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#*calls them 'sentimental bastards' anyways...*

deadsetobsessions · 5 months

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Your name is Tim Drake and you are nine years old.

Today, tomorrow, and soon, you're going to save Robin.

----

Tim stares at his reflection on the sink tap. It trembles, along with the plane, as he contemplates his situation.

His face is rounder, now, with unfamiliar baby-fat rounding out the sharp lines he'd come to expect. Even with the subpar reflection, Tim can tell that his dark eyebags are all but gone, replaced with youthful skin.

Magic. He's being quite literal, seeing as he's been tossed into the body of his younger self at the hands of a crazed magician.

He could find a way back... or he could create a completely different timeline by fixing everything that went wrong. It's not like he has anything to go back to, anyways. That crazed magician was actually competent and killed everyone he ever cared about. Tim barely got away with his life. He could go back to save that shell of a world- surrounded by people whose minds were broken beyond magical and medical repair- or stay here, fix his own personal troubles and cut off the magician before he could start with his world domination bullshit.

Well, Tim already has an idea of what he wants. So he begins a list, after having oriented himself.

Save Robin

There's no point trying to convince Bruce that he knows where Jason's being held. So, Tim finds himself on a plane to Ethiopia a day before Jason's meant to die. This was long before Barbara even thought of being Oracle, and the tech is ancient in his hands. In short order, nine year old Tim has a trust fund with millions in it, all siphoned from billionaires like Lex Luthor and his own parents.

Tim toddles back to his seat, after washing his hands because he still can't shake the extra bit of paranoia that came with a missing spleen. Oh. Tim blinks guilelessly at his seat neighbor, smiling like Timothy Drake, Angel of a Son as he reels from the realization that he still has his spleen.

Tim adds another box to his list:

Keep Ra's away from my spleen, creepy bastard.

What else...? Ah, the League of Assassins.

Damian

Tim pauses. Holy crap. Damian's only six right now. Tim moves Damian's box upwards in urgency. Tim might have a mildly antagonistic relationship with his younger brother back then, but he wants baby pictures of his siblings, dammit. He's gonna put that photography expertise to good use if it's the last thing he does.

Watch over Z, Owens, Pru

'They're alive!' His mind screams. Cold rationality slaps the sentimentality down with a quick 'But they won't be if I fail.'

His mind wanders to Dick Grayson. He scowls as something pops up in the back of his head.

Catalina Flores

Contact Nightwing- in space

He's gotta call Dick back from that Teen Titans mission, Jason's gonna need all of the support he's going to get.

Find Cass

Train Steph

Save Duke's family from Venom

Tim taps at that last point. He'll save them. But that might mean Duke might never join their family.

But he'll be happy and Tim... will deal with it. He'll be the only one mourning, anyways. To end on a lighter note, he adds something that he should have done ages ago.

Give Tam a raise.

Tim sighs as he gets out of the airport, the hired escort he found and vetted, delivering him to a predetermined hotel. They think his parents are already inside. He laughs and does not say anything to make them think otherwise. He has so many things to do, Tim laments as he settles down to track the Joker's movements. Here. That's where Jason's being held. Being tortured.

He can, however, knock two things off his list in one go. Tim picks up the burner phone he acquired. He doesn't have time, or else he would have done this sooner and saved them all the trouble.

[RR: Are you in Ethiopia yet?]

[Deathstroke: Payment confirmed. In Ethiopia.]

[RR: Third building by the docks.]

An hour.

[Deathstroke: Confirmed. Target spotted.]

Ten minutes.

[Deathstroke: Target eliminated. Bringing Robin to Safehouse.]

Twenty minutes.

[Deathstroke: Basic first aid applied. Leaving.]

[RR: Secondary payment sent. Confirm?]

[Deathstroke: Confirmed. Pleasure doing business with you.]

Tim sprawls on the king bed. He sighs a breath of relief. He'd check on Jason in person, if he weren't paranoid about leaving traces that would get back to him. Tim's pretty sure that Deathstroke's going to get hunted down in the near future, regardless, so he made sure to add a huge tip on top of the extra fees for burning one of Deathstroke's safe houses and the emergency first aid. He taps into the rudimentary camera Deathstroke had given him the access codes to, to stare at Jason's rising and falling chest. On a further table, the Joker's head laid in a preservation box.

He bypasses all of the security on the Teen Titan's tech to send Dick a message.

[Robin has been retrieved from the Joker. Contact Batman for details.]

Then, he sends Bruce the location of the safe house. Tim spends the rest of the day staring at Jason and watching his father in another timeline break as he huddles close to the broken body of Tim's Robin.

Timothy Drake destroys the burner phone.

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ladyofthebears · 1 month

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Call me crazy, say i am over reaching, BUT

I firmly think that some of the cishet white MALE cast mates should def be speaking out against the treatment from specifically THEIR FANS towards the queer and poc actors.

Like OBVIOUSLY Bethany, Emma and Steven can stand up for themselves, but if the condemnation came from the Actor(s) who play the character that often times these hateful people are fans of or “on the side”(on the side of their characters), maybe they would shut the hell up. Like if their favourite white boy tells them not to say racist hateful shit- maybe they ACTUALLY WILL.

I also think perhaps they (Both the writers and honestly the older actors) should speak out against the hate levied towards THE CHILD ACTORS on their show. Harry Collett is no longer a child, but if i remember correctly was underage during the show. I constantly see people calling him a bastard, and wishing him dead, and saying he deserves awful things. I also see people constantly hating on Harvey (young luke), Eliot (Luke), Ty (young aegon), Leo (young jace), Shani (young baela), Eva (young Rhaena), and Olive (Jaehaera). All of this behaviour is disgusting and deplorable and it is severely disappointing to not see a single actor (not that it is their job to but they do have large platforms) or writer or even producer speaking out about this.

Obviously, harassing, threatening, having fantasies about, or making torture porn about ANY child is ridiculous. Especially for a fucking TV show.

Just my opinion.

PS- i love Bethany and if any of you have any shit to say about her, fucking block me now.

I also would like to say that the wrongness of these events is also linked to how the black characters (THAT HBO MADE BLACK??) had all of their stories majorly MAJORLY reduced and sidelined. Where is Baela with her cropped hair and trousers, constantly carting around a sword? Where is Laena, at 12, finding a half wild Vhagar and claiming the largest dragon? Where is her EXTREMELY close and loving relationship with both Rhaenyra and Daemon?? Where is Rhaenas storyline like, at all? WHERE THE FUCK IS NETTLES??????? All of their being sidelined and very VERY thinly disguised anti-black sentiment which is so infuriating ironic when you remember THAT HBO MADE THESE CHARACTERS CANONICALLY BLACK

Anyway…

#house of the dragon #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #helaena targaryen #rhaenyra targaryen #dance of the dragons #alicent hightower #baela targaryen #jacaerys velaryon #daemon targaryen

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shesjustanothergeek · 1 year

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His Love

|Aegon II Targaryen x Fem!Reader|

Part Thirteen

Master List of Series

Summary: Being a bastard born in the slums of Flea Bottom was all you were known for. Not the streak of white you had in your dark hair, the violet ring around your pupils, or how your sharp tongue and skills with the blade resembled your father, Daemon Targaryen. You were just a bastard, nothing more, but to him, to Aegon Targaryen, you were everything. You were his love.

Author's Note: The first part of this is pretty plot heavy. I had initially planned for this to be a part of the previous chapter because I really don't like splitting up an event that's happening into separate parts, but it would have been super duper long. I didn't want someone to have to split reading the chapter when you could do it in one sitting. Idk. That's just me. When I finish the story, I'll re-edit everything and combine specific chapters, but that won't be for a while. ANYWAYS, thank you so much to those who have been with me since the beginning and those who have joined along the way. It means a lot to me that you decided my work was worth being interested in. I live and breathe for your support.

Chapter Warnings: Corporal punishment.

The time between arriving at the Keep and being escorted to the Queen's apartments felt like you were in a dream. Your body's subconscious was controlling your limbs, pulling and contracting the muscles to work as you climbed stairs, crossed underneath red rock archways, and stood before the drawbridge of Maegor's Holdfast—the only entrance into the royal apartments.

You stole a glimpse at the twins escorting you, Aegon in the middle of them both. They seemed to have aged at the same rate, with no grey in either of their chocolate-colored hairs. Erryk, you had found out was the Prince's sworn protector since birth, and it had you speculating just how old they were.

You realized it would be necessary to decipher which twin was who, judging by how many people believed they were talking to one when speaking to the other as you walked past guards. It would likely gain the favor of both of them, and you needed all the allies you could gather in a den of vipers. Besides, you supposed they preferred to be called by the correct name.

Thinking back to the night's earlier events, you believed Daemon would be proud of you. How you fought, schemed, and plotted before you even met Queen Alicent. Seeing Ma for sentimental reasons was not your only purpose for being there. You remembered in letters past how she mentioned her network of spies went further than that of the notorious White Worm, Mysaria, and you intended to use that to your full advantage.

You knew that Madam would help you even if you had not offered a substantial flow of Gold Dragons for the rest of her life. Her anger and resentment for what the Hand and the Queen did to Lyra and one of her spies, Sara, was enough incentive along with her love.

"Open the bridge," Ser Erryk shouted, interrupting your thought. "We are on orders to escort His Grace Prince Aegon to the Queen."

The drawbridge lowered with a screeching of its metal hinges, creating a path over the moat of iron spikes that separated you from the Holdfast. Another member of the Kingsguard appeared, his white cape flowing behind him as he walked over the stalwart oak, his short dark hair blending into the night.

"I trust you brought him well, Princess," he spoke, tilting his head at the sulking Aegon and disregarding the brothers.

"Ser Criston Cole, I presume," you shot back, walking between the three men you were with. You could feel their eyes on you, but you held firm, clasping your hands behind you. "I have brought the princeling unharmed, a feat that has proven..." You stopped before him, lowering your voice as your boots scuffed the bridge, "toilsome for you. Or so I have heard."

He chuckled, briefly looking into the sconces on the stone walls, the fire reflecting in his dark irises. "I believe we can forgo the general pleasantries, Princess. I will escort you to Her Majesty once Prince Aegon is safe within his chambers."

"No. I will take him myself," you declared, leaning closer. You needed to present him yourself. Your plan hung on the dramatic appearance of Aegon, for you were afraid without it, Queen Alicent would not listen. "Given your history," you jabbed, covering the oddness of your demand.

As a smirk formed on your lips, Criston swore he saw a flash of Daemon in the darkness. The same arrogant smile he knocked off a horse and bested with his beloved flail, Morning Star. He did not want to repeat the same things he thought about your father about you. No matter your lineage, you were still a daughter of the Mother and a picture of the Maiden.

"I understand," he said, something simmering beneath his bronze skin you couldn't quite name as he motioned for the waiting siblings to bring Aegon forward.

Erryk took Aegon's arm rougher than you would have thought of someone's protector, the Prince wincing as he practically dragged him. You hoped you had hidden your displeasure at his actions as he walked past, trailing behind them.

The trip was short from there, following the Kingsguard to Alicent's apartments as the two brothers departed with a bow. You looked at Ser Criston expectantly, waiting for him to open the chamber doors.

"Please, afford Her Grace some patience. She had hoped this would be in the morn rather than at the hour of the wolf," he answered your unasked question.

You acknowledged him with a curt nod, leaning against the stone wall next to the door frame, at ease for just a moment knowing there was someone else to watch the runaway prince.

A flicker of movement caught your eye, a pristine eggshell-colored cloth extended near your face. You glanced at Ser Criston with a raised brow as he moved his hand to swipe across your jaw. You had forgotten of the blood splattered onto your skin. The remnants of how far you would go to protect Aegon, what sacrifices you were willing to make for your family.

Despite your picking, you knew Ser Cole was a fine warrior, his skills unmatched with Morning Star. You could not tolerate how he was rumored to speak about your brothers as you quickly snatched the handkerchief from his hand, cleaning your skin.

You could barely stay awake and were sure you appeared like it as you relaxed. Your eyelids slowly closed before you would snap them open again, swiftly looking around to make sure no one saw. You wanted to give Queen Alicent the courtesy of waiting. It would only be proper, as Ser Cole mentioned, but you couldn't help how your knees gradually weakened, sliding down onto the floor as you rested your head against the stone wall.

