#but black lives do not matter to lamented

[tarjapearce]

Heathens (Pt. 1)

Priest! Miguel O'Hara x Nun!Reader

art by @maxro_art on IG (Her Deliverance AU is ❤️❤️🤌🏻)

WARNINGS: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. If you're sensitive regarding religion, please don't read this. Masturbation in holy places, explicit language, wet dreams, Female anatomy, oral ( F receiving) Gentle Dom Miguel, Corruption kink, overused tropes cause yeah, a tinge of yandere undertones if you squint, mutual lust, Not Proofread ~

Summary: Father O'Hara had a little lamb ~

A/N: Another for the Miguelverse ~ Reblogs and comments are much appreciated c:

Main Masterlist

From all the places you could've find solace from war, The house of God was the least of lieus in your list. Not that you had a choice.

Family long gone after unsuspected explosions decimated your town, followed by constant tragedies such as losing friends along the way either by enemy and merciless hands or sickness. In the end, it was only you. You had outlived them all despite your short age. And now, they lived crammed up in your memories.

Happy, smiling and very much alive. Sometimes you'd see familiar faces on stranger's bodies. Grief had slowly nested within your soul and when all hope seemed lost, the chapel had saved you from what surely would end up in your premature death.

The blackest of black matched the crispest white you had ever seen, they were all donned in their beatific robes, prayer beads dangling at every gentle step they did. And there it was, epiphany unfolding itself before your experienced in horror eyes. It was your call.

All the answers to your laments and aching heart were sent as them. Nuns of the Mistbourne Parish. A church located in the outskirts of a now rundown by conflict Nueva York. The church that now played a major role in taking in as much people within their sacred walls, before they could be dispatched to a more adequate place.

Without hesitation, you had joined. And now, six years later you still remained with them. Early twenties had settled right for you as a nun. Ever devoted, compassionate, and diligent.

As time went on, the main city was reconstructed, burying it's dark tragedy under freshly built towers, hiding the pain under the rugged carpet full of concrete and wire homes, like nothing ever happened. Like if war had never stepped upon it and gave it a much needed renewal at people's lives expenses.

But no matter how many changes time brought, life in Mistbourne's Parish remained the same. Untouched by the technological advances from the outer world. There was always something to do, as simple as it was. And so far, you've been satisfied with it.

The only alterations worth of mention was your holy family expanding.

A new couple additions to the staff. More sisters, an eighty percent of them were beyond fifty. You were the youngest, their child. After all some ended up raising you within the house.

And him. The new priest.

The tallest and bulkiest man you've ever seen. As much as staring was considered rude and borderline a sin, it was unavoidable to do so, when his rusty brown eyes fell upon you. Their color unique, like he was. Never in your life had you seen someone like him, or another man besides the butcher and the guard. He had definitely been a regular man before coming here.

The soft weary expression lines in his sharp countenance revealed his own fair of lived experiences.

He towered over you, crisp white dot on his black rimmed neck line, parading his status with modest pride, and golden praying beads dangling on his narrow hips, you held yours while asking forgiveness for keep staring.

"Father."

Father O'Hara. In his mid thirties, broken family also torn by war, wearing his vows in the shape of a ring on his right hand.

"Sister"

His voice deep yet gentle, like a lullaby. His steps took him away to his own residence. The rectory outside the church.

It made sense as to how some workers were renovating it in the past few weeks. The parish last priest had been sent off in sacred duties, only to realize later that he had killed a man. Cops and detectives surely made a show out of it.

Dark times, according to Sister Lianne, one of your mother figures. But now, Father O'Hara had taken his place, erasing all traces of the previous man with concise and pithy actions.

He took his role seriously. Said masses on sundays, visited the sick, baptized people; but his most popular feat was to hear the confessions. The most intimate secrets revealed to him by either your fellow sisters or people from the town that came to expiate their sins in hope to be forgiven.

You'd sometimes run into each other, bumping casually in the narrow wooden floored halls, you'd often apologize, only to reciprocate a polite smile on both ends. He'd sometimes help you out by carrying things a bit too heavy, or you'd help him out lighting up the altar for his speech.

Yet, his hands in one occasion took an accidental taste of your body dimensions underneath your beatific robes, while preventing you from falling down the stairs. He'd scold you for being careless and carrying things that obscured your sight.

After many sorries on your behalf, you returned to the cells and went straight to your own dorm, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

His hands felt burning upon remembering the dents of your form, the curve of your waist and certainly the warmth that irradiated from you, so so close from his.

Unexpectedly it had brought memories from his past. His old life where he'd have his lovely and temporary companion for the night impaled deliciously with himself before war and hell broke loose. Before he was forced by the subversives that raided his town to create a new fake identity in the spot as they heard him speak spanish or fight a war he hadn't started, much less would end. And so, his life as Father O'Hara begun.

Odd enough, the sudden and thoughtless choice had granted him peace after witnessing so many terrors his fellow human could be capable of. His need of help has always been stronger than anything and when he finished licencing some sacrifices were required.

Poverty vows weren't an issue since his previous life had been modest yet good enough to go by. Little difference between his current lifestyle.

The obedience vow took him a little longer to fully yield. But he accomplished it to a T, just to avoid more trouble. He faked it until he made it.

His chastity vow had been a quite the challenge to perfect, but no matter how much the temptations paraded before him in the many parishes he was assigned to, he didn't give in. His libido had been sapped out of his body, like a campfire after completing it's useful cycle.

Not because of his brand new sanctity invested by holier-than-thou elders, but rather a broken mind full of grievance and other negatives that always haunted him. The gunshots and bombings too fresh in his mind.

It had been years since he touched someone in a way that wasn't holy. Since he had provoked things in someone else that clearly would make him go under the laicization from the clergy without second guessings.

Until he held you the other day.

Both of your eyes too enraptured in eachother that had sent an igniting spark to his spine. Reviving all those inactive nerves he thought his existencial toll severed long ago. His eyes had gave a brief rake over your face.

Wide and round eyes staring back, both in awe and surprise straight into his soul. Nose flaring softly just like your mouth, whose bottom lip trembled at the little erratic breaths your lungs exhaled upon being in physical contact with a man for the first time in ever, while cheeks bloomed with a not so discreet flush. And your body heat.

Jesus all mighty.

It was dangerously tempting. For a brief moment his past self had taken over, but quickly vanished upon hearing steps. Earning you to fix your crucifix and cowl nervously and him to fist his hands to refrain himself to take another taste and fix his collar and cassock.

To his conclusion, the robes you wore did not match what was underneath. He noted much, but having you wear that loose habit only fuelled his now active and sinful imagination. An opposite from your habits' purpose.

Priest life was hard, and the Celibacy vows were his biggest damnation. Mind often plagued with 'I shouldn't have done this.' 'This is ridiculous' 'Fucking idiot' 'Why did I even lie about this?' But even so, priesthood was better than ending up dead or mutilated by mines somewhere in the battlefield, in the middle of a war he didn't started, much less would end.

Government later was forcibly recruiting all those men, be them widowed or married. It didn't matter. War wasn't for him. Neither Priesthood.

But he'd bear it. He'd bear it until he was put in another parish church full of older and witty ladies he'd definitely wouldn't lust after.

----

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

The sweet voice behind the confessional punctured walls, perked up his ears. He had memorized a lot of things, your voice included.

"I... I haven't confessed in weeks. But it grows me concerned that... my mind is somewhere else."

Silence. You were met with silence as expected, it also encouraged you to keep talking.

"A man has flooded my thoughts and no matter how much I try to occupy myself, he's there. Leading me to temptation and sin."

A man?

His brow quirked as he slanted over the little wooden division between you, to hear better and take a peek on your face. The only men he could think of was the guard, the butcher and himself. The only men inhabiting the same area as you.

"How does this man tempts you?"

"He... He visits. In my dreams I mean and..."

A low 'forgive me, God' echoed in your stall. His throat dried and his hands rested on each side of his knees, gripping at the fabric of his pants.

"He does things I know I shouldn't partake in... But, it feels too real."

"You sound scared. Does it frightens you?"

"Very much so. But it is a strange sort of fear, Father."

"What kind of fear then?"

It took you a long pause to muster

"A fear of him stopping his visits in my mind."

He gulped.

Your hands took the crucifix and held it tighter, "For him to stop doing such sinful things to me, even in my dreams."

"Have you sinned in the carnal affairs?"

"N-No. I would never. I've never engaged in them, Father."

His groin twitched, as a hand raked over his scalp. A shaky breath that was forced to come out in silence. Only when he thought you couldn't be more innocent, there you were proving him wrong.

"Ever?"

"I promise to you with my life, I've never."

"I must know" He wetted his lips with his tongue, "What kind of things does this man does to you?"

"W-What?"

Your spine straightened up instantly, eyes wild, staring another hole into the already punctured division. Cinnamon color in his skin, the only brief glimpse you managed to see. But even so, his gentle yet cornering voice brought you down from your initial jump.

"I need to know, so I can dictate a penance."

The flush on your cheeks returned, burning bright upon remembering the all too lucid dream you've been having about your secret man. That, even though visited frequently, you still didn't know his face, just his body as it smothered yours wholy in a constant merciless and scorching rut.

All what you remembered was him feasting between your legs like a starved man. His hands maneuvering your soft mounds to then give a gentle squeeze.

"His hands are the ones that bring the sin, Father."

"Explain yourself"

His voice was sultry, buttery rich and smooth on the other side of the stall. A subtle order. To your dismay, that same demon had a similar voice tone. Alluring, speaking to you in a foreign language it had you mewling and asking for forgiveness every time you remembered, cause you had begged the faceless man for more.

"He touches and... t-tastes places I shouldn't allow no man to delve in." With a thick gulp you continued, "His tongue is... marvelous."

His eyes widened for a second as his hand hovered over his crotch

"Marvelous?"

"I feel the biggest sinner by admitting this. Please, do forgive me."

"Accountability is part of the process."

He tried to sound as professional as he could, but little did you know his mind was torturing his already crumbling resolve with such vivid details. Celibacy wasn't a problem, until now. Hearing such sinful words coming from such a unsuspecting thing like yourself, a virgin that is, made his old self to re-emerge.

Disguising himself as a sheep, while he fought through his holy learning years to tame his wolfish appetite.

There were plenty of ewes in the flock , but so far the only one that made his mouth water was you. A perfect little lamb. And now, this. We're you set to making him break his vows?

No. You weren't. He was reaching his limits to break celibacy and you were just having wet dreams about someone that definitely made him wonder about your past life. A past lover? No. Not even that. A possession? A demon? No. Definitely not.

He had heard things whenever on lunch duty. Mindless talk that revealed more to him from others and you than they intended to. You, a nun. Picked up from a ravaged village nearby and raised within  the nuns, meaning, you had zero idea of what pleasure meant.

He believed, but wasn't a complete blinded idiot to faith. Your body was asking for physical and forbidden relief. Just like his.

But again, the golden band around his right hand not only forbid but also was the perpetual reminder of what was a stake.

"I know, Father. But... this man has such power over me that has pushed me to sin. He... he has pushed me to take such vulgar matters in my own hands."

Maker's mercy

His cock twitched harder and he was unable hold back and gave a firm  squeeze while biting his lip to quiet himself at the long forgotten and heady pleasure that was drowning his body in an alarming rate.

As if done of being fed lies and a quick and sloppy handjob for ages. It was disgusting how easy was to sin, how well his body ached and reacted to such stimulus. How effortlessly his old habits had caught up to him.

He was the one that needed a penance now, cause he couldn't shake the image of you spread with your legs wide open, naked, sliding your fingers in between your weeping folds. You'd certainly have your mouth shut or lips bitten to avoid having anyone hear you.

He had closed his eyes while his jaw clenched, occasionally sweeping his tongue over his lips to keep them moist.

"Say it. Say your sin."

He commanded in a voice that had your cheeks flustered and your pearly nub a throb. His hand half squeezed half stroked over his clothed groin. Swollen and needy cock begging to be set free and properly taken care of.

"I..." A dry gulp and your hands went to your crotch, begging your nature to behave. Cheeks impossibly red.

"I've enjoyed touching myself after dreaming a man... f-fucks me, Father."

The word 'fuck' coming out your delicious looking yet pure lips, had his teeth gnawing at the insides of his cheek, self control harder to keep under the leash. It barked, howled even demanded for more explicit details.

Instead, he sighed quietly and cleared his throat. The sudden noise had you gripping the skirt of your habit in shame.

Miguel didn't say much besides the prayer of absolution and a couple of more prayers as your penance. The same right hand that was squeezing his cock was now being kissed by you, to confirm your forgiveness. Plump, warm and soft lips caressed his ring finger.

And once you were gone, his hand took control on its own, slid under his soutane to stroke himself. If you felt like a sinner, he was the devil himself.

The vice like grip in his own cock made him shudder, sensation foreign yet so welcoming after years without it. A little whine escaped past his gaping mouth, exhaling pecaminous breaths as he stroked like teenage boy that just discovered masturbation for the time ever. Sloppy, desperate and wet motions echoed in the now sullied stall.

He fisted his hand tighter, thick fingers coaxing a much needed release, hips rutting into his choking hand. Quiet whimpers and an array of curses flew out his mouth.

His flushed tip swayed and shook under his own rough ministrations while his jaw clenched, he clawed at the chair when hot and thick spurts of his cum dribbled down his hand and wrist before time; pooling in the hollow of his palm while earning a gutural growl that dissolved into a shaky whimper, as he curled against the wooden and punctured wall for a brief lapse of seconds to regain his composure.

"Fuck..." He had to lay against his chair to keep the light-headedness at bay, drowning in his own made pleasure, panting like he had run a marathon for hours.

He shouldn't have lied back ago. And  definitely shouldn't have become a priest. He was soiling their already tainted reputation. His old self was back to stay.

He cleaned up his hand under his robes to then leave to change. He was given a glimpse as you were picking up some harvest in the orchard while he was making his way back home.

---

Window's glasses echoed with the soft rain. The parish has been quiet during weekdays, but busy for you. As winter approaches the harvest must be picked, the grains sorted and the meats stored.

You saw Father O'Hara less and less, and when you did, they were mere glimpses. He was as busy in meetings with other priests, or preparing for the mass that was now given twice a week.

If you weren't in the garden or the laundry, you were in the choir.

Lingering yet brief gazes chased each other. He had heard some nuns speaking about him, some had wonderful things to say, saying that he had been one of the most efficient priests the church has had.

Others mentioned between hushed and bashful whispers about his physical condition and how they caught him go for runs at crack of dawn a couple of times.

And you, just wanted to go to confession again and ask for forgiveness. Not to spill the advantures you had in your dreams with a man that oddly resembled like Father O'Hara, but to unleash your heart's desires to wonder what was beyond the parish.

It was your life, all you've ever known so far. But one of those trips to the city during a beneful visit to another location, had left you amazed. How could a world so different like yours could be considered bad and straying?

But again, vows. Your vows bound you, and once broken, there was no turning back. But right now all that mattered was to get to the dorms. The rest was out in another visit to the city, you were to stay to finish your tasks in the kitchen.

Weather changed so abruptly that one moment you were taking the last basket of vegetables inside, to then run for the dorms to seek refuge. But they were far and the only thing in sight was Father's O'Hara rectory.

It was either getting a terrible fever from the cold and unforgiving rain or ask him to lend you an umbrella to mitigate the glacial numbness spreading through your body. Another reason you barely went out during these days, rains in the countryside were merciless.

Miguel was tending his own garden when the rain begun drenching. Even more when the thunders broke the peaceful white noise. He removed his soutane and shirt off leaving his inner vestments free, but the desperate knock on his door made his undressing ritual to stop.

While quirking an eyebrow, he approached the door and opened it. Eyes widened in surprise upon seeing you, soaked through your bones. lips blue and shivering from the cold.

"P-Please-"

"Jesus. Come in."

He ushered you in, then rushed to get a towel. A frown in his face deepened upon hearing your teeth clatter, clothes stuck to you like a second skin.

"C-Can I... borrow your... u-umbrella?"

Without much though he smoothened the towel against your face, drying it.

"An umbrella? Really?!"

A vehement shake of your head, while trying to get him off you.

"You're freezing cold, the dorms are too far for you to leave. Don't be stubborn."

"I... I don't h-have clothes."

You mumbled through rattling teeth while your eyes darted hazily over his naked torso. He sighed.

"Unbelievable. You're freezing to death and you're worried about clothes. Get them off, I'll put them to dry."

He grumbled while taking more logs into the fire to what would be his living room. If it wasn't for the glacial and biting freeze that refused to leave your body and the foggy thinking in your brain, your cheeks would be beyond red. Crimson even from such simple act.

A weak nod you gave. Your hands stopped bracing your shivering body to focus on removing the cowl and headdress. Releasing through shaky motions your soaked hair that wasted no time to stick on your face and neck.

The next was your crucifix, and praying beads, the tempo you removed them could make a slug to easily win the race, this alarmed him greatly. He had seen what hypothermia did, way before turning himself into this holy persona.

Without much thought, he peeled off your habit that weighed you down.

"Qué mierda más pesada" (Such a heavy shit)

He held you by one arm as he removed the outer layer off. Your eyes drooped and he gave you a little shake.

"Hey, hey, look at me."

Eyes concerned raking over and it dawned on you. Those eyes, the same beautiful and unique eyes were the same that visited in your dreams.

A difficult gulp rolled down your throat as Miguel kept undressing you while grunting. Wet clothes were a pain in his beatific ass. Shivering dicreased, but your lips remained blue, a new shade of purple drawing over them.

"I-It's so cold" You mumbled through laborious breaths.

"Course it's cold. You're soaked! What were you even doing?"

The way he scolded you felt like someone you've known for years was giving you a lecture. So casual, homey, normal. It was Miguel O'Hara speaking, not Father Miguel. The ever gentle and patient man you've been helping.

"Jesús bendito, con cuánta cosa te vistes." (Holy Jesus, so many layers.)

He murmured while pushing you to his chest as he removed the dress that covered your underwear. It felt like a heatless body had been thrown over him, but the warmth irradiating from him felt heavenly. Your form instinctively nuzzled your head on his chest. He had to stop to gulp at the sensations

Even though his mind slapped itself, His couldn't help but wander over your shivering and weak body.

"W-Wait"

A small dark patch hovered above the joint of your legs. Taut peaks followed by lovely areoles ever standing and shivering under the flimsy white fabric of a short nightgown that proved even harder to remove since it clung to you like a second skin, refusing to abandon your body.

He peeled you off of everything despite your protests, but was sufficiently prude to not look over your naked form. A minute too slow and it would be late. Like the young boy in his arms, that had died out of cold once the subversive groups arrived in the forsaken town, they had forced him and the rest to go through a frozen river. He made it, but the boy didn't.

His mind wasn't in the tip of his cock.

That will come later.

But his brain had only one single purpose right now. To keep you alive but for that he needed keep you warm.

Despite the recklessness of his actions, he pulled a freshly folded duvet around  while pulling you ontop of his chest and sat together near the fire. Hands moving to dry your hair as much as he could. Your skin was full of goosebumps, frosty to touch, that relished into any source of heat available. His torso, the duvet and the raging bonfire made your head spin.

It felt like his hands, rubbing some life back into your arms while he shielded your body, embracing your form with his torso and limbs. Like a paramedic on duty. Your cheek smooshed against his solid chest, it made him shudder with your own coldness but eventually the body heat treatment would be effective.

"Sorry" it was all you managed before your teeth shuddered again, and his fingers caressed your neck, placing a new wave of delicious heat on your skin.

"You'll be fine."

Your body was slowly but surely returning to it's temperature. Miguel remained there, basking you within his body, fingers gingerly caressing as much cold skin as he could under the duvet. Even his breath provided a little heat. Your erratic breaths collided against his skin, earning a discreet shudder from him.

You had drifted off to limbo, trying to sleep a bit, but unable to completely do so. Not when a man, the Parish Father nonetheless, was holding and nursing you back to an acceptable temperature with his own.

