#✧*◇.✦ { ❝ He tells you he’s very proud of his visage. ❞ } ⋙ self.

[moronkombat]

Bi-Han nsfw alphabet? 🫣🧊

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Bi-Han is rather tender with his lover after having sex. He is quick to check on them, making sure they are comfortable and content. A large hand will encompass a cheek and his eyes will search his lover's before he pulls you close. His arms around you like a barrier to the entire world and its evils. He will protect you from them all

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Bi-Han is proud of his face. Not because it a handsome one but becomes it is identical to his mother's. Her visage is painted on him, it all he has left of her to look at besides aging photos. As he ages he likes to think his mother would look this way too

His partner's hands. So much smaller and lighter than his own, so easily to be broken. Bi-han would never. Not in any lifetime would he harm his lover. Those hands are to be held, kisses and caressed

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Definitely prefers to finish inside his partner. It is much more intimate and personal for him to release himself within a place most warm and hidden. Bi-Han truly feels deeply connected to his partner when their natural essence mingle and flow together

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Is often plagued by "inappropriate" thoughts of his lover. There is a hunger behind his eyes that fill his head with tantalizing fantasies of the carnal variety. He will tell absolutely no one that he often thinks of his lover quite lewdly. He vents these thoughts through rigorous exercise and sparring with other Lin Kuei

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

He's a virgin Very inexperienced. Bi-Han found little use or time for engaging in sexualized behaviors. He is not partial to seeking out a bedwarmer or a temptation of the night. When Bi-Han loves, it is completely and truly and with the one person he holds dearest

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Very much so ever changing. The position often changes based on the opportunity that is in front of him. Though he is rather traditional and prefers missionary with his lover. It feels right when he can look into his lovers eyes, bodies pressed closely together. Bi-Han likes to be on top because he wishes to hold you close and shield you from all the horrors of the world

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Bi-Han is exceptionally serious in the bedroom. He will not incorporate humor as he finds it disrespectful to you and this private moment shared between the two of you. Bi-Han would never disgrace his lover in such a way

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Bi-Han is neat and groomed but not hairless. He makes it a point to keep himself trimmed and even as to not pester his partner by accidentally irritating them with prickly hairs. While he can grow facial hair, he almost always shaves it but tends to rush through it causing his skin to feel roughened

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Despite his rather grim and intimidating demeanor, Bi-Han longs to show his partner a perfect romance. The only problem with that is he is incredibly awkward in that subject. That will not stop him from trying and, if he's known his lover for awhile, he eventually finds a good pattern of romance. He shows romance through gestures and not words. Do not expect to hear him say those three pretty words. They are not needed when he holds you so tenderly as your bodies entangle and he whispers to you "my heart"

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Seldomly indulges in such acts but probably should. He does have "impure" thoughts of his lover very frequently and intrusively and they weigh on him. He mostly releases himself through exercise or roughly sparring with someone

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Marking- Bi-Han is rather "vanilla" on the surface but peal the skin further back and corruption lingers. While he will never leave a cut on his partner or anything that will tear the skin he does enjoy leaving those reddened circles where he kissed and sucked. He is very meticulous when placing them, always somewhere no one else can see. They are for him and you to feast upon their memories in privacy. He does not leave exposed marks as to not bring attention to you or disrespect you. Bruising tends to occur during sex due to the sheer size of pace of him. While he feels guilty bringing them about, there is something about seeing your skin so painted quite thrilling

Breeding/Pregnancy- This is one he will never admit. He'd rather choke on these words than confess to such a perversion. Yet he is so enticed when he thinks about getting his partner pregnant with his child, with his heir. He groans and his spine curls just thinking about it. Each time he cums within his lover, there is a betraying prayer that wishes for his seed to take root so that you may grow round with child. If his partner were to become pregnant, he finds them incredibly attractive. Probably more than he should

Size difference- Bi-Han is large and his lover is...so fragile and delicate. Barely can he fit himself within warm walls. It takes oh so long for him to completely sheath himself inside. His hand will lay upon your naval and there he feels himself moving, the very outline of him traced into his palm

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Bi-Han will almost always prefer to take his lover in the bedroom. He does not allow anyone in his personal quarter. That is a place for him and now it is for you too. It means to be exposed and vulnerable to have another in his room with him. He finds this the perfect place to express his love to you

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Bi-Han gets in the mood by his partner's appearance. A pretty expression, a graceful step a lithe build that seems so different than his own. He longs to take away those layers of clothing and take your body into his arms

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Bi-Han will not harm his lover. He will not lay a hurtful hand on them, he just can't. Never will he bring them pain. Bi-Han will only protect you from it

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He enjoys both but expects to give you oral more than receive it. Why? Because he sees how much you like it and how loud you get for him. Louder than sound your moans can be when he between your legs and that really riles him up. However, receiving is also very much so enjoyed and he tends to be rather noisy when you go down on him

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Bi-Han is a rather healthy mis between the two. He will be slow and sensual but also pick up the tempo when he starts to really get into the mood. Those are when he bruises to your hips are created as his own slam and collide into yours while teeth are bared or snagged against a lip and groans most guttural spawn in his throat

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Does not prefer them as he feels it does not allow enough time to truly experience each other fully. Will he outright refuse them? No but he does not seek them out at all

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Bi-Han is a cautious lover i will go down with this ship so taking risks are not exactly thought of. Will he experiment? Yes, as long as it brings no harm to his lover or makes him feel as though he is hurting them

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Seemingly unlimited stamina. This man is a bull made of steel and iron. He could continue all night and into the morning but he does not often do that as his lover tends to tire quicker than him

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

He'd be open to the idea of them but ultimately unsure and a bit lost in terms of how to use them. He will need guidance and his partner to request their use. Otherwise, they do not even cross his mind

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

A fair lover most of the time but he does succumb to those impish temptations. This mostly manifests during oral sex with his partner. He longs to hear your whines more and more and so he tends to draw out his methods when using his tongue

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Bi-Han groans and grunts frequently during sex and is not silence nor quiet. He not loud either, however. He falls somewhere in middle and begins to reach his most audible during a faster pace

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Bi-Han is prone to jealousy even if he and his partner have been in a long standing committed relationship. He simply cannot help but feel a twitch of annoyance when your attention is on another. He often glares at the one you are speaking with which doesn't go unnoticed. When he is feeling particularly jealous he will become vocal about it in bed by saying "you are mine and i am yours. this will be forever"

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Bi-Han is muscular, toned and very fit. His body has been built up and carved by combat and training. His arms are large and powerful, legs muscular and refined. Every part of his body showcases his exquisite physique. He is large in every way with his length above average and with a hefty girth to match

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

His sex drive is moderate. Not too high but not low. He fits comfortably in the middle. He and his lover do not engage in primal desires daily but typically do not go longer than a couple of days without it

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

His eyes do not close nor does he leave his lover in the bed. His aim to stay with them after each time he and you have sex. Bi-Han holds you to him but often says very little or nothing at all. Yet he does not sleep, not until you do. He simply enjoys laying in your comfort and love until you are ready to sleep

[randoimago]

Day 30 - Mutual Pining

Fandom: Critical Role

Character(s): Artagan

Type of Request: 31 Days of Oc-Trope-R

Note(s): Because of Jester, I feel like this archfey pining isn't as creepy and greek mythology-esque as it definitely could be

He is a powerful fey being, he does not pine for anyone. If anything, people and creatures pine for him. He's gorgeous and magical, who wouldn't pine for him?

And that's why he easily noticed you enjoying his presence. At first, he wasn't interested, sure the idea sounded fun. Maybe give you a chance to see how long until he made you snap. Jester immediately got on his case as soon as he started making comments. It's not his fault that you're thirsty.

But you're also not doing anything and it's causing him to grow more curious. He thought it was shyness. Maybe some cliche self-doubt because he's a fey being and you're not worth his time. But he doesn't see any illusions when he does make his presence relatively known. Instead, you just act pleasant, and it gets under his skin.

He starts to want to do things to try and get a different reaction out of you. He doesn't want the niceties or the pleasantries. So, he asks Jester what you're scared of. Find out little pet peeves of yours. Jester thinks it's a bit weird, but she gives him some info.

He absolutely uses that info to mess with you a bit, sees what causes what reactions for you, hangs onto every time your eyes light up because he made sure a specific flower grew in your path or made sure to lead you in the direction of where a baked good you enjoy is being sold. Not because he likes you or anything, but because he likes those reactions.

And then Jester gives him things that he likes, and he is happy and ready to thank Jester, except he learns that it's actually from you as a way to say thanks for his actions. Artagan begins to defend himself that it wasn't out of the goodness of his heart or anything silly like that. But he'll take the present because he likes gifts.

It's just a cycle of Artagan throwing things he knows you like in your path and you giving Jester presents to give to him. And anything he does have the time to pop in as himself, it's just politeness from you when he knows you like him. This cycle is only slightly skewed because at some point, Artagan begins to wonder if maybe you don't like him. Was that an assumption he made? Are you just nice to him because he's Jester's cool uncle figure? He wants to tear his hair out at the idea that he's been messing and courting you all this time for nothing.

"That's it, I've had enough!" Artagan is taken out of his chaotic thoughts of 'what if he saved you from a swarm of wasps, maybe you'd like him then' when Jester suddenly made that exclamation. "Arty, just tell them your feelings."

"Jester, I have no idea what you're talking about." He's an archfey, deny and gaslight and he'll be fine because he's not ready for this conversation with her. Especially because he knows how tricky she is, he helped raise her, in a way. The glare she gives him would make him sweat if he could (he'd never ruin his visage by sweating).

"I am not going to be in the middle anymore. Tell the truth or I'll go and tell them everything you've said to me about them," she says and Artagan gasps, a bit too dramatically, at her words.

"We made pinky promises Jester."

"Pinky promises be damned, this is love!"

There was a part of him that wanted to deny the love concept, but Jester wasn't budging. So, he said he'd think about it. He'd need some time to figure out a good way to do this and didn't want it to be some cliche. Jester gave him one week, material plane time, and he was very proud of the strong-arming she gave him.

