#in a way that had a causal chain

[dallonwrites]

the first chapter of lover boy is really intense on an emotional level because So Many Things happen in quick succession it's like beau barely gets a chance to breathe and process it. meanwhile RR opening chapter is just felix and dorothy arguing in a laundromat.

[yanderedrabbles]

Private Military Contractor - Yandere Noncon

Yandere Male x Fem Reader Heavily inspired by this incredible fic.

He took you. Plucked you straight off the street on the way back from class. He must have known your routine down to a tee, because he did it all with a casual, brutal efficiency. Parking his rented van on the quietest road on your route, stacking a ladder and some paint cans outside so you'd think he was just a regular workman. The door open and waiting just for you, though you didn't know it yet.

You remember greeting him ‐ a quick good morning to be polite - without stopping or even really looking at him. You walked a little bit past the van without realising he was following you. Oblivious right up until the moment he grabbed you, one paw against your mouth to swallow your scream.

He was quick. So ruthlessly quick. Yanking you inside the van and closing the door before you even fully registered what was happening.

He wants you around for one thing and one thing only. He made that abundantly clear on the first day, when you were scarcely through the front door and he was already tearing off your skirt. He would have fucked you in the van the second he took you if he thought he could get away with it.

He isn't gentle. He bends you over the couch with your wrists held together in the small of your back. If you squirm too much, he twists your arm so hard you scream that he's going to break it.

He fucks you dry. Shoving himself inside of you despite how tight you are, how unready and unwilling. He groans at the first thrust, so obscenely satisfied. Like he's finally tasting a prize long differed.

He doesn't last long during the first round. Spilling himself into you after less than three minutes.

He's big - too fucking big. The cum that drips out of your cunt is tinged pink with blood. If he notices it, he doesn't care. He just stands there for a minute, stroking himself hard again and then it's time for round two. Your tears haven't even had time to dry.

He fucks like a soldier in a foreign war zone. Taking, claiming, stealing. It doesn't matter that you're not his to have; he has his guns and his training and to him that's all the reason he needs.

He fucks like he hasn't had a woman in years. With all the pent up energy of long, lonely nights spent in the ugliest parts of the world. He fucks you like a man who's finally gotten his hands on the fantasy he's nursed through all the worst moments of his life.

He fucks like he's terrified of losing you now that he finally, finally has you.

You can't stand after he's done with you. Your cunt burning so bad you think you're on fire from the inside out. He doesn't care that you hang limp from his grip. He just picks you up and tosses you over one broad shoulder and takes you to his bedroom.

You come out of your shock only when you feel the handcuffs closing around your wrist. He's literally chained you to his bed.

You start screaming again then. Frightened and begging and finally realising that this is really happening. It's not a bad dream or a story on the news, it's actually fucking happening to you.

He ignores you, pulling off his heavy combat boots and locking his pistol in the draw across the room. Maybe he's waiting for you to tire out, for your throat to start hurting and for you to quiet down. You don't.

He sighs like you're nothing more than an inconvenience and then slaps you so hard your ears ring and white dots spark across your vision.

His use of violence is so causal, so easy. It's shock that keeps you quiet more than the pain.

Before evening on the first day, he fucks you four more times. He doesn't listen when you beg him to be gentle, beg him to go slow. He ignores you when you plead with him to fuck your mouth instead, as much as he wants, just so long as he gives your pussy a break.

Men like him exist on the knife edge between life and death. Is it any surprise that it leaves its mark? That he wants to take whatever pleasure he can because god alone knows how much time he has left?

He doesn't kiss you until the very end, when he's deep between your thighs and you've dug your nails so deep into his back that you're going to leave scars. He kisses you when you're too hurt and sore and scared to turn away. He kisses you and it feels like he's finally staking his claim. Like part of him didn't believe you were real until he'd fucked you again and again and there was no one to stop him.

The next morning, he shoves a bitter tasting pill under your tongue and keeps his hand over your mouth until he's sure it's dissolved.

"No kids," he says simply and it makes you want to laugh at the absurdity of it.

Yeah, you agree silently, no fucking kids. Especially not if you're the father. Especially not in a world where men like you exist.

He has an appetite that's borderline impossible to satisfy. Once he starts kissing you, he doesn't stop. Teeth nipping at your lips until you give in and even then it's not enough. He wraps one massive hand around your throat and squeezes.

"Kiss me back," he breathes, his lips just an inch from yours.

You kiss him and he takes it like you're everything he's ever dreamed about, the prize he's somehow earned.

After that, he spends a lot more time exploring your body. It's like he needed to get some of that desperation out of his system before he could think straight.

He's less feverish when he touches you, but no less impatient. He pries your thighs apart with one brutal yank and drops his face to your pussy. You try and jerk away from him, try and close your legs despite the massive forearms keeping them spread. You don't want him there. It's too intimate, it's too vulnerable. Hasn't he taken enough?

He licks you like he has no shame. Not even a little shy about having his tongue deep in your cunt. He tries different tricks - slow and sensual, rough, tight little flicks. He doesn't seem to care how you respond to any of it. It's more so an experiment to see which way he enjoys eating you out.

You cum on his tongue, your eyes screwed shut in guilt. You hope he won't notice, hope he'll just get bored and leave you alone.

He growls in a pleased sort of way, looking up at you with his mouth and chin slick. Oh, he definitely noticed.

You can't meet his eyes after that.

He's not a doomsday prepper. Or at least not exactly. But everything he has is off the grid. A house with its own solar panels and borehole, no technology except for his old fashioned satellite phone.

He doesn't talk much. Not even when he's fucking you. You might get the occasional good girl or a snarl for you to take it, take it just like that.

But he doesn't talk. Doesn't comfort you, doesn't insult you, doesn't even explain himself. (Though you suppose the way he holds you at night - tight, like you're going to be ripped away from him if he doesn't sink his claws in - is explanation enough).

He has money. Blood money you suppose. He doesn't go to work or leave the house much but still manages to buy you all sorts of expensive things. Silk negligees, satin panties, scented candles that melt into body oil. You aren't sure why he bothers. He's usually too impatient to appreciate any of it - most of the panties end up a torn, wet mess by the time he's done with you.

You look through his closet one day. There's a box full of military patches - Blackwater, Raytheon, MPR, a dozen more you don't recognise. And you know for a fact they aren't just some stupid collectibles, aren't there just so he can play out some militaristic power fantasy. He really worked for these companies. The patches feel real - their quality designed for hard weather and harder work. You understand him a little better after seeing them.

You don't know him. Don't recognise him in the slightest. He's a stranger to you - to the point you don't even know his name. At first you assume he took you because you were the only one stupid enough to get caught. But a few days with him and you realise that's not true at all. He knows you.

He feeds you your favourite cereal every morning, even though you can tell by his frown that he doesn't approve of your dietary choices. He has a closet packed full of your clothes. You thought he somehow raided your house but it's all new. He went out and bought exact copies of all your regular outfits, down to the tiny Victoria's Secret thongs that you like.

How? How could he gather so much information about your life while you didn't even realise you were being watched?

He takes you down to his basement one day, when you've been particularly insistent about asking him who he is. There are rows and rows of guns. Semi and fully automatic rifles, sniper rifles, shotguns. Shit you aren't even sure is fully legal.

You aren't sure why he's showing you this. Is he trying to scare you? Is he trying to goad you into escaping just so he'll have an excuse to punish you?

You look into his eyes - monster, monster in the shape of a man - and finally realise what he's trying to say.

No one is coming to save you. No one even knows where you are. But if by some slim chance they try and take you away, they'd better hope to be fucking bulletproof.

You stop asking him about himself after that.

He decides he wants anal one day in the shower. He's pressed up against your back and running his cock up and down between your ass. The tip keeps getting caught on your puckered entrance and maybe that's what puts the idea into his head.

You're too slow to realise what he's planning and he has one thick hand gripping the back of your neck before you can even think of running.

It's slow, painful going. He wants to shove himself in like he always does but the nature of it stops him. The tip is the worst part. You bite your lip so hard you can taste blood, your hands and tits both pressed up against the glass.

He presses his lips against your temple, watching your face screw up as he gets deeper.

"It's okay to cry."

There's a sick pleasure to his voice. He flicks your clit and your entire body clenches around him. He hums at that, amused and pleased.

And the worst part? He somehow makes you come. When he's finally loosened you up enough to start thrusting, he hits something deep inside you. He notices it - he notices everything about you. He laughs a little and slips his fingers into your pussy. That's all it takes to send you crashing over the edge, your whole body pulsing and aching all at once.

"That's what I like about you," he snarks into your ear when he's done, "I can make you come no matter how much you don't want it."

He turns you around and looks down at you. The expression on his face makes you want to vomit. He looks at you with a kind of loving softness. A tenderness that ignores all the awful, awful things he's done to you.

If you didn't realise it already, you knew it for a fact right then and there.

He's never going to let you go.

He takes your chin between his fingers and pulls you onto your tip toes to kiss him.

"Why?" you ask for the millionth time since he took you. And for once, he answers.

"Because I could. Because I can."

[barcapix]

hiii could you please do the current boyfriend prank that’s on TikTok with Lamine❤️

✮ Current Boyfriend - Lamine Yamal

lamine yamal x fem!reader

sy: trying the viral, ‘current boyfriend’ prank on your bf, lamine.

a/n: hope this did justice ! thanks for requesting 🫶🏼 (moodboard is shite. let’s move swiftly on..)

warnings: just spanish, i think.

per usual, your phone was causally propped up against the limestone shelf below the mirror of your masters bathroom.

purposely, you’d had it on screen-record and video for a while now, so it wouldn’t give away the fact it was recording the soon-to-be prank you were about to deliver to your boyfriend.

lamine, sure he was smart as hell when it comes to football, but common sense-wise?not so much.

lamine has just finished adjusting his golden chain around his neck. “how are you not ready yet?”

