#maybe that was just me and my complicated feeling

[paper-mario-wiki]

Could you elaborate on how rhythm can greatly feminize a voice? I’d never thought of that and I’m very curious :o

hmm. im showing my ass here just a little bit with how i choose to phrase this, but this isn't really based on any "method" and all the "research" ive done into it is very cursory and for my own situational needs, so bear with me for a second:

you ever heard of "Gay Voice"?

it's an internationally recognized phenomenon-- crossing language barriers even-- that pinpoint a speech pattern, or cadence, which is most commonly associated with gay men.

the basics of the "gay voice" are 1) an increase in your spoken pitch variation (meaning you have a greater range in how high AND low your voice goes), 2) holding vowel sounds longer, and 3) a speech effect relating to the "S" sound, which people often lump into the "gay lisp" category of speech.

now, this may seem like an insane place to start, given the history of what the "gay voice" means in society, but like. that doesn't matter. the reason it's a "gay voice" is because it sounds effeminate. now, to be clear, "gay voice" does not mean "speaking like a woman"-- the research shows that the connection is slightly more complicated than just "gay men sound like women", but the aim of this exercise is to approach femininity from a familiar MtF perspective when you really don't know where to start otherwise.

as is almost always the case in the persecution of the Male Homosexual under a patriarchal social ruleset, their perceived flaws aren't based in how far from masculinity they stray, but instead how closely to femininity they approach. so too is the case with the trans woman: the inherent "shame" is your rejection of masculinity, and your embrasure of femininity. ergo, starting from a "gay" speaking standpoint is already in the direction of femininity.

if you're interested in how im becoming reacquainted with my own voice and would like to do the same, start there, if you can, and pay attention to what you do with your voice unconsciously. yes, im really asking you to sit in your room and do the Gay Voice to yourself.

how high up are you going? how low? are you speaking faster? maybe with more of a staccato in your enunciation? maybe you're speaking more softly, or more sharply. maybe there's a lilt that you don't usually put on that feels good. maybe you're flexing your tongue in ways you're not used to, hitting new sounds on familiar syllables. or maybe your lips are a little tighter, or looser than usual, projecting the voice outward differently.

pay attention to these things. become conscious of what you're doing with your mouth to make the noise called "speaking". pay attention to the words you choose, and the path your sentences follow. become aware of these things, and compare them against the kinds of people you hope to sound like.

you can also try different cartoonishly effeminate voices, like the sultry "Jessica Rabbit" seductress tone. try that on for size too. how does it feel to waltz around words? do you feel like speaking slightly slower helps you maintain a greater control over the delivery? or perhaps you feel it makes you sound too stilted? maybe you're also putting some vocal fry into it, how does that feel?

this, to me, is one of the most helpful places i've found to start on this particular issue. i apologize if some of this sounds silly, or even misguided, but doing this has been a very practical and affirming exercise for me. i hope you found it useful in some way too.

[starry-fame]

18+ Mercy [Sylus x Gender Neutral!Reader/MC]

Summary:

He’s addicting. The way his eyes look up at you, the way his lips curl, the latent hunger in his eyes.

You’re sure he wants to devour you completely.

You fear you may like it.

Tags: Smut, Porn with feelings, Dom/Sub Undertones, Overstimulation, Complicated Relationship, Penetration, Rough Sex, Size Difference, Ambiguous Genitalia!reader/MC, Gender Neutral!reader/MC

Word Count: 6,167

Author's Notes: My No Defense Zone fic I took forever on when I wrote it lol, love this man. Meant to take place as an alternative - 'what if they fucked' ending lmao

Ao3 Check out Linkon Lounge, an 18+ Lads Themed Otome Discord Server! We stream otome/anime/movies, have lads boys rp/text bots (+Caleb ofc), and chill!

Frenzied breaths, a deep groan, the rise and fall of his pretty, exposed chest as your grip tightens around his strained erection. A broken noise vibrates against your neck, warm, and his hips jerk as you drag him with each pump of the wrist. Closer, closer—

The scene fades, melting away like warm honey. You groan and curl up further, muddled, disoriented, and almost convince yourself to let your mind fade into sweet serenity. It was good, felt so good, and-

…What the hell were you thinking? You jolt, startle yourself out of your spiraling thoughts and reorient. A smooth leather couch, the blurry edges of a home that costs more than you’d ever make in a lifetime, and that infuriating silver-haired man sat across the table at the armchair, idly flickering through vinyl records (you know he likes the classics.) Your eyes follow the moment of his fingers before slowly trailing up to his face. His lip quirks into a barely perceptible smirk.

“Were you dreaming?”

“You should’ve woken me up. Or given me a blanket. Hospitality much?” You grumble, properly sitting up and rubbing your bleary eyes. His own crimson ones crinkle at that, and your mind flashes — panting, the hard edges of a flushed chest as you trail your fingers down further and further. “Don’t be shy now,” He retaliates against your featherlight touch. His lip curls, trembling body betraying his collected expression. Your fingers press above his waistband, his hips push into your hand and—

You look away, but somehow, Sylus’s gaze bores into you like he can read every last filthy thought that plagues your mind. You grunt, briefly indulge in the flush-faced Sylus from your dreams overlapping with the amused one in front of you. That image of him so pliant under your touch, the thought that you could potentially work him to that state, bolsters your confidence.

“Mhm. I dreamt of a horse. An annoying one. Refuses to be tamed, tells me I’m bluffing and overreaching,” You say, leveling Sylus with a stare. It’s not the first time you’ve challenged Sylus, but this enigma manages to have you on guard with a single effective look.

“That so? What exactly did you do to him, then?” He muses, playing along. You slowly rise and approach him, pausing to stand at the armchair as his head tilts up at you in curiosity. Neck strained up, a huff of laughter leaving his throat as your hands splay across warm chest and slide down firm muscle to his hips. “Look at me,” you command when his eyes flutter shut, and drag his hips closer. He inhales sharply, and opens his eyelids just enough to see a sliver of red. Your lips drift to his pretty pale neck and bite, pulling a low grunt from him, then—

You roughly grab his chin, observing his stupidly attractive face from various angles as Sylus contentedly lets you, eyes narrowing, but otherwise unbothered. If he still wore that collar of his in the dream, you could yank him the proper way, snatch the air from his throat. But you suppose this will have to do. You finally step closer and tilt his neck up high, so you’re directly above him as you sneer down at him. “A little roughhousing never hurt. What do you think I should’ve done to him?”

Maybe he’s amused, or perhaps impressed, but Sylus laughs, a rich deep sound from the bottom of his throat. The way that sound rings through your ears, the way you enjoy it, pisses you off. You press a firm thumb against his lips to silence him, soft and pink under your touch.

Sylus’ gaze is a strange phenomenon. You only really know two proper emotions from this man: anger, and appeased. There’s always this cocky air to him, not an ounce of humility. So even when he’s staring up at you like this, it’s somehow just as powerful as him looking down on you. His chin is in your hand. You’re the one above him.

Yet, you can’t shake this strange sense of foreboding. You don’t know Sylus well enough to make much of him aside from his eccentricities, and him being a blatant heartless bastard. This sort of mystery, these missing puzzle pieces that create the shell of a man before you, make withstanding his presence feel like you’re subjecting yourself to a lone night in the wilderness with no gear, vulnerable to attack.

‘Do you hate me?’ Your mind flashes back, recalling him in ruby red robe and gimmicky cuffs. His scoff, the aversion of his eyes as he uttered ‘astounding misunderstanding’. He harbors no hate, yet, you can’t help but wonder if he likes you either.

“A little roughhousing, hm?” Sylus chuckles, and before you can even make space for him, he’s lifting from his seat and your hand falls slack to the side, default restored to craning your head up at this man. While you prefer looking from above, you’d be a liar if you tried to argue you hated him looking down at you. In theory, maybe, because you know he thinks everything is beneath him. But in practice, his lower angle is, unfortunately, just as attractive as his upper one.

“Wanna test that theory?”

And just as alarm bells start ringing, acknowledging the impending danger in those words, he’s crowding you back towards the couch. Not even aggressive, rather, a slow approach. A damn predator stalking his prey, and that’s somehow even more harrowing. Before you can slip from his icy gaze, the back of your knees catch against leather and his hand shoves you backwards, an inelegant yelp escaping your lips as you tumble back onto cushion. One leg crams between your own, his hand overlapping yours, pinning it to the backrest.

“Gh—Let go of me!” you gasp, strain your confined hand and lift an arm to shove him away. He snatches that one in the air with a scoff and pins both of your arms firm, hovering over you and face too damn close to think properly. Your heart thunders, somewhere between attracted and terrified. When he’s got you cornered, eyes gleaming in the warm ambiance of the room, the crimson in his gaze penetrates you. The creeping sensation of your soul being laid bare, infiltrated and consumed as he gauges your desires. Your lips quiver and quickly you shut your eyes, shaking your head vehemently.

“Don’t— I won’t let you use your-!”

“Pfft.” A humored breath leaves Sylus’ mouth. One of his hands lets yours free, and you feel those fingers decide to capture your face instead, stroke a large, soft thumb beneath your eye as he murmurs.

“You think I need that to figure out what you’re thinking right now, sweetie?”

Your ears tickle at that nickname, annoyed yet maybe a little… comforted? He uses it halfway between an insult and endearment, mostly the former, but occasionally the later. It’s condescending as hell, but shit, everything this man does is. You grit your teeth and slowly open your eyes to peer into his, and his own seem to twinkle in approval. No glowing, just a piercing red that carries a thousand secrets and the ability to strip your soul bare and destroy it from the inside out.

The color of spider lilies. You wonder how many people breathed their last breath in the midst of this gaze.

You exhale, free hand flexing as you silently debate pushing him away again. You feel small, pinned against the couch so easily. While most people would be no problem, Sylus seemed to love being the exception to every damn rule in the book. You don’t know what hole this powerhouse crawled out of, but being so soundly beaten by this man puts a bigger dent on your ego than you’re willing to admit.

“How long are you gonna stay like this?” You snap, jumping to your usual defense as you glare at him. He raises a brow, naturally, and the hand cradling your face sneaks down to press the pad of his thumb against your parted lips — warm breaths, his moist lips under your thumb as he watches you with eyes that make you lose all sense of reason. You lean down, fervently, and before you can even think, you bring your lips to his—

You try to banish the thought from your mind, let the dream rest, but it plagues you. Every damn look this man gives reminds you of his groans, the way his body is so responsive and trembles when you kiss at his chest and squeeze his cock.

He’s not—you’re not—his thumb swipes over your lips and your brow scrunches as you look him in the eye. He watches you like a puzzle itching to be solved, fingers dipping down to smooth over the front of your throat. Some embarrassing noise, what you’ll tell yourself was merely a sound of surprise, rumbles in your throat and you squirm, pulling your neck away. That man’s hand anywhere near your neck screams death and reminds you of the first time you were not so pleasantly held by it. You try to escape his touch but he stubbornly keeps his hand there, stroking it with a gaze you can only describe as ‘fascination’.

He watches your pulse, enthralled — and that look narrows into something else. Something you refuse to put a name to before his eyes flicker back up to yours. He chuckles, leans real close so his face takes up your entire field of vision.

“Scared, doll?”

Doll. Porcelain. Fragile. Easily manipulated and broken. You might just hate that nickname the most.

“Of—Of course I’m not,” you lie through the skin of your teeth, biting your lip to fight the strange foreboding welling in you. He’s stroking one of the most vulnerable areas of your body so gently and it fills you with a mix of apprehension and something very, very different.

“We can stop. You can ride home on that bike of yours. Word of warning, fuel’s low. Might break down on your way back,” He whispers, no, fucking purrs in your ear and holy shit, what the fuck. Your body trembles to that and of course he notices and snorts. There’s no way in hell, no way you’re gonna let this man press you against the couch and fucking terrify you one minute and arouse you the next. Hell, maybe you’re still both. The hand stroking your neck could easily crush it on its own, let alone Sylus’ evol.

Fuck, this isn’t—this wasn’t—

“You…!” You hiss, his hand goes from your neck to your collarbone, warm, big, and the feeling makes you shudder. You shake your head, almost in denial, and begin stammering.

“You’re a prick..!”

“Oh?” He hums, and the hand enveloping yours begins stroking the back of it

“And cruel. And heartless. And way too damn cocky, you really need to be humbled, and—“

You hear that gorgeous laugh right beside your ear as he leans down, face disappearing into your neck with strands of silk hair brushing your chin. Warm breath lingers, and you gulp but don’t let up.

“Someone really oughta put you in your place, knock you down a peg so you’re not so—mmm!” You can’t swallow down the gasp that leaves you when warm lips press against your pulse. His kisses trail along your neck, like a fire, and your body curls up as your free hand clings to his sweater. Fuck, feels good—and he’s nipping and sucking so sweetly you know it’ll for sure leave marks, that asshole.

“Such a noisy little kitten,” he chuckles, the noise makes you whimper and cling to him tighter, drag him to you. He pleasantly complies, presses his chest against yours and nudges his knee against your open thighs. His fingers sneak in your hair, pulling it back and exposing your neck completely so all you can do is weakly complain as he makes a perfect mess of your throat. Pays special attention to suck where it makes you sputter, soothing with gentle bites, his warm tongue.

“What are you, a vampire?” You hiss, quickly dissipating into a sigh when he knows just the right place to put his lips to make your body tremble. His breath, mouth, lips, so warm, so so warm, and then his kisses are trailing up to your jaw and—

His lips hover. So close and so perfect over yours. There’s a fire in his eyes, a heat that burns in them and makes your entire body feel alight. When you open your lips and they nearly brush his, you feel your face warm and quickly turn your head away to avoid his mouth, lips trembling. You can’t even look him in the eye, fidgeting with his shirt as you purse your lips. It’s not like it’s anything special. Really—but somehow a kiss to the lips feels more embarrassing, more intimate than anything else he could do in that moment.

He laughs at your avoidance, strokes your cheek and places a kiss right where his thumb was seconds ago.

“Aren’t you cute,” he teases, and you wanna glare and refute, but your words always catch in your throat when met with those striking eyes. He turns your head to him, his mouth quirks up, and he’s pressing a featherlight kiss to your lips. Too soft and too sweet for him. It’s so uncharacteristic you can’t even think properly. Foreign, unbeknownst, yet eerily familiar.

There’s no deeper meaning behind his smirk, his lips. He’s just teasing you, getting a rise out of you, yeah, because he’s Sylus and Sylus is an asshole, always. And of course this asshole is kissing your cheeks and your nose and your forehead and you don’t know what to do but quiver in his hold, breathless and mind blank. It feels almost akin to affection but you know the words Sylus and affection can’t exist in the same sentence.

“To think this is all it takes to make you compliant…” he murmurs in your ear, and before you can finally find the words to snap at him, his lips are firm against yours. Bold. Your neck strains against the backrest as he presses deeper and gently coaxes your lips open, warm tongue brushing against yours. He tastes refined, like the wine sitting on the table, and his scent envelops you as you feel him everywhere, hands on your face and your own, body against yours, mouth on yours and the smell of expensive ass cologne — bougie Dior or some shit. You sigh and pull him closer, bite at his lip and groan into his open mouth. He openly accepts, low rumble in his throat as he pushes right back, pauses for a moment of respite before sinking in again and kissing you breathless.

His fingers wander, rough, and release your hand to catch at the hem of your shirt and caress your trembling waist. He watches you, eyes reflecting an unspoken question. It almost infuriates you how pissed you would be if he stopped at this point. You scoff and avert your gaze, lips glued shut even as you cling to his shirt unrelentingly. You hear him laugh, low, and he slowly, achingly lifts your top up and over your shoulders, ensures you’re bare from the waist up in one fell swoop.

