#frost-child edits

[doggerell]

hey :) some zero effort photo edits

[peachdues]

IN THE NETHERWOOD

PART I

KINKTOBER 2023 ♤ WEREWOLF!SANEMI X RED RIDING HOOD! READER

A/N: did I get carried away? Yes. Do I care? No.

Part I is plot + smut. Part II is minimal plot and a lot of smut. Like a concerning amount.

Forgive the pace/editing errors. This was supposed to be a one shot that turned into a two part fic lmao.

CW: violence/some description of gore • mating • knotting/discussions of knotting • biting/mating • feral/protective Sanemi • virgin!Reader who is a big time monsterfucker • oral sex (F!receiving) • Sanemi makes a mess of his breeches • implied murder/other violence by Douma, but left purposefully ambiguous • brief description of another human being eaten

This honestly could be a multi-part fic that continues after Part II, given how much I leave open — but I’ll let you all decide if you want that. For now, enjoy the ride, monster-fuckers. Happy Kinktober!

You’d known Douma’s band of acolytes had been pursuing you for at least a quarter of a mile through the dark wood, and you’d only grown more and more desperate as the excited titter of their voices drew nearer.

You were panicking; with every moment that passed, your legs grew heavier as the weariness of the last day and a half of your journey became a weight you could no longer ignore.

Find the huntsman of the Netherwood! Your grandmother had pled as she’d fastened the thick, scarlet cloak around your shoulders. He guides those in need to far-away villages. He will take you somewhere safe — where Douma cannot find you.

Grandmother did not dare let any of the tears sparkling in her eyes fall as she looped her hands behind you and pulled the hood of your cloak up over your head, concealing your hair from sight. Head north until you come to the river and then head west. You will find his cabin. Go!

Granny had all but pushed you out of her small cottage — the cottage you had come to regard as your home — and off into the chilly, autumn night.

You hadn’t questioned the urgency, though the realization that you would likely never again return to your grandmother — or even see her alive — hadn’t stung any less. But you knew, as well as the old woman who’d raised you after your parents disappeared in the Netherwood, that if Douma got his hands on you, you would never be seen or heard from again.

Just like his four other previous wives.

The last woman he’d taken as his bride had been a dear friend of yours — Kotoha — and she’s arguably lasted the longest, though perhaps that was because she’d been pregnant when the frost lotus containing his marriage demand arrived at her parents’ hut.

The eclectic village worship leader hadn’t apparently minded that Kotoha had been pregnant with another man’s child — she was unmarried, young, and beautiful; it was all Douma required.

The tension among the village women had dissipated once Kotoha had survived the first week of her union with the rainbow-eyed monster. After all, the other three wives had barely lived to see the next morning, never mind seven.

Kotoha had lived several more months — even giving birth to a beautiful, healthy baby boy whom she’d doted over, and even you thought that perhaps the rumors swirling through the village had been wrong. Perhaps those other three women truly had run off into the night with various lovers, leaving Douma alone in his mansion in the eastern wing of the village.

The last you’d seen her, your friend had been smiling and bright, happily making her way back to her marital home, baby Inosuke happily snuggled against her chest, as she’d cheerfully waved you goodbye.

Kotoha was never heard from again. Though the village elders had dispatched a recovery team to search for her, no trace of either her, nor the precious baby boy whom she’d loved so dearly, could be found.

A week later, your grandmother opened the front door of her homely cottage to find a single frost lotus resting on her doorstep.

No one turned down Douma’s marriage proposals; but neither did anyone survive them.

And so, your grandmother had packed a small satchel with what meager provisions she could scrounge, wrapped you in her heirloomed scarlet cloak, and pushed you out the door, begging you to find the mysterious huntsman of the Netherwood so that you would not become the village’s newest ghost.

Douma had surely slaughtered your beloved grandmother by now, having learned of her insolence.

You clamped down on the mournful sob building in your throat, knowing if you allowed yourself to give into your grief, it would only slow you down even further, and make it more likely that her sacrifice for your life would be in vain.

Though, in fairness, it might all be for naught anyways; the Netherwood was not a humble forest with only the occasional gray wolf or hungry bear to fear.

For centuries, your village had stood on the outskirts of the dark, ancient wood which divided it from the nervous system of villages and bustling little towns that made up the region. That isolation meant your village had become largely self-sustaining, though a few brave souls managed to make a yearly sojourn across the Wood to trade with establishments on the other side. The forest stretched for miles, encompassing small mountains and rocking ravines that were difficult enough to navigate on their own, especially in disagreeable weather.

But rugged and often temperamental terrain was child’s play compared to the horrors which lurked within the shadows of the Wood.

To start, as you’d come to realize over the last day and a half of your trek, the Netherwood was nothing but shadow. Though you’d surely traveled through the night and well into the following day, not a trace of daylight had pierced the thick canopy of leaves and twisted vines which loomed overhead. Your only indicator that day had, in fact, arrived, had been your sighting of a few songbirds quietly fluttering from tree to tree, as their songs swallowed by the deafening silence of the forest.

But the eerie quiet of the Wood was nothing compared to what you knew prowled within its depths.

You’d grown up hearing tales of the various beasts and cryptids that made the Netherwood their home – and made any unsuspecting traveler their meal. Your own parents had embarked on a dangerous trek into the Netherwood, seeking out a village on the other side rumored to have much-needed medication for your ailing grandfather, only to never be seen or heard from again. Your grandfather had succumbed to his illness not long after, though you’d often wondered whether his guilt and heartbreak hadn’t hastened his demise.

And so the Netherwood had taken your parents and your grandfather, leaving you with only your cherished grandmother as your family. Over the years, those who dared venture into the Wood often did not return, the dark of the forest swallowing them whole and leaving no trace of them behind.

Now, it was through this very Wood that you found yourself running, clinging to the desperate hope that perhaps you’d find this mysterious Huntsman and be saved, though the sluggishness that had entered your exhausted limbs seemed to suggest that you were more likely to be caught by your pursuers. And that was assuming you didn’t end up as something dinner’s before then.

You continued to stumble through the trees, ducking under various branches and batting away stringy spiderwebs, trying not to allow your frustration to get the better of you. After a while, the voices tracking you grew more and more silent, before the walls of the forest swallowed them completely, leaving you utterly alone. 

As you shoved brush and thorns out of your way, the forest opened to give way to a small river, though it was barely more than a creek. It bubbled merrily, as though completely unaware of the horrors lurking behind the shadows of the ancient grove of trees. 

Several lengths ahead, you spotted something crouched beside the water. Your first instinct was panic, thinking you’d stumbled across one of the nefarious creatures of the Wood, a meal being offered to it on a silver platter, but as your vision adjusted, you realized it was only a man, splashing his face with the creek’s cool reserve.

“A-are you the Huntsman?” You hated how timid your voice was, but truthfully, you’d been running for what felt like an eternity, and each snap of a twig in the Woods around had you on edge. You deserved to be frightened, dammit. 

The man snorted before rising to his feet. “I am a Huntsman; whether I am the one you seek, I cannot say.”

 He was taller than you and well-built. His tunic boasted a deep v at the chest exposing a vast swath of the man’s sculpted chest, the skin as scarred as his broad forearms. His breeches were by no means skintight, but it was clear his legs were also made from the same, sinewy muscle that covered the rest of him.

Idly, you wondered whether he was as scarred beneath his clothing as he was out of it. 

He was handsome, there was no doubt, but his appearance was striking. He had a mop of silvery-white hair, parted slightly to cover the criss-cross of scars etched into the right side of his forehead. Below a pair of startling lilac eyes, you could just make out another jagged scar that extended from his right ear to the bridge of his nose. 

He turned back to you, mouth pulled down in an annoyed grimace. “What is your business in the Wood, girl?” 

His eyes roamed the crimson cloak draped around your shoulders, and you swore for a moment there was something akin to amusement glinting in his eyes, despite the severe set of his mouth. 

You shuddered at the sharp intensity of his lilac gaze. “I seek a guide through the Wood — I need to get to one of the villages on the other side.”

Something in the forest snapped and you flinched, though it did not bother the Huntsman, who only narrowed his eyes at you. 

“Are you being pursued?” 

You nodded, your fingers tightening around the folds of your cloak and wrapping it tighter around your shivering frame. “I do not know how many, but they have dogs.”

The Huntsman nodded, stroking his chin in contemplation. “I can get you to the other side in two days; three at most, should your followers pose a problem.” 

You were floored at how easily he accepted your request, even with the additional threat of being hunted like animals by Douma’s men, but you were grateful all the same. 

“I have payment,” you started, hands shooting to dig through the small pouch fastened around your waist, but the wild Huntsman only shook his head. 

“I do not take payment. I will escort you and then I won’t have to worry about any creatures of the Wood sniffing out your bones and getting too close.”

Charming, you groused in your head, though the implication nestled in his words sent another shudder down your spine. 

“What is your name, girl?” The Huntsman’s voice pulled you back to him and the forest, his face expectant. 

You gave him your name and felt a warmth spread through you as he repeated it, mouth mulling over each syllable like it was wrapped with velvet.

“You can call me Sanemi,” the Huntsman said, reaching for the hand-axe lying on its side by the riverbank. “Follow me.” 

---

The Hunstman led you through a winding path that would have been untraceable had you not been watching the way Sanemi’s eyes marked certain landmarks — an errant tree branch here, a particular thorn bush there. 

“Since you are being tracked, we need to move right away,” Sanemi had explained as you stumbled after him, your feet snaring over the various bumps and snarls of tree roots that jutted out from the forest floor. “But I need to gather a few things from my cabin. It’s just a little ways off, and then we will leave.”

Sanemi had largely ignored you for the rest of the trek, though he’d only cut his eyes back to you to ask a single question. 

“Where did you get that cloak?”

You fingered the heavy edge of the ruby wool that your grandmother had fastened snug around your shoulders, its thick folds providing you protection against the biting chill of the autumn wind. “It is an heirloom. My grandmother said it would keep me safe.” 

The Huntsman hummed quietly to himself. “That is one word for it, I suppose.” 

“How do you mean?” 

Sanemi slowed his pace so that you could catch up and walk beside him as he spoke. 

“That cloak is enchanted. Have you not noticed the strange stitching along the hood?” 

Your hands flew to grip the edge of the hood drawn over your head. Sure enough, beneath the pads of your fingertips, you could feel the odd swirls of thread forming some indiscernible shapes along the outermost portion of the cape’s top. 

“I’d not; this was not my cloak to begin with. It was my Grandmother’s.” You did not know why the Huntsman’s tone made you feel self-conscious, as though you’d been too stupid to notice such an obvious variation in the cape snugly fastened around you. It wasn’t as though you’d been afforded a great deal to time to look over it, in those hurried moments before Grandmother had shoved you through her front door and into the Wood beyond. 

Sanemi only shrugged as he continued on ahead, putting distance between you once more, but he called back one final time. “Red is a symbol for many things, girl. I hope your Grandmother at least warned you of that.”

----

Sanemi's cabin was small, but homely. You'd been waiting uneasily near the unlit fireplace at the center of the single-room cabin, unsure whether it would be considered ill-mannered for you to drape yourself across one of the overstuffed armchairs pointed towards the hearth, as the Huntsman milled about, gathering various supplies.

"Have you any preference for which village I take you to?" He called as he rifled through a sparsely-stocked cabinet, scooping up dried provisions into a small leather pouch.

You shook your head. "No, I wish only to get as far away from the Wood as possible."

Sanemi nodded, stalking past you to open another cupboard. Glinting against the dimming light outside, you saw the curved blade of an axe, sharp and polished.

"I can make do with that," the Huntsman said simply. "Though should we run into any weather, it may take longer than three days to reach the other side of the Wood."

You picked nervously at your nails. Any response you could have given him was cut off by the faint cacophany of voices somewhere in the distance.

Brow furrowed, Sanemi crossed the floor of his cabin to a small window and squinted through the fogged glass. Over his shoulder, you could spy the faint glow of fire making its way towards the cabin.

Torches.

You did not need to guess whose torches they were; there was only one reason for a band of men to be in the Netherwood at this hour.

"It's them," you whispered in horror, your heart sinking to your stomach. "The man who is after me -- they're his -- followers. I hesitate to call them men."

Sanemi's eyes narrowed as he glanced back out the window, and you swore you saw his nostrils flare, as though scenting the air.

He gripped you by your forearm, tugging you further into his cabin. “We don’t have much time until they come knocking. I think I can hold them off — but you have to trust me.” 

You looked over the wild man, from the thick, silvery scars seared into the rippled muscles of his forearms to the thinner, more delicate scars which crossed half his face, swallowing down any fear you’d had of the huntsman upon first stumbling upon him by the river. 

You’d been scared of him, but you feared the fate awaiting you at the hands of Douma and his cronies far more; and so, you were desperate enough to place your life in Sanemi’s rough, calloused hands. 

“I trust you,” you vowed, though your voice trembled slightly. “Please just don’t let them take me.”

Something in Sanemi’s eyes tightened as he looked over you, but he nodded, hands reaching for the small pouch strapped to his upper thigh. 

“I’m sure you’re going to protest what I’m about to do,” he said quickly, producing a small hunting knife from the pocket. “But I need you to believe me when I say this is the only way.” 

“Take off your cloak.” Sanemi ordered, standing tall before you, hand out in waiting. 

Your hands flew hesitantly to the metal clasp resting just below the hollow of your throat. “But my grandmother said —“ 

“I know what your grandmother said, girl, but I’m telling you, that cloak will do you no good indoors. It is only effective out in the Wood.” 

You could tell the huntsman’s patience was wearing thin, but still, you hesitated. 

Sanemi huffed impatiently. “I swear to you I will return it the moment they leave, but you must remove it now. They will use it to track your scent.” 

You shuddered as your fingers quickly freed the small latch, and the crimson wool draped around your shoulders loosened. With some hesitancy, you held your cloak out to the huntsman, who balled the fabric up tight before crossing the floor of his cabin, shoving it into a small armoire and behind several hung pelts and well-worn leathers. 

Sanemi was before you once more before you could blink. “Turn around,” he ordered, twirling the knife in his hand to motion you to spin and put your back to him. 

You complied without protest, hands twiddling nervously before you, until you heard the unmistakeable sound of fabric tearing at your back. 

The corset worn over the cotton layers of your dress loosened and fell to the cabin floor, it’s ribboned ties neatly severed where they’d been laced at your back. 

“What in the devil —,” you began hotly, arms jumping to cross over your unsupported chest as you twisted to glare at the huntsman. 

A warm hand firmly pushed your shoulder, keeping you facing forward. “Hold still, woman,” Sanemi barked, and the heat at your back disappeared for a moment as you felt him kneel behind you. 

To your horror, you felt the outermost layer of your dress lift up and away from you as Sanemi rose, bringing the garment up over your head. 

“I asked you to help me, you dog!” You squealed, your attempts to squirm away from the mannerless huntsman at your back futile. “Not strip me bare to do with as you please!” 

Behind you, Sanemi gave a great snort. “Helpin’ you is exactly what I’m doing, if you’d shut up for one second.” 

Left in nothing but your thin, cotton shift, you silently wondered whether you should’ve taken your chances and continued your trek through the Wood. Surely, being eaten by one of the Netherwood’s more nefarious creatures of horror was preferable to being stripped nude by a half-wild brute in his isolated cabin. 

Your musings were cut short, however, as a firm hand wrapped around your forearm and tugged you towards the back of the cabin, where a small doorway closed off the hut’s only other room. 

Sanemi kicked the door open revealing a surprisingly large bed, draped in blankets made of the furs of several different animals. 

“N-no —mmph!” Your protest was cut off by Sanemi’s free hand as it clamped over your mouth as he hissed at you to shush. 

Over the sound of your thudding heart and hard breath as you planted against the huntsman’s palm, you heard the faint but unmistakable sound of male laughter and jeers, cruel and cold. 

“They will be here any moment,” Sanemi said lowly, and he removed the hand from your mouth in favor of shoving you none too gently into the small bedroom. Before you could speak, the huntsman gripped you around the waist and tossed you effortlessly onto the bed, your body bouncing slightly against the soft plush. 

“Get under the covers and lay face-down in the pillows. Let your hair cover you.” 

Scrambling up against the headboard, you looked back to your savior or your villain — you’d not yet decided under which category he fell — but saw that he was already standing back in the doorway, jaw tense and his eyes trained on the front door of his cabin. 

He glanced back to you only once. “And move that thing off to your shoulders. Make yourself appear as though you’re indecent.” 

With that, the huntsman quickly shut the door to his bedroom, just as a fist pounded against the wood of the door outside. 

You kicked your way under the many pelts adorning the bed, savoring their warmth against your chilled skin. Remembering Sanemi’s final warning, you tugged the sleeves of your shift off your shoulders, concealing it and the rest of your body below the soft fur blankets. 

The front door of the cabin opened, and you buried your face into one of the pillows resting against the headboard, begging the comforting scent of forest pine and cedar to calm your raging pulse. 

“How can I help you gentlemen this evening?” Sanemi called, and you almost laughed at how cordial he sounded, as though he hadn’t just cut your dress from you like a brute. 

Any smile you had was immediately wiped from your face at the cold, steely voice which answered him. “We’re searching for a woman. She belongs to someone who is eager to get her back.” 

You balled the pelts below you in your fists, teeth grinding. Of course, you’d never actually agreed to marrying Douma, and yet the beast felt entitled to claim ownership over you, as though you were no better than a piece of furniture. 

Though, you supposed that wasn’t quite an accurate comparison. Furniture survived Douma; women did not. 

“Is that so?” Sanemi’s hardened tone sent shivers down your spine, and you wondered whether his face matched the stony, scathing cadence of his voice. “Well unfortunately for you boys, it’s just me and the wife here. And you’ve interrupted us.” 

“Our apologies,” the scout said, though it did not sound as though he was sorry at all. “But you won’t mind us taking a peak? Just t make sure you and your wife don’t have a visitor.” 

Sanemi’s answering snarl was soft, but it did not conceal the deadly threat contained within. “Surely you understand why I cannot let a number of strange men into my home, while my wife is indisposed.” 

You had to give him credit; Sanemi sounded every bit the dominating, over-protective husband he was pretending to be. 

There was a beat before Sanemi sighed, his irritation almost convincing. “Make it quick. And do not enter the bedroom.” 

There was a shuffle of feet, heavy and booted, that crossed the threshold of the cabin, and the hair on your skin rose at the charge of violence which filled the air. Breath caught in your throat, you buried your face deeper into the huntsman’s mattress and prayed his ruse would be successful. 

The door to the bedroom banged open, startling you with a squeal as you ruched deeper below the pelts. 

“I told you to stay out of the bedroom,” Sanemi’s voice almost sounded bored, but it was thankfully close. Your eyes slid closed as you willed your heart to slow its drumbeat against your sternum as the resulting silence hung thick in the air. 

“Our apologies,” the apparent leader of Douma’s band of henchmen bit out, his tone acerbic, and his frustration evident. The bedroom door slammed shut once more, and the heavy footsteps quickly made their way back through the cabin and out the front door. 

All remained silent in the huntsman’s cabin for several, long moments, and you did not dare to rise from the bed that had become your sanctuary. 

After what felt like an eternity, the door to Sanemi’s sleeping chamber pushed open, the light from the main room of the cabin flooding in. 

“They are gone,” the huntsman said simply. “It is safe for you to come back out.” 

You turned over and rose from his bed, quickly tugging the sleeves of your thin shift back up over your bare shoulders, if not to preserve the last shred of your modesty that the huntsman before you hadn’t cut away. 

You were startled by his appearance in the doorway. Though his eyes remained fixed on the wood floor of the cabin, you saw that the man before you was nearly as stripped as you were. 

Somehow, in the few precious seconds between him throwing you onto his bed and Douma’s men barging through the cabin door, Sanemi had discarded his lined shirt, leaving everything from the waist-up bare. The only garment which remained on him were his deerskin breeches, and Sanemi had somehow undone its front laces, loosening their fit around his hips. Between the undone cords, you spied a thin trail of silver hair that begun just below his navel and disappeared below the seam of his pants.

It was admirable the dedication Sanemi had shown in perfecting your ruse. To the untrained eye, it truly looked as though Douma’s men had indeed interrupted a husband and his wife as they’d been engaged in acts you’d been told were reserved for the marital bed, the disheveled state of Sanemi’s breeches giving the distinct appearance of having been just barely tugged over naked hips. 

The thought made your mouth run dry, and something hot flared in your belly.

Sanemi ignored your apparent ogling of him, as he produced his discarded tunic from the floor where he'd tossed it and shrugged it back over his head.

Wordlessly, he gathered the shredded remains of your corset and handed it to you, keeping his gaze averted to allow you to redress. You managed to pull on your outer skirts back over your shirt, but you fingered the torn strap of your corset.

“You ruined it,” you said, nose wrinkling as you punched it between your thumb and index finger. “I cannot lace it when you’ve torn the stays.”

Sanemi frowned, and if you hadn’t known better, you would have thought he looked slightly apologetic for the state of your outer-corset.

“Corset woes aside, we need to go now, if we are to have any chance of getting you to another village before your fiancé’s men catch up to us.” Sanemi grabbed the leather satchel he'd been packing before Douma's men had interrupted and began filling it once more. 

You scowled. “He is not my fiancé,” 

“Your keeper, then.” Sanemi amended. The Huntsman stalked back over to the armoire in his sitting room and wrenched the worn doors open, pulling out several pieces of cloth.

“Here,” he said gruffly, tossing you a balled wad of crimson wool. “As promised.” 

You accepted the cloak with a small, uttered thanks, and fastened it quickly around your shoulders. The Huntsman then turned to dig through a small cabinet, returning before you with a small spool of sturdy, leather cord.

He held it out to you. “For your corset,” he said gruffly, his cheeks slightly pink. Feeling your own blush creep up your neck, you accepted the offering. Picking the torn garment up once more, you slid it over your shoulders and used Sanemi’s cords to lace the front together.

Truthfully, the finished product wasn’t half bad; the cord was long enough to cross all the way up to the top of the corset, with enough leftover to allow you to pull it and secure it in place around your bust. You tied off the cord with a pleased nod, before looking back to Sanemi in gratitude. Before you could properly thank him, the Huntsman thrust a small basket into your newly freed hand.

"Provisions. For the journey." He said by way of explanation, and you nodded, nestling the handle into the crook of your arm.

Without so much as a glance around the cabin, Sanemi wrenched the door open and allowed you to pass through the entryway first, pausing behind you only to tightly latch the door shut.

And the two of you set off into the Netherwood.

———

You were no time-keeper by any means, especially in a place like the Wood where daylight was hard enough to find; but it felt like hours had passed since you last spoke to the Huntsman, and the silence was pressing heavily upon you — especially the deeper you ventured into the dark of the Wood.

Though Sanemi had been walking ahead of you, you took it upon yourself to increase your pace, until you walked astride with him.

“How long have you been guiding others through the Netherwood?” You asked lightly, hoping that some — any — conversation you could have with the stoic woodsman would distract you from the odd growls and noises concealed within the forest’s shadows.

“A while.” Sanemi’s answer was as brisk as his pace, and you struggled to match it. 

“Have you lived here your whole life, or are you from one of the villages nearby?” You pressed, scanning your memory as you tried to recall whether there had ever been a boy with white hair and a scarred face in your village. 

“No.” 

You waited for him to elaborate, but Sanemi offered no further explanation. You sighed and fell back behind him; if this was to be his attitude the entire journey, you were in for a long few days. 

The pair of you had traveled for what felt like several more hours without a word before the silence began to irritate you. You sped up your pace until your stride matched the Huntsman’s, walking with him side by side. 

“Why do you live alone in the Netherwood?” You twirled the basket around your hand as the pair of you walked, the nerves you’d felt upon first starting the journey through the Wood having long since abated, in no short part due to the presence of the Huntsman and his axe by your side. 

Sanemi did not turn towards you, his eyes remaining fixed on the bramble ahead. “Why did you venture into the Wood alone?” 

You groaned. “Is this how our entire journey is to go? Either you give me mono-syllable answers, or every time I ask a question, you avoid answering by responding with your own?” 

“That depends, do you intend to keep asking me questions?”

You barely resisted the urge to whack the sullen Huntsman with your basket. “Unbelievable,” you grumbled. “Your time here in the Wood has turned you into a curmudgeonly hermit.” 

Sanemi snorted. “You assume I wasn’t  one to begin with.” 

“I can’t imagine someone who helps travelers cross the Wood was always so  churlish and miserable.” You shot back. 

The Huntsman remained quiet for a moment, though his air did not carry the same cold standoffishness that you’d come to understand meant he was ignoring you. Rather, Sanemi seemed to be in thought. 

“It has been nearly four years,” he said after a long while. “Since I began helping travelers cross the Wood.” 

Your eyes widened. “Four years?” That was an awfully long time to risk one’s neck for the sake of strangers — some of whom, you realized, may not have been all that good. 

Sanemi nodded and you whistled. “I’m sure you’ve seen many kinds of people attempting to traverse through the Wood.”

“There are only two types of travelers,” Sanemi disagreed. “Those who live to make it to my door, and those who do not. I try not to pry into the privacies of those who do manage to find me.” He cut his eyes at you, accusingly. “And usually, they aren’t so eager to pry into mine.”

