#i think i was born to be miserable and die
Text
Million Dollar Man (Ghoul Cooper Howard x wasteland reader)
Part One of Million Dollar Man
Rating: Angst | Sexual Innuendos | Assault | Violence | Cursing | Torture | Fluff
Summary: A girl born of the wastelands finds an unlikely partnership in a man who still follows a shadow of himself… And though being in love was in your cards, it wasn’t in his. But you know what they say, you don’t know what you have lost until it’s gone.
You were raised in the wastelands.
Used to the scorching heat of the sun, the lack of water and the bitter chill of the night air, but you weren’t miserable because you had them, your family. Wonderful and chaotic as they were. They were your home and gave you a reason to wake up. They were there until one day… They weren’t. Taken from you by the cruelty of the desert lands, by men who wore metal with a fake code of honor.
And for the first time in your life… You were alone.
You trudged through the sands, dragging your feet, face fallen and life barely clinging to your hollow shell. You felt as lost as the tumbleweeds that rolled from the warm breeze.
You thought you would be on your own forever and then suddenly you weren’t.
You haven’t know him for long, Cooper Howard he called himself. His radiating red skin and puppy eyes that could do some damage if he stared long enough. You didn’t even think he liked your company, as unannounced in his life as you were.
“You… You saved me.” The words came out in a form of confusion and awe. Your shirt was ripped down your shoulder and blood dripped from your nose, “Why?”
“You told him no, that’s word alone is enough sweetheart.” He replied and then he was gone, walking out of town, his spurs clicking with every step.
You followed after him with no thought and only the clinging feeling of hope in someone that wasn’t as cruel as the dessert.
“Why you followin me?” He never looked back, you never even realized he knew you were following him. You thought you were being careful. Apparently not.
“You’re a bounty hunter.” You spoke, not slowing down in your pace.
“Do you have work for me then?” He stopped walking and turned to face you.
Heat rose to your cheeks, “No but—“
He raised his non existent eyebrow, “Look here sweetheart, you look about one short dime away from kickin the bucket.” He stated as a matter of fact, “Why don’t you go die somewhere else.”
“I… I want you to mentor me.” You spoke quickly, “I want to be a bounty hunter like you.”
He laughed at that, a forced and gruff one as he shook his head at the absurd idea, “No.”
“Please—“ You pleaded, “I’m not a child. I can hold my own weight. And I’m good at scavenging for things. I can be useful to you.”
He cut you off with a scoff, “You’d do better as someone’s pretty wife. Now scram.”
“But—” You pulled out your last resort, “I have caps. You can have them all, please.” You held out a hefty bag of caps in his direction, “Please.” Your hope was dwindling but you refused to give up. You needed to learn how to be strong on your own and becoming a bounty hunter will help you do just that.
His defeated sigh gave you the answer that you needed.
And so never did scram, years later you were still clinging to him like a lost puppy. At least that was how he referred to you, a lost kicked puppy. A reckless and softhearted woman he spent most of his nights in bed with for the past three years.
“Your hat… Have you always had it?” You words were as soft as the low crackling of fire against the setting sun. You had stolen the cowboy’s hat hours ago and wore it proudly on your head. It was a feeling that you would take to your grave, but you thought wearing his precious hat meant that you belonged to him just as much as he belonged to you… You hoped at least.
Cooper grunted his answer, a short nod as he stoked the fire. You became a good bounty hunter with time, albeit a little clumsy and short sighted at most, you were a good shot and you watched his back. Something that he hasn’t had in over two hundred years.
You moved to sit in his lap in hopes to get his mind off of whatever he has be thinking about for the past hour, “It looks good on you.” That brought a smirk to his face, something that you inwardly congratulated yourself for, “But you would look good in anything… Or without.” You mumbled softly as you brushed your lips against his.
He pulled you closer by your waist and kissed you like a starving man in the dessert, something that he was very familiar with. As he kissed you, he took his hat back and placed it on his head.
You hummed happily as you pulled back from his intense kiss, “What are you thinking about cowboy?”
“Nothin you need to worry yourself with darlin.” He replied in the seductive drawl of his. It always had your knees shaking when he dropped his voice down a notch.
You hummed decided not to press him about it. He will tell you when he’s ready. Instead, you pressed light kisses all over his face, a perk that you have been able to get away with recently… Another win under your belt.
“Well, I have been doing some thinking recently.” You spoke lightly.
“That ain’t good.” He teased moving his lips to your neck.
“Oh hush.” You smacked his chest lightly causing him to grin.
“I’ve been thinking about your age and I think I figured it out.” You mused wrapping your arms around his neck and playing with the back of his collared shirt.
A soft chuckle left his lips as he pulled back and placed his hands on your hips, “Really now? And what did ya figure out darlin?”
“Your mannerisms gave it away over time.” You peered up at him with a smile, “You act tough and violent, but you weren’t raised that way.” You explained with a thoughtful look on your face, “It’s in your eyes really, they become soft when you think no one is watching you…” You held his cheek and gently traced his cheek bone with your thumb, “Your gentle and you still care about things, I would like to hope that would include me because you are all that I care about.” You chuckled as you moved your hands to the top button of his shirt, “I’ve never felt this way about anyone before until I met you all those years ago.”
You didn’t notice the way his head tilted down to hide his darkening expression, “But I am pretty confident in my deduction skills that you were here before the bombs. Before this place turned into a wasteland… I bet it was beautiful then with colors and life when there were such things as meadows…” You muttered as you traced your fingers lightly over the exposed skin on his chest. He didn’t speak up, but that was something you were used to. He was always the quiet one while you talked his ear off.
“Why I bet you were a million dollar man.” You joked with a lovesick smile, “But I hope one day that we could find a place like that to settle down.” You rant about the daydreams you’ve been having lately, “Maybe we could find and raise these birds I saw in a book about farms once… I think they were called chickens? I would love to live that life with you because I love you.” You giggled lightly in thought as you waited for him to speak, “But I’m right aren’t I? About your age?” You smiled waiting for him to join in on your little dreams.
You didn’t expect the rough shove that sent you crashing into the ground beside him. Your head had hit against one of the stones on the ground cause you to gasp in pain as you stared up at the stars confused and hurt. Had you gone too far? Did you offend him somehow?
“Coop?” Your head spun as you carefully looked towards him, “I… Didn’t… I’m sorry.”
“What are you doing?” He asked, his accent twinged with a hint of disgust.
You flinched at his harsh tone. You slowly sat up and rubbed rubbed the back of your head, “What?”
“You really thought it was a good idea to spill all that shit onto me?” He scoffed.
“I don’t understand? It was just a thought… We don’t have to raise chickens…” You spoke timidly wondering if he may have had a farm in his life before…
“It’s not about the damn chickens!” His voice boomed and you sucked in a breathe.
You felt lost, not sure where everything had went wrong. He was fine just a second ago, “Did I… Say something wrong? I know we haven’t verbally said I love you, but we’ve been together for so long, I just couldn’t help but say it because I—”
You yelped as he dragged you to him by the ankle. He was on you in an instant, hovering over you as he wrapped his large hands around your throat and squeezed. You couldn’t take your eyes off of the way he looked at you with such anger. You had seen this look before to others, but never you.
“You don’t love me sweetheart.” He sneered, “And I sure as hell don’t love you.”
Well that hurt… More than you cared to admit to yourself.
“But— I do love you—” You gasped out as you struggled in his grip, “I would do anything for you… and I know you love me too! You wouldn’t fuck me if you didn’t!”
His snarky laugh made your stomach turn with unease and dread, “Honey I’ve fucked a whole lotta women for less.” He tightened his grip around your throat with a sneer, “You don’t know me.”
You clawed at his wrists as he squeezed tighter, restricting you from air, “Loved— Three years— I kno— you.”
His voice grew darker as he spoke, “You really expect me to care for you sweetheart? Settle down with what… You? To live some fucking fairytale farm life with a bunch of chickens?”
“Y-yes?” Tears sprung to your eyes at his hurtful words, “I love you.” You gasped out again trying to convince him of your truth, “Cooper please—” But he wasn’t listening to you.
You felt yourself begin to fade and a red blearing flight began to set off in your brain as you kicked him as hard as you could.
That seemed to work as he fell off of you and you sat up gasping for air as tears streamed down your face. You didn’t get much of a chance to collect yourself before he was lunging at you again with a knife gripped firmly in his hand.
Your eyes widened as you turned and tried to move, struggling to get up. Your hands clawed at the sand to get away from him, but tripping over yourself did nothing to stop the knife tearing into your leg. Your scream echoed into the dessert as you curled up into yourself when you felt him hover over you. You didn’t know what stopped him from tearing into your neck like an unhinged ghoul. Maybe it was your scream, or the tears, or the way you shook in fear. Something made him stop, something that had him hover over you as his hot breath hid your skin. It was a silent pause before he spoke.
“I have spent two hundred years looking for my family…” He admitted to you for the first time, it made your heart stop beating in your chest, “For my wife… And not even you will keep me from that.” He muttered lowly and you could feel your entire world around you fall to pieces with him, “I did want to raise chicken once.”
You hated the way he laughed at the thought, it felt cruel.
“Live my life on a farm with my daughter… With her… Not you.” He pushed himself off of you, his back turned towards the fire.
That broke you.
There was a pause that made you wish he would just end your misery now, kill you so you wouldn’t have to feel this pain any longer. You couldn’t bear the pain he was feeding you, you didn’t want to.
“You’re not her.” He spoke quietly with words that tore into your heart in two, worse than what the knife embedded in your skin had done, “And you never will be.”
You didn’t move as he got up and walked away. Your eyes just squeezed shut to avoid seeing the disgusted look he gave you earlier, a look that you never tho if he you would see on a man who you thought loved you as well... You felt… Empty. As if a part of you was ripped from your body and burned in front of your eyes. Everything you were breathed Cooper Howard and he didn’t even…
It was silent for the next hour except for the dying crackling of the fire and your sniffles as you cried. Blood flowed from your leg leaving you lightheaded with each passing minute and you knew he wouldn’t think to take care of it. Why would he? He was the one stabbed you… You never imagined that he would… Yes he was cruel and down right hideous to others, but never to you… Never like that. The feeling made you want to throw up. Your mama’s words echoed loudly in your ear like a bell. Never trust a shadow of a man.
You sat up slowly, flinching from the pain as you assessed your wound. Cooper was lying across from you, his back turned from you. He wasn’t moving and you were scared to make any more noise in case it would set him off. You took the collar of your shirt and bit down on it as you gripped the handle. You winced, groaning in pain as you swiftly tugged the knife out. It hurt, but not as much as your heart did as you struggled to clean and stitch up your wound on your own.
You had only ever tended to superficial wounds your siblings would get when they were alive, but never on yourself… Cooper always did that for you…
Your hands shook from the shocks of pain rippling through your body, but it was the last stitch that had your eyes rolling back as you hit the ground, darkness consuming your vision as you faded into a state nothing.
You never felt the faint feeling of a hand pressing gently against your leg.
#cooper howard#cooper howard x reader#cooper howard x you#fallout tv series#fallout fanfic#fallout#the ghoul#the ghoul x reader#cooper howard angst#cooper howard x reader angst
105 notes
·
View notes
Text
vent lol
#i genuinely just don’t want to keep existing anymore everything in my life has gone wrong i have nothing man#every time i think i’m doing better shit gets WORSE!! i’m just so fucking tired of this shit man i don’t want to do this anymore#i am so unhappy it’s insane#i feel the worst i ever have in my life and i do not see it getting better at this point i don’t even see a future for me#wanna disappear tbh#i barely have any fucking friends and now me and my boyfriend are broken up and he left me for another man i’m genuinely so sick#i still don’t have a fucking roommate and pay ALLLLL my bills on my own#i got a sick job ig that’s the one thing i have going for me but i can’t even fucking enjoy it bc everything else in my life sucks#i’m tired of fucking living like this i am miserable all the time the last time i felt genuinely happy was when me and my ex boyfriend#got together but i haven’t felt like that in TWO YEARS!!!!!!!!!#TWO FUCKING YEARS OF ME BEING SO FUCKING MISERABLE#AND THE BEST PART IS NOTHING MAKES IT BETTER#i tried medicine and it makes it fucking worse i tried exercise i tried supplements i’ve tried weed alcohol everything NOTHING WORKS#i think i was born to be miserable and die#i wasn’t made to be happy i will never fucking be happy obviously
0 notes
Text
when I explain to you that Ten is the equivalent of Enamored Smurf in the Doctor lineup
#his entire regeneration is built for passion#he was born out of love for one specific human girl and as a result he is constantly - no pun intended - at a ten emotions-wise#he is like. that one care bear whose entire purpose is love? but without the girl he regenerated for it kinda goes haywire#he's the doctor who kisses ALL of his companions think about that. he flirts with every female with a pulse. all that romantic energy.#just. zooming around everywhere with nothing to land on after Rose gets ripped away#it's hilarious and very sad. and annoying#when he's angry he's FURIOUS. when he's sad he's MISERABLE. when he's happy he's INFECTIOUS. and when he's in love?#WHEN HE'S IN LOVE DO NOT GET CAUGHT IN THE CROSSFIRE#the man literally wants to die when the human girl he was born out of love for is unreachable. he welcomes death.#he goes BANANAS when they are not together. slowly but surely he's Time Lord Victorious because he literally can't cope without his love#it's ridiculous. I could go on#I might write an essay about this#if provoked*#tenth doctor#opinion piece#10th doctor#10rose#tenrose#tentoo#doctor who#dw#bbc#timepetals#ten x rose#rose tyler#rose x ten#rose x doctor#david tennant#billie piper#ten
118 notes
·
View notes
Text
i’m in that delusional phase again where i look up tiny apartments in manhattan and daydream about what my daily life would be living there.
