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#I’m on my own pursuit of justice here

aemxnd · 1 year

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midnight rain | daemon targaryen x niece!reader

Can the sunshine win over the darkness?

Heavily inspired by a gender-swapped Taylor Swift’s Midnight Rain as requested by @prettycutebunny, I hope I did your idea justice (and apologies for changing one lyric to suit the plot!)

WORDS: 5.3k (I’m so sorry)

WARNINGS: canon typical incest, dubcon, angst everywhere you look, p in v, v fingering, physical violence, breeding, degradation, praise, pain kink, Daemon being a real asshat, reader is Viserys and Alicent’s third child, reader has silver hair for plot point, Stockholm Syndrome, terrible High Valyrian translations, crying, power imbalance due to age difference.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

My requests are open! 🖤

Such a pretty little songbird.

Little Starling, your mother had once named you as a child. A free spirit, bound only by the towering castle walls that clipped your wings as the youngest child of the King and his second Queen. Weeks, months, years passed daydreaming beneath your favourite tree, reading the same fantastical books and listening to the same wistful odes from your minstrel.

All the while under the careful eye of your kepus.

Life’s tragedies and horrors had never crossed your path, never entered your realm, therefore could never harm you. Your childhood as idyllic as you could imagine, save for a loving father. That void was dutifully replaced by your uncle Daemon, whose unrivalled care and indomitable attention ensured you never wanted for anything more, evermore understanding that your father’s duty to his throne far exceeded the loving relationship expected toward a daughter and that his brother could offer the closest companionship to his. Yours was an unbreakable bond that defied all secrets, surpassed all proprietary expectations and often branched into full conversation in High Valyrian to remain undetected by outside ears.

Meanwhile, your elder brothers Aegon and Aemond sought to salve the absence of a protective male role model closer to your own age, ensuring they trained in the sword to their own degrees should their little sister ever need rescue. No matter how often you reassured them, they refused to share your belief that no danger could come to you, for danger did not seek you. With the guard of three silver-haired Princes, you thought yourself invincible.

As you matured together, however, your brothers discovered distractions. For Aegon, it was women, cups and the sordid activities beyond the castle walls. For Aemond, it was Vhagar, studies and bitterness. You could not begrudge them the right to grow, to extend their roots beyond your all-too-comfortable sibling unit, as you too had become distracted by literature, music and the pursuit of a quiet life with precious few responsibilities. Somehow your tranquil existence had eluded the conversation of marriage, recognising your unfettered spirit aspiring to greater things than a life secluded within the Red Keep.

But not in the eyes of your kepus.

~~She was sunshine, I was midnight rain~~

“What troubles you, little starling?” Called a familiar voice from behind your favourite reading spot in the Godswood. You squinted against the midday sun to find your beloved uncle Daemon watching over you, an uneasy frown skewing his lips. “Why are you so often here alone?”

“Good day, dear kepus,” you closed the tome in your lap, clasping your hands together. “My brothers are at the Dragonpit, where I fear a princess may never tread.”

“And you are content with reading in solitude?” Daemon stepped closer, treading carefully over the gnarled roots of the tree upon which you sat. “Would you not prefer company?”

“I am sure others would not wish to read the tales I choose to indulge,” you clutched your book closer to your chest, hurriedly attempting to conceal its cover from him. Sighing thoughtfully, you smiled up at your uncle. “I am resigned to the life of a quiet Princess Regent, neither an heir nor a common-born. No responsibility, no authority, yet still no freedom.”

Daemon approached and perched on a root beside you, chuckling softly under his breath. “I suppose that notion is all too familiar to us both, Princess.”

“Then how did you assuage it, uncle?” You looked over to him, noticing a distinct pain behind the considerate smile on his countenance. “How did you counsel yourself to contentment with such an existence?”

“What in the Seven Heavens makes you believe that I have?” Daemon snorted, gaze dropping into his lap. “How do you counsel yourself to contentment with a life of loneliness, niece? You are but seven-and-ten, do you not wish to take a husband? Make an honest man out of some egotistical Lannister?”

You smiled warmly. “I do not wish to marry, uncle. No aspect of marriage or childbearing holds any attraction for me, for I could never find the love of which I read in literature.”

“That I find hard to believe, Princess. If you wish to marry for love, your parents would be only too happy to oblige.” His hand reached to clasp over your thigh reassuringly. “One day, you will find the Prince you deserve.”

A comfortable silence fell between you, enough to hear the rising volume of the wind in the Godswood. You glanced up in tandem to see the once-turquoise sky fading to an ominous grey.

“A storm is coming, Princess,” Daemon clicked his tongue, slapping his knees demonstrably and rising to his feet. With a kindly hand proffered in the space between you, he beamed down at you. “May I accompany my little ray of sunshine to shelter?”

As you reached to accept, Daemon finally caught a glimpse of your book’s cover and smiled to himself. “The Tales of Persephone and Hades, I see.” His voice lowered to a mutter so indistinct you could not hear him. “How apt, vēzos.” Sun.

You paced slowly toward the library together, Daemon always one step behind, his hands clasped studiously behind his back as you meandered around hallway after indiscriminate hallway, wordlessly travelling as if no conversation could be found. You would never notice the manner in which Daemon consumed the image of you before him, a woman grown so distinctly from the small babe he had observed in your youth, born with gleaming silver hair which now tumbled to the length of your hips. Your regal green gown swayed as you moved and swept the hallway before his intrepid footsteps, Daemon swallowed harshly as he imagined the frame concealed by your bodice and boned skirt.

~~She wanted it comfortable, I wanted that pain~~

Upon your arrival at the dimly-lit library hall, you turned to nod a farewell to your escort.

“Thank you, uncle,” you smiled before quickly turning on your heels in search of another book to lose yourself in. As you paced, you heard your footsteps echoing with another, realising that Daemon had followed you. After a few more steps, you ground to a sudden halt, giggling gently as he bumped into you and nearly lost his footing. You grasped his arms behind you and steadied him, the gentle clearing of his throat behind you making you chuckle harder. “Kepus, are you following me?”

His hands searched for your waist and skimmed the contour of your hips, pulling you flush to his chest so close his warm breaths fanned your hair. Your laughter silenced with the sudden realisation that this was no child’s play.

“I would follow you to the ends of the earth, little starling,” he whispered into the shell of your ear, venturing a hand to brush your tumbling silver curls from your neck so he could blaze a trail of butterfly kisses unimpeded. Your breath hitched in your throat, eyes fluttering closed as his gentle touch melted your resistance immediately.

“Kepus… what do you mean?” You asked timidly, almost afraid of the response.

His next searing kiss into the base of your neck lingered a while, his lips wrapping you up in anticipation and longing for a touch you had never before desired, but now that you had it, you craved it more than the air you breathed. Your head threw back into the blissful sensation, earning a low groan from Daemon that vibrated softly against your skin.

“You have always been the midday sun to my midnight rain, haven’t you, little one?” Daemon whispered. “You were born into this world when I returned from the Stepstones, a ray of light when my world was shrouded in darkness. Whenever my life has succumbed to the pitch black of night, you were always there to illuminate the way.”

Your hands rested on his as they traversed deep into the valley of your pelvis, hovering over the position of your most sensitive place concealed only by the structure of your dress.

“Uncle, please…,” you muttered in a form of weak protest that came out as an encouragement, unable to scramble through your mind for a reason why you should reject his advances. He had lost Laena, you were unwed, there were no marital connections to stop you. Your beloved uncle, who more or less raised you in the absence of your father, had been the deepest love in your heart all your life. Whether or not that had been a romantic love or not, you could not deny the way your body responded to his touch as if you had yearned for this moment ever since you first read of love. Holding him this close felt as natural as breathing.

“Hush now, little starling,” he cooed as his lips blazed a trail up to your earlobe and nibbled gently, all while pressing his palm into your skirt so his fingers could make contact with your mound beneath, making featherlight strokes into the fabric and causing your hips to buck into his hand. “Tepagon aōla naejot nyke.” Give yourself to me.

The darkness enveloped the daylight as you nodded in agreement, and in the blink of an eye Daemon gripped your hips, spun you to face him and captured your lips with his. At first tentative, he pulled back to scan your face for a response, only to growl hungrily as he watched your gaze journey to his lips eagerly awaiting their next contact, consuming your mouth with his before you could mutter a protest. Your hands instinctively reached to lace around his neck, drawing him closer and dipping into the kiss as if your hunger could not be sated, craving as much contact as physically possible.

Without you knowing, Daemon had steered your clinch across the room toward the nearest desk, lifting you to rest on the wood and swiftly hitching your skirt up around your hips in the process. His lips refused to part from yours, nudging his nose into your cheek and humming contentedly against your mouth. With one hand cupping your cheek, the other ghosted a featherlight trail from your knee to your inner thigh, blazing toward your smallclothes between your legs, grazing the sodden fabric as it clung to your core.

“You already want the darkness, don’t you niece?” He pressed, groaning greedily and venturing both hands to rip the weak cotton apart at the seams. With his last obstacle laid to waste and clinging to your hips, his fingers grazed your pulsing folds and collected the waiting droplets of your anticipation. “I have waited so many years to feel your heat, ñuha vēzos.” My sun.

Your vision swirled like a hurricane, conflicting emotions and thoughts blurring the image of the silver-haired prince gazing down at you through lust-blown pupils as he watched his fingers daring to breach your folds before you gave him permission.

“Kepus, not yet,” you pleaded against your own better judgement, a whimper escaping him as you planted both palms on his chest to keep him an arm’s distance away. “We are not yet married, I don’t think this is right.”

Daemon chuckled to himself before grasping both your wrists in one hand and raising them above your head, his free hand pressing your chest to lay you flat on the desk. Pinning your wrists above you and leaning down to hover over you, two fingers rediscovered your folds and slipped inside in one smooth motion.

“Then don’t think, sweetling,” he whispered as he buried his fingers inside you to the knuckle, fingertips eagerly curling into your spongy walls and stroking slowly. Your hips tentatively reared into his touch, a palpable trepidation leaving you worrying about your maidenhead, the pain of coupling that literature failed to address yet had always remained on the lips of every birthing woman within the Keep. Daemon noticed your hesitation and thrust his fingers deeper, eliciting a strangled gasp from the depths of your lungs and revelling in your back arching into his motions. “It’s alright starling, the darkness has you now.”

You swallowed harshly, eyes roving to the ceiling as the full sensation in your cunt overwhelmed you. With a disapproving click of his tongue, Daemon tightened his grip on your wrists and slammed them against the hard wood, making you hiss gently.

“Don’t take your eyes off me, niece,” he commanded until your gaze met his again, ramping up the pace of his pumps as you buckled beneath him. “You need not be ashamed of letting go. Let your kepus take control.”

Daemon’s thumb journeyed to settle on your clit, tracing lazy circles around your bundle of nerves while his fingers drove fervently in a race to reach the furthest points inside you, the wet slaps of his motions echoing through the library. Watching closely as your back arched against his restraint, your eyes fluttering to close as if your climax were nearing, the edge of your pleasure cliff was cruelly snatched from you as his fingers withdrew from your soaking folds with a lewd pop. In a determined hurry and a rustle of fabric, Daemon fumbled with his breeches and freed himself before quickly replacing his digits with a smooth thrust of his length into your cunt. Your determined lubrication enabled his swift entry to sheath himself inside you, but not without discomfort as you winced to handle the stretch of your walls around his girth.

“Easy now, vēzos,” he soothed, pressing a palm into the valley of your hips to feel his tip grazing your innermost core and sending a shallow shiver throughout your body. “Soon the pain will become comfortable, I promise.”

You swallowed deeply, nodding in compliance and dutifully wrapping your legs around his waist to allow him easier access within you. Daemon grunted, making his next thrust deep and punishing to the point you yelped out, filling the library with the echoes of your cries.

“That’s it, little one,” he hummed contentedly, working your cunt with his bucking hips like a man possessed, his free hand gripping your hip to impale you further. He leaned further over you to hover his lips over yours, his towering stature blocking out the dim candlelight of the room and enveloping you in pitch black night. “Give yourself to me, let the darkness take you.”

With every merciless thrust deep into your cunt, your helpless mewls grew louder which only encouraged Daemon’s animalistic plunges within you. Gathering what little strength you could muster, you weakly pulled your wrists against his restraint.

“Please… need to… touch you,” you stuttered, fingers clamouring into mid-air for contact. Daemon’s sadistic grin faded as he acquiesced, your hands firing to curl around his neck and pulled him in for a searing kiss so you could silence your screams into his mouth, his relentless force pummelling you into the hard wood of the desk beneath which was sure to leave flayed grazes on your spine the next day.

“My little sunshine, you feel like heaven around me,” he cooed against your lips, curling his thrusts to bottom out inside you so hard your blurred vision of him would glitter with stars. “Does this not feel like heaven to you?”

You whimpered an unintelligible response, unable to compose any coherent thought as his cock filled you to the hilt. The searing heat swelling inside you brought the vision of your cliff edge back into sharp focus, begging you to drive your hips up to meet his in a desperate race for your release. Daemon recognised your eagerness and met it with a newfound brutal pace, pounding into you so fast the lewd skin slapping that echoed through the chamber became staccato and relentless.

“When you are carrying my child, your father will wed you to me,” he leaned to whisper in your ear, anchoring himself by wrapping his hand around your throat, his fingers and thumb pressing eagerly into each side to stem your blood flow rushing to your head, leaving you breathless and helpless. “And I will return inside your pretty little cunt every single night for the rest of our lives.”

His thrusts became jagged, betraying his own approach to the precipice.

“You see, every night the darkness consumes the light.”

With one last devastating thrust, your high flooded through you like a tidal wave and crashed against Daemon’s incoming climax, flooding your walls with his release and blending with your own, his gaze travelling to watch the space between you as his glistening cock hammered into your depths and stuttered as he poured inside you. The once-deafening lewd sounds of your coupling now replaced with ragged breaths, gasps for air and Daemon’s contented grunts as he rode out his orgasm within you, you threw your head back against the wood in sheer realisation of your own weakness.

Not yet married, but most likely to carry your kepus’ child before long.

You threw your hands to your belly, clutching at the flatness between your pelvis. Pulling out from you and admiring the soaking mess between your folds, Daemon’s hands rested upon yours as you looked up to find him gazing lovingly at the same space which terrified you to the core.

“Byka vēzos,” he hummed. Little sun. “If you do not conceive this time, we have the rest of our lives together to ensure you will.”

~~She looked like a bride, I was making my own name~~

Some flowers bloom only when the sun sets.

You blossomed for Daemon in a way he could never have anticipated. His bravery in the battlefield garnered him the courage to risk it all for a chance to make you his wife, but he found so very little resistance in your kind reception that his claim over you simply fell into his lap. The thrill of the chase evaded him, as you caved so effortlessly to his will.

Each time he requested your presence in his chambers, you parted your thighs and accepted him willingly. Yet each time you requested his presence in turn, he refused, ensuring he kept you wanting more and more, the suspense crafting a new height of pleasure each time you were called to his chambers, bent over his bed and pounded within an inch of consciousness.

Daemon Targaryen had laid his claim to your body and mind, yet all that remained was his possession of your soul.