The slight chill makes you shudder, while Sylus’s hands take this time to roam your frame. Curl against your waist and thumb at your abdomen, which makes you tense and feel a sweet tingle run down your spine. The warmth in your core, the heat between your thighs bolsters when his lips catch at your collarbone, and kiss a path down to your chest. He’s gentle, a soft pressure and warm tongue as he drags a slew of kisses to your nipple — then he catches it in his teeth and you tense with a bitten back whimper, giving his shoulder a reprimanding push. He has a nasty habit of biting. He merely laughs and spends his time there a moment longer, sucking and holding you as your hips roll against nothing, aching. His fingers dig, as though to punish you for wanting so much so soon — like he wasn’t the reason for it in the first place.

There must be something about Sylus, something about him that just makes you lose your sense of reason. Somewhere between conscious and subconscious. Because it’s almost like a tiny part of your mind — no, even deeper, some fragment of your being buried deep and away, wants to push through and melt beneath him completely. And it’s the complete antithesis to the active part of you that wants to give him a hard time and wish eventual hell on him as retribution for his sins. It’s weird—wrong, and yet you cling to him like he might disappear into stardust if you let go.

“You want me that bad, sweetie?” He murmurs against your chest, shifts down to kiss right below your sternum, and you move your hand to tug on his silver strands in retaliation. A sharp breath leaves his nose, and watching his face scrunch, slightly twist with parted lips, you feel satisfied. He’s addicting, the way his eyes look up at you, the way his lips curl and the latent hunger in his eyes.

You’re sure he wants to devour you completely.

You fear you may like it.

He does everything with intent, a purpose. He doesn’t just touch you to feel, he touches to elicit something, to receive. You jumping into his hands as they cradle you at the pinch of your waist, you throwing your head back when he teases this sensitive bit of skin just above your waistband, some incoherent murmur when he kisses at your navel. He keeps his lips there, presses his thumbs just below and the sweet tingle makes you whine, your body tense as you try to avoid looking too desperate under him.

“Not enough, hunter? Need more?” His voice is deceptively sweet as he mouths above your waistband, dips his thumbs inside. You sigh — you don’t know if it’s from his lips or his voice, and turn your head away as he watches, amused. If he wanted a verbal response, he sure as hell wasn’t getting one. But you think he knew that already. He laughs, pops open the button of your jeans, and you lift your hips as he takes his agonizing time dragging them down.

“Such an eager thing,” he soothes, kissing your temple and not so shyly pressing a hand between your legs. You hiss and your needy hips jerk into his hand, while his deep voice speaks pleasantly into your ears. “What is it? Want my fingers? My mouth?“ His hand strokes, gentle, too damn light, and you’re shamelessly rolling your hips into his touch, dragging him by the shirt and holding him close as you get off with his hand, dizzy.

“Off. Take it off already,” you grumble against him, feeling some module of defeat, but your desire damn well overrides your pride at this point. You tug at his shirt, insistent, and he chuckles before complying and lifting it well and off.

Seeing his nude body shielded only in a towel once before doesn’t make the sight any less novel. Sure, dripping wet is a whole other thing, but just the thought of this man stripping for you and you alone at your request has your mind in shambles. You let out a solid stuttered breath, and immediately lean forward with your hands drawn to his chest, like a magnet.

Fuck he’s ripped, like a statue, feels stupid perfect under your touch. You hear what sounds like a quiet, breathy noise followed by a soundless laugh. You glance up to look at his face, a subtle amused pleasure and it immediately overlaps with the dream that inhabits your mind. You want — you need— your fingers trail down, and he shudders so beautifully, like a work of art, lips parted in a breathless moan. His sculpted abs tense and tremble under your touch and suddenly you wanna do anything, everything to him.

And before your fingers can dip lower, he’s shoving you back, pinning your wrist to the couch and capturing your lips silently. The noise that leaves you is almost as embarrassing as the way your body throbs so bad your mind grows hazy. Not fair. So not fucking fair. This kiss is deep, no, rather, a myriad of kisses over and over. Slow and steady to desperate and raw, always leaving you wondering which he’ll do next. He completely swallows any noises you could make, holds you in place so he can completely dominate. It’s stupid hot and you need him so goddamn bad. You know you’re an aching mess and there’s an embarrassing wet spot staining the underwear he left on you.

“So touchy. This how you tried to tame the horse in your dream, hmm?” He groans into your mouth, handsy all over. The more he kisses you and the more his fingers make you quiver, the more your mind goes blank.

“I-It’s—“ you try to speak, but his lips envelop yours to shut you up. One moment you’re melting against the couch, the second two strong hands hook around your thighs and you gasp as you’re hoisted in the air, automatically wrapping your legs around him to steady yourself.

You try to pull away in pure shock, grab your breath and comment, but his fingers dig into your scalp and hold you as he walks with both your mouths preoccupied. You pathetically rock into his body, seeking any form of stimulation you can manage, he can give. Instead of the bedroom like you expect, he steps back and impressively rummages through his bag on the circle table with one hand, before backing you against the large glass window. It’s cold, you wince and he thumbs your cheek to soothe.

“Sylus—I—“ you paw desperately at him, body trembling as your thoughts border on blank from the way this man kisses you and the way you flutter in response. He presses a soft lingering kiss to your lips before pulling away, watching you with dark eyes, that beautiful ruby leaving you speechless. You pant, heart thundering, and clench at his shoulders for purchase. “I’m… fuck…”

“You’re adorable when you’re like this…” He says, as though it’s a regular occurrence (you suppose it will be from now on.) You gulp and try to steady your breaths and heart that just might burst, and he’s settling you down gently. His thumb tugs at the waistband, hands dipping into your underwear and against your sensitive waist before pulling them down. You try to ignore the way you’re immediately dripping when they’re off. He takes a moment to openly admire you, eyes drinking in the sight of your swollen arousal. His thumb brushes just above and the proximity makes your breath catch in your throat.

“Like this, all for me.” It’s like a praise, and your eyes zero in on the transparent bottle in his hand. So that’s what he grabbed from his bag. He uncaps the bottle and douses his fingers without reserve — eyes flickering up to you. You fight the embarrassment his shameless gaze brings you. The anticipation that makes you throb. When he’s done, he places the bottle aside and leans down to press a light kiss to your lips.

“Relax, sweetie,” he murmurs, half teasing, half… sweet? Before you can think further on it, his hand’s already found its way between your legs and you brace yourself against the window. He bends to mouth at your neck, slow and sweet, while he swirls before pressing a thick digit in. With lube, it slips in smooth, though far thicker and deeper than you’re used to. You sigh as his other hand decides to join in and tease swollen flesh, soft strokes in time with the way he slowly teases his finger in and out.

“Sylus…” you hold yourself steady around his neck, quickly adjusting to the new pressure inside you as the strokes with his other hand ease you in. You rock into his touch, needy, and he meanly moves to pin your hips to the window instead, holding you in place while you whimper from the loss of his touch. For all that you want, Sylus only ever wants to give what he allows you to have.

“So greedy. Don’t you know you shouldn’t ask for too much at once? Lucky for you, I don’t mind indulging you every once in a while,” he chuckles — which is funny, he’ll indulge you any day of the week. Hell, pampers you even. But then he’s slipping in a second finger and your words are gone before they ever had a chance to formulate.

Your hips tingle as he drags them in and out, wet. He moves back to kiss your lips, goes at them again and again like he’s unable to get enough. Sylus is a kisser, you learn. Part of you always thought kissing was deliberately off the table for him. But the way his lips move, how damn sensual he is, and the perfect way he knows to suck on your lower lip is so good you can’t imagine him being anything else. His fingers curl deep inside and you whine, a jolt of pleasure running through your already burning body. Your body naturally rides his fingers, chasing that feeling, the way he can press against your walls so good. Makes you tremble in pleasure as he whispers quiet praises against your lips on how good you’re taking his fingers. They move and stretch, relaxing you, opening you up for him, and you can’t help but wonder how Sylus fucks as you’re hazy. Does he hold you down and pump into you mean and rough? Slow and sensual? Does he like to tease, to give, or to take? All three? Quiet whimpers leave your mouth and he’s adding a third finger the same time he goes back to stroking you.

You try to be good, to keep your hips nice and still for him. You want him firmer, harder, want to feel his touch burn on your skin for days and leave you dizzy at the mere thought. The dual sensation makes your legs tremble and it takes steadying your hands on his shoulders to keep from stumbling as he thrusts and pleasures your swollen flesh in tandem.

“Sylus… I’m… I’ll…” You try to warn him, wrapping your arms around his neck for support as you whine and quiver, his fingers insistent and hand skilled. He chuckles in your ear at your stumbled words, and fuck that makes you even more weak in the knees. The pleasure radiates from your hips all throughout, tingling, building so good and so quick. It almost surprises you how soon you’re desperately squeezing him and letting out quiet whispered noises as the build up finally overflows. Your body trembles, wrapped around him as you pulse around his fingers and against his hand, soothed by quiet praises while he strokes and finger-fucks you all throughout it, leaving you squirming when the feeling borders on unbearable.

He gives you reprieve, kisses your temple while you quiver in his grasp and try to steady your heart that’s thundering so hard you feel it in your throat.

“Knew you’d look just perfect like that,” he says, and you give him a weak squeeze in response. If you let go of his neck, you’re certain you’ll collapse on the spot.

Thankfully, Sylus, if anything, is perceptive. He wastes no time undoing his pants and moving his briefs just enough to release his eager erection, lined just with your abdomen. Naturally, you have to look, and shit. You figured he’d be something considering his damn size, but seeing it against your body makes you wonder if three fingers can even remotely compare. You tremble — maybe anticipation, maybe nerves, and comply when you’re lifted and pressed against the window so your jelly legs are given a break.

His lips mark up your neck beautifully — you can’t imagine what sorts of things you’ll need to wear to cover up the next week or two, and you subconsciously tense when you feel him slide himself between your legs, flesh sensitive and wet. His eyes lock onto yours, hot. Being so scrutinized when so helplessly at this man’s mercy makes your skin burn.

“Hm? What’s with that look? Want something?” Sylus meanly asks, and you hate the way your body responds to those words, throbs, and you watch him with a look of quiet, embarrassed defeat. Maybe you’ll have Sylus at your mercy one day, but today is not that day.

“Why are you so damn big…” you grumble, like you aren’t looking at him with heart eyes. That draws a throaty laugh from him and he leans close, lips settled right at the shell of your ear.

“So it can fit perfectly between those pretty legs of yours,” he says, and right then he uses a hand to steady his erection just where his fingers made you come undone, making you scoff and squeeze him tight.

“Perfectly isn’t how I’d describe your size in proportion to me,” you mumble. Perhaps feigning an attitude can help distract you from your nervous anticipation. Your body’s throbbing, begging, empty from his fingers and aching to be filled even after you just came.

“Really? Guess we’ll just have to see about that,” he whispers, light and teasing. In the same breath, you feel him slowly slide into you, arms supporting your legs as you sink onto his cock. You grip at him with a rushed moan, Sylus letting out a choked groan in response. You tremble, fight the urge to tense as you stretch around his size. Fuck — he’s so damn thick and fills you so much it aches. You whine and grasp at him with the effort to adjust, weakly murmuring curses.

“Dammit—shit, ah…” you choke and squeeze him close, burying one hand in his pale silver hair, and digging your shaky fingers into his shoulder. “S-Sylus…”

“That’s it, sweetie. Just like that. You can handle it,” he murmurs, tone so sweet for such mean actions as he pulls out and pushes in deeper, bottoming out. This position has you exactly where he needs you, makes you accept everything he has to offer. He’s so deep and you can feel him twitch inside, thick, an inferno, makes you sigh with each movement. He watches your face — this asshole, he likes seeing you whine — and let out a weak noise as he grinds, hips flush to you, before starting to thrust at a deep, slow pace. The warmth of his skin contradicts the coolness of the glass behind you, and you vaguely wonder how filthy your combined silhouettes must look in the distance.

It’s hard to explain the well of emotions inside you aside from pure lust. They blend together, a chunky, complicated mix of very degrees of pettiness, anger, mild fondness, and a deep-set longing you can’t pinpoint the origin of. Your body takes this longing and turns it into need, holding him to you, absorbing his warmth inside and out.

For a moment, you want to tilt your head and kiss him. You squeeze him harder instead.

You quiver around his length, each thrust accompanied by deep pleasure and a dull, pleasant ache. Sylus rewards your strain around his cock with his lips on yours, deep and devouring, stealing your already thin air. He guides you so easy, holds you up like it’s nothing while his steady thrusts slowly gain on speed. This position easily lets him slide against you in the perfect way that makes you cry out weakly, back arching. The pleasure is numbing and he brushes that area over and over, adamant on making you lose your sense of reason.

“Look at you. You handle me so well, sweetheart,” he speaks against your swollen lips like a dirty secret, panting against you as his thrusts hit the perfect spot every time. He handles your legs with ease and fucks into you harder, meaner, like he’s trying to bully these pathetic noises out of you. You whimper and claw at him, toes curling, feeling him swell as skin slaps against skin every time. His face is flush, eyes look at you like there’s no one else in the world — the only thing that exists is you a mess from his cock. His thrusts are as dizzying as his gaze you feel you can never escape, eyes half-lidded as he watches you take all of him. Your body’s a beacon of pleasure and your hips roll against his, rocking in time, wanting more, never enough.

“Please… please-fuck, Sylus… ngh…” You gasp, squeeze his hair tighter, and he fits his lips against your brow to murmur, “as you wish, sweetie.”

His hips are relentless, he stuffs you full of his cock every time and rolls his hips just the right way to make you sweetly numb, to fill you with that deep-set pleasure from within. His hair sticks to his brow, pants leave his body as his darkened eyes admire your sheen in sweat, rasping form. Fuck — he’s so — you need — he kisses at your neck and the sensitivity almost makes you sob.

“You’re shaking… you gonna come for me again all pretty?” Sylus breathes in your ear, you groan and clench him tight, making his hips sputter a moment. He smirks and picks back up his usual pace in response. You indeed feel your entire body quiver around him as the feeling grows more and more. Fuck you’ll — you — you can’t even say a word of warning as you’re suddenly letting out a choked sob, unable to control your tremors as you climax, body taut, tense. Sylus fucking you throughout only makes you whine and whimper as the feeling prolongs, white and hot. You’re so beautifully sensitive and rendered completely speechless, thoughtless. Sylus lets out quiet grunts all throughout, his own hips trembling, but pace unbroken.

Even when you come down Sylus doesn’t relent on his thrusts, he’s persistent if anything. At this point tears are pricking your eyes as you squeeze him tight, shame lost. “Please, please Sylus, fuck I can’t — please come,” you beg, sensitive, shaking, swollen, and Sylus laughs softly as his thrusts come in mean, hard, and fast.

“Mmm… How could I refuse such an earnest request?” He hums and holds you firm, his own forehead pressed against the window. It warms your ear and fogs the glass as his hips snap against yours, more erratic, your body bounced along with his rhythm and so damn sensitive you fight the urge to cry. Quiet grunts leave him, he’s more vocal, more open, and his large hands squeeze your thighs as he gasp and twitches. He buries deep and spills, releasing a pleasant groan right into your hot ear. He’s so close, feels so alive under your fingers and inside you, his heart an impossibly fast rhythm that puts yours to shame. You feel every throb, and you moan weakly as you’re held up, body swallowing every last drop. When he pulls out of your swollen hole, you feel the strength leave you and his cum drip down filthily.

“There you are, sweetie. Don’t worry, I won’t let you fall,” he soothes, and holds your weak body up with the same ease he had the first time despite the time elapsed. This kindness feels as wrong from him as it does right. When you weakly rest your head on his shoulder to look at him, his sweet eyes return the gaze, appeased. He carries your limp body to the couch and settles you down gently, swiping a thumb across your slick forehead. “You had quite the workout,” he comments. You glare and push his shoulder away, earning a chuckle.

