each to assist in anything they needed as all five of them were already young adults. Aella would require actual help for putting on her dress as it was many layered with ties that needed to be secured. 

They obey their mother’s instructions, but for Visemarys and Baelyx, they in particular were unhappy with Maegor’s arrival. 

**

Aegon was always handsome, whether streaked with dirt and blood or cleaned up like he was now he was exquisite. 

Reclined on the chaise lounge in his dressing room, you watch the strong muscles of his shoulders as he puts his arms through the sleeves of his clean tunic. Your eyes helplessly rove to the tapering of his waist and down to the perfect lift of his rear. 

Later. You tell yourself as you’re already imagining wrapping your legs around that delicious waist as he pounds into you, perhaps pump another child into.

For now, you had to remind your husband. “Do try to be gentler with Maegor. He already knows that he is not the favorite son. You don’t have to rub it in.”

He pauses before shoving his other arm into the corresponding sleeve. “He’s different than our boys (y/n).”

Pursing your lips, you acknowledge what he says as the truth. Maegor was definitely not like your four boys. Something unhinged about Maegor that made even you wary of him. “Regardless, you are his father.”

Turning around, his mauve eyes turn soft in regard to you. You’d voiced this before, the anticipation of discourse between the sons of the dragon dangled above your head the more Maegor was isolated. Aegon kneels in front of you, pressing your knuckles against his silky lips. “I’ll be as gentle as a lamb.”

A laugh bursts out of your chest. “Yes, gentle as a lamb coming from the dragon king himself.”

His grin curls to show off his sharp canine. “I can be gentle.” 

Yes, he was capable of being sweet and gentle to you and the rest of the kids but that was the extent. Visenya and Maegor were not granted the same kindness. He still wouldn’t tell you what exactly he and Visenya had argued about before she relocated to Dragonstone, but it must have been big. The two of them never got along, not as much as he got along with you and Rhaenys. Childhood had been no different. The eldest of the Targaryen children bickered nonstop and would even be reduced to brawling out in the courtyard. 

Lightly, you drag your lips down the bridge of his straight nose that seemed to have been sculpted by the most talented artist before placing a tender kiss on the tip of his nose. He’s practically purring at all the affection you lavish on him. Sometimes it goes to your head how he immediately becomes pudding in your hands. No one else would ever see Aegon like this. Only you. An incredible power that you alone possessed. 

The shrieking of dragons that pierce from outside alert your family that Vhagar was here.

Before allowing any of your children out into the yard to greet her, you double check their attire and move a few stray strands of silver hair that was hanging in Baelyx’s face and to tamper down Rhaelor’s naturally wild hair. A brooch on Aenys’ cloak was askew and you promptly fixed that too. He smiles down at you and you can’t help but lovingly pinch his cheek. He’d been born the weakest, but nearly towered over Aegon now. 

Prim and proper, you nod to yourself. Your wildlings, Aella and Rhaelor, could clean up nicely when they actually put their minds to it and weren’t on their dragons. Aella especially was radiant in her cream gown. Maybe too radiant. The twins were gazing adoringly at her, you could practically read the lovesick thoughts going through their head in that moment. If everyone got through today without any bloodshed, you would count it as a success. You just had to get through it then hopefully it would be smooth sailing from there once Visenya and Maegor settled in.

In the distance you could make out Vhagar’s mighty size descending to the entrance of the Dragon Pit. They’d be here shortly.

Aegon laces his fingers with your’s. “Breathe my love. You’re making the children nervous.”

So many things could go wrong. Tragedies of all sorts pierce you so that you listlessly pace in the courtyard. You miss Visenya, but you were ultimately scared of what her arrival would bring.

You give Aegon’s hand a vice-like squeeze. “Good. Maybe they’ll be on their best behavior then.” Particularly Baelyx. He had the shortest temper of all your children. His surliness could match Maegor’s which led the two to constantly butting heads when they were smaller. It didn’t take much to set off either boy. 

Shouts from guards atop of the guard tower shout the arrival of your sister and nephew. You press yourself closer to Aegon in both excitement and nerves. 

The gate rises and there stood the firm figure of your sister Visenya and the young man beside her. His hair and eyes scream Targaryen. Maegor. Unlike his brothers and father, Maegor wore his silver-blonde locks short. Suits the harsh features of his face much better in all honesty. 

They stride past the threshold, movements in perfect synchronicity that you wonder if they intended for that or if mother and son were just that much alike. 

Regardless of the bruised feelings among your elder siblings, you smile and open your arms wide to embrace Visenya. Usually she detested physical contact. She didn’t even like holding or carrying Maegor around when he was an infant. For you though. . . 

A rare and beautiful smile makes her regular stoney face crumble as she enters your arms, her own arms encircling around you. She presses you close to her body and you could practically hear her sigh in relief. “Ñuha prūmia (my heart).” She nuzzles her face against your hair. “Skorkydoso eman bōsa naejot ūndegon aōha laehurlion (How I have longed to see your face).”

Tears burn behind your eyes but you’re still smiling, even more now after her words. “Ao kesīr leghagon nyke (You here completes me).”

Before she could completely break in front of everyone, Visenya tears herself away first and rapidly blinks her eyes clear. Her stoic expression returns when she glances at the rest of the family behind you. Specifically at the King of the Seven Kingdoms himself. 

“Aegon.” Her voice is frosty.

Your husband returns the sentiment in kind. “Visenya. You and Maegor appear to be doing well.” For Aegon, that was as friendly as he could be with her right now. Looks like he hadn’t forgotten nor forgiven whatever transpired between them. 

To break the iciness, you beckon your children forward. Happily, Aella is the first to greet Visenya and Maegor. Her aunt pleasantly hums and pats her on the head. “How grown you are.”

“Welcome home.” Aella tells her earnestly. Then she turns to Maegor who already has a cocky smirk plastered on his mouth. You chew on the inside of your cheek at the look he gives her. “Hello, Maegor.” She tilts her chin up to dazzle him with a smile. 

His voice is a deep rumble. “Aella.”

The other boys politely greet them in turn. You bid everyone to retire inside so that your sister and nephew could relax from their dragon ride although Visenya didn’t know the first thing about relaxing, always alert and ready for battle. War time was over but the way Visenya was, you’d think  conflict was still array in the land. Rhaelor worked well as a diplomat and was constantly going to visit all of Westeros’ wardens. Not even a whisper of friction. A few bandits here and there but nothing dire. 

In the private sitting room of the Red Keep is where your get together was reconvened. Refreshments and sweets were offered as mainly you and Aella kept up conversation. Aenys helps as much as he could as does Rhaelor so that tensions may be eased but it’s difficult when the twins and Maegor are having a staring contest. Visenya and Aegon were no better. You felt the chill coming off of them. 

“Your children are of proper marrying age.” Visenya brings up randomly as the conversation lulls to just you and your older sister. “When will you be arranging prospective partners?”

You’re caught off guard back her sudden question. You glance at the five of them. Visemarys and Baelyx will be four and twenty come the next season while Aella had just turned seven and ten two months ago. 

“We’re in no rush.” You tell her tentatively. Visenya had certain ideals that you didn’t share with her. She always thought you and Aegon coddled your children and that they grew up spoiled. 

Her eyes narrow. “What about Visemarys? He should get a start on producing future heirs.”

He stiffens next to you in his seat, uncomfortable with his aunt’s scrutiny landing fully on him. Vis was not one to be easily intimidated though, especially not by an aunt he hadn’t seen in years. She held no sway or authority here. Not like you did as the official Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. 

“I have already decided on my bride.” 

That stuns everyone and Visenya’s eyes visibly round at him. He keeps his face cool and collected with a slight smirk curling at the corner of his lips. You and Aegon wordlessly gape at each other before addressing Visemarys. 

“You have?”

“Who is it?”

“Have we met her?”

Dozens of questions flew from you and your husband. You should have known though. There was only one girl he’d ever wanted to take for himself as a wife. 

“Aella.”

Baelyx jumps to his feet and growls at his twin. “You can’t just claim her as your’s.” He gestures to their sister who sat completely perplexed that Visemarys had named her his bride. Without even discussing it in her. Her face grew red with both embarrassment and discontent. 

You put a soothing hand on Baelyx’s arm but it’s too late. He’s furious and you fear that Maegor will feed off of this negative energy as well. But he’s still sitting, perfectly restrained and smirking at his half-brothers in an arrogant way that had you wondering what he was thinking. Or plotting. 

Aegon leans to breathe something into Visemarys’ ear. Father and son stand. “Excuse us.” Without another word, they leave with Baelyx right behind them still fuming and yelling at his brother who seemingly became deaf to his irate brother. 

Heaviness still hung in the air though as the rest of you flounder for something to say. Aella angrily trembled as Aenys consoles her. He knows when a battle has been lost though as Aella, just as quickly as her father and brothers, storms out of the room.

