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avatar-anna · 2 years

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ok so we joke about how latina!reader's harry is a little cinnamon roll and how baby he is, even when he's upset. but i feel like when he's pissed...like watch out

and it wouldn't be at latina!reader, it would be at someone who was rude to her or made her uncomfortable. she's the only reason he would get so angry in the first place.

this one and calling harry by his name seem to be top contenders. i already had this one written, so enjoy this while i work on the other! also no hate to italy or italian fans. y'all are great!

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Rules about paparazzi in Italy were much different than the rules in LA. There were certain places they couldn't go, and they tended to keep their distance, trusting their long range cameras to get their shot.

But in Italy, it was pretty much a free for all.

Fans and paparazzi alike followed you and Harry everywhere you went while he was shooting a music video. They were there when you stepped off the plane, they were there when you arrived at your hotel, and they continued to follow every place you went, even when Harry wasn't with you.

One night, you decided to have a romantic dinner at a restaurant that overlooked the Amalfi Coast to celebrate wrapping the music video. Harry heartily agreed, eager to get some alone time with you.

Dinner was practically perfect. The food was amazing, the service was great, and Harry looked absolutely to die for in his lace button up and trousers. You never wanted it to end.

But it did, of course, though Harry seemed excited by that too. “Can’t wait to get you out of that dress, darling. Much as I love to see you in it,” he'd said, his voice hushed so no one in the restaurant would hear him

You had certain outfits in your closet that were guaranteed to make Harry's heart race, and this dress was now added to the list. He'd been eyeing you up and down all night, his gaze giving you butterflies. It didn't matter how long you'd been together, the two of you made each other act like teenagers sometimes.

So you stood up to leave, only to see a crowd of flashing lights at the entrance to the restaurant. Harry sighed, looking more tired than he'd been all night. You didn't, but you knew he blamed himself for paparazzi invading your privacy all the time. You didn't want their sudden appearance to ruin your night, though, so you took his hand and kissed the top of it.

“I love you, bubba.”

Smiling softly, he kissed the top of your head. “I love you too.”

It was loud outside the restaurant, and bright even though the sun went down hours ago. People barked orders at you and Harry, some of which you understood, but there were too many voices for any of it to be distinct. You pressed yourself closer to Harry, thinking that this group was a little rowdier than they had been the last few days. They didn't scare you, but it was off-putting.

Then someone tried to grab you.

You didn't normally wear heels, so you chalked your clumsiness up to that, but whoever yanked on your dress—to get your attention or for some other reason, you weren't sure—pulled you hard enough to make you stumble and fall. You hit the pavement hard, your hands and knees stinging immediately. Tears sprang in your eyes, but not from pain. No one had ever grabbed you like that before, and with the crowd still shouting, the shock of falling over, and the fear of being trampled, you couldn't help but let a few tears fall.

Harry, thankfully, noticed your absence from his side immediately, though when he turned his head to check on you and saw that you were on the ground and crying, his face immediately changed from concern to blind rage.

“Back off!”

Those closest to him heard him, saw the look on his face, and had enough common sense to back up immediately. But there were too many people, too many people now wanting a picture of the usually calm and kind Harry Styles pissed off.

Harry shouted a few more times in Italian as he pushed his way to you. You busied yourself with struggling to your feet, gravel biting the cuts on your palms as you did so.

As you stood up on wobbly legs, you heard a thud and a crash, like the sound of a camera breaking.

Looking up, you saw Harry angrier than he'd ever been before, holding the collar of someone who no longer had a functioning camera.

“You worthless piece of shit!” he seethed.

There was clearly more he wanted to say, but that man was not the only person with a camera, and everyone else's was currently trained on Harry as he continued to hold the man hard enough that he was lifted onto his toes. You knew that Harry probably had a good reason for doing and saying what he did, but you both needed to get out of there, not give the paparazzi and the rest of the world more content.

“Harry,” you said. Your voice shook, but it was loud enough for him to hear you. “Vamos a irnos, por favor.”

Seeing you shaking and standing there with scrapes on your knees seemed to do the trick. You could almost see the anger in him fizzle out just enough to let go of the paparazzi and walk over to you. He removed his shirt and draped it over your shoulders. It wasn't so much to keep you warm as a symbolic act to make you feel safe, comforted. Gripping onto his undershirt, you let Harry lead you back to the car he rented for the week. This time no one followed.

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Harry spent the rest of the night taking care of you. His phone lit up with multiple calls from his management team, but after the fourth one, he shut it off. Clearly, he did not want to deal with the aftermath of everything that transpired.

He was never more than a couple feet away from you, even after he cleaned up the scrapes on your hands and knees and put bandaids on them. He helped you out of your dress like he'd promised earlier that night, but it was merely to get you into your pajamas, nothing else.

Both of you were quiet. Harry didn't want to talk, and you didn't know what to say. He was still clearly very angry, but now had nowhere to direct it.

You didn't know where this conversation would go, but you had to start somewhere. “Harry—”

“I don't understand why people think they have the right to know every part of my fucking life,” he said, pacing around your hotel room.

It seemed he did have a lot to say, then.

“They don’t,” you said softly.

“Then why do they follow me? Why did it have to come to this? Why did some fucking lowlife think that it was okay to try and get a picture up your skirt instead of trying to help you to your feet?”

Your eyes widened. You knew it would take a lot for Harry to reach this level of fury, but you didn't know that that was what set him off. Hearing that shocked you, but part of you now felt exposed. You hadn't even thought about remaining decent as you stood up, you just wanted to get up so you could leave as soon as possible. But that explained the broken camera, you supposed.

Trying to push aside your own discomfort, you focused on calming Harry down. “People see you as a profit, not a person. And I hate that, and I hate all of those people as much as you do, but that’s—”

“But that’s me, not you. Never you.” Harry finally came over to where you were sitting at the edge of the bed and knelt down in front of you. He kissed one of your bandaged knees softly while you reached for his hand. “You don't deserve this.”

“And you do?” you asked.

“I signed up for this. I'm the one that goes on stage and acts in movies and gets followed, not—”

“Harry, that doesn't mean you signed up to be stalked for the rest of your life. Nothing about what happened tonight was right,” you said softly, but sternly. “And it's not your fault either. Those people made a choice, just like everyone else in life. Just like I chose to love you. Just like you chose to love me. Those people chose violation over decency.”

“Loving you wasn’t much of a choice. Was more inevitable,” he mumbled.

“There he is. There's my bubba,” you said, smiling now that the edge in his voice was gone. “Thank you for protecting me.”

“Always, Y/n. Without question.”

You knew that. Harry would make the earth spin in the opposite direction if you asked him to. Running a hand through his hair, you said, “Will you come to bed now?”

Harry looked up at you, and you could see the physical toll the events of tonight took on him. His eyes were tired and he didn't have that glow about him like he normally did. Those paparazzi dimmed the light in him tonight, and you hated them all the more for it.

Nodding, Harry stood up and shed the rest of his clothes until he was just in his briefs. You made room for him, ready to cuddle him to your chest like you normally did, but he hesitated before getting in bed.

“Can I hold you tonight? I just—I need to,” he said.

Your eyes softened. “Of course, bubba.”

Harry was quick to get under the covers after that, slotting his leg between yours and curling around you completely. Even your fingers were tangled together, Harry gripping them while you kissed his knuckles.

“Tonight scared me,” you confessed. You'd put off your feelings to help Harry work through his own, but in bed with him like this, you felt comfortable enough to say how you felt. “No one’s ever grabbed me like that before, and now apparently people are trying to take pictures of—”

“Shh. It's okay,” Harry whispered when your breath hitched. You didn't want to cry, but everything that happened punched you in the gut, leaving you breathless. “I’m not gonna let anyone see what they shouldn't. I’ll take care of it, I promise.”

Sniffling, you said, “I know you will, H, but what about next time?”

“There’s not gonna be a next time,” Harry said.

“What do you mean?” you asked, turning to face him.

“I think we should lay low for a while. Like how we used to when no one knew we were dating.”

Too hurt by what occurred tonight, you nodded. Hiding your relationship with Harry was hard. You loved him so much you wanted to shout it from the rooftops, and you knew he felt the same. But after tonight, neither of you felt safe or comfortable doing so. “Okay.”

Harry leaned forward to kiss your forehead. “Now, give me a smile before I go to sleep. I can't dream of you being sad. Dream you should always be happy.”

“You’re crazy.”

“I’m not. Come on, even just a little one will give me the best dreams.”

You tried to smile as best as you could, given your teary eyes and red nose. It wasn't the best, but it was all you could muster.

“Never seen such an angel in my life,” Harry said, the hint of a laugh in his voice.

Pinching him, you turned back around, but he only cuddled you into his chest once more. “Sweet dreams, my love.”

If it were possible, you would've pulled him tighter around you. The circle of his arms felt safe, like nothing could ever come between you when he held you like this.

And he was right too. His smile was enough to see you through all your dreams until you woke up the next morning.

#harry styles #harry styles x latina! reader #harry styles blurb #harry styles x reader #harry styles fanfic #harry styles imagine #harry styles oneshot #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles x you #harry styles fluff #harry styles writing #harry styles one shot #harry styles fic #harry styles angst

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valleydean · 8 days

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Chapter 17 [Read Here]

CHAMPION Part III of Heavyweight a deancas boxing au by valleydean (emmbrancsxx0) read from the beginning | playlist

SUMMARY: Brooklyn, 1933. Dean Winchester, the number one contender, trains to become the next Heavyweight Champion of the World, and this time he won't let anything get in his way. Title holder Castiel Novak has second thoughts about retiring, especially when someone from his past arrives in New York and asks for his help. Meanwhile, a new contender rises to fame and threatens to complicate both of Dean and Cas' ambitions - and their relationship.

CHAPTER PREVIEW:

Dean strolled into the ICU with a box filled with Italian pastries in one hand and a white paper bag in the other. The ward was the same as ever: the frequent announcements over the speakers paging a doctor to a particular room, employees rushing around, nurses guiding slow-walking patients along the hallway for their daily exercise, and all the other intricacies Dean had become accustomed to over the last week.

He smiled and greeted some of the familiar faces, staff and patients alike, as he walked. Some of the newer faces gawked at him, a second away from asking for an autograph. Dean winked at one of the gaping kids as he passed by.

“Billie. How’s my favorite nurse?” Dean schmoozed when he approached the ward’s nurses’ station.

Nurse Billie barely glanced up at him from her paperwork. “You ask all the other nurses that, too,” she said, unimpressed.

“But do I make sure the bake shop puts in the sprinkle cookies the other nurses like? Huh?” he asked while placing the box on the counter.

She looked up at him fully, her expression still mostly neutral but also vaguely annoyed. All the same, she took the box and set it before her.

Dean slapped the counter as he slid away, sure that Billie would distribute the assorted pastries to the other nurses, like she’d done every day for the past week. “Enjoy.”

He walked in the direction of Cas’ private room toward the end of the hall, the best and biggest one money could pay for. On the way, he spotted Nurse Tessa walking in the opposite direction, her nose in a chart.

“Hey,” he called, stepping in her path. He lifted up the paper bag. “One cannoli from yours truly.”

Tessa smiled, accepting the bag. “You’re gonna make me fat.”

“Just a thanks for all your hard work,” he told her. Nodding to Cas’ room, he added, “‘Course, I’m gonna have to bring you two a day after he wakes up. Trust me, he’s not gonna be too pleasant to deal with.”

Tessa breathed out a small laugh.

Dean’s smile flickered despite how much he tried to keep it plastered on his face. Maybe she hadn’t known it, but he’d been fishing—hoping and praying she’d tell him that Cas was awake and everything was fine.

But she didn’t say that. She didn’t say anything.

Voice smaller, he asked, “How’s he doing?”

“Same as yesterday,” she said, her tone gentler. She must have seen the way Dean’s face fell, because she reminded him, “That’s not a bad thing, Dean. He’s healing well.”

A bitter smile twisted Dean’s face. “That you can tell.”

She gave him a tender look, touching his shoulder, before walking off. Dean stood still for a second, trying to brace himself against the tidal wave of emotion threatening to swell over him and trap him in its undertow. If he let that happen, he just knew he’d let himself drown.

He opened the door to Cas’ room and closed it again behind him, dropping the cheerful act he’d been putting on for the public.

The room smelled sweet and floral with how many bouquets of flowers were in vases on every surface. The orderlies did a good job at taking away the decaying ones, but it seemed like more fresh flowers were delivered every day. The same was true for greeting cards and handwritten letters from fans all over the world wishing Cas a speedy recovery. Dean had stopped reading them days ago and started tossing them into the discarded pile of envelopes on the windowsill.

A few of Jack’s drawings were around, closer to the bed. He brought a new one pretty much every day when he visited after school.

Crowley’s assistant had sent over a basket full of fruit and chocolates, as if that would somehow make up for the fact that her boss was partly the reason Cas was in the hospital in the first place.

Michael, Gabriel, and Balthazar visited most days. Anna had come twice, both times with Dean watching her like a hawk. Sam and Eileen had accompanied Dean for his visits a few times, always bringing Maura with them. Sam never said it was because he didn’t want Dean to be alone, and Dean appreciated that it went unspoken.

About a thousand people had sent gift baskets and casseroles to the house. Dean had started turning them away, because how many damn chicken casseroles could a person choke down?

And then there were the paparazzi. They followed him pretty much everywhere. Even now, they were camped outside the hospital. Dean had to call the police once or twice to get them away from the house. The damn vultures were looking for all the information they could get about Cas, and about what plans there were for the future of his career.

Balthazar had issued a statement days ago that, until Cas was fully recovered, all plans for the announcement they were supposed to make had been put on hold. The NBA didn’t make any comments either, and Dean sure as shit wasn’t going to talk, no matter how often the reporters asked him if he was going to make a bid for the belt “now that the way is clear.”

For the past week, Dean had barely left the house except to go to the gym or visit Cas. Whenever anybody asked, he said it was to avoid the paparazzi. But he wasn’t just hiding from them. He was hiding from everyone. From their sympathetic looks, somber and quiet, as if Cas was already dead.

Most of all, he was hiding from his own thoughts. The ones that said Cas was never going to wake up. The ones that cringed every time the phone rang and he was sure it’d be the doctor telling him Cas was dead. The ones that told him Cas had left him because he’d thought boxing was more important than their life together, and this time, Dean would never get him back. The ones that told him to start making funeral arrangements.

Those thoughts were a lot harder to hide from as he lay awake at night and looked at Cas’ empty side of the bed. Or when he looked at the mess Cas had left in their dresser drawers because he always expected Dean to fold the clothes back up. When he was brushing his teeth and saw Cas’ toothbrush and razor and aftershave.

Dean tried to banish all of those thoughts now as he approached Cas’ bed. Since Cas had first been checked in, some of his stitches and bandages had been removed. The patch over his eye was gone, showing off the stitches on his eyelid and the angry, puffy redness around them. Most of his bruises had run their course from deep blacks and purples to sickly greens and yellows. Some were completely faded, but others were more stubborn.

His facial hair had grown in, and Tessa had told him they needed a few more cuts on his jaw to heal before they could shave him. But at least some of the color had returned to his face. His breath wasn’t wheezy anymore, either.

“Morning, babe,” Dean said, leaning over him to press a kiss to his hairline. As he did, Cas’ ring, which Dean had put on a leather cord around his neck, slipped out from beneath his collar. Dean left it out and sat in his usual chair next to the bed.

He placed his hand on top of Cas’, still bandaged.

“Jo was over last night. She says hi,” Dean said, because Tessa had told him that talking to Cas would help. Dean didn’t know if that was true, but it couldn’t hurt—and it made him feel a little saner.

For the first time, he wondered if Tessa had meant it would help Cas or it would help him. But he guessed it didn’t matter.

