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leogichidaa · 1 year

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Where is the Loyalty? Regulus and Peter

It occurred to me yesterday (note: this has been in my drafts since October 8. Yesterday was over a month ago) that I've made a meta about the parallels between Remus and Regulus (The Great Pretenders) and James and Regulus (Mine!) and I'm constantly comparing and drawing parallels between Sirius and Regulus, but I've left poor Peter out! Which is really an oversight, because there's plenty to draw from in comparing their arcs.

A while back, I was discussing why I related to Regulus with a colleague. I brought up Regulus' (largely self-imposed) limited agency and the fact that he goes along with others' expectations, just floating through life like a leaf in a stream, subject to the mercy of the current. And my colleague's reply was, "Well, he was the ultimate follower until he wasn't." I think that applies to Peter as well.

The Ultimate Follower

Regulus, at least from the information we get in canon, was happy to follow the path laid out for him by his parents. Later, as an adolescent, his rebellious teenage act appears to be becoming an underling doing the bidding of a fascist terrorist leader. Kreacher tells us (emphasis mine):

and when he was sixteen years old, Master Regulus joined the Dark Lord. So proud, so proud, so happy to serve

So happy to serve...setting aside what it means for a house elf to talk about his beloved Master as someone who is eager to serve, that is quite the statement. Regulus, who was raised to believe that his blood made him superior, reportedly took pride in being an obedient and loyal follower and allowing himself to be subservient to others in the name of the cause.

Peter is also described consistently as a follower who seems to delight in taking a backseat to more powerful, assertive, and ambitious men. The first time he is ever mentioned he is described as "tagging around after" Sirius and James. He "hero-worshipped Black and Potter" according to McGonagall (and Regulus' Voldemort collage also smacks of hero-worship).

Everyone in Three Broomsticks during this conversation also calls Peter "little" about a hundred times. Regulus, too, is described as "smaller, slighter" than Sirius. A minor detail, but metaphorically, this plays into the idea that they are weaker, softer, less capable, and thus more naturally inclined to follow the lead of others.

Sirius mentions in the Shrieking Shack in PoA that Peter wanted to make sure Voldemort was the "biggest bully in the playground" before he committed to supporting him. He said that Peter "always liked big friends who'd look after you" and implied that Peter snuck around with "people who were stronger and more powerful" than him. Sirius also describes Regulus as "soft enough to believe [their parents]"; he sees Regulus as pliable and inclined to fall in line with stronger minded people.

Sirius also claims that he suggested the change in Secret Keeper because Voldemort would never suspect that a "weak, talentless thing" like Peter would be entrusted with the duty. He tells Harry "I doubt Regulus was ever important enough to be killed by Voldemort in person." He uses Voldemort's assumed low opinion of Peter and Regulus as a way to further degrade their value (which is...interesting).

It's worth noting that I think Sirius' assessment of both of them is flawed. I think he underestimates Peter to his great detriment. And, as I've mentioned before, he minimizes Regulus' agency and crimes to make Regulus' choices more palatable.

I don't think there's anything soft, weak, or cowardly about joining a war. 'Oh, but Leo, they were followers,' you might say. 'They were peer pressured into joining because they were too frail minded to decide not to actively fight in a war.' But that doesn't add up, imo, especially when you consider that they each betrayed their side in the end. When I was that age, I was soft-spoken, people pleasing, and cowardly. If my besties from high school were like, "hey, we're going to fight a bunch of violent bigots and risk torture and death, come join us," I would have wished them luck and then fled the country. Fuck that shit, I'm out.

The fact remains, though, that both Regulus and Peter were perceived as weak and inferior boys who clung to the apron strings of stronger friends and allies.

(It's interesting to note that in PoA, Harry imagines the scene of Sirius cornering and killing Peter and he pictures Peter looking like Neville. It's unsurprising that Harry makes that link with the information he has at the time, but the comparison to Neville isn't entirely off base in the end. Neville is also thought to be soft, weak, and incompetent, but turns out to be much stronger and more assertive than anyone would have expected.)

Until He Wasn't

Peter, who was "never in [James and Sirius'] league, talent wise", and Regulus who was never "important enough to be killed by Voldemort in person" had their limits to loyalty, as it turned out. We don't get any solid indication about why either of them decided to turn traitor to their side, but I'm going to speculate that being constantly underestimated didn't exactly engender allegiance in them.

In the glimpse of the marauder dynamic that we get in Snape's Worst Memory, it is clear that Peter is at the bottom of the friendship hierarchy. He plays the role of James' cheerleader and ego-booster and he's mocked by Sirius for it. In fact, the Pottermore article on Remus confirms that James and Sirius were never really inclined to be friends with Peter in the first place:

Remus, always the underdog's friend, was kind to short and rather slow Peter Pettigrew, a fellow Gryffindor, whom James and Sirius might not have thought worthy of their attention without Remus's persuasion.

Not thought worthy of their attention...ffs. Well, he certainly got their attention in the end and showed he was talented and clever when he systematically ruined their lives.

For Regulus, I think Voldemort discarding Kreacher was very much symbolic of the lack of care and respect that Voldemort had for the old pureblood families, like the Blacks. I think the horror of the Horcrux was the primary motivator for Regulus to disavow Voldemort, but I think the disrespect was deeply important to him as well. His letter to Voldemort starts with "I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret." It was not enough for him to steal the Horcrux, he needed Voldemort to know that it was little teenage Regulus who fucked him over in the end. Unfortunate that Voldemort never actually found out he stole it because Harry got there first.

I think that both Regulus and Peter had strengths that were often overlooked because they were compared to more boisterous, outspoken people like Sirius. I think they were both eager for some recognition of their value and had a strong desire to prove themselves, which was likely a draw that brought them into the war in the first place. But in the end, they were neither of them content with the way their side treated them. Regulus decided, more wisely, "fuck everyone", stole a Horcrux, and promptly died. Peter, for whatever reason, decided to keep being an underling, just for a different, objectively worse, boss. In the end, though, he, like Regulus, died at the hands of Voldemort's magic for defying Voldemort.

#Regulus Black #Peter Pettigrew #hp meta

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b4kuch1n · 3 years

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kill captain hook

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#pokemon #swsh #professor hop #gym leader bede #comic #haha! this comic is NOT in my schedule at all #it literally just came out of nowhere one day begging to be drawn #literally blocking the one I should be drawing. so I had to get it out of the way #thinking once again about the acknowledgements and the forgivenesses one will never get #and becoming someone even with that hanging over you forever #fucked up how if something happens to you when you're like 13 it just becomes a part of you! what the hell!#this is also me practicing hop's teacher voice a bit lol #I really really like the idea of him becoming more soft spoken but assertive as he grows up #starting to actually acknowledge his ownership of the things he makes #(maybe this is because I've been listening to sounds of tokyo-to future. just maybe)#this is also my actual first time writing bede in something longer than a doodle lol #I was on his bulbapedia page for visual refs but also was reading through his quotes he is So funny #he's like cant fucking believe I'm just slotted to run after some backwater nobody runt. I respect your hustle tho #I like the idea of grown up bede throwing emotions at the wall like spaghetti sees what sticks #running on his own schedule. time rich and leisurely #someone who externalizes his drive a lot so he's a very enigmatic man simply because he's also confused half the time #he and hop are. friends? despite all the stuff hanging between them. like somehow they grow into people #who have an easygoing banter kinda relationship #I think they find some comfort in that. how different either of them has become from the kid back then #haha I think about these kids a normal amount #okay. okay. now I sleep but tomorrow Im gonna get the transcript done #And Then hopefully the fucking comic Im actually supposed to do will finally get done #hopefully! it's been kind of a shitshow around here recently #but we do what we must. and we do what we can.#even if we have nothing we have each others

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starconsumer444 · 3 years

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Anniversary (18+)

Kenma x Male!Reader

A/N: Turns out that hiatus isn't permanent, so I'm back with my really shitty writing! I'll start taking requests again too (but I'm going to be slow at doing them and I probably won't get to all of them lol) <3

(CW/TW: Top!Reader, Dom!Reader, Sadist!Reader, Kidnapper!Reader, The reader is literally evil personified ;P, Kidnapping, Spit, RAPE/NONCON, FORCED FEMINIZATION [Kenma gets referred to as princess and his asshole is referred to as a cunt, needless to say... he doesn't like it], Blood [it's a nosebleed], hitting, crying, a lot of bad things??? disassociation??? this is... yeah... I tried...)

“I don’t want to hurt you.” That’s what you say, but Kenma can still feel the dull ache in his nose. “You’re too beautiful to hurt, you know?” You coo, lifting his chin with your index, forcing his eyes to meet yours. They’re puffy, red, and filled with hate. You smile and Kenmas stomach is in knots. His mind is telling him to run, but there’s nowhere to go, is there?

Trying to run is the reason blood is flowing so freely from his nose, down his chin, and on to the white dress you forced him into this morning. The bow around the dress— it’s pulled too tight. He’s undone the knot three times today, but every time you come and pull it back around his waist somehow tighter than the last time every...single...fucking...time.

Tears start to well up in his eyes again and when the first one starts to fall you let him drop his head. He’ll be past all this crying soon, he just has to get used to it or you’ll beat it out of him; whichever comes first.

He curls into himself, smearing blood and tears all into the skirt of the dress that surrounds him.

Beautiful, you think.

“I hate you.” It’s small, it’s quiet, it’s weak, it’s not worthy of a response— not yet— at least. You ignore it. You’ll let him have that one.

You're merciful enough to let him cry on the floor between your legs as you flip through channels on the couch. You’re looking for something specific, something that will really help commemorate this as your one month anniversary.

Needless to say, you find it, right on time.

He lifts up suddenly, as if controlled by strings like a puppet, wiping tears from his eyes and turning to face the tv. He hears her voice and tears won't stop falling. They can’t stop falling when he sees his distraught mother on television crying about her son who’s been missing for a month. They can’t stop falling when he sees all his fans with candles holding prayer circles and praying for his safe return. They can’t stop falling when he sees his old friend, Kuroo, holding his shattered mother in a tight hug.

None of the words from the news broadcast register. He just sees people crying and holding each other. He sees candles lit for him. He sees flyers of his missing face being handed out. Then it’s over as quickly as it started, with the reporter coming back into frame and passing it off to one of her coworkers.

He turns to you with a new type of rage boiling inside of him and surfacing on his face. He’s up on his knees, perfectly manicured hands grasping at the fabric covering your thighs, brows furrowed, and finally looking you in the eye of his own volition. It’s the first time in a while it looks like he’s really seeing you.

What is he going to do?, You wonder.

“You know better than to hit me, don’t you?”

Surely he knows what will happen, he’s tried it several times since you’ve had him and not once has it ended positively for him.

His hands are gripping the fabric of your sweats, twisting at it with a certain fury that tells you he wants to hurt you. He does this a lot— it’s as if he has to muster up the courage to carry out such a fruitless action.

His body feels like he’s in a burning house. He can’t take this mocking. He can’t take this abuse. He can’t do it anymore. You’re watching him burn and not letting him leave or even trying to put the fire out. He wants to go home. He wants to hug his mom and tell her he’s alright. He’s tired of this.

“Please, let me call her.” He talks with a tight jaw, anger seething through clenched teeth. His head falls with his tears wetting his hands and your sweatpants. “Please let me call her. I want to go home so bad. Please.”

“No.”

And that’s all it takes.

“I fucking hate you!” and before he can even think to hurt you, he’s already down. All it takes is one good slap to the face and he’s back to his senses. His hands free the fabric he was holding on to for dear life.

He knows where he’s at. He knows he can’t win.

He lays arms crossed in your lap, sobbing. His body is wracked with shivers periodically as you stroke his hair.

“Pretty girls don’t act like this, you know.”

I’m not a girl, He thinks to himself. He’s far too gone to assert himself in any way right now.

“It’s okay to hate me. I still love you even if you do hate me.”

Kenma can’t stand that softness in your voice. You’re too good at playing the good guy. Anyone who wasn’t in his position would be inclined to fall for your fake prince charming bullshit. Is that how a psychopath like you gets by? You pretend to be soft spoken and harmless then hurt people when no one else can see you.

“You’re sick.”

“I know, it’s okay.”

You let him cry like that for ten minutes. You let him curse you under his breath (where he should keep it if he doesn’t like getting hurt), you let him get it all out. He even quietly begs for his mom and you can’t help but to think about how cute he is.

You pull him up by the back of his hair. Kenmas only got more beautiful since he’s been with you; you didn’t think it was possible. With drying blood and tears everywhere he’s mesmerizing. Even with your hands locked in his hair, this feels too good to be real.

He’s not looking at you, his eyes are unfocused, it’s more like he’s looking through you. Despite that, you pull him in for a kiss, blood and tears still fresh on his face. Of course, he doesn’t kiss back, but for once he doesn’t resist. It’s a small victory.

Now there's a growing tent under the surface of your sweats.

You let him go and pat the wide space on the couch beside you, “Get up here.”

Kenma shakes his head and backs away from you.

“Please let me go.” He pushes his body further away the moment you stand to tower over him. Then he’s turning and slipping on the skirt of the dress in his panicked rush to get away from you. He knows what’s going to happen and he wants no part in it.

You lift him with ease and slam him down onto the couch. Not once does he stop fighting you. He’s yelling for help and for you to stop. He’s kicking and screaming, begging like you’re going to kill him. Doesn’t he know that no one can hear him? It’s been a month and he hasn't figured out that much? If he’s that dumb, maybe he does really need you...

Still, it’s annoying and leaves you with no choice but to wrap your hand around his small throat. He kicks you in the stomach and your only response is to squeeze harder.

The fear sets in right then and there for Kenma. He stops his flailing and looks up to you with apologetic eyes. He doesn’t want to pass out, you choked him like this when he first got here. He can’t do it again— he doesn’t want to.

His hands come up to gently hold your wrists and his eyes become more apologetic with the increased pressure.

“Are you gonna calm down or do I have to calm you down myself?”

Kenmas body goes rigid for a second, but then he realizes he has to respond. He nods. His heart feels like it might beat out of his ribcage, but he has no choice but to force himself to stay calm.

