#but freedom will always be better than imprisonment

[aaravos-answers]

Is any part of you a little scared about what you might see (or maybe not see) when you’re finally free? I mean, a lot can change in a single year alone, and you’ve been gone for centuries.

I know, starling.

I know.

[mellowwillowy]

𝐒𝐮𝐠𝐚𝐫 𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐇𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝

Yan! Sugar Daddy who fell in love with you at first sight in the cafe he often visited for his daily to-go coffee. He had seen lots of beauties but you were the first to catch his breath.

Yan! Sugar Daddy who tried to woo you, he tried his best to not scare you and subtly flirt with you. It took him a huge courage to approach you and ask for your number.

Yan! Sugar Daddy who found out you were still just a college student who was most likely to be struggling with financial issues, or so he assumed from how most of the students there were.

Yan! Sugar Daddy who took his time bonding with you before subtly offering an arrangement with you, a mutual arrangement of a sugar relationship. Instead of sex, fancy dates, or a plus one to those higher-ups events, he wanted your company all the time if he could.

You were wary and hesitant but his silver-tongued nature convinced you that this would change your life for the better.

While you were inexperienced in most of it, Yulian made sure to make you feel comfortable about it and him. The weekly allowance and PPM were enough to make you never lift a single finger to work anymore.

The more you spent time with him, the less it felt like an arrangement. It felt like a man treating you with utmost respect while spoiling you with luxuries you would never imagine to have.

But with such great benefits came a great price. You noticed that you had been seeing your friends less because of the attention you had on him.

You noticed the higher-ups never stopped sneering at you for being a commoner or his pet whenever you attended the fancy events with him as his plus one.

You noticed how you had almost less to none freedom, always heavily guarded by what seemed to be his bodyguards. Who was he and why did you even need this sort of protection?

One day you decided to trick his bodyguards with your flat-out white lies so that they'd leave you alone. They did not expect someone like you to ever lie and put them at risk so they left you alone.

All you did was wander around in awe, checking the grand balcony to go to the washroom as normal people would.

Yan! Sugar Daddy who was seething in rage when the bodyguards came to him, tricked by your childish lie. But there was no way something bad would happen with this slight mistake right? You were not his spouse by any means.

But oh did everyone know you were someone he fancied for the first time in his whole life. Part of his brain just tried to look at this mistake in a bright light and it backfired.

Yan! Sugar Daddy who had to be endlessly teased by his great-for-nothing cartel friend. He had to endure the stress of losing you and the risk of not being able to take you back.

It's not like the Drug Lord couldn't help him, it was simply humiliating for him to endanger you by not keeping a close eye on you.

Yan! Sugar Daddy who could track you down in less than a week and ordered a mass slaughter on the faction that imprisoned you. You were not wounded terribly but a wound was still a wound.

Yan! Sugar Daddy was just a confidant to the Drug Lord and an infamous lawyer. You only knew he was a lawyer but never the lurking threat of his other occupation. No wonder he was always wary of his surroundings.

How could someone from such a cold underground world have the heart to fall in love with you? That was what you thought when you woke up to his concerned face.

Weeks passed and it didn't take him so long to propose to you, for you to become his spouse.

"I truly love you, dear. I have never even once seen our arrangement as something strictly business instead." He showed you a velvety box with a diamond ring in it. "I admit, it was not the best approach but I thought I could work my way into your heart while profiting you with all the benefits and luxuries you could have from me."

He swallowed the lump in his throat, "I wanted you to see how capable I am."

Something told you that nothing good would come out of your refusal. And instead, logic swarm into your brain. You had been in an arrangement with him for almost a year already and had never even once felt any hardships.

He was nice to you, downright kind and loving even. He cared for you deeply and wouldn't hurt you in any way. It was your fault that you broke free from the barrier of protection he granted you.

With great fame and luxuries, came all sorts of threats. He wasn't disloyal like those higher-ups. He didn't belittle you like others would. He loved you.

Even if you didn't love him, you knew how great it felt to be loved by him. There was not a single loss from this arrangement which was a marriage, right?

[comicaurora]

Hey, sorry if you’ve been asked this before, but I have ADHD and I’ve been following your comic for years and just now have started to write my own comic (partially because you really inspired me). But I’m really struggling with staying on the project even when it’s boring and getting myself to work on it in the first place. Do you have any tips on how to keep your brain invested or just to make yourself do the work at all?

I have excellent news, I literally just figured out something really important about this.

So when you're an ADHD kiddo or otherwise have difficulty staying on task in a structured environment where Task is the Priority, the main way people try to MAKE you stay on task is by removing your access to anything that is not The Task. No phone, no TV, no doodling, no going outside, etc. In practice, this just makes us miserable because it takes the boredom that's always simmering around a 2 or 3 and cranks it all the way up to 11. In the same way that you would have difficulty staying on task if you were in physical pain, this crushing existential monotony makes it very difficult to work. The work might get done simply because you have no other options, but it will not be done quickly or well, and it will take a while to recover from how much it hurt.

What I realized earlier this week is I caught myself doing this to myself. I had 42 pages of background colors to do, and I thought to myself "this sounds really tedious, but I suppose I have nothing better I can do." And I realized what I'd just thought, and got very alarmed.

Because back when I was an ADHD kiddo imprisoned by school scheduling and a million little factors that keep children immobile and restrained, I couldn't stop thinking about how big and exciting the world was, and how much I wanted to be anywhere but here. When I was feeling really crushed in I'd pick a random spot on the maps on my wall and just imagine being there instead of my bedroom. This was the impetus behind almost all of my creative energy. I've said it before - anything is a prison if you can't leave, and being in a prison makes it easy to imagine how amazing things could be outside of it. Aurora's initial worldbuilding was forged in the crucible of fifth grade misery. My enthusiasm for art and my creative drive are inextricable from my sense of wonder and yearning for excitement in the real world. Not escapism, but appreciation. Wonders unimaginable are out there, and I gain just as much joy seeking them out as I do conjuring them up in my head and sharing them with all of you.

So now that I'm a grown-up with actual freedom in every way I've been able to get, the idea that I was staying on task by making myself believe the world was small and not worth seeing was extremely alarming. It could keep me on task for an afternoon, but at the cost of slowly extinguishing the thing that made me want to make art in the first place - the hunger to experience and draw inspiration from all the myriad complexities in the world.

So what I've been doing is I've been purposefully and intentionally taking excursions whenever I catch myself thinking "I could take a break but it wouldn't be worth it, it's the same outdoors as always, I'll be uncomfy and unproductive and tired." Because that is never true. Every time I've put down the stylus and gone out, I've been renewed in one way or another, and when I come back to comfort fully recharged I get a lot of shit done. Because it is easier to work on anything if you remember why you wanted to make it in the first place, and it is self-defeating misery to just lock yourself in with it and tell yourself you're a bad person if you can't get it done.

I honestly don't know how widely applicable this is. I have worse wanderlust than anyone I know, so for me this has always been modeled as imprisonment vs freedom. I've also been extremely lucky to find myself in a profession that lets me set my own pace on literally everything I do. But I genuinely believe that when it comes to making art with ADHD, you need to give yourself freedom to move laterally, not just in the direction of obvious forward progress. We don't think linearly in any other part of our lives - art is no different.

[draconic-desire]

🔹 Oculus Infinitum 🔹

Yandere Satoru Gojo x Reader

He’s infinity; in comparison, you’re nothing. So of course using your cursed technique on him backfires.

Warnings: 18+, MINORS DNI! Yandere behavior, unhealthy relationship, implied kidnapping, forced imprisonment, nsfw, non-con/dub-con, afab!reader, slight mindbreak

Infinity is often interpreted as the largest numerical magnitude to exist. And while that fact may be true in theory, infinity is better defined as the endless division of infinitesimally smaller and smaller values. One can be separated into half, half to a quarter, and so on, until the space between fractions almost ceases to exist.

Almost.

Gojo is a lot like infinity. Blame it on his technique, sure, but you suspect it runs much deeper than that. His actions never reach an end; instead, each one sinks further and further into your skin, fangs so small you barely feel them until it’s too late and the venom irreversibly invades your veins. He’s chipped away at you, piece by little piece, until you are the opposite of infinity; you are nothing.

On a surface level, most would say you have it pretty good. You (are trapped in) live in a huge home, filled with opulent furniture and all the luxuries you could ever want. You’re (expected to) allowed to cook meals for the two of you, including your favorite dishes. You still have (basic rights) privileges, such as free roam of the house, your own selection of clothes, access to the television and your phone (minus the ability to call or text, of course), even outdoor time with Satoru’s supervision. Why would you ever need to leave?

You had escaped, once.

Calling it an escape would be generous. Nothing ever happens without Gojo’s knowledge, without Gojo’s permission. How foolish you had been, to think you could evade his Six Eyes. Despite weeks of planning, he’d dragged you back home within the hour.

The chains hadn’t been removed for an entire month after that, and their lingering presence on each post of Satoru’s bed serves as a constant reminder that they’ll never rust.