So, one day, Artagan popped in as a simple merchant you thought you were buying from - he had no idea who actually owned the stall, but he doubted they'd mind you being given free stuff in the name of love - and he gave you a bright smile and asked if you come here often.

It's dumb, it's cheesy, but it causes a smile from you and you both talk, and he flirts. He thinks you flirt back? For his ego, he says you are. And then he flat out says, "I've been trying to court you for the past several months. So, are we going to be a thing, or will my heart be broken, and I vanish in a swarm of pigeons to go brood?"

The amount of relief he feels, not that he'd admit it because he knew your feelings all along, when you say that you do like him back. That you had done your own "courting" by having Jester give those thank you gifts. It's good, it's great, the actual stall owner is coming back so he needs to skedaddle really quick, but he'll pick you up that evening for a date fitting of an archfey's love. Good luck.

He doesn't think his heart has ever raced as much as it is now (well there was one time with this half-elf twink but-) and he never wants to do this again. He really hopes that he doesn't mess up with you.

[daffodil-deity-blog]

@gradientsir   congrats on your mean girl bitch fallen god friend !!

[a-heist-of-words]

On the Propagation of Flowers

A cool, dark voice crosses the Ether beyond the Divine Gate.

“Melora.”

There is a hint of a question in the voice and in the masked visage it belongs to. Melora acknowledges it with a nod towards the Raven Queen.

“Your Majesty.”

There is silence for a moment. It is not companionable, nor is it tense. It just is, like the silence of a sleeping forest or the silence of a grave. Neither deity feels uncomfortable in it.

The Raven Queen’s gaze turns ever so slightly and she states: “That one.”

Melora follows her eyes. A purple tiefling, clothed only in tattoos and confusion, waking up like many a baby, amidst flesh and joyful tears from those who already love them. Melora says nothing.

“He is not who he was,” the Raven Queen continues.

“And thank goodness for that, yes?” Melora replies, and they both shudder, a subtle vibration that ripples out into the Cosmos. What he had been had just been destroyed, an abomination and an affront to all laws of the Universe. The Raven Queen has taken the souls of would-be gods before, but none had been shut away into oblivion quite as fast as that one.

“Yes,” the Raven Queen replies. “But I am curious. That firbolg you seem to favor asked you to put it back. Yet he is not who he was.”

They look on for a few seconds, as days pass in the mortal realm. The purple tiefling walks aimlessly, empty, then is restored by the Traveler’s magic. He promptly chooses another name. He promptly tells them that he is not the same.

“Do you know how plants are propagated, Your Majesty?” Melora asks after a pause. 

The Raven Queen turns slightly. It is not in her realm of specialty, and she says as much. The Wild Mother smiles at her.

“A plant can come from a stolon. A runner, if you will,” she explains. “Those plants, like my Caduceus, remain forever connected to the plant that birthed them, always tethered to their home.”

They look at Caduceus as he fiercely protects his home, his temple, as he leaves for a few years at a time only to be drawn back to his garden again.

“A plant can come from a seed,” Melora continues. “Those plants, like those two,” she nods towards the red-haired wizard and the dark-skinned monk, siblings in all rights but blood, “sometimes require a period of dormancy before they bloom. Sometimes, they even need to pass through fire.”

The Raven Queen’s companion, ever silent and by her side, stirs in recognition of the phrase, but says nothing.

“A plant can come from a cutting. A piece broken off, separate but with the same essence, like that one was a while ago,” Melora says, gesturing towards the once-goblin, now-halfling, and her son, so similar to her in so many ways.

“I feel like you are not just teaching me Botany for the sake of it, Wild Mother,” the Raven Queen says, amused. 

Melora shakes her head. “In all these cases, the new plant is not the same as the plant it came from,” she explains. “My Caduceus is a Clay, but he is not Cornelius or Constance. Beauregard is a Lionett, but she is not Thoreau. Nott the Brave was her own self, though she was but a piece of Veth Brenatto.”

The Wild Mother’s face grows a little sad, wilting like a flower who has received just a bit less water, just a bit less sun.

“Sometimes, plants get damaged. And sometimes a plant can be salvaged. It can be placed in a larger pot to keep it from being too cooped up, to keep its own roots from strangling it to death for lack of space.”

They look at Jester and yes, the little tiefling has blossomed into a beautiful adventurer, a seafarer, a free spirit way beyond just being a sapphire in a box.

“Sometimes, all it needs is some sunlight, and some gentle guidance on how to grow,” she continues. Essek doesn’t seem to notice, but he reaches for his friends, for Caleb, like a plant reaches for the light. And through the periods of darkness and hiding, he seems to wilt a little in the shade he was so used to before.

“If rot is caught in time, trimming the leaves and changing the soil can save the whole plant,” Melora says, and she gazes fondly at her newest paladin. She is still so proud of Fjord choosing to save himself, to free himself from the influence of that serpent and deciding to be better. He looks much better, green skin darkened from many a day at sea, tusks proud and polished and long.

“And sometimes a plant can come back stronger when it has suffered hardship, when its own ashes nurture it to grow again, and you can find that it blooms so beautifully when all that seemed to be there was a broken, burnt little thing.” Melora looks at the Storm Lord’s champion; gone is Yasha’s black hair, now white and vibrant and always decorated with a flower or two. She smiles and laughs along her girlfriend, her laughter booming like the thunder and just as alive.

The Raven Queen looks at the Wild Mother, understanding her subtle pain. Melora always seems a little sad when her creations move on before their time. Death never stops being a little tragic, even when it’s natural. “You couldn’t save him, then. He was never the same to be put back.”

Melora shakes her head. “He is new. He is his own plant.” Then, she sighs, and a warm breeze follows her warm smile. “But look at him,” she says as Kingsley lives his new life, trying alcohol and piracy and learning about his body’s predecessor. “Because his friends have so much love for life, he gets a chance to grow. And who knows? With proper nurturing, he might grow into something very beautiful indeed.”

And beautiful it is. Short, like all mortal lives. A brief flash of family, love, redemption, heartbreak, laughter. Small and delicate like flowers, all the more beautiful for it when it is time to pluck them away. 

The Raven Queen looks on and so does the Wild Mother, life and death standing together like they always do. They say nothing.

[saphirered]

I just found your account recently! I love your style of writing, and you portray the characters so well! Can I please make a request (if it suits you!!) for Dorian, Opal and Dariax with a reader when they take a watch together by the fire and the reader tells them they look pretty in the light? Just some soft feelings, words, maybe a kiss...?

Welcome and thank you! Hope you like this one just as much as the others! 😘

(Dorian)

The sounds of the night are accompanied by the soft strumming of strings and a hummed lullaby just quiet enough as to not wake the fast asleep companions, save for you and the bard himself. Someone had to take first shift and neither of you were opposed so you were put in charge of keeping the fire going and assuring nothing would succeed at brutally murdering you all. The latter seems to have become a serious concern you could do without. But at least it gives you evenings like these. Who wouldn’t appreciate a private concerto from your favourite genasi bard?

There you are, seated comfortably on a log staring over the flames, captivated by the melody, the nimble and practiced fingers plucking at the strings with an airy grace, staring into the night. The firelight hits Dorian just right. He reminds you of the sunset, right before the last light leaves the sky, that mix between the blue fading dark, with hints of reflected orange and gold; an image of true beauty. Were it not for that beautiful song keeping you grounded, you might as well have drifted into the ethereal and forgotten your task entirely. You find yourself humming along.

You’re pulled out of your trance by Dorian himself whispering your name. By the looks of it you had missed the first few times he called for you, the song coming to a close shaking you back to reality. Dorian had been a little louder than he intended to and you watch some of the others’ steer. Both of you share a look and hold your breath until you’re sure they’re still fast asleep. He beckons you over, something to say and not willing to take the risk of speaking just a little too loud again so you step over the sleeping bodies and find your way to Dorian’s side of the fire, sitting down next to him on the makeshift bench of a fallen tree.

“Hey, everything alright? Not to offend but you looked a bit out of it. Copper for your thoughts?” Dorian whispers as he absentmindedly plucks at the strings.

“Just deliberating wether you’re some sort of siren in disguise enchanting those who’s eyes fall upon your dashing looks and hear your angelic melodies or not.” Dorian’s very glad it’s dark but the fire still allows you visual of the lovely shade of purple he’s turning at the cheeks. He stops playing and puts the instrument to the side, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you into his side. His plan to prevent you from seeing him so flustered fails as you only get a clearer view looking up at him with a smug grin.

“Is that your way of saying I’m pretty?” The first words may have been a bit more high pitched than he wanted to. You chuckle and feel Dorian’s knuckles jab playfully into your side. It doesn’t deter you from that smug sense of accomplishment remaining.

“Do I have to spell it out for you or would you prefer it in song?” You lean in, grabbing his chin and angling his face down closer to yours.

“I certainly wouldn’t be opposed-��� That’s all you need to hear before you close the distance, placing your lips on his. Dorian’s very happy you can’t see the blush grow or he might never hear the end of it. Your ability to get him all hot and bothered is something he both enjoys and fears but then there’s moments like these where he’s reminded exactly why he likes your occasional smugness.

(Dariax)

Dariax sits by the fire to preserve as much warmth as he can. The night is colder than expected and he had given you his blanket to stay warm yourself. He doesn’t regret the decision because you’re warm and comfy and that’s all worth suffering the cold but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t wish for some more warmth. Clutching his spear tightly to keep the blood flowing he stands sentry like a valiant guardian. Little does he know you’re still awake, or rather, awake again.

You hear the deep breaths being taken, sounds of movement; pacing. You open your eyes and there you are met with a sight you could wake up to more often. The gentle light of the flames highlight and shadow as they move in the breeze giving Dariax the appearance of a protector watching over you with an air of radiant divinity. There’s even a sense of grace. But you also see him shivering lightly.