Dean would keep talking, even though sometimes, he didn’t have anything to say. He just rambled and hoped that Cas would wake up and tell him to shut the fuck up.

“The dance hall she’s working at is having a week of jazz performers next month. She said Billie Holiday’s supposed to headline one night. We should go to that. It’ll be fun.”

If Cas was awake by then.

Dean dragged in a breath, hearing it rattle inside his chest. He pushed a smile.

“Anyway… Jack tell you about the new book he’s reading for school?”

#destiel #deancas #destiel fic #deancas fic #dean winchester #dean #castiel #cas #my writing #my post #heavyweight

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moonselune · 3 months

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How about a resisting Bhaalspawn fresh off being resurrected by Withers now having to contend with Minthara's mix of anger and fear from being taken by Orin. If it's too specific then either of those details (angy Minthy or post-kidnap Minthy) are fine too

Oh minthy my beloved xox

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Minthara x Durge!reader | Waking up after living the nightmare

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Your resurrection by Withers was a disorienting blur, but the memory of Bhaal's wrath and your murder was still fresh. The pain of your return was nothing compared to the torment of your lover’s reaction.

Minthara had always been possessive, but since your ordeal with Orin, her behavior had taken a dark turn. She was more paranoid, more controlling, and her anger flared at the slightest provocation. It was as if she was desperately trying to hold on to you, fearing that you would slip away again.

It was late one night when you finally decided to confront her. The camp was quiet, the only sound the distant crackling of the campfire. Minthara stood near the edge of the camp, her silhouette rigid against the dark forest.

“Minthara,” you called softly, approaching her. She turned, her eyes narrowing with a mixture of anger and worry.

“What is it?” she snapped, her tone harsher than usual.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself. “We need to talk about what’s been happening between us. You’ve changed since… since I came back.”

Her eyes flashed, and she took a step closer, her fists clenched. “Of course I’ve changed! You were taken from me, killed by a god. Do you have any idea what that did to me?”

Her words cut deep, but you stood your ground. “I understand that, but you’ve been acting… differently. You’re paranoid, possessive, and it’s suffocating me.”

Minthara’s face twisted with a mix of anger and pain. “Suffocating you? I’m trying to protect you! Bhaal almost took you from me permanently. You have no idea how scared I was, how scared I still am.”

You took a deep breath in, knowing she was not going to like what you said next. "Minthara, I know Orin and you had a past, I cannot imagine what it was like being-"

"-Don't" Minthara cut you off, sharply, but there was something in her tone that made your heart break. "Just don't, I can't deal with that right now, I- I- need to focus on you. Please, let me-"

You reached out, placing a hand on her arm. “Minthara, I know you’re scared. I am too. But we can’t live like this. I am here, Bhaal is gone, Orin is dead, and we’re safe now. We have to find a way to move past this.”

Her eyes filled with tears, a rare vulnerability showing through her tough exterior. “You don’t understand. Losing you was my worst nightmare realized. I can’t go through that again.”

You pulled her into an embrace, holding her tightly. “I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere. We’re safe, Minthara."

She clung to you, her body trembling with suppressed emotion. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.”

You kissed her forehead, gently rubbing her back. “It’s okay. We’ll get through this together.”

Minthara’s grip on you tightened, and she buried her face in your shoulder. “I love you,” she murmured, her voice filled with a desperate sincerity. “I don’t want to lose you again.”

“I love you too,” you replied, your voice soft and reassuring. “And you won’t. We’ll face whatever comes our way, together.”

For the first time since your resurrection, Minthara allowed herself to relax in your arms. The fear and anger slowly ebbed away, replaced by a fragile hope. You held her close, knowing that while the scars of your ordeal would never fully heal, your love for each other was stronger than any darkness that tried to tear you apart.

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Oh minthy baby, I'm so sorry to hurt you like this :( (I'm not I love writing you). Hope you all enjoyed this, I had to refrain putting "You're possessive and controlling blah blah... and not in the sexy way!" into it lmao. - Seluney xox

#bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 tav #baldurs gate tav #minthara baenre #minthara x reader #minthara x tav #baldurs gate minthara #minthara #minthara x durge #the dark urge #bg3 bhaalspawn #orin the red #durge

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vote-democrat-president-congress · 1 month

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The damage inflicted on the nation during Donald Trump’s first term in office pales in comparison with what he will do if he is elected to a second term.

NYTimes: By Thomas B. Edsall 8/21/24

How can we know this? The best evidence is Trump himself. He has repeatedly demonstrated his willingness to tear the country apart.

“Donald Trump and his MAGA supporters,” Sean Wilentz, a historian at Princeton, writes in a forthcoming article in Liberties,

have made it clear that they will not accept defeat in November any more than they did when Trump lost four years ago. They believe that Trump is the one true legitimate president, that those who refuse to accept this fundamental fact are the true deniers, and that any result other than Trump’s restoration would be a thwarting of history’s purpose and a diabolical act of treason.

The authoritarian imperative has moved beyond Trumpian narcissism and the cultish MAGA fringe to become an article of faith from top to bottom inside the utterly transformed Republican Party, which Trump totally commands.

Like Wilentz, Laurence Tribe, a law professor at Harvard, does not mince words, writing by email:

All the dangers foreign and domestic posed by Trump’s cruelly vindictive, self-aggrandizing, morally unconstrained, reality-defying character — as evidenced in his first presidential term and in his unprecedented refusal to accept his 2020 electoral loss — would be magnified many times over in any subsequent term by three factors.

First, he has systematically eroded the norms and the institutional guardrails that initially set boundaries on the damage he and his now more carefully chosen loyalist enablers are poised to do in carrying out the dangerous project to which they are jointly committed.

Second, their failures to insulate themselves from electoral and legal constraints during the dry run of 2017-21 have led them to formulate far more sophisticated and less vulnerable plans for their second attempt at consolidating permanent control of the apparatus of our fragile republic.

And third, their capture of the Supreme Court and indeed much of the federal judiciary has put in place devastating precedents like the immunity ruling of July 1 that will license a virtually limitless autocratic power — if, but only if, they are not stopped during the epic struggle that will reach one climax this Nov. 5 and another next Jan. 6.

The most important reason a second Trump term would be far more dangerous than his first is that if he does win this year, Trump will have triumphed with the electorate’s full knowledge that he has been criminally charged with 88 felonies and convicted of 34 of them (so far); that he has promised to “appoint a real special prosecutor to go after the most corrupt president in the history of the United States of America, Joe Biden, and the entire Biden crime family”; and that he intends to “totally obliterate the deep state” by gutting civil service protections for the 50,000 most important jobs in the federal work force, a central tenet of what he calls his “retribution” agenda.

Julie Wronski, a political scientist at the University of Mississippi, contended in an email:

The question is how much the Supreme Court presidential immunity decision will undermine institutional guardrails against Trump’s anti-democratic behavior. If there are no repercussions for his role in the Jan. 6 Capitol insurrection, intimidation of election officers, and casual handling of classified materials, then Trump will be emboldened to partake in such activities again.

Trump has made clear that norms of governance — e.g., civility, accepting electoral defeat, and treating members of the political opposition as legitimate holders of power — do not apply to him.

While Kamala Harris has pulled even with, if not ahead of, Trump in recent polling, Republican attacks on her have yet to reach full intensity, and the outcome remains very much up for grabs.

Bruce Cain, a Stanford political scientist, voiced concerns similar to Wronski’s by email:

Trump is more erratic, impulsive, and self-interested than your average candidate and is much bolder than most in testing the boundaries of what he can get away with. In political insider lingo, he is a guy who likes to put his toes right up to the chalk line between legal and illegal activity.

There is some evidence that his bad traits are getting worse with old age, but the more serious problem is the lowering of institutional and political guardrails that constrained him in the past. The decision in Trump v. the U.S. entitling a former president to “absolute immunity from criminal prosecution for actions within his conclusive and preclusive constitutional authority” and “presumptive immunity from prosecution for all his official acts” seems to me particularly problematic. The court left open the question of how to distinguish between official and unofficial acts. Trump’s personality is such that he will without doubt test the limits of this distinction.

Timothy Snyder, a historian at Yale and an expert on the regimes of Stalin and Hitler, wrote by email in reply to my inquiry: “It would be closer to the truth to think about a second Trump administration beginning from the images of Jan. 6, 2021. That is where Trump left us and that is where he would begin.”

Unlike oligarchy and tyranny, Snyder argued,

Democracy depends upon example, and Trump sets the worst possible one. He has openly admired dictators his entire life. He would encourage Xi and Putin. The Russians make completely clear that a Trump presidency is their hope for victory in Ukraine. Allowing Russia to win that war, which I think is Trump’s likely orientation, destabilizes Europe, encourages China toward aggression in the Pacific, and undermines the rule of law everywhere.

Charles Stewart, a political scientist at M.I.T., warned in an email:

A second Trump administration would escalate the threat of authoritarian governance, most notably, by sanctioning politically motivated prosecutions. Even if the courts resisted the baldest of efforts, doing so will be costly to political opponents and also continue to silence dissent among conservatives who wish to have political careers.

In 2016 and for much of his first term, major elements of the Republican Party viewed Trump with deep suspicion, repeatedly blocking or weakening his more delusional initiatives. That’s no longer the case.

“The Republican Party is fully and totally behind Trump — the epicenter of election disruption — even after two impeachments, an insurrection and a criminal conviction,” Julian Zelizer, a historian at Princeton, pointed out in an email, adding:

The support that Trump received after Jan. 6, and the entire effort to overturn the election, demonstrates that much of the G.O.P. is fine with doing this. Now that the party knows what insurrection looks like and has given its stamp of approval by nominating Trump, we know that this is officially part of the Republican playbook.

One thing is clear: Trump would assume control of the White House in 2025 with far more power and far fewer restraints than when he took office in January 2017.

Jacob Hacker, a political scientist at Yale, argued that Trump’s near-dictatorial rule over the Republican Party and the absence of intraparty dissent will play a crucial role if he returns to the White House in 2025:

Democratic backsliding rests heavily on the absence of contrary messages within the party undermining democracy, because (a) this further radicalizes sympathetic voters (who take their cues from in-party politicians) and (b) makes the battle into an “us” vs. “them” partisan fight that is easily used by demagogues to justify further democratic backsliding.

Both Hacker and Frances Lee, a Princeton political scientist, pointed out that even with solid support from fellow House and Senate Republicans, Trump’s power and freedom to act will depend on partisan control of the House and the Senate.

Sign up for the Opinion Today newsletter Get expert analysis of the news and a guide to the big ideas shaping the world every weekday morning. Get it sent to your inbox. As Hacker put it:

The scale of the threat posed by a Trump presidency will rest far more than commonly recognized on the exact balance of partisan power in D.C. If Trump has both houses of Congress — along with, of course, a highly sympathetic Supreme Court — the pace and extent of democratic backsliding will be much greater than if Republicans “merely” hold the White House.

Given its role in appointments and its greater prominence, the Senate is the critical fulcrum. We saw in 2019-20 that Democrats holding the House helped keep the spotlight on Trump’s misdeeds and blocked some of Trump’s most egregious potential legislative moves. But House control is worth much less than Senate control, and a Democratic House may not be enough to prevent serious democratic backsliding.

If Democrats win a House majority, Lee wrote by email, “their control of the House would foreclose any opportunity for one-party legislating, such as the Tax Cuts and Jobs Act of 2017.”

In addition, Lee argued, “Trump’s proposals and priorities still do divide the Republican Party internally. Even though Trump has improved his position with the congressional wing of the Republican Party relative to 2017, he still faces pockets of intraparty resistance, especially but not exclusively on foreign policy.”

As a result, Lee wrote, “the remaining Trump-skeptic Republicans in Congress will have pivotal status in a narrow Republican majority. So the bottom line is that we don’t know much about the influence Trump can wield until we see the outcome of the congressional elections.”

Even accounting for Lee’s caution, however, Trump’s base of support has grown over the past eight years to encompass not only the MAGA electorate and the network of elected officials who have learned dissent is politically suicidal, but also the individuals and interests that make up the party’s infrastructure, especially the donors and lobbyists.

Just three and a half years ago, in the wake of the Jan. 6 assault on the Capitol, this wing of the party threatened to become a major roadblock to a second Trump term. Leaders of Wall Street and big business voiced seemingly deep concern over the threat to democracy posed by Trump and his followers, with many of these leaders vowing that they would never contribute to a Trump campaign.

“Many of the nation’s richest people said after the Jan. 6, 2021, attack on the U.S. Capitol that they would never again back former President Trump,” David Lauter of The Los Angeles Times reported. Those concerns have dissipated.

In March, The Washington Post reported: “Elite donors who once balked at Trump’s fueling of the Capitol insurrection, worried about his legal problems and decried what they saw as his chaotic presidency are rediscovering their affinity for the former president — even as he praises and vows to free Jan. 6 defendants, promises mass deportations and faces 88 felony charges.”

It would be hard to overestimate the importance of Trump’s increasingly strong ties to his party’s financial establishment. His ability to shape the flow of campaign money is second only to the power of his endorsements, making obeisance to his authority even more crucial to political survival.

Trump’s shifting relationship with the Republican establishment’s major-donor community can best be seen in the changing composition of his financial backing from 2016 to 2024.

In 2016, many of Trump’s top backers, according to OpenSecrets, could best be described as marginal figures in the world of campaign finance:

McMahon Ventures, a consulting firm founded by the owners of World Wrestling Entertainment, $6 million; Mountainaire, a chicken producer, $2.01 million.

In terms of money, Trump today is a very different candidate. The corporate qualms that surfaced in the wake of the Jan. 6 insurrection have been subordinated to the prospect of billions in tax breaks for business and the rich if Trump returns to office.

According to OpenSecrets, of the $472.8 million Trump and allied PACs have raised through the middle of this year, a quarter, $115.4 million, has come from the securities and investment industry, the financial core of the Republican establishment. In 2016, this industry effectively shunned Trump, giving him a paltry $20.8 million.

“The leaders of major industries’ decision to back Trump suggests that the economic benefits of staying on the team will outweigh principled concerns about democratic norms should push come to shove in a second Trump term,” Eric Schickler, a political scientist at the University of California, Berkeley, wrote by email in response to my query.

There are several other factors raising the level of danger posed by a second Trump term in the White House.

When he took office in 2017, Trump had no clear agenda, just a collection of grievances, impulses and prejudices; no carefully prepared list of prospective loyalists to appoint to key posts; and in essence no understanding of the workings of the federal government.

These deficiencies kept many, but not all, of his destructive impulses in check as top aides and key party leaders repeatedly steered him away from the cliff.

If he wins this year, those checks on Trump will be gone.

Trump’s advisers and allies have put together a detailed agenda along with lists of men and women who are ready to do his bidding — developments that have been detailed in this column and elsewhere.

In his email, Schickler emphasized the crucial role played by Trump’s successful efforts to drive Republican opponents out of elective office. Now, Schickler wrote:

“Each Republican member’s own political survival depends on being loyal to the team.” He continued, “Republicans will stand by Trump in any potential impeachment battle — as result, there will be no chance for a conviction, essentially making any attempt to enforce accountability into just another partisan showdown.”

During his first term, Schickler noted, Trump “raised the possibility of taking a threatening action — such as sending in troops to arrest or even shoot protesters,” but he was held back by his own appointees and senior government employees.

“The big difference in 2025,” Schickler cautioned,

is that there is a much more built-out political operation supporting Trump. Appointees will be carefully vetted for their loyalty. When it comes time to implement an order that, for example, removes civil service protections from most federal workers, the top layers of executive agencies will be filled with people eager to follow through and weed out those with “bad” views.

Not only will Trump be more robustly protected if he returns to the White House in 2025; a key institution — the Supreme Court — is more likely to back his initiatives now that it is dominated by a 6-3 conservative majority, half of which is made up of Trump appointees.

