#he was certainly designed with a dove in mind..

[mail-me-a-snail]

doggy medic this, kitty medic that...medics a lil birdie 2 me

[shadyfestivalperfection]

Love, Lies And Loki~23

Summery: Y/n is expecting!!

Characters: Loki x pregnant!wife!reader

Note: All characters except Loki are mine!

||Master List||

24. Little Mischief P-2

🍼Little Mischiefs P-1🚼

The first signs were subtle, almost easy to dismiss.

Y/N sat at the dining table, sketching in her worn notebook, when a wave of exhaustion hit her like a crashing tide. One moment she was penciling a design, the next, she was struggling to keep her head upright.

Loki, perched nearby with a book in hand, caught the way her pencil slipped from her fingers.

“Darling?” he asked gently, closing his book. “Are you well?”

Y/N rubbed her eyes, smiling tiredly. “Yeah, just tired. Probably stayed up too late finishing the designs.”

He studied her for a long moment — those green eyes of his always sharper than she gave him credit for.

“You’ve been tired a great deal lately,” Loki said, voice low with concern. “And you

hardly touched your breakfast this morning.”

Y/N waved it off with a small laugh. “It’s nothing, Loki. Humans get worn out sometimes, remember? Not all of us have literal godlike stamina.”

Loki smiled faintly but didn’t argue. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear tenderly. “If it persists, promise me you’ll let me know?”

“I promise.”

But the tiredness didn’t go away.

In fact, it got weirder.

⸻

It started with the lights. Every time Y/N walked into a room, the bulbs flickered — not harshly, but like they were reacting to her presence.

Then plants began acting strangely. Loki noticed first — a withered herb garden in the kitchen window suddenly blooming green and lush overnight.

One morning, Y/N reached for an apple on the counter, and as she touched it, the fruit ripened visibly before their eyes.

Loki’s brow furrowed deeply.

“Alright, love, now you must explain,” he said, half-joking but mostly serious. “Is this some secret Midgardian sorcery I was unaware of? Fruit blooming in your hands?”

Y/N blinked at the apple, stunned. “I…I don’t know! Maybe you enchanted the kitchen without realizing?”

“I do not enchant things lightly.” Loki crossed his arms, frowning. “And certainly not without remembering it.”

She shrugged, but Loki didn’t miss the nervous flicker in her smile.

There was something happening. Something neither of them could quite name yet.

⸻

The truth came crashing into Y/N’s life on an ordinary Tuesday afternoon.

Loki had been summoned by Thor to attend some dull meeting about trade relations between Asgard and Earth. Grateful for a quiet house, Y/N decided it was time to face a suspicion that had been gnawing at her.

She bought a test at the pharmacy, heart pounding in her chest the whole walk home.

Now she sat, cross-legged on the bathroom floor, staring at the little plastic stick that had turned unmistakably positive.

Pregnant.

The word seemed too big for the tiny room around her.

“Oh, gods,” she whispered, pressing a shaking hand to her mouth. Tears pricked her eyes — not from fear, but overwhelming emotion.

A baby.

Loki’s baby.

Their child.

Her heart swelled with a fierce, protective kind of love she had never felt before.

She laughed breathlessly through her tears. “He’s going to lose his mind.”

⸻

She refused to just tell him casually.

This deserved something special.

After thinking all afternoon, Y/N set her plan in motion. She found the softest baby onesie she could — black, naturally — and hand-stitched the words:

“Prince or Princess of Mischief.”

When Loki finally walked through the front door that evening, shrugging off his cloak with a sigh, he was immediately alert at the sight of Y/N sitting on the couch, a small wrapped box perched on the coffee table.

“What’s this, dove?” he asked, curious.

“Open it,” she said, biting her lip to keep from grinning too widely.

He quirked an eyebrow but knelt in front of her obediently, tugging at the silver ribbon.

When he lifted the lid and unfolded the tiny onesie, the world seemed to freeze.

Loki stared at it, speechless.

“Loki?” Y/N whispered, voice trembling slightly. “I’m pregnant.”

His head jerked up, green eyes wide and stunned.

“Pregnant?” he repeated, like the word was foreign on his tongue.

She nodded, tears blurring her vision.

For a heartbeat, there was only silence.

And then Loki’s face crumpled with emotion. He let out a laugh that sounded suspiciously close to a sob, and without a word, he swept Y/N into his arms.

“My love,” he murmured into her hair. “My beautiful, incredible love.”

He kissed her — not hard, but reverent, filled with awe.

“I thought…” Loki said, voice thick. “I thought I could not be more bound to you. And yet now… now our souls are entwined in a way I never dreamed possible.”

Y/N laughed through her tears, clinging to him. “Guess we’re stuck together now.”

“As if I would ever wish otherwise,” he whispered fiercely. “I shall worship you for this, Y/N. For this miracle you carry.”

She cupped his face, their foreheads touching.

“We’re going to be parents, Loki.”

“We shall be glorious,” he vowed.

⸻

The following week was a blur of secret smiles and soft kisses.

They scheduled a doctor’s appointment together, Y/N clenching Loki’s hand nervously as they waited.

When the ultrasound technician started the scan, Loki’s eyes never left the screen, utterly transfixed.

“Well, everything looks perfect,” the tech said cheerily. “And congratulations — you’re eight weeks along.”

Y/N exhaled shakily. Loki squeezed her hand, beaming down at her.

But then the tech chuckled. “Actually… congratulations again. I’m detecting two heartbeats.”

Y/N blinked. “Two?”

The tech nodded. “Twins. Looks like you two are doubly blessed.”

For a long moment, Y/N and Loki just stared at each other, wide-eyed.

And then, very slowly, a grin stretched across Loki’s face — a grin so pure and overwhelmed and full of joy that Y/N burst out laughing.

“Twins,” she said, almost giddy.

“Twins!” Loki repeated, almost reverent.

He leaned down to press his forehead to hers.

“Two children of mischief,” he whispered. “The realms will never be the same.”

⸻

That night, they had dinner at Y/N’s parents’ house, bringing Thor and Brunnhilde along as well.

After the meal — full of Loki’s politely restrained grimacing at Midgardian casseroles — Y/N stood up, heart pounding.

“We have something to share,” she announced.

She placed a box on the table. Her parents, Thor, and Brunnhilde all leaned forward eagerly.

Inside was a collection of tiny baby items: little socks, onesies, rattles. Nestled among them was a framed sonogram picture with two tiny, blurry shapes.

Her mother gasped so loudly it startled the orange cat Pickles.

“Oh my GOD!” she shrieked, covering her mouth.

Her father blinked, looked at Loki, and then burst out laughing.

Thor’s mouth dropped open. “Brother, you — you’re breeding?!”

Brunnhilde snorted into her wine glass. “Finally! The god of mischief passing down his reign.”

Loki chuckled, pulling Y/N close.

“We’re having twins,” Y/N said, voice trembling with happiness.

Her mother was already sobbing into a napkin. Her father hugged Loki so hard it nearly cracked a rib. Thor declared he would be the children’s favorite uncle (regardless of bloodlines), and Brunnhilde began rattling off drinking toasts in their honor.

The rest of the night was spent wrapped in laughter, hugs, and so much love that it made Y/N’s heart ache.

⸻

Later, lying in bed, Loki rested his hand against her stomach, tracing invisible patterns.

“Our children,” he whispered against her skin. “Ours, Y/N.”

“Ours,” she agreed softly.

Loki looked up at her, a wicked glint in his eye. “Do you realize what we’ve done?”

Y/N blinked sleepily. “What?”

“We have doomed Midgard to not one, but two mischievous heirs.” His grin was downright sinful.

Y/N laughed. “You’re already plotting.”

“Of course.” He leaned up to kiss her sweetly. “They shall be magnificent.”

And with Loki’s arm around her, and a future filled with chaos and love ahead, Y/N fell asleep smiling.

⸻

Three months along, and Y/N could feel the changes in her body like a growing storm of magic.

Not her magic — she was human, after all.

No, it was the babies’ magic, swirling inside her, lighting up the air whenever she laughed, cried, or simply felt.

The kitchen lights now flickered not when she entered but when she so much as thought about her cravings. A simple craving for strawberries one afternoon caused the kitchen garden to bloom in technicolor strawberries overnight.

Loki, of course, was nearly beside himself.

“Careful, darling,” he fretted one morning, rushing over as she tried to balance a tray of tea and pastries. “You shouldn’t be lifting anything heavier than a feather!”

Y/N laughed breathlessly, adjusting the tray. “Loki, I’m pregnant. Not made of glass.”

“You’re carrying gods,” he muttered seriously, plucking the tray from her hands and setting it down. He cupped her cheeks with the utmost care, gazing at her like she was a living relic.

“I’m carrying your children,” she corrected playfully, poking his chest.

“My point stands,” he said smugly. “You must be protected at all costs.”

He fussed over her endlessly — making her tea, tucking blankets around her, even magically enchanting the stairs so that no matter how clumsy she got, she would “float” down safely. (She had found that part both endearing and mildly ridiculous.)

⸻

One evening, after an elaborate dinner he had refused to let her cook, Loki leaned back in his chair and announced dramatically:

“It is time.”

Y/N blinked over her cup of tea. “For what? Another lecture about not wearing heels?”

“No,” he said, with a spark in his eyes. “To begin the nursery.”

She almost dropped her cup.

“Loki, it’s early! We don’t even know they are girls, boys or girl and a boy.”

He waved a hand. “Nonsense. We must prepare. Our offspring deserve nothing less than perfection.”

She rolled her eyes fondly but agreed — secretly excited to see how Loki’s magic would turn an ordinary room into something spectacular.

⸻

Setting up the nursery, however, turned into a comedy of magical errors.

At first, it was enchanting.

Loki painted the walls a soft cosmic blue with a single wave of his hand. Stars glittered and danced across the ceiling like a living sky.

But then he got ambitious.

A mobile of floating planets whirled too fast and exploded into showers of glitter.

The crib assembled itself — upside down.

A stack of magical stuffed animals marched across the room like an army, refusing to stay still no matter how many times Loki snapped his fingers.

Y/N was laughing so hard she could barely breathe.

“Stop waving your hands around!” she gasped, wiping tears from her eyes. “You’re making it worse!”

“I am improving it!” Loki argued indignantly as he wrestled a rogue teddy bear back onto a shelf.

Y/N’s body was heavy with exhaustion as she slipped into unconsciousness, Loki’s panicked voice fading into the background.

But what greeted her was not darkness — it was light.

Soft, shimmering mist surrounded her, filled with a strange warmth that made her feel… safe.

Y/N blinked, finding herself standing in a vast meadow covered in flowers that gleamed silver and blue under a twilight sky.

A figure emerged from the mist, her presence immediately commanding yet so tender it made Y/N’s heart ache.

Frigga.

The Queen. The mother Loki had mourned so often with aching eyes and quiet silences.

Y/N instinctively reached for her belly, protective even in this dream state, as Frigga approached.

“My dear girl,” Frigga said warmly, her voice like a melody, her smile soft.

She wore a flowing gown that seemed to be woven from the stars themselves, her golden hair braided back elegantly.

Y/N opened her mouth, but emotion clogged her throat. She dropped into an awkward curtsy.

“Your Majesty—” Y/N croaked, but Frigga chuckled lightly and took her hands.

“No formalities here, child,” Frigga said, lifting Y/N gently upright. “You are family now.”

Y/N’s eyes filled with tears instantly. “I… Loki… he misses you so much.”

Frigga’s smile faltered slightly, a deep sorrow flickering in her wise eyes.

“I know,” she said quietly. “And I miss him more than he can ever understand. But my love has never left him. Nor will it ever.”

Frigga’s gaze dropped to Y/N’s barely visible rounded belly, her expression turning radiant.

“And now,” she whispered, “he is to be a father.”

Y/N nodded tearfully, hands cradling her small bump. “Twins,” she whispered.

Frigga’s eyes sparkled with delight.

“A blessing beyond blessings,” she said. “The realm rejoices.”

Y/N laughed weakly, still overwhelmed. “I think Loki’s more worried than rejoicing half the time. He’s so… protective.”

Frigga laughed too, the sound rich and full of memories.

“Ah, that does not surprise me. He loves fiercely. He always has, even when he tried to hide it. But you — you have brought it out of him. His truest heart.”

They sat together on a stone bench that had appeared as if the dream itself willed it.

Frigga turned to her fully now, resting a hand over Y/N’s.

“I want you to know,” she said softly, “that Loki’s love is his greatest strength, not his magic, nor his cleverness. It is the depth of his heart that makes him mighty.”

Y/N sniffled. “He doesn’t always believe that about himself.”

Frigga’s eyes grew sad. “I know. He doubts. He fears. But you…” She squeezed Y/N’s hand. “You are his light in the darkness. Remind him, especially when the road becomes difficult.”

Y/N nodded fiercely. “I will. I promise.”

Frigga’s hand moved to Y/N’s belly again, and a soft, golden glow shimmered between them. Y/n felt a small gush of magic flow into her, and Y/N gasped.

“They are aware of me,” Frigga said, smiling. “They carry magic older than even your world. They are miracles, Y/N.”

“I’m so scared sometimes,” Y/N confessed suddenly, her voice breaking. “I’m human. What if I’m not strong enough? What if I let them down?”

Frigga’s expression softened even more, if possible. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead lightly against Y/N’s.

“You were chosen, my dear. Your love, your strength — your trust — it is your magic. Even without spells or sorcery, you are more powerful than you know. These children, and Loki, need exactly who you are.”

Tears streamed freely down Y/N’s cheeks now.

“Thank you,” she whispered brokenly.

Frigga wiped her tears with motherly tenderness.

“Tell Loki this too,” she said as the mist began to curl around them. “Tell him I am proud of the man he has become. Tell him I see him… and I love him.”

“I will,” Y/N promised, heart swelling so much it hurt.

“And one day,” Frigga added with a mysterious smile, “perhaps we shall meet again — in a place beyond time and sorrow.”

The dream began to fade, the meadow, the stars, the warmth.

Frigga stood, regal and glowing, and gave Y/N one last smile full of love and pride.

“Blessed be, my daughter,” she said, lifting her hand in farewell.

⸻

Y/N gasped awake, heart pounding, vision blurred with tears.

She was in bed, tucked tightly under heavy blankets.

Loki sat beside her, his face pale and frantic, his thumb rubbing her knuckles over and over as if he was afraid she’d slip away again.

“Y/N—! My love, are you—?” His voice broke.

“I’m alright,” she whispered hoarsely.

She struggled to sit up, and Loki immediately helped her, arranging pillows behind her back, fussing as always.

“What happened?” he demanded, brushing damp hair off her forehead.

Y/N gripped his hand tightly.

“I… I saw her,” she said, voice trembling.

Loki froze. “Who?”

“Your mother,” she whispered. “Frigga.”

Loki’s face twisted — shock, disbelief, desperate hope.

“She spoke to me,” Y/N rushed on, tears falling again. “She told me she misses you, Loki. That she watches over you. That she’s proud of you. She loves you.”

Loki dropped his forehead to their entwined hands, shoulders shaking with silent emotion.

“And she blessed the babies,” Y/N said, her voice thick with wonder. “She touched them. She said they’re miracles.”

Loki lifted his head, eyes glassy but blazing with fierce love.

“And she told me,” Y/N said, cupping his face, “that your greatest strength is your heart. Not your magic. Not your cleverness. You.”

For a long moment, they simply clung to each other.

“I am so proud of you,” Y/N whispered against his lips.

“And so is she.”

Loki kissed her — softly at first, then desperately, like he needed to anchor himself to her.

“My heart,” he whispered. “You are my heart, my Y/N.”

“And you are mine,” she whispered back, resting her forehead against his.

In the nursery down the hall, the floating stars glowed faintly, casting a gentle light — as if a blessing lingered there still.

-to be continued

[kiame-sama]

What if HAE!reader had multiple piercings and/or tattoos? Would they(the monster boys) try to scrub away the tattoos? Would some be offended that reader purposefully marred their skin? Would others find it attractive?

They have tattoos in the monster Au, but the same things apply. Leona has a tattoo on his arm, same as canon, he certainly wouldn't mind if mousey had a few extra marks on them. Maybe you can get matching ones? He'll pay for them.

Riddle would be upset, why marr your pretty flesh? Why do any of this? He will eventually get over it and may start to ask if you would get one of a rose with a heart in it? He wants it for reasons.

Malleus is okay with it and vaguely debates puting a magic tattoo of his own design on you, a fine way to mark the crown jewel of his Hoard. He thanks you for the idea.

Azul likes it as he is one of the students who has marks of his own along his entire face and upper body. Like his Cecaelia form, his legs are a dark black on the front of his legs (knees, shins, tops of the thighs, outer thigh, ect) and purple on the back (thighs, heel, Achilles, inner thighs). He likes the extra markings on you and wonders if you have any more.

Rook thinks you already have natural patterning. He can see the Blaschko lines all Humans have on their skin which can come across as patches or stripes along the body. To most, these markings aren't visible, but Rook can see them and he thinks they're lovely to look at. He doesn't care if you have more, less, or no tattoos, your natural markings are already stunning. However you choose to decorate your body, he will appreciate.

Vil is irritated unless you have a peacock tattoo, then he can claim it as himself and he will immediately get over it. You had better not have mourning doves, he will come unglued.

[cowboyemeritus]

Could I pretty please request something?

I was thinking maybe a bit of reader or OC being totally head over heels for Secondo. But despite their deep affection for Papa II they feel like their love is unrequited. But maybe it’s not! Maybe just maybe Secondo sucks at showing his true feelings and he’s just as lost to love as reader/OC!

Btw I think your writing is fucking awesome!

Hi! Thanks so much! Sorry this took so long, I wasn’t writing over the holidays (I’m also a slow writer to begin with lmao).

Small cw for a mention of depression. It’ll make sense I promise.

Hope you enjoy!

Papa Emeritus the Second is, as the song goes, a man of wealth and taste. He has a keen eye for the finer things in life — expensive wine, designer clothes, priceless antiques, you name it. As is his right as Lucifer’s chosen (and much to the chagrin of Imperator), the man surrounds himself with opulence. He’s like a crow, collecting pretty, shiny things. People are no exception; only the most beautiful members of the Congregation make up his retinue. Those blessed by Lilith can expect a life of luxury at Papa’s side, following him from city to city, show to show, reveling in excess and vanity.

The crow and his doves. And you’re the little finch, watching from the next branch over.

You don’t mind, though. You’re comfortable in your plainness. Extravagance attracts too much attention; that kind of lifestyle, eyes constantly trained on you, would be mortifying. Certainly that’s a product of your upbringing, but try as you might, you’ve never been able to shake it. Fancy things just aren’t your style.

Does it hurt your heart, watching him shower others with attention, with gifts you know you could never accept? Of course it does. But you’ve made peace with it. You have something they’ll never have. What the beautiful ones, the chosen few, will never get to see is the other side of Secondo, the man who values a quiet morning in his library just as much as a night out in the city.

As his personal assistant, you have had the privilege of observing this version of him over the years. Though he leans into the playboy persona in public, he’s uniquely genuine with you in private. From experience you know he’s just as concerned with the spiritual wellbeing of the Congregation as he is with the tailoring of his suits. He is a work hard, play hard kind of man, and though he’s never said it, you know he values your particular brand of efficiency, color-coding and all. He enjoys dialogue, little debates over pieces of theology, and is delighted when you manage to challenge his perspective. Secondo likes his coffee with just cream, though if he’s in the mood for a treat, he’ll do just about anything for a vanilla latte.

And slowly, you’ve been teasing out the deepest parts of his being, the things that should probably stay between him and the Old One. He loves being Papa, loves leading the Congregation, but borders on stage fright when he performs with the band. He compares himself to his brothers, and though he’s loathe to admit it, his father as well. He’s always wanted children, but believes he’s too old now. All the drinking and partying and sex is just compensation, a distraction from his inner demons. It didn’t take long at all for you to see that.

And you love him anyway. Not in an “I can fix him” kind of way, but in an arms wide, eyes open kind of way. You see him for who he truly is and love him, flaws and all, in spite of that. Is it a little self-destructive? Probably. You know you could never stand as his equal, as his lover, but a scrap of his affection, even the most simple nod of approval, is worth more than all the riches in the world.

