#like i keep telling myself the point of it all is to entertain the self and also just have fun but i keep feeling like. hollow. and like

[asterdeer]

i feel like a loading bar that's very slowly ticking up until i actually believe my therapist's belief that i have ocd

[laurorne]

༊*·˚ HE MADE A SLAVE OF ME | daemon targaryen x targtower!reader, minor aegon ii targaryen x twin wife!reader

summary: confined to the sullen walls of the red keep, there isn’t far you’re afforded to wander. entertained only by the people you silently watch, you find excitement in the visit of your older sister and uncle. though the latter is far more appealing to spend the night with, and more willing.

warnings: nsfw, minors dni, targaryen incest (uncle x niece), porn with minimal plot, p in v, rough sex, slapping, degradation, masochism, blood play?, praise kink, breath play/choking, breeding kink, a lil’ stomach bulge, cheating on both halves, swearing, inaccurate high valyian (i tried?), weird pure bloodline shit, fiending for that valyrian d, hightowerphobic daemon, bastardphobic reader

word count: 3.5k

a/n: daemon is so ugly but he’s so hot it’s so bad. okay, i can’t see daemon as a rough lover except maybe with a cunty targtower so this was the only way i could bring myself to write this 😭 (this was my inspo for this entire fic, bless tiktok editors 🙏🏼🙏🏼)

As a daughter of Alicent Hightower and Viserys Targaryen, you'd found that most people bent to your will regarding requests. The lords would bend over twice fold if it meant a chance at earning your hand, and the girls at court dared not step a foot before you in the case you'd remove them from your entourage of highborn ladies.

With eyes so doe-like and lips like honey, one would mistake you for just that, a doe, not the dragon draped beneath green silk that shifted like flames in a hearth.

That's how you'd created yourself. How you'd curated each step and each titter of laughter, every slow blink at every lord and all those tight lipped smiles at ladies of court who came too close to your family.

People at court had said that you were the best half of your twin brother, that he had taken all the bad traits so you could shine as the darling of the realm. Poor, sweet Aegon. Ever the scapegoat and always the perpetrator.

So as you sit across from your uncle, Daemon Targaryen, you find yourself rather... without.

He sits beside your half-sister. A beautiful glow on her skin as she laughs along with something your father had said. She's stunning, Valyrian in every sense of the word. With her pale hair and aquiline nose, you can see why she was adored.

Other than the Realm's utter Delight, dinner is less than… familial.

Everyone can clearly see the divide between both sides of House Targaryen. The Hightowers sat to the right of the King, the mix of Targaryen and brown-haired Velaryon to his left. You find no warmth in this arrangement, other than false pretenses of civility and feigned love for each other, the entire affair is only for show of the poor old King.

Though there is an affair that consumes your thoughts, a tryst that would no doubt end messily. So you opt to speak with your family, with a spare glance thrown his way just to divulge yourself after all these years of self-control.

-

Daemon understands the weight of your gaze on him. Even from across the table he can feel the way your eyes trace his features, the way you're devouring him without lifting your fork or grinding your teeth or even touching him. Your supposed indifference to the sides that the house of the dragons has taken makes his fingers twitch around his goblet. You're speaking with Baela and Rhaena as if you've sat beside them in court for years, doting on their new dresses and telling them snippets of what they've missed at the Red Keep.

Jacaerys' gaze is flittering over to your figure every couple of seconds, eyes dipping to your dangerously low neckline of your green dress, every time you laugh and your chest heaves he looks away like a wide-eyed virgin. Red at the ears as he scolds Lucerys for holding a fork wrong, Daemon guesses, with the way the older boy points to another utensil.

And your family, gods.

Your twin brother, Aegon, is attempting to drink away his sorrows but you're always quick to scoop the cup out of his grasp and palm it off to a servant. The fool simply allows you, resigning to watch everyone speak as you have him by the balls practically. And to still have him fawning over you, his pretty little twin-wife, is absurdity.

Aemond is glaring daggers at Rhaenyra's boys and Helaena is off in an entire world of her own.

When he looks back to you and finds those lilac-coloured iris' already poised on him, his jaw clenches and he takes another pass at his Dornish wine. The way your hair falls in pure white curls around your face and frames the heavy gorget necklace that adorns your neck, inlaid with moonstone and rubies that look eerily similar to the ones from the Conquerors crown. Spoiled Hightower brat.

Daemon is far from naïve. He's been apart of how many wars?

He's a seasoned veteran to these types of women, to their greedy plans and treacherous thoughts.

Though... that colouring that she has, so clearly a staple of House Targaryen, he's not so convinced that he's entirely immune. He's sure that his nephew is beyond stupid to not have made you a mother sooner. With tits like that and eyes so sweet? He'd have you swollen with babe two moons after your last birth.

He watches the way you lick a droplet of wine from the corner of your mouth, watches the way your eyes flicker from Jacaerys to him, and he can see it then. Something so wanton in your gaze.

Perhaps paying a visit to his dear, sweet niece tonight would not be such a bad thought.

You arch up into the touch —his touch— as shivers run along the length of your spine. His hand smooths over the swell of your breast in response, easing your ache as you squirm for more. It travels over the fat of it until his fingers pinch roughly at your nipple. A stuttering breath punches its way from your throat as he stares down at your face.

“So eager, aren’t we?” He admires the way your lips part, the way your eyes dance back into focus and meet his heated gaze. The way you seek out the eye contact. Want to know he’s watching the show you’re putting on.

Just as you’re forming the vowels on the tip of your tongue, he’s grabbing a fistful of your thigh and pushing his hips impossibly closer to yours. It makes you shudder, makes you want all the more. But there is no give to his press, he’s seated far too deeply inside you to move any further in. He’s pulling his hips back just the smallest fraction before he starts inching back in, heavy and hot and oh-so deep it burns.

Your tongue swipes over your lips, your hand moving to clutch onto the arm that props him up above you. The thickly corded muscle makes holding onto him all the easier, makes your cunt flutter and your chest heave and your eyes water. He’s so large, far different from your husband, this pure-blooded Valyrian —this man— he’s encompassing your body and stuffing you all at the same time, filling, holding and folding you how he wants.

You move to weave your fingers into the loose strands of his hair but the hand that was cradling your thigh is quick to grasp your wrist, tugging the appendage away as he begins dragging his hips back. “Where did all your words go, dōna riña?” (sweet girl)

You swallow thickly, fingers balling up as he oh-so slowly pulls out til’ just the tip rests in you. It’s agonising, having been so full not even moments ago, you feel empty. It’s involuntary, the way your hips lift towards him, cunt greedily taking him as you stifle the way your breath hitches. His thighs tense up as he groans, fingers tightening around your wrist as his hips rock forwards just the tiniest bit.

“Daemon, please.” It’s breathy, spoken from someplace in your chest that you feel with every inch of your body. “I want you.”

Your eyes only just catch the tic in his jaw as he drops your wrist, immediately grabbing a fistful of your tit and pushing back into you. Hips meeting flush as he glares down at you. The grip he’s got on your fit fucking hurts, but you’d be damned if it doesn’t set all your nerves on fire.

“Ilībio,” He all but snarls. (whore)

You don’t even register the next thrust before he’s pulling out again. He leans forward, large hand coming to press down onto your throat. His fingers curl around your neck —encompassing it entirely as he presses down onto you— using you for leverage as he fucks into you.

You moan, mouth falling open as he uses your body and paws at your tit messily. You can feel the flesh spill from between his fingers, feel the sensitive peak rubbing against his rough palm.

It’s driving you insane.

The hand leaves your tit, moving to the next and grabbing on just as roughly. He hits a particularly forceful thrust that has you jolting up the bed, back arching up as you whine. Your legs curl around his hips, thighs bouncing with each stroke, making a distinct slapping as he fucks you into the plush sheets of your bed. You roll your pelvis to the rhythm he sets, it’s practised, timed and purely filth.

“You belong in the,” He pauses as he sneers down at you, watching his cock sink deep into your tight little cunt. “Street of Silk.”

You can only sigh out a breath as his hand clamps down on your throat, your air coming in short bursts only when he pulls out to thrust back in.

“Your husband mustn’t have fucked you well enough.” He thrusts violently on husband, heavy cock bullying its way back into you as your cunt clenches.

His words are driving you closer to the edge, making you feel all the slicker as he fucks you, uses you like he’s your husband. Like you belong to him. Like you’re the sister he married in the ways of Old Valyria —in the ways of your house— in blood and fire.

The thick drag of his dick brings you back from your cock drunk haze, his words ringing in your brain as he watches your lashes flutter.

“Tight like a Lyseni virgin,” He buries himself into you until oxygen evades you entirely, all his weight resting on your throat as he leans in, licking a stripe up your throat and biting at your pulse point. “Wet like a pillow house whore.”

You writhe beneath him, fingers curling into the thickly corded forearm that presses you down into the bed, he teasingly slows to a stop only to rocks forwards. Watching your eyes turn hazy as your hips twitch up onto him. Jerkily grinding onto him as you struggle to take a breath.

“Struggling to breathe and you still want me to fill you, tala.” He smiles down at you, lifting a hand from your throat to caress the bone of your cheek. “So desperate for it.”

Oh, how badly you want to spit an insult at him. How badly you want to punch him and pull on his hair and suck marks into the muscled line of his shoulder.

He lifts the heel of his palm slightly, just when the edge of your vision was beginning to cloud. A quick respite of air before he’s pressing a bruising kiss to your pouty lips. Teeth digging into your bottom lip as he fully cups the side of your face. Tongue pressing into your mouth intrusively as he overwhelms you. Full of cock, his tongue, and being pinned to the bed by the entire weight of him.

The red hot coil in your stomach is cooling quickly, fading away into nothing as he devours you in the most deliciously possessive kiss you’ve ever had. His thumb presses roughly into the bone of your cheek as he thrusts gently into you. There’s a bloom of pain in your lip as he begins pulling away, teeth biting your bottom lip as he lifts himself back up. Blood smears your pearly white teeth, and you can taste it on your tongue.

Your chest heaves as you grab a fistful of his hair, pulling his face back down so you can kiss him roughly. You practically consume him with this kiss, wanting and needy as you fight to gain control. He pants out a chuckle, thumb pulling on your chin as he licks over the cut and your teeth. Your fingers tangle in his white strands and you give a sharp tug, the rasp that escapes him sends a needy throb through your cunt. But you take his unfocus as a chance to lick into his mouth, cunt throbbing as his lower half folds you over, sinking into you so deeply it makes your hips twitch and writhe in pain.

You fight against the pain, neck aching as you crane up against his weight, biting his lip harshly until you feel the break of his skin between your teeth. Blood mixing in your mouths as he pants into your mouth, thumb hooking into the corner of your mouth as he looks down at you with something akin to satisfaction.

“Smile, tala.” (niece)

You breath in shallowly, greedily taking in air that you neglected yourself of.

“Uh-uh,” He squeezes your cheeks together, until your lips pout and he presses down onto your jaw hard. “Smile.”

And you do, lips pulling up as best they can with his fingers holding your jaws apart. He lets his fingers loosen so he can watch your teeth peak out from beneath your abused and bloody lips. You can guess that you both look the same, blood staining your teeth a burning carmine. The colour of House Targaryen.

“Good girl.” His voice is condescending as he pats your cheek roughly, pushing himself back up, and sitting back on his knees as he stares down at you through wispy strands of platinum hair. Dick sitting heavy inside you, fill to the point of it being a bit hard to breathe. Your sheets reeks of sweat and sex, and the iron tang of blood sits in the air and on your tongues.

His hands smooth over your thighs, thumb running along a pink scar nestled closely to your knee.

You prop yourself up on your elbows, tits on full display while you look up at him through those pretty lashes, admiring the scars that mar the pale skin of his torso and the blood the runs a rivulet down his chin. “What are yo-“

He unwraps your legs from his waist, grabbing at the back of your thighs and pushing them towards you. You whine at the sudden movement, the blunt tip of him nudging against what the deepest parts of you. Pressing you in half with ease until he can hold your legs against his chest with one arm. The other coming to rest against the soft spot of your stomach as he hovers over you.