Aegon watched you fight with sleep as everyone waited for his Mother to ready herself, ever the one to keep appearances. He saw the delicate features of the girl he once knew as your body finally gave in to rest, your lashes fluttering.

He believed today was a day of old memories, seeing you in the flesh again and recalling how you looked with your cheek squished against his sweaty chest so long ago.

Had you thought of him while you were tucked away at Dragonstone? He thought of you every day. You were the only person in his life that had shown him what it was to be cherished. What it felt like to have someone enjoy his presence without any enticement. You were his only true friend, and after years without contact, he was frightened that brief friendship had slipped away.

Aegon knew you were still there and that this current persona was angry and resentful for what happened with Sara and Lyra. He saw it when you placed his grimy hands on your face, your eyes a window, showing him how much you still cared. He saw it in how you carried him while drunk, whispering words of encouragement to keep moving into the night air.

Since then, Aegon had been watching you, gradually comprehending throughout the eventide how much you had changed. Your hair had gotten longer, your ebony tresses nearly at your waist, even when braided. Your maids had woven the white streak throughout the intricate designs on your scalp. He had forgotten how divinely that birthmark contrasted the rest of your strands, a single patch of snow glimmering in the moonlight.

Throughout his observations of you, he concluded that even though you had a scowl when you saw him, your lips in a thin line of disapproval when you looked at him, you had not changed. Not really. The darling little girl he met in an alleyway at Flea Bottom was still there, hidden deep within you to protect yourself from the horrors of the past, present, and future.

He did not care how his Mother invariably said your plain-looking features matched those of your adopted siblings. How insulting it was for the House of Dragon to become a House of Bastards, she would reiterate over dinner, noticeably when the King was not there.

Aegon did not care much about what his Mother said about you and your siblings. He had no concern for propriety and appearances; in his opinion, it was all too priggish. He did not understand why she concerned herself with Rhaenyra's children. The oldest of the Strong boys still had a claim to the Iron Throne through his mother. You all still had Targaryen blood within you despite what she made it seem.

You were not sure how long it had been when a servant opened the door. It was enough for you to doze off and wake up as you saw Aegon above. It startled you, not expecting to see his violet eyes so close, but the feeling that rose as he looked at you made your heart skip a beat. They appeared sad and empathetic as they stared down.

You frowned, pushing yourself up as you smoothed your messy hair, annoyed with his proximity as he followed behind. It was as if he was your shadow as soon as you entered the Queen's meeting room, being uncharacteristically silent when he saw his Mother. Ser Criston announced you both, trying to make the informal situation formal. She sent him away with a grateful nod, leaving the room silently with just you and her son.

Aegon continued to hide behind you, his shoulders slumping and chin tucked into his chest as you turned. You wanted to reach out and extend a comforting hand but thought better, your fingers fidgeting at your sides.

He did not deserve sympathy.

"Princess," Queen Alicent broke the silence, "Thank you for returning my son to me. You have proven fit for tasks even the best men of the Kingsguard could not accomplish."

You extended a polite smile, curtsying as you thanked her as well. "Thank you, my Queen for confiding in me about your worries. It is an honor to aid the Crown in any way I can," you spoke.

"I see," she said, her lips pursed and her hands clasped as she peered around your body. "Aegon, my son, please let your dear Mother see you. I have been sick with worriment in your absence."

Aegon peeked from behind your body, looking like a scared child rather than a man of ten and nine, soon to be twenty.

"You missed me?" he asked, his voice small and soft like in his youth. She smiled, opening her arms to him as he reluctantly approached.

You watched the exchange with apprehension; your brows creased as she whispered to him words you could not hear. Aegon took a breath to say some, but before he could speak, the Queen's hand came down, smacking him across the cheek.

You stifled a gasp, covering your mouth with your palm as the urge to yank Aegon away caused you to take a step. Alicent was furious, as any parent would be, if their child had run away for such immature reasons, scolding him with trembling lips.

"Have you no conscience for your actions? You shame us deeply every hour of the day and night and know this, yet you continue to do so," she shouted, her cheeks tinting pink in anger. "I could not find you for a week! I am your Mother. How do you think this makes me feel? Not knowing where you went or what might have happened to you." You wanted to insert yourself into the conversation, to act as a buffer between Mother and Son but did not want to make things worse for Aegon.

"I had to request the help of this," Alicent paused, glancing at you before her voice lowered, "bastard in order to find you. Do you not know the embarrassment that brings me? To ask-"

Before you could think of being insulted by her words, Aegon's hunched form stood to his full height, looking down at his Mother.

"Do not call her that," Aegon snapped, speaking as a man. "She saved my life! Killed three men who had the intent to rob and beat me!" Alicent released a quiet breath of air, her features softening at the mention of her son's life in danger. "The Princess cared for me with a kindness no one has extended before. She is honorable and undeserving of the insults you spout when father is not around. She is royal not only in name but in blood. The same cannot be said for you, Mother." He spat her name out like sour candy on his tongue, his anger palpable.

You were overcome with guilt at his words. You were anything but kind after you found him. Berating Aegon with a variety of scurrilousness based on your outrage for acts he had no part in. You hated him simply because he was the kin of murderers, a show you had associated him with even though he had no role in it.

You could see the Queen becoming outraged at what he said, looking like she would strike her son again as you moved, making space between her and Aegon before she could try. He did not warrant abuse in his defense of you.

"Her Grace is not wrong, Prince Aegon," you interjected, easing the tension between the two. "I am a bastard by birth."

"The King has legitimized you; therefore, you are a princess, undeserving of her bad-mouthing," he sneered at the Queen, a petulant imp talking bad to their parent.

Your eyes grew wide as you stared at him, stunned into silence at his steadfast protection of your honor. You realized then how wrong you had been in your thinking. It wasn't right for you to blame the by-product of the people you hated. They had nothing to do with Aunt Lyra other than they were their kin.

Why had you been so callous? He did not warrant it, no matter how hard you tried to convince yourself. Aegon did not deserve any of the harsh whispers people spoke. Unquestionably, he was a drunken whore of a man, uncaring of traditions and customs that he was expected to abide by, but there was more to him than the gossip. If only people had given him the opportunity. It should not have surprised those around him that Aegon became what everyone believed him to be.

"Yes, my Prince." You looked to the Queen, her features covered in shame at how she had lost her temper before you. "The King legitimized me, but it does not negate the origin of my birth. It no longer upsets me when people use it in degradation."

Aegon moved away from you and Alicent, slightly stumbling as he recoiled into himself, tear tracks on his cheeks. You wanted to embrace him, whisper in his ear how much his words truly moved you, how such a sweet boy he was, but you didn't.

"Thank you, Prince Aegon, for defending my honor so valiantly. Your actions are not something I will soon forget," you said instead, bowing your head gratefully.

Aegon did not like this side of you. It was so cold and impersonal, fitting into the shell courtly manner dictated you to be. You turned to the Queen, your expression hardening into one used when speaking to Lords and Envoys.

"Queen Alicent and I have much to discuss, my Prince," you said, looking at him with a doe-eyed expression, hoping to cater to his permissive side.

"And I am sure you are tired from your long journey back to the Keep. We will reconvene in the following days when you and I are both well-rested. After all, your name day is coming soon, and I should hope to see you at the events."

It was an intelligent way to revisit your original purpose as you saw the protests die on his peony-colored lips.

Aegon cast you one last glance of his purple glassy eyes as he left, reminding you of how your Mother's looked when you left Dragonstone. If you fell for every sad puppy look thrown your way, Luke would indeed be attached to your hip at this very moment.

The Queen stared at you in silence once he was gone, her neck so stiff and straight in the simple green gown she wore, wavy hair falling past her arms. You waited for her to speak, etiquette lessons coming to your mind.

"Please, sit, Princess. I am sure the day has been extended for you," she said, gesturing to the high-backed armchairs near her.

You instinctually wanted to protest your pride, wanting to show her it was no trouble for you, but you could not deny the ache in your feet, the pang of lower back pain that was emerging, and decided to accept.

"Words cannot convey how grateful I am for what you have done," she started, picking at her red cuticles. "I realize he can be such a difficult child, and I want you to know that my words were honest when I said your efforts will be rewarded. I will give you whatever you desire. A place at court, land, and titles to your name, gold, garnering a match more impressive than your status lets you," she trailed on. "Anything you want, Princess, name it, and it will be yours."

You already knew what you wanted. You didn't need to think. Money and matches and titles were not something you cared about. You would become a penniless spinster if it meant Rhaenyra and her true-blooded children ascended their thrones. What you sought was for them.

"The only thing I desire, my Queen," you paused, taking Alicent's attentive expression. Oh, how you would reveal in her misery once you finished. "Is a seat on the Small Council."

You watched her features fall, her once slightly upturned lips now in a deep frown as she processed your answer. Clearly, it was not something she anticipated.

"As a consequence of my Mother's years residing at Dragonstone, their has been a lack of her presence—one unbefitting for the heir to the Iron Throne. I will take her seat that has remained vacant for so long."

"Princess," the Queen stuttered, glancing at her red fingers, "your Mother's presence is already there with us in the form of the Hand. He only makes decisions with the King's and The Heir's opinions in mind."

"It must be exhausting, having to cater to two people's thoughts," you said with a front of sympathy, though you knew the truth of the matter. "Let me take the burden off his shoulders."

"A duty in which he follows deligently," she interrupted, defending her crooked father.

"Lord Hightower does have a commitment to the Crown." You did not have to say it outright for her to know why. "That is something which I have no doubt, but the lack of her royal presence is something people have taken note of," you replied, dancing around the valid reason for why you wanted on the Council, but she already knew.

"I must admit," she paused, taking a breath, "my confusion on the matter. I do not understand why Princess Rhaenyra needs someone in her place when she already has one."

You placed your elbows on your knees, resting your head in your palms as you leaned closer. Unladylike for you to do so, but you did not care. You needed her attention.

"You have a seat at the Small Council, do you not? Whose interests are your representing when you say your father already does for both?"

Alicent could not answer, the anxiety in her wide brown eyes reflecting the candlelight as you saw her pull a thin piece of skin from her fingers.

You raised a brow at her. "It certainly cannot be your own. The Queen does not have a say in matters of the realm." You couldn't stop the giggle as you continued, "Until my mother takes the throne."

She still sat silently, staring at your improper position an demands as you grew impatient. "Your Grace, you gave me your word that I could have anything I wanted. This is what I want," you said, sitting up straighter.

"Is it?" She couldn't help but ask, the words rolling off her tongue before she realized it.

Anger began to bubble inside your stomach, your neutral expression leaving your face for a scowl.

"Yes. It is," you sneered. "Does the promise of a Queen mean nothing now?" You questioned rhetorically, forgetting your place.

She inhaled deeply before she spoke again, stopping the fiddling of her fingers. "I," she paused for what felt like the tenth time, "will see to it. I owe a debt to you, and I intend to pay it."

Alicent was beside herself with fury, bested and taken advantage of again by Rhaenyra in the form of her adopted child. It seemed as if the Princess was intent on rocking the boat, even if it was not her own. Imagine if she did that, Alicent thought. She would not have been offered a seat at the table if Alicent had. She had to work silently and delicately for that treatment while Rhaenyra demanded and received it without hesitance.

The Queen's jealousy raged within as she dismissed you, further fueled by the triumphant smile on your face.

The thought that she might do what she had done to Rhaenyra on Driftmark all those years ago crossed your mind, but you brushed it off with a quiet laugh as you left, a slight bounce in your step as Ser Criston escorted you out of Maegor's Holdfast and into the Guest Wings on the Keep.

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Thank you so much for reading! This was a turning point chapter for the main character. I'm glad she finally realized it was wrong of her to lump Aegon in with his mom and grandfather. I hope she doesn't find out anything that will change that...