“Aw, don’t pout.”

“Next time…” you hiss, holding a finger up to him. ‘Next time’ implying this will be regular. ‘Next time’ implying Sylus is not only the fearsome Onychinus leader you’ve been made to deal with, but is now a man you fuck (and something… more?) on top of it. “You’ll be the one at my mercy.”

Sylus blinks, tongue lax as he observes you in mild surprise.

Then, his face melts into a soft grin.

You’ve seen so many new expressions from Sylus today, it’s like you’re meeting him again for the first time. He grabs your hand and gently interlocks your fingers, watching you with a look you can only describe as ‘affectionate’.

It makes your face burn.

He adjusts his hand so he’s grasping your palm, and he drags yours to his lips, dropping a soft kiss on your fingertips.

“As you wish, your majesty.”

[meazalykov]

nationality switch

esmee brugts x uswnt!dutch!reader

summary: choosing a national team almost made you drift away from the person you love most

warnings: angst

it’s been a long time since you’ve seen esmee, since that fight—since everything changed. 

you’re sitting in the corner of a cozy café in barcelona, sipping your iced coffee, lost in your thoughts about how things used to be. the only noise around you is the coffee machines brewing or the ovens beeping in the background of your thoughts.

you never expected to see her today. you thought she moved to arsenal in london. a club that she mentioned her interest in. but then again, nothing with esmee ever goes as planned.

the bell above the café door chimes, and you look over at the door on instinct. when you see her, your stomach flips. is that her? you had to do a double take.

it is esmee. her eyes lock on yours instantly, and for a second, it’s like no time has passed. the familiarity, the memories, all come rushing back. you miss her, but the weight of your last conversation—the fight—hangs heavily between you both.

you don’t move. you don’t know if you should, and maybe she doesn’t either, because she hesitates before walking over. you freeze before you see her stop at the counter.

you took a deep breath before she gets her flat white and walks over.

when she finally reaches your table, you see that same spark in her eyes, but there’s something else now. something different.

“hey,” she says, her voice soft, almost tentative, as if she’s afraid of how you’ll respond.

you raise an eyebrow, trying to keep things light. 

“esmee, how did you even find me?”

she offers a small smile, a little suspicious. 

“we never turned off each other’s locations on our phones.”

that breaks the tension for a moment, and you can’t help but laugh. 

it’s such a typical esmee thing to say. well for you, as someone who is the closest to her. she never fails to make a heavy moment become lighter. you shake your head at the absurdity of it all. 

“of course.”

she sits down across from you at the wooden table, and suddenly, the reality of everything hits. you’re both here in barcelona. after all this time, all the distance, somehow, fate—or maybe something else—has pulled you back together. 

it feels like you’re supposed to be here, like you were always meant to end up on the same team again. it hasn't been too long since you were both at psv. your contracts ended at the same time and you had a bad feeling that it would've been your last time together.

it wasn't.

“so…” esmee starts, her fingers fiddling with the edge of the napkin in front of her. “i heard the news.”

you nod slowly. “yeah. barca. i guess it was inevitable, huh?”

“inevitable,” she echoes, her gaze dropping to the table before lifting back to meet yours. 

“we were always supposed to end up here together, it was our dream.”

the silence stretches between you both, and it’s not uncomfortable, but it’s heavy. there’s so much unsaid, and you know it. she knows it. 

the past months have been complicated. after the women’s world cup, after that game against the netherlands where you scored that header, after you told her that you weren't going to represent the netherlands on the senior level, things between you two were…different.

“you were mad,” you say softly, cutting through the silence.

her eyes darken slightly, and she nods, not bothering to deny it. “yeah, i was.”

“because I celebrated my goal?”

“because it felt like you were celebrating more than just a goal,” she admits. 

“it felt like you were celebrating the fact that you chose them over us. over me.”

throwback to july 26th, 2023

it’s the 62nd minute, and the game between the u.s and the netherlands is 0-1. the tension is suffocating—this isn’t just any group stage match. 

it’s a battle between two teams who were in the finals of the last world cup. the netherlands want revenge.

for you, it’s personal. you are dutch and american. your mother was born and raised in eindhoven, while your dad is an american who studied there then met your mother.

while growing up, you considered yourself to be dutch. you never lived in the united states. however, you've wondered what it was like to live over there.

at the age of 8 you met your bestfriend, esmee, at a soccer club. the both of you grew up, joined psv together, and played for the dutch youth teams together.

when your father expressed how he wanted you to chose the uswnt when you reached the senior level, you didn't count him out. the team was the best in the world.

the 2019 world cup solidified your decision to represent your father's side of the family. however, sometimes you think about the other world where you chose the dutch team instead of the americans.

you jog back to your position for a corner kick being taken by rose lavelle, feeling the weight of the moment settle on your shoulders. 

your heart pounds in your chest, and as you glance toward the dutch goal, your eyes flicker briefly to the orange clad figure on the left. esmee. 

she’s looks at you briefly, her expression unreadable. for a split second, it’s like time slows down. you remember the late nights practicing at psv, the laughter, the way she used to tell you that you’d both dominate the world together one day.

now, you’re on opposing sides, thanks to you choosing your other nationality.

the whistle blows. you snap back to the present, focusing on the corner being taken. 

the ball soars through the air, heading toward the front post. you leap, eyes locked on the ball, and your timing is perfect. you rise above the defenders, connecting with the ball in a powerful header that rockets past the dutch goalkeeper.

goal!

for a moment, the world stops. then the noise of the crowd hits you like a wave, and you’re running, arms outstretched in celebration. your teammates swarm around you, shouting, grabbing your jersey, jumping on your back. 

you can hear julie yelling for you and lindsey clapping you on the back with a proud grin. it’s chaos—pure joy, adrenaline, and pride.

but as you slow down, turning back toward midfield, your eyes find esmee again. 

she’s standing there, watching, her expression unreadable at first. in the moment that you look away before turning back, you see it: the hurt. the disbelief. you know it’s not just about the goal. it’s about everything else.

you swallow the lump forming in your throat and try to focus on your teammates still celebrating around you, but esmee’s look is burned into your mind. 

she goes back on the left-back then stands, her hands clenched into fists by her sides, it looks as if she’s frozen. you see her teammates—players you grew up with on youth teams—pat her on the back, but it’s clear she’s not hearing them.

it’s the celebration that did it. you know it. the way you threw your fists in the air, the way you smiled at your teammates like this goal was everything. 

to esmee, it wasn’t just a goal against the netherlands. it was a statement, a reminder that you chose the united states over the netherlands, over her.

as the game resumes, you push the thought to the back of your mind. you have to stay focused. there’s still time left, and the dutch team isn’t going to back down easily. but every time you glance in esmee’s direction, it stings. 

you see the frustration in her movements, the way she presses forward with even more intensity than before. she’s angry—at you, at the situation—and it shows.

the game ends and its tied. the rest of her team is exhausted, but she doesn’t even wait for the usual post-match handshakes and shirt swaps. she walks straight down the tunnel, disappearing from view, and a pit forms in your stomach.

you want to go after her, explain that the celebration wasn’t meant to hurt her. but deep down, you know this moment has been building for a long time. 

the decision to play for the united states on the senior level, the arguments, the silence between you two—it’s all led to this. 

in the locker room, your teammates are quiet, they’re focused on the next match. 

your thoughts are stuck on esmee. you stare down at your phone, wondering if you should text her, try to explain. but what could you say? what could make this better?

back to the barcelona cafe, a month later

you blink, taken aback by the raw honesty in her words. 

you’ve had months to think about it—about what it meant when you chose to play for the uswnt, about how your dad had always pushed you to follow in his footsteps. but you didn’t think esmee would take it this personally.

“esmee, it wasn’t about that,” you say, voice soft, almost pleading.

“you know it wasn’t like that.”

it was your first goal for the national team. it happened to be against your other country, the other country that wanted you to play for them too. 

your mother is dutch, and your father is american– so you had a tough decision to make.

esmee shakes her head, and for a moment, you think she’s going to argue. but then she sighs, leaning back in her chair. 

“i know. but it hurt. i wanted you to play with me and for the oranje. i wanted us to play together, like we always did in eindhoven. and then, when you celebrated after that goal…it felt like you’d forgotten everything we’d had.”

“i didn’t forget. i could never forget,” you say, and it’s the truth. you haven’t forgotten a single moment. 

“but esmee, you know how much my dad wanted this for me.” 

“i know,” she whispers, and there’s pain in her voice. 

“but i wanted you to want the same things i did. i wanted you to choose me.”

her words hit you hard, and for a second, you can’t respond. this is about more than just football, more than just a decision you had to make when choosing a national team. 

it’s about the two of you—about what you’ve meant to each other all these years.

“esmee,” you start, leaning forward, trying to make her understand. “it wasn’t about choosing them over you. you mean everything to me. i-i didn’t even realize—”

“that’s the thing,” she interrupts, her voice trembling slightly. 

“i was upset because i always want to be around you. it was selfish, maybe, but it’s the truth. i thought…i thought i was going to lose you when you chose them. what if you didn’t choose to come to barcelona? what if i didn’t? we wouldn’t see each other anymore..”

you frown, confused. “esmee, you’re never going to lose me. what are you talking about?”

she bites her lip, her eyes searching yours, and suddenly, it’s like all the walls she’s built up come crashing down. her hands stop gripping on her coffe cup and goes to gently hold your right hand instead. 

you froze.

“i’m talking about how i feel about you,” she admits, her voice barely above a whisper. 

you feel your heart skip a beat, and for some reason, her confession doesn’t surprise you. 

it’s like you always knew, like a part of you had been waiting for her to say it out loud. she’s been your best friend for years, but deep down, maybe you always knew there was something more.

the left-back never made her crush on you a hidden secret. she was never outright, but her actions towards you spoke for itself. 

“es…” you start, but you don’t know what to say. so instead, you reach across the table, gently taking your other hand and holding hers.

she looks at you, her eyes wide and vulnerable, like she’s terrified of what you’ll say next.

“i like you too,” you say softly, your thumb brushing over the back of her hand. 

“i think i always have.”

her eyes widen even more, but there’s a soft smile playing on her lips now. 

“really?”

you nod, giving her a small smile in return. “yeah. really.”

you stand up slowly, moving around the table, and she doesn’t pull away when you lean down and press a soft kiss to her forehead. 

it feels right and natural, like something you should’ve done a long time ago. you wanted to, but you didn't know how she felt about you then.

nobody was present in the cafe instead of the barista who was too focused on making drinks, so you didn’t feel embarrassed to kiss her.

when you pull back, esmee smiling up at you, and for the first time in months, you feel like things between you two might finally be okay.

“so…barcelona, huh?” you say, trying to lighten the mood.

esmee laughs, that familiar sound you’ve missed so much. “yeah. looks like we’re stuck together again.”

you grin, squeezing her hand gently. “good. i wouldn’t want it any other way.”

my masterlist is here if you want to read more!

[shybluebirdninja]

The Great Outdoors

Summary: Logan takes you on a camping trip, but his survival skills are hilariously outdated. Between using a rock instead of a proper camping tool and attempting to start a fire with his claws (which ends up in a mini bonfire), you can’t stop laughing. Eventually, you both end up cuddled in the tent, sharing ghost stories that lead to goofy scares and unexpected confessions of affection.

Pairing             : Wolverine!Logan Howlett x Female!Human-reader

Genre              : Fluff

The sun was already dipping low behind the trees when Logan parked the truck. He got out like he was about to conquer the wild, while you stood there, looking at the woods and trying not to laugh at the seriousness on his face. Logan wasn’t the camping type—or at least, not the “modern” kind. He was more like the “rough it with nothing but your fists and claws” type.

This was going to be interesting.

“So, what’s the plan, Bear Grylls?” you teased, slinging your backpack over your shoulder.

Logan grunted, pulling out a rolled-up tent from the back of the truck. “Survive. That’s the plan.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Wow, so detailed. I feel so prepared.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ve done this a hundred times. Just follow my lead, and we’ll be fine.”

Oh, boy.

You made your way into the clearing Logan had apparently scoped out beforehand. It wasn’t bad, actually—nice little spot near a river, surrounded by trees that rustled softly in the evening breeze. As soon as you set your stuff down, Logan got to work... sort of.

He started with the tent. You watched him as he unfolded it, frowning like the damn thing had personally offended him. “These damn things get more complicated every year,” he muttered, trying to shove a pole into one of the sleeves.

“Need some help?” you asked, biting your lip to keep from laughing as he wrestled with it.

“Nah, I got it,” he grumbled, jamming the pole so hard it almost snapped.

Five minutes later, the tent was half-collapsed, one corner flapping in the wind, and Logan was cursing under his breath.

“I think it’s supposed to stand up, Logan.”

He shot you a look, then glanced back at the tent. “It’s fine. I’m just, uh... testing its durability.”

You let out a snort, shaking your head. “Right. Maybe you should just let me handle that.”

“I’m a grown-ass man,” he muttered, glaring at the tent like it had insulted his mother.

“Yeah, and you’re losing a fight to a piece of nylon.”

After another moment of watching him struggle, you stepped in and started putting the thing together while Logan, not exactly one for sitting still, decided to gather firewood. He disappeared into the woods with nothing but his claws, because why bring a hatchet when you’re Logan?

By the time he came back, arms full of sticks and logs, the tent was up and looking perfect. You leaned against it, smirking as he dropped the wood into a pile.

“See?” you said, gesturing to the tent. “That’s how it’s done.”

Logan grunted, clearly not impressed. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s see you start a fire.”

You crossed your arms. “Watch and learn, old man.”

He grinned, that dangerous little glint in his eye. “Oh, you’re gonna regret that.”

Logan, being Logan, didn’t just gather some twigs and light them with a match like a normal person. No, that would’ve been too easy. Instead, he pulled out his claws and crouched next to the fire pit, sparks flying as he struck them against a rock.

“Logan, that’s not how—”

Whoosh!

The pile of wood lit up like someone had dumped gasoline on it. Flames shot up higher than you thought possible, and you stumbled back, laughing your ass off while Logan jumped up, cursing.

“Goddammit!” He swiped his claws through the air, trying to beat the flames down. ��I meant to do that.”

“Oh, sure,” you choked out between laughs, wiping at your eyes. “That’s the perfect height for roasting marshmallows, right?”

Logan glared at the mini-bonfire for a second, then at you. “Next time, you can light the damn thing.”

You couldn’t stop laughing, the sound of it bouncing around the trees. Logan finally cracked a smile, though he tried to hide it behind a gruff mutter.

After some careful maneuvering (read: Logan finally letting you fix the fire), you both settled down for the evening. The fire was low, crackling softly, the night air cool around you. Stars were starting to peek through the darkening sky, and the only sounds were the soft hum of the forest and Logan chewing on beef jerky.

You leaned back against a log, holding your hands out to the fire. “So, what now? Gonna show me your impressive ghost story collection?”

Logan raised an eyebrow, gnawing on his jerky like a wild animal. “Ghost stories? What are we, twelve?”

“Come on,” you teased. “Everyone knows camping isn’t complete without ghost stories. It’s like... the law.”

He scoffed but leaned back, his eyes glinting in the firelight. “Alright. You want a ghost story? I’ll give you one.”

“Oh, this oughta be good.”

Logan cleared his throat dramatically. “So... once upon a time... there was this girl. Thought she was real tough. Real smart.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Is this about me?”

“Shhh, I’m tellin’ a story here,” Logan said, smirking. “Anyway, she thought she could survive out in the wild with just a little ol’ tent and her wit. But one night, she heard a rustling in the trees... something... watching her.”

You leaned in, playing along, even though you knew exactly where this was going. “Oh, yeah? What was it?”

Logan’s eyes widened theatrically. “A bear! Big, ugly thing. Twice her size. It came into her camp, sniffin’ around, and you know what she did?”

