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allbark-no-bite · 2 years

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Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy || Elvis Presley x reader

summary: Even with two children and life he always wanted, Elvis continues to remind you that he will always be the young twenty something year old you married so many years ago

word count: 3.1k

warnings: 18+ sexual content

author’s note: here’s another Elvis fic for y’all as well as two more coming up! please please please feel free to message me with your ideas!

For a long time, I had thought that Elvis was always going to be too young to settle down. He was just a child when I met him, still a green twenty year old figuring out life.

Of course, at the time, I, myself, was a child, and I didn't need him to be a man. All that I knew was that when he got down on one knee, man or not, he was the person I was going to spend the rest of my life with.

He had always been loud. And wild. One day I had walked out onto the porch to discover a squabble occurring in Graceland's front yard. Boys who had become known as the 'Memphis Mafia' were caught in some sort of grand game as they wrestled each other into the dirt, playing joyously like big rowdy dogs. In the middle of it all was Elvis, his shoe shine black hair tousled, pants coated in dust, and eyes alight with a boyish trill.

He loved to laugh. In fact, there was rarely a time when he wasn't laughing. Elvis was the life of the party, even when he didn't mean to be. Just his presence had that effect.

He smiled all the time too. He used to do this thing where he would tip his chin up and bare his prefect row of pearly white teeth, and the corners of his blue eyes would crinkle with the effort, his cheeks tinted pink with delight. He still does it from time to time—often when he knows he's in trouble—and I get a glimpse of the boy that he always will be.

But one thing that I hadn't figured out about him until years later was that Elvis Presley loved his domestic life more than anything in the entire world. He would tear the beating heart from his own chest if he had to, bleed himself dry, to ensure that his family would grow up in a home that was warm and safe. Thus, the reason as to why I assumed he had taken to making Graceland a sort of haven.

The immaculate mansion was decorated for each and every holiday, and Elvis saw to it that Graceland was always full of life. And if the house itself wasn't enough, the yard and it's three gardens were always immaculate. A picture perfect white picket fence surrounded it's entirety; all thirteen plus acres.

Not long after he had purchased the property, as we walked around the grounds, I had wondered aloud as to what we were possibly going to do with over thirteen acres of farmland. Elvis, without missing a beat, had replied, 'Well, buy a horse of course."

And he did. That Christmas he gifted me a dun quarter horse, whom I called Jack or 'Jackie'. Not long after came his own horse, Rising Sun. It seemed as though every time I turned around, the stable had acquired another occupant. Soon it was almost tradition for each and every Presley to have a horse. So it was no surprise that Elvis saw to it that his children became involved in this passion of his as well.

"Get yo' self back outside and take those boots off, son. Gonna give your mama a heart attack."

I smile to myself when I hear the hinges of the front door swing open and heavy footsteps come walking down the hall, but I stay put, stirring the honey into my coffee at the counter. Moments later, a pair of strong arms wraps around my waist and soft lips trail gently down my neck. A sly flash of teeth scrapes against the tender skin of my ear, and I can't help the shiver that runs through my body. Elvis must notice because he hums smugly, obviously proud of the effect he still has on me after all these years.

"G'mornin', pretty mama," Elvis murmurs against my cheek with that slow southern drawl of his, drawing me out of the trance he had put me in.

"Good mornin', daddy," I tease back at him, knowing exactly what the name does to him coming from my mouth.

The weight of his body presses into me, the coolness of the morning air still lingering on his clothes. He growls softly from somewhere deep in his chest. His palm slides up my throat to wrap around it, dragging my chin up to meet his mouth in a unhurried kiss. His mouth is warm, a stark contrast to the cold metal of his rings against the column of my throat. Slowly, Elvis' hand slips down my waist so that his palm can encompass the globe of my ass.

I raise my eyebrows suggestively at his boldness, and he huffs in amused irritation when I pull his hand back up to my waist. Thank goodness I do, because Elvis number two comes barreling into the kitchen.

"Mama, c-come—come ride Daddy's horse with us!"

Elvis' only son was the spitting image of his father. From his shiny blue eyes to his button nose, Charles Presley resembled Elvis in every way. Even in the way he talked. Elvis had struggled as a young boy, stuttering when on the odd occasion that his words refused to cooperate, and the troublesome problem hadn't skipped the next generation. It was cute though. The only difference was that Charlie had golden blonde hair since Elvis had taken to dying his own hair black long ago.

Clomping across the kitchen floor in his boots, Elvis manages to catch the five year old by the arm before he can leave any more muddy footprints on the pristine white floors.

"Chuck Presley, what did I tell you about trackin' mud through your mama's house?" Elvis reprimands, pulling the boy off of his feet and gathering him to his hip.

Charlie, unbothered, just shrugs, leaning out of Elvis' arms. "Daddy, t-the horses."

I just sigh helplessly, shaking my head a little at the both of them. Charlie was named after my own father, Charles. I assumed that later on in life, he would take to the name. Elvis, however, called him Chuck. And it seemed as through that name was sticking.

"Hang on, son. Lemme talk to mama first. Go on outside for now," Elvis huffs as Charlie struggles to get out of his father's arms. Muddy boots forgotten, he releases the boy, who runs right back outside.

I turn back to Elvis, who has treated himself to a sip of my coffee. My eyebrows raise when we make eye contact over the rim of the cup. "You could always fix your own," I say, reclaiming the mug as soon as he's pulling it away from his mouth.

"Tastes better when you make it." He leans back against the counter, arms crossed in front of his chest as he relaxes. His ebony colored hair is longer now, no longer slicked back with gel but fluffy and falling into a part down the middle. Along with the tan overcoat and silky green button up with the collar popped, it certainly gave off young dad still trying to live out his twenties. And to be honest, he rocked it. "You comin' with us?"

Instead of answering him, I release a soft sigh, looking him up and down. "Hon, you know you've got a bad back..."

I already know there's no convincing him, but I still have to remind him that he's not eighteen anymore. At twenty-nine, Elvis still looked every bit the young man I had married eight years ago, but his recklessness had caught up with him over the years. Between the antics of his teenage years, and the stress of his job, his back was prone to the occasional aches and pains of adulthood. It didn't help that he had gotten kicked off one of his horses a few years ago, hence my reluctance this morning.

He's already rolling his eyes before I can even finish my sentence, wrapping an arm around my waist to pull me to his side. "Darlin', quit your worryin' about my back." His lips press to my temple before lowering to my ear. "If it was really that bad you wouldn't be walkin' funny this mornin'—"

"ELVIS PRESLEY—"

He's ducking away from me as soon as the words leave his mouth, already having anticipated my reaction. Pleased with himself and choking back laughter, he winks at me before slipping out of the front door. Before I can chase after him, a cry erupts from upstairs, and I have to rush to retrieve the baby from her crib.

In the time it takes get both myself and an infant dressed and fed, the wet morning grass has dried, and all that is left of the fall day is a nippy breeze. It's just cold enough to sting my exposed cheeks and leave Winnie’s runny nose a rosey pink.

As we approach the corral fence, I can hear Elvis' distant shouts and the gleeful laugh of Charlie along with him. They're near the back of the pasture riding Elvis' prized palomino, the large horse dashing this way and that as Elvis guides him with one hand. The other is clutching on to Charlie's fleece jacket, the little boy wedged between Elvis and the front of the saddle.

"Your daddy is going to be the death of me," I mutter to Winnie, who ignores me in favor of reaching out to the golden horse in the distance, her tiny hand grabbing at the air as she whines. Again, I sigh. It was obvious Elvis had instilled his cowboy ambitions within his children.

"There's my Winnie girl!" Elvis exclaims as he trots the horse over to the fence, his cheeks pink from the wind. He slides out of the saddle with ease, lifting Charlie off after him. His smile never falters but I see him stall for a moment, hand grabbing at his back. He plays it off well though, immediately reaching out to take Winnie from my arms. Leaning over the fence, he pecks my lips as he does so, our cold noses bumping together.

"Say 'atta boy Sunny'," Elvis says, as he leans over for Winnie to pat her tiny hand against the horse's nose. In an attempt to get ahead of the learning curve with Winnie, we tried to encourage her to talk as much as possible. Currently, it was a losing battle.

"Say—hey—what'd I tell you about walkin' behind that horse, lil' boy?" He grabs the sleeve of Charlie's jacket, pulling him to his side while still holding Winnie with the other arm. It's a sight to see, him wrangling both children at once.

I hum as I lean against the fence, offering him no assistance. "'Let's have another', he says," I parrot, reminding him of our conversation just last night.

Elvis looks up at me a bit sheepishly, letting out an amused huff as he straightens up. "C'mon now, don't give me that, mama." He pulls up on Charlie's arm, tugging him around to face me. "Chuck, smile real sweet for your mama."

As if trained on queue, the blonde toddler tips his chin back and smiles, his tiny little teeth interrupted by a single gap on one side. His round owl eyes crinkle with the effort.

I have to blink to make sure I'm not looking at a blonde Elvis Presley.

Elvis is grinning proudly, as if he's just proven a point. 'I made that,' he mouths smugly at me.

"Uh huh," I say, humoring him as I take Charlie's hand. "And what about you Miss Winnie? Your daddy got any more tricks up his sleeve?"

The two year old, however, is oblivious to the topic of our conversation and instead just giggles, remaining enchanted with Rising Sun's velvet nose as he nudges her fingers. "Horse," she says more to herself than anyone.

"Say 'bye bye, Sunny'," Elvis annunciates for her. Winnie just giggles as the horse blows air from his nose. Sighing, Elvis cups the side of her head with his large palm and places one last kiss to her face before passing her off to me.

I catch him smiling at us, a twinkle in his blue eyes. "What's that look Mr. Presley?"

He answers me by cupping my own face and leaning over to place a kiss to the corner of my mouth. He then grabs a hand to his chest. "You're just so pretty, hurts a man's heart sometimes."

Flushing, my heart fills with love because I know he loves me, and he makes sure I know it all the time. I reach up to run my fingers under his jaw, caressing the prominent bone there.

"See you inside, cowboy."

He twists his head a little to kiss my fingertips, a look of pure adoration in his eyes.

"Mamaaa!" With Charlie tugging at my hand, we begin walking back towards the house.

Not long after returning indoors, I had put Winnie down for her noontime nap and left Charlie in his room to play. He'd been refusing naps for a while now, so I had resolved to sending him up to his room to entertain himself quietly while his sister napped. I hadn't heard him come in, but Elvis is waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. He's leaning lazily against the banister, now in a silky button down shirt and dark trousers, having shed his thick coat. A pair of boots lays in a clutter by the door.

I wish there were more words to describe the way he looked at times like these, when he was home for the weekend and the healthy fullness returned to his tired face; when he could enjoy the life he'd built for us; when he belonged to me and only me within these walls.

"C'mere, sweet girl," he invites me, holding out an arm as I near him, and I can't help but laugh aloud as he grabs me by the waist and whisks me from the last step of the stairs. He grunts faintly with the effort, having to regain his balance as he twirls me down the hallway.

Noticing his body language, I hum smugly at him. “I told you ridin’ that horse wasn’t good for your back.”

Elvis laughs against my mouth, body pressed into mine until we find our way into the bedroom. In a sly, heel spinning maneuver, he’s falling backwards onto the jumble of white silk sheets, pulling me on top of him.

“Darlin’,” he begins, his southern drawl thick and honey smooth. “I ain’t the one doin’ the ridin’ here so don’t worry your pretty head about it.”

Swatting at his chest, I can only shake my head. “You and your smartass mouth.”

His hands roll my hips forward, rubbing the rough fabric of my jeans against his hardening length. The friction must do wonders for him because his head falls onto the sheets and his pretty blue eyes flutter backwards blissfully. “God, baby.”

I laugh at both his importunity and his immediately reaction as I continue to move against him. “So this is what you’ve been after all morning, huh?”

Nodding, he’s only half listening, the rings on his fingers scraping against the metal button of my jean as he pops them open. Lifting my hips, I let him tug them down, and I kick them off as soon as they fall to my ankles. Our lips meet again in a slow, languid kiss while he threads his fingers through my hair, rucking down his own pants in the process, his shirt following soon after. Now I can really feel him, hot and needy through the cotton of my panties.

Swollen lips dragging against mine, he whispers breathlessly between kissing me, stopping to taste my lips every few words. “Make—” he kisses me, “love—” his teeth catch my bottom lip, “to me.”

Still grinding against him at an agonizingly slow pace, I relax my tense shoulders, eyes closing. My nose drops to nudge against his. “Did you really mean it?” The question comes out a timid murmur, trying to come to terms with the idea myself. “Do you really want another baby?”

He’s tugging my panties to the side, his two fingers briefly dipping down to gather the slick that’s pooled between my legs. I whimper when I feel his head brushing at my entrance, sending erratic jolts of pleasure through my body.

Elvis catches my chin with his other hand, bringing my eyes up to meet his adoring gaze. “Course I did, baby. You’re such a good mama. So good for me.”

Face hot, I turn my head away from his hand, ducking it into my shoulder, but he doesn’t let go, nudging my chin back towards him. “C’mon, pretty mama. One more. Please? Just one more.”

It wasn’t that I had reservations about having another baby, in fact quite the opposite. I’d loved every moment of raising our children; loved watching Elvis be a dad quite possibly more than anything in the world. But there was something about the intimacy of the moment, Elvis doe eyed beneath me, sweetly asking me for what only I could give him that made me want to hang on to the moment as long as I could. With Charlie nearing six and Winnie already two, it felt as though they were almost all grown up. As tiring as it was, I genuinely missed the days when we were new parents, just starting out.

Finally, I nod softly, giving into him, and he sinks into me without hesitation. My hips buck into him in response, thighs quivering with the effort, and I hold myself up with an arm held against his shoulder. The moan that comes out of him is indescribable as I bear down, and my walls squeeze around him.

“Good girl, such a good girl for me, mama,” Elvis groans.

The fire that had been kindling within my stomach sparks when Elvis’ hands find my hips again, guiding my body perfectly each time he bucks up into me. Overcome with the sensation and trembling, I brace myself against his strong chest, panting into his shoulder as I feel him move within me. Each thrust of his hips feels deeper than the last. If it hadn’t been for his large hands gripping my waist, surely I would have collapsed from the exhausting intensity.

My body feeling electric, I sense the sharp edges of my release nearing. By the unrhythmical thrust of his hip and heaving of his chest, I can tell Elvis is close too. I inhale his homely scent, crying softly in relief when I feel the warmth of his release spill within me, and I let go with him.

Trembling and exhausted, I relax against Elvis’ warm body, content to stay there with him nestled inside me for a while. As his heart rate slows beneath my ear, Elvis rubs his hands along my spent body, kissing the top of my head. My eyes close, threatening to drift off if he keeps at massaging my sore muscles.

His voice rumbles smugly beneath me. “How’s that for a bad back?”

#elvis 2022 #elvis presley #elvis presley fic #elvis presley imagine #elvis presley x reader #elvis presley x y/n #elvis presley smut

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foolishlovers · 4 months

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CHRISTMAS FIC RECS: Below you can find a quick list of all the Good Omens Christmas fics I’ve read this year so far.

I thought some of you might want to indulge in some cosy reading as well!

You can request more fic recs here.

O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree How Terrified Your Branches by Supergeek21 (1.2k, G)

As their first Christmas in their cottage approaches Aziraphale asks Crowley if he wants to get a proper Christmas tree. He's surprised to learn the demon already has one.

Christmas Angels by TawnyOwl95 (1.8k, T)

It’s starting to look a lot like Christmas in London and that means there are lots of angels about. Aziraphale does not handle this well.

A half-penny will do by penny_archer (2k, G)

It’s Christmas in Victorian England and Crowley is trying not-very-hard to hide the fact that he’s been giving pickpocketing lessons to the disenfranchised youth of London. Oh, and he has a cute gift for Aziraphale that’s totally not a big deal.

The Nice List by GaryOldman (2k, T)

When watching Christmas movies with Anathema, Crowley can't work out why no one else seems to believe in Santa when he's been receiving gifts for years.

A Christmas Miracle by Santillatron (3k, M)

Crowley gets irritated at couples kissing under a holly arch. One thing leads to another, and a sprig of mistletoe makes a timely appearance.

Well, it's bad luck not to, isn't it?

Taking the Cake by Caedmon (3K, T)

Aziraphale has noticed his handsome neighbor, but hasn't had an excuse (or the nerve) to talk to him. He gets his chance, though, when a bakery delivers a package to the wrong door a few days before Christmas and his neighbor comes knocking.

And All Was For An Apple by Lindewen (3k, T)

The second winter after the Apocalypse didn't happen, Crowley and Aziraphale are out for some sightseeing and Christmas shopping along the south coast, simply because they can. But Crowley also has a secret errand to run--and, as it turns out, he can't always balance very well in his human form...

All The Lights That Light The Way by FeralTuxedo (8k, E)

On the run from a disastrous work Christmas party, Anthony Crowley encounters an angel singing in the streets of Soho.

Of Love and Lattes by edna_blackadder (9k, G)

A.J. Crowley, part time barista at Madame Tracy's Coffee Shoppe, only wants one thing for Christmas, which is to get through the joyous season without his head exploding. His coworkers are already not helping, and then the proprietor of the bookshop across the street develops an unfortunate addiction to seasonal espresso beverages.