#i’m so desperate to live there. my heart literally aches for the life i could be living#instead. i’m stuck in this deadend state where people go to retire. to get old and die quietly#i’m stuck in the second smallest state in the country. doomed to feel this yearning for my real home#every time i let myself think for too long i get so emotional.#i hate it here. i belong in the city. i don’t belong here#i was born in manhattan and i dream about going back and finally being content#i feel so fucking trapped every single day of my life. tied down to this fucking waste of space depressing state#delaware is a pit of miserable half assed shopping centers and 80% farmland#wanting to go to the mall is a 45 minute drive away and i’d have to plan my whole day around it#in nyc. i could just walk about my building. pick a direction. and there’d be countless things to do. to see.#i would never run out of options and it’s all within walking distance#even the subway is reliable. compared to the public transit here. which is a fucking joke#i hate my life the way it is now. i’m so stuck in this rut and i’m so scared i’ll never escape
4 notes
·
View notes
Text
my best efforts aren’t like good enough and idk if they ever will be and I’m honestly just scared that this is it, this is all my life will ever be, I’ll live here for the rest of my life and be miserable
#whimsy whispers#or I’ll die a miserable death because I can’t fucking take it anymore#there’s nowhere to go#i don’t want to live with my family again I don’t want to live with my friends family#i don’t think roommates are an option#living alone is also so far out of reach#there’s no actually places to live in alone because where I live doesn’t have apartments#i just think I’m truly going to die here I’m going to be stuck here for the rest of my pathetic life until I drop dead#and like more and more each day I think I’d rather be dead than keep trying in vain#it all seems so pointless#trying so hard with nothing to show for it what’s the point?#i thought life would get better at some point if I kept trying but it hasn’t#I’m still depressed I’m still a broken mess who can barely function as a person and I’m still useless and a burden#I’m so sick of everything#i wish i was never born
4 notes
·
View notes
Text
none of you absolutely did not ask, but like ANY sane man with autism, a family history of addiction and issues, bunny would skip pills and go straight to h, i do not make the rules.
#drugs tw#.... he's not a brady of patrick or even kathy style coward#if he wants to ruin his life he'll ruin his life#no he'd not last too long#he'd die before 45#more miserable than canon#it's not that he deserved death after the murder. it's that i dont think he'd be much happier if he lived.#because what'd he got to live for. he has no dignity and no morals and nothing#he'll die young and alone and that's bunny for me runt of the litter unable to care for himself#born to die some would put it
0 notes
Text
lol
#it's crazy how much my mom doesn't care abt me#not really crazy i've been alive for 24 years . i get it 👍#but also 🫠👍#she made a huge fucking deal today abt why haven't i graduated yet and i'm keeping her here and blah blah blah#and she goes 'you're not trying hard enough to finish school so i won't go... i don't wanna wait till you graduate to go back home' and i#was like lmao?? then fucking go idgaf ??? why didn't you go if you don't wanna wait#and she was like basically the gist of what she said was bc she didn't want to leave my sister before her grad or go without my dad and i#🫠🫠🫠🫠🫠🫠🫠#like ok i'll just go and kill myself#whatever !#i'm going to drink alcohol and be miserable 👍 lol i fucking hate my life#i hate her ! i hate me ! i just !!!!!!#there's no winning#guess i ruined her life by being born 🤩 so lol ofc she hates me#i'm so ?/!:$:&::8:#like if you hate me so much just ! /!$3&:8:8: idk ILL JUST KILL MYSELF DAWG LIKE ????? 😭#i'm so miserable#whatever i'm gonna get drunk and not think abt this#lol i hope i die !#dl#neg#li.txt
1 note
·
View note
Text
Zuck’s gravity-defying metaverse money-pit
Tomorrow (Oct 31) at 10hPT, the Internet Archive is livestreaming my presentation on my recent book, The Internet Con.
Think of everything that makes you miserable as being caught between two opposing, irresistible, irrefutable truths:
"Anything that can't go on forever eventually stops" (Stein's Law)
"Markets can remain irrational longer than you can remain solvent" (Keynes)
Both of these are true, even though they seemingly contradict one another, and no one embodies that contradiction more perfectly than Mark Zuckerberg.
Take the metaverse.
Zuck's "pivot" to a virtual world he ripped off from a quarter-century old cyberpunk novel (reminder: cyberpunk is a warning, not a suggestion) was born of desperation.
Zuck fancies himself an avatar of the Emperor Augustus (that's why he has that haircut) (no, really). The emperors of antiquity are infamous for getting all weepy when they run out of lands to conquer.
But the lachrymosity of emperors has little causal relationship to the anxieties of tech monopolists! Alexander weeps because he just loves a good conquest and when he finishes conquering the world, he's terminally bored. That's not Zuck's problem at all. When Zuck attains monopoly status, his company develops an autoimmune disorder, as his vicious princelings run out of enemies to destroy and begin to knife one another.
Any monopoly faces these destructive microincentives, but tech is exceptional here because tech has the realtime flexibility and speed that brick-and-mortar businesses can never match:
https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/19/twiddler/
Sociopaths with tech monopolies are worse for the same reason that road-rage would be worse in a flying car: adding new capacity to indiscriminate self-destructive urges turns ordinary car crashes into low-level airburst warfare:
https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/28/microincentives-and-enshittification/
The flexibility of digital gives tech platforms so much latitude to break things in tiny increments. A tech platform is like a Jenga tower composed of infinitely divisible blocks. The Jenga players are the product managers and executives who have run out of the ability to grow by attracting new business thanks to their monopoly dominance. Now they compete with one another to increase the yield from their respective divisions by visiting pain upon the business customers and end users their platform connects. By tiny increments, they increase the product's cost, lower its reliability, and strip it of its utility and then charge rent to restore its functionality:
https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/24/cursed-bigness/#incentives-matter
This is the terminal stage of enshittification, the unstoppable autocannibalism of platforms as they seek to harvest all the value created by business customers and end users, leaving the absolute minimum of residual value needed to keep both stuck to the platform. This is a brittle equilibrium, because the difference between "I hate this service but I just can't stop using it," and "Get me the fuck out of here" is razor-thin.
All it takes is one tiny push – a whistleblower, a livestreamed mass-shooting, a Cambridge Analytica – and people bolt for the doors. This triggers the final stage: the "pivot," which is a tech euphemism for "panic."
For Zuck, the pivot got real after a disappointing earnings call triggered a mass sell-off of Facebook stock, history's worst one-day value incineration, which lopped a quarter of a trillion dollars off the company's market cap:
https://www.bloomberg.com/news/articles/2022-12-19/dramatic-stock-moves-of-2022-led-by-meta-dive-nordic-flash-crash
This was when the metaverse became the company's top priority.
Now, in my theory of enshittification, the step that follows the pivot is death: "Finally, they abuse those business customers to claw back all the value for themselves. Then, they die":
https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/21/potemkin-ai/#hey-guys
Many people have asked me about the conspicuous non-death of Facebook! That's where I have to fall back on Stein's Law: "Anything that can't go on forever eventually stops." Facebook can't continue to annihilate value, alienate its workers, harm the public, hemorrhage money in support of a mediocrity's cherished folly forever. Can it?
Admittedly, it sure seems like it can. Facebook's metaverse pivot has thus far cost the company $46,500,000,000. That is: $46.5 billion. That's even more money than Uber torched, seeking to maintain the illusion that they will be able to create monopolies on both transport and the labor market for driving and recoup the billions the Saudi royal family let them use for the con:
https://pluralistic.net/2022/02/11/bezzlers-gonna-bezzle/#gryft
Don't worry: the Saudi royals are fine! They cashed out at the IPO, collecting a tidy profit at the expense of retail investors who assumed that a pile of shit as big as Uber must have a pony under it, somewhere:
https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/19/fake-it-till-you-make-it/#millennial-lifestyle-subsidy
Uber has doubled the cost of rides and halved drivers' wages, using illegal gimmicks like "algorithmic wage discrimination" to squeeze a little more juice out of the nearly exhausted husks of its workforce:
https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/12/algorithmic-wage-discrimination/#fishers-of-men
But Stein's Law hasn't been repealed. Drivers can't drive for sub-subsistence wages. Do that long enough and they'll literally starve: that's what "subsistence" means. We lost a decade of transit investment thanks to the Uber con, at the same time as traditional taxi drivers were forced out of the industry. Uber can't be profitable and still pay a living wage, and the fantasy of self-driving cars as a means of zeroing out the wage-bill altogether remains stubbornly, lethally unworkable:
https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/09/herbies-revenge/#100-billion-here-100-billion-there-pretty-soon-youre-talking-real-money
Which means we're at the point where you can get off a commuter train at a main station and find yourself stranded: no taxis at the taxi-queue, no busses due for an hour, and no Uber cars available unless you're willing to pay $95 for a ten-minute ride in a luxury SUV (why yes, this did happen to me recently, thanks for asking).
As more and more of us are exposed to these micro-crises, the political will to do something will increase. This can't go on forever. "Don't use commuter rail" isn't a viable option. "Walk three miles each way to the commuter rail station" isn't viable either. Neither is "Pay $95 for an Uber to get to the station." Something's gotta give…eventually.
"Eventually" is the key word here. Remember the corollary of Stein's Law: Keynes's maxim that "markets can remain irrational longer than you can remain solvent." Sure, anything that can't go on forever eventually stops, but that is no guarantee of a soft landing. You can't smoke two packs a day forever – but in the absence of smoking cessation, the eventual terminus of that habit is stage-four lung cancer. Keep hammering butts into your face and your last smoke will come out a crematorium chimney.
Zuckerberg hasn't merely blown a whole-ass Twitter on the metaverse with nothing to show for it – he's gotten richer while doing it! In the past year, his net worth increased by 130%, to $59 billion, thanks to an increase in Facebook's share-price, driven by investors who stubbornly remain irrational, keeping the Boy Emperor solvent long past any reasonable assessment of his performance.
What are these investors betting on? One possibility is that the rise and rise of Facebook's share-price represents a bet on technofeudalism. Since the Communist Manifesto, Marxists have been predicting the end of capitalism. That end seems to have come, but what followed capitalism wasn't socialism, it was the return of feudalism, an economic system where elites derive their wealth from rents, not profits:
https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/28/cloudalists/#cloud-capital
Profit is the income you get from investing in capital – machinery, systems, plant – and then harvesting the surplus value created by workers who mobilize this capital. Capitalism produces massive returns for its winners – in the Manifesto's first chapter, Marx and Engels just geek out about how productive and dynamic this system is.
But capitalism is also a Red Queen's Race, where the winners have to run faster and faster to stay in the same place. Capitalism drives competition, as other would-be winners pile into the sector, replicating the systems that the current winners are using and then improving on them. This is why the prophets of capitalist end-times like the FBI informant Peter Thiel say that "competition is for losers."
Capitalism's "profits" stand in contrast to the feudalist's "rents." Rents are income you get from owning something that other people need to produce things. The capitalist owns the coffee-shop, but the feudalist owns the building. When a rival capitalist opens a superior coffee-shop and drives the old shop out of business, the capitalist loses, but the rentier wins. Now they can rent out an empty storefront in the neighborhood everyone's coming to because of that hot new cafe.
Feudal and manorial lords also made their fortunes by extracting surplus value from workers, but these rentiers don't care about owning the means of production. The peasant in the field pays for their own agricultural equipment and livestock – control over the means of production is necessary for worker liberation, but it's not sufficient. The worker's co-op that owns its factory can still find the value it produces bled off by the landlord who owns the land the factory sits on.
The jury's still out on whether American workers really see themselves as "temporarily embarrassed millionaires," but America's capitalists have a palpable, undeniable loathing for capitalism. The dream of an American "entrepreneur" is *PassiveIncome: money you get from owning something capitalists and/or workers use to create value. Digital technology creates exciting new possibilities for rent-extraction: a taxi-operator had to buy and maintain a car that someone else drove. Uber can offload this hassle onto its drivers and rent out access to the chokepoint it created between drivers and riders, charging all the traffic can bear. This is feudalism in the cloud – or as Yannis Varoufakis calls it, cloudalism.
In Varoufakis's Technofeudalism, he describes Amazon as a feudal venture. From a distance, Amazon seems like a bustling marketplace of manic capitalism, with sellers avidly competing to offer more variety and lower costs in a million independently operated storefronts. But closer inspection reveals that Amazon is a planned economy, not a market.
Every one of those storefronts pays rent to the same landlord – Amazon – which determines which goods can be offered for sale. Amazon sets pricing for those goods, and extracts 45-51% of every dollar those sellers make. Amazon even controls which goods are shelved at eye-height when you enter the store, and which ones are banished to a dusty storeroom in a distant sub-basement you'll never find:
https://pluralistic.net/2023/06/14/flywheel-shyster-and-flywheel/#unfulfilled-by-amazon
Zuck's metaverse is pure-play technofeudalism, Amazon taken to the logical extreme. It's easy to get distracted by the part of Zuck's vision that will convert us all into legless, sexless, heavily surveilled low-resolution cartoon characters. But the real action isn't this digitization of our fleshy wants and needs. Zuck didn't spend $46.5B to torment us.
The cruelty isn't the point of the metaverse.
The point of the metaverse is to rent us out to capitalists.
Zuck doesn't know why we would use the metaverse, but he believes that if he can convince capitalists that we all want to live there, that they'll invest the capital to figure out how to serve us there, and then he can extract rent from those capitalists and start earning "passive income." It's an Uber for Cyberpunk Dystopias play.