Currently, you’re in the (not your, nothing is ever truly yours anymore) house’s lofty kitchen now, preparing dinner for his return home from work. Glancing up at the clock, you see it’s nearly time for him to arrive. You click the stovetop on and place a pot of water over the open flame, watching the blue fire flicker. Your thoughts immediately go to Gojo’s eyes, twin infernos of endless blue. Those eyes never seem to close, never seem to be too far from your own. They have the ability to lock you in place and throw away the key forever.

Moments later, the sound of the door opening and closing, along with the click of multiple locks, echoes from the hallway. Long, casual footsteps alert you to his presence behind you. His velvet voice, so languid and carefree, fans your ear as he settles his hands on your hips. “There’s my girl. Already making dinner for me?” He places a surprisingly chaste kiss to the top of your head. “Missed ya, baby.”

You add rice and a bit of salt and stir the pot in front of you in silence. When did you stop fighting him on that? On losing your full name to simple titles like girl and baby? The old you would have gagged at those pet names. The old you that kicked and bit the hand of your captor like a rabid animal, always fighting for freedom.

His grip tightens when you fail to immediately respond, though you hear him force a light tone to his voice. “What, curse got your tongue?”

Tension immediately floods your muscles. Gojo is a vain man; your silence maims his huge ego, something the most powerful jujutsu sorcerer will not stand for. You must react. “No, Gojo. I was just lost in thought, is all.”

You worry your lip when the quiet drags on. “I-I’m sorry?”

Gojo barks out a laugh, but his smile is strained and all fangs. “Back to Gojo again, huh?”

A mistake you notice too late. The spoon falls from your grip as you turn your head slowly. He’s still wearing his blindfold, but you know those infinite abyssal eyes are currently boring into your soul, daring you to speak. “Ah, no! Satoru, I mean—”

“Shh, baby. I get it.” His hands move to your shoulders, which he begins to massage. “Is it because you’re mad at me for neglecting you?”

To an outsider it may sound like he’s teasing, but you know all too well the creep of annoyance laced into his deepened, husky tone. “Or are you just being a brat?”

Swallowing, you place a hand on his toned forearm in an attempt to calm him. You feel him practically melt into the touch. “Truly, ‘Toru, I’m fine.” Your honeyed tone makes you sick, but you’ve learned it can subtly manipulate your captor in the right setting, usually this domestic fantasy world of his. “You’ve been so busy with work, and my mind has just been wandering. Why don’t you go sit while I finish up with the food?”

He hums absentmindedly, fingers swirling patterns across your abdomen. “I have a better idea…” Hot breath caresses your ear, eliciting a shiver. “Let me make it up to you.”

A deft hand snakes its way down the back of your bare thigh, barely ghosting across your skin. You can feel him, solid as a rock, yet you know there will always be space between you. He can touch you, but you’re powerless to do the same.

Just like in everything else, you can’t hold a candle to him. Your cursed energy is inconsequential, a tiny spark against his infinitive well of power.

Talk of your innate cursed ability is a topic you actively choose to avoid. Your technique, when activated, allows you to briefly control the thoughts and consequent actions of a single individual—but only after you’ve kissed them. And it often backfires tremendously, with the kiss causing overwhelming feelings of obsession or insanity in the receiver. From more than enough uses you’ve learned to see it as more of a curse in and of itself, and one you prefer to keep hidden.

Especially from the man behind you. Gojo—Satoru, you correct yourself—has enough twisted love that you wouldn’t dare try to possess his thoughts. The mere idea makes your throat tighten with panic.

Satoru’s technique, on the other hand, causes every nerve ending along your skin to explode as his hand falls beneath your skirt and skate across your barely clothed core.

“Been thinking about this all day,” he groans. “Are you wet for me, baby?” Before you can respond, Satoru easily moves your panties aside and spears you with his middle and ring fingers.

The invasion makes you jolt instantly. An involuntary gasp leaves you as he presses deeper, his fingers sheathed to the knuckle. You hate how your walls immediately tighten around him, slick with your arousal. No, you don’t want this, but Gojo gives you no choice in the matter but to practically ride his hand as he lifts your skirt with his other hand to get a better view.

“I’ll never get tired of this.” His thumb passes over your clit, pulling yet another shameful moan from your lips. Your tense demeanor only causes your pussy to accidentally squeeze him tighter, spurring him on. You try to pull your thighs together, but Satoru wrenches them apart easily with his other hand. “Oh, no, none of that. This pussy is mine.”

You squirm, grasping for something to get you out of this mess. “Satoru, stop, the food will burn—”

“Forget it,” he commands, ripping your skirt off. “We’ll order takeout after.”

Your heart drops. “After…?”

“Aw, you thought I’d stop here?” His condescension floods your ears. “No, babe, I’m only just getting started with you.”

His persistence, like infinity, has no end.

Without warning, Satoru removes his fingers from your core and swings you over his shoulder, smacking your bare ass and wrenching a yelp from you. You blanch when you realize he’s carrying you to the bedroom.

“Wait, Satoru—!”

You are unceremoniously thrown onto the bed, said white-haired sorcerer towering above you. He pounces immediately, locking your limbs in place. Satoru must see the fear, the readiness to engage in fight or flight, across your face, because he brushes a tender hand across your cheek to wipe away a tear you didn’t realize had fallen.

“Don’t tell me you’re scared,” he teases, but it somehow sounds like a threat. His fingers, still coated with your arousal, hook around your thong and slide it down your legs. “You’re acting like this is our first time or somethin'.”

Oh, it was far from the first time that he had touched you or been inside of you. But something about today, about this time, sends fear skittering across your whole being. Perhaps it’s all the reminiscence lately, or the fact that your thoughts drifted to your innate technique for the first time in weeks. Panic sinks its claws into you.

Breath ragged, heart pounding, you grab his face in both hands and react without thinking; for the first time since he kidnapped you, you willingly kiss Satoru Gojo and activate your technique.

Satoru immediately reacts, deepening the kiss and pressing you more firmly into the mattress until you feel as if you’re nearly suffocating.

Release me, you project into his mind, threading a hand through his white locks and squeezing hard.

The world suddenly goes very, very still.

Satoru freezes. Slowly, painfully, he parts his lips from your own and straightens his arms against the mattress to hover above you once more. His breath comes out in jagged huffs. The only sound that remains is the unending tick, tick, tick of the clock on the wall, bringing you closer to your doom.

For a second, you almost believe your technique worked.

That is, until he quickly sheds his blindfold, and you are meet with those stunning, terrifying, brilliant, paralyzing blues. He whispers your name with a foreign stillness that chills your bones to ice. “Do you…have a cursed technique?”

What an idiot you are to have thought you could sneak past Satoru Gojo’s barriers and Six Eyes. You can’t touch his physical form; why would his mind be any different?

It takes all of your willpower to withhold the panicked, hysterical laugh threatening to escape you. “Look, I can explain—”

Satoru leans back on his knees, one hand carding through his hair as he looks up to the ceiling. “God, babe, I knew you could see curses and harbored cursed energy, but here you go surprising me!” He laughs, a gleeful chuckle that has you reeling.

“You’re not…mad?” you dare to ask, inching your knees towards your chest. Maybe your technique failed, but you can still buy some time and get into a safer position.

Satoru gazes down at you, head tilted and a full grin on his lips. “Mad? Baby, why would I be upset when for the first time in our relationship, you were the one seducing me?”

Oh, no. No no no no no.

Grabbing your ankle, he drags you back to a supine position, your pussy on full display for him. He licks his lips at the sight. “Plus, you trying to get inside my head was cute and all. Weak, but you gave it your best!” He laughs again, and you realize that he never took you seriously, not even for a second.

The thought should enrage you—it would have infuriated the old you—but all you can manage now is a low whine as his hands go for his belt.

Satoru pulls himself free, his already hard cock pulsing in anticipation. Precum beads at the tip as he lines himself up with your entrance. “What was it you asked me for? Release, right?”

Your eyes bulge at his implication. “Wait, Satoru, I didn’t mean—!”

You barely have time to react as he buries himself in you completely. A choked sob bubbles up your throat as you breath through the stretch of him.

Satoru moans in ecstasy as he begins a steady pace, thrusting mercilessly into that squishy spot deep inside your core that has you seeing stars.

“Kiss me again.” It’s light and breathless, but it’s an order, not a request. Fear makes you comply immediately, though your kiss is a hesitant, timid thing compared to your earlier attempt to sway him.

He’s having none of that. No, Satoru had a taste of your affection, and now he’ll tolerate nothing less than your full reciprocation. If only you could truly peer into his mind and see that no amount of your cursed energy would change him; your being was already permanently imprinted on his brain. You were his perfect doll, held in the palm of his hand.

Nails rake down his back as you arch against the mattress. Every time he thrusts, he grinds against your clit, and you feel yourself chasing your finish. You hate this, you want it to stop, but you can’t help—

“Please, Satoru,” you plead without thinking, meeting his limitless eyes. You feel yourself drowning in them, a blue sky that never ceases.