“Fucking an heir into you,” He presses a quick kiss to your calf before he’s snapping his hip forward and pressing down on your stomach. And that’s when you feel him. You let out a breathy moan as he fucks you, with your back arched toward him as you let him take you.

Like a virgin during her bedding ceremony.

His fingers leave pale prints in your skin as he grips onto the meat of your thighs so tightly. His thighs slapping against the backs of your legs while he fucks his length into you. With his arm wound tightly around your knees, there’s no way you can move or adjust or even move with him, you’re practically in his lap as he uses your hipbone for leverage.

Choked-out pants and whiny breaths are the only noise you can make as the hand that was holding your legs together drifts to your soaked pussy. Thumb slipping through until he bumps into your clit —he can tell by the way your tits heave and your cunt clenches impossibly tighter— and he can’t help but snicker as he presses down onto the poor thing. Hands used for more than just sword fighting, skilled in pleasing wives long gone that were no doubtingly three times older than you, are so deliciously textured.

“Hightower votrītsos nȳmagon wal morghūljagon.” Your maternal house is spat with hatred, he punctuates it with thrusts that grow more violent as he claims you. (hightower cunt calls men to die.)

“Iksā kempa isse nyke, issi ao daor, kepa?” You heave the sentence, attempting to speak without falter as he continues his selfish pleasure seeking manhandling. (you are heavy in me, are you not uncle?)

He grunts, nose scrunching up for a moment as a strand of hair dangles between his eyes. Silver locks messy. His thumb flicks over your clit again —a full-bodies shudder follows— so he can stare intently at your bouncing tits without the chatter.

“Aōha Valyrio Eglie jorrāelagon mirre.” (your High Valyrian needs work)

You admire the way his hair falls to his shoulders, undone from its hairstyle tonight at dinner, the slope of his shoulders to the plains of his front. A battlefield of cut muscle and scars that create ridges and valleys. Your eyes dart up as his nails cut into the skin of your calf, his lip curls up as his eyes finally drift from the harsh jerk of your pliable body beneath him, to your lilac eyes.

His eyes are dark, ringed by what little purple you can see in the darkness of your lonely chambers. The way he looks down at you, the look of curiosity, of lust, of hatred, it burns in your throat and makes your thighs quiver as he just stares.

You could nearly compare it to the way Aegon admires his cups, the way he drinks in every hitch of your breath, the way he huffs your scent, the stutter in his hips at every flutter of your cunt around him.

(Akin to Aegon’s lust for Dornish import wine, he drinks you in and savours the way your body begs for the extra inch.)

Your fingers tangle up in the silken sheets of your bed as you stutter, stomach quivering as he keeps his hips in motion, brining you oh-so close to your peak. Though it’s barely enough, used to the drunken fumble of your twin, you need a rougher edge, a little more pain. He’d just need a push.

“Iksā iā buzdari naejot kasta orvorta. Hae se dārys.” (you are a slave to green cunt. like the king)

He hums, brows pinching together as his thrusts grow sloppy and unpractised, like the green boy your husband had been on your wedding day.

“Kostilus ziry ūndan mirros hae bisa,” He circles your clit roughly, pad of his thumb rubbing deliciously against your slick cunt. “gōvilagon aōha muña grēza.” (perhaps he saw something like this, beneath your mothers dress.)

You let out a strangled moan, hips rocking up to meet his every thrust. The coil in your stomach is tightening and heating and making your thighs twitch and tense, and he doesn’t seem to take the movement kindly. The rhythm stutters when he forces one of your legs to his side as he surges forward to capture your mouth in a crushing kiss. Your other leg is caught over his shoulder as he moves in and it stretches muscles you hadn’t know existed in your legs as he bullies his way deeper and deeper, like he owns you, like your his to ruin.

“I would have loved taking your maidenhead.” He breaths the word into your mouth as the cuts on your lips open anew, smearing blood across your mouths, cheeks and noses. The kiss he pulls you into next is careless and messy, all knocking teeth and hot breathes.

“I- I’m,” He cuts you off by wrapping his hand back around your throat, pinning you down as his nose buries itself in the hair on the side of your head.

A blinding heat curls in your stomach and your cunt flutters around the abusive cock he fucks you with. The one leg that wasn’t pinned between you both is quick to pull his hips flush to you as you moan wantonly, though it’s smothered by his hand. Chest heaving and pale baby hairs sticking to your forehead as your lashes flutter closed. Taking the last few cants of Daemon’s hips as he finishes inside you, spilling deep inside you with heavy panting accompanied by a groan.

Everything is all warm, floating in your soft bed as the heavy man above you lets his weight onto you fully. Cock keeping you stuffed with his seed.

The hand on your throat drifts to your hair —you gulp down air as you feel an ache begin to form— deft fingers stroking at the loose strands behind your ear as he breathes in the perfume oil of the Dragons Breath flowers you'd chosen for tonight.

“I may take you to wife, with a cunt like that.” He murmurs, fingers tightening around those stray strands of hair as he lifts his face to meet yours. Pupils blown wide as he rolls his hips to nestle nicely between yours. That leg wedged between you both falling loose, and landing on the bed softly.

Oh?

That sentence shouldn't have made you so giddy, nor should it make a delighted grin pull across your bruised lips.

A plan well curated is always fruitful.

TAGS: @avalyaaa

[kanpaeki]

can i request a fluffy fic with dom and a celebrity reader with his younger sister ILY🤍

i love you baby thank you for the request!!

x

"apple, show them your fit. you're gonna eat them all up. you know your mama be killin' it." you take the young girl's hand and give her a little twirl in the camera. you have been on live for the past fifteen minutes with dom and his sister in their kitchen, just for some entertainment and to catch up with the fans.

"my mom? i dress myself." apple looks you up and down and in shock all you do is raise your hands in surrender.

"my bad." you laugh, resting your back against the kitchen, letting the girl entertain the audience as she pleased, just keeping an eye on her.

you just posted your trailer for your newest movie on your instagram and the reception was actually better than you expected for it being so out of your usual work. you were usually typecasted as a more naive character but this project was anything but, playing a blunt and adventurous badass. ecstatic might be too light of a word for what you were feeling. you couldn't wait for this to come out. and dom was all for it. he might even be more ecstatic than you with the way he supported you so publicly and proudly.

dom was out of the camera's view, just scrolling on his phone. you and him had answered some questions earlier so you didn't mind, you know he wasn't on social media much these days. apple, on the other hand, was soaking up the attention. the little one was all up close to the tripod, reading nearly all the comments and talking to them.

"stop telling dom to take his shirt off." apollonia sassed, making you laugh, your head tipping back. dom smiled, looking up from his phone and poking his head into the camera, curls spilling everywhere.

"it's okay, apple. my sex appeal is part of my charm." he shakes his head, fixing his curls and smoldering into the lens. you shake your head, grabbing him and pulling him to you, wrapping your arms around him.

"okay, that's enough." you laugh, kissing his cheek and he drapes his self onto you, making sure he doesn't place all his weight on you. he's gained at least twenty pounds in muscle in record time. he's still lanky but you don't think the wind could blow him away anymore.

you rub his bicep comfortingly, just checking him and making sure he's okay. you know his social battery can need recharging when you do things like this. you would consider yourself a little more well-known than him in the public eye, not able to go out without security or a disguise. he was getting there in status but he could still run to the store and not be recognized if he was careful enough. so you always make sure he's not getting too overwhelmed or anxious. nodding, he lets you know he's okay, burying his head in your neck. you rub his back and kiss the top of his head, just holding him for the moment.

"someone asked how dom feels about y/n's love interest in the new movie." apple looks back at you guys, used to you guys being so touchy to the point where it doesn't phase her anymore. you just smirk and shake your head, knowing the comments are just trying to rile up dominic.

dominic picks his head up, "i let bro know i been in the gym. that's all i have to say." and drops his head again.

you roll your eyes.

[circeyoru]

hello, damn I fell in love with your yandere Alastor, it's too much jdkdkfkkd it's so sweet it kills me, I wanted to ask you how Alastor would react and his darling gave him his soul. I told myself I was going to stop reading so many Alastor fanfics but I can't with yours, they are very addictive.

To those that have no idea what this is talking about, check out {Unwanted Soul}

Thank you for your read and interest!! (can't believe someone says my stories are addictive, feel like I committed a crime)

OKay, back to business. Interesting ask. We never explored Alastor's side of the soul ownership huh. (since it's different from canon)

Basically, what's Alastor's response and reaction to Reader breaking the contract and returning Alastor's soul to him to own.

Alastor would see this as you not wanting him around. Full stop. Whatever your reason and currently established relationship (like how close you two are). He'd have a full breakdown and his confidence all gone. He gave you everything and treated you like an entity beyond. What did he do wrong? Tell him and he'll fix it!

By now, like after part 3. You have already mutually returned his feelings, but just not as strong as Alastor's. At least you're more lenient and accepting of his love and affections to you. He doesn't understand that you want him to hold his soul again without abandoning him. He knows you fear his power and Overlord status that can bring you to ruin, so giving you his soul was a way to show you he didn't care about these things that anchored his pride when compared to being by your side. To him, you accepting his soul was the same as you letting him stay by your side and accepting his twisted love for you. If you give back his soul to him, you're saying you don't want him and his presence around you.

He's not stupid, while he builds your reliance on him, he knows you could just as easily remove him from your afterlife. As such as he hates to admit it, you didn't need him as much as he needed you. (now isn't that odd?)

That's his feelings, now for his reaction and response.

While he wouldn't harm you, he'll frighten you to use the ownership power over him. Showing you that if you set him free from your hold, he can and will wreak havoc. Aren't you regretting the very thought of suggesting that? It's laughable, you want to free him. He'll show you, even when his powers are limited, he causes destruction to demons around him, think about what would happen if he's at full power.

Both of you are aware of this manipulation and you knew Alastor was using it to his advantage. Odd that the one that owns his soul is so powerless against his words and persuasions.

Oh, those don't work? Well. That's too bad. The hard way it is.

Alastor will lock you up somewhere. Keep you away from any paper-related objects. You're powerful, but you can't compete with him in combat. "You're sloppy, darling." He'd laugh when you tried to immobilize him with your summoned angelic weapons. They're deadly, but nothing if they don't land on their target. He'll push you into a corner so that you have to defend yourself till the point of exhaustion (like that time with Adam). Then he'll catch your tired and defenceless self in his arms lovingly. Once you're in your slumber mode, you're all his.

Charlie and the others are trying to find you? Even Lucifer? Well, he has his shadows and he will hide you from them. He's stronger now, before he played nice because you were there, but you're out of commission at the moment so he can let loose a bit. He would have pointed the finger at Charlie or even Lucifer and the others for your silly actions, that is, if you weren't always in your room with your entertainment. It took him years to get close to you, how can they do the same in such little time and you weren't caring for them as you did him. Even during you activities with the group, you weren't as involved and chose to stick close to him.

He'll nurse you back to health, but not fully that you can run away, he'll keep you at that borderline between energetic and exhausted. He gives you the same life you've lived with him during those 7 years, eveything's the same. Like the world only has you two in it. Back to the good old days.

Just don't worry about the times he's gone. He needs to ward off some pests around you. You don't care for them, yes? Alastor knows and understands. He'll take care of it as usual. You can ignore it all with your anime and comics, or take a nice long sleep to pass the time.

You let Alastor go? He's not letting you. Not on his soul.

Note: Hope this answers your question. I actually thought you were asking what if Reader gives Alastor their soul. Idk how I got that

Welcome other asks about my stories too!

Other Works: MASTERLIST

[chaoticallywriting]

☂Death and Her Companion☂

Prologue

Description - And so we meet the girl from the bunker, the hidden away secret. The one to powerful, to fearsome and to quick-witted. How sad it must be to be the harbinger of death and yet have such a kind soul. How odd it strikes the other Hargreaves that this wondrous woman is their 'little' brothers supposed ex. One must wonder what her role is in everything, which chest piece she is on Reginald Hargreaves board. One thing is for sure, to Five she is the all mighty queen.