Dariax watches you sit up and stretch your arms, blanket still in your grasp. You make eye contact and he offers you a smile. You pat the spot next to you on your bedroll and not one to question, Dariax does as suggested, sitting down next to you. You engulf him in the warm layers and feel Dariax relax just a little at the change of temperature. You lean your head on his shoulder and cuddle up against him as much as you can. He puts the spear aside and wraps one arm around you, the other holding the blankets close against himself. While he continues to keep watch you begin to drift off, not fully asleep, but more daydreaming of the divine sorcerer sitting next to you.

“You know you look real pretty, especially in the light of the fire, right?” You mumble and Dariax has to do a double take if he heard that right. Not that he’s not used to people calling him handsome or any variant of the term but more so you speak so openly and unrestrained.

“You sure you’re not still dreaming?” Dariax pushes back a laugh as he leans his head against yours. You’re cute when you’re sleepy and compliments like this from you are definitely something he could get used.

“If I am, it’s a damn good dream but I don’t think I am. You tell me oh-radiant one.” You smile leaning your chin on his shoulder and kissing his cheek feigning innocence and obliviousness. It’s definitely moments like these that have Dariax completely smitten by you and he’s not ashamed to admit it.

“One way to find out?” Dariax pinches you and you gasp. The audacity. You’re clearly awake now. Game over? Not yet. Dariax looks very proud of himself as you swat his arm but put your ‘dreamy’ face back on.

“Hmm. I don’t think I’ve been convinced.” Dariax does not like the mischievous grin peaking through. It’s a look he’s seen many a time and it’s always an omen for something you’re plotting. He fears for what he might have set in motion if you’re seeking revenge.

“Need me to pinch you again?” Dariax asks somewhat hesitant. Sometimes he’s really oblivious and it’s sweet but you might just have to take the lead here or you won’t get anywhere just yet. While Dariax is a very good flirt, being on the receiving end it may just take him a second longer to process. Don’t worry. You’ll help him out.

“I’ve got something else in mind.” You softly place your lips on his. That’s all the explanation Dariax needs. arm around you finds your back and pulls you just a little closer to deepen the kiss.

(Opal)

Opal is tossing and turning. What does she have to do for a nice and comfortable bed? The life of an adventurer is fun and all but she would really appreciate a soft mattress that doesn’t smell of grass, dirt or whatever other surface she has use as a base. Homegirl’s used to the fineries of societies so the life on the road is not and will never be her comfort zone no matter how many times she’s in the situation. She’s used to it though and she likes this life so she’ll accept and embrace every part of it.

Your attention shifts to the human at the sound of moving covers and groans of discomfort trying to find a more suitable position to fall asleep in as you keep watch. With a huff Opal sits up scrunching and readjusting, more like beating her makeshift backpack pillow in annoyance. She tries it one more time, putting her head down but still she doesn’t deem it right. Another huff and she sits up meeting your eyes. You offer her a nod and she grumbles, gets up and places herself next to you.

Grabbing a stick on her way Opal prods at the fire, the flames responding in a small burst of embers but you’re in safe range. Opal relaxes a little having found company in you and something to focus on rather than wallow in annoyance. She doesn’t say anything but the half smile she offers you is enough to make you feel appreciated for just being there.

Opal returns her focus to the flames staring into them getting caught up in her own wandering mind you watch. You can’t help but notice how the flames enhance the opalescent… everything to her, through a beautiful glow. She looks like a living breathing jewel. Just simply breathtaking. Don’t get this wrong, Opal is pretty no matter what. This is simply another angle you had never seen before, the way the light of the fire hits her features just right and how the flames reflect in her eyes, the sparks of ember changing that flow every so often, she’s a true visage.

“Hey, Opal?” She looks at you. “I just wanted to say you look lovely.” Opal lights up at the compliment with a warmth akin to that of the fire in front of you both. She knows damn well she’s gorgeous and looks aren’t everything but that doesn’t mean she can’t enjoy the compliments you offer her. If anything, she really enjoys it coming from you and makes her feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

“Why thank you. I have to say you look amazing yourself. What can I say, this light does great things for us gorgeous people.” There’s a hint of jest in her voice as she brushes a hand through her hair, pursing her lips with a wink. You hold back a laugh at the joking self-obsessed tone she uses.

“Even the light of a fire dulls in comparison by the shine of the Gem of Byroden.” You hold the back of your hand to your head as if you’re about to swoon. The gesture sends Opal into a muffled giggle fit as you quickly cover her mouth.

“Shhh. Let’s not wake the others.” You whisper. Opal pulls your hands away, checking over the others as she kisses your palms and making sure the others are still asleep. Luckily they are. Unsatisfied with just your hands to kiss she pulls you closer and kisses your lips instead silencing your surprised squeal.

[yakuzacasual]

I look forward to your updates a little too much lol would you be down to write about daigo encountering a person who he was interested in when he was in his little fuckboy phase that didn't really give him much attention. They don't have to end up together, I just think it would be funny if he felt embarrassed of any advances he made now that he's chairman and realizes his phase was not the best haha (I hope im being clear if not you can ignore<3)

PREFACE

How does it feel to be living with a brain as big and powerful as yours, dear? Because this request is just.......... *smashes little fist against a wall* This is the true perfection. I don’t think I’ve ever heard an idea as maginificent as this one and I can imagine nothing that may top it anytime soon. Getting to write from the perspective of Daigo, especially the emo one, especially with a bit of retrospect, DAMN I AM LIVIN LIVES RN THIS IS WHAT I WAS MADE FOR.

Did I just impulse write the whole thing despite the fact that I was planning to go to bed early? Maybe. Do I regret my choice? *satisfied ape noises* Am I proud of it? Fuck yes.

Now, back to being serious. I sincerely love you for this one. Please, I beg thee, do come back and leave anot!her one some time. For now I hope you enjoy it as much as I did and have a fantastic day!

BABY BOSS DAIGO FACING HIS SHAMEFUL PAST

Back in the days of his brazen youth, Daigo used to catch the eyes of many sorts of people. His broody demeanor attracted mainly women, but he could also recall quite a few men from these times as well. Many of such memories are just a blur for him nowadays, replaced by forever vivid scenes of companions dying for his cause and the Tojo clan slowly but surely crumbling in his hands with each passing year. There is but one recollection that stayed forever clear throughout the years, safely tucked away in the depths of his mind.

It was a rainy night, one of those that he remembers happened way too many times that month, when he found himself piss drunk and mindlessly staggering through the many alleyways of Kamurocho. Bruised knuckles tucked away in the warmth of his absolutely ridiculous, puffy jacket, eyes barely focused on the road ahead of him. He tried to escape the flashing neon lights and unbearable buzz of the entertainment district, seeking solace within the dirty streets forgotten by the normal citizens and gods alike. It’s where the dark deeds take place and maybe that’s what he was looking for. Another fix to keep him amused, something that would wake him up inside again for however fleeting a moment he could get. 

The details of how he ran into you are slightly fuzzy, albeit he likes to think that this slightly bloody visage of himself he still remembers seeing in the puddle was him kicking some asses. Not getting his own handed to him. In this state, he somehow finds you with his blurry eyesight. You sit on a park bench in what feels like the edge of the world, but is just a place slightly farther away from the ever beating heart of Kamurocho, covered by the shade of grandiose buildings falling apart at the seams. Maybe it’s a cig in your hand, maybe a bottle of whisky or maybe nothing at all - whatever it was that drove him to approach you was a suffocating feeling that you’re both somehow in deep shit. The features of your face are so detailed still. The shape of your lower lip, the frown of your brow and the way you looked at him as he took a place on the other side of the bench. He still remembers it all, somehow.

Surprisingly enough, there is not much to this story from that point onwards. Or so he has been trying to convince himself until that one fateful day, a very weird day. It’s just him running the usual Tojo errands when outside of the window of his limo he spots a face so familiar it causes him to instantly get a splitting headache right where he sits. You seem to even lock eyes with him through the darkened glass, as you calmly sip your beverage, enjoying the nice weather in the outside seat of a decent looking cafe. Under the guise of getting himself some well deserved coffee, Daigo slips away from his attendants and right into the other seat right opposite your own. The movement is not quite as smooth though. Just looking at his nervous stare you could tell he is out of his element.

Of course, you recognize him instantly. It would be hard not to, really. He may look better in a suit and the opinions on his slicked back hair may vary, but this is still most certainly him. The same square chin, the same tired lines visible on his face. Daigo Dojima has graced you with his presence. The clothes may make the man, but they won’t change who he was. And you? You know way too well who he was.

For him it does take a longer way to recognize you but he definitely does and, by gods, he immediately regrets it. That’s it. That’s the lost part of the puzzle he never wanted finished. The memories of days long gone, when he used to hit on you mercilessly after that one night in the park, when you showed him nothing beyond what would be expected from human compassion and yet he latched onto that like a poor puppy seeking validation in places, that could never offer what he needed. In retrospect he clearly sees in your eyes, both current and the ones he remembers, what his younger self did not understand at the time. Absolute and complete lack of interest. Which, considering who he is now, is quite impressive of you. Then again if he knew a chairman of a renowned yakuza family back when they were young and relentlessly pestering him for affection he did not have for them? Well, he can kind of guess he’d be much like yourself in this situation.

His blood may run cold, but his cheeks are flaring red as he remembers the god awful pickup lines he tried on you back then and how darn angry he was that not even his award-winning emo style that made ladies swoon at his feet had next to no effect on your, how he used to think about it, stone cold heart. In reality it was just you being reasonable and him being an absolute dumbass. He can even recall Kiryu giving him the biggest tonguelashing ever for how he used his influence in the Tojo clan to keep tabs on you for like a week. Now, he wishes Kiryu would be here to beat his sorry ass right back to the hospital, maybe cause a proper concussion to make him forget all this downright embarrassing stuff he has done as the most shameful person to ever exist on earth.

Daigo Dojima’s redemption arc starts now. He will make absolutely sure to somehow make it up to you, whatever you want of him. He is dead set on showing you the tremendous amount of growth he’s done since the last time you saw him. If it’s a restraining order you want, so be it. But if, by any chance, you do wish to get to know him better and let him redeem himself as the man he is now… Well, who knows. You may just gain the most powerful ally, a trusted friend or maybe even more.