Unbeknownst to you, Daemon had long pleaded with your father to wed you to him. Informally at first, often disguised as a joke to strengthen the Targaryen bloodline by betrothing two dragons to each other to fight for all eternity. But since the night in the library, his requests increased in volume and tenacity, resulting in a physical confrontation in the throne room between dragon brothers. Dismissing Daemon’s demand as nothing more than a vicious clamour for the Iron Throne, your father sought to banish his brother from King’s Landing to Dragonstone, where he would live out his days out of earshot of the Red Keep, where he would never again hear the pathetic whimpers of a man desperate to bed his youngest daughter for power.

To you, that night came as any other, as Daemon’s maid requested your presence in his chambers at the dead of night and you dutifully obliged, pacing the Keep corridors in eager anticipation of meeting him once more. As you crept through his door, a heavy fabric flew towards you and you grabbed it in mid-air. A dark cloak.

“Kepus, what—?”

“We need to leave. Tonight.” Daemon’s voice was short, snappy, panicked as his face came into view in the darkness. His brows knitted together, his lips skewed with fear.

“Wh… why? Did my father refuse our betrothal?”

“Of course he fucking did,” Daemon snapped through gritted teeth, grabbing the cloak still laying in your shaking hands and throwing it over your shoulders for you. “We need to leave for Dragonstone now, there’s a boat waiting for us in the harbour.”

“I don’t… why do we… what happened?” You were frozen to the spot, confusion washing over you in waves. Daemon’s hands balled into fists as he adjusted the hood over your head.

“Will you stop asking so many fucking questions? Just get down to the harbour, I’ll meet you there soon.”

“Kepus… I’m scared,” you stuttered, hands held out in front of you as if still holding the heavy cloak. “Will I ever see my parents again?”

Daemon smoothed the fabric over your shoulders and tucked the hood over your eyes. Pressing a quick dismissive kiss to the fabric laying over your forehead, he clasped your face and pulled it upwards.

“Whatever happens, little starling, we are each other’s family from this moment on.”

Suddenly, the tense silence between you shattered to the sound of deafening bangs on the door to his chambers. Immediately hunching his back defensively, he ushered you across the chamber toward a dark passage where a rogue guard waited to take you onward. “Place your trust in Ser Baleon, I will meet you at the shore.”

The crashes against the wooden portal intensified as you fled, the distinct swoop of metal from the chamber behind you suggesting Daemon had armed himself against the ambush. Searing hot tears blazed volcanic streams down your cheeks as you fought to focus on your steps down the dark spiral staircase to safety, wondering if you would ever see Daemon alive again.

~~Chasing that fame, she stayed the same~~

“Your father is a cunt,” Daemon hissed, storming into your Dragonstone chambers and crossing the room in three great strides to tower over you.

“Surely not, kepus,” you attempted to calm his temper with a reassuring palm pressed to his chest. “What has he said to irk you so?”

“He’s sent a raven to enquire after you,” he seethed, his jaw clenched tightly as if it might snap at any moment. “He claims that I kidnapped you in the dead of night and will not return you to your birthright in the Red Keep.”

“But I came to Dragonstone of my own free—,” you were cut off by Daemon’s hand firing to grasp your throat, your fingers racing to claw at his grip and prize yourself free.

“Well why don’t you speak those precious words to your beloved father instead?” He half-growled, sneering down at you as if you were his prey. “He seems to be the one that needs persuading of your own free will, Princess.”

“If you… if you let me, I will,” you stuttered against his restrictive clutch, weakly attempting an escape to breathe properly.

“You would love that, wouldn’t you?” He snarled, using one hand to spin you by your waist while retaining his grip on your throat, pressing his chest flush to your back and steering you to the bed. “You could run back to the Red Keep and your books and your perfect little boring life.”

“Kepus, please,” you protested weakly, reaching a hand ahead of you to cushion your fall as he dropped you face-first into the sheets. “Please, don’t…”

“Please don’t what, starling?” He chuckled, bunching your skirt over your behind and battling with his own breeches. “Don’t fight for my family, or don’t take my wife whenever I so wish?”

You scrunched your eyes closed, willing to block out whatever was coming next. This was not the careful husband you knew, this was not the devoted uncle who raised you in place of your father, this was certainly not the man who you fell in love with under a stormcloud amongst ancient tomes. This midnight rain will pass, no matter how much love it unravels in the eye of the storm.

Delivering a swift nudge to your thighs, your legs were parted and Daemon crawled between them, grasping your hips and drawing you up to impale yourself on his hardened cock. With no preparation, you yelped at the intrusion and hissed gently.

“The pain will soon become comfortable,” he declared as he ruthlessly bottomed out inside you. “I promise.”

Tears welled in your eyes, threatening to burst their banks as the agony coursed through you in waves, slowly replaced by bolts of pleasure as his tip grazed your innermost walls.

“Please… take me easily, my Prince,” you wheezed out between merciless thrusts stealing your breath from your lungs. “I am… I am with…”

“You would do well not to give orders when I can ensure you lose consciousness in a moment, little one,” Daemon hissed, pounding into you with an inhuman pace, sending your eyes roving to the ceiling as his nails dug crescent dips into the flesh of your hips. “You want to stay awake while I fill you up, don’t you? Maybe this time you will bear me a child.”

“Daemon, please be gentle…,” you fought to finish your declaration while balling your fists into the sheets, your elbows caving beneath you. “I am with child.”

With your last syllable, Daemon’s thrusts ceased instantly, leaving you whimpering at the immediate loss of friction. He stilled completely, not so much as a laboured breath escaping him behind you, his length still nestled halfway inside you.

“My Prince, I… I’m sorry,” you reassured, venturing a hand back towards him as if willing him to hold it. “I should have spoken sooner.”

You breathed into the deafening silence, wondering if he did not wish you to deliver the news in such a manner. Suddenly, a cool splash of water hit your scalding spine. A tear. Daemon’s tear.

“I have failed you, starling,” he sighed, completely shattering his blind rage into a self-deprecating reflection. Allowing his length to slip out from your folds, he released your hips and collapsed onto the sheets beside you. “After all this time, I could have destroyed our child with my recklessness.”

“You have never failed me, kepus, our babe is safe inside me,” you purred, reaching to brush another tear from his cheek. “If he’s anything like his father, he can withstand any amount of force.”

Daemon’s saddened gaze turned to you, still on all fours beside him. He ventured a hand to brush your cheek.

“I do not deserve you, vēzos jehikagon.” Sunshine.

In the blink of an eye, you threw a leg over his own to capture him between your thighs. Hovering your waiting folds over his length, still hardened and bobbing between your bodies as you awaited a signal to proceed.

“Let me please you, my King,” you pleaded, one hand venturing between your legs to stroke his cock and line his tip with your aching entrance.

Daemon’s gaze met yours, his wounded pride hooding his eyelids in contrast with your wide-eyed anticipation. You smiled at your silver-haired captor so warmly, he could not resist your brilliant sunshine blinding him to walk into the light. Gently bucking his hips to meet you in the middle, you lowered onto his length and shared a gratuitous moan as he filled you slowly and completely.

“You are truly carrying my babe?” His hands journeyed to your belly, swelling softly beneath his palms as you rocked gently into him.

“As true as the sun shines above us, ñuha jorrāelagon.” My love. “The Maester says it is early, so I should rest as much as possible.”

Daemon stilled, concerned. “Then you should cease at once, allow me to…”

“And deprive me of this moment with my beloved? Never,” you asserted, sinking down carefully and bucking your hips to graze his tip against your walls, dropping so far you could swear you felt his cock deep in your stomach. “Besides, I may not be able to ride my dragon for much longer so I will take any chance I can get.”

“When you grow too weary to ride your dragon,” Daemon’s fingers splayed out across your belly as you bobbed above him, his eyes journeying to the ceiling momentarily as the sensation of your walls tightening around him stole his breath. “Rest assured that your dragon will take good care of you, little one.”

The mere implication of his words sent you careering to your precipice, clenching tightly around his cock as your walls rippled and pulsed with the approach of your orgasm. Noticing the sensitivity of your walls to his every motion inside you, jolting and surging around him to bring his rhythmic rutting up into you to a jagged pattern, signalling the arrival of his own climax.

“Let go for me,” he commanded through a whisper, keeping his palms pressed to your abdomen and revelling in the strangled gasps you could no longer hold back, grinding your hips to ride through your high as he deftly painted your walls in staccato thrusts.

Filling the chamber with your mixed groans and deep pants as you slowed your motions above him, you couldn’t bear to move from atop Daemon for fear of losing the moment you shared. Instead, he gripped your hips and turned you onto the sheets, keeping his length buried within you as you lay beside each other.

“Gevie muña,” Daemon muttered under his breath as he reached to brush your silver hair from your face.

Beautiful mother.

~~All of me changed like midnight~~

It had taken you the best part of half an hour to muster the strength enough to heave yourself from the birthing chair. Propping yourself up on the fruit table stacked high with pomegranates, you gazed out from your Dragonstone chamber to the harbour beyond. The day was bright, gleaming, the waters mirroring the same blissful turquoise sky beneath which you used to read your books, drift off into fantastical realms and dismiss your own captivity as the Princess Regent with no responsibility and no freedom.

The Maester said your third birth would be easier than the initial two, but so far he had been proven catastrophically wrong. When sickness could not claim you, tiredness and weakness took hold. Days blended into each other, weeks dragged for months, your belly swelled overnight as you lay helpless in the birthing chair simply waiting for an end to the monotony of childbirth. After delivering Daemon two sons, you assumed your duty as a birthing mother had been fulfilled, yet another child swelled no sooner than the second had left your womb.

A pair of hands snaked around your hips to cradle your blossoming belly, fingers spread out over the span of the bump to feel every sensation beneath your skin. A chin rested in the crook of your neck and peppered lazy, haphazard kisses over your ear.

“Good morning, ñuha byka vēzos,” he cooed softly, his breaths warming your neck. My little sun. “You are not usually out of the chair so early, are you not well? Is our Prince keeping you from rest, little starling?”

You sighed as you dipped your head against his, placing your hands atop his as they surveyed your belly.

“I am quite well, husband,” you comforted him, tracing idle patterns over his hands, still as delicate as the day he first held you as a babe. “I’m always well when I am with you.”

Gazing out beyond the Dragonstone harbour, you could make out the faint outlines of the Red Keep from the safety of Daemon’s arms. Word from court suggested your father’s physical strength was at its last. Your mother sent a parchment requesting your presence but your husband intercepted it before it reached your hand, dismissing your concerns and reassuring that a raven would arrive at once if the King was indeed on his deathbed.

King’s Landing lay just beyond the dock, a symbol of the life you gave away for the sake of love. When you once believed you could never attain the love as told in literature, you failed to notice you had already fallen into such an affair. Persephone and Hades, the blinding sunshine tempted into the all-consuming darkness.

Such a pretty little songbird.

In such a pretty little cage.

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jj-the-hobbit171 · 3 months

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Well, today I had this weird idea.yandere Justice league x villain reader. It’s still fresh but I’d try to put me thoughts in words.

So, reader is like a heavy hitter in the villain circle, the one the league spends a whole timespan of a movie defeating. But after a while they starts to see cracks in readers cold and intimidating personality.

They hesitate to attack when in a wild life presivation center. They are found to be heavily analyzing pride and prejudice when their home base is infiltrated for crucial information.

So, they start digging. Batman tracks down their background, while jo’hn tries to read readers mind during battles,and well, they came to find many things:

1. Reader used to want to be a writer. But after becoming a villain, there was no time to put down their thoughts into written words.

2. Reader actually doesn’t like putting animals in danger. They had a ferret when they were little, but their father got rid of it because of a bad grade.

3. Reader can’t be around fire; they have very fire sensitive skin which they have yet to find a way to counteract it.

4. Reader has almost the same powers as deathstroke like Accelerated healing, enhanced senses, mastery of acrobatics and some level of enhanced intelligence

Learning these things and more, the league became obsessed. They start building a containment chamber for you, studying your fighting style, noting your injuries that could be exploited. They learn more and more about reader, Batman was able to, god knows how, install cameras in readers base to watch them, Watching reader at their most valuable.

Tensed shoulders relaxed, menacing amour swapped for a large shirt and dress pants, and their face, while still tense and riddled with scars, is relaxed, and sporting a pair of reading glasses. The league watches them up and about, reading the favorite books( which they note for future actions), fixing their damaged amour or making adjustments to it. Occasionally Staring at their dusty typewriter before shaking their head and walking away. This display make the league more desperate to capture them. You,Their lover should not have to push their dreams away for this fruitless pursuit of power! If they can’t see that and end this madness, then they’ll take reader’s fate into their own hands one way air they the other….

Let the plan commence….

J.J here! I’m thinking of making a part two of this but I’ll be holding off on that for the mean time since I’ll be writing my finals soon. Maybe after I’ll post a part two of this and the cod au. But do send your ideas two me! I’d love two read them in the hobbit hole and expand on the ideas you send.

Thanks

#yandere dc x reader #x yandere male reader #yandere ba #yandere batman #yandere superman #justice league

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hollowed-theory-hall · 2 months

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Hello! I have seen this question debated many times and I wanted to know your take on it cause I find your theories very compelling. Do you think harry should've been in Slytherin? Does he have what it "takes" to be a Slytherin? Is it because of voldemort's soul in him that lead the sorting hat to even suggest he could be in Slytherin? I know this is not one question but I would like to know your opinion on this topic in general!

First of all, thank you for the kind words! 😊

As for the questions, well, you've asked more than one question, but this ask kinda gives me a good reason to talk about how Harry isn't some golden Gryffindor. He actually has some anger issues and he most definitely has what it "takes" for Slytherin.

I'll start with the last question and then go backward, actually.

Did the hat consider Slytherin house just because of the Horcrux?

I don't think so.

I mean, Harry is incredibly clever, magically powerful, and has a cunning streak a mile wide all on his own. I'd actually go as far as to say he's more cunning, ruthless, and resourceful than many of the Slytherins we see in the books. So his own traits definitely are in line with a Slytherin sorting, Horcrux or no Horcrux.

We can try and discern if the Horcrux has an effect on Harry's personality then, and if its influence is seen like that. I'd say that I don't think so either.

Tom and Harry, while they have their similarities, are very different people. They both have a bad temper (although they react to anger differently), but Harry has low self-esteem whereas Tom thinks he is the best (while still hating himself). They're both stubborn, but Tom is much more obsessive than Harry in pursuit of his goals. Harry cares for justice and isn't willing to hurt innocents, Tom doesn't really care about any of that he cares for efficiency. If the Horcrux was influencing Harry's personality, I'd expect to see more similarities between them that go deeper than that.

So, I don't think the hat only offered Slytherin because of the Horcrux. Harry is a Slytherin in his own right.

Does Harry have what it "takes" for Slytherin?

So, I honestly got really excited at the sight of this sentence. See I love Harry, that's no secret. But one of the things I love about him is that he isn't the perfect noble hero. He can be angry, and cruel and ruthless. But he has a sense of justice, he wouldn't wish harm on someone innocent, but someone who did harm to him, or was mean to him or someone he cares for... then Harry can be terrifying when he wants to be.

So, now I'm going to go through some (I have so many more examples of this, and the examples here are mostly books 1-5 since that's what I had on hand) of my collection of quotes showing Harry Potter's vindictiveness and anger.

