#that in a fandom as large as this in a fandom that's often a threshold fandom churning out massive amounts of content daily

[fallingintoyourlilaceyes]

Dressed all in white (Sihtric Kjartansson x reader)

synopsis: When Sihtric and you meet life feels like a dream. Never in a thousand years could you have thougth such heaven could turn into such hell.

warnings: heavy angst, emotional manipulation, hurt/comfort but very little comfort, grief, physical violence, afab reader

word count: 3.1k

taglist: @hopelesswritergall @foxyanon @sihtricfedaraaahvicius

(If you want to be tagged for a specific character/fandom or in general let me know in my asks, comments or DMs)

A/N: This is probably one of my darker fics, so please know that it is completely okay to save this and read later if you currently aren´t in the right headspace. If you have recently lost someone close to you please know that eventhough it will suck and it is important that it sucks for a while it will get easier eventually. And if it doesn´t, counceling is always a good option imo

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

It almost felt like a dream now, thinking back to that evening. A beautiful dream you wish would have never passed. But every dream had to end sometime. The end to yours was Sihtric standing by the docks of your hometown after a months long stay, hugging you tightly as he kissed you on the forehead and promised to write as often as he could.

“Do not cry, my love. I will return to you before you know it.” It was the only consolation you got.

That and half of his lord Uthred´s crew. Amongst them, Finan. As Sihtric and you had grown closer, so had the Irish man and you, though in a far more platonic sense. Ever since that night you felt like the dream that now ended began. As you stand there, Finan´s arm around your shoulder. As you wave off Sihtric until the ship is barely a spec on the horizon, you allow yourself to reminisce about the night you all had met.

There had been word of a large group of Danes having come to town all day. No matter where you went you would become privy to whispers about the large group of men. How their leader was a Saxon raised by Danes nicknamed the Dane slayer. The rumours made your mind run wild with imagining how this Dane slayer would look like. All your brain could come up with, was the picture of a beast of a man. Tall, covered in muscles and scars with long hair and a long beard. A barbarian, in short. Which was all but not what greeted you at the tavern that evening.

Long before you set foot over the threshold you could hear the screaming and laughing and music. A big group of Danes had taken over the tavern and in the midst of them sat the Dane slayer himself, Uhtred Ragnarsson, with three of his seemingly closest men. Throughout the night there was an abundance of food and ale, men and women started dancing on the tables to the music and you were no different from them. Finding yourself pulled into a conversation with the Irish man and the Dane, shocked yet fascinated by their stories and in the end, being spun around by them to lively melody after lively melody, singing dancing and laughing until the very ungodly hours of the morning. The two men had you laughing until your tummy hurt and kept you on your feet until your legs ached. When the time came to go home, or rather to choose who to take home with you, your choice fell onto Sihtric. In hindsight you weren´t even sure why your decision fell on him, all you knew was that it was easy to decide. For some odd reason the Danes soul felt like it was calling out to you.

One night turned into many and your choice that fateful night only proved to have been the right one. Finan was sweet to you, but Sihtric was infinitely sweeter. After only a short while you had no room left in your small house for the heap of flowers that he gifted you, he never talked over you in conversation and made a point to include you as best as possible and the best thing was that he listened. He actually listened with great interest, storing each new thing he learned about you somewhere easily reachable in his brain. He was perfect, life was good for a while. If only he hadn´t followed Uhtred back to sea.

Not long after he had left, the letters he had promised to send stopped coming out of nowhere, even though he had just promised to marry you as soon as he came back.

Reams of miles away Sihtric thought and worried endlessly about the same, you had sounded beyond happy about his promise in the last letter only to then suddenly stop writing out of nowhere. That´s when he received a letter that would explain the absence of any writing in all the worst ways.

He was alone when he opened the envelope addressed to him. It´s contents talked about how he had left you behind pregnant, a fact that made his heart beat higher, the overwhelming happiness overshadowed the fact that you had not told him yourself or the absence of any communication for a moment. Only for it to end with his heart sinking into before unknown depths and his vision to veil with tears as he continued reading. There had been complications and you, as well as the child, had died. The paper is crumpled in his fist before he can read the expressions of condolences, he didn´t care for them anyway. The scream that leaves his lungs goes unregistered by his own ears, but it is heard by many others.

Little did he know that at approximately the same time a very alive and unpregnant you received a similar letter. Stating that there had been a disaster too cruel to recount to you, that there weren´t many survivors. However, Sihtric was not amongst them. Leaving behind only tear-stained nights and dreams of what could have been.

It felt like your life stopped the moment you had opened the envelope. An unending numbness filled your body. Each month you had known Sihtric converted to a year of mourning his loss and you weren´t sure what was worse. The longing and yearning for nothing more than to have him back with you under any circumstances, not talking, eating or sleeping at all or far too much. The inner coldness no matter how many layers of clothes or furs you wore, that only got worse the more the sun shone. Or realising that life had to move and allowing yourself to live again. Even in just small ways. The first time you actually ate, slept, went about your day as before, the first time Finan managed to make you laugh for the first time in what felt like forever send you spiralling all over again. But you allowed yourself to be comforted by the Irish man, who had a seemingly way easier time handling the news than you did.

“How do you do it?” You asked him one afternoon as you sat together.

“How do I do what?” Came the fairly confused question back.

“Be so fine to live on without him. Laugh. It feels like he took even the colours of the world away when he died.” You mutter the forgotten context into the room.

“Ah…” Finan makes a quiet sound of recognition, thinking deeply about his next words. “I believe it is because we all have made our piece with the fact long ago. Our lives were never quite as safe as yours, especially out on the sea, where every storm could mean the end if you are not careful.”

“Oh…” You feel stupid for your answer or perhaps even asking the question, but you didn´t know what else to say.

Silence settles over the two of you again like a stone slab.

“It is so hard to believe that he is supposed to be gone and I am still here, having to go on. He was so sweet; he did not deserve this.” Your eyes begin to burn, though you aren´t sure if it is from tears of the past or present.

“I know.” There isn´t much more Finan can answer.

“I love him so much still.” Your voice nearly gives out under the familiar knot that builds in your throat.

“I know.” Finan pulls you onto his lap, to lay your ear on his chest.

The gesture had always comforted you when you cried over the thought of Sihtric leaving one day. He had let you listen to his heart to remind you that he would always be there for you. If not in physical form, then in soul and heart.

“You need only to close your eyes and think back to this moment. Then you will know I am still with you.” Your Dane lover had rasped into your ear and for as long as you thought him alive you lived by it.

When you eventually met a new man, you couldn´t help but to compare him to Sihtric and find he was different in so many ways. Naturally. He was still nice and caring and funny, but even the beating of his heart was different to Sihtrics. Not only because it was there, but the rhythm it drummed against his ribcage was fundamentally so contrasting. The way his arms wrapped around you felt different and you have to confront the fact that things would never feel the same. Yet over time the strong, vibrant pulse began to drown out the steady beat you fell in love with. And so, when you allowed for people to enter your heart again, the wish of being able to be okay with living became a wish to share your life more intimately with the man than before. After all, he had made every effort possible to make you as happy as his former crew mate would have. And though you had sworn to only ever love one man, you were overjoyed when the man proposed to you. Or at least that was how you interpret the way your own heart, which had thawed entirely only shortly ago, beat a few deep pulses before returning to normal. The ceremony is arranged to be held by father Beocca at your future husbands house, your friends help you into the dress, braid flowers into your hair and do their best to calm your nerves and dry your tears. But still when it is time to leave for the ceremony, you are unsure if you are truly ready.

At approximately the same time a boat arrives at the docks. On it Uhtred, Sihtric and the rest of the crew. It had been so long, yet seeing the town made Sihtric´s throat tighten as memories of you flood his mind. He had almost obsessively studied the last letter containing information of your status and it had been too painful to return. But Uhtred was right. He couldn´t let that hurt take control over his life. So now he found himself wandering through the greenfield the two of you had spent so much time laying close, talking about everything and nothing all the same. The tavern you met at. Even just the town square and lastly… your home. Where, if it hadn´t already, all the colour would have drained from the Dane´s face. It felt like a hallucination at first. One that took away his voice and nearly made him fall to his knees. The desperation for the moment to be real wore him down as if someone had slit open his stomach, put boulders into it and sewed it shut again. He stumbles and almost falls multiple times, calling your name until you turn to see him.

“Sihtric…” You whisper and slap a hand over your mouth, getting the attention of the women surrounding you. The bouquet in your hands falls to the ground in favour of them grabbing and lifting the skirt of your dress to pull it up out of the way of your feet. The whispers around are drowned out by a high-pitched ringing in your ears and without having to think about it, your feet carry you towards the only man you ever loved.

Once his arms wrap around you it is like something shakes the fundament of the earth. The world becomes more colourful again, air fully fills your lungs for the first time in forever and the tears that burn in your eyes are for once uncoined by grief, yet the sense of longing, that had plagued your soul for so long, prevailed. The scent of wet wood and musk fills your nose, followed by the comforting undertones of honey and black pepper to soothe your mind.

“You are real…” Sihtric is the one to speak first.

“The much more pressing question here is how you are alive?” You answer, leaning back in his arms to look at his face as your hands cup his face. Even feeling the skin under your finger pads couldn´t completely convince you that this moment was real.

“Me? How are you still alive?” Sihtric´s eyebrows knit together tightly, the frown on his lips deepening further in confusion.

By now a small cluster of people had collected, watching the reunion and whispering behind their hands a small distance away. In search of an answer, you turn to them, hoping to find your future husband, so he could give an explanation, but he seemed to still wait inside. Unaware of what was going on. Unaware of what was going to happen soon.

“Me? You were the one that stopped writing first. And then I got a letter that said… It said that you...” It´s too hard to actually say the words, but Sihtric understands nevertheless.

He is just about to say something, when the door to your home opened and Finan stepped out, assumingly to look where you were, eyes widening at the sight of his friend. Yet there is no time for any more reunion feelings, as the Irish man is closely followed by your husband to be.

Sihtric´s eyes widen in understanding before yours do and you have a hard time holding him back, but the men just have too much strength. The Dane lands a hard punch in the man´s face, splitting his lip with his knuckles and drawing some blood. There are screams heard from the crowd and immediately a handful of men have to pull them apart before anything worse happens.

“Stop it! Stop it this instant you two!” You scream repeatedly at the top of your lungs, yet it still takes a while until the spirits have been calmed enough to at least have the two men not struggle against the men parting them anymore.

However, there is no way to get an explanation from anyone as they continue to scream at each other from a distance. Spouting insults that you had never heard before in your life.

Then Sihtric silences everyone with three powerful yet simple words. “Make the square!”

There are protests from several of the men, but in the end, everything goes all too fast. You are frozen to the ground you are standing on, so Finan pulls you aside. Sihtric presses a kiss to your lips and mutters a promise that your brain is unable to register. All you can focus on is the weapons being drawn. Your brain doesn´t even register the hot tears that stream down your cheeks and stain the fabric of the dress. The first sound of the blades meeting each other, has you burying your face in Finan´s chest, resounding in your ears horrifically. You can´t stand to watch most of it, shaking and flinching with every sound of blades clashing or pained scream. You have to force yourself to watch eventually when you can´t deal with the anxiety and uncertainty anymore. Frantic eyes searched for Sihtric. Finding him, covered in dirt, blood and panting, but still standing and to your relief with a good chance at winning. Though you don´t allow yourself to cheer like the others yet. There is still too much shock in your bones, too many unresolved questions plaguing your mind. You manage to get so caught up in your thoughts, that you only come to, when the fight seems to be close to over. Luckily in favour of your one true love, which now stands above the man you were about to marry, a dagger you hadn´t noticed the Dane carrying before, to his throat. From the distance you can see the raw fear in the man´s widely opened eyes and rapidly rising and sinking chest, clawing at the Danes wrist to get him to let go of the weapon to no avail. That fear quickly morphs to relief, exhaled in a deep breath and relaxing facial features, when Sihtric puts the dagger into the ground beneath his head, the blade sticking out upright. Only to morph back into the purest horror just as quickly as before, when the first fist swiftly comes down onto his face. A crack can be heard when the knuckles make contact with the bridge of the nose, thus breaking it without even batting an eye.

Air suddenly floods your lungs in a gasp at the cracking sound, but silently find yourself cheering on your one true love more and more as time passes. Your own body doesn´t listen to you anymore. Your eyes are dead focussed on the sight of his fist making contact with the face over and over and over again, even long after the resistance had stopped and he had clearly won as his opponent’s face was nothing more than bloody pulp. It was gruelling, haunting to see, but your head would have refused to turn away even if you had wanted it to. So, you continue watching and watching and watching until it becomes glaringly clear that Sihtric is not going to stop anytime soon. You aren´t the only one to have that realisation, it glimmers in Finan and Uhtred´s eyes as well. The two men pull their friend off the lifeless body and you are by his side in an instant. Cupping his face in your firm, but gentle hands, your eyes searching his until they make contact and in the corner of your field of vision you see the way his chest rises slow down.

“You have to stop now. It is over.” You urge him in a sore voice falling to your knees in front of him. “You won. It is over now.”

The Dane looks deep into your eyes, allowing your voice and words to soothe him, yet the anger took the ability to think clearly or speak from him still. Finan and Uhtred let him go and you can fall into his arms again without a care in the world about the pristine, white dress becoming dirty as well. All that matters is feeling Sihtric in your arms now as you keep murmuring to him. His entire body starts to tremble under the familiar touch and so does yours. You squeeze your eyes shut and pull him in tighter. You have trouble believing your own words. It doesn´t entirely feel over yet. Fear still gnaws on your heart, that he could vanish from your hold to leave behind nothing but a cloud of smoke and the pain of being awoken from yet another dream tricking you into thinking things hadn´t resolved in your favour. Fear that it was real, but he would be taken from you one day once more. The two of you likely couldn´t be further from having won. Or else, you think, the tears that now flow freely down both your faces to wet the others clothes wouldn´t be so bitter.

#sihtric tlk #sihtric kjartanson #sihtric #sihtric x reader #sihtric x you #sihtric kjartanson x reader #sihtric kjartanson x you #the last kingdom #tlk #the last kingdom fanfic #tlk fanfic

[greenerteacups]

Hey GTC, I have always been such a fan of your Tumblr and your engagement with the fandom. However I must say that as of late, the questions you’re being asked most often are essentially variants of “Will X happen?” or “Will Y character do Z like in the book?” or even, “I’m noticing Theme A, will it continue in future chapters?”

A significant element of the fun that you’ve created for Lionheart readers is that we don’t know which elements and events of the JKR texts you’ll preserve untouched and which you’ll turn into the sixth and seventh year Lionheart storylines. I adore making my guesses to which parts of canon you’ll play with and which parts you’ll completely and utterly upend. Unfortunately, questions that ask about canon events in books 5-7 ruin so much of the fun.

Historically, you’ve used the Ask box to provide us with analyses of your own work and characterizations, but I feel as if recently you are often indulging questions about books 5, 6, and 7. I hate to say it, but I even feel that your answers veer into spoiler territory. I used to lurk your Tumblr incessantly, but since I’ve started to see this influx in predictive questions these past couple weeks, I’ve been avoiding the app.

It’s such a gift that we get to engage with your work on such a vibrant epistolary and interactive space as your Tumblr. I know that you can’t control what fans ask, but I humbly request that you please consider refusing to answer questions that ask you to ponder future events. Thank you for your tender care to everyone in the fandom. ❤️‍🔥🦁🧡

Hey, what's up, dude. I hear you. Sorry about that.

The problem is that the line between spoilers and not spoilers is totally subjective, and the line between "spoilers that are fine" and "spoilers that bother me" is also totally subjective. I don't know where you are on it, but we probably don't line up, and that's okay. I just don't know how I'd begin to sort out questions that one person considers "too much" from what someone else just thinks is fun analysis. My hard rules are as follows: I don't answer any questions about future ships, events, or arcs (and I get a lot). I haven't revealed anything that I would be unhappy to discover in a Tumblr askbox instead of a fic itself. True, I've dropped teaser/trailer stuff for 6 and 7, but to be honest, even looking over the stuff I've posted recently — I hate to say it, but I disagree with you. It isn't spoilers. Not to me, anyway.

But that's just me! There's no right or wrong answer here, it's just a coordination problem of how we can both cultivate social media experiences that make us happy. For instance: I like answering questions about my fic. It makes me happy to talk to people who want to know what happens. It encourages me and gets me excited to write about it, and I don't believe that any of the content on my Tumblr spoils what's going to happen. I don't really want to stop doing that, so I'm not going to. If that means you and other readers whose spoiler thresholds are below mine can't engage with my Tumblr, that's a natural consequence of us having different attitudes about media, and it was bound to happen. I'm sorry that that's the case, but it would bring me much more grief for you to injure your reading experience than it would for you to avoid my (largely irrelevant) e-journal full of random metatext. I love my fic, and I love my readers, you most certainly included; I do not, candidly speaking, love my Tumblr account. And for what it's worth, I absolutely do not think anything I've written on here is worth diminishing your experience of a story you enjoy. It wouldn't jive with my philosophy of literature and art.

So here's what I got: I'll continue tagging spoilers about past and current events as [#lionheart spoilers], and if a question makes reference to events not published, I'll use the tag [#prognosticating]. That way you can block the tag, and other readers can enjoy content that fits under their threshold of non-spoilerism. If our thresholds still don't line up, then I think the only solution may really be to block the [#lionheart spoilers] tag altogether. That's probably not the answer you're looking for, but it's the best I can do.