A/N - Please don't expect much of me, I am dragging myself through work four cans of alani at a time. There are little time jumps throughout their time in the apocalypse. I plan on writing more cute apocalypse bonding moments for them throughout the series.

Warnings - Canon typical violence, use of y/n like twice. Needles, blood, syringes, abandonment issues. Self worth issues. Mentions of skinniness due to lack of food (from the apocalypse my dudes)

Pairing - Five x Reader

Word count - 6k

To tell a story, one must have a character or set of characters to follow. They may not be reliable or entirely likable nor good-hearted or kind, they may not be evil or extraordinary but simply intriguing. Intriguing enough to hold the reader's attention, to keep them coming back for more. And that is Y/N, a girl born on a day where something extraordinary happened and if given any other power she would have been one to marvel over. 

But the babe was born with fingertips dosed in inky darkness and killed her mother during birth. Then her grandmother who held the babes pinky and so on. Eventually she was kept hidden with the help of one Reginald Hargreaves, who agreed that her power was too strong for the world to bear. So said girl lived her life underground with a robot as a mother (to keep her from accidentally killing her too) and eventually a robotic companion that was meant to resemble her age. 

Even through glitches and random updates she didn’t know what normal really was, so she never batted an eye. As she grew so did the darkness upon her fingertips until eventually it stopped at her elbows. She read every book given to her, watched every movie and show and held a strict physical regiment to keep her in shape. 

She learned just about every fighting style known to man thanks to the updates her mother was given and regularly ran in the underground garden. Her bunker was her life and she never thought it odd until she was 14. You see, all those movies and books showed a different life than hers, exciting ones that showed the ocean and the sun, the moon, stars. There was romance and friendships, adventures galore. Suddenly her life which was once fulfilling felt… suffocatingly dull. 

Neither her companion nor mother would let her out nor sympathize with her. They only tried to distract the girl from her growing desires. But such desires only grew and mixed with the rage of a preteen girl came a moment in her life she’d always remember, the moment when the monotony would finally end. They didn’t listen, they tried placating, and they tried deflecting. At one point they tried to make her feel crazy, but her textbooks and ways of entertainment showed proof of a different life. So finally when all that rage and loneliness finished brewing it came time to try to escape.  

She didn’t make it past the second steel door before a syringe was put in her neck. She awoke, she tried again, she was kept locked in a more secure room, no longer allowed to roam her bunker. So when her mother and companion came to visit on the 5th day she used her upbringing to her advantage and killed them. Twitching metallic limbs were scattered about the padded room, oil seeping out instead of blood and the sound of frying wires filling the air. 

Finally, from doing this, she met the man who built her bunker. He kept himself protected behind a wall of plexiglass, staring her down through his monocle with a disapproving glare. “You have caused quite the mess.” 

The young girl was sobbing, she had just killed the only people - no things she ever knew. She was a monster, a murderer. “I just want out, please let me out!” 

“I cannot do that child, your power is beyond my control. You were able to suppress the medicine I tried to give you and are not fit for normal ways of living.” 

His voice was cold and stern, in her already fragile state his lack of empathy only made her feel small. He only seemed to validate her worst fears. 

“I can offer you something though, a way out from this life. All you must do is step through those doors and into the chamber I’ve built for you. It will let you out, I promise.” 

The young girl, having never seen him before, didn’t know how this man was full of deceit. With barely anything else to do, she simply nodded through her tears. Whilst sniffling the girl followed his instructions and clambered into the small chamber. As she turned to face him, she realized how tiny it was and began to panic, but it was too late. Before she could even open her mouth to protest, the chamber door slammed shut and a gas filled the space. 

It seemed like only seconds before air flooded the chamber, ragged gasps escaping her cracked lips. The pain she felt was overwhelming, it flooded her body and felt as though she was being torn in two. As her eyes rapidly blinked, she found the glass of the chamber had shattered and all around her was clouded by smoke and dust. As the terrified girl tried to move, that sharp pain halted her movements, causing her to crumble onto the floor. 

Her hands and knees fell against the ground, shards of glass embedding into them and as the metallic taste flooded her mouth the young girl found a sharp metal stuck within her abdomen. Her once pristine white dress now drenched in blood and covered in smears of charcoal gray from the soot surrounding her. Blood dripped from her lips as she started to wheeze, her body falling the short distance onto the surrounding rumble. The icy grip of death was squeezing her and in her final moments she saw a pair of small and childlike leather loafers appear before her eyes. 

Seconds turned to minutes as a confused and heart wrenched Five watched the young girl die. The only living being he’s seen since arriving in the future a mere eight hours ago, has perished within seconds of being within his presence. His confusion only heightens as he takes in her hands and forearms, then stares at the science fiction esque chamber she seemed to have fallen out of. It looked like something out of the comic books his brothers read- or well-used to read now that they are dead. The thought only hurt him more, causing tears to fill the pubescent eyes. 

This odd looking girl had been stored in their family home, for how long? Five doesn’t know. But what he does know is his family is dead, and the world has ended, he’s seemingly alone and all he wishes to do is mourn his siblings. He takes a step backwards, planning on going back to their remains, (where he had spent the last six hours, sitting numbly among them) when a finger of hers twitches. 

At first, he thinks he must be hallucinating from all the fumes and exhaustion due to all the tears he’s cried, but then it happens again and then her left arm jerks inwards, curling around her stomach. He’s stunned as he watches the young girl begin to slowly lift herself into a sitting position, the large piece of metal once lodged in her abdomen just… falling onto the ground, drenched in her blood. 

The gaping hole begins to slowly mend itself as she wheezes and groans. Even all the tiny scratches across her body from the glass begin to heal and Five is left standing before some undead fourteen-year-old in a mixture of shock and awe. His siblings would probably be horrified and while he won’t say it out loud there is a small part of him that is; but that morbid curiosity of his kicks in and overpowers the dull horror ebbing through his brain. Suddenly it makes sense on how she survived an entire building collapsing on her and her near indestructible pod, how somehow whatever killed everyone else around him didn’t harm her. 

“What are you?” He utters in a scratchy (he has been crying and screaming for hours) and awe filled tone.  

Her nose scrunches, bloodied features full of fear and offense at his question. Those inky hands lay flat against the rubble as she pulls herself to stand, all wounds once leaking blood now closed and scabbed over. Her tone is soft and barely audible, as if almost scared to speak. “I’m just Y/N.” 

The duffle slung over her shoulder is threadbare and has millions of random holes across it that have been half hazardously stitched back together. The uncomfortable strap digs into her shoulder as the weight of her valuables bogs her down. Their last source of shelter ended up collapsing not too long ago and so the sixteen-year-olds are once more on the hunt for a new place to call home. So they walk along a road cluttered with trash and rubble, dilapidated buildings lining both sides and the scorching sun beating down on them. 

“What do you think we’ll find this time?” 

He huffs, “I don’t know, something with a roof preferably.” Five has a duffle too along with a cart full of heavier items like their jars of food they’ve collected, jugs of barely drinkable water and makeshift tools. 

The heat from the sun has made the girl drenched in sweat, body glistening and dirty, misshapen clothes stuck to her. Perhaps if she took her gloves off she’d feel a little better, but ever since discovering them she’s kept them on no matter the weather. 

A year into the apocalypse they found a department store, one where Five became rather enamored by a mannequin. As he spent the better of twenty minutes simply staring at that torsoless thing, she hunted for any clothes they might need. Anything that didn’t seem within their size she set aside to eventually make a blanket out of it and began to softly hum to herself. 

Finally, Five abandoned the mannequin and tossed something at the girl. A pair of elbow length black gloves. “Try those on,” he said as he began sifting through her pile of maybes. These were on the mannequin, she realized. The whole time she was worried about him losing it, and he came back with these instead of a new “friend.”  

The gloves were a bit big but not enough that she had to worry about them slipping off. The inside felt silky and due to the size they went just passed her elbow instead. “These will be nice when winter hits, I won’t have to worry about potentially freezing any fingers off this year.” 

“You should try touching the next rat we catch before we kill it… I have a theory that may help.” 

And they did help, tremendously. The girl was shocked all it took to stop her powers was some cheap fabric. Her heart squeezed with appreciation as she finally began feeling less terrified of being around anything living. It felt ironic in the beginning how she finally felt free from not only herself but the chains that she was metaphorically born with, after the world had ended. Almost everyone was dead and she was finally at peace. 

Now at sixteen she wears the same pair of gloves which now fit perfectly. There are holes and tears that have also been stitched with random thread that they scavenged throughout the years. Despite the fabric containing her undesired power, she finds herself hardly ever touching anything she wouldn’t want to kill. Anything that isn’t Five is food and well Five isn’t a very tactical person. There are a few nights each winter that they’ll huddle together for warmth, which he always makes a face about; but beyond that it’s more of a safety precaution. A ‘just in case I bump against you or need to grab you before you fall’ kind of thing.

As she stares at the dirtied gloves, a thought that’s always drifted through her mind bubbles to the surface once more. While they usually scavenge in silence to keep them focused for danger, today feels like an okay day to break that. There haven't been any accidents in a while, and typically they tend to be some sort of problem with herself. She’s fallen on rebar and been bitten by rabid rats, caught deathly flus and been the taste tester for water since the very day she fell out of what she can only assume was some type of cryochamber. 

“Why do you think he never thought to do this to me?” 

He eyes her for a second, brow raised. They both step over some debris, worn shoes knocking small rocks out of the way as he speaks. “What? End the world?” 

A cockroach skitters by and for a brief second they both watch it in concentrated silence. There’s a silent debate between them, eyes locked, on whether they should hunt it and kill. Five makes the first move of ignoring it and moving on. They have jars of food, and it’s not that big. Plus they don’t have the necessities to pickle it like they did in the past. 

“No dumbo.-“ He glares at her, “-give me gloves, so I couldn’t harm anyone. He could have saved so much time and money and I could have been one of you guys! One of the umbrella academy, going on missions and having a real family.” 

“What we had wasn’t exactly a proper family,” he starts. The girl sighs, thinking of what her family was. While his wasn’t normal either, it wasn’t as insane sounding as hers. “I’m guessing you can’t really make a toddler or even a young child keep the gloves on, no matter how much you stress the importance of them.” 

“Then he should have just killed me when he adopted me.” 

He stops all together which she doesn’t pick up at first, too busy surveying their surroundings for anything useful. So far it’s just more collapsed buildings and dust. Sometimes she thinks of the old westerns Thomas (her childhood companion) liked, and imagines a tumbleweed lightly dancing across the street ahead of them. 

“You think so?” Finally, she turns, noticing the distance between them and the girl just shrugs. He eyes her, gaze critical. They’ve been at this whole apocalypse thing for a while now and a major part of staying alive has been having one another. Yes he has the motivation of seeing his family again to help keep him going, but it’s been her that’s helped keep him off that delicious looking precipice of madness. 

“I do, if he couldn’t trust me to simply keep some gloves on then he should have killed me. Obviously I was too dangerous for the world, and yet he wouldn’t just do the one thing that was probably best for everyone involved. I mean do you think he adopted me, realized my power and just shoved me in the bunker? Or do you think maybe he tried alternatives first?”

He rubs his face which is already smeared in dust and dirt, his hair is tangled and long and beyond greasy. She knows hers doesn’t look any better. It’s been a while since they’ve found anything sharp, the last sharp thing they had was a broken bottle that they used as a makeshift knife. It didn’t last long. 

“I think despite his cold nature, killing a baby was too heartless of a task even for the old man.” He finally walks again, stopping at her side. Neither move, simply staring at one another. “I don’t know why he kept you in there, maybe we can figure that out when we get back.” 