**

The vile audacity to claim her in front of everyone. He’d never even mentioned any sort of feelings that would hint that Visemarys felt something more for her other than brotherly love. Aella would be a fool not to notice how Baelyx and Visemarys looked her way. She knew but she wanted to hear them say it to her directly, not be sneaky but abruptly bringing it up with the rest of the family. Baelyx wasn’t really mad on her behalf. He was mad because he hadn’t been the one to publicly claim her first. 

Rage boiled her from the inside and heats up her checks with the fires of all the Seven Hells. When she got ahold of them, Aella would throttle both brothers into the ground. Didn’t matter that they were stronger and older than her. She would find a way to bring them down to their knees and BEG for her mercy. If only they weren’t so consumed with their alpha male bullshit to even asked her who she favored more. Were she to be faster to leave the sitting room, maybe Aella could have followed them to wherever they went off to. This involved her after all. Who she chose as her husband was her decision. Her parents promised her that she could choose whoever she wants to take as a partner. They said they would support her. This was a discussion that required her presence as well. She’d smother the flames of her fury in order to put up her petition to remind Aegon that she was in charge of choosing.

First she went to the chambers of the king and queen. Empty.

Stalking through the halls of the Keep, Aella realized that they weren’t in the main dwellings of the family. Aegon must have took them where he carries out all important duties. The throne room that housed the infamous iron throne, built by her father the conqueror. He was always wary when the young ones were too close to it. The swords were still sharp like they were freshly pulled from their owner’s hands. Swords of his fallen enemies. It wasn’t uncommon to receive small cuts from it. Aegon was never maimed when he sat on the throne since it was made for him. Not even his own chair would harm him. 

This forces her to leave the Keep and cross through the outer yard to get to the throne room which also housed a granary and a kitchen. Each step she took, Aella let out another curse toward her brothers. She’d give them the tongue lashing of the century. It will be ringing in their ears even as they lay on their deathbed. The never ending presence of soldiers milling about didn’t garner a second glance at them though even they noticed her wrath filled strut. Their princess rarely grew as impassioned as she was in that moment. Whatever argument was had in the Keep was enough to stoke her fire. 

The soldiers standing at the front bow at her presence and let her easily pass through. Aegon had been in the middle of saying something until the clacking of her heels hit against the ground. Visemarys smiles as if nothing of interest was going on while Baelyx’s seething lightened up. She walks straight up to Visemarys and shoves him with a house. 

“What kind of power trip are you on?” Teeth grit down hard as she goes to push him again despite her father calling her name.

Her anger toward Vis and not Baelyx as his glare turning into a self-righteous sneer. “See! I was only speaking up in Aella’s interest.”

Wrong thing to say.

She whips around and smacks Baelyx across the face. “You’re no better! You caused a scene.”

“Aella.” That stern command has Aella balling her hands into fists but obeys to face her father. She knew when to pick her fights and she would not win a fight with her father no matter how much Aegon loved his daughter. When he used that tone with her there was little choice but for her to simmer down. But her rage was still heavy in her mouth. She couldn’t even look at either brother who are positioned on either side of her. Baelyx, though his cheek was turning red, he sadly glances at his sister before pressing his lips firmly together. 

Aegon sighed, lines running across his face in the light of the throne room. A blessing he thought his children were. They behaved with the common childish mischief that arose with many kids in proximity. Never really caused him any real problems. But this was very much a problem that Aegon dreaded addressing. 

“Is it true you didn’t even speak this over with Aella, Visemarys?” He knows the answer. 

Visemarys being the eldest tend to let that go to his head. Crown Prince of Westeros and Heir to the Iron Throne, he thought whatever he said would be law. At least he has the common sense to shift his eyes away from Aegon with shame. “Yes, your grace. I figure it was inevitable though. Who better for me to take as wife and queen?”

His sister scoffs in disgust but keeps quiet under Aegon’s intimidating glare. 

“You do not have immediate claim of Aella just because you are first born.” Aegon sternly informs his son. In response his heir flinches. He’d been hoping his father would be on his side. Really, who would Aegon rather Aella marry? Visemarys would make her a queen. “She was promised she could choose her own husband. You’d be wise to respect that.” 

Newfound admiration blossoms for her father. She hadn’t expected him to take her side in all of this. But she realized she would not be exempt from being scolded as well. 

“Baelyx may have deserved your words but he didn’t deserve your abuse.” Aegon gazes from one pair of lilac eyes to another. Their father cast quite the shadow. “All of you are to go to your rooms for the rest of the night. Your dinner will be brought to you. You’re to reflect on how your actions may have harmed the other. Put yourself into their body and empathize. We’re family first and foremost. The house of the dragon cannot survive if we’re squabbling amongst one another.” He appeared to catch his own words. Momentarily he hangs back to gather his thoughts. “Tomorrow morning report straight to the throne room. No breakfast.” 

They bow to their illustrious father. His final words were law and even his offspring must bend the knee to their sovereign. 

Guards were sent along with them to make sure the trio went to their respective rooms.

In her room, Aella seeks out a distraction in the form of embroidery, to darts, hells she even tried to practice the lute but even boredom couldn’t help her enjoy that monstrous instrument that her teachers insist her learn to play. By the second hour, Aella was near ready to smash her lute into a thousand pieces against her bedpost. Were it not for the playful knock at her door, she may have gone through with her destructive impulse. A quizzically arched brow, Aella stares at the door. 

“Who is it?” She called out.

“Jaesa (Goddess).” That fine serpent’s voice has her heart fluttering.

“Maegor. Unfortunately I have been banished to my room for the night.” She chuckled and tents her fingers on the door. “I don’t think father intended for me to have any visitors.”

His laugh is a low baritone that has Aella smiling fondly at the door. “Open the door, Jaesa.” 

She doesn’t bother to think about the consequences and pulls on the handle of her door. Maegor is by himself, and easily manages to squeeze his way through the slim opening she offered him. Four years didn’t change Maegor’s personality, but it certainly transformed his body into swelled muscles and a proud stance. 

Still furious with her brothers, Aella eyes him up and down with a coy grin that mirrored her half-brother’s. He read her mind easily, always had. He’s already lifting her up by her rear as she grabs for his face to kiss him. 

Only she could say who were husband would be. 

#game of thrones #game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones fanfic #Game of Thrones fandom #A Song of Ice and Fire #a song of ice and fire fanfiction #a song of ice and fire fanfic #A Song of Ice and Fire fandom #ASoIaF #asoiaf fandom #asoiaf fanfiction #asoiaf fic #asoiaf fanfic #reader insert #reader insert fanfiction #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon the conqueror #aegon i targaryen x reader #aegon i targaryen

[melodrama-ticcc]

.: 𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐆𝐄 :.

abstract: they’ve been looking to introduce a new female into the family, looks like that girl is you.

warnings: potential stockholm syndrome, cannibalism, mild gore, depictions of delusion and mental illness, maybe this will be a series idk if it will have the demand for it

- - -

she smiles.

not the type of smile a person smiles when they are untroubled.

but the type of smile a person smiles when they are broken. surpassing the final stage of grief and instead reaching a state of acceptance. her countenance showing no signs of discontentment nor pleasure, but equanimity.

it isn’t a loud smile, it’s soft, quiet, but still toothy. fragments of bloodied meat stuck in between her teeth as drool spills from the cusp of her bottom lip. dribbling down in thick pools from her chin. drip, drip, drip. onto the porcelain plate that sat below, tainted with the remnants of meat drippings and fatty juices. like a wild animal who had just finished its first meal in months. her resolve had vanquished in the time spent in that bleak chamber down below. starved of both nutrition and any sense of humaneness. deprived of the basic needs all life requires to live. it seemed as though they had finally done what they’d set out to do all along.

but acceptance, acceptance was a wonderful thing.

the world around her was something out of a picture show. moving slowly, image by image and without noise. the sounds of this newfound kin cheering and demonstrating their contented signs of satisfaction in her actions being drowned out in the overwhelming ringing in her head. they crowded her and corralled her in her seat at the end of the dining table, affectionate hands patting her back and limbs reaching out to hug her. their smiles were wide and sickly twisted. laughter and grins are blurred together in some arcane sense. no thoughts prevailed.

“ knew you’d come ‘round ‘ventually. ”

it’s an echo that makes itself known amongst the idle silence that is her head. it draws her from her cognitions long enough for her to make out his burly figure at the other end of the dining hall. he stares at her with a soft smile, proud. leaning against the wall with such a slovenly, unphased attitude.

“ welcome to the family, doll face.”

it grows. grows into something repulsively ominous. a grin that twitches the apples of her cheeks haphazardly. aching with the agonizing detachment of what her helpless life had become. a monster, she had become a monster.

as she sits there, greeted with the domicile affection and appeased smiles of her now established family. her eyes stare at him. wide and glossy with some degree of fulfillment and carnal satiation. both at home and stray. he’s deplorable in many ways, she thinks. yet at the same time, she was living. and a part of her felt tied to his charismatic demeanor and charming smirk. he cared. in his own demented, abhorrent way, he cared. a part of her could appreciate his cautiously benevolent gestures, and even sympathize with his misfortunes.