[nocturne-inuyasha-ff]

Chapter Twenty Four: Vindication

Author's Notes: Thank you for your patience! Apologies for the long hiatus. Who knows what I was doing, but thank you to those who have taken the time to read and leave words of inspiration. Muchos Gracias!

Nocturne - Chapter Twenty Four: Vindication

Rated - M (for suggestive adult themes, references to violence, and coarse language)

Disclaimer: I do not own Inuyasha.

Sango had worry eating away at her. Yesterday was very troubling, and she knew that danger was on the horizon. She had no idea when Miroku would return, and it was unsettling to have her family split when they were all utterly unprepared for what was to come.

So much time had passed since the first altercation years ago that Sango had grown complacent. The entire village had.

It was a thankful thing that her brother had brought the clan of taijiya to the village, bolstering a new age of demon hunters. If any group of people stood a chance against an army of demon spawn, it was the taijiya clan, her clan.

She was proud of the progress they'd made in a few short years. Granted, the new clan was not as skilled or experienced as the village of her birth, but they made up for what they lacked in enthusiasm and numbers.

Sango's original taijiya clan had been small and exclusive. Their numbers had waned over the years due to their work's reclusive nature, and, ultimately, the village - consisting of elders and children - was eliminated while they were unprotected.

She took in a deep breath and released it slowly, reflecting on the travesty and praying there was not a repeat. No, Sango thought. Her brother, Kohaku, had done his best to ensure there was not.

No longer was the profession of demon-slaying an exclusive venture. While her husband, Miroku, traveled, he spread the prospering village's news and its peculiar inhabitants. People would flock from all over, searching for people who had experienced loss or pain at the hands of troublesome yokai. These people had come by choice and learned to protect all they held dear from a mightier force.

Sango prayed that the enthusiasm held by her new people was enough to combat the oncoming horde.

It had been a couple of days since Kagome had come to visit, and she remained faithful to her word, staying at hand until the birth of Rin and Kohaku's first child. As Miroku was still away with the twins, Kagome and her daughter Setsuna stayed with Sango and her two boys.

Although Kagome had initially come to put distance between herself and Sesshomaru, the daiyokai had followed her after the village was attacked. He was right in doing so since it was likely due to his presence that they weren't accosted anymore. That in its self was A testament to his solitary strength.

Lord Sesshomaru had not left either, remaining close if danger were to rear its ugly head. As much as Sango did not want to admit it, the daiyokai lord was rather unsettling. His cold manner and piercing gaze was enough to make anyone feel uncomfortable.

Sango wasn't sure what Kagome saw in his unyielding character, but maybe it was the way he looked at her. His eyes passed over everyone like they were not worthy of his time or recognition, but when they settled on Kagome, there was something profound. The daiyokai would be remiss in knowing that his covert and subtle mannerisms had been discovered and by a human no less.

Sango cleared her head, tidying up her home and readying a quick breakfast for her children. She felt rushed to finish these mundane chores and get out for some strategic planning, but they couldn't live in constant fear. That would defeat the purpose of living, yet it could not be helped at the moment.

The entire village was on standby, but most village elders did not believe an attack would come since the spies had been flushed out. However, Sango vehemently disagreed. Her brother, Kohaku, also felt accordingly. It was better to prepare for an attack, especially when the enemy had shown their hand.

A tapping from outside could be heard, breaking Sango from her inner musings. She wondered who could be at the door. Anyone else would just walk in.

Sango looked around the room, chewing her bottom lip. The boys were still asleep in the other room since it was still relatively early in the morning, but they should be up very soon. Kagome and her daughter, Setsuna, had left at first light to make some morning rounds, so it could not be them. She quickly picked up a small kitchen dagger and tucked it up her sleeve, just in case.

She walked to the door and pulled the sudare up to greet the guest at the door. Sango's eyes bulged, and her mouth dropped open. She allowed the knife to fall from her sleeve and brandished it expertly before her. There was no time for words when an enemy was upon your doorstep, and Sango was not about to allow a treacherous snake to roam free.

"Wait! Please," the woman on Sango's doorstep pleaded.

Sango ignored the plea and threw the knife at the woman, knowing it would likely be dodged but giving her time to retrieve her bone boomerang. She cursed herself under her breath for not grabbing it on the way to the door. Before she could get half a step, her arm was snapped up in a vice-like grip and forcefully twisted around.

Sango was compelled to look at the woman straight in her golden eyes. "I said….wait. I don't want to hurt you," the woman said in a calm, urgent tone.

o ~ o ~ o ~ o ~ o

Kagome had taken Setsuna with her to check on Rin. The stress from the unknown was causing early contractions in the young woman, and Kagome had ordered Rin to strict bed rest. Rin would never admit that she was feeling under the weather. She was the type to always downplay everything, even at the expense of her health. Fortunately, Kagome had learned a thing or two about pregnancy and baby birthing from Kaede before her untimely passing.

Kagome walked from Rin's home with a sigh. Setsuna had elected to remain behind to keep Rin company while Kohaku was out and about. The young man could not stay with his pregnant wife and command the taijiya at the same time. Kohaku was reluctant to leave Rin's side but was appeased to know that she would be under Kagome's care.

Her hands felt sweaty with apprehension, and she wiped them on her skirts. Kagome reassured herself, adjusting the bowstring strapped over her shoulder. She'd procured a new bow shortly after ruining the last one and now carried it with her everywhere.

It wasn't as if she'd truly need it. She was not wholly defenseless despite being human. Her spiritual powers granted her unique offensive and defensive skills; however, they were mostly unhoned.

Kagome was able to channel her powers into an arrow, something she'd mastered early on. Still, she'd never trained on other skills, mainly relying on instinct and her body's self-defense mechanisms. She found comfort in knowing the weapon was there, though, with so many allies around, and she would have little need for it.

She closed her eyes as she walked and drew upon her seldom-used power. She allowed her senses to broaden and pick up the aura of those near. Kagome could feel people around her, in houses and hurrying to and fro. Each person's aura held a unique sensation that evoked a feeling, and she "saw" the colors spiking and swirling about.

There was comfort in using her power this way, but it took great effort and concentration. She scolded herself for not honing her skills more, especially now that they would become useful when a time presented itself. Well, there was no need to wallow in despair for what was in the past now.

A warm, vibrant yellow aura approached, and Kagome knew precisely who it was, and her eyes opened slowly. Any villager out and about gave him a wide berth, hurrying to be out of his path.

Sesshomaru kept his eyes on his quarry while he strolled almost casually forward. From the set of his eyes, Kagome could tell his entrance was anything but casual.

Once he reached her, he looked over her head. "Setsuna?" He questioned.

"With Rin," Kagome responded. She saw his jaw clench, causing his cheek to twitch. "What's wrong?"

His silence was telling, but it was his first question that piqued Kagome's apprehension. Sesshomaru would not have asked where their daughter if he was not worried. Something was going on that he did not want the girl to be a part of.

Sesshomaru pushed a loose strand of hair behind his ear and closed his eyes briefly. "A guest is waiting at the taijiya's residence."

Kagome sped off without another word, knowing that Sesshomaru was close behind. She couldn't imagine who the guest would be but silently hoped it was a friend. It had been years since anyone had heard from Shippo, his training had taken him out of touch with his family and friends, but Kagome knew it was for a good reason.

It could have been him, though, why his appearance would unsettle Sesshomaru was unknown. Perhaps her young friend was now formidable and came home. That would be a shock, for sure, and Kagome did miss him. She shook the thoughts from her head and made her way to Sango's home, where she could hear voices carrying from inside.

"Please, they are coming!" a woman's desperate voice called.

Kagome's heart dropped when she entered the house, laying eyes on an all-too-familiar face. One that haunted her dreams unbidden.

"Tsering," Kagome hissed derisively, the name like acid on her tongue.

The woman turned at the sound of her name, her visage just as pleading as her trembling voice. Despite her disheveled, sallow appearance, she was still resplendent in her silks and long, silver hair.

Kagome swallowed and did her best to keep her back straight, but not rigid, entering and moving to stand beside Sango who's arms were crossed beneath her chest.

"You have to listen; it won't be long," Tsering cried.

"This we know," Sesshomaru's voice spoke clearly into the room, his baritone resounding throughout.

Tears began to run freely down the woman's cheeks. It was quite an unusual sight to witness a yokai cry. Kagome doubted they were capable, but here one was elegantly sobbing before them.

"You don't understand," Tsering lamented pitifully. "They are here….they have been here. It is a miracle they have not attacked now!"

As if on queue, Inuyasha dashed into the house, his nose in the air and Tessaiga at the ready. "I fucking knew I smelled something pathetic wafting from this house."

Tsering's tears shored up upon Inuyasha's arrival, and she gave him a deadpan look, though her yellow eyes wavered. "I implore you all to listen to reason."

"Fuck, it's a trick. Kill that bitch!" Inuyasha demanded and leveled Tessaiga with one hand towards the woman's exposed throat.

Her eyes grew large, the whites exposed in fear. "No! I beg of you. I am a victim of my brother's madness. I-I can help. Please allow me to assist." Tsering's fists were curled into tiny balls, the skin drawn taut over her knuckles.

Sesshomaru sneered at the woman. "You cannot help."

Tsering threw herself down at Sesshomaru's feet and grappled at his clothes, but he stepped quickly out of reach. "I can!" She assured. "I know my brother! He would not kill me; he is afraid to do so!" She shuffled on her knees towards Sesshomaru, her hands now clasped before her. "Please…"

She looked worn and defeated.

"What of the DaiOzuko?" Sesshomaru asked suspiciously. "They would never permit such a heinous act to occur." He seemed to know more of the yokai clan than he had ever let on, which perturbed Kagome to consider.

"They do not know that my brother has such capricious tastes," Tsering advised. She looked around the room, pausing to look at each person for effect.

Kagome held little pity for this woman. Why would she throw herself at their feet now? Wouldn't it be safer to ride this out on the same side as her brother? This all seemed too easy.

She looked down her nose, crossing her arms. "You knew, and you did nothing to stop it. Why do you care now?"