“says you who has just finished,” you playfully tease, popping the lid of your lipstick off. “i’ll only be a few seconds.”

he mumbles something incoherent, fidgeting with the blonde strands of his hair. you finish the lipstick addition, sweeping your purse.

“i’m so glad i finally get to go out with you tonight,” you smile sweetly, intertwining your hand with his. “it’s been awhile since ive went to dinner with my current boyfriend.”

lamine nods, then does a double take, his head snapping towards you, that might of just have gave himself whiplash. meanwhile, you’re still gazing at your reflection in the wall-sized mirror.

“wait what? current boyfriend?”

you continue adjusting your hair in the mirror, pretending to be oblivious about the way lamine’s once-bright expression twists into confusion.

he blinks. once. twice. thrice.

“how many do you have!?”

you turn vaguely, offering him a sideways glance. “¿qué?” (what?)

“nada,” lamine tuts, his eyes narrowing as they search your face for any persiflage. “don’t what me. current boyfriend? is there a list or something i should know about?”

you bite the inside of your cheek, merely holding back your laugh bubbling inside your throat. but you manage to stay composed. “there’s no list.”

he tilts his head slightly, suspicious. “..you said that with a little too much confidence for me to believe it.”

you roll your eyes, tapping your foot impatiently. “let’s just go to dinner. we’ll be late otherwise.”

you attempt in starting to move past him, but he casually steps in front of you with a freakishly swift pace.

“al diablo con la cena,” he remarks. “adelante, dilo otra vez.” (screw dinner. go ahead, say that again.)

you glance at him in the mirror. he’s got that lazy frown, brows slightly pulled, arms crossed now, like he’s waiting for an answer that better be a good one.

“say what, baby?”

“that thing,” he says, chin jerking up at your reflection. “about me. say it again.”

you stifle a smile. “what? that i’m glad to go out with my current boyfriend?”

“yeah, that. why’d you say it like that?” he says, tinging possessively, but more so desperately as if that actually stung him.

“look at me when i’m talking to you.”

lamine tepidly curves the angle of your jaw to face him, in which you shrug. “it’s not that deep.”

he takes a step back, eyes scanning your face and jaw slack, as if scanning for hidden answers carved into your skin. “well, it sounds deep! you planning on replacing me or something?”

you chuckle under your breath, flickering between his hazel eyes. “god, you can be so dramatic sometimes, amor. turn that frown upside down.”

you send a roguish smack to his chest, where he stays deadly still. he doesn’t let up, though.

“so i’m just your current boyfriend now?” his tone sharpens, albeit not bitter, just like he’s getting increasingly bothered. “just holding the spot till someone else comes along? someone ugly?”

you sigh. “lamine.”

he looks down to you, arms falling to his sides, and his expression somewhere between annoyed and pouty.

“just say i’m your boyfriend. drop the current.”

you raise an eyebrow. so, this is what jealousy looks like. although after almost four years of dating, jealousy wasn’t a common thing lamine liked to convey.

you can’t deny the smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. “are you jealous?”

his cheeks immediately blush with a shade of light crimson like a blush rebellion; the tone of his voice pitches in protest. “jealous? pfffttt. me? never.”

“you aree jealous,” you coo, prolonging the tail of your words as you poke him in the chest. “this is you. jealous. sulky face and everything.”

lamine starts with a fake cough, and both of his hands pressing comically against his inflamed cheeks. “im just saying no other man would know your coffee order like the back of their hand.”

“caramel frappuccino, with a shot of vanilla and chocolate fudge drizzle—extra cream.” he wraps his arm around your waist, deflecting his embarrassment now.

his hands hover above yours, his fingers circling your ring finger like a silent claim. “see?” he gestures, vainly to himself. “no one else would know that.”

you squint at him. “and you say you’re not dramatic, yet you’re spiraling over a sentence.”

lamine huffs, now trailing your spine with his hands. “im spiraling because the sentence made me sound temporary. im not temporary.”

“no? what makes you think that?”

“because if you ever tried replacing me, i’d have to hunt whoever he is and s—”

“okay!” hurriedly, you jump up onto your tiptoes, to kiss his cheek, effectively permitting him to shut up. “it’s a prank! i promise! don’t finish that sentence!”

“a prank?” he scrunches his nose.

you grab your phone from the shelf, and he now, hours later, recognises the red circle at the top of your screen—recording.

lamine immediately groans. “you with tiktok.”

“you’re as much of an addict as i am,” you add, giggling. “are you saying you’ve never seen this trend?”

the spaniard shakes his head, lazily letting his chin drop atop yours. a heavy exhale rakes from his bones, relief washing over him. “no, i’ve seen it. i just didn’t think you’d use me for content and almost give me heart palpitations.”

you usher a breathy laugh. “okay, i’m sorry. i’ll offer to pay for the desserts tonight—as an apology?”

“¿solo los postres?” he faux snorts, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. (just the desserts?)

here comes the pretentious eye roll again. not like hours ago he made it evident that you weren’t to pay a single cent. “bien. yo pagaré.. las bebidas también.” (fine. i’ll pay for.. the drinks too.)

“así está mejor,” he mumbles. though, realistically? he’d backtrack on his words. (that’s more like it/that’s better.)

“soo..” you peer up at him, hands smoothing down his abs. “are you finally happy now?”

“almost.”

lamine steals a kiss from your lips, satisfyingly slow and lingering like he’s trying to brand it in place; sealing his position as your permanent boyfriend.

when he pulls away, his teeth gently nab at your bottom lip, but his voice is weaker, almost smug again.

“now i’m happy.”

🔖🏷️: @n0vazsq @hearzdiarx @paucubarsisimp @diarieeeelils @joaosnovia @httpsdana @universefcb @madamsoulette @mariejuli (lmk if you wanna be added or removed ◡̈)

[colourstreakgryffin]

oh no if an angel tried to decapitate Husk daughter who was hiding and Husk see's this and for a moment turned back into his overlord form temporarily and it made the chains Alastor have on him Crack a little. Imagine if Alastor noticed this too

Haha! That’s actually precious in the most tragic way possible! I actually already picture Husk pulling a Charlie and just changing form in that moment to commit Angel murder!

Husker- Daddy’s Little Girl

The Battle for Hell is getting more and more messy throughout every second. Charlie’s getting apprehended by Adam, Alastor had been beaten in ages ago, Vaggie is struggling a bit with Lute, the Hotel crew are already getting surrounded by so many exterminators.

Husk is among the group of the fighting Sinners and whilst he is expertly fending off Angels to protect himself and his new friends, his mind is littered with how you, his seven year old daughter, are doing. If you’re still okay

He had hid you away in the Hotel before the invasion hit, in the deepest parts where both himself and Charlie suspected the Angels wouldn’t be able to find but sadly… both were wrong. Maybe thirty minutes into the intense battle, Husk’s cat-like ears flicked up at the sound of a terrified child scream echoing through the Hotel’s surfaces, something he could hear clearly and he didn’t hesitate to jump down from the rooftop of the Hotel, since he knew that scream is yours

His mighty big red black and white casino-patterned detailed feathery wings spread open and help drop him down after leaping off the rooftop’s edges, climbing downwards, down the many many feet as fast as he can. His wings beating up and down rather hard, allowing him to pick up even more speed. Angel Dust calls out for Husk in shock for his sudden disappearance but nobody tries to actually stop him

Since they all know he’s going to rescue his daughter

Husk rushes into the Hotel, his many weapons prepared to attack. Furious, his ears still flicking with the sound of your fearful whimpering and crying for help, his feet beating with every single step. He needs to find you, you’re in danger! In no time, the ex-Overlord stops his sprint with a hard skid around the corner of the main Hotel’s entrance hallway, needing to make it to you in time

His golden yellow eyes widening in both intense fear and overwhelming unfiltered fury, at the sight before him… he almost can’t believe what he is seeing

“DADDY! HELP ME!”

You, roughly pressed into the corner and being held up by your neck by a single bloodthirsty Exterminator as you sob out with tears streaming and cry out for Husk as loud as you can, the silent angel gripping it’s angelic spear in it’s free hand whilst the other shoves you up against the wall. In that moment, Husk’s hollow powerless soul radiated a powerful magical force, a wave of strength that rushes through his systems and somehow…

That moment of anger and fear for his babygirl, triggered something thought to be completely impossible. His Overlord Magic, the souls’ powers he collected and the strength to attack an Angel full on has crashed onto him like a big tsunami wave, changing his causal black suspender-supported black pants outfit to his past snazzy business-centred suit and slick-black hairstyle, in a single spiral of orange glowing magic. His wings’ patterns had sharpened up, the red colouring glows a bright orange and his golden yellow eyes also grow a lot more sharper

The soul collar around his neck, the invisible magical green chain tying him to the deal cracked, like a big rock hitting a glass window… but it didn’t break

Even Alastor senses this incredible feat and it makes his bleeding wound throb out, gritting his fangs harder whilst hiding off in the darkness of his Voodoo magic. His tight ownership of Husk’s soul just gotten weaker, the bonds around the feline avian demon loosened up immensely for such a insignificant sinner doing a impossible task; temporarily transform back into his Overlord form

Husk didn’t even bother using the weapons, he used his returning power. Dropping those casino and gambling-centred items for battle to take advantage of being able to tap back into the strength he had lost via his deal with Alastor. The weird magical flow coursing through his bloodstream that made him feel on top of Hell and in that moment, he summons a large claw attack from the ground which smoothly slices off the Exterminator’s arms, the disembodied limbs dropping to the floor with a liquidy squish

Before the merciless angel can possibly behead you, as it was already attempting to do so. Having striked at you with its tall sharp spear. The Exterminator had been forced to drop you rather hard, stepping back whilst Husk openly charges this Exterminator and uses even more of his gained-back Overlord magic to case the Exterminator’s mask-covered and halo plus horn-decorated head with a semi-transparent explosive energy-dosed dice-shaped sphere