“ awww sug’ — lookit! we don’ made’er cry. tears’ve joy those be! ” sissy smiles softly, tenderly wiping the wet from the girl’s face and planting a soft kiss to her forehead. “ bet you’re glad, havin’ me as your big sis’ now. ”

they stream down her cheeks leaving salty streaks against her velvety skin. she can only giggle. she does so quietly. her glazed eyes finally moving to the faces of the family members that surround her. voices becoming clearer, reality no longer fictitious.

it was as though the devil himself had come to tempt her. yet, he was both her captor and only savior.

but by god, did she love him.

#tcsm #tcsm game #texas chainsaw game #texas chainsaw massacre #johnny slaughter #johnny slaughter x reader #johnny sawyer #johnny sawyer x reader #melodrama #slashers #slasher x reader #slashers x reader #slashers x y/n #slashers x you #Johnny sawyer x you #johnny slaughter x you #johnny slaughter x y/n #johnny sawyer x y/n

[microcosme11]

English kid sees General Bonaparte at a neighbor’s soiree

J.G. Millingen, a child, with his brother and mother, was taken to France by his father, who admired the fall of the Bastille and the Revolution. It was a bizarre situation. His brother ended up incarcerated with some other English and his father was arrested several times. Millingen eventually became a doctor.

....It was after this event that I first saw Napoleon. The deputies Albittes, as I have already stated, had left our house (across the street from the church of St Roch) ...  and they were succeeded by another deputy, of the name of Serres. His wife was an amiable, quiet person, and they occasionally had bouillotte parties in the evening, which we frequented. The Serres were very intimate with Buonaparte, and he was often there. I recollect that when Madame Serres told him how much he had terrified them by firing down our street, several shots having struck the house, he replied, with great gallantry, that if it had not been in consideration of her, he would have shelled the quartier.

My father used often to converse with the young General ; and I well remember his observing that he had rarely met so intelligent a person. His conversation generally dwelt on the East Indian trade of Holland, with which my father was of course conversant, and on the means best calculated to improve it to the prejudice of England; and my father observed that he was surprised at his accurate information on the subject. Napoleon was then a pale, sickly-looking man, with a sallow complexion, and his long, lanky hair gave a still more cadaverous appearance to his countenance; but his eyes were dark and penetrating. He very rarely remained long, and generally took an abrupt departure. Amongst the visitors of the family was an officer of Pichegru's staff; if I recollect well, his name was Labadouchy. When he entered, Buonaparte would cast an ineffable look of contempt on him and leave the room. I remember he once said to M. de Serres, on seeing him walking in the apartment, “Comment ! vous recevez de ces gens là ?” 

I much regret that I did not direct more attention to his usual conversation, little suspecting, at the time, what would be his future destinies! He generally stood before the fire, and many of the visitors were grouped around him, and seemed to listen to him with peculiar interest. My brother related to me a curious anecdote. I have already stated, that he was very partial to the study of the art of war; and, on one occasion, the artillery being the subject of conversation, my brother asked him some questions, and expressed his regret at not having entered the army. Buonaparte dryly replied: "Monsieur, on doit toujours avoir des regrets, quand on ne sert pas sa patrie ;” and so saying, he turned on his heel in a most rude and abrupt manner. 

Recollections of Republican France, from 1790 to 1801. by J. G. Millingen. [Vol. I]

hathitrust

#young General Bonaparte in French society #English in France during the Revolution #memoirs #Bonaparte abrupt and rude #physical description of Napoleon #monsieur one must always have regrets when one doesn't serve one's country

[voraciousvore]

Bucky's (4/44)

***This chapter contains vore!***

Chapter 4: Eaten

Patty watched in horror, scarcely believing anything she was seeing was real, as the clear lid was pulled open and a gargantuan hand snaked in through the opening to grab her. She squealed with fright and ran, hitting the glass hard and bruising her knee, but the impossibly huge fingers closed around her anyway. The floor dropped away beneath her, along with the other humans as they gawked up at her from below, appearing like toy figurines from such a grand height. 

Bucky slammed the lid shut and carried Patty toward the kitchen. “No!” Patty screamed. “Unhand me, you-“ She couldn’t finish lobbing her insult before Bucky smothered her cries with the tip of his finger over her mouth. She was whisked away into the Giant kitchen, a sprawling chaos of hot stoves, rushed chefs, and platters of food lined up on the countertops. The air was full of hot steam and a cacophony of noise: yelling, chopping, clinking, clattering, banging, sizzling and popping. Patty’s head was spinning.  

She was slapped down onto one of the countertops, but still pinned with a hefty Giant finger so she couldn’t run. “Chef Cruor, this human’s for table 9. Special order.”  

“Alright,” a deep gloomy voice replied. The Giant chef stalked over to the counter and regarded Patty coldly. He had a snobby, sallow face with a thin nose and dark hollows under his eyes and cheekbones. His wavy dark hair was tied back in a ponytail so he wouldn’t get hair in the food as he cooked. He picked up Patty in his gloved hand impassively and lumbered over to his station, where he was already preparing the appetizers. He had baked miniature rolls that resembled croissants. He slapped down a cold cut of salami and spread cream cheese over the surface while Patty observed apprehensively. 

He pressed Patty into the sticky bed of cream cheese, ignoring her screams and thrashes, and rolled the cold cut around her body. He then stuffed the human into one of the croissants by wrapping her tightly in the soft, flaky crust. Patty tried to move her arms and legs, but they were firmly pinned to her sides. She felt like a pig in a blanket. The chef prepared a few more appetizers, sans human meat, and arranged them in a circle around her on a dinner plate with the square footage of a living room. 

“Take this,” Chef Cruor insisted, shoving a human-sized pill, barely a crumb on his finger, into her face. Patty would have refused, but Slim Jim’s advisement echoed back to her. In a snap decision, she chose to trust his words and reluctantly swallowed whatever it was that the chef gave her. She didn’t know what the pill was for, but at this point she had nothing to lose. She was going to be eaten and killed regardless. Perhaps the pill would mute her pain, sedate her, or make her pass out. She didn’t want to be conscious while being chewed up or digested. 

“Order up! Human appetizer for table 9!” Chef Cruor belted out in his deep voice, setting the plate on the counter. Patty felt a wave of nausea as a waitress scooped up the plate and hustled over to the customer’s table, bobbing her up and down with the jerky motions of her rapid footsteps. Red and white swam before Patty’s eyes in a dizzy rush. 

“Here you go,” the waitress announced to the customer in a sickly-sweet tone as the plate clinked on the table. Patty looked up and gulped with fear as she finally beheld the Giant who would consume her, along with two other Giants sitting at the table. She knew, deep down, that screaming and struggling and pleading would be useless when she saw the ravenous, delighted look on his gigantic countenance. 

“Thank you, miss,” he said absently to the waitress as she dashed off, not taking his predatory gaze off the plate. He drew in the plate closer to his massive torso and reached his hand over. Patty squeezed her eyes shut and whimpered, but he picked up one of the snacks next to her instead and popped it in his mouth, keeping his eyes fixated on her. He chewed it up and swallowed with deliberate, exaggerated movements, calculated to frighten his human meal, and his technique worked. Patty watched his Adam’s apple pulse in his throat as he swallowed, and she realized she’d soon be following. He picked up another mini croissant and ate it with a devious smirk. Patty trembled in her salami straitjacket. 

“P-please… don’t eat me!” she cried, tears running down her cheeks. The Giant seemed to delight even more in her misery. He pinched his human-in-a-blanket appetizer and raised it up to his face, grinning wide. His lips and teeth parted in hungry anticipation, strings of drool dripping down inside the cavern of his maw. Patty screeched in terror when he moved the appetizer toward his mouth and bit into the flaky crust, peeling it off with his teeth and scooping it inside his mouth with his fleshy tongue. He swallowed, and Patty, being so close, could hear the squishy sound of saliva and lubricated food sliding down his throat. 

“No! Stop!” she protested louder as the white rows of teeth approached a second time, this time gripping the salami and unrolling it into the Giant’s mouth. He slurped it up, and Patty heard the same squelchy swallow, watching as his jaws tightened and his throat muscles clenched in a rolling wave down his neck. Her limbs were free to flail about now, but she was still pinched between the Giant’s fingers, covered in cream cheese. His mouth opened again, and his huge tongue splatted against her feet and raked against her body all the way up to her face, licking off cream cheese and replacing it with a slick coat of slobber. He rotated her around in his fingers and licked her again, then opened his mouth wider. Patty’s scream was cut off as she was forced into his mouth. 

Patty was horrified to behold the walls of teeth closing shut all around her, trapping her inside a room of red flesh. What she had feared most was morphing into reality. This was real. She was going to die. She was going to be eaten. She flew into a frenzy, surging away from the yawning abyss behind her and clawing at the teeth, desperate to be let out, but the Giant whose mouth she was in had other plans. He easily slammed her down with his heavy tongue, squishing her against his teeth and sucking the rest of the cream cheese off her body. He rolled her around on his tongue, humming with pleasure. 