For a split second, his rhythm hesitates. “…Say that again,” he whispers, almost reverently. “Beg for me.”

You’re not quite sure what you’re asking for. “P-please, I can’t take it anymore, please let me—!”

“Choose your next word carefully,” he warns, voice shifting to a low growl as his hand moves to your throat, adding ever so much pressure.

Tears streak your vision. The embarrassment of your technique failing and the lewd position he has you in all crash down upon you, and another piece of you breaks. “Please let me cum,” you concede.

To your dismay, his pace slows, and you cry out in protest as your orgasm fades. “I just need you to do one more thing for me, baby.” He leans into your neck, nipping and sucking at all your sensitive spots, torturing you even further. “Tell me you love me.”

Alarms should be blazing through your head, but the fog of your arousal clouds your judgement as you seek your climax.

That piece of your soul he took shatters into a million shards as you whisper, “I love you, Satoru.”

The two of you shatter simultaneously. You register all too late the warmth invading your core as Satoru pumps his cum deep inside you.

He’s never come in you before.

Your name is murmured over and over like a prayer against your neck—or maybe it’s a curse. You jolt in overstimulation when he pulls out and bends down to place a kiss against your puffy folds. “So good for me, baby. This perfect pussy belongs to me.”

He kisses you a final time, long and slow. When he pulls away, a languid smile sweeps across his features. “You’re all mine, (Y/n). Even your mind.”

With the use of your innate technique, you’ve dug your own grave for good. Satoru will never let you go now.

After all, infinity is indivisible.

[wannaeatramyeon]

Gun Park x Reader: Regret

519 spoiler! G/N. Jail visit, but it's you. Don't worry it's soft. Masterlists

Gun refused to see you, at first.

If you didn't know better, you thought it might have been due to some misguided sense of chivalry. A romantic might have suggested that he didn't want to drag you down with him. At least you still have your freedom while he rots away in prison.

Yet you know he's always been cold, even with you sometimes. This is how he is. If he didn't want to see you, he didn't want to see you. There's very little depth to it.

Then he accepted your visitation.

After numerous times of you requesting, after you were about to give up hope. You're not sure what surprised you the most - your persistence or the fact that he gave in first.

Gun looks-

Well. Gun looks like Gun. (Bruised and bandaged though he is usually bruised and bandaged.)

Handsome. Confident. You hate how well the blue jumpsuit fits his strong frame. Even imprisoned, he still sits like a king on a throne. A ruler blessed with divine right.

You look him in the eyes, pitch black once more with startling white irises. Looking and looking as if the plastic screen wasn't standing between you; a tangible divider between the free and the caged (although you're not sure, if Gun really tried, how well it would hold)-

And could have sworn you saw a flash of regret.

You're not entirely sure what to think. You thought you knew him.

Gun Park isn't one to regret anything. Always weighed up the risks and rewards, took calculated gambles, understood the consequences.

Yet-

Even as he sits there - silent, larger than life, a powerful, dangerous presence-

You think it's regret.

A foreign, new expression that you haven't seen him wear before.

Certainty slams home when his gaze flickers to your fingers and his hand reaches out on reflex before tensing almost imperceptibly and retreating. You would have missed it if you weren't watching him so closely.

It’s definitely regret.

You think you might also regret the next words you say, though your heart and mind has been made up a long time ago.

"I'll wait for you."

They're the only words you tell him today. The only words you tell him for a long time.

His eyes widen and he says nothing when you stand to leave.

"I'll wait for you." You tell him once more, and this time he wears a ghost of a smile instead. 

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

My Body is a Cage

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x f!reader Warnings: Heavy angst, death. Word count: ~2.3k

Summary: When Aemond goes to Storm's End to offer a betrothal between his younger brother, Daeron, and one of Lord Borros Baratheon's daughters, he does not anticipate the arrival of his nephew, Lucerys, nor does he anticipate murdering him. He seeks comfort and reassurance in the arms of his betrothed, but soon finds she has neither to offer to a kinslayer... Based on this request.

Author's note: For @doomwhathouwilt Moodboard by the wonderful @flowerandblood. No tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

Grief is an impregnable fortress, an all consuming void that, once toppled into, feels impossible to escape. When grief turns to rage, there is the false belief that one has found freedom, however, it is merely the act of replacing the bars of a cage with anger instead of sorrow. The emotions vibrate at a differing frequency, yet the imprisonment is fortified with equally devastating consequences.

The air is thick as Aemond dismounts from Vhagar, the sulphurous stench of dragonfire clings to his leather riding coat like a shroud as his boots crunch heavily across the gravel, leading him back towards the imposing ruin of Harrenhal. His skin is hot, he can feel the soot that darkens the ends of his snow white hair also sticking to the flesh of his cheeks. There is no time to pause and wipe it away, not when duty awaits.

The heavy oak doors creak as he pushes them open, revealing the men that sit around the long table in the centre of the room - his war council - dwindled to a paltry number since the war began. They stand as he enters, each of them look ashen faced, none standing quite as proudly as they once had. He swallows thickly, before addressing them.

“Be seated,” he snaps dismissively. “Have the Riverlands been scouted? Do we have the final count of Houses that have fallen?”

How different life is now to what it was a year ago.

Aemond’s betrothal to Lady Fell had been a political arrangement, a bargaining tool utilised by his grandsire to secure loyalty to Aegon’s claim to the throne in the Stormlands. A lady in waiting for Helaena, it had made perfect sense, she was already present within the Keep, so their courtship could be easily managed.

Despite the formality of it, Aemond had grown to love her, and in turn she loved him. She was patient where he was quick to anger, forgiving where he was vengeful, all of the things he knew he did not deserve and yet yearned for just the same.

He basked in the glow of her radiant smile, his heart softening when she did not recoil from his disfigurement. With every stolen kiss in darkened corridors, every eager touch that lingered in places that decency dictated be saved for their wedding night, the burden of the injustice that had been bestowed upon him felt lighter to bear. Despite the hardships that had befallen him, his affection for her came easily, there was nothing simpler in his world.

Then his father, King Viserys, had passed away, and life for Aemond grew infinitely more complicated.

There had always been the unspoken intention that his mother and grandfather planned to challenge his half sister Rhaenyra’s claim to the throne, however, even he was surprised by the swiftness with which they moved to coronate Aegon. Further still, there was the responsibility that fell to him as second son to help assure his brother kept the throne that his family had made bold moves to secure.

Many of the lords that had sworn fealty to Rhaenyra as heir to the Iron Throne had long since passed, and she would surely be sending reminders to their heirs of the vows sworn more than a decade ago. It was up to Aemond to ensure that better offers were made in Aegon’s name.

With Daeron in Oldtown, Aemond was tasked with earning the fealty of The Stormlands. Despite his own impending marriage to Lady Fell, without the support of House Baratheon they would stand little chance of gaining any further support from that part of Westeros. In order to do this, he was to fly to Storm’s End to offer a marriage proposal between his younger brother and one of Lord Baratheon’s daughters.

He had been given a warm reception upon his arrival, and Lord Borros had readily accepted his offer. Aemond has chosen carefully for Daeron, desiring for him to have a match that would make him as happy as he was with Lady Fell. He had selected the youngest of the Four Storms, Floris. Closest in age to his sibling, and the most comely of her sisters, she had seemed the best suited. Aemond had felt satisfied that he could return to King’s Landing proud of what he had accomplished for his family.

What he hadn’t anticipated was the arrival of his nephew, Lucerys Velaryon.

When he saw the dark haired boy enter the hall, he had felt a phantom slash across the left side of his face, a malevolent rage simmered beneath the surface of his skin, barely concealed by the sinister smirk that tugged upwards at the corners of his mouth.

With every word that Lucerys uttered, Aemond’s mood grew darker. Was it not enough that his half sister’s bastard had taken his eye? Now he meant to take his brother’s birthright too.

As he had chased down Lucerys and Arrax on the back of Vhagar, he had only intended to scare him. If his nephew felt only a fraction of the fear that he had endured as a boy, as he had laid bleeding and maimed upon the dusty ground of Driftmark, then he would consider it a triumph, a reminder that there was a debt to be paid.

His heart had lurched when the jaws of his dragon had snapped around the body of the one they had been pursuing, sending both rider and mount toppling into the sea below. He had killed him. Yet the tears he wept as he made the sombre return home to King’s Landing were not for the death of Lucerys, they were for the consequences that his family would face as a result. The debt owed to Aemond had been paid in blood, and it would cost his family everything.

He had immediately sought out Lady Fell’s chambers upon his return to the Red Keep. The rain had dripped off of his riding leathers and onto the flagstone floor in cold rivulets as he had hovered in her doorway, eye wide and imploring.

She had rushed to him, grasping his forearms and pulling him inside. Her touch had immediately grounded him, calmed the pounding in his chest. It would all be alright in the end, how could it not be with her at his side?

“You will catch a fever like this,” she said with a soft laugh,”could you really not wait to get changed to see me?”

