#born a rat burn a rat

[oatbugs]

procrastination is starting to have its consequences finally

[kpopnstarwars]

Atonement: Feyd-Rautha x Reader

A/N: fic i wrote with @triluvial 's lovely idea

tw: 18+, smut but pretty soft, oral (f recieving), so so so so much angst, fluff after tho dw, swearing, hints of sa and pedophilia from the baron, baron is also creepy to reader but not explicitly, u gotta bear with my yapping in the beginning but it gets good i promise, inkpie

wc: 3.9k

headcanons for this universe

When you married Feyd-Rautha, you were warned of many things. His cruelty, both in and out of the bedroom, his bloodlust, his uncontrollable rage, his violence, his complete and utter lack of mercy. They told you he was psychotic, he was a cold blooded murderer, he was insatiable and that you’d be lucky to last a year with him, and yet, they never cautioned you of his sheer, unerring indifference.

Before your marriage, you fancied that he’d be like fire; raging, searing to touch. You went as far as to wish to tame his inferno. Late at night, when you could not sleep and doubt wreathed your thoughts, you also considered that he’d be like ice, like the colour of his piercing eyes, glacial and cold, devoid of anything soft or sweet.

As a child, you saw him fight in the arena. There he blazed with passion, his victor’s smile a cruel curve upon his face, his knife blade stained dark with fresh blood: he was mesmerising. At that time you were beginning to understand that your future had been sold to this violent man, and you resented your parents for it - now you realise that it went deeper than that, that it was rooted in generations of religion, of whisperings of the Bene Gesserit. Still, even then, you found the way he burned intriguing, and you were drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

But you were wrong. He turned out to be neither fire nor ice, just stingingly, dismissively apathetic. His eyes slide right over you when he happens to pass you in the corridors, as if you’re lower than a servant, lower than the rare rats that survive Giedi Prime’s conditions. You suspected your marriage would be painful, wedded to a man such as he was, but you didn’t think it would be this damn lonely.

You wished he hated you.

That way, at least you’d mean something to your husband. At least then vehement, savage emotion would rise within his gaze whenever he looked at you, not that horrible, polarising blankness. You wish you disgusted him, because then he’d at least he’d speak his mind - you had learnt that he spoke with brutal honesty, uncaring of the consequences.

Maybe to him, that’s all you are. A consequence of being high born, of being the na-Baron. You mean nothing to him, and he treats you as such; to him, you are less than the speck of dust on the floor, less than a grain of sand in his beloved arena.

It’s not that you wish for him to dote on you, nor love you or devote himself to you. You just wish he would look you in the eye and feel something; you’d rather him stare at you in revulsion and call you names that you can’t even think up yourself than the dead, lifeless detachment that clouds his face when he sees you in your shared chambers.

Feyd-Rautha has never laid a hand on you in violence; in fact he rarely touches you at all. The last, and only time he kissed was during the wedding day, and he makes no moves to be in bodily contact with you any more than he has to be. You are obliged to produce an heir from him, yet even in these infrequent encounters it seems as if it is a chore for him - he takes no pleasure in your body nor does he try to pleasure you, and he makes no sound when he takes you, staying as long as it takes for his seed to fill your womb before leaving without a word. On those nights, your thighs tremble as you stumble to the bathroom, only allowing your tears to fall once the shower water is searing on your skin.

During the first month of your marriage, you did everything in your power to please him. You thought maybe you weren’t pretty enough for him, maybe you were not desirable as a wife, so you always smiled at him, made an effort to fill the silence that pervaded the air around him, bringing up topics you knew he would enjoy, like the arena, like his love for knives and duels. To even that he would not reply, rebutting your questions with monosyllables or simply ignoring you. You stopped once he began to leave the room while you were mid sentence.

It is now your fourth month locked in this marriage with an uncaring man, and all you feel is bleak, crushing resignation. Somehow, Feyd-Rautha seems to take more interest in conversing with his brother than you.

You wonder if he has forgotten your name. He addresses you simply as ‘wife’ - that, and nothing more, the title leaving his lips like an accusatory curse, reminding you that if you did not serve a purpose to him, and if decorum did not restrain him, he’d have disposed of you by now, either by slitting your throat or simply abandoning you outside the palace grounds, not even bothering to end you himself.

The palace in question is lonely, but you feel the loneliest when you lay awake at night, shivering on your side of the bed as Feyd-Rautha slumbers to your right. Tears always prick your eyes during those moments, but you stifle them, afraid that you’ll rouse him with your crying; you do not know what you’ve done to garner his mistrust, but many times you’ve glimpsed the knife he keeps beneath his pillow, the cold blade glinting in the moonlight.

Often you wonder if he has a secret lover, and that is why he does not bother with you. You wake up sometimes and he is gone, but soon you realised that he would visit his concubines, especially after he had bred you. You would finish your shower, unable to wash off the feel that you were dirty, you were just an animal, a mindless thing to produce an heir for him, and he would be lounging in the antechambers of your quarters, ignoring your presence with the three harpies wrapped around him, whispering in his ears and caressing his moonlight skin. They accompanied him everywhere he wished, even in public, and to begin with, you felt humiliated that he would so explicitly show that you were not to his satisfaction.

Now, it just makes the solitude even worse.

You find solace in no one. More than once, you have walked in on the servants laughing behind your back, and as it became evident your husband was uninterested in you, they did not hide their mocking. The Baron’s other nephew you hardly saw, and the Baron himself terrified you: there was something in the way that he stared at you, his beady eyes glittering from where they were set deep within his putrid flesh, that made you feel more soiled than even after Feyd-Rautha took you.

So you remain isolated, speaking only when spoken to, drifting through the palace’s wide, dark hallways like a ghoul, a mourning spectre. You can barely remember your life before, just wisps and fleeting flashes of colour that ridicule rather than comfort you.

To Feyd, it is obvious who you are. A spy, commanded by his uncle to report every single one of his doings to you; he cannot slip up once around you, cannot reveal his weaknesses, that he is desperate to be loved, to be seen as someone whose only use is not war. He sees the way his uncle looks at you, hungry for information you do not have because he does not impart it, the way the Baron comments on you and the way you flinch at his words, pretending that you do not report to him.

Feyd is determined in his resolve to give nothing away. His uncle has held power over him since he was young, he refuses to give him even an inch over him now. He still has nightmares of it, which he wakes up from with his pale skin sheened in clammy sweat, clammy like the hands of his uncle.

Sometimes, he sees the tears in your eyes after he fucks you. The first time, he almost stopped, almost asked you where it hurt, but you turned away before he could, acting, always acting; acting when you smile graciously at him, acting when you ask him what his favourite type of blade is, what his favourite form of swordsmanship is. You are good at pretending, but of course you are - his uncle is the Baron, a man who bathes in power. No doubt he would get only the best of spies.

Tonight, you are not where you normally are. At this hour, you are usually asleep, or feigning it in the very least, curled up small on your side of the mattress, yet the bed is still made, the sheets unrumpled and smoothed down as they were this morning. Feyd thinks that maybe he might catch you reporting to his uncle, so he strides out of your shared chambers, pausing in the doorway to listen carefully; as a boy, he hunted in forests that have now been chopped down and industrialised, but he has maintained his keen ears long after the last wild plant on Giedi Prime’s surface choked on the fumes of pollution.

There’s a soft noise, barely perceptible, that echoes down the corridor to his right. Silently, he tracks it down the labyrinthine passages of the palace, servants scurrying out of his warpath, bowing their heads to him - he wonders if they too report to his uncle, if they travel now to his quarters to inform him of his beloved nephew’s whereabouts.

Feyd wishes he and Rabban were brothers first before rivals. Then he could have someone to rely on, someone who he trusted in this palace built on lies.

Pausing, Feyd cocks his head. You huddle in a crumpled heap at the end of the corridor, your knees hugged tightly to your chest, head low as if under a crushing weight. It occurs to him that maybe the Baron was displeased with your efforts to gain information and made it known to you - a pang of pity tugs at him, for he knows what his uncle’s wrath is like. At least you have been spared from the sole thing worse than that - the Baron’s thirst.

‘What are you doing, wife?’

Your head snaps up, Feyd-Rautha’s unfeeling voice kindling a rare burst of temper from you. Is it not evident to him what you are doing? Or is he just too blind to see the tears streaking down your cheeks? Your words are injected with venom when you speak, and you hope that it stings him for leaving you alone in this cold, dark place.

‘So now I am of concern to you?’

Feyd is taken aback by the indignant arch of your brows, the resentment displayed in your eyes. It takes him a moment to register the harshness lacing your voice - you have never addressed him in this way - and another to digest your words. There’s a bleakness in your wet, tear stained face as you stare up at him, and shock too, as if you did not expect yourself to speak against him this way.

Something clicks into place.

Feyd recognises that look in your eyes. He recognises it, because he’s seen it in the mirror a hundred times before; haunted, harrowed, lonely. He remembers nights when he trembled beneath the cold sheets of his bed, when he was small enough that he felt like he was drowning in the black satin, his eyes wide as the fabric seemed to wend around his limbs, tying him there as he lay fearful of everyone, fearful that his uncle would summon him. Even young, he was so terribly aware of not knowing who he could trust and who would turn to the Baron, bearing information like knives to split open his childish skin and spill his guts on the freezing stone floor.

It broke him. He is barely a shell of a sentient being, repressed emotions wreathing like ghosts around his frame, his eyes hollow, his heart decaying. In his fear, he was blinded, and he pushed you to the place where he had been all those years ago, so terribly, terribly alone - you are stronger than him, for lasting this long.

Sharp, plunging, dread sinks in his stomach, weighs down his soul; he has done unspeakable things to you, treated you like a dog, like a whore - worse. How can you look at him without hatred in your eyes, spite?

Bile rises in his throat, his heart seized by a dark, burning anger. He has done this to you, he has slashed your skin and left you bleeding, and yet all you did was try to please him. In an effort to save himself, he trampled you under foot; in order to keep you out, he left you surrounded by shadows. Feyd has never hated himself so much, has never despised who he has become with this much furor.

Slowly, he crouches before you. Eyes wide, you shrink away, misreading the direction of his rage, flinching when he reaches out a hand. Pressing your back against the wall behind you, you turn your head away from him, fear causing tears to spill down your cheeks: he sees the way you will the stone to swallow you up, knows the feeling.

‘Please don’t hurt me,’ you choke out, hands trembling uncontrollably.

Something deep within Feyd’s soul withers and dies at your words. Forcing his jaw to unclench, his hands to release the fists they held, he shoves down his anger. The fury is for later, for when he has made things right - for now it is you that is his priority. Too late, a voice whispers in his ears, too late, too late, too late -

Gods, he deserves to burn at the fucking stake for this. He deserves eternal hell for this, he deserves worse. He is a fool: a blind, blundering fool, stuffed to the brim with paranoia and cynicism.

He sucks in a breath. ‘I will not hurt you. You have my word, whatever it is worth to you. I - I have made an irredeemable mistake, I - ’

After his first sentence, you have not heard him. Tears of relief soak your face, and you whisper needless apologies for them; it is an arrow through his heart that you fear him so - yet the pain is where it is due, justifiable for the way he has shamed you, belittled you.

‘May I - may I touch you, my wife?’

You do not know why you nod in reply of your husband’s strange request, but the moment you do, strong arms pull you into a solid chest, and a sob leaves you - he is so warm, warm enough to banish the seeping cold embedded in your bones, warm enough to let your sorrow flow anew, soaking his shirt as your hands bunch in its fabric, so that if he is cruel enough to leave you here, at least he will have to fight to do so. You have not been held in a long time.

Each of your shuddering sobs is a knife blade twisting in Feyd’s spirit. He lets the pain wash over him, clings to the way you burrow into his arms, a kind creature in the embrace of a monster. At one point, in the throes of your crying, you beat at his chest, telling him that you hate him, and he takes it with a bowed head, stroking your hair and holding you tighter once you exhaust yourself; this is only a fraction of his atonement.

You fall asleep in his arms. He carries you back to your quarters, and only once the door is closed behind him does he let his tears mingle with yours. Keeping you cradled to his chest like a child, he pours a glass of water for you to drink in the morning, knowing you will be dehydrated; he sets it on your bedside table before laying you down on the mattress.

You don’t let go of him, even in your sleep. His heart clenches, tight in his chest, and he drops a kiss in your hair before lying down beside you.

He believes he will love you, if you will let him.

Consciousness leaks slowly into your mind, and you blink, squinting through the beam of light that filters in through the curtains. From your months spent here, you’ve realised that Giedi Prime’s atmosphere is normally churned up with violent storms and choked with pollution, so this ray of sun that falls against your pillow, warming your face is far from unwanted - nor is the pale forearm tucked around your waist, firmly so, but not trapping you either.

Your husband’s chest fits snugly against your back, his breath warm and steady against your skin; his fingers splay out across your stomach, gentle, communicating so many things that were left unsaid. Vaguely, you remember falling asleep, nestled against his chest, tears drying on your cheeks.

When you roll over, you’re unsurprised that he’s already awake. With blue eyes softened by the sunlight, he regards you, fingers settled at the small of your waist. Something clouds his gaze, and he shifts, propping himself up on his elbows.

‘I owe you an explanation.’

You wait silently, unperturbed by the way he clenches his jaw. He vowed to you last night that he would not hurt you, and you trust that. Wordlessly, his lips open, then close, and you patiently watch him, far too well acquainted with how this man struggles to let down his guard - even now, you cannot read the twisting of his features, the way his eyes squint as he looks at you.

‘I - I thought you were a spy sent by my uncle,’ he finally confesses. ‘My uncle… when I was younger, he,’

Reaching out, you cup his jaw in your hand, running your thumb along his cheekbone until he relaxes. You see the battle in his eyes, to let go, to tell you the knowledge that he thinks you deserve, but you see with it the years of hurt, of solitude. Something hopeful, something beautiful blossoms within you - the realisation that this wounded beast before you is someone that you could grow to love; you want him to bare his scars to you, those that are long healed and those that still seep with blood.

‘All in good time, Feyd,’ you assure him quietly.

He sighs, touches his lips against your palm. ‘I am sorry, my wife.’

Slipping your hand down to grip his shoulder, you lean closer towards him so you can kiss him. An anguished sound leaves him, and you see clearly how he realises that he has wronged you, how it pains him, and yet how the taste of you awakens something tender within him - you marvel at it, that it has survived, buried within him for so long. Perhaps he will let you love him.

Feyd is neither forward nor insatiable in the way he kisses you. In fact, he pulls away first, moving to get up from the bed despite the way your hands grip his shoulders, and you almost doubt that he wants you before you glimpse the longing in his eyes that lingers before he pushes it down. You wonder if this man knows how to make love or if he just knows how to fuck, you wonder if he feels the same molten feeling in his stomach that you feel and that is why his movements are tinged with nerves as he gently escapes your grasp. It is clear to you: he does not want to scare you.

‘Must you go?’ You ask, tugging at his fingers.

He tilts his head. ‘I don’t know if you want me here, after what I have inflicted upon you.’

A streak of bravery takes ahold of you. ‘Please, Feyd, I want you.’

You delight at the fire that ignites in his eyes upon your words. He wastes no time in returning to your side, dropping a sweet tasting kiss to your lips before taking your chin in his hand, eyes searching yours as he sits between your thighs.

‘Tell me if you want to stop,’ he says. ‘Yes?’

‘Yes,’ you echo, blood heating your cheeks.

Feyd kisses you again, giving you time to rescind your reply if you want, but you just tug at the hem of his shirt, drinking in his sculpted chest when he pulls the black cloth over his head. Delicately, he trails his lips down your skin as he undresses you, his broad hands warm where they encircle your waist, holding you flush to him as his calloused palms explore your body, skimming over your spine and caressing your breasts before settling on your thighs and pulling them open.

You’re terribly aware of how wet you are when his eyes settle on your pussy. Instinctively, your knees tip inwards, your face growing hot at the hunger in his gaze, but his broad shoulders block your legs from closing, followed closely by his hands which gently push them back open. He smiles at the blush high on your cheeks, rubbing his thumb over your ankle in order to put you at ease.

The sound you make when he pushes his fingers into your cunt and curls them almost makes Feyd moan. You tremble for him, bashful, and he can feel himself rock hard against the mattress, aching for the tight clamp of your velvet walls. He wants to bury himself between your thighs, and so he does, your sweet slick exquisite on his tongue - he presses kisses like butterflies to your thighs, your hips, worshipping you as his fingers pump in and out of you to the same pace as your heaving chest.

You look beautiful, gilded by the sunlight, lower lip trapped between your teeth, but he doesn’t miss the way you grip the sheets with one hand, the other clapped over your mouth, panting as he pleases you. Stroking your thigh, he pauses, licking your slick off his lips.

‘Let me hear you,’ he bids.

You blush again but obey him, tremors wracking your body as he sucks on your clit, laving his tongue over it until you throw your head back, eyes rolling as you come, your honeyed moans and hot release exquisite upon his senses. He wants more, needs more of the taste of you, but you tug at his shoulders, whining for his cock, and he’d rather die than deny you.

The way you say his name when he buries himself inside you sets his soul on fire. You look beautiful beneath him, shaking and whimpering from the hot pulse of his length, clawing at his shoulders until he wears red marks that he’s proud to bear, moaning into his mouth when he kisses you. It seems you cannot get enough of him, and Feyd is more than fine with that because he finds himself addicted to the feel of you under his hands, begging him for more.

Feyd remains entranced long after he comes inside you, with you, your cunt spasming around him. You draw close to him, intertwining your legs with his as he kisses your face, your neck, your chest, making sure he has not hurt you, making sure you are sated. Curling your fingers under his jaw, stopping him, you look him in the eye and smile before kissing him, and he finds himself mesmerised again by you.

He is certain you will let him love you. He is yours.

[thebibliosphere]

I both believe "poor people deserve art" and "artists deserve food", but it's hard to reconcile those beliefs. I blame capitalism. And I suppose it mostly matters who you're stealing from?

I don't mean to question you at all, I'm against people pirating your stories. I guess I was just wondering if you had more thoughts regarding the reconciliation the two beliefs I quoted above.

I think the reconciliation is working toward a future where things are better, and authors and artists don't have to beg people not to steal from them because they think every author is Stephen King, who wouldn't notice if you stole the pennies found under his couch when in reality most of us are hunting for spare change down the back of the couch because we are earning below minimum wage.

We need people to embrace the idea that art belongs to the working class, both in terms of consumption but also creation.

If you don't support the working-class creators, you'll only end up with rich fucks with no scope of the world beyond their own narrow view of privilege.

Indie creators are actually working very hard to change the way the industry works, and the publishing industry is shitting itself over it. They don't like the success some of us are having. It's why they keep upping prices while slashing corners on their own production (while never affecting the man at the top) to try and stay competitive within the rat race they've created.

They're not interested in the proliferation of art. They're not interested in making sure their authors can afford to live. They don't want more diversity. They don't want inclusion. They want profit at whatever the cost.

And while indie creators very much need to get paid because we live in a capitalistic society and everything is burning down around us, and a carton of eggs now costs more than what I earn per hour, our creativity is directly at odds with the type of profiteering big publishers want.

The money should go to the writers. Not the CEOs. The money should go to the workers in the print houses. Not the CEOs. No one needs the kind of wealth these people have. It's obscene. We need direct action against these conglomerates. We need unionization. We need a means to fight back so that we can make art and make it accessible.

So, how do we do that? I don't know. I'm just a very tired, disabled creator doing my best to keep my head above water. But I think getting people to realize that art and books are worth saving up for would be a good start.

That putting money in the pockets of creators is just as important as your own enjoyment of their art. Because if there aren't any artists, you've got nothing.

Getting them involved with their local libraries would also be a great start. Educating them on how the industry works is part of that. The number of people telling me they had no idea libraries paid authors is staggering. And that's intentional. It's a by-product of right-wing propaganda to make you think libraries are worthless and just sap taxpayers' money.

They're not.

If they were, the fash wouldn't be trying so hard to take them away.

Basically, we need working-class solidarity and for certain people on the left to rid themselves of the idea that just because something isn't borne of manual labor, it doesn't have worth. We need the artists and the dreamers as much as we need to bricklayers and the craftsmen. Otherwise, what's the fucking point of it all?

[goldenlikedayl1ght]

born to die - m. murdock

a/n: IM NOT DEAD i am very busy with finals but this has been rattling around the old noggin for a while now. i took a lot of inspiration from @ellephlox 's fic strawberry rhubarb which i 100% reccomend bc its better than most fics including this one! hope you enjoy! as always reblogs and comments are always appreciated! <3 warnings: oh boy. torture (cutting, burning) some sexually suggestive talk (nothing happens but it's not consensual) readers dad abused her, nightmares, lots of major character death (but not permeant) ANGST!!! but with a happy ending! kidnapping, medical stuff, cursing, and if i missed anything, let me know! word count: 4.8k summary: as matt murdock's wife, your life is rather full of surprises. getting kidnapped by wilson fisk takes the cake as the worst one. pairing: matt murdock x wife!reader now playing: born to die - lana del rey "choose your last words, this is the last time/'cause you and i, we were born to die"

You would think after patching him up too many times to count, five years without him, and countless sleepless nights worrying if he was alive, you would think you’d be used to Matt Murdock and his world of surprises.

And then you get kidnapped, so maybe you’re not so immune to surprises.

It’s really such a shame too, because you’re storming out of the apartment, too angry to take notice of your surroundings.

Silly, foolish, ditzy you.

Because it isn’t like Matt hasn’t told you time and time again that you need to be careful, especially when you go out alone at night. But he’s so angry that he doesn’t even think about the potential dangers of Hell’s Kitchen at three a.m. when Daredevil has been tucked away for the night and Matt Murdock comes back out to play.

He’s been taking more and more patrols because with Fisk being out of prison he can’t help but be constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop.

How silly he was to think that maybe he could have it all—A successful law firm, good friends and a loving wife.

Silly, foolish, ditzy Matt.

But after a week of nonstop patrols, you’re both fed up and tired, and above all, you’re yearning for each other. Neither of you allow yourselves to be totally happy all the time. It would just make everything too easy.

So, after yelling at each other over, what? Patrols? Cases? Burnt dinners? You’re freezing on the streets, and you get about five blocks before you stop and rub your eyes.

This is dumb, you rationalize. Of course, you’re both stressed out and tired, but you’ve gotten through rougher times before, and you both made an oath. To each other, in front of his God, to love each other no matter what.

You realize you left your wedding ring on the table, the ghost of the metal around your finger haunting you. You were dumb for leaving and Matt was dumb for telling you to go. You’re made for each other.

You turn around to go back to your shared apartment, and then, someone grabs you from behind. Your first instinct is to yell for your husband, but you don’t get the chance to before you’re knocked out, by what you can only guess to be a gun or maybe a large fist.

• • •

You wake up in this dingy room, the lighting not suitable for much of anything except to make you afraid. The set up is almost comical and in a fucked up away, stereotypical for a kidnapping. You’re tied up to a chair, and the lights shine only bright enough so you can see shadows and rats scurrying along.

The air is this weird musk of salt and earth, and you realize you’re near the docks, and that’s about all you know about your current location.

Your head is still pounding from whatever it was you were hit with, but you can see another chair a few feet from you and a wooden table with various weapons laying on it. You don’t feel good about this one. Also on the table is an old school record player. You have no idea what the intention is with it.

You try to keep your cool, knowing that wherever you wander, your husband will not be very far off. That whatever is happening, he will be coming to find you no matter how upset he is for whatever it was you were fighting about earlier.