You shook your head, grinning. “What?”

“Nothing. She just froze. The bear ate all her snacks, tore up her tent, and left her sittin’ there in her own piss.”

You burst out laughing. “Wow, Logan. Truly terrifying. 10/10. I’m gonna have nightmares for weeks.”

Logan grinned, leaning closer. “I got more. You’ll be beggin’ for mercy by the end of the night.”

You pushed his shoulder lightly. “You’re such an ass.”

As the night deepened and the fire began to die down, you both retreated into the tent. It was surprisingly cozy inside, the faint warmth of the fire lingering outside while you snuggled into your sleeping bag. Logan stretched out beside you, his body taking up way too much space, but you didn’t mind.

“Comfy?” you asked, glancing at him as he wiggled around.

“Like a fuckin’ sardine,” he muttered, trying to adjust in the small space. “Who the hell makes these tents so damn small?”

“They’re meant for normal-sized people, not... whatever the hell you are,” you said with a smirk.

Logan snorted. “Mutant privilege. I need bigger accommodations.”

You both lay there for a few minutes, the quiet settling in around you. Logan’s breathing was steady, his body warm next to yours, and despite his earlier grumblings, you could tell he was content. This whole camping thing wasn’t so bad, after all.

“Alright,” you said suddenly, turning to face him. “I’ve got a ghost story.”

Logan raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything, so you went on.

“There’s this guy, right? Big, tough, hairy—like, really hairy. The kinda guy you wouldn’t wanna meet in a dark alley.”

Logan rolled his eyes, but you kept going.

“And one night, he decides to go camping with this totally amazing girl—smart, funny, great taste in camping snacks—”

“Wow, I wonder who this is about,” Logan deadpanned.

“Shhh,” you said, stifling a laugh. “But the thing is... the guy? He’s got a secret. See, he acts all tough, like nothing scares him, but deep down? He’s terrified of one thing.”

Logan looked over at you, eyes narrowing. “What?”

You grinned, leaning in close. “Commitment.”

Logan blinked, then let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “You’re full of shit, you know that?”

“Maybe,” you said, smiling. “But you know I’m right.”

He didn’t deny it, just stretched out a hand to pull you closer, his arm wrapping around you with an ease that made your heart flutter a little too fast.

“I’m scared of plenty of things,” he muttered, his voice low and rough. “Just not the same kinda things as you.”

“Like what?” you asked, curious now.

Logan looked at you, his eyes serious for once. “Losing people. People I care about. That’s what scares me.”

The confession was quiet, unexpected, and it hit harder than you’d thought. You swallowed, unsure of what to say, but Logan just shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal, pulling you in tighter.

“Guess that makes you a real badass,” you whispered after a moment, your voice barely breaking the stillness of the tent.

“Damn right,” he muttered, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Now shut up and go to sleep before I start tellin’ real scary stories.”

You smiled against his chest, warmth spreading through you as the sound of the river and the soft crackling of the dying fire lulled you to sleep. And maybe, just maybe, you’d both survived the great outdoors after all.

[loggiepj]

To Love A Lannister

chapter 14 | chapter 15

"They attacked Meereen," Oberyn stated, "Queen Daenerys did the right thing, killing all the masters to stop slavery."

Your guardian father hummed in agreement, still looking at you. Absorbed by the newfound information about your sister, you found yourself lost in thoughts. Daenerys hadn't only gained Unsullied army on her side, but also the Dothraki. The Dothraki were known to be ruthless, and war was nothing to them but sport. When you were young, you'd play with your friends, pretending to be Dothraki when you all were far from one. Any tourney held in King's Landing was nothing in comparison to the way the Dothraki fight.

"Varys has confided to me in secret to meet them in Dragonstone," your guardian father added, making you glance upon the mention of a familiar name. Varys used to be part of the King's council. You thought he was still part of the council, advising Tommen and Tywin. If the Lannisters would find out, it would be considered treason. "To bend the knee. I hear the Ironborns have also supported her side recently."

"And what does Prince Doran has to say about all of these?" you butted in, the mention of your real father's name in your mouth caused a turmoil in your stomach.

Oberyn placed the cup of wine he was drinking on the table, leaned his back comfortably against his seat, then lifted his legs to rest upon the edge of the table. "After much convincing given how he always admire the Dothraki, my brother has already advised to proceed, although it might take us a bit longer due to some complications."

Furrowing your brows deeper, you asked, "You mean his son's marriage?"

Your guardian father nodded. "He tried persuading Trystane but to no luck. Marrying them would pledge alliance between the Martells and the Lannisters. It would cause a rebellion within the house."

You only frowned upon them. "So you wish to stop them then?"

"Unless Myrcella can be easily persuaded to support the true Queen," Oberyn said, "we have no choice but to make a scene just to stop any wedding from happening."

"This is an insult!" you argued. "They're just in love!"

Remembering Myrcella's ecstatic behavior upon her mother's surprised visit in Dorne, you couldn't help but feel sympathy for them. You saw her with Prince Trystane together when you first arrived back home, and you could tell it was rare — falling in love with the person your parents wish for you to marry at first.

It was then you found out the plans Lord Tywin arranged for his granddaughter. Maybe that was why he kept you alive in the Capital. Maybe that was why he accepted Yronwood without second thoughts, because regardless if you would marry Cersei or not, Myrcella would still marry Trystane.

The only thing different was both Myrcella and Trystane were already enamored with each other.

If they could forbid you and Cersei, it wouldn't hurt if they could also break Myrcella and Trystane apart. But Trystane being next in line to his father Prince Doran, it would cause an uproar amongst the Dornish folks.

Prince Doran held a massive feast for the guests when you all finally arrived in Dorne a week ago. Although his presence couldn't help but make you feel bothered. Even when he hugged you, congratulating you for your win against the murderer of his late sister, you wondered how good of a father Doran was if he only knew.

Your guardian father had welcomed you as if nothing had changed, and you couldn't hate him for hiding such facts from you since you were a kid. He did it for your own protection.

"Oberyn has told me how you had grown quite fond of Cersei," your guardian father said, bringing you back to the present. "I trust you have already had your fun. You know your duty, Y/n."

"My duty that was only made known to me a month ago?"

"It's difficult, I know," he answered. "But it's easier this way. You don't want to end up in a decision you'd truly regret for the rest of your life — choosing between her and your own family."

~~~

The night finally came to an end. You left the room rather abruptly, eyes glistening with tears for you were lost on what to do. And it was your inattentiveness that made you bump into Cersei as she closed the door of Myrcella's chambers.

"Why are you still awake?" Cersei asked. When she saw your eyes red, she cupped your face and pulled your chin to look at her. "What's wrong?"

You bit back, holding your emotions as you forced a smile. "Nothing, Your Grace. Just a silly argument with my father."

Her eyebrows knitted in worry and confusion, knowing you weren't being transparent with her. When she was about to speak, you stopped her. "I want to show you something." Holding your hand in hers, Cersei let you lead the way.

You walked through dark hallways and climbed down spirals and spirals of stairs until you both arrived in the grand library of the Sunspear castle. You had spent most of your life in there. It wasn't as great as the Red Keep's, but it stood its purpose for centuries.

You led Cersei to the center of the room, pointing to a huge painting displayed on the entire wall, with portraits of faces on top of italicized names and vines connecting each individual.

"It's the family tree of House Martell. Did you know that Prince Doran's great great grandfather was a Targaryen?" you asked, as you pointed the almost faded face on the wall, while your other hand still held Cersei's. It was a mystery to you she hadn't let go.

Cersei smiled. "You should be wary who you're sharing it with. One could tell you're supporting the wrong line."

"It's not a harmful knowledge. This is also written in scrolls I found in your library, you know," you chided in, chuckling. "Not unless you don't read them, then you wouldn't know."

She laughed, slapping your arm playfully, finally letting you go as she approached closer to the wall.

You then fell silent as you watched her stare at the wall with fascination, her fingers brushing on your portrait connected to your guardian father's name.

Absentmindedly grabbing a dusty book from the shelf, you began, "Sometimes, I wish I wasn't part of it, part of the duty expected out of me."

Cersei then glanced at you, before she closed the distance. "Y/n—"

"Do you sometimes feel that way too?" You placed the book back although stopped midway when her hand touched your arm.

She sighed, nodding. "I . . . I do, and then I remember my children and what I would do for them."

You averted your gaze, heartbeat quickened from how near the Queen was.

Cersei continued, "They say never love anyone besides your children and family. Because love is poison. A sweet poison, yes. But it will kill you just the same."

You met her eyes, already staring right at you. "You will be the death of me, Cersei."

The book somehow fell unto the floor, making a distinct yet sharp noise that could wake any resident nearby. You quickly shushed Cersei's lips when you heard sounds of metal armor clanking outside, pushing the woman against the nearest shelves to hide.

"Is anyone in there?!" one of the Dornish guards yelled into what seemed like an empty room. You and Cersei were pressed against each other in one corner, the dusty wooden shelf and an old abandoned large furniture hid the both of you. Unaware of Cersei's gaze following your face, you peered behind the shelf to check if the guard had left.

And when you both heard the door closing, you leaned back and looked at Cersei, smiling as if you won a game of hide-and-seek. It was only then when you finally noticed how the distance between you and the Queen was inexistent.

Cersei then grabbed your neck and kissed you.

Hesitantly pulling away, you whispered, "Someone could see us."

"Let them," she pleaded, her eyes never leaving your mouth. "A lioness does not concern herself to the opinions of the sheep."

When her eyes finally met back yours, you pushed your mouth against her lips and took back what you desired.

It was carnal, hungry, desperate. As if you were both deprived from each other for too long. You gently lifted and placed her on top of a study table, scrolls and papers crumpled and fell from the action, before your hand made haste bunching her dress up to her waist. Kneeling before her, you wasted no time tasting her once you had pushed her chemise out of way.

"Y/n," Cersei let out a strained moan, her hand immediately clutching your head, fingers threading through your hair as if it were reins to which she would ride you. And she did, pushing your face harder and closer into her as she rode you. The Queen's other hand was behind her as support while you lifted one of her thighs on your shoulder.

The Lioness chanted your name like a prayer as she threw her head back. Your tongue never grew tired bringing her to ecstasy, flicking against her swollen aching bud. The sounds you made, grunting and moaning as she pulled your hair, only spurred Cersei on. You couldn't believe she was capable of getting this wet and dripping before until your fingers entered her with ease, with no resistance of whatsoever, her tight and warm cunt desperately sucking your fingers inside her.

"Yes, yes, Y/n, yes!" Cersei whimpered as she pulled you closer, if it was even possible to pull you closer.

And if the Dornish guards had heard another sound, they'd ignore and let you two had your ways. Because there was no way no one could not hear how loud the Queen Mother was as she came, her body trembling. The table screeched against the cobbled floor from the movement.

Once she came down from her high, Cersei pulled you up to her, grabbing the collar of your tunic as she pressed her lips against yours, tasting herself from the kiss. You could feel one of her hands snaking inside your breeches, somehow managing to quickly untie the knots with one hand.

You moaned into the kiss, feeling the wonderful warmth of the woman's hand stroking your hardening shaft. "I miss this," Cersei whispered, pulling away. "I miss you."

The genuine tone of adoration from the Lannister woman made you fall in love with her more. "I miss you too, my Queen." The term of endearment brought a smile to her face.

Cersei was already lining your cock into her entrance before you plunged it right in. The action made the both of you break from the kiss, groaning as her nails dug into the skin of your back.

Beginning a slow rhythm, you rested your forehead against hers, eyes staring into each other. She grabbed your face for another kiss, her other hand reaching your ass as she cupped it and pulled you closer and deeper. It made you lean back and change the pace, thrusting relentlessly.

You laid her spread down on the table as you pushed into her between her legs without stopping. She arched her back and threw her head against the wood, hands reaching any item within reach just to ground herself.

Then she looked back at you as she whimpered. "I want to see you. I want to see you, Y/n." Her hands were already opening your tunic and once done, she cupped and squeezed your breasts, making you moan from the action.

"Cersei."

Her eyes were full of lust that you found yourself nearly there, your thrusts getting sloppier and sloppier each second. You leaned your body forward, on top of her and kissed her to cover her louder moans. Hands on your hair, she pulled you back from her as she looked into you. "I want to see you come undone before me," she requested with a soft whimper.

Cersei's face contorted in pleasure before you with a piercing focused gaze made you lose it as you spilled into her, thick ropes of cum spurted inside her throbbing cunt that was greedily milking you. The sight of you coming on top of her, moaning and grunting your release, made the Queen lose her own composure. A strangled moan made its way out of her throat as she hugged you, burying her head into your neck while her cunt squeezed and devoured your cock as she convulsed.

"Y/n . . . Y/n." Both of your cum leaked inside her, stuffing her full. The feeling made the pleasure last longer as she held unto you, whimpering into your ear.

And it was such a wonderful melody.

~~~

"I know you're mad after what we've discussed with your father," Oberyn said, holding a lit torch as you delved further into the dark.

With the deafening sound from the rushing waterfall, no one would notice two individuals such as yourselves creeping inside a secret entrance to one of the deepest caves in Sunspear. As a kid, somehow you had stumbled on such place while swimming with your friends, competing who could jump from such a high peak where the water meets the ground. You almost drowned that day, but you remembered being rescued by a scaly crocodile. No one believed you that time.

When you only gave Oberyn silence as you followed his trail, he sighed. "I heard news from the castle you've been very busy with the Dowager Queen. You got to be careful, Y/n."

"I am careful," you spat back. "As you always never fail to remind me every single day."

"Doran changed his mind," he said, making you glance at him in confusion. "He now believes marrying his son to the young lioness would secure Dorne's place in the Kingdom. I had no idea how Tywin had managed to convince my brother. But Doran's been cautioning us to stop whatever the seven hells we were doing. He even intercepted Varys' ravens coming in and out of Sunspear. The Sands are starting a rebellion in the open desert upon hearing the news. Ellaria was frustrated. I am telling you, Y/n, you are the only one string holding us together to bend the knee to Queen Daenerys."

"What happens now?"

You both continued to walk in silence, crawling against uneven slippery surface only ignited by the torch carried by Oberyn. Then he paused, looking down what seemed to be an empty chasm before he looked at you, nudging ahead.

"Are you mental? Is this my punishment?"

Oberyn rolled his eyes, as he then pulled you. "Don't be a fool." You turned towards him as he said, "Don't forget to breathe though."

You gave him a scornful look before letting yourself fall back towards the dark hole. Cold water hit your body the moment you were submerged. Catching breath, you heard splashing next to you with Oberyn grunting. "I'm too old for diving."

Chuckling, you swam towards the nearest bank and brushed the wet hair from your face. As your eyes adjusted to the darkness, all you could see was a large chamber ahead, even larger than the Sept of Baelor in King's Landing.

"You know, your mother didn't only give you to us before she left for Dragonstone," he started, shaking off the water from his boots. "You came with something, a shiny scaly egg. Something that hasn't been in existence in Westeros for quite some time."

You heard chains unrolling from a distance, making you look back at the darkness ahead, your hand at the sheath of your dagger.

"It hatched when you turned seven," Oberyn went on, panting as he climbed towards a high cliff, ushering you to follow him. "Only a few trusted Sands knew about its existence, doing their best to feed it, to take care of it. Goats it's favorite. Ever wondered why there's a whole pasture of goats at the end of Sunspear. It wasn't just any merchant's animal farm."

You heard a growl so deep and unnatural in this world, the hairs at the back of your neck stood. You unsheathed your dagger, not sure whether it could help your case, but Oberyn held you back as he shook his head no. "There's a reason why your guardian father hired someone from the Citadel to teach you some old High Valyrian because it only understands that language."