"Father O'Hara..."

Miguel's ears perked up upon you mentioning his name.

"It's Miguel."

He mumbled while drawing lazy circles on your lower back. The fire and the duvet had kept you toasty to curl even more towards him. Teeth no longer clattering.

"Thank you, Father."

"Stop."

His eyes rolled in annoyance, as his hands stopped caressing your skin to then rub his face.

"Stop calling me that."

"But that's your-"

"I don't like it."

He grumbled while looking down at you.

"Call me Miguel."

"I can't do that. Feels too disrespectful."

"I'm not Father O'Hara here, understood?"

You nodded

"Are you cold?"

"I am. Not as before but yes. Has it stopped raining?"

His own smell was making your mind a puddle, some of that fragrant incense remained etched on him.

"No. Just got worse."

You sighed while resting your head on his chest. Heartbeats a mellow lullaby.

"I'm sorry for all of this."

"You were cold and soaked." He pointed dully and bored.

The duvet was brought closer to your chest while staring at the flames. Fingers tracing a lazy and mindless pattern in his abdomen.

"I was picking up the last batch of harvest when rain poured on me."

Your toes curled in as a soft breeze flickered the fire and he tilted his head to watch you closer.

"Now I'll have to explain why there isn't enough corn."

"We'll go by. It's ok."

"Are my clothes ready yet?"

A snort that  would be translated into an 'Are you kidding me?', your brow furrowed.

"You'd be lucky if they get dry during the night."

Another defeated sigh. But a sudden thought however made your cheeks burn faintly.

"D-Did you see me naked?"

"No."

Oh.

There was a silent pause before you spoke again. Curiosity tempting.

"Have you seen other women naked?"

He huffed playfully while pushing your hair away from your lovely and sweet face.

"Yes. I was a regular man before all of this."

His fingers curled up in his hand, morphing into a lazy fist

"Do you miss it?"

"Would be a liar to say if I don't."

"You... You've had sex before?"

He chuckled while with an open palm, took a taste of your skin, deliberately roaming your lower back. You shuddered.

"I did. Plenty of times."

Your audible gasp made his eyes droop hazily in a smirking grimace.

"I was told it felt marvelous."

You looked up at him and he pulled your chin upwards, he really had to keep his restrain under a leash to not take you here and there, instead, he cupped your face and hovered his lips over yours

"Do you want me to teach you, Sister?"

He was the demon. The very same one that visited in your dreams and left you a soaked mess. A little too late you'd noticed that he wasn't wearing his vow ring. It was placed somewhere else you truly couldn't care less at the moment.

You only nodded.

"Use your words, dear"

"Please", you gulped, "Teach me."

It was in that moment that he sealed your lips with his. Your first kiss ever. Chaste and sweet at the beginning that slowly turned into this obscene display of his mouth assaulting yours with his tongue in between gentle licks and bites of his lips.

A shaky whine then a whimper escaped your throat upon feeling his hands skimming down your spine. He only let you go when you tapped out for air.

"How often am I on your mind, pequeña?"

Finally the demon in your dreams had turned into a reality. Eyes were closed, unable to look at yourself melting under his touch. Nipples perked against his chest.

Plump and hot lips caressed yours but they stopped. Hands pulled you upwards, Miguel turned you around so your back was now colliding with his chest.

"You're still cold."

Cheeks grew impossibly red while he slowly peeled off the duvet out of your body, leaving you bare before him. You gulped as he moved your hair to a side and slowly kissed up and down your neck.

His hands were unable to resist any more and cupped your mounds, like in your dream. Calloused palms, rough against soft breast.

"Qué maravilla. Is this how your dream goes?

Legs smothered together, a little strip of hair etched to your pubic mount. He hummed in appreciation to then part your legs above his. Cunt pulsing at the coolness of air brushing past it.

Both of your legs dangled ontop of his as you remained nested above. Your heart beat at the playful moves his middle and index finger pulled on your nipple as his free hand darted over the joint of your inner thighs. You could feel him trembling underneath, the restrain made his breath hitch.

Your own turned erratic once more as he slid three fingers in between your folds. A shy Ah escaped your lips while he used two of them to part the outer labia

"Look at that, little one. Is that what you touch when thinking of me?"

Drunk eyes darted between your legs and his skillful hand, the engorged and pearly clit peeked out as one of his fingers flickered slowly. Focusing the right amount of pressure in it that had your moans shaky. He paused to adjust his fingers as they caressed and rubbed as much flesh as they could.

Mouth etched to your ear. Deep and needy breaths fanned behind you

"So so pretty. Look at that"

He made a show of his fingers coating themselves in your slick. One of his digits hovered over your entrance, slowly it disappeared inside. A muffled groan echoed in the void space

A wet and shlicking sound came from his ministrations, head unable to move, too enraptured into watching him sliding in and out. Skin bloomed with a new wave of goosebumps as his tongue licked your neck and earlobe, rewarding you for taking one finger deliciously, that he licked up clean before going back to rub at your clit.

"Want to add another?"

A breathless and hissing yes.

You didn't know who was with you right now since Father O'Hara couldn't. Your brain still refused to believe they were the same man. One preached and talked mass every Sunday, the other had your head spinning while his fingers explored your insides with such gentleness it only increased your whimpers and need for something more and bigger within you.

"Does that feel good, Hm?"

A dumb nod while more escaped your mouth repeatedly

"More?"

"Please!"

How could he deny to such petition? Even most when you were gripping him so deliciously and pulsating with every stroke he delivered in, grazing at your sweetest spot.

"Like this?"

He increased the tempo and your breath hitched, hips moving to meet his fingers aiding them to reach deeper and deeper.

Breaths turned into short and shallow pants, blood rushed to your cheeks. One of his digits pushed past between your lips meeting your moist muscle that wasted no time into kissing it. All you could hear was yourself and your weeping pussy that demanded for more.

But they weren't enough. Brain was sent into an override when the climax washed over you. All the pent up need and lust drowned you. Strong pulsations dictated the contractions that trapped and milked Miguel's fingers. Mind split in two in a shattering and core shaking spasm.

Mouth gaped, eyes heady and drunk with blind hot pleasure, body convulsed while an array of mumbles and clumsy curses flew out of your mouth to finally end with a delicious quivering cry.

"It's okay, shh, it's okay, pequeña." He cooed you through it while kissing your neck. Heart pounding in your ears.

It took you a moment to breath properly. How could you have missed this? How could you remain so ignorant to this? Alienated from something you were often told it was dirty and condemning.

He had only touched in the right places and you were melting. But why stopping there? You knew he also wanted you, his hard on pressing over your lower back, begging to set free.

"M-More"

He shook his head with a proud smile

"Can't do that, preciosa"

A capricious whine came through your throat, "Why not?"

"Cause, as much as I'd love to take you until you recite the bible backwards to me, you know what could happen."

"You don't want me, then? Why stopping now?"

"Far from that. And we must be discreet. Wouldn't want you to be whipped by Sister Lianne."

He took your hand and kissed your wrist. While his other limb pulled you closer to him.

"I am the only one that shall leave marks on you, my dear. Is that clear?"

"Yes, but-" He took your chin in a gentle but firm grip.

"Is that clear?"

You nodded with a pout.

"Lay on the bed."

"What? "

"Lay on the bed, so I can taste you."

Miguel could fulfil that fantasy. With Bambi-like steps you pushed yourself up and walked over his bed. Plush surface welcomed your body under a creak.

"Spread them."

Toes curled up for a second before spreading them open. Clit already tingling with a foreign yet needy sensation.

He kneeled before you, like he did every day he worshipped the Lord. But this time it wasn't God, but you. Nose nuzzled over your inner thighs while taking a whiff of your scent. Tantalizing and so alluring for his own senses.

Slow and deliberate kisses were placed above your flesh, the strip of hair that decored your pussy, to finally sink in between soaked folds.

The mewl you gave only made him feast upon you. Hands grope the sheets by instinct as he spreaded you further.

His tongue lapped and curled at your hole, slurping it without refrain and inhibitions. Devouring it like it would be his last meal.

Your dream had felt too vivid, yes, but this was completely different. This was in a whole new different level. His corruption had tainted your soul and it was gladly welcomed into your arms.

Legs twitched and shook while your head was thrown back, chest heaved with shallow breaths, unable to breath properly as his tongue was set into fucking your drooling hole.

The way his tongue fucked, dribbled and guzzled your cunt had you mewling and moaning the filthiest things you didn't think possible you could get out.

Good was an understatement, heavenly was a measly word to compare what you felt like. It was maddening and he gave you no rest.

Have you ascended? No. He just wrapped your supple thighs around his head, preventing you from squirming too much, holding your hips in place as his sloshing and assailant mouth gave you no rest.

You hadn't recovered completely from the other orgasm when a new one had approached. Lurking around your senses.

His name was moaned, over and over and when your hands were done of clinging onto the sheets, you held onto his hair. Silky and smooth chocolate locks slid under your fingers.

Eyes peeked over you, and he had to pause for a moment to squeeze his cock. Aching and weeping for him to let him free and make you his. But that would come later.

That would come much later when he had more leisure time and when he'd get protection. As much as he wanted to wreck your snug cunt, he didn't want you to be whipped and shamed like another nun was when the higher ups found out she was pregnant by an outsider.

"Miguel"

His name on your lips rich and tasty, like him.

Your voice snapped him out of his trance to immediately go for your clit. Plump lips pursed and captured the engorged nub. While his hands pushed your legs up and folded them, giving a complete access to your pulsating pussy.

He slurped and souped while his tongue teased. Wet laps sent jolts through your spine each time he tasted you.

Too much. Too good and too soon, yet he didn't stop. He shook his head like a mad dog subduing it's prey and that move alone had you gushing over his mouth. He quickly gobbled it all down.

You whined, cried and blabbled, even tried to pull his head away but he delivered you a last stroke with his tongue to then lick his lips clean.

"Please"

You mumbled through blown breaths as he watched you with a lust blown glare.

What had he done out of you?

"Greed is a sin, my dear."

What had he created?

"But if you're good enough, the wait will be worth it."

His little lamb was so willing for him, aching to be tainted, corrupted even more. And his task was to banish such whims.

He'd given you a taste of what laid ahead. A promise of a much unholy reward if you followed this path with him. But your resolve had been made the first time you came.

He'd be your first and last. There wasn't any need for another to teach you what he was compliant to demonstrate.

You'd be his to fuck. His to tame and corrupt.

You'd be his.

---

Taglist:

@plumplumpurin

#miguel o'hara #t writes✨ #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #atsv miguel #miguel o hara #miguel ohara smut #priest miguel #Miguelverse #spiderman 2099 masterlist #spiderman 2099 smut #priest au #afab reader #Miguel O'Hara x AFAB Reader

[peachesofteal]

Dad!John Price/female reader The Ocean anthology - previous

You haven’t been inside a bar this crowded since you graduated from university. 

You settle in the corner, avoiding nearly everyone’s eyes, hands cupped around a chipped glass full to the brim with beer. 

You weren’t expecting an island on the brink of a full winter assault to be so… lively.

The room is a party. A party full of people who know one another well enough to call them by first name. There can’t be more than one hundred people living in this town year-round, and you think they might all be inside this dimly light pub, crowded around the waxed cedar bar, laughing and smiling with like they’ve not seen each other in eons. Like they’re long lost, disjointed members of the same family.

Well, all most all of them. 

You don’t see the Ranger. The Caribbean blue eyes, brusque moustache and beard, low brim black beanie, all are missing.

Somehow, it doesn’t surprise you. 

He didn’t seem the socializing type.

Still…

You hadn’t expected such a… clipped welcome. 

And you surely hadn’t expected your ferry buddy, the spunky six-year-old girl who talked to you for most of the ride, to be his daughter.

Somehow, that made his cold, distant nature even worse. 

Here’s a man capable of warmth; his smile said, when he scooped his daughter into his arms. Here’s someone you can trust. Someone who is friendly, genuine.

Just not towards you. He was stiff, uncomfortable, and even though the drive to town was fairly short, he barely spoke to you, answering your questions with the shortest syllables possible. 

He was every bit the Ranger you had heard so little about. Every bit the man turned myth.

And handsome. Rugged.

Older.

Your new friend in the backseat was better company than the man you’d be working with for better part of a year, the Ranger who you’re afraid you can’t do it without. Can’t navigate the island or the tides without him, can’t do half the work you needed to do without a partner. The thing his role is supposed to be, when needed. 

Worse was, the provided housing is a duplex, and he’s on the other side, a fact he gritted through his teeth this afternoon when he dropped you off, gesturing to the right side of the house with a callous wave. His front door was as green as the forest. 

The other was black. 

Your boss did warn you. 

She was tactful, cautious. The island itself carries a reputation; one some may be intimated by, but not you. 

Who are you to fear stewards of the land? They are more akin to you than others, after all.

John though, she lamented with a mournful expression, John was different. 

“John is less than pleased about this placement but assures me it won’t be an issue.”

“Less than pleased?” 

“He’s… protective, but he’ll warm up to you in time, I’m sure. A few days, and he’ll be showing you the ropes. Don’t worry.” 

You keep your nose in your beer. When you’re finished, the next one comes immediately, without prompting, and the bartender swoops low, voice heavy in your ear. 

“On the house.” He winks, and the woman to your left slides closer, curiosity wet on her lips between her drink and the question you know is coming. 

“You’re the scientist?” 

“No, the marine biologist. Cetologist, to be specific.” You cut to the quick and she stares at you, rightfully so. You have the good grace to grimace. “Er, sorry. I’m uh… not great with people.”

“That’s alright. Neither are we, really.” She lifts her drink with a cheers, gesturing to the room, and knocks it back. “So, what’s a cetologist?” 

“I study whales.” She nods knowingly.

“Ah. You’re here for the pod.” 

“Well, I’m interested in the humpbacks too, but yes. I’m mostly here to study the residents.” You were only here to study the pod, but you never said no to a whale, no matter notoriety, or size. You might be getting paid to study the residents, but you were going to soak up every second you could on this island. It’s wilderness was protected and almost pristine, an untamed landscape of mountain and sea too great of a call for you to resist.

The woman stares at you, intrigued, thin veil of amusement dancing in her eyes. “We’re happy to have you. You respect us, we’ll respect you.” The bartender pauses, shining a glass with a hole pocked rag, and glares at her. “Most of us will. Can’t say how John’ll take to ya.” 

“Oh, I work on my own mostly.” You lie, giving her a fake smile that feels awful, and she humphs. 

“Well, it was nice to meet you…” she flounders, and you provide your name, letting it settle in the air, others turning to give you a questioning look, like they’ve been waiting for it too, and she grins, repeating it with a handshake. “Skip the shortcuts through the forest at night.” She adds over her shoulder, hopping off the stool and wading into the crowd without another word, leaving you confused. 

Skip the… skip the what? 

“Ignore her.” The bartender hastily reassures you, but the emotion doesn’t touch his eyes, lingering gazes in the room enough to have you swallowing the rest of your beer in haste and beelining out the door. 

The walk to your rental is short, up the street and take a left, then another, until you reach the only house at the top of the hill, a duplex with a sweeping, wide planked front porch. 

The top step creaks beneath your weight. An ember glows in the dark. 

“Jesus chr-“ Your heart slams against your ribs, pulse thundering between your ears.

He’s silent. The cigar illuminates his face, a flicker of brilliant blue, crystal clear and piercing, pinned onto you like a laser. 

“It’s late.” It’s the admonishment of a father, and indignant rage flourishes down your spine. 

“I’m an adult, thanks.” He’s unmoved by your spite. Settled like the cedars that grow at the heart of this place, tall enough to blot out the sun, wide enough to build houses, boats. 

He pulls. The orange cinder burns red, honeyed smoke and mahogany sweetening the air. 

The smoking is attractive. It's intriguing, dangerous, and draws you closer, other foot coming to rest on the top step, tempting fate.

"You shouldn't be out around here late."

"The entire town is down at the bar." You shoot back, still rising in anger, rattling with it. You’re a grown woman, who is this guy to tell you what you can and can’t do?

His jaw flexes, mouth tightening into a straight line, invisible string pulling him taut before he speaks again.

"They live here, know their way around. It's not always safe." The protest builds, words coming quick, rapid-fire, but before you can speak, you lose your voice to a chorus of howls.

Wolves.

#peaches writes #john price #john price x reader #this is mostly just vibes #and whales

[armed-with-a-waffle-iron]

Stephanie Brown ACTUALLY having the character arc that fanon pretends Jason Todd had (plus a defence of canon Jason)

What I'm really saying is that Stephanie Brown is underappreciated, Jason Todd is often misinterpreted, and, though it should go without saying, ignoring canon is poor media literacy. So let's actually analyse canon and get to the bottom of what the stories are trying to say and how they use their characters to tell this, as opposed to just which character should we stan.

I'm arguing that Stephanie Brown's story actually features a redemption arc that sees her transform from a violent, almost murderous teenager into the most unwaveringly hopeful of heroes and that Jason's story is about a villain who we're meant to empathise with to expose the cracks in the Batman's heroic facade; a Frankenstein's monster if you will. Here's a numbered list:

Part 1: Outgrowing Violence, Anger and Murder

A big part of Stephanie Brown's growth in canon is her learning not to kill or use excessive force. But it's not as simple as just killing is wrong, don't question it.

Let's begin with the narrative's relationship to violence, anger and murder. Why doesn't Batman kill? Because "[those] who [fight] with monsters might take care lest [they] thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you". If he kills, he's playing god, choosing who gets to live and die. No one deserves that kind of absolute power and absolute power also corrupts. Batman doesn't want to lose sight of himself or his cause. Deliberate murder is treated VERY negatively in the Batman mythos.

Enter Stephanie Brown.

Stephanie was a working class latchkey kid who grew up on the wrong side of the tracks. She had an abusive, criminal father, who was in and out of jail, and a mother struggling with addiction, who Steph became a carer for at just 15. Steph also became pregnant with the child of her horrible ex. At 16, she gave birth to that child and had to give her up for adoption. Steph is also a survivor.

The world was never kind to Steph and left this teenager with a hell of a lot of bitterness and rage which her vigilante career became an outlet for. You can tell by the way she fights since Steph fights DIRTY; she'll tug hair and spit in your eyes and strike below the belt and catch a kick to twist your ankle and dislodge your already broken nose. On the one hand; the narrative tells us Steph is resourceful. She's 5'5", 130 lb and has zero powers, but can always find an opening even when going up against Gotham's grizzliest. It's telling that quick thinking, savviness and spontaneity become her thing when she becomes Batgirl; Steph is the wild card. On the other hand, she was a real diamond in the rough and a complete loose canon. In her first arc, it's Batman who stops her from making the biggest mistake of her life; killing her dad. To deliberately kill; to play god, is to lose yourself, remember. Her first arc is about not being defined by who your parents are and about not giving up on yourself. Batman basically tells her, there's hope for you yet Stephanie Brown, by getting her to spare her dad. And she does. And so began her superhero career.

Nonetheless, it's never that simple. Steph is still a bitter, angry teenager, no matter how many jokes she cracks. It becomes a personal crusade when she, now Robin, discovers that The Penguin is using children as runners. It takes Cassandra Cain to stop her from inflicting anything she may regret.

The narrative wants to show us how cruel the world can be and that it isn't black and white, either. The story ends with an angry Stephanie lamenting "why". It's a "why" she is asking herself too. Why does she do what she does? And it informs us that she, and maybe us the reader too, still have a lot to learn. Murder's not the answer but what is?

Stephanie later saves Bruce by almost murdering serial killer Victor Zsasz. Bruce reprimands her and she cries, quite honestly, "I don't get it, I really don't", following on from where we left off in Batgirl. "There are always other options than to kill" asserts Bruce, forget not being on the same page, they're reading different books. The thesis of the story is what Bruce should have told Steph when she was an angry 15 year old about to murder her dad; "[those] who [fight] with monsters might take care lest [they] thereby become a monster". The world's cruel, Steph, but that doesn't mean you have to be too. "Are you firing me?" "No, I'm teaching you".