And then, out of the shadows, there he is. 

But he’s too big to be Matt, and he has a man standing next to him.

Frank, maybe?

And then you realize who this man is.

He’s Wilson Fisk, the kingpin who has done nothing but torture and kill people, shoving it in Matt’s face for years. Matt only met you after Fisk was put back in prison, and you know at some point in the five-year blip without Matt, he had escaped prison.

So, this is the first time you’ve had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Fisk. When he meets your eye, you do nothing but stare.

“Good evening, Mrs. Murdock. It’s a shame we must meet under these circumstances.” He tells you, taking a seat in front of you. His henchman stands behind the chair.

“It’s regretful to say the least.” You tell him, not intending to make any more of an enemy out of him than Matt already has, not right now.

“I wanted to congratulate you on your wedding. I remember my own, it was a rather special day.”

You know that was the day Matt took him down. The night that he, Karen and Foggy took him down.

“I’ve heard stories. It seemed like a lovely day.”

“You’re a much more gracious guest than your counterpart.”

“Well, I’m sure people say similar things about you and yours.”

He seems to consider this for a moment before nodding.

“You’re probably right about that, Mrs. Murdock. I wanted to tell you I’m terribly sorry these are the circumstances in which we are finally introduced. But it seems Mr. Murdock has been interested in finding out more about my endeavors. And you see, we simply cannot have that. I made a promise not to hurt Miss Page or Mr. Nelson but it seems you were not included in that deal.” Of course not, it had been a long time before you showed up. “So, you’re how we’re going to send Mr. Murdock a message.”

Huh.

So, this is how you die.

Well, you might as well go out with a bang.

“You see, Mrs. Murdock, When I was a boy—”

“I’m going to stop you, Mr. Fisk, because your sob story is rather dull. I know who you are. You were beaten by your father, just like I was. The difference is that I don’t use that as an excuse to murder my way to the top of the food chain. And you can torture me, assault me, whatever you feel you need to do. But if you think for a second that I’ll forget who’s coming to stop you, you are sorely mistaken. And if you think he’ll ever stop trying to find me, you do not know my husband very well.”

Fisk stares at you for a while, his gaze hardening into a glare.

“You’re right. You do know who I am. Because we’re rather similar.” He stands up and nods to the man nearby. “If Murdock can hear her far from here, make sure he hears her screaming.”

Then Wilson Fisk walks away, and you are left with the sickening gaze of a man who has no good intentions.

 The man goes to the record player and starts to play a song you recognize quickly as “Fly Me To The Moon” by Frank Sinatra. As he does this, he speaks,

“Hello, Mrs. Murdock. I’m John.” You stay quiet, and he just enjoys the song.

He picks up a knife from the table and goes to you, this grin on his face that makes you sick.

But you remember a trick from not only your childhood, but also from Frank who told you the key to remaining strong under torture—Distraction.

You stare straight ahead, trying not to mind as the man runs the knife over your skin. You think about Matt. You imagine him in his wedding suit, the smile he had on as you approached him down that aisle. You think about when he asked you to marry him, and—

A sharp pain slashes down your arm, cutting open the shirt you’re wearing. You yell in pain, before moving in to try and take deep breaths.

You can do this. Matt will be here soon.

You continue to breathe through the anxiety and the pain, trying not to think too hard about when John hums along to Sinatra’s voice, guiding his knife around your skin. Another cut finds itself on your shoulder.

This goes on for a while, with the classic song looping over and over again. John never seems to tire of it, no matter how badly you will for it to end. As the song ends in one particularly good loop, John hits your face hard, and your nose starts bleeding.

You try to think of Matt’s voice. You don’t listen to John’s torments, knowing it will only egg him on further. You just want him to burn at that point.

By the end of… Countless Frank Sinatra serenades, you have cuts littered around your body, dry blood on your face from your nose and tears running down your face. When he’s eventually done, two men cut you out from the chair and drag you along to a smaller, darker room. You are left in there with a small meal, and you just huddle against a corner, nearest a barred window out of your reach.

And then, you begin to speak for the first time since you saw Fisk.

“Matt,” You whisper, “I’m by the docks.” You tell him, not sure if he can even hear you. “Please, I’m sorry for everything, please just come find me..” You mumble, too tired and aching to try and do more.

• • •

The next day, or what you presume to be the next day since you have no way to tell how much time has passed, you’re woken up by a loud banging on the door of your.. cell..?

The same two men enter and drag you back to the room, where John waits for you.

“How are you feeling today, Mrs. Murdock?” He asks.

You glare.

“Fuck you.”

He laughs and shakes his head.

“What happened to the polite young woman Mr. Fisk and I met yesterday?”

You’re filled with unprecedented anger.

“I said, Fuck you!”

He wastes no time, grabbing a lighter off the table and starting the record player again. Once more, Frank Sinatra’s voice fills the room, and you’re pretty sure once you’re done with John, and then Fisk, you’ll bring Sinatra back from the dead just to kill him again.

You’ve never really been a violent person, but you suspect that it lives in the worst parts of you, just as it did with your own father. You’re much better at keeping it all at bay. Besides, it does you no good to be violent while you have Matt. He’s plenty angry for the both of you.

Oh, Matt..

This is how time passes for you. While John tortures you, burning you or carving into your skin, you think about how great it will be to choke the life out of the singer… And you think about Matt. When you’re in your dark little room, you talk to him. Even if he can’t hear you, you must hope that he’s looking for you.

• • •

Days pass. How long have you been here?

One night, you have the following dream:

It starts out as a memory. A memory of you and Matt. You’re lying in bed with him, and the sunlight is hitting his face just right. You love this memory, it’s one you recall often. He just has this angelic look to him.

Yeah, most people who encounter him, especially at night, meet the devil. But occasionally, you get glimpses of the angel you know he is. He’s sleeping, and you think in this state, he is the most relaxed you’ll ever see him.

Then, before your eyes, the dream shifts and you’re in this black void, on the ground.

Foggy, Karen, Frank, and Matt stand around you. You run to Matt but hit a clear shield keeping him from you. You bang on the glass, well, maybe it’s glass, you don’t know. You try to scream, but your voice never reaches your ears. You begin to look around, looking for a way out.

An eerie version of ‘Fly Me To The Moon’ plays as you glance over to Foggy and watch in horror as his body begins to turn to ash, just like Matt and Karen did when they were blipped. You scream, banging against the shield, but your screams are silent.

You glance back and see the same thing happening to Frank. No, no, no! It was never supposed to happen this way! Frank and Foggy, they lived! They got their time! They don’t die like this!

And then Karen starts too. You start sobbing, not wanting her to go. You had missed her so much, and you only just got her back. But soon enough, she’s gone too, and you’re left in front of your husband.

His hand comes up to rest on the forcefield and he frowns softly.

He says your name gently, and then adds, “You know it couldn’t last forever, right?”

And then just as quickly as before, he is gone again. You remain there in that void, sobbing and screaming though no noise reaches you. This can’t be it! You just got him back, you needed him! You couldn’t take being alone for another five years… Or more…

The dream transforms and you’re in this grand ballroom. People are dancing elegantly and you’re in this.. obnoxious ball gown. But across the room, you can see Matt. He’s dressed in an all-black suit, with a red masquerade mask covering his face. The mask has little red devil horns on it.

Now, the orchestra plays their rendition of Sinatra’s romantic classic. And you step towards Matt, attempting to make your way towards him, only to be met with a masked man, beginning to twirl you around.

You jump from man to man, until eventually, you’re dancing with a man in an all-white suit, a man you quickly recognize as Fisk. No matter how hard you try to escape his grasp, he holds on tighter. The two of you stop dancing now, amid the crowd of moving bodies.

Fisk grabs your chin and tilts it in Matt’s direction, just in time for you to see him bowing to another woman, kissing the back of her hand. Your eyes widen and you think, this can’t be real.

“When I kill you,” Fisk says, “He’ll move on. You’re easily replaceable, Mrs. Murdock.”

And then, in an instant, the woman with Matt pulls out a dagger and plunges it deeply into his abdomen. It’s then that the other dancers, besides you, Fisk, Matt, and this mystery woman, disappear. Matt turns to you and falls to his knees, clutching his stomach.

He tries to crawl to you, blood seeping onto his hands and the beautiful ballroom floor. He yells your name, and the woman stabs him again from behind, and you watch as your husband dies. You hear him screaming, hear him yelling your name. But Wilson Fisk keeps you in place. You can do nothing but watch as Matt Murdock meets his end again, unable to save him. You start to scream, thrashing against Fisk, ready to claw your way to Matt.

You wake up screaming, the nightmare haunting you. A guard bangs on your door, yelling at you to keep it down.

It was just a nightmare, you tell yourself. Maybe Matt heard your screams.

Maybe he’s already dead.

You force yourself not to listen to the voice in your head that says that.

• • •

One day, Fisk visits again, only this time, He’s covered in blood. That damn song is still playing.

You just stare. They have long since stopped tying you up, recognizing that you no longer have the energy to try and fight back.  He has this sick grin on his face.

“Good evening, Mrs. Murdock.” You say nothing. “Have you been enjoying your stay with us?”

You glare.

“I hope Matt kills you when he gets here, because it will be a lot less painful for you if he does it instead of me.”

Mr. Fisk just laughs at this and tosses something at your feet. You get down off the chair to see what it is.

Your face goes pale with realization. You pick it up and slip it on your thumb, with it being too big for your other fingers. Matt’s wedding ring. You know it’s his, it has your name engraved in braille on the inside. How did he get this?

As if reading your mind, Fisk speaks again. “I took it off his body after I killed him.”

Your head shoots up to him. What did he say?

“No.” You deny. “Fuck off, I don’t—I don’t believe you.”

“Your husband is dead, Mrs. Murdock. I killed him with my bare hands because he was stupid enough to come after you. Your friends will mourn you and Matt Murdock for a while, and the city will come to the realization that Daredevil did nothing but harm. I win, Mrs. Murdock.”

You feel tears start to fill your eyes, and you realize, no. He hasn’t won because you’re still alive.

Maybe not for long, but you are.

You gather the rest of your energy and leap up, lunging at the large man covered in the man you love’s blood. And there’s a part of you that gets it. Okay, universe, you win. Most people don’t get a second chance like the two of you did. And now he’s dead, and soon you will be too. You can at least try to kill Fisk.

But you barely get a scratch in, yelling and screaming obscenities at him, as John grabs your arms from behind pulling you away. Fisk laughs and shakes his head again.

“It’s been lovely knowing you, Mrs. Murdock. I’m sorry you’ll have to die, you had so much potential. John, when you’re done doing whatever you’d like to her, kill her.” You hear him say it, but you’re blinded by rage, by grief.

John laughs behind you and forces you back into the chair, tying you back up once more. He looks at you, enraged and grief stricken, and just shakes his head.

“You and I are going to have a lot of fun.”

He leaves for a few minutes, and you realize this is the first time you’ve been left alone in this room. You tug at the knots and realize that while John is a gifted torturer, he’s not much of a knot tier.

So you manage to wiggle out of the rope, approaching the table in front of you. You don’t have much time. Okay, maybe you won’t be able to kill Fisk, but John will do. You take a golf club off the table in front of you and turn to the record player.

You begin to smash the thing in, angrily cursing at it as Frank Sinatra’s voice fades off into nothing. When the song ends, the lights turn off. And then, red flood lights turn on in their place.

A back up generator. Lovely. You think that your smashing of the record player couldn’t possibly make the whole building’s power go off, but you don’t really care at that moment.

You’re tired. You won’t make it far, but you need to try. You grasp the club and open the door, being greeted with a man you don’t recognize. You smack him in the face with the club hard enough for him to fall to the ground.

The red lighting adds an eerie tone to the hallways as you creep around, concussing various henchmen that Fisk has working for him. You don’t mean to kill these ones, only John.

But you’re running out of stamina, peeking around corners. And that’s when you see him. John is just standing there like he knows you’re there.

“Come out to play, Mrs. Murdock?” He calls, approaching the corner where you are waiting on the other side.

You focus on his footsteps, taking a swing around the corner when you know he’s close enough. You hear a sharp crack! As he falls, and you can’t see the blood in this lighting. Good. You begin to hit his head in, sobs mixing with yelling. You hate him. You want him to die before you’re killed.

But you don’t get the pleasure, because a pair of arms are pulling you off him, and you begin yelling.

“No!” You yelp. “No, Fuck you! Let go of me! Stop!” You think it’s another one of his goons, and you just want to be able to finish the job before you die. The figure forces you to drop the club. “Please, stop, don’t hurt me—”

But he’s saying your name and turning you around to see him. You know that voice.

“Sweetheart, hey, it’s just me—” He pants, his hands going to your cheeks. “It’s me, It’s just me. I’ve got you.”

And you can’t believe your eyes.

“Matt..?” You whimper, not able to believe it. “No, you’re dead, this has to be—”

And then, Matt does something he wouldn’t do for anyone who wasn’t his wife. He pulls off his helmet so you can see his face. Oh.

“I’m right here. I’ve got you.” He says softly, his thumb gently rubbing against your skin.

That’s when you start to sob, falling against him, no energy left to carry yourself. His arms wrap around you, and you say it again.

“He told me you were dead..”

“I know.. I’m sorry, I don’t know how he got my ring but we’ve gotta get you out of here.” He tells you.

You’re so tired. You’re slumping against him as you try to walk, the warmth radiating off his body just drawing you to sleep.

The last thing you hear before you fall asleep is Matt’s voice, begging you to stay awake.

• • •

You see flashes. Your parents, your dad. Nightmares of Fisk killing Karen, Foggy, Frank, and worst of all, Matt. You see John’s sickening grin on the body of spiders, and you’re chased by his cruel laughter.

But the dreams are filmier compared to what’s happening around you. You know Claire shows up at some point, and you’re thankful to her. Karen sits next to you sometimes, petting your hair, or sometimes it’s Foggy, talking your ear off.

You have fever dreams of Frank in full military gear, tormenting you.

“Not so tough now, huh, girl?” He teases. “You really thought you’d kill the big bad wolf? Solve all your boyfriend’s problems?”  

You say to him, “Husband, He’s my husband.”

• • •

Even in your dreams, where you were slashed and burned aches, and you long for the pain to end.

You wake up only once throughout these dreams, and it’s when Karen is playing music to try and calm you from your insistent nightmares.

Only one song snaps you out of it, and you hear it clear as day.

‘Fly me to the moon,” Sinatra sings, “Let me play among the stars,’

He only gets through a few more lines before you’re sitting up on the couch, screaming.

“No! Stop, please!” You cry, and in an instant, Matt’s arms are around you. “Matt, please, don’t let him hurt me, please! Please don’t die, don’t let him keep hurting me!” You beg, in a hazed, frenzied state.

“I’ve got you, No one’s going to hurt you..”

Karen turns off the music somewhere deep in the apartment.

“No..” You begin to grow tired in his arms again. “Matty, please.. You can’t die, please..” You whimper out, continuing to mumble out pleads as you fall back into your weird dream state.

• • •

You really wake up two days later. Matt’s hand is clasped over yours, and he’s just.. Sitting on the floor next to the couch, praying into your clasped hands.

Praying for what, you don’t know.

Your body aches. But something in you tells you you’re safe.

“Matt…?” You whisper gently, and his head shoots up.

“Hey..” He says softly, one hand leaving yours, coming up to brush your hair out of your face. “There she is..”

“You’re alive..”

He seems a little concerned you still had some doubts about this.

“I am. Fisk lied to you.. He never even touched me.” You nod.

“Did I kill him? The man you found me..”

“No. He’s just in a coma, I checked. He’ll be brought to justice.”

“I only wanted him dead when I thought you were too..” Because really, you would have nothing if Matt wasn’t there. Nothing to live for. When he was blipped away, you had the hardest time readjusting to life. Now you know if he died again, you’d probably go off the rails.

No love story is saved more than once. You used up all your luck. Now it will be doomed if he’s ever killed again.

“I know.” He said gently.

“How long have I been out? How long was I in there?”

“A week, and then you were out for four days here. They got you good, baby..” He says gently. “I’m sorry I didn’t find you earlier.”

You frown softly.

“You did find me though. That’s all that really matters anymore.” You know you’ll be nursing scars for a long time. Physical or not.

“Still..” He said gently, and he brings your hand up to kiss it gently. “And I’m sorry I told you to leave that night. I was just upset, but this past week and half.. I feel like I’ve been going crazy without you. No matter how mad at you I am, I never want to spend another night without holding you. Knowing that you could have been…” His voice breaks, and he just sighs, taking a moment to lean his head on your hand. “I love you, so much.” He kisses your palm again.

How are you so tired again? All you’ve done is talk to him, but it feels like you just ran a marathon.

“I love you. It’s why I married you. Because you and I, we were always meant to be with each other. No matter what.”

He smiles weakly and reaches over to the coffee table to grab something. He slips it on your finger and for the first time in over a week, your wedding ring is back where it belongs. You see Matt is wearing his. Your Matt. Your husband. The only one you were ever meant to be with.

“Did Claire patch me up? I remember her being here..” He nods softly.

“Yeah, we.. we really owe her one. She was a huge help..”

“Karen and Foggy were here… And Frank?”

“No, no, Frank’s still in Illinois, I think?” You nod softly. “You were mumbling to him, though. I heard you… you were telling him you had a husband.”

You would laugh if it didn’t hurt.

“He called you my boyfriend. I had to correct him.” You grin.

“That’s my girl.” He hums. Matt gently lifts you so you can sit up and drink some water. Then, he climbs onto the couch and brings you close. His arms wrap around your freshly wounded skin and you have a rare moment of gratefulness for his blindness.

You sit in silence for a while.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks gently.

You think about it all. The torture, the cuts, burns, the small room. Fisk’s laughter, John’s grin. But something sticks out to you.

“Fisk said I was just like him.”

“What?”

“We.. We grew up similar, Matt, I mean.. What if he’s right? What if the only thing separating him and I is one bad move?”

Your husband frowns and shakes his head.

“Sweetheart, you are the.. the most amazing person I’ve ever met. You’re the complete antithesis of Wilson Fisk. Yeah, you grew up like him, but you’re living proof that you don’t have to go down the path he did just because of his background. You and I both know that there will never be a world where you end up like him. Especially not with me.”

You find comfort with his words. Not only did you make every choice not to be like Fisk, but you must’ve also made all the right decisions if in the end, you ended up with Matt. Oh, it won’t be easy, you know that for sure. You’ll never be able to listen to Frank Sinatra, and your upcoming nights are filled with nightmares and hauntings.

But one day you’ll be okay. One day You’ll be able to sit in the silence without thinking about it. One day you’ll get the image of dead Matt out of your head. You’ve spent many nights wondering about who will go first, you or him.

And then you realize the best-case scenario is that the two of you die at the same time, never living another moment without each other.

How would there ever be a world where you and your husband weren’t with each other, even just for a moment?

[windvexer]

Spirit Vessel Theory & Practical DIY (Traditional Witchcraft Flavored)

(Written in response to an Anon whom I think is probably involved in spirit conjure community, which is where conjurers put spirits inside of a vessel for you and ship them to you. Anon requested to know tips on how to transfer a spirit to a new vessel)

✨big heckin UPG ALERT ahead for the ENTIRE POST✨

In this post, a spirit vessel is any object, including a container filled with objects, which serves as a spirit's physical foothold into our present reality.

Three Varieties of Spirit Vessels: Telephone, Body, House

Please note the particular absence of trap or prison: there is no need for any practitioner to trap or seal a spirit inside of a vessel. This is what we do to unwanted spirits to relocate them to a second location, and it's not how we treat our friends.

My categorization of spirit vessels relates to how the spirit is intended to engage with the vessel.

Telephone Vessel: This is the kind I've most commonly seen and heard of in the conjure community. The spirit lives/exists Elsewhere, but the practitioner has given them a link of communication to this physical object.

The practitioner then works over the object to "call" the spirit and ask it to arrive in their location, or visit it Elsewhere, or just talk while they are in separate locations.

In my opinion, the "telephone" vessel is the least impactful type for the purposes of allowing spirits into our lives, but it's great at what it does: serving as a telephone line. However, as I hope this post will go on to show, it's also the easiest to make because the vessel requires the least amount of preparation and care.

Body Vessel: This is when the spirit vessel is meant to be the body of the spirit as it dwells on Earth. When a vessel is consecrated and dedicated to a spirit, it's understood to be the spirit itself. The form that the vessel takes influences the spirit's ability to work in our reality.

Body vessels may end up looking like little figurine versions of the spirit in question, but they can also be containers specially prepared with decorations and objects heavily linked to the spirit's essence.

Direct examples in witchcraft and folk magic include house and kitchen dollies that are meant to help lighten the load of chores or stop food from burning. Such dolls may be equipped with little brooms, multiple hands, and so forth, to assist with chores.

Another example of a body vessel is the Decaying River God. To create this vessel, I made a deal with the river and then embodied a spirit into this intuitively crafted form. Now, that physical object has become the sacred body of a spirit.

Just as the kitchen doll may be given a broom to assist with sweeping, a spirit's body may be equipped with tools to grant them additional influence and abilities in our world. A related example in witchcraft is to put the feet of small, scurrying Earthen animals (such as a rat or mole) into charm bags, so that the spell can scamper to its destination.

Just because the spirit has a body vessel does not mean they are permanently bound inside of that vessel. Accidentally breaking or losing the vessel isn't like harming the spirit (although obviously it's to be avoided).

Spirits which were born Elsewhere are perhaps more likely to come and go from body vessels, but even beings born with the creation of their body may still leave that physical space and return to it as desired.

House Vessel: This is the same thing as a spirit house or shrine, just a step to the left. We might equip the body vessel with objects that grant the spirit additional powers and capabilities, but in the house vessel, I tend to organize things to be a pleasant and enjoyable respite for the spirit, almost like a custom bedroom.

There may be no object or representation that's intended to be the body of the spirit at all. Nonetheless, the space is still one where the spirit may be fully invited and present, and gives them a strong foothold in our world.

The only real difference I draw between a house vessel and a shrine or spirit house is the intent. A shrine may be to venerate, and a spirit house may be a kind act of providing shelter. But the house vessel's intent is to create a space that makes it easier for a spirit to fully Show Up to our present reality.

Which Variety is Best?

This depends on your needs. For the purposes of witchcraft, spirits are often best given bodies that reflect their nature and empower them to carry out your purpose. I also hold this to be true for spells and any other variety of guy.

Spirits whom we're getting to know, but aren't quite sure of yet, may be best limited to "telephone" status.

House vessels - I haven't got a lot to say, except bringing up the point of them.

You can have multiple telephone lines and house vessels, yet intuition advises that really only one Body should do for the average spirit.

Vessels Themselves Can Suck So It's Worthwhile to Put Some Thought Into It

I believe that the more a spirit vessel is the embodiment of the spirit themselves, the easier it is for the spirit to use that vessel to interact with us and our present reality.

An extreme example can help demonstrate this point.

Imagine you've gotten to know a water spirit. A mermaid, let's say, from an ocean world of pure, opalescent waters, where coral reefs are cities and pet jellyfish are decorated with pearls.

Imagine that the vessel for this mermaid is a jar painted red and decorated with symbols of fire, then further charged with fiery energy. Within the jar is rusty nails, polluted water from the side of the highway, and a heaping spoonful of chili flakes.

I would hazard a guess that you couldn't even agree to get that mermaid to use such a vessel as a telephone line, much less use it as their physical body.

It's not that the spirit is snooty - it's that you're asking him to come into contact with things that irritate and burn him. Not only would it require a huge amount of energy to overcome these differences, but the vessel would nonetheless cause him discomfort.