From the faint light coming from the cave's ceiling, you could see a shadow move before you, making you wary. It was only until you were face to face with the beast did you manage to figure out that your hunches were right. You had only seen them on paintings, on some pages from old books. But if you could talk to the painters or the publishers, you'd ask them why they never tell anyone how huge and terrifying an actual beast looked like.

You stood frozen, your dagger falling to the ground when the creature snorted a smoky breath your way, leaning forward towards you as if smelling you. You had so many questions but no words seemed to come out. Then it took a step back, a light visible in its throat before it came out from its mouth, blowing huge flames towards the ceiling, lighting the whole cave.

It was a full sized dragon, so huge it would cover the entire Red Keep. The dragon had distinguishing silver rough scales, long talons and metallic gray wings, its tail looked like spikes with ends as sharp as spearheads.

"Y/n, meet Nymeros." Oberyn's voice made you realize you were still there and that it wasn't some dream or imagination. The beast leaned forward once again, even closer than before as it gently nudged its head against your body, making you nervously gasp. Your trembling hands reached towards its snout, a smile forming slowly on your face when it closed its eyes from your touch.

"I think it's time for you to learn how to ride a dragon."

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

I truly appreciate your continued support in reading my stories. You can help me create more stories by supporting my writing thru this link.

Thank you so much ❤🥰

[fanfictionismyaddiction]

Crash Course

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3

word count: 822

pairing: Lando Norris x driver!reader

summary: Y/n returns to the paddock after recovering from her injuries, and Lando confronts her with his growing feelings

______________________________________________________________

The days following the crash were a blur for Y/n, filled with recovery sessions and endless interviews about the accident. The media buzzed with speculation, talking more about the rivalry between her and Lando than about the championship itself. Everyone wanted to know if the tension between them had reached a breaking point.

But Y/n couldn’t stop thinking about what Lando had said. His confession kept replaying in her mind, stirring something she hadn’t allowed herself to feel before. She kept pushing it aside, trying to focus on her recovery and the upcoming races, but it lingered in the back of her thoughts, persistent and confusing.

A few days later, Y/n was back at the paddock, still moving a little stiffly but determined to show everyone she was ready to race again. She walked through the garage, her team bustling around her, making sure everything was in place for the next practice session.

As she sat down to review some data, she felt a presence behind her before she heard the voice.

“Back so soon?” Lando’s voice was light, but she could hear the edge of concern behind it.

Y/n glanced over her shoulder, seeing him leaning casually against the wall, hands in his pockets. He looked relaxed, but his eyes were studying her closely, as if assessing whether she was really okay.

“Did you expect me to stay away?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “I can’t let you have all the fun, can I?”

Lando smirked, pushing off the wall and walking closer. “Just making sure you’re not pushing yourself too hard.”

“I’m fine,” Y/n insisted, though the slight wince as she shifted in her seat betrayed her.

Lando noticed, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You sure about that?”

Y/n sighed, rolling her eyes. “You sound like my doctor.”

“Maybe I should be,” he teased, but there was an underlying sincerity in his tone. “Look, I just… I don’t want to see you get hurt again.”

Y/n paused, the playful banter between them losing its edge. There it was again—that concern, that softness. She wasn’t used to this version of Lando, and it made her feel off-balance.

“Why do you care so much?” she asked quietly, looking up at him.

Lando hesitated, his playful smile fading. He glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot before sitting down on the chair next to hers. “Because I meant what I said, Y/n. After the crash, when you almost collapsed… I realized how much I care. More than I probably should.”

Her heart skipped a beat, the air around them growing thick with tension. “Lando…”

“I know we’re rivals,” he continued, his voice low and serious. “And we’re both fighting for the championship, but… that doesn’t change how I feel.”

Y/n’s pulse quickened, her thoughts racing. This was happening—he was actually saying it, putting into words what had been unspoken between them for so long. She opened her mouth to respond, but no words came out. How could she explain the way she felt, when she wasn’t even sure herself?

Seeing her hesitation, Lando sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, I get it. This is complicated. And if you don’t feel the same way, we can forget it—”

“No,” Y/n interrupted, her voice firm. She took a deep breath, gathering her thoughts. “It’s not that. I just… I’ve been so focused on beating you, on proving I’m the best, that I didn’t stop to think about anything else.”

Lando’s eyes softened, a glimmer of hope flickering in his expression. “And now?”

Y/n looked at him, the weight of her feelings settling in her chest. “Now, I’m starting to realize there’s more to this than just the rivalry.”

For a moment, they sat in silence, the noise of the paddock fading into the background as they looked at each other, a silent understanding passing between them. The tension that had always existed between them was still there, but it had changed—shifted into something neither of them had expected.

Lando leaned in slightly, his voice barely above a whisper. “So… what now?”

Y/n swallowed hard, her heart racing. She knew they couldn’t just flip a switch and change everything. They were still competitors, still fighting for the same title. But maybe—just maybe—they could be something more, too.

“I guess we see what happens,” she replied softly, her eyes locking with his.

Lando’s lips curled into a small smile. “I like the sound of that.”

Before they could say anything else, Y/n’s team called her over for a briefing. She stood up, feeling Lando’s eyes on her as she turned to leave. Just before she walked away, she glanced back at him, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

Maybe this wasn’t the end of their rivalry—but it could be the beginning of something else. Something that neither of them had been prepared for, but now seemed impossible to ignore.

[isnt-it-pretty]

I've been reflecting a lot recently on my reaction to the news stories I often see about the dangers of technology and social media, laws banning of cell phones during school hours, school divisions banning technology, the rise of teenage depression as a result of social media, etc. I've always felt defensive over technology when I see these stories, and I think I've realized why.

As a disabled person, my relationship with technology is different than a lot of people's. I use an ereader, for example, because I have low vision and find the font in physical books too small to read. I use the notes app on my phone instead of hand writing things because it's easier on my joints. I keep my cross stitch patterns as PDFs because I can zoom in to see the stitches I need, which I can't do when it's printed out. Even in high school I brought my personal laptop to type out essays because there was a 20% grade difference in essays I typed vs wrote by hand, and whenever I see classrooms banning all technology, I think about that. I write thousands of words for creative writing on my phone because I'm too fatigued to get out of bed. I learned to read because of audiobooks taken out as CDs from the library, something I now have access to in an app. As somebody who is housebound, my entire social life is on my phone. It's how survive, how I create.

If you were to take technology from me, I would be bereft, and not because of an addiction. Technology is simply something I use to navigate the world. Disabled people just like me have lived and loved and created (and still do!) without it, but that doesn't change that I rely on technology to do things I couldn't otherwise do. I never would have learned to read beyond maybe a middle school level without audiobooks. I never would have learned to write without word processors, both of which are a major part of my identity.

Technology, to me, is accessibility, and sometimes that feels forgotten in the sweeping condemnation of it. My defensiveness can sometimes make me overlook the real issues it causes for others, just like for others the problems it causes can make them overlook how necessary it is for some of us. I can't help but think about all I gain from it and where I would be now if I hadn't had access to what I did as a child. I see the harm technology can cause children and even still I wonder, as we condemn parents for ipads and schools for over relying on computers, how many others there are like me who don't even know what they need to ask for.

It's a complicated topic, and like most complicated topics, it gets broken dowm into bite sized pieces. The nuance gets lost.

[sokkszn]

you know, he won’t

anton x fem!reader

warnings: (his name is mentioned once so you can very much imagine anyone else in his position) angst angst angsttttttt, mention of period, cussing, questioning his sexuality and damn its just angst guys. fluff if u squint and face away from ur screen👍(proofread but take it w a grain of salt its 5.20am rn)

your relationship with anton was complicated. it seems crazy to say that because you were dating him —have been for years. you knew you loved him, or else you wouldn’t have stayed all those years. it was just how he treats you.

he didn’t treat you badly, you dont think he was even capable of doing so, he was just… so, absent minded? inattentive rather. he just never paid attention. of course theres the cute things that he does like, buying you a fresh bouquet of flowers every weekend, or buying you snacks when you’re on your period. but it was never your favourites, it was never fresh smelling hyacinth, the only flower you found yourself obsessing over, or your favourite bitter-tasting dark chocolate. you remember listing these early on into dating, thinking he would’ve atleast noted it down, but, nothing.

it was all trivial at the end of the day, you know he loves you… he just has an odd way of showing it, you guess. his love was never accommodated to you, he loved you the way he wanted to, there’s nothing wrong with that, you think, but you just wish you could be loved the way you wanted, you wish you could morph him into your perfect man. which sucks, because you knew he was good for you, you knew you loved him, you just wished he was better.

you tried to accept him for what he truly is —distant. but sometimes it hurts? not being able to receive what you want from this relationship knowing he receives what he wants. you know he loves you but why won’t he show it? properly.

you want to hold him in the night, you want to caress his hair to relieve his stress, you want to jump up and down excited with him, you want to love him, but you just, can’t. you can’t look at him without feeling resentment, without feeling like you’re the problem, and sometimes you are, you can admit that, but this.. this is different, its not a fight, its not a disagreement nor is it an argument. you just don’t feel loved, the way you want at least. this makes you feel selfish, but he’s the one being loved, not you. you know that he knows you feel like this, but he won’t do anything about it. you know he loves you, but he wont show it.

he makes you feel disgusting, like you’re unlovable —or rather unworthy of love. but you know he loves you.

it hurts, honestly, it really fucking hurts. you see how he acts with his friends, how he’s comfortable with initiating skinship with them, how he gets excited around them, how he remembers little things about them. honestly? sometimes you think he’s gay.

maybe this is all out of jealousy, but you’re his girlfriend, he just doesn’t fucking act like it.

for some reason, even though you know it’s not your fault, you cant help but feel guilty and tear up at these thoughts, he’s your boyfriend, you’re meant to love him wholeheartedly. and you did, but thats exactly the problem, you did.

maybe, you truly just loved him.

a/n: guys i’ve never been in a relationship i have no clue where this angst came from 👍 also im ngl the whole time writing this i felt like i was in that one sad video, daddy is the sweetest in the world, daddy wants me to be the best, i love my daddy, but…. but he lies 😭😭😭 guys did i eat w the fic name yes or naurrrrrr 🫦

[purity-town]

Ask responses below the cut! Lots of thoughts on Terraria lore and Purity Town worldbuilding -- mostly focusing on the Crimson, the war, and Guides.

Reasons why I chose Corruption over Crimson, off the top of my head:

Artistic reasons: Chris was always going to lean towards magenta & dark blue weapons/armor where possible as a nod to the nebula pillar coloration, and I felt that it was easier to work with those colors against a purple/gray/brown background than a red one. Similarly, the purple of demonite matches the Corruption colors, making it easy to tie a visual connection between demonite and the shadow orbs' evil energy.

Personal reasons: My first world was a Corruption one, and I tend to favor Corruption in general as I like the music more.

Practical reasons: It's much, much easier to draw worms and the various other Corruption enemies than it is to draw the Crimson enemies, as the Crimson enemies are far more complicated in appearance and poses. Plus all the blood and brains puts me in an awkward spot as I don't want to run into issues with any of the websites I post the comic to.

Lore reasons: While the Brain of Cthulhu does very nicely match up with Moon Lord's actual design, it doesn't have a Mech boss associated with it, and I didn't want the Destroyer to feel like it came out of nowhere; I felt it was easier to justify the EoW being related to evil/Moon Lord in some way than the Destroyer existing in a Crimson world. The Corruption's shadow orbs also naturally tie into the idea of the "ancient spirits of light and dark" being released from the underworld, as the Crimson doesn't really convey the "dark" side of things that well. Also, the Crimson is generally associated with health while the Corruption is associated with mana, and since Chris is a mage I wanted to lean into the magic side of things.

As for my ideas with the Crimson:

Theme-wise, the blood and gore is easy to relate back to the same consuming, flesh-melding energy of blood moons. (While blood moons already have a link to Corruption/Crimson in the form of corrupt/vicious animals, the Crimson just makes more sense.) The massive skeletons in the background bring up similarities with bone serpents and wyverns/phantasm dragon, and the eyeballs with the EoC/WoF/True EoC.

Where the Corruption is more of the culmination of sin and dark thoughts and eldritch energies that twist whatever they come into contact with, the Crimson is a growing, living being that spiraled into wild mutation from eldritch energy. The Corruption naturally grows over time through additional sins giving it the power to spread, while the Crimson grows by actively consuming more and more living material; contamination vs. infection; acidic vs. corrosive.

The Crimson is a hive mind, of the sort where each new mind adds its knowledge and input to the collective, and likewise has its will overridden by the majority. At the core of it all is the Brain of Cthulhu -- intelligent, but not something that can be reasoned with or spoken to; the sort of being whose mind is so fundamentally different from a human's that anyone who comes into contact would be left mentally shattered. Much the same way one who stares into the darkness seeking to study the eldritch and bizarre could be left broken.

Where the Corruption chasms are worm tracks, I've always interpreted the Crimson chasms as a heart and the arteries spreading out from it. Or maybe the tendrils of a spreading infection? Not really sure!

Side note, the general theme (flesh/blood) and many of the monsters (face monster, crimera, blood feeder, etc.) also tie very well into the Wall of Flesh and its hunger. The justification for the WoF being so...flesh in the comic is that Andrew is a human*, and so the WoF's form is influenced by what his soul knows (flesh and blood body), mixed with lots and lots of eldritch energy giving it the visual ties to the EoC/Moon Lord in the eyes/mouth. But it's not as natural of a link as "the WoF's form is steeped in overflowing Crimson energy locked away in the center of the earth."

Instead of shattering, I imagine it would just poof into a particularly liquid-looking red smoke. Something to combine it being an immaterial/magical collection of energy with it being bloody and gory. Less of the sharp/shattered/sparkly look of shadow orbs, and something more organic and primal.

As for Crimson hearts...I suppose it's the other side of the coin of shadow orbs. Keeping with the theme of Crimson being vaguely health/damage-related while Corruption is mana-related, where shadow orbs are pustules of evil and eldritch magic, I could imagine Crimson hearts as concentrations of the life energy that's been consumed by/generated within the Crimson. Something that pulses with the hearts and minds of the countless creatures that have been incorporated into the Crimson before. Hence the panic necklace; something that fills you with adrenaline and the vitality to push forward and run for your life when hurting (compared to the band of starpower boosting your ability to channel magic).

BAD. Really, really, really bad.

The most obvious reason was all of the general destruction that the world had suffered at that point. Land masses ripped apart or twisted/distorted. Civilization shredded, infrastructure destroyed. What wasn't outright blasted to bits was warped beyond recognition or so corrupted there was no hope of salvaging what had been there before. Loss of homes means exposure to the elements, and loss of farmland means starvation; many societies crumbled or were staggered by the loss of vital industries and resources.

The main surviving communities were small subsets of what were once larger cultures. They were the ones lucky enough to have enough resources nearby to be self-sustaining -- cities had it the worst, requiring resources to be brought in from elsewhere, while more remote communities tended to be affected the least. Andrew, for instance, grew up in a very small community out on the plains, and while they did have contact with other communities, trade was limited to only specialty goods. Everything else came from the local area.

On top of the physical loss of land and infrastructure, there was also the loss of knowledge. The people who stood up to fight were the most powerful mages and strongest warriors, trying to hold back the destruction and stop the eldritch power contaminating the world; when they died, their knowledge of the world died with them. Similarly, Dryads were far more common back then, with people relying on them to interpret the weather, bless the crops, protect them from harm, and purify any imbalance of good and evil. So even the folks who did survive had to suddenly adjust to having no Dryads to fall back on.

Then, just when they thought the worst of it was over -- that their world had ended and was something new and scary, but stable -- the first Blood Moon rises and everything goes to Hell in a hand-basket once more (albeit only for a night). So now, rather than the night being a time for mages to practice their craft, the inherent chaos of the dark is now dialed up 1000% (even moreso during blood moons). Hence the push for some folks to try and find solace beneath the earth -- building the underground cabins, establishing the Dungeon, and the Lihzahrds locking themselves within a temple away from the sky.