That being said, it’s unlike him to spend so much time in his office. He’s been like this all week, and now you’re starting to worry.

You need to make a move. Secondo has been watching you this whole time, his mysterious left eye seeming to glow in the dark. The scrutiny only makes it harder to concentrate, but it’s not like you were going to win anyway. You reach for your remaining knight, intending to make some desperate maneuver, but stop yourself before your fingers make contact with the piece. You sigh, hand flopping down into your lap.

“Is something the matter?” Though he speaks softly, Secondo’s voice cuts like a knife through the silence. Your face, one half already toasted by the roaring fire, flushes.

“I- No.” You’re grasping for words like they’re leaves on the wind. How can you possibly speak your mind without overstepping? “I just-“

“When you took this job,” he interjects, “we promised to never conceal or withhold information from one another.” You worry your bottom lip between your teeth, recalling that fateful morning. There was something so spellbinding about him back then, a look in his eyes that made you want to follow him anywhere, even into the lion’s den of Ministry politics. Times have changed. You can see through the miter and robes, past the allure of Papa Emeritus. He’s a whole person now, with thoughts, and feelings, and flaws, but his eyes burn with that same fire. If you could, you’d fling yourself into the blaze.

“Now, tell me, what is the matter?” You sigh, resigning yourself to whatever is about to transpire.

“I could ask you the same thing, Papa.” Secondo raises an eyebrow, bidding you continue. “It’s just-“ Suddenly you can’t meet his gaze, turning instead to the fire, mesmerized by the little swirls of flame. “You haven’t gone out at all this week. I was worried you might be…” How do you tailor this to his Boomer sensitivities? “Feeling out of sorts.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “You think that I am depressed?” Ah, so he is with it. Daring a glance over at him, you find his expression is neutral, seemingly indifferent to the accusation.

“I guess so.” You scratch the back of your head. In truth, you didn’t think you would make it this far. “But obviously I can’t- I don’t- I’m not a doctor, you know?” Heaving out a sigh, you take a moment to compose yourself. “Are you alright, Papa? It’s okay if you’re not.” You’re about to launch into a prepared speech about how he’s not alone and how help exists, but then he huffs out a short laugh. Eyeing you contemplatively, you watch as he picks up his wine glass and takes a slow, calculated sip. Your own glass has barely been touched, and for a moment, you consider pounding it.

“You are thoughtful,” he says, placing the delicate crystal back down. “That is why I wanted you to be my assistant in the first place.” You hope to Lucifer Himself that the darkness is enough to hide the color blooming on your cheeks. The corners of his mouth turn upwards into the slightest smirk. “But sometimes, you think a bit too much, my dear.” Gut twisting with anxiety, you look down at your lap.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be presumptuous.” You sigh. Fuck it. “I just wanted you to know that I care about you. That’s all.” It’s about as close as you’ll ever get to telling him how you really feel. There’s a long pause and you spend it wallowing in embarrassment, knowing you’ve made a fool of yourself.

“Well, thank you,” he finally says. “I will make a note of that.”

Secondo waits until the sound of your footsteps fades away to sink down into his chair. He lets out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Idiot,” he mutters, staring at the vacant spot across from him, as if that could summon you back to his side.

Come back. I swear this time I will tell you.

His prayers go unanswered. Glancing over at the ornate grandfather clock by his desk, he notes that it’s not even past ten yet. There’s still time to make plans, to muster his clique for a night out. He knows more than a few members of the Congregation who would drop just about anything for booze and a seat on Papa’s lap. It’s a small price to pay for a little fun and the chance to get his dick wet if he’s so inclined. Eyes wandering back to the empty chair, he comes to the realization that he’s really and truly not.

Maybe you were right. This isn’t like him at all.

One by one, he puts the chess pieces back in the velvet-lined case. The set, carved from green and black stone, is practically an antique, the first impulse purchase he can remember. Certainly it would be magnitudes more expensive today than when he acquired it as a young man. He takes a moment to examine one of the pawns, turning it over between his fingers and admiring the bands in the green agate. So few of his darlings have the patience for chess, but he doesn’t really mind; it means that when he plays, it’s almost exclusively with you. Unlike the others, you can appreciate the delayed gratification of the game, of planning each of your moves while anticipating those of your opponent. With them, there’s no waiting, no anticipation, just a mad-dash to find the next dopamine hit.

It’s getting old. And in truth, he knows it’s not him they’re really after. He’s just an accessory, a means to an end. They can play pretend, humor him all night long, but he knows. The money, the drugs, the sex, the prestige of being one of the Chosen — it preoccupies their every waking hour.

“I just wanted you to know that I care about you.”

When you smile at him, he knows you mean it. He would give all of it up, every cent, to be yours for just a day.

And yet the thought of telling you as much petrifies him. Secondo is a man of action, preferring to speak through tokens and gestures. This was an effective strategy with the others, but he knows your tastes (or lack thereof). If he’s going to do this, he needs to do right by you. He had hoped that forgoing his usual nighttime activities to be with you would be a clear enough message, but it seems he miscalculated. Until he can muster up the courage to actually say how he feels, he’ll have to find another way to get his point across.

Back to the drawing board.

It’s the sound of paper crinkling that finally pulls your attention away from your paperwork. You look and wind up nearly burying your face in an explosion of tulips, a soft, pleasant aroma flooding your senses. Muted red petals with white around the edges, you recognize them immediately from Primo’s garden. Attached to the bouquet is Secondo, standing before you with a furrowed brow. He looks… nervous?

“I demand you accept this,” he says, once more thrusting the flowers in your direction. “Papal order.” You’re instantly confused. He has your birthday marked in his calendar, and it’s nowhere near close to today. Unable to stop yourself, you let out a little laugh.

“What for? It’s not a festival day today, is it?” For a moment, Secondo looks like he’s about to drop dead.

“No,” he says. “It is not.” He swallows hard, looking anywhere but at you. “I just thought you should know that I care about you as well.” He sighs. “I am not so good with words.”

Things start to make a little more sense.

You smile, taking the bouquet in your arms. Your cheeks flush a delicate pink. If Secondo died right now, he’d die a happy man.

“Thank you, Papa. They’re lovely.”

It’s a start.

[whisperingmidnights]

CONGRATS ON 2000!!!!! Would you be down to do Dove x Helion with Starfall? I would LOVE to see their dynamic, especially after the Day Court scene in CS!!!! 💛💛💛💛

Oh boy, would I. I think...I'm gonna have to do an extended version of this.

"We have a surprise for you," Feyre giggles tipsily against my shoulder, her arms firmly around my waist as we stumble into the guest wing of the Moonstone Palace. She stopped nursing weeks ago, eager for a night to truly enjoy herself, and it certainly seems like she has.

"A surprise worth being away from our babies tonight?" I ask, reaching back to support her however I can.

"Nyx and Astra are taking very good care of their siblings tonight-"

"That doesn't make me feel better," I grumble, wondering why she only named two of our four adult children. Where are the other two, then?

"Nesta and Cassian are supervising," Rhys adds in smoothly, resting his hands on Feyre's shoulders. "Azriel is also there tonight, if they should require backup. They'll be fine, Dove. Relax."

"So what is my surprise?" I ask, glancing through one of the archways to see the stars still falling over our territory. We've celebrated every Starfall in Velaris for over a century now, leaving before sunrise feels wrong.

"You remember our conversation last week?" Feyre asks, turning me around to face her. Color dances high on her cheekbones, and her eyes are bright, shimmering like liquid starlight. My night goddess incarnate. Rhys closes in at my back, his hands kneading my hips as our mate presses me against him with a wicked smile. "About our list."

"Yes," I whisper, resting back against Rhys. Feyre tilts my chin up with the tip of her finger, her lips meeting mine in a long, slow kiss. I can taste the champagne on her tongue. My apprehension melts away at the feeling of her too-warm body against my own, the scent of her arousal engulfing me like sweet perfume. "And which- mph- which experience on that list were you hoping to cross off tonight?"

I groan, nodding as I recall the exact midnight conversation: a list of all of the things we wanted to try, separately and together, to help keep things interesting. After more than a hundred years together, I can confidently say I've never wanted them more, but...but the list has given us some new goals.

"Number three," Feyre rattles of, like she's memorized the list. "We get to watch you with a partner of our choosing."

"Oh." Warmth rushes to my face as I remember making this part of that list. Right. I sort of thought it would be a private room in a brothel sort of situation, but here? Who did they bring all the way out here?

"What do you think?" Rhys asks, angling us to look at a specific door down the hall, left slightly ajar. "Do you want to go look? Or do you want to go home?"

"I'll...I'll look," I murmur. "But if I don't like them..."

"We'll go home and cuddle our babies," Feyre promises. "But we wouldn't choose someone you'd hate."

"Don't you trust us?" Rhys asks, nipping the tip of my ear. I elbow him on my way to the door, satisfied with the little, surprised huff he lets out when it connects.

Behind the door is bed so large, I'm not entirely sure how they got it in here. It fills the center of the room and possibly contains enough pillows for an all-out pillow war. It looks ridiculous, but the large, heated bath that juts out over the side of the mountain is promising. But where...

"Hello, Dove." I turn to look at a small sitting area I somehow missed, tucked away on a raised platform, and find Helion seated there, his golden eyes dancing as he watches me. "Don't you look delectable this evening."

It's not a question. I look down at the swaths of grey fabric that make up my dress, suddenly very aware of why Feyre had asked for a Day Court-inspired design for this one. I shrug, giving our friend what I hope is a pleasant smile as I sit on the edge of the bed. I can feel Rhys and Feyre at the periphery of my mind, watching our interaction closely.

"Is that what brought you all the way up here? My mates offered you a snack, and you had nothing better to do?"

"How could I possibly turn down an invitation to a feast like that?" He teases, his gaze sweeping over me the way it usually does. Except this time, it lingers a little at the curves of my breasts and the outline of my thighs through the paper-thin fabric. "And the view isn't half bad, truth be told."

Open archways line the back wall, giving us an excellent view of Starfall as the backdrop for tonight's festivities. And, conveniently, the sitting area looks out over the bed. A show, indeed.

"It is marvelous, isn't it?" I ask, looking out at the mountain range.

"It isn't nearly as fine as the one I have right now."

"You tease," I laugh, looking back over my shoulder to find the male approaching the bed. He sits at the corner, keeping a comfortable distance between us, one delicately arched eyebrow raised as he mirrors my relaxed position.

"Not yet, but I can, if that's what you like."

"Do you want to?"

"Oh, darling girl, I don't go anywhere I don't want to. You are magnificent, and your mates are unbelievably selfish creatures. I won't have another chance like this one."

"You're ridiculous."

"That's why you like me."

"There are a lot of reasons I like you, Helion," I mumble shyly. "You've always been so kind to me."

"Yes, well, you've always been kind to me. What else?"

"Oh, is that what we're doing now? You want me to stroke your ego?"

"Oh no, little bird," he murmurs, glancing down at my hands, "I much prefer to imagine you stroking things other than my ego."

"Do you?"

"Mmmm." The white robe he's wearing is soft and light. Where the cloth parts, I can see the warm, brown skin of his bare chest. It's more distracting than it ought to be. "What do you think, Dove? Is that something you're interested in exploring tonight?"

"I think," I begin, looking down at his full, sensuous mouth, "I might be convinced...if we start slow."

"As slow as you want," he promises, holding out a hand. I take it, allowing him to pull me closer, to guide my palm to the side of his neck before his hand settles at my waist. He smells slightly sweet, like almond oil, and the skin beneath my palm is far warmer than I'm used to. I hear the door open and, as my mates creep in, Helion's lips meet mine in an indulgent kiss.

[madridfangirl]

The door of her apartment clicked, the jingle of one too many India keychains she’d gifted Jude rustling her out of her daze. He’d been so grateful every time she gifted him one, despite them being the cost of a skin follicle. Also, they were normally replicas of the ones she’d previously purchased; either a different coloured backdrop, an outline of the country, or the country highlighted amidst South Asia. Ananya had told the man to only wear one at a time. But, as the months progressed, he carried her apartment keys along with a big, rainbow India extravaganza. She thought it was pretty stupid but she still showered him in kisses and ‘thank you’s anyway.

Ananya’s daze had consisted of more…intimate things. She’d been doing laundry prior to her reality-departure and had stumbled across a familiar pair of lingerie. Red, laced with black, intricate designs. There had even been pearls, two of which Jude had joked were nipples, and the lightheartedness had resulted in the most sweetest sex ever. He’d showered his dove in praise which brung shame to any other man’s attempts of doing so.

‘You’re so gorgeous, dove.’

‘Gonna fill you up with all my love,’

His masked up dirty words and tear worthy praise had made her body unhealthily hot. Made her mind think of none other than Jude and the love that wracked through her body go up a few notches. Jude is certainly a good footballer, but he also was exceptionally incredible at making Ananya unhealthily horny.

“Hey, dove.” Jude grinned, shutting the door behind him and rolling his suitcase to sit beside the coat hanger. “How are—“

She had immediately gone and hugged him, tiptoeing and wrapping her arms around his neck. His body was warm and inviting, making her pleas to sit on the counter so she could hug him more.

“Hiiiii babu!” she greeted him enthusiastically with her normal lucent smile and throaty giggles. All of which he found so goddamn adorable.

“How are you? How was the flight? Did you eat, babu?” she showered him in frantic questions all while patting his tummy. She kept on spamming the Hindi term of endearment, making all the butterflies in his tummy finally set free.

“Yes, yes,” Jude gets ahold of Ananya’s hands, “I am fine, dove.” he reassured, stepping even closer to her, foreheads touching and all.

“And you?”

“I’ve been good,” she slumped down, clearly exhausted, “But work is a pain in my butt.”

Her pout was coy but still made Jude’s heart thump in tandem with hers. He gathered her slump body, colliding it with his in another hug. This time, the embrace was taciturn but still comforting in 1000 different ways. The pair had realised that even their shared silence was comforting.

“I missed you, babu…”

God. That term just made Jude miss Ananya more and she was smack dab in his arms.

“I missed you, too…”

Without anymore words, Jude smashed his lips onto hers. Weeks of pent up longing was painted into each other’s mouth while they moaned and groaned. The only time they parted was to tell each other how much they—

“I love you.” Jude whimpered, bringing her lips to his with another passionate kiss. God, the taste of her was goddamn hypnotic it took every bone in Jude body to not take her right then and there on the counter. But it had been weeks since they last made love/fucked, and all Jude wanted to do was make love to Ananya within the sheets. See her pleasure soaked face and the way every second passed it was as if the propounding, heaps of love in her eyes would change the colour of her irises.

“I love you too.”

“I…I need you.”

Simple as that, zooming to the point. Jude had originally wanted to savour the moment, but the ache in his boxers and the love stirring in his tummy was far too much for him to handle. Also, the man never stuttered while in the presence of her. This fucking goddess was making him a nervous teenager.

“Do you know what I was thinking about?” Ananya cocked her head so sexily Jude felt his thickness harden more (if that was even possible).

“What?”

“Do you remember the pair of lingerie which was originally for a more intense night?”

Jude’s eyes darted from left to right, trying to scavenge for the particular pieces. Orange with pink flowers, blue with a Real Madrid logo on the hip (which was definitely off some sketchy website because NO WAY was the club selling lingerie), pink with frilly lace and the red with pearls that looked like…oh.

“Ah, yes. The Nipple Extravaganza?”

Breaking the sultry moment, Ananya’s head falls back with the weight of her laughter. Jude took that as a cue to laugh, but all he could do was smile like a little boy and look up in awe at the vixen in his arms.

“Yea, The Nipple Extravaganza.”

“I really did like that one. Although, I liked the moment more.”

“Care to explain what it consisted of?”

“Sweet, sweetness. Me filling you up with my love, countless hours of stolen promises and pleasured s—“

“Ok, babu. Didn’t know you were Shakespeare.”

“Well, if it helps, I’m English.”

Ananya slapped his chest softly, clearly enjoying his banter. Jude took pride in making his dove laugh. He was obliged to, or so he thought. Ananya had claimed he had some sort of ‘hero syndrome’ because he would constantly want was to make her happy or open pickle jars for her, but he then claimed he was just so madly and deeply in love with her that he couldn’t resist.

“Well,” she reverted back to the original topic, “It was supposed to be a more intense night, hm?”

“Would you want that? Me to make it up to you?” Jude’s eyes lit up.

“No, I want it even sweeter.”

Jude’s eyes burned like an inferno.

It took no time for Jude to strip her and himself both, before carefully laying her down in the sheets.

He started at her neck, gently nipping at the skin, drinking up her taste. He revelled in her helpless whimpers although all he wanted to do that night was help her.

Then, he arrived at the beauty which is her breasts. So full. So big. Her nipples were so big and pointy, by the end of his foreplay there they were slick and wet with his longing.

After, Jude went to Ananya’s plump stomach. He was so fond in the way it sucked in and out with his propounding pleasure. The only time he really got angry at it was when she didn’t fill it with enough food. Top 10 things which aggravated Jude the most was when Ananya talked down on her curves, when Jude was 100% convinced that they were carved by God himself.

Next, Jude had come to her inner thighs, sucking and biting at the flesh so near to her perfect cunt. He was completely swept by the softness of her folds, or the leaking of her arousal, and at times when she felt insecure about it, Jude would only tell her to spread her legs further.

“So…gorgeous.”

“Jude…ah…that’s good.”

“I missed you so much.” he kissed around her folds, glossing his lips with her wetness.

Jude delve his tongue into Ananya’s arousal, revelling in the way her pink flesh tasted and how she hooked her legs around his waist, as if he were the anchor to her boat in a storm. He was there when things got intense, rubbing her thighs and cooing up her core. And he best believe she would do the exact same thing.

“I missed you too!” she bit her lips until the taste of copper flooded her mouth. “But I need you—“

“Here?” Jude had already popped his head up and lined himself up with her entrance in a flash. It endeared her, since it symbolised how much he needed her.

“Yes…God, yes.”.

“Tell me what you need.”

“Don’t make me what, please!”

“Well, then. I’m not gonna b—“

“I love you!”

“I love you too, now—“

“I NEED YOUR POUNDING! YOUR LOVE! YOUR WORDS AND YOUR TOUCH AND YOUR PLEASURE AND YOUR”—thrust—“Oh…Jude.”

He smiled cocky, revelling in the way her mind numbed with an earth-shattering lust. But with the way she looked up at him, he knew all love was still evident. Jude dipped down, scooping her body in a sultry hug, never letting go.

“I love you so much, Jude!”

“I love you,”—thrust—“So,”—thrust—“Fucking,”—thrust—“Much!”

The night was filled endless stolen touches and declarations of love. Jude held Ananya close, whispering into her ear about how he promises that she is the only one. He adored her, while they both explored each other, before the passionate touches of her gummy love made them both sigh. As the day grew darker, the pair was then swept away, by a mind-numbing sensation of love.

THE END MOTHERFUCKERS. not proofread this took me an hour for some reason.

I’m stuck on the RM logo on the hip..

[megumithegreat]

Lies of P, Frankenstein, and How Paradise Lost Ties into Them

I've just finished reading Frankenstein by Mary Shelley, and thanks to some realizations in-game, Frankenstein is the other major work that provides the foundation to Lies of P.

I'm exceptionally tired, so trying to do this while barely being conscious means I might not highlight all things. But I can always come back and add to it. As usual, I'm not really looking for discussion as much as just wanting to write this down.

In addition to Lies of P being a dark spin on The Adventures of Pinocchio by Carlo Collodi, elements from Frankenstein are as evident as the elements of Paradise Lost by John Milton. You can read that analysis here.

This time, in somewhat of a struggle to read after the monster that is Paradise Lost, I dove back into my pile of required reading for understanding and appreciating Lies of P to read Frankenstein. As it turns out, Mary Shelley's literary repertoire offered many insights into the story that she created in a friendly ghost story contest among her friends, including but not limited to Paradise Lost. Frankenstein thus was a macabre spin on the epic poem. In my previous post, I highlighted that the epic poem had some analogies and references in Lies of P, but little did I know that the "Frankenstein" side of Lies of P would be the bridge.

