#and other complex forms of abuse and manipulation

[shadelorde]

paraphrased from a conversation I had on Bluesky but actually the more I think about it the more utterly insane it is that the major thing Korra is hated for is losing the past avatars. You want to know HOW she lost the past avatars? by trusting an older member of her own family who then proceeded to GRAPHICALLY violate her and destroy an actual part of her in front of her with utter glee - but Unalaq isn't denounced as even a creep and no thought is given to any of the themes behind such a scene, it's just "how could korra let this happen??!?!?!"

life imitates art i guess.

[duffmckagans]

very excited for people to see how all of these characters have changed in subtle ways due to either maturity in nuance or dissatisfaction with the original portrayals, but i think i'm most excited for people to read about valerie this time. which, possibly may be because this book is centered around her, but i just feel like she's gained some good depth. all of her traits are still there, for better or worse, but there's definitely an added realism that i'm really proud of ♡ and i hope is better understood this time around.

[prythiansprincess]

DELIRIUM | a stalker! theo au.

"you're so fucking special; I wish I was special."

word count: 5,662.

warnings: please read all trigger warnings before proceeding. dead dove do not eat, noncon, murder, coercion, stalking, assault, manipulation, gaslighting, knife play, blood play, abusive behavior.

author's note: I don't say it lightly when I say that this fic is very dark. I fully understand that the topics and themes discussed are not for everyone, so please be mindful of the warnings before engaging. special thanks to @writingsbychlo for proofreading and encouraging my over all psychophathy.

♫ creep - radiohead. nav. stalker! theo.

There was something wrong with Theo Nott. 

Perhaps it was a result of his traumatic upbringing or perhaps it was simply encrypted into his genetic code, but whether nature or nurture was to be blamed, this simple truth was certain: a sick, twisted, and insatiable monster lurked within him and its hunger could be satiated by one thing and one thing only — you. 

In the deepest and darkest depths of his inky black heart, Theo knew that he was completely and utterly fucked up. This thing inside of him — this madness — rendered him incapable of forming healthy relationships. Time and time again, his passions and proclivities hinted towards a more sinister nature. Some called him deranged, delirious, delusional, but Theo simply thought of himself as a hopeless romantic. 

Theo was not the type of man to harbor a crush or entertain a fling or succumb to a fleeting infatuation that eventually faded over time. When he loved, he loved with his entire being. He loved until it became a fixation, a compulsion, an obsession. This has and always will be his fatal flaw. 

From a young age, Theo learned that he was not normal. When he presented Pansy Parkinson with the front teeth of the boy who dared knock her off the swings, that was not normal. When he gifted Daphne Greengrass the rotting carcass of a bird that had kept her up with the incessant tapping of its beak against her bedroom window, that was not normal. When he offered to carve the initials of Mattheo Riddle into his skin to prove his loyalty, that was not normal. 

Theo was bereft when his friends cried and fled from him, feeling distraught and disappointed by their reactions. After all, he had only done those things to make them happy. Why couldn’t they see that?

When his mother found him crying in the Nott Manor gardens, she explained to him that he was a very special boy. That his capacity for love would be misunderstood by those around him because they simply could not feel the way that he did. The intensity of his emotions surpassed their understanding; they didn’t know what it was like to be irrevocably consumed by love. His devotion could be misconstrued, his affection scorned, which is why it became imperative for Theo to shield himself from the world until the right person came along. 

So, he conformed, he adapted, he survived, but Theo knew it was only a matter of time before his carefully constructed mask slipped. 

In the back of a crowded restaurant, Theo swirled the glass of wine in his hand before taking a long sip. The waiter had recommended the red vintage, droning on and on about the quality of the 1978 Barolo Montorfino and the meticulous aging process of the Nebbiolo grapes to produce this particular bottle. Theo fought the urge to roll his eyes. He already knew all of this, given that the wine was produced by his family’s vineyard in the Italian countryside. 

The complex flavor danced on his tongue. On any other occasion, he might have savored the hints of cherry, roses, and truffle peeking through its rich-bodied profile, but Theo tasted nothing but ash in his mouth. Because across the rooftop sat the woman of his dreams, drinking and laughing and dining with another man. Theo gripped the stem of his glass until his knuckles turned white. 

Needless to say, the night was not going as Theo intended it to. It was supposed to be him feeding you little bites of tagliatelle, topping your wine off with a wink, and listening to your melodious voice recount silly anecdotes about yourself. Instead, Adrian fucking Pucey was blattering on like a bloody twat, failing to appreciate the goddess seated across from him. The stupid prick was probably too busy gauging whether or not he was going to get lucky tonight. As if Theo would ever let that happen. 

No, that simply wouldn’t do. 

Sure, he had enjoyed the game of cat and mouse between you over the past few months. Since the day you moved into the house next to his, there had been this constant push and pull between you. The flirtatious banter as he helped you carry your dresser into the foyer after he found you struggling in the yard, the freshly baked goods you presented to him as thanks after the fact, the shy way you smiled at him every time you crossed paths when you departed and arrived back home. 

Something awakened within him the second he laid eyes on you. Something dark, something dangerous, something that he thought was long buried in the depths of his depraved soul. 

It wasn’t all in his head. Hell, you had invited him in on that very first day. You wanted him there. You wanted him near you. You wanted him.

All the darkness that he tried so hard to push down seemed to resurface all at once. Suddenly, Theo found himself falling back into old old habits. Watching you through your bedroom window while you undressed, sneaking into your house while you were away at work, planting cameras in every room without your knowledge, and even going so far as stealing your lingerie. 

But Theo wasn’t stalking you. 

No.

He was merely keeping an eye on you. 

Clearly, you needed someone to look after you if you were putting your trust in a man like Adrian Pucey. You were too soft and sweet and innocent for this world. Theo wanted to protect you. In his eyes, Pucey was a threat to your relationship and there was only one way to deal with a threat — eliminate it. 

The opportunity presented itself after that sordid dinner. After dessert was served, Theo quietly slipped out ahead of the happy couple. Well, the two of you wouldn’t be happy for long. Not if he had anything to do with it. 

Surrounded by silence and darkness, Theo laid in wait until he heard the tell-tale sounds of the front door unlocking. He observed in quiet rage as Adrian kissed his girl. The door snicked shut, but the two of you barely noticed as you stumbled through the foyer, his lips sucking at your neck, his hands roaming underneath your dress, his cock pressing against your core as you mewled for him. Theo couldn’t stomach a second more of this. The sound of Pucey’s name falling from your lips was enough to awaken the monster within him. 

A sickening thud echoed through the house as Pucey dropped to the floor. With wide eyes, you scrambled in the darkness, blinking in disbelief at the sight before you. The silk strap of your dress fell from your shoulders at the abruptness of the attack. Your pupils, which were previously blown from desire, now shifted into fear. 

“T — Theo?” Disbelief colored your expression as you looked up at your neighbor. Dressed in all black, his tall and lithe form blended in with his surroundings. “What are you doing here?”

“You didn’t really think I’d let this prick weasel his way into your bed, did you?” 

You blinked in confusion. On the floor of your living room, Adrian nursed his broken nose, trying and failing to staunch the blood flowing through his fingers. 

“Do you know this asshole, Y/N?” 

“He’s my neighbor,” you answered. Theo’s face twisted in anger at your response. You cowered under his gaze and scooted backwards against the wall. “Theo, what’s going on? Why are you doing this?” 

Theo sneered. “Isn’t it obvious, bella?” Your blood ran cold when a flash of silver appeared in his hand. “I know why you went on this date tonight. You wanted me to fight for you, so here I am. I love you and I won’t let anyone keep us apart.”

“What are you talking about, Theo?” You cried as he stalked towards you. “I barely know you. We’re neighbors, just neighbors, that’s all.” You pleaded, begging for him to listen to reason. “Please, just stop this. You don’t have to do any of this.” 

“Shh, my sweet Y/N,” Theo cooed as he wiped a stray tear away with his thumb. His blue eyes bore into you with such intensity that it made you shiver. There was something lurking behind that dead eyed stare and you feared for whatever it might unleash. 

Theo caressed your cheek with reverence while you trembled in fear. “You just don’t know any better, cara mia. But don’t worry, I’ll show you how much I love you. I’ll protect you; I’ll keep you safe.” He pressed his forehead against yours. “I’m going to take care of this. He will never come between us again.” 

Before you could protest, Theo had already rounded on Adrian. The brunette threw his hands up as Theo pulled him up by his collar. “I almost feel sorry for you, you know,” Theo taunted. “You probably thought you were so smart, preying on someone as sweet and innocent as Y/N. You never deserved her.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Adrian retorted, crimson staining his dress shirt as he struggled against his captor’s hold. “It was just a few harmless dates.” 

“A few harmless dates?” Theo repeated in a mocking tone. “Christ, you can’t truly be that stupid, can you? You don’t even understand how lucky you are to have gotten the chance to be in her company. She’s a fucking goddess and you — “ Adrian groaned when Theo yanked his hair back to give him a proper view of you. “Well, you’re nothing.” 

“Look man, I don’t want any trouble. I didn’t know she had a boyfriend. I was just lookin for an easy fuck — “

Fury simmered in Theo’s gaze. The careless words that Adrian spoke cut you deep, but not nearly as deep as the blade that sliced his throat open. The crimson river flowing from Adrian’s neck bathed Theo in blood, covering his face, his hair, and his clothes. 

You screamed as Adrian slumped to the floor, his lifeless body discarded onto your cream rug as his vacant gaze stared at nothing. The gravity of his death sent a surge of adrenaline in your veins. You needed to get the fuck away, The instinct to survive kicked in and you darted for the door, but unfortunately, Theo was quicker. 

A strong arm wrapped around your waist, hauling you away from your only form of escape. You struggled in his hold, clawing and kicking and screaming as Theo dragged you through the living room. 

“You killed him!” You screamed while you continued thrashing. “He’s dead, you killed him, oh my god — “

“Don’t be like that, cara mia,” Theo said in a soothing voice. “I thought you would be happy. With our little problem out of the way, we can finally be together.” 

“You’re a fucking psychopath!” 

With a swift kick to the balls, Theo stumbled backwards which gave you time to frantically reach for your purse. The slick blood that coated the wooden floors now sullied your dress, but you pushed the thought away as you recovered your phone. As you tapped on the screen, it came alive with a bright light. With shaking hands, you tried to swipe up to dial emergency services, but the screen buzzed with static before completely dying out. 

“No!” You screamed in frustration as you pressed the dead screen over and over again. “No, no, no, this can’t be happening!” 

Behind you, Theo sighed and shook his head in disappointment. Crouching down before you, the warmth of his palm felt like a slap to the face as he cradled your jaw.

“You’ve been a bad girl, bella,” Theo purred. “I didn’t want to have to do this, but you’ve left me no choice.” 

Your eyes widened as he produced a set of handcuffs from his pocket. “No, please, you don’t have to do this. Just let me go and I won’t tell anyone. I promise.” 

“Let you go?” Theo repeated in a cold, menacing voice as he clamped the handcuffs over your wrists. “After all that I’ve done for you, do you really think I would be capable of just letting you go?” He tutted in disapproval as he tugged you towards the stairs. “You’re all mine now, you’re not going anywhere.” 

The short walk to your bedroom felt like a march towards death. You began to shake violently as Theo guided you towards the bed, instructing you to lie down as he tinkered with the handcuffs. Tears blurred your vision as your heart hammered against your ribcage. 

“Are you going to kill me?” you whispered. 

“Don’t be stupid,” Theo said with a scoff as he rearranged the cuffs and chained you to the bed. “You wouldn’t be any fun if you’re dead.” 

Fear gripped every fiber of your being in a chokehold. Theo leaned back and admired his work. The intensity of his gaze felt like a brand against your skin as he drank in the sight of you spread out for him. The silk of your dress was stained with blood, the fabric nearly see through from how soaked it was. 

“You’re such a pretty little thing all tied up like a present for me, principessa.” 

His blue eyes were nearly black as he gazed at you with unadulterated desire. The pale moonlight streaming through the window casted sinister shadows on his face. 

“If you’re not going to kill me, then what do you plan on doing?” 

“I’m so glad you asked,” Theo declared with a deranged smile as he brandished his knife. “I plan on worshipping every inch of your body.” The cold edge of his blade traced the curve of your jaw. “I plan on making you see God with my tongue, my fingers, my cock.” The knife continued its path down the valley of your breasts. “I plan on possessing you, owning you, and ruining you for every other man.” 

“You barely even know me,” you pleaded, shying away from the blade that now rested on the hem of your dress. “I’m not yours, Theo.” 

The air left your lungs all at once as his hand wrapped around your throat. The lack of oxygen made you dizzy and you grew limp against the bed, barely even registering the blade caressing your skin. 

“I’ll carve my name into your thigh if that’s what it takes to get it through your pretty little head that you are mine.” 

You coughed as he released his hold, disoriented by the sudden rush of air into your lungs. “Don’t touch me! Don’t fucking touch me, oh fuck —“ 

Your hips jerked at the sudden cold sensation between your legs. Theo watched in amusement as he pressed the hilt of his blade against your clothed core, drinking in the way you writhed underneath him. 

“What was that, bella?” Theo teased. “I can’t hear you over all that moaning.” 

Your cheeks burned with shame as you continued his ministrations against your clit. It was a purely physical response, but it felt like your own body was betraying you. This wasn’t supposed to feel good. You hated the way you reacted to his touch, his words, his gaze. You hated him. 

“You’re a sick fuck,” you yelled as you tugged at your restraints. Tears welled in your eyes again, but this time, you couldn’t tell if it was from fear or pleasure. “This is vile, this is evil. I hate you. I fucking hate you —“ 

Theo chuckled darkly as he tugged your panties to the side and slipped the hilt of his blade through your folds without warning. “Then why are you so fucking wet for me?” 

“I’m not!” In all your life, you had never felt more degraded and humiliated. The conflicting emotions warred in your mind, but the truth of the matter was that you had absolutely no control over your own arousal. “I’m not.” 

“You are,” Theo growled as the handle of his blade squelched in your slick. “But by all means, keep lying to yourself. In fact, I quite prefer it if you put up a fight. I like it rough.” 

You groaned, delirious with need as he fucked you with his knife. “When I make you cum, I know that I’ve earned it.” 

You bit down on your bottom lip until blood filled your mouth. The horror of the scene unfolding before you filled you with dread yet you couldn’t stop the moans and whines that escaped past your lips. When you looked up, Theo was transfixed by the sight of your greedy cunt taking his knife.

“That’s it, Y/N,” hummed Theo. “This will be a lot easier if you just stop fighting it. You want this. You want me.” 

“I — I don’t! I don’t want —“ 

“I —I don’t want,” Theo mocked. “How fucking pathetic. You can’t even finish that sentence without moaning.” He pulled out his knife and slid two fingers in without warning. His cruel laugh echoed in the bedroom when the sound of your slick filled the silence. “If you don’t want me, then why are you riding my fingers like this, hm?” 

There was no answer as he plunged the hilt of his knife into you again, stretching and filling you in the most delicious way. His thumb rubbed your sensitive bundle of nerves in tantalizing circles, pushing you towards the edge of pleasure. 

You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of an orgasm, but it couldn’t be helped. There was no stopping the intense pleasure that barrelled through your body. As you crested over the finish line, your vision went dark. The depravity of the act filled you with mortification and indignity. Theo, on the other hand, looked euphoric. 

“You’re so beautiful when you cum,” he whispered softly. 

You wanted to claw and scratch and hit him for the way he made you feel. Theo presented the knife to you with reverence. The blade was soaked in blood, but the hilt dripped with your cum. His tongue darted out and licked and lapped at your arousal with long, languid strokes as his eyes rolled back in euphoria. The way he moaned when he tasted you was obscene. 

“You taste so sweet,” Theo rasped in a choked groan. “Such a good girl for me.” 

This was beyond fucked up. 

Theo was beyond fucked up. 

You watched in alarm, waiting for disgust to overwhelm your senses, but it never came. Instead, your pussy clenched around nothing at the sight. What the fuck was wrong with you? 

Theo leaned over you, his brown curls brushing against your nose as he smirked. “Don’t I get a kiss as a reward for making you feel so good?” 

The absence of pleasure finally made you come to your senses. “Fuck you.” 

The depth of his blue eyes was swallowed by a void that threatened to suffocate you. The man before you transformed into a monster as he growled and held his knife against your throat. “Let me rephrase that,” he hissed as the blade nicked your skin. “If you don’t kiss me, I’ll slit your fucking throat.” 

You whimpered as the blade dug deeper into your neck, causing small droplets of blood to stain your sheets. Theo stared at you with malice, his face hovering a few inches from yours as he waited for your next move. His cool breath fanned over your skin while his lips ghosted over yours. 

“Please, Y/N?” Theo pouted as he blinked down at you through his thick, dark lashes. “Just one kiss, please.” 

It was apparent that he wanted you to make the first move. As if it would absolve him from this abhorrent act. As if it would exculpate him despite the threat he made on your life if you refused to comply. In some sick, twisted way, you knew that the second your lips touched his, Theo felt absolutely vindicated. 

The growl that crawled out of his throat was purely animalistic. It spoke of need, of desire, of lust that had simmered underneath the surface for far too long. The taste of you, soft and supple and sweet, was better than anything Theo could have ever imagined. His cock strained against his pants as he deepened the kiss, tongue sweeping over the seam of your lips to demand entrance. 

A part of you wanted to fight back, to pull away from him, but it was nearly impossible when he harshly grabbed your jaw and forced his way in. You opened for him reluctantly, but that was all he needed. Theo was the type of person to take a mile when given an inch. His hands roamed your body while his tongue massaged yours, moaning, panting, licking the roof of your mouth with unabashed glee. Theo squeezed your tits and gripped your hips and wrapped your legs around his waist. He felt like a dog in heat as he rutted himself against your clothed cunt. 

Fuck, he was so hard it hurt. 

Dazed and drunk with desire, Theo pulled away, his gaze sweeping over your kiss bitten lips and flushed cheeks. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” 

It was fucking horrible, horrendous, atrocious. You wanted the deepest pits of hell to open up and swallow you whole. Because that kiss had lit a fire in your belly despite your disgust for the man forcing himself on you. 

Before you could think twice, you reared back and spit right into his face. Theo blinked in surprise. You expected anger, but amusement greeted you instead. The motherfucker was enjoying this. 

“You’re a feisty thing, aren’t you?” Theo drawled as he unclasped his belt. The sight caused panic to grip you from all sides. “Don’t worry, principessa. I’ll fuck the fight right out of you. I will break you until you become the good girl that I know you can be.” 

“Theo please, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” you sobbed and begged. “Don’t do this, please.” 

Theo chuckled darkly. “You’re not sorry,” he said as he cut your dress open with his blade. “But you will be.” 

Exposed and vulnerable, you struggled against your restraints as Theo trailed kisses down your torso. His lips were a searing brand against your skin, sucking and biting and marking your skin as though he was staking his claim on your body. His deft fingers unhooked your bra and his pupils were completely black as he ogled your chest. 

With his lips latched around your nipple, Theo blinked innocently up at you. “I’m so fucking in love with you,” he murmured as he flicked his tongue over the stiffened peak. “You make me crazy, Y/N.” 