Patty wasn’t sure whether it would be worse to be masticated to death by the molars, or to be swallowed alive, but she wasn’t given much time to think it over as she slipped towards the dark void at the back of the mouth. She found herself staring down the gaping black hole of his throat. A breath of warm air passed over her face and tousled her hair. She jerked away, but the tongue pushed her headfirst into the chasm and the muscles contracted around her, mercilessly swallowing her down. 

She believed her bones would snap, or her ribcage would cave in, from the crushing force as she was sucked down in darkness black as pitch. She felt nauseous and claustrophobic as she dropped in a controlled fall the long, hot distance down, as if burrowing to the center of the earth to the molten core. Her mind was scrambled with hysterical panic. She couldn’t imagine the horrors that awaited her at the end of her journey, but they were approaching whether she was ready or not. She had no control over her fate. 

The Giant rubbed his belly and moaned with satisfaction as Patty squeezed through the opening to his stomach and splashed inside. She thrashed violently in the festering cauldron of acid, slapping the stomach lining uselessly with her fists and feet. Her tracker contacted the wall and lit up, to her shock, cutting through the blinding darkness with a bright light. Patty was unaware that the device on her arm had a built-in flashlight. She fixated with unbearable distress on the churning, wrinkly, fleshy pink interior closing her in. The stomach shifted with rhythmic movements, stirring the acid pooling around her body to digest the Giant’s meal. 

Some indistinguishable sludge slopped down from above and plopped down into the bubbling acid. Patty aimed her flashlight up to the top of the stomach to see more mush squeezing out from the muscular sphincter that guarded the ingress. She wouldn’t be able to reach that high or climb out. She was trapped. She pummeled and body slammed the walls around her, hoping that perhaps she could upset the Giant’s stomach and force him to expel her. 

“Mmmm... I love it when they squirm around inside,” the Giant thundered all around her, like the omnipresent voice of a deity. Patty shrank into herself, alarmed by the powerful voice. She realized then that anything she did would be futile. The only physiological response she had observed had been a slight quickening of his enormous heartbeat, suggesting her thrashing excited him. He swallowed her whole on purpose, to enjoy her struggling. That’s why he wanted an “unwilling female,” as the waitress had put it. Patty slumped against the squishy, throbbing stomach lining, full of despair. She didn’t want to give him what he wanted. 

She was going to die. There was no escaping her fate. She was done for. All because of her irresponsible roommate Jenny and her damned drugs. She was going to die a horrible, stupid, pointless death, without having accomplished anything of substance in her short, wretched existence. She was full of regret as she reflected on her life choices. She regretted not calling her parents from jail and saying final words to them, for fear of disappointing them. She regretted “taking a break” and not finishing college. She regretted investing all her effort into a failed relationship with her boyfriend who ended up dumping her. She regretted that she never had the chance to explore and discover her passion. She regretted not doing more with the time that she had. All her regrets snowballed into a painful realization that she had wasted her life, and it would soon be over. She could never get it back. Everything felt so far away now, out of her grasp. 

As she lamented, the organ she was inside rumbled loudly, making her shudder. She snapped out of her daze to consider her immediate position. She didn’t know how long it would take for her to be digested, but the thought of watching her flesh boil off her bones horrified her. She tried to climb away from the lake of acid, but she had nowhere to go, and the folds in the lining were too slippery to serve as handholds. She had to accept what was inevitably going to happen, but truthfully it was too appalling to even contemplate. 

The Giant continued to talk to the other Giants at his table, his voice booming through his guts alongside his heartbeat and breathing, but Patty didn’t pay attention to the irrelevant snippets of conversation. He ate his dinner, and the chunks rained down into his digestive system on poor Patty. She stewed in half-digested food and misery, waiting to die. However, as the food around her dissolved in the acid, Patty noticed that she remained intact. In fact, she became aware that the acid didn’t burn her skin or even so much as tingle. What was going on? She was baffled and a bit afraid. While she certainly didn’t want to be digested, she was still stuck inside the Giant’s belly. How long could she stay alive in here, if the acid didn’t liquefy her? She didn’t want to find out. 

Chapter 5

Chapter 1

#g/t #giant #giant/tiny #tiny #g/t writing #size difference #giant tiny #Bucky's #soft vore #safe vore #unwilling prey #unwilling vore #g/t vore #gt vore #v0re #v/ore #v.ore #vo.re #vor.e

[haggishlyhagging]

“For many other women, to various degrees, sickness became a part of life, even a way of filling time. The sexuo-economic relation confined women to the life of the body, so it was to the body that they directed their energies and intellect. Rich women frequented resortlike health spas and the offices of elegant specialists like S. Weir Mitchell. . . . For less well-off women there were patent medicines, family doctors, and, starting in the eighteen fifties, a steady stream of popular advice books, written by doctors, on the subject of female health. It was acceptable, even stylish, to retire to bed with "sick headaches," "nerves" and various unmentionable "female troubles," and that indefinable nervous disorder "neurasthenia" was considered, in some circles, to be a mark of intellect and sensitivity. Dr. Mary Putnam Jacobi, a female regular physician, observed impatiently in 1895:

. . . it is considered natural and almost laudable to break down under all conceivable varieties of strain—a winter dissipation, a houseful of servants, a quarrel with a female friend, not to speak of more legitimate reasons. . . . Women who expect to go to bed every menstrual period expect to collapse if by chance they find themselves on their feet for a few hours during such a crisis. Constantly considering their nerves, urged to consider them by well-intentioned but short-sighted advisors, they pretty soon become nothing but a bundle of nerves.

But it sickness was a reaction, on women's part, to a difficult sitution, it was not a way out. If you have to be idle, you might as well be sick, and sickness, in turn, legitimates idleness. From the romantic perspective, the sick woman was not that far off from the ideal woman anyway. A morbid aesthetic developed, in which sickness was seen as a source of female beauty, and, beauty—in the high-fashion sense—was in fact a source of sickness. Over and over, nineteenth-century romantic paintings feature the beautiful invalid, sensuously drooping on her cushions, eyes fixed tremulously at her husband or physician, or already gazing into the Beyond. Literature aimed at female readers lingered on the romantic pathos of illness and death; popular women's magazines featured such stories as "The Grave of My Friend" and "Song of Dying." Society ladies cultivated a sickly countenance by drinking vinegar in quantity or, more effectively, arsenic. The loveliest heroines were those who died young, like Beth in Little Women, too good and too pure for life in this world.”

-Barbara Ehrenreich and Deirdre English, For Her Own Good: 150 Years of the Experts’ Advice to Women

#barbara ehrenreich #Deirdre English #female illness #female health #women’s history #female nervous disorders #history of medicine #amerika

[yihccdior]

Today Shion had chased you all day, wherever you went he went along. You found your boyfriend very clingy sometimes, it's a fact, maybe in childhood he didn't get much attention and was a lonely and friendless child. As soon as Shion came towards you again, he hugged you and you returned it.

— You look a little needy today, has something happened?" - Y/n doesn't get an answer, maybe it was something personal. Did someone say something to him? Shion looked very sad and quiet.

— Nothing to worry about, Y/n. — Shion sighs deeply, Madarame looked tired with something. He didn't seem to want to talk about that subject, it must be a very sensitive point for him at the moment — It's just that Kisaki said you don't like me and you're just using me, is that true?

— Idiot, you think this is nothing? This is very serious! — Y/n yells aggressively scaring Shion — Where is he? I'm going to talk to him seriously. — Y/n's angry expression was notorious, the veins in Y/n's face standing out showing that he was irritable.

— He's at Tenjiku's headquarters in a meeting, please don't interrupt them - Shion says scared and takes Y/n's arm, but soon lets Shion go.

— Let me go, I need to settle this matter now! — Y/n goes to Tenjiku's headquarters and enters asking for permission — Hello, Kurokawa-san, is Tetta Kisaki here? — the hateful expression on Y/n's face was noticeable, Y/n smiled sickly. Some members were uncomfortable with his countenance — If so, I ask you to let him out, I need to talk to him seriously.

— Yea. - Izana scratches his head on his back nervously - Go on, Kisaki. We are waiting for you here to close the meeting. — After leaving Tenjiku's meeting room, Ran says:

— I think there's one person who won't come back alive. — The older Haitani laughs, this made the tension between the members lessen a little and some even laughed. Outside the meeting room, Y/n starts yelling at Kisaki.

— Are you crazy, you bastard?! — Y/n grabs Kisaki by the collar — Tell Shion that I'm just using him and that I don't like him. Do you have some problem? Do you know how he feels about that? You don't even know how he suffered in childhood, motherfucker — Y/n uses all her/his strength and punches Kisaki's face, turning his face red. Kisaki didn't dare mess with Y/n for fear of what Y/n might do to him later, he expected everything from the older/younger — If you can stop talking shit to my boyfriend or anyone else important and special to me, I would appreciate it. If you disappeared it would be better! What a bag, kid. You're a brat, yes, you think you're someone important, but you're nothing but shit — Y/n kicks Kisaki in the stomach making Tetta spit blood on the floor, Y/n grabs KIsaki's hair and pulls him back — The next time you talk shit or something to someone, I'll kill you brat! — Y/n lets go of Kisaki's hair and kicks Kisaki's ass, Y/n really wanted to hit Kisaki's head on the wall, but there was a meeting, so before he got in Y/n punches Kisaki in the mouth — Get in now, your piece of shit! — Y/n screams — And I'm not asking, I'm ordering — Y/n gives a terrifying look and Kisaki enters the meeting room. When Kisaki enters the meeting room, all the members in a matter of seconds start laughing.

