#so rat is the only one in the open road who is going to suffer

[sregan]

Review: Everything Everything's "Mountainhead"

Mountainhead is to my knowledge the first Everything Everything album truly sold around its concept. At least two of their previous efforts have had thematic through-lines - 'Get To Heaven' around radicalisation, extremism, and in vocalist Higgs' words 'becoming the Other'; and 'Re-Animator' playing with Julian Jaynes' bicameral mind theory. And of course their immediately previous album 'Raw Data Feel' was partially composed with input from an AI and toys with ideas of technology and the future. However, none have been teased with as strong a concept as 'Mountainhead' - set in a dystopian society where a cult is building a mountain by digging a pit, with the lowest members of society living in the pit and the highest on the peak - an immediately compelling metaphor for the rat race and inequality; and of course the title itself recalls Ayn Rand's 'The Fountainhead' and suggests a critique of that work's strident pro-capitalism message.

In practice I am unsure exactly how well this theme comes together - Higgs admits only about half the tracks on the album contribute directly to the theme, and it certainly doesn't seem to me like as a concept album Mountainhead is trying to be a 'rock opera', in the sense of having a story that develops throughout the album.

'Wild Guess' is the album opener, and it seems to me that it's doing triple duty as a re-introduction to the band ("Do you know where I've been (…) where are we now?"), a societal critique ("Take a wild guess" as to where things are going to go from here given the ominous political and environmental trends), and a scene-setting track for the album's concept. When Higgs sings "This is the most important thing you'll ever buy from us" this may be the cult of the mountain selling themselves to an unfortunate convert, or the band itself describing the album; an unsettling duality that blurs the line between the critical perspective of the band and the protagonist (something Higgs has played with on numerous occasions before). It's unusual for an EE song insofar as it begins with a long instrumental section, showing off the band's chops at, perhaps, the expense of an explosive opener. The use of almost barbershop harmonies is a high point. It's grown on me after a few listens and I now think it's above average for the album, despite a bridge that annoys me due to its mixed metaphors ("Nothing but endless fields of bodies swimming in the pit").

(As a note: I think there's a mistake in mixing in this song. At the end of the song, Higgs sings "Oh take a wild guess" while the backing vocals sing "You don't take it in". I think 'take' is probably intended to line up so it hits with some extra punch but never quite manages it)

'The End of the Contender' is a surprising and perhaps weak choice for second song despite being musically solid on its own. One of the singles released ahead of the album, 'Contender' is based in part on the viral video of Ronnie Pickering, a former British boxer who became involved in a road rage incident, raging "Do you know who I am?" (the cyclist didnt'). As such, other than a fleeting reference to Creddahornis, the snake at the bottom of the pit, there's relatively little sense of the album's concept and it's more of a personal meditation on former 'big men' who feel the world has passed them by.

'Cold Reactor' was the first single to be released from the album and remains probably the strongest song on the LP, as well as serving as the most concise description of the album's concept ("So we built the mountain by digging an almighty hole (…)But now the hole is deeper than anybody ever planned/And we're blocking out the sun"). Looking back after the release of the album, Cold Reactor suffers from its slightly schizophrenic premise; it is at once a description of the cult digging frantically to build the mountain, with the protagonist raging ("If God is the mountain he won't answer me a single question"), but also a description of isolation from the perspective of what seems like a shut-in only communicating with others through chat ("I haven't left the house in nearly thirty thousand days; I sent you/The image of a little yellow face") and perhaps planning an act of violence, a call-back to some of the themes of 'Get To Heaven'. It remains however an extremely catchy track with a devastating chorus ("I'm sorry Satan, but I can't do this evil on my own").

'Buddy Come Over' suffers from a weak, if memorable, chorus ("Empty but for us and the vomit/Elvis sitting dead on the toilet") and appears to be describing an individual familiar to the UK political scene - a "sucker for the law" who thinks "PC (has) gone mad". An excellent bridge with a genuinely menacing melody makes up for the chorus ("It's a golden age/I'm wearing half your face").

It's not clear if 'R U Happy?' is intended to be the concept album cult's pitch to members, a first stirring of dissatisfaction by the protagonist in their life ("The mountain is a lie") or a more general statement by the band. While some reviewers enjoyed the themes I felt it was a bit meandering.

'The Mad Stone' was the second of the three singles released ahead of the album launch and seems to be from the perspective of a real estate agent selling homes on the mountain and in the pit. It's a little unclear what part of the narrative voice should be understood to be from an actual cult member - is "I'm a Mountainhead too! What is that, a religion?" a telling aside from the same character who seeks belonging but doesn't seem to know what they're getting into, or two characters in a back and forth? The very rapid falsetto delivery of the chorus may not be everyone's cup of tea.

'TV Dog' should ring bells for listeners of previous albums, where 'dog' is used to mean someone falling prey to propaganda or easily led; who is learning to hear the dog whistles (e.g. 'Lord of the Trapdoor': "This is a whistle for only the dog. Can you believe you were nearly a dog?"). The song opens strongly with a harpsichord leitmotif that recalls 'Two for Nero' and the lyrics "Why is it always/Liars and ballgames/When I turn on the television?"). Sadly, as the song goes on, it seems to lose track of of the metaphor ("If it's not free will/Is it a treadmill?") and is rather short.

(UPDATE: This may be because the line in question was actually taken from another unused song which would have revolved around a shooting at a gym. EE have done this before when they fused 'Only The Dogs' and 'Come Alive Diana' to create the final version of 'Come Alive Diana', with the intriguing line "First I lost an author, then I lost a daughter's awe" sadly not pertaining to anything in the themes of the latter, having been lifted directly from the former.)

'Canary' returns to the themes of the album, while also perhaps developing the themes of the radicalised character from the previous song, with the 'canary under the ground' who gives into the "drumming of the hellkite priest". It suffers from a somewhat repetitious chorus and outro and, in contrast to TV Dog, feels like it drags on somewhat, despite a stronger through-line.

'Don't Ask Me To Beg' is one of the weaker songs on the album from my perspective; it seems to be broadly a breakup song, and despite some memorable lines ("If I'm gonna be tomorrow's bacon/You deserve a Michelin star") the second half lumbers along with the same issues as 'Canary'.

'Enter the Mirror' is clearly being positioned as one of the big tracks of the album, though to my mind it's probably the weakest. Its new-love theme sits uncomfortably coming immediately after 'Don't Ask Me To Beg' and the leitmotif of the chorus "Two! Men! Enter! The! Mirror!" feels worryingly familiar. It's not quite Michael Jackson's "The Man In The Mirror" but isn't far off, which gives it a presumably unintentionally comedic effect.

'Your Money, My Summer' clearly nods back to the band's early single 'MY KZ, UR BF', a track specifically about being confronted by an angry man after cheating with his significant other. Here the message is somewhat vaguer; does the money-splashing protagonist have the 'Babylon witch's' credit card after the breakup in 'Don't Ask Me To Beg'? Confusing matters is the line 'All summer my powers did fade', which seems like it recalls 'Lost Powers', a song about Alex Jones and the Sand Hook shootings.

(UPDATE: The meaning may be given away by the cryptic reference to Robin Hood's Bay, which seems to be referencing Bram Stoker's Dracula, who reaches shore in nearby Whitby after a shipwreck in the form of a dog. 'The dog's in the dinghy sun-tanned' thus seems to identify the parasitic protagonist as a figurative (?) vampire, whose fading powers of seduction may nod back to similar tracks such as 'Warm Healer')

'Dagger's Edge' wasn't a favorite of mine as it felt quite derivative and something I've heard before, both musically and thematically, though it's a lot stronger than the preceding three tracks and I can see why some have labelled it a high point. It connects, oddly, to 'Don't Ask Me To Beg' ("We've all become tomorrow's bacon/The customer is always right") as well as to the 'rancid hellkite' cult.

'City Song' was a standout for me with some evocative synths, and what seems like a nod to the structure of 'No Reptiles' ("They didn't know my name/I didn't know my name"). City Song has been excoriated by some for what is probably the weakest couplet on the album ("You are a woman, and I am a man/We live in the city, and we do what we can"). For my part I assumed this was deliberately trite and not a genuine attempt at a romantic line. It also has for me the best outro on the album.

'The Witness' makes for a strange closer to the album, with its 16-bit MIDI melody and vocals that seem to sit awkwardly on top. For me this (deliberate?) incongruity detracts from what are actually quite powerful lyrics - albeit feeling very cryptic and almost painfully personal: "And the way you wanted it never comes true/And the bird in the shed, it was looking at you/But you blew off its head because that's what we do/And I'll always believe in you". Should we understand the "blinding light" and "water falling" to mean the collapse of the pit and the mountain; the system ending and the light rushing into the darkness? The line "If you stood up in school and just burst into flame" suggests to me this is all still Higgs playing with ideas of martyrdom and terrorism left over from 'Get To Heaven', when the final two tracks on what is billed as a concept album haven't really engaged with the concept, dancing away to a city filled with light or a cryptic scene in a shed where the protagonist kills an avian 'witness'?

Overall ranking each song out of five I ended up with an overall average rating for 'Mountainhead' of 2.78, which is better than Arc and Re-Animator and comparable to 'Raw Data Feel'. However, it's quite front-loaded, with 'The End Of The Contender', 'Cold Reactor', 'Buddy Come Over' and 'Mad Stone' all in the first half. I feel the album progressively loses track of its conceit after 'Canary' and the second half is significantly weaker.

In terms of the overall narrative, you might construct something as follows:

The scene is set ('Wild Guess') with an ominous premonition of the end (the bodies floating in the pit), also serving as a re-introduction to the band itself and its new direction ("Where are we now? - Take a wild guess")

'The End Of The Contender' describes someone who might fall prey to the cult, who feels like yesterday's man and seeks purpose

'Cold Reactor' overtly spells out the setting and how it relates to alienation (the pit = depression and disconnection)

'Buddy Come Over' might (?) suggest attempts to find connection with other people in the pit

'R U Happy?' suggests the protagonist remains dissatisfied with their life

'Mad Stone' introduces a new character, the estate agent who by the end of the song has seemingly joined the cult)

'TV Dog' relates the cult to real-world media on TV radicalising people

'Canary' develops how the protagonists are manipulated and encouraged to sacrifice themselves for the good of the cult

'Don't Ask Me To Beg' suggests some kind of breakup or disagreement with the cult

'Enter The Mirror' sees the protagonist climb the mountain and reach the mirror, reaching some kind of revelation and embarking on a campaign of destruction and arson against the cult

'Your Money. My Summer' might or might not see the protagonist stealing money from the cult (it might also be from the perspective of the cult's leadership, enjoying the unearned fruits of their followers' labours)

'Dagger's Edge' relates the cult situation to the increasingly perilous real-world political landscape

'City Song' sees the protagonist attempting to rediscover themselves in the city after leaving the cult but still feeling unsatisfied

Finally 'The Witness' sees them return and dynamite the mountain, flooding the pit and killing the cult; their last victim is the canary, who saw them commit the crime.

Update: The 'bird in the shed' is a real bird who Higgs shot with an air rifle as a child, with the rest of the song being about "some fucked up stuff that happened to me in the pandemic"; my sense then that this was a painfully personal song seems to have been bourne out. While the lyrics are evocative, the almost chiptune melody and lack of connection to the album make it to my mind a poor closer.

#everything everything band #mountainhead #jonathan higgs

[sardinesandhumbugs]

30 "when you smile, you knock me out, I fall apart" with Ratty and Mole?

(Also, I haven't actually watched any starkid musicals those were suggested by @residentofskinnymandria but I will be looking into them this weekend :D)

A/N: Thank you for the prompt and for your patience! I procrastinated somewhat on this because for my other OTPs, I would usually go straight for the romance with a starter like this, but by now y'all know that when it comes to Ratty & Mole, the line between romantic and platonic tends to be up to reader interpretation :)

Also a shout-out to @wolfiethewriter for unwittingly providing inspiration for this ficlet, by getting hilariously drunk a few nights back during our Midnight Sun readthrough. I only hope you fared better the next morning than Rat :D

x

Categorically, Rat knew there were worse ways to wake.

But, as Toad started on his fifth verse of 'What Shall We Do with the Drunken Sailor?' Rat found he could think of no such examples.

He muttered something unsavoury and buried himself deeper into the recesses of the caravan, far from the prying, headache-inducing light of day, and far, far away from Toad's over-exuberant singing – for what little good it would do him. For Toad had inherited his mother's operatic lungs, if quantifiably not her pitch-perfect tone, and both were on full display that morning.

(It could not be said that Toad was a bad singer. It was simply the case that enthusiasm preceded vocal form, and he cared little for meddling things such as keys or sharps and flats when the mood took him. Regardless, even if Toad's voice had been flawless, Rat wouldn't have had the patience for it. Not today. The careening key changes were just the icing on the cake.)

The song briefly rose as the caravan door opened, and Rat recoiled as much from the intrusion of light as he did from Toad's blasted singing. Then the aroma of eggs and bacon hit him, and he begrudgingly shuffled his snout out of the cool, dark safety of the bedcovers.

Mole stood before him, fried offering in paw, and looking significantly less the worse for wear after their previous night's inebriations than Rat. He grinned, and set the breakfast down on the table beside the bed. "Well," he said, "I've never seen you sleep in this late."

"This isn't sleeping in," Rat muttered. "It's suffering."

"Maybe you should have thought about that before drinking so much yesterday," Mole said, the faint admonishment in his tone outweighed by the amusement.

"I'm not a lightweight," Rat grumbled. "It's just whatever Toad puts in his damn drinks to make them green always knocks me out."

"And makes you very drunk, apparently."

Rat hesitated, unsure whether he wanted to know the answer to his next question. "How drunk?"

Mole grinned again. "Nothing too embarrassing. You mostly just gabbled and then got distressed when you couldn't pronounce a word properly."

"What word?"

"I believe it was library."

"...Library?" Rat echoed. "How–"

"You kept saying 'liblary' instead."

"Libla...?"

"Liblary, hm-mm. The second 'l' kept creeping in, however hard you tried otherwise." The humour in Mole's voice betrayed that Rat's efforts, while in vain, had been quite the show.

Rat considered this as best he could while the sensation of galloping horses gallivanted between his ears. Eventually he located what he hoped would be a safe question. "Why were we talking about libraries?"

"Oh, we weren't – just you. Goodness knows why, and we thought it best not to ask."

"DON'T LET HIM STEER THAT CARGO FREIGHTER, DON'T LET HIM STEER THAT CARGO FREIGHTER, DON'T LET HIM STEER THAT CARGO FREIGHTER, URL-EYE IN THE MORNING!"

With a wince, Rat turned a reluctant ear to Toad's questionable shanty rendition, trying to figure out if the words were indeed what he was hearing, or whether it was simply the effects of the hangover. "What verse is Toad on now?"

Mole chuckled. "Ones of his own creation. I think he ran out of official verses he could recall a while back."

As if to compound that fact, Toad skipped the refrain entirely and overshot to the next verse, of which the origin was undoubtedly a Toad Special.

"PUT HIM IN THE LIBLARY 'TIL HE'S SOBER, PUT HIM IN THE LIBLARY 'TIL HE'S SOBER, PUT HIM IN THE LIBLARY 'TIL HE'S SOBER, URL-EYE IN THE MORNING!"

Rat winced again. "I'm not living this one down, am I?"

"Oh, Toad will forget in time," Mole said, with surprisingly surety for someone who had spent only a day and a half in Toad's presence. But, then again, Toad was not the most complicated of creatures. However, Rat noted that Mole didn't make any mention of himself forgetting any time soon.

Mole nudged the plate closer to Rat. "Eat up. You'll feel better for it."

Rat had half a mind to make a comment about food being Mole's solution to everything, but then he caught another whiff of breakfast and his stomach gave an audible rumble. He pushed himself up and made a start on the meal.

"Just out of curiosity," Mole said, "why did you drink so much of Toad's cocktails if you know you always suffer the next day?"

"Honest answer?" Rat asked. "I forgot."

"You... forgot?"

"I had..." and Rat paused as Toad butchered another verse, "more pressing issues on my mind."

Both animals waited out Toad's latest crescendo, enduring the new volumes before he petered out to more acceptable levels.

"Would those issues be green and singing?" Mole asked.

"Usually."

Rat had worked his way through a rash and a half of bacon before Mole spoke again, and the distance between the words belayed an uneasy deliberation. "You didn't have to come along," Mole said. He sat on the bench that ran along the inner of the caravan, which served as table space and seating as the need arose, and the ledge was set just a smidgen too high so that his paws only brushed the floor. "You know, out on the open road. Not if you didn't want to."

"Ah, well," Rat said, "then who would keep you and Toad out of trouble?"

"I think we would have managed."

Rat squinted. "No offence, Moley, but I know you, and I know Toad–" he gestured to the window from which Toad's performance was still going strong, and then immediately regretted it as the alcohol residing in his system sent his head spinning "–and you are both many things, but 'out of trouble' is not one of them."

"We survived this morning without mishap."

There was a crash from outside, followed by a cry of, "It's alright! Everything's good! No need to check!" from Toad.

"Mostly," Mole amended.

"Definitely sounds like you have everything under control here," Rat deadpanned.

"I'm sure everything's fine."

There was another thump, this time accompanied by the unimpressed whinny of the horse.

Mole and Rat exchanged glances.

Mole closed the window. "Look, Ratty, all I'm saying is that you needn't have felt obliged to come along if you'd rather have stayed on your river." He glanced to the wicker luncheon basket that was still half-full from yesterday, and which had seemingly swayed Rat in his decision to accompany the caravan. "We could have had our picnics on the riverbank instead."

"We?" Rat echoed.

"Well, of course. Do you really think I would have gone off on the Life Adventurous without you?"

Rat didn't immediately respond. The horses in his head had calmed, but the outcome was simply that he had more space to think properly through the last couple of days. Truth be told, he hadn't quite been sure which Mole would have chosen – him or the open road – and he hadn't been interested in putting it to the test. His mind played back the eagerness with which Mole had rootled through the caravan, exploring the compact living wagon and settling in with an ease that made Rat wonder whether the caravan's claustrophobic space reminded Mole of his own beneath-ground home. It certainly was a far cry from Rat's riverbank abode, where the house had the space to sprawl along the shoreline and the freshwater breeze meant the air was never still. Not like being underground, he was sure.

"Ratty?"

He had been lost in his thoughts for too long, and now Mole leant into his line of vision. Rat had to think quickly to recall what exactly Mole had asked.

"No, of course not," he said. "Only – well, I would have hated for you to have stayed on the riverbank only on my behalf."

"Like you came along here on mine?"

“And for the picnics,” Rat added. “Don’t forget the picnics.”

“Right,” Mole said with a laugh that said he wasn’t buying Rat’s offhanded dismissal any more than Rat believed it. “How could I forget the picnics?” He patted Rat’s paw and swung off the seat. “Well, you can put all thoughts of picnics from your mind until you’ve recovered — and maybe in future we stick to drinks we’re familiar with, hm?”

“Maybe,” Rat conceded.

It was as Mole threw him one last grin and disappeared out of the caravan that Rat came to the reluctant conclusion that, whether or not his housemate was aware of it, Mole had him wrapped around his little claw. He set the emptied plate to one side and collapsed back into the bunk, thankful for the small mercy that at least Toad had stopped singing—

“Feeling better finally?”

Rat jolted back up, and had to steady himself against the table as his head swam. He located Toad at the window. “Toad! How long have you been there?”

“I don’t know; I wasn’t keeping track.” Toad leant in against the windowsill conspiringly. “If I had known all it’d take for you to join me would be the smile off an undergrounder, I’d have dug him out ages ago.”

Rat grumbled but decided he was still too hungover to bicker over it.

Besides, it was somewhat difficult to argue with when it was true.

#dratandbotherbotheranddrat #replies #cat writes #wind in the willows musical #witw fanfic #did I partially write this just for the amusement of 'what shall we do with the drunken sailor' being applied to rat? #...maybe #things I said I didn't write: drunk fics #things I have now written twice: drunk fics #wolfie you are a terrible influence #also mole has a stomach of steel and toad drinks his green drinks regularly #or regularly enough for him to be immune #so rat is the only one in the open road who is going to suffer #also on a rewatch I realised that the cocktails they drink at the beginning of 'the open road' aren't green #they just look that way in the light #but too late they're green now #it always amuses me how at the beginning of the open road #they start with cocktails and by the end have moved onto beer #oh and for what it's worth that mispronunciation of 'library' is one I am guilty of #not even when drunk either #also wolfie you didn't gabble don't worry #I'm just using how I behave when tired #also in the book toad gets rat to agree to the open road by convincing mole first #he literally realises that rat will agree if mole does #so he sets to work convincing mole instead #which im sorta leaning on here

[jangofctts]

Thing for Trouble (boba fett x fem!reader x din djarin) (part one) (part two) (part three) (part four)

Rated: explicit 18+

word count: 7.6k

warnings: threesome, smut, thigh riding, oral female receiving, handjobs, unprotected sex (dont be a deadbeat, wrap that shCMEAT), light choking, throne fucking, vaginal fingering, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, creampies, pet names, sub? din? more likely than you think (also lmk if I missed any tags!)    

a/n: yall im sorry this is such garbage but kjkwejh here we be. I hOPE YOU ENJOY THE CIRCUS. thank you to everyone who’s encouraged this so COME GET YALLS MANDO MEAT  

There isn’t much when he it comes to Tatooine and fun things to do. There’s pod acing, drinking, Sabaac tourneys, more podracing, gambling and scavenging. Unless there’s a festival or some wild event, you’re stuck with boredom and whatever you can scrounge up for fun in the palace. 

Now, don’t get it wrong—if you had it your way, you’d spend every waking hour trialing behind Boba, but you don’t want to smother. Fennec too—while you enjoy her company, you know that half of the reason she sticks around is Boba’s order for your protection. Kinda ruins the fun when you know she probably only tolerates you because she’s being paid to. Eh whatever—doesn’t stop you from tagging along on as she runs errands in town—besides, today you actually have a reason to be here instead of loitering like a lost puppy. 

Fennec tells you to be safe and com her the second trouble rears its ugly head and disappears into the weapons shop—muttering about her prized rifle being jammed or something. You don’t know, all you hear is that you have the entire afternoon to yourself to hunt down your oh so elusive prize. Star cherries.    

The markets are always vibrant. Jam packed with people from each and every corner of the galaxy, hundreds of booths and stalls selling their wares that varies from foods to jewelry to even bounty services. Tempting as is it is to peruse the sparkly rows of dainty necklaces and rings or inspect the vast array of beige ponchos and manilla undershirts—you have a purpose. A once a year chance you refuse to let go to waste.   

The shabby booth is tucked near the end of the street, the mountain of the little red fruits looking comical compared to the withered old lady who sits beside them. She flashes you a gap-toothed smile, the crowfeet wrinkles surrounding her eyes scrunch with the movement. “Ah! I was wondering when you’d show, dear.” 

“Hello, Mrs. Feraan,” you greet, bending at the was it to kiss her wrinkly cheek. The old vender was one of the first kind souls you met here when you arrived on Tatooine. In return for a couple compliments or an offer to be the lab rat to test her new recipes for pie or tarts, she hooks you up with the best of the cherries—handpicked with love. “How’s business today?”

She waves her hand in dismissal, her silver rings glinting in the sun. “Same as always, child.”

Eventually you work your way through the pleasantries and a couple, long winded tangents. The sort that only old people can flawlessly spin and keep you engaged. Trials and tribulations to earn your prize—you don’t mind sacrificing a couple hours.

Finally you’re allowed to walk away—cherries in hand and exceedingly eager for your sweet snack. Unfortunately, suffering through Mrs. Feraan’s old childhood laments is not the only bump in the road you have to face.       

Granted, it is your fault—not looking where your feet are taking you—

Your temple crashes into something agonizingly hard. You swear you hear a quiet bonk when your skull collides with the mystery material and fucking hell—you probably have a concussion from the force of it. 

Unbothered by your probable brain injury, you’re far more concerned with the cherries spilling onto the ground and so, as you flail and dramatically topple over—the brunt of your fall is cushioned by your shoulder. Something pops and yeah, ok, maybe you just tore a ligament but—kriffing worth it for the cherries you miraculously saved from their dusty graves.     

Your temper flares as you spot the dirty brown boots pointed in your direction. Maneuvering yourself up so you don’t also get trampled by the crowd, you bare your teeth and put on your best impression of a terrifying force of nature despite the fact you’ve been knocked flat on your ass. “What the fuck—“

The words shrivel up and die upon your tongue as your eyes slide up the stranger’s legs, broad shoulders sporting the shiny armor that twinkles in the midday suns. They then settle on an all too familiar helmet. Well, sorta—you’re familiar with a certain red and green one, not the equivalent of a wearable disco ball.

You squint as the stranger’s head dips to look at you crumpled at his feet. You dust yourself off and point an accusing finger. “Fuck is your problem standing in the middle of the road?”

The stranger quirks their head. “You ran into me—maybe you should watch where you’re stepping.”