He raised a hand to stroke through her soft hair, loose and brushed through, ready for sleep. It was only as he did this that he realised he was trembling, and not from the cold.

“Aemond?” She asked, her brow furrowing with concern. “What is it?”

It would be fine. He could tell her this. She loved him. She would understand.

“I killed him,” he told her in a hushed tone, his eye reluctantly meeting hers.

Her lips had parted in shock, before she exhaled shakily. “Killed who?”

“Lucerys,” he told her, “I did not mean to, I only meant to frighten him, but I lost control, and now he is dead.”

He had expected her to embrace him, to tell him Lucerys had gotten what he deserved, that she would stand by him.

Instead, she had pulled away, and at the loss of her touch Aemond had felt as though he was in freefall. The warmth that usually filled her gaze when she looked upon him was filled with an emotion that he had never seen her direct at him before: fear.

His stomach had twisted into knots and his throat had grown dry as he’d taken a step towards her, hoping to bridge the gap between them, and instead she had furthered it by taking one backwards.

“Kinslayer,” she had whispered shakily. “Leave my chambers at once or I shall scream.”

He had turned and walked away without another word, a gaping void opening within his chest at the realisation that her love for him had died alongside Lucerys.

His world had seemed as though it was coming to an end when Lady Fell departed King’s Landing to return to Felwood. She was taking his heart with him, and he grieved the loss of her, alongside the knowledge that he had jeopardised his family’s prospects for an alliance with the Houses of the Stormlands.

Consumed by grief, her absence was never felt more than in the moments when his nephew, Jaehaerys, was murdered and Aegon was grievously injured in battle. He no longer had her to turn to for comfort, and so his sorrow turned to rage, hot as dragon’s fire. If the only person he had ever truly loved saw him as someone to fear, then he would become just that. The loss of her would not be for nothing.

It was this thought that had clouded his thoughts as he had seized Harrenhal, and put every person residing within to the sword. Every person except one: Alys Rivers. She was a witch, and the visions she conjured within fire aided him in his efforts in battle, though his uncle continued to evade him.

He had grown to love Alys, not in the same way he loved Lady Fell, but he felt that Alys was the match that he deserved. Lady Fell possessed a kind heart, a purity that Aemond could never dream of aspiring to. There was a darkness within Alys that paralleled his own, and so when she invited him to her bed, he did not resist.

There was no hushed laughter, or gentle caresses, the pair of them tore at each other like wild beasts, both of them pouring their malice into the other. There was no warmth to be found in her gaze, only a sharpness that served to encourage his bloodlust and desire for vengeance.

She had told him that she was expecting his child, and his thoughts had drifted to what could have been with his betrothed; a soft, happy bundle of joy that would have been all of the best parts of its mother. He wondered what qualities the bastard he had fathered upon Alys would possess, perhaps they had created the second coming of Maegor Targaryen. It would be no less than what he deserved.

When the news had reached him of Rhaenyra’s capture of King’s Landing, he was briefly thankful that Lady Fell no longer resided there, though enraged that he was not able to fly back to the capital to defend his family. If he ended his occupation of Harrenhal, then it would provide his uncle with the opportunity to seize it back.

The fear in Lady Fell’s eyes flashed through his mind once more. Fear. If he could inspire that, do any damage possible to his half sister’s plight, then he would. His losses would not be for nothing.

He was merciless as he mounted Vhagar and flew over the Riverlands, torching everything in his path. Every House that had sworn allegiance to Rhaenyra Targaryen would burn, for her capture of the capital would be meaningless with no supporters left to aid her.

It is in the wake of this that he stands, waiting to hear of the total losses of support to his half sister.

The maester clears his throat, unfurling a parchment upon the tabletop. “The final raven has just arrived, your grace,” he tells Aemond. “House Darry, House Blackwood, House Fell–”

“House Fell?” He interrupts, his blood turning to ice in his veins. “Impossible, they are based in the Northern Stormlands.”

“Yes, your grace. However, there was a betrothal between the youngest daughter of House Fell and the youngest son of House Blackwood. Lord Fell and his family had been guests of Raventree Hall.”

Bile rises in his throat. He had killed her. The only good thing he had ever had in the world had died at his hands. She had been right to be afraid of him, and yet it had not helped to save her. He does not want to live a life where her goodness has been snuffed out. For every atrocity he has committed in the name of his family’s honour, he has known that the gentleness of her soul is a beacon of hope that there is goodness in humanity. Now there is nothing. He is trapped in a prison of his own making.

It has to end.

With the aid of Alys, he tracks Daemon to South of the Trident, West of the Kingsroad in the Southern Riverlands. His uncle is eagerly awaiting him.

As he kisses Alys, his usual ferocity is absent. His lips are soft and tender against hers, filled with unspoken devotion, the goodbye kiss he never got to give to his intended.

He knows this is a battle he will not return from as he chains himself into Vhagar’s saddle. The cage he is trapped in has only one means of escape.

Daemon is a savage opponent, and Aemond fights as though he has nothing to lose. What else could possibly be taken from him, when he has already deprived himself of it? As his uncle leaps from the back of Caraxes towards him, he does not resist, even as the blade of Dark Sister plunges brutally into the socket of his seeing eye.

His final thought as his body tumbles down towards the icy waters of the God’s Eye is that finally he is free, and if he could not reciprocate his true love’s purity in life then perhaps the Seven will see fit to grant him the opportunity to do so in death.

When grief is allowed to mutate into rage, it will become a person’s ruin, and none more so than that of Aemond Targaryen.

[yandere-sins]

have you ever thought of the scenario where the reader is eventually released in some of your prison projects? Mostly pertaining to the guards since they wouldn’t be able to get to the reader much. As an aside of sorts, I’m glad you’re doing better.

I thought about this more than I want to admit if I'm honest lol! 

♡ It probably comes down to the personality of the yan! There are always those imprisoned yandere that would go absolutely crazy and mad with heartbreak now that the darling is gone. They are irritable and moody, and the other prisoners learn to avoid them for their own health. The yandere are restless, searching, trying to replace the missing piece of their heart with violence and superficial pleasures, counting down the days until their release with the image of you always at the forefront of their mind. They'll be bursting through the prison doors once they open, hunting you down like rabid dogs high on adrenaline and their need for you. They'd do anything to hug you again, and it's the only thing keeping them alive while they anxiously await their time. But once you are back in their sight, they'll make sure to never let go of you again.

♡ On the other hand, are the imprisoned yans that won't let you be taken from them. They will try to prolong your sentence for as long as possible, pulling the strings in the back while you cry to them about how awful the judicial system is, happy to comfort you. If you do manage to slip from their grasp, they have the freedom to decide to finally play nice. They'll be a paragon of a model prisoner, so helpful and well-adjusted to society that they can quickly be released sooner. And until then, they'll have someone they know outside of prison follow your every step and report back, salivating over the pictures of you doing mundane tasks. They imagine the picture-perfect life you two will have after their release, and the anticipation is such delicious torture for their mad minds that the line between their sweet imagination and the horrific reality grows blurrier by the second.

♡ It's somewhat the same with the guard!yandere. Some of them might resort to more crude tactics like becoming your stalker whenever they are off work, breaking into your home for souvenirs to fawn over while they are at work, and watching you dance around your kitchen from across the street, imagining themselves being by your side. They have the means and skills to work undercover, so you will barely perceive the changes their presence brings to your life. Or, if available or by pretending, they'll take up the job of being the officer assigned to ensure you're following your requirements for your release and that you won't relapse into your crime. Hence, they still have a chance to be around you with no one suspecting anything. You will know, they will know, but their track record is better than yours. Who will believe you if you complain about an upstanding officer? How about, instead, you just try to enjoy the alone time the two of you finally have, just like your yan does?

♡ Others will do anything in their power to make you stay right where they can watch you—in prison. It's easy to prolong a sentence when they can connect you to a crime, like paying some thugs to instigate a fight to ruin your good reputation that would allow you to leave early. Or maybe they'll leave a door open that you and some others can find and try to 'escape' from so your record will have an attempted breakout in it. How about they just kill your cellmate and smear the blood on your hands? It's so easy for a corrupted guard who knows what they want to make sure you'll never get out as long as they are there. Most of them are not shy to let you know why your sentence was prolonged and why your life has become an even bigger hell; more prisoners now angry with you since they have all been punished as well. You'll need to stick close to your guard if you don't want to get hurt! Not that they'd let anyone hurt you; they are your guard in shining armor, after all. But they'll wait eagerly until you search for their protection and comfort, even if their patience is wearing thin.

[novemberthecatadmirer]

One thing I always feel very important about the whole Maeglin selling out Gondolin for life & freedom matter is...

Morgoth promised him lordship and Idril AFTER Maeglin already told him about Gondolin’s location and defense secrets.

Yeah obviously the promise of power and Idril might be what kept him in line and continue to cooperate with Morgoth after returning to Gondolin (can be interpreted in various ways from “the world is ending better take care of my own desire” to “the world is ending better preserve what I can still save”)

But the lordship and Idril were NOT what directly caused the initial betrayal.