Over 2 years down the line, an around 19 year old Stephanie, establishing herself as the new, hoping-inspiring Batgirl, is now teaching a brash Damian Wayne what she's learned.

"To murder or not to murder" is just a plot device to the themes of overcoming your own anger at the world's cruelty to contribute good, coming to terms with shades of grey, not giving up on yourself and staying hopeful in the face of adversity and horror. These are Stephanie's arcs and as a consequence, she goes from would-be-murderer to Gotham's cheeriest caped crusader.

Part 2: Double Standards and Second Chances

Another huge part of Stephanie's story is her overcoming double standards and doubters, to earn her own second chances. Her resurrection and rise to the role of Batgirl were choices made to hammer home this theme; it's never too late to turn things around.

There's some juicy metatext to analyse here too. DC editorial's treatment of Stephanie during War Games was horrific and panned by both fans and writers. To reperate for these harms, Steph was retconned back to life and then made Batgirl during Batman: Reborn. Here's a quote by Batgirl (2009) author Bryan Q. Miller on what his run aimed to bring out of Steph:

The whole point of Stephanie's resurrection and take over of the Batgirl title was to give her a redemption arc.

In text, Stephanie was unfairly treated too, notwithstanding that she was brash and had a massive violent streak in her Spoiler and Robin days. Tim Drake constantly condescends her and tells her to give up vigilante life, even though she was ALWAYS a match for Tim according to Convergence: Batgirl. Cassandra Cain constantly underestimates Steph. Bruce Wayne tells his allies to cut off ties with Steph and then later fires her as Robin for DISOBEYING HIM as if that's not the first thing Dick Grayson ever did as Robin. Barbara Gordon tells Steph she has a death wish. Dick deems Steph too reckless (moments before he resurrects a zombie Batman). And Damian is an entitled brat who gives her a hard time for no reason. Everyone doubts Stephanie and it generally says more about the doubter than it does Stephanie.

Stephanie was never great with authority or criticism so she still went out there and earned her second chance. And it felt rewarding when her doubters came around too.

Stephanie was brought back from the dead to be redeemed and man did she take that chance!

Part 3: What is Jason Todd's Story Meant to Tell Us and My Defence of Canon Jason

Jason Todd returns from the dead as a ghost of Batman's past; he is the living embodiment of Batman's greatest mistake who couldn't stay buried and is back to haunt him. He's a character we are meant to empathise with but he's a villain nonetheless. He's not irredeemable but for the most part his story is not really about redemption. Succinctly, it revolves around the idea that "we are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell” to quote Oscar Wilde.

When we first meet the resurrected Jason, he's a cold-blooded murderer who's slinging guns and using The Joker's old moniker. These choices are made to emphasise that he went down the wrong path; he's breaking Batman's "don't play god" rule and his actions become eerily closer to those of the Clown Prince of Crime than Batman's. In fact Nightwing and Batman spend some quality time together in the next two issues because Nightwing is the foil to the Red Hood; he's what Bruce considers his greatest success. Remember that thing about "those who [fight] with monsters might take care lest [they] thereby become a monster"? Well Jason DID become a monster. And if he's the monster, then Bruce Wayne is Frankenstein.

We're not supposed to think "yes, kill the The Joker, Jason", we're supposed to think "good god, please Jason, it's not too late to turn your life around". Here's Dick and Jason being the exact opposite of each other, an issue apart.

So what was Jason's villainous return trying to say? For one, that people are the products of their circumstance, lest we forget Jason was once an eager and studious Robin who just wanted to be part of something greater when life, but specifically Bruce, sent him awry. This is also a story about Bruce which tells us says that our mistakes have consequences that don't stay buried, and that we will always be forced to reckon with our histories or it becomes everyone's problem. This next panel shows this best. All of Jason's killing and torture and fear-spreading and chaos does not come down to some "murder or not to murder" debate, it comes down to his relationship with Bruce. He is the monster that Frankenstein created who's back to haunt him and no one is safe.

Jason's initial Red Hood arcs were never supposed to pose the question "should Batman kill The Joker or not?". The answer is no and always has been. They are supposed to show us how Bruce's poor fatherhood of and partnership with Jason Todd led to all this horror. And Bruce can't turn back the clock, he has to reckon with the consequences of his actions in the present or more people will get hurt. It's significant that these first arcs don't end with Jason returning to the manor and seeking help surrounded by family.

We then see Jason and his issues with Bruce threaten the lives of others like when he beat Tim half to death twice, tried to blow up Mia Dearden and then tried to become a murderous, gun-touting Batman after Bruce's "death".

Once Dick Grayson becomes Batman, the narrative sheds a bit more light on how Bruce's Frankenstein created a monster in Jason; Bruce wanted Jason to be another Dick Grayson.

The red hair is a perfect metaphor. Jason is naturally red-haired and he is now balding because Bruce made him dye his hair black so he'd look like Dick as Robin. That sums it up for me. Bruce really created his own demon here and Dick, as the new Batman, is trying to make amends with the sins of the Batman's past. Jason's a great choice for a Dick Grayson villain because of their histories, considering Dick Grayson is the legacy Batman.

"I tried really hard to be what batman wanted me to be...which is you." Jason tells Dick.

That line is so painful and way more recognisable and relatable than anything fanon has produced.

"But this world...this dirty, twisted, cruel and ugly dungheap had...other plans for me."

Look no further, this is who Jason Todd is.

That's a powerful story if you ask me, and this is why I like Jason Todd as a character; a villain I pity deeply, who is portrayed as a product of their circumstances without diminishing their agency and who makes me see the cracks in the hero's facade because they are the monster our "hero" created. He's also a very nuanced foil to the ever-shining light that is Dick Grayson. The appeal to Mary Shelley's Frankenstein isn't that the monster murdered people. I also would never swap canon Jason out for, I dunno, Wayne Family Adventures Jason who's the amalgamation of 3 or 4 common fanon tropes. This is my two cents.

#stephanie brown that ball of anger and vengeance that we saw grow into one of the most well-rounded capable and cheerful bats around #stephanie brown #vengeance is purple #fanon vs canon #jason tood #robin #batgirl #the spoiler #red hood #batman and robin #dc comics #comics #metas #batman #batfam #wayne family adventures #bruce wayne #dick grayson

[spreadwardiard]

Home is Where You Are p2

First part here

Summary: Megatronus comes home after a fight to his new home in Iacon, excited to reunite with his conjunx.

Megatronus was in a foul mood when he stepped off the transport platform and into the streets of lower Iacon. His trip back to Kaon hadn’t gone exactly as planned. He’d won his fight, of course, but the joy of victory felt hollow when combined with the rest of his visit. Just as he had expected, many of his followers were ill at ease over his relocation to Iacon, and they had made their displeasure known. 

It mattered little to them when he explained the political reasons for the change. They only saw it as him running off with his higher caste lover to live in luxury while they lamented with their scraps.  They were wrong, of course, but that didn’t stop them from asking questions and doubting his sincerity as their leader. It was a pain in his aft, but one he couldn’t afford to ignore. 

Their hab wasn’t even luxurious, especially by Iaconian standards.  It was in the lower levels, in a section of the city reserved for manual laborers. Its proximity to the docks meant that there was little peace. Shipments came in all throughout the cycle with little regard for the resident's recharge needs, and the ground shook periodically when the largest of transport trucks took their goods from the docks into central Iacon. Combine that with the relatively high crime rate in the area, and he may as well have been in a mid-tier neighborhood in Kaon. In Iacon, this was a slum. 

The few saving graces it offered were an affordable price, fast access to the transport station and the size of the habs available. Orion had refused to budge on that last issue. Megatronus was used to shoving his large frame into spaces too small for him, but Orion insisted on finding something they could both fit comfortably in. 

Megatronus rounded the corner and ex-vented heavily as their hab came into view. He wanted to force the foulness of his mood aside before he made it home. The last thing he wanted was for Orion to ask him what was wrong, especially when all he wanted to do was kiss the mech senseless and forget about his woes. He could think about them all tomorrow, hopefully after a sensual reunion with his conjunx and a well deserved recharge in his own berth. 

The thought finally brought a smile to his face as he punched in their lock code. There was absolutely nothing that would ruin the rest of this evening for him. He stepped inside, eager to greet his little archivist. 

He only got two steps past the door before his pedes were suddenly out from under him. Megatronus didn’t even have time to brace himself. His helm crashed back against the door and his aft hit the ground with a soft thud, cushioned only by the sound proofed padded tiles that lined the floor of the whole hab. 

The gladiator groaned and gritted his dentae together as the stars assaulting his optical inputs subsided. His would-be assassin lie scrunched up at his pedes: the custom-made rug bearing his movement’s logo that Orion had surprised him with as a homecoming gift when they had first moved into this place. The same rug that had been torturing him ever since they had put it on the blasted floor. 

Megatronus snatched the offending hunk of imported fabric in a rage, ready to rip it into a million tiny pieces. He didn’t know why the rug had it out for him. No one else had any problems walking over it. It was only he who it seemed to target with its mythical ability to take a mech to the floor. 

The soft, purple and black mesh seemed so unassuming in his servos… so easy to shred for its continued insults to his pride. But that would upset Orion… He in-vented deeply, and squeezed the rug in a momentary death grip before tossing it to the side. It wasn’t worth upsetting Orion over and ruining his first night back home. 

After hauling himself back up onto his pedes, he spared a glance back at the door, which had a brand-new helm shaped dent marring its otherwise pristine surface. Slag... He’d have to call someone to fix that before Soundwave saw it. He’d never hear the end of it if his spymaster knew he was still tripping over that fibrous death trap. 

Megatronus forced the thoughts from his mind. His war with the rug would resume another cycle. The lights were dimmed in their living area, and Orion was nowhere to be seen. It was late, he probably hadn’t waited up, which was disappointing, but understandable. At least he hadn’t been up to hear him slamming his helm into the door. 

He snorted at the thought. It would have been embarrassing for Orion to see him taken down by a rug. This was a small blessing, no matter how disappointing it was that he wouldn’t be having the reunion he’d fantasized about. This was fine. It just meant that the next morning would be that much more fun. 

He flicked the lights completely off in the living room before he turned down the hallway. Recharge sounded nice, now that he thought about it. The door opened for him, automatically, and he couldn’t help the smile that spread on his face as his optics settled on Orion Pax draped over the desk at the window, deep in recharge. 

It took only a glance to see that he had dozed off while looking over one of Megatronus’ upcoming speeches. His Archivist was ever dutiful to him and their cause. He should have expected to find him here, like this. 

Love wasn’t something that Megatronus was great at expressing. He wasn’t an overtly affectionate mech, and when he was, it came off more as possessive. He also wasn’t all that great at verbally expressing his more tender emotions. Orion made it seem natural and easy. Orion could turn the normal task of editing into a declaration of devotion without uttering a single glyph.

The best that he could do was a clumsy attempt at gentleness as he scooped his Conjunx out of the chair and into his arms, grimacing as Orion’s helm clanked softly against his chassis, before slipping him as carefully as he could onto the berth. Orion didn’t budge from his slumber, and Megatronus huffed a quiet chuckle at that. No one recharged deeper than Orion Pax. 

He was lucky. He could admit that. Everyone knew Orion deserved better, including himself. Some were brave enough to even say so to his face. Even though Orion Pax insisted that he was exactly where he wanted to be, Megatronus found it difficult to shrug off his insecurities regarding the matter. 

He rounded the berth, and dimmed the lights to the lowest setting before finally allowing himself to lie down beside his beloved. He pressed a single kiss to the crest of Orion’s helm before tucking him against his frame, the way he knew Orion liked. Megatronus had missed him more than he would be able to say out loud and judging by how Orion had instinctually nuzzled into him, he’d missed him too. 

It was good to be home.

#spreadwardiardfics #megop #megaop #megorion #orion pax #tfp megaop #transformers prime #transformers #maccadam #fanfiction #megop fic #tfp megop

[ruhorih4ra]

Hi! ฅ⁠^⁠•⁠ﻌ⁠•⁠^⁠ฅ

First of all, I want to extend a very heartfelt apology to the fellow sheep that belong to the Anti-Lucifer League JAJAJA because this chapter is completely about the viejo sabroso.

What did you say? that my favoritism is showing? That's ridiculous.

(I promise all of them will have their own special moment with Mc, yes even the killer cow.)

I kind of thought I had already put spoilers warnings in the first part but heheh surprise! I didn't! <⁠(⁠￣⁠︶⁠￣⁠)⁠> not much of a spoiler but I wrote the fic without explaining things that won't make sense if you haven't finished the game? (God I don't know but I think I did because I do that all the fucking time)

Part 15!

Get out of my way 🌈

“I hurt your brothers.” You said, curtly. Admitting it felt worse than you had expected. Your eyes were glued to your hands, avoiding those of the older brother, who hadn’t uttered a single word. “You were right when we met, I wasn’t and I am not trustworthy.” You couldn’t help the slight tremble in your voice. “I shouldn’t live in the house of lamentation anymore.” Lucifer remained silent.

“I shouldn’t be your master.” You finally said, feeling a pain in your chest that you were getting used to. You searched for Lucifer’s eyes expecting to see disappointment and anger, but to your surprise he had turned around and now you could only stare at his broad back.

He had turned around since your first confession, he was as much afraid to meet your gaze as you were of looking his. He knew you would be angry and ready to leave them as you should have since the first time he dared to threaten you. He knew it was for the best and wouldn’t have the nerve to deny you, not after he proved to be unworthy.

And then you spoke and he cursed the relief he felt, of course you would take all the blame, of course you would forget about their mistakes and the way they had hurt you too. You were like a mirror years ago, accepting all the pain and never asking why, forgive and forget. But Lucifer knows best, that path only has one end and the fall is long and painful.

The Avatar of Pride was tired. First, you wandered through the Devildom in complete solitude, getting hurt by who knows who without him being able to reach you, much less stopping them. Then, his brother almost died in his arms without him being able to do anything. No matter how hard he tries, the ones he loves the most are always out of reach. He looked at you and noticed how you had lost weight, another thing he had failed at.

“How old do you think I am, Mc?” He asked. The sudden question left you confused but you laughed nonetheless. “Jurassic Park brings memories?” You joked and he turned around with a small smile gracing his lips. “I’ll let that slide.” He walked towards the couch. “I’m very old.” Lucifer said as he sat on the sofa, next to you.

You smiled, still confused by the sudden change of topic, but decided to go with it, after all, whatever he wanted to say couldn’t be as painful as what you had to say. You took a strand of black hair, those few that were white at the very end, and replied. “I can see that.” Your eyes finally met and it wasn’t painful or filled with distrust. It was nice, simply nice. Both of you laughed.

“As I was saying, dear. I have lived for quite some time now. In fact, I am at least ten million years older than you.” Lucifer was smiling, caressing your hand with his thumb. You remained quiet, suddenly very aware of Lucifer’s face of fatigue and glassy eyes. “Naturally, my brothers are rather old too.”

You swallowed hard before removing your hand from Lucifer’s touch. As much as you wanted to go back to the same old routine, you knew it wouldn’t be long before the guilt ate you alive. “I don’t understand how this has anything to do with the fact that I hurt your family.” Your hand brushed the places that Lucifer had touched, something that didn’t go unnoticed by the demon. “I told them horrible things, you know that?” You watched carefully Lucifer’s face, waiting for his reaction. “I ordered them too, just like I ordered you to shut up.” The avatar of pride seemed absent, unamused. “I even thought of…” you forced the words out. “of hurt them, physically. Seriously harm them.” A couple of silent tears rolled down your face.

Lucifer wiped them gently, as slowly as he could, because he knew that was all he would ever get. “I think about physically hurting them almost every day.” Lucifer said, in a playful tone you couldn’t bear. “Stop! I’m not playing, Lucifer! This is serious, I tried and succeeded. I harmed them!” You hit Lucifer’s chest and, to your surprise, he stifled a whimper.

You came to a halt immediately, looking a drop of sweat slide off from his forehead. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?” The prideful demon tried to get up but you were faster, or maybe it was just Lucifer giving up. You opened his already torn shirt to reveal a burnt wound of your pact mark, as if it had been branded with a hot iron. “What the fuck is that?” You stopped Lucifer from buttoning his shirt. “What happened? Tell me.” You fought a silent staring battle until Lucifer sighed. “You called us through the pact but it was…” the demon was searching for the right words but knew that the human in front of him wouldn’t listen. “It was uncertain. I don’t know what happened.”

You laughed bitterly. “You know what happened, you’re ten million years older, aren’t you? What happened, Lucifer?” He rubbed his face. “It’s not your fault.” You put your hand on his chest, pressing slightly harder. He winced in pain. “That’s not what I asked.” You said. He took your wrist but made no effort to stop you. On the contrary, he pushed your hand further into his chest. “It’s not your fault.”

You looked into his eyes as you pressed more. “...” He was clearly surprised, but it was difficult to express it since he was fighting the urge to scream. “Very well, Mc. That’s enough.” An immediate expression of relief reached his face the moment you removed your hand from his thorax. “I appreciate the romantic gesture but I want to know the truth Lucifer.”

“That’s the truth, it wasn’t your fault. You called us but it wasn’t on purpose. It was a reflex. Not a spell, but directionless magic.”, “So I hurt you even when I didn’t mean to.” You shifted uncomfortably in your seat. “The only way you could do it.” Lucifer thought but he decided to keep that to himself.

“Mc, we have lived through worse.” The avatar of pride took your chin and forced you to see him. “We can endure this and more. What about you? What we did to you.” You pushed his hand once more. Lucifer tried to bury the pain he felt every time you decided to avert his touch, but it didn’t hurt any less. “Don’t be stupid, Lucifer. What did you do? Replaced me?” You gestured with your hand before he could deny anything. “And so what? I should have acted like a normal person and just leave.” You said. “Instead of developing a damn curse.” You thought, bitterly.

“I’m glad you didn’t leave.” He knew that was selfish and unfair, he knew he was no better than a little kid throwing a tantrum. “I can’t say the same.” You murmured.

You had called Levi more than the others, you had wanted to see him so badly and perhaps that’s why he almost died. It was ironic and twisted, but now it was obvious. The Little D. of envy really did a number on you and that little show he threw. You fell into their trap like a fool. The more you thought about it, the more anger grew inside you. You would get your revenge, all of those little demons would pay one way or another.

You were starting to regret having stopped Lucifer from leaving when he wanted, once again the conversation ended in nothing good, what you had wanted to say was left unsaid and forming a big and painful lump in your throat. You saw Lucifer from the corner of the eye and your heart skipped a beat. You had to make sure you weren’t seeing things. “You want to leave.” He said, letting you cup his face and watching your gaze full of worry, and once he looked at himself through your eyes he found out why.

“Don’t cry, Lucifer. I’m going to cry too.” You saw a single tear slide until it reached Lucifer’s soft smile. He had cried before, when his brothers were sleeping and silence was unbearable, when he is alone with a life full of memories, painful memories. He knows the art of suffering, the art of breaking down in solitude. However, it had been a long time since he had cried in front of anyone.

“Just because you can endure it doesn’t mean you have to.” You said, recalling his previous words. “Love shouldn’t burn.” The picture of that burn on the demon’s chest refused to leave your mind. Lucifer straightened up and took your hands again, hoping you wouldn’t reject him this time. “This unfortunate incident got out of hand.” He cleared his throat and you rolled your eyes, still finding comfort in Lucifer’s mannerism. “As an ancient and very wise demon, you should really trust my words.” You let escape a little laugh and hummed in response. “Love shouldn’t burn but it does, not always, but there are times, and even after touching the flame we tend to admit that it was worth it.”

“I know you’re not looking for metaphors and I’m not trying to sugarcoat my words. We hurt each other badly. There are no kind words to face the truth but, regardless of how selfish and naive I sound, I’m confident that we can fix it.” He tried to caress your cheek but ultimately decided against it. “I know I can fix it.” All the worries of the past few weeks were finally getting to him. You murmured Lucifer’s name, it was evident that he was crumbling.