You moaned as he sucked fervently, losing himself in the heat of your skin and the scent of your perfume. Roses and vanilla. Sweet and simple, just like his pretty girl. Theo groaned as he lavished your other nipple the same treatment. 

There was such reverence and awe in the way that he touched you. For a brief moment, you forgot how truly vile he was because the second his fingers slipped inside of you and curved against that sweet spot, every ounce of common sense abandoned you. 

“I bet Adrian would’ve never gotten you this wet, huh?”

Your eyes snapped open at the reminder. Somewhere underneath you, Adrian’s lifeless body was still bleeding out on your wooden floors. “You’re fucking awful — o —oh —“ 

The involuntary whimper that crawled up your throat was pathetic, but you couldn’t help it. Theo had ripped your panties to shreds and positioned the head of his cock over your folds, teasing and taunting at your entrance as you continued to resist. 

“Theo, Theo, please,” you pleaded as he began to breach your cunt. You kicked your legs in the air and tilted your hips away from him, anything to keep him away from you, but it didn’t work. 

Theo held your hips down, his large hands forming bruises on your skin. “Stay fucking still,” he growled against your neck before biting down hard. 

Shocked, you stopped struggling and cried as the sting broke skin. Theo took the opportunity to push the head of his cock inside of you, making your eyes water from the sheer length of him. He was too big, it didn’t fit, it fucking hurt. But the desperate pleas seemed to fall on deaf ears as Theo fully sheathed himself in your warmth. 

“So fucking tight,” Theo grunted as he slowly dragged his cock out of your pussy, entranced at the way your bodies melded together, watching your cunt clench around nothing before slamming all the way in. Your teeth clattered together from the force. “Dio mio, you feel so fucking good. I want to ruin you.” 

Once more, he pulled out and pushed into your warmth, savoring the way you squeezed around him. The sensation made you dizzy with desire. Try as you might to fight it, every breach of his cock only stretched and filled you even more, the filthy sound of your pussy squelching with every thrust echoing in the room. 

“Wanted this for so long,” Theo grunted. “You have no idea what it’s been like for me, cara mia.” His hips snapped against your ass while he drove deeper and deeper, thick cock kissing the tip of your cervix. “But now I finally get to have you all to myself.” 

Your knees buckled, every brush of his cock within your snug walls weakening your resolve as he fucked you into the mattress. His pace was relentless, punishing, and it was all you could do to lose yourself in him completely. 

“Don’t fight it, bella.” Theo murmured as he hiked your legs up over his shoulders. “I could be so good to you.” He punctuated his statement with a slam of his hips. “I know everything about you. Probably better than you know yourself. I’ve watched, I’ve waited, I’ve wanted.” Another slam caused you to writhe and arch your back off the bed. “No one else could ever love you like I do.” 

A breathy moan pushed its way past your lips without your consent. Self-loathing made you flush with embarrassment; your body was betraying you in the worst way as your own slick dripped down your thighs while Theo angled your hips to sink in deeper. He had spoken true about knowing you better than you knew yourself, because he seemed to know how to caress you, how to kiss you, how to command you until you were teetering off the edge once again. 

His long fingers circled your clit, stroking the sensitive bud in the exact same way that he had watched you touch yourself over the past few months. Theo was diligent in every sense of the word; his studious nature pushed him to perfection. The focus in which he devoted into pleasuring you was singular. He was obsessive and possessive; he was determined to make this good for you. His pretty girl deserved nothing but the best. 

“You can’t deny that we’re a perfect fit,” he murmured, dead-eyed gaze drinking in the sight of him slipping in and out of you. You tried to avert your gaze, but Theo gripped your chun and forced you to watch. “Look how well you’re taking me. It’s like we were made for each other, my love.”

Words failed you at the heat of the moment and even if you regained the ability to speak, you wouldn’t know what to say. Theo took your silence for submission, his lips pressed against yours, tongue sweeping over your bottom lip while he pounded into you. 

The instinct to fight dimmed with each urgent thrust, buried deep within the recesses of your mind. All you could do was moan in pleasure and Theo eagerly drank in every gasp and pant and whimper, studying your face as though he was committing every detail to memory.

“Please, please,” you panted. You weren’t quite sure whether you were begging him to stop or urging him to continue, but either way, Theo seemed to know exactly what you needed. 

His kisses were open mouthed and filthy, swallowing your protests with the flick of his tongue. You jerked when Theo slapped your pussy, chuckling against your mouth before he kneaded his thumb against your tender nub harder and faster. 

“Theo —“ The realization that your climax was near filled you with both excitement and indignation. 

“Be a good girl and come for me, Y/N.” 

You clenched as Theo squeezed your throat in his fist, momentarily robbing you of oxygen. Somehow its absence intensified the sensations. The combination of Theo pushing his cock into you again and again while his thumb stroked your clit harder and harder sent you barreling over the edge. Waves of pleasure crashed over you, making your legs shake and your walls spasm around his cock. 

“Oh fuck,” Theo cursed, his resolve close to breaking. “Just like that, cara mia. Squeezing me so tight, milking my fucking cock dry.” 

Stars burst behind your lids as his balls slapped against your clit, coaxing yet another orgasm out of you. Your mind went fuzzy with static. A faint ringing echoed in your ears while you trembled and convulsed. 

“Such a good girl,” Theo grunted as he chased after his own pleasure. You were limp and boneless underneath him, unable to respond save for a pathetic whimper. “I’m going to fill this pretty pussy up with my cum, bella. You’re going to let me, aren’t you?” 

You started to shake your head, but Theo paid the action no mind. “Take it, cara mia,” he said forcefully. “Take my cock, take my heart, take all of me.” 

Your tits jiggled as he fucked you through his own orgasm, his thrusts growing erratic as he spilled his thick, hot cum inside of you. His eyes rolled back at the thought of filling you and stuffing you full of his seed. It overflowed past your sensitive, puffy folds and dripped down your thighs. Even when he pulled his softening cock out of you, Theo made sure to push it all back in with his fingers. You whimpered at the sensitivity between your legs as he leaned back to admire his work. 

Theo seemed to take pity on you, tutting at the red circles around your wrist. “M’gonna take the cuffs off now, okay, bella?” 

You nodded, trembling slightly when he finally unchained you from the bed. Theo cooed over your raw wrists, kissing and fawning over the sensitive skin. Taking full advantage of the distraction, you snatched the knife Theo had carelessly discarded by his thigh and drove the blade into his shoulder. 

Theo hissed in surprise, his blue eyes widening. “You fucking stabbed me,” he declared incredulously. “You really fucking stabbed me.” 

“Oh my God —“ you sobbed, regret flooding you all at once as your hands shook over the blade. “Theo, I didn’t mean — fuck, are you okay —“ 

The shock caused you to let your guard down, tears streaming down your face as the realization of what you had just done crashed over you. Despite the blade sticking out from his shoulder, Theo seamlessly switched positions so that you were straddling his lap. 

Your right hand was frozen in place, still holding the blade while shaking violently. You expected anger and fear, but Theo only flashed you a lovesick smile as he wrapped his slender fingers around your wrist. “Don’t be shy, Y/N,” Theo teased. “You can do better than that, can’t you?” 

You screamed as Theo drove the blade further into his shoulder, the wound splattering a rain of blood all over your face and hair. “Stop, stop it! Don’t. Theo, stop, please —”

Theo tilted his head and examined you with a curious expression. His gaze softened as you sobbed and trembled in his lap. In his silky voice, he whispered soothing words in your ear and stroked your back to calm your growing hysteria. 

“Aw, you’re worried about me? That’s cute, bella.” The timbre of his voice almost sounded proud. “I wouldn’t waste your tears, though. I'll be fine. It’s just a silly little nick. Besides, now that I’ve had you, it won’t be that easy to get rid of me.”

You gasped as his hardness poked against your ass. How could he be fucking hard at a time like this? There was goddamn knife sticking out of his shoulder, for fuck’s sake!

“Look at you, crying over me.” His voice was husky with need as he rolled his erection against you. It seemed that not even a murder attempt could faze the man underneath you. If anything, Theo seemed turned on by it. God, he was so fucked up. “It’s a good sign, bella. It means that you care. To think, just moments ago, you said you hated me, but here you are concerned for my well being.” 

You squeezed your eyes shut, refusing to listen to him speak. It only confused you more. Theo kissed your tears away and caressed your cheek. His violation of you earlier was a direct contradiction of the way he handled you with such gentleness and care, almost like you were something precious to him. You couldn’t reconcile the warring versions of him in your mind. 

“Please, stop,” you murmured as you tried to cover your ears. “You’re confusing me.”

“There’s nothing to be confused about,” he stated matter-of-factly. “Clearly, you care about me. Otherwise, you would have aimed for my heart.” 

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” you whispered in a broken sob. “I just wanted — I wanted —” 

In truth, you didn’t know what you wanted. It was all too traumatic and taxing to fully process. Theo pressed a gentle kiss on your forehead. “Shh, hush now, principessa. I told you, I’ll take care of you. You never have to worry about anything ever again. You can trust me, I promise. I would never let anything or anyone hurt you. I’ll kill anyone who tries. I love you so fucking much.” 

Theo gently pried your wrists away and kissed your fingertips. “You don’t love me yet,” he admitted in a wistful tone. “But you will, bella.” 

[leonstoenailunderhisbed]

American Psycho Killer

Summary: Leon S. Kennedy, a man who’s taken his duty of protection very seriously. He’ll do anything to ensure the safety of people, especially the safety of one particular girl.

Warning: stalking, murdering, mentions of planned murder, mentions of drugs and drug abuse, gore (kinda), death, masturbation (m receiving), smut, creampie, yan!leon, not proofread lol, fem reader, psychopathic.

A/N: I did my research for this as I wanted this to sound a little spooky teehee :3

[part two]

“I got you under my skin” - Mirotic, TVXQ!

Psychopath vs. Sociopath. The popular argument in between psychologists.

Leon never really cared enough to get himself checked out but there were signs. He didn’t feel empathy for others, his moves were calculated and he’s highly educated. He has a well paying career, he pretends to be this normal guy when in reality, he’s psychopathic.

What defines a psychopath apart from a sociopath? Psychopaths, at least in Leon’s case, cannot form established bonds with others. He doesn’t feel guilt or sad when he sees a person die by his hands.

His job already requires him to kill so this was an easy feat. He doesn’t care. He can’t feel anything.

He couldn’t feel anything until you came along.

Leon lived in this apartment complex just downtown of a city in the state. The apartment was big and had security cameras all around. It was well guarded and the people were kind.

When he saw the new neighbor move in, he felt weird. He narrowed his eyes as he watched you from the window of his apartment loft. He was growing suspicious at his behavior. Why did his chest feel warm? Why is his heart beating fast? Why are his hands sweating?

He didn’t know. Up to this point he didn’t feel anything but you brought something to him and it made him uneasy. So he decided to keep an eye on you.

Days passed after you moved in and you settled just fine. The old lady at the end of the hall brought you cookies, a sweet old lady. She talked to Leon a few times and he didn’t think much of her other than just as his neighbor. Nothing more.

But if you were to ask him what he thought of you? Oh boy, he thought a lot of things. Both good and bad.

Being a psychopath isn’t praised in society. Only 1% of the population is considered one and no one knew he belonged to that percentage. And he’d like to keep it that way; his excuse for his behavior was his job. He always left early in the morning and came back late at night. A manipulator and a liar is what he was, and a very good one.

He’s seen you leave your apartment from time to time. You’d take out the trash, went out with your friends- he’s seen everything you do.

Leon isn’t stupid, he’s attentive and observant. He leaves no trace behind of the murder he just committed. The male neighbor across from your door saw you one day when you walked out of your door with a short dress.

The man eye-fucked you so much he literally almost started drooling. Leon cringed and found him repulsive. How dare he look at you like you were some meat on the market?

He felt anger and disgust. No one should look at you like that. No one.

So, one summer day, he made up an excuse to visit him. Something about a water pipe connecting to his sink that didn’t make it work. Like I said, Leon is a good manipulator and a good liar. He always gets what he wants.

The male neighbor invited him in and closed the door behind him. He offered Leon a beer, to which he refused. He found liquor and other substances repulsive. He walked over to the man’s kitchen sink and began to inspect it.

He noticed the man’s sink had a garbage disposal unit. That’s pretty dangerous, he thought to himself.

He walked over to where the man was sitting. The male neighbor was sitting on his reclining couch as he watched a game with a cup of beer on the stand next to him. The neighbor was so engrossed on the football game that he didn’t notice Leon slipping something into his drink.

Leon was smart. Dangerously smart. He knew everything when it came to death- he worked in the DSO, of course he knew some things. He knew the effects of alprazolam and what it does to the brain.

So when he lied to a psychiatrist about his insomnia and got prescribed some Xanax, he crushed a high dosage into fine powder and slipped it into the man’s beer.

Stupid bastard, Leon thought to himself.

He watched as the male neighbor took a sip of his drink and Leon waited. Xanax is a powerful drug, can cause hallucinations and make your brain become a little too calm. You’re bound to fall asleep at some point. And with the amount Leon dropped into his drink, he knew he’d knock out sooner than later.

After a few minutes of “tinkering” with the man’s sink. He got up and went to check on the man again.

And sure as hell did the man find himself in a profound slumber. His snores layering with the sound of the TV.

Too easy, Leon smirked to himself. He put on some elastic gloves and made sure he wore shoes that wouldn’t leave footprints. In case things would get messy, of course.

He poured the man’s drink down the sink to get rid of the evidence. He then thought hard about how he should go about this.

There’s many different ways one can commit murder but Leon wanted the cleanest one. So he came up with one.

He brought pans to the stove and made it seem like the man was cooking something for himself. He partially cooked a stupid egg and left it there. Leon went back to where the man was sitting and dragged him out of his couch and towards the kitchen. Since this man’s place was small, the kitchen and dining area were joined together. He sat there man down on the dining table, which happened to be near the stove. He took out the man’s phone and put it in the man’s hand to make it seem like he was using it.

Leon went back to the kitchen and continued to prepare the scene. He took out bottles of alcohol the man had and poured them down the drain to make it look like he’d had a few drinks. He took a single cup from the cup rack and filled it up halfway. With the cup and bottle of whiskey in both hands, he walked back to the table where the man was sitting and laid them on the table. He took the half empty cup and smeared the man’s lip on the rim. You must cover every single detail.

He even poured a little alcohol into the man’s already parted lips. Leon walked back to the stoved and kept the gas on. Now all he needed to do was wait and let nature do its thing.

Leon walked out of his apartment, pretending to still be talking to the man since there was a camera on the corner of the hall. As the door opened, the camera couldn’t record that Leon had been talking to himself. It made the act believable.

With a smile, Leon walked back to his place and stayed there.

A few hours passed and it started to get dark outside, each resident was inside their unit and ready to go to sleep when the fire alarm began to sound. Everyone was forced to evacuate the premises as the firefighters came to the scene.

You saw as the ambulance brought out a stretcher into the building. Someone was still inside, you thought to yourself as your eyes widened and your heart rate increased. You tried to move but felt someone’s hand on your arm, it was Leon.

“Don’t. It’s too dangerous,” he replied in a serious tone as he stared at you with those cold blue eyes. You pinched your brows together. He was right. If you were to try and save the person, you’d die in the process. You nodded defeatedly and he let go of your arm. He stood there watching you- analyzing you.

You had a good heart, he thought. Too good for his liking. That made you an easy target for people and he loathed the idea of people exploiting your kindness. He vowed to protect you, to mark his hands dirty for you.

As the EMT brought back the stretcher, you could see a person lying there lifeless. All the other residents immediately started to mutter amongst themselves, some started to cry and others gasped in shock. You simply stood there, wide eyed and jaw slack. Leon’s expression remained unchanged as he watched you react to the man’s death. The man deserved it, he thought to himself.

Couldn’t you see that he was protecting you? You’ll come around eventually, he thought.

As the ambulance left the area, the firefighters started to clear the smoke as the police arrived. The police began to do their investigation as the firefighters checked the unit and deemed it good after clearing out the fire and the smoke. One police officer began to make her way to the apartment as the other stayed behind with the residents to ask questions.

Leon was a smooth talker. A trait most psychopaths had. He could get himself out of any situation and he could lie. So when the police asked him what had happened, Leon simply replied with, “I’m not sure. I went to his apartment to check his water supply as my sink stopped working and he lived next to me. I noticed he was making himself some food but I was too busy checking our pipes. He reeked of alcohol and barely spoke to me,” Leon’s tone was different. He sounded likey he spoke the truth.

You couldn’t help but listen to his words. To you, they are true. You saw him walk out of the man’s apartment.

The investigation was deemed as self-manslaughter. The police believed that the man suffered from deliberate alcohol poisoning which caused him to pass out in the process of cooking himself some food.

This made news headlines. Everyone believed the story but they thought the man was stupid enough to cook while he was drunk. Many of the residents believed it, he was a known alcoholic. Leon was never caught.

He was watching you from the window, months after the incident occurred. You had just come back from your college lecture. Leon knew. He stalked you, he followed you.

He knew your weekly routine. Monday through Thursday you had lectures. On Friday, you did work study. And the weekends were reserved for your personal time. He felt proud of you for balancing your life. You lived healthily and he couldn’t help but feel proud at your decisions. He knew you were smart enough to take care of yourself.

He knew the campus you went to, he knew the classes you were taking, he knew your major- he knew everything. But he pretended like he didn’t.

So when he saw you in the parking lot, right next to his car and you had trouble with your groceries, he couldn’t help but feel like your knight in shining armor. With his hardened expression, he asked you in his stern and serious voice, “Need some help?”

You smiled sheepishly and nodded, “Yeah… you don’t mind helping me?” You scratched your head awkwardly. On the inside, he found it adorable. But on the outside, he maintained his cool. He nodded and walked over to your car to retrieve the bags of groceries you bought. He was so strong he carried all the bags to your apartment door. You thanked him graciously and invited him inside.

“You can put them on the table, I’ll assort them,” you said as you took of your jacket and hanged it on the rack right next to the door. He nodded and walked over to the dining table, where he put all the bags with food. He took this opportunity to look around your place.

You kept it simple. It was nice, colorful, but nice. You had tons of books on your shelves, he took a mental note that you probably liked to stay indoors. He noticed the way your laptop and a few papers were scattered on the couch and coffee table, you were studious and dedicated to your education. He silently applauded you in his head. He liked that about you. You had goals and ambitions.

“Thank you, again. I owe you one,” you walked up to him and gave him a warm, genuine smile. He looked down at you and nodded again. Pretty smile, he thought to himself.

“It’s no problem, let me know if you need help with anything. I’m a couple doors away,” he replied with his usual serious tone. He remained unchanged, at least to you. To him, he felt like he about to combust into pieces. You were perfect, absolutely perfect.

Days went by and you found yourself talking to Leon more often. Or at least on the days you could. Leon was gone most of the day, he told you about his hectic work schedule and you couldn’t help but feel bad about him. So you decided to make him a small dinner with a note.