Slowly, you release your grasp on his neck and flip up his dress to reveal his clean shaven legs and white lace panties (that do little to cover his private area). Your hand strokes down the soft skin of his thigh and you can feel him tense up, “Calm down princess. You wanna make me feel good, right?”

Kenma shakes his head and recoils expecting to be hit for his honesty.

You just chuckle as he slowly realizes you’re not going to hurt him for that and settles into himself. “Cute.” You say.

“Please…” The blonde mutters out.

“Please what?”

His throat hurts and his voice is shaky, “Don’t make me do this. I can’t do this again.” It sounds like he’s about to start crying again.

It’s been a month since you did this the first time and it’s been six days since the last time.

Kenma sees that you’re lost in thought and takes it upon himself to sit up as carefully as possible so that you don’t hit him. “Let me…” He trails off slipping his soft hand under the waistbands of both your sweatpants and underwear.

His strokes are graceless. He’s shaky, unsure, and clearly has no idea how to go about this. He only feels you getting harder in his hand as he looks you in the eye’s trying to find any sign of mercy.

You smile, “You’re such a good girl, huh?”

Kenma forces himself to smile back, but his fear is more obvious. “Yeah, Imma good girl.” He nods aggressively. If it means he has any chance of getting out of this, he’ll comply without a second thought. Dignity doesn’t matter when he’s here, he’s come to understand.

He plants soft kisses up your neck and across your jaw, and still his hand never stops. He’s so precious when he’s absolutely terrified.

“Use your spit.”

Immediately he pulls his hand away from you, spits in it, and goes right back to jerking your length. He’s so bad at it, it hardly feels good.

You titter at how anxious he seems and he jumps at the sound.

“Princess…” You start, and he hums in response. “I’m still going to fuck you, you know that, right?”

His hand withdraws straight away, “Please, no.” His head rests against your chest as he pleads for mercy. “I can’t take it. I don’t like it.”

“It’s okay, you’ll learn to like it.” You feel him shake his head. “Now, lay down.” He goes without protest.

Kenma’s far away from this by now. In his head, he’s anywhere but here. Still, he feels everything happening to him and hears everything going on around him. He doesn’t miss the sensation of you sliding off those lace panties or miss your hands on his hips turning him over to lay on his stomach. He can feel your tongue gliding over his hole, but he can’t react to it. He doesn’t squirm like he usually would— just takes whatever you’re doing to him.

The first noise Kenma makes is when you slide a single spit soaked finger into him. He’ll never get used to that sensation, and it grounds him every time. You can hear him sniffle and whine just as you thought he had run out of tears or at least had given up crying for the night.

Your finger drags against the special bundle of nerves and his body convulses and he lets out a yelp, that’s when you think it’s time to put in two fingers.

Your assault on his prostate continues and he cums, but he doesn’t seem to register it all that much. His senses are clearly a bit dulled by some sort of trauma defense mechanism his brain has. It doesn’t matter to you, though. You pull your fingers out of him and lube up your length with spit before pressing into his hole.

That gets a reaction, an intense one. He’s yelling, his words are slurred, and he’s pushing back at your waist, using his hand to try to get you to get out of him. His face looks mortified, like he didn’t know this was going to happen.

You simply grab his arm and pin it behind his back. No matter how hard he fights against you, he’ll never win and will always give up.

He’s so tight, and he’s spasming around you trying to adjust.

“Ahhh- your cunt’s so perfect, just for me, huh?” You moan out.

“No! No! No!” His voice is hoarse, he’s yelling and kicking his legs. You just press your weight onto him more.

When you start to thrust, he starts to say sorry and calm down. He’s sure he did something wrong but he just doesn’t know what. He’s sure that if he apologizes this will all be over, like some horrific nightmare.

His complaints are drowned out by your moans; it's been that way every time you’ve done this.

“Fuck, baby,” You moan breathily into his ear. “You’re so tight. You were made for this.” Kenmas head falls into the wet couch cushion. “I love you so much.”

Kenma cums again, and he must feel it this time judging by the pained moan he lets out. His body jerks with the harshness of your thrusts. There’s a mixture of sounds but the most apparent are moans and the sound of skin meeting skin.

You let go of his arm opting to pull him up by his hair, when you do, he’s back to his dazed apologizing. He seems so broken, it's exhilarating. Your “I love you.” is only met with another bland “I’m sorry.” it's clear he won't remember most of this.

When you cum inside him, there’s no reaction from him. You get up, leave him limp on the couch and go take a shower. When you come back, he’s just like you left him, still breathing, but generally unresponsive. He’s a great wife.

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x male reader #haikyuu smut #dark haikyuu #kenma smut #kenma x male reader #top male reader #tw: noncon #I need to get better at tagging.... one day #not today tho lol #sexy people don't know how to tag: fact

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favoniuscodex · 3 years

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Hello! Can i request a platonic about diluc and kaeya helping a lost child find their parents. I can totally see them arguing while comforting the crying child. Thank you!!!

a/n: hi!!! ty so much for the request!!! i tried my best to focus on how they would interact based on current canon status of the relationship between the two. sorry if this isn’t exactly what you envisioned, but i’m not the best at writing kids! i hope you like it, though :)))) title: diluc and kaeya are upstanding citizens of mondstadt (otherwise known as: diluc makes a kid cry) word count: 1.2k pairings: diluc & kaeya (platonic!!!!) warnings: mention of adult activities (as a joke, nothing explicit), spoilers for diluc and kaeya’s backstories (webtoon) and potentially for diluc’s hero quest?

Before we begin: I already feel bad for this hypothetical child

Diluc and Kaeya don’t really get along, but I can definitely see them encountering each other when Kaeya is ordered to go clear a camp of hilichurls near Dawn Winery. When he arrives, he spots Diluc speaking to a child nearby.

Alarm bells go off in Kaeya’s brain (Diluc with children? Something isn’t right.) He hasn’t been close with his brother since their father’s death, but Kaeya believes that he would at least know if Diluc had a kid.

As Kaeya sneaks closer to get a better look, he realizes Diluc’s expression is a pained one and the child, a young boy, is on the verge of tears. So, being a good and faithful (and a definitely not nosy) Knight of Favonius, Kaeya decides to intervene.

Because Kaeya is known for his charms (and isn’t Diluc), the child’s tears immediately begin to subside as the child begins to explain that he is lost and doesn’t know how to get back to his family in Springvale.

“I saw a Crystalfly,” the kid blubbers, running up to Kaeya and holding onto the Calvary Captain’s leg for dear life. “And I followed it here but then it flew up in the air and left and now I can’t get home and my mom’s gonna be mad at me if I miss dinner because she always tells me to be home before dark and I’m gonna get grounded and not be able to have any des-”

“He’s from Springvale,” Diluc states plainly, interrupting the boy’s rant. “He needs to be escorted home.”

Diluc’s blunt tone causes tears to arise in the kid’s eyes again, so Kaeya immediately offers to escort the boy home. It’s his duty as a Knight of Favonius to ensure that the people of Mondstadt are protected (and conveniently places a raincheck on the much more difficult tasks Kaeya has waiting for him back in Mondstadt).

However, much to Kaeya’s surprise (and Diluc’s own personal chagrin), Diluc insists on accompanying them as well. Diluc explains that there have been Abyss Mage sightings on the way from Dawn Winery to Springvale, therefore it would be safer for him to accompany the kid as well.

The young boy climbs up on Kaeya’s back, piggyback style, and the two brothers begin their forced family therapy session as they walk back to Springvale and they live happily ever after with all of their problems fixed.

Except… not quite. The three of them journey in silence as the young boy is lulled to sleep on Kaeya’s back, nestling his face into the soft white fluff of Kaeya’s uniform collar.

Kaeya is the first to break the silence. “Wow, Diluc, I can’t believe you almost made a kid cry.”

“As if you could do any better,” Diluc retorts with a huff, sending a glare at Kaeya out of the corner of his eye.

“I can do better and I have done better.” Kaeya states proudly, as he exaggeratingly shifts the boy’s weight on his back and gives Diluc a smug grin.

“I am not particularly fond of children, nor do I encounter them in my profession.” Diluc says.

“Really?” Kaeya feigns shock. “I never would have guessed, I thought children would be knocking down the doors of Angel’s Share for some dandelion wine.”

Diluc flashes a brief look of disgust in Kaeya’s direction and the conversation settles down for a while. Until, of course, Kaeya has the most brilliant idea of a new conversation starter.

“So, Diluc, when did you become a father?” Kaeya inquires, lacing his tone with false innocence. If Diluc didn’t know better, he would have believed Kaeya to be genuinely inquiring about his supposed family. However, Diluc is all too familiar with Kaeya’s antics, causing Diluc to let out a long sigh instead.

“Why would you ever think that child on your back is derived from my supposed irresponsibilities?” Diluc deadpans, refusing to look at Kaeya and continuing to trek towards Springvale.

Diluc alters his pace ever so slightly so he remains a few steps in front of Kaeya, not wanting to walk side-by-side with his adopted brother. Kaeya, however, spreads a shiteating grin on his own face and hurries his own pace to remain in step with Diluc.

“Why not? The kid only mentioned a mother. And, last time I checked, there’s two people involved in the process of making a baby,” Kaeya jests, his tone lilting in a playful manner.

“Last time I checked, I never asked for your inquiries,” Diluc responds, once again attempting to walk ahead of Kaeya.

“C’mon, Diluc. You really buy this kid’s story of wanting to catch a crystalfly? No, he was at Dawn Winery looking for you, his true father, but instead you made him cry,” Kaeya says, lacing his voice with indignation at Diluc’s supposed rejection of the child on Kaeya’s back, who looks nothing at all like Diluc.

“I am not that child’s father,” Diluc asserts, finally deciding to scowl over his shoulder in Kaeya’s direction. However, Diluc jumps ever so slightly when he realizes Kaeya is matching his pace and walking directly next to him. Kaeya’s exaggerated expression of abhorrence towards Diluc’s abandonment and rejection of his own child is still plastered on his face, but it quickly morphs back into a cocky smile as Kaeya notices Diluc’s surprise at Kaeya’s close proximity to the redhead.

“There is no way I am that child’s father,” Diluc insists, falling directly into Kaeya’s trap and beginning to get riled up. “I’ve never even been with a wo-”

Before Diluc can finish his words, Kaeya doubles over in laughter, waking up the sleeping kid on his back.

“You’ve never WHAT?!” Kaeya nearly screeches, almost dropping the child on his back as his body shakes from laughter.

Diluc’s face begins to flush the same shade as his hair. His lips press into a tight line as he realizes what he admitted to his brother. However, Diluc’s mortification at his own divulgence of this information to someone he hasn’t spoken to in years is interrupted when the boy on Kaeya’s back raises his head up to yawn and ask a question.

“Are we there y-” The boy begins, but his eyes widen as he spots the flickering flames of Springvale streetlamps up ahead. Clambering off Kaeya’s back, the boy excitedly tugs at Kaeya’s shirttail. “Up ahead! That’s my house!”

As Diluc and Kaeya arrive at the boy’s house, the boy excitedly hugs Kaeya as a thank you, before tentatively hugging Diluc for a brief moment. Diluc stiffens under the boy’s startling gesture, but makes no motion to end the hug.

“Thank you, Mr. Kaeya! Thank you, Mr. Diluc! When I grow up, I wanna be a knight, just like you guys!” The boy cheers, before turning around and running into his house.

Diluc opens his mouth ever so slightly to respond, but sighs instead. His thoughts are interrupted as Kaeya claps a hand on Diluc’s shoulder.

“Good work with the kid,” Kaeya says in a serious tone, before shifting into his usual banter. “And also, if you ever need help with the ladies, I can give you a few tips. After all, it’s only my duty as a knight to help my fellow Mondstadtians out.”

“Inefficient as always,” Diluc huffs under his breath, but Kaeya pretends not to hear it and simply smiles as Diluc begins to head back to Dawn Winery. Kaeya watches him for a few moments, before beginning to walk back to Mondstadt.

Y’know, I think that went pretty well! Kaeya thinks, while Diluc wonders why he didn’t just let his brother and the kid take their chances in walking back to Springvale alone.

#genshin impact headcanons #genshin impact scenarios #diluc headcanons #kaeya headcanons #diluc scenarios #kaeya scenarios #*my writing #*platonic #*diluc #*kaeya #*headcanons

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theprinceofflies · 3 years

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Greatest Showmen Au Notes p1

This is the first time I’m doing this, posting my notes but I want more involvement in this au.

~`~`~

Ships: Madmare, Dapper Mustache, Danti (Those are the bigger ships the smaller ships are listed after) Dr. Lovin, bingleaverage, marvelsepticeye, Phantom/Blank

Characters: Mad - Overpaid assistant from a rich family. He’s excitable and loves the circus with all his heart.

Mare - Does a trapeze act with his twin brother. He also sings sometimes in a local bar. He loves to show off especially to Mad. His brother and him found the circus when they were running from home.

Phantom - Mares brother. Doesn’t really like Mad. He’s very protective of his Brother and people he values.

Blank - He is a contortionist. He hates being mocked for his talent but loves the outfits for his act. He’s nervous and very soft spoken.

JJ - He is an albino man. He has almost pure white hair and brushes his mustache almost constantly. He has piercing pale blue eyes. His act is that he’s a ghost looking for his long lost lover. He wears a lot of white flowy clothes and a lot of people mistake him for an actual ghost.

Wilford - Wilford is Darks old friend. He gets in trouble a lot so Dark called him to help with the circus. Wilford is incredibly strong. He’s the circus strong man. He’s spiritual and optimistic. He has crazy ideas about how to help the circus. He’s also obsessed with the “ghost” who saved his life.

Dark - The owner of the circus. He used to be in love with a girl who dreamed of making a big talent show. One day she died and Dark was heartbroken. He’s still not really over her. He wants the best for everyone in the circus but he’s scared when he wants to help. He frightens people.

Anti - Sort of the co owner for financial support. Like Mad he’s from a rich family but is more frightened about what others will think of him. He’s a bit snooty and hectic.

Henrik - Henrik has a photographic memory and is somewhat of a genius. He can speak about five different languages but is having trouble learning english. His act at the circus is that he’s a modern Sherlock holmes. He’s good at telling people's lives. He speaks a little english but not very well. He joined because people don’t normally like germans. He follows Dr. Iplier around because he wants to be a doctor.

