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#god I love how as far as I know there's literally nothing in canon to support any of our weird kinky

essektheylyss · 19 hours

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for the ask game: 🧡🖤💚

🧡: What is a popular (serious) theory you disagree with?

Until I see definitive proof that Ludinus is in fact as old as he wants people to believe he is, I will not believe it. I don't even really have an opinion on how old he is; I just don't think he's as old as he tries to suggest. And lest it be said that I am playing favorites, the thing about Ludinus is that he talks the way Essek talks in 91—and there are a lot of things Essek says at that dinner that I take with a good heaping of salt. It's this sense that they're talking around things that they would rather people not question; they're both very skilled at talking around things in a way where they aren't outright lying, but they'd rather you not think too hard about it because there's shit they're not saying. To be clear I also won't be mad if there does turn out to be some evidence in canon that he is that old, but thus far, there is nothing definitive, and I do not take the word of unreliable NPCs at face value.

🖤: Which character is not as morally good as everyone else seems to think?

I don't think this is really an unpopular opinion at this point, but Jester. Nice =/= good. I don't think she's evil, by any means! But her morality is a lot more complex than it's given credit for and I think it's one of the things that is most interesting about her. I'd actually consider her largely amoral; it's just not really an axis of consideration that she worries about. She doesn't want people to hurt her or her friends and she doesn't want something to destroy the world, but otherwise she doesn't really care much about what someone's morality is. "Just don't be evil to me" is an incredible sentiment for a reason. She cares more that Essek said they were his friends than the fact that he's the traitor they've been looking for. Ludinus is so insignificant to her despite his literally world-spanning evil plots that she has basically forgotten him six years later, even though two members of her friend group have spent the last six years trying to pin him down. Jester is hilariously amoral and I love that for her.

💚: What does everyone else get wrong about your favorite character?

[cracks knuckles] OKAY, this is where I've got receipts, because hooo boy do I have an opinion and I will be proving it.

Essek does not have an opinion on the Prime Deities. He does not really have much of an opinion on religion. He actually does not by the end of the campaign have any real issue with the Luxon, and frankly he primarily expressed issue with the Dynasty's worship because, until he got to Aeor, he wasn't certain that the Luxon was a real entity at all—which he contrasts against the Prime Deities, in fact!—and he seems to believe there is compelling evidence in Aeor that categorically disproves his hypothesis that the beacons are simply constructed Age of Arcanum devices.

Originally he is mostly concerned that the Luxon religion is used as a "crutch" which is "distracting them from what other good things they could do with the time and focus". He does specify that any religion can be used as such, but he only remarks upon the one he knows. His theory about the beacons, as of episode 91, is that they may be "artifacts designed in the Age of Arcanum that have been misread" that could be put to even further use.

He also does parrot the Dynasty party line in their first meeting about the Luxon being "the basis of how we've been able to free ourselves from the binds of the lineage the Betrayer Gods left for us", and while I do not take him at face value here (see the above commentary about unreliable NPCs), I doubt the truth of this statement is lost on him, considering his familial connections to Bazzoxan, which I can only imagine would not exactly endear one to the Betrayers, though this is only conjecture. If we do care to take him at his word here, it's not unreasonable, since he obviously has a lot more interest in the power offered by the beacons than anything else.

With all that being said, his tune on the Luxon itself has at least changed by the time they get to Aeor. He discusses iconography found in Aeor and when prompted by the Nein about whether the beacons were created by mortals, says, "I do not believe that they are made by anyone but the Luxon. They are of the Luxon. But they've been around since the Luxon's been in Exandria, which is the beginning."

So we started with him largely apathetic to religion, uncertain if this god was real, and by the time we circle back to him, he has now sided fairly definitively with the fact that the Luxon is an entity that has been around since at least the Founding. (For those keeping track at home, this is longer than Predathos has been around. In the Dynasty's creation myth, it may also have been around before the Prime Deities arrived, which is technically not incompatible with the creation myth of Exandria at large, but I digress.) Like most of Exandria, and as is perfectly reasonable for both his culture and his region, he probably doesn't have any love for the Betrayer Gods, but doesn't express much opinion if any on the Prime Deities. He has no time for religion, but frankly, he doesn't have time for much except for his own research, so it's hard to really ascribe any noted contempt to that.

Like, look, I've written plenty of religious trauma Essek fic, and I don't doubt that that element of it exists, but overall, in terms of canonical statements, it's pretty tame.

With that being said, I do want to fast forward a bit to draw attention to something else. Because I actually do think he ends the campaign with some measure of respect for, at the very least, the Wildmother.

In 140 after the Raise Dead fails, he talks briefly with Fjord about the unfairness of it. Fjord passively directs him to "if you were to ask my wise friend Caduceus..." Immediately after this exchange, Essek challenges Caleb to not accept defeat, and admits he wishes there was more that he or any of them could do, but concedes that, "Unfortunately, this type of magic is beyond my purview."

Immediately after this exchange, Caduceus asks for divine intervention.

Of course, he then spends several weeks gardening in a temple to the Wildmother, and seems to find some genuine clarity and perspective there, but I think this alone is enough to argue that, for a person as driven by empirical evidence as Essek, this sequence of events in 140 would be plenty to earn a wizard's respect.

So my formal belief is that Essek is not in fact anti-god or anti-religion, let alone against the Prime Deities. My opinion is that it's very easy to imagine him on his post-campaign travels leaving a small offering at any shrine of Melora he might pass, not out of actual worship but as a sign of respect.

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wriothesleysgf · 7 months

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pretty boy. — gojo satoru

notes: some domestic gojo, because god knows everyone needs it today.

content: no angst, here we just reject canon and embrace fluff. implied non!sorcerer reader, but can be read either way. established relationship. not proofread. this post is leak/spoiler free! this song is the vibe i was going for, if anyone is interested.

"honey, i'm home!"

the familiar, ever-joyous tone of one gojo satoru rang through the apartment; it was always the highlight of your day. you, however, didn't respond. it concerned him a little, to be honest, but as soon as he heard the sounds of soft music echoing from the kitchen, he knew just where to find you.

you were too busy gently swaying to whichever song the radio station was playing to notice gojo. so, like any adoring boyfriend would, he leaned against the doorframe and watched.

he never thought he'd be lucky enough to have a love like you. with his position in the world of sorcery, and the prestige that his name carried, gojo always thought he'd be alone. hell, he was absolutely petrified of catching feelings for somebody, since there would likely be people willing to hurt the people that he loved in order to get to him. rationally, he knew he could defeat them, but the thought always lingered.

thus, he was incredibly grateful for peaceful moments like this. moments where he could forget that he was the honoured one, and feel like all he is is yours— because that's all he desires anymore.

gojo knocks on the doorframe, not wishing to startle you as you cook. you jumped a little, but immediately settled the very second you saw those blue eyes and messy white locks. he looked so effortlessly attractive, even after a full day's work.

without even saying a word, he saunters over to you and wraps his arms around your waist. his chin rests on the top of your head, and he continues to sway you to the rhythm. as he hums softly, you recognize that he's probably had a difficult day. it's not like him to be so quiet.

you relax under his touch and let him hold you, knowing he needs it right now. "i love you," he mumbles. each words is sincere with him. the tone is more sombre than usual, almost like you'd have expected the words to come from nanami instead.

you get to a point that you can leave the food alone for a moment as it cooks, and turn around to face gojo. his arms remain around you, but you can see his face more clearly now. he's exhausted, and trying to mask that. you move a few stray hairs out of his face, carressing his cheek. "i love you too," you finally reply.

the returned sentiment puts a smile on his face. it's not the regular, goofy grin he displays around others. it's something more real, and it makes you feel like you're one of the few people that gojo really lets in on how he's feeling. if anything, you quite literally are, as his infinity was lowered the second that he stepped into the threshold of your apartment.

since your guard is so far down, gojo begins to move you with ease. he guides your body around the kitchen, causing the pair of you to fall into a rather messy slow dance of sorts. both are content, at peace in each others' arms. there's a blissful silence, a rarity for the gojo household, where nothing but the calming music fills the air.

the two of you remain in this little, serendipitous bubble for a while. the only thing that pops it is when the food on the stove makes a concerning noise, and you notice that you were so caught up that it began to burn.

"shit!" you squeal, leaping out of gojo's arms to try to salvage your meal. he just chuckles, finding your hectic movements amusing.

"baby, don't worry about it," he says, smiling as he pulls out his phone. "i'm ordering in, we can deal with this mess tomorrow,"

gojo then moves closer to you, wrapping you up in his arms so that you can't escape with ease. he waddles backwards towards the living room, not stopping until you're both plopped down on the couch (of course he's on top of you, pinning you down yet somehow not suffocating you with the mess of long limbs that he is).

he flicks on the screen, which is showing some older and kind-of sappy romcom, and presses a few buttons to order your food. the night ends with the coffee table littered in takeout boxes and some movie still playing— you weren't sure what, as you had both fallen asleep in each other's embrace long ago.

#♡｡ now tracking: kfairy ☆.ᐟ #gojo x reader #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojō x reader #gojo fluff #jjk drabbles #jjk x you #jjk fluff #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojou satoru x reader

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yuitoru · 5 months

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heyyy hows ur day/night been???

i saw u were asking for reqs so i might as well send one in :>

can u do headcanons for bllk boys (anyone of ur choice) with fem!reader whos like insecure bout her being flat and like not curvy and all that. Cuz we need justice too 🥺

if its not to your liking or too difficult to do, dont mind this req!!

thankyouuuuuuu

a/n: hihii so far my day hasnt been great, dealing with periods really suck and im in pain :(( but omg thank you for requesting i need to ger my mind off everything rn!! tbh i actually wish i had a smaller chest since i cant wear any shirts normally and bras hurt - im 32e at 15 :/

ʚ ₊˚✧ ⠀⠀⠀ BEAUTIFUL

incl : y.isagi , r.itoshi , s.itoshi ,

₊˚✧ YOICHI ISAGI

throughout your entire relationship with isagi, he has made it so, so clear that he saw you as perfect - an angel sent straight from god himself. he wouldnt change a single thing about how you looked, and he wanted you to know how much he actually loved you. you were his life, his entire world - his pretty baby

isagi is a dedicated thigh man, so you being flat and not as curvy didnt matter in the slightest to him; he thought you were the most beautiful person he had ever met. he worshipped you, and whenever you felt insecure, isagi would stop at nothing to make sure that you knew just how much he loved you

"baby! i saw these flowers and thought of you, so i bought them!"

"hey, pretty - i miss you soooo much, gimme kisses pls!!"

he also loved buying you clothes, and whenever you had doubts about how your body would look in them, isagi would press kisses all over your face, pausing after each word to speak

"you" kiss "are" kiss "so" kiss "damn" kiss "pretty" kiss

isagi is head over heels for you, and your body isnt what he cares about, or how other girls look - its you he loves, the way you are

₊˚✧ RIN ITOSHI

rin has never once cared about a person’s look - nobody had ever stood out to him. he had no preference for anything - ass, tits, thighs … it quite literally meant nothing to him, as he had nobody to care for it with. that was, until he met you, and fell like an idiot in love.

in rin’s eyes, you are the embodiment of perfection - everything about you is beautiful and just so you. rin didnt care that you werent like models on magazines: slender body with nice ass and boobs. all rin cared about was that you were his, and he was yours - he would have it no other way.

so, when people ask rin what he prefers in a woman, his answer every single time was..

“my type is my girlfriend, my beautiful yn”

₊˚✧ SAE ITOSHI

canonically sae is an ass man, but when it comes to you, he couldnt care less about what you looked like. sae fell in love with you for you, not for how you looked - well, that did of course play a factor in him falling for you.

you stole sae's heart just by being yourself - he loved you more than anything else. he was already yours from the moment you became friends. sae didnt care that you didnt fit his 'type' - change was always a good thing, and you were the best thing for him.

whenever insecurity plagued your mind, or people made off-hand comments about how you didnt look like other girlfriends of his teammates, sae would do his best to reassure you that he thought that you were the most beautiful person to ever exist on earth.

there was quite literally nothing that could convince sae itoshi that somebody else could be as stunning and ethereal as you.

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namazunomegami · 1 month

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Atonement

Pairing: Geto Suguru x gn!reader

Synopsis: How can you cleanse yourself from the sin that has been tainting you since your attempt to escape? The answer is easy: walk on barefoot for him, suffer some misery, risk your health for him, open yourself up for him and you can earn his forgiveness.

CW: canon compliant, established relationship, toxic and complicated dynamics, religious symbolism, porn with feelings, Geto is a manipulative ass how surprising, gaslighting, m!receiving oral, fingering, non-consensual edging, good old unprotected sex + creampie

WC: 5.3k

Credits: my lovely @notveryrussian who worked so hard to get this fic proofreaded. Ngl they deserve all the praise and respect because we lost literal pages from the already edited draft because windows is crap and they had to start over again. Take one big break darl, you deserve it 💕

Song rec: mythical creature by pregnant whale pain was my main inspiration during writing but i think tumblr dot com is not ready yet to listen to an unknown hungarian avantgarde metal band while reading porn lmao. Maybe i'll drop the acoustic version later.

A/N: Here is part 1 in case if you missed it. I think you need to know what happened to completely understand the buildup and have a general idea about their relationship. This fic is probably my fave I’ve written so far, a special lil brainchild of mine. These two are living in my mind rent free with all their lore and they'll never let me go.

Reblogs are greatly appreciated 💕

Minors don't interact unless you want me to stand outside your house at 3 am with a pitchfork

It was very hard to explain to your family what happened to you. The worry which they approached you with, especially Mimiko and Nanako just stirred a weird sense of guilt in your chest. The twins even offered to help you out with chores, eagerly telling you to rest, let your body heal. Your heart shattered to pieces in that moment, weeping endlessly with fat, salty tears. Your precious darling girls, so considerate of you, so caring, their hearts filled with everlasting gratitude. And you wanted to leave them. You felt like a piece of shit of a parental figure, obviously.

Days passed as if nothing had ever happened. Even in your private moments with Geto, the issue was never brought up. He took care of your wounds, of course, but your escape attempt wasn’t a topic of conversation at all. You swept it under the rug.

Which means it was only a question of time until he was going to wield it against you.

“Leave the scabs alone.” he reprimands you softly, dragging your wrist away from them. The hot water softened your scars, making them itchy, easy to pick away at them. But Geto is so thoughtful for looking after you like some kind of crazy mother hen, right? Even sitting in the tub behind you.

He takes hold of the edge, stepping out of the tub swiftly. The water suddenly drops around you, goosebumps dot your skin from the sudden touch of the moistened air as he hides that broad, sun-kissed form of his beneath a bathrobe. You ache for a bit of peace, a bit of me-time, but since the so-called “accident”, he just couldn’t stop himself from keeping an eye on you constantly.

Your hand dances along the surface of the water, bunching the bubbles together into various shapes, like they’re islands. Like you’re a young god, decorating the plane you’ve created. But his outstretched palm appearing in your vision disturbs your creative process.

“Come, I’ll take the stitches out.”

Compared to when your wound was sutured, cutting out the thread is a relatively quick process. Especially with his competency. The tweezer lifts and holds the knot, as he severs the thread with a pair of scissors and pulls it from your flesh before he moving on to the next. It’s uncomfortable, not in a way that it hurts, but it makes your skin crawl and your bones bend. An overall disgusting feeling. But when it’s over, it does feel better. And knowing him, you wonder if it’s purposeful or not.

“Must you make it painful?” you complain, thumb pressing down on the closed, marred skin. For the wrong reasons though, but you can freely complain.

“I didn’t intend to hurt you.” his voice is soft like silk, but not without a sharp edge in it, slowly unfurling, like the jaws of a venus flytrap. “I just wanted to teach you a lesson.”

You glare at him, your eyes piercing him like a dagger.

“Me? I wanted to teach you a lesson.”

This… was a bit too far, you must admit.

You storm out of the bathroom, like you could get away from the conversation.

“Go on, speak.” his words echo through the walls of the bedroom, making your movements halt immediately. You glance up at the window, faced with his reflection as he leans against the doorframe. “What should I learn from you? That you’re not afraid to run? To put your life in unnecessary danger?”

A long sigh leaves through your nostrils.

“If it comforts you, then yes, I realized that I had made a dumb decision.”

You don’t have to turn around to know he’s standing right behind you. Looming over you, shrouding you like an evil trickster spirit.