You ignored the jab, though it bruised your ego more than you wanted to admit. “You don’t like people, yet you’ve crafted your entire existence around serving them.” You could not stop the amused edge in your words. “It is quite ironic, you have to admit.”

Sanemi refused to dignify you with a response, and so the first leg of your journey continued in relative silence.

The stifling quiet that extended between the Huntsman and you finally subsided once Sanemi announced you’d be stopping for the night and making camp. He’d been quick to notice your unease as you’d cast your eyes nervously around the shadowed trees of the Wood, assuring you that you all were in an area less-frequented by the various terrors that called the forest home.

“I will sit and keep watch,” Sanemi said as you’d curled up against the leaves of the forest floor, your red cloak pulled tight around your frame to block out the autumn night’s chill. “So try and sleep.”

“You are asking me to put a great deal of trust in you, Huntsman,” you said softly, but in truth, you did not feel nearly as afraid of him as you perhaps had earlier in the day.

He snorted, dismissively. “I’ve had you in my bed already, have I not? If I was going to harm you, girl, I would’ve already done so.”

Something tightened in his eyes as he dropped your gaze. “And I would never do such a thing to a woman.”

There was a quiet pain in his vow, such that you did not think his words were entirely meant for your ears. But they comforted you nonetheless, and so, still facing the handsome and mysterious Huntsman, you allowed yourself to relax enough to drift off into a dreamless sleep.

---

The journey was taking longer than Sanemi originally believed.

Three days into your travels with the Huntsman, and you’d barely reached the halfway point in the Wood. Though, that was not due to any fault of Sanemi’s; there’d been a few times when he’d stopped mid-stride, eyes narrowed on some unseen thing deep within the forest that you could not see, but concerned him enough to change course. When you asked, the Huntsman had only grumbled that he’d heard suspicious movement ahead, and that he knew whatever it was, it likely wasn’t human.

You didn’t bother to question his judgment. After all, it was Sanemi who was the expert in traversing through the Wood. You, however, had spent the better part of three days understanding how utterly helpless you were without him.

You hadn’t meant to stumble across it. 

You’d only meant to go relieve yourself behind a tree — a simple evergreen, that had looked innocent and unassuming enough. 

As you’d quickly learned, however, upon squatting near the tree’s base, it was anything but innocent. For no sooner had you moved to pull your skirts out of the way had you felt a spiny hand close around your forearm, its knife-sharp fingers digging into your flesh.

The withered, bony had was connected to a sinewy arm, covered in ridged, black skin that made up the panting, salivating bat-like creature that had managed to camouflage itself against the bark of the tree.

You’d taken one look at the rows of sharp, yellow teeth and screamed loud enough to startle the dead.

Loud enough to bring a certain Huntsman crashing through the brush, axe clutched tightly in hand, his eyes wild and bright.

“Duck,” he’d barked once, and somehow you’d managed to wrench yourself to the side of the devil as Sanemi’s weapon buried deep into the creature’s face, the beast releasing your arm and stumbling back with a pitiful gurgle before it dropped to the floor.

You’d hardly had the chance to collect yourself before the Huntsman was stomping over to you, yanking you up by your bicep and dragging you away from the nefarious little tree.

“A goddamned hidebehind,” he furiously spat. “Of all things to provoke, you choose a fucking hidebehind.”

Sanemi ignored your slight protests at being manhandled back to the path he’d identified as leading out of the Wood, too lost in his own raging assessment of you.

“How the devil a pretty little thing like you managed to make it to my door in one piece is the only thing that makes me consider there may be a higher power, given how foolishly reckless you act in the Woods where there’s no shortage of creatures that would want to devour you —“ 

The Huntsman continued his rant, but your ears only picked up on a single fragment of his ramblings.

“You think me pretty?” It was silly, yet the notion that the devilishly handsome Huntsman accompanying you found you worth looking at made something in your stomach flutter. 

Sanemi shot you a withering glare. “You may think me a miserable recluse, girl, but even I have eyes.”

You didn’t know why, but the comment made you smile for the rest of the night, a curious warmth blooming in your chest.

----

You settled for the night among a small circle of trees. Sanemi had helped you shake down a bed of pine needles from a nearby tree, allowing the fragrant nettles to form a soft bed for you against the forest floor.

You watched him repeat the process to make his own bed, your eyes curious. "You seem to have a great deal of experience with this," you mused.

Sanemi produced a single apple from his pouch and sliced it in half with a small hunting knife he kept strapped to his hip. He tossed you one half before he stretched out on his pine needle bed, propping up one cheek on his fist as he faced you. "I s'ppose sleeping outdoors is something of a family trait."

That piqued your curiosity. Though Sanemi had not divulged any details of his personal life with you, you'd assumed he'd been a true loner in his cabin in the Wood.

“You speak as though you still have family,” You bit into your half of the fruit, chewing slowly as you thought. “Do you?” 

Sanemi nodded. “No parents to speak of, but a younger brother — a few years younger than you. Still a boy, though in a man’s body.” He scowled. “The little brat has outgrown me.” 

You smiled at the obvious fondness belying the irritation on his face. “A boy bigger than you? I find that hard to believe.”

Your gentle praise had the intended effect of making the Huntsman look slightly smug, before the same sour look passed his face. “He has grown slightly taller than I, and by all accounts is still growing. I have a feeling he will try and hold it over my head the next time I see him.”

You wondered if Sanemi’s younger brother would literally do so, and the thought made you smile. 

“You said the next time you see him, but you’ve said you have no parents — where does he live, if not with you?” 

Sanemi grimaced, chucking the last of his apple core behind his shoulders. He remained quiet for a long moment before answering. 

“He lives with a friend; he can take better care of him than I can right now.” 

Something about the Huntsman’s tone made it clear the topic was a sensitive subject for the young Huntsman, and so you elected not to press the matter further.

“And what of you?” Sanemi said gruffly, surprising you with his willingness to engage in conversation as the two of you continued your trek. “I know you said you had a Grandmother, as she was the one to give you that.”

He nodded pointedly at your cloak, and you saw that curious heat enter his eyes once more at they combed over the scarlet wool draped around your frame. But the mention of your grandmother caused a lump to form in your throat that took you several moments to work around, the damning prickle of tears stinging your eyes. 

“I do,” you said hoarsely after a moment. “Though I do not know if she survived after helping me escape Douma. Even if she did, I know I shall never see her again.”

Though your vision had become blurred by your tears, you could have sworn you saw Sanemi’s hand twitched towards you at the sound of the wobble in your voice. 

“Douma,” he repeated. “Is that the person you’re fleeing from?” 

You nodded, exhaling a shaky sigh. “He claims to be my fiancé but I accepted no such proposal.” 

Sanemi leaned against the wood of a tree opposite from you, arms folding across his chest. “Then he does not know what it means to be a fiancé,”

You gave a watery chuckle. “No, I suppose he does not.” You chewed on your lip for a moment. “But Douma does not ask; he demands and he expects. His offer was not really a request for my hand — it was a warning that he would collect me to do with as he pleased.”

Sanemi tensed. “What do you mean by that?” 

You combed your fingers through the tangled tresses of your hair, and anxious habit you’d had for as long as you could remember. “In the last three years, Douma has taken four young women from the village to be his wife; every one of them has since disappeared.” 

The Huntsman sucked in a shocked breath. “What has happened to them? Has anyone searched?” 

You smiled ruefully. “I do not know; no one does. Search parties were dispensed each time, but those who looked came back empty-handed.” Your eyes remained fixed on the small, flickering flame of the campfire. “He claimed the first three ran away into the Wood; said they’d left him to be with a lover.” 

You wrapped your arms tighter around yourself, seeking comfort in your grandmother’s cloak. “Quite the coincidence, is it not?” 

“Quite nefarious,” Sanemi remarked darkly, shaking his head. “And what of the fourth wife?” 

Your head dropped. “My dear friend, Kotoha,” you felt the tears begin to gather in your eyes once more. “She was pregnant when Douma demanded her hand, but he did not appear to care. She gave birth a few months later — a beautiful baby boy named Inosuke.” 

“She seemed happy for a while after that, and I thought perhaps Douma had been telling the truth; by all accounts, he was kind towards her,” you continued, fighting the shiver trying to lick its way up your spine. “But then Kotoha disappeared, and Inosuke, too.” 

Sanemi stiffened at that. “When was this?” He asked suddenly, his tone urgent.

You looked up at him, startled. “Just a week before I found you.” 

Sanemi swore lowly, his hand dragging over his face. At your questioning look, he continued.

“A few days before we met, I was leaving to check on a series of caves that I frequent in the east,” he began. “I was half a kilometer from your village when I —,” he hesitated. “Spotted a few men, dragging something through the trees. They seemed to come from your village.” 

Your heart dropped to your stomach. “Did you see —?” Your question choked off as your voice cracked. 

Sanemi shook his head. “All that was left was a pile of bones. Just one person’s. But there were shreds of cloths mixed in,” Sanemi’s mouth twisted down in a snarl. “Clothes belonging to a young child. But no sign of their bones among the adult’s.” 

A cold, clammy sweat broke out across your forehead. “But Kotoha was hardly missing a week — surely that’s not enough time for her to be reduced to bones?” 

Sanemi opened his mouth but closed it before he spoke, his eyebrows knitting together as he struggled for words. 

“I have seen things in the Wood that are  capable of stripping flesh in a matter of minutes,” he said carefully, eyes trained on your face. “It would not be unheard of.” 

You felt the blood drain from your face as nausea wracked through you. “Oh gods,” you moaned, arms shakily coming to rest upon your knees to brace your head as it fell into your hands. “Oh gods — Kotoha.” 

You remained like that for several moments, viciously fighting against the roiling of your stomach, desperate to keep down what meager rations you’d managed to eat. 

Sanemi called your name, soft and gentle. You waited a moment, focusing on taking several, steadying breaths before you lifted your head to meet his gaze.

“So that is to be my fate once he catches me,” you whispered in horror. “To be reduced to nothing more than a pile of bones and tossed into the Wood like garbage.” You shuddered as another wave of nauseous dread sluiced through you. “And I cannot even fathom what will be done to me before then.” 

“It will not,” Sanemi’s answering snarl was soft but vicious, and it broke through the cold terror threatening to knock you off your axis. “I will get you out of this forest and you will be free. Mark my words.” 

“Do not make promises you cannot keep, Sanemi.” You warned, your eyes still wide, haunted. “If he catches me, he will do worse to you; death will be a kindness he will withhold.”

Despite the solemnity of your words, Sanemi only scoffed. “I assure you, he would do no such thing.” He looked to you, eyes serious. “And I would kill him before he had the chance to so much as look your direction.”

You wanted to dismiss his words as nothing more than the bragging of an overconfident, idiotic man. But something in both Sanemi’s tone and the way he was leaning against the tree — one foot resting causally against the bark, the other stretched out before him, supporting his weight, with his arms folded across his chest — made you think perhaps Sanemi’s confidence was more than mere bravado. 

Even though you knew you shouldn't, you took comfort in it; in him.

"You're a good man, Sanemi," you said quietly. "Better than most."

Sanemi scoffed, shaking his head, but the shadow over his face betrayed his own internal turmoil. "I am not half the man you'd like me to be."

You quirked an eyebrow at him, head tilting in question. “Do you care what I think of you?” When the Huntsman did not answer, you pressed. “You worry that I think ill of you — why?”

Sanemi, at best, was confusing. Maddening. He spoke to you gruffly, as though his years in the Wood had made him forget all semblance of decorum and basic human decency.

Yet, there was something else, too; though you hadn’t much experience being desired by men, Sanemi had shown you a particular level of care. He always handed you your dried rations first, ensuring you’d eat your fill before he; he always offered a hand to help you over a particularly tricky stretch of terrain, carrying your basket for you without so much as you having to ask. 

Then, there’d been the way he’d cradled you close earlier in the day, when you stumbled upon the poor man whose body had been mangled and half-eaten by one of the Wood’s inhabitants. He hadn’t needed to tuck your head against his chest like he did, holding you tight as he spun the two of you out of range, to avoid joining the lost soul whose entrails were strewn across the forest floor; he hadn’t needed to comfort you and wipe your frightened tears.

But he had. 

The realization hit you like a boulder. “You feel protective of me,” you murmured in awe, your eyes locked onto him even as he shifted under the weight of your stare. 

Sanemi tried to scowl, but it came off as more a wince. “I feel protective towards any woman who is being treated as something to abuse. What your fake-fiancé has done is abhorrent.”

His voice quieted. “You do not deserve that fate. You deserve to find something good — something that will make you happy.”

You hummed, pretending you were in thought as you began to slowly close the distance between you. “I would like to be happy,” you conceded. 

“You should be,” Sanemi answered. 

“I have felt happy here in the Wood,” you continued. “Have you, Huntsman? Felt happy here in the Netherwood, I mean?”

Sanemi swallowed hard. “Perhaps.” 

You took another step. “Recently?”

“Recent enough,” Sanemi watched you warily, his voice like gravel. 

You clicked your tongue. “Have you enjoyed our time together? However brief?” 

At this, Sanemi rolled his eyes. “You have certainly kept things interesting, when you’re not desperately trying to become a meal for some hungry beast.” 

When you did not answer, Sanemi looked nervously back to you, and his voice softened. “Yes. I have enjoyed it.”

You felt like you were stripping him back, peeling back layers of sarcasm and steel that he’d carefully erected to keep himself from getting close — from caring.

But you were doing it; and he was letting you.

“And you think I’m pretty,” you added, taking another step towards him.

“Aye,” Sanemi croaked, his eyes fixed on your face, the the flicker of the small fire only adding to the heat blazing in his lilac gaze. 

You drew up before him, the toes of your boots just touching his. “I find you quite pretty as well, Huntsman.” 

Sanemi’s eyes closed, his shoulders tense. “I am to deliver you safely to the nearest village.” Lilac irises opened to meet yours and he looked at you gently; apologetically. “We cannot do this.” 

You did not balk. “And if I wanted to stay with you?” You whispered, fingers coming to toy with the folds of his tunic. “What would you say then?” 

Sanemi breathed out a soft sigh of your name, the syllables dripping like honey from his lips. “It is not possible, I’m afraid.” 

You looked up at him through lowered eyelashes and noted how his gaze flicked down to your lips before back to your eyes. “Why?” 

Sanemi’s hand gently brushed a few loose strands of hair back from your face, tucking them behind your ear, and you leaned into the warmth of his touch. “Because you are a beautiful, little lamb, and I am a wolf in a forest of beasts. You do not wish to spend your days here, in the darkness.” 

“You cannot speak to what I want,” you challenged, your fingers rising to clench around his wrist, to hold his hand in place against the side of your head. “My life is my own now; I have no set path.”

“But I would like to travel down yours,” you added quietly, after a moment. 

“It is not one open to transients,” Sanemi warned, though his other hand rose to rest against the dip in your waist, holding you against him.

You only shook your head. “I do not intend to be temporary, Sanemi. I wish to stay with you. I wish to help others as you have helped me.” 

“I’ve yet to help you,” Sanemi said wryly. “Our bargain was that I deliver you to one of the villages on the other side of the Wood. We are still making that journey.”

You stretched up on your toes and boldly pressed your lips against the hollow of his throat, savoring the skipping pace of his heart beneath your mouth. 

“A new bargain, then,” you offered. Sanemi said your name once, as though in warning, but when he did not levy any threat, you only continued, moving your lips up under his jaw.

“You get me to the other side of the Wood. If I still want to stay with you, then you will let me. If I don’t, we will part ways at the first village we come to.”

You’d kissed your way to his lips, but held back, allowing that final line to remain in place between you even as your resolve wavered against the force of your desire for him — for this Huntsman of the Netherwood. 

Sanemi’s eyes fell to your lips, hovering so very closely to his own. “You assume I want you to stay,” he murmured, though he made no move to push you away. “You assume I want to look after a lamb forever.” 

You smiled softly. “Even a lamb can help take care of a wolf.”

Sanemi’s eyes were full of a wariness edged by the faintest trace of hope. “Aye, I suppose that’s true.” The hand against the side of your head fell to caress your cheek. “And as infuriating as I find you to be,” he leaned in close, his lips just barely touching yours. “I do think you quite beautiful, little Lamb.”

You surged forward with a breathy gasp, lips feverishly meeting his as you begged the Huntsman to consume you whole. 

Sanemi responded with equal fervor, his arm locking tightly around your waist as the hand against your face tilted your head slightly to the right, allowing him to deepen the kiss. 

You’d shared a few stolen kisses here and there in your youth with some of the village boys, but never before had you been kissed like this. Never before had you known the passion and all-consuming vigor that the Huntsman poured into you, as he walked the two of you back over roots and loose stones to press you against the roughened bark of a nearby tree. 

No, those kisses had been child’s play. For the way Sanemi’s mouth moved against yours was enough to make you feel as though you’d been dipped in lantern oil and set aflame, and yet you could not find it within yourself to care that you were burning. Not when he molded you against the rigid planes of his body as though to absorb you into his being; not when his thigh slotted between yours, its muscle brushing against a sensitive spot between your legs that had you gasping and Sanemi groaning into your mouth. 

As quickly as it began, it ended, Sanemi breaking away from your lips with a strangled pant as he leapt back, as though scalded by the inferno he’d lit within you. 

There was something untamed in his gaze as he regarded you, his breath choppy as he collected himself. Still stunned by the ferocity with which he’d kissed you, your fingers jumped to your lips, noting the slight swelling now there. 

“I was wrong about you,” Sanemi said breathlessly, his cheeks tinged an alluring shade of pink. “You may not be a lamb after all.” 

Your fingers dropped from your lips as you raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying I am a wolf?” 

Sanemi shook his head, that wildness still blazing in his eyes. “No, not a wolf.” His voice dropped to a purr as he regarded you with a look that made your thighs clench. “You are temptation given physical form.” 

——-

 Neither of you spoke of what transpired against the tree for several hours, though you’d managed to brush aside any lingering awkwardness with light conversation about Sanemi’s time in the Netherwood.

And, despite any lingering doubt as to the sincerity of your words he may have had, Sanemi seemed to naturally gravitate towards you, his hands never straying far from your form as you walked. 

Truthfully, it made you giddy. You’d never experienced the thrill of another man’s touch while in the village, though Kotoha certainly hadn’t spared you any details. Vivid descriptions furtively whispered behind hands, however, were nothing compared to reality. Even Kotoha’s most blush-inducing tales paled in comparison to the electric flash you felt each time Sanemi’s warm hand gripped yours to steer you back from a particularly darkened corner of the woods, or the flutter in your stomach when he lifted you easily up and over unsteady ground, his hands always lingering for a spare second on your waist or the small of your back as you settled. 

It became harder to imagine leaving him once you reached the end of the Wood. With each passing hour, your conviction that you would remain alongside the mysterious Huntsman grew all the stronger. 

The pair of you were resting near a blackberry bush, you perched on a small boulder while Sanemi sharpened his axe, his hand running the small whetting stone against the curve of the blade with precision.

“Have you ever been in love?” The question broke the comfortable silence before you could think better of it.

Sanemi’s sharpening stone paused briefly before continuing along the curve of his axe. “Once,” he said, gruffly.  “Though we were so young, I don’t know if you could properly call it that.” 

You sat up, your curiosity piqued. “Where are they now?” 

The Huntsman hesitated. “She is long-gone. Died here, in the Wood.” 

Your heart clenched. “I’m sorry. I cannot imagine that grief.”

Sanemi did not respond, instead refocusing his attention back to his blade. “It was around four years ago, now.” 

Four years ago. Around the time Sanemi  had begun escorting lost souls through the Netherwood.

“Have you been in the Wood since?” You asked gently, trying to focus on a loose thread handing from your cloak so that he would not feel pressured by your stare. 

Sanemi nodded. “I think,” he cleared his throat. “I think I started helping others as a way to honor her. She was kind that way.”

You smiled at that. “She sounds wonderful; and you do right by her memory.” 

The Huntsman said nothing more, his silence more contemplative as he finished sharpening his weapon. 

By the time the pair of you set back off on your path through the Wood, the morning fog had somewhat subsided, though it’s mist lingered in the denser sections of the forest. 

“Is it normal to not have encountered many of the Wood’s creatures?” You bit down on the shudder you felt at the memory of the partially-eaten corpse you’d encountered a few days prior. “I feel as though we only see the aftermath of the beasts, rather than the monsters themselves.” 

Sanemi smirked quietly to himself, though you did not know what he found amusing about your question. “I suppose that cloak is keeping them at bay, Lamb.” 

You rolled your eyes, knocking your shoulder playfully against his. “Perhaps they’re frightened of the big bad Huntsman,” 

“Perhaps. I’m quite scary.” 

Your hand found his. “Not at all. In fact, I find you quite —“

Your thought was cut off, however, as Sanemi tore his hand from yours to hold an arm out before you, stilling you. You’d traveled with the Huntsman long enough to know he was telling you to be quiet while he listened, his ears far more discerning amidst the silent noise of the forest than yours.

Only it was not silent; in the distance, you could hear raised voices, yelling, and the distinct howls of several hounds.

Your eyes found Sanemi’s, and you were certain yours were as wide as his, as your heart began to thunder against your chest. 

There was a strange melodic chant rising above the cluster of voices some distance through the trees, and you both turned back and strained to listen.

As the jeering voices and barking of dogs drew nearer, it became clearer what was being said — what thing those voices were loudly whooping and mocking amidst the excited titter undercutting their bloodlust.

Your name.

Douma’s men had picked up your trail, and they’d caught up.

“Run.” Sanemi ordered, tearing the leather satchel from his shoulders and looping the strap around yours. “Do you remember which direction north is?” 

Eyes wide and limbs trembling, you nodded, your breath hitched in your throat as every instinct within you was overtaken by sheer terror. Sanemi placed his hands on your shoulders, squeezing firmly to get your attention back on him. 

“Run north,” he repeated. “Follow the river and do not stop. It is against the wind, so it should be harder to track your scent,” Sanemi’s eyes darted up over your shoulder, narrowing as the unseen force drew nearer. “I will catch up to you. Do not drop that satchel.” 

Your mouth opened and closed several times as you gaped at him, fear, so deep and primal, engrained in your every nerve as you realized he intended to send you deeper into the Netherwood. Alone. 

“I cannot — Sanemi,” you begged, your hand gripping his forearm in a desperate attempt to stay close to him, your protector. 

Gently, Sanemi removed your hand from him. “Y/N, I promise I will find you soon. I need to get them,” he jerkily nodded backwards to the voices and dog howls drawing closer and closer to you in the distance. “Off our trail. 

You shook your head, only trembling harder. To separate surely would mean one, if not both of you would die, and you could not bear to leave him to deal with the onslaught of Douma’s men alone. 

“I promise,” you’d not realized Sanemi’s hands had cupped your face until you felt the press of his forehead against yours. “I will find you. Now go.” He urged, and with a slight shove, Sanemi sent you stumbling in the direction you assumed was North. 

With a great deal of reluctance, your legs began to move as you hurried over fallen branches and twisted roots, every pump of your legs growing stronger as your fear intensified. 

You hadn’t known how many men were in pursuit of you, and you’d left Sanemi alone with only an axe to protect himself. 

You’d as good as doomed him. 

But you kept running in the direction you thought was north, eyes frantically trying to track the watery sunlight filtering through the trees. 

The moment you’d chances scanning for the sun meant you did not see the thick, twisting root that had broken across the forest floor, not until your foot became entangled and you were sent sprawling across the dirt. 

Moaning slightly, you scrambled up, refusing to acknowledge the faint bruising pain you felt in your ankle as you moved to keep running. 

A snap of a tree branch froze you in your tracks. As stupid as you were, you turned towards the source of the sound, dread coiling in your gut. A shadow emerged from behind one of the ancient trees of the Wood, clutching something shiny.

A sword; long, wicked and cruelly sharp, and yet somehow, the blade frightened you far less than its wielder, for his face was familiar.

You’d grown up alongside it, after all.

“Well, well,” the boy — man — cooed at you. “We’ve been looking for you for quite sometime, you know?”

You took a step back, eager to put whatever distance you could between yourself and the smirking village boy who looked at you like you were his next meal. 

“K-Kaigaku,” you stuttered in disbelief. “What are you doing? We were — we were friends.”

The boy’s laugh made your blood curdle. “Don’t mock me,” he shifted his sword to rest against his other shoulder as his free hand twirled a small dagger. “I only align myself with the strong, and you are nothing but a weak and pathetic little mouse.” 

“But Lord Douma,” Kaigaku mused, his grin offset by the malice alighting his eyes. “Lord Douma is strong; powerful. I am loyal to him, not you.” 

“Lord Douma?” You repeated, your voice as sharp as the blade glinting in the faint daylight as the boy before you tilted it back and forth. “Is that what he’s told you to call him? What, pray tell, is he lord of — being an egomaniacal, fatuous, greedy murderer?” 

Kaigaku’s smirk unfurled into an ugly sneer as he shifted to point his sword at you. “Watch your mouth, girl.” 

“And what of Kotoha?” You demanded, your anger an untamable fire that burned in your veins. “You were sweet on her once — did she deserve her fate?”

There was no sign of that fondness in the cruelty which lined Kaigaku’s face as he spat, “She spread her legs for some man like a whore and bore his bastard. Lord Douma only made sure she met an end befitting of her filth.” 

“You vile, wretched creature,” you swore. “Damn you! Damn him!” 