Secret Santa by AppleSeeds (18k, T)

On the advice of his therapist, Crowley signs up to be a 'Secret Santa', an anonymous gift-giver for a community initiative aiming to bring some Christmas joy into the lives of people going through a hard time. He's partnered with Aziraphale, a librarian who has lost his home and bookshop in a fire. Through the power of Christmas Magic, Crowley ends up meeting Aziraphale in person when he takes his nephew to the library and is immediately smitten. He becomes determined to use his expertise and influence to give Aziraphale the only Christmas present that could really make a difference, but are some things too important to be kept secret?

muddle through somehow by curtaincall (27k, T)

Aziraphale Fell runs a successful food blog, Celestial Comestibles, where he shares mouthwatering recipes and heartwarming stories about his happy domestic life in a cottage with his husband and son. As promotion for his upcoming cookbook, his publishers run a contest: one lucky winner will get to spend Christmas with Aziraphale and his family.

What the publishers don't know is that the real Aziraphale Fell is a single city-dweller. And if he wants to keep up his happily married persona, he'll have to acquire a cottage, husband, and son before Christmas.

As it happens, his friend and neighbor Anthony Crowley has his nephew staying with him for the holidays. One fake marriage proposal later, and everything seems tickety-boo--as long as Aziraphale can keep from developing inconveniently real feelings for his pretend husband...

First Class (Hons) Christmas, University of Tadfield. by heloluv (41k, M)

Dr. A.Z. Fell is a renowned literature tutor at the prestigious University of Tadfield. December is upon the University, and Dr. Fell is leading the Christmas Charity Drive. He needs volunteers.

Dr. A.J. Crowley is a skilled plant ecologist who recently began his tenure at UoT. He can't stand Christmas, and nothing at all could ever possibly convince him to partake in "festivities". Until a certain literary expert catches his eye.

A Christmas and New Years fic, in which Aziraphale teaches Crowley how to enjoy the most wonderful time of the year.

bonus: The Christmas fic I wrote this year

The Anon Before Christmas by foolishlovers (58k, M)

When Crowley’s friend, blogging buddy and business partner Anathema announces her annual Secret Santa Exchange on Tumblr, she is very adamant Crowley should join this year.

The old-fashioned (but admittedly compassionate) man he gets assigned to send anonymous messages to every day until Christmas sounds awfully similar to the fussy bookseller that his friends adore, yet Crowley tries to avoid at all costs.

But surely his friends would have mentioned if Aziraphale had taken an interest in the Bad Omens fandom as well… right?

Or: An Enemies to Lovers Secret Santa Tumblr AU.

#support so appreciated 💜#might add some if i read more the next few days!!#good omens #gomens #good omens fic #good omens fic rec #good omens fanfic #good omens fanfiction #aziracrow #aziracrow fic #crowley x aziraphale #good omens christmas #good omens human au #ineffable husbands #ineffable partners #foolish recs #go fic masterpost

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thatscarletflycatcher · 7 months

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Why do you think the epilogue of "Jane Eyre" gives so little attention to Jane's becoming a mother? Just once sentence that doesn't even touch on Jane's feelings about it, only that Rochester regained enough of his sight to be able to see his firstborn son. Why should such an enormous, life-changing aspect of her married years be so deemphasized?

Hi!

If you ask me, I think the very simple answer is that Charlotte Brontë didn't like children. Even Adele herself in the novel is very little more than a plot device to have Jane at Thornfield (this is one of the reasons why the 1996 heavy focus on childhood and the consequences of unhappy childhoods, ending with Jane and Rochester adopting Adele and raising her as their own is both a strong departure from the text but also an interesting commentary on it).

I feel like Elizabeth Gaskell explains it in a way that makes sense in her The Life of Charlotte Brontë:

"...teaching seemed to her at this time, as it does to most women at all times, the only way of earning an independent livelihood. But neither she nor her sisters were naturally fond of children. The hieroglyphics of childhood were an unknown language to them, for they had never been much with those younger than themselves. I am inclined to think, too, that they had not the happy knack of imparting information, which seems to be a separate gift from the faculty of acquiring it; a kind of sympathetic tact, which instinctively perceives the difficulties that impede comprehension in a child’s mind, and that yet are too vague and unformed for it, with its half-developed powers of expression, to explain by words. Consequently, teaching very young children was anything but a “delightful task” to the three Brontë sisters. With older girls, verging on womanhood, they might have done better, especially if these had any desire for improvement. But the education which the village clergyman’s daughters had received, did not as yet qualify them to undertake the charge of advanced pupils."

"No doubt, all who enter upon the career of a governess have to relinquish much; no doubt, it must ever be a life of sacrifice; but to Charlotte Brontë it was a perpetual attempt to force all her faculties into a direction for which the whole of her previous life had unfitted them. Moreover, the little Brontës had been brought up motherless; and from knowing nothing of the gaiety and the sportiveness of childhood—from never having experienced caresses or fond attentions themselves—they were ignorant of the very nature of infancy, or how to call out its engaging qualities. Children were to them the troublesome necessities of humanity; they had never been drawn into contact with them in any other way. Years afterwards, when Miss Brontë came to stay with us, she watched our little girls perpetually; and I could not persuade her that they were only average specimens of well brought up children. She was surprised and touched by any sign of thoughtfulness for others, of kindness to animals, or of unselfishness on their part: and constantly maintained that she was in the right, and I in the wrong, when we differed on the point of their unusual excellence."

From a letter from Charlotte to Gaskell:

"Whenever I see Florence and Julia [two of Gaskell's daughters] again, I shall feel like a fond but bashful suitor, who views at a distance the fair personage to whom, in his clownish awe, he dare not risk a near approach. Such is the clearest idea I can give you of my feeling towards children I like, but to whom I am a stranger;—and to what children am I not a stranger? They seem to me little wonders; their talk, their ways are all matter of half-admiring, half-puzzled speculation."

I wonder how her feelings would or wouldn't have changed, had she survived her pregnancy and gotten a child of her own with the husband she loved.

#ask #princesssarisa #Charlotte Brontë #Jane Eyre #Elizabeth Gaskell #The Life of Charlotte Brontë

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fizziepopangel · 2 days

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Daddy Alastor

Let’s be clear, Alastor is an asexual king, he would fuck no one to become a father, the man would simply acquire a child. Most likely a child from Cannibal Town.

Despite his reputation, Alastor would be surprisingly good with kids. It would shock everyone except Rosie..

Rosie would give him all parenting books she could get his hands on because the usual calm and collected radio demon would basically be shitting himself when he realized that he was a father now.

Although he would dub himself a father, I don’t think he would really feel like a dad until his child actually called him dad for the first time.

Alastor would be very, very protective of any little ones he acquired so he wouldn’t trust just anyone to watch them. In order of most to least trustworthy to watch his child would be: Rosie, Vaggie, Husk, Charlie, and as a very last resort, Lucifer, Sir Pentious or Angel Dust, under no circumstances would he leave his kids alone with Niffty since he still sees her as a child herself.

Lucifer would be a last resort solely based on the fact that he has his own personal beef with the former angel.

His kids would absolutely terrorize Sir Pentious when left alone with him on the rare occasions they were left with him, but they would get along with the egg bois.

His kids would not be allowed to watch tv…. But Charlie and Sir Pentious would be total pushovers and they would end up letting them watch cartoons when their father wasn’t around. Alastor would be pissed if he found out since he would 100% be trying to teach his kids about the magic of radio.

With his own father having been a rather abusive piece of shit, Alastor is very much a gentle parent and does not believe in putting his hands on his kids for any reason. And god help anyone who does put their hands on Alastor’s child.

Teaching his child to cook would be something Alastor really valued because cooking and being in the kitchen was a big reminder of his mother. Each time he was in the kitchen with his kiddo, he would show them a new dish from his childhood, each one accompanied by a memory and story of his mother.

If he had a son, Alastor would have him in a little suit similar to his.

Alastor would be the type of parent to have a bag of everything his kid might need from various snacks to a change of clothes to a little first aid kit, he would even do this when his kid gets into teen years.

Husk would be his go to babysitter for a small child despite not being his first choice since he’s a cat and he would think a small child would absolutely love hanging out with a giant cat…. He would be correct. Vaggie would be his go to choice for an older kid since he would trust her more to watch out for an older kid in a more attentive way, and he would nickname her his child’s guardian angel.

There would be weekly trips to cannibal town to visit aunt Rosie (who would always have a new gift for her favorite niece/nephew).

In the event that Alastor had a little girl, he would threaten Angel Dust within an inch of his life. Not because he’s afraid of his child being hurt by the spider demon in anyway, but because he wouldn’t want his child exposed to Angel’s *cough cough* adult content too early or too often and any daughter he had would absolutely want to hang out with Angel as much as they could because he would be the most extra when it came to playing dress up and giving makeovers, and playing tea party…. And Angel would be the only one who could entice a certain cat to play with them too.

Any child of the infamous radio demon would know all the other overlords well since he would bring them to overlord meetings with him. Alastor would sit them on his lap with a coloring book and some crayons and a few snacks on the table in front of him and when asked why he brought a child with him, he would refer to his kiddo as a future overlord and call it an early lesson in their “family business”. In the event he had an older child, he would have them take notes on what they learned in the meetings.

Despite having his own personal issues with the king of hell, Alastor would go to the man for advice on parenting if he had a smaller child since he is the only one Alastor knows who has really dealt with a small child.

His child would be one of the only people who he talked to without his radio filtered voice most of the time.

He would hang up every drawing his kiddo made, especially if he saw that they had a real passion and talent for it. And when he ran out of room in his room and his radio station, he would make Husk hang them at the bar and persuade Charlie to hang them around the hotel.

This man would absolutely let his child come on his radio show every now and then, and he would 100% always refer to them as the a “very special guest” just to make them feel special.

#fizziepop thoughts #vivziepop #hazbin hotel #hazbin headcanons #the radio demon #niffty hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel alastor #daddy alastor #alastor would be a good dad #husk hazbin hotel #angel dust hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel vaggie #charlie morningstar #lucifer morningstar

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thestrangestthlng · 9 months

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Public Figures Owe You Nothing

Same thing, different fandom. Now, my first soiree into internet fandom was Glee nearly fifteen years ago. Given insane popularity of the show and one of their two main couples, Klaine, and Darren Criss being a straight man, I am no stranger to the "only gay (out) queer actors should play queer roles" argument.

I don't necessarily disagree completely. Queer actors should be highlighted in queer roles. But guess what, the film industry is shit.

Not everyone is out, can afford to be out, is ready to come out publicly, or cares to have anyone in their business. There is a huge number of fans who are way too invested in the parasocial relationships with their "favs" and cross lines.

It's a tale as old as time. Darren Criss' now wife, Mia (Swier), was mercilessly harassed online and honestly in person. I distinctly remember people MAILING her things. There was an incredible amount of hate directed towards her because SHE wasn't a HE and a group of fans were hellbent that he and Chris Colfer were secretly in a relationship, even though both were happily in their own relationships. (Both of them are actually still IN those relationships and I love that for them.)

Someone gave Dannell Ackles (wife of Jensen Ackles) a gift at an event. When she reached it she was cut by a bunch of rusty hooks in a fucking voodoo doll.

One of the NSYNC members (I can't remember if it were Chris or Joey) ended up being broken up with by their partner at the time because of the amount of hate they were getting.

This came up because someone said on instagram that they "will not be watching [RWRB]" because [Taylor and Nicholas] "are not out" and "they are gay for pay". So, me being me, says to them that the actors owe you nothing. Their sexuality/gender identity is no one's concern but their own.

Also, it was really disgusting what alot of Heartstopper did to Kit. He's just a baby and they strong armed him to coming out before he was ready and made him feel like he had to justify it. Cruel irony being that it's the exact opposite of the point of the books, and exact opposite of his character. I'll never forgive them for what they did to my son.

I went on to tell them that Hollywood is shit. It's homophobic, racist, sexist, xenophobic, transphobic, everything phobic. They like beautiful and handsome, classically beautiful, white, straight actors that fit into their perfect mold. As soon as actors come out they get type cast, lose rolls (because how could a homosexual portray intimacy with a woman? It's not like they are actors or anything). I, of course, got blocked because they didn't agree with me and that's fine.

Did you know that many actors in the union don't even make the $26,000 a year that is required to qualify for health insurance? Most actors are working class. Yes, many acquire a net worth, but it's honestly one huge disaster from losing what they have. The median salary for actors in the US is about 60K a year. So why would a working class actor or even a upper middle class actor, want to potentially dismantle their career trajectory by telling something that is really no one's concern anyway?

Not everyone wants to be stuck in a Ryan Murphy rotation. Maybe once we get more queer film and show makers and Hollywood execs start to fuck off we'll get more. I'm 99% sure that RWRB is the ONLY gay romcom without underlying trauma porn. The only other one that comes close is a Christmas movie.

Actors are still human and deserve privacy. They owe fans nothing. Their partners deserve privacy. If they are queer good for them. If they are not, good for them. But fans don't get to dictate who comes out and when. So yes, we want more queer actors in queer roles, but we don't get to decide if the ones who are not open get to have these roles. Sometimes it is who is best for the role.

As far as RWRB: Neither Taylor nor Nicholas have ever made any public statements on their sexuality and are both private people when it comes to their relationships. It's really goofy that people think it's an appropriate question to ASK them personally. Interview or not.

All that matters to me is that they killed that online and the characters they acted were madly in love with each other.

Moral of the story: they can want someone and love some one and not want that life for them. Neil Patrick Harris and David Burtka were together for three years before they came out and that's when NPH came out - at 34 on his terms, as it should be. Some people really missed the message of the book; that queer people deserve to come out when and how THEY want to.

/Ted Talk

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burningvelvet · 3 months

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A very long analysis on Heathcliff, his relationships, and his origins: or, how Wuthering Heights drove me insane :)

Links to my previous WH analysis (which aren't required to read this post!): 1) my post analyzing heathcliff & his relationships with cathy2.0/isabella/hareton / 2) smaller post analyzing heathcliff & the earnshaws in relation to theories about his parentage / 3) misc. heathcliff/cathy analysis

On Heathcliff's origins, his mysteriousness, and his arrival to Wuthering Heights:

As I mention in that 2nd link, I think the theory of Heathcliff being Mr. Earnshaw's son is an interesting theory of conjecture because even if not true (and it probably isn't) it allows us to more deeply explore the generally accepted basis of the canon, which is that Heathcliff is not related to them, but nevertheless is still caught between the labels of "family" and "outsider," just like he would have been if he had indeed been a bastard, a step-child, or even more formally adopted. Under Mr. Earnshaw's wishes Heathcliff shares a room with the children, he is given equal gifts and clothes as them, and he is preferred over Hindley. And while he may not be in line to inherit legally, he ends up inheriting anyway, an idea which lends itself to the novels Joseph-approved theme of predeterminism/fate.

So I'm not dead-set on any singular interpretation or theory as to Heathcliff's role in the story or the details of his background. Much of his character is inherently mysterious: his race and age are unknown, his family history and origins are unknown, what he was doing for 3 years of Cathy's marriage and how he acquired his wealth are unknown, some of his feelings and motives are highly debatable (as I discussed in my post about his odd dynamics with Cathy 2.0, Isabella, & Hareton: https://www.tumblr.com/burningvelvet/738901817580290048/my-analysis-on-heathcliff-and-his-relationships), & whether English was his first language is also questioned (many people including myself have wondered at the line where we're told he "repeated over and over again some gibberish that nobody could understand," though it could have just been panicked child's speech).

Many academics have noted how Wuthering Heights follows various testaments of the Gothic literary tradition, not only by the involvement of death, violence, ghosts, etc., but also in the use of incestuous themes (whether literal or metaphorical) and the use of the Other in Heathcliff, aided by the mysteries of his origins and his racial ambiguity.

As for Heathcliff not revealing much about his childhood, I believe this part of it could be due to trauma as well as regular childhood amnesia. He may not remember anything. A lot of people don't have many memories from before the age of ~6 anyway — and I just looked it up— his real age is never given but he is believed to be around the same age than Cathy who was described as "hardly six years old." I had thought they were a little older for some reason. He's also said to have been "speaking gibberish" which I once considered may have been indicative of a foreign language and/or accent but now, because of his age and probable low background, it may have been due to his just being very young and maybe unsocialized and shy. It actually makes my heart ache when Nelly describes him :(

Here's an excerpt from chapter 3 describing Heathcliff's childhood:

"He threw himself into a chair, laughing and groaning, and bid them all stand off, for he was nearly killed—he would not have such another walk for the three kingdoms.

'And at the end of it to be flighted to death!' he said, opening his great-coat, which he held bundled up in his arms. 'See here, wife! I was never so beaten with anything in my life: but you must 'en take it as a gift of God; though it's as dark almost as if it came from the devil.'"