That conservative bloc has already signaled its willingness to unleash Trump in its July 1 immunity decision, Trump v. United States.

The ruling gave Trump new grounds to challenge the criminal charges and convictions he faces and suggests broad approval for future Trump policies and initiatives. The president, Chief Justice John Roberts wrote in the 6-3 majority opinion, “may not be prosecuted for exercising his core constitutional powers, and he is entitled, at a minimum, to a presumptive immunity from prosecution for all his official acts.”

Robert Y. Shapiro, a political scientist at Columbia, wrote by email:

Trump says he wants to replace the bureaucracy — part of the “deep state” — with political appointees. He wants to go after his political enemies, lock up refugees in camps, and implicit in all this he will appoint cabinet members and high-level officials who support what he wants to do instead of the “grown-ups” who constrained him at every turn during his presidency.

In this context, Shapiro continued:

The above threat to democracy has to be seen, on the face of it, as real, given that the Supreme Court has opened the possibility of immunity on any presidential actions, however criminal they might be. What Trump has said he will do, and what the Supreme Court has opened the door to — what he can do in terms of what would be criminal and not just impeachable offenses — pose an enormous threat to the nation and American democracy.

Gary Jacobson, a political scientist at the University of California, San Diego, summarized the risks raised by the Supreme Court’s immunity ruling in an email:

The court’s decisions have made it harder for the judiciary, Congress or other institutions to hold Trump in check. The immunity decision certainly enables an authoritarian presidency far beyond that envisioned by the people who wrote the Constitution.

The biggest difference if Trump is re-elected, Jacobson argued,

will be the absence of officials in the administration with the stature, experience, and integrity to resist Trump’s worst instincts in such matters. A White House staffed with sycophantic loyalists or white nationalist zealots who share Trump’s ignorance and contempt for norms and institutions will give him freer rein than in the first term.

As Sean Wilentz warns:

Trump, who does not speak in metaphors, has made it plain: “If I don’t get elected, it’s going to be a blood bath.” This is a time for imagining the worst. Not a single loyal Republican official has objected to that statement or to similar MAGA warnings about an impending civil war.

Yet, Wilentz writes, “many of even the most influential news sources hold to the fiction Trump and his party are waging a presidential campaign instead of a continuing coup, a staggering failure to recognize Trump’s stated agenda.”

I am going to give the last word to Timothy Snyder, the Yale historian:

Trump is in the classic dictatorial position: He needs to die in bed holding all executive power to stay out of prison. This means that he will do whatever he can to gain power, and once in power will do all that he can to never let it go. This is a basic incentive structure which underlies everything else. It is entirely inconsistent with democracy.

https://www.nytimes.com/2024/08/21/opinion/trump-second-term-2025.html

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ginsengkitten · 3 months

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Beautiful Dangerous

༺☆༻

Chapter Thirteen

Sparkplug

PREFACE:

It is now circa 1994. A few years have passed.

Slash mindlessly stumbled through the dark room, his attempt to keep his escape quiet was not met with much caution- at this point, he did not entirely care to be caught sneaking out again after another one night stand.

“Leaving now?” Crystal rustled awake and sturdied herself up on her elbow, the sheets twisted around her naked body. Slash didn’t pay her a glance as he buckled his jeans up around his waist in the pitch black. Silence sat in the darkness of the hotel room, with only the muffled motions of slash and the busy streets of LA below. He mumbled his usual, empty “goodbye” and wrapped his jacket around him, already shaking his box of Marlboros in his hand. Crystal accepted his typical departure and collapsed back to sleep as the door clicked shut.

The tour bus for Slashes Snake Pit set to depart LA around 4:30 am. Unusual hours were no stranger to Slash. With the peak of Guns and the beginning of his new side project band- Slash’s Snakepit, his energy was spent thin of romance. In fact, it had been years since something lived in his heart besides ache. It was a heavy sorrow he carried with him and learned to hide well. It had almost broken him apart at first, but when the record label threatened Guns after his stage performances began to suffer from his sorrows, he learned to bury this pain deep inside himself. He nursed himself to a livable health through drugs,whiskey and meaningless sex. He had a couple contenders that met him at his hotels he frequented through tours, but none, such as crystal, were ever privy to real warmth or love in any aspect from him.

With the Guns n Roses tour completed, he could focus in on his project of Slash’s Snakepit. The crew piled on the bus in the early hours and headed out to Dallas TX, for the next leg of the tour.

This was his life. The road, the music, the drugs and the women. All to numb a constant ache. A constant void inside that seemingly never filled. And while he tried time and again to ignore it and move past it, in the rare times that he spent alone in his hotel room or on the bus, his eyes would trace to the nearest window and his thoughts would return to that same single seed of which his pain grew.

Her. Her smile. Her laugh. Her voice.

Her.

No one laughed the way she laughed. No one smiled the way she smiled. No one spoke the way she spoke or sang the way she sang. No one cared the way she cared or played the way she played. No one felt the way she felt. Her body, her eyes, her skin, her touch.

Her.

Unbeknownst to Slash, in the moments that he spent staring off into the window, a familiar pair of eyes also sat, staring, from across the country, also remembering that summer. As if staring at each other through the night sky, a reflection of one another glazed into their minds. A mutual sorrow that tied them together.

You turned your gaze down from the night sky. The cool summer night air blew through your skirt and trailed down your exposed legs. Although you didn’t shiver. It felt good to cool off from the stuffy dressing room. Most of the dancers chose to hang around outside in between shows to chat and cool down with a cigarette or count their tips so far. Your group had just finished performing the first act of their new choreography. Practicing for weeks to dial it in. Already the nights earnings completely boasted any in the past week. It was of course in hand also to do with the busyness of the club during the summertime. Lots of tourists came far and wide to visit the club and watch the dancers. Stripclub? No, no this was the infamous dance lounge- ‘Sparkplug’. You never call a sparkplug girl a stripper or you’d get a 6 inch stiletto heel lodged in your ballsack. Sparkplug was a high end dance lounge in the heart of downtown. It had been a nightlife staple since it’s opening as a speakeasy in the 30s. Over time and history, it evolved lengths past your average stripclub. Only big names and big spenders got in, and only the best dancers in the state got hired on. If you were a Sparkplug girl, you were the shit. And you were, and you knew it too. You hadn’t spent years working your talents up for nothing. It’s not a job you ever imagined for yourself but your talent showed otherwise. With no where else to turn, you learned pretty early on to adapt to the needs of the market.

A couple years back, you were taken in by the club owner, a powerful and beautiful woman named Ms. Deetz. But everyone called her Dee, and her partner in crime and equally beautiful, Lucille. Dee had inherited the club through a nasty civil suit about 20 years ago, and had really turned the club into the successful monolith it was today. It was the rattiest, brattiest, loudest club on the block. Cheetah print lined furniture and red velvet walls splayed throughout. A permanent installation of the 80s glam/hair rock scene. The performances catered to the prime 80s rock scene and as such, it was quite the circus. Saturday nights being the rowdiest.

The club was hopping in its typical fashion. A thick layer of smoke lined the room and seeped inwards to the plush and sparkling dressing room. Fellow dancers chattered and yelled amongst each-other in typical banter. Lipstick snatched from one clawed hand to the next, tacky feather boas flayed throughout, sweeping in the breeze of the next girl running past to the stage.

You stared at yourself in your mirror. Polaroids and lipstick decorated the frame narrowly leaving space to actually view oneself. The typical noise drowned to a muffle to you. The woman staring back was a mystery to you. Beautiful- but a mystery. Unsure if this is what you want. Is there something more that you want? Why does this feel so whole and yet so empty?

“-and bettah yet, I bet them guys even be HUNG!” Conversation snapped you from your trance. The girls flushed around the room in an excitement to which you weren’t yet privy to.

“AND - they usually got no wife- no kids, a GHOST of a man!” One girl giggled out deviously. You blinked around to catch up to speed. “What about you babes, you gonna bust your tail feather tonight?!” A mousy but loud girl named clara reed hung herself on your shoulder awaiting your reply. “Yes-?” You reply confused. “What’s all the fuss for huh?” You add. Clara rolls her eyes playfully knowing you hadn’t been listening earlier.

“Couple of bigwigs from a few record labels are here tonight!” Another girl answered excitedly.

Clara nodded in agreement. “Exactly! And you know what that meannnnsss!!” She jovially rubbed her fingers together in a sort of money grabbing ‘cha ching!’ Motion.

“It means you gonna dance your heart out like you all supposed to and DONT get knocked up.” Dee remarked, entering the room clearly privy to the conversation at hand. Another girl rolled her eyes seriously. “That was ONE time Dee!” She puttered off. Dee swept out the clutter of girls clearly jazzed about the prospect of multiple rich old men in the club tonight. It meant good earnings and good times. You were no stranger to this concept, but it was not the most thrilling thing to your heart you admit. Dee came up behind you, appearing in the mirror. She laid a gentle hand on your shoulder as she usually did. Dee offered a sort of unconditional motherly love to all the girls at Sparkplug. Taking in strays and weeding out trouble. One time even shooting a stalker ex boyfriend of Clara’s in the foot. Dee claims self defense and that’s what all the girls agreed on..

“What’s eating you, sugar?” She asked concerned, noticing your energy shifted. You really didn’t have an answer for that. “I’m fine, Dee. You know me.” You retort. Dee huffed in clear disbelief of your usual lie but didn’t have time to challenge it, so she lovingly gave you her squeeze and walked to return to her business quarters in the VIP lounge. Before exiting, she gave an encouraging “get out there and show those old bastards what you really got!”. You exchange cheeky grins and she departed.

Clara returned to your shoulder and topped off the energy with her own excited spurt. “Look atcha darling. Are we gonna rock these fuckers or what?!” She chirped energetically. Infusing you with her enthusiasm. She was right. You were the best dancer there. These old fucks want a show? Let’s give ‘em a show.

#gnr #slash #slash gnr #saul hudson #slash fanfiction #slash x reader #gnr smut #gnr x reader #saul hudson x reader #slash smut

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liketwoswansinbalance · 7 months

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THE ONE AND HIS BROTHER

This fic is also available on Wattpad or AO3, if you would prefer to read it elsewhere.

⸻

Summary:

Rafal had lived to complete his oath and rule as the One (the one true School Master), and Rhian, reduced to mortal, was redeemed. Now, both brothers come to terms with their tale’s ending, an uncertain, prophecy-less future, and the two begin anew since the Great War, without the constraints of a fairy tale.

And, even Rafal must learn to accept his true nature, his supposed, newly-surfaced Goodness and the guilt it carries.

Context:

The "anticlimax" of Fall was narrowly subverted, and both brothers are alive, contending with the aftermath of the Great War.

⸻

Rafal stepped through the window of the silver tower that housed the Storian on a newly-healed leg, catching sight of Rhian huddled in the dark, afternoon shade.

Rhian flipped a page and looked up from THE TWO TROLLS, red-faced and bleary-eyed, his back against the stone cell’s wall. Restless souls indeed. A euphemism for Evil. An underplaying of his life and acts. “Did you return Midas to that book-gobbler village? What's it called?”

“Gavaldon—and, yes, I did. He deserves a peaceful life, for all that he’s done to serve our tale,” Rafal said sedately.

Rhian could no longer hold back as his mental dam broke. Hot tears spilled from his eyes, tracing trails on his sun-kissed cheeks. “I'm sorry."

“I know…” Rafal began, but he had other loads on his mind. “And, I can't believe I—I don't know why I revived that pastry prat, Rufius. He always got on my last nerve, the coward.”

And yet—Rafal appeared subdued, lacking in his usual contempt, Rhian noted.

Then, Rafal finally surrendered, posture sagging. He dropped down to the stone floor heavily, back sliding against the wall, settling beside Rhian, utterly drained by the Great War and his flight to Gavaldon.

His cape crumpled, crushed beneath him where he sat on it, and he drew his arms tight to his side, scraping his wrist on the wall without realizing it.

Rafal had drawn pinpricks of blood, the shallowest of scrapes, before his pale skin repaired itself flawlessly, proof the Storian kept its word, when he’d made his second vow. Alone. When he was named the One.

Rhian observed this, and heaved a sigh of relief.

Rafal turned to him.

Rhian stared back passively, his eyes leaden, chastened, finding nothing substantial to say in return. "At least his pastries were better than Gavaldon's."

"Mmm," Rafal mused unresponsively. He did not listen, buried in his own haze of thought. Then, he spoke once more. “I mean, I'm Good, but I'm not a weak-willed Ever. And, yet—I felt guilt. I still do,” Rafal admitted somberly. “What's wrong with me?” The pit of his stomach lurched at the thought again. “We’ve—I’ve cost lives.” He stared through Rhian, conscience-stricken, oddly troubled.

Rhian sighed defeatedly. “You're Good and... I'm not.” Guilt-ridden, his voice broke. "It was never you. I cost lives. My own foolishness and sin and hollow, bottomless greed. At every turn, I was cowed and tried to save my own skin. Every time. And you valiantly put your own life at risk. Repeatedly, for near-strangers, and for me, most of all."

“Thanks,” Rafal muttered, regaining a shade of his old self. “Now isn’t that reassuring to hear from the one who caused all our problems?” he sniped.

Rhian sunk his face into his hands, elbows propped up on the storybook settled in his lap.

Rafal rushed to set his mistake right. That had been unforgiving. The Good Forgive rang and reared in his head like a phantom presence. “Don't sell yourself short. You can still do Good with the life you have.” He prodded Rhian’s arm with his elbow, nodding at the storybook in Rhian’s lap. “At least you're not a cannibalistic face-thief of a monster.”

Rhian lifted his blotchy, red face from his hands and flushed deeper with shame as he looked up again to meet Rafal’s eyes. “I almost killed you, but I held my rogue, restless soul back. It was about to consume me again, but I never want to feel like that again.”

“It was like you were possessed,” Rafal reflected.

“But I wasn't. I possessed myself. It was all me, my soul.” Rhian paused. “How—how did you live with the Evil you once committed?”

“I… don't know. It just came naturally to me, as effortlessly as breathing back then. It wasn't as foreign as yours. My Evil was… controlled, for lack of a better word. It wasn't an out-of-body experience or like a parasite. I could command it, use it, use others, bend all to my will.” Rafal looked down, white, spiked sheaves of hair sweeping forward across his eyes, catching in his lashes.

Then, Rafal reddened with a realization that jolted up his spine.

“How will I lead the School, now that I've lost it, my Evil? Will anyone respect or even listen to me—Midas. Midas already opposed me, not that he was so wrong in the end. I wasn't fair to him. Who knows what else could happen? I could soon have a revolt on my hands, brewing under the surface without even knowing it!”

“Your students seemed ready to lay down their lives for you on the warfront, without question, without fear, without doubt. I think you'll have no trouble. In truth, I think you already convinced them, when you got them to follow you. You’ve probably secured their loyalty to you, and to the Woods you’ll shape, the future you’ll bring.” Rhian inhaled as if it pained him. “Your School seemed ready to die for you when I stood at the front. They trust you. You just have to learn to trust them.”

Rafal nodded slowly, his breath turning ragged. “But, how… did you live with a conscience weighing you down? How did you never feel ashamed and self-conscious all the time, every last minute of your existence? The guilt. The guilt that comes with Good—it's suffocating!”

“I was. Self-conscious.” Rhian brushed a stray curl back from his brow. “I… never entirely rid myself of that reflexive shame. But, there are other ways to lead. You've been and done both: Good and Evil. Just, use your judgment. It'll never fail you. Storian knows it's infinitely better than mine.”

“That, I'll do. I don't suppose you're willing to help me appeal to your… the Ever students though?”

“Always,” Rhian vowed. “I'll remain at your side for as long as my life allows. You'll forget about me one day though.”

“Never. That could never happen,” Rafal averred. “Besides, we can't know what's ahead now. I've sent a missive to Monrovia, in order to arrest Marialena and sentence her to life under the sea.”