#greenteacup asks #I am doing the best I can #it's hard to get questions about what's going to happen because I do try to give tidbits if i can't answer the main point #just so people will have something? but it's rough to know I'm disappointing people on both sides #as is inevitable really. those who want to know more and want to know less. you will never make everyone happy #but also— if a creator isn't writing stuff you want to read #I suspect you already know at some level the answer just has to be that you stop reading #I sometimes debate if having a Tumblr is worth the stress of trying to manage an internet presence #I generally think it is

[vs120shound]

And on the Seventh Day, the Good Lord created Laura for all mankind afflicted with SF to admire and to cherish and to worship! And the Lord gave Laura all the tools she needed to smile down upon her subjects with exhaled smoke from Marlboro 100s and VS120s!

AND THEN THERE WAS LAURA TO CELEBRATE!

SHE ARRIVED SPORTING BANGS, MAKING THE SF WORLD YEARN!

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ + | Five-Plus "Stars"

From gomerianworld | ★★☆ (7 total: L)

Tri-Media 10-Post, 44-Pack Megapost!

LAURA WITH BANGS 🚬 IS REVENGE FOR 🚬 WHAT AGAIN EXACTLY?

Laura carved out her niche during her time with R.S. in her own inimitable way . . . attacking the Greater SF World Community scene with her unique mix of great natural beauty -- cute, pretty and handsome -- ultra-seductive ways, teasing-playful-edgy personality all accentuated by her creative and glamorous sense of style and fashion with her hairstyles, makeup, jewelrey, accessories, outfits, footwear and outerwear (Dear Goodness, did we not mention lingerie?)! Yes, some undergarments were visible on her from time to time but always in an appropriate and tasteful manner. No slut here. Laura was all about the look and with "Snaps Random," the look always featured cigarettes, often Marlboro 100s or Virginia Slims 120s Luxury Lights (now Gold Pack). . . . and until seeing this video for the first time within the past 24 hours, we had never seen Laura in bangs. She does indeed rock it with bangs, too, but she's more remarkable without them, we claim!

. . . well, Laura, or "LauraA" -- to which she was sometimes referred -- was always meticulously put-together for her shoots, with that highly-refined fashion drive guiding her to the selections she made to accentuate her appearances, which always brought out the true character and beauty of her femininity, grace and elegance. She was the consummate SF model/actress package. In large part, that's how she landed the No. 1 slot for the "unofficial" official Top-25 all-time favorite SF models list published on vs120shound in January 2023.

Our Centerpiece video is from a post by gomerianworld, a new tumblr SF-content blog/vlog/webpage born on October 18, 2023. It had 16 positive notes of likes or re-blogs in the first 18 hours after this video's post was uploaded to "Gomer's World's" page.

Previous Posts of Laura on tumblr and on Our Network!

A GIF from georgetyerbyter, re-blogged by smokingslutcartel and qwerty53421 each on November 2, 2023 . . .

From vs120shound's Pinned Post on November 17, 2023 . . .

Photos of Laura from the self-de-activated Mega-SF website based in Australia!

(All three photos from that defunct host website, R.S.!)

NOTE ON RATING OF POST'S SOURCE: gomerianworld, which in four brief weeks of existence shows great promise towards becoming an outstanding tumblr SF-content hot-spot, received a rating of ★★☆ as this post's content source that might appear low or punitive at first blush. But that's not the intent; please do not misconstrue. tumblr SF-content pages that have been around much, much longer with a long-standing proven record of delivering high-quality content on a consistent basis, as well as YouTube webpages and authors/contributors/uploaders of experience and consequence over on Smoking Fetish Kingdom (SFK), those folks would get better ratings, in the ★★★☆ to ★★★★★'s range. gomerianworld is on track to reach that threshold, as is thelibrarian120. smokingscholar, which came out near Jan. 1, 2023 has moved up in ratings by the nature of its superior longevity when contrasted to "Gomer's World" and "The Librarian." Just give those two some more time out at it before their ★'s begin to improve and to grow.

#SF #Hot women who love smoking cigarettes #Smoking cigarettes #Smoking #gomerianworld! #Laura of Australia! #No. 1 on “unoffical” official Top-25 favorite SF models list!

[emotionalcadaver]

Part 1: These Devilish Intentions

Fandom: Peaky Blinders

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x OC

Summary: Lucy earns herself a new name and a fearsome reputation.

Word Count: 3,170

Notes: Warnings for depictions of blood, violence, murder, and drugging.  

Masterlists: Main • Series • Fic 

Previous Part • Next Part

Chapter 7: The Red Demon

There was a new woman working behind the bar. A tiny thing, with black hair and shining green eyes, light freckles doting her nose. Jeremy could have sworn that he’d seen her before, but he couldn’t place where. Not that it was of much concern; here barmaids tended to come and go.

He kept his eyes trained on the door, forever prepared to sound the alarm should a familiar face obscured by a newsboy cap appear across the threshold. There was almost no one else in the pub aside from their little group of rebels; just two women smoking in the corner and giggling.

“Where’s Jill?” one of his companions, Daniel, asked as the barmaid came to their table, setting their drinks down in front of them each carefully.

“She’s sick. Asked me to cover her shift for her. She’ll be back by next week,” the barmaid’s accent wasn’t from Birmingham, or even London. Again, not a particularly uncommon occurrence; people came from all over the place to Birmingham, often running from something. Still, something tickled in the back of his mind. Some dots that he felt he wasn’t quite connecting, though he felt that he should have.

“Pretty that one is,” commented Alexander, eyes trained on the barmaid as she walked away.

“I prefer Jill,” sulked Daniel.

“Enough of that talk,” ordered Jimmy, lighting a cigarette. “We’re here to talk about ending the Peaky Blinders. You can discuss which woman you'd prefer to get your dick wet on your own time.”

The men grumbled but quieted down. Jeremy took a nervous gulp of his beer. He always hated these meetings. They were too exposed, all together like this. Too easy to corner. And there was something about tonight in particular, some sudden sense of foreboding that made the hairs on his arms stand up in alarm. Something was wrong.

“I’ve gotten another letter from our benefactor in London. The weapons will be delivered no later than the beginning of next week. Once we have them, the real work can begin.”

A murmur of agreement rumbled throughout the group.

“Jeremy?”

He looked up from his beer to Jimmy’s wrinkled face. “Yes, sir?”

“What news do you have for us?”

He took another large gulp of beer. “Nothing much. Mostly it’s been quiet since they killed Xavier,” there were a few mumbles amongst the men. Xavier had been a long time friend to many of them. “There’ve been some rumors, though. That Thomas has got some sort of new assassin working for him,” Jeremy added.

“Another round?” he just about jumped out of his seat as the barmaid appeared suddenly behind him, another tray of filled glasses balanced in her hand. She set them down on the table and sashayed away. Jeremy waited until she was behind the bar before he spoke again.

“They’re saying that’s who killed Xavier.”

“I thought that Thomas killed Xavier.” George questioned from his spot tucked into the far corner of the booth. Jeremy shrugged helplessly.

“We need hard facts, Jeremy, not rumors,” Jimmy said sternly.

“If it’s true, we might need to be more careful–”

“Well, then you better find out if it’s true or not then, shouldn’t you?”

He looked back down into his drink. “Yes, sir,” he downed the rest of the glass and immediately reached for another from the tray the barmaid had set down on the table.

“You hear anything else from our friend in London, Jim?” Alexander asked.

“No.”

“How are we paying this guy again?” Oliver frowned. Jimmy rolled his eyes.

“I told you, Ollie, he’s not asking for money. Just that once we’ve dealt with the Blinders, we ensure that his stolen…property is returned to him. That’s the payment.”

Jeremy flinched and took another deep sip of his beer. He had never liked talking about human beings as if they were objects like that. A hand reached up to rub at his temples. He was starting to feel very, very tired. An unshakable grogginess making his head feel like it was full of stones. Christ, he hoped that he wasn’t coming down with something.   

He didn’t listen to much else of what the other men around him were saying, too busy fighting to keep his eyes open, a headache beginning to pound in his temples. From the corner of his eye, he saw the barmaid moving about–what the fuck was she doing?

“Does anyone else feel weird?” William asked, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. Jeremy blinked, his mind and movements sluggish.

“I-”

The sound of the gunshot was so loud, for a moment Jeremy thought that it had deafened him, hands flying to his ringing ears at the same time that he hurled himself to the ground, trying to get under the table. In front of him, Daniel’s head exploded into a bloody mess.

They all tried to move, some of them to get down under the table or behind chairs for cover, while others tried to return fire. But their movements were slow and unsteady. Two more shots rang out and both George and Gabriel’s bodies crumpled.

Finally, Jimmy managed to pull his gun out and get a shot off, but the barmaid ducked behind the bar. Jeremy was vaguely aware of the women in the far booth screaming, clinging to each other in the chaos. 

For a moment, there was silence.

“What the fuck, what the fuck,” chanted William as he struggled to pull his gun from its holster.

“You two,” hissed Jimmy to Oliver and Samuel, “go around that side of the bar, Jeremy, come with me. We’re going to corner the bitch. The rest of you stay down.”

Gun shaking in his hands and movements still staggering, Jeremy followed Jimmy towards one end of the bar while Oliver and Samuel took the other side. All of them were dangerously unsteady on their feet, the arms clutching their guns trembling and swaying. On the count of three, they rounded the corner, guns pointed at the empty space.

“Where the fuck did she go?”

Slowly, they began to advance behind the bar, guns still raised. Jimmy leaned forward, eyes peering into the darkness of a cavity beneath the bar used to store extra glasses.

She exploded from the cavity in a sudden flurry of movement, like a monster rising from the darkness. There was a violent slash, and a sudden red waterfall burst from Jimmy’s throat, where she had practically severed his head from his body with her blade. In one quick movement, she grasped Jimmy’s body by the waist and spun them, using his torso as a shield as she fired off another round of bullets into Oliver’s head.  

Diving back behind the bar to avoid getting shot, Jeremy only heard as Samuel returned fire, and a quiet yelp from the woman. He peeked his head out just in time to watch her lunge forward with a speed that was utterly inhuman, grabbing Samuel’s wrist and twisting it so that his gun was pointed away from her, a dagger stabbing over and over into his chest. She let Samuel fall with a heavy thump, head snapping around in Jeremy’s direction. For the brief flash of a second that he was able to make out her face before he ducked his head back down behind the bar, Jeremy could have sworn that she was grinning. 

Overturning one of the tables, Jeremy all but cowered behind it, the vision of Jimmy’s head lolling back, held only by a thin sliver of skin, replaying over and over in his mind. Christ, what the hell were they trapped in here with? He had expected that eventually the Blinders would come for them. But he had never expected them to send a fucking demon after them.

It was then that William tried to make a run for the door, only making it a few steps before a knife embedded itself into his back. For a moment, his entire body went rigid, arms halfway up in the air, before falling face first to the floor.

Jeremy clutched his gun tightly to his chest and squeezed his eyes shut. Fuck, he couldn’t think. His movements were too slow. There must have been something in the beer she gave them.

Across the room, huddled together behind another table, he could see Alexander. Nicholas had used William’s attempt at escape to sneak in closer to the bar. Rounding it, he lunged forward, and managed by some miracle to grab the assassin. She snarled, inhuman and spine chilling, twisting in his arms like a snake. Grasping Nicholas’s arm, she forced it upwards so that the shot he fired embedded itself in the ceiling instead of her gut. He grabbed at her hair with his free hand, yanking away the black wig to reveal hair the color of blood, wrenching her head back. Clearly struggling to keep the arm with the gun pointed away from her, the woman–no, demon, he was certain that was what she was–opted instead to sink her teeth into Nicholas’s forearm. He howled.

“One of you idiots fucking shoot her!”

 His shout shook Jeremy into action, rising from his cover and firing. But his aim was off, first shot only managing to smash a few glasses to the right of the demon’s head. He sucked in a deep breath, steadying his next shot, and in the exact moment that he fired, the demon twisted herself and Nicholas so that their positions were flipped. Jeremy’s bullet hit where his mark had been standing a moment ago, bullet coming to lodge in Nicholas’s throat. Nicholas’s grip on the demon slackened, grasping at the hole in his neck. The demon shoved him away from her, pulled a fresh revolver from inside her coat, and shot him in the head.

Scrambling, Jeremy took the brief moment that she was distracted by shooting Nicholas to hurtle himself towards the doors. Maybe, if he was quick enough–

Her shot hit him in the right knee, leg buckling immediately and sending him crashing to the floor, wailing. His gun fell from his sweaty hands in the fall, vision blurring as his head smacked hard against the floor.

He could hear her footsteps, heavy thumps against the floorboards as she walked around the bar. Poor Alexander didn’t stand a chance. The second that he rose from his cover he’d be shot dead. Something that the man seemed to realize. Jeremy still couldn’t see very well, blinking hard in an attempt to rid himself of the blurriness. But he could still hear Alexander’s voice.

“Wait. Please. I surrender. I’m sorry, just wait, please–”

Another gunshot and a wet thump were all that followed the pleas. 

He could hear her footsteps, moving slowly towards him, the sound of the revolver cocking. Palms slipping on the blood seeping over the floor, pushing with his uninjured leg, he began to crawl towards where his gun had slid away from him.

His fingers just brushed over the cool metal when the demon’s foot pressed heavily to his wrist. A hand grasped him by the shoulder, rolling him over onto his back. She kicked the gun further away from him, and knelt down so that they were at eye level, terrible green eyes blinking slowly at him. Blood covered half of her pale face, dark red hair a mess of curls dancing around her chin.

“Tommy said that you should be last,” the demon said finally, voice that had been high and musical now low and rasping. She holstered her gun, pulling from her pocket a switchblade.

“Please,” Jeremy said, widening his eyes, hoping to somehow appeal to her better nature. If that even existed. “Please. Just let me go. I’ll leave town. You’ll never see me again. I’m sorry.”

“He said,” the blade unsheathed with a click. “That we will use you to send a message. You’re going to help us ensure that no one in this town ever even thinks of rebellion ever again,” she cupped his face with one hand, holding his head still even as he tried to wrench it away, the blade approaching his face.

“You’re a demon,” he choked out. She hesitated just a moment, head tilting to the side. 

“Maybe so,” she whispered, and brought the blade to his eyes.

∗ ∗ ∗ 

Once she finished with the eyes, she sliced through Jeremy’s throat like butter, tossing him back to the ground as he gurgled and drowned. One by one, she went to each body sprawled out on the floor, checking to make sure they were really dead, and slicing a horizontal line across their eyes with her blade.

The mark of the Blinders. So there would be no mistake who was responsible for the killings. 

In most of their pockets, she found little more than lint and cigarettes, but tucked into Jimmy’s innermost coat pocket she found a stack of letters, tied together with string, all addressed from London. Their benefactor. She flipped the first one open, and nearly dropped the entire little stack of paper.

No.

Her eyes skimmed over the words scrawled out onto the letter, barely processing them. She did not need to glance at the bottom, where the name of the sender was signed in looping letters. 

She would know her father’s handwriting anywhere.

Swallowing a wave of nausea, she straightened, pocketing the letters. She was barely aware of the whimpering cries of the two women still huddled in the corner of the pub, clinging to each other with their eyes closed. They flinched at the sound of her footsteps towards them, sobbing when Lucy laid her fingers on their cheeks, turning their faces to look at her. 

“You tell people what happened here today,” and then she was moving to the door, halfheartedly wiping at the sticky blood covering her face with her handkerchief as she stepped outside. 

∗ ∗ ∗ 

It was only around the time that she had made her way back to the betting shop did she begin to grow vaguely aware of the throbbing ache in her left bicep. The bullet had only grazed her, thankfully, but the wound still stung. And she was growing more and more certain that she would have bruises blooming across her torso within a day or two. 

Still, she wasn’t dead. That in itself was some kind of success.

“Holy Jesus,” Polly said the second she staggered through the door, jumping from her seat. Lucy only really realized in that moment just how frightening she probably looked; drenched in blood, hair a mess, eyes a touch unfocused. “Tommy!”

“I’m alright,” she mumbled, even as Polly grabbed her shoulders and pushed her into a seat at the kitchen table.

“You’re covered in blood.”

“It’s not mine,” she said at the exact moment that Tommy walked into the kitchen, took one look at her, and went white as a ghost. “At least mostly.”

“Where are you hurt?” Polly asked. Lucy gestured to her arm. The woman set about filling a bucket of water, grabbing rags, a bottle of alcohol from the cabinet, and a kit to stitch her up with. Tommy approached her slowly, cautiously, sinking into the chair beside her while his hand reached out, tracing lightly along her face.

“I got them all,” she told him, nodding urgently. He swallowed hard but nodded. Polly set the bucket full of water on the kitchen table.

“I’ve got it, Pol,” he said. She looked like she wanted to argue, but just glanced between the two of them and nodded, going into the back where the offices were. Tommy dipped the rag into the water, ringing it out before he began to carefully wipe her face. The white rag came away stained bright red.

“You’re alright?”

“Mhm.”

He began to clean the blood away from her arm, before pouring a helping of alcohol over the wound and grabbing the needle and thread Polly had prepared. Head rolling back, she let her eyes slide closed as he silently worked, suddenly exhausted.

“You’ll be getting the shakes soon,” he said. “Once your blood cools down.”

“Fun.”

He tied off the string and wrapped a strip of cloth around the stitches. Moving with her good arm, she reached into her pocket.

“We have another problem,” she tossed the letters onto the table. He picked up the top one, eyes scanning fast across the page. “Lifted them from the leader’s pocket.”

“Victor Winters?” 