Dr. Iplier - He’s also Dark's old friend. Dark called him to the cricuse to be their doctor. He’s highly nervous and stutters around the german man who just stares at him.

Bing - Bing is very good at crashing into walls and surviving. He does insane stunts and lives. He is very hyper and likes to talk. He’s dating Google throughout the story.

Google: Google has vitiligo but is not part of any act. He is in charge of making sure the circus runs smoothly. He basically is the stage manager. He’s usually grumpy.

Chase: He was a drunk who accidentally wandered into the circus after his wife left him. His wife took the kids and they all died in a train accident. Dark took him in and he works as the janitor. He’s depressed but always willing to listen. He’s very close to Bing and one of the only people Google respects.

Marvin - Marvin is a renowned magician. He’s very talented and very full of himself. He’s a bit of a mystery and he loves to tease people. He has a black cat who follows him around.

Jackie - Jackie is what you would call a midget. He plays a hero in the circus. He doesn't like to be mocked about his height. He's a positive person.

The Host - Blind and predicts people's futures. He likes to stay by himself.

Robbie - He’s very skinny to the point it may be unhealthy but it's just a condition. He looks almost dead. His act is with JJ and JJ has basically become his parent.

The Jims - Conjoined twins. They are super nice and Dark treats them like his kids.

Silver Shepherd - A very tall man. He is overly assertive. His act is with Jackies.

Bim - Can sing in multiple different voices and languages. He can sing in two different tones at the same time.

Eric - Used to be part of a bigger act. He and his brothers used to do acrobatics for street money before a big accident that killed them. He lost both his legs and now helps Chase clean. He has bad prosthetics but Dark is saving up to get newer ones.

Yandere - She is one of the only women in the circus. Trans women. Her act is that she can use a sword like nobody's business.

( @madhare0512 Wanted to be tagged)

#Greatest showman au #dapperstache #danti #madmare #marvelsepticeye #dr. lovin #bingleaveradge #phantom/blank #ego ships

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snowbellewells · 4 years

Text

A Cottage by the Sea: Part Three

Hello there, lovely shipmates and readers! I truly never meant to keep you waiting so long for this next installment, but there we are. I went back to school, and then somewhat over-committed myself in other fic events and ideas as well, and time just flew by before I could get this update to you! I hope that you will still enjoy all the same. I’ll stop making excuses and just let you read. This may seem like a bit of a “talky”, slower chapter, but I needed to let Killian learn and work through some things, and to set Emma on her course...

** So many thanks as always to @cssns for the opportunity to participate in such a fun and amazing event, and to @searchingwardrobes for the gorgeous and stunning cover art I simply adore. And a special shout out in this chapter to @winterbythesea for the suggestion of a name for Emma’s horse that sounded just right as soon as I heard it! :)

Summary: Princess Emma has always been drawn to the shores of Misthaven, where the sea meets the shore near her parents’ castle. When an unknown boy washes up on the sand, with eyes as fathomless and blue as the waters that brought him to her, he soon becomes Emma’s best friend, her partner in crime, and her other half. But the tides give and the tides take away, and as her blue-eyed boy sails in her father’s navy and risks all in defense of those who made him family, unexpected danger and challenge will try to tear them apart, and might well show him just where he came from that day he first appeared to her from the sea…

Read it from the beginning HERE or on AO3

Part Three

“My mother?” he questioned, voice hesitant and perplexed as he scrambled to stand and face the ethereal being who had stepped gracefully from the pool, and after just a moment appeared miraculously dry with not a hair out of place - as if she had never been underwater at all.

Killian blinked, half expecting her to disappear when his eyes reopened. When the beautiful nymph - for that was what she must be - still stood before him, watching curiously, he shook his head and wondered vaguely if he had hit it after all, either in the wreck or once washed to shore. “My mother died… long ago… when I was a mere babe, according to my father. It cannot be possible for you… that you… I mean…” Gesturing helplessly with awkward hands, Killian finally let his words trail off, beseeching her with a look to understand.

The mysterious lady’s eyes seemed to darken their blue shade with the sadness glistening in their depths. Shaking her head, she stepped closer, practically gliding over the ground between them. “Killian, my dear,” she crooned, her cool, soothing hand caressing his cheek with the lightness of a butterfly’s wing. “There is so much you do not know…” she shook her head sadly, beckoning him to follow her to a spot in the shade of the trees around the clearing. “Come, let me explain. It has been kept from you long enough. And…” she swallowed some deep emotion. “I’ve waited so long to talk to you.”

Biting his tongue against more indignant and disbelieving outbursts, Killian found he was greatly comforted by the soft press of her fingers on his own, and followed her dutifully to a large, flat rock at the clearing’s edge and took a seat. He had a thousand questions on the tip of his tongue and nearly as many rebuttals to her claim. Yet, he found he also wanted her to stay there - whoever or whatever she might be. He needed to know what she had to say.

When the woman’s large eyes turned to meet his again, she asked, “What do you remember of the time before you came to Misthaven?”

Running a hand back through his damp hair - dark like hers, in almost the same shade, he realized then - ruffling it up off his forehead and making it stand wildly on end, Killian shook his head at a loss. His hand fell back to his thigh with a slap as he shrugged and answered her with sheepish honesty. “I’m afraid you won’t gain much from my memory; it’s frighteningly blank beyond boarding a tall ship for some long journey with my father and my brother Liam. Then, somehow…” he shrugged again, knowing there should be more, but instead he had only ever found a mystifying blank. “Then my father is just… gone. Liam and I were alone on that vessel, little better than slaves.” His eyes fell to studying his rough-calloused hands, as if he felt abruptly unworthy to meet her eyes. “We were trapped there for years, Captain said we had a debt to pay and we weren’t getting free until we did so. Never let us out of his sight when we docked, so we couldn’t run. It was too far to swim for freedom on some shore, even though we could both swim like seal pups.” A bitter and raw half-smile pulled up one side of his mouth in a crooked smile before he continued.

As if she could sense his hurt and the hesitation that plagued him, the lovely being reached out once more to take his hand in hers, rubbing cool, soft fingers over the back of it in comfort. She did not speak, nor try to press or hurry him, merely waited patiently for Killian to find his words and purge the rest of his story.

“Truth be told,” he finally sighed in resignation, “I would still be a servant to that wretched captain… if not for the storm…”

That serene face only stared back at him, listening kindly and conveying the sense that she understood - more than he could remember being understood before. Eyes as blue as his own looked deep beyond his outer appearance, the sadness at his suffering as clear as if she had spoken it aloud. Instead, she gave a gentle nod, and once more waited patiently.

“There was a storm at sea, some years ago now,” he finally pressed on, reaching the part of his tale that both lead to his greatest loss and his truest joy. “It blew up suddenly and many were washed overboard - Liam and I among them. I do not know if they left us purposefully, not worth the risk and effort, or if they genuinely couldn’t see us in the rough waters. At any rate, I do not know how I survived. Through what twist of fate I washed ashore in the kingdom of Misthaven when Liam did not, but that was where I woke. I was found by the princess, who was just about my age, taken in and nursed back to health by the royal family - unbelievable as it seems - and eventually I joined their navy. Only, it would appear, to be shipwrecked once again on my first mission as a lieutenant.”

Here the woman returned his rueful smile at the course that had shaped his life thus far. There were many details he had omitted - his love for Emma, and her for him, chief among them - but it seemed needless to prattle on. In fact, it was clear his mysterious companion was at last ready to speak.

Remorse was clear in the face entirely too beautiful and flawless to be fully human as she reached the hand not still holding his up to trace the scar on his cheek - made long ago by a sadistic bosun before a nine-year-old Liam had jumped between and taken the brunt of the punishment. Tenderness and wistful longing filled her gaze as she did so. Her voice was still mellifluous when she spoke, though soft and slightly broken with her emotion. “My son, what you’ve been through… it pains me more than I can say. The hardship you endured, the abandonment and mistreatment you suffered, none of it was anything like the life I wished for you and your brother when you were born. Such dreams I had for you both as we sat outside our little cottage, watching the tides roll in and little sandpipers running over the sand. Liam was so sweet, so attentive, bringing me seashells as I held you and sang lullabies, anxious to help you learn to swim and build sandcastles…”

She trailed off for a moment, her pearly white teeth pressing into her lower lip as she struggled to suppress a new swell of emotion before continuing. It was just as well. Killian’s mind was racing, hardly able to make sense of such idyllic, wonderful scenes of which he had not even the slightest recall.

Her other hand fell to her lap and her fingers were pulled free of his as he lurched to his feet and began to pace with the unsettled agitation overtaking him. “Why do I remember none of this?!” he implored, his every breath bringing an emotional swing from anger to stark devastation and back. It was as though he had been robbed anew of the loving family and carefree childhood he had grown up missing - this time by the assertion that he had possessed such treasure once and could not even picture it. “If you truly are who you say,” he finally demanded, returning to the lovely, dark-haired woman and crouching to peer into her face once more. His fist tightened and then opened reflexively, his adamance on gaining some answers, some understanding, clear. “If you really are my mother… What happened all those years ago? Why did you leave us? Where were you when Liam and I were taken into servitude? Where have you been for all this time in between? … Why… why were we all alone in the world?”

He blinked rapidly, unwilling to show more weakness than his ragged question had already revealed. For the lost little boy who had never known his mother, who had never understood why he and his brother were surrendered to such a cruel fate, was still inside the grown lieutenant, but Killian could not let that broken child surface now, not when he might finally gain answers. His mouth was a firm line as he stared down this mysterious nymph; his eyes hard as he refused to let her look away.

A tear escaped her eye and ran down her porcelain cheek, a luminescent drop of liquid glowing brightly on its way. She was clearly suffering at the admission of his hurt, whatever else he might think of her. And when she spoke again, her voice was flinty and resolved; he could doubt her sincerity no longer. “Killian, I am your mother. Whether you accept it or not, that is as much truth as the waves coming in to meet the shore. But your father - he beguiled me. He had more power - and more darkness - than I knew. He stole you boys, my dearest loves, from me. By the time I had located you once more, and made preparations to bring you both here to Ogygia for safety, it was too late. Liam had been lost to the depths - stolen forever where your father could keep him for himself eternally. And you had been taken in by the royals of Misthaven. I watched that evening as they found you, and I came back unseen to watch you many other times with your crewmates, your golden-headed princess… any glimpse I could steal of you as you grew up hearty, strong and brave - just as I always knew you would. It seemed unfair to make myself known then, to uproot you once more… not when you appeared so happy…” She searched his face as her words came together in dawning realization. “What that - Was I wrong?”

Overcome, Killian shook his head, not sure how to address his reply. Finally, he managed to murmur, “No, no you were not mistaken. They treated me as if I were their own. I was as happy as I have ever been…” His eyes seemed to be attempting to focus on something far back within his memory, long ago and leagues away. “But - “ he tried again, wetting his lips and plunging forward with his unbelievable question. “If all that is true, does that make… Is my father…?” He found he could not speak the ridiculous question his mind was urging him to ask.

She nodded instead, relieving him of it. “Yes, he is Davy Jones. And I am Calypso, daughter of Atlas.”

Killian knew his mouth must have fallen open, gaping at the woman before him, returning his gobsmacked look with nothing but open honesty. “Son, please believe me,” she urged, reaching for his hand once more. She nearly beamed with fragile-seeming hope when he dumbly allowed her to twine their fingers again. “I know it must seem like a lot to take in… a monstrous amount to believe on good faith, but I am telling you the truth. Never did I wish to be parted from you or your brother. I would never have left either of you by choice. That Liam is lost to us…” here she solemnly shook her head, bowing it over their joined hands to press a kiss to his knuckles, “For that, I can only apologize that I was unable to save him. You must know that I tried, Killian.”

Slowly but surely the rushing sound that had taken over in his head, the pounding of his heart and the strange sense of hysteria which had very nearly enveloped him, began to ebb away. The hurt and doubt did not vanish - and he had so many questions for her that he hardly knew where to start - but the hardest knot of bitterness and anger in his chest eased, loosened enough that he could catch his breath and study this woman before him - his mother! - with a focus that brought acceptance, and even a sort of thrill. He had a mother, who loved him and wanted to know him. How could he in good conscience turn away? And if all she said was true, of which he felt all but certain, then she had already suffered just as he had. Why should he force either of them to bear anything more?

Leaning in, an uncertain, almost eager look transformed his face as he spoke in an awed whisper. “You searched for us?” he repeated, letting the comfort of it sink into his soul. “You tried to get us back? To save Liam?”

Tears were pouring down the sea nymph’s face now, to the point that she didn’t even speak, merely nodded vigorously and opened her arms wide to him in welcome.

“Mother,” he exhaled, and gave in. He could hold back no longer. Resting his head on her shoulder, Killian leaned into a maternal embrace of the sort he had been missing all his life. His shoulders hitched with silent weeping, letting out much that had been buried so deeply he had not even known it still pained him.

Gentle, soothing fingers ran through his hair, rubbed his back as she rocked back and forth gently, at last feeling completed to have her child back in her arms, grown though he might be. She let him purge the torrent of grief and fear, lightly humming a melody that eased him and that Killian felt vaguely he had heard somewhere before.

His mother! His mind could hardly grasp the revelation, and yet, she was there. He might still be shipwrecked and stranded - lost - but he was no longer alone.

~~***~~

Under cover of dark, the very night after they had received news that Killian’s ship was lost, Princess Emma was using the filtered light of the full moon to sneak from her apartments and down to the stables. She had listened all day as her mother and father spoke to their trusted inner circle, debating and considering if there were any possibility of even some of the ship’s crew having survived - and how they would go about seeking them in a rescue mission if the chance existed. Was it even possible to look for a ship that was by now shattered in pieces and likely sunk to the depths, invisible to their eyes? And yet, Queen Snow had interjected more than once, her boundless well of hope apparent, could they truly do otherwise when their adopted son and dozens of other loyal sailors might still live?

Her husband and their advisors agreed, and yet, there was the other practical concern that any search voyage might only be sending more innocent lives into a trap - a snare set by a supernatural foe they did not understand well enough to combat and survive. Eventually, all left the council chambers but the King and Queen, and Emma herself. It was then that they used a mirror - a magic one enchanted to allow them to communicate, which had been gifted to Snow by Ariel as a wedding present when she married her ‘Charming’. Using it, they contacted the maritime kingdom’s rulers for more information.