Harry's response to "have a good summer" at the end of his first year:

“Oh, I will,” said Harry, and they were surprised at the grin that was spreading over his face. “They don’t know we’re not allowed to use magic at home. I’m going to have a lot of fun with Dudley this summer.…

(PS, page 221)

This is Harry's (very justified) vindictiveness we see towards the Dursleys many times in the books. He uses the idea of magic to scare them and is gleeful at the thought of Dudley's fear. Harry is very much chill with vengeance.

“…He likes to keep in touch with me, though . . . keep up with my news . . . check if I’m happy. . . .” And, grinning broadly at the look of horror on Uncle Vernon’s face, Harry set off toward the station exit, Hedwig rattling along in front of him, for what looked like a much better summer than the last.

(PoA, page 435)

Same as above, just Sirius Black as the threat instead of magic.

Yes, thought Harry, that looked all right. There was no point putting in the dream; he didn’t want it to look as though he was too worried.

(GoF, page 25)

Harry can and does lie and conceal information, even from people he trusts (like Sirius) if he thinks it'll be better not to tell them something. Whether that is for his own image or for what they would think.

“Potter! Weasley! What are you doing?” It was Professor McGonagall, and her mouth was the thinnest of thin lines. “We were — we were —” Ron stammered. “We were going to — to go and see —” “Hermione,” said Harry. Ron and Professor McGonagall both looked at him. “We haven’t seen her for ages, Professor,” Harry went on hurriedly, treading on Ron’s foot, “and we thought we’d sneak into the hospital wing, you know, and tell her the Mandrakes are nearly ready and, er, not to worry —” Professor McGonagall was still staring at him, and for a moment, Harry thought she was going to explode, but when she spoke, it was in a strangely croaky voice. “Of course,” she said, and Harry, amazed, saw a tear glistening in her beady eye.

(CoS, page 259)

And he clearly can lie well, even at 12.

But Harry wasn’t going to stand for this. Gone were the days when he had been forced to take every single one of the Dursleys’ stupid rules. He wasn’t following Dudley’s diet, and he wasn’t going to let Uncle Vernon stop him from going to the Quidditch World Cup, not if he could help it. Harry took a deep, steadying breath and then said, “Okay, I can’t see the World Cup. Can I go now, then? Only I’ve got a letter to Sirius I want to finish. You know — my godfather.” He had done it. He had said the magic words. Now he watched the purple recede blotchily from Uncle Vernon’s face, making it look like badly mixed black currant ice cream.

...

He stopped there to enjoy the effect of these words. He could almost see the cogs working under Uncle Vernon’s thick, dark, neatly parted hair. If he tried to stop Harry writing to Sirius, Sirius would think Harry was being mistreated. If he told Harry he couldn’t go to the Quidditch World Cup, Harry would write and tell Sirius, who would know Harry was being mistreated. There was only one thing for Uncle Vernon to do. Harry could see the conclusion forming in his uncle’s mind as though the great mustached face were transparent. Harry tried not to smile, to keep his own face as blank as possible. And then — “Well, all right then. You can go to this ruddy . . . this stupid . . . this World Cup thing.

(GoF, page 33)

Again, vindictiveness and manipulation of Vernon through fear. Not only that, but Harry can keep his calm and keep his face blank even at 14 for the sake of getting something he wants.

“Get stuffed, Malfoy,” said Harry. “C’mon, Ron. . . .” “Oh yeah, you were staying with them this summer, weren’t you, Potter?” sneered Malfoy. “So tell me, is his mother really that porky, or is it just the picture?” “You know your mother, Malfoy?” said Harry — both he and Hermione had grabbed the back of Ron’s robes to stop him from launching himself at Malfoy — “that expression she’s got, like she’s got dung under her nose? Has she always looked like that, or was it just because you were with her?” Malfoy’s pale face went slightly pink. “Don’t you dare insult my mother, Potter.” “Keep your fat mouth shut, then,” said Harry, turning away.

(GoF, page 204)

Harry has a bark (all of the above quotes are Harry having a bark). He can and does shoot back as good as he gets.

Harry isn't all bark though, he's got a bit. Harry's anger is palpable and so very real and I love seeing it:

just as Uncle Vernon burst out of the dining room, his trouser leg in bloody tatters. “COME BACK IN HERE!” he bellowed. “COME BACK AND PUT HER RIGHT!” But a reckless rage had come over Harry. He kicked his trunk open, pulled out his wand, and pointed it at Uncle Vernon. “She deserved it,” Harry said, breathing very fast. “She deserved what she got. You keep away from me.” He fumbled behind him for the latch on the door. “I’m going,” Harry said. “I’ve had enough.”

(PoA, page 30)

Again, Harry has his vindictive strike. (Obviously, Marge had it coming, but that's also what Harry is thinking).

A boiling hate erupted in Harry’s chest, leaving no place for fear. For the first time in his life, he wanted his wand back in his hand, not to defend himself, but to attack . . . to kill.

(PoA, page 339)

“You killed my parents,” said Harry, his voice shaking slightly, but his wand hand quite steady.

(PoA, page 341)

Harry, at 13, was fully willing to kill who he believed led to his parents' deaths. And more:

So what if he had to kill the cat too? It was in league with Black. . . . If it was prepared to die, trying to protect Black, that wasn’t Harry’s business. . . .

(PoA, page 342)

He's willing to kill Hermione's cat if it stands in his way.

Harry stood there, feeling suddenly empty. He hadn’t done it. His nerve had failed him. Black was going to be handed back to the dementors.

(PoA, page 343)

Harry Potter, at 13, laments that he didn't have the nerve to kill Sirius himself. He thinks he should've killed himself. He sees it as a failure that justice would be served by someone other than him.

Harry sat there staring at Snape as the lesson began, picturing horrific things happening to him. . . . If only he knew how to do the Cruciatus Curse . . . he’d have Snape flat on his back like that spider, jerking and twitching. . . .

(GoF, page 300)

Harry felt oddly separate from everyone around him, whether they were wishing him good luck or hissing “We’ll have a box of tissues ready, Potter ” as he passed. It was a state of nervousness so advanced that he wondered whether he mightn’t just lose his head when they tried to lead him out to his dragon, and start trying to curse everyone in sight.

(GoF, page 347)

The above quotes are both situations Harry was willing and wishing to curse people. Even Crucio Snape. He's not as noble and righteous and golden as many fans and characters in the books make him out to be...

If Dudley’s friends saw him sitting here, they would be sure to make a beeline for him, and what would Dudley do then? He wouldn’t want to lose face in front of the gang, but he’d be terrified of provoking Harry. . . . It would be really fun to watch Dudley’s dilemma; to taunt him, watch him, with him powerless to respond . . . and if any of the others tried hitting Harry, Harry was ready — he had his wand . . . let them try . . . He’d love to vent some of his frustration on the boys who had once made his life hell —

(OotP, page 11)

And sometimes, Harry wishes for an excuse to fight. An excuse to take his anger out on someone. (He has a lot of anger in him)

Smirking all over his pointed face, Draco Malfoy leaned across Harry and seized the largest bowtruckle. “Maybe,” said Malfoy in an undertone, so that only Harry could hear him, “the stupid great oaf’s got himself badly injured.” “Maybe you will if you don’t shut up,” said Harry out of the side of his mouth.

(OotP, page 260)

He's threatening and witty.

“Oh no,” said Hermione, quaking so badly that her knees gave way. “Oh, that was horrible. And he [Gwamp] might kill them [the centaurs] all. . . .” “I’m not that fussed, to be honest,” said Harry bitterly.

(OotP, page 759)

And when it comes to people he doesn't consider innocent, or ones he doesn't care for, even if they never harmed him, Harry is still vindictive. The centaurs mistreated Firenze and Hagrid, so Harry doesn't really care if Gwamp kills them all.

That being said, he is more concerned about Sirius in the above scene.

And he can and does cast unforgivables easily by the later books:

Hatred rose in Harry such as he had never known before. He flung himself out from behind the fountain and bellowed “Crucio!” Bellatrix screamed. The spell had knocked her off her feet, but she did not writhe and shriek with pain as Neville had — she was already on her feet again, breathless, no longer laughing. Harry dodged behind the golden fountain again — her counterspell hit the head of the handsome wizard, which was blown off and landed twenty feet away, gouging long scratches into the wooden floor.

(OotP, page 809)

Harry raised the hawthorn wand beneath the cloak, pointed it at the old goblin, and whispered, for the first time in his life, “Imperio!” A curious sensation shot down Harry’s arm, a feeling of tingling, warmth that seemed to flow from his mind, down the sinews and veins connecting him to the wand and the curse it had just cast. The goblin took Bellatrix’s wand, examined it closely, and then said, “Ah, you have had a new wand made, Madam Lestrange!”

(DH, pages 152-453)

As Amycus spun around, Harry shouted, “Crucio!” The Death Eater was lifted off his feet. He writhed through the air like a drowning man, thrashing and howling in pain, and then, with a crunch and a shattering of glass, he smashed into the front of a bookcase and crumpled, insensible, to the floor. “I see what Bellatrix meant,” said Harry, the blood thundering through his brain, “you need to really mean it.”

(DH, page 502)

So, I think Harry definitely has what it takes. He's clever, he can be ruthless, and he's capable of lying and hiding secrets when he feels it's the best option. He can hide his emotions when he really needs to, even if he rarely does. Actually, only in book 6, Harry starts sharing everything with Ron and Hermione on Dumbledore’s advice. Up to that point, he kept quite a bit to himself. And when someone wrongs him, he can and often will swing back.

And last but not least, should he have been in Slytherin?

So, this is an interesting question, because "should" can have two meanings.

1. Should've for the story — as in what is best for the narrative.

2. Should've for the character — in universe, which house the sorting hat should've picked.

So, for the first one, my answer is no. Gryffindor was the right choice for Harry for the narrative of the books as they are. Gryffindor is essentially the opposite of Slytherin and represents a choice more than just the traits and values the house represents. It represents Harry's choice even though he could've been a Slytherin he chose Gryffindor. And it's a constant choice with every heroic act. (personally, I'm not the biggest fan of equating school houses with morality, but it's effective in creating a clear narrative)

And while not all Slytherins are evil and not all Gryffindors are good, a Slytherin Harry Potter would've resulted in a very different story than what we have. So, for the story we ended up getting to happen the way it did, yes, Harry needed to be a Gryffindor.

For the second, maybe. Personally, I believe people (even if they aren't hatstalls) have more than one house they can fit into. Harry is both a Slytherin and a Gryffindor, and neither of them is more wrong or right for him as a person. I think deciding which one of them is best for him is up to a coin flip (and when in his life the question is asked).

He can be ruthless and cunning like a Slytherin. Selfless and courageous like a Gryffindor. He values justice like a Gryffindor. But he also has the selective loyalty of Slytherin to their own.

Point is, there isn't really a "should", because both suit him and he would’ve done well in both. Do I think Slytherin Harry is an incredibly fun concept to consider? Yes. Did I read way too many fics with this premise and would read more? Yes. Do I think he might've fit into Slytherin better than Gryffindor? Well, not necessarily.

Harry is much quieter than most in Gryffindor, but I think the constant scheming and image-keeping in Slytherin would be exhausting to him. He just doesn't care about all the gossip and politicalizing (something that occasionally leaves him out of the loop also in Gryffindor). So, again, both suit him about equally. The difference is that we get a very different story depending on his house.

#harry potter #harry potter thoughts #hp #hp thoughts #hollowedtheory #harry potter analysis #harry potter meta #hp meta #harry james potter #asks #anon asks #anonymous #slytherin harry potter

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sandara-and-coco · 3 days

Text

⋆ ⸝ Sandara and Logan kids ⸝ ⋆

more infos about them below↓

✨️Andy - The Twinkle Star✨️

▪︎ 15 years old

The spirited and mischievous boy we all remember as the youngest member of the Logan gang, always hold a special place in our hearts so I tried my hardest on his design. Before Logan adopted him, Sandara already saw him as family so it was no surprise that she embraced him as her son without hesitation (she ofc shed a tear the first time Andy accidentally called her "Ma"). As a teenager now, Andy has maintained his lively spirit eagerly absorbing the knowledge of monster hunting and striving to be a great big brother to his younger siblings.

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🧡Herena - The Sand Daughter🧡

▪︎ 6 years old

Herena, the first biological daughter of Sandara and Logan, is a captivating blend of her parents' best features. Her spirited personality is a captivating fusion of bravery and pure clumsiness (if she ever takes a tumble in front of you, rest assured—she's quick to bounce back!), with a protective nature towards her family and friends, she spends a lot of time with her uncles Unsuur and Justice patrolling the town. She likes to mimic her older brother and dad as well as often show overprotective behaviors to little Yohan. Though self-conscious at times, her extroverted and loyal disposition shines through, making her a cherished member of the family and a promising young guardian for Sandrock.

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💚Yohan - The Little Shadow💚

▪︎ 4 years old

Yohan is the youngest of the family. Very reserved and shy, he finds solace in his own company, preferring the quiet pursuit of chasing insects and encounter with monsters and mutants to the boisterous play with other children he finds utterly boring and mean. In the depths of Yohan's pale green irises, mirror of his own mother's ones, a mysterious reflection flickers hinting a past story veiled in enigmatic shadows that cling to him. When he's not playing by himself or with other creatures, he's glued to his mom often seeking comfort in her arms as Sandara is the only one able to momentarily soothe whatever troubles his mind and sleep.

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Here they are—my precious babies, finally in full render! I’ve had them in mind for over a year now, and I'm thrilled to say I’m finally fully satisfied with their designs. I've kept their names as a tribute to their late grandfather on Logan's side, Howlett, and their grandmother on Sandara’s side, Yisul.

As an EA player, these MTaS next-gen ocs feel like a breath of fresh air, keeping my Sandrock enthusiasm alive. I hope you will enjoy them as well and are ready to join them on new adventures !

I would love to meet other potential friends for my little ones among the community's builders and interract, so feel free to share your next gen babies with me anytime♡

Take care !

#my time at sandrock #mtas #mtas oc #mtas kiddos #mtas next gen #mtas logan #mtas andy #herena #yohan #sandara #my precious little ones ✨️#they live rent free in my head since way too long #so happy to finally share them properly #and really eager to meet all your cute next gen babies ♡

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insult-2-injury · 2 years

Text

Loopholes - Part 1/2

Part 2

For my little scamp @ink-and-dagger

Feels funny to call this a birthday gift as it's taken me well over a month, but Happy Birthday, Inky. You are a pillar in this fandom and it just wouldn't be the same without you. Perpetually grateful for you, your sense of humor, your relentless pursuit of boosting others up, and the way you shove me into my school locker day after day. Thanks for being the biggest sweet pie and the biggest stinker all wrapped in one. Love ya <3

AO3 Link

Part 1

Hell. What a concept. Not something you’ve ever put much thought into.

You always thought the place a silly idea Pilties liked to put into the pampered little skulls of their children; some upper class notion created to further decouple topside from the city that lay rotting beneath, where the fires of poverty suffered liars and thieves.

You used to think that perhaps Hell was located right beneath your very feet, deep within those wretched mines, a heat that could melt the soles of your boots curling and threading through the narrow alleys of the Sumps.