The raspy voice is a striking sound. Mellow and silky even as it passes through the vocoder and dresses it in static charm. Some of your anger melts away—maybe this is the friend Boba was talking about—it’d make sense. They’re wearing the same type of armor…  

You shake your head and shove down your pride. You don’t think Boba would appreciate you chewing his ear off. “Sorry—you’re right.”

As you readjust your clothes and precious cherries you introduce yourself with a tiny smile. Yet just as you're about to ask him his name he interjects with a step forward. You flinch away but all he does is sweep back a strand of hair from your forehead, revealing a little nick in the skin. You hiss as his fingertips scrape against it--great, an actual head wound. “Are you alright?”

Maker—here you are, after yelling at him and he finds it in him to be compassionate. You wave away his concerns. “Y-yeah--peachy.” 

He apologizes with a dip of his head and words soaked in regret and fuck--now you feel bad. You wrack through your brain and search for last ditch attempts to fix this little mishap and settle with a half baked idea. It’s dumb--but hey, if it works, it works.  

“Seriously, it’s fine. But I mean, if you’re so worried, how about you walk me home and we call it even?” You propose, sticking out your hand to seal the deal. If your assumptions are right, he’d just be tailing you the whole way home anyway. “I’m headed towards the palace, so if it’s not too much out of your way then—“

He hesitates and interrupts by taking your hand. “Alright. Deal.” 

You smile. “Lovely.” 

On the return trip, Din is quiet—tells you his name and responds to your conversation fillers with interested hums—but other than that he remains on the silent end. Intriguing with a rounded softness unlike the armor he wears--a man of mystery much like  a certain someone who awaits you back home. Well--Din is less grumpy--by a long shot...but still. It’s easy to spot some of their shared similarities.  

                                        -=-=-=-

Upon arriving at the castle you part ways with Din before he reaches the throne room--you’re not too excited about showing off your new battle scar yet and while it was an accident, making an entrance with Din will make it far too easy to link the injury with him. Besides, you don’t wanna risk scaring off your new friend if Boba decides to showcase that tightly sealed lid of anger and brutality. 

Instead you take the long way around the palace. Soon, muffled voices carry through the long corridors, growing louder as you work your way back from the kitchens. You round the corner, catching glimpses of Boba and your new friend through the pillars that prop up the low ceiling. You don’t meant to spy, but you do so anyway, hesitant on interrupting.     

That is...until Boba cocks his head to the side and settles his eyes onto the pillar you hide behind. “It seems we have a little shadow with us today.” 

You suck in a breath as your heart skips in a thrumming pace. Boba addresses you by name and crooks his fingers in a lazy motion for you to step out into the light—revealing yourself to the small party of two. “Come here, little one.”

The low light catches off of Din’s helmet with a glittering sparkle when he swivels his head. The tiny, warped figure of yourself reflects in mirror-like pieces of smelted beskar as his shoulders pull tight with recognition. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep the smile that threatens to crack across your face at bay. Boba is no fool—he excels in the subtleties of shifting eyes and clenched fists to hide anxiety or closely guarded information—sickeningly familiar with your own quirks and tells, but—  

There’s no reason to reveal Din’s little secret—not yet. Boba called him a friend but you truly have no clue what the depths of that word entailed. Friend could mean anything from a casual acquaintance, to an old childhood bond, and or anything in between. You sigh and brush past him, mentally congratulating yourself for keeping a cool mask of indifference etched into your features. If Din wants to open that can of worms then so be it—you weren’t the one offering to walk random people home. 

You step onto the dais and slide your free hand into Boba’s outstretched palm. The worn leather tickles up your forearm and locks over your elbow, silently demanding you to sit on his lap. There’s plenty of room to both sit on the throne but no—Boba prefers you tucked against the cool metal of his cuirass. You grunt as the bowl of star cherries you cradle dangerously dips when Boba adjusts your weight over his thighs.  

His fingers pull back a strand of your hair, tucking it behind your ear and then spider along your jawline. The ends of his mouth quirk as Boba pinches your chin between his forefinger and thumb, capturing your undivided attention. “I don’t like it when you lurk in the shadows, little one. You’re allowed to listen.

You huff. “I know—but lurking is fun.”

Boba releases your chin with a scoff. “Foolish, girl.” You dip your chin with a sheepish grin as heat rushes to your cheeks. You briefly forget about the tiny nick adorning your right temple, the only thing you were trying to keep hidden—but Boba is all too quick to notice. “What is this?”

He pushes your hair out of the way of the cut, inspects it, then curls his fingers around your jaw to demand an answer. You refuse to let your eyes wander over to Din—what a dead giveaway that would be—and instead muster up enough courage to hold the weight of his stare. 

“I tripped at the markets,” you say—not a complete lie. “It’s just a little scratch—no biggie.”

Boba squints in suspicion and grumbles a soft hm. You feel his chest rise and fall with a deep sigh—he won’t argue about it right now. Not a battle worth his while when you’re keen on keeping the full truth behind a wall of teeth and anxieties. Boba’s hand falls away, gestures to Din who still stands stiffer than a stature, then lays it over the golden armrest. “I’m sure you’ve noticed our guest—“

Din tips his head in acknowledgement. 

“The rightful ruler of Mandalore,” Boba continues. “Din Djarin.” 

Din Djarin…despite already knowing his name (or half of it, at least) you like the way it rolls off the tongue—like how it’s seemingly made to be repeated and carved into the walls of some ancient script. Your knowledge on all things Mandalorian is…limited to say the least but you know enough about the rumors. 

“Isn’t Mandalore supposed to be haunted?” You don’t mean for your words to be a pointy jab to the ribs but regardless, it strikes a tender chord within the Mandalorian. You wince as Din shifts his weight and clenches his palm—a long story. “Sorry—I—I’m sure your home is lovely, all I know about it are dumb ghost stories about evil wizards and laser swords.” 

The blood under your cheeks burn red hot. Great. Not only are you a complete bantha brain, you’ve also managed to sound like an impudent child. Boba soothes a thumb over your thigh as you curl into yourself—bastard. He thinks this is funny.        

“It’s not my home,” Din responds, albeit tentatively. “Never been.”

Your brows furrow. Alrighty then.  

Boba snorts and shakes his head. He mutters something in Mando’a and lazily waves his hand, dismissing the line of conversation entirely. It was turning into a dumpster fire anyway—   

With a slow exhale, you remove yourself from the discussion and instead tuck your head under Boba’s chin. The beskar is cold against your cheek but it feels nice against the sweltering midday heat.  

Their conversation fades in and out as you rest your head over Boba’s cuirass, listlessly picking through the bowl of fruit for the ripest ones. You sigh—the next cherry you bring up to your lips is intercepted as Boba’s hand clamps around your wrist and redirects it into his own mouth. You don’t find it in you to be grumpy about the stolen treat when Boba’s tongue slides over your sticky fingers. Still holding your wrist captive, he sucks the tip of your thumb into the warm heat of his mouth and curls his tongue around the digit. Your index finger is given the same treatment before your hand is returned. The beginnings of arousal spark to life below your belly, and fuck—that shouldn’t have been so…so…hot. 

Din’s smoky baritone fades into background noise as the entirety of your attention zero’s in on Boba’s mouth. You purse your lips and suck in a shaky breath, then return your hand to the bowl to fish out another fruit. You don’t need any guidance this time around as you bring the cherry to his mouth—the crimson juice spilling down your palm and part of your arm as his teeth pierce the fragile skin. You breath hitches as Boba dips his head, catching the bead of liquid running down your arm with the tip of his tongue, then swiping s a slow trail up, and over the lines of your palm. He plants a careful kiss there, then breaks away. 

Before you have the chance to reach for another one, Boba plucks a cherry from the bowl and rests it against the seam of your lisp, inviting you to partake in this little game he’s created. A wicked smirk curls over his mouth as you accept—the tart flavor of the fruit spilling over your tastebuds as you chew and swallow. A little wine escapes you as his leather-clad thumb rolls over your bottom lip, bushes past the barrier of your teeth and seats the digit into your mouth—all the way down to the third knuckle. 

You hardly notice the moment Din’s voice tapers off into silence—much too enraptured with the taste of leather and the smooth feel of it over your tongue. You gag slightly when Boba’s thumb reaches the back of your throat, then retreats just as slow. The string of saliva that still connects the digit to your wet mouth, drips over your chin and part of your lip, eliciting a jagged, echoey breath that crackles through Din’s vocoder. 

Boba grins—something that better belongs on a sneering jackal just about to pounce on unsuspecting prey with needle sharp talons, rather than his face. His eyes drift up to address his guest. “Do you see something you like, Mand’alor?”

Din’s head jerks, averting his gaze to anywhere but the throne. He murmurs a weak apology and shifts his weight to his other leg—acting as if he were to look at you a second time, it’d burn him to a crisp or force him to confront Boba Fett’s wrath. Obviously, neither thing would happen, but Din still remains unsure with his foothold in this situation.   

“I see how you look at her,” Boba drawls—not an accusation, just a statement brought to light. Boba’s hand drops to your thigh, the warm weight of it resting just past your knee as Din swallows his nerves and returns his gaze. “It’s alright—a pretty little thing like her is bound to turn heads.” 

A blush hotter than wildfire licks up your cheeks as Din nods in agreement. “She’s beautiful…you’re a lucky man.”

Boba’s grip on your thigh hoards you closer to his chest. He is and he’s fully aware of that fact, but there’s no need to admit such a thing when it’s so blatantly obvious. A lull in the conversation creates a palpable tension—nervous energy and a choice to let this is fade into nonexistence or…or breathe life into that flickering ember of unsaid desires.     

Your heart leaps into your throat when Boba shatters the silence and addresses you. “You’re awfully quiet, princess…what do you think?”

He’s placing whatever this is into your hand and leaving you to call the shots. You’ve always been a troublemaker and there’s no will or way as to why you’d stop now. You look between your lover and Din as a smile curls over your face. “I think…if he’s so interested—why not give him a show? After all, he did bring me home—he deserves some reimbursement for the trouble.”

Boba’s shoulders jolt with a chuckle. “How chivalrous.” You shiver as he strokes the back of his finger down your cheek. “Fine, as you wish, little one—go play.” 

Giddy excitement bubbles through your chest as Boba offers Din to take a seat on the edge of the dais. Din still has an option to escape, to slip through the cracks and pretend this never happened—but stars, you hope he stays. Din takes a step forward, then another—and another until he’s standing before the throne. He studies the raised edge and gingerly takes a seat. 

You abandon your bowl of cherries onto the forearm of the throne and slip off Boba’s lap. You drift over to Din, his gloved fingers clenching and unclenching as they rest over his thigh plating. He’s purposefully avoiding your eye as you kneel beside him—still locked onto that niggling fear that this could be some sort of trick or test in resolve.      

Smiling sweetly, you skate your hand over his knuckles—guiding his large palm to your waist and then under and up your loose shirt and bra. Din mutters a curse as you place his palm over your breast. “I’m glad you stayed.”

Pleased with his reaction, you peel off your shirt and bra, breath hitching as Din pinches your nipple between his forefinger and thumb. “Same—I think…”

With a bit more bravery backing his movements, Din pulls away briefly, shucks off his gloves and encompasses both your breasts. They’re warm and calloused, riddled with silvery scars that stand out against his brown skin, a storybook of past battles—won and lost—all equally important to the fibers of his being that stitch him together into a whole. His hand whispers down the length of your ribcage, no doubt feeling the thrum of your heart beating wildly against the cartilage and bone. It tickles over the swell of your hips then—        

“You said you wanted to give him a show,” Boba drawls behind you, a sharp twinge of hostility lacing his words. “So enjoy the show, Mand’alor, ’nd keep your hands to yourself."

Din recoils at the verbal reprimand and drops his hands speedier than a flash of lightning. You frown and throw a glare over your shoulder. Bastard. Boba quirks a brow and runs his thumb over his lip, the edged sparkle in his dark eyes taunting you into challenging him. You huff and turn a cold shoulder. 

“Sorry, Din,” you purr, scrounging up any and all back up plans to keep you both entertained. “Seems my king isn’t as generous I thought.”

Din withers a bit at the catty remark, keeping his lips sealed tight as Boba growls your name in warning. You don’t pay him any mind. 

You puff up your cheeks and release the air in a steady stream, as your eyes scrape over Din’s armored thigh. Ok—you can work with that. It wouldn’t be breaking any rules…not technically. You step away, paw at your waistband and let the breezy fabric pool over around your ankles, your underwear quickly joining the pile. 

Now bare, you return to Din’s side, his careful inhale distorted into choppy static as you straddle his thigh. He lifts both hands, intending to grab at your waist, but pauses midair. No touching. You lips tilt with a smirk as he clenches his fists and pins his hands to the cool stone instead, an attempt to curb that urge to reach for you. His shoulders knit together when you mold your hand in the gap between his shoulder pauldron and cuirass to give yourself some sort of balance—obviously not used to a soft touch.  

You lower yourself and hiss through clenched teeth. It’s fucking freezing. Goosebumps rush up each limb as the wet warmth of your cunt meets the frigid beskar—the chill much colder than you initially expected. It’s one thing to touch the beskar with an open palm and another thing entirely to feel against such an intimate part of yourself. Din’s visor drops to look between your legs as you give your hips an experimental roll. 

It’s different. You’re used to hardened muscle and fabric, or your own fingers while pleasuring yourself. Your breath hitches as Din’s thigh twitches, the smelted seam of the cuisse bumping against your throbbing clit. 

“Sorry,” Din mumbles, “Didn’t mean—“

“It’s ok,” you smile, rocking your hips to ease into the sensation. “Just surprised me.”

The pace you set is slow, careful not to overwork your nerves as your arousal blooms and metastasizes like simmering coals low in your groin. With each lecherous pull of your cunt against his thigh, the beskar begins to warm to the temperature of your skin—the wetness between your thighs abating the friction and making the surface slippery. A low gasp escapes you once you find the right ridge and angle that just grinds perfectly against your aching clit. Your fingers dig into the cowl of Din’s cloak. 

“Shit—feels good.” Like your voice and little moans jumpstart Din’s ability to move, his large hand drifts to the front of his trousers—an already sizable bulge tenting the dark brown fabric. You squeak as Din's leg jolts for a second time, a burst of dizzying ecstasy wracking up your spine with the choppy movement. 

You suck in another raspy breath as your attention drops to his hand that cups his cock and palms himself through his trousers. You chew your bottom lip and clench your fist gripping his cowl, still gyrating your hips over the beska as Din hooks his thumb into his waistband and pulls them down, slow as molasses. 

Fucking hell—he’s bigger than you initially imagined. Flushed a rosy brown, and half hard already, twitching as Din wraps his fingers around the thick length. Din lifts his head, gauging your interest or disapproval—but kriff—who the fuck would ever be unhappy with that sorta heat he’s packing? You bite your bottom lip, scouring your brain for ideas to convince Boba into letting you taste Din—but your plotting is abruptly cut short. 

Boba sits up and off the throne, his presence looming over your shoulder as he lowers to one knee. You shiver and arch your neck, exposing more of your vulnerable throat as Boba runs the fingertip of his pointer finger down the side of your cheek. “Are you enjoying yourself, princess?”  

You nod, eyes fluttering shut as Boba opens his palm and cradles your jaw. You groan and roll your head back onto your shoulders as Boba snakes one hand around your hip and jolts you forward and down—disrupting the slow rock with a catastrophic interference. Unrefined bolts of plasma shoot up your spine as desire licks up thighs—you need more. 

Boba dips his head and nuzzles into the crook of your neck. You grunt when his teeth sink into your flesh, worrying a bruise into your skin. Boba laves his tongue over the throbbing area, then licks a wet trail up to the shell of your ear, all the while you continue to grind on Din’s thigh. Boba nibbles your earlobe and whispers your name—the sound sweeter than any symphony could ever hope to make. Like smoke over deep water or the surging crackle of energy just before a thunderstorm high up in the mountains. 

“You’re allowed to touch…” he says with a rough chuckle. “Go on.”

Your noise of agreement is quickly muffled as Boba interrupts you with a feverish kiss—all open mouthed and breathless as his tongue curls around yours. Your chest heaves for precious air as Boba retreats just as abruptly as it began. With a satisfied smirk ghosting over his lips, he taps you below the chin and returns to his throne to continue observing.         

Dropping your eyes between Din’s legs, his cock, hardened to its full glory and held casually in his  calloused hand, is truly a sight. Your pulse thrums in your ears as Din rolls his wrist and pumps his length, the velvety skin shifting over what looks like fucking beskar underneath. It strains towards his navel as you watch with wide eyes, mesmerized with the way he touches himself. 

Rolling your bottom lip between your teeth, you touch your hand to his wrist.  Din shudders like your skin is made of sizzling embers that’s broken off the tail end of shooting star—like you’re something too luminous and dangerous to be handled by someone like him. You lift your gaze, smiling into that darkened void of the visor and gracing him with a toothy smile. “Will you let me touch you, Din?”

He nods and utters a breathy yes. 

Fuck yeah.    

Din sucks in a stuttered breath when your hand circles around his thick length. His hips jolt into your palm as you slide your fist to the base then all the way back up. Precum beads over the tip, dribbling down and coating your knuckles with sticky wetness. It eases some of that friction as you fall into an easy rhythm, matching your rocking hips with each pump of his cock. 

Din’s stuttered moans fill the small space between you, dragging you closer to your release that’s suddenly so close. He whines as you abandon his length to chase after your high, your arousal leaking from your center and dripping down the sides of the beskar. Din takes his cock into his hands, fisting himself to your little show of breathy wines and rough jerking of your hips over his thigh. 

Din says your name attached with a broken moan and it’s over—    

Everything seizes up tighter than a jaw clamp as your tumble off that jagged peak of searing, white hot pleasure. It’s raw, sparking off like a blade to metal, burning you from the inside out as you cum. Your cunt clenches around nothing, your thighs shaking as you curl inward as if he punched you in the fucking gut. It feels like he did. Maker—the cool beskar against your throbbing clit is like you’ve been thrown to the mercies of an electrical surge. 

It doesn’t help either that Din is still pumping his length, hips stuttering as he brings himself to his own euphoric high. The air in your lungs seizes when a fragile groan, light and airy passes through the vocoder. Din rocks his hips into his fist, once—twice and then he’s throbbing and cumming into his hand. Hot ropes of his release splatter up his chest plate and parts of your thighs, his helmet nearly knocking into you as he hunches foreword from the intensity of it.     

Too exhausted to keep yourself upright, you smash your cheek against his cuirass, involuntarily twitching as the last little waves of pleasure prickle through the rest of your nerves. You whine as you watch Din move his hand to collect some of your wetness coating his thigh. He brings two fingers stained with your slick to the lip of his helmet, pushes it up with his thumb just far enough to sink the two digits into his mouth. He groans out a quiet fuck, and repeats the action, swiping his fingers through the mess you’ve made and feeding it to himself. Your cunt clenches as you catch a sliver of his pink tongue that twists between his thick fingers.   

He groans and rolls his head back onto his shoulders. “Please—can I taste you? Fuck—I-I need my mouth on you.” 

Stars—the mere idea of it stokes the dwindling flames into a blaze of want. You look up at Boba and puff out your bottom lip. Pouting and begging hardly ever gets you what you want under normal circumstances—Boba Fett is more stubborn than a rancor—but you hope just this once he’ll be lenient.   

Boba holds out his gloved hand—summoning you to his lap without a lick of protest on your end. Din however makes a sound akin to a whimper when you leave him. Boba gathers you in his arms for the second time, the leather a strange sensation as it spiders down your ribcage and around your hips. You can feel his hardness poking into your backside once you settle against him—his chest plate a cold shock to your naked flesh. You shiver and bury your nose into the crook of his neck, poking your tongue out to taste him. Boba’s cock twitches under you as your teeth sink into him with a cheeky nip.   

“Is that what you want, little one?” Boba rumbles in question. His right hand glides lower, grabbing a handful of your thigh and squeezing. You groan and keen out a whine of affirmation. 

Boba cocks his head towards Din. “Well? You’ve got your wish—don’t keep her waiting.” 

Din shakily stands—hesitating with removing his helmet for enough time that you notice the silence that follows. The vocoder crackles as Din sighs. “Do you trust her?”

“With my life.” Boba states it without a second thought. Your heart twists, golden light spilling from  your lungs and staining your insides with devotion and fuzzy affection. You press a soft kiss over Boba’s jaw.   

“Is she…” Din speaks a word in Mando’a you have no hope to decipher—either no direct translation or he’s purposefully left you in the dark. 

Based on the way Boba almost imperceptibly tenses, you guess the latter. Boba responds with a grunt and an unsure dip of the chin. The answer is complicated—that much you can gather…you push it to the back of you brain for now. 

Din nods, inhales, and steels his nerves. Plastering his hands around the shiny helmet, he tugs it off with a slow reveal of dark, patchy facial, plush lips and wavy brown hair that falls around his olive skin. And oh, his eyes—soft chestnut brown eyes that hold such ache within them—lost things, broken bones, wearing his wounds like decoration upon his chest. Forged in the flames of war, risen from the ashes with murder and mercy rolled into one.      

You wish him a kinder future. One that doesn’t end with pain and a blaze of an unchecked wildfire—the same way how all heroes end up as martyrs.  

Though—right now—you can be the beginning of softer things for Din. You smile and invite him closer, a vortex of anxiety peppered with arousal as his eyes flit over your naked body. He sets his helmet to the side with care and drifts to the foot of the throne—fuck, he’s broad. Why hadn’t you noticed that before?   

Your mental berating is severed when cool air meets the wet heat of your cunt as Boba hooks your thighs over his knees, spreading you wide as far as your hips allow. Din’s unfiltered moan at the sigh of you, sends a volt of electricity through every vein. Din lowers himself to one knee, and then the other, shuffling between yours and Boba’s legs. 

“Can I touch?” He asks, soft brows raising in question. 

Boba lazily raises two fingers in a motion of permission. Your chest tightens at the sight of Din’s boyish grin—warm palms settling over the sharp bend of your knees. His thumbs trace soothing circles over the skin and right as Din decides to swoop down, Boba catches him by the hair atop his head and yanks. Din grunts—the long, arched line of his neck a tempting sight as he swallows. “No marks.” Din’s jaw clenches, but nonetheless, he agrees to Boba’s command. 

Boba hums in satisfaction and untangles his fingers from the mess of Din’s soft curls. Din’s brows pinch together for half a tick but smooth out in the next breath. No use being irritated—especially right now.   

As directed, Din leaves not a scratch. Instead he scrapes the blunt edges of his teeth along the insides of your thighs, threatening to catch soft flesh between them—but he knows better than to act on the urge. He laves his warm tongue over each freckle or blemish he finds, leaving no patch of skin undiscovered as licks a steady trail to his prize. Din mouths a warm kiss over the crease of your thigh, and smooths his calloused hands over your hips, settling for a moment to trace little circles with his thumbs onto the soft protrusion of bone there. Seemingly satisfied, he then shifts them closer to your aching cunt. His hot breath fans over your cunt as he uses his thumbs to glide through your folds, almost curious with his exploration. He makes a little hum of appreciation low in his throat when the pads of his thumbs part your soaking folds.    

You whimper and bury your face into the crook of Boba’s neck, his warm palms a much needed comfort as they tickle down your ribcage, then sweep back up to cup your tits. You cry and arch— Din’s tongue is scalding—like liquid velvet as he dips the tip of his tongue from the base of your cunt all the way up to your clit. Din sucks on the little bundle of nerves, rolling his tongue until you’re crying out, molten pleasure zipping through your abdomen. He grunts as your fingers tangle into his hair—kriff. 

Fuck, you need more.   

Arching into his mouth, all thoughts are transfigured and molded into a vicious loop—beginning with those adoring brown eyes, the color of freshly tilled earth and the warmth of sunlight over dappled aspen leaves in the balmy summer afternoons. It ends with soft lips—rose petal pink with devotion crystallizing in his mouth like sugar—madness and uncertainty and lovesick desire is all that he is and you’re not sure if you’ll come out of this unscathed.    

He sinks two deliciously thick fingers into your clenching hole and curls them, only to retract them a moment later to shovel more of your wetness onto his tongue—as if simply using his mouth wasn’t enough for him. Like he needs to savor every drop of your arousal like the golden ambrosia the gods feast upon in their palaces of cloud and endless twilight. 

That frenzied desperation lingers on the edges of his movements like he’s afraid you’ll fade away like a hand through fog—but you’re going nowhere. You’d stay here, suspended in time forever if the choice were up to you. 

You whine and arch off Boba’s chest plate as Din strokes and curls his fingertips, plucking little gasps and moans from you easier than breathing. He zeros in on that little spot that makes your leg go all jittery and forces out high pitched mewls that echo through the throne room. You’re careening towards another high, the sensitivity of your last orgasm amping up the influx of pleasure. 

“Stars—Din. Close—I’m so close,” you gasp, pulling his hair tight enough that you know it must sting—at least a little bit. He makes no sign that it does, just groans and buries his tongue into your dripping hole, licking alongside his fingers that shovel more of your wetness into his mouth. 

Your release zips through your body like a flash flood—quick and fatal that leaves you gasping for air and struggling not to let your head dip below the waves. Your high seeps into each limb until they feel heavier than lead. Fuck—it’s so hard to work through the muddled thought and remember where exactly you are. You groan and toss your head back as Din keeps going.    