God and His Creation, Simon and His Father

There is a large focus in Lies of P on the relationship between a father and his son. I stated before this look at that relationship, coupled with various documents that pointed it out, underscores a religious aspect I'd attributed solely to the epic poem. I had not read all of Paradise Lost at the time, and I certainly hadn't read Frankenstein. After reading Frankenstein, Simon Manus's Confession seems like a direct reference to the feelings that the Creature feels upon his "birth" at Victor Frankenstein's hands.

Simon revered his father, who tortured him, as a god among men. Simon developed the ability to read minds, but he was deemed a failure by his father and cast aside. This abandonment crushed Simon, which sets in motion his desire to transcend God and create a world where there are no lies. While Simon's allusion to the Creature is not readily evident, the feelings in both figures are nearly identical. It is unclear if Simon sought to destroy his father like how the Creature (rightfully) pursued Victor. Furthermore, Simon seems to have been a creation, "born from clay", and not a son by blood.

When P finds Simon at the top of the Abbey, he no longer looks like a man but as a monster:

With extra limbs and a deformed body. Though, this form might be reference to yet another novel, The Hunchback of Notre Dame by Victor Hugo, but I have to wait to read that one, as there are a few allusions to that story.

After P defeats Simon Manus (in Phase 1), we see him transform into a recreation of The Creation of Adam by Michelangelo, tying Frankenstein to Paradise Lost as Mary Shelley did in her novel.

But Simon isn't the only character meant to encapsulate Frankenstein.

Victor Isn't Just a Champion, and the Carcasses Aren't Just Monsters

The most on-the-nose reference to Frankenstein is Champion Victor. The name "Victor" here has two meanings:

Victor, as in the triumphant one, one who takes victory

Victor Frankenstein

According to Resurrection! Champion Victor Has Returned!, Champion Victor was a great wrestler that died of a mysterious illness (likely of Petrification Disease). He was miraculously brought back to life and better than ever. Aside from his name being the nod to the story, Champion Victor is similar to the Creature both in part of his resurrection and in his design.

Victor may be "alive" but he still looks dead. His body is riddled with holes for different attachments, and he is sustained (in Phase 1) by the same nasal apparatus that Alchemists wear. He was a failure as well, though, and his successor is Laxasia, another human turned "creature".

But this also means that the Carcasses that hunt down P were all failures, in varying states of decay. En masse, the Alchemists created an army of Creatures that were tossed out and forced to fend for themselves (however delirious and animalistic they had become). Much like Creature, they subsist on what they can find, but only beings like Victor or Laxasia have the luxury of being almost human with an ego.

By creating the Carcasses, whom are all the results of failed experiments to force humans to evolve and ascend into immortality, the Alchemists fill the role of Victor Frankenstein.

Geppetto, God, and the Puppets

If Simon and the Alchemists are Victor Frankensteins, who also aimed to achieve a godlike feat in reanimating a corpse, then what of Geppetto?

As stated before, Geppetto saw himself as a god or a devil in his malicious compliance to grant Romeo's wish and turn him into a puppet. Victor Frankenstein had made the same allusion to himself, ultimately cursing himself when he created his Monster. This, however, is not the specific trait that tie the two together.

There are two camps of thought, here I refer to the Narcissism camp. Just as Victor never saw what he did as wrong and made the Creature out to be the one that must be killed, Geppetto never sees a problem in all that he does to get P to amass Ergo for the sole purpose of stealing his P-Organ to properly revive his son. He claims to do it out of love for Carlo (but if that were the case, he shouldn't have ever neglected him!) His confession that what he does to Romeo will either make him a god or devil underscores the grandeur in which he sees himself. He presumably knew from Camille (First Discovery, Camille) that Ergo was, in short, crystallized versions of people's souls and that, by placing Ergo in puppets, people that succumbed to Petrification Disease could come back to life. Romeo was a success in a way, but he is a puppet. Puppets had to be fitted with the Grand Covenant to keep them in check, and for the purposes of his plan, Romeo had to be shackled until the time was right. But Romeo isn't as much of Frankenstein's Monster as he is Satan (Paradise Lost), though in Frankenstein, the Creature does sympathize with Satan. Briefly, Romeo is characterized in the fire associated with him, the idea of sin (Divine Comedy) that Geppetto seems to look at Romeo with, Romeo's uprising against Geppetto and the Alchemists, and that Rosa Isabelle Street, or Paradise Island or Eden (imagery of roses) of The Adventures of Pinocchio and Paradise Lost, becomes Pandemonium in Paradise Lost.

Geppetto's first success to an extent was the Nameless Puppet, the puppet he created fitted with the first P-Organ, that which precedes the P-Organ in P, and the puppet he tried to make using Carlo's corpse. The Nameless Puppet, however, ended up a harrowing failure. Sure, it woke up, but the P-Organ was destructive and threatened to use up Carlo's Ergo and the puppet itself was fueled by insurmountable hatred. Geppetto ended up sealing away the Nameless Puppet and instead created P after perfecting his craft. P being the perfect vehicle until there was enough Ergo accumulated, Geppetto was essentially a god for creating the puppets ("[he's] their maker, practically their father!" -Mad Donkey) but a devil because there is no divinity and only narcissism (per the very specific placement of a daffodil and narcissus article placed on his desk), much like how Victor Frankenstein views himself and is a theme of Mary Shelley's novel.

For a tangent, I have tried to find the relation of P to Nameless Puppet in the context of Frankenstein, but my mind instead wanders to Penny Dreadful which uses Frankenstein for a subplot but adds in an extra detail: Proteus. I highly doubt the devs watched Penny Dreadful, but the second phase of the final battle feels very similar:

In Penny Dreadful, the Creature kills Proteus (Frankenstein's much more successful reanimated corpse and technically Creature's "younger brother") out of hatred for Proteus and despair that Frankenstein could just toss Creature out and replace him with a better version of himself. In Lies of P, Geppetto controls Nameless Puppet (Carlo's reanimated corpse) to at the very least beat P (Carlo's soul and memories) into submission to give up his heart.

Where Creature completely destroys Proteus, P is saved by Geppetto and tears out Nameless Puppet's P-Organ and crushes it. To look at it from Paradise Lost or rather what is supposed to come after when Adam and Eve are banished from Paradise, this can almost be thought of a spin on Cain and Abel.

Geppetto's Deaths and Victor's Death

In the Real Boy ending, Carlo's body and soul are reunited to create the perfect Frankenstein's Monster that is bound to his "God" father's paranoia. As Geppetto commands or convinces him, Carlo slaughters his friends so that Geppetto can replace them with puppets all bound to the Grand Covenant. Geppetto gets a new loyal son. He gets cake and eats it, too.

But in the Freed from the Puppet String ending and in the Rise of P ending, Geppetto is killed by the Nameless Puppet as he protects the P-Organ containing Carlo's heart (which also saves P). The sentiments that Geppetto's expresses are different.

In the Freed from the Puppet String ending, Geppetto is disappointed or otherwise shows contempt at P's failure to become a human.

In the Rise of P ending, where P sheds a single tear over the death of his Creator, Geppetto realizes (unlike Frankenstein) how he's caused Carlo so much unnecessary pain.

In Frankenstein, there are two sides to the story, but we are only presented Frankenstein's side because he is the unreliable narrator and Walton is our empathetic and bleeding heart passive listener. Through Walton's listening to the events, we are to believe that Frankenstein is a nobleman whose life was destroyed by a monstrosity that haunted him and killed everyone he loved. Frankenstein even specifically tells Walton that the Creature's eloquence and vocabulary is by all means a ruse to confuse him. The Creature, however, at Frankenstein's deathbed and before Walton exposes that his Creator lied and never once spoke of how much suffering he himself was forced to endure because of Victor's folly.

Geppetto's contempt in Freed from the Puppet String is analogous to the lies that Frankenstein tells. After all, it is obvious that Geppetto says things he knows P (Carlo's memory, soul, personality) wants to hear to turn him human. When the lie collapses and P fails to become human, there's no reason to continue pretending to care. But the Rise of P ending underscores perhaps what might have been a moment of reflection that Frankenstein never had. At the end of life, Geppetto shows a hint of remorse...but is it genuine? Who knows, people will say anything when they're about to die.

The final point to be made: Creature never got to kill Frankenstein, but Nameless Puppet accidentally kills Geppetto. This moment is a parallel, opposite of each other. Creature had gone his entire life menacing his Creator in hopes of making him bend for a single wish, to create for him a wife so that they could live in some sort of peace together. Frankenstein destroys the work on Creature's Bride then proceeds to ruin his own life because of his fear of the Creature. But Nameless Puppet was indiscriminate in his hatred. Geppetto had kept him under control until P cut off his cranium and severed some connection from Geppetto. As Creature kills Proteus in Penny Dreadful and Cain kills Abel in the Bible, Nameless Puppet set out to destroy P only for Geppetto to do what Frankenstein could not and attempt to stop Nameless Puppet from destroying the very last remnant of Carlo's memory.

There is a brief moment where the Nameless Puppet seems to be shocked that his Creator defended his successor, which seems somewhat reminiscent of the shock and regret that the Creature feels upon finding that Frankenstein succumbed to his illness in Walton's ice raft. With his Creator dead, Creature has little to no reason to continue, and he leaves after declaring he plans to burn himself to death.

I would be interested to see how Frankenstein, Paradise Lost/Divine Comedy, and more of The Adventures of Pinocchio fit into the DLC. I've purposely been avoiding seeing too much because I want that razzle-dazzle surprise. But I expect that the DLC may have some more juxtapositions as we learn more about the Alchemists and Valentinus.

[ploo-toe]

The Crow and the Mourning Dove - Intro

SCP-049 x SCP!Reader

Series tags/warnings(18+): fem!reader, slowburn, (eventual)smut, horror, gore/violence, death, unethical experiments, dark, mentions of past trauma, happy ending

Chapter Summary: “Just one more question for today, and then I'll leave you be.”  Leeward chose his words carefully.  “It says you were found in Marseille.  Why did you leave Paris?”

Notes: I'm so excited to begin this new series!  The song I had in mind in this chapter was Piano Concerto No. 1 in E Minor, Op. 11:1. Allegro Maestoso by Frédéric Chopin and the Warsaw Philharmonic Orchestra.  The referenced “melancholy” part is roughly at 4:40.  Here’s the youtube link for anybody interested in listening:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GWd0O0TlJqM

___________________________________________

Leeward had just finished up his report on the progress made in his most recent interview with SCP-049, or lack thereof, when he had been flagged down by the site director.

"Adam!  I'm glad I caught you.  I need you to take on the series of interviews Dr.Rivera was conducting. Not all of them, just this one; SCP-9528.  It's located down in humanoid containment. "  The director held out a file to him. 

Hesitantly taking it from his hand, Leeward let out a nervous but exasperated chuckle. "I don't really have a choice, do I?"  It was framed as a joke, but his words held truth to them. He was in no place to refuse the directors request and keep his job intact. 

The director let out a cold and unnerving laugh, one that didn't reach his eyes. "Be sure you get on this as soon as possible.  I'm trusting you Dr.Leeward, don't make me regret it."

There was a pit in Leeward's stomach as he watched the director leave. Confrontation was never his strong suit.  With a heavy sign, he began thumbing through the file, walking as he read. 

He was intrigued to say the least, this scp was definitely a curiosity. He had taken a pen out of his coat pocket and began making notes in the file, underlining phrases like "seemingly female humanoid", "152 cm in height", "strange eyes", "musician", "spirit maiden" whatever that means, "reaper", "friendly", "deadly" that's a little contradictory.  Reading the file had certainly left him with more questions than answers. At the bottom were notes written by Dr.Rivera.

-prefers to go by y/n, but will respond to designation

-states to originate from the 15th century

-claims to wear perfume, although never seen putting any on, emitted naturally?

-interview with song moving forward, timestamp changes with recording

-when asked about the ring on its necklace,  answers given were vague, distant, and almost… somber. 

Looking up, the designation on the door stared down at him. He must have been so lost in thought that he hadn't realized he was here already. Straightening his coat, Leeward held his keycard to the scanner, and braced himself as the door slid open. 

The first thing that hit him was the soft lavender scent when he walked in. The second was the music that filled the room, with seemingly no point of origin. If he closed his eyes it was almost like he was at an orchestral performance. But his eyes stayed curiously trained on the figure before him.

In the center of the room stood SCP-9528, arms gently moving through the air as if conducting the room around it.  As the door closed behind him, 9528 moved its head to the side, acknowledging him but not turning around.

“Where's Dr.Rivera?”  The voice that questioned was warm, and if he didn’t know any better he would think it was human.  Luckily he did know better.  

“Dr.Rivera’s starting her maternity leave today, so I’ll be the one working with you for the time being.  My name is Dr.Leeward.”  This answer seemed to satisfy the scp, its head turning forward again to continue its musings.  

Leeward sat at the table to his right, taking out his notes and signaling to the two way window across the room that he was ready and to start recording. He cleared his throat lightly before beginning.

“It says here your name is y/n, correct?” Leeward started with a simple question, choosing to go with the basics to gauge how to best lead the interview.

“That’s correct, although no one’s had the decency to call me that in ages.  The numbers you’ve assigned will suffice as well.”  It spoke with a soft French accent.  Why it hadn’t been noted until now, he was unsure.

“Well y/n, I’d like to ask you some questions; get to know you better.  Is that alright?”  He remembered seeing something in the file about “good days” and “bad days”, so he thought providing some illusion of choice would increase its likelihood to cooperate.

“I suppose.  You seem pleasant enough.”

“Good, now I know that you’ve most likely been asked some of these questions before, but I'd like to start from the beginning for myself.”  Leeward paused before continuing.  “It says in your file that you’re from the 15th century, is it safe to assume that you’re from France?”

9528 nodded “Yes, that’s correct.”

“Where in France specifically?”

“Île de la Cité.  It was fairly populated at the time, even more so now I assume.  I was one of the lucky few who lived there at the time to have a garden.”  9528 began to open up to Leeward, pleased with the topic of conversation.  The music in the room took a more cheery tone to it.  

“You say you had a garden?  What kinds of things did you grow?”

“Oh, vegetables, fruit, spices, a few medicinal herbs, etcetera..”

“Medicinal herbs, could you elaborate on that for me?”

“You see, I always preferred homemade remedies over bought ones.”

“And what did you do for a living?”  Leeward moved on, trying to find something substantial.

“I made music for the townspeople, in the market square by the cathedral.  I always hoped to entertain and lift their spirits.  It was a hard time in Paris back then.  I loved the way the children would dance around without a care in the world.  As if nothing could ever harm them.”

Leeward decided to take a chance.  “It says here that you wear a ring on your necklace.  May I ask why?”

The music in the room turned melancholy, and 9528 stilled.  It paused, as if lost in thought, or perhaps pondering what it should tell the doctor.  Leeward took the chance to listen to its melody. It sounded wistful and saudade.  The more he listened, the more it felt like he was longing for something unknown and far away.  What that meant, he was unsure.  He was brought back to the present when 9528 spoke.

“It was a gift from someone close to me.  I wear it to remember them.”  That was all it seemed willing to divulge.  The music softly paused.  “I'm growing quite tired, Doctor.”

“Just one more question for today, and then I'll leave you be.”  Leeward chose his words carefully.  “It says you were found in Marseille.  Why did you leave Paris?”

The answer it gave sounded thought out, as if only part true.  But it shook the doctor nonetheless.

“The Plague.”

[helenawrites23]

*･༓˚✧*･༓˚✧*･༓˚✧*･༓˚✧*･༓˚✧*･༓˚✧*･༓

❝Soulmates❞ | inucest

pairing: inuyasha x sesshoumaru

Inu Taisho's eccentric trials for his sons had no end. Inuyasha and Sesshoumaru find themselves bound together by a prophecy that seems to be destined for tragedy. The fates have something else in store for them, though.

In which Sesshoumaru realizes that he and Inuyasha are soulmates. It takes him some time to come around. AO3.

warnings//tags: dark soulmates au, dead-dove/do-not-eat, suicidal thoughts, dreamscapes, half-sibling incest, murder attempt, angst-with-a-happy-ending, enemies-to-lovers.

|| masterlist || the prophecy series || spanish version ||

*･༓˚✧*･༓˚✧*･༓˚✧*･༓˚✧*･༓˚✧*･༓˚✧*･༓

They made it to the temple just in time for sunset.

Sesshoumaru headed towards the ancient shrine in silence, not entirely aware of himself as he walked up the staircase. On top of the altar hung a scroll whose contents he cared not to read. After weeks of feverish nightmares and the occasional daydreaming, the words had been seared into his memory.

As he took in the scent of burning incense, never to be extinguished in this bizarre dimension untouched by time, Sesshoumaru couldn't help but wish he were someone else. Never before had he resented the burdens he carried. From his name to his title, everything that made him who he was had been a reason for pride. Still, as the letters of fate were revealed to him in parchment, it dawned on him how much easier it would all be if another's blood were running through his veins, or if his face were not his own but anyone else's.

He was who he was, though. The path before him had been designed in advance, and as was customary with the Lord of the West, carnage lay by the end.

true power's secret

tis' an offer to your blade

the blood of the heart

Even at a distance, Sesshoumaru was irritated by the sharp stench of Inuyasha's apprehension. He was but a boy, he'd come to find – in more ways than one. His unwillingness to accept the fate that awaited them never failed to aggravate Sesshoumaru. Unlike his half-brother, he'd come to appreciate the beauty in their father's unique parenting methods. This was yet another test. Another outlandish way for Inu Taishou to challenge his elder's might, even from the grave.

Sesshoumaru unsheathed his sword with practiced ease, and after a moment's hesitation, his brother did the same. The internal pull that followed was certainly not welcomed, but neither was it unexpected. By now he had grown used to the uncanny feeling of tensaiga calling out to its twin blade. Sesshoumaru saw it as yet another confirmation that there was a purpose to all this. Although they were often morbid, Inu Taishou's posthumous trials were anything but meaningless.

Sesshoumaru's sword was a tool of compassion. It had been created by his father as a means of healing and preserving life. Now that it had been remade into a weapon, though, it was time for tensaiga to fulfill its true purpose. Far from enraged, the prospect of battle had the blade howling in anticipation. Although Inuyasha's apprehension was still palpable to his senses, Sesshoumaru did not hesitate as he lunged forward.

This was all they were meant to be. Despite its owner's stubbornness, tessaiga rejoiced as it met its sister sword in combat. The fates had foretold they would be each other's end, and everything from their heredity to their bloody past had been a step in a shared path toward destruction. If there was ever a doubt that there could be more to them than bloodshed, Sesshoumaru made sure to clear such misgivings. Inuyasha's, as well as his own.

As their last stand ensued, that long-awaited joy did not fill Sesshoumaru's heart, though. There was only rage running through him. The memory of his father burned bright in his mind's eye.

He still loved Inu Taisho, somehow. He was the man whose power he had admired from afar since he was a child, the one who had trained him in the art of the sword. He was also the one who had disowned his mother and disgraced their family to form a morbid union with a human woman. The one who had violated Sesshoumaru's birthright to favor a defective, bastard child. He was his father, still – the one who had dimed him worthy of nothing but a lethal crossroads and a prophecy of death.

Sesshoumaru couldn't help but be amused by the recurring theme. Love had never been anything to him but a prelude to hatred. He took in Inuyasha’s distressed, sweat-soaked face, and admited to himself that it worked just as well the other way around.

As usual, Sesshoumaru's transformation was a strange and painful ordeal. He could feel his inner beast breaking through his skin, howling to be let out. Something was holding it back, though. That unnamable something that always kept him from finishing off his inferior counterpart. For once Sesshoumaru didn't concede but fought it with all his might. There was the sound of steel falling on pavement, and then an overwhelming stench of blood.

Slowly, he became aware of Inuyasha standing before him – the distance between them so short that Sesshoumaru could count his eyelashes and every single freckle spotting his face. They'd been this close before. A memory that he both scorned and held dear in equal measure.

Tessaiga had been dropped. It hadn't been an accident, but rather a calculated move. Inuyasha was looking up at him with that same determination Sesshoumaru had seen on his face so many times before - the one he'd secretly grown fond of with time. The scent of blood wouldn't subside. Sesshoumaru looked down and realized that he'd almost made it. Tensaiga hung between them, just inches away from piercing Inuyasha's chest - held back only by two stubborn hands and an insurmountable amount of will.

tis' an offer to your blade

the blood of the heart

The words of the scroll echoed in Sesshoumaru's mind. He'd pictured the events unfolding differently. Their father's somber presage had come to him in dreams as Inuyasha's blade piercing his heart. Carnage as a gate to unlock power. Whether his or his brother's he hadn't been sure, and he'd found himself entirely uninterested in the intricacies of it. Either way, it would have been welcomed. Sesshoumaru had half a mind to press on and be done with it, but once again found himself unwilling to finish Inuyasha off.