Despite his insistence of them returning, she finds herself hardly believing it. She’s never told him how she doubts him, worried it will cause a rift between the two. The idea of rocking the delicate balance between them has always been at the back of her mind. Sometimes she wakes in the middle of the night from a horrible dream of him abandoning her, claiming she’s too much of a liability or something. 

“You have caused quite the mess.”

It loops in her brain like clockwork, constantly there to remind her of the life she once lived. Even if they were robots, she killed the only two companions she ever had, and she wonders if Five has ever judged her for it. 

“Yeah,” she says in a slightly dejected, half-hearted tone. “Maybe.” 

Around her twenties, something happens. She’s not quite sure how or why, but she stops aging. Five continues to age as time drags on and she stays relatively the same. They theorize that it must be because of her whole ‘not dying’ shtick which then just springs forth a new panic inside her. She’s always worried about Five somehow dying but now no matter what she’ll end up alone. Because even if she wraps him in bubble wrap and always takes good care of him, he will die and she won’t. There is no old age for her and there most likely never will be. She can do everything in her power to keep him alive but one day he will die, and she will be eternally alone in this fiery hellscape. It’s befitting, she guesses, due to his nickname for her being Death. 

Death will be stuck in hell completely by herself because death always takes from others so why should it be given something in return. Why should it have companionship or a happy ending of some sort? 

They’ve grown closer recently, it’s odd and comforting all at once. Perhaps it’s due to the fact that they’ve managed to make a somewhat stable makeshift shelter. They’ve spent two and a half years there and just recently have come across a small packet of potato seeds. There’s little hope anything will grow but that small piece of happiness has caused them both to briefly stop thinking of what needs to be done next to keep from dying. 

They’re thirties now, or well she’s still physically twenty, and have recently been reading together at night. They huddle by their fire as the autumn chill sets in, and he reads a few passages before the flames die down. Shoulders bump and sometimes their heads lean against one another. He’s grown to be handsome in her eyes, and she wonders if she’d still think that if others were around. 

One day, after the embers dwindle and a cold breeze drifts through the cracks within their makeshift home, something odd occurs. Within the darkness she makes out his eyes still open as they huddle together, surveying her features. When they make eye contact he clears his throat and shifts to look at the metal sheet ceiling they’ve concocted. 

“What is it?” Death whispers. It’s not great to be loud at night, as time went on the rats got bigger and as did the roaches. They’ve become a sort of predator for them and while both are excellent fighters neither wants to deal with some sort of altercation this late at night. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he coldly responds. Ahh, so she gets to deal with defensive Five. The one who deflects and tries to turn it around on her. It’s funny and kinda cute that despite all the years that they’ve spent together, he still thinks he can lie to her. 

“You were staring at me,” she turns to her side to face him, trying and failing to hide a smirk. Her hands are flat underneath her head to act as a cushion against the flattened pillow she’s been using for the last six years. 

“You have dirt on your face.” 

“I always have dirt on my face-“ 

“Yeah well,” he drawls, “you have more than usual.” 

In a flash she turns to the other side, hand digging into the dirt nearby and smears it across his face. His mouth is gapping open, and she can’t stop the laughter that bubbles out. He clamps a hand over her mouth and for a moment, they stare into each other's eyes in silence as they wait to hear for any nearby creatures. His eyes are wide with anger and his grip against her mouth is rough, but she’s not scared. She could never be scared of him. 

They stay like that even once it’s clear they aren’t in danger. His grip on her mouth softens slightly but neither diverts their gaze. It almost feels like a contest on who can wimp out first. 

“You have beautiful eyes,” he mutters, his voice so soft it’s almost lost to the howling wind. “That’s what I was looking at.” 

Deaths mouth drops open as his hand falls away. 

“Oh.”

Her bravado is lost, and she feels something tighten within her chest. Her heart is beating rapidly, like whenever they're in danger, but they aren’t. She vaguely remembers watching heroines in romance movies describe this type of thing, this sort of rattling within her abdomen and sudden clamminess of the palms. 

“And your lips,” he starts- 

“What about them?” She whispers, far too nervous to let him continue without responding first.

“They suit your face perfectly.” His thumb comes to rest on her lower lip, and he slightly pulls at it. The woman’s breath hitches and unconsciously scoots closer to him. Their chests are touching as they lay on their sides, due to the closeness her hand comes to rest on the forearm of the hand that’s now moving to gently cradle her face. 

“And I can’t stop thinking about them. Even when we’re in danger, I’m not focusing on the task at hand because all I can think about is your lips.” 

She surges forward, closing the gap between them and pressing her lips against his own. He tastes of dirt and the saltiness of his sweat, but she doesn’t mind, she’s sure she tastes the same. It’s awkward and their teeth clash against one another, saliva dribbling down their chins and their touching each other everywhere they can think of. It’s messy and not romantic at all, holding this sense of life ending urgency. Like if she doesn’t kiss him until she can’t breathe then she’ll finally experience true mortality. 

Eventually they reluctantly pull apart, both gasping for breath as their noses bump against one another. He’s still cradling her face and her grip on his forearm is bruising, as if worried he might pull away with regret. 

“Esattamente come immaginavo” he whispers. She can’t help the smile that breaks out across her lips, nor the happy little sigh that escapes her. She kisses him again, and again and again. He indulges each one. 

She breathes the words against his lips, his fingers now gripping her hip to hold her close. It’s hard to concentrate with his thigh pressed against her. “Come lo hai immaginato?” She finally breathes out. 

“Perfetto.”

More years pass, that same shelter still works as their home, even if it is quite rickety. There’s a makeshift shelf lined with pickled roaches or rats and there’s new support poles throughout. With Fives age she does most of the intensive work now, which he hates and there’s always an argument about it. They are as close as can be though, despite everything and despite the wrinkles littering his face or the slight graying of his hair. She loves him, and he loves her in their own twisted little way. 

One day someone appears and breaks their routine. A woman who goes by the title of “The Handler,” explains the commission to them and its mission. Then she pitches a cushy contract to them and while Five hymns and haws over it, Death is about ready to sign on the dotted line. It’s not that she doesn’t understand the risks or thinks it’ll be enjoyable, but it’s out of this apocalyptic wasteland, and it gives Five a chance to live longer. If they get out of here they can retire in their original timeline and get the medical care he may need in his old age. 

Eventually, he concedes, and they leave behind what they’ve known as home for more than half their lives. It’s weird, being part of society again. At least for Five. Death was never fully part of society to begin with so it’s more of a whole panic inducing experience for her. They are given a small living space which consists of a queen bed and an en-suite bathroom. There’s a kitchenette against one wall with a small metal table that has two chairs pushed underneath it. Five says it looks like a motel straight outta the ‘50s. The Handler tells them that’s the current decade they are in. 

Proper clothes and toiletries are given to them and the first time she showers since before her cryochamber is an experience. The hot water hits her back and seemingly melts her hair, turning it from a ratty mess to complete wetness that hangs down her back. The woman hasn’t had a hair cut since she was a child and as she climbs out of the shower she realizes how much hair she currently possesses. A towel is wrapped tightly around her when there’s a knock on the bathroom door, and she cautiously opens it to let Five in. 

He whistles as he takes her in. Beads of water trail down her body and for once there’s not a speck of dirt on her. She spent forever scrubbing at every crevice and callous on her body, trying to rid herself of decades worth of dirt and survival. Her hands tightly grip the towel, afraid to be near him without her gloves. The commission took their old clothes away, claiming they were just trash now. She was promised new clothes and new gloves, but it hurt to part from the hole infested pair gifted to her by her partner. 

“You look like a whole new woman,” he states. She looks down at her body, all skin, and bones from feasting on scraps for so long. She can’t hold back the chuckle that leaves her. 

“I guess so,” she claims. He’s clean now too, even his beard is gone and all that’s left is a mustache. She’s shocked, he’s had one for so long. They’d try to cut it whenever they could to keep him cleanly but even then it’s not like they could do much. She grabs a pair of scissors from the counter and carefully hands them to him, holding her breath as she watches him take them from her. “Will you cut my hair?” 

Five is shocked, it seems the idea of her cutting her long mane never crossed his mind. But if they are going to be assassins then she needs to be practical and there’s no need for such excessive amounts of hair now that they have access to proper scissors. It’s quiet as he cuts, there’s the faint sound of some old song playing in the background, most likely from the little radio on their dresser. She can hear the snip of the metal each time he cuts away a chunk of her past, the weight slowly lessening. It’s symbolic in a way, as if it’s him shutting the door on that part of their life. 

Time drones on, many songs pass and neither of them speak. Eventually he turns her to him, careful to keep her away from the mirror. She watches him with bated breath, realizing now that maybe he won’t like her with shorter hair. It never crossed her mind, it’s only ever been them so the idea that he may suddenly lose interest just seemed… impossible. 

He snips at a few strands close to her face, her initial reaction being to jerk away which he just tuts at her for. Finally, she stays still, and he finishes his work with a few more snips. After slowly setting the scissors down he takes her in, a smile slowly creeping into his thinning lips. “Bellísimo“ he whispers. 

He always flirts with her in Italian, it causes her to flush. With all the dirt gone and the lights of the bathroom shining down on her, only a towel covering her naked frame, she suddenly feels insecure. She’s never felt that around him, never felt the need really. It was never about being pretty, there wasn’t time for pretty. But now there sort of is and there are the resources for it too. 

He turns her to the mirror and the woman before her isn’t apocalyptic Death. This is the new her, fresh into society and ready to kill anyone necessary for her. She hopes that she comes to like who she sees in the mirror, or at least recognize her. Right now it seems like a hollowed out stranger with bags under her eyes and a bony form. But she will admit, Five is a good hairdresser. 

The commission is smart, that she will give them. They hardly ever assign her and Five on missions together. They become ships passing in the night, barely seeing one another for an hour or so at a time before they are rushing off in a new mission, after a new target. Furthermore, they give her new silky black gloves and The Handler has dubbed her “The Belladonna” because she’s stealthy like a poison and quick like one too. Efficient and always out of sight. She loses count of the people she’s killed, at this point it’s instinctual to take off her gloves and just touch whenever need be. The horror of watching someone drop-dead mere moments later soon wears off, and instead she’s left feeling emptier each time. 

Five has always been trying to figure out how to get home, but now with the technology of the commission he’s really started cracking down on it. She tries to help when she can, offering insight and even solving one of the various problems. It’s late one night, a rare one where they are both in their room together. 

He’s got a drink in his hand, and she’s in one of his shirts with her gloves on. They’ve got papers scattered across the floor with various formulas and her brain hurts from all this thinking. She just got back from a mission, having successfully killed eight people who were at risk of disrupting the timeline. It was easy until the end, one slipped away and a chase began. She eventually got him but had to pull her gun on him which has always been her least favorite way to do it. It’s not like she’s bad at it, quite the contrary, but it’s messy. It’s brutal and suddenly it seems more impactful. With a simple touch they choke and freeze, then fall to the ground and boom! Dead. With a gun there’s a struggle and so much blood, there’s gasping and wheezing and pleads for a second chance. She feels less human every time she pulls the trigger. 

“What about your age?” She randomly asks. He’s sat on the edge of the bed and her question has his gaze whipping away from the papers to her pacing form. “I mean, if we can travel to the correct time to fix the apocalypse from happening then maybe we can do something about your age.” 

“What’s wrong with my age?” a white brow is raised and she sighs. She’s never really voiced her fear to him, worried he might end up becoming offended. In all honesty old age suits him, he’s always acted like an old man. Crotchety, opinionated with sarcasm dripping from his tone. He’s the kind who’d probably sit on his porch and yell at kids to get off his lawn. 

Death walks over to him, her hands coming to rest on his shoulders. They lock eyes, and she knows it’s time to finally tell him. “You’ll die in a couple of decades, and I’ll most likely still be a twenty-something year old woman. If we manage to get back to your family's timeline and retire then… Shouldn’t we be given the chance at a proper life together?” 

“What like kids and a house? I didn’t peg you for the whole suburban life.” 

She scoffs, eyes practically rolling into the back of her head. “No, I’m not talking about the whole white picket fence shebang.”