But if someone were to ask you right now, right at this very second, where Hell was, you’d say with a near certainty that it was sitting right here next to the most insufferable man in all of Runeterra.

And Silco isn’t even doing anything particularly wrong in this moment besides perhaps existing a little too close to you. Nothing you can properly remonstrate, really, without looking like a right asshole – although that’s certainly never stopped you before.

He reclines in the chair beside yours, balancing on its back two legs as he rests those twiggy ankles on the rail of the balustrade you’re both tucked behind, shrouded in the shadows drawn by the eaves above. His wiry arms cross loosely over his chest, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips.

Silco is just too… much, and his personal brand of muchness is abrasive to your own. His presence at your side is wet cardboard sliding over skin, like steel wool scraping across teeth. Everything about him sets you on edge. Yet he just sits there existing as you wonder how in Janna he manages to carry around such an army surplus of arrogance within that impossibly skinny frame.

His lips twitch as he senses your glare.

You huff, surging forward out of your seat and into a crouch to survey the expanse of ground thirty feet below. A chemical whirring noise sounds as your binoculars extend into a tiny tripod which you place atop the balustrade.

This little stakeout operation shouldn’t be difficult: observe, document, and scram so the planners can plan and the thieves can thieve. Dark times give way to innovation, optimists say, but as much as the Undercity prides itself on its potent resilience, there’s only so much one can do without proper medical provisions.

And that’s why the two of you are here. To stake a route in and out of a Piltovan medical depot, gathering enough supplies to hit Piltover in the shin; nothing but a sting really. Nothing, of course, that warrants any sort of collective punishment. Not that Piltover can exactly be trusted with equity. Odd it is, how retributive justice rarely applies when it comes to the likes of fissure folk.

Just a damn shame you can hardly focus on the task.

“Cut that out,” you snap.

Silco rolls the cigarette over to one corner of his mouth. “Hm?” His voice crackles slightly from disuse, the both of you having pulled the short straw, waking in the wee hours of the night for this mission.

“Scratching your head. You’re worse than my dog.”

He rolls his eyes and drawls. “No moving. No breathing.”

“Cut the attitude, fucko – I never told you to stop breathing. Although, feel free to try. Sitting there and sighing, like this is all sooo taxing.” You track an enforcer across the way, rounding a corner of the warehouse. “Besides, I’m doing you a favor. Well… a future one. Once you lose.”

You’re sure he can’t appear more disinterested if he tried. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Gotta learn your manners,” you say, spinning on your butt to face him, propping your hands theatrically beneath your chin to observe him in exaggerated pity. “I mean it’s an entire mystery to me how you’ve ever gotten laid at all. Walking through town like a mangy mutt.”

He follows your assertion with a condescending hum fit to appease an unruly child. You scowl. It isn’t fun when he doesn’t bite, when he swats away your attempts to provoke like one would a pesky gnat. How dare he bore you?

Your home has been with the Children of Zaun for almost half a year now, yet since the beginning your hostility toward Silco has never waned. The two of you make an incendiary duo; you can hardly last more than a few minutes in each other’s company before you’re not so much as pushing each other’s buttons, but taking a sledgehammer to them.

You despise each other.

It isn’t that you’re a particularly ill-natured person. A bit of a contrarian maybe, but no, you’re normally able to play ball just fine with the rest of the Children, many if not most of them recalcitrant and cocksure. There was no way you’d have been able to escape the dismal fate of the Sumps if you hadn’t cemented that defiance and fortitude to each calloused palm as you clawed your way up tooth and nail.

It’s just that Silco, well, he prods and digs at a nerve you didn’t even know you had. He’s rude, ostentatious, and for the life of you, you can’t understand how people don’t see through his tawdry little displays of ego. Acting like he’s carrying the entire weight of Zaun on those bony shoulders. You know, admittedly, that his lithe frame betrays a hidden strength but the twat looks like he’d be tossed ass over teakettle by even the mention of a stiff breeze.

“So have I won yet?” you ask casually, as if this question hasn’t preceded a massive quarrel ever since the two of you had made this stupid bet. How long have you been at it, a month now?

Silco slumps somehow further down in his seat, tucking the cigarette behind his ear, brushing back loose strands of dark chestnut. “Have I gotten my dick wet?” He sniffs, apathetic. “No. You’ll be happy to hear I haven’t.”

“I’m not happy. Just get on with it, will you? I need that prize money.”

He scratches at his head again, the noise grating like sandpaper across your nerves. Your nose twitches as he hums and side eyes you. “Having a tough time, are you?”

“I will kick that chair right out from under you, don’t say I won’t.”

His lips twitch, the movement much too aggravated to be genuine amusement. “You’re especially ornery today.”

“Bet taking a tumble off this balcony wasn’t on your bingo card for today, huh?” you say, “Would pay good money to watch you get clobbered from up here.” Silco stares, eyes narrowing. “...What?”

He grunts and shrugs his shoulders. “Kinky.”

“Janna.” You shudder and grimace. “You’re a perv.”

“You’re the one paying to watch.”

“Ew,” you snap, “I’m not ‘having a tough time’, by the way. Appreciate your concern, though.”

He shakes his head and looks back to where the sun is just beginning to rise, pricks of golden yellow and blood orange needling across the Piltovan skyline. “How about you put away the fucking claws, hm? It’s 6:30 in the morning.”

You curse at him under your breath and angle away to cool your bare arms on the marble of the balustrade.

“This bet is stupid,” you say after a few minutes of silence. Silco makes a soft noise of agreement. “Like it’s really really dumb.”

“Giving up?”

You huff at the impudent lilt in his tone. “Not at all. It’s a lame bet, though. Besides, we were both drunk when we shook on it-”

“You were drunk-”

“And there’s just too many loopholes to exploit. I mean, for all I know I’ve won already. I think we should, I don’t know, come up with a new one or something. Something more interesting, maybe.”

“You want to back out? Be my guest. But fork over that cash quick, will you?”

You hear the defensiveness in your tone and you scowl all the more. “Just trying to make it easier.”

“Poor, pretty baby, are you struggling so hard?” he purrs.

Your jaw clenches tight and you spin around to glare out at the Piltovan sunrise. “Fuck, never mind. You’re annoying.”

“You started this thing.”

And you hadn’t meant it to go this far. It was an admittedly childish accusation you’d lobbed at him over a night of heavy drinking: that there was no way he could survive a month without sex.

He’d been strangely incensed by it, the girl he’d been chatting up slipping away soundlessly as the two of you shouted in the congested bar, both having found yourselves waiting on drinks.

It culminated in a bet: one week worth of pay for whoever held out with no sex the longest.

No fucking. No oral. No kissing. And absolutely no heavy petting, you’d stated ardently, multiple times over the course of the night in case it escaped his thick skull.

“I’ll start thinking about what to buy with my prize money, then,” you say.

“Funny, I don’t remember asking.”

“What would you buy?”

“Ear plugs. For your morning chatter.”

“Haha,” you intone lightly. “Pretty selfish, though, if you ask me. Not giving it to the less fortunate and all that.”

“You’re right.” His fingers fall to his vest, indicating himself with long, expressive fingers. You’re reminded oddly of the funny little Sump raccoons you’re always tossing scraps to – the ones with bright yellow eyes and chipped smiles that sit much too daringly on the tops of your alley trash bins. “I’d donate it all to charity. Oh, that’s right. I am the charity.”

“There’s always someone less fortunate,” you goad. “I mean, think of the kids, Silco,” you say and his exasperated gaze rolls skyward. “You don’t want to see the joy that lights up a child’s face when-?”

“No.”

“Monster,” you remark, reaching for your rucksack to dig through.

The leather of his vest crackles as shifts in his seat, dropping his sunstruck gaze to you. A red bird warbles a tune somewhere above. You listen to the flutter of feathered wings flitting about in the rafters, smiling softly when you hear the tiny twitters of hungry chicks.

The waking world falls into a gentle bliss.

Until he speaks again.

“You’re wasting your time taking notes like that,” Silco says as you scribble onto the tiny notepad you’ve pulled from your bag, sketching the layout of the warehouse. Your nose twitches with distaste and resolutely, you don’t turn, knowing you’d only find that painfully insolent smirk upon his face. “Don’t you know jobs like these are about instinct?”

Oh, now that raises your hackles. And you can glean from the condescending lift in his tone that he knows exactly what he’s doing, talking down to you like a fledgling.

“You sure do sound wise, where do I sign up for your master class?” You say, carefully calm. “Hey, refresh my memory, was it instinct that almost got your ass arrested last week at the market?”

A pause.

“That was a trap.”

You lord over his near failure with a small smirk. “An obvious one. You know, if I laid out a human-sized rat trap with sticky bread and hung a big flashing arrow above it that said “This is a Trap, moron”, you’d still walk right into it.”

“It’s sticky bread.”

“It’s a trap.”

“It’s sticky bread,” he repeats, voice falling into a lower, almost guttural register as he looks pointedly at you, “Dirty sticky bread. Filthy, filthy sticky bread ready to be used-”

“Go get laid.”

“After you,” he cuts back in, ready, one corner of his lips creasing slightly in amusement.

“Can we just… do what we came here to do?” you snap. You shift on your butt, re-crossing your legs, alarmed by the subtle lick of heat that had them tensing in the first place.

There’s an inexplicable, grating harshness to your tone and like a hound on the scent, Silco cocks his head down at you, the spotlight of his gaze almost accusing.

Agonizingly slow, he nods.

“Of course,” he says finally with an almost practiced nonchalance, “The sooner we do, the better.”

You readjust your sweaty grip on the pen in your hand. “Glad we’re on the same page,” you murmur.

Your mind drifts back to when this not-so-cold war had begun.

Won’t last a week. Too soft. Good for book-keeping, perhaps – All things you’d overheard Silco speak to a seasoned crew of Children about you when you’d first arrived, having successfully completed your trials. And you hadn’t even introduced yourself yet.

It was completely reasonable and mature, what you’d done: Gone out and spent hard-earned coin on a small ledger book, scrawling across the front page, “For book-keeping purposes: You’re a prick”.

You’d handed it over casually at the Drop before leaving for the night, but not before you caught the sharp glint of deadly promise in his eyes as he’d opened the thing.

You liked to think you’d proven him wrong. Earned the respect of those that were worth their salt, rising in their ranks swiftly. And it was silly, you recognized wholly, the way you’d fixated upon the words of a man who meant nothing to you.

Too soft.

For a long while you sit there drawing, both the breeze and Silco’s prickling gaze brushing occasionally across the planes of your profile. And you’re just about to turn and tell him to mind his damn business when he points to your notepad.

“And those are…?”

“Stick figure guards.”

“I imagine those will come in handy, thank you.”

You scowl and clap back. “They’re built like you.”

“Yeah?”

“No ass.”

You know it’s not the barbed insult you want it to be. Besides, Vander and Benzo give him enough shit for his twiggy figure that he’s immune to any commentary at this point. But you still take a little comfort in the unimpressed look upon his face.

“I’m hurt,” he drawls.

You turn back to your work. “I mean I’m sure it does its job just fine as an ass, in the most basic sense. But it’s a bit of an eye sore otherwise.”

“Easiest solution would be for you to stop looking.”

“Well, I would but it’s hard to ignore the plight of a man attempting to walk on toothpicks.”

He puffs out an unamused laugh. “How about for our next bet, you attempt to be civil?”

“I don’t fuck with the impossible.”

“We’re a team now, aren’t we?”

“No, we’re not a team,” you correct, “The only reason I partnered with you this month was to make sure you didn’t find a way to cheat at this ‘bet’.”

“You just wanted to look at me, didn’t you.”

“I’m sure you’d like to think that.”

Silco drums his long fingers on the leather of his vest in thought. “And all those lonely nights on my own? How do you know I didn’t cheat then?”

A lump of odd discomfort dries in your throat and you feel a lick of irrational anger at the prospect, an unbidden emotion you quickly shake away with a toss of your head. “You’d be a filthy little rat bastard if you did.” You release an angry sigh. “Janna, this sucks. Who likes a long winded bet, anyway? You were dumb for that.”

He doesn’t bother with a counterattack, your point moot as you both know the thing was a mutual agreement. “Hm.”

“Besides, this isn’t going anywhere,” you say and suddenly your pen stills in its arc. You haven’t the faintest idea why. You blink uneasily down at the page, suddenly not able to do so much as clear your throat in the peculiar silence that follows. Swallowing, your eyes roll slowly to Silco’s.

His voice pitches deep.

“Then lose,” he says simply, but there’s an electric undercurrent there, his expression ironing from one of strange scrutiny to a familiar impassivity. You rip your gaze away when it lingers too long.

“You first.”

He taps his fingers idly. “Finish your picture, sweet.”

Your nose twitches in irritation, feeling suddenly within an ace of backhanding him across the throat. “Sure, hold on,” you say, shielding your notepad for a minute in order to stencil out a giant middle finger. “Here.”

With a thumb and forefinger, he plucks the paper from your hands.

“It’s deeply symbolic. Means ‘fuck you and the high horse you rode in on’.”

“Charming.”

“You should frame it.”

“I just might.”

You flop backward onto the ground with a heavy sigh, notepad confined to your bag.

Why wasn’t this going anywhere? You thought he’d have caved weeks ago, lost as soon as the next pretty girl offered to drop trou for him. It was only one week worth of pay. Nuts and bolts, really. Nothing either of you couldn’t bounce back from.

It’s just your irksome competitive streaks, you think. Just that.

“I’d buy records,” he says suddenly and you nearly jump out of your skin.

“...What?”

“I’d buy more records with the money.” He’s staring out at the horizon, where the sun is almost fully risen, like it’s a curious thing he’s never seen before.

“...Is that supposed to guilt me or something?”

His head ticks down to your prone form and he speaks simply. “No.”

You stare, uneasy at the strange sincerity. “Ok.” It’s all you can think to say.

Silco looks upon you almost as if he’s expecting something, like he’s just offered you a cool glass of water in a sweltering heat. The strange admission means nothing, you’re certain of it, yet it resonates somewhere deep, somewhere terrifyingly low in your belly.

“I’d buy books,” you blurt and immediately want to kick yourself for deigning to branch outside the hostile boundaries of your normal fights.

His lips curl up in mild amusement and you break from his stare, wanting nothing more than to hiss at him, tear at his hair. Out of the corner of your eye, you see his head twitch in the tiniest of nods.

Further heat blossoms across the apples of your cheeks as you steal a glance at him only to find him still staring. Ironing on an expression of what you hope is cold indifference, you hold his gaze. But he doesn’t return the favor, only stares a breath longer before turning back to the open sky in thought.

The light, relieved from the thick murk of the Undercity, gleams exceptionally bright upon the dark chestnut waves of Silco’s hair, half pulled back. Pinks and reds mix with the rare green of his irises and you want to lean forward, examine the way they bleed together. But you opt resolutely to close your eyes in lieu of openly staring.

Warm light dances behind your eyelids. The gentle breeze carries on it the honeyed smells of bakeries setting out their pastries for the day. The lulling whirs of the city of progress coming to life beyond the little bubble of filth you both exist in, the only evident tie binding you and Silco together being the one ready to ignite, to destroy it all.

Except it isn’t the only tie, is it? Your childhoods are exceptionally similar. You share interests. The same knack for collecting pretty things.

Danger, danger, danger.