We crowded round, and over Miss Cathy's head I had d peep at a dirty, ragged, black-haired child; big enough both to walk and talk: indeed, its face looked older than Catherine's; yet when it was set on its feet, it only stared round, and repeated over and over again some gibberish that nobody could understand. I was frightened, and Mrs. Earnshaw was ready to fling it out of doors: she did fly up, asking how he could fashion to bring that gipsy brat into the house, when they had their own bairns to feed and fend for? What he meant to do with it, and whether he were mad? The master tried to explain the matter; but he was really half dead with fatigue, and all that I could make out, amongst her scolding, was a tale of his seeing it starving, and houseless, and as good as dumb, in the streets of Liverpool, where he picked it up and inquired for its owner. Not a soul knew to whom it belonged, he said; and his money and time being both limited, he thought it better to take it home with him at once, than run into vain expenses there: because he was determined he would not leave it as he found it. Well, the conclusion was, that my mistress grumbled herself calm; and Mr. Earnshaw told me to wash it, and give it clean things, and let it sleep with the children.

Hindley and Cathy contented themselves with looking and listening till peace was restored: then, both began searching their father's pockets for the presents he had promised them. The former was a boy of fourteen, but when he drew out what had been a fiddle, erushed to morsels in the great-coat, he blubbered aloud; and Cathy, when she learned the master had lost her whip in attending on the stranger, showed her humour by grinning and spitting at the stupid little thing; earning for her pains a sound blow from her father, to teach her cleaner manners. They entirely refused to have it in bed with them, or even in their room; and I had no more sense, so I put it on the landing of the stairs, hoping it might be gone on the morrow. By chance, or else attracted by hearing his voice, it crept to Mr. Earnshaw's door, and there he found it on quitting his chamber. Inquiries were made as to how it got there; I was obliged to confess, and in recompense for my cowardice and inhumanity was sent out of the house.

This was Heathcliff's first introduction to the family. On coming back a few days afterwards (for I did not consider my banishment perpetual), I found they had christened him 'Heathcliff': it was the name of a son who died in child-hood, and it has served him ever since, both for Christian and surname. Miss Cathy and he were now very thick; but Hindley hated him: and to say the truth I did the same; and we plagued and went on with him shamefully: for I wasn't reasonable enough to feel my injustice, and the mistress never put in a word on his behalf when she saw him wronged.

He seemed a sullen, patient child; hardened, perhaps, to ill-treatment: he would stand Hindley's blows without winking or shedding a tear, and my pinches moved him only to draw in a breath and open his eyes, as if he had hurt himself by accident, and nobody was to blame. This endurance made old Earnshaw furious, when he discovered his son persecuting the poor fatherless child, as he called him. He took to Heathcliff strangely, believing all he said (for that matter, he said precious little, and generally the truth), and petting him up far above Cathy, who was too mischievous and wayward for a favourite.

So, from the very beginning, he bred bad feeling in the house; and at Mrs. Earnshaw's death, which happened in less than two years after, the young master had learned to regard his father as an oppressor rather than a friend, and Heathcliff as a usurper of his paren's affections and his privileges; and he grew bitter with brooding over these injuries. I sympathised a while; but when the children fell ill of the measles, and I had to tend them, and take on me the cares of a woman at once, I changed my idea. Heathcliff was dangerously sick; and while he lay at the worst he would have me constantly by his pillow: I suppose he felt I did a good deal for him, and he hadn't wit to guess that I was compelled to do it. However, I will say this, he was the quietest child that ever nurse watched over. The difference between him and the others forced me to be less partial. Cathy and her brother harassed me terribly: he was as uncomplaining as a lamb; though hardness, not gentleness, made him give little trouble."

From this excerpt we see that Earnshaw 1) despite being racist toward Heathcliff, is also wildly protective of him - so much so that he kicks Nelly out of the house FOR DAYS for initially not allowing Heathcliff to sleep in his childrens room 2) Earnshaw doesn't like Cathy that much, and prefers Heathcliff over her; later when he dies he has a nice moment with her, but still asks her why she can't be a better child (lol) 3) Earnshaw did not name Heathcliff on his own accord but Heathcliff is named after Earnshaw's own son that died!!! And that says a lot; we're also never really told how Mrs. Earnshaw felt about him being named after her dead kid, or if she had a part in it or not, or if she grew to like Heathcliff too — she just dies soon after - however, I think we can all assume she always favored Hindley over Heathcliff, since we're told Hindley's jealousy grew after her death 4) Heathcliff is described by Earnshaw as a "gift from God" which I find kind of suspicious because Earnshaw struggled so much just to get him home... um, God had no part in that, Mr. - unless he's referring to the kids existence imo. At any rate, if Heathcliff isn't biologically related to Earnshaw, we're still led to have the sense that Heathcliff is sort of predestined to be there 5) Heathcliff was indeed a bit scraggly/unkempt when he arrived, but imo that doesn't mean he was necessarily a homeless orphan; if he did have a mother/family, they probably would have been living in harsh conditions anyway just by being impoverished, and if not, maybe he was just a bit dirty from wandering outside like normal kids do, and like he's so fond of doing anyway on the Moors later on - he could have just been playing outside when this white guy comes along and takes him under his coat! 6) Earnshaw says he asked around for the kids parents and felt obligated to take him on, though the kid was struggling... so yeah, regardless of if he's omitting other info or if he's his father or not, we can infer that he essentially kidnapped Heathcliff.

After re-reading this excerpt, I don't think it's as likely that Earnshaw had seen/known Heathcliff personally prior to his taking him home, but I still don't think any of this totally disproves the theory that Earnshaw could have been lying to Mrs. Earnshaw/omitting certain information.

Why was Mr. Earnshaw in Liverpool to begin with? I and many others often assume it was some sort of a business trip, and it probably was, but after re-reading the part where he leaves, I can't actually find anything to definitively confirm what he was actually there for. He could have been in Liverpool specifically to take Heathcliff with him. Another thing that doesn't make any sense is the fact that he walked all the way there alone: "I’m going to Liverpool today, what shall I bring you? You may choose what you like: only let it be little, for I shall walk there and back: sixty miles each way, that is a long spell!’"

He's then gone for 3 whole days. Meaning according to him, he walked 120 miles in 3 days, half of that while carrying/dragging a struggling small child, who he says he took because it would be his easiest option: "his money and time being both limited, he thought it better to take it home with him at once, than run into vain expenses there."

He's contradicting himself, because if he was so concerned about finances then he never would have taken on another child, as Mrs. Earnshaw immediately supplies (meaning if he was on a mission to retrieve Heathcliff, he didn't tell her): "Mrs. Earnshaw was ready to fling it out of doors: she did fly up, asking how he could fashion to bring that gipsy brat into the house, when they had their own bairns to feed and fend for? What he meant to do with it, and whether he were mad?" Ummmm you're telling me there isn't something a little suspicious or weird about any of this?!

And why would he be walking in the first place when he has horses — was he really so tight on money as to not want to support/feed them on a journey, or did he just not want to be recognized or attract attention, or did he not want to deal with a child riding on a horse for the first time? I assume carriages/wagons were out of the question for costs, and I know people walked a lot back then, especially in rural farmlands, but that is a very long journey as he himself says. What was so important? Did he even go to Liverpool at all? And why did he bundle Heathcliff up as if to hide him? To avoid suspicions about having a bastard child, etc.? And we're told Mrs. Earnshaw was expecting him home earlier, and we get no indication if she knew Mr. Earnshaw's plans or whereabouts.

And why does Mr. Earnshaw act so upbeat and nonchalant about all of this, when we're told he's usually really stern? Ie he supposedly treats Nelly well eg, telling her he'll bring her back fruits on his journey, but then he LOCKS HER OUT OF THE HOUSE FOR MULTIPLE DAYS for not following his orders about putting Heathcliff in the children's room on his first night there.

Where tf did she even go lol? Am I forgetting some part about her family having a nearby house? How far did she have to walk to get there, alone and unaccompanied as a young woman? Probably less than 120 miles in 3 days, but still! He's known Nelly her whole life, and he's supposedly known Heathcliff for a day (in which time Heathcliff has already led him into physical exhaustion), and yet he already prefers Heathcliff over her as well as his own children.

Even excusing Nelly being a narrator of debatable reliability, and being sometimes contradictory & biased against Heathcliff, Mr. Earnshaw's behavior still seems a bit outlandish and it makes sense that Mrs. Earnshaw would ask him if he had gone mad. I course, I may be looking too far into this, but how can I not?

Heathcliff's trauma, his relationship with Mr. Earnshaw, Earnshaw as kidnapper, and race:

I think Heathcliff is certainly severely traumatized. I'm not a psychologist but Nelly's line "hardness, not gentleness, made him give little trouble" is textbook childhood CPTSD, and it is partly due to Earnshaw indeed being a kidnapper with a white saviour/"white man's burden" complex.

I think the following quote by Nelly supports this kidnap view, in that she actually refers to him being kidnapped; Emily may also be encouraging us to speculate on even the most outlandish theories of his origins like Nelly does:

"‘A good heart will help you to a bonny face, my lad,’ I continued, ‘if you were a regular black; and a bad one will turn the bonniest into something worse than ugly. And now that we've done washing, and combing, and sulking—tell me whether you don’t think yourself rather handsome? I'll tell you, I do. You're fit for a prince in disguise. Who knows but your father was Emperor of China, and your mother an Indian queen, each of them able to buy up, with one week’s income, Wuthering Heights and Thrushcross Grange together? And you were kidnapped by wicked sailors and brought to England. Were I in your place, I would frame high notions of my birth; and the thoughts of what I was should give me courage and dignity to support the oppressions of a little farmer!'"

Like in Charlotte's Jane Eyre, Emily also borrows taboo Romantic and Orientalist imagery and racializes the gothic Other figure, because this idea of the foreign/non-white body was a source of anxiety to a lot of white British Victorian readers. This is a popular concept in Gothic literary studies & a lot has been written on it, so I won't go into it too much.

Like Charlotte's Bertha Mason, Linton Heathcliff's identity as being mixed race is essential to his character — in the narrative, him being white-passing is supposed to relate to his identity being more Isabella/Linton (as also evidenced by his name) and less Heathcliff's, who is disappointed not to see his own resemblance in his son.

Since we seriously don't know Heathcliff's true origins, we can't ascertain his ethnicity (given his descriptions/epithets/Nelly's speculations, he is likely fully or part Roma, South-Asian, or African), and we can't tell if he or his family/mother were highborn, enslaved, or simply free, but we do know that slavery was still very active in England in the late 1700s when Heathcliff is a child, and his hometown Liverpool was the center of the slave trade, so connections to slavery either ancestrally or during his hiatus (a popular theory, explored in the book Heathcliff: the Lost Years by David Drum) are possible.

More evidence for the theory of Heathcliff having a previous history of child abuse and unknown early trauma, possibly relating to the slave trade (which doesn't necessarily discount the Earnshaw parentage theory either imo, and if anything may make it more likely if his reasoning for taking Heathcliff was that he wouldn't want his biological son enslaved) — is the portion where Nelly describes Heathcliff and how he initially took Hindley's abuse stoically:

". . . a sullen, patient child; hardened, perhaps, to ill-treatment: he would stand Hindley's blows without winking or shedding a tear, and my pinches moved him only to draw in a breath and open his eyes, as if he had hurt himself by accident, and nobody was to blame. This endurance made old Earnshaw furious, when he discovered his son persecuting the poor fatherless child, as he called him. He took to Heathcliff strangely . . ."

When Nelly adds that Earnshaw called Heathcliff "poor fatherless child," I see this as ironic whether Earnshaw is his biological father or not, since he is still the closest thing he has to any sort of "father figure" nominally, and symbolically in line with the view of Earnshaw as flawed micro-colonizer. In the act of standing up for Heathcliff over his own teenage son and future master of the house, he is basically acting as a pseudo-father preferring one son over another; for Hindley, the blow is deepened by Heathcliff not being Earnshaw's son in name.

For clarity's sake, whenever I refer to Mr. Earnshaw as Heathcliff's unofficially adoptive father or father figre, I do so sort of hesitatingly. Mr. Earnshaw/Heathcliff do not have a regular father/son dynamic; we're told that Heathcliff did not embrace but rather fought Mr. Earnshaw the entire 60 miles back to the Heights.

Surely the above may be hyperbole, but we must keep in mind that Mr. Earnshaw's gifts for Cathy/Hindley/Nelly were lost or destroyed in the process: most symbolically, Mr. Earnshaw's struggle to obtain Heathcliff led to Hindley's fiddle being broken, Cathy's whip being lost, and we're never told what happened to Nelly's gift of fruit, but we can assume it was lost or never got to be obtained as a result of his preoccupation.

Heathcliff's relationship with Mr. Earnshaw is complicated because of the racial power imbalance & as I said, Earnshaw having a white saviour complex & basically kidnapping Heathcliff despite (or so we're told) not fully knowing if Heathcliff had a family or not. Most important are Heathcliff's own feelings about the situation; Earnshaw's wild affection is clear.

We're told by Nelly's observations that Heathcliff clearly did not have a great love for Earnshaw: "I wondered often what my master saw to admire so much in the sullen boy; who never, to my recollection, repaid his indulgence by any sign of gratitude. He was not insolent to his benefactor, he was simply insensible; though knowing perfectly the hold he had on his heart, and conscious he had only to speak and all the house would be obliged to bend to his wishes."

When Mr. Earnshaw was dying, Heathcliff was sitting with Cathy who was singing to Earnshaw. When they realize Earnshaw has finally passed, Heathcliff seems to genuinely grieve as equally as Cathy (Hindley is at college at this time):

"The poor thing discovered her loss directly — she screamed out — 'Oh, he's dead, Heathcliff! he's dead!' And they both set up a heart-breaking cry." Later when Nelly returns from getting help: "I ran to the children's room: their door was ajar, I saw they had never lain down, though it was past midnight; but they were calmer, and did not need me to console them. The little souls were comforting each other with better thoughts than I could have hit on: no parson in the world ever pictured heaven so beautifully as they did, in their innocent talk . . ."

Yet we also know by Heathcliff's odd dynamics with Nelly and Hareton, and even by some of his behavior around Catherine I (who is the only person that most of us can agree he really loves), we can see that, probably due to trauma, Heathcliff does not know how to show affection "normally."

By his earlier disconnected reactions to Hindley's abuse, we can see that early on he had trouble reacting to negative emotions as well, which probably led him to his later emotional dysregulation & bursts of rage/frustration, which make complete sense in his situation and are why we can still often sympathize with him in his path of vengeance, even despite his abusiveness.

So we do not know the full extent of Heathcliff's feelings toward Mr. Earnshaw, and whether he truly had deep affection for him or somewhat resented him, but whatever his feelings were, they were clearly complex. As we all know, Heathcliff is capable of feeling very strongly, and when he does, he is usually vocal about it (see: literally most of his dialogue). He can't go 30 seconds without roasting someone lol. But he is oddly ambivalent and quiet about Earnshaw.

You could also (& countless academics have) argue that Earnshaw/the Earnshaw family is essentially a microcosm of colonization, Heathcliff is symbolically captured/enslaved by Mr. Earnshaw (which highlights how white saviourism is oxymoronic), and then actually becomes almost literally enslaved by Hindley later on.

On Heathcliff and Hindley:

Both are extremely flawed. Both are wildly in love with women who die from labor, both become abusive single fathers, both are defined by their grief and feelings of revenge, both want to kill each other all throughout the story, both actually try to do so to varying extents. Heathcliff saves Hareton from Hindley's negligence by catching him, Hindley saves Isabella from Heathcliff's abuse by tackling the latter (in what I think is one of the novels best sequences, Isabella's narration of the period of Heathcliff and Hindley's fighting and her escape). Heathcliff's bond with Hareton, like Hindley's bond with Isabella, is both manipulative and touching in turns. Ditto for their bonds to Nelly.

Many people believe Heathcliff had a role to play, directly or indirectly, in Hindley's death. Evidence for this: 1) teen Heathcliff wishes Hindley could drink himself to death but acknowledges doctor Kenneth says he won't: "‘It’s a pity he cannot kill himself with drink,’ observed Heathcliff, muttering an echo of curses back when the door was shut. ‘He’s doing his very utmost; but his constitution defies him. Mr. Kenneth says he would wager his mare that he’ll outlive any man on this side Gimmerton, and go to the grave a hoary sinner; unless some happy chance out of the common course befall him.’" 2) later, Kenneth remarks to Nelly that "He's barely twenty-seven, it seems; that's your own age: who would have thought you were born in one year?'" 3) Joseph once accused Heathcliff of attempting to murder Hindley during their fight ("And so ye've been murthering on him?") - in which Isabella said Heathcliff had to barely restrain himself from not killing Hindley. Joseph later adds suspicion to Hindley's death when, after Heathcliff explains to Nelly how Hindley had been suffering from the effects of alcoholism but died suddenly in the morning, Joseph "confirmed this statement, but muttered: "I'd rayther he'd goan hisseln for t' doctor! I sud ha' taen tent o' t' maister better nor him—and he warn't deead when I left, naught o' t' soart!'" (trans. from WH Reader's Guide site: "'I'd rather he'd gone himself for the doctor! I would have taken care of the master better than him—and he wasn't dead when I left, nothing of the sort!'"). So Heathcliff told Joseph to fetch Kenneth which left Heathcliff alone with Hindley, who was then dead when Joseph/Kenneth arrived.

My own theory is that Hindley probably choked on his own vomit (a common form of death by addiction) because of Heathcliff's description of he and Joseph finding Hindley "snorting like a horse; and there he was, laid over the settle: flaying and scalping would not have wakened him." It is after this that Heathcliff is alone with Hindley and he dies. Heathcliff can be seen as guilty through inaction imo, though he would justify it by saying he was letting nature take its course.