“I must admit I enjoyed your little attempt…” his palms are heavy on your shoulders, just like his words echoing close to shell of your ear. “Catching you, watching your resolves crumble, the raw terror plastered on your face…” the way his voice caresses you is just like the way he would hold a blade right against your throat, pressing down on the pulsing veins that could be cut open so easily. Like needles slowly being inserted into your ear canals. Eventually it softens, getting more serious and chiding. “But you did scare me. Have you ever thought about what would’ve happened if I didn’t go after you?”

You’d die, you would definitely die. Bleeding out amidst the leaves and grass, letting the frosty night bite you tense and weak. All alone in the dark.

Hold on…

You wouldn’t be injured if he hadn’t frightened you in the first place.

Did he just… no, it can’t be.

He slowly walks away from you, and you hear the bed creak under his weight. The choking feeling finally lifts from your throat. You turn towards one of the incense burners, already filled, it merely needs to be lit. But you do it slowly, just for the sake of appearing busy, to not feel obligated to carry on with the conversation.

But you should make peace with him before he does. He’ll make you face all of your mistakes and their consequences, if not outright making you suffer because of them. Rub all of them into your face until you have no choice but to plead for forgiveness.

It’s not easy, but you open your mouth. The scent of sandalwood lowers your guards, helping you be honest and brings forth the thoughts you’ve been trying to hide for a long time.

“Sometimes I wonder if we’re doing the right thing. And I wonder even more about that if we’ll fail before reaching our goal. Fail spectacularly. Because we want to do the impossible.”

“What is exactly the right thing? Being selfless? Forgetting all about our grudges and letting the world trample all over us? Or being selfish and crushing anyone under our feet to keep each other safe?”

Like an elastic band being strained for far too long, you snap. Luckily, the bronze lid of the incense burner holds out under your grasp.

“It’s too fucking late for moral arguments! Can’t you speak to me more directly for once? Instead of hiding behind your… carefully crafted scenarios that only prove your point.”

You should have avoided looking at him. At your serpent, who made you sin, who was cursed alongside you, your serpent who devoured your beloved Adam. You yearned for the remains, sitting in the bottomless pit of his stomach.

But you swore those remains spoke to you, through layers of flesh, scales, and deception. Soft and calm like a light summer breeze.

“Do you have doubts about me, darling? Are you giving up on me?”

The question breaks you, evaporating all of your anger and resentment in a flash. Devoid of any playful tone or hidden meanings, so raw that it takes hold of your heart and squeezes it so tight that it couldn’t possibly beat anymore.

You know how he twists the truth, striking right into the softest parts of you. He feeds you poison – yet you swallow it right down every single time.

“Faith has no zenith, my dear.” you answer, low and sweet, like you wanted to comfort him. The lid on the incense burner closes, giving you enough time to build up the courage to approach him. You weave your words carefully, in such fashion that it can be interpreted in multiple ways. If he switched just one little word, he’d immediately gain more insight into what’s really been weighing on your heart. “There’s no such peak we can reach on which we can stagnate forever. Faith sometimes wavers, sometimes we question our beliefs. Sometimes we’re unsure if our prayers are heard.” you get down on your knees before him, taking his hand into yours, giving him a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “But I do want to have faith in you.”

His features visibly soften. Heavy lids close in relief, and you feel his thumb brushing along your knuckles.

This is your chance! Go on, there’s no time more perfect than this to try to convince him.

“We should really get away from the temple.” you start with an almost resigned sigh, but your excitement soon starts to show. “Just for a few days. Manami will handle the followers while we leave for the countryside, or an island. We can bring the girls even.”

A faint glimmer in his eyes tells you his answer is going to disappoint you.

“They don’t know about the girls, but they certainly know about you.” he reminds you sternly. “The higher ups want us dead and the last time I offered to protect someone, they ended up getting killed.”

His voice is faint, almost shaky. He rarely talks about the death of Riko. And if he ever brings her up in a conversation, you know he means it.

The heavy lid above his eyes drops, violet irises hiding behind his lashes, averted from you. The words coming out of him are barely above a whisper, like his lips are made from lead, like forming the words is a tiring task because they’re so heavy, and filled with something violently torturing him.

“This is a risk I’m not willing to take again. Not even for you. Especially for you.”

You feel something pooling on your waterline. Translucent pearls of tears appear so involuntarily when you see him like this. Sometimes you do want to hurt him, but when you see him in pain, it torments you even worse.

“I’m not asking you to take risks for me. I never did. But you should take some for you. You could use some respite.” you lace your fingers with his. It brings you a strange kind of comfort how your hand just loses itself in his, but it’s yours that looks more lively and powerful. Like it’s you what keeps him together. As if without you he would shatter into pieces. “You take on an awful lot of responsibilities, I think sometimes more than you’re capable of handling.”

Affection sweeps through his features as he caresses your head, from the roots of your strands to the thick bone of your jaw. A lonely thumb brushing along from your cheekbone to the lobe of your ear. And there’s nothing you can do, only stare at him, wide-eyed with reverence, like he’s an ethereal being.

“This is not your cross to bear.”

He wanted to ease your concerns, but you’re much more stubborn than that. You won’t stand there, at a safe distance, watching him drag himself to his Calvary, whipped and crowned with thorns. You’ll push through the crowd, smash them to bits just to reach him and offer your veil to wipe his face. A thousand times, as many times as he needs.

“Of course it is, what do you expect from me? Unlike…” No, don’t say names, do not compare yourself to certain figures in your past and the way they treated him. “I’m worried about you, for no other reason than I genuinely care about you. That’s why I want you to put our plans to aside - let’s unwind a little, recharge. Before all of this drives us insane.”

He deliberately avoids answering, your concern grows and grows like vicious vine. Is this too much to ask for? A small moment of normalcy can’t be granted to you? What are the two of you really? Idols of worship, if not gods at this point because your sheep do regard you as such. But can’t gods long for a visit amongst mortals? Can’t they shed their divine status? You could, but maybe, before he’d let you leave, he’ll feed you pomegranate seeds.

Would you eat them again? Of course you would. Even if you fight and snarl a little beforehand. Because love is the death of duty, and of a peaceful mind, of comprehensive decisions. Love is so mystified, shrouded in the illusion of an immortalized existence, just like death. Love is, indeed, death.

Your palms cup his face, his skin radiates warmth through you. The warmth of the evening sun that makes the sky bleed with the prettiest colors you can imagine. Your touch slowly encourages him to look into your eyes, finding a strange kind of determination and care mixed with your obvious worry. A Magdalene dwells within your gaze, who already washed her prophet’s feet with tears and dried them with her hair before he starts his last journey to Golgotha.

“I told you a million times, if you fall too deep into your misery, when you feel like you can’t come back to the surface on your own, let me know, so I can pull you out. Or let me know so I can go after you. And we’ll drown together.”

All those little pacts and vows you made during the years echo through you. Even the first one, the most ancient of them all, when it was still easy to hide your concerns behind your techniques.

I’ll keep an eye on you.

It’ll keep an eye on you.

You lean closer, foreheads and the tips of your noses touching. Eyes closing in almost perfect synchronicity.

“Promise me, Suguru. Promise me again.”

You wait and wait, until his warm breath brushes your skin like fine silk, like a feather.

“I promise.”

You sigh in relief. It hurts, it hurts so much. There’s so much place in your heart for him to dwell in. He owns it and he won’t give it back. Ever.

You only wanted a chaste kiss, but a special type of hunger wakes deep below your navel. You taste his words, you swallow them down, nipping them from his lips. You look for the rest of them, his thoughts that hadn’t been formed into words yet, the rest of the sentence, you search for it with your tongue inside his mouth.

You grab onto the sheets, trying to push yourself up. Like you could overpower him, like you could battle against him. To have him laid out on the mattress, defeated. But he stops your advances with a palm resting on your shoulder, gently pushing you away.

“You’re not healed yet.” he whispers, truly concerned.

“Then I’ll be on top, I don’t care.” you oppose breathily, your fingers trying to pry his robe open.

“The cut on your hand could re-open if we’re not careful.”

Oh, how you adore him when he’s so tender with you, but now, this is the last thing you want. You want to bare your teeth and go right for the throat.

“Then you’ll stitch me up again.” There’s a playful edge in your voice, and you kiss him again with the same curve of a smile while he lets you crawl on top of him.

And he smiles against you too, delighted by your eagerness. You, trying to eat him up, digest him - he’s just enjoying you and the feast you’re having. Taking everything from you. He only wants to capture you, to cage you in his hold. He’s kneading your flesh leisurely and humming into your mouth contently, almost lazily.

In the crooks of his body, you find your religion.

The sharp line of his jaw, the tendons of his neck, the hollow caverns around his collarbone. But your mouth carefully avoids the scars slashing through his chest, after all those years, it still pains him when the lightly coloured, textured skin gets touched. As if these lips of yours and your aimlessly trailing fingers were the same blades, penetrating the flesh again and again.

There’s not a morsel of him that you weren’t intimately familiar with. In a way that rivals how much you know about yourself. And what you know even better is that how can you venerate them, dote on them, adore, and idolize with such devotion you could anger all deities created by man and make them scream blasphemy on you.

You take his cock in your hand, teasingly working your palms around him. Pumping it, stroking your thumb along the underside to make his breath hitch. His dick grows beneath your hands, getting harder and heavier. The first beads of precum get smeared along the length by your skillful fingers.

“You know you don’t have to- “but you cut him off while settling between his legs.

“Just relax and let me do all the work.” your response comes out a bit more deadpan than planned. “You deserve it once in a while.”

And with that, you wrap your lips around him, enveloping him in warmth and wetness, your tongue slowly swirling around the head. His thighs twitch, more precum oozes into your waiting mouth as the muscle between your teeth works eagerly. You give him a few, gentle sucks, slurping up the mixture of your own saliva and his arousal. Between ragged breaths, he reminds you to breathe through your nose as you take more and more of his length. You relax your jaw, your fingers tense around the base of his cock and you’re trying as hard as you can to defeat the urge to gag. When you fit all of him inside your mouth, you empty your lungs and give him a harder suck, hard enough to make you cheeks hollow and his chest heave. As your free hand is occupied with kneading his balls between your fingers and knuckles, a moan bursts out of him.

The sound boosts your confidence, filling you with a wicked kind of playfulness. The kind of wicked that makes you pull back your tongue a little, as to not keep your teeth hidden. You drag them along his sensitive, pulsing underside, balancing the pressure between pleasure and pain. Like you could prove to him that you’re ready to bite back, that this is the only moment when he can’t control you, that he shouldn’t underestimate you.

And just as if he could read your thoughts, his hand goes for your head, fingers getting lost between your strands. But he’s not as cruel as to push you down on him, instead he guides you, increases the rhythm that you’re working with. Steady and firm, but not too fast. You earn yourself his praises, soft curses pitched higher than his normal voice.

This is what real worship looks like.

When you feel the muscles in his thighs and stomach tensing up, you stop. You emerge from the space between his legs, wiping your lips clean and admiring your work. All that flushed skin blooming in pink on his chest and face. You move, trying to get into a new position, settling your calves right next to hips. You start aligning yourself with his cock to finally start grinding on him.

He sits up and traps you with an arm coiling around your waist.

“Since when were you so reckless?”

His hand creeps around the apex of your thighs. A finger barely brushes along your slit. By adding another digit, he spreads your folds, finding hot, smooth, slippery flesh.

“I would’ve prepped myself.” that’s all you can say in your defense.

Fingertips circle your hole, applying a bit of pressure, checking how much you’ve loosened up. He invades you slowly as your lungs empty, the hardened skin on his fingers stroking and massaging your sweet spots before he starts working you open.

You wrap your arms around him, slowly undoing his bun to have something to grab onto as you jolt, as your bones melt, as your brows furrow in bliss. The moans coming from you are breathy and tender, and you hide them in his strands. He twists his fingers inside you, stretching your warm muscles further, making your back arch and you press your hardened nipples to his chest. Your essence engulfs his knuckles, clear and sticky like honey.

The heel of his palm settles right against your clit and you shamelessly grind on it. Your mewls pass over his ears as he’s nuzzling into the crook of your neck, nipping at the skin of a faint scar. But you resist giving in, you stop him, telling him that’s enough, but in reality you just want your control back. Take back the lead and revel in it.

And somehow he obeys, laying back into the sheets.

You slip out of your robe, showing yourself fully. The bruises on your skin can finally bathe in the dim lamplight, painting the complexion of your sides, shoulders, and upper arm in different shades of blue and purple, like paint on bare canvas. Like the night sky carrying storm clouds, like you’re rotting, decomposing. You find a twisted, perverted joy in the fact that he must be seeing them for the whole time.

“Slowly, slowly.” he murmurs softly as you’re pushing the head of his cock inside you. “There’s no need to rush.” Trimmed nails trail up and down from the flesh of your thighs to your bruised sides. Tender and slow like a ghost, goosebumps pepper your skin from the tickling feeling. “I’m already yours.” He purrs and your heart flutters.

And there’s so, so much pride in you that only you can render him to this state. Too powerful for the world to bear him, capable to burn this plane to ruins, defying the barriers between a mortal and a god - or something way worse than that. Maybe you should receive twice the respect from your herd, for being the only person who can enslave him in this way, that only you can have this sort of power over him. Only you can overthrow him. Because you’re just too dear to him, too close to his burning heart.

Maybe it’s your time to warn him. Tame him like the monster he is.

You move with your own rhythm. His hand caged between your fingers and pressed down against the sheets. You give him no other choice but to venerate you back and he does, with pleased, low rumbles coming from his throat. Only a singular hand is allowed to roam your form freely. On your back tracing the shallow line where your spine lies beneath skin and flesh, wandering towards the inner part of your thighs, then to your stomach and chest. And you reward him with a prayer of your own, encapsulated in deep, long sighs.

But you’re too trusting of him. You let your guard down too easily.

You’re holding onto his kneecaps, leaning towards them a little, allowing every inch of you to be seen. You want to give him a show, but your knees are too worn and tired.

He takes hold of your hips, helping you guide yourself along his length. His pelvis moves along with you in synced rhythm. Your teeth are pressing down on the soft skin of your lips, but you can’t keep your whimpers in. You’re getting close, your muscles and nerves are st tight and pulsing, your walls are pressing down on his length. His name mindlessly slips out of your mouth.

Maybe you can say you love him before you shatter.

But his fingers clench around you, strong and firm, stopping your movements. Lifting your hips up so high that his cock is barely inside, robbing you from your incoming orgasm.

You’re shocked, eyes staring into the nothingness, open wide. Your stomach drops, stirring up all kinds of feelings dwelling in you. A chill races down your vertebrae as you glance down at him.

“Suguru..?” Your voice is weak, shaky.

Fear courses through your being, primordial and all-consuming.

And when he speaks to you it’s all dark, shrouded in malevolence.

“You forgot one thing, darling. After I brought you back from the forest.”

No, no, no, he can’t do this to you! He can’t hold your orgasm hostage for the sake of toying with you! You should puncture his flesh your nails, scratch him, tear him up, but you can only grit your teeth. Your features twist from bliss to rage.

“You…” boiling anger swims through your voice. It’s like it’s not even your voice - more like a hiss, a growl.

There’s an undecipherable mixture of pity and amusement in his eyes. He twitches inside you but you’re too upset to notice.

“Apologize.” he sneers - almost commands.

His words cause anger to bubble up in you.

“Oh, you piece of shit…!” you seethe, but sob and moan when he slams you back on his cock, stretching you around his length again. Wanting to quench your rage with the sensation you crave the most right now.

“I hope, for your sake, I don’t have to repeat myself.”

It doesn’t matter how much you try to squirm, fuss and wriggle, he forces you still. His behaviour frustrates you to no end when you’re so desperate for a bit of friction, the horribly hollow and burning feeling of your lost peak torturing you seemingly endlessly. To the point where you’re too tired to put up a fight, when you’re teetering on the edge of breaking. You know you must swallow your pride, you have let him have it his way.

“I… I’m sorry.” you apologize meekly, teary-eyed, your voice a pathetic mewl. He finally starts lifting you up and easing you down, building you up slowly. But it’s not enough. You need more but he won’t give it to you just yet.

“You do?” he asks you in a way that it cuts deep into your marrow. It’s not even close to a loving tease – no, he’s outright mocking you.

Vicious bastard. You should grab his throat and squeeze the air out of him.

“Yes, I do!” you cry out without thinking. “I’m sorry for running away from you.” you push the words out through your whimpers. He increases the pace, making you yelp and shake, you end up closing your eyes reflexively. He robbed you from the sensation for so long that you became sensitive, it’s easier to make a mess out of you. Your face is red with shame, so much so you can’t look him in the eyes. The humiliation is like an invisible rope tightening around your neck.