You abruptly sit up, lassoing your focus repeatedly as you try to pay attention to the task before you. But your mind adamantly strays.

Shit.

You spring onto your booted feet and pace back into the shadows. “How am I supposed to know you haven’t cheated already?” you ask, curling your fists to stop nervous fiddling with the pockets of your pants.

“Do you really think I’d lie to you?” You shiver. Even his voice sounds different to you now. Grittier than before, or is that just a silly making of your imagination?

“I’m being serious, you cad.”

“You want to put a chastity lock on my balls?”

“None small enough.”

“Witty.”

“I know,” you agree, “Listen, I wouldn’t put cheating past you is all. To fit in a wank or something while I’m not paying attention.”

He recrosses his legs, adjusting in his seat casually. “Rules never stated we couldn’t have a wank.”

You whipped your head around embarrassingly fast. “You have?!”

First mistake, you realize immediately as his gaze sharpens. “You want to know if I’ve touched myself?” His eyes are steady, unwavering upon yours.

“Fuck no. Nevermind.”

His head cocks. “You’re not even curious?”

A troubled, restless feeling washes through you, like you’re sitting on a dock, dangling your feet above dark, murky water.

“Nope,” you say, popping the ‘p’.

“Have you?”

“Fuck off-”

“Have you touched yourself?” No change of inflection, nothing denoting full blown mockery. Just a predatory curiosity. You’re dragged beneath the surface, a shocking wash of hot desire sending your stomach coiling in on itself at his flippant words, too quick, too direct. They hit their mark and he seems to know it, his gaze dropping to the tiny twitches of your fingers. “I could be wrong, but I don’t imagine you have.”

Silco imagining you.

“Why’s that?” You rasp and you swear what you meant to do was tell him to shut his trap. His delight in your unease is somehow palpable, despite his features remaining unchanged.

“Just seems like you’d be one to take on the extra credit.”

You release a shuddering breath. This is bad. This is Silco. And it’s why you need to end this now. He’s a chronic flirt, a player, a bad guy. And you weren’t born yesterday.

“You’re nasty,” you say, searching deep for that spark of anger that’s always at the ready around him. But you come up empty.

He cocks his head. “You asked me first.”

“Eat dirt.”

“You’re so rude to me. Wondered why for so long,” he says glibly, observing you a moment before shrugging, “Should’ve just said something if you wanted to watch me have it off.”

An abrupt vision of Silco fucking his fist for you has blood thrumming startlingly hot through your veins. You halt, hands falling to rest shakily on your hips. His measured gaze drifts slowly across your abdomen, shirt hitched slightly, a sliver of bare skin tightening and prickling with goose flesh as his tongue pushes against his teeth in thought.

It’s high tide and you’re losing ground fast.

“Thanks, but…” you begin and stop. You bite your lip hard, release it before gnawing again as he watches your indecision like it’s primetime television. You stare for another moment, allowing the anticipation to marinate before you finally speak.

“Thanks but I’d rather watch time lapse footage of Benzo passing a kidney stone.”

Silco curses under his breath. You bask in a centering satisfaction as that vulturous mask drops and he seems to pass through every stage of grief, a thumb and forefinger rising to grip at the bridge of his nose.

You return to your chair, brushing invisible lint off your pants, hands trembling with a strange, frenetic energy. “You know, Silco, this entire bet thing could’ve been avoided if you didn’t have such a weird fucking God complex.”

Silco nods vehemently in mock agreement, a barely concealed frustration now pinching the space between his brows. “I’m the one with the complex? You’re right-”

“I know,” you interrupt with a sugary sympathy.

“It’s my fault you drank yourself stupid that night,” he snarls.

“Yep.”

“My fault you can’t keep that mean little mouth of yours closed around me.”

“Bless your heart-”

“Shut up,” he barks. And you uncharacteristically heed the command for a moment, jaw snapping shut before you stutter.

“I-”

His voice is a whip cracking the air and landing with a single resounding snap. “I said shut up.” He’s mulling something over and you examine that knife blade of a jaw with darting eyes as it clenches and unclenches.

“Earlier you were asking me to put an end to this funny little bet of ours,” he alleges dangerously and he finally meets your gaze, eyes glittering like twin swords, “Is that still what you want?”

You’re certain you don’t know what he means, but the shudder that tracks your spine and the coinciding lightning strike of scorching heat in your lower belly says otherwise. You swallow hard, lowering your chin to your chest quickly. Too quickly to go unnoticed.

Your uncharacteristic lack of retort hangs heavy in the air, mind staunchly blank.

“I mean,” he interrupts, hand gesturing calmly, whimsically contradicting the venom lacing his tone. “Don’t get me wrong, it was cute for a while-”

“Cute?!”

“You picking fights. The quarreling. But now…I think it’s time this ends.”

“End… what. What’s ending?” your voice is too quiet, breathy, so cautious of the tension that is pulling wildly taut from a subtle, pulsing place behind your navel.

“The games,” he intones.

“Games?”

He looks you dead in the eye. “Touch yourself.”

You move without thought. With him balancing on only two chair legs, it’s easy to bring him down with a single, precise kick. A fine slice of terror splits your chest at the terribly loud screech of metal against stone. You spider backward until your back crashes into the balustrade. You turn immediately to peer through the gap between the stones, but as far as you can tell, nobody below heard the clatter. You whip your head back, your entire body an overheating furnace as your breath comes in sharp pants..

You dig deep to rally up some of that vicious loathing from just minutes ago but it’s the way he’s looking at you, sitting up from where he’d been spilled onto the ground, hair disheveled, displeasure plain on the fine slants of his sunlit face. He’s seething but there’s an empty-bellied curiosity there, like he’s rearranging pieces at every turn to figure you out, keen eyes darting between yours.

“Now why would you go and do that?”

And there it is. That anger. Anger, you’re familiar with. Anger you can dig your speared little claws into, an infinite wellhead you can work with.

“Because I wouldn’t trust you as far as I can spit.”

He opens his mouth to retort but now it’s your turn to interrupt. You fall forward, collapsing onto your palms as you lean forward to emphasize.

“Because you’re an asshole. Because you walk around all arrogant like you’re Janna’s fucking gift to mankind, like your opinion is the only one that matters.” Silco rises to a crouch, collapsing back onto his heels, chipped teeth flashing as his head tips back with a strained sigh of frustration. “You think everything is about you, you, you. You’re selfish. You don’t listen to me, you don’t even listen to people who like you. Because Janna forbid Silco doesn’t get what he wants, right? You’re just a little control freak-”

“That’s enough,” his head snaps forward and his gaze narrows on yours with a deadly focus, “My turn.”

With thrilling speed, Silco hooks fingers behind your bent knees and drags your startled form forward between his spread thighs. You sink scrambling talons into the metal shoulder clasps on his vest feeling very much like a cat dangling over an ice bath as he leans forward, forcing you into an uncomfortable back bend. His lips curl acrimonious around each word, hot and cutting as his breath puffs across your face.

“You’ve got your head in the clouds and you can’t separate reality from fiction in that pretty little brain of yours. You only see what you want to see, and you want me to be the bad guy so badly, don’t you, sweetheart?” You lose the death grip, your palms flattening on the ground instead. His long-fingered hands slide to wrap the tops of your thighs to hold you there. “Janna, you’re still sore about something that happened how many months ago, five? Six? You hold grudges like most people hold hands.”

All of your attention goes to running him through with your speared glare. It’s a losing game, trying to absorb what he’s saying when the insides of his thighs scorch so perfectly against the outsides of yours, the points of contact setting aflame the now soaking nexus point between your legs.

“You never even apologized,” you hiss.

“Apologized for what? For your snooping? Oh, you’re so good at it – getting nosy and hurting your own feelings.”

“Apologize for your lack of an inside voice, and- and-” You stutter, feeling childish, grasping for insults in your tattered state, your breath sweeping a few strands of unkempt hairs across his forehead. “And your big mouth. And your- your giant, stupid nose. If you’d only tilt your head back, you could probably reach Piltover.”

“Nnnh, you’re so fucking frustrating, how you talk to me,” he spits, inches away now, eyes glinting with something perilous and alive.

“How I talk to you? You always talk down to me!”

Silco’s fingers dig painfully into your thighs. Neither of you stand down, chests brushing each other with each furious breath in, eyes ablaze. His breath hitches when your tongue darts out to wet your lips and he looks almost lost for a few long moments before his gaze ticks back up to yours.

His voice drops lethally low, a rumbling purr against your breasts. “I bet we’d fuck hard.”

The words make contact like an iron fist to the stomach, stealing your next breath, your spine bowing slightly as your cunt clenches and flutters around nothing at all. You know he feels the punched sigh of breath fan upon his cheekbones, sharp as knives.

“What?” you breathe.

“You want this entire thing to be a fight to the end, don’t you?” His throat bobs dryly and you can’t tell if he’s gotten closer or if his lips were this close to yours before. “You want to push and push, you little hypocrite, until I snap and fuck you the way you’ve been begging me to for months now.”

Greedy little flowers in your chest both wither and bloom as you rake wildly around in his eyes for some telltale glimmer that will call his bluff. You need to move out from under his sharklike gaze. But you’re utterly paralyzed and your wide-eyed stasis is too obvious.

You rile up anger from a quickly drying well.

“Arrogant. Just like I said.”

“Head in the clouds, just like I said,” he says, voice having lost that angry fervor.

The tip of his nose brushes barely against yours as he averts his gaze down to your chest, breasts pushed up from your position and rising with quick, shallow breaths.

Move.

One hand remains clawed into the clothed skin of your leg while the other drags up to your waist, thumb finding the twitching skin of your hip bone, massaging there much too gently.

“Look at you, all mad and hissing,” he says, almost in wonder, “Except you’re not even mad at me, are you, you’re mad at yourself. So mean to me.” His gaze drops lower. “I should eat you out.”

A thick, golden ribbon of desire unravels fast and pools hot. You squeeze your eyes shut. Those lips, so expressive in the way they shape sound, sheltering in the neglected, burning place between your legs. Worshiping the skin of your inner thighs with featherlike kisses.

“Shut the fuck up,” you snarl.

You throw one closed fist into his chest, the angle too awkward to do anything but merely thump him. You pounce forward, indignation lighting the way as you shove him onto his back. His head smacks lightly against the concrete ground, long hair splaying like a chestnut crown. You feel a flicker of guilt at the strained groan he releases before it’s dashed instantly when his green eyes snap open with a new, laserlike focus.

Silco snatches long fingers at your waist and rolls his hips deliberately upward.

Your nails dig half-moons into his bare biceps as you fight and fail to reign in an embarrassing whine. Another quiet groan releases in tandem with his when his hands migrate to your ass, gripping and pulling your neglected, clothed pussy across his length again. The pads of his fingers zigzag a tickling pattern up your sides before his thumbs curl around your front to cup and palm your breasts.

“Stop!” you wheeze. He pauses. “You lose. Fair and square.”

“What?” He breathes, all worked up now, thumbs sweeping in an upward arc and catching your stiff nipples. Your jaw falls in a silent cry, head falling to your chest to get your bearings.

“Keep your hands to yourself,” you spit.

You toss his hold off and jab your index finger into his chest hard. “You broke the ‘no heavy petting’ clause. How many times did I tell you no heavy petting? That? That was heavy petting.”

You’re quivering, trying to ignore the way he’s half-hard and pressing so heavy and delicious against your core, how all you want to do is grind yourself along him again.

Silco looks about ready to throttle you. “You think I care about a bet?”

“Yes, of course you do, your ego can’t handle the tiniest loss.” You prod another finger into his sternum and he snatches the offending wrist, yanking you toward him.

“Enough with the stupid bet,” he hisses.

“Then fork over that cash quick, will you?” He snarls as his own words are thrown back in his face. “You lost. Admit it and we can move on.”

“Oh no, no.” Silco juts his head forward until he’s growling into your ear. “If I lost, then so did you, because this isn’t at all one-sided, sweetheart. You play dirty. Filthy.”

“Do I?” You turn your head, too, to hiss into his ear, voice crackling with desire. “You know what, fine. I’ll throw a poor man a bone. I’ll give you a second chance and we can pretend you didn’t just cop a feel of my entire ass.”

One set of fingers releases your wrist, slides up the silken slope of your neck until it fists tight into your hair to hold anchor there instead. You squirm when his nose mashes against your temple, dragging back and forth as he grates into your ear. “And I’ll pretend you weren’t just whining into my ear like a little cock-hungry brat.”

“FINE.”

Without much thought, you shove your hand down the front of your pants, fingers diving straight into the slickness between your thighs. With your head tucked against his neck, you get to only imagine the look on his face as his body goes rigid beneath yours: that indelible crease between his brows ironing out in surprise, his jaw slackening as your knuckles unwittingly brush the column of his arousal while you tend to your own.

You grit into his sweat damp neck. “Loophole. Apparently.” Reaching between your legs proves to be incredibly difficult without arching your spine, wriggling until your ass juts into the air.

“Janna…”

“I just want the money. Now watch.”

Your knees dig uncomfortably into the hard ground but you push, straining to reach your arm further in order to sink two fingers easily into your drenched pussy with a shuddered, relieved gasp. It’s like he doesn’t know where to put his hands, hovering them ghostlike over your ribs and waist – as if you’re suddenly some delicate thing.

“You’re wicked,” he breathes, “You have no idea…”

“Suffer.”

His stupor is effectively broken.

“Hold still.” You’re forced to temporarily disengage as he sits up, moving you effortlessly across the concrete until his back hits the marble of the balustrade.

There’s a terrifying intimacy about being suddenly face to face with your foe, cum-slick fingers digging into the sides of his vest for purchase. And Silco looks absolutely wrecked, head falling back against the stone, face flushed and savage as he takes you in fully with pupils blown wide.

You feel too seen in this position, need the shelter of the crux of his neck but he doesn’t allow it, calloused palm quickly wrapping a loose necklace around the column of your throat to hold you still.

“Loopholes,” he taunts, squeezing lightly enough that you can pull away if you want to, but enough that he most definitely feels your anxious swallow. “Nervous?”

You eviscerate him with a fierce glare. It’s easier in this position to shove down your pants and reach the drenched wetness between your legs again. “No.”

“Good girl,” he says with a breathtaking grin.

You swallow down the pleasured keen that rises to your throat with those two words, fingers slick and instantly moving at a desperate pace.

That’s it,” he says. Silco’s wild eyes rove over your stiff, vibrating form like you’ll disappear at any moment. “Feels so good, doesn’t it, letting go.”

“I’m n- I’m not. L-Letting go of anything, you bastard.”

“Of course you aren’t.”

One of his long-fingered hands glides down to smooth over the impressive bulge pushing tight against the front fabric of his pants– up and down, up and down slowly palming himself. Abdomen tightening in his attempts to thrust with the movement, even as you have him pinned. You can’t take your eyes off it and if you weren’t so insane with arousal you would’ve been embarrassed by the way your mouth waters.

“Sometimes,” he says, “I think you want me all to yourself.”

“False.”

“That night at the bar. You saw me talking to someone else and you didn’t like it very much, did you?”

“Saved her a dry and p-pitiful fuck.” A ragged huff of laughter pulls from his throat because he can hear the hypocrisy of your words, the furious back and forth schlick of your fingers. “You deserved the loss.”