— Didn't I? — Ran laughs even more at how Kisaki was — He deserved it and he deserved so much more. Oi Kisaki! Because the next time you do something with Shion, we'll kill you, Tetta Kisaki — Ran smiles sickeningly just like Y/n and everyone looks at Kisaki with contempt.

(Sorry for being short, I'm doing other fanfics so wait <3)

#x gn reader #shion x gn reader #shion x reader #tokrev x reader #tokrev x gn reader #tokrev x you #tokyo revengers x male reader #tr x reader #tokyo revengers x reader #tokyo rev x you #tokyo revengers x female reader #angst #tokrev angst #tokyo revengers angst #shion angst

[thewhumpcaretaker]

The Broken Veil: Chapter 7 - How to Shoot

TW: blood transfusion, needles, needle phobia, panic attack, fainting, discussions of dying

Disclaimer: I have no medical knowledge and described IVs and blood transfusions purely from Googling and memories from a patient's perspective. This may be highly inaccurate.

This is the last chapter that will be written. I had the fic planned out to the end and I might make a post about what would have followed. Thanks for coming along for the ride, everyone!

Summary: John Wick has just agreed to kill Gianna D'Antonio, repaying the marker that gave him a life with Helen. However, Helen is trying to contact John from the afterlife, to show him that it is possible to stop the cycle of violence – not by forfeiting his own life, but by creating a fundamental shift in international systems and perhaps even the balance of good and evil in this world. But he doesn’t have to do it alone. She’s coming back.

“Her present countenance had a wild vindictiveness in its white cheek, and a bloodless lip and scintillating eye; and she retained in her closed fingers a portion of the locks she had been grasping.” - Nelly Dean, speaking of Catherine Earnshaw, Wuthering Heights

The first thing Helen felt was the IV. There was almost no pain. So little, in fact, that she must have been on even more painkillers than the last time. But that swollen sensation (no matter how subtle) cut through even the painkillers, the feeling of something pouring into her veins, forcing her own blood to part and make way, the irrational fear that her body wouldn’t be able to hold it and would spontaneously burst. That fear had gotten worse with each hospital stay. She was always the brave kid when getting shots as a child, but not anymore. Well, at least she didn’t have to feel it going in this time.

The second thing she felt was John’s hand in hers.

There was someone speaking to him. “The initial loss of consciousness was likely due to anemia. To put it in simple terms, when the body fights this hard, it starts to run out of red blood cells. She’s on a basic drip now, but she needs blood. I can see that she’s had this issue before. So we can do a transfusion – “

“I want to be the donor. We’re compatible. I found out after last time.” She wanted to tell him how ridiculously sweet that was, but her jaw wouldn’t move. Maybe she wouldn’t mind the transfusion as much if the blood was his. Maybe it wouldn’t feel so sickly foreign.

“I saw that in the chart as well. So you donated in advance… and it looks like your sample was approved for use.”

“Good.”

The voice became a little softer. “But I need to be very honest about the situation. Can I talk to you outside?”

She could sense his reluctance even then, before they were bound together beyond the grave. It was in the way he lingered, then kissed her hand before slipping away.

So she was dying. Well, of course, she was already dying and knew that, and before the diagnosis, she knew she was dying eventually, as all human beings do. But somehow, it always snuck up on her. It was different for it to be happening eventually, than for it to be happening NOW.

What a good life she’d had. There were problems, sure. She grew up an orphan like John, yes, but an orphan with adoptive parents who brought her up in the suburbs with three cats and a white picket fence and at least pretended everything was perfect. It instilled in her a craving for the innocent, genuine warmth that their manicured McMansion pretended to hold. When that family fell apart too and she went no-contact, it still never affected her love for humanity or for life as a whole – if anything, it intensified the desire to reach out to others and break through their walls with a kind of overpowering acceptance. She had expressed it by meeting people, by going out into the world as a portrait photographer with a particular taste for damaged misfits and unloved vagabonds in seedy bars that contrasted so deliciously with her clean, good-girl image.

That image was truly more than skin deep. She wanted to be good, and she tried to be good, and she was good, she realized – she was able to lay on her deathbed and believe that she had lived her life in accordance with the kindness she wanted to show to others. Unlike John, she didn’t hate herself, maybe because she was so rarely capable of hating anybody…or maybe because she’d been to a lot of therapy, that could be it too…but either way, the introspection and extrospection she’d done over her 48 years of living had paid off. She fell in love with everything and everybody, even the most supposedly unworthy. And she found the perfect receptacle to match that outpouring, the most vulnerable man whose walls she had ever broken down, and dragged him out of the pit of hell to have pillow fights and share milkshakes on Valentine’s Day and watch the cartoons he’d never seen growing up because he didn’t have a childhood. She lived the dream.

But John deserved that too, and she wasn’t done giving it to him. She wanted him to feel this good about himself, she wanted him to die this fulfilled or never at all. She knew better than to assume that he would be alright. Marcus was conspiring with her to keep a foster puppy for John, and would give it to him after she was gone. That would keep him alive at least. But she wished she could be there for him herself.

And her body, her breakability, this was the thing tearing her away from him. Not his work, as they had always expected. No, just this petty, senseless vessel. Just chance, the callous irony of life, and that was somehow worse. The little knot in the flesh of her arm where she had to be physically tied to existence…that was the proof of it, the symbol of it. That hideous bump of plastic… She tried to squirm her wrist, beginning to panic. He was going to be without her. She was not ready, her affection not burned out, her work not done, and her anxiety spiked, and she slipped away into unconsciousness.

***

Fear is irrational. It doesn’t care that Helen can’t die anymore. It doesn’t care that being shot head-on several dozen times ought to be much scarier than sitting in a vaguely medical environment. It just lives in the body, even the undead body, and screams something incoherent about needles from deep in the amygdala.

They were loaded into a shopping cart under a tarp and wheeled blindly to somewhere that reeked of fishy water on the outside and of burning flesh on the inside, and when they ripped the tarp away, she panicked. It barely even looks like a hospital. It’s technically a morgue (much more cheerful). But there’s a row of hospital beds stretching down the hallway from the open glow of the incinerator, and that’s enough to send Helen over the edge. It’s a mercy when the abyss flickers blankly over that scene, blotting out her vision. But it comes and goes.

She can no longer tell whether she’s clinging to John for his sake or for her own. She hasn’t let go of him since they fell to the ground together and isn’t about to start now. John is in and out of consciousness in her arms as she sits on the edge of his bed, his head lolling against her shoulder where she pulled him on top of her, trying to crush out her shaking with the weight of his body and trying to crush out his shaking with the tightest embrace that won’t wring more blood from his abdomen. They took off his shirt and suitcoat and laid a blanket on top of them but they’re both still freezing despite being drenched in sweat.

“What the fuck do you mean we don’t have his blood type on hand? This is Wick. Get it here now. Do a raid if you have to.” The panhandler has stayed with them the entire time. Helen would guess that he’s in charge of their visit. Several equally scruffy men who act as their nurses seem to answer to him, based on the way they’re scrambling at his orders.

She hears herself speak and it sounds like someone else. “I’m his blood type.”

“Finally some good luck. We can do it directly.”

“Put out your arm.” One of the nurses is advancing towards her.

Shit. A wave of dizziness passes through her and she jerks back before she can stop herself.

“Do you need a lollipop, or do I need to tie you down?”

“Don’t mess with her, idiot. That’s his wife.”

“I’m fine, I can do it…” Her voice is so breathy and unnatural. She absolutely cannot do it.

But John moves listlessly, just enough to make his head nod sideways into the hollow of her neck. She feels him slip into awareness of a clammy, dark, blotched-over existence. He’s trying to groan in pain and wooziness but then he registers that her arms are wrapped securely around his shoulders and he relaxes back into numbness, consoled. He needs her. He’s trusting her to keep him safe. It makes her feral.

She could do anything he’s ever done for her. She could kill if she needed to.

This feels like killing.

Her arm is out. Hands on her, antiseptic. The seconds are so long as she awaits that familiar pinch.

Something strikes her and bounces off.

Again. The tip of the needle snaps.

Of course. Her skin can’t be broken.

“So it’s true…what is it? Is it some kind of high-tech skin sealant?” Someone slides a scalpel against her forearm, to no effect, but she’s mostly in the void and can’t see who.

“Hey! I said don’t mess with her!”