“Promise you’ll never do that to me again.”

He pushes your hips further along his length this time, shifting you a bit towards his thighs. Creating a perfect angle, he uncovers a sweet spot inside you that makes you almost incapable of forming coherent words. And he eats the sight right up.

“…I promise… I promise...” you manage to get your answer out in the form of a choked hiccup. Your vision blurs. Everything is too intense for you to handle. You swear that the very shape of you could dissolve at any given moment.

Faith is desperate. Gods are hungry for despair. So they deliberately make you suffer and only then reveal themselves to you.

His fingers dig into your waist so hard it burns. You feel the world shift with you and then you collide with the sheets. Your bruised back ripples with pain. You’re unsure if he did it out of spite or not. You don’t know if he’ll completely shatter your dignity, or if he’s fine with just enforcing the feeling that you can never be above him, that you can never defeat him.

His weight on top of you is overwhelming. The midnight dark locks of his hair spread around you like spilled ink. And through the thick fog of your mind, too far gone in twisted, masochistic pleasure, you lock your legs around his waist. You don’t want him to go away. You might as well cease to exist if he does.

“And what do we say when we apologize?”

The soft plea coming from you is more instinctual rather than deliberate.

“Forgive me.”

You ache for him to move, you’re starved for the incoming high. Like a ravenous beast, all devouring. When he finally gives it to you, his thrusts make you feel possessed, make your back arch, your head falls back into the pillow as if you were offering your neck to him (maybe one day he won’t be able to resist the urge and will bite down on the jugular, through your trachea, putting you out of your misery) - you don’t dare to beg for anything else.

Maybe just for a little blood. A mark he can wear, just like you wear your bruises. Your nails somehow acquire a will of their own, your scratches have him excited and pleased.

His fingers meander around your jaw, gently coaxing you into letting him guide your gazes to meet again.

He’s imitating you, admiring his work like you did with him. And what he sees is a being stripped from any likeness of a dignified human being. With eyes so blown he can see the bottommost pits of Hell in them.

And he’s satisfied, rewarding you with a soft kiss on your temple.

“I forgive you.”

Your release crashes over you like a tide, submerging you, burning you to cinders on the inside. Tearing you apart. And when he collapses on top you after filling you to the brim, you feel like a festering wound.

He’s a disease, miasma, a flesh-eating parasite crawling inside you.

“You’re…” you huff. “You’re awful.”

“I know. But you love me all the same.”

You wonder what you should have done to earn a different outcome, but you give up soon. Looks like he already had plans for your atonement in mind. After all, gods are impatient creatures. They’re dependent on your reverence and servitude. And you’ve waited for too long to make things right.

Why, why, why - it echoes inside your head.

But if you think about it… he’s your serpent. The vilest, most horrendous creature created by God. The one who charmed you, tempted you with sin and has now sunken his fangs into you. Of course he did, and instead of trying to heal from his venomous bite, you want to catch him - to find out his reasons, to prove to him that you didn’t deserve that.

And yet you could never, ever prove him wrong. Your serpent will always think it was right to bite. It’s in his nature afterall.

“Is your hand alright?”

He makes it up to you with spoiling you again. He cleans your wounds so sweetly, so thoughtfully, looks after you in a way that nobody could, which confuses you even further.

He cherishes you, destroys himself for the sake of keeping you safe - not like it’s a choice, but a must - just like a mother would. He scolds you, reminds you not to make the same mistake again, collars you, keeps you on a tight leash, only loosening it (just a little) when he succeeded at making you play by his rules, just like a father would.

And somehow, he excels at both. Way better than those two ever did when it came to you.

You wish your glare could pierce right through his skull when you hand the empty glass back to him. You don’t have it in you to play nice. You don’t even attempt hide that you’re sulking, he probably finds it funny - adorable even.

“Go to hell.” you spit and lay back into the sheets, your bruised back facing him.

“Oh, darling…” he coos, but the surface level sweetness of his tone hides a sharp edge of condescendence. He crawls into bed, right behind you, caging you in his embrace, forcing you to feel the warmth of his body. The warmth that you’re so used to, the one you can’t sleep without it. Nobody has ever made you feel this safe, and the fact makes your heart ache and your stomach twist.

“If there’s a Hell, I’ll see you there.”

#jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk smut #getou suguru x reader #getou suguru x y/n #getou suguru x you #jjk x reader #suguru geto x reader #meesa writes #DAAARLING GUESS WHOS COME BACK FROM JAIIIIL #Idk what kind of deep psychological issue of mine is in that fic but now its your job to decipher #just please dont bring Freud into the picture I hate that man

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manicpixiedreamcurl · 2 years

Text

The More You Give ❧ (Part I)

Pairing | Eddie x reader

Warnings | 18+ only, do not interact if you are underage. Heavy petting, fingering, nothing much else this chapter. Reader is 18+ and has been since before Eddie was interested. Reader is a virgin who has bad previous sexual experiences (not assault). Mentions of bullying and anxiety around this. Under 21s drinking alcohol. Eddie makes a little joke about getting reader high and taking advantage. Expect coming of age vibes the whole way through and as a result there is a fair amount of exposition this chapter. I’m trying to capture the particular way girls hurt each other. Non canon-compliant; the gate closed forever in 1985.

Word count | ~6,950

A/N | Some of you hate girly-girl reader, some of you hate not-like-other-girls reader. I am here to unite you against a common enemy; not-like-other-girly-girls reader. I really think I can bridge the gap with this one. I joke, but my point is Eddie Munson is capable of loving literally every person ever put on this planet, who dress all sorts of ways and are interested in all sorts of things. My y/n loves Rilke.

Reposting one more time and tagging @darlingpumpkin for her lovely comment on the post that didn’t show up that made me cry.

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"Please!" May cries again, clasping her hands together like she's begging. "I just know bringing something tonight will get me my chance with Liam. And the freak...freaks me out!”

"But I don’t get why that means I should be the one that meets him.”

"You know, I thought you kind of liked Eddie.”

Heather’s smile is innocent, her head tilting like she doesn’t know exactly how much you like Eddie. Like you hadn’t sat and told her every detail of your gooey, warm crush on him that one time she’d snuck a bottle of pink gin to your house.

"Wait, you like the freak?" May asks, her face a picture of confusion. You twist your hands in your skirt when she makes a noise of disgust. "Oh my god!" She says your name incredulously. "That is so gross!"

Your mouth opens, then closes with a bite to your lip. You want to defend yourself, defend Eddie, but find yourself toeing the ground with your shoe instead.

"If I'd known you might enjoy a little rendezvous with Eddie Munson in the woods, I'd have begged a little less," May says, voice all amusement until she catches your hurt look and sighs. "Look, please just get the weed from him for me? You don’t even have to talk to him, but he really does scare me. Heather’s meeting Patrick, otherwise I would totally ask her."

Another version of you, one that knew how to get into conflict and come out on top, would tell her that's not true. Would list every time, at least every time you remember, that you'd done something like this for your friends. Risking trouble, going out of your way.

You take the $20 she has ready and tuck it into your purse.

"Hey," May says, tone all innocent mocking. "Maybe you should try flirting with Munson. You might be able to get me a discount."

Your leg starts shaking the second you’ve sat yourself down on the picnic table in the woods, placing your bag on the bench at your feet. Smoothing your skirt down, you take a deep breath in an attempt to calm the harsh pounding under your décolletage before he gets here.

For the first couple years of High School, you didn’t really think about Eddie Munson. You thought he was cute, on the odd occasion you’d catch sight of him looking smiley or laughing, but you had a million other things to worry about before any feelings of attraction to a boy so far outside your sphere. Math tests and making enough money babysitting to buy that particular skirt. Keeping up with the love life of each and every cheerleader that so graciously allows you to sit with them, despite your lack of green and white uniform.

But then, he didn’t leave High School with the others his age, and you started hearing his voice, his laugh, in class each day. You saw the cycle of him desperately writing notes, eyes intent on the board, before his attention would drop, neat bullet points bordered with doodles until he’d flinch, realise what he was doing, and start writing again despite what he’d missed.

Once you were aware of him as more than a cuteish boy who was best not to think about on account of the rumours (failing school, dealing drugs, parents in prison), a couple things planted the seed.

With your arms above your head, body swaying and rolling, you found Eddie’s eyes. In that comfortable space, your brain just nicely cottony from what you’d drank, still one shot away from searching for May and convincing her to hold your hand for the rest of the night just so she knows you love her, you were happy to move this way in front of Eddie.

Eddie’s gaze was shifting from the boy buying from him, the money he was being handed, to you, your hips, and back again. For a minute, it didn’t matter who he was, his eyes on you had the space between your legs warming pleasantly. You caught his stare with yours, thought about reaching out and asking him to come put his hands on you and feel you move. Some other boy touched you instead, and by the time you’d politely guided him away from your body, Eddie was gone. You just caught the mass of his hair weaving between warm bodies towards the door.

The details were fuzzy when you woke up the following morning, but you felt the lack of his presence the next time you found yourself dancing, wishing you were being watched by dark eyes.

Weeks later, COCKTEASE, written in black ink across your locker, the first Monday after Andy’s brutal, ranting break up speech. Your eyes were bubbled with tears as you ruined the sleeve of your pretty white cardigan trying to rub it away with just wool and spit. It smudged and spread. The letters remained clear and every whisper behind you was a repetition of this taunt.

“Hey, no need for that.” Hands decorated with metal rings interrupted yours, replacing your sleeve with a paper towel that smells like vodka, the ugly word gone in seconds. You sniffled, looking up at community menace Eddie Munson, whose eyes are shiny and brown. “All gone.” He’d given you a soft little smile, leaning in enough that tingles ran up your neck at the feeling of his warm breath on your face. “If that ever happens again, just come find me, okay? I keep a stash.” He handed you another piece of towel for your wet eyes and straightened, rolling his shoulders back. Eddie waited for a little nod of assent before he left you standing there with something small but alive, green and growing, sprouting in your chest.

At the end of last year, when classes were winding down, you had a presentation for English. You hate public speaking. More than anything in the world, you hate public speaking. To talk, even about your favourite book, something you knew inside and out, was a nightmare. You’d regretted your choice as soon as you were in front of the class. You could have lied, picked anything. Old Yeller, The Great Gatsby, 1984, something distant from you, something that wouldn’t matter, but instead you went and picked-

“Sonnets to Orpheus is, um-” You swallowed, fingers pulling at the back of your skirt. “Is a book of poems by Rainer Maria Rilke.” Blank faces stared back at you. Your face was hot all over, down to your décolletage. “He was an Austrian poet-”

“Did she say the guy’s name is Maria?”

Your head snapped to the faceless question, the scoff, finding a couple of confused boys. The question was an unwelcome shock to your word for word rehearsed script. The interruption left you rudderless and trying to grab pieces of information from the unsettled ocean of your mind.

“It’s all generally sort of about how, well, things like poetry influence life. The life of a poet. Um-” You tucked a foot behind your ankle, dragging it up and down your calf. Betty Melville blows a bubble with pink gum, the pop of it making you flinch. “Like Orpheus! He was a poet- the best poet, or a musician. And in the myth - he’s part of a Greek myth about him and his wife - in the myth, he travels to the underworld to save Euridice, who’s his wife, from Hades.”

“Oh, fucking cool,”

You blinked. Eddie Munson was sitting forward in his seat, staring at you intently. His eyes were wide with interest. Catching your gaze, he gave you an encouraging, prompting smile.

“Eddie, please keep that kind of language to yourself.”

Eddie apologised to Miss O’Donnell with a charming grin just bordering on sardonic, then, looking at you, said, “it is cool though.”

“Yeah, yes, it’s really cool. Actually, the whole book is poems that are sort of intended to be lessons to people like Orpheus, about dealing with the things that happen in life.” Your eyes were fixed on his face, on the encouraging smile you could hardly believe was there. “My favourite, in the whole book, is Want the Change, which is about learning to appreciate things you might not necessarily have wanted to happen, and how they can actually lead to good things, if you let them. I can, I can read it, maybe? It’s only short.”

Your teacher said something, but it was Eddie’s excited nod that made you open the book you held in trembling hands and find the page most worn at the edges.

“Want the change,” you started. “Be inspired by the flame, where everything shines as it disappears.”

You spent the rest of your minutes looking only between the words you loved and Eddie’s kind eyes, the soft earth of your heart blooming with colour.

“You lost, sweetheart?” Your head snaps up from your bare knees to find Eddie walking towards you, in the process of shrugging off his jacket.

"I'm May's friend," you say quietly, followed by your name, unsure if he’d even know it. "She couldn't come because…well, because-"

“My guess is she's scared of meeting the freak in the woods?” Your expression must be answer, enough, because he rolls his eyes. Eddie places the black lunchbox on the table by your hip, eyes focused on where his thumb plays with the latch. “So she sent you. You're not scared of me?"

Of a boy with big eyes and a stash of paper towels to rub mean words off lockers? You give him a little, friendly smile and shake your head.

Eddie grins at that, eyes crinkling around the sides with it. He clasps his hands together in front of him then lets go, drumming a little on the table. For a second you’re just looking at each other, listening to the rhythmic beat of his knuckles against wood until he clears his throat. "Okay. Down to business."

"May told you what she wanted?"

"In the five seconds she was willing to stand near me? Sure did.” He flips open the box in a smooth motion. "I normally charge $20 for the half ounce."

You open your mouth to tell him that's what she gave you, cut off by Eddie continuing.

"If she'd given me the chance, I would have told her that sending her pretty friend out to collect would get her a 25% discount. But, uh,” he holds one of the plastic bags out to you, shrugging, brown eyes shining. "I guess it's just her lucky day."

Your mouth must be filled with cotton, or else your brain, because you don’t say anything. You just stare at him long enough that he starts to tilt his head, looking like he regrets his last words. "You okay?"

“I'm sorry.” You shake your head, smoothing your palms down over your calves awkwardly. "That’s very sweet of you, Eddie,” you finally answer, sounding almost out of breath when you take the bag from him. “But it's still her money. You might as well take the twenty."

"I won’t tell, if you keep the five."

Your eyes widen, scandalised even as you zip up your backpack to hide the weed inside. "Oh, I would never do that."

Eddie tucks the offered $20 into his wallet. “Thought not, but I mean, I never thought I'd ever see you out here, either.” Eddie says, sitting up on the table next to you. Not close enough to touch, to feel the softness of his t-shirt or his skin, but enough that you get a hint of the warmth he’s radiating.

“Oh. Why not?”

“Uhhh.” He’s not subtle, eyes drifting up your body from the frilly edges of your socks to the bow of the scrunchie that’s currently holding your hair back from your face. “I guess I was worried you might be like your friend.”

“May’s a good person, Eddie,” you say. “But, well, she has to fit in with the cheerleaders, you know? That’s why she says mean things sometimes.”

There’s a pause while Eddie blinks. Then, eyebrows together, he asks, “she ever mean to you?”

You’re about to shake your head instinctively, but you end up staring at him. It wouldn’t be like telling Heather, you realis, or even your Mom who had known May since she was in pigtails. Eddie would listen, you think. Eddie would listen and Eddie would understand. You look down, considering your next words, realising that you’re about to tell Eddie Munson something that you've never voiced to anyone else.

But your name comes in a yell from behind you. Speak of the devil springs to mind, followed by guilt and the question of when you started thinking about someone you love this way.

May stands there with Andy, of all people, at the edge of the trees. "Come on!" May eyes Eddie nervously, glaring when he waves at her with waggling, ringed fingers.

“You’re that scared of me that you had to bring some muscle with you?”

“She was worried for her friend after she was out here with you so long," Andy answers, crossing his arms. He looks at you. "We both were."

Defend him, you think. But then May is shaking her hand at you again, telling you to move. Your name is a rough order in her mouth.

Grabbing your bag and sliding off the table in a rush, you pause for a second to look him in the eye. "Thanks, Eddie."

"Nice doing business with you, sweetheart."

"Sweetheart?" May repeats, incredulous, grabbing your arm and pulling you close so Andy can’t hear her hiss. "Please tell me you were not actually flirting with the freak."

You look at Eddie over your shoulder, catching his intent gaze before May presses on your back, forcing you to look away.

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That night, your fingers flex under the wet stroke of polish. "He was actually really sweet."

“Stop moving!” Heather yells, tsking at the quick drying yellow smudge on your finger. She wipes it away with a piece of cotton and acetone before she grants you a smile. “It’s so funny, how people can come across one way, and be so different when you really talk to them.”