Intuition may even advise that a simple bowl of water would create a vastly improved "house" vessel for this spirit.

But if it's true that a vessel can be incompatible with a spirit, then it's reasonable to assume that a vessel can be made more and more compatible with a spirit, until it is highly compatible and therefore very easy for the spirit to link to it and use it.

To really improve our mermaid vessel, we might embroider the outside of a bag with a representation of a coral reef, place jellyfish charms and imitation pearls inside of it, and often soak the entire bag in cool, pure water.

This may be the perfect vessel for our mermaid, but totally unsuitable to the pollution monster, who wants to live inside of the rusty nails jar.

This is the primary reason why I find simple unmodified single-object vessels to be not that great. (Examples of this would be, a crystal ring or antique object purchased and used without modifying it to the tastes of the spirit)

While a spirit may select such an object from a lineup and request it's use as a vessel, that doesn't mean that it's going to be an effective vessel.

Especially combined with beliefs in witchcraft about the magical impact of modifying vessels to encapsulate the power of a spell or spirit,

I believe that an unmodified object for use as a spirit vessel is like casting a candle spell with a plain candle to which no herbs or energies are added, and all you do is imprint your raw intent and light the candle.

It'll maybe work, but not nearly as well as it could.

Therefore I believe the form of the vessel matters beyond whether or not the spirit personally likes it, and extends into the realm of sorcerous technique - spirit manifestation is affected depending on if the spirit vessel is made well or made poorly, and especially how much it is physically personalized to the spirit.

Creation of a Useful Vessel

In all cases: Modify the object(s) of the vessel as much as possible to reflect the nature and known qualities of the spirit. As much as possible, work with the spirit to choose modifications, or, work with known lore or with the assistance of spirit workers or diviners.

In the case where a single object (such as a stone) must be used:

Tie the object up in a net where each knot represents a foothold for the spirit to cling on to, or, where each knot ties up a bundle of energy of the sort of thing the spirit likes. (Can be then worn as necklace)

Paint or carve the object, even in a hidden area.

Add additional decorations and embellishments to reflect either the nature of the spirit, or to represent useful tools that the spirit can use to access the object.

Carve out the middle and add bits of paper (with name and permissions written on), and stuff with relevant herbs.

Sight-unseen, I wouldn't recommend single object vessels if you can't heavily/permanently modify them.

In the case where a container vessel (such as a bag, box, or bottle) may be used:

Decorate the exterior, and if space permits the interior, of the container to best reflect an environment enjoyable to the spirit. Consider various techniques: painting, embroidery, carving, burning, and so forth.

Selectively include objects which reflect the spirit's nature, including dried plants, stones, feathers, seeds, bones, and various objects from nature; also charms, trinkets, and tokens (factory-made is fine); also prayers or poems, or drawings or artwork, all of these things symbolic of the spirit and attempting to demonstrate its nature and totality

Include a written sigil or signature of the spirit, and it's name or known names, and epithets. Often best done in fancy magical ink if any is on hand. (I use Sharpies; no need to over-think it)

Charms, amulets, plants, prepared powders or oils, or otherwise, for the purpose of facilitating spirit manifestation and ease of travel between worlds; examples may include specially prepared threads to symbolize links and roads, special spirit-calling powder, magnets to "draw towards," symbols of the Crossroads or of safe and easy travel, and so forth.

In the case where the spirit is likened to an earthly animal, bones or preserved body parts are a very good addition.

In the case where the vessel is itself in the form of a body, such as a figurine or doll:

Hand-craft or heavily modify the creation to represent the vibes as much as possible

Dress, accessorize, ornament, and decorate the figure to represent the spirit or it's known attributes and purposes.

As handicrafters known more about their trade than I do, I don't want to over-comment. Make them a little body. Yes.

Inviting the Spirit to Utilize the Vessel

Unfortunately I will decline to try and provide a specific step-by-step ritual, mostly because I work more intuitively and don't actually have one written up.

But I'll do my best to explain how you can go about it, and some things to consider.

Basically, you'll want to conceptualize four steps:

Final magical preparations

Consecration

Dedication

Invitation

I'll try to explain the reasoning behind including these things, and of course, you'll want to modify or change all of them according to your preferences and needs.

In all cases: Use your magic to make the vessel lovely and filled with spiritual virtues that resonate deeply with the nature of the spirit. This is necessarily vague; a troubleshooting primer for energy work is beyond the scope of this post.

The timing of this work is very well done on special days where the spirit-roads are open, on full moons, or on Mondays.

In cases where the spirit already has a vessel and you want to give them a new one, there is no difference in operation. Make profane and reclaim the old vessel afterwords according to your desires.

Fill the vessel with two types of energy: The first being dense caloric energies from foods, especially oil, nuts, seeds, eggs, and fatty meat. This can be done by placing a food offering next to the vessel and dedicating the food to the spirit.

The second being ethereal and subtle energies, such as produced from blessed incense or energy work. This can be done by blessing and offering incense as you normally do, or channeling your personal energy into the vessel.

Consecrate the vessel: Perform any charm or ritual in your practice which delineates an object as being sacred and separate from the everyday, and turns the object into a Spirit Vessel. (Add'l details below)

Dedicate the vessel: Perform any charm or ritual in your practice which functions to formally gift-give an object to a god or a spirit.

Sometimes, a consecration and a dedication are done in the same ritual, especially when a god is concerned. E.g., "Witchfather, by your name this wand is made holy (consecration). I give this wand to you; it is yours, and when I use it, your hand guides it (dedication)."

The most simplest format of this is something like, "by [the powers I believe allow me to make thing sacred], I make this object sacred [and perhaps I sprinkle some saltwater or whatever formula I believe is necessary to help me make things sacred]. This object is now the vessel for a spirit. Now, it is a Spirit Vessel."

The above being the idea of a consecration; the dedication then being something like,

"[Spirit Name], I invite you into my world and my life. I give you Permission to dwell in this Spirit Vessel and make it your body and your home. I give you Permission to walk in this world through the conduit of this Spirit Vessel. It belongs to you, it is you."

(The above dedication perhaps also revealing something about why "telephone lines" may be a safer bet, the dedication for those being something like, "[Spirit Name], I invite you to observe this vessel and place your fingerprint upon it, so that when I work over it I call out to you, and you can hear me easily no matter how far apart we are.")

Anyway, put some real thought into exactly how much you want this spirit to manifest in your life, because spirit experiences - even when desired and invited - can be very intense and scary, especially if up to that point your experiences with spirits has been limited.

Invite the spirit into the vessel: If not included in your dedication, also formally invite the spirit.

"[Spirit Name], I've prepared this special Vessel for you, and given it to you. I have prepared the way with earthly and aethereal energies, so you may be well-fed and have the power to move within our world. [That's the offering bit innit]. Come now at this time and here in this place, and claim this Vessel as your own."

Etc., something like that.

At this time, the ritual is over with and you can commune with the spirit as desired or close the ritual down in your normal techniques.

Again, if there is an additional/old spirit vessel you no longer want to use, try talking with the spirit about what to do with it; but you can just let it "run dry" and then carefully undo the magic on it. After that, do with it as you please.

[pinkie-pop]

Alrighty then thanks!! Could you maybe write yandere Riddle x reader where the reader is extremely affectionate and touchy? They basically cling alot or give random hugs/headpats/head or cheek kisses.

Featuring: Gender-neutral reader, Yandere Riddle Rosehearts, affectionate reader, Self-Aware Twisted Wonderland

Includes: Mommy issues, obsessiveness, possessive thoughts, self-degreading thoughts

When you first 'landed' in Twisted wonderland, Riddle didn't know what to expect. Of course, he knew you would be kind (you had to be, to use your precious time on people like him) but there was little else to know. Yuu was always so secretive when it came to you. For Seven's sake, he didn't even know your name.

He didn't know what to expect, and yet, it did little to keep his imagination from running. That's the thing about mystery, you know. You add your own spin to it, even when you know it's in vain. Riddle imagines that you are refined, the kind of person who drinks mid-afternoon tea with the sort of elegance you only see in those who have engaged in rigorous etiquette training ever since their youth, except yours would not be learned, it would be something you were born with. You would not follow the law, because you would be the law.

You would have a sort of accent, too, he thinks. A subtle, classy accent that showcases your otherworldliness. Surely you would not speak in the same dilect that they do in Twisted Wonderland. This line of thought poses a rather distressing question, however.

Do you even speak the same language as the rest of them? What if you don't?

Riddle reckons that since Yuu speaks the language, you must also be fluent. Of course you would be, you must be an intelligent person, capable of speaking multiple languages with ease. The anxiety is not quite laid to rest, however, it merely dims, sitting in the back of his mind in patient wait.

There is another, far more pressing issue at hand, after all.

What if you're not what he expects? Would you be offended, knowing that someone as unworthy as him was forcing his own ideals on someone as elevated as you?

It was silly of him to worry. In reality, you are kind and forgiving. Far kinder to him than he deserves.

You are affectionate. You gave him the kind of affection he never received as a child. It healed something within him that he never knew was broken. It took quite a while to get used to, his face was painted as red as roses without rest for two straight weeks. He didn't mind, though. Of course not. How could he mind? The blush was because of you, and he wore it with pride. It was a gift, a sign of your eternal affection.

But he was not the only one who had received it.

Of course not, your graciousness was overflowing. It spilled out of your in waves. It stands to reason that he is not the only sponge lying in wait, eager to soak up even the tiniest drop of your attention.

Those rats…They didn't deserve you. But, then again…neither did he.

Riddle would be lying if he said the thought of spiriting you away didn't cross his mind once or twice (or four or eight times…), but how could he ever go through with it? Not only does it go against the Queen's laws, but it's also an insult to your own autonomy.

You choose to give pieces of yourself, to grace others, even when they are undeserving. That is your choice, and he will do his utmost to respect it. Even if he doesn't understand. Even if it hurts him. No matter what, he will not infringe upon your freedom, nor doubt your choices.

He will continue to hold his tongue until the day comes when you look at him—him and only him. When he becomes worthy of your generosity, he will ensure that is the sole outlet for your boundless warmth. No matter the cost.

If it means staying by your side, he will burn every bridge if he has to. Break every law.

Because it's you.

[houseofhyde]

i. a game of westerosi whispers.

pairing. daemon targaryen x fem!reader

synopsis. the five rumours about you that made the rounds amongst the court and the five times your uncle taught you to use them as a weapon. read part two here!

warnings. niece!reader, targcest, canon misogyny, mentions of infertility and starvation, attempted rape (not daemon), kinda manipulative behaviour from daemon ig, angst, fluff, smut (heavy petting, fingering, dry-humping). disclaimer!! reader + rhaenyra's age may not be accurate to the time of events but i don't feel comfortable writing about daemon going after a minor, so just roll with it.

word count. 5.5k 

taglist. @nyctophilic0vitnir​

hyde's input. i wrote this on a whim with no clue what the actual plot was gonna be other than the last sentence, so enjoy whatever this clusterfuck of words is. ngl, i felt a little iffy writing targcest but hey, at least it serves as a reminder that i’m 100% not into this shit irl. also, thank you so much for the reaction towards my first (and only other) daemon fic, dressed in white, i'm completely shocked at how many people actually read it and enjoyed it. you're all cute for giving it notes :(

bearing the targaryen name was as much a burden as it was a blessing.

while on one hand it came with dragons and power, on the other it came with prying eyes and hushed gossiping. it was a fact of life: as sure as the sun would rise come the morning, a targaryen’s name would be the centre of the capital’s gossip.

so, why on earth would you ever have believe yourself exempt from this rule, solely on the grounds that you were the second born daughter and not the apple of your father’s eye?

the first rumour was always the worst.

“i heard she threatened to feed herself to her dragon after the king named her sister as his heir.”

“no doubt that’s how she claimed inheritance over dragonstone!”

it hadn’t mattered that you’d never wanted, nor asked, for dragonstone, just the same as it didn’t matter that you’d happily cheered your elder sister’s future ascent to the dreaded iron throne. the ladies and lords who filtered through your father’s name-day feast had staked their claim over the truth, all so humoured by the thought of you, screaming like a small babe and stomping your foot like a spoilt brat, threatening your father with violence against yourself, that they failed to search for the source of such gossip, blindly believing it for the sake of a laugh and fuel to strike up a conversation within the great hall.

like wildfire, the rumour did spread.

lords whispered it into the ears of their dance partners, ladies who would then make their way back to their tables to share the news amongst those sat around it, all of whom would retire to their chambers and muse upon your supposed temper tantrum with their maids and knights, who’d filter out into the streets of king’s landing and spread the word like it were a plague, till even the rats in the sewers were aware of your untrue outburst.

by the next morning, you were branded the scorned princess.

“gossip is where truth goes to die.” he’d startled you out of your own self-pitying thoughts, back pressed up against the tree in the godswoods and book laying open across your knees, not a single page turned in what had to have been well over an hour.

“uncle,” clutching at your heart, your dizzied fright had blinded you to the way the man above you burned his eyes into what little he could see of your developing bosom. with the summer heat in full-swing, you’d taken to lowering the necklines of your dresses and the prince had taken to despising that you’d once dared to hide such a delectable sight beneath layers of clothing. “’tis not wise to sneak upon a woman armed.”

a charming smirk branded his face as you tugged the hem of your dress half-way up your leg, shamelessly letting him gaze upon your supple skin and the dagger sheathed in it’s own miniature scabbard against your calf.

a gift, on the name day in which you had turned ten and seven, from the very man who casted a shadow over you now. (”you told me you wanted a piece of old valyria, little dove. so there you go, your very own valyrian steel.”)

“just the same as it ‘tis not wise to sulk in public spaces, niece.”

“i was not sulking!” the book snapped shut as you rose to a stand, defensive in the way you held it pressed to your chest. his jaw clenched, what little morals he owned swallowing down whatever undesirable comment he had for you newly covered breasts.

his attention redirected itself to your mouth, lips red from the way you'd shamelessly gnawed upon them through all your distressing thoughts, the bottom one jutting out against your own consciousness.

“my brother’s new born babe aegon pouts less than you.” daemon mused, hand reaching out to swipe his thumb over your puckered petal, teasing himself with what they’d feel like pressed against his own. “if your concern is the whispers, ignore them. the cunts in your father’s court mean only to make themselves believe you are lesser than them. they’ll tire by the morrow and move on to someone else in our house to discuss, nyke kivio ao bisa.” i promise you this.

daemon was glad you’d never read into his words too much that day, least he’d have to admit to feigning a drunken state and causing a scene in a brothel that very night just to get your name out of their mouths.

the second time you found your name floating the keep’s halls was a few years after the first.

“they say the princess scarcely bleeds. barren, that’s what the grand maester called her.”

“regardless, she lacks the shape of a proper woman. i’ve seen men with hips more apt for childbearing than her’s.”

once more, no one took notice of the times your handmaidens had stripped your bed clean of bloodied sheets, nor did they pay mind to the fact you’d rushed out your father’s wedding to alicent hightower, dress sporting a bloodied stain and eyes filled with tears of embarrassment.

the scorned princess being also the barren princess? it made for a better story than the truth: a combination of stress induced starvation and lack of sleep had lead to an irregularity with your moon’s blood.

the room around you had long ago emptied itself of guests, those who remained behind either too drunk to make it out of their seats or in too high a spirit to retire to bed.

you were one of the former, head resting against your crossed arms which had found purchase on the table. never having been fond of drinking, it had only taken a few cups of dornish wine to render you inebriated, and thus your pity party had began, lamenting your own withering reputation to whichever poor, unfortunate family member had been a great enough fool to sit themselves next to you.

“father thinks me ruined, hic,” your sentence paused to make space for your drunken hiccups, which served to cover up the little sobs your body shook out. “i heard him speaking to the hand about how he’ll never, hic, find someone to marry a, hic, princess who can not, hic, give any heirs. ziry emagon daor gīda eptan issa, hic, lo ziry iksos drēje!” he has not even asked me, hic, if it is true.

“ao gīmigon skoros ao jorrāelagon naejot gaomagon, byka dove?” you know what you need to do, little dove?

you shot up straight, no longer caring that your face was stained in tears, mind too busy wondering why daemon had been sat next to you and was not off with some whore, indulging in a victory fuck to mark the end of the celebrations for his return as king of the stepstones.

you voiced your curiosity, hand instinctively curling around his own as he reached out for you, the scraping of his chair ringing in your ears when he inched himself closer.

“can i not want to spend time with my niece?”

“yes but we, hic, already broke our fast together this morning.”

“and yet i never managed to speak with you, your father was too busy with his gloats on my return.” he spoke no word of lie, the king had been an unstoppable force of laughter and joy ever since daemon had given him his crown and the crabfeeder’s sword. a part of you had been endeared, watching how he reminisced on his and his brother’s younger days, filling daemon’s cup with wine every time it had emptied, a smile on his face like no other you’d seen since the passing of your mother. “now, you’ve yet to answer my question.”

“your, hic, question?”

“you make for an endearing drunk, little dove.” giving your hand a gentle squeeze, there was nowhere for you to hide from the fondness in his eyes as he brought your intertwined fingers up to his lips, brushing them over the expanse of your knuckles. a chill ran down your spine and a fire lit within your loins. “my question was regarding those who speak on your fertility, or supposed lack thereof. do you know how you must handle this?”

“if i did, do you believe i’d have, hic, made myself so familiar with the wine this evening?”

the prince laughed, you smiled. something sinful flowed through your veins as you took note of his posture, how his whole body was pointed towards you, how his back hunched over enough for him to lean down and level his eyes with yours, how he didn’t seem to take notice- or, if he did, didn’t seem to care- of the remaining guests stares being glued to you both, analysing each detail of your interaction.

“and here i thought you’d turned to drinking to cope with the absence of your favourite relative in these past years.”

“i accepted corlys', hic, absence years ago, kepus.”

“just for that,” he pushed his chair back, hand dropping your own as he stood and straightened out his wrinkled clothing. “i shan’t be telling you what to do about these rumours.”

before he could walk away from you, your hand shot out and grasped at his wrist, foolishly believing you carried the physical strength to hold him in place.

“no!” you were certain everyone who remained in the hall had heard your panicked exclamation, but it mattered little as the desperation to have him near, to have him guide you, to have him tell you how to make everything better took over your sanity. “please, i only, hic, jest! tell me what to do.”

for what felt like an eternity, and was only a mere few seconds, daemon stared down at you, blank in the face. his eyes narrowed in on the tear tracks down your cheeks, and an unspoken- and impossible- vow was made in that instant: he’d pay any price to ensure you’d never cry again.

“what you need to do, niece,” he leaned down, till his lips were near pressed against your ear, ghosting over it with his hot breath and the faintest brush of his moving mouth. “is make sure your future husband fucks you so full of his seed that no one dares question your capability of carrying on the targaryen lineage.”

there still remained plenty a drunken fools and dancing buffoons by the time you decided to retire for the evening, yet you payed no mind to their wandering eyes as you let daemon guide you out the hall and escort you back to your chambers.

you’d awoken the next morning to an aching head and a burning cheek, unsure of whether daemon had pressed his lips against it before bidding you goodnight or if that was but a drunken dream.

the third rumour came not shortly after.

“did you hear about the princess and ser criston? apparently she’s requested he train her in combat.”

“the only combat she wants is within his bed.”

no one cared to enquire on the truth of why a young princess would request to be trained in the arts of the sword, just the same as no one cared to address the fear you’d been left with after an attack on your life within your own chambers, when a knight, angered with his dismissal from the city watch after breaking his vows of chastity, had decided to seek revenge on the king on a personal level, a fatherly level: stripping his daughter of her purity.

your night dress was nothing but torn rags and his breeches were halfway down his legs by the time ser criston had burst into the room.

and though he may have failed at stealing your virtue, he’d succeeded in stealing your safety.

the first few nights, you found no comfort in your own bed, seeking out your elder sister and crying into her welcoming arms till your body grew tired from the sobs and your eyes had dried up. your return to your own chambers had been under certain conditions, your father unwilling to risk putting you in harm’s way again, and thus a collective of knights stood post outside your door at all hours of the day.

none of it made any difference when you fell asleep, however, your slumbering mind taking to bombarding you with nightmares of sweaty palms on your skin and the putrid smell of the knight’s breath as he forced himself atop your helpless body.

when you’d asked ser criston to educate you in manning a sword, he’d taken no interest in asking for a reason, understanding what had been ailing you without you having to relive it through verbalising it.

he was surprisingly patient with his teaching, not caring for the number of times he’d need to repeat himself, nor the plethora of time you’d struck him in the face with the wooden training sword he’d bestowed you with.

but ser criston did not go easier on you, did not lessen the blows he’d deliver your way on account of you being smaller, frailer, nor for the simple fact that you were the princess. he pushed your face into mud, he bruised your skin with his blows, he worked you till you were short of breath and drenched in sweat. all in all, you’d believed him to be a great teacher. perfect, even.

until you found yourself disarmed, a boot digging into your shoulder to keep your back pinned to the ground below and the end of a sword barely gracing the skin of your neck.

“ziry kostagon daor hīlagon nykeēdar gīda lo ziry ropatas hen hen nykeā lōgor.” he could not hit water even if he fell out of a boat.

the heel of daemon’s boot dug further into your shoulder, unknowingly grinding into a bruise you’d earned two days prior, a fair price you’d payed to at last disarm ser criston for the first time.

the man above you glared down in your direction as a series of giggles erupted from your chest, the man already irritated from hearing how you’d taken to training with the cunt in shiny armor.

“ziry kostagon’t sagon sīr quba, lo ziry pyghagon ao isse se tourney.” he can’t be so bad, if he beat you in the tourney.

“urnēbagon ziry, byka dove, ao kostagon find aōla zālagon lo ao tymagon rūsīr perzys.” watch it, little dove, you may find yourself burnt if you play with fire. as if to punctuate his threat, he pushed the edge of dark sister harder against your skin and you felt the unmistakable sting of skin prying itself apart under the sharp pressure. the faintest line of red trickled down the back of your neck, staining your skin and straining daemon’s breeches, much to your own unawareness.

“īlon’re zaldrīzoti, keepus. perzys kostagon daor ōdrikagon īlva, mērī excite īlva.” we’re dragons, uncle. fire can not harm us, only excite us.

the next few moments passed in silence, save for the occasional screech of a bird or the rustling of leaves in the wind. and all the while he was gazing down at you, eyes hooded and chest heavy with each breath. he was contemplating something and you longed to know what.

it went far beyond a longing to know, you wanted to be in his mind, wanted to split his skull in two and burrow yourself in whatever space he may have left for you, taking up as much of his mind as you physically could.

meanwhile, he thanked any god who may exist that you had no insight into his maddening thoughts, safe to imagine you laid out atop his bed and with his hand around your throat rather than the blade of his sword, every rise and fall of your chest punctuating another delicate whine for him to swallow with his own deranged grunts.

only after he’d sheathed dark sister once more did he speak.

“i will inform ser crispin of his dismissal from training you.” it was not a request but, rather, an order. the kind of thing you’d typically quarrel with your father over, yet with daemon you were too busy melting into a puddle under the warmth of his stern tone to care.

“and why,” as he interrupted your own efforts to stand, hand grasping your arm and swiftly pulling you to your feet like you weighed no more than a bird’s feather, you lost your footing, sending you barreling against his solid chest. he stood taller this way, your head having to tilt further back to hold contact with his eyes. “would you be doing that, uncle?”

“because you’ve no need for two swordsmen to train you. it’ll only lead to conflict in training methods.”