He hums appreciatively. “But look what I’ve won.”

Something terribly warm and possessive ghosts across the hollow of your chest like feathers upon harp strings and you move unwittingly faster, like you can punish him for it. His temple settles against your cheekbone as his head dips to better watch your frantic ministrations beneath the fabric of your pants.

Silco releases a starved, shuddering sigh that drifts across your bare collarbone and the hand he had upon his clothed cock lifts to wrap your free wrist. He slides it up his leg until it reaches his upper thigh, where he curls your fingers in silent challenge.

End this.

His skin burns catastrophically hot beneath your palm and you can only imagine the raging column of hard heat that would greet you if you moved the pads of your fingers just a few inches up.

You muffle a soft whine, pressing your neck into his stiff palm to steal a further, more keening cry as your index finger catches your clit in a particularly delicious way. Pleasure drops like a stone in your lower belly and you feel the spark of an approaching release.

“I know, sweetheart,” he whines back into your ear, almost mockingly. Your jaw drops in a bid for air as he squeezes the span of two breaths from you before releasing. “It’s all so difficult, isn’t it?”

“Janna, you’re the f-fucking worst.” You gasp as soon as you can and he pulls back to look at you with an almost fondness. “I can’t stand you-”

Lightning quick, fingers peel off your sweat slick neck to press and invade the cavern of your mouth, sliding two digits across your tongue before pulling back to catch on the ridge of your teeth, thumb arcing electric under to grip your jaw in warning.

“Be nice.”

You mean to protest, to bite down, but instead find yourself sucking the digits greedily back into your mouth.

“We don’t have to fuck like animals, you know,” he says, watching you work almost reverently. “Although, maybe that’s what you need. Get all that aggression out. Must be exhausting, hm?”

“Nnh nnh,” you protest and he slides the pads of his fingers back across your tongue until you gag, eyes clouding with water as he scissors them around before pulling back.

“We can go slow, though, if that’s what you want.” He hums quietly. “We’ve got time.”

Silco tucks a loose piece of hair behind your ear and it’s so fucking soft, so contradictory to the way he fucks his fingers into your mouth. You feel yourself melting and it’s terrible and wonderful, and your eyes squeeze shut.

“Go ahead and lose, sweetheart,” he says softly, “Lose and I’ll replace those pretty fingers of yours with my tongue.”

And you’re so close, so close to moving that hand upward – moving it so you can finish on his mouth, so you can put an end to all this tension you hadn’t even known had been rising all along.

But he stiffens suddenly beneath you and through the haze of pleasure you’re scrabbling for reality as he suddenly presses your face into his neck to quiet your cries, shushing you urgently.

“Quiet, quiet, quiet,” he whispers, reaching between your bodies to free the hand working in your pants. You cling, confused, to his vest as you pant, coming down from the precipice of orgasm, feeling cheated and ready to fight until you hear it, too.

The scuffle of multiple pairs of boots on metal, coming up the stairs.

“Run.”

<3 <3 <3

Thank you so much for reading, I can't wait to put these idiots to bed in Part 2. If you feel so inclined, reblog/leave a comment - I'd love to hear what you thought. If you liked, check out my other works here!

Thank you to my beautiful, whip smart betas for supporting me through this funny lil endeavor @sherwood-forests @averagecrastinator

Happy Birthday, Ink

#silco #arcane #silco x reader #silco arcane #silco x you #reader insert #young silco #young silco x reader

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reddancer1 · 7 months

Text

Robert Reich

Friends,

I’m worried about my children. Not my biological ones — they’re fine — but my students, whom I think of as my children because I have taught them and counseled them and nurtured them for years.

They are at a time of their lives when they’re trying to figure out the meaning of social justice and their roles in seeking to advance it.

Yet some of them who are Jewish tell me they’re afraid.

Some who are Arab or Palestinian or Muslim tell me they’re afraid, too.

The two groups are afraid of each other. There have been perceived threats, slights, intimidation.

My Jewish students tell me of receiving antisemitic notes, of seeing swastikas, of feeling unsafe.

My Arab, Palestinian, and Muslim students tell me that speaking out against Israel’s aggression has resulted in “doxing,” and in some cases withdrawals of offers of employment. They are subject to anti-Palestinian and Islamophobic taunts. They also feel unsafe.

Here’s what I’m telling them in response.

First, if Jews and Palestinians, Arabs, and Muslims on an American college campus cannot feel safe around each other, they will never feel safe around each other, anywhere.

Second, the only way forward is to reject stereotypes, and begin to talk to one another.

Talking to one another involves listening — listening to the fears and anguish, to the anger and resentments on the other side. Trying to understand those feelings and not dismiss them.

Active listening is itself therapeutic to a community torn by dreadful actions thousands of miles away. It is an important act in the pursuit of social justice.

Third, what does not move us closer to social justice is to attribute collective guilt to all Palestinians (or Arabs or Muslims) or to all Jews, for atrocities committed by Hamas or by Israel’s government. Such mass attribution is racist and immoral.

And what moves us away from social justice is to demean, criticize, or threaten others based on their ethnicity or religion.

Fourth, the war raises issues that are morally complicated, because they have complex histories extending back generations, if not centuries, in which both sides feel aggrieved and afraid.

This complexity can make the war difficult or uncomfortable to discuss. The pursuit of social justice is easier when there are clear oppressors and oppressed. Few feelings are more satisfying than righteous indignation.

What Hamas did on October 7 was horrific. Israel’s attack on Gaza is barbaric. The occupation of the West Bank by Israeli settlers has inflicted hardship and cruelty on Palestinians. There is never any moral justification for the killing and maiming of innocent people.

I’m not suggesting bland “both-sides”-ism here. I believe that Israel has been tragically wrong, that its invasion of Gaza is a terrible mistake, and that it is morally unacceptable to consider certain people’s lives more valuable than other people’s lives.

But the central issue for us should not be who is wrong. All of us are complicit to some degree. The central issue now is how we move forward.

I ask them not to be consumed by their own rage and fear.

I try to dissuade them from putting their energies and efforts into “statements” that reflect only part of the truth, or believe that demonstrations and petitions somehow legitimize their own points of view. I don’t want them to think that there is any easy way to a lasting peace.

Finally, I tell them that there is no ready formula for social justice. Social justice is a process. It requires the discovery — or the creation — of a shared sense of common good.

This may be nearly impossible for Israel and Hamas, so long as Hamas is dedicated to killing all Jews and erasing Israel, and Israelis now live with that fear.

But finding a shared sense of the common good is an achievable goal on the college campuses of America. It must be.

The core of a good liberal arts education is ethics. The central question is the meaning of a good society. This has been the case since the 18th century, when most of America’s prestigious institutions of higher education were founded.

There is no single answer to the meaning of a good society, of course. It is the pursuit of it that draws on one’s judgment and conscience. This is why higher education has advanced the role of reason in human affairs and stood for the Enlightenment values of tolerance and democracy.

My dear students — you, whom I think of as my children — please know that I deeply admire and love you. But I beseech you not to replicate here on this campus the threats and violence now devastating the Middle East.

Use this time in your young lives to chart a different path — of listening, understanding, and respecting each other.

You may not solve the entrenched problems of the Middle East this way, but you will provide a small beacon of hope for social justice in the world.

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holybananaoafshoe · 5 months

Text

Sneak peak

Hello! I had some brainrot on Klee and Keaya exploring Fontaine. I typed up a lil rough draft on my lunch break and I wanted to share it as a sneak peak before pounding out the rest!

Enjoy~

“No, no, no, nononononononononono--”

Almost in slow motion, Jumpy Dumpy rolled and bounced across the walkway. Keaya watched in muted horror as another small explosion rocked the inner city wall. Small pieces of stone flew past him, and flames blackened the once white stone.

“Jean is going to kill me,” Keaya whispered.

Screams echoed in the market. People jostled and bumped into him as they ran away. Billowing clouds of smoke rose high above the city wall. Pieces of robots were strewn across the road, and small fires broke out in stalls. A few shopkeepers grabbed buckets and ran to a nearby aqueduct to put out the fires.

A small figure clad in red slammed into his torso and hugged him tightly.

Klee pulled her tearstained face away from his shirt and cried, “Mister Keaya, I didn’t mean it! I promise, I just got so excited to see the robots! I’m trying really hard to be good.”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, Klee, I know it was,” Keaya said soothingly.

Normally, Keaya would be able to smooth over the misunderstanding quickly. It didn’t take much, just an explanation and some sweet talk. If the damage was more than usual, he’d offer some of his own mora as a small reparations payment and top it off with a promise to fix everything that was damaged.

Would that be considered bribery?

He winced as a chunk of the wall fell with a loud thud onto the blackened pathway.

Perhaps he’d find out sooner than expected.

The Courts of Fontaine were known to be unwavering in their pursuit of justice and relentless in finding the truth of the situation before demanding an equivalent punishment or retribution. Klee wouldn’t be spared from their system, no matter how much of an accident it was. Maybe he’s biased here, but Klee is a good kid. Deep down, she really means well. She’s just prone to… accidents.

Keaya looked up, from here he could just catch a glimpse of the court’s glittering roof.

Maybe… maybe the courts would go easy on them. After all, he was technically the person who was holding the bomb. If nothing else, maybe he could convince them the bombs were his and he forgot to leave them in Mondstadt. If he was convicted and held in the Fortress, maybe he could convince a nice officer to let him write to the Knights of Favonius. Lisa or Jean could come get Klee and smooth everything over.

Maybe everything would be okay?

A tiny explosion went off by the wall. Those who stayed behind to put out the fires yelled and jumped back.

Maybe Jean would reduce his sentence.

He and the shopkeepers kept their eyes fixed on the wall. When it seemed there wouldn’t be any more explosions, they went back to assessing the damages done to their shops. He looked down at Klee with a raised eyebrow and she nervously muttered something about a modification she made to the bombs on the way here. All so she could ‘test them against the super strong robots’ she heard about from the boat attendants.

Barbatos, help us.

Keaya sighed and grabbed a hold of Klee’s small hand. “It seems the situation is under control here, how about we go to the Grand Courts and explain what happened, yeah?”

Klee nodded hesitantly and grabbed his hand. Together, they walked towards the Grand Courts.

.....Nothing else could go wrong, could it?

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unholywriter · 1 year

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Chapter Two

Percival Fredrickstein von Musel Klossowski de Rolo III

Warnings: None.

We’re All Runaways

Chapter Three: Cursed Family Matters

Nor’i led the charge, up the stairs too the left. Searching for the biggest possible exquisite door for a study. She listened for any signs of life. The crackling of a fireplace, the pacing of footsteps. The possible breath in an exhale. It wasn’t hard to find what she was looking for, for from afar slightly down the hall were the huge double elm doors waiting for her to swing open. Her pursuit and stature became unfazed as she lugged them open to be met with the eyes of a very solemn, and tired Lord Euston.

“What the bloody hell are you thinking?!” He blurted out with this sudden intrusion of a stranger in his study. Nor’i watched as his shoulder slowly moved to the point she knew he was reaching for something.

“I’ve come here to speak to you about your son and what I can do to find out who or what may have killed him.” She replied, just as up-straight and blunt per usual. The obvious trespass didn’t cease his nerves. But his eyes darted behind as the gentleman who was also waiting stood halted beside adjusting his glasses.

“I’m sorry for her rather rude behavior, we’ve come here to-“

“Just sit, you’ve already decided this is not my home but your own running around doing what you please.” He sighed very heavily, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose for a headache either coming on or strengthening.

Nor’i and the younger gentleman’s eyes met, and finally Reginald had caught up. “Oh my Lord, I’m am sorry I tried excusing them from the premises but they refused and-“

“Enough Reginald. Fetch some tea. It appears I have to put my rather important business aside to hear the squabbles of these fairly inconsiderate people. Now as I said. Sit, down.” He narrowed his eyelids at the both of them. Nor’i beginning to sit down, and the younger gentleman following in suit.

“Yes sir, of course.” Reginald bowed and turned heal to head and do what he was told.

“Lord Euston, I’d believe it be very important considering this would be about figuring out what happened with your son.” Nor’i finally allowed a softer tone to blanket her words. “It would bring you some sort of relief, and a sense of justice if it can be solved and dealt with would it not?”

“I’ve already been over this with far to many, and everyone will always come up with the same conclusion. The Euston’s are cursed, and it’s only a matter of time that I lose my one and only last remaining family member. My three year old son Winston. Now if this is all this is about, I’d rather ask you to leave. I need to-“

“Sir, I am sorry about your son. About your wife and your daughter. But what if something is actually terribly wrong? What if you do continue to start dropping like flies then what’s the point of your family being here at all? What’s the point of making a future for your only son?” Nor’i furrowed her eyebrows. He looked her dead in her eyes now, a flicker could be seen. It was only a moment that broke, we’re the fear and heartache really bleed out.

“Young lady, there’d be nothing more for me to do. Running away isn’t an option.” He took a deep breath in and let it out slowly. Switching from one pair of eyes too the other. “But you are right. If it isn’t looked into properly, then who am I to say that my family and I are not just cursed to live life full of death until no one remains.” He looked down, his hands clasped together, tugging his eyebrows downward in distress. But he finally looked up and looked over to the other gentleman. “As for you. So very quiet, and so very calculated.”

“I am indeed weighing out the situation here. Yes.” The green eyed boy spoke.

“Of course. I would be too with all that has possibly been gathered about the whole ordeal.” The two didn’t break eye contact.

“My name is Perciv-“

“I care not for your name.” He again cut him off. The solemn expressions completely returning, as if solidified. Never yielding. “You want to help find out what happened to my boy? Fine. Find out what occurred and then we’ll talk business. Now if the both of you need details, then ask now so I can get back to keeping what’s left of my family living in squalor.”

Both Nor’i and what can now be concluded as Percy simultaneously spoke at once. From Percy, “We’re actually here for diff-“

And “we’re not working tog-“ from Nor’i. Only to yet again be cut off by Lord Euston.

“That’s now completely irrelevant.” He cleared his throat. “My boy was a curious child. Got into trouble, and into places he didn’t belong.” He clenched his grip harder. Still very unsettled and freshly torn by the loss. “He’d run around with the younger kids amongst the village, barely a soul from the upper noblest had a child amongst his age and after trying my best to keep him out of trouble I finally allowed him to just do what he pleased. Especially after my wife’s passing.” Another break, but a tear stitched together with bloody hands yet again. “I should have kept on him, but I was lost and failed him as a father. The death of my daughter, my wife’s death soon after. I couldn’t see reason and threw myself away in my study. I drank my days and nights away. Neglecting both my sons, wallowing in self pitty and allowing my work, and my children to slip away from me.”

His past years of tormented life experience continued to be explained. “Lance begged me to try and get myself together. He did, but by the time I could pull my head out of my ass he was then found amongst the mountain side, barely unrecognizable if only he wasn’t wearing his mothers necklace he had commissioned into cufflinks.” Lord Euston closed his eyes to take a deep breath in. Both Percy and Nor’i could see the tremble of his hands, the shake of his body. His eyes dared to open yet again to continue. “I’m here now for my only remaining son and heir to the Euston line and business. To take back our life, and secure a stable future for Winston and whomever he chooses to share that life with and continue on; hopefully with more brighter days and filled with hope and more life than this last decade.”