“I’m talking about us building a home together, finding a place with big windows in the living room that we’ll place two armchairs by so we can read in the sunlight. We’ll buy enough books to fill up a whole wall with them and a bar cart with your favorite spirits always stocked up.”

“We’ll get serious business-esque jobs and on the weekends we’ll lay in bed for an extra hour, cuddling or making love. You’ll get more time with not only me but your whole family too. Don’t you want that?” 

It’s quiet for far too long as he contemplates her words, his eyes scanning over her features before looking at the mess of papers behind her. She can tell he’s doing the logistics in his head, weighing the pros and cons. His hands rest on her hips, and she gently straddles his lap, her arms linking around his neck to keep him close. 

“It’ll complicate the formula even more,” he softly observes. “We’re so close to finishing this. I can tell.” 

Her hands slide up to cup the back of his head. She can’t help but frown as he lets her down, her heart squeezing as she thinks of what’s down the road. “Please, we’re both smart, and can easily figure it out. It’s just a couple extra numbe-“ 

“Death-“ 

“Please,” she practically begs, her hands tangling in his hair and slightly tugging. “I can’t go live a normal life if you aren’t part of it.” 

“I miss them, they’re my family, and they need me.”

She’s losing him, the wall is slowly going up, and she’s desperately trying to jump over it before the finality sets in. “What about me, don’t I need you too? Don’t we need each other I mean we survived the apocalypse together for fuck's sake!” 

“And I spent the entire time thinking about getting back to them. Surviving for them.” 

He doesn’t mean too, she knows that deep down, but his words cut her deeply. A wound on her barely beating heart is forming, and he’s just staring at her with a hardened expression. 

Her eyes well with unshed tears, voice quivering as she speaks. “What about me, about us? Didn’t you survive for me too?” 

It’s silent for two beats, then three and then four. They just stare at each other waiting for one to relent. Both of them are so stubborn and so set in their plan. She knows this is a pipe dream, but she was still holding out hope until this very moment. He thickly swallows and she just knows.

The wall is fully between them now. She couldn’t make the jump. His mind is made up, and she’s scared to hear what he’ll say. “I think I should go alone. There are less numbers if it’s just me.” 

And that scratch, that wound, only deepens. It’s a crater now, and she fears there’s very little of her heart left functioning. She’s died a million times, been stabbed in every place imaginable, contracted various deadly illnesses, died from fire and hypothermia and yet now, this hurts far more than all of those combined. She climbs off of him like his touch is hurting her and aggressively wipes at her eyes. 

“I didn’t realize I was hindering you so much-“ 

“I didn’t say that. I’m just sa-“ 

“I heard you loud and clear. If my presence is such a bother then I think I’ll request a different room.” She pulls on a pair of pants and quickly slips her feet into a pair of slippers. He just watches her too, doesn’t jump up to stop her. All this time she’s worried about what would happen if she voiced her thoughts, and it turns out her fears were warranted. All it took was her asking for something for once, begging for something even, for him to shut her out. 

Five is selfish and cold-hearted, and he doesn’t love her like she loves him. He’s a man obsessed with one mission only, and she bets he won’t even like his family once he gets there. He just wants to be some kind of hero to them, to prove to himself that he can be the savior. To make up for his absence all those years. 

With the click of the door, she severs the only love she’s ever known and changes the course of her life. 

[callsignfate]

Valeria x Chaotic wife pt.3

(Part 3, anyone? Most of these wonderful ideas are conversations I have with my friends, family, or partner or just think of in odd hours of the day. Anyways. Enjoy!)

Part One/ Part Two/ Part Three/ Part Four/ Part Five

Part Six/ Part Seven/

♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤

Valeria talking to her men: have you seen my wife recently?

Her men: No. No ma'am.

Valeria: You're lying.

Her men: We've been trying to find her after she asked us to play hide and seek an hour ago..

Valeria: ...

(Valeria searched for you for an hour by screaming in every room to come out or else.. you eventually heard her and came out.)

Short!R/N: That's cheating.

Valeria: Yea? Where were you?

Short!R/N: In the washing machine..

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Valeria: Do not come in here and start asking me to do a million things with you.

R/N shutting the door slowly: ...

Valeria: DO NOT ASK MY MEN TO DO ANYTHING EITHER THEY ARE BUSY

R/N: AWE C'MON!

♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤

R/N: Who is Alejandro? Why do your men keep trying to figure out if you fucked him?

Valeria: First, don't ever say that name ever again it makes me want to rip my ears off and eat them. Second, they WHAT?

R/N: ...nothing.

Valeria: Tell me which ones you heard speaking of this.

R/N now sprinting away: IM NOT A SNITCH

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R/N wearing a pj set: this is nice.

Valeria's men who got forced to also wear matching pj sets: ...yes it is.

R/N: Good. Glad we are all on the same page.

Valeria, who walked in to find you: I pay them to move drugs not to entertain you.

R/N: Too bad, either join me or do it yourself.

Valeria: ...

R/N: I'll start running now.

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R/N: Val, do you ever get-

Valeria: Tired of you? Sometimes, but I think I'd miss the chaos

R/N: I was going to say hungry and crave something specific-

Valeria: Oh, yea sometimes.

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Valeria: I wonder what would happen if I left you alone without my men to watch you for a few days..

R/N: You like this place? It would be up in flames.

Valeria: ..at least you admit it.

R/N: I'm very self-aware.

(R/N then proceeds to walk into a decorative plant almost falling.)

R/N: I'm self-aware in certain ways..

♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤

Valeria: What are you doing?

R/N: Thinking about how I somehow made you attracted to me.

Valeria: No, I meant, why do you have a lighter and hand sanitizer next to you?

R/N: I saw a video of this per-

Valeria: Absolutely not.

♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤

Valeria: What are you reading?

R/N: Smut book.

Valeria: Why?

R/N: You said to entertain myself.

(Valeria took the book you were reading and skimmed it before she put it in her desk.)

Valeria: Yea no, you don't need any more ideas. I'm not chasing you through the woods.

♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤

R/N: I think I could build a house.

Valeria: You couldn't even finish your Lego set.

R/N: ...fair point.

Valeria: You had one of my men finish it for you.

R/N: How did you kn-

Valeria: I know everything.

♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤

[fatuismooches]

I bring to thee more of my brainrot....

GRAAAAAHHHHH AKADEMIYA DOTTORE AWOOOOOOOOOAWOOOOOOOO BARKBARKBARK

I wish i could transport myself to genshin so i can be with him at the akademiya...

totally self indulgent but... some random student just flirting with a confused reader and dottore looking at them from afar like an angry kitten about to pounce on some poor prey because HOW DARE THEY.... Reader is clearly leagues above them. Reader is HIS assistant, they have no need for such trivial things. Eventually he gets so mad he just storms up and pulls reader away, reader is so confused and keeps asking him whats wrong, once they notice his (obvious) jealousy they smirle and tease him about it (he is not pleased and starts putting readers books on higher surfaces cuz he's a lil shit)

IDK IM SO UNWELL... I really like jealous dottore... he is so down bad... - 🐓

One thing about Akademiya Dottore is that he won't admit a lot of his emotions. Yes, he'll admit how annoyed and irritated and pissed off he is. But he won't admit it when he's happy, when he's excited, when he's in love... when he's jealous.

Zandik has felt jealous before, such as annoyed that others are accepted but not him. But never jealous in this context. Which is why the feeling that gnaws at him when he sees another student so close to you is completely infuriating, annoying, bothersome, you get the point. He hates it. He hates feeling this way... it's utterly unbecoming of a scholar such as himself. And he also hates you for making him feel this way. Why have you done this to him? Why have you affected him so much, messing with his mind and body like this? He's supposed to be focusing on his research, but all he can do is keep sneaking glasses at you and the student. He gives in when he sees their arm sneak up to rest on your shoulder. Talking is one thing, but touching what's his? Oh no, the Akademiya's Outcast is standing behind you in a matter of seconds which obviously gives the poor student a heart attack.

Oh you tease Zandik so much for being jealous, it's honestly incredibly amusing,, you know he always gave the eye to anyone who dared to look at you for too long but jealous? This is completely new,, you didn't even know he had it in him. In a way it's rather enamoring... because he finally loves you enough to feel jealous over you. Before he couldn't care less about you,, so real cute stuff! (He makes you get on the ladder to get all the high-up books in the House of Daena as punishment </3 and flat-out ignores you if you keep teasing him,, he's not entertaining ANYTHING. He just tells you not to do it again.)

(It's just another thing he finds very tiring, is how smart you are yet how dumb you can be. Can you really not see how this buffoon is trying to flirt with you? It's exasperating really, to have to save you from these idiots. You should be grateful he's here to save you from such fools. This is his excuse whenever you try to make fun of him. As if you didn't save him from getting beat on multiple occasions...)

[imagineitdearies]

not a Perfect Slaughter question but Astarion one. you remember that scene in goblin camp where a Loviatar priest and PC can do an impromptu bdsm session? Astarion's reaction always confused me. he seems to be strangely into it for a person who experienced a lot of non consensual sex with physical violence sprinkled on top. like yes, he could be faking it (it's act 1 after all) but he gives a lot of approval points for it.

is it just a case of him being his usual gremlin self? or is he more amenable to the show now when he isn't the one on the receiving end of a whip? also at this point in a game i doubt he cares too much for PC (reminds me abt his remark "i don't like seeing you hurt" or smth along the line).

and more generally, what do you think is his stance on pain play and d/s stuff in the bedroom? anyway would like to hear your musings on this, ciao <3

Hey anon!

I'm no Astarion expert compared to some in this fandom, but this is a scene I've thought a lot about the implications of myself so I'll offer my two (very long-winded) cents. I'd love to hear others' thoughts as well!

I agree that Astarion's big approvals should be isolated to the context of when in the game he's giving them. Based on his smaller approval points in Act I, when Astarion starts out this journey he seems to like watching people get treated how he once was. Just a few really early examples:

Tav* making Lae'zel say please (Astarion begging Cazador)

Tav making Zorru bow (Astarion having to bow in Cazador's presence)

Tav prodding Nettie's injured bird till it dies (Godey flashbacks)

Tav telling Mayrina's brothers they won't help (no one ever helping Astarion)

Tav terrorizing Lorin/entertaining his delusions (☹)

So we could argue Astarion is just leaning into this sadistic trauma response in the Loviatar scene as well. He finds satisfaction, however temporary, in seeing others endure what he once had to, and reassuring himself that he's on the winning/powerful/in control side this time. AKA not the weak pathetic person he feels like he was before. The self-loathing is subtle, but not far under the surface.

Considering he often disapproves of Tav being self-sacrificing and weak in other instances, however (usually when it's on behalf of others), why does he highly approve in this certain instance of Tav submitting to pain and injury for seemingly no good reason?

I think the timing of this scene in Act I makes a big difference, considering it's deep in the goblin camp where the party is usually at least a couple levels into their adventure. So in that case, Tav is the established leader, Astarion's vampiric nature is revealed, and they've survived quite a few encounters together already. Some trust has been built. Astarion is more assured of Tav's strength, competency, and willingness to keep him in the group....but that assurance of Tav's strength could be crossing over to feeling unsafe again.

There's plenty of other chaotic, less-sadistic things that he likes (BAAAA!), but almost** all of his big +5 or +10 approvals come from Tav agreeing to something that makes Astarion feel safe and/or powerful. So perhaps Astarion wants Tav to say yes to the Loviatar pain ritual because he views it as a show of strength. He might feel safer knowing that his leader can not only handle pain, but is so entirely unafraid as to welcome it even in the midst of a dangerous goblin camp--something Astarion's 'weak' past self never would have done (cue the self-loathing again).

Based on how eager he sounds when encouraging Tav, though ("don't you dare say no!"), I like to think that he's playing it off as sexual but in reality wants to assure himself he's not with another Cazador. While Astarion is likely to follow Tav regardless, I think he's more interested in being intimate with Tav--if he hasn't already--after seeing that Tav is okay with not always being in charge and assertive, in control. I think, especially at the start, Astarion craves control after not having it for so long, and this kinky display tells him Tav wouldn't mind him taking over for a little while.