Tsering dithered, ashamed to speak, but did so nonetheless. "I was foolish and naive. I am no longer those things. My eyes are opened to my treachery, and I throw myself at your feet for forgiveness."

"Keh," Inuyasha interjected. "It's not us you should be throwing yourself at." He still held Tessaiga in a threatening fashion, ready to slice the woman in two should she make a wrong move. Sesshomaru held up a warning hand to his brother, which Inuyasha sneered at openly.

Tsering dawdled for a moment, struggling to understand whom Inuyasha was referencing. She looked Inuyasha up and down and lit up when it hit her. "Keyuri! My most valued attendant! I had never allowed her to suffer under my hands!"

Sango had heard enough, finally adding to the conversation. "The woman cannot speak, yet you dare to assert you had no hand in this?"

"I confess that I treated her as a servant, but no more. She was treated well in my care, if not a little coldly." Tsering postulated desperately. She rose and picked at her many-layered robes.

Inuyasha scoffed. "She trembles at the sight of you, bitch!" He was not convinced and gripped his sword with white knuckles.

Tsering nodded, closing her eyes and furrowing her brow. "As Keyuri should, for I bear the likeness to the one who created her and maimed her." She was referring to her brother, Fan, they all knew.

Inuyasha growled, planting the tip of Tessaiga in the ground. "Her name is Shizuka, and she is your own flesh and blood, but you sent her on a suicide mission years ago. Now you are here begging for mercy." He sneered, a lip pulling up to expose fangs. "You won't fucking find it here." He took a step forward; his left hand clawed menacingly before him. His voice dropped in into a threatening low pitch. "Fuck off before I change my mind and end you."

Tsering kneeled in disbelief, looking about at the people surrounding her for any kind of support...albeit in vain. "Y-you cannot send me out there alone and unprotected. My brother may not kill me, but those...those things may."

Sesshomaru adopted a similar sneer, though his was far less feral, yet far more threatening. "Have some respect for yourself, woman. You are daiyokai. What fear should you have of hanyo scum." He didn't phrase it as a question, letting the words roll out like the insult it was.

The yokai woman stood with trembling knees, her brow knitting together again in fear. "Please! You don't understand! They...they are all very powerful. Fan does not create usual offspring."

Sango scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Oh, spare us your moaning."

The woman's countenance was pallid and her eyes wide with fear. As much as it pained her to admit, Kagome felt there was weight to Tsering's words that could not go unheeded. "Wait. Hear her out."

She took a brief moment to compile herself. Tsering sucked in a ragged breath in an attempt to keep any hysterics from creeping into her words. "He has a sick mind. He only dreams of creating the perfect specimen." She paused to moisten her lips, searching for the words. "He searches out rumors of women who possess powers or are descendants of those with such powers to..to copulate with."

Sango and Kagome made disgusted faces in unison. Inuyasha looked incredulous while Sesshomaru held his typical expression of stoicism. The man didn't even raise a brow. What Tsering had told them was perturbing, but none denied her words, knowing they held the truth. Kagome recalled what she had seen at Fan's palace...the heavily expectant mortal woman pacing a room lined with hungry-looking yokai. She shivered at the thought of whatever became of that woman and dreamed about her unexpected fate often.

Sesshomaru's voice broke her from the unpleasant memory. "How did you know the truth of which you speak if you have only just learned of their existence." He had to have known, suspected at least, the inner workings of Fan's retinue. Perhaps his question was designed to delve into Tsering's complicity.

Tsering dithered, wringing her hands. "I overheard and pieced it together before I fled."

He remained unconvinced and waved her explanation away. "You claim otherwise, but you are still a fool. You only heard what you were allowed to hear. Just as you were allowed to arrive so easily." Sesshomaru had heard enough, turning to cut a brief look to Kagome. The look was an unspoken bidding, and Kagome nodded her understanding.

Tsering took an affronted step back. She hadn't expected to be dismissed so easily. This was probably a first for her, at least the first in several lifetimes.

Sesshomaru strode outside with his eyes forward and ignoring the mewling woman. Tsering ducked out of his way, and Kagome followed, eyeing the yokai woman studiously as she passed. Tsering's eyes were wide and pleading, much as her story had been, but it wasn't enough to draw pity from anyone here.

Once outside, Kagome continued after Sesshomaru for a few yards before he stopped, holding a hand up to gesture she stop as well. His head turned slightly, his hand still raised, and Kagome felt her breath catch. His keen senses had picked up some sound. She looked around, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. She steadied her breathing; she needed to be calm to focus and search for an unknown aura. It was tiny at first; her eyes snapped open with realization. "I feel it," she exclaimed aloud.

"Where?" Sesshomaru questioned.

Her eyes scanned through the houses, trying to see beyond with no success. "Not far. The outskirts of the village...Close to the Goshinboku tree. I-I think I can feel it moving in waves."

He took a step, ready to move, but was stopped by the scream of a woman from the village's opposite side. Kagome swiveled towards the sound. Another scream erupted from the north and then the south until sounds of discord came from every direction.

"We're too late," Kagome lamented quietly. Despite having years to prepare, it still did not feel like enough time. Decades did not seem long enough for mortals to combat yokai; even the hanyo they would face may significantly exceed the abilities of highly trained taijiya.

Sesshomaru moved beside her and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "The taijiya has trained his people well." It was the only reassurance he would afford, and Kagome knew it was one of the highest praises a human could receive. "Is it still emanating from the same area?" he asked, referring to the aura she felt.

"Yes, traces of it." Her miko skills were relatively unhoned, and while she was powerful in ability, raw power paled in comparison to honed skills.

"They have us surrounded!" Inuyasha bellowed as he ran towards them with Tetsusaiga in hand. His eyes momentarily fell upon Sesshomaru's hand on her shoulder, but his gaze quickly tore away, almost embarrassed to see the display.

A slight feathering of his jaw was the only amount of tension that Sesshomaru displayed. His golden gaze remained stoic despite the precariousness of the situation. "Rally the taijiya. The head of this snake must be cut off swiftly." He swept away as soon as the words left his mouth, up and away towards the Goshinboku tree.

Inuyasha gripped Testsusaiga tightly, his knuckles white against the strain. "Shizuka," he whispered faintly and tore into a sprint in the same direction as his brother. The house he once shared with Kagome lay near the old tree that dwelled in the vicinity. Shizuka was likely at the house, unprotected, and Inuyasha feared for her safety. He disappeared quickly, leaving Kagome alone to rush the news to Kohaku.

Without a second thought, Kagome ran. The village had grown quite exponentially in the past few years. New houses needed to be erected to accommodate the growing number of people that had moved to swell the taijiya ranks. She ran to the outskirt post where Kohaku was giving out orders to the ranks of slayers. Screams could be heard everywhere, indicating that the attack was coming from all sides, likely to disorient and confuse.

Kagome could feel a hitch in her chest by the time she'd reached a post of slayers gathered in unison, prepared for battle. They all had weapons at the ready and eyed her with apprehension. Most were young and untried, with only a few older battle-worn slayers amongst the ranks. Hopefully, it would be enough.

She glanced around desperately to find Kohaku. He had to know that the enemy was upon them, but it was still her duty to report and see how she could help. Afterward, she had to find and ensure that Setsuna was still safe with Rin. The thought of her daughter out with the commotion going on made her breath catch. With an exhalation of breath, she cleared her mind to focus on the task at hand.

Kagome pushed through the ranks of nervous taijiya until she finally spotted Kohaku. He had his weapon in hand and a hardened look set upon his face. His words were curt and succinct because there was no time to mollify the unseasoned ranks.

"Look for the weak spot!" He barked. "There is always one to be had. They already know yours!". He turned quickly to address another set of young players when he spotted her. His face became worried, and she trotted over. "Lady Kagome?"

Without hesitation, Kagome advised what she'd seen. "I can feel his presence near the southern border of the village. There may be others as well."

Kohaku nodded his understanding. "He's sending out scouts to distract us on all sides. I will send contingent parties to each of the village borders."

"Where shall I go," she cut in.

He grimaced and looked around. "Honestly, your power can be best utilized guarding the women and children."

Kagome figured as much and was thankful to be assigned where Setsuna may also be. However, Kohaku had likely forgotten that his wife was now in active labor and could not be moved. "And Rin?" She asked quietly.

"Setsuna is with her?" He asked through a clenched jaw.

She nodded an affirmative, and Kohaku narrowed his eyes in thought. "We must hope that they go unnoticed," he advised after a few seconds of thought. "Setsuna, I know, despite her age, is capable of handling a threat."

"I hope so, too," Kagome said aloud. Her tone betrayed the assurance she had intended to belay. There would be no time now to go and check on Setsuna. Kagome would need to rely on the girl's training and heritage and push her mother's worry down for the time being.

Kohaku finished rallying this group of slayers, pointing them in various directions. He'd quickly appointed three of his more experienced taijiya to accompany Kagome. Two young men and one woman, all dressed in varying armors that had been pieced together from slain demons, gathered in front of her with their weapons. Despite the relative experience the three young slayers shared, they all looked equally nervous.

A roar bellowed in the sky above them, and one of the men jerked in response, his jaw slack as he peered up in the sky. Twin lines of flame followed the large body of a nekomata as it descended with a rider wielding a mighty boomerang. It seemed Sango had quickly changed and beckoned Kirara to hitch a ride. Sango dropped off the sizeable imposing nekomata before the cat landed and looked around at the three slayers who stared in awe.

"Sango!" Kohaku called.

Sango nodded and thrust her weapon into the ground with minimal effort. "Brother. Everything is in place." She looked over to Kagome with pleading eyes that asked an unspoken question.

"Hachiro, Etsu, and Shig will go with Lady Kagome. Their skills are honed." Kohaku vaulted onto Kirara's back, looking down on them all.