Heathcliff and Hindley take turns enslaving each other throughout the story. Hindley's seniority, legitimacy, and race give him advantages, while Heathcliff's early favoritism by Mr. Earnshaw and his later accrual of wealth, wit, and strength give him some advantages. We're told by Nelly (and she's biased, but she's the main source we have) that Hindley bullied Heathcliff immediately, to which Heathcliff weaponized Mr. Earnshaw in his favor, as evidenced by the horse scene.

If, when Hindley returned to become master of Wuthering Heights after Mr. Earnshaw's death, his wife Frances had taken a liking to Heathcliff, or if Hindley had simply matured in his time away — in other words, if Hindley had decided to grow up and let bygones be bygones — I wonder if Heathcliff would have done the same, and decided to be peaceful & not to continue their childhood rivalry.

The bulk of Heathcliff's lust for revenge really stems from Hindley's treatment of him after Mr. Earnshaw's death, when Hindley, as the new Mr. Earnshaw, really does follow through on that childhood promise during the horse scene to use his wealth/power/independence to render Heathcliff miserable, and to turn him out or keep him enslaved. Possibly at the beckoning of Frances (which I mention later,) Hindley succeeds in fulfilling this childish power fantasy, and this is partly what inspires Heathcliff to obtain the means of flipping the script and later rendering Hindley a weakened dependent.

Although Hindley is racist/absorbed his parents racism, note that Catherine was not/did not, and so Hindley's true hatred of Heathcliff imo is more motivated by jealousy/envy for his father's affection than it is anything else, & his own feelings of inadequacy & self-hatred which likely would have existed anyway & were just fuelled by being "usurped" in his father's affection.

I really blame Mr. (& Mrs., though we sadly have so little insight into her character) Earnshaw for Hindley/Heathcliff's rivalry, because I feel like we can assume Mrs. Earnshaw must have favored Hindley more when Mr. Earnshaw started favoring Heathcliff, considering Hindley's hatred increased after the grief from his mother's death, — and this favoritism & parental split is bound to deepen the split between their favorites.

Hindley's hatred of Heathcliff really increased after his father & then his wife's deaths (meaning he had prolonged complex grief), which I'm assuming compounded & brought back his feelings of his original grief for his mother, resulting in further hatred of Heathcliff who had nothing to do with any of it but whose arrival Hindley just subconsciously associated with his mother's illness/death & his father's emotional abandonment (which we could consider a mental death which took place before his physical death; imo Hindley's whole character is defined by grief).

To enhance their pseudo-brotherly rivalry, which some may say is reminiscent of Abel/Cain (especially if you believe the theory/opinion that Heathcliff murdered Hindley or was otherwise in any part to blame for his death), we again have the fact that Heathcliff was named after Hindley's dead brother.

Heathcliff is actually Heathcliff 2.0, and maybe it was Mr. Earnshaw's grief that led him to use Heathcliff 2.0 as a replacement child the way Hindley uses Mrs. Earnshaw 2.0 as a replacement mother.

All throughout the story we have people being named after each other and taking on each other's roles, ie the whole 1st/2nd generation parallels (we could extend it to be 1st/2nd/3rd since I've highlighted the narrative importance of Mr./Mrs. Earnshaw), Linton Heathcliff, Cathy 1.0/2.0. — but we know nothing about Heathcliff 1.0 other than that he died in childhood.

Was he Catherine's age, younger, or older? Did Catherine see Heathcliff as a replacement brother? Did Heathcliff 1.0 die before Catherine was born? Was he Hindley's age? Did Hindley already have grief/trauma from Heathcliff 1.0's death and resent Heathcliff 2.0 for usurping not only him, but his dead brother's place?

We're told that "the family" gave Heathcliff 2.0 his name, but I assume Mrs. Earnshaw and Hindley may not have been involved due to us never seeing that they care for him — and Joseph may have had a role in it, but he's also rarely thoughtful, and Nelly was gone — so could Cathy have suggested the name Heathcliff? (which brings to my mind Edward Rochester telling Jane Eyre to "give him his name" when he proposes to her, asking her to call him "Edward" — this would be poetic of Catherine/Heathcliff's relationship).

The meaning of the names Heathcliff/Hindley are very similar; they also share the same initials, syllable count, and the "ee" sound. Heathcliff is a combination of "heath" (a synonym for "moor"; what he and Cathy love to roave on) and "cliff." In meaning, apparently (according to some sources on Ancestry.com) Hindley is a habitational name from hind 'hind, female deer' and lēah 'woodland clearing' — which is basically another way of saying heath/moor. So there is a lot of similarity in their names, and this tainted brotherly theme, both of which must have been intentional.

Regardless of whether Heathcliff & Hindley are foster brothers or half-brothers, this naming choice is still a sign that Heathcliff was predestined to be part of the family, and lends itself to the other themes of predeterminism in that Heathcliff ends up becoming the master of the Heights after Hindley the way he would have if he were his biological brother.

Mr. Earnshaw telling Hindley he'd bring him back any gift he chose, and then returning with that gift having been broken by Heathcliff, are ample reasons to explain the hatred that moody 14-year-old Hindley immediately feels for him, who was about half his age and therefore an impractical playmate. He is more like a new sibling, and like an older sibling, Hindley is horrified at being overshadowed by the family's new addition. Since we don't know whether Hindley knew or was close to Heathcliff 1.0, we can hesitantly assume he may have been upset by the naming.

On Heathcliff, Hindley, and Frances:

I would like to briefly touch more on Hindley's wife's death (so closely followed by his fathers death) bringing up feelings of his mothers death. Hindley's wife Frances Earnshaw is the second Mrs. Earnshaw and she only comes to the house right after Mr. Earnshaw dies. I believe Hindley parallels his father, Frances parallels his mother (so like many men, he metaphorically "married his mother"), and that Frances also has some similarities to Heathcliff.

Frances has an unknown origin story and Hindley keeps her background from his father on purpose, and this could have been intended to parallel the first Mr. Earnshaw from possibly keeping Heathcliff's origins vague: "What she was, and where she was born, he never informed us: probably, she had neither money nor name to recommend her, or he would scarcely have kept the union from his father."

Frances also immediately dislikes Heathcliff... just like Hindley's mother, the first Mrs. Earnshaw, did: "Mrs. Earnshaw was ready to fling it out of doors: she did fly up, asking how he could fashion to bring that gipsy brat into the house, when they had their own bairns to feed and fend for? What he meant to do with it, and whether he were mad?"

We don't know why Frances dislikes Heathcliff, but it wouldn't be a stretch to assume it has to do with his race & status, because it is only after her disapproval that Hindley banishes Heathcliff to the role of a servant/slave, we can assume. We can also assume Frances disliked Heathcliff from the beginning, since we're never told that she took a liking to him like she initially does with Catherine; we are only ever told she dislikes him:

"She expressed pleasure, too, at finding a sister among her new acquaintance; and she prattled to Catherine, and kissed her, and ran about with her, and gave her quantities of presents, at the beginning. Her affection tired very soon, however, and when she grew peevish, Hindley became tyrannical. A few words from her, evincing a dislike to Heathcliff, were enough to rouse in him all his old hatred of the boy. He drove him from their company to the servants, deprived him of the instructions of the curate, and insisted that he should labour out of doors instead; compelling him to do so as hard as any other lad on the farm."

It is after the last quote that we learn Cathy and Heathcliff become increasingly "feral" outdoors, as Heathcliff is forced to toil in outdoor labor, and Cathy insists on keeping him company while he's at it. At this point they are both essentially orphaned, and then neglected and abandoned by Hindley and Frances, the new Mr. and Mrs. Earnshaw, who take on the roles of the former Mr. and Mrs. Earnshaw, who were similarly neglectful and emotionally abandoning to their children.

On Cathy and Heathcliff:

In the beginning, Lockwood reads this diary entry from Catherine I which proves the prior analysis in that she compares Mr. Earnshaw 1.0 to Mr. Earnshaw 2.0 (Hindley):

""An awful Sunday,' commenced the paragraph beneath. 'I wish my father were back again. Hindley is a detestable substitute — his conduct to Heathcliff is atrocious – H. and I are going to rebel — we took our initiatory step this evening."

Notice how in the death of Mr. Earnshaw and then under the tyranny of Hindley (Mr. Earnshaw 2.0), Cathy and Heathcliff are often sharing each other's emotions, and their bond is very twin-like. They both cry & grieve in their room in unison after Earnshaw dies, and although Heathcliff is the one primarily sentenced to torment by Hindley, Cathy doesn't abandon him to it and instead often keeps him company in his punishment, recalling when she was younger and her father would try to keep Heathcliff away from her to punish her.

Even when Cathy does sort of abandon Heathcliff to marry Edgar, in her speech after Heathcliff leaves, she says that her plan was to use her control over Edgar to benefit Heathcliff, so she really never intended to abandon him at all. Abandonment, attachment issues, separation, loss, grief, being torn away from someone/somewhere/something, are all major themes in this story, often expressed by familial and more often filial experiences.

Cathy and Heathcliff's relationship basically embodies all these themes the most poignantly, in that Heathcliff abandons her because he thinks she's abandoning him and he can't bear it and would rather leave than be left; then as soon as he returns, Cathy ends up actually physically abandoning him by dying! And later on, her ghost taunts him (I believe most of us can take the ghost plot as canon & not hallucinatory considering how many characters attest to it), and he once again returns to her like he did before.

Their whole relationship is about overcoming obstacles to separation, and being determined to retain their attachment as an act of defiance (even if it means defying life, death, physics, etc.) — this is why they're considered the most romantic couple in literature even despite their awful behavior most of the time, because in writing/literary pedagogy as a general rule it is almost always the goal of romantic leads to overcome obstacles which separate them from their lover, – and Heathcliff and Cathy take this goal to a new level by overcoming not only their childhood punishments of separation from one another, but overcoming the impossible obstacles of LIFE AND DEATH to reunite in the spirit realm where no one can separate them again — not even God.

Both Catherine and Heathcliff say that they know they won't go to heaven; God literally doesn't want them, and he has abandoned them, and this is the ultimate abandonment/seperation. Thus, all they have in the universe is each other — and if their relationship didn't work in life, they're determined to make it work in death!

Some final thoughts on Mr. Earnshaw and the making of Heathcliff:

Due to all of my previous explanations, I consider Mr. Earnshaw a possibly well-intentioned man but who ultimately failed all of his children (along with Mrs. Earnshaw) by 1) emotionally neglecting/abandoning Catherine because she was a "bad child" & acted more boyish than Hindley, 2) emotionally neglecting/abandoning Hindley in favor of Heathcliff (and maybe it was partly because Hindley was becoming a moody teenager and Heathcliff was comparatively younger/easier to handle bc of his trauma-induced subdued nature, but whatever his reasoning, it had disastrous consequences), 3) emotionally neglecting Heathcliff too by not being involved enough in his integration with the family & not checking in on him and Hindley, 4) straight up just not being that involved to begin with and not seeming to teach his children anything, hence why they're all bratty and grow up to be deeply maladjusted.

Notice how Nelly's motivational speeches to Heathcliff, and her taking care of him when he was sick, have an extraordinary affect on him, meaning Mr. and Mrs. Earnshaw probably didn't show him even half as much attention or real affection. Like most English fathers at the time, Earnshaw thought his job as father/master was to merely provide provisions, leave the children with the women to be actually raised, and be done with it. The most unique thing he does in his life, and indeed his whole role in the story, is bringing home Heathcliff.

Maybe most importantly, I also just realized that Earnshaw kidnapping Heathcliff parallels Heathcliff kidnapping his own son after Isabella dies (and also him kidnapping his daughter-in-law Cathy II), and while this narrative parallel works if Earnshaw is merely Heathcliff's adoptive father, it also could be working to suggest that Earnshaw was his biological father, knew Heathcliff's mother had died, and so went back for him and took him by force. If Heathcliff's mother had recently died (or been separated from him), this would have compounded his trauma of being taken by Earnshaw, and this would have furthered his childhood memory loss, which could be another reason why I don't think Heathcliff remembers very much about his origins.

Heathcliff has much in common with Frankenstein's creaure. Yet, he is essentially a self-made man, his own creator and creature. We are even led to think of him as inhuman, as Isabella suggests with her referring to him as such and even calling him vampiric. And he does bear a lot of similarity to John Polidori's Lord Ruthven, from the first vampire novel The Vampyre (a Byronic tale, based on Byron's short story Augustus Darvell). Heathcliff's canonically mysterious origins and mysterious hiatus are necessary to his character; like Isabella and Nelly, we're supposed to question him and form our own opinions on the matter.

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flyingcakeee · 2 months

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A little thing I'm working on, unsure if I should continue it or not.

If Logan’s father was not a prince, Logan’s life would have been far more “normal”. Logan rarely got to do anything other omegas did. Logan was forced to wear heavy, exotic-materialed, large dresses, not the simple ones he longed to wear since he was first in the town with his father. Omegas were taught basic skills by their mothers; how to be a proper omega, how to cook, how to be a gentle soul, how to crochet or knit or sew, how to be a supporting figure for other omegas. Logan was not taught any of that,he only had his father. Because of this, Logan was stuck being taught by tutors throughout his entire life; he being taught how to be a proper German princess, how to write and read, how to properly eat, how to dance, how to play the violin, and piano, and cello, and harp, how to do any royal duties if it was asked of him to do. And with all of his tutors being betas, Logan never learned proper body education until two years after his first heat, never learning how to nest until he inquired about it when his father was busy talking in the village. Logan longed to have been normal, having always been of interest by the entire kingdom. Logan just wishes he wasn’t Princess Logan, son of Prince Nico.

Logan never asked to be born an omega, never asked to be a political pawn, never asked for anything really. If anything, Logan was taught how to always accept gifts with a smile, to always be smiling. Logan always had to be thankful and smiling.

Snapping out of his daydream with a sigh, he set his pen back down in the dish, placing the lid back on the ink, and pushed his paper to the edge of the desk, standing up and making his way to his the kitchen to see if there maybe was a snack he could take before supper. While passing his father’s study on the way to the kitchen, he overheard his father’s conversation with stopped him, causing him to eavesdrop.

“I’m afraid I don’t truly know what to do with him, Jenson,” his father groaned. “His poor soul doesn’t know anything about life, still! His mother died before he was 2 and left me raising him alone! He cannot marry at 18, it’s not sensible. Logan is far too young for an Alpha who is currently 25. He’ll hurt him, I know it!”

“Sire,” Jenson, the alpha who always accompanied his dad, began, “you’ve never met this prince. You should not overthink, you should instead inquire with His Majesty if you can maybe arrange a meeting with the prince.”

“Oh, Jenson, I wish it were that easy! I cannot have my dove meet the prince so early, he hasn’t even reached his 16th birthday. And what if he were to play a facade, take my trust and break it once he has his hands on my dove? I cannot allow it! I was foolish to allow the court to pressure me into giving up my only child, I do not wish to be foolish again.”

“You could have Princess Logan sit in the estate until you believe that he is ready, as you are too. Say she has a serious illness and cannot be married to the prince just yet. If we confine her to the estate, nobody shall know that it is not the truth.”

“What would I do without you, Jenson? Can you fetch me my best ink and paper, I shall write to my father and address him on my plans.”

“Yes, sire.”

Logan quickly hurried away from the door, not wishing to be caught on his eavesdropping. He was definitely not taught how to be as sneaky as he was, rather it being an acquired skill he developed himself. Logan always knew his father cared about him, trying as hard as he could to raise the poor boy all alone.

Anyways, soon to be Loscar Royal Au? Idk, I'm tired 🥰

#logan sargeant #nico rosberg #jenson button #oscar piastri #loscar #do I finish writing this or do I leave it as a wip?#decisions decisions #hmmmmmmmmmmmmm #f1 fanfic

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cheer-less · 2 years

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a/b/o todoroki shouto x f!reader - dark content

summary - after spending the first 24 years of your life as Young Lord Todoroki Shouto's academic rival, everything changes when on your 25th birthday you present as an omega. Your wealthy family is ashamed, and give you up to the quickest bidder. Don't worry, surely Shouto won't hold a grudge.

cws - this is dark content with non/con and dub/con. arranged partnership au, with omega reader, alpha shou, endeaver also makes reader finish on his fingers, touya's a bit of a creep, vaguely victorian, an au where omega's don't really have rights, predicament bondage, hard impact play, bootlicking, muzzle, dehuminization, endeavor refers to reader as it, breeding, breathplay, use of a riding crop, whipping, aphrodesiac, dacry philia , hard domination, degradation, knifeplay, praise, and then love and soft inadvertent aftercare. yandere.

wc. 4.5K

by selecting read more, you are consenting to read content that is dark in nature. please move forward at your own risk, and know that this work is 18+, minors and ageless blogs DNI.

The countryside flashes past you, but you keep your eyes ahead. There’s a little stain on the upper left corner of the cushion just next to Todoroki Touya’s head, and if you stare at that, maybe you won’t be sick. You swallow around the gag in your mouth, it’s leather, and it covers the lower half of your face. You can’t see the back of your head, but you know it locks on, and you know the keys are in Todoroki Enji’s pocket. Touya kicks you.