The news had been dire. Emma shivered even then, hours later, under her heavy riding cloak as she gingerly gripped the vine-covered trellis next to her balcony and swung out onto it, needing to climb down and cross the lawn to the stables undetected. The memory still haunted her, of Ariel explaining how legend had it that Davy Jones took any prisoners left alive aboard his phantom ship, eternally pressed into his cursed crew.

What it had boiled down to in the end was that they could not send more men out on a fruitless mission; not knowing where to send them, or even where they should begin, and especially not when most likely the only result would be their capture or death as well. All the same, Emma had felt hurt and betrayed on Killian’s behalf - despite the decision making logical sense. It was maddening that they would do nothing when Killian would have left no stone unturned, no island or inlet unsearched, if the roles were reversed and any of those who sat debating whether to search for him or not were lost. She had just barely managed to bite back such recriminations, knowing they were unfair, but she could not help storming from the meeting, unable to helplessly stand by any longer. She had heard her father gently urging her mother to let her go, to give her some time, and she had been in her rooms ever since. Not crying or grieving as most probably believed, but plotting her next move.

Though she had no evidence to back it up, Emma knew - simply knew it in her marrow, as sure as she felt her heart beat and her blood pound in her veins - that her lieutenant was out there somewhere alive. Just as she had since the first shock of the shipwreck’s announcement had worn off, she still believed that, were her sailor no longer in the world, she would be aware of the loss, the lacking in all that he left behind. There had been a link between she and Killian since he washed ashore and she found him all those years ago; in her deepest being, Emma felt it was because they were meant to be together, always destined, two halves of the same whole, just like her parents. She might not profess such girlish dreams aloud, but she harbored the belief nonetheless. And, since she had not felt the agony she would fully expect if he had been ripped from life, no inkling of the void she knew would split open her chest if he ceased to be, then he could still be found. It was as simple - and as much a challenge - as that.

It mattered not that she didn’t yet know where to go, she would be on her way before any could stop her or hold her back. She could chart a course from there. That afternoon as she had prepared and packed, the messenger bird she had sent out returned with her letter for Killian unopened on its leg. Yet, even that could not deter Emma. He could be somewhere the creature simply had not found. It didn’t mean… but she shook her head abruptly and refused to contemplate that possibility.

Alighting on the ground with a little hop, Emma glanced back up the ivy-trellised wall she had just descended, allowing a moment’s pride that no alarm had been rasied and none seemed the wiser. There was a fair dose of irony in the fact that she was now trying to steal away under cover of night to escape her parent’s watchful concern and protection, when it had been her mother, the Queen herself, who had first shown her how to make that scale down the outer walls in case they were ever under attack and Emma found herself in need of an alternate means of escape. Regardless of its original intention, the lesson had stuck, and the princess put her skills to good use. The cool wetness through her thin slippers brought a delicious sort of shiver up from her toes through her legs and the rest of her as she dashed across the already dew-kissed grass.

Upon entering the royal stables in a state of warm and cozily quiet peace - as if all inside were bedded down and drowsing for the night - Emma blew out a breath of relief. Her returning calm was encompassing enough that she gave a startled jump of surprise when her mare, Lady, whickered and bobbed her head to her in greeting.

“Hey there, Sweet,” Emma crooned, offering an apple to her beloved pet, her favorite mount since she first learned to ride as a little girl. Her father had given Lady to her when the mare was still a young colt, and they had been fast friends ever since. The horse playfully bowed her head to her mistress, nudging Princess Emma’s shoulder with her long velvety nose and munching the treat contentedly. As Emma’s fingers continued to scratch along the gentle creature’s forelock, she murmured soothing words and the horse seemed to almost nod in delight, bobbing her head and huffing approval with short snorts of air.

“Ready to go for a ride?” Emma continued, making quick work of saddle and bridle before leading Lady out of her stall and back towards the entry of the large main stable. It was as if the animal could indeed pick up the nervous excitement radiating from her rider; the sharp clopping of her hooves made quick staccato taps along the solid floor and seemed to mimic Emma’s ever-quickening pulse in her ears.

With one last glance around, making sure they were still undetected, the princess stepped into Lady’s stirrup, swung herself up onto the animal’s back, and gathered the reins in hand as she quickly doused the lantern she had lit in the hanging sconce just inside the large enclosure. Stealth was imperative, but now that she was in the clear, she would never risk a fire that could endanger the other horses, grooms and trainers. She would see well enough by moonlight once outdoors again.

A slight shudder ran through her as she glanced back at the castle over her shoulder once more. Lady trotted easily into the forest once Emma had found the gate watched by her uncle who was known for his habit of falling asleep at the most inopportune times. Slipping past him while he snored unawares, the going was easy and the path familiar from there.

Horse and rider made swift time, passing through the trees and down toward the harbor in nighttime shadows unmolested. When at last they neared the more rickety end of the docks where local fishermen and merchants kept their smaller sailboats and personal water crafts, Emma dismounted and moved toward one particular skiff, alone and completely abandoned, bobbing quietly on the gentle waves. At first glance, it appeared forgotten there without owner, but as Emma drew even with the small yet sturdy vessel, she could see it was just as she remembered - simple and unassuming certainly, but well-cared-for and more than adequate for her needs.

With little time to waste, knowing it would not be long before her absence was discovered back at the palace, and she needed to be far enough out to sea by then so she would not be spotted or returned home by well-meaning rescuers who wished to see her safe even before having Killian found. She simply couldn’t agree with that logic - royal duty or no - and in the end it was her life. She stroked lovingly over her horse’s withers again, one last scruff at the velvet muzzle in affection, before murmuring, “Head on home now, girl. You know the way,” before removing bit and bridle and watching as the little mare nodded her head as if in understanding of the command, turned and trotted back the way they had come, hooves clipping first against the wooden planks of the pier, then the cobblestones of the street beyond, tail swishing as she moved further into the distance.

Puffing out a short breath, Princess Emma consoled herself with the fact that her horse did know the path back to the castle well, and that nothing untoward would befall her - especially not so early in the pre-dawn hours when the streets and forests were almost completely deserted. Urging herself back into motion, she loosed the ties holding the small craft to its place along the pier and hopped fron the docks onto the boat deck without lingering any further. She allowed barely a moment of anxiety for the rush of concerns flooding her mind - tasks to bring the boat ‘round, set her on course, and guide her safely from the harbor and the proximity of other ships, pier and shore into open waters. She had no time to be timid; she knew what had to be done, had practiced and rehearsed it in her mind numerous times in the last few hours as she put her plan in motion. Now she simply had to follow through.

Luckily, the water was smooth and still, the wind with her, and the others vessels nearby safely anchored out of her path. With her mind on her route, eyes clear and hands steady, Emma was soon leaving the mouth of the harbor and gaining speed as the wind truly caught in the sails overhead. Her sailor had taught her well, and she was on her way to find him.

Tagging: @cssns @kmomof4 @searchingwardrobes @whimsicallyenchantedrose @laschatzi @jennjenn615 @therooksshiningknight @tiganasummertree @lfh1226-linda @capswantrue @spartanguard @optomisticgirl @teamhook @revanmeetra87 @tornadoamy @xhookswenchx @bubblegum1425 @jarienn972 @courtorderedcake @gingerchangeling @ilovemesomekillianjones @thisonesatellite @profdanglaisstuff @mariakov81 @ineffablecolors @shireness-says @snidgetsafan @carpedzem @let-it-raines @stahlop @hollyethecurious @winterbaby89 @darkcolinodonorgasm @resident-of-storybrooke @kday426 @nikkiemms

#cssns20 #cs au ff #cs au mc #a cottage by the sea #part three #lieutenant duckling au

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flightfoot · 3 years

Text

The Role of an Alpha

AO3 @adrichatnovember2020

Adrien hid in his room, breathing deeply.

Earlier that day he’d presented as an Alpha.

His father, of course, was thrilled.

“So you are an Alpha.”

That was the first thing he’d said to Adrien as he walked through the door, having been sent home early by the school nurse.

Adrien took in his father’s scent.

Strong.

Musky.

Very clearly Alpha.

Not that he needed to smell him to know that. Gabriel exuded Alphaness in everything he did, from the way he brushed over other’s concerns to the way he asserted his will, expected everyone to submit to his needs and wishes.

“Alphas are in charge, as nature intends,” he’d told Adrien before, tightly gripping his shoulder. “Omegas simply exist to follow orders, betas little better.”

Looking into Adrien’s eyes, he’d asked him softly, “You’re going to be an Alpha, aren’t you?”

Adrien had wanted to respond. To tell him that he had no idea, it wasn’t exactly something he was in control of. And deeper down, that if THIS was what it meant to be an Alpha - if being an Alpha just meant stepping over everyone else - then he’d rather be anything else.

Ultimately, he’d said nothing.

But now that he’d presented?

The part of him that’d balked then, that’d wanted to protest, to chew him out, was too strong to ignore.

“That’s all you care about, isn’t it?” Adrien snapped bitterly. “That I’m on top. That I’m above everyone else. That I don’t somehow reflect badly on you.”

His father’s eyes widened. “Mind your tongue!” he snarled, a small growl emerging. “I am still your father. You may be an Alpha, but you’re still just a pup. And I am YOUR Alpha.”

“Is that all being an Alpha means to you? Yelling at everyone else, punishing them if they step out of line - out of YOUR line?!”

Gabriel’s eyes hardened. He stepped down the stairs, each footfall a prognostication of doom.

He grabbed Adrien’s wrist. “I do not think you will need these anymore,” he’d told Adrien, throwing away the suppression pills the nurse had given him to help him ride through his first rut. “You will get through it like an Alpha should, not debasing yourself with suppressants,” he said in disgust.

And that was how Adrien had ended up here, desperately trying to ignore his body’s anguished cries.

He grit his teeth. Most of the Alphas in class had Omega friends to calm their hormones, to keep them comfortable, and vice versa. Chloe had Sabrina for instance, while Alya had Marinette.

He hadn’t been around for Alya’s presentation, sadly. But Marinette had recounted it with great gusto during one of the few opportunities they had to hang out.

Chloe’d been tearing into Marinette on the first day of the new school year, trying to get her to move seats. She’d just presented as an Alpha a couple months ago and had been thoroughly enjoying the added intimidation boost it provided her.

She hadn’t expected some random new girl to stand up to her.

Nor for that girl to suddenly start leaking a musky scent.

Since then Alya’d taken a lead in protecting the class - though protecting HERSELF? Not so much.

Not that she was the only one. Marinette had been inspired by Alya’s display, had gotten some confidence herself, to the point she ran for - and won! - the class rep position, with Alya as. her deputy.

Her subsequent reveal as an omega had come as a shock. Everyone had assumed she’d be an Alpha, or a Beta at least.

But Omega?

She’d seemed nervous, scared even, when she first presented.

Afraid that her friends would treat her differently.

But well… she was still Marinette. Her being an Omega didn’t change that.

She was still their friend, still their class rep.

Omegas had grown more common in leadership positions - something Paris became acutely aware of when Ladybug herself presented.

It had been assumed by most of Paris’s population that the suits masked the two heroes’ scent glands. That Ladybug was almost certainly an Alpha, POSSIBLY a Beta, and that Chat Noir was probably an Omega, possibly a Beta.

Until Ladybug had arrived at a fight, feverish and smelling sweet.

They’d still defeated the akuma, but Chat Noir had had to do more heavy lifting than normal - there was a reason Omegas were often given reduced workloads during their heats, especially anything requiring physical exertion.

Whispers emerged throughout Paris. ‘Can Ladybug really protect us if she’s vulnerable to an Omega’s heats?’ ‘An Omega, even one with superpowers, shouldn’t expect others to follow their orders. It isn’t the way of things.’ and worst of all ‘Ladybug should give her Miraculous to an Alpha. They’ll make better use of it than she ever has.’

People began looking to Chat Noir more, addressing him as the leader instead of Ladybug, who they’d deferred to before. Something that clearly made both Ladybug and Chat Noir uncomfortable, with Ladybug looking downcast and Chat Noir being more snappish with the press.

Until finally they’d given a news conference, Ladybug and Chat Noir taking the stage, addressing the preconceptions and discrimination Ladybug had been put through by the city because of her being an Omega.

Not that she was the only one.

Many other prominent Omegas emerged to tell their story. Even some less prominent, more ordinary citizens, pushing back against the idea that being an Omega made someone somehow less worthy of respect, less worth listening to.

The Ladyblog featured all of this in great detail of course, with follow-up interviews with everyone who’d spoken. As Alya and Marinette excitedly told the class afterwards, they’d helped arrange it, researching activists in their area as well as asking for people to message the Ladyblog with their thoughts and experiences being an Omega.

A lot of the grumbling had died down after that - at least where the rest of Paris could hear it.

Adrien grimaced. Unfortunately, Father had been one of the ones who HADN’T been cowed.

Not that he’d expected him to be, with his… traditional attitude towards Alpha’s, Beta’s, and Omega’s roles in society.

Fumbling around, Adrien reached out from underneath the covers, grabbing the remote that opened up his window. Much too high to climb out of unfortunately (he’d tried), but at least it let in the cool air from outside. Right now, that sounded good.

Ahhh.

He was right, this did feel good. And something about the air smelled exceptional today...

As if in a trance, he left his blanket fort, coming closer to the window.

Closing his eyes, he took in a deep breath.

It smelled so NICE, so sweet, almost like-

His eyes blew open.

Just in time to get a face-full of superhero.

“OOPH!”

Adrien blinked.

Green, slitted cat eyes blinked back.

And drooped as Chat Noir turned into a pile of mush in his arms, purring up a storm as he cuddled close.

Careful not to disturb him, Adrien leaned in near his neck, getting a good whiff of his scent glands.

Omega.

Very, very clearly Omega.

He examined Chat Noir more closely; his flushed cheeks, his twitching tail, his glazed eyes.

“Chat Noir?” he asked carefully. “Are you alright?”

He kicked himself. Of COURSE he wasn’t alright, he was in the midst of his first heat - a pretty intense one too, from the looks of things.