“Another one—let me—“ He moans, opening his mouth as wide as it’ll go so he can devour more of you. You can feel the mixture of saliva and your own arousal dripping down your cunt and over your thighs, some of it pooling on the throne or onto the floor. Your thighs shake as Din pushes you towards another high.        

You squeak as Boba’s palm sweeps up your sternum, locking his fingers around your throat in a loose hold. The tip of his nose nuzzles into your cheek—silently demanding a well earned kiss as his hips rock into your ass, grinding his cock for the barest scrap of friction. You moan into his mouth as Din doubles his efforts, raw and bordering that serrated edge of overstimulation and ecstasy.  

Goosebumps rush over your arm as Boba places his lips right beside the shell of your ear. You feel the sticky heat of his breath fan over your throat and shoulder, and the way his lips skim your ear when they move to form the syllables of his words. “Such a filthy princess…”

You clench around Din’s fingers and moan a half garbled, “Boba—“ 

His weathered palm encompasses the entirety of your breast, rolling your pebbled nipple between his forefinger and thumb. “If only you could see yourself…dripping all over my throne and another man’s tongue.” Boba clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “Depraved creature—cum for your rightful king.” 

Wildfire chars your insides as it begins in your core and sweeps through your body. Tears prick the corner of your eyes as you buck and squirm in their arms—no mercy as the prickly waves of your orgasm make you hypersensitive to each touch. Even the hold on your hip, while innocent in nature, is blistering as if you suffered from a fever. You shudder as a salty tear rolls down your cheek. Boba catches it with his tongue as your ears pick up Din’s raspy praise—thanking you while spattering reverent kisses up your thighs. 

Struggling to keep your eyes open, you do spot the apparent wetness soaking through the front of Din’s trousers. Fuck—he—he came again while eating you out. You whimper and rest the back of your head over Boba’s shoulder.  

Your belly flinches under his scratchy facial hair as Din travels up, seizing and worshiping every inch he’s freely given before intercepted. He catches your nipple between your teeth, tugs a bit then moves to the other, lavishing equal attention with adoring lips and sweet whispers. When he reaches your collarbone, you’re boxed in against his chest plate and Boba’s. A blush blooms under your cheeks hotter than stare fire as Din gingerly sucks your earlobe into his mouth and breathes out a muted moan of your name—committing the very essence of you to his memory for the rest of his days. 

Your heart squeezes tight like a clenched fist when he mumbles another thank you. Plucking up a smidge of courage, he risks planting a kiss right on the corner of your mouth. You blink—despite the sweetness of the gesture you wince as Boba snarls a curt phrase in Mando’a. Din peels himself away with a minuscule frown and slinks away.          

Yet before you have the chance to remedy the situation of wounded pride and territorial jealousy—Boba tightens his hold on your hips and flips you both, so that now your back is smashed against the seat of the throne, a bit crumpled and sorta folded in half. Your hips hang off the edge as Boba holds the majority of your weight, grinding his clothed cock between the apex of your thighs. 

“Don’t forget, princess—” Boba barks, slithering a hand up the column of your throat. You breath hitches as he lightly presses his palm down. “—what belongs to me.”

Reaching between you, he slides his gloved fingers through your slick folds and sinks two of them inside of your clenching center. You jolt as his thumb scrubs over your clit, still sensitive and edging towards too much. 

“You want me to fuck you here?” He asks, shifting his hold to grip your jaw instead—the rounds of his fingertips digging firmly into the flesh and bone. “Say it.”      

You gasp and scrabble weakly at Boba’s shoulders as he grinds the heel of his palm into your clit. “Please, Boba! Please fuck me—I need it.” 

Boba folds over you, his breath fanning hot and hungry against your cheek. He devours your mouth with a discordant edge, like he’s trying to prove to the entire galaxy you are unmistakably his despite the fact you’re already wound so tightly around his fingers. Boba wrenches himself free and tears at his robe and trousers to free his thick length, leaking and flushed a rosy brown at the tip. He doesn’t keep either of you waiting as he removes his fingers and replaces them with something bigger.       

You both groan as he lines himself up with your entrance and sinks into you, a delicious stretch that leaves you shivering beneath him. “Fuck—so wet for me.”

The first roll of his hips makes an obscene noise that showers shame down your throat, but it’s quickly kicked to the back of your brain as he slams back into your cunt—obliterating all thoughts save for him. Boba’s lip curls over his teeth as he claws at your thighs and yanks them over his shoulder, crushing you even further between the throne and the weight of his body. Each stroke is a liquid fire, tearing you apart at the seems while at the same time stitching you back together and leaving your body begging for more. Like this, it’s as if he’s reaching the deepest part of you, pounding into your cunt and hitting every nerve with deadly precision. Your legs prickle with the stretch as you squirm beneath him, stuck with the brunt of rough thrusts and violent stamina with nowhere to go.   

“Bein’ such a good girl for me." He hums into the juncture of where your neck meets your shoulders. He sucks a mark there and tangles a hand in the hair at the nape of you neck, forcing you into a steeper arch. “Maker, you look so fuckin’ pretty stretched around my cock.”

Your walls clench tight around him as you dig your nails into the fabric of his cowl. You voice cracks with airy moans—attempting to work through the haze of lust and respond. All that tumbles from your lips is a pathetic whine of his name—so close to that precipice again.    

The friction of each thrust scraping against your clit, the way he fills you and the possessive hand curled over your throat. You wiggle an arm between your bodies and rub the little bundle of nerves in a frenzied half-circle. You wheeze as Boba increases the pressure over your throat. 

“Tell me who you belong to,” he demands as devastating ripples begin to spark through your core, a live wire an inch away from a puddle of water. “Tell me—“

“You! It’s you—“ You sob, desperate for another release only he can give. “I’m yours—“

Boba snickers and gives your throat another squeeze. “Cum on my cock.” 

There we go. 

You seize and cry out, violent shivers forcing your back to arch high off the throne and into his chest plate. It tears through your being, quick and deadly through your core, spreading to every nerve and shredding through it with molten pleasure. Boba’s voice is a gravelly scrape that vibrates next to your ear, sprinting towards his own deserved euphoria. Your climax still boiling through your blood, is dragged out as Boba continues thrusting—an endless echo that leaves you incredibly oversensitive sore. For the next few moments, his thrusts are too sharp, the grip he has on you too abrasive—but then he’s cumming too. A couple more rough jabs and then he’s seating himself deep inside your cunt, his warm release coating your insides with thick ropes. 

You’re panting breaths fill the air between you, settling like fresh snow over a silent wood. By the time Boba pulls out, leaving behind a sticky trail of his cum and your arousal over the throne, you’re toeing the line of hazy unconsciousness. 

“Such a good girl,” Boba praises, threading fingers through hair and tracing the lines of your face. The the soft drone of his voice mixed with Din’s gentle baritone, murmuring something you don’t catch, casts a dreamy haze over your reality. You’re not afraid that this could back fire and blow up in your face—to move inches from two serrated blades, each seeking for a taste of blood and flesh, is always a risk. But yet, the calloused hands and the sweetness of brown eyes reach through chaos and silence to offer you salvation. You take it with a smile. 

You should invite Din over more often…you think, as you slip into content sleep. 

taglist: @goldafterglow @djxrxn @velvetmel0n @steeeeeeeviebb   @stargazingcarol @ohiobluetip @anxiety-riddled-mando @absurdthirst @thesoftdumbass @huliabitch @max--phillips @silverfish-kingdom @krissology @teaofpeaches @pettyprocrastination @nelba @beskars @jango-fettish @corrupt-fvcker @maybege @auty-ren @legally-a-bastard @bigdickdindjarin @thesparkleslugs @cryptid-candy @mandowhorian @pascaliprincess @mitchi-c @vesperstalksclones @cmakars @cptnbvcks @whewchiles @leias-left-hair-bun @astrochellie @angryares @rise-my-angel @stardust-galaxies @phoenixhalliwell @samhollandssweaters @blue-writes-a03 @hdlynnslibrary @darthadeline @calamity-queen @luxurybeskar @justanotherblonde23 @book-hoardingdragon @fahrenheit-not @princessxkenobi @skdubbs @ben-is-a-hoe @3strogen @chasingdreamer @weebblossom @bobaandthefetts​

sorry if I missed you AH!!!!

#well yall im #bucket fucker supreme right here I guess #enJOY #boba fett x reader #boba fett x you #boba fett #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian #boba fett x reader x din djarin #din djarin x reader x boba fett #star wars fanfiction #my writing

[endlich-allein]

Interview with Till about his life: he fought with his father, killed his beloved dog, swam on a wild river and worked on suffering. How Till Lindemann's mind works

"I will finish you off" and why you fought for the German army.

Werner Lindemann wanders around the room, interrupting the silence with strange questions, writing something down. His motive is to get to know his son and make him a friend. But it's complicated. Generational conflict.

"My island of tranquility is shaken every day. The day before yesterday, a guy pulled on my socks because his were torn. Yesterday he didn't put out a single lamp in the house. Now, with voluptuous delight, he spits cherry pits into the cat's fur. Is this grown boy really an adult?"

The apprenticeship in Rostock, where you have to do window production after graduation, is the limit of boredom. Till Lindemann moved to his father in the countryside so that he could forget about the hustle and bustle of the city and not fall under the article for anti-social attitudes. He thought of a new life, in which there was no pointless work, and arranged an attic in his father's house.

In the mornings over coffee, he scolded life that everything went according to schedule. And listened very loudly to music - electronics and metal. My father didn't understand and grumbled: “I matured late. Naturally, I wanted to listen to the music I liked, but I could not get my hands on these records. For example, my father did not understand when I bought the Alice Cooper record for a month's salary.

Werner Lindemann was a children's writer who went through the war.

At the height of his career he disappeared for weeks on literary tours - his fame spread to teachers and librarians across the country. His father pecked at Lindemann for refusing to work and promised to turn him in:

"My willful child. What doesn't fit his standards is rejected as nonsense or crap." So he took a job as a carpenter, where he made shovel cuttings and cart wheels. The head foreman constantly drank vodka during the day, didn't want to be annoyed with questions and addressed the long-haired Lindemann with the nickname: "Mozart!" This suited him.

Werner Lindemann talked about war, hard existence and limitations. For example, about a grenade splinter that remained in his body. Lindemann did not believe in all these stories - but categorically did not accept service, war and murder:

“After that I objected: “I would hide, I would not go to war. Why did you even let yourself be dragged into this? You could have hidden."

And he said: “It didn't work out. They searched for it and it took away."

Then I said: “I would rather go under arrest. Never in my life, I would go to the front line to shoot people. It's against my nature. It would be better if I went to jail."

Much of the time father and son were simply silent, even while watching television.

"He regularly made me feel guilty, to say the least, he placed himself on a pedestal towards me: I shouldn't complain. At your age, I ran barefoot through the stubble, and in my stomach - a potato in a uniform."

The only acceptance is Mike Oldfield's music: "One day my father came to grumble again. At that moment I was listening to Mike Oldfield, and he sat down and said: "That sounds interesting."

For me it was like a quantum leap: my father sits in my room, listens to my music and thinks it was good. Probably because of melancholy. He was sitting in a rocking chair that I made myself - at the time I was working as a carpenter on a farm. I, too, always sat in an armchair, immersed myself in music and smoked hand-rolled cigarettes."

The conflict was intensified by a fight. Lindemann bought a Trabant car, installed speakers in it and tested the sound - loud as usual. “Then my father came and I had to turn off this fucking music. It was kind of loud for him. He was then fiddling around his cases of flowers, and then suddenly the situation escalated. I think he slapped me while I was still in the car.

He leaned toward me and hit me with the back of his hand. I made some bullshit remarks like, "Leave me alone," something like that. That was a provocation to him, and he said: "If you do that again, I'll hit you for real." And I said, "Then you'll get it back. Because you're crazy. Don't you dare to hit me anymore."

And then he hit me with his palm again. He wasn't controlling himself.

He was exalting himself. Instantly he introduced himself as a boxer - he had boxed in the Hitler Youth - and I just... I thought I didn't hit him, I just pushed him away. And then he stood in front of me again, "Come on, I'll finish you, you haven't got a chance!" Somehow. After that, he went up to the attic and threw all my stuff out the window.

It happened over the weekend, my sister was there, a lot of screaming, serious drama. Then I packed my things, put them in the car, went to a friend's house and never went into his house again. At first I lived with this friend, and a week later I bought myself a house in the village."

His father's book is about his son, which the son will only open up after the death of the father.

Lindemann is a late child. He was born when his father was 36. The gap in their relationship was felt in everyday life and perception of the world. Werner Lindemann woke up early in the morning, worked with the circular saw under the windows and did not understand when his son slept until noon after a working week.

Lindemann's parents then lived separately, but kept in touch. Mom worked as a journalist and discussed her texts with his father. "She still lived in Rostock and always came to see him only on weekends. Mostly on Sundays she came back quite early, because she couldn't stand the stress of being with him, either."

In 1988, the book “Mike Oldfield im Schaukelstuhl Notizen eines Vaters" In this book, Lindemann Senior describes the relationship with his son (whom he calls Timm in the book), who settled with him at the age of 18. The book was written in the 80s and laid on the table until the German Democratic Republic and the Federal Republic of Germany were reunited.

Werner Lindemann wanted his son to take up writing too. But this only amused him, although as a child he wrote poetry. At the age of 13, little Till Lindemann and his father were returning home along the bumpy road to Mecklenburg. They talked about career self-determination:

"You should already have thoughts about what you want to become, boy." My answer: "I don't know yet, maybe a fisherman on the high seas."

But immediately, no matter what I said, objections arose: “But then you have to get a certificate of maturity. But then you will be away all the time. But then you won't be able to start a relationship."

There was always a “but”.

At some point it got on my nerves, as usual. And I said: "Worst case scenario, I'll just become a writer.

I still remember how alienated his face became. "And what do you think then, what do I do! It's a very hard job! In fact, it's not even a job, it's a passion. And it's a job that's supposed to be enjoyable."

I said, "I don't know anybody who works with pleasure."

"Yeah, that's the problem. You have to look for a job that gives you pleasure." Then I say again, "But some people never get to choose..." This gigantic discussion happened because I didn't take his profession seriously. At the same time, he was completely lost, funny!"

Lindemann thoughtfully read his father's book, in which he comprehends their relationship, after his death. Faked for hidden anger and indecision. For example, in a situation where their dog Kurt was bitten by a fox. The father was frightened because of rabies: “At the same time, we did not even know whether he was bitten by a fox or not. The father immediately called the huntsman. But I said: no one will enter this courtyard and shoot the dog. I'll do it myself if I really need it. At some point I really had to kill the dog."

Lindemann is not a monster. The animals he fiddled with are an important attribute of childhood. He had an aquarium and hamsters, brought mice and rats home, and was friends with dogs. “Like many children of new buildings, he felt the need for someone alive, in need of love,” said Werner Lindemann. Sometimes the appearance of an animal in the house was surprising:

“This guy will never say what he's up to. He appears on the doorstep at the same time as me. He gets out from his vehicle, throws his coat open and puts a young black shepherd in my hands. "Your Christmas present!"

Till's father is speechless. My son stands before me like the sun's little brother. Touchingly concerned, he directs me into the house, working out a plan for the animal husbandry, accommodation and diet of our new pet housemate.

With confusion, a question flies from my lips, "Wheredid you get the dog from?" "Timm" is gibbering, "Imagine, the mason in the barnyard wanted to hang him, simply wanted to strangle him with a rope, said he was a worthless eater..."

Werner Lindemann died of stomach cancer in 1993, when his son was 30. They didn't finally reconcile, but Till visited him in his last days and was there for him with his mother: "They couldn't be without each other, even though they lived apart. Unreal, but my mother never had another man afterwards. To this day she can't let go of him."

- Not going to the Olympics in Moscow and ending up in the German ghetto

Lindemann had the knowledge and the potential to be a swimmer. And a shyness that pounded harder three days before the competition than concerts in front of crowds of thousands. "I know how difficult it is to develop willpower and stamina and instill those attributes. In the GDR this was instilled in us by coaches and so-called functionaries."

Lindemann came to swimming at the age of eight and devoted his entire youth to the sport. He would get up for training at five in the morning and pass out in the evening. His grandmother watched him from the stands. At a competition in Leipzig she shouted at the coach, who told Lindemann off for a poor result. The grandmother took the coach by the ear and said: "How do you talk to my grandson?"

Sports tightened up his upbringing and developed self-discipline. “Drilling - probably the boy has already received this experience as a swimmer,” Lindemann's father wrote. - Once he had to take second place in a competition, but by no means first place. Of course, he got carried away, forgot about it, became the first, thanks to which he received a shouting for indiscipline. And whenever he lost in the future, his coach would torture him at practice for a long time and yelled at him: "Even if you win, you're not a winner yet!"

Lindemann swam the 1.5 km freestyle and could have gone to the 1980 Olympics in Moscow. Everything was ruined when he left the hotel without permission during a competition in Florence: "I didn't want to run, but just wanted to look at the city. Cars, bikes, girls. I was caught and kicked out of the team, but then I didn't give the required results either."

Lindemann competed at the European Junior Championships, but did not go any higher. After the story in Florence, his career in sport slipped away. Perhaps an abdominal injury influenced his departure. Lindemann is gone, but he doesn't yearn: "I was relatively young. There were no good [memories] left. I was glad it was over."

"The hardest part was getting back to normal. I fell into a real hole. My home was no longer a sports school, but a ghetto in Rostock. Now I stood out through drinking and fighting. I used to be surrounded only by beautiful ladies who were interested in swimming. Now I had fierce women standing in front of me asking, "How come you don't drink?" When I was shy about approaching a girl, it was interpreted as: "Are you gay?"

Lindemann now works with a coach and swims a few kilometers before his tours to get in shape: "When I exercise, I feel a certain lightness - not only physically, but also mentally. I just feel better. The main problem is staying in shape. That's where self-discipline comes into play. Teeth grinding is important."

- Three weeks in the wild and loneliness as a creative tool

Emotionally, concerts = sports:

"How do I go on tour? Hungry. And happy. It is good to compare concerts with sport. You don't want to do both at first. You don't want to go on stage. You don't want to go to the pool. You don't want to go to the boxing ring. It all happens with reluctance. It has to be accepted somehow, that's life: spring, summer, fall, winter.

When it's done, winter's gone, the blooming begins, greenery appears, it gets bright, and you start to get a taste for it. When it's over, you feel happy. Then the body produces a sea of chemistry, a lot of happiness hormones. I think the body rewards itself."

The stage, like sports, is an embarrassment, but a necessity. Lindemann wore dark glasses in order to collect fewer views from the audience. Therefore, a couple of steps before the water, he looked at the pool with a shiver. You need to cope with yourself in order to open up to new emotions.

Lindemann's gut requires solitude and moderate solitude. This is the point:

“Loneliness is always good for a creative push - you drink a glass of wine and you feel even shitier. Art is not complete without suffering; art exists to compensate for suffering."

With his friend Joey Kelly, Lindemann spent three weeks on the Yukon River. They paddled through the wilderness in a kayak for eight to 10 hours each and lived in a tent. Lindemann didn't take a tape recorder with him, so he transferred the lyrics wandering in his head on paper.

They were catching inspiration and atmosphere:

"There were times when we wouldn't say a word for hours, but then: look there, look there! It was breathtakingly beautiful. These relatively fast-changing panoramas and skies, layers of clouds, the colors.

Except for a few bears and wolves, it's hard to see anyone else out there, it's exhilarating. Along the way we saw two hunters setting traps. No one else.

I grew up in the countryside, and I have a very strong connection to nature. I love fishing, hunting. It's an archaic experience that I like to revisit over and over again. When I'm in the city for too long, I start to miss it."

To recreate situations in the Yukon, Lindemann and Kelly trained for nine months on the Rhine river in Germany because of its liveliness.

"We went down the Rhine to where the transport ships create huge bow waves. If we hadn't had a coach with us, we probably would have been sunk by the side wave impact already during our first attempt," Lindemann said.

Together with Kelly, he had four sessions with two coaches and swam from Cologne to Koblenz [more than 100 kilometers by car]. Lindemann trained separately each week on the lakes in Mecklenburg. It's both physically challenging and savage identical to being natural.

In 2015, Till started his solo project Lindemann. On the album Skills In Pills, the song Yukon was released, in which the lyrics appeared first, and then the music.

- "My lyrics come from pain rather than desire."

The country boy is big and not much of a talker. That's how the Rammstein members saw him at the start, when they were hanging out at home. "He looked cool, like a big peasant talking one sentence an hour," keyboard player Christian "Flake" Lorenz recalled. - He always had food and vodka. He'd just steal a couple of ducks somewhere and cook them on a tray. And then, frozen like in Sleeping Beauty, there were people lying in corners and on trunks in his house."

Lindemann loves and appreciates home gatherings. This came from my father, who always had guests. “In my opinion, this is the little bit that I inherited from him. Throwing parties and gathering people. Throwing parties and getting people together. He just enjoyed being a good host. The house was always full of guests from Leipzig, from Rostock, foreign guests, even from Kazakhstan.

It was always exciting for him. He stood at the stove, cooked, bought an abundance of wine, and there was always a fire in the garden. At some point he stopped drinking, then he left the party at 21:00 and the whole company continued to feast. And in the morning he got up at four, cleaned and tidied up."

Till Lindemann is about self-digging, overcoming and childish shyness, which is covered by a pumped-up figure of a swimmer. This is how Lindemann decrypts himself:

• “And I really am like a big child - ill-mannered, but harmless. People think that I am always strong, explosive. This is not true. I am sensitive and easily hurt, but in love I am romantic and passionate."

• “At the very beginning, you sit somewhere in a dark room, open a bottle of wine and figure out how to make the lyrics popular with the music. At first you only have a vague idea of ​​what it could be.

And when, three years after recording, mixing, and more mixing, developing the artwork, all this nonsense, then you stand on stage, and what you came up with then really works, when you manage to get 20 thousand people to raise their hands, then you experience incredible sensations."

• “Art is a kind of therapy.

When I feel that something is arising inside me, domineering and is most often dark, I need to give it a way out, otherwise it will simply crush me. So destruction and self-destruction are the two pillars on which my creativity is based.

But everyone chooses this for himself.

• “My lyrics arise from feelings and dreams, but still more from pain than by desire. I often have nightmares, and I wake up at night sweating, as I see terrible bloody scenes in my dreams. My lyrics are a kind of valve for the lava of feelings in my soul.

We are all struggling to hide behind good manners and outward decency, but in fact we are governed by instincts and feelings: hunger, thirst, horror, hatred, the desire for power and sex. Of course, there is also additional energy in us - this is love. Without it, all human feelings would fade away."

- "When you're constantly living someone else's life, it's very hard to get back into your own skin. I like that in principle, but sometimes you start to get confused - are you out of a role or not yet. You're already Till, or you're still a homicidal maniac."

- "I hate the noise. I hate the chatter. I expose myself to it, which is pure masochism. And then I have to protect myself from it. Noise makes you crazy. You die in it."

• “I think there is no God. And if he is and actually allows all the misfortunes on this earth, then he must punish me along with other sufferings. I will not pray to such a god."

This is how the members of Rammstein see Till - flexible and with a split personality:

Guitarist Paul Landers: "Till is so good that when you let him know that his lyrics should go in a different direction, the very next day he brings a new version of the song."

Guitarist Richard Kruspe: “He's a hell of an extreme man. He dives very deeply into situations where I cannot follow him. Everything he does is very extreme; I don't know anyone who does it. "

Drummer Christoph Schneider: "I would not want to be in Till's shoes: his soul is tormented by doubts and contradictions, he is equally a moralist and a monster."

June 1, 2021 - Translate by Lindemann Belgium

#very interesting #till's life #till is love 🖤 #till lindemann #till 2021 #werner lindemann #flake lorenz #paul landers #christoph schneider #richard kruspe #oliver riedel #joey kelly #rammstein #t.lindemann #t.lindemann 2021

[alicenttully]

Lmao I saw that post of Sansa being too classist for Westerosi standards. Infact in that thread, Idk whether it was the same user or not they also said that AGOT Sansa even makes Theon look like a saint 😂.

I agree with you all characters in ASOIAF are classist to varying degrees even smallfolk POV like Davos have internalised it to some extent.

LOL, that’s so funny. Honestly, the OP was clearly letting off some steam and wasn’t thinking about everything they were writing.  Like, there’s a reason why you keep your diaries private - because sometimes you’ll write in them when you’re mad, and you’ll say really stupid things.  So I’m going to give OP the benefit of the doubt and assume that if they could reevaluate -  they honestly won’t think that AGOT Sansa is worse than ACOK Theon who,

- Raped Kyra

- Was complicit in the murder of two smallfolk children

- Treated the Capitan’s Daughter dismally; not bothering to learn her name, using his position to take advantage of her sexually, and making light of the fact that her father is going to punish her for sleeping with him.