That hair-raising smirk reappeared as Kaigaku stepped towards you. “I cannot wait to see what Lord Douma has planned for you. You should’ve seen what he did to your beloved Granny, the hag.”

Your blood turned cold and a stone like lead settled in the pit of your stomach. You’d assumed, of course, that your grandmother had paid with her life in helping you escape, but you could not bear to hear the ways she’d suffered in exchange for your life. 

Somewhere, in the depths of the Netherwood, a wolf howled. 

“Shall I tell you all about it, Y/N?” Kaigaku taunted. “Shall I tell you how your dear Granny screamed as Lord Douma flayed her alive, piece by piece? How she sobbed for your grandfather? For you?” 

Tears burned, as hot as acid in your eyes as you shook. “Stop,”

“It was quite pathetic, really,” Kaigaku sighed. “She went rather quickly. I suppose that’s what happens when you play with old crones — their pathetic little hearts can’t withstand the fun.” 

You were at a loss; part of you wanted to lunge for the boy, to sink your nails into his eyes and rip, to tear him limb from limb as you screamed with rage until even the beasts of the Netherwood could not tell whether you were human or kin. 

But on the other hand, you were just a woman, who’d spent the last five days in the Netherwood and didn’t have so much as a dagger with which to defend yourself. 

And Sanemi told you to run.

You remembered as a boy, Kaigaku had been slow; always the last person to finish a race or outrun the seeker in hide and seek. 

You, on the other hand, had always been faster; you could outrun him.

You had to. You would.

There was a roaring in your head as your mind disconnected from your body and you turned to flee. 

“Don’t you run from me, bitch!” Kaigaku thundered after you, but you did not slow; you hurtled over root and rubble, adrenaline pumping hot and fast to your legs as you ran. 

You’d thought, for one blissful moment, that perhaps you had a chance of evading him, when a silent whirring cut through the silent forest air. 

Pain, blinding pain, exploded somewhere from the side of your thigh, bringing you to your knees as you cried out. Rolling over, your stomach dropped at the unmistakable sensation of blood dripping down your leg, hot and fast. 

Behind you, you heard the thud of Kaigaku’s knife cluttering to the forest floor. 

“Hn, I missed,” the boy scoffed, eyes roaming over you as you bled. “No matter, you can’t run on a wounded leg, can you little girl?” 

Ignoring the dizzying lash of pain that flared in your leg, you scrambled backwards in a crawl, desperate to put some — any — distance between you and your captor. 

“Lord Douma only said to bring you back alive,” Kaigaku hummed, drawing his sword once more. “He did not say to bring you back unscathed.” 

Kaigaku put the tip of his blade right at your chin, tilting your head up to meet his eyes. You glared defiantly up at him, though your show of courage was a mere facade as you beheld the salacious glint reflected in his beady eyes. 

“I think I shall take my time with you,” Kaigaku decided, using his blade to tilt your head back and forth. “After all there is no one here who shall care if you scream; in fact, I prefer you do.” 

Your eyes widened, what remaining fight you still had wavering. 

Alone. You were completely and utterly alone. 

Sanemi had not come; either he was still fighting the other men sent by your cursed fiancé, or he’d been slain, and now the others were making their way to you, to take you back to Douma and let him do as he pleased. 

You were going to die; but you would not die by his hands. Your eyes lowered to the blade still pressed under your chin, its tip grazing against the delicate skin of your throat, teasingly.

Kaigaku’s blade was sharp, even if it’s wielder not; it would not take much effort to slit your own throat on its edge, and it would take even less to bleed out upon the Netherwood’s earthen floor. 

Before you could move, however, Kaigaku’s sword lowered, its tip teasingly tracing along the front seams of your dress. 

“Perhaps we could make this interesting,” Kaigaku smirked, tracing up the valley between your breasts. “He said only to ensure you were untainted for him; he did not say we couldn’t have a taste.” 

Your stomach churned with a toxic mixture of both rage and dread as the sword cut through the first stitch of your bodice. You tried to gather your feet beneath you, enough so that you could launch yourself forward and impale yourself on his blade, when a low growl sounded from behind your assailant.

Kaigaku, too enthralled by his slow torture of you, did not see the mass of white fur and bloodstained teeth leap from the shadows of the Wood; not until it was too late. 

You looked on in horror as a large beast lunged for the boy from your village, tackling him to the side, his sword arm severed at his shoulder from a single swipe of the monster’s mighty claw. Kaigaku only had time to scream once before the nightmare’s massive maw clamped around his neck and tore, spraying his blood and bits of gore across the forest floor. 

Your breath caught and died in your throat, helpless from where you were still splayed pathetically across the dirt as you watched the animal paint the Netherwood with remnants of Kaigaku. 

The monster turned on its haunches towards you, its maw dripping with blood and bits of sinew and flesh, its lip curled back in a snarl. You whimpered as the creature’s silver-lilac eyes settled on you, every inch trembling in abject terror. 

Though overcome by your fear, your brain was able to put together the sight before you that was sure to be your last. The beast slowly advancing towards you was a wolf, though it was much larger than any wolf you’d ever seen, and its brawn rivaled that of an ox’s. 

The wolf boasted a thick coating of silvery-white fur that seemed to glow, as though it bore the essence of a full moon, though its brilliance was dampened somewhat by the smears of crimson saturating it. Under the dim light of the forest, you could not tell whether the blood was that of the wolf or another. 

One colossal paw stepped hesitantly toward you again, and you felt yourself nearly go faint. Weakly, you tried to scramble back further into the wood, but your left leg had gone slightly numb from its wound, and the blood loss was starting to make you feel dizzy. 

It seemed the Netherwood had answered your silent plea to not be sent back to be killed by Douma; instead, you would serve as the next meal for one of its monstrous residents. 

The wolf drew short of you and watched you closely for a moment. With a great shudder, the wolf began to tremble and shake, and your horror melted into wide-eyed disbelief as you watched the wolf shrink and contort until all that was left was a man, blood-stained, naked, and panting on his hands and knees, fingers dug deeply into the dirt below. The man convulsed as began heaving up bile stained with blood and gore.

The sight of scarred forearms and snowy-white hair broke you out into a cold sweat. 

“S-Sanemi?” You croaked, equal parts relieved and terrified, even if another part of you desperately hoped that you were simply hallucinating the image of the nude man wretching up blood before you.

“Aye,” Sanemi grit out between great, shuddering breaths as he spat one final time at the dirt. “It is me.”

He rose, bloodied and naked, from the forest floor and looked to you, his eyes back to their familiar, lavender hue, though they still retained an otherworldly glow. 

There was a loud ringing in your ears as you stared at him, though you weren’t sure if it was from your panic or your blood loss. Sanemi took a cautious step towards you and it sent you scurrying back, a whimper of fright building in your throat.

He faltered, something like pain crossing his face. “Perhaps you should be afraid,” he said quietly. “And you can be — but I need you to throw me that satchel.”

It took you a moment to recollect yourself long enough to register what he was asking. With shaky hands, you unlatched the leather bag from your shoulders and weakly tossed it towards the Huntsman. 

Sanemi was quiet as he dug through the bag, producing a fresh pair of breeches and a clean tunic. With a deftness that seemed as supernatural as his wolf form, Sanemi dressed, concealing his muscular, scarred form from sight once more. 

He said your name once, quietly. “Are you alright?” 

You trembled, hand clutching weakly at the front clasp of your cape. “He killed my grandmother,” you whispered. “H-he tortured her.”

Sanemi approached you slowly, and when you did not flinch away from him once more, he knelt down beside you. His hand came up to gently stroke your hair, and the touch startled you out of your trance, blinking back fat tears as you looked up at him. 

“We need to go,” he said gently and you closed your eyes, nodding.

You’d known, of course, that your Grandmother had been killed; made peace with it, even. But you had not foreseen that she would be tortured for trying to secure your freedom, and the very thought made something inside your heart wither and die. 

“I know,” you murmured quietly. Sanemi straightened, extending a hand to you to help you up when your fingers closed around his wrist, your eyes urgent.

“Did you kill them?” 

Sanemi grimaced. “Yes, Lamb. I killed them all.” 

You nodded. “Good.” You released his wrist and slid your hand into his. “Good.”

Your shock had dulled the sharp, burning throb in your leg while you’d processed the fact that Sanemi was not a mere huntsman, but a wolf of the Wood. But now that the shock had worn off, the pain slammed back into you with full force as you tried to stand, your leg collapsing uselessly under you as you cried out. 

Sanemi’s nostrils flared and there was a murderous glint in his eyes as he crouched down beside you, eyes locked onto your left side, fingers clenching around the torn folds of your dress and lifting it up. 

“S-Sanemi!” You squeaked, batting his hand away but no to avail. The huntsman — the wolf — managed to pull back the skirts of your dress to reveal the torn flesh of your thigh. 

“Was it him?” Sanemi’s voice was low, his head jerking back over his shoulder in the vague direction where he’d left Kaigaku in pieces. 

You nodded, eyes wide as you watched him inspect the wound. “A knife. He threw it.” 

The huntsman exhaled harshly through his nose. “We’re too vulnerable in the open like this — especially because you’re bleeding.” 

Sanemi sat back on his haunches and pulled his small hunting knife from the leather satchel strewn on the ground. Silently, he leaned forward and wound some of the bottom fabric of your dress around the blade and wrenched, tearing a sizeable scrap cloth from the skirt in one clean stroke. 

Sanemi then reached under your skirt and tugged the shorter end of your linen shift down. “It’s not ideal but it’s cleaner than your outer skirt,” he said by way of explanation at your raised eyebrows and hitched breath. “It’ll do until I can get you somewhere safer. We’re sitting ducks out here. Your scent is bound to attract something.” 

You nodded, gulping. Words were still far too difficult to come by, so you settled for watching your handsome guide as he worked, mouth set in a firm, hard line. 

Sanemi tore another strip of linen from your shift and laid it delicately over his knee. His eyes flicked to yours, once, and you felt slightly ashamed at the way your breath hitched, as though waiting for those lilac irises to bleed silver once more. 

“May I?” His hands were stilled above the exposed flesh of your shin, and you knew he’d need to lift more to bandage your thigh. You nodded after a moment, though your hesitation did not stem from any fear you held for the scarred man delicately sliding his hands up the length of your wounded leg; rather, the heat that crept up your neck came from the way goose flesh erupted over the skin beneath his roughened yet gentle touch. 

Sanemi’s fingers were steady as he gently guided your leg to the side, rotating it in his palm so that the gash was perpendicular to the forest floor. 

At the sight of your bloodied, torn flesh, Sanemi growled. “I should’ve made the little bastard suffer far more.” He said darkly, reaching into his satchel to pull a small skien of water to clean off the wound as much as possible. 

At the first splash of water against your ragged skin, you flinched, hissing through clenched teeth as the cold fluid chased away the spare bit of blood. For a moment, you could see that the cut left behind the blade was deeper than you’d thought, though not so much so that it required more than a good bandaging and perhaps some stitching.  

At least it had not been entirely flayed open. 

The hand Sanemi had braced on your knee to keep your leg steady rubbed soothingly at your skin as he repeated the motion once more, letting the water cleanse the wound once more. “Atta girl,” he praised softly. “It’s done. I just need to wrap it.” 

It amazed you that such a hardened, rough Huntsman — Wolf — had such a gentle touch. His hands were like feathers as he wound the clean strip of linen around your thigh, the only pressure stemming from the knot he’d fastened to keep it secure around your leg. Sanemi then wrapped the other torn fabric from your outer skirt around the makeshift bandage, knotting it in a similar fashion to the one beneath. 

“To keep the one below from becoming dirty,” he offered plainly at your raised eyebrow. “Can you stand?” 

Now that the adrenaline of yojr earlier encounter had worn off, the throb in your leg had become all the more pronounced. Teeth clenched, you gripped the Huntsman’s hands tightly as you rose from your seat on the tree stump, eyebrows furrowed in determination. Sanemi did not remove his hands from you, but kept them out and ready as you tentatively shifted your weight to test your wounded leg.

It was no good; the pain shot through you like an arrow and nearly buckled the knee on your good leg. With a cry of frustration, you  stumbled back against Sanemi, the Huntsman’s arm looping easily around your waist to help lower you back down against the stump upon which he’s sat you. 

“Damn it all,” you cursed, wincing at the angry throb in your leg. “It cannot bear weight.” 

Sanemi pursed his lips as he looked over you, considering. “Allow me,” he said after a moment, squatting down next to you, motioning for you to wrap your arm around his shoulders.

You hesitated; you were not scared of the Huntsman, even after witnessing his terrifying true form, but your apprehension lingered, a primal fear baked deep within your core that told you you should be scared of the predator beside you. That, mixed with your blood loss, made you pause, even though you’re traveled alongside the fearless Huntsman for nearly a week. 

And Sanemi noticed.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, his arm locked steadily around your waist as he lifted you to your feet, your weight pressed against his chest.

You did not trust your words so you only nodded. Despite the remaining wariness you felt, you longed for his comfort more. You lifted your hand to cup the side of his jaw so you could tilt his face down, bringing his forehead against yours. 

Sanemi whispered your name and your eyes lifted up to meet the smoldering heat of his gaze. 

A knuckle brushed against the curve of your cheek. “Are you frightened of me now, little Lamb?” 

Your fingers gripped the collar of his tunic, a desperation wracking through you at the thought he might pull away and remove the steadying warmth of his arms from around your frame.  

“No. It is not you that frightens me; it is him.”

The arm around your waist tightened. “He will not get to you; I swear it. I will not allow him to lay a finger on you.” 

Your breath shuddered and your eyes squeezed tight. You felt the discomforting press of panic building in your lungs, threatening to choke the air from your throat until a warm finger curled under your chin, followed only by a rugged whisper of your name. 

You opened your eyes and there he was; the only person left alive who you could count on; who had proven, time and again, that your welfare mattered to him. Who treated you like you meant something.

You craved that feeling — craved him. 

“Kiss me, Sanemi.” You murmured, your lips separated by a breath. “Please.” 

Sanemi did not hesitate as he gently brought his lips against yours, the hand under your chin moving to cup the back of your head, holding you steady against him like he was the only real, solid thing in the world. 

Your hands, no longer shaking, unclenched from where they’d been locked around the collar of his tunic and slid behind his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. 

Sanemi sighed against your lips, allowing himself to get lost in the way they moved against his, just as you did. Against the solid rock of his body and under the spell of his soft mouth, it was easy to allow yourself to forget the danger that threatened to creep in from the shadows.  

Lost in your kiss, you made the mistake of trying to shift your weight from your good leg to the bad, causing both knees to buckle. At your small whimper of pain, Sanemi broke away.

“You’re too injured to walk,” He murmured against your lips. “So I shall carry you.” 

He broke away with a final peck, stepping back and reaching behind him to haul his tunic over his head. “Unless you would like to see all of me, little Lamb,” Sanemi’s smirk was devilish. “Then I suggest you close your eyes for a moment.”

The heat his words sparked in your veins dulled the throb of your wounded leg. “And if I desire to see you?” 

Sanemi only shrugged. “Then I suppose I shall have to put on a show.” 

The huntsman held your eyes as his hands went to the hastily tied laces of his breeches, tugging the strings open with ease. 

You fidgeted against the broken stump he’d perched you on, just as Sanemi shrugged down the soft suede of his breeches, revealing that damnable v-line that made your head spin. A few more inches lower, and there was his manhood, hanging thick and heavy between his muscular and scar-speckled thighs. 

He was a sight to behold. 

“Is this your first time seeing a man, Lamb?” Sanemi’s voice broke you out of the reverent trance you’d been in whilst admiring every rocky plane of his body. 

Your mouth had turned dryer than a summer drought, and so you only nodded your head, unable to tear your eyes from the immaculate form that made up the huntsman of the Netherwood. 

To your dismay, Sanemi stepped back from where you sat, again and again until he was several lengths back. You opened your mouth in protest, but he only shook his head. 

“Don’t want you to be too close, my sweet.” He called from a distance.

You frowned. “Too close for what —“

Your question was cut off by a small scream as Sanemi leapt forward, that silver fur exploding forth from him as a large wolf landed only feet from where he’d once stood. 

Now it was clear why he’d put such distance between you; had Sanemi been any closer when he shifted, one of those mighty claws embedded in his law — nearly as long as your hand — would have surely ripped you clean in half. 

Your heart hammered in your chest as Sanemi’s wolf form drew closer. Now, without the weight of terror and the pressing conviction that you were about to die, you allowed yourself to fully appreciate the wolf before you. 

His scars were still visible, though less so in contrast to his human form, his thick fur providing a fair degree of cover.  In this form, you could see that were you to stand, your head would barely reach his shoulder. 

Sanemi grunted as he crouched out, the puff of air from his considerable snout warming over your legs. He looked up at you expectantly, an amused twinkle in his wolffish eyes. 

You gaped at him. “You want me to ride you?” 

Another amused chuff. 

“And how, great and mighty wolf, do you suggest I climb onto your back with a half-severed leg?” You dramatized. “Shall I flop?” 

You couldn’t be sure, but it seemed that the Wolf rolled his eyes. Sanemi pressed his large body against your good side, nudging you with his great shoulder to signal for you to grab his fur.

You took a handful of the silvery coat, surprised at its softness. “Do not bite me just because you think I pull too hard,” you warned, half serious, and Sanemi huffed in annoyance. 

Using the wolf as leverage, you heaved yourself up, Sanemi pressing steadily into your side as you found your footing against him. Slowly, and with less grace than you were willing to admit, you managed to climb atop Sanemi’s back, awkwardly swinging your injured leg over the opposite side.

Once settled, Sanemi rose beneath you, rising to his full height. Sat atop him, you were willing to bet he was taller than most horses back in the village. 

The great wolf sniffed at the air once before lowering himself into a crouch, and springing forth into the Wood.

————

Riding atop Sanemi had been the most exhilarating experience of your life. 

Though, you also could not recall the last time such a ride had left you more frightened, given that you’d spent a great deal of it crouched low against his neck, fearing that if you rose your head even a fraction of an inch, some low-hanging tree would embed itself in your face. 

You supposed you would have kept riding longer, had your stomach not given a great gurgle after an hour or so atop the wolf. With a growl that you thought sounded suspiciously like a laugh, Sanemi paused in a small clearing near a rocky, moss-covered cliff, disappearing behind the lip of the rock once he’d situated you upon a felled log.

A few moments later, human Sanemi emerged, re-dressed, but his face was severe.

“They will keep coming,” Sanemi’s frustration was clear as he shrugged the fresh tunic over his head, the delectable ridges of his abdomen and the alluring dip of his hips concealed from your sight once more. “So long as they can track your scent, they will keep pursuing you.” 

You did not need to ask to whom he referred; the very same fear had gnawed at you even despite the exhilaration of riding Sanemi’s wolf form.

Your appreciation of the huntsman’s physique stalled as fear bubbled again in your gut. “What can I do?” Your whisper was shaky and it made Sanemi pause, his hand twitching towards you. “I cannot change my scent in the middle of the damn Wood—“

“You can,” Sanemi said quickly, and to your surprise, the tips of his ears turned pink. “Or— rather, I can help.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Because you are a wolf? Should I call you that now, instead of ‘Huntsman,’ or ‘Sanemi?’”

“You can call me whatever you desire, so long as you allow me to protect you.” Sanemi retorted evenly.

You tried to keep your voice steady even as you blushed. “And how would you do that, Wolf?” 

There was a dark glint in Sanemi’s eyes at your new nickname for him. “A bite from a wolf can change your scent.”

You balked at him. “A bite?” 

“Aye,” the Huntsman said casually, as though he was merely discussing the weather. “It would leave a small mark, but that mark would alter your scent enough to make you harder to track.”

You thought for a moment, the blush on your cheeks deepening. “Where would you bite me?” 

It was Sanemi’s turn to turn pink. “Likely your neck,” he fidgeted with a stick he used to poke the dying campfire. 

You gulped. “Would you have to transform?” 

Sanemi’s small smile was handsome, even if it looked a little feral. “No, Lamb. I can stay in this form.” 

You watched your protector for a moment, weighing your options. “Come here, Sanemi.”

His eyes snapped to yours, a bottomless heat turning his lilac gaze molten. Slowly, with the grace of a predator silently stalking its prey, Sanemi made his way over to where you sat, drawing short once the tips of his boots grazed yours. 

“Do you swear it? It will keep them from being able to track me?” You asked, voice trembling slightly as you peered up at the Huntsman. 

He nodded, slowly. A hand reached out to caress your cheek, and your breath lodged in your throat as you found yourself leaning into his warmth. 

You managed to exhale around the lump that had formed in your throat. “Then I will allow it.”

Your heart skipped like a rabbit’s against your sternum as Sanemi leaned in close, the warmth of his breath chasing away the chill of the Wood’s air.

“So delicate,” Sanemi murmured, his nose skimming along the slope between your neck and shoulder. “So soft.”

“W-wolf?” Your voice was high, your hands trembling as they jumped to clutch at Sanemi’s forearms, nails digging into his skin in anticipation. “Will it hurt?”

He huffed a laugh against your skin, the gentle tickle of his warm air sending goosebumps along your exposed skin. “No, little Lamb,” his lips danced along your shoulder, back towards the sensitive spot connecting with your neck. “You will feel a prick and then you will feel warm.” 

You nodded, the ends of Sanemi’s cornsilk hair tickling your throat. “I’m ready. Bite me — please.”

Sanemi’s groan was followed by a cold, sharp sting that sunk into the tender flesh between your shoulder and neck that was quickly chased away by a soothing warmth. The huntsman’s mouth latched to your neck as he buried his teeth in you, his tongue stroking soothingly around where he now bit.

It felt like someone had poured warmed honey into your veins. It spread, thick and sweet from your neck throughout your body, making you feel like you’d sunk into a hot bath on a cold day. That warmth coiled in your belly and ignited something fluttery and pleasurable between your legs as you tilted your head to the side, exposing more of your neck to the wolf caging you in against the tree.

Your submission evoked a low growl from his chest, deep and rumbling as Sanemi pressed harder into you, his hands bunching your dress at your sides as he continued to suck at your neck. The feeling of his body molded tightly against yours and the way his mouth worked at that delicate spot made you moan out, the sound finally jolting something within the huntsman as he gave you one final kick, before tearing himself away. 

“Dear gods, woman,” he heaved, breath coarse. “Are you trying to drive me wild?”

You flushed as you panted, staring at him with wide eyes. Whatever you’d been expecting, it hadn’t been that; you’d not foreseen that the act of Sanemi biting you could feel so intimate, could make you long for him to run his hands under your dress, to touch you in your most sacred places until you begged for him.

He was dangerous; it was thrilling.

“Kiss me again,” you breathed, and Sanemi obeyed, his mouth moving fervently against yours as his tongue caressed your lower lip. Sensing the silent request, you opened for him, and Sanemi’s tongue swept into your mouth, licking at yours as his teeth nipped along your lower lip. 

You thought he might devour you; you wanted to let him. 

But Sanemi suddenly pulled away from you as though he’d been burned, eyes wide and breath hard. 

You blinked in surprise. “Sanemi, what —,”

“We need to go,” he said firmly, his cheeks flushed red. At his sides, his hands curled tightly into fists.

—-

The rest of your journey was oddly strained. Despite having grown closer with enigmatic Huntsman over the last several days of your travels, you suddenly felt as though you’d been catapulted back to square one.

Though he still allowed you ride upon his back in wolf form, gone were the amused chuffs and snorts that he used to signal he was listening to your mindless chatter. Instead, the wolf below you remained tense, a cord pulled tight that was liable to snap at the drop of a hat.

As much as you wished it made you angry so that you could snipe at him, Sanemi’s sudden introversion stoked an uncomfortable self-consciousness within you, and you found yourself desperately grappling for an explanation.

Had you tasted badly, when he’d bit you? Did he suddenly no longer find himself drawn to you, now that your scent was different?

Or, even worse, had he realized that perhaps he did not want you to stay with him in the Wood after all, and was now attempting to put distance between you so that you would be more willing to leave him once you reached the edge of the forest?

The thought made your stomach clench painfully.

Sanemi’s distance did not abate even by the time he slowed to a stop for the night. He’d brought the two of you to a clearing in the Wood that bordered alongside a winding river, crested by a waterfall. Sanemi finally lowered himself to the pebbled ground of the riverbank, muscles twitching as though to hasten you along in sliding off him to balance yourself against a mid-sized boulder, before he stalked back towards the trees, his leather satchel in his mouth.

He avoided even your gaze as he stalked into the shallows of the river, spearing two fish with a sharpened stick he’d fashioned. Sanemi hadn’t so much as thrown a word your way as he’d started a small fire, apparently relying on dusk to conceal the small smoke billowing up.

Despite the coolness of the evening air, you noted Sanemi was sweating as he’d flung out the stick bearing your flame-cooked fish dinner towards you.

In accepting the spear, your fingers accidentally brushed against his and Sanemi recoiled — hard.

“What is wrong with you?” You snapped. “Why will you not touch me? Why do you flinch whenever I am near?”

“I do not,” Sanemi answered hotly through clenched teeth, though the muscle that ticked in his jaw betrayed his frustration. “Am I suddenly required to touch you?”

You folded your arms across your chest, eyes narrowed. “You certainly had no objection to it earlier — especially not when you threw me up against a tree.”

“Threw you —“ Sanemi choked off, his returning glare both indignant and enraged. “As I recall it was you who kissed me.”