Shoving the Exterminator off to the right with a rather agile kick, the pure force behind this shove had caused the Angel to stumble back into the nearby wall with a very hard thump as Husk picks you up quickly, feeling your arms wrap around his neck and face sobbing into his suit-lathered chest, little body shivering, cat-like ears and tail drooped down helplessly

Husk‘s murderous rage-glazed golden yellow eyes glare hatefully at the Angel, who’s barely moving at this point, clutched one of his hands together and that magical sphere half-suffocating the Exterminator quickly blows up, effectively killing your attacker with just two magical strikes. You didn’t look at what your father did since you were so afraid of almost dying again and shuddering in his arms

Husk just glared with heavy angered huffing at the body of the Angel he just killed with his returned Overlord power, almost shaking in his boiling protective rage, all for his precious daughter. Nobody touches you on his watch

The ex-Overlord didn’t even get a chance to check up on you, forcing himself to look away from his handywork, to calm down your fearful and pained sobbing and wailing, since the Hotel begun to shake. He didn’t even bother running on foot, he had used a teleporting power in his current Overlord form and transports both himself and you out in a single blink and soft pop of silvery magic

As soon as you’re both out of the Hotel in that quick flash of teleportation magic, Husk spreads his wings again and takes you up off the ground to dodge the big yellow magical energy beam that slices up the Hotel in a single clean strike. It’s menacing, it’s intense but he isn’t going to focus on that until he has you off in a more safe location. Clearly, he messed up and his first decision didn’t work in protecting you

Husk ensures both you and himself are away from the Hotel enough, his mighty feathery wings flapping in the air with strong sharp gusts of wind slicing out every beat up and down, holding himself and you above the ground

He is usually a lazy man, not preferring to fly but right now. He must put you and your safety above everything so he’ll keep you a few feet away from the crumbling apart Hotel and a few feet off the floor as long as he has to, to make sure no other Angel can get their hands on you

He takes those few seconds of nothing and of the brief safety to check on you, rubbing fingers over your pinned-back fearful ears. Tilting your little chin up with your glowing teary eyes looking up at him as your lips quiver and letting out shaky breathes

You haven’t seen your father in his Overlord form in so long… it’s almost surreal that he is right now. The same suit, the same streaked pushed-back hair, the different patterns on his wings. However, he is still your beloved parent

“Are you okay, Princess? Daddy’s sorry that he didn’t come sooner. Did that bad Angel hurt you?”

[miquellah]

⚜️The @Miquellah Miquella Manifesto⚜️

The big, long, TL;DR compilation about MY personal takes on Miquella of Elden Ring, as someone who's had him rotating in my head since pre-SOTE and has worked so hard to comprehend him since.

Usual disclaimer: this is purely a writeup of MY personal take, not necessarily views I'm saying you HAVE to adopt. For the most part all my takes are based on actual, in-lore truth ("Miquella had good intentions and wanted to save people") as well as stuff that is not stated, but still fits in cohesively to his narrative ("he does not actually experience romantic/sexual attraction at all, and is just acting on compulsory standards he THINKS he needs to adhere to")

Additionally, I will probably be periodically updating this to add in sections or info I'd forgotten, along with anything new. There is a Lot to say. And of course, CW for discussion of incest in the Radahn and also Mohg sections.

⚜️ Motives

Here we start. Nooo, he did not want power for power's sake. If anything, power, and the ascension needed to attain it, was just a means he was conditioned into believing he NEEDED in order to save others. Unfortunately Miquella himself is also unable to solve anything at the root cause, and can only apply “bandaid” solutions— such as Leda’s paranoia being only pacified, as well as Hornsent’s vengeful grudge. It is likely he did wish to charm everyone under his rule in much the same manner, but this would not have actually solved any problems, only ignored them entirely.

It has apparently been found that Miquella's wish to bury "the original sin" was actually localized from something more akin to that of "karma" in JP; this is likely in some thematic reference to the Golden Order's Law of Causality, which states that "all things are linked in a chain of relation"-- cause and effect. Strife is caused by previous wrongdoings, the cycle of violence. If one could annul causality itself (by refusing individuals the ability to seek revenge or cause strife), one could theoretically end suffering itself.

⚜️ Morality

Miquella is SO "Good"-aligned, truly, that it circles right all the way around to being harmful. His faults are actually in that he still continues to utilize the same system as that his mother did, with its own rotten foundations— no one, single person should have omnipotence over others, no matter how Good their intentions. He is also, ultimately, not able to see others as anything other than “people to be saved”, while also mentally trapping himself into the role of “someone who has to act as savior”. Miquella has the inability to see others as those who are fully capable of their own fates, and he is also unable to respect himself this same way (see in contrast to Ranni).

Miquella's place in the narrative is to make us question ourselves and our own good intentions, to serve as a cautionary tale in that good intentions alone do not inherently make us incapable of harm. Also, perhaps to pose the philosophical question of "if free will causes suffering, IS it truly bad to remove it?" (Which the game then answers itself, even still).

Related Posts: Here, Here

⚜️ Charm

Summary Pending

Related Posts: Here, Here

⚜️ Malenia

Miquella and Malenia are symbiotic; she fulfills what he cannot (strength, physical combat prowess), and he fulfills what she cannot (charisma, social and political navigation). I would even dare to say that her sake and need for salvation is the very origin, and core, of his motives for all his big plans. Miquella did not abandon her, or at least, had absolutely no intention of doing so. That's us who kept him from returning lol.

Some people seem to think she may have had doubts in him? But I think she was absolutely on board, and that she was the last person who he would EVER need to charm. She has every reason to want to see his plan go through, because almost everything he does is FOR her, this included. Also I like when we allow women agency in their decisions!

Related Posts: Here

⚜️ Mohg

God don't even get me started on trying to figure out the exact timeline here. Personally, I don't feel Miquella left/allowed himself to be kidnapped willingly, nor did he manipulate these events. I'm willing to believe that he and Mohg perhaps worked together at some capacity, at some point in time-- I do believe he truly cared about Mohg, and pitied him. While everyone else sees the use of Mohg's corpse to house Radahn's soul, and thinks it was a move made from apathy or spite, I think Miquella personally felt it was a means of honoring him. Mohg had such adoration for him, and so dearly wished to be his consort; by that means, even after the Tarnished has killed him, this can still be accomplished.

Miquella had no feelings for him, but Mohg absolutely was in love with him. Difficult to say just how much of this was the charm? But even post-SOTE I still think that Mohg having incestuous adoration still fits for his character, as someone so pitifully depraved of love all his life, and finding a potential salvation in Miquella.

Miquella's charm didn't make Mohg do all that blood cult shit either by the way. That was all him babeyyy. We can't keep forgetting The Formless Mother herself, or refuse to let Mohg have any faults or agency at all.....

Related Posts: Here

⚜️ Radahn

Originally I had been on-board with "Radahn was unwilling and puppeteered the whole time", but I've since seen some compelling talk hinting otherwise. I'm on board with the latter, now, as I do think Radahn WOULD have been all for Miquella's plan from the start, and I also want the guy to have some amount of agency at all lmao. But I think the narrative also does intentionally obfuscate this on purpose.

But, Radahn WAS kind, and that IS what Miquella sought for someone as a lord. I think Radahn's whole motivation in seeking to emulate Godfrey is that he wanted to be a HERO, and to SAVE people from suffering, much in the way it was deemed Godfrey liberated the people and served as lord. Of course, Godfrey himself was no admirable man when it actually comes down to his sins, and we are meant to see the parallels in Radahn and Miquella almost completely copying Godfrey and Marika in path.

Personally, I also don't see their dynamic as romantic, but purely political, and/or both of them believing they NEEDED to be married in order to solve all of their problems-- because that is what ascension in and of itself requires.

Related Posts: Here, Here

⚜️ Trina

Don't even get me started on trying to comprehend the nature of Rebises in Elden Ring lore. But, importantly, Trina is the key to understanding Miquella's fate, and that he's both sympathetic as well as dooming himself by choosing to ascend. Additionally, I feel he also knew that by dooming himself, he would've been dooming Trina... so of course, as someone he loved, he would've tried to keep her as far away from sharing his fate as possible.

Her penchant for the element of Sleep is also notable in that it parallels his methods for quelling harm. Sleep is a means of staving off suffering, but again, only as a "bandaid" of sorts, and not actually solving any root cause. Trina herself even mirrors Miquella's inability to change, or to create meaningful change.

⚜️ Godwyn

I'll get around to this eventually. Plenty of others have talked around this/the Eclipse tho

⚜️ Miscellaneous

Personally I headcanon his sexuality as aroace, but comphet. Miquella does not actually experience romantic or sexual attraction, but his surroundings and politics place such an emphasis on things such as marriage, that he believes he must conform to this as well.

Apparently the actual scale of his child form is still more or less the height of the Tarnished’s model… which makes sense, actually, with the Great Rune growth aspects. Therefore even childform!Miquella is probably around 5’7.

I prefer transmasc Miquella because like [motions to all of my being transmasc], BUT am equally 100% on board with all the clear transfem readings in the narrative. I think you've really gotta give him some sort of gender, some sort of way.

.⚜️.

[sirfrogsworth]

@haveabowlofweedies I'd like to ask you a couple of questions. I am genuinely curious.

Where did you get this information?

Why did you believe it?

Did you ever think to verify what you were told?

You seem to be very confident and I would like to understand why.

Aside from that, I'd like to give you some accurate information.

In 2020, there were 3,383,729 total deaths reported in the US.

COVID-19 was directly attributed to 350,831 deaths.

The number of deaths with COVID-19 as a contributing factor was 33,705.