Rhian smirked, mildly cheered by the prospect of the wayward wretch being locked up for good.

Of course—Rafal had neglected to mention to his brother that he'd publicly threatened the old king of Ravenbow with lethal, dark magic, before his entire retinue as eyewitnesses at Four Point, at a recent audience he’d sought without even a scruple of advance notice.

Everyone, most of all the king himself, had surpassed terrified, but Rafal hadn’t yielded his sorcery’s chokehold on the man, not until the old, quivering king had vindicated Rhian, in a rather quavering voice, for the act of malice against one of own, a loyal subject, the young soldier Rhian had killed in cold blood.

The king had proclaimed that Rhian would be formally deemed “not guilty by reason of insanity, on account of ‘possession by supreme, magical entity,’ henceforth not to be named in this aforementioned, binding document, nor in all subsequent documentation by the royal court or common scribes of Ravenbow, in accordance with rational forethought and the reasonable and necessary fear of condemnation by the manifestly blameless and divine law aboven, which all Men and other mortal beings doth and willen observe forevermore.”

Accordingly, the rulers of Bloodbrook, Kingdom Kyrgios, and Jaunt Jolie had swiftly fallen into line shortly thereafter, and had also very conveniently agreed not to press charges against Rhian after Rafal’s display of power.

Thus, on that fateful day, Rhian Mistral was absolved, granted total immunity from the rule of Woods law, and held in tremendously high esteem by all the kingdoms, that is, unless Rafal received further notice in any remote futurity which conflicted with the leaders’ decrees. Yet, he didn’t expect to see a single quarrel from the chastened Woods leaders. They would bow if he had to sidestep civil, Ever diplomacy in the name of a greater Good, and break their spines and their wills in the process.

The rest of the proceedings of the first-ever Great War Reparations Summit went on as usual, with the One silent as a stone statue yet still conspicuously in attendance in his midnight blue robes.

Since the final decision, to establish a Woods-wide railroad complex that would be titled the Flowerground, and the closing banquet of the summit, the other Woods leaders noted to themselves that they needn’t call in any bygone, originally agreed-upon favors of the last few decades from the School, ever. They feared dealing with the One, and felt their precious, social standings were satisfactory, left as they were.

Rafal also omitted the fact that he’d paid the Kingdom Council a staggering sum of leftover-rubble-turned-Midas-gold, which hadn’t yet reverted to worthless debris, in the School's name, to pardon Rhian for high crimes against humanity and the Woods as a whole.

The exorbitant lump sum was marked in a black, leather checkbook he’d stamped with a moth to dissuade Rhian from ever peeking in it. It was covertly labeled: 'Miscellaneous Outlying Expenses & Future Expenditures for the Enlightenment of Evers and the Propagation of Sin.’

A second, crimson checkbook, the decoy, or rather, the real one, depending on what Rhian would be searching for, was designated: ‘Immediate Repairs and Renovations.’ Eventually, Rafal told Rhian he'd accounted for collateral damage: the Pan’s and the Midas-gold’s devastation, and the overall destruction wreaked by the war.

Finally, the young Ravenbow soldier’s family had been presented with a vast, fruitful tract of land at the edge of School grounds, to recompense the pay the lad’s lost decades of mercenary service to the Ravenbow throne would have resulted in.

All was in order. Rafal had worked tirelessly in the name of Good. Rhian need not know of his brother’s more… objectionable methods.

Lie of omission still intact, Rafal instead opted to tell Rhian, “The rest of the Saders have assured me that they and the rest of their line won't interfere or involve themselves with the School again. Her word may not have been final. So, you could still be appointed, if the Storian views you as ‘worthy.’”

Rhian shook his head, dismissing Rafal’s attempts to raise his spirits.

“I know it'll never be equal to the crime, but you did atone and stand vigil for the Ravenbow soldier and all those taken by the war; it’s more than I’ve done. The king of Ravenbow doesn't hold it against you. You're forgiven. You're free to a fresh start. And I won't leave you to it,” Rafal declared in a brazen lie. “I won't ever leave you, full-stop. You'll never be alone again. We can learn to be human, together—until we can comprehend and piece together these broken souls of ours.”

(Rafal had decided to leave out the fact that he would briefly leave Rhian and the School in the near future, to free the Demimagus from its lamp and fulfill his promise to it. He’d leave in the night and return before Rhian awoke. Such news would require too much explanation and probably prove itself too much for Rhian to hear in this state.)

“Thank you.” Rhian leaned his head on Rafal's shoulder.

“For what?” Rafal breathed.

Head bowed, Rhian spoke. “For my redemption. For a second chance. For never giving up on me. For believing in me, in my ability to change. For not yielding. For forcing me to see the error of my ways. For being enough—even if I once couldn't see it, what I had right by me, all along.”

“I'll never stop being your brother,” Rafal promised. “And, we know well enough, better than anyone, souls aren't static. They never were. This strife has only sown an age of balance and peace.

“We can't spare a glance back, except to educate those that'll come after, so they don't fall into the same conflicts, so they know this tale will never repeat itself, as long as we've set the necessary safeguards in place.

“The Pirate Captain was installed in Neverland, the Mermaids’ throne was stabilized, and I reestablished Gavaldon as forbidden, barred from the Woods and safely tucked away, upon returning Midas. All sides now have moral purpose, and that, not me, will uphold balance for as long as we both shall live,” Rafal affirmed.

“Yes,” Rhian agreed, “We can only look ahead.”

⸻

Days later, Rhian insisted to Rafal that he gather the students for a School-wide announcement in the Theater of Tales. “Your time has come. I guess we have an announcement to make then. To our—your School.” Rhian’s stomach had finally settled with the weight of the truth.

“Our,” Rafal corrected. “Are you sure that you want me to break the news?” he asked with the ghost of a devilishly sly grin darting across his chiseled features, pallid, jade eyes glinting mischievously.

“Sure,” Rhian ceded weakly, wearily. “Have your way. I know you live to watch the drama of others. Just don’t shock them to death. Some Evers are faint-hearted.”

“Lovely.” Rafal grinned wolfishly. It was a rather predatory grin.

Rhian blanched sheepishly for having enabled his brother. “Wait—”

“It’s well overdue that I got to enjoy a new source of entertainment for a change. This will hereby be the start of my well-deserved vacation. From you.”

“But—”

Rafal sneered incredulously. “You don't know the students like I do. Remember who was on their side during the war? Not Rhian! Regardless, whatever harm I inflict on them is for their own good. It’s never severe or permanently scarring.” He paused. “With the exception of physical maiming, I suppose,” he amended.

Rhian sighed. Rafal’s sadistic streak would never end, would it? “If you're truly Good, you're going to have to work on that unquenchable bloodthirst of yours. It's not becoming of a Ever. Also, don’t get too ahead of yourself. You still have to lead us all. There's a lot only you can set right.”

“Since when has your behavior been becoming of an Ever, dear brother?” Rafal could only grin wider, eyes alit. “You're just trying to foist off responsibilities onto me," he accused, his tone turning sardonic and grim. “That trick won't work anymore."

Rhian laughed, ill at ease as his stomach began to roil once again.

⸻

Rafal's eyes roved over his eager audience as the students flocked to their seats in befuddlement. This was it. The moment of truth. And if all went well, his monumental announcement would ideally lead to a Theater rife with chaos, tearful distress, and crises, all serving his own boundless personal amusement.

Rhian beamed falsely, and let out a short, strained laugh. Even while Good, Rafal’s indelible Never sensibilities still seemed to spring out of the ether. Rhian doubted they’d ever be free of them. And yet, he found that he’d miss this characteristic sharpness of his brother’s, if it were to fully disappear.

Rafal wouldn’t be Rafal without it.

The students peered up at the brothers. Curiously, Rafal stood on Good's side of the Theater while Rhian languished on Evil's.

The room tensed, and whispers died as Rafal lifted a hand with all the authority of a time-tested necromancer.

A sea of heads below turned to face him.

The entire School had been called together for a momentous assembly.

One for the ages.

For the storybooks.

The whole room sucked in a collective breath—when Rafal had said what he said.

When he had admitted that he was Good.

But what did that mean for—everyone’s eyes flicked frantically, feverishly to Rhian. Did that mean?

No, it couldn’t be, they told themselves. They had ample material to deny the truth with, to fuel their deeply-rooted denial. Decades of it. Tales recorded by the Storian itself. It was just too hard to believe.

Or was it?

Not after they’d all seen him be Good for years and years. Not after he'd led the Evers to victory after victory for a century.

Except, there had been the Trial. And the Circus.

Could it—could it be?

Was he Evil? Did he pull the wool over their eyes? All this time?

And did that mean—was what the Evil School Master said true?

And if that was true, did that make the Evil School Master Good? And the Good Evil, exactly like he'd said.

He didn't seem to have any reason to lie.

And if he hadn’t lied, they were indebted to him.

He had saved them all. And the Woods.

But did that mean the inverse was true?

That he’d saved the Woods… from his brother.

⸻

Amidst the stirring, hysterical crowd, James sat unmoved. “Imagine, after all that, being Evil and second to your brother. The poor chap,” he murmured sympathetically. “Least I can profit off his loss.” James thrust out a pale hand to collect his prize. He’d won the betting pool. Praise the Storian for Rhian’s power after all!

“Alright, alright already!” Aladdin yapped and threw his arms up in surrender. Who cared about Rafal's sore brother? He was a total priss! Grumpishly, Aladdin got to work, fishing through his pockets.

“Stuff it.” James beamed waggishly, about to retort with Once a pirate, always a pirate.

Aladdin wound up and slung a hefty pouch of coins at the pirate.

It whapped James in the face.

Kyma startled and shifted her attention to the boys, those oafs. “Shh,” she admonished them viciously, then noticed James’ pouch, his hard-won prize.

Like a righteous zealot, Kyma snatched his winnings away from him. “Proper Evers don't gamble for their own personal gain, James. Though I will let you use what you need to restore the Jolly Roger, we are going to channel this money into a Good Deed, and donate it to a worthwhile cause: saving Neverland’s banarans.”

Half-heartedly, James opened his mouth to protest when his mind flashed to the fluffy, white creatures that had once been hunted and skinned for the heinous Pan. Nevermind.

“Luckily, you aren't in Rhian’s position. You don’t need redemption. Isn't that right, James?” Kyma blandished sweetly.

"HEY!” Aladdin wailed. “How's that fair!"

Kyma jutted out her chin.“It’s not a matter of fair or not. It's a matter of right versus wrong.”

Aladdin stuck up for James. “Who says that's a rule?" he squabbled.

Kyma put a finger to her lips wordlessly, casting her gaze back onto the School Masters on stage.

"Every Ever that's ever lived, Laddie. That's who,” James answered for her.

Kyma smiled, pleased.

The Evers clustered around them hemmed Aladdin in rather claustrophobically. They followed Kyma’s lead, shushing him devotedly, so they could listen, in case the School Masters spoke once more.

Aladdin was sure he'd be trampled underfoot if he so much as let out a peep during the rest of the assembly, so he plopped down into his seat and sulked instead.

Vanquished by his choice of princess, James sighed and curled an arm around Kyma’s shoulders. “I knew it the whole time,” he lied suavely.

Kyma rolled her eyes good-naturedly, and batted his arm away.

"Well, I knew it since I felt Rhian's magic in me and came to the conclusion. And found out that you're an incorruptible saint,” James added.

Kyma leaned into his chest. "Better."

"Better than Laddie?" he prompted hopefully.

Kyma sighed, feigning exasperation. "Don't try me, James. But yes."

Boys. They were so fragile and needed such reassurance every mulish second of their existence. One had to guard, and reaffirm, and care for their bruised egos, or they'd fall apart before long.

⸻

Meanwhile, Rhian's ego wasn't faring too well in the face of the multitudes before him.

A maelstrom of thoughts and doubts and revelations swirled above the crowd.

Subject to the heat of his former students’ stares, Rhian's hands shook tremulously, and he waited for the backlash, squeezing his eyes shut and bracing himself, trying to hold back tears. What to do, what to do? He'd never felt so exposed in his life.

Blood roared in his ears, infernal heat from deep within flaring and rising to the surface of his flushed skin.

Not the dragonfire, not the dragonfire, Rhian prayed with every fiber of his being.

A cool, glacial breeze grazed his hair.

Rafal laid a gelid hand on the back of Rhian’s neck to soothe him.

Rhian hadn’t realized that Rafal had glided over to attend to him after getting his fill of the so-called entertainment.

Rafal wouldn’t let them attack him. Instilled with trust, Rhian opened his eyes.

The outcry never came.

Rafal had sensed the impending swell, a potentially inexorable, unforgiving outburst, but what greeted the two brothers was far from the ire he too had been anticipating.

Instead, a cheer erupted from the Nevers' half of the crowd, a cry of pure, ebullient joy by the no-longer oppressed.

The hoity-toity, golden School Master was fallible! What a day!

The Nevers were exceedingly pleased as they still believed Rafal would be biased toward them. And they weren’t entirely wrong—Evers still irritated the formerly Evil School Master.

Once, they'd feared him, their School Master, but now they let out raucous cheers of triumph as they broke from their ranks. They revered him, the conqueror of Good, the new Master of Good, or so they thought.

Rafal chose to let them believe what they wanted, for the time being.

And so, they exulted in their victory. Celebrated him, their newly restored School Master. Theirs was the One.

At last! At last! At long last they'd get the endings they'd deserve. Live and die in glorious infamy with the spoils of the eternal war for Evil!

And naturally, if the winning School Master was on their side, they were bound to win. Their School Master was the One! He'd won the war! For them! For them all. And what pride they took in him. Or, at least, so went their logic. Flawed logic. Indeed.

Naturally, the rest of the Woods would be shaken if they hadn’t already figured out the truth. But the state of the Woods and the balance and the brothers would all be cleared up, given time.

He and Rhian would have to set the record straight with the Kingdom Council, possibly with a second, formal reparations summit, Rafal mused. He’d seize the opportunity to showcase the School’s newfound unity and his infinitely greater power. A fine political strategy.

It was never too early to keep watch for new enemies. You never knew who you could trust. And he'd gained a lifetime of paranoia since the war, yet it was a reasonable precaution, to pay close attention to his instincts surrounding others. The price of balance, the stress that would accompany the role, this burden he was laden with, it would all be worthwhile, if the Woods and Rhian would forevermore be safe and his.

Looking at his brother gratefully, then looking out at the crowd, Rhian appreciated the attention, the lauding, the adoration, the applause.

Though, he doubted the audience truly loved him, but at the least, he'd be safe because everyone feared Rafal enough to appease him and not deride Rhian for his wrongs.

He'd repent anyway, he decided right then and there. It was the least he could do after dragging Rafal through Hell and back.

But, they'd lived. They'd both lived, he thought to himself in disbelief. The Storian had granted them an ending, and he didn't intend to squander it. Not a chance. Not in this lifetime, not with a second chance, at life, at loving his brother, the students, and the Woods as he should.

He wrung his hands and hoped the Evers wouldn't riot when they found out he wasn’t their School Master, once they realized Rafal was Master of both Schools. Though they likely already knew—there wasn't any indication that anything was wrong. If anything, the Evers seemed… entirely accepting.

Later, Rafal filled in the gap in Rhian's knowledge and explained that all the students had known, to an extent. They’d had an emergent inkling as to the truth of the brothers’ souls. They'd seen Rafal revive Rufius and prove his soul Good firsthand.

Several students had exhaled in utter relief when they realized Rhian had been stripped of his status and immortality.

They no longer needed—or wanted—him, it seemed. Yet, it was probably fair penance given all that he’d done to Rafal. Perhaps, one day, he’d rise back into favor.

For now, he just glanced over at the One, and watched him lead.