Helen doesn’t respond. She’s a human sized bag full of blood and none of it can get into John. Her body is immaculate, inviolable, impenetrable, forever safe…and useless to him. Her other half lies beside her, utterly broken, unconscious, white as a sheet, hair clumped to his cheeks, soaked in sweat and blood, but he still somehow has a capability that she lacks – and when he needs her most, no less. He has the very basic human ability to suffer and bleed and endure. This powerful, noble, compassionate man is in love with her, and she dragged herself all the way back from oblivion, performed a miracle, gained immortality, and walked at his side again just to be useless to him? To cling to his side while he bleeds out, trusting her to save him? No, absolutely not. That can’t be how this works.

“What if I do it? My own intention…”

“What? You gotta speak up.”

“Get another needle and show me how to shoot it. I’m going to try it myself.”

“Why would that matter? Is it magic or something?”

“Just let me try it.”

“…Okay, let’s try it.”

She can barely see the person who’s talking. It’s so hard to focus on anything he says. “This is the activation button, point it here…”

There are people dragging her out from under John to give her full range of motion. And then the little cylinder is in her hand and fear has her completely, rising up from somewhere deep and universal, somewhere in life when she believed death to be permanent and ruin to be possible. It evaporates all the blood from her head and fills her fingertips with stars. She’s either going to pass out or vomit, there’s no way, there’s no way… Hands are pinning her left arm down against the bed so it doesn’t move when she’s trying to hit it, but that will hardly do much good when her right arm is shaking just as much. Someone flicks at her to raise the vein. Something about relaxing her muscles but that’s completely out the question right now. Just do it. Just do it. She keeps rocking forward and backward.

There are two souls, in the corner of the room and nowhere. She only sees them for a moment. They’ve come up from somewhere far more settled than she’s ever been. A woman, with wild dark hair. A man with John’s piercing eyes.

His birth parents. Their gazes pleading with her.

She steels herself. I intend to save him. This is what needs to happen. Whoever and whatever may be, make way for this. Helen lets herself scream and shoots.

Stabbing pain. It feels wrong. She had no idea how much more wrong it could feel when done improperly. But it worked. It worked! There’s blood climbing up the tube. And blood bruising under her skin around the horribly botched entry point. There’s plastic inside her…

Helen faints.

***

The first thing John feels is Helen’s hand in his.

The second thing he feels is the IV. In two forearms. Her blood is mixing with his, and with it, her every sensation. …She did that for me? That must have terrified her beyond belief.

It isn’t so long since he tasted her life back at the hotel, but he realizes he already missed it. She has such a sunny way of looking at the world. To be inside her head is to feel the weight of his own self-hatred and deep-seated jadedness fall away. To feel an overpowering hunger for life.

Through half-lidded eyes, he sees their arms entwined, both covered in smears of red, all of it his. Both pierced by the tubing that joins them, an external vein bridging the gap between them. She holds him, inside and out. He’s trying to say thank you, but she knows. She knows, and it makes her so damn happy.

She’s so proud of what she just did. I’m so proud of you too. You’re so brave for me. She’s so proud of him, for surviving, for calling out to her to help him walk at the very end. I… he can’t say that just yet, can’t even think it. A twist of guilt that she felt the agony he just endured, that she has to be involved in this life at all. No, he’s not proud of himself. But she overwhelms the guilt in a wash of affection for him that makes her squirm closer against his side. Her phobic headiness is still there but its flavor is innocent, kitten-like, as she basks in the consolation of being with him. She’s floating, she’s in the clouds with her favorite person, she’s petting his hair.

He falls asleep to the beat of her pulse.

***

She’s in a chair at his side the next time he wakes up. The panhandler, who she now knows to be The Bowery King’s right hand man, is sitting by her side with a partially assembled handgun. “…And then you pull back, like this. When you hear the click, let go, and it snaps back in.”

John clears his throat. “Having fun?”

“John!” Helen looks up at him delighted. Then she turns back to her new friend. “Please give me a moment to speak to him alone.”

He frowns. “I’m not going far. It’s my job to keep you lovebirds out of trouble.” But he steps around the corner.

She gathers herself and meets John’s gaze. “I need to be very clear about something: I am never going to do that again.”

He’s surprised, but relieved. “Good. You shouldn’t have to see me at a time like that. In fact, if there’s some way we can shield you from what I’m feeling when I’m – “

“No, that’s not what I meant. I am never going to stand by and do nothing while you get shot in the gut. I want to know how to fight.”

That stops him short.

“And as for separating our souls, even temporarily, I couldn’t possibly have less interest in doing that. The more pain you’re in, the more I want to be there for you. Think about how you’d feel if you were sharing my suffering. Wouldn’t you want to maintain that connection?”

The thought touches him deeply. He’s still savoring how it felt when they were joined by the blood. “…Yes. If I can feel you as well, I want to. No matter what.”

“Well, you will in the hereafter. All in due time.” She kisses his forehead and it sends a wave of butterflies through him. “For now, I look after you. I want you to teach me how to understand a fight enough to stay out of your way when you’re attacking, how to shoot, how to throw a knife, how to fight hand-to-hand...all of it.”

“How to kill.” His expression darkens.

“How to save your life.”

“Yeah, that’s what I tell myself too when I’m doing it.”

“And whenever you’re acting of your own volition, whenever you’re free, it’s always true. Let me set you free, John. Show me what I need to know and we’ll start a revolution. We’ll set the whole world free.”

“…Alright. I’ll show you.”

#john wick #helen wick #john wick fanfic #john x helen #angst #passing out #hurt/comfort #medical whump #whump blood transfusion #tw blood #tw needles #backstory dump #helen wick whumpee #john wick whumpee #everyone is getting whumped #whump #whump fanfiction #whump writing #ao3 crosspost

[daebae-xiv]

Younger Daes

“Please, Saeis. It’s too soon!”

His mothers pleading and the sound of clinking cutlery coming from the hallway had Dae struggling with wavering strength to sit himself up. Barely a teenager, ashen hair sat just above elven ears; his flesh lacking so much as a drop of ink, features gaunt and sickly.

“You coddle him too much, Dedrin. Jaela has managed just fine.”

“He’s not like her!”

Jagged nails curled into the sheets beneath him as he looked out the window, bitterly staring into the treetops he always desperately wanted to explore. He had it better than most. He knew this. Fresh meals everyday. A warm bed. Four walls to shelter him. A doting mother. Staff to bring him anything he desired. But he spent most of his days longing to feel the warmth of the sun on his face, a coastal Thalassian breeze through his hair. The simple, pure scent of ozone. He was trapped in a prison made out of marble floors and alabaster pillars, constantly reminded of inadequacies that were simply out of his hands.

“We begin tonight.”

His head turned back as he heard his door latch release and he watched his mother enter, toting with her a small breakfast tray. The Sombersong matriarch was dressed in fine, earthy colored silks that contrasted against a fair complexion. A soft countenance framed by auburn waves and two of the purest blue eyes Dae had ever seen. Today, however, those eyes seemed to lack the happiness that usually shone within them and blushed lips were pulled into a taut line.

Dedrin sat the tray in front of him and reached forward, gently combing her fingers through short strands to work out any snags he may have gotten during his sleep while Dae set about quietly eating the teddy bear pancakes she had made for him. It was all routine but today rather than spending the morning laughing and speaking, they both sat in defeated silence.

As the sun began to set on the estate, a member of the staff came to escort him through the winding passages of the manor until they ended up outside a door Dae couldn’t ever recall crossing the threshold of. The woman opened the door and gently ushered him inside before shutting it behind him with a subtle click.

It was darker than most of the rooms he had been in. Sleek marble replaced by rough stone beneath his feet, the walls much the same. A cellar, perhaps? It was certainly musty enough but the smell. Acrid. Bitter. Almost sulphiric and it caused him to choke as a hand lifted to cover his mouth and nose. Eyes watering, he could barely make out the form of his father. Saeis stood tall and proud behind his desk, sharp features accompanied by thick, inky strands that were pulled into a low, tiered ponytail, clasped together by golden accents. 

His eyes were what had caught Dae’s attention. Normally blue, not quite as captivating as his mothers, now tainted with an eerie green glow. At the time, he had been entirely too sheltered to understand what it had meant, but he’d soon find out as his father pulled out a tome and wet a finger, flipping through a few pages. He hadn’t even spared his son a glance, far too enraptured in whatever he was reading. “As my heir,” he began speaking, his voice nearly thundering along the compacted walls and it caused Dae to recoil, still trying to soothe the burning in his lungs, “you will not disappoint me tonight. We will start with spellwork a babbling child could perform and go from there.”

And so they began.

Each incantation was met with nothing but silence and a growing darkness. Each word spoken exactly as his father had instructed and yet he couldn’t produce a single flame. What had come so naturally for his sister evaded him until eventually his father was slamming his hands on his desk. He reached for something before moving behind Dae and out of view. “Again,” he snapped the order.

Again, Dae tried to channel what he could though his hands remained filled with nothing but air and he shook them out, desperately trying to get anything to work.

He heard the crack before he felt it. The sound brought him to his knees before an electric pain shot through his body and crawled up his spine. A breathless, soundless sob escaped from him as he turned back to stare at his father… and then the belt in his hand. He had never been struck before. He didn’t even know his father could do that but it was the revulsion on the mans face that left his stomach twisting. “On your feet. Try. Again.” 