“I assure you that I’ll never let this happen again.” Another round of silent tears fell from his eyes. You couldn’t take it anymore, you extended your arms towards him but, this time was his turn to move aside from you. “It’s okay, I’m fine. You don’t have to force yourself.” He said, already regretting his next words. “I know you don’t want me to comfort you, I know you’re not fond of my touch.”

You frowned. “Why do you think that?” You questioned, but Lucifer didn’t want to answer, he was afraid his voice would fail. He didn’t want to show you more of this pitiful side of him. His silence forced you to think, looking back at your previous interactions you realized that although not on purpose, you had still avoided his touch several times. “Lucifer, how can you believe that?”

“Is it not true? Don’t you repulse the idea of me approaching you?” He knew how needy he sounded. He also knew lacking confidence wasn’t his style and probably not what you would expect from the Avatar of Pride but it didn’t matter, he wanted to know.

Looking at an imperfect Lucifer was always unnerving, you’ve seen him before and it never ceases to amaze you how even when he’s crumbling he looks ethereal. Although you didn’t hate it, you preferred his more full-of-himself self.

“I don’t know.” You replied, climbing onto his lap and wrapping your arms around his neck. “What does it look like, my morning star?” you rested your forehead on his, amused at Lucifer’s surprise. He cursed how infatuated for you he was, both the searing pain from his wounds and the memories of your rejections immediately faded when he felt your hands in his hair. It had been a long time since he saw heaven, but your eyes were more than enough to evoke it. “It seems that you pity me.”

He looked how you closed your eyes, a small and genuine smile gracing your face. “Now you’re only pressing your luck, love.” You said, unaware of the happiness you had aroused in him. “Say it again.”

“Now you’re only pressing your luck?” You pretended to be confused. He narrowed his eyes, feigning annoyance at your teasing but it was no use, once he let you see his soft side you could see through all of his facades. “Please?” He asked and you nearly gasped at how ridiculously innocent he looked.

“You’re a real menace, love.” You whispered in his ear and so did he. “Look who’s talking.” He was quick, one hand on your hips while the other cupped your chin. He was slow, your lips were as close as they could be without touching, a clear request from the demon. “Do you still think I don’t like your touch?” You questioned, lips slightly brushing as you murmured.

Lucifer wanted to kiss you, his grip on your hip was tight and his breath was uneven. You drove him crazy. He was certain that you wanted him to initiate the kiss, to show him that you wouldn’t back away, to force him to hang from your hand on the cliff. And so he did. He kissed you, slowly moving his hand from your hip to your back. Enjoying you as a fine wine but drinking you like a thirsty man.

Once that the kiss was broken you shook your head, hugging him and rubbing circles on his back. “I’m sorry, Lucifer, you must be very tired.” He cried against his will, the only way he knows how to. His trembling figure was holding onto you tightly, hiding his tears and shame. “I won’t leave the Devildom, I won’t leave you.” You said softly, trying to put all the love you had into those words. “We can fix this together.” He had stopped crying, soon after he laid his head on your chest. “I apologize for this uncalled for display of weakness.” You pinched his neck in annoyance and he complained with a low growl. “Enough with the fancy attitude. You don’t have to apologize.”

“I love it.” You reassured him, hurt to see him so broken. “I love you.” You said, wiping away his tears. “I’m sorry, I was cruel before.” He shook his head and a long suspire escaped him. “That’s my line, Mc. I said awful things, words I didn’t mean.” He frowned again and you resisted the urge to kiss his discomfort away. “You want to say something else, don’t you?”

“I won’t leave, but I want to stay in Purgatory Hall for some time.” You said, not without hesitation. Lucifer looked directly into your eyes hoping to see some explanation. “You don’t think we can keep you safe.”

“That’s not why.” You hurried to say, watching Lucifer distraught face. “But you won’t tell us who attacked you.” Lucifer moved enough to see your face.

“But surely Barbatos already knows.” You laughed dryly. Did Barbatos really know? Was it possible for him to see the Little D.s in those multiple rooms of his? Did the butler look at them to know the truth? Did he see the past? You felt embarrassed at the mere possibility. Perhaps that was for the best, all of this could finally be over. But where would that leave you? Useless, pathetic, stupid human who couldn’t even defeat their own demons. You watched your hands, useless. You are supposed to be a bridge between the three worlds, you have seven pacts with some of the most powerful beings in hell, your master is the most powerful sorcerer of humanity, that should mean something but… does it?

Are you really special or just a consequence of circumstances? If you couldn’t be of service, if you prove to be weak and incompetent, wouldn’t they be better off with someone like Sc?

But you love them, with all their flaws. You have loved them above anything, putting your own life at risk for them. You didn’t love them because of their intelligence, their strength, or their status. You love them because they were they. They should love you because you are you. So why? Why did they replace you despite all the love they claim to feel? Why did they choose to spend their time with Sc? Why did they treat you like that?

“Is it because I’m not as good looking as her? Or is it because I’m not smart enough? Perhaps I lack what she has to spare.” You saw how Lucifer’s face wrinkled in confusion, of course, he couldn’t read minds (as far as you knew), he wasn’t aware of all the twists and turns you took to end with that question. “What are you talking about, Mc?” You got off Lucifer’s lap and sat on the sofa again, still close to the demon.

“Because she would be a better council officer than me?” You said but your voice was flat and you sounded gone, bored even.

Suddenly, it clicked for Lucifer. He remembered again the face that Mammon had made when he told him how you had lost your trust in them and the sincerity and complete security he had seen in that gaze, because it wasn’t something that his younger brother decided to believe, no, it was something that he could feel, after all, he was painfully honest for a demon. Lucifer had tried to dismiss it, to cling onto that tiny possibility that you still had faith in them.

He wanted to cry again, because his heart threatened to burst out of his chest, probably angry for being forced to belong to such a prideful demon. He wanted to cry because he knew you didn’t trust them, but more than that, you didn’t believe in their love.

“It’s fair, Mc. If you don’t want to believe me when I say that I love you, that I would die for you at any time. It’s understandable and I’ll accept it for now but don’t compare yourself anymore, love. Please, let me protect you.” Lucifer desperately wanted to erase those words and stupid beliefs from your mind, he wanted to remove the blindfold they had accidentally put on your eyes, to let you see just how irreplaceable you are.

You shook your head, your jaw tensing at the inhuman effort you were doing to keep looking into Lucifer’s eyes. Not because it was painful, but because you were afraid of those blurry black spots you could see out of the corner of your eye.

You could see the five Little D.s surrounding you and Lucifer, you knew they were looking at you with eyes as wide as their smiles. You focused on Lucifer’s eyes, beautiful and calm, full of grieve and hope. The same hope you were clinging on. “If you want me to trust you, it’s only fair that I ask you the same.”

Lucifer knew he was egotistical, he himself hid things from you so that you could continue living without a care in the world, so you could be safe. That’s what he’s supposed to do, not the other way around. You should tell him who was responsible for hurting you so he could show them what he’s capable of, what true fear feels like. “Besides, I wouldn’t tell any of you, unless I want a bloodbath in the Devildom.” The Little D.s’ laughter filled the room, you could still feel their eyes on you.

“Why would you want to protect them?” The Avatar of Pride asked, he couldn’t fathom how anyone would show that level of mercy, but if there was someone capable of, it would be you (he had no doubts). You, on the other hand, were building a slow but solid thirst for blood. You were not defeated, you had let yourself hit hard ground but it wasn’t over. They are your demons, yours to haunt, yours to kill. “I’ll stay here for a while. Are you going to be okay without me?”

“No, I won’t.” He simply said, pondering his options, perhaps he should intervene with a direct approach. Maybe he could lock you up until he finds out who hurt you, securing you until he can keep an eye on you at all times. Never let you go more than 5 inches away from him. Always close to his reach. He laughed, passing a hand over his tired face. “Father really knew something when he kicked me out of his place.” He thought. “I’ll be waiting for you, love.” He said instead.

Even if he wasn’t by your side, he would keep an eye on you, taking care of you from the distance until he could earn your trust back. This storm would pass too, he was sure.

“I promise it won’t take long.” You hugged Lucifer again, facing The Little D. of Pride’s face. Smiling at him, a cold and unwavering smirk. “You just wait and get ready, okay? No takesies backsies!” You sang overly sweet, The Little D. of Pride laughed and spoke silently too. “No takesies backsies!”

The face of Lucifer was priceless, a shame that you couldn’t see it. He was completely taken aback, confused to the core by your strange change of mood. He felt like he was on a roller coaster or maybe in an intricate story that he was unable to follow, much like those ramblings Leviathan does. He opted to remain silent, firstly because he didn’t know what would be an appropriate response to “No taksies backsies!” but, most importantly, because he was trying to hide the sinister hunch that, as impossible as it seemed, you were not talking to him.

Part 17???

Taglist: @yuumaofc @kodasstar @sadlily1 @asmolover1234 @gallantys @prefesro @urminebutidontwantyou @fiveofspades @owl778 @unknownbish101 @pinkvelvetcake1 @bontensbabygirl @exrellian @kaiserkisser @cutestpatoootie @makulitsiava

#obey me #obey me fanfic #obey me mc #obey me fandom #obey me gn!reader #obey me lucifer #obey me angst #obey me mammon #obey me barbatos #obey me leviathan #obey me hurt/comfort #obey me little d

[arc-misadventures]

Streamer Au:

Considering just how down bad our dear Errantry Paladin's chat is

Has his fair Maidens ever devolve into a donation war to show who was the most dedicated sim-I mean lover of our boi Errantry or have they unionized into just agreeing to simp hard and donate harder together?

The VTuber: Bidding War

~~~ Stream Chat ~~~

“20 Lien Donation”

KinderGurl: let me become your girl!

“20 Lien Donation”

—Lydin—: I’ll be your baby girl!

“20 Lien Donation

LittleDoggo: I’ll be your bitch, just say the word~!

“20 Lien donation”

OverYander: Get in line skank, I’ll be his bitch!

“20 Lien Donation”

Kirbylord: I’m already his bitch!

“25 Lien Donation”

Triffity: 2 for one deal: Me, and my sister will be your bitches!

“25 Lien Donation”

Vilipin: He wants a real woman to be his bitch, not you kids

“25 Lien Donation”

DragonQueen: You wanna go skank!

“30 Lien Donation”

KettleDown: Bring it whore!

“25 Lien Donation”

BittyDitty: Can’t we just share him instead?

“20, 30, 25, 25, 20, 20, 30, and 20 Lien Donations”

Chat: No. No! Yes! fuck no! Kinky~! Dibs on first go! He’s mine! Fuck off!

“50 Lien Donation”

ShadowsofDesires: Why don’t you play with an older lady instead of these children~?

“50 Lien Donation”

Lollipopdva: I’ll be your mommy~!

“60 Lien Donation”

Kitty6840: Ara Ara~!

“75 Lien Donation”

Monarch: The kids are sleeping, lets have some fun dear~!

“80 Lien Donation”

Fillerton: Fuck off you old hags!

“100 Lien Donation”

Stichsayshi: You wanna go brat?!”

“100 Lien Donation”

Kindergurl: Bring it slut!

~~~~~~

Errant: …

Errant: Haaa… Here we go again…

Errant could only sigh in defeat as he watched his chat feed delve into chaos as a bidding war for his attention erupted. Again.

Errant: I didn’t do anything, but log on, and say: “Hey everyone, welcome to the stream!” And, boom… another damn bidding war…

His voice went a touch higher as he made fun at his plight as he looked down at it with a tired eyes, and a lamenting voice filled with dread, and regret.

Errant: I mean, one of these events gets me a lot of money. Not a hundred percent of it mind you, I get more like seventy percent of it. The rest gets split between my mods, and the platform for their cut. But, I never ask for these!

Errant: I would ask the mods to stop them, but even they can’t do anything to stop them. It’s like stopping a broken dam: You can’t, all you can do is run, and wait for it to stop…

Errant looked at his monitor as the numbers were rising higher in the triple digits. He could only grin, and bare this oncoming nightmare.

Errant: I know a lot of the girl VTubers have unapologetic simps following them. But, you people… You people are something else!

Errant: I think the worst evidence of simping, bar this is the ones that follow… That follow that one, Schnee sister… The black sheep of the trio. The self proclaimed… Haaa… ‘The slutty one…’

He shook his head as he said that, he hated saying stuff like that, but there was footage of her saying that, so he wasn’t bad mouthing her.

Errant: I’ll level with you chat, I try not to think about the Black Sheep of the Schnee’s. Why you ask, simple; She’s scares me… Good lord does she scare me… I mean… Those eyes…

Errants looked away with fear stricken eyes as a dreadful shudder escaped his bodies.

Errant: Okay, let’s pop up a game of solitaire, or something while we wait for these people to… (Ping~!) Haa… See! All these bloody notifications popping off, I can’t con… Eh?

~~~Stream Chat~~~

“1000 Lien Donation”

Grimmdesires: I’ll buy you a hot tub for us to cuddle in darling~!

“1000 Lien Donation”

SunshineDolly: I can get you a huge one where we can have (Redacted) in it!

“2000 Lien Donation”

FallenLust: Hot tub Streams~!!!

~~~~~~

Errant: …?!

Errant: What?! No! No, no chat I am not becoming a hot tub streamer! It doesn’t matter how much you pay me! I’m not doing that! Besides I live in an apartment, I don’t have the space for one! So stop going on about hot tubs?!!

Errant swiftly lost it as he tried to reign in chats depravity for him. It was a losing battle, but it was a battle he would die fighting for.

Errant: No stop trying to get a train of, ‘hot tub streams!’ I’m not going to do that so enough with this hot tub non…?! Who’s calling me?

Errant’s model seeming picked up something in its hands before inquisitively staring at the screen.

Errant: My sister? What does she want…?

Errant: Hey sis, I’m in the middle of streaming; did something happen, or can this call wait until later?

Errant: …

Errant: Eh…?

Errant: Give the hot tub to you? N-No I’m not getting you a hot tub! I’m not getting the hot the either! Wait? You connected our call? To who?! Oh, hey sis what’s…?! No I’m not giving you a hot tub either. I’m not getting one, so why should you?!

Errant: …

Errant: ‘To pick up chicks?!’ The hell are you talking about; You’re married?!

And, thus swiftly ended, Errantry Paladin’s calm, and relaxing stream as it swiftly descended into an unmitigated disaster once again.

At this rate, the idea of a normal stream was just a fleeting phantom memory of his imagination.

Peachy.

[fujii-draws]

Regrets

Summary: As golden orbs of light brought an end to Dusknoir’s existence; he’s confronted with a thought. One he’d long been avoiding since the day he arrived in the world of the past, and came in contact with two young, small Pokémon. The same two he’d eventually come to grow fond of, only to betray as part of his mission. As he’s forced to finally confront it in his isolation, Dusknoir finds himself coming to an epiphany. One he’d been denying for a very, very long time.

[Word count: 2130]

–––––––––––––––––––––

‘Aimilios... Ribbons...’ The ghost type melancholically lamented to himself. ‘They… did it….’

The black, paralyzed skies had begun to shift as the morning came. Rays of light hit the ghost type’s body; although numb, even he’d felt the warmth of the sun course through him. Time was finally moving again… and all Dusknoir could do was helplessly watch as his body faded; the light bringing an end to his existence.

Dusknoir cannot describe the emotions he’s feeling. Proud…? Accomplished…? Fearful….?

Damn it all. Arceus… if only he’d realized the mistake he was making. If only he’d defied Primal Dialga and had his change of heart sooner… perhaps those two would’ve still…. The three of them could’ve been-

No.

It’s over.

He ruined it.

…Dusknoir turns his head slowly, his gaze falling on to Grovyle; the reason he decided to go against Primal Dialga’s wishes in the first place. The reason he lived; for what would perhaps be the first time in ages… Had it not been for his speech back at the icicle pillars…Dusknoir doesn’t even want to think of the calamity that would’ve ensued. He continues to stare at the slowly disappearing grass-type, almost thoughtful.

“Grovyle…”

The grass-type’s eyes meet the black specter’s pained expression.

“My M-my life… Did it shine….?”

Dusknoir wanted to hear it from Grovyle. He wouldn’t feel satisfied, or even happy hearing it from himself. The ghost’s self-hatred was deep rooted enough as it was. Especially after all of what he had done. He needed a second opinion.

“…Yes.” The lizard Pokémon smiles, softly reassuring Dusknoir in what would be his final moments. “…Extraordinarily.”

…Dusknoir, despite not believing Grovyle, chooses to do so. Offering a small smile back at his old friend. “Grovyle… Thanks to you…..”

He pauses.

“…I have no regrets.”

…Dusknoir starts to feel himself slipping away completely; his physical form fading into illuminated lights in the sky as he draws his final breath… His death is almost comforting... At least- it would’ve been, had he made peace with his unspoken feelings… towards them. Even when he’s disappearing. Even when he’s dying…

He still couldn’t tell the truth.

One regret.

He had all but one.

…And now, he’ll never see them again. Never be able to tell them how sorry he was. Never be able to tell those two how much they meant to him… what they actually meant to him.

How foolish was he…? To get attached like this…? To care so much about their futures as well as his…? ..He couldn’t even admit how much they mattered to him in his final moments… Dusknoir grunts. really is just a liar, isn’t he? And that’s all the two will remember him for. Their scornful expressions when he’d laughed at their misery during their confrontation in the future. Their looks of betrayal. Tears rolled down the eevee and riolu’s faces as they unhinged their claws and teeth at Dusknoir. To think at the time, he found their reactions simply hysterical…

——————

“YOU LIAR..!”

“W-WE TRUSTED YOU..!”

“Pray tell… who’s fault is that?” Dusknoir sneered. “Not once had I asked for your background, or your names.”

Dusknoir began to float menacingly towards Aimilios. “Last I recall, you were responsible for your own partner’s downfall.”

“I-I….”

“LEAVE HIM ALONE…!!”

——————

…Now all he feels is a sharp pain stabbing through his chest recalling that horrible memory.

If there was a heaven or hell; the latter would be awaiting him right about now.

Speaking of…

Dusknoir opens his eye, attempting to browse his uncanny surroundings. What meets the ghost-type is… emptiness?

“…What on earth..?” His eye wanders down to his body.

…He appears in what looks like a pitch-black void. Dusknoir himself would’ve blended right in with the endless abyss had it not been for the yellow outlines distinguishing the features of his silhouette-like shadow… the same exact hue of yellow lights that’d been responsible for his disappearance moments ago… it’s almost as if he’d become a ghost all over again... He’d find the circumstances slightly amusing had it not been for his current dilemma. Dusknoir stares at his golden-laced hand, before contemplating something.

‘…Perhaps..’ Dusknoir thinks to himself. ‘Perhaps… it’s better this way…’ He knows it’s selfish. He knows he’s being a coward. But… now he doesn’t have to face Ribbons and Aimilios. He doesn’t have to look at those same faces that once revered him with such adoration; now fear, in the eyes… And yet… The thought of never seeing those two again… why does the thought bring him so much unnecessary pain? They were only means to an end to begin with- so why does he even CARE?!

“…GWOOH.. GWOOOOH..!!!” The ghost-type’s head begins to throb uncontrollably; Dusknoir clutches his head; nearly identical to how he did when breaking down in the midst of Grovyle’s speech. He clutches his temple harder in a feeble attempt to satiate the pain. Why couldn’t he just stop…? He’d tried so hard to detach himself from Ribbons and Aimilios once he realized who they were... Yet like a complete and utter fool; he stayed close. So close to an eevee and riolu he was ordered to execute. Why couldn’t he just forget about those two…? It would hurt so much less. They were means to an end to begin with- so WHY?!

“B-BLAST IT..!”

He slams both of his fists on the onyx colored ground beneath him in frustration. The yellow outlines of his body begin to glow violently as he draws heavy, shallow breaths.