“And as I recall, it was you who started doing that — that thing with your tongue,” you accused lamely, though any bite in your words was tempered by the blush creeping up your face.

Sanemi scoffed. “You cannot even speak of it without blushing like a little girl, and yet I am the one acting strange?” He leaned back on the piece of driftwood he’d claimed as his seat, arms folded across his chest, head turned pointedly away from you.

As you mulled over a number of insults to call the temperamental Huntsman sitting across front you, the last remnants of the sun faded from the night sky, and overhanging clouds briefly parted to reveal the moon — nearly full, its silvery glow illuminating the riverbank.

The moon’s rays reached where you and the Huntsman had set up camp when suddenly your hand jumped to your shoulder as you cried out.

Sanemi startled forward with a worried growl of your name. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

You grit your teeth, fingers digging harshly into your shoulder as you winced. “Something is — is burning, but I do not know what.”

You were certain the only injury your sustained had been the wound to your thigh by Kaigaku’s knife. But you’d spent enough time in and around flame to know what a burn felt like, and it felt as though something had been branded into you, its throb almost crippling.

You cried out again and Sanemi quickly crossed the dirt and took you into his arms, though you felt him flinch as he did so. “Where?”

You gestured wildly to your shoulder, too distracted by the way his presence made the burn now pulse, sending lashes of heat throughout your body, though there was a maddening edge of pleasure blooming from every part of you that was pressed against him.

Sanemi’s fingers grasped the collar of your dress and wrenched it to the side, swearing softly as he beheld whatever it was he saw.

“What is it?” You managed to grind out, your fingers digging into the muscles of his forearms to keep him anchored to you, as though he were capable of keeping the flames licking at your skin at bay. “Kaigaku did not touch me there — at least, I don’t think —,”

“It was not that boy who did this,” Sanemi said severely, his finger gingerly caressing the spot where your neck met your shoulder. You moaned as his touch extinguished some of the burning fire which had ignited your skin, too lost in the temporary relief to note the way Sanemi’s hands tightened around you. “It was I.”

That stilled you. “What do you mean?” You turned your head, peering up at the Wolf with wide eyes. “From when you changed my scent?”

Sanemi, for once, looked discomforted. “I think —,” he swallowed once, avoiding your gaze as he stepped back. You almost cried out at the loss of his body against yours, as the burn returned once more.

“I think I marked you; but I-“ Sanemi stuttered, his eyebrows drawing together in confusion as he stared at the ground, his weight shifting uneasily from foot to foot. “But it shouldn’t be affecting you — not like this.”

“You marked me?” Your hand fluttered to the fleshy juncture between your shoulder and neck. You gasped as your fingers brushed against a curious raise in your skin that hadn’t been there before, the strange curvature burning a few degrees warmer than the area around it.

The huntsman’s eyes remained resolutely fixed on the ground of the forest. “I told you I would cover your scent.”

You stroked the the mark, fingers tracing the odd curve, like that of a crescent moon. “What does the mark mean?”

Sanemi hesitated.

“Wolf?”

“It is a mating mark.” Sanemi admitted after a long moment, hand jumping to his hair as he ran his fingers anxiously through his silvery-white locks.

A stunned breath blew past your lips, your eyes wide. “M-mating mark?” You repeated, hand freezing where the telling crescent was emblazoned upon your skin.

Sanemi looked equal parts apologetic and scared. “I swear, I did not know it would affect you — wolves have to accept the mating mark to feel it, so I did not think —.” He ran a frazzled hand through his hair, his anguish apparent. “I thought I would be the only one to feel its call. I swear it.”

In the back of your mind, it registered that the mark perhaps was the reason for Sanemi’s sudden change towards you, but the incessant burning you felt would not allow you to question him on it.

“What does this mean?” You cried out again as the mark surged, the pain reaching all the way down between your legs, making you gasp. “Are we — are we m-mated?”

Sanemi’s eyes flashed. “No,” his voice was firm, urgent. “You still have to accept the mark for us to be mated — that’s why I thought it was safe. It was supposed to change your scent enough for us to avoid those men.”

“I swear to you I do not plan on acting on it; I meant only to help protect you. I fully intend on escorting you to the nearest village, as promised, and then I will leave. That mark does not have to mean anything to you.”

You believed him. The slight panic in his eyes as you winced at the mark’s repetitive flare once more could not be faked. Furthermore, you knew Sanemi would have no reason to bind you to him; not when you’d already made it clear that you wanted to stay.

You still did.

Sanemi’s earlier words echoed in your mind. That mark does not have to mean anything to you.

“But it will mean something to you, yes?” You demanded, drawing yourself up tall even as you sat perched upon the driftwood. “The mark?”

Sanemi hesitated again. “Wolves only mark once.”

He did not offer any further explanation, nor did he need to; you understood well enough.

The Huntsman had marked you, knowing full well he’d never be able to claim another as his mate. He’d done that, knowing that if another came along that won his heart, he could not be with them completely — not in the way his nature would desire.

And he’d done it nonetheless; all for the sake of giving her a chance to escape Douma’s clutches and to be free.

He’d put you first.

You hadn’t doubted the sincerity of your offer to him earlier, but now, there was no way he’d get rid of you. You would not allow it.

“And what would you do if I said I accepted it — accepted the mating bond?” You asked, voice as soft as a feather.

Sanemi snorted, pulling away from you to busy himself with stoking the small campfire. “I would say that you are an innocent, little lamb who does not understand what it means to be claimed by a wolf.”

“I understand well enough,” you replied, indignant. “I know what it means for people to give into their carnal desires.”

“You know nothing, you’ve never even seen a man before today.” The huntsman shot back, tossing another piece of kindling into the small fire. “You have never laid with another, much less a wolf.”

“It cannot be all that different,” you pouted. “You appear before me man enough.”

Sanemi closed the gap between your bodies then, coming to sit beside you on the rock, fingers curling under your chin to tilt your head up.

His eyes glinted with a sudden predatory heat. “It is quite different, little lamb.” He murmured. “I may now stand before you a man, but I am very much still a wolf. I would not take you like an ordinary human.”

There it was again — that heat, so foreign and yet so enticing, flickered to life once more in the depths of your belly, and the urge to rub your thighs together suddenly became overwhelming. With bated breath, you watched as Sanemi’s nostrils flared softly, his pupils dilating as the grip under your chin tightened ever so slightly.

“Then how would you take me, wolf?” You whispered, eyes not wavering from his. “How would I accept the mating bond?”

Sanemi’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, opening only after a shaky exhale of his breath. “You would have to take my knot.”

Your gaze dropped to his lips, the warmth from your mark spreading across your skin along with the sudden urge to feel them move against your own. “Your knot?”

“My knot,” Sanemi repeated, “and that is precisely why I cannot mate you, little lamb.”

You tugged your bottom lip between your teeth, a movement Sanemi’s eyes followed, his tongue flicking out to wet his own lips.

You pressed your chest flush against his front, hands seeking out his in the dark. “And what if I wanted it?”

Sabemi groaned, fingers latching onto your waist, though whether he sought to push you away or keep you anchored in place, you could not say. “Christ, woman. One would almost think you enjoyed torturing this poor wolf.”

You leaned into him, head tilting as you sought the knowledge of his soft lips against yours. “Not torturing,” you whispered, a hair’s breath separating your mouth from his. “Willingly offering myself to him.”

Your lips brushed against his and Sanemi moaned, his hands reaching to snare in your hair as he moved his mouth desperately against yours, teeth nipping and sucking on your lower lip, like he was hungry to consume you. But before he could, your pulled your head back, breaking the kiss.

“Do it, wolf,” you whispered. “Take me. Claim me as your mate.”

Sanemi grabbed you by your jaw, cheeks squishing beneath his firm grip. “Do you know what that would mean?” His voice was rough, his eyes burning with his desire. “If I did, we would be bonded. Permanently. For life.”

He said it as if you had not guessed it to be true; as if you weren’t prepared.

You gazed up at him through your eyelashes, eyes round and full of the innocence he claimed he could not taint. “Would you have it be another?”

Sanemi took the bait, a feral growl tearing from his chest as he crushed your body against his.

“No,” he snarled, and his mouth descended upon yours once more, his hot tongue sweeping into your mouth to swallow your breathy gasp as you threaded your fingers through his soft, moon-kissed hair.

You moaned into his mouth, hands greedily roaming the rocky planes of his chest, nails scratching lightly along his skin.

“You will be the death of me,” the Huntsman breathed against your lips. “You truly want to accept the bond?”

You moaned, nodding vigorously as Sanemi trailed his lips across your jaw and down your neck, his hands beginning to roam up your sides, tugging you down with him against the boulder so that you straddled his sides.

“Very well,” he murmured. “But I will not claim you here,” Sanemi said gruffly against the delicate skin of your throat, lips pressed against where your pulse fluttered. “I cannot.”

You whined and ground your hips down against his thighs, savoring the way the steely firmness of them pressed against something between your legs that made you feel electric.

“I must take you to my den,” the huntsman clarified, pulling back slightly in spite of your small whine. “When wolves like me claim a mate, we…do not like to be disturbed.”

Sanemi’s fingered the front laces of the stay secured around your bust, slowly undoing the careful lacing as he spoke, though his eyes did not leave yours. “And because it will be a full moon when I mate you, I will go into heat. It will last a very long time.”

“How long?” You fought to keep your head from falling back as you watched Sanemi work, the warmth of his hands seeping through the cotton and linen layers of your dress, making your breasts pebble with every loosened tie of your corset.

Sanemi hummed as he leaned forward, tracing his lips over the exposed skin just below your collarbone as his fingers worked the last of your stays. “At least a day; perhaps two. Other wolves have claimed it lasts shorter when one has a mate, as opposed to having to weather it alone.”

The top swells of your breasts were exposed as Sanemi finally freed you from your outer corset, allowing it to fall to the ground beside you.

The huntsman skimmed his nose over the top of your shift where the tops of your soft mounds peaked over, letting his tongue peek out to follow the trail. The feeling of the hot wetness of his mouth made you fidget in his lap, a whine building in your throat, desperate to have him touch more.

“A-and will you — ah,” you moaned as Sanemi tugged the bodice of your dress and shift down your shoulders, exposing your peaked breasts to the night air. “Will y-you mate m-me the whole t-time — oh god, Sanemi,”

“I could get used to you saying my name like that,” The huntsman chuckled, bending to take one of your breasts fully in his mouth, sucking and rolling his tongue over your stiffened nipple. The contact made the mark on your shoulder burn with a sensual heat that you felt shoot straight down between your legs, and you ground against his thigh, mewling for more.

Sanemi looked up at you as he swirled his tongue over the fleshy skin of your mound, his pupils blown wide. “Perhaps,” he muttered in response to your question, in between light sucks. “It depends on how well you take my knot, you sweet thing.”

You moaned again as Sanemi moved his mouth across the valley between your breasts, taking the other mound between his lips and teeth, his hand rising to keep the other warm. He suckled at you for a moment until you were a whimpering, trembling mess atop him, before he pulled off with a lewd pop!

“But no matter,” You shivered as Sanemi’s teeth grazed your ear. “I promise I will make you feel so good, little Lamb.”

“Why must we wait,” you asked impatiently. “I am ready to be your mate now — I promise I can take your knot right here.”

Sanemi snarled against your skin, but it was not in warning. Rather, your words seemed to stir something deep within him, as the bulge between his legs hardened even more, and the building friction between it and demanding ache in your core intensified.

Sanemi shifted your hips in his lap so the apex of your thighs was no longer pressed flush against his hardness.

“You, my flower, smell far too tempting for me to risk having you in such a vulnerable way in the middle of the damn Wood, without any cover.”

Sanemi, lips traipsed along your jaw as he hummed. “There are many creatures lurking in the shadows that would see my mating you as an opportunity to take a bite for themselves.”

You tugged on his hair, trying to get him to meet your eyes. “I thought my scent was alluring only to you?”

“You don’t just appeal to me, little Lamb,” Sanemi said pointedly. “You have a rare scent that attracts all sorts of creatures here in the Wood.”

“But it is different now?” You pondered, fidgeting in the Huntsman’s lap until the ridge of his thigh pressed against that spot between your legs that made you want to sing.

You hummed and used your grip in his hair as leverage to tilt his head to the side, your lips caressing down the side of Sanemi’s neck, savoring the faint, salty taste of him on your tongue as his fingers dug into your hips.

“Yes,” he said hoarsely. “Your scent has changed, thanks to your mark.”

You pulled away from your assault on his neck to pout at him, lower lip jutting out in a way that made Sanemi’s eyes darken. “So I do not smell as good anymore? To you, that is?”

With a low growl, Sanemi stood, hands gripping under your thighs as he lifted you before he laid you out against the river stone. “Quite the opposite, Lamb,” he quipped, voice low and heady. “To me, there is no finer perfume. Your scent calls to me; it nearly sends me into a frenzy.”

You found yourself incapable of coherent thought — much less speech — as Sanemi’s hands slid up your legs, bunching the skirts of your dress with every inch of skin he passed over until you felt the night air delicately brushing the heat between your legs.

Your legs spread and supported between his grip and the smooth of the rock, Sanemi leaned forward and kissed you, his tongue sliding past your lips to lick teasingly at the roof of your mouth before he broke away, imprinting his kiss down your exposed torso.

You watched him, enthralled by the way your body seemed to come alive under his touch. Even in the dark of the Wood, you could make out the lilac swirls of Sanemi’s eyes as he watched you, noting every gasp and sigh he pulled from you as his hands and mouth explored the planes of your body.

“What curious eyes you have, Wolf.” Your breath was short, choppy as Sanemi’s lips descended past your breasts, caressing the soft of your belly.

“The better to see your pretty face, my sweet,” Sanemi murmured, pressing a sweet kiss right below your belly button, the fire within your gut leaping like oil in a hot pan.

“W-what — oh,” you moaned as you felt his lips press against your hip, the broad expanse of his hands smoothing down over your thighs, pushing the last of your skirts up, and allowing the searing heat of his hands to meet your untouched skin. “What large hands you have.”

“The better to feel you — to caress every inch of you,” Sanemi’s voice was husky as his fingers trailed up the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, spreading them wider so he could kneel. One hand gripped the back of your knee and gently tugged your injured leg over his shoulder, so your foot rest against the middle of his back.

His hot breath danced teasingly along your inner thigh as Sanemi’s mouth drew closer an closer to where you ached for him, the night air cool as it licked at your tender, heated flesh.

The feel of his mouth drawing nearer to to the most intimate part of your body made you feel as though you’d been set alight. “Such soft lips you have, Wolf.”

Sanemi chuckled, the sound so dark and rich it sent a shiver up your spine. “The better to taste you with, little Lamb.”

Your breath hitched as you felt something warm and hot flatten against your folds and drag up, Sanemi groaning into you as he repeated the movement, again and again.

His tongue, you realized as a strangled cry fell from your lips, your head falling back against the creek stone. He was exploring you with his tongue.

“Sweet,” Sanemi groaned in between wet, sticky laps against your folds. “So fuckin’ sweet.”

Every nerve in your body felt as though it had been set alight, the mark between your shoulder and neck burning deliciously.

Sanemi’s tongue flattened against your core, his nose pressing sharply against the pearl between your legs as he rocked his face from side to side, smearing your juices all over his maw.

“O-oh gods,” you cried out, hips bucking against his ministrations.

Sanemi’s hot tongue circled your entrance once before dipping inside, his teeth grazing your most sensitive spot as he buried the wet appendage inside your core.

His name fell in a breathy scream from your lips as you bowed up off the creek rock, hands shooting to anchor themselves in his hair as Sanemi began moving his tongue in and out of your fluttering core, his nose bumping and pressing against that delicate pearl at the apex of your thighs as he moved.

“My gods,” Sanemi grunted into your folds. “You are heaven on earth.”

You bucked against him once more, though you could not tell whether you sought more of his tongue or whether your body was trying to squirm away, too overcome by the pleasurable sensations Sanemi bestowed upon you as he worked his mouth against you. It did not matter either way, however, for every time you twitched away from him, the Huntsman’s hot, silky mouth only followed you, your cunt this predator’s dinner.

And apparently, he enjoyed playing with his food.

The frequency of your moans increased as the sounds of Sanemi feasting between your legs grew louder and ever more lewd, his own sounds of pleasure muffled by the repeated wet smacks of his mouth against your dripping folds as he sucked you between his lips and teeth and continued fucking you with his tongue.

“S-Sanemi! Oh — oh gods,” you cried as something coiled tightly behind your navel, making your thighs clench around the Wolf’s head as he worked.

Sanemi only responded with another groan, his hand leaving the supple flesh of your inner thigh to stroke against your folds, making you buck all the more against the stone as his roughened fingers brushed delicately against the spot that made you see stars.

His tongue pulled out of you in favor of flicking the bead at the apex of your legs, his fingers moving to your entrance and deftly pushing in, the wetness leaking from your core ensuring that they slid in without much resistance.

You cried out then, utterly overwhelmed by the way Sanemi’s finger began to work inside you, curling and pumping and stroking along your innermost walls until your entire body vibrated below him.

The hand supporting your thigh over his shoulder tightened as Sanemi resumed his oral assault on that small nub above your entrance, sucking and licking at it until the only sound leaving your throat were feverish cries of his name, your hips involuntarily jerking against him. With each passing moment that Sanemi spent feasting between your legs, something began to mount behind your navel, like a coil being steadily wound tighter and tighter.

You thought it should concern you, this foreign feeling, but as that feeling intensified, so too did your desire to see what would happen when it — you — came undone.

You left one hand gripping harshly at the Wolf’s hair, in some pathetic attempt to keep his face locked against your core, and lifted the other to pinch and roll your breast. You jolted at the stimulation, feeling yourself grow even wetter despite the fervor with which Sanemi lapped and suckled at you.

This appeared to please him, as Sanemi’s free hand moved from your thought to grip at your hip, pressing you even closer to his face until you wondered whether he could breathe. If he could not, the Huntsman did not seem to mind; his groans and growls against your cunt only intensified.

Sanemi slid a second finger into you, and then a third, and the resulting stretch made you see stars, your toes curling in your boots.

That thing in your stomach seized even tighter and your entire body tensed, as though you were on a precipice merely awaiting a slight force to tip you over and sending you hurtling to the depths below.

Whatever was happening to you, the Wolf seemed to anticipate it; for the moment that tight coil within your belly unwound, Sanemi’s fingers pulled hurriedly out of your opening only to be replaced by his tongue, his teeth pressed against your pearl. He lapped up every drop of release that spilled forth, humming and growling as you rode his tongue through the waves of crippling pleasure coursing through you.

As you came down from your high with a breathy sigh of his name, Sanemi shuddered beneath you, a strangled groan lilting out from his mouth between lazy slurps at your cunt. Though your vision was hazy, you could see the faint whites of his eyes peeking through his lids as they rolled back into his head, his fingers tightening their grip on your thighs until it was painful, before releasing once more.

The mark on your neck burned but it was no longer in agony; instead, it felt warm, like a part of your body left too long in the summer sun. but the heat was not entirely unwelcome, especially as Sanemi untangled himself from you, allowing the chill of the late autumn wind to sweep in and lick at your exposed skin.

“That should hold us both over until tomorrow,” Sanemi said after a moment with a throaty chuckle. “Though I will be hard pressed to keep my hands off you, little Lamb.”

Sanemi’s hands eased your skirts back down over your legs. Once your nether region was covered, he helped you sit up, allowing you to cling to him for warmth as he refastened your stays and helped you lace your corset back up the front.

Gingerly, Sanemi brushed your hair back from the shoulder bearing his claim on you. You followed his line of sight, twisting slightly and saw what he did: the crescent-shaped mark, which had burned a violent lavender only minutes prior, had faded back to a pale silver, its ache apparently soothed for the time being.

Sanemi leaned forward and brushed his lips against your mark, his tongue flicking out to caress it as you felt that warmth flood your veins once more. With a moan, you tilted your head, exposing more of your neck again to him, begging him to repeat the action again and again, but Sanemi only drew back.

“Apologies, Lamb,” his eyes were dark once more, and his hands fidgeted at his sides. “Seeing that mark pulls at something within me.”

You allowed your hair to fall back over the crescent bite mark and in an instant, Sanemi’s eyes lightened and a sheepish grin spread across his face. “Wolves are territorial. Seeing your mark makes me want to claim you, even without regard to the danger surrounding us.”

You frowned for a moment. “Are you only drawn to me because you’ve marked me?”

Sanemi’s gaze softened. “I am drawn to you, you vexatious woman, because I find you brave, kind, and at times, even a little charming.”

His hand lifted to caress your cheek, tilting your head down to meet his for a gentle kiss. “The mark is only a physical manifestation of what I already feel towards you. It is simply a way to display our bond to the world.”

Sanemi’s face turned grave and the way he said your name was serious. “You do not have to accept the bond if you’ve changed your mind.”

You shook your head hurriedly. “I want the bond — I want you,” the sincerity of your words resonated with Sanemi, as he pulled your hand to his lips, pressing soft kisses against your fingers. “This is all new to me; I just wanted to know you were sure.”

Sanemi’s soft laugh made your heart thrum, and a blush spread across your cheeks. “I am certain, Lamb, that I would not want anyone else to cause me stress apart from you.”

With a quick peck against your lips, Sanemi rose, stretching his arms high above his head. The moonlight, coupled with the residual flames of the small campfire allowed you to rake your eyes over his lithe form, appreciating every scar and swell of muscle dotting his mouthwatering physique.

But your eyes snagged on a dark stain that had spread across the front of Sanemi’s breeches. “What —?”

Sanemi did not look embarrassed, but he did turn away from you nonetheless. “I told you, Lamb,” he said causually as he dug through the satchel, pulling out a spare pair of pants. “The mark affects me far more than it affects you; at least, for now.”

“That is because of me?” Your eyes trailed his form in wonder, and the sight of the stain made your thighs clench together though you knew not why. “Is that — is that your pleasure?”

Sanemi’s lopsided grin widened, a faint snicker on his lips as he regarded you once more, spread out atop his own traveling cloak. “Yes, Lamb. It is my pleasure.”

You looked up at him, head slightly cocked in question. “But I did nothing to you — not like you did to me.”

Sanemi removed his soiled breeches and re-dressed before returning to your side. “You did not need to; as I said, the mark affects me more than you right now. My body knows I have marked you as my mate, and it is eager to make you mine.”

You shivered at the possessiveness in the words and sat up as he leaned against the small boulder, reaching up over his shoulders to tug his tunic up over his head.

“So it was only the mark?” You asked slowly, eyes dropping down to where you knew his manhood lay under his clothing. “The mark brought you pleasure?”

Warm fingers gripped gently under your chin, forcing you to look back up and meet his piercing stare.

“No, sweetling,” Sanemi said, a low growl tinting his words. “It was not merely the mark. I took pleasure from giving you pleasure.” His thumb stroked the underside of your jaw. “A great deal of it, it seems.”

You shifted until you were on your knees before him, and even the dark of the night could not conceal the way Sanemi’s eyes darkened at the sight.

“Shall I give it back to you, my Wolf?” You whispered, leaning forward to graze your lips against the crotch of his breeches. “I should like to taste you as well.”

To your surprise, neither growl nor groan rumbled from the depths of Sanemi’s chest as you poked your tongue out between your lips and gently dragged it up the seam of his pants, just as he’d done to you. Instead, what fell from Sanemi’s lips was a low, breathy whine, the wolf’s head tipping back slightly as his eyes squeezed shut.

Below the barrier of his clothing, something between his legs began to stir. Curious, you brought your hand against it, palming him slightly through the material.

“Fuck,” Sanemi hissed, and the hand around your jaw tightened, forcing you to rise to your feet.

Sanemi cracked an eye open to glare at you, but he melted at your answering pout, his thumb running over the bottom lip you’d jutted out.

“I promise you, Lamb,” he said gruffly. “I will give you plenty of my pleasure once the full moon rises; so much so, you will not know what to do with it.”

Your curiosity disrupted your self-pity. “From your knot?”

“Aye,” Sanemi confirmed, his voice like gravel. “Speaking of which,” Sanemi then tapped your rear, eliciting a small yelp from you as you separated from him.

“If you’re truly committed to taking my knot, you will need your rest, you tempestuous woman,” Sanemi scolded, and before you could protest, he bent low, wrapping his formidable hands around the backs of your thighs and hoisted you up, forcing you to lock your legs around his waist with a small gasp.

Gently, Sanemi laid you out atop his traveling cloak, bracing himself on one steely arm next to your head as he lowered himself down, allowing one quick press of his lips against yours before he pulled away, stretching out on his side.

“We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow, and an even longer night.” There was a wicked gleam in his eyes that made you rub your thighs together, even as you scowled at him.

“I don’t suppose you will give me another taste of what to expect,” you sighed, resigned as Sanemi moved his head so that he could lazily dance his lips down the side of your neck.

“I’m afraid not,” his answering smirk was smug as you began to squirm beneath the hand idly fondling your breast. “But I shall make the wait worth your while.”

Your breath lodged in your throat as Sanemi leaned in close, his breath tickling your ear. “When we get to my den,” he promised, tone mischievous, yet you knew he meant every word that followed. “I am going to fucking devour you, little Lamb.”

Devour he will. Part II is fucking filthy. Stay tuned if you want to see her take his knot (again and again).