“Mmmmphhhhhrrrrrrrr?” Chat Noir asked.

Well. ‘Asked’ may have been overselling it a bit. ‘Mewled with a questioning tone’ more like.

“Do you know where you are?” He clarified.

Chat Noir just purred and nuzzled his neck, getting a good whiff of his own scent glands.

WOW he was out of it.

“I’m gonna move you, alright?” he told Chat Noir softly, picking him up as gently as he could.

He’d seen how Alya’d helped Marinette through her own heats, though none of them had been as bad as this.

First, a nest.

At least that was easy - good thing, since he had zero notice to prepare one.

Lowering Chat Noir into the mess of blankets he’d just vacated (Chat giving a confused-sounding “mew?” as he did so), he got up to find what else he needed.

A couple minutes later he was back at Chat Noir’s side, coaxing him to drink sips of some nice, cold water, as well as bringing him the few stuffed animals he’d managed to save from his father’s purges.

As Chat Noir sipped the water (Adrien holding onto the cup; right now Chat didn’t seem confident in his ability to hold it steady), the red gradually started fading a little.

Adrien put his hand on Chat Noir’s forehead. He definitely felt cooler than he had when he first landed on him.

“Chat Noir?” he tried again, making sure to keep his voice low and soft. “Do you know where you are?”

Chat Noir blinked up at him, still looking a little hazy, but like he was at least attempting to focus. “You’re… that model boy… right?” he asked hesitantly. His voice sounded a little slurred, but at least he was speaking words.

Inwardly Adrien winced. Of course that’d be what he was known for; how ELSE would Chat Noir have heard of him? It’s not like he knew either of the Parisian heroes very well. They’d run across each other during akuma attacks of course, especially with how often their class ended up targeted in one way or another, but they didn’t exactly have time to chat.

Outwardly he made sure to not change his expression. “Yeah, that’s me. You crashed into my house a few minutes ago.”

Chat Noir vaguely looked around. Adrien suspected he’d just become aware of his surroundings.

A tinge of panic colored Chat’s expression. “I- I’m sorry,” he burst out, shrinking in on himself. “I- I didn’t mean to- if you want me to go, I’ll go.”

Adrien shook his head, kneeling down so his head was level with Chat’s. “If you want to leave, then you can. I don’t want you to stay any longer than you’re comfortable with.”

Chat’s eyes widened, then relaxed a bit, looking downcast. He began shuffling around with the blankets, attempting to stand.

Omega unhappy needs reassurance needs support

Adrien sucked in a breath. That surge of protectiveness, of the need to defend, to make sure Chat Noir was okay - he’d never felt anything quite like it before.

This… this was what being an Alpha meant to him. Not trampling over others, exerting will and dominance over them.

But being there for them if they needed it, helping to make sure every member of the pack knew how much they were wanted, needed, cared for. To lift them up, not tear them down.

Sometimes that might mean giving them space.

Sometimes that might mean staying put, letting them know you’ll be by their side.

“But just because I’m okay with you leaving, doesn’t mean I want you to,” he told Chat Noir, trying to possess every ounce of sincerity he could muster, to reach out and let him know on a fundamental level how much he cared for him. “I don’t want to keep you here or coerce you to stay. I don’t want to force you into anything, or feel like you need to do anything to please me or because you feel like you need to pay me back for something. I just want you to do what you feel most comfortable, what you feel safest doing.

Chat Noir, what do you want?”

Chat Noir looked momentarily stunned.

He swallowed thickly. “I- I want to stay here for a little bit. If that’s okay with you!” he added hastily. “I don’t think I can get back home right now and… and I don’t really want to.” His ears turned backwards, flattening against his head.

“Are you okay with me touching you?” Adrien asked.

Chat Noir nodded.

Adrien sat down on the bed. Chat Noir leaned into him, Adrien stroking his head, like his mom used to do with him when he was little.

His mom couldn’t scratch him behind his cat ears though, on account of not having them.

...most of the time.

(He’d always had a thing about cats.)

They stayed there for the next several hours, Adrien checking up on Chat Noir regularly, making sure he was okay with the close proximity, asking whether he’d like food or drink, just… taking care of him, while making it as clear as he possibly could that Chat could ask for things, that Adrien WANTED him to ask for things, and that he wouldn’t force his will on Chat Noir.

At last, the heat dissipated to the point that Chat Noir could get up. Could walk around.

Chat Noir looked out the window longingly, then back at Adrien.

Adrien smiled at him. “It’s time for you to go, I’m guessing?”

Chat Noir hesitated, then gave a short, sharp nod.

“Then go.”

Chat turned around to leave, but hesitated, looking back at him, an unspoken question in his eyes.

“If you ever need to come by again, for cuddles or support or just… just because you want to? Please, please come,” Adrien told Chat. “Just check to make sure my father isn’t around first, alright?”

Chat Noir laughed, pole-vaulting into the night.

#adrichat #ml fanfic #adrien agreste #omegaverse #alpha/beta/omega verse

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albatris · 4 years

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🩸✂️ for tris, 🌋for noa, ⏰🧸💬 for avery??? this is a lot sorry ksdhfjbsdfjsbfbsd

hey hello thank you for the ask!! :D sorry my replies got so long hfdgkjdfgh

🩸 - Does your OC believe in blood being thicker than water? (meaning family relationships and loyalties are the most important)

I think.......... at the start of the story Tris would be a pretty big believer in blood being thicker than water, at least on some level? like

I don’t think he necessarily views his family relationships as “more important” than his other relationships, but he does view them as something Significant and Inherently Important simply BECAUSE they’re family

it’s not a belief he’s examined much before the start of the story, so there’s a lot of real dodgy shit he lets slide purely because It’s Family and at the end of the day there’s a level of forgiveness and loyalty there that’s almost a knee-jerk reaction for him

towards the end of the story his perspective starts to shift, and eventually he’ll land on a belief closer to, like........ well, a family relationship is just a relationship like any other, there’s nothing Deep and Special and Magical about it, and you don’t have to make excuses for their shitty behaviour just ‘cause they’re related to you

I think once he’s a few years into adulthood the phrase “blood is thicker than water” will become something that pisses him off a lot lmao

✂️ - What kind of thing would have your OC cut someone out of their life? How likely are they to let someone back in?

lmao nothing he’s a huge pushover

no, he’s not so good with setting boundaries, it would probably take a lot to make him cut someone out completely. that is fucking STRESSFUL business. and anyone he did manage to cut out, he’d be very easily swayed into letting them back in

there might be a level of distance he’ll keep with them, but yeah, like I said, he’s kind of a pushover

bur YEAH if I had to name something, I'd say a significant enough betrayal of trust might do it, since trust is real dicey business for Tris, and the very very very small handful of folks he’s willing to place complete trust in are fully aware that this is a Really Big Fucking Deal for him and not something to be taken lightly. so being intentionally manipulated or misled by someone in that circle would be a pretty devastating blow to him and might be cause for him to shut someone off completely

but hey if I'm being honest, it doesn't often occur to Tris that he's, like......... allowed?? to be mad about stuff?? he tends to assume he's in the wrong by default so "this person wronged you and you're allowed to cut them out" is generally not on his radar even slightly :P and even if it is, he still tends to wait for some kind of cue or permission from someone else that he's allowed to act on it

kinda tying into the previous answer, like, his parents are both quite terrible people, n eventually all three Greer siblings end up cutting ties with them entirely, but like..... yeah, Tris’s perspective on his family changes a lot over the course of the story, but for a long time the idea of Just Cutting Ties is still just........... unthinkable. too much. forbidden

the tipping point is that Becca, the only Greer sib capable of being assertive, cuts ties basically as soon as she moves out of home, so like, maybe four or five years post-story? and just drops completely off the grid, doesn’t respond to their parents’ messages, doesn’t pick up the phone, doesn’t tell them where she’s going, she’s just Out. clean break

which leads both Tris and Jacob to be like “hold on we can DO that????? since when the fuck was that an option????”

I think both of them just kind of assumed that if they cut ties the world would immediately explode but in reality it’s just like.................. well, that happened

Tris Applies One Single Boundary And The Universe Doesn’t Immediately Shatter, and I will say it comes a little easier the next time he has to do it

🌋 - What’s your OCs temper like? Are they a slow boil, or an instant explosion?

oh, Noa is very much an instant explosion. she’s got a lot of rage y’all and she’s ready to roll whenever

though tbf she’s done a lot of work around emotion regulation, and these days won’t often Visibly Instantly Explode, like....... her anger tends to shoot up real quick and be pretty intense, but she’s gotten pretty good at controlling it and bringing it down to a manageable level, and like........... NOT making snap decisions and lashing out impulsively

there’s generally a space between the anger and the Explosion where she asks herself “is this unnecessary?” or “is this more trouble than it’s worth?” and sometimes the answer to these questions is yes and sometimes the answer is an emphatic no

so on an internal level I would say her temper tends to run pretty high, but it’s not always something she lets out. she’s pretty good at managing it nowadays, where she used to often land in heated arguments or fights or it would turn pretty self-destructive

that being said, she’s still a very easy person to tick off, much to the entertainment of various other characters particularly Kai

though I think her short fuse and being easy to tick off and her Actual Anger are two completely different scenarios, both to do with a short temper but in different directions, maybe :P

I would say the two Noa Anger Modes are “will you stop clicking that fucking pen” and Full-On Righteous Fury

⏰ - What is your OC like at timekeeping? Are they punctual, or always running late?

Avery is punctual to a fault and gets REAL mad when other people aren’t lmao. I think he considers it pretty rude to run late to things, since he thinks it gives the impression that you don’t value other people’s time. running late to shit is the quickest way to make him dislike you

it's not PROFESSIONAL

🧸 - On a scale of 1 - 10, how ‘soft’ is your OC? 1 being the edgiest of edges and 10 being a literal teddy bear that cries at everything? (Bonus questions: where on the scale would your OC place themselves, and where would they like to be on the scale?)

oh, he’s about a 7, I’d say? he’s certainly not, like, a complete and total edgelord, but he’s definitely more on the prickly side of things than he is the teddy bear side............ he’s fairly reserved, he’s not INTENTIONALLY standoffish but he definitely gives off some hardcore unapproachable vibes at times. he’s pretty easily irked as well and his weapon of choice is passive-aggression, so he can be...... yeah, a Lot

as for the way he carries himself, well, he’s very prim and proper and formal, very crisp, and I think people tend to find him either a touch intimidating or unbelievably pretentious. either way is fine with him, he's happy to lean into it :P

I think he considers himself around a 7 too, but would rather like to be a 9

the thing about Avery is he's always trying real hard to be the most cool and suave and edgy but like....... he's still kind of a dweeb, as most characters in this story are

💬 - Is your OC much of a talker? Do they only speak when spoken to? (Or not even then?) Do they ever talk over others?

oh this bastard LOVES talking. this bastard will talk about anything. this bastard will interrupt a conversation you are having with your friend on the bus to correct you on a fact you got wrong

but yeah, he’s a pretty engaging conversation partner generally speaking, he enjoys those more intellectual and philosophical discussions and, kinda, being “challenged” in a conversation? like, this is the best person to talk to if you get a kick out of a good friendly debate, I think c:

#goosemixtapes #long post #SO LONG IM SORRY #atdao

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svartalfhild · 4 years

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I have been thinking a lot lately about the sort of person I am, the sort of person I would like to be, and why I’ve turned out the way that I have. Long post incoming. (Sorry, mobile folks.)

I’ve recently had a lot of old memories from when I was growing up resurface and give new context to the things I do now. I tend to think of myself as being a very timid and self-critical person, and that’s often the case, but I have these moments where I’m not. Those moments can manifest in all kinds of wild ways. Most often, they are born from anger. Moments when I get mouthy or lash out because I’ve been pushed over the edge. Moments when I become stone cold because my sympathy has run out. I don’t like being that way. I’m scared to let my anger out ever because I’ve done so many awful things with it in the past, and I don’t want to become my father.

But at the same time, those moments are among the rare occasions when my anxiety shuts down, and briefly, I get to feel something like confidence. I stop analyzing and take action for once. I realize there are appropriate times to be angry and appropriate ways to express anger, but I’m always afraid that if I let myself be angry at the right times, my anger will also come out at the wrong times. There’s a time and a place to be a stone cold bitch, and I don’t trust myself to know when that is.

So I prefer to always be kind. I prefer to win people’s respect by being soft rather than assertive, because trying to be excessively nice has always come with a much, much lower risk of hurting people. It’s more important to me that I should do no harm than it is to avoid getting stepped on. I don’t always succeed at being sufficiently nice, but I try so hard.

Looking back on my childhood, I think that has a lot to do with my trauma and with the big mistakes that I’ve made in my life.

When I was a child...I wasn’t very good at being soft. I was not a sweet child. I was isolated and lived in a strict “intellectual” household under the thumb of my father’s constant rage, which made me selfish, cold, deceitful, and arrogant in ways children usually aren’t. Sure, I generally absorbed all the moral ideas of my supposedly progressive-minded parents about basic decency, but that wasn’t nearly enough. They taught me nothing about how to actually interact with people, and as an undiagnosed autistic girl, it was extremely difficult to learn on my own. Hell, I didn’t even really know that it was worth trying to learn. I wasn’t a complete gremlin; I was quiet, so the adults generally thought of me as nice and well-mannered, but my peers saw the stone cold bitch.

There were times, albeit rare ones, when I did pick the right moment to be That Bitch. At the age of like 7, I kicked an older boy really hard in the shin and yelled at him for bullying another girl because he wouldn’t stop and the teachers weren’t doing anything about it. When I was 10, I sat on the bus near a bunch of rowdy boys so they’d make the mistake of trying to harass me instead of creeping on a girl who lived two doors down from me. They were not prepared for my willingness to be extremely mean to them. When I was 12, I got a double feature of people touching my ponytail and them not being prepared for Real Bitch Hours. The girls who sat behind me in history got a blunt ass “don’t touch me”, and I did not back down when they got offended. The boys who sat behind me in math got rather graphic descriptions of the damage I would do to their balls if they didn’t leave me alone, and they reacted with a surprising amount of horror (which was rather satisfying to me), especially if I fixed them long enough with what they coined my “murder stare”. Unfortunately, the latter experience later became a spectacle as they asked me to recount my graphic description to their friends and earned me a rep as a misandrist, but it had at least persuaded them not to touch me.