“how so?”

“ser crispin is a technical man, commanding the style in which you move and the strategies you must implore to predict his next blow.” his face inched lower, closer to yours and invaded your space in a way only he could. “my training is more... hands-on.”

the fourth rumour was the one you cared the least to disprove.

“i suppose it is only expected that she follow in her family’s tradition.”

“still, i do find it odd how she can lust after her own kin, her uncle! i guess not even the rogue prince’s niece is blind to his charm.”

perhaps the spiders around you were finally beginning to use their countless eyes, staring the truth in it’s face and choosing to spin their web of lies around it, a step forward from their usual habit of spinning straw into gold and staking barbarian claims against your honour.

if they were going to talk, least it be with some truth.

because while no, you had not begged daemon to bed you like the ladies claimed, nor had you followed him out of the castle and spied on his depraved actions in fleabottom as the lords had said, you certainly could not deny there was something going on.

from touches that lingered on the training grounds, your hands clinging onto him long after he’d pulled you back to your feet and his hands remaining on your cheek long after he’d whipped away the traces of dirt.

to public interactions deemed far too intimate for an uncle and his niece, even for the house of dragons. countless feasts passing where neither one of you were keen to take your eyes off each other, whether your bodies were pressed right up against one another in a dance or a sea of people stood between you both on opposite ends of the hall.

two tourneys, one for prince aegon’s first name-day and another for the upcoming marriage between rhaenyra and your cousin, laenor velaryon, and in each the events had played out the same: daemon would stride in on his steed, dressed in the most ridiculous armor one could find, and request your favour, boldly and unabashedly before every gossiping housewife and envious lord, only to defeat his opponents and ruffle some more feathers when declaring you as the queen of love and beauty.

which lead up to this moment in the throne room, the king looming large over both of you from the pile of swords despite his visibly worsened health, anger decorating his features as he spied the wreath of flowers upon your head, still present hours after the rogue prince had crowned you for the second time.

the first time, he’d overlooked it, laughed it off.

the second time, he’d felt his blood boil, shoved his second wife’s hands off him as she whispered in his ear of how his brother meant to ruin his daughter in the eyes of potential suitors.

if the king were half as smart as he was kind, he would have seen the truth in queen alicent’s worries.

“please, father, don’t be so ridiculous! daemon has merely been training me.” you had the nerve to smile at him after he lay the allegations of your indecent meetings at both your feet, trampling them under your pretty words as though they were far too implausible to even entertain with anger.

“i thought ser criston was aiding you with your sword skills.” your father replied, his full-fingered hand curling over the edge of his armrest and supporting his weight as he leaned forward, as though to get a closer look at you.

“there was a conflict of interest.” daemon answered in your place, to which viserys scoffed and kept his eyes on his daughter.

“how so?”

“his methods, i did not find myself... responding as well as i do to daemon’s.” it was only a half-lie, for while you would still argue that ser criston was just as skilled with a sword as daemon, there was no competition when it came to who could hold your focus. in ser criston’s lessons, you’d counted down the minutes till you were free to rest, while with daemon you would often implore him to skip whatever small council meeting required his presence and remain with you on the field. “i have grown good enough to disarm him, though my uncle denies it happening.”

“‘tis my niece who negates the truth of how the rain that soaked us both lead to my sword slipping from my grasp.” the king watched, disgruntled, as daemon spoke towards you, holding you captive in his gaze in a way that was dangerously easy, a power the monarch could recall his beloved first wife held over him. “what she showed was an act of luck, not good swordsmanship.”

when neither three of the targaryens spoke, the echoes of celebrations within the gardens began to travel through the air, as if to mock the king, reminding him that he should be out there celebrating the union of not only his daughter but the realm’s alliance with the lord of the tides becoming stronger than ever, instead of trapped within the seat that brought him nothing but gripe and before his two political headaches- his brother the original, and his daughter the most recent.

the king heaved a sigh.

“very well, you’re dimissed.” he waved what remained of his hand, the stump where fingers once lived a sickening reminder of how his body was slowly falling apart. with a nod and a curtsy, you both made to leave the king’s presence, only for his voice to ring out once more. “not you, daemon. you and i need to discuss something.”

with you bidding them both goodbye, dress trailing behind you as daemon allowed himself to glance back just once, the doors slammed shut and trapped the two bother’s within.

viserys pulled himself off the throne, hardly feeling as a blade sliced through his decaying palm. while the king grew closer, daemon grew bolder, traveling up the steps and meeting his brother midway.

perhaps an act of kindness, to spare him the trouble of exhausting himself.

more likely a show of disregard, to remind him that he wasn’t one of the puny the lords who sat within the small council, ready to be pushed and pulled in whatever direction the king sent them.

“pray tell, brother.” the younger doned a smile and clasped his hands behind his back. “what is it we need to discuss?”

“my daughter.”

“i’m fairly certain it’s rude to discuss a lady when she is not pres-”

daemon was cut short, words dying as a sense of shock took over him upon viserys’ hands clasping the collar of his doublet.

“if i so much as hear of you putting your hands on my daughter without her permission, i’ll-”

“kill me? have me sent to the wall? turn me into a eunuch?” all sounded like awful outcomes, yet the prince wondered if getting his hands on you, even if it was just once, would make it all worth it. he decided not, for he was certain he would find no antidote to the poison of tasting you other than to taste you again and again and again, till his blood ran dry and his skin melted off his bones. “and if she permits me to? what if she is the one to put her hands on me?”

“then i will see to it that you both perform your duties as servants to the crown and have your affairs in order under the eyes of the seven.” he spoke like a king, distant and unfeeling, a man who’s only job was to lead the realm.

and so daemon graced him with an answer fit for a king.

“are you saying what i believe you to be, your grace?”

“yes. i’m saying i would wed you to her.”

the fifth rumour is when you decide enough was enough, the time had come to use their own love of gossip against them.

“the king’s expected to announce her search for a suitor soon.”

“i do pray for her future husband, whoever he may be. it’s doubtful he’ll find any joy married to such an ungrateful, infertile harlequin.”

every step you took that evening was calculated.

from the seat you sat at the royal table, trading your usual post beside rhaenyra for one next to daemon, to the number of lords you entertained with a dance and a laugh, three to be exact: one of them your soon-to-be brother by law laenor velaryon, another the son of the hand, ser harwin strong, a fierce knight and the object of your sister’s desires, and, lastly, cregan stark.

the stark was by far your father’s most favoured suitor when it came to your hand, anyone with a pair of working eyes could see. where his first born’s marriage had secured the relationship between the crown and the sea, his second daughter's would secure that of the capital and the cold, unfeeling north.

only, your father had made one fatal flaw in his game of chess: he’d mistaken you for a pawn, when in truth you were a rook, unwilling to be moved so easily.

betrayal was your initial reaction to the news of your father’s meeting with the starks, an encounter he had not even the good graces to include you in.

your second reaction was defiance.

and, so, you laughed with the stark lord, you let him refill your goblet as he spoke tales of his travels south to the capital, you danced with him before the entire court and stepped on his toes enough times till he politely dismissed himself, claiming he was in need of relieving his bladder before he left you in the centre of the dancing pairs.

just in time for him to swoop in.

“ao jāhor mazverdagon nykeā sȳz ābrazȳrys, byka dove.” daemon wrapped you in both the safety of his arms and the use of your ancestral language, guiding you into the next dance. you will make a fine wife, little dove

“nyke pendagon lo issa valzȳrys jāhor agree rūsīr ao.” i wonder if my husband will agree with you.

matching the other couples, daemon commanded you to spin in his grasp, hands firm as one held onto yours and the other made repeated contact with your waist, spinning you faster and faster, till you tumbled over your own feet and had nowhere to turn to but his strong, dependable hold, hands splaying out on his chest as his own found rest upon your lower back.

even that was not enough for the man, who squeezed you closer to his own bod.

“you’re tired, niece.” the swirling pairs around you turned their heads at his voice, exaggerated in it’s volume as he at last addressed you in a way they understand.

“so very tired, uncle.”

“then i shall escort you to your chambers. the dark hallways of the keep are no place for such a defenceless lady.”

the weight of your father’s stare followed you out of the banquet halls, lungs only refilling with air when you round the corner that leads upwards, the steps to your own chambers lit with torches and manned by several guards who stood guard at your door.

the same guards who payed no mind to how you welcomed your uncle into your chambers.

the same guards who likely felt against their back the vibration of your own body slamming against the shut door.

daemon was a force to be reckoned with, hands coming down to cage you against the wooden surface and render you defenceless to the incoming attack against your mouth.

there was no patience in the way he kissed you, mimicking a man starved for weeks who’s at last been handed a morsel of bread. neither was there gentleness, lips moving with yours in a frenzy of clashing teeth and knocking noses. it was nothing like the books you’ve read, where a pretty princess at last convinces the honourable knight to kiss her, pulling back immediately to stare in bewilderment.

nor was it how rhaenyra had explained kisses to be: boring, unexciting, a waste of time.

daemon licked his tongue into your sweet mouth, chest shaking under your palms at the satisfied groan he released. you caught up with his pace, lips finally moving to the rhythm he’d set, no longer being lead but rather fighting to lead him in the dance of your mouths.

when he pulled away, the hunger in his eyes could only be levelled by that of his dragon’s as it flew into battle, thirsty to burn everything beneath it.

“ao issi tolmiot tolī gevie naejot sagon jurnegēre rȳ issa raqagon bona.” his voice lulled you out of your trance, confused, even if just for a moment, as he spoke to you in your blood’s tongue, instead of one the guards outside your door would understand. it dawned on you slowly that he spoke only for you in that instant. you are far too beautiful to be looking at me like that.

“raqagon skoros?” like what?

“raqagon nyke mazverdagon ao biare.” like i make you happy.

the prince wasted no time in stripping you bare, knowing he’d lose the ounce of little control he had left if he were to gaze upon your heaving breasts and your glistening cunt.

he settled for sneaking his hand under the layers of your skirt till he found his holy grail.

“you’re soaked, little dove.” he spoke in pure awe, as though he hadn’t lay with a thousand whores and tasted every kind of woman the realm had to offer.

daemon was no stranger to maidens nor the feeling of touching them, yet none had ever welcomed him in as much as you, no fear in your darkened gaze as you spread your legs further apart while the middle finger stroked over your velvet lips which dripped with honey and ached to suck his digit in between them.

it was as though you were made for him alone, body trained to take anything he’d offer, and he tells you so as he made contact with your aching bud, calming the buzzing nerves with slow strokes.

“is that nice, niece?” you nodded your head and were met with a disapproving look, quickly correcting yourself with a loud moan. “is kepus making your little cunt wet?”

“yes!”

he rewarded your precious reply with the breeching of your hole, his finger forcing it’s ways into your tight walls as he released his own noises of satisfaction.

the descent into madness was swift from then onwards, with daemon knowing only the feeling of your sticky walls clamping down on him as your eyes rolled back and your mouth fell slack would be enough to sedate him. one finger became two and he watched you mold yourself into the perfect little whore for him, unabashed to call out his name and beg for more.

“have you touched yourself before?” his breath was haggard, as if he was the one having his insides toyed with by you, chasing his inevitable peak with wanton groans and sporadic kisses to your throat, collarbones, chest. “or are mine the first hands to touch this precious cunt?”

when you hit your crescendo, it was with shaking limbs and desperate cries, hands having found home in the tresses of his hair, pulling on their roots as he kissed over your chest, fingers continuing their repeated assault on your entrance till your essence dripped down to his elbows and you shook your head in protest to his touch, his pretty baby too sensitive from her first peak.

he let his resolve slip moments after bringing his soaked fingers up to his mouth, the taste of you sending him to all seven hells and back for all the things he longed to do to you. arms caging around your frame, he lay his forehead to rest against yours as his hardness began to grind against your waist.

“just wait, my little dove.” even as he put on a show, he was mindful to sweet talk you with the names he called you, aware you were not ready yet for all the things he longed to call you, preferably as you lay face down in his sheets, your sweet flower on full display and ripe with honey for his taking. “wait till i paint your insides with my seed, filling your little womb up till it swells with my babe.”

much to his own preference, daemon shortly spilled within his breeches, soiling his clothing in an uncomfortable manner he'd need to clean up later.

in all his years he’s never fought as hard a battle as the one to lead you to bed, all the while you begged in your mother tongue for him to take you, for real this time, to fill you with his cock even after the sun had risen and the royal guards stormed your room demanding answers for the king.

as he finally parted ways with you, this time for sure pressing his lips to your cheek, daemon nodded curtly at your guards who refused to meet his eyes and he swallowed down his amusement, the walk back to his own chambers filled with only one topic: how long till the news reached the king's ears.

after all, the ladies of the court never were good at whispering.

[nekrosdolly]

another wesker brain rot blurb (18+)

cw; unhinged wesker thanks to uroboros, uroboros injections and mentions, canon compliant with the events leading up to re5, husband wesker, objectification if you squint, temperature differences (he is an icicle personified sorry guys), domesticated wesker, fingering, non-specified reader genitalia.

pet names (reader received): my dear, dearest, little dove

husband albert wesker ♡ ︎♡ ︎♡

husband wesker, who, thanks to uroboros, has a heightened sense of smell. since starting his injections, he's been obsessed with how you smell- your shampoo, your cologne/perfume, any lotions you'd use. even the scent of your skin without any product added is addictive.

husband wesker, who cooks for you despite his developing lack of appetite. he knows you need to eat and truthfully, he enjoys cooking. he never got to experience he domestics of having a homelife, what with his whole life being Umbrella ever since he was born. learning to cook is definitely stressful at first and he's not good to begin with- he's a scientist, not a chef. truthfully, he burns a lot of things at first, but you're a good sport and you help him along. he is embarrassed the first few times, even if he doesn't outright say it you can tell by the way the tips of his ears turn pink and how his lip twitches.

husband wesker, who comes up from behind when you're least expecting it and slides his hand to the small of your back, dipping his head down to kiss your hair, secretly marveling at how good you smell. he adores how soft your hair is too. how loud your heart beats in your chest when he moves his hand to your hip, when he murmurs in your ear, "you are divine, my dear."

husband wesker, who, despite losing his humanity, knows to treat you with care. though his primal instincts have begun to take over, he's careful with you as he's always been. though his eyes have turned red, his pupils to slits, he looks at you with adoration. his touches are never violent- he's become gentler since taking doses of Uroboros. he treats you less like your own person and more like a prize to hang on a wall. everything you do makes his heart, beating or otherwise, swell with pride. his blood roars in his ears at the most innocent of touches from you.

husband wesker, who was never one for kisses before Uroboros, now kisses you like his life depends on it. always handsy and needs you near for him to focus, otherwise he's worried about what you're doing and who you might be with. he knows you'd never rat him out- you love him just as much as he loves you, after all- but he can't help the thought that someone is manipulating you. someone that isn't him, and that hurts. he has no reason to be jealous

husband wesker, who never blows up your phone, but takes to periods of the cold shoulder until you finally get him to tell you what's wrong. his rage is calm with you. he'll make you sit in his lap while he tells you what's wrong, only for you to soothe him and assuage his fears. you know he's coming from a good place, even if his methods are a bit odd. his hands never leave you as he talks, finding comfort in stroking your hair or your cheek, even rubbing circles on the meat of your hips. without his gloves, his fingers are just as cold as ever, even through layers of clothing.

husband wesker, who's gentle with you during sex because if he's not, he might seriously injure you. his grip on your hips is deadly, but other than that, he's a saint. he whispers praises while he fingers your fluttering entrance, his fingers slick with your come and lube. "you're taking my fingers so well, little dove. can you take another? just one more for me, dearest?"

you'll nod, a quiet moan leaving you when he adds a third finger- they're long and on the thicker side, helping to stretch you open in preparation while also hitting that spot that makes you go limp. he kisses your neck, down to your collarbone, where he leaves lovebites and admittedly very dark hickeys. your nails digging into his arm brings him back from his thoughts, and he watches you come undone from his fingers for the second time. this was supposed to prep you, but he loves how you look with his fingers buried within you.

[squirrellypoo]

Ep8 "What Can The Damned Really Say To The Damned" rewatch thoughts (Part 1)

On my third rewatch of the first episode of season 2, I noticed a ton more than I had before. Whether that's because it was on a brighter tv screen, or just that my initial buzz had stopped overloading my cognitive functions, who knows.

In any case, here's my first 10 things I missed!

Just after the massacre of soldiers at the checkpoint - Louis spits something out as they walk away. Did he also help kill them? Is that a tooth or something? I love the idea that Louis is doing a lot more human hunting that he ever lets on...

2. “Or is it the sleep of an infant? Tabula rasa” - I had to look up this term because I'd not heard it before, but it's roughly the philosophical idea that babies’ minds are born as a blank slate. (Wikipedia)

3. Just before Louis complains that he’s cold, you can see that the bonfire is using a dead soldier as fuel. Additionally, he's talking about his refusal to burn Lestat as they huddle around it (nice touch, sicko writers!).

4. Obviously I knew that the "Huns" were German soldiers, but I wasn't sure what “Beasts of Ivan” was referring to... Russian forces? Or Ivan the Terrible (Treblinka guard)? TBH, even after googling, I'm still not entirely sure.

5. Oh god the skeletons of the vampires they discover - Louis and Claudia don’t know to scatter the ashes so their souls are still likely trapped in there?? 😭 (See also: Daciana after the fire…)

6. The Dubai staff member taking Louis’s blood dish away is wearing a face mask and gloves but Real Rashid is wearing gloves but no mask… Who do we know that did that in season 1, eh?? 👀

7. Now, this might not be anything but I thought it was interesting that you can see Louis’s breath in the sequence with Hallucistat (whose breath you can also see). So does that mean he's fed recently to be warm enough to do so? There was a great story on the Truest Blood podcast where the actors talked about needing to suck on ice cubes so that their breath didn't show up on camera, and that detail really stuck with me.

8. Louis says “I had taken 7,000 souls by then.” Ok, let's do some maths - 7,000 divided by 35 years is 200 per year, or 3.5 per week. That's roughly one murder every other day, which seems like a lot for someone claiming to be a vegetarian?? Like, was he killing several a night in the early years with Lestat (the "blood-drunken night in Baton Rogue", for instance), and for the past several years with Claudia? Sure, we see him bite a rat here, but he's clearly killing more than he wants to admit to himself...

9. The little boy that Morgan bribes with a cigarette to take Claudia away from adult conversation - his name is Andrei. Book readers may remember that this was Armand's given human name. (I don't think it means anything, I just think it's a nice touch from the writers, and they might change this in the show to be something more appropriate to his background)

10. After Louis remembers that Emilia mentioned about the woods after Claudia left, Armand suggests Louis takes a break. Daniel then goes on a rant to Real Rashid, ending with “You I can fucking break!” Louis dismisses Rashid, but then then Armand immediately follows him out of the room. What was Armand following him for? What was he saying to Rashid?

Part II coming up! Let me know in the Notes if you also missed any of these...

[ladystarksneedle]

The eye of envy

Summary: A maid at the keep finds her own flame through the words of the dragon.

Word count: 1.6k

Warnings: implied smut, mentions of child death, burns and injuries, angst.

Prev<

Masterlist

Her body aches in ways it has never before. She has known hardship her entire life, strenuous work from dawn to dusk pushing her to the brink of exhaustion and fitful slumber. She wakes up equally restless now, deliciously sore as she gets to work hiding the bruises beneath the wimple she opts to wear. She finds his  eye following her movements every time she enters or perhaps she’s more aware of his presence now that her longing has borne fruit. The sheets are changed more often with longer baths being taken together, grasping and clawing at each other till they're raw and need to be cleansed again. She finds herself visiting the sept more often, eyes on the lookout for his ardor as she begins honoring the Mother forsaking the Maiden before her. It is a wishful dream that she now lives every day, yearning for yet another part of him to hold and she’s answered soon enough. 

The wails that haunt the hallways make her shrink in terror wishing for the Stranger himself. There are whispers of madness and horror floating around that make her want to retreat into herself and run away from it all. The servants are rounded up again and cast into the dungeons awaiting harsher trials as she paces around her quarters unharmed yet she knows she'll face her fate soon enough. The blood that she'd given to him so readily hasn't arrived with the moon's turn making her choke back a sob. Some part of her thinks he knows what lies within her and it is perhaps his clemency which shields her from his wrath yet every time he returns to her his touch is fierce and unyielding, punishing her with sweeter torment. He leaves with a smirk on his face and a kiss to her cheek with a lingering promise of more as she struggles in silence. The Mother seems to have confused her punishment for the son that grows within her blooms as the young princeling of six wilts and the screams only grow louder.

The days that follow are short and agonizing. She's confined to his chambers with little knowledge of what passes outside other than the whispers passed at meals delivered to her on time. The King has ordered the death of all the rat catchers of the keep along with servants who've been presumed guilty. The stench of flesh soon greets her despite the windows being shut tight. Their bars can only hold so much death. 

It is a solemn occasion that greets her later as she dresses him in black. She feels him clench his jaw throughout the night in anticipation with no amount of coaxing soothing the guilt that he struggles to hide. She feels it too, a hand pressed to her womb in passing, feeling the pain she hears down the hall yet she braves it for him. He leaves shortly, assigning a guard to her door, prohibiting her leave as she's tucked into his bed with a lingering gaze. She knows the pain he carries now is for them both.

He becomes careful with her once the ashes of the little boy are strewn to the skies. His hands linger and ghost over her belly before retreating to clenching over nothing. There are days where she sees him only around the hour of the eel, woken up to being pulled close and taken in haste. There is an urgency to his movements which he tries to hide as he gives in to pleasure while not forgetting her own, yet he's gone before the sun rises leaving her locked and alone. She feels like a prisoner with more comfortable lodgings. She busies herself tidying his things yet she longs for home and the comfort of her own mother the most. It is days later when she's visited by one, clad in teal with her hands clasped in front of her. The Dowager queen looks as regal as she's spoken of, out of place next to a woman of her status as she bids her to sit. There is a sorrow that clings to her, haunting her beauty as she speaks.

“How are you doing”

“I am well your grace”

“That is good. You perhaps know why I’m here then”

“I make no demands of your grace. The prince-”

“Is quite fond of you, yes. It is why I've allowed him this fancy in the first place”

“It was not my intention”

“It never is” she responds ruefully. “The Mother has chosen to bless you child, in a time when she's tried us all” she continues fidgeting with her hands “Look after him” she whispers tiredly. She finds the woman that leaves is not the mother she hoped for but a crone gliding through the halls.

The first time she calls him by name is when he leaves for battle. She wakes up before dawn to ready him, helping him with his armour as he stares ahead. She cannot stop her tears as she finishes clasping his eyepatch in place before he pulls her to him whispering to her in the language of his ancestors. He kisses her farewell with a smile and a promise to return and that is what she finds herself praying for daily. She calls him by his name in her dreams, in the thoughts that haunt her while she kneels on stone. She lights candles for the Warrior to guide his blade and flame and for the Father to give them justice for the sorrow she sees amidst green. It is three moons later when word of victory reaches them before she finally approaches the Mother in peace.

The royal parade returns as her belly begins to swell. She hears the cheers in the distance and sees the head of the red horned beast that started it all, before seeing him fly triumphantly above. He returns to her with pride etched into him caressing her with longing burning through them both. It is only later she realizes how deeply the fire has consumed them all. The King screams in agony drowning the wails of his Queen who stares at him, pain etched into her features. She's been ushered into the room to help yet cannot stomach the sight before her. He's covered in bandages, salves and ointments lining his peeling skin, perpetually drunk on milk of the poppy to dull his senses. She sees her hold his hand and whisper something to him which is lost to the wind before she rises and leaves as the Dowager queen cries silently nearby. Aemond stands at the threshold observing it all with a blank face yet she knows what he sees. She remembers her mother telling her it is a curse to play chase with the Gods, yet as the man ahead of her screams as he's weaned off intermittently she can hardly summon any pity. Her heart lies with her lover at the threshold.