Will there never be an end to this? he wondered, and was startled by the dread the mere notion provoked. Inuyasha's hands were shaking, smearing blood all over his sword. A tool of compassion - Sesshoumaru's spurned guide in this strange world he understood less and less every day. It had been enraged and thirsty for vengeance, just minutes before. Why was it suddenly so very quiet?

His brother let go of tensaiga and Sesshoumaru closed his eyes, hoping for it to be quick if not painless. He'd never been quite able to understand the dark omen that bonded them. His inner beast was growling deep inside him, and he could feel it slowly taking hold again like water overflowing a vase. There was more than rage to it, though - something savage and unrestful simmering just below the surface.

Almost without noticing, Sesshoumaru eased the grip on his weapon. Inuyasha leaned forward, crossing the distance between them at last. It was then that Sesshoumaru wondered, for the very first time, if his brother had dreamed of this moment as well.

*･༓˚✧*･༓˚✧*･༓˚✧*･༓˚✧*･༓˚✧*･༓˚✧*･༓

When he woke up, Sesshoumaru was lying down on the grass.

The first thing he noticed was that he was back in his dimension. There was no temple to be found - no altar and no shrine. The condemning scroll that for so many nights had robbed him of sleep was gone as well. The second thing he noticed was that his brother was lying down beside him. Sesshoumaru wondered if Inuyasha remembered the kiss. He did, hazy as the memory was. His brother's unusual silence made him suspect that he did as well.

Inuyasha seemed weirdly calm. Sesshoumaru half expected him to be angry. Embarrassment would have also been an understandable response, all things considered. Once again there was nothing in the air but hesitation, though, and that hint of yearning that was always present, ever since that first and only time. He was really just a boy. Sesshoumaru wondered, nonplussed, why he'd ever felt the need to bring him harm.

The smell of blood hit him, and something that so far had remained dormant inside him stirred, wild and unrelenting. Sesshoumaru tore off a piece of his haneri and wrapped it around his brother's hands. As he tied up the last knot, he leaned down to kiss a bloody palm. Inuyasha contemplated him in silence. He almost seemed afraid.

Sesshoumaru wasn't sure what to say to him. He didn't know how to put into words the restfulness he was experiencing. Could he ever verbalize how foreign it felt to him, this staggering absence of rage? This overwhelming need to nurture what before he'd only sought to destroy? He wished he could make his brother see that this was the last time - that there was no more need for bloodshed, for trials and great designs. At last, the true meaning of the prophecy was clear to him.

Words, a weapon that Sesshoumaru wielded measuredly and exclusively to hurt, always failed him at times like this. So, he unsheathed his weapon and held it up for Inuyasha to see. In the dark of the forest, the blade glowed bright - vibrating with the force of some new, boundless power.

“Tis' an offer to my blade,” Sesshoumaru said, holding onto Inuyasha's injured hands. “The blood of my heart.”

[obsessedtomone]

Unravel Yourself Before Me ⛓️ Chapter 7 - Anomalies▸Shigaraki x femReader

Chapter Summary:

◤ So now you find yourself standing in front of the classroom door, staring holes into it. There’s around five minutes left before the bell rings, but you can’t bring yourself to go in, despite multiple students passing you by and entering themselves.

You can’t fucking do it. You can’t stomach facing him today. You know you should, but you just can’t. ◢

Setting: University AU - No quirks (unless degenerate personalities count) Tags: Slow burn, Eventual Smut, Unhealthy/Toxic Relationships, Humiliation, Mentally Ill Reader, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to ??? Warning: Dead Dove – Do Not Eat | Mind the tags TW: Implied Su/Self H, Dubcon, Reader has a super shitty past like actually, Shigaraki Tomura is his own warning.

AO3 Crosspost | Chain Divider by firefly-graphics

Chapters: One • Two • Three • Four • Five • Six • Seven • Eight

Chapter 7 - Anomalies

Two whole days have passed since your phone call with Shigaraki. Both of them were a total fucking blur. 

You ended up spending most of your time at Taylor’s, drinking yourself to sleep and watching shitty chick flicks on their couch, blocking reality out. 

Well, almost blocking reality out. The hangovers tend to ground you like nothing else really, when you realize you’ve made good friends with Taylor’s pristine ass bathroom tiles, enhancing that nausea with a lovely Fabuloso scent that you’re pretty sure won’t get out of your nose for the next couple of days.

Between the porcelain throne and your friend cooking fantastic comfort foods for you to feed back into the sewage system, you finally got a call from your university’s faculty. 

You find yourself in front of a big double-doored office, tapping your foot anxiously as you’re sitting in one of the shitty chairs they put out for regular visitors, waiting for the dean to call you in. The secretary eyes you with pure disdain as you walk by her, so you know you’re in for a great time, the circus having finally reached the faculty’s ears.

College is the last fucking place you want to be at right now. 

Virtually everyone is able to recognize you now, even after doing your absolute best to dress more inconspicuously than you usually did. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t fucking work. Masks and dark hoods only make you look like an Assassin’s Creed cosplayer in the best case scenario, and a potential school shooter in the worst, prompting NPCs to double-check. So you gave up, pulling your hood down and tucking your black colored mask into your pockets, halfway through your way here.

It’s the harsh fucking reality, but you stand out. No matter what you do from now on, you’ll always stand out.

The dean opens one of the doors to his office and you grit your teeth as he gestures for you to enter. Old leather and gross shoe polish invade your senses as he offers you a seat and goes on to take his own. 

It’s funny how uncomfortable the huge squeaky armchair is making you feel, when you know it’s designed for anything but. Many big investors and rich asshole parents have sat where you do right now, yet here you are. 

You doubt they called you here to strike another deal with you. No, instead, you’re about to hear the lecture of a fucking lifetime.

He clears his throat, hand stroking his short white beard and he finally initiates the painful conversation. 

“You see, dear lady, I’m certainly aware times have changed, and discussions like these may seem outdated to your generation, but allow me to share with you a time where rules were different.” He pauses for effect, you assume. “Back then, any improper behavior resembling what’s become common today, would have led to an immediate and undisputable expulsion. It’s a stark contrast to what us, the older generation, has to witness now.” His chin tilts downwards. ”Nevertheless, while the times may have evolved, the core principles of decency still remain and should always apply.”

The older man fixes you a stern gaze, making you shift in your chair. His disapproval is obvious and his blatant judgment affects you in a way you feel you’d disappointed a grandparent. It takes everything in you not to roll your eyes at him, somehow still able to maintain a shred of composure.

He’s not for real, you think to yourself, inhaling deep and exhaling slowly, letting him embark on his journey about his ideal cottagecore wifey ‘stay at home and don’t bring disrespect to the family business’ views.

“I’d like you to take a moment and think about the gravity of your actions, if possible. You probably are aware as to why we called you in today. This is not just about having fun or ‘blowing off steam’ as you kids say, no matter how stressful your academic performance might be. I understand the position you’re in is a challenging one,” he says, gesturing with his hand the way a versed politician would. “But it’s imperative to realize that your actions carry consequences far beyond your immediate circumstances.”

“With smartphones and social media nowadays, news spreads like wildfire! Have you perhaps forgotten that your actions reflect not only upon yourself, but upon the entire institution?” He shakes his head. “The position we have extended to you is one of privilege, one you should be utterly grateful for.” The dean presses his hands together, looking at you very thoughtfully. “And one that is to be respected.”

There’s ants in your veins. There must be, otherwise you can’t explain these disgusting prickles running through your body.

“Allow me to get to the point and reiterate this: the typical course of action for this type of indecency, would be none other than undisputable swift expulsion. However, I am inclined to grant you an opportunity to present your side of the matter. Your past professional relationship with the faculty hasn’t been overlooked, therefore I am keen to hear your explanation before we proceed.”

A headache begins to form at the center of your brain sometime during his boring ass monologue, and you start feeling agitated. Your grip on the expensive material of the chair’s arm starts hurting from how tense you feel and your fingers begin cramping up. It’s becoming a real feat to just sit still and not claw the eyeballs out of his skull.

“Allow me to offer you a personal observation,” the dean interjects, the look in his eyes becoming unsettling. “Consider it a word of guidance, from a seasoned individual who has walked this path longer than you have.”

Never in a million years, could you have guessed what the head of the fucking faculty was going to spit at you next. 

“Think of yourself as a lock, my dear.” His voice takes on a disturbing undertone, eyes narrowing as he leans in closer over his desk. “If just anyone can gain access, what does that say about your feminine value?”

If your eyes widened any more, they would surely have popped out of your head by now.

“Excuse me?” You lean forward into your chair, voice quivering slightly as you give him the chance to reconsider his words.

The dean only clears his throat twice and adjusts his tie uncomfortably, his eyes lingering on you with an unsettling intensity as his stubby manicured fingers continue to stroke at his beard.

“You heard me well, young lady,” he says, tone dripping with condescension. “You should not be so careless with your affections. Consider the needs of your future husband! What would he think of you, knowing you’ve shared what should’ve been your purity, so carelessly, so freely?! It’s a shame, really, the lack of modesty among the youth these days. Do young women have no shame anymore?”

Oh god. You feel yourself rapidly becoming nauseous. 

Did this old creep jerk off to Shigaraki’s thread as well?! How un-fucking-believable. 

What was your life, really? What’s going on right now?

You slam your fucking fist against his desk, face flushed crimson with barely-controlled rage, eyes narrowed and teeth bared in a snarl. The old man is startled.

“Now listen here, young lady—”

“No,” you say, throwing your head back and huffing an incredulous laugh. “No, you fucking listen to me, old creep. You listen damn well, before I fucking report you to the education ministry for inappropriate conduct, alright?” Your chest is heaving, voice growing significantly louder.

He’s shut up.

“You wanna get me expelled?” You bend over his desk, an expression of crazed fury painting your features as you look down at the balding old man. The tone of your voice is deceptively calm. “Not only one of your top students, but also the only poor fucking moron in this elitist ass university, who’d let you parade around as you fucking please. Yeah?”

This isn’t the first time you’ve lashed out at teachers or professors, but it’s the first time you’d ever confronted a person of a higher position. Shigaraki is dead set on ruining your life, but you’ll be damned if you let another fucking sleazebag talk down to you right now. 

Especially not this joke of a headmaster, who spends his nights watching student porn, only to slut shame said student the next fucking day.

Your courage to ruin your relationship with the faculty doesn’t stem from meticulous planning. No, you’re not thinking straight right now. You’re reckless, about to ruin everything, and so very angry.

“I’ve been at your fucking beck and call, whenever you needed an idiot to wear your stupid tight uniforms, have I not? ‘Look, kids! Look at this orphan bitch, benefitting from our great scholarship program! Even degenerates with no future prospects will be able to thrive and have the chance to become the best at our institution!” you chirp, followed by a bark of sardonic laughter, and the dean frowns at your audacity.

“Tell me old man, how much money have I made you so far? If you expel me, who is ready to take my place and become your little puppet? You’re not giving me a chance to explain myself because of our great relationship over the years. You’re giving me a chance to say something that’ll save your neck with the board members, over why someone you personally vouched for, would sink the ship like this.”

The dean stands up, fingers trembling with shock and anger, before trying to cut you off, “You’re extremely out of line, Miss, I suggest—”

“I suggest you shut the fuck up and listen veeeeeeery closely to me, okay?” you coo, voice dripping saccharine sweet. “What you and half of this university fucking jerked it off to, is nothing more than revenge porn. You know what that is, right? It’s a crime. A serious one.”

A flash of confusion crosses the dean’s face, making him pinch his eyebrows, and for a second, you feel your gut filling with hope. Maybe he’s not a complete fucking idiot and he’ll understand, after all.

“What? But—” he takes a moment to think before opening his mouth again, old eyes becoming resolute. “That’s completely irrelevant. What matters now, is that you’re jeopardizing the image of the institution and—”

“Aaand, the videos, the contents, were all taken against my consent. Isn’t it funny? I barely turned eighteen the week before that video was taken, haha. I was high and that guy took advantage of me. Do I have to spell it out for you? What he’s done to me?” You smile angrily. “But you don’t care about that, do you? It’s alright, there’s more.” 

You grab the golden nameplate off his desk, and clean it with the sleeve of your hoodie, wiping it down as you feel sweat building up under your armpits. It’s dawning on you how close you are to losing everything. You hope it wouldn’t show.

“Wanna know who’s behind this?” Your smile turns bitter and you place the object back down, taking on a mocking tone, “‘Course you fucking don’t. You’re all imbeciles. But I’ll bet on my entire fucking scholarship that you’ve dealt with him before.”

A scowl forms on the principal’s face, and you could tell he’s at his wit’s end, about to tell you off but deciding to let you go on with your little charade.

“So humor me, okay? How famous of a character is Mr. Shigaraki fucking Tomura, among the members of the board? Must’ve reached your dainty little ears by now, having half his criminal record allegedly happen at this institution, has he not?”

Immediately, the blood drains from the dean’s face.

How… incredible. You only mentioned his fucking name. Seriously?

“Mr. S-Shigaraki.”

“Yep. Mr. fucking Shigaraki. There was a… minor altercation, between him, me and Mr. Reynolds. Then he put me on his little hit list and decided I should never be able to show my face in public anymore. Luckily for you, I don’t have angry rich parents to sue the shit out of this school, which is why you think it’s okay to speak to me like I’m some societal trash.”

And suddenly, an incredible idea comes to you.

“Say, sir. If I get expelled now… and I tell him that I tattled to you, what’s the chance he lets you keep your job, knowing what you know and his family being who it is?” 

You don’t fucking know either, but you’re eager to dig yourself out of this fucking grave.

It’s a really shitty move, one you aren’t sure if it would work, but you’ll be damned if you care anymore. None of these assholes do, anyways, so why should you? 

You’re not a saint, and if people punch down enough times, you’ll start punching back.

The dean closes his eyes and sighs, after which he gets up and turns to the window. He doesn’t kick you out or talk back right away, something that told you he’s weighing his options on which terrible outcome to avoid. Dealing with you or dealing with him.

“After everything we’ve done for you—all the opportunities and the support the faculty has provided you with,” he mutters, sighing again and you think you’re smelling that Fabuloso scent again as you’re about to really throw up. “To behave in such an entitled manner and put my reputation at risk for your own self-serving motives—truly a shame. You bear a striking resemblance to that regrettable excuse of a man.”

“Guess I’ve learned from the best. Or maybe this place is just a breeding ground for assholes like us, huh?” You smile another strained smile, hiding your shaking hand behind your back. 

Did he seriously compare you to Shigaraki of all people? Seriously?

“Do you… think it’s possible to take down the posts and erase any trace of the incident?” the dean asks, already suspecting what the answer would be.

“No, he’s not a fucking idiot. A sock puppet account will pop up somewhere else every time we’d do that. It’ll be like playing virtual fucking whack-a-mole.” You feel your gut twist and you wince, closing your eyes. “That’s what I would do at least. If I were him.” 

“What about involving law enforcement, then?” He turns to face you, hands behind his back. “We’ve handled cases of defamation in the past. The faculty possesses outstanding legal counsel who could assist you in such matters, however I’m not sure if you could…” He looks you up and down and scrunches his nose. “...afford it. But given the circumstances, I suppose we could make an exception.”

You sigh. Who the fuck died and put this clown in charge?

“What about the law enforcement? Hello? Do I have to remind you who we’re dealing with? How many cases were you able to win against him and his dad?” you ask, irritation bubbling up in your throat. Your eyes dart around the room and land on some random shiny trophy collection in his office, feeling like you wanted to go home so badly.

“Professor Reynolds didn’t actually quit,” the dean reveals, unprompted. “It is Mr. Shigaraki who has forced him to… retire. Or rather his father did.” 

Your eyes widen briefly, before going back to your bored expression.

Of course it was.

Why the fuck was he telling you though, when all it did was confirm that your childish threats could actually work. This asshole couldn’t actually be this stupid. There must be another reason.

“That so? Color me fucking impressed,” you mock, rolling your eyes. “You want me to fucking care, when you were so ready to kick me out of the program ten minutes ago? Pathetic, really.”

Images of Taylor and the dean appear in your mind, both fucking comparing you to him. Maybe they are right. Maybe you really are an asshole. 

Maybe the two of you weren’t so different after all. 

Your frown deepens.

“I’ll tell you what, old man. I don’t need your legal counsel nor do I need your help. Publicly suspend me for a week and I’ll pretend you didn’t threaten to expel me. That’s the only way you get to keep sitting on your cozy ergonomic leather throne,” you say, digging a nail into the skin around another. “Since everything is pointed at me, you can keep your hands clean. I’m sure there’s worse things you’ve had to cover up for the more privileged students.” 

You grab your bag that you previously placed next to the chair on the way in, and turn around to leave. 

“One more thing. If you fucking dare to take me off the scholarship program, I might have to handwrite a fucking letter and deliver it straight to Shigaraki’s doorstep. We go down together. Don’t forget that, sir.” 

A flicker of pathetic resignation crosses his face, but you don’t linger, heading outside of the office and feeling stressed beyond belief. 

Moving forward, you’ll have to deal with Shigaraki on your own, but that’s something you were well aware of anyway. 

So you finally let go of your breath. 

You didn’t lose everything yet. You still had some control over the situation. You’re gonna be fine. You have to be.

Closing your eyes, you walk past that bitch of a secretary and into the elevator, heading for the exit with a million thoughts racing through your head.

Did Shigaraki seriously get so butthurt over the professor that he made him quit? Over a warning? It sounds on-brand but something doesn’t add up.

Also, why do people keep mentioning the two of you are alike? He’s a crazy manipulative psychopath! 

Yes, you’ve done vile things in the past, but only when people wronged you! Mostly. The dean was about to hit you with an expulsion, after all the hard work you’ve put into this place! What were you supposed to do? Not drag him down with you? After he told you to stop whoring yourself out? It felt good to put him in his place! Why did it feel good? Why did it feel good to win? 

There’s a rush.

Did he… also feel good playing dirty with his opponents? Is that why he acts the way he does? 

Your hand is trembling on the strap of your bag, feeling yourself smile with a huff.

Of course he does. He’s Shigaraki Tomura, after all.

─────────

You should’ve gone home, but here you are, making good on your promise not to back down from his challenge. 

You’ve got no clue as to how today is going to go or whether or not you’ll be groveling at his feet the way he wants you to, by the time class is over. 

That would not be ideal, but you don’t have the funds to move cities, nor do you actually want to be scared that stalkers and rapists are waiting in front of your door. Your fist clenches at the thought. 

So now you find yourself standing in front of the classroom door, staring holes into it. There’s around five minutes left before the bell rings, but you can’t bring yourself to go in, despite multiple students passing you by and entering themselves.

You can’t fucking do it. You can’t stomach facing him today. You know you should, but you just can’t. 

It could lead to disastrous consequences, but right now, you’re just a coward. With your head dropping low, you release the strap of your bag to grab your hood and cover yourself, turning around and walking away.

Until you bump into someone.

The smell of his distinctly intoxicating and probably unnecessarily expensive cologne hits you first. And here he was, the final boss.

“Ah—aaaAchOO!” You sneeze all over him, the smell of chemicals overwhelming your sensitive nose. 

Did the motherfucker dump the whole bottle on his shirt this morning? You scowl, staring right into his chest and not daring to look up.

“Fuck! Don’t fucking sneeze on me, you idiot!” Shigaraki barks, wiping himself off but not backing away from you. You close your eyes and sigh, one eyebrow slightly twitching.

“Shut the fuck up. You’re standing in my way and you fucking reek. Not my problem.” you say, wiping your nose with the back of your sleeve and you catch a pair of offended red eyes glancing down at himself for a second, before they turn to glare at you. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”

You attempt to side-step him, but he’s crowding you, blocking your way. You look around and notice there’s not a single soul besides the two of you.

“Yeah? Well at least half the fuckin’ college isn’t waiting to see my pussy getting pounded every week, bitch. Also, class is this way.”