Tagged Peeps: @zeennnnnnn, @malfoytargaryen, @targaryencore, @justasmallbean, @alexandra-001, @omgsuperstarg, @sommornyte, @minttea07, @silverslive, @unclecrunkle, @prettykinkysoul, @duesobabe, @djlexi, @ynbutbetter, @honestlykat, @graykageyama, @legolas017, @iiamthehybrid, @brezzybfan, @dd122004dd, @ladybug0095, @millies0bsimp, @kalfild, @sheislonelyalways, @tempt-ress, @bellameshipper, @minttea07, @trikigirl271, @esposadomd, @buckylahey, @justarandomflowerchildofthenight, @partypoison00, @please-buckme, @pastelorangeskies, @joliettes, @existential-echo, @priyajoyy, @valaenatargaryensdragon, @merovingianprincess, @rachelnicolee, @candy12110, @w3ird11, @ruhjkie, @fatalewomen, @somemydayy, @ariana-dumbledore8, @marikkjj, @zillahvathek, @adelusionalwriter, @sunny-boy-06

Bold means I couldn't tag you for some reason :(

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ashintheairlikesnow · 9 months

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The Heretic's Confession, Chapter One

CW: Captivity whump, some... implications... references to branding. This is just me getting a feel for the idea and character, though, really.

The robes he once kept pristine are caked in dried mud around the hem. Grigory frowns as he inspects them, rubbing along the seam. It flakes away, leaving imprints of itself behind.

Maudlin, certainly, but it feels like the stain of their sins painting his soul.

Maybe suffering can give even a man of the Goddess the sentiment of a poet. His lip curls in disgust at the very thought.

Please, please speak to me, Dromada. Tell your priest what he must do to escape this nightmare.

She is, and has always been, silent to his pleas for Her assistance.

The Goddess the people worship may be a paragon of compassion and forgiveness, her sculptures solemn and grave with hands outstretched to embrace even the lowest-born of Her children, but Grigori is beginning to suspect the holy men have got it wrong.

She isn't gracefully wise. She does not reach Her hand out to hold Her children. No, as each day passes without Her so much as whispering a reassurance, he begins to feel She is th goddess of laughter, and he is Her current favorite joke.

A knock at the door to his room - his cell, really, but of course they all like to pride themselves on keeping him in high style in his gilded cage - has him looking up, a little startled. The moon has only made half of its trek across the night sky, through the looping swirls of galaxies far, far beyond the reach of mere mortal men. That milky spin of stars, everyone knows, is where the gods live.

He wonders how many of them are looking down on him, sipping crystalline waters, and mocking his pain.

He would spit on every last temple step, if he could.

If he could just leave the fucking room-

“Brother Grigori,” His guest singsongs, half-dancing into the room. Grigory turns away from him, laying one palm over one of the iron bars that blocks any escape through the window. His fingers close slowly around it.

“What do you want.” His voice is curt, it cuts short and sharp. “Bastard.”

“Oh, see you got my name all wrong again.” The leader of this little gang is tall - too tall - and all knees and legs, lean muscle making him heavier than he looks. Grigori is tall enough for a man, but he seems like he’s half-grown, compared to the bandit. The man’s hair is a shock of white atop his head, shaved on the sides, while Grigori’s curly brown grows to the bottom of his ears, as is prescribed for the priests. He swaths himself in black kohl around his equally dark eyes and shining black leather worn back to brown from age and ill-use at the knees and elbows. Grigori’s hazel and his dirtied robes look like a joke, placed next to the bandit’s appearance. “It’s Bohli, remember? Or that’s what my mother calls me, anyway. Or she would, if she were still alive. She probably uses that when she curses my name from the heavens above, granted. I mean, probably, unless she really is suffering in the Dark After, like she deserves-”

“What do you want, Bohli?” Grigory’s head is already starting to hurt. “I don’t have time for this.”

“Nonsense. You have all the time in the world. You have nothing but time.”

“Not for… you. Please leave.”

“Nope. Not going anywhere. This is my house, remember? I just let you stay here.”

“Let me.” The words are sour in Grigori’s mouth. “Right, of course. Let me. Because I asked to be branded and trapped here in this room-”

“Hush. I take you for walkies every day, little god’s dog.” Bohli winks, and Grigori - who took a vow of pacifism, once - imagines stabbing his own knife through his eyeball until it comes out the other side of his head. “If you don’t want a leash, you just have to prove you won’t run off.”

He would, of course. Run. Outside, the woods stretch far and wide. There’s a path he could take to find a village, to find freedom...

Or… more realistically… to get arrested for being in league with Bohli and his bastards, which he isn’t, but everyone knows the goddess would save Her most faithful, and he’s been here too long. He would be branded a heretic. Everyone knows he’s a heretic. His own fellow priests would turn their backs on him. The people would burn him at the stake, for being defiled, degraded, a paragon of nothing but the filth they have covered him in. Little more than a bandit himself.

Maybe he is one.

Dromada would have saved him if he were truly Hers to save. And instead, here he is, the infamous giver of absolution to the men and women who massacre whole towns in defiance of - in direct insult to - the power and might of His Majesty, the King.

No. he would be burned as an enemy of the King's, and he would have no standing to defend himself. A captive this long isn't a captive at all, in the eyes of the world.

Just a man who no longer wants to be saved.

Tears prick at his eyes, and he struggles not to let Bohli see them and mock him even more. It’s not like he hasn’t already been marked. It was one of the first things they did. Bohli had given the order and watched while they tied him down. Grigori himself had been made to look as they put the iron in the fire, made to watch them heat it to red. Bohli had been whispering in his ear when when they pressed it to his pelvis, and Bohli had cooed over him while he screamed, stroking through his sweaty hair.

“Just leave,” He whispers, the area aching all over again. They branded him over the symbol of Dromada tattooed, a mark of his vow of chastity.

Another one broken.

Maybe that was when She stopped listening.

“Oh, but I can’t, darling Grigori. I’ve come to make a confession.” Bohli laughs, and his laughter could make you bleed even better than his blade. But somehow Grigori can’t seem to die from the loss. “Isn’t that why I keep a priest of Dromada around, anyway? For to save my poor mortal soul?”

Grigori fights the urge to wish aloud someone would poison the asshole’s food. “You would burn if you touched the Hem of her robe.”

“Maybe.” Bohli shrugs, kicking a chair over and dropping down into it, loose-limbed. His eyes spark with delight as he takes in Grigori’s misery. “But you wear Her robes, and yet I never burn when I touch you-”

“Speak your confession,” Grigory snaps, his heart twisting and going briefly silent and still in his chest. He feels blood rush to his face, and Bohli’s peal of bright, brittle laughter tells him the flush isn’t going unnoticed.

“Say it.” Bohli watches him, and it’s like being watched by one of the terrifying big cats that roam the woods just beyond this hideous prison. Unblinking, a predator’s stare. “Say the words, priest.”

Each time he does, they feel more bitter on his tongue.

But still.

Grigori draws the ruins of his robe closer around himself, and sits up straight. He swallows and sets his jaw. “Bohlinde hir Maksma en Ygridsen, the goddess Dromada hears and forgives all from those who love Her. You have only to ask. Speak, child, and be forgiven.”

Bohli licks his lips, leaning forwards. Somehow, Grigori can’t make himself look away. The bandit leader’s teeth are sharp - those canines can rend skin from bone. He’s part-elf, they say, somewhere in his bloodline the half-mindless shrieking hordes of the elven race lurk. You can always tell, so it’s said, from the sharpness of their teeth. From how little they care for the lives of men.

Maybe he’s half-elf.

It would explain why he’s so fucking smug.

“Forgive me, Dromada’s Chosen, for I have sinned against Her,” Bohli says, and he doesn’t even try to feign sincerity. Why he even plays this game, when Dromada isn’t a goddess for the elves of their wretched offspring to begin with, is beyond Grigori’s understanding.

Grigori fights the urge to sigh. He makes Dromada’s Sign, wondering if it even calls to Her any longer. If She even feels the spark of a follower’s call, or if he’s cut off from Her entirely. Who hears him when he prays?

Does anyone?

“How have you sinned against Our Mother, She Who Gave the Waters?”

Bohli licks his lips. His smile is a little too wide, shows too many of those sharp, sharp teeth. He'd be blisteringly handsome, if it weren’t for the sight of fangs where none should be. “I won’t lie, Brother Grigori. I set some stuff on fire yesterday. And I’m going to do it again. Will I be forgiven?”

Grigori imagines the mud climbing higher and higher up his robes, pulling him into the earth, forcing itself down his mouth and pressing over his eyes. He imagines the gods in the sky, looking down from their stars.

The image shatters with the memory of first sitting at the table with the dozen or so of Bohli's favorites, each of them smiling at him, while he sat in his pure white robes and felt himself bared, as if naked, before them.

Until Bohli had given the order for what to do with him.

“Dromada forgives all who seek Her,” Grigori intones, thoughtless. The words memorized before he was even thirteen years old, before he was old enough to take his vows. Before he was taken, and they were all broken, one by one. Bohli loved breaking Grigori's vows. “You have only to ask.”

“Good.” Bohli’s voice drops low. He has to focus to hear it, which is probably the bastard’s entire point. “Because I really, really love asking, and I love the sound of your answers.”

The bandit stands, walking over to him, putting one finger under his chin and forcing Grigori to look up - and up, and up, and up - to see the demon smile.

Grigori is sure, as Bohli watches him with his head tipped to the side and his black eyes as bright as the stars, that he can hear the goddess laughing.

#whump #new whump #the heretic's confession #captivity #captivity whump #intimate whumper #creepy whumper #fantasy whump #some weird fantasy race stuff happening here #just go with it #religious whump #religion whump #fantasy writing #bohli is a bad bad man #grigori is just a tired blorbo

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beanghostprincess · 4 months

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Married Sanuso won't leave my mind.

A 50 y/o Sanji running the Baratie after Zeff's death while his 48 y/o husband Usopp is the one helping him cultivate most of his ingredients and also tells all the clients about their past adventures with Monkey D. Luffy. They're all always captivated and entertained by Usopp's way with words and storytelling skills, so Sanji lets him do whatever he wants as long as he doesn't keep the clients too distracted. They don't always stay there, of course, they use any chance they can get to go on trips too and visit all the people they love, even if Sanji doesn't seem to be capable (physically) of leaving the restaurant for long (he's always worried somebody might need food urgently, and who is Usopp to keep Sanji from following his passion? As long as he doesn't overwork himself...). They're all doing their own stuff, but the crew comes by regularly to eat there and have a good time together, always staying past closing time and having a private party only for them. For old times' sake.

Sanji has longer hair now. Wavy. Reaches past his shoulders and he often needs to wear a ponytail to cook, but Usopp just loves it way more when it's undone and messy after a long day of working. His goatee is longer now but it still isn't a beard, he just styles it so he can braid it like his father used to do. Zeff would call him sentimental, but Sanji thinks it's nice to remember him this way. He might look like he's more exhausted than ever, but he has never been more relaxed and happier in his entire life. His whole body is covered with scars from his past. Scars he doesn't regret and remembers fondly and others he would rather forget but, knowing he won't, he just lets the future do its thing and leave them behind. When the future is being a bit of a bastard and attacks him back with nightmares and memories, Usopp is always there to hold him and bring him back to the present. So it's alright, even if the scars still hurt, because Usopp is always there to catch him if they bring him down. He wears his wedding ring in his left hand and he's always staring at it while cooking. Sometimes he considers wearing it as a necklace instead because he often gets distracted by it, but he wouldn't have it any other way and he knows that the only right place for his ring to rest is on his fingers, protecting his hands and, at the same time, his heart.

Usopp now wears dreads like his father, but longer. Way longer hair than he used to. Sanji keeps lending him hair ties because he forgets how bothersome it can get to have such long hair, and somehow he always loses them in between all of his inventions (in the workshop Sanji asked Franky to make connected to the Baratie so Usopp could do his own things too). He wants to grow a beard but it always seems too short for him and he can't make it grow longer, but his husband says he looks extremely hot anyway and it'd be bothersome to kiss otherwise, so Usopp is happy like this. Usopp has never been more motivated to work. He spends his day at the workshop, telling stories to the clients or helping Sanji in the kitchen (because he now knows a few things about cooking). It's a dream come true, being able to rest but keep creating and going on adventures whenever they want. Nami has helped him tattoo some stuff on his arms and chest. Nothing too eccentric but cool enough to catch people's attention (his own designs!). Most people ask about them, and if you're one of the lucky ones, he'll tell you what each tattoo means, usually leading to one of the Strawhat's most crucial adventures. His ring is something everybody knows about because he won't shut up about it. He keeps showing it to everybody who passes by and dares to say something about him or his husband. And then he always mentions Franky and how he was the one to make their wedding rings.