“Do’ya even like Shouto?” You don’t respond, obviously. Your cheeks are red from crying, and your newfound sensitivity to the world isn’t helping, you can smell both of them, and you feel small and shy in this small space with two alphas.

“It doesn’t matter, Touya.” Todoroki Enji says, adjusting the white cuffs of his shirt. You’re wearing a simple white dress, and your hair has half fallen out of its complicated updo, tendrils framing your face. Touya kicks you again, you don’t react, even as pain blooms in your shin. There’s a leather restraint around your upper arms, pinning them to your body, and your hands are nearly loosing feeling with how hard you’ve pulled against the restraint on your wrists.

“Is she a virgin?” Touya asks his father, and Enji’s face glazes over.

“Apparently not.” He looks over at you. “However, given their relationship I decided to acquire her for him anyway. A graduation present.” He sighs, tapping his cane against the floor of the carriage. “He doesn’t have to bond to her, if he doesn’t want to, but she’s healthy, and fertile, so he may if he’d like.” Touya looks back to you. “This is a gift for your brother.” Enji says firmly. “Not yourself.”

“She smells good though,” Touya says, cracking a smile. “Anyone ever said that to you, sweetheart?” You make eye contact, and his blue eyes are so cold a shiver runs up your spine. He puts his boot up on the seat right between your legs, pressing against your crotch. A little strangled sound escapes the gag and Enji sighs.

“I ought to make sure she’s in working order.” He takes you roughly into his lap, squeezing your breasts hard enough to make you keen against the gag.

“Let me,” Touya says, annoyed. His father shakes his head.

“No.” Enji lifts your skirts, in full view of his son, and pins your thighs apart. “Soaked.” He murmurs, slipping your white panties to the side. “Omega’s are absolutely shameless, aren’t they?” He rubs his thumb across your clit and it’s a little like being shocked by a million volts of electricity, you’d been touched before you’d presented but this, this was something entirely new. He doesn’t pause, slipping a single finger inside you and curling it. Your back arches against his broad chest and he supports your head with his free hand. “Easy,” he says, and you try but it’s not long before you’re cumming on his fingers, tears pooling in your eyes as you look everywhere but at Touya.

“I want her.” He says, annoyed, as Enji tucks your face into his neck, palming your entire head and shhing you gently.

“You have proven that you are not responsible enough to care for an omega.” Enji says sharply. “Shouto on the other hand-”

“Is a goody fucking two shoes?” Touya protests.

“Is about to graduate with a masters in politics, is mature, is an adult, is ready for this. Is my heir. Take your pick.” Touya sours, but keeps his mouth shut. The carriage pulls to a stop, finally, at the beginning of the long driveway on their sprawling estate. The door opens, and the men get out. Enji takes you by the shoulders, and deposits you in the gravel, letting you stand while waving the man driving the carriage away. He keeps a tight hold on the lead around your waist, tugging you inside while he bickers with his son. You tune it out. It’s a grey and dark day, the sky looks like it might rain any minute. The Todoroki estate is wide and sweeping, the main mansion house is huge and beautiful, stone covered in deep green ivy. The glow from inside is light and golden, under any other circumstances you’d be excited to see the inside. Not today. Lord Todoroki Enji bids Touya a firm goodbye and then leads you up the sweeping staircase in the entrance hallway, not bothering to allow you to shed your shoes. Servants look at you with a mixture of pity and concern as you pass, you avoid their gaze.

“Shouto!” The lord calls down the hallway, but there’s no response. You walk for a few minutes, wet boots squeaking on the beautifully varnished wood floors. You struggle to keep up with him, but just when you’re about to trip on your skirts, he stops. He knocks on the a cream colored door, and you're struck by how in any other situation, how unseemly, how taboo it would be for you to see his bedroom.

“Come in.” You hear a familiar voice say, tinged with annoyance. Lord Todoroki pushes the door open, and takes you by your upper arms, dragging you inside. You have exactly one second where you read genuine confusion on Shouto’s face. He’s standing at his desk, having been in the middle of penning a letter. Realization dawns on him as he reads both the flush and the tear tracks on your face, as he inhales and he can smell you, white florals, gardenia, freesia, madness.

“Congratulations on your graduation from university.” Lord Todoroki says, releasing your upper arms. “If this gift isn’t to your liking, we can always replace it.” You swallow, surely, he’d reject you. Based on the last conversation the two of you had had, where it had been revealed that you’d beaten him out for the top academic spot in your graduating class, you could see him telling his father to throw you in the mud with the pigs.

“A gift?” Shouto says, nearly unconscious of the conversation, eyes on you, guessing what the last day had been like for you, imagining the last twenty four hours of humiiliation.

“You should breed it, in my opinion,” Lord Todoroki says, feeling you squirm against the restraints. “Do you think you have what you need to break it, it should obey you but I can-”

“I know what I need to do.” Shouto says sharply, and Enji flashes his palms. You recoil involuntarily at his tone and he softens a bit. “Get out.” Shouto takes a step towards you and Enji moves towards the door, hesitating.

“You know where to find me.” He says eventually, and Shouto shrugs. Enji lets the lead he was holding fall to the floor, closing the door behind himself. The two of you are alone, and there’s a beat before he speaks.

“You poor little thing,” His voice oozes condescension as he takes a step towards you and you realize now, how much taller than you he’s become as the years have passed. “You’ve been crying?” You nod, unsure if it’s the flushed cheeks or red eyes that give you away. “Why don’t we get the first part over with, and then you can take some time and calm down?” You feel hot new tears forming, and he reaches for you. Instinctively you step away. He moves quickly enough to catch you, taking your body roughly and bending you over his bed, pinning you to the mattress as you struggle. “Stop, moving,” he grunts, and for the first time you feel the weight of an alpha giving you an order and subdue your movements, even as you hear the metal of his belt buckle clink, and feel him raking up your skirts. “I want you to remember,” he says, “That’ I’m taking the time to prepare you, even though I don’t have to,” he keeps one palm on your head, pinning it to the bed. You feel him slip two fingers inside you, you whimper against the gag. He scissors them, taking his time to relax the muscle. You stop struggling as you start to feel pleasure along with the humiliation of your former classmate seeing you like this, and feel him pat your back softly with his free hand.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, smirk spreading across his face, he smells like clean leather, like the crackling of a fire, like pine. “Omega’s really do break easily, don’t they?” You try to speak through the gag but he chooses that moment to ease himself inside you, and you whimper instead. You’ve never felt this full before, this relaxed, even restrained, even uncomfortable, it’s ecstatic. You feel him comb his fingers through your hair, swearing under his breath.

“Good,” he breathes, and the warmth of his praise is like a small fire in your chest. “Good girl.” He rolls his hips against yours experimentally, and watches you relax further, all soft moans and whimpers. He rests one hand on your bound wrists and uses it as leverage to fuck you harder, swearing as he loses his composure, he’d dreamed about this, fantsized about it every time you’d beaten him in class, corrected his answer, flashed a higher test score. He’d thought of ways he could humble you, he’d imagined slapping the smile off your face, spitting in your mouth, pushing you to your knees in front of him where you belonged. But in this moment, with you so deliciously pathetic in front of him, he finds himself only able to focus on his own pleasure, sure that you’ve achieved some kind of climax when your eyes roll in your head and he chases his own high, cumming with a loud groan deep inside you, raking his nails down your back. He takes a minute, keeping a hand on your waist to pin you to the bed while he puts his pants back on. You’re lost, mind floating far from your body when you feel him push you gently to the floor. “I have to finish a letter.” He says slowly, like you might have trouble understanding. “You’re going to sit next to me on the ground, understand?” You nod, and he takes the leash and pulls you, forcing you to crawl awkwardly across the floor without using your hands, his cum running down your leg under your dress. You kneel, and watch him sit and write, more tears rolling down your cheeks at regular intervals. After fifteen minutes, he pauses, looking down at you, wiping the tears from your cheeks.

“I’d imagine you’re quite upset, but this is far more natural than any competitive relationship we had.” He says. “You’re going to serve me, like you would have anyway, but now you’ll also carry my heirs.” You swallow, more tears falling. “I won’t expect you to know everything, I’ll train you, I’m a fair man. Obviously you’re gagged for the time being, but first, please don’t speak unless spoken to, don’t hold eye contact with me, or anyone unless you’re invited. You keep your eyes on my boots.” He inspects you. “Are you going to speak if I take the gag off?” You shake your head. He bends down, and gently, carefully unlocks the back of the leather strap. He doesn’t let any of your hair get caught in it, brushing it back from your face. You resist the urge to groan at the pain when you're finally able to close your jaw after nearly a full day wearing the muzzle.

“If you speak without permission,” he says, and you keep your eyes on his shoes. “It will come back. If you understand, I want to hear you say ‘Yes, sire.” You can’t help yourself, you look up at him indignantly, remembering the times you’d said that same phrase in mockery, teasing him about an argument in class you’d won, about a test you’d beat him out on. He raps your nose hard with one long finger and you instantly recoil, in more shock than in pain.

“Eyes down.” He says sharply, turning in his chair to fully face you. You let out a terrified squeak. “Appropriate reaction,” he says, still with a cutting tone, “Most of my punishments will be far more uncomfortable.” You stare at his boots, attempting to focus. “So you are smart enough to follow orders. Let’s hear it, yes, sire.” You find your voice, it’s barely a whisper.

“Yes, sire.”

“Good,” he says, “Now I want you to kiss my boot.” You know better than to look back up at him, but it takes all your self control not to look up into his eyes, not to look at your former classmate who had to be joking. You hesitate, “I am absolutely and deadly serious.” He says, and you hear the slight condescension in his tone. You lower your head, and press your lips to the leather. “More.” He says and you kiss it, nearly losing your balance with your hands and arms tied behind you. “Now apologize to it.” He says and he watches you stop yourself from looking up at him in confusion. “Apologize for thinking you could ever be my rival,” he snaps, “And apologize to my boot for thinking you were ever above it.” You swallow.

“I-I’m sorry,” you whisper, “I’m sorry for thinking, for thinking I was ever above your boot.”

“So soft spoken now,” He observes, “Is it because you’re afraid of me?” You go to nod and then think better of it.

“Yes, sire.”

“Lick them.” He orders, and you do, crying a little still as you clean his boot, following it with your face as he brings them back under his desk, resting one of them on your face as you hear the scratch of the quill on the paper. You’re still restrained, licking the part of his shoe you can get to, terrified of what will happen if you stop. You lay on the ground, straining your neck for a full half hour before he stops writing and scoots his chair black.

“Look at you,” he says, “Who knew this was what you were good for?” You know better than to try to speak, he presses the flat of his boot against your mouth. “I did.” He says coldly. “I always knew you were nothing unless you were serving me, always.” He pushes it harder against your face. “So this is how you greet me, you’ll get on your knees and lick my boots until I tell you you can stop. Understand?”

“Yes,” you manage, “Sire.” It’s hard to get words out around his shoe, but you do your best. He pushes the chair back, standing, and reaches down, taking the lead and walking across the floor, leaving you to scramble on your knees, unable to crawl properly with your arms restrained.

“Wait here.” He points to the ground and you close your eyes. He gets a box and stands on it, taking some rope from a drawer in his desk and looping it through a metal hook on the ceiling. He works for a few minutes before speaking again. “Get up here and stand on the box,” You struggle to your feet and stumble across the floor, legs asleep. “Iida’s gonna eat shit,” he mutters, a smug little smile on his face as he stands you on the box, going behind you and loosing the restraints on your wrists, You gasp with relief as the blood flows back to your hands, you flex and stretch your fingers. He reaches around and removes the other leather belt from your upper arms, and unlatches the leash from your neck, and you stand, unrestrained

“Your parents may never have cared if you dressed appropriately,” he says, snatching a shining golden letter opener from his desk, “But rest assured my property will be properly covered when it goes outside.” He slices down the front of your dress and you let out a nervous gasp, struggling to keep your eyes down as he yanks it off of you, throwing it on the ground. You’re standing then, in only your corset, panties and stockings. “This you’ll need.” He mutters, removing the corset without destroying it, unlacing it with a mild amount of frustration. He slices through your panties, and you whimper at the proximity of the metal to your skin, but his movements are deft and sure. He throws them on the ground next to your dress. He eyes your stockings, they’re a white cotton, and they come up to just above your knee. “I can’t have you catching cold, and it’s a cool day.” He slides a thumb in between the fabric and your skin, feeling the plush of your thigh, and you keep your eyes downcast as you feel him tying the rope around your body, your wrists, your waist, your neck, running between your legs. It feels a bit loose and strange. You keep your eyes down as he goes to his bedside table and takes out a small bottle, dipping his fingers in something before spreading it between your legs, rubbing it on your already puffy clit. He notices that at his touch, you stop trembling, as if despite what he was doing to you you couldn’t help but be comforted.. “When I remove the box, you better catch yourself.”

“Yes, s-” he pushes it out from under you and you fall, several things happen at once. You stand the only way you're able to, catching yourself on the balls of your feet. The rope between your legs now cuts into your crotch, in a way that brings you some relief from what you’re now certain is an aphrodisiac, but when you rub against it to get relief the rope on your neck tightens. Your arms are wrenched up, behind you, and your back already aches at the way they’re pulling. You let out a kind of strangled moan, trying to find a way to stand and be comfortable, while he watches with a small genuine smile on his face.

“Don’t suffocate yourself to cum.” He says, teasing, and you look up at him, then immediately recognize your mistake, fear flooding your face as he scowls.

“I’m sorry I, please don’t-”

“Quiet.” he snaps. He opens a closet and pulls something out, it’s a long black riding crop,

“Please,” you beg, “Please, Todoroki-” He moves so quickly you barely see him, whipping it hard across your chest. You gasp with pain, tears springing to your eyes.

“To you,” he says, doing it again, making you dance on your tiptoes, “I am sire, your lord, or Lord Todoroki.” He whips you again. “All that studying and not a drop of sense in your brain I see.” You gasp again when he does it again, this time on the top of your thighs. He walks past you, and for a moment you think he’s done but he stands behind you, watching you rub your body against the rope, shaking his head. He takes something and puts it over your head, you realize it’s the muzzle and start to struggle in earnest. He pushes the bit back in your mouth and fastens it, coming to stand in front of you. “I was going to let you beg for relief.” He says, shaking his head. “But you spoke out of turn, and now you’re going to spend the day like this.” he whips your tits again and you yelp against the gag. He keeps going, savoring every little tear, the tinge of your face as it burns in humiliation. He doesn’t talk much, stopping if the gag buckle gets tangled in your hair, softly gently fixing it and then going back to whipping your tits. You’re crying hard by the time he pauses, still alternating between bucking your hips against the rope, gasping for air and hopping around on the balls of your feet. He sighs, setting the crop on his desk and palming his length.

“Fuck,” he loses his icy composure for a second. “I underestimated how hot it would be to see you cry,” He moves quickly, coming to stand behind you and taking your hips in his hands. You’re still swollen from last time, but he bullies his length inside, fucking you hard, but after a few minutes, he stops, pulling the gag down. “Wanna hear you say my name as you cum,” he growls, “Wanna hear you say it.”

“Aaa-ah,” you get out, he’s right, you’re close, and he’s so big and warm and close, “S-sire,” you get out and feel his lips on you shoulder.

“Shouto.” He corrects. “Shouto when you’re cumming.”

“Shouto,” you repeat back to him, “Oh, oh, oh, Shouto-”

“Fuck, yes,” he snarls, “Who owns you?”

“Y-you, Shouto,” you choke out, and you cum nearly at the same time, you first and then he follows after you, your legs trembling as you go back to balancing on the tips of your feet. He stays curled against you for a second before replacing the gag and flopping back on his bed. You whimper a little, you’re back to having your arms pulled at a painful angle, and without his touch you have nothing to distract from the welts on your chest, which sting and throb. He stares at you, taking his time, running his fingers over the welts, even pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

It’s a full hour before he takes you down, letting you flop to heap on the floor, barely catching yourself on your shaking hands. He leaves you there for a moment and comes back, taking your chin in his hand, forcing your gaze upwards.

“You can look,” he says softly, and you feel him dab your face with a warm cloth, “Good girl,” he coos, your lids flutter shut. “I don’t really have it in me to hurt you too badly,” he muses, as if he’s surprised. “I was so angry with you,” he murmurs, carding his hands softly through your hair. “But you’re really quite docile like this, aren’t you,” he cups your face. “Look at me.” You do, and hold his gaze really, for the first time since you walked into the room. “I’ll take good care of you.” He murmurs, feeling the warmth of responsibility ignite in his chest. “Some omegas sleep in the stables, but I think I’d prefer to have you in my bed, hm?” You realize, after a beat, that he’s asking what you think. Despite yourself, you nod. “I thought so.” He leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead.

He gets up and leaves, coming back a few minutes later carrying a basket, setting it on the floor and pulling a dark glass bottle out. He takes a handkerchief from his pocket, and pours some of the liquid, it stains the fabric a dark purple.

“Shhhh,” he breathes, and you sniffle a little as he dabs at the welts, “Shhh, sweetheart.” You feel the pain dissipate wherever he touches the handkerchief, it’s numbing affect apparent.

“I’m,” you choke out and he looks at you, “I’m s-sorry, sire.” He stares at you, surprised, and then pats you on the head affectionately.