 Shigaraki sneers at you, pointing towards the cursed door that you wanted to get away from. You roll your eyes, feeling maybe a tinge of sadness at his remark, brows pinching downwards.

“And who’s fucking fault is that, huh?” You place your hands squarely against his chest, making him flinch before giving him a light push. 

It’s met with no resistance. He steps backwards to stabilize his footing. 

Maybe it’s your exhaustion, maybe it’s the earlier rage in the dean’s office, or maybe it’s the way he’s taking your situation lightly, but you can’t stop yourself from provoking him again. 

“Yours, obviously.” He flashes you a playful smile, one you haven’t seen since the first day you’ve properly met him. “It’s ‘kay. At least you’ve got a pretty one. Maybe you should switch career paths and become a pornstar instead. It’ll be hard with all your fucked up scars, but I’d still watch.”

Your frown deepens and he sees hurt in your eyes, making him smile wider. This prompts you to grip the fabric of his thick black hoodie and you shove at him. Hard.

“Whoa—” Shigaraki is taken aback by the sudden force, but surprisingly lets you push him.

“WhOaAa!!!” you mock his stupid fucking voice. 

And then you do it again. You keep shoving him down the hallway, as hard as you possibly can.

For all the fucking stress, the hurt and the pain. For exposing you to thousands of people online. For putting you in danger by convincing people it was okay to harass you. For threatening to do worse. For ruining everything. For ruining everything! 

You feel dizzy and foggy from overdosing on anxiety meds, just so you could barely function today. Just so you wouldn’t be afraid.

Of him. Of the fucking world!

You have no idea when it happened, but tears welled up in your eyes, and no matter how desperately you try to will them away, you’re only about to cry harder. You see flickers of softness in his eyes, as he smiles down at you smugly. 

Until you shove him one final time and he trips on his legs, grabbing your arm and dragging you to fucking hell with him.

“Shit!” You stumble forwards and he catches you, bumping heads in the process. Your eyes are screwed shut and you pull back, rubbing your forehead. It takes you a good moment to process what happened, and when you do, you start panicking.

Fuck! Is he going to be mad and accuse you of assaulting him now? Use his fancy lawyers to charge you with some shit? Is that why he let you push him around? Fuck, fuck, fuck! You don’t have money for a fucking lawyer! Especially not one matching his daddy’s big pockets! You’re so fucking screwed.

Hesitantly, you open your eyes and expect the biggest shit eating grin, one ready to bury you in this massive hole you’ve dug for yourself. 

But the sight that greets you is far from anything like that.

As if reenacted from a shitty romcom flick that you and Taylor had been watching yesterday, you somehow ended up straddling Shigaraki Tomura’s lap. 

He’s leaning back, supporting his upper weight on his elbows, shirt slightly raised and exposing his surprisingly toned pale-skinned torso. It catches your attention and your brows angle downwards.

What the fuck? 

You thought rich boys are supposed to be smooth and cared for, like expensive porcelain. Not littered with endless scars, long lines of white healed tissue competing with those of your own, dark fresh patches of purple all across the visible surface. 

How the fuck did he end up like this?

The soft exhale he lets out wakes you up from your daze, brain finally catching up with the fact that you reached out with both hands, one of them pulling at the shirt to inspect further and the other softly brushing against the skin. 

His body visibly shudders under you, and your eyes snap back to his face, noticing how flushed his cheeks are, his familiar angry crimson-colored eyes looking back at you.

For a moment, he doesn't look invincible anymore. Instead, he looks almost… 

Vulnerable.

You grimace, sobering up and wanting to pull back, to get the fuck off him, but he grabs your wrist before you can, yanking you closer to him and forcing you to feel his warmth, radiating against you. His face is now in front of your own, and you curse under your breath when you involuntarily glance at his dry, parted lips.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you whisper, but your tone holds no bite, voice coming off soft instead. Way less angry than you should’ve been with him.

“I don’t—I don’t know,” he replies, the impulsive action leaving him disorientated as well. 

You’re absolutely fucking baffled, searching his face for any hint of his usual cunningness, anything to give you a reason to snap out of it… but all you could find is confusion.

By the time you regain some of your composure, you become painfully aware of your position. You’re fucking straddling him, sitting snugly against his lap and feeling how hard his—

“Don’t you dare fucking move,” Shigaraki hisses at you, a rosy blush having spread from his cheeks, all the way to his neck when he notices you finally putting two and two together. He needs a moment to calm down, to compose himself. 

But you’re nothing if not a brat.

You glance around, checking for people, but it’s dead quiet and nobody is wandering around during active sessions. 

The two of you are partially obscured by a spare desk and a storage unit and you decide that’s good enough for you. So you smirk at him, giving him a split second to realize his predicament and watch his eyes widen as you roll your hips against him experimentally.

“Aah, f-fuck!” Shigaraki throws his head back, immediately faltering under you at the unexpected stimulation. It sends electricity through your body, and your hips buck again involuntarily, while you feel your cunt clenching around nothing.

“F-Fucking stop, I’m serious!” he uselessly warns you again, voice low and coarse, hands reaching to push you off. Your inner thighs press tightly against his sides to secure yourself, and you snort in reply.

“What’s wrong? Gonna cum in your pants from just a little friction?” you taunt him shamelessly, “Surely, our number one villain can handle a little more action than this. Don’t tell me you’re a pathetic quickshot that gets off on ugly bimbos dry humping him.” 

You watch his furious red eyes wanting—promising—to get back at you, his jaw clenching and his trembling hands hovering over your hips, before tangling his fingers with the fabric covering them, knuckles turning white. 

It does little to scare you, and you fully take advantage of the stun, going ahead and rolling your hips once more, only pressing harder this time. 

You feel the length of his erection against your clothed cunt and you wish you could feel it better, because despite talking a big game you can’t help but shiver every time your clit is pressed against his dick, regardless of the layers of clothing that separated you.

“Fuck—I said stop it!” His eyes shut tight as he tries and fails to shove you off of him. He’s breathing heavy and quick, the sight of his flustered face only spurring you on. 

You grab his shaky wrists and lean yourself in, pressing his hands flat on the ground and pinning him under you. He opens his eyes and stares at you in a daze. It makes you feel powerful like this. 

You’re on top of Shigaraki Tomura, the guy who desperately wants to completely and utterly destroy you.

You slow down, almost coming to a halt and you huff over his face, smiling angrily. “Did you fucking stop when I told you to? When I begged you to?”

It doesn’t matter, because you don’t give him time to answer, opting to pick up the pace instead, and feeling frustrated because it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough, but he’s not the only one losing control. 

You watch him pant under you, letting you take what you want and doing his fucking best to not spill himself inside his pants because of you, and that thought excites you. 

It excites you so much, you start feeling pleasure pooling up in your lower abdomen. Your back arches slightly and you fail miserably to hold back your own pathetic voice from moaning above him. It feels—feels really fucking good. You want him to get you off, and that thought leaves you as aroused as you felt disgusted, the mix of emotion quickly overwhelming you.

“Y-You—You fucking—hnngh! You fucking brat!” Shigaraki groans, digging his nails into his palms as he lets you move, struggling not to come undone but feeling painfully close every time you move your fucking hips. Every time you spoke to him. 

His head is reeling, watching you hump him like an animal, seeing you getting off on him. Because of him.

And he wants so much more.

In a moment of weakness, you feel his hands slip away from your hold, creeping up on your thighs, but before you can really catch on, he rolls you off of him and onto your back, desperately pressing—slotting himself between your legs again. 

You look up at him in a daze, gasping when he begins moving against you, quickly regaining control over the situation. He looks at you, panting, the sight of your brows pinching and your soft whimpers turning him almost feral. Shigaraki swallows hard.

Were you always this fucking cute?

“You do understand that—haah—there’s going to—there’s going to be consequences to your actions, don’t you?” he groans against your ear, pulling back and grinning slyly, stretching the scars on his lips and you feel his hands shake against your thighs before gripping them tightly and rutting against you more violently. 

It hurts. But it hurts really fucking good, and you’ll never admit how easily he’d be able to push you over with just his stupid fucking voice. You’ll never admit it, but your body is traitorous, and he can see what he’s doing to you. 

Shigaraki then fucking kisses you, a tentative rough peck on your soft lips, if only to silence your growing cries. A new feeling then arises within him, and it’s a dark realization. Nobody else should be allowed to hear you like this. Nobody but him.

You gasp when he bites your lip and he takes it as permission to slip his tongue in, rolling it over your own with little to no technique, teeth clicking while he sinfully swallows your depraved moans. Anyone could hear you but you’re too fucking dumb to care right now, the prospect filling him up with giddiness as he’s enthusiastically devouring you.

He eventually slows down, lips barely touching yours as you manage to catch your breath. A needy groan escapes you when he leans in to bite your neck so hard, you think it’ll leave a mark. Shigaraki smiles against your throat and you feel it—feel him being on top of the world. 

Just a second longer, he thinks. 

A second longer before he’ll take you to the back of his car and fuck you senseless where no one can interrupt you. 

“Hey, shh. You don’t wanna get caught while we’re in the hallway, do you? Unless you’re into that, you nasty little bi—”

Your eyes widen and in an instant, you shove him off of you.

It takes him by surprise, but it doesn’t matter to you, because what the actual fuck were you doing? 

In public. 

With him!

“Hey,” he says, voice low as to not startle you further, obvious concern on his face. You don’t pay attention because you’re busy stumbling backwards, finding your bag and standing up on shaky legs.

“No. No, no, no—” 

A panic attack sets you off and you step backwards like a wounded animal.

“Wait. Wait! Don’t fucking go—! Goddamn it, just—wait!” Shigaraki gets up and reaches for you, but you’re quick to pull away, bolting for the exit and out of his reach. Always just out of his reach. Both of his hands move to his throat to dig into that familiar itch, to scratch it until there’s nothing but blunt pain and blood under his fingernails.

Tomura feels hurt. You were so good for him a moment ago, as was he for you. 

Why are you acting this way now? Why are you rejecting him—again? 

He desperately tries to push this feeling down, to not let it surface, but he isn’t clueless as to what it is exactly that he felt. He just doesn’t want to admit it. Or rather was taught not to admit to it, to this weakness.

He has to destroy it. To own it.

Why is it that you’re so fucking different? He didn’t expect to feel or act any differently with you than he did with everyone else who pissed him off before. 

So he’d put you in a box, where you sit comfortably next to everything he’s not able to categorize, like his indescribable fear of dogs. 

That’s right, you’re a fucking anomaly. 

But unlike the other ones that he stores in this box, he doesn’t want to destroy you anymore. 

On the contrary, Tomura would like to conquer you. To own you. 

That’s the kind of anomaly you are. An anomaly he—

Tomura’s breath hitches, hands stopping the self-inflicted abuse and dropping at his sides as his eyes widen.

An anomaly he likes.

[furious-haste-of-malice]

❝ "You may have me," Melyanna promised him then, "but you will be mine in return." ❞

⊱ Prompt: Mind control, aphrodisiacs ⊱ Pairing: Melian x Thingol ⊱ Synopsis: Elwë chances upon an Aini in the forest and soon finds himself under her spell. Or: Melyanna's more-or-less accidental acquisition of a pet/lover/husband ⊱ Featuring: Eldritch Ainur, the effects of magic songs on the minds of incarnates, slight femdom, lady topping, light biting ⊱ Warnings: Creative liberties taken with canon, dub-con (he very much wants her, but he's also under a spell), the prompts

𝑨𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓'𝒔 𝑵𝒐𝒕𝒆: The (technically) last one for @tolkienpinupcalendar's Dead Dove December. I messed up the posting order a bit at the end, but hey, it's all here now. Well almost; I am planning to write an "extra episode", so stay tuned for that!

I'm using the Quenyan names in this because Thingol was known and referred to as Elwë at this point in time and I thought that Melian, given how Ainur are omnilingual, would "match his language settings" by introducing herself with her Quenyan name as well.

He was frozen in place, not knowing if it was him who stood still or time itself. The very air seemed to thrum with a strange, ancient spell that neither he nor the forest could escape from, woven into the very fabric of reality. 

Elwë had thought nothing of it when he had followed her song, assuming that perhaps a kinswoman had been lost and required his aid; enchanting though this voice was and unlike anything he had ever heard. 

The being that turned to face him appeared to be a woman indeed, but most certainly no Elf. Her body was covered by a thin dress, resembling a nightgown more than actual garment, her feet were bare and her skin a mottled, greyish-brown with patches of light cream. Stray brown feathers were in her hair and adorned her shoulders and limbs. Most striking though were her lips, full, plump and golden as if covered in honey, and her eyes, unfathomable pools of dark midnight blue. 

Elwë could not speak, and neither did she. Her head was tilted slightly to the side as she beheld him with unabashed curiosity. Whether this moment lasted mere seconds or a century, he could not tell; and at last, the mysterious being approached. 

Her feet, Elwë noticed, made no sound on the forest ground when she moved. 

The depths of her eyes were aglow with a fey light that reminded him of the strange beings he had encountered across the sea; and it dawned on him then that he had encountered an Aini. She was of lesser stature than Oromë and his peers, but in his eyes no less magnificent – nay, even as her wild, otherworldly appearance sent shivers of dread and excitement alike down his spine, he found her beautiful. 

Her lips no longer moved. She was silent like him, yet somehow Elwë could still hear her song within his mind. 

The Aini reached for him, placing her palm on his cheek. Her skin making contact with his felt like rain and lightning at the same time, gentle coolness spreading within him just as a searing shock surged through his muscles. 

Melyanna. Elwë knew her name then, her very being, felt it touch his own. Whether she had spoken to him through ósanwë or planted a seed of recognition inside his willing, curious mind, he could not tell.

Melyanna. He wanted to say her name, but his tongue would not obey him. He wanted to call out to her, but knew not why or what he would ask of her. 

"Beautiful," a voice – her voice – spoke to him then, mirroring his own thoughts, and Elwë realised that Melyanna had her own designs, knowing exactly what she wanted from him. 

Her hands began to roam his body, and she hummed softly, filling his ears and his very being with a playful, lilting melody until she became the focus of his world, the only thing he could perceive. The trees, the forest, the sky above, all seemed to blur and fade away, leaving only her. 

"You may have me," Melyanna promised him then, "but you will be mine in return." 

Yes, Elwë thought in response, forcing himself to nod even as his body began to feel heavier and heavier. How could he say no to her after all, the most wondrous and enchanting creature he had ever met? Such thoughts no longer crossed his mind, as did any sense of danger or duty. Only desire remained. 

Delighted, Melyanna played with his hair, carding her fingers through it until her talon-like nails nearly drew blood, then kissed him at last. She didn't taste like honey, as Elwë had expected, yet no less sweet; her lips tasted like nectar, dew and freshly fallen rain. 

The song weaving itself into his very being grew and swelled, as did the need to become hers. 

When Melyanna let go so he could breathe, sensing that her Elven companion had begun to faint in her grasp, Elwë fell to his knees. 

Please. 

After a moment of deliberation, she pushed him down with surprising assertiveness and strength, reminding him how easily his body could be broken beyond repair if she so chose; and still, he felt no fear. She was on top of him faster than his eyes could follow and kissed him again, hungry for more. 

Elwë wanted nothing more than to please her. In his mind, he saw his hands exploring her as she did to him, though he was too befuddled to tell if it was just a fantasy or if his body obeyed. All he knew was that each kiss felt like Melyanna was devouring him alive, and that his excitement grew with each shaking breath he took, inhaling her very essence. 

His clothes had disappeared at some point, either through some sort of spell or torn to shreds by the now-feral Aini on top of him, yet he remained blissfully ignorant of their fate. Arousal coursed through him with such potency that his erection pressed against her lower body with every movement, eliciting a pleased purr from Melyanna. She revealed herself fully to him then, proudly straddling his hips like he was a most prestigious conquest of hers, and allowed him to gaze upon her nudity with shameless lust and greed. 

Elwë reached out to touch her. Before his hand made contact with her alluring flesh, however, Melyanna grabbed his wrist and pushed it back down, letting out a warning growl. 

I yield, I yield, he thought. 

"Mine," was all she said in response, and he understood. 

He was not the one in control. 

Thus appeased, Melyanna lifted her hips and guided his leaking cock between her legs. Elwë could feel her, warm, wet and soft like soil after rainfall in summer, yet before he had time to enjoy the sensation or ponder whether an Aini's anatomy would even resemble that of an Elven woman, she sat down in one swift movement. 

For the first time since he had fallen under her spell, his voice rang out, a loud, desperate moan, and Melyanna joined him in kind. The mere idea of being inside her, of becoming one with her was incomprehensible and utterly maddening, let alone the sensation of her divine flesh clenching around his eagerly twitching length, gripping him like she intended to never let him go again. 

And still, it was not enough. Elwë wanted more. It felt as though her essence was seeping through his skin and into his blood, making him truly and wholly hers and driving him insane with desire. Never again was he going to touch another, never again was he going to long for another, even if he never saw her again. Melyanna had taken root within his heart, too deep to be torn out again. 

He was hers now. 

Sensing the intensity of his emotions, she began to nibble on his neck. Perhaps it had been intended as a calming or affectionate gesture, yet Elwë found himself moaning and writhing underneath her when her teeth broke skin and she quickly soothed his wounds with her tongue. 

It was too much. 

His climax shook him to the core, and he saw a bright, blinding light as if his fëa had gone to the Timeless Halls, whence his lover had come ages ago. 

Melyanna let out a low, guttural noise of triumph, but didn't stop riding him as he went limp underneath her. Elwë realised then that even as exhaustion gripped him in body and spirit, the fire of their passion still burned him alive, and that she would continue to have her way with him until she too was fully satisfied. 

And he wanted nothing more than to give himself to her. 

Thanks for reading! ♡

[msmorningstaarr]

Holy and Heathen - Chapter 1 (Embrace your duty.)

Pairing: young!Oberyn MartellxF!Original Hightower Character

Word count: 7.5k

Chapter warning: emotional incest DEAD DOVE

ao3 | masterlist

SUMMARY: Lady Melara Hightower is the youngest daughter of Lord Leyton Hightower and has a distinct, serious and pious personality. She is sent to serve the Faith as a Septa, but her destiny suddenly changes once she becomes betrothed to the heir of Dorne, Prince Oberyn Martell. She sees herself living in a land far from hers with distinct habits, dealing with many divergences and a husband far more wild than she could ever expect. Would she be capable of lighting the way of her mind and heart?

(Except for Melara Hightower, all characters do not belong to me but to George RR Martin, author of the 'A Song of Ice and Fire' book series.)

Divider’s credit: @dingusfreakhxrrington

Melara

Another morning. The light of the dawn invaded her chambers and birds sang all along outside Melara’s window, announcing another day to begin. The young girl made her bed and immediately dressed up, ready to do her chores. Her attire covered her body minutiously and made her look as holy and modest as if Melara embodied the perfect definition of the Maiden. She wore a grey wimple, a cover for her long, bright blonde hair. The former lady did her morning prayers and began her day, helping to organise breaking the fast of an Old Septon getting set up, for she was designed to take care of him. 

The life as a Septa in training was not easy, that was true. However, Melara could only embrace her fate since all her marital prospects never really developed well. Surprisingly, being the youngest daughter of eight siblings was quite the lonely experience, despite being rather close to her sister Lynesse. Her mother taught her valuable lessons about womanhood and being a highborn lady but barely shared some bonding with the girl and her siblings seemed to have other aspirations in life. Once she had a blank space in her heart, Faith was a form of consolation and the Septas and Septons became a very close figure in her life, educating and showing the aspects of religion, one of the biggest legacies of House Hightower. Melara knocked at the Septon’s door and slightly opened it with a tray filled with some fruits and bread for the old man.

“Septon Lowan, good morning,” she said, placing the tray on a small table for him. Then, she helped him stand up and change his clothes for the day. 

“Good morning, Lady Melara, it is too early for you to be here. And rather inappropriate for a lady to be in a man’s private chambers.” he said, forgetting that she chose to no longer be a ‘lady’.

“Only Melara, please Your Holiness,” the girl replied, gently. The Septon was on his final days, delusioning and getting weaker and more and more dependent on help. “I am soon to be no longer a lady, for I shall take my definitive vows and become a Septa.” The older Septas in the order designed Melara especially for this job, trying to test the girl and check if she is really willing to take a sacred vow of poverty and follow the faith seriously. The task was hard but even with a confused mind, Melara could learn a great deal from the old Septon.