Sadly, these occasions are the only ones I can recall of having spoken up in anger as a child and having been entirely justified in doing so. Most of the time, my assholery wasn’t righteous, it was just callous. I quite frankly deserved much of my bad reputation and subsequent lack of friends. I often wonder at what point I made the decision to start caring. I think perhaps I started to realize how bad I was at the onset of my teens, because that’s when I had to start atoning for some seriously messed up shit and I’d lost the few friends that I’d had. But I don’t think I truly began to grasp the importance of kindness until my late teens, when I learned that I wasn’t just a “sheltered” kid; I was an abuse victim, and that came with all kinds of realizations about my own behaviour. I didn’t want to be an abuser. I didn’t want to inflict what I’d been through on others. So I started to try to do better.

The thing is, I was not at all equipped for that. I had a rough couple of years trying to reconcile my desire to be a different person with accepting the way my brain is wired. I’d just learned that I’m asexual and autistic and all these other terms I could finally use to describe who I am. I had trouble figuring out what parts I should be proud of, what parts I shouldn’t, and how to appropriately express all of that.

I still don’t know when exactly my empathy switch flipped, but at some point, as I was transitioning from high school to college, all that empathy I’d repressed since forever came flooding out in excess, and I’ve struggled with regulating it from then on. I went from wondering if there was something wrong with me because the best I could manage was general compassion to just not being able to stop the empathy train.

Anyway, it seems like all that led me to being afraid of myself and to trying to accomplish things by being as soft as I can, as a way to atone for my mistakes, as a way to avoid becoming my father, and as a recognition of the importance of being kind. That’s helped me in a lot of ways, and I hope that it’s made life better for the people I interact with, but the thing is, it’s not always what’s needed. Being deferent and accommodating has its drawbacks. I have trouble getting people to take me seriously, and I often find myself stuck in awful situations because I couldn’t bring myself to assert my boundaries or rock the boat in any way.

I need to find a balance between the stone cold bitch and the Giving Tree. Once again, I find myself lacking the necessary tools to achieve that. I think I’d need to be in therapy and living away from my family to get there. The best I can do right now is aim for “looks like she’ll kill you, but is actually a cinnamon roll”. That won’t make me more confident or assertive when I need to be, but at least people might take me a little more seriously.

Anyway, thanks for slogging through my little personal essay. I just needed to organize some thoughts I’ve been having for a while.

#personal

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callmemythicalminx · 4 years

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Book Review: Lessons In Corruption by Giana Darling

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Where do I begin to describe how much I love this book, this series and this incredible author. I can’t count on both hands how many times I’ve re-read each book in the Fallen MC series, that’s how much I dearly adore them. As a frequent reader of taboo and motorcycle club romances, I was especially siked when I first read Lessons in Corruption to hear that it was an age gap (which all the books in the series are) and was student-teacher too.

Cressida Irons has spent the better part of her youth living a life never fully her own. Groomed to be a perfect, higher society housewife by her parents, she married her much older next-door neighbour at the age of eighteen, believing she was going into a marriage of excitement and adventure. Quickly, however, she realised her naive teen fantasies wouldn’t come true with her husband. After having an epiphanic glimpse into a more fulfilling and exciting life after seeing a man who could only be described as a chrome king, she leaves her secure husband and family behind. Starting over on her own two feet, she never expects to see the man who inspired her to escape her meagre life, never mind fall in love with him. But when she truly meets him, a man destined to be a king of the lawless and free, rearing to show her the world at his feet, she can’t help but want to be his rough and tumble queen. Only one problem- he’s her student.

‘Before King (B.K), I’d enjoyed my books, going on long walks through Stanley Park and hanging out with my parents. A freaking pathetic list. Now, I loved riding on the back of King’s black-and-chrome customised Harley Davidson with my breasts to his leather jacket and my hair in the wind’

King Kyle Garro, a man of only eighteen, who holds the weight of his predestined path to become the president of the Fallen MC on his shoulders like a bad omen. Forced to be a protector and adult from a young age by the world around him, he’s mature and intelligent beyond his years, with a desire to be more than is expected from him. When he saw Cressida gazing enraptured at him across a sun-soaked parking lot, he knew that she would be his, even if it meant he’d have to corrupt her in the process. Their age gap or the fact that she’s his teacher does nothing to deter him from seducing and showing Cressida how to truly live, he’s a man that gets what he wants and with her, he’ll stop at nothing to get his queen.

“Got shit for it when I was a kid but I’m a romantic. Read fuckin’ Wuthering Heights when I was eight and got hooked on the classics. Always knew I’d meet a girl, want her, take her and keep her forever. That would be it for me”

Though this is, of course, a romance and this story does include snippets of all the usual love tropes, the budding romance between these two characters is beautiful, exciting and brutally realistic. Every encounter they have through the book is filled with passion, something which Giana does exceptionally well with all of the romances she writes. Something the geek in me particularly enjoys is her use of fantasy and mythological tales in her stories. Her characters are often reminiscent and akin to greek gods and goddesses, but this doesn’t make them feel any less real. They all feel so much more special, sexy as sin but as loyal and powerful as the mythical beings that once ruled the world.

‘A king at home in a grocery store parking lot, his throne the worn seat of an enormous Harley’

In many romances I read nowadays, I always find that the heroine is in one of two categories- she’s tough as nails, an independent woman or she’s fragile, needing the protection and adoration of her hero. Cressida is a perfect blend of these, fierce yet vulnerable, strong yet willing to be soft in the arms of her King. She can defend herself when she wants and depend on her man too. She yearns to be adored and loved by a man who takes what he wants and will give her that roughness she’s always desired, to be taken and made to do the most sinful things. She finds that man in King, who is single-handily the most romantic and lyrically spoken hero I’ve ever read. He can be both dirty and swoon-worthy, reciting his own beautiful poetry in his seduction of Cress. He’s family-driven, just like his tough yet loving father Zeus and his fierce yet fun sister Harleigh Rose, who both get their own stories also. When we meet him, he’s young but has the maturity, talent and intelligence of a man twice his age. His seduction of Cress is beautiful, as he pushes her to accept him with his own assertiveness while giving her the freedom to grow and live free after escaping the restrictive clutches of her ex-husband and parents.

‘King was everything I’d dreamed a man should be: a real man built of loyalty, tenacity and verve, who laughed like the world was made just to entertain him and loved like crazy’

If there’s one thing I really love about this book, it’s definitely Cress’s character growth. She goes from being a social recluse, looking down on the world around her to a fun-loving, ready to take on the world babe. She’s still the same nerdy chick, using cute curses like ‘for Pete’s sake’ instead of swearing, but she’s wilder, ready to experience new things with her King at her side and the Garro clan at her back. Giana does this so wonderfully with all her characters, making them feel so realistic and complicated, that you can’t help but be drawn into their stories, feeling the pain and happiness of every moment. The different spoken text by the two characters, though a simple technique, adds so much to their character. Cressida speaks eloquently, tight-lipped in a way at the start of the book, as though the shadow of her old family is still present, but then she’s braver, louder, voicing her opinions and speaking from her true self. King is rough yet smooth even in tone, speaking in long sentences, choppy yet at the same time lyrical and poetic-like. Other characters, like Zeus for example, have this amazing tiny detail, creating even more personality for these characters and I simply adore it. Giana’s writing has quickly become my favourite thing to read, as each new story feels familiar but exciting and new. Though I’ve now ready countless MC romances, this series especially feels so special and memorable to me in particular, because I feel like I experience everything these characters do. As Cressida breaks free of the mental chains her ex-husband and parents restrained her with, we feel the same excitement when she takes her first ride on the back of King’s motorcycle and every moment between them after.

‘It didn’t really feel like me, not the new Cressida who rode on the back of motorcycles, got drunk on weeknights with strangers and let teenage boys feast on her pussy in the middle of her classroom’

And let’s not forget how good this story is steam wise- it gets real hot when reading any of Giana’s books. When you read as much smut and steamy romance as I do, sometimes you can find that sex scenes are lacking or just don’t live up to the building tension author’s have been creating with their characters. With this book though… it’s everything you’ve been waiting for and more! Each encounter is exciting and passionate between King and Cressida, placed beautifully in the story so that it feels exciting and new. What I’ve noticed especially with miss Darling is that her sex scenes never just come randomly. They always add more to the story, either it be by advancing the character’s personality or adding more fire to the burning romance we’re reading through. Each of Giana’s stories feel so well thought out and miraculously detailed that when you start to read her other books you begin to notice all the extra details she’s been hiding that lead on to new romances with her characters and events that were foreshadowed three books ago, that finally accumulate and cause havoc upon release. It’s exhilarating. It’s also genius writing and it’s just one of the reasons I love Giana’s work so much.

‘I’m asking you to risk everything to be my partner, to stand by my side and rule the Fallen men of Entrance, to lie, cheat and steal, to breathe my fucking breath, take my kiss and my cock and rule with me’

With Lessons in Corruption, it feels like I’m being introduced to the whole idea of a motorcycle club once again, especially with one so focused on family and love. Because of this, as you learn each member’s story, you begin to feel like your part of the family yourself and it’s such a lovely, warm feeling to have associated with these books. It feels like coming home when I re-read King and Cressida’s story and each one after. Giana’s beautiful writing and storytelling shine so brightly in this first story, sucking you into the world of The Fallen- I cannot recommend this story highly enough. For both newbies and well-versed readers of MC romances, this story is a stellar example of great characters, storytelling, steaminess and beautiful writing.

🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟/5

#romance review #book review #books #booknerd #booksofinstagram #romance #mcromance #motorcycleromance #giana darling #fallenmc

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owlespresso · 5 years

Text

Silicon / Mollymauk Tealeaf/Reader

IDK incubus Mollymauk AU. This is smut, so be warned. My tip jar is open! I write headcanons in exchange for donations! If you’re interested, check it out HERE. I am also open for commissions, information HERE.

Your plans for Saturday had been sitting on your couch, absentmindedly scrolling through your laptop. It would have been great, fantastic to settle your weary back against the soft couch cushions, maybe shut your eyes and take a nap because you had nowhere else to be, nothing else to do.

Needless to say, that simple plan did not come to fruition. It was your fault, honestly.

Janet, a work acquaintance with an aggravatingly big heart and the puppy dog eyes of a practiced actor, had bumbled up to your door with tears running down her cheeks. Somehow, she charmed her way into your apartment and sat on your couch, telling you that the volunteer project she’d been apart of was falling apart. Her best friend cancelled last minute, the building materials weren’t being shipped fast enough, and soon, her idea to build houses for miners near the silicon-filled caves of the outskirts would be ruined!

In her desperate time of need, who else could she turn to but you? You, who always got your work done on time? You, who worked late hours and was the star of the company? Her praises were lavish and had you been in your right mind, you would have denied her, shoved her out of your apartment and onto the cold streets where do-gooders like her belonged.

But you didn’t. For a moment, something warm and idealistic seized you, and you thought “What if I could make a difference?”.

You rationalized it in your head in a split second and soon, she was giving you a tearful hug, going on and on about how great it was to have you on the project. Then, the door shut behind her and you felt like the silent, still remnants of a town that’d just been rolled over by a hurricane.

In all honesty, you could have cancelled, but Janet had friends in the decrepit hierarchy of your workplace, so you didn’t. Doing this small favor for her would be worth it if she put in a good word for you with the higher-ups.

The toe of your sneaker hits the edge of the mirror—it this close to the door—and sends you falling. Adrenaline jolts through your system and you brace for the shattering of glass, the ripping of your skin, the howling of an ambulance, stitches, the pain of recovery—but it never comes.

You open your eyes and there’s only blackness. There’s solid floor underneath you, sure. But everything else is black. The void is chilled and no sound travels through it, not even your footsteps as you begin to move forward. As much as you should be, you aren’t panicked. Your brain scrambles to rationalize the situation and does a pretty damn good job of it.

You passed out, and this is a weird dream. Eventually, you’ll wake up in a hospital bed, the glass shards picked out of your skin and organs or wherever they wound up. You really weren’t looking forward to it, but there was nothing you could do to change the situation. The darkness that swelled around you, unmoving, static, boring. The only change is that the mild chill has actually vanished, which only makes it more dull.

Maybe you should sit down and wait? Maybe lay down and try to wake yourself up? If this is a lucid dream, then you should be able to—

Something stirs in the distance, and your heart jumps into your throat. It’s the shift of something large against solid, hard ground, a subtle but voluminous noise of giant footsteps coming closer. On instinct, you shuffle back, back, back, suddenly forgetting that this is very probably a dream as your carnal, base emotions overcome your coherency.

A pair of vibrant, solid red eyes peer out at you from the dark. Each one is the size of a dinner plate. They pierce through the veil of blackness that encompasses the area, their soft glow freezing you in place. Somehow, the form behind them is completely invisible. The light they emit is only going forward, looking right at you. Your breath seizes in your lungs, heart thump, thump, thumping in your chest.

“Tripping and falling is one thing. Tripping and falling into a completely different dimension is another thing entirely.” It’s a smooth, masculine voice that rings all around you, encompasses your entire body. There’s an amused lilt to it, and if you weren’t scared out of your mind, you’d probably admire the rich sound.

The bottoms of the eyes curl upwards. You can only hope that means it’s smiling.

Despite its lack of pupils, you somehow know it’s looking right at you. Uncomfortable heat swells over your skin and pulses inside of you, making your fingers twitch.

“This is just a dream,” You take in a deep breath, trying to calm the manic pounding of your heart.

“I hate to break it to you, but it’s not. We’re real and we’re one-hundred percent right here,” It continues and its voice dips into a sneer. The fear in you is starting to settle, given how it doesn’t seem like it’s going to attack you.

“Whatever you say.” You huff, your agitation twitching, leagues above the dull fear that’d previously seized you.

The temperature of the room begins to dip, and a humid quality slowly infiltrates the air. Your eyes narrow, but you don’t mention it. Dreams are weird. The subconscious is completely possible to understand and you’re not going to try it anytime soon.