-  His limp body was being dragged from the surf when Theon returned to his Sea Bitch. The masts of his longships stood outlined against the sky along the pebbled beach. Of the fishing village, nothing remained but cold ashes that stank when it rained. The men had been put to the sword, all but a handful that Theon had allowed to flee to bring the word to Torrhen's Square. Their wives and daughters had been claimed for salt wives, those who were young enough and fair. The crones and the ugly ones had simply been raped and killed, or taken for thralls if they had useful skills and did not seem likely to cause trouble.

Like, Theon is a great character and Alfie Allen’s portrayal of him is tremendous - but he did some pretty messed up shit! Now, whenever or not he is capable of redemption is another question. I mean, rape and murder are pretty unforgivable and the only people who could forgive Theon for that, are dead.  This is what makes Theon’s Dance arc so compelling amongst all the horror and despair. Theon can never erase the worst things he ever did, but his rescue of Jeyne Poole shows that he can do some good by putting someone else first. 

And getting back to Sansa.... honestly, how is Sansa too classist “even for Westeros” when she’s been a hostage and then masquerading as a bastard girl, and thus without the power of people like Tywin, Tyrion, and Tyrells? I’m sorry, but Sansa wasn’t the one who demanded that a woman be stripped naked and made to walk the streets because she wore her mother’s jewels.  Would Sansa be angry at her father’s mistress wearing something that belonged to her mother? Yes, of course, she would- all the Starklings would; Arya IMO would take it particularly badly.  But both Sansa and her siblings lack the sadism that drove Tywin to this; to assert his power over someone with none.

I can do this because I am the Lord of Casterly Rock, and you are nothing but a lowborn woman who was simply lucky enough to catch my foolish father’s eye.

Tyrion resents the smallfolk because they don’t consider him a hero. Some of his resentment is justifiable because a lot of it is the consequences of ableism, but at the same time though - the smallfolk are the ones suffering because of the war. In contrast, Sansa was almost raped by some smallfolk men but we never see her hating them for it. At 12-14, she’s able to understand the desperation caused by the famine. 

In both the book and show Sansa says if she had bread, she would have given it. Essentially, if she could help she would.  This brings me to the Tyrells. So, the Tyrells closed the Rose Road while they were still allied with Renly, thus leading to the famine in KL. To give you a reminder of how bad it got-

What little produce he did see was three times as costly as it had been a year ago. One peddler was hawking rats roasted on a skewer. "Fresh rats," he cried loudly, "fresh rats." Doubtless fresh rats were to be preferred to old stale rotten rats. The frightening thing was, the rats looked more appetizing than most of what the butchers were selling. On the Street of Flour, Tyrion saw guards at every other shop door. When times grew lean, even bakers found sellswords cheaper than bread, he reflected.

Afterwards, when the Tyrells and Lannisters decide to hook up, the Rose Road is opened up and wagons of food is sent up in Margaery’s name. If there’s one thing the Tyrells are good at, it’s PR.  It undoubtedly makes them look like heroes, as Sansa and Tyrion both observe-

Sansa had watched from the castle walls as Margaery Tyrell and her escort made their way up Aegon's High Hill. Joffrey had met his new bride-to-be at the King's Gate to welcome her to the city, and they rode side by side through cheering crowds, Joff glittering in gilded armor and the Tyrell girl splendid in green with a cloak of autumn flowers blowing from her shoulders. She was sixteen, brown-haired and brown-eyed, slender and beautiful. The people called out her name as she passed, held up their children for her blessing, and scattered flowers under the hooves of her horse. Her mother and grandmother followed close behind, riding in a tall wheelhouse whose sides were carved into the shape of a hundred twining roses, every one gilded and shining. The smallfolk cheered them as well.The same smallfolk who pulled me from my horse and would have killed me, if not for the Hound.

"No. She's coming, though, and the city's mad with love for her. The Tyrells have been carting food up from Highgarden and giving it away in her name. Hundreds of wayns each day. There's thousands of Tyrell men swaggering about with little golden roses sewn on their doublets, and not a one is buying his own wine. Wife, widow, or whore, the women are all giving up their virtue to every peach-fuzz boy with a gold rose on his teat."They spit on me, and buy drinks for the Tyrells.

The thing is I personally can’t imagine having the audacity to present myself as some kind of hero to someone because I gave them food, knowing full well I was the reason were starving in the first place.

#sansa stark #theon greyjoy #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #anti tyrion lannister #anti tywin lannister #anti house tyrell #not bothering to tag anti theon because like i dont think its necessary lol #asks

[troubatrain]

four times matthew was a fuckboy + one time he wasn’t

a/n: a repost from my old blog!

I.

You didn’t hate Matthew Tkachuk. Hate is a strong word and you were too polite to hate anyone. But you definitely weren’t keen on the new company your friend had been keeping since she started seeing Matthew’s teammate, Noah. You were just different. You liked safety and rules, and Matthew put most of his energy into breaking every rule possible. He was a rat, and he didn’t give a damn who knew. You were a romantic, and you’d watch Matthew take a different girl home frequently, and you could only imagine what he was like on the road. He was a straight up fuckboy, and you’d just prefer to be as far away from him as possible. Besides the strong differences between each other, you really didn’t hate him - until, maybe, right now.

“I would never date Y/N,” Matthew scoffs at your best friend, Hannah, “She’s got a stick up her ass, all the time.” “I don’t have a stick up my ass Matthew,” You bark back, “You’re just a shitty person, and I don’t want to date you either.”

“Why? Am I not your type?” Matthew snarks back, “I’m everyone’s type.”

“No Matthew, egotistical professional athletes who don’t know anything besides hit and skate aren’t my type,” You say, “Hold an intellectual conversation with anyone and I’ll be impressed.”

“You know what, forget I mentioned it,” Hannah tries to interfere, but the way Matthew’s blue eyes were narrowed at you, his nostrils flaring out just a little bit meant it was too late and you were well on your way to spending the rest of the night arguing with Matthew.

“I don’t need to hold bullshit intellectual conversations to get laid Y/N,” Matthew grumbles, “I’m sure that’s only what terrible guys you probably date do.”

“I don’t date terrible guys,” You defend, but deep down, he was actually right about that. You were nearing the end of six months of being single since your last relationship ended and dating wasn’t going - well.

“Oh, I forgot, you probably only date boring guys,” Matthew huffs, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to find someone who isn’t boring.”

Matthew stomps away, looking back to give you one more smirk that made your skin crawl. You couldn’t stand his smug smile, or the fact that he constantly gave you grief for being a good person. Or the time he accused  you of thinking you were better than everyone because you were smarter than them. 

“I can’t believe there was a point in my life where I thought you guys could be friends,” Noah says, shaking his head at the verbal battle you and Matthew just had, “I thought I could set you guys up - to date.”

“Why do you all think that?” You ask, looking at your friend and her boyfriend with actual concern.

“I don’t know, you’re sweet and nice and he’s not,” Noah shrugs, “It’s kind of cute.”

“Yeah, like imagine if you were the one to tame him,” Hannah says, wrapping her arm around her boyfriend's bicep while he pressed a kiss to her head - a reminder that you didn’t have that. Your eyes move to Matthew at the bar, while a girl was under his arm in less than five minutes.

“I don’t think anyone’s taming that monster,” You say, pointing to the man in question.

II.

When the weekend finally came around, you found yourself in the same situation you were in the week before. Matthew gave you daggers across the table while Noah and Hannah tried to convince the two of you to put your differences aside and be friends. Except, you didn’t want to be friends with Matthew, because you knew exactly how he treated his “friends”. In the past week alone, you’d watched him while he escaped a morning after with someone who happened to live in your building. You had the worst morning of your life when you stepped on the elevator only to meet with the face of the devil himself. You halted, stepping into the elevator and shaking your head at Matthew - asking him if he was leaving or your worst nightmare of him moving into your building was happening. He told you he was escaping from a booty call, his words not yours, and then joked about moving in just to bother you. You started bickering in the elevator, and then it made you late for work. That snowballed into missing an important meeting and you were cursing Matthew internally for the rest of the day.

“I just don’t understand why you both keep pushing this,” you shout, gesturing between Matthew and yourself, “We are not friends.”

“Yeah, she’s right,” Matthew agrees, for the first time since you’d been introduced to each other.

“Why is that the only thing you’ve ever agreed on?” Hannah asks, looking sincerely concerned at the two of you.

“Because his opinions on everything else are terrible,” You say, walking over to the bar to go get yourself a drink. You can feel a large presence behind you and you turn around to be met with Matthew’s smug smile again, “You can’t just leave me alone.”

“I’m getting another drink, not everything is about you,” Matthew remarks, flagging down the bartender far easier than you could have. He orders you both a drink, and you decide to just take it - too tired to argue. While you were waiting you scanned the bar, only to spot your ex boyfriend across the bar.

“Fuck,” you mutter, grabbing Matthew’s attention.

“God what did I do now?” Matthew groans, and then he follows your eyes, “Do you know that guy?”

“Uh, yeah, he’s my ex,” You say, dropping your drink, “Can you tell Hannah I left.”

“Wait no-,” Matthew says, grabbing your arm and pulling you closer to him, “I’m going to leave after this, I’ll take an Uber with you.”

“Are you going to drop me off then go hook up with whoever lives in my building?” You ask, crossing your arms and looking at him.

“I’m going to get you home safely and whether or not I leave the building is none of your business,” Matthew argues back, his eyes flickering up to look behind you and a protective arm snakes around your waist.

“Is that Y/N?” You hear your ex’s familiar voice, and suddenly Matthew’s arm made more sense.

“Oh, Alex, hi,” You say, trying to ignore the burning sensation you felt under Matthew’s touch, but your anxiety about seeing your ex disappeared almost immediately, like with Matthew there nothing could hurt you.

“How are you?” Alex asks, “Is this your boyfriend? I didn’t think you’d move on after me.”

“Yeah,” Matthew cuts you off before you could deny it, “We were just heading out, you know we’ve got plans for the night.”

Matthew gave Alex a wink and a look that said not to fuck with him and grabbed your hand, pulling you out the bar. A part of you was pissed, like he’d just told your ex boyfriend that not only were you dating you were leaving your night out early to fuck. But a part you didn’t care about it, Alex was the worst, and even in that second he reminded you why you broke up in the first place, because he never stopped talking down to you.

“I can’t believe you dated someone who talks to you like that,” Matthew says, pulling out his phone to call an Uber, “Your taste in men is terrible.”

“Well he thinks I’m dating you, so my taste is terrible,” You say, sliding into the car once Matthew opens the door for you.

Matthew slides into the other side of the car, getting your Uber driving and asking him how his night is before turning to you, “Do you really think I’m that awful?”

Okay, yes, it was sweet that he protected you. Yes, it felt nice to have his arm around your waist. Yes, it was great to have your ex think you’re currently seeing a member of the Flames. Yes, it was nice that he’s taking you home. And yes, the way he spoke to the Uber driver when you got in was actually more polite than you assumed he was to strangers. But, none of that meant he was a decent human being - at least not to you.

“I mean you’ve never given me a reason to think otherwise,” You say, shrugging.

“I’ll give you a reason,” You heard him mutter, but his face said he didn’t want to talk about it, so you let it go until you rode up the elevator to your floor in silence.

“Hey Matthew,” You say, voice small, “Thanks for getting me home, and for before, I owe you one.”

“I don’t think you want to be indebted to me,” Matthew says, his signature smirk gracing his face.

“One favor, nothing sexual,” You wave your finger at him while the elevator closes, sending him to whoever he was meeting on a floor above you.

III. 

You were swearing off men. That was it. You were sitting in a restaurant in the city, in a dress that made you look straight up hot, across from someone who made Matthew look like a saint. Paul was a friend of one of your coworkers, who raved about her friend who was intelligent and kind. Intelligent, yes definitely. But kind? At the moment that seemed far fetched. He’d spent the entire dinner talking about himself, and when you finally got to talk about yourself, he was just condescending and rude. You’d suffered through dinner, declining his invitation home. You heard his hollers about much of a tease and how uptight you were. You walked home, on a mission to get home and pretend this date never happened. Then you’d pass a bar you’d been to with Hannah a few times and decide to stop in - in need of a well deserved drink.

“There’s no way you should be here alone, dressed like that,” You can hear a familiar voice behind you and you turn around to meet Matthew’s face who was currently checking out your ass while you leaned against the bar. 

“You’re not in charge of me,” You bark back, sipping on the drink you’d gotten, “What are you doing here?”

“I was supposed to meet Noah out for a drink, but he canceled on me when I walked in,” Matthew says, “Why are you here?”

“I was on a date,” You frown.

You really, really, really, didn’t want to admit to Matthew that you’d had a bad date. You were pretty sure he got laid more than anyone you knew and there was no way he wasn’t going to make fun of you for having a terrible date.

“Was it that bad?” Matthew asks, “Or are your standards just way too high?”

“There’s nothing wrong with having standards for yourself, you should try it sometime,” You defend, “But, he spent the entire date talking about himself.”

You bite your lip, looking at Matthew in front of you. Sometimes, when the light caught him just right and he wasn’t being a total douche you could be reminded why he was such a fuckboy in the first place, he was cute as hell. You hated how attracted you were to him sometimes, especially after the way he had protected you from Alex the other night. He didn’t know why you didn’t want to see him, but he was there regardless.

“You should stay,” You declare, biting your lip and looking at Matthew.

You swore there was a twinkle in his eye, he grabbed himself a drink and hopped onto a barstool while you sat next to him. It started with small talk, you confessing that you were sure Hannah made Noah stay in because she told you he wasn’t spending enough time with her. To which Matthew said that was the exact reason he didn’t do relationships. Then you moved to bickering about how you loved the idea of love and the fact that Matthew turned himself off to it actually made you sad.

“You just need to see it from my perspective,” Matthew tries to explain, “No one sees past all of this NHL bullshit anyways, so, I’m just taking advantage of it. Admit it, you thought I was a dick when before you met me?”

“You are a dick,” You joke, “But yes, I may have passed judgement, that doesn’t mean everyone else thinks that.”

“Trust me, they do,” Matthew takes a sip of his beer, “Girls, fans, even my family sometimes, they just can’t see past the whole rat thing.”

You bite your tongue from telling him that if he stopped playing like a rat, people probably wouldn’t say that. Mainly because he was playing in the NHL and I’m sure your opinion on his play didn’t matter much. But also because whatever he was telling you sounded like something he didn’t talk about very much, it intrigued you. You don’t talk much about it further, a couple of people who were fans coming over and insisting you took shots with them. A few rounds of drinks later, you were drunk and Matthew’s hand had found a permanent place on your lower back.

“Ready to go?” Matthew asks, a chill running up your spine when he whispered in your ear.

Maybe you were lonely. Maybe you’d had too much to drink. Maybe you’d found the one part vulnerable part of Matthew and it made you soft. But something possessed to look him in the eyes and demand he took you home. And after asking you four times if you were sure, you were on your way to Matthew’s apartment with him, his lips on yours.

IV.

You slipped out of Matthew’s apartment after that night long before he woke up. Your walk of shame took you back to your apartment and that was that. You’d only seen Matthew once since, and while you were sitting next to Hannah in the stands at the Saddledome, he’d sent you over a wink and you thanked your lucky stars that Hannah wasn’t paying attention. You knew Matthew wasn’t going to let your moment of weakness be forgotten, you just hoped he didn’t embarrass you. You shook your head at the thought, which had been taking up your brain for most of the week. Your thoughts were broken by a heavy knock on the door, and you opened to reveal the person who’d been taking up most of your thoughts.

“What are you doing here?”  You ask, but you knew the answer was whichever one of his girlfriends, and you meant it to be plural, lived in your building.

“I was on my way to see someone but I thought I’d stop by,” Matthew smirks at you, “I have a favor to cash in.”

“I told you nothing sexual,” You counter back, despite the fact that you’d been under just a few nights ago.

“As much as I want to relive the events of the other night,” Matthew says, looking your body up and down, “I need an actual favor.”

“What?” You ask, crossing your arms.

“I need you to be my date to this event the Flames are doing,” Matthew sighs, as if he really didn’t want to ask.

“I’m sure there’s a line of girls who want to do that,” You say, wondering why Matthew needs you to go.

“I need to bring someone I can trust not to embarass me,” Matthew grumbles, “You’re smart, and you can hold a conversation with a bunch of our front office guys.”

“You want me to go and make you good?” You ask, trying to get exactly what he was asking you to do.

“Yes,” Matthew says, “I need you to make me look good. Can you do it?”

You should have said no. You should have said no. But, you said yes. You knew it was a bad idea, but the bright smile that graced Matthew’s face when you said yes almost made you forget that he was headed up to a booty call when he left your apartment. Something you realized he could only get away with.

--

Matthew wasn’t a bad date. He’d gotten to your apartment on time. Fed you with way too many compliments while his hand was rested on your thigh on the ride to the hotel ballroom the gala was at. Now, his hand had found its place on your back, while you wooed his coach into thinking Matthew was a decent human being. Really you should have paid overtime for how good you were doing. You’d met the entire Flames front office, charming each of them into thinking their player wasn’t sleeping around when he most definitely was.

You finally pull away from the conversation, latching on Hannah once she was finally in reach.

“You’re working like doubletime,” Hannah jokes, “How’d he convince you to do this?”

“He didn’t tell you what happened?” You ask, assuming his big mouth spilled the beans to Noah, at the very least.

“He never said anything,” Noah shrugs.

“I ran into my ex, and he pretended to be my boyfriend so he’d go away,” You admit, “Then he took me home and I told him I owe him one.”

“See? I knew he wasn’t all bad,” Hannah muses. You thought about what Matthew had said that night you slept together, about how people had presumptions about him he could never change so it didn’t matter. You’d actually thought about it frequently since, and it really made your heart ache for him. It bothered him, it had to.

“He’s not all bad,” You admit, outloud, really just so you could convince Hannah not to pass judgement on him without telling her what he’d told you.

“Hey, we can head out if you want?” Matthew asks, coming behind you. You nod, excited to be going home at a decent hour after a long week of work.

You were silent for the entire car ride home, your eyes constantly on Matthew for the entire ride.

“Would you stop staring at me?” Matthew asks, his eyes not leaving the road, but somehow his hand found your thigh, giving it a squeeze.

“Do you think you’re a bad person?” You ask, it was something you couldn’t stop thinking about. You didn’t understand Matthew, you didn’t think anyone actually did, but you wanted to figure him out so badly.

“Is this about what I said the other night? It wasn’t that deep Y/N,” Matthew sighs, “I’m not that deep.”

“Do you think that or have you been told that?” You ask, and you knew you were getting somewhere because you could feel his hand tense up.

“Are you always this annoying?” Matthew deflects.

“No,” You sigh, “It’s just, Hannah said something about you not being all bad and it bothered me.”

“A little criticism isn’t going to hurt me,” Matthew says, throwing his car into park so he could walk you to your door, “I’m not really a good guy either.”

You pout, leaning against the elevator. You were close to getting him to just open to you. His walls were tall and they were definitely thick but you might have been slowly chipping away at him.

“Thank you for doing this tonight, it meant a lot to me,” Matthew says, his hand rubbing the back of his neck while you stood in your doorway. A part you wanted to pull him inside by his collar and have your way with him, but you knew once was one thing but twice was going to be another. You bite your lip, debating it for a second, “Thinking about inviting me inside.”

“How did you-?” You start to ask before Matthew immediately cuts you off.

“You’re practically eye-fucking me,” Matthew jokes, “You won’t invite me inside though, because you know if you sleep with me twice you won’t be able to stop.”

You jaw drops, because he was right, “That’s hardly true.”

“I can read you Y/N, you’re like an open book,” Matthew smirks, “For the record, I don’t know if I’d be able to shake you either if we did this again.”

With that sentiment Matthew was headed down the hallway, turning just one more time before he hit the elevator button.

“Matthew?” You call out, “Are you going up or down?”

The question was burning. You just wanted to know why he was frequenting your building. Whoever was up there and why she could get Matthew to keep coming back. You were a little jealous, that he’d rejected you to go see her.

“That’s none of your business,” Matthew muses, giving you a wink and stepping into the elevator.

You were annoyed, and you thought about walking back outside to see if Matthew’s car was still there. That would make you a crazy person so you laid in bed while it ate you alive. That was, until you’d received a text from Matthew of his bedroom, and a sly comment about how you might have recognized his place. While it was smug and irritating, it did make you happy that he was home and he was alone.

plus one

You felt like an idiot. You stood at the bar next to Hannah, listening to her rant and rave about something Noah did while you watched Matthew flirt with some girl by the bar. You didn’t know why you thought maybe he could turn over a new leaf. That maybe you were getting somewhere with him. But, everything went out the window the second your eyes were on him. You decided he was dead to you, he had to be. You excuse yourself from Hannah, giving Matthew one more look before stomping out of the bar. You could hear his shouts behind you while you walked down the street, your apartment too far to walk but if you stopped you’d be forced to speak to him.

“Y/N! Where are you even going?” Matthew finally catches up to you, and you curse your shorter legs for stopping you from outrunning him.

“Away from you,” You say, “You can go back to your little friend, that’s your life Matthew, I get that now.”

“Come back to my place, I need to talk to you,” Matthew pleads, and you knew you were only a block away from his place. You sigh, nodding and following him down the street.

Matthew’s apartment felt different than it did the night you’d slept together. You were tossing off your clothes in a drunken haze and you never realized how empty his place felt. It was cold, and in some serious need a curtain and throw pillow. It was a metaphor for the current state of it’s resident. 

“Okay talk,” You cross your arms, “Explain to me how you do this to every girl, make them think there’s a part of you that’s decent to only be an asshole to them in the end.”

“I’ve never told anyone what I told you,” Matthew confesses, “I thought, maybe, you’d be into me. Then I realized if you were, I was only going to hurt you. You don’t deserve that, so if I push you away, you’ll be happy.”

“Clearly, I’m not happy,” You say, pointing to the frown that was very present on your face, “Listen, I like you, I don’t know why or how you crawled into my life but I want to be with you - the real you. I want that vulnerable man that told me he thought everyone judged him. I want you to prove to me you are that man.”

“I can do that,” Matthew nods, his hands resting on your cheeks. He captures your lips in his for the most tender kiss you’d been given. It was full of love, and full of feeling.

“I want you to prove it,” You say when you finally pull away, your forehead resting on his.

#matthew tkachuk #matthew tkachuk imagine #my writing #nhl imagine #nhl imagines

[havenoffandoms]

Closure

Vesemir knows that there comes a time in every newly turned witcher's life where he yearns for what was before Kaer Morhen. Vesemir knows, because he was once a young wolf himself yearning for a home, yearning to go back to his roots. It was both the bravest and stupidest thing he ever did.

He knew that his young pups wouldn't be any different.

True, Vesemir shouldn't have had favourites. Rennes often gave him into trouble for it, but Vesemir couldn't help himself. And somehow, he always had a soft spot for the troublemakers. Geralt and Eskel had been his cubs from the start. He always had a hard time not laughing every time the duo was dragged into Rennes study to be punished for their pranks. Tormenting an innocent bee by attaching a jug to it had been cruel and unnecessary, which is why Vesemir had taken over that punishment, but otherwise the pups' pranks were harmless. Filling new recruits' boots with honey, catching live rats and hiding them in beds, pouring oil over the hilts of the training swords so they would slip out of the trainees' hands... But Vesemir always kept a stern face when the boys were brought to him and Rennes.

Why is it that whenever something happens it's always you two?

Lambert was also a menace, but not in the same way as Eskel and Geralt were. Lambert was a broken child from a broken home who had seen far too many horrors for someone so young. He refused to adhere to any male authority.

Barring Vesemir, nobody could get the boy to behave.

No amount of discipline, physical or otherwise, nobody could break Lambert. Everyone admitted the fact that he would forever remain a little shit. One day, Vesemir decided to talk to the pup to understand where the hostility came from. Lambert told Vesemir about his abusive father and everything clicked into place. Lambert was a little shit because he didn't respond to threats anymore.

Vesemir was the only one to realise that Lambert did best when praised. The boy positively craved approval. And when Vesemir gave that to him, the pup did as he was told. Mostly...

Vesemir was not surprised when his three pups all followed in his footsteps and returned to the place they came from, despite the advice of their elders not to do so. Vesemir never discouraged them. He understood his pups' need for closure. It was not until years later, when all that was left from the school of the wolf were Geralt, Eskel, Lambert and Vesemir, that his pups filled him in (after ingesting copious amounts of alcohol).

"I went back to good old dad. I confronted him. He didn't recognise me," Lambert's eyes stared blankly at the table in front, "I could tell the tables had turned. I decided to use the fact that he had no idea who I was to my advantage. He begged for the mean witcher who had broken into his home to spare his life like the gutless coward he was. I asked him 'do you live alone? A wife, children?' He said his son was taken away from him, and his wife died of a broken heart after that. A shameless lie. 'Why did you do it, father? Why did you beat ma and me to a pulp every day, every night?' That's when he realised who I was. He dropped to his knees and begged for my forgiveness. Begged... But all the begging wouldn't undo what he did. 'You killed her, didn't you?' I asked. 'Please son, it was an accident. I took it too far, I didn't mean to kill her. Please son, have mercy.'"

"What did you do?" Eskel asked with genuine curiosity. Lambert looked up at his brother, a humourless grin gracing his lips.