The night passes in flashes of anger with bolts of lightning illuminating the skies heralding imminent danger. She feels the empty bed next to her as her eyes adjust to the dark. It is cold as she struggles to wake up and explore. It is the last thing she should be doing but with him back she cannot feel anything but a semblance of security. She pads along the floor in her robe before making her way to where she thinks he is. She sees him stalking towards the monstrosity ahead as she lets herself in with a creak of the great oak doors.

“You shouldn't be here” he says as he hears her approach.

“Neither should you”

“It is to be mine on the morrow”

“Is it” she counters bravely “He still lives”

“Yet he's too weak to exert his will. It is I who’ll rule in his stead” he says, watching her reach him. “All of this will be ours someday.”

“In everything but name” she whispers reluctantly.

“Is it my name you still want when I have given you so much more”

“I want everything,” she admits.

“Greed doesn't become you”

“It seems to have found its place with you”

“This was always meant to be mine.” he remarks.

She sees another flash of lightning illuminate his face, silver and leather bathed in the moonlight, as she turns towards him. 

“You promised me your protection as long as I wished to continue. That is all I still ask for” she whispers, taking his hands in hers.

“Do you know the story about how the Iron throne was forged” he asks “A thousand blades were melted to take its form. A thousand men fell for its cause”

“Do you plan to fell a thousand more for your own?” 

She sees him smile in response as he replies “You shall have all that I have to give in time. Conquests do not yield their fortune in a day”

“Only King's perhaps” she finishes looking at him.

She dresses him at dawn with trepidation, her eyepatch now discarded for a new beginning. His sapphire glints in the dark as he clasps one around her neck.

“You are mine today for all to see” she thinks he means to tell her, as he pulls her to him from behind admiring the way it sits above her collarbones.

The ceremony is long and foreboding. She stands to the side in blue as he's crowned, curtsying with all the grace she can muster. She sees her father in the distance looking at her with confusion and her mother smiling knowingly before they bow. As the sun rises in the distance and steel finds a home atop a new head of silver, she feels the Smith at work, fashioning bonds aflame like the golden pin that glints on his collar. The doe ahead of her fumes in silence.

Taglist: @witheredoffherwitch @arcielee @chompchompluke @barbieaemond @watercolorskyy @b00kw0rmsworld

[fanaticsnail]

Sapsorrow Chapter 9

Masterlist Here, Sapsorrow Masterlist Here

Word Count: 9,000+

"Whom so ever fits the ring becomes wed to the warlord who owns it"

Themes: enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, forced proximity, lord and subordinate, one bed trope, apprehension, mutual pining, obligation, slow burn, eventual love, protective, "where is my wife" trope.

Warning: MDNI, 18+, smut, making love, husband and wife, bondage, blindfolds, marriage, gendered terms, love, romance, supernatural themes.

Notes: Here it is, the beloved sun-dress chapter that I have been carving out over the past month while practicing in between. You can see how I had to take a short break as my favoritism for Benn Beckman shone through. I wrote him his chaptered fic just after I finished the first section of this one - completely unrelated to this plot and story. I hope you enjoy this chapter, one more to go before the story is completed and the spinoffs begin! Love you all.

Song Suggestion: 'Til the light goes out - Lindsay Stirling

Rough and calloused fingertips brushed against your upper arms, causing you to unconsciously flinch away from their touch. Your breath hitched, your vulnerability heightened by the addition of a blindfold securing your eyelids tightly shut. The coarse digits were warm against your rapidly cooling skin, the dynamic of the silken ropes only adding to your intrigue and anticipation as the woven fibers began clutching to your body. 

“Easy now, my Lady,” the rumbled voice of Shanks’ first mate reassured you, tapping your forearms as an attempt to sooth you, “I’ve got you, alright? No harm, nor an unwarranted touch will come to you by my hands.”

Benn Beckman, the first-mate to the ‘red haired rat’, you affectionately associated him with, was ever the gentleman towards you. As you undressed moments prior, the larger man turned his back and began laying out the materials over Mihawk’s bare desk that he was about to weave around your body and assembled them with practice and precision. 

Wordlessly, you thanked the clown for burning off the heavier materials of your starlit gown. The remaining fabric managed to fall away from your body with ease, the garment pooling in a soft pile at your feet. As you stood in naught but the body you were born into, you shrouded yourself with your arms to grant yourself further privacy from your old friend. 

“My lady?” the gruff call of Beckman behind you called to you, “Are you ready for us to begin?” The hum in his tone did little to comfort you as your skin pricked under the cool air of the night. A soft ruffling sound had you beer over his shoulder at the older gentleman.

His hand circled the back of his silvery hair, tying it behind his head by the elastic of a small piece of leather. Layers of his hair managed to escape the tie and fall into his eyes, prompting him to huff a curt growl at himself. As you continued to remain unresponsive verbally to him, he sighed out a deep breath before drawing up the torn cotton fabric to conceal his eyes. 

“Lady Dracule, my eyes are now covered,” he commented in a soft and even tone, “I assure you, you have my word, your honor will remain intact with me at the helm here.” His hands softly began searching for the variety of materials that lay before him over the desk, fingers first meeting with a sheer piece of transparent gold, “I would never betray your trust, especially after all our time together.”

Walking towards the older gentleman, he held up his left hand in a manner to halt your descent towards him. You stuttered in your step and froze in place, heeding to his direction. 

“Eye covering on now, my lady,” he warned you, a small smile was almost depicted in his tone, “Don’t wanna risk anything, alright? Let’s not give the witch any leeway.”

And now, as his hands drew themselves up over your body, you could only deduce what he was placing over your skin. The material felt almost warm, you likened the fact by how firmly your old friend was clutching it in his hands before he placed it over your body. 

Silks drew themselves over your shoulders beneath his hands, his digits not lingering for a moment past its required need to be present. The cologne and nicotine smoke fragrance washing over you from the man behind you did nothing to calm your nerves, especially considering his hands were now hovering over your breasts.

“This next step is going to be rather intimate, my lady,” he informed you, his tone steady and informative. You nodded, the brush of your hair indicating your readiness by its brush against Beckman’s cheek behind you. A small huff of air exhaled through Beckman’s nose, something almost akin to a laugh following. 

“You know, you can talk to me,” he chuckled, his hands maneuvering woven bars of metallic thread between the chasms of your breasts, “Might make it less awkward for the both of us?” Your eyes fluttered wide beneath the mask as you realized you were yet to speak a single word to the man so intimately placed behind you. 

“I’m sorry, Beckman,” you apologized to the gray-haired first mate as his hands clasped around your midsection, “It almost escaped my mind that this experience would be more awkward for you than it is for me.” 

A gruff chuckle rumbled behind your back, his right hand circling your right wrist as he wove himself around your body to collect more materials from the desk. A shift in fabric scraping against the writing desk had your ears prick up.

“We’ll keep it light, alright? Let’s think about the old days,” his body moved in front of yours, left hand reaching for your collarbone while more chains of metal found its way atop your sternum, “Remember the first time all of us met?” 

You giggled out a small laugh at the memory, a laugh reflected in the deep chuckle of Benn Beckman. His fingers grazed over your stomach, the soft shift in fabric over your hips and fastened itself at your midsection by the wrapping of ropes across your naval. 

“I think that was when Shanks just dropped his trousers in front of one of my blushing debutantes: belt pooling at his ankles,” your giggle rose alongside your smile, “Had to chase him out with a broom, from memory. I can still see the panic in his eyes and the stumble in his step.” 

“Thankfully he managed to get the pants over his hips and fastened before he got to the Red-Force,” he chuckled with you, weaving ropes once more between your breasts and down your back, “Otherwise he would not have heard the end of it from me, that I can assure you.”

“Oh, and where were you, Beckman?” you quipped back at him, your smile now toothy and warm, “If my memory serves correct, you were attempting to woo the handmaiden to the lady of the house!”

“Attempting, my lady?” Beckman taunted back, his warm hands clapping over your hips to steady you, “Succeeding, I think you mean.” 

“Rascal,” you teased him, hissing over the ‘S’ with a chittering laugh. 

“Reformed rascal,” he confessed to you, his hands moving over your thighs, “I am a changed man these days,” his hands dipped between your legs and began tying several complex knots between the parting of your bare legs. “Keeping Shanks out of trouble is all I have time for, if I’m being honest.”

“Oh?” you prompted him with a quirk of your shrouded brow, “He never seems to stop, does he? Something needs to tame him, settle him down so you can get some semblance of peace.”

“Oh, I’ve been awaiting the day, my lady,” he confessed with a small chuckle, “I do need a holiday.” His hands began slowing their movement to focus on more intentional knot-work over your hips.

“I hear the new lady of Kuraigana is kind,” you comment with a smirk in your tone, “She may offer you a holiday, should you desire it, Mister Benn.” 

“Will she be providing ‘captain-sittin’ duty too?” he huffed with a snicker in his tone, “And it’s ‘Mister Benn,’ now is it? What happened to ‘Beckman,’ hm?”

“I’m sure she could be persuaded to watch over the rodent for a day or two,” you continued your teasing rapport with him, “And of course it’s ‘Mister Benn’,” you blindly seek out his right hand with your left, offering a gentle squeeze once you found it, “You’re doing so much for me, you deserve more of a title than a simple ‘Mister’. I’d knight you, if I had the ability to do so.”

His right hand gave you a soft squeeze in return before releasing your digits from his grasp. He cleared his throat with a soft cough, his fingertips fastening a soft knot by your knee. 

“I appreciate the gesture of knighthood, my lady,” he confessed, reaching for your adjacent knee and began fastening several intricate strands over your legs, “You have always been so kind to me. To all of us, really.” His hands cup your knee, reaching behind your thigh to grasp at a strand of gold that slipped his fingers, “Your husband is lucky to find a wife in a woman like you.” 

“Thank you for saying so, Sir Beckman,” you chuckled in response, “Loyal guardian and fierce protector of the Red-Force crew, a knight and friend to the new Lady Dracule of Kuraigana.” His chuckle huffed through his nose at your declaration. 

“Alright, my lady. I’ll play the role of knight for you,” his hands tugged at two ends of the golden fabric firmly, “This next part may feel a little unusual coming from my hands. Only two more knots to go before I’m done: these two are probably the most involved of the lot of them.” 

“Beckman, all of this is feeling rather involved- oh!” You shrieked a strangled gasp as he tugged firmly on the golden strands between your legs, the material hoisting over your thighs to firmly secure at your pelvis. A blush rose to litter your cheeks with a warmth you were not anticipating, Beckman’s hands hastily pulling away from touching your body in reaction to your surprise. 

“Nearly done, my lady,” he reassured you with an even tone, “Then you’ll be in the safety of the hands of your husband, and I’ll be out of your personal space. Cross my heart, alright?” Your breath hitched as his hands began hastily concluding a flourish of gestures. 

As your body began to experience a new sensation between your legs, Beckman tightened several strands over your chest which caused your breath to hitch further. Your eyes tightly scrunched shut as the material began grinding over your erogenous zones, prompting you to bite your lip to halt further sounds exiting your body. 

“One more knot, then Mihawk will be here,” Beckman reassured you with a small, tightlipped smile you would not see, “I’ll be out of your way and drinking with the rest of them in no time, my lady. It’ll be all a distant memory soon enough.” You nodded, a notion that Beckman would not see but only guess due to the shift in fabric. 

“I trust you, Sir Beckman,” you whisper, feeling the intentional and hasty way his fingers coil the fabric around your body in a finite weave. 

“Thank you, Lady Dracule,” he whispers in return, his hands securing the final strands of fabric behind your back from his position standing in front of you, “Your dress, as radiant as the sun that ignites the day in the flood of its warm light, is now completed.”

You both released a sigh of relief before joining together in a fit of huffed laughter. Beckman’s right hand found your left as he began brushing his left hand alongside the furniture to lead you throughout the room. 

“It’s almost a shame I cannot see how hard you worked, Beckman,” your comment eased its way out of your throat as your knees knocked against the mattress of the bed.

“Aye, that it is, my lady,” he admitted, ushering you to recline against the backboard of the large bed, “But Mihawk can.” 

Your cheeks flooded with a darkened heat of blush, your body aware of every sensation it was experiencing beneath the depravity of your eye sight. You felt Beckman’s hands beside your head, tugging and rearranging several plush pillows to cradle your body securely atop them. Heart swelling at the further gesture of friendship, your smile floated once again over your lips.

“You’re always so caring and compassionate, Beckman,” you compliment him with a softened smile in your tone, “We both owe you more than a single favor.” 

A single hum of confirmation was all the sound that escaped him before bidding you a curt: “This is where I leave you. Good luck, my lady.”

Hearing the thud of heavy boots descend away from your side, and the small open and shut of the door. No sounds indicated anything aside from your solitude. Your breathing was heavy and fuelled by anxiety and anticipation of what is to come. 

-

As the door clicked behind Beckman, he rolled his head back on his shoulders and shook his body to rid itself of the prior strenuous art he tied onto your body. He reached up, his fingers brushing with the blindfold and began untying the material under the new safety of the door. As the woven fabric dropped down his face, a small cough appeared reclined against the door beside him.

Lord Dracule Mihawk was glaring his amber eyes beneath the shroud of his broad hat, arms crossed over his chest and lips pursed in a soft snarl. Beckman sighed, rolling the material of the blindfold over in a soft circle in the palm of his hand. 

“You been here the whole time, Hawk?” Beckman asked him with a soft smirk curling at the left hand corner of his lip, “Would’ve thought you’d enjoy a few more drinks by the fire with your company.”

“And leave my wife naked in a room on our wedding night with another man? Hardly a likely scenario,” he confessed with a dark laugh. 

“I would never do anything to place a mark to her name, Mihawk,” Beckman immediately retorted, glaring his silvery eyes at the broody lord of Kuraigana. Mihawk elevated his hands defensively, pushing himself away from the wall and extending a bottle of hard liquor from behind his back to Benn Beckman.

“I know you would do no such thing,” Mihawk smirked, narrowing his eyes briefly before offering the bottle to Beckman, “And, for what it’s worth to you,” he leant in closer, passing the bottle into the taller man’s hands with a nod of his head, “I agree with the lady of Kuraigana.”

“In what regard?” Beckman elevated his eyebrow alongside his question. Mihawk’s smirk morphed into a rare smile, a smile that was becoming less rare in the days as long as he had you by his side. 

“You deserve more than a simple holiday,” he nodded in confirmation, “And you deserve far more than any mere knighthood, if you’ve managed to complete this task to its entirety.” Mihawk turned his back, making his way to the door and halting as his fingertips brushed with the brass door handle.

“I appreciate the whiskey,” Beckman smiled, reaching into his breast pocket of his patterned shirt and elevated his cigarette to his lips, “And your compliments, Mihawk. You’re a lucky man to land one hell of a woman.”

“That we can also agree on,” Mihawk smirked, halting his opening of the door and waiting for Beckman to begin his walk away from the room before clicking his thumb over the door handle. ‘

-

A soft click, several intentional footsteps and a gasp of breath being sucked in through quivering lips were all the sounds that caused your ears to prick at the corners. Swatting at the mattress beside you, you began rising from your comfortable recline against the bed. 

“Mihawk?” you whispered your call for him, “Mihawk, is that you?” 

The lord of Kuraigana, the current title holder of the worlds greatest swordsman, and the man who had only hours prior been dancing in merriment with his new bride in her two dresses that captured his attention now found himself rendered speechless. A man who always had a quip and retort, a man who purred with the energy of a poised panther waiting to pounce on a meek prey, a man who always had the last word in every conversation was completely, and totally, speechless. 

“Mihawk?” you whispered once again, your panic becoming adamant in your tone, “My love, are you there? Please, if it’s you, let me know you’re-.”

“-I’m here, my beloved,” he whispered, his body immediately drawing itself closer to you. He sunk his body down atop the mattress beside you and his fingertips immediately began hovering over the intricate knots, divots and sheer fabric cascading down your body in its recline against the bed. 

He was a man lost, an adventurer found within uncharted territory with no map to guide him. A sailor with no north star to point him towards home. The more he dwelled on the thought of being lost to his emotions, the more he felt like you were the home awaiting his arrival. As his fingers began their hasty descent over your body, the scandalous material covering barely an inch of your revealed flesh, he halted their descent. 

“My darling?” his voice quivered, his hands stuttering over your chest as his eyes hovered over the mounds of your breasts, “My love, may I touch you?” His eyes were yet to draw themselves up to meet with your face, too enchanted in a trance by the scandalous ties and ribbons Beckman had tied over your body moments prior. Too busy with the artistry Beckman had woven into your skin to notice the broad smile that rose over your cheeks.

As you rose to sit up, hands extended and reaching for your husband, you suddenly realized the intricate knotwork being woven against your sensitive flesh. As you elevated your body to reach for Mihawk, you gasped as an intentional knot of rope ground itself against your lower abdomen, causing sensations to heighten at the crude grind against your bare flesh. 

Hands finally meeting with your husband’s cool digits, you felt the subtle tremor in his motions: anticipation at the next stage of the night commencing. A loud cheer from the crowd gathered outside broke you away from your thoughts as a smile drew up over your cheeks. His fingers interlaced with both of yours, his clothed body pressing itself against your own as you felt his breath tickle your lips. 

“It seems they have taken their role in this very seriously, husband,” you allowed a soft laugh to rise in your voice. You felt Mihawk’s breath shift, a sharp exhale through his nose indicating his smile had risen to his cheeks. You unlaced your hand from within his, reaching blindly to his face to press against his whiskered cheek. 

“I would expect nothing less of the crews of the Red-Force, Big-Top, and our wards, wife,” he leaned into your hand, pressing his lips against your palm. Although your eyes were shrouded, you could feel the expression atop Mihawk’s face. His smile, the soft flutter of his lengthy, black eyelashes, and the soft scrunch of his nose had your lips fall back to reveal your teeth in your own smile. 

He sighed, pressing his hand against the one clutching his cheek and closing his eyes as he took a deep inhale of your perfume. Lingering in the moment, he reopened his eyes to view the shroud covering yours from being able to see him. His annoyance wrote itself on his face, his expression change being tangibly felt beneath your hand.

“My love, is something the matter?” you asked him, unlacing your other hand from within his fingers and cradling his face to seek out more of his expression. He scoffed, raising his hand to cover yours and press your right hand against his neck, while your left remained cradling his cheek. 

“Is it so wrong of me to want to enjoy my wife’s eyes when I intend on making love to her?” he whispered, looking down at your body for a moment before focussing on your face once more, “You are so beautiful,” he complimented you, inching his body closer, “I wish you could bare witness to your radiance.” 

“You flatter me, my lord,” you smiled at him, elevating your body to draw closer to him, “I am glad this composition pleases you-.”

“-Why did you ask for such a piece?” Mihawk growled at you, pressing a chaste kiss against your hand before lifting it off his cheek to join the other on his neck, “You knew you would never see it, why ask for it?” You took a moment to think on it, cocking your head to the side and angling your face away from his. 

“I suppose,” you began, pursing your lips a little with your brows furrowed, “Not only did I want the task to be unachievable,” you inched yourself ever closer, “But, should this task be truly met, I wanted something for only you to enjoy, my husband.” His breath was taken from him, the revelation causing his heart to swell with pride. He tugged at your body, pulling you from your position sitting and coaxing you away from the bed.

“Would you indulge me further?” he asked, stepping up from the bed with you to have you rise to your feet, “If this was intended for me to see, I desire to see it in its entirety, my lady.” You shook your head, biting back your smile as you allowed him to usher you to your feet. Before you had an opportunity to chastise him for using that soft title, he spoke over you.

“I know what you would say,” he held your right hand to allow you a semblance of an inkling as to where he was in the room, “For me not to refer to you as ‘my lady’.” He dropped your hand, his hand caressing your forearm and raising it to your shoulder.

“You assume correct,” you scoffed, turning your head beneath your shroud to point your face towards him.

“Ah, but here is where you remain misguided,” he traced his fingertips over your shoulder towards your spine. “You are my lady,” he whispered, the tingle of his breath on your neck caused your body to ignite with gooseflesh, “And you will forever be my lady,” he pressed a small kiss against the tip of your spine, below your hair. “My lady,” he withdrew his lips from your body, admiring your form beneath the strands of gold fabric, “You are mine, as much as I am yours.”

“I am yours,” you whispered, giving in to the desire for him that began pooling at the pit of your stomach in anticipation, “And you are mine.” He circled your body, his hands finding yours in front of you and intertwining them within his. Stepping in closer, his body heat radiated from his open shirt and buzzed against your own exposed flesh. 

“May I kiss you, Lady Dracule?” he whispered, your body immediately responding to your new title by melting away your inhibitions and anchoring your chin up to search for him. Your body flooded with emotion, truly feeling this new title that he gave to you at this very moment. You were his wife, the lady of the high keep of Kuraigana, the bride of the Worlds Greatest Swordsman, and former warlord of the seas. You were truly his, beneath the shroud of his familial name and within this new role as woman of the house. 

“Lord Dracule,” you sighed, feeling his aura closing in on your face, “I want nothing more than to share this moment with you.” Mihawk was forever grateful that your eyes were shrouded from his expression. He was not one to ever experience weakness, always remaining hard in the eyes of his enemies. Although you were not an enemy to him, he took the shroud against your eyes to allow himself to express pure, unbridled, and unrefined emotions for the first time since childhood.

He was so, desperately, in love with you. This moment, seeing the willingness in your body and the love in your smile was more than enough to cause his own resolve to weaken with his knees. The love you gave, the expression so freely given to him, was something unlike anything he had experienced prior. He had had women in his past, surely, but this was something else.

The love he felt ignited in his chest, the passion he felt flooded within his veins, and the emotion he felt swell within his eyes was enough to cause him to step forward and slowly draw his face down to meet with yours. Your breath was stolen from you as you felt his whiskered lips brush with your own. The soft scratch of his silken beard tingled against your chin, the broad hat brushing with your hair now completely loosened and untamed. 

Mihawk’s hands unwove from yours, his lips unbreaking their contact from massaging and layering intentional motions against your flesh. A shudder against your skin, and a rustle of fabrics descending from his chest, had your smile draw itself further up your face. Your hands sought out Mihawk’s shoulders, your fingers meeting with bare skin where once his pale shirt was covering. 

A strong left hand met with your right cheek, tugging and caressing your skin as he deepened the kiss. A sigh escaped your lips as his tongue drew patterns of longing against your bottom lip, grinding against yours as you opened your lips to meet him. His left hand ventured over your shoulders, mapping the skin carefully wrapped in intricate loops of gold fabrics and fibers. 

“Mihawk,” you gasped as soon as his lips left yours, his face nuzzling against your cheek and neck. His lips grazed, kissed and lightly bit at your skin as his fingers dipped into the golden fibers. He murmured your name, his familial name before uttering it prompted your heart to swell and soar in your chest. 

“I missed you so much, my lady,” he confessed into your neck, his lips withdrawing from your neck and finding your cheek once again, “I know it has only been a few minutes since Benn stole you from me, but it has felt like an eternity since I held my beautiful governess like this.” His hands pluck and prod at the knots over your body, his growing frustration evident on the rough huffs of his breath for each moment you remain confined in the ropes. 