You left it on the front door of his apartment and walked back to yours. When Leon came back from work, it was 2:27 a.m. As he climbed up the steps of the stairs, he noticed something on his front door and felt slightly confused. He hasn’t ordered anything. He grew cautious and slowly approached his door. But then he saw your name on a sticky note. He quickly picked up the lunch box and walked inside his apartment.

Walking to his dining table, he read the note you left. Even your handwriting was perfect. The little swirls of the letters, almost writing in cursive made him want to keep you all to himself. He brought the piece of paper to his nose and sniffed it roughly, the paper crumbling in his hands as he could smell your scent on it. He groaned in pleasure as he could imagine your soft and small hands picking up a pen and write something just for him.

Just for him.

That thought alone almost set him off. He couldn’t eat dinner, not with the growing erection in his pants. He put the dinner you made in his freezer and quickly walked to his bedroom. He sat down on his bed and unbuckled his belt, throwing it somewhere on the floor. He pulled down his pants and boxers and watched as his cocked sprung freely, hitting his abdomen with a thwack.

His left hand held the piece of water with your handwriting and your scent while his right hand traveled to his cock. He brought the piece of paper to his nose again and closed his eyes in pure delight. Your scent was intoxicating- sweet vanilla with a hint of coffee. He grunted and moaned at the thought of your hands picking writing this note. He could picture your small hands wrapping his big cock, rubbing his base up and down as your scent infiltrated his airway.

His muscles tensed up as the thought of having you in between his legs made his cock throb. His stomach coiled as he felt himself nearing his orgasm. He could imagine your mouth sucking on his cock as he rammed his hips deeper down your throat, making you gag on him. He’d grab your hair and pull you closer to his pelvic area, having his blonde pubic hair rub against your face as you took his cock like a good girl.

He growled your name as he came in himself. White ropes shooting down at his palm as he tried to collect his cum and prevent it from staining any of his furniture. He sighed softly and laid his back on the mattress as he thought of you.

You drive him wild, he’d do anything for you. If it meant having you as his.

And that’s what drove him to kill more people. One day, he overheard you while both of you “coincidentally” went to get the mail from the lobby. You were speaking on the phone to a friend and he tried to make it seem like he wasn’t listening. But he was.

He heard you talk about how your ex is pestering you and giving you a hard time. That you cried last night because you two had an argument while he tried to get back together. His blood ran through his veins as you mentioned you cried.

He’d kill anyone who made this sweet and perfect angel cry. And that’s what his next murder was going to be. He went back to his apartment and began to stalk you again. As a government agent, he had privileges the common folk didn’t have. He was able to run a background check on you and found out your ex. To his surprise, he was your first and only relationship so far. He knew this guy probably broke your heart as your first relationship will always be your worst one.

He narrowed his eyes in anger as he found the man who broke your heart. And jotted down the information he had on him- his address, his workplace, his contact information, etc. Leon found everything thanks to his job.

When you heard news about your ex dying, you were shocked to see that he died from overdose. You’ve never known he was a drug addict, or at least that’s what Leon made it seem to be.

Leon drove all the way this man’s house and observed his routine. Your ex went to work, came back home, and went to the bar. An alcoholic, this made it easier for him.

Leon walked into the bar with his casual clothes, he spotted the man sitting on the bar counter with a drink already in his hand. He walked over and sat next to him as he ordered himself whiskey.

Your ex was already stupidly drunk, flirting up some poor girl who was just trying to talk to her friend. So he’s a creep too, he thought to himself as he took a sip his drink.

Why do you always find yourself around creepy and perverted men?

Leon looked around and made sure no one was watching him as slipped some stuff into his drink. Leon then continued to sip his drink and even chatted up the bartender.

The more your ex drank, the closer he got to an overdose. Turns out if you mix alcohol with prednisone, the effects could be fatal. Your ex would develop a liver damage that could potentially end his life if he kept drinking like he was right now.

It was getting late and Leon paid his tab. It was 11 PM and he decided he should go home. He wasn’t drunk, not yet at least. So he was perfectly capable of driving back to his apartment. But not your ex.

It was nearing closing time for the bar and the poor bartender saw your ex passed out on the counter. She didn’t know what to do but she tried waking him up.

Unresponsive. Her eyes widened slightly as she over to his side and checked for a pulse.

Flat line. She called the police and reported the death.

The police declared it suicide. They believed he voluntarily took drugs and alcohol at the same time.

In your mind, you were in denial but then you slowly began to think to yourself. He’s been acting weird and out of the ordinary when he’d talk about getting back together. It all made sense now. His aggressive behavior, his short temper… he was a drug addict and an alcoholic.

You attended the funeral, of course. And when you came back, Leon had been unlocking his door. He saw your puffy eyes as you had your heels in your hands. You looked like you’ve been crying- which you probably were. Leon paused as he stared at you, he nodded once at you, acknowledging your presence. He then spoke up in a tired voice, “Rough day?”

You nodded as you blinked slowly, “You could say that.”

He hummed in response and looked back down at his doorknob. Then he looked back to you, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Leon himself was tired as he just came back from a tough mission, but he would never be too tired for you. He pushed his exhaustion to the side and would rather take care of your needs for you.

You sighed and nodded slowly, “I could use a drink.”

He invited you over to his apartment and let you sit down on his couch as he took two glasses and one bottle of Jack. He walked over to the couch and set down the glasses and the bottle on the coffee table as he sat down next to you.

He began to pour for the both of you, not wanting you to work any more than you’ve already had.

“Cheers,” you muttered under your breath as you clanked your glass with his and chugged the liquid down your throat. The burning sensation almost making you forget about the mental strain you had.

He watched you as you set down the glass back down on the coffee table. Even in this state, you looked absolutely beautiful. He couldn’t wait to have you for himself. To prove to you that what you needed was a real man.

One thing let to another and you found yourself pinned under him on his bed. Your legs spread open as your knees rested on his shoulders. The head of his cock abusing your cervix, bruising it with brute force as he pulled out and pushed back in harshly. His balls smacking against your ass as his arms caged you under him. Your hands were on his shoulders, nails clawing deep into his flesh as the bed creaked from him pounding into you. The headboard hitting the wall behind the bed as he pulled out and forced his cock back into your tight walls. Your cunt clenching around his member as his hands gripped on your hair, forcing your head up so he could hear your stupid blabber.

He pulled out and rolled you over to your stomach. His left hand gripped on your waist as his right hand gripped the back of your neck and pushed your face down the sheets of his bed as he rammed his cock from behind you. Your ass jiggling as pounded harsher and harsher. Making sure you knew who you belonged to. He’d fuck you until you couldn’t walk.

You kept moaning his name against his pillow. Drool falling down your lips as tears rolled down your cheeks from the pleasure. You felt him even deeper from this position. His left hand gripped on your waist as it then traveled down to your ass and smacked, almost immediately seeing his hand print show in a pink and red hue on your skin. The burning sensation of the slap only made you more needy for his touch. His left hand found your hip and forced your body to clash against his as he fucked you straight to bliss.

Stars clouded your eyes as you whimpered and moaned. He cock throbbed and twitched inside of you as it stretched you. It hurt but it hurt good. His right hand gently squeezed the back of your throat, causing you to moan.

“Fuck- Leon- ‘mma cum-“ you spoke breathlessly in between moans and whimpers. He leaned down to whisper in your ear, “Cum for me,” he pressed a kiss on your shoulder blade as he felt you squirm under him. Your body convulsing as your orgasm took the best of you.

Your pussy clamped and clenched around him, wedging him with your juices. He didn’t stop, however. He kept pounding into you as the squelching sound echoed through his room.

He grunted and growled as he felt himself about to cum. He began to speed up and he let go of your neck. Now that both of his hands were on your hips, he gripped the fat of them and forced your body in and out of his cock. Bruising your cervix as your ass hit his hips. The sweat making your skin glisten under the shitty light of his room. You looked even more beautiful when he was fucking you like this.

His hot and sticky cum spurted out of his cock, coating your walls with a part of himself. In his sick and twisted mind, he branded you. He branded you with his essence and he didn’t regret it. He pulled out and heard you moan dumbly as he watched his cum slowly drip down the lips of your cunt to his bedsheet. He’d have to clean them but he didn’t care. He gave your ass a gentle squeeze as he patted your back for you to lay down. He knew you enjoyed it so much since you were on the brink of passing out.

You closed your eyes and felt as Leon cleaned you up. He took your hand and placed a gentle kiss on you knuckles. He was grateful to have you.

He wouldn’t mind killing again. Now that you were his in his mind, he’d go as far as killing every man who’s ever laid eyes on you.

For you, he’d become the world’s best serial killer.

[ciciyup]

Yandere! Jack Frost X Fem! Human Reader Headcanons.

cw: obsession, possessiveness, angst, stalking, abuse, power difference, kidnapping, manipulation, isolation, little nsfw.

━━━━━━✧ 🦢 ✧━━━━━━

When your family moved to that quiet neighborhood, winter had already turned everything white. Your mother, nine months pregnant, barely had time to settle in before contractions took her to the nearest hospital. You came into the world on a cold December night, with the snow falling gently outside. Since you were little, you got used to being alone; your parents worked a lot, so most of the time you shared it with yourself. You didn't complain, you enjoyed the tranquility, creating worlds in your imagination that made you see the world with a special spark.

Jack had always been a spirit that fed on the belief and imagination of children, but like many magical beings, he depended on pure faith. It was on one of those days when he saw you for the first time: you were alone with the company of the wind and the snowman you were beginning to create, far from the bustle of the other children playing in the street. He approached you curiously, discreetly helping you as he handed you snowballs, but it was surprising to him when you turned to look at him, thanking him. You could see it. You believed in him. This thrilled Jack, as you were one of the few who did. His first believer in a long time.

From that day on, Jack became your best friend. For long winters, he was the only one who accompanied you as you built snowmen, laughing and running through the snow together, skating on frozen puddles, chatting on cold nights where only the two of you seemed to exist. As you grew up, Jack became your constant companion, not just in winter, but in every season; he watched you silently, with a big smile and a special sparkle in his eyes. To Jack, you were his best friend. His only one.

The years began to pass faster than Jack would have liked, and with them, came the first blow to his heart. You no longer played in the snow like before. When he created little gusts of wind to call you, you simply closed the window and curled up with your phone in hand. You no longer ran excitedly out into the first snowfall or talked to him in the garden. The other guardians began to visit you less and less. The Easter bunny stopped hiding eggs in the garden. The tooth fairy no longer appeared because your baby teeth were long gone. Santa Claus drove by in his sleigh delivering presents, but you no longer seemed to feel the same spirit for Christmas. Even Sandman and the Bogeyman, though present in dreams and nightmares, were no longer a constant part of your life. Jack, on the other hand, couldn’t leave. He was the spirit of winter, yes, but more than that, he was your friend. Your companion. Your only one. Watching you change, watching you drift away, was a pain that seeped into his being like an icy blizzard.

As the years passed, Jack began to visit you less and less, but not because he didn’t want to. You had joined in on adult life; Now you had new responsibilities and much more complex problems than in childhood, which began to extinguish you little by little, taking away your childish innocence, giving way to new things and leaving you little time to enjoy the nostalgia of your days. Jack couldn't forget you. The image of you smiling as you raised your hands to play with the snow in the past winters remained alive in his memory. He knew that you no longer needed him as before, but both of you could still see each other; after all, deep down you never stopped believing. He knew that you could go back to the way things were if he just convinced you.

He began to observe you from afar, watching you leave your house every morning for work and then for university. He was always there, although subtly. Sometimes when you looked out the window, you felt a blast of colder air than usual or saw a frost forming that wasn't there before. Little snowflake shapes formed on your window when it was fogged up and even snow fell in one spot in the garden when you were in the yard. You didn't take it too seriously, minding your own problems, which annoyed Jack, causing him to increase his magic. He wants you to remember your childhood, to come back to him, feeling more and more desperate. He doesn't want to be forgotten. He can't. Jack begins to feel a deep emptiness, a feeling he's never experienced: abandonment. Without you, it's like he's losing his reason for being. Then his feelings darken.

What were once innocent little calls had now become disturbing calls. The streets were so slippery that you avoided going outside, staying in your house where he could see you. Some nights, when you went out with your friends, the winds became stronger and the roads became more dangerous. The storms became more aggressive when you tried to go too far. The power outages in your home were becoming more frequent than usual. And little by little you began to notice something strange; the frost marks on your window were no longer drawings, but words: “stay with me” “don’t ignore me.” Every time you tried to forget him, the cold in your room became unbearable, the icy fog crept into the corners of your room and your fogged-up mirror reflected more words. Even your breath became visible when the weather wasn’t cold enough for that.

The snow fell softly that December afternoon. You walked down the sidewalk with your hands inside the pockets of your coat. A few steps behind you was Jack, although invisible to everyone but you; he had to remain hidden still. He watched each of your movements and each of your expressions, but that afternoon was different. You stopped at the door of a coffee shop; Jack could see how your cheeks turned slightly pink and your gaze softened when, upon entering the place, a boy stood up from a table raising his hand in your direction. Jack gritted his teeth and held on to his cane tightly. A shiver ran down his spine as he saw you sit next to that boy and share a chat between laughs and smiles that seemed to have a hidden meaning.

Because Jack knew it. He knew how things worked in the human world. First it was just a friendship, then romance came, then you would have a partner, then marriage would come and finally children. Then you would no longer have time for him. You would no longer see him. You would no longer need him. Your image of a mother, a wife, in the arms of another, apart from him, drove him crazy. Jack had always been by your side; No one else knew you like he did. No one had been with you on lonely nights when your parents were working. No one had seen you grow, change, laugh and cry in the privacy of your room, only Jack. But this guy, this intruder, wanted to steal you away from him and Jack couldn’t allow it.

It started with small sabotages. No matter how mild the weather was that day, an unforeseen snowstorm always appeared when that boy was around. Soon the scale began to climb with unexpected accidents, your friend’s bike getting completely frozen in the morning, then it was a fall on the ice that left him with a twisted ankle and then came the fever. A sudden and severe cold that left him in bed for days, the doctors couldn’t explain it. You began to feel restless. All of this couldn’t be a coincidence, you knew it well. You knew who it could be about, but you didn’t want to believe it. Your faithful friend, the one who had accompanied you for so many years, doing something so cruel? It couldn't be possible.

It was a winter afternoon as you headed to your friend's house to visit him and check on his health when you saw him. Right in front of you was your old friend, Jack Frost. He casually approached you, trying to tell you about the good days you used to spend together years ago and how hurt he was that you had forgotten him, but you stood your ground, not playing along. That face twisted with falseness and that innocent voice he was using told you that there couldn't be any honesty in his words. Getting straight to the point, you tried to get him to react, telling him that what he had done was not right and wanting to know why he had done it. In return, Jack just looked at you with a disturbingly calm and cold face, wanting you to understand that he only wanted to protect you.

And in an instant the city disappeared. The buildings, the lights, everything faded in a white flash. When you opened your eyes, you found yourself in a completely different place. A winter wonderland stretched out before you, with frozen mountains in the distance and an almost nighttime sky covered in dancing auroras, but what disturbed you the most was the silence. There was no sound of cars, no voices, no trace of human life. They were alone.

Jack called it “your home” where from now on you would live together, without friends, without family, without responsibilities, where no one could bother them. He didn’t want to be cruel to you, but he had no choice but to lock you in an ice room when you tried to escape. Why couldn’t you cooperate with him? Why didn’t you love him like you used to? Now you could finally be together again; you had to be happy. You had to love him like he loved you.

Jack would keep you in that freezing cold room, even though it might look beautiful inside with snowflakes falling and crystals sparkling under the blue light, in reality it would be a cage you couldn't escape from. The environment would become even colder if you tried to do something against him, leaving you shivering until you apologized or showed submission. You wouldn't even try to escape again after the last time he had partially frozen your legs or arms, keeping you outside in the coldest temperatures until you learned your lesson, not even caring about your tears that barely managed to slide down your cheeks due to the cold, quickly crystallizing.

On the other hand, if you behaved as he wanted, you managed to win him to treat you more kindly, giving you warmer clothes or allowing you to move around a larger area and even leave the room for a while, under his supervision, of course. Even if you begged for your freedom, Jack would show false regret, but with a sweetly cruel tone, telling you that it was all for your own good. He would go so far as to force you to smile at him and talk to him lovingly without enduring your looks of hate or sadness, quickly getting annoyed that you ruined his mental fantasy of his perfect world, pressuring you until you acted the way he wanted.

It was lucky when a little bit of heat managed to permeate your body or the place; that's why, when his body begins to collide with yours, you feel a slight heat, which your body instinctively hopes won't end so quickly. As your body is laid back and your back makes contact with the ice table, Jack takes care of keeping your legs apart as he sinks into you with need. Lifting your legs over his shoulders, he gets to watch as his cock slides in and out of your opening. As you hold on tightly to a nearby tree and feel the snowflakes fall on your hair and make contact with your skin, Jack, behind you, while his pelvis hits your ass relentlessly and he listens to your panting become more intense, makes sure you know that there is no better way to stay warm than that.

His smile would widen tenderly when you slept next to him, wrapping you in his arms to comfort you from the same cold that he had imposed moments before to shorten the distance between you. Over time you would realize that that was the only place where you belonged, he was sure of it. He would do whatever it took to make sure you never left his side. Just the two of you, like in the beginning and like it should always have been.

━━━━━━✧ 🦢 ✧━━━━━━

[ienjoybeingahater]

Dean Winchester is the open wound in the body that is Supernatural. He is an infection that spreads until it poisons everything around him, no matter if It's a person or a plotline.

At first, he was just annoying and borderline abusive, something that could be explained by his upbringing, that could’ve been explored. There was potential for him to grow, to evolve beyond the toxic traits he inherited from John, to show that people can get better, that your upbringing didn't define you and for a bit, it seemed like he might. But as soon as he showed signs of becoming better, he ripped off the scab of progress and let the wound fester instead. Season after season, rather than improving, he got worse, getting more selfish, hypocritical, and abusive. Instead of healing, he became the rot at the show’s core.

The infection spread beyond just his character however, it consumed the entire narrative. Everything began to revolve around what Dean wanted, how Dean felt, and what Dean needed. The other characters stopped being people with their own agency and instead became tools, existing to serve and cater to his every whim. The story bent itself around him, sacrificing logic, depth, and complexity in favor of ensuring that Dean never had to face real consequences. It ruined the show’s potential. Instead of telling a story about how a bond like Sam and Dean’s (or even Dean’s relationships with Cas, Charlie, etc.) could help someone grow into a better person, they doubled down on Dean’s worst tendencies. Instead of evolving, he dragged everyone else down with him.

One example of how Dean’s toxicity didn’t just warp the narrative but completely destroyed a character is Castiel. Castiel represented something meaningful at the start: the idea that humanity, despite all its flaws, was still worth fighting for and that people can change and form their own opinions even though they've been controlled and manipulated before. He was proof that even among corruption and destruction, there was goodness that made it all worthwhile, that people can forge their own path if they believe in something and act upon said belief.

But, once the writers started throwing rotting breadcrumbs at the Destiel shippers, they stripped Castiel of his character and made everything about Dean. Instead of being a character with his own beliefs, struggles, and development, he was reduced to nothing more than an extension of Dean, an accessory whose only purpose was to suffer for him. And what did Dean do in return? Nothing good. He never treated Castiel as an equal. He constantly belittled and ridiculed him, acting as though Castiel’s sacrifices were either expected or irrelevant.