“You’re doing alright.” He pulls you to your feet, and you let out a soft whimper of pain, sore from having been in an uncomfortable position for so long, “You’re doing well, come here,” he holds you to his chest, feeling how small and soft you you are pressed against him, feels a deep protective connection forming. “You’re a good girl, so good.” He presses a kiss to your cheek, lifting you up and setting you on his bed. “You wanna take a little break, get under the covers and I’m going to see to your clothes?” You swallow and nod. He doesn’t make you verbally respond. “Do I need to tie you down, or will you stay put?”

“I’ll stay put, sire.” You mumble, as he pulls the blankets back and tucks them around you. You feel exhausted, joints aching, but somehow, pleasantly full and warm. Shouto kisses your head one more time before leaving, a soft smile on his face as he fixes his jacket, walking down the stairs to the entrance hallway.

“How are things?” His father stands as he passes the sitting room, Shouto scowls, looking away.

“Fine.” He says, and starts to walk faster.

“They sounded fine,” Touya calls, from the soft satin couch he’s lying on, “Pass it around sometime.” Shouto whirls around, eyes narrowed.

“You will not touch her.” He snarls, and Touya cackles, his canines catching the light.

“He will not.” Lord Todoroki Enji stands, putting a hand on his eldest sons shoulder. “Your sons should be your own.” Touya scowls, ripping his shoulder away from his father, and stalking out of the living room. “She’s behaving?” Shouto nods, ready to leave. “And you like her? We can get you another one.” Shouto feels an unnatural, irrational anger ignite in his chest, his hand curling into a fist.

“I don’t want anyone else.” The words tear from his lips without him thinking about them, and a small proud smile spreads across his fathers face.

“Good.”

Shouto meets with a few of the servants and makes arrangements for your clothes, and for a few other things, acquiring more soft dark strips of leather from the stables. He makes it back to you just as the skies open up, rain pounding against the windows of his bedroom. You’re still asleep, nearly exactly where he left you. He slips out of his jacket, kicking off his boots and slipping into bed beside you, tucking your body into his chest. He inhales deeply, you still smell of springtime, like the white flowers that grew on the trees in the gardens, back when he used to walk with his mother. He rubs your head, and feels you snuggling against his chest.

“Are you comfortable?” He asks and you nod.

“Yes, sire.” You mumble sleepily, he feels you hook a leg around his body. “Mine.” You mumble, unconsciously. He chuckles without thinking about it.

“Really?” He raises an eyebrow, but you just hold him tighter. “Did you hate me?” He murmurs, “Before, did you hate me?”

“No.” You sigh.

“No, hm?” He starts running a long finger down from your forehead to the slope of your nose. “Not going to mind being mine?” You squirm at that.

“Is it always going to hurt?” You ask, your voice is small.

“Sometimes,” he says with a little shrug, “You’ll need to be trained, and also I think you look absolutely beautiful when you cry.” You shiver. “But sometimes,” he couches, “It can be nice. Soft.” He keeps stroking your face. “You’ll have heats, and I’ll take care of you,” you squirm a little more, “You don’t like that?”

“No, sire.”

“I’ll have ruts, and you’ll take care of me,” he says softly, wondering if that’s the right way to put it, “It’ll probably feel more like I’m throwing you around.” You let out a soft little noise. “You don’t like feeling out of control.” It’s not a question. “You’ll get used to it.”

#todoroki shouto x reader #yandere todoroki shouto #yandere shoto #yandere shouto #alpha shouto #alpha shoto #mha abo #bnha abo #mha dc #bnha dc

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vagabondfandoms · 2 months

Text

Falls on Me

Day Two: Afternoon

Rating: Teen (For this Chapter)

Previous Chapters:

Day One: Night 2. Day Two: Morning

Characters: Gale Dekarios, F!Tav: Copper, Karlach and Astarion appear at the end, and Lae'zel, Wyll Ravengard, and Shadowheart are mentioned.

Warnings: N/A, Gale POV, Mentions of chronic pain

Gale asks for the Sword of Justice and ends up with a debate.

---

The pings of pain that usually exist in his body at all times since he got cursed with the orb were increasing in intensity.

“Soon.” Gale thinks, “He’ll need to absorb a magical item soon.”

At first, Gale was apprehensive about acquiring magical items for his condition. He couldn't predict what kind of people he was traveling with. Were they kind souls who would give up a rare magical item for an ailing wizard? Or ones that hoard their treasures like dragons in a deserted dwarf stronghold on top of a lonely mountain?

In general people on the Material Plane are very… well, materialistic. Gale couldn't really blame them. This world is harsh and you have to have some sort of gumption to get anything in it. Or be lucky enough to be born with it.

Gale considers himself one of the lucky ones. His father was a well-off shipping mogul in Waterdeep. While Gale was an illegitimate child, his father didn't balk at his duties to take care of his blood at least financially.

And to be fair, his father could have adored his youngest son but Gale just can't remember. His dad died when he was 10 years old and Gale only has hazy recollections of the man. Most of those memories involved his dad stopping over at his mother's house bearing gifts. Being a little kid he can only remember the joy of receiving the gift and not the reaction from the giver.

Gale was hoping somebody in his new party was a giver and after spending a day with his new “friends” he had a pretty good guess on who.

Copper, the Ilmateri monk was both physically strong and tactically minded but also a firm devotee to her god’s tenets of compassion, respect, and willingness to go without.

While all of Gale's other companions (including himself) picked over the camping supplies to make their personal tents as cozy as possible. The monk just threw together a makeshift tarp held up with sticks and called it good.

Gale was 90% sure that Copper would be willing to go without a magical item in her sack if he asked. He just needs to find the right time between battling goblins, spiders, and people posing as Paladins of Tyr.

---

They just finished dispatching a small band of goblins dragging a terrified owlbear cub to their outpost in an old temple of Selûne when Gale saw his chance to ask Copper for a magical item.

Everybody else was either busy examining the owlbear cub they just saved or looting the corpses for items when Gale casually made his way over to Copper who was rummaging through her pack.

“Tiring business, isn’t it?” Gale starts. “All this traveling and adventuring.”

Copper looks up at him in surprise, apparently not expecting anybody to talk to her. “Are you tired already?” She stands up, guzzling some water, looking over at him from around the bottle.

“Well, maybe a little,” Gale says half truthfully. “But I was hoping for the chance to talk to you about something, well, rather important.”

Copper’s eyes narrow by a fraction and if Gale wasn’t so invested in starting this conversation he might have missed it. His nerves start to flutter in his stomach. “What if she says no?”

“Consider this a break.” Copper shrugs and tosses Gale her water bottle. “Drink some water, it’s hot out here, and tell me what’s ailing you.”

“Ailing me, ha. If she only knew.” Gale thinks as he unexpectedly catches the glass container coming towards his chest. It was aimed in a way that it would be impossible to drop unless you didn’t even attempt to catch it. Gale muscles the cork out and takes a swig of the cool water.

“She must have filled it at the stream earlier today.” He considers, the cold water feeling good in his parched throat.

Copper sits down on a fallen log, waiting for Gale to finish. He takes one last gulp, downing the rest of the liquid before tossing the empty bottle back to its owner.

“Soooo, we’ve been on the road together for a while now, haven’t we?” Gale says, trying to make his words sound cheerful. Not desperate or needy. “Survived some perils, overcame some obstacles.”

The monk just raises an eyebrow at him but stays quiet allowing him to speak.

“Anyway, ever since you were kind enough to pull me from that stone, I’ve seen you demonstrate remarkable guile and courage.” Gale continues, half speaking the truth and half buttering the woman up so he could get the magic item in her bag.

“The way you diffused the tension between Zevlor and Aradin. The way you prevented not one but two murders in the Druid’s Grove…”

“Gale.” Copper cuts in. “Those are things any Ilmateri monk would do for others. I did nothing special.”

“Wellll, I don’t know about that.” Gale playfully argues. “Most of the Ilmateri I’ve met are, well, weepy.”

Copper gives him a chuckle and bows her head, conceding to his point. Even though she follows the Crying God, most of his followers take that epithet too seriously.

“Back to my point, I’ve grown to trust you enough to tell you something I’ve yet to tell another living soul, except for my cat,” Gale says seriously. “I need your help. I have this…condition that requires me to consume powerful magical items.”

To Copper’s credit, she doesn’t even look surprised when Gale tells her this. She just calmly assesses the man. Looking him over for any injuries. “You hide it well.” Copper finally says. “It must be serious if you have to consume powerful artifacts.”

“Yes, it can be deadly serious if I don't acquire the items I need,” Gale says gravely. “That is why I am turning to you. I need your help to find magical items to consume. It is vital. Dare I say it, critical.”

“Where do we find these items?” Copper asks calmly.

“We’ve already done the finding. In fact, you have one in your possession already.” The man says lightheartedly. Pleased this conversation wasn't being rejected outright.

“Soooo… you want me to give you the Sword of Justice?” Copper says, connecting the dots to what Gale wants quickly. But a scowl appears as a new thought enters her mind. “Karlach doesn't want to use it right now but Lae’zel might.”

“Please, I know that sword was difficult to acquire but it's imperative that I absorb the Weave in that item!” Gale argues, his nerves jumping wildly in his stomach. “It will do far more good turning into a rusted piece of metal after I am done with it than waiting in your pack for somebody to decide to use it.”

Copper looks conflicted. She must hear the desperation in Gale's voice. But to sacrifice such a powerful magical weapon for…what?

“This magical item isn't mine to give.” The monk shakes her head, a sad look on her face. “Can you tell me more about your condition? Maybe I can try and heal it instead of destroying the sword?” Copper tries to reason.

There's hope in her eyes that she can fix the dilemma without disappointing anybody. But Gale feels disappointed all the same.

“This condition is not a kind to be healed by any old healing spell.” Gale chastises, annoyance and vulnerability mixing together. “Some of the greatest magical minds came together to find this treatment.”

“You mean you and your cat?” Copper deadpans.

“Well, mainly Tara.” Gale deflates, not wanting to go into detail about his year-long depressive state after Mystra’s rejection.

“You mentioned healing spells won't work. Have you thought of Ki restoration?” Copper supplies helpfully.

“What! Try some quack Eastern Medicine?” Gale laughs, shaking his head. “No, what I need is the Weave.”

Copper huffs, clearly annoyed. “Ki restoration has been around for thousands of years! Instead of using outside magic to heal an injury. Ki restoration uses life force, either your own or another’s, to help strengthen the body from within so it can restore itself to a healthier state.”

The monk crosses her arms and looks directly at Gale. Almost challenging the man to refute her. “Ki is a highly regarded field of learning just like the Arcane Arts of the Weave.”

“Sorry, I shouldn’t called it a quack medicine.” Gale quickly corrects himself seeing he got his companion worked up with his quick choice of words. “Waterdeep has one of the largest collections of knowledge in the Realms and the libraries do have a small section about Ki. So I have read up on this… energy before. It seems like an adequate way to trick oneself to relax or slightly enhance one’s abilities. But it’s still a lowly form of magic not even regulated by Mystra.”

“Ki is not the Weave. It doesn’t have to be governed by a god since it is an uncontrollable life energy that we can only harness a small fraction of.” Copper counters.

“Mystra...the Weave is everything. They make up ALL creation….”

“Ki is everything too!” Copper blurts out, uncustomed to sharing her thoughts with another person. “It's the life force in ALL living things.”

“Ki is regulated to the body,” Gale says calmly, overlooking the lack of decorum the monk is following for this discussion. Gale did throw out the first insult so he’ll let a little impatience slide. “Like I said, the Weave makes up everything. It’s the air we breathe, the ground we lay our feet on, the sun and stars. The fabric that makes up the entire universe!”

“Untrue.” Copper argues. “The Weave is one part of a whole that makes up the Universe. It's not everything. When the Weave was gone during the Spellplague, life was still created. People and animals were still born! Ki, the life force was still there. We didn’t just keel over and die without the Weave’s presence. How else do humans live when anti-magic fields are up?”

Gale feels tension forming in his jaw but it wasn’t from annoyance. He was getting excited even energized by this argument. He hasn’t had a good debate since he subbed at Black Staff Academy and had to argue with a teacher that they were teaching their class on Illusionary magic wrong.

Looking down at the young monk, Gale realizes he needs to get down on her level so they can properly debate this. He was just about to kneel down to say his rebuttal when a couple of the party members came over to check on the two humans.

“Copper!!! Come see this little guy we rescued!” Karlach rushes over, full of excitement over the owlbear cub. Then she stops in her tracks, sensing the tension in the air. “Whatcha guys doing?”

“Urgh, they were just discussing something in-tel-lec-tual.” Astarion drags out the syllables in the last word like it is something rotten that needs to be thrown away. “So~ absolutely nothing exciting at all. Unlike this cool new dagger I found on that goblin corpse!!”

“Really, Astarion!” Gale says exasperated. “There’s nothing wrong about wanting to expand one’s mind beyond the material things of this world.”

The elf pops one hip to the side and examines his new treasure. “The only smarts I like are street smarts. At least they are useful to survival.”

“Come on now! I’ve seen you read in your tent at night.” Gale says, partially annoyed at Astarion's retort and partially because he couldn’t continue his conversation with Copper. He had so much he could say about the Weave and the Universe.

“Purely to pass away the hours of boredom,” Astarion says lazily, sliding his new dagger into his belt loop.

Gale throws the elf a glare. He does not care for this blasé attitude Astarion always has around him.

“Well, I think break time is over.” Copper says as she gets up and brushes bark and moss off her butt. Karlach was already tugging at her sleeves, trying to lead the monk over to the owlbear cub, who was being watched over by Shadowheart, Wyll, and a reluctant Lae’zel.

Before she is fully swept off by the fiery tiefling, Copper catches Gale’s eye. “The sword is not solely mine to give. But don’t be afraid to ask the group if you really need it. They’re more willing to help than you think.”

Contemplating the monk's words, Gale watches his companions pack up their gear. They will be heading out soon to their new destination. Hopeful finding a way to cure the mind-flayer tadpoles in their heads. Gale can't help the small smile that forms on his lips as he watches the group happily give the scared owlbear cub food and affection.

Maybe there are more givers in his group than he thought.

Author Note:

I like the fact in early access we had to give Gale a powerful magical item like the Sword of Justice for his condition. It gives his struggles more weight since the cost is so great. I'll try to sprinkle in more tidbits from early access as the story continues.

#bg3 #bg3 fanfiction #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #gale x tav #oc: copper #karlach #astarion

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intermundia · 10 months

Text

As a queer person living in conservative, rural America, and as a Star Wars fan who posts about the Jedi Order, my thoughts are frequently turned to the concept of family, and what it means in different cultures. I’ve written a longish (1k words) post about this lmao, so I will put it beneath the cut, but it unpacks a lot of assumptions that are frequently made in discussion of the Jedi.

The ideology of the family where I live is closely related to patriarchy, individualism, and property rights. The narrative of the ideal family life is this: a man falls in love with a woman and courts her until she agrees to marriage. When they marry, they become one person, or rather the man acquires a helpmeet, and the woman legally loses her personhood, becoming Mr and Mrs X. She is now a larger part of the man’s personhood, and any children they have are also inside that umbrella. They are his property, not individuals in themselves. This is why conservatives resent public school and free access to information, as they are interfering with his right to maintain his property the way he wants them. Once the children are grown, the cycle continues, the son finding a wife, etc. That is a certain kind of ideal of society. The idea of sending a child to the church to be raised, is kind of like sending a valuable, heirloom cup to be used by the community, it’s hypothetically a meritorious sacrifice to god, but the cup still really belongs to the family. It belongs at home. If the child grows up to join the church, it’s something that happens later, during the transition from being property to being an individual.

This is not a universal or necessary mode of life.

In a different culture, where a child is born and is understood already to be a member of the wider community that is being raised by their parents, the idea of allowing an institution to adopt and take over raising the child is not a violation of some man’s property rights. In a culture where there is a temple that is an honorable place, where being a monk is a livelihood that is respected and important, something that parents would wish for their child to experience, it is more of a privilege to get your child into that place where they can become an important figure in the community. The parents would miss the child, that is universal, but there would also be a sense of relief for them, to know that they’ve gotten access to a stable future that they can be proud of, especially if they were in a situation where they couldn’t guarantee that child an equally stable and important future. With the force-gifted Jedi this is even more stark; their powers should be trained and directed for their own good too. Growing up communally at a temple is a different kind of family, where there is a sense of brother and sisterhood, with teachers and elders making up a dense web of social relationships. It is a different life, but not a worse one.

The conservative American ideology is something that I have felt my entire life to be very closed and full of the potential for abuse behind closed doors. A child is not a person and is not treated like one, and a wife is not a person either. The only individuals are the men who own these families. It’s a system that I yearn for relief and escape from, and so of course I am drawn to the Jedi, an imaginary culture that is based on real values held by real cultures outside of my own. I know there are places in the world where sending a child to the temple is an honorable and good thing. I know that the Jedi think of each other as family, it’s well attested in canon and legends content. It’s not abusive or wrong for those children to be raised in that communal culture, just because it’s different from the norms of individualistic, patriarchal values. Just because it’s different, doesn’t mean it’s wrong. Just like being a queer person, who doesn’t fit into the system of romantic pairing and nuclear families, being different doesn’t mean being wrong.