Sango nodded and looked them up and down quickly, quietly reassuring herself. These three were all that could be spared from the assault of countless hanyo whose powers likely far exceeded any of the taijiya. The plan now was to funnel the vulnerable villagers, elders, women, and children to a heavily defended area inside the village - homes that had recently been fortified - and had a select team guard them. The heavy truth was that the vulnerable citizens were sitting ducks if an enemy decided to go after them. There were only four, including herself, to protect dozens of people; they would be spread thin. With any luck, Sesshomaru would be able to dispose of Fan Tsenpo and his bastard army with the help of Inuyasha and Kohaku's taijiya.

Sango plucked up her weapon like it was but a twig and jumped behind her brother. "Please take care of them," she said resolutely, forcing the words out. Her children were being guarded with the other vulnerable, too young to fight. Her words reverberated through Kagome. She gave a short nod, and Kirara jumped up into the air carrying the siblings off towards the Goshinboku tree.

Kagome looked at taijiya, who remained with her, biting the inside of her cheek to fight a grimace. "Let's move quickly."

The trio fanned out and made separate paths towards the village's inner perimeter, where the citizens were waiting the battle out. Able-bodied villagers from all over were frantically rushing around. Though many were not trained for slaying, they would not let their village be tormented without putting up a fight. Pitchforks and other rudimentary farming tools were brought to arms and carried to fill in the ranks of the taijiya. Kagome could feel their auras, mixed with fear and determination, passing by as they hurried to their posts. The entire village had been prepped for this day, and they'd had six years to do so, yet even a detailed plan can crumble apart in the throes of a real battle at their feet.

Kagome hurried along a path that took her to the outskirts of the village. It wasn't a direct route to where the elderly, women, and children would bunker down; she couldn't convince herself to go straight there without checking on Setsuna and Rin. She prayed that Rin wouldn't have the baby just yet. Now was not the best time, and to do it without any help or guidance was nearly a death sentence for a woman and infant in these times. Setsuna was with her, but the girl was wholly unprepared and ignorant of these things.

The house could be viewed in the distance, nestled within the village itself several dwellings in. It was more diminutive and unassuming, hopefully, commonplace enough to prevent any yokai or hanyou from being drawn to the place. Kagome slowed down, trying to catch her breath. No smoke or screams were coming from the direction she was headed, which was a relief, but the sounds of battle could be heard in the distance. She whipped her head around, seeing empty pathways in front of her except for the odd person dashing by to make for cover. Looking over her shoulder, she saw nothing but felt a bizarre prickling sensation on the back of her neck.

The clearing before the forest looked serene. Kagome reached out to feel if there were any hanyo lurking out of sight. She could feel nothing but cold. 'Perhaps they had been held off on the other side of the village?' she wondered. It was entirely possible with what the bastards were up against. Sesshomaru would show no mercy.

She continued until the clattering of metal and grunts of exasperation became clear from behind her. A taijiya woman rolled into view with a small blade that she brought up to her face just in time to block the strike of a pair of sickle blades. The wielder of the sickle blades was a short-haired hanyo with black streaks up the sides. It was difficult to discern their gender from where she stood, but it was clear that the taijiya was struggling. The woman was sent back several feet upon the impact to her blade, obviously not her primary weapon, and rolled again to avoid the twin sickles that struck the ground with deadly force.

Kagome turned and ran towards the embattled pair, pulling her bow from her shoulder and notching an arrow without breaking stride. The young taijiya moved to stand, only able to place one foot under herself before her heel was swept up and out by a sweeping kick from the hanyo. She was thrown onto her back with a loud thud, knocking the air from her lungs and causing a strangled gasp. The hanyo casually knocked the blade from her hands and placed a foot on her chest to hold her in place.

The hanyo smirked, raising one sickle up to make a killing blow. Kagome began to channel spirit energy into the arrow. What once came effortlessly now felt a struggle. The holy power kept slipping from her grasp every time she managed to grab hold of a thread. The hanyo's sickle began to lower when Kagome realized she had no time, losing the arrow devoid of divine energy to knock the sickle from its grasp.

He looked up with golden eyes; surprise and annoyance flickered across his face. "Bitch!" he called out with a male tenor. "You'll die next!"

Kagome had already pulled another arrow and attempted to channel the energy again. "Like hell, I will!" She shouted defiantly and with internal frustration that she was unable to focus the power into the arrow.

The hanyo's brow rose in recognition. He practically ignored the slayer beneath him, who vainly struggled against the foot that kept her pinned down. "You! Miko-bitch."

The arrow Kagome aimed at his face was quickly deflected by the remaining sickle-blade he wielded. He grunted in annoyance as if he had swatted away a fly. "I doubt I will get in much trouble for roughing you up." He sneered with arrogance built into him from countless years of unmatched aggression. How long had Fan Tsenpo kept his bastards cooped up? This one seemed mad with unspent energy that was disastrous for most he would encounter.

"You'd die," Kagome replied. Her tone was resolute and firm. Either by her hand or another's, this hanyou would die if he so much as touched her. She reached for another arrow behind her back but stopped when the hanyou feinted with his sickle blade towards the taijiya beneath him. The woman - young girl, Kagome realized - had dirty tear tracks down her cheeks, but she did not cry out. The hanyo glanced down at his prey and back up at her in a manner that suggested a dilemma. She also realized the dilemma was hers; he could kill the girl first, and her hesitation made that fact known. His threat was clear, and he would kill the girl if Kagome fired her arrow.

She did not have to think long before a loud, keeling cry pierced through the sky. It was unlike anything ever heard before. The sound carried like a shockwave reverberating with anguish and rage—quite a cacophony of sounds that caught everyone off guard, drawing their gazes away. Something awful had happened, she knew, but her attention snapped back to the brute who had also been momentarily distracted.

The spirit energy finally seemed corporeal enough to grab, and she channeled that energy into the arrow even after it began its flight. Twin tails of white light trailed off the arrow as it spiraled towards its target. Even if the hanyo was able to deflect the shot, he would still be consumed. He tried to deflect the shot, but his attempt was in vain. The arrow struck him in the chest with a grotesque thud, the force of the blow throwing him back and off the taijiya.

Kagome sprinted forward and leaned over the woman, whose eyes were wide with shock. She trembled beneath Kagome's gentle hands. "It's alright" - she cut her neck to ensure the yokai wouldn't get back up. Interestingly, his body sizzled - trails of smoke rose as if he'd been roasted over an open flame, and while his face was no longer visible, his silver hair was now inky black. Kagome shook her head in disbelief. That was something she would have to wrap her mind around later.

"He's dead. You did well holding him off." The young woman trembled and blinked below her, still working through the shock once her battle adrenaline had subsided.

"Let's get you up." Kagome went to move her right hand but found it would not respond. The young girl's eyes which had been wide before, now bulged, and Kagome noticed dark liquid blooming beneath a jagged silver ornament adorning the girl's neck. Realization dawned, much too late. The girl, whose name Kagome did not know, gurgled, bloody foam peeking from her mouth as she made a vain attempt at speech.

The jagged silver ornament, really a jagged, serrated blade, twisted in the girl's throat and was pulled out. An agonizing pain ripped through Kagome's shoulder when the sword that had pierced it from behind was removed. The blade had been sharpened to perfection, sliding like butter through her skin, muscle, and tendons to the point where she hadn't even noticed.

Once the blade had been twisted and yanked through, Kagome screamed and fell backward. Her attempt to catch herself was met with a low insidious chuckle. "What's wrong, little miko?"

Kagome felt the blood drain from her face; probably to seep from her now open wound. She clutched at the hole near her chest and inhaled a sob from the pain. Hot, sticky blood poured over her fingers and continued down her arm. Over her head, a familiar figure stepped and leaned down with a smug smirk on a scarred face. "F-Fah," she sputtered.

"Are those tears for me?" His foot pushed her back and then toed her wound, causing her to gasp in pain. "Aghh!" She cried out.

With a flamboyant roll of his eyes, the daiyokai Fan Tsenpo kneeled to regard her. "Your tears," he reached down a hand and wiped the wet track from her cheek, "intrigue me so."

[leviathan-dee]

The Duel

(Just a lil’ self indulgent oneshot duel between Vergil x Reader. I’m a hoe for tense sword fights). TW mentions of blood and violence.

Word Count: 1,472

Two tempests of flashing steel fought mercilessly, your unbridled desire for victory feeding the devil's wanton curiosity.

Read on AO3

A reverberation of clashing steel and pained grunts enveloped the tension thick air. You danced a lethal tango with your foe, his molten silver eyes following each of your steps like a hungry wolf. The arctic haired man seemed to mirror your every move. Your every slash. Your every passionate gaze. You both toyed with one another, testing the waters of your limits, gliding in harmony like reflections in the glass.

Outstretching your arm, you parried the devil’s lacerating slash with your blade, only to be knocked back with the hilt of his odachi. You flew all the way to the opposite side of the battlefield before catching a glimpse of diabolical mischievousness from your peer. To your surprise, as you landed, the chiseled features on the man’s visage softened, making him part his lips and huff a sigh of something that mirrored relief. You did the same, catching your breath and taking in the display of unbridled power and skill radiating from the figure before you. Undoubtedly, you were impressed with his abilities.

After moments of strained silence, the towering man stepped towards you, pointing his sheathed blade in your direction, smirking in a teasing manner. Phosphorous coils of azure energy lapped at the sword in his hand.

“Please, don’t be shy. Do try to hit me.” A husky voice, with a touch of adenoidal undertones, filled the air, his malicious snark adding salt to the wound. You scoffed in turn, your eyebrows furrowing to reflect your bitterness. This seemed to only fuel the inferno within your chest. Pointing your blade, the light refracting off of the metal in an almost angelic manner, you assumed a battle ready pose. Your eyes focused on the imposing silhouette on the horizon.

Pushing off of the ground, you launched at the towering figure. With an almost immediate reaction, the silver hair once again dodged your blade. His movements portrayed water, waves of trailing glittering energy licking at the surface of the field. The devil’s dodging was completely effortless. Time seemed to slow to a complete stop, letting you catch a glimpse of a dimpled, pleased smile on his face as you missed another blow. You returned his pleasure with a venomous grin, as you finally landed a slash against his lower lip, barely grazing at the skin.

However small the victory, it was enough to draw blood.