Castiel went from breaking free of heaven’s control, from questioning blind obedience and learning to think for himself, to willingly throwing himself into another toxic, one-sided dynamic where his needs and wants didn’t matter. He lost everything, his family, his power, his home, his life, and for what? Are we supposed to find it meaningful that Castiel’s entire existence was reduced to a last-minute, half-baked confession that Dean didn’t even acknowledge? That his death scene was brushed aside with no real grief, no impact, no weight? He deserved better than that but the writers decided it would be a good idea to have Castiel’s story amount to nothing. In the end, he was nothing but a footnote in Dean’s narrative, something that mattered for a few minutes before it lost its relevance.

But if Castiel was collateral damage in Dean’s story, Sam was the biggest victim.

From the very beginning, Sam had potential, potential for something beyond hunting, beyond the endless cycle of death and violence that consumed their lives. He had dreams, ambitions, and a future that should have been his. And every step of the way, Dean was there to tear him down. Long before the show even started, Dean was already keeping Sam small, making sure he never realized that he deserved more than a life of blood and misery. Dean wanted Sam trapped in hunting, dependent on him, tied to him forever and that pattern never changed.

He is obsessive and possessive, acting less like a brother and more like an overbearing owner who refuses to let Sam have any independence. The second Sam does anything without telling him, whether it's texting someone, making his own choices, or simply not answering a call, Dean immediately acts like Sam just opened Pandora's Box. He treats Sam’s autonomy as a threat, as if the moment he isn't constantly under surveillance, the world will fall apart.

But he's not just abusive he's also incapable of accepting his mistakes considering that Dean becomes aggressive and defensive as soon as they get brought up. Examples include breaking the first seal which was 'understandable because he got tortured', tricking Sam into getting possessed which was 'something he needed to do because he didn't want Sam to die' (no matter how much Sam wanted to), and locking Sam in the panic room to die because he'd "at least die human". Still, he never hesitates to throw Sam’s mistakes back in his face. Sam is never allowed to forget drinking demon blood, never allowed to forget trusting Ruby, even though she preyed on his vulnerability and caused his addiction to manipulate him. Dean also holds him responsible for being Lucifer’s vessel, even though that was quite literally decided by God. And yet, when Dean makes mistakes suddenly it’s not his fault, and everyone just needs to move on because they all made mistakes (especially Sam, apparently).

But Dean’s hypocrisy doesn’t stop there, oh no. Because when Sam was blamed for "freeing Lucifer," by mistake he alone was expected to fix it, but when Castiel knowingly freed Lucifer suddenly all of them needed to take care of it. The double standard is obvious and tells us the following: Dean plays favorites when it suits him, and when it doesn’t, he shifts the blame onto whoever is most convenient which more often than not, means Sam is getting blamed.

And yet, despite treating Sam like a scapegoat, he also treats him like a trophy, a possession, something he has complete control over. He needs to know where Sam is, who he's talking to, and what he's doing or he'll pretend like the world is ending.

But he doesn’t just control Sam, he's not just hypocritical and abusive, he also sabotages his storylines at every turn. I'm saying that because every time Sam had an interesting plotline, something that could have made the show richer and more compelling, something that could've made Sam stronger, Dean was there to ruin it.

Sam's demon blood arc? Reduced to a mistake Dean never let him forget about, rather than the complex story about addiction and manipulation that it could have been. Not to mention the fact that even before Ruby used Sam's grief to get him addicted Dean judged Sam for having the blood inside him in the first place; as if it was his fault Mary made that deal, as if Sam could have stopped yellow eyes as an infant.

Sam as the Boy King of Hell? Dropped without explanation and never picked up again (until years later for one minute that is). I personally think they dropped that particular arc because Dean would have been insufferable towards Sam during it which they couldn't do considering 'Dean is such a cool guy'. It was the same with Sam being psychic: Dean would never accept the fact his brother wasn't what he wanted him to be so the plotline was scrapped.

Sam's hell trauma? No need to explore it or show the lasting effects because Dean would be sad if Sam wasn't perfectly fine after his mangled soul got forced back into his body (by Dean, mind you).

Sam being suicidal? Why explore that if you can do other, more interesting things with Dean instead?

Even Sam’s relationship with Jack was downplayed. The parallels between Sam and Jack alone make it obvious that the relationship between the two of them should have been the focus of Jack’s introductory season. Sam, who spent his life struggling under the weight of what he was supposed to be, who was told time and time again that he was dangerous, that his powers made him evil, was the perfect person to guide Jack through the same struggles. But that wasn’t explored. The fact that Sam was raising the child of the man who abused and controlled him, the child of the being that essentially destroyed Sam's life and psyche even though he was probably scared to death every time he saw Jack wasn't explored either.

Jack’s entire story should have revolved around his relationship with Sam, the person who treated him with kindness, and who tried to help him even though his father was, like I said, the being who abused him for centuries. Their relationship should have been so much more but it wasn’t and why?

Because they needed to shove Dean into Jack’s story instead. Even though Sam was the one who treated him with kindness, who defended him, and who saw him as more than just a weapon, the writers made sure to include forced bonding scenes between Dean and Jack so that they could pretend Dean had always been the father figure. I'm sure they did that so Destihellers and the writers could pretend Cas and Dean were Jack's parents even though everyone who watched the show should know that isn't true no matter how much certain people might want it to be.

Alone the fact that Dean threatened to kill Jack should make that obvious.

The sad thing about all of this is that Sam was supposed to be the main character but when fans decided Dean was cooler, the writers catered to them instead of telling a story about the person that's objectively more interesting.

So in conclusion, Dean Winchester wasn’t just a toxic character; he was an infection that spread through the entire show, warping the story, ruining the characters, and dragging Supernatural down with him. Every plotline, every relationship, every moment of potential was sacrificed so that he could remain the center of attention. The show could have been so much more, but instead, it chose to revolve around the worst thing in it: Dean.

(I will make separate posts about Sam and Castiel as well)

Side note: I wrote this at 3 a.m. because I couldn't sleep and saw people waxing poetry about Dean on Twitter.

[spr1ngbunnypvrin]

William Afton isn’t just some mindless, constantly-angry killer who’d murder you for fun. That interpretation misses so much of what actually makes him dangerous, fascinating, and frustratingly complex.

1. He’s Not Just a Murder Machine—He’s Calculated

William isn’t impulsive when it comes to violence. If he ever hurts someone, there’s a reason behind it. It’s methodical, not just some blind fit of rage.

He’s more likely to study you, understand you, get inside your head first. If he does anything, it’s deliberate.

People think he’d instantly kill someone for being annoying, but honestly? He’d probably just toy with them instead, just to see how much he can make them squirm.

Obsessive & Perfectionist: He’s the type who gets hyper-focused on his work or personal ambitions, sometimes to an unhealthy degree. This perfectionism can make him impatient, but he expresses it in subtle ways (lip biting, tapping fingers, slight fidgets).

Calculated & Manipulative: He knows how to act around people to get what he wants. He can be charismatic, even likable, but there’s always an ulterior motive behind his actions.

Theatrical & Expressive: He has a dramatic flair, enjoying control over situations like a director in a play. He loves to monologue, exaggerate, and sometimes even make light of serious situations with a dry, unsettling sense of humor.

2. He’s Morbidly Curious—And He Loves Oddities

You have weird habits? Strange fascinations? A bizarre way of thinking?

He’d find it fascinating.

He doesn’t judge—it intrigues him. He’d probably even encourage it, just to see what happens.

He enjoys things that break the norm, just like he does.

I imagine if you ever said something wildly strange or dark, he’d just grin, tilt his head, and go: “Oh? Now that’s interesting… Tell me more, love.”

3. He’s Got a Temper—But It’s Not 24/7

Cold but Not Emotionless: He’s not constantly angry, that's exhausting but he does have a temper—it's just more restrained. He won’t throw screaming fits, but when he does get mad, his words become sharper, his tone lowers, and his presence becomes suffocating.

When he does get angry? It’s controlled—the kind of anger that’s low, quiet, and dangerous.

The kind that freezes the air rather than erupts.

He wouldn’t yell like some unhinged lunatic. He’d just go dead silent and look at you like he’s considering what to do next.

But also? He moves on quickly—he doesn’t waste energy on useless outbursts.

He doesn’t lash out like a wild animal—he makes it hurt where it matters most.

In The Fourth Closet, when he pushes Elizabeth, it’s not just random anger—he’s frustrated because she’s challenging his patient, and in his mind, she’s supposed to be obedient. It’s a very controlled reaction, not a wild fit of rage. That moment highlights an important part of his character—he’s obsessively driven by his projects, often to the point of neglecting or dismissing others, even his own daughter. Similarly, in the FNAF Movie, when he yells at Vanessa, it’s because she failed at something important to his plans. He’s not just shouting for the sake of being loud—he’s expressing his displeasure in a way meant to intimidate.

(I dont justify his actions at all, please don't misunderstand what I just said.. Emotional neglect, dismissiveness, and outright physical aggression (like pushing Elizabeth) are absolutely forms of abuse. Just because William isn’t constantly yelling or physically violent doesn’t mean he isn’t abusive in his own way. I think what makes his character unsettling isn’t just the moments where he lashes out, but the neglect itself. A parent who consistently ignores their child’s attempts for attention, especially in favor of work, causes deep emotional damage. Elizabeth clearly looks up to him and desperately wants his approval, but he doesn’t even acknowledge her efforts. That kind of neglect can be just as harmful as verbal or physical abuse because it makes the child feel invisible, unworthy, or only valuable when they serve a purpose (which is sadly what happens with Elizabeth, since she later tries to prove herself in a way that leads to her death). So no, his actions aren’t justified. His obsession with his work and his cold, dismissive nature don’t excuse the way he treats his children. It’s just that I don’t see him as an over-the-top, constantly raging person—I see him as someone whose form of abuse is more quiet, neglectful, and manipulative, only resorting to physical aggression when his control is challenged.)

This actually reinforces my view of him: he’s not someone who yells all the time, but when he does, it’s deliberate, meant to assert dominance and control. He’s usually calm, but when things don’t go his way, that controlled façade cracks just enough to show his true nature.

So, while he can be harsh or even physically aggressive, I don’t think it defines his entire personality. It’s just another tool he uses when he deems it necessary.

4. He’s Not Some Slobbering Creep—He’s Playful & Sharp

The way some people make him a gross, weird, breathing-down-your-neck type of creep is so off.

No, no—William is suave, smooth, and dangerously charming.

He’s the kind of guy who’d say something suggestive just to see you react, then laugh if you get flustered.

If he does make you uncomfortable, it’s probably because he enjoys watching you squirm in a way that’s more of a game than a threat.

He’s not crude or sloppy—he’s theatrical. If he’s messing with you, it’s got style.

5. If He’s Attached to You, You’re in Trouble (But Not the Way You Think)

If he actually cares about you? That’s where things get interesting.

If you do something unexpected, something that no one else does—say, staring into his eyes without fear or responding to his darker nature with curiosity rather than horror—he pauses.

That’s when the game changes.

He wouldn’t just discard you like nothing. He’s possessive, protective in his own twisted way.

If he ever threatened you, it’d be more like: “Oh, darling… do you really think I’d ever let you go? Now that’s adorable.”

He’s not reckless with people he values—he wants to keep them. And keeping someone means keeping them safe.

6. If You See Him—Truly See Him…

This is rare.

Most people see the mask, the charming businessman, the clever engineer, or the cold killer.

But if you look at him and acknowledge all of it—the brilliance, the obsession, the monstrosity—and don’t shrink away?

He won’t know whether to be amused, impressed, or unnerved.

7. Detached from Empathy but Not Without Affection

I don’t see him as someone completely incapable of forming attachments, but his way of caring is… unconventional. He values intelligence, loyalty, and those who intrigue him. If he ever gets attached, it’s more out of fascination than traditional love.

Mannerisms & Speech:

He has a very controlled, deliberate way of speaking, rarely raising his voice unless absolutely necessary.

He enjoys wordplay, sarcasm, and theatrical gestures, sometimes speaking as if he’s on a stage.

When amused or intrigued, he bites his lip or taps his fingers—small tells that betray his emotions.

His anger is quiet, slow-building, and venomous, rather than loud and explosive.

He’s a Man of Control, Not Chaos

A lot of portrayals of William Afton make him overly aggressive, constantly angry, or even abusive shit the fuck out of the reader for no reason (no, but seriously, some things are ridiculously unreasonable????), which doesn’t make sense for his character. The same goes for making him ridiculously flirty to the point of being creepy or writing him as someone who randomly snaps between extreme moods like he’s bipolar.

While William is definitely a complex character with a dark side, he’s also highly intelligent, manipulative, and calculated. He wouldn’t just scream at people 24/7 or lash out for no reason—that's out of character. If anything, he’s more of a controlled, strategic person who hides his true intentions well. If he does get angry, it would likely be in a more subtle, terrifying way rather than constant outbursts.

I personally think his character is more interesting when he’s written with layers—someone who can be charismatic, eerie, and even charming in a way that makes people lower their guard. Making him one-dimensional (either just rage-filled or over-the-top flirty) takes away from his depth.

The scariest thing about William isn’t that he’s loud or violent, but that he’s unpredictable, eerily patient, and always watching. He’s not someone who wastes energy on constant outbursts—he calculates, waits, and acts only when necessary.

Some people write him as this chaotic, rabid, constantly-violent monster. But really? He’s a man of control.

Control over himself.

Control over others.

Control over whatever twisted goals he’s pursuing.

And that’s what makes him terrifying—because he knows exactly what he’s doing.

William Afton doesn’t just seek fear. He seeks power. And sometimes, the most intoxicating power is the control of someone who refuses to break.

If you stand before him, unafraid? If you play his game with equal cunning?

Then he might just fall into his own trap.

[tealmagicmoon]

I wanna talk about Puppet and Eclispe’s abusive friendship because it IS abusive.

These two hot messes trigger watchers defence mechanisms constantly.

Let take their main unhealthy coping strategies shall we.

Eclipse:

Self-isolation (both physically removing himself from people, relationships and situations as well as emotional removing himself from a situation)

Defensiveness (being a dickhead so he can either get more control over a situation usually in the form of makings people uncomfortable or self-conscious.

Puppet:

Self-deprecation (talking bad about herself to elicit sympathy from others so she doesn’t have to address the issue at hand and can make others do it for her)

Saviour complex which she uses Manipulation tactics to get what she wants.

They get each other stuck in negative loops a LOT. In practically every episode Eclipse Isolates himself which triggers puppets saviour complex so she uses manipulation usually glass lighting and guilt ripping with a slide of humiliation. This triggers Eclipses defensiveness which then triggers Puppers self-deprecation which makes Eclipse to feel bad so he get even more defensive and the loop continues.

Another example is from the resent episode:

Puppet’s self-depreciation, suicidal thoughts and her phrasing mades Eclipse’s feel guilty and took him by surprise which triggered Eclispe’s defensiveness. Eclipse being rude to her then triggers her more which triggers eclipse more and we’re in a loop.

Their a mess your honour and I love it. Suck amazing writing I’m obsessed. <3

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Consequences | One

Word Count: 4.9k~ | Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, dark, medieval-canon sexism, heavy dub-con/noncon, mean Aemond, manipulation, abusing power, gore, blood, violence, major angst, oral (m receiving), Aemond being a possessive horny weirdo with a power complex, a dash of religious guilt if you blink

Series Masterlist

It was then the Prince had insisted that he had wanted her for himself. For her maidservant duties of course. 

The other maidservants were delighted with the new gossip, tittering amongst themselves at the reasoning that the One-Eyed Prince had taken a special interest in the new maidservant for which they’d come up with all sorts of reasons. 

Perhaps it was because of her pliant, quiet nature and she could slip into the chambers largely unnoticed and one wouldn’t be able to truly see her presence until she spoke. The other women had often described her as such. That she was like a shadow, silent, but always looming behind someone else. That she was like a breeze, gentle and discreet, as every maidservant should be in the presence of her master.

Or perhaps, they speculated, that it was because of another, darker reason. That Prince Aemond intended to make some fun for himself and torture the poor girl with his mere presence and shrinking stare with his one good eye, the other sapphire one on full display, rooting fear into the shy, young thing. That he wanted someone to torment, as he had so often been tormented himself and found the power behind it exhilarating.

Nobody could have expected the true reasoning behind his newfound desire for her company. Not even she herself. But the other maidservants were at least grateful they no longer had to enter his chambers.

Having only Prince Aemond to run after was a nice change of routine, albeit a strange one. For a man who had requested she be at his beck and call, he was rarely ever in his chambers past the morning. Usually, he could be found in the training yard for hours on end, and it occurs to her that this is how he’s managed to build the form he has, by mercilessly pushing himself to his limits for hours everyday. It must be hard work, she thinks to herself. 

He would only return in the early evening, to prepare himself for supper and then once again later for his bath and then bed. It was a rigorous routine, but it was nice to have some consistency in her life for a change. 

One morning after placing her week’s wages into the pocket within her pillowcase, she smoothes down her apron over her maidservant dress, intending later to send some of the copper coins to her young siblings, for without their parents to provide, as the eldest it landed to her and her alone to care for them.

Everyday she thinks of them and how they had begged her to not leave them in the care of the smelly widow from next door after their father had finally succumbed to illness. Her younger brother had stomped his feet, with each thump he would say 'she smells like cabbages' and the young woman would bite back her laugh, tell her brother that he was to be polite to their neighbour and that he was not to mess with the purple plants at the front of her home, or else she’d have him for supper.

She’d kissed her younger sister, the middle child, but several years younger than her, on the crown of her head and gave her a sad smile, apologising that such responsibility had fallen onto her at such a young age. Her sister had given her a tight hug, not wanting to play the big sister and fall into the endless cycle of domestic prison that could be seen once the eldest had disappeared. But she’d eventually relented and let her older sister depart for her new position in King’s Landing. With a warm wave, she’d boarded the stuffy carriage with other smallfolk, using all of her coin for the passage there and bid them goodbye.

She said she would come back for them.

And at the time she meant it.

It filled her stomach with dread and fear, to know she may never see them again, doomed to live her life in the manner of which she was born as a peasant to do. To do the same dirty, back-breaking work, day in and day out, for the same measly copper she was paid until the day her legs gave out. Or perhaps until they found no more use for her.

At least she could give them funds, she thought. 

Only a week had gone by, but she felt as if she could walk the short distance to his chambers blindfolded. She always knocked, but in the middle of the day, he was never there. So when she swings the chamber door open and shut behind her, she goes about her usual duties with a contented sigh. 

His chambers were usually always clean and not so much in need of excessive housekeeping. Once his bedsheets were made, the cotton taut to the corners of the mattress, she moves onto her cleaning duties. The fireplace needed a good dusting, so she takes her outer skirt and tucks it into her apron to keep it out the way and turns up her sleeves over her elbows. She’s used to getting dusty and grubby in her work, but fireplace work with soot and the burning stench is possibly her least favourite.