People raised with the conservative ideology think the absence of romantic love is inherently abusive, but if you were raised to prioritize other things, would you miss it as much as if you were raised to chase it? Is it not a worthy effort to dedicate your life to serving other people? It may be difficult, but it’s not a life without love. Jedi have romantic feelings, they’re not forbidden, but they are deprioritzed. It’s not the ultimate goal of life, but rather more of a distraction from a very noble duty. Many, many people in the world choose that path. The Jedi aren’t jailers, we have examples of people leaving when they couldn’t walk that path, but most stay, because they have an important role to play in the wider galaxy and a great use of their potential. Anakin wanted to stay so that he could have the status and power of a ranking member of the Jedi Order, but he also wanted to have private property, possessing other people and controlling their destiny. You can’t have both. I think the story of the prequels and the path of the Jedi are both fascinating because they push against the cultural norm toward romance and patriarchal individualism. It’s just nice to have something that says you can find home with friends and mentors, and meaning with duty and service. It’s important to me on a very personal level.

#jedi order #many thoughts #there are a lot of assumptions made in criticism of the order #which are based on cultural norms that i do not share #and sometimes find offensive #this goes into why

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lawliet-ryuzaki-ryuga · 1 year

Text

chapter 2

HXH ( illumi Zoldyck)

Control

Word Count: 1648

TW: mention of injuries acquired from abuse ( that comes from training), just sad lil babies who want to be loved.

Chapter 1

Masterlist

A/N: If I’m crying .. you’re going to cry too because this video is what inspired this chapter. I know this chapter might sound very corny and just eh but keep in mind these kids are enduring things that are unbelievable. So emotional understanding and ways on communication is a mess.

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It had been 3 months since the last time the two children had seen one another. Every day since the last time they met, Noa always kept the small crystal in her pocket. And would sit after training in her room and just admire the green crystal.

Illumi on the other hand kept the flowers under his bed and would watch the flowers wither away. But no matter what he always kept the flowers with him.

Today was illumi’s birthday, and he requested that Noa be invited. Noa was delighted and ever so excited to hear that illumi invited her to his birthday party! But when told the news she kept a blank expression to appease her family and not raise any questions on why she would want to see Illumi. Her parents insisted on buying him a dagger that he could use later on. But Noa wanted to get him something of her own. She had begun her first official mission ever, to find Illumi a crystal.

She had finally found one, it wasn’t as pretty as the one he had given her but it was purple and he wore purple. She had gotten ready and was sure to put her gift in her pocket to hide it from her family.

Once they had arrived at the Zoldyck estate and greeted the family. The family was informed to wait for the birthday boy as he was in training.

“ How splendid, I’m sure your son Illumi will be a strong assassin!” Noa’s mother chimes in on the conversation.

Noa listens as the adults discuss Illumi’s future and what they expect of him. The conversation sounded all too familiar to her, deep inside she wished she had control of her future.

“ How is your training going Noa, you don’t have a scratch on you. I guess your family is taking it easy on you.” Illumi’s grandfather speaks.

“ No Mr. Zoldyck, For today's training my parents had my ribs broken while I trained. It was painful at first to breath and move, but pain is an illusion that our brain tricks us into believing. It will make me a better assassin. I know I’m ready for harder training too.”

Zeno Nods his head and turns back to the parents. Noa was in fact in a lot of pain, but her excitement to see illumi concealed the pain.

Around An hour later Illumi walks through the doors with blood running down his nose, and a bruised body. Any skin that was exposed was covered in blue and purple marks.

When illumi saw that Noa had indeed come, his attention was only on her. His ally had come to his invitation! He apologized for his delay and was quick to take Noa outside to the garden. While the two were walking, Noa would notice Illumi trying to wipe the blood that would keep running down his nose. But she didn’t want to embarrass him, so she kept quiet.

The two children finally made it deep enough in the woods and sat on the floor with their backs to a tree trunk.

“ Happy birthday Illumi”

Illumi quickly turns his head to face Noa and gives a slight nod to acknowledge Noa’s words. They sat in silence until illumi asked her if she got him a gift.

“ I did! It took me forever but I thought you’d like this! You wear purple a lot!” With that Noa’s pulls out the crystal and puts it on Illumi’s lap.

He stares at the crystal and wonders why it took her forever to find the crystal. He was a pro and could find crystals like they were the targets he’s meant to assassinate.

“ Finding crystals are easy” illumi states.

“ Maybe for you! I never went crystal hunting”

“ I collect them”

“ that’s good”

“ yeah”

Noa notices that Illumi’s nose hasn’t stopped bleeding and the blood begins staining his clothing as it drips down his chin.

“ your nose is still bleeding Illumi”

“ I know, it won’t stop”

“ Was training hard today?”

“ Yeah, Father said now that I’m older I can’t be training like a baby”

“ oh, does that make me a baby?”

“ yeah” Illumi nods and tries to wipe his nose with his sleeve.

“ Can I train with you?” Noa asks with hope in her voice. Hoping he’d say yes and they can train together.

“ No”

“ why?”

“ because it hurts”

“ but it’s okay, my training hurts too”

“ you’re a girl, my training his harder”

“ no it’s not, I can handle it” Noa argues as he stands hoping it makes her look tougher.

Illumi disregards her and stands too, he towers over her a bit. Illumi stares at the girl in front of him and waits for her to say something. But she does nothing but stares at him back. Illumi isn’t used to this type of interaction but nonetheless, he maintains his eye contact and his power stance.

When the awkward silence gets too much Noa leans forward and gives him a hug. illumi freezes and wonders what she’s trying to do. Is she trying to kill him? she’s suffocating him? No she’s, trying to crush his organs.

Illumi thinking she’s going to crush him, he warps his arms around her too and squeezes very hard. Noa’s rib area has been bandaged but they were very much broken still.

“ illumi stop! Please I- my ribs they’re broken”

Illumi not falling for her tactics holds her in place and continues to squeeze harder. Eventually Noa’s pain becomes excruciate and before she can think she pulls illumi by his hair from the back. Illumi, not prepared, lets go of Noa and falls back. Noa falls to her knees and holds her rib area as she cries silently.

Anger fills illumi and he begins stomping towards Noa until he hears small cries and hiccups. He notices that she’s holding her rib area and takes in shallow shaky breaths.

His anger quickly fades, “ Noa are you okay?” Internally he feels some type of worry, but his tone fails to portray that emotion.

Noa shakes her head and cries out a small “ no.”

Illumi gets on his knees to see what’s wrong, he lowers his head lower to see her face and sees tears stream down her face.

“ you hurt me first, why are you crying?” He asks, dumbfound by her reaction.. She did attack him and tried to crush him.

“ No I didn’t, I was giving you a hug”

“ What's a hug?”

“ I- I don’t k-know I saw in a-a movie that you-u-u give them t-to someone if they’re sa-ad.”

Illumi understanding now, he leans in to give Noa a hug. Noa afraid he might hurt her again, tries to back away, but due to the pain she stays in her place. Illumi just holds her in a more gentle manner and just keeps his arms around her, unsure how long he should keep “ hugging” her.

Eventually Noa tells Illumi she need to get up, and asks for his help.

Illumi, just looks at her unsure of how to help. Once Noa is up, she asks if she can lean on him and he helps walk her. Simple enough for Illumi, he helps.

Once they reach back into the building, Noa straightens up and pushes all the pain away. illumi stares in confusion wondering why she was faking being hurt.

“ why did you lie about being hurt”

“ I’m not lying?”

“ you look okay now.”

“ I can’t show pain in front of my family, or they’ll hurt me more”

“ So they'll train you harder?”

“ No they put me in a torture room, please don’t tell my parents I’m hurt. I don’t want them to hurt me.”

“ okay.”

The two children walk into the room with expressionless faces and wait till food is served. Once food is served and the family walk to the dining room all taking their spot. Illumi notices that Noa struggles besides him to move the heavy chair due to the lack of mobility and upper strength she has.. He wants to keep his promise, and make sure her parents don’t find out and hurt her.. Without much thought he pulls the chair out for her and instructs her to sit.

Both families exchange looks as they watch the small interaction. Silva approves of his sons actions while Kikyo internally boils over with rage and jealousy.

“ What a gentleman” Noa’s mother praises.

Illumi is confused by the praise but doesn’t give it a second thought. The dinner passes by quickly and the cake is brought out for illumi. Noa watches illumi blow out his candle and watches as the butlers cut everyone a slice.

“ illumi, what did you wish for” Noa whispers

“ Nothing,” Illumi whispers back.

“ Can I make a wish for you?”

“ what will you wish for?”

“ I can’t tell you”

Illumi confused on why she wouldn’t tell him the wish.. it was his wish after all?

When the night came to an end and Noa had to go, illumi and Noa walked side by side behind their parents.

“ Can you tell me what my wish was?” Illumi asks

“ why do you want to know,” Noa questions.

“ it’s my birthday and wish”

“ but it won’t come true if you say it out loud“ Noa argues stating her facts.

“ but I’m not the one saying it out loud, so what was it.”

With a sigh Noa gives in since his argument made sense to her, and she whispers; “I wished that you get more hugs.”

“ that’s a stupid wish Noa”

“ No it’s not! Everyone needs hugs.”

“ Do you get hugs?” Illumi wonders.

“ No, you were my first hug”

“ Then how do you know everyone needs hugs if you just had your first hug?”

“ Because you hugged me until I was better, so you need hugs until you feel better too.”

Illumi does not understand how a hug can make you feel better, but to save himself the argument he stays silent. They bid one another goodbye and illumi is back in his room.

While he lays in bed that night, he turns to his pillow and wonders if hugging his pillow will feel like a hug. That night Illumi hugged his pillow all night hoping that the pillow will grow arms and hug him back.

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wheels-of-despair · 4 months

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What You Deserve | Leonard Bast x You | Series Masterlist

Once upon a time, a boy entered a bookshop...

Part Two: Is That Fair? Words: 1.7k Date: Friday, December 22, 1911

Over the last year, you had fallen completely in love with a man named Leonard Bast.

He came to your father's bookshop every Friday. On his first few visits, he'd browsed for fifteen minutes and talked to you for the remaining forty-five. But then, after a while, he'd just accept the book you'd chosen for him and spend the whole hour discussing last week's read, or a classic, or the symphony he'd recently attended, or a highly lauded stage play nobody seemed to be able to acquire tickets to. You laughed, and you joked, and you looked forward to that hour with him all week long.

He was brilliant. He was passionate. He was handsome. He was the sort of man people wrote novels about. And tonight, you were finally going to tell him how you felt about him.

Your older sisters had teased you about your preference of books to men for years. They said that reading too much had made you romanticize men to the point that no real one would ever suit you. But they'd married the first boys who showed interest in them and moved out of your family's cozy home above the bookshop as soon as they could. What did they know? They certainly didn't know about your Friday evenings with Leonard Bast.

He was your most treasured secret. That hour alone with him on Friday evenings was always the best part of your week, but it wasn't enough. You wanted more of him. You needed more of him.

He was always on your mind. When you read a new book, you wondered what he'd think of it. When you made dinner, you wondered if he'd like it. When you curled up by the fire to read, you imagined leaning your head on his shoulder. And sometimes in bed, when the fire died down and the chill of the night crept in, you wondered what it might be like if he were there to keep you warm.

It was a flawless plan, really. You'd take him into the storage room in the back to show him the pile of books scheduled to go out on a sale cart tomorrow, and offer him first shot at the bargains. Once Leonard had made his selections, you'd wrap them in brown paper so they'd be easier to carry, and slip in your favorite book of poetry. As a bookseller, you were typically against writing in books, but this was an exception. You'd written an inscription to him inside the front cover and included several notes throughout that you thought would be meaningful to him.

Writing your feelings on a page in a well-loved book felt much safer than just telling him how you felt.

You watched the clock and the door, waiting for him to hurry in like he always does. Even though he doesn't need to rush anymore, it seemed like he was always in a hurry to get here. You like to think it's because he was as happy to see you, as you were to see him.

Your face breaks into a smile when you spot his red ears holding up his ill-fitting hat, probably frozen from the cold December air. He steps inside, wipes his feet, and smiles at you.

"Mr. Bast! I was hoping to see you today."

"Me?" he asks, in mock-surprise, like he always does.

"Of course," you smile, keeping up your little game. The clock chimes, and you leave your place at the counter to lock up. Mr. Bast is the only customer in the store. He hangs his hat and coat on the rack as the lock clicks.

"Do you have a good one for me today?"

"Even better," you smile. "Follow me."

You lead him through the store and to the storage room, where a cart is packed with books that are priced to sell.

"What's this?" Mr. Bast asks.

"Sale cart," you explain. "Jimmy's taking it out tomorrow, in hopes of clearing out some inventory before the post-Christmas flood of unwanted gifts."

Jimmy, the teenage son of one of your father's friends, was an occasional employee. A few times a year, you'd pack up the cart of books that had been shelved for too long, and send Jimmy to sell them on the street. He was friendly and talkative, which made him an excellent salesman. He also had a very obvious crush on you, and your sisters had teased you about your "young lover" relentlessly when they found out.

This cart is what led Leonard to you. He'd spotted it on the street one day, bought all he could afford, and was given a business card with the store's address on it with the promise of more discounted books. It was quite a walk from his place of work, and he'd struggled to make it on time… until you developed your Friday routine.

"But the sale doesn't start until tomorrow?" he asks, picking up a book to inspect it.

"For you, it starts now."

"Is that fair?" he asks, worry on his face.

"Consider this a Favorite Customer Preview Sale. Tomorrow, people will buy random books for friends and relatives as Christmas presents, because they are inexpensive and easy to wrap and appear to be thoughtful. You are one of the few customers who will concern themselves with the content of the books, and not the fact that giving the gift of a book makes you look superior. Please, good sir, shop to your heart's content."

He looks from you, to the cart, and back to you. You sigh and try again.

"Mr. Bast, I am expected at my sister's house on Christmas Day. Her children are expecting a fun aunt who wants to play with them. If you do not leave this shop with an armful of books today, I will consider myself a failure of a saleswoman. And if I am a failure, I will be unable to enjoy my time with my sister's children on Christmas. Think of the children, Mr. Bast."

He laughs.

"Too much?" you ask, cracking a smile.

"Most definitely," he grins, finally stepping closer and inspecting the cart full of books.

With your assistance, he picks out five books to add to his collection. At this price, not even Leonard Bast can pass them up. He passes you a few coins, and you drop them into your pocket with a jingle.

You'd eventually noticed the frays in his clothing and his well-worn shoes and the loose seams in his hat. He hid them well, but he needn't hide them from you at all. You're a seller of used books. You know that a good story is a good story, no matter what condition the cover is in. The same applies to people.

"Shall I wrap these up for you?" you ask, trying to mask your nervousness.

"Alright," he smiles.

You take the books over to the table, where you keep the brown wrapping paper. You let him ramble about the one he's most excited about while you wrap his selections - plus the book of poetry. You distract him by mentioning another title that may be on the cart, and slip the gift into his stack when he goes to check. You hope it brings him back to the shop tomorrow, rather than a week from now. You can't wait to hear his thoughts on it.

He takes his wrapped package with a warm smile, which you return. If he only knew…

You make your way to the storage room's door, and he pauses to let you exit first. You reach back in to close the door after he enters the hallway, and when it clicks shut, you notice that he's staring upward.

Someone has put mistletoe in the doorway.

You look into his big brown eyes, an explanation on the tip of your tongue - you don't know how it got there, honestly - but no words are spoken.

You feel yourself drawn to him.

You lean in slowly, and he does too.

You close your eyes as your lips finally meet Leonard Bast's in a sweet, chaste kiss. Your heart flutters. Your brain buzzes.

You want to do this every day for the rest of your life.

You can't control your blissful smile as you pull away…

But Leonard Bast is not smiling.

Panic sets in. What's wrong? Were you bad at it?

"I'm sorry," he says. What is he sorry for? You both clearly wanted this. You've been dancing around it for a damned year. "I have a wife."

Your heart drops into your stomach.

"A what?"

"I have a wife. This isn't fair to her."

A wife? He's never mentioned a wife. You're sure of it. He's told you all about his parents, and his brother the lay-reader, and his two married sisters who were older and had never been very close to him. You absolutely would've remembered him mentioning a wife.

You felt faint. You leaned against the wall and closed your eyes, trying to focus on your breathing.

When you opened your eyes, Leonard Bast was gone.

Your father returned soon after. He found you in the hallway outside the storage room, sitting on the floor with tear-stained cheeks and staring into nothing. He thought you'd been attacked, and was preparing to summon the police when you finally found your voice. You were fine, you lied. Just had a bad day and a lot of demanding customers. It's nearly Christmas, after all, and people were desperate to finish their shopping.

He scraped you off the floor and took you upstairs to revive you with tea and biscuits. But it didn't help. Nothing helped.

Mr. Bast didn't come back.

You and your broken heart carried on, trying not to wonder what Leonard Bast would think of this book or that one. You tried not to worry about what he was doing, or who he was doing it with. You tried not to care. He was gone. He was nothing to you. Just a man you'd sold some books to.

Once upon a time, Leonard Bast had been your best-kept secret. Now he was just a ghost inside your head.

#writings of despair #leonard bast deserves the world #leonard bast #leonard bast x you #leonard bast x reader

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incorrect-ikevamp-quotes · 1 year

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do you think leonardo or comte is older? i can’t remember it being specified but i’m not sure. i mean we have leonardo’s age but how old is comte??? i haven’t played comte’s route so idk if cybird mentioned it or made one up but his real historical birthday/place was pretty much unknown i think??? thoughts?