"The bastard killed my mother. What do you suppose I did? I avenged her. I told my old man that I wasn't his son, I never was his son, and then I ran my blade through his heart."

The silence that ensued was broken by none other than Geralt.

"When I was looking for Ciri, I got badly wounded. A peasant found me, helped me. I was delirious with fever. That's when I... I saw her. Visenna. I'm still not sure if it was all a vivid dream or her magic. I knew she was a sorceress after all. It wasn't impossible that she was actually there. I knew it was her because I recognised her red hair and her green eyes. The only things I remembered of her."

Vesemir stayed silent, listening to his pups opening up to him. Making eye contact with Geralt would scare him away. So Vesemir kept his eyes on the glass of moonshine in his hand.

"All I wanted were answers. Honest answers. I wanted to know if she knew what happened to the boys who were chosen to become witchers. I wanted her to look at me when I told her that 8 out of 10 boys died during the Trials. I wanted her to tell me that she didn't know this before leaving me at Vesemir's doorstep."

"And did she know?" Lambert asked, voice unusually soft.

"I don't know. I woke up before I could get an answer."

Vesemir did not say a word. Not yet. He waited patiently, knowing that Eskel, dear empathic Eskel, would soon fill the silence with his own tale.

"I too went back to the village I was born in. In the hills near Toussaint. I didn't intend to at first, but a contract near Beauregard lead me down that road. It was several years after Deirdre. After... This," Eskel waved vaguely at his scarred face. "I didn't expect anyone from my family to be alive, much less to recognise me. But hill folk are sturdy folk. Some 60 later, I didn't expect my mother to still be alive. She had me young, too young. Barely 15 summers she had seen before she bore me. I was six when Rennes took me away."

"Your mother was 81 when you saw her next?" Geralt asked, his voice strangely strained, almost as if he felt for the poor woman going 60 years without seeing her first born son. Vesemir supposed that taking on his child surprise had given Geralt a new perspective on these matters.

"Yeah. And... Against all expectations, she recognised me. This frail dying woman, suffering from a terrible pneumonia at the time, recognised me the minute I stepped into her home. The same house I remember. She looked at me and her face instantly lit up. 'Eskel, my son. I knew you would come back'. The healer told me that every time someone came to visit she would utter the name Eskel first, but always be disappointed to find someone else. But this time, it was me."

Eskel paused, the memory clearly painful. Contrary to Geralt, Vesemir knew that eye contact would give Eskel the courage to finish his tale.

"Her hand came to rest on my cheek and she asked me how I got that scar. I told her I didn't want to tell the story, for it was a shameful one and she would be disappointed in her son. She said 'Eskel, no matter what you did, I am proud of the man you've become.' I didn't believe her, didn't want to believe her. And yet, she sounded so genuine. She died later that day, the tune she used to sing to me as a child on her lips. De old hen she cackled, she cackled... Until she cackled no more."

Eskel fell silent, the air around him heavy with emotion. Lambert, who was sat next to him, patted him on the shoulder in a display of male companionability. Eskel did not react but he did not pull away either. Vesemir chose this moment to speak up.

"Lambert, your father was a despicable man. When Rennes claimed you by the law of surprise, he tried to convince your mother to leave too. She wouldn't. She thought that losing a son would kill your father, nevermind losing his wife. Rennes tried to reason with her, but she was already too far manipulated by your father. She refused to leave, but hoped that you would get a better chance at life if Rennes took you away. Your father got what he deserved."

"Geralt, your mother was a sorceress. I would be lying if I said that she didn't understand the process of the Trials. However, it took me seven years to track her down. I claimed you by the law of Surprise when you were not even in her womb yet. For seven years she ran, protected you, refused to let you become one of us. Until destiny caught up with her in the form of Rennes, who threatened far worse would befall her son if Visenna refused to give you up. Two weeks later, you were at our doorstep because she would rather take that chance than have her son murdered before her eyes."

"Eskel, I don't think I ever saw a woman so enamoured with her child as your mother was with you. It wasn't her choice to give you away. In fact, it all happened one afternoon when she had gone to the market. It was the village chieftain who handed you over as a price for killing two griffins that were killing the cattle. I have to say that I was unaware of this until one year when I was travelling the Path myself and returned to that same village, only to have the chieftain recognise me and offer me food and shelter. Your mother instantly knew who I was. She screamed at me with the fury and despair of a woman who had lost everything. By then, you had already survived the trials. That knowledge was only a small comfort to an otherwise broken woman."

"I have done many things in my life, pups. I'm not proud of many of those things. I do hope you will find it in yourselves to forgive me."

And of course they forgave him, although Vesemir didn't deserve their forgiveness. But he had raised his pups well. He hoped that their mothers agreed.

#geralt of rivia #the witcher #geralt z rivii #eskel the witcher #eskel #lambert #the witcher lambert #papa vesemir #vesemir #kaer morhen #this is sad i'm sorry #wolf pack of kaer morhen #wiedzmin #the witcher 3 #the witcher books #the witcher imagine #canon divergence

[deans-haunted-baby]

Lately I can’t stop thinking about Adam, like I’m legit crushed over what this show did to him. I know Supernatural was never perfect but the way it treated this character was so damn vicious, condescending and nasty; no different than a high school bully picking on an injured elementary schooler.

He never stood a chance. The thing is I don’t know what it was that made me latch onto Adam so strongly for over a decade. Maybe I could just sympathize and easily relate to his situation of being discarded and forgotten by family members. Or maybe I saw potential in this character and couldn’t fathom why no one else on that writing staff and the SPN fandom couldn’t.

I want you to take a second and absorb these pertinent facts about Adam Milligan that this show put forward. This is not anti-anything this is all the truth so bare with me:

He was the illegitimate youngest child of hunter John Winchester; a man who treated his older sons Sam and Dean like soldiers on his platoon.

Adam only saw his bio dad ONCE A YEAR and it was only to take him to ball games not to train him so that he could protect himself and his mother from (supernatural) threats.

He never knew the existence of his older brothers nor did they know about him because John deliberately ripped those pages out of his journal. Essentially trying to erase any evidence of Adam and Kate.

Because Adam grew up having no clue what was out there or about the “family business”  he and his mother suffered VIOLENT PRE-MATURE DEATHS at the hands of ghouls which Adam STILL REMEMBERS long after being murdered.

Oh and John failed to kill those ghouls, providing them the golden opportunity of impersonating him and his mother so they could kill John and his half-brothers.

Adam was only an 18 year old pre-med studying medicine. Probably wanted to follow in his mother’s footsteps in helping people as she was a nurse.

Because Kate worked nights as a single mother, Adam had to grow up being his own parent at times; cooking his own meals and putting himself to bed.

Adam was ironically born on September 29th (1990) which is also known as Michaelmas aka the Feast of Saints Michael, Gabriel and Raphael. A potential storyline that could’ve gone somewhere but didn’t.

Adam is also by birthright a Men of Letters legacy though his brothers fail to mention that 10 years later.

The last thing Adam was doing while he was in Heaven, designed to look like his Prom, he was kissing a girl Kristen McGee; whom we’ll never know about or if he’ll ever see again.

Adam was ripped out of Heaven against his will by the angels to be used and manipulated as their backup device in the Apocalypse because Sam and Dean refused to comply with their demands.

After being resurrected, Adam was then recovered, kidnapped and held hostage by TFW (Sam, Dean, Bobby and Castiel) where they all took turns mouthing off at this angsty teenager about why he should trust a bunch of complete strangers over those who made him promises.

Adam only wanted to work with the angels in order to stop Lucifer and return to his mother. Highlighting that this character had a sense of justice, responsibility, cared about doing the right thing but also had his own reasons for wanting to save the world.

Sam tried to emotionally manipulate Adam with excuses for why their dad never told him about his family. And actually had the gall to say that him and Dean would’ve looked for him had they’d known he existed so they could be a family. Forgive me if I just laugh at this for a moment 🤣

Zachariah was able to get into Adam’s head because he knew how vulnerable he was. Telling him that trusting the Winchesters would only let him down which *SPOILER ALERT* turned out to be true.

Zachariah tortured Adam for hours before the Winchesters arrived to save him. And Dean was only willing to submit to the angel when Sam was just briefly tortured.

One of the last things Dean says to Adam in 5x18 after he was shocked to see his half-brothers come to his rescue was “Cause you’re family”. Again I have to...🤣🤣

At the moment of their escape, Dean doesn’t even help Adam (WHO’D BEEN INJURDED AND TORTURED) out of the room nor does he care about ushering him to safety. Dean just grabs Sam and hurries out the door. So much for being part of the family.

The last thing Adam screams before before being possessed by Michael was “Dean, help!” and then he hears Dean say “Just hold on!”

Adam, not being Michael’s true vessel yet born from the powerful Winchester bloodline, was able to look directly at the archangel’s true form without his eyes burning out. And this is NEVER explained why.

Dean mentions Adam only a total of THREE TIMES after this happens in 5x19, 5x22 and 6x11 while Castiel mentions it to Sam in 5x21. And Sam, WHO’D BEEN THE MAIN EMOTIONAL MANIPULATOR, just doesn’t give a shit to remember him.

Castiel threw a Molotov cocktail at Michael (who was using Adam’s body) to briefly cast him out which Adam probably felt in excruciating detail based on what Michael says in 15x08.

Sam, possessed by Lucifer, pushed himself and his innocent half-brother possessed by Michael into the cage for all eternity.

Castiel somehow managed to pull Sam out of the cage but decided to leave Adam behind.

After Dean bargains with Death to get Sam’s soul and Adam out of the cage. Only to get just Sam’s soul and leave Adam to his fate. The issue is never brought up again between the Winchesters.

Adam sits a prisoner in a cage with an archangel for 10 years our time but thousands of years Hell time.

Michael most likely protected Adam from some of the horrors in Hell which is why he was able to keep his sanity.

Sam and Dean went to Hell to talk to Lucifer in the cage but continue to ignore Adam’s existence and don’t bother releasing him yet they let Lucifer escape.

Dean also went back to Hell to retrieve Bobby’s soul so he could go to Heaven and again doesn’t even bother with Adam.

Season 10 for Supernatural’s 200th episode, Sam and Dean were reminded by SPN fans putting on a musical that Adam was still in the cage yet THEY NEVER DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT.

Mary Winchester STILL doesn’t know about Adam even though she was reunited with John during the 300th episode. He’s never mentioned during their big family get-together. I guess he never counted.

Adam and Michael are finally set free of Hell only because Chuck threw a giant hissy fit at the Winchesters and opened all the gateways.

The first thing Adam wanted to do as a free man in 15x08 was not seeking revenge on his brothers for abandoning him, but to eat some diner food, change his clothes and get a “little job”

After years of imprisonment, Adam actually befriended the Prince of Heaven aka the one friend he has/the only other person besides his mother who actually gave a damn about him.

TFW trapped, kidnapped and imprisoned Adam and Michael at the bunker in order to force them to help against Chuck.

And Adam, though still angry, hurt and worn out over the situation; chose to help his brothers when there was NOTHING in it for him and successfully convinced Michael to do the same.

Despite how his brothers treated him, Adam STILL believed in their best and vouched that they “always try to do the right thing”

Adam went to Hell a cranky, sassy, angsty, naïve teenager and returned a kinder, wiser, more patient, humble and rational-thinking man who still managed to smile and laugh after enduring centuries of pain.

Dean gives Adam his much due apology for not saving him but Sam doesn’t. In fact Sam doesn’t even bring him up the next time the Winchesters see each other.

Adam’s last words on this show are to Dean and they’re “Since when do we get what we deserve?” and “Good luck” 🤓

Chuck Thanos-snapped Adam’s soul out of existence OFF-SCREEN yet Michael somehow remained in his body.

Adam was 90% of Michael’s impulse control hence why he was so dark in his last appearance without Adam because that’s the only way I can cope with that disgusting character assassination in 15x19

Jack supposedly revived Adam along with everyone else after becoming the new God. BUT his current status now reads “Unknown” instead of “Alive” so what the fuck am I suppose to think now?!

Sam and Dean didn’t even think about checking in on Adam to make sure he was okay before they hit the road on their last solo bro-outing.

If Adam really is alive then he’s doomed to a miserable, lonely existence without his best friend (who’s now dead). Broke, homeless, jobless; his brothers STILL DON’T GIVE A RAT’S ASS after he’d helped them in good faith. He’s legally deceased thanks to the ghouls. And he gets to look forward to demon city the moment he dies cause guess where he’s ending up?

No one remembers him even after he’d returned in 15x08

The car and the dog are more important to the Winchesters than their innocent half-brother.

Okay I realize I just unloaded a whole mountain of salt but this is the full outline of Adam’s tragic story on Supernatural. These writers never cared about him and why? What did he do to deserve this gross treatment from the show’s protagonists or just in general? Why was he even introduced if this was going to be the outcome of it all? I don’t know what’s worse leaving him in Hell (cause at least he had Michael for company) or bringing him back and not knowing what became of him after. It’s insufferable 😣 I just want everyone to know that the showrunners and writers may not care about him BUT I DO.

#adam milligan #supernatural #SPN #michael the archangel #midam #the winchesters #supernatural season 15 #supernatural season 5 #supernatural season 4 #adam x michael #michael x adam #spn meta #spn rant #Archangel Michael #the forgotten 3rd winchester brother

[amazingphanisnotonfire-imagines]

Sweet Pea//two friends and a stranger

Request: Hi! Can I request rly angst poly relationship between sweet pea reader and a third girl and reader starts feeling unloved bc they always ignore her and go dates without her and when they do talk to her they're rly rude and mean overall? Thank you!!!

hey! this was so much fun to write, which isn’t that surprising because i love writing angst sooo. and there is no happy ending to this. so if you want to hurt, you’ve come to the right place.  anyway, i hope you like it! and i hope everyone has a great day!! 

It started slow at first. Missed calls here and ignored texts there. 

But then missed calls turned into missed dates and ignored texts turned into them leaving a place whenever you arrived. This went on for months, dates being planned when they knew you were busy, only to lie when they’re caught. 

They would look through you instead of at you, and you had no idea what changed. Until one day you woke up and you realized, what started as a loving relationship between three best friends, had ended with two friends and a stranger. 

Sweet Pea and Clara loved fiercely. And you always admired that. You knew when they were in love, and to be on the receiving end of it felt magical. It made you feel like you could do anything, anything would be possible as long as you had them on your side. They made you feel safe and warm and happier than you’d ever felt before. 

You found yourself day dreaming futures with them, filled with love and laughter. 

The three of you would save enough money to move out of the southside, and hopefully out of Riverdale, the only real ties you had here were your friends and all of them wanted to move too. You’d get a house somewhere, and decorate however you pleased. It would definitely be a mess with three people’s preferences crammed into a small house, but it would work. It would have a certain charm to it. There’d be photos and plants, candles and trinkets. All of them having a memory related to at least one of you. 

Friends would come over for parties, all of you reminiscing about the past and hoping for a future. With drunken karaoke thats filmed for future viewing that you can barely hear over the loud laughter in the background. You’d see how happy you all were, when you’re old and wrinkled, and you’d smile at each other. The three of you sat in your own arm chairs, either watching tv or reading. 

Nights would be spent wrapped in each others arms, rotating who’s the big spoon and who’s the little (somehow it would always be Sweet Pea), whispering plans for the future, stories from the past. About how Sweet Pea and Clara hated each other when they first met, and how it was you being friends with both of them that brought you all closer. Shushed laughter between you and Clara when Sweet Pea falls asleep with his mouth open and drooling. Soft kisses before bed, rushed kisses in the morning, slow and passionate kisses when hands have wandered. 

Inside jokes that confuse your friends, surprise dinners made for one another after long days at work. And the train of washing up (named by you) afterwards. One washes, one dries, the other puts away. Perfect.

Holidays and pets, candid pictures of one or two of you, posed pictures of all three of you when Sweet Pea figures out how to work the camera you and Clara bought him. 

Christmas’ spent watching movies in bed with hot chocolate, New Years spent with friends, counting down until the next year, hopefully to be filled with more luck that the last. Halloweens spent dressed up after months of planning your costumes. Birthdays spent being fussed over by the other two. 

All the good and bad things that life has to through you, all together. 

So many stories would be told within the four walls all of which you couldn’t wait for. 

All of which you’ve watched slowly fade away. You could feel them, they were so close, and then slowly but surely you watched them disappear. Instead being replaced with sadness and the feeling of being alone. 

Until it becomes apparent that they still wanted all of those things, just without you. 

You’ve been through pain in your life. It’s only natural, pain and life come hand in hand. You can’t live without suffering. 

You’ve watched friends and family die, been in your fair share of fights. Watched as friends come and go, watched as they’ve fought. People have left, people have struggled, you’ve struggled. 

But the pain you’ve felt the past few months, as you’ve watched the two people you love the most slowly pull away from you without a word. Watched as they’ve pretended nothing is wrong, come up with excuses as to why neither of them returned your calls or didn’t show for your date. It hurts more than any punch to the face. You feel it all over, it seeps into your bones and it doesn’t move. If anything it gets worse with each day. 

You watch them at parties they didn’t bother to invite you to. You watch as they laugh and kiss and dance, like they’re the only two people in the world. To you they are. But to them, you’re just another face in the crowd it seems, unimportant and invisible. They’re surrounded by friends, everyone happy. And when Toni or Fangs ask where you are, they say they’re not sure, assuring them that you’re around somewhere. 

You’ve tried talking to them, managing only a few times to get them both alone, but anytime you bring it up, they send each other an unreadable expression before reassuring you that nothing is wrong. 

You’re not sure how you got here. 

You were only supposed to be going for a short walk, needing to get out of the house for a bit. It feels too crowded at the minute, despite it just being you for the most part. Your parents come and go, but they mostly go. You feel every room is filled with memories and Sweet Pea and Clara, they follow you wherever you go, until they get too much. 

It was supposed to be a small walk around the block. But when you got to the end of the road, you kept walking. It was like something was pulling you, despite the darkness of the night and the fear slowly creeping up inside of you. You walked. 

You walked until you stopped outside of her house. Clara has the nicest home out of the three of you. It’s one of the very few actual houses on the Southside. The rest are trailers, tents and and a run down apartment complex, the latter being the one you live in. 

It’s filled with mice and rats and bugs, the heating doesn’t work in the winter and the air conditioning doesn’t work in the summer. But it’s four walls and a roof and you’re not planning on being there for very long. At least you weren’t. 

Clara’s house is nice. It’s quite nice for the southside, but it’s been bought with dirty money and so she’s excited to leave. 

After the trailer park burned down, Sweet Pea went between you and Clara until they got tents. But even after he got, he didn’t spend much time in it. He would usually be at yours, but now you can’t remember the last time he so much as visited. 

Now you’re here, you’re not really sure what to do. The peeling paint on the wooden door brings a flicker of a smile to your lips. It feels like home. So many memories have been made out here alone. 

You and Clara were friends long before you got together. And so you spent more time here than your own house. You would play outside when you were younger, despite how much her mother insisted on playing inside or out the back garden. Back then, you didn’t understand why she was so worried about you being out there, but the older you got the more you realized. By that point you know longer played anyway, you spent your nights either out with the serpents or in the Wyrm. 

You remember standing and kissing her on the doorstep, the brightest smile on your faces when you pulled away. You remember thinking that you’d never feel happier than you were right then. 

You remember Sweet Pea picking you up for dates, the two of you spending the afternoon getting ready together. You and Sweet Pea would walk her back home, both pressing a kiss to her cheek before leaving. She’d watch you walk away, a soft smile playing on her lips as you disappeared down the street. 

Or getting caught in the rain and running up the steps, Clara fiddling with the key while you jumped from one foot to the other to keep warm, and Sweet Pea would slip up the steps. 

The night you, her and Sweet Pea sat on the doorstep waiting for her parents to come back from whatever they were doing. Clara had heard them talking earlier, only getting pieces of what they saying but it was enough to worry her. So you and Sweet Pea stayed, and distracted her with games and jokes until they turned up. 

You hear laughter from behind the door and you’re pulled back to reality, your smile disappearing, a frown taking its place as you feel the disappointment settle back in. 

The problem with memories is that you can get lost in them. 

You close your eyes, take a deep breath and wish that this ends well. You know you love them, and if being a serpent has taught you anything, it’s that you fight for what you love. They may have given up on you, but you haven’t given up on them, or yourself for that matter. You deserve an explanation at the very least. And you’re not leaving until you get one. 

You knock on the door and wait, with bated breath and fingers crossed. After a few seconds the door swings open revealing Clara. Her smile falters when her eyes land on you and she looks down, desperately avoiding eye contact. 

The gesture hurts, but it just blends in with the rest of the pain you’re feeling so you power through. 

“Hey Y/n.” It’s like she has to force your name past her lips while reluctantly looking at you. You send her a small smile before looking past her, watching as Sweet Pea slowly shuffles towards the door. The confused expression on his face disappears once he see’s you, its replaced by something you can’t quite place. 

Guilt? Disappointment? Relief? Maybe its a mix of all three. You try not to let it affect you, your gaze lingering on the tall serpent before looking back at Clara. They shift awkwardly, having a silent conversation with each other while you stand on the doorstep. 

“Sorry we didn’t invite you.” Clara starts, her sentence rushed like it’s the first thing thats come to mind. Her hair falls in front of her face, but she does nothing to move it and you realize she’s probably trying to hide. You have an urge to brush it away, a gesture that would make her smile and blush, but the thought of doing it now makes you feel sick. 

“Yeah, we thought you were busy.” Sweet Pea adds, glancing at her before looking back at you. 

“Its fine.” You force a smile. “Can I come in?” 

“Er, yeah, Sure.” Clara nods reluctantly. She opens the door further and steps to the side to let you. 

A shaky breath escapes your lips as you walk over the threshold. It feels like years since you last stepped foot in here. Nothing has changed. The ugly rug is still by the front door. When you were younger you used to wrap yourselves up in it and take it in turns sliding down the stairs. Every single time would end in her mom telling you off, but you would just giggle and do it again when she wasn’t paying any attention. 

The cabinet with the fancy plates is still against the wall. A wedding present for her parents from her grandma. What they don’t know is that you ran into it when you were drunk. Thankfully only a plate smashed and you remember thinking it was the funniest thing in the world one minute before hysterically crying the next. It ended in an equally drunk Sweet Pea and Clara gluing it back together and putting it back before her parents got home. The next morning you woke up with your hands stuck together. Clara and Sweet Pea you understood, but you went no where near the glue and to this day it’s still a mystery. 

“Hey, remember when you fell into that.” Clara chuckles suddenly, the sound taking both you and Sweet Pea surprise. You look at each other, but it doesn’t last long, he looks at the floor making you sigh. 

“Why are you doing this?” You ask bluntly and they look at you surprised. They clearly weren’t expecting that, but neither were you to be honest. 

“I-i.” 

“What do you mean?” Sweet Pea asks. He looks back at you, but he can’t bear to look at you properly for more than a few seconds. 

“Please don’t.” Your voice breaks and you feel the tears building. The months you’ve spent trying to stay positive, trying to write off their excuses and lies. They can spend as much time as they want together, you just want them to stop ignoring you, stop lying to you. To stop forcing themselves to love you. 

You can feel their eyes on you while you stand in front of them, your arms wrapped around yourself. 

“Just, don’t. I just want to know why you’re doing this. You can tell me if you don’t want to be with me anymore. I’d honestly prefer that than whatever this is. Your lies and excuses and clear avoidance of me. If you’ll be happier without me, just tell me.” Tears slip from your eyes and you quickly wipe them away, forcing yourself to look at them. 

You were expecting at least a little emotion from them, but their faces look more like stone than skin. Their expressions hard as they move closer to each other. 

“You’re right.” Sweet Pea starts. 

“We are happier without you.” Clara finishes. 

It feels like you’ve been punched in the gut, you feel winded, like you can’t breathe. Tears flow down your cheeks but you don’t bother to wipe them. They did this, they have to face it. 

“Okay.” You take another shaky breath. “Any reason in particular?” You don’t know why you asked that. You should have just left, but you feel yourself stuck to the spot, unable to escape. 

They look at each other, having another silent conversation and you watch as their expressions change. It goes from unsure, to sadness and then ends on something you’ve never seen before, not towards you at least. Spite.

“We’ve fallen out of love with you. It’s like, when we’re together, it’s the full package, and I could see us with other people in the future. Just not you.” Sweet Pea explains and a sob escapes your lips. You can’t breathe, the air feels tight around you. Like there’s a limited supply of oxygen and they’re taking it all. 

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” You manage to ask. 

“Couldn’t be bothered.” Clara shrugs. 

“We kept forgetting I suppose.” 

“But I love you.” You know you sound pathetic, your voice raw and croaky, your cheeks red, your eyes puffed. This can’t be real. They love you, you love them. Thats how it was always going to be. 

“Thats sweet.” Clara starts. 

“But it’s not reciprocated...sorry.” Only now does Sweet Pea look remorseful as he looks back at the hardwood floor. 

“Okay.” You manage to gather yourself together. Taking a deep breath and looking both of them in the eye before shoving past them. They both sway, hurt flashing in their eyes but you don’t see it. You’re too busy trying to get out and away from them. 