“I can understand that darkness and loss all to well.” Percy piped in, and Nor’i noticed his discomfort and the emotions that radiated off him. For now, Nor’i decided to be disconnected to this man and his family. Did she feel for them? Of course. But this was business after all.

“We’re all touched by darkness young friend. Some more consumed than others.” He loosened his tension just a tiny bit.

“How far away was he found?” Nor’i continued to get as much details as possible.

“A good hour away up the Fallen Rock trial.” Lord Euston replied.

“That sounds like a quite dangerous title.” Percy adjusted his glasses yet again.

“Very. And quite on the nose.” The older gentleman straightened his posture even more. Watching as Reginald came back with a plater of tea.

“Well if there are snow giants along the mountain’s, I do know a bit about them.” The green eyes of Percy lit up. Only for a fair moment before he took a cup, and sipped it gingerly. Nor’i followed but didn’t take a sip yet still keeping an eye on Lord Euston.

“Have you made a lot of enemies?” She yet again troubled in with more questions.

A soft laugh left his lips, a different change in his atmosphere. Yet only for a few seconds. “Oh my dear, all business men have enemies. But if you’re wondering if I pissed off the wrong person? Sure, that’s very much likely. But explaining how my family has been put in such dark times for so many years? You’d think that be quite obsessive and not repetitive without me knowing whom was doing so.” He took a sip of his tea next before continuing. “A yellow fever broke out and my girl was indeed first too go but she wasn’t the only one. My wife? She fell ill more so from depression, dying in her bed with the loss that was to much to bare. And my son? I can only imagine the beast that lurks those mountains. All quite coincidences but so unfair deaths. It seems the Raven Queen has become quite well acquainted with my family I’m afraid.”

“How often did Lance head off on his escapades?” Percival took this moment now to pipe in and accept himself that his business he was to talk to Lord Euston about would have to wait until after. So, to get the audience he needed had to be earned.

“He would miss dinners quite often, and I was told he crept back in late nights. Maybe, more than four times a week?” His expression sunk. “We used to be so close you know. Your first son will always hold a special place in your heart.”

“You said, he made common friends?” Nor’i asked next, a slight tilt of her head.

“Yes.” He clasped his hands together again and pressed them slowly too his lips.

“Well, if you’ll allow me Lord Euston, I’ll be heading on my way to figure this whole ordeal out.” Nor’i stood up, and with her staff at her side she bowed down too him and sped off. For she had a good idea what she’d have to do next, who she’d have to speak too. Leaving Percy behind, looking back at her over his shoulder. His thoughts filled with bewilderment and his fixation on her abruptness. But he returned to peer into Lord Euston’s eyes.

“Your partner is quite a peculiar jewel.” He lowered his hands now and then began to write down on his parchment yet again. Without looking toward Percy, he spoke once more. “I’d catch up to someone like that if I were you boy.”

Chapter Four

#percy de rolo #the legend of vox machina #vox machina #critical role #percy de rolo x reader #dungeons and dungeons #dnd #dnd shenanigans #percival fredrickstein von musel de rolo iii #nori vo #nor’i vo #nor’i #dnd ocs #orginal character

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secret-fungi · 8 months

Text

at journey's end

Paring: Tyril x f! elf (odelia)

book: blades of light and shadows

word count: 1181

rating: t

Summary: At journeys end you'll be carried to the stars above in the arms of your love, and there shall be no more pain, no sorrow when you take your place in the stars.

category: angst

warnings: major character death,

Tags. @choicesficwriterscreations @lawrencebarkley

I have loved you for centuries before this moment, and i will love you for centuries after,

the sky above may reclaim their brightest star and you may leave me behind, but know A’mael that I will never be far behind, that when my essence joins yours, our souls shall dance together once again, a melodic song that the galaxies sing, for the part of your soul that is mine, and the part of my soul that is yours are together again.

long last we are here, long last we are still. the rest we sought in life promised in the stars above.

His hands trembled as he raised one to knock at her door, a small cottage in the middle of the restored whimsywoods.

The window was open, the smell of spiced cakes and hibiscus tea drifted from it and before long, the Hero opened her door, Tired and battle worn, her once dark hair now completely white.

“Hello, A’mael.” she greeted, barely being able to finish her greeting before he embraced her. “I’ve put on some tea for you.” she said into his shoulder, her hand resting itself on his hip.

With his love holding him steady on one side and his cane supporting the other, the battlemage realized he probably wouldn’t be able to stand upright on his own anymore.

How long had it been since he saw her?

“You’re trembling, dear.” she informed “I’m old.” “Not even close.” she replied with a laugh.

Linking their arms again once more, like they did many times before, she led him to the sofa.

She smiled at him sadly, holding his face in her hands before placing a kiss to his lips.

“I wish you could stay longer.” she whispered against his lips.

You get old and then you die, the noble spend their life giving it away, days, months, years… lifetimes are given for the pursuit of justice. The greedy search for the fountain of youth, the vain search for favor that’ll never fade.

Yet the noble get the honor of eternal youth, the joy of getting old is lost to them, but even still, the heroes are as old as they’ve ever been.

And as old as they’ll ever be.

her hands trembled as she carried the tray so he took it from her, setting it down on the coffee table as he had a million times before.

When she was pregnant, he didn’t allow her to lift a finger, spoiled she called it.

In time, she could no longer hold her sword or do up her hair and so he did so for her, devotion she called it then.

the years she’s been gone could make up a lifetime, something always came up, he was half sure she wouldn’t make it to their wedding, she did of course promised she wouldn’t use any light for months leading up to it.

For all the journeys she went on that he could not follow, and all the ones that they went on together he always thought this one would be the scariest.

But she smiled at him as he poured them a cup of tea and all he could feel was peace.

No more could be taken, no more could he give, the hero had done all he could, and finally he could rest.

He took a sip of tea, and looked at his wife.

“You look tired, my friend.” she said, brushing a strand of his hair behind his ear.

“You shouldn’t call your husband a friend, A’mael.” “But you are, you were my greatest friend, my dearest companion.” she replied, Kissing his cheek.

“As were you.” he replied

Moments bleed and bleed, spilling into each other until no one can tell where one moment starts and the other ends.

He looked down at his tea, the small waves in his cup as his hand trembled and sighed.

“Do you regret not being a scribe?” she asked, looking at his hands. “If I were, our paths would not have crossed.” he said “I think they would’ve… no matter how you tried to escape me.” she replies, taking another sip.

“I do not regret a moment I spent with you- I don’t regret anything because it all led me to you.” he said.

The elf let a tired smile across her lips, a fond expression fell upon her face and a blush upon her cheeks.

“You are a hopeless flirt.” she informed “I speak nothing but the truth, how could I regret a single breath when I got to meet the most beautiful woman in the realms?” He asked, “And I have seen many realms with you, my love, and not one of them compares to you.” the woman laughed joyously. “Always the romantic.” she said.

How long had it been since she smiled like that?

“Dance with me, my love?” she asked

The battlemages rose to their feet, unsteady and weaker than they were as babes, her cane where he left it, resting against the sofa.

As they swayed the lovers were young again, one again. As if they’ve never left each other’s side.

The warrior looked to his wife and saw that she was young once more, dark hair and bright eyes.

“Is the journey long?” he asked, “It is already over, My love.” she replied

And when he looked around he saw he no longer needed a cane, no longer did he ache.

He looked to her and smiled, lifting her into the air and twirling her, the last time they danced he could no longer lift her and she could hardly stand, she begged to dance, she wished to get out of bed for just a moment, to see the stars and feel the night’s crisp air.

They twirled and laughed, and then they cried, and at long last, the heroes rested.

Under the sky, young Starfurys cried, they sent a prayer for their father that joined their mother, Their aunt held them and let them cry.

They found him in their mother’s room, laying in bed with a tray of spiced cakes and cold tea in two cups beside him.

“Look there, That’s your father’s star.” She said “That's mother.” The elder said “It's actually two, so close you mistake them as one.”

The young Starfurys looked to her, As young as their parents were when this all began, a question heavy on their hearts.

Why didn’t their dad stop using his light?

Sometimes older elves after they’ve lost their love they lose the will to carry on. Tyril always was passionate about everything he did, he always did it till his hands bled, love is above all things, corrosive. And it burned him from the inside out to be apart from his love.

But that wasn’t an answer to give young people, they’ve got much to learn before they discover that.

#blades of light and shadow #bolas 2 #playchoices #pb bolas #tyril starfury #bolas tyril #my fic #choices fanfic #choices fic writers creations #choices fanfiction #blades fic #tyril starfury x mc #all of my writing is just a love letter to death #foaming at the mouth #begging on my knees #for death lmao #truly #lmaooo the love and longing im accessing? its just being suicidal

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piece-ofmindd · 7 months

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So what is to be done, how do things move forward? I can only make such an informed decision, my darling, you’re dodging the question, you’re changing the topic, you’re circumventing the issue - tell me, what are you afraid of? what is the fear you have in your heart, that letting me in, that letting me take a peek into your mind will result in something so awful? what is the risk? are you fearful of me, of all the possible reactions that I could have to your truth? are you nervous for what you may reveal to yourself? that unveiling a truth to another person may result in seeing a piece of your soul that you don’t believe you’re ready to view?

You have nothing to lose my darling.

The beautiful thing about the world we’ve built for ourselves is that neither of us was ever meant to be bound by the other in the first place. we’re simply a conversation, a smile, a good time, a cute picture, an inspiration, a flirtation, and if we’re lucky, a sweet kiss. the only thing to lose is pride. the only thing to lose is set firmly in irrealis.

There is a bit of poetry to this, no? it’s not a typical way of creating companionship, and in the oddness of our creation, comes the ability to write our own recipe, to outline a new standard, a new set of constraints. what this recipe includes, however, is only ours to define, and that definition can only come from collaboration, mutual intelligibility, honesty, and a willingness to push norms aside. It is only what we create it to be.

so I ask; answer my questions in the very best, in the most unmediated way possible - what is it that you’re feeling? what is it that you want? and what is it that anchors you?

I suppose I must also answer these myself. or maybe you have other conceptualizations of what you’d prefer to know or not know in regards to this creation of ours. regardless of your questions, I promise to answer in the fullest way that I can. I promise to be maximally informative, truthful, relevant, and to be perspicuous in my answers. I promise that you have access to my heart, to peek in and see what flourishes and what weeps. and I will fulfil all of these promises under the sole condition that my answers are taken as they are said. there are no secrets hiding between the lines, there are no masks with sharp teeth underneath. my truth is not a trick.

I have nothing to lose my darling.

I have only ambitions, realized with time, dedication, and just a little bit of magic. I have my motivations, the internal drives of justice, of discovery, of vigilance, alongside, of course external pressures of external worlds. I have my own self that I’ve built as a carpenter into a person I’m proud to present, though as an artist, of course, the work is never complete. there’s small steps taken each day, each moment towards the pursuit of something truly beautiful. rather than an end goal, however, it is the pursuit, the drive, the journey itself that is truly beautiful.

And here is to life: in pursuit of beautiful science, of beautiful adventure, and of beautiful connection. In knowing our place, building our palace, in security in the qualities that make us who we are; for what is there to be concerned? to you I present my honest heart, and in return I ask only for your honesty as well.

And just as language, we look to the perfection of logic, though augmented by the inherent imperfection of humanity.

We have nothing to lose my darling.

#poetry #prose poetry #prose #thoughts #i did some journalling/writing to get my thoughts and feelings out about this #i thought it was quite artsy #so hopefully some of you enjoy it #a bit deep #linguistics references in there too #though mainly semantics #the ohonologist wont get it #but im expressing my feelings for me so thats that

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themanlykittenkayden · 2 months

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I’ve struggled with whether or not I should add my two cents on the QSMP admin situation because I am quite aware that it’s easy to be reactionary and angry about things but hard to say something meaningful about them. That said, I feel like it’s worth putting my own thoughts on my own blog so people can know where I stand and choose how comfortable they are with that.

(To that affect I’m not tagging this with QSMP tags because that feels counterintuitive to the whole goal)

And I think the best non-knee jerk reaction way to word my feelings is with this-

Here are a list of things that should not be threatened in people’s lives, no matter their history, in order of immediate priority:

- People’s immediate physical safety and right to life

- People’s overall livelihood and treatment as an equal human being

-People’s emotional and mental wellbeing and physical health

- People’s right to equal trial and unobstructed justice, even when they’re in the wrong

- People’s right to equal opportunity and pursuit of happiness, so long as it is not at the cost of others

This list is the same in all situations and is pretty much the standard by which I live my life, and as such it makes the QSMP situation much clearer to me

The admins had, have, and will continue to have every right to stand for better working conditions, as the way they were treated was taxing on their mental, physical and emotional health, as well as being legally a labor violation which is a threat to people’s right to equal opportunity.

However, the fandoms reactivity and aggressive response- although understandable and well meaning at first- has pressurized the situation in some cases instead of just bringing it to light, and has encouraged reactionary people to threaten people’s mental and physical health directly through death threats and high pressure to constantly engage and respond publicly. And this has only been exasperated by Quackity’s information being projected onto the already aggressive public square that is social media.

You cannot solve one problem until you address any threats higher on the list. You cannot prioritize livelihood over safety, or happiness over equality. All of them need to be addressed, but it can be simultaneously true that the admins’ treatment needs to be fairly and hastily addressed AND that it is not equal exchange to risk someone’s physical safety to reach that end and it being addressed first isn’t a dismissal of the first thing.

NO ONE deserves to have their safety and security threatened, EVERYONE deserves the right to defend themselves in a just and impartial system instead of the public square, and ALL OF US need to be mindful of the fact that even when people are objectively right or wrong, we don’t know these people and they are still human beings and should be treated basic human respect.

#thoughtstheoriesandramblings #discourse

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gag-magazine · 1 year

Text

Protecting Your Peace, or Being a Pussy?

By Yellen Art by Raneem Iftekhar

Putting male comedians on a pedestal for so many years of my life was horrid for my mental health. I love their Jester’s privilege. Their pursuit of truth. Their ability to point out the negative realities people don't wish to acknowledge. True catalysts for justice.

Comedy insidiously slips in revolutionary critique in an extremely palatable manner, due to the very nature of its entertainment. The jokes, these necessary reality checks, hold immense power in reframing thought, twisting taboo into norm. If it’s funny, it’s funny. Audience laughter is visceral. uncontrollable. reflects an acceptance of the underlying principle of the bit. The beginning of a somewhat unconscious questioning—a shift in ingrained ideology, although potentially initially uncomfortable.

I wanted to be like them, but I just grew into a menace, playing my favorite sadistic game whenever possible. This favorite pastime involved going out of my way to make my moral adversaries as uncomfortable as possible, verbalizing the unappetizing elephant in the room. I know what you did last summer. No care for pleasantries: let’s let the dirt rise to the surface. I won’t let this blow over. Cunt. You aren’t hidden. As long as I’m here. I will corner you. Trap you into confession.

I was always searching for something or someone to trigger me so I can simulate judge and jury, desperately grasping to feel any sort of power or agency in guaranteeing justice. To instigate some revelation about their lacking morality. To catalyze their own self-reflection and potentially inspire real change. You don’t want to let them off hook, allow them to enjoy the party, same as you, living peacefully with what they’ve done. It feels so deeply wrong to settle with your own discomfort as perpetrators go free. Would you let Harvey Weinstein enjoy his meal at the table next to yours?