…Dusknoir is suddenly plagued with a memory- of those two. He… remembers the eevee and riolu smiling widely; at him no less. It was… around the time when he’d referred to them as his ‘friends’. A mere front to gain their trust. Dusknoir recounts just how overjoyed they looked… and how that happiness made something in his chest hurt for a split second. He didn’t have to give them false hope. He didn’t have to play this ruse as far as he did… and yet. There was a small, foolish part of him that genuinely enjoyed it; and an even smaller part of him that knew he’d regret it.

————————

“You mean it?!” The riolu beamed. “You’ll really help us?!”

“But of course!” Dusknoir smiled, placing a hand on his chest. “I offer you two, my full cooperation!”

Dusknoir watched as the two Pokémon whip their heads towards eachother; almost trying to confirm the other’s disbelief. They look back at him; tails wagging rapidly in unison— before Ribbons excitedly jumps onto the ghost-type. Dusknoir nearly stumbles from just how sudden it was. Despite this, he catches her with his quick reflexes.

“Thank you thank you thank you!!!” Ribbons cheered. “You have no idea how much this means to us!”

Dusknoir recollected himself; before putting a hand on each of the overjoyous Pokémon’s heads.

“I’m… glad to hear. Truly.” A lie, obviously…but even he couldn’t help but smile a little at their shared enthusiasm.

“By golly..! Huff… huff…”

All three of the Pokémon had turned their heads to the out-of-breath Bidoof. Dusknoir immediately put Ribbons and Aimilios down; a slightly embarrassed blush crossing the ghost’s face as he brushed himself off coughing, returning to his more professional, stoic-like persona.

———————————

…He didn’t have to play with their emotions. He could’ve just as easily stayed acquaintances- kept his distance- but no. He just had to enjoy spending time with them. He had to get closer to them. He had to remember their favorite foods. To enjoy laughing with them until his stomach became sore, protecting them, watching over them, loving them as if they were…

Were…

…Dusknoir can’t help but hold his hand under his eye. He… he really did care those two... As if they were his own… his own…

“….Hoh…”

His train of thought comes to a complete halt. The idea of those two? Seeing him that way? After what he had done? After the horrible things he’s said…?

“Ho..Hohohaha..! HOHOHOHA-HA-HA-HA!”

His laughter becomes more and more erratic; holding one hand under his eye as the other grips his head- his cackles echoing into the never ending void.

“HAH-HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAhahaa…!“

Dusknoir’s broken laughter echoes throughout the void; until there’s nothing left but silence. Both of Dusknoir’s hands now cover his face as he crumbles to the ground. A shell of what was once the ‘Great Dusknoir’… was nothing more but the husk of a broken ghost. Too selfish and weak to do the right thing; and stand by the only two Pokémon who were willing to trust him with their lives… He wishes the endless abyss he was in would just swallow him already.

“Aimilios…Ribbons…” Dusknoir’s voice cracks; calling out for the ones he’d hurt.

…They deserved so much better than him. He didn’t deserve them. And to think in the beginning, they’d been the ones who were trying to prove themselves to be worthy of him... When it’d been the other way around this entire time. How ironic.

How absolutely ironic.

…Which reminds him-

“Ribbons…!” His head shoots up in a panic; his eye filled with worry.

She had already disappeared at this point, didn’t she..? In front of Aimilios no less..? He can’t even begin to fathom how horrible it must’ve been for both of them… at such young ages… maybe if he’d assisted them on their perilous journey to Temporal Tower…. he could’ve been there to remedy the weight of their situation… but of course instead, he used it in a pathetic attempt to beg for his life. Dumping everything onto Ribbons in a last ditch effort to save his own ghostly skin… in the small desperate hope she’d finally understand why he…

…Selfish.

So selfish.

Of course his train of thought immediately went straight back to him. He can’t think about anyone’s wellbeing except for his own. His ‘self preservation’. His ‘life’. Nevermind all of the Pokémon he was going to deny the futures of. He was at risk. So they all had to pay for it. Because of his cowardice.

This was his atonement.

He deserved this.

Dusknoir closes his eye. Maybe in his next life he’ll be a decent Pokémon. One worthy of respect. Of adoration.

Of love.

.

.

.

“Gah...”

Dusknoir groans. Why does it feel so cold all of a sudden..?

Wait.. cold?

He sees… ice… and feels… wind?

‘…What..?’

He slowly gets up; using his hands to suspend himself in the air. He looks around- only to see himself back.

Back on the mountain.

He stares at his hands for an indeterminate amount of time before they begin to tremble. His expression contorted into one of self-loathing and confusion.

“W-we’re still here…” His fingers curl into fists.

“I didn’t disappear…! Wh-Why?!”

Dusknoir shouts; almost disgusted by the fact he was revived- rather than questioning how it was even possible in the first place. No. He doesn’t- He shouldn’t be here. It must’ve been some kind of mistake… That’s it. There’s no other logical explanation for why he should be still here. Perhaps the higher being that brought him back into this world will immediately realize their error, and make swift work of him.

“We… we truly are still here…” Grovyle lamented, breathing a sigh of what would be an overwhelming rush relief. Celebi begins to flutter her wings happily around the grass-type.

“Wonderful!! I don’t know why we were fading and didn’t disappear…” She twirls, overjoyous now having gained all her strength back. “…But everyone is safe!! Oh my beloved..! Isn’t this just an amazing wonderful thing?!”

Grovyle chuckles heartedly. “It is.”

Unfortunately among the three; the ghost type was not experiencing the same joy as the grass type pokemon. Dusknoir had been drowning out half of their words of cheer and relief with thoughts of contempt. Self-depricational thoughts clouded the ghost-type’s mind as he kept searching for logical answers for his revival… Everyone else made sense. But why him of all Pokémon..?!

“Why..? Wh-Why me..?” Dusknoir whispered to himself dejectedly; mirroring his words from when his Sableye ‘betrayed’ him.

The only difference being how genuine it was.

Pr- Dialga had appeared to explain the whole situation to the trio. Once that had been done, Grovyle, and Celebi walked and flew individually near the edge of the mountain to feel the sun on their skins; their accomplishments finally having been paid off, soaking in the sun…

……Dusknoir, however; had stayed in the exact spot he’d been revived. His thoughts plagued him. This was not his victory. This was not for him to enjoy. What was he to do now..? Live his life as if nothing happened..? As if he didn’t hurt countless Pokémon..? Guilt had almost immediately begun to eat away at the ghost-type. He looks down at his hands one last time... Perhaps death would’ve been too good for a despicable Pokémon such as himself. The torment of being alive, and living with what he had done seemed like a fitting and ironic enough punishment… but that wasn’t what truly scared him.

Far from it, in fact.

Without a doubt in Dusknoir’s mind; Grovyle and Celebi would want to return back to the past… perhaps not this very instant; but at a given point. And when that time finally arrives…

Dusknoir stares at the Passage of Time facing him. Almost mocking him.

…He’d have to face them.

“…” Dusknoir clenches his fists tightly; his brow furrowing.

…The mere thought of confronting those two again- No no no no no. He- he should have disappeared. Death would’ve been a mercy. He can’t face them- not again. Looking at the same two children he tried to slaughter with his bare hands mere hours ago face-to-face..? Dusknoir’s fists tremble as his terror consumes him. What would they say..? Let alone think..? They’d run at the mere sight of him. He…

He doesn’t want to scare them.

He doesn’t want to hurt them.

He..

…Now he has something else to be afraid of.

#pmd eos #pmd writing tag #Another Dusknoir-centric fic I worked on!!! :D I hope you like it!! #this took me like a week on and off #also second time writing!! YIPPEE!!! #I’m still not as good but I’m still having lots of fun and learning !! #anyways. I need to see that old man on the floor writhing in agony. #/j BUT YKNOW #dadnoir

[dragonseeds]

what are your thoughts on rhaegar and lyanna?

oh i love them! there’s all this talk of them haunting the narrative and they do, but i’d take it further and say they are the black hole at the center of the story. the choices that they made, starting with lyanna’s decision to defend howland reed and what that meant to both him and rhaegar, who was very likely at his lowest point at harrenhal after the ruination of his careful plans, touched or changed the lives of every character and plot line in the series. the story itself is such a fun mashup of tristan and iseult, lancelot and guinevere, helen and paris, the fall of camelot and all of arthuriana really, the classic trope of the princess in the tower and the dragon and the knight: all of that in one couple and we don’t get to experience any of it with them. we can guess and speculate, but we can never truly know them. we experience their story only through the memories the people who survived the war they ostensibly kicked off, and those memories are all heavily colored by trauma, guilt, nostalgia—alternately faded and sharpened by time. it’s this incredibly fun and brilliant reconstruction of some of the most enduring tragedies in folklore and mythology and i adore it.

hate beyond articulation the way asoiaf.tumblr.edu approaches their relationship and the individual characterizations of both of them, though. just absolutely some of the most insufferably sanctimonious disingenuous decontextualized analysis i’ve ever experienced—much of that coming from people viewing this through a historical lense instead of a thematic one. like, imagine approaching the battle of the trident as “rhaegar is a bad person for fighting for his father who was evil! he lost the moral high ground with that one” as opposed to “rhaegar as a character exists to fail and die; he was the last dragon, carrying the unbearable weight of his family’s legacy and the burden of the prophecy for which they conquered westeros: the end of his life is the end of the targaryen dynasty. he must fail and he must die, so that dany and jon can grow up free of that weight and that power. daenerys gets to redefine what it means to be targaryen on her own terms. she and jon separately and unknowingly do the things that he thought he had to do—the things he was conceived and born to do—but never knew how: they do it because of their circumstances, because of the people that they have grown into, because they believe it is their duty, because they have the power to do it.” also, like, re: interpretations of battle of the trident, is there maybe another battle that occurs later in the series that is exactly the same thematically and contextually? where perhaps a character who was missing for a while shows up on the eve of battle, knowing that the opposition is right and their cause is just but that his family will die if he doesn’t fight with them? anything that adds an extra layer of meaning to what happens, aside from dany’s own connection—which is not as thematically similar but is still incredibly meaningful. like i certainly don’t think there’s any one interpretation of a character or story, but the worst ones are consistently applied to rhaegar.

and then with lyanna in particular, it’s like people cannot stomach her or find her sympathetic as a character unless they’re wallowing in her eternal victimhood. the constant dismissal of the importance of lyanna’s actions and what they meant to rhaegar is pure misogyny, by the way. her choices and her agency, the inherent meaningfulness of the struggle for both of those things in a system that seeks to reduce her to her body and the use men can make of it—all of that is important. the person she was and what that meant to people was important, but from the way i most often see her discussed, it’s like her gendered death is the only thing that matters. it’s okay to lament her because she got crushed by the wheel. if she hadn’t, if she wasn’t a victim to write flagellatory meta about, she would be a hypocrite, someone who needed to learn a lesson—as difficult for some of these people to relate to as dany or rhaenyra apparently are.

like, it’s just wild to me because her kindness to howland reed and her choice to defend him, to disguise herself as the knight of the laughing tree and risk her life and reputation to fight for him—is the answer to and the embodiment of one of the most thematically significant questions in the series. we see it most prominently in dany’s chapters because she asks it directly: why do the gods make kings and queens if not to protect the ones who can’t protect themselves? that’s what lyanna did, when no one else was doing it: she had more honor than any knight at that tourney or any man sitting on the small council, and it meant something to rhaegar. like what about this is hard to understand? i think he must have idealized her immediately: she must have seemed like something out of a song or a story to him, and rhaegar was a singer, a songwriter, a bard: he knows how stories are supposed to go—how to finish a song, or at least he thought he did.

bran, who also loves stories, says it himself: “and the mystery knight should win the tourney, defeating every challenger, and name the wolf maid the queen of love and beauty.” like obviously bran has some critiques i cut out, but he has the ending right—only the wolf maid was the knight, and she couldn’t have won. in the feudal gender prison, women are rewarded for being beautiful and their worth is derived from that and from what their bodies provide. she should’ve won the whole thing, but the system doesn’t allow that, so rhaegar—in a fit of single-minded capital r romantic hero idiocy—dedicates himself to winning the tourney to honor her in the only way he can: the only way the system allows him to recognize her. it was the worst possible move he could make at that time because of the romantic connotations, but i love him for doing it, as stupid as it was and even though there is no way it didn’t hurt and humiliate elia, or make him look terrible when he desperately needed to make a good impression on the lords of the realm—it’s just such a Moment. being reminded that there’s good in the world—feeling hope in the face of endless abject overwhelming despair—how do you express gratitude for that? the idea that he could only doing it by hurting someone who didn’t deserve it and making himself look like an ass is fucking awesome. i’m genuinely so sorry for people are incapable of enjoying that. could not be me!

but that’s just my interpretation of what happened at harrenhal. like i said, part of why i like them so much is that we truly don’t know. while i love darker relationships in general, the idea that he crowned her at harrenhal because he wanted to impregnate her then does not work for me. it’s a popular theory, but it renders some of the very few contextual clues we are given about what happened meaningless. for one, he didn’t know that elia wouldn’t be able to have more children at that time. this was discovered after she gave birth to aegon, and that is the point at which the question of the third child appears to have become a motivating factor for him. i personally think he left for the riverlands to consult with the ghost of high heart—the one whose prophecy is the reason he was born, the reason is parents were forced to marry, the reason his family burned alive the night he came into the world—and ran into lyanna somewhere near harrenhal. it’s possible he had been in contact with her prior to this (how? without her family knowing? what are the logistics of that?) but i think it’s just as likely it was pure chance. i really like the idea that his crowning her queen of love and beauty caused lyanna’s father to set a date for her wedding to robert or talk of moving it up, maybe even suggest a double wedding at riverrun, which would have almost certainly caused her to balk. either way, high heart is located between harrenhal and riverrun. arya also stops there while she’s kidnapped by the brotherhood without banners on the way to ransom her to her family at riverrun, and they trade songs to the ghost for her dreams and prophecies. i think it’s worth noting because arya’s journey in the riverlands mirrors lyanna’s right down to her “death” as arya stark when she leaves for braavos, paying the ferryman’s fee with the coin jaqen h’ghar gave her—just as jon’s journey at the wall mirrors rhaegar’s in many ways right up until his own death.

i also don’t think rhaegar and lyanna eloped because they were in love—this is implied by lyanna’s famous quote—but that they did come to love each other deeply, which is suggested by the way they died: her roses and him saying her name. notably, rhaegar did not leave the tower of his own volition—someone had to come and get him with news of war, which is hilarious because i think the tower of joy is right in the middle of like three major battles of the rebellion? like quite frankly, if he didn’t love her or care for anything beyond the prophecy and if she didn’t love him despite how badly things went wrong, then where in their story is the heart in conflict with itself?

i do want to clarify that i love the tower entrapment and the power imbalance aspects of their relationship as much as i love (what i interpret as) the genuine respect for each other that grew into love: it’s really the tension of those disparate elements that interests me. a dragon can love the maiden, but he’s only ever a dragon—still liable to hoard her like treasure or burn her up and rip her open trying to be gentle, to protect. that FUCKS, sorry! love is sweet and hopeful, but it’s also at exactly the same time horror, consumption, destruction.

idk it’s myopic to act like the beginning or the ending of their relationship—of their lives—is the summation of it. i think people want their story to be easy when it’s not: a clear case of a villain and his victims where everyone knows who to root for and no one has to think too much about things that are difficult or uncomfortable, questions where there probably isn’t an answer that doesn’t hurt someone. what a sad, tedious way to approach any text, but specifically this one. i’ve sometimes seen it suggested that if their story is romantic then it’s an endorsement or justification of all the “bad” things that happened because of it, and that’s also stupid. grrm as an author is never going to be someone who tells us how to feel about anything: he presents these characters and situations, often as a means of exploring certain facets of the human condition, and each of us has to come up with our own answers and find our own meaning. i don’t think he always knows what he means, or what those answers are, you know? but for me rhaegar and lyanna are one of the most fascinating parts of story, and whatever the truth is—if we ever find out—i can’t imagine a scenario where i don’t love them or find them really interesting and wonderfully sad.

#lyanna stark #rhaegar targaryen #rhaelya #i’d apologize for this being so long but u have got to all be used to me by now #like i couldn’t be succinct at gunpoint #or coherent apparently #and especially not about this like i’m not normal about either of them #also just to clarify because this kind of turned into a rant: none of this applies to people i follow #but like. i sincerely think that 90% of the meta about them (individually + their relationship) is bad lol #and part of that is bc so much of it is based on fanon instead of what is actually in the books #and that frustration really comes through in this post and i regret that but it’s out there now lol #asoiaf

[riverxsong-ao3]

“But he was your father,” Harry lamented one afternoon, while they were holed away within the green drapes that surrounded Tom’s four-poster, the majority of the rest of the school away on a Hogsmeade trip. “Don’t you feel anything for him?”

“Of course I do,” Tom replied, staring at the ring in his hand. “Loathing. Nothing more, nothing less. He abandoned my mother when he found out she was a witch. He left me to rot in that orphanage. He never wanted me, and so I learned not to want him.”

“How do you know that’s true?” Harry asked. “Your mother died when you were born, maybe she left him.”

“Darling, that would be worse,” Tom said. “Can you think of any reason my mother would leave the father of her child unless he was horrible to her? When the other option was starving to death on the streets? Besides, if I wasn’t sure of it before Voldemort visited the Riddles after his fifth year, I was after that – he told me himself.”

“What?” Harry gasped. “Tom, you never told me that.”

“I don’t particularly like to think about it,” Tom replied. “I can show you the memory, though, if you’d like.”

“Are you sure?”

Tom fetched Harry’s wand from the end table and pressed it into his hand. “Go on, darling,” he said, “you’ll understand when you see it.”

Harry hesitantly raised his wand and placed the tip of it against Tom’s forehead. “Legilimens.”

Tom fell back into his own mind as Harry’s consciousness rushed in, swirling through memories. He pulled the event in question to the forefront, inviting Harry to join him. As they entered the memory, Tom found himself, sixteen once more, standing in the dining room of his father’s house, taking in the shocked faces of his relatives.

“Who are you?” Tom's grandfather demanded, rising from his seat. “How the devil did you get in?!”

“You don’t recognise your own kin?” Tom asked, smiling wickedly as the blood drained from his father’s face. By the looks of stunned horror on his grandparents faces, they hadn’t. “Oh dear, has my father not told you? I was sure you’d see the family resemblance.”

It was true: the man closest to him was an older carbon copy of himself, the same cheekbones and jawline, the same gently curling jet black hair – the only difference were the pale blue eyes, a contrast to his own dark and stormy irises. 

The man – Tom’s father himself – rose in the same imperious manner his father had. “I have no son,” he said stonily, though his voice shook. “If you’ve come looking to claim an inheritance, you’ll find none here.” “Oh no,” Tom replied coolly, sliding his uncle’s borrowed wand from his pocket and twirling it in his fingers. “I have no interest in any ‘inheritance’ I might receive, no matter how deserving of one I might be, from insignificant little insects such as yourselves. I’ve come to see you beg for mercy, to watch you fumble for feeble excuses as to why you would leave a child to the horrors of an orphanage, believing himself parentless, when all this time you lived.”

#harry potter #tom riddle #tomarry #fanfiction #harrymort #harry potter fanfiction #vitae redux

[ravenwitch45]

Hey! I’ve been obsessed with Crimson since the latest HB episode dropped and I’ve been reading all the x readers I can find and I just found your page. Could I request Hcs for a lonely/outcast s/o please :))? Thanks so much!

I truly did not expect such love for this guy but glad you like my stuff. Sure thing! Coming Right Up!

Crimson with an SO who's an Outcast/Lonely a lot of the time.

Hell was Hell, so of course it had it's fair share of outcasts that were ostracized for usually bullshit reasons. And to some Crimson could be seen as one, being an Imp and all.