They live peacefully. Kind of. Sort of. It's hard to do so when you're from the crew of the King of the Pirates. A lot of people come by to challenge them to duels, and even if Usopp really wants to show off sometimes, Sanji is just a bit too done with that because they always make such a mess in his restaurant... Whatever. It's not like the fights last long anyway. Poor souls that try to fight them. A lot of girls, actually, try to get in between them too, and Sanji hasn't changed a bit. He's aged like fine wine and he's one of Luffy's wings, not to mention he's also the best cook known and he was the one to find the All Blue. So... A lot of women are into him (his money. His status. His reputation. His abilities. His past) and he's too weak to say no to them, so Usopp has to keep an eye on him sometimes. He's easily manipulated by women and the only girl Usopp allows to do that is Nami. But it's alright, really. They live a very calm life, despite the small details like random fights and women trying to break their relationship (impossible. Even if Usopp wasn't there to stop them, Sanji has his limits and he would never disrespect his husband like that). Sanji cooks. Usopp creates. All the paintings around the restaurant were painted by Usopp, and Sanji couldn't be prouder, always telling customers about it with the brightest of smiles.

They love the word "husband". "Mari". Whatever they're in the mood for. They keep loving each other like the first day, and arguing like they were still teenagers. But the way they love has so many years behind (years of longing. Of desperation. Of friendship. Of growth) that every year it feels warmer. Like home. Sanji plays with Usopp's ring when they're going to bed. It helps him fall asleep. Usopp holds his hands close to his chest to keep them safe. He's still not taller than Sanji but he's wider now. A bit bigger. And Sanji wants to melt and sleep in between his arms forever, even if he knows they'll wake up tangled up and snoring, with Usopp's feet hanging from the bed while Sanji's hair gets in his mouth in the middle of the night.

They never let go of each other's hands, though. That's something they won't allow even if they're asleep.

And they always wake up to the sound of their rings together. It doesn't matter who wakes up first, it's their way of telling the other they're there. They're safe. That they can wake up knowing they aren't alone. If Sanji wakes up first, he kisses Usopp's face while tapping on his ring with his own. And if Usopp is the one to wake up first, he does the same, except his kisses land on Sanji's hands instead.

They used to do this too when they were only teenagers aboard the Sunny, Sanji remembers. Just not with the rings. He kept imagining them there, though, every time, but they weren't there.

And now that they are, he can't imagine a world in which he doesn't wake up next to the stupid sniper he calls his husband.

#i am having a lot of thoughts about them #i am going insane #i think they'd be so soft and funny together #they're my beloveds #also add daughters and a son right there (my ocs specifically)#i just keep thinking about marriage lately don't look at me i am soft and i want to get married so i am in a bit of a mood #one piece #black leg sanji #usopp #sanuso

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ride-thedragon · 1 year

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At this point I think as a fandom, we've lost some of the crackship charm we once had. I can look up Ashara Dayne and Ser Davos and find results, But Nettles and Helaena have nothing. It's time to rectify that for my favourite girl and try to inspire some fanfics. Feel free to add more.

1. Daeron and Nettles

Think Enemies to Lovers, Captive of War drama like Jaime and Brienne or just some good old Gwen and Arthur-inspired love. Ivy by Taylor Swift coded, a She's all that inspired affair. I genuinely think that he's just trying to be there for her with this one. It happens and neither of them realise until You're in Love starts playing.

2. Baela and Nettles.

They would give the pot calling the kettle black in every argument. The Princess Bride-esque dynamic between them. Very Graham and Megan from but I'm a Cheerleader. Sapphic Pinning and Resentment should be its own genre. Sir Chloe's Michelle is my vision. We can even make a throuple with them and Jace or Alyn. Truly, I think they but heads until they kiss, building on resentment. I also think they would be the coolest couple.

3. Addam and Nettles

Kaz and Inej core.

But in all seriousness, I think Addam being loyal and Duty bound and Nettles challenging that idea is delicious. Solider of Duty x Solider for the People. A modern-day Persuasion story but gender-flipped if we put our minds to it. See you Again Kali Uchis and Tyler the Creator, that's all.

4. Nettles and Helaena

They just deserve better. That's all. Give me cottagecore sapphic romance with my best girls involves. Like the young lesbians from Barbie and the Diamond Castle. Lesbians raising kids together. Sheepstealer and Dreamfyre hatching eggs for the nieces and nephews. I just-

It would be so cool, I will by Mitski sentiment is already attached.

5. Alyn and Nettles

Now that we are here obviously she apologized for Sheepstealer, she doesn't need to but she did, He tries not to like her but can't help it. She wins him over and they hatch him an egg or something idk. Think The Princess Diaries: Royal Engagement, Mia and Nicholas, Flipped the movie if you will. Jealously plots would slay. For the song choice think Shameless Camila Cabello. Please remember that Alyn is younger than Netty by 3/4 years though.

6. Rhaena and Nettles

See now this is classic Friends to Lovers, Emma and Harriet if gay, perhaps, Bend it Like Beckham core definitely. Sofia by Clario inspired. Nettles doesn't leave Rhaena out because she's without a dragon and the same happens inverse. Sapphic confusion however, like Rhaena doesn't understand at first why she feels that way.

7. Nettles and Jace.

Now for the Mr Knightley and Emma Woodhouse of our time, the Kate and Anthony of Westeros. The potential for her just not listening to him when he tries to tell her how to ride a dragon. Or when she talks to him about the people he'll rule over eventually, Ygritte and Jon style. She's also the only bastard who doesn't look Targaryen, he can relate to that a bit. I think she's Fierce and he's Stubborn. Ungodly Hour by Chloe x Halle for them.

8. Nettles and Alys.

The Fire Witches of Westeros. I think they will be perfect as a ship. American Horror Story-esque characters. The two Witches in the story are obviously my favourites. It would be Jennifer's Body meets, the craft meets, and Suspiria. Willow by Taylor Swift becomes them.

This one was also a bonus more or less.

Anyways I just need to start to get a baseline story for my girl by the time the show gives her to us. So we have a general sense of direction, I'm tired of the mischaracterization of my baby. She's smart, resourceful, Cunning, Fearless, and not entirely loyal. She also curses, enough for it to be a character trait. Please remember this for her, I'm tired. I also know that Daemon loved her but she's too much fun as a character to limit her to him romantically in all her fanfictions, it is an interesting narrative to explore while we don't have exact answers but he gets romantic ships with anyone. She deserves more.

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chihirolovebot · 1 year

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wrap me up (take me home).

featuring. jotaro kujo/reader, implied jotakak/reader (past)

word count. 1.04k

synopsis. ten years after cairo, you pay a visit to a gravesite. thankfully, you aren't alone.

content. implied jotakak/reader, major sdc spoilers, mentions of death, gender-neutral reader, cemeteries, fluff, minor angst

merry ficmas masterlist.

You dream of Cairo one night.

You all sleep under the stars. The deserts get unspeakably cold during the nights, but you and Kakyoin make a sleepy cuddle-pile with Jotaro sandwiched between all of you, and though he grumbles and laments his lack of personal space, he doesn't push at either of you with anything near his full strength. Even at just seventeen he could've pummelled you both into chum. But he didn't, and he doesn't, so Kakyoin nuzzles into his side and you wrap yourself around one toned arm and start to point out constellations above you.

"How strange is it," Kakyoin says softly. "We're looking at the same sky as our parents back in Japan. They can all see the same stars as us."

Jotaro casts him a flat look from under the dark hair that tumbles over his forehead. "Don't get all sentimental when I'm trying to sleep."

"Sorry, sorry," Kakoyin relents with a breathy laugh as you tut and elbow Jotaro in the ribs for his crudeness. "I just... do you suppose we'll be home, soon?"

You bite your lip. You taste stray grains of sand and the kushari you'd eaten for dinner. "Dio can't hide forever," is what you conjure up when it becomes clear Jotaro won't answer. The boy in the middle stares up at the shimmering sky, blue eyes contemplative, softer than you usually see them.

You go to sleep seventeen years old and whole.

You wake twenty-eight, and it's cold.

Not the same sort of cold you'd find in an Egyptian desert at night. This one is clinical and smells of lemongrass air refresher; the air conditioning of your fancy hotel bleaches the oxygen in the room and makes your hair stand on end, and you irritably get out of bed to switch it off. Japan gets cold enough in January as it is, you don't need it and it's a total waste of resources, anyway.

At least you're only here for a couple of days.

You find Jotaro in the bathroom, skin gleaming, fresh-washed. He's dressed already, white suit luminescent against his skin, but for all his care to look put together you can see the circles stretching under his dull eyes, dark and deep.

"Morning," you conjure up. He nods.

"You slept okay?"

"Not really." You hoist yourself up onto the bathroom counter with a sigh. "I dreamed of Cairo."

Jotaro's shoulders stiffen. For a moment, you think he won't answer—but then he drops his eyes and mutters, "Me, too."

"Stars?"

"...Yeah."

You let the silence ruminate for a moment before hopping back to your feet with a deep sigh. "Come on, then. I'm freezing, I want a shower."

You wash and dress in simple black clothes. It feels appropriate for the day—it is one of mourning and respect, after all. And you've always sort of liked dressing in a polar opposite way to Jotaro. It calls attention to the both of you, draws eyes in the street, reminds you that you're still here, alive, still together and in love. You didn't die a thousand miles away from home.

Not like him.

Kakyoin's hometown is small and modest, and the same goes for the cemetery. You don't have to look for his headstone—you two come here every year on January sixteenth, after all. You pick your way across the grass silently, and you stoop down to press hydrangeas against the slab of marble.

And it's as it always is. You kneel, Jotaro stands. You both pray for his spirit, though you muse that if he hasn't found peace after eleven years he's probably shit out of luck by now. He's probably keeping himself around out of spite. Smug bastard.

You miss him so, so badly.

You feel his absence every time you wake at Jotaro's side, every time you take his hand and he has one left over, dangling emptily at his side. The age at which Kakyoin died has begun to feel younger and younger as the two of you grow older—and it's not all melancholy. You're married, after all. You're in love, unconditionally. But there is a gap there, too, always has been since that night against Dio eleven years ago.

You stand just as the hard earth is beginning to bite at you, hands shaking. Jotaro notices, because of course he does.

"Cold?" he asks, probably mostly to spare your feelings. You nod, and he grumbles under his breath as he envelopes your hand in one of his huge ones and tucks them deftly into his pocket. Jotaro always runs so, so warm—he was like your personal heater, travelling through planes of desert in winter at night all those years ago.

"You're warm," you tell him fondly. Jotaro casts a sideways look at you as you begin to leave the cemetery, as though trying to gauge if you're making fun of him. But you're not, of course. You're grateful.

After a moment of blank-faced scrutinisation, Jotaro's face softens ever so slightly, the way it sometimes did back in 1989 when he looked over you and Kakyoin, the way it seems to do so much more often these days as he sheds his teenage rage and sullenness.

"Yeah, it's freezing," he grunts, fingers squeezing yours gently. He's always so very gentle with you, always terrified of hurting you. He never could, which is something he has still yet to truly internalise. He's used to breaking things, your Jotaro. If only he knew how fast he'd held the three of you together. "We can catch a flight back to Tokyo tonight."

"Sounds good," you murmur. "We should spend Christmas here one year, you think? Kakyoin always talked about how nice this place was at Christmas."

Jotaro hums. "Not a bad idea. Erm... his mother did say we were always welcome. I dunno."

"I think he would've liked that," you murmur. "Hey. Thanks."

He blinks at you, expression just a touch bewildered. "What for?"

"Warming me up." Your hand squeezes his, lovingly, and Jotaro flushes and turns away, muttering profanity under his breath. You beam as you walk; in some ways, he really hasn't changed at all.