So, despite your ALL CAPS declaration, over three million deaths were attributed to something other than COVID. 697,000 were attributed to heart disease.

You can verify that here.

I'd also like to briefly explain how death certificates work.

A U.S. death certificate typically includes two parts.

Part 1 is the immediate cause of death, along with a chain of underlying causes.

Part 2 is significant conditions that may have contributed to the death, but were not part of the causal chain.

So, for example, a certificate might say:

Part I a. Acute respiratory distress syndrome b. Pneumonia c. COVID-19

Part II a. Hypertension b. Type 2 diabetes

COVID-19 caused the pneumonia and the pneumonia caused the respiratory distress and the distress caused death. A clear chain of events.

The hypertension and diabetes were extra things that made it harder for the body to fight the infections.

This is a COVID death. If the person did not have COVID, they would probably still be alive. But all of those factors worked together to cause the deadly outcome.

Now let's say someone died of a heart attack while infected with COVID. The death certificate might look something like this...

Part I a. Myocardial infarction

Part II a. COVID-19

It's very possible that COVID put the body into distress and was a factor in the heart attack. But the immediate cause is still listed as a heart attack. So this would be classified as a contributing factor and not a direct COVID death.

Many people came up with conspiracies because COVID-19 was put on death certificates in this way, but they did not understand that almost all deaths are multifactorial. For the sake of accuracy, the death certificates list every factor that may have contributed.

The truth is, many COVID deaths were probably not counted in the total.

If we eliminate COVID, we still had 130,000 excess deaths in 2020.

Data scientists believe many of these were COVID deaths that were improperly classified.

TL;DR

3.4 million people died in 2020.

700,000 people died of heart disease.

350,000 people died of COVID-19.

Not all deaths were attributed to COVID—a fraction of them were.

And that fraction is probably smaller than it should be.

[strangelittlestories]

The wizard sat in the cell. Their hands were bound in iron. Glyphs glowed on the ceiling, their light filled her with fizzing energy. She hadn't slept in some time.

Fine, they could take her books and her staff. They could deny her knowledge and rest. She had done her best work in the college insomniac and resource starved. She had remade herself with sacred alchemy and experimental thoughtcraft while running on nothing but tea and firefly-root. She could work this problem.

She went over her defense in her head one more time.

“Your honour, in my time bearing the staff I have done many things. I have plundered the heavens for their secrets. I have given monarchs prophecies I knew they would try to escape and, in doing so, wreck themselves. They deserved to get wrecked. But your honour-”

[If you want, we can start now.]

“Pardon me?”

The voice had come from all around her. It resonated through the walls, rattled her chains and her bones. It sang in her blood.

[My apologies for the interruption. You can go on if you like? But it seems you have your arguments well rehearsed already.]

“I have always been… thorough.”

[It is good to be thorough. You should give all your endeavours Due Process.]

The voice was all-encompassing, all-surrounding, a ‘words etched in granite’ sort of voice. But it also almost seemed kind. Or, if not kind, then *thoughtful*.

“Oh heck it, let's get this over with.” The wizard looked up, trying to look the voice in the face even though it had none. “Do we not need a jury or something?”

[No. It has been deemed that your words could be, well, corruptive. Sorry to be so blunt. I shall be your sole judgement. And your ‘soul’ judgement, come to that.]

The wizard was used to peering through the veil to see hidden truths. It was something of an effort to *listen* through the veil instead, but the principle was the same. What they heard was an echo of something gentle but unyielding, something soft but with the weight of mountains behind it.

“First, tell me which god you are.”

[You *are* quick on the uptake. They said you would be. I am Arbiter. I manage the discourse between what is and what is not. I oversee the conversation between consensus and individual. I listen to what agreements have been made and I judge when they have been broken.]

“Second, tell me what I am accused of.”

[You stand accused - or sit accused, I suppose - of breaking the laws of reality.]

“Any in particular?”

[Oh, tons. Gravity. Causality. Probability. Conservation of energy. One one weird one about things going wrong. You name it, you probably broke it.]

“And who wrote these laws? What court or nation drew them up?”

[No mortal court did this.]

“A divine one then?”

[No gods, either. Some of us gods made the planet you live on, some of us made you, but reality’s laws are fundamentally an aspect of Truth. And Truth is an altogether different entity. If it can be an entity at all.]

“Fascinating.” The wizard felt her mind run off in a dozen different directions at the implication of this. She wrenched it back on track. “So Truth is putting me on trial?”

[Philosophers are putting you on trial. They call themselves Absolutists. They hold that acts of magic that bend or break reality are damaging to the Inferred Axioms.]

“So … all magic, then?”

[I am afraid so.]

“If it runs counter to axiomatic truths, then why is magic even possible? Surely, if it can reliably act on the world, it is a fundamental force of reality like any other?”

[This is your defense?]

“This is curiosity.” The wizard clinked their chains in frustration. She wished she could draw upon the walls.

[It is not like other forces, however. Its rules change. Its conventions vary across lands and are inconsistent with each other. It is a trick of Perspective, which does not always get along with Truth, for Perspective plays sleight of hand with the universe. It makes things true just by getting you to look at things the right way for long enough.]

“Alright, here’s my defense.” The wizard let out a deep breath and focused on a spot on the wall and imagined that patch of stone to be the face of Arbiter. Thus, looking the god in the face, the wizard continued, “Screw you.”

[This defense is… unconventional.]

“Listen, buddy. Your honour. Your honoured buddy.” The wizard drew up her shoulders and prepared herself to really go off on one. “You seem like a nice god. But, ultimately, all gods are servants. That’s not a bad thing! Acts of service are beautiful. Sadly, the people you’re serving are assholes and, what’s worse, I think you know that. But you’re so wrapped up in the nobility and importance of your purpose that you don’t seem to care what side you actually end up on or who is standing beside you. And that means you’re not really a servant, you’re a *lackey*.

“It’d be easy to shrug that off and say, oh well, can’t really blame Arbiter, can I? Gods are just like that. But I *have* to believe it’s not that simple. I must believe that you can change and you can choose. And maybe that goes against some divine law or axiom, but baby, I guess I’m just prone to *magical thinking*.

“And it galls me. It does, it galls me, that of all the many things I’ve done… what actually gets me convicted may well be something I *am*. Because if magic is just a way of thinking things might be different, then getting reality itself to - even if just for a moment - see it your way? Then, honoured buddy, I am magic down to the last mote of me.

“The laws of reality? What does that even mean? They’re not laws, not really. They’re just things that *are*. I don’t give a single toot about things that just are. I have no time at all for things that are only ever one thing. I care about what *can* be. And you, my friend, *can* screw off.”

[Unfortunate. If you will not make a proper defense, the philosophers will keep you here indefinitely, so as to limit your impact on reality. They would kill you, but they are scared about ghosts.]

“Then I guess I’ll just have to try and outlive them. Heck, maybe I’ll outlive you too.”

[They are an entire people. And I am eternal.]

“So I guess it’s a longshot, huh?” The wizard spat a thick gob of saliva at the part of the wall where she imagined Arbiter’s face. “Well, I guess I’m pretty comfortable with a longshot.”

---

Enjoy my writing? Please consider supporting my latest creative endeavour, Poor Life Choices. Currently crowdfunding for a run at the Edinburgh Fringe! https://igg.me/at/poorlifechoices/x#/

[tsaomengde]

The Villeneuve Dune(s) can be broadly interpreted as one of the two possible futures Paul sees in the original novel

Spoilers below for Dune Part Two. (And for the original novel, but that's been out since the 60s.)

He had seen two main branchings along the way ahead--in one he confronted an evil old Baron and said: "Hello, Grandfather." The thought of that path and what lay along it sickened him.

The other path held long patches of grey obscurity except for peaks of violence. He had seen a warrior religion there, a fire spreading across the universe with the Atreides green and black banner waving at the head of fanatic legions drunk on spice liquor. Gurney Halleck and a few others of his father's men--a pitiful few--were among them, all marked by the hawk symbol from the shrine of his father's skull.

"I can't go that way," he muttered. "That's what the old witches of your schools really want."

Obviously the Doylist explanation for why there are differences in the new films is that the original book is 60+ years old and has certain elements no longer in cultural vogue that were adapted out or altered to better fit modern sensibilities, and I'm all for that. But I did find it interesting that there is an explicit moment at the end of Part 2 where Paul confronts the Baron, utters the "Hello, Grandfather," line, and kills him.

This isn't necessarily because there is any one choice that Paul makes throughout the course of the two movies that leads here instead of to the jihad. In point of fact, most of the changes that drive him here are caused by choices made in the adaptations of the films.

The causal chain that leads to Paul undertaking the spice agony is his failure to predict the attack on Sietch Tabr, rather than his failure to predict Gurney's attack on Jessica; this is, of course, necessitated by the omission of the Harkonnen scheme in part 1 to impair Thufir's Mentat efficiency and potentially drive a wedge between Leto and Jessica by framing Jessica as the traitor. The final push that causes him to make the decision is, of course, the vision he experiences of an alternate future in which he didn't have to kill Jamis, with Jamis counseling him to climb as high as possible before the hunt so he can see as far as possible. (In other words, he ignores Stilgar's advice of not listening to the djinn.)

Similarly, his killing of the Baron is necessitated by the adaptational choice to keep Alia as a fetus so the audience doesn't have to deal with a two-year-old talking like an adult and killing the Baron, which they probably did because it would have been distracting.

However, I might argue that a Watsonian explanation for the film omitting the two-year time-jump lies specifically with Paul's decision to explicitly disavow the prophecy when Jessica undergoes the spice agony, and to explain to the Fremen that her survival is because of her Bene Gesserit training. He then attempts to secure his position with the Fremen through secular deeds, rather than letting Jessica carve a place for them with the BG prophesy.