While the disrespect was annoying Crimson saw the ways he could use it. Outcasts were more vulnerable and often bitter, perfect as recruits and otherwise as long as they stuck to their buisness, he'd stick to his.

So when one of these so called outcasts stomped into his office so quickly even his guards were caught off guard. And so was he.

You weren't armed so he gave you the time of day to listen why you were here, as he was honestly curious. Turns out you were a friend of one of his men, and came here to inquire of his whereabouts after not hearing anything for a few days.

Unfortunately he had perished in a shootout, and Crimson gave you the half truth of him being killed while working as security, a ruse he often used when outsiders inquired into his buisness.

This essentially gave him a front row seat to you breaking down and blowing up, ranting at him for not informing his loved ones, info of your friends burial and the like and particularly yelling at him for not even showing any emotion when telling you that your late friend, who was pratically all you had was gone forever.

Usually he would have anyone who got testy with him dragged away but he called his guards off, explaining to himself that it as too much effort when you knew nothing, but internally impressed with your attitude and bravado for berating him in his own home.

Eventually the angry ranting turned more to lament over your loss, and you took your leave, wiping tears out of your eyes as you walked out.

Over the next few weeks Crimson found himself oddly thinking of you, and no matter what he tried, his mind wandered to the memory of your short encounter, to the point he would daydream while he was supposed to be working.

He reluctantly decided to try to get some closure (Why he needed it, only Mammon knows why.) SO he found you, which was easy in his line of work and decided to surprise you.

Well imagine your surprise finding that guy you yelled at at your door with a bouquet of black roses as an apolgy.

He admitted that he could have handled the whole thing better, and should have taken feelings into consideration. Your suspicous, but with little energy you let him inside, taking the roses, fondling the dark petals somberly.

He notes how much your late friend must have meant to you, you explaining that he had been the only one to stand by you no matter what, even after your family disowned you and such.

Crimson briefly thinks of his own family but his attention is drawn back to you when you say your all alone now, admitting how much a mess you have been ever since your mourning began, trouble sleeping, eating and exercising. Noone stopping you as you haven't seen another soul since you first spoke with Crimson

And all that makes Crimson make the most spontaneous decision he has in years. Offering you to stay with him, internally cursing as he assures you'll be cared for.

Your even more supiscous now, but with little in way of better idea or prior engagements, you'll say you'll try it if it's free.

So you start living with him, Crimson always making sure someone is with you as you peruse the Manor, Your given room and bath being your only real privacy but you don't mind, it's nice to feel like someone is looking out for you again.

Crimson despite being often busy, tries to see you every day to check how your faring under his hospitality. Happy your doing better, looking better as your sleeping better again too.

Eventually, long after you could really call your stay a trial run, you ask him why he took in essentially a stranger. He for once gives you the whole truth, that it was multiple reasons he's come to realize, he felt bad for you, feeling partially responsible for your plight, and admitting part of it was that you just seemed interesting to him.

You tease him on what kind of interest it was, earning a blush and making him stammer, before fully silencing him with a peck to the cheek.

While you don't feel alone anymore, you wouldn't mind 'being alone with him' in your room in the evening, which he is very much down for, whatever you mean by that.

I am SO sorry that this turned out so long! XP I just had an idea and it just turned out long to get all I wanted into this. Either way I hope you enjoyed it, can't believe I've done four of these now XD

#ask reply #helluva boss #helluva boss spoilers #helluva crimson #helluva crimson x reader #helluva boss x reader #x reader #I'll get to more stuff tommorrow XP

[venus-haze]

Mr. February (Driller Killer x Reader)

Summary: You get an unexpected visitor while looking through the February issue of Playgirl, whose centerfold of the month is doing absolutely nothing for you. Lucky for you, he’s willing to give you the real thing. At least, you think it’s the real thing.

Note: This is a ridiculous, raunchy, and extremely self-indulgent fic that I wrote mostly in three hours so take that as you will. The reader is a cis woman but no other descriptors are used. This was so fun to write because the Driller Killer in SPM2 is nothing if not outrageous. Shorter than what I usually write, but there’s very little plot to this. Do not interact if you are under 18 or if you post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 2.5k

Warnings: Sexually explicit content including oral (f. receiving), hair pulling (m. receiving), finger sucking (m. receiving), light choking (m. receiving) brief daddy kink. Dubcon to be safe since through most of the fic it's intentionally unclear whether it’s a dream or not. Do not interact if you are under 18.

Mr. February was not doing it for you. Blond hair, muscular build, and a boy-next-door smile as he leaned against the door frame of an auspicious suburban house with nothing but a toolbelt on—no matter how many different ways you tried to imagine the scenario, you couldn’t get into it. When your good friend Brenda had a girls’ night at her place, you lamented your sexual woes over glasses of wine. To your comfort, the other women present also weren’t particularly impressed with Playgirl’s recent offerings.

A little after one in the morning, you called it a night, heading upstairs to the guest bedroom Brenda was letting you crash in. Your other friends lived close enough to walk home if they wanted to and decided to stick around longer. Carefully shutting the door behind you, you looked at the centerfold that the group of you had bemoaned. How could it be possible that a man could be simultaneously so hot and so sexless?

You hoped the half bottle of wine you’d consumed would help get your imagination going, not that you hadn’t gone that route before. Undressing down to your bra and panties, you laid down on the guest bed. You grabbed the magazine yet again, as if staring at the nearly nude handyman would somehow make you suddenly attracted to him. 

Huffing in frustration, you glared at the magazine by your side. Brenda had given you the advice to cancel your subscription and try to find something raunchier, more tailored to your tastes than the generic guys in the safest porno mag you could possibly buy. The more you stared at Mr. February, the more annoyed you felt, his perfect smile mocking you as you slid your hand between your legs, trying to find some way to picture the guy in a scenario that would actually get you off.

Minutes went by, and nothing. He was too clean, too sterile, too perfect. You couldn’t picture him being able to do anything besides a pleasureless and mechanic missionary position that plagued the pill-popping housewives of old. Jesus. You’d have better luck with a fully clothed missionary at your front door than the schmuck on the glossy pages of the magazine. 

You threw your arm over your eyes, thinking instead about how much you’d like to kick Mr. February in the toolbelt. Sleep caught up with you more quickly than you expected, because your frustrated, horny brain seemed to conjure up a man that was far more to your taste. Your limbs felt odd as you sat up from the bed upon hearing a low whistle come from his lips as he stood on the other side of the room.

“This all for me?” he asked.

Black haired and leather-clad with a smile that made you squeeze your thighs together, he stalked closer to you, his tongue darting out from between his sharp teeth. His wild eyes took you in with an intensity that was nothing short of famished. He wanted to eat you alive. Finally.

Leaning back in the bed on your elbows, you gave him a confident smile as you pushed out your chest, welcoming the attention. It was your dream, after all.

His hand ghosted your arm as he picked up the magazine at your side, looking it over for a moment. Shaking his head at the centerfold, he hit it with the back of his hand as if in solidarity with your disdain. This guy, am I right? He closed it, his attention on the cover.

“Playgirl,” he read aloud, before bringing his gaze to you, an amused grin spreading across his dangerous face. “Is that what you wanna do? Play, girl?”

Girl rolled off his upturned lips in coils that wrapped around your throat, rendering you incapable of answering. Girl was demeaning, mocking, as if you didn’t have a full time job that paid for your own apartment. Girl went straight to your pussy as you nodded in response to his question.

He licked his lips, tossing Mr. February aside as he caged you onto the bed with his body. You tilted your head up to kiss him, not bothering with any pretense of testing the waters. It was your dream, and he’d kiss you back how you wanted him to, pent up and passionate with the sweetest hint of desperation. Without hesitation, he parted his lips for you, allowing you to slip your tongue in his mouth, the warmth and taste almost making your head spin at how real he felt. 

Still supporting yourself on your elbows, you threw a leg over his hips, pressing his body closer against yours, only exacerbating the flush of heat that’d spread across your skin. His touch made you feel like you were burning, kissed by invisible flames that left you needy for more. 

Reluctantly, you pulled away, dazed and breathless, though his lips followed yours, starving for another taste of your strawberry glossed lips. His were soft, though yours wouldn’t stay that way for long as he nipped at your bottom lip with his teeth, clearly reveling in the whimpers you barely managed to let out. You were almost disappointed when he showed you mercy and gave you a gentle kiss before drawing back.

“Goddamn, you’re something else,” he murmured.

“What about you? Who are you?” you asked, searching his face for an answer. You must have known him from somewhere, unsure if your subconscious could conjure up someone like him on its own.

“I’m the man of your dreams, baby,” he crooned. “I got the tools to give you everything you need.”

He took your hand, placing it over his crotch, his hard cock straining against his tight leather pants. Your breath caught in your throat, he certainly wasn’t exaggerating. Squeezing his erection, a jolt of electricity rushed through you at his groan, deep and unapologetically loud as he jerked his hips against your hand.

“Not so fast, baby,” he said, his smile almost mischievous, like he was letting you in on a secret. “I haven’t even gotten to the good part yet.”

He hissed through his teeth when you pulled your hand away from his pants, pride bubbling in you for eliciting such a reaction from him, and over his clothes no less. Still, he wanted to take the lead, and after so much frustration on your end trying to make Mr. February fulfill something other than a wonderbread fantasy, you were more than happy to lie back and let your dream lover do the work. He shed his jacket, kicking it to the edge of the bed.

Rough hands glided across your skin, a shiver racing down your spine until he hooked his fingers in the waistband of your panties and pulled them down until he threw the garment on the other side of the room. He pushed your thighs apart, and you released a shaky breath in futile preparation for how his tongue would feel on your pussy.

He sure as hell didn’t beat around the proverbial bush, his tongue teasing your clit as he slid his index and middle fingers inside you, as if it’d at all be comparable to what you’d felt in his pants earlier. That wasn’t the point of it, though, not when he relentlessly lapped at your pussy, the sound of your own arousal on his tongue almost embarrassing you.

No one could hear it, not in a dream, so you indulged yourself, grabbing a handful of his greased hair and pulling him closer. He groaned against your sensitive cunt when you tugged on his hair, the sensation making your pussy clench.

“You like that?” you asked, your voice light as you tried not to moan out your question.

He lifted his head for a moment, a fucked out expression on his face as if you’d been giving him head and not the other way around. Your wetness glistened on his lips and chin, as he looked up at you. “Fuck yes, do it again.”

You tugged on his hair again, your fingernails scraping his scalp. He groaned, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment. Damn, he looked almost…pretty.

His voice was close to a growl when he praised, “Just like that, baby.”

His face disappeared between your legs again, and you choked out a gasp as he licked up your juices before bringing his attention back to your clit with a desperate pull at his disheveled locks. He held your legs, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs as if to steady himself as he brought you closer to orgasm.

You could’ve sworn you heard a loud bang followed by muffled screaming. It almost sounded too real to be a dream, and for the first time since this mystery man arrived in your bed, the twist in your gut wasn’t from pleasure.

“What was that?” you asked, your voice soft as it trailed off into a moan.

“Nothin’ but a good time, baby,” he answered slyly. “You just focus on me.”

With a curl of his fingers inside your wet pussy, you couldn’t do anything but whimper in response, pulling at his hair again. You struggled to keep your eyes open, and with no protest from him, allowed them to shut as pleasure crept up on you. 

Your hips bucked as he flicked his tongue on your sensitive clit, and with that you were gone. Your moan sounded almost pained to your own ears, but you’d never felt an orgasm so intense before, one that made your toes curl and your pussy ache as it clenched around his fingers. 

When you were finally able to open your eyes again, he was still eating you out, as if to see whether or not he could make you cum again on his tongue. You whimpered, sensitive and breathless as he didn’t let up. 

His name. Fuck, you didn’t even know his name, and your brain was too fuzzy to come up with anything besides an almost pathetic sounding, “Daddy.”

“Say it again, baby,” he groaned.

“Fuck daddy, more,” you pleaded.

Gripping the sheets for some kind of leverage, you came, harder this time as you let out a moan that seemed to echo throughout the room. In the back of your mind, you were wondering if you were moaning so loudly in real life. Would they wake you up? Would they even mention it?

Licking up your pussy again for good measure, he lifted his head, looking to you for your direction. Weakly, you shook your head. He smirked a bit, crawling back up to you and pressing his fingers that had been inside you against your lips which you mindlessly opened your mouth and began sucking.

His eyes were wild again as you sucked your cum from his fingers, dragging your tongue along each one as you looked at him through hooded eyelids. He pushed his fingers further back in your mouth, his knuckles brushing against your lips. 

“You think you can take more, girl?” 

Your whine was muffled from his fingers in your mouth.

“Don’t tell me I wore you out already,” he teased.

Slowly, he pulled his fingers from your mouth before sticking them in his own, to your shock. It didn’t last long, though, because his lips were soon on yours again. You kissed him more passively this time, considering why you felt so exhausted, as if it were real. In a dream, you’d be able to last longer despite your pent up frustration thanks to Mr. fucking February, couldn’t you?

You felt too good to question it, and brought your hand to the side of his neck, caressing the skin with your fingertips before moving them ever so slightly to squeeze gently. He moaned into your mouth, and you smiled a bit, squeezing again. Placing his hand over yours, he guided you to put more pressure, and with the way his hips jerked when you did so, you were sure he was going to cum in his tight leather pants. It was a wonder he could even move in them, even if he were just a figment of your horny subconscious.

“Aren’t you hot with all of that on?” you asked as you moved your head back slightly, noticing the sheen of sweat on your own bare skin.

He grinned. “I’m hot with it off too.”

You laughed, until you heard the screaming again, but didn’t pay it any mind. Weird things happened in dreams all the time, and you wanted this one to last as long as it could. If not, you hoped you dreamed about him again, that it wouldn’t be something you’d have a fleeting memory of when you woke up, only to forget it the moment you got out of bed.

Unfortunately, he had other plans, as it seemed like you blinked and he was standing next to the bed, fully dressed again, his hair looking like you’d never even touched it. Licking your lips, you took in his appearance. The next time you dreamed about him, maybe you’d have him do something more interesting with the leather. He cracked a grin, as if he knew what you had been thinking.

He picked up the discarded magazine, looking at it once again in amusement before throwing it into the garbage pail by the nightstand. “You’re not gonna need that anymore. Not that Mr. February was doing you any good anyway.”

“Nope,” you agreed. “It’s all you.”

“That’s what I’m here for, baby.”

You tilted your head, unsure of what to expect next. If you were lucid dreaming, couldn’t you wake yourself up? Though, you weren’t sure exactly how to do that. The clock in the room read a normal time, you knew enough that in dreams they’d be distorted. Sighing, you supposed you’d just wake up on your own naturally.

Your dream man leaned down, regarding you with a tenderness that seemed odd on him. He caressed your cheek, the cool leather of his glove giving a slight reprieve to your warm skin.

“See you tomorrow night, sweetness,” he said, giving you one last kiss before you blacked out.

You woke up, a cloud of grogginess still in your mind, a whisper of soreness in your limbs. You looked down at the wet spot on your sheets, brushing it with your fingertips and bringing them close to your nose. It smelled of you and something vaguely familiar, though as much as you wracked your brain, you couldn’t identify it. What a weird dream. At least, you thought so, until you noticed your panties on the floor, right where he’d thrown them.

#driller killer x reader #driller killer #slumber party massacre #slumber party massacre 2 #slasher x reader #slasher fandom #slasher community #slashers #spm 2

[snippychicke]

Cats & Ships Chapter Two

Title: Cats & Ships

Overall Rating: Teen for now? May go into mature at a future date

Trigger warnings: Nothing beyond what's in the live-action series. I mean, Kuro's still manipulative and paranoid. It gets better tho? Slowly? It's a WIP, so I don't fully know yet.

Pairings: Captain Kuro (Klahadore)/Reader; hints of Kaya/Usopp

Summary: It started out as a means to get information as Khaladore. Who would be better to provide information regarding the high seas than Syrup Village’s Harbormaster? Except, for the first time in a very long time, Kuro found himself trusting, and even liking, the young woman he shared tea with every week. 

And then the Straw Hat Pirates arrived and ruined his plans. Except fate decided his story wasn’t done there. 

Nor was yours.

Masterlist here! | Read on Ao3!

Miss Kaya sat in the chair her butler once claimed, looking so much better it made you feel horrible. (Poison. He had been slowly poisoning her for years, and making a show of caring for her in her poor health. And no one thought to wonder, easily accepting that her weak nature was due to the sudden loss of her family.)

The cat-once-named-Kuro sat on the desk, carefully regarding the new visitor with mistrust. He didn’t like new visitors, no matter what. It had taken months for him to warm up to him to the point whenever the cat perked up, you knew he had entered your office. You tried not to notice how the cat would often wait now expectantly by the door when it was past the time he  would usually come around. 

“I don’t want to offend you,” Miss Kaya started, her hands wringing nervously in her lap, yet her shoulders were set straight, head held high. She was still so thin and frail, but there was a glimmer of the strong woman she was quickly becoming. (He had lamented about her health, her frailty, and it had been him all along.)  “But I’m tired of hearing rumors and not knowing the truth. I want to hear it from your lips and not others.”

You smiled tightly, and could tell it couldn’t quite reach your eyes. Not that it had in the last few months. How could you ever smile again after everything? “I appreciate that, miss Kaya. No one else has shown such bravery, or compassion.”  

There was both relief and pity in her expression, “So… what was your relationship with Klahadore? Did… did you-” 

“I knew nothing,” you interrupted, not really wanting to hear the question. “I-i was as fooled as you were. I thought we were friends, and maybe someday we-we would be more. But the only thing he confided to me were the stresses of Klahadore the butler, with nothing hinting at his true self, or true intentions.” 

You felt ill when you heard the news. Merry was dead. Kaya had nearly died, had been slowly dying for years. 

All at Klahadore’s hands. Kuro’s blades. Captain Kuro of the hundred plans, leader of the black cat pirates. 

The one pirate whose exploits you had followed closely in the news years ago, morbidly fascinated by the fact he had a plan for everything. Always outsmarting the marines and other pirates. The one you couldn’t help but find handsome on his wanted posters when you passed by the wall in the harbor, looking at the dozens of hundred of wanted posters that covered it. 

You had tea with him in weekly meetings about supplies for the manor-- or at least that was the cover. Really, it felt like two friends meeting up for a vent session… but now you saw it for what it really was. He had been after any information you could give. 

And you gave. So much. You had trusted him without second thought and spilled so many secrets, entranced by his soft dark eyes and faint smile. You told him the secret workings of the port, info the marines had confided in you as harbor master. So, so, much.

(He knew you named your cat after him. Knew of your silly little crush.) 

To say you were torn up didn’t quite do things justice. You had fallen into a pit of despair, questioning everything and every interaction you had with the man over the last three years. Every conversation. Every touch. Every gesture. Great Mother Sea, you had been hoping for a relationship with him. You had imagined a future with him-- Captain Kuro. 

How? Stoic yet sweet Klahadore, who was alway chiding you to take care of yourself. Who seemed to enjoy the company of your multitudes of cats as much as you did. You could still see him in the other chair, one hand delicately holding a teacup while the other scratched the ears of whichever cat decided to claim his lap. 

Could someone fake the emotion you had seen as he looked down at the kittens, so full of warmth, of love. (Then again, his crew was known as the black cats. Maybe he really was as fond as he looked?) 

But what about the same expression when it was aimed at you? The rare times he touched your hands, your face, so tenderly you were sure you were about to melt? Had they been real? Faked? 

Did it even matter? 

It both did and did not -- because not only were you scrutinizing every single moment, most of the populace was as well. They weren’t privy to what happened behind the walls of your office-- your home-- but they knew enough. You were the only other villager Klahadore--Captain Kuro-- had been close to other than Kaya herself. And despite being the Harbormaster for the islands the last six years, or the fact your family had served for the last several generations, the villagers found everything highly suspicious.  

But only one person was brave enough to confront you about it. 