“You are too little to become a Septa, Lady Melara,” The Septon said, while she settled his attire. His eyes seemed to be numb and lost. “Lord Leyton will certainly be enraged for your boldness, my lady.” Melara remained serious, but tried her best to be kind to the old man.

“I am no longer little, this I can assure you.” she replied, now helping him to get on the chair by the table. She smiled at the fact that the Septon thought she was a child escaping from her castle.

“One day, my lady, when you grow as a woman you will be married to some Lord of great bravery, you will give him many children.” Lowan said, ignoring all the statements the novice made. Melara sighed and tried to send away her sorrowful thoughts about marriage. The novice did not thrive in social life and being the youngest daughter was a major factor to justify the lack of spotlights on her. Melara had no skills to be curtsy, always oblivious to the subjects related to social life, the girl barely left the castle to see the wonders outside Hightower and when she left, there was no one who would dare to come near her, for she always maintained a stern look on her face. Melara could not help but to wonder if there was something wrong with her. Her beauty was quite noticeable, but her devotion to the Seven and bitter behaviour marked her as almost untouchable.

“I shall be a Septa, Your Holiness,” the novice replied while feeding the man. 

“Such a small child knowing so much about yourself,” Lowan replied, mocking the girl after eating another berry. “Go back to Hightower, Lady Melara. Your Lord Father must be searching for you.”

Melara gave up trying to explain her new role to the old Septon, who knew her since she was a babe on a crib. Septon Lowan married her father to her mother and saw her and her siblings getting born, one by one.

“Very well, Septon Lowan. I shall return to Hightower once you are properly fed and dressed, your chambers are cleaned and your pot is empty.” she assured him.

“But that is no chore for a lady!” he immediately replied, shocked. “If Lord Leyton finds out…”

“Lord Leyton will not know, Septon Lowan.” Melara cut his words before the man could get in a spiral of angsty, for believing that she was still a child from House Hightower who would never do such things as cleaning or emptying someone’s pot. “Let us keep it as a secret.” she finalised, making a shushing sign with her fingers on her lips. The man agreed, reluctantly.

“I do not seek any troubles, my lady…” he said, still concerned.

“Do not fret, Your Holiness, for my father will not be in acknowledgement of such things I have been doing at the Sept.” Melara reassured him. “Now that you are properly fed, I must clean your bed. Seems like you peed in it, am I correct?” she asked rhetorically, taking his bed sheets off the bed and putting it in a small basket. The mattress was rightly cleaned alongside other novices and the Old Septon got back to his bed so he could rest. “Now you drink this, Septon Lowan.” the girl said, giving him the milk of the poppy.

“What is this, my lady?” he asked, confused.

“Something to ease your mind, Your Holiness.” she replied simply, watching him drink the liquid. 

To gain his trust was no hardship, since he knew her for a long time. However, as the days passed by, Lowan was getting a bit difficult to deal with and pain was taking control of his body. The milk of the poppy helped him not feel any of these things and made him rest, waiting for The Stranger to pay its visit and take Septon Lowan with him. After that eventful morning, Melara left for her lessons where she would do her daily practices, involving learning about its rituals, history, theology and join the Septon responsible for the Sept order she joined to clean and organise the place, making sure there is fire to light a candle, a match to lead the fire and a solace words for anyone who needed it.

“Have you heard the news, sister?” asked Saranella, another novice, whispering at Melara while both the girls took old candles to pour them out and place new candles in disposition in the Sept. Melara looked at her with confusion.

“What news, sister?” Melara asked back.

“Lady Lynesse Hightower got married at the end of the tourney in Lannisport,” the novice whispered. Melara raised an eyebrow, but internally cheered for her blood sister. “They say she had no consent from her father, but ran to the nearest Sept and married the man who crowned his Queen of love and beauty, leaving to Bear Island against her father’s will” the woman said, playfully smiling.

“I am sure that Lady Lynesse is a dutiful and pious woman,” Melara said, trying to cut any kind of ill gossip about her family. 

“Apparently not very much so, sister.” Saranella mocked. “I heard she was to marry Prince Oberyn Martell… and Bear Island is not his seat.”

“Let us remember this is a Sept, a holy place, sister. Make sure to keep your thoughts clean, away from vile words against an estimated Lady of the Seven Kingdoms.” she finished, throwing daggers at Saranella for those provocative words. The other novice could only notice how those news affected Melara.

“Such a strange coincidence, an estimated lady being so well defended by a simple novice,” the woman provoked. “Are you truly our sister, Lady Melara? Or do you still hold feelings for your home castle and kin?”  

Melara turned her gaze to Saranella and did not show any kind of emotion.

“My place is here now, sister. Any different word is untrue.” she said and walked away from the other girl. Those news certainly hit her in a different spot, since she knew her father had different plans for Lynesse. His biggest goal was to increase his power and alliances, bringing Dorne closer to the Reach and make the beautiful Hightower sister be the next consort Princess of Dorne. The novice thought about how furious her father must have been furious with this escapade that put House Hightower in ill comments across the realm. She also thought about how Lynesse’s former family betrothed reacted to the escaping bride and how outraged Prince Oberyn must have been, for a bride was promised and an oath was broken.

*******

At night, Melara was drained for all her exhausting day, but it was not at its end. The girl had to serve supper to Septon Lowan and change his clothes to prepare him to sleep. Once more, the girl got into the old man’s chambers with a tray, now with a soup full of well cooked vegetables and grains for him.

“Good evening, Your Holiness,” said Melara, placing the tray over the table near his bed. The Septon looked at her, a bit concerned with her presence.

“Who are you?” he asked, completely aloof from her presence.

“Novice Melara, Your Holiness.” she replied, helping him get up. However, the man immediately rejected and tried to stay away from Melara.

“You are not Lady Melara! You are inventing such a story!” Screamed the man, delusioning.

“Trust me, Septon Lowan. It is me, Lady Melara of House Hightower, remember?” she tried to calm him down, using fragments of his memory in her favour. Melara was utterly tired and a tantrum was not in her plans.

“Lady Melara returned to Hightower! Liar! I shall call the guards!” he screamed once more. Melara remained quiet and tried to immobilise Lowan to make him look at her.

“Look at me, Septon Lowan. It is me, Lady Melara Hightower.” she started, still free of any expression on her face. “I joined the Faith and I will take my vows to become a Septa officially. I was designed to take care of you here, do you remember it?” she asked once more and slowly, the man came to reason.

“Lady Melara, such a nice surprise to see you!” he said, swiftly changing his mood to a warm and gentle one. “It is too late for a lady to be here. Perhaps you should go home.” 

“My home is here now, Septon Lowan.” she replied, sitting the man on his bed to eat.

“You belong in a Castle, because you are a Lady of a great House.” Lowan said, while she placed the tray in front of him and got a spoon with a bit of soup for him. “No, my lady, I cannot accept you doing such job. I must call a proper Septa for this.” the old man tried to leave the bed, but Melara quickly forbade him.

“I will allow no such thing, Your Holiness,” she said, quickly. “I need you to remember I am no longer a lady, but a novice.”

“I am afraid you are not telling me the truth, Lady Melara.” he said to her, reluctantly eating the soup she was giving him.

“You have no need to call me ‘lady’, Septon.” she reassured him. “If it serves as any kind of assurance, my father, Lord Leyton Hightower knows I am here and consented that I join the order.”

After swallowing another bit of his soup, he smiled kindly at the girl. “I remember you as a child and not giving anyone a single smile, the exact opposite of Lady Lynesse.”

Melara sighed and agreed. She was well aware of her seriousness and lack of smiles but that did not bothered at all.

“It is just not my strength to be curtsy, Your Holiness.” she said, pointing the spoon to his mouth.

“It should be. Your Septa must have taught you that you must be curtsy to gain affections of your future Lord Husband.” Lowan fell into his delusion once more, making Melara sigh again. She gave up and just tried to assuage her mind and his too, making him believe she was a lady escaping her castle.

“I shall listen to your advices, Septon Lowan.” she just replied, quietly.

“I am afraid your future husband must call a jester to take a smile from your face,” mocked the elderly man. 

“I assure you there is no need for it, Septon Lowan.” and Melara gave him another spoon of his supper. “You seem to be quite insistent on this subject.” 

“What subject, my lady?” he asked, after swallowing his soup.

“My marital prospects.” Melara replied, wiping his lips.

In a moment of silence, Septon Lowan seemed to be choosing his words more wisely and stared at the novice for a while, before speaking. Then, lucidity seemed to hover on his mind.

“The Gods are good, Lady Melara. Trust me,” he said, squeezing her hand.

“I trust you and the Seven, Your Holiness.” she replied, earnestly.

“Good, my lady. You shall be a light at your future castle.” he replied, finishing his supper.

“Your words honours me, Your Holiness. But I shall remain here, remember?” she reminded him. “I will take my vows in a fortnight.”

“Have your father allowed you to join?” he asked once more, forgetting all their past conversations. Melara sighed and squeezed the ancient man’s hand.

“Yes, Your Holiness. He is aware.” she explains. 

After his supper, Melara gave him the milk of the poppy so he could sleep properly. She changed his clothes and made sure she would only leave after he fell asleep. Then, she headed to her quarters, where she finally could wear a mild white night shift and finally take off her wimple and see her hair on full display. She did her nightly prayers and prayed to The Crone to give her strength to follow her journey until the day she would finally take her sacred vows. Melara had joined the order for nearly six months and at her first days she wanted to give up and return to her castle to live as a spinster for the rest of her life, the weight of taking such decision was taken as a whim for many people in the order, that knew how wealthy her family is. Now that her final day to take her definitive vows was arriving, she seemed more certain that her fate was sealed and that made her feel comforted by this future. 

The former lady was tempted and teased for a time, being taken as a ‘spoiled little lady’ that would never fit in such a simple and hardworking way of life. Surprisingly, people were being proven wrong since she enjoyed all the labour and did all her chores, even the most degrading ones, such as cleaning the Old Septon’s shit in his bed or his pot with ease and no complaining, being very patient to people, albeit people related to her severity, worthy of a Septa. Being a burden to her parents was something that consumed her soul deeply, once the girl had no desire to be another situation for her mother and father and felt like she wanted to do something with her life, something that would compensate for the fact she could not hold such power in catching some Lord’s attention like her sisters did. 

Melara had eight siblings: Baelor, Malora, Alerie, Garth, Denyse, Leyla, Alysanne and Lynesse. However, she grew up more closely to Lynesse for them to be the youngest children in the House. Malora, even being the firstborn daughter was not even close to be considered as a suitable partner for any man, due to her mentally odd state of mind. Lynesse is a true beauty though and quite close to Melara due to their similar age, but her sister was rather involved in playing with other ladies, singing songs, dancing and playing the ‘kiss game’. Lynesse was an eye sore and of that Melara had no doubt. Still, she could not avoid comparing herself to her sister, with her sensitive and outgoing nature, with her ability to bond with people and enchant whomever crossed her way, a skill Melara lacked in her personality.

Baelor is tall, handsome and gentle, qualities that many ladies would cherish dearly. His smile was wide and his nickname was “Baelor Brightsmile”. He was about to arrange a betrothal with Princess Elia Martell, accomplishing the hard task it was being approved by her eldest brother, Prince Oberyn of House Martell, but it did not went well once the dornish prince started calling her brother “Baelor Breakwind” when he accidentally let go a flatulence around the dornish princess, that could no longer hold her laughing whenever she saw Baelor. After this occurrence, Baelor ended up marrying a fine lady from House Rowan.

In the end, most of her siblings were properly married and continuing their bloodline, giving procedure to House Hightower lineage. there was only left for Melara to arrange something that gave her life purpose. She was taught her whole life she would be a lady of a castle somewhere, but Melara somehow felt that the Gods had prepared her path to be different and now everything seemed to be true. The novice felt a certain unease sometimes, for she thought about experiencing being loved by a husband, having children and getting married with a beautiful Ivory dress, spending days and months making her cloak for her groom to put her under his protection and wear the sigil of his House to be his dutiful wife. But the years kept passing and many houses rejected her. In the Reach, her reputation as a deeply quiet, bitter and serious woman spread all across the country. In the Stormlands, she thought about the idea of marrying Stannis Baratheon once she saw him at the tourney in Steffon Baratheon’s favour, since she saw how quiet he was and somehow related to him, even if from afar. However, he was fastly betrothed to Lady Ceryse Florent. Some Frey Lords made a marital proposal to the Hightower, but Lord Leyton rejected the idea, since he had expected better proposals for Melara. 

The novice reflected about all these aspects of her life and she would wonder every night how life would end if in the end she turned out to be a lady. She enjoyed the simple life she was taking and had no intentions of coming back to her old home, but her mind every night caught her with these ruminations. With so many troubled things going on in her mind, she could finally get some sleep after a long day.

*******

— Present —

In King’s Landing, the air stinks and the streets are full of commoners, whores and street urchins. Oberyn loathed to be at the capital and hated that his sister was now part of the Game of Thrones. For the Prince, no one could ever be good enough for his beloved sister Elia, not even the ethereal Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. Their wedding match was taken as a victory to House Martell and his mother, Princess Ysilla, but as a loss to himself. 

“You look marvellous.” Oberyn said to Elia, admiring his sister. Elia smiled widely at her brother.

“Thank you, brother.” The princess replied, with eyes fluttering with happiness and leaned her forehead on his, allowing them to look at themselves more closely for the last time. Elia rejected one half of her suitable husbands while Oberyn rejected the other part he found simply distasteful; she only stopped in King’s Landing, leaving her position as Princess of Dorne to assume the role as Princess of Dragonstone besides Rhaegar. On her wedding day, Oberyn would walk her to the altar and deliver her to her future husband, accomplishing his task as the only male in their household. “You should be first, but unusually will be next. I want to see you putting on the cloak to protect your future princess.” she mocked. It was indeed unusual to have a younger daughter marrying before the heir of the family, but Oberyn managed to postpone his own marriage and Elia’s wedding was practically all set up, so there was no turning back.

Outside the chariot, the smallfolk cheered their new princess and wished her good fortune. Some of them wanted to see her in person, her wedding dress or her olive skin tone. Oberyn squeezed his sister’s hands, kissed her ear slowly and chuckled at her last words.

“I do not wish to get married, little sister.” he replied, arrogant as always. “I don’t believe in such things and therefore I will wed no Lady.”

“Oh, but you will. For you are the heir of Dorne, the next Prince.” Elia caressed his jawline and tenderly brushed one of his curls falling on his face. “Whomever she is, will be a fine lady wife for you.”

Oberyn sighed and chuckled. “I am sure she will never be a better company than you.” he says, looking at his sister’s eyes. “And I believe you are in acknowledge that Lady Lynesse Hightower is happily married already, unfortunately, not with me.” sighing and faking a sorrowful expression, he told the truth to his sister, which raised her eyebrows in disbelief.

“Did you make the girl fall in disgrace because you do not wish to marry her? ” she asked, looking at him suspiciously, her brother smirked. “ Oberyn…”

“No need to be nervous, my dear sister. This is your day.” he said, caressing her cheek. “But I would be happier if you took my place as the heir instead of me, albeit being Queen of the Seven Kingdoms fit you quite too well, my princess.” 

“I could only rule Dorne with you by my side.” she caressed his face once more, with a slight smirk.

“Then allow me to take you back to Sunspear and wed yourself to me, you could rule in my name while my duty is to keep you happy.” Slowly, Oberyn kissed her fingers and interlaced it with his own fingers. His gaze was lingering on hers.

Elia giggled and looked through the window of her chariot once it stopped in front of the Great Sept of Baelor. The tension increased fastly, but none of them seemed to care. “I belong here now, and you belong to Sunspear with a suitable wife. Embrace your duty as I embrace mine.” 

Oberyn looked at her in silence for considerable seconds and kissed her cheeks and forehead again, caressing her chin. “I shall miss you dearly, Elia.” he said, kissing her fingers once more.

“I shall miss you too, Oberyn.” Elia said, kissing his fingers. Her faces were close and foreheads touching each other, their fingers gently caressed each other’s,  but quickly broke the moment once they realised what was so close to happen. Outside, the knights of the Kingsguard awaited for her and her sibling to leave the transportation. Oberyn left the chariage first and helped her come out of it. Many peasants screamed her name and Elia smiled and waved at her future subjects, being the nice and tender person she was. 

The now princess of Dragonstone walked with majesty besides her brother on the Sept, wearing an white dress, long with a tail full of embroidery detailed with the suns of House Martell. Her attire had no sleeves, except for pieces of silk involving her arms with small details and strings of gold on her waist and shoulders, always proud of her Dornish origins. As for the jewellery, she wore a golden small tiara with rubies in it and on her neck a golden necklace with the sigil of House Targaryen and House Martell, honouring her husband’s household, besides her earrings and fingers full of rings as well. She looked like the personification of the Maiden coming to life walking towards Rhaegar. Once Oberyn delivered her to the silver prince, the ceremony started by the High Septon.

“You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.” and so did Rhaegar, putting the ancient cloak from House Martell around Elia, who could not stop smiling. “We stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife: one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.”

They join hands and the Septon ties their hands with a ribbon, uniting the new couple. “Let it be known that Princess Elia of House Martell and Prince Rhaegar of House Targaryen are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder.”

“In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity. Look upon one another and say the words.”

Father. Smith. Warrior. Mother. Maiden. Crone. Stranger. I am his, and she is mine, from this day, till the end of my days.

Those words echoed on Oberyn’s head. He lost his Elia to Rhaegar for life, from now on there was no turning back. His sister was the most beautiful woman, the kindest, the most lovely person he has ever met. The Prince watched them consolidating their vows and it made him wonder what his future could be now that his freedom had its days counted. He had given little attention to this, because he did what he wanted, it has always been this way and when he saw, things changed swiftly and he felt like he had so little control of his life, which made him grow sad and angry. However, he could only hope Elia could be happy and Rhaegar loved her as he loved her. Watching his sister finally kissing her husband and listening to the cheering all over the Sept, he also watched his mother smirk and smile in relief after succeedingly marrying his daughter to Rhaegar, after Lord Tywin Lannister despised them and rejected her marriage proposal.

“Do you believe Elia will be truly happy in this place? Surrounded by these power hungry cunts?” Oberyn asked his mother.

“I could only hope for this, my son.” Princess Ysilla said, quietly.

Being the heir of his House was certainly a misfortune for Oberyn, who despite being well aware of politics and ruling, was simply not interested in it. He wanted a life full of pleasures and freedom with no attachments to a family, a dutiful wife or administrating Dorne, he wanted Elia to inherit, once he thought she fitted much better than him. At the feast, Oberyn and Ysilla sat by the Royal table alongside Queen Rhaella and Rhaegar. King Aerys refused to pay for his appearances at his own heir’s wedding.

“And the cunt of the King didn’t even have the balls to appear at his son’s wedding,” Oberyn said, with a cocky grin. “I have heard the man is growing mad, don’t even trim the hair of his face or cunt.” he mocked.

“Speak lower, for the walls in King’s Landing can hear you and the wind send your secrets to unrequited ears.” his mother said, almost whispering.

“Fuck the walls.” Oberyn immediately replied, staring at some blank space.

“Brave of you to say it, but as your princess I command you to watch your mouth.” Ysilla said, holding her laugh. “We can talk about it once we return to Dorne.”

Oberyn was chaotic and restless, impulsive and quick to anger, traits that made him lead Dorne to chaos. Once he became known as ‘The Red Viper’ after poisoning Lord Yronwood, Princess Ysilla had a hard time trying to make amends and repairing all the damage he did in dornish politics. In King’s Landing, she was making sure he would not kill or ruin anything to Elia with his temper.

“Gods, that motherfucker old lion must be dying inside knowing our Elia sits beside Rhaegar now.”

“I would kill a thousand men just to see the look on his face.” Oberyn laughed after whispering his words. He looked at Rhaegar and Elia, eating cake from each other’s plates and smiling with fondness. A wave of jealousy hit Oberyn right on his chest and his expression grew bitter.