The world was finally given a chance to breathe again once most of the eldritch magic, and in equal measure the divine hallow, was locked away in the core of the world. But by that point the old world was already a distant memory. It's been 500 years since the war, around 450 since most magic was locked away, and what did remain from before the war gave the world a significant boost in recovery. Old magic items and technology can be studied and recreated, and while technological/magical advancement is a bit uneven from region to region depending on their level of development and general population, the Guides have worked hard sharing everything they know between them to rebuild.

Purity Town, and the smaller villages immediately surrounding it (in the desert, snowy mountains, etc.) has such a low population/is so remote that they don't have much in the way of established governance. Various NPCs arguably have varying levels of authority within their specialization: Heather is the go-to for healing, Malik is the local monster hunter, and so on, but it's all very informal. The individual villages probably all have people who handle day-to-day things -- there are various random folks who live in the region to fill out each village outside of the established NPCs -- but it's just something going on in the background to keep the place running.

Guides aren't really meant to be politicians either, but they do often fall into a default leadership role since they're the go-to advice guys!

They're meant to preserve and share knowledge of the world, its languages, and its cultures; a reaction to the vast majority of that knowledge having been lost in the wake of the war 500 years ago. So Guides are out there fielding questions like "how do I make this medicine/when do I harvest this plant/is this edible/etc.," but they also are expected to know enough about situations like weather/celestial events such that they can give advice no matter what crops up. Extend that attitude to a more general "this person knows how to handle Problems, so let's default to whatever they tell us whenever we run into Problems," and you end up with Guides often taking pseudo-leadership or advisory positions.

Andrew is in something of a weird spot, as he took over for a much more established/respected Guide after she retired and threw him into it, and is not particularly good at commanding authority or dealing with people in the way she could, even though he tries to be nice. But he's extremely, extremely knowledgeable, even compared to other Guides due to having been around for long enough to pick up so much knowledge, so at least he can fulfill that aspect of the job easily enough and the townsfolk trust him to do so.

Tangentially related, but the lack of solid governance is specific/unique to Purity Town's remoteness. With a small enough population, folks rely on the cooperation and skills of others much more, and any disputes would be worked out among the townsfolk proper.

The world isn't fully settled, but there are some locations with enough of a population to be considered actual kingdoms (see: Princess NPC) with established government (see: Tax Collector). Chris' hometown, which sees a lot of ship traffic/trade, has a proper government, local guard, etc. along with their own Guide. Purity Town is just particularly out there! But it's still been around for long enough to have seen some trade, built up some skills among the residents, and establish basic infrastructure so that residents can live comfortably. Like comparing a small town in the modern day to a remote village in medieval times, residents still enjoy a relatively high standard of living, despite being a scattered and remote population.

The world hasn't recovered to where it was pre-Moon Lord, but it's certainly not a post-apocalyptic wasteland anymore!

[papaya-queen]

Soo I was looking at the future line up possibility for Prema… I thought I could share my thoughts.

Ollie Bearman – Announced to drive for Haas F1. Pretty predictable after his performance in Jeddah. Baky confirmed that he is ready for F1 and for the car he’s gonna get.

Kimi Antonelli – Announced to drive for Mercedes F1. It was almost certain with Toto pushing him. I’m kinda worried we’ll end up with a Logan type of situation but I’m still confident in his skills.

Arvid Lindblad – Announced to drive for Campos F2. It appears that Redbull Junior team and Campos have some sorts of arrangements so it’s a logical thing.

PREMA 2025 LINE-UP

F2

Gabriele Mini – Remarkable drive this season, I’m still gutted about the championship. Prema will likely keep him.

Dino Beganovic – I know it’s unlikely, the streets are saying that he’s going to less expensive team because of a lack of fund. But Prema might still try to keep him since they don’t have anyone else to sign in F2. (I’m trying to manifest it)

F3

Rafael Camara – He is absolutely crashing the FRECA championship so it’s just a logical step up for him. Plus, the Ferrati Driver Academy seems to be close with Prema.

James Wharton – He is in a really good position in the FRECA championship and has already made his F3 debut.

Alex Powell/Freddie Slater – Okay so this the complicated part. Freddie is MaxVerstappen2023-ing the Italian F4 championship and should go directly to F3. But he doesn’t have an academy backing… I think it’s by choice and good for him but without an academy backing him, trying to skip a level might be hard. So, my second guess is Alex Powell. Mercedes junior since a long time, he made his debut in single seater this year in Italian f4 and has shown really good results. He has multiple podiums in overall championship, several rookie wins, he is now leader of the rookie championship and 5th in overall. For comparison, Arvid Lindblad had 8 rookie wins, 4 pole positions and 6 wins in the whole season. Right now, with still two rounds left, Alex has 8 rookie wins, 5 podiums and 1 pole position. My other argument is that Mercedes might not want two drivers in the same championship which leads me to the next point.

FRECA

Rashid Al Dhaheri/Kean Nakamura Berta – Rashid had a good performance from him in F4. Good contender for a freca seat. Kean also had a really good performance especially for a rookie and with the help of Alpine he might go up.

This is where it gets complicated again.

Doriane Pin and Maya Weug could continue F1A since they are only in their first season. But they both had FRECA experience (Doriane currently, Maya in 2023 plus a round this year), and looking at their results in F1A this year, they could manage a transition towards FRECA. Doriane is likely to do so, continuing with Iron Dames or maybe switching to Prema. Maya could maybe transition with PREMA also.

And this where my point from earlier could take place. If Doriane continues in FRECA, Alex might not be on the FRECA line up especially if she continues with PREMA. Mercedes might not want two drivers in the same championship.

So third seat, either Alex Powell/Freddie Slater– So for the first two it’s the same argument as before. Freddie might not be able to jump directly to F3 and Alex might go here if Freddie get the seat.

F4

Honestly here guys, I have no idea. Tomass is likely to stay maybe with Kean and Dion. Prema might do the same as they did recently with Oleksandr Bondarev and bring Luna Fluxa in after she turn 15.

F1 Academy

Tina Haussman – Likely to stay for a second season. She hasn’t had the best luck in this season so she couldn’t prove her talent.

Nina Gademan – she’s likely to take a seat in F1A after her impressive debut.

??

So yeah, that was my little rant about Prema. Feel free to reblog or comment to add your opinion.

[novasillies]

wip (not) wednesday

in honour of hitting 100k words (WHAT THE FUCK) of this fic I am gonna drop a wee little snippet I suppoossseeeeeeAAAAAAAAAGAGHG

This is from the beginning (ish) of the 6th and final chapter of Third Time's The Charm season 1: 'Promises, Fools'. i only have a handful of scenes left in this chapter and then I'm DONE!!! (she says as if it's not already like 20k words long (FREE MEEEE))

“I need you,” were the first words he whispered into the soft rustling of sheets as Derek began to stir behind him. A real answer to the question he’d asked earlier. Derek probably didn’t hear. Or maybe he was too close to asleep to answer properly. Or to understand. Or maybe he just didn’t want to. He could almost hear the bullshit answer Derek would give him back if he gave one at all. ‘I’m right here,’ he’d say. ‘You already have me.’ “I don’t wanna be Him,” were the next words he said, an eternity of silence later. Derek’s hand stopped where it had been tracing back and forth right beside the concave scar tissue left over from that night at the mall. It was the only one of his scars that made him nauseous to touch. It had hurt, when the grimoire was out of his skin. It ached and burned if he strained too much. It itched. But then he’d touch it and that phantom sensation of touching his own internal organs made his stomach lurch. That and couldn’t sleep on his front or back anymore.  “Who?”  “Him,” Stiles answered, “Me. The Other Me.” After a moment, Derek answered into his skin, “I know.” Stiles took in a shaky breath, “I don’t want to. I don’t… I…” His brows met in the middle. Derek’s fingertips started to move again, more conscious in their comfort. “I don’t understand you.” He could feel the way Derek’s brows moved, just as his did, against the back of his neck, “What do you mean?” “I burned your house down,” Stiles answered mildly.  Derek’s breath caught against him, “You didn’t–” “I did,” Stiles said, “I burned it down with you and Peter inside. And you carried me to the hospital.” He turned around, unflinching with the unwanted power of his spark muting any pain from his scars once again, to stare straight into Derek’s eyes. Into the horribly familiar way his jaw tightened and his green eyes sharpened. He waited for Derek to adjust his arms around his waist before he went on, “And when I left to try and go back in time, you even went to Scott to help find me.” He blinked slowly at the just as slow downturn of Derek’s brows, “I don’t understand how you could react like that.” Those green eyes darted down for just a fraction of a second before they rose again, “It’s complicated.” “Well,” Stiles said, “I didn’t think it would be simple.” Derek’s left eye twitched, and he licked his lips, “It’s not–” He huffed a little, shifting where he lay, “It felt like it was my fault you lost control like that.” Stiles said nothing.  “The Other Stiles didn’t…” Derek’s eyes shifted away slightly, “He didn’t have to say much to convince me to keep you busy at the formal. I…” He frowned, “I guess I felt like I was…”  Stiles got sick of waiting for him to finish that sentence awfully fast, “You know He’s not gonna be better than what we saw of Him just because you love me, right?” Derek met his gaze, steadfast, “You know he’s not another you, right?” Stiles’ stomach turned.  “I said last night you don’t have a choice,” Derek nodded, “and I meant it. I love you, Stiles. And that means I love you even when you think you’re at your worst.” “You shouldn’t,” Stiles spat with narrowed eyes, “My worst is deadly, Derek. My worst is getting possessed and stringing together elaborate plots to kill and terrorise as many as possible. It’s wrecking my car. It’s shattering mirrors and vomiting and snapping necks and burning down houses.” The words flowed out of him like molten lava, “Blind faith is the killer of devotion, you remember that?”

Oh boy, oh boy. what a joyful conversation. yikes!! anyway. i am having a whale of a time writing this (how in the world is that actually a saying. are whales well known for their recreational fun???) and cannot wait for the like two people that r gonna read it wowowww

ofc no-pressure tag to the og gangster @patolemus (and anyone else who so wishes to share. please do!! love love love)

read the prequel (or the original fic i guess?), Twice And For All, here <3

[satanfemme]

I....I think I might have some of the anger you used to have. How did you grow? How do you become so positive but it doesn't feel fake anymore?

a combination of a shift in perspective + the kind of healing that just takes a lot of time and practice.

on my shift in perspective:

understanding political theory better has helped (communism, anarchism, and transfeminism are the schools of thought I study the most. the abolition of prisons/punitive justice is also especially important to me). it sounds silly, but when you don't understand truthful and reality-based political theory it's very easy to feel like there's fundamentally "good people" and fundamentally "evil people", if not feeling that it's human nature as a whole to be evil, and this worldview can taint every part of your life. studying theory has helped me understand HOW and WHY horrible things happen in the world on both large and small scales, and that it's more complicated (and also more solvable) than just paranoid and misanthropic "people are bad" fears. this has helped me a lot.

on a more personal and esoteric note, I've also come to see people as inherently interconnected. I believe we're all part of the same macroorganism and there's no fundamental differences between us other than circumstances. everyone in the world is traumatized and doing their best to respond to what's happening to them as it's happening, and learning as they go. it's a lot harder to hate someone once you understand whatever they're doing to wrong you is out of fear/trauma. it's also a lot harder to hate someone once you understand that you could've been them if only your life went a different way. (in other words, as I like to point out: everyone is capable of being abusive, and people who are abusive are still people). it also probably helps through all these beliefs that I don't believe in genuine free will, but I understand that thought probably isn't comforting to most people the way it's comforting to me.

on my healing:

living away from my abusive parents for five years and counting helps. trying to find ways to treat my mental disabilities with patience and grace (and with an increasingly anti-psych viewpoint) has helped. getting an emotional support dog has helped.

maybe the BIGGEST help has been meeting and befriending more people in real life, and doing new and novel things all the time. socially speaking I consider myself raised by social media, and although my feelings towards that fact aren't wholly negative, let me tell you that the real adult world is SO much better and healthier than any website. I like meeting people who are different than me, and have different thoughts than me, and I like exploring, and going to shows, and experimenting with things. nothing makes me feel as alive as when I'm out there in the world Doing A Thing, In A Location, Dressed In An Outfit, and With Other People.

I also think age has helped to an extent, but not because of any pseudoscience "your brain matures at X age" stuff. I think I just have a lot more practice at being a person than I did in the past. and I hope to have more practice in the future. this is the first year I've felt like an "adult" and it feels fucking GREAT! I feel emotionally mature, I feel autonomous, I feel really good.

AND ALSO. my last piece of wisdom for you: stop worrying about how other's see you, stop worrying about your interests being cringe, stop worrying about being the most perfect morally pure person in the world. letting go of these fears doesn't happen over night, it takes time. but the more I become openly & proudly freakish and weird, the happier and nicer I become. I love being a cringy furry pervert so much. it's awesome. can't recommend that kind of thing enough.

[rowanisawriter]

10 years, 10 stories

2024 is my 10th year on ao3. i’ve been writing for a lot longer than that and have had some years where i didn’t write anything at all. in a way ao3 is like a timeline for me or a diary, i can track my adult life with it. i wanted to pull like 10 stories that i’ve written over the course of these past 10 years that i think kinda define me

1. fantasy and fallacy (young justice/dc)

this isn’t my most popular young justice fic but it is my favorite. i wrote it a long long time ago and copied it into ao3 when i first got my account. looking back on it now it’s when i started developing what i think is now my true writing voice, focus on emotions and atmosphere rather than dialogue or plot strictly speaking

2. runner (assassin’s creed)

this is the first thing i wrote that felt experimental, free form before i understood what that really meant. i write like this all the time now and love it, but it felt really novel to me at the time

3. lucky one (avatar/legend of korra)

i’m still proud of this fic, i always remember the feeling i had writing it, how i was exploring something really emotional and strange. it’s about the relationship between siblings, jealousy, maybe even hatred. i have a complicated relationship with my own siblings and this story helped me untangle some of the feelings back when i was in the middle of it

4. heretic (bg3)

this story connects a lot of my favorite things about my writing—religious themes, selfish and power hungry characters, flowing and rhythmic prose, it feels like one of The stories for me tbh

5. self aware (mass effect)

i think this is my most important story because i wrote it after a 6 year writing break, when i had completely given up on ever writing anything again. i had just had my baby, i was fighting for my life with post partum depression, covid etc, it felt like the world was ending. so i wrote this and in some ways it fixed me, it fixed everything

6. butterflies (dragon age)

i’ve written so many dragon age fics but this one is important because it was my first multichap ever! i realize now i like these short multichaps where each chapter has its own theme (usually the chapter title) and now i do this all the time but butterflies was the first

7. real world (stardew valley)

not sure where this one came from lol i have a lot of feelings about being a parent, about the life i chose when i became a parent, how tiring it is, how unprepared i was even though i wanted it, all of that is distilled into this fic that i very much wrote for myself

8. starry-eyed (bg3)

i like to read poetry but haven’t written any before, so i try to infuse my writing with the rhythmic style i like to see in poetry. starry-eyed feels like it hit that rhythm i look for while still holding onto some semblance of plot lol i’m very proud of it

9. the fall (hades)

weird writing, allegory, symbolism, mythology, these are my favorite things to read and it just so happens the bible is full of that lol so i rewrote lucifer’s fall as a short thanzag fic and rereading it now feels so natural, i feel like i was born to write like this

10. glass slipper (classics)

i usually prewrite an entire story before posting it. for this one, i had about half down and a vague outline for the rest and it was an experiment kind of, to post and just go with the flow, and it worked, i didn’t abandon it, i felt connected to it the whole time while people read and liked it, and now i feel like i trust myself more as a writer tbh

[lidiasloca]

time travelling to harry

PART TWO

harry potter x reader

summary: you use a malfunctioning time-turner that takes you to Harry Potter’s fifth year, and you find it very difficult to not fall in love with the Hogwarts’ legend.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄☆

"Yes."