Your face is warm, your voice is a whisper. "He called me pretty."

“I cannot believe what I’m hearing,” May says from across the room. “Not only do you have a weird little crush on Eddie Munson, you’re now actually thinking about, what, dating him?”

Your smile fades a little. “He really isn’t like what people say.”

“Except he literally is exactly like what people say?” She answers, her voice cutting. “He started a club called Hellfire. He has all those boys wearing that shirt like some kind of cult!” She rolls her eyes, going back to applying her lipstick. “My Mom said that game they play is all to do with Satanist stuff, too.”

Heather's fingers hover in the air over the cross around her neck. She only drops her hand at the sight of your deflated expression, looking over her shoulder. "Your Mom doesn't know everything, May.”

“Well, she didn’t make it up herself! There’s studies on what it does to people, Heather! Real studies!”

You feel wilted by the end, unsure of how to explain yourself. You’re silent, continuing to blow on your nails even once they’re dry just for something to do. You watch after May’s form when she leaves to get changed before looking at Heather again. “I just liked talking to him, I guess.”

Heather laughs, giving your arm a soft, comforting touch. “When are you going to see him again?” At your unsure shrug, she rolls her eyes. “You have to talk to him soon!”

“I wouldn’t even know what to say.”

Heather's face breaks into a sly little smile. “Oh, Eddie!” She cries, voice comically breathy, clasping her hands together by her cheek. “You’re the man I have been waiting for my whole life! Take me no-OW!”

You bash her with a cushion with as much force as you’re willing to put behind hitting Heather. She falls back, giggling away while you clench your hands around the fabric of the pillow, preparing to strike again if she keeps going. “Okay, so that’s a no,” she says, considering. “Maybe you could ask to buy something from him yourself."

“But I’ve never done anything like that,”

“That’s not an issue. Just ask him to teach you,” she answers confidently, moving to do her mascara at her vanity. “Guys like that.”

“Guys like teaching girls how to smoke?”

She smiles at you through the mirror. “Guys like teaching girls anything.”

On Monday, May barely wants to talk at all, still miserable from Friday night. You'd spent the weekend at hers, visited periodically by Heather, stroking her hair and plying her with ice cream and fresh baked cookies. At lunch, she leans her head on your shoulder while she plays with cafeteria pasta.

“Listen, it’s his loss,” you remind her, having moved past soft hushing and placation to accusations about Liam's mental fortitude. “You looked amazing on Friday. He must be blind or insane.”

“What kind of guy takes drugs you bought and leaves with them, anyway?” Courtney says from the other end of the table, having heard the story through the grapevine, apparently. It strikes the wrong nerve, leading to May burying her face in her hands as the tears start to flow again. You and Heather spring into action, comforting her as the three of you walk to the bathroom.

Together, you chorus the things she needs to hear right now.

“I didn’t want to tell you this, but he is totally not on your level.”

“100 percent! Did you see that girl he was with? Clearly he likes them easy.”

“Easy and ugly,” May agrees, sniffling. “So it was never going to work.”

“Exactly,” you nod, smiling to see her rubbing her drying eyes. She wraps her arms around you then, letting you give her a comforting squeeze.

“Thank you,” she whispers. “You guys are the best friends in the world.” She sighs deeply, fanning her face to stop any more tears. “God, look at me. My make up is ruined.”

“We have plenty of time to fix it.”

“I’ll go get your bag, okay?” You say, heart warm at her soft thank you.

As you’re leaving the cafeteria, May’s bag slung over your shoulder, you catch sight of Eddie, his head thrown back in laughter while he walks with his friend. His nose is scrunched and you have butterflies.

“Hi, Eddie,”

Eddie looks happy to see you, if surprised at the greeting. He gives a quick wave to Gareth. “Tell everyone I’ll be right there.”

Coming towards you, Eddie stops close enough that you find yourself tilting your head back to keep eye contact. His hair moves around his face when he leans forward, lips pink and wet from the little lick he gives them before speaking.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” you say again, having to restrain a nervous laugh, clenching your toes in your shoes. “Um,” you glance down the empty hall before you look back up at him again. “Can I buy from you? I have my own money this time.”

“Uh, sure,” Eddie answers, blinking slow, eyebrows together. “Wasn’t expecting that, though. You got a taste for it from what I sold your friend?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“You guess?”

You nod, not trusting your voice.

“Okay. I have a Hellfire thing just now,” he says, pointing down the hall in the direction Gareth went with his thumb. “But I can meet you at the end of the day.”

“Yeah, that’s fine. I have to go to the bathroom, anyway,” you say, before catching yourself. “Not like, go to the bathroom, but I have to meet May. Not that we- I don’t hang out in the bathroom.” Eddie’s smile is unwavering. “She’s in there because there’s a boy she likes and I’m bringing her this.” You lift the shoulder her bag hangs from, going back over your words. “The boy she likes is a dick.”

“You don't ever have to explain yourself to me, sweetheart. Meet you at the same place?” You’re still going over everything you said in your head, but you nod anyway. “Okay. I’ll see you later then.”

“Okay. Bye, Eddie.”

His eyes jump quickly down your body and back up to your face before he turns to walk confidently down the hall, leaving you warm all over.

You compose yourself before returning to the bathroom where Heather and a newly barefaced May are waiting for you. “Will you do my eyeshadow?” She asks sweetly. “Blue, like you did Chrissy’s last week?”

“What took you?” Heather asks once you have the palette in one hand, brushing shades of blue along May’s eyelids with the other.

You glance at her, wondering if May’s in the right mood to hear the truth. "Andy stopped me in the hall to ask about Ms Fredrickson’s homework.”

“Andy’s totally still into you,” May says, eyelids flickering. “He was so excited to charge in and save you from the freak last week. Wanted to show off to you.”

You pause your work on her eyes, stomach twisting uncomfortably. “I’m sure that’s not true,”

“It is.” She opens her eyes, fixing you with an amused look. “The second I said you were out there with Munson, it was like a whirlwind. He was just desperate to save such a sweet girl." Her mocking pout gives way to a smirk when she closes her eyes again. “Don’t worry, I didn’t tell him about your little creep crush.”

You stare at her for a second. Then, gently touching her chin to keep her face steady, you blend the colour over her lids.

❦⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄❦⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄❦⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄❦⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄❦

Eddie’s waiting for you this time, sitting up on the table again with his lunchbox by his side. His jacket is gone, leaving him in a t-shirt that you just know is warm from his skin and the Summer heat. The shirt is graphic, with the name of a band you don’t know, a picture of a demon standing over a mountain, and what looks like a priest tied in chains, splashing about in water. How Eddie manages to look so friendly in such a shirt defies science. The way he’s sitting, the way he’s smiling, you want to climb up into his lap for a cuddle.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” you say, desperately close to a giggle you know would be the most manic, girly sound ever made if you didn’t bite down on the inside of your lip.

That’s where Eddie’s eyes are, just for a second, before he’s looking at the box to his side. “You, uh, want a half ounce?”

You hum the affirmative, taking your bag off to dig through and find your little beaded purse. He spies the $20 in your hand and scoffs.

“I said fifteen for you, sweetheart,”

You’re leaving dents in the gum behind your lip with your teeth. “It’s not my fault if you don’t carry change.”

His lips purse in a smile at the tease, his dimples making an appearance just to send you into a tizzy, you’re sure. Eddie’s tucking the money away when he asks, “you got rolling papers and everything?”

“Oh, uh.” Yes, just say yes. “No, can I get those, too?”

Eddie blinks, expression shifting to confusion. “You didn’t know you needed those?”

Special papers? No you did not. “I did. But I, I forgot.”

Eddie looks over his shoulder like he’s looking for someone then he tilts his head at you. “Hey, uh, is something happening here that I don’t know about?”

“Hm? Like what?”

“I don’t know. Maybe one of your friends sent you out here again.” Your mind jumps to Heather, wondering if he might work out you had lied, just to talk to him. He reads something into your expression, because suddenly there’s a hurt in Eddie’s eyes you weren’t expecting; a panic. “They get a kick out of the freak giving you a discount for batting your eyelashes, is that it?”

“What? Of course not.” You’re shaking your head desperately, but Eddie’s already muttering angrily.

“Jesus, Munson. Learn your fucking lesson.” He starts gathering his things, glancing up for a second looking like he wants to say something to you. Eddie shakes his head. “Fuck this, man.”

He’s going to leave. He’s going to leave, angry at you for something you’re still trying to work out. You want to tell him to stay, let you explain everything from start to finish, but the words catch in your throat.

There’s alarms in your heart, ringing out a warning that you need to do something. When the thought strikes that Eddie’s sitting at just the right height for you to run up and kiss him, that’s the only action that makes any sense.

Your body moves for you. Eddie’s watching you rush towards him, and then he’s gone. He’s hidden by your eyelids as you press your lips to his, hands moving to hold his shoulders like you could physically stop him from walking away from you.

His lips are pillowy soft in your chaste kiss.

You look at his pretty, expressive face. He’s closed his eyes, too, even though it only lasted a second, and then he’s blinking at you and waiting. Your fingers twist shyly into his shirt the way you normally find yourself doing with your own clothes. His soft hair tickles your wrists.

“Eddie,” you whisper. Your throat hurts. Your body’s trying to stop you from getting the words out, from risking embarrassment. “Eddie, I-” You swallow, bringing a foot up behind your calf and running the toe of your shoe up and down the skin of your leg.

“Tell me,” he says. “It’ll be okay. I promise.”

There’s tears pricking your eyes. You have to stare at the dark curls on his forehead to get it out. “I have a crush on you.”

“Yeah? You have a crush on me?” You nod. Eddie squeezes your waist, laughing. “Well, shit, if I don’t have quite the crush on you, sweetheart.”

You finally look into his eyes, mouth open. “No.”

“Fuck yeah,” he nods in earnest. Then he looks sheepish, closing one eye tight. “I kinda thought that you knew that, for a second there. Or that your friends had worked it out.”

The tone of his last sentence goes right over your fuzzy head. “I didn’t know.”

“For a while, now,” he admits, cheeks pink. “Couldn’t believe my luck when you were sitting out here last week, and then when you came up to me today.” Eddie grins. “So, the plan was to keep buying weed you weren’t gonna use?”

“I was gonna use it,”

“Without papers? Gonna tell me you hide a sparkly pink bong under your bed or something?”

“No, was gonna ask you to teach me.”

Eddie’s pleased grin makes you feel weak in the knees, warms the space between your legs in the way that looking at him often does. “Is that so?” Your little nod has his hands digging more into your waist, pulling your body right between his open legs. “You were gonna come to me one day, give me that sweet smile, and ask me, please, Eddie, will you teach me to smoke? Mm?”

It’s a strange kind of embarrassment. Not like standing in front of the class, or realising with a snap you’ve said the wrong thing at lunch. You like this, feeling caught out by Eddie in this way. It’s making you feel giddy, excitement building wet and hot.

Eddie’s hands stroke your waist, soothing even as he’s winding you up. “Tell me.”

“Yes, Eddie.”

“And then what? Come up, here, baby.” Eddie’s hands hook around the back of your thighs, skin finally on yours as he helps you sit up on the table over him, the wood digging into the front of your knees. “What was gonna happen? After I’d taught you to smoke?”

His hands are running up and down your legs, fingers just teasing the skin still hidden under your skirt before he’s drifting away back towards your knees.

“Was it something like this?” Eddie presses kisses to your cheek and down your jaw, breathing heavy through his nose when you tilt your head for him. The thumb of his right hand ventures further, brushing against the frilled edge of your cotton panties. “Hm? Thought I might touch you, after?”

The questions have your mind batting back and forth from whatever it is he’s asking to how much you want him to just take.

“Thought I’d take advantage of a pretty girl like you, sweetheart? Get you high in the back of my van and open these legs up when I had you all dizzy and giggling?”

He snaps the elastic of your panties on your leg and you bear down on him, trying to trap his hand where you want it but he’s back to stroking the soft skin of your inner thigh. You close your eyes to hold in the tears that are building up again.

“Tell me,”

“I don’t know! I don’t know, Eddie! Just wanted-” You sniffle a little, seeing him pull his lips from your neck to catch a glimpse of you starting to cry. “Just wanted to talk to you, wanted you to like me.”

“Oh, baby.” He kisses you soft for a second, then Eddie’s tongue is wet against your lips and you let him in without hesitation. He groans at the taste of you, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you towards him and up a little. Your mouth is wet when he pulls away, and he whispers into your cheek. “Want you to pull those panties to the side for me.”

You whimper, moving a hand from his shoulder to reach under your skirt and hook a finger in the cotton, exposing your heated clit to the air. Eddie looks down between you, the hand that was on your thigh grasping the front of your skirt to pull it up and tuck it under your locked arm. “Jesus Christ,” he says, teeth gritted. “Jesus H. Christ!”

He sweeps the rough pad of his thumb over your swollen button and your body jolts. Eddie’s laugh rings in your ears as he keeps you steady over him with the arm on your waist. “Oh, she’s a little sensitive. Got it.” It doesn’t seem like he got it when he presses two fingers against your bud and rubs in tight circles, your hips shaking in an effort to both escape and get closer to the feeling. “So good, so good of you to open yourself up to me like this. How about a little more, yeah? Let Eddie see the rest of her?”

You mewl, bringing three fingers down to the elastic to pull more to the side. Immediately, Eddie slides his fingers down and around your leaking hole, dragging slick back up to ease his work against your throbbing clit. “Eddie!”

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s better.”

The hand that isn’t displaying your wet cunt for him wraps around the back of his neck, pulling his face to yours so you can kiss him again, let him breathe in the way you’re moaning for him. Eddie hums, moving the tips of his fingers back again, just his thumb remaining to give your button quick rubs. His middle finger circles your entrance and you clench down, breaking the kiss to gasp and whine.

His finger presses in to the first joint and then he’s looking at you with wide eyes. “Sweetheart,” he says, gently. “Has anybody ever touched you like this?”

You make a soft whining sound, shaking your head, because they haven’t, not like this.

“Do you-” His tongue sweeps over his lips nervously. “Do you want me to stop, or keep going?”

“Keep going,” you cry. “Keep going, Eddie, please. Eddie, Eddie-”

“Sh, sh, okay, okay.” The arm around your waist gives you a sweet squeeze like a hug. “Need you to relax a little, otherwise it won’t feel so good inside, mm?”

Relax? How can you relax when his thumb is still torturing the top of your sex? Eddie presses a soft kiss to your cheek where tears are running, then another under your eyes. “Just relax,” he says, rubbing his hand up and down your back. “I’ll make it good. I promise.”

You sigh, feeling yourself melt into him, your face falling into his shoulder. The thick finger slides further in, filling up the space that wanted filled and leaving you clenching gently with excitement. “Fuuuck,” Eddie says, teeth gritted. “Nobody has ever treated this pussy the way she needs, huh? Oh, sweet girl, it’s a fucking travesty.”

You make a high noise of agreement at the back of your throat and Eddie breathes a laugh. He pulls his finger from you slowly, thumb still playing constantly with your bud, then presses back inside for you to feel the sweet drag against your walls. “Eddie,” your voice sounds like a mumble with your mouth pressed to his soft t-shirt. Eddie shakes his shoulder a little like he wants your attention, as if he isn’t the only thing you’re thinking about, could try to think about.

“Your pussy feels amazing inside,” he says. “Gonna need to stretch you good before we can even think about you taking my dick up there.”

You feel yourself squeezing tight around his finger, your hips rolling into him. Eddie’s talking, but you’re too far gone now and everything sounds like it’s underwater. The tone of his voice is clear, gentle but teasing, as are the slick sounds of his hand moving between your legs. With a jolt and a long cry into his shoulder, you’re coming around his fingers, pleasure travelling up and down your body in waves.

You’ve only ever cum by yourself, and never with anything inside. Something about clasping down on him adds to your orgasm, to the satisfaction you’re feeling as it crests and fades.

Your head lolls, rubbing your temple against Eddie’s soft hair. He gives your clit one last cheeky rub just to make your body jump.

You feel his elated laugh before you hear it. He pulls his fingers from your pussy and you hear Eddie groan, followed by the distinctive popping sound of something pulling from pursed lips. “Tastes like heaven. Jesus, sweetheart, you are something else.” He gives you another squeeze, helping your body settle on top of him, moving your hand that remained exposing yourself and tucking your panties back over your slit with a soft little pat.

“Look at me?”

You have to force your heavy head up to do as he says, and Eddie coos softly. “You’re so sweet, so good for me. You did so, so well, you hear me?”