“Your wife, Mihawk,” you remind him, hands blindly reaching for his face. Once you found his cheeks, you hastily drew his face to meet with yours, “I am your wife.” Your desperation to welcome him into your affectionate embrace has you move from your place beneath his stooped body to climb over to him. He ushered you towards him, your mind choosing to let him play guide for you to move about willingly. 

“My wife,” he whispered back to you, his hand ghosting intimate caresses over your body to guide you closer onto him. Shin brushing with the bare flesh of his leg, your anticipation only grew as you straddled his lap; him now sitting against the plush bed of his quarters. Hands exploring his shoulders, down his torso, and over his arms and stomach: you blindly began studying him. Your fingertips read him like elevated embroidery over a broad canvas, committing the poetry he was born with, and was painted against him within the art of war. 

His hands cupped your thighs, head angled up to press kisses of longing against your lips. A gentle tug of your thighs prompted you to sit atop him, anchoring your full weight over his lap. As you began to sit on him, the ropes began to constrict and tighten around your abdomen. The tied knots brushed against your groin, a strangled whimper falling from your lips as you felt Mihawk’s erect and quivering cock brush against your naval. 

“I need to get this off of you,” Mihawk groaned against your lips, “Beckman did too good of a job. I can’t find any slip knots to release you.” He continued to trail your knots, ties and bonds trapping you within the fabric. Your mind momentarily ceased its recollection of such a plight, but now that Mihawk had begun initiating the next installment of your evening together, you had never wanted to witness something before your eyes more. You wanted to see your husband, and he wanted to see your eyes gazing at him.

“It is rather constricting,” you admit, your lips seeking out his neck as his hands wrap around your back. His hands begin tugging at the knots harshly, you whimper into his neck as this tug had the ropes grind over your lower body. He halted his tugging, his breath hitching and his staggered movements. 

The passion between you ignited further, his desperate kisses pressing lengthy and staggered motions against you. He ceased his attempts at withdrawing the material away from you, choosing to focus on the feeling of finally having his wife within his arms. You were perfect; everything about you was perfect to him. Where once was a uniform made for servitude, now lay a design so provocative and sensual that a goddess would even blush viewing it. Yet, here you were: wearing it as if it was made for you and only you. 

Mihawk was in love, some foreign emotion he never thought he would ever experience. As he looked up at your form, he took a moment to gawk at you. He had never seen a beauty of such radiance, a woman that so perfectly held his heart within their hands. 

His excitement was depicted by the rush of blood to swell his cock, and he wanted nothing more than to see your body in return. He didn’t only want to see your bare flesh unshrouded, but he wanted to see your eyes. The eyes he fell in love with. The stern eyes that held him hostage from the moment you first reprimanded Zoro at the doorway of his manor. 

“I am-...” Mihawk’s voice lost itself in his voice, his fingertips returning to you and tugging on the strands once more. The material ground itself higher in your abdomen, the material causing pleasure to seep against your clit. Your gasp was the greatest serenade he had ever graced his ears, his mind finally realizing how truly at his mercy you were in the knots, “...-I am going to cut the damn thing off you.” His confession had you swoon, sensing his desperation for you in his confession. 

A small shriek of shock flung from your parted lips as Mihawk all but threw you against the mattress beneath him. As he watched you writhe beneath him, he began to feel frustrated at not being able to see all of you at once. Teeth bit at your neck, lips sucked your pulse and his firm, covered cock ground against your body: a moan fleeing from his lips at this subtle touch. Caging you beneath him, he examined your body: focussing his gaze on each band of gold woven over your form. The sheer fabric did nothing to disguise each curve, the ties and knots accentuating your femininity in a manner so sinful: the moment his eyes met with your body, he was consumed with the flames of lust he had never encountered prior.

Although he had lain with other individuals in his lengthy crusade of piracy and swordsmanship, his mind was never as challenged as it was with you. His soul never felt the need to join with another in this way. He was perfectly content to remain in solitude, continuing to hold the title of ‘World's Greatest Swordsman’ and live alone until it was time for the next generation to claim that title from him. 

Then he met you. 

His confidant turned governess, his governess turned betrothed, his betrothed turned wife: his wife, lying beneath him enwrapped in bands of gold so scandalous and erotic - he was entranced by the lustful emotions plaguing him. 

“My darling, I want to gaze into your eyes when I make love to you,” he confessed in a breathy whisper, “You deserve far better than to be kept beneath the shroud of darkness for our first time joining our bodies together.” You smiled up at him, your chin angling to collect his lips within yours. The same desperation flooded your veins, the pleasure you anticipated to give and receive to and from your husband finally catching up to you. 

The carnal desire to have one another finally caused your mind and body to catch up at once. The confinements within the gold fabric had begun to illuminate, the metal feeling warm and pleasurable against your body. In one final attempt at reinforcing the fact that you wanted this, you collected his face beneath your hands and refocused his attention. 

“There will be other times,” you whisper, your hands traveling to his back as he continues to grind his hips against your thighs, “For now, I just need to feel you here with me.” At that confession, a primal urge swept through Mihawk’s body. His hands moved with a mind of his own. He fled from your embrace, your momentary confused sorrow at his departure was eclipsed by shock at Mihawk’s arms hooking beneath your thighs and prying apart your legs. 

“If you are certain this is what you want,” Mihawk’s panting breath managed to utter. His lips hovered over your skin, tracing the curvature of your cheeks and down your neck. “I want this to be good for you. I want you to experience this the way you truly deserve it,” he kissed your cheek to press in his desires, “I want this to be something you want.”

“I want you, my love,” you confessed in a breathy voice, dripping with desire, “I only want you.” He allowed a melancholy smile to rise to his cheeks, feeling his own desire truly catch up with him at this very moment. His eyes traveled down to your body: your breasts hugged beneath the fabric of the gold, the sinful knots and ties over your stomach - he took in every element before he truly gave in to his own desires. 

“So be it, my love,” were all the utterances he whispered at you before he dove his face between your legs. The knots, ties and woven fibers added an additional layer of friction to Mihawk’s needy tongue lapping at your aroused core. His hands held you firmly, completely exposed to his abrasive and hungry momentum. 

Tongue, lips and teeth greedily consumed your arousal like a beast awoken too early from hibernating slumber. Choking on your voice, your senses were working in overdrive to compensate for the shroud tied over your eyes. His tongue dipped into your entrance before licking a broad stripe up to your sensitive clit. 

Your arousal dripped past the fibers of gold and down against the sheets beneath you. His teeth bit at the knot hovering above your sensitive pearl, attempting to pry it away from you to no avail. He growled against your heat, the vibrations tingling your body as his frustration became more ferocious. “I want to see you,” he barked, his tongue lapping at your sensitive and exposed heat, “I want to see all of you.” His hands desperately clawed at your thighs to attempt to loosen the strands of gold. 

“Mihawk,” you mewled his name as his head began bobbing at your flesh. The intricate knots prompted the ministrations to become more intense at each passing swipe, “Mihawk, please.” The pit of your belly began to tingle with the simmering warmth of an impending eruption of curated bliss beneath Mihawk’s tongue. He continued swirling his tongue over your heat, your body becoming more ignited and propelled towards an awaiting explosion.

“Is it too much, my bride?” he asked you, his voice knit with concern for a moment while he halted his motions. You shook your head, reaching for him with your right hand. His left hand met with yours, giving your digits a gentle squeeze.

“You are perfect, my groom,” you praised him, squeezing his hand in response. The cloth over your eyes prompted you to begin to become agitated beneath its confining shroud. As his right hand pawed at your thigh, you pressed your head back against the mattress. Mihawk was transfixed, hypnotized at the rise and fall of your chest. 

“May I continue to please you this way?” he pressed a soft kiss against your thigh, his beard tickling your skin beneath your heightened senses. You give him a soft nod with your lips parting, letting out a soft cry when he doubled his efforts to bring you ever closer to reaching the point of ecstasy.

He was mesmerized at each soft tug on his hair, your hands lacing in his soft curls and rubbing soothing circles of encouragement against his skull. He gave your hand a gentle squeeze as he groaned against you, smiling as you reciprocated the soft squeeze. He softly groaned in frustration, desperately craving to see your eyes and feel your skin bare before him. 

“If I can not see you released from these bonds,” Mihawk groaned against your quivering heat, your walls beckoning him to chase your release by coating your entrance with glistening arousal, “I am going to lose what semblance that remains of my sanity.” 

“Mihawk-,” you attempt to cry your warning of your climax, your toes beginning to tingle and shake, as your belly fills with the overwhelming tightness of release as he dove back in against you. His tongue lapped eagerly, the grind the metal fibers brushing against your heat and causing your whole body to tingle. 

“-I know, my love,” he raised his hand, pressing down on your writhing stomach and holding you in place, “I can feel how close you are. I want you to lose yourself against my lips and tongue,” he focused his ministrations over your sensitive bud and skillfully chased your high with lips, “I want to feel your bliss, knowing it's crafted by my hands. I need to see this first, before I attempt to pry you from the bonds that contain you once more.” 

The woven coil snapped within you, your senses overwhelmed as you gushed over Mihawk’s tongue. His relentless attack never ceased, forcing you to experience the full ignition of your release. Your breath was stolen from you as you desperately called his name. Writhing beneath him, he continued to hold you firmly as you were chaperoned through your high. 

He withdrew from you once the world was once again within reach of your four senses, your eyes remaining shrouded with the lights of ecstasy beginning to dim behind the cloth. You felt Mihawk shift above you, his arms drawing over your body as he kissed his way up to your clavicle and neck. 

Your breath once again found you in a natural progression, your whimpers and moans becoming regulated by your steady breathing. Mihawk could not get enough of watching your lips parted and panting for him, your back arching and breathing returning to its regular syncopation. He so desperately desired to see your eyes, to see you lost in the bliss he crafted for you.

“Lady Dracule?” he apprehensively whispered to you, your face turning towards the source of his beckoning tone. “My love, are you quite alright? Was that okay? Did I-.”

“-Please rid me of these blasted knots, Mihawk,” you order him in return, your smile written in the warmth of your voice, “I need to see you. I miss you now more than ever before.” He called your name, a small waiver in his voice caused concern to knit over your brows, your hands meeting with his shoulders as you usher his face above yours.

You softly coax him up to your face, ushering him to position his body above your own. His lips descended on yours, his touch feeling less ravenous and more intentional than it was moments prior. His lips were soft, his actions truly depicting nothing but truth, love, and absolute honesty within his passionate kiss. His tongue traced the outline of your bottom lip, your own lips parting to shepherd him in to deepen the kiss. 

“I love you, my lady,” he whispered suddenly, his face pulling away from yours to look down at your face. Your soft smile rose to your face, your lips parting and chasing his withdrawal with them. He looked down at you, truly mesmerized by the beauty he had managed to claim beneath him. He meant every word uttered, down to the last syllable. You were his, and he was yours. 

“Show me,” you whispered to him, his breath hitching in his throat in response. Your final utterance had every part of him swelling with pride. “Make love to me.”

Mihawk immediately feels the twitch of his cock against his stomach, wanting nothing more than to claim his wife in this way by caging her beneath him. But as he met his eyes with the shroud that covered yours, he was met with a new challenge. 

“I want to see you, my darling,” he confessed in a breathy whisper, reaching up to your face and beginning to tug at the cloth covering your eyes. “I need to see you look at me as I make love to you for the first time.” He desperately begins to pry the material from your body.

At the pull and loosen of one strand, another would tighten in its place. He clawed at your stomach, intending to rid you of the coarse fibers only for it to constrict around your core that caused you to cry out at the overstimulation. He attempted to pry further, his arms clenching and shaking at how hard he gripped the material, but yet it still remained unbudging in its firm grip.

“M-Mihawk,” you whined, feeling him hoist up the material and grind your slit; your arousal pooling atop the bedsheets below you, He growled, attempting one final time to rid you of your confines before he gave in to his urge to finally claim you as his bride. 

“My love, I-...” he trailed off, feeling your hand reach down and cup his cheek. He was silent, still, allowing himself this small glimpse at the soft luxury he had not experienced before. He leant into your touch, placing his chin on your palm as you softly whispered to him.

“There will be other times,” you repeated your earlier sentiment, coaxing him towards your lips, “While I would love to see you as you are, I feel our other needs are of far greater importance.” Your teeth were revealed in your wolfy grin, hungry for your husband to finally claim you and brand you as his and his alone. As soon as Mihawk’s pointed gaze met with that smile, he was held captive beneath its majesty. He wanted nothing more than to please you, to dote on you, to claim you as his. 

“My beloved,” he whispered your name on his tongue, gently rolling it over with your formal title to him, “I want this to be special for you. This is a moment we cannot take back, a moment that joins us together officially as husband and wife. I will be yours, and you will be mine.” His confession had your heart soar, feeling tangibly how much this moment meant to him. 

“I am yours,” you whisper, drawing his chin up to your face, “Only yours.” Your confirmation rang in his ears, his heart beating in his chest, and his desire for you growing ever stronger. “If you are here, now, and in this moment,” you whisper to him, raising yourself up to sit before him, “I could want for nothing more.” 

Mihawk felt his desire overcome him, finally wanting to claim you as his. He needed you, to feel the way you felt wrapped around him. He wanted to bring you the greatest pleasure you had ever experienced, and was feeling the pressure to pursue such a performance. As your touch lingered on against his cheek, ushering him closer and reassuring him, all he wanted at that moment was you.

You.

His governess, his confidant, his friend, his wife.

His lost lady.

All of you. 

As you usher him closer, he leans over your body and cages you beneath his forearms. You smile, attempting to use your four other senses to get a read on how he is feeling above you right now. You listen to the pants in his breath, feel the heat in his skin, smell the wine on his tongue, and finally taste the arousal on his lips as they press themselves against yours. His kiss is intoxicating, filled with lust and consuming your very soul with the intensity of the oscillation. 

Moving your hands down to his shoulders, you draw him in closer; lying down on your back as you slot him in between your thighs. His lips grew bold, parting yours beneath his as his tongue darted out to brush with your own in a sultry tango. You reach down to his stomach, feeling all of the bare flesh beneath your fingertips and diving lower to his waistline. 

He smiles against your lips as you begin ridding himself of his pants. Struggling against the blinding shroud, you tap his skin to locate the buckle to release him of his marriage-clothes. He chuckles into your kiss, releasing himself from your lips and rising up to kneel on his calves. A bell jingles in your ear, his belt buckle ringing, as you hear shuffling material rid his pants from his hips and pool on the floor as he discarded them. 

Hands from the both of you desperately grasped and grabbed at one another, flesh meeting fingertips as your lips bound themselves against each other. You moaned against his lips as you felt his tip press against your slit beneath the bonds of gold imprisoning you against viewing your husband fully within the suite. 

“My heart,” he whispered to you, smoothing your hair over with his fingers, “My body,” he lined himself fully with your glistening core, prodding it with his swollen tip, “My soul,” he coaxed it within you, feeling the stretch of your body around him to compensate for his girth, “Is yours.” 

Pressing more of himself into you, you throw your head back against the pillows beneath you as you feel him finally begin to claim you as his wife physically. You hear his teeth grit as he paws at your thighs, holding them steady as he slowly sheathes himself deep within you. 

“Is this okay, my love?” he asks, his voice faltering at the end corner of it as he halts his movements. You wince a little, your body taking time to adjust to coaxing a lover within your body. You softly nod your head, prompting him to click his tongue in response, “Please answer me, my beloved. I need to know if it-...” he gasps, feeling the way your walls spasm around him to accommodate him, “...if it’s okay to move yet.” 

You gasp, feeling the remnants of arousal against your entrance accommodate Mihawk’s impressive girth deep within you. He had worked at your body so easily earlier, his frustration adamant in his need to claim an eruption from your body with his lips and tongue. He held himself stationary, using every fiber of his being to keep from ravishing you immediately before you had time to adjust to feeling him fill your body. 

“You can move, my love,” you whisper, your head desperately seeking him out beneath the blindfold with a soft smile on your face, “You have waited so patiently, and I am here for you to claim as your own.” You grin up at him, feeling his lips only a breath away from your own. 

Mihawk wastes no further time, immediately thrusting his cock deep within your body and sheathing it to the hilt. You cry out a little in shock, feeling full to the brim with his length buried deep within you, prompting him to pull back a little and test you with a gentle and slow thrust back into you. He softly whispered your name, groaning on the last syllable as his hips pressed against yours. 

Slow, deliberate, and fluid motions had your toes curling behind Mihawk’s hips; his right hand immediately finding your thigh and hooking it over his hip as he thrust into you. He groaned your name, feeling your hands collect his curls at the scruff of his neck as your body relaxed around him. Your back slid against the mattress, a knot in the middle of your shoulder blades beginning to loosen. Mihawk huffed his breath, his movements slotting himself within your walls becoming heavier and intentional.

The friction of the sheets grinding against your back had the slip-knot Benn Beckman placed in the middle of your shoulders finally beginning to unravel. Mihawk was too lost in the way your body felt finally wrapped around him, his eyes closing and finally giving in to the urges that began to claw and consume him. His heart, his body, his soul was yours in this moment, just as yours were his, as his hips staggered against you. 

“My wife,” he whispered, the pleasure building within the pit of his belly, his eyes scrunching shut as his girth and length quivered. He reached up, leaving your leg hooked behind him and hooked his thumbs beneath the blindfold, “I don’t care. I don’t care,” he began to move the shroud, your body beginning to loosen the strands of gold over your breasts and back, “I need to see you.”

“Mihawk,” you gasp, feeling him tug the material over your eyes. You flutter your eyelashes, adjusting to the hazy image of the World’s Greatest Swordsman, your swordsman, on top of you. His brow was furrowed, his lips parted, and his eyes were filled with nothing but absolute devotion and love. He was immediately lost within your eyes, a gasp fleeing his lips as he felt himself nearly come undone just at the soft gaze you gave to him.

He lost all his composure, picking up the pace as he gazed deep into your eyes. Huffing and panting, his pleasure nearly reached the peak. Waves of ecstasy began to wash over you, feeling your husband finally gaze so lovingly into your eyes as he chased your mutual eruptions of ecstasy. 

“Mine,” he chanted, leaning forward and staring at you like a beast consumed with lust, “Only mine.” You felt his motions stagger, becoming more frantic as he channeled you both towards release. You whimpered, taking your bottom lip between your teeth to stifle a soft mewl of bliss. 

“Don’t you dare,” Mihawk reached up, pressing his lips to yours to take your bottom lip away from your teeth, “I want to hear you. Let me hear you.” You listen to your husband, softly crying his name as the rapid approach of your bliss draws closer. Your body began to contract around his cock, his own groans adding to the symphony of ecstasy in the air as the crowd outside began to sing loudly and joyfully. 

“Mihawk,” you whined, gripping onto his shoulders as he felt you tighten around him. He cried your name, his cock twitching as he finally released himself deep within you. Your walls fluttered and contracted around him, wringing his cock of any final spurts of his spend and becoming one heart, one mind, one soul and one spirit at the join of your bodies. 

Thrusting languid rocks of his hips as you rode through your highs had neither of you realize the gold fibers had finally rid themselves of their hold on your flesh. You continued gazing into his face as he looked down, a soft smile drawing over his lips the moment he recognised the absence of the sun-dress. You were fully bare, both finally equal in your vulnerability and nudity. 

“There you are,” He sighed at you, bringing up his hand to caress your cheek, whispering in a voice so soft and intimate you could barely hear it, “My found-lady.” 

Overcome with emotions, your eyes began to prick with tears as your smile grew over your lips. The curse had ended, Mihawk’s tasks had been completed, you had bound yourself to him as his lover, his wife, and his confidant. You were his, and he was yours. 

Your tears began to spill over your lash line, prompting Mihawk to chuckle and draw you closer into his chest; sitting you upright and cradling you into his chest as he rocked back onto his knees. He smoothed over your hair, pressing soft kisses into your hairline and sighed as you circled your arms around him. 

“I love you,” he whispered into your ear, his confession feeling more deep, truthful and intimate than the experience you had falling apart in his arms, “More than you could ever know.” You buried your head in his chest, his chin resting atop your head as you felt the flicker of his heartbeat thud against your ear. 

He rose to his feet, hooking a hand beneath your knees and holding the other firmly behind your back, “I’m going to bathe you now, my love.” He whispered into your cheek, pressing a soft kiss against your skin, “And then I have a gift for you.” Walking over to the ensuite, he balanced you on his muscular thighs and leant over the bath and turned on the taps to fill the extraordinarily large bath full of hot water. He tested the temperature with his wrist before leaning back and kissing your temple. You pry yourself away from his chest, looking down at the water.

“This is going to take a while to fill, my love,” you smile, shaking your head at the slow rise of water flowing in the ceramic basin. Mihawk’s smirked down at you, his teeth bared in an uncharacteristic, wolfy grin.

“Oh no,” he mocked, brushing his nose playfully with your cheek and giving it a quick peck, “Whatever shall we do to pass the time?” You laughed at him, giving his chest a playful push before moving your arm up to his neck and drawing him into a lengthy kiss.

Tag List: @maybe-a-bi-witch @fuzzyfestcat @sordidmusings @writingmysanity @gingernut1314 @since-im-already-here @feral-artistry @be-good-please @sukilovesyou @acehyacinth @andriannag @one17 @canthebest1 @khaleesihavilliard @hungrhay @sentieence @lebanese-afg-ya @captaincupio @szired @sexc-snail @alphaash99 @mfreedomstuff @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @mrs-wolfwood @jaguarthecat @marsbars09 @vespidphoenix @cinnbar-bun @carrotsunshine

[momojedi]

now idk if youve been requested smth like this before but tbb finds reader (whos another clone child like omega)?? thatd be cool, id think!! gn reader btw 🫶🫶 ALSO LOVE YOUR WRITING SM TY FOR WRITING THIS IF YOU DO

— FAMILY FOUND pairing. omega/clone force 99 x clone child! gn! reader

**

type. oneshot note. hi anon! thank you for your request, i'm incredibly happy to hear you like my writing! regarding your request, i hadn't thought of anything like that so far, but i love the idea - this is set during season one! the reader could technically be seen as disabled but i'll really leave that up to your interpretation. enjoy! warnings. needles, human experimentation, dehumanisation, sisterly omega fluff, big brother/dad batch, slight injury, potential reference to the blackwing virus, references to clone wars events word count. 2k

star wars masterlist || pinned post

Four hours.

That's how long you'd been running from the Empire and the claws of the Kaminoans, swiftly escaping the planet with the help of AZ-3. After a tearful farewell, the droid had tightly sealed the escape pod's hatch as well as your fate, leaving you to hold off the Kaminoans from tracking you as you fled Tipoca City, the place you once called your home.

When you landed on Ord Mantell, the sudden impact of the crash had swept you off your feet, chucking you to the floor with a loud bang. The intense pain that abruptly shot through your arm as well as the burning sensation that spread in your right cheek quickly lead you to realise that you needed to get a hold on some medical supplies as soon as possible.

"Where is it, where is it - kriff!"

Despite years of being reprimanded by Commander Colt not to curse and avoid the usage of bad words, you couldn't help but ignore your late brother's teachings when you sat back up on your knees after crawling out from under the pod's control panel. There wasn't a medkit in sight. You huffed, gripping your throbbing head with your healthy arm. "I must've hit my head," you whispered to yourself, squinting your eyes in pain. Slowly but surely some medical attention was starting to become really necessary, especially when you felt warm liquid dripping down your cheek.

You sat up. Perhaps you'd find some help in the inner city?