[lemonandlime22]

Side reactions to Mc's kid calling them daddy/mommy/brother

Warning(s): cussing, Gn!Reader/Mc, not edited

A/N: Im p sure someone asked at some point for the side characters with this so here it is! and i decided to add luke to this too, i thought it would be so cute for Mc's kid to call him big brother. I'm not ganna do Raph or maephisto cause I do not know them enough lol

[Brothers ver]

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Diavolo

Dia will randomly babysit you kid

its basically kidnapping but you know about it, he'll take you child from you arms and just walk away.

Anyway,

he was surprise babysitting them for a little bit while you were at HOL

he had played with them for hours and now was sitting in his office supposed to be doing paper work throwing them up in the air and catching them

they were both giggling their butts off

then the bby started making grabby hands at him and babbled a bunch of random gibberish

but then they just shouted out,

"DADA!" and continued to giggle their little heart out.

Diavolo instantly stopped and just staired at the the goblin.

After he finished processing it for like 30secs, he squealed to loud that a few ghtbulbs shattered and gently hugged them to his face so they were cheek to cheek.

Overall, extremally happy! He instantly calls you to tell you all about it over and over again. He also insists you two move into the castle immediately.

Barbatos

You and the baby had come over from some tea with Barbs and Dia.

Barbs was feeding them some cake while you were talking to Diavolo

but they ended up getting frosting on their chubby lil face when they tried to eat the cake by themself with their hands

and Barbatos offered to go clean them up in the kitchen so you could continue your conversation with Diavolo.

As they sit on the baby sat on the counter, Barbs got a wet cloth to clean their face

they were so curious about everything and kept squirming all around trying to get to and touch everything that caught their eye.

Barbs ended up having to hold them in his arms as he cleaned their face

they kept on squirming in his arm and trying to babble out a sentence

and finally after the 50th time of them pushing away the wash cloth were they able to get shout out their first words

"Nah- Daddy!"

Barbatos merely sighed with a small smile before placing them back on the counter and showing them the objects they thought interesting

then they finally let him clean their face.

Overall, he's quite pleased, not only that they refered to him as their father but also that it was more than one word. He thought it very impressive. He told you what happened once he was able to have a private conversation with you.

Simeon

Simeon was emergency babysitting for you while you were taking an exam

they were having a lovely time walking around on campus

he showed them all the safe flowers and let them sniff them

they quite liked the flowers so the two of them stayed in the garden where he showed them how to make flower crowns.

As he finished making one, he placed it on their head and they started giggling and babbling all about

they reached for flowers themself and he picked the ones they wanted and helped them make it

after they were done they kept babbling and reaching up to Simeon from his lap

he finally noticed that they were trying to say something but decided to wait and see if they could get the word out themself.

"It's alright dear, you can do it-"

"...Dada!"

He froze for a moment to shock before laughing and lowing his head for them to place the flower crown.

You ended up finding them there in the garden playing with the flowers, he told you all about what happened.

Overall, very happy obv. He felt the same warm fuzzy feeling he did when Luke accidentally called him dad. He also insists that the four of you have dinner together at least once a week.

Luke (platonic obv)

You were visiting Purgatory Hall with you little chubby infant

you sat on the couch talking with Simeon while Luke and the baby played on the floor.

Luke always liked to have actual conversations with them since they were a new born, even tho he new they couldn't respond.

He was playing with their blocs with them while telling them all about his day and those "evil" demons

and they would occasionally babble something back at him

you had walked into the kitchen with Simeon to grab smth when you heard a loud gasp then Luke excitedly saying,

"Did- did you mean to say 'brother' [Name]!?!"

Then your child yelling,

"BABER!"

By then you two walked back into the common room and say Luke hugging them and maybe crying

you couldn't tell if he was crying or laughing

it was both.

Overall, he so happy!! he now always introduces himself as their big brother when he's with them.

Refused to let them go back to HOL and you ended up having a sleepover at Purgatory Hall

also, always runs to hug them when he sees them, doesn't matter who they're being carried by if it they're walking themself. He. Will. Always. Hug. Them.

Solomon

Solomon was over at the HOL for a small dinner party

you ended up being dragged off by some of the brothers so he decided to stay and hang out with the baby.

He sat on the couch with them laying next to him both sipping on their drink

Solomon had a glass of demonus and the kid a sippy cup with some juice

He started telling them all about his day and some random stories that came to mind

and in return they would babble back at him

almost like they were trying to make conversation.

After a while tho he slowly stopped talking and focused more on people-watching

but he was pulled out of that by the infant climbing on his lap

"Hm? What's up hun?"

Once they got comfortable they just began to slap his thigh and mumbled something over and over again

"Heh, what was that?"

The little munchkin just slapped harder and shouted,

"Daddy!"

After a moment of shock he just laughed to himself,

"Hehe, yeah..."

and messing up their hair.

He was seemingly the only one who heard.

Overall, he had a content smile for the rest of the evening, and he happily put them to bed for you. He didn't end up telling you, wanting it to be a surprise.

Thirteen

You two were just walking with each other and your baby was in one of those chest holder things

they'd grab at all the shops they found interesting and Thirteen would also point things out to them

when they got fussy for whatever reason, Thirteen would talk them down until they were laughing and happy again.

You had to grab smth from a magic store but couldn't bring in the child in fear that they might knock smth over and get rly bad

anyway, you handed them to Thirteen and went to do your business.

The two of em were just chilling together on a bench outside of the store

the baby was playing with her hair, absolutely enthralled by it

she ended up getting them some ice cream to distract them from pulling her hair.

As they ate, getting it all over their face they both sat back down on the bench

"Well aren't you rude" She said pinching their nose "What do you say"

"tatya mama!" they shouted with a big smile

she wasn't expecting any answer maybe some babbling but NOT THAT-

she was in absolute shock

wasn't until you sat next to her that she snapped out of it.

Overall, has no idea how to react, she'll tell you about it and after she learned it was their first word, she was a bit more insistent on hanging out with you two.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[reconstructwriter]

Star Wars Fix-it: The Holonet Edition

The well-bribed algorithms of the Holonet should have relegated Tookruta1387’s clip to the tender hearts of a few friends. The days of spontaneous viral posts – without credits to grease the wheels – died not long after the rise of megacorps in the Republic. But the poster was either lucky or savvy enough to play the algorithms because “Jedi Being Cold” exploded. Screens, conversation, even news. And their post was just the start of a trend…

“Jedi Being Cold”: An old transport ship, frost coating the inside of its windows. A corner swathed in a nest of robes. Within three padawans snuggle together, fast asleep. If they were cats they’d be purring. One is purring despite a lack of feline attributes. A hand nudges them with a datastick, only for it to float away to a cloud of similar items.

“Jedi Being Cold” part 2: A snow-covered lake. One knight finishes sculpting a realistic snow tiger. Two others Force push each other like hocky pucks across the ice. One goes flying towards the statue. An expression of ‘oh crap’. Incredible, Force- assisted acrobatics deftly avoids the sculpture but crashes right into the sculptor in a tangle of limbs, sending them skidding into a snow-bank. The third Jedi pokes their head into the many-limbed hole and gets snowballed for the trouble.

“Jedi Stealing Children”: A child at a slave auction. A robed figure swoops in like a hawk, slicing through chains with their lightsaber and ripping apart cages with the Force. The camera pans to one slaver Force shoved into a cage, clearly furious as the Jedi escapes with a whole crowd of people, many children.

“Jedi Stealing Children” becomes the title for 1287 pictures, clips and gifs before someone adjusts the algorithm. This makes them surprisingly hot commodities on the Dark Holo, especially the one with a Nautolan Master dramatically fleeing the capture attempts of a horde of children – ending in one dramatic arm reaching out as kids bury him

“Jedi As Warmongers”: A young Padawan, blood splattered, has a ‘does it get better’ look on their trembling face as they stare up at their Master. The Master is even grimier and gorier as they gather their Padawan up with an ‘I’m sorry but no’. The Padawan weeps and shakes, burying their face in their Master’s robes, who has silent tears down their face. In the background is a war zone.

“Jedi as Warmongers: part 2” Has war holomovie music playing in the background as the snap-thumm of a lightsaber echoes, vivid blue piercing the dark. The blade raises over something, is brought down…over a block of cheese and loaf of bread. The Jedi padawan gleefully declares: “Grilled Cheese for all!” The sound of sprinting footsteps is heard and a dramatic “Noooo,” from a Jedi Knight.

“Jedi as Warmongers: part 3”: The music has switched to aftermath of war horror, the kitchen looks like a cheese atomic bomb hit. The children are cleaning up and one wipes cheese with bread and pops it in their mouth: “grilled cheese for all!” An adult admonishes “You spit that out right now that’s not sanitary.” In the background the Jedi Knight is doing the same thing.

“Jedi Showing Off” Is Yoda’s contribution to this mess – which is just him going through an entire stack of photo-albums on his previous padawans. He opens the last book to Dooku the Padawan when Dooku the Master barges in: “Stop this indignity immediately!” The camera shows an intense close-up of someone’s palm. “Who even taught you how to operate holo-video? –” feed cuts off.

“Jedi Dignity”: Feed resumes from a different perspective as Master Dooku – previous camera still in hand – gives Yoda and several other watching Jedi a lecture on appropriate Holonet-posting behavior. “Not appropriate baby photos are?” Yoda asks, a card-shark’s spread of pictures with Dooku’s baby face. Dooku yanks them out of Yoda’s hands. “Not without m-the person’s permission!” Does a double-take. “Are you filming –?” Horrified glower. “Mace you traitor!” Video abruptly cuts off. Permanently this time.

Not even algorithm adjustments – and there are clearly several – can stop that from becoming viral. “Mace you traitor!” becomes slang for the latest generation. Mace himself rolls with it. Dooku attempts to entomb himself in the archives until this all blows over.

Actions may speak louder than words but memes speak loudest of all.

[neonovember]

Hi babes!

Could you possibly write a battinson x sunshine vigilante!reader where the reader is just an absolute sweetheart in and out of the suit. Like she's super sweet to literally everyone she meets but she's also a badass vigilante. Maybe her and Gordon are close friends and that's how Pattinson meets her and he is just absolutely lovestruck when he meets her for the first time. Like a love at first site kind of thing, he's just absolutely whipped and enamored by the reader. Maybe written from Batsy's pov.

Much love babes

thank you so much anon for sending this prompt! I know this is super duper late, but it was a wonderful idea I truly wanted to do it justice. I made the reader a little morally grey cause I think it would be a little different, so I hope you enjoy darling! Feel free to send in any of your requests and asks and even if it takes time I’ll make sure it's done. (who I write for)

Carved in stone

pairings: bruce wayne x fem!reader

warnings: mentions of drug trafficking, morally grey!characters, Gotham itself (its a warning alright), mentions of loss and grief, and a hint of touch!starved bruce if you turn it upside down and squint.

word count: 4.6K

The darkness that surrounds Bruce as he steps into his cave is one that he embraces like an old friend. The light that shines from every frosted window of the Manor stabs his eyes with an insistent twinge akin to a razor blade that had been left to rot on a windowsill during one of Gotham's thunderstorms.

There is a child-like fear in the air of the glacier cave sheathed in its darkness, the kind that materialises into green monsters and pale ghosts in the thin veil of nightmares. The kind that causes your parents to check under your bed, behind your clothing rack, in your closet.

Places where shadows and darkness would settle and make a home for itself. For most children, that gripping fear would outgrow itself over the years, replaced instead with reaching the 5th bar on the playground, failing driving tests, and falling in love for the first time. That was life, but Bruce Wayne was hardly a normal child. He had surpassed his pupils years before they had even begun to walk on two feet, and yet, that gripping fear of the dark still sprouted open deep within his stomach every time.

He has to shake it off of himself, as he reaches for his seat in front of the blaring screens projected from his desk. What he had found was too important to be tainted by the pathetic fears he allowed into his mind. Placing the contacts into the surveillance reader, Bruce combs through the hours of footage captured by the camera placed over his pupil. 

He had been trailing a shipment of drugs and armed artillery that was masked as a children's book delivery that had frequently made its route through Gotham's city streets. You didn't need to be Batman to know that it wasn’t the next edition of Captain fuckin’ Underpants being delivered to the underfunded children's orphanage. No, greed had taken over any sliver of humanity within Gotham governors long before the barrel of murders rocked through the suburban neighbourhoods and left hundreds orphaned.

He could hunt those killers down, but the crooked thug that had massacred his family was something Bruce would never be able to make it right.

The irony burnt a hole through the veil of what was left of him.

Gordon had been no help in tracking those marked vans down, whispering under the guise of the moonlight one night atop Gotham PD’S rooftop that it made his officers nervous. ‘Jittery and anxious’. Especially after so many of their dear brothers in blue ended up neck-deep in the underground crime syndicate they were meant to investigate, only to have their heads on a stick at the bottom of Miller Harbour.

Oh yes, Bruce knew all too well how greed had the habit of seeping into the morals of even the most respectable men, corruption had a way of appealing like salvation when you had no choice. That's what Gordan had said, and Batman laughed at that, shook his head and spit out in venom,

“There is always a choice, Gordon”

So it was up to Bruce now, the vigilante sheathed in darkness to uncover every small detail that could lead him to where these vans were heading too. This was different however, there was an unsettling itch behind his eyes, something pressing into his mind, begging him to see. And it isn't until he catches the flash of silver from the corner of the warehouse that he notices that someone else has been watching them too. Clicking on the magnified frame, Bruce leans in to try and decipher the glimpse of a face turned to the side, obscured by a black hooded cape that seemed to camouflage them into the darkness. The facial recognition software embedded in Bruce's computer pulled up nothing, not even a single trace of a face like theirs, obscured as it was.

Someone that lived in the shadows as Bruce did, someone who made it a home for themselves.

Bruce needed to find out who they were.

Now suddenly, Bruce has an actual reason to go to Gordan.

You rip off the latex body suit that enabled you to glide through the air, and shove your face into a navy hoodie in the backseat of your car parked outside the GCPD parking lot. It wasn’t safe but you had no choice, anonymity wasn’t pretty, and it sure isn’t easy.

But what you had found tonight, trailing after those marked vans that drove down the streets of Gotham like they fucking owned the place, was too sensitive to hold onto any longer than you had to.

Your eyes strain and survey the dark city streets filled with drop heads stumbling around and the thugs that fucked with them, for that same marked van charging towards you. You knew they wouldn’t dare come within the vicinity of the police department, and most importantly, you were smart enough to not leave even a hint of a trail.

It was irrational, but you knew enough of this life to know not to bet on rationality to keep you alive. You have to force yourself to shake it off before slamming the car door behind you and marching towards Gordan's office.

Officers decked out in uniform, glance at you twice before recognition fills their features, barking out hushed hellos and waves of acknowledgement towards you with confused faces as you walk through the department walls. You couldn’t blame them, your dark makeup had smudged from the humid air of rainfall and fog, and the incessant itch of your eye didn’t make it any better, even your cover outfit was washed in a deep midnight black.

They were used to seeing you in bright colours and skirts every time you met with Gordan to transfer any knowledge you had gathered the night before during your vigilance. Usually, you would wait until the next morning, when the mask of your pedestrian outfit and a sunshine smile would keep any questioning looks from the Officers around you at bay. To them, you were just a friend of Gordan who happened to actually like the last few pieces of Old Gotham. 

It wasn’t like you were putting on a facade, despite the incriminating outfit you wore now, you loved the colour as much as a child loves colouring outside the lines, your home itself was true to that. A true reflection of the warmth and sunshine you radiated, filled with potted plants hanging from ceilings and in corners, dyed pane windows that reflected warm hues of orange and yellow when the sun set over your studio apartment.

But that didn't mean you would let crime syndicates tear through your home, and this couldn’t wait until the next morning, no, no it was too personal, and oh how you loved mixing pleasure and business.

You couldn’t wait until you got their jaws crushed beneath your boot, watch their blood run through the city streets until it washed away all the crime, and the filth was clean.

You had a special hatred for people who exploited children, using them as a cover to transport drugs and arms had motivated you enough to spend the entire 3 nights straight documenting their every move, where their vans lead to and from when they would start their daily route of drug trafficking. It was imprinted into your brain, an obsession you would have to pretend was for the good of peace to Gordon, and not for your own twisted vengeance.

You don’t knock as you charge through the office doors of Gordon's chief floor, your connection to Gotham City’s Police commissioner gives you free clearance of the department, and your baked honey biscuits were good enough to bribe even the stone-cold assistant parked outside Gordan's office anyway.

You shut the door with an even loud ruckus, causing Gordan to sigh as he rummaged through papers stained with smoke scattered across his desk.

“Now what do I owe the pleasure of having Ms Sunshine in my office this goddamn late in the night?” Gordan says, not even having to look up to know it’s your loud boots against the hallway floors.

“Gordan” You reply, marching towards his desk until you are standing across from him.

“Yes?” Gordan replies, still skimming through the backlog of case files and police reports that seemed to double every night.

“Gordan.” You reply again, this time with an edge of urgency in your tone, and it’s sharp enough to cause Gordan to flicker his focus towards you.

“Those vans I was telling you about? The ones I’ve been trailing since August? I’ve finally found something, the cold must have loosened them up a bit because they got pretty fucking lazy” You start before Gordan cuts you off with a half-hearted sigh.

“You’ve been on them for months now Sunny, every bit of information you’ve squeezed out of them has led us to dead ends. Every time we’ve found a trail to their hideouts it’s packed up and shut down by the time we arrive.” Gordan replies before you shake your head quickly

“No, listen, Gordan, we’ve been looking at it the wrong way” You press on, but Gordan shakes his head

“I can’t afford the manpower Sunny, you know how my men have been feeling lately, the whole department is just holding their breath. Fucking restless, you damn near scared me marching in like that”.

You grit your teeth as you mutter under your breath, Gordan wasn’t listening to you, you didn’t need his men, they were all cowardly corrupt assholes on a power trip anyway. You just needed him, and he wasn’t listening.

“Sometimes you won’t always get to win every battle alright? It doesn’t work that way for us, you gotta save it for the big ones, the ones that are so bad you can’t even see them yet. You start putting your heart into it like you're doing right now? You’re gonna lose yourself along the way”

“They’re using fucking kids Gordan” You bark out when he begins another speech, you can’t help it. Gordans acting as if this is some small drug bust in a crack house. It’s way bigger than that, more sinister, it always is.

Gordan looks towards you wide-eyed, eyebrows furrowing as he opens his mouth to talk before closing it again.

You see that as a guide to continue,

“We’ve been seein’ those vans' as transporting the drugs through the cover of the orphanage, but they’re only using it to get to the warehouse. We can never find the drugs on them because it never was, they’re using the goddamn kids to traffick it, Gordan, fucking middle schoolers”.

“Jesus Christ”

“Okay, alright-uh” Gordon mutters under his breath as he gathers the paperwork strewn in front of him. He reaches into an unmarked drawer, pulls out a white card, and scribbles a mix of numbers onto it you had never seen before.

“Take this-” Gordon begins, motioning to hand you the card before you shake your head

“Gordan-”

“Take this, and meet me tomorrow, please” Gordon pleads, looking up at you, you wait a bit before nodding and taking the card from his palm.

“Come at the same time, but maybe next time you come barging in you at least change first” Gordon groans, knowing the litany of questions he was bound to get hounded for the second you left.

You roll your eyes, “I did” You mutter under your breath before saying Gordan's name again

“Thank you, Gordon, seriously, you're the only hope I have left in Gotham you know, the only one who actually cares what happens to this goddamn city,” You say

“I’m sure that’ll change soon Sunny” Gordan hides a smile, nodding towards you, before you leave his office quickly. You are too absorbed with the hidden message Gordan had said just before you left, to notice Gordans secretary staring into your back, what did he mean?

You ruminate over it as you pass the officers and down the precinct stairs, piling into your car and driving through backlit streets illuminated by just the moon in the sky and the sound of bats.

The visions of the cries of children fill your nights and leave you restless in the morning. You know you shouldn't, but you spend the break of dawn surveying the barren city streets for any sign of their presence, and when your obsession leaves you coming up empty you pull over and step out into the harbour bay.

You stare off into the Miller manor, watching the violent waves of the river crash into each other. Some people had an unrelenting fear of the ocean, of what may lay in its depths, but you had grown to fall in love with its beauty.

It was simple in its destruction, washing away the dirt and filth of the world. You had wished to escape in it, swim down to the bottom where you would lay for eternity, let the waves crash into you and take you away from it all.

You spent the entire morning standing there, blinking back hot tears and the brick that formed in your throat when you began to think too much of what you had lost.

You went home, for the first time since yesterday, and slept until you forgot.

-- -

Decked out in a light-coloured skirt and your face free from the dark black eyeshadow streaming down your face, you marched into the police department once again.

This time the officers greeted you with a genuine smile, seeming to forget about the events of yesterday, and were even more elated when you uncovered the Tupperware filled with the cookies you had made. You figured food would make them forget about it all but it seemed Gordan had beat you to it.

Opening the door to Gordan's office, you can't help but let out a chuckle when you see the commissioner in the same position you had stormed into last night. Gordon perks up at the noise, rolling his eyes before collecting the papers into a neat file and walking towards you.

Gordan begins to say something before a loud commotion muffled his reply, you reach for your gun fitted into the holster on your waist, and shift your body to point it towards the door of Gordan’s office.

It begins to shake as the loud sound of metal on wood gets increasingly closer and you can't decipher it until it stops at the front of Gordans office to understand what it is.

Footsteps.

Your eyes catch the door handle and begin to turn slowly, and you take a tentative step closer to the door, forming into a defensive stance with your gun pointed straight ahead and your finger dangerously close to the trigger.

The door opens much like it had before, with a loud bang, and you aim your gun towards the darkness that follows.

“Wait!” Gordon screams towards you, but you don't dare to take your eyes off the dark figure missing your perfect shots. There is a release of compartments before the figure uncovers itself, and there he is, in all his beautiful and dark glory:

Batman.

Batman’s POV

“What the hell Gordon?” You murmur, the glow of the table lamp illuminates your features, highlighting every dip and curve and line and Bruce can’t help but stare.

“Listen, please put your gun down Sunny, I invited him alright? Because there is no one in this precinct who can help you half as much as he could'' Gordon says, and Bruce catches your scrutinising gaze that seems to penetrate him through his cowl.

He raises his eyebrows as if testing the waters to see if you'll really do it, but you sheath your gun back into the holster hidden under that patterned skirt that's got Bruce thinking thoughts he shouldn’t.

“Uh, I think this conversation is better equipped somewhere more..discrete. Follow me” Gordon coughs, before opening the office doors. Bruce follows the dark patterned shirt of Gordon back from a short distance, you by his side, the heat emanating from you causes Bruce to step further away.

Bruce moves like he knows the ins and outs of the building, his shoulders tense, and his eyes always searching, but his body moves fluidly through the halls like muscle memory etched into him and you can't stop staring.  Bruce catches your eyes once, his cobalt blues stare right back at you with no hesitation, a flicker of recognition flashes over his eyes and Bruce begins to piece the face that's got his heart stopping and his hands reaching all at once.

You shift your eyes to the wainscotting lining the walls of the precinct, and Bruce's chest burns with a desperate need to see you seeing him. Bruce didn't know what overcame him, it seemed like the fear of the dark was replaced with the fear of never seeing you again. Bruce didn't even know your name, just Sunny. Bruce wanted to see how it would taste on his tongue, speaking your name and having your reply.

“You sure you know your way ‘round this building Gordan?” You sigh, as it seemed you both were  through endless hallways

“We’re here” Gordon replies, before pushing a lever door that opens into the precinct rooftop.

Bruce steps out into the rooftop courtyard, the cold chill of the night breeze does nothing to the burning hot in his stomach, but your visibility shivers and Bruce has to stop himself from covering you with his own damn cape.

Gordan passes you his worn-out leather jacket and you take it gingerly before he nods to Bruce in understanding moving to the far end of the roof.

You step towards the edge of the roof, knuckles turning white as you grip the handrail and Bruce watches you gaze out into the sky-scraping towers of Gotham City, glistening under the pale moonlit sky.

“It doesn't look so bad from up here you know?” You murmur, and Bruce's eyes flicker from the city streets below to your gaze.

Bruce shakes his head “No, no it doesn't”

“But then, doesn't everything get uglier up close?” You continue, your gaze flickering back to the city skyline

“No, not everything” Bruce replies in a whisper, but it's loud enough to hear and you shift your gaze back to Bruce

“You were there, weren't you?” Bruce says, the recognition hit him the second you stared off into the city, that same dip in the cheek, that same mark on your jaw. You were sheathed in the cover of the warehouse darkness then, and adorned an outfit akin to what Bruce was wearing now, but it was you the entire time.

“I suppose it was, but how were you there, Batman?” You reply, eyes flickering down to Bruce's tall stature,

“Been trailing them for weeks, but every single thread of their trail-” Bruce says

“Is a loose end” You murmur, and Bruce nods in agreement.

“I know it may look like it isn't, but I've been after them for even longer, and it’s like this has become my entire life now you know? If they can’t be stopped, if I can't stop them then’”

“What’s the point” Bruce replies

You nod thoughtfully, it was why you had barely slept in the last month, barely ate, this vengeance, this thirst for justice, it consumed you. And now it seemed you had met someone who was consumed by it too.