Your heart flutters, and you tilt your chin for a kiss which Eddie gives without a thought. The taste of your own slick in your mouth is heady, drawing you slowly back to reality as the sights and sounds surrounding you return to focus.

A car door slams in the distance and you’re jumping, suddenly tense. You’re sitting in a boy’s lap, outdoors, where anybody could come by. You let him touch you, let him make you cry out into the fresh air.

Eddie feels the afterglow dimming rapidly, and allows you to climb off him, watching the nerves creep into your body language. “You okay?”

“Yes, I-” Your toes curl, feeling embarrassed that you don’t know how to deal with this, either what you’re supposed to say after being touched you like that, or how to tell him that you loved every second and it has your mind whirring because you’ve never been able to do that with somebody else before.

“Let me take you home, yeah?” Eddie says, sensing your thoughts moving a mile a minute, that there’s nothing he can do right now to get in and fix it for you like he’s realising he wants to.

He picks up his bag and the box he carries with him, then takes yours from the ground where you’d dropped it before running up to kiss him. Eddie debates holding your hand, but you take his on your own, giving him a gentle, thankful smile because, even with the nerves driving you silent, through the haze you see him being kind with you, even now.

He settles you into his van with your backpack at your feet, makes sure you’re belted up before closing the door for you and climbing up into the driver’s side. It smells like a thousand Eddie’s; smoke, weed, cheap aftershave, and boy. You’d giggle at that if you weren’t running over every detail of your last relationship, trying to work out exactly what must have happened to keep you from letting yourself be touched like that before.

Seven months. You dated Andy for seven months last year and you didn’t let him do anything close to what Eddie did to you on a picnic table in the forest. Not for lack of trying on your part, and certainly not Andy’s.

You had liked Andy, up to a point. He took you on nice dates, and would compliment your outfits. He was a good kisser, and the way he looked at you when you were lying in his bed made you feel pretty. But the second his hands drifted anywhere more salacious than over your bra, your whole body would shut down. The one time you’d gritted your teeth and let him pull your panties off, his fingers inside you had hurt from how tense you were and he’d given up within thirty seconds. The time he’d suggested you touch him with your hands, or even get down on your knees, the bubbling tears in your eyes as you’d told him, if you want, had him groaning in frustration and slapping your hand away from his boxers. Every time you slept over at Andy’s house, you’d end up bent over with him rubbing himself against your ass through layers of cotton elastane.

After, you’d feel uncomfortable in your skin, wanting him to hold you. Generally, exhausted from the mental game he had to play with you to let him grind against you, he would fall back to his bed and pass out about twenty seconds after he came. The uneasy feeling would last into the next day, sometimes longer.

You search for that feeling now, and find just the remnants of flushed pleasure, the memory of Eddie’s breath on your temple and his voice calling you sweet and good. There’s a little guilt, but only because of how you ended it, realising only now that you hadn’t done anything at all for him. That is one of the things you do know about boys, they come first in these scenarios.

“Have I ruined everything?” You ask when he’s pulled up to your house, ready to make a quick getaway if need be.

“What?” His eyes are wide. “Jesus, no,” Eddie grabs your hand, settling the shake there. “I was gonna ask you if I had. I shouldn’t’ve taken it that far, I just, I could hardly- can hardly believe this is happening. You, sitting in my lap, letting me touch you? That’s a dream I’ve had a hundred times, sweetheart.” He squeezes your palm. “I really think about you a lot, you know?”

You do know.

“Can I take you out Friday?” He ventures, thumb rubbing over your knuckles. “No funny business, I promise.”

Your thighs press together, the rough pad of his thumb against your skin reminding you how nice those calluses felt playing between your legs. “I think,” you look from your joined hands to him. “I think a little funny business would be okay.”

Eddie’s clearly pleased by that, his shoulders relaxing even as he holds his remaining hand out dramatically and turns his head to the side. “Nope! No funny business at all. You’ll see, they’ll be calling me Eddie the Chivalrous by Saturday.” His face gets softly serious. “I’m gonna do it right with you, sweetheart.”

Butterflies erupt, and you just wish he’d kiss you then. You give him one last look, hoping he will, a little sad when he just smiles. You squeeze his hand before letting go. “Bye, Eddie.”

You jump out of his van and close the door gently. You’re in the middle of wondering if either of your parents are home, what they might have seen through the window, when you hear the van opening. Turning, you find Eddie jogging your way, his hair a dark cloud flying around his face. “I know I just said no funny business,” he breathes. “But I gotta get one more kiss. Just to keep me going, you know. Then I can be Eddie the Chivalrous for at least the rest of the week.”

“Kisses- kisses can be chivalrous.”

“Oh, thank God.” Eddie kisses you through your giggle, hands covering your cheeks. You whine a little at the warmth of his tongue and he separates from you. “Okay, that’s enough, Munson.” Another sweet press, then one more lasting barely a second. “Okay, I’m going now. Friday?”

You nod rapidly.

“Okay,” he says again, letting you go. You watch him jog back to his van and climb in, looking like his head is just as fuzzy as yours. Eddie Munson gives you one last grin before pulling away, his van disappearing down your suburban street.

Next Chapter

#eddie munson fic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #my stuff #tmyg

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y-rhywbeth2 · 3 months

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So glancing between the original games and the third - again - and thinking about the difference between the feral and Chosen bad endings and how I'm going to interpret them in my own canon. BG3 lore is irrelevant to me from now on I'm entering the phase where I'm assimilating my playthrough into my own Realms canon.

Also, Durge appears to be soulless. I am aware of the way the game treats Durge as though they have a soul, but BG3 makes strange choices where lore doesn't match up all the damn time. Astarion is clinically dead but the rest mechanics still need food. BG3 talks like Wyll is a devil, and they definitely don't have mortal souls. Dark Urge identity crises and complicated relationship with personhood, how I love thee.

Major BG2 spoilers, so I'll put that under a cut just in case anybody would like to play those games blind.

I noticed this a while back, but Durge's situation is reminiscent of a soulless Bhaalspawn. When their soul - the portion of them that is "them" and not entirely Bhaal - is removed they start displaying the same symptoms and slipping into what is basically the feral ending, judging by Imoen's behaviour:

"Who-who... who is that? Keep back... Keep back! [...] Who is Imoen? I don't know that name. I don't know that name! She's not here! [...] Get away from me! I'll... I'll kill you! I'll rip your eyes from your filthy faces! Do not tempt my wrath! Do not... I... she's not here. I do not know that... name. [...] I see... yes... I see... She's not here... Someone else will come..."

We have dizzy spells and risks of blackouts (otherwise known as Bhaal threatening to take over):

"Your step falters, your vision spins, and you feel something is very wrong. For an instant you are conscious of nothing but the rushing of your blood."

Bhaal literally just assuming direct control rather than flooding you with the urge to murder. Also pain caused by said attempt at taking control:

"A shock of pain passes through your body, and you feel you mind slipping away, forced aside by the darkness within." - "Your blood cools, and mind and body are reunited under your control. Your will had faltered, and the essence of Bhaal was there to take advantage. The void where your soul once was overflowed with murderous fury, the mark of a deity that no longer exists. The taint of Bhaal has affected you differently than Imoen, reacting with your strength of will. You will eventually lose yourself unless your stolen soul is restored. A fate, as they say, worse than death." - "The madness fades, and the essence retreats, but if this continues you will lose not only yourself , but also everything you hold dear. The uncertainty of your condition has obviously worried those you travel with. The quest is treacherous enough without having to worry about what you might do."

Most Bhaalspawn have mortal lineage and were left to develop their own identities until they hit adulthood and Bhaal decided it was time to start pushing them into killing each other as part of the resurrection plan. Their souls are explicitly divine in nature, but they had time and freedom to develop those souls. Each demigod is a potential fledgling god.

The soul and the conscious mind aren't the same thing, so personality and decision making can continue but the emotions and personhood are... not quite there, only the echoes of it. It's been compared to wearing a mask and acting out a part in a play, rather than actually living as that person.

Durge it seems was engineered from the very beginning so that they would never have that chance. Created directly from Bhaal, with no other parent (let alone a mortal one) to dilute him; Bhaal started forcing their hand to kill from a far younger age (before puberty) rather than waiting for them to reach adulthood. and Sceleritas was following them closely ensuring that people would be around to have "accidents", like Alfira.

But it's also notable that Bhaal doesn't just want a puppet, he needs a Bhaalspawn with the drive and power to be his avatar. He somehow needs Durge blindly loyal and lacking in independence but also in possession of "strength of will" to be worthy of/able to house and use his power.

It seems that Durge does not have a soul the way their siblings do, all they have to resist Bhaal with is their mind and sheer willpower. If they disappoint Bhaal then he will simply assume control - something he can do any time he likes. Over the course of BG3 they start developing something like their own soul - judging by the way Bhaal and Sceleritas are still in touch and seemingly testing them, I can only assume this is actually according to plan; Durge is supposed to cultivate a spark of their own divine soul over the journey (and also get tadpoled and help Bhaal take over the Netherbrain and thralls through them, as Sceleritas kind of mentions).

If they fail then Bhaal goes for the feral ending; they go into the "Imoen" category where they're not worthy of his attention and he just uses Durge as a puppet.

Mystra can't force mortals to become her Chosen, they must consent, so possibly that rule applies to Bhaal too? I don't know, but it explains why Bhaal needs them to accept. If they resist then they're clearly strong enough to be worthy but wilful enough that Bhaal decides the risk of that spark of a soul is too great a risk to him and his plans and tries to destroy it but fails because it's too late, and Jergal cuts this fledgling divine soul free.

If they accept becoming Chosen then they are agreeing to be imbued with a fragment of Bhaal's divine essence. Bhaal gets what he wants and merges it with another fragment of his divine essence, presumably setting the stage for him to become a full deity walking the face Toril through Durge's/his body. The fledgling spark of individual is lost in Bhaal when the two fuse; the threat of the resist ending isn't present, because that spark is gone, so if you defy him again he just takes over and we get the punishment ending.

#/durge #headcanoning.#babbling #bg2 spoilers

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animentality · 4 months

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I was thinking about that ask I answered earlier, and I decided that it's very interesting, how Gortash was raised in the House of Hope, watching people willingly sign away their souls, while he was never given the choice.

And how, bitter and angry and regularly tortured by Nubaldin and god knows what else, he would grow to absolutely despise these people, coming here, choosing to tie themselves to this place for eternity after death, and vowing he would not do the same.

He would escape, knowing in his heart twisted by violence and enslavement, that people must want to be controlled.

Not himself, of course.

He's special. He refuses to be a slave ever again. But others? The people who bargain with their souls and throw everything away?

If that's how they are, then he might as well use them. He might as well see them the same way as devils do. He might as well treat them as though they are mere mortals, and he is a god of Faerun.

I also want to say, that that's the logical conclusion for him to draw. The more emotional conclusion, is that he HATES the world for how it's treated him. How he was lower city scum, a child born in poverty, destined to die in poverty too, treated as less than nothing by the wealthy patriars of Baldur's Gate, born with the silver spoon firmly clenched between their teeth.

He would also hate the lower city scum, for his parents are its representatives, and what kind of people would sell their own child to pay off minor debts?

People who deserve to be subjugated and controlled.

And forced to love their children. To take care of their children. And if they won't, he will (he canonically has a soft spot for orphans).

See, that's why Gortash should've gone to the House of Hope, and not Bane.

His soul was promised to Raphael first, but it also frames him as a far more interesting villain than the current canon Gortash. Canon Gortash ends there. He's angry, he's bitter, he's determined to inflict his punishment on the world. He's a good villain, in theory (not gameplay wise, as he's easy to kill), but the buck stops there.

But if you add this...terror, of returning to Raphael?

And the idea that he only ever served Bane and committed all these atrocities because he was desperately trying to acquire enough power to take on Raphael's House of Hope and steal back his contract?

It humanizes him. It makes him a three dimensional villain, the way Ketheric was. It makes you understand, when you go to the House of Hope and find out how they treated him, how a person could be so warped.

Gortash as a character being arrogant and dehumanizing to everyone around him - that's fine. That's not bad. That's fun, actually.

But a Gortash who is arrogant and dehumanizing...and deep down, terrified beyond his wits, at the thought of being reduced to that slave, trapped in the House of Hope again...

And ALSO. Willing to sacrifice literally the ENTIRE WORLD just to save his own skin...

I mean come on.

That's like...next level writing.

That's not even woobifying him. It just gives him depth.

And they...they just...they just didn't do that.

And I don't understand why.

Just kidding, I do. It was because they rushed the game's release so they could make a boatload of cash after years of laboring on it.

He literally has a note on him, saying he wants to go back to the House of Hope...why else would he go, other than to steal his contract back?

But you know.

Cut content.

So Gortash is just some prick you can kill. He wears a no fear coat for some reason, not that it really matters. It's just loot, basically.

Oh well.

#enver gortash #baldurs gate 3 #bg3

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cxhleel108 · 1 month

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LITG S8 Thots for this week: Very bad day for loyal girlies…

(Making this while still slightly baked from getting high last night so just know you’re getting ruthless Cahleel today😍)

• So ngl first impressions of the boys…Oakley outsold them all. Call me biased I really dgaf.

• Not even 10 seconds in and Luna already babbling about Jin omg just kill me now.

• Oh bitch I’m officially making it canon that him and my S6 MC fucked around at one point like what? Fusebox stop copying our shit!!!

• Max is Jin 2.0 I literally have nothing else to say about him.

• Kyle not serving to me sorry. I know all y’all going crazy over him and like his body is tea but girl he’s just…no😭😭😭 Also he has a scorpion tattoo which means the Scorpio of the season has been recognized and I care about my MC so I am NOT putting her through that pain.

• And here I thought Oakley was going to end up being the “Gary” of this season…

• Kyle fancies me the most…great! Now leave me alone after I reject you the first time!

• Luna’s going after Jin’s replacement- I MEAN Max! How surprising…

• God I hate you already.

• I can’t stand when they do this. Last time I checked none of these names belong to a 6’3, Ghanaian firefighter with a fat ass and a slutty waist so as far as I’m concerned my eyes are firmly CLOSED.

• Outfit time!

• The other look was boring sorry but I LOOOOVE this one.

• Luna being mad about Jin part 2 omg PLEASE KILLLLLLL MEEEE.

• Ugh yasss we can sleep by ourselves. Y’all will not trap me!

• Bea telling me about this other chick that Oakley went on a date with like I care, ok.

• But you was just mad cuz Jin winked at somebody…girl go to HELLLLLL.

• Outfit time!

• Come on Arabian Nights tease!

• Kyle and Liam been fucking on the low omg?

• Time to suffer through meaningless chats.

• I’m making my girl sound like the most boring person ever trying to ignore these dudes help😭😭😭

• Oh that’s not…

• Luna you are literally only interested in Shawn because you know he’s the only one I’ve given the time of day…does it not hurt being this much of a loser?????

• Outfit time!

• Cute…that’s about it tho.

• Kyle saying he did a tattoo for a celebrity and then the said celebrity being Gabi of all people like wow nobody moved.

• WHERE IS THE FIGHT OPTION??? WHERE IS IT??? LET ME HIT HER!!!

• Liam had us form a whole dance circle around him just for him to start seizing ok.

• Shawn you’re sooooo cute but I really don’t want you baby just stop trying❤️

• This whole conversation with Bea chile I can’t. Oakley went on a date with another girl…ok and??? He called her a head turner…did he say she was turning HIS head??? They connected…OVER FUCKING BAKING. Oakley literally said he was in love with us and was planning on making us his girlfriend it literally makes no sense whatsoever. Fusebox y’all are getting too predictable bruh like obviously y'all are not gonna make our OG LI cheat on us so what is the point of the gossip other than to get US to cheat on THEM?

• And this shit oh brotherrrrr😭 I can’t wait for next week when we find out that Luna was screaming because Shawn gave her a great foot rub like fuck out my face with that. Also even if they are fucking I DO NOT CAREEEEE! I DO NOT WANT HIM!!!!