Zuck's done this before. Remember the "pivot to video?" Zuckerberg wanted to compete with Youtube, but he didn't want to invest in paying for video production. Videos are really expensive to produce and the median video gets zero views. So Zuck used his captive audience to trick publishers into financing his move into video. He fraudulently told publishers that videos were blowing up on Facebook, outperforming boring old text by vast margins.
Publishers borrowed billions and raised billions more in the capital markets, financing the total conversion of newsrooms from text to video and precipitating a mass extinction event for print journalists. Zuck kept the con alive by giving away (fewer) billions to some of those publishers, falsely claiming that their videos were generating fortunes in advertising revenue. These lucky, credulous publishers became judas goats for their industry, luring others into the con, the same way that the "lucky" guy a carny lets win a giant teddy-bear at the start of the day lures others into putting down $5 to see if they can sink three balls in a rigged peach-basket.
But when we stubbornly refused to watch videos on Facebook, Zuck stopped spreading around these convincer payouts, and precipitated a second mass-extinction event in news media, as the new generation of video journalists joined their predecessors in Facebook-driven unemployment. Given this history, it's surreal to see publishers continue to insist that Facebook is stealing their content, when it is so clearly stealing their money:
https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2023/04/saving-news-big-tech
Metaverse is the new Pivot to Video. Zuckerberg is building a new world, which he will own, and he wants rent it to capitalists, who will compete with one another in just the way that Amazon's sellers compete. No matter who wins that competition, Zuckerberg will win. The prize for winning will be a rent increase, as Zuckerberg leverages the fact that your "successful" business relies on Facebook's metaverse to drain off all the value your workers have produced:
https://pluralistic.net/2022/12/18/metaverse-means-pivot-to-video/
This can't last forever, but how long until Zuck's reality distortion field runs out of battery? That's the $46.5B question.
The market can certainly remain irrational for a hell of a long time. But the market isn't the only force that regulates corporate outcomes. Regulators also regulate. Europe's GDPR is now seven years old, and it plainly outlaws Facebook's surveillance.
For nearly a decade, Facebook has pretended that this wasn't true, and they got away with it. Mostly, that's thanks to the fact that Ireland is a corporate crime-haven with a worse-than-useless Data Protection Commission:
https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/15/finnegans-snooze/#dirty-old-town
But anything that can't go on forever will eventually stop. Facebook has finally been dragged into EU federal jurisdiction, where it will face exterminatory fines if it continues to spy on Europeans:
https://pluralistic.net/2022/12/07/luck-of-the-irish/#schrems-revenge
In response, Facebook has rolled out a subscription version of its main service and its anticompetitive acquisition, Instagram:
https://about.fb.com/news/2023/10/facebook-and-instagram-to-offer-subscription-for-no-ads-in-europe/
For €10/month, Facebook will give you an ad-free experience across its service offerings (it's €13/month if you pay through an app, as Facebook recoups the 30% #AdTax rents that the feudal Google/Apple mobile duopoly extracts).
But this doesn't come close to satisfying Facebook's legal obligations under the GDPR. The GDPR doesn't ban ads, it bans spying. Facebook spies on every single internet user, all the time. The apps we use are built with "free" Facebook toolkits that extract rent from the capitalists who make them by harvesting our data as we use their apps. The web-pages we visit have embedded Facebook libraries that do the same thing for web publishers. Facebook buys our data from brokers. Facebook has so many ways of spying on us that there's almost certainly no way for Facebook to stop spying on you, without radically transforming it operation.
To comply with the GDPR, Facebook must halt surveillance advertising altogether. There's no way to square "spying on users" with "you can't surveil without explicit consent, and you can't punish people for refusing."
And of course, "not spying" isn't the same as "not advertising." "Contextual advertising" – where ads are placed based on the thing you're looking at, not who you are and what you do – is hundreds of years old. Context ads underperform surveillance ads by a slim margin – about 5% – but they're vastly more profitable for publishers. That's because surveillance ads are feudal, controlled by rentiers like Facebook, who own vast troves of the surveillance data needed to run these ads. Traditional ad intermediaries (agencies, brokers) took 10-15% out of the total advertising market. Ad-tech companies – the Google/Facebook duopoly – take 51% out of every ad dollar spent.
Eliminate surveillance ads and you torch their feudal estates. Facebook will always know more about someone reading a news article than the publisher – but the publisher will always know more about the article than Facebook does:
https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2023/05/save-news-we-must-ban-surveillance-advertising
There are rents under capitalism, just as there are profits under feudalism. The defining characteristic of a system is what happens when rents and profits come into conflict. If profits win – for example, if productive companies beat patent trolls, or if news publishers escape Facebook's rent-extraction – then the system is capitalist. If rents win – if investors continue to bet large on the metaverse as its losses pass $50 billion and head for the $100 billion mark – then the system is feudal.
Anything that can't go on forever will eventually stop. The question isn't whether the platforms will eventually become so enshittified that they die – the question is whether they will go down in an all-consuming fireball, or whether they'll go down in a controlled demolition that lets us evacuate the people they've trapped inside them first:
https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/09/let-the-platforms-burn/
If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:
https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/30/markets-remaining-irrational/#steins-law
Image:
Diego Delso (modified)
https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Puente_de_las_cataratas_Victoria,_Zambia-Zimbabue,_2018-07-27,_DD_10.jpg
CC BY-SA 4.0
https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/
#pluralistic#mark zuckerberg#meta#enshittification#facebook#twitter#elon musk#billionaires#follies#failing up#metaverse#steins law#big tech#technofeudalism
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
I Wondered If I Could Come Home? (Astarion x F! Reader)
Synopsis- It’s been 4 months since you last saw Astarion and 3 months since you killed the Netherbrain with your other companions. Shortly after, you settled down in Silverymoon to begin a life out there and try to push Astarion out of your mind- except it can never be that easy. You shortly discover you are pregnant with his child- a child that could kill you during childbirth. Scared and alone- Shadowheart stays with you to help you deliver the baby and keep you alive.
While out at the local market, Shadowheart runs into Gale and invites him over for dinner. Gale has unexpected company.
CW: Pregnancy, mentions of potential death during birth, mentions of nudity, mentions of NSFW smut
To my fellow DND fans- no this is probably not canon compliant, yes I’m upset about that, but look I really needed to write this so sue me I guess
Author note- Self indulgent, I have baby fever, but don’t want a baby fic. I’m unsure of how long this will be or if it will have more parts-it depends on how angsty I feel, but I need to have like six different ideas to think about at a time soooo 😂
*This hasn’t been edited ✨well✨so please forgive me
*again, no fucking clue who’s picture it is, but it sure as shit isn’t mine so if it’s yours- reach out so I can give credit!
You keep yourself propped up against the sink in the kitchen as Shadowheart holds your hair out of your face and dabbing away the cold sweat that drips down your neck.
You are really sick of being morning sick. It’s absolutely the worst thing in the world- well besides your potential death from carrying your little girl inside of you. You sometimes think Astarion may get his wish- you may just die screaming.
You dry heave one last time- not a single thing comes up because you haven’t kept a single thing down since two mornings ago. Your morning sickness is inconsistent and comes on with little to no warning.
It’s been five months since you conceived this fricken kid, but it was like all the symptoms hit after you killed the Netherbrain.
A part of you really wishes you had somehow known before then- maybe it would have changed the cruel fate that ended your relationship with Astarion. You were literally pregnant in the middle of fighting Cazador. You think about what he last said to you all the time and just sob hysterically- like it happened yesterday.
A deeper part of you feels abandoned, but you blame yourself for him leaving. You should have been more convincing or maybe you shouldn’t have flat out told him no and explained why in the hells you didn’t want him to ascend.
For example- you didn’t want to lose him to some evil version of himself.
Ironically, you lost him anyway and are pregnant with his fucking child who insists on occasionally making you miserable.
Despite your inherent sadness, anger, and sickness, you find you are actually quite excited to meet her. You haven’t settled on a name yet and Shadowheart has been very helpful in regards to making sure you are healthy and strong for delivery. She’s your best friend and you could not be more grateful for her.
“I’ll go back to the market today and get you more of those herbs,” Shadowheart says quietly when she talks to you, “they seemed to help last time?”
You nod- exhausted and your head is pounding. You and this kid are going to need to have a serious conversation. You will not be letting a second Acunin make you miserable before she is ever born.
Shadowheart guides you to your bed upstairs, standing behind you in case you get hit with a wave of vertigo- which usually happens post vomit episode.
You pull your curtains closed- thankful that the desperate hope in your heart led you to buying black out curtains. You close your door and lay down on your bed- tears spilling down your cheeks freely.
You miss him terribly. You shouldn’t. You should positively hate him, but everyday of this pregnancy makes you ache for him. You should be doing this together.
You know it’s hormones- the weepiness, the intense longing, and the Gods awful horniness. Dreams are the worst. You wake up a squirming disaster at least three times a week with your skin burning hot with memories of Astarion touching you.
You are happy that isn’t the case currently, but the weepiness sucks too. Remembering how he used to curl around you, the way it felt to have him kiss you on the forehead, and all those late night conversations with (now empty) promises. You curl yourself around your pillows, willing your imagination to pretend it’s him, and you sob until you fall asleep.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Astarion tries to contain his excitement and fear as he follows Gale and Shadowheart to your home. Finally, after searching for literal months, he was going to see you again.
Astarion has been haunted by the last words he had said to you for what feels like eons now. He hadn’t meant it at the time and he certainly doesn’t mean it now.
He had been too afraid to come back to you after everything he had said. Astarion decided you probably hate him anyway so he tried to move on.
He tried being with other people (it always failed miserably because they weren’t you), he drank until he couldn’t remember a damn thing, and when all else failed, he began his search for the Ring of the Sunwalker.
After the nightlife of Baldur’s Gate lost it’s appeal and he finally found a ring location, Astarion found himself in front of Gale’s door in Waterdeep- begging him of all people to help him.
The wizard had been puzzled and melancholy when he realized Astarion was at his door. Astarion told him every little piece of how he feels about you, how much he misses you, and how he wants to be able to give you the life that you deserve. Astarion was practically on the verge of hysteria while trying to make his case.
Thus began the search for the Ring of the Sunwalker.
They were able to locate and obtain one after a grueling three month long journey and some help from one of Gale’s old friends. Then, they headed straight to Silverymoon- your last known whereabouts.
Running into Shadowheart had felt like a miracle, but to also have her living with you had made the trip even easier. Except Shadowheart was being really really weird towards him.
When Gale first asked if Astarion could come along too, Shadowheart had asked Astarion why he wanted to come and see the person he “hoped died screaming?”
Astarion had flinched at the anger and venom in Shadowheart’s voice. He figured the others would be mad, but he was hoping maybe Shadowheart would give him a little easier time like Gale had. Astarion was genuinely surprised by how quick she was to be defensive of you and your whereabouts. When Gale confirmed that Astarion was telling the truth, Shadowheart reluctantly said he could come.
The three arrive at the front of your shared townhome- it faces the beach and has the perfect amount of windows for the sun to light up the house, but one of the rooms is hidden from sight with heavy, black out curtains.
Shadowheart turns to both of them, “Tav might not be able to join us… she’s been sick for a bit now and is… recuperating.”
Astarion feels his heart drop to his stomach.
“Sick? For how long?”
Shadowheart shifts on her feet uncomfortably, “5 months, but it got worse around 3 months.”
“Tav has been sick for that long?” Gale exclaims, “why didn’t you write!? I could have helped.”
“This particular affliction is one you wouldn’t understand,” Shadowheart says with a finality that suggests the conversation is done as she leads them into the kitchen.
Shadowheart immediately gets fussing with the herbs while Gale looks around the house. Astarion is still unsure of what he should be doing. The house engulfs him in your scent and he feels positively intoxicated. You must be really sick though because your scent smells different- not bad at all, just different.
Does he talk to Shadowheart? Does he look around with Gale?
Or does he sneak off and find you? Astarion doesn’t want to waste anymore time than he already has. Slowly, he creeps towards the stairs.
“Don’t even think about it, Astarion,” Shadowheart warns.
Astarion looks at her and then back at the stairs. He does this a couple times until Shadowheart appears to be annoyed enough that she’s let her guard down a bit.
Astarion takes off up the steps and he hears Shadowheart and Gale coming up right behind him.
Astarion hears a dry heave from down the hallway and he goes racing for the door.
If you are as sick as Shadowheart has suggested (5 months is crazy long), Astarion may not have much time with you and Gods he needs to take advantage of the time he does have.
Shadowheart be damned.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
You wake up feeling even worse than you did when you fell asleep. Your headache feels like it’s taken on a life on it’s own and Gods you are going to vomit all over the floor if you don’t move NOW!
You get up with an impossible amount of speed for how dizzy you are and you grab the pail on your nightstand and heave painfully.
You are rocking back and forth, groaning as more stomach acid comes up because again, not able to even keep anything down.
You hear a pair of footsteps and then Shadowheart screaming after-
“ASTARION! THEY ARE SICK! YOU NEED TO WAIT!”
“I have been looking for them for months now,” you hear him hiss, “if they are sick, I need to see them. If this has lasted five months- then who knows how much time I’ve wasted!”
“Will you stop being selfish for five minutes!? It’s not about you and who even says she wants to see you!?”
Shadowheart and Astarion are yelling in front of your door now. You feel tears prick your eyes- Astarion is here. Here here. A flurry of excited kicks from inside you catches your attention and a feeling of blissful happiness comes over you. Oh look, the nausea is gone. Of course it is.
“Traitor,” you whisper before laying down on your bed for a moment.