But it’s a flawed strategy. On par with cancel culture’s delusion that it actually serves justice. The only one being punished is yourself as you deep dive into a black tar pit. Stuck. bogged down by their darkness. All you are doing is fucking up your nervous system, extending the timeline of your own anger, letting it cramp in your gut. P.S. Comedians are infamously known to be such happy people! Maybe comedy has always been a medium to complain about the things outside our control…to poke fun at our powerlessness. Maybe it’s not this revolutionary instrument of social change you think it is, but merely reaffirms people’s values. You just romanticize being a dick because that’s all you know.

Protecting your peace isn’t overrated. Karma will get them. Remind yourself that real change comes from a place of love. You didn’t even make it funny. You just put them in defense mode, clutching their comfort zone and validating their own worth as their humanity is attacked. The opposite of your “intentions.” Self-disillusionment, the process of confronting the violence of your own automatic assumptions and reframing them comes from within…But your anger is righteous and what’s the alternative? Ambivalence? Complacency? It’s a difficult balance.

I’m on a painstaking journey to deconstruct my perfectionism and shift my judgmental lens in the name of self love. I’m typically the biggest victim and the most common target of my seething hatred. In attempting to free my soul from this negativity, I try to remind myself that firstly, it’s ok to fuck up. And secondly, not every moment is a defining moment…But is it, though? Life has this magic essence to it, this circular mirroring of sorts, in which specific microcosms reflect greater patterns. Life is full of fractal reflections between small and large instances: no matter how deep you dig, you arrive on a fraction of the same thing. I usually collect people’s words like trinkets to add to a comprehensive psychological file I reserve in my brain. I’m addicted to retrieving more data to fill in my mental picture. Yes, that data says something. But not everything is a part of a greater pattern. Remember that they are so much more than what you see or hear. You aren’t engaging in critical thought, you are just critical. Keep telling yourself it was always about them and not some grand overcompensation for your own self-hatred. Everything is a mirror, after all. Stop projecting.

Today it dawned on me how much I’ve really changed. I’ve been making an excruciating effort to be kinder to myself. But in turn, I’ve become a straight up pussy. Now we have arrived at the extremely stupid reason I wrote this piece: because of two petty instances of girls disrespecting me last week. One of them involved some frigid bitch rolling her eyes at me and then ignoring me when I introduced myself. I humbly asked for her name and ignored her cuntiness. The other involved some alt chick cutting me in line. I said under my breath with my head down, “Don’t you hate when people cut?” and the bitch really hit me back with a loud “Ya I fucking hate when people cut” as she cuts. Now, I just said nothing. I’ve never felt like such a narc loser in my entire adult life, even though the concept of a fucking line has to be one of the most basic forms of common curtosy to ever exist. But She won. Hands down. Honestly I can’t even blame her. I have to respect her and I kind of want an enemies to lovers arch for us.

But anywho, my past self would have paid big money to be awarded any opportunity to deliver some seething comeback her way. But I stood in silence and it’s been haunting me. I can’t believe I’m…chill..now. I stopped subtweeting for the most part on my instagram story because my compulsive desire to put people on blast has gotten me in trouble many a time. I’m growing up, choosing my battles, developing my prefrontal cortex. But I am still riddled with a deep sense of regret over my silence in both these dumb situations. Maybe I should have made a scene. Bowed down to her excellency and profusely apologized for entering her space in medieval english prose.

God, no one tells you that protecting your peace feels absurdly fucking lame. [redacted]

_________

The original ending to this piece involved me personally naming the bitches that briefly hurt my ego and telling them to go fuck themselves, ironically undermining the healing narrative I championed in this entire article thus far over such petty, insignificant situations cuz its semi-funnyish (at best) commentary on my tendency to revert back to my nasty id instincts no matter how much I try to self-help out of being a chronic hater. But ultimately, the clickbait title of this piece presents a false binary: silence or explicit aggression. But I’ve come to learn that protecting your peace doesn’t make you a pussy; it’s just the opposite.

Let’s take a look at your doomed track record thus far. You allow disrespect to tally up until you reach a breaking point that has almost nothing to do with the straw that breaks the camel's back. Then you continue to publicly pop off on an anonymous adversary on social media, with a shield of comedy and just enough vagueness to avoid communicating directly, promptly and vulnerably. Fighting behind a black screen without even really admitting you’re fighting. Championing plausible deniability to slither out of actually confronting the problem with the person head-on. Calling someone out for some dumb bullshit they probably don’t even remember in a published article where they cannot defend themselves…That’s what being a pussy looks like. Yes, I know: there are people in this world that deserve to be bullied, and yes, it’s a real shame they don’t experience debilitating shame on a daily basis like you do. But ever heard of the saying, “Misery loves company?” You are ohhh, sooo predictable—following the classic “bullied becomes the bully” character arc. So quick to condemn but someone calls you weird once and you crumble. Do you feel less weak now or more than ever? No, no, I’ve got it all wrong? You’re powerful? Extremely secure? Such conviction. Praise be.

#writing #prose #magazine #gag mag

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interstate35south · 6 months

Text

back on my bullshit (it’s been an hour)

thought that’s been clanking around my brain for a bit abt how the open ended information in dislyte events has the POTENTIAL to be great plot points if treated with just an OUNCE more of consideration

like i think about the event stories all the time (shocker) and what really gets me is just a specific pair of examples of “open ended” going wrong and right

lone star. if i’m being real, half of why i like it so much is nostalgia BUT bias aside, i think lone star was overall a good event, if a little simple compared to later events (but no surprise there). the thing is though, there’s this missed opportunity for SUCH a good parallel in the last act. following her parents’ -and later ray’s- deaths, anita does not waste ANY time, she was up and “i need to find the bastard who did this and put him in the ground” which, while real and valid, garners the equally real and valid response of “no, you’re like eleven, take it down a notch” from ollie. the thing is, that’s EXACTLY what ollie did. there’s no confirmed timeline on gray dust and whatnot (more house ramses lore pretty please) but based on the timeline of the shadow decree forming and drew and laura at the union, it’s safe to assume ollie was like 11-17 ish when his dad was killed. my point being, he was young, he was a kid, he probably had the exact same conversation with drew that he has with anita, except he’s now on the other side of it. the entire point of lone star (as i understood it) was that there may be evil in the world, but that makes it all the more necessary to rely on others and let them rely on you. ollie immediately protesting anita holding the EXACT same mentality that he had should’ve been some kind of realization, however momentary, that just maybe, he was setting himself up to fail by isolating himself in his pursuit of leon. but no. they just kinda like. move on?? anyways i think the main reason anita didn’t become ollie is bc laura was there (go laura!)

anyways, truth unveiled. to this day one of my favorite events, definitely one of the ones that could’ve stood to be 4 or 5 chapters. one of the things i loved so much about it though was that it unintentionally recontextualized basically, why li ling is the way he is. he was a leash kid off the leash until he met yun chuan, who instilled in him the idea of strength and moral responsibility, pretty much changing the course of his life (to the person on here who said mateo is li ling if he never met yun chuan, know that never leaves my head). anyways, he’s learned these important truths of life and his responsibility to other people and literally as SOON as he goes off on his own, BAM yun chuan arrested (vine boom), killed in jail (vine boom). for a crime that?? no one seemed to tell him?? like no wonder he has no trust in authority, it was the justice system’s responsibility to uncover the truth, but instead, an innocent man died for a lie. it’s interesting though, that yun chuan’s guidance was still so influential that it manifested in a li ling with a strong moral code regardless of rules. anyways i am BEGGING on my knees for more information abt the li family and li xiao bc like li xiao advancing in society for the ten years following the incident and then intentionally impeding the investigation continued to reinforce li ling’s idea of authority and justice backed by strength instead of general regulation

teehee those are my thoughts

#dislyte #dislyte lone star #dislyte truth unveiled #ollie and li ling my sillies #divorced detective hours #hi ****bear

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little-lee-froggie · 1 year

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Ok, so I’m tired of people calling people satanists when they have no clue what satanism is. So many people think it’s devil worship, and I’m here to tell you no, it’s not devil worship, it’s not even anti-christen. So listen up, I’m here to give a somewhat brief explanation of satanism.

So, the first question you might have if you know very little about satanism is “if it’s not devil worship, then why is it called satanism? Isn’t Satan the devil?”. Well, the word Satan is actually used in this case to mean the opposite of the way Christianity functions. Christianity functions under the idea that there is a higher being that we as humans should worship, however, Satanism functions under the idea that we as humans should worship and respect ourselves as gods. If you look at the satanic tenets, which I will talk about a bit later, are all about respecting yourself and others. The very first one is “One should strive to act with compassion and empathy toward all creatures in accordance with reason”. To all you people who believe Satanists eat babies, no, we don’t. Literally according to the satanic tenets, we are advised against it.

Now, speaking of the satanic tenets, you may be wondering what all of them are, so here is a list copied directly from the satanic temple’s website (I will provide a TLDR at the end of the list if you would rather read the tenets summarized) :

One should strive to act with compassion and empathy toward all creatures in accordance with reason.

The struggle for justice is an ongoing and necessary pursuit that should prevail over laws and institutions.

III

One’s body is inviolable, subject to one’s own will alone.

The freedoms of others should be respected, including the freedom to offend. To willfully and unjustly encroach upon the freedoms of another is to forgo one's own.

Beliefs should conform to one's best scientific understanding of the world. One should take care never to distort scientific facts to fit one's beliefs.

People are fallible. If one makes a mistake, one should do one's best to rectify it and resolve any harm that might have been caused.

VII

Every tenet is a guiding principle designed to inspire nobility in action and thought. The spirit of compassion, wisdom, and justice should always prevail over the written or spoken word.

TLDR: the tenets are all about consent, compassion, being kind, having your own thoughts about things, listening to science, and no where does it say anything about the devil. They are specifically called the tenets instead of commandments because of the fact that people should have free will, and do not necessarily have to follow these as law, however they are at the heart of what satanism is about, and they’re similar to things you should probably strive to do instead of rules you need to follow.

So, now that you have a basic understanding of what satanism is actually about, I hope you understand that we are not devil worshipers, or people who commit terrible crimes, we simply believe in the idea that there isn’t 100% a god, and that we should treat ourselves well because we do 100% exist. Me, as a satanist can tell you right here that I do not believe that Christianity is bad at it’s core, I simply do not have the same idea of how the world works, and since I don’t believe in in the christen god, or any gods for that matter, I might as well treat myself with the respect of a god, because self-love is important. Thanks for reading this all if you did, I’m very glad that people are open-minded and would listen to me talk about something I care so much about. Even if you don’t agree with my personal opinions, I hope you at least understand why I think the way I do, and can respect it. If you’re religious, I’m glad you have something to believe in that makes you feel some kind of purpose, if you aren’t religious, I’m glad you’re able to live a life with purpose even if you don’t have a god or deity you believe in. I hope everyone has a day that is as good as they deserve, bye bye <3

#I was so tired of people misunderstanding what satanism is #So here is a ramble from a satanist to help people understand more <3 #satanism #satanic temple #education #ranting lol #get educated

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dragoninkling · 2 years

Audio

Since I’ve been obsessed with Arslan’s character song “Kazeshirube” (風導) since stumbling across it recently on @innerchorus' blog here, I thought I’d compile in one post the song itself, the Japanese lyrics, and the English translation I’ve created (basically just plugged it into DeepL Translate & then used Jisho.org for some minor edits). I wish there was an official translation but hey, sometimes ya gotta make do.

Japanese lyrics: (source)

風導

何故に人はあらそうか何を信じ生きてゆくのか… 私に何ができるかそして目指すべきは何なのか… 答えならそう自分で見つけ出してくしかないだろう一陣の風が今この胸を烈しく吹き荒れる

炎と血煙の中己の無力さを噛み締めやりきれない哀しみを覚悟に変えて進むと決めた千の星万の夢潰えた者たちの犠牲を踏み越えて願うんだ信頼に足るべき者でありたいと

あふれて伝う涙が地を濡らせどもこの眼(まなこ)しかと開き天(そら)を仰ぎ見据えよう

たとえ絶望が押し寄せても信念は希望を生むだろう遙かなる大陸(だいち)を駆けゆく熱き風を導(しるべ)にして決して止まらずに進むことがたった一つできることなら祈りはやがて強く強い誓いになり明日になると信じて

それぞれの正義のもと幾多の命が散っただろう栄華の儚さを知り運命の無常もまた知った千の声万の民想いに応えてゆくために我が仲間(とも)よその力未熟な私にどうか貸してほしい

まこと平安の世こそ私の夢だ絆と使命を胸にこの国を取り戻す！

消えてゆくものがあるからこそ新たに生まれるものがあるならばより良きを目指さねばそこに意味は生まれぬだろう？いつかいつの日か解き放とう自らの正義を掲げて誰でもなく自分で出した答えだけが光になれる

奈落の闇が如き日々でも変わりなく側にいてくれた助けてくれた支えてくれたかけがえのない者たちよ私は弱いまだまだ甘いよくわかっているからこそ今こみ上げてくる気持ちをちゃんと言葉にしておきたいありがとう

舞い上がる砂塵流転の空揺るぎ無い決意を抱き締め悠久の果てまで駆けよういつも風が導(しるべ)になる決してあきらめず生きることがたった一つできることなら私はここで固く誓うきっときっと明日を変えてみせると——

微笑みをたたえ行こう

English translation:

Guided by winds

Why do we do what we do, what do we believe in, and how do we live our lives? What can I do and what I should aim for? If you want the answers, you'll just have to find them yourself. A gust of wind is blowing fiercely in my chest.

In the midst of flames and sprays of blood, my own helplessness gnaws at me. I've decided to turn my sorrow into resolve and move forward. A thousand stars, ten thousand dreams, the sacrifices of the crushed... I hope to be someone worthy of trust

Even though the tears that stream down my face wet the ground I will open my eyes and look up to the sky.

Even though despair may be overwhelming, our faith will give birth to hope. With the hot winds of the faraway continent as our guide If we can do only one thing, let’s go on without ever stopping I believe that our prayers will eventually become a strong and powerful vow, and that tomorrow will come.

How many lives have been lost in the pursuit of justice? We know the transience of glory and the impermanence of fate. In order to respond to the wishes of a thousand voices, a million people, I ask you, my friends, to lend your strength to my inexperience.

I dream of a world of peace and tranquility With our bonds and our mission in mind, we will reclaim our land!

It is because some things disappear that new things are born. If we don't aim for the better, then what's the point of it all? Someday, one day, I will unleash my own righteousness Only the answer you give yourself, not anyone else, can be the light.

In the darkness of the abyss, you were always by my side You helped me, you supported me, you're all irreplaceable I'm weak, I'm still naïve, I know it well, and that's why, right now I want to put into words the feelings that well up inside me Thank you.

The dust and sand that rise up into the ever-changing sky I will run to the ends of eternity with the wind always as my guide. If the only thing I can do is to live and never give up I firmly vow here that I will surely change tomorrow

Let's go with smiles on our faces.

#arslan senki #arslan senki character songs #the heroic legend of arslan #arslan #kazeshirube #don't mind me coming to the arslan senki party like 7 years too late

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