Ord Mantell was huge; bigger and much more crowded than Tipoca City you found yourself realising. Though, that view might've been influenced by the fact that, like most clone children, you'd never seen anything but Kamino throughout your entire life.

Time and time again had you sat among your brothers, listening intently to their adventurous tales fighting in the war and visiting various places throughout the galaxy. And although you felt bad for the loss and pain they went through day by day, you couldn't help but envy the wonderful worlds and systems they also had the chance to experience.

Unlike most clones, you hadn't been made to be a soldier but rather a subject to be tested on. Your entire purpose since you'd been born was to be a lab-rat, to endure tests and examinations in order to help the Kaminoans determine the breeding conditions of their next clones. You thought little of the Kaminoans, as most clones did. Their constant pricking of needles and blood letting made you feel sick and although you'd grown up on Kamino and were used to being dehumanised and seen as an object, a tool rather than a living being, you still hated the longnecks with a burning passion, silently enduring the torture they'd been putting you through. Naturally that also meant that you were made to suffer from various side effects of the experiments, such as age acceleration - or in your case, deceleration.

Unlike the usual clone, you aged slower, almost at the pace of a nat-born. You couldn't see very well due to visual tests they'd made for a special clone unit when you were very young and your hair was trimmed unevenly from being shaved off time and time again.

Naturally with that also came the judgement. Many of your brothers considered you a freak, curiously eyeing you and some times even mocking you. But even though there were many bad apples, you were proud to say that most of them had gladly taken you under their wing, partially having even grown up around you, and you couldn't be prouder of their accomplishments.

When the Empire took over and Admiral Tarkin arrived on Kamino, you swiftly developed a strong disdain for the imperial official and his scornful treatment of the clones. He frightened you with his skeletal appearance and judgemental expressions, scoffing at you when he'd first crossed you following a kaminoan scientist down the corridors of the city.

This disdain solidified when, from behind a window, you observed Tarkin handing obscure plans to Prime Minister Lama Su, signaling a clandestine exchange that left you feeling uneasy. Pressing your face against the glass to glean any insight, you overheard a conversation that sent shivers down your spine.

"I can assure you, CE-0003 will make a wonderful asset to project Blackwing—a low cost for such a risky intrusion; the potential loss won't be of any importance," Prime Minister Lama Su coldly stated, not bothering to acknowledge your presence. The mere mention of your designation number, CE-0003, served as a chilling reminder of the dehumanization endured by clones, but Tarkin's emphasis on "low cost" and "loss" struck an ominous chord, setting off alarm bells within your conscience.

Feeling the weight of an impending threat, you knew that the time had come to make a fateful decision. Unwilling to succumb to a potential death sentence or exploitation in the Empire's mysterious project, you resolved to escape Tipoca City. In the brightly lit corridors, your internal struggle reached a tipping point as you confronted the severity of your situation.

You shook your head, clearing your thoughts. "Kamino is in the past," you mumbled to yourself, avoiding looking straight at the faces that passed by. After all, who knew whether someone had been sent after you or not? The Kaminoans were a very ambitious species and although Ord Mantell was filled with dubious figures, you could not let your guard down just yet.

Your head was starting grow dizzier by the minute and your world was starting to spin. you quickly managed to get a grip on some metal structure to keep you steady - or at least as steady as possible - when a voice caught your attention nearby.

"Oh ... can assist you in any way?"

Only now did you realise that the metal you'd gotten a strong hold on was, in fact, plastoid armour. Immediately you pulled your hand away, apologising profusely, though halfway slurring your words. You weren't even able to make out the stranger's face as the world spun around you and before you knew it, you passed out, barely hearing the stranger calling out another name.

"Echo, come here!"

"A - a clone?"

Hunter and Echo's eyes were settled on Tech, whose own goggled pair were glued to his datapad, as usual. "Precisely," he responded matter-of-factly, "It appears that they apart of a specialised cloning program founded specifically for scientific and medical experimentation."

"You're meaning to tell me the longnecks tortured this child for some bioweapons and drugs?" Echo's voice was angry, his face twisted into a furious grimace as he turned away from your unconscious form whilst holding the bacta-soaked cloth he'd previously been dabbing the gaping burn on your cheek with. Tech huffed, eyeing his brother over the edge of his datapad. "Yes Echo, that is exactly what I'm telling you."

"Unbelievable," Echo scoffed, fist tightening around the cloth, "and to think we once fought alongside those monsters." With a deep sigh, Hunter pushed past his bickering brothers to look over your sleeping form. By now, they had made sure to patch up your broken arm and clean any leftover bruises, settling you down on one of the parlour’s benches. It didn't look necessarily comfortable but seeing as Cid had business to attend to, it was all they could come up with so far - Tech had even dug out Wrecker's civil poncho in the Marauder which you now were cozily wrapped in.

Hunter gingerly brushed the loose hair strands out of your face, watching you with softening eyes as he took over cleaning your bruising face. A small smile tugged on his lips at the sight of your peaceful expression. How would Omega react to you?

As if on cue, the loud chitter-chatter of Wrecker and their little sister erupted in the stairway of Cid's bar, turning the heads of the rest of the batch. Omega squealed excitedly when the giant clone set her down, running toward Hunter with a box of Mantell Mix in her hands.

"Hunter, look!" She chirped, holding out the sugary treat for the sergeant to see, "The nice lady added new toppings and - [name]?"

Her eyes fell upon you and suddenly, she forgot the world around her. Hunter raised a brow before exchanging a questioning look with Echo, who had quietly observed the interaction. Was that your name? How did she know you? Taking the box out of her hands and setting it on the table, the clone sergeant took Omega aside, kneeling to be at her eye level.

"Omega, do you know this child?"

With a worried expression at the sight of your wounds, she hesitated before nodding slowly. "Their name is [name]," her voice was hoarse as she kept an eye on you, "we both assisted the scientists in the medbay, back on Kamino ... they'd often do those weird tests on them, to the point they wouldn't show up for days afterwards." Hunter's blood boiled at the thought of the painful abuse you must've had to endure but he stayed composed. He had to focus on the task at hand after all.

"Are - are they okay?" Omega's eyes were wide as she glanced back at him. "They're alright so far," he slowly stood up, crossing his arms over his chest, "We took good care of their injuries. Tech and Echo found them earlier - they suspect they may have crashed nearby. Should that be the case, they can consider themselves lucky."

The light sound of a confused groan caught Hunter off-guard as he turned to look at you. "Well, look who's up."

You had squinted as your world had grown clearer with every passing second after you woke up, still trying to make out what was going on around you - until you had noticed the five figures standing in front of you. And then the panic set in. Had the Kaminoans already sent out people after you?

"Please don't bring me back," you had sniffled, hot tears already rolling down your cheeks, "I don't want to go back!" It had only been when a familiar girl had approached you with raised hands that you slowly but surely had started to calm down. "Omega?"

As it turns out, the men you had feared to be mercenaries were in fact the infamous Clone Force 99 that had gone rogue and deserted the Empire a few weeks before you escaped. Although you'd heard talk of them plenty of times from your brothers and the scientists, you had never met nor seen them in person as they were usually out on missions and only ever briefly stayed on Kamino. When Omega had left with them, you were heartbroken to see your sister go - most of your time was spent alongside her, after all.

By now, Cid, the Trandoshan woman the bar belonged to, had returned and to the Batch's apparent surprise, quickly took a liking to you; that or she at least pitied you enough to slide in a hot meal and grant you some company as she sat down with you and grunted every now and then while looking over her datapad. Either way, you weren't going to question it and simply enjoyed having the chance to fill your stomach after what felt like forever.

"So, how's AZ?" Omega had managed to squeeze in between you and Cid, eyes fixed on you. "He's okay," you mumbled between bites, "He helped me out a lot when I ... well ..." You frowned as you remembered your escape, setting down the spoon. Although you had fled with good reasons, you couldn't help but miss the place you had once called your home. Fortunately, Omega quickly caught on as she settled a hand on your shoulder with a warm smile.

"I know what it's like," her voice was firm and encouraging when she looked over her shoulder the other side of the bar, where the tall clone you'd earlier found out to be called Wrecker roared in frustration at one of the arcade games set up in the bar while the other, Tech, tried his best at explaining it to him. Echo, the one with the scomp arm, watched and shook his head with a sigh and the leader, Hunter, chuckled while playing with the vibroblade in his hand.

"Our brothers ... they know what they're doing. We keep each other safe," Omega then grabbed your hand tightly and grinned, "And as long as we're here, we'll keep you safe, too."

if you're interested in being tagged for my future works, let me know in my comments or by sending me an ask!

@patapouille @flyiingsly

[curlygirlybitchachos]

Clone Reader

(Rex just ask Y/n if he could help him with the rebellion)

Y/n: you left me behind.

Rex: Y/n...

Y/n: you left me behind that day, to go with the General, to go to Coruscant. And for what?

Rex: I was trying to protect you...

Y/n: from what? Dying? Dying could be better then the things I needed to do.

Rex: please don't say that.

Y/n: I killed my brothers to protect those jedi younglings. I killed them, because if I stuned them, they would get up, and fight until they are dead. I did it. I killed one after one, until I just gave up. And then? They got me....

Rex: Y/n. ..

Y/n: I was their labor rat. They take everything, then put it back. I was sliced, I was burned, I was poisoned. Nobody came for me, everyone forget about me.

Rex: you know if we knew about it...

Y/n: and then I got free. I killed everyone, nat-borns, brothers... I did everything on my own!

Rex:...

Y/n: you don't have the right to ask for my help Captain.

[jedi-enthusiast]

Similar Stories, Different Treatments: Anakin Skywalker and Abijah Fowler

Ok, so recently I've been re-watching 'Blue Eye Samauri' on Netflix and last night it dawned on me that, generally speaking, Abijah Fowler and Anakin Skywalker have very similar stories and actions...and yet their respective fandoms react to the two of them very differently.

So, here's my long ass post analyzing the two of them and why people react to them so differently.

----------

First, comparing the two characters...

So, assuming that y'all know me for my Star Wars content, you probably know Anakin's story but, for the sake of this post, I'll explain it briefly.

Anakin was born into slavery and lived as a slave for 9 years. Then one day he and his mother met two Jedi and a handmaiden, and his mother asked the Jedi to take Anakin and train him---which they agreed to do, so Anakin had to leave his mother. At 19 he had nightmares about and then witnessed his mother's death when he went back to Tatooine before being promptly drafted into war along with the rest of the Jedi by the Senate. After a harrowing 3 years of war and having his worst behaviors enabled/encouraged by the villain and his wife, Anakin begins to have nightmares about his pregnant wife dying. He then tries to prevent her dying, even though she's in perfect health.

We know a little less about Abijah Fowler's past, but we do know an integral part of it from this monologue:

"My country's history is one of manufactured suffering. I was a boy when the Tudors burned any food the rebels under O'Neill might think to eat. We starved. Everyone starved. Mouths on the dead stained green from chewing nettles---you get resourceful in a famine. My parents died early, left me and my sister catching rats. The rats ran out quick. Fed my sister on my blood, it kept her alive an extra two weeks. I didn't sleep for three days to protect her body from the starving 'til the ground thawed. I cut out her kidneys and buried her, fat cap on them like a pea. I haven't eaten a single meal since my mind didn't go to that bite. It was the last thing I ever did because I had to. I control my life now, every bite."

-----

From my point of view, Anakin and Abijah are very similar in their motivations.

Both of them started out as, assumedly, sweet and kind and caring young boys. You don't harm yourself to feed your sister and then cause more harm to yourself to protect her after she's already dead, if you're not. Similarly, you don't bring three complete strangers into your home because you're worried about them and then risk your life to help them, if you're not.

Both of them then went through great tragedies and likely felt completely powerless because of these tragedies and the circumstances they found themselves in.

For Abijah it was growing up during a famine, witnessing the horrors of famine and what people had to do during it, witnessing the deaths of his parents, being unable to stop the death of his sister, and being forced into cannibalism---of his sister and likely parents, no less---to prevent himself from starving. For Anakin it was growing up as a slave, having to leave his mother at a young age, witnessing his mother's death, and then being thrust into a war and witnessing the horrors of that.

Because of that powerlessness, both Anakin and Abijah hate the idea of them being powerless and their actions are made from a mix of anger at whoever they blame for what has happened---whether they're actually to blame, or whether they've done nothing---and refusal to ever be powerless again, or at least accept that they're powerless.

These motivations led them both to commit- (Anakin) -or attempt to commit- (Abijah) -mass murder, *genocide, **cultural genocide, and murder of their female main character counterpart.

*Abijah wasn't necessarily setting out to commit physical genocide, but he was willing to do so if the people of Japan weren't willing to go along with his plans.

**I do consider Abijah's plans as including cultural genocide, since he has a whole monologue about the people of Japan being "godless" and how he'd force them into Christianity- (Catholicism?) -if he succeeded in killing the Shogunate.

----------

Now, comparing fandom's reaction to the two...

For Anakin, he succeeds in causing Padme's death, destroying the Republic aka the only democracy in the galaxy, committing cultural and physical genocide against the Jedi, murdering an entire village of Tuskens including the children, and going on to oppress and enslave the rest of the galaxy for decades...

...in contrast, Abijah only succeeds in committing mass murder and fails in all of his other plans---and his success in committing mass murder is partially due to the Shogun's sons and wife locking people inside the burning palace.

But, despite all of this, if you look into how their respective fandoms treat them, you'd assume that it was the opposite.

Anakin is lifted up as this good person who had no agency in any of his actions or, if he did, then the people he murdered "deserved it"---he's loved by most of the fandom and everywhere you look you see think pieces about how Anakin was really a victim, how his actions were justified, how he's not to blame for anything.

Meanwhile Abijah is hated and his actions are labeled by the fandom as bad. He's a terrible person and he's seen as such. I've never seen a single post justifying his actions or trying to say he isn't to blame for his actions.

Now, this is not me saying that the Blue Eye Samauri fandom is wrong to view Abijah this way---on the contrary, I agree that his actions are heinous and he's a terrible person, there's nothing there that I don't agree with.

However, I do think it's interesting how differently both characters are treated when one of them is, unequivocally, worse than the other.

----------

Why is this?

Now, I'm going to preface this section with the disclaimer that part of it is because Anakin is the main character of his media and Abijah is not---however, I believe that this has a very small effect on how fandom treats them since, as we've seen with other characters, screentime doesn't really matter that much when it comes to whether fandom likes a character or not.

Moving on-

-----

I think a lot of it is just that Anakin is conventionally attractive and Abijah isn't.

Anakin and Abijah are both selfish, misogynistic, racist, have violent responses to most things, and have committed atrocities in the name of personal gain. The only difference between them---besides the obvious differences that come with the medias they're in---is that Anakin is pretty to look at and Abijah isn't.

It'd be even worse if Abijah was a POC or a woman, even if he was conventionally attractive---as proven by other Star Wars characters.

Mace Windu? Fandom hates him and makes him out to be a villain.

Saw Gerrera? Same thing.

Rey Skywalker? People hate her and say she's "unrealistic" or "too OP."

Reva Sevander? People fucking CRUCIFIED her!

None of these people even come near Anakin's level of "I'm a terrible person and I do heinous things because why not!" Mace and Rey never did anything wrong, and Saw and Reva did the things they did because of trauma/revenge and/or working to take down a greater evil---and even then, neither of them do anything near as bad as Anakin!

Yet they're hated and held to a higher standard and crucified in a way that Anakin isn't.

-----

Another reason is that people can project onto Anakin in a way they can't project onto Abijah.

With Anakin, they can twist the Jedi's actions to fit whatever trauma they personally relate to, they can shove characters like Obi-Wan, Ahsoka, Mace, Yoda, etc. into whatever archetype they want to fit their story, they can excuse away every atrocity Anakin commits because he's doing it out of attachment and they think attachment means love, etc.

Meanwhile it's hard for people to project onto Abijah because everything and everyone around him is harder to change to fit his narrative.

There's no one really around him that you can say manipulated, abused, or otherwise forced him into doing the things he did. The other characters don't really interact with him, so people can't say the characters "deserved" what he did to them. And he openly admits that he's doing things out of greed, whereas Anakin says he's doing things out of love when he's really not.

----------

In conclusion, Abijah Fowler and Anakin Skywalker are both people that experienced tragedy and became terrible people that did heinous things because of it---but people only justify one of their actions because they think he's pretty and project onto him.

They're the same person in different medias 🤷‍♀️

[thebluestbluewords]

and soon it’ll be spring

testing out some character voices. Set in a vague future timeline, fandom-typical discussions of child abuse.

+

Carlos hasn't seen his mother in years. Hasn't spoken to her since he left the isle. There's phones, and computers, and mail service to the isle, and sometimes the reception even works now, but he hasn't reached out. 

Evie sends letters to her mother sometimes. She addresses them to her old castle, encloses herbs and chocolate and eyeshadow. She doesn't read the responses that come back, but her mother sends them anyway, and Evie keeps sending her packages even though she can't bear to see whatever her mother has to say back to her. 

Carlos can't even do that. 

He's a bad son, probably. An ungrateful brat. Useless. Worthless. His mother could have drowned him as a baby, killed him like an unwanted puppy, and they'd all have been better off without the bother. He's been a bad son since he was born. Weak. A vulnerability. 

He breathes, keeps his voice steady. "Yup. That." 

Diego moves in a flurry of violent motion. He's facing away, towards the river, but Carlos still has to suppress the urge to flinch. Diego wears heavy boots, steel-toes even though he's never been in a real factory in his life, and every Isle kid's seen the damage they can do. 

The rock he kicked goes flying into the river. 

"Fuck." his cousin snaps. "Fuck! I remember that." 

Carlos can't laugh, but there's a sort of bubbling fear that's catching in his throat, and he can let some of it out. "Hah. Yeah. Um, I sort of — I cried a lot, that summer? It was hot and awful and you wouldn't come by the house, and I wasn't allowed to be at yours, so we started looking for a better hideout that year. D'you remember when Ivy found that place by the forest—" 

"—the one with the metal roof, where we got trapped by Kaa and you rigged a crossbow out of guitar strings." Diego finishes. "Fuck. I knew we found a new hideout that year, but I thought it was 'cause we got those drums for Sierra and couldn't keep them quiet down in the warehouse." 

Carlos shrugs. He's always been the little one, the tag-along. Diego's gang didn't tell him anything when he was a kid, and they still don't really talk. He's magicam friends with Sierra and Ivy, but Mia won't even accept his follow request. They didn't want him then, they don't want him now, and it's not even really a sore point anymore. He's got his own pack. No teenagers really want a little kid hanging around them, especially a kid who's already showing that he's a weak point.  "Might'a been. I dunno." 

"Nah, it was 'cause dad didn't want you hanging around the house anymore," Diego says firmly, shaking his head. "We found a new place so you'd have somewhere to go'n hide when your mom went ballistic. You were tiny, y'know."

It's sort of a logical leap, but sort of not.

 "I'm still short." Carlos points out. "You don't feel compelled to protect me now, right?" 

"Hah. Hah. Very funny, nerd." 

"I'm just saying—”He ducks the hand that shoots out to scrub his hair into a rat's nest. Score one for Isle kid instincts. "I'm say-ing," Carlos continues, undeterred. "That you didn't have to protect me back then. I could've taken care of myself." 

"You were a kid." 

"And you were what, twelve? Thirteen?" 

"Older," Diego says firmly. He's still looking out towards the water. "Old enough to protect my baby cousin." 

"Mom didn't kill me. I'm still here." 

Diego's arms are smooth and unmarked by the round cigarette burns that cover Carlos's arms, hands, chest, belly. Anywhere he was soft, she liked to burn. 

"She could've," Diego rasps out. "She almost did. I wasn't big enough to stop her."

"The spell—”

"FUCK THE SPELL." he shouts. Too loud. People are looking at them. People in Auradon love to stare and judge VKs, even when they're dressed just like anyone else in the city, but shouting was a reason to stare even back home. 

Diego notices, and drops his arms down, swinging the cup in his hand back and forth like a melting pendulum of coffee and sugar.  "Fuck it," he repeats, quieter. "If Auradon wanted us alive so bad, they should've put in the work themselves instead of relying on the barrier to keep bouncing us back." 

Carlos lifts one shoulder in agreement. He's pretty sure that the spell does a lot more than just keep them in their bodies, what with the healing factor and the way it won't kick you back in unless you've got a body to go back to, but it's a solid enough argument if you don't go into specifics. Claudine and the religious types at Dragon Hall had a whole rant on tap about how the barrier was being used to bounce their souls out of their path to heaven, so that they'd rejoin their bodies again and keep them alive even longer, but thinking about the concept of souls makes Carlos feel an emotion that Mal calls "stabbing" and Jay calls "a working bullshit sensor." Evie calls it "a rational emotional response to religious guilt-tripping bullshit", which sounds better than stabbing, but like, the point still stands that souls aren't real and listening to Claudine's lecture about them makes Carlos feel mostly doubtful, and also sort of like he's a shitty person. Which is probably the point of religion.

"S'not really bouncing," he says quietly, keeping his voice low and face turned down. People stare less if they're not obviously talking to each other, because Auradon has different standards for communication and watching VKs shout-talk directly at each other makes people stare. "It's not like we ever really die."

Diego levels a flat look at him. 

"Okay, yeah, they should've put more work into keeping us alive," Carlos agrees, because it's true. Auradon locked them up and threw away the key, and didn't even bother to check on their island of villains once they'd settled down from the initial bloodshed and power scrambles. "But the scientific basis for being bounced back into our bodies by the spell just isn't there. If they're using the barrier to trap our souls or whatever in an impenetrable bubble, then how're new souls getting in for the kids born on the Isle? If it's a true closed system it doesn't make sense. And I know--" He sucks in a breath before Diego can get a word in edgewise, because he knows. The souls aren't the point. The magic isn't even the point. "It doesn't matter how they're keeping us there so long as there's still kids starving and being killed on that rock. I know. But I can't push the wheels of government any faster, because I'm not the fucking king, or a representative, or anything. I'm a testimony at best,and it's not like being born on the Isle gives me the power to do anything about it."

Diego snorts. "Wow, you can't fix twenty years of systematic disenfranchisement on your own? Call the presses, my genius cousin can't fix something in five years that took twenty to break in the first place." 

The guilt that lives in the place where other people keep their feelings swirls up in Carlos's chest again. "I could've tried." 

"In between what, surviving high school? Petitioning the king to listen to us? 'Cause it seems like we're a lot further than we'd've been without your crew's work." 

"I built a machine to break the barrier," Carlos tells the river. "Back home. Before we left. It nearly worked." 

Diego kicks another rock into the river. "I know." 

Carlos feels his heart stutter-stop. "You—what?" 

"I know," Diego repeats. "You built shit all the time. You'd talk about it in your sleep. I stopped by that treehouse of yours one time, and you had the whole thing torn apart. You were talking to your crew about it. I listened for a while."

"When?"

The cold bottom of his cousin's coffee cup bonks into Carlos's skull. "Before you left, genius. I dunno. You didn't have it working yet."

"I thought I was being sneaky about that."

"You were. I'm just sneakier. If you'd been reverse engineering the whole barrier, you'd've built it better right?" 

"I would've given us the dignity of dying, if that's what you're asking." 

"Yeah." Diego says quietly, and then. "Fuck. That's morbid." 

Carlos shrugs. Maybe thinking about better ways to die makes them morbid, but it's still comforting to think that if he'd been the one to engineer their prison, that he'd've been able to give them the mercy of actually dying. "We're villains. It's our speciality. We're supposed to be all about death, and murder, and stuff." 