This disagreement between the two of them causes her in turn to take a more active approach in cultivating Paul's status as Lisan al-Gaib, which accelerates the timeline of the Fremen being ready to submit to him. In turn, Paul focusing more strongly on guerrilla war against the Harkonnens accelerates the timeline of Feyd-Rautha being put in charge of Arrakis and cracking down hard in the north, leading to the aforementioned crisis point of Sietch Tabr being attacked without Paul's foreknowledge.

Notably, while we do see the shrine of Leto's skull in the film, we only see it in a vision; there is no moment in the movie where Paul explicitly finds his father's remains and enshrines them. Hence, going from a strict interpretation of the film's "text," this is not the future in which the legions are marked by the shrine, because the shrine doesn't exist. It is the other future. The compression of time means that Paul and Chani's relationship is much newer and more fragile and doesn't survive the strain of his apotheosis, and that's what sickens him most.

Of course, the "Hello, Grandfather" path also leads to the jihad, because Paul's tragedy is that his very existence was always going to lead to it, regardless of what he chose to do.

And Paul saw how futile were any efforts of his to change any smallest bit of this. He had thought to oppose the jihad within himself, but the jihad would be. His legions would rage out from Arrakis even without him. They needed only the legend he already had become. He had shown them the way, given them mastery even over the Guild which must have the spice to exist.

Obviously none of this passes explicit, close scrutiny, and is more of a fun "if you squint and look at it a certain way it kind of makes sense." I expect that the line was put in as a nod to the original book, no more or less, but making up head-canons like this is fun for me and if even one other person finds it edifying then I consider sharing it time well spent!

[brazenautomaton]

Could you go into more detail on the "feminism made men's shelters not exist" thing? I have no idea how the causal chain there works. (Also just fyi there ARE men's shelters - at least in my country - but you're not capital-W Wrong, it's legit weird there aren't way more.)

I mean because feminists get extremely, extremely upset when anyone talks about male victims of domestic violence and then start screaming and threatening and harassing everyone in range?

the woman who opened the first women's shelter was Erin Pizzey, and it did not take her long to notice that a lot of the women there were just as violent as the men they escaped, and that it was obvious they needed a men's shelter just as much. feminists flipped their shit about this, protested her, lied about her, tried to get her fired and blacklisted, threatened her, and killed her dog. All of the people who did this were feminists and none of them were not feminists; feminists did not oppose the people who did this and no feminists attempted to help her.

Earl Silverman tried to open a men's shelter in Canada after being domestically abused by his wife and seeing the only resources for men were all predicated on men being the abusers. Feminists lost their shit. They protested him, lied about him, harassed him, went out of their way to strip funding from him, and eventually drove him to suicide. All of the people who did this were feminists and none of them were not feminists. Feminists did not oppose the people who did this and no feminist ever attempted to help him.

Feminists demanded that arrest be mandatory when police showed up to domestic abuse calls. Then all of a sudden, a whole bunch of women got arrested, because domestic abuse is not a gendered problem. Feminists could not accept this. They created a thing called the "Duluth model," which became the standard view of how to deal with domestic abuse, that literally states only men are abusive and any behavior from a woman that appears abusive is due to how a man abused her. The organizations who deal with domestic abuse run off a world-model that literally states men cannot be abused and women cannot be abusers. Feminists pushed for "primary aggressor policies," which meant that when the police showed up on a domestic abuse call, they should consider the "primary aggressor" to be the male, and arrest him. Men who call the police to report being abused are far, far, far more likely to be arrested than the women who abuse them. This is the explicit goal of a policy that was made by feminists, all of whom were feminists and none of whom were not feminists, who used the political and social power of feminism to make it happen, who had free access to that power in order to do so, who enjoyed complete support from feminists, and who did not face any opposition from feminists.

Feminism gets a pass because of the deep-rooted sexism it appeals to. Feminism claims to be synonymous with womanhood, and women are so precious that anything that claims to be aligned with them has to be good. And women have so little agency that this thing can't have possibly DONE anything in the world that is bad, it has to be a mistake, or a lie you told because you hate women so much! You can't remember all the ways that feminism is wrong and hurts people, because they're women, and women don't DO things! You forget it the moment it leaves your vision cone because it doesn't fit the biased narrative. And you just keep going "well, but real feminism is for real equality, and feminism is definitionally good!" no matter how many times you see it isn't. No matter how many times it's proven that yes, feminists do hate men, and yes, feminists are wrong, and yes, feminists are cruel, and yes, feminists care more about hurting men than helping women, and yes, if you mention these things to your "real feminist" friends who are for "real equality" they will expel you and harass you... it just can't stick. The narrative is too powerful. No matter how it's proven, we're going to hear "well I know real feminism is for real equality so we should all still be feminists and give power to feminists and support people who use the mantle of feminism without ever looking into what they believe" over and over and over.

[veliseraptor]

April Reading Recap

Now with Storygraph generated visuals!

Finished out my Wheel of Time reread last month with Towers of Midnight and A Memory of Light; I still have all the same frustrations with both and with Brandon Sanderson's books more generally but A Memory of Light did make me cry (again) so...I have to give it credit there, if for nothing else. The other 11 books I read, not including the Black Widow trade paperback collections that I reread (mostly because I felt lazy about it):

The Haunting of Room 904 by Erika Wurth. This book confused me - as in, I wasn't totally sure what was going on or why. The plot was happening but I wasn't really following the chain of causality most of the time. I'm still going to read Erika Wurth's other book, because I didn't find the experience of reading itself to be unenjoyable, and maybe it was just me, but...damn, I felt like I was struggling to piece this book's disparate pieces together and figure out what it was saying.

A Rome of One's Own: The Forgotten Women of the Roman Empire by Emma Southon. I don't know that I could adequately explain why I picked this one up when I was mildly irritated by A Fatal Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, except that I guess gender-related studies of the Roman Republic/Empire are catnip to me in a similar way that mythological retellings are (I often don't like them, I read them anyway). I was once again mildly irritated by the chatty, conversational tone of this book, which is really a me problem and not an it problem but I did find it personally grating. The scholarship underlying the text might be strong but the text itself feels like it undermines the scholarship. Or maybe I'm just a snob.

The Merciful Crow by Margaret Owen. I almost never read YA for a few different reasons, but this one was recommended by a friend so I gave it a go. And it was pretty good! But still did feel very YA to me in a lot of ways. I don't know if I'll pick up the sequel. I might, because it was a very quick read and I found some of the worldbuilding interesting, but I didn't really connect to most of the characters and found the plot fairly predictable.

Metal From Heaven by August Clarke. I've seen this book recommended widely so I had high hopes for it, and I wasn't...disappointed? Exactly? But I don't think it really worked for me. Possibly some of that is that first person narration is something that is really hit-or-miss for me, but honestly I think more of it comes down to the fact that - and I feel like I keep saying this - it ended up feeling like the delivery mechanism for a manifesto rather than a narrative. Which wasn't inevitable, I don't think! There were interesting things going on here, potentially! Though I think they were underexploited in terms of the, I don't know, moral thorniness that was kind of brushed off by the "our thieves are good and moral" thing. Reminded me a little of what happened with the Lords of Fortune in Veilguard, honestly.

I don't know. Maybe if I can come out of a book feeling like I can confidently say what an author's political stance is on a specific issue, I'm just not going to like it. And now I'm talking myself into feeling like maybe I was disappointed after all.

America for Americans: A History of Xenophobia in the United States by Erika Lee. I've had Erika Lee's other book (on Asian-American history in the United States) on my shelf for a while but got to this one first largely because. You know. I definitely learned about a few new chapters of ignominy in US history that I wasn't previously aware of; I was already in agreement with the main thesis of this book (that xenophobia is a core and recurring piece of United States culture) so that wasn't a revelation to me or anything. This was published pre-2020 but the paperback included a postlude on racism against Asians and Asian-Americans around the outbreak of COVID.

A Short History of Queer Women by Kirsty Loehr. Speaking of books with a chatty, conversational tone that turns me off! This was supposed to be a fun little interlude, took me a few hours to read, I thought I would enjoy it. It annoyed me. It did, however, provide me with a citation of a more sober history of lesbian women that I probably will enjoy more.

The Icepick Surgeon: Murder, Fraud, Sabotage, Piracy, and Other Dastardly Deeds Perpetuated in the Name of Science by Sam Kean. This one was...fine. It was fun, it was interesting, it was trying a little too hard to have a moral message and not just enjoy the narrative ride of people doing wild (and often terrible) things in the name of science. I was also sort of irritated by the author's constant footnotes basically saying "go check out my podcast for more on this!" but maybe that is unfair of me.

Birds of Prey: Murder & Mystery by Gail Simone, Ed Benes, et. al. I don't remember exactly what inspired me to go back and reread this run (because I have read it before), but something did. The art has not aged well; the writing is still quite good. I am, if anyone was wondering, still bitter about DC "fixing" Babs and effectively deaging her.

A Culture of Conspiracy: Apocalyptic Visions in Contemporary America by Michael Barkun. I pulled a quote from this one that was very oof to read in our year 2025. It was originally published in 2003; there's a second edition from 2013 with additional material that I'm trying to acquire, but even that is going to be miserably out of date as far as the current state of conspiracy thought in the United States. I'm glad I read it, though; the most potent thing I took out of it was probably the way the author discussed the shift from conspiracies that are either religious or secular in origin to what he called "improvisational," meaning that they are omnivorous and borrow from multiple, unrelated strains of thought/ideology. I also just finished another book about conspiratorial thinking in the US and found myself comparing it unfavorably to this one, despite the other one being newer.

The Tainted Cup by Robert Jackson Bennett. I love mysteries though I sometimes forget how much. I love second-world fantasy (obviously). I also really love Robert Jackson Bennett's work and pretty much have across the board (though I haven't finished the series beginning with Foundryside). This is clearly riffing on Sherlock Holmes but secondary world, but it worked for me and I'm excited to read the sequel.