“How did this” You gesture between Bruce and Gordan “alliance even form” You question, it didn't really hit you then but this was the known vigilante that had been plastered on the front of newspapers across Gotham, now standing, comfortably on GCPD’s rooftop.

Bruce hides a chuckle, shaking his head “It’s a long story, but you see that light projector there” Bruce gestures his chin to the signal hidden near the edge of the rooftop, tilted to the sky.

“It’s a distress signal, carved out in a bat wing, and whenever Gordan turns it on, I always come, no matter what”. Bruce says

“I’m not foolish, these people we're both after, aren't the normal crooks and pickpocketing gangs, and together we can put an end to all of this, and I know you I haven’t made the best defence compared to the hundreds of newspapers calling for my head, but I care, I care about Gotham-

“I know, Batman” You stop Bruce mid-way through his erratic tangent, reigning him back in with that heavenly voice of yours.

“Bruce” He replies, after a heated silence, and a flash of recognition fills you.

How could you not have pieced it before? You don’t know if Bruce sees the surprise in your eyes but it dissolves right back into the space between you.

“Bruce” You nod, his name taste sweet on you tongue and it has him yearning to hear it again.

“I thought I would be scared if I ever came face to face with Batman, but, all I feel, all I really feel is understanding. I know you, Bruce, I know you because I see myself in you. This long life of fighting, of putting your everything in your purpose. It gives you a reason to survive in this hellscape, but it also fucking destroys you.” You say, eyes searching Bruce’s .

“How did you get into this life?” Bruce says

“I know from this darn skirt that is yellow of all things it may not look like it but I’ve been fighting the plague of crime and greed that had taken over this city for years”

“First with the power of books that could lead me to become something those rich fucks needed and then with my fists after this city took something from me it had no right to. And honestly? I’m surprised I hadn’t run into you sooner”

“Don't say sorry because I’ve hated that word ever since it happened” You reply

Bruce nods, his grip on the rooftop rial tightening as he stares off into the city skyline, Bruce wore his loss like a tattoo imprinted on his forehead, anyone could see what the violence of this city had done to him without having to read the hundreds of newspapers detailing his parent's gruesome death.

But you, at first glance seemed like a damn tourist in this city, unfazed by the crime and death that seems suffocating to Bruce, radiating a kind of glow and kindness Bruce had long forgotten exists.

“And for the record, I don’t read the newspaper” You reply, causing Bruce to let out a chuckle

“Oh yeah? You’re too prestigious for ink on paper?” Bruce replies

“No, not really, I just like to get my news first hand, as an observer. My uniform may not be as prestigious as yours, but it gets the job done and is a hell of a lot more discreet” You reply, a smile pulling at your cheek.

“Discreet is definitely the word to call it, couldn't even decipher your face in a damn near million-dollar computer” Bruce replies

You look at him in confusion, but he simply shrugs in response and before you can let out a reply, Gordon comes back into view from whatever dark corner he had ventured to.

“Now that you have acquainted yourselves, why don't we find a way to take those sick fuckers down” Gordan replies, and Bruce catches the delighted expression that forms over your features. You nod enthusiastically towards Gordon's words, interjecting pieces of information that even Bruce himself had not acquired. Bruce watches you in your element, formulating a plan with a million other plans B’s, that same unstoppable desire to protect this city that drives Bruce to put on that cape each day, and it’s like Bruce is falling in love.

“So we’ll hit them from the orphanage rather than from it, hopefully, their lack of diligence continues in our favour, Batsy, you okay?” You reply, eyeing him in worry as Bruce stares back with a glazed expression before snapping back at the sound of your nickname.

“Batsy? Now that's a good one” Gordon chuckles

Batman eyes you in question to which you reply with a shrug

“Batman is too long, and I figured if you're gonna be callin’ me Sunny, I’ve got to give you a nickname too, right?” You justify, and Bruce fails to hide the smile that erupts across his face at the mention of him calling you Sunny.

“He’s smiling Gordan!” I made Batman smile!” You giggle, shaking Gordan's shoulders, and if Bruce could he would bottle that sound and keep it forever.

“That's definitely a first, isn't it Batsy” Gordon replies, and Bruce simply shakes his head

“Can we get back to what’s important here?” Bruce replies, but the smile in his voice is clear as ever, and you don’t know why but it fills you with a burst of joy in a place that had remained empty ever since your sister had left.

“Mhm” You reply, and Gordan shares a knowing look towards Bruce as if to say “I’ve found you out”, and for some strange reason Bruce wants him to, he wants the entire world to know he's completely enamoured and enthralled by you the second he stepped into Gordan's office.

“Alright, whilst you both were arguing over costumes, I got a distress alert from one of the squad cars surveying the area near the orphanage. One of the vans seems to be making some sort of detour, we’ve got to hit them now, I don't know when they will be this unprotected” Gordon replies.

“I’ve got a car waiting for me, so Sunny, you’ll ride with Batsy” Gordon replies, and Bruce doesn't have a hard time seeing the smile hidden behind Gordan's stern face.

Bruce bristles at the mention of having you so close to him in such an enclosed space, fearing you would protest out of fear of him and all the other insecurities Bruce had burdened. But you nod and smile towards him, and it's like every doubt, every worry is dissipated, and every anxious thought sounds so stupid because nothing else matters but you.

And so, just like moments before Bruce walks side by side with you down the endless corridors of the Gotham Police precinct, but now, with the heart scorching desire to follow you down a hundred endless corridors, to dampen the burn in his chest with your silken soft voice.

Bruce didn't believe in prophecies, or soulmates that transcended time and space, but right now it was as if you both were meant to be. A sacred bond that was carved into stone long before Bruce had started to lose himself in his own purpose, long before the fear of darkness had seized him all those years ago.

Bruce had thought you made a home in the darkness within you, but it was so different now. You embraced this darkness, this thirst like a mother embracing a child, carved it into you like a relic, until it transformed within you to become the light Bruce had been blinding himself to.

And Bruce pleaded for the first time, he begged to the midnight sky for the first time since he cried out for God to will the loss of his parents to be erased. Bruce was left with the bitter taste of a silent sky then, but now he’s on his knees, begging that you would make a home for him too.

Bruce wanted to take the darkness you carried, wanted to uncover it from your skin and bones until all that was left was the illuminating glow Bruce knew he would ruin. But he didn't care, for the second first time today, Bruce wanted to be selfish, and have you all to himself.

Wanted to feel your touch hold him until the burn of your absence was stamped away, wanted you to uncover his cowl and run your fingers through his hair, wanted to curl into your body and under your skin at night, wanted everything. 

Bruce wanted it all.

[idyllic-affections]

a winter night's lazzo.

summary. the loss of a mother creates a pain comparable to no other. trigger & content warnings. major character death (la signora), loss of a parental figure, chronic illness flare-up, mc is HOMICIDAL towards both the traveler (implied to be aether bc abyss!lumine supremacy <3) and scaramouche, violent thoughts, all five stages of grief, scara slander 💕, [name] is stated to have longer hair but it is only mentioned once. tropes, pairings, fic length, & other notes. angst, hurt/slight comfort. dad!pantalone & reader. 2k words. they/them pronouns for reader. prev | next author's thoughts. i wasn't going to post this. why? no clue tbh, i'm actually quite happy with the dialogue and dynamics i created in this fic, but i nonetheless had little to no intention of actually posting it. then someone showed interest in how [name] would respond to signora's death, and i RAN to revise, edit, & post this old draft HEKSJSKSGHF

       Snezhnaya had never felt colder.

       Even though the power of Pyro could dance on their fingertips at their command, staving off the cold whenever they desired, it was too cold; whatever small attempts they made at warming their body were quickly snuffed out by the frost. Even though they knew lives would be lost in pursuit of the Cryo Archon's honorable goal...

       It was a little too much. It was too cold.

       'Lohefalter... will not be coming back.'

       They said nothing, gave no indication of having heard him at all. Then, they met his gaze with a chillingly distant expression unbefitting of someone their age. No child should have been capable of looking so... unreadable. Briefly, Pierro mused to himself that they truly resembled the way their father looked when something troubled him extremely deeply. 'She's dead, then? Don't treat me like a fucking child, Lord Pierro.'

       The man's brows seemed to furrow slightly, surprised at how dangerously sharp their tongue was, but he obliged them nonetheless and nodded. For a noble who was taught specifically not to lose their composure...

       They were very close to losing it entirely. Before him stood but another child who had been eternally changed by the Motherland's cruelty. It was... something worth mourning, really. Any innocence they should have had was long since burned away. Someone so young should not have been capable of making the expression that they wore so effortlessly, but perhaps that is what being raised by the Fatui does to a person. Someone so young should not have been capable of making the expression they wore, but they simply were able to do so. Perhaps that is just a testament to the absence of innocence, innocence that they never really got to experience.

       'Yes. Rosalyne-Kruzchka Lohefalter is dead.'

       A strong chill climbed the length of their spine, making them shiver slightly. They could taste blood at the back of their dry, raw throat, wincing as they rubbed the side of their neck in an attempt to ease the pain. Normally, they handled the cold very well. The extreme temperatures of the Motherland typically didn't hinder them so terribly; it was, ironically, the heat that made it difficult for them to function. The very power that coursed through their veins after years and years of studying to master it without a blessing from the gods was indeed destructive in more ways than one. Even so, no matter how resilient they were normally, it was just far too cold for them to handle. They trembled beneath their thick coat like a leaf in the wind, thumb rubbing over the Pyro delusion tucked in their coat in an attempt to absorb the warmth it radiated.

       ...Then again, normally there was Mother Rosalyne to help them regulate their body temperature. She was not there. She would never be there again.

       In their weak, emotional state, they dared not try their hand at true pyromancy, lest another Harbinger lose their coat to the flames like the Balladeer did all those years ago. Heating their body was one thing, but generating flames? It was simply too risky. Disrupting the funerary atmosphere by setting someone aflame wasn't something they were all that keen on doing. Under different circumstances, they wouldd be glad to set someone alight the same way they did to the Sixth.

       (They absently noted that the aforementioned Harbinger was missing from the memorial service.

       If they weren't as well-informed as they were, they'd assume it was just because he was an asshole. As much as they would like to blame it on his shitty personality... they knew better.)

       Whatever was left of the Fair Lady's body was sealed inside the beautifully intricate casket that they were especially particular about being involved in selecting; they knew her far better on an intimate level than even the other immortal Harbingers did. No-one could deny them their right to be involved. La Signora had it stated in her will, regardless, that she wanted them involved in her commemoration.

       Even if the others dared deny them their right, would they dare deny La Signora's final wish?

       Columbina's voice, beautiful and alluring like the call of a siren, did naught to soothe them. Some part of their brain still refused to acknowledge the fact that, indeed, in that intricately beautiful casket (which they couldn't even confidently say was adequately befitting of such a stunning woman like Rosalyne; nothing was good enough for her, nothing would ever be good enough for her) was the one who filled the role of the absent parent in their life. Even as they gingerly traced some of the details with their gloved fingers...

       It was as if their head was stuffed full of cotton.

       "We are gathered here today to remember our dear comrade. In honor of her sacrifice, all work should halt for half a day as the nation mourns her passing."

       'There's no way this is real,' they mused absently to themselves. 'She said she'd be back in a month. She said she'd take me to Fontaine when she got back.'

       If they were more coherent, they'd object simply because half a day was hardly long enough.

       "Merely half a day?" Pantalone chuckled. He seemed to share their sentiment, albeit for separate reasons. It was only when his hands tenderly brushed their hair back over their shoulders that they seemed to become tethered to reality. With Rosalyne being gone, the attachment they already held to their father increased tenfold. Archons forbid something ever happened to him, too; the things they were thinking of doing to the traveller were already horrendously criminal, but if something were to happen to their father? The things they'd do would make even the bravest man cower. "People say the Northland Bank's true currencies are blood and tears, but Mayor, even speaking as a banker, that sounds a little unconscionable."

       "Rosalyne died in a foreign land, but you heartless buisnessmen and dignitaries always with a covenient excuse to remain in the comfort of your homeland. You couldn't hope to understand, so why don't you keep your mouth shut? We don't want to make the children cry." She scoffed, gaze briefly flicking in their direction; her eyes softened slightly upon landing on them, "...To this day, I am still shocked to see that someone as courageous as your child came from you."

       "My willingness to leave Snezhnaya doesn't have anything to do with courage, Aunt Arlecchino," they murmured, shifting their weight from one leg to the other. "I'm a debt collector. It's in my job description. I leave for either work or recreation. I'd stay here otherwise, so please... don't create such a distance between my father and I. I'm no different."

       Neither she nor their father had an opportunity to add on any further—not that Arlecchino would have been able to find the words to reply, anyway. What could she possibly say to them? The child she partially raised was claiming to be no less cowardly than their father, but they were. She knew they were.

       Even so, she also did not want to drive distance between them and someone they loved.

       Not now. Not when they were grieving.

       "Hey, c'mon now," Childe intervened, "even I don't think this is the right time or place for a fight."

       Perhaps he was sensitive to their discomfort. He did have siblings, after all. It wasn't a stretch to imagine that he'd be especially perceptive to their emotional needs, even in spite of all that he'd been through. One would think the Abyss would stamp out any empathy, but Childe time and time again proved to have certain redeeming qualities that even the Abyss failed to rid him of.

       He was arguably the most sane person at the funeral, really.

       "...Utterly risible."

       "Though her methods tarnished her honor—"

       A dart of fire missed Capitano's face by perhaps an inch, dissipating with a faint hiss when it came into contact with the frigid wall. "My hand slipped," was all they said with a flat, blatantly sarcastic tone when accusatory glances were shot their way. "My bad."

       Columbina giggled into her palm.

       Unbothered, Il Capitano went on, "—Lohefalter's sacrifice is a great pity. Her loss shall not hinder our progress, but Dottore... what of Scaramouche and the Gnosis from Inazuma?"

       Right.

       Now that their head was slightly clearer, they recalled the details they had managed to gather from Pierro regarding the Inazuma mission, sifting through them mentally once again like they'd done so many times before. Right; it was Scaramouche who did not tell Rosalyne that he already had the Gnosis. If he had, she would still be standing. Alive.

       A deep sense of hatred boiled in their chest, spreading and consuming everything in its wake until all that was left was ash.

       Perhaps they weren't so different from their late mother figure.

       'Fucking bastard.'

       Their gaze snapped to the Doctor—he was not the Doctor in his prime, they halfheartedly noted—limbs trembling with the utter strength of their rage.

       'I hope you lose all that you have ever loved in Dottore's experiment, and if somehow, by the grace of the Gods, you don't... I'll take it from you myself.'

       A squeeze to their shoulder brought them back to reality once again. Their eyes flickered to the Regrator, breath shallow and quick. It was hard to differentiate their emotions from their illness, and by the time they were grounded enough to do so, their chest was already tight with the lack of adequate oxygen. A soft whimper was involuntarily choked from their throat when a sharp ache struck their diaphragm. Again, their shoulder was squeezed. The simple gesture carried a clear enough message:

       Calm down.

       For their health, both physical and mental, they needed to calm down. It was then that they noted the rising temperature around their body—fuck, was that heat emanating from them? Rosalyne didn't warn them about this. She did once offhandedly mention that emotions may affect their art, but they never thought that'd apply to them and clearly she had shared that sentiment; they were so skilled at masking their feelings behind an elegantly deceptive mask. Despite that, if they weren't careful, they'd end up burning their own coat off.

       "Conventional wisdom holds that divine knowledge cannot be rationally comprehended. After conquering the divine gaze, he will make his next move."

       "It's time to end tonight's foolish theatrics," Pierro began, finally approaching the casket as all of the other Harbingers had already done. "Right now, you have no captive audience. Let every worthy sacrifice be carved in ice, and with this nation endure for all time."

       With Pantalone on their left and Arlecchino on their right, they sent Rosalyne off.

       "In the name of Her Majesty, the Tsaritsa, we will seize authority from the gods."

                         — flower of the universe !! 🌸

       "Would you like to meet Dottore in Sumeru?"

       They sat comfortably in a little space by the window, still bundled up in their coat, absentmindedly picking at the threads of their outfit. Their gaze briefly flickered to their father stood at their side before shifting back to the raging blizzard outside.

       "I'd rather not," they murmured. "I would faint not even five minutes into a nation that humid. There's no guaruntee I won't slaughter the traveller on sight, either. Also... genuinely, Scaramouche is my least favorite of you all. I don't care what happens to him. His mommy issues got the best of him," they scoffed, to which their father's lips twitched vaguely upwards. "It would be no more entertaining than it would be boring."

       "You never did get along with the Balladeer. Shall I take you to Liyue for the time being, then? You may benefit from... detachment from the Fatui's affairs for a while."

       "...I'd like that. Maybe I'll find out where all of Childe's mora is going while I'm there."

       The Regrator chuckled at that, squeezing their shoulder once more and leaning down to kiss the top of their head. "Do see to it that I'm the first you tell when you inevitably find out, hm?"

       "I will."

please consider reblogging, it helps me out quite a lot!

[jigokuhana]

You know just cause viv treats you well doesn't mean she treats everyone else well

i'm aware of that.

but the validity of the claims against her from former SH workers are dubious at best, with very little evidence to back up their claims aside from easily faked/edited or taken out of context discord screenshots. (most of which i read through, and see no animosity on Viv's or other employee's side.)

not to mention the majority of my fellow SH employees fully admit to their treatment being very good, and attest to Viv's character. with how easy it is to get clout from drumming up fake controversy, i stand firmly in my stance until i see enough credible evidence to prove otherwise.

one has to consider (like in the case of Erin Frost) that a lot of these claims against Viv are made by people who were either too inexperienced for the job they took (and you can choose how much work you want to take on in SH), too expecting of becoming besties with Viv and being disappointed when that didn't happen, or were old toxic friendships that soured and never should've been made public.

please understand that i'm 34 years old, and not a child suffering from idol worship, nor am under the delusion that creators can never be shitty people. i'm well aware Viv has made mistakes, and could learn to handle certain things better. (i fully admit to saying some stupid shit myself 10+ years ago, after all)

but i'm not about to hold personal relationship drama or overblown mistakes that're 10+ yrs old against her, when she's (and the other SH members) been more than generous and accommodating to me. both regarding my time, payment, and treatment.

once again, i highly recommend checking out Ayy Lmao's YT videos on her controversies. at least try to get some neutral perspective on all this before judging her.

[1donoow]

MIX FANDOM FANFIC REC PT.1

[Fanfics i've read]

Edited

......

♡ - smut

Mostly fluff

......

The letter room [richard alonzo muñoz]

MPHFPC [Alma peregrine][Enoch O'Connor]

encanto [the madrigals][camilo madrigal]

a series of unfortunate events [klaus baudelaire][violet baudelaire]

harry potter [weasley twins][neville longbottom][luna lovegoods]

narnia [Edmund pevensie]

triple frontier [santiago garcia]

·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·

———THE LETTER ROOM———

richard alonzo muñoz

@marvel-and-mischief - matching pyjamas

——��———MPHFPC——————

@dapperappleton - imagine being an ymbryne and having your own loop

- imagine taking care of clair and olive

·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·

Alma peregrine

@vostokovasmelina - sleeping next to alma lefay perigine would include

@multifandomfix - imagine alma loving it when you paint her and the children

@zafirosreverie - an special case

·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·

Enoch O'Connor

@she-writes-with-kisses - quiet

- space jump

@dapperappleton - imagine being able to create death and dating enoch

@clean-bands-dirty-stories - shirtsleeves

@klineinie - blanketed

@imaginefan - story time

@y2fandom - sending him cute things

@frost-queen - no pain

@maeby-bby - you fluster me

@pink-princess-pussy-pop - dating enoch would include

————— ENCANTO ——————

madrigal

@cloud-9ine - madrigal reacting to being called their full name

@camilosnovia - there's two of them

- Madrigal Adults reacting to child!reader giving them gifts

·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·

Camilo madrigal

@sesamestreet47 - camilo w/ a tall s/o

- Camilo with a shy, sweet girlfriend

- friends

@nixthewolf - camilo simping over reader

@radiorenjun - shape-shifting frolics

@madrihoes - camilo nickname

@cloud-9ine - with or without you

@magicalencanto - camilo's s/o having power like pepa

@multificsworld - ___

- Tu Alma Tan Hermosa, Como La Luna

@caramellahoney - future daughter-in-law

- wait no wait-

@luvrcami - camilo headcannon

@bumblesimagines - being friends with camilo

@mihlo - camilo with fem s/o who wears glasses

@dos-oroguitas - angelita

- ay mamacita

— A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS —

klaus Baudelaire

@strangerdangerwrites - incompatible

@a-second-hand-sorrow - goodnight

- Not a problem

@ssadumba55 - not that easy

·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·

violet Baudelaire

@trustsalvatorewriting - dating violet Baudelaire would include

————HARRY POTTER————

@archivesofthevoid - Pulling their hair while making out

- The boys (+ Percy) stealing a kiss on the way to class hc

@lithiumfae - sexy habits they have (marauders)

·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·

weasley twins

@therandomficwriter - The Weasley Twins Having A Crush On You

@lilahisntsadanymore - Slytherin sunshine (fred)

@moonlit-imagines - ___

@therandomficwriter - weasley twins with a non ticklish s/o

·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·

neville longbottom

@hogwartseighthyear - crush

@very-unsirius - blurb

·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·

luna lovegoods

@iamthemain-character - Falling in Love with Luna Lovegood

@fromforeigntofamiliarity - taming cowardly lions

@sublimecatgalaxy - ___

——————NARNIA——————

Edmund pevensie

@pink-princess-pussy-pop - dating edmund would include

@wrenwreads - she's enough

- wardrobe malfunctions

@witchthewriter - being king edmund's wife would include

@pariahsparadise - warm pt.2

———TRIPLE FRONTIER ———

@violentdelightsandviolentends - tethered ♡

·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·

santiago garcia

@stormkobra-5 - ___♡

[gilly-moon]

For the angst list! #1 with either pairing or both of you wanna! OwO

ooooo this one was extra spicy drama. still need to edit it but here you go:

-

1 : “Don’t touch me, you lost that privilege when you let her into our bed.”

When he saw the spirit leaving Pitch’s cave, Jack’s mind went blank. His eyes darted, analyzing, processing the image of Pitch leaning over to place a kiss on the other being’s hand.

Her, Jack thought as the spirit turned.  Unbidden arose the memory of Pitch having a child. A marriage. A wife.

The spirit was draped in black like Pitch, dark hair flowing in three thick braids over her back. She smiled, and Pitch smiled back. With a sharp, agonizing pain to his chest, Jack had the thought that they looked good together.

He waited until the spirit left, and Pitch had returned inside. And then he waited a while longer, to calm his breathing and formulate what he was going to say. Snow fell in thick clumps, despite the early warmth of spring pervading the air.

By the time he was floating down into the dark cavern, he still had no plan. He couldn’t even pin down exactly what was getting him so worked up over this.

Pitch greeted him as he always did - his smile softening, his eyes gleaming with a little more gold. Jack tried to respond with a similar air of normalcy, but he was distracted wondering if Pitch’s expression had softened for her, too.

He visited twice more before Jack decided he couldn’t take not knowing anymore. But on his third arrival to Pitch’s lair, he found it eerie and empty.

So of course, he began searching. Rifling through books. Scouring over and under every walkway and bridge. Finding nothing, until he came upon Pitch’s bedroom.

It was sparse, filled with more shadows than furniture or decor. Jack’s staff glowed to illuminate a small portion of the space as he peered around. His stomach did a somersault as he approached the bed, remembering the handful of times Pitch had gathered him close on those dark sheets, showering him with affection.

When he reached out to drag his fingers over the bed, he realized the fabric on top wasn’t just sheets. As he lifted it up, he thought it might be one of Pitch’s robes, but this one was a different material. It was lighter, with sheer layers. It was familiar.

The garment slipped through his fingers. It was hers.

A noise echoed down the corridor behind him.

Jack snatched up his staff. The winds whisked him from the room, carrying him out of the nearest opening to the outside world and far, far away.

.

“Where are you, Jack?”

“Huh?”

Jack focused himself, looking up at Pitch. They were sat across from each other on one of the walkways, perched on opposite railings. Pitch had crossed his arms and his brow was furrowed. Two weeks had passed since Jack found the robe on his bed.

“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, and you’re turning my cave into an ice sculpture.” Pitch gestured to Jack’s feet, where frost was spreading rapidly over the stone. “Not to mention the palpable fear I can feel all around you. So, what is it?”

“Nothing,” Jack insisted, gaze dropping to his feet where they were crossed beneath him. “Don’t worry about it.”

“And yet whatever it is worries you a great deal.”

Pitch stood, stepping closer. Jack’s throat constricted.

“If my fear is such a bother to you, I should just go.”

There was a noise of amusement from above him, his only warning before grey fingers were reaching for his chin.

“Really, Jack, you know how delicious your fear is to -”

The fingers brushed Jack’s skin, and he lurched away. Spirals of ice shot out from the tip of his staff.

“Don’t touch me!” Jack shouted. His voice filled the cavern all the way to its darkest depths. Pitch’s eyes went wide, but Jack’s fury hadn’t finished boiling over. “You lost that privilege when you let her into our bed!”

The words were already out there by the time Jack realized what he’d said. Pitch gasped in a soft breath, hands going limp at his sides.

“Jack -”

“Why don’t you shut up, too,” Jack snapped, “just for good measure.”