You are very happy that your unborn daughter appears to be pleased and feels good about her dad being on the other side of the door. You, on the other hand, are less than optimistic.
Wasted time doing what? And why did Shadowheart say I was sick!? In what world was that going to keep him from going upstairs!? Especially if he, your mind pauses, cares about me? Again?
Which you hope he does- you would hope Shadowheart wasn’t so sick of taking care of you that she brought him here to finish the job. Maybe this is all one big show.
Another, “I WILL DO WHAT I PLEASE” from Astarion, a “YOU SELFISH BASTARD” from Shadowheart, and a “Please can’t we all just be nice, catch up, and get along?” from Gale finally gives you the motivation to get up. The arguing feels far too much like being in camp again. You pinch the bridge of your nose, willing the growing headache to go away.
It doesn’t so you change into a pair of longer cotton pajama pants, a t-shirt that is unfortunately showing off your bump more than you’d like, and then you swing open the door in tired annoyance.
You are met with Astarion looking at you- his eyes scanning up and down your body- settling on your stomach. His expression is unreadable- it’s somewhere between lust, love, grief, and heartbreak. Embarrassed by Astarion’s intense gaze, you look over at Gale who is all smiles for you.
“Congratulations Tav!!!” Gale practically yells, making you wince, “the father is a lucky man.”
“I don’t think he considers himself a lucky man,” you say pointedly before turning to Astarion, “or do you?”
Astarion’s face changes entirely with your words. His eyes look at you, round and soft. His eyes are full of adoration and need- a look you never thought he would give you again. You have to fight the urge to grab him and drag him into your bedroom. You will not let the hormones win- you will be strong.
“I- it’s- I mean,” Astarion is fumbling over his words, “you are carrying my child?”
“Yes,” you say grumpily, crossing your arms,” and she’s been giving me nothing but trouble. Thanks to your genetics, I’m sure. This is day two of not being able to keep a damn thing down and this fucking headache is UNBEARABLE so please for the love of every God keep the arguing down.”
Astarion is still looking at you with a mystified expression- taking you in as if for the first time in his entire life. You look back towards Gale and Shadowheart- you are entirely too self-conscious and way too excited to see him for him to be looking at you like that. You are trying to be mad dammit!
Shadowheart gazes at you and your surely red tipped ears with amusement before she says, “I’ll go and get the potion ready for you- that should hopefully help.”
“I will- uh,” Gale says awkwardly, looking between you and Astarion, “join you! I might need to know which herbs to use… in the future?”
“Planning on getting pregnant Gale?” You say with a smirk.
Gale snorts at you, “Dear friend, as wonderful as you look right now- none of the side effects sound appealing.”
“Oh they most certainly aren’t,” you say,” but thanks for thinking I look ‘wonderful’. I feel, well, disgusting.”
“Gods, how could you even think that?” Astarion blurts out, appearing shocked that he even said it, “you look like…. A vision. A wonderful, stunning vision, Darling.”
Shadowheart and Gale excuse themselves as you struggle to find the words for Astarion’s comment. Your entire body feels like it’s on fire and you feel yourself begin to melt a little bit. You feel your emotions bloom into something resembling spring as he steps closer to you- looking at you with pleading eyes.
You clear your throat, “would you like to come into my room and talk?”
Astarion nods eagerly, following behind you so close that you once again have to remind yourself that ripping off the clothes of someone who literally told you they wanted you to die screaming was not healthy- at least not until you get a proper apology.
You sit against your headboard as Astarion walks around your room- running his fingers along the bassinet and rocking chair in the corner. You still can’t get a read on him.
“A girl?”
His question breaks the air.
“Yes,” you smile at him, “no name yet though.”
“I’m sure you’ll pick a nice one,” he says with a smile, but his tone is entirely too melancholic.
A painful thump in your heart fills your body with sadness. He doesn’t want to be involved. Of course he doesn’t want to be involved. You are his knocked up ex-girlfriend. What were you expecting? The lump forming in your throat is unbearable.
“You don’t want to be involved?”
Oh good Gods you are crying. Astarion rushes over to you the minute your tears begin to fall- sitting in front of you on the bed. He reaches out and gently wipes your tears away as he speaks.
“I want to be involved so badly it hurts,” his voice comes out scratchy and emotional, “but that is your decision, not mine. You have been on your own for months, my Love. Instead of trying to come back and make it better- I pushed it off until I thought I could give you what you deserved- a life in the sun.”
You almost whine in protest when his hands leave your face. He twists the ring around his index finger before continuing, avoiding your gaze, “But maybe I was wrong. Maybe what you deserve is a person that isn’t so damaged. Someone who can give you what you actually deserve which is a loving partner who hasn’t hurt you over and over again- a man worthy of being a father to ou- I mean your child.”
His confession and the tears that are streaming down his face are enough for you. Yes, you absolutely want to scream and yell at him, but you also ache for him. You can’t fault the man for being a slave for 200 years and then not taking it very well when you told him what to do. You always knew you would forgive him if he came back- you never thought he would, but here he is and like he said- there is no reason to keep wasting time.
“She is our child, Star,” you whisper and guide his eyes to look at you, “I want you to be involved. I don’t care what you think I deserve either. I have missed you so horribly since you left. It’s almost pathetic really. I’ve tried to blame it on the hormones, but… I don’t know. The picture has felt incomplete up until now.”
You absentmindedly put your hand on your stomach- receiving a kick. You glare at the place where your hand is resting.
“Will you stop kicking me for five minutes!?” You scream, “I WAS IN THIS BODY FIRST!”
Astarion looks at you bewildered and confused, but quickly realizes you aren’t talking about him. The smile that spreads across his face is wide and Astarion gingerly moves closer. You are still a little cautious- needing to protect not only yourself, but also your unborn child. He moves to the right of you and goes to move you just slightly so he can slip in behind you.
“Could I? I mean if it’s not crossing any boundaries!”
Astarion is on edge- you can tell that much, but he doesn’t look at you like he did that last time you saw him- Astarion is looking at you like you are the most precious individual who has ever walked this earth.
You nod shyly, and then Astarion slots himself behind you, your back against his chest, his face in the crook of your neck, and his legs on either side of yours. He cautiously puts his hands on your stomach and is immediately kicked.
Astarion laughs with joy, “she’s strong!”
“Strong willed and strong physically,” you shake your head and you are laughing a bit now too, “you may just get your wish yet.”
“What wish?”
It had slipped. You hadn’t meant to bring it up again- or maybe you did. You want to know for sure if he still feels that way, but the confusion in his voice says he doesn’t. You go rigid and go to dismiss it when you feel his posture change behind you, his grip loosening ever so slightly.
“Right… that.”
The silence is nerve-wracking. You’ve lost him again, you are sure of it. A stray tear begins to roll down your cheek.
“Astarion-“
“No, let me think, Darling. I want to make sure I say everything I want to say correctly.”
You continue to sit there in silence, he places soft kisses on your neck. You feel him smile against your skin at the needy moan that escapes your lips. You absentmindedly reach out for one of his hands and begin to play with his fingers while he thinks. Astarion used to let you do this all the time while you were traveling- it helps you feel grounded.
“I was so consumed by all that power in the moment,” he says slowly, “I wasn’t thinking. By the time I had realized what I had done, I felt like it was already too late- you most likely hated me and moved on.”
You have to bite your tongue- you want to scream. Hate him? Never. You had been miserable without him around for that last month of traveling. Your heart had felt like a dead weight in your chest and you had been moving around like a zombie.
“So I tried to move on… I even tried to be with others, but I just couldn’t do it. It’s selfish, but I want you. I never want anything bad to happen to you- I certainly don’t ever want you to die screaming. I don’t want you to ever carry a child that is not mine.”
You are surprised by the warmth in your core when he says his last sentence. There is something so primal there that you have to really focus on what he is saying next.
Astarion clears his throat before finishing speaking, “I don’t want to be without you anymore- four months is too long. I don’t want to miss out on anymore of your pregnancy and I want to be here for you- with you- doing this together like we should have been doing this whole time. I was a horrible fool- please give me another chance. Please, Darling. I love you- so so much more than I ever thought anyone could ever love someone.”
Astarion’s words hang in the air and you are trying not to begin crying for the 15th billion time. This is what you had wanted to hear all along. You can feel his tears on the collar of your shirt- the way he inhales as if to memorize your scent like this is the last time. Astarion is not expecting you to say yes- you know that because he’s starting to loosen up, pulling away from you so that he can respect your decision.
“I love you too,” you whisper, “I don’t want to be without you anymore either. I forgive you- please stay.”
“I won’t be going anywhere unless you want me too, my Love.”
#baldurs gate 3#astarion#astarion x reader#baldurs gate astarion#astarion x you#bg3 spoilers#astarion romance#astarion x tav#karlach#bg3#astarion x f! reader#astarion x f!tav#pregnancy#astarion acunin
758 notes
·
View notes
Text
gouge away (if you want to) | johnny joestar
kinktober day ten: kissing
word count. 2.4k
content. disabled johnny, but like his prostate works, anal fingering, prostate orgasm, kissing, johnny cries after sex it's canon, gender-neutral reader, fluff, mentions of ableism, established relationship, this is sappy
♪ gouge away - pixies
kinktober mlist | regular mlist
For a while—a long while—after his accident, Johnny thought he'd never be with someone again.
A part of it was the paralysis. Okay, a big part of it was. He learns after using the chair for a bit that he sorta stops becoming a real person to most people, that their eyes just sorta slide past him. Oh no, how sad, that guy in the chair must have it so bad. Don't be rude and stare, now. Sometimes he wishes they would stare at him, like he knows they wanna. He almost finds their determination to ignore him totally more jarring.
And that's only half the problem. The other part is that even if he could find someone, his goddamn dick doesn't work anymore. Which would for sure pose a problem. So Johnny resigns himself miserably to a sexless and potentially loveless life, and pretends it doesn't make him want to die.
Still. Anyways. It all seems kinda redundant now, 'cause he's lying under the sky in the dirt with his pants halfway off, and you're—you're doing something, or you're tryin' something that Johnny is extremely skeptical about. A bit of time travelling with Gyro had taught him many times that there was a lot of things about the human body he was ignorant of, but he still can't help but be dubious of the claim you made to him a few minutes ago.
I'm gonna make you cum.
At once, a protest had risen to his lips. You can't. Almost a reflex. You'd cocked your head in inquiry, and Johnny had gone redder, down to the tips of his ears hidden by his hat. It's my—it doesn't work. Down there doesn't...
You seem to consider this for a few moments. Then you say, there's something else we can try.
You disappear inside the tent and come out with the bottle of aloe vera they'd been using to treat the burns that had blistered as a result of the unforgiving desert sun. He had red peeling skin all up his shoulders and the bridge of his nose.
He watches dubiously as you squeeze a clear, cold glob onto your fingers. "Wh—where are those goin'?"
He's pretty sure he has an idea.
"You know what a prostate is, Johnny dear?" You always call him that. Johnny dear, like it's all one word. Johnnydear. He always gripes and groans about it and then has to turn away extremely quickly to hide his flush. He's going to examine the reaction he gets when you baby him sometime, he promises himself, just not right now. He's got a lotta shit on his plate, okay? Corpses to find and such.
"N-no," he answers, stammering when you kneel between his legs and spread his thighs gently apart. He sucks in a breath; one of your fingers leaves a cool trail of aloe along the skin there.
"A prostate," you tell him patiently, like you're not situated between his naked thighs, "is a gland that people with your particular reproductory set are born with."
"You sound like Gyro," he mutters. "Kinda killing the mood a little."
"I just want to make sure you're fully informed." You roll your eyes. "It's just that you're leaking precum, see?" To his mortification, you swipe your fingers over the tip of the dick he can't feel and hold them up; under the starlight, they gleam, and he burns with embarrassment. "Means you might be able to feel it. Means I might be able to make you cum."
Johnny swallows hard. He wants—it sounds good. Sounds great. But with the hope comes that fear, an ever-present shadow. What if it doesn't work?
"Hey." You lean over him, and before Johnny can protest you've captured his lips, a slow, deliberate cling. Johnny loves kissing you. He thinks it might be his favourite thing to do, other than jockeying and he can't do that anymore, so this takes an automatic first place. He sighs and melts against you like softened butter, his hands winding themselves over your shoulder and jaw. He loves everything about it. The closeness, the slow gentle intimacy, the way you smell. That last part is probably weird, 'cause you mostly smell like sweat and leather, but Johnny likes it all the same.
You kiss for a while; one of your hand strokes soothing shapes into his ribcage. When you pull back, the panic that had been rearing up inside him has faded to a dull murmur.
"Don't get in your head about it," you whisper. "If you can't feel it, then that's that. You know I won't think less of you."
A lump rises in Johnny's throat, and he shields his eyes from the burning sun of you seein' right through him. "I know," he says, almost petulantly.
"So? Wanna give it a try?"
A part of him doesn't. A part of him is so, so scared. But a bigger part of him, the one that likes kissing you and likes the way you smell and the way you touch him and look at him and everything, really, is nodding before that first part can protest. You kiss him again with a smile, a little faster, a little dirtier this time. This is another thing Johnny likes about kissing—it can take so many different forms. Even if he did find the corpse pieces and get the use of his legs back, Johnny reckons he'd still like kissing more than real sex.
Your mouth starts moving down, sweeping the sensitive skin of his neck and collarbones, the valleys of his pectorals, a nipple. The last one makes Johnny gasp and you giggle, and he splays a palm over his face in embarrassment. You coax such stupid noises outta him. But you seem to enjoy it, so whatever.
Down, down, down. Somewhere between his navel and his pubic bone he stops feeling it. But it still somehow feels sorta nice, which doesn't make a whole lotta sense but it does to him, so. He watches you between his fingers as you reach between his legs, he thinks prodding.