Which, at last, gets us to your question about Astarion's views on "pain play and d/s stuff in the bedroom." I think it's telling that Astarion has a +5 approval during the first sex scene if Tav rolls over and lets him bite, and no matter which final romance scene you end up with in Act III, he's depicted as the top. If he ascends, he quickly jumps into what I'd call a permanent d/s dynamic with spawn!Tav where's he's the one in control, made all the more evident with the new kissing animations for patch 6. Plenty of implications to be had, about his preferences.

Now (and these are entirely my headcanons/opinions from here on out), Astarion just isn't in a place for what I'd consider actual healthy d/s dynamics in the bedroom during or immediately after the game timeline, as his mindset is too rooted in fear, self-loathing, and desperate grabs for control. It's been days, weeks at most since he was tortured and controlled on the regular--a lot of this stuff could be triggers and provoke flashbacks, or at the least reinforce the idea in his head that sex is a tool of manipulation and control. Truly safe, sane and consensual d/s acts just don't seem on the table--he goes through a period of not wanting sex at all, much less intimacy where so much trust is required.

But post-game, with enough time? I could see spawn!Astarion*** eventually enjoying some light bdsm in either role, maybe pain play beyond bites if he was the one giving, not receiving the pain. Which all could be a healing experience for him, with trust and aftercare involved. He wouldn't make it on my list of 'top three kinkiest companions' though 😂

Anyways, this is all very much my personal opinion!! Astarion is a fascinating character with so much nuance, there's endless ways to interpret him. And maybe he was just feeling extra chaotic and kinky that day 🤷‍♀️ "Ah, drink it in - that sweet, sweet chaos. Not that I approve of goblins, of course - filthy little beasts - but I do like a good den of debauchery."

Thanks for the question anon. If nothing else, I hope these ramblings entertained! 💙

*Tav represents Tav, Dark Urge, and origin characters in this post

**The one exception that I can think of is the +5 approval for letting him interrupt during the bugbear/ogre scene. Chaos gremlin indeed.

***Ascended!Astarion's characterization and lore is just a bit too inconsistent and vague (in my opinion, of course) for me to analyze a future for. Press (x) to doubt that he can eventually practice safe, healthy bdsm on the side with spawn!Tav while he does his evil stuff and tries to take over the world, but maybe??? Lol he doesn't make sense to me.

[reflections-in-a-critical-eye]

I find myself questioning their bonds these days.

Today in that bangtan bomb, Jimin said all three, Yoongi, Tae and JK had left without him telling him.

You see how odd that sounds? Cause they are family, Tae is his supposed soul mate and JK is his supposed closest friend in the group.

That's just one example. But we keep getting something like this everytime there's behind the scenes. Can't tell what's for the camera and what's real.

You're so right, anon. I mean, it is questionable.

Cause I don't get how that sad, pathetic Jimin can be such an idiot and a doormat, that after more than a decade, he allows his hyung, same age friend and worse, dongsaeng to treat him like that. And he just takes it, on camera. And what's worse, he then chooses to enlist in the military with that Jungkook jerk. Closest friend in the group that leaves without Jimin and then this guy chooses to go on two holidays with him doing a project he himself wanted and then spend the next 18 months having to see that disrespectful brat every single day.

At this point, why am I even stanning Jimin?

Maybe it's a conspiracy. We do need to question everything. Bangtan Bomb is a means of propaganda. How do we know what is real and what is not? How do we deal with the uncertainty? I can't be a fan of a K-Pop idol working in an entertainment industry if I don't know the truth and everything else about his life and his relationships.

What's for camera and what's real? Are they performing all the time? Aren't we all actors on a metaphorical stage, performing our self for the enjoyment of others? Is there something true left?

[calaisreno]

Those Who Can't

I've always loved writing, but for a long time thought it was pretentious to call myself a writer. What if someone asked to see what I'm writing? What if they didn't like it? That would make me a terrible writer, I thought, one of those people who go around thinking they're great while everyone is secretly laughing at them.

But I walk in the park every day, and I see people who walk there, too. We're all walkers, even the guy who brings his oxygen tank with him every day, even the woman who sits down to smoke a cigarette before she finishes her walk. The young parents pushing strollers, the women in hijab, the elderly lady who has her hair "done" each week and wears jewellery while she does her doctor-prescribed exercise, the people who are overweight or all lean muscle and bone, the people looking for Pokemon, the business suits walking during their lunch hour. All walking, all walkers.

If you walk, you're a walker. If you write, you're a writer.

It's said that those who can't do something become teachers. As a teacher, I resent the implication that we have all failed at something and now pretend to instruct others how not to fail. But it's true in the sense that we are all learners, never finished learning, and no one knows this better than a teacher. Every day I learn just how much I don't know.

Years ago I was walking down the hall of my school, heading for the copy machine, three minutes from the next bell, and an administrator stopped me.

"Would you like to teach creative writing?" she asked. "We need more elective courses next year."

At the time I was teaching three Latin classes and two freshman English classes. Did I really need another prep?

Could I even do this? Why me? What made me more qualified than the other people in my department? How would I teach it? What would the course description say? Who would take the class?

"Yes," I said.

When I started teaching it in the fall, I didn't have answers to all my questions, but I had a plan. The most frustrating thing, I learned, was teaching people who hadn't signed up for it, and just needed a course to fill a hole in their schedule. I thought writing was easy-- and fun! We could all have a good time here, because it was just about self-growth and imagination.

I learned was that I was not the expert. My students might be terrible writers, might hate every moment of journaling and writing exercises and prompts, but they had ideas, too. They were just too used to thinking their ideas were shit, that creativity wasn't worth anything, that the things that mattered were the things that could get them a good job.

My job, it turns out, was coaxing them to open up and explore ideas, to think divergently, to regard storytelling as more than entertainment. Stories matter; how we tell them makes a difference. I was not an expert. I read a lot and wrote stories for fun. And I became my first pupil.

Nearly everything I learned about writing, I got from teaching it. And I haven't yet reached the point where I felt entitled to call myself a writer. I still sort of cringe when I confess to someone that I write. But I keep writing.

"No writing is a waste of time – no creative work where the feelings, the imagination, the intelligence must work. With every sentence you write, you have learned something. It has done you good. Don't always be appraising yourself, wondering if you are better or worse than other writers." -- Brenda Ueland, If You Want to Write

[dracocheesecake]

Oh I just wanted to ask if you have any platonic! Kai x reader headcanons with dynamic like big guy protects smol creature and maybe being a father figure to them?

Actually yes! Warning, though: Kai isn't exactly a great person.

Father-Figure!Kai x Reader Headcanons:

Why are you so smol and weak? It's not worth taking your chi, really. It would be like eating celery: you burn more than you get out of it.

Someway, somehow, though, for whatever reason, Kai can't seem to get rid of you. At first it seems that you keep on running into each other, and then Kai starts cracking a slight joke or two, full of self-satisfaction. "Alright, I refuse to believe it's destiny at this point: you just have to be stalking me. What, are you a fan or something?"

Then this eventually progresses until you somehow bump into him again, and Kai gets so fed up that he just decides to take you along for the ride with him- supposedly, until he decides just what to do with you.

Kai, of course, in the midst of this rash decision, forgot that you are very mortal and still require things like rest stops, food, warmth, sleep, etc.- Transporting you around isn't exactly like carting around luggage. Kai gets annoyed when you point this out to him, but does (reluctantly) provide for you- while claiming that he's just getting you stronger so he can take your chi later.

He's actually a decent cook, but don't ever critique him. "What? I haven't done this in 500 years, I'm a little rusty. Besides, if you were really hungry, you'd eat anything put in front of you without complaint. Eat or starve."

However, as time wears on, you notice Kai starts being a little less harsh on you. His occasional sardonic remarks become somewhat more playful, and sometimes are punctuated by him rubbing his knuckles against the top of your head in a manner one could almost call...dare I say...affectionate?

You find Kai making you little gifts: a cloak to keep you warm ("It won't be on my head if you freeze to death, at least.") A blade of your very own ("You're weak and small. You need some sort of protection. What? Did you think I was going to follow you around to play bodyguard forever?"), etc.

Kai will also start training you a little as well. It seems harsh and unforgiving to you at first, almost to the point of being cruel- but when you complain to Kai he laughs in your face. "Harsh? You call this harsh? You have no idea how easy I'm being on you. You should have seen how I trained my soldiers!"

*Sarcastic gasp* "You moved me at least half a centimeter! What an improvement!...Nah, fifty push-ups. Now."

When you actually start improving, he actually praises you- though at first it's more as if he's praising his own abilities as a mentor- but you can tell he's actually proud of you, how much you've managed to accomplish in such a short time.

However, if you do somehow manage to run into trouble, Kai is there in an instant- he's not letting anything happen to you, even if you can supposedly handle yourself. If you ask him about it, he just shrugs and says that if anyone's going to take your life, it's going to be him.

Kai also yells at you whenever there's the slightest chance you'll get hurt; the louder he yells, though, the more it shows he cares- he might accidently let a few words slip, such as "Do you have any idea how worried I was?! Do that again, and I'll throw you off a cliff myself! Maybe I should turn you into an amulet after all, and keep you out of trouble!"

Kai grumbles under his breath, calling you an idiot, all while he patches you up with more gentleness than you thought him capable of.

Also expect him to carry you around alot. You have tiny legs and it's faster and easier. Sometimes, though, Kai will scare you by running as fast as he can on all fours, laughing while you scream at him to stop, clinging to his fur for dear life.

Seriously Kai loves messing with you. He calls it his prime source of entertainment. At first his teasing and jokes at you are cruel and dark in nature, and often at your expense; but steadily they start turning more light-hearted, and even get a laugh or two out of you (which makes him smile- but you didn't see it).

Basically Kai doesn't want to outwardly admit that you've grown on whatever little shred of heart he thought had long withered away in his chest. Over time, he's almost come to see you as the child he'd never had the time to have.

When he finally does take your chi, he wears your amulet around his neck, close to his heart. It was hard- harder than he would admit, even to himself- but in his mind, it had to be done: at least this way, he tells himself, he won't lose you.

[rambheem-is-real]

Dying, Craving, For You Baby Part 2

the sequel to pt 1

warnings: heavy NSFW, dark!Varadha, switch varadeva

-

Varadha watches from above, as his younger self and Deva kiss. The other Varadha kisses like he can’t believe this is happening, soft and hesitant. Still mapping out the inside of Deva’s mouth, still trying to figure out what Deva might like and what he might not. 

I could tell him. 

He watches as Deva takes the hands of his younger self, resting awkwardly over Deva’s chest, and moves them around his waist. The action awakens something in the other Varadha, who starts kissing Deva more frantically, puts a hand inside Deva’s t-shirt, now that he knows it’s okay. Plants kisses down the side of Deva’s arched neck. 

I could tell him how it felt to have Deva kneeling by the base of my throne in this very room, looking up at me like I was his God, sucking my cock like it was his method of worship.

The other Varadha breaks off slightly, to give a simple command. 

“Off.” 

His Deva instantly obeys, pulling his shirt off, and the other Varadha gets visibly aroused at the sight of the muscular chest. Of course, it was his first time seeing it when Deva’s nakedness was on display for himself. He pinches a nipple, delights in the surprised noise from Deva. 

I could tell him exactly where Deva was sensitive, where a bite would make him arch and moan, where a pinch could make him shiver. 

Varadha can see his younger self glance at him from the corner of his eye, can see him make a plan. Decide what kind of show he would put on. 

I could tell him that I once knew him better, more intimately than I knew myself, my own body. 

The younger man bends down, attaching his mouth to the nipple he had pinched, slips his hands around to cup Deva’s ass. Swirls his tongue around the bud almost theatrically, waits for Deva to relax into his hands, then bites down once more, smirking at the hushed moan. He brings a hand back around to play with the nipple he hasn’t given any attention to yet. 