“Three guesses who that is,” she bit at her bottom lip. “My guess is he’s still working with Matthew. There’s no other way he could afford to send so many weapons otherwise.”

Tommy set the first letter down and picked up another one. As he read, his hand curled over the one she had resting on the table, warm and reassuring.

“I won’t let them hurt you.”

Taking a deep breath, she let the promise wash over her, wrap around her in a reassuring embrace. “I know,” her head bowed forward. Why couldn’t they just let her go? It was hard for her to imagine that she was worth all of this trouble. Tommy leaned forward, until their foreheads all but bumped into each other. His thumb rubbed along her knuckles.

“You’re going to be okay.”

She nodded, closing her eyes. “Thank you,” she hoped that he knew that she didn’t just mean for his comfort and protection, but for the home and purpose he had also gifted to her. His head turned, a kiss pressing to her temple. Breaths stuttering, her mind whirled at the movement, unable to comprehend much outside of how soft and warm his lips felt against her skin. Her heart felt like it was about to pound free from her chest, and not just from the effect of the adrenaline slowly leaving her veins.

Tommy pulled back, but kept his hand curled around hers, reading carefully through each of the individual letters scattered across the table. The door opened, Arthur walking in, removing his cap and sliding a hand through his hair.

“Hey, Tom,” he greeted, then clapped her on the shoulder. “Good work, Lucy.”

“How do you know what even happened yet?”

“Word’s already out on the streets.”

“Oh.”

He disappeared into the back. Lucy ran a hand through her hair, ruffling at the tangled curls, looking down at her blood stained clothes and sighing.

“I should go back to my flat. Get cleaned up.”

Tommy stood, moving to grab his coat and hat from the hook on the wall. “I’ll walk you home.”

“You don’t have to,” she stood, arms wrapped around herself.

“I’d like to.”

Her shoulders shrugged. It wasn’t like she minded his company. “Okay.”

They said nothing as they winded through the streets towards her apartment building. All around them, she could hear the fragments of conversations, of whispered murmurings and flickering glances shot her way. Words that spoke of Tommy Shelby’s Red Demon, and how she had just slaughtered a room full of men.  

Thank you for reading! Please consider leaving a comment, reblog, or like. I always appreciate feedback and love getting the opportunity to interact with you and hear your thoughts!

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Masterlists: Main • Series • Fic 

#lucy winters #lucy winters x tommy shelby #tommy shelby x oc #tommy shelby #peaky blinders #my ocs #fanfiction #these devilish intentions #my fanfiction

[dreaminghour]

QuiAni Omegaverse - Bath

Event: @domaystic Fandom: Star Wars Rating: Teen and Up Prompt: 10 Bath Ship: Qui-Gon/Anakin Context: Omegaverse. Qui-Gon Lives. Canon setting where alpha (aurek) and omega (orenth) are very rare, Anakin finds out that he and Qui-Gon complement one another perfectly when he goes through a second puberty in his early 20s. They've been together for a few months at this point. This is a sequel to the Stained clothes ficlet. (500 words) Words: 673

When Qui-Gon woke, the apartment felt different. Things had been changing over the last few months, more and more with each small piece which Anakin left behind, but there was something indelible when the young man himself was there.

He'd been alright without Anakin, he'd never needed help during his heat before, but he'd undeniably slept better once Anakin had settled by his side. Even now, in an empty bed, he felt better than he had in days; it could have just been that his cycle was ending — even with the pills it was so irregular he wouldn't know until it happened — but instinctively he thought it was Anakin's presence.

The bed smelled like them again, that mix of sugar and spice, of musk and floral. Qui-Gon rolled over to watch the light under the bathroom door, wondering in that vague way what time it was, it felt too early. Time always felt intangible during his heat.

When the light switched off, and Anakin returned, Qui-Gon immediately knew the last campaign had been a bad one. Anakin had won, of course. Qui-Gon could count on one hand the times Anakin had lost, but the toll each battle took was noticeable. He looked tired despite the hours of sleep which lay behind him. Even in the dark, Qui-Gon could see the shadows which clung to Anakin like smokey ichor.

"You're awake?" Anakin asked in a sleep rough voice. He didn't wait for the answer, merely fell into Qui-Gon's arms and snuggled under the blankets once more. His voice was muffled, face pressed against Qui-Gon's neck, "I could sleep for for years."

And almost like a promise, he fell asleep a few moments later.

When Qui-Gon awoke again, it felt like morning rather than the middle of the night. Anakin was curled up on his side, holding Qui-Gon's hand loosely to his chest. In the muted morning light, he looked older than his years, there were lines on his face that Qui-Gon hadn't seen even a ten-day ago. Or maybe it was something else that made Qui-Gon miss the way the war aged Anakin one day and recognize it on another. He pushed flat curls away from the younger man's face and saw the minute way it seemed to relax his entire body.

"I need my hand back, please," Qui-Gon whispered.

Nothing happened, but Qui-Gon gently extracted himself from Anakin's grasp and went to the toilet. On the threshold of coming back out, of turning on the lights and starting the day, Qui-Gon paused.

Anakin hadn't taken off all his clothes before climbing into bed, but even through the fabric the curve of his back seemed tense.

Qui-Gon went back into the bathroom and turned on the tab to fill the tub with hot water.

Five minutes later he was gently shaking Anakin awake.

"I'm going to take a bath," he said as Anakin blearily blinked his eyes. "Would you like to join me?"

Anakin soaped off in the shower stall first, scrubbing his hair for dear life while Qui-Gon settled into the large tub. He didn't use it as often as he would like, but most often when he was sore and aching during his cycle. Anakin had remarked that the tub seemed entirely too massive — until he'd climbed in after Qui-Gon the first time. It was big enough for both of them, especially if Anakin sat between Qui-Gon's thighs.

Qui-Gon held up a hand to steady Anakin as he stepped into the hot water, shivering because he was wet from the shower, still seeming barely awake.

They settled in close, Anakin laying back against Qui-Gon, the other's arms wrapped around him to keep him from slipping under. If Anakin continued to doze, neither of them remarked on it.

Qui-Gon just luxuriated in the moment, with Anakin's body pressed against him, the soft sound of his breathing, the scent of fresh soap in his hair… He'd never expected to find someone like Anakin, but now that he did he'd never willingly let him go.

#quiani #quiani omegaverse au #dreamy does fic #domaystic2023 #2023day10 #star wars #star wars fic #omegaverse fic #dreamy does domaystic #domestic fic #domestic fluff #ficlet

[brightgnosis]

Constantly feeling like the weird one out because, with incredibly limited exception, you just don't consume modern media produced in the last ~decade or so ... Not because of moral objections or a superiority complex, anything stupid like that, but because you just don't consume much media at all to begin with. And when you do consume it, what you tend to enjoy consuming typically just doesn't often align with modern media production for various reasons.

Or, at bare minimum, when you do consume modern media you don't follow trends; you don't care what dictates "popular" media at the moment, and tend to exist largely unaware of what the current trends even are at the moment.

There's exceptions, of course; there are always exceptions to every rule and situation. But comparative to the rest of people your age range? Those exceptions can be easily considered "rare" for you by contrast, right. Which leads to repeatedly and increasingly more annoying conversations where someone expects you to know what piece of media (a book, show, game, etc) they're talking about ... And then gets really weird about it when you don't.

And because you don't know it, you also don't understand any of the jokes, references, etc, that they're making to the media, which makes you an outsider to the conversation- which just winds up being awkward ... Then add in the fact that you literally just don't understand the single-minded obsessiveness of fandom culture, and actually thoroughly hate it- and it resulting in you having a really low tolerance threshold for even listening to most people prattle on about most forms of media on top of it?

It's just a topic that's off the table with me a lot of the time, ok ... I am just not a fiction or fandom girlie, and people are going to have to learn to deal with that.

#Things Go Boom #My Eyes Do See #Depiction Is Not glorification #Oklahoma #Personal #2023

[who-is-page]

🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥 Plural community, nonhuman community, Dark Souls, Mass Effect, and fandom in general! Go!

Plural Community

The plural community, everything in it aside, is already a fairly difficult space to access if you haven't been introduced to the idea of multiplicity or plurality before-- if you (like we did, and like I imagine many people do) think for an extended period of time that you're alone in the world as some type of many-people-one-body freak, suddenly being exposed to the idea that you're actually not alone in these life-defining experiences can be fucking terrifying. When you combine that with the inherent cruelty that is system medicalist rhetoric, you make the plural community functionally accessible for an incredibly large amount of people. I don't think many people understand the long-reaching effects that sysmed rhetoric has on multiplicity and plurality as its own definitive subculture; sysmeds aren't just traumatizing non-sysmed plurals who disagree with their (anti-science) standpoints, they're also inherently taking away valuable resources from those who need them most: young, vulnerable plurals and people who are only just discovering their plurality and looking for answers.

Nonhuman Community

There is no singular "nonhuman community," in all honesty, so this is difficult to have an unpopular opinion on. There's many small nonhuman communities, some of which like to scream and wail that they're the ~most valid~ when in reality the idea of outsider-oriented validity is a fucking scam and they need to get over themselves. I will say that I disagree with the way some nonhuman communities like to pretend that there's no missing stairs in their local groups, and that I find the idea of there being a threshold of morality connected to nonhumanity to be not only functionally redundant, but also fucking stupid. If someone experiences instincts or urges or feelings connected to their identity, or they identify as a creature or animal often villainized, that doesn't actually mean anything about them as a person and about their moral compass. It's our actions that make us who we are, not parts of our identity that are beyond our control. ...Which circles back around to why ignoring missing stairs, or worse justifying them through the existence of their identity and instinct, is a functionally terrible practice that people should feel ashamed for supporting.

Dark Souls

People who don't bow before they PvP, and people who drink estus during PvP, are fucking maidenless and should go back to Neopets. They can have their rules-less gods-abandoned wasteland there, instead.

Mass Effect

Fem!shep should be considered the canon Shepard, Mass Effect 3 has one of the best DLCs out there with its Citadel DLC, and the Mako IS better than the Hammerhead and I will die on this hill. Mass Effect also has one of the most welcoming fictionkin communities I've ever had the pleasure to be a part of, and Shepard doubles are literally the best fucking people ever to vibe with. I'm also pretty sure the ME fictionkin community is 90% Shepards because all of us die horrible deaths, but I don't know if that's necessarily an unpopular opinion.

Fandom

Super unpopular opinion, but. If someone writes WW fanfiction or WW fanart, especially if they vocally and loudly shit on JKR's work and in no way monetarily support her, then I think that's fine. I feel like it's possible to be openly critical of an author's work and to even help work towards dismantling a piece of media's monetary foothold, while still enjoying fan-made content; these things are not mutually exclusive, and I actually feel like may even put someone who's criticizing it in a better place, because they can even more thoroughly dismantle the media bit by bit.

#Unpopular opinion ask meme

[hardpacker]

when people with an impassioned call for death in their bios follow me, i don't know What the fuck to feel. like why are you advertising this... this... pro/anti whatever... i know it's reactionary but is this politics to you and if so how? do you think these insular words mean something to me and if so why? i try to be understanding because these are largely fandom terms and if fandom is important to them then... yeah. i'm not there though. i don't use this terminology for my work, where it comes from, what it's for.

having been a teen and now being in my 30s i don't think the ability to dream up dark and edgy sex is an objective sign of maturity/superiority either, and i say that as someone who gets a lot out of writing bad and mean shit. the id's inexplicable drive to ship is beautiful but not automatically interesting to me as A Personality, nvm the content. looking around at 30-40+yos be like "back in my day" is like... at a certain point in arguing with children you cross a threshold and become the fool. but, i also recognise that having it out over this makes Me very uncomfortable (being forced to defend myself against a bunch of trigger-happy little weirdos, i mean) and it might be pretty easy for other people.

regardless, i end up on the side of "trans/queer adults whose work gets shut down for running counter to the mainstream auto-generated hays code schlock" by default.

stories are stories, not ikea manuals. we know this, especially if you're into like blood and gore and war and girl boss murderers or something— the righteousness that's superimposed on these things is personal, not universal, it's often conservative, and denying that other concepts can't be a sandbox, like sex in any form, pleasure or horror, can't be sanctioned like how death is sanctioned... idk. i just dk. i really think people trick themselves or are desperate to be tricked into settling for less, for the simplest most bugbrained surface-level milquetoast shit because it's just easier. safer. don't think so hard about impulse, attraction, obsession, don't let it change you into that which is much safer to vilify.

it's just like— do you think that when i call myself a "transsexual leather faggot and pervert" that i'm JOKING? your attachment to Concepts and Ideas might be shallow and tenuous but i actually want you to treat me with the seriousness and respect that i deserve. why on god are you automatically trusting my art and stories to be safe for you? or is following me a guilty secret that only you and i know about.

[hua-fei-hua]

SIX SENTENCE SUNDAY BC I SWAER ILL FORGET WHEN I WAKE JP(bc it’s technically morning as i semd this)(5 am c: ) also howd ur move go ?? ♪(*^^)o∀*∀o(^^*)♪

asfhasd i get timestamps on my inbox thanks to ~*xkit*~ so yes i know it was five a.m. when you sent this

also AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

ONE OF MY ROOMMATES WAS IN CHARGE OF TURNING ON THE ELECTRICITY RIGHT? SO THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN BEFORE WE MOVED IN, JUL 31, AND SO SHE CALLED IT A FEW DAYS BEFORE THAT, AND IT TURNS OUT THEY DON’T TURN ON ELECTRICITY ON THE WEEKENDS, BUT HER MOM SAID “DON’T DO IT ON THE 31ST I DON’T WANNA HAVE TO PAY A BILL FOR ONE DAY” AND SO I WAS LIKE “AIGHT I’LL JUST LIVE THERE FOR TWO DAYS W/O ELECTRICITY”

AND THEN. I REALIZED. I WOULD NOT BE ABLE TO EAT WITHOUT ELECTRICITY. BECAUSE ALL THE FOOD WOULD GO BAD IN THE FRIDGE AND THE MICROWAVE WOULDN’T WORK. SO WE MOVED THE MOVE-IN DAY TO MONDAY

BUT THEN YESTERDAY, WHEN THAT ROOMMATE MOVED SOME STUFF INTO THE APARTMENT (SINCE WE’VE BASICALLY STAGGERED OUR MOVE-IN DAYS FOR VARIOUS REASONS, SHE’S MOVING IN FOR REALSIES ON THE 15TH), SHE WAS TOLD THE OFFICE IS GONNA BE CLOSED ON MONDAY, SO NOW I MOVE IN ON TUESDAY. 

*clears throat* six sentence sunday!!!! i haven’t written much this week it doesn’t feel like, so uhhhh here’s smth from rhythm 9:

Katsuki walked back to the band room with Hairbrain and his gaggle of losers once rehearsals were over, as per the contract. Not that his company was purely contractual at this point still— they were, after all, as Hairbrain so often liked to put it, real friends now— but… you know what, whatever. It was what it was, and what it was was mostly just Katsuki letting them all talk his half-listening ears off about whatever the fuck they pleased, and he grunted whenever he felt it was necessary. But there was something different about the band room that was impossible to miss, even in the fraction of a second before they actually entered.

Six Sentences Exactly :)

#asks #i called the internet company yesterday to get the wifi in my name but it seems they loaded me up with a bunch of other shit we don't need #gonna have to call them again aaaaa #hope your birthday went well!!!!! i've been meaning to write you smth for months but Could Not Get It To Work :C #that's part of why i wanted to sing happy birthday on stream so i could do that as i was posting it to ao3 n stuff #the first idea just kept not turning out that great and so i brainstormed another one w/a friend that i could write in about 24 hours but t #and by smth else came up i mean i learned that flip flappers was getting taken off crunchyroll #so the friend i'm leeching crunchyroll from and i went on a mission to screen record the whole show-- him w/subs me w/o for giffing reasons #and i meant to write while recording but i just kept getting drawn into the visuals anyway. flip flap is such a pretty showww #and then i started reading lj posts from 2005 harry potter fandom #it turns out all my meta-opinions on the bnha fandom have been had already and that most of my conclusions are correct #that in a fandom as large as this in a fandom that's often a threshold fandom churning out massive amounts of content daily #it's not enough to just be a good writer to get popular; you have to be noisy too. you have to participate in fandom events all the time #and likewise popular ships will get more popular bc that's what newbies will see walking in #the amount of fanfic for bnha has quadrupled in the last two years #And Not To Be Bitter Or Anything but taking that 2019 hiatus means i missed a critical point in fandom growth to become recognized #especially since that was also when the heft of fandom migration to twitter happened #man the stream on friday was actually kind of wild. it went on until 4 a.m. by my time lol #you missed the dick burner darron story but it's okay i'll just tell it again next week to people who weren't there to hear it #there were seven different people hopping in and out of the stream over the course of the night that's just wild #also we can do the chapter number game too i think it's btwn 19 n 73 rn #anyway i'm probs not gonna have internet wednesday/thursday as we get the router set up but i do have my mobile data so i'm not uncontact-a #also how are you feeling abt this previewwwww CCC: #stardust-make-a-wish

[anncanta]

Parzival. Chapter 2

Fandom: Dracula (2020)

Characters: Count Dracula, Agatha Van Helsing, Bloxham

Relationship: Dracula/Agatha Van Helsing

Rating: Mature

@alma37 @hopipollahorror @ravenathantum @flutteringphalanges @ladyhaley28​ @dragatha​

Chapter 1 is here.