⸻

Note:

Yes, this is finally a moderately happier, canon-divergent fic. It's a little melancholic, but not a complete tragedy. I suppose my hope is that this will fill even one person's void.

I ended one of the sections on “ahead.” Did anyone catch that? I had the opportunity and wanted to use it, partly because it felt right, and because I wanted to try to be “clever” and mimic Fall.

I think this fic idea came about a couple days after I first read Fall, so it's been sitting in my drafts for a long while.

Also, in its earlier stages, this one practically wrote itself. It just burst free from the dam weirdly enough and sloshed forth onto the page. Maybe, it had been simmering and developing in my brain since Fall’s ending only to overflow—since I wrote it in practically one late night, made minor edits over time, and added several scenes as they came to me in short spurts of inspiration.

Thank you for being a reader! I’m open to constructive criticism, and feel free to comment any of your thoughts, feelings, reactions, questions, concerns, etc. Don’t hold back—I’m willing to answer any unresolved questions you may have!

If you happen to catch any errors or inconsistencies, kindly let me know! Furthermore, if anything seems out of character, I’d love to know your opinion.

Lastly, I’m curious: what was your favorite line(s), scene, or part?

⸻

Songs I associate with this fic:

"Metamorphosis" - David Clavijo

Fits the beginning, kind of crescive tone, I’d like to think.

"To Be Human" - MARINA

I recommend listening to a sped-up version.

“If You’re Meant to Come Back” - Justin Jesso

I associate this one with the prequels and the brothers’ dynamic in general.

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eventually27 · 2 years

Note

Do hurt/comfort for JPM! I mean when he is very very sad (maybe something about his mother and his childhood?) He’s very fluffy after all and needs hugs too! 🤣

Oh! so fluffy and needs alllllll the cuddles.

Comfort..

Comforting James Patrick March when he's having a bad day, it was his mother's birthday.

As you and James sat in room 64, you could tell something was wrong. You didn't normally sit in this room either, but maybe he found comfort in here. James held his glass in his hand, watching the alcohol swirl round and round. He wasn't himself. New guests had arrived today, and it was his opportunity to have some fun. He should have been in a good mood.

"James, what's the matter? You don't seem like yourself, my love, " you said with concern.

" Ah, yes, today is a day that brings back many memories for me. After all these years, I am still affected by such days. Today is my mother's birthday," he said, still swirling around his drink. James hadn't really spoken about his family much before, but you knew it was a sore subject. Especially by the look on his face. You knew it was a big contender to why he revelled in darkness. You moved and sat closer to him, "i dont like to see you unhappy, you know you can talk to me about anything. Talk to me about how you are feeling, it might help you to feel better, " you said while placing your hand over his.

James gripped your hand and started to talk, " My mother and father were religious, very strong beleivers, its why I loath it the way I do, my mother done as she was told, left my father to act how he did, with no consequences, he was the meanest man alive and she was his sidekick. She was no mother, she did not care for her son as she should of, Thou shall not bear false witness, but they spread their corrupt beleifs like disease, a disease which I was immune to. The worst thing in the world is religion. Let me tell you that. "

You felt the coldness in his voice as he spoke. It sent chills through your body. You had never seen James this way before. You had never seen him affected by something so much, he had never really opened up to you before, never expressed his deepest emotions, you had revelled in darkness together, you had seen eachothers darkest thoughts but never experienced his sadness, you could not begin to imagine what his father must have done to create such resentment.

" I'm sorry you experienced that James, you didn't deserve to be treated that way, you deserved to be treated with love, but this helps me to understand why you have such a tight grip on your feelings" you said, squeezing James hand. You wished you could go back in time and change things for him and protect him.

"A man only has a grip as tight as he does because he knows that if he let's go, even slightly, he will hurl himself into the abyss, but my dear, you are a revelation, your just like me but at the same time your filled with so much light, a light that guides me" James finally took his eyes away from his glass, he spoke while looking you at, something about him saying this while looking in your eyes made it have more meaning, his tone of voice, his words, they bought warmth to you. You took James drink from his hand and placed it on the table. You took your arms and placed them around him, and in return, he placed his around you. You wanted him in your arms, you wanted to take away some sadness, you would absorb it from him if you could. He sunk into your arms, and for a moment, you just sat in silence wrapped up in each other, and that was enough. You didn't need to speak to feel eachothers love.

"I'll always be your light James, I'll always be hear to guide you, care for you and love you, now your new guests arrived this morning, so let's go and have some fun shall we?" You said with a devilish look.

"Ah Dearest this is why I love you, in your black heart or hearts your just like me"

127 notes · View notes

papermatisse · 2 years

Text

As You Are || C.BG

♧ pairing: regency!choi beomgyu x reader

♧ genre: angst, fluff

♧ word count: 6.7k

♧ warnings: depression, historical anecdotes, misogyny

♧ synopsis: a lady is expected to wed early, lest she grow out of a desirable age before meeting her significant other and producing offsprings. so what happens to someone who manages to surpass this narrow age range without having married?

♧ (a/n): hello! this is an old fic of mine I wrote for my friend biaswreckingfics on her birthday! I was revisiting some older works, stumbled upon this forgotten fic, and decided to bring it back. since it was written for my friend in mind, her features are taken into consideration (so tall reader). hope you like it!

check out my friend's works as well! she has a new sangyeon fic in the making!

main masterlist

It is a rather saddening truth, that a woman's worth is determined by her eligibility in finding a suitor worthy enough to bring honor to her family name. Because of these circumstances which our protagonist finds herself in, girls are raised to be the perfect contender in the ruthless competition of matrimony. Childhood seems to end in a single breath, and by the next inhalation, they've traded their dolls for cooking utensils and sewing kits, training for their inevitability. This is how it is, and this is how it shall always be. And yet some just seem to never quite grasp these universal truths.

From the moment she gained sentience, it seemed as though (y/n) was just another breed entirely. The kitchen became more a wasteland than anything else. Her embroidery could be identified by the specks of crimson blood adorning her incomprehensible cross stitch. The laundry would somehow return more filthy than when it had first been collected. It's known that girls are naturally taller than boys at a young age, though (y/n) continued to surpass the boys of her age group in height, her legs extending to the point that she deemed it superfluous for her to continue her waltzing lessons with such clumsy, gangly limbs—at least that's what she insisted, pushing aside the fact that she never really understood the basic maneuvers in dancing even before she had grown so tall.

Indeed, (y/n) seemed to be a lost cause. And after seven failed suitors, her mother finally gave in and accepted the fact that her first born daughter was to be an old maid till the end of her days. And so here lied (y/n), writing away in the privacy of her room, her one safe haven from the pressures of society and the expectations of her family. Seated at her desk, freshly inked quill in her hand as she jotted down her stories, the chill air of autumn seeping through the window she faced, and the only sounds filling her room was the scraping of her writing implement against the smooth parchment. If only this could forever be her world. Away from those inhibitions which plague her life, left alone with just her thoughts in tranquility. Though this peace lasted for no more than a few moments before she heard the telltale light footsteps descending down the stairs, followed by the familiar rapping at her door. And as per usual, (y/n) hadn't but a moment to gather her thoughts before the door was pushed open, and in came (y/n)'s youngest sister.

Their family consisted of three girls. There was the eldest, that being (y/n), of course.

The second eldest was named Eleanor, meaning light-hearted and shining. She was soft spoken with a melodious lilt to her voice which seemed to enrapture anyone in the room. So it wasn't a surprise that she was the first, and so far the only one, of the three to be married.

The youngest was called Aurelia, a name which carried as much grace as she displayed. Golden one was what it meant, and she seemed to naturally fit into this title bestowed upon her. Refined in how she acted and portrayed herself, and she was as delicate and dainty as a lisianthus.

And as elegant as her name dictates, Aurelia came waltzing into the room, her steps as light as air and a bright smile adorning her face.

"Oh, (y/n)," she sighed. "I couldn't be happier than I am at this very instance."

"And why's that?" Aurelia all but collapsed onto her sister's bed, yet another story escaping past her lips.

"I had yet another wondrous rendezvous with Beomgyu."

Of course. Yet another spiel regarding her potential fiance. Why had she even bothered to ask? All Aurelia talks about these past few weeks is Beomgyu. He was the son of a Lord, and a gentleman among men. Though (y/n) wasn't aware of the circumstances in which they first met, Aurelia insists it was love at first sight, and that she had finally met the man she wished to spend the rest of her life with. As absolutely delighted as (y/n) was for her sister, she couldn't help but feel that familiar twinge of envy within her. That she supposedly wasn't suitable enough for the happiness which comes with sharing your life with another soul, a natural phenomena which has been occurring since the dawn of man. The thought that her ancestors, whom all married and given birth to her other relatives, have managed for so long only for her to be the end of their efforts.

"And as we walked through his estate's garden, he told me that I was fairer than any flower could ever possibly hope to be."

(y/n) controlled her expression, wanting so desperately to cringe at the repulsing display of affection, choosing to hum in acknowledgement. Who in their right mind has the gall to say such outlandish words as that?

"Aurelia!" Their mother's voice sounded from the first floor, garnering both of their attentions. "It seems you have a guest." Aurelia all but bounded off the bed and down the stairs as (y/n) slowly followed after. As she neared the steps, she could hear the shrill tone of her sister's excited voice, as well as an unfamiliar male one responding. Once (y/n) rounded the corner where the steps now faced the front door, she could see the source of this additional person. "(y/n), come meet our guest."

A man stood at the entrance of their abode, greeting their mother whilst having his arm entrapped in Aurelia's embrace. As he turned to face her descending the stairs, (y/n) felt her heart stutter in surprise.

Never before has she seen a man as ethereal as he. He seemed to not only easily tower over her disappointingly short sister, but also herself, a rarity in her community as she is usually the one to have to lower her gaze upon meeting a person. His hair was rather long, brushing against the back of his neck as well as curtaining much of his ears and forehead. Beneath the veil of brunette locks, however, lay a set of round eyes, deep yet as saccharine as the shade of chocolate they obtained. His nose was tall and straight, sloping down into a rounded tip which further softened his already rather youthful appearance. His rose-like lips spread into a jovial grin, round eyes crinkling endearingly. (y/n) felt absolutely stupid as he introduced himself, bowing his head ever so slightly in a respectful manner.

"Good evening to you, Lady (l/n) . I'm pleased to make your acquaintance."

"As am I," (y/n) warily spoke, attempting to keep her facade. Hoping to not reveal how genuinely awestruck she was to see such a handsome man. "To you, of course. Not my own acquaintance."

At this, Beomgyu burst into a fit of enthused laughter, intermingling with Aurelia's giggles from below them both.

"Isn't my sister such a delight!" Aurelia squeezed his arm to gain his attention, causing the two to drop their heads to acknowledge her. "Let's all have tea together! I know you only came to drop off my gloves, but I'd love for two of my favorite people to be familiar with one another."

And so there they sat in the parlor, an otherwise peaceful encounter if it weren't for (y/n)'s inner panic. She had never been good at etiquette, and never had to really use her limited knowledge, as she remained in her room rather than becoming a socialite much like her sisters. And so she kept a careful eye on Aurelia, attempting to follow her lead as best she can, concentrating so intensely that she had completely abandoned the conversation at hand.

"Would you agree, (y/n)?"

"Pardon?" She raised her head to where the two across from her sat staring back at her. "I apologize, my mind was elsewhere."

"Oh, that's entirely understandable, and also kind of takes us back to the topic at hand." Aurelia smiled once more, cradling her teacup and saucer close to her. "In which I was explaining how difficult it is to combat what your body naturally desires. For instance, the way your body just seems to follow along when a familiar tune plays," she slowly raised the teacup to her lips, "or perhaps correcting muscle memory." As she sipped her tea silently, her eyes traveled up to (y/n), though failing to meet her eyes. Instead, her gaze landed upon (y/n)'s hand, holding her teacup as well, though without a saucer, as well as extending her pinkie. She quickly tucked the finger back against her palm, just like her sister, which placed the joy back unto her face. "Isn't this delightful!"

"Indeed," (y/n) sighed out, tossing her head back and finishing off the tea in her cup. When she placed her dishes unto the table between them, she looked over once more to the two. They both had smiles across their face, though Aurelia's was in an attempt to hide her shock at (y/n)'s crude etiquette while Beomgyu's was pure, unadulterated enthusiasm, having to duck his head down at one point to conceal his amusement.

"If you'll excuse me," Aurelia stood up, hands neatly folded in front of her. "I need to powder my nose." Once she exited the room, Beomgyu burst into laughter once more, a sound unlike anything (y/n) has ever heard. It was full of vigor, uncaring of his environment, and just absolutely buoyant. It was so different to what she had heard from the front door before. This felt genuine, perhaps the first dose of honesty she's experienced from another person.

"Pardon me," Beomgyu wiped at his eyes, as if having shed a tear from his moment. "I've never seen Aurelia so close to snapping, that was absolutely hysterical."

"You're not offended?" (y/n) asked, softly chuckling in disbelief at the display before. Beomgyu lost the rigidity in his spine, now strewn back on the sofa cushions like a ragdoll.

"By what? Your lack of etiquette? I thought it was quite hilarious, in all honesty." (y/n) leaned back on the sofa as well, following the casual demeanor he was now exuding.

"Well, most people do indeed think my etiquette is laughable, though not in the good way."

"So be it. Etiquette is vexing in itself. I've never been a fan of learning it."

"Neither have I." He glanced over upon hearing her response, the edges of his lips twitching up ever so slightly. Though they remained silent afterwards, there seemed to be an air of comfort shrouding them, a feeling which (y/n) thought only possible in her own fiction. To be so aware of another person, entrusting of them, that the barriers which had been forticated for as long as she could remember began to slowly crumble, brick by brick. To voluntarily lay out what she's kept to herself for years, and to look at another person and not find ulterior motives beneath their mask of regality, concealing any and all signs of their humanity as they paraded about in luxury and grandeur. It felt so... relieving to (y/n) to have found another human amidst a world of mannequins.

Though once Aurelia returned, the masks were once more put up, backs straightening as she made her way back to her suitor.

That's right. Her suitor. The thought pained (y/n) in a way, though she brushed it off, savoring the last few moments with her new associate before he had to return to his own estate.

"Thank you for the tea," Beomgyu stated, bowing once more as Aurelia returned his gesture with a quaint curtsy.

"Thank you for the company." He then turned to (y/n), that same gentle smile from before gracing his features as he bowed his head to her.

"It was an honor to meet you."

"And you, as well." With one last nod of his head, Beomgyu departed.

"Isn't he just the sweetest soul you've ever met?" Aurelia squealed as she closed the door. And though she had already walked away from the foyer, (y/n) stood for a moment more, face heating up as she couldn't help but agree with her sister's query.

Days had passed, and the autumn chill had devolved into the winter cold. (y/n) spent most of her days bundled in blankets beside the fireplace, going through book after book in her collection. She could barely even turn the pages from her numbed fingers, let alone attempt to continue her writing. And beside her was her sister, similarly wrapped in a plethora of coats and layers, though the one difference between the two was the rather apparent distaste of the temperature on (y/n)'s part. Aurelia reveled in the cold, absolutely abhorring the sweltering heat of summer, and though she very easily became freezing with just the briefest of breezes, she still loved the frigid sensation which overwhelmed her body.

Which is why (y/n) now found herself away from her beloved fireplace, left shivering out in the unforgiving frozen hellscape because her sister wanted to celebrate the first snow. To make matters worst, Beomgyu stood beside (y/n), watching Aurelia frolic in the snowy landscape to her heart's content.

(y/n) was still shaken from her encounter with the man prior. She had assumed the event would have been long forgotten after a good night's sleep, though that did not come easy, as the boy had found a comfortable spot at the forefront of her mind.