Suitably covered in soot, she continues to sweep up the black dust into the bucket beside her, wiping her face with her clean forearm, fingers too dirty to brush that stray curl from her face, so it hangs there annoyingly. 

“Working hard as always, I see.”

His voice makes her hairs stand up on end and had she not been head first in the fireplace, covered in soot and blackened ash at her cheeks, she might have been less embarrassed. But her cheeks flush at her dirtied appearance and she is immediately stood to attention, brushing whatever she can off her apron.

“Your grace, I apologise for my appearance,” she blubbers hurriedly, clearly distressed.

Aemond stands at the doors and she is amazed to find out that she didn’t even hear them open in the first place. He must have light footing, which surprises her since she has seen him train so aggressively and knows that hefty, adept and quick skills are needed for such activities. He wears his usual black leather doublet, hands behind his back as if he is hiding something and that signature lob-sided smirk he seemed to wear whenever he had found his little maidservant in his chambers. 

She is now accustomed to his trained silences in between conversations and has come to understand that it is because he is thinking so deeply about something that his mouth cannot move at the same time. And yet, he stands, basking in the uncomfortable feeling he gives her, rather enjoying it and letting his eye wander over her. He pauses and smiles wider at seeing her outer skirt tucked into her apron, showing the cream skirt underneath and when she notices, she quickly plucks it out and lets it fall around her ankles. 

Aemond lets the chamber doors close behind him, striding past her for the side table where the wine decanter sits. He moves past her with such speed that the stray curled strand of hair wafts a little in the still air. She cannot deny the aura this man has and the sheer authority he gives off, despite not being the first born of the King and Queen. Every time he enters the room, he commands the space and everyone in it with little but his gaze and even now, she stands where she had been, dirtied hands clasped before her, waiting for him to address her, command her, anything.

Emptying the first cup of wine, he sighs, tongue darting out to fetch the stain of it from his lips and he looks upon the petite little maidservant, waiting patiently.

“Continue.” 

She need not be told twice. Instead of tucking her dress back into her apron, she folds it behind her as she kneels before the fireplace once again, collecting the ash and old logs to fill her bucket, replacing them with new ones for later in the evening when the fire will be lit.

Aemond thrives in her obedience. The way she just does as she is told without speaking. So polite, he thinks. So as he sits in his armchair, shamelessly watching her, he finds he cannot tear his eye away from her profile, how soft her features are for someone who works doing such arduous and menial tasks everyday. He thinks her hands must be calloused, but when he looks upon them, they look so soft.

She had a profile that would rival the ladies at court. If he told her to wear the right dresses, hold her head high, keep her mouth shut, she could be his lady.

But he will certainly not say such things to her.

It may give her ideas above her station.

As she sweeps the soot off the tiles, he watches the way her body moves with the effort, the way her lips are parted in concentration. Such little, pink lips. 

He taps his finger against the cup, biting on his cheek when he feels the pained strain of arousal in his breeches. Such an innocent little maidservant, obedient and pliant. He knew from the moment he saw her what to do with her. What he could do with her. The week following their first meeting, Aemond had barely had his cock from his hand, tugging it as he thought of the way she always calls him ‘your grace’ with a flush to her cheeks. The way her eyelashes flutter when she strikes a match to light his candles. And today, seeing how she is dirtied and bent over the fireplace, he thinks why wait, he could just have her right there. Why wait.

The question becomes more difficult to answer the more he looks at her.

She stands with the bucket heavy in her hands, making towards the door.

“Wait.”

And his cock twitches in his breeches when she does, looking back at him with those eyes, the ones he imagines glazed over with lust, looking up at him as he fucks her. His tongue pokes his cheek as he stands, taking his time while walking towards her, not missing the way her grip tightens around her clasped hands out of nervousness. 

He scans her face as he stands before her, blackened soot smeared across one of her cheeks, making the colour of her eyes look as if they are illuminated by light.

He swears he could spill right into his breeches as his hand reaches out to her cheek and her lips part to let a puff of surprised air out. His thumb brushes her cheek, wiping away the soot and he finds his own lips part at the feeling of her warm skin against his hand. 

Although his touch is warm, she can feel something akin to fear pool in her gut and something else she does not quite understand. A shiver also runs down her spine when his hand twists that stray curl between his fingers, as if intrigued by her.

She can quite literally feel her lungs contract when his thumb brushes against her bottom lip, barely breaching them, but collecting the wetness that sits at the waterline. He watches her little pink mouth, reddened and wanting. He wonders what her mouth would feel like wrapped around his cock, fingers threaded in her hair to guide the rhythm to his liking. Would she like it? Would she swallow his spend like the good little maidservant she is? Was she a maiden? Aemond knew she was. And for some reason, it made him want her even more, knowing that no other man has had her, or would ever have her like he wanted to. Like he would.

Her eyes never leave him the entire time, frozen in place, pupils shaking and breath slow, quiet and scattered. Aemond wonders for a moment if she is standing there, cunny wet at the thought of him, at his actions. What would her slick taste like mingled with his? He finds he can't wait to find out.

She breathes again when he steps back, drawing his fingers away from her skin, leaving behind the hotness of his touch.

“Leave.”

Is all he commands. She swallows thickly, her mind busy at what had just happened. But she takes her chance when he has turned around to refill his cup, the bucket clanging in one hand as she allows the chamber door to shut behind her.

Should she tell someone? Hedi perhaps? Should she tell them that she fears that Prince Aemond has unclean intentions, but she fears even more if that assumption is even warranted. He had not been unkind to her, nor had he been particularly kind in any way either. But he had no need to be, she was a lowborn servant and he was a prince of the realm.

She could not disappoint her siblings by risking this job and not sending them money. Risking their lives for a silly little thought of Prince Aemond’s intent with her? Based on no real evidence?

She couldn’t.

So she steadied her breath and instead resumed her duties, largely ignoring that gnawing pit in her stomach. Fearful thoughts knocked upon her mind, and she couldn’t help but feel it deep in her bones.

She should have listened to her gut. She now realises.

Having lit the fireplace for his return after supper, she sat on the cold, flagstone floor with a needle and thread in one hand and one of his black doublets in the other, fixing the frayed hemming. The heat of the fire licked at the side of her face, warming her soft features as she delicately did her work, faintly humming the only song she knew the words to in her head.

Aemond had come back to his chambers in a mood, quickly shutting the door behind him so hard that it seemed to rattle the very Keep. At once, her wide eyes looked up and she stood to attention, hands clasped, and a timid ‘your grace’ from her lips, softer and quieter than she realised. 

He looked absolutely livid, shaking with rage, fists clenched so hard that the knuckles were white and pale. His mouth was taut in a thin line and even his scar managed to look angrier beneath the leather of his eyepatch, one good eye was still, unnaturally so. His chest inflated with silent breathing, trying to calm himself down. In the several weeks she had been attending to him, she’d come to realise the depth of his frustrations for various reasons, but never daring to step beyond her station to ask why.

She breathed as quiet as she could, as if she were in the dark and someone dangerous was looking for her. For a moment, his eye flitted to the floor and then back to her. Briefly, she thought he was looking at the doublet she was fixing, but it took her a moment to realise he’d been looking at her, dragging his gaze over her form. This fact alone sent gooseflesh on her arms and a shiver down her spine, unable to tell if this feeling was fear or not.

With a low hum, he stalked over to the side table for a cup of wine as he often did, thinking that he would dismiss her shortly, not knowing the aching arousal that he was trying with all his might to conceal. He stood for a moment, not saying anything as he sipped the spiced wine, allowing himself time to decide what to do. She was right here, his obedient little thing, nervous with gooseflesh on her skin and cheeks a dusty pink. 

He turned around to look upon her, warring with himself.

Out of sheer nervousness, her tongue darted out to wet her lips.

And that’s when Aemond decided. He needed to have a taste of the little maidservant. Or rather she would have a taste of him.

He stood before her, tall, broad and all encompassing, and she waited to be addressed. He simply glared down at her, as if angry, but in truth the hold he had on his own reins were slipping by the second with every breath the little maidservant let free. He finished his cup of wine, sighing as he looked upon her. 

“Take your braids out,” he commanded. 

She blinked, unsure if she had heard him correctly. But when he raised an eyebrow, she took a steadying breath and reached behind her. Not one to refuse a Prince and a passionately angry one at that, she pulled the two pins that kept her braids in place away and tucked them into her apron. She looked down as she began to unravel them, one by one, the hair coming apart in waves around her shoulders. Once all the hair was freed, Aemond hadn’t moved an inch and she flicked her hair over her shoulders to run down her back.

Aemond sighed quietly, looking over her in this new state, hair loose and shockingly casual. He was intrigued to see that the rest of her hair, like the wayward curl at the side of her face, was also wavy from the braids she’d put in everyday. And he wondered if the beautiful patch of hair that framed her cunny would be the same. He hoped so. And he wondered what the heady scent of her sex would be like, if it would be addictive and once he’d had it, would he be able to stop?

She stood there, eyes averted to the fire and Aemond watched as the flames danced off the colour of them. His breath shuddered with anticipation, watching her pulse thrum in her neck.

Placing the empty cup on the mantle, he cannot hold back any longer.

“Kneel.”

She looks at him again, now her eyes spell confusion. Does he want her to kneel to prove her obedience? She doesn’t know. 

Her lips part, “pardon me, your grace?” she says in a whisper. 

“I will not ask twice,” he barks back almost immediately.

She swallows thickly and smoothes her hand over her apron, tucking the dress beneath her knees as she obeys, slowly sinking back to the floor. She clasps her hands before her, not sitting back on her feet, eyes trained to one corner of the room to ignore the fact that Aemond’s thighs are right before her. She can feel her heart thumping in her chest and she is sure he can hear it as well. It was like she was hiding, waiting for someone to come and find her.

She flinches when she feels his thumb and forefinger grasp her chin, the touch is light but determined and he pulls her head up to look at him. From this angle, Aemond can see all her delicate features and with her lips parted, he sees the wet inside of her pink mouth, warm and inviting. All for him. He can feel his cock needing relief in the tight confines of his breeches and the urge is beginning to overpower him.

“You are my good little maidservant, are you not?” he asks, voice low and commanding.

She can feel her breathing struggling against the front of her dress and she dare not look away.

Finding her voice, she can all but whisper, “Yes, your grace”

He hums lowly, his thumb travelling up to her lips, dipping the tip of it between them. His fingers still cradle her soft jaw, keeping her where he needs her, while the flat part of his thumb finally slips across the warm muscle of her tongue. Aemond holds back the desire to outright moan at the feeling of it against his skin, collecting the wetness of her saliva against it, moving forward to completely allow his thumb to be enveloped by her hot mouth.

All the while, she keeps her eyes on him, afraid to look anywhere else. She feels strange, like a constant chill is making its way around her body, overtaking every nerve and replaced with a kind of dark, gnawing ache. It halts in her gut, where she feels it the heaviest. 

After a moment, he pulls his thumb free and coats her lips, making them glisten. He wonders if his spend would look as good as this smeared all over them. If she would be good, and dart her tongue out to lap it up.

Powerless to hold back any longer, Aemond hands move to the laces of his breeches, his pupil blown wide with lust at the innocent confusion on her face. 

“Now, sweet girl,” he says, the name making her hairs stand up on end, “will you be good for me.”

Again, not a question, more a demand. And she is so shaken, all she can do is nod. 

“Have you been with a man, sweet girl,” he asks, as he pulls his cock from its confines, using his hand to give himself a few pumps, the tip, red and glistening with early arousal. He already knows the answer. Just wants to hear her say it.

She shakes her head softly. “No…your grace,” she answers with a shake in her voice. She tries to avert her eyes from this member, hard to attention right before her.

One corner of his lips turns up at her bashful nature. One hand threads through her hair, right at her neck, not tugging but not letting go either. She gasps at the action, now unable to move her head. 

“Good.”

He holds his cock in one hand, aching to bury himself in her mouth. But he holds his animalistic desire back, for the sake of not scaring her too much.

“Open your mouth.”

She obeys, pushing her embarrassment aside for the sake of politeness to her prince. Her lips part to open her mouth, still unsure of what he will do, her innocence skewing the reality of what's happening to her.

"Wider," he says, now just a low whisper, “that’s it, sweet girl” he coos as she does so.

She cannot say she has seen a man’s parts before and now that she has, if he does intend to do what she thinks, it’s unknown if it will even fit. The thickness of it combined with the length daunts her slightly. As he taps the tip of his cock against her glistening lips, she grips her dress tighter, more out of embarrassment and nerves than anything else. Who would she be to refuse the orders of a Prince anyhow.

His fist tightens in her hair as he slips his cock past her lips, only halfway in he feels her tensing up at the foreign feeling, “breathe,” he orders quietly, “through your nose”.

She whimpers at the uncomfortable feeling and wishes not to see anymore, so she shuts her eyes tight, attempting to do as he says and breathe through her nose. His taste is strange, salty and yet not unpleasant. His member is warm and heavy in her mouth, despite not being all the way within and she can feel her mouth aching to accommodate his sheer size. His fingers are tight in her hair, an attempt to hold himself back, and she whimpers around his cock at the feeling of the tugging of her follicles, the vibrations of her mouth against him make Aemond tip his head back just slightly. He sighs at the feeling of her warm, wet mouth squeezing him so deliciously and he holds back the desire to deliver his spend right into her there and then.

Once he feels she has sufficiently calmed down, relaxed her jaw, Aemond sheathes himself all the way in, briefly touching the back of her throat, making her whimper around his cock again. Her hands fly to his thighs to push him back for reprieve, but he is much too strong for that and he only tightens his fist in her hair more.

Without waiting a moment longer, he cants his hips against her mouth, sliding in and then out slightly, enjoying the friction her mouth gives him. He sees that she still has her eyes shut, hands tight on his leather breeches now and he gives a shuddered moan, tipping his head back all the way now, losing himself in the feeling of fucking her mouth, guiding the rhythm with the hand that’s in her hair. 

Caring not that she is a maiden, he hastens his pace and her little whimpers are becoming too loud for him to really enjoy this.

“Quiet” he demands, much more spitefully than he intended .

And she is. Which makes him even more aroused than he could possibly be right now. So obedient. Just the good, sweet girl she is. 

At the ache in her jaw, tears begin to pool at the corner of her closed eyes and fall in thin lines down her face. Aemond is lost beyond control, his thrusts sloppy and unforgiving as he feels the tight, wound up pressure of his peak creeping up on him at breakneck speed. He dares to look down at her, accepting his cock into her mouth like a cunt, his shaft now wet with her saliva and thrusting into her with the soft beat of his hips. His other hand comes to the side of her face, using his thumb to wipe the streak of her tear away, before he uses it for more leverage.

He’s never felt more powerful in his life. To have such control over someone he so fervently lusts over. It’s other-wordly. And he has no intention of stopping, not as long as she continues to be the malleable, sweet little thing she is now.

His thrusts cease, and he presses his hips right against her mouth as a strangled and uncharacteristically loud moan escapes his throat. He can feel his spend shoot at the back of her throat, and her flinch when she also feels it. But doing as he says, she makes no sound. Not until his cum begins to pool in one corner of her mouth and only then does she emit the tiniest of sounds. He can now hear the hurried breathing out her nose as she waits for his next command.

Aemond allows his breathing to even out, savouring the look of her, eyes softly shut with his spend and cock in her mouth, before he slowly pulls out. Her lips tightly shut when he does eventually vacate her mouth.

“Look at me”

She can feel something dripping down her face and when she looks at him, he looks a different person entirely. Breathing ragged, hair slightly tousled, looking nothing at all like the prim and proper royal she is used to. Her eyes are glazed, cheeks a dusty pink from the efforts of what he’d done. She waits.

“Swallow”

Assuming he requires her gaze still, she looks between his eye and eyepatch and to the best of her ability, swallows the strange, salty and thick substance in her mouth. She thought it wasn’t unpleasant, the taste of it, but that her jaw ached and she felt the gnawing agony of shame sink in through her skin. Aemond moans outright when he sees her throat bob and her deep exhale after she’s obeyed. 

He uses his thumb to collect the line of spend that had leaked from her mouth and puts it back into her mouth, humming at the sight of depositing it against her tongue. She need not be told, and she wraps her lips around the digit, sucking whatever she can off of it, before Aemond is sure that it is clean and pulls out. She shuffles where she is knelt, her knees now aching from the stone, and she feels the slick between her legs as she does so, coating the inside of her thighs. And it confuses her. What is this strange sensation, seeming to come from nowhere, deep and ancient. 

Aemond sighs contently and stuffs his softened cock back into his breeches. 

“Leave. Now” is all he says to her, not sparing her a second glance as he strides towards the side table once more for another cup of wine.

With a shaky breath, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, still being able to taste the heady, potent taste of his spend. Scrambling to her feet, she dare not look back to him, fearing that the shameful belief within would intensify if she did.

Once the door was shut, she wipes her cheeks of any remaining tears and takes a moment to recover, trying to understand how she feels, what just happened, and what this means for her. Is she a maidservant or a whore. Perhaps she is both now. Living two separate lives for him once the sun has gone down. Does she enjoy the duality of it, she cannot say either way. All she knows is that she cannot possibly refuse him and that she’s not sure if she even wants to. The wetness between her thighs may sway her in one direction, she fears.

She offered up countless prayers to the Mother. For forgiveness. To make her understand. 

But the Mother never responded. 

General Aemond Taglist: @risefallrise​ 

Consequences Taglist: @iiamthehybrid @manitskatrina @dahlias-and-marigolds @okfashionista @the-common-cowgirl @toodlesxcuddles  @darkenchantress @magnificentdelusionr  @tinykryptonitewerewolf @tssf-imagines @mandiiblanche @xdeath-soulx

[bittersuitejacobs]

• an unhealthy obsession •

{Nate Jacobs/Original Character}

Ophelia is no stranger to wanting. For most of her life it's all she'd been allowed to do, trapped on the outside looking in, window shopping for normal experiences. Ophelia is also no stranger to obsession. Books, movies, TV shows; a terribly ill child who never even had the chance to make a real friend, she took what she could from fiction. All she'd ever wanted growing up, the thing she obsessed over, was someone who could save her, from her life, from herself. Someone who could make her feel alive.

So when her attention is caught by a beautiful, awful boy with a saviour complex, Ophelia vows not to remain a stranger to him either, no matter the cost.

Ophelia may no longer need to be saved, but Nate Jacobs makes her feel so damn alive, so she will turn herself into the kind of girl he wants, needs, and obsesses over too.

• in which Ophelia and Nate are somehow not the worst things to ever happen to each other. •

Warnings: Explicit Smut, Mutual Obsession, Stalking, Manipulative Behaviour, Possessive Behaviour, Infidelity/Cheating, Drinking, Violence, Non-Consensual Drug Use & Sexual Assault, Childhood Parental Abuse (Medical/Psychological/Emotional). Chapters will contain specific warnings.