You look up at him. "I'm going to put a finger in, okay?"
Johnny nods eagerly. "Don't gotta tell me. I won't feel it."
You roll your eyes. "I'm still gonna tell you. We can stop whenever, okay?"
"Okay," Johnny says impatiently, and wiggles his hips. You smack his hipbone playfully, which does nothing to temper his brattiness on account of him not feelin' a fuckin' thing. Then you get a quiet, serious, concentrated look on your face that Johnny usually only sees when you're fighting. Or when he's making you cum. That expression, more than any of your words or hesitation, it what makes him quiet down and take it serious.
There's a silence that stretches on. Johnny supposes you must be doin' something, considering the slight furrow he can see between your brows and the achingly careful, gradual movement of your wrist. Finally, after about a minute, you look up at him.
"My finger's in," you tell him, and Johnny bites his lip.
"Can't feel it," he says. He's starting to think this was a really bad idea.
"Just lemme—hold on," you say, and your wrist moves a little, and then—
Johnny keens. He feels, he fuckin' feels so much that it lights him up from the inside and sets his nerves alight, some part deep inside him that he didn't even know existed 'till five minutes ago and it's so good it immediately brings tears to his eyes.
"Oh," he says like he's surprised, and he is, apparently so much so that it's all he can say. "O-oh, oh, oh—"
Your finger retracts back into nothingness, and Johnny bites back a sob. "Johnny?" you ask worriedly. "Did you—is it too much?"
"No, no," he babbles, feeling incoherent already. You brush his hair back from his face with your free hand, the one that ain't inside him, your thumb stroking over his cheek. "It was—fuck, felt so weird. But good. Really, really good. Can you—are you gonna do it again?"
"Will if you want me to," you answer lovingly, and Johnny is biting back another sob for a whole different reason. "Might be a bit intense, Johnny dear. You sure you wanna?"
"Yes, yeah." He stares up at you beseechingly, feeling a bit pathetic but also too far gone to give a shit. "Please, I wanna—I wanna feel it again."
You nod, leaning over to kiss him again. Johnny relaxes into the embrace, losing himself in the familiar touch of your lips, the smell of you, taking the bite out of his surge of panic—and then with no warning you're brushing against that spot inside him again and he's moaning into your mouth, loud and unrestrained. It's pitchy and startled, and your free hand cups the back of his head as he pulls away in shock.
"Fuck, Jesus Christ," he swears, slamming his head back against the dirt. "O-oh, oh god, ohgodohgod—"
"Still good?" you ask, and your fingers made a weird sort of curling motion and it occurs to Johnny that you're movin' them in and out, sort of like you would if you were actually fucking him, and the thought makes him flush so hard he feels feverish. You're fucking him. You're fucking him.
He nods deliriously. "Mhm, yeah," he gasps out, feeling breathless, feeling giddy. "Don't stop, feels so fuckin' good, oh my god."
Your fingers press into him over and over like you're ringin' a bell, and all the while you kiss him and for the first time in ages Johnny feels that both parts of his body are equal. The bottom half has come alive under your jackhammering fingers, the top half consumed by you and your kiss. The kissing makes it so much better, 'cause Johnny reckons if anyone else had their fingers in his ass he'd probably hate it even if they were touching his whatdidyoucallit like that and making him feel amazing. He'd hate it 'cause they wouldn't be you.
The kissing reminds him it's you. The chaps on your lips, the smell of you, the feel of your face and skin, your body pressing into his. It's so all consuming it makes him wanna cry, in a good way, in a weird way. Your fingers move faster and weirder, and Johnny starts making those stupid oh! oh! noises again, stifling them against your mouth, and your tongue presses in and you swallow them whole.
All too soon, Johnny feels a weird tightening, one he hasn't felt since before the incident. He feels a constriction of panic, his fingers clutching at your clothing. "I—hah!—I f-feel weird."
"Bad weird?" Your fingers slow down, nearly stop, and Johnny whines.
"No, no, good weird, good," he pants. "Move again, fuck."
You pick up the pace; Johnny shudders, tensing in your hold all over again. He feels like he's burning, like he's sweating out everything bad he's ever felt.
"Do you mean you're gonna cum?" you ask, your voice lower this time, so close to Johnny's ear it makes him shiver. The harsh brush of your chapped lips against the soft skin there makes his body feel electric.
"I think," he whispers, eyes screwing shut. "Sorry—oh—I think, yeah."
"Don't feel sorry," you tell him almost sternly. "I want to see you cum, Johnny. Wanna see you cum so hard your pretty little head goes blank. You deserve it, yeah?"
"Yeah," he gasps out. "I deserve it."
What you do next with your fingers is almost brutal in the wracks of shivering pleasure it sends simmering through Johnny's body; every curl of them has him writhing and gasping and moaning, he must sound so stupid but you seem to be liking it and fuck, he's liking it, he likes feeling a little stupid and helpless while you take care of him and he's definitely gonna have to unpack that, but later, 'cause—
"I'm gonna cum," he gasps, hands flying out to curl in your clothing. "Baby, baby, I'm gonna cum, I—kiss me? Kiss me, okay, I wanna, oh, oh oh oh—"
You crash your lips together, and your fingers curl up one last lingering time and Johnny shatters. White stars explode over his vision, shatter inside his head, and for a split second it feels like every cell in his body freezes up and screams and dies. He's vaguely aware of some long, drawn-out, breathless noise he's making and the way you swallow it with your mouth.
It takes several seconds for him to come back down to earth. When he does it's to the sensation of you running your fingers through his hair and pressing soft, feathery kisses to his cheeks.
He pants like a dog. When you see his blue eyes on you, you sit up, seem to retract your fingers from between his legs. Your image starts to blur, and Johnny sees your expression crease in concern. He realises he's crying. Not like, actually, not like he's got something to be upset about. He's just... tearing up. Like someone's turned a faucet on behind his eyes and just left it there. He pushes the heels of his hands into the sockets and presses down, willing it to stop, willing the overwhelming feeling blooming in his chest to deflate.
"Hey, hey." Your voice, low and soothing, pressed into his hair, your arms holding him tightly. "You okay?"
"Yes," he says almost angrily. "I'm fine. Dunno why I'm—fuck. Sorry. I'm good, I promise I'm good. That was... so, so good."
Your expression of concern gives way slightly. "You sure?"
"Yeah." Johnny sucks in a shaky, wet breath. "Thanks. Thank you. I didn't even... I didn't even know I could feel like that anymore. Not just 'cause of—you know." He gestures vaguely to the lower half of his body. "All of it. Like, I didn't think anyone would wanna—while I'm still like this. And I—I figured I didn't deserve it, or something. But... it was really good."
Your smile is a little sad. "I'm glad, Johnny dear. I'm glad you enjoyed it. Now that we know it works, we can do it again. And again, and again." He flushes, and you laugh sweetly, and Johnny could just die to the sound of it. "Still, we should get some rest for tonight. Gyro will skin us alive if we oversleep again."
You're right, of course. Johnny lets you maneuvre him onto his sleeping skin, and you unroll yours right next to him. When you do, Johnny reaches for you, clinging like a damn insect. But you don't seem to mind, 'cause you wrap your arms around his waist and bring him in even closer. He tucks his head into your shoulder.
He thinks that he'll get to kiss you tomorrow, too.
His sleep is dreamless and deep.
#🫀.scribes#jjba smut#jjba x reader#johnny joestar x reader#johnny joestar smut#jojo x reader#jojo smut#jjba x dom!reader#dom!reader#dom reader#jjba x dom reader#jjba x gn reader#jjba x gender neutral reader#gender neutral reader#braynes kinktober 23
435 notes
·
View notes
Text
autism levels, few “often get wrong” points need highlight again
[transcript: autism levels, few “often get wrong” points need highlight again]
^ masterpost by birdofmay for more basic stuff no able explain rn, like “what are levels” “how determine levels”
autism levels about how much support you need for autism specific symptoms—specifically, two autism criteria, social communication & restrictive repetitive.
not how much you feel like you struggle
levels compare you to all autistics. not allistic neurotypical nondisabled people.
level 1 mean “need support.” level 1 can struggle. unsupported burnt out level 1 can struggle a lot. unfortunately level 1 can be miserable in life.
not able finish school, not able drive, not able keep job, need help cant live independent—none of that automatic level 2 & 3. none of that automatic mean not level 1. know many people who level 1 who all that. level 2&3 people tend more common be those thing because autism symptoms cause very big struggle. but autism levels not actual about any of that.
autism levels is DSM 5 thing. country no use DSM 5 not get levels. countries use DSM 5, sometimes doctor still not assign levels, because that doctor don’t use levels, or level 1 & just leave out write.
autism level is official diagnosis thing. different from self diagnosing autism itself (which for lsn/level 1/etc have many resources about what it like, community, and like. not life risky), autism level really not same and not recommend self diagnose, to put nicely. because it about amount official support need, & limited info about level 2/3 (yes, even if look like many of us on tumblr, still very few), and because that most people never actual met entire autism spectrum met actual level 3 in person not to mention enough to be good sample size, so most have understanding of autism & autism levels that heavily lean to level 1, wrongly think any struggle w autism mean level 2 or 3. put in plainly, most you all don’t know don’t see enough about higher levels to actual label correctly (this actual include level 2/3 people—although yes personal experience, but that one experience).
many level 2 & 3 diagnose as that because we need the official support. for not die, for physical survive, and/or for basic quality of life. it not fun little label to collect to call self unfortunately
also, i say a lot of level 2/3 i abbreviate put them together because online autism community not often include both. but level 2 & 3 can be quite different quite far not “basic same thing”
autism level describe general average symptom & support needed
autism level can change over entire life, like born level 3 but adult now & level 2 or even 1(rare), or born level 1 & now adult level 2.
autism levels cannot change over hours days or short term in general. cannot “level 1 good day & level 3 bad day.” not even “last (few) month level 3 this (few) month level 1.”
autism levels not same as functioning labels. although can be use in same ableist way people use functioning labels. but fault is ableism. (remind that some people do self ID as low functioning after their diagnose and that okay)
autism level is not perfect and need improve
autism level important & needed especially for many of us who need many support or our autism symptom very big or struggle communicate.
#actually autistic#actuallyautistic#autism#loaf screm#level 1 autism#level 2 autism#level 3 autism#long post#tay dont look#tay don’t look
521 notes
·
View notes
Text
whenever i hear the line "i wish i could have told you that i was born to love you with all my heart" my heart instantly clenches
because i think of baekhong's intertwined fates, i think of hyunwoo not even knowing he saved the person who's going to be the love of his life from drowning, i think of how haein is his first love and him being hers, i think of him always thinking about haein's comfort because she mentioned to him in passing how her heels were uncomfy, i think of how she told only him about her illness because he's the only person she trusts, i think of hyunwoo bringing haein and her family to his hometown without hesitation to keep them safe despite what he's gone through with them, i think of her agreeing to the divorce even though she felt so hurt and betrayed by it because she doesn't want to see him suffer any longer, i think of how he kept protecting the company because he knew how much she loved it, i think of hyunwoo reaching out to every single hospital he could to find a possible cure for her amidst all that he's doing for the company, i think of haein so willing to die just to not lose her memory of loving hyunwoo and being loved by him, i think of how he's the only person that she doesn't want to forget, i think of how hyunwoo is willing to become a stranger to her just so she could live, i think of him destroying his hand just so he could get to haein and save her, i think of her agreeing to do the surgery despite being so terrified because she saw how miserable he would be if she dies, i think of him taking a bullet for her, and i think about how even without her memories of him, haein still and will always inevitably fall in love with hyunwoo.
i think of how they really were born to love each other will all their might, no matter what happens.
#i'm sorry#i haven't and will probably never move on#they really are soulmates#i cherish them so much#baekhong#queen of tears#qot#baek hyun woo#hong hae in#kim ji won#kim soo hyun
101 notes
·
View notes
Note
Hc that while Scaramouche was very "what are you doing? No that's stupid get away from me" wanderer is very "alright." He will tell you it's stupid still but he isn't going to stop you. You wanna put pigtails in his hair? Yeah, well, he's going to take a nap on your thighs and take them out when he wakes up. You wanna run up to him and hug him? Alright. He might hug you back. Casually.
I don't think he's good with emotions yet and he's still probably scared of being "weak" but not as much. Which allows him to enjoy his s/o more!
One thing that does not change is his reaction to someone hurting you. I'm talking more physically here because I can see Wander having some restraint with someone being verbally rude to you. Physically though? All bets are off. He's tracking them down and making them regret they were born. Murder, when it comes to your safety, is always on the table.
Wanderer is a bit more "big dog privilege" than when he was Scara mostly just because he has free time. Scara def made sure people didn't mess with you, but now Wanderer can go on late night walks with you. You wanna go to some event? Well, humans are fragile creatures and if he looks away from you for two seconds you're more likely to straight up die so he supposes he could go with you (he worries.)
In essence, Scaramouche is ur bf who's very emotionally unavailable and Wanderer is your emotionally unavailable boyfriend who lets you get away with everything
AHEM
There's only so many times Wanderer can keep up his uncaring façade. Sure, he may roll his eyes at your forms of affection and make a small fuss about a few of your ideas for dates, but if you ever backtrack on any suggestions or hesitate when touching him, he's immediately taking back his words... by making it seem like he doesn't mind or that he's "only doing this for you so you won't whine about it later."