In some ways, neither have you. You're still dreaming of Cairo, staring up at the stars.

#🎄.ficmas #jjba x reader #jojo x reader #jotaro x reader #jotaro kujo #jotaro kujo x reader #jjba #jojos bizarre adventure #kujo jotaro #🗞; writing tag.#jjba headcanons #jotaro headcanons #kujo jotaro x reader #kujo jotaro headcanons

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allzelemonz · 1 year

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The Runner: Sean MacGuire X Male Reader

Pronouns: None Mentioned, Reader is referred to as ‘man’ Physical Sex: None Mentioned Rating: T/Language, drinking Warnings: The gang is drunk, no mention of the reader drinking or not, Sean is touchy, kissing, lap sitting, babysitting drunk friends Summary: Drunk Sean is a runner.

There are a few types of drunks in the Van Der Linde Gang. Most are silly and happy, even Micah makes jokes and laughs. A few are story-tellers, more sentimental than anything. Dutch may be the most prominent, telling his adopted sons how much he loves them throughout the night. But there is a third type of drunk in the gang, a type with only one that fits into it.

The runner.

Sean MacGuire is a runner. In camp, it’s not so much of a problem. He wants to be chased and Lenny is happy to play tag with him, Arthur may join in and drag John along. It’s fun and games at camp, but it’s a nightmare at saloons. After a certain number of drinks you really have to watch him. He slips away so easily and he enjoys the frustration it brings you. If you let him run there is no doubt that he will get arrested. The most effective way to combat his drunken desire to run is to keep a physical hold on him in some way. Trapping his hand in yours or keeping a tight arm around his waist. Arthur has used a leash before, but Sean has escaped those like a crafty toddler.

This town is very relaxed, very casual, so you keep Sean in your lap this time. When he’s with you and he’s not running, he’s very touchy anyway. You relax into your seat and Sean doesn’t seem to want to run tonight since he can happily sit on your lap and kiss along your neck with his hands in your hair. He’ll occasionally pull away to talk to Lenny or join one of Uncle’s unprompted songs, but he’ll always come back with a sloppy kiss pressed to whatever skin he can get at.

Then he has to go outside to relieve himself. You follow him, you’re not stupid. He leans against the wall as he goes, you stand a few feet away.

“You wanna go back to camp?” Sean slurs as he refastens his pants. “Been teasin’ me all night, love.”

“You did that to yourself.”

Sean laughs. “Well you weren’t lettin’ me have fun, had to make my own!”

Then he gets that look in his eye.

“Sean, no.”

It’s too late. He takes off towards the street and you chase after him. Sean is a fast bastard, annoyingly fast. He’s out of sight by the time you reach the street. He could be anywhere. Then there’s a loud crash from behind one of the shops. You run towards it and find Sean laid out among the debris of some boxes and grain. The windows in the shop light up and you scramble to get Sean on his feet before you’re met with the familiar angry shop owner wielding a shotgun.

He groans as you stand him up. “I didn’t do that. It was like that when I found it.”

“Shut up, Sean.”

“Ya mad at me, big man?”

You get him across the street and out of sight of the shop, pressing him back against the wall of another building. “Stop running.”

“But I like when ya chase me.”

He grips at your gunbelt and pulls you in for a kiss. It’s sloppy and he tastes like whiskey, but you cup his cheek and kiss him back.

“Sean!” Arthur calls. “Sean, my boy!”

Arthur’s drunk too.

You pull away from Sean, making sure to get a tight grip on his hand before walking back towards the saloon.

Arthur cheers. “I found ya, Sean!”

Behind him, Uncle is swaying on his feet with a bottle in his hand.

“Arthur?” You ask.

He hums.

“Where’s Lenny?”

Arthur looks around, finding no sign of the young man. “Lenny!”

“Okay.” You sigh. “I’m gonna take Sean back. Try not to get arrested.”

“Lenny!” Arthur yells, slurring much more than the first time.

You pull Sean along to the horses. Arthur stumbles back into the saloon, yelling for Lenny. Uncle follows him, nearly tripping as he walks inside. They’re gonna get arrested. At least you got Sean under control.

#red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #red dead redemption x reader #red dead redemption x male reader #x reader #x male reader #sean macguire #sean macguire x reader #sean macguire x male reader

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alteon77 · 1 year

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The Bizarre Breeding Habits of Anthropomorphic Personifications: Chapter 3

It's a tale as old as time.

Two idiots fall in love. Two idiots fall out of love.

Neither one of them is expecting a baby to come along and derail their unhappily ever after.

Chapter one here, AO3 here, Masterlist here

Chapter Summary: Morpheus discovers they're having a baby. He's not quite sure how to feel about it.

Viego pulls another blanket up to cover May where she's dozing on the couch, his mind whirring with the implications of the mess she's now in.

And he discovers pretty quickly that he's fucking terrified for her.

His little sister is going to have a baby, and his stomach twists with worry as he processes this. She'll be almost completely stripped of her magic soon and unsafe as shit because of it. A powerless maker, he knows, is a dead maker. Without her magic, she could very well end up as just another casualty, as just another of their number that is dwindling more and more with every decade that they're relentlessly hunted.

The rest of the supernatural world believes it's humans and magic users doing this, but Viego knows better. It's their own kind that are responsible for the deaths, the civil war from their home realm spilling out into every world connected to it. Those that fled the persecution and fighting are given a single choice when they're found: to join the war effort or be executed.

Some choose to go back, but most others would rather die. And so they do. Horribly. Brutally. With no mercy.

Viego scrubs a tired hand over his face, his ever present paranoia making him weary as he walks to the front door. They can't stay here. They'll need to go to ground again, and right now his sister looks so sickeningly frail that he worries to even shift her through this world, much less to take her to another. He steps out onto the porch for a bit of fresh air, resigned to talk with her about this when she wakes up. She's probably going to be pissed, but he doesn't know what else to do, doesn't know how else to protect her. And truthfully, he thinks that he shouldn't be managing her safety on his own while she's powerless anyway. That Endless bastard had been the one to knock her up, and part of this responsibility should absolutely rest with him too.

And Viego thinks the love-struck personification would probably gladly take it on if only May would fucking tell him that she was pregnant. Not for the first time, he curses her stubbornness even as he knows there's nothing to be done for it. It's her choice. All of it. And he won't take that from her. He won't… won't allow that to be taken from her by anyone.

He'd vowed a long, long time ago that he would never let her be hurt like that again.

The leaves on a tree near him rustle, and he panics for a split second, a swell of crackling red power materializing in his hand. Are they here already? Have hostile makers already found them? He'd thought for sure they'd have a little longer to get everything in order before they left, a necessity if him and May wanted to avoid causing any suspicion with their neighbors or the townspeople as they fled.

"Whoa! V! It's just me!" the voice calls from a nearby branch and Viego frowns in confusion. When the bird lands on the porch railing in front of him, Viego thinks that he really shouldn't be surprised at all to see him.

This raven, this little servant of Dream's, used to devotedly follow May around like some sort of avian puppy dog. Of course, that had been before Dream had cast May out like she was nothing to him, a turn of events that both infuriates and baffles him. As much as Viego has always disliked the anthropomorphic personification of dreams, any idiot could have seen that Dream had loved May with a nauseating fervor. The idea of him just tossing her from his realm doesn't track with that tenderly affectionate sentiment he'd had for her. Like, at all.

"What are you doing here?" Viego growls out. The fist that isn't burning with his magic clenches tight at his side as if to stop himself from grabbing the creature and throttling him in a rage. He forcibly reminds himself that he's pissed at Dream, not at the damn raven, and it settles him a tiny bit.

Matthew's wings visibly ruffle. "Calm down, man. I'm just checking on her."

He says this so simply, so easily, like Viego isn't right to be suspicious that the bird could have came on that Endless asshole's orders. "Did he send you?" They both know who he is, but Viego won't say his name aloud, half afraid as he is to accidentally summon him.

The raven scoffs. "Are you kidding me? He'd pluck out all my feathers out if he knew I was here."

With narrowed eyes, Viego studies him. Matthew sounds honest enough, or at least as honest as a talking bird can sound, and if he really isn't here on Dream's command then maybe Viego might be able to get some real answers from him as to why May was banished. "Do you know what the hell happened between them?"

"Boss man, he… uh… he found out about the grimoire," Matthew nervously relays.

"What about it?"

"Come on," Matthew huffs in disbelief. "You know what. That she wrote it."

Viego closes his eyes for a moment, the power in his palm fizzling down to nothing as pity and frustration wash over him. Their past always seems to catch up with them in some way or another, and what else is that damn book but one of the biggest fucking remnants of their horrible history? Viego thinks then that he understands what's going on here more than he wants to. May had indeed added spells to that universe-forsaken book. They both had as children, but neither of them had had any real choice in the matter. Torture, he'd learned at a too-young age, was a very effective tool of persuasion. "And I guess he won't forgive her."

Matthew hesitates. "He asked her about it, and she… she wouldn't answer him."

"No," Viego supplies tonelessly, his own guilt a vicious, gnawing thing inside of him. "She probably couldn't." He's all too aware that even if she had tried to access those memories, she'd likely been blocked, making it so she wasn't even capable of giving Dream any explanation at all. The facts are that she doesn't remember the details of it, the terror of their ordeal having long since been... hidden in her mind with very few traces left behind for her to draw from.

Blinking, the bird asks, "That's a weird thing to say, Viego. What do you mean? Why couldn't she?"

"It doesn't matter," Viego tells him as he waves his question off. "Look, he's not welcome here. Either in her home or her life. Not right now, at least." After all, he's not quite sure whether or not May will actually ever tell Dream about the baby or if the bastard will actually want anything to do with it if she does.

"Yeah. I, um… I kinda figured that." And with his tone, it's almost as if Matthew... agrees with him, almost like he would forbid Dream from seeing May too if he was in Viego's shoes.

An idea comes to him as he looks at the raven, though, something in him softening at the clear affection this creature has for May. His sister had spent decades in the Dreaming, making friends there as she always tended to do, but unlike the mortals that she would sometimes grow close to, she'd been expecting these particular entities to be in her life for the rest of it. She'd been excited at the prospect of getting to keep them forever, at the prospect of being able to set down roots in a way that she and Viego had never been able to do. On the occasions that Viego had visited her in the Dream King's realm, he had been happy to see her so happy, had felt his heart go tight to see her settle contentedly into the sort of life that she'd always wanted and that he'd never been able to give her.

A life where she was allowed to belong.

She was too used to her and Viego having to continually move, too used to their constant running in an effort to stay one step ahead of the makers on their trail. Dream had given May calm and peace, had given her the possibility of permanence.

And then the selfish git had yanked it right out from under her, rescinding his offer of marriage and her new home and apparently even her friends in one fell swoop. Viego's anger at this roils inside of him. "Does anyone else know you're here?"

The bird lifts his wings, flapping them once before bringing them back at his side, and while Viego isn't an expert in avian body language by any means, this strikes him as a nervous gesture. Matthew looks down and reluctantly mutters, "Lucienne."

Viego's eyes widen, his whole body going rigid at this piece of information, and he can understand the raven's unwillingness to admit this to him. Lucienne is Dream's right hand man, or… well, er… woman. "Is she the one reporting to him then?"

Matthew shakes his head almost frantically. "No! Not about this. She's just worried too, V."

The raven seems genuine, and Viego finds himself gentling at this. He can imagine that they are worried, that they had grown as attached to May as she'd grown to them, and he feels his chest tauten at the thought. For far too long, he had been all May had, and despite that he had tried to give her as much companionship as he could scrape together, she'd never really had enough. Sure, she'd collected a few mortals over their many millennia like petals falling from a wilting flower, but their shortened lifespans meant that they could never stay with her the way that these immortal Dreaming creatures were able to. He knows that his sister is probably as heartbroken at the loss of them as she is at the loss of Dream. And while he can't fix the divide between her and that Endless fucker, he can try and make sure that she at least gets to have her friends in her new life. With this in mind, he comes to a decision.

"I don't want him near her," Viego starts roughly, knowing that when or if May decides to tell Dream, it needs to be on her terms. "But you and Lucienne can see her if you want. I know she misses you two."