She felt disgusted with herself. How easy it was to conjure the sounds of his laughter, like a lullaby placing her in a state of tranquility. How the coy grin he wears so often manages to set her heart aflutter. How she was so capable of etching his face into her memory. The guilt she felt every time she closed her eyes and envisioned him looking upon her with those doting eyes of his.

This was her sister's suitor. She needed to ground herself. Settle back into reality. Move past this sudden infatuation she has with him.

"I've always despised the cold." Beomgyu broke her out of her thoughts. She turned her head to see him looking down at her, that smirk on his face once more.

"So have I."

"Oh, so it doesn't run in the (l/n) blood?" (y/n) chuckled at this, shaking her head and turning back to Aurelia, already beginning to make a snowman.

"Absolutely not. My sister and I have both loathed winters."

"There is indeed beauty to a winter, though I agree. That beauty is rather surface level, and the further in you dig, the more suffering you'll uncover."

(y/n) huffed out a breath, watching it condense into a wispy cloud before fading away.

"Indeed."

A comfortable silence fell upon them once more as they watched the snowman slowly come to life. Naturally, (y/n) seemed to lean closer to Beomgyu, the heat of his body radiating off him in waves and seeming to lure her to him. Though she must've been rather obvious in her pursuit for warmth, because Beomgyu cleared his throat, startling her away from him.

"Here." He reached up and began unraveling the scarf around his neck, causing (y/n) to shoot her hands up and grab his wrists.

"No, please, keep it on."

"I insist. I would hate to hear that you became sick after this." He continued in removing his scarf, but (y/n) persisted.

"Well, I would equally hate to hear you have gotten sick." Beomgyu paused, widening his grin as he faced the snow beneath him. After a moment, seconds after (y/n) believed she had won the battle, he turned to her.

"Then it's only fair I at least share my scarf with you."

(y/n) stared at him incredulously as he offered the loose end of his scarf, though after she remained frozen in her place, Beomgyu reached over her, gently wrapping the other end around her neck. He had grown significantly closer to her, his nose almost skimming the skin of her forehead. The warmth of his breath fanned against her face, and she hoped that he'd assume the blush creeping up on her cheeks was nothing more than a result of the bitter winds.

He stepped back once he completed his work, though not far at all, laughing as the material tugged them back together, shoulder to shoulder. His scent was imbibed in the knitting, a warm sensation of cedar and coffee, seemingly swarming her in a sense of solace. Another glance to Aurelia, and it seemed her snowman was very nearly done, having donated her own scarf to him. She began making her way back to them, and (y/n) panicked, attempting to convince herself to remove herself from Beomgyu, though staying perfectly still as she approached.

"(y/n)! May I borrow your mittens?" She asked, supposedly unbothered by the display before her. As if by muscle memory, (y/n) shed her mittens, handing them over to her sister, who gratefully accepted them and made her way back to her creation. Though the mittens themselves weren't doing much to protect (y/n) from the cold, she still missed the near damp material that she believed was keeping her warm. Before she could even slip her hands into the pockets of her dress, a warm hand suddenly enveloped her own, tugging her closer to snatch the other one as well.

"What are you doing?" (y/n) questioned, the rosy tint of her cheeks increasing tenfold as he rubbed his palms against her clasped hands.

"Preventing you from getting sick." He explained. Before she could refute him, he raised their conjoined hands, breathing out unto her skin. The heat traveled up from the pads of her fingers directly to her chest where her poor heart seemed to thud away in nervousness. As if to make matters worst, he leaned in ever so slightly, eyes still trained on his task between them. "I like the way your hands fit into mine."

(y/n) yanked her hands away in a panic, staring back at Beomgyu who proceeded to only laugh fondly at her actions. Just as she untangled herself from his scarf, Aurelia returned, smiling brightly at the two of them.

"I've completed him! Let's have tea now." She linked her arm with Beomgyu, who shot (y/n) another glance before turning back and continuing his walk with Aurelia.

For weeks, it continued on with interactions such as this. Beomgyu approaching (y/n) only to have her scramble away in fear. Whenever Aurelia was busy, whether that be out shopping or spending time with the other ladies of high society, (y/n) found herself in the company of Beomgyu.

What had first begun as coincidences, him visiting only to be met with the absence of Aurelia, soon became frequent occurrences, to the point that it'd almost seem like he was only visiting on days he knew she'd be gone. He also had begun just automatically asking for (y/n), not even attempting to see if Aurelia were present.

What once was simple home visits became full fledged outings as Beomgyu insisted on taking her out once the snow had dissolved away. Though the air was still crisp and the threat of snow still lingered, it already seemed like winter's grasp on the land was begrudgingly weakening by the day.

So now here she sat in a rowboat, gripping a parasol as Beomgyu gently rowed them down the river. Though she had at first refused, Beomgyu continued to regale her with the forecast, telling her she'll never see a day as beautiful as this one. That he wanted ever so badly to share this splendor with her. At this point, (y/n) knew she was developing feelings for the boy, and she sensed he knew this and was using it against her. Yet her grumbling has all but ceased as she basked in the glory of the day.

It seemed as if spring had decided to make a brief appearance in January. The sun was out, its rays seemingly encompassing the earth in a golden haze. Sage greenery greeted her with every turn of her head, aside from the clear water below her that murmured with every jostle of the boat. And even as nature displayed its grandeur in such a way, her eyes still lingered upon the one who dragged her out of her house.

It was quiet between the two, with only the trickling sounds of water surrounding them, and yet (y/n) has never felt so at ease. Her heart ached at the thought of Beomgyu. How close, and yet so impossibly far from her he was. Because no matter how much she yearned for his touch, his affections, his everything, he was still and always will be her sister's.

These thoughts still lingered in her head, even as Beomgyu brought the boat back to shore and helped her out with the offer of his hand, she felt the immense guilt clutching at her, refusing to release her as long as she still saw him in such a way.

She glanced down, seeing how he was still holding her hand as he led her away from the shore. He often did reach out for her at times, and though she'd occasionally allow him to, she'd also pull away if it lasted too long. Though at this very moment, she couldn't find it in herself to slip away from his touch. As if noticing this, he stopped walking, turning around to face her.

His eyes were so soft, that same gentle brown she was becoming more and more obsessed with. Warm and smooth like melted chocolate, as if she could dive in and never resurface, though she wouldn't ever complain. The corners of his lips pulled up in a smile, and the grip he had on her tightened ever so slightly, as if hoping to keep her from slipping away again.

"What are you thinking?" (y/n) asked, snickering at Beomgyu's sudden expression. He paused for a moment more before exhaling through his nose in a subtle laugh.

"It's just much easier to look upon you," he whispered, though they remained the only ones in the general vicinity. "Yes, you do indeed give my neck some relief from craning downwards always," the two of them shared a giggle before he proceeded, "but I also find you... incredibly charming."

"Charming, you say?" (y/n) questioned, continuing to walk forward and cease the conversation, though Beomgyu still held her hand, not allowing her to abandon his touch.

"Charming. Fascinating. Endearing." He pressed on, tugging her in a way which caused her to spin back and face him. "Unique. Ambitious. Genuine." He stepped closer to her, so close she could once more feel his breath against her skin. "Lovely. Beautiful." His forehead leant on to hers, noses brushing together. "Flawed in the most perfect of ways." His voice gradually dropped until it was no more than a murmur under his breath, though his words revolved around her, muddling her mind with inner conflictions that all seemed to corrode away with just the mere thought of him and the way his hand was now resting on the side of her neck, thumb brushing against her cheek as he leaned in more and more.

She lowered her head, feeling the warmth of his lips brush against her forehead as she narrowly evaded his kiss.

"We can't." Beomgyu remained quiet for a second more before quirking his head to the side, attempting to meet (y/n)'s gaze now trained on the grass between them.

"We are both capable adults." She squeezed her eyes shut at how casual he was taking the situation, cursing him as she was forced to suffer the past few weeks because of him.

"I can't."

"Why not?" At this, she tossed her head back up to look at him, brows furrowed in confusion as he continued to smile.

"Are you mad? My sister adores you."

"Yes, she does." He confirmed with a nod.

"I will not hurt my sister's feelings in such a way." Beomgyu's expression faltered, his smile vanishing as his eyebrows lowered in confusion.

"And what of my feelings? Am I to be condemned to her side 'til death knocks upon my door? Are my feelings not any of your concern?" He squeezed the hand still in his, pressing his forehead once more onto hers. "I adore you, (y/n). You're correct, I am mad. Mad to have once believed for a second that I could marry Aurelia after having met you. Mad to have thought I could lock my true feelings away. Mad to have fallen so deeply, endlessly in love with the one person out of my grasp." Moisture welled up in her eyes, her lips quivering as tears freely cascaded down Beomgyu's face. "(y/n), I am so madly in love with you." With shaky hands, he lifted her own to his face, pressing his lips unto the vein of her wrist before laying his head in her palm, his eyes remaining shut as his tears had begun soaking into her gloves, the moisture which seeped through sending jolts of anguish through her. Her body wracked with silent sobs, never before having endured such a painful experience. She wanted so badly to accept him, to kiss his tears away, embosom him to her and reassure him that she wouldn't ever leave his side. And yet, she found herself retracting from his touch, despair shuttering out of him in a broken, defeated sob which cracked her heart like glass against the floorboards.

"I can't."

She hadn't known what was left in her, what had compelled her to continue forth with this narrative she was keeping to. She hadn't known what motivated her to turn and walk away, abandoning the boy who willingly gave her his entire being, leaving him as but a shell of his former self.

At some point, she knelt down on the ground, knowing she was out of his sight, though still close enough to hear his cries which filled the atmosphere. Her body quaked with emotion, stomach churning like snakes twisting and coiling, Her jaw had dropped, though no noise left her, caught by the lump which formed in her throat. Her body wept for the boy she had let go, and though every fiber of her being seemed to claw away at her, demanding she turn back for him, she proceeded to drag herself back home.

The next few days had been torturous. As if tormenting her already darkened mind, the snow had returned, though rather than the fluffy whiteness she had spent with Beomgyu, it was practically black outside. The winds beat against her window, demanding entry as she fought her demons. She couldn't even will herself to lay beside her sister beside the fireplace. Her dear sister.

Aurelia was constantly checking upon (y/n). She didn't know what seemed to plague (y/n), though she persisted in taking care of her. Collecting every blanket in the house and layering them all on top of her. Bringing her food and insisting she eat. Even pulling aside her writing chair to keep her company, away from their precious fireplace just to ensure (y/n) wasn't lonely. As sweet as this all was, (y/n) couldn't help but ask her to leave her be for the time being. The mere sight of her sister reminded her of what she had done those few days ago.

Due to the storm, luckily, Beomgyu hasn't visited, allowing (y/n) some comfort in knowing he's most likely safe and warm in his own home. Her heart ached, the last image of Beomgyu being his most vulnerable, broken self. She knew she'd eventually see him again, but she dreaded that moment. She still loved him. She couldn't face him. Not like this.

More days passed, and the snow seemed to lighten up a bit. However, the mood of the house seemingly shifted whilst she was locked away in her room. The halls were quiet, the parlor empty, it seemed the only life in the house was the few servants moving to and fro.

No Aurelia in sight.

It had only taken a day for one of the maids to answer (y/n)'s questions. Aurelia had received a letter and hasn't come out of her room since. She rarely ate, rarely ever moved from her bed. It seemed the depression which had struck (y/n) had transferred to her younger sister. And so here she stood, at the top of the stairs leading to the attic where Aurelia resided. She knocked, though there was no answer.

"Aurelia?" She called out, knocking once more. Nothing. She bit her lip, clenching her fist in anticipation. "Aurelia, I'm coming in. Okay?" Silence.

She pushed open the door, greeted by the cold air which struck her upon entry.

Having been further from the main area of the house, this room was always the coldest, though Aurelia had insisted she was fine there. Even after Eleanor had moved out, she said she didn't want to tamper with Eleanor's childhood room. Always so considerate of her sisters, yet had been left on her lonesome.

The air was still, a stale scent lingering as if the room had been left empty, though the lump under the bed proved that false.

"Aurelia?" (y/n) whispered out, approaching her sister's limp body. Her shoulders moved steadily, as if in deep slumber, but her eyes remained opened, red rimmed and puffy, the only sense of color to her otherwise pale complexion. Her hair lay lifeless over her, her lips chapped from the frigidity encasing her. (y/n) brushed back her hair, wincing at how cold her skin was. "Aurelia, what's the matter?"

The only indication of her having heard the question in the first place was the shutting of her eyes and a slight shift in her blankets. Nothing more. (y/n) stood up, ready to go retrieve the necessary items to take care of her before she saw a letter lying haphazardly on the center of the floor.

(y/n) went to pick it up when she suddenly froze. The first word to have caught her eye as she got closer.

Beomgyu.

She gulped, crouching slowly to pick up the letter, hands shaking as she grew closer. The edges of the parchment were crumpled, and a few letters blurred with water damage, though the contents of the letter were still apparent.

A breakup letter.

His penmanship was sloppy, word choice even worse, and though the letter was absolutely a travesty, worthy of hatred from any person who received it, (y/n) couldn't help but feel her heart wrench at his words.

I've fallen in love with another. And I cannot find myself marrying anyone else. Nor would that be fair for you to have to manage me, a hopeless case. I sincerely apologize.

"He didn't love me." A voice croaked behind (y/n), gravelly from lack of use. When (y/n) turned, she was greeted by the same image as before, unmoving as she continued to speak. "What had I done wrong?"

"You did nothing wrong." (y/n) insisted, shuffling on her knees back to Aurelia's bedside. "None of this is your fault." (y/n) rubbed her hand along her sister's forearm, both in an attempt to relieve her and warm her. "Emotions are a complicated manner. Some may spend their lives devoting themselves to their loved ones, while others will merely accept said love and be on their merry way." Aurelia remained quiet for a second until speaking.

"What does Beomgyu's love feel like?"

(y/n)'s blood ran cold, perhaps even colder than the state of the room itself. Aurelia rolled over, her empty, sunken expression now facing her. She stared expectantly, awaiting the answer from the only person in the world who could answer it. And though (y/n) felt the compulsion to play it off, pretend she hadn't any idea to what her sister was eluding to, she could see it would've been redundant, as Aurelia knew.

"He unquestionably gives his entire heart when in love," (y/n) began, unsure why Aurelia would want to torture herself more, though still abiding to her request. "Thinks more of the other than himself. The simplest way to appease him is to allow him to show you his devotion, whether that be accepting his every word or just merely giving him a hand to hold." (y/n) allowed the memories of Beomgyu she had been forcing back to play once more in her mind, tears returning to her own eyes at the thoughts of the sweet boy she had met this winter. "He's someone that, although he can be insufferable at times with his shenanigans, you wish to spend your every waking moment with him until your last breaths."

She gazed back at Aurelia who observed her with hollow eyes, absorbing every word spoken. Though she remained still, (y/n) could practically see the gears turning in her head.

"You refused his love on my part, and so I now insist you reciprocate his feelings for my sake," Aurelia grumbled, groaning as she pushed herself up. (y/n) helped her along the way until she was now in an upright seated position.

"What do you mean?" (y/n) asked, breaths became more shallow as she anticipated her sister's intentions.

"Well, who am I to come between true love, wouldn't you agree?" She spoke in a dry chuckle, placing her hand atop (y/n)'s. "Go on. You deserve to pursue your happiness. Thank you for everything." As brief of an encounter as it was, (y/n) felt the emotion seeping from Aurelia, the acceptance hidden beneath her layers of apathy.

So (y/n) found herself trekking through the snow, coat upon coat protecting her from nature's assault upon her. Though the further in she got, and the closer she was to her destination, the lighter the snowfall seemed to get, as if the forces of the universe were cheering her on in her endeavor. She ignored the ache in her feet, the shake in her arms, the numbness upon her face. When the manor had come into view like a beacon in the night, she pressed on, huffing as she attempted to increase her speed through the tracks of snow in her way.