But I won’t.  

They were sharing Deva for now, of course. Varadha understands that it’s always been them. No matter what point in time, no matter what dimension, whatever version of Deva the universe might throw at him, he belonged to Varadha. Which Varadha, it didn’t really matter. But fuck him if he wanted to keep this one thing to himself. That Varadha got to waltz in here and get the only thing, the only person Varadha had ever truly wanted, but he wouldn’t be getting any pointers from him. The part of Varadha that’s still seething at the display before him, the part that aches with jealousy with every touch of another man’s fingers on Deva’s skin, lies smug with the knowledge that that Varadha wouldn’t be able to please Deva the way only this Varadha knew. 

Other Varadha presses a tender kiss to Deva's sternum, and then switches to the other nipple, making sure Deva was squirming with every lick of his tongue. 

"Vara.." Deva trails off, not completing the plea. The other Varadha laughs breathlessly, like he can't believe this is happening. 

"Excited, are we?" Deva just groans in response. "Alright, but we still have to provide sufficient entertainment."

Having sufficiently marked Deva up, the younger Varadha trails kisses down Deva’s chest as he kneels, until he’s resting on the ground. Varadha watches as his Deva’s breath hitches, as he slowly unzips himself and drops his pants around his ankles. 

That Varadha was still very much a virgin at this point, Varadha remembers. He grimaces at the thought of all of the pigheaded men that had wanted to bed him for being a disgraced former dora, like he was some sort of conquest. He had, of course, refused to give in. He had too much dignity for that, no amount of humiliation from Rudra and the others could take that away. And anyway, from the very moment he became aware of his biological desires he only wanted to share that with one- Varadha forces himself to focus back on the pair before him.  

The younger man is eyeing Deva’s dick like it was a particularly challenging math problem.

Varadha laughs, doesn’t care if it comes off as mocking. “It’s not rocket science. Get to it!”

The younger Varadha glares at him, and Deva strokes through his hair, soothing him. He turns to the Varadha on the throne, shoulders relaxed and lips curved in a faint smile. The sight is so achingly familiar that Varadha’s heart skips a beat. This Deva was so different from the guilty one he had seen only minutes earlier. 

Deva opens his mouth, probably to crack a joke. 

Guilty . 

Visions fill his mind: his hands clutching at the bloodied body of his brother, pressing his forehead to Baachi’s cold one, crying so hard his throat burns. The burning rage returns. 

Whatever Deva sees in Varadha’s face makes him pale, and his eyes lower once again. 

Good. As he should. The anger recedes, but not all the way. 

When the younger Varadha experimentally licks at Deva’s cock, Deva’s hips jolt forward in surprise, head snapping back to look down at the Varadha on his knees. The younger man smirks, and takes more of Deva’s length in his mouth. 

His Deva moans, and his hands make an aborted motion to grab onto something, but Varadha can see he’s hesitating to be a little rougher with the version of him that hasn’t ever done this yet. 

Slowly, the younger Varadha works his way to fitting all of Deva in his mouth, the sounds of Deva’s moans increasing in frequency and volume during this time. Deva taps shakily on Varadha’s head, a warning, but he only shakes his head slightly, continuing to suck. 

“Varadha-” The younger man reaches up to stroke Deva’s balls, and that’s all it takes for Deva to come. 

The other Varadha pulls back, coughing, but before Deva can regain his breath he tugs Deva down to the ground with him, pushing him flat on his back. He doesn’t give Deva a moment of rest, resuming his exploration of Deva’s body like a man that had just tasted sugar for the first time.  

Varadha knows his Deva must be feeling blissed out right now. He reaches into his cloak, pulling out the vial of oil he had saved. He had thought that he was going to fuck Deva at least once before he would sentence him to death. Not that he had expected time travel bullshit, of course. Maybe he’ll reconsider that death sentence. Varadha pushes himself up from the throne, and leisurely walks down to the pair. 

The other Varadha pauses at his approach, and looks up. 

“Open him up for me.” Varadha tosses his younger self the vial, whose eyes darken at the thought of Deva getting fucked. Good for him, all his fantasies are getting satisfied today , Varadha thinks sarcastically. 

Other Varadha coats his fingers with the oil, then hesitantly prods at Deva’s opening. Before continuing, he looks at Deva. “You’re okay with this, right?”

Deva sends him a tiny grin, spreading his legs wider. “How many times do you think your fingers have been inside me?”

The other Varadha grins back, relieved, and presses a kiss to the inside of Deva’s thighs before slipping his index finger in. Deva immediately hisses, but presses the finger back inside himself when Varadha pulls out, alarmed at the sound. 

“Just.. it’s been a while,” he says, eyes avoiding the man sitting next to him. 

Varadha tamps down the instinctive purr of satisfaction, resists the urge to call him a good boy. 

A minute later, the other Varadha adds some more oil and presses a second finger inside, brows furrowed in concentration, now fully stretching Deva. “Like this?” he asks Varadha, who just shrugs.

“I don’t care what you do, just make it fit.” 

The cavalier tone seems to enrage young Varadha, who pauses his fingers. “I’m not going to do anything if it’s going to hurt him.” A thought occurs to him, and Varadha can see the slow horror spread across his face. “You didn’t hurt him, right?”

Varadha just smirks at Deva, who blushes. “Nothing he didn’t ask for, of course.”

The other Varadha reels from that information, until Deva whines. He apologizes with a kiss and resumes the movement of his fingers. 

My Deva looks so good on his back, getting all stretched out, Varadha thinks. The air is getting too hot, so Varadha tugs his cloak and top off. Deva looks over Varadha’s bare chest, hungry at the sight. He looks back up to Varadha, a plea in his eyes. Fine, he thinks, and leans down to kiss Deva. 

Varadha doesn’t know how long he stays there, swallowing up Deva’s moans and feeling up his chest, until he hears a throat clearing behind him. 

“I.. I think he’s ready?”

Varadha pulls back, examining his other self’s work. He does look ready. 

“I am,” Deva says. “You did a good job.” Younger Varadha blushes at the praise, and Varadha has to shove his rage and jealousy away. He’s still me, of course Deva would praise him. 

Varadha meets the eyes of his other self, who asks, “What now?” He smirks down at Deva, relishing the anticipation in Deva’s eyes. 

“I think he’d look good on his knees, as I take him from behind.” The younger Varadha watches in rapt attention as Deva quickly gets into position. Varadha lines up behind Deva, not giving him any warning before pushing into him in one long stroke. 

Other Varadha seems to want to object, like he wants Varadha to start slow to let Deva get used to it, but stops himself after hearing Deva’s groan. Varadha knows what Deva's thinking: Finally. 

Varadha doesn’t slow down his thrusts as he chuckles. “Look at him, look at how beautifully he takes my cock. Ready to be used whenever and wherever.” He slaps Deva’s ass, and Deva makes a broken sound in assent. 

Younger Varadha can’t help it anymore, takes out his own cock to stroke as he watches the erotic sight in front of him. 

Varadha gestures to Deva’s front, before putting his hands back around Deva’s waist, getting a good grip as he roughly fucks into Deva. “His mouth’s free if you want.”

His younger self’s eyes get wide, as if he hadn’t even considered that was an option, as if he was content just to watch his older self fuck all coherence out of Deva. 

Between thrusts, Deva manages to get out, “You can use my mouth, it’s okay.”

The other Varadha scrambles over to where Deva’s face is, gently stroking his jaw. Varadha slows down a little, letting his younger self guide his cock into Deva’s waiting mouth. He watches him thrust shallowly, hands curling up into fists on Deva’s shoulders. 

“Grip his hair.” With that command, Varadha speeds up once again, and the other man has no choice but to do so to keep himself inside Deva’s mouth. Deva makes the most beautiful noise, and Varadha has no doubt he’s enjoying himself very much between two versions of the man he loves the most. Eventually, the two Varadhas set a rhythm between them, Varadha thrusting so he pushes Deva’s mouth onto the other Varadha’s cock. 

Varadha lets himself lose control, lets himself use Deva the way he’s wanted to for years, the way he used to before. God, he’s missed this. All he can think of is Deva, Deva, naa Deva. 

That last part slips out of his mouth by accident, and he can feel Deva freeze. A second later, Deva clenches around him, so hard and tight Varadha almost blacks out, and comes. 

The other Varadha pulls out, lets Varadha keep fucking Deva through his orgasm. Varadha doesn’t stop, though, and Deva dutifully opens his mouth once more. The other Varadha shudders at the sight, pushing himself back inside. 

“Is he.. ah.. will it hurt him? If we keep going?” Younger Varadha asks, and Varadha laughs. 

“Yes,” is all he says, and the other Varadha seems to understand that Deva’s fine with the overstimulation. 

They keep going like that, the sound of their own moans combined with Deva’s muffled ones filling the air. How long, Varadha doesn’t know. All he knows is that he wants to stay in this moment forever, with Deva. Preferably without his younger self, actually, but he doesn’t really have a choice in that. 

The other Varadha groans and comes inside Deva’s mouth. The sight of the cum dripping down the corner of Deva’s mouth as he pulls off makes Varadha come as well, pinning Deva in place so he can come inside him. 

Younger Varadha immediately kneels to capture Deva’s lips in a kiss, licking up the sides to clean him up. He knows the other man was unable to stop himself after seeing Deva so pretty with his cum on his tongue. Varadha himself can’t help but admire the purple bruises along Deva's hips, and the way cum slowly oozes out of Deva’s puffy hole. My cum, he thinks smugly. He pushes what’s leaking back inside with his fingers. 

The other Varadha pulls back, resting his forehead on Deva’s own. “Okay?” He asks. 

Varadha can’t see it, but he already knows the exact dopey grin Deva has on his face. “Okay,” Deva responds, and the other Varadha smiles.

He then looks to Varadha. “What now?” 

Fucking hell, he looks like an eager student. He considers young Varadha’s excited eyes, the broad planes of his chest, the dark hair that didn’t have a single strand of gray yet. Youngsters.  

“Now, we can figure out Deva’s sentence.”

The other Varadha pales, and Deva’s face drops. 

“Or…” Varadha starts, and the other two perk up. “You can try fucking him this time, and I’ll ride him while you do that.” 

As Varadha tosses the vial to Deva, leans back to let him open Varadha up this time, he pushes the rational thoughts aside. He knows they’ll have to face the future at some point, will have to figure out how to free Deva from the consequences of the Nibandhanam. With two Varadhas here, they might have a shot at it. But for now, he’ll just enjoy himself. 

As the other Varadha bends down to kiss him, Varadha thinks that the enjoyment might actually end up being literal. 

-

tagging ppl that interacted with part 1: @deadloverscity @ghostdriftexistence @magicaldragons @hum-suffer @just-a-lazy-person @vijayasena @nini9224 @sometimesbrave @loosukitty

[thana-topsy]

If you're up for sharing more writing tips, how can I tell if what I've written is actually any good? With writing I get stuck in a cycle of feeling like I'm the next Shakespeare while writing but then I'll look over my work a few days later and absolutely hate everything and think it's the most cringe shit ever, then I'll leave it a bit longer and think eh it's not as bad as I thought but still not great and so on. I feel like being forced to write for a grade during school and having everything be marked and assessed and assigned a particular value has robbed me of the ability to critically analyse my own work in a way that's objective and accurate but also fair and realistic. I can analyse other peoples' stuff till the cows come home but I lose all rational thought when it comes to my own stuff

Adding onto that, how do I get to the point where I can stop looking back at my old work and hating everything and wanting to delete it all? Realistically I know finding fault with my old stuff is good bc it means I've grown and improved from where I once was etc but at the same time I wanna enjoy stuff I've made in the past without cringing every time I read it

Hey there Nony, I wanted to let this one percolate a little bit before answering because I've been where you are. And it's a rough time for sure. But aside from my own experiences, I also wanted to get the opinions of some of my writerly friends in the fandom, too, since everyone is a little font of wisdom in their own right.