“Hey, so, what are you?” Might as well amuse yourself while you wait to wake up. You cross your arms and your posture stiffens, attempting to look assertive. You sincerely doubt that whatever is on the other side of the room respects you or is capable of being scared of you, but it’s worth a try.

“What am I?” It echoes, “Well, that’d take a lot of explaining, and believe me, it’d be boring to listen to and talk about, so—”

Suddenly, the darkness begins to ebb away to the far corners and reaches of the room like a cloud being sucked up by a vacuum cleaner. You squint against the sudden change in light—fortunately, it’s still dim, but what you do see elegant, polished wooden floors that stretch far in front of you. Shelves that reach near to the ceiling stand on either side of you, stacked with pretty, leather-bound books. They’re not just next to you, but across the room, on all sides, arranged in a square around an open area—an open area which houses a large, circular bed.

Its covered in lavish, iridescent blankets and the matching pillows look soft beyond your wildest dreams. The entire room, instead of being clouded by darkness, seems to be filled with light fog. It leaves you astonished and hot and somehow hazy, creeping arousal rolling up your spine.

It’s a hot, flushed feeling that bewilders and frightens you all at once, but dreams are known for being spontaneous, right? It can all be explained.

You take a step forward, cautiously surveying the area. There’s no evidence of the creature that’d spoken to you only moments ago. Maybe the subject of the dream shifted? That’s happened to you before?

The sound of footsteps behind one of the shelves forces your adrenaline to surge. Your wide, frantic eyes look in the direction of the noise, and you’re unprepared for the figure that emerges from behind one of the shelves.

Purple is the first thing you register. Deep, purple skin. It’s a tiefling.

Two sets of horns curl out from dark, curly waves of hair. The dim, red lighting from lanterns hung from the ceiling give the locks a vibrant sheen. His eyes are deep and red but what really attracts your focus next is the smattering of tattoos along his arm, bare shoulder and torso, that winds up his cheek. The colors are deep and vivid and you’re both surprised and impressed at your own imagination.

“Sorry for the scare,” He apologies. His grin widens the closer he gets, revealing two sharp fangs that stretch from the top lip. “But to be fair, there was no good way of introducing myself in that situation.”

“Really?” You raise an eyebrow and fix him with an unimpressed expression, absolutely not convinced.

He stops to stand in front of you. Now that he’s completely up close, you can make out the finer details of his tattoo. There’s a snake on his hand, designed so its mouth opens and closes when he moves his thumb and index fingers. There are scars all over his body, faint but still there. Two, small nipple rings catch the overhead light and gleam, held on (admittedly impressive) pectorals.

“Alright, I’m lying. But the look on your face was well worth it,” He tips his head and his smile becomes crooked, smug. “That’s all in the past, though,” He dismissively waves his hand. “My name’s Mollymauk. Molly to my friends.”

“Okay, Mollymauk.” Maybe it’s bitchy of you to emphasize that you’re not friends straight off the bat, but that’s what he gets for scaring the shit out of you! You cross your arms and cock your hip out. making sure that every inch of you oozes challenge.

“Well, I think you should at least tell me your name, seeing how I was polite enough to give you mine.” He mimics your posture, resting a hand on his hip, raising an eyebrow at you. The ridiculousness of the situation almost makes you give up, but the stubborn part of you stays firm, refuses to buckle no matter how minor the act of giving him your name is.

“I don’t see why that matters. I’ll probably wake up in a minute.” You’re actually not looking forward to that.

“You really have a bad memory, don’tcha?” The corners of his lips press into a flat line and you feel mild satisfaction at managing to wipe the grin off his face. “This isn’t a dream.”

“That sounds a lot like something a dream would say.” You retort and tilt your chin up, haughty and arrogant.

“Bless your little heart,” He takes a wide step forward, into your personal bubble and you freeze. He looms over you, suddenly so close that you can make out every single eyelash, every stroke of the tattoo that crawls up on his right cheek. He’s admittedly handsome, but the sudden pulse of arousal that strikes your lower stomach makes you shift uncomfortably. “You’re real stubborn, but I can prove that this isn’t a dream.”

One of his hands reaches forward and presses onto your hip. You can feel the heat of his skin through the fabric. The atmosphere between the two of you has been turned on its head, leaving you flailing and unsure how to react. Your voice stalls in your throat, tongue fumbling as you try to materialize some witty retort, something smart to say that’ll smack that stupid smile off his face.

But his face moves closer, and his hooded, red eyes draw you in, keep you quiet.

It’s bizarre—unreasonable—heat presses up your body with unbidden suddenness and your skin gets hotter where he grips it.

“Uh-huh.” You say, trying to find as forceful as possible to make up for the pure lack of wit. Something about him muddles your thoughts and god, he’s so close, but you don’t want him to move away. As miffed as you are, you’re also curious about this imaginary figure that your mind has conjured up. “I don’t think you can.”

Contrary to what you were expecting, his gaze softens and his eyelids dip low. His other hand reaches up and cups your cheek, so direct that you almost don’t notice the press of his hips against yours as he shuffles closer. Something hard rubs against your crotch and oh.

You’ve had lewd dreams before, but never one as intricate as this. It has a whole plot line and everything.

Just a dream, though. So anything that happens here should be fine.

A little voice in the back of your head asks, “what if it’s not?” but it is. It is because you don’t have the energy to believe it’s real.

“I can fix that.” He coos, and the honey of his voice makes another wave of heat ripple through your body. The mist seems to thicken and coagulate tight to your skin. Your clothes start to stick and the need to get out of them is sudden, but overwhelming. “Do you want that?” His voice, a slow and rich drawl, beckons and calls. Your pride swells, tells you to hold your ground, but his sculpted body is pressing against you entirely and his clothed cock rests wantonly against your cunt and god, it’s so hot. Why is it so goddamn hot?

You nod before you can think and he leans in, presses your lips together with no preamble. The kiss is soft and you tilt your head into it. The hand on your hip reaches for the buttons of your shirt and undoes them with deft, practiced fingers. The more clothing that comes off, the cooler you feel. His tongue brushes against your lips an you open them, letting him slide into your mouth. Your hand reaches for his broad shoulders. Warmth pulses under his heated skin.

Desperation takes hold as he pulls away, grabbing your sleeves to yank your shirt off. In the split second he’s not pressed against you, you notice the vibrant glow of his eyes and his grin, wild, carnal, ravenous—

And then he’s on you again, hips shoving tight against yours, forcing you backwards. You stumble and struggle to stay on your feet until your knees hit the back of the mattress.

The library rushes around you as you topple onto the bed. The silky sheets are cool against your back and your gaze draws up to the lanterns that hang from the ceiling. Mollymauk’s hands slam on the mattress on either side of your head, effectively caging you in and monopolizing your attention, holding it captive.

You focus on the splash of vibrant green against his lavender skin until he gives you a chaste kiss, before trailing a path of them along your jawline, dipping down to your neck. You give a soft keen, tilting your head to the side. Goosebumps spread over your heated skin at the low noise of approval he makes, pleased at having more skin to cover in attention. His tongue scorches over you and wow, it’s forked.

The realization jolts you, leaving you momentarily distracted and able to be surprised when he nips at the crook of your neck. You squeak and he apparently he likes the sound, because he repeats the motion and soon the amorous affection becomes rougher, more impassioned.

The cool sheets are a striking juxtaposition against the sear of his body, and your hands eventually find his shoulders, caught up in the picturesque stretch of colors that make up his being.

“Lovely.” He praises, voice a balmy whisper. He raises a hand and light catches off his ring finger and pinkie, nails both akin to sharp talons while his pointer and middle are perfectly manicured.

There’s the tearing or fabric. The middle of your bra snaps, jolting you from your stuptor. The garment is haphazardly tugged off your body before you get the chance to scold him, and you suddenly realize how exposed you really are.

His hands run down your sides to perch on your hips, slow and tender, like he’s really taking time to savor you. The right comes back to cup your breast, his thumb rolling over your nipple, teasing the nub to full hardness. His eyelids droop as his face looms over your other breast, lavishing the soft skin with kisses. They’re the short, teasing kind that make your insides feel all hot and hooey, the kind that make you arch your back for more, more, more, the slightly wet kind that chill your skin and make you squirm.

“Mollymauk, stop teasing!” The ache between your thighs swells and you rub them together.

“It’s cute that you think you’re in charge here.” He punctuates his statement with a harsh squeeze to your breast, earning a gasp. His palm brushes tight against your nipple. “You should at least say ‘please’ when you ask for something.

His dexterous tongue curls around your untouched nipple and makes you wiggle against the covers, swathes of sticky warmth making your cunt wet, before he finally slides down the bed. His lithe body wiggles to rest in between your knees, and the visual makes your cheeks hotter. He grabs your thighs and tugs you down the bed with surprising ease. The suddenness of the motion jolts your inebriated system, but the unexpected strength behind it sends another pulse of warmth to your core.

“Mollymauk,” You breathe as his thumbs hook under the waistband of your shorts and panties, bringing them down in a single, swift movement. For as inconsiderate as he was with your bra, he has the decency to set your bottoms aside. You instinctively close your legs but he snaps his grip to them, pulling them apart, pushing passed the soft cotton of your sheepishness like a wolf’s teeth through the hide of a lamb.

The gentle press of his inner thigh makes the muscle twitch. You can’t see his pupils but can somehow feel the heat of his gaze. It pins you in place, keeps you pliant as he trails kisses towards your cunt. Arousal thuds in your body and sloshes in your veins, makes your fingers curl into the sheets.

His teeth catch on your skin and you jolt with a gasp. A velvety chuckle rumbles against your thigh as he continues to trail up, up, up. Trepidation trembles deep in your chest and promptly vanishes at the drag of his tongue over your slicked folds. A squeal flies from your lips and he responds with an eager moan.

Your hips instinctively roll off the bed, into his mouth, desperate for more.

“Stay still, alright?” His arms wind around your thighs and squeeze as if to remind you who’s in charge. “I can’t work my magic if you’re wiggling all over the place.” His lips pill away from your cunt and you whine at the chill that settles in his absence. Impatient, wet kisses spider up your other thigh and his tongue again rasps a single stripe up your slit. Your hips roll again and the muscles in his arms flex briefly as he holds you in place, not lifting his face away for even a moment.

Delight sears up your spine as one of his fingers dips against your entrance. God, please, please—your need boils deep and smothers you. The slender digit teases you for what feels like years, time stretching until he slides one finger inside. It’s impossible to stop your thighs from trying to clamp back together, but he holds you open still.

Knowing he can keep you pinned to the bed as long as he likes terrifies and exhilarated you at the same time.

The broad of his tongue swipes at your bundle of nerves, the forked tips delving deep and making you squirm with each steady thrust of his finger. One of your hands flies down to grip hid horn and he snarls, the vibration making you shake.

Another finger slips in alongside the first. You jolt—it’s covered in something slippery and wet, but the realization melts like flimsy sea foam as he moans again.

The stretch of your walls doesn’t feel like much of a stretch, but the slow pace is agonizing. You suppose you should have expected this, especially after the haughty way he’d presented himself. Such a lascivious creature probably couldn’t resist the temptation to tease and torture you. You want to tell him to go faster, harder, but you’re inevitably enraptured by the flutter of his eyelashes and the sheen of his sweaty bangs pressed against his forehead. His expression is set into something fascinated and so thoroughly concentrated that it makes you feel like a specimen under a microscope, like an insect under the heel of a god,

He keeps the fingering slow as you start to whine, thighs tensing, legs trying to wrap around his head. The sweet mist swells around you and sticks to your skin, another sensation to add to the pile.

“Mollymauk!” You hug his horn again, try to wrench him away, but he stayed affixed to you, fingers tilting at a new angle that makes your shoulders slam back against the mattress, pleasure dancing up your spine and jumbling the words off your tongue.

And then you cum against his face, voice pitching into something pathetic and akin to a sob, a loud noise that sounds alien to even yourself. He groans in unison, tongue continuing to lave over your cunt until your thighs go limp. Finally, he lets them collapse onto the mattress. Your body feels like fucking jello.

Your sweat-slicked chest heaves up and down. Your unfocused gaze jostles down to him as he gets back to his feet, lean abdomen sleek with sweat or moisture from the air. The smirk he levels you with brings you back to your initial meeting.

“Good?” The bed creaks under his weight, knee dipping onto the covers. He drops onto his side next to you, elbow pressing against one of the many puffed pillows, cheek idly resting against his hand. His other hand reaches over and combs through your hair and fuck it, this feels so fucking nice. Your eyes shut and your head lolls against the pillow. “Mhm.” You’re too tired to pretend it wasn’t absolutely phenomenal, not when you feel so nice and sated. It’;s been ages since you’ve had such a great dream, but your consciousness begins to yawn and lull.

“Go to sleep.” His voice purrs in your ear. “We can play again, later.” Sure we can, you think sarcastically. As though your brain will ever let you have something this nice ever again. It’s going to suck to wake up. The memory of your plummet into the mirror almost makes you stir, but the afterglow sedates your mind and body, sending you into inky, black unconsciousness.

---

You don’t know how long you sleep, but when you wake up, you first notice the gross taste of sleep in your mouth and a plush bed against your back. Your eyes open and a vaguely familiar ceiling greets you, the lighting dim and purple—but wait—

You shoot into an upright position, urgently blinking the sleep from your eyes. Alarm shoots through you as you behold the same library from your dream.

No, no, no! Numb horror assaults you as you roll out of the warm bed. The ground is cool against the bottoms of your feet.

This is still a dream. It has to be—shit, shit, shit, it’s not. It’s really not, huh? But where are you? Were you kidnapped by that purple bastard?

Your frantic gaze snaps at the sound of heels clicking against the polished wood and air constricts in your lungs as he rounds the corner. He blinks briefly, looking surprised at the sight of you, before he gives you a grin, warmer than it is smug.

“I told you it wasn’t a dream.”

#mollymauk #mollymauk tealeaf #critical role #cr #imagine critical role

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bae-leth · 5 years

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Another idea, dmitri riding s white stallion that’s surprisingly gently and sweet, as edelgards wyvern grows to be.

wipes tear. I’m also a sucker for loving human-animal friendships… it seems I’m a sucker for everything, huh?

Here you go!