The Voyage Home by Pat Barker. I read The Women of Troy a while back and don't really remember it, but The Silence of the Girls by the same author remains one of my all-time standouts of Iliad retellings and myth retellings in general so when I saw this one, and read that it was going to cover some Oresteia ground, I tossed it on to-read list fast. I liked this one better than I remember enjoying the second one - I don't think one needs to read either of the others to read this, though there are connections between them. I think what made this book work for me in a way that myth retellings often (generally) don't was the fact that it felt much less like it was self-consciously Retelling a Myth with a point to make than it was taking an existing story and working within it to tell a different story. It felt much more about the characters than about the myth, if that makes sense. I think telling a solid third+ of the novel from an outside point-of-view - not one of the core myth characters - was also a good choice, here.

---

Anyway - I have about 8 books out from the public library right now, so those are taking priority, followed by the two books I have borrowed from a friend. It's about half/half fiction/nonfiction, mostly horror, so I'm going to try to alternate. Right now I am reading Hungerstone by Kat Dunn, which I am excited about; also upcoming is The Museum of Other People and The Reformatory.

also continuing to reread a bunch more comics, apparently.

[justaragdollysblog]

Conscious Conscience

Here’s my entry for the bunnydoll writing week! Cutting it a lil close but oh well :))

I’m doing prompt 18 about Jax letting Ragatha take the fall for something:))))

TW: Hurt/Comfort, Angst

———————————————————————

Jax was having a good day, on all accounts. The adventure had been a painting and art kind, and they were to paint whatever they wanted on the canvases. Unlike most adventures, there was no stakes or objective. It was…peaceful.

If it was peaceful for everyone else, it was mind numbingly boring for Jax. He didn’t even really care about art or painting. But he did care about chaos, so he indulged a little.

‘A little’ meant using Gangle’s comedy mask as a paint pallet, causing a chain of events that more than satisfied his need for instigation.

Pomni was crying, overwhelmed by all the noise in the artsy room they were in. Ragatha was chasing the rabbit, trying to get Gangle’s mask back. When Jax had enough of tormenting her, he moved over to a pricklier opponent. He threw her mask down, effectively breaking it. He strode over to Zooble, grabbed their arm, and used it as a paintbrush. The whole room was coated in over saturated primary colors.

Jax had never felt so alive, just in his element. Which happened to be discord and pandemonium. He was still laughing as he causally strutted through the portal.

Caine gasped at the state of his performers. Ragatha was covered in paint, Pomni was hyperventilating, Gangle was tangled and crying, Zooble’s limbs were in the wrong spots, and Kinger was just Kinger.

“Gadzooks! What happened to you all?” He questioned. No one said anything, and Ragatha was about to speak up about the perpetrator behind their appearances, when-

“It was Ragatha. I was *literally* trying to paint, and, I don’t know, she just went crazy in there.” Jax accused, hiding his smug smile so it would be believable. Ragatha bristled, looking back up at the ringmaster.

“What- No, that’s not-“ She stammered out, holding her hands up in front of her in a defensive way. Caine seemed a bit surprised, too. He quickly composed himself. “I can put up with this behavior from Jax, but we can’t have you going down the same path, my dear,” He began.

Ragatha was furious. How did he not believe her? In all the years she’s been here, how did he believe Jax?!

“That being said, we need to…what do humans say…nip it in the bud. You need to stay on the straight and narrow! No sewing for a week.”

Ragatha’s plush heart dropped.

That couldn’t have been what he said. She must’ve been hearing things. A simple miscommunication.

“…What?” She choked out, looking back up at him. “You, you’re not…serious, are you?” She asked, and she hated that she whimpered while doing so.

“Very serious, Ragatha. You need to learn this behavior is unacceptable!” He declared, still in that bouncy, official voice.

“But- When…-When have I ever?! Caine, please-“She begged. She didn’t care how pathetic or weird she seemed. She was shocked, and she wouldn’t be surprised if her tan-ish plush skin was pale.

“I’m sorry, my dear. Hopefully after this you’ll be good as new! Take time to think about what you’ve done.” He wagged his finger at her.

Jax grinned at her. That stupid grin. “Yeah, you’ll have a lot of free time now!” He laughed. Ragatha felt herself about to boil over, so she used a tactic that served her well in her time here. She turned her heels and ran to her room.

She felt herself sob as she closed her door. She knew it was beyond stupid and childish to cry over this, but sewing wasn’t just a casual pastime.

It was calming. It was her somewhat mindless downtime, a time just to herself, creating personal items and requests alike.

What was she supposed to do now? The one thing that helps here, occupying your mind with something relaxing, was stripped of her for a week.

A. Whole. Week.

For something she didn’t do. For something she had absolutely no say in happening. She also felt somewhat betrayed. Everyone knew Caine was A.I., there was no doubt about that.

But if Jax, the resident trickster, can lie right through his teeth and convince Caine she would do that…why’d she ever bother trying to be good? To be friendly?

She wiped hurt, angry tears from her eyes and snuggled into her bed. She didn’t know how she’d get through this punishment. She just wanted to sleep.

It was day three. Ragatha had tried to, despite her better judgment, bypass the barrier placed on her sewing shelf in her room. It had yellow caution tape (which was surprisingly solid, forming a force field of sorts), and Caine’s face. She may or may not have hit slammed her fists a few times on it.

She was so tired. She didn’t want to bother anyone by asking to hang out or talk or be in the same room as her. They didn’t say anything. They didn’t correct Jax about what happened.

Speaking of the rabbit, he’d been acting…off. Ragatha almost knew he’d be relishing the punishment bestowed upon the doll. But, she caught him looking at her a few times. It was almost…sympathetic. She really needed to relax again, her mind was obviously on the edge.

Ragatha can barely remember the adventure that day. She didn’t realize just how much she came to depend on her hobby. It was a soothing task she yearned to do again. She didn’t know what else to do in her free time.

It’s not like she misses the act itself, but the distraction and peace of mind. When you find something here that occupies your mind, you cling to it and never let go. Because if your mind isn’t occupied, it’s wandering.

Wandering places it has no business being in.

—————————-

Jax had decided he had enough of this. It was fun, at first, to see her mope around. But then it was worrying. I mean, she was the happy one. The optimistic one.

What would he anyone else do without her?

He stood outside her door, nervously and impatiently shifting weight from one rabbit foot to the next. He knew he’d hate himself later, but he needed to do something.

He knocked on her door, also unlike him, since he had keys. It took a minute, and the door eventually creaked open.

To say she looked absolutely exhausted was an understatement. Her hair was messy and there was a deep ache of sadness in her one good eye.

“Oh. Hi. What do you need, Jax?” She still had a whisper of a friendly tone. It made Jax burn with shame.

“Don’t get too excited, doll. I…brought you something.” He looked away from her as he handed her something. She eyed it, understandably hesitant.

It was in sloppily wrapped gift wrap, and felt soft under her already soft hands. She opened it up, and gasped softly at the contents.

It was a small teddy bear. The sewing was BAD. The fur was soft, though. A beautiful shade of light brown and beige flourishes.

She looked back up at him. “Jax, what is this…?” She had a hint of hope and awe behind her words. He blushed a bit, if a rabbit *could* blush.

“The punishment didn’t apply to me, and I needed to do something before you ended up in the cellar.” He explained. She giggled softly. In a backwards way, it helped.

She took it, holding it to her chest. “And, I…may or may not have owned up to Caine.”

Now that was a shock. She looked back up at him, and, to her relief, he made eye contact. “I’m…sorry, doll.” He finally whispered. She smiled a bit, genuinely. There was a small spark between the two, despite the less than stellar circumstances. She looked back up at him, cradling the teddy bear.

“Thank you, Jax.”

—————————————————————-

AYAYAYA got this doneee

i have more ideas for fics i also need to continue If I Hadn’t Gone In lol

but yeah! here’s my entryyy

[ongreenergrasses]

Honestly I pictured Haymitch as being a bit more like Gale during his games, but becoming more like Katniss as he bonds with Maysilee. I thought we were going to see him and the other d12 tributes be close, with nothing happening to them before the games. I thought his girlfriend was going to be quiet and like books, because I think that would have been the perfect middle-ground between Lucy Gray and Katniss. Then I read sotr and it felt like SC was taking something from us. Like "no, you have your own ideas about the quarter quell. I'm going to write the official one". But of course, it didn't hold up, because nothing can really hold up to over 10 years of fans coming up with their own version of the 50th games.

I think one of the problems with sotr was one that SC would never be able to get around, and it’s the struggle for originality. SC waited many, many years to write sotr (you can’t convince me she had any of this planned) and in that time of course people are going to write their own takes and eventually fanon’s going to be established. at that point, she has two choices. She can either lean into what the popular conceptions based on clues she’d left in cf are and create something that maybe people will think is close to fan theories and unoriginal or uninspired, or she can try to be original and do something surprising and new that departs from those theories. Unfortunately for her, because she set up the structure of the 50th Games in cf, the only way to do anything original and unexpected was to do something completely out of left field that would end up most likely being a retcon or seriously impacting what she’d written before, and that’s exactly what happened.

and the thing with that fixation on trying to be “original” and “definitive” is a) you’ll never be original. give up on that. don’t plagiarize obviously but you’re never going to come up with anything completely unique so it would’ve literally been fine if she’d written a story that was somewhat like what people had dreamt up before and b) it makes your stories suck! if you’re constantly trying to do the unexpected and exciting thing, the causal chain starts to break down, characters act in bizarre and unrealistic ways, natural similarities between characters or ways to bridge gaps between different installments of the franchise are overlooked, and the story is compromised. it’s what happens to Marvel movies, and it’s what happened to sotr.