So I'm going to share their advice alongside my own, because this is kind of a complicated string of questions you're asking. Long post ahead!

@paraparadigm says to Keep Writing: "Write more. Write so much (and so many different things) that eventually the sheer volume bulldozes over self-devouring ego, comparison twitches, or feeling lost, because you don't yet know your own baseline. Coupled with "read more, read everything, read things you enjoy and things you don't, read for the craft as much as the entertainment." And: "I'd add that when revisiting old writing, it's helpful for me to differentiate between "ew the writing is not as technically solid as it is now" and "ah that's interesting, I guess that's where I was at then, emotionally and psychologically". Old writing is also a sort of archaeological record of your younger self, and that can, in fact, be a bit itchy to revisit, so learning to cherish that without passing judgement can be really helpful. I try to treat it like those little marks one puts on the door jamb to track a kid's height."

@mareenavee says "Part of it is writing more, as Para said and I will always second that. Another part is, honestly, the hardest part. It's to try very hard to get out of the habit of negative self-talk.... There's so much work involved with this but normalizing being proud of your work and having some grace with yourself is part of that answer."

@archangelsunited says "Early on, instead of going “this has to be a masterpiece” I would tell myself my only job was to tell a story. I couldn’t tell a story if I was deleting it. Also, talking about your work helps. The less ashamed I was of my writing, the more people wanted to read it. There is a need to hide your work, and that can lead to a downward spiral all its own. And, 90% of the time, you have to suck at something to learn to be good at something. The work you already wrote shouldn’t be the sum of all your skill, it should be one of those measuring sticks for the moment. Despite previous thought, you won’t be stuck at the same level forever."

@polypolymorph says "In addition to accumulating experience via reading and writing, you also have to be willing to reinvent the wheel. Unfortunately the Process™️ is unique to everyone, and even when you are deliberately mimicking a voice as, say, a ghost writer, you can't expect that 2+2=4 for you. Your process might look more like a Lotka-Volterra equation for the same type of work and that's okay. Trial and error is the best way to figure out what advice actually works for you--and if it doesn't, it doesn't mean you're wrong. Don't get stuck on pop writing advice like a sad roomba does on an upturned rug. Learn when to throw it out."

So there's some advice from some other excellent writers! I hope you've been able to find some value in their advice, because it certainly kicked me in the pants a few times.

As for me, I think, having been where you are, my biggest piece of advice is: Find joy in the craft. Get curious instead of critical. An artist shouldn't down themselves over a rough sketch when they're working out a drawing, so why would a writer do such a thing? Everything you write is practice. Everything you make has value because it builds up to the next thing you make.

At the end of the day, you are the only one who is capable of telling the stories that are in your head. This fact alone gives whatever you put onto paper value, regardless of quality. You are creating magic, in the most literal sense! Creating something out of nothing, conjuring images into someone else's mind from hundreds of thousands of miles away, transcending space and time. It's amazing!

Lastly, my final piece of advice is to just write for fun. Write things nobody else will ever see just because you wanted to get words onto paper. You have to unlearn what was drilled into you in school. You are more than a content creation machine. You are an artist, a wordsmith. And just know that there will never be a day when you look at your own work and say "That's it, I have achieved perfection."

Writing is a life-long journey. Just enjoy the ride!

[cpericardium]

"It is an observable fact that most people don’t like themselves, in spite of being decent-enough human beings—certainly not war criminals—and in spite of the many self-help books urging us to befriend and think positively about ourselves. Why this self-dislike should be so prevalent I cannot pretend to understand; all I can say, from my vantage point as a teacher and anthologist of the personal essay, is that an odor of self-disgust mars many performances in this genre and keeps many would-be personal writers from developing into full-fledged professionals. They exhibit a form of stuttering, of never being able to get past the initial, superficial self-presentation and diving into the wreck of personality with gusto. The proper alternative to self-dislike is not being pleased with oneself—a smug complacency that comes across as equally distasteful—but being curious about oneself. Such self-curiosity (of which Montaigne was the fountainhead and greatest exemplar) can only grow out of that detachment or distance from oneself about which I spoke earlier. I am convinced that self-amusement is a discipline that can be learned; it can be practiced even by people such as myself, who have at times a strong self-mistrust. I may be very tired of myself in everyday life, but once I start narrating a situation or set of ideas on the page, I begin to see my I in a comic light, and I maneuver him so that he will best amuse the reader. Maintaining one’s dignity should not be a paramount issue in personal writing. But first must come the urge to entertain or at least provocatively stimulate the reader. From that impulse everything else follows. There is also considerable character dimensionality to be derived from expressing your opinions, prejudices, half-baked ideas, etc., provided you are willing to analyze the flaws in your thinking and to consider arguments against your fixations and not be too solemn about it all. Nonfiction writing thrives on daring, darting, subjective flights of thought. You must get in the habit of inviting, not censoring, the most far-fetched, mischievous notions, because even if they prove cockeyed, they may point to an element of truth that would otherwise be inaccessible."

—Phillip Lopate, To Show and To Tell

[ipoxcky]

🕷️

spider-verse_headcanons

MILES MORALES:

whenever he gets nervous/embarrassed, he'll turn part of himself invisible, like maybe he'll stick his hand in his pocket and make it go invisible

SCENARIO: at the college admissions office, rio would tell the lady, "he makes sure that he recites his time tables every night so that he can't mess up on those challenging calculus problems!" and then he would do the invisible thing and go "stop, mami, she doesn't need to know that..."

he'll also put his head on the desk with his hood up and turn his face invisible in school if he's bored

he would probably also do that when he's crying

did the invisible hand thing with fake blood to prank ganke on april fools, ganke freaked out and almost called an ambulance before miles told him it's a prank

had a shoe-collecting phase at some point

aggressively tender headed bc his hair is always nappy from putting on the suit and his mom goes CRAZY with the comb

got little twists in his head when he was younger, but now he keeps it out. his mom will still twist his hair occasionally just for fun and he hates it

secret SoundCloud rapper whose account has like 20 followers and it's him just freestyling. the only person he told about the acc was uncle aaron who's his number one fan

PAVITR PRAHABKAR:

always pulls the "is it bc i'm _____?" card, ESPECIALLY with hobie just to mess with him and hobie would go "don't chat to me mate i don't even like the u.k. myself"

talks with his hands definitely

has seen every romance movie known to man and forces the others to watch them with him if they can

VERY facially expressive, throws the STANKIEST faces at people he doesn't like, yes he's good at reading others but it doesn't take much to read him

falls over when something shocks him bc it's like his little joke

laughs to himself a lot but doesn't tell anyone why

knows a bunch of horror stories on command, the first spiderpeople sleepover he freaked everyone out and miles couldn't sleep without the light on

just dance GOD

can raise both eyebrows individually

GWEN STACY:

had an agressive minecraft phase when she was 8 where she got the creeper hoodie and never took it off

definitely had a full pixie cut at some point

theater kid, definitely goes to watch broadway shows with her dad every so often, has met famous people because of it, her favorite one is probably dear evan hansen (idk i haven't seen it)

ben platt worshipper

drums on anything she can get her hands on

music blaster

tried electric guitar for a blip of a moment

morning person, stretches anywhere and everywhere

her favorite thing is DESTROYING pointe shoes because she can take out all her anger. this one time it got to a point where after her shoe destroying sesh she started crying because she didn't realize she had so much pain built up inside her

tutu hater

takes french and already knows a ton from ballet

wheeze laugher

pastel note taker

really pretty handwriting when she tries, chicken scratch when she doesn't

HOBIE BROWN:

surprisingly good american accent

knows a bunch of magic tricks to entertain kids experiencing homelessness on the street

headphones always on so they're absolutely demolished and holding on for dear life, too bothered to get a new pair

REALLY good with kids, does anything to help them preserve their childhood because he feels like his was gone too quickly

good whistler

beats everyone in board games

knows a lot about politics for someone who doesn't rlly like them

can judge people's character based on first glance

black nail polish never leaves his fingers

goes on really long rants about the state of the world

reads self help + philosophy books

hops the subway/metro thingy

lips always moisturized, but his hands and knees r lowkey ashy sometimes (i'm blk it's okay y'all)

doesn't drink soda

tries to be vegetarian because of the stuff he's seen (worked at a fast food restaurant and was grossed out about the stuff they were serving), that and he loves animals so

natural remedy kind of guy who would drink chlorophyll water

dreams of being a tattoo artist

uses sound effects of random things in his music, raps/sings his poetry about capitalism and stuff

keeps tin jars and cans

doesn't kill bugs and instead lets them go free

[skaruresonic]

what were your favorite things about starline before he was ruined

Oh, God, Starline. ;A; How I miss the poor bastard.

Beyond his design, my favorite things about him included his foppishness, his showmanship, his meticulousness, his (relative) calm demeanor, his "comedic intern" angle, and his devotion to licking egg-shaped boot.

Oh, and the most prominent aspect of his character, the linchpin on which all else rests: the simpery.

I will give credit where credit is due, his simpery of Eggman coupled with his more cautious and lowkey nature (at least, compared to Eggman) offered a genuinely new and refreshing dynamic at the time. It didn't seem to come with strings attached as it usually does.

I also used to like his penchant for unintentional comedy. It seemed to be the same flavor of comedy with which they tinge some of Eggman's character.

Granted, Starline was probably always meant to be something of a buttmonkey, but later issues had him ping-pong between being Better Than Eggman(tm) and a buffoon. The constant switch made it difficult to fully invest in him in either case, because one minute we were meant to consider him a srs bsns mastermind and laugh at his failures the next. And not in the balanced way Eggman's humor generates; there were times I genuinely couldn't tell whether we were supposed to root for him or not.

And then, of course, he got crushed under rocks. Big oofed.

Starline used to be funny. Watching him rant and rave? Cry tears of joy? Make an uwu face as Rough and Tumble embarrass him in front of his idol? Funny, because it subverted his otherwise suave Bond villain image, and because you knew that eventually Eggman would crush his windpipe like a squeaky toy. Selling your soul to the devil can only end in tragedy. It filled you with a morbid sort of joy and a dark anticipation as you waited to see how bright this dumpster fire would blaze.

This was one pathetic meow-meow of a man, strange yet oddly compelling. Shame his delusions of grandeur stole away the entertaining aspects of his personality for a more boring, straight-laced character. Even bigger shame that we were supposed to pretend he never meant anything to begin with.

That's not to say Starline could never have had character development, nor that he should have remained a static character. Just as Sonic exerts a positive influence on others, show us how Eggman exerts a twisted influence. Make Starline's devotion to Eggman even unhealthier and fucked-up than it already was. Not in a "I can fix you" kind of way, but in an "I will light myself on fire to keep you warm" kind of way. To the point of self-destruction. That seemed to be the logical direction for such a character, anyway.

But nah, they had to drag us along Starline's unimpressive journey to strike out on his own. Which, like... He stole 90% of Eggman's shit anyway, so how effective was he really? And even if the whole point was that Eggman made him and he's nothing without his idol, then why did the book give him two mini-series? Has he been mentioned even once in the book since his death? Somehow, I very much doubt it.

I don't want to get into it with his creation of Surge and Kit because I'd rather pretend they don't exist, thanks. Yes, I'm aware Starline was originally conceived as their creator, but I think Flynn should have caught on that his character had changed. Realized that trying to cram him back into the original mold would only break him.

And you know what. Even after having suffered 30 issues where Starline was fucking insufferable with his whole "I'll surpass Eggman" schtick, I still felt sad for his passing.

To make matters worse, I felt foolish for my emotional investment, because dammit, I guess I was hoping his story would have culminated in something more substantial than "his favorite flowers are forget-me-nots (snicker)."

Now that I've learned that IDW can drop even their most popular characters in a heartbeat, I'm never making the mistake of even accidentally becoming invested in them again. They're not going to bother developing them or even give them a proper sendoff, so why should I continue reading?

Fs in the chat for my boy. They did him so dirty.