Here comes my dumb headcanon:

Maeglin initially cracked not because of anything related to Idril and Tuor. 

He cracked because of the torture & what Turgon did to Hurin.

When Hurin came to seek help nearly three decades after his imprisonment, Turgon assumed Hurin was released because he sold out the location of Gondolin for freedom. Turgon was overwhelmed by this assumption and let emotions run over his own judgement (again). He directly told the eagle “my heart is shut,” and refused to take Hurin in.

Of course Turgon changed his mind after calming down. But it took too long; the night fell and the eagles could not find Hurin again. From Hurin’s pov he was abandoned by his friend (or even a father figure), and thus was driven to complete despair, crying out in pain, accidentally letting Morgoth know the general location of Gondolin. 

I think it is rather possible that Maeglin knew of this, at the moment or later.

Then when he got captured by Morgoth and put through tortures, he would realize he was essentially in the role of Hurin.

Turgon did love Maeglin. But Maeglin knew Turgon treasured Hurin too. The king treasured Hurin enough to make an exception and let the brothers leave the city to return home. Probably after Unnumbered Tears Turgon also built statues in Gondolin honoring Hurin. But when Hurin actually showed up at door and seeked help? Turgon immediately grew suspicious and assumed that Hurin betrayed the city.

And Morgoth could even tell Maeglin what really happened to Hurin. How Hurin endured torture for 28 years without betraying Gondolin, but was viewed as traitor and abandoned by the king of Gondolin anyway. How Turgon became the last straw that break Hurin into leaking the location. How ultimately it was thanks to Turgon’s closed heart that Maeglin got captured.

In a word, I think what caused Maeglin’s betrayal was him realizing that

Morgoth could torture him forever

No one from Gondolin would come to save him (And other realms had fallen so there was really no hope)

Even he suffered forever to keep the secrets, it was expected and not appreciated by Gondolin

Even if he found a way to escape back to Gondolin, he might still be rejected/executed by Turgon because no one was allowed to lead danger to Gondolin (according to “of Tuor and his coming to Gondolin”)

Morgoth already knew the general location, no matter he cope or not Gondolin would eventually be found. And then Turgon would believe it was him that betrayed Gondolin anyway.

So yeah.

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

I just think Turgon rejecting Hurin should has more long term damages than letting Morgoth knew the general location of Gondolin (which was already very bad).

It was something that could send out all the wrong messages and greatly damage the morale. I always imagine the event was kept as a secret, and even most of the lords did not know about the matter. 

I think Tuor absolutely was kept out of it and he never knew he was so close to meeting his uncle until after the Fall.

Idril probably knew it, and helped to keep the secret from Tuor, and felt guilty. And that was one of the crucial moments that made she further distrust Turgon’s judgement. (I want all the “my father did an evil thing and I am helping him to keep it as a secret” angst)

Maeglin... Actually fought the losing war along with Hurin and Huor and was there when they sacrificed themselves to help troop of Gondolin escape. IDK I think that’s another “silently pondering in horror” moment for him. And he kept thinking about it, and kept trying to not thinking about it, until Morgoth forced him to think.

[reulaux]

Shen Yuan becomes formless voices that guide Shen Jiu AU

Maybe Shen Yuan is transmigrated as baby Shen Jiu just as Airplane is transmigrated as baby Shang Qinghua, but Shen Yuan dislikes his role so he defies the System. Eventually Shen Yuan is got rid of, kind of gone, shattered, scattered in the PIDW world, as a virus or something that is exposed to and has access to the essence of the world, and the threads of the past, present, and future…

Thus Original Shen Jiu's soul survives and lives his slave life. He occasionally hears whispers to go beg for money on certain streets on certain days, which there are always kind, rich people passing by, who give him more money and food than on other streets.

(As in Shen Yuan uses his lingering connection with Shen Jiu's body to help.)

Sometimes the voice tells him to turn to certain alleys and hide behide, in, or under certain objects or places, while running away from bullies or slavers who come to punish him, and he never gets caught.

One day the voice tells him to eat particularly, obviously spoiled food. Shen Jiu knows it's bad for him, but the voice nags incessantly.

In the end, Shen Jiu eats it, and gets sick severely. Yue Qi fusses over him the whole day in a dark corner away from disturbances and commotions.

That day, Shiwu gets trampled by the Qiu young master. . . .

(Well, Shen Jiu isn't imprisoned in the Qiu. They may or may not become cultivators or at least in Cang Qiong. They may but take a detour to equip and prepare themselves better.

They may meet important characters in PIDW later, but now in different situations and statuses, and recontinue the plot)

The voice may point Shen Jiu to do something and impress a middle aged craftsman and has him buy them to work for him. Shen Jiu and Yue Qi may create valuable enough products which the man decides are able to buy themselves freedom as a gift, and adopts them.

Maybe, that man is a swordsmith, and Shen Yuan uses his nerd knowledge to tell Shen Jiu to defeat the weak enough beasts with certain weaknesses, or gather certain spiritual materials in certain places in certain ways. Shen Jiu may subconsciously uses qi to fuse the particularly high grade materials, forges, and sharpens the swords and other weapons, and they come out almost legendary enough to catch Wei Qingwei's eyes. Or the previous Wan Jian Peak Lord's.

Because why would special swords exist only Hong Jing and Xin Mo?

Hm.

[thewritetofreespeech]

Domestic

Astarion x Reader

Astarion had never considered himself a domestic.

Much like being ‘the hero’ of any story, he also never thought of himself as one for settling down. He always thought that was an innate trait within himself. To always be hungry for more; his vampirism just brought it out closer to the surface.

He couldn’t remember much of his human life after 200 years. But the few times he tried to think of his life, his former home, any family, a bitter copper taste would flood the back of Astarion’s throat. Not like blood, he was used to that, more like bile. Or that distinctive taste of disappointment. So, he didn’t try anymore.

He had a house when he was bound to Cazador, but it was never a home. As his master’s favorite & most efficient lure Astarion was granted greater freedoms than his siblings. But he was constantly reminded that nothing there was his. None of the lamps. None of the floorboards. None of the air he breathed was his. Everything was Cazador’s, and he was lucky to be given what he got.

Then he was granted freedom, via way of another imprisonment, and met [Y/N] and the others. The menagerie of unlikely heroes and thieves and just downright oddities of nature that were mashed together by happen stance. If not for their abduction, none of them would have given each other a second glance on the street. Let alone bonded in a way that could never be explained or replicated by anyone else.

And then there was [Y/N].

[Y/N] who offered him a place in their throng, even though it was probably against their better judgement at the time. [Y/N] who accepted him, even when his darkest secret was revealed, and he took advantage. [Y/N]…who always saw the better in him, even when he didn’t see it in himself, until he believed it too.

They gave him a purpose, friends, fun, real freedom. Not just to be out and about on his own but to choose what he wanted to do with it. So of course he had chosen them.

And now here he was. No longer in the grand palace of Cazadors steps, but in a small, cozy home he and [Y/N] had made for their own. The kind of place Astarion would call ‘quaint’ with that superior, classist sneer just under the compliment back in the day. Let’s be honest, if it was anyone else’s home, he still would. But this was his. This was his home. With his books, with his chair, with his fire, and his lover humming quietly from the bath in the other room. This was all his. He suddenly wondered what the aversion had been to all of this.

“Astarion…?”

The vampire’s attention perked up as he turned around and saw [Y/N] there. Damp from their bath, in one of those thin robes Gale had given them that he suspected was more of a gift for him than them, looking at him with those doe eyes that, even though he had the fortitude & freedom to do so now, he could never say no to.

“Oh, sorry my sweet. Did I keep you waiting? I was lost in my new book.” He closed the book just as he stood to greet them with a smile as he wrapped his arms around them. Sealing off any questions on it like the pages. Astarion’s life may be different, but old habits die hard. It was still so much easier to shift into his charming persona when cornered. Not that he was in danger. He just didn’t like to be snuck up on. “I planned to join you but looks like I missed my opportunity. Shame. Guess we’ll just have to get you dirty and try again.”

[Y/N] giggled at his antics when he kissed their ear. Without the parasite, they just have to trust what he says to them, and they do. Something Astarion would never take for granted. He also just doesn’t want to talk about what’s on his mind.

He wants to think about [Y/N] in his arms. Their fire behind them. Their bed around the corner. Their life together. Happy and content and domestic.

[aizenette]

Is it just me who's annoyed by how the bleach fandom expects Aizen to just complete his sentence in muken to just become a villain AGAIN? To become some god? If kubo continued the story and it went in that direction, it would be ridiculously predictable and repetitive of Aizen's character in the original plot of the fake Karakura town arc.

During imprisonment in CFYOW, Aizen would most likely see the wrong in his ways as he reflects how he lost everything just because of his hunger for power.

He lost all of his positions.

He lost respect.

And he lost freedom.