She flinched as she knocked on the door, unsure if she were too loud or too soft, though before she could attempt to knock again, the door swung open, revealing a startled maid upon seeing her—a tall figure encased in snow and fabric, seemingly a creature crawling forth from the shadows. Before the maid could truly process what was before her, a voice from behind startled them both.

"Who's at the door?" (y/n) peered in through the crack of the entrance, spotting Beomgyu approaching the two. She called out to him, voice muffled by the five different scarfs wrapped around her neck. And with only a glimpse at her eyes, Beomgyu widened his own, reaching for her sleeve and tugging her in. "Heavens, what in the world are you doing parading around in this storm, you could've died. You could've gotten lost and I wouldn't have been able to find you. That's rather reckless, you should know better, you're an intelligent wom—"

"I love you," (y/n) interrupted as Beomgyu had peeled off her final scarf. He froze in his spot, blinking away his shock at the sudden confession.

"You what?" He asked, voice low, afraid his volume would startle her off and shatter this dreamlike aura.

"I love you. From the moment I first heard you laugh to right now, and until death knocks upon our doors," she laughed in reference to his own words, shuffling closer to him as he warily raised his arms to drape around her. "I love you, Beomgyu. I love you with as much love contained within me and then some."

"(y/n)," He laughed in disbelief, tears already escaping his eyes, pure wonderment at the situation at hand. "(y/n), I love you."

He leant in, finally pressing his lips to her own. His warmth overwhelmed her, starting from his touch upon her frozen skin to the depths of her heart slowly healing from his absence. He cradled her to him, as close as he could with the fabrics built between them. Even as her ice like fingers pressed against the nape of his neck, he continued to push on, the two pouring into each other the adoration they had been abstaining from revealing, reveling in the light airiness of their now reciprocated feelings. Even as they pulled away, noses nuzzling together, embracing their first few moments as a couple, (y/n) could feel her heart throbbing in joy.

She'd finally found her one true love.

#beomgyu x reader #choi beomgyu x reader #txt x reader #kpop x reader #beomgyu fanfic #beomgyu fanfiction #beomgyu fic #choi beomgyu fanfic #choi beomgyu fanfiction #choi beomgyu fic #txt fanfiction #txt fanfic #txt fic #kpop fanfiction #kpop fanfic #kpop fic

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dwellordream · 2 months

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thoughts on HOTD, episode 6, season 2 (spoilers below)

Some people are not a fan of Aemond's acting in this episode but I think it's perfectly on point. Even the stupid anime villain voice. That's what he is. Aemond is three kids in a trenchcoat playacting at what he thinks power and intimidation. He's only genuinely frightening when he is at his most pathetic and ashamed, because that is what compels him to do depraved things- the thought of being mocked or pitied.

Aemond releases Alicent from the Small Council, IMO, not because he genuinely thinks her incompetent, but because, aside from his general misogyny, he sees his mother as a woman who pities him, and while he craves her affection, he can't stand being reduced to a sniveling little boy in her eyes again.

I truly DNGAF about the 'Aeriana Targaryen' shit. They had to show Rhaenyra actually trying to come up with a reasonable cover for why Rhaenyra would encourage others to try to claim dragons without her throwing the concept of Valyrian supremacy out the window. Yes, the writers could have just decided to randomly make, say, Viserra or Gael Targaryen have wed a Darklyn, but I'm not really bothered that they didn't. Rhaena the Black Bride's daughter Aeriana by Maegor. Sure.

The writers seem to be trying to walk a thin line between Alys manipulating Daemon for kicks by preying on his insecurities regarding who 'deserves' the Iron Throne in his family, but the suggestion that Viserys 'never sought the throne' is wild. He put himself forward as a contender for the Great Council! I genuinely can't tell if we're meant to believe Alys truly thinks Rhaenyra could be a better ruler than Aegon, or if this is all supposed to be taken as her playing mind games with Daemon sheerly out of spite.

The foreshadowing that Rhaena will claim Sheepstealer, rather than Nettles, seems pretty strong at this point. I get the writers' desire to have Rhaena claim a dragon in a more active and assertive manner than simply patiently waiting for an egg to hatch for her, especially since Morning in-canon was not at all capable of being flown to war during the Dance. However, I wish we could see both Rhaena and Nettles tame dragons here, rather than one Black female character (in a show that already has a problem with shoving its Black characters to the sidelines) simply taking over another's storyline. It is possible they will still include Nettles, and have her claim a different dragon instead, but I'm losing hope.

Gwayne is a snotty racist asshole, obviously, but I commend the show for displaying that he does genuinely love Alicent and Daeron, who he seems to view as akin to his own son. It's surprising that he specifically praises Daeron's kindness, and seems to view it as a strength of his nephew's, rather than a weakness. In the grand scheme of HoTD men, Gwayne is probably one of the better ones, at least in terms of how he treats his family.

I thought the smallfolk riot scene was well-done. Alicent and Helaena are clearly not the ones responsible for the food shortage- Alicent has been booted off the Small Council and Helaena has no real political power herself. Yet they- and most noblewomen in the series- will always be blamed more viciously than any of their husbands or sons for the suffering. It's also good to see the foreshadowing of a more ruthless side of Hugh- while he is motivated by love for his family, he will do anything in order to protect them, including stealing food from other starving peasants.

Seasmoke chasing Addam Velaryon down like an over-eager puppy was pretty entertaining. Whether or not this implies Laenor is actually dead, I have no idea.

It's interesting that they have Mysaria confide about her own incestual abuse- her clearly viewing her father as a predator who horribly violated her- compared to Rhaenyra, who while openly critical of Daemon's behavior as a husband, and who does acknowledge that Daemon took advantage of her as a teenager- doesn't seem to see him as a monster. I don't really feel any type of way about Rhaenyra/Mysaria- obviously I do think Rhaenyra is bisexual, given everything about her and Alicent- but I don't think Mysaria has been used that well as a character by the show, and I'm not sure whether this is supposed to be a one-off moment of passion, or if they will actually have her and Mysaria in an illicit relationship moving forward.

Overall, I think this was one of the weaker episodes this season. It felt like a lot of wheel spinning because the writers were unsure of how to build up to the end of the season. Probably a 6.5 out of 10 for me.

#hotd #word to the wise

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forcedhesitation · 3 months

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maaaaaaaaaaan. ridiculous to be calling DBD "pathetic" because it couldn't get licensing for various final girls. as if it hasn't always been because of some bullshit on the end of the copyright holders. fuck, we would have gotten more material from Hellraiser, had it not been for the copyright holders. we lost Stranger Things temporarily because of the copyright holders being out of touch with fans and greedy. Ghostface exists in the game because luckily, the character of Ghostface isn't actually owned by Big Bad Viacrap.

also like. DBD isn't Fork Knife. it's just not. and if I'm not mistaken-- it's not like Fork Knife has any horror character that DBD doesn't, apart from Eleven and Hopper. Eleven could never be in the game anyway, because any character added has to be over 18/a legal adult (for legal reasons). and we have Steve, Nancy, and Jonathan instead. It makes much more sense that they chose those characters for the game, as this followed S2, which made Steve one of the most popular characters from the show. so much so that he can even contend with Eleven in popularity.

and let's not downplay the fact that DBD does have other, very, very impressive licenses in it. such as Silent Hill. that was the first big thing Konami let happen with the ip in YEARS. Resident Evil was...HUGE. Wesker's chapter brought in an unprecedented number of players and anyone who played survivor at that time knows that for WEEKS, all you would get was Wesker after Wesker. We have Chucky and Tiffany, voiced by their original VAs. Sadako from the original Japanese Ringu, not the American version of the same concept! You can play as the Xenomorph, and the Xenomorph Queen! Vecna, from D&D is a killer, and he is voiced by Mr. Matt Mercer! We have Ash Williams, Alan Wake, Leon. S. Kennedy, Cheryl Mason, and very soon Lara Croft! and then After her-- we are getting Castlevania!! So there is no shortage of incredible of characters from horror that are in this game, and it's disrespectful to act like the people who work on this game don't care enough about it to try their fucking hardest to give fans the best possible licensed chapter dlcs they can. it's not their fault if the copyright holders want something different.

Besides, I think it's gross to suggest that DBD doesn't have a claim to the title of "Horror Hall of Fame" just because it doesn't have specific licensed characters in it. what about all the amazing original characters that the game has? do those suddenly not count, just because they do not include super well-known characters from popular old horror movies? A lot of these popular old horror movies don't include/don't give much of a spotlight to people of colour, so the original chapters often give the devs the room to add diversity to DBD's cast of characters, whereas a license might have otherwise not allowed it. and many of these original characters even have nods to existing horror media, like the End Transmission chapter drawing inspiration from both the horror-survival game SOMA, and the sci-fi horror movie/comic book Virus. Does the hard work that the many talented members of the DBD team put into making this original chapter, among many others, mean nothing, just because Sidney Prescott or Sally Hardesty aren't in the fucking game? I should hope the fuck not.

#dbd #thoughts about media #I just wanted to see if there were any updates about the timeline for the cosmetic contest!#or if there was going to be an extension for the anniversary event!#but I was tempted with the “this post is from an account you blocked”#normally I wouldn't click this. but it's DBD. and well I was curious who it could have been from.#hilariously enough this person wasn't blocked for previous bad takes about the game.#I'm pretty sure this is the same person who made an awful ST tweet and then rescinded it upon being corrected.#like...this opinion about DBD isn't necessarily like...uncommon or unbelievably evil or something.#a lot of people don't know the trials and tribulations the team has to deal with when trying to secure copyrights.#but it also isn't hard to infer??? that securing a license isn't necessarily easy??#the issues with the Hellraiser and Stranger Things licences were fairly public. I thought that would have clued people in.#Mr. Cote even spoke on multiple occasions about how badly he wanted ST back but it was Netflix that wouldn't budge.#also Ghostface being owned by Funworld and not Paramount has been repeated ad nauseam by now.#it. just.... it wouldn't KILL people to do a little research before posting terrible opinions online.#but honestly what annoys me most of all about this is that it tries to undercut all the other great things about DBD.#there are so many awesome characters in it-- both licensed and original.#why the FUCK would you try to downplay that just because your favourite final girl isn't in the game?#who gives a fuck. we have plenty of other super awesome women in the game. get over yourself.

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theofficersacademy · 4 months

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Guess what: it's already June! Stay cool and stay hydrated, TOA!

Housekeeping

Current Month in TOA: Guardian Moon (January)

We hope you enjoyed the Ethereal Ball! A quick reminder: as stated in the closing details, please keep your ball claims separate from your regular claims. These are due no later than 11:59pm EST on June 7th.

New mission board time! This set of missions will feature our Unaffiliated Faculty, Knights of Seiros, and Ashen Wolves representatives. [Check it out here!]

Look forward to the arena coming up later this month, slated to start on the 16th at noon. Signups will open on the 8th. Like the winter arena, this event will feature three rounds with a day-long break between each for our Scorekeepers to prep combat documents.

Please don’t forget to leave feedback on our [feedback poll] for this month! In particular, we would like to know what you thought of the Ethereal Ball, whether it’s your first time participating or you’ve had other years to compare it to. Did you participate in the masquerade? Of course, as always, if there’s something else on your mind, please let us know.

Important Reminders

The mod team has observed a number of conversations lately about shipping, and the uncertainty around whether or not a mun is willing to ship and under what circumstances. This also includes whether or not a mun considers ask memes to be TOAverse canon for their muse. While we don't have a rule requiring guidelines or a mun page on your blog, we highly suggest making one and including the following: your preference for post formatting, your shipping preferences and limitations, whether or not you accept unprompted asks, and whether or not you treat responses to ask memes as canon for your muse (or if you have a tag to distinguish those that are AUs and those that are for TOAverse's continuity).

- -

When it comes to judging applications, the mod team looks at the following: 1) Are the three interview questions answered clearly? The writing sample does not have to be a traditional interview, but we must see how your muse wound up in Fódlan, their strengths/weaknesses, and how they view themselves in their own story. These things don't have to be answered by the characters themselves, but the mods must be able to see each question answered in some capacity. For weaknesses in particular, these should be flaws that the character is still contending with. If a character has gotten over their weakness, it's no longer a weakness. You should also make sure that we can see how the weakness is a weakness as well. For example, simply telling us that a character is too nice wouldn't be accepted as a weakness. Showing how the character gets swindled or taken advantage of constantly because they're too nice, on the other hand, would work. 2) How would this muse interact in TOA's setting? Introspective apps are fine, but not always good at showcasing this. In many cases, not including some sort of interaction in your app leaves out important aspects of your character. On top of that, you're applying for a character in an RP group. If you find that writing out an interaction is difficult for you, the character is likely to have a difficult time interacting in the group as well. 3) Character voice. Explicit dialogue is always good, but absent of that, the prose should suit the character. It's jarring for us to read a somber, serious reflection piece for a loud and bombastic character, and vice versa.

- - -

The mod team takes all of the feedback we receive on our monthly forms seriously, but there are many things we can't immediately act on, whether it be because we don't have enough information, we need to deliberate on a course of action, or that the issue in question requires our observation for a while. Impartiality has always been our code when it comes to handling issues, and a good handful of the submissions we get are often emotionally charged. It usually takes us a while to tease apart the hard facts from the gossip, especially when the information we receive is anonymous and redacted. Please understand that we don't know everything that goes on in private, and it's unfair to us to treat us as though we can read minds. We can't fix what we don't know about, and likewise, we're not going to act if we don't have the full story either. The best way to see problems resolved is to contact us directly. This helps to remove some of the ambiguity around hearsay, and allows us to ask followup questions for more information. We may not always be able to do what you want us to do, but we can at least explain why not in these situations. We can also provide you with updates on the issue. None of this is possible if everything we get comes from anonymous sources.

Other

June Mun Birthdays: Ashera (6th), Eleven (19th), Dipa (22nd), Neuro (29th)

June Muse Birthdays: Sylvain (5th), Katarina (13th), Sephiran (14th), Samuel (21st), Edelgard (22nd), Seliph (23rd), M!Corrin (25th), Chad (26th), Mitama (26th), Leo (30th)

Second-year mun anniversaries this month: Metal (15th), Susanne (21st)

Third-year mun anniversaries this month: Eleven (2nd)

First-year muse anniversaries this month: Alfred (9th), Eirika (10th), Lucius (23rd)

Second-year muse anniversaries this month: Azama (10th), Alm (21st)

Muses who have been in the group for a solid year will also be granted an Academy Brooch to put in their inventory. It doesn’t do anything. It just lets others know your character has been around the block. These characters are also granted a new opportunity to change houses if they wish to do so.

- The House Leaders

#toa newsletter #june newsletter

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doodle-pops · 2 years

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Careful What You Summon

Manwe x reader x Melkor

Kinktober 2022: Wild Card (Angel and Demon AU)

A/N: For some time I've been wanting to do something like this for the Silm elves, but here we have Manwe, Melkor and Irmo starting us off instead. Credit to @edensrose since this may bare some similarities to her Incubus AU should anyone thinks so. This started off as a short 2k fic and look at what the power of editing did >.<

Warnings: fembod, Manwe being absolutely jealous and mean, Guardian Angel! Manwe, Demon! Melkor, Irmo makes an appearance to escalate things a bit (he does interact with reader as well), I wouldn't consider this a threesome even though it would have been a great idea as a wild card, implication of breeding and impregnation kink, Melkor being a dick to his brother, competing against each other ughh

Word Count: 3.5k

Synopsis: "Would you ever fuck an angel?" "Ew, no, why would I do that. Angels are just so...just. Demons, however, are more fuckable," if only you understood what you had just said, because there's always two ways to learn: the easy way, and the Order of the Deity way.

Random grimoire found in your backyard, check.

Candles lit and seals drawn, check.