“He fooled all of us,” Miss Kaya admitted, her posture softening some. “I thought he was my closest friend, family even. If he had just asked, I probably would have allowed him to have whatever he wanted.The family business, the manor, anything.”

Despite your own pain, your heart ached for the young woman who had lost everyone close to her. Merry, Klahadore, and even Usopp had set sail with the so-called pirates that had saved her. 

“...at least we understand each other,” you offered weakly, knowing it wasn’t much of a consolation. “To be tricked so thoroughly, how great of an actor he was…” 

It was her turn to offer a tight smile that didn’t reach eyes that were no longer sunken in. “That he was. Sham and Buchi I didn’t really care for, to be honest. I found them a bit… odd. But Klahadore… he was like a big brother. I never doubted him once.” 

Your heart was hurting too much. Because Mother Sea, that’s how he acted too. A big brother who was put-upon yet still loved his sister.   (How was all of that an act? How? How? How?!) 

"What plans do you have now?" You asked, trying to pretend like there wasn’t a huge lump in your throat. You needed a change in subject, quick, before you started to fall apart in front of the young heiress. 

“Actually, I’m going to leave Syrup village,” she answered, seemingly agreeable to the change. “For a while, at least. I’ve set up a board to manage my parent’s ship yard, but… I want to be a doctor, so I want to go to one of the cities to do my training.”  

Your smile felt just as weak as usual, despite the pride that blossomed for the young woman. To take her life in her hands and forage her own path. It was admirable, something you had wanted but never done. 

Then again, with her gone no one would be left in the village who understood what you went through. How you felt. There would still be suspicion in every glance, every deal. 

Were you a pirate? An accomplice? Could you really be trusted now?  How innocent were you, really?

“That… sounds like a really good idea, truth be told,” you admitted after a moment, an idea forming in your mind. “A fresh start away from here sounds nice.” 

After all, what did you have to lose?

***

Your life. You could lose your life. 

Dread filled you as screams filled the air, pirates swinging from their ship to the passenger ship. 'Fuck my life.'

#one piece #kuro one piece #one piece live action #kuro/reader #captain kuro #klahadore/reader #klahadore #one piece kuro #black cat pirates

[cyarskaren52]

Right-wingers finding out that Greenday hates them is like when they found out that Rage Against The Machine hates them, which was like when they found out that Neil Young & Bruce Springsteen hate them, which was like when they found out that their wives & kids hate them, which w-

Speaking of Rage Against the Machine, remember during the week of the 2020 election Trump supporters were dancing to this song in one of their rallies to keep trump in power for another four years.

Should we remind them of the lyrics or no?

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TOM MORELLO REACTS TO TRUMP SUPPORTERS DANCING TO RAGE AGAINST THE MACHINE’S ‘KILLING IN THE NAME’

Joe DiVita

Joe DiVitaPublished: November 7, 2020

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Play Killing in the Nam… 

on Apple Music 

A video taken in Philadelphia, Penn. has gone viral as it showcases supporters of President Trump gathering outside while dancing to Rage Against the Machine's "Killing in the Name," a song written with the express purpose of protesting police brutality. The clip even caught the eyes of Tom Morello and the rest of the band, who lamented that those seen dancing and reciting the lyrics do not seem to understand the message behind the song.

"Not exactly what we had in mind," wrote Morello on Twitter in response to the video, which he also shared.

In the clip, one woman is seen wearing a red "Make America Great Again" hat and American flag tank top with a "Thin Blue Line" adaptation of the American flag, which represents support for law enforcement officers.

Elsewhere in the video is one person outfitted with a Donald Trump mask and American flag cowboy hat while a man on the right side of the clip twirls a blue Trump flag, dancing along to Rage Against the Machine's anthem.

Trump's supporters were outside in Philadelphia, which has become the fixation of those following the results of the U.S. presidential election as a final counting of the votes is awaited in Penn., along with confirmation of the victor. The President has alleged voter fraud within the state despite submitting no evidence to support these claims, prompting supporters to line the streets to rally behind these baseless remarks.

Rage Against the Machine tweeted same video and wondered aloud, "They just don't GET IT do they?"

The irony present in the clip is that the message behind "Killing in the Name," which underscores white supremacists' penetration of the police force with the iconic lyric, "Some of those that work forces are the same that burn crosses," has been echoed immensely in 2020.

Protests against police brutality were largely led by the Black Lives Matter movement, which has been vehemently opposed and scorned by the Trump administration and, in turn, many of the President's supporters.

This adds to an already bewildering year where Rage Against the Machine fans begged Morello to stop talking about politics on social media, seemingly unaware that Rage have always been a politically-oriented band throughout their entire career. One fan even mocked the guitarist, asking what made him a political expert without being privy to the fact that Morello has is an honors graduate from Harvard University with a degree in political science.

Read More: Morello Reacts: Trump Backers Dance to RATM 'Killing in the Name' | https://loudwire.com/trump-supporters-dance-rage-against-the-machine-killing-in-the-name/?utm_source=tsmclip&utm_medium=referral

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#Spotify #Understanding protest music #rage against the machine #killing in the name #green day #dilemma #billie joe armstrong #billie joe #tre cool #mike dirnt

[wishing-stones]

Hello there! I hope you're doing good and that you have a good Black Friday when it comes. >w< This is for the send me a character thing!

How about Nightmare with the letter O?

Thank you very much and I hope you have a pleasant day~! ♥

I work retail, so black friday has been ongoing and busy LOL. Fortunately not in the sales part of it but I do keep track of customers and answer calls.

O. The stars or space.

Outertale had been there for almost as long as Nightmare could travel.

It was one of the first worlds he'd scrambled to, like a newborn fawn with unruly magic and wildly lashing tentacles. It was the place where he'd finally allowed himself the time to sit and calm and process what had happened.

He'd sat for hours beneath the stars and galaxies and cried. He'd wept for everything he had lost, for his frustration with his brother, for how alone he felt, truly alone now that his brother was gone. He'd mourned the loss of his home, grieved and lamented that people could be so cruel to a child, and agonized over why. Why him? What had he ever done to deserve such a fate? He was a child... was. He didn't feel much like that anymore. He felt like all of his childish innocence and wonder had been snuffed out. There was no longer a child. He'd grown up in an instant and had been forced to defend himself with newfound power.

None of that would have happened if Dream hadn't abandoned him. He felt bitter resentment rise like bile in his mouth. If he'd spent less time trying to play hero with the villagers, Dream would have been there to see what happened, to prevent what happened...

...

...But after a fit of righteous, anguished anger, he settled into the realization that... if Dream had been there, he'd have gotten hurt, too. He'd have gotten in the way, perhaps literally thrown himself on the sword to save him.

Nightmare wasn't sure he'd be able to live with himself if that happened.

As much as he hated this-- hated the fact that Dream left him there to suffer this terrible fate...

...It was probably for the best. If their roles were reversed, Nightmare didn't think that Dream would handle it as well as he was. Even though he'd had a (very literal) meltdown in the farthest reaches of an AU bathed in starlight and celestial wonder, he was still alive. He was still fighting, he was even stronger for it.

Once he'd stopped screaming and crying into the glittering void, he'd laid still and appreciated its beauty.

He always had loved the nighttime, and not just because of his name. The cool, quiet light of the moon was relaxing, the stars twinkled overhead in a silent lullaby, the song of crickets and glimmer of fireflies... The night brought things to life, let those with light shine, no matter how dim it might seem in the daytime.

Darkness made everything seem brighter.

It had been a long time since that day, but Nightmare made return trips to that very spot quite often. There was a worn spot on the floating rocks where he'd sat over five hundred years of time. Small divots and scratches in the dark stone marked where he'd traced his phalanges or tentacles over it in thought. He came here when he needed to clear his head, to just... think.

It was a spot that had never failed him. He was sure his underlings-- most of them anyway-- knew of this place. No one ever came to bother him while he was here, but... they always seemed to know when he came back.

Today, he just came here to relax beneath the stars. He sprawled himself on the rock and watched the endless sea of stars drift overhead, following the occasional shimmering trail of a meteorite as they streaked overhead.

He was thankful for this place, the calm and serenity and beauty it provided. The quiet space to sit and sort his thoughts out, the wide open expanse that destroyed all feelings of claustrophobia.

Nightmare lay beneath the stars and smiled a small, serene smile to himself.

It was good to have at least one solid constant in this multiverse.

#k answers #k headcanons #fic nonsense #minific asks #feat. nightmare

[separatist-apologist]

The Fire Won't Burn Me

All I know is this could either break my heart or bring it back to life

for @elucienweekofficial

Summary: Princess Elain Archeron wants nothing more than to be reunited with her missing youngest sister and to see her father finally emerge from the fog of grief he's been living under since her mother died. When her step mother arranges for her older sister to fetch her youngest to celebrate Elain's impending engagement to a neighboring prince, it seems like she'll get her wish. That is, until her father's fearsome huntsman steps in and wrecks it all. Now she's on the run, hiding in the forest to keep herself- and her heart- intact.

In her quest to understand why someone would want her heart carved from her chest, Elain will have to reconcile what it means to truly be the fairest of them all

Read on AO3 | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6

With Lucien gone, it didn’t take Elain long to slip back into her usual routine. She cleaned up the uneaten food from the night before, privately lamenting the waste. If she’d had known…if she had known, she’d have made nothing at all. She ate some of it after Lucien vanished in the woods without a second look back. Elain didn’t know why the sight of his retreating back made her so uneasy.

She’d heard stories of men who, when they’d gotten what they wanted, left and never returned. That wasn’t Lucien—she knew it wasn’t. And still, Elain’s discomfort remained no matter how many times she ran her thumb over the delicate pearl banded against her finger. 

With the cottage clean, Elain took herself outside to put feed out for the birds and then she’d start dinner. By the time she finished, Lucien would be on his way back and stomping snow all over her freshly washed floors. Elain smiled at the thought, rubbing at her chest in an attempt to ease the ache. 

“Hello!”

A cheerful voice cut through the snowy cold. Elain turned, surprised to see a rather sweet older woman, hunched beneath a cloak…and a basket of apples in hand. Elain had always assumed those apples were coming from Jurian. Her heart swelled when she realized someone from the village had been trekking out all this way just to give her something.

“Oh, hi! Please, let me take that from you.”

“You’re too sweet.” Upon closer inspection, the woman, who was several inches shorter than the already small Elain, had the strangest colored eyes. While the rest of her was lined with age, her eyes were coal black and bright as jewels. Gray hair tumbled around her shoulders, neatly curled and brushed. Her cloak slithered along the ground, fraying at the edges but clearly fine material.

Elain’s unease heightened. A silly thing, given the woman smiling before her with those yellowing teeth didn’t seem capable of harming a fly, let alone Elain.

“Please, come in from the cold,” Elain offered, even though she knew she shouldn’t. It was just…what kind of monster sent a sweet old lady back into the snow after she’d come all this way with a gift? The least Elain could do was let her rest her feet by the fire and make her something to eat.

“I would like that.”

Elain held the door open while the woman hobbled in, favoring one leg over the other. She was harmless, and Elain was just jumpy. Lucien was going to return, they would be married, and everything would be okay. He’d take her away, would help her figure out how to save Nesta from the enchanted sleep she was under. Everything was going to be okay.

He loved her. He loved her and she knew that, so what was she so worried about? Elain hurried forward, gripping the woman by her elbow until she collapsed to the couch.

“Thank you. I’m not as spry as I once was,” she groaned, rubbing slow circles against knees hidden under a jewel green dress. “You’ll understand that someday.”

Elain busied herself in the kitchen, smiling at the thought. “If I’m lucky.”

There was a pause between Elain filling the sink to wash her apples. She’d never seen such perfect fruit. Not one blemish, not a bruise or even a bug. They bobbed in the water, clear when there should have been dirt. 

“You think it's lucky to age?” Elain’s visitor asked, curiosity lacing her voice. “I think it's a curse.”

Considering Elain had narrowly escaped having her heart carved from her body, she nodded. “Yes, I think it would be very lucky to live a long life.”

“We’ll see how you feel when you’re my age.”

“Surely it can’t be that bad,” Elain said with a smile, plucking an apple from the water to wipe on the front of her apron. “You’ve had a long, lovely life, right?”

“A very long life,” she replied, cocking her head to watch Elain. Unconcerned, Elain bit into the fruit, delighted by the candy-like sweetness that flooded her mouth. For a moment, it was utter bliss. It might have been the best thing she’d ever tasted. Elain turned to the sink, thinking that she’d made tarts for Lucien, who would likely die over the loveliness of the apples.

Elain swallowed thickly, surprised by how coated her throat felt. How sticky her senses had become. Gripping the edge of the sink, Elain forced a breath through her nose. 

“Trouble, darling?”

Elain’s blood ran cold. She knew that voice. Turning, she found the old woman gone—replaced by her stepmother sitting on her little, ragged couch like her surroundings were beneath her. Elain swallowed.

“What—” Talking had become difficult. “What did you do?”

“I should have known not to trust a man. They’re so terribly shallow. Stupid creatures, I find. They only think with…well…I’m sure you know by now, judging by that pretty little ring on your finger. How funny,” she mused, rising from her place beside the fire to watch Elain with bright, clinical interest. Elain was struggling not just to breathe, but to keep her thoughts logical—it felt as if everything was slowing. 

Poison. 

“You ran from one prince straight into the arms of another. How relieved you must have been, knowing you weren’t falling in love with some poor…oh.”

Amarantha’s delight seemed so out of place with the choking sound coming from Elain’s throat. Prince? Lucien wasn’t a prince. Sure, he had good manners but she’d just assumed that came from his close proximity to the palace. 

“He didn’t tell you. Delicious. Oh, darling, don’t look so miserable. Men are notorious liars. Even a Prince of Avalon…or especially a Prince of Avalon. That would be his fathers doing. I just assumed he must have told you, given he was trying to raise an army on your behalf. Poor, pathetic Elain. No one cares about you enough to tell you the truth.”

Elain’s knees buckled. Lucien. Lucien, who’d proposed, who’d promised to help her find Elain, had been trying to gather an army for her? She blinked away a tear Amarantha misread as hurt. It was such a Lucien thing to do, working quietly behind the scenes…likely agonizing over a secret she never would have cared about.

After all, her plan had always been to marry a Prince from Avalon, should everything fail.

Amarantha crouched before Elain on the floor, gripping her chin so tight her nails pricked beneath Elain’s skin. “Are you hoping for death? You should have taken it when I offered. Now I have to punish you and I so hate to see you suffer. Instead of a quick, merciful death, you will suffer just as your sister is.”

Elain slumped further, her body becoming rigid. Her breathing was slowing, vision spotty. Still, she could hear Amarantha’s whispered words, could feel her fingers drawing blood from Elain’s cheeks. 

“I hope you enjoy this enchanted sleep. And I hope you enjoy it more knowing that there is someone who could save you—your true love is a prince, after all, and curses are so terribly specific. And while you wait for him, I want you to remember that I’ve sent him back to his father who will almost certainly kill him before little Lucien can ever reach you. For the rest of your long, immortal life, men will try and break your pretty little spell, and all of them will fail. Your true love will be rotting with the worms. Sleep well, sweet princess.”

Elain shuddered, eyes closing. It was hell to hear Amarantha’s horrible, ugly laugh. Her words bounced around Elain’s skull, doing the opposite of what they’d intended. If Amarantha hadn’t killed Lucien outright—and if she didn’t go back and do it now—Elain knew with absolute certainty that Lucien would find his way back to her. 

Maybe Amarantha had won this round, but she wouldn’t win the war. Nesta was alive, too—and her curse could be broken. They’d find Feyre, they’d return, and together they’d kill her. Elain felt herself smile. It was her last little rebellion before the world around her shuttered into total darkness, leaving her immobilized with nothing but her dreams to keep her company.

Dreams of Lucien.

And of love.

LUCIEN:

“If you’ve come to kill me, you can get in fucking line,” Lucien snarled at his brother, pulling his knife from his boot. Eris laughed, head thrown back with amusement. 

“Kill you? Lucien, we’re brothers. I’ve come to rescue you—”

“By taking me back to father?” Lucien demanded. Behind him, Vassa shifted with curiosity, not nearly as afraid as she ought to be. Eris dropped his hand to hold it in front of him as a sign of surrender. 

“If your queen asks…yes. That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

“To what end?”

“You’re my brother and I never hated you,” Eris said in a clipped, almost cold tone. “And Beron is dead, which your ruler doesn’t seem to be aware of. So I’m taking you into my own custody, where you will be safe—”

“I need to get my wife,” Lucien interrupted, ignoring the huff of indignant air from behind him. “And I want you to promise Vassa sanctuary, too.”

“If we leave right now, that’s a possibility. Otherwise I’m taking you with me and she can rot. No offense.”

“None taken,” Vassa said sweetly, offering Eris her middle finger all the same. “After you, King Vanserra.”

Eris muttered something that was distinctly unkind, though Lucien didn’t care. Not when the door was wide open and he was leaving, not staying. It seemed too much to hope for that they wouldn’t have to fight their way out, but in the end, Lucien was given a hand sword and Vassa his hunting knife, and the three butchered their way through the halls until the sleek, onyx floors were slippery with blood. No Amarantha, and no sign of the king, either, which was just as well. Lucien was getting Elain and taking her straight to Avalon.

“With me,” Eris panted, his regal face dotted red from the carnage. “I have horses.”

“I don’t need a horse,” Lucien retorted, taking off for the woods. Snow was falling around him, dotting the landscape with pristine white powder. Behind him, Lucien heard Vassa yell his name with exasperation, but he simply didn’t care. He knew the way and could get there faster on foot.

It was stupid, given night was falling faster than his legs could carry him, and the woods were dangerous in the dark. No one knew that better than Lucien, who’d laid awake on more than one occasion listening to the animals bray and the poachers scream for mercy or help. None of which was available. 

If he’d been smart, he would have gone back, bunked down for the night, and gone back in the morning. He couldn’t let Amarantha finish whatever she’d started. If he gave her any opportunity, he knew he’d lose Elain forever. So Lucien ran, praying to any god that might be listening for swift feet and a clear path through the ankle deep snow. 

The moon was glittering high above the sky, bright despite the moody clouds filtering past, by the time Lucien reached Elain’s front door. He pushed it open, heart thudding loudly in his chest.

“Elain?”

“She’s not here.” Jurian’s gruff voice betrayed his grief, and Elain’s shattered furniture betrayed his rage.

“Where is she?”

“Hidden,” Jurian replied, wiping his eyes covertly. “That bitch came back looking for her and I…she’s not dead. Just asleep.”

“I need to see her,” Lucien breathed, coming closer to his friend. “Please.”

“And if you can’t break whatever curse she’s under? What then?” Jurian demanded. 

“At least I tried. And if I fail, I’ll keep trying. I—”

But Jurian clapped his hand on Lucien’s shoulder, keeping him steady. “If you wake her, you take her far away from this place, prince.”

Jurian had kept that secret when he could have made a fortune betraying Lucien. It had always been unspoken between them, just as Elain’s identity had remained another of Jurian’s secrets. Lucien took a breath, waiting for Jurian to agree to what he’d say next.

“Come with me. With us. She’ll need people she can trust.”

Jurian scoffed. “To Avalon? And do what? Wipe my ass with your gold leaf paper?”

Lucien fought down a smile. “If that's what you want. I don’t care what you do, so long as you keep my wife safe.”

Jurian nodded his head. “Alright. The kings wages are paltry, anyway. I assume your father pays better?”

Lucien did smile a little, then. “Dead. But I’m sure my brother could be persuaded.” “He could not,” panted Eris, his face red from exertion. Beside him, Vassa shoved in, still filthy from the cell. Jurian hesitated for maybe the first time in his life, brown eyes wide with a mix of anger and concern.

“What…what happened to you?”

“Nothing I didn’t sort out,” she replied glibly, blue eyes shining with something Lucien thought he didn’t want to see any more of. Not right now, in this cottage that had once felt like home to him. Amarantha’s singular talent was ruining everything she touched, the utter opposite of Elains.