{ fic playlist }

+ IN PROGRESS +

[ Season One ]

1. spectacle

2. the slate cleaned

3. knight in shining armour

4. according to plan

5. unexpected ink

6. daddy's angel

7. a week of turtlenecks

8. like and subscribe

9. dirty little secret

10. praise kink

11. deja vu

12. little black dress

13. fight flight fawn freeze

14. the aftermath of violence

15. boot theory

16. i quite enjoy ruining your day

17. mutually assured destruction

18. detriments of the modern age

19. justly serv'd

20. sanctuary

21. paper stars

[ Season Two ]

22. resolutions

23. bpm

+ ...

[ Alternate Universe ]

cool for the summer

Nate's been best friends with Lee Chase for as long as he can remember, and Lee's little sister Ophelia has always been... there. The best thing about her is how easy she is to ignore.

But everything changes between them when Lee and his dad go to Fiji for the Summer before their Junior year, and Nate and Lee's moms decide to spend that time holidaying together up the coast, taking the rest of their children with them.

So now, much to Nate's chagrin, he's forced to share a bed with his best friend's sixteen year old sister, who he's barely even had a full conversation with before in his life. But he quickly realises that she's bolder than he gave her credit for. Maybe it's a good thing her brother's on the other side of the world.

Warnings: Explicit Smut, Possessive Behaviour, Underage Drinking, Ongoing Parental Neglect/Emotional Abuse, Compulsive Over exercising as a Form of Self Harm, Mental Healthy & Unreality Struggles. Chapters will contain specific warnings.

1. Reintroduce

2. Reinvent

3. Recontextualise

4. Reconfigure

5. Realise

6. Revitalise

7. Reiterate

8. Reconnect

9. Restring

+ ...

Posting of completed chapters for the main fic will begin in the next few days.

Posting of the AU will begin after Chapter 10 of the main fic and will alternate.

THE TAGLIST IS ALWAYS OPEN !

(just message or comment to be added; I'll add you to the taglist for both unless you let me know you only wanna be tagged for updates from one)

[zkaus]

Why are so many obsessed with Armand?

I suspect that for many, it's because Armand is such an unusual and highly complex character. He's challenging.

A rare integration of sympathetic yet horrifying, violent yet passive, powerful yet pitiful, intoxicating yet repulsive. Resulting in one hell of a unique character!

Even more fascinating is that his motivations and choices, seem entirely hypocritical and self-defeating His behaviour reflecting his unstable sense of self, an identity both tumultuous and brittle. He admits to being entirely unable to perceive and define himself, outside the roles he was forced to perform. That he is painfully aware of his own instability and insufficiency of self, is absolutely fucking heartbreaking!

Armand's entire existence has been lived on unstable ground. He's only ever known abuse of power differentials and highly conditional forms of love. Everyone that commodified or objectified him, carved away pieces of his sense of self until there was nothing left. They abused, shattered and re-molded him. Again and again. And those who didn't commodify his body, used him in other ways (eg. to enforce their extremist dogma).

“Who am I, Louis? Am I my history I have endured? Am I the job I do not want? I do not know anymore. No one has painted me in over 400 years.”

Armand was never given the chance to develop a true sense of self, and the resulting desperation he feels is bitterly plaintive, sorrowful and yet incredibly damaging to others. His perceived reality is one of impending cruelty, loss of autonomy, and inevitable abuse or abandonment. Where his identity is defined as either the dogmatic leader encumbered by rules he must enforce, or to be ruled over by another.

"If I’m not with him, I’m nothing.”

He's terrified of being alone, unmoored from another, because he doesn't know who he is without them. So Armand claws for affection and direction from those he perceives as a possible Master. Seemingly willingly relinquishing his leadership role... While still defensively scheming to retain power, and desperately clinging to the security of his own manipulations. While trying to shape an identity around the roles others (willingly and unwilling) create for him, but...

Who is Armand really?

Who is he apart from the roles others have assigned to him? It's a fascinating question.

From parents who sold him, to cruel sailors using his body for their pleasure, brothel owners further abusing him, to being purchased by a predator. A Master who gave him to others to abuse yet again, who cultivated undeserved adoration and dependency. A child's innocence, so destroyed, his entire identity shattered. Again and again. The slave child, the prostitute, the adoring apprentice, the cult leader, the Maîtré, the companion of Louis? Who is he as an individual?

He doesn't know. And that terrifies him.

I can't help but feel that if only someone, anyone had actually loved him (had taught him how love should be) he might have had a chance, might have become a better person.

Instead, he became a man scared and brutalized, now brutalizing others. Forced into enacting laws and beliefs which were not his own, forced into filth and worship of satan, in the service of an uncaring god. And when that was taken away, his cult shattered, his identity shattered. He fell back to the role of dogmatic leader.

Arun > Amadeo > Armand > Maître > ?

I've read the books, so I know that version of him very well. But the show version is even more complex in many ways, he has different layers to his story, and psychological nuances to unpack. And so many questions and possible directions for his character...

Who will he become now he has turned Daniel? What are his true reasons for first sacrificing, then saving Louis? What role did he play in the destruction of the Coven? How is Daniel so special to him that he would break his 500 year old vow? What does he want from Daniel now? Do they have a history together beyond San Francisco? How far will he go? Can he ever love anyone without maiming them? Physically and/or psychologically? What does love mean for him now that he has turned Daniel? Etc etc...

That's why he's so fascinating!!

[hrizantemy]

me when i hear people defend feyre attacking the lady of autumn by saying she didn’t mean to/beron was her intended target: … how … how is that better?

like okay we all hate beron but he’s still a high lord, still someone you invited to form an alliance/negotiate with diplomatically. in a court where you are a guest might i add. you are a child they all saw practically naked two days ago, now playing house with a man (sorry, male) who willingly or otherwise tormented them for the better part of half a century .. because he gave you a pretty crown? how does one expect these old ass fae to not be condescending or reluctant? i’d have asked her to let the adults do the talking if she was piping in every two seconds telling me what to think and how to act.

the high lords’ meeting is my roman empire because it’s one of those instances where you have to let your jaw hit the floor because in what world - except one where sjm expects everyone to love her blorbo’s for all their correct opinions and positions - did any of that work?? with no consequences?? in fact they’re rewarded for their behaviour: tarquin rescinds the blood rubies, everyone’s chiming in about how they knew rhysand was the good guy all along, no one cares about the high lord who is why they’re all free rn (okay feyre broke the curse — tamlin’s curse. tamlin killed amarantha. he is why rhysand is free to rewrite history and the others have a future) i’m surprised there wasn’t a scene where the lady of autumn apologises to feyre for being in the way of her attack smh

This is one of the reasons I cannot like Feyre. The justification that she “didn’t mean to” attack the Lady of Autumn or that “Beron was her intended target” makes absolutely no sense and, frankly, makes the situation worse. How is it any better that her recklessness and inability to control her powers led to an innocent woman nearly being killed? The Lady of Autumn was already a victim of Beron’s abuse and violence, and Feyre—who should, of all people, understand the trauma of being hurt or manipulated by powerful individuals—just becomes another threat to her. How is that defensible in any way?

Even if Beron was her intended target, that doesn’t excuse the collateral damage of almost killing someone who was completely uninvolved in the fight. Feyre’s powers are vast, yes, but she constantly wields them with this mix of entitlement and carelessness that makes her more of a liability than a hero. It’s one thing to make mistakes; it’s another to make catastrophic ones and have people excuse them as if the consequences don’t matter.

And let’s be real—Feyre is never held accountable for these actions. The narrative either brushes it off or turns it into another moment for someone to coddle her and tell her how amazing she is. Meanwhile, the Lady of Autumn is left to fend for herself, as usual, trapped in her abusive marriage, and probably now terrified of Feyre as well. The complete lack of responsibility Feyre takes—or is made to take—for her actions is one of the biggest reasons I can’t root for her. She’s not a savior; she’s a wrecking ball with a savior complex.

The entire High Lords meeting was, without question, a complete disaster. It was supposed to be this grand gathering where the courts would come together to ally against Hybern, but instead, it devolved into petty squabbles, veiled insults, and outright hostility. Rhysand, for all his posturing as the most “progressive” High Lord, walked into the meeting with an attitude so smug it practically dared the others to disagree with him. Tamlin, true to form, took the bait and immediately turned the whole thing into a personal grievance fest. Beron was his usual insufferable self, Helion was flirting, and everyone else seemed more interested in holding grudges than actually saving the world.

Nobody trusted anyone, and honestly, who could blame them? These are the same people who’ve been at each other’s throats for centuries, and now they’re supposed to just shake hands and work together? Rhysand’s attempts at diplomacy mostly amounted to thinly veiled threats, Feyre’s speeches did little to inspire confidence. It was all spiraling into chaos.

And then came Nesta.

Nesta, who was barely even acknowledged as part of the delegation. Nesta, who didn’t care about politics, alliances, or playing nice. Nesta, who was so angry, so filled with righteous fury, that her words cut through the nonsense like a blade. When she stood up and spoke about what Hybern had done, about what they would do if the High Lords didn’t put aside their differences and act, she commanded the room. She didn’t appeal to their egos or try to manipulate them; she just told the truth in the most raw, unflinching way possible.

Her speech wasn’t about Rhysand’s court, or Tamlin’s grudges, or Beron’s smug indifference. It was about the people who would suffer and die if they didn’t unite. It was about the horrors she had witnessed and endured. It was about the cost of their pride and their inaction. And for the first time in the entire meeting, there was silence.

That speech was the turning point. It was the reason the High Lords agreed to set aside their centuries of animosity and work together. Not because of Feyre’s attempts to “inspire” them, not because of Rhysand’s threats, but because Nesta Archeron reminded them of what was at stake.

And here’s the kicker: even after she was the one who secured the alliances they needed, the credit still went elsewhere. Feyre, Rhysand, and their crew walked away looking like the saviors, while Nesta was left on the sidelines again. The meeting may have been a mess, but Nesta was the only reason it wasn’t an outright failure.

Bonus mention: My man Thesan was the only unproblematic one at that entire meeting. He showed up, minding his own business, probably thinking, “I am a healer, not a referee for this soap opera.” While everyone else was busy airing centuries of dirty laundry, Thesan was out here like, “So… about that war threatening all our lives?”

He didn’t come for the drama, didn’t throw unnecessary shade, and managed to keep his court from looking like an absolute circus. Honestly, if I were him, I would’ve been this close to kicking the entire Night Court delegation out.

If anyone deserved to walk out of that meeting with dignity, it was Thesan. The man probably, sat down with a glass of wine after, and said, “Never again.”

[a-court-of-fics-and-errors]

Keep Moving Forwards, Part 10

Azriel x Reader Fic

Summary: After finally deciding to leave your abusive and manipulative mate for good, you find unexpected companionship with Azriel, the Shadowsinger of the Night Court. As you navigate the aftermath of your traumatic relationship, you struggle to understand where the mating bond went wrong and contemplate your path forward, vowing never to return to the past.

Find other parts here: Master List

To follow this fic, follow tag "Keep Moving Forwards Fic" or comment to be tagged in future parts.

Content Warning: This story contains depictions of extreme emotional manipulation and abuse, detailed descriptions of direct physical abuse, and scenes of men hunting women with implied sexual assault. Please read at your own risk.

Word Count: 4.2K

Author's Note: This is a multi-part series. Unlike my previous works, this fanfiction delves deeper than just fluff, exploring complex emotional landscapes. As I navigate this new writing journey, I kindly ask for gentle feedback. The topics addressed are profoundly impactful, touching many lives with diverse experiences. Please be gentle with yourselves and others. Healing is a journey, and everyone processes it differently. Be kind to yourself. Take what resonates, and leave what doesn’t.

Please continue reading, being aware of the above content warnings, ensuring you are in a healthy headspace. Give yourself time to process and be gentle with yourself.

The days moved slowly here, more slowly than you felt they had in the past. Feyre kept you well-fed, constantly bringing trays of various foods, all incorporating some form of berry, which you greatly enjoyed. She brought you fresh clothes, books, paints, and puzzles, and asked daily if you wanted to join her, but you felt resigned to simply thank her, confining yourself to your room—or more realistically, the balcony—where you spent your days sunning yourself and watching the city below. After about three days, Feyre finally insisted you join her. “It will be good for you,” she claimed after dropping breakfast at your door.

You obliged her, and as soon as you left your room later that morning and entered the hallway, you immediately felt watched and on guard. As you made your way down the hall, you noticed great portraits and paintings lining the walls, though you didn’t stop to take them in. You pushed through the opposite doors from where you had come in those nights ago. What greeted you was a large circular room, with steps leading down from every side to a sunken center area filled with sofas, pillows, and all forms of comfort surrounding a circular fireplace. Various other doors lined the sides of the room, which you assumed led to other grand hallways or rooms.

In the center of the room, down in the sunken sofas, sat Feyre, flanked on either side by two other fae females who resembled her. One on the ground held a pillow in her lap, donning a simple pink dress with capped sleeves. Her hair, the same flowing length as Feyre’s, framed a face without freckles but with brighter, rounder eyes. The other woman, curled up on the couch next to Feyre, had sharper features, with more angled eyes and a slightly pointed nose. She shared the same blue-grey eyes, and her hair was braided into a low bun. She wore a more modest dark grey dress with long sleeves that hugged her arms. When the door opened, all three turned to look at you. Feyre’s face lit up as she jumped from the couch, bounding up the stairs to you.

“You’re out!” she cried, grabbing both your hands. She turned towards the two other females. “These are my sisters, Nesta and Elain.” She gestured to the one with sharper features, identifying her as Nesta, and to the softer one as Elain.

You smiled politely and waved. Elain gave you a wide smile, her circular eyes growing larger as she did so. Nesta simply turned up the corners of her lips, still polite but not nearly as excited as her sisters. “Come, come,” Feyre urged you down the stairs.

Elain rose from her spot on the floor. “It’s so wonderful to finally meet you, Y/N.” She initially reached out for a hug but paused when Feyre shook her head lightly. Instead, she extended her hand to yours, and you shook it. Nesta did not rise from her seat, instead shifting over slightly and patting the area next to her for you to sit, which you did.

Elain, who continued to awkwardly stand, looked at you. “Can I get you anything? Something to eat or drink?”

You shook your head, a polite smile on your face. “No, that’s alright. Feyre’s already done too much this morning.”

Feyre gave you a reassuring smile. “This is actually Nesta’s house,” she gestured to her sister.

“Oh,” you said, “Well then I guess I should be thanking you for letting me stay here.”

Nesta waved her hand dismissively. “It’s no trouble. There are more rooms than I know what to do with, and we don’t even really use this wing.” She looked around the room. “In fact, I’m not fully sure I’ve ever actually sat in this room.”

You looked down at your hands curled in your lap. “It’s a beautiful house.”

Nesta simply shrugged. “It’s certainly grand.”

Elain resigned herself back to the floor, and Feyre took a seat next to you. Nesta continued, “If Rhysand had given me a say, I would have probably chosen something smaller.” At her statement, a book flew from the bookshelf behind you and slapped onto the floor. Nesta simply rolled her eyes, twirling a loose strand of hair between her fingers as she waved it off. The other two females didn’t seem taken aback by the incident, so you decided to let go of the fact that a book just fell from a shelf with no apparent reason. Then you processed what Nesta had said.

“Rhysand?” you asked.

Nesta looked at you, puzzled. “Yes?” she replied.

“Rhysand, as in High Lord Rhysand?”

Nesta’s gaze shifted to Feyre, as her puzzled look continued to play around her eyes. “Unless there’s another Rhysand, and some mother had the misfortune to name her son that, then yes, it’s the only one.”

You looked back towards Feyre, who suddenly had a blank look on her face. “This is Rhysand’s house?” you asked.

Nesta cleared her throat. “My house. Not his,” she said over your shoulder.

Feyre’s face softened slightly in an apologetic fashion. “Yes,” she said, “I’m sorry, I thought you knew.”

“You thought I knew I was sitting in the mansion of the High Lord of the Night Court?” you asked again, gesturing around the room.

Nesta stated again, “Not his house. Was his house.”

Feyre reached her hand to yours. “I think in the frenzy of everything, I may have forgotten to introduce myself.”

Your eyes widened at her. “I’m Feyre, High Lady of the Night Court.”

You paused, trying to process the information. “High Lady?” you asked.

She nodded. “There are no High Ladies,” you clarified.

“There have been since about forty years ago,” Feyre responded, “since Rhys and I became mates.”

Your brow furrowed as you realized who Feyre was and the power she held. You pulled back from her. “I’m so sorry, my lady,” you said, bowing your head.

Feyre waved away your gesture. “Oh, please, no. Don’t do all that,” she said.

Nesta let out a slight chuckle. “Stop it,” Feyre hissed at her. She turned back to you. “You don’t need to do all the niceties. I’m just Feyre.”

You paused again, staring at her. “High Lady of the Night Court. Mated to Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court.” Your mother had always taught you to bow or curtsy to any lords or males in power, and you assumed that sentiment extended to the females, if they existed, which apparently they did.

Feyre smiled. “I’m just Feyre.” She leaned forward, grabbing your hand in hers and rubbing the back of it.

“If—” you paused, “if I had known—”

Feyre interrupted you. “Then this would have all been a lot more awkward.” She smiled at you.

The world had long since left you behind after you and your mother retreated into the woods nearly 150 years ago when you were merely a child. One morning, she awoke you from your bed long before the sun was up, claiming the two of you were going on an adventure into the woods and that you had to pack up all your things to leave as soon as possible. You did so without thinking, excited at the prospect of spending prolonged time with your mother. It wasn’t uncommon for her to take you on camping trips in the summer, but the look in her eye and the frantic way she packed up random bags with your meager belongings alerted you to something deeper taking place.

Hand in hand with you, she hurried through the streets of the city, the bakers not even out of their beds and into their shops yet. You wiped the sleep from your eyes, puzzled. You had asked something, though you couldn’t remember what it was, but your mother simply looked at you, fear lining her eyes as she held a finger to her lips and hushed you. She had asked you to play the silent, sneak game with her—a favorite of yours when the two of you took day trips into the forest—where your mother would close her eyes, sending you into the foliage to silently sneak around until she opened her eyes to find you. You kept your tiny mouth shut as you took exaggerated tip-toed steps through the city, until you crossed out of the wall and escaped into the mountains.

As Feyre explained what had taken place over the last 150 years, from the enslavement of the High Lords under Amarantha to Feyre’s rescue, to the Battle of Hybern and her rise as High Lady, the birth of her son Nyx and the trials of her sisters, you sat in subtle awe at the world that had been unfolding around you while you were hidden in the mountains. Your mother had brought you to a small village, deep in the Illyrian mountains, where you lived off the land, accompanied by other fae and various creatures who all seemed to stick to themselves. Your mother taught you herself, and then, one night, when you were barely a teenager, she told you she had to go back to the city for something.

You begged her to take you with her, yearning for the city, but she wouldn’t allow it, claiming she would be back soon. Pressing your forehead to hers in a tender goodbye, you watched her pack a bag, sling it over her shoulders, and disappear into the woods. After a week of waiting by the windows each night, you began to worry. She had never left you alone since you came to the secluded village and had told you that neither of you could ever return to the city, but she wouldn’t tell you why.

When you finally had enough, you packed a bag with supplies and took off into the woods after her. But you hadn’t traveled far from the confines of your simple village since you first arrived, and you quickly found yourself lost, circling trees that all looked the same. You must have been out there for a week on your own before you finally collapsed from exhaustion.