Matthew noticeably perks up. "Really? She'd be okay with that?"

"Yeah. Stop spying on her though. It's creepy as fuck."

"Sorry… It's just habit these days." Excited, the raven readies himself to take flight when he, almost as an afterthought, adds, "I'm going to go and tell the boss lady. We'll be back... probably in a couple of minutes."

And as he flies up and away, Viego can't help but to huff out a laugh at Matthew's obvious elation before he heads back into the house to wake his sister. He's relieved that May will have something to lift her spirits in the coming months, and he thinks that maybe, just maybe, she might not fight him so much about going back on the run if he can offer her something like this regardless of where they end up.

It might not be a marriage with the love of her life and a place to call her own, but he knows that she'll nonetheless be grateful for the chance to have the companionship of those she loves. Well, the ones she loves who will actually stick by her side, anyway. And really, in the coming months, that might just be the only kind of friends she truly needs. The ones who will stay. The ones who will love her no matter her past. The ones who wouldn't ever think to banish and leave her alone.

"Sir," Lucienne greets while Morpheus sits on his throne, poring over the census register that his librarian had brought him the night before.

He doesn't even spare her a glance as he informs her, "There is an entity missing from this."

"I sought out all the dreamfolk, sir." When he does lift his eyes to look at her, there's a confused frown on her face. "They should all be in there."

Thoroughly perplexed, he studies the last page of the tome again. He can feel there's a name not listed here, though for the life of him he can't seem to pull it up in his vast awareness. This sense of not knowing is wholly unsettling to him, but he forces his attention away from it for the time being. "Do you require something, Lucienne?"

"My lord, the Dark Forest is acting up again."

"Acting up?" he questions, his brow creasing in puzzlement at the odd statement.

"It's started swallowing up the dreamfolk that reside within it and… relocating them to various parts of the realm."

"Ah… I will see to it then." He's been slowly easing back into managing his duties, trying to ignore the ever-present pang in his heart at May's betrayal. The transition has not been an easy one, but he knows that he will not be afforded the opportunity to neglect his function for much longer, no matter his grief.

Before him, his librarian hesitates, clasping her hands together as she usually does when she's preparing herself to broach a subject with him that she'd rather not. "Sir… if I might."

He nods slowly, tensing for whatever she will say. "Yes?"

"There have been many... upheavals in the realm of late. I believe the forest is only reacting to the… changes."

He stares blankly at Lucienne as if he does not understand what meaning she's trying to impart, a trick of impassivity he had learned ages ago but which he finds himself using more and more since his separation from the woman he'd sought to make his queen. He thinks he knows exactly what his librarian is attempting to relay to him, however, exactly what she is trying to communicate to him without directly speaking it aloud.

The forest misses May.

It makes sense, he supposes. She had been more skilled at soothing the temperamental woodland than he ever was, taking over its care almost immediately after she'd come to the Dreaming. May's touch with the realm was secondary only to his, and he's not fool enough to think that she hadn't possibly been more adept concerning some aspects, given that she was a maker and better suited to such things. The Dark Forest, in particular, had always preferred her to him.

He stands and makes his way down the stairs leading away from his throne until he's only a few steps above Lucienne. His tone cold, he asks, "Are you pleading mercy on its behalf?"

She doesn't blanch at his icy fury, doesn't flinch away from the possibility of his temper. "I am merely… suggesting that you keep this in mind while you interact with it."

She means to say that he shouldn't burn it to the ground in a fit of rage as he's often threatened to do. He doesn't understand why this should be so. May was attached to that wretched creation of his, but he has no such sentimentality towards it. "I am aware that she held affection for the forest, Lucienne, but I do not, and as such I will handle it as I see fit."

"My lord… if she were to ever be allowed to return here, she would never… forgive such an action on your part."

His chest aches with loss, and the pain of it drives him further into the throes of his anger. "A moot point since she will never be allowed to return here."

"Of course." Her eyes flick to the floor, a clear attempt at avoiding his glare, but he thinks he catches something in their brown depths before she hides her face from him. Hope, he thinks, and… and guilt. What cause would she have to feel either of these things? Morpheus moves closer to her, and when he reaches the bottom step, May's scent flits across his senses. Recoiling slightly from this, he scrutinizes his librarian anew. Why would she smell like May? Furthermore, what transgression might she have committed to make her avert her gaze from him?

Realization slams into him with all the force of a hurricane, the treachery of it almost agonizing. "You've been to see her?" he breathes out.

Lucienne… doesn't deny it, but she does inhale sharply. "She is banished from the Dreaming, my lord. You never specified that we might not visit her outside of this realm."

"That forbiddance was plainly implied," he bites out.

"My apologies then, sir."

She doesn't look apologetic in the slightest if he's being honest. If anything, she appears frustrated with him. How can she not understand that he will not risk any of his creations to May's likely duplicitous intentions? He opens his mouth to explain it to Lucienne, to tell her why this is as it must be when he thinks on how May had looked when he'd last seen her. She had been pale, worn, as if she carried some great burden on her shoulders. Morpheus thinks that he should be pleased by this, should take joy in her suffering as thoroughly as she had taken joy in lying to him, in playing him for the fool.

But he cannot.

He hates that he cannot.

The fury in him evaporates, and fear takes its place, swelling within him so suddenly that it's nearly staggering. "Lucienne," he starts, his throat suspiciously dry as he tries to swallow down the lump there. "Is she… well?"

His librarian seems surprised by his question, but her features melt into an expression of worried bleakness. "No, sir… I do not believe she is."

He means to demand that she elaborate on this, that she explain to him what's affecting May so grievously, but he does not get the chance. Something tugs on his mind, the sensation one he's grown all too accustomed to these weeks past.

May is drowning.

When last he'd pulled her from the Dreamer's sea, he had threatened to let her die if she found herself in these waters again, and yet he knows that he is no more capable of that then he is of forgiving her for her betrayal. His pride burns at this. Morpheus has always considered his decisions final, his word immutable, and yet he doesn't think twice about going back on his oath as he shifts to her, as he dives into the water and saves her yet again.

He hauls her from the sea and onto the pier, his anger rising as he stands back and waits for May to settle. She coughs out great quantities of water and tries to relax the way her chest heaves in its desperation for air. Her shoulders shake with cold, and he clenches his hands into fists in an effort to stay himself from doing something foolish like warming her with his power or stripping off his coat to drape about her.

She deserves no more kindness from him than he's already given her this night by rescuing her from an early death.

Trembling, she gets weakly to her feet, seemingly preparing herself to have an argument with him.

"How?" he demands for the seventh time in as many days.

May closes her eyes and lets out a heavy sigh. "I really, really don't know. Trust me, this is just as annoying to me as it is to you."

Trust. Trust? He feels himself go rigid with his rage, his murderous incredulity no doubt showing on his features as she takes a step back from him.

"Trust you?" His tone is a roaring inferno set atop a solidly frozen glacier. "You would dare to request such a thing in my presence?"

She puts her hands up, obviously frightened. "No… Look, I just… It's a figure of speech, okay? Just calm down."

"Do not order me to calm," he growls as he advances on her, and she takes another step back. When she does this, she finds herself teetering on the edge of the pier, and it's instinct for him to reach out and pull her more surely back onto it, to yank her to safety.

His hand around her upper arm, he tugs her into his chest without meaning to. Her breathing seems to come faster at this contact, and where she's pressed against him he can feel the rapid beating of her heart.

"I wasn't… ordering you. I… I'm sorry. I didn't think."

"Not thinking seems to be an all too common occurrence for you," he rumbles out harshly, her proximity to him making his heart throb in pain and longing. He should release her, he knows, should move away, but he… he thinks that he's not even capable of doing so in this moment.

The insult registers, and she glowers heatedly at him for it, her earlier fear forgotten in her fury. "Oh, fuck you," she snaps.

"What did you say to me?" His tone drops dangerously low at her response, at the disrespect with which she's addressing him.

As utterly uncaring of his quiet menace as she always used to be, she snarls, "You heard me. I said fuck you."

"You will leave this realm and never return," he commands, an icy edge of finality to his voice. How dare she speak to him in this way. How dare she even think that she has a right to show anger at him after the offense she's committed, after the act of treachery she'd so effectively wielded and run him through with.

"That's what I'm trying to do!" May yells in frustration. "Maybe you should do your actual job and make it so I'm not drowning in this fucking sea of whatever every night."

"My job?" Warningly, his grip on her arm tightens enough that she winces at it, and he has to force himself to loosen his hold and temper his strength.

"Yes. Your job. Craft the banishment more thoroughly or reinforce it or something. I'm done with this."

"I reinforce it every time you enter in this way," he hisses.

At his admission, he witnesses her heart break before him anew as if she's only just understood they they are, in fact, finished with one another. Her face drains of what little color she'd had, and she stiffens in his hold, her jaw clenching. Her eyes well with tears before she glances away.

"Let go of me," she demands, a sorrow to her voice that cuts at him.

"If I release you, you'll fall into the sea, and I'll be forced to pull you out yet again," he grits out through clenched teeth.

She tries to get free of his grasp on her regardless, and when she finds it unrelenting the fight seems to go out of her. Softly, brokenly she requests, "Then… just send me home. Please."

"I will personally escort you there." It's a calculated offer on his part. He needs to see what it is she's doing to get here, needs to get some idea of the exact magic she's working to break through his banishment so he can more thoroughly strengthen it against her. For the sake of his sanity, he cannot continue being forced to interact with her so regularly.

Alarm washes over her features, and he narrows his eyes warily at this abrupt difference in her demeanor. "No. Just send me there. I'm not welcome in your home. What makes you think that you're welcome in mine?"

"I will go where I wish." Morpheus regards her as if he's amused by her audacity, as if she's nothing but a particularly annoying fly that's just ordered him to keep his hands out of a fruit bowl.

But then, in an instant something seems to change with her. She's heavier in his hold suddenly as if he's the only thing keeping her upright, and her eyes go out of focus, distant. He's seen this before, remembers it once from many years past when her magic had faltered after she'd used too much of it at once. Reaching out with his power to examine her, he's unnerved when he feels… nothing. There's naught but a void where her magic should be.

"Not to… to… my home." Her voice is barely there, and she unexpectedly tips back slightly, as if she's unsteady, as if she's dizzy. Using her free hand, she tries to push away from his chest anyway. "Let go…" she slurs.

"May?" he questions, concern flooding him. And then, before he can even say another word, her eyes roll back in her head and she collapses completely.

Panicking, his terror a living, biting thing inside of him, he gathers her up more surely in his arms and lowers her to the wood planks of the pier. "Beloved," he calls and shakes his head at the idiocy of his unthinking endearment. "May," he tries again more firmly this time, all the while loathing the rough hint of fear for her he can hear in his voice.

With hands that feel as if they might be shaking, he checks her over, relieved to find that she seems physically fine save for her missing magic. She has simply… fainted. It worries him still, and this worry, he knows, is misplaced. They are nothing to one another now, and as such he should not care. The only correct thing for him to do in this moment is return her to her home. He lifts her back up and with a thought, he reluctantly does just that, shifting them both straight to her room in the Waking.

It's uncharacteristically chaotic in here, filled as it is with a great quantity of boxes, but her bed thankfully remains intact. He dries her with the lightest touch of his power before gently laying her atop it, pulling the covers up and over her so that she won't become chilled as she sleeps.

His hand twitches with the urge to brush her hair back from her face, but he stays it. She is no longer his, and such an intimate gesture is no longer his right. It doesn't stop him from watching her as she slumbers, though, that endless pain in his chest piercing him with every beat of his heart as he does so. He hates himself for this emotion where she's concerned, hates himself for this weakness. There's a part of him that wishes for nothing more than to crawl into bed with her, to enfold her in his arms and never let her go.

Tearing his attention away from her, he looks around the room instead in idle curiosity. He had sought answers as to what she was doing to allow her passage into his realm, had he not? At this remembrance, he studies his surroundings more carefully. It appears as if May will leave this place soon given that most of her belongings are seemingly packed away. There is a stack of books on the table beside him, though, and he thoughtlessly picks the top one up to peruse it. The title makes him frown in confusion. What to Expect When You're Expecting. There's a woman on the cover, her belly swollen with child, and Morpheus feels an odd thrum of confused panic nearly overwhelm him. Why would she have something of this nature? He snatches up the next book and his stomach twists viciously. Your Pregnancy: Week by Week.