#guys they’re losing me #bring our men back #litg #love island the game #litg tempting fate #litg s8 #litg season 8

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houseofhyde · 1 year

Text

dressed in white (putting off crying).

pairing. daemon targaryen x fem!reader

synopsis. he knows of those who whisper that seeing the bride in her dress before the couple stands beneath the eyes of the seven births nothing but bad luck for a marriage, but daemon targaryen cares little for superstitions.

warnings. canon appropriate sexism/misogyny, implied valyrian!reader, implied incest (if you interpret this as the reader being targaryen), daemon is a simp for his lover!, likely ooc!daemon (i'm new to writing for him, i’ll get better, i'm sorry), poorly translated high valyrian, angst, fluff, descriptions of sex.

word count. 5.6k

hyde's input. lmao the title is based off a lyric from the (superior) the 1975 song meanswear. this whole scenario has been playing on my brain since i first watched hotd and i need to get it out before it drives me crazy by living in my tiny pea-brain for too long. i literally only made this blog to post this (since it wouldn't suit the writings on my main blog), so idk if i'll actually post anything else on here but feedback would be appreciated! anyway, daemon is a menace to society, i love him. sidenote,, i've always been terrified to post any fics in the got/hotd fandoms because istg every writer in this fandom has a god-like level of prose and it intimidates me, so please be nice if you think this sucks :) i’ve only read through this once, there may be spelling errors but it’s late and i just want to post this already!!!

tight braids rip hair from skull, gold incased jewels trap a delicate neck in a chokehold, stiff fabrics snuff out any heat of the westerosi sun from gracing dampened skin.

you aim to breathe in an air of relief for your aching lungs, yet the maiden behind you denies you of such a virtue as she pulls tighter on the set of strings holding up your bodice. you grow more lightheaded, oxygen starved body swaying momentarily, as a few more of your ladies in waiting assist with dressing you in the white coffin, lace cuffing your wrists like shackles and the weight of the gown feeling akin to that of a great beast, be it the weight of a stag, or a lion, or a wolf.

or a dragon.

“please,” hardly recognising your own voice, you flinch at the broken rasp that makes its way past your lips. your throat burns, your stomach churns, your eyes carry bags beneath them. far from a blushing bride, you are. the days of celebration leading up to the ceremony have taken an effect on both your mind and body, restless nights leading to uneaten feasts and unquenched thirsts. alas, you push such thoughts to that corner in your mind you reserve for nothing but tales of docile dragons and knights in dirtied armor as you straighten your stand, shoulders rising and head holding itself high. “may i have a moment of solitude within my chambers?”

your ladies shoot their attention over to the eldest among them, a septa who's hair has grown a deeper shade of grey with the passing of time and face has grown wrinkled by a history of smiles and laughter, and who bares the name of dorothea.

“of course, lady y/n. every woman must steal her last moment of solitude before she marries herself off to her lord husband. solitude will be sparse once you are wed.”

like an army of men, though far more graceful and colourful, the ladies make way towards the entrance of your chambers, spilling out in a single file line and shutting the door behind them.

and finally you breathe.

once, twice, thrice, and then you are a mess of desperate gasps and trembling limbs. you make your way over to the mirror which centres the room, steps more of an uncoordinated tumble than a graceful walk of a future lady of court.

met with your own reflection, something feels off. like a lack of connection, your astute mind can not fathom how this frail, tired, solemn looking girl bares any resemblance to the confident, bright eyed and quick witted woman you'd grown to be.

you trace your hands over the flaring of the dress' skirt, as if working out the creases in the fabric will loosen the ones that line your forehead. so caught up in your own unfitting image, you barely register the reopening of your chambers door.

“please, dorothea,” you sigh the woman's name out like she's bound to you by something more motherly than mere duty, the years spent in her company making for far better memories than the fleeting time you've passed with your true mother. “just a few more minutes. i'm... not ready. not yet.”

“i should hope not, you've yet to finish fastening the buttons on that ridiculous gown they've forced you into.”

the first thing you notice as your eyes meet the mirror once more is that your frown has deepened.

“you can't-” the second thing is him, dressed in the onyx and blood colours of his house, his newly shortened hair styled in a way that gives him a near boyish charm. the only visible slither of dark sister- nothing but a handle pressing into his left side- reminds you this is no boy, but a man, brutal and abrasive and protective, fresh from a victorious battle in which he walked away with a crown and the offering of another sword for his brother's throne. you're quick to correct your choice of words. “you shouldn't be here, prince daemon.”

if you were anyone else, you'd think the prince cares little- if anything- for the words you cast his way, arms clasped behind his back as he strides across the room with an air of arrogance, confidence, the stature of a man who not only belonged within your chambers but within your heart.

but, alas, you are you, and that means a great deal when it comes to the study of one targaryen prince. only you would notice the twitch in his brow, the snarl across his lips that is quickly denied in exchange for a smirk, the slight shrink of his shoulders as the weight of the truth sets itself upon them.

he's displeased.

whether the reason be your unusual use of his title- an act he knows you've committed with the foolish hope of putting distance between you both, if not physically then at least in power- or your attempt to banish him from your quarters evades you, but it matters little, really, for daemon is still approaching you.

he's upon you quicker than you expected, quicker than you wanted.

“let me.” two words, simple and used from the most common of folk to the most regal of lords, uttered in an infinite number of scenarios. yet, they may be your undoing as the silver haired man welcomes himself to the feel of your skin, a single finger trailing it's way down what remains exposed of your back. the touch mimics a shiver, something that tickles down your spine in a disturbingly enjoyable manner.

you nod your approval, too afraid to open your mouth and see what sounds he elicits from you, your heart too long starved of affection and his gentle caress the first it's tasted in years.

the fear of speaking carries on even as he departs from your skin, both hands joining in finishing the task of clasping your dress together. maybe this is worse, you think, having his knuckles bump against you every so often as he fiddles with the pearly white buttons, teasing you with what could be, what could've been.

“i never imagined us marrying under the seven.” part of you believes he's mocking you, torturing you with words he knows will wrap around your heart like vines and pierce the delicate organ with its thorns. you wonder if this is the targaryen prince known for his callous words and disregard for the sentiment of another come out to show you his true colours once and for all, gone now the days where he'd shower you in expensive metals and feed you the sweetest of treats.

he catches your line of sight in the reflective glass and his smile widens, pulling his lips with a heavy sense of dishonesty that makes your insides twist. never did you think there'd come a day where daemon targaryen would fake a smile towards you.

“īlva qilōni carry se ānogar hen uēpa valyria should dīnagon isse se ways hen uēpa valyria.” us who carry the blood of old valyria should marry in the ways of old valyria. there was a moment in time- back when the sight of a man was enough to make you blush- that you believed there was nothing, and no one, that compared to the beauty of hearing daemon speak his ancestral language, the old flame of valyria setting his soul ablaze. as you stand now, eyes stuck on watching how he's focused on one particularly stiff button, you find only heartache in hearing him speak high valyrian. not even the way he breaks his composed facade- though only for a mere handfull of seconds- to frown and scowl down at the stubborn button is enough to ease the tension in your chest. “ondos bound ondoso ānogar, daor dovodedha cloth.” hands bound by blood, not silly cloth.

by the time he finishes off fastening your gown, bile burns the back of your throat as his hands smooth down your back, painfully slow in their travels, giving you enough time to think of how this isn't how things were meant to be.

daemon was supposed to be the one eagerly tearing off your dress, not trapping you in its suffocating confines.

you decide to play into his fantasy, to let not only him but also yourself indulge in the sweet naïveté of wishful thinking.

“skoros ābrar gōntan ao imagine syt īlva?” what life did you imagine for us?

he takes a breath, pausing the conversation and inhaling as if to stable his wavering heart, focus his mind on choosing his next words wisely or run the risk of you shoving him away completely.

when he at last answers, you wish you'd never asked.

“i saw us trading life in the keep for dragonstone, making a home for ourselves where the targaryen history runs deepest. it's where we'd wed, where i'd get to listen to you swear vows to me that carry true meaning, unlike the shit i’ll have to endure hearing you spew later in the sept.” relief floods over you like a great storm as he switches back to the common tongue, a downpour which serves to dampen the fiery passion in his voice. his hands have found rest upon your mid-riff, large and warm and protective in the way they pull you back against his muscular chest. “we'd host feasts for whenever my brother insists on visiting us to keep up appearances of a false bond between his new family and his old one. you'd teach me about other languages, so i could express my adoration for you in every tongue known to man, and i'd show you what it is to never want for anything, make sure you own every possession you desire and feel every emotion you require.

“when we're not busy playing politics, in the moments you're not teaching our sons how to thread needles and to be good husbands, while i encourage our daughters to wield swords and to be strong, we'd spend that time in the throes of pleasure." the blunt ends of his nails dig deep into the layers of fabric, as if he's trying to tear the dress off to reveal the real you beneath, the you he's become all too enthralled by. the you that's bare, and pliant, and begging for his touch in a way that is not only sexual but primal, as though you'd perish if not for the brush of his lips against yours and warmth of his body casting over you like a shadow meant to seal you away from the harsh world. "fuck a marital bed, we'd make it into a marital home, a marital garden, a marital beach. i'd take you anywhere, work my fingers into you till they are broken, bruise my knees just to drink your sweet nectar, fuck you so full of my seed till it has nowhere else to go and no choice but to drip out of you, covering us in our brutal lovemaking.”

“daemon-”

“they'll tire of us, eventually, all our poor maids and guards. tire of catching me with you bent over any surface, tire of hearing you chant my name like i'm your only god. they'll be running back to kingslanding with their tails tucked between their legs, ready to spread the gossip of just how insatiable the rogue prince and his ravishing wife really are.”

“daemon, you really-”

“we can still have that life, my love.” he sounds so hopeful, glances upon you so eagerly in the reflective glass that you near crumble to the ground if not for the support of his arms around you. “hmm, wouldn't you prefer we do that, instead of this over the top ceremony that'll leave you with nothing but a headache and sore feet?”

the heartache behind his intentions sedates the anger that quells within your chest, way past the layers of bodice. it is not born from nowhere, this anger. not a fiery pit lit from an explosive catastrophe but, rather, a sole flame that has simmered and festered and burned for a near three years, mothered by solitude and fathered by abandonment.

“no, we can't.” intending to put your foot down, reign in control over yourself, hands reaching to tear his tiresome hold off of you, you're bereft to find yourself sighing a breath that leaves clear the exhaustion you've been harbouring- far beyond just physical, deep in the trenches of neglected emotions- , body melting into a puddle at his feet upon watching the familiar sight of your embracing limbs in the reflection. bitterness bites the back of your throat in this repeat of familiar history: you, daemon and bodies touching away from prying eyes and gossiping courtiers. “my father... he'd have your head, daemon. after everything he has done to secure this union happened... after all the rumours... it wouldn't be fair to him.”

daemon hums out an acknowledgement and you nearly convince yourself he's in agreement, that he understands the repercussions that would entail if you gave in to his game of make-believe; that he knows these pretty words that once were a gift for a younger version of yourself to hear, all tied up in a bow made of his velvet kisses upon your silk skin, have become a punishment meant to torment a child who'd dared to play with a toy that was never hers to touch in the first place.

all hope of redemption is lost with the tightening of his hold.

muscles flex beneath the red of his sleeves, an unspoken promise of the strength he harbours, the brute force he’d be more than willing to use should someone aim to take you from his hold. what follows is a resounding silence, where you’re too shaken to speak and his head rests it’s weight on your shoulder, the near-white crown of his head staring back at you in the mirror as it blends with the white of your gown. he burrows his face into the spot where your neck meets your shoulders, hiding whatever broken, troubled, pathetic- his own word for sad- expression paints his features.

“i thought you would wait for me.”

and just like that, the illusion is shattered, an accusatory tone to his voice which leaves behind nothing of the false sense of bliss or the hopeful future but jagged shards scattered along the ground, threatening to split your skin and make you bleed should you dare to clean it up.

“how could i, prince daemon?” the anger works its way through the cracks in your broken heart, taking up the space you’d once reserved for tears and forgiveness. “you left. no words, no warning, no goodbye. my loyalty is with my father and my house, and therefore marrying to secure a fruitful alliance for said house comes above all, even petty little princes.”

“i was banished! by my own brother! by your own-” he halts the words before he can speak them. though the dragon in him is awakening- the slightest of conflict rousing the ugly defensive side of him-, he stubbornly holds his position, eyes squeezing shut a little tighter to fight out the light of reality he’s trying to evade. “and now here i return to find the one person i came back for could not wait a measly three years for me!”

“if you think i’ve waited only three years for you, you’re an even greater fool than otto hightower.”

the prince tenses, the mention of his sworn nemesis (a feat which had earned him plenty a mockery on your end, forever bereft at the fact a supposed grown man could live with a near-playground level of hatred for another) causing the fire within him to grow more violent. he unwinds himself from the hold he’s got on you, arms dropping to his side and face rising from it’s hiding spot within your skin. in the mirror, he looms over you, staring down at you like he’s the red wyrm and you are but a helpless doe moments away from having your flesh burnt by his fire.

“forgive me, lady y/n,” the hairs on the back of your neck stand to attention as darkness overcomes his voice, matching the expression on his face. “i wasn’t aware of how deep your loyalty ran for you to whore yourself out so easily for some lord’s name and gold.”

with the twist of an ankle, you come face to face with the dragon prince, chest heaving with each laboured breath which fails to calm your nerves and nose blowing out what you imagine to be the steam of your fiery anger. you stagger back, he leans forward. hands land on your elbows and steady you, draw you nearer till the mounds of your breasts brush against his cloth-covered chest.

daemon is stunned to silence, a rare feat, as he gazes down at you and sees not the woman who’s wrapped up in white lace but the girl who’d been covered in tears and carried fear in her eyes as she took in the sight of the man she’d crashed into- quite literally, as he’d enjoyed reminding you whenever you had gotten a little too generous with the wine and led yourself down the path of unadulterated reminiscing in his chambers- in the halls of the keep. he remembers how it felt to truly look upon your face for the first time, to be lulled into a sedated state just by hearing your soft voice stuttering out apologies, to part ways from you with hands still burning from the heat of your flesh, refusing to cool down even as he sat among the small council, too busy clenching his fists and questioning what exactly was so bewitching about the maiden he’d caught in distress.

a sharp sting to his cheek is enough to shatter the memory, bringing him out of the looking glass of the past and into the present where your eyes are filled with more disgust than tears and the burn of your flesh is against his face instead of his hands.

you’d slapped him.

by gods, you’d actually struck him.

if the circumstances called for it, the prince wonders if his cock would be stiffening by now.

“you, of all people, have no right to call me a whore, lord fleabottom.”

“and yet i seem to recall you begging me to call you that during our past encounters.”

you grab at his collar, sharp nails digging into the dark material as if it were his windpipes, crushing them under your brutish strength. tugging him down with what you believe to be force- and what is truly just him giving into your attempt-, the pair of you find yourselves eye to eye, nose to nose, frown to frown.

oh, yes, his cock would certainly be hard, were his heart not so weak.

“you are a despicable excuse of a man.” you mean to spit the words in his face, praying to all the old gods and the new for this feeling to truly be hatred, disgust, disdain. three years have passed and, with it, so has your love, leaving a gapping hole meant only to be filled with hate. were it not for the shaking of your free hand, or the pounding of your heart in your ears, you’d believe your prayers had been answered. alas, the gods are cruel and your words fall only as a whisper on his ears. “i pity the women who have been scorned with loving you.”

“come now, my lady, you were always so against those who pitied themselves.”

“do you hear how pathetic you sound?” taken aback by his rebuttal, your response comes with a moments delay, one you hope he does not notice. the grin he casts down at you proves otherwise, and serves as yet another plank of dry wood tossed on to the blazing embers of your ire. “i am to be married come high noon, and you are already a married man! put aside your wants and realise your duty, perhaps then your king would not see it necessary to rid himself of you.”

“and what a marriage it’ll be, my lady! with your dearest lord cunt lannister parading you around as though you are some prized deer he’s caught for a feast, and you drowning yourself in riches and wines to forget the horrid memory of his red face above yours.” he matches your own grip on him, his far larger and far stronger hand shooting out to take a hold of you by the neck of your dress. he’s a brute, tugging on the expensive cottons like they are no more than the clothes of a common whore. “rumour has it your dear husband-to-be is one of those one-pump-chumps, so at the very least he’ll get it over with quickly, allowing you to roll over and bring yourself some satisfaction as his pathetic seed paints your thighs.”

“at least my marriage will be consummated!” daemon scoffs as quickly as the words have shot out your mouth, no harm coming from them, not with how many nights he’d spent in your sheets claiming he’d sooner fuck his own dragon than touch his so-called bronze bitch. the real kicker, the true spear through his pride, the thing you know only by rumour and not by fact, is what you say next. “meanwhile you’ll continue to chase pleasure in whores who look like me from the back, but just never quite sound, smell, taste, feel the same as i do.”