Once you’re stood on the doorway again, you make sure to look at them individually.

“I hope you guys are very happy together.” You force out through gritted teeth. 

The door slams closed and a piece of red paint falls to the floor. Your knees buckle beneath you, sobs wracking your body as you drop to the floor. 

The streetlight illuminates the dark street, making your tears on the ground sparkle. You watch them dry and they seep into the cement, disappearing almost as soon as they fall. 

They engrain themselves into the concrete and with them follows another memory you know you’ll never forget. 

No matter how hard you try. 

#sweet pea #sweet pea imagine #sweet pea x reader #sweet pea x you #sweet pea x y/n #riverdale #riverdale imagine

[adarlingwrites]

Taste

Summary: The blue bard is sickeningly sweet for Astarion's preferences, but he'll never forget her taste.

Author’s Notes: Taste is a collection of retellings of Astarion's scenes with the player character from the Baldur's Gate 3 early access, but with a little more embellishments. Plus, it has glimpses of my tiefling's backstory.

I had horrible, horrible artist's and writer's block and I needed to get this out of my system to get the creative juices flowing again. Please excuse any typos or lack of quality.

Larian give us the bard class pls I am begging of you

I - Blueberry Wine

The time for rest has come.

Bedrolls are strewn on the campgrounds, and most of its inhabitants are already asleep. Nothing can be heard save for the crackle of fire, the chirp of birds in the woods, and soft snoring.

If it wasn’t for their common goal of removing those damned illithid tadpoles from their heads before they undergo ceremorphosis, the members of this party wouldn’t even spend five minutes within each others’ presence. Now, they’re sleeping in one place. It takes some measure of trust for that.

The dreams of the tiefling in their ragtag group aren’t sweet tonight, to say the least.

Brows furrowed as another nightmare wormed into her psyche, the tiefling tosses and turns in her bedroll, a thin film of sweat giving her forehead a slight sheen in the firelight. Eyes shooting open, she choked back a gasp, lest she wake up her companions in the camp. The crackle of the campfire and the smell of burning wood gave her some semblance of comfort, at least, reminding her of distant memories.

A warm hearth, a kind face, the smell of freshly baked blueberry pie; simple comforts from her youth that she missed terribly.

The comfort that accompanied the nostalgia was enough to make her drift back to sleep. Woefully, it didn’t stop the nightmares from coming back, now centered around the tiefling’s early years.

Small, bare feet pitter-pattered on the wet pavement, frantic gasps escaped her dry mouth. Choking back a sob, more people went after her, shouting, hurling words that scraped her heart.

“Stop! Thief!”

“Devil!”

“Slay the demon!”

Lungs burning from exertion, the little tiefling whelp coughs, rasps for air, and slides under a cart. In the dark, she can see a narrow alleyway, which she scurries into. The men run past her hiding spot, cursing and muttering amongst themselves. Relief floods through her as their torchlights grew dim.

Safe, at last.

Her trembling arms had been holding on to precious cargo; a stale loaf of bread, wrapped in linen. It’s not a delectable morsel of steak, or rich bone marrow, but it’s better than the rocks she grinded with her sharp teeth for breakfast.

As she takes it out of the cloth, a stone drops in her stomach and horror twists on her young face. The tiefling isn’t holding a loaf of bread, but a severed head of a drow. A scream threatened to escape her throat and pierce the night air, but the tiefling maiden could only gasp as she felt a presence behind her.

Wine red eyes still heavy with sleep met with alert, ruby ones. She isn’t dreaming any longer.

In the dim firelight, she sees him. Astarion.

Truth be told, she doesn’t quite know what to feel about the posh elf. Astarion’s handsome face and fair curls are easy on the eyes, but it only reminded her of how hellish she looks in comparison due to her infernal ancestry. His sharp, calculating eyes puts her at unease, even when his gaze isn’t directed towards her. He has a way of making people feel beneath him, like vulnerable prey. Serenity is not exempt from that, despite her efforts to be pleasant to him. Not to mention, Astarion’s attitude and mannerisms reminded her of the uppity nobles she had the displeasure of encountering in her colorful past.

In short, he’s a handsome fellow with a revolting attitude, at least to Serenity’s standards. Lust and indignation battles with each other in the tiefling’s psyche.

It doesn’t help at all that the elf is fond of calling her pet names, such as “sweetheart” or “dear”. No one calls her such sweet things with genuine intent, not after she saw the drow’s head on a pike, and to hear them from his condescending mouth stirs something dark in her heart.

It especially inflames her whenever he calls her “darling”.

She wanted to pounce on him. However, she wasn’t sure what she wanted after that.

Tear his pretty face asunder with her nails and watch his handsome features contort in agony, perhaps? Or watch him writhe underneath her in a more… carnal manner as she takes out all of her frustration by mashing her ravenous mouth against his lovely lips?

Maybe both?

“Oh, Serenity. You have no need for that sort of… decadence,” she thinks to herself.

Alas, her body says otherwise.

“Shit,” he says upon meeting eyes with her, distracting the tiefling from her thoughts. Serenity didn’t expect such a vulgar word to come out of his pretty mouth, and she didn’t expect the gleaming fangs inside of it either.

How could she not see it the first few times?

The dead boar they found on the road, the fact that she had never seen him consume any food, and the wolfish way he eyes her neck when he thought she wasn’t looking should’ve given it away.

Astarion is a vampire. Worse, he's a vampire who’s intending to sink his teeth in Serenity’s neck.

Whatever terrible things she secretly wanted to do to him, she had no chance of enacting them in this situation. Hells, if anything, Astarion is the one with the capacity to do terrible things to her. The tiefling will be at his mercy, if she doesn’t act fast. So, why isn’t her body doing anything to move?

Heart racing, she needed to say something, at least.

“Stop,” Serenity warns him, voice low, baring her own sharp teeth. The tiefling had considered smashing her precious lute over his head as a last resort. Before the bard can lash out, he pulls back, alarmed.

“No no, it’s not what it looks like, I swear!” Astarion hastily blurts, panic evident in his voice. “ I wasn’t going to hurt you! I just needed- well, blood.”

The elf’s admission confirms it; Astarion is a vampire, a creature enslaved to sanguine hunger.

At that moment, an expression that Serenity hasn’t seen on the elf before twists his features: guilt. The vampire knew he’s betraying her trust, and it shows.

“How long since you killed someone? Days? Hours?” Serenity asks, on guard now, but still sitting on her bedroll.

Eyes widening, Astarion’s tone becomes defensive. “I’ve never killed anyone!” he exclaims. Then, his expression turns grim. “Well, not for food. I feed on animals. Boars, deer, kobolds! Whatever I can get.”

The lass feels slightly reassured that she’s not dealing with a blood-sucking serial killer, but the possibility of him lying puts her on edge again.

“But it’s not enough,” the pale elf speaks again. Serenity half expected him to say this, he did try to bite her after all. “Not if I have to fight. I feel so… weak.”

And there it was, the last thing she expected from him: vulnerability. His reluctance to show weakness was written all over his face. Perhaps it wounds his pride? Regardless of the doubt she has for him, it changed Serenity’s perception of the vampire ever so slightly.

“If I just had a bit of blood, I could think clearer. Fight better. Please.”

Now this is a pleasant surprise. Astarion saying please? Is this a dream?

Still, the tiefling wanted to dig deeper at the truth. Brows knitting together in concentration, she knew better than to use the tadpole, but the damn thing established a psionic link with other infected individuals. 

Serenity pushes into the vampire’s mind to search for the truth.

“I- what’s this? What’s happening?” Astarion blurts, experiencing slight discomfort from the intrusion.

Pushing deep into the elf’s cracked and quivering memories, Serenity strains as she sifts through centuries worth of them, until she has reached its heart. There, she found herself in Astarion’s shoes; quite literally. She sees dark eyes that commanded her to feed, and instinctively, her body follows suit. Serenity, experiencing this through Astarion’s memory, opens her mouth, biting down, but not into a tender, pulsing neck. Though she wanted to recoil in disgust, there was no other choice; she couldn’t physically resist. The choice had been made for her- no, made for Astarion.

Astarion’s fangs pierce the twisting body of a rat - the only thing his master allows him to eat.

In return, Serenity’s own memories leak through the cracks of her psyche, and Astarion finds himself in the body of a wee girl with horns too big for her head. Ravenously, he inhales the sweet, buttery aroma of a freshly-baked pie resting on a windowsill. Astarion’s hands, now small and of bluish color, reach for the baked good with caution. A warm, ash-colored hand presses on his shoulder, and he sees the smiling face of a tall, drow man. Instead of hurting him for attempting to steal, the dark elf ushers him to a table, and offers him a slice with a compassionate smile. Serenity will never forget her first taste of the buttery pie crust, the sweet blueberries, and a hint of lemon and salt.

Now, Astarion will never forget that taste, either.

The connection between them severed, Serenity takes a moment to collect herself.

“You ate animals because you were forced to. Not because you wanted to,” she mumbles, eyebrows knitted together. Is it sympathy? Or perhaps his experiences reminded her of her own relationship with food?

Whatever it was, the tiefling’s perception of Astarion drastically shifted. On the surface, Astarion is a noble who turns up his nose at folks like her, but in truth, he suffered under the hands of a cruel master.

Being a pompous ass is a defense mechanism for him.

“I- yes,” Astarion says with resignation. “Yes, I ate whatever disgusting vermin my master picked. So, you can see why I’m slow to trust you,” he continues, and Serenity swore the expression he wore on his face tugged a few strings in her heart.

“But I do trust you, and you can trust me,” Astarion tells her.

Serenity thinks it might not be fair for her not to. How can she say that she can’t, after she saw his past for herself, and he didn’t show any hostility towards her for intruding upon his darkest, most haunting memories?

“I do. I believe you,” the bard responds, and she can hear his relief when he mutters “Thank you.”

Perhaps Serenity had judged him too harshly in the past. The drow who took her in cultivated compassion in her heart, and it’s beckoning to her.

“Do you need blood?” Serenity asks him, and there is genuine surprise on his face.

“I was about to ask,” he tells her, expression shifting into something more pleasant. “I only need a taste, I swear.”

“As long as you don’t take a drop more than you need,” Serenity replies, loosening her clothing slightly, her smallclothes peeking through.

“Really?” he asks, and he sounds almost eager.

“I- of course. Not one drop more.”

That damn vampire flashes her a smile that sends lightning rippling through her veins.

Astarion’s yearning eyes flicked to her exposed flesh, barely making out the purple tinge on her bluish skin as blood rushed from her chest to her face. Seeing where his eyes are roaming, Serenity feels her heart racing faster, and she swiftly lies down, back turned away from him. The tiefling bard is not about to let her companion see her flustered state.

Face inches away from her head, Astarion catches a whiff of the tiefling’s scent. He quietly thanked the gods that she didn’t smell of sulfur or rotting meat; instead, the bard smells of ash from freshly burned incense, laced with a warm, spiced scent.

The vampire holds her gently, delicately, until he strikes.

Astarion sinks deep, fangs like shards of ice piercing her neck. Serenity lets out a gasp, and her face contorts into an expression of pain and discomfort. Thankfully, the pain is quick and sharp, and as the vampire continues to feed, it fades gently into throbbing numbness. The bard feels her blood coursing through her body, into Astarion’s mouth, who sucked and slurped it hungrily.

He leans forward, one arm almost draping over the bard’s torso to support his weight, while the other still holds her head. Palm running through her short obsidian hair, he stops as they touch one of her horns, hand enclosing into a fist around it. Gently tugging, the elf tilts  her head for better access.

Astarion’s lips are wet from his meal’s blood and sweat, and his own saliva. They glided on the sensitive skin ever so slightly as he pursed them and sucked harder. Serenity found her breath catching in her throat from his actions, pulse quickening as her hand flew to grasp Astarion’s arm, filed fingernails turning white at the end.

In a figurative and literal sense, she’s holding on to dear life.

“Ah, Astarion, that’s enough,” she mewls, hand moving to grasp his hair, fingernails running through his scalp. Not enough to hurt, but enough for the vampire to snap out of it due to the sensation it produced.

The vampire moans, almost carnally, then it is followed by a surprised, questioning grunt. Serenity’s pleas, and the scrape of her fingernails took him from his trance-like state. Immediately, he removes himself from her neck, swallowing thickly.

“Oh. Of course.”

Serenity sits up as he pulls back, light-headed from the blood loss. She turns to the pale elf, her breathing ragged as her fingers gingerly pressed on her bite wound. The tiefling felt a blush creep on her face, neck, and pointy ears as she gazes upon Astarion’s face. In the firelight, she can see that his pupils are blown out in ecstasy, and blood is trickling from the corner of his mouth.

“That- that was amazing,” Astarion purrs, wiping off her blood and bringing his fingers to his mouth, savoring it to the last drop. “My mind is finally clear. I feel strong. I feel…”

He pauses, and Serenity stopped breathing for a moment.

“Happy,” he continued, sighing in contentment as he gave her a gentle, genuine smile.

Serenity had to blink a few times to confirm that she wasn’t seeing things.

She clears her throat, hoping to dissipate the delicious tension between them. “I look forward to seeing you fight,” the bard says to him, drawing her knees to her chest.

“Shouldn’t take long. So many people need killing,” Astarion responds, bowing ever so slightly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, you’re invigorating, but I need something more… filling.”

The pale elf turns around and just like that, he is back to normal, snobbish self.

Serenity slumps back on her bedroll, exhaling slowly as her heart finally slows down. Her body crashes from the surge of adrenaline and the blood loss. Turning her head, she watches as the elf stalks towards the forest; stronger, more confident, and ready to hunt.

“This is a gift, you know,” Astarion tells her, back still turned from her, looking over his shoulder.

“I won’t forget it.”

Serenity won’t forget it either.

It didn’t take long before Astarion found a deer in the forest. As he drank the beast’s blood, he couldn’t help but compare the taste to Serenity’s blood. The animal is more filling indeed, but now? Nothing compares to the taste of the tiefling’s delicious blood.

She is the first humanoid he ever tasted, after all.

And how will he describe her taste?

The darling tiefling is bubbly, gentle, and sweet, much like her demeanor; almost sickeningly so, for his standards. It’s comparable to the Monastery of the Yellow Rose’s blueberry wine: a fragrant dessert wine he had the pleasure of consuming with delicate cheeses and light cakes back when he didn’t have any fangs.

Or perhaps he had associated her with the fruit due to her memories mingling with his.

Either way, when he said that he won’t forget it, he wasn’t just referring to the favor she did for him. Astarion was referring to Serenity’s taste as well.

Meanwhile, in the camp, Serenity draws her lute to her chest, plucking the strings softly in an attempt to lull herself to sleep. It doesn’t ease her into slumber like it usually does. Sighing, she squeezes her thighs together, heat pooling between them as she recalled the vampire’s lips on her pulsing neck. Perhaps it’s not the lute that she should be plucking at.

Reaching into the waistband of her trousers, the bard gives in to her secret desires.

At least there weren’t any more nightmares for the night.

#baldur's gate #baldur's gate 3 #astarion #astarion x mc #oc: serenity | zalia #tiefling #tiefling character #tiefling bard #cw: blood

[valerzya]

𝖛𝖆𝖑𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖞𝖆 𝖑𝖊𝖓𝖐𝖔𝖛 𝖎𝖓𝖙𝖗𝖔𝖉𝖚𝖈𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓 . . .

( irina shayk. cis woman. she/her. the question & mac miller. ) have you seen VALERIYA LENKOV strolling around central park at lunchtime? rumor has it they’re actually THIRTY-FIVE years old, but i’m pretty sure they’re only THIRTY. they’re currently posing as a SCREENPLAY WRITER, but when dusk falls, you can usually find them heading home to MANHATTAN by CAR SERVICE. apparently they DID attend the met gala this season! 

hello, all ! i’m lauryn, 21, my pronouns are she/her, and i currently reside within the cst timezone. i’ve been tumblr rping on and off for about 8 years now, and this is my first time playing valeriya. here’s is my second muse of this rp, valeriya lenkov ! her about is listed here, her statistics are listed here, and her plotting page is listed here. if you’d like to claim any of the plots on that page or do some other plotting, shoot me a message ! i prefer discord, but i’m open to messaging on tumblr. my discord is limes#6826. i look forward to writing with everyone !

TW: CHRONIC ILLNESS, DEPRESSION, MURDER

born in a rural mining town located in russia to a coal miner and a home birth midwife, valeriya nikolayevna lenkov had a relatively average upbringing. as an only child, she received a generous amount of attention from her parents. when they were not working, they were home with their daughter. valeriya was a frail child who often grew sick, though she received a lot of attention from locals who referred to her as the most beautiful child in town. her parents dreamed of whisking her away to the united states, where they could hopefully get a diagnosis for her illness. sponsored by valeriya’s aunt in manhattan, the family prepared to make the jump by spending their free time practicing their english and setting up employment for valeriya’s father at his sister’s husband’s work.

upon arriving in manhattan, valeriya, now seven, and her family lived with her aunt and her husband for nearly a year. valeriya’s mother had found work as a seamstress while her father migrated from food preparation to a construction job, which finally earned the family some health benefits. with that in place and with the recommendation of a specialist, valeriya was put through a series of medical examinations. after numerous pokes and prods and a scan or two, no affliction had been identified. it had become an assumption that valeriya’s susceptibility to sickness was due to a compromised immune system, though nothing was ever confirmed.

life in manhattan differed greatly from valeriya’s upbringing. she had gone from the quiet, desolate roads to a bustling city crowded with rats and bodies. school had been rough on valeriya for the first couple years; her english was far from perfect and she would go through periods of illness that made her truant. she was lucky to not have to repeat any grades, though it came close. her parents’ work schedules had become more hectic since the move, with her father being on call and her mother working full time at odd hours, so it was often left to her aunt to look after her.

middle school and high school proved to be far more tolerable for valeriya. english was no longer a concern of hers after years of schooling, and she received ample attention for her good looks and compassionate nature. valeriya was considered popular amongst her peers despite her occasional disappearance from school for a week or so at a time. her friends doted on her, filling the void that her mostly absent parents had left; they would often visit her with comfort foods and gifts when she was sick.

in her sophomore year of high school, valeriya met a boy that she would deem to be her first love. she fell head over heels for the boy, and he returned her affections. it wasn’t long until valeriya began to exhibit obsessive behaviors though, resulting in their split. valeriya was heartbroken and looked for any distraction to fill her time. she landed on cinema, specifically horror cinema. valeriya expressed an interest in writing her own horror flicks, finding some sort of direction that she had previously lacked. upon graduating high school, valeriya grew seriously ill. her fever refused to break, and she was forced to spend all of her time at home. when she felt well enough, she would fill the silence with the scribbling of her pencil.

after a month, valeriya finally recovered and began taking community college courses on film and screenwriting. she had no intent to seek a degree, having struggled enough already with schooling. her intention was simply to educate herself on how to adapt her stories into screenplays and potentially make a career out of it. in the meantime, she took a job as a waitress at a local cafe. they were understanding in regards to her illness and gave her shifts sparingly, but it was enough to purchase the things that she desired. valeriya grew to be a cynical young adult with bouts of depression. her heartbreak weighed heavy on her, even after years, and her illnesses brought on feelings of hopelessness.

with three completed screenplays in the hands of the twenty-five year old, valeriya sought out the support of an agent. after four failed attempts, someone finally took an interest in her material. by age twenty-seven, valeriya had sold her first script through a production company. it was set to be developed as a direct-to-dvd movie, and valeriya made a killing from it. finally able to move out of her parents’ manhattan apartment into her own one-bedroom apartment, valeriya felt a dash of hope. however, after a couple years of letdowns and rejection, her hope dwindled once again. valeriya grew resentful toward the world, cursing it for the ways it had failed her. her once compassionate spirit had disappeared, replaced with a bitter, pessimistic nature.

at the age of thirty, valeriya met a strange person ( vampire ) who piqued her interest. she was hypnotized by this being and spent a large portion of her time at their side. they were strong and capable, something that she envied. often expressing her envy for these traits, the being took it upon themselves to make valeriya more like them. she was changed into a vampire and for the first time in her lifetime, she radiated with strength and resiliency. her life had been taken from her, but it was almost as though it was just beginning.

finding inspiration to write again, with her mind firing on all cylinders, valeriya produced three more screenplays within a year. miraculously, two out of three sold with both generating a six figure price point. she spent the rest of her time absorbing what was now her life. her thirst for blood empowered her, and she felt superior to the weak humans she fed on. she would familiarize herself with those she fed on before she took their life, viewing feeding as a sport. valeriya had become childish, reckless, and manipulative. she only saw others for what she could gain from them. though she acted a fool, she was intelligent and perceptive. as the years passed, she sold two more screenplays, gaining notoriety within that world. valeriya finally feels as though she’s unstoppable, and she won’t let anything or anyone get in her way.

TLDR ; valeriya was a sickly child who immigrated from russia to manhattan when she was seven. due to what was likely a compromised immune system, she often fell ill. in high school, she suffered a heartbreak that led her to start creating horror screenplays. after selling one, she hit a low point after many more rejections and bouts of illness. she became bitter and resentful toward the world until she was changed into a vampire. now powerful and free from sickness, valeriya revels in her new life. she enjoys feeding on unsuspecting humans, and has even gained more notoriety as a screenplay writer.

important information about her personality can be found in her “about” section linked above.

@duskintro​

#dusk:intro #tldr at the end because this got stupid long #sry for any mistakes ! #i proofread but u never know

[theparanormalperiodical]

The REAL Story Behind The Crooked Man And The 7 Other Fairy Tales & Nursery Rhymes With *Even More* Disturbing Backstories

It was 4 years ago that we first met the Crooked Man.

With a *sickening* reveal via rottweiler fit for the latest season of Rupaul’s Drag Race, the suited gentleman staggered his way from The Conjuring 2 (2016) into our nightmares.

But his ashy undertones, gnashing teeth, and general aura of “I’m a demon, or something, which means I have no real motive apart from wanting to kill you” isn’t the only thing that fits the film far too well.

The Conjuring universe is the definition of ‘based on a true story’. And the Crooked Man fits the brief.

In the opening scenes of the film we see lovable and bulliable Billy stutter through a nursery rhyme:

There was a crooked man, and he went a crooked mile, He found a crooked sixpence against a crooked stile; He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse, And they all liv'd together in a little crooked house.

Accompanied by a totally-cursed-i-mean-just-look-at-it zoetrope (it’s a bit like a mini projector that shows you a moving cartoon), Billy introduces us to one of the handful of extra entities terrorising London’s most haunted house. You can discover more about the true story of 284 Green Street which inspired The Conjuring 2 here. 

But Billy also introduces us to a real nursery rhyme inherent in British culture - and British history.

Yes, the nursery rhyme, like many, is based on dark and twisted reality softened for a bedtime story. And amongst this history was a real person. Unfortunately, the Crooked Man is not the only fairy tale monster or nursery rhyme entity that will be haunting your dreams.

Are y’all tucked in?

The Crooked Man

The nursery rhyme was first told sometime in the 17th century during the reign of King Charles I. But the Crooked Man was not the Stuart King - it was allegedly inspired by Scottish general Sir Alexander Leslie and the covenant he signed.

The covenant secured religious and political freedom for Scotland despite prevailing animosity between the English and the Scottish.

The crooked stile is the awkward alliance between the two parliaments and the crooked house refers to the collective union the Scottish and English lived together in. But the ‘crooked’ part works on another level, too.

The great recoinage of late 17th century meant sixpences - which feature in the rhyme - were made of very thin silver and thus easy to bend.

An alternative origins story links it back to Lavenham, a village in Suffolk (England). The half-timbered houses leaned at off angles as if supporting each other, creating a crooked aesthetic that matches the nursery rhyme.

The Pied Piper Of Hamelin

I distinctly remember hearing the story of the Pied Piper when I was about 7 years old. I was there, sat crossed-legged on the wooden floor in assembly and listening to the headteacher tell us the tale of the musical maverick with an overhead projector.

I remember it being far more nostalgic and not so traumatising.

The story goes that sometime in the 13th century a peculiar man dressed in brightly-coloured clothes (pied clothing) was hired by the town to rid them of the rats with his pipe-playing abilities. Hamelin had been suffering from an infestation that would threaten the locals with the plague. The piper was to play his pipe, entice the rats with his magical music, and lead them to a river where they would promptly drown.

He was hired and he did the job - but they didn’t pay up.

The piper couldn’t exactly refund his services. Instead, he sought vengeance, luring away the children of the town with his magical pipe. He waited until Saint John and Paul’s day where the adults would be in the church, dressed in green like a hunter, and played his pipe. The children of the village swarmed to him, all 130 of them, following him out of the town and into a cave. Three were unable to follow due to being blind and deaf and thus told the villagers what had happened.

The real story:

Some versions of the story claimed he made them walk into a river, others claim he returned them after payment. But what we do know for sure is that there is a street in Hamelin called Bungelosenstrasse. On this street - ‘the street without drums’ according to translation - the children were seen last. No music and no dancing is allowed on this road.

Bluebeard

We open on a typical Medieval scene: a powerful and wealthy man is looking for a young wife to replace the last one who mysteriously went missing. Bluebeard’s been through quite a few women, actually, but it’s his latest bae that stars in this story. Bluebeard marries his neighbour’s daughter and goes on a business trip.