His heart, that poor battered organ that has been bruised and damaged far too many times, thuds loudly enough in his chest that he fears it might rouse her from her rest.

The bottle beside the books seems almost as if it's calling out to him, demanding his scrutiny, and so he plucks that up as well. Feeling unusually faint, he reads the label. The words Prenatal Vitamins make his vision blur. Removed as he can be from humanity, he still knows exactly what these are and what their purpose is.

Morpheus thinks that he might very well be sick.

This cannot be. This should not be. They are no more, their relationship set ablaze by her lies and left as naught but ashes.

Understanding cycling through him almost violently, he tries to remember how she'd appeared the last few times he'd seen her, how pale and fatigued she'd seemed. His hand opens, and before he even has time to think on what he's doing, he pulls the blankets from her and sets his palm atop the very, very slight hardness he can feel on her lower abdomen.

The spark of life growing there reaches out towards him enthusiastically.

His stomach swoops, his mind blanking out for a moment. A child. There's… there's a child there. His child. Their child.

In this tiny being, he can feel his own essence twined with that of May's, can feel the mixture of maker's magic and Endless power within it. He sits on the edge of the bed, his legs feeling strangely as if they might go out from beneath him.

Stunned, he almost withdraws his hand away from her belly, but… but the baby seems… excited to sense his presence. Its power stretches out to brush against his fingertips, and he can feel everything that it does. Its thoughts are scattered, barely formed, and fragmented, but it clearly communicates that it's been trying to get to him.

May had told him that she wasn't responsible for her ending up in the dreams of others, and with a sinking feeling in his gut, he understands that she had likely been truthful in that. This… little one of theirs had been attempting to get them both to the Dreaming and to him. His eyes well with wetness at this, his emotions overcoming him. He swallows thickly. Their baby.

They're to have a... baby.

Absent-mindedly, he strokes his thumb over May's stomach while he attempts to process this, and she twitches sleepily in response to the caress.

He's uncertain of what to do, of how to handle something of this magnitude. Months ago, this news would have been welcome, would have been happy even. But now…

Now it is decidedly less so.

The realization that she had lied to him again is like a pail of ice water being dumped on his head, and he carefully suppresses his quickly rising anger, unwilling to allow this new little one of his to sense his wrathful rage. May's had numerous opportunities to inform him of this… development, and yet she had not. She hadn't breathed a word of it in his presence, and the awareness of that stings. He tries to calm himself, tries to tell himself that he will speak to her and demand the truth when she awakens, and that settles him slightly.

He will grant her a single chance then, he decides with grim resolution, a single chance for her to give him honesty.

A single chance, he thinks, and nothing more.

Next Chapter here

#sandman fanfiction #sandman x oc #dream of the endless #sandman oc #sandman x reader #sandman fic #BBHAP #morpheus x oc #morpheus fanfiction #morpheus fic

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pinkxperfectionisms · 3 months

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@leagueofdccm continued from HERE;

It was vexing, her flesh a tender ache from attempting to cleanse him from her being. His aroma lingered, a sticky heat of man and oak, summoning her back to gestures of heated passion, groans of satisfaction, and sweeping euphoria. How could she be so thoughtless? Voluntarily falling into bed with Lucifer himself, only to relish in every second they'd spent together. Of course, it hadn't been the sting of alcohol that had her on her knees before him, it was a covert frenzy that called to her. But that wouldn't stop the blonde firecracker from laying guilt on the amber liquid they'd consumed. An audible scoff escapes kiss-chapped petals, glaring orbs of azure nearly rolling to the back of her head at his pompous response. Eli wasn't certain what she was envisioning when she stormed up with her declaration of intoxication, but she shouldn't have expected anything less from her leader. With his back towards her, eyes cast to the skies as though he were the star athlete for the Red Sox, it set her blood boiling. 'Look at me, you bastard!' The sentiment ricochets within the confinements of her mind, ivory plunging into the plushy meat of her lesser lip. Instead, she hits him with a sharp, "Don't think there is anything to compliment." Falsehoods. But she refused to give him the fulfillment. Not now, not EVER.

Hues fuse and she's regrettably greeted by a rush of fervor, a sensation she curses her body for. Why couldn't she merely shake him off as she had with others? Why was everything about the male so frustratingly tantalizing? A poisoned pomegranate, leaving her tongue salivating for his delicious seeds. A throaty titter bubbles up from the base of her throat, a bored smirk gracing her features. He closes the distance between them and it takes all of her might not to step back, his scent sending her down the rabbit hole of desire. Fuck him. "Are you sure you're not the one who worshiped every wink of it? Of ME? That you didn't covet having me entrapped in between the sheets with you?" A golden brow arches, her blonde head cocking slightly to the side as the corner of her mouth twitches. "You think I give a flying fuck what any of these people think?" Idiotic followers that cling to life anyway, shape, or form that they can, without ever truly living.

"So what if I enjoyed it?" Her voice was the same volume as his, baby blues drinking him in. "Doesn't mean it couldn't have been better." Wetting her lips, Eli chuckles lightly, head giving a gentle shake. "I was just telling you where I stand, but clearly, you'll be plagued with the thought of me from here on out, huh, Big Boy?"

#leagueofdccm

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eye-of-yelough · 1 month

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🍋🍪🍫!!

eeeeeeee thank!! doing this out of order cos the worst memory definitely had to be put under a readmore 😬

🍪 - what is something sentimental to your oc?

saved this one for last and i still don’t really know. i don’t think he’s very materially sentimental though. i think when he peels the face bandages away after Gortash gives him the lip/neck scars it’s like. in tv shows when they get makeovers and look into the mirror and cry because they’re so beautiful lmao. truly an insane response. but the Orin lobotomy happens really not very long after that so he doesn’t get the chance to enjoy it for long.

OH. the spiders lyre that Minthara gives him. when i mentioned everything reminds me of her by elliott smith was an aerynthara song the part i forgot to mention was that i imagine him playing it on the spiders lyre 🥹 i don’t think this Literally happens but it’s a cute image. i think he does try to teach himself how to play it but he sucks so bad and his singing would make your ears and eyes bleed.

🍫 - where does your oc go to think?

do people actually have “thinking spots”? i feel like that’s not really a thing. (<- guy who never leaves his room) anyway i don’t think he has a thinking spot but his “stop thinking” spot is basically any body of water. amphibious little fucker. maybe he wouldn’t be so weird if someone took him on a swimming date.

horrible horrible shit under the cut i’ve talked about this a little bit before in the tags of a post a few days ago, but this is in more detail. mentions of rape, both physical and psychological is the only way i can think to explain it. it’s bad. and csa.

🍋 - what is your oc’s most painful memory?

it isn’t one specific occasion, more a chain of events that gets worse and worse. i don’t know how to say this gently so i’m just gonna be super matter-of-fact about it. Aeryn got groomed and eventually sexually assaulted by his private piano tutor as a kid. (the fact that gort plays piano. ick) emphasis on the “groomed” part cos when his foster parents found out and they tried to have the bastard arrested he killed them to protect him. i don’t know exactly what happens between that and him getting adopted by Zhander the warlock mentor, but he doesn’t see the bastard who did that to him again. at least uhh. not for a while. Zhander isn’t too bad of a guy and doesn’t mistreat Aeryn, but their criminal lifestyle exposes him (young) to some more people who do over the years. Aeryn coming into his bhaalspawn legacy makes him increasingly difficult for Zhander to handle, especially seeing how Aeryn is using the same language he uses to justify his grey morality to justify brutal murder. he becomes terrified of him.

ok why is this just becoming aeryn’s backstory. yknow what i’ve started now i’m just gonna keep going cos i’m on a roll

Zhander eventually can’t handle the monster he created anymore and sells him to. some kind of Entity. idk Great Old One, it’s weird. this part’s a little a fuzzy if you couldn’t tell lol. anyway The Entity eventually becomes Aeryn’s patron after uhm. some amount of time? lots of horrors experienced in that time i’ll tell ya that much. Aeryn joins the Bhaalist cult at 21, only 4 years before meeting Gort.

to get it back on track to Aeryn’s Worst Memory, at some point he tells Gort about the piano teacher when they were playing their weird “Gortash as Aeryn’s therapist trying to cure his sex addiction” game. a mistake. first off Gort is super fucking creepy about it. but the real horror is a few weeks later when Gort leads him blindfolded into his basement (normal bestie activities) and uhm. locks him in a room with his former piano teacher. (big windows of course) and has no plans on letting him out until he gets his revenge. and i’m not talking about killing him. “takes back his dignity” as Gortash calls it, while forcing him to do the worst thing you could do to another person. and he eventually does do it, to be clear. strangles him to death while he does it and cries until he loses his voice, but he does it. Gortash makes him say “thank you” after wrestling him into accepting being cradled and told how good of a job he did. 😬

oh and Gortash makes sure to adequately break the guy beforehand to make sure it is rape.

and for context on why Gortash does this, because there is a reason: it’s pretty soon after he has the “Aeryn is my literal heart” realisation, but before he realises that his heart is an asset, not a burden. in that period of time, he does a lot of the worst stuff he ever does to Aeryn, including this, in an effect to kill his empathy. his heart. he doesn’t succeed, he never could, but he definitely fucks him up scary style.

so um. yeah. sorry

#um. hi #sorry for. all of that. i wrote this all out of order and i can’t be bothered to read it all again to make sure it make sense so #sorry if it doesn’t #your daily dose of idiocy #oc aeryn #aeryn and gortash

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hekate1308 · 8 months

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I can't wait for you

Prompt: I can’t wait for you

Fandom: Supernatural

Pairing: Drowley

This is not a problem he ever expected to have.

Mainly because he has never been…

No. There is absolutely no reason to be idiotically emotional about it all. This is just a minor problem he has to deal with before he has to leave, that’s all.

He did not make the money he has by being sentimental, really.

And so, he’s waiting for his… well… he supposes he should call it his current friend with benefits.

(Although part of him is quick to point out that not only have he and Dean been doing what they are doing for close to a year now, much longer than any of his other affairs lasted, but they also spend the night at each other’s place regularly and have met each other’s family, although considering his brother still hates Crowley, mostly because he wanted to put Dean up with one of his own friends, that might not have been the best idea…)

There’s also the fact that it’s just normal at this point that Dean opens the door with his own key and greets him with a kiss. “Hey. What do you want to talk about?”

It’s one of the reasons this has lasted as long as it has – Dean’s never been one to beat around the bush, and Crowley really appreciates that.

Then, “I am afraid my business in London has run into a bit of trouble.”

“Oh.” Dean thinks about it for a moment and then says, “Normal trouble or the kind that got Al Capone locked up?”

He huffs because, unlike that amateur, he would never go to prison for tax fraud, and Dean should by now know that very well. “No. Just usual business troubles.”

Dean doesn’t ask because he, unlike many of Crowley’s other acquaintances, and especially his mother, is aware when he doesn’t want to talk about things.

Instead he asks, “So what are you going to do about it?”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about” he says evenly, pouring them both drinks since he learned long ago what Dean likes.

They sit down on the sofa. “I have come to the conclusion that my business in London needs my personal attention” taking a deep breath and feeling nervous even though he shouldn’t, because really, nothing about this has to do with Dean, and why should he even care? It’s not like they are dating “So I will be moving back to London.”

A pause. Dean looks at him, and he can’t read his expression at all, which is rather unnerving.

Then, “For how long?”

Of course he knows Crowley will come back. Of course he does.

“I – I don’t know. I’ll have to restructure everything, for one, and then – “

“I see”.

Another pause.

Eventually, Dean simply says, “I can’t wait for you.”

He didn’t expect him to, anyway. It would be utterly ridiculous to think that someone like Dean would wait for someone like Crowley. He’s probably lined up several people who would be interested in him (who wouldn’t be, really) so that –

“So I’ll go home and pack. See you in an hour or so.”