Harry gives you a dazzling smile in answer. “Great!”

It is then that you realize the weight of your decision. What if this changes something? Well – if you change something in your past, meaning this present, then you’d see it already in your present, meaning this future, right?

“What are you thinking about?”

“Oh. Nothing. Nothing.” You try to smile, but it comes out nervously, paired with your flushed face. “Mmmm… where do we start?”

Before he can answer, Ron’s yell cuts through the bubble you've created with Harry. “Guys, it’s getting late. We’ve decided to leave it here for today.”

“Oh,” Harry mutters in surprise. You hadn’t realized it was this late either. “Alright, then. See you all tomorrow.”

He waves Ron and Hermione goodbye, and the rest of the students follow them to leave. At last, Harry turns back to you. “We should leave as well. Do you have class now?”

You definitely don’t have class now, nor in about fifty years or more.

“I don’t,” you shyly say under your breath.

He will not find out. He will not find out. Calm down.

“Oh. Alright. Great!” He chuckles nervously, which makes you more nervous. Does he know your secret? “And would you like to – well, I am going to visit Hagrid, maybe… do you want to come?”

Oh my. Hagrid.

“Hagrid?”

“Hagrid. Yes.”

Hagrid. You were going to meet yet another Hogwarts legend.

Your friends always mocked you when you confessed it made you cry that you never got to meet the unique keeper of keys. But now you are, and Harry can read the joy it brings you by your beam.

“Is that a yes?”

You nod with carefree elation. Maybe this wasn’t too bad? Maybe it was the greatest thing that has ever happened to you. This was all you never knew you wanted – meeting your school heroes. Maybe befriending them… Maybe…

Your delight doesn’t falter one bit as you wander with Harry through the castle. Somehow, magic is more alive now than in the future. As if Harry’s magic spreads through the air. Perhaps the saying was right, Harry Potter really was the light of Hogwarts.

“What?” he asks with a laugh as he finds you watching him.

No embarrassment shows on your face, just an easy smile that creates a new complicity between you two. It has been fun talking to him during your walk. You’ve found out he truly is a sweetheart; it was relieving that the hero isn’t intimidating at all, but just a kind boy with a good heart. He is even quite timid, which makes him even more endearing.

“Nothing.”

He chuckles, and shaking his head, remarks, “I have to ban you from using that word anymore.”

You match his playful chuckle. “I’d be left with nothing.”

“Oh, shut up!” he laughs even deeper, hitting you playfully with some books he had picked up for Hagrid.

“Ouch!”

“No, but really – you have to stop saying nothing and start explaining who you are. Or why I’ve never seen you at Hogwarts.” There’s a suspicion in his tone that makes you alert. But he laughs it off.

“Mmmm,” you start, unsure of what to say. “Well, I’m Y/N.”

“I know that,” he says plainly.

“I told you it’s difficult to explain.”

“Try.”

You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t. But… You inspect the hallway, watching for any signs of someone being around. You're alone, but you still don’t feel safe enough.

“Hey – What?” he exclaims as you swiftly take him by his uniform and pull him through a door. “What are you doing?”

“I can’t risk being heard,” is all you explain.

His confusion only grows, and he takes a step toward you, as if the closer he gets, the closer the answer is to him. “So you are going to tell me?”

“I am.” You sigh, already regretting your decision. “But you have to promise me you will tell no one.”

He nods. “I promise.”

You don’t know why, but you believe his words utterly, just like you would Nathaniel, your most trusted friend. You try to tell your heart you shouldn’t trust this boy you’ve just met so blindly, no matter how kind and good he is.

“Alright. Well… the thing is… I may have come here from – well – from the future.” It almost sounds like a question, the way you say it. A question Harry most definitely doesn’t have the answer to.

“What.”

You nod.

“What do you mean you come from the future?”

You owe him a longer explanation. “I found an old time-turner. I turned it, and now I’m here.” You go to show him the collar, but you don’t find it on your neck, where it should be. Oh no. You must have dropped it somewhere, right? If not, how would you ever return?

Or maybe – just maybe, this was your perfect excuse to never return. To stay here.

“Oh.”

“Yes, oh,” you reply, looking down at your feet. You’ll look for the time-turner after this. “I didn’t know what I was doing, and I don’t know what to do now.”

“You mean you don’t know how to go back?” he asks, still taken aback.

“No, that I know. I would just have to turn the ring five times, or so. It’s just that… Nevermind.”

“What?”

“It’s not that I don’t know how to go back, it’s just that I don’t know if I want to.”

“You don’t want to go back?” he questions, surprised.

“I don’t want to leave.”

“But… Why?”

He’s really making this hard for you. You hope your answer is clear enough as you look into his eyes.

You. This Hogwarts. It feels like home. “I like it here, I guess,” you mutter at last.

He nods, registering your words thoughtfully.

“I’m glad,” he whispers, as a soft blush creeps up his cheeks.

“You are?”

“Yes. I like you… being here.”

You can't help the smile that grows on your face as you avoid his eyes. “I like that you’re here, too.”

He returns your smile, and you simply can't move your eyes away from the sweetness of it.

But your tender moment lasts only so long. “Do you hear that?” he asks, walking outside the door.

“What?” But then your answer comes in the form of a yell.

“Y/N?!” It’s Nathaniel’s voice. “Y/N? Where are you?”

How on earth–

“Nathaniel?” you ask as you face him outside of the room. Harry follows you immediately. “Nathaniel, how did you–”

But your words fade as he collides with you in a worried hug. His uneven breath warms your neck intermittently. “Y/N,” he whispers. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“How – How did you get here?”

“I took the time-turner I assume you used.”

“It was there? It stayed in that room?” So that’s why you didn’t have it anymore. But then – “Do you have it?”

He finally lets go of you, shaking his head no.

Oh my. This complicates things.

“But we will find a time-turner here. I promise. And then we will return home.”

Home.

You turn to the boy behind you. Harry’s face is nearly unreadable, but his eyes tell you he doesn’t want you to go.

You don’t want to go either.

But how would you tell Nathaniel? How could you abandon your real life?

“But we can’t waste much more time,” Nathaniel continues, and you spare a final sorrowful glance at Harry before turning to your friend. “We have to find one now.” He looks behind you and adds, “Does he know where we could find one?”

Even though you love your friend, it still hurts that he sometimes acts this way – that he treats Harry like no more than furniture, not even acknowledging he’s here. Not even speaking directly to him. It was his most Slytherin trait.

And it’s your most Slytherin trait when you tell him sharply, “I don’t need one.”

“What?” he asks with his eyebrows raised.

“I’m staying.”

-Characters by J K Rowling

[katerinaaqu]

Ismarus! Ismarus! (P2)

The second part Of my story! Continuation from Part 1 and kinda a late birthday gift for @h0bg0blin-meat Sorry I was late! As always the inspiration came from discussing complicated stories with my dear friend @artsofmetamoor

There wasn’t much to disrupt the silence of Ismarus and maybe that was why the tension was thick enough to be cut with a knife. It had been several hours since the moment they had refused to assist the Greeks out and now they seemed rather nervous. True they seemed like sailors and tired from a long trip but they were always veterans from Troy, a city that wasn’t taken before since Heracles and the look on that short man seemed alarming. It was as if he was much more than what met the eye. Something about him had been disturbing to the embassy. It seemed that his eyes had caused more than just a mere slaughter of a large city. The guards at the walls were always on the edge of their wits waiting.

“There is no sign of them anywhere” one of them said to the other in their dialect, “Maybe they got the message and left”

“Perhaps…”

The sound of leaves hustling was enough to make them jump. They didn’t know what was about to happen but they could feel it down their spines; all the way to the hairs in their napes that were now standing up in their worry. They were generally peaceful people. Their skills in battle were enough to keep invaders away from their area. And yet now that small person from another kingdom arrived there with a threat roaming over their heads like Apollo’s judgment.

“Did you hear that?”

“What?”

“There!” The guard pointed at some bushes, “The sound came from there!”

As his partner gazed over the walls to see at the spring leaves of the thick bushes and failing to see anything suspicious; maybe except the fact that the bushes were a bit closer than what he remembered! Where his eyes playing tricks on him or…?

“Go back and report!” he urged, “There is a high chance they-…”

His voice was cut of when the whistle of an arrow and the terrifying sound of metal cutting through flesh chocked the words down his chest and a shaft went through his tender neck. He collapsed chocking in his own blood.

“WE’RE UNDER ATTACK!” The other man yelled, “SOUND THE ALARM!”

No sooner had the words escaped his own lips and another arrow hit him to the shoulder, making him lose his footing and falling out of the walls inside the city’s perimeter. And then a storm of arrows fell from the skies. The Greeks jumped from behind the bushes and dozens of cords were pulled at the same time, singing like deadly birds.

“FIRE!” Odysseus ordered, voice roaring above them all

Flintstones cracked almost at the same time, sparks coming out of the friction and lighting arrowheads covered with cloth, sending a flaming rain upon the walls where the confused guards didn’t have the time even to gear up before hay next to them set aflame or their own clothes and hair setting on fire. Odysseus watched as flames and smoke rose.

“Give me that!” he ordered his squire grabbing the bow and the flaming arrow

Like a hunter who skillfully aims for the moving deer across the forest, Odysseus of Ithaca aimed and shot and the arrow pierced right through the wooden gate. He grasped upon a sling and span it, before throwing the material at the door. The small perfume bottle at the end of it which was now filled with a mixture of wine and oil, broke against the gate, sending wild flames to dance like Kaveiroi; Hephestus’s demonic helpers by the heath of his workshop. A smirk played at the corner of his lips as he watched the flames spark and consume the wood of the gate. His mind traveled back to their plans once more.

“How are we going to hit them?” Eurylochus asked, “They will throw stuff on us from the wall!”

“We shan’t get anywhere near the walls, Eurylochus” Odysseus replied in confidence

He took a branch and drew some circles at about shooting range of the city.

“We shall use vegetation as our cover. We will release the arrows like a storm before they have the time to shoot us. I believe we have plenty of hunting bows and arrows”

“Yeah” Eurylochus agreed, “At least a hundred bows and respective arrows”

“Good! We can use oil and wine as our assistance”

“Assistance for what?” Polites now asked

Odysseus eyed him. His eyes already sharp like the obsidian glass that is being forged under the merciless flames coming straight from the core of the earth.

“Fire, of course, Polites! We shall burn them down before they have the chance to aim! They will be waiting. They will be tensed! But if the plan works, we shall lose no men today!”

The defendants finally released some counter-attack, sending their own rain of arrows at them.

“DEFEEEENCE!” Odysseus roared

The shields rose over their heads, taking in dozens of arrows. One or two that got through and nicked a shoulder or a foot, caused some pained yelps. Odysseus didn’t have the luxury to look back. He prayed, though with all his heart that they would be fit to fight later.  So far so good, the Much Cunning man thought. He raised his arm in the air closing his fist. Eurylochus saw the signal and blew a hunting horn. It was a long, monotone note but it pierced the air even above the screaming of the men at the lines of shooting. And it only took a couple of seconds before some more fire smoke emerged, this time from the other way of the city. The heads turned towards that direction. Odysseus this time almost grinned. Yes, according to plan!

“The spies reported a tunnel for the waterfront at the back, here!” Odysseus said pointing his stick at the other part of the square that represented the city on the sand

“What are you planning to do with it? Send people inside?”

“I could, but it is risky. The path is small and it can fit one man at a time without armor and I shall not send unarmored men in enemy territory. No, my plan is quite simple, really”

He placed his stick to the part of the front gate again.

“I and the main team shall launch the attack here. If the plan works they will be too distracted. While they are occupied with us, a small team shall run as fast as the wind can carry them to the passage…and on the signal they shall start a fire”

The men at the back passage were already lighting more intense flames at the hay and dry grass they had hastily gathered. As the team of watchmen arrived at the spot before they could launch a counter-attack they were taken down by the last small team of archers, lurking behind the main task force that started the arson.

Odysseus made a move with his fingers, cross-way, opening his fingers in opposite directions with suggestive meaning.

“Distraction, division…Disorientation!” he said self-complacently, triumphantly

His eyes scanned his generals as they seemed to be literally hanging from his every word.

“Derange!” the king of the Cephallinians added

Back at the present, Odysseus placed the helm better on top of his head. The red and blue plume adorning the top of his boar-tusk helmet, waved gracefully at the breeze. His hand clasped the leather stripes tighter.

“Wait! Wait for them to open the gates!”

His nerves were at the peak; his senses seemed to be heightened. Like an experienced hound seeing the stag drinking water from the waterfront and already feeling to its teeth the taste of warm blood and flesh; legs and paws ready for the deadly sprint, Odysseus was feeling every tiny muscle in his arms pulsating in anticipation. He knew he had but one chance. He couldn’t afford striking before the exact proper time!

“I still fail to see how you will get is in the city, Odysseus” Eurylochus pointed out, “You say we bombard the walls but how shall we get in?”

Odysseus took a gulp of wine, his lips almost curling in a cat-like expression.

“They will let us in, Eurylochus!”

“They will?!”

“They will have no choice. They have fire to their front, fire to their back and they know they have better chances to face us at the open field. They shall open the gates for us and when they do, we shall be ready!”

He placed his cup at the side and played a bit with a small piece of skin coming out of the base of his fingernail. He thought for a second before looking at his second in command.

“Do you think my chariot can be used?”

“It is damaged” Eurylochus admitted, “But I suppose we can fix it for a battle real quick”

“Good” Odysseus said biting that piece of skin apprehensively, “Because it is an important part of my plan. I shall need it and two of my strongest horses. I shall lead the attack inside”

“Odysseus, no!” one of the generals protested, “You must not take reckless decisions!”

“If I don’t, no one will” Odysseus retorted, “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. I will have you for cover. Send the order to fix my chariot!”

“Yes, sire!”

“The rest of you shall take position as agreed. If it works we shall charge through their defenses before their cavalry charges”

Horses were already plowing the sand with their hooves, as if their master’s nervousness and eagerness was being transferred to them. And Odysseus endured this bloodlust of battle that was making him restless, until he saw the gates opening slowly and he knew he had his chance!

“CHAAAAAAAAAARGE!” he ordered

His squire stirred the horses the exact moment the door opened and his chariot sped forward. The horses neighed and the sand rose in clouds as the squire forced the animals to drive the vehicle through the gates just on time for a couple of horses with their riders to come out. Odysseus raised his sword and cut one man right across the shoulder; blade cutting flesh and connections through the bones, blood oozing out of the wound as the rider fell to the ground. The second had no better luck for his hand was cut off from the base of his wrist and his horse���s legs crushed against the wheels of the war chariot. The animal screeched pitifully and fell onto the sand, taking the already wounded rider with him to the next world. The king of Ithaca drove the chariot triumphantly into the city, forcing his squire to turn the horses, facing the opponents arriving at the same time; one hand holding the leather stripes of the side and one holding a sword or a bronze spear. The army of his men coming behind him sprinting like ants attacking an enemy colony. The screams of the residents who didn’t have the time to evacuate sounded like a hellish music to their ears. The clanging of metal against metal and pained screams of the wounded was deafening. Blood splattered in every direction as the Cicones of Ismarus realized too late they had fallen into the trap of the Greek soldiers; soldiers molded, baked and hardened at war; men who now felt all the same battle lust and thirst for blood as they had when they invaded the city of Ilium, the holy ground of Troy, once more under the command and because of the plan of this very same man! This man that was now on top of his chariot, clearing the path for them, looking almost like god Ares himself who leads the troops of gods through the battle; his bronze and leather armor shining under the sun, the boar tusks in his helmet stained with blood and dust and yet showing the wild nature of war right there before their eyes; naked sword and spear at hand, bow and arrows waiting; Odysseus seemed at home. This familiarity of slaughter and war was the only thing they knew for almost a decade. For Odysseus too; the calmness of his childhood, the hunting parties in the forest, the quiet life among the quiet herding of the sheep and the goats in the plain; the change of season and the harvest of crops…all seemed forgotten. It was insignificant before this thrill of battle and conquest!