“Well,” Jurian said, his gruffness returning to his voice even has color rose in his cheeks, “let's see if true love prevails this time.”

Lucien didn’t dare look at his brother, nor did he pay Vassa any mind when she fell into step beside Jurian, who was likely to tell Lucien to go fuck himself if the princess offered him a place in her court.

Assuming she even had a court. For all they knew, Amarantha had swept in and destroyed everything, leaving Vassa a princess without a kingdom. Maybe Eris would give her a place to stay, too. Avalon was mighty—it could not be broken by the small territory of Ellesmere, even if their queen was a witch. 

And there was the matter of Velaris, and their missing prince. If Lucien could find him, they could combine their forces and destroy Amarantha on an even playing field. He could give Elain her crown even if he couldn’t give her anything else.

There was also the possibility that she didn’t even want him. When she learned he’d been lying to her this whole time, Lucien worried she’d give him back his ring and choose a new path—without him. That was a different, more personal sort of hell and one he would accept if he had to.

Jurian took them back toward the palace and the workshop he also lived in. There, just outside glowing in the bright moonlight, lay a coffin made of glass—and Elain lying utterly still just inside.

“Where did you find such a thing?” Eris demanded, not willing to get any closer than he had to. Eris was absurd, in his fine, navy jacket embroidered in real, gold thread and his immaculate white pants. Truly, if any prince here ought to be Elain’s true love, it was his brother.

But Eris was a king, and Lucien supposed that disqualified him. And Elain loved him—or she had, once. Maybe she didn’t anymore, too betrayed by his deceit and disappointed by his inability to protect her when she’d needed it most.

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to, Lord Vanserra.”

Vassa’s giggles punctuated Jurian’s snide response. Lucien tuned them out, walking through the freezing snow toward Elain. She was so impossibly beautiful like this—her porcelain skin unblemished, cheeks rosy from the cold. Ruby red lips were slightly parted, tilted at the corners as though she’d thought of some secret that was amusing only to her. Even her golden brown hair was curled sweetly over her shoulders. She might have been asleep were it not for the lack of breath fogging the glass. 

A memory floated through Lucien’s mind, unbidden. Amarantha’s words into her mirror so long ago. 

Mirror, mirror, on the wall. Who is the fairest of them all? 

So much suffering, all in the name of jealousy. Elain couldn’t help what she was—she couldn’t help the radiating beauty that robbed Lucien of breath and reason. But she could help how kind she was. Her generous spirit, her willingness to care about people and creatures no one else did. Jurian and Vassa were a testament to that, surely.

And himself. She should have stabbed him in the gut for what he’d tried to do and instead…instead his ring was still on her finger, resting softly against her stomach. With reverence, Lucien pushed the glass lid off the coffin and knelt beside it so he was eye level with her.

Please let this work, he prayed silently. 

“I love you,” he breathed, heart fluttering wildly. Lucien pressed his lips to hers, shocked by the firm cold that greeted him. He had no idea how long he was supposed to hold himself here, though kissing a corpse felt so distinctly wrong that his instinct was to jerk back and figure something else out.

Lucien did pull away when he felt her warm breath fan across his face. Elain’s dark lashes fluttered against her cheek, blinking up at him with those sweet, trusting doe eyes. She leaned up, sitting in the cold to glance around her in the dark. 

Lucien couldn’t help his choked laugh, hating the tears that were gathering at the corner of his eyes. Elain cupped his face in her hand, searching his expression.

“Took you long enough,” she breathed. “Prince Lucien.”

Air huffed out of him in a rush, silenced when she kissed him again—with passion and feel and life. From behind him, Jurian mumbled, “Okay, alright, that's enough of that.”

“It’s not enough,” he murmured, thumb stroking soft, cold skin. “It will never be enough.”

“Get me out of here, Lucien.”

Lucien’s grin threatened to split his face. “Whatever you say, princess.”

Six months later:

The heat of Summer, once miserable in Ellesmere, was perfectly pleasant in Avalon. Elain had become accustomed to the coolness emanating from the mountains at the border between Eris’s realm and Velaris which was, to Elain’s understanding, still missing their king. Her own realm was wholly governed by her stepmother, the youthful and beautiful Amarantha that couldn’t claim there wasn’t a contender for the throne she sat on.

Because it belonged Elain, and her husband, Prince Lucien of Avalon. Amarantha had welcomed Elain back, having conquered Scythia and making Vassa an exile of her own home, which only convinced Elain it was better to stay put where she was safe and merely condemn the pretender to her family’s home. 

Not, at least, until she was certain her sisters were safe. Nesta was still missing, though Eris had sent out several soldiers to brave the Illyrian wilds looking for wherever Amarantha had hidden her.

Not one had returned. 

This day, however, Elain had been told to dress well by Eris himself who was frustrating at times, but tolerable. Better than tolerable—he was becoming family. He didn’t have to hide her. Not when Amarantha had used whatever magic on her father to send him to their doorstep, furious and purple with rage over her marriage to Lucien. And Graysen’s kingdom was up in arms over the princess he’d been promised running off with the disgraced, bastard son of another territory.

None of it mattered. Elain put on a buttery yellow dress and swept her hair off her face while servants fussed and primped, turning her back into the only princess Avalon had seen in nearly five centuries. Elain had become much too wild, taking to the woods with Jurian every opportunity she got. He was teaching her to track, and she was teaching him to grow. Already, Elain’s garden was expansive, spreading across the once immaculate lawn while Lucien beat off frustrated groundskeepers desperate to restore the order.

They’d pry Elain’s colony of bees from her cold, dead hands. 

And Lucien’s soft, warm lips, if it ever came back to that. For now, Lucien kept his sword on his belt, one hand resting against the hilt anytime someone so much as raised their voice in her direction. As if she couldn’t handle herself, given his brothers had begun covertly showing her to use a dagger.

Just in case, they said. 

“What is all the fuss today? Did Eris get a new tunic he wants to show us?”

Lucien, waiting in the expansive, well-lit hall, smiled brightly. “No, nothing like that.”

“A new crown, then. Like last month when that diplomat brought him the ruby one? He preened like a peacock for days.”

“I think that was for the benefit of the man's scullery maid, between you and I—”

“She was not a scullery maid and I wish you would stop calling her that. She is his daughter who is clearly being treated poorly because his wife is jealous.”

“He introduced her to us as their traveling maid—”

“She had his eyes—”

“I don’t want to argue with you. Eris wanted her attention and I don’t think he got it. This has nothing to do with my brother for once and everything to do with my wife.”

Pleasure curled through her at the possessive lilt in his voice. Elain would never be tired of hearing him refer to her as his wife. Especially not when he looked at her with those smoldering eyes that promised he’d pay her much closer attention just the second they were alone. 

“What have I done this time? Is it the sunflowers? Because I refuse to cull them—”

The doors the throne room were pulled open by two guards dressed in the red and white uniform of Avalon, revealing a sight Elain had never expected to see. There, in the middle of the room, stood Feyre Archeron. Her hair was shorter than Elain remembered, cut just to her shoulders. Her eyes, though, were just as blue and starry as Elain recalled, and when she halted, drinking in the sight of this adult woman, Feyre’s face cracked into a relieved smile.

“So it's true, then,” Feyre breathed.

“You’re alive.”

Elain hadn’t truly believed Feyre was. Surely Amarantha couldn’t be so sloppy as to leave two of them standing among the living. Nesta, too, was alive somewhere. Elain took a step, and then another, laughing at first before she dissolved into tears. Feyre, too, met her in the middle of the open room, flinging her arms around Elain.

“Where were you?” Elain asked, burying her face in the pretty, purple dress her sister wore. Behind her, a tall, muscular man with inky black hair watched the pair with open curiosity. His black and silver tunic was cut closely to his body, and a matching crown of stars sat casually against his brow. Violet-blue eyes tracked her sister and though he wore no weapon Elain could see, she guessed it was hidden somewhere on his person. 

“It’s a long story,” Feyre said with a sweet laugh. “I’ll tell you everything just as soon as I can. I’ve come to beg your king for a favor.”

Eris, sitting on his throne, arched his brow. “I’ve already told you—I’m no longer a prince.”

“But your brothers are. You have three, which is more than any other province has,” Feyre turned, wiping her eyes quickly on his sleeve.

Eris opened his mouth to deny her, causing Elain to step beside her sister. Arms crossed over her chest, she asked, “You’d tell her no?”

Eris blanched. “I…merely question the wisdom of traipsing through the Illryian wilderness with three of my brothers all to try and wake a princess who is rumored to be guarded by a fucking dragon.”

“Don’t take that language,” Elain snapped, though she turned again to Feyre. “You’ve found Nesta?”

“Yes. Well…Rhys has. His brother was with her right before she was cursed and has been trying to get through her. She’s guarded by more than a dragon. A great forest of brambles blocks the way to her. He cuts it down every day, and every evening it grows back twice as thick.”

“But he’s still there?” Elain questioned. Why doesn’t he wake her, then? 

“If he’s anything, hes a bastard prince,” Rhys chimed in, looking toward Lucien. “But without the crown.

“So just a bastard, then?” Eris asked in that silky voice of his. It was tempting to throw the woman from before in his face—the girl with the blonde hair and the soft, sad green eyes. Would Eris be so disparaging if it were her trapped behind brambles? Would it matter, then? 

Though, perhaps it would—Eris was still here on his throne, the picture of a bored prince and that girl had likely gone home to scrubbing floors and dodging boots. “I am being asked an awful lot of my neighbors who have done very little for me.”

“My circumstances were complicated,” Rhys gritted out.

“Oh, so I’ve heard. Living as a thief, all these years, were you? Did true love turn you around—”

“Eris!” Elain snapped. Lucien’s fingers ghosted over her elbow, steadying her when all she wanted was to march up the marble steps of that dais and strangle Eris until he agreed. “We’re family. That includes Nesta. And a witch marching into neighboring kingdoms is bad for you, too. One day she’ll have an army to outmatch yours.”

“And I’ll stand by you with my own,” Rhys added, straightening his spine the way another king might, “if you agree to do this for my wife. And if you don't...well...I have her frying pan at the ready. She can be quite persuasive with it, isn't that right, darling? ”

Wife.

Elain had missed the silver and blue ring sitting on her sisters finger. A prince turned thief seemed exactly the sort of man Elain could imagine for Feyre, who, admittedly, she barely knew anymore. There was no mistaking the shining love between them, though. And if this is what it took to get Nesta back, Elain didn’t care how it came about. After all, she’d fallen in love with a prince turned huntsman, hadn’t she? 

“Fine,” Eris gritted out, looking only at Elain. “But you will remain exactly where you are. I won’t risk you.”

She expected that, though it was obnoxious all the same. All eyes fell on her again, and the softly rounded stomach just barely peeking beneath the fabric of her dress. Lucien, too, seemed to relax when he realized Elain would remain in Avalon, guarded and protected.

“Fine. So long as you give the man trying to rescue my sister whatever she needs with minimal insults.”

Eris considered this before nodding. “I’ll see it done, princess.”

There were a million things Elain needed to say—questions she had, words left unspoken for far too long. All of it would wait until Nesta was returned to them, and Amarantha was dead once and for all. Feyre was already moving out of the room, Rhys at her side. A promise was made to talk before they left, of which Elain intended to uphold. 

But for the moment, she was alone again with Lucien, standing on the balcony overlooking her garden. “The nightmare is almost over.”

Elain nodded, elbows braced on the marble banister. Far beneath her, summer blooms swayed against a jasmine scented breeze. “It hasn’t been a nightmare for a long time. I feel selfish admitting that, but…”

But Lucien chasing her into the woods was still the best thing that had ever happened to her. Lucien pressed a kiss to her temple. “Eris will send soldiers and my brothers. Nesta will be safe. Feyre has promised her sanctuary in Velaris, too.”

“Is it enough? Avalon and Velaris—”

“And Illyria, if what Rhys says is true. Bastard prince or not, it seems whoever this man is, he’s able to unite the warring tribes. And if Vassa and Jurian could get a foothold back in Scythia and unite her fractured court…yes, I think it would be more than enough.”

“Then do whatever it takes,” Elain told him, turning to face her husband fully. “I don’t want our baby growing up in a world where Amarantha draws breath.”

Lucien smiled, threading his fingers through her hair so he might bring her closer. “Shall I bring you her heart in a box?”

It was disgusting. Horrifically cruel, the sort of thing only a monster would demand. And yet Elain knew Lucien would do it if she wanted—with pleasure, given the emboldened look on his face.

“Yes. I think I would like that a lot.”

“Consider it done, princess.”

Leaning up on her tiptoes, Elain pressed a kiss to his mouth. “You’ll stay with me, too?”

“You couldn’t pay me any sum of money to venture into Illyria. I’ll leave that to my brothers and whoever this foolish man is.”

Elain took a breath. “So long as my family is nearly free.”

“We are so close, Elain.”

Elain inclined her head, brushing her fingers over the trio of scars running down his face. “You and I have been free since we found each other. I trust that above all else.”

Lucien smiled in return. “Oh, I am well aware.”

It would have been a lie to say they lived happily ever after from that first moment. Elain knew there would be more to come—danger and magic, all threatening to burst the shimmering bubble they’d created for themselves.

But for a moment, right then, it certainly felt happy.

It was the start of forever.

#elucien #i am LIMPING over the finish line #but its done and the feysand part is already (semi) written for august!

[internetskiff]

Ohhh man do I have words to say about Crowbar Collective's Half Life 1 Remake

I notice the Black Mesa remake seems to be quite divisive, at least amongst the people I've spoken to. While I do understand some of the problems it has, I do believe it's a really stellar remake, especially when it comes to reimagining Half Life 1's frankly underwhelming xen levels.

I've seen people argue that Black Mesa's a little over-reliant on the Half Life 2 callbacks, especially with the Nihilanth's base of operations being a massive tower at the center of Xen's island mass. But personally? I think it's quite fitting for the Nihilanth. Even in Half Life 1, it seems to be in the process of trying to develop a "Unity" of it's own, increasing it's influence in the hopes that it can join enough species together to combat the Universal Union as it continues to hunt it down through worlds. I'd assume if it succeeded in fleeing to Earth, it would seek aid from the humans in developing equipment and weaponry that could counter the Combine, be it diplomatically or through forceful subjugation. Seeing as it's seeking to unify different species in order to resist it's oppressor, I believe it's quite fitting for Nihilanth's base of operations to be a sort of "Citadel" of it's own.

The Nihilanth resorting to imitating Combine equipment in the hopes of countering them is almost similar to how Half Life 2's Resistance Movement also repurposes Combine tech for it's own purposes, no? While yeah, this is definitely a cheeky nod to Episode 1's Reactor Sequence, it does make lore sense and technically helps characterize the Nihilanth's forces as a sort of desperate imitation of the Combine. They both use other species as pawns to further their plans (this is true even in the original HL1), which goes to show that in it's attempts to evade the Union the Nihilanth became almost exactly like them.

The Gonarch, for example - she seems to be deliberately kept around and permitted to nest in the outer expanses of the Nihilanth's island, almost acting as a sort of guard dog and, perhaps, the first line of defense. It has Garguantuas at it's disposal - it could have easily killed the Gonarch if she proved a detriment to it. But it doesn't. Infact, it seems to lament when it perishes - "Done, what have you done?"

And this brings us to the Tower itself, the Nihilanth's base of operations and the main production facility for it's foot soldiers. I have already touched on the parallels between it and the Combine's Citadel, but I do believe it's almost a clever mirror to it - both appear to be alive, but while the Combine force organic matter into an artificially constructed monolith to bring it to life, the Tower itself seems to be a living organism, the infrastructure within seemingly designed to aid it's bodily functions. The Citadel is parasitic in nature, a mere extension of the will of those that built it, but the relationship between the Tower and it's architect seems entirely symbiotic. Both, however, seem to have quite a detrimental terraforming effect on the surrounding environment.

With the context of Half Life 2, I consider the Alien Grunts to be the Nihilanth's response to the Universal Union's many heavily augmented units. A little disappointing that they didn't really touch upon how exactly they are created, but I guess any interpretation they could do could potentially end up being incorrect to Half Life 1's canon, so they kept the process mostly vague. I personally like to think they're cultivated from heavily influenced samples of Vortigaunt tissue, rather than being Vorts themselves altered through some sort of unknown process. Despite certainly being higher up in the chain of command compared to Vortigaunts, it doesn't seem like their lives are any better - any Grunt with a defect or abnormality is shown to be thrown into a literal meatgrinder, and apart from the ones overseeing the Vortigaunt workers they appear to be almost immediately geared up and sent to fight on Earth. This technically explains why their AI behavior is a little more complex in the Nihilanth tower compared to the ones sent to fight on Earth - it's possible the ones overseeing the tower had lived much longer compared to the infantry sent to overtake Black Mesa, and have thus further developed their proficiency with handling their Hivehand weaponry and navigating the Tower's vertical environment. The Grunts we fight on Earth might have, quite literally, come right off the production line only to be immediately sent out.

The Vortigaunts themselves seem to have been reduced from a once culturally rich species to one doing laborious tasks around the Tower and providing support to the Grunts during the invasion. I wonder if, at some point, the Nihilanth and the Vortigaunts established a union willingly, only for the Nihilanth to grow increasingly more oppressive as it grew more and more desperate to escape re-capture by the Combine. Perhaps at one point they saw eachother as equal - both united against a common enemy that sees great value in exploiting both: the Vortigaunts for their Vortessence and the Nihilanth for it's psychic abilities and the power to teleport things not only between worlds, but also specific points of interest in said worlds - capturing and subjugating it would instantly solve the Combine's local transportation problem. They needed it alive - after all, it was the last of it's kind.

Finishing Xen in Half Life 1, I didn't even stop as I reached the Nihilanth's portal, just kinda rushing in to kill it and be done with the game. But this? This made me stop and stare for a good while. Reaching the Nihilanth's portal actually had the sense of finality it was always meant to have. What you're about to do is doom several species to the threat of extinction - completely wiping one out, and opening the doorway for the Combine to subjugate humanity. It's really amazing finally seeing the end of this Remake's development cycle, over a decade of work culminating in this moment. There were people who thought they would never even remake Xen at all - for a good while, this game ended right as Freeman jumps into the Lambda Core's portal. And now, after years, here you are - standing at the foot of another, preparing to kill the thing on the other side and allow an even greater horror to force it's way into your world.

I really love the remade fight with the Nihilanth - it starts out gloating, laughing as it throws barrages of pure energy at you from the safety of it's shield. Once you break down the generators powering it, however, it seems to grow a little more concerned and confused, upping the intensity of it's assault but remaining relatively confident.

The moment all of it's countermeasures fail, though? It completely freaks out. It throws everything at you, summoning a storm inside of it's chamber and tearing everything up in the hopes you'll be killed in the chaos. It grows increasingly unstable, it's head splitting apart, it's attempts to stop Freeman quite literally tearing it apart from within. As he lands the killing blow, this culminates in the Nihilanth erupting in a destructive blast that wipes everything it's built up from Xen as a whole.

The G-man pulls you out just as you're about to be incinerated, impressed with your efforts and offering you a new job proposal - y'know, seeing how your original workplace is a bit.. Incinerated.

While yes, of course, it's not exactly canon-friendly to Half Life - how could it ever be, as a fan-made project - I do find Black Mesa's interpretation of Xen to be quite impressive from a storytelling perspective. Unlike the original barren floating islands, you can really tell that the remake's Xen has a history - many different species coming together to create an ecosystem in this borderworld where no creature was ever meant to linger, only to be wiped out by a single theoretical physicist wielding a crowbar and an arsenal of military weaponry.

It's fitting that this retelling of Half Life 1's story was finally completed right before Valve finally returned to their franchise with Half Life: Alyx.

#hl #half life #hl2 #half life 2 #black mesa #black mesa xen #xen #the Nihilanth #Vortigaunts #rambling #Nihilanth