Read on AO3

Or read below

Chapter 2. The raven

‘I didn’t know Jonathan much, but I’m sure he would never approve of what is happening here.’ Agatha reached for a cup of tea and took a long sip.

‘In this world, terrible things are often done in memory or in the name of those who would never approve of this,’ said Dracula. ‘Deal with it, Agatha.’ He stretched. ‘By the way, I figured out the surveillance cameras.’

Agatha nodded absently. Her thoughts slipped away, now circling around one and the same, jumping from one to another. Too many strange things. Too many unclear. Too many events, she thought.

Putting her cup down, Agatha shivered. It was pretty cool in her new ‘chambers’, as Dracula called them. ‘The center has enough money for donors and mercenaries, but not enough money to establish a heating system,’ Dracula chuckled when she complained about this to him. In fairness, Agatha should admit, however, that she had no need for anything else.

The rooms in which she was accommodated were comfortable and spacious, she was brought several changes of clothes, modern films, and books – paper, ordinary books: endless electronic scrolls in thin tablets annoyed her. Visitors were not allowed to Agatha – and there was no one to come. Only the doctor communicated with her, twice a week after lunch he came to examine her and ask how she was feeling, Bloxham, who spoke about the center and its research, – and Dracula.

About two months have passed since their first meeting in the center. On that day, Agatha was sure that she was finished. He somehow reached an agreement with the management of the foundation and is going to complete the conversion process. Agatha was not interested in what he promised them. Maybe he controlled them all. On Demeter he acted, convincing and seducing, but not that he was particularly successful. He had to take into account the mistakes. If the staff of the center is nothing more than his obedient servants...

Returning in her memory to what happened next, Agatha felt awkwardness begin to stir inside.

‘You once again amazed me,’ Dracula reassured her after. ‘To launch a metal chair at the enemy and threaten to pierce your throat with a blunt fork…’ He threw up his hands in silent admiration, smiling at the desperately reddened Agatha.

Her memories of what had happened were sketchy – Bloxham's frightened screams, the crashing of the door, black guards filling the room, and Dracula stepping forward and instantly separating them all from her.

‘You will be fine, Agatha. Nobody will touch you here,’ he said, wrapping his arms around her and looking her straight in the eyes. ‘Nobody, including me. I promise. Do you hear me?’

Agatha nodded and passed out.

Their next meeting took place in her new rooms.

‘How can I trust you?’ was the first thing she asked him, as soon as Dracula crossed the threshold. He did not answer, walked through the semblance of a hall into a large living room, and silently sat down on the sofa.

‘No way,’ he said, looking at Agatha who followed him and stopped at the sofa. ‘So let's get down to business. Why do you think you can believe them?’

After a moment's hesitation, Agatha sat down next to him.

‘I can't,’ she agreed. ‘Now,’ she wanted to add, but she said nothing. ‘However, they at least did not try to drink my blood.’

Dracula laughed, but his laugh was unusually sad.

‘That's right,’ he said. ‘I suppose they have more ambitious plans for you.’

In the next twenty minutes, Agatha learned that Mina Murray, whom she had saved from death, and Agatha's own brother, who had previously traded silk and spices in Amsterdam, set up the Jonathan Harker Foundation in 1898. For the first few years, the only purpose and content of the organization's work was the search for Dracula and creatures like him.

‘We must give them their due – they tracked the accounts and money, learned everything there was to know about the funds of Mr. Balaur and his shell companies. They found out what his plans were, and eventually went to Demeter. After that, the investigation slowed down,’ said Dracula. ‘Months passed, turning into years, the foundation required cash injections, effort and time, and as a result, your brother, leaving to manage his part of the assets of his eldest son, went to America. A year later, Mina died of severe influenza. The foundation remained in the hands of the Van Helsings – and they experienced enough financial difficulties and, as far as I understood, had little interest in vampires. The grandfather of your recently deceased grandniece Zoe Van Helsing, who was the last member of the family – the director of the foundation, Arnold Van Helsing, decided to turn it into a medical center. Of course, with some ‘peculiarities’ – otherwise, according to Mina's will, the Helsings lost their right of ownership. The foundation performed well during several large epidemics, but in general, didn't do any great scientific discoveries and existed on the basis of separate large donations. Until recently.’

Dracula fell silent. Agatha rubbed her forehead thoughtfully.

‘Did you learn all this from Bloxham?’ She asked doubtfully.

‘Of course not. From my lawyer Francis Renfield,’ Dracula replied.

‘You have a lawyer,’ Agatha said slowly.

‘Since one thousand eight hundred and ninety-six. Do not be distracted. Two weeks ago, he started a lawsuit to get us out of here. But that will take time. So I –’

‘To get us out?’

‘Agatha, focus,’ said Dracula. He looked very serious. ‘If you want to know my opinion, it’s completely pointless to act by legal means in the case of organizations like the Harker Foundation, but it’s fine as a distraction. In addition, lawyers have connections and access to secret databases. Information is worth more than gold in this century.’ He shook his head.

Now Agatha was listening intently.

‘Renfield was able to confirm,’ continued Dracula, ‘what I suspected without him as soon as I was here.’ He frowned, seeing that Agatha did not understand. ‘Mercenaries. You were led through corridors and rooms, you saw them,’ he said impatiently. ‘Large men in military uniform, with weapons. And they didn't show up here yesterday,’ he added, anticipating her objection. ‘Not because they need to guard us. Frank got out the documents – the center has been using the services of military units since two thousand and eighteenth, I saw contracts and bills.

Agatha was silent – obviously, he hadn't finished.

‘Agatha, I don’t need bills to recognize the mercenaries,’ Dracula said. ‘I am a four hundred year warlord. I can determine immediately what they can do, how they attack, and how to neutralize them. This is not the point. The point is that people who hire private armies are extremely rarely interested in medicine – and even vampires.’

‘What does it mean?’ Agatha whispered.

Dracula shrugged.

‘That someone is behind the renewed Harker's foundation. Someone powerful and with almost unlimited financial resources. Whose support is not advertised – which is possible for two reasons: either this person is outside the law, or does not want to reveal him- or herself.’

‘Or both,’ Agatha said, leaning forward and biting her lip with impatience. ‘But how do we know?’

Dracula smiled, and she immediately blushed: entirely absorbed in the story he told, she completely forgot about her own distrust of him. Leaning back on the couch, she gave Dracula a quick glance.

‘With blood,’ Dracula replied.

Agatha went cold.

‘You will not –’

‘I don’t need it,’ he snapped. ‘Agatha, please, temper your rescue habits for a while,’ he added irritably. ‘Have you seen Bloxham's hand?’

So Agatha learned that during the operation to remove the box with her and Dracula from under the water, Kate Bloxham lost her finger, and with it – the access codes to all the electronic systems of the center.

‘I didn’t disable the security cameras in your rooms and mine – that would be suspicious,’ Dracula said. ‘When I have a free minute, I will reconfigure them so that they transmit the picture we need to the security base. So far I got Bloxham to turn off the sound in cameras. I insisted that if we were not listened to, I would be able to create a more trusting relationship with you and convince you to cooperate,’ he smiled broadly.

They looked at each other in silence for a few moments.

‘Why do they need me?’ finally asked Agatha, already knowing the answer.

‘They need you for the same thing they need me for,’ said Dracula. ‘They want to study the transformation process – and repeat it, probably. Bloxham – like everyone else with whom I had to communicate in the center – was quite kind to me from the very beginning. She emphasizes in every possible way that they are interested in cooperation – I think, they believe that I know the secret of full conversion. Therefore, they try to manipulate me, hoping that I, in turn, will manipulate you for them, and in the end, I will make you like me. Should I list why it might be needed?’

Agatha just shook her head mutely.

‘Is that why you promised not to touch me?’ she got up and went to the table.

‘No, not only because of that,’ was heard behind her. ‘Agatha,’ he called softly after a second. ‘Agatha, look at me.’

She turned around.

Dracula stood opposite her, staring intently and a little uneasily.

‘I had time to think about what happened on the Demeter,’ he said after a pause. ‘In the beginning, I didn't have much to do,’ he smiled shortly. ‘They kept me in a room similar to the one where they kept you, didn’t really explain anything, and didn’t say what happened to you. I lay on the bed, looked at the ceiling, and remembered.’ He chuckled. ‘Oddly enough, not you, but Jonathan. I was thinking about what would have been if he had agreed to go with me.’

In the silence that followed, Agatha heard popcorn crunching from afar. Damn security chief, she thought.

‘I thought about what Jonathan would say if, like you, he found himself... halfway there,’ Dracula continued. ‘Amphibians are rare – in four hundred years I have seen only three of them. There is no easy way out of this situation,’ he said. ‘You can complete the process and keep your sanity, guaranteed to turn into a vampire. You can kill yourself and most likely wake up undead. So, most likely, it would have come to the same thing as it ended in the monastery.’

Agatha was silent.

‘I'm tired of being alone, Agatha,’ Dracula said, bowing his head. ‘But I'm also tired of being hated and cursed. It’s weary over hundreds of years, believe it or not.’ She smiled. ‘Therefore, I give you my word that I will not convert you.’ He held out his hand. ‘Agreed?’

‘Agreed,’ Agatha said carefully, taking his big hand. She tried not to think about how long she would be able to live as an amphibian and what this would lead to. Now they had more urgent matters.

‘When can you find out who finances the foundation?’ She asked.

***

A few days after Dracula told Agatha about his suspicions about the source of funds for the center, she met Renfield. During a short Skype session, the somewhat shabby-looking, but quite confident lawyer announced to Dracula that the hearing in the case against the Harker Foundation would take place in three months, and the chances of winning were very high. Agatha doubted that Dracula would wait so long, and she herself was not ready to just sit back. She could not escape the glances that Bloxham, who still regularly appeared in her rooms, was throwing at her, and Agatha guessed from the ever-increasing impatience hanging in the air that whoever was behind all this did not like to wait either.

‘He hurries them, Dracula,’ when they once again sat in her rooms, Agatha with a paper book and a cup of tea, and Dracula – with a package of documents from Renfield and the archives of the foundation's library on a tablet, she said. ‘He needs results. I think at first they hoped,’ Agatha swallowed, ‘that everything would be resolved by itself. That yours… yours… well, whatever it is in my blood will be enough for me to become a vampire without your participation. So that I would just… I don’t know, just ripe.’

‘Like a butterfly in a cocoon?’ Dracula raised an eyebrow. ‘I always knew that you were a romantic at heart.’

‘Stop it,’ Agatha said angrily. ‘You know what I mean. However, time passes,’ she continued, ‘and I remain a human. In any case, today I am no closer to the essence of a vampire than I was two weeks ago.’

Dracula nodded, flipping through the files on the tablet screen.

‘So far, they haven’t put pressure on me,’ he said absently. ‘But they will probably start soon.’

Agatha took a sip of her tea. There was one thought that haunted her for a long time.

‘Who at this time may need to create with great difficulty and risk something that you can just buy?’ She said unexpectedly.

‘What do you mean?’ Dracula distracted from the close-fitting text on the tablet.

‘I mean,’ Agatha hesitated. ‘Well, imagine. You need a strong army – invincible, ideally. An army of powerful fighters obedient to you.’

‘Music for my ears,’ Dracula grinned.

Agatha shot him a displeased look.

‘Why waste time and effort, huge money – not only on the process itself, but also on bribery, and possibly on the elimination of unnecessary witnesses, if it is enough to collect several hundred formations similar to those that are already working here?’

Dracula tilted his head.

‘It makes sense,’ he said slowly.

‘So,’ Agatha continued, inspired by his answer, ‘it's not about strength and power. And not about quantity. The point is different.’

Turning away from her, Dracula gazed silently into space for a while.

‘I already thought about it. War – fair enough – has a reputation as a seizure wench, but military thought is primarily rationality. The winner is not the one with the larger army. The one who is smarter wins.’

Agatha remembered how she had read in some old book about Dracula's campaign with three or four loyal warriors to the Turkish camp.

‘They have machines now, Dracula. Big, complex machines,’ Agatha said. ‘Fighting is easier now than in the days of Vlad Tepes.’

Dracula shuddered.

‘What did you say?’

‘I said that fighting is easier now –’

‘No, before that. You mentioned the name of Vlad Tepes.’

Agatha shrugged.

‘Isn't that your nickname? That is what the Hungarians called you.’

‘Exactly. Hungarians. Or rather, no, not really.’ Dracula again lowered his eyes to the tablet and began to quickly turn the pages. ‘And I kept thinking, what am I missing... In order to want the army that you described, you need to be neither a military man nor a strategist,’ looking through documents and folders, he said, ‘this is not an effective army. In battle, it would be no better than the trained professional landsknechts – whatever they are called now. Such an army would be wanted only by –’

‘The crazy one,’ Agatha finished for him, and then Dracula stopped rummaging through his tablet and began to read.

After a couple of minutes, he leaned back on the couch and licked his lips.

‘This is it. I found it.’

‘What did you find?’ Agatha leaned over to him. Dracula looked alarmed and somehow feverishly agitated.

Without answering, he pointed to the screen.

‘What is there?’ Agatha asked cautiously.

‘Our answers.’

Agatha waited patiently.

Dracula turned to her.

‘Agatha, this is Matthias Hunyadi's archive.’

‘Hungarian king?’

He nodded.

‘Did Renfield send it to you? Or is it kept in the center's library? Why do they need Hunyadi's archive?’ Agatha was surprised. ‘Was he involved…’ She frowned. ‘He lived for three hundred years before the foundation was created.’

‘Four hundred,’ Dracula said. ‘He is my contemporary. You must remember him – the chronicles mention him very often. He is now a national hero.’

‘You, too, are now a national hero.’

Dracula waved it off.

‘Hunyadi was a cunning politician and a very successful traitor. His nickname, the Raven,’ he pointed to the screen, ‘more than suited him.’ Dracula leaned back on the sofa, squinting. ‘But Matthias was never interested in vampires or the supernatural in general. I don't think he believed in anything other than his wallet. In large alterations, he was always covered by others. In his style, it was to hide behind the cassock of the Pope or ask for help from…’ Frozen in mid-sentence, Dracula turned so pale that his face became milky white against the background of a gray wall. Without looking at the alarmed Agatha, he straightened and began to leaf through the document on the screen.

‘Dracula, what's going on?’ Agatha asked. ‘What did you find?’ Without knowing why she suddenly lowered her voice. ‘To whom could Hunyadi go?’

‘I'm not sure,’ Dracula replied evenly. He turned to Agatha and looked at her. ‘But if this is who I think, then may your God help us all.’

#dracula bbc #bbc dracula #count dracula #agatha van helsing #dragatha #fanfic

[scrawnytreedemon]

Neurodivergency, and Sephiroth

Right, I’m going to see if I can try and explain why this reading appeals to me.

For some background, I’ve watched a full silent LP of the OG, watched Advent Children, and am largely familiar with his characterisation in Crisis Core(though it gets a bit patchy in some areas). I am not familiar with his characterisation in KH, Dissida, or any other spinoff appearances.

I’m going to be looking at this with an autistic lens, as, hey, I’m autistic, however much of these patterns aren’t exclusive to autistic people by any means and thus are fairly applicable to other labels.

This is an explanaition on why I find this element worth considering, and while I hope that others can relate or take away something from this, in many ways it is highly personal and not intended to be a decleration on Sephiroth’s ‘true nature,’ as it were. I’m not claiming that this was intended by the writers-- Infact, I’d be very surprised if they considered it, at all --As many of the traits he exhibits could be brushed aside as due to his upbringing.

That being said, let’s get into it!

1. Alienation

A common thread in neurodivergency, autism in particular, is some form of alienation. This doesn’t necessarily mean being outcast-- I, for one, have been largely accepted by those around me, and yet there is still that sense of being ‘other‘ that’s always been there, long before I even had a word for it.

Now, of course, in Sephiroth this is more related to his lineage, and how it’s expressed in... well, everything. Even still, I find value in expanding that, and considering just how getting the sense you’re implicitly divided from your peers.

There is, of course, the matter of Sephiroth’s literal isolation-- However, as fun as those scenarios are to play around with, I don’t think Sephiroth was raised wholly, or even mostly in the labs. The reason being that it would be nigh impossible to have hid just what made Sephiroth different, especially knowing how observant he is. It’s clear that Sephiroth had had extensive contact with other children, as epitomised by the line:

“I knew ever since I was a child, I was not like the others. I knew mine was a special existence. But this is not what I meant!” 

Sephiroth was painfully aware that he is different, even if he didn’t know exactly how. It is at once an oddly thrilling, and lonely sensation. Thrilling, because-- Hey! --You can do and see things others can’t and/or wouldn’t; and lonely, because it makes it hard to relate to others or have them relate to you.

2. Socialisation

I would like to start off by saying that, while I find it a tad more faithful and endlessly less grating than Sex God Sephiroth, Sephiroth is not a complete and utter social failure. While it’s clear he has difficulty articulating emotions and understanding others, it’s very clear even still that he knows how the game works, and knows how to play it.

This is going to dip far more into speculation territory, so buckle up.

A thing that, perhaps, I don’t see talked about often enough online when it comes to neurodivergent experiences, is that many things that are considered ‘normal‘ get experienced as systems that we need to actively learn and maneuver-- Socialisation especially!

Now, of course there is always some degree of social interaction being a give and take, a step forth and step back, regardless of neurotype, but it’s dialed up far more when you deviate from ‘the norm.‘

If I can give my own example, a thing I struggled with when I was little was humour! Not because I didn’t find things funny, or didn’t know what it was, but because I had issues grasping at the machinations of what made something funny. This lead to alot of nonsensical jokes that left my siblings confounded, until I picked up a joke-book, and started analysing from there. It was mostly alot of puns, which! Due to their simple structure, are a great way to learn the basics! I didn’t even know this was unusual, until my mother pointed it out to me years later.