Diego laughs. They laugh the same way, the two of them. More of a bark than a real laugh. There's probably some irony there, if they wanted to go digging for it. "Didn't you hear, little cousin? We're supposed to be good now. No more murder. We're reformed villains, no more claws and fangs." 

They're reformed, but Diego still calls at 3am sometimes, just to make sure that he's still breathing. 

"Damn, guess I'll have to return the axe I bought," Carlos drawls, hefting his cup up like it's a weapon. "And the rat poison, and the chains for the dungeon..." 

"Kinky." 

[vampyrsm]

'The Forbidden Flame.' Chapter I Prince Bakugou Katsuki x Reader

Synopsis: Bakugou Katsuki, also known as the Dragon Prince, is an untameable flame. His anger is second to none, he is presented with problem after problem. How will he fare? Will his anger boil over to the point of no return, or perhaps he will find a spark of tranquillity in the sea of turmoil that is his mind?

Warnings: Not that many warnings, this is an introduction to the world and Bakugou as a prince. Dragons, descriptions of violence, misogynistic themes. Extremely brief mention of the reader in this chapter, I mostly want you to get a taste of who Katsuki is in this series.

Word Count: 5083.

[Glossary] | [Masterlist] | [Next]

There had always been a story as old as time itself. One of the men who tamed the Beasts of the Sky, who rode them into battle and always came out victorious. There was no one closer to the Gods themselves than these Dragonriders, the ones who spoke to the serpentine beasts and understood their emotions.

And yet they walk amongst men, though they weren't lowly commoners. They were the highest of highborn, top of the food chain. The name is known by families across the realm as the ones who are all powerful, the ones who have been rumoured to breathe fire themselves; the family known by the name Bakugou.

The morning air was clear, the clouds light and a pristine white. It was nearly time for summer, which meant there would be the traditional summer festival of Corvos. It was an ancient tradition, having been started by the first King of Ilgis who wanted to try and unite the many noble families across the realm, as well as to keep an eye on those who were more likely to rebel against the crown. But that had changed as time went on, new kings were appointed and they had begun to allow lowborn families to attend these grand events.

In recent years, under the reign of the 'Gentle King' Masaru Bakugou, there had been a big shift in the dynamic between those of high nobility and those who were nothing more than gutter rats. Masaru was much kinder than his predecessors, some even saying he was too soft for a king. He allowed those of the lower class to venture further into Corvos, breaking down the barriers set by former Kings who had a deep-set hatred for those who were born into poor circumstances. Of course, this decision did not sit well with the council, nor did it sit well with the Prince.

The Prince was more like his uncle, a former prince that was killed before he had the chance to sit upon the throne. Katsuki never took after his father's kindness but adopted his mother's fury tenfold. No one could beat him in a duel, and no one would speak out against the Prince when he would order for every lowborn thief to be brought to the Pandemonium to be 'trialled', or in better terms, fed to his dragon Xol.

This rage that bubbled inside of Katsuki was said to be a curse, something passed along the bloodline of the Bakugou's for years until either the possessor dies or they were "cured". Though this cure has never been discovered, the grand scholars of the realm had never seen a case where the curse was lifted but rather just documented the deaths of the kings who succumbed to their own wrath.

This supposed 'curse' skipped directly over Katsuki's father, having been a direct inheritance the moment his Uncle passed. He, of course, rejected such an idea of being cursed. It was just an old wives tale that was made up to scare those into submission, he would never fall for it. And so he never has, learning to live alongside the burning rage and ire that has been untameable for years.

Said Prince huffed, the wind that hissed past his ears blowing his unruly head of blonde hair in every direction as he sat upon the saddle on Xol's back. It had always filled Katsuki with a sense of pride at the fact he had picked one of the biggest and meanest dragons from its brood and made it submit under him. The dragon was large enough to block out the sun with its wingspan, and with countless battles under its wing, it had been nicknamed in battle as 'Destroyer of Men'.

The only joy Katsuki could feel for the up-and-coming festival was the fact he was allowed to participate. Usually, the royal family would sit out of the fighting, choosing to be spectators but his father had always allowed him to enter the tournaments, even allowing him to ride the dragons during the fights in the Pandemonium. This year his father had allowed participants of lower families, meaning Katsuki would get the chance to crush those below him with the heel of his boot.

The great beast beneath him rumbled with a low growl, agreeing with the thought process of the young prince. They had been connected by birth, some may even go far as to say that the dragon is the only true friend of the prince. Katsuki relaxed more into the saddle, the tight black leather armour he was wearing crinkled with the movements, muscles threatening alone to break through the seams.

"We'll have our feast, Xol." he offers the beast, a gloved hand patting harsh against the hardened black scales of the beast's shoulder. It was far too large for Katsuki to reach the head of the dragon. A subtle hand movement along the dragon's neck would have it turn back towards its home, back towards Corvos. "Perhaps Mother will finally let us fight against Ova." and that got a louder grumble from Xol.

It was very unlikely the two great dragons would ever have the chance to fight each other, his mother always turning down the idea of having her prized animal used as some sort of entertainment. Katsuki figures that he'll have to find one of the younger broodlings. But regardless, Katsuki would be getting his battle, on the dragon's back no less.

The clouds parted effortlessly for Xol's wings, slicing like a blade through flesh as it descended down towards Corvos. From here Katsuki could see a large portion of the continent that would soon be under his rule, it made the blood in his veins boil with excitement, with the prospect. His family were born on conquest, born from blood and fire, they were meant to rule over everyone with an iron fist. He despised his father for how soft he had made the Bakugou name, how it exposed the underbelly of the Dragon to those with less than pure intentions to their rulers.

With just a few beats of its wings, Xol landed with a large thud blowing up the dust and dirt, causing a few of the stablehands to shield their eyes away. Katsuki was quick to dismount, a click of his tongue followed by a long whistle had the beast turning its head and walking deep into the depths of the Pandemonium. Katsuki tried not to roll his eyes at the way the handlers scampered after the great beast, and instead focused his gaze on a man sitting upon a white horse.

"Kirishima," Katsuki offers, loud and booming, asserting his dominance over the area. "I thought I told you to not wait for me here, you know it looks ridiculous when you sit here doing nothing." The prince passes by the large man on the horse, who schools his expression as to not frown at the blonde prince.

"Your Majesty," Kirishima greets, earning a sharp glare over the shoulder from Katsuki. Eijirou only ever used that form of greeting when he had bad news. "I was actually sent to tell you that the King has requested your presence in the Throneroom." and now Katsuki really rolls his eyes, his old man always demanded an audience there with Katsuki instead of the private chambers where the council meetings took place. He figures it's out of fear of his own son attacking him, or something.

"I'm not interested in what he has to say, Kirishima. He just wants me to play nice with the scum who come scurrying through our gates in just two days' time." the clear distaste in Katsuki's tone makes Kirishima wince beneath his thick armour, the Commander was no stranger to the rage the prince harboured.

"Give him a chance, your Grace." is the final thing Kirishima offers, earning another heated glare from deep red eyes. Katsuki has nothing else to add, lips turning into a deeper frown as he hauls himself up onto his own steed with a grunt. He knows he has to speak to his father, he has no choice really. A royal summons is always answered, and even Katsuki would be dragged by the Kingsguard if he refused it.

The ride towards the Keep of Corvos is not a very long one, the Pandemonium was meant for the safe keeping of Dragons before it was turned into an arena for fighting as well, and the reason for it being so close to the Keep is so that the Bakugou's would always have their strongest weapon within reach.

The city itself was bustling, many of the workers preparing for the arrival of noble families from all over Ilgis, it would be a prime opportunity for numerous businesses to earn a lot of gold. Large banners bearing the Bakugou sigil hung over the walls and stood high on flagpoles. As much as it was a celebration of the start of the summer, it was also a celebration of the family that had kept peace over the realm for hundreds of years.

People bowed and cheered as the Prince rode by, he was famous for his appearances during the festivals, mostly because his fights were the most violent and most bloody. Katsuki paid no mind to the cheers, nor did he pay any mind to the shouts of him being a 'Barbarous Prince'. It was nothing new, people knew of his violent nature and often wouldn't jeer the prince for it as he made quite the spectacle of it some years ago when he decided to mount their heads on spears along the city walls.

"Your Majesty," comes the voice of one of the Kingsguard men once Katsuki dismounts from the horse and is marching up the steps towards the grand doors that lead in towards the Keep and the Throneroom. "The King is waitin—"

"Yeah, I fucking know. I don't need his lapdog telling me too." Katsuki snarls on his way past, ripping off his leather gloves and tossing them to an unsuspecting squire once he passes the steel doors. The inside of the castle is warm, uncomfortably so, but the heat has never phased the Prince. The halls empty for him the second they hear the clink of the metal of his armour and the pounding of his boots against the slate tile floor, everyone knew better than to get caught in the way of the Prince—especially if he was being summoned.

The scrape of the large dark oak doors was loud in the silent hall, Katsuki stood with his shoulders squared and a deep frown on his face as the sight of his father came into view. He was sat on the throne, a goblet of most likely imported Besouris wine.

The throne itself was grand, made from pure Obsidian. It was mostly black in dim lights, but if you brought a flame close to the glassy material it would shimmer a faint green. The throne was forged hundreds of years ago using the flames of one of the greatest dragons to ever exist; Udun, Champion of the Gods. Its flames were said to burn hotter than a normal fire, capable of melting down the Obsidian needed to mould the throne.

Modest braziers hanging from each of the eight granite columns light up the entire throneroom, allowing shadows to play and dance where the light cannot reach. The illustration of famous battles and conquests on the sloped ceiling dance in the flickering light while statuettes look down upon the slate floor of the grand hall. A carmine rug runs down from the throne for a few meters before coming to an end while matching banners with gilded sigils hang from the walls. Between each banner sits a small alter full of candles, they've all been lit and in turn illuminate the statues of royalty long gone below them.

Those seeking the wisdom of the King can do so on the plethora of impressively carved dark oak benches, all of which are facing the throne in uniform rows. Those of higher standing can instead take a seat in the specially decorated mezzanines overlooking the throne and its subjects.

"Katsuki," his father speaks in that gentle tone that makes the blonde's hackles rise, instantly his arms tense up as his hands ball into tight fists. "Thank you for listening to the summons, for once." Masaru watched his son approach, noting the heavy steps and the smell that came with him—he had been out on his dragon again. It was a smoky smell and this indescribable smell of just freedom that came with soaring through the skies.

Katsuki stopped just short of the steps that led up to the throne, his hands shifting to hide behind his back. "Your Grace," Katsuki should've bowed but Masaru wasn't surprised when he didn't move an inch, just deepening the scowl on his face.

The King shifts in his throne slightly, the clink of his heavy crown filling the air as his head relaxes back against the obsidian seat. "As you're well aware, the Summer Solstice is just two days away which means the arrival of the Todoroki family will be imminent," so Katsuki was right, he thought, his father ordered him here to lecture him as if he were a little boy. "You may have also heard that the young boy Shoto is being named as Heir of Blacksummit. Do you know what this means for you?"

"That I can't kill him, without an outbreak of war." Katsuki supplies dryly, he may be a brute but he knows his boundaries.

"Exactly," Masaru continues, his hands coming together in his lap once he lays the golden claw goblet on the arm of the throne. "You cannot, and will not kill that man. I forbid you from fighting with him entirely."

The reaction was almost immediate, the rage that boiled over within Katsuki was similar to how quickly a dragon can breathe fire. The Kingsguard stepped forward, weapons drawn the second Katsuki took a step towards his father, his fists uncurled and inching towards his own sword.

"You can't be serious, Father." the young prince growls, eyeing the closest guard to him to see if he could take him in a fight—he could, he's just unsure if he could take all eight of them at once. "You cannot forbid me from fighting someone!" his voice bounces harshly off of the hollow walls of the hall, but his father does not flinch nor waver in the face of fury.

"It's a deal made between myself and Enji, you harmed the boy too much last year and he worries that you'll only step it up a notch this year." Katsuki is snarling now, his upper lip curled up like some feral animal. "It's an order, from your King."

Finally, Katsuki takes a step backwards and the guards seem to relax slightly with the distance being made. "Fine." he snaps, fingers reluctantly uncurling from the fists they had formed in his anger. "But I will make you regret this, Your Grace." The venom this time does make Masaru visibly flinch, and a victorious grin forms on Katsuki's lips before he sharply turns on his heel and marches his way back out of the hall.

As Katsuki rounds the corner to head towards his private quarters, he halts at the sight of the Princeguard Commander who delivered him the notice to see the King. Kirishima at least has the gall to look sheepish, albeit a very odd look on the 6 foot 6 man. "What the fuck do you want now?" Katsuki snarled, causing the red-haired man to look in his direction.

"I'm afraid you still have some things to attend to before you can retire for the night, your Grace." again that title, Katsuki squinted at Eijirou. He had told the commander to stop using such formal greetings when it was just the two of them after they had both gone through countless victorious battles together. A sign of respect from the King-to-be.

The silence allowed for Kirishima to speak again, "It would seem that the Todoroki family have arrived early," Kirishima doesn't stand down when he sees the famous ferocity in Katsuki's eyes as he snaps his eyes to meet his instantly. "You're expected to receive them, the Queen will also be with you."

His mother, Mitsuki, she most likely will be there to ensure the King's order wasn't disobeyed. In truth, Katsuki didn't hate his mother as much as he hated his father but he still despised the way she let his father do what he pleased, never speaking out when he made such outrageous demands such as no fighting with the young Lord of Blacksummit.

"God fucking damn it." Katsuki starts, a large fist colliding with the cool marble wall to his side shaking a picture free from the nail it was perched on. "I am fucking done with Todoroki this, Todoroki that. I fucking swear to the Gods I will kill that entire family for even daring to step foot into Corvos."

Kirishima bows his head at the physical outrage of the Prince, gaze unblinking as he stared at the heavily armoured boots he wore. The sound of flesh meeting marble grew louder and louder until there was a loud crack. When Kirishima finally looked back up, there was a growing pool of blood at the feet of the Prince whose chest was heaving with each deep breath he was drawing in, he didn't seem to show the pain he was in but Kirishima could see the marble wall had shattered under the onslaught and was embedded deep into Katsuki's knuckles.

"Well, let's fucking get this over with," Katsuki managed to get out, shaking off his fist which left a spray of blood along the floor before he started to march in the opposite direction of his private quarters. "Maybe I'll still have time to fuck one of those wenches the King had paid for."

...

Mitsuki shifted uncomfortably on her feet, eyes narrowed towards the approaching steady sound of hooves. She had received word not too long ago about the early arrival of the Todoroki's, ordering Kirishima to immediately fetch the Prince. She knew of Katsuki's hatred towards the northern men, but she believed if she tried enough to push him into realising they are strong allies then perhaps he would stop trying to murder the young Lord Todoroki.

The rough sound of boots crunching against the gravel path alerted her to the arrival of her firstborn son, and what sounded like a scampering Kirishima who was trying his hardest to keep up with the blonde's long strides. Mitsuki made no move to greet her son, holding her hands together in front of her hips as she watched the dark wooden oak carriage pull closer and closer, the sound of marching men now audible.

It wasn't long before the carriage pulled up and around, a squire quick to hop down and open the carriage door. Out first came Lord Enji Todoroki, he was a behemoth of a man and he had a mean gaze about him. A nasty scar split his face in two, having been a part of a battle many years ago alongside some of his northern brethren. Next out of the carriage was his wife; Lady Rei. She was a timid woman, hair as white as the snow that coated the mountain caps.

Katsuki growled when next came the children of the Todoroki household. Shoto stepped down the small step, his hands coming up to fix his impressive Pelisse. It was a short-furred coat, it was styled to hang over one shoulder to prevent sword slashes—so they say, Katsuki knows he could slice the man in half with his Dragonfire-forged blade.

Shoto stopped just short of the carriage door, offering a hand up to his elder sister Lady Fuyumi Todoroki, she was more like her mother in regards to personality but she was much smarter than both her parents and her siblings. She was the secret head of the household when it came to handling taxes, and stocking inventory for the long winters.

"My Lord," Mitsuki greeted once the Todoroki family were all standing in front of the two royals, Shoto stood directly before Katsuki and was levelling him with a withering glare. A swift elbow from the Queen before she smiled, eyes not once wavering from the burning azure eyes of Enji Todoroki.

"Your Majesty, Your Grace." Enji greeted them both in order; the Queen and then the Prince. Katsuki just deepened his scowl, glaring at the man who had made the deal with his father. He had always had a bad feeling when it came to the Todoroki family, there was something deeply unsettling about the way the current Lord of the House pushed around his family. Katsuki knew men would often beat their wives, but there was something extremely cold about the entire thing.

First, it started with the death of his eldest son; Touya Todoroki. All deaths of noble families are reported directly to the Royal family, but this one never was—at least not until 6 long years had gone by. It baffled the council as to why Enji would hide the death of his Heir but it was put to the side under the pretence that the man was simply grieving the loss of his firstborn son.

But they were never presented with a body or a death certificate from their scholar. It didn't sit right with Katsuki.

Then was the second eldest son, the Heir that was born to replace the loss of Touya. He had died too, some say it was during a battle when the North had a rebellion from one of the smaller houses. But again, no body was presented and no one can confirm that they did in fact see the young white-haired man on the field that day. Katsuki wasn't a fool, he had seen the bruises on the second eldest son. He found it odd that someone would beat their heir, and he also was aware of the hatred Natsuo held for his father. It was a single thing the two could agree on.

Katsuki suspects Enji had killed his two eldest sons. But no one would believe him until he was made King, he was certain to have the old man's head on a spike for it once he came into power.

"Thank you for travelling so far, My Lord." Mitsuki dragged Katsuki from his thoughts, his eyes darting away from Enji and off into the distance. "I heard you had brought a bigger party this year, will you be needing more space for the horses?"

"Only some, most of my men travelled on foot. They'll be lodged in the many inns of Corvos, your Majesty." Enji always spoke so curtly, a real kiss-ass when it came to the royals. Katsuki's lip curled in annoyance at the thought, everyone was so fake, they all wanted the pretty crowns that sat upon his parents' heads. They all wanted to know what it was like to have unlimited power at the tips of their fingers.

"Very well," Mitsuki nodded, eyes drifting to see Shoto who was already looking in her direction. "Young Shoto, it feels like just yesterday I was giving you a blessing at your birth. And now here you are, the heir-to-be of Blacksummit. Congratulations."

"Thank you, your Majesty," Shoto half bowed, hair of two colours shifting over his face until he straightened back up and used a singular gloved hand to brush it away from his mismatched eyes. The young lord was quite the spectacle, he was often the talk of many taverns when he was in town. Mostly it was the women who would swoon over him, the idea of spending a night with the man was apparently rumoured to be 'life changing'.

Mitsuki continued to converse with both Heads of the Todoroki family, giving Shoto the chance to glance at the glowering Prince. He had grown some in the last year since Shoto had been caught in a brutal brawl with him, it was both exhilarating and terrifying to go face to face with a man who was more dragon than human. He hadn't asked his father to make a deal with the King, he had a very similar reaction to Katsuki.

"You know, I didn't ask for the both of us to be banned from fighting against one another," Shoto decided to speak first, earning him a glare from the corner of Katsuki's eyes before Shoto sighed, "In fact, I was pretty certain I would beat you this year, maybe you'd be the one with 16 broken bones."

The recovery for that one was not a pleasant one, Shoto was bedbound for months.

"Tch," Katsuki clicks his tongue. "As if you'd ever get the chance you half-and-half bastard. I'd kill you before you got the chance." That earns the blonde a rare scowl on the Queen's face when she's in the presence of others. Enji also glares at the young Prince, his eyes narrowing with a hellish fire burning in the bright blue.

"I apologise for my son's attitude," Mitsuki is quick to apologise, "He's just upset about the sudden changes in the tournament. I promise you, however, he will not go against the King's order."

Upset, as if he was some child. He offers no goodbyes, turning sharply on his heel and marching out of the main gates of the Keep and towards the streets of Corvos where he knows he can get away with lashing out at someone if they dare speak out of turn to him. He doesn't hear his mother telling Kirishima to stay back, to let the Prince cool down.

The streets are starting to grow quieter as the moon starts to rise, the stars blanketing the sky. Katsuki makes quick and sharp turns down streets he had prowled down numerous times in search of someone, anyone, who may be breaking a law of some kind just so he could hurt them.

His boots were loud on the unsteady cobble road, clinking and bashing against loose pebbles that got kicked further and further down the path until he heard a loud crash, and then a clattering of something metal hitting the floor. Katsuki was well-seasoned in battles to know the sound of a sword being dropped, his heart raced in his chest at the prospect of being able to fight someone in the street for brandishing a weapon.

He wasted no time in rounding the corner, hand on the hilt of his blade and ready to draw when he felt all the muscles in his body grow rigid, his feet stuck to the spot he was in as if gravity had become ten times heavier on him alone. He blinked at the scene laid out before him, a woman who was wearing some tatty dress that was covered in black ash in places and scorch marks along the bell sleeves that had definitely seen better days.

Even her face was littered with dirt and grime, something Katsuki had only ever seen when he visited the blacksmiths. That's when the whole image clicked together, the swords on the ground were to be used for the festival and this woman was just some clumsy wench who dropped the swords. He was ready to step back, and slink back into the shadows he once came from until he heard a booming voice.

There was a shout of a name, not a highborn name he notes. "How fucking stupid are you?! Do you know how expensive those swords are!" A man rounds the door frame which seems to be an older blacksmith's store, he can faintly smell the scent of melting steel.

He breaks away from the thought at the sound of flesh meeting flesh, and the clattering of swords once again. Katsuki furrows his eyes at the man who had his hand raised in the air, and the woman who was staring down at the ground. That's when his eyes wandered along her bare shoulders, and exposed neck. He could see numerous bruises, old and fresh. Old scars were deep on her shoulder blades, the sight made his stomach turn uncomfortably.

Something was burning in his chest, this feeling to bare his teeth and rip apart the man who dared to lay a finger on this young lady who seemed to just be helping out the old git. His throat felt tight when he watched another slap get delivered on her opposite cheek, her head snapping in his direction and he felt his heart leap into his throat, his palms growing sweaty when their eyes met.

She looked scared but mostly shocked that someone was watching and then mortification set in once she realised it was the Prince. "Get back inside you stupid fucking whore." the old man snarled, snatching the girl by her hair and forcing her back into the direction of the house.

And finally, once she was out of sight Katsuki felt like he could breathe but this anger inside of him was worse than it had ever been before. He felt something crawling up his throat, scratching at his brain and forcing him to nearly launch himself across the narrow street and attack the man for even laying a finger on the young maiden.

He doesn't understand the feeling, this need to protect. So instead of acting on uncertain feelings, he takes slow but long strides backwards until he's back around the corner, out of range of the old man's eyes. Katsuki takes a deep breath in, running a hand through his hair. Perhaps he was just tired, it had been a long emotional day of dealing with everyone's bullshit, he was getting worked up over the festival.

Whatever that was, whatever he had felt when he saw a girl get beaten for simply a mistake, it was nothing more than just plain old exhaustion. He decides to retreat for the night, opting to reject the number of courtesans who hovered around the entrance of the main castle in hopes of being picked up by the Prince as they were often most nights.

It was odd, he realises, as he lays down in bed that night alone but something in his heart told him it was wrong to sleep with a woman that night.

[Glossary] | [Masterlist] | [Next]

credit for the background image/banner: @vampyrsm please do not plagiarise, or recommend my work to places such as TikTok.