His trail of energy left mirrored images of his past self, like memories left behind, as he glided back into a defensive position. With the devil’s eyes darkening, a shiver of electric tension travelled down your spine. The slice at his flesh brought something carnal onto the surface. A lethal dance of blades against something so supple and fragile was bound to get a rise out of you.

Danger.

Domination.

Victory.

“Impressive.” The man grimaced, straightening his briar embellished coat and running his fingers through the arctic locks. Admittedly, you were awestruck at the successful blow, feeling swelling pride warming your chest at the sight of crimson trickling down the devil’s chin. A mere sliver of pause, the both of you gazed at one another, lusting for the others’ submission to defeat.

Tensing your shoulders, you deeply inhaled, shaking your blade off of any remaining droplets of sanguine. The man simply scanned your actions with eager eyes. Before resuming the duel, you cleared your parched throat, jumping head first into the tempestuous dance of blades. 

“Would you tell me your name?” Hesitant at first, the question sounded small, the embodiment of curiosity taking over your voice. The both of you clashed against one another, his odachi causing sparks to emerge from the friction against your sword. This was the closest you’ve been to your dueling peer, the proximity almost suffocating, as the scent of sweet spice enrobed your senses. The devil’s eyes continued scanning your struggle against his sheer force. With his blooming fervour for victory, a malicious ghost of a smile graced his lips.

“So you could beg me for mercy? Plead for benevolence with my name upon your tongue?” The sovereignty within his voice shook your very core. It was his wrathful defiance, the exchange of two unstoppable forces that released your infatuation for lethal duets. It was the rise of an unknown result of who will kneel before who, moments before they take their last shuddering breath.

Thus the duel continued. Neither of you wavered from your goal; To see the other fall to their knees.

“Is this all you’ve got?” You urged the silver eyed devil, teasing him as you parried and dodged his gashes, unknowingly ignoring the blows he landed. Your limbs ached, the sickeningly sweet burn of muscles pushing past their limits.

You were exhausted.

“Foolish girl.” Eyes never faltering in their pinning gaze, he slashed at your leg, the cloth slipping down to reveal the supple flesh of your thigh. The both of you seemed to pause, a trailing seductive smile tugging at his lips. You simply stared, knowing full well what was happening.

He was toying with you.

Playing dirty.

Raising your brow questioningly, you retorted with a huff, only to have it returned with a pleased hum from the devil, his gaze lingering on the exposed flesh of your loin. Continuing with the duel, you attempted to catch him off guard, slashing at his legs instead of the broad torso. Inevitably, he avoided this attack as well.

You were angry, enraged and feral. Haphazardly striking at the mischievous devil, your fury swelled at the fact that your skills only allowed one strike at the man.

Slippery bastard.

Time stretched, the arctic silver haired man finally decided it was enough of these pointless games. As he struck your abdomen with the hilt of his sword, you landed with a sickening crash against the floor. Your vision went blurry, and the taste of iron slipped past your lips. Just like that, he willed the duel to an end.

Pathetically resting on your knees, the world before you engorged as you shrunk to the cold surface of the battlefield. His dominant stance, and the glint of pleased victory in his dilated pupils, made the blood rush in your head that much more potent. Such dangerous beauty did he radiate. Such… grandiose elegance. His form was unlike you’ve ever witnessed.

A razor sharp blade caressed at the underside of your chin, lifting your head to meet the stoic gaze of your conqueror. You could feel the cold metal almost hiss against your hot, sweat slicked skin. The smirk on the victorious devil never faltered. You would’ve melted at his pinning gaze, lost in the ocean of his silver irises, if not for these dangerous circumstances.

“Mercy is the golden chain by which society is bound together,” a minuscule pause stretched into a tense silence, the icy surface of the man’s odachi pressing teasingly on your neck, “you, my dear, may address me as… Vergil Sparda.” His honeyed voice lingered in your mind, the name resounding like a familiar melody.

Vergil… Sparda...

“And you may call me Y/N.” You exhaled a shuddering breath, anticipating the closing of your life’s chapter. However, it never came. This Vergil simply pressed on the tender skin of your neck, drawing a sliver of crimson from your flesh, to then sheath the odachi achingly slowly. 

This was a warning.

Stroking at his cut lip, he brushed the wound clean with his thumb, observing the scarlet that you drew moments ago. Whether he was impressed or annoyed? You could not tell.

Before you knew it, Vergil’s ghostly complexion reddened at the sight beneath him. Gentle in his actions, he closed the gap between you, grasping your chin with calloused fingers.

“You have lavished me with an impressive duel, my dear. Perhaps we shall continue this fight another time. Farewell, Y/N.” Your name seemed to roll off his tongue effortlessly, his thumb slowly grazing at your bottom lip, smearing his own blood on your swollen skin.

His icy glare shifted across your form, taking in the artwork of violet watercolour spreading beneath your skin, and your fragile flesh tearing from his blade. You could gather that he was proud of his accomplishments, to see such a powerful foe brought to their knees before him. With a softened visage, his brows furrowed, and a smirk tugged at the corners of his lips, pulling the cut on his skin open anew. You returned the smirk. Humming to yourself, you knew full well that this was the start of an unlikely alliance.

Vergil Sparda gave a knowing nod, before turning on his heel in the opposite direction. As the swaying silhouette slowly drifted past the horizon, one thought bounced mercilessly in your already addled mind.

You’re damn right we’ll continue this fight, Vergil. And I don’t plan on losing next time.

[chiseler]

Stolen Faces

Cinema is an art of faces, almost a religion of faces: on screen they loom above us, vast as a mother’s face must appear to an infant. We can get lost in them. The deepest thrill the movies offer may be the opportunity to gaze at human faces longer and with more unabashed, lover-like intimacy than real life regularly allows. Most often, of course, we gaze at beautiful faces, though cinema has its share of beloved gargoyles, mugs with “character” rather than symmetry. But the uncanny power of faces onscreen also anchors films about disfigurement and facial transformations, about masks and scars and plastic surgery. These stories summon all the fears and taboos, desires and unresolved questions swirling around the human face. Do faces reveal or conceal a person’s true nature? Can changing someone’s face change their soul?

Deformity is a staple of horror films, of course, from classics such as Phantom of the Opera and The Raven (in which the hideously afflicted man played by Boris Karloff muses, “Maybe if a man looks ugly, he does ugly things”) to surgical shockers such as Eyes Without a Face. But plot twists involving faces that are damaged or corrected, masked or changed, turn up with surprising frequency in film noir as well, where they are related to themes of identity theft, amnesia, desperate attempts to shed the past or recover the past. One of the grim proverbs of noir is that you can’t escape yourself. There are no fresh starts, no second chances. But noir also demonstrates the instability of identity, the way character can be corrupted, and stories about facial transformations harbor a nebulous fear that there is in the end no fixed self. If noir is pessimistic about the possibility of change, it is at the same time haunted by fear of change—fear of looking in the mirror and seeing a stranger.

The Truth of Masks

Two films about men who literally lose their faces take the full measure of the resulting ostracism and crushing isolation—and what men will do to escape it. Hiroshi Teshigahara’s The Face of Another (Tanin no Kao, 1966) is based on a Kobo Abe novel about a scientist named Okuyama who has been literally defaced by a chemical accident. We never see what he used to look like; he spends half the film swaddled in bandages like Claude Rains in The Invisible Man, ferocious black eyes glinting through slits. Obsessed with people’s reactions to his appearance, he lashes out bitterly, insisting that all his social ties have been severed, including his conjugal ties with his wife. She tries to convince him that it’s all in his head and that her feelings haven’t changed, but her revulsion when he makes an abrupt sexual advance convinces him that she’s lying.

Okuyama believes that a life-like mask will restore his relationship with his wife and his connection to society. He has evidently not seen The Face Behind the Mask (1941), a terrific B noir in which Peter Lorre stars as Johnny Szabo, who is hideously scarred in a fire. This tragedy and the ensuing cruelty of strangers transform him from a sweet, Chaplin-esque immigrant to a bitter criminal mastermind, even after he dons a powder-white mask that gives him a sad, creepy ghost of his former face—more Lorre than Lorre.  The mask is merely a flimsy patch on the horrible visage that spiritually scars Johnny, and though it enables him to marry a sweet and loving (and perhaps near-sighted) woman, it can’t reverse the corrosion of his character.  

The doctor who makes a far more sophisticated mask for Okuyama does so because the project fascinates him as a psychological and philosophical experiment. He speculates about what the world would be like if everyone wore a mask: morality would not exist, he argues, since people would feel no responsibility for the actions of their alternate identities. (His theory seems to be borne out by the consequences of internet anonymity.) Unlike the one Johnny Szabo wears, here the mask bears no resemblance to Okuyama’s original looks, and the doctor believes the new face will change his patient’s personality, turning him into someone else.

When the mask is fitted, it turns out to be the face of Tatsuya Nakadai, one of the most striking and plastic pans in cinema history. With only a little help from a fake mole, dark glasses, and a bizarre fringe of beard, Nakadai succeeds in making his own features look eerily synthetic, as though they don’t belong to him. Sitting in a crowded beer hall on his first masked outing in public, he creates a palpable sense of unease, keeping his features unnaturally still as though unsure of their mobility, touching his skin gingerly to explore its alien surface. As he gradually grows more comfortable and revels in the freedom of his new face, the doctor tells him, “It’s not the beer that’s made you drunk, it’s the mask.”

Abe’s novel contains a scene in which the protagonist goes to an exhibit of Noh masks, highly stylized crystallizations of stock characters and emotions. In Noh, as in other traditional forms of theater that use masks, the actor is present on stage but vanishes into another physical being—men play women, young men play old men, gods, and ghosts. In cinema, actors impersonate other characters using their own faces—usually without even the heavy layer of makeup worn on western stages. Movie actors are pretending to be people they’re not, yet if we judge their performances good it means we believe what we see in their faces. When an actor’s real face plays the part of a mask, like Lorre’s or Nakadai’s, this strange inversion—the real impersonating the artificial—has a uniquely disconcerting effect.