Wanderer: You wanna use my hat as an umbrella? Hmph. THE AUDACITY TO EVEN-
Wanderer 1 min later: *holding you close to his chest so you won't get wet* sigh, stop moving. do you want to get wet? 😒
Same with Scara, except his ego my win a few times and he does grumpily watch as you walk away, too stubborn to admit his act.
Even though his words don't express it, his body never fails to. Those hugs he'd sometimes reciprocate, becomes more frequent and he holds you closer to his chest. He'd fine more excuses to hold your hand, even if none of them make sense.
Its a... very slow process.
If someone ever lays a hand on you though, Wanderer would absolutely be livid. Thoughts about murder though? It depends on the severity. If someone just shoved you on the street he'd probably make their day miserable, but if someone genuinely attacked you with intentions to hurt you as much as they could...? MURDER?
Nahida: Is never the answer!
Wanderer: ...
Wanderer: But it sure is the question! YOU DARE TO GAZE UPON-
Nahida: *sprays with water* 💦🔫 No, bad Wanderer!
He'll get his revenge without causing death. She never said violence was was off the table. Dottore though? Murder is always the answer.
Emphasis on the scary dog privileges, I swear his glares burns right through peoples soul.
.° ୭ ៳ Genshin Drabble Masterlist・✩
#answered 💌#[🍩] mae . • . ° inbox ♡˖#letters from: bee <3#wanderer#wanderer x reader#scaramouche x reader#scaramouche#genshin x reader#genshin#genshin impact#genshin drabbles#genshin imagines#genshin headcanons#wanderer headcanons#genshin impact x reader#genshin impact fluff#wanderer fluff#[🌺] mae ｡・｡ talks genshin ♡˖♪
599 notes
·
View notes
Text
The Rare Bookseller Part 38: Alexander's Sire
Prev > Masterlist > Next
September 1925
TW: Captivity, mind control, mentions of abuse and murder
The fireplace crackled cheerfully as Oliver's anxiety rose. "Your sire is the one who turned you from human to vampire, right, sir?"
"Yes. And in the process, a connection is established from sire to sired. A vampire's sire can communicate telepathically with their spawn, and a sired must carry out their sire's direct commands. In some ways, I'm also a thrall, of sorts."
"And your sire is dangerous, sir?"
"Dangerous isn't even the half of it," said Alexander. "Are you certain you wish to hear it? It will cause you nothing but anxiety over a problem you won't be able to solve."
"I'm quite used to anxiety over problems I can't solve, sir." Oliver knew very well that not knowing what this mysterious sire might do would drive him to insanity with fear regardless.
"I was chosen because of my lineage. My sire believed that I would have the power to be a great vampire lord. Enthrall a whole manor's worth of humans, bend vampire society to my aims, as he enjoys doing -- except I would be firmly under his thumb. A useful general in his insatiable quest for power and perfection."
"You don't seem to be doing that, sir."
"No, indeed. I was born with power, as he hoped, but I resisted his influence more than he expected. I've largely secluded myself and devoted my life to studies, rather than enslaving humans and pursuing my sire's aims. That's why I only keep one thrall, as a general rule, instead of a mansion full."
Oliver felt he was beginning to see the picture. "And your sire is not pleased with that state of affairs, Master?"
"Naturally, he isn't. He uses his connection to torment me with nightmares, intrusive thoughts... commands I don't wish to carry out..."
Something clicked in Oliver's mind, gears turning despite the slowness imposed on him by enthrallment. "You..." He almost didn't want to say it, but he did ask to know the truth. "Were you forced to hurt your thralls, sir?"
Alexander looked haunted, his expression saying everything that needed to be said. "I did warn you against asking questions you would not like the answer to."
"Are you... were you... did he make you kill..." Oliver fought down the urge to flee from the room right then and there. "What are you going to do to me? Are you going to --"
"No," said Alexander firmly.
"How can you know that, sir? If your sire can force you at any time --"
"He won't. Not with you."
"I don't -- " Any semblance of calm had evaporated, as a far more primal instinct was rising in Oliver. "Sir, I don't want to die. Please don't kill me, sir, please --"
"Quiet, Oliver," said Alexander. "Be quiet now."
Oliver's sensible panic began to dissipate against his will, as the command swallowed his mind and he slumped against Alexander. "Please, sir..." he said miserably.
"My sire will not kill you, nor will he make me kill you. I'm certain of that," he said, pulling Oliver close and running his fingers through his hair. "You're too..."
"Too what, sir?"
"...Too perfect. Obedient, docile, and exactly to his tastes. No, he'll certainly keep you alive, that I'm sure of."
As scared as Oliver was of dying, he didn't like the implications in his master's voice. There were many fates worse than death. He thought he'd escaped one at the auction house, but had he actually found himself in a worse trap? "What will he do with me, then, sir?"
His master thought for a long time, so long that Oliver feared he would not answer at all. "You'll be fine, Oliver," he said. "I'm going to make sure of it. I have a plan, I think." He pushed a lock of hair from Oliver's face, looking intently into his eyes. "You're stronger than you believe yourself to be. You may be the thrall that can break the cycle."
"Sir -- Master, I don't understand --"
"But that's putting far too much on you. I'm going to have to find a way to protect you permanently. To protect us both. That's all there is to it. I've been getting closer, but..."
Oliver leaned into his master's cold touch, craving that protection even through his fear. "So is that the reason, then, why you didn't want to take another thrall, sir? Because you were searching for a way to protect them?"
"Yes, that's more or less the reason. I thought I could find a way to defy my master before claiming you, and then we would both have a much happier existence. Unfortunately, leaving you to get bought by Jameson would have been no better for you. His torments are relentless, and your mind would have been destroyed at the outset. At least I can do my best to give you a comfortable life when my sire's attention is turned elsewhere."
Oliver nodded. Those were the only choices, weren't they? Be purchased by Alexander or by Jameson. Even now that he knew more of the danger lurking in his master's home, he still preferred Alexander without question. The prospect of nebulous future torment was nothing compared to the certain promise of memory erasure and illiteracy.
But were those truly the only two choices...?
Something was bubbling in Oliver's chest, something fighting to get free of the nets of control placed on his mind.
He could let me go.
No -- he tried to push the traitorous thought from his mind. He knew how much his master needed him. How could he think...
He's going to hurt me. He might even kill me. And if my master doesn't, his sire will.
Surely he wouldn't actually...
If he were an honest man, if he cared about my wellbeing, he would let me go.
Oliver felt himself tremble from the conflict inside his head, self-preservation forcing his mind out of its fog. That's right, vampires had kidnapped him for money and blood. How had he pushed that so far from his thoughts? Was his master really any different from them? Didn't he admit to keeping Oliver for his own selfish needs?
If he truly cared, he would let Oliver go, or spirit him away so that he would be safe.
But Alexander clearly wasn't planning on doing that. He had to go himself. He had to find a way to escape this vampire and this manor while he was still awake, before the thrall took him whole. Even now, just thinking of such a betrayal was almost impossible.
"Oliver, quiet."
Oliver's hands dropped from his face as artificial tranquility washed over him.
"I need to hear what's going through your mind," said his master. "I promise I won't be angry with you, even if it is terrible. Even if you wanted to kill me."
"No -- no, sir, I wouldn't -- "
"Even so."
His master gently stroked his temples, humming something under his breath. Oliver felt himself sinking into a daze. "No, please. Please don't do this." The song filled his mind, coaxing it back into a trance, tunneling his focus onto what Alexander wanted. The truth...
"If I'm in danger here, sir," he said, the words being drawn out of him as if by a string, "why don't you let me go?"
Alexander drew back, and Oliver felt both the sharp pang of his sudden absence and the words he'd just said. "I'm sorry, sir! I'm so sorry I thought that -- I'm not going to try to escape, sir, I promise -- "
His master let out a loud, mirthless laugh. "Let you go. Yes. Yes, indeed. Yes, I should do that, shouldn't I? Just let you go. It's all so simple."
Oliver looked at him with pleading eyes. "...You would...?" he said.
"My sire already knows that I've bought a new and most delectable thrall, thanks to the public display of it I had to make at the auction house. Do you think he would simply let you go?" said Alexander, his voice chilling. "Or do you think he'd hunt us down and make sport of us both?"
"He would do that, sir?"
"He'd do that and worse. At least here in my mansion I can afford you all the protection I can muster, and work towards us both being free of him," said Alexander.
Oliver slowly nodded, his conviction fading. Yes, here in his master's mansion, that's where he could be safe.
His master began softly stroking his hair once more, allowing Oliver to rest against his chest. "I've troubled you too much with this conversation. You need to relax. You are safe here."
"But --" Oliver's mind struggled against the warm undertow of Alexander's soothing voice.
"You need to relax," said Alexander again, his voice deep and low. "Relax, and allow me to take care of you. You will trust me. I will not harm you of my own free will."
All of the conditioning was tugging at Oliver's mind. He wanted to trust Alexander so much. He wanted to sink back under the waves of enthrallment. He wanted it all to be so simple -- that he could have his master and his books and his little comforts, and feed his master when called upon, and not have to concern himself with threats.
But he couldn't help but imagine Alexander's face twisting, the gentle vampire becoming the terrifying monster he'd feared, and shuddered.
"Relax. Be calm. Your worries will not help you. This problem is for me to solve." Alexander's voice was like a sweet lullaby. "Let your anxiety go, feel it fade, fall back into the warm ocean of obedience and bliss. Be quiet, Oliver."
He was right. Worrying about it would not help. And he was safe here, at least for now, here in the warm library with the smell of old books and the crackling fire. He let himself relax, let the nightmare visions fade from his mind. "Yes, master," he said, tension leaving his muscles.
His master began to hum, a tune that further drained Oliver of his tension, a song to ease his fear and help him relax. There was only the briefest of struggles in Oliver's mind before he welcomed it in.
He was safe, wasn't he? He felt so safe, here in the library by the fire. His master wouldn't harm him. His master would protect him.
"Good, Oliver," said Alexander, and the praise made Oliver feel pleasantly fuzzy. "And I want you to know -- I will not be setting you free. I will never be setting you free."
Sinking deeply into Alexander's power, his sudden, desperate need to escape from just a few minutes ago now felt so distant. "You won't, sir?"
"Your blood and your company are both too appealing to ever let you go. I'd be a fool to allow my sire to ruin you, and I've had enough regrets in my long life without adding that one to it." Alexander stroked Oliver's hair so gently.
"But... but your sire..." The last scraps of his sensible fear were slipping from his grasp, his mind fogging. "What if..."
"You're perfect, Oliver, don't you see? The perfect thrall in every way. I didn't think I would ever have you, but now that I do... I need you. You felt my need, didn't you?"
Oliver remembered it oh so clearly, the moment when their thoughts had mingled and he felt the strength flowing back into his master. He'd felt so wanted, so needed, so helpful and useful. He'd do just about anything to feel that again. "Yes, sir, I do." His master stroked his cheek tenderly, and Oliver leaned into the cold touch, letting his eyes fall shut.
"That's why I'm going to protect you the best I can. I swear on my grave I will. I won't fail this time."
It shouldn't be comforting. There should be nothing comforting about one vampire vowing to shield you from another, in order to protect the blood he craved. But Oliver wanted to believe, and his master's power made it easy.
It felt so natural to lean in closer to Alexander, so right when he fell softly into his master's lap, so comfortable as his master ran his hands through his hair and began to hum. There was something in the song making his eyes droop and his thoughts stop, but he couldn't mind being lulled asleep like this. Everything felt so cloudy...
"I think, perhaps, we could use something to lift the gloom," said Alexander. "Would you join me in the music room, allow me to play for you?"
Oliver's eyes opened, turning to look at his master. "That sounds lovely, sir."
Prev > Masterlist > Next
Next week: Fitz's life changes forever.
@d-cs @latenightcupsofcoffee @thecyrulik @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @wanderinggoblin @whumpyourdamnpears @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are @pressedpenn @pigeonwhumps @amusedmuralist @xx-adam-xx @ivycloak @irregular-book @whumpsoda @mj-or-say10 @pokemaniacgemini @whumpshaped @whumpsday @morning-star-whump @shinyotachi @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @pirefyrelight @theauthorintraining @whump-me-all-night-long @anonfromcanada @typewrittenfangs @tessellated-sunl1ght @cleverinsidejoke @abirbable @ichorousambrosia @a-formless-entity @gobbo-king @writinggremlin @the-agency-archives @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @enigmawriteswhump @foresttheblep @bottlecapreader @whump-on-a-string @whumpinthepot
#whump#whump writing#mind control#captivity#vampire#vampire whumper#rare bookseller#alexander#oliver
112 notes
·
View notes
Text
a cage she'd live in forever
ignore me just randomly re-posting stuff into the vacuum i guess (i'll probably repost my rhaenicent fic next)
Aemond’s stoic manner doesn’t last.
Alicent took one look at her son during the confrontation with Rhaenyra, and understood he was pretending to be a man. He was forcing himself to grow up faster in the face of a cold, callous court, just as she once had. It broke her heart.
Now he’s back in King’s Landing, in the safety of his own chambers, and his voice cracks when he asks his mother to help apply salve to his eye. He doesn’t like the servants touching it.
Each crack in Aemond’s young voice drives her further into madness.
Madness to Alicent was never a legible concept.
It’s tucked away into the neat folds of her green sleeves, a problem for later.
She’s no Targaryen. There is no fire and blood to reckon with here.
And yet she sees her child suffer and she wants to burn down this cursed castle with herself in it.
You let this happen to him. You should have been more vigilant. You knew how obsessed he was with those beasts. YOU DID THIS.
Viserys plays no part in her judgements. The old man gave his seed and withered into the peripheral. These are her children. Alicent has the right to be possessive over them at least. Nothing else in her life has ever truly been hers.