Our bed. He’d never called it that before.

It wasn’t. It was Pitch’s. This was his cave, his bedroom, his bed. Jack was just a visitor. That much was obvious now.

“You’re drawing ridiculous conclusions from nothing,” Pitch snapped, hands curling at his sides.

“What I saw wasn’t nothing,” Jack shot back. He floated beside the walkway, ice crystals forming in the air all around him.

“I know exactly what you saw.”

Shadows lurched up the walls, writhing over stone as they swallowed up several shafts of light.

“Did you think you were being discreet when you ransacked my home? Because whatever effort you took to hide it was adorably pathetic.”

“Shut up.”

“I was planning to let it slide. But now you come here to yell at me like a child, and accuse me of - what, exactly? Tell me, Jack. I’m so eager to know what kind of relationship you think we have, that makes you feel you have the right to act this way.”

Jack’s heart dropped to his stomach, cold and cracked. Winds swirled around him, fast enough to rip at his hoodie and Pitch’s robe. Everything was wrong. But there was no taking back what either of them had said.

“Fuck you, Pitch.”

The winds gathered under him and shot him towards the only skylight not yet covered in darkness. Shadows raced over the ceiling, but he was faster. He burst out into the daylight and didn’t stop until he was in the clouds.

Snow filled each cloud that he passed through, droplets of ice scraping down his cheeks. As he flew, his mind grew empty until all that remained was the sickening image of grey lips pressed to a hand that wasn’t his own.

[cowboybarzy]

Hii can you write something about baking with barzal and then getting into a food fight please? also lots of fluff :)

so so sorry this has been unanswered for so long! I wanted to post this back for my bday (in march lol) but then I got super busy and didn’t really want to write anymore so I saved it for Mat’s birthday! hope you still like it :)

here’s an accompanying insta edit :)

word count: 800

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MATY

You were scrolling through Pinterest trying to find a good cake recipe when Mat and his dad came strolling through the kitchen. "Hey! We're back."

"Hi, birthday boy," you smiled when you saw him and leaned in for a kiss which he gladly accepted. "How was it?"

He told you all about his morning that he spent golfing with his dad and some of his friends for his birthday. You had made it to Vancouver especially for this occasion a couple days ago since playoffs sadly ended early for the Islanders this season. He had mostly recovered from the loss, he was still bummed and exhausted, but with his birthday here his spirits were lifting.

"What are you doing by the way?," he asked when he saw you pulling ingredients together for a cake recipe you just found.

"Your mom called and said the bakery messed up the dates for the cake and so now I'm baking you one for the party later."

"Can't we get one from another bakery? Or the grocery store?"

"Not on such short notice. And please, you deserve better than the grocery store." He rolled his eyes with a chuckle.

"Can I help?"

"Sure," you said with a laugh knowing damn well he wouldn't do a thing. And you were right. All he did was sit there looking pretty and handing you whatever ingredients you needed.

"Alright, let's let this had boy bake." You pushed the the two cake forms into the oven and then got started on the frosting.

"Mhm, let me try." Mat, like a little child, stuck his hand in the bowl with the frosting that had just started creaming so fast, you didn't have enough time to react.

"Maty!"

"Mhm! Good." He licked his fingers with a low moan, which yes, did look sexy as hell. He tried double dipping but this time you were faster.

"Stop! You already licked your fingers. That's gross."

"I'm the birthday boy. I can do whatever I want!" He stood next to you and demonstratively locked your hand away to stick four of his fingers inside the frosting. "Mhhmm. Try some."

He dipped his pointer finger in again and spread it across your lips. You smiled at his childish behavior and just gave in. "Yes, butter and sugar taste amazing."

"Your sass." He rolled his eyes and with a quick maneuver he had more frosting on his finger that landed quickly on your nose. And before you knew it, half your face was covered in the sticky topping as you tried to wiggle out of Mat's strong hold - but no chance. His tongue then swiped across your cheek. "You're sweet."

"Why, thank you. Makes sense with half a pound of frosting on my face." He lowered his lips on yours for a deep kiss, the flavor of the frosting mixing into it. The kiss distracted him, his arms around your body loosened and gripped your hips, leaving your arms free. You quickly took your chance - you hand dipped into the frosting and then smeared it across his face. "Ah!" The shock on his face when he pulled away made you top over with laughter, but when more frosting landed on your face you stopped. You stole the bowl out of his hands, taking a few steps back.

"Oh, it's on." He grinned devilishly and nodded.

"You're not playing fair though. Give me some."

"Come get it." It was your turn to smirk since you were loaded with the weapon. He attacked quicker that you thought, so it only took a few seconds for you to be trapped in his embrace again. You both had access to the frosting, which was disappearing at a swift rate, and smeared it across each other bodies - whatever place you could reach.

"What the hell are you doing?" You both froze when Mat's little sisters voice rang across the kitchen. After a few seconds of awkward silence and stares, you both toppled over with laughter while Liana stood in the doorway judging the both of you.

You called a truce, since the cake was almost done baking and let Mat go take a shower before people would arrive. You cleaned up, too, while the cake and your new batch of frosting (not made in Mat's presence) cooled.

A few hours later, the cake was done and you were surrounded by Mat's family singing 'happy birthday' to him. He blew out the candles, a content smile on his face as he watched his loved ones celebrate him.

"Happy birthday," you whispered to him later on when the conversations dispersed and he had pulled you into his lap.

"Thank you," he whispered back, pushing some hair out of your face. "Love you."

"I love you, too." You squished his cheek. "My birthday boy."

[talktomeice]

Frost (Part 1)

Rooster x Kazansky!Pilot! Reader

Warnings: mentions of throat cancer (story begins before the cancer comes back), swearing

Not Edited so there may be mistakes!!!!

ALL OF MY WRITING WILL BE PUT INTO MY PINNED POST 📌

Authors note: I wanted to write something that made many callbacks to the first Top Gun, whether it was a moment or a line. I did it for nostalgia purposes…so you may see some lines from the first top gun or you’ll see a line that was from the first top gun but I changed a word, so keep your eyes peeled…

Summary: Y/N Kazansky grew up, greatly influenced by flying, between her father, her godfather and honorary uncle, Maverick. Even the father of Y/N’s dearest best friend, Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw, flew with Mav. Bradley and Y/N were inseparable while growing up, but when Roosters admission papers were pulled from the Naval Academy, Rooster angrily disappeared from her life, and refused to talk to her at Top Gun. Y/N primarily spent her time in DC, but she spent her time teaching the top pilots around. But every path in her life has brought her back to the same place…Fightertown USA.

Y/N’s hair is blowing in the wind, and a large smile etched across her face as her 1973 ice blue ford bronco enters the familiar Miramar.

She let out a content sigh as her eyes trailed to the note securely attached to the dash that her dad gave her a long time ago when she was going accepted to Top Gun.

My dear daughter Y/N,

From the moment you were born, when I first held you in my arms, you were and still are the most important to me.

I remember when you were just 5 months old, you were in my lap while I was making faces at you, and you suddenly bit the air, and that moment only confirmed your moms and my idea that you were truly a mini Iceman.

Now you’re going to be attending Top Gun…and I know you’re sad because Rooster will be there and you two haven’t talked for many years, but please…for your dear old dad, try to talk it out. I know he brought you such a different kind of happiness. I’m so proud of you sweetheart. I love you!

You’ll always be my little girl.

My little Frost.

Love, Dad (a.k.a Iceman)

Though she was very happy to be called back to Top Gun for a special mission and to come back home, her dads was struggling still with the aftermath of throat cancer and it made her heartbreak into a thousand miserable, useless pieces.

The grown woman parked her car in front of the familiar house, leaving her bags behind in her car, sprinting up to the house and nearly eating dirt as she open the door with full force.

“Honey!!” Her mother, Sarah Kazansky jumped at her daughters sudden appearance, but quickly took her into a tight motherly hug.

“Hi mom!” The commander wheezed in her mothers grasp.

“I really wanna talk to you but I know you wanna see your dad and he really wants to see you.”Hearing those words caused a longing smile to appear on the face of the eldest Kazansky child.

Y/N bit her bottom lip with her ongoing smile as she walked through the house quietly towards her dads office on the balls of her feet.

The door she had seen many times before was finally in front of her eyes again. She slowly reaching for the door knob, the contact caused her to let out a huff. She twisted the door knob, as the door gradually opened, and the iconic blonde hair came into view.

“Hey Dad!” She excitedly spoke with a massive grin. She was ecstatic to see her favorite person again.

The chair swiveled around, her eyes meeting her fathers, at which his eyes light up seeing his first born child.

He shakily rose up from his chair, his daughter quickly grabbing him for support. He pulled her into a hug, patting his daughter’s back comfortingly.

They sat down in their respective chairs and the admiral began to type.

My frost, How are you doing?

“I’m even better now that I’m seeing you, Ice Dad.” Iceman smiled wide as his chest slightly bounced with a quiet but hearty laugh at his nickname, “I’m happy to be back.”

How do you feel about the mission you were called back for?

“Though I have zero clue what it’s about, and what’s even happening, I’m happy to go back to Top Gun. It’s going back to my roots…my favorite place.” Y/N spoke, nearly coming to a whisper at the end of the sentence. She also remembers a lot of sadness, anger, and guilt which very much stemmed from, the person who would now be considered as en ex best friend/ex crush, Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw.

Y/N’s father gave her a skeptical look before turning to his keyboard.

I know you’re thinking about Rooster. Is Rooster still angry?

“You know me to well Ice Pops,” The commander laughed as her heart felt lost without her best friend, “He still won’t answer any texts I send, or answer my calls. I don’t even remember the last time I texted or called him…I simply gave up.he never even gave me the chance to tell him that I tried to fight for him LITERALLY. I haven’t seen him for years. It’s better off this way.”

The admiral stared at his daughter, knowing that she truly wishes that it wouldn’t be this way. Her and Bradley used to me so close that he and Bradley’s mother, Carole and Maverick would all talk about how those two getting together and getting married was absolutely inevitable, but now it’s lucky if they’ll even get to face each other ever again.

You seem like you need to relax. You should go visit Penny at the Hard Deck. Plus, you never know what’s gonna happen..

Y/N raised an eyebrow at the last sentence but quickly threw the confusion to the back of her mind, because going to the Hard Deck sure sounded nice.

“You’re absolutely right, Dad.” She leaned over and kissed her fathers cheek.

Frost, you can also take my aviators.

The captains eyes got wide at the statement. Her father kept his aviators from his flying days on display on the shelf.

“Are you actually serious?” She asked, at which her father nodded, and he stood up and gave her another hug.

“I’m proud of you. I love you Frost.” Her father spoke hoarsely, Y/N holding back tears in the process. He then reached over to the shelf and grabbed his prized aviators and handed them over to his daughter.

“I love you too Ice Dad…Iceman…you can be my wingman anytime.” She spoke with a smile as she slid the aviators on and walked out the open door, turning to quickly wave her dad goodbye.

She walked out the front door of the house, grabbed her bags and brought them into the house. She didn’t bother changing out of her uniform because she just needed to get to the hard deck for a drink.

She hopped in and started driving towards the Hard Deck. Her head hopped to the end of Nice To Meet Ya by Niall Horan and she parked her car. She smiled at the familiar sight as she walked in. She noticed a man sitting at the bar, with his back facing her and two men standing near the pool table, facing away from her. Y/N walked over to the bar and sat two stools away from the man.

Penny then suddenly appeared from the back and quickly noticed the young captain and quickly ran over, “Hi sweetie! How are you?” She asks, leaning over the bar and hugging you.

“I’m happy to be back in town.” She replied with a small smile.

“Not even a hello to your uncle Mav?” A voice says next to her, her head quickly turning to the man, to realize it was her honorary uncle, Captain Pete “Maverick” Mitchell.

“Mav!” She exclaimed as they both stood up for a hug. Maverick patted her back before they both pulled back and sat down.

“What’s it like coming back home?” Mav asked as Penny handed him his glass.

“I’ll be honest, it brings a lot of emotions. I’m super happy to see the family-“ “and to get called back to Top Gun” Maverick interrupted, the girl’s eyebrow raised, “how did you know?”

“Don’t tell anyone, and I can’t say too much but lets just say you’ll probably see me there tomorrow…” Maverick trails off causing the Kazansky girl to jump up and down on her stool in excitement like a little kid causing Mav to laugh, even getting a laugh from Penny on the other side of the room, cleaning a table.

“So back to the emotions…also being back home reminds you of possibly Bradley Bradshaw?” Mav looked over at the woman, noticing the mix of anger and sadness on her face.

“And I still feel so bad for playing a part in his anger towards you. All because you’re involved with me, I brought you into it.” Mav frowned, playing with the glass in his hands.

“We may have had a huge argument over it, but I forgave you. I understood in the end what you were doing in the end but I still tried to fight for him.” She consoled Maverick with some pats on the shoulder.

“That’s exactly it. I didn’t want him to hold it against his mom that after Goose died, she didn’t want Bradley to fly, so I had that chance and I took it. He hated me for it in the end, and because we can’t tell him that, he also got angry with you, because it seemed like you didn’t care about him.” Maverick said before chugging the rest of his drink, “you even punched me in the shoulder and the stomach during that.”

“Hey now! I apologized, brought you ice for it and I bought you a new motorcycle. You said it was good after that buddy boy.” I say pushing Mavericks shoulder.

She excused herself, standing up and walking over to the bathroom. The door closes and she immediately releases a sigh as she walks in front of a mirror, pushes the aviators on top of her head, and places her hands in the side of the sink.

She’s known as the girl who keeps her cool, and who is clever and slick. But being back in Miramar…she’s quietly a mess.

She takes a bit to collect herself, her thoughts, and her emotions. Now more cool and collected, she slid her fathers aviators back down and sauntered out of the bathroom and quickly noticed that the crowd has doubled. She notices Penny, who clearly has her job cut out for her, so she walks over to the bar, offering Penny some assistance.

She starts chatting at the bar with some people, having a good laugh, gaining the attention of most of the pilots over by the pool table.

“Who’s she?” Payback asked as almost everyone’s attention was focused on the girl in uniform behind the bar.

“She would squash you like a bug.” Hangman laughed, knowing who the woman was.

“Who is she?” Payback asked again, provoking a sigh from Hangman.

“Well you wanna know who the best is? That’s her. Frost. It’s the way she flies. Ice-cold, no mistakes. She wears you down, you get bored and frustrated, do something stupid, she’s got you…just like her father.” Hangman states, spinning a pool cue in his hand.

“What’s her name?” Fanboy asked curiously, everyone except Rooster was paying attention.

“Commander Y/N Kazansky. Daughter of Admiral Kazansky.” Hangman spoke, while Rooster was still too into practicing pool on his own.

“Yo Y/N, can you bring some cold ones over?!” Hangman shouts over to the commander, causing her to roll her eyes.

She walks over, her aviators reflecting the low bar lighting.

“Heard the speech, Bagman, it’s pretty cool that you’re the president of my Fanclub now.” A sly smile appeared on the woman’s face, earning some ooohs from the other pilots.

“I like her already.” Phoenix spoke, admiring how the Kazansky child could put Hangman in his place. Y/N brought her aviators down here n the bridge of her nose and winked at Phoenix.

Everyone introduced themselves, shaking hands.

“Hey Bradley, you should meet her.” Phoenix said, finally gaining his attention.

“Meet who?” Bradley turned around, finally facing Y/N.

The two froze in their spots. So many different things ran through both of their heads, not expecting to see each other.

Bradley suddenly turned around and went back to pool, causing Y/N to roll her eyes under the aviators.

“Nice to see you too, dipshit.” Y/N snarled, loud enough for Bradley to hear.

As she turned away to leave, she could hear Phoenix trying to get information out of Bradley.

In very short order, she got into her car and drove back off to her home. She began to fully digest that Bradley still holds resentment towards her and that’s were Frost began to lose her cool.

————

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[beevean]

Idk I think people objections to vivziepop is overblown, she's hard to work with? So was Yuji Naka, She drew problematic art? So did Miura Kentaro and Rebecca Sugar, she said bad things in the past? So did Seth MacFarlane, she didn't groom any minors or assaulted someone like the Rick and Morty guy or the Red and Stimpy guy

Fun fact, a friend and I today tried to read the "controversies" page on Vivziepop.

And it's. Bad. As in, I refuse to believe anyone older than 20 wrote it.

Some of the claims have sources. Not all of them, though. Case in point, this gem:

Grooming Allegations On January 19th XXXX, Vivziepop has been accused of grooming a 14-year-old. (Needs citation)

Or this one

It is also worth noting that Vivzie supports Zone Tan, who is infamous for being a child predator who used a real child's voice for his child porn. It was also shown that Vivziepop directly interacted with Zone.

(wow, that sounds like a serious accusation! source?)

(also please it's not child porn, it's CSEM if it involves a real child)

Other parts come off as edit wars:

The drama died down after a couple days when a decent number current of SpindleHorse members, such as Sam Haft, Monica Franco, HorrorFreak, and more talked about their positive experiences, and some were convinced that the accusations were exaggerated or lies.

Erin Frost returned yet again in November. At this point, many are sick of her continued attempts at showing what she considers proof of her mistreatment, especially since she shamed others who won't stand with her, calling them "spineless" and sharing private messages without their consent. To a large portion of people, Erin Frost is not the innocent victim she claims to be and is attempting to twist the situation so that she comes out looking more sympathetic than she actually is

And then we get the absolute petty shit:

Improper Representation of Sexual Assault In one of the episodes of Hazbin Hotel, there have been some criticism about how sexual assault has been treated, as one of the chatacters, Husk, would tell Angel Dust that the latter will "get over it", even though Angel Dust has experiences with being sexually assaulted by Valentino, which is one of the things you should never say to a person who suffers from PTSD/Trauma.

Not even touching the yet again misconception that Loser Baby is a victim blaming song... This is a lie. Husk never once utters the words "get over it". This should be edited out immediately. Checking the source, it was badly paraphrased by a Tumblr post badly paraphrasing it in bad faith.

It was then revealed that Vivziepop also supported a Twitter user named "Raphielle", who is an NSFW artist that actively makes art of non-con/rape of Valentino and Angel (in which Valentino is the abuser, and Angel Dust as a victim of Val), with Raphielle even supporting said ship despite it being toxic and very wrong.

"and very wrong", how old are you?

Also I don't see the issue? Valentino abusing Angel is canon. And if Raphielle animated Poison, kudos to them for such a raw portrayal of abuse.

What makes it worse that Raph romanticizes it as well, despite mentioning that he has dealt with being repressed and being controlled, which is not a good excuse of drawing rape porn, in which Raph constantly fetishizes it.

Now this has just turned into a Twitter thread.

Supporting of Proshipping Like said before, while she has supported Raphielle, who supports non-con/rape ship of Valentino and Angel Dust, Vivziepop has also be revealed to have sexualized Morty from an adult animated TV show called "Rick and Morty" (in which Morty is 14-years-old, mind you). Vivziepop would even go as far as to ship Morty with Rick Sanchez (who is Morty's 70-year-old Adoptive grandfather).

Perish the thought.

The source of Vivzie following "bad people" is exactly what you would expect: the main accusation is that she follows porn artists with a fat fetish. Tagged as "csa" to boot. You people wouldn't have survived a day on DeviantART ffs.

And this is the cherry on top:

"Hey maybe this page should be written in a professional manner."

"HOW DARE YOU DEFEND A SHIT PERSON"

yeah you sure a person I can trust with handling delicate information!

Basically, I can't take this seriously. Again, I checked some sources, mainly the transmisandry ones, and sadly they look legit. The complaints about HH are however asinine to the point that the whole page loses credibility.

I won't get into this matter because I don't want to get involved into this year-long discourse more than necessary. I won't respond to anything related to Vivziepop again. But I wanted to vent because I hate when people are accused of being pedophiles/child molesters/abusers because they follow people who draw Sonic porn or they support people with a non-fluffy ship. Get over yourselves, and stick to the actually harmful stuff.

[marley-warriors]

Loki/Basim's background and motivations analysis

Based on AC Vallhalla, Mirage, Dawn of Ragnarok, The Golden City novel, and Forgotten Myths comic

To start with, the creator of Sages, Darby McDevitt explaines Sages as such.

Basim and Loki are the same being born in different time periods. Basim is Loki, but has amnesia of his past Isu life. It is only after accepting his Loki side (aka Nehal) that he lifted his amnesia and remembers his first life.

Edit: Sarah Beaulieu, narrative director of Mirage, indicates it may be a takeover, contrary to Darby below. Seems the lore is still unclear.

So here is what we know of Loki/Basim's background.

Loki had brothers once, but Basim did not. From the Edda's we learn of two older brothers; Byleist and Helblindi. His Father's name was Farbauti, which translates to 'Dangerous striker'.

In the Golden City we learn that Loki's father was extremely cruel and violent towards him, and apparently never loved him. From a young age, Loki would have felt unworthy of love. He was a child. He needed love to feel safe, but instead was forced to adapt to violence. Also, note how sad he is in the text. He's neglected and traumatised by his childhood memories.

It's saddening how Loki/Basim is filled with a childlike jealousy at Hytham's care for Leo. Because deep inside Loki/Basim craves that parternal love and affection which he never recived. And perhaps Basim's architect father provided a balm for that, but it was not enough, because even this father abandoned him by dying. And again he is forced to grow up fast as an outcast amongst society.

He is not evil, and had ambitions. Basim wanted to aid the less fortunate and had a strong sense of justice. We never met young Loki, but Baldr approached Loki specifically for mentorship in diplomacy.

[I will need a mentor in the art of diplomacy - and none is shrewder than Loki. - Baldr]

From an Isu perspective it would have been sensible to employ Loki as a Diplomat. It might have been his actual job, which explains why he was free to travel between the warring empires. Not just that, but he is half Jotnar and half Aesir. In the games Loki referes to himself as a Jotnar, but in the comic he acknowledges that he is not a pure-blooded Aesir, indicating his mom was Aesir.

The comics indicate that he was born and raised in Jotunheim, being well familiar with the area and serving as Baldr's guide.

[Jotunheim, realm of the frost giants was a harsh land. But Loki knew it well. For six days he guided Baldr through the mountains as they sought their treasure, evading the residents of that terrible place.

Loki: Stay in the shadows and out of the sunlight, no matter how tempting the warmth. Jotun eyes are keen and there are many about.

Baldr: Aren't you cold?

Loki: Don't mistake me for blood-kin Baldr. My father was bathing in blizzards while yours lounged in summer fields.

[Baldr is freezing in place and becoming an icicle while lamenting death.]

Loki: Perhaps I should have come alone.

Baldr: I couldn't let you risk the danger on my behalf. Not when I am invunerable and you-

Loki: - can endure the cold better than any pure-blooded Aesir? ]

Jotunheim under Jupiter/Zeus/Suttungr seems to be North America. Perhaps Loki grew up in Alaska or Canada. Loki is also a frost giant with the ability to manipulate ice (might also be a piece of Eden or bio-engineering).

The comics show that Loki loves spinning tall tales and has a real passion for story crafting. Baldr was aware of that and played that to his advantage.

[Appealing to my ego? Transparent, but... effective. - Loki AC Forgotten Myths after Baldr sweet-talks him.]

Loki has a big ego, and is aware of it too. In general, he seems keenly aware and insightful of his own nature, and engages in philosophical musings with Baldr. A sense of self-preservation drives Loki, and he uses this as a shield against anyone that threatens to do him harm. Loki is quick to fear death (as are most beings of course), but Loki's fear of death seems extreme, possibly steming from deep-rooted trauma.

[My nature is neither better nor worse than the next man's. When I am kind, it is because it suits me. When I am cruel, it is to preserve my existence - and that of my kin. The fear of death is the root of my "callousness." - Loki]

[I cannot be other than I am. All of this was fated. All this will happen again.]

Loki fully believes in fate, and so justifies his actions as already being calculated by the fates. There's no point in trying to be a better person if the fates have already declared you to be the bad guy, which is how every other character makes him feel.

[Have you considered that Havi may not want Loki redeemed? - Freya to Baldr in AC Forgotten Myths]

It doesn't help that the others keep enforcing this idea by calling him a trickster and oath-breaker, because if they don't hold him to a higher standart, why should he himself? Even the blood-brother Loki once looked up to has decided that he should never be seen as redeemable.

[Yet only a fool trusts Loki - Loki to Baldr after Baldr asks for mentorship in AC Forgotten Myths]

In the comics, it seems that Loki has weaponised his stereotype, and he warns Baldr a few times that he should be cautious around none other than himself. Either Loki has been verbally abused often enough to fully believe that he's the bad guy, or he uses it as a persona to hide his vunerability and hurt. Perhaps he was even trying to give Baldr a fighting chance of surving his own wrath?

Also, we must remember that Loki and Havi saw each other as real brothers. Havi called Loki his 'brother' or numerous occasions, but when angry, he'd call him 'Jotnar' or derogatory terms. Even Loki and Baldr called each other nephew and uncle on multiple occasions. Loki grew up in a broken family, found a new family in the Aesir, and forged a family of his own with Sigyn and Aletheia, but all of his families were shattered and taken from him.

[With such gifts would Loki find forgiveness. My brother always knew how to win hearts. To him, it was almost as easy as breaking them. - Havi]

Loki can be very charming if it gains him favour. He loves using bribes and offering gifts to appease the Aesir.