He tells her he can stay alone in their house but she cannot open a certain door.

Of course, she opens the door and finds the corpses of his ex-wives. Her and her sisters band together to kill Bluebeard, showering themselves with a wealthy inheritance.

The real story:

This tragic tale of murder and mystery is unfortunately all too true.

There are many alleged origins of the folktale. Let’s start with the Medieval ruler of Brittany, Conomor the Cursed: his new wife agreed to marry him to prevent him from invading her father’s lands but accidentally walked in on a room full of his dead, old wives. She was visited by their ghosts who warn him if she falls pregnant, he will kill her, preventing a prophecy that claims he will be killed by his own son.

She gets knocked up, gives birth, and then she gets her block knocked off.

An alternative inspiration could be a similarly brutal figure: Gilles de Rais (15th century). He was accused of murdering approximately 140 children who suddenly went missing in the Nantes countryside. He was condemned to death and executed in 1440.

Snow White

It’s one of the most popular fairytales of all time.

The story goes that a queen gives birth to a baby girl but dies in childbirth. The king’s new wife is wicked and vain, asking her magic mirror ‘who is the fairest one of all?’ on a daily basis. When the child turns seven, the mirror changes its answer from the queen to the child, Snow White (yeah, that’s weird). The queen hires a huntsman to kill Snow White, but she begs for mercy and says she will live in the woods and he can pretend he killed her.

She finds shelter in a cottage belonging to seven dwarfs who agree to let her stay as a maid until the evil queen asks the mirror her favourite question. It claims Snow White is still alive and the fairest of them all. She goes through several methods of attempting to kill Snow until she falls into a deep coma. The dwarfs host a funeral, a prince comes along, and he, uhhh, kisses what he assumed to be a corpse and she is awakened.

They then get hitched but don’t invite the queen to the wedding. The queen asks the mirror yet again the identity of the fairest, assuming Snow is well and truly deceased but the mirror breaks the bad news to her again. The queen tries to kill her once more but Snow’s hubby forces her to wear red-hot iron slippers and dance in them until she dies.

There’s a lot going on here.

But rather than unpacking everything that's wrong with all of this *gestures to everything*, let’s just get to the dark reality beneath it all.

The real story:

The inspiration is generally deemed to be Margaretha von Walbeck, a young woman who had a terrible relationship with her stepmother. She was forced to move to Brussels and fell in love with Phillip II of Spain, a romance not popular with her parents.

Suddenly, however, Margaretha died. Rumour has it she was poisoned.

Another detail of her life also links her to Snow White: her father’s copper mines were often filled with child labourers whose growth was stunted by working in them, mirroring the ‘dwarves’ in the story.

But Margaretha is not the only contender: Maria Sophia Margaretha Catharina Freifräulein von Erthal *inhale* also hated her stepmother. This - and the fact that her stepmother was given a mirror as a gift by her husband - also ties her to Snow White.

Hansel And Gretel

It’s possibly the most simple fairy tale up for discussion: a brother and sister are sent out to the woods by their father. The mother asked for him to send them away so they can survive a famine. But Hansel uses stones to trace their steps back home. One day, however, he uses crumbs. They get eaten by the local wildlife, so the kids get lost.

They then discover a witch's house, a gingerbread cottage. She lures ‘em in, fattens up Hansel, and prepares to feast on his flesh. The kids plot against her, throw her in the oven, and steal her stuff before heading back to live with their father.

Okay, so maybe this one isn’t based on a true story. It’s based on true stories. Yep - plural.

The real story:

Child abandonment and infanticide was pretty common during plagues, famines, and all other circumstances of poverty. In fact, this particular tale is believed to come from the Great Famine which stretched across Europe from 1315 to 1317. Child abandonment surged during this time.

Rapunzel

Turns out Disney lopped off a lot of Rapunzel’s real story to make it a family friendly movie. Yep, this is a weird one.

A pregnant woman begins to crave a kind of salad leaf (Campanula rapunculus, also called rapunzel) in the garden of the house next door. He goes out to nick it but is caught by the homeowner - a witch. She says he can take the rapunzel, but in return he must give her the child once it is born.

The witch raises Rapunzel as her own but locks her away in a tower when she is 12 to protect her from the outside world.

A prince eventually rocks up and decides to climb her immensely long hair. Unknown, probably PG-13 and probably not consensual acts happen. Still, given it's the medieval era they agree to get hitched after escaping.

The witch discovers her plan, cuts off her hair, exiles Rapunzel, and uses the locks as bait for the prince before throwing him to the briar roses below where he is promptly blinded. Rapunzel gives birth to twins and the prince finds her, identifying her only by her voice. Her tears restore his voice.

The real story:

Being kidnapped or being kept hidden away from the rest of the world is pretty common, well, all of the time. But Saint Barabara, a Greek saint, was the main inspiration for the tale.

She was locked away in a tower in Turkey in the third century by her father in an attempt to protect her Christianity. But her Pagan father’s efforts did not succeed and she discovered the ways of Jesus. She escaped but she was eventually caught by her father who then tortured and beheaded her.

Religious intolerance, y’all.

Beauty And The Beast

Time for another Disney classic with a heavily edited plotline.

The father of a family seeks shelter in a grand palace during a storm. In the morning before he leaves he takes a rose from the garden but is caught by a beast who threatens to kill him for nicking a flower. But the beast agrees not to kill him if his daughter takes his place instead.

The daughter moves to the palace but asks to go see her family for a week. She is then convinced by her sisters to stay at home. A magic mirror then reveals the beast is dying because she isn’t with him. She returns to him and her love breaks the curse that makes him appear so monstrous.

The real story:

Petrus Gonsalvus (1637-1618) was born with hypertrichosis. This meant he had a thick layer of hair all over his body - his physical difference didn’t go down very well. He was kept as a ‘wild man’ in a cage and fed raw meat.

When he was 10 years old he was gifted to the king of france. But he wasn’t kept as a ‘beast’. He was educated like a nobleman and was taught to read, write, and speak three different languages. He was then married off to the daughter of a court servant.

He was married to her for over 40 years and they had seven children together.

(Aww.)

Three Blind Mice

Three blind mice, three blind mice, See how they run, see how they run, They all ran after the farmer’s wife, Who cut off their tails with a carving knife, Did you ever see such a thing in your life, As three blind mice?

The real story:

It's one of those nursery rhymes you grow up with - and 17 years later you realise how traumatic it actually is.

This nursery rhyme can be traced back to the reign of Bloody Mary (16th century) who had a tricky relationship with Protestants. And by that I mean she burnt them alive, hence the nickname.

The three blind mice represented three Protestant bishops who may have been blinded before their execution or spiritually blind for following Catholicism. Another reference to Queen Mary was her as a farmer’s wife.

Her husband, Philip of Spain, owned several estates and thus was technically a farmer.

Welp, there goes your childhood.

If you liked this post go on and like and reblog. Go on, share your love for my amazing talents with the world!

And if you want to read an article about the paranormal every weekend then you best be hitting follow!

See you next week, kiddos. Sleep tight.

#crooked man #the crooked man #the conjuring #conjuring 2 #the nun #valak #the crooked man movie #fairy tales #grimm #fairytales #origins of fairy tales #nursery rhymes #scary stories #ghost stories #true ghost stories #based on a true story #Ed and Lorraine Warren #folklore #urban legend #creepy urban legends #paranormal #supernatural #the conjuring 3 #Horror Movies #horror #best horror movies #disney #dark fairytale #nostalgia #history

[sagamemes]

disastrio text starters episode II:  teeth and tomfoolery.   below and under the cut, you can find 75 messages dug up from the pins of the cursed group chat of three international friends, and some select dms. slightly edited for roleplay purposes, with spelling errors opted to keep in tact to maintain the Energy™. edit as you please.  tw: nsfw and kink mentions.

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   when i have nothing to add i just screenshot it sorry

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   [name] i am going to choke you.

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   sorry i laughed too hard and now my mother is yelling

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   it's nearly [zodiac] season, bitches

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   thunder just shook my entire car.   [ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   why must we all pay for florida man's sins.

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   i is business contact

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   only if they mentioned something about te*th

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   i don't watch enough simpsons to know what that means but i love you

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   hey who wants to hear a fun fact about the progression of time

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   as if you could curb your scientific curiosity for long enough to leave the only place on earth where someone might use "hey who wants to hear a fun fact about the progression of time" as a conversation opener

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   "you want to punish yourself by seeking unhealthy relationships."    [ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   also the stars say you may want to have your feet fucked.

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   this is the worst thing i have come across all week

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   maybe it's the preparation for pangea   [ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   which i for one am all for

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   you're kdidng

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   the real magic was the tomfoolery we had along the way?

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   that sounds like a famous last words situation

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   the death of a platform cannot end our tomfoolery

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   i'll die hot   [ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   in every sense of the word

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   there's a "everything is bigger in texas" joke in there somewhere

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   what can i say i love to validate my friends

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   when ur suffering too much from anxiety to fly so u just recreate 179,997,981 B.C.

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   at this point i'm taking no responsibilities you know what you're signing up for when u open this chat

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   valid and good information and all but I fucking refuse to teach my kids how to "hook up so they're not nervous anymore"

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   we need a gang sign

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   i like having the reputation of terror among those who Don't Know Me

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   if the worst thing that people think about me is that i have a [thing] kink then i can live with that

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   teeth r hot what is anyone going to do about it

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   the fact that the conversation just ends there makes it look like you legit hopped on a plane and unhinged your jaw

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   the suns will come for us all

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   my conspiracy theory is strengthening

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   they're telling u to be suspicious of the house plant in case there's a mic in there

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   [name] didn't u hear me the tractor supply is a front for a secret government agency keep up

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   who needs eyes when u got swag

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   not to completely derail the conversation but [person] just said that she believes male nipples should fall off like the umbilical cord at some point and i can't fucking breathe

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   there are only so many contexts for [body part] in a sexual setting

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   WHERE ARE YOUR TEETH IF NOT ATTACHED TO YOUR HEAD

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   the Salmon Instinct(tm) always gets ya

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   i immediately regret typing that

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   ur parents thought gators made a nice backdrop for babymaking

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   i'm surrounded by rats i see

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   p sure the faculty let it go on bc it would work as abstinence fuel

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   i choose ignorance

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   i'm not linking anything google at your own risk

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   just let [name] do the talking, even if it's about teeth

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   john mulaney was right

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   i will relish in your suffering nonetheless

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   i've got therapy at 10, and a tarot reading at 9.

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   me: yeah i consider myself a logical, even overthinking individual   [ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   also me: no wait fuck i'm gonna burn my couch *SLAPS THE FIRE*

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   tonightwith food, i will weep, do not fret

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   cry those shit chemicals out

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   vastly different kids of chaos, urs hurts u, i just had to eat the marshmallows faster to get rid of Bad Taste

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   finland is the florida of europe

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   but more importantly it made my heart hurt

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   all roads lead to [person/public figure]

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   it is Fucking Moist here my mans   [ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   ....humid. the word i was looking for is humid

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   if there ever comes a day when i stop liveblogging my misfortune here, presume me dead

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   that's a whole child

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   i hate them both so [name] just go my wrath in that moment

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   our entire relationship is based on fictional emotional s/m

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   i hope u realise we're gonna kidnap u when u come here right

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   update: 4 am and i'm crying about a fictional bird child

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   can someone please kill the hobgoblin, they keep coming back and i have nothing left to give

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   cursed threeway

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   the minions crucified jesus

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   THE FUCKER STOLE MY TERRIYAKI JERKY

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   "you're a shameless little jerky thief and i hate you" - [name] about the cat, but it's better without context

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   I consider this further proof that Romeo and Juliet ruin everything

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   i have the sense of humour of a 12 year old

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   yeah rodeo girls will do that to u tho

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   [name] has the brain cell and they fell asleep with it

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   i'm never gonna be able to look at rich people furniture without presuming it's a kink thing hiding in plain sight

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   but who am i if not the bitch to say the thing nobody wants to

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   i must've missed deep sea penis

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   IT’S IN MAJOR IT COUNTS AS LIGHT-HEARTED

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   op of this article has a vore kink

#text meme #texting meme #rp text meme #* texts. #disastrio

[nanoland]

new chapter (lucifer fic)

Ponder on the Narrow House, part 6 

Mazikeen/Eve/Michael  

(Whole thing can be read on AO3.) 

0  

Fuck the next bounty.

After thinking about it for ten seconds, Mazikeen turned them around and started driving straight for Los Angeles.

Eve can talk to him. Not me. He needs to talk to someone, and Eve will do.

Barely half a mile later, Amenadiel dropped out of the sky and landed in the middle of the road, just far enough away for her to bring the car to a screeching halt before it would otherwise have slammed into him like wet clay into a steel wall.

“We’ve got a problem,” he said, looking exhausted.

She snorted and pointed skyward. “Yeah. This? Not gonna lie, I was expecting something like this. But I thought it would take, like, at least a month.”

Wincing, Amenadiel said, “No, that’s… that’s a different problem and Chloe’s promised to discuss it with him. Maze, we need you back at Lux. Now.”

“Hi, Amenadiel!” Eve called, waving.

He succeeded in smiling at her without even glancing at Michael, despite his younger brother sitting right at her side, glaring fixedly.

“Why?” demanded Mazikeen, tensely drumming her fingers on the wheel. (Inner voice hissing, Shouldn’t have left him alone, you dumb bitch, you’ve been doing this for centuries and you know what he’s like when you leave him alone for more than five minutes.) “Seriously – what could he possibly need me for? He’s God.”

Sighing, Amenadiel put his wings away. “Mazikeen, we’re all well aware that Lucy often… has difficulty focusing. To put it mildly. There’s a lot more for him to focus on now than ever before. He’s trying to undo climate change. To that end, he started refreezing all the melted ice in the Arctic. But he did it too quickly and, resultantly, there are several hundred trapped ships we need to save and several thousand dead penguins to resurrect and, to be honest, he hasn’t really got the hang of resurrection yet – you remember what Dan looked like for the first few hours after Lucifer brought him back to life…”

“Eurgh. Yeah. Yuck. Totes not the kinda shit you’d wanna see in Happy Feet.”

Michael was snickering.

“Right. And then there are all the changes he’s been making locally,” Amenadiel went on. “The expansion of Lux, the overnight disappearance of all Los Angeles’ firearms, his deciding that the city’s white supremacist population should grow a third ear so they can be easily identified, and, well, it turns out that a lot of Chloe’s colleagues at the police station-…”

“I get it, I get it. Chaos everywhere. As usual. What, exactly, is the problem he wants me to fix?”

Amenadiel exhaled heavily. “The demons. The ones you brought from Hell to help us defeat Michael.”

“Oh, so you do remember I exist,” Michael muttered.

Stonily ignoring him, Amenadiel said, “They’re still on Earth and they’re causing trouble. The one called Dromos, in particular. He’s gathered followers and they’ve surrounded Lux.”

Her brother’s face – his real face, not the human puppet he wore – flashed through her mind’s eye; a memory from when they were unruly children and had raced through Hell together, using the stone pillars that they’d not yet known were cells as an obstacle course. She’d been faster; he, more athletic. Together with a few cousins, they’d made a fearsome team, and not even their meanest older siblings had bullied them.

She folded her arms and looked away. “They’re demons. Lucifer can deal with them. Snap his fingers and turn them into rats or whatever. Make them explode.”

“Mazikeen,” Eve murmured, soft and low, touching her shoulder. “You don’t want that. They’re your family.”

Amenadiel blinked, as though that hadn’t occurred to him. “Er… yes, there’s that. There’s also the fact that Lucifer doesn’t want all of humanity to see him as the type of God who casually annihilates his enemies; a harsh, vindictive God. He wants to be liked. To be loved.”

“Fine. So why don’t you and the other angels sort it out?”

“Come now, Maze. A bunch of angels and a bunch of demons waging war in the midst of a bustling city? Humans will die. But you’re the Queen of Hell now and, by extension, the Queen of Demons. If you command Dromos to stand down, he will. This can all be resolved peacefully.”

Eve’s fingertips were cool against her skin.

Mazikeen looked back at the sky. The cloud letters were starting to dissolve. “What does he want?”

“Who?”

“Dromos. He doesn’t act on instinct. He’s a planner. He wants something.”

Shrugging, Amenadiel said, “He shouted at me about demanding an audience with the king. I didn’t ask for details. I don’t really care. Dromos isn’t someone I’m inclined to listen to at the best of times. The last time the wretch showed his face on Earth, he kidnapped my son.”

“Mmm. Kinda like your sister was gonna do. Kinda like you were gonna do, now that I think about it.”

“Maze!” he gasped, sounding shocked and hurt. “You can’t compared poor Remiel’s misguided actions to-…”

“I’ll do it,” she interrupted. “Take me to Lux. Now.”

“Excuse me? What about us?” snapped Michael.

Mazikeen met Eve’s gentle gaze. “You don’t need to be involved in this. My family drama, it – it’s not pretty.”

“My son killed my son,” said Eve, taking her hand. “My husband loved another woman. I’m used to drama.”

Swallowing, Mazikeen glanced at Michael. “And you, wimp?”

Feigning disinterest – feigning it badly – he said, “You showed up to my last domestic dispute. Guess this’ll make us square.”

“I’ve only got two arms. I can’t carry all of you,” Amenadiel pointed out.

Mazikeen rubbed her chin. “No… but you can carry the car, right?”

0

He didn’t have time for this. There was so much to do.

“World hunger,” he recited as he bounced from one laptop to the next, all twenty-three of them displaying a different article or video by a leading scientific or sociological mind, “wealth inequality, pollution, cancer, droughts, racism, elderly abuse, housing shortages, cruelty to animals…”

“Lucifer,” said Linda patiently, sitting on his best couch with her legs crossed, a cup of coffee and a laptop of her own beside her. “You said you wanted my advice as to how you should manage this whole ‘being God’ business.”

“I do, doctor! Very much. Your input is invaluable. Blast, where did I put that map of Alaska? I’m thinking of making it bigger; slotting it in alongside the Arctic to help stabilise all that new ice.”

“Right. Thanks. So here – here is what I’m suggesting now; slow down. Seriously. Take a breath, step back, and think your next move through.”

He scoffed. “‘Slow down’? Doctor, I need to work at least three times faster if I’m to keep up with everything. There are people suffering everywhere, millions of them! There are sinners in need of punishment! I’m seriously considering asking Chloe to be my Deputy God. I never imagined omnipotence would entail so much paperwork and she’s always been better at that than me.”

Outside the penthouse, many stories below, the chanting grew louder. None of the human police officers, journalists, and gawkers who’d gathered to watch could understand it; it was in Lilim.

Cursing, Lucifer strode to the balcony and shouted down, “For the last time, would you all kindly piss off? I’m trying to fix an entire planet here!”

He heard the elevator open and moaned. “Detective, not now. Please. I’m very sorry I haven’t returned your calls – I swear I’m not avoiding you – it’s just that I’ve got a lot on my plate today and we did already agree to meet for supper at-…”

“Lucifer,” said Linda, sounding terrified.

“Lucifer,” said someone else, sounding irritable.

Now that he was God, rage didn’t turn his eyes red anymore. It turned them gold and blindingly bright, like spotlights. Fists clenched, he turned to see Dromos step into the penthouse, once again clad in the flesh of the late Father Kinley and wearing a leather jacket.

“Nice trick, making all the doors disappear. Finally decided to climb up the side of the building with a sledgehammer and burrow my way through into the elevator shaft,” said the demon, hands in his pockets and concrete dust coating his beard and his bald head. “I want to talk to you, sire.”

Storming across the room while Linda remained frozen, white-faced, on the couch, Lucifer snarled, “You! You have the nerve to come here, to stand before me, after what you did to my nephew?”

He took Dromos by the neck and lifted him off the ground, his wings opening in fury (he had six of them now).

Stoical even as he choked, Dromos said, “I need. To talk. I will leave immediately afterwards.”

“Oh, you’ll leave, alright! You’ll be lucky if I don’t throw you into an active volcano, you accursed traitor!”

Dromos’ stolen skin began to sizzle beneath his fingers. He waited until the demon’s face was wrinkled with pain before throwing him to the floor hard enough to crack the wood and make a crater.

“I will leave,” Dromos gasped, coughing up blood, “when I have spoken.”

“What could you possibly have to say for yourself? Kidnapper. Child-thief.”

Still on the couch, Linda said tremulously, “Lucifer, you’re… you’re hurting him. Stop it. Please.”

“Let us stay!” shouted Dromos, and coughed again before dragging himself up onto his knees. “On Earth. That’s what I came to say. Let your erstwhile subjects stay on Earth if they choose – at least, those who served you in the battle against Michael. Don’t force them to return to Hell. Let them, let us choose where we live, going forward. That’s my request, your Majesty. My only request.”

Lucifer boggled at him. “Is that a joke? Demons? On Earth, indefinitely, unsupervised? Are you out of your tiny mind, Dromos?”

Baring teeth, Dromos said, “Why not? What does it matter to you now? You’ve got everything you could possibly want. Everything anyone could possibly want! All we’re asking is the freedom to come and go as we please.”

“No.”

He spoke the word bluntly, and then he stepped back, adjusting his cuffs. Regaining his composure. “Never. You’re dangerous and untrustworthy. This world is for humans, not you. Good grief, haven’t I got enough to preoccupy my mind, without the added stress of demons rampaging around town?”

“We won’t rampage. We just-…”

“Why are you even coming to me with this? Mazikeen’s the new Queen of Hell. Didn’t you get the memo?”

Dromos wiped blood from his lips. “I don’t know if my sister and I are on speaking terms right now. And she may be Queen, but you’re God; I assumed you would be tasked with such decisions. After all, there’s never been a demon in charge of Hell before. We were told – we were always told – that only angels could rule us. I don’t doubt Mazikeen’s competence, but I…”

He seemed to run out of steam, spreading his hands and finishing weakly, “Lucifer, you’re the king. You’ve been the king for millions of years. For my entire life. Look, if you really don’t want us leaving Hell, then can you at least use your newfound power to improve it? Let us have the things mortals enjoy? Pianos, dogs, blankets, weekends, all that stuff?”

Lucifer rolled his eyes. “That would rather defeat the purpose, wouldn’t it? Hell is supposed to be a place of punishment. The ultimate consequence awaiting sinners. I need a carrot and a stick, Dromos. How else am I supposed to convince people to behave if I don’t? Imagine a rapist arriving in Hell and being confronted with demons playing pianos and walking their dogs. Wouldn’t have quite the desired effect, would it?”

Dromos was quiet for a moment, then said without inflection, “Perhaps you could find somewhere else to put rapists. Somewhere other than our home.”

Throwing up his arms, Lucifer said, “More demands! Don’t you see how selfish you’re being? Here I am, doing my best to end all suffering, and you’re complaining about babysitting a few evil-doers – which, might I remind you, is your job. Nay, your very reason for existence. Always has been. Why’re you getting stroppy about it now?”

“I think,” Linda began, taking a tentative step forward before stopping and clearing her throat. “Excuse me. May I interrupt? Um. Okay, so I think that maybe Dromos has a point here, Lucifer.”

“Doctor! This is the creature that stole your baby!”

“Yes, I know. And I’m not saying I forgive him for that, but…”

“I wasn’t going to eat the brat,” Dromos grumbled. “I was going to make him a king.”

“You took him away from his mother!” Lucifer shouted.

“Gentlemen!” said Linda, sharply. “Please! Let’s try to talk this through like adults.”

Overcome with frustration, and only vaguely aware that he’d not been sleeping well lately, Lucifer kicked the nearest chair. “I can’t believe you’re siding with him, doctor.”

“I’m not siding with anyone. I-…”

“You don’t know these people like I do. You didn’t spend millions of years in Hell alongside them. The only demon you’ve ever gotten acquainted with is Maze, and she’s not like the others; even without a soul, she’s learned how to behave like a more-or-less civilised adult, barring the occasional tantrum. But your average, baseline demon has nothing to them besides wrath and cruelty. Lilith made them to be weapons and that’s all they really are. I mean – just imagine, for a moment, how hard it was for me. To go from the Silver City, the most beautiful place ever created, to a lightless nightmare realm full of these bloodthirsty animals. To be surrounded by them, for endless eons, while they nattered mindlessly on and on about how much they love torture and pain and…”  

He trailed off. Linda and Dromos were both looking past him.

To the elevator. Where – oh – Mazikeen was standing.

Where Mazikeen was crying.

No sobs, not like when Dan had died. No expression at all, really. Just open eyes, motionless muscles, and steady tears.

Before Lucifer could say a word, she pressed the button to close the elevator doors.

“Wait!” he yelped, sprinting over to stop them.

He needn’t have bothered. Now that he was God, objects did whatever he told them to do. The doors stilled, half-open.

“That sounded wrong,” he acknowledged, clasping her shoulders in apology. “You completely missed the context. What I was trying to say was-…”

“Don’t touch me.”

It was a phrase he’d heard many times before from mortal lovers to whom he had accidentally revealed his Devil Face. Some of them said it in horror. Some of them, the religious ones, said it in anger.