“keep talking and i’ll take it as an invitation to remind myself of just exactly how you feel.”

“if the recent rumours about you are true, my prince, i doubt you’ll be capable of getting your cock to rise for the occasion.”

silence takes hold of the little space between you. contemplation evident on his face, he straightens back up to his full height, eyes no longer at level with your own as they cast down a look which lacks all the sharp edges from before. no longer are his eyes daggers that threaten to slice through you but, instead, blankets of warmth and safety which ache to wrap around your tired bones and shield you from the cold which accompanies the feeling of solitude.

the hand which once held you by the top of your dress has traveled up the expanse of your neck, fingers soft and lazy in the way they stroke over the skin. before you even process your own actions, the grip you have on his own clothes loosens, till your hand is merely resting against the solid mass of his chest.

for the first time since the rogue prince had returned to the capital, victorious and wearing a crown, you allow yourself to take in the sight of him, wholly and unserved. you admire the shortened length of his hair, noting how it frames his face in a way that fully brings out its sharp edges. you trace over the new lines in his skin, unintentionally reminiscing on words you'd both exchanged between tangled limbs and the moonlight ( “they are a sign that i'm aging, sweetling.” “they are a sign that you've lived.”). you catch sight of mangled skin along his right side, peeking out from beneath his clothing. your heart clenches at the thought of him in pain, and you distract yourself from thinking of what other marks decorate his war-torn body by returning attention to his lilac eyes.

three years have passed since you had last held each other and, against your own wishes, your heart still remembers to beat harder around him.

“he will not love you.” the words are an exhale from him, like he's resigning you to your own fate.

“i do not need love.” the words you speak become the first lie you've ever told him, making even with the way he'd faked his smile earlier.

“then if not love, freedom. that cunt will not give you that." you aim to tear away from his piercing eyes, yet the force of his hand tilting your chin upwards gets in your way. he may have been at war, you think, but he's inflicting a greater torture upon you than any fallen soldier right now, imploring you to look upon his weakened state in a way he's never allowed before. "he will give you gold, and dresses, and dresses made of gold to occupy yourself with, but never freedom.”

“freedom is a fool’s game.”

“gaomā daor ȳdragon hae aōla.” you do not speak like yourself. this time, he does not prevent you from looking back at your own reflection. you wish to whine about how you do not look like yourself either, dressed in such a ridiculously white gown but don't in fear that he'll take it as invitation to slice through it with his dear dark sister. “what happened to the girl who used to make plans to see the world on dragon's back, to taste every wine, to be tied to no land?”

“she died somewhere between the first time you kissed her and six moons into your war for the stepstones.”

like the mirror were something akin to the mystical, future-telling balls you'd heard of in the stories of witches and seers, the memory of your first kiss plays out before you. you remember it all like it was merely yesterday. the way you'd at last bested him after the five moons of midnight training you'd endured. the way he lay frozen on the ground, eyes widened in a mixture of shock, irritation and pride. the way he'd marched over to you and sent thrilling chills of fear down your spine as you worried he aimed to scold you for daring to nick the right side of his cheek with your blade, drawing out blood. the way he'd ripped your weapon from your hand, thrown it off to some unseen part of the dark training grounds and proceeded to attack you. only, where you had expected raised fists and seething words, he gave bruising kisses and sighs of satisfaction, the victory of at last going against everyone else's supposed better judgement and giving into the carnal desires he'd tried to cast aside in favour of protecting your virtue in the eyes of the cunts that sat with himself and your own father at the small council.

and then, you blink and suddenly it is half a decade later and you're standing in those same dark, cold, training grounds, only this time the prince is nowhere in sight and you're hacking at a man made of straw, picturing the king's brother's face with every swing of the blade.

“most nights i barely knew if you were alive, daemon! any news of you was sparse, and never meant to fall upon my ears. were it not for rhaenyra serving as cupbearer for the council, overhearing the gossips that ensued in their meetings, i'd never have found out you'd gone to war in the first place. waiting for you to send a raven, or send at the very least a sign that you ached for me as much as i did you, it broke me. and, as i put the fractured pieces of myself back together, i found i was no longer the wide eyed fool you'd left me. i was no longer going to cry over a man who didn't respect me enough to let me know of his leaving.”

“how could i write you, my lady? was it not you who asked of me that our affairs be kept a private matter? i'd have thought our scandal was lesson enough for you to learn there are rats in every crevice of kingslanding. a single letter from me would have been your undoing.” the anger returns to his voice, though not so all-consuming this time around. behind your own reflection, you see him shifting around, body growing agitated with the need to do something, anything to expel the dark energy coursing through his veins. “we both know i have not once had an issue with making my affections for you known, it is you who was so scared to be branded as my mistress! so do not dare question my respect for you. everything you've wanted, i've given. anything you've asked of me, i've done. and it was still not enough to mark my claim on your heart.”

“why do you still not see my heart is not some land to be won?” if at any moment you pondered the possibility of the maids outside your chambers being aware of the reason behind daemon's current presence, the raising of your voice and the words you spit out at him must be enough to confirm any of their suspicions. you wonder which of them will be the one to spread the word, until it reaches your father's ears or- worse- your betrothed. “nyke daor mirri sombāzmion hen pryjata syt ao naejot hang bona jaes-forsaken bartōro hāre zaldrīzes banner iemnȳ.” i am not some castle of ruins for you to hang that god-forsaken three-headed dragon banner within.

if words were daggers, yours would have pierced through his darkened heart and twisted the blade. for there is nothing more prideful to a targaryen than their own bloodline- and many a nights you'd spent, sat at candlelight with the infamous conquest of aegon targaryen himself depicted to you in a written word, pondering if this grandiose sense of self is what lead to their customs of taking their own kin to wed-, the hot tempered prince being the greatest example of this, rumoured to have once made a eunuch of a man who dared to so little as roll his eyes as a young viserys targaryen passed by him in a brothel.

you feel him more than you see him move behind you, weight shifting from one leg to another and carrying the rustle of metals and leather with it. he's glaring at you through the reflective glass, mouth pressed shut in a straight line and hands clasped behind his back, as if holding them there is some way of holding off whatever thoughts he had of touching you with hands that had brought so many people to their end- his own wife being their latest victim.

several minutes of silence pass by before you realise he's weighing out his options, trying to choose what to say next. the rogue prince, known for his unmatched wit and possessing the ability to argue his way out of acts of war against his very own brother, is lost for words for a second time.

when the words come to him at last, you wish they'd disappear again.

“i am a proud man. i have fought, and lived, and fucked with fire and blood, so this will be the first and only time i will ask this of you.” you watch with baited breath and sweating palms as daemon's figure lowers itself behind you and, with no second thought to be found, you swirl around in your gown just in time to watch his right knee meet the floor, his other one positioned perfectly at a ninety-degree angle and holding his weight as he leans his arm against the muscular thigh. his head is tilted up, desperation dancing gracefully with the heartache in his eyes as his right hand finds comfort in tangling itself with your own, him relishing in your touch and you fighting so hard to forget each and every other time he'd held your hand so gently.

in an imitation of his return to king visery's graces, he's bowing for you as though it will win him back your favour and the warmth of your bed.

“do not make yourself a lannister, do not wed him. lady rhea royce is dead, there is nothing obstructing our path. we can make it to the dragonpit before anyone even notices you're gone, we'll be wed by sundown, i beg of you. kostilus, marizzo hen ñuha prūmia, mazverdagon nyke aōha valzȳrys.” please, owner of my heart, make me your husband.

it is a plea for so much more than your hand.

it is a plea for your life, a plea for your future, a plea for a world where you reside upon dragon's back and he resides anywhere that is by your side.

it is everything you've ever wanted to hear from him, coming into fruition in the worst way imaginable: dressed in a wedding gown meant for another man.

“skoro syt sir? skoro syt līs ao epagon bisa hen issa sir?” why now? why must you ask this of me now? you pull in a breath and push out a sob, eyes welling with unshed tears as you force yourself to rip away from his lilac irises to find safety in staring up at the cold, unfeeling ceiling. “skoro syt daor skori nyke istan nykeēdrosa dāez naejot vestragon kessa?” why not when i was still free to say yes?

before he can fumble out a response, the door to your chambers reopens.

unlike before, it truly is dorothea this time.

“my lady,” she looks past the prince on his knees as though she can not even see him, too committed to her loyalty for you to rub a greater amount of salt in the gaping wound upon your heart which is daemon targaryen. there is no doubt when believing she'd never utter a word of the scene she has walked in on. “we must make haste. the ceremony will commence shortly, and there can be no wedding without a bride.”

the grip on your hand grows tighter, a silent plea from daemon to get you to look at him again, to see him for all that he may be- a man made of untamed disrespect, a tally of war crimes, blood of the so called dragon seed and, above all else, love for you- and take him as your own.

it makes it an even greater battle when you force your aching body to pull away from him, hands patting down the creases in your dress one last time before making your way over to the door.

this time around, it is you who leaves daemon a mess on your chambers' floor, kneeling there till his knees ache and the wedding bells have long ago rang out.

#daemon targaryen smut #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen imagine #daemon targaryen oneshot #daemon targaryen fic #daemon targaryen angst #daemon targaryen fluff #house of the dragon smut #lmao the description of this fic is so misleading.. it's basically click bait i'm so sorry 🥴

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fatuismooches · 7 months

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Pantalone and Dottore buzzing in my brain. Being in a poly relationship with them but they’re both so possessive of you in they’re own ways they can barely stand seeing the other with you.

Like Pantalone always pampering you and giving you gifts to show he can treat you far better than that doctor and Dottore making you little trinkets out of scrap metal (it’s endearing if nothing else) and always clinging to you, kissing your cheeks, giving you as much physical attention as he can (they both do this but Dottore would be much more public about it methinks, also Pantalone getting fussy cause he like gets you on an amazing skin care routine and Dottore has a gall to blemish your perfect skin by biting you, drives him up the wall)

Eventually from your pushing they learn to share you (maybe even tolerate each other to the point they can begrudgingly say they’re boyfriends) and just join together in their possessiveness😭

They get all fussy if you even look at another person for too long and will drag you away or cling to you to try and scare the other person away. It’s never your fault! No, no, it’s always the annoyance. How dare someone even try to take your attention, let alone speak to you when the two are around. Oughh if another harbinger grabs your attention they will not be afraid to get snappy with them, even if they’re higher ranking.

In conclusion i want to kiss them both on the cheeks [📺]

📺 ANON I'M LITERALLY TURNING INTO JELLY AHHHH I CAN'T DO THIS FLUFF TODAYYY 😭❤️❤️❤️ But omg REAL. REAL!!! All the Harbingers are possessive in their own way but these two? They're something else. Dottore for... obvious reasons and Pantalone is kinda self-explanatory too, I mean you are his most beloved treasure, it's only natural he wants you to be with only him! Especially not with the Doctor of all people. Of course the feeling is mutual, Dottore can't see anything beneficial you'd gain from hanging out with that damn banker, you should just stay in his lab and keep him company! So there is always some... not-so-hidden competition between the two. Trying to one-up the other and get you to agree with them. You've seen it all, you know all of their tactics, you aren't phased much anymore when they come up with a new scheme to get your attention and win you over. Though... you aren't complaining! It's still lovely to be the object of affection for these two men, you just wish... they would get along better. It gets awkward when they're both cuddling you and then they start making passive-aggressive comments to each other...

oh MY GOSH PANTALONE GETTING US A SKIN CARE ROUTINE AND DOTTORE RUINING IT IS MY NEW FAVORITE HC AWWW I'm chuckling way too hard at that 😭 why is it canon. Dottore does it because he loves to bite you, but it's an added perk when he sees how threateningly hard Pantalone is smiling at him. Look no matter what he does, Dottore's still biting you. Even if he cuts funding. Though please convince Pantalone that it's okay and that you don't mind the bites before the lab goes bankrupt. You're literally the peacemaker for them 😓 Omgefkfwnew now I can't get out of my mind soft moments with Pantalone doing skincare stuff together, he would be so gentle helping you apply it and all,, hng (Dottore isn't invited, Pantalone insists he can't appreciate this and for once you agree.)

HAHAHA SO TRUE getting to your breaking point because your boyfriends can't get along, you love them dearly but you cannot go another day with another passive-aggressive comment to each other. So you just leave for a bit. The only note you leave is that by the time you come back, they better be more civil towards each other. The two men are dead silent when they read that and think you just went out for a few hours perhaps but nope. You went out on a whole mission for a week or two. And they had absolutely no clue, which is a huge feat in itself... and who did you go with. Childe. Tartaglia. Oh my God they collectively agree to rip him to shreds when you get back. At least they can bond over hurting people. Mhm, having one scary dog Harbinger is already frightening, but two? Nightmare fuel for the average person. And them blaming the other person is so in character 😭 Nope, their beloved could never do anything wrong ❤️ But don't worry, you needn't worry about anyone else! All your love and affection, your smiles and laughs, should be reserved for them only. No one else should be able to bask in such things.

They both deserve kisses all over their cheeks, 100%. And also kiss them both on the lips to get them to stop arguing. But also do it quickly because if you kiss one for too long, the other will get irritated. Mhm, but then they collectively decide you haven't kissed them long enough so then you all are just kissing each other for an extended period of time. Good stuff.

#smooches talks #📺 anon #pantalone love notes <3 #dottore love notes <3 #i need them... expeditiously #agreed btw i think dottore is more public w his affection bc he does not care in the slighest what others think #but pantalone is a businessman after all he has a rep to uphold! but he's still touchy - just more subtly - in a way only you would notice #the skincare routine is still taking me back to dottore using a 9 in 1 shampoo and pantalone having dozens of different ones #and pantalone needs to drop that skincare routine asap #im struggling out here #oh this was so sweet 📺 anon it will be vibrating in my brain for a long time

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noahmullariii · 17 days

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I've been thinking about how much I adore Tonks and Remus' dynamic but physically cannot ship them because my brain is being weird about their fucking age gap. this is so frustrating. they would have been so lovely for me if Tonks was like at least 27 in 5th book. Ronks (yeah I'm not calling it Remadora, Tonks hates her birth name ffs) would have been my ride-or-die alongside Jily and Wolfstar for sure.

because literally nothing else that Ronks antis consider deal breakers for them matters to me - not the fumbled way they get together in canon, not them getting married so quickly, not Tonks getting pregnant, not the assumed queer-coding of both characters (which I personally see, don't get me wrong. but it's assumed and who the fuck says they can't be queer4queer anyway?). sure, the nuclear family narrative being pushed so quickly and thoroughly onto them is peculiar but who says they didn't want to make the most of their time during a war? I love wartime drama and they would have been my shit if it weren't for... well. Tonks being 22 and Remus 35 when they meet.

I just can't ship big age gaps unless the youngest character is closer to 30 than 20. which is infuriating, because Ronks is objectively more fascinating because of their gap. my fucking loss, don't you think?

anyway, after thinking of ways I can make Tonks older without hurting the story, I began wondering whether her age is narratively important, and yes, turns out it very much is - for Harry.

Tonks being 22 in order of phoenix makes her the closest of Order members to Harry's age (Weasley twins don't count because they're Ron's brothers first, order members second for Harry) and the one Order member Harry can relate to the most in his youth and desire to fight. She almost perfectly parallels marauders and Lily in first war and represents the fun of the fight, the fire of youth, the confidence of a new recruit, the safety of relatability for Harry. She's one of the biggest inspirations for his newfound dream of becoming an auror. Harry needs Tonks among those older, battle-worn, cautious, secretive adults who don't take him seriously and never look him in the eye, because he wants to be what she is even before realising it and only reflects on it after spending time with her.

all in all, Tonks being 22 matters quite a lot for Harry's story.

now, we have no way of knowing whether Joanne came up with Ronks storyline prior to Tonks' introduction, but it shouldn't matter for their relationship, not in Joanne's opinion - Tonks' youth already fulfilled its narrative role in order of phoenix and stopped being an important asset of her character in half-blood prince.

oh, but unfortunately it still matters in the grand scheme of things, Joanne. you don't just introduce a young adult character (I'm 21 myself and gods, 22/23 is barely more mature), chuck their established age out the window and pair them up with a character in their mid-to-late thirties. and of fucking course it makes sense for a 23 year old to be down bad for some scruffy 36 year old man, it's incredibly realistic! this 36 year old man acting upon such crush is a little questionable, but still realistic (and we know Remus is very flawed, so I'm not surprised). but you know what isn't realistic at all?