Her title of ‘queen’ belonged to a woman more well-loved by her husband. Her name of ‘Hightower’ belongs to the men in her family. Her regal status could be snatched at any moment should the king die.
But her children she bore and birthed, they are hers.
Even so, they still ask for their father. They haven’t yet learned.
“Why does he like them more than he likes us?” Aegon mumbled to her when she can get a sober word out of him. “I thought he wanted us. I thought he wanted me.”
In a rare moment of affection – slapping Aegon was the worst thing she could have done in that room, she sees that now – she stroked the back of his silver head and made a soft, comforting sound.
“He does want you. He always wanted you.” She lies to her children with ease, just like she lies to everyone else.
When Aegon was born, no matter how it traumatised her to give birth so young, she had celebrated, thinking life would be better now that she was the queen who had managed to birth a male heir for the king.
It changed nothing.
Helaena was born and her depression grew worse.
She tries to forget what she’d done days after the birth, as if it were nothing more than a horrible nightmare. But she can’t forget the screams of her ladies-in-waiting, how they’d dragged her off the ledge. Helaena had been in her arms, shrieking miserably.
Alicent had begged her and begged her to stop crying, that she could do no more for her, that they were both helpless.
At some point, the crying faded into nothing, and the next thing she knew, she was standing on the window ledge, staring down at Maegor’s Holdfast, with her baby girl clutched to her chest.
There’s no doubt in her mind now that she would have jumped if they hadn’t found her.
She was dragged back to her cage, and her father came to rebuke her for her ungratefulness. She didn’t know how to tell him what was wrong. She didn’t know when everything went so perfectly wrong.
Aemond was born when she was happiest. She had grown a little older, become more well-adjusted. And a second son was further proof of her fertility, as well as another pillar to hold up both House Targaryen and Hightower. He was a beautiful baby, wide-eyed and gurgling. He was the happiest baby she’d ever had.
The happiness wears away the older he grows, but sometimes, when she cups his chin in her palm and makes a kissy sound, he beams, and she sees the precious infant again.
He isn’t smiling now. His shoulders are hunched, and he won’t look up, not even when she speaks to him.
Helaena sits on the corner of his bed, glancing up from time to time as she mumbles under her breath.
Alicent looks at her and doesn’t understand her, but there’s something about the girl no one can help but love. And Alicent does, painfully. The guilt of that window ledge will never leave her.
Helaena worries more than she lets on and will often wander into a room and sit in the corner like a watchful ghost when someone in her family is hurting. Alicent can’t count the nights she’s cried into her hands only to look up and see Helaena’s large eyes peering at her from the shadows. It never fails to make her laugh through the tears.
“Is Vhagar fed?” She coaxes Aemond on his favourite subject. She has no love for the dragon, but she uses her to get her son to speak.
He grunts, fiddling with his fingers. She wonders what confusion is now curdling in his young head. All her children are sad in their own ways, as sad as their mother, and she doesn’t know what to do. Leave well enough alone, Otto tells her, and Alicent can’t help thinking he might be right. He did the same with her after all.
“You were brave, Aemond. Your nephews would never have held their own the way you did.” Alicent wipes her fingers clean of salve and lifts his face up. He stares at her with his one, pale violet eye and she feels a burst of rage upon seeing the wound. It’s so strong it makes her nauseous.
“Even our uncle noticed,” Helaena hums. She looks up when she realises her mother and brother are staring at her. Then, she shrugs, stroking the dead centipede in her hand. It died this morning on her pillow. “I think he liked your bravery. But he would never say it.”
Daemon’s baleful, amused eyes flash across Alicent’s vision and she recalls her childhood infatuation with him. She grew out of it and happily so. It does not surprise her that Daemon would look at his brother’s children and see himself in them. He’s always boasted of himself as stronger than Viserys. It would entertain him to see a boy so like himself come from a woman he deems strait-laced and dull and a brother he considers weak.
“Our uncle,” Aemond scoffs. “He slept with her.”
“With whom?” Alicent’s head snaps around.
“Our father’s only child,” he spits out, venom in the words.
Rhaenyra.
“How do you know this?” Her eyes are wide and terrified, picturing a scenario where Aemond bursts out with this information at the wrong moment and gets punished.
“I was waiting to slip out and go to the beach, but I couldn’t find a good time. I saw them leave together. I know what they went to do. I’m not a child, mother.”
“Aemond, you must never speak of this again.”
“Why not?” He gets to his feet, all Targaryen rage and impulsivity. “Why must we always keep our mouths shut while she gets to do whatever she wants?”
Alicent breathes in, willing herself to stay calm.
Taking both his hands in hers, she kisses them and holds them against her cheek, reminding herself that all her children are still here. Daeron is safe in Oldtown. Her eldest three are here with her. They’re not gone yet. Daemon can’t do a thing to them. Daemon, not Rhaenyra, because even she knows her childhood friend would not willingly cut the throats of her own siblings.
“There will come a time when we will no longer live in fear of what Rhaenyra and her brood do or say to us,” she tells him. “But it is not that time yet.”
“Do you mean when father dies?” Helaena pipes up.
Alicent hushes her. “Don’t say such things out loud.” Her eyes dart to the door. Larys has spies everywhere, and though he might act innocuous with his crooked smile and haunted eyes, she knows him too well to think he’s loyal to her. He’s loyal to himself alone, as proven by the deaths of his kin. “But I assure you, Aemond, your patience will be rewarded, not just with a dragon, but by the respect of the entire realm. You are my warrior, my boy, my prince. Nothing will ever change that. Understand?”
Aemond grinds his teeth – it’s a habit she’s trying to help him out of – but he nods, slow at first, but then, with a greater degree of certainty. He believes her.
She glances at Helaena, a wordless signal that they should leave Aemond alone for a while.
At the door, she turns to look at him one last time, and smiles.
He brings peace to her heart, not because she loves him more than the other children, but because she knows he sees outside of himself, just like she was trained to. He will protect his siblings if Alicent is no longer there to do so.
Aemond is her favourite because he is exactly what she pictured when she imagined what it would be like to have a son.
Now they see you as you are.
Alicent wakes in a cold sweat, Rhaenyra’s vicious violet eyes burned into the backs of her eyelids. Her dreams are cruel to her. One moment Nyra’s head is in her lap, her young face alight with pleasure at the thought of flying away with Alicent and finding places no one else will ever reach. And then there’s a knife in her hand and Rhaenyra is bleeding out all over her green dress.
She can never control her dreams. Either she hurts Rhaenyra by the end, or Rhaenyra rips off her mask and shows her what she is.
A frightened young girl turned into a cold, enraged woman.
Her brother Gwayne used to reassure her she would be an excellent wife and mother to some very lucky minor lord. They were children of a second son, it was the most they could expect, even if their father was the Hand. And Alicent had revelled in the imagery. Gwayne was always kind to her, loving her the way younger brothers do, without question and without strife.
She never felt worthy of his simple love. She never believed she would be as good a woman as he believed she would. But often, on nights she can’t sleep, she thinks of all Gwayne told her and measures herself against it.
If she measures herself against what Rhaenyra promised she would grow to become, she’ll cry herself to death.
You are the sweetest person I’ve ever known. Everyone in this court looks at me and they see a princess, not a prince. They see what I am not, what I should have been. But you look at me and I feel strong, as if even I could bear the weight of my father’s crown. Do you know the worth of such a quality, Alice? You give strength to those who feel forsaken.
That last sentence was what echoed in Alicent’s mind the night she rushed out of the Great Hall, away from Rhaenyra’s bloodstained wedding, to find Criston Cole kneeling in the godswood, with a knife angled towards himself.
She wonders what Rhaenyra would feel knowing she herself is the reason Criston still lives.
A shadow stirs under her door and she hears the familiar clink of armour.
The guards change at midnight, and he comes to stand by her door, ever unable to sleep when the night is darkest. Alicent has memorised the sound.
Some nights, she can’t sleep until she hears the clink. Her heart doesn’t settle in the right place until Criston moves in front of her rooms, as if he’ll protect her from the hurricane waiting outside.
But no matter how she tries, tonight, sleep evades her.
She gets up and summons one of her maidservants, asking for a cup of mulled wine.
When the door opens, Criston moves an inch to the left, as if expecting trouble. Their eyes lock.
Alicent clutches her robe tighter around herself, suddenly aware of how little she’s wearing in comparison to her daytime garb. Her hair is loose from its coif, and falls in unruly curls down her back, large eyes betraying an age that is still not old enough for the troubles she bears.
“Ser Criston,” she calls, before he can close the door.
He walks into the doorway. “My Queen.”
She inclines her head to indicate he enter. He does so without a flicker in his expression, ever prepared to serve.
“Are you well, my Queen?”
Her palms are sweaty. She’s never been more aware of anything in her life. Whether it’s his presence or the lingering aftermath of her dream, she does not know.
“I could not sleep.”
His brown eyes peer at her through his lashes. They’re so large, they appear wholly sincere, but she’s seen them turn cruel at the mention of Rhaenyra. Never has a man confused her as much as Criston Cole.
Daemon, enigma as he seeks to appear, is fairly predictable within his impulsivity. If one wants trouble, look to the Targaryen prince with not a chip, but a giant oak tree on his shoulder. He’s always certain trouble.
But Criston can pass for serene and dutiful and be something totally different underneath.
Yet with her, Alicent believes he is at her service. She just often has doubts as to the precise reasons why. It can’t all be because she saved him from killing himself.
“The maid – “ he begins.
“Yes, she’s gone to fetch me a jug of mulled wine. I was hoping you would partake of it with me, Ser Criston.”
He bows his head in agreement.
Alicent’s mouth twitches in a sad smile.
He never suspects she may have ulterior motives.
Even to a man as guarded as this, she is laced so tightly, he would never suspect otherwise.
She’s never wanted to be like Rhaenyra – at least not to be in her situation – but now she does. To be able to say something charming, quick-witted, and break the ice, it would be a relief.
The maid returns with the wine and Alicent pours for the knight, setting the cup beside him.
“I appreciate how much you do for my children, Ser Criston.” She gestures for him to sit, and when he does, carefully seats herself beside him.
He keeps his eyes on the ground when he nods. “It is my duty, Your Grace. I will always work in the favour of the princes and the princess.”
“You go above and beyond.”
Now he looks at her and she sees a spark of surprise. “Have I overstepped, Your Grace?”
Alicent’s face softens, and she reaches to rest her hand on his gauntlet. “No. No, you have not. I am commending you, Criston. Not everything is a question of your ability. I will never doubt that.”
She hears him breathe out, but he still appears discomfited. She takes a sip from her own cup, hoping to encourage him to drink from his. A few seconds pass, and he mirrors her action. They smile at each other. Hers is wider, and his is small, but grows the longer he lets himself gaze into her eyes.
“May I ask what troubles you, my Queen?”
He knows. He must.
He was there in the room after the fight between Rhaenyra and Alicent was broken up. He’d watched her cry with Aemond’s bloodied face tucked against her neck. He was the one who had guided them both out, away from the court’s judgemental eyes, somewhere safe to grieve alone.
“I dreamt of Rhaenyra. Of our younger days.”
He keeps his face carefully smooth. “I remember that you were good friends. She always spoke highly of you.”
At least he’s not calling her a spoiled cunt anymore.
“She spoke well of you too,” Alicent admits. “Though I never saw when it was that she grew a particular affection for you. I was adept at reading those signs in her. With Daemon it was youthful infatuation. I was guilty of it too for a while. But you, I had no idea.”
A muscle in his jaw pulses. He’s staring into the cup of wine as if it will tell him what to say next, or what to do.
Alicent waits.
“I don’t think she held an affection for me the way I did for her,” he says at length. “I misread her cues. Had I known, I would never have offered what I did on our way to Driftmark. And she’d never had had the chance to prove just how little I meant in her world.”
“Did you – “ Alicent pauses, clears her throat, as if this isn’t something she should ask. Criston glances at her, expectant. “Did you like her a lot?”
His mouth tugs upwards with a tinge of bitterness. “It was my first time at court, away from war. And I was in the service of a princess. I’d heard one too many ballads, and she had a sweet smile. I saw everyone underestimate her. I saw her father harangue her to accept marriage proposals she didn’t want. It tangled up my views on love and duty, and my protectiveness grew into something more. It was youth’s folly on my part. It wasn’t until later that I learned she came to me after her uncle left her stranded in a brothel down in the city.”
Alicent nods, a knot stuck in her throat. She still remembers the pain in her stomach when her father first told her of the news, and that he was being banished from court for it. She remembers the way Rhaenyra’s voice trembled when she dubbed it a “vile accusation.” And yet it was never far from the truth.
Now Alicent understood exactly why Rhaenyra went to Ser Criston afterwards.
She knows this man has failed to forgive Rhaenyra’s youthful indiscretions, just as much as he refuses to forgive his own, but she feels pity for him regardless.
There’s no sense of betrayal towards the princess. Rhaenyra stopped feeling pity for Alicent the moment she was coerced into becoming her new stepmother. Alicent has ceased feeling that stab of guilt whenever she spoke against the princess in her absence. Life goes on.
“Everyone commits folly in their youth. It is of no consequence.” She says the words but doesn’t truly feel them. Her own youth was wasted in biting her cuticles till they bled and praying she did no wrong in her father’s eyes. Hardly a youth at all.
“Not you, my Queen.”
Alicent almost flinches in surprise. Criston has a look of amusement on his face. It takes her a moment to process, and then she laughs, uncertain. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t believe you’ve ever committed a folly as a child.”
“I have. Plenty of them. My father was always admonishing me for them.”