Dress in all black and dimly lit room, check.

The appearance of the summoned demon, check.

The appearance of your guardian angel and another divine creature...no, that wasn't a part of the plan. It never was from the start.

“Can you tell me who’s fucking so good right now mortal?” the delicate whisper of your guardian angel, or perhaps it was a demon or maybe the other divine creature who appeared in your room alongside the others, floated in your ears. The voice was far too stable to think it was the same person making you insane.

Your face was planted into the mattress and tears and drool were soaking your bed, while your precious satin sheets were torn and destroyed and shrewd across the floor. A quick plough of your contender’s hips and your body went flying further up the bed before steady hands gripped your shoulder, pressing you into the bed to prevent any escape. “Ah, ah, ah, not so fast love. We don't run from a good fucking, do we now?” you could pinpoint the exact moment when his cynical laughter howled into your skin, tongue slipping past his lips to lick at your sweet mortal flesh. How long has he desired to taste the nectarine of the flesh of the living? You were simply sinfully delicious and he truly wished to devour you in that instant, perhaps just to piss the other growing darkness in the corner of the room.

“But it's okay if you wish to run away, we can go someplace...private,” Melkor's perfectly pitched voice didn't shift in the slightest as he hovered over you, pushing more of his weight onto your fragile mortal body, choking you into the mattress while tantalizing his brother. Had it not been for Irmo's governance over the situation, Manwe would have flown out of his seat and torn Melkor to pieces, but it was law.

Section 4 of the Order of the Deity Act 1: Should the same mortal be favoured by an angel and demon, they would compete for the claim under supervision. The supervisor would suggests the form of competing.

His thrusts were silent and deadly, not even a faint gasp or moan escaped his lips just his disgustingly pleasant words, giving you no clue about who was rearranging your guts so perfectly. All that mattered was the sound of his cock sliding in and out of your heat and squelching and squirting your release all over his thighs.

The heavy, rough hands on your ass, groping and slapping the flesh as though he was kneading dough told you this person was overly rough and aggressive…and an ass lover, hence the reason for your position. Over the course of the hours gone by, he’s introduced you to positions you never thought you’d attempt; even going as far as to take you anally. At first, you were against it, but when you felt his heavy cock sliding along your heat, the slackened jaw and eye roll told him to continue.

You had lost count of the number of rounds he tumbled you in and out of pleasure, tossing you around like some shiny toy. All you knew was that one was either your guardian angel, who was far from pleased when he watched you from the shadows attempting to summon a demon of unspeakable powers, his brother who had once fallen from grace. And the other was, of course, the demon you had summoned because your foolish self didn’t for a second believe that the spell would have worked. Little did you know that your so-called demon had been watching you for nights and days in hopes of stealing you from his brother’s precious grasp. It was he who threw the grimoire within your grasp for you to summon him, what he didn’t expect was for his brother to be so reluctant to let you go without a fight.

Your third contender who joined the session alongside your guardian angel or demon was the unknown figure. The last thing you had seen before you were flipped face-first into the bed was another pair of silver wings and the most divine voice questioning the situation, but you were wise enough to know that both divine creatures were always made to appear godly in the eyes of mortals. You weren't sure if he was having a turn with you since one of them decided it was best to blindfold you and have you choose (unfortunately, he wasn't). Thus, you couldn’t tell if he had good intentions or bad, all you knew was that one of the three was drilling their cock’s into your drenched heat at the moment and you were forced to concentrate and answer the impending question dangling above your head.

Taking so long to answer, the hands of someone a lot more tender and caring reached to tug your blindfolded head upwards to meet their torturous smirk, pleased with the condition you were being brought to. The longer his hands rested upon your skin, the greater the tidal wave of pleasure grew. He was contorting your pleasure, fluctuating it as he pleased with the most sickeningly sweet laughter following whenever you cried out. The excessive volume of tears that had spilt from your eyes from the start to the current could fill the room and still, it wasn’t enough, not for your contender whose delicious hips drove forward and bullied your soft spot aggressively. His laughter entered your body and leave shivers and goosebumps across every expanse.

“I don’t think they’re able to decide who’s giving them undeniable pleasure right now,” mocking and laughing at your fucked out state below him, the endless chuckles easily made your body cave into them more. “Come on now love, didn’t you summon us for a good time? I think it’s only fair that you tell me who’s fucking you right now.”

“B-But I d-don’t know your n-names – ngghh, fuck,” dropping your head from his grip on your chin into the mattress, you cried into the sheets as you felt your body convulsed as the coil snapped and your orgasm flooded your body. Not once had you felt his hands on your clit and yet, he made you cum untouched. Was it a God instead fucking you and not another divinity? Melkor was reluctant to leave your cunt, not when you were still clenching around him like crazy, attempting to milk him for all he's worth. Wiggling his hips and grinding his tip against your soft spot earned him a series and wails and mewls; the best music to his ears. His body was still stuck to yours, sweaty and hot. You could feel the immense heat surging off him; was it possible for someone to feel that hot during sex? His hands were bound front, rubbing your punch where his cum and cock rested and was whispering words foreign to your ears.

“I should keep my seed in here so that I may return a few months later, and then I'll fuck another one in you; keep you as mine and away from my audacious brother.”

It was then, Manwe flew out of the chair and stormed over to his brother, flaring his wings as if he was going to war. In response, Melkor simply ignored his brother with a scoff knowing that Irmo wouldn't allow him to interrupt his little aftercare bliss. Standing at the bedside glaring at you and his brother still wrapped up together, Irmo stood between him and the bed, preventing him from attacking. “I know you're not pleased, but just let him be,” pausing to take a quick glance at Melkor before continuing, he spoke in a hush-hush tone, “I will assist you with winning them over. For now, just relax.”

Manwe didn't even bother with looking at Irmo once, instead, choosing to grind his teeth at the scene unfolding before his eyes. Melkor was still buried in your cunt, whispering some devilry, but Manwe understood each syllable clearly. As much as he knew his brother was riling him up, he was still fearful of losing you for good. He's been at your side since you reached maturity and guided you through every step of the way, to see you turn to his demon of a brother for pleasure sickened him to his core.

Trapped under your Godly creature, you could feel the buildup of pressure in your hips as he was grinding his and vigorously rubbing your puffy clit, coaxing another orgasm from you. Fighting him was impossible because he was greedy and relentless. The grip he held on your body forced you to sink deeper into the mattress as he continuously pinched and slapped at the abused nub. Within seconds, he tore another orgasm from you and finally released his grip to let you slouch into the bed. His cock slipped from your cunt with a trail of cum spilling out after. You couldn't believe one person was capable of releasing so much cum, but he wasn't just a person. The thought was something you wished to assess but not when you felt a different pair of hands resting on your hips. These hands were soft as clouds but held you with venom.

Easily, you felt the hands on your hips turn your body over to now let you rest on your back. You felt as if you were airborne for just a short moment before your legs went airborne and settled on the shoulders of your next contender. This time, you felt his chest rumbling against yours as his caramel voice rang out above, “Our names are Irmo, Manwe and Melkor. Manwe is your guardian angel, the most displeased of us three and brother to Melkor, the demon you summoned, and Irmo…well, he’s a mix between both worlds. He’s a half angel and half demon you can say.”

In some way, there was a bit of relief knowing their names but you didn’t couldn’t tell who was the angel or demon fucking you, they all took you the same – hard, rough and aggressive. You understood that your guardian angel was the most displeased so obviously, he’d fuck you the hardest, but then you had a pleasure deity in the mix, it was obvious he’s fuck you just as demonical as the others (sadly he wasn't going to). Not to mention, the actual demon sitting in the room who probably snatched your soul already. Nothing was truly helpful and all you were able to do was babble nonsense as your body was pressed into the mattress, basically sandwiching you between him and the bed. The unholy chuckles resonated above you as your hands reached out, scrambling to grip his biceps, ghosting your soul. Whomever he was, he was taking you to heaven and hell in the same thrust. His cock felt unlike any other you had before. The previous contender had weight and girth, but this cock had everything perfect to it. Every thrust, even if it wasn't overly aggressive, knocked the air out of your lungs.

At first, you thought it would be best to make a guess and if you were wrong, then you would narrow things down to just two contenders, “...Irmo?” At the name, Manwe sent a harsh thrust followed by a resounding slap to your thigh. His eyes glowed in anger, while his face contorted to reveal just how disappointed he was at your feeble attempts. Grunting when your wails slipped from your lips, he lifted his eyes to meet with Irmo and glared at the fellow half-angel. Irmo simply responded with a charming smile at the superior creature and arched his brow, causing a greater surge of pleasure to flow through you, making your walls spasm and clench undeniably tight around Manwe's cock.

“Wrong name darling, you have one more guess, or the wrong person gets to keep you forever,” you knew this voice was different from the person taking you at the moment. It was more smooth, like savouring the finest wine of a lifetime. The creaminess of his voice melted all your barriers and prompted more juices to flow freely. But there was a deep vibration in the tremors of his words. Manwe's cock was now covered in cream and cum, but he wasn't pleased with the effects of others when it was he who was fucking you.

Manwe wasn’t sure if he wanted to be tender and loving care with you or rearrange your guts before his brother to show him that you always belonged to him from the start. The way his body easily covers yours, excluding his silvery wings that still remained folded behind his back, occasionally fluttering at the increasing intensity of pleasure throughout the course of the night. A firm hand travelled up your body, over your sweaty skin, aggressively tugging and pinching your nipples before settling around your neck to give a fierce squeeze, sucking the air from your chest. “Ngghh – ah,” scrambling to break free of his clutches as he sucked the air from your lungs, you fought tirelessly and hard, but to no avail were you ever successful.

He was your guardian angel you were fighting against for crying out loud; it was his job tasked with protecting you from any negativity and evil. Yet, not too long ago, you decided to play fast and attempted to summon a demon because ‘demons are way more fuckable than angels; angels are just…just’. Those words didn’t fly over Manwe’s head in the slightest form of acceptance and urged him to show you just how performance-worthy an angel was capable of being over any demon. He was stung deeply by your cruel words since after all, it was he who covered you with his wings in the shadows and protected you with his life. To say such profanities within his unknown presence was a slap to his pride when it came to his ability to perform and satisfy.

“To believe that you preferred a demon to fuck you right now; do you still want that? Do you want me to stop?” slowing his hips and inching himself out until just the tip sat at the edge of your entrance, the hauntingly terrifying chuckle he released when you cried out for him to not stop. He laughed in your face, howling at how pathetic and easy it was to conform you to his will. It was laughter that ghosted your soul when you felt his eccentric eyes boring into your covered one. “You know, whether you want for me to stop, I can’t, not when your pussy tells me you like this. You should see the way she's gripping me,” casting a longing glance at where his tip rested, he fucked himself back into your heat like a frantic man, bruising your soft spot in a series of turbulent thrusts.

“Look at you, going to cum all over an angel’s cock and not a demon…shameful. Do you think my brother would want your cunt again when I’m through with you...because I know he's never going to?” he chuckled at how wildly your cunt spasmed around his cock at the filthy comments he was spewing. The legs resting over his shoulder were pushed into a deep stretch as he pressed more of his weight atop you, sinking your smaller frame into the mattress. Manwe couldn’t help but shine in glee the excitement of having your smaller frame pressed under his, sandwiched into the bed.

“M-Manwe?…oh God...p-please…” whining the name with a gasp that he revealed to you recently, he was beginning to regret it since you weren’t worthy enough to speak it for your tongue.

“Now that’s just cheating brother, you just broke the rules,” at the end of Melkor’s disgruntled matter-of-fact question.

“Be quiet, you of all people shouldn't speak of cheating!”Manwe flashed his brother a harsh glare that made him shut up with a smirk and raised hands before he returned his focus to you.

“You too should hold your tongue and not speak my name. Doesn't deserve to fall from such...a dishonourable mortal,” the anger in his eyes was enough to shut you up had his words not done the trick. You felt embarrassed for a series of events you hadn’t been aware of. Summoning a demon, having a guardian angel and then being fucked into the mattress out of…jealousy, possessiveness, and self-worth? Irmo and Melkor couldn’t help but howl at the noteworthy performance Manwe was putting on for them. Irmo was on Manwe’s side and did his best to alter and control your pleasure in hopes of showing you that your angel was far more capable than the demon you summoned, but Melkor was an entirely different breed of demon. Cut from the same branch as Manwe, only exceeding in power when he fell off the good side, Melkor could pull the same pleasure from you just as his brother and even better.

“You are quite the pathetic mess for such a…virtuous and beautiful creature Y/N. To believe a demon, my brother, would have had you like this, under my watch forever…you must be fucking joking,” his growling was growing with each passing second as his hips dug deeper into your thighs. Babbling some incoherent response to his demonical thrusts while he was growling in displeasure, a hand lifted to slap across your mouth, shutting you up. Manwe was growing irritated at your responses because they made no sense. For someone who he admired for their wisdom, you were surely making him question your logic.

He was beyond displeased with everything. Having to watch you love of his brother and then be fucked by him for the sake of the law, made his temper grow in volumes and soon nature reflected his displeasure. The wind howled outside, knocking the tree branches against your window, the skies were no longer clear, instead, they carried blackened clouds that brought rain and lightning. Thunder echoed in the distance and pleasingly, they struck loudly whenever Manwe rolled his hips harshly against your delicate ones. Any stronger and he'd snap you in half. He had forgotten about this being a competition and that he needed to perform to win your interest, instead, he chose to fuck you like a jealous lover.

“Hmmm – pwlease…I ant um…” fighting to moan and beg through his sweat-covered hand, your feeble attempts were met with a silencing stare.

“What was that; you want to cum? Speak up a little louder darling, just like when you were reading that spell,” his eyes lingered on the contortions of your face in all forms of pleasure as his teasing continued and he ignored your orgasm. The hands around your mouth gripped your cheeks to squeeze them firmly, “if you desire to cum all over my cock, you best start showing some respect, yeah.” His thick cock couldn’t help but bully the gummy walls inside of your cunt, enjoying the tightening every few minutes. A silent 'thank you' was said to Irmo. Your mind was hazed from the terror folding you into your bed and claiming to be an angel when he fucked your cunt like a demon. He was disgusted by his brother's cum covering his cock and being stuffed like cream back into your cunt with ease. A burst of sickeningly sweet laughter and low guttural moans were slowly building up behind the laughter. Manwe knew he was close to filling your walls and removing any trace of his brother, and this time, he was claiming you as his. His brother could go find someone else to sleep with, you belonged to him. Always and forever.

“Maybe I should let you cum and then fill you with my seed, ward off any unwanted visitors. Claim you as mine with a child...hmm. I bet you'd love that; bind us together...” his voice could help but trail off as he analyzed every possible outcome to keep you as his forever. What was the best way to keep his brother away from you? Knowing Melkor, you carrying his brother's seed wouldn't even stop him from attempting to come around, but it was worth the shot. He was a demon, after all, they never abided by the rules.

“Gwod, pwlease et me cum,” still muffled by his hand, you begged as your orgasm was being played with. You were so close to the edge, all you wanted was the extra push.

Snapping his eye over to your blindfolded ones, he dragged the hand off your mouth to yank the cloth off, wanting you to view the actual God that was the reason behind your pleasure, and then returned it to your throat and squeezed tightly. The starry twinkling in your eyes from all the buildup of tears gave you an angelic look. At that moment, Manwe couldn't help but scoff at how pure you thought yourself to be, “Let this be your last warning mortal, don’t ever try to make a fool out of your guardian angel. I won’t be so nice again.”

Masterlist

Taglist: @spidergirla5 @someoneinthestars @eunoiaastralwings @lilmelily @aconstructofamind @mysticmoomin @edensrose

Kinktober 🏷: @rain-on-my-umbrella @something-about-twilight @hoshinokurasa @wandererindreams @aconstructofamind

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