And that method goes for alot of things.

Sephiroth, above all else, is observant. He makes efforts multiple times throughout the OG and Crisis Core to check up on others and ask how they’re doing. He asks Cloud how he feels returning to his hometown, and about seeing his mother, and urges Zack to check up on Aerith in Crisis Core, to name some notable examples. Even if you get the sense that his attempts are, perhaps, a little ungainly, it makes it clear more than anything that Sephiroth tries.

I think the reason that people have leaned alot more into the overly-awkward perception of Sephiroth in recent times, is because it humanises him. I feel there’s been far more of a shift within fandom to focus on the mundane, on relatability, on humanity. A veneer of endless, effortless confidence really isn’t that sexy anymore-- When sexual-appeal even comes into the matter, at all.

That being said, this section more than anything, I think, is very easy to brush aside due to his... interesting upbringing. Depending on how you construe the timeline, Sephiroth got sent to war as early as twelve, and wouldn’t have had much of an oppurtnity to develop these skills in a healthy and timely manner.

Even without that, a degree of social awkwardness is far from exclusive to any particular neurotype-- It’s the way it arises in him, though, that piques my interest.

3. Analysis and Obsession

This... I think, is the one where I’ll be grasping at straws the most.

While, yes, the obsessive research demonstrated in the OG during the Nibelheim incident and even before that to a lesser extent in Crisis Core could be some indication of a degree to absolutely immerse yourself in a subject in that Very Autistic WayTM, more than anything these are brought on by dire circumstance(the former especially by the question of his very humanity), and as we don’t see Sephiroth as a child, it’s uncertain as to whether he displayed these behaviours as such and to this degree under ‘normal‘ circumstances.

Even so, I get the feeling that Sephiroth is very analytically-minded, in a very Stranger In A Strange World sort of way(not in any way referring to the 1961 novel by a similar name, lmao). I get the feeling he’s the type of person to pick up some highly-esoteric text just for fun and come away with a menagerie of strange and unusual and obscenely specific factoids that he’ll remember for the rest of his life.

Like, someone might mention a topic offhandedly, and though he’d keep his mouth shut because He’s Like ThatTM, a slew of all the little bits and pieces he’s seen or read on the matter over the years would just jump to mind.

What I’m trying to say is, I think Sephiroth would take joy in painstakingly pouring and mulling over topics that not many people would have the consideration nor the mind to hold any long-term, inimate interest in.

If the last point was easily brushed aside, then this one you’d merely have to breathe and it’d fall apart. Nonetheless, I feel that within fandom’s current common framework with how we perceive Sephiroth, this wouldn’t be too much of a stretch.

I, however, want to make it clear that I can see the issue with labelling Sephiroth as neurodivergent. He could all too easily fall into the cliché of cold, emotionally and socially-inept, often rather callous depictions we see all too often in the heavily-neurotypical media that sees us as Missing Something; less than. Things have gotten better, but even still, there’s such a tendency to flatten us down to the things we can’t do, or lawd as us Potential Einsteins in spite of it-- Which, just, while it happens, on the whole it isn’t very helpful or realistic to expect this from us.

We are by no means a monolith, and while I take comfort in the idea of a neurodivergent Sephiroth, I understand that for some, it can feel like taking on a label to a character that vaguely fits the stereotype, and thus, perhaps, insinuating that to be autistic you have to look Like That-- And when it comes to villains in particular, it’s all too easy to dip into demonisation.

This isn’t even getting onto some of the issues that’d have this fall apart, were we to look at other symptoms. The first that comes to mind, and one that even I, as innocuous as I am, experience: sensory overload.

While it is entirely possible that Sephiroth learned to deal with it accordingly in life, or was forced to surpress it, because Shinra’s Science Department(cough cough Hojo) has been shown time and time again to force its subjects into little boxes and blame them for any failures expressed, the fact is that such a symptom could make fighting on the battlefield downright impossible.

Again, this is something that could’ve been given a ‘solution‘(as much as you can or even should think about long-term surpressing your basic thresholds), it nonetheless remains an issue.

I just hope that, on the whole, this served as some food for thought.

TL;DR: Sephiroth is autistic because I Vibe With It.

Also, happy Disability Pride!

#ffvii #sephiroth #character analysis #theory #scrawny speaks #ff7 #autism #neurodivergency #scrawny draws

[twiceasfrustrating]

Absolutely Nothing

I said I wouldn't post my new fic until after SWBQ is done, but I want to begin posting it before S4 drops. It won't update consistently atm, but it's there... I will only be posting the first two chapters to Tumblr. Everything else is going on AO3 because Tumblr is not longfic friendly.

Rating: Teen and Up

Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Category: Gen

Fandom: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!

Characters: Main Character, Lucifer, Mammon, Leviathan, Satan, Asmodeus, Beelzebub, Belphegor, Diavolo, Barbatos, Simeon, Luke, Solomon, Michael, Raphael, Uriel, Original Angel Character(s)

Additional Tags: Other Additional Tags to Be Added, War, Trauma, Abuse, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Canon is like a vampire, it can't enter this house unless I let it, Emotional Baggage, Lies, Manipulation, Ships not intended but I'm not stopping you

Summary: War is not unknown to the three realms, but that does not make them any less a tragedy of strategy. Though relations between the three have never been favorable, they have never truly gone to battle with each other. At least, not until now. The heavens have been planning for a long time and have finally decided to execute their machinations. Now it is time to see how every piece will play out this bloody battle.

A/N: These tags are for the overarching fic, not the first two chapters. Only Lucifer, Simeon, Micheal, and Gabriel show up in the first two chapters.

Chapter 1: I Will Not Go With You

“We’re heading for a war,” Lucifer warned, “and I want you to come with me.”

Simeon solemnly blinked a few times before closing his eyes. The weight of the choices laid before him pricked at the edges of his mind. He’d known this was coming. He’d known for a long time that this question would eventually be asked of him and for just as long he’d known what his answer would be, “I must decline.”

“Why?” Lucifer spat out, “Simeon, you have to know what’s about to happen. If we don’t fight then Lilith-”

“I am not stopping you from this rebellion.” He opened his eyes and looked to the pages stacked neatly in the corner of his desk, carefully flipping through the avalanche of writings he’d collected over the years. Somewhere, buried deep in the pile, he vaguely recalled his moment; where his brother would ask him to do the impossible. He’d hidden it away from prying eyes, afraid that others would find it and interpret it as he had. Though, even if they had read it and understood what the contents were, it was nigh impossible to change the events that were foretold.

He pulled the page from the pile, taking care so the others above it would not collapse onto the delicately inlaid wood of his desk, and perused the contents held within. The paper was so old that it had begun to grow fragile to the touch and discolor at the edges. Simeon desperately wished that time had chosen not to show its touch on this particular relic he would rather have forgotten about. It was frightening how long he’d known about this day and he would rather pretend he was shocked when Lucifer had come to him. Sometimes, having a glimpse into what would eventually be was a cruel reality.

That brother, who would come in need of his fellow, will find no quarter. So shall he return with hands left empty, but convictions emboldened by the forge of his stature. He shall take with him those who share his resolve and lead them to where metal sings and cries. Blood shall be shed but on one side, though the cost of the blood spilled shall

It was an old, short paragraph he wished he could forget. Though he could never truly put it out of his mind, because he knew it was left unfinished and his mind and pen longed to see the end of the story. However, his heart and will would prefer not to know every detail of this particular future. For so long, he’d clung to that final shall and hoped that not knowing the entirety of the story would somehow keep it from unfolding. However, his pen only put the stories to page. He was not responsible for the events that inspired him to write.

“You will have to make do with those who are already on your side. No one else will turn their back on Father for your cause.” It was the only warning he could give. In those words he hid the message that Lucifer should tell no one else. If war was approaching, then it was better he have the element of surprise.

Lucifer could only stare at him in disbelief, “Is that your answer?”

“It always was.” He placed the paper face down atop the pile, “I cannot aid you in this, Lucifer.”

“Then you would fight against me? You would condemn Lilith in the same way as our Father?” His voice shook, the rage building inside of him clearly beginning to boil over even as he tried to contain it.

“I will not betray my family.” Simeon’s face remained unchanged as he pushed his chair away from the desk and rose to his feet. Despite the malicious aura that began to circle around his fellow Seraphim, he approached with an unguarded stance until they were only an arm’s reach away from one another. No matter how upset Lucifer may become, Simeon would not fear him. Though, he did fear *for* him, “You and she are still of my kind and that means I will not meet you on the battlefield.”

Lucifer’s eyes widened at the declaration. This time, it was his turn to fear for the other, “You can’t stay out of this. You know they won’t allow you.” If he did try to remain on the sidelines, Simeon would still be seen as a traitor. Not in the same vein as him and his siblings, but a traitor nonetheless, “I won’t ask you to fight if you really refuse to lift your blade, but you can’t stay here.”

“As much as you and Lilith are my family, so are Micheal, Raphael, Uriel, and Gabriel. I cannot leave them.”

“Simeon…”

Simeon’s lips pulled back into a smile and he let out the shortest of laughs, “You worry far too much, Lucy. You are aware that I am still a Seraphim, are you not? Even if I do not step onto the battlefield, I do not believe I am in nearly as much danger as you are putting yourself in.” He wanted to reach out and touch his brother one last time as the fear of the unknown overtook him, but he kept his hand within his own space. He did not know what would happen at the end of all of this, but he knew it would not be the same and reaching out to hold onto what they had would only pain them both.

Lucifer looked over the other angel’s shoulder, toward the pile of papers where Simeon had placed one face down. Countless writings that revealed the future to their author and Lucifer did not envy that gift. Others often wished to know what would be, but he had seen far too many times the burden placed on Simeon for having such a skill; the amount of times he had been made to see both grace and tragedy was carved on his face, just behind that smile. That is why, despite knowing that whatever was on that page was related to this very discussion and his ultimate goal, he would not pry. It was not as if knowing the future allowed it to be changed anyway.

“We’ll still be on opposing sides, you know?” No matter how much Simeon proclaimed not to betray his family, that was an unavoidable truth.

He nodded, “I am aware.”

“And you refuse to go against your family?”

This time his confirmation was wordless.

Lucifer took in a deep breath, “Then once the battle begins, I believe we can hardly be considered family anymore.”

Large blue eyes shot up to look at his pale face. It seemed that Lucifer had said something Simeon hadn’t expected, “What?”

“You will not betray your family, but you know they will not allow you to remain neutral in this. As soon as the drums of war beat, it is fine to stop thinking of me as your brother.”

There was a long moment of silence before Simeon could reply, “You cannot ask me that.”

“I am not asking. I am stating a truth,” one that would hopefully allow Simeon a way to follow his morals and gain some leniency if he continued to insist on this path, “I refuse to be your brother from that moment on.”

“Please... you cannot ask that of me.”

“I am not asking anything of you. I am simply stating where we will stand.” And now he needed to leave before the hurt welling in Simeon’s eyes tugged at his heart anymore and shattered his resolve.

He dipped his head in a polite bow, “Thank you for your time, Simeon. I do hope we may speak like this again.” He turned on his heels, refusing to truly look at the other angel again. His only goal was the door, where he opened it wide and stepped through the threshold.

“Lucifer! Wait!”

It took far more will than Lucifer would ever care to admit as he shut the door behind him without saying another word, and even more to walk away.

-----------------------

Chapter 2: Traitor

“How long have you known?” Micheal nearly growled as he stared down Simeon where he kneeled. His pale blue eyes ran wild with rage and it was clear he was just barely holding himself together. That was to be expected after everything he had just been through. Lucifer was unapologetically his favorite brother so it was unimaginable the distress he was in right now as he came to terms with having lost a member of his family. They had been like two halves of a whole, and now they were fractured.

“How long have I known what?” Simeon asked, feigning ignorance.

“That Lucifer would lead a rebellion against Father!” Micheal’s voice raised so loud that the room literally shook around him.

“Calm yourself, Micheal,” a melodious voice shushed him and lithe hands rested on his shoulders to hold him steady, “We’ve lost enough of our siblings today. There is no reason to lose yourself and risk losing another.”

“You would call him our brother after that disgraceful scene, Gabriel?” The disgust in his voice was clear and overwhelming, “He knew this would happen and refused to warn us or lift a finger. Everything we lost today is because of him.” Simeon had to know about today. He was blessed with the gift of prophecy and spent his time writing what was to come. If he had simply shared whatever he knew about today, Micheal knows they could have prevented the rebellion. He knows that he could have convinced Lucifer to stay somehow. Instead, he was left to face his own brother on the battlefield. He could still recall the cold eyes Lucifer had looked at him with as if they barely knew one another. That sight would never leave the darkest parts of his mind.

“You are blinded by your pain, Micheal.” She removed her hand from his shoulders and moved to stand over Simeon, “He is clearly as much our brother as ever. If he were against us he would have joined Lucifer, but Father has deemed that he is still worthy of his halo. Is that not enough for you?”

Micheal chuckled darkly before answering, “Uriel nearly lost an arm and he’s one of the lucky ones.” Even with so few numbers on their side, the rebellion had a gifted Dominion that made the most of their small force.

“And everyone harmed will heal, but we gain nothing in dividing ourselves further, and our brother has already been punished for his transgressions.” She took a knee before Simeon, reaching out her hand and running her fingers through his silken hair, “Will you not put our brother’s worries at ease, Simeon?”

Simeon knew the threat in those words. As kind as Gabriel pretended to be, she was someone he feared far more than Micheal. Not because she was stronger, but because she knew exactly how to most hurt those who upset her. As such, he had no interest in declining her wish, even if what she was asking for was for him to show his shame.

He took a deep breath before unfurling his wings behind him. They shimmered golden in the neverending light of the Celestial Realm, a blessing bestowed upon him by their Father that reflected his very essence. Every angel had such a blessing; different colors, shapes, a range of sizes, and lays of their feathers all differed from angel to angel all dependent on their Father’s grace. That included how high in their Father’s favor they were, and it was obvious at a glance just how out of favor Simeon had fallen. His six beautiful wings, the blessing afforded to all Seraphim, had been reduced to a simple two.

Gabriel’s eyes filled with pity for him but Micheal’s face twisted in glee and disdain, “Is that all? You betray us and all Father does is reduce your rank.” The laugh that left his throat was so dry that it sounded like it hurt, “You must really be beloved to get off with such a light sentence.” If it was up to Micheal himself, Simeon would face the same punishment as Lilith.

“Still your anger, Micheal. As you can see, Father has spoken.” She raised to her feet once more, her nails pulling painfully at Simeon’s hair as she stepped away from him, “Simeon is still of our kind and as one of our subordinates it is our duty to shepherd him.”

A wicked smile crossed Micheal’s face as he continued to look down on Simeon and his now unsightly form that marked his betrayal, “You may be correct, Gabriel. It is only right that we guide lost sheep, especially those of our own flock.”

#obey me #Absolutely Nothing #mine #obey me simeon #obey me lucifer #hosted on AO3 #obey me michael #obey me raphael #original character

[katehuntington]

Title: If The Bunker Had Windows Fandom: Supernatural Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Reader Pairing: Dean x female reader Words: ±5250 words Description: When a Djinn case doesn’t go as planned, not everyone makes it. Dean, who is burdened by guilt, holes himself up alone in his room for days, until Y/N comes in to check on him. Will the girl who was his perfect world be able to pull him back from the darkness? Warnings: Angst/comfort. Mutual pining, some fluff. Description of canon typical violence and supernatural creatures. Mentions of injury, death and alcohol abuse. Depression, refusal to eat, grieving, crying. Satisfying ending. Author’s note: A one shot that will punch you in the feels, according to my betas @winchest09 and @deanwanddamons. Always grateful for you girls helping me out! And to my readers, I hope you enjoy my reading, thank you for your support.

     Serenity floats through the halls of the Men of Letters headquarters, like the morning mist on an autumn day. If the bunker had windows, the sun would have shone diagonal beams through the glass, warm and welcome, but instead it’s the light from the vintage table lamps that give this home its glow.

     Y/N moves down the hall towards the galley, her sock covered feet softly padding against the marble floors. Despite her stealth approach, Sam is waiting for her to appear in the doorway, his eyes already lifted from the tablet that lays flat on the mahogany table.      “Morning,” he greets, continuing to swipe through news articles, in his search for a case. “Coffee’s brewing.”

     She descends down the two steps and sets foot into the kitchen, the aroma of roasted beans flooding her senses. The night hasn’t been without worries and all the more without sleep, so she can use a good dose of caffeine.      “Thanks,” she returns.

     After pouring herself a generous amount of the dark beverage, her thoughts wander off to the other inhabitant of this oddly cosy concrete structure. Dean’s absence is obnoxiously evident, the air not filled with grumpy mutters before he had his coffee, neither with a lame joke that he found on the back of the cereal box, that only he finds funny.      With a deep sigh, she turns around with her favorite mug in her hand, resting against the counter. “Has he come out of his room yet?”

     Sam’s jaw flexes, the tall giant with a gentle heart glancing over. He doesn’t even have to shake his head for Y/N to know the answer. Shutting her eyes for a few seconds, she takes a sip from her hot drink, burning her tongue, but it doesn’t hurt nearly as much as the pain she knows Dean is in.