“I know what you did.” The woman beside him was beautiful even at a mature age. Long, dark curls falling over her upper body and contrasting with her tanned skin, big eyes with small wrinkles at the side of her eyes, expressing her age along the years that passed by. Ysilla, being the current ruler of Dorne, had no time to waste and she did not enjoy to be taken as a fool, especially from her own kin.

“I am afraid you need to develop this thought, mother.”

“In Lannisport. A lady, promised to be your wife, ends up being married to the man who crowned her his Queen of love and beauty,” Ysilla gave him a bitter laugh. “I kept this to myself since the tourney, waiting for you to tell me the truth.”

“And what truth would that be?” he asked, playing naive.

“That you helped your former betrothed to escape.” 

Oberyn chuckled and drank his wine. “This wine is distasteful and tastes like piss.” he said, making a disgusted expression. “I will not deny your statement.”

“You must think of yourself as the boldest of men for going against your princess and ruler's wills,” Ysilla said, sternly. “You will take a bride to call yours.”

“You gave me a bride I did not choose,” he replied, with a sarcastic smirk.

“The bride you chose in your heart you cannot have.” she said, looking at Elia, that had a jolly expression on her face from afar with her husband.

“If she and I were Targaryens, no one would say a word on this subject.”

“Yet, you are a Martell from Dorne.” 

“And very proud of it.” he said, facing Elia as well.

The princess mother yearned to send Elia away. Not because she had no love for her daughter, but because she always noticed how the siblings looked at each other, the small touches and the unhealthy jealousy Oberyn nurtured for Elia. To her and her passed husband, that was borderline incestuous. 

“I know that you are,” she said, drinking her own wine. “I ran all across the Seven Kingdoms and I gave you the opportunity to pick a bride of your choosing and yet no one seemed to be worthy of you. I was running out of patience and in need of heirs.”

“I understand your reasons, mother. No need to worry about making me understand it. Although I do not regret making Lady Lynesse leave this betrothal. We return the dowry to the Hightowers and right on time I shall find a perfect bride for me, since my ideal wife is already taken by this cunt of a prince.”

The princess mother looked at her son with a brow raised.

“I learned my mind I am not capable of holding you down, my son,” she said, finally looking at Oberyn. “But I am a stubborn woman.”

The Princess ruler had a hard time birthing her children. She had stillborns, infants that died in early infancy and uncountable miscarriages. When Oberyn was born, she cared for him as if he was the most rare piece of thing in the world, no one could come near him. However, as the years went by, her little Prince was showing to have an unique charisma, a natural talent for fighting and a fire in his heart, full of desires and lust for life. 

The prince, intrigued, narrowed his eyes and his smirk faded.

“Speak plainly, mother.” he said, trying to avoid his concerns.

“There is no such thing as returning the gold that was given to ourselves, a bride was promised and a bride you shall have. You will get married and put a babe on your wife’s belly.”

“I already have two babies of my own.” 

“I do not care if you have your two girls. I love my grandchildren dearly,” the princess mother said, clearly annoyed by the laughing on his face. “But they are bastards.”

Oberyn undeniably loved Obara and Nymeria dearly and wanted them to be extensions of him, his perfect warriors and great human beings. Even at a young age, he seemed also to be very interested in raising his children and people in Sunspear also were delighted by the infants. The lad looked at his mother and faced Elia once more, watching her interacting with people around. 

The prince raised his gaze and stopped drinking the wine from his goblet and fixed his posture on the chair and started eating some potato on his plate. His mouth kept shut listening to his mother for a time.

“They are my daughters and once Rhaegar ascends to the throne, which won’t take quite long since… you know,” he mocked and laughed. “Obara will be legitimised and my heir and I will not be in need to be wedded.”

“You find it amusing, I suppose. To send away your bride in secret as if it wouldn’t bring mockery over our family.” she said, looking at a blank spot away from them while the music played loudly at the wedding feast. “I can understand how you demand perfection for your bride, after all, she will be your consort after I pass,” the princess started. “Still, I cannot avoid the feeling I am getting running out of time and as your Princess and your mother, I must confess I keep my alliances.”

“Keeping alliances?” He raised an eyebrow, knowing what she is talking about but wanting to listen to the words coming out of her mind.

“Yes.” she replied, mysteriously. 

“If I remember well, all the daughters from House Hightower are wedded or unable to marry,” 

“Not really, son.” she said. “Tomorrow, we depart from this shithole back to Dorne with your new betrothed.” 

The distaste in Oberyn’s face was visible. Truth be said, the marital prospects for him were at difficulty either, not something he would complain about. Dorne was quite mysterious and open for imagination for the northerners, who could only wonder what happened at the sultry mountains of sand and high heated streets of Sunspear. The reputation Oberyn built for himself across the country did not help him either, with expensive taste for people and fathering bastards to take them as his children. Inside Dorne, many lords were not in favour of Oberyn’s claim to inheritance especially after his duel with Lord Yronwood and therefore, not so many lords offered their daughters in marriage due to his ruthless fame. Still, an unlikely alliance was born from a Lord of an ancient house of the Reach and Ysilla did not intend to let it go. He thought of Elia and leaving her behind with Rhaegar because he would marry another woman. Oberyn wished he could take Elia as his wife, once she was the only woman he saw as worthy of his affections.

“No matter how many times you pout like a little child, no one walks away from me, Oberyn,” said his mother.

“I am not walking away from you, mother.” he said, annoyed.

“Then great! You are to be wedded as soon as we return to Dorne,” Ysilla caressed his jawline with her fingertips in sarcasm. “You are no longer a boy, you are twenty and it is time for you to support your house, to support your mother.”

During her reign, Ysilla could understand and recognize that Dorne needed to enforce its alliances, no matter how unbowed, non bendable and unbreakable they were, a country politically so distant could be rather dangerous. Joanna Lannister, one of her dearest friends arranged a betrothal between their children but it went all dismissed after her death. Ysilla sighed and fiddled her fingers, standing up to socialise with people alongside Oberyn, walking around the wedding feast, after curtsying some lords and ladies, an infamous company approached the prince and princess with a wide smile.

“Princess Ysilla,” Queen Rhaella smiled and gave a curtsy to her old friend. “Prince Oberyn, how grown you seem to be.” The Queen looked at Oberyn with sympathy, even having sad eyes.

“My Queen,” mother and son bowed and said in unison. 

“I must say you look exquisitely divine, Your Grace. Clearly the finest woman in the Seven Kingdoms.” Oberyn leaned and kissed the back of Rhaella’s hand with his flirty nature. The Queen’s cheek flushed with Oberyn’s flirtatious look, something he used to do involuntarily. 

“I have missed you, Your Grace.” Ysilla said, holding Rhaella’s hands. She noticed how Rhaella seemed to be downcast, the rumours about the King’s behaviour towards her made justice to her face, that only looked jolly and jovial. Still, she was undoubtedly beautiful.

“Oh, I miss you too, Princess,” Rhaella said, with a soft smile. “Good times of our youth when you were my lady-in-waiting.” 

“Good times indeed,” his mother said. “But now you have a piece of me here, to keep you company.” and they turned their gaze at Elia and Rhaegar.

“I am sure she is a delightful addition to our family, and so do you,” Rhaella said, kindly looking at the dornish mother and son.

“We are more than happy to join our families by marriage, my Queen.” Oberyn said. “Such a shame that Our Grace the King could not make his acquaintance today.” And once he said it, Rhaella lowered her gaze and had a disguised sorrow in her eyes.

“My husband does not feel well enough to make his presence, but he is heartbroken he’s not present here today, my friend.” Rhaella reassured, Oberyn raised his eyebrow with a clear sarcasm on his face. “I have heard you are to be wedded too, my Prince.”

“Oh, but he is. Lady Melara Hightower.” Her name was revealed to Oberyn. If he remembered well, the girl was promised to the Faith to become a Septa.

“I never saw Lady Melara in person, but I believe she must be a fine lady. Albeit I know her family is here,” Unusual or not, Oberyn felt a rush on his spine. “And will make a fine princess consort too.” Queen Rhaella said and Ysilla smiled in curtsy at her friend. Oberyn disguised a smile to the Queen and got a goblet of wine for him.

House Hightower is as rich as the Lannisters and very close to the Faith of The Seven, since the seat of the religion is located in Oldtown, homeland of House Hightower. Lord Leyton, head of the house and Melara’s father was a man that yearned for power, trying to bring and increase his power with all he could take, his sons would clearly be a pawn in his game. With reluctance, he allowed his daughter to join the order, however, his schemes never stopped. He had plans for his last remaining daughter.

“It is a shame she is known to be a prude. I preferred her sister but the Gods sent me their vassal.” Oberyn mocked, Ysilla’s expression went sour immediately for his behaviour in front of the Queen.

“She shall be a light to your castle, Prince Oberyn.” Rhaella tried to reason, noticing the tension between the Martells. “Have you met the girl yet? She may surprise you after all.”

“Briefly, my Queen.” Oberyn responds in a gentle tone, for the Queen had been nothing but kind to him and his mother. “I must confess to you I was hoping our Princess would inherit Dorne. But she certainly fits well besides Rhaegar too.” he said, looking at Elia, who smiled at him with her husband by her side. Rhaella giggled for the first time and Oberyn smiled at the Queen, noticing how pretty she was and thought about the waste she was being locked with a man who treated her poorly. Everyone knew what he did to her and yet no one had the balls to save the Queen, that infuriated him and made him question if they would treat Elia truly well.

“Oberyn says nonsense things from time after time. He is more than thrilled to wed his future bride.” Ysilla spoke, trying to ease things on Oberyn.

“Oh, my Queen. I wish my mother was right, for I have no intentions to marry nor have any desire to hide this feeling.” he replied, with a bitter grin. Rhaella seemed to care very little for it. “If the two of you don’t mind, I would like to enjoy my last breath of freedom.” he said bowing at his mom and the Valyrian Queen. Oberyn walked towards his sister, who danced with Rhaegar.

“Prince Rhaegar, if you excuse me,” Oberyn said, smiling playfully at them and extending his arm to Elia dance with him.

“Of course, Prince Oberyn. My love, ” he delivered Elia’s hand to her brother and they started dancing. Ysilla watched everything with a displeased look.

“My love?” he said, leading Elia while they danced.

“He is my husband, brother. It is only logical,” the princess replied, spinning along with him.

“I hope he treats you the way you deserve.” 

“He is very kind and sweet, ‘tis I can assure you.” 

“He is not me.” Oberyn said, squeezing her hand.

“You occupy a different position in my life, brother . Besides, I am married now.” she said, clapping her hands and following the dance steps. “And your bride is right there, waiting just for you.”

“I am not jealous, my dear sister.” he replied, grinning. 

“Ask her for a dance and get to know her.” Elia said, trying to change the subject.

“I am more interested in dancing with you, my beloved sister. I’m concerned about your well-being after noticing the state of your mother by marriage.” he said, discreetly looking at Rhaella talking to their mother while they danced. 

“Rhaegar is not his father.”

“This cunt of a King was nothing like he is now. At his first sign of madness you send me a raven and I shall rescue you with an army behind me.” 

“Brother, you are overreacting, for my marriage has only started.” she said, looking at Rhaegar who now spoke to their mother.

“And I wish for you to be happy and safe, my sweet girl.” 

“I am no longer a girl,” 

“‘Tis I know,” he replied, grinning. 

Elia laughed along with her brother and caressed his face with tenderness. “Go dance with your betrothed. You haven’t spoken to her yet, but I have.”

“You have?”

“I have. She is as serious as she was when we were in Oldtown, but very polite.”

From afar, Oberyn watched the Hightowers of Oldtown. He had been in their presence before once or two times, one when they visit Hightower and another time at the Lannisport tourney where he was supposed to take Lynesse as his wife, but he helped the girl to escape with a northerner lord she fell in love with during that tourney. However, he had never seen Melara very closely, at least had not paid any attention to her. 

She was thin and blonde like his former betrothed, with a long and half braided hair on the top of her head, a typical Southern hairstyle. Her blondness shines under the sun reflecting on the solar of the Red Keep and Oberyn found her to be stunning at first sight, even much more than Lynesse, his former bride. Her gown was a strapless light blue dress, showing off her collarbone with a golden necklace on display, with emeralds and diamonds carved in it. However, the girl was far more serious than her sisters. Melara never opened a smile, one single bit and seemed to be uncomfortable around all these people, an outsider and Oberyn could feel it from miles away. Still, she looked beautiful, almost as beautiful as Elia.

“Very well,” he said, stopping the dance. “Only because you asked to.” and then, the Prince took his sister back to her husband and noticed that Melara looked at him from afar as well. Her eyes were blue as the sea and skin as pale as a Valyrian woman, Oberyn thought she resembled too much of Queen Rhaella, even the melancholy on her eyes, the shadow of seriousness on her pretty face and lack of words coming out of her lips. Yet, her eyes spoke for herself, he thought. 

The look on her face seemed to be too profound and full of words, thoughts and feelings but at the same time emotionless, Oberyn knew that from now on his life has changed by her. Melara knew that from that day her life would change for him and by him.

[possibly-god]

Christoph Osterberg – the Shrink

(1975 – 25/2000 – 50)

Escaping the chaos of post-WW2 Germany, Dr. Ludwig Hesse emigrated to America, briefly living and practicing medicine in a German immigrant community, and even more briefly being married to fellow migrant Ursula Osterberg.

Their marriage was one of momentary convenience and desperation – when Ludwig skipped town after the Skeleton Incident, Ursula was almost happy to see him go, until she discovered she was stuck with a rather permanent reminder.

Practically from birth, Christoph was a stubborn, sarcastic little shit who drove his mother up the wall with his endless questions, bottomless well of back-talk, and insistence that her “little girl” was Very Much Not That.

It certainly doesn’t help matters that he’s transitioning into mini-Medic – picture Herbert West from Re-Animator (with a sprinkle of Dr. House’s personality) and you’re most of the way there.

While hiding in the basement one day, 11-year-old Christoph found a bunch of old medical textbooks and pulled a volume on the brain, beginning a fascination with the mind’s many mysteries and points of failure.

Christoph considers college the point at which he “traded up” in life – Zephaniah Mann University is where he cut contact with his mother and stepfamily, and where he met his best friend, Hedy.

Christoph and Hedy rapidly partnered up – she helps him formulate new drugs, he helps her assess her designs’ safety, and in ’73 they got married for tax benefits (and other reasons, none of them romantic).

Christoph had long since forged every single piece of legal identification to correct his gender, so their courthouse wedding went off without a hitch – hardly the most hazardous thing he’s done, considering he also brews his own hormones and performed his own top surgery.

He submitted a paper on the self-surgery experience to several medical journals but none of them believed him.

Despite his many wild and widely-known theories on abnormal and para-psychology, Christoph received his Bachelor’s with flying colors and has continued on to ZMU’s medical program with a focus on psychiatry and neurology.

His personal biochemistry studies sparked an interest in the potential medical uses of Australium, leading him to drunkenly dare Hedy to get him enough for proper experimentation – a dare that would lead her to revolutionize nuclear physics and get them and several others kidnapped.

Medic was initially quite skeptical of Christoph, and vice-versa, but once their many mutual interests and disdain for their ex-family were established, they quickly bonded as Queer Men of Mad Medicine.

Medic’s doves love him. He tolerates them (he loves them).

Between new dad Medic, new father-in-law Engineer, new basically-stepdad Heavy, new basically-aunt Zhanna, and new basically-stepbrother Patrick, Christoph somehow manages to take the sudden influx of relatives in stride.

His favorite pastime on base is psychoanalyzing the mercs – oh, the case studies he could write. He also regularly volunteers to babysit the twins to run twin-telepathy studies on them.

After the OHM incident wraps up, Christoph completes med school and residency to become a certified psychiatrist – though finding places that will hire him is a challenge. (At one point some MKUltra holdouts attempt to recruit him, but he turns them down – their methods are far too primitive).

Medic, Heavy, and the rest gladly fill his stepfamily’s spot in Christoph’s life – he’ll rarely admit it, but he didn’t realize how much he missed that kind of support.

On his 50th birthday, Hedy (still his wife of 27 years) invites him to join her at Team Fortress International, where he can practice freely and they can work together again. He accepts, signing on as the Shrink.

Next up – a Brooklynite brawler and angsty adolescent…

TF2K Master Post

[finalgirlminamurray]

next batch. the secondary slashers are an eclectic bunch

Charles Lee Ray's daemon settled as a sleek black cockerel, the kind of animal associated with sacrifices in a lot of traditional religions, and this might have been part of what convinced him to dabble in vodou sometime in the 1980s. Whatever he ended up doing, though, tapped into something else entirely; his mentor in the occult certainly didn't know what kind of practices allowed one to transfer their soul into an inanimate object, but it's not something any Haitian or Louisiana vodou traditions currently include. Possessing an object, however it's done, will usually cause the human and daemon soul to be bound up in one container, but since dolls and other representations of the human form usually have an accompanying figure representing a daemon, that's a safe bet to give yours somewhere to go. It also means your daemon doesn't get to choose its form, and that's how the rooster ended up in the body of a fluffy orange plush cat, which happened to be what the cutesy childlike doll its person chose came with. Neither of them were thrilled about this, but you take what you can get.

If you stay in a possessed object for long enough, it will start becoming more organic, which doesn't necessarily mean you'll become mortal (you already crossed that line when you possessed it), but its components will start changing to flesh and blood. (Long enough and other organs will start developing.) Daemons still won't be able to fully change their forms, but they'll become more organic too, resulting in a harmless stuffed animal gaining real teeth and claws befitting its newly adopted species.

Tiffany Valentine always had an elegant peacock daemon, which was forced to trade in its previous form for that of a white porcelain (or really, plastic designed to look like porcelain) deer with silver antlers and golden hooves, made to accompany a doll dressed in a wedding gown. They got used to these new bodies easily enough, but it was still a remarkably fortunate coincidence to find the actress she most resembled, who just so happened to have the same original daemon.

(You can't possess another person without the daemon being a dead giveaway. Plan accordingly and make sure you go for someone whose daemon, if not the same as yours, is at least similar-looking enough to make a convincing disguise. Or a still-unsettled child.)

The Ghostface killer always hid their daemon under a similar black cloak, draped hastily over the animal form, while stalking and killing, and the shapelessness of it made it hard to get a good idea of what kind of animal it could be, which would have been useful. (In the movies, the masked killers always find similarly simple but effective ways to conceal their daemons if they have to conceal their identities, like having them always stay just out of sight of the victims, which adds to the evocation of fear.) So everyone's still a suspect, but what Sidney Prescott saw implied something four-legged and roughly medium-dog-sized, which narrowed it down a bit. There's a possibility it could be either Billy Loomis', a breed of hunting dog whose standard associations are noble enough that most people wouldn't immediately suspect him, or Stu Macher's cackling hyena, if you take any of his crude jokes about the situation seriously. Turns out - to some surprise - it's both.

Going back several decades, Norman Bates is famous for his innocent-looking mourning dove, a living mirror of all the taxidermied bird corpses in the motel decor, looking curious and fragile and sad on his shoulder as he talks about his mother and his own loneliness. The figure who stabbed Marion Crane in the shower couldn't possibly have been him - the daemon's silhouette seen behind the curtain was far too big and a different shape entirely.

Pop psychology says that if a sufficiently strong personality influences one from a formative age, that personality can take over the original person's mind at moments of strong emotion, which is accompanied by their daemon changing to that of the person whose identity they are adopting. Whether there's any truth to that or not, it's certainly an easy visual signifier when the dove changes to Mrs. Bates' imposing hawk.

Jess Bradford and her sorority sisters speculated once that the voice of "the Moaner" who harassed them occasionally on the phone might not be a human voice at all, but a parrot or one of those birds that can mimic various people's voices with uncanny precision. It turned out that the killer calling himself Billy had a macaw for a daemon, and they alternated sending out their erratic messages whenever they called. (Fans of the movie speculate that his daemon's name is Agnes, but this has never been confirmed and seems unlikely from context.)

posting my slasher daemon headcanons here finally

core 4 slashers (or the ones i think of as them) first!

Pamela Voorhees had a huge grizzly bear as her daemon, an intimidating-looking animal for such a kind and motherly woman, but the children at camp were never scared of him, and the mama bear is proverbial for a reason. After the camp shut down, there were a number of reported sightings in the surrounding woods of a bear that didn't belong in this region of the states at all, but since she still lived by, it could easily be explained as someone's daemon. Less explicable were the bodies that didn't look like they'd been mauled by any kind of bear, but that mystery was solved when Alice Hardy struck off the old woman's head and watched her daemon dissolve into dust.