Wait, what?

Dean kisses him. “I can work anywhere, really, so I guess London here we come.”

“I don’t know when we will be able to come back” he warns him because it seems only fair even though normally that would be the last thing on his mind.

“Well, we’ll have to wait and see then, luv, won’t we” Dean replies in what he has to sadly admit is not a bad imitation of a Cockney accent (not that he will ever admit it to Dean).

He supposes they will have to indeed.

Two years later

He can’t deny that it feels good to be back in New York again. Even with his accent and his roots, this is always the city where he’s felt most at home, and of course now, he has an even better reason to consider it such…

He enters Dean’s new studio and finds his husband putting up some finishing touches. “Is that wise?” he asks when he sees their wedding picture in place of pride.

“Oh, you mean because it might tell people I’m married to New York’s biggest bastard?” he asks lightly even though they both know it’s about something else entirely. “I don’t care. Customers don’t like it, they can just up and leave. I don’t know if you know, but I’m a gold digger. Married into money.”

“I really should have paid more attention when picking my husband” he drawls as Dean laughs and pulls him close.

“Yes, well, too late, no getting rid of me now.”

He thinks that, all things considered, this might be the least of all the problems he has ever encountered in his life.

#fictober23 #my writings #spn #drowley #dean winchester #crowley

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much-obliged-timothy · 1 year

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Whumpcember #12

Hawkeye - #12 - Broken Bone

“We can’t even get pizza without being attacked,” Barney said, sipping on his soda. “How many people have you pissed off, Clint?”

“You could - ow - help,” Clint said, kicking away the angry guy in a tracksuit that was trying to break his nose. He whacked the guy over the head with his bow, letting him crumple at his feet.

“Your problem.” Barney leaned against the side of the building and shrugged helplessly. “Someone’s got to keep the pizza safe. Hurry it up before it gets cold, will you?”

“Insufferability runs in the family?” Kate guessed.

“Gift from dad,” Barney said.

“I’m glad you two are having - ow - fun,” Clint said, ducking away from another punch thrown at him. “Kate, will you watch my back already? Barney, give Lucky a slice. He’s being a good boy while he waits.”

Barney flipped open the lid of the pizza box and offered a slice to the dog, who happily took it. Barney pet his head as he ate.

He watched the fight progress. Clint and Kate worked easily together, having each other's backs and predicting each other's movements. Barney couldn’t help the little spark of pride he felt as he watched his little brother fight. Maybe this was just an average street gang, but Clint had helped save the whole damn world before.

“Come on, I’m going to eat without you,” Barney called, because he refused to let himself get too sentimental.

“Don’t eat my pizza, Barney, or I’ll shoot you,” Clint warned.

“And I’ll help him shoot you,” Kate agreed. “Hands off the pizza. I paid for that.”

“Have you ever paid for anything in your life?” Clint asked. “You’re, like, nine.”

“Shut up, Clint,” Kate said. “I’ll shoot you too.”

“You can-” Clint started.

“Clint!” Barney cried, pushing off the wall.

Amidst their lighthearted banter, Clint hadn’t noticed the guy sneaking up at him. Clint spun to fend him off at the same time the guy struck at his leg.

Barney heard the crack of bone from where he was. Clint’s face twisted with pain as he went down, a cry of agony tearing from his throat. As he went down, he swung and caught the guy in the throat with his bow.

The guy choked and roughly kicked the bow away. He lifted his foot over Clint’s head.

Barney yelled as he tackled him to the ground. “Get away from him!”

“Kate!” Clint’s voice was strained with pain. “Cover him. Cover Barney.”

Barney drove his fist into the guy’s face, over and over again. He couldn’t help it; he felt as angry with himself as he did with this bastard. His teasing had been what distracted Clint. He could’ve been helping, and instead all he managed to do was distract Clint and get him hurt. Hadn’t Clint been hurt enough in his life?

Barney saw their own father hitting Clint and his rage grew. Screw their past hostilities; Clint was still his little brother, and he’d failed to protect him yet again.

“Barney! Barney, you’re gonna kill him!” Clint said.

He was dragging himself towards Barney, which was the only reason Barney stopped before he broke the bastard’s neck. He spun and put his hands out.

“Stop!” he said in alarm. Clint’s leg was twisted at a painful angle. “You’re going to make it worse. Shit, we need to get you to a hospital.”

He moved closer to Clint, putting a hand on his shoulder to calm him before he moved again. Clint gazed up at him, pain in his eyes.

“You’re gonna be fine,” Barney assured. “I’ll take care of it.”

Take care of you, is what he wanted to say. But Clint nodded like he knew it anyway. Potato, potahto.

With Kate having his back, Barney punched his way through anyone who got too close to Clint. When Kate took down the last of them, Barney dropped back to Clint’s side.

Clint was clinging to consciousness, though Barney knew that would be short lived as soon as they tried to move him. He put a hand on Clint’s back in silent apology.

“We’ve got to get that taken care of,” he said.

Clint gave a weak nod. Barney shifted to get a good grip on Clint. Clint grabbed at his arm tightly, giving another nod, closing his eyes and breathing out slowly.

Barney lifted him. Clint yelled in pain, the sound shattering Barney’s heart. It didn’t last long though, as Clint slumped into unconsciousness in his arms, head dropping lifelessly against Barney’s shoulder.

“Hard part’s over, buddy,” Barney muttered softly. He raised his voice. “Kate, grab his bow and let’s go.”

He had Clint in his arms, safe now. But just like when they were children, the embrace came too late, and Barney could not stop staring at Clint’s twisted, broken leg and imaging that pain in Clint’s eyes.

#whumpcember2022 #whumpcember2022 day12 #hawkeye #clint barton #Barney Barton #Kate Bishop #jtdoeswhumptober

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buthappysoverrated · 2 years

Note

1 for the idiots to lovers prompt, I'll leave the pairing to your choice <3

Thanks for sending this Lidia!!! Sorry it takes a bit and almost all my writing turned out to be a little stream-of-conciousness like so they’re always confusing lol. Really hope you will like this! Also I ended it here because I don’t know how to continue

Prompt: "I don't like them like that. Absolutely fucking not. What the hell?"

Pairing: Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma (it’s my comfort ship even though I don’t talk too much about them) (also it’s not Ed it’s Riddler)

The Riddler woke up that day in quite a pleasant mood. Today he needed to settle some business with Oswald; yes, it was the business day with Oswald.

He caught his face smiling on a piece of broken glass.

"I don't like him like that. Absolutely fucking not," he said. His reflection looked a bit rueful, but was still smiling. "What the hell," he snapped.

"That's funny," Ed said, "that's really funny."

------

Riddler could work things out just fine, mind you; the problem was, judging from past experiences, feelings were messy and unreasonable and not something that could be just solved. Annoying, that was what they were. He didn't like puzzles that couldn't be solved. Those really shouldn't be inside the category of puzzles.

He was sure about how he had felt towards Lee. It had been some kind of passion. Same towards Isabella. Huh, he was almost sure Oswald had always known her name; that bastard just pretended to not remember it out of sheer spite. Oswald. Why was he thinking about Oswald again?

Oswald did like him like that though, or at least at some point in the past, he had liked Riddler like that. Riddler still wasn't sure how to feel about that. Love. Oswald had loved him.

He had loved Isabella. He had loved Lee. One could argue part of him still loved them; love changed how he was and who he was, and he had carried on with the changed pieces and fit them together to a new him, and he would continue to live on with them. Sounded weirdly sentimental, but this was the most accurate way he could describe it.

Both Isabella and Lee were pretty. Riddler supposed he could say Oswald wasn't bad-looking either; he had pretty eyes and sharp cheekbones.

He was 99.7% sure Ed was straight. It was an accurate mathematical term. He could show you the distribution of data to prove it. Central limit theorem.

"But this isn't about me, is it?" Ed said from the small mirror on his desk. "nor is it about Math."

"Why do I have a mirror on my desk anyway?" Riddler said tiredly and irritably.

"You pull it out when you're in a hurry but need to check if every single one of your hair is in place or something," Ed supplied. "Mr. Penguin has full-length mirrors everywhere and constantly checks his make-up. At least you're not that bad."

"Why do you call him that?"

Ed stopped, then started again: "I always call him that. You're the one on first-name-basis with the mob lord of Gotham."

Riddler rubbed his eyes. He really should stop talking to him. "And why are we talking about said mob lord again?"

"Because we're thinking about it. Because you're thinking about him."

#hy writes!#purrvaire #thanks so much for the ask!#edward nygma #oswald cobblepot #riddler edward nygma #oswald cobblepot/edward nygma #oswald cobblepot/the riddler #idek the ship name #okay and I'll rant a bit in tags #this ship is my comfort ship even though most of the time I don't feel like it's my favourite #I just feel like #the whole point is that not everything works out and basically nothing is fine for long #and exactly that is what's fine #There was this infatuation at some point for either of them to the other #and then there's the real understanding and unconditional love #and they hate each other so much for reasons and just for this #and then it still doesn't work out where part of the reason is that they don't want it to #It doesn't work out; they didn't even really pick up the pieces and move on #and it's not a tragedy #because nothing needs to be perfect and healthy and Fine to just be whatever it is #it's a happy story or as happy as it should be #okay I'll shut up now #gotham #dc #gotham tv #nygmaobblepot

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fandomn00blr · 2 years

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WIPednesday

Tagged by @noire-pandora , @cleverblackcat, and @nirikeehan in the last couple weeks or something...I think? Tagging you all back (if you haven't already done a thing recently, or if you have ,and you wanna do another!) along with anyone else, because I’m lazy and awkward and feel way too out of the loop right now to know who to tag.

I was camping (in 100+ degree heat and tornado warnings and thunderstorms), and then recovering from camping for the past couple of weeks, so I’m only just now getting back to a sort of writing schedule (if by ‘schedule’ we mean it happens sometimes in the tiny little moments I have between Spawn’s various Hot Girl Summer activities...). This is, ummm...is bespoke fanfic a thing? It came from an ongoing conversation with @realace about...look, I don’t even know how we got here, but this pairing was mentioned, and I couldn’t resist trying to make this happen. These two can interact at two different points in the games! Which is two times more than most of my rarepairs (Loghain/Stroud, Morrigan/Blackwall, Carver/Nate), so this is practically canon compared to those!

Anyway, here’s Alistair and Anders after spending a night together in Kirkwall doing ‘Warden Things’...😏:

“Anders! Get your lanky ass up! The King’s Guard is out tearing up the whole city searching for their wayward bastard!”

He opens his eyes and is startled to see the aforementioned bastard hastily dressing himself in the corner of the little hovel he calls a bedroom.

“Uh…hang on! I’ll be right there…” Anders shouts out to Hawke, who sounds genuinely concerned, which would be touching, if only she weren’t so fucking offensive all the time.

“Come on! You can hide out at my place until they find the low-lives who probably kidnapped him and are holding him for ransom or something. I don’t want anyone finding you here and tipping off Meredith’s goons!”

He looks questioningly at Alistair, who shakes his head decisively, as if to say “I won’t let that happen…” but Anders knows Meredith has the ultimate authority here and would seize any opportunity to get a notorious apostate like him into the Gallows. So he nods Alistair toward the back tunnel instead, so he can sneak out and re-emerge somewhere else entirely. Then it’s his problem to explain where he’s spent the night. And why he has those marks on his neck. And why he looks so adorably loved-up…

But then Alistair gives him the most pleading puppy dog eyes Anders has ever seen. And he’s seen the way Fenris looks at Hawke when he doesn’t realize anyone’s looking! Alistair might as well be half-mabari right now. And, though he knows it’s stupid and overly-sentimental, Anders can’t resist pulling him in for a farewell kiss.

“Well, then…” Isabela purrs as she pulls back the curtain to his cramped little bedroom. “Guess we found the King.”

“Oh,” Hawke looks absolutely gobsmacked at the two of them. “I — well, shit.”

“What? I did him, too, you know…” Isabela smirks. “Wasn’t a king, yet, but it still counts, I think.”

#dragon age #alistair #anders #alistair/anders #isabela #hawke #whoops #wardens...they just have that connection...you know?#WIP #my writing

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