Dae scrambled to get back on his feet, struggling for a few moments with his frailty. Yet, he tried again… and failed. Another crack of the belt came near instantly, causing him to cry out and drop to a knee.

Moons of much the same had passed, leaving Dae’s back a marred landscape as a testament to his incompetence until one night, something changed.

“DAELLARYN!”

Dae shot up out of bed as his father’s voice rang through his ears. The sudden movement sent his head spinning, battling through the dizziness as he rushed to open his door. Down the hallway, Saeis was dragging his mother behind him by the throat while she pleaded with him through gasped breaths. “Please, I only wanted to protect him!”

“Protect him?!” he roared, turning a bitter eye upon Dae. “Follow,” came the rumbled order while Dae could only watch helplessly as his mother struggled in his grip. Ever starved for his father’s approval,  he did as he was told, following him back down to the hellscape of a room he had spent far too much time in.

Once all three were inside, Saeis slammed the door with a flick of his unoccupied hand and turned to look at Dae, his face twisted and ugly with a rage his son had never seen. “She has been poisoning you,” he hissed. “Keeping you weak. Keeping you from your true potential. Dear Dedrin here believes you’re too pure for my teachings.” Saeis spoke with pure disgust, upper lip curling back as he looked down at his wheezing wife, tightening the grip he had on her throat.

Suddenly, his mothers insistence on making him pancakes every morning just… clicked. They had staff, a dedicated chef even. It was something that had always sparked jealousy from his sister, Jaela. She never got teddy bear pancakes. Not made specially by their mother at least and it had always been the best part of his day, sharing those moments with her. “...What?” Dae asked quietly upon exhale, staring wide-eyed in disbelief at his mother though Saeis didn’t give her an opportunity to address her son as his fingers curled even tighter, now restricting air and blood supply. 

“So let’s try it her way, shall we? We just hadn’t discovered the right motivating factor!” Saeis’ tone had grown to mockery as the patriarch fell into utter madness, that green glow of his gaze burning brighter as he began to channel through the hand which gripped Dedrin. “Surely a boy, pure of heart, would be moved to action by his loving mothers peril!” 

“I don’t-... I don’t understand?” Dae rasped, finding it difficult to keep himself on his own two feet. What little strength he had was quickly draining under stress and uncertainty.

A sick, gnarled cackle left Saeis as he stalked closer towards Dae, bringing Dedrin with him as he bent down, coming face level with his son. “Invoke something. Anything at all, my boy! Let your dreams run wild! Otherwise...” he trailed off, letting the implications of his grip speak for itself and with a low growl, he gave warning. “You have ten seconds.”

Fel energies were already being fed into Dedrin’s neck, causing her to writhe and contort, breathless in Saeis’ grip, hands clawing in futility at that which held her.

Panic and adrenaline flooded through Dae’s system, limbs going numb on the spot and he very nearly collapsed right there in exhaustion. Despite this, he tried. Hand stretched out, he recited his fathers teachings, exactly as instructed and yet… nothing happened. Again, he tried. And again. Nothing. Wailing in frustration, his legs finally buckled and took him to the floor, staring at his hands with a bleary gaze. “Give me more time, please. I can do this, I know I can,” he begged through sobs, looking up towards Dedrin. That perfect complexion of hers was already cracking and peeling, rivers of green running along the capillaries of her face as Dae watched, helpless and horrified. 

Disappointed, Saeis looked back at Dedrin. “A shame,” he mused before speaking more softly, “Endala finel endal, dalah’surfal.” Dae slumped forward, unable to watch as the tainted energies ripped her apart from the inside out, the smell of sulfur and brimstone overwhelming and luring him unconscious. 

“Dae?”

Blinking awake, Dae struggled to get his eyes to focus on the ceiling of his room at Shady’s and with a frown, he lifted a hand, pinching and rubbing a fur-lined ear between his finger tips. 

“Mornin’ sleepy head!”

Glancing to his left, he spotted Zalaena and offered her a half-hearted smile before sitting himself up. The blonde had a tray of fresh teddy bear shaped pancakes and bacon at the ready for him, eagerly sliding it over his lap. “...Thanks, Jae,” he whispered.

#dae lore

[knifvd]

@shimmerbeasts asked : ‘ you’re being followed. pretend you know me.’ 

Jinx paced herself to walk alongside the stranger with their lanky, hooved legs and the golden horn adorning their forehead. Their white hair almost seemed to blaze in the sickly green light of the Undercity. Jinx threw her braid across the goat's?, woman's?, something's shoulder and leaned against her like a cat, marking its territory.

Hey, I hope that little meme is okay. I wanted to try something kind of strange.

                                  𝙍𝘼𝙉𝘿𝙊𝙈 𝘿𝙄𝘼𝙇𝙊𝙂𝙐𝙀. 𝙖𝙘𝙘𝙚𝙥𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜!

          (      fear   has  long  since  left  your  body   :   they  call  you  fool  for  walking  towards  fire  that  does  nothing  but  BURN  those  in  it's  way  ,   the  one  that  everyone  shies  away  from  ,  and  yet  ,  and  yet  ,  and  yet  ,  you  persist  .   IF  NOTHING  else  ,   when  everything  else  has  been  burnt  to  ashe  ,  you  persist  .   a  fool   .   naive   .   DOOMED   to  meet  the  fate  as  those  you  so  easily  gave  divinity  up  for  .   you're  a  FOOL  .   you're  a  fool  for  even  daring  to  visit  a  place  that  does  nothing  but  bite  the  hand  that  feeds  it  ,   to  think  that  you're  any  different   .   to  think  your  kindness  will  not  burn  up  with  the  rest  of  it's  past  .  and  yet  ,  and  yet  ,  and  yet   ...   

          you  persist  .    )

          GENTLE  STARCHILD  to  make  no  motion  to  change  her  stride  (    but  as  if  ,   ignited  by  the  very  fire  she  ran  to  )   ,   pulls  away  from  the  other  ,  eyes  lingering  on  her  countenance  ,  small  smile  to  tug  on  her  lips   .         ❛       i  thought  i  told  you  not  to  SURPRISE  ME  like  that  ,   little  engineer   ,       ❜      and  nickname  for  the  other  holds  nothing  but  the  warmth  of  the  fire  ignited  in  the  heart  of  ZAUN  ,   greeting  the  other  like  an  old  friend  .    slender  hand  to  tuck  stray  hairs  out  of  the  OTHER'S  face  behind  her  ear  ;   smile  still  remaining  on  her  features  ,  never  fading  for  a  MOMENT   :  even  as  cacophany  of  surroundings  are  to  insist  on  snuffing  any  kind  of  kindness  from  her  ,  she  persists  .  she  persists  .   if  there  is  one  thing  she  knows  ,  is  to  keep  trying  .  

          (    oh   ,   and  the  SLIMEY  FEELING   that  crawls  up  your  throat  at  so  easily  being  able  to  play  the  fool  reminds  you  :   reminds  you  that  you  are  still  as  dirtied  and  cruel  as  the  rest  of  them  ,  as  much  as  you'd  like  to  pretend  you  are  not  war  torn  ,  the  reason  in  your  divinity  being  lost  to  the  CHASM  is  because  your  violence  is  not  that  of  the  blood  that  lingers  on  your  hand  but  the  lives  that  have  been  lost  due  to  that  SMILE  ,  that  kindness  ,  the  ones  that  had  been  stupid  enough  to  entrust  their  lives  to  an  egotistical  fallen  star  .   )

         hand  leaves  the  lock  of  hair  ,  if  only  to  rub  away  at  the  substance  on  the  other's  cheek   :  dark  ,  with  the  poor  lighting  ,   it  leaves  her  to  wonder  if  it's  dried  OIL  or  blood  ,   but  still  ,  cleans  and  rubs  at  it  like  mother  would  to  a  kitten  .           ❛       i  do  recall  saying  i  would  meet  you  at  the  tavern  ,       ❜      she  says  oh  so  sweetly  ,          ❛       i  thought  it  would  give  us  a  bit  more  ...  privacy   .      ❜      STRIKING  pale  eyes  to  flicker  to  whatever  lies  in  the  shadow  ,  saccharine  having  left  with  the  final  syllable  ,   staff  strapped  to  her  back  almost  GLOWING  with  it  . 

            (    your  violence  is  in  your  kindness  .   you've  known  it  since  the  day  you  gave  up  everything  for  it  .  you've  known  it  in  your  BONES  ,  in  the  stardust  that  turned  to  marrow  and  the  galaxies  that  turned  into  your  love  .  your  violence  is  in  your  KINDNESS  ,   but  it  wasn't  always  that  way  .  you'd  rather  keep  it  this  way  .   if  you  are  to  pick  between  two  evils  ,  let  it  be  the  kindest  one  you  can  .   )

                   ❛       let  us  depart  .   i'm  quite  dehydrated  .       ❜      and  with  that  ,  SORAKA  is  to  take  the  other's  hand  ,  tugging  her  opposite  the  direction  of  GAZE  that  still  lingers  on  the  pair  in  the  shadows  .