[biblioflyer]

Section 31 is responsible for the near destruction of Earth in Picard S3E10.

I had an epiphany the other day while I was out walking: Section 31 fairly reliably has never demonstrably "saved" the Federation on screen that I can recall. On the other hand, literally no good ever seems to come from its obsession with its epistemology that only Section 31 can preserve the Federation's wholesomeness and decency through doing the unethical things your average Starfleet officer cannot and must not do.

In modern espionage, there is a much discussed concept called "blowback." Blowback is a euphemism for the unintended consequences of an action or policy that seemed like a good idea at the time, but has ripple effects that may or may not be foreseeable.

The Fourth (?) Borg attack on Earth and the almost certain many thousands of casualties is an example of blow back. Now in Section 31's defense, the chain of consequences meanders quite a bit and heated arguments over whether this constitutes a black swan or gray rhino are not entirely unjustified.

But the fact remains, that without the assistance of Vadek's rogue Changelings, the Borg Queen clearly did not have the assets to execute her plan to infiltrate Starfleet and set conditions for the assimilation via transporter of Starfleet's junior crew.

Vadek and her Changelings were motivated by vengeance. Vengeance for the torturous experiments they were subjected to by Section 31 and, although its not clearly spelled out, almost certainly the near extinction of the Changeling species by a Section 31 bioweapon. This Vadek would have known about when she rejoined the Great Link, if not before when she and her crew killed the researchers experimenting on them and may or may not have had access to other Section 31 files in the process.

Classic blowback.

I may have misjudged the streaming era of Trek and its handling of Section 31, because while it has normalized it in some ways, that so many problems are caused by Section 31 in this era of Trek does not seem to be an accident. I don't like the normalization as a worldbuilding aspect, but I do appreciate its function as the provocation for cautionary tales.

In universe, Section 31 really needs to be disbanded. As an organization, there is no evidence it has ever actually saved the Federation from any existential threats and it seems to be in the business of reliably creating existential threats. If I had a strip of gold pressed latinum for every time Section 31 was in the chain of causality for a computer virus hive mind taking control of Starfleet vessels and attempting to exterminate organic life, I'd have two strips of gold pressed latinum. Which isn't a lot, but its weird that it happened twice.

[knihil]

𝔅𝔯𝔬𝔨𝔢𝔫 𝔟𝔶 𝔞 ℭ𝔞𝔭𝔯𝔞 𝔇𝔢𝔪𝔬𝔫.

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

༒︎ CONTENT WARNING ༒︎ : noncon, grimdark world, physical violence

Tags: sub fem!reader, dom!capra demon, monster fucking, monster cock, deflowerment, penetration through clothes, slapping, mindbreak, stomach bulge, folded like a pretzel, breeding, creampie, pinned down, size difference, breast play

Two demons felled, a pair of gargoyles slain, and one Bell of Awakening rung. You never expected to make it this far on your journey, to have the makings of such an unlikely heroine. Nor did you expect for confidence to be the end of you...

Escaping the undead asylum and killing the stray demon that guarded its exit had proved to be far simpler than expected. Just the same, besting the Taurus demon on the bridge and felling the two gargoyles that stood guard over the first Bell of Awakening were tasks that were insurmountable only in your imagination. Time was beginning to prove that, in all truth, that knight from Astora who'd freed you from your cell was speaking the truth. You very well might be the Chosen Undead.

But before your fate is to be revealed, you still have one last bell to ring, one found opposite of the first. According to the words spoken to you by the crestfallen knight during your stay at Firelink Shrine, the second bell should be down, far, far below. If his dispassionate guidance is to be trusted, then the path you're set upon will culminate at the base of Blighttown. Steeling yourself for what's to come, you stand from the bonfire of the parish, abandoning the quaint respite it offered you, and make your way towards the lower section of the undead burg. Your thoughts wander to possibilities of what trials might lie in wait for you past the depths, what the path to a lost and sunless civilization might be like.

Your armored footsteps against the stone beneath are the only things that accompany your silent journey. Their staccato rhytm offers just enough white noise for you to lose yourself within your mind, your legs carrying your absentminded body past the steps that lead lower and lower. Hollows, deamons, gargoyles... You've slain all of these monstrosities with more finesse than you thought was within your abilities and while each encounter has proven to be more challenging than the last, you've never once failed to persevere towards victory.

It's almost as if some form of divine intervention is guiding you, as if the threads of fate themselves are in your favor. The thought that everything might be a stroke of luck, a string of events chained together by nothing more than mere causality enters your mind for a moment. They don't linger for long, however. Heroes are often found in the most unlikely of places, no? Who's to say you're not the one who'll manage to restore light to the darkening world of Lordran-

Clumsily, you feel yourself bump into something firm yet cloudy in texture. It snaps you from your thoughts and as you shake your head, returning to reality, you're faced by an imposing door of fog. The familiar sight proves to be confusing at first, prompting a quick turn on your heels to survey the area behind. As your eyes scan the town of the lower burg, you realize just how profoundly nestled you were within your thoughts. So much so, that it's only now that you realize you walked the entire way to the lower burg without even feeling it.

As your surprise fades, it becomes far easier to notice the dilapidated state of things in this part of the settlement. Houses have been reduced to their base structures, the wooden beams that once held the walls now as readily apparent as the bones on a malnourished dog. Speaking of which, the rotten remains of animals and people lie slumped over the rim of a well in the center of town. More corpses adorn the surrounding walls, and the stench that permeates the surrounding air serves as the final touch to complete the macabre sight.

Whatever caused this must lie beyond the fog...

For a split moment, you feel the claws of fear begin to scratch at your heart. However, they retract as soon as they tease to sink in. You recall your previous achievements and with renewed vigor, step through the murky veil that separates you from the next demon you'll slay.

Immediately, you're met by its four glowing red eyes. They examine your shorter frame from above, scanning over your form as the creature's veiny hands fist around the hilt of the two oversized cleavers it wields. He's almost entirely bare, clad in nothing more than a loincloth that's been dirtied with stains which have no doubt come from his previous victims. The rest of his muscled physique is left entirely unclothed, the verdigris skin that's stretched taught around its musculature accented by nothing more than bulging veins and a layer of grime. A huff escapes from the goat-like skull the hellspawn wears for a head and your grip instinctively tightens around your own blade.

The demon is imposing. Everything about it hints at something primal, suggesting that its true nature must be far more animal than anything you've faced thus far. Still, you find yourself surprisingly unafraid. Even as the ten foot tall butcher hunches over in preparation to leap at you, confidence is the only thing you feel. And, as the hint of a smirk begins to tug at the corner of your mouth, you realize that you're not afraid.

You are ready.

Channeling the vigor bestowed upon you by your faith in the Prophecy of the Chosen Undead, you leap forward into battle. The hellspawn matches your temper and unleashes a slash with its two cleavers, attempting to split you in two from shoulder to waist. Instinctively, you dodge the attack by a narrow margin, hoping that it will grant you enough time to deliver a riposte.

It's a maneuver that you immediately realize won't work on this fiend. His swings carry such force that the air he cleaves through sends ripples that buffet and unbalance you. You stumble backwards for a moment before regaining your footing and propping the point of your sword forward from a middle guard, hoping to keep the creature at bay as he readies his next move. Two symmetrical swings from either side, a scissor like motion that aims to sever your head clean off your shoulders. The only thing you can think of doing is to throw yourself onto the dirt beneath.

Your sloppily roll to avoid his killing blow and use the momentum to swiftly rise and turn on your heel to face him. As your vision spins around, you find that he's already closed the distance, both of his cleavers raised skyward. Your eyes widen and your heart skips a beat as the sun itself is eclipsed by his towering presence. Almost paralyzed by fear, you shakily raise the flat of your blade in hopes of producing a block or a parry, anything that might save you from certain death.

Its cleavers, powered by the coiling muscles in the demon's arms drop all the way down and through your defenses. Your sword shatters along with your courage. The jagged tip of its weapons crack your breastplate in two, the force of the impact knocking the stability out of your legs. They buckle under the weight of your defeat and your eyes cast a thousand yard glance onto the fragments of steel that lay on the ground.

Before you're even afforded a moment to contemplate your defeat, to process the promise of death that looms over you, you're lifted onto the air. The shock frees you from your trance as the demon hoists you up by the back of your head. "Unhand me! Let go, demon!" You pair your words with a series of kicks and punches aimed at the butcher's torso, but they amount to nothing. You realize now why the creature is so comfortable with wearing nothing in the way of armor.

Even if you had managed to land a strike, it's almost certain that it would have barely scratched the thick hide of its muscles. You feel the familiar claws of fear sink fully into your heart as your pleading eyes lock onto his. They're nothing more than glowing orbs of primal instinct. You've never seen hellfire before, but you're sure that it must glow with the same intensity as this beast's gaze. Your silent pleas for mercy go unanswered as the creature slams you into the ground.

Your body seizes up in terror, your hands clasping around the thick forearm that pins you down. Its eyes roam over you once more and you begin to wonder why it hasn't yet killed you. It's almost as if it is toying with you, waiting for the perfect moment to-

Your heart sinks as you realize where his eyes are directed. The crack in your armor has left one of your breasts exposed to him, the supple flesh peeking through the metal like treasure through a hidden chest. Both of you freeze for a moment. Time seems to stand still as panic begins to take you over, your mind rationalizing the very real possibility that this thing might actually want your body.

The demon's response comes only in the form of his loincloth parting like a curtain to reveal his arousal. Its meat is the most imposing thing you've ever seen. A cock the same length as your forearm, colored the same sickly greyish-hue as the rest of the creature, and decorated with rippling veins that pulse in tandem with the rest of the shaft they coil around. "No... Stop, I-"

You're not even allowed to finish your pathetic plea as the demon's hands clench around the seams of the crack in your armor. You could swear he is barely exerting any force as he finishes splitting sway the obsolete remains of your cuirass. A series of hungry huffs escape from the demon as his calloused mitts palm your now exposed flesh.