     It’s been three days since the brothers returned from a particularly tough hunt. She remembers Sam’s voice hollering through the bunker, and she instantly realized that something terrible had happened. When she found the Winchesters in the garage, Dean leaning on his sibling and barely able to stay on his feet, the air was stolen from her lungs. His skin was paler than those of the spirits she has faced and he seemed barely conscious. His eyes beheld an emptiness that faded the forest green of his irises, leaving nothing but a shallowness that reminded her of death, even though his heart was still faintly beating.

     A Djinn had gotten to him, and by the time Sam found his brother, strung up to the ceiling of the monster’s den, he was barely alive. It was too late for the young college student who the hunters were hoping to save, her corpse dangling in shackles next to Dean, drained of blood and life. She was all but a grim memoir of their failure, a reminder of the fate that would have befallen the hunter, had the younger Winchester sibling not found him. 

     Back home, Sam and Y/N carried Dean to the infirmary and thankfully got a hold of Castiel, who came to the rescue as fast as he could. The angel might not be at full power, but he was able to pull his friend away from the reaper, who was without a doubt waiting to claim his soul like the vultures that they are. 

     Even though Cas glued the shattered shards back together until Dean was physically whole again, something inside him remains damaged beyond repair. The mighty hunter, who faces his enemies head on and with guns blazing, who laughs Death in the face, is defeated, and there is not much the cosmic being can do to change that. A broken body is much easier to heal than a broken mind.

     Y/N puts her empty coffee mug aside and exhales, coming back to the present. “Did he eat, at least?” she wonders, a desperate hopefulness in her pitch.      Again, Sam shakes his head. “He left dinner by the door without touching it. I’m sorry.”      The younger Winchester doesn’t have to apologize, after all, it’s not his fault that the food was left untouched. Yet, he knows their female companion had put a lot of effort in making Dean his favorite burgers, hoping it would persuade him.     “It’s okay, Sam,” she assures, forcing a smile.

     While the younger Winchester brother returns his attention to his tablet, Y/N takes a moment to collect herself. She then turns to the kitchen counter and crouches down, taking a large frying pan from the lower cabinets. After lighting up the stove and carefully placing a second ceramic pot on the fire, the bunker’s second best cook opens the refrigerator and collects a carton of eggs, milk, bacon and cheese.

     Sam watches her move around the galley, his brow furrowed. “What are you doing?”      “I’m making Dean breakfast,” she states, matter of factly.      The hunter sighs, pity evident in the soft exhale. “Y/N--”      “I have to try, Sam.” She cuts him off, the tremble in her voice noticeable. 

     Their eyes meet when the woman glances over her shoulder, still stirring the milk and eggs in a bowl. The younger Winchester is well aware that this meal will most likely end in the trash like the others, but he understands why she feels the need to take care of his brother. It’s her way of letting Dean know that she’s not giving up on him, no matter how thick the fog grows in the mind of the tormented hunter. It’s her way of keeping busy and doing something, anything, because watching from the sidelines while someone suffers, is not in her nature. Especially not when that person is Dean, the man who she cares so much for, more than she would like to admit.

     Sam’s lips press into a thin line, the corners reaching up slightly. The crow’s feet by his eyes wrinkle and become a little deeper, despite the brown hair that frames his gentle expression. She and Sam have been friends for a long time and often don’t need words anymore. With just a look, he explained that he sympathizes with her, and that he’s thankful for her efforts. 

     She returns his small smile and focuses on her cooking again, laying out the bacon into the hot frying pan, watching the meat as it starts to sizzle.

     Twenty minutes later, Y/N walks down the hallway towards the dorms, a tray in her hands decked out with scrambled eggs, french toast and a fresh cup of coffee. Before the first room on the right, she halts, staring at the golden ‘11’ on the wooden barrier in front of her. Contemplating if she should leave the warm meal on the threshold or not, she looks down at her feet.      “Dean?” she calls out, hesitant. “Is it alright if I come in?”

     Her question remains unanswered, only fueling her doubt. Is he sleeping? Would she be crossing a line if she enters? Of course she wants to grant him his privacy, but he has been cooped up in there for three days now, without food, without social interaction. There have been many times when she was worried sick about the hunter who has already endured so much, and these past days only add to that count. What is the right approach here? Give him more time? 

     Closing himself off and pushing down the agony is his go-to coping mechanism, and although it isn’t a healthy one, she always respected the space he needed to move past the pain. She’s used to him being quiet, taking the Impala for late night drives, drinking more than usual and sleeping less. But at least he came out of his room, at least he ate. Now, everything is different.

     Before she can reconsider, she balances the tray in one hand, freeing the other to reach for the brass knob. Carefully, she pushes the door ajar, allowing the light from the hallway to bleed into Dean’s room. The state in which she finds the resilient soldier, who courageously charges into battle and has won wars on strength and will alone, almost brings her to tears. He’s in his bed, curled up on the far left of the mattress, leaving the empty space next to him vacant. His back is turned towards her as he lays in a fetal position, the comforter pulled up over his shoulder. The darkness that surrounds him only seems fitting for his frail state of mind.

     Y/N isn’t sure if the older Winchester brother is even awake, since he fails to respond to her presence, but she steps into the shadows nonetheless.      “Dean? I brought breakfast,” she announces, softly enough that if he is sleeping, her words will not wake him.

     The broken form in the bed shifts slightly. She might not realize it, but Dean has heard her, and has done every single time she has brought him something to eat. Her light footfalls passing his room, the hesitation on his doorstep, the soft knocks on the wood, the sigh when she turned away again. A part of him was glad she never came in before, yet at the same time, he was fighting the urge to call out, craving her company, her touch. Anything even remotely close to the way she was with him in his dreams, when held captive.

     “I’m not hungry,” he croaks, his voice failing after not having used it for so long.      “You’ve got to eat something,” she tries again. “It’s been a couple of days.”

     The beaten hunter turns into his pillow, leaving the woman who intends to make him feel better by the door. A shuddering breath falls from her lips, one laced with disappointment and frustration. He should be used to letting people down by now, but it still stings. Struggling to not give in to his own longing, he opens his weary eyes and stares at the empty bottle on his nightstand, the whiskey it once beheld long gone.

     Dean expects her to leave. It would do him justice, because he doesn’t deserve such kindness. But instead, he can hear her shuffle closer. She makes room on the side table, putting the remnants of his self medication down on the floor, the glass thudding softly on the stone surface, and sets down a tray. The smell of bacon fills his nose, and even though his stomach growls in response, he is sure the food would turn to ash in his mouth. Nothing can still the hunger that this perfect dream stirred up. Nothing can fill the hole in his gut that has only grown larger since Sam pulled him away from the world created by the Djinn he was supposed to kill. 

     He gave in to a fairy tale, even though he is well aware they are make-believe. He couldn’t leave that utopia, because for once, he just wanted to be happy. Instead of stepping up and slaying the monster at the end of the book, he was selfish, weak, and a girl died because of it.

     His self-destructive chain of thought is interrupted when the bed dips down, Y/N taking up the small space on the edge of the mattress. Her delicate hand reaches for him, moving his tousled hair from his forehead, running her fingers through his light brown locks. Closing his eyes, he swallows with difficulty, biting down to keep the tears at bay. He doesn’t want her to see him in this state, to see the fucked up train wreck that he is. 

     “Talk to me,” she says softly, her whisper breaking the silence, but Dean shakes his head.      “I can’t,” he returns, hoarse. “You should go.”      She stands her ground. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

     The tired hunter doesn’t have the energy to argue, and for a while, they just are. Dean on his side, huddled under the comforter, Y/N right next to him, one leg pulled under her, the other dangling from the edge of the bed. The motions of her gentle caressing almost lulls him to sleep, but he doesn’t allow unconsciousness to take him. The second he drifts off, he will be faced with either the same old horrific nightmares he has gotten used to, or return to the dream that will never be. Waking up from either will be too devastating for him to handle.

     Wishing she could offer him any kind of solace, Y/N allows her thumb to rub his temple, cupping his handsome face gingerly. The action draws his weary eyes to meet hers for the first time this morning. The slight improvement should be a relief, yet it is anything but. The sorrow that swims in his gaze breaks her heart.

     “It isn’t your fault,” she offers, her words so soft, that if the room hadn’t been draped in silence, the hunter would have missed it.      Dean looks away, however, shaking his head slightly, unable to accept her comfort. “It is. I could’ve snapped out of it.”

     The woman by his bedside furrows her brow, her expression soft and sympathetic. Why does he expect the impossible from himself? Why does he have to rescue everyone on this earth? No one can live up to that, not even the hero that he is. It’s a burden too heavy to bear for any being, a responsibility that sets him up to fail, because he can’t save them all. He would always beat himself up, whenever they would lose an innocent during a hunt, but this time there’s more to it. This time he can’t get up.

     “A Djinn put you under. How could you have known it was a dream?” she says, trying to help him see that this blame is not his to take.      “That’s the thing,” he sighs, the air that flows from his lungs substantial with regret and remorse. “I was aware it wasn’t real. I just… I didn’t wanna wake.”

     Without pausing, her gentle touch traces the scruff on his cheek as she analyses his words that raise so many questions. If he knew what he was experiencing was indeed a fantasy, then why didn’t his hunter instincts kick in? Coming back from a coma as such is anything but easy. Yet just like with a vivid nightmare, once one realizes the terrors are nothing but a manifestation of their deepest fears, they can fight their way back to the surface. What could Dean have possibly seen that would keep him from coming home?      “What did you dream about?” she wonders.

     His focus turns in a thousand yard stare, as if he can see it all again. Every reason that made him decide to lay down his weapons when the creature captured him. Every experience that was so tentative, that he was ready to swap that reverie for reality. Every vision, every touch, every smile, every laugh. Every wish come true. It is right there, just out of reach, displayed behind the glass that encases his memories, reminding him of what will never be.

     “Mom, Dad... they were alive,” Dean begins, the recollections causing his eyes to shimmer. “Your parents too. Sammy was married to Jess. She was pregnant.”

     Y/N listens to the fallen hunter breathlessly, trying not to blink, because she knows it would force the tears to fall from her lashes. Slowly, it begins to dawn on her why he couldn’t find his way back. 

     “There were no monsters, we didn’t hunt. Sam was a lawyer, I owned an auto shop. We had family barbecues, dinner during thanksgiving. It was…” he lets out a shuddering breath, drops brewed by bittersweet reminiscence rolling down from the corner of his eye. “It was simple, peaceful, without the constant worry. No sorrow, no regret. And you, the way you were smiling… I’ve never seen you glow like that.” 

     He breaks away from the perfect vision, glancing at the woman who he got to call his in that dream. The woman who he lived with, in a house by a lake, with a back porch looking out over the water. The woman who he married and gave him two beautiful children. The woman who he loves, and in that perfect world he allowed to love him back.

     Dean tries to swallow down the painful lump that obstructs his throat as a hint of a smile tucks at the corner of his mouth. He could tell her all that, but it wouldn’t do her any good. In fact, that illusion might break her, just like it broke him. Instead, he allows a final sentence to fall from his lips, but the emotion that has closed around his airway only allows a whisper.      “We were so happy.”

     Tears find their way down Y/N’s face, leaving shimmering pathways in their wake. Not a word has left her, not even the smallest sound. She doesn’t trust her voice to ease his dreadful affliction. 

      It makes sense now, why he couldn’t bring himself to pop that bubble. What Dean experienced, it sounds perfect. It is the definition of heaven, not just for him, but for all the people he cares about. It shouldn’t be a surprise to her that the selfless man only wants what’s best for his family, eliminating his personal desires, but it moves her nonetheless. Their happiness, her happiness, is Dean’s.      It’s only then that his choice of words begins to settle in her conscience.      “We?”

     Confusion adds to all the emotions that pass by in her misty eyes like frames of a silent film. The hunter’s gaze meets hers again, and he’s not sure if he should be terrified or relieved when he sees that puzzlement transition into comprehension. The puckered lines between her brows even out as her mouth opens slightly, her eyes growing larger, boring into his soul.      “We were together,” she realizes.

     Dean doesn’t have to confirm, it wasn’t a question after all. She has figured it out already, and that conclusion now hovers between them, neither of the two knowing what to do with the revelation.      “Doesn’t matter,” he eventually whispers. “It was just a dream.”

     The downhearted conclusion has Y/N tilt her head to the side, watching the man who she has loved ever since she met him. The memory is one she holds dear, the wide grin he flashed after witnessing her taking down two vampires with a machete, before he and his brothers even got the chance to make the kill. She didn’t think she needed saving, but when his emerald greens took her in, she felt a warmth flair in her heart. He did in fact rescue her that day, and now it was her turn to rescue him. Y/N breathes in, because in order to do so, she needs to be brave. 

     Her left hand reaches for his, which is holding onto the pillow under his head. She takes it, unfolding his clenched fist, and laces their fingers together.      “It doesn’t have to be,” she speaks softly.

     For a few seconds Dean beholds their entwinement, astounded by the gesture. Is she doing this because she feels sorry for him? Because she’s worried that her resentment would send him further into the dark? But when he glances up at her, the look she gives him stuns the hunter. There’s no pity, nor desperation. All he sees is a softness in her beautiful eyes, a calmness that tells him that it’s alright, that she knows, and that she feels the same way. 

     “Y/N...” he utters, unable to let go of her hand, but not ready to close her palm in his a little tighter. “We can’t. It’s only gonna end sad and bloody.”      She shrugs at that, running her thumb over his rough skin, the motion soothing them both. “Maybe,” she agrees, “but denying this, not giving in to what we feel, isn’t that worse?”

     His chest rises and falls slowly, his focus now locked on their hands again, while the woman still seated on the side of his bed holds her breath. It’s almost as if he’s too scared to look at her, aware how fragile this moment is. They are at a crossroads, and depending on the direction he decides to take, this instant might remain just that, a jiff, or it might be the start of something new, yet terrifying.

     “I don’t want you to get hurt,” Dean sighs, fresh tears glistening though his long lashes.

     Swallowing with difficulty, Y/N looks down, sniveling. She can feel him slipping through her fingers like sand in an hourglass, every passing second taking the battered hunter further away. But before she loses him all together, she strengthens her hold.      “I know you don’t,” she acknowledges, “but having to look back at some point, realizing we missed our shot and watched that ship sail by, that would cause me so much pain, that I--”

     The whimper that falls from her lips, draws his gaze up to study her expression. She’s crying silently, her mouth firmly closed in a thin line. The woman who goes out her way to make him feel better, is breaking in front of him because of his doing, and it hurts him more than anything he has felt in the past three days. Instinctively, he frees himself from her hold, only to take her small hand in his palm, protectively wrapping his fingers around hers. The reassurance gives her just enough strength to continue her plea.

     “After everything we’ve been through, the losses, the sacrifices. Hell, multiple apocalypses…” she begins, barely able to grasp how many battles they have survived. “We deserve this.”

     There is not a doubt in the hunter’s mind that Y/N has earned all the happiness the universe can offer, but him? No, he hasn’t. People have died because of him, lives ruined, families torn apart. He has made too many mistakes, and no amount of good deeds could set the record straight.      “Why would you wanna be with me?” he huffs, shaking his head slightly. “I’m such a fuckin’ mess...”

     Y/N takes him in, the man who has never believed he was good enough for anything. There is not a monster on this planet that could hate Dean more than he hates himself. If only he could see how Sam looks up to his big brother, how proud he would have made his parents, if they had still been alive. If only he could see her, and know how much she loves him.

     Taking a bold step, she begins to lower herself, leaning towards him. The action is rushed, afraid that the coward inside of her might alter the course, but once her lips meet Dean’s, she stills. She can sense him freezing against her and panic jolts through her body, the fear of rejection almost having Y/N pull back herself. But then he eases, his mouth moving with hers. The kiss is short and light. Neither of them intends to deepen the touch, the gesture adding enough depth to the situation as it is.

     When she opens her eyes, his are still closed. Almost as if he was still in the Djinn’s hold, and can’t let go of the bliss that surrounds him. A small smile adorns her soft features as she waits for him to look at her, which he only does when she lovingly brushes her nose against his.

     While his focus bounces over her features, taking in every perfect imperfection that makes the woman before him so unmistakably her, he mirrors her smile. No one wants to disturb this precious moment, but Dean has to let out the breath he was holding for some time. He shifts his head against the pillow, watching how Y/N pulls his hand closer, pressing her lips to the knuckles, lovingly. 

     “I’m a mess too,” she admits. “I’m just as scared, Dean. But, together it might just get a little more bearable. I know I’m just a fraction of that dream--”      “- Y/N.” The hunter stops her then and there, pushing himself off the mattress on his elbow. He might not think of himself as worthy, but he will not stand for her effacing her own purpose. The interruption silences her instantly, her wondering eyes still glossed over with emotion, awaiting. Now it’s his time to be brave. 

     He doesn’t let go of her hand, nor of her gaze. He doesn’t let go of the woman he wants to spend his remaining days with, no matter how many or how few.      “You are so much more than a fraction,” he expresses, heartfelt.

     Having made up his mind, Dean sits up and reaches for her, the warm shade of green only hooded by closing lids when his mouth finds hers. He allows himself to graze over her soft lips, drinking in the one person who he has longed for, but never expected to be with. The sensation that erupts in his stomach once the kiss intensifies is the equivalent to a firework show, the bright colors and sparks lighting up the black skies. Euphoria overwhelms him, the same sense that flooded his conscience when the Djinn lured the hunter into that heavenly hallucination. This is a dream too, and yet it isn’t, because this, this is real.

     The kiss leaves Y/N breathless, yet she is able to sense his warm hand coming up her side and sliding around her back to settle between her shoulder blades, hugging her tight without ever removing his lips from hers. Finally, they are here. After months, years of denial, they are ready to give themselves to each other. Sometimes you need to lose all that isn’t, to appreciate what is. 