Mazikeen looked neither horrified nor angry. She looked sick. As though the very sight of him turned her stomach.

Lumbering over, Dromos stepped into the elevator alongside her and pointedly pressed the button again. With no idea what to do or say, Lucifer allowed the machinery to work.

The elevator closed.

“What have I done?” he asked Linda.

0

Nothing I didn’t know.

“Maze?” called Eve, waiting by the car with the others as Mazikeen stepped out of Lux’s front door and into the sunlight.

The door hadn’t been there when they’d arrived. She’d been forced to use Dromos’ route. Lucifer must have decided to put it back. He could do that now. Just decide things. Didn’t need servants, nor followers, nor anyone. Sure didn’t need a ‘more-or-less civilised adult’ whose kin were animals.

“Maze! Wait!”

Mazikeen didn’t know where she was going, only that she was walking very quickly and felt that she’d die if she stopped. She heard Eve’s heels patter on the pavement and heard her say her name a third time, quiet and worried, and that was what stilled her feet.

“What happened?” murmured Eve, cupping her face.

The fifty or so demons who’d been standing around outside Lux when Amenadiel had set the car and its passengers down were still there. Instead of chanting to get their king’s attention, they were now looking at her.

Michael and Amenadiel stood among them, the latter having been trying to convince them to stop blocking traffic.

Which was what she should have been doing. It was what he’d brought her here to do. But she’d been gripped by a sudden, violent need to see Lucifer, to check on him, just quickly, before tending to her siblings. Once a bodyguard, always a bodyguard.

Except that wasn’t what I was. Not to him. To him, I was a Rottweiler on a leash.

“Are you alright?” asked Amenadiel, his eyes overflowing with concern.

That was what cracked her.

To him. Not to everyone. Not to Eve, or Amenadiel, or Linda. It’s not that I’m incapable of earning love and respect.

I’m just incapable of earning his.

Her legs gave out. She crumpled against Lux’s outside wall and started to weep properly, loud and bitter.

Eve immediately dropped down beside her, holding her tight. Michael shuffled closer, rubbing his shoulder while his mouth opened and shut, testing out sentences that were never spoken.

Then Dromos was there, kneeling, his face sad and tired.

“We did what we were told,” she said to him in Lilim, through sniffles. “We obeyed. We were loyal. We… we…”

“We are alone, sister,” he replied. “But I think we always were.”

“We obeyed!”

“We obeyed Lilith and she left. We obeyed Lucifer and he left. No one wants us, Mazikeen. It’s just the truth.”

She took a shuddering breath and squeezed her eyes shut. “No. I want us.”

Seizing his jacket’s shoulder, she hauled herself to her feet and addressed the crowd, her voice raw: “I want you! You’re my family and I want you! And I swear I will be the queen you deserve, for as long as you’ll have me!”

Her human skin fell away, the left side of her face turning cold, bony, and brittle.

Stepping back to join their siblings, Dromos asked hesitantly, “What would you have us do, then, my queen? What are your orders?”

Hurriedly drying her eyes, she studied them one by one. “Whoever wants to can stay here. But I’m going home. Hell is going to be ours, Dromos. No more damned souls. No more angels. It’s ours now and we’re going to make it into something we can love.”

She turned to face Eve and Michael, her heart pounding. “You’ll come with me, yeah? You’ll stand with me?”

“Always,” said Eve, closing in to kiss her.

“Whatever,” Michael muttered, clearly just relieved that the crying part was over.

Amenadiel sighed, shaking his head gravely. “Mazikeen, are you sure this is what you want? You won’t be able to leave Hell on your own – you’ll need to contact me.”

“Yeah. At least until this one grows his feathers back,” she said, gesturing at Michael. “That’s okay. You’ll always come when I call, right?”

“Of course. You’re my friend, Maze. I’m sorry if I haven’t said that often enough.”

Fuck it. Cringing on the inside, Mazikeen drew Amenadiel into a quick, gruff hug. “You too, idiot.”

#lucifer #mazikeen #lucifer morningstar #eve #amenadiel #michael #michael demiurgos #dromos #fanfic #my fic

[vitalityofficial]

Vitality LORE ACT 1 - The Girl: Prologue

VITALITY LORE // A1 - The Girl

Summary: We are introduced to a young girl whose life is about to change forever. After suffering a devastating loss, a mysterious man will eventually come into her life and begin his dark path of vengeance. The girl is only the beginning.

Warnings: Death, Cursing, Mentions of Blood, Bullying, Depression, PTSD, Anxiety

Wordcount: 1,778

School had been out for an hour now and all her friends had gone home. Why hadn't her parents come yet? They never took this long! And why haven't they called? She took her phone out, dialing her father's number and it rang and rang before going to voicemail.

"Dad! I'm still waiting. Are you okay? I'll wait for fifteen more minutes and if you aren't here, I'll walk home! I'll take the special kimchi route, okay? I love you!"

The 'special kimchi route' is a series of alleyways littered with various family-owned shops - one of those shops owned by an older woman who had the best kimchi dishes around and one her family ate at often.

The girl frowns after the fifteen minutes are up and finally hops off the swing, grabbing her book bag and sighing. "Traffic must be bad today," she reasoned, leaving the gated school property and making the long trek home. She still found it odd that neither had contacted her, but her mother's cellphone was being repaired and her father was old and sometimes didn't pick up service well. They lived far up in the hills - the rather "poor" part of Seoul, tucked far away with the main city in the distance - and any nearby payphones were broken and left to rot.

As she walks and walks, she can't help but to hum a happy tune, feeling perky despite everything. Her birthday was in 5 days and her parents had promised to take her to Busan for a whole week! Her best friend had moved there last year and the two didn't get to keep in contact so it was the perfect way to celebrate a special day.

"You! Child!" A gruff voice spoke from a darkened corner and she yelps when a frail hand grabs her arm, spinning her around. "Grandma! You scared me!" She laughs, hugging the older unrelated woman. She was a well-known resident to all in the small neighborhood and the girl's family was very familiar with her.

“It’s so awful, child! Truly terrible!” The elderly woman murmurs, her eyes wide and pupils as big as saucers. The girl frowns and a look of concern comes over her face - word around was that Grandma was not well and often spouted eccentric things but the other residents often did their best to take care of her as there were no known relatives around. “Are you okay, Grandma? Shall I help you home? It’s getting chilly out.” The girl softly grabs her hand, guiding her in the direction of the woman's house.

“I am so sorry, my sweet girl. You are to endure so much pain and it is not fair for you were destined for so much good.” The old lady rambles as they walk but the girl brushes it off, use to it. When they reach the final hill - which happens to split off into a fork - the girls home on the right and a cliff just across the weather-beaten road and the woman’s on the left - they are overwhelmed by the flashing lights of multiple police cars and an ambulance.

“What’s going on?” The girl panics as she takes everything in, immediately dropping the old lady’s hand as she rushes towards the commotion. She had never seen so many people gathered around this area and to her horror - right in front of her house!

"Was there an accident? What happened?" She pleads with an officer, who immediately stops her from crossing the tape barrier. "It's not safe, young lady. Please stay back!" The female cop grasps the girls shoulders, pushing her back. It wasn't soon enough though as the girl peaks around her, seeing a trail of blood that went over the cliff edge - something truly abnormal and mortifying.

“That’s my home! Where's are my Mother and Father?” She was panicking now - something clearly wasn’t right. Her parents were never late picking her up from school or activities and to come home to this...mess...The girl knew now that something terrible had happened and there was no hiding it from her. “Mama? Papa?” She screams desperately, tears instantly flooding down her cheeks.

The officer gave her a solemn look before turning to her superior, the two whispering among themselves for a couple of minutes. When they returned, the woman put a reassuring hand on her shoulder and guided her away from the commotion, sitting on a bench with her - a bench the girl often sat on with her Father when they ate breakfast and waited for the school van to pick her up each morning.

The officer didn’t waste much time breaking the news. “My dear, I am afraid your Mom and Dad had an accident and are no longer with us in this world.” Though her voice was gentle, it was clear that breaking such awful news to a child wasn’t something she did often, or even wanted to do.

The girl sputtered, unable to form any words. She looked around for the Grandmother but the woman was nowhere in sight now. “Mama...Papa?” She cries out weakly - the thought of never seeing them or speaking to them ever again filling her with an overwhelming sense of despair, leaving her gasping for air.

Everything went black then.

7 Years Later - (2016)

“Yah! Chaewon! Are you even listening? Hey! Watch out!” A firm hand grabs the girl's arm and yanks her backward just as a delivery scooter races past, beeping madly. “Are you spacing out again? What is with you?” Areum looked at her friend worriedly, the rapper of the triangle kimbap she was holding in her opposite hand crinkling loudly.

“Huh? What did I miss?” Chaewon snaps out of her funk, a tentative smile on her face. Areum groans in response, rolling her eyes as she takes a bite of her snack. “I said,” she begins with her mouth full of food, “I was thinking of asking Kangdae out. Isn’t he handsome, yeah? He’s not like the other boys in our class.”

“He’s a bit dumb, isn’t he?” Chaewon mutters. Sure, he was cute and had muscles but he wasn’t exactly known to be bright and was at the bottom of their class in terms of grades unlike Areum, who was in the top five.

Areum groans and smacks her friend on the arm. “Don’t be so rude, Unnie! He’s not stupid, okay? He just doesn’t really like studying but he’s a good person! He wants to get into music and he’s really good at it too! You should listen to one of his tracks he’s produced!” She goes to pull out her phone, biting her lip as she scrolls through some files.

“Maybe another time, yeah?” Chaewon waves dismissively at the cellular device her friend holds out to her. “I have to get home.”

“Let me walk you!” Areum offers, linking her arm through Chaewons. She was understandably concerned about her friend - who had been experiencing sporadic blackouts for a couple months now - and wanted to make sure she got home safely. “I mean, you did just nearly get shit on by a scooter while having one of your...moments.”

Chaewon shook her head, “No! I’m fine! Plus you know how my parents are.” Areum pouts, grumbling. “They have to be the lamest parents on earth if they won’t let their daughter bring a friend home. We’ve been besties since forever and I’ve never even met them! Ugh...”

"Yeah. They’re...strict and really embarrassing, to be honest. You’re not missing out on much.” Chaewon huffs, checking her phone for the time. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” She forces a smile at her friend, pulling her school blazer around her tighter as suddenly a chilly breeze whipped through the air. The two said their goodbyes and went their separate ways.

As Chaewon walked, she couldn’t help but feel guilty for being so distant lately. Areum had been a true friend to her ever since her move to Gwangmyeong. She was the first student to welcome her. The first to defend her against the snotty students who picked on Chaewon for being sullen, quiet and “weird”. Prior to the...incident, she had no real issues with bullies and was rather well-liked by her peers.  She had since become the opposite version of former herself - the girl her parents adored was gone and she had no proper concept on how to defend herself or react to the other student's harsh words and actions.

So why was she so rude at times? Why did she lie to someone she considered her best friend? Chaewon had come to the conclusion that it was a defense mechanism of sorts. The only way she could deal with everything was by lying about her life outside of school. It made it easier to pretend - the façade she had created was an escape, albeit still very bleak, much like the truth.

The sounds of the city center grew more distant as she reached the iron gates of her “home”. Her slender hand gripped the cool iron and pushed it open slowly, the squealing of the metal sending a shiver down her spine. Laughter could be heard flittering from the playground behind the old stone building that housed 13 other kids just like her:

Orphans.

The Seojun house for orphans wasn’t too terrible - the food was edible on most days and the rats and roaches were few and far between as of late. The couple who ran it weren’t the kindest and had clearly become burnt out after running the institution for the past 20 years. If they hadn’t been getting a good sum of government money to run it, they most definitely would have abandoned the ominous place long ago. What made the place tolerable were some of the staff, like Mr. Kim.

“Welcome home, Miss Lee!” Mr. Kim - the designated maintenance and security man --  greets Chaewon with a cheery smile as she approached the front door. He even stops raking to open it for her, bowing and motioning with a hand for her to enter as if she were royalty.

“Ah! yes! Home sweet home! Thank you, Mr. Lee.” She manages to muster a smile, bowing as she walks through the familiar doors and sighing loudly. Her smile falters as she is out of the caretakers sight and the familiar sense of dread slowly overcomes her once again.

#📁 VITALITY LORE - A1: The Girl - Prologue #bobakocnet #mochikocnet #aeskocnet #📄 - Subject X #👧 - Lee Chaewon #→Persona Of: Hyun Nara #koc #idol oc #fake kpop group #kpop au #kpop addition #kpop imagines #fake kpop idol #kpop!oc #kpop!au #kpop ff #kpop roleplay #oc kpop #kocsociety #idol!au #idol!oc #Act 1 - The Girl

[contemplativepancakes]

a rapscallious rash

2.5k of geralt being disgruntled about a mysterious rash. good thing jaskier can help. read on ao3 here:

When Geralt starts getting uncomfortable from his position on top of Roach, he assumes it’s the rain. It’s been raining for five damn days straight, but Geralt had to leave the inn he was staying at, not being able to stand the smell of fear and disgust from the patrons and owners any longer, and the woods have been too sparse to seek shelter in them. 

He shifts on the saddle, and his pants seem to impossibly get even more soaked. The rain is starting to seep into his saddle, having worn down the water proofing so much, and Geralt’s armor is completely ruined. 

It’s soaked through, but at least he hasn’t been doing so bad on coin lately. He should be able to afford replacing it. He even had enough to stop at a brothel about a week ago. The woman hadn’t even smelled like a hint of dread. Geralt hates when that happens. He’s not going to force someone to fuck him if they don’t want to, because he gets it, he sees a monster every time he looks into a mirror, but he doesn’t like wasting his coin. She was a spectacular fuck, actually. Had barely blinked at Geralt’s cock, and he knows he’s...bigger than most other men. 

Geralt had tipped her extra. 

Roach nickers unhappily, and Geralt pats her neck. He really does need to get somewhere dry, for her sake if nothing else. And for his crotch, which is starting to protest the unrelenting damp, too. 

By the time Geralt finds an inn, he looks so much like a drowned rat that he doesn’t protest when the innkeeper won’t give him a room, just says he can sleep in the stables if he wants. Geralt’s so pleased to just be out of the rain, he even thanks the man. The man looks taken aback at that, and Geralt supposes he is. He’s not exactly sure what tales of witchers they peddle around the continent, but it doesn’t seem like many of them paint him and his brothers in a positive light. 

In the mercifully dry stable, Geralt changes into some clothes that were furled into a ball at the bottom of his saddle bags and are merely damp instead of drenched. He takes a moment to look in dismay at the reddened skin around his crotch. It’s hot to the touch, and it itches. Geralt has never gotten saddle sores before, but he’s not sure what else it could be. 

Geralt loiters in the area for a few days, taking care of a nest of nekkers before he moves on. He had hoped when he didn’t seem to be in a permanent state of damp anymore, the rash would go away, but if anything, it’s only gotten worse. 

Geralt keeps travelling, keeping an eye on… down there, but it’s spread to the soft flesh of his inner thighs. Geralt’s going to have to see a mage. He’d almost rather continue to ache, but there’s no telling how long this is going to last, and he can hear Vesemir in his ear lecturing him about the value of humility.

Geralt suffers four more days in the saddle, wincing at every chafe and wondering what exactly had made him think it would be such a good idea for all his clothes to be leather, before he finds a sorceress. He explains his problem in halting words.

“You have a rash?” the sorceress confirms incredulously. “You did say you’re a witcher, right?”

Geralt nods glumly.

She stifles a laugh. “This doesn’t sound like my kind of problem, honey.”

Geralt scowls and insists, “This doesn’t happen to witchers, so it must be magic.”

“What does your medallion have to say about that?”

Geralt looks down at his chest in surprise, wondering how she knows it vibrates in the presence of magic. “Must be a malfunction,” he growls.

The woman lifts a skeptical eyebrow. “Try the healer,” she suggests before slamming the door shut in Geralt’s face.

Geralt sighs and scrubs a hand down his face. Witchers generally don’t see healers, and certainly not for anything short of life threatening. They die with a sword in their hand, or they heal by themselves, simple as that. Vesemir has sure as hell never mentioned anything like this.

Geralt asks, yes, he asks, he certainly does not demand, directions to the healer from the next person he passes. The man looks vaguely terrified as he points a shaky hand. Geralt stalks off the way the man directed, to a house at the end of the road that gives off a medicinal smell, so Geralt knows he’s in the right place.

He knocks on the door and shifts from foot to foot until finally a man wearing a lavender robe opens the door. Geralt clears his throat uncomfortably, and the man looks down at himself before tying the robe shut. “Oops,” he says cheerily. “I believe that means we’re already on a first name basis, excellent. I’m Jaskier.”

He thrusts a hand out to Geralt, and Geralt takes it warily, introducing himself. Most people don’t even like their fingers brushing his as they exchange coin, so this is...new.

It’s strange, to be certain, but not unwelcome. His hands are soft and underneath his fingernails are clean, in direct contrast to Geralt himself.

“Come in, come in!” Jaskier beckons him across the threshold, and Geralt steps through the door, looking around curiously. Herbs hang drying from the rafters, framed by an assortment of colorful jars, filled with some things Geralt knows from his elixir crafting, and others that he doesn’t recognize at all.

Jaskier takes a seat on a wooden chair and gestures for Geralt to sit down, as well. “What seems to be the problem?”

Geralt’s cheeks warm. “I’m, um.” He squirms in his chair, and Jaskier nods.

“I’m going to have to see it,” he says, looking meaningfully at Geralt’s crotch.

Geralt does not squeak. He is a fully grown man, for gods’ sake, and it’s not like no one has seen it before. Maybe not anyone who’s staring at him as intently as Jaskier is, though. Geralt’s fingers find the laces on his pants and untie them. He growls in frustration when he can’t get the knot undone with his fingers that have suddenly turned into clumsy sausages, and then there’s warm hands over his.

Geralt looks up to see Jaskier has gotten up from his chair while Geralt was struggling with the ties. He swallows hard. “Allow me,” Jaskier says, and his nimble fingers undo the knots easily.

Geralt desperately tries not to think about those fingers in other contexts.

Jaskier tugs Geralt’s breeches down, along with his small clothes, and makes a humming sound as he squints at Geralt’s cock.

Geralt tries not to take offense.

Jaskier trails the tip of his finger over the shaft. “Seems a bit inflamed,” he murmurs, as Geralt wills his cock not to twitch.

Geralt clears his throat. “Yes, I—think it is.”

Jaskier draws back and hums thoughtfully, looking at Geralt carefully. “Interesting. Did you upset any mages recently?”

Geralt huffs. “Not that I know of.”

“Well, I’m going to need a sample.”

Geralt swallows past the lump in his throat. “Of blood?” he asks hesitantly.

“That, too. I’ll leave you alone for a bit; call me back when you’re done.”

Jaskier exits the room with a swish of his robe, leaving Geralt confused and vaguely turned on. He looks at the cup Jaskier had plunked down beside him as he lets a hand drift down to his cock. He takes himself in hand, but now that Jaskier is gone, his arousal has dissipated, and the dry touch is more uncomfortable than anything else.

Geralt licks his hand and tries again, but his cock still refuses to even get a little hard. Geralt bites his lip. Now is really not the most convenient time for his performance difficulties to arise, not that any time is good. It’s just especially unwelcome when he can hear Jaskier puttering around outside the room, tapping his foot as he waits.

Geralt tries in vain for a few more minutes, but he only succeeds in making the skin around his groin even more irritated than it already was. “Jaskier?” he calls.

Quiet footsteps pad to the door, and then the knob turns and Jaskier reappears, looking at Geralt with an expectant eyebrow raised. “I’ll have to do some examinations...” he says, before he looks at the empty cup and trails off.

“I can’t,” Geralt says gruffly.

“Oh. Oh. You know, I’ve heard witchers sometimes have difficulties with blood flow.” He taps a finger on his chin. “This is all fascinating; I’m so pleased you’re here.”

Geralt grunts. “I’m happy this situation is working out for someone.”

Jaskier seems to realize how his statement sounded. “Not that I’m glad that you’ve found yourself in this predicament, of course. You witchers are just so tight lipped about your physiology, and it’s…” his words die again as he registers the bemused look on Geralt’s face. “I’ll be right back,” he says.

Geralt waits for a minute, wondering if he should put his dick away. Before he can decide, Jaskier is back and handing him a foul smelling potion. Geralt wrinkles his nose.

“Drink,” Jaskier urges him.

“What is it?”

“It’ll help you get an erection,” he says matter of factly, and the redness that has been tinging Geralt’s cheeks spreads to his ears.

“Oh.”

Geralt takes the elixir and swirls it, squinting down at the chunky parts that he can’t quite identify. It’s not the most advisable thing for a witcher to take an elixir from someone they don’t know, but there’s also no one else Geralt can go to about this. He can already feel the mortification of having to explain this situation to Vesemir, and honestly, death might be preferable, so he tips his head back and drinks the concoction.

Geralt is on his guard for any unexpected effects, but he doesn’t detect any. Doesn’t detect anything at all, actually. “It’s not working,” Geralt grumbles.

“Well, you still have to get aroused, it doesn’t just make you hard instantly,” Jaskier says in amusement, but then his voice gets huskier and it’s right in Geralt’s ear. “I can help, if you’d like.”

Geralt’s mouth goes dry as he nods. Jaskier dips his fingers into a tub of something beside him before he strokes his slick hand up and down Geralt’s shaft, thumbing at the ridges of a prominent vein.

Geralt clenches his jaw and stifles a groan. He darts a glance at Jaskier, only to find him staring right back. Geralt tilts back his head and closes his eyes, not letting himself think about anything other than Jaskier’s warm hand on his cock.

Geralt’s breathing starts to get labored a few minutes later, and Jaskier speeds his movements, twisting his hand and increasing the friction deliciously. Geralt sucks in a stuttering breath as he comes, and when he opens his eyes, Jaskier has caught it neatly in the cup. Jaskier tucks Geralt back into his pants and deftly laces them up. He stands up and wipes his hand off on his robe, looking unruffled. Geralt is sure he can’t relate, that he looks quite in a state of disarray right now.

Jaskier sets the cup on a table, and Geralt tries not to look at it as Jaskier produces a syringe. “I’ll need some blood, as well,” he says.

Geralt sighs and stretches out his arm. Jaskier pours something that smells sharply of citrus onto a rag before wiping at a small square area on Geralt’s bicep. Geralt barely feels the needle poke into his arm, and he stays relaxed as Jaskier draws the blood.

When Jaskier straightens back up, he turns around to get a bandage, but he stares as the prick on Geralt’s skin disappears. He mumbles something intelligible to himself, looking starstruck, and Geralt would roll his eyes if he wasn’t feeling so sated.

Impossibly, he thinks he’s grown fond of this silly healer.

Jaskier gathers his samples and beckons for Geralt to follow him. Geralt stands up on slightly shaky legs and trails Jaskier out of the room. Jaskier leads him deeper into the house, until they get to a room that makes Geralt falter right outside the doorway, his nose wrinkling in disgust. It smells like decay.

Jaskier turns back to look at him when he realizes Geralt hasn’t followed him over the threshold. Confusion flashes across his face for a second, before understanding dawns, and he looks at Geralt again like he’s the most interesting specimen he’s ever seen.

“It doesn’t exactly smell good to me, so I imagine it’s not very pleasant for you, either. Witchers have enhanced senses, right?”

“That’s right,” Geralt allows as he takes a hesitant step into the room and looks around.

It’s uncomfortably warm, and there’s orbs glowing different colors scattered across the room, strung above tables of laid out bowls where the stench is emanating from. Jaskier pulls out a chair and sits at a desk where there’s what looks like a small telescope.

Jaskier procures a small crystal plate from a drawer that he sets up on a stand underneath a soft white light before spreading a tiny dab of Geralt’s spend on it and adding a drop of water. He brings the tube up to his eye and fiddles with the knobs, making intrigued little hums.

When he’s finally looked his fill, he turns his gaze to Geralt. Geralt feels sympathy for the moths on the displays on the walls; he feels just as pinned. “You’re infected,” Jaskier announces.

Geralt furrows his brow. “Witchers are immune,” he protests.

“That’s what I thought, too.” Jaskier frowns. “I’ll have to do some thinking on that. But there’s definitely something in your semen that’s not sperm. I’ll have to do some tests to determine exactly what it is, and then I can start thinking about a cure.”

He starts to usher Geralt out of the room, back to the front door, chattering aimlessly all the while.

“Odds are it’s going to clear up by itself before I have a cure, but do stop by again if it hasn’t gone away in a month.”

Geralt gapes, his jaw flapping. He can’t imagine being in this discomfort for another month.

Jaskier pats his shoulder. “There, there. It’s not like I didn’t give you a hand.”

The bastard winks at him.

Geralt flushes red, and turns to go with a grunt. The day has already started to take on a hazy quality, and Geralt thinks he’ll be remembering this for a while, even if it’s not exactly what he had expected when the sorceress had directed him here.

He pulls the door open, only to see—Lambert?

“What are you doing here?”

Lambert grumbles and shoots Geralt a scowl. “Fuck off.”

#fanfiction #ficlet #the witcher #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #humor #std cw