You explained this all to Feyre when she asked where you had been living during this time. Her brow furrowed in confusion and focus. “You just lived in the mountains?” she asked.

You shrugged. “Yeah. Once my mother left and I was in the woods, a hunting party found me and brought me back to their camp. I stayed with them for a bit because there wasn’t anything left for me in the village. One of the hunters and I became close, and we lived together.” You paused, the words nearly choking you back. You didn't say mate. You were unsure how they would react to a female running from her mate, and you suddenly became concerned they might call on him to bring you home if they found out.

“How did you end up here?” Nesta asked.

You considered your answer. “I left the mountains to find somewhere new to start. The Illyrians found me, hunted me down, I fell, Azriel found me, and now I’m here.”

Feyre looked at you, clearly knowing there was more to the story than you were sharing. You were confident she knew what had happened to Anthea, but she could also tell you weren’t ready to talk about it yet. Instead, she threw you a compassionate smile. “We’re so glad to have you here.”

It was clear Feyre had told both of her sisters about your circumstances, as Elain placed her hand on your knee, squeezing it lightly.

It was Nesta who seemingly broke the moment. “So, now that you’re back in the city, is there anything you want to do?”

“I hadn’t much thought about it,” you said.

“I can’t promise everything is the same as you remember, but there’s certainly a lot to do,” Feyre added.

You smiled and shook your head lightly. “I’m not sure I’m quite ready for all of that.”

Elain nodded. “I understand.”

As Feyre explained all that had happened, you found yourself looking to Elain. Her face dropped slightly as Feyre explained the circumstances in which she and Nesta had found themselves to be fae. It seemed as though she was still haunted by the moments she spent in silence even those fifty years ago. You looked down at her, wondering if deep inside she still feared returning to that dark place where she went inside herself. You wondered if someday you too would sit with an unhindered feeling of the world.

You placed your own hand over Elain’s before Feyre said, “Well, I’m starving.” She rose from her spot next to you, Nesta glancing up at her sister.

“What do you have?” Feyre asked her.

Nesta rolled her eyes. “What do you want?” she asked, pulling her legs up to rest on the couch.

Feyre looked to you. “Any requests?”

You shook your head. “Whatever you think would be best.”

Nesta scoffed. “Literally just ask, and you shall receive.”

Elain’s eyes perked up slightly. “Nesta, do you still have the rhubarb?”

Nesta looked at her blankly. “Does it look like I would have done anything with it?”

Elain looked back to you, ignoring the sarcasm laced words of her sister. “Y/N, do you like rhubarb?”

You nodded to her and she giggled lightly. “Come on,” she gestured to you and her sisters, “I’ll bake us something.” Elain nearly skipped up the steps of the sunken living room, Feyre following behind as you lingered back with Nesta, who stood, running her hands down her dress to straighten it.

“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” Nesta said, her face still mostly blank, but the sentiment was genuine. If you turned back and went to your rooms, no one would force you out. But it was becoming harder and harder to spend time with yourself, and you felt it easier to push your mate's venom from you when you were around other people.

“Thank you,” you resigned yourself to saying before following the two other females up and out of the room. You followed them down another long hallway, this one with the same arched windows as the first hallway you found yourself in. Elain and Feyre chattered about something to one another as you made your way down, and when they pushed into one of the side doors, your breath was stolen from you as you took in the sight of the grand kitchen.

The oven and stove themselves must have been as large as the bed you slept in, with their edges all lined with bronze, the stove itself a glossy cast iron. The middle of the kitchen held a giant marble island, lined and full of fresh fruits and vegetables, some of which you didn’t even recognize. The ceiling above you was made of domed glass, allowing in the natural sunlight echoing off the mountain. Nesta pushed the door open behind you. “I don’t use this room much either,” she noted, making her way to the large white icebox, opening the white top and peering down into it, pulling out a jug of some sort of sparkling, purple liquid. Elain opened the cupboards lining the walls, pulling out various mixing bowls and ingredients, muttering to herself while Feyre positioned herself on a clear spot on the island, feasting on a carton of blueberries she had found. When Elain turned to see her sister clearly snacking, she cried out, “Hey!”

Feyre, wide-eyed, put the berries down next to her. “I promise,” she said, “I’m really hungry.” Elain scowled at her before turning back to the carton of eggs she had pulled out.

Nesta pulled down four glasses from the cupboard, popping open the bottle and allowing the swirling, glittering liquid to drain into them. She placed one on the counter next to Elain, handed one to Feyre and yourself, and took one for herself as well. You swirled the liquid in your cup, peering down into it. Feyre downed hers almost in one gulp before pouring herself another. Nesta seemed to savor it more. When you brought it to your lips, you were immediately met with the sourness of lemon followed by the sweetness of blackberries and blueberries with a honey aftertaste as you swallowed it, nearly melting into the cool flavor. You let out a groan of delight and Nesta chuckled. “I don’t drink anymore,” she said, “so I’ve resorted to finding other ways to enjoy myself.”

Elain, without turning, throwing various dry goods into a bowl without measuring, noted, “It’s the closest she’s ever gotten to cooking.”

Nesta rolled her eyes. “Turns out I have a knack for mixed drinks.” She smiled at you.

Elain seemed to bake faster than anyone you had ever seen before, and you wondered if it had anything to do with her new fae power. Before you had even finished your glass, she had already pressed pastry dough into a tin and was spooning a red filling into each one from the fridge. She opened the stove door and put the tins inside, wiping the powder from the dry goods onto her dress before sipping from her own cup. “Twenty minutes,” she noted.

Feyre scowled slightly and glanced towards the stove. Her focus on it sent a roar of flames up through the bottom as she turned back to her sister. “Five minutes.”

Elain sighed. “I wish you wouldn’t do that; it ruins the inner crisp.”

Feyre just shrugged. “I’m hungry, and the inner crisp barely makes a difference.”

Elain scowled at her. “To you,” she muttered before finishing her glass.

From behind the doors you had come through, you heard the sound of two male voices, speaking incoherently. You placed your glass on the counter before crossing to the other side in anxious anticipation, your heartbeat rising in your ears.

When the doors opened, a male with light skin and copper-toned hair walked down the steps, followed by another male with a similar skin tone to Azriel’s and sharper features. The copper-haired male wore a loose-fitting brown shirt with light-colored tan pants and a pair of riding boots, while the other male donned an all-black outfit, matching his slightly waved black hair. However, the copper-haired male had one eye replaced with a mechanism that whirred slightly. Feyre turned her head to the two, her feet lightly kicking the cabinet below her as she swung her legs. “What are you two doing up here?”

The dark-haired male sent her a conniving smile as he crossed the room to her, planting himself between her legs and placing his hands on either side of her thighs. “Well, Feyre Darling, when you told me that Elain was baking something, I couldn’t help but come investigate for myself.” He planted a smooth kiss on her lips as she smirked and pushed him back with one hand on his chest. Rhysand, you thought to yourself, the anxiety rising higher in your throat.

The copper-haired male walked to Elain, smiling at her before taking his thumb, putting it briefly in his mouth, and wiping a bit of the pastry filling from her chin. She took a spare tea towel left on the counter, her eyes widening slightly before wiping her mouth.

Nesta simply leaned her narrow hips against the counter, drinking from her cup, seemingly unbothered.

Rhysand looked to you, and Feyre turned over her shoulder to you as well. “Y/N, this is Rhys.” She introduced him so casually.

You swallowed again, your eyes widening as you whispered, “My lord.”

Rhys just smiled at you. “No need for formality,” he said. “My mate clearly isn’t putting on airs given she’s barefoot and sitting on the counter, so why should any of us be?” Rhysand smirked at Feyre, who kicked him slightly. “It’s my house,” she shot back.

Nesta, choking a bit on her drink, raised her slender finger. “My house,” she corrected.

You nodded slightly as you took in the High Lord. The commander of your court, the leader of your people. The most powerful person in the room, and in the next many miles. And yet he stood so casually, his hands leaning against the counter, his shirt slightly unbuttoned at the top, and his hair tousled. He looked so incredibly normal.

“Did I get it all?” Elain asked the copper-haired male, who smiled softly down at her before taking the tea towel from her and running it along her mouth.

“Now you did,” he said, his voice low.

Feyre gestured to him. “Y/N, this is Lucien. Lucien, Y/N.”

Lucien turned to you, taking a few steps in your direction, his hand outstretched to take yours. Without thinking, you stepped back from him slightly. He stopped, pulling his hand back, unsure of how to proceed. Rhysand, thankfully, jumped in. “It’s good to see you up and about,” he said.

You looked toward your feet, unsure if you could look directly at him without wanting to vomit. “It’s nice to be up.”

“Are you finding everything alright?” he continued.

You nodded slightly, and before another question could be asked, a small bell chimed. Elain, perking up at the sound, grabbed the tea towel and crossed to the stove, flinging open the great black door. The smell of sweet berries and rhubarb wafted into the air, making your mouth water.

She placed the pastries on the counter. Heat escaped from them as the sweet red filling bubbled, and the pastry crisp surrounding them browned and slowly curled into itself.

Nesta came to look at them. “They look beautiful!”

Elain’s mouth shifted slightly. “I think they’re overdone. See here?” She pointed to the edge. “They shouldn’t be curling like that.”

Feyre hopped down from the counter, grabbing a small plate from the cupboard and coming over to Elain. “Oh well, too bad. Guess you just won’t have any.” She picked one up with her finger and dropped it quickly onto her plate, hissing as the heat singed her skin.

“Can you not wait five minutes?” Elain asked, throwing her hands up in the air. “You’re as bad as Cassian.”

Feyre, still trying to pick the pastry up from her plate and wincing as the heat turned her fingers purple, retorted, “No, Cassian wouldn’t have waited until they were in the oven.”

Nesta turned to you. “Cassian, my-” she paused, “impatient mate, typically has a hard time not eating ingredients before desserts are ready.”

Elain, using tongs, pulled a few of the pastries out, setting them on a plate on the counter. “It’s true. He’s banned from the kitchens when I’m baking.”

Feyre finally managed to get the pastry to her mouth, open-mouthed breathing as she tried to cool the molten berries in her mouth.

Rhysand just smirked at her and rolled his eyes slightly. “Your son gets it from you,” he said.

Her open mouth slightly muddling the words, she shot back, “Oh, whatever.”

Lucien, still standing a few feet from you, unsure of what to do, finally cleared his throat and turned back to the others, walking to grab a pastry and pressing a kiss onto the top of Elain’s hair, who turned to look at him and smile.

"Speaking of Cassian,” Nesta asked Rhysand, “where is he?”

Rhys swiped his finger into the filling of Feyre’s tart, earning a near-growl from her as she pulled away. The High Lord merely chuckled, sucking the sweetness from his finger. “He’s out at Windhaven.”

Nesta blinked slowly at him. “And do you know when he will be returned to me?”

Rhys chuckled again. “Why? Big plans?”

“We can call it that,” Nesta replied.

“Gross,” Feyre remarked, finally swallowing her food before swiping another tart. Elain slapped her hand.

“I don’t need to hear about all of that,” Feyre said.

Nesta rolled her eyes. “Then don’t talk about what you and Rhysand get up to either.”

Rhysand scoffed. “Cassian doesn’t seem to be bothered by it.”

Nesta’s face fell flat. “Cassian has no class or self-control.”

Rhysand looked Nesta up and down. “Clearly.”

“Watch yourself,” Nesta warned.

“Or what?” Rhys taunted back.

“Or I’ll plant your ass in the dirt outside.”

“I’d love to see you try.”

At that, Feyre, still full-mouthed, stood between the two of them. “Knock it off. Let’s not air our familial grievances so quickly in front of new people, please.” She urged.

Nesta let out a quick, breathy chuckle and turned to you. “Rhysand and I don’t exactly see eye to eye on most things, and unlike other people, I’m not afraid to call him out for being the pompous, arrogant male he is.”

“Oh, Nesta,” Rhysand smiled at her mockingly, “always the charmer.”

In a moment of childish indifference, Nesta stuck her tongue out at the High Lord, who quickly returned the favor.

Feyre licked a bit of tart from her fingers. “You know, since you two started doing that, Nyx has picked it up. So thanks for that.”

Elain placed a tart on a plate and brought it around the counter to you. “Here, give this a try before Feyre eats all of them.”

Feyre scoffed. “I’m a growing girl!”

Lucien shot back, “You’re almost 100 years old.”

“And?” she replied.

“Self-control was wasted on you, wasn’t it?” Lucien retorted.

“What I lack in self-control, I make up for in spirit,” Feyre taunted back.

“Is that what we’re calling it?”

Elain smirked as you took a bite, the flavors melting in your mouth as she watched you. “They squabble like children. You get used to it after the first twenty years,” she whispered, and you chuckled. “If you think this is rough, you should have been here for the great sandcastle debacle a few years ago.”

You raised an eyebrow at her as the others continued bickering in the background, Feyre almost launching herself at Lucien while Rhysand held her back. “We all took a trip to the Summer Court together, and Feyre spent all this time with Nyx, her baby, building this elaborate sandcastle.” Elain gestured to show its grandeur. “And then, when she took Nyx in for his nap, she came back out to find Lucien, Cassian, and Rhys standing around this sad pile of sand where it had collapsed. Feyre was angrier than I’ve ever seen her.” She chuckled lightly as you scraped the crumbs from your plate. “She was screaming at them, demanding one of them fess up. Lucien blamed Rhysand, who blamed Cassian, who blamed Lucien, and they fought for hours, all through dinner and into the night.” You took a sip of the cup that Nesta had refilled for you to wash down the tart. “Anyway, there’s this whole debacle about Cassian being allowed back to the Summer Court, but that’s a story for another time. It involves him knocking down a building.” You choked a bit on your drink. “Like I said, a story for another time. But he kept claiming everyone was framing him, and Lucien kept saying Rhysand wasn’t looking where he was going, and Rhys claimed Lucien pushed him. It was a whole thing.” Elain looked down at the counter, smiling. “Two weeks of bickering before they finally stopped when Feyre made them all build a new sandcastle together. We’d gotten all the way home just to turn around and go back for them to rebuild it.” She laughed. “It was the funniest, stupidest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Elain turned to you, gesturing to the plate. “Good?” she asked.

“Phenomenal,” you replied as she took the plate from you and put it in the sink.

“Anyway,” Elain said, “I guess they’re comfortable with you if they’re already fighting.”

You watched as Rhysand pulled Feyre into a tight hug, Feyre scowling over her shoulder at Lucien, who popped a pastry into his mouth while Nesta whispered something into his ear.

“We’re a pretty close little family,” Elain continued.

“You’re lucky,” you replied.

Elain just smiled at you. “Families find each other.” She said, “Sometimes in the most unexpected times.”

To the lovely readers who asked to be tagged, you are so wonderful:

@thatacotargirl @mcuamerica @lilah-asteria @florabelll @fightmedraco @marvelbros-oneshots @mariahoedt @quinzzelx @romantasyreader28 @minnieoo @mysteriouslydeafeningwerewolf @annabethgranger123 @krowiathemythologynerd @scatteredstardustt @romantacyreader28 @caroline-books @slytherintaco @sevikas-whore @sidthedollface2

[highseas-swede]

Aziraphale and Trauma

[Just a note that I initially wrote this in response to this post: https://www.tumblr.com/theangelyouknew/732357015604756480?source=share&ref=_tumblr which is full of insightful info. I'm reposting my response here with some minor edits so it's easier to find in tags.]

This is something I actually find interesting within the fandom, because there seems to be this weird divide in fandom when it comes to Aziraphale.

See, I love Aziraphale. I think he's an amazing and well nuanced character, but a lot of the time fandom boils him down into this really simple version of himself. This happens both with people who dislike him and claim he's a bad person as well as with those who want to soften him up and make him more palatable. Aziraphale isn't the only one who has trouble with black and white thinking here!

Things like Coffee Theory remove Aziraphale's agency because the thought of Aziraphale doing something to hurt Crowley deliberately is something they can't stomach. If Aziraphale is acting under some kind of major magical influence, it means that it's possible to brush over the fact that he can - and has - hurt Crowley in the past and it certainly hasn't always been accidental.

There's a lot of Psychology I could touch on here, but it's honestly such a complicated topic that I don't really feel I can do it justice attached to a completely different topic.

But one thing I do want to touch on a bit is how Aziraphale asserts control in his own life via his connection with Crowley, and that touches on something equally complicated, which is something that's probably hard to understand.

Abuse victims are often manipulative.

I don't mean this at all as some kind of slight or insult. I've been an abuse victim myself and it's one reason I know it's true.

Fandom talks a lot about Crowley's trauma and he's got loads, to be sure. I think of that meme about "this bad boy can fit a lot of trauma" and it's very true. I've even seen people mention that Aziraphale has a different kind of Trauma than Crowley, which is also true.

What I haven't seen is someone addressing that the type of religious trauma is a form of CPTSD. CPTSD or "Complex PTSD" is a very specific form of PTSD. PTSD is characterized as being the result of a traumatic event - Crowley's fall, for example, is a good example of PTSD and I can go into that at some point. CPTSD is different because it's not a singular event, it's the result of being in a constant high stress situation. A lot of abuse victims - especially those abused by parental figures or significant others - have this form of PTSD.

A good way to see the difference is in comparing how they relate to their trauma. When Crowley thinks he's lost Aziraphale in S1, it sends him into a spiral. But importantly we see that this traumatic event is causing Crowley to go back to another traumatic event in time, triggering his memories of his fall. This emphasizes how much Crowley's fall defines his trauma. We rarely see him experiencing trauma at the hands of Hell, as he's mostly allowed freedom to handle his job on earth the way he wants.

https://cptsdfoundation.org/ defines CPTSD as "the results of ongoing, inescapable, relational trauma. Unlike Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), Complex PTSD typically involves being hurt by another person. These hurts are ongoing, repeated, and often involving a betrayal and loss of safety."

In humans, this is caused by having no sense of safety in key moments of development. It strips away sense of self, sense of worth and really any agency. We even see the angels using direct gaslighting tactics on Aziraphale in S2, which I'm surprised doesn't get mentioned more often: When they come to the bookshop looking for Gabriel, they mention Gabriel and then almost immediately when Aziraphale asks "you were looking for Gabriel", Uriel outright says a line that goes something like "Did we say we were looking for Gabriel?", leading Aziraphale to fumble and try to remember if they did, in fact, say that at some point (they did).

So, one big thing to know about CPTSD and this kind of abuse related trauma is that learning to lie and be manipulative is often what people have to do to survive. Children with abusive parents will learn how to be manipulative in order to get what they need or avoid losing things they need.

We see this with Aziraphale, time and time again. He could just ASK Crowley for things he wants. A lot of people point out that he could ask and that Crowley would probably give in to him most of the time anyway. But that's not how it works in an abusive home. Instead, Aziraphale maneuvers Crowley into situations where Crowley is forced to give him what he needs or wants.

His lack of agency, as a result of his CPTSD, is also why he needs to be worked into making decisions that he already knows - or at least suspects - are right. That's why they have their little dance every time Crowley has to talk Aziraphale into something by finding the right way to frame it so it makes sense with Aziraphale's strict rule structure. These rules exist as a defensive mechanism too. Having rules makes it easier to figure out how to avoid being hurt and Aziraphale cannot simply step outside the rules because it's Not Safe. Not even with someone he trusts as much as Crowley.