As is the case with some traumatic childhoods, Loki seems to understand love as transactional. Love needs to be earned by good deeds or gifts. And Havi's words seem to further reinforce the the notion of Loki only being valuable if he could offer contributions.

[Now Loki had the three gifts he needed to win redemption in Asgard. - Havi AC Dawn of Ragnarok]

Loki/Basim has a strong sense of justice, hence killing Baldr had been Loki's last resort. He had tried countless other methods first. Fenrir's imprisonment infuriated Loki, so he tried to reason with Havi. (Rightly so, Fenrir was a literal BABY who had done nothing wrong). Loki wanted to appeal to the council and courts for an overturned judgement, but Aletheia stopped him as she feared they'd kill him. Loki and Aletheia then polygraphed Havi before attempting to imprison him. When Juno freed Havi, it further foiled Loki's plans.

Loki informed Jupiter of what was happening, but even Jupiter failed to end the threat. It seems at this point that Loki really snapped and decided to do the job himself. He aimed to kill Havi before ever thinking of killing Baldr.

[Oath-breaker? I did to you what you did to my son. This is only fair. Release him, Havi. Release Fenrir, or I swear I will kill you here and now - Loki AC Valhalla]

Now this is interesting because of the blood-oath. Loki was ready and willing to kill Havi, which would activate the blood-oath and kill him too. The blood-oath promised mutual assured destruction, which is essentially a murder-suicide on Loki's part. But he was willing to die of suicide if it meant Fenrir could be free. Havi spared Loki because Havi had no intention of dying.

So Loki, who has become suicidal, sets off to stalk Baldr, and decides "Curse all! If I can never hold my son again, neither can Havi!"

[I have a tale for you. A tale of Loki, who claimed righteous vengeance upon Havi through his hapless son... - Loki imprisoned in AC Forgotten Myths]

Loki truly believes this is justified. He essentialy stabbed his only ally in the back, killing the last Aesir that had any trust or love towards him. It's interesting that Havi's own self-fulling prophesis brought this about, which Loki himself cautioned Havi against.

Loki is cunning, shifty, self-serving, a liar, but he is also diplomatic, patient, helpful and has a strong sense of justice. Circumstances have pushed him to this point. If Basim is Loki, we know that he is capable of good, and longed to do well (this depends on whether Basim was Loki or serves only as a vessel to him).

Loki only ever wanted to be a good father. He wanted to be the father he never had. When Loki lost Fenrir, he probably hated himself, because in his mind, he was now just as bad as his own father. He was willing to endure his two worst fears - death and lonliness - to free Fenrir. Not to mention Loki's cell being a claustrophobic coffin, completely alone (his biggest fear), only taken out off his coffin prison to be physically tortured. It's no suprise he experiences CPTSD/PTSD from his childhood, his imprisonment and the imprisonment of his son.

PS: Some people say Loki was evil in the Edda's? I read over them, and Loki was never malicious or evil (except when he killed Baldr and bragged about it). He was a troublemaker and caused chaos, but never for malicious or evil reasons. Loki was never jealous or plotting. He was more of a prankster. In fact, the Aesir were unreasonably cruel to him, constantly threatening him with death or bodily harm. Loki only caused the Aesir trouble for two reasons; he was A) Bored or B) Hungry/hangry. (Do not touch his food. He will fight you).

[adarkrainbow]

Edmund Dulac's Fairy Tales go to War

Jstor Daily published an article with the catchy title "Edmund Dulac's Fairy Tales go to War". Of course I had to read it. The original article is here if you want to check it out, but I'll still copy-paste it below because it's crazy info. (And given it is quite long I will put two thirds of it under a cut)

Edmund Dulac’s Fairy Tales Go to War One of the best-known illustrators of the “golden age of children’s gift books,” Dulac was also a subtle purveyor of Allied propaganda during the Great War.

By: S. N. Johnson-Roehr and Jonathan Aprea ; December 16, 2022

Once upon a time, there was a young artist named Edmund Dulac, who built his early reputation on his illustrations for J. M. Dent & Company’s 1905 edition of Jane Eyre. Almost instantly, he became a leading name in the book arts, producing illustrations for the Brontë sisters and popular magazines. Annual exhibitions of his drawings and paintings at the Leicester Galleries, London, drew the attention of both the European and American art world. In 1910, critic Evelyn Marie Stuart, writing for Chicago’s The Fine Arts Journal, described his work as “rich with poetry and imagination, and strong in the possession of that decorative element which renders a picture universally pleasing.” His drawings were like "things seen in a vision or a mirage; or traced by the fancy of a child in the lichens on the wall, the water discolorations upon a ceiling, or the light shining through a broken crumpled shade; or, even like the things we try to decipher in the leaping flames and glowing embers of an open fire—many of these delightful sketches suggest to our fancy in some detail a variety of objects."

Dulac’s themes tended toward the fantastical—scenes from the Arabian Nights and Omar Khayyam’s Rubáiyát—with roots in the Pre-Raphaelites and not far removed from the work of Arthur Rackham and Kay Nielsen.

Born in France and naturalized as a British citizen in 1912, Dulac understandably awarded his loyalties to the Allies during the Great War. To support the war effort, he contributed his art and design skills to several charity books, including Princess Mary’s Gift Book and King Albert’s Gift Book, both published in 1914. If there remained any doubts as to his feelings about the Axis powers, they were surely erased when he published Edmund Dulac’s Picture-Book for the French Red Cross in 1915, with its cover proclaiming “All profits on sale given to the Croix Rouge Française, Comité de Londres.”

Even more convincing—and more inventive—was his use of fairy tales to not just further his charitable efforts but to possibly encourage the United States to join the war. Published in 1916, Edmund Dulac’s Fairy-Book was a subtle but persuasive example of wartime propaganda. Subtitled “Fairy Tales of the Allied Nations,” it included Dulac’s own adaptations of folk tales gathered from the nations fighting with Great Britain: France, Russia, Italy, Belgium, Serbia, Japan, and China.

Below, courtesy of the Minneapolis College of Art and Design, are reproductions of some of the illustrations from Edmund Dulac’s Fairy-Book, accompanied by brief explanation of each story.

Snegorotchka: A Russian Fairy Tale

Snegorotchka (more commonly transliterated Snegurochka), the “The Snow Maiden,” is a recurring character in Russian folklore, playing various roles, from child to adult, in stories bounded by the winter and spring seasons. By the late nineteenth century, Snegurochka had blended fully with the traditions of Christmas, often serving as a helper to Grandfather Frost (Ded Moroz).

In Dulac’s version of a common tale, Snegurochka is a girl made from snow, brought to life to add joy to the waning years of a childless couple. An elderly man and women all but will the girl into being as they shape a tiny body of snow in the woods. Snegurochka leaps to life, filling their home and souls with warmth throughout the winter. Tragically, the little girl disappears with the heat of spring weather, leaving the parents bereft.

Another version of the Snegurochka tale formed the basis of a play by Alexander Ostrovsky, which was subsequently adapted into an opera by Rimsky-Korsakov.

The Buried Moon: An English Fairy Tale

Sometimes known as The Dead Moon, The Buried Moon highlights the dangers of living in the bog country of Northern Europe.

Traveling through a bog, a personified Moon becomes entangled in magical, malevolent branches. After some struggle with “all the vile things” that love darkness (witch-things, bogle-bodies, creeping things, and the Scorpion King, to name a few), the Moon finds herself buried deep in the mud, held down with a black stone.

Of course the humans miss the Moon, lamenting her failure to appear in the sky on schedule, but who even knows where to search for her? Even the Wise Woman of the Mill can’t see any trace of her. Fortunately, just before her entombment, the Moon had managed to briefly shine her light to guide a lost and wandering human out of the treacherous marsh. Remembering this moment, the man spreads the word. Emboldened by the Wise Woman’s words of encouragement as well as the Lord’s Prayer, the local people march to the bog, fight off the Horrors of the Darkness, and rescue their beloved Moon

White Caroline and Black Caroline: A Flemish Fairy Tale

Folklorist Antoon Jozef Witteryck collected White Caroline and Black Caroline (Wit Karlientje en Zwart Karlientje) and included it in his 1899 Old Flemish Folktales (Oude Westvlaamsche volksvertelsels), an annotated version of which was republished by Hervé Stalpaert in 1946. The story can also be found in the Annales de la Société d’Emulation pour l’Étude de l’Histoire & des Antiquities de la Flandre (Bruges, 1889).

White Caroline and Black Caroline depends on the familiar figure of the evil stepmother, a woman who loves her ugly daughter (Black Caroline) more than her beautiful stepdaughter (White Caroline). Everyone and everything, from townspeople to lambs to dancing dogs, love White Caroline and equate her beauty with good. But the mother prefers her own daughter, noting “Black Caroline was so ugly;—but she was good all the same!”

And indeed, Black Caroline is good. Her mother tries no fewer than three times to murder White Caroline, and each time, Black Caroline intercedes. Poison thorns in the pillow, poison in her meatball dinner, an “accidentally” falling millstone—none manage to kill White Caroline, thanks to Black Caroline’s quick thinking.

The abrupt entrance of White Woman, queen of all the water and the woods, brings the murder attempts to a close. Not surprisingly, White Woman also loves White Caroline and promises to give her whatever she wishes—beautiful grapes, a dress of silk, a nice sailboat. Luckily, White Caroline is also good: she wishes to have Black Caroline with her. More than that, she wishes they could look alike. The White Woman has an idea:

“Little white feathers appeared on their shoulders and spread until they were entirely covered; and there they stood together, two beautiful white swans! And ever after they swam up and down on the peaceful water and no one could tell one from the other.”

The Seven Conquerors of the Queen of the Mississippi: A Belgian Fairy Tale

While there may be an actual fairy tale underpinning The Seven Conquerors of the Queen of the Mississippi, the story’s title reveals Dulac’s probable agenda. It takes no large leap of the imagination to read the “seven conquerors” as Great Britain, France, Russia, Italy, Serbia, Japan, and China, all seeking an alliance with the Queen of the Mississippi—the United States—on the fields of Belgium.

The story is straightforward and structurally repetitive—each conqueror swears an oath of loyalty, and their individual strengths combine to win the Queen and kill the King (hello, Kaiser Wilhelm II).

Dulac, or some unnamed collaborator, has penned a verse that cuts through the first half of the tale with a modern rhythm and vocabulary.

“Will you travel with me, my pippy?” “Oh! Whither away? To Botany Bay?” “But no; to the far Mississippi, Where a Queen—tooral-ooral-i-ay— Is waiting for what I’m to say.” “I am yours! And the bounty?” “Either here or in Botany Bay!”

‘Will you travel with me, my pippy?” “Oh! Whither away? To Rome or Pompeii?” “But no; to the far Mississippi: There’s a Queen of great beauty that way, And there’s no one but Cupid to pay.” “I am yours! And the bounty?” “Name your price: it shall be as you say.” And so on. Travel with me, my pippy!

The Serpent Prince: An Italian Fairy Tale

The Italian poet Giambattista Basile collected The Serpent Prince (sometimes translated as The Enchanted Snake) in the seventeenth century, including it in The Pentamerone: Lo cunto de li cunti (The Tale of Tales). Folklorist Andrew Lang drew upon Basile’s version for The Green Fairy Book (1892).

Dulac has created his own prefatory material for the familiar story, opening with the popular nursery rhyme:

The old woman who lived in a shoe, Who had so many children she didn’t know what to do,

allegedly “lived about the same time in another part of the country” even though The Serpent Prince was collected in Naples.

As the story goes, a forester’s wife, Sapatella, finds a tiny serpent in her firewood. Childless, Sapatella is startled but amenable when the serpent offers himself up for adoption (“she was a kind-hearted woman and very, very lonely”).

The serpent grows—as children do—and soon demands a wife. And not just any wife! The serpent must marry the king’s daughter. Surprisingly, the king agrees to meet this demand. Or does he? He will give his daughter in marriage only if the adopted son-serpent can turn all the fruit in the royal orchards to gold.

It’s not clear why anyone is surprised that a talking serpent can wield the magic necessary to turn fruit into gold. Nor is it clear why the king would think the serpent would fail at any additional challenge placed before him. Turn the walls into diamonds and rubies? No problem. Turn the entire palace into gold? Absolutely (“not gold plate either: it was all solid gold of the purest kind.”). The king is forced to cede the battlefield. The princess will marry the serpent.

Of course, the serpent is really an enchanted prince, and here you would think the story would end: the affianced are wed, their kingdoms allied. But thanks to an additional foolish act by the king, the prince is again enchanted (and worse), and only the princess can save him. But will she be able to outwit the wily fox standing between her and her beloved?

The Hind of The Wood: A French Fairy Tale

Dulac offers a faithful retelling of The Hind in the Wood (La Biche au bois, also translated as The White Doe or The Enchanted Hind), written by Marie-Catherine Le Jumel de Barneville, Countess d’Aulnoy. A talented and creative storyteller, Countess d’Aulnoy gave us the very words “fairy tale” in 1697, when she published her first collection under the title Les Contes des fees (Tales of the Fairies).

Though the titular hind is the star of the story, the scene opens with an unhappy, childless queen encountering a talking crayfish. Though “hearing a big Crayfish talk—and talk so nicely too—was a great surprise to her,” the queen listens carefully to the crustacean.

The reward for her attentiveness is a kingdom transformed. Beneath her feet appears “a carpet of violets, and, in the giant cedars above, thousands of little birds, each one a different colour, [singing] their songs; and the meaning of their melody was this: that cradle, woven by fairy fingers, was not there for nothing.” Soon she will be a mother!

A troupe of fairies gather around the suddenly expecting queen and ask that she welcome them on the day of birthing so they can give special gifts to the babe, who will be named Désirée. And on that special day, the queen indeed remembers to bid them come to the palace. Sadly, she neglects to invite the talking crayfish (who is really the Fairy of the Fountain) to the celebration.

Curses. But only small ones, in the scheme of things. The Fairy of the Fountain warns the royal parents to keep Princess Désirée from seeing daylight until she turns fifteen. That’s all.

Alas, the Warrior Prince lies on his death bed. Just a portrait of Désirée is enough to make him fall in love and abandon his plans to marry Black Princess. Yet he cannot see her—she will not be fifteen for a few more months. To save the Warrior Prince, Désirée agrees to travel with her two ladies-in-waiting by darkened carriage to his kingdom.

Unfortunately, one of those ladies-in-waiting, Long-Epine, is a traitor. She slits the cover of the carriage, exposing Désirée to daylight. Just a drop of sunlight turns the princess into a dazzling white hind. She instantly runs off into the forest. And that is the curse: by day, a doe; by night, a lonely princess.

The Warrior Prince wanders this very forest and soon spots the white deer. Annoyed that the animal tries to keeps its distance from him, he looses an arrow and pierces her flank. He’s sorry! Especially when he finds out the hind is his beloved, enchanted.

She isn’t enchanted for much longer, however. The Prince, even knowing all, loves her. And that is enough to break the spell

Ivan and the Chestnut Horse: A Russian Fairy Tale

Variations of Ivan and the Chestnut Horse are abundant in Russian folklore. Sometimes Ivan rides a chestnut horse, sometimes a dun. A common version of the story, known as Sivko-Burko, was collected by A. N. Afanas’ev in the mid-nineteenth century. Included in Jack V. Haney’s comprehensive The Complete Folktales of A. N. Afanas’ev (Tale #179, Vol. II), this version gives Ivan a magic black steed.

Ivan and his brothers have just committed themselves holding daily prayers over the grave of their recently departed father when they hear that Princess Helena the Fair has decided to wed. To win her favor, her suitor must leap on horseback to the top of the shrine on which she sits, kissing her as he flies through the air.

Ivan, the youngest of the siblings, offers to take on the burden of graveside prayer for a week so his brothers can curl their hair and train their horses for the challenge. One week stretches to two, and then to three. The brothers ignore their filial duties to dye their mustaches. So much attention is paid to their appearance that they even neglect to feed their horses.

And yet, when the day of the leaping contest arrives, the older brothers dash away on their mounts, leaving Ivan alone to pray and weep over his father’s grave.

It was thus that two out of three brothers miss their father’s resurrection. Shaking himself free of the damp earth, the father offers to help his youngest son. He begins to call out in a loud voice—one time, two times, three times. Ivan discovers his father is summoning a beautiful chestnut horse!

Yes, this is the enchanted steed that will take Ivan to the shrine of Helena the Fair, where—after two failed attempts—it rises to the leap, allowing Ivan to press his lips to those of the princess “in a long sweet kiss, for the chestnut horse seemed to linger in the air at the top of its leap while that kiss endured.”

After summoning the steed, Ivan’s father immediately vanishes. No matter, because Ivan is soon welcomed to supper with the father of his bride, Princess Helena the Fair.

The Blue Bird: A French Fairy Tale

The Blue Bird (l’Oiseau Bleu) is another tale that comes to us by Countess d’Aulnoy. Though there are many variants of the story found across Europe, scholar Jacques Barchilon notes that d’Aulnoy’s version is remarkably robust, appearing in a French Canadian collection, “word for word the version of Mme d’Aulnoy’s with all details,” as late as 1960. Andrew Lang also included it in The Green Fairy Tale Book.

Our story opens with a rich but miserable king. He’s inconsolable, having only recently become a widower. Hoping to comfort him, his courtiers present him with a woman dressed in mourning clothes and possibly crying even louder and longer than the king himself.

Finding solace in their similar sorrows, they decide to wed. Each brings into the marriage a daughter from their first marriage. The king’s daughter: “one of the eight wonders of the world,” the young and lovely Florine. The new queen’s daughter: “neither beautiful nor gracious,” the young Truitonne, with a face like a trout and hair “so full of grease that it was impossible to touch it.”

The queen loves Truitonne much more than she loves Florine, which wouldn’t matter if the king didn’t love the queen so much that he cedes to her every wish. For instance, he allows her to dress Truitonne in jewels and Florine in rags when Prince Charming appears at court. Despite the heavy-handed costuming, however, Prince Charming only has eyes—and love—for Florine.

The queen schemes. The queen plots. She enlists maid, frogs (“for mind you, frogs know all the routes of the universe”), and fairy godmothers. And yet the Prince will not be deflected from his plans to be with Florine. Finally, exasperated with his stubbornness, Truitonne’s fairy godmother turns the prince into a blue bird—for seven years!

It’s not too bad, at first. In bird form, the prince finds it easier to woo Florine—until the queen discovers that he flies to her window every night. Wielding her dark magic, Truitonne’s fairy godmother sends the blue bird to his nest to die.

Fortunately, every bad fairy seems to be balanced by a good fairy. This bright character finds the dying blue bird in his nest and heals him. It doesn’t seem to help much—the queen is determined that Truitonne will marry the prince even if only by trickery and deception.

The queen’s shenanigans never seem to end—this is a long fairy tale—but eventually the universe, or at the least the good fairy, finds a way to bring Prince Charming and Florine together.

The Friar and the Boy: An English Fairy Tale

The Friar and the Boy, also known as Jack and his Stepdame, reaches back to the poetry of medieval England. In volume three of Remains of the Early Popular Poetry of England (1866), William Carew Hazlitt records a c. 1585 London imprint of the chapbook verse that underpins the modern version of this tale.

The story begins with Jack, a young lad wronged by his stepmother. She starves him, she yells at him, she altogether doesn’t care for him.

One day, sent to the fields to watch the sheep, Jack encounters a hungry old man. Jack’s lunch isn’t much, as his stepmother is loathe to feed him decent food, but he gives it to the stranger. In return, the old man gives Jack three wishes.

Wish one: a bow and arrow, charmed such that the target will never be missed. Wish two: a pipe, its magic strong enough to make anyone dance who hears its tune. Wish three: an enchantment that will turn his stepmother’s harsh words into laughter.

Jack instantly puts his granted wishes to work. When his stepmother begins to scold him, her words turn to laughter. She laughs herself sick. When the Friar is sent to chastise Jack for his impudence, he ends up dancing through the brambles to Jack’s piping. Soon Jack has the entire village dancing to his tunes!

Alas, his poor old father begs for a rest. Jack loves his father, so he ceases to play. Not surprisingly, the Friar takes advantage of the pause to have Jack called before the Judge, “be-wigged and severe.”

The Friar makes his case: “the prisoner here has a pipe, and, when he plays upon it, all who hear must dance themselves to death, whether they like it or not.”

Intrigued, the Judge asks to hear this so-called Dance of Death. Jack is happy to oblige and takes up his pipe to play. Soon everyone in court is on their feet, dancing madly to the tunes. Even the judge joins in, “holding up his robes and footing it merrily.” He’s a believer, but he soon asks the boy to stop.

Jack agrees, but only if everyone promises to treat him properly.

“I think,” says the Judge, “if you will put your pipe away, they will consent to an amicable arrangement.”

Court is adjourned.

The End.

[mcu-reviews]

Thor

Thor is a good movie made okay with a bad ending. Thor is about thor, an entitled prince who is sent to earth to learn to be a better king. While he is on earth his brother loki plots to keep him on earth fueled by rage born from his father's lies.

Loki is the most interesting character in this movie, a prince stolen from his homeland and falling into villainy in a justified rage. Odin is never fully called out for his actions in this movie, there is one scene of loki yelling at him, and another at the end of thor calling him a great king. Odin is colonizer, he conquered the nine realms in the name of "order" and "peace". When i realized that, i started thinking about the frost giants. Our first asian rep with Laufey. They are brutes and savages, constantly plotting against odin and asgard. They want to destroy asgard. Which could very clearly parallels to myths about colonized peoples. Than there is loki, A child stolen from his home and culture, and put aside only for his brother to be favored. This does not feel like the movie commenting on colonization. This is purely what my mind thought of while watching. Most importantly, i do not think loki is right or just, obviously. I know a lot of you will be able to understand this. Loki kills people and than tries to genocide his own people. Not a hero.(yet)

Judging the actual story is a little harder because its fine. Thors arc of needing to learn "violence is not always the answer" is fine. The romance subplot is fine, although it feels a little rushed. They meet and over the course of three days, They are deeply in love. That is fine tho, a lot of movies do that. The original characters besides loki and odin are fine. The sidekicks are a little under developed and don't have much chemistry with thor. Thor himself is immature and childish, Its funny when its comedic but its hard to see what jane foster likes so much. Jane foster feels a little bland and im having a hard time knowing why. Darcy is played by Kat Dennings and i do not want to upset her so no complaints. Erik is basic old guy character, i am waiting for his insane arc. Loki is very interesting (see above) and has a great fall into madness. Odin is mostly carried by anthony hopkins who puts in a fantastic performance as a wise old king. He really pops in later movies however and i can't wait to talk about him in those.

The design of asgard and the visual effects are good but not great, the sound design, editing, and score is fine. Except with the destroyer, the bell sound for the fire blast is great. The costuming is great, especially for heimdall and loki. Shields inclusion feels natural and well implemented. Hawkeyes cameo is great, and phil coulson gets to be his great self.

Overall, Thor is a fine movie that i saw a colonization plot in. It isnt as bad as the incredible hulk and is a great movie to watch in the background. Ultimately its okay in a marathon but not great.

I'm doing a colonization myself.

[the-grove]

Digimon Partner: Roxy Edition

(edit: Roxy never clicked enter and this was in our drafts so i'm sharing it) So since Abayomi and Princess did one of these, I felt like I would as well. Similarly to Princess I will just be doing one digivolution lines primarily because the typical default Line for the Rookie is pretty much perfect as well, but I wanted to have fun with it. So lets begin

ROOKIE/CHILD: Gabumon!

When we were a kid, we gravitated towards the character of T.K(and Kari but we kept that a secret.) and while T.K wasn't Gabumons partner... Gabumon was the partner of Matt/Yamato, T.K's older brother. So we tend to think of Gabumon as a protector and really close to us. Given that Gabumons default line of Garurumon>Weregarurumon>Metalgarurumon goes into a wolf theme with some frost elements, it also seemed like a natural fit for me. That being said, I will come up with a new evolution line that represents the protective nature to reflect that nature, and my love of warriors/paladins/knights, while still keeping the color scheme and and even the Wolf theme for the most part!

Champion/Adult: Wolfmon/Lobomon

Wolfmon sticks to the wolf theming and introduces swordplay. Wolfmon also has some other great connections. Wolfmon is the spirit evolution for the Spirit of life, which was held by Koji in digimon Frontiers (a series where the humans become the digimon). This is fun because Kojis arc involves reconnecting with his brother, which is kind of a nice connection as to why Gabumon was a natural choice for me. ULTIMATE/PERFECT: Knightmon

Knightmon loses the wolf motif and focuses more on the armored knight aspect but I think it already builds on the direction Wolfmon was going. It doubles down on the warrior and protective aspects that I feel so connected to. This also connects to the T.K Yamato connection that is important to me. Knightmons shield carries the crest of Hope on it, which was the crest associated with T.K.

And now its time to return to the wild... MEGA/ULTIMATE: Cres Garurumon

Cresgarurumon is what this has all been building up to. Cres-garurumon is first a callback to the traditional line of Gabumon(and in fact Gabumon did digivolve into it in the 2020 version of Digimon adventure) but it also builds on those knightly aspects of the digivolution line I shared here. The color scheme also I feel works nicely throughout the line, the yellows, greys/silvers, and purple can be seen throughout the entire line! each stage also focuses on a different fighting style!! Dual wielding, sword and board, and two handers.