I always thought Comte was the older of the two? But to be honest I was never sure if that was just my bias talking or it was actually the case. So naturally, because I am So Normal, I did a little digging through all the stories I've read up to this point to see if there were any concrete indicators. The most promising lead I was able to find was from the "Tell Me Your Story" collection event.

Meta under the cut, since I was left unsupervised and it got long:

The contents that are most pertinent to what I have to say are as follows:

In this story, Comte speaks a little bit about his childhood because MC found him playing the violin. He talks about how he originally trained as a young boy on an instrument called "a rebec." Mind you, Comte says that he still has the first one he ever bought--he remembers because he acquired it the day he was told he would stop aging forever. In due course he takes it out to show her--and later plays for her, at her request.

Now, looking at all the facts. The violin was said to be introduced between 1540 and 1560, roughly speaking (I'm not a historian, this is all based on rudimentary research). This doesn't tell us too much though, as Comte does say the instrument he trained on and first purchased was much older. Many sources show the rebec dating back as early as the 10th century (meaning anywhere from 900-1000) in Spanish courts, a supposed mashup of the Arabic rebab and the Eastern European lira. The clearest written records (the few that exist) begin from the early 12th century and on, though it was at the height of its popularity towards the 15th/16th century.

Aside from the fact that that's fuckin crazy, that would place Comte as being born anywhere from 900-1100 (1200-1500 at the very latest). Now I know what you may be thinking. How the hell does that narrow anything down, Minnie?

Given the cultural implications surrounding the rebec's emergence, the context actually does allow certain tentative conclusions to be drawn. I've seen indications that musical talent with a rebec was considered a big deal as an indicator of wealth/higher status in the earlier years of that time frame. Taking Comte's childhood into account--that he was raised to effuse aristocratic breeding and poise--I think that makes it highly unlikely he was learning when it was most associated with street performers (during the latter portion of my posited time frame). Everything about Comte's family pretty much screams old money (aka wealth they were born into, not curated during the rise of the mercantile class trying to be posers), so I really can't see them raising their son to play commoner music.

Another very telling bit lies in the phrasing of how he found the instrument: "he discovered the old rebec among other goods from a foreign trader." Remember that in the latter end of the time frame, it was so commonplace it could probably be found among local vendors/craftsmen--there would be no need for them to be imported from foreigners. I imagine his family only had access to the instruments in accordance with their social standing; naturally the rich would have their connections, but not just anybody would have the money or means to get their hands on one.

If my beginner's dive isn't too far off the mark, that would make Comte anywhere between approximately 400-1000 years old. I get this hunch that he's probably somewhere in the middle, I just don't know where exactly. I wish I had a better estimation since that's a pretty huge range, but considering the lifespan of the rebec it's hard to tell.

The only great anachronism in all this is the existence of Comte's pocket watch which was gifted to him by his tutor (I believe that's what she was, I know it was one of the human people in his house when he was young). The first pocket watch is said to have been created in Germany in 1510 (and shortly after distributed in Italy), but honestly it feels a bit out of place compared to all of the other evidence available to us. If that's the case, then Comte could have been born in the 1490s (since he received it when he was like 12, somewhere around there). Honestly I do feel the game suggests that he's older than that, so there's some dissonance there. But I leave that up to personal interpretation, since I'm not 100% sure about it either.

Lowkey, I feel like they might have gone so hard with the timepiece imagery for Comte that they forgot the historical practicalities attached to them, so that's half the reason I don't know what to do with this information. I get that vibe of like something something rich people cop out, unless purebloods have weirdly long childhoods--

Leonardo I don't have as many receipts because I'm just a poor Comte stan trying to live (his collection stories are pain), but if we go by the indication that his in-game life loosely follows the historical figure and simply continues on with his faked death, that means he was likely born somewhere around 1452. I can't remember super clearly, but for whatever reason my only memory of age indicators for Leonardo was around 400 or so (which tracks with that interpretation). That would actually make him potentially younger than Comte, younger than I initially anticipated. Or, if Comte was born on the latter end of my estimations, they are at the very least close in age.

Also please don't hesitate to let me know if I'm missing any receipts on Leonardo, I have only one brain cell and she is trying so hard, my friends

As to the place of Comte's birth I haven't the slightest clue about that. It's pretty obvious he's of European ancestry, but as to where he was born/raised exactly, it's difficult to tell. Given all the talk of the rebec there's a decent likelihood he originates from the Mediterranean area/Southern Europe, as it is an Arabic instrument by origin that was adapted into something new by Spain. (This could mean he was born anywhere between France, Spain, Italy, or even the countries a little further up or closer to the Middle East.)

I considered Northern Europe/England, but honestly the evidence doesn't really seem to lean in that direction. Comte mentioned that he once lived in England and made friends there, but the way he talks about makes it sound like he was a visitor/traveler, not a native. And frankly, Comte isn't insufferable enough to be English lmao, he has a conscience. There is actually some tentative evidence for Irish descent, as the vampy mind persuasion/compulsion is termed "geas" in the game, which is a word that stems from Irish gaelic/folklore. The only reason I don't think there's a real connection is that there's no further evidence tying Comte to Ireland; and I don't think the etymology necessarily guarantees ancestry (though there is something to be said about the Irish gothic and vampiric origins).

Admittedly it feels like the game makes his nationality vague on purpose, and I think this has a two-part intention. The first is that historically he was shrouded in a great deal of mystery, so it only makes sense they would be reluctant to name a singular place. The second is that--and I don't remember where the screenshot is, I saw it a while ago--the game describes him as belonging to no one place (that he belonged to all and none). Keeping his character construction in mind, I feel like this aligns with his general theme of contradiction. He's a greater vampire who prefers to keep company among humans, he's a powerful being with a fragile/sensitive heart, he has strong convictions but hesitates constantly, he's able to blend in almost everywhere he goes but never truly feels like he belongs. It would only make sense, narratively speaking, to keep with that motif/trend.

Also quick aside, because I can't help the music nerd in me. Rebecs are bitchin?????? Holy shit slay. Fun fact: they appear to have been primarily used for festivities, played for dancing. That gives a whole new impression to the fact that he bought one the moment he found out he would never age any further. I guess I just think about how that's a pretty joyous purpose for the music (beyond the pedigree aspect). That he clung to this specific artifact as a way to remind himself of his connection to humanity, that it was about people gathering and enjoying each other's company (and yet at the same time, all the political games that come with such leisure)...what a reflection of who he is today. I think it's fascinating how much people are at the heart of his personal motivations and feelings, considering how easy it is for purebloods to become lone wolves (power and secrecy would lend itself to that.) Instead, Comte chooses to hide in plain sight and actively works to stay engaged in the times and among the population. Then again, if I were hundreds of years old I would probably also beg for a distraction from the encroaching madness so like ajkhslgfkjhfslakjh it's very sweet but also mood...

In short:

Thank you for the ask, lovely!! 💛💛💛💛 I hope this answers your question? I love any excuse to talk about my one and only 👀💍

#ikevamp #ikemen vampire #ikevamp comte #ikevamp saint germain #ikevamp leonardo #ikevamp meta #honestly i went down a much deeper rabbit hole than I anticipated #but the game is so vague and my mans so sexy that i just had to see the timeline for myself #in short: i don't need sleep i need a n s w e r s #although man if im reading this all correctly that's insane #that would make him potentially twice as old as leonardo b r U H H H H H #explains comte's sense of like 'im old enough to be too mature for this' (chops the back of Leo's head the second MC isn't looking anyway)#i still die laughing whenever i read comtes second bday story and it deadass says 'but before leo could make a wisecrack'#their verbal jousts to establish class clown dominance are hilarious #i have half a mind to give them wiffle ball bats and watch them smack the shit out of each other #with only that feral instinct that wiffle ball bats evoke in pent up middle schoolers #comte be like 'take the professional deep breath' in every other situation #but then on sight just **decks leonardo with a folding chair**#literally the duality of man #fangdad propaganda #all right all it is 1am it is time for me to sleep #but i hope you enjoyed this installment of minnie's rambles

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we-were-beautiful · 1 year

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The Fox and The Hounds pt. 2

A/N: Well after a month of fighting to get this chapter to work with me we finally have it. I am so happy with the response that the first part got and I am excited to see where this goes. Also I’m proud of myself; I figured out how to add Gifs. As I mentioned in the last one No beta we die like men

Eris Vanserra x Reader

Summary: Its autumn court tradition to give your mate a fox kit before your ceremony. after years of knowing the Vanserra’s a mating bond snaps between the Autumn Heir and a well known smoke hound breeder

Warnings: none

Word Count: 1960

“Mate.” The words ring out through her head startling when a hand settles on her shoulder. It jolts the younger Fae out of her stupor turning to look at the lady of autumn who had placed her hand on her shoulders. Y/N risks a glance over to her father and the high lord each wearing a large smile. A mating bond was a absolute way to bring the families together

“Well that settles one of the things we came here to discuss Thorne.” Beorn claps a hand on Thorne’s shoulder. Both Eris and Y/N’s eyes widened; so the Vanserras weren’t here to just look at purchasing a puppy their fathers were getting together to finish a marriage contract. Y/N turns her eyes back towards Eris as he looks between the highlord and her father, apparently he had no idea about this meeting either. The natural instinct to bolt starts to well up in the young fae, but the gentle smoky brush against her mental shield stops her. She naturally lowers her mental walls to her mothers prodding.

“Don’t bolt. I know you want to run but don’t. It will be ok.” Her mothers soothing voice comforts her. Demanti are rare but it was a gift that Y/N shared with her mother a way for them to communicate without those around them hearing.

“I don’t know what to do Mother.” she responds to her through the link

“It will be ok love.” she crooned.

“Well then It seems I have things I need to acquire. Father, Lord L/N I hope you don’t mind if I miss breakfast, I should be back in time to join you on your hunt.” Eris voice pulls Y/N back to the situation at hand not realizing that Eris had moved closer towards her

“Do what you must, Eris.” Beorn nodded at his son, your father simply nodding along

“Well then” Eris turns towards me, taking a hold of one of her hands to place a kiss on the back of her hand “ I will see you later, my Mate.”

He lets go of her hand and turns towards the other two males.

“Father, Lord L/N.” with a stiff nod to the older Fae he takes a step away from her and winnows away

“I think breakfast should be ready,shall we move to the dining room?” her mother turned and addressed the group; breaking the uncomfortable silence that had grown after the lordling had winnowed away.

“That sounds lovely, Charis. Thorne shall we; we have much to discuss.” Beorn gestures towards the door. Thorne gives a nod before leading the way out of the kennels.

Y/N follows out after the group exits making a quick stop at one of the kennels. She typically cycled which of her hounds stayed with her for the night. Each of her beloved hounds had their own personalities Ramiel was no exception. Named after the sacred mountain of her mothers home court, Ramiel was her first hound and from most everyone's perspective the most spoiled. Y/N opens the kennel and quickly leashes the hound leading her out of her assigned kennel.

“I know you were upset about having to come back here last night.” She kneels down next to the hound giving the hound gentle scratches behind the ear. “So you get to have your day today ok; so I need you to stop growling at everyone. The High Lord and his family are here; I need you to be on your best behavior. Ok”

Y/N stands and leads Ramiel towards the door and towards the house. It wasn't uncommon in the nobles to have smoke hounds running around the home. They were a sign of wealth and the more you have the better. So Y/N bringing Ramiel into the hound wouldn’t get her in trouble and it would keep the spoiled pup happy. When she sneaks into the dinning room everyone else has apparently just been seated, no one bats an eye as she unclips the lead and lets Ramiel off to wander the room where she settles on one of the several dog beds lining the room. Y/N takes the open seat next to her mother across from the Lady of Autumn.

It is almost like she is underwater as the food is served. She can hear her parents talking with Beorn and his wife but can’t really make out what they are saying. Going off of the wide smile on her fathers face and the one on Beorns, they are probably discussing the impending mating ceremony between her and Eris. It's hard for Y/N to bring herself to eat the wonderful breakfast that has been placed in front of her. It is like her head is in a fog; the mating bond had sent a shockwave through her system. It also didn’t help that she was working on zero sleep; Maybe if she was rested it wouldn’t feel like her whole world had been flipped on its head.

Yes she knew Eris but it was only on a surface level. So far the only thing that she knew they had in common was their love of their smoke hounds. However the mating bond did explain several things for her. It explained her violent emotions when Eris had been engaged to Morrigan; and it explained Eris behavior towards other males whenever they attend the same balls. He always had a habit of running suitors off including his own brothers, it could have been the mating bond acting out before it snapped.

Still Y/N nodded along to the conversations still not fully aware of what was being discussed, but soon the plates were taken and tea was set in front of them. It becomes obvious to her that at least the males are waiting for Eris to return so that they can start their hunt. Time seems to drag but in reality only two hours have passed. At one point Ramiel stood from her dog bed and made her way over to Y/N sitting beside her chair, laying her slender head in Y/N's lap. The familiar weight is a comfort to the young Fae. Y/N absentmindedly pets her furry companion while gazing down at her cup.

“Y/N.” Thorne’s voice pulls Y/N back to the present

“Yes. Sorry.” Y/N stumbles for a bit missing whatever had been discussed “Sorry the lack of sleep is starting to mess with me.”

“That is okay I know you have been up for a full day. We were wondering which hounds we should bring with us today?” Her father ever the patient man explains to her

“Well Bellatrix, Khalid and Ramiel are out, but the rest of mine are good as are all of your hounds father. That gives you nine which should be sufficient, but if you are looking for more I would take Anteros’ hounds since none of his are in heat and that would bring you up to twelve.” Y/N rattles off. Twelve hounds should be efficient enough for one hunt. Beorn nods to Thorne in approval.

“I can only imagine that after the mating ceremony you and Eris will be tripping over all the hounds that the two of you have. What will it be, nineteen hounds?” The Lady addresses Y/N.

“Um Twenty my Lady, I am going to be keeping one of Bellatrix’s pups.” That fact had only been known to her father and her.

“I am looking forward to seeing what you can do with the Vanserra Kennels Y/N.” Beorn addresses Y/N and it feels like a small weight has been lifted from her shoulders. At least she will be able to continue doing the thing she loves.

“It would be an honor and a pleasure My Lord.” Even just between her and Eris she would have a variety to work with, but add in the rest of the Vanserra’s kennel the possibilities were endless.

A knock draws everyone's attention to the door. One of the servants pokes their head in.

“Lord Eris.” He introduces before opening the door.

Eris strides into the room with a level of confidence that Y/N had not seen from him in a while. In his arms is a basket; a plaid cloth draped over the top. His cinnamon eyes scan the room before landing on his mate.

“Sorry I missed Breakfast.” He gives Thorne and his father a nod before turning and walking towards Y/N.

“Sorry for my absence My Mate, but I figured it would be best to do things the traditional way.And since we were all already here this would probably be the best time.” He walks over to Y/N and gently places the basket on the table. He pulls her chair out far enough that he can turn it to face him, disrupting Ramiel who growls lightly at the heir to the Autumn court. He pays no mind to the growling hound before he goes down to one knee in front of her; a quick glance to his father shows the look of approval on Beorn’s face.

“Y/N L/N, My Mate, will you do me the greatest honor of marrying me?” He produces a gorgeous emerald ring from his pocket, presenting it to the girl. Y/N nods her head yes not trusting her voice at the moment. It was an arranged marriage so saying no would reflect poorly on her family and there was no love between the two of them but at the very minimum Eris was trying to hold on to the traditions. Eris takes the ring and gently slides it onto her finger, a perfect fit that felt like led on her finger. He stands and gently places the basket on her lap.

Y/N slowly pulls back the plaid fabric, setting it on the table before glancing into the basket. In the basket is a sleeping fox kit. At this Y/N does softly gasp. At the gasp Ramiel suddenly takes interest in the basket standing up and sniffing around before looking into the basket nudging the sleeping kit with her snout causing the fox to wiggle and snuffle about the basket Ramiel quickly lifts her head before giving the small creature a wholly unimpressed look glancing up at Y/N. Y/N lifts the fox kit from the basket with the utmost care bringing the creature to her chest. She twist slightly in the seat to show the others in the room what was in the basket. There is a quick squeal of excitement from the Lady of Autumn as well as coo from her mother over the small fox. A small clinking noise draws Y/N eyes down to the collar around the foxes neck. Holding the now wiggly fox with one hand Y/N grabs ahold of the tag with the other. The Vanserra Family crest is stamped into the metal flipping it around revels two lines with simple lettering

Belongs to: Y/N Vanserra

Seeing that solidified how real this situation was. Y/N was going to be married to Eris, soon if their parents had anything to say about it.

“What are you going to name it Darling?” Charis asks her daughter, momentarily breaking Y/N away from a downward spiral.

“Paprika.” Y/n tells the room with no hesitation. She had alway told her family while she was growing up that if she found her mate and they gave her a fox she was going to name it Paprika to match with the spice theme that her mother had set . and so Paprika is what this fox shall be.

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#eris x reader #eris vanserra x reader #eris vanserra #acotar #acomaf #acowar #autumn court #acotar x reader #the fox and the hounds

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