If Aizen were to complete his sentence just to become a villain once again, he'd definitely be defeated by some new gen hero and be cast back into Muken for an even longer sentence because he's immortal so he can't die and besides, the hero will ALWAYS WIN. And if Aizen really completed his whole 20,000 year sentence and was released, anyone he knew would be dead by then so it wouldn't matter. It would be a new world he'd have to adjust to and it sounds horrible trying to adapt to living in it once again after so much time has gone by as the soul society would've drastically changed in that span of time.

I personally prefer the plot of the novel named 'the captor and captive's liberation of muken' where twenty-four years after Aizen was imprisoned, a character named Tanisha Chodhori becomes the warden of Muken and she liberates Aizen because she offers him redemption in exchange for his companionship to explore a new trajectory in their lives, without the soul society.

And in TCACLOM, Aizen would have a much more satisfying character conclusion than what we got of him acting all eepy in Muken in the epilogue of the original manga.

He would have freedom.

He would no longer be lonely.

He would still be the intelligent, powerful shinigami he was, he'd just be a more better version of himself.

[sepublic]

The Collector’s story is so sad to me because they really do try!!! They are putting in the effort to be better!!! They defy the other collectors’ policy of imprisonment and genocide, for the sake of the Titans! They go along with Philip’s plans, giving him the draining spell and a bunch of other magic! And they listen to King’s Owl House rules, they’re gradually adjusting their behavior according to his advice, respecting his boundaries, even letting him get away with Eda and Lilith!

He’s learning. He really is doing all he can to improve, he’s listening. But the Collector isn’t doing it fast enough, they haven’t figured it out quickly; So it feels like for the adults and everyone else around them, they don’t want to put in the effort to teach and rehabilitate this kid. That’s too long and arduous, it’s much easier to stick him in a prison and hide it, or even kill the kid.

The Collector invests so much good-faith effort into changing for people, but those around him? They don’t want to reciprocate the same effort to understand him in return, that’s how it feels. They demand so much but give nothing back, use the Collector. And would rather take the easy route of punishing the kid to make him shut up for their convenience, instead of really working to talk with him at his level, and explain how to get better. There’s this silent, genuine, hurt and confused question echoing from the Collector; “What did I do wrong?”

It really does feel like one big metaphor for neurodivergent kids, and children in general, who are seen as misbehaving troublemakers. And rather than taking the time to understand their perspectives, and communicate to them about the problem, adults would rather just hit them until they’re quiet.

Because it’s easier, more convenient that way, like sweeping dust under the rug. Even if it just makes this kid who IS willing to improve feel neglected, unappreciated; Allows their problems to fester untouched and unseen, until it boils over and explodes later in life. And suddenly adults are all shocked because He was such a quiet, obedient kid, who could’ve seen this coming?!

The Collector feels like the collective wrath of so many kids who were treated like inconveniences to deal with, rather than growing children who needed help and guidance. And boy is the Collector messy about it, because they’re tired of playing by other people’s rules and trying to appeal to them with good behavior, in exchange for compassion, because that clearly hasn’t worked out and never will.

They are every child who has asked Why about a rule, and instead of being treated like a person with an honest need to know, was just told Because I said so. They want to get it, but people just prefer them being blindly subservient; People don’t care what the Collector thinks, so why should he feel the same for their judgment? The kid is panicked when he insists King focus on the revision he made to the storybook, the lesson he learned, but he’s still being put away for what others wrote.

“You can trust me” is something Philip and King have both told them, and maybe that parallels how adults insist children follow their seemingly arbitrary rules even without knowing why, because “It’s the rules” and authority dictates all. So after struggling under that command, of course the Collector is eager to be the one wielding it this time, with his rules...

The rules of a game. The rules of behavior. Both are laws dictated for people to follow, with someone often deciding and being able to change them as they see fit, especially with childrens’ playground games. Life is a big game and the Collector wants to play his own, after all this time following others’ rules; His people’s, the Titans’, Philip’s, and finally King’s.

There’s a lot to be said about how we expected the Collector to have been someone who didn’t play by any rules, did whatever he pleased. But it might just be the opposite, the kid has never had true freedom, always subject and listening to what someone else tells them, because they’re in charge or it’s the moral thing to do. They’ve been imprisoned their whole life, literally even, and now their desire for agency has burst free.

The Collector wasn’t the god of chaos we thought they were, but now they will be and we’ve seen why; It’s not because there weren’t any rules for them, it’s because there were too many, and the more you tighten your grip, the more something slips free. Too much authority, too little, the kid needs a proper balance of contradictory lessons, like so many in this show...

[enhadiares]

“GAME OVER”

Chapter 1 | Let the game begin

👾A/N: I AM FINALLY STARTING A SERIES! It's very exciting but since it's my first time after my hiatus so I hope you guys like it!

👾Pairing: enha x fem!reader

👾Warning: This is all fictional!

👾Synopsis: Bound within the confines of a virtual realm, a group of friends must decipher its mysteries to secure their freedom. Amidst the labyrinth of challenges, they encounter a formidable adversary - a lurking shadow who controls their fate. As alliances fracture and betrayals unfold, they must confront not only the puzzles of the game but also the sinister presence that seeks to keep them imprisoned. Only by overcoming both external threats and internal conflicts can they hope to break free from the shadows within the game

A new dawn breaks in one of the bustling state of the United States, with the sun casting its usual bright rays, offering a glimmer of hope to some for a better day ahead.

Amidst it, boredom creeps in, despite the anticipation of summer vacations being fun and exhilarating, right?

Well, not for you.

The shrill ring of your black device snaps you out of your reverie, prompting you to answer.

"Look who's on the line! It's the white sheep!" you exclaim upon picking up the call.

"Why the crankiness, woman? I called because we're considering checking out the new arcade that recently opened" Jungwon, the young man, explains.

"A new arcade? Count me in!" you reply eagerly, rising from your seat with excitement finally brewing. You've always adored arcades and never shy away from expressing it.

"Alright, my lady, come over to my place at 5, and we'll head out together" he chuckles at your enthusiasm.

"Sure thing, Mr. Sheep Garden" you retort playfully before hanging up. You flop onto your bed, letting out a scream into your pillow while kicking your feet in the air.

Now, that's what a vacation should feel like.

••••••

The following day dawns, and you wake up a bit later than usual due to the excitement from the previous night hindering your sleep.

After completing your morning routine in the bathroom, you emerge in a robe, pondering over what to wear.

After much deliberation, you settle on a stunning Y2K fashion ensemble.

Once dressed, you gaze at your reflection in the mirror, feeling thoroughly satisfied with the result.

Hailing an Uber, you head to Jungwon's house as planned, the journey taking approximately 15 minutes.

Upon arriving at the house, you press the doorbell, and a familiar face greets you with a beaming smile.

"She's here, guys!!" he announces excitedly, his happiness infectious.

"Didn't expect such a warm welcome! You're like a ray of sunshine, so bright" you remark, sharing in his enthusiasm.

This is Sunoo, the embodiment of cheerfulness within the group. His actions are naturally endearing, and his voice resonates like that of an angel.

"Hey, what's the hold-up? Let her in first" another voice interjects, followed by a playful tap on Sunoo's head.

It's Jay, the nurturing figure of the group, known for his caring nature and impeccable sense of style. Though he plays the role of the group's guardian, his fashion choices exude sophistication and elegance, earning him admiration from all.

With a smile, you step into the house, unaware of the lurking presence in the shadows nearby.

Inside, the rest of the group awaits, each offering their own unique greeting as you enter.

Jake bounds toward you like an excited puppy, his invisible tail wagging with joy as he envelops you in a tight hug.

"Calm down, Layla's dad" you giggle, reciprocating his affection.

Sunghoon follows with a firm handshake, his demeanor as cool as ice, a nod to his past figure skating exploits , but he doesn't lack warmth nor humour.

"Oh yes, Mr. Icy" you wink, returning his handshake with equal firmness.

"Look here comes the sheep" you proclaim with a hint of sass as Jungwon greets you with a lively laugh, his playful demeanor belying his natural leadership qualities.

"Call me something cool, woman, 'sheep' sounds so childish" he teases, adding to the playful banter.

Next is Niki, the youngest of the group, greeting you with a wide smile and a brotherly hug. "Yessir," you both exclaim simultaneously, sharing a bond forged in mischief and camaraderie.

Finally, Heeseung, the group's ace, joins in, his mastery evident in everything he does.

"What are you waiting for, Bambi boy?" you jest, opening your arms for a hug, which he accepts with a smile.

As the group settles in, a figure emerges from the bushes outside, a smirk playing across their lips.

"All the players are assembled," they declare with a hint of mischief.

And with that, the stage is set.

Let the game begin.

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

I'm so sorry for coming back so quick with another ask, I just really liked the one you wrote for me! I really liked the head canons you put down and how you wrote the bishops apprehension around the reader.

This isn't exactly xreader eccentric, but you you do red crown follower!reader meeting the bishops again as followers?