Molly - a 46 year old woman, married to her high school sweetheart, mother to 7 children, 3 of which are close to Tonks' age - being extremely supportive of actually engaging in that sort of relationship, going as far as reprimanding Remus for not committing to it. I'm sorry, what? Molly might have some flaws as a mother, but she is nothing if not protective of her kids and those in their age range. She genuinely becomes somewhat of a mother figure for Tonks during their time in the Order, and I just cannot for the life of me understand how Molly could encourage her to pursue Remus and vice-versa, instead of consoling Tonks in her tragic crush and making sure Remus doesn't even look at her like that.

Minerva - an even older woman who taught both Remus and Tonks at Hogwarts, witnessed Remus becoming an adult from his graduation in 1978 up until 1981, then saw an 11 year old Tonks start Hogwarts 3 years later in 1984 - chiding Remus for not being "brave" enough to commit to such relationship. first of all, why the fuck is she involved in that narrative at all? it's none of her business??? she's not in any pseudo parenting role for either of them, unlike Molly, so I never understood why she even has a place to voice her opinion about their romance. second of all, even if it was her business, Minerva - a professor who witnessed both Remus and Tonks grow up so many years apart - would realistically feel pretty weird about such relationship.

those aren't problems with the ship itself, but rather the way Joanne implemented their romance in the story. I think it would be more realistic if Ronks was some kind of fucked up forbidden romance from other characters' perspectives. the way everybody is so instantly supportive of them is quite jarring to me.

interestingly, when I read hp for the first time at 11 I was quite adamant in my belief that Tonks was in love with Molly up until that scene in half-blood prince. a very weird belief for a kid, I know. I just only liked girls at the time and was relating to Tonks quite a bit since her introduction, so I guess I unconsciously decided she was a lesbian even without knowing that term yet. I also had a crush on my teacher in 4th grade and she was quite similar to Molly... yeah, this girl was projecting too much. I didn't pick up on Remus' queer-coding until I fell down the rabbit hole of lgbt discourse at 14, but was pretty shocked to read about Tonks falling for a man at 11. she was so like me until she wasn't :) it's pretty funny to think about now.

in conclusion, I'm hella jealous of those of you who don't have weird brains and can enjoy Ronks to their fullest potential. their canon writing has its issues but they're more interesting for it, truly. I'll stay in my no fun corner, headcanoning them as lavender married, queer-platonic, bisexual besties co-parenting Teddy Alastor Tonks.

#ronks #remadora #i don't like that ship name ugh #remus x tonks #tonks #nymphadora tonks #remus lupin #harry james potter #molly weasley #minerva mcgonagall #teddy lupin #teddy tonks tho #cuz remus doesn't deserve him #canonically deadbeat dad #lowkey wanna punch this man

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victimsofyaoipoll · 9 months

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Round 2

Propaganda Under Cut

Mel Medarda

she is the richest woman in piltover who left her family because she didn't agree with the way they did things (conquering and murdering). she sponsors jayce and viktor, and courts jayce, which makes people upset because, you know, jayvik. she and viktor are CANONICALLY parallels with much of their imagery mirroring the other's and they are literally the same height. and people are so weird and misogynist and racist about her. they argue she is manipulating jayce and doesn't actually love him. i am cognitively disabled and cannot explain things well, but, she is so fucking shouldered

Black woman who has a romantic arc with one of the main characters Jayce. Jayce has a best friend called Viktor and their relationship is pretty important plot wise, shown as a direct contrast to his relationship with Mel even though only one is canonically sexual/romantic. So naturally fandom as the transformative safe haven it is villainized Mel horribly coming up with theories about how instead of being a complex morally grey character she's actually evil and just wants to seduce Jayce for Evil Reasons. Since they couldn't use her as a supportive female friend with no personality, others just ignored her existence entirely or acted like Jayce would ditch her for Viktor. Majority of m/m shippers will reduce her down to her relationship with Jayce and an obstacle in the way of JayVik, ironically writing her as a far worse and less complex version of the character we get on screen. The misogyny reeks and combined with the racism? It's a pretty bad case. Only slightly mitigated due to the fact that the main characters of the show are women (and the lead is a lesbian) so thankfully the male focus of fandom is lessened as opposed to filling almost every inch. Still awful to try and search for good Mel content, godspeed girlies with taste.

She's one of the most interesting characters on the show, a rich politician, smart and beautiful and has a really complicated and intriguing relationship with the city's golden boy inventor. unfortunately golden boy has a sickly twink science partner so she gets sidetracked SO BAD

Nyota Uhura

She's Spock's canon partner in AOS, and I get it because they're not a great couple, but she gets villianized in fic so much. They constantly make her an asshole (which totally has nothing to do with her being black /sarcasm) and abusive just for the crime of dating a man headcanoned as gay. And I mean, I think Spock is gay and her being a love interest was unnecessary but still! She's cool!

Oh my god so in the Star Trek reboot she’s Spock’s girlfriend and the fandom has no idea what to do with her??? Like she is ALWAYS either such a bitch or like the mom friend? And there is so much more to her character than that? But they always break down her character AND find a quick and easy way to break up her and Spock. I’m not even mad at that but at least treat their relationship with some weight instead of just being like ‘it never mattered’. People can love multiple people throughout the course of their lives. You know that right? Just because you loved someone before doesn’t make your new love any less special. And even headcanoning Spock as gay… you realize he doesn’t need to be attracted to Uhura for their relationship to have mattered, right? Even if he confused friendship for romantic attraction, him feeling such strong friendship and openly expressing it is so monumental for him!!!

she's dating Spock, who people ship with Kirk, so fans have decided that it's horrible writing and "really, they're just defending her, the movies turned her into just a love interests," which is not at all true. The movies do so much more for her to the point that the fans who have only seen the movies think that the main characters are Kirk, Spock, and Uhura instead of the Kirk, Spock, McCoy of the original series. Also having a black women being shown as being desired and loved in mainstream media, particularly by one of the most popular characters of all time, is a good thing, not making her "just a love interest"

#poll #round 2 #arcane #mel arcane #mel medarda #star trek #nyota uhura

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drowninginblox · 6 months

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OPLA! Roronoa Zoro Drabbles- how you met + how you joined the crew

I am drunk off this man right now. If he'd let me, I'd love to get to know him over a bottle of wine and a sirloin steak. Even though he's more of a booze man ofc. Below are some stray thoughts I have about him since I am slightly obsessed lol. I hope y'all enjoy my romantic/self-indulgent drabbles. One more thing- all of these HCs will surround an MC who identifies as Female.

Edit: hahaha umm.. happy late borth Zoro. Sorry for being late lol

I don't think you'd meet Zorro when he was young. Rather, you'd be on an otherwise unremarkable island or boat somewhere on the east blue, make your way to the grand line (ya fucking idiot). For some reason, to him anyway, you'd be the most remarkable thing about that rest stop. That one girl in that one bar he had a conversation with.

Whenever he thinks back on you, your smile would always be the first thing that comes to mind. Then your laugh. And then that side-eye glance you'd send his way when you ask him what he's thinking about. Usually after a contemplative sip of whatever you were indulging yourself on.

There are a lot of things that Zoro enjoys in life, but as much as he is the strong and silent type of guy, I think he enjoys a worthwhile conversation far more. So long as it means something to either of you. He hates pointless banter if there's nothing backing it.

When you see Zoro again, it's on the mainland shortly after the beginning of the time skip (haha spoilers 'LA watchers. We're in for a two-year time skip at some point in the series). You two meet up on land, just a skip away from where you two were gonna break away to your respective destinations. Completely on accident btw

Yall decide to spend the night together. Nothing zesty happens, Only wholesome cuddling and a long conversation that drifts into the early hours of the morning.

Yall wakes up at noon. He lets it slip that he's gonna train for a bit before meeting up with some friends at a very remote port god knows where, and you promise yourself two things.

You're not gonna drag this man down

You're gonna be one hell of a worthwhile pirate

So when y'all break away, promising each other that this definitely isn't gonna be the last time y'all meet, you decide to become a pro marksman. The gun kind, not the slingshot kind (don't wanna come after Ussop's brand lol)

So you do that for a year and a half before you make your way to the meet-up spot. You get there a day early, and during breakfast, you see Zoro and this blond bitch running somewhere. Naturally, you dropped everything (literally dropped your food back on the table) and jumped from the balcony to chase these mother fuckers to the docks where (spoilers) the sunny was parked.

It isnt until Zoro's halfway up the ship that you yell his name. He turns to see you, and it's like that night from a year ago all over again. He's got half a mind to jump down to you, but Luffy looks over and asks what's going on.

Everyone's teasing Zoro's ass bc of "the side piece he's picked up"

Ussop and Choper are asking him what your name is and where he found you

Sanji is on you immediately

Nami is asking for a fee to get on the ship

Franky is wondering why you built differently compared to every other girl he's seen (I like to make my OP OC's anything but Oda's depiction of the fem. figure. Mostly cubby and/or built. Sometimes both.)

Robin is wondering what's in your backpack since you look well packed (It's books. Fuck you I'm making physical fanfiction canon to one piece)

Zoro, meanwhile, is (mostly) worried about Luffy since he's captain.

Luffy looks you up and down, asks what you can do, and you say you're an alright marksman. Ussop is up and arms at this and Luffy backs him up saying that yall already have a marksman (and that you're a girl anyway so that isn't even the right term)

You say that you're knowledgeable in medicine and you're done your fair share of odd jobs since you've picked up a few things as a barmaid.

Luffy ponders this, countering that they already have a doctor but could always use the support when needed. He looks back to the crew and asks them what they think as well, wich surprises you a little. Nami and Robin would appreciate another afab person on the crew but supplies are tight as is, Franky thinks you're cool, same for Chopper. Sanji comments on supplies as well but he wouldn't mind if another girl is on board. Ussop is a little threatened by your presence and is against your addition entirely.

Zoro almost yells at him but before he starts, you get on your knees and properly ask him, along with the rest of the crew to stay. Luffy asks you why, and you say that you want to live. Live life with people you know and do it to the fullest. You then look back to Ussop, who is staring you down. "I didn't come to replace you. I came to follow, and hopefully live up to the people he adores," You glance over to Zoro, who is surprised you admitted that in front of his (totally not) family. "He holds you all to such a high standard. I wanna be a part of that."

Ussop just tells you to stand up and looks at Luffy. Luffy lets you on board, with the condition that you show off your skills. You do so.

Zorro helps you on and holds your hand as y'all are leaving port.

#one piece zoro #one piece #one piece spoilers #one piece anime #one piece live action #roronoa zoro #zoro x reader #live action zoro x reader

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suchawrathfullamb · 5 months

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Help me understand the situation if u don't mind , u said the fall was not romantic right I'm saying the same , he knew he couldn't go back because he was literally forced again in a situation where he couldn't have anyone other than Hannibal, I am queer myself so I don't know what heteronormativity u talking about. I saw the gallery scene after Ur post but weren't they talking about just killing each other , I always read an analysis from early 2015s that support my claim . All I see is Will forced in situations where he has no one left other than Hannibal. I am really trying to see that " dark romance " but all I see is one man's desperate attempt to stay sane . I mean Will married Molly , and was happy with her , bored maybe but happy(not my words I read a meta about it ) he didn't even visit Hannibal for 3 years u know, and after the dragon attack to his family his first instinct was to kill Hannibal , so I am struggling to see any reciprocation from his side.

Heteronormativity has nothing to do with being queer or not. If you don't know what that is, research it, I'm not obligated to educate you. But it is something that everyone who grew up on our society falls under, it's inevitable until you actually unlearn that behavior.

The gallery scene talking about killing each other? How on Earth is that interpreted this way? Saying you read a meta means nothing in terms of being canon or not, unless the creator of the show wrote it.

Will had "no other option"? Who obligated him to stalk Hannibal and his whole life history in Europe? Who obligated him to speak to Hannibal after 3 years? Who obligated him to execute a escape plan?

Will had plenty of options, but chose Hannibal instead.

It is canon he was far from happy with Molly, he states that when Hannibal suggests the Dragon was targeting his family and he cackles and says "of course not", after figuring out that the Dragon targets happy families. He also very much left them to die, as Hannibal stated himself. He had all the reasons to believe they could be in danger but chose to ignore and leave them unprotected. He doesn't say I love you back to his wife, and the show's direction made sure we saw zero affection from Will to her, to depict the distance he had.

You said we can't "water down" the relationship in your other ask, yet you yourself did it in this one by saying he's "just a man trying desperately to stay sane". How is it just that? How is he so desperate to stay sane yet keeps WILLINGLY choosing to go with Hannibal?

How do you interpret Will talking to himself through Abigail's "ghost"? "Still want to go with him?" "yes", "we were supposed to leave together", "god knows where I'd be without him"??

How is he staying sane by continuously avoiding to just end Hannibal the multiple times he had the chance? If this isn't about THEM but just about "a man desperate to stay sane", then why on Earth does he keep going after Hannibal, saving him, stalking his whole life, obsessing over him, going back to him no matter what? If it was "just a man trying desperately to stay sane" the show could've ended in Season 2 after Will and Jack trapped him. Why did he call Hannibal and saved him?

What does Will's sanity have to do with him wanting to run away with Hannibal?? *he stated that, just saying cause it seems you are forgetting scenes.

Anyway, you asked if the fandom would accept you not shipping them but seems like you're not accepting that we ship them and it's canon 🤷🏻‍♀️.

#ask the lamb #this is hilarious to me #baffled #hannigram #nbc hannibal #hannibal #will graham #murder husbands #hugh dancy #hannibal lecter #mads mikkelsen

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archonsabyss · 2 months

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HELLOOO I AM BACK HEHEHEHEH (@aishasreality) and i am back with another brainrot.

i haven’t finished rafayels myth or any other characters myths but i saw a lot of other ppls theories and stuff explaining them, idk how accurate my theory is so just bear with me. IF YOU DONT WANT TO BE POSSIBLY SPOILED ITS OKAY TO NOT READ MY ASK FURTHER🩷

i heard that rafayel was an assassin out to kill mc (shes a princess or heir of the throne) and lemuria is her opposing kingdom, lemuria needs something from her to revive their civilization back to its glory days (it was her heart or something i forgot) so they sent rafayel (the god of the sea, or just a normal assassin im not sure) to kill her but he ended up falling for her. i heard many other things after that but im not sure which one is canon. SO MY THOUGHT IS THAT yk its like a romeo juliette situation and ik my man be going through it when hes wavering. its either his homeland or his love, hes so torn on the choice he had to make, he has multiple failed assasination attempts bcs he wavered when he sees how geniune mc loves him and multiple thoughts of treason. in the myths i think mc discovered his intentions and willingly gives her heart but rafayel ended up erasing her memory of him and committing treason to lemuria.

but WHAT IF before he erased her memory mc made the decision for him and killed herself with his blade when he was hesitating AHHH THE ANGST THE DRAMATICS I LIVE FOR IT this would make a GREAT ANGST FIC something along the lines of “this choice hurts you either way, so im making the decision for you”

BONUS IF RAFAYEL BECAME BERSERK AFTER HEHEH tyrant of some sort bcs yes he gave lemuria honor and became king but at what cost….

(idk how much of this is canon and theory tbh)

₊⊹ I just want you to know everything you say is I'm literally noting them down! Ur mind is hella creative and all these ideas whether Canon or Fanon is fic worthy! You're giving me whole new perspectives, I barely have time to fully invest in l&ds story / lore but everything you say makes so much sense! Also that's the thing about fanfiction, it doesn't necessarily have to be Canon. Somehow putting 2 and 2 together between what you've mentioned and what little I know so far, my eyes are drooling lmao. like I'm so so interested and pumped to get this on the road whtvr it is.

My brain may just explode with the amount of excitement and eagerness I'm feeling with every ask you send.

I live love laugh for the dramatics and the angst 😈 I cannot express it enough, but they evoke such intense emotions within me I seem insane to most people because I cry ugly at angst and throw tantrums at fluff. but nothing makes me react more than a good angst. I go on character Ai just to experience angstrom heartbreaks, toxic relationship, morally grey scenarios , and yandere behavior! I'm literally insane but it's so fun. I love crying I know it's weird but I just do😌

Also that last bit about RAFAYEL GOING BERSERK. IT'S WHAT I NEED, EVERYTHING AND MORE.

#₊⊹ ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖⭒✮ abyss inbox 📩#₊⊹ @aishasreality ⊹₊#I'M ACTUALLY SCREAMING THIS IS SUCH A DAMN GOOD IDEA #MY DRAFTS PILING UP #i'll work on a story base aka plot this month <3 #love and deepspace #rafayel

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