“Yes! Burn it down! Show the punishment of Zeus upon those who refuse his law!”

His eyes looked around. His men running around the city carrying torches and bronze. Fires were being set hither thither, screams were heard as helpless women and children were running out of their burning houses, coughing the sulphous smoke, some of them had covered their children with blankets, some were leading elders outside. They didn’t get to go far for many of them were grabbed by the hair by the bloodthirsty and now completely lost in battle soldiers and dragged out towards some other spot, crying or screaming, trying to hold onto whatever precious they had in hand; property or children.

“EURYLOCHUS!” Odysseus called his second in command closer, “Take the reins! Take over!”

He jumped out of his chariot rushing to assist some soldiers on foot.

“FIND THE KING! SIEZE THE CASTLE!” continued his orders on the way

His obsidian eyes scanned the massacre; men falling in the already bloody sand, women and children crying and running helplessly. One or two dragged behind corners. He had no idea what would happen beyond his optical field.

“No! No women and children! I said you shall not harm women and children!”

He slashed once more, feeling the blood splattering his already blood, painted face.

“MURDERER!”

And he slashed again…

“MONSTER!”

And again…everything almost seemed slowed down around him… It was as if his own breath was maximized to his ears…the neighing of horses and cries of the wounded… Some bloody lock of hair had escaped his helm and was resting against his brow, making the hairs almost touch his eye. It was bothering him…

“MONSTER! MONSTER! MONSTER!”

His breath hissing at the back of his throat; sweat running down his face, burning his eyes and salting his lips, transferring the metallic scent of blood alongside dust. His eyes seemed to be changing the scenery; it was night again; the streets were cobbled and not just covered in golden sand and dust; women and children were not tattooed or have their locks free running about but wore good veils and long skirts; women and children crying on top of their husbands or screaming at corners as soldiers would have their way with them in their lust for battle and thrill. He blinked repeatedly to bring the current image to his head instead. No, he wouldn’t think about Troy! Not now! However, was that image so different, really? He mechanically closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of dust and blood and fire. Suddenly all sounds were blocked; only the whistling in his ears was echoing and some distant cries coming straight out of the haunting past.

“NOOOO!”

“WE’RE UNDER ATTACK!”

“ODYSSEUS! YOU SPAWN OF THIEVES AND RAGGED SCHEMER!”

“ODYSSEUS! Odysseus…”

“ODYSSEUS!”

He gasped as the familiar voice of Polites reached his ears and just on time for his senses to heighten once again and blocking just on time a Ciconian sword a few inches away from his face. His counter attack was as quick as the man had his throat gushed from side to side, revealing the tendons and vocal chords. He choked on his own blood and fell. Odysseus needed a second to calm his heart.

“Thanks” he said to Polites half-heartedly

His eyes looked up at the top of the walls to see a man running accompanied by two others. He had seen that man before! He was with the embassy that met them. So this man was their king after all! His lips formed a smirk. He spat the bitter taste of blood and sand off his mouth.

“Cover me, Polites!” he ordered running up the stairs

His feet were getting almost sinking in the bloody sand as he ran upstairs. The arrows that whistled by his side were music to his ears as one of the king’s guards fell. The other bravely charged towards Odysseus but his sword was deflected. Odysseus pulled the man by the arm and threw him down the stairs. As he approached the top, breathing heavily, the man eyed him with his brown eyes and pulled his own sword. Odysseus moved his head a bit as if he was approving the man’s persistence. And then he charged. The two swords clang with each other. He was strong, Odysseus noticed, and fierce in his attacks. He gathered the sword and attacked again and then again, to be met with a counter attack. His opponent nicked his arm. He hissed.

“Shit!”

The attack came again but this time he was ready. Like two lions ready to tear each other apart over the best part of a carcass, the two kings were fighting for the price of the city and its treasures. Odysseus span once more, hitting the man’s stomach with his elbow. The stunned king turned back and chocked as he tried to counter his next attack. He also earned himself a gush to his arm.

“Surrender!” Odysseus demanded

The man spat something in his dialect, eyeing Odysseus with this kind of look that if it were lightning, Odysseus would have been stricken dead by now.

“I suppose this means ‘never’!” he smirked

He attacked again and again. The man was exhausted even if he was at least five years younger. Odysseus knew he wouldn’t go forever. His own muscles suffering from a day’s battle and from the light scratches he took upon during the battle.

“No! I shall not die here! This is not my destiny! My home is waiting! Not here! Not like this!”

He kicked the sand under his feet; some went to his opponent’s face. In that moment he stroke with his sword, piercing the flesh of his opponent’s stomach. Unfortunately for him it wasn’t deep enough. The man stepped back, holding his wounded stomach. He looked around, the destruction of his city that seemed to be already falling even if the day was not even over yet. He looked again at his opponent who so simply had managed to take his Ismarus with just a handful of men. He knew he was dying. He had realized his city was lost now.

“Who…are…you…?” he gasped

Odysseus rushed forward, like a wolf towards the wounded doe that was now making her last stand. His sword met the last weak resistance from his opponent. Fast like a cat he removed the small knife he kept in his armband and with one swift move he sank it to the side of his opponent’s neck. The king of the Cicones chocked as his own blood filled his mouth and lungs. He twitched and tried desperately to breathe. Odysseus leaned to his ear.

“I am Odysseus of Ithaca, son of Laërtes, the conqueror of the holy city of Troy!”

The man’s eyes widened in horror and realization as the shadow of death was already giving them a glassy appearance.

“The…S-Sacker…of…Cities…” he finally rasped out

And then the shadow of death passed over his face as he collapsed and never moved again. Odysseus sighed towards the heavens. The day was coming to an end; the sun was getting lost towards the horizon. He heard cries of triumph coming from down below. He looked down and saw that the city was taken over. The few men that were left alive, they were forced to throw their weapons; women and children were being led out towards the central square.

“Yet another city…fell in less than one night… Gods, it is so easy…feels so natural… Gods…war is inside me! The cries of all I destroyed are crying inside my head! The Sacker of Cities… Athena…patroness of war and wisdom, Pallas Athena… Why was this seed planted inside me…? Why me…?”

He ran his hand over his face, smearing some of the blood still on it. He looked down as the cries of triumph had increased now. He could hear them now form a rhythm once more…

“ALL HEIL FOR ODYSSEUS!”

“HOORAY!”

“SACKER OF CITIES!”

“SACKER OF CITIES!”

Odysseus closed his eyes and leaned back up towards the heavens. His sword fell from his hand and the knife that had taken the life of his opponent was long forgotten.

Sacker of Cities! Sacker of Cities! Sacker of Cities! Sacker of Cities! Sacker of Cities!

*

He inspected the area. The fires were still burning around but they were under control. At least no one seemed to be seriously hurt apart from some minor injuries and cuts that were taken care of very soon. His own minor cuts were barely of need of bandage. He felt exhausted and he wasn’t sure the battle was at fault. However he tried his best not to let anything show. Him feeling sorry for himself wouldn’t change a thing and in the end of the day they had chosen this. In a way they felt like they had to although he knew it was more the call for war inside them rather than the hunger in their bellies, which was a reason enough and yet…

“Odysseus! Look!”

The tired king followed the sound of Eurylochus’s voice as he led him to the granary. It was forcefully opened with axes and swords and revealed the treasure inside; grain, wine, dried meats and many, many more they could use for their trip just like as they had predicted. There were also cattle that were led to the square to be included to their sacrifices or offerings or prices and quite a few sheep and goats too.

“Look at all this food! We’re saved! By gods you did it!”

“Yeah…” Odysseus said absentmindedly

“And so many riches! Look!” Polites added, showing him some pieces of metal, weapons and jewelry, “This city was loaded with goods!”

Odysseus forced a small smile to his lips.

“Bring them all out” he ordered, “They shall be placed in the lottery to be shared with everyone. Foods and drinks shall be loaded to the ships”

“Do you want to choose, first?”

Odysseus stopped. He felt like he was re-living the conversation back at Troy when he was asked to take the pick of the spoils. Strange how often he was getting that question!

“No, Polites” he said, “We shall all take our share fair and square. That is the will of Zeus’s justice…”

Back at the square the few remaining men were tied up with secure ropes and brought kneeling before their conquerors. Odysseus walked over them, counting.

“Are they all that are left?” he asked

“We believe so”

“You…believe so?” Odysseus echoed, suddenly eyes darkening, “You mean you are not certain?”

“There was a huge battle, Odysseus! You cannot expect us to know for sure if anyone escaped or not…”

He had to admit that his general was right. But this scenario was possibly what he feared all along.

“And this was no battle…it was a slaughter! Just like Troy…”

Although he had to admit at least the Cicones were given the chance to fight back. It wasn’t like they attacked at night while everyone slept, right? Right? He eyed at the men who glared daggers at him.

“Kill them” he ordered calmly

The voice he made was so calm he was surprised. He hardly batted an eye when his men slashed the throats of the surviving warriors and watched the light of life escaping from their eyes; their last breath drawn out of their lips.

“How easily do men die! How easy it seems to plunder cities and yet…plunder and steal lives is even easier… Cursed war! Cursed Troy! You made a monster out of us all! This was not supposed to be our fate! We didn’t deserve this!”

The sound of begging came to his ears. And he heard the common Greek. That drew his attention as his men were dragging a man dressed in luxurious robes. There was no doubt on his identity. His face turned pale.

“UNHAND THIS MAN!” he roared the order, “This man is a priest! He shall not be touched!”

His men got alarmed by his voice and let the man go. The man seemed frightened. His beard splattered with blood and dust. His robes seemed tattered and half-torn. He was obviously dragged out of the temple violently. Odysseus felt his blood boil! He hoped his battle lust men hadn’t done so when the man sought sanctuary. That would be the end of them! He ran to help the priest stand. His hair was a rare copper sheen. His long curly beard was of even brighter color still. His eyes had the sheen of hazel. He seemed no over than 40 years of age. Maybe younger.

“Are you alright?” Odysseus asked

“Thank you…” the priest mumbled, standing back to his feet, “I am fine”

“You speak our language”

“Yes” the priest spoke, “I had the honor of being taught by my teachers when I was an acolyte to the grace of the Silver Shafted!”

“Rest assured, your safety is guaranteed. No one shall touch you while I am in command! Who are you? What is your name? What is your line?”

“I am called Maron, my lord. Euanthes is the name of the man who claims my heritage. I have the honor of claiming both the Greek and the Thracian blood and language inside me”

“Maron of noble birth” Odysseus said officially, “You have my word that you shall be guaranteed your life. Flee Ismarus while you can. Forgive me for the destruction we caused. Trust me though your lords and masters had it coming. We arrived at their doors seeking hospitality and they refused. This blood shall fall on them”

He was lying to himself and he knew it. Perhaps part of him believed what he said. However not all of it. The lust for blood he felt before was no coincidence.

“I beg of you, my lord, can my family also go through? I have a wife, sons and daughters! Please be merciful and allow them also flee! In the name of Apollo I beseech you!”

Odysseus smiled reassuringly.

“You have my word” he promised, “Rest assured. Take all your kin and everything you can carry and go. No one shall harm you. No one shall take a single hair of your heads while you do so”

Maron, son of Euanthes bowed before the king of Ithaca and grabbed his blood-painted hand. He brought it to his lips and kissed it. Odysseus shivered. Such gratefulness coming from a man who had the chance to save his life and his family!

“He kisses the hand of the man who killed his masters! Just like king Priam kissed the hand of the man who killed his son! Is there hope then? For our souls in Hades? Or maybe we are doomed like Achilles who fell by the arrow of the weakest man in Troy?”

“Blessed you be, my lord!” Maron whispered, “May Apollo guide you with his light! May he grand you health and wisdom!”

Odysseus drew his hand back. Part of him wanted to scream for this man to realize whom he had before him; the butcher of Troy! The man who chose to fight by trickery and chose to take the holy city in one night.

“Enough, my friend…enough…” he whispered, “Just go…you are free”

“Please…let me give you a gift for your mercy, my lord…”

He dragged the astounded king by the arm, like a child taking his father to see his achievement. Maron led him to the temple that still smoked. His family was gathering everything they could. Maron took him to the cellar and presented him with a large sealed vase.

“Please accept this godly wine from me, my lord” Maron said, “It is a blessed, black-red sweet beverage for you and your kin. But be careful, for it is very special. One cup of this, needs to be watered at least 20 times before it is drinkable. Never forget it!”

Odysseus smiled once more. Such a valuable gift! Maron was being extremely generous with them. Somehow this kindness and response to mercy reminded him the small peace of mind he got when Menelaus gave him some praise despite the fact that the city of Troy was cussing his name to the grave. He caressed the large ceramic and then turned to the priest.

“I am beyond grateful for your gesture” he said, “I shall accept your godly gift and I shall heed your words to my heart, I promise”

Maron nodded. He then took his veil, covered his face and then took his family, placed them all to their cart and slowly left the city. Odysseus had made sure no one would be getting in their way. He watched the priest go. He knew he would never see him again. And yet his heart felt a bit lighter. At least some part of him was still human…

***

A very VERY special thanks to my commenters from my previous part @cjbolan @dionysism @freetyphoonfire @tumblingghosts @theyugiohfanartistwritersblog

So this is the actual attack of Ismarus! Hahaha! Sorry if my descriptions are all over the place here! You see I wasn't sure what kind of tecnique Odysseus might use since he doesn't claim he gets any sort of loss during the charge. So yup! Here's me trying to imagine how an "Odysseus style plunder" might look like! Hahaha!

The inserting flashbacks was a thing inspired heavily from movies such as "The A Team"

The part of where you read "Odysseus you spawn of theives..." etc was of course a wink to my fanfiction Guilt Part 2 The part where Odysseus speaks about his heart feeling lighter and remembering Menelaus was also a wink to my fanfiction's third part Guilt Part 3

The cries of "Murderer" and "monster" were actually a wink to a fic I haven't read yet and to give you a light spoiler is again a hint to the cries of Hecuba mourning for the loss of her children, Polyxena in particular.

The knife in his armband was a wink to my tiny story Philoctetes Inspirations 2

Once more inspired by music by Kostas Kapnisis this time the one called "Μάχη" ("Battle")

as well as the main theme of the movie aka the titles sequence music:

I loved the heroic theme being inserted by tragic music and some violent drums. Seems so fitting for this!

Originally I wanted to finish this second part with Odysseus warning his men on leaving immediately and sharing the spoils but I thought it would be more impactful to finish it at the mercy shown upon Maron and his family instead.

I will certainly write a 3rd part for this and I am not sure if I will need a Part 4 too! Hahaha! I will need to see how big part 3 will become.

As before I wanna thank a few accounts that honored me before with insights comments reblogs and ideas (again terribly sorry if I forget anyone!)

@loco-bird @smokey07 @adrift-in-thyme @superkooku @marieisnothere12 @dilutedh2so4 @ditoob @tunguszka20 @ilov3b00kss0much @fangirlofallthefanthings @cr4zy-cycl0n3 @shafeeyaart @hermesmoly @insomniphic @blueflipflops @venomspecs @styberusartz @freetyphoonglitter @simugeuge

[artkaninchenbau]

People keep on asking for more Baby Robin and Papadile so here is more Baby Robin and Papadile. Now never ask anything from me ever again