I would love more reader making the bishops uncomfortable, having that the bishops tried everything in their power to destroy everything in relation to narinder, and besides lamb being proof that they failed, the reader is even bigger proof.

(red crown follower is just an easier way to call the ex narinder follower, now lamb follower that I requested last time)

Awh thanks! I'm glad you loved that fic!

.......

Leshy

He thought all followers of the Red Crown was eliminated..or at the very least chased out of the Old Faith.

He strongly recalls burning entire villages that had even the smallest tribute to Narinder, hoping his name and deeds would be forever lost to time.

Even when the final sacrifice failed, he thought destroying Lamb would be easy.

But he was wrong, and after being brought into the cult...he notices you again. Your voice alone fills him with nothing but dread.

You were the living proof--the bigger proof--that Narinder's legacy hadn't died.

"So we meet again, Leshy..the youngest and most reckless of your brethren." You tease. "You thought setting a torch to my home would stop me from following the might of the Red Crown? I have served it for ages, and you're a fool to think I'd ever convert to your blasphemy overnight."

"S-Silence, you!!" He hisses. "Our qualms were not with the Red Crown..but its bearer. HE was the blasphemous one! HE didn't deserve to wear it!! We tried having a civil discussion about his teachings...and look what he did to us...to me!"

"It's a pity that my lord took your eyes...but you all took his freedom." You scowl, yanking on one of his branched antlers. "There is no greater treachery than what you've committed that night."

Fortunately, you decide not to snap off any of his antlers that day..but he remains wary around you nevertheless.

Kallamar

He's always been so afraid of the Red Crown, probably because his abilities to cast both sickness and health would have been rendered useless if Narinder's resurrection doctrine was implemented.

You used that fear against him when he was brought into Lamb's cult.

"I-It's you!!" He shrieks, recognizing your garb as the type Narinder's followers used to wear.

You don't have to say much to get him to kneel at your feet, begging for forgiveness and trying to justify himself.

"P-Please understand..I didn't want to cast out the Red Crown! I told them it was bad idea-!!"

"Yet you did nothing to stop them from imprisoning Lord Narinder...and you delivered cholera unto my village when we refused to turn over our commandment stones." You scorn.

He gulps nervously, shocked you remembered that.

"I-I did..but they told me-"

"And you obeyed them like a cowardly dog. That makes you no better than them..you don't get a free pass just because you felt sorry and they didn't."

Your cold words are enough to make the squid weep as he clutches the hem of your robes, asking what he could do to redeem himself.

All you say to him is to cherish this new life Lamb has so generously given him.

For if the Red Crown was atop your head instead...it'd be a different story.

Heket

This frog might've had her throat taken, but she still had spiteful words for you in particular.

You were one of the followers she summoned in front of Lamb, vividly remembering how you didn't keel over when she sapped all the hunger from your body.

You stood tall and defiant--just like her heretic brother.

She's convinced that you caused Lamb's execution to fail, believing that because Narinder had at least one believer left, that gave him enough power to bring them into his realm.

After joining the cult, she only ever addresses you as "Narinder's Pet" (despite you reminding her that you're only loyal to the Red Crown..and he wasn't your master anymore).

She hates your guts, and doesn't just express that verbally.

When it's her turn to cook one day, she serves you a Deadly Dish.

And by "serve"...I mean she tackles you and shoves the red mush down your throat.

Your fellow followers are horrified, and are about to get Lamb....yet you swallow the food without even flinching, pushing her off and calmly standing up.

"If that's your attempt at assassinating me...then you need a new strategy, Lady Heket. In Narinder's cult, sometimes that vile concoction is all we have to eat. So I can stomach it."

"Huh.....freak..." She grunts.

But she's left you alone since then.

Shamura

Knowing how much the spider cared for Narinder and how they gave him ideas...you were just a tad bit softer in their presence after they became indoctrinated.

They admired and respected the following he fostered, especially as you preached his name and became his messenger, although your one true master was the Red Crown itself.

It's no wonder why they couldn't foresee you ever becoming its vessel, no matter how far they looked into the future.

You can tell it genuinely pained them to imprison the sibling they adored most, and being the catalyst for his eventual undoing.

That doesn't mean you weren't bitter about it, though.

So when you saw them as a follower, you came off as cold, reminding them how they brainwashed three of Lamb's followers into attack them.

"You couldn't have possibly understood, [y/n].." They whisper, frowning. "It was the only way for Lamb to see what I saw...feel what I felt...hurt like I hurt when he betrayed us-"

"Those situations are in no way comparable." You huff. "He trusted you...and you backstabbed him and sent your acolytes to kill us and loot our homes. And for what? Because you were scared when he had an idea for the doctrines that you didn't like? You may have forgotten, but it was your teachings that inspired him. Inspired us."

"I have not forgotten..and I deeply regret it. The blame falls upon me, not my siblings."

You were surprised at how humble they were, but you accept their apology.

It seems their guilt was more effective than any words you could have spoken.

[venus-haze]

Brother's Keeper (Bo Sinclair x Reader)

Summary: You’re Vincent’s. You have been since you ended up in Ambrose. Bo decides it’s time to make an exception.

Note: Female reader, but no other descriptors are used. Please read the warnings before deciding whether you want to read. Before anyone asks, I’m already planning a Vincent-centric follow-up. Do not interact if you’re under 18 or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 2k

Warnings: Extremely dubious consent since reader is Vincent’s captive, elements of Stockholm syndrome, sadism (mentioned in reference to Vincent but also Bo to the reader), dacryphilia, slapping, blood, mommy kink, overstimulation, I guess cheating? There’s a lot going on in this. Do not interact if you’re under 18.

Even though your eyes were closed, you knew the man coming down the stairs wasn’t Vincent. He’d wordlessly disappeared up them about an hour earlier, no indication of where he was going or when he’d return. Unusual that he’d be gone for so long and not leave you a note with a vague idea of what was going on. Maybe it was urgent.

You hadn’t seen Bo in a while, though you’d certainly heard him plenty of times. While Vincent had a knack for slinking around like a cat, Bo reminded you of a wolf, howling loud with his razor sharp teeth on display. All the better to eat you with. You had the feeling that if he’d gotten to you first, he would have taken up hunting you for sport.

You sat up, blinking your eyes open. They didn’t need  to adjust to the dim lighting anymore. The last time Vincent had brought you upstairs for the shower you begged for (and now felt long overdue for another), you were dismayed to find the bright lights stung your eyes. You asked him to just turn off the lights altogether. The longer you spent there in his studio—lair, as you’d come to personally refer to it—with him, the more like him you were becoming, slowly but surely made in his image. 

Bo’s eyes were dark in the basement where Vincent kept you and all of his other art supplies. For the longest time, you thought his eyes, and, in turn, Vincent’s, were brown. Instead, they were a raging, stormy blue that threatened to drown you in their depths if you stared too long. 

“You just sleep all day, huh? Leave us to do all the work?” There was a joking lilt to his accusatory tone.

Though you knew better than to protest, you desperately wanted to. Being Vincent’s muse was unforgiving work. You were available to him at all times, posed and molded and used whenever he felt so inclined. Your body had been the victim of several bouts of artist’s block, bearing the scars of his frustration and inspiration. Most of them were due to candle wax burns.

“Sorry,” you mumbled.

Bo’s eyes raked over your body, nearly nude save for the thin t-shirt and athletic shorts that barely reached your mid-thigh. Humiliation coursed through you when Vincent first presented you with the clothing, your size, taken from someone who was too dead to miss them, probably. The first clean clothes you had since he first imprisoned you. You soon found it to be the best choice with how hot it could get in his lair when he was working. Practical until that moment, when it left you exposed to Bo’s hunger for a handful of flesh.

“You look good. Vincent always took better care of his toys than I did,” Bo said with a grin, his tone eerily playful. “Mama said I was too rough.”

The chain around your ankle rattled as Bo pushed you back onto the bed. Less restraints than when you’d first been brought there, but you couldn’t parse a rhyme or reason as to what compelled Vincent to grant you these minute freedoms. 

“Please don’t,” you whispered. “He’ll know.” He knows everything. 

Whether you were easy to read or he was just observant, you had slowly convinced yourself Vincent was omniscient. Your captor was an otherworldly entity, aloof and removed from the messy emotions that you and the other poor, unfortunate souls who found yourselves in his lair were burdened with. He moved coolly, without care, without remorse. 

If Vincent were merely a man, what little bit of sanity you were clinging to would unravel. A man was vulnerable, conquerable, real. Like Bo. Brash and impulsive to contrast his twin. He unsettled you more than your silent captor. After god knows how long of being met with Vincent’s cold, emotionless wax face, the way Bo’s shifted with each mood, each thought, left you feeling overwhelmed. 

“Vince and me shared a lot growin’ up. He won’t mind,” he said, the alcohol on his breath burning your nostrils. 