“What your father deems follies, aren’t really follies. He watches Aegon with the same focus he once used on you.” Criston’s implication is clear.
Just like Aegon, Alicent was once a pawn to move around as Otto saw fit. It doesn’t feel right to allow a member of the Kingsguard to absolve her of her perceived sins, but she leans into the feeling, letting it envelop her in comfort.
“I regret one thing in regard to you,” she mutters, looking away before the heat of the wine reaches her cheeks.
“What’s that?”
“The way I referred to you when you took of your helmet during your first tourney here.”
“’Gods, he’s Dornish’?”
Alicent’s eyes widen. Criston’s voice ripples with laughter. “Rhaenyra told me. I found it amusing.”
“I did not mean it to denigrate you,” Alicent says quickly. “I swear. I just meant – I hadn’t seen many Dornish folk growing up, and I wasn’t expecting – “
“It’s alright, Your Grace,” Criston cuts her off, eyes crinkled at the corners.
He looks young again, the way she remembers.
Alicent heaves a sigh, and then laughs, embarrassed.
They both drift into a comfortable silence, each glancing up while the other isn’t looking. It happens three times before their gazes finally meet and then suddenly, neither can look away.
She tries, but the urge to drown in the dark chasm of his eyes is more enticing than anything her husband has ever said or done to her.
Criston looks away first, but it’s to reach under his gauntlet. “I brought something. I thought the young prince might like it. Losing an eye at such an age is a great blow. I know he wishes to become a better warrior, and I fear it may create problems.”
Alicent’s face falls at the mention of Aemond’s injury. “Yes, well, there’s nothing to be done. His eye is gone.” Her voice cracks, just like her son’s had.
Criston stops fiddling with the gauntlet and stares at her. It’s as if he wants to reach across and comfort her with something more tangible than words.
But instead, he removes what he was looking for and holds it out.
It’s a leather eyepatch.
“I had it made. It’s well-padded and it will fit the circumference of his head. I know he is self-conscious about the scar, but once the wound heals, he can cover most of it.”
Alicent doesn’t speak. Her eyes glimmer with an emotion she can’t put a name to and her fingers tremble as they take the patch from Criston’s palm. Her bottom lip quivers, and she sniffs, trying not to give into the weight of grief upon her chest.
“Your Grace,” Criston murmurs, troubled at her reaction.
“Don’t – “ she seals her lips, and squeezes her eyes shut, letting the tears fall free. “Don’t call me that. Call me Alicent for once. I hear the name my mother gave me so little these days.”
He swallows, something unreadable flickering across his face. “Alicent.”
She inhales, a shivering breath, and clutches the eyepatch to her chest. “He’s going to look like a Braavosi ruffian,” she laughs, but it sounds more like a sob. “It would be highly improper.”
Criston shrugs and grins. “The boy deserves to go around however he wants after the trouble he’s had, no?”
She can already picture the scowl on her father’s face when he sees the patch.
It’s what convinces her to set aside her qualms.
Aemond will adore it. He has a knack for going straight for the thing he’s not supposed to, and just as with Vhagar, he’ll continue to make those decisions well into the future. At least Alicent can give him her blessing on this one.
“Thank you,” she says, and her voice barely breaks above a whisper. “You are good to me. To us.”
They smile at each other, and a picture of utter serenity invades her mind’s eye.
In it, her children don’t have silver hair, but red locks like her own, and deep, beautiful brown eyes like his. Their home is small, but happy, and each night when he returns, all four of them run to him, trying to tell him about their day at the same time. Alicent lingers in the back, waiting for her turn, knowing it will always come.
“Your Grace?”
The formal address shatters her vision like an arrow through glass.
She blinks, bringing herself to reality, to the quiet, dark room, so spacious and luxurious.
And him.
He’s closer now, and his hand is halfway up, as if he’s unsure whether he’s allowed to touch her.
Alicent takes it without thinking and kisses the back before pressing it to her cheek.
He doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t say a word. His fingers tighten around hers and his armour shifts as he leans in.
Alicent doesn’t lift her head. She’s afraid of what she might see in the reflection of his eyes. She’s afraid she’ll see herself, yearning, something she’s long forced herself never to do.
“Alicent.”
“I won’t,” she whispers. “I won’t make you break your oath a second time. I’m not like her. I’m not her.”
“I know. I know.” He sets his other hand beneath hers, supporting it. “You’re not Rhaenyra. You are yourself. And I chose to serve you for that, not because I owe you my life and my dignity.”
“Rhaenyra made her choices out of youthful folly, and I am a grown woman. This is wrong.” She lets go of his hand, but he tightens his grip before she can take hers back. It’s not an aggressive hold, but it’s enough to keep her reined in close to him.
“I would never encourage you to do anything you did not want to, my Queen,” he says, and she now sees what Rhaenyra saw in him.
That wide-eyed devotion, the darkness stirring just underneath, as if he would do anything Alicent asked, no matter how cruel.
How could anyone say no to such intensity? Except Rhaenyra used him as a replacement, and Alicent has nothing to replace. She is a grown woman, but in this aspect, her experience is lacklustre.
“I don’t know what I want,” she chokes out, biting her lip to keep it from trembling.
“That’s not quite true, is it?” he says kindly.
She shakes her head. “I want a great many things, most of them to do with my children. But for myself, I don’t know what I want. Perhaps I want to sleep. Or to be at peace. Or maybe I want never to worry about another thing as long as I live.”
Her voice breaks as she remembers Aemond wiping his tears with haste so she won’t see them, and Aegon turning away to hide how her words trouble him, and Helaena – sweet Helaena – hoping her mother will understand what she means without having to try and explain it all the time.
And then she looks up at Criston and he is looking at her, only her.
Not Alicent the queen, nor Alicent the mother, nor Alicent the daughter.
Just Alicent.
She leans in for the space of a long sigh, and kisses his lips, seeking a taste of what it is that makes him see her that way.
Criston doesn’t let her pull back. His hand is behind her head – gentle, as if she were made of crystal – and his lips move like warm silk, pressed over her mouth. He kisses each corner, and then the bow of her upper lip, his breath soaked into hers. The scent of mulled wine is strong, but underneath, she tastes something sweeter. She wonders if she’s imagining it.
He manoeuvres her with an ease that steals her breath away.
One moment she’s on the seat, the next she’s half on his lap and his arm is braced around her slender waist.
She’s never been kissed like this before, like the centre of the universe is hidden between her lips and he means to steal it.
“Criston – “
His name is muffled in the wet slide of his tongue over hers, and she isn’t sure what she means to say next. He doesn’t give her the chance to think about it. His hand braces against the side of her neck, pulling her closer, until she’s caged.
This is a cage I would live in forever.
It takes the will of the gods to end the kiss.
The second she does, his mouth grasps at her chin, her cheek, her jaw, her throat, reaching for anything she’ll give him. And for a few heartbeats, she lets him have it all. She pretends her body is his to do with as he pleases, and that no one will ever come through that door to break them up.
She pretends she is his, and he is hers.
And then her body strains back, breaking the restraint of his arm.
Criston releases her immediately, breath coming short, eyes glittering with arousal.
Her own face is no better. Soft steps retreat, taking her back until she finds the bedpost. It’s the only thing keeping her knees from giving out.
Criston stands, and she’s suddenly aware of how much larger he is. It doesn’t help the heat spreading across her body, or the heartbeat pulsing in her throat. Her cheeks are still wet with tears.
“We can’t,” is all she manages to breathe out.
He nods, a sincere gesture. He understands.
Alicent thinks then that she might die to be understood like this always, that she’d die for him.
His white cloak whispers across the floor when he approaches.
A coarse hand rests ever so soft against the petal-skin of her cheek. It brushes down towards her chin, tilting it up. He studies her face as if she were a finely woven tapestry, each thread made of precious gold and silver.
“Your tears are as beautiful as the rest of you,” he murmurs. “But would that I could, I’d banish them from your eyes forever.”
Alicent trembles, trying not to let out the sob building up in her chest.
He presses a kiss to her forehead, chaste, and his hand drops away her face.
He leaves and behind him, lingers a poignant scent she’s only ever breathed in the godswood.
It’s holy.
“What’s this?”
Aemond looks confused at the velvet pouch she dangles before him.
Aegon is sitting on a nearby chair, sober for once, and Helaena is curled up by the fireplace, making swirling patterns with the corpses of dead bugs. Aegon keeps cringing and telling her not to bring them too close to his feet. She threatens to throw one in his open mouth when he’s asleep.
Their bickering continues in the background as Alicent pulls Aemond close. “Open it.”
He does, and removes the patch with a blithely confused face. “What is it?”
“It’s a patch for your eye, you dolt,” Aegon calls.
“Aegon, don’t be mean to your brother.”
“Why not? He told father I knew about the bastards. I got barked at.”
“I was protecting mother,” Aemond snaps.
“Yes,” Alicent says quickly, before it can get out of hand. “And I know you were as well, Aegon. Thank you.”
Aegon opens his mouth to say something, frowns, and then grunts. Alicent gaze lingers on him for a moment, feeling that familiar sadness, but then she’s distracted by Aemond putting on the patch. He laughs in delight as he darts towards the mirror.
“I look like a Braavosi sea lord!” he exclaims.
“This is what he’s giggling over!” Aegon laughs. “No more ‘I may have lost an eye, but I gained a dragon?’ Pretentious twat.”
Helaena chooses that precise moment to throw a dead bug at Aegon’s head, and the room erupts into chaos.
Alicent’s first instinct is to shout and stop them, order them to behave like the royalty they are.
But then she notices the maidservants giggling, and she lets it carry on. Helaena, emboldened by her initial attack, chases her older brother with a whole tray of bugs, and Aemond stands at the centre of it all, doing his best impression of a Braavosi water dancer.
Alicent smiles so wide her face hurts.
They look like children.
It won’t last, but they look like children again.
#alicent hightower#criston cole#alicent x criston#alicole#ser criston cole#queen alicent#house of the dragon#aemond targaryen#helaena targaryen#aegon ii targaryen#daeron targaryen#viserys targaryen#rhaenyra targaryen#scalyfreakswrites
102 notes
·
View notes
Text
Ace Attorney Les Miserables!
I had this idea like a month ago, and it was the same day I began my “Javert’s Soliloquy” animatic with Miles Edgeworth (which I still need to finish, but school and other work has been in the way)
Les Mis was the first musical I listened to back around 2015 and I became OBSESSED. I would listen to different CD recordings of it from my public library using a CD player because I didn’t have a phone at all. Les Mis introduced me to loving musical theatre, so it is Very Special to me 💖
Anyways! I have two different scenarios based on which act you look at. The assigned characters for act 1 can’t easily just go into act 2 UNLESS you continue to focus specifically on the dynamic between Valjean and Javert. If you focus on the dynamic between Marius and Cosette, then I’d go with my Act 2 assignments because it just fits better for an act 2-specific focus.
Act 1!
I drew this about a month ago, but I never posted it bc I hadn’t gotten around to the act 2 doodles. Here are the characters:
Phoenix Wright is Jean Valjean
Miles Edgeworth is Javert
Mia Fey is the priest / bishop
Thalassa Gramarye is Fantine
Trucy Wright is Cosette
And I’m thinking about the Confrontation between Valjean and Javert…like dude what it fits where Javert is like “You know nothing of Javert! I was born inside a jail! I was born with scum like you! I am from the gutter too!” But instead of jail and such, it’s Edgeworth talking about how his father was a defense attorney, which he sees (now that he is a prosecutor) as “scum”
If we continue to focus on the dynamic between Valjean and Javert into Act 2, then Javert’s Soliloquy,,,don’t worry guys I’m doing a full animatic (it’s with normal AA, not with this AU, but it’s still using the song)
Act 2!
If focusing solely on Act 2, it’s easier to reassign characters than to continue on with what there was because dynamics. So the new character assignments are:
Phoenix Wright is Marius
Miles Edgeworth is Cosette
Iris Fey is Eponine
Gregory Edgeworth is Jean Valjean
Manfred von Karma is Javert
Pearl Fey is Gavroche
Mia and Maya Fey are the other Barricade Boys
So in this version, I guess Valjean wouldn’t have adopted Cosette?? Unless we wanna make Gregory be the adopted father of Miles and not his actual father. But hey uhh weirdly a von Karma redemption? Very very very rare to see that from me
Also!! I was assigning characters and was like “hm well ofc Iris would be Eponine if Phoenix is Marius bc 😭 she loves him” and then as a separate thought was like “well Pearl would obviously be Gavroche bc little child” AND THEN I WAS HIT WITH THE REALIZATION THAT IT WAS PERFECT?? Because Gavroche and Eponine are siblings!!!! IT WAS UNINTENTIONAL
Anyways I’m just super big brain
Oh yeah and that uh
Means all the Feys die :(
#doctorsiren#ace attorney#ace attorney au#les miserables#phoenix wright#miles edgeworth#narumitsu#wrightworth#trucy wright#thalassa gramarye#mia fey#gregory edgeworth#manfred von karma#maya fey#pearl fey#iris fey#ace attorney fanart#art#digital art#my art#fanart#procreate#doodle pages#I can’t wait to show y’all the animatic 🤭🤭🤭#BECAUSE GRRR JAVERT’S SUICIDE FITS SO WELL IN CANON WITH MILES’S NOTE HE LEAVES GAHHHHHH#I’m very normal!! I swear!! heheee#I feel like I am forgetting something ahhh but I don’t think I am?? idk#long post#I guess??
194 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
uni-qu3-darkunicorn
D3rkie fashion
superhusbands-are-my-life
winghead & tin can™
quoteef
Quote Erat Faciendum
sweetloveface
Untitled
gensoky0
Legend Of Hourai