#soraka ‚ ic. #shimmerbeasts #blood / #ask to tag #hi !!! i hope this was okay if not i can change it or something #i kinda just be writing

[helmort]

𝗠𝘆 𝗕𝗶𝗴 𝗙𝗮𝘁 𝗝𝘂𝗿𝗮𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗰 𝗪𝗲𝗱𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴⭐(Friday's Tale)

Krystal fancied herself the darling of Britain, a sentiment she had harbored since her initial foray into the cutthroat world of kindergarten fashion, bedecked in flashy pink attire and a brazen tee proclaiming, "Bubblegum Bitch, Unleash the Glitch." When her teacher, rang her mum, advocating for the banishment of the garish garment, the nicotine-fueled matriarch snapped back, "Oi, she's my spawn, and I'll school her my way, not your highfalutin' rubbish! Keep your posh rules to yourself, Bitch!" She punctuated her sentiment with a punch that left the teacher out cold, convalescing in a hospital bed for a generous three weeks.

That ruckus taught Krystal a basic truth: cozy up to an aggressive "mate," and the world bows to your whims. At the tender age of ten, she embraced her inaugural boyfriend, a sickly 16-year-old brute with a mug only a mother could tolerate. Krystal endured his amphibian countenance for the perks; the lad happily stabbed anyone spouting words she found irksome. Through adolescence, she paraded through 25 boyfriends, each a notch more menacing than the previous. She started with a head-smashing hooligan, ending up hitched to a hulking black dude with a rap sheet for unprovoked attacks with machetes on the police.

But none measured up. At 23, she pivoted from boyfriends to husbands. A debt collector, famed for playground pummelings, led the charge. Then, a cutthroat tycoon who found joy in exploiting folks and laying a savage beating on those who sought compassion. Finally, she hitched her wagon to a Russian mobster, the notorious "Nikolai the Beheader." Yet, contentment remained elusive.

In an act of desperation, Krystal turned to an American cloning facility, splashing a considerable sum on a T-Rex, straight out of Jurassic Park. In a world where folks tied the knot with inanimate objects and critters (like the lady with the Eiffel Tower or the chap hitched to a Barbie doll), a T-Rex husband didn't seem too outlandish. So, on a desert island reserved for this peculiar project, she choreographed the entire affair: rings, priest, witnesses, and her tearful mother.

Alas, marrying a 4-meter-tall, 12-meter-long Cretaceous beast with a bottomless hunger proved less than practical. The situation nosedived when the T-Rex decided the wedding feast included the entire guest list, beginning with a terrorized priest.

The moral of the tale, ladies and gents: Steer clear of matrimonial ties with a bloody T-Rex!

💀

#HELMORT #Rebel #Fashion #RebelStyle #AggressiveGirl #DatingDramas #TeenLove #Story #BadBoy #Husband #DebtCollector #Romance #RussianMafia #SciFi #JurassicPark #Tyrannosaurus #UnconventionalMarriage #LoveStoryGoneWrong #Funny #Tale #Britain #UKculture #Weird #Wedding #BritishGirl

[hopeds]

@ultfan   :   CAPTIVE   :   for   one   muse   to   hold   the   other   against   their   will.

there   was   a   non   -   zero   chance   that   master   would   frown   upon   what   she   was   doing   —   that   her   current   actions   may   or   may   not   be   the   most   productive   way   with   which   to   sharpen   her   aikidō   prowess.   but   ...   master   wasn't   here   right   now   !   so   the   onus   was   on   tenko   to   make   the   appropriate   decisions.

the   appropriate   decision   in   this   situation   was   restraining   this   absolute   freak   !   no   matter   the   empathic   power   aikidō   throws   present   her   with   /   when   she   does   not   like   the   read   she   gets   on   a   person,   it   is   her   duty   to   act   accordingly.

❝   ah.   you're   awake.   tenko   suggests   you   don't   try   to   struggle   against   your   restraints.   ❞

grimace   laid   upon   her   girlish   countenance   is   nothing   short   of   malicious   ———   eyes   narrowed,   lips   curled   ;   head   is   askew   as   a   further   testament   to   her   derision.

❝   tenko   could   read   your   feelings   when   she   threw   you   —   your   energy   is   sickly   and   treacherous,   so   tenko   took   it   upon   herself   to   keep   you   here   from   the   girls   !   to   keep   them   safe   !   ❞

#ultfan #꒰ ♡ ꒱ out of this danger i raise a monument of love ╱ tenko › delineate !

[scotianostra]

On February 19th 1594 Henry Frederick Stuart, first child of James VI and Anne of Denmark, was born at Stirling Castle.

The older brother of the ill-fated Charles, Henry Stuart would become the king who never was, many believe that if he had not died so young the Stuart dynasty may have survived. 

The charismatic Henry Frederick Stuart was the firstborn child of James VI of Scotland and Anne of Denmark. He was named in honour of his two grandfathers, Henry Stuart, Lord Darnley and Frederick II of Denmark. He became Duke of Rothesay, Earl of Carrick, Baron of Renfrew, Lord of the Isles and Prince and Great Steward of Scotland at birth.

The young prince was placed in the care of John Erskine, Earl of Mar, as his father was concerned that his wife Anne of Denmark's leanings toward Catholicism might affect her son, which understandably led to tension between his parents, as were his siblings, Charles and Elizabeth.

Charles was at first a sickly child and it was not thought likely that he would survive. A sister, Margaret was born on Christmas eve 1598, but died in 1600 and a further brother, Robert, Duke of Kintyre, was born on 18th January 1602, but died in May of that year. Henry was to remain in the care of the Earl of Mar until in 1603, James VI of Scotland became King of England and the family moved south, with the exception of Charles, who was not considered strong enough to make the journey to London. He was reunited with the rest of his family when he was three and a half.

Two further siblings were born after the family moved to England, Mary Stuart was born in April 1605 but died of pneumonia at 17 months old in September 1607 and was buried at Westminster Abbey. James and Anne's final child, Sophia Stuart, named for Anne's mother, Sophia of Mecklenburg-Güstrow, was born in June 1606 but lived only a day.

In 1605, Henry entered Magdalen College, Oxford, he did not always see eye to eye with his father, disapproved of his father's pleasure-loving court and the royal favourite Robert Carr, whom he actively disliked, he was also against the imprisonment of Sir Walter Ralegh in the Tower of London, whom he held in great esteem. Henry became automatically Duke of Cornwall on his father's accession to the English throne and was invested Prince of Wales and Earl of Chester in 1610.

As a young man, the would-be king showed great promise and was intelligent and athletic. Described as an "obdurate Protestant", when his father proposed a French marriage, he replied that he was 'resolved that two religions should not lie in his bed. “He was tall and of a high stature, his body strong and well-proportioned,” recorded William Hayden, groom of the bed-chamber, “the colour of his face somewhat swart and scorched with the sun, his whole face and visage comely and beautiful, looking for the most part with a sweet, smiling, and amiable countenance, and with full of gravity…”

Prince Henry was extremely popular in England and often eclipsed his father, for whom the same could not be said. Relations between father and son were often tense, on one occasion, whilst they were hunting near Royston, James was heard to criticize Henry for lacking enthusiasm for the chase, Henry initially moved to strike his father with a cane but thought better of it and rode off, most of the hunting party then followed him.

Henry often teased his nine-year-old younger brother Charles, Duke of York, snatching the hat of a bishop, he placed it on Charles' head, then informed him that when he became king he would make Charles Archbishop of Canterbury, so Charles would have a long robe to hide his rickety legs. The frustrated Charles stamped on the hat and was taken away in tears.

In common with his brother Charles, Henry was a keen collector of paintings, sculpture and books, at the age of 16, he had already built up an art collection, which included drawings by Holbein, which are now housed in the Windsor Castle library. He also enjoyed music and literature and had an interest in architecture.

On 6th November 1612 Henry Stuart died from typhoid fever at the age of 18, though at the time there were rumours of poisoning, the diagnosis can be made with reasonable certainty from written records of the post-mortem examination. Prince Henry's early death was widely regarded as a tragedy for the nation. Charles Carlton related that "Few heirs to the English throne have been as widely and deeply mourned as Prince Henry."

His body lay in state at St. James's Palace for four weeks. The great writers of the day, Ben Jonson, John Donne, George Herbert wrote elegies, Richard Sackville, Earl of Dorset, wrote "Our rising sun is set ere scarce he had shone, and.all our glory lies buried,".

On 7th December, over a thousand people walked in the mile-long cortege to Westminster Abbey to hear the two-hour sermon delivered by the Archbishop of Canterbury. Prince Charles, the new heir to the throne, fell ill after Henry's death, but attended the funeral as chief mourner, James I, who detesting funerals, refused to attend.

i can find no details of how the Scots liked Henry Stuart, or nothing to say whether he ever returned after the family moved to England, he was long dead by the time his father made his one visit north in 1617. 

#Scotland #scottish #the stuarts #history #royalty #monarchy