Her son drowned before his daemon ever got the chance to settle. After Mrs. Voorhees' death, the bear sightings persisted. (Sometimes a revenant can be created out of a strong feeling of vengeance or a purpose needing to be fulfilled in someone else's stead, and they can still have a daemon despite being dead. It's no surprise that Jason's settled on the same form as his mother's.)

Fred Krueger's red fox daemon was known to the people of Springwood as a charming, playful creature, more so than the man himself, tripping up students in the halls of the high school and winking at you when you passed sometimes. She was also known to stray unnaturally far from her human, and one could easily imagine how seeing a friendly fox on its own might entice a child to follow it. So when kids started going missing, there was naturally a prime suspect, but the courts didn't bother pursuing the case after he got off on a technicality. Naturally, then, the parents of the town had to take justice into their own hands.

Foxes can scream like human children in the night. There were no more children found dead after that, but years later the surviving sons and daughters of Elm Street started seeing the fox again in their dreams, changing shape this time just as some of their own daemons still did, and accompanied by a man with sharper, wickeder versions of its claws.

Michael Myers was six years old when he stabbed his older sister to death on the night of October 31, 1963. His daemon should have been a long way off from settling, but she had taken the form of a barn owl that night and still hadn't changed once after fifteen years. When he returned to Haddonfield, people reported seeing a man without a daemon, and an owl soaring like a ghost in the night farther above him than any daemon should be able to. It was no wonder that the kids mistook him for the boogeyman, whatever that was to them.

The youngest Sawyer brother's daemon settled late, as an enormous wild boar that could never be mistaken for any of the domesticated livestock being hung up and bled out in the slaughterhouse. Which is good for him, because his daemon doesn't talk any more than he does, just grunting and squealing like any other pig. (His family thinks sometimes that his daemon never actually settled, she just found a form she likes. She might still be able to change if she wanted to, just like he easily changes his face depending on what he's doing at that time.) No one dared pick on him back then, though, because wild boars are known as tenacious fighters that could eat a man alive. And they especially don't want to face down a pack of them.

(His daemon stands out among his brothers, though. For one reason or another, they all have birds.)

[yinses]

—hawks ft. established relationship + dom!keigo + exhibition + overstim

rating: 18+ a/n: thank you so much to @ultimate-astridwriting​ for allowing me to be part of this collab !! it was the shove i needed to get back into the fandom. hawks has always been my favorite hero so i hope to do him justice.

➳ impatient collab masterlist

fist pressed against his cheek, he browsed over the sight before him, taking it all in without considering really any details. fighting a smirk, he cocked an eyebrow.

“i’m not feeling the color. change it for the other one.”

to be frank, he had no particular preferences for color, design, texture or any of that shit–though, he did have a weakness for anything with a pretty flare to it, the air of innocence that he loved to bathe you in with all the frills and fluff. however, it didn’t mean that he wasn’t fond of deciding which palettes suited you best. but he had a specific reason as to why he voiced that particular opinion of his.

sale’s representatives, all mascara-lined eyes and glossy lips, held your hands by your side  in a surrendering position as they paraded you in front of your boyfriend as though this was his own private fashion show. and in a way it was, he’d spent good hard earned money renting out the area for a few hours. enjoying it all from his throne placed perfectly in front of the changing rooms, watching how you were dragged in and out by the forceful employees with him picking out what items you wore.

the clatter of the sale’s girls dragging you back in the changing room again, drew him from his thoughts. you were a flushed mess, struggling to wriggle away from their sharp nails while insisting that you could walk on your own. overall, you'd have been rather accommodating to his whims. but you always were. and as such a good girl, he would reward you for it. for now though, he couldn’t resist giving you a mocking smirk when you tried to grab him and failed miserably at that.

back to the prison of hands again, he noted, as they closed the door behind them and made a fuss over what you disliked and what he wanted. as more girls pecked at you to stay still while they taught you how to wear the clothing properly. outside, keigo waited patiently for them to be done as his eyes travelled from one end of the store to the other, looking at the fancy lingerie and wondering what would actually be perfect for you. but then again, to be painfully honest, you made anything here look good.

and then there's also another fact that he had to come to terms with.

he liked you best without anything on.

with only your bare skin, lying amidst the fluffy pillow with silken sheets tangled around your body. legs demurely spread, hands placed above your head and looking as though you were begging to be dominated. that was certainly the very image of excellence that any man could ever ask for. wanton eyes, warm cheeks, slightly parted lips, panting–ah, but you would gasp wordlessly as he’d stolen your voice many rounds prior. keeping his eyes peeled on the floor, the man shuddered briefly and rolled his shoulders back to remind himself that he was in a store and any further acts of indecency would totally be out of the question. especially when he remembered how you straddled him last night, thighs over his torso. sinking in inch by inch, throwing your head back when he bucked up a bit too hard on you–

"mr. hawks, what do you think of this?"

there you stood, with your hands still raised again, eyes watering under the torment of these awful ladies. biting your lips with warmth tainting your cheeks, hair cascading over your shoulders and meeting the body that was hugged by a pair of lingerie. strapless and curvaceous mounds of yours, covered with a brassiere. a matching panty, complete with small laces forming gathers on the hems as they trailed invitingly towards to garter at your thighs.

he stared.

and blinked.

only once.

"sir?" one of the older females repeated, raising her eyebrows. "…what do you think?"

trying to cover up the fact that his awkward silence was making the room uncomfortable with anticipation, keigo casually leaned backwards and crossed his legs together. his wings fluttered in reflection of his thoughts, rising and falling with each new epiphany. dark eyes walked all over your body, drinking in how your breasts were perfectly pressed together and how your legs trembled when his eyes stopped at the ribbons of the panty. finally hovering over your face, where when eyes met, your blush darkened and you immediately dropped your gaze to your bare feet. he smirked at that sinfully innocent reaction of yours.

coy today, were you not?

without skipping a beat, keigo drew out a card and threw it over to one of the sale’s girls, who fumbled as she tried to catch it with her clammy fingers. eyes still locked at your face, knowing that with his stare alone he was making you feel uncomfortable. and damn, he still loved seeing you squirm around like a virgin on her wedding night.

"i'm taking everything that she tried on just now," he answered loftily, still seated on the cushiony sofa, leaning his head against one arm and letting the other one tap rhythmically on the armrest. when the employees all squeaked out a pathetic noise of agreement, keigo allowed his lips to curve upwards in a smirk as he drawled out the next order; "charge what you need on it, i don't give a shit. and oh, and don't forget to charge what it takes to buy this section for another hour. turn off the surveillance too while you're at it because this area's mine from the time being."

needless to say, their faces instantly decolorized. but they wouldn’t challenge his demands. the brief raise of his massive scarlet wings was an unnecessary reminder as they stretch languidly without threat. he was a hero after all. who were they to challenge a frivolous form of stress relief?

he had no doubt that they had an inkling of what would occur over the next hour or so. but he was certain the gossip would get lost in the rumor mill.

hawks was a rather eccentric individual. what isn’t he up to these days?

keigo had never saw the staff evaporating and clearing the area within less than a minute as they closed off the doors behind them, leaving this particular section untouched for the next event that was about to take place.

it really did not make you feel any better though.

"little dove."

he watched as you jumped, realizing his attention was solely on you now. you raised your eyes to his again, locking eyes with deviously glinting ones. right now, at this moment, keigo knew how much power he held over you, and damn well he was about to abuse his privileges to no end. leaning snugly against the soft backing of the sofa, he cupped his chin with his palm and arrogantly raised an eyebrow when you shuddered under his disturbing gaze. you looked much as though you were lost and backed into a corner with nowhere else to go. keigo smirked; haughty, superior, dominating you single-handedly, and his other hand rose slightly from the armrest.

a single finger curled inwardly.

a low voice

commanding.

"come here, now"

you knew what came from that tone, but the words didn’t ignite the same spark as it did within the safe space of your home.

you only hesitated briefly, but it was still a second to long for his tastes as his lips already began curling down in disappointment. your heart rapped heedlessly against your ribcage, sent spiraling into an off-beat staccato as you quickly tried to alleviate the shift in mood.

never in your relationship had you considered denying keigo. not the man who laid out everything you could have asked for on a silver platter. it's just that-

your feet crossed the minimal distance necessary to appear agreeable though your face still twists in concern.

“really? …. you want to have sex …. here?”

fingertips grapple anxiously while your eyes dart across the empty but still very publicly accessible room.

“now?”

keigo already look bored with the exchange, digits curling once more with something just outside of patience.

“yes, now.”

his wings flex in consideration, yet he doesn’t move to rise form his seat. instead he changes tactics.

“i just want to show a bit of appreciation for all the pretty things i just bought you.’’

it sounds backwards … as if those should be the words coming out of your mouth not his. but the hint doesn’t come any stronger than the easy grin that spreads across his lips. he even makes a show of lounging back against the cushioned seat, body open in invitation should you dare.

and bite you did, teeth nibbling at the bait as you approach. keigo remains still, though his eyes dance with barely contained excitement as you gingerly crawl into his lap, fancy garments already rubbing enticingly against his thighs?.

the flap of his wings welcome gusts of winds and gratitude as his arms curl around you. the hand at your cheek tilts your head up to meet his gaze. it was always so easy for you to get lost in those specks of liquid gold. but now there was hardly any left to admire with the way his pupils were blown wide with lunch.

a shiver tickles your spine and you’re vaguely away that he’s kissing the line of your jaw, whispering soft words of encouragement as his hips raise to rock subtlety. it all left you shuddering in peaked anticipation as your worries melted into the recesses of your mind.

the hand cupping the roundness of your face stops you before you can lean in for more, the nose brushing against the tip of your nuzzling there in brief affection as he garnered the fraying tips of your attention. “yes?”

the fog of arousal abated a little at the question as your conscious thoughts swam back into the surface to input the code that would spiral you into your deepest desires.

“yes,” you verbally consented as you leaned up into him for a needy kiss. keigo swept his tongue out, meeting the the soft upper palate of your mouth with languid strokes. a rumbling trill greets you when you nibble in response. keigo eagerly chases you into a fevor of song and dance, building your body up to the inevitable fall he plans to send you crashing down in.

when he breaks the kiss, his eyes drop to the price tag still resting innocently against the swell of your bosom. he snaps it away from the fabric, uncaring of the threat against its delicacy as he tosses the flimsy paper to the side.

there were plenty more where it came from. and he was yearning to get the real show on the road.

“now then. how could i possibly show my thanks?”

nails dig into his shoulders for purchase as you rock traction into the firmness of his lap. keigo meets the upward curve of your hips with a sneaky dive of his hand between your thighs where his hand warms the skin there. 

you expect him to dip right in, cognitive of the spare time the two of you had to play. but as a dangerous smile twists at his mouth, you realize this is hawks time, a reality that flows differently than everyone else’s. 

“trying to decide if i want you to keep these on or not. “ he contemplates aloud, fingers plucking at the elastic.” i mean it would be a shame to leave them out.”

you nod mutely, ready to agree with whatever favored progression. keigo’s gaze narrowed at the silent insinuation “what? you want to make this into a quickie? but we have so many outfits to try.” 

you already knew that, acutely aware of each and every article of clothing that had been zipped, tied or squeezed around your body. and you were grateful of each and every addition, would even gladly spend the next few weeks letting him fuck you in each variation against your shared mattress at home. 

what you wanted now was for him to come so that you could start that private show within your own walls. 

keigo chooses to go for an adorable pout, lips pulling on aged heart strings, yet managing to make them go taut all the same. he waits until your body soften from the tension, aiding the transition with slow strokes against your back and inner leg. 

“one pair.”

it’s your back that losses his touch in order for him to bring a single finger in front of your face. 

“let me ruin one pair with my come and we can call it quits.”

and you say okay. brining your pelvis back into an enticing dance as you meld that pout into an eager kiss. you were already dressed for the occasion and had all the tips and tricks in your inventory to help him reach his goal. one easy step and you could be on your way.

                                                   how naive you still were. 

eight pair now. he’d brought you near completion just as many times before halting the grind of your hips with a frown. he mad for a rather convincing curator, inspecting each and every pair of to the finest thread. 

‘too blue.’

‘too much lace.’ 

‘it just doesn’t feel right. ‘

‘why don’t we try something else?’

true to his word, keigo had been determined to find the perfect pair to meet him at the edge of nirvana, and dragged you from one painstakingly near orgasm to the next along the way. 

"stop."

you whimpered desperately, pressing your forehead against his shoulder as you forced yourself to remain seated with him throbbing deeply within you. pulsing, hot, too hot. scorching you inwardly and causing strange sensations to sear through your veins. his hands were still on the armrest, they were not on you, they were not driving you crazy with their constant teasing and whatnot this time. because he was not doing anything to make you this crazy when you were already this crazy for him. 

his lips smirked against the shell of your ear, a moist tongue peeking out to leave a wet trail. you fought every inch of yourself to stop your hips from moving again. because of his command, you could not move. you could not bring yourself to move. simply because it was his desire and you could not deny him.

"close?" he murmured darkly into your ear, wispy breath tickling your neck. making a sharp sensation run down your spine, forcing you to arch against him and pressing your bare breasts against his chest. he knew it, he knew that he drove you this wanton for him, all desperate and wanting more.

and yes, you were too close.

too close until one more move, he could make you topple over the chasm of ecstasy without even doing anything to you.

"hmm," he whispered this time, continuing his words with a foreboding edge as his lips brushed against your neck, against your ear, over your cheeks and teeth lightly nipping at your bottom lip.  making you try to kiss him, but he pulled away just like that and watched in sadistic satisfaction when you gave an exasperated groan. "i was too. and then i saw a pretty olive green peeking out of that pile over there."

there was hardly any vigor left in you to groan. 

you pressed your forehead against his slick neck, letting your warm gasps leave his skin, as your head desperately twisted in pinpricks of denied pleasure at his command. it was all a game, one that you could end with a single uttered word from your lips. but you’d never been a quitter, something keigo admired in you. his desires took you on erotic journeys you would have never dared to attempt in prior relationships. perhaps you were becoming just as debauched as he was. 

 there probably wasn’t even fabric of that color lying around and if there was it they weren’t within his eyesight.  keigo was painfully teasing you with this, building up your desire to the most desperate extent because you could not stand anymore. and he knew it too. he throbbed against your walls, the sporadic pulsing sending shrapnel of lust into your loins, and you told yourself that if you were compliant to his orders, then he would surely reward you afterwards.

he would.

he always did.

"okay," he spoke up again, pressing his cheek against yours because he knew that you had if he didn’t end it now, then he wouldn’t get out of it what he wanted. bright eyes were still glowing deviously under the chandeliers of the store, making him appear feral. it provided a visual desire for you to nip his ear, to lick his neck and to kiss his lips.

"you can move now, dove. let’s finish this and go home."

what an alluring goal that was, twinkling encouragingly from finish-line.

you gulped harshly, feeling your legs too weak to push you upwards again.  because he stopped you countless times and made a pleasure overload overrun in your body, turning your limbs to jelly.

a simple shake of your head was all the answer that you could muster.

it was either that or you would faint from the sheer ecstasy.

that made him smirk devilishly again when he looked at you, taut cheeks, lust-darkened blue eyes, a trickle of sweat running down his temple from the amount of restraint he was putting on himself. you felt as though you were opened, taken, torn from within by this man alone when he chuckled, pressing those sinful-stained lips to your forehead.

"maybe if you would beg just right, i’d bother to move."

whining, you shake your head as every cry you knew spilled past your lips. you begged, to pleaded keigo to move so that he would put you out of this torture.  so that he could make you reach that blinding bliss, that your nerves would tighten and your toes would curl. so that you would clench around him tightly, that he could come together with you in this passionate endeavor.

too desperate, nerves tingling with his every wicked command, your shaking hands slowly rose and cupped his cheeks, feeling his soft, flushed skin under your touch and forcing him to look at you in the face. your lashes falling part way over your gaze. plump, bitten lips drawing closer and closer and closer to him and closer and closer and closer with every second.  him slowly moving forward to join his mouth with yours in a desperate kiss, and you suddenly paused, letting only your lips brush against his, not moving forward anymore.

his eyes hardened when he felt your words form at his lips.

please.

it seemed as though playtime was finally over, for now. 

keigo adopted a fast and hard pace, thighs jerking up to meet your earnestly with each slap of skin. the force of his thrust jolted you into a haphazard bounce as you fumbled desperately for traction and stability. each pull and push of your joined bodies was accompanied by a tremulous whimper as you gasped and groaned against the shell of his ear. keigo knew the sweet vocalizations weren’t completely for his sake, but more of the aftershocks of the broken damn as they spilled through the cracks of your lips. 

he still hummed, pleased as his mouth latched onto a pebbled nipple protruding from the fine silk still managing to encase your breast. it was a combination of the gyration of your hips and his own weakening resolve that triggered his own orgasm as he finally let go with broken explicative. 

your own pleasure was brought to you without chase, almost a reward for your efforts as you withered through it. keigo’s quiet praises wash over you like aloe, softening the worst of the burnings sensations as your thighs quake in protest. he nuzzles his face into the side of your neck as his arms encircle you and drag you down with him.

the already too small chaise had to be uncomfortable for his wings with your additional weight but he never voiced a complaint as the rose and fell over your sweaty skin. neither did you, despite the sticky resistance of his spent coating the inside of your thighs. at least you wouldn’t have to walk home in this particular pair. not that you planned on walking period as you grumbled a demands that he would be flying you both home. 

he snickers all while peppering a series of kisses against your nose,” anything you want, little dove.”

[fanonical]

you have any favorite LGBT homestuck headcanons?

June's a trans girl but she doesn't know it yet. She's not interested in men, but maybe one day she might be after she opens her mind up in her transition.

Rose works out she's a lesbian pretty young and maybe never "comes out" so much as everybody just realises after a while

Dave is gay and has been working that out hopping from "straight" to "not using labels" to "queer" to "bisexual" for a lot of his youth. I think by the start of Homestuck he firmly believes he's straight because he's afraid of the feelings he has for boys, and by the end he basically is on the cusp of admitting to his close friends that he's into dudes, but he still thinks he's into women (and he's not)

Jade has been unquestioningly bisexual for as long as she can remember, although she maybe didn't know the word for it until at least meeting the other kids online, and maybe doesn't even identify in a particular way at all (at least, not until she's in her twenties)

Jane is bisexual, and she will never, ever know it. There's a good chance she won't ever properly examine the feelings she has for women, and had for Roxy, and will die identifying as heterosexual.

Roxy is bisexual, and fully knows it. Again, I don't know if she would identify with the word itself, but I also don't think she'd mind people describing her that way (or as pansexual, for that matter). She's just into who she's into, and has never really understood a distinction in the "feelings" even if she understands men and women are socially different roles to some extent. Her relationship to human identity is pretty precarious because of her, uh, "upbringing"

Dirk doesn't identify as "anything" specifically, at least not as a teenager, but you could functionally describe him as gay; he doesn't have any interest in being with women. He probably uses the word gay a lot to describe his interests and hobbies, though, like "That's pretty fucking gay" sort of tongue-in-cheek, post-post-irony or whatever this fucked up boy's deal is.

Jake is bisexual. This is law.

The trolls are all ambiguously bisexual and also mostly literally bisexual? I think trolls can be straight or gay or whatever, but they certainly don't use words like that to describe those things; they simply don't envision sexuality that way on Alternia (Beforus might, though?) -- but I guess you could describe Kanaya as functionally a lesbian, but she'd most likely just envision it as "I'm not really attracted to men" rather than describing it with a group she's identifying into.

Some other misc stuff I like is envisioning Roxy as a trans girl, I really like AUs and headcanons involving that. I also like Dove Strider as a headcanon but mostly only for the cool and cute designs I see for her, I don't know if i actually think it about Dave but it's certainly really neat. i also feel like Calliope is metatextually transfeminine in the original comic, but that's not really a headcanon. trans Terezi is good, so is non-binary Terezi (however you envision that), Sollux is definitely transmasc. Jade Harley is trans maybe?????? love that girl.

thank you for asking a question i can self-indulge in. i love you.

Ask me anything about Homestuck!