The entire apology dance scene stands out for a few reasons. Everything Aziraphale does in the entire scene is an act that allows him to take control of the situation. He's already won, so to speak, because Crowley is back and Crowley is going to do what he wants. The apology is unnecessary on every level.

This post talks about how uncomfortable Crowley has to be sharing a space with Gabriel. Gabriel is with the abusive team, whether or not he was directly involved with Crowley's fall. Crowley also harbors a severe distress and mistrust of Gabriel because of Gabriel's attempts to destroy Aziraphale, the most important person to Crowley. But it's worth noting that Aziraphale is uncomfortable too.

Another good indicator of how stressed Aziraphale is with all this is that he doesn't eat ANYTHING when Gabriel is in the shop. The only food he consumes in modern era is when he's in the Bentley which is a "safe" space. Gabriel constantly hounded Aziraphale over eating and despite offering Gabriel hot chocolate, we don't see him partaking himself. He does briefly drink to demonstrate how "drinking tea" works for Muriel, but he doesn't seem to drink from his cup at all after demonstrating.

The bookshop is also Aziraphale's safe space, his ONLY safe space - Crowley still technically has the Bentley, and honestly I feel like Aziraphale wanting to borrow the Bentley is actually partially because he needs to get away from Gabriel and the Bentley is the only place that feels safe for him at the moment. Shax ruins any illusion of safety for him, but Aziraphale is much more enthused for his trip in ep3 and a fair amount of it is because he's not trapped with Gabriel.

A small note here, as a thought occurs to me. Aziraphale asserting that the Bentley is "our car" is probably mostly for himself. He's trying to realign his thinking to make the Bentley an acceptable "safe space" for himself prior to the trip.

There is a very different relationship dynamic when it comes to Gabriel and Aziraphale because Gabriel is the constant source of Aziraphale's trauma. He's Aziraphale's superior, the one he has to report to, the one who passes down his missions and his punishments. When Aziraphale takes Gabriel in, he's just invited his former abuser of over 6000 years into his safe haven. This is a hugely uncomfortable thing for an abuse survivor.

Worst of all, because Jim is, for all intents and purposes, NOT Gabriel, Aziraphale can't bring himself to lash out at his former abuser the way he wants to.

That brings us back to this apology scene.

There are two major things going on here and both of them are bad and hurtful toward Crowley. They're also both intensely unfair. I love Aziraphale but this was definitely a dick move.

Firstly: Aziraphale is using Crowley to reassert a sense of control over the situation because he is spiraling. He can't assert control over his life and his shop, which is one thing that he falls back on heavily, and that leaves him scrambling to find somewhere where he can control his situation. He makes Crowley go through this whole unnecessary apology and dance routine because it makes him feel like he has control over SOMETHING in his life right now.

Secondly: Aziraphale is also enacting his own trauma on Crowley. He's treating Crowley the way Heaven treats him. This is a direct parallel to the way Crowley terrorizes his house plants because he can't do anything to the people who actually caused his trauma. This is, obviously, wildly unfair of Aziraphale to do - and I'm fairly sure there are other small moments where Aziraphale does this in a mild way, I'd have to rewatch again.

These are both behaviors common in CPTSD caused by environments that apply this constant state of stress.

I'm not going to say it's right, or that Aziraphale isn't being a bit of a bastard in this moment - he absolutely is - but this behavior does have some obvious triggers that might be easy to overlook. It's just important to understand that Aziraphale is falling into self-preservation habits that are actively detrimental to his relationship with Crowley. It's not just the manipulation, he's also hiding things and lying to Crowley when he really shouldn't be - both things often necessary in abusive environments - but he's doing it because that's the method that he's created that works with his abusive relationship in Heaven and he's falling back on it because he feels unsafe. The trouble is, this survival tactic does not work with Crowley and actively makes things worse because it shuts down open communication entirely.

[one-sunny]

Wrong Time | The Break

05: When you move to a new town, you don’t expect to run into your high school sweetheart. Old feelings begin to arise and you are suddenly faced with the complexity of relationships, communication, and the struggle for true connection.

Warning: 18+ only. use of cigarettes, toxic relationships, toxic behaviors, mentally/ emotionally abusive behaviors, gaslighting, manipulation, destructive behaviors, miscommunications, complex feelings, anxiety, loneliness, slow burn, angst

“How can I ever trust you!”

“Vera, my sweet, can we just talk about this-“

“You’ve been so distant.” Fat tears well up in her eyes, threatening to break any moment now. “And now you’re complementing other women!”

Sanji wasn’t even sure how they got here. Wasn’t sure what he had done to make her so upset. What was causing her to raise her voice. But only a small part of him cared about the details, the part that he shoves deep down, because comforting her was the most important thing. It’s what any man would do for the woman he cares for.

“Is she prettier than me?”

Sanji is taken aback by the comment. All he had done was compliment the icing on a lemon danish at a nearby bakery, the middle aged woman grinning with her already flushed cheeks from her efforts of kneading dough. A compliment that, for some reason, kick started an insecurity within Vera. He isn’t sure what he had even done wrong but he tries not to dwell on that fact.

“Vera, no. Never. You’re the most beautiful woman i’ve ever seen.” Sanji steps closer and attempts to reach out to his girlfriend.

She quickly swipes away the touch. “Prettier than that ex-girlfriend of yours?”

And the words make Sanji deflate. Ever since that little incident, Vera had made sure to bring you up anytime an argument sparked. It was making Sanji regret even looking your way. Made him regret ever having feelings for you, even from back in high school before he even knew Vera.

“Vera, honey, please stop bringing that up. I’ve apologized-“

“You can never apologize enough for cheating on me, Sanji.” She snaps back, words laced with a certain venom that easily went straight into his blood stream.

“I didn’t cheat.” The words are weak off his tongue, for her knew that it didn’t even matter. Putting forth the effort to correct her never mattered.

Her arms cross and she completely ignores the statement. “You’re lucky I even let you make that up to me.” Vera shakes her head. She stares at Sanji for a long moment, the tears gone from her eyes despite never even falling, before she clicks her tongue. “I think we need to take a break.”

Sanji’s eyes blow wide, “W-What?”

“I need to be with someone who only looks at me when they walk into the room-“

“Vera, honey, I do that.” Sanji attempts, his chest squeezing with anxiety. “I don’t- I don’t understand.”

“Sanji, it’s, ugh,” Vera tips her head back with a groan. “I think we would both benefit from some time away from each other. It can really give time to reflect on how important we are to each other.” She purses her lips. “Among other things.”

“You’re so important to me, I already-“

“Okay, let’s not make this a whole thing.” Vera pushes her bangs from her eyes. “I’m breaking up with you, Sanji.”

And it feels as if he has been ran over by a semi in the silent moments that follow. “I-I-“ Sanji gapes, trying to form a coherent reply. “Why are you doing this? I don’t understand-“

“Honestly? So that you can have time to realize how important I am to you. Everything I do for you.” She runs her hands through dark curls, before a smile pulls to her red lips. “I’m not even sure you realize how lost you’d be without me, you know.” Vera shakes her head in exasperation. “And I want you to really think about it all. If you still want me, the woman who supports you and caters to your every need,” She gestures to herself, before her eyes narrow. “Or some other chick who you would crumble with.”

Sanji swallows hard, “I already have my answer-“

“No.” Her arms cross over her chest as her nostrils flare. “How am I supposed to know if your answer is real or if it’s some manipulative attempt to make me stay?” Her brows raise for a moment and Sanji isn’t even sure how to answer something like that. He would never manipulate her… would he? Not on purpose at least. “Just think about it, okay? And when you have your answer in a couple days, let me know.”

And with that, she waltzes away.

Sanji nearly crumbles in on himself with the tornado of emotions he was experiencing. Each one swirled around in his head with such a ferocity that he couldn’t place just one. And in their effort, it sucked up any and all rationale thoughts.

Technically, he was now single.

But despite that being a fact, he could still feel the manicured hand that has a hold on him. Could he really do anything without her? Would he be lost? Sanji couldn’t be certain.

His fingers twitch at his sides and Sanji is lighting up a cigarette before he even realizes what he is doing. He squeezes the golden lighter tight in his palm, allowing the sharp edges to press deep into his thumb as he sucks in a breath of smoke. Sanji makes sure to hold it as long as he can, feeling the nicotine enter his system and attempting to dull his nerves.

It doesn’t work.

Loneliness creeps up on him and pitches a tent, fully intent on staying a while. It wasn’t an unfamiliar foe, for all he had in his youth was pet mice that his father consistently tried to get rid of. Perhaps he would have succeeded if he paid more attention to Sanji. It makes him long for the pets. For something. Anything.

Then it makes him think of the only thing keeping him from loneliness in his adolescence. Of the girl that plagued his every thought and stole his breath every day back then. The girl he believed he would marry. The girl he saw an entire future laid out with. In fact, the only person he has ever seen in his future fantasies.

And that strikes a nauseous guilt inside of him. Maybe Vera was right? He hadn’t cheated on her, but he put considerably more thought into you than he should have. Maybe he was deserving of this. Of this crushing weight on his shoulder. Of the very thing that he is trying to dull as he fills his lungs with smoke.

But it just doesn’t work.

So he lights up another. And another. Until he almost smokes through the entire pack. And only then does he feel something. Perhaps it was the decline of his health after so many cigarettes. Or maybe, it was the emotional numbing, his body finally kicking into gear to protect itself, to leave him feeling completely and utterly numb.

So he sits on the knowledge that he would feel like this until he was able to pull Vera back into his life.

✐ ᝰ ✐ ᝰ ✐ ᝰ ✐ ᝰ ✐ ᝰ

Sanji slumps into the old battered couch, the wood beneath the cushions making him entirely uncomfortable, but he couldn’t be bothered to even move. What was a bit of physical discomfort upon the mental discomfort he has been experiencing? To add to this, the room absolutely reeks. The staff room smelled of sweat and metal, a sure sign that the employees of the gym were committed to their craft.

And those very same staff members were crowded around Sanji, arguing loudly with Luffy. Zoro was comfortable on the ground with his back leaning on the leather couch. Ace and Sabo sat across from them, arranged on an equally as tattered sofa. Jinbe sat silently in the floor in observation. Luffy was standing at the head of the group, arms crossed stubbornly over his chest.

“A battle royale is a horrible idea!” Sabo laughs incredulously. “And probably illegal.”

“But it would be fun!” Luffy glares.

As the voices raise again, Sanji looms around the room with irritation furrowing his brow. Why was he here? Zoro and Sabo were personal trainers, Ace a boxing and kickboxing instructor, and Jinbe a martial arts instructor. And Sanji was just Sanji. Even the front desk staff weren’t involved in this little meeting.

“And why is curly brow here, by the way?” Zoro huffs.

Luffy grins, “I needed one more person to vote on my side.”

Sanji glares at the man, “And why would you expect me to vote on your side?”

“Because we’re friends.” Luffy’s jaw drops as if shocked by the revelation that Sanji didn’t agree with turning a boxing tournament into an all out battle royale.

“You gotta understand why that’s a bad argument here, Lu.” Sabo pinches the bridge of his nose.

Luffy throws his head back in a groan, “Fine, you guys are so boring.” He then levels his eyes back on the group. “Ace, you’re in charge of all the planning then since it’s your whole thing.”

“That was the plan from the start.” Ace nods.

Luffy waves a hand to wave his older brothers off, “Whatever, Zoro and I are out. If you have any questions, well, you know what to do.” He offers a goofy grin to the group. Ace, Sabo, and Jinbe were more than accustomed to handling things on their own. It was one benefit of hiring such responsible parties onto his team.

With that, Luffy leads Zoro and Sanji out of the staff room.

Sanji follows on autopilot. Through the gym. Down the street. Turn. Down another street. Crosswalk. Turn again. Down the street. Up the stairs and through a door. Then more stairs. Then another door. His mind isn’t even processing the movements but he blinks and suddenly he is in the living room full of gaudy decor.

Luffy rummages around in the kitchen while Zoro takes place at the island bar, the pair chattering away. It is only then that he realizes that the others have joined. Ussop lounges back on the couch across from Sanji, brightly colored socks propped up on the coffee table. Franky is to his other side on a plush chair, short shorts riding up his thighs as he man spreads into the space.

A conversation is flowing over his head and he is entirely lost on the subject. Something about… wood carving? Sanji can’t be too sure.

“Are you good bro?” Franky’s loud voice finally processes as eyes fall on him.

“Yeah.” Sanji answers on autopilot.

“Awh, come on. What’s buggin’ ya?” The blue haired man pushes further. Franky was always one of the most in tune with his emotions, meaning he could read all of his friends just as easily.

“Just,” Sanji shakes his head and grasps at imaginary straws. He surely couldn’t offer every detail. His friends already had a distaste for his… ex-girlfriend… so he feared how they would feel with new information. “Vera and I are kind of,” He tips his head in consideration. Kind of what? He wasn’t even sure himself. “On a break.”

“A break?” Ussop prompts in confusion.

“Yeah, i think.” Sanji cringes at himself.

Franky hums in thought, “On a break, or broken up but willing to fix things?”

Sanji ruffles his fingers through his locks. “The second one.”

“Awh, okay, I get you bro.” Franky nods. “What happened? Is it still about the whole,” He waves a large hand. “Ex thing?”

“Kind of, trust and all that.” He grunts in response.

“Right, right.” Franky nods slowly.

“You know,” Ussop begins. “You never really told us how it felt to see her.”

Sanji feels heat creeping up his collar and suddenly his mouth is very dry. “I did.” He weakly argues, well aware of the lie.

“You didn’t.” Franky confirms, shifting in his seat to cross his legs. “Look, you don’t gotta, but maybe talking about it will help you figure out why it’s causing so much with Vera.”

“Cause she’s a nightmare.” Zoro calls from the kitchen.

“Hey, back off, mosshead.” Sanji seethes.

“Ignore him, bro. The floor is yours.” Franky nods encouragingly.

Sanji groans in response. “I don’t know. It’s like, i don’t know, seeing her was,” Sanji moves his hands as he speaks, attempting to put into words exactly how it felt to see you for the first time in five years. Well, the first time outside of old photos and social media posts.

“Nostalgic?” Ussop tries.

“Yeah, kind of.” Sanji huffs, head tipping to the side. “Like finding your childhood stuffed animal- not that she’s a toy, but whatever- like seeing the one thing that could always bring you comfort. Even though you’ve outgrow it, you’re still filled with this feeling when you see it.”

“Longing?” Ussop nods.

Exactly that. It was perfectly normal to long for a love that ran so deep, after all… Right?

“Love?” Franky raises a brow.

Sanji sputters out a response. “No, not- no it’s just that it’s been so long and, yeah she was my first love, but Vera is here now and-“ He isn’t even sure what he is trying to say anymore in an attempt to save face. He isn’t even sure if it was for the sake of his friends or of himself.

Ussop and Franky share a look.

“It doesn’t matter how I feel about her, anyways. She’s apart of my past.” Sanji shakes his head in dismissal. “It’s not like I’ll ever even see her again. We live different lives even if she happens to be living it here now.” He allows his head to fall back against the couch. “And Vera’s my future, you know. I’ll get her back. We just gotta work through our crap like real adults.”

“Whatever you say, bro.” Franky chuckles.

“Anyways, where’s Nami and Robin? Aren’t they joining us today?” He tries to change the subject.

“Do you ever pay attention.” Zoro rolls his eyes.

Sanji bristles at this, “Do you ever shut up?”

“They’re out shopping with Y/N.” Ussop huffs out in an attempt to silence the insistent bickering.

But Sanji’s breath catches in his throat at the name. That’s when his brain kick starts and all of the little pieces begin to form together. He had been far too distracted with Vera to keep up with this new friend that Ussop and Nami made. The one they met at the art studio. The one that moved to town recently. The one that happened to have the same name and profession as you.

Before he can choke out a reply, the front door flies open.

Sanji is on edge as Nami walks inside. Followed by Robin. And then by you. Loud greeting break through the air and Sanji takes a very brief moment to appreciate the smile lighting your face. Until your eyes meet his and you’re suddenly frozen in place.

Oh.

Oh no.

Series Masterlist | Chapter 6

Taglist: @thekatisspooky @teacarby @zoecelestine @vespidphoenix

[botanicalsword]

Plutonic love ♡

Pluto - The entanglement of power, wealth, and desire

The influence by Pluto includes jealousy, competition, fear, abandonment, power struggles, and psychological control.

In Plutonic love, one may easily strip the other of their voice, leaving them with a sense of identity loss. They may also exert control over the other person or use materials as a means of control

Tarot - The Devil, where such interactions may not necessarily stem from love but rather from practical constraints. One may be financially dependent on the other or there may be financial entanglements that make it difficult to leave the relationship.

Forbidden Love • Venus conjunct Pluto

The fate brought about by Pluto's influence often leads both parties into a forbidden relationship, especially when there is a conjunction between Pluto and Venus.

Pluto signifies a deep transformation of a relationship, and it seeks to obtain the desired connection from an impossible form or state, such as extramarital affairs, infidelity, or polyamorous relationships.

One with a stronger Pluto influence tends to desire breaking the taboo, while the one with weaker Plutonic energy may end up being the one ultimately sacrificed.

When the person who has been sacrificed feels hurt or abandoned, they may naturally want to get back at the other person as a way of making up for the pain and unfairness they have experienced.

8th House Synastry : Sexual Magnetism

The 8th house in an astrological chart is considered the darkest corner of the chart, associated with secrecy and mystery.

When someone's Sun or Moon falls into another person's 8th house, it can easily create a strong attraction because people are often drawn to what is illuminated.

Similarly, when someone's Venus or Mars falls into another person's 8th house, it can create a highly magnetic and sexually attractive connection for one whose house is being activated.

The hard aspects (conjunction, square, opposition) between someone's Sun and Pluto or Mars and Pluto can signify potential indications of power and control. Sexual tension often occurs in contexts where power is abused or there is an unequal power dynamic.

Pluto in the 7th house

Intimate relationships become a key point of personal transformation.

In pursuit of deep connections, one with Pluto in 7th House often become deeply invested in complex emotional bonds and have a tendency to test the depth of their emotional connection with their partners.

Pluto in the 7th house may often find themselves emotional wounded, carrying the scars of past relationships that can lead to outbursts of anger and emotional turmoil.

Pluto in the 7th house frequently strive to suppress their own anger in order to maintain the relationship. The manipulative nature can sometimes lead to the complete destruction. They easily engage in power struggles with their intimate or business partners.

They have a strong desire to find their soulmate and believe in past life connections. They may excel as counselors or therapists. However, their intimate relationships are often marked by fear, jealousy, secrecy, and even betrayal.

Trust becomes an issue, leading to divorce or the loss of a partner.

>> Masterlist | table of contents

Astrology should be used as a potential indicator of someone's behavior or the outcome of a relationship. It is just one factor among many that can provide insights and potential tendencies. Personal choices, personal growth, and communication also play significant roles in the dynamics of relationships.