Dimitri is really excited when he learns that he’ll be getting riding lessons.

He researches everything thoroughly beforehand - and I mean everything.

Spurs? He knows which ones he won’t be buying, since they have designs that’ll hurt the horse. (He also makes a note to seek out the sellers of those spurs - just to pay a friendly visit.)

Handling a bit? He makes notes on how to apply the right amount of contact so that the horse isn’t hurt one bit sorrynotsorry.

Size of the saddle? Horse care before and after? Feeding conditions, and how to keep horses warm and cool in the winter and summer months? He makes sure to get as much information as he can out of the stablehands, knowing that they hold genuine love for the creatures, and wanting to replicate the exact same love towards his own.

In short, Dimitri wants to be the best friend and carer for his horse that he can possibly be. He’s excited!

However, when he meets his stallion, it’s quite timid.

He’s surprised, because he thought that stallions were more prone to aggressive then timid behaviour, but no matter what he does, the stallion won’t come near him.

“Hello, there. It’s nice to meet you - oh, he’s already gone…”

Dimitri’s doing everything he’s learnt; he’s being assertive, yet soft-spoken, and he’s giving the horse lots of space, yet it still shies away from him.

Naturally, Dimitri gets a bit frustrated by his lack of progress, but he’s not one to back down so easily. Like Edelgard, he persists, despite others telling him he should probably go for another horse, and leave the white one for someone else.

Sylvain and Ingrid help him out by making him cosy up to their own steeds, but it’s not as helpful as it could be, since Dimitri’s already so familiar with them. (He doesn’t tell them this, though, because their offers make his heart warm anyway.)

Even though it takes weeks and weeks for him to see any progress, Dimitri knows he just has to keep going, despite the disappointing lack of results.

It’s not just doom and gloom, though! The day the horse actually takes the proffered apple - and it takes so long for him to sniff it, let alone take it - Dimitri is this *insert fingers touching meme* close to crying.

(Of course he doesn’t, because his house is watching and they would never let him live it down, but he gets teary-eyed all the same.)

They quickly become inseperable.

(Felix pretends to be jealous, but he’s not, really. He might kind of be happy to see his best friend finally accomplish a goal he was working so hard towards. Kind of.)

Dimitri personally insists on mucking out his horse’s stable and feeding him, never mind how much the trainers protest. He wants to cultivate their relationship properly, and he will.

At the end of every battle, he makes sure to lead horsie back to the stables, and brushes him down.

Brushing his horse is actually one of the favourite parts of his day - he gets time to relax and talk to his ol’ buddy. It’s somewhat therapeutic, and lets Dimitri clear his mind.

They make quite the sight when Dimitri leads his troops. Cobalt blue on pure white is striking, and the artists of the academy have reportedly even used the image as inspiration (which Dimitri is actually faintly embarassed by, but shhh, you didn’t hear that from me.)

Overall, there’s a very sweet relationship between the two of them!

#ask #headcanons #floralianspiderboynova #@ anyone: lemme know if any horse knowledge is wrong! most of this is vague memories of black beauty and wikipedia searches #dimitri #fire emblem three houses

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dcrken · 5 years

Text

* ♡ ˙ ˖ / herman tommeraas + cis male + he/him. — did you know beck’s real name is beckett holsen ? oh yeah, they are a twenty-two year old bartender known as the dirtbag that has been in town for three years. this pansexual aries can be truthful + self-reliant, as well as sardonic + assertive. i hear their soulmark is a wilted rose on the neck, and their soulmate looks like axel auriant. bruised knuckles, neatly poured shots, a journal filled with unspoken words.

hello friends, it’s cee again for an encore round feating this .... lil fucker , BECK ! he’s the light of my life & a recycled muse that i would do anything for, but he’s a lil demon so i apologize in advance. again , please give this a lil LIKE & i’ll hop into your dms !

BACKGROUND. abuse tw, alcohol abuse tw, death tw.

a true southern boy, beckett was born in savannah, georgia. he’s got a very norwegian family, so he speaks fluent norwegian & english, but he’s never been outside of the states. he was born to a very protective mother and a very focused father. where his mother was the loving one, his father was less. surrounded by drinking and anger problems, his father was never comforting or loving, and beck wasn’t raised to be kind and sincere.

as beck grew, his fathers personality and anger only settled in more. often times there would be disagreements that got physical, and the more his father yelled at beck to hit back, the more willing he was to defend himself. unfortunately, his father considered this a+ parenting and felt this was helping beck ‘be a man’ and grow up.

eyes often doted with bruises and knuckles sore from fighting back, beck found solace in his mother. she was kind, soft spoken, and he had no idea why she was still with his father. despite their so called love, he was a terrible husband and father, and no amount of poor guidance would lead beck to think otherwise.

meanwhile, as beck made his way through school, he had a gift for intelligence. he excelled quicker than any other student in his school and was quickly pushed up two grades. at barley seven, he was already passing through third grade and was quickly labeled as gifted.

though he was intellectually on a higher level, he wasn’t at the maturity rate to be so young going through much higher grades. he often got in trouble for acting out, mostly due to his high intelligence mixed with his low maturity. by the age of sixteen, he had already graduated high school and was beginning college. it wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy school or learning ; he’s got a major love for reading and learning, but it was hard to have a stigma over his head.

meanwhile, his father was pushing him to do better and better - there were children who graduated college at sixteen, and his father always thought a pushy do better attitude mixed with physical forces would someone make beck smarter than he was. however, beck knew he wasn’t child prodigy material, he just excelled in school and was able to finish earlier than others. but his father always expected the world, and it weighed heavy on the young boy.

at sixteen years old, beckett left home as he was excepted into princeton university. he longed to be away from home, but he was clearly not ready to be on his own yet. still young and impressionable, his inherited traits got the best of him, and beck had fallen into the partying scene. his father, a business man, had urged his son to become a business major despite his wants to be a teacher, so he did; and it drained the life out of him.

he was still making his way through, despite his struggles, and only faltered when he came home for christmas when he was seventeen. no phone call or text had indicated that anything was wrong - and he realized he had been too focused on his party scene and actually being a kid to call home. however, as he returns home, he’s met with the news that his mother had passed away. his father, being the asshole that he is, didn’t even both having a funeral or contacting their son.

devastated and at wits end with his father, they get into a huge brawl which leaves beck pretty badly hurt and with no choice but to go back to princeton because at least he’s not with his dad.

he only lasts until his eighteenth birthday before he drops out and leaves the state, his degree, and his abusive father behind. he does however, bring the emotional baggage of his childhood and the loss of his mother with him, along with all of the funds he had in savings for college; now protected in his own bank account. he drives and drives until he finds jericho, a small hidden gem that his life had needed.

with his struggles still tucked under his belt, he finds solace in a local bar that allowed him to bartend ( thanks , maine bartending law ), though his job is threatened several times when he’s caught drinking on the job. slowly, however, he pulled himself together. he still has some missing pieces that likely won’t ever put themselves back, but he spend the last three(ish) years becoming his own person.

sometimes he regrets not finishing college, not being there for his mom, and everything else that haunts him from his past, but he’s young, independent, and as happy as he thinks he can get in the small town. he still struggles with alcohol issues, but working at the bar as well as confiding in the owner has actually helped him stay grounded; and his biggest inspiration being.

the focus his anger and to keep his head on straight, i feel like he was briefly involved with some underground fighting but it turned into boxing & some mma type fights locally. nothing professionally or as a steady form of income, but more so for his own well being and so he doesn’t get into actual fights with people. he likes fighting because he grew up with a heavy self defense mindset, and it helps keep him focused and gets out his anger. definitely has a little area at home with a punching bag so he can let out his anger when needed.

PERSONALITY.

beck is ... damaged, but he’s not an asshole. well. he’s kind of an asshole. he’s definitely got temperament issues, but he controls it through work & fights. it helps keep him centered so he doesn’t actually punch people. is incredibly impatient and probably carries a stress ball around with him. i’m not kidding.

however i gotta be honest he’s not that controlled. will probably punch you if you piss him off. very fighty. also

incredibly cynical and doesn’t really believe all the hype around jericho & soulmates. the idea of love in his head is incredibly jaded and he doesn’t think he’ll ever find it. sometimes all he sees in himself is his father and would rather not induce that onto other people. likely comes off as a player-type, though it’s not intentional.

i don’t know if i’d classify him as brutally honest -- but he’s very truthful. he doesn’t intentionally say things to be rude or unkind , but his truth isn’t always what people want to hear and he doesn’t mind being the one who has to say it.

comes off as very much emotionless and that’s how he likes it. he doesn’t like to show weakness. he doesn’t necessarily come off as closed off - he’s honest and truthful , but in technical terms he’s very closed off. little to no people know anything about his past because he won’t talk about it. the most he discloses is that he’s from georgia and he went to princeton.

curses like a sailor. every other work is fuck. every insult in suck my dick. i’m sorry.

he writes in a journal to get his thoughts/feelings out on paper and out of his head. if you touch it, he’ll kill you. not a joke. he also really loves to read??? two things that are usually Unexpected of him.

very typical leather jacket wearing cigarette smoking kinda ‘bad boy’ image although he has a great smile when he decides to use it.

he’s slowly beginning to understand that he needs to let go of his anger & past and is actually pretty happy in jericho. felt super lonely for.... years and probably doesn’t feel as lonely anymore.

LINKS.

wanted connections.

stats.

pinterest.

#jericho.intro #beckintro

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sonderrow-moved · 5 years

Text

This is a headcanon I say I’m gonna write properly but I won’t probably. So here you get the unedited me talking on Discord headcanon.

Archer was way less bitter when younger, he spoke with way less sarcasm and dark humor. Instead, he believed himself to be near invincible, untouchable. That he could attain success with little effort. He knew how to take social cues to make someone feel secure and in trust. He was very soft spoken, but gave a lot of humoristic replies and bit of sass to his peers to retain respect. He was outgoing and was the kind of (seemingly) extroverted guy who knew how to notice a smarter looking introverted and show them he noticed them―this brought Archer loyalty from both outcasts and more popular folks.

Truth was that he was actually an introvert himself and hated being surrounded by people. But he was too young and dead inside/numb to following those type of social gain instructions that he never noticed. Even asked about his suicide attempt during college post his 20 years anniversary, he had no idea what to say.

On the darker side, after school, Archer was pushed to gradually numb himself to others’ pain. He was already prominent to sociopathy and narcissism due to his social manipulation and focus on personal gain, but it was his upbringing that tied the knot. He would beat people who could fight back, then people who were helpless, then watch mostly teens his age and children being abused in front of others like an expensive show.

At the same time, there were his frowned at sexual preferences of ephebophilia (a primary sexual interest towards mid-to-late teens, around 15 to 19, though I personally range Archer from 13 to 17). At first he thought he just liked his peers, but the more he aged, the more he didn’t feel anything for anyone in senior high school and college.

Because he believed himself to be straight, he naturally drew the conclusion that just like most guys like a younger female partner, he was doing the same.

The problem was with boys, there was on way for him to really know what was going on; he only was shown examples of boys being abused in front of him, and even then this was committed primarily by women. Archer thought that past the initial disgust, fear and indifference, he developed a finer taste, just like a finer taste in wine.

After knowing boys and gaining their trust, Archer would show a lot of predatory behaviour. The issue was that nobody could really notice, because he was himself young, went on dates (and was active in talking about it so). And on top of that, boys loved him. The preference towards being around boys instead of girls was again never questioned because “Oh boys hang out with boys that’s normal”.

He never outright raped and younger boy. He was doting and soft, which didn’t make any kid question themselves because they were taught how to fear way older men who would try to hurt them. Archer brought them love, attention, lecturing, mentorship and gifts. How he got his way was some inappropriate touching here and there, or way too much talk r-rated subjects. In terms of tension, he was very much like how he seems so constantly flirty like with Hœnir in the present without actual sexual penetration or kissing. At the same time, he didn’t do anything he believed would seem questionable were as the kid would tell his guardians.

Those preferences still show after his trip to prison. Atop of still being flirty, when looking at adults, he at I’d say 90% feels strongly attracted to those with smooth skin, younger features and light coloured hair.

However, an issue Archer meets is that just like some people with those type of sexual interests, his predatory tendencies bring their own fantasies (though they are what they are―fantasies, which he never deeply thought about), and when meeting someone as an adult when he knew them as a kid, Archer strongly tends to only see “This is the kid I met, he is exactly the same only in a bigger body”. It brings him to “start where they left off” and get way touchier than he is with the average person. Like a longing lover. And denies that person of any adult-like characteristics they might have (it doesn’t help that his dominant attitude make people more submissive, have a hard time asserting themselves). To see someone like that as a real man/woman, he kinda needs a pretty big slap. That slap comes with two conclusions: violence or a plea to still like him.

I imagine it would have been much more healthier for Archer to have a simple friendship with Hœnir* (edit: talking to dear Hœmun but this applies to anyone involved in Archer’s past verses), since despite his social persona, they genuinely bonded. Before any physical preference, Archer’s attraction, platonic or romantic or anything, is primarily defined by intelligence.

He was entirely the type who’d wait for someone younger to grow up and become a legal adult before sleeping with them, or officially date them.

Only he never was able to, since he was thrown into arranged marriage very early on; he had been to meetings of potential candidates since he 16. It was settled in stone in his mind that he would marry a pretty lady and have pretty children.

Archer knew how to deal with younger people having a crush on him. He had girls (pre-est relationship on tumblr) try to kiss him “that’s what boyfriend and girlfriend do, I wanna be your girlfriend”, and he always told them. “Come back when you’re an adult and we’ll see” with a smile and a kiss on the forehead or cheek.

Those preferences still show after his trip to prison. Atop of still being flirty in attitude towards pretty much everyone, when looking at adults, he at I’d say 90% feels strongly attracted to those with smooth skin, younger features and light coloured hair.

It brings him to “start where they left off” and get way touchier than he is with the average person. Like a longing lover. And denies that person of any adult-like characteristics they might have (it doesn’t help that his dominant attitude make people more submissive, have a hard time asserting themselves). To see someone like that as a real man/woman, he kinda needs a pretty big slap. That slap comes with two conclusions: violence or a plea to still like him.

#. There's a human behind Archer... maybe ( headcanon )

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