His lips parted with the intention to devour, like a snake unhinging its jaw to swallow you whole. You wondered how long he’d been drinking, how long Vincent would be gone for, how long Bo had wanted to do this. Bo wouldn’t kill you, but you knew he didn’t care if you were in one piece. He growled against your mouth, his lips bullying yours into kissing him back.

Satisfied with your reluctant return of affection, his attention turned elsewhere. Coarse hands slid up your shirt, roughly massaging your breasts. He pinched your nipples, eliciting a pained moan from you that only reached his mouth. Upon feeling his lips upturn, a siren went off in your mind. So used to blindly vying for the approval of your unknowable captor, you shouldn’t know he’s enjoying this.

He broke the kiss to pull your shirt over your head. Wasting no time, he latched his lips to one of your nipples while his hand attended to the other one. His teeth tugged at your nipple almost experimentally before biting down a bit harder. 

Tears blurred your vision. Where the hell was Vincent? You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to will the sound of him walking purposefully across the floorboards above. Instead, you were met with silence and the sound of your own whimpering.

You released a breath you didn’t even know you’d been holding when Bo finally released your nipple from his mouth. He landed harsh slaps to each of your breasts, especially painful on the sensitive one he’d been—nursing on? Torturing was more like it.

A mean snarl had made its home on his face, reveling in your suffering at his hands. Rounding his arm back, his palm smacked against your cheek. And then it did again. And again. And again.

You could feel your lip split, your wailing echoing through the basement. He’ll know. Maybe that was what Bo wanted, because the slapping soon stopped.

“That’s it. Gimme those tears, mama,” he cooed, brushing his thumb against the wound he inflicted. He collected the blood that beaded at your lips and brought his finger to his mouth, sucking it clean.

Your brain felt fuzzy. Even worse, you could feel his words going straight to your pussy as it clenched around nothing but air.

“You cry this pretty for Vincent? Or just me?”

“J-Just you.”

He grinned. “Don’t I feel special.”

He slapped you one more time for good measure, harder than he had before. Your arms flew up to shield your face from further damage. His hands moved down your body instead, pulling your shorts down to your ankles. 

Suddenly, you didn’t feel his hands on your at all, and you glanced down to see what’d given him pause. His gaze was fixed on your upper thigh where Vincent had neatly and painfully carved his initials into your flesh some time prior, long enough for the mark to scar over. Bo glanced at you, expression unreadable for a split second wherein you felt some relief. 

His face soon betrayed his anger, and you felt your stomach drop upon hearing him unbuckle his belt. He then unzipped his jeans, pulling them and his underwear down to free his hard cock. There was no warning, no preparation as he pushed his length inside you. While the encounter hadn’t been about your pleasure in the first place, you realized with the pain between your legs that it’d turned into a punishment, and there was little you could do but lay back and take it.

“Lookit you, ‘bout to leave a wet spot in the fuckin’ mattress,” he mocked. “You’re a natural cockslut, ain’t you, mama?”

You earned another smack across the face for your silence.

“You answer me when I talk to you.”

“I’m a cockslut,” you forced out.

He groaned as tears rolled down your swollen cheeks. Still, his stamina proved to be more than you could handle, because your calves started to ache from flexing while being painfully close to orgasm. You choked out a sob, his pace relentless as he pounded into you. The metal bedframe clanged against the wall, a loud and ugly noise that made your skin crawl. It was as if he knew exactly what to do to make you feel like you were losing your mind.

“Gonna make you cum, mama. Leave you dreamin’ ‘bout my dick.” His words slurred together, probably from exerting so much energy in his intoxicated state.

You responded with a moan that sounded foreign coming from you. It was good enough for him, because he didn’t slap you this time, instead bringing his hand to your clit. His calloused fingers rubbed the sensitive bundle of nerves, and you grabbed his forearms for leverage.

“Know you’re close, way your pussy’s squeezin’ my dick. Wanna take it all, huh?”

“Wanna cum,” you moaned.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright then, cum,” he said, slapping your clit so hard you almost swore you saw stars. 

Your hips bucked, and your orgasm blazed white-hot through your body, fire engulfing your muscles as they constricted, black spots hazing your vision. You thought you were going to pass out. Vincent had brought you to that point before, thought it was usually from pain rather than the pleasure that overwhelmed you. 

Bo chased his own release, thrusts becoming sloppy as he got closer. “Fuckin’ whore, cum all over my cock like this.”

He finally bottomed out inside you. Your pussy clenched around his throbbing cock as he came, filling you with his cum. Cursing under his breath, he made eye contact with you, a lazy smirk spreading across his face.

He pulled out of you, licking his lips upon seeing his cum leak from your pussy onto the mattress beneath you. Physical evidence that he’d laid claim to you. The grown-up version of him messing with his brother’s toy. He was right about that much, at the end of the day, that’s what you were, biding your time until Vincent grew bored of you and moved onto something shiny and new.

Staring at the ceiling, you let out a shaky breath when you heard the sound of his pants zipper and then his belt buckle. There was no point in you pulling your flimsy articles of clothing back on. You jolted when he grabbed your unchained ankle.

“Thanks for the taste, darlin’,” he said with a wink, as if it were something you’d flirtingly suggested, a playful secret between the two of you.

After a few moments of silence, he disappeared upstairs unceremoniously. You listened to the sound of his heavy footfall until it became inaudible. The faint sound of a truck engine revving made you relax a bit. He was gone.

You laid motionless in the bed until Vincent finally returned, and it took everything in you not to scream at him. Where the fuck were you? He began walking toward you, freezing in place before rushing to your side. He knew. Your lip trembled at his concern. It wasn’t for your well-being as a person, you knew that much, but because you were his. His muse. His living, ongoing art piece. 

He touched your shoulder tentatively, and you avoided making eye contact with his mask. Were you angry? Or ashamed? 

His fingers moved to brush his initials in your skin. 

“He didn’t care,” you whispered.

You hissed when his fingers dug into your thigh. He moved his other hand, signing, “It won’t happen again.”

You scoffed. No acknowledgement he fucked up. No apology. You should’ve known better to expect that much from Vincent. The half-assed promise was the closest you’d get. Part of you hated yourself for finding some comfort in the cold familiarity of his emotional distance.

Vincent looked at you, his blue eye staring down yours, a whirlpool threatening to drag you into its depth until you closed your eyes. You heard a light rustling, but nothing could have prepared you for the feeling of his scarred lips pressing gently against your forehead. The tenderness was a momentary reprieve, as you felt him lift his hand from your thigh. You heard him walk a few feet away, the metal stool he favored scraping against the concrete. Feigning sleep, you waited for him to join you in bed.

[bitethedustfools]

WARNING: Disturbing content here. Please read at your own risk.

Self-harm, Abortion, Murder, Imprisonment and maybe more.

I have read some yandere twst stories where they baby trapped (biologically or adoption) their SO/Yuu. I'm not sure how many of these troupe going around but I'm pretty sure that SO/Yuu always keep the baby and the yandere still wins even though they escaped.

What if we tweak that story a little bit? Make it that so SO/Yuu snapped? Became the very ugly thing that SO/Yuu hate to be. Frustrated at being helpless and chained, always moving to the strings the others controlled. They don't want to take care of a child for the sake of turning him/her to be a better person than their "beloved" because that's what their "beloved" wanted.

To keep them together. Play the role of a parent and a happy family.

They had enough.

Their "beloved" is strong and smart and cunning but the child who mostly have his features is not. Utterly defenseless in the hand of a maniac.

They killed the child.

SO/Yuu killed the child just as easily as snuffing out a candle, pouring their anger and frustration in taking a life, all for the sake of wanting to take the littlest control they have over their miserable life.

If the child is not yet birth, SO/Yuu will not hesitate to do anything to abort it, whether by falling, stabbing their stomach, poisoning. It doesn't matter if they're about to die because of this. It's about inflicting pain back to the one who did it to them in the first place. It's a about freedom. Control.

Their "beloved" will despaired over this fact, aking why SO/Yuu are doing this, screaming and crying when they finally seen the cruelty SO/Yuu are capable of even toward their own kin.

And SO/Yuu just stood there and laughing at the look of their beloved face, absolutely delighted that the person who always take joy in their misery finally cried and weak.

It's always them who cried but not anymore.

Another will be SO/Yuu being indifferent to the child.

They became the opposite of what their "beloved" wanted. They acted like the child doesn't exist, the child's cries fallen to deaf ears. Even the child's basic needs are not taken care of, leaving their "beloved" to clumsily and singlehandedly take care of him/her.

SO/Yuu aspired to become the most worthless mother and person just so their "beloved" hate them and free them. The child will have mommy/daddy issue and touchstarved and so on.

Another one will have the same setting but Yuu is resentful of the child and will told the him/her that they don't love him/her and that they never wanted him/her.

They broke the child's view of the world and told him/her that their "beloved" is not what he seems to be, slowly feeding doubt in his/her mind and questioning why his/her mommy/daddy is chained up and locked in their room.

This may or may not lead to the child leaving their "beloved" side and leave, probably after an argument or realisation, causing the dad to be distress, upset and angry over this turn of event.