     She has to pull every string not to cry in elation, but can’t stop the drops of emotion from rolling down. When Dean feels the wetness against his own cheeks, he reluctantly breaks the connection, cupping her face worriedly.      “Hey…” he hushes.      She shakes her head, dismissing his concern, and laughs through the tears. “I’m okay. I’m just - I’m so happy right now, I don’t know what to do with myself.”

     A twinkle reaches her eyes, making it impossible for Dean to look away. He never thought he would be able to witness her so content, let alone have her admit it out loud. Not in this world, anyway. An image of the custom made dream forged by the Djinn pushes itself to the forefront, Y/N on the porch of their house, comfortable in his arms, absolutely beaming. When he awoke from that coma, he thought that the illusion couldn’t be further from reality, but he was wrong.      “I’ve seen that smile before,” he says warmly.

     Y/N grin grows even wider at that, but before she can ask what the man who she just revealed her affections to means, a rumble rises from Dean’s stomach, causing them both to drop their gaze to where the sound is coming from. Once she realizes what caused it, she giggles, and it’s the greatest harmony Dean has ever heard. 

    “You must be starving,” she comments while wiping her tears, hoping he will finally take in some food after having gone three days without it.     “I could eat,” he admits with a chuckle.      “Well, it’s a good thing I made you scrambled eggs with cheese and extra bacon then.” She straightens her back and shifts to the edge of the bed, taking the tray with both hands. “Scoot.”

     Dean pushes himself up further and sits back against the headboard, his mouth watering when Y/N sets the platter over his lap. Only now does he realize how hungry he truly is. He picks up the cutlery and cuts off some toast, overloading it with egg before he has a mouthful, the delicious meal still warm on his tongue.      “Take it easy, okay? Wouldn’t want you to get sick,” she says kindly, reaching for him and rubbing her thumb over his stubble.      He looks up at here before taking a bite of the strip of meat, his eyes having gained some of that boyish sparkle again. Relieved by the sight, Y/N watches him, glad that she finally managed to get his spirits up. 

     “You want some?” Dean checks with his mouth full, pushing the plate of bacon in her direction.      She frowns at that. “Since when do you share food?”      “Since now, and only with you,” he admits. “Don’t tell Sam.”

     They share a laugh and continue to eat in silence until the dishes are so clean, they barely need washing. The pair leave the darkness of room ‘11’, Dean heading for the showers, Y/N turning the corner towards the kitchen. With a spring in her step, the giddy woman makes her way through the hallways of the enormous building. The tray in her hands feels much lighter, and not just because of the cleared plates she’s carrying. 

     With a smirk on her lips, she hops down the steps into the galley, finding Sam by the fridge, who is restocking it with the groceries he just picked up. It’s not until he notices the empty dishes which she sets down on the counter, that his gaze shoots up to their female companion’s joyful eyes.     “He ate?” he asks, hopeful.     “He did,” Y/N smiles, dropping the plates in the sink. “He’s feeling much better, he’s freshening up now.”      The younger Winchester continues to stare at her in awe, stammering something intellectual, before he pauses and blinks a couple of times.      “What happened?” he can’t help but wonder, surprised by his brother’s improvement.

     She remains silent for a few seconds while she runs the tap and adds dish soap to the hot water. What took place in his room is hard to explain. It required a long list of events, building up to this disclosure. It involved Dean opening up about what he went through, comfortable enough to share his grief and let it out. It included them both being fearless after being scared for so long. It comprehended two individuals, growing together, taking a leap to cross a gap that seemed impossible to overcome. 

     “He let the light in,” she states simply, meeting Sam with a meaningful smile.

     Grateful, the tall hunter huffs in astonishment, before he closes her in a hug and presses a kiss on her hair, not needing words to tell just how appreciative he is of her presence. He  assists her and takes up the task of drying the dishes, the two friends working side by side to finish the chore. They are storing away the plates, the noise of the china being stacked in the cupboards allowing Dean to wait in the doorway without being spotted just yet. He’s freshly showered, wearing his dark grey robe over comfortable clothes, leaning against the post and taking in the woman who has turned his life around. 

     If the bunker had windows, the sun would have shone brightly. The late morning rays would come in through the portals to the outside world, illuminating their home. The beams would have been warm and healing, burning away sadness and discomfort, like it would melt the snow on the last days of winter. 

     But the bunker doesn’t need windows.      The bunker has her.

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to reblog my work or buy me coffee (Link in bio at the top of the page).

#Dean Winchester oneshot #Dean x Reader #Dean Winchester fanfiction #Dean x Y/N #Dean Winchester #Dean oneshot #Dean Winchester x Reader #dean fanfiction #dean winchester x y/n #Supernatural #SPN #Supernatural fanfiction #If The Bunker Had Windows #Kate Huntington

[clove-pinks]

I posted my tumblr year in review earlier today, in case any of you did not notice that my silly War of 1812 scented candle post is my smash hit of 2021. It's actually my biggest tumblr hit of all time, since I have been here since 2012 and over the years I've had a couple—as in, exactly two—fandom posts blow up with a few thousand notes, with the luck of being reblogged by the right people at the right times.

I continue to enjoy the tags and comments on the War of 1812 candle post, and while I'm well aware that the notes are well below whatever threshold that makes them inevitably turn into a dumpster fire of inane arguments, which is probably at least 30k, I am genuinely surprised at the good manners and lack of fighting. There is a slight amount of Canadian gloating going on, yet no idiot Americans busting through a wall like Kool-Aid man yelling THE BATTLE OF NEW ORLEANS!

I wasn't joking when I said I was worried about a War of 1812 fight starting: normies have no idea how often the niche community that cares about the War of 1812 gets into passionate arguments. I took this screen shot from a fb group myself:

(This is not a large group, by the way, this man just threw a rock at a hornets' nest).

I think the tumblr demographic is a lot older than people assume, but clearly(?) there are not enough old men here for a Who Won the War of 1812 fight to break out, which recently happened in an Aubreyad group. Another factor: we Americans are largely ignorant about this conflict, so the biggest instigators of stupid drama are mostly in the dark. It's a Canadian thing more than anything else—by the 1850s at the latest the British seem to have mostly forgotten the distant colonial dust-up at the end of the Napoleonic Wars. Americans hate to deeply examine our role because, well, we don't look too good.

#shaun talks #war of 1812 #look at me tempting fate!! #who the hell brags about the battle of new orleans #i mean yes we beat the british but after a peace treaty was already signed?? #also andrew jackson (ugh) #i have many 🔥 takes about the war of 1812 #maybe i should put them here (a safe place?) #it's all fun and games until someone invades canada

[beyondthetemples-ooc]

OC-tober Day 2: Glass

OC-tober prompts put together by @oc-growth-and-development​! I have to ramble in meta instead of write, because my brain is Mush lately. (I know I’m behind but I have a lot pre-written, I just need to put it into coherent words!)

This one especially can be rambled about at length, because the most important “glass” object in my stories is one I greatly enjoy exploring: Dove’s mindscape mirror!

^ I drew it forever ago; here’s the deviantArt link if you’d like to see the big version! 

https://www.deviantart.com/ravenshiddensoul/art/Dove-s-Keepsakes-Mirror-and-Box-284227087

It’s largely modeled after a bird stretching its wings upwards, with a handle like a tail and certain details are inlaid with Azarathean gold to better channel its magics.

Now, this is where the rambling begins: The mirror’s backstory, and I’ll be exploring one of my favorite things to develop in all of my stories: Dove’s mindscape!

Dove's mirror isn't one of her most prized possessions, nor super incredibly sentimental, but it IS an object touched with her mother's magic, it has flourishes of Azarathean gold (some of the last pieces to exist), and it's useful for introspection and self-soothing, so it does have some value and importance.

Dove struggled with meditating quite a lot as a child, and there was only so much her mother could do to help. Meditation was pretty important to them as both a means of helping Dove control her powers, and as a staple of Azarathean spirituality. As she so often did, Alerina poked around and asked enough questions around the temple that she was told about Raven's mirror, and she decided to replicate it for Dove. She custom ordered a gold-lined wooden hand mirror, and then cast the spells to connect it to Dove's inner world herself. It took a few tries (it's much harder to connect something to someone else's mind than your own, after all), but she was nothing if not determined to help her daughter, and eventually figured it out.

As for its main purpose: Self-reflection! (If you'll pardon the pun.) Dove uses it to meditate, but where Raven uses hers for centering and compartmentalization, Dove uses it more as a blend of escapism and a focusing aid.

Much like Raven's, Dove's mirror acts as a portal to the depths of her mind, and this is where it gets fun!

The vortex that transports the users is usually white and gold, imbued with the same energies that give Dove her powers, at least on her mother's side. It's noticeably touched with black and red in DDD. (Dove's evil side starts taking over her mind, and thus its energies manifest through the mindscape, and Dove's portal into it, hence: black and red energies instead.) It tends to open up like a light tunnel and almost opens the mental world around the user, rather than dragging them in.

Once inside, one can't expect to navigate the same way as Beast Boy and Cyborg did in "Nevermore". Every mind is different, after all! We saw Raven's mindscape divided nearly into emotional sections with a neutral space between them, and the way through each area was preset and linear. While different parts of Dove's internal world manifest in different "areas", they're not so totally divided and separate, and there's no real "neutral" zone except at the very "center". The scenery changes, but it's more of a gradual transition, and though Dove employs thresholds to mark key areas, they're very much just visual aids.

Dove's mindscape is laid out more like a series of rooms and courtyards in a very (very, very, very) large mansion. The ground is generally of crystal, spires and columns decorate the scenery, and the thresholds are modeled after birds with their wings outspread. (While this seems like a play on Dove's namesake, it's actually based on Azarath's architecture, particularly that of George Perez's Azarath in the 1980's New Teen Titans comics.)

Dove's sky shows various stars and often casts moonlight from an uncertain source, particularly when she's introspecting. The ambient temperature varies amongst the locations, chilly in the regions ruled by fear and sadness, uncomfortably warm near her demon's domain, and comfortable and breezy where her peace and contentment reside.

One could easily get lost in her mindscape if they don't know where they're going. The place can shift and change on a whim.

Where Dove spends her time building that peace and contentment, it's very closely modeled after her mother's memories of Azarath (which is where she learned how to find peace, after all): there's marble and gold everywhere, and the stars twinkle with dozens of colors in the sky.

Where Dove retreats when there are feelings of timidity, her excruciating shyness, her grief and doubt, the world becomes shrouded in thick fog. Broken buildings and pale light litter the grounds.

Where she built her love for reading, for history, for creativity and study and learning, it's arranged as rooms with dark marbled tile and a carpeted path, the floor for dozens of feet on either side littered with piles of books.

Dove's inner happy place is an open field on gently rolling hills, where thoughts take the form of birds and somehow the sky holds both the stars and suns. One might find trees, flowers, abstract forms of cottages, and forts loaded with mugs and cozy cushions. If you wander far enough you'll find very tall stone walls surrounding it, because Dove's mind is such that her happiness is one of the few things she really truly believes she needs to protect from the rest of herself.

And then there are the aspects of herself that she shoves the deepest down, secreted far away from the surface: the anger, the hunger for power, the mean streak. (Yes, believe it or not, Dove does have a mean streak! You just have to work especially hard to bring it out. Or trigger her in just the right ways around sadism, violence, war, or death. It's very much Not Recommended; bringing too much of that mean streak out could mean Dove loses control of her powers, or worse: her demonic aspects.)

Those secret forces aren't so much located in one particular space of her mind as they're hidden in every dark corner, coursing through the underside of all the ground, a tantalizing power running through every part of her, only ever set free enough to use the dangerous powers to her own ends.

Her places for Fear and Curiosity in particular will be explored in the upcoming Missing: Raven rewrite. (As they're the strongest things Dove is feeling in that story, that's going to be what Beast Boy and Cyborg encounter.) I also explored the way these things manifest in DDD, and in that same story Dove will focus on rebuilding Peace in the final chapter.

I can't talk about Dove's mindscape without mentioning the "emoticlones". These fun little guys are called by the fanon term given to Raven's "emotion clones", the separate parts of her that express a specific set of traits based on particular aspects of her personality. I had so much fun playing with their voices and thoughts in Dove's head during DDD, you have no freaking idea! I also copied the concept of them having Colored Cloaks from Teen Titans canon, because honestly it's a quick and easy way to identify them, and the fandom's familiar with this system through Raven.

Which colors mean what was more inspired by details from a really old, now-defunct website called Cartoon Orbit that had separate "online trading cards" for each of Raven's emoticlones! On that site, Raven's were labeled as such, and this is what I based Dove's system on, loosely: - Pink: "Raven Happy" - Red: "Raven Rage" - Orange: "Raven Rude" - Yellow: "Raven Smart" - Green: "Raven Brave" - Brown: "Raven Fear" (I'm pretty sure there was a purple one, but I don't recall what it was called. "Love" maybe? That might be from fanon; this site was running like 15 years ago, and I was like 10 years old, so I hardly thought to pay Super Special Attention to it...)

But I digress. The point is, I adapted that system for the key aspects of Dove's unique personality, and came to understand them as follows:

- Pink: Joy, relief, coziness - Red: Cruelty, impulsivity, anger - Orange: Apathy, indifference, disregard - Yellow: Curiosity, study, intrigue - Green: Courage, determination, activity - Blue: Contentedness, pacifism, spirituality - Purple: Compassion, friendship, romanticism - Gray: Sadness, grief, longing. - Brown: Fear, fear, fear!

But for Dove's mind in particular, it's not only HER experiences and personality that form the world! She's a telepath, and though she holds others' privacy in very, very high regard and tries never to read someone's mind without their permission, her sense of receptive telepathy is ever-present. Echoes, lights, shadows, reflections of others' memories and thoughts might affect the very edges of her mind. It's a constant sense, but it only ever causes very ephemeral changes unless something deeply affects her.

Her mindscape also grows and changes as Dove grows and changes, experiences life, learns to cope, and changes how she handles her own emotions.

Most notably, the internal struggle in DDD tore her mind apart. Initially it was due to a breakdown of certainty and confidence, hastened by guilt and grief, but it soon became a deliberate tactic to wage war on the parts of Dove's mind that were trying to resist the evil; eventually her inner demon began intentionally breaking/corrupting everything it could touch.

By chapter 20, that evil is the only strong and stable thing in Dove's mind. Raven's attack to remove the evil in her took away that stability, and strength, and thus took away what was essentially the last support holding Dove's mind together. As it says in the story: "everything collapsed". Dove's mindscape was utterly destroyed, and only the most basic aspects of her remained.

For awhile, that left Dove unable to remember things clearly, or feel emotions without great pain. Rebuilding it to the point where she was able to talk and feel Mostly Normally again took months of meditation.

When Dove is kidnapped and Leyla has distressing dreams about her mother, she, Srentha, and Raven use the mirror to check on Dove by accessing her mindscape. With her powers stripped away, surrounded by people who mock her, and certain Fauni rituals sickening Dove to her soul, naturally her mind is very different: shadowy forms flitted at the edges of vision, the ground wavered, her discomfort was thick in the air and the constant fear made everything so, so cold. "Shadows" of others' thoughts flashed in and out of existence, and Dove's desperation manifests as fleeting voices on the wind. It's uncomfortable to be in her mind while she's so distressed.

It's also worth mentioning that her mindscape changes again, essentially "growing" the part of her that belongs to Love when she finally lets herself love Srentha, and it expands again when Leyla's born and Dove once more finds depths of love she didn't know she could carry.

#oc tober #oc tober 2021 #rhs has ocs and this is the tag about them #iala yona #ddd #rhs oc tober

[funkyhanji]

Daddy's Perfect Cock-Slut [English | BNHA]

Fandom: Boku no Hero Academia (@Horikoshi Kohei) Character(s): Todoroki Enji | Endeavor, Todoroki Shouto Pairing(s): EnjiSho Rating: E Word count: 3528 CWs: Shota, Underage, Extremely Dubious Consent, Father/Son Incest, Grooming, Mind Manipulation, Childhood Trauma, Blow Jobs, Butt Plugs, Anal Sex, Daddy Kink, Begging, Rough Sex, Large Cock, Cock Worship, Cock Cages, Cock-Slut Shouto, Creampie, Implied/Referenced Father/Daughter Incest, Dissociation, Dirty Talk, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

Summary: - That green-haired runt [...] knew nothing about Shouto. Or about Enji. Or about their relationship and how it functioned. -

Enji's annoyed. That green-haired runt reminded him too much of All Might, with his self-righteous attitude and acting like it's his duty to go sticking his nose into someone else's business, unwanted and spewing corny bullshit. Did that kid even know who he was talking to in that way?

His Shouto doesn't need help from a kid who can't even properly control his quirk. He knew nothing about Shouto. Or about Enji. Or about their relationship and how it functioned.

[*]

It took two days for Enji to notice Shouto's catatonic state and lifeless stare. He'd been busy dealing with the paperwork necessary to hospitalize his wife after her psychotic breakdown and her attack on their youngest child. Also the press — keeping the nosy fuckers away from his family problems was of utmost importance. Good thing he showered his PR staff and lawyers in money.

It was a comment from Fuyumi which had clued Enji in on the boy's ghost-like presence around the house.

Shouto, excused from school for a couple of weeks after the incident, would be seen wandering the halls in a daze; he'd often gravitate to the kitchen or his mother's bedroom, and stay there for indefinite amounts of time. He only moved when someone nudged him out of the rooms.