You're frozen by the overwhelming feeling of being toyed with by something so much stronger than you, so invincible. Shivers of fear travel down your spine as its cracked fingernails chip against your hardened nipples, grazing and leaving red trails against the rest of your flesh. Your breath comes as a series of ragged and shallow inhales and exhales, your chest rising and falling rapidly. Your eyes, meanwhile, remain locked onto his cock.

It stands proudly over your entire midsection as the creature continues to explore your tits. It's a childish hope, the thought that you might be able to keep its hungry sex away if you simply stare at it long enough. But that hope is swiftly shattered as his hands clasp around your waist and suddenly, both of your hips are in line.

Your heart races against your chest, beating against the inside of your ribcage as you tremble in fear of what's to come. You shake your head, a feeble attempt to deny the reality of what's about to occur as the head of his cock touches your still clothed sex. "Stop! Don't you dare- MMPH!"

Your wail is muffled by his hand, the demon's calloused palm caressed by your breath as he impales you with a single thrust. The seams of your pants part under the force of his hips, and your walls follow suit. You're stretched impossibly to accommodate the butcher's cock. A primal huff erupts from him, delight flowering in his chest as his brutish cock defiles your once virgin hole. Meanwhile, you writhe in a mixture of pain, shock and... Pleasure?

You're not even afforded a moment to process the conflicting emotions as the beast begins to unsheathe its phallic sword from your core. You attempt to draw a breath of relief as you find yourself being emptied, only to taste the musk from his palm. Panic takes hold of your once courageous heart, your nostrils flaring as you writhe and struggle.

The only reward your thrashing yields is the release of your mouth, followed by a firm smack across your face. It's a dizzying strike, one that leaves your vision blurry and halts your feeble attempts at resistance. Dazed, you lie limp on the ground, barely registering the feeling of the demon's meaty hands wrapping themselves around your ankles. Your bones creak as your legs are craned all the way back until your ankles are resting by your head.

You barely feel the strain of your muscles and tendons being stretched past limits you never even dared to scratch the surface of. Your mind is a fog and the only thing that breaks you free from it is the feeling of his cock slamming back into your vulnerable hole. A bellowing roar erupts from the creature as he bottoms out within you, the thrust so forceful that it knocks the wind out of your lungs.

It's awful.

No, not the degradation or the feeling of being rendered helpless so completely. It's not even the searing pain of being skewered by such a massive length that it makes you sure your stomach is bulging. It's the fact that being ruined from the inside out by this thing feels...

Good.

As the demonic wall of muscle proceeds to jackhammer his cock into your soaking wet cunt, a cry of submission drips from your now parted lips. It's a pitiful thing, a sound so indecisive that it straddles the line of both a sob and a whimper. The creature seems to respond in full, growling possessively as it locks eyes with you.

Though words are beyond its capabilities, speech isn't necessary for it to communicate its thoughts. The mixture of his crimson gaze along with every plunge of his hips tells you everything you need to know. You belong to it now. The thought of being claimed reverberates throughout your entire being, echoing around within your skull as the demon marks you from the inside out.

With every wet slap that emanates from each meeting of your hips, every whorish moan that escapes from your widening mouth, you sink ever downward into a spiral of lust driven lunacy. The feeling of your insides molding around the brute's hot cock, your cunt clenching around every vein and ridge of his breeding pole; it's enough to drive you mad. How could such a thing exist? And how is it even possible that your body is accepting, let alone enjoying the feeling of being so thoroughly defiled?

It doesn't matter in the end, not when you feel his massive cock begin to twitch and throb within you. "A-are you going t-to...?" That's all you manage to squeak out before he answers you with one final thrust. It's searing hot. Not even the warmth of Estus can compare to the primal heat of the creature's cum. It's thick and Gods, there is so, so much-

"Ghhh-AaaAaaaAAAA!"

A scream rips from your throat as you cum from the feeling of being used as nothing more than a breeding tool. The feeling of being filled by cock, by cum, the feeling of being pinned and slapped and fucked and used within an inch of your life...It proves to be too much.

Your orgasm takes you, sending tremors and jolts across your well-used form as you spray your pleasure on the demon's cock. You let go completely. Your toes clench, your body trembles and your eyes roll back into your skull until your vision is swallowed by a darkness that clouds your senses.

You go limp as small jolts course throughout your broken form, timid reminders that you're still alive, though only barely. Everything begins to numb, the veil of unconsciousness suffocating you. What will become of you now? Will the creature dispose of you? Will you become a slave to its needs? As the last whispers of wakefulness leave you, only one thing becomes certain.

You were never meant to be the Chosen Undead.

[silvrash-797]

Febuwhump 2025 - Bombos Away!

Read on ao3

It was like the start of a bad joke.

Twilight’s Deku Babas, Wind's ReDeads, Time's Dead Hand and a bouncing, black, toothy ball on a chain all stood in a room. As of yet, none of the enemies had been alerted to the heroes' presence.

“Alright,” Wild whispered cheerfully. “Who’s ready to be eaten alive?”

“Yeah, no, forget that.” Legend pushed his way to the front. “Let me see.”

The Chain made way for him and he crouched near the doorway, counting silently to himself.

Finally, Legend stood. He reached under his tunic, pulling out a flat golden disk. “Yeah, I can handle that much,” he said. He began to walk into the room.

“Wait, Lege, are you crazy?” Sky hissed as he tried to snatch at Legend’s tunic, but missed. “What are you doing?!”

Legend spun around, walking backwards into the room as he smirked. He clenched his fist around the Bombos medallion and held it up in the air. “I’m taking care of these monsters, what does it look like?”

The room shook as pillars of fire spiraled outward from Legend's clenched fist, followed by a dozen crackling explosions. Each monster burst into flames. Their screams were utterly deafening, freezing the Chain where they stood.

As the echoes of the screams faded, they looked up to find Legend causally brushing ash off his shoulders. All that remained of the monsters were a handful of dropped arrows and some rupees, which Legend hastily scooped up.

He sauntered across the room to rejoin the Chain, stopping when he saw the dumbfounded shock on their faces. “What?” he asked guardedly, an eyebrow raised.

“…How long have you had that sort of firepower, Vet?” Warriors asked carefully.

“I dunno, since I was eight? Nine? I needed it for my first adventure.”

“And you haven’t used it yet because…?”

Legend scowled and ticked the points off on his fingers. “One, because it consumes a ton of my magic. Two, it works best in an enclosed room like that one. Three, it doesn’t discriminate between friend and foe – whatever else is in the room gets blasted. Four,” he shrugged, “flashy as it is, frankly it’s overkill for most of what we’ve faced so far.”

Wind butted to the front of the group, stars in his eyes. “Yeah but still! That was so cool! Hey, d'you think maybe one day I could-”

“Not a chance, Sailor.”

[sapphireeternal]

Pearls

Pair : MODERN! Aemond x reader

Warnings: fluff and tenderness

Notes: Thank you for your support of the first headcanon! 💕💕 Being honest sometimes I'm a bit insecure about writing, but I do it for fun. I bring you a little bit of reader with Aemond. I hope you like it!

When you arrive at your boyfriend's house, you look at him hiding your hands behind your back.

"What do you have between your hands?" asks Aemond crossing his arms amused, he knew you were hiding something by the fact that you are very smiley.

You are both in your room, after he had asked you to come over to sleep at his place. After college studies, where Aemond studies law to work in his father's company, you didn't have much time to see each other, but he asked you to be at his house as a way to make up for lost time.

Several nights you spent sleeping in his bed while he studied the subject that you would be studying the next class, after a few hours Aemond would turn everything off and lay down next to you, to wake up together in the morning and continue with the reality of the university.

Now he is sitting near his desk which is full of books and papers with long texts, while you are standing in front of him.

"I have something for you, but first close your eyes" he complies with your wish and closes them, then you take the object out of your hands and hang it on his neck "don't open them."

"I don't, but I think I know what it is" he smiles placing his hands on your waist to settle you on his lap.

"Don't move me, wait a while" as you settle him nicely next to the necklace he already had, which is a little gold chain with the initial letter of your name on it. You take his phone that is on the desk and place the camera "Ready, you can open them."

He opens his eyes finding you sitting on his lap and showing him his phone, which was placed the camera where he sees perfectly the pearl necklace that matches perfectly next to the other necklace.

"A pearl necklace?" He is confused by this detail, he never expected this kind of gift.

"It has an explanation. Let's just say that as soon as I saw this necklace, I thought about the guys who come out of the internet and look good with this kind of necklace. And then it occurred to me to buy it for you, because I think you would look good with it even though you always look good in some way" you admit nervously touching the pearl necklace, but you get a little discouraged seeing his expression "but if you don't want to wear it, no problem , I bought it knowing it's not your style" you try to take it off, but he grabs your hands and denies looking at you.

"Easy babe, I like the necklace, I just wasn't expecting this kind of gift".

"Are you sure you like it? Really, I can change it if you don't like it" you bite your lip nervously placing your hands on his chest.

Aemond pulls you closer to him taking you by the waist "I'd be a fool to despise a gift from a woman like you. I really like it, I'm already growing fond of it. I even think it matches the leather jacket" You smile to press your lips to his. " Thank you sweetheart."

Aemond since that night, he started wearing the necklace every day, even on the ones where he had to dress formal and somehow manages to wear it without it breaking his style, but he never took it off. On causal days you can see him in his leather jacket and dark colored dress, but the pearl necklace stands out among all that darkness. Some time later, Aemond gave you one just like it under the pretext of being the same, but the truth is that he had to mark territory. And whenever he is asked where he had gotten the necklace he always answers with a smile "My girlfriend T/N gave it to me last night, isn't it beautiful?"