His son, he also came to notice quickly, was very responsive to commands in that state. As if his brain was more than happy to be given directions or orders to follow.

Any sort of command.

«Stop right there, Shouto,» Enji ordered one day, seeing the boy walking down the corridor in front of his open studio door. Shouto did as told, making Enji hum, curiosity piqued. «Come in Shouto, and close the door.»

His son obeyed, standing just past the threshold, his face devoid of any real expression and a haunted look in his eyes. It was disconcerting, Enji had to admit, but the cooperativeness was pleasing after all the reluctance to follow directives Shouto had shown since they'd begun his training.

«Come to me, boy,» he said, waving him over. «And speak, I'm tired of you playing mute.»

Shouto slowly crossed the distance, halting beside the chair Enji was sitting in. «Father.» His voice was scratchy from disuse and a bit dull, but it was still an improvement over the contempt it held before.

Something could be bettered though.

«Call me 'Daddy', boy,» he ordered.

«Yes, Daddy.»

The word sent a shiver down Enji's spine. Something wicked and dark—a desire to claim what was his on the most base level — awakening inside him for the first time in months, maybe years. Rei wasn't here to stop him, this time; she wasn't here to distract him with her own body, or to send Fuyumi his way in her stead.

Shouto was all his for the taking, now.

«Your Mommy was taken away because of you, Shouto. And since you're the reason she's not here anymore, it'll be your job to do everything Mommy did for Daddy. Do you understand, Shouto?»

«Yes, Daddy. I'll do everything Mommy did for Daddy, because it's my fault she was taken away.»

The smirk slashing through his face was nothing but sinister.

«Good boy.»

They were in Rei's bedroom, alone and with the door locked. It wasn't necessary, frankly: his and his wife's rooms were on a different side of the house from his kids', and none of them were about to come looking for him, not after dinner anyway.

Enji had come out of the bathhouse to find Shouto once again in his mother's room, gaze lost like a kicked puppy.

Defenseless. Adrift.

And Enji was there, because it was easy to take advantage of a traumatized child when you use the excuse of providing him with an anchor, a grounding touch.

He spread out Rei's futon on the tatami mats — a half-empty bottle of lube rolled out of it as well —, sat down with his legs loosely crossed in front of him and reached out a hand toward Shouto. His other hand undoing the knot of the towel at his hips.

«Here, Shouto, come sit in my lap,» Enji ordered.

«Yes, Daddy.» Shouto plopped down in the circle his legs made, back straight and blinking slow, breath even.

He didn't protest when Enji took his hand in a gentle hold, brushing a large thumb over the white knuckles; he didn't protest when Enji cradled the bandaged side of his face in his other hand. He didn't try to back away, as Enji coaxed his jaws open and delved two thick fingers inside, the rough pads gliding over a soft tongue and gums. Back and forth, deeper at each passage and full of intent.

A flush began to creep onto Shouto's cheeks; his breath humid as it puffed over the back of Enji's hand, a spark flickering to light in his uncovered eye.

He brought his son's hand toward his groin, pleased to see him follow the movement, gaze focusing on the swelling cock nestled in dark crimson curls. A shiver coursed through Shouto's thin frame as his fingers made contact, a sigh escaping parted pale-pink lips.

«Daddy...» Shouto whispered, muffled by Enji's digits still in his mouth.

«Go on Shouto,» Enji said, letting his hand fall from the boy's face, setting it at his slim waist. «You remember what to do, right?»

Shouto nodded, too lost in the moment to respond verbally, but it was fine.

Enji picked up the lube, squirting some in the boy's palm. Cold fingers wrapped around his length — barely long enough to circle the girth of it even when limp — and stroked, the touch tentative, trembling but growing surer at each pass. The push and pull of the foreskin as it glided over the head, the stiffening of the cock under his fingertips seemed to entice Shouto. His pupil dilated the harder Enji got, the blush on his face darkening at each of Enji's pleased hums.

«Good, Shouto,» Enji praised. He groaned when his son's other hand joined in the stroking, the dual sensation of hot and cold enclosing his cock feeling nice on his burning skin. «Put more strength into it, boy.»

«Yes… Daddy,» Shouto whispered, sounding winded as his whole body shifted with his movements. Sweat started beading at his hairline from the extersion and the heat radiating off of Enji.

«Remember, Shouto, this is your duty now. Taking care of my needs, of my cock, is your responsibility.»

«… Because it's my... fault Mommy's not… here anymore...»

«That's right.» Enji smirked, dripping corruption and lust unbecoming of a hero. «Get your mouth down there, c'mon. Like I told you.»

Once the bandages came off his face and Shouto was cleared by the doctor to go back to school, the vacancy in his stare finally began to recede day by day. He no longer wandered around the house like a ghost and he talked more often, as stilted and curt as his sentences were.

A positive thing, according to the majority of people Enji spoke to — a phrase which never failed to make him raise an eyebrow. He could understand such naivety from Fuyumi, but from adults who should know better than to sweep PTSD and trauma under the rug? Bullshit. They were just trying to appease him, Endeavor, the #2 Hero.

They were lucky that worked perfectly for Enji.

He could do without the new-found sparks of defiance in Shouto's eyes whenever they crossed paths or trained in the dojo, sure, but in was worth it when all the fight bled out of his tiny frame at the first glimpse of Enji's cock. He knew playing his hand while the boy was in a malleable state would be beneficial in drilling some key concepts in his brain.

«That was weak, Shouto! Fuyumi could have punched harder than that!» Enji reprimanded, eyes narrowed in Shouto's direction at his poor attitude.

He received a glare from the other side of the dojo, Shouto then kicking the dummy in the dick with an angry yell. Enji almost rolled his eyes at the display, but a sudden groan caught his attention.

«Ah— nnh…!»

Shouto was squirming where he stood, face pinched in discomfort and the heel of one hand carefully rubbing at his groin. Ah, Enji thought, it's the cage isn't it. Of course it was — it'd been only a week since Enji had put it on Shouto; he wasn't used to it yet.

«Stop touching it, Shouto,» Enji said. «It won't help—»

«Shut up! Take it off of me!»

Enji stood up, growling low and stalking toward his son. He gripped a fistful of bi-colored hair and shoved Shouto's face into his crotch none too gently, grinding him against his clothed, soft cock. Any protest died quickly. A breathy moan warming Enji's bulge, which twitched in interest as Shouto nudged his nose further into the crease between his thigh and pelvis.

«I told you not to touch the cage, Shouto,» Enji said, looking down at the boy.

«Mmkay,» Shouto muttered into the fabric of his sweatpants; his tiny arms embracing Enji's waist. «Daddy… wanna…»

«What do you want?»

«Daddy's… Da— haa!-» Enji rubbed a knee over Shouto's trapped little dick- «cock! Nnnh— Daddy's cock! P-Please...»

Enji chuckled. «And what d'you wanna do with it, mh, Shouto?»

Shouto looked up at him, flushed face and eyes swimming with desire to please. Enji could imagine the boy's mind quickly being overtaken by thoughts of his cock; touching it, stroking it, feeling its weight and warmth on his tongue — the way he'd been primed to in the weeks after the incident.

«S-service you— ah! — Daddy… please!»

«Since you're being so polite-» Enji patted his head, then undid the pants' drawstring and pulled them down enough for his cock to bounce free- «go ahead.»

Shouto's eyes light up, a needy whine falling from pink lips. «Thank you Daddy!»

He delved right in, mouth parting to suckle on the head, tongue sneaking under the foreskin and swirling around it like an ice-cream cone. Popping off the tip, Shouto moved down the hard length, kissing and licking every pulsing vein all the way to the base; he coated Enji's cock in saliva to ease the stroking of his small hands while he nuzzled up to the sac under it.

«Suck on those, boy,» Enji grunted, a large hand on the nape of Shouto's head. «That's where you came from.»

Shouto's tongue lapped at his heavy balls with careful brushes, lips puckering over the sensitive skin, sucking gently. Over and over, he kissed Enji's sac with something akin to reverence in both his touches and his eyes. His breath was humid and hitching as he worshiped Enji like the all-consuming being he was.

A low rumble reverberated in Enji's chest, his palm caressing red-and-white hair in silent appreciation. «Yeah… like that, Shouto. You like Daddy's cock, don't you?»

Shouto moaned, long and trembling with need. «Ah! I… I-I— yes! Like-» his lips attached to Enji's cock-head once again, drinking up the pre-cum oozing from it and mewling- «mngh— l-love it Daddy!» He rutted against Enji's leg, no doubt trying to find relief for his tiny dick trapped in that cage.

«Good boy. Now back to sucking.»

Enji unceremoniously pushed Shouto's parted mouth down on his twitching cock, fucking into it fast but controlled, thrusts shallow as his son let himself be used. Flushed cheeks hollowing and puffing out in time with his movements, and small hands cupping his balls, it didn't take long for Enji to feel himself starting to cum.

«Here it comes, Shouto,» he groaned, fingers dipping into the boy's nape to keep him still. «My seed— shit! Ngh!— don't spill any!»

Shouto's muffled assent sent jolts of pleasure up his cock, pushing him over the edge until he was dumping a load of scorching cum down the awaiting throat. Shouto drank and drank, lips tightening around his length to coax out every drop.

The sight alone — of Shouto's still-developing Adam's Apple bob — arousing him enough he could go for a second round immediately. «Like mother, like son: she loved to guzzle it down too.»

«Quit your squirming, dammit!» Enji growled, a rough palm on his son's hip.

«Nooo…! Back— put it back Daddy! Too empty...» Shouto cried.

Enji ignored the whining and the wriggling hips, too busy trying to reach for the lube one-handed, to appreciate the desperation Shouto was showing. At last managing to pop the bottle open, Enji poured the lube over the boy's slightly puffy hole — a huff of laughter escaping him at the squeak it earned him — and sank a finger inside.

Shouto's body shivered, no longer fighting. «Daddy...»

«Yeah,» Enji said. His digit moving back and forth, taking stock of how prepped his son's ass was after pulling out the plug which had been stretching him. «This is better, mh? A minute without something filling you up is unbearable, isn't it.»

The only answer he got was a whorish moan and Shouto pushing back into his hand.

Enji had introduced butt plugs around three months into his molding of Shouto into his personal, perfect cock-slut. He'd been dreaming about fucking his son well before Rei had snapped and gotten herself locked away in a hospital, and after teaching Shouto how to pleasure him with his mouth, Enji had decided it was time he started training that cute, round ass to take his cock. It'd been a couple of painstakingly long years. Years filled of better and better blowjobs, thigh-fucking — and occasional Fuyumi-fucking, because sometimes he missed the familiar feeling of a cold and wet pussy soaking up his boiling-hot cum —, and the slow-increasing girth of butt plugs up Shouto's hole.

The wait was finally over.

Enji was already rock-hard at the prospect of sinking balls-deep in Shouto.

His son seemed eager as well; spine curving sharply upward, hands gripping the futon under his shaking body in a vice. «Hhhnggh…!! O-oh! Da-Daddy! More— aah!— moreee!»

Enji smirked, a second finger pushing alongside the first to scissor and loosen Shouto; a third was quick to follow, and a fourth, the blushing rim stretched deliciously around his fingers, shiny with lube and fluttering. Enji shifted his hand back a little, calloused pads prodding at his son's prostate, licking his lips at Shouto's shocked yell. He kept up the touch until Shouto's walls were quaking and he was orgasming with his ass, his little caged dick limp but twitching uselessly over the sheet.

«Look at that, Shouto, you mastered the art of cumming like a woman,» Enji praised, fingers popping out of the boy with a squelch.

Shouto was out of it, drowning in post-coital bliss. «… Like a wo… man… did good?... Daddy…?»

«Yes, you did good. So good, you deserve my cock.»

Shouto didn't have time to say anything, Enji lubing himself up quickly and thrusting inside the small body in the next minute. Both moaned, when he bottomed out, then he pulled the boy up to sit on his thighs. Hands at a slim waist — leaving bruises on the milky-white skin —, Enji began ramming Shouto onto his cock at a brutal pace, the slapping of skin on skin loud and obscene, a nice background to the gritty grunts and the breathless mewls they made.

«How's Daddy's cock, mh, Shouto?»

«Mmngh! Aaah! Oh— l-l-loooove it…! Daddy!! Oh! Hhhgaah— yes! Cock!! Co— AH!»

Shouto was a mess of snot and tears and drool, with barely enough functioning brain cells to form words while he was mercilessly bounced on Enji's cock. His guts were speared continuously, his stomach visibly bulging every time Enji thrusted into him; his prostate was brushed against over and over to the point of pain, but Shouto kept moaning and sobbing in pleasure like Enji had molded him to—a slut for anything Daddy's cock gave him.

And Enji made sure to tell him.

«What a... whore! Happy to be a— ngh— rag-doll in my grasp...  just to get my— shit!— cock. Ready to crawl— haa!— on your knees and choke on it! You're a bitch in heat, Shouto— my bitch. My cock-slut!»

«Yours, yes! Yesyes! Slut— AH! DADDY! AH! AH!»

Shouto orgasmed again, body like jello in Enji's hands as he shook and shuddered and pissed all over the futon. He kept up his onslaught anyway, fucking up into Shouto through his walls' clenching down on him until he was cumming violently inside, still thrusting while he rode it out, uncaring of the seed spilling down his cock and adding to the nasty mess.

«Thank�� you… Daddy...»

«Mmh, good boy, Shouto.»

[*]

He sees his son walk towards him, on his way to compete in his first match. «Shouto,» he calls, «I'm expecting to see you use your fire today.» Shouto scowls, seeming determined to ignore him and that won't do for Enji. He steps in front of his son, blocking the passage with his large frame; this time it's him who ignores Shouto's gritted «Get out of my way». He bends at the waist until their faces are as close as can be with Enji's quirk active. «I put up with this defiance at home,» he says. «but here and now? It's going to ruin your performance and I won't have that.» «Fuck o—» Shouto starts, only for the words to die out as soon as he sees Enji unzip the fly of his hero suit and pull out his limp cock. He smirks. The change in demeanor is instantaneous: Shouto's pupils swell, black overtaking gray and blue irises; his jaws grow slack and his lips part; a rosy tint blossoms on his cheeks. Tense shoulders sag. In the next second, Shouto's on his knees in front of him. «Daddy...» he whines. «Aah, that's better,» Enji says. He reaches out, weaves his large hand in bi-colored hair. A low moan leaves his son's throat. He can practically see the saliva gathering on the boy's tongue in anticipation, can see him squirm on the floor as the seconds pass by. Shouto moves closer, nosing at the crimson pubes at the base of Enji's cock but not touching the half-hard shaft. He wasn't given permission to yet. «Need your Daddy's cock to calm down, mh?» Enji teases. «Like a baby with his pacifier-» with his free hand, he strokes himself, quickly growing fully hard at the sight of Shouto panting and sniffing at his crotch like a dog- «wanna be a good boy for Daddy?» Shouto nods wordlessly, slowly humping his boot and Enji can vaguely feel the chastity cage rub on him through Shouto's clothes. «Yes! Yes, please Daddy...! Please, your cock— oooh I want it! Daddy, please... pleasepleaseDa— mgahghn!» Enji grabs a fistful of white-n-red hair and pulls on it, shoving his cock past slack jaws without hesitation. «Suck Shouto,» he orders. Shouto moans around him. His hands grope Enji's thighs, blunt nails digging into the muscle as an anchor while he starts bobbing his head over the massive length. His tongue swirls around the shaft in just the right way to make Enji groan; Shouto's throat constricts as he's swallowed past his son's gag reflex, the vibrations from the mewls travel all the way up Enji's spine. His son's mouth is perfect. «Yeah, that's more— nngh— like it! Fuck, Shouto— you love my... cock mh? That's a good whore—» Wet and tight around him — it almost reminds him of Rei's and Fuyumi's pussies. «Cool yourself down a bit boy,» he grunts. When his son does as told, Enji moans at the feeling and fucks himself deeper, harder past Shouto's lips—they're stretched and puffy and red, with drool oozing down his chin. Shouto chokes on his cock yet keeps working it like the greedy slut he is. He ignores the tears running down his flushed cheeks and the snot mixing with his spit and Enji's pre-cum. His face looks dazed and Enji knows Shouto's brain is mush right now: the only words blaring in there are "COCK" and "DADDY" and "DADDY'S CUM". Exactly the way Enji wants him. It's what Enji's taught him ever since Rei had disappeared from the house, eight years ago-and his youngest cock-sleeve has grown up to be exceptionally great at giving head. The most talented at it since his mother. «Take Daddy's spunk, you slutty boy!» Enji says through gritted teeth as he feels himself getting close. He rips Shouto's mouth off him, gripping his cock and stroking himself quick and harsh until his balls draw up and he's throbbing in his own fist. «Open up and say— fuck!— thank you!» Shouto whines, swollen lips parted and tongue lolling out, waiting to be fed. It's enough to push Enji off the edge. With one last stroke, he's cumming, the thick ropes of seed landing on his son's eager tongue as well as on the bridge of his nose and his left cheek. He milks his orgasm to the last drop, staring down at Shouto with a dark glint in his eyes as the boy slurps up all the cum sizzling on his face. «Thank you Daddy...» Behind him, Present Mic's voice calls for Shouto's name.

#todocest #enjishouto #todoroki enji | endeavor #todoroki shouto #bnha #rarepair #funkys fics #guess who randomly decided to change theme of this blog lol #and to post the fics I've written since The PurgeTM #maybe #I honestly forgot how annoying it is to format here from AO3