At the heart of this disturbing film lurks a horror that changing the skin can indeed change the soul. Okuyama tries to hold onto his identity, insisting, “I am who I am, I can’t change,” but the doctor insists he is “a new man,” with “no records, no past.” In covering his scar tissue with a smooth, artificial skin he eradicates his own experience, and with it his humanity. The doctor turns out to be right when he predicts that the mask will have a mind of its own. Suddenly endowed with sleek good looks, Okuyama buys flashy suits and sets out to seduce his own wife. When he succeeds easily, he is outraged, only to have her reveal that she knew who he was all along. After she leaves him in disgust he descends into madness and random violence. He has become the opposite of the Invisible Man: a visible shell with nothing inside

Okuyama’s story is interwoven with a subplot about a radiation-scarred girl from Nagasaki, whose social isolation drives her to incest and suicide. Lovely from one side, repellent from the other, she looks very much like the protagonist of A Woman’s  Face. Ingrid Bergman starred in the Swedish original, but Joan Crawford is ideally cast in the 1941 Hollywood remake directed by George Cukor. Half beautiful and half grotesque, half hard-boiled and half vulnerable, Anna Holm spells out what was usually inchoate in Crawford’s paradoxical presence. A childhood fire has left her with a gnarled scar on one side of her face, like a black diseased root growing across her cheek and distorting her eye and mouth. Crawford makes us feel Anna’s agonizing humiliation when people look at her, which spurs her compulsive mannerisms of turning her head aside, lifting her hand to her cheek, or pulling her hair down.

Also perfectly cast is Conrad Veidt as the elegant, sinister Torsten Baring. Veidt went from German Expressionist horror—playing the goth heartthrob Cesar in The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari and the grotesquely disfigured yet weirdly alluring hero of The Man Who Laughs—to an unexpected late-career run as a sexy leading man in cloak-and-dagger films such as The Spy in Black and Contraband. When Anna turns her head defiantly to reveal her scar, Torsten gazes at her with a gleam of excitement, even of perverse attraction. She is confused and touched by his kindness and gallantry, helplessly trying to hide her sensitivity beneath a tough façade. Her broken-up, uncertain expressions when he gives her flowers or kisses her hand count as some of the most delicate acting Crawford ever did. Anna assumes that Torsten, the penniless scion of a rich family, must want her to do some dirty work, and she turns out to be right, but he also genuinely appreciates the proud, bitter, lonely woman who faces down her miserable lot through sheer strength of will.

People are horrible to Anna, nastily mocking her wounded vanity and her attempts to look nice. “The world was against me,” she says, “All right, I’d be against it.” She has found the perfect outlet, blackmailing pretty women who commit adultery. In one of the film’s best scenes, the spoiled and kittenish wife she is threatening retaliates by shining a lamp in Anna’s face and laughing at her. Anna leaps at the woman and starts hitting her over and over, forehand and backhand, in an ecstasy of hatred. This savagely satisfying moment is derailed by the film’s first grossly contrived plot twist, as the encounter is interrupted by the woman’s husband, who happens to be a plastic surgeon specializing in correcting facial scars. He offers to operate on Anna, and once the bandages are removed, in a scene orchestrated for maximum suspense, an absurdly flawless face is revealed.

The doctor (Melvyn Douglas) calls her both his Galatea and his Frankenstein: he views her as his creation, but isn’t sure if she’s an ideal woman or an unholy monster, “a beautiful face with no heart.” Her dilemma is ultimately which man to please, whose approval to seek: the doctor who believes her character should be corrected now that her face is, or Torsten, who wants her to kill the young nephew who stands between him and the family estate. This overwrought turn is never plausible; it is always obvious that Anna is no child murderer. What is believable is her erotic thrall to Torsten, the first man who has ever shown an interest in her. Crawford is at her most unguarded in these moments of trembling desire; Cukor remarked on how “the nearer the camera, the more tender and yielding she became.” He speculated that the camera was her true lover.

Anna undergoes months of pain and uncertainty for the chance of being beautiful for Torsten, and there is a marvelous shot of her gazing at herself in a mirror as she prepares to surprise him with her new face, brimming with hard proud joy. But he winds up lamenting the surgery that has turned her into “a mere woman, soft and warm and full of love,” he sneers. “I thought you were something different—strong, exciting, not dull, mediocre, safe.” In this same speech, Torsten reveals himself as a cartoonish fascist megalomaniac, which fits in with the film’s slide into silly, flimsily scripted melodrama, but sadly obscures the radical spark of what he’s saying. Anna’s character is shaped by the way she looks, or rather by the way she is looked at by men; the disappointingly conventional ending sides with the man who equates flawless beauty with moral goodness, and against the one man who was able to see something fine—a “hard, shining brightness,” in a woman’s damaged and imperfect face.

A Stolen Face (1952) follows a similar premise, much less effectively, and reaches the opposite conclusion. Paul Henreid plays a plastic surgeon who operates on female criminals with disfiguring scars, convinced that once they look normal they will become contented law-abiding citizens. He gets carried away, however, sculpting one patient into a dead ringer for his lost love (Lizabeth Scott plays both the original and the copy) and marrying her. His attempt to play Pygmalion backfires, since the vulgar, mean-spirited and untrustworthy ex-con is unchanged by her new appearance: she is indeed “a beautiful face without a heart.” That is a succinct definition of the femme fatale, a type Lizabeth Scott often played and one that embodies a fascination with the deceptiveness of feminine beauty. In The Big Heat (1953), it is only when Debbie (Glora Grahame) has her pretty face rearranged by a pot of scalding coffee that she abandons her cynical self-interest to become an avenging angel, fearlessly punishing the corrupt who hide their greed behind a genteel façade. She has nothing left to lose; pulling a gun from her mink coat and plugging the woman she recognizes as her evil “sister,” the disfigured Debbie asserts her freedom: “I never felt better in my life.”

Blessings in Disguise

Sometimes, people are only too happy to lose their faces. Dr. Richard Talbot (Kent Smith), the protagonist of the superb, underappreciated drama Nora Prentiss (1947), sees the bright side when his face is horribly burned in a car crash. He has already faked his own death, sending another man’s corpse over a cliff in a burning car. In a neat bit of poetic irony, by crashing his own car he has completed the process of destroying his identity, and no longer needs to fear he’ll be recognized. Losing his face is a blessing in disguise—or rather, a blessing of disguise. But the disfigurement is also a visual representation of the corruption of his character: his face changes to reflect his downward metamorphosis with almost Dorian Gray-like precision.

Car crashes are a kind of refrain in the film. The doctor’s routine existence veers off course when a taxi knocks down a nightclub singer, Nora Prentiss (Anne Sheridan), across the street from his San Francisco office. Talk about a happy accident: the nice guy trapped in an ice-cold marriage to a rigid, nagging martinet suddenly has a gorgeous, good-humored young woman stretched out on his examining table. Nora may sing for a living, but her real vocation is dishing out wisecracks (her first words on coming to are, “There must be an easier way to get a taxi.”) When the doctor mentions a paper he’s writing on “ailments of the heart,” the canary, her eyelids dropping under the weight of knowingness, quips, “A paper? I could write a book.”

It’s hard to imagine a more sympathetic pair of adulterers, but the doctor is so daunted by the prospect of asking his wife for a divorce that it seems simpler to use the convenient death of a patient in his office to stage his own demise and flee to New York with Nora. It’s soon clear, though, that some part of him did die in San Francisco. Cooped up in a New York hotel room, terrified of going out lest someone spot him, the formerly gentle man becomes an irascible, rude, nervous wreck. When the faithful and incredibly patient Nora goes back to singing for Phil Dinardo (Robert Alda), the handsome nightclub owner who loves her, Talbot becomes hysterically jealous. Unshaven and hollow-eyed, he slaps Nora and almost kills Dinardo before fleeing the police and heading into that fiery crash. He becomes, as the film’s evocative French title has it, L’Amant sans Visage, “the lover without a face.”

When his bandages are removed, he is unrecognizable, wizened and scarred, his face a creased and calloused mask. His own wife doesn’t know him, and when Nora visits him in prison his damaged face, shot through a tight wire mesh, looks like something decaying, dissolving. He’s in prison because, in an even neater bit of irony, he has been charged with his own murder. He decides to take the rap, recognizing the justice of the mistake: he did kill Richard Talbot.

This same ironic plot twist appears in Strange Impersonation (1946), albeit less convincingly. This deliriously far-fetched tale, directed at a breakneck pace by Anthony Mann, stars Brenda Marshall as Nora Goodrich, a pretty scientist whose glasses signal that she is both brainy and emotionally myopic. She is harshly punished for caring more about work than marriage: her female lab assistant, who wants to steal Nora’s fiancé, tampers with an experiment so that it explodes, burning Nora’s face to a crisp. Embittered, she retreats from the world, and when another woman, who is trying to blackmail her over a car accident, falls from the window and is mistakenly identified as Nora, she seizes the opportunity to disappear, have plastic surgery that miraculously eliminates her scars, and return posing as the blackmailer, to seek revenge. She goes to work for her former fiancé, who strangely fails to recognize her voice or her striking resemblance to his lost love.

The plot plays out as, and turns out to be, a fever dream, but this last credibility stretcher is too common to dismiss as merely the flaw of one potboiler. Plots involving impersonation and identity theft rely not only on unrealistic visions of what plastic surgery can achieve, but on the assumption that people are deeply unobservant and tone-deaf in recognizing loved ones. A film that underlines this blindness with droll irony is The Scar (a.k.a. Hollow Triumph and The Man Who Murdered Himself, 1948), a convoluted but hugely entertaining little B noir in which Paul Henreid plays dual roles as a crook on the run and a psychologist who happens to look just like him. John Muller, pursued by hit men sent by a casino owner he robbed, stumbles across his doppelganger and decides to kill him and take his place. All he needs to do is give himself a facial scar to match the doctor’s. Only as he is dumping the body does he notice that he has put the scar on the wrong cheek—the consequence of an accidentally reversed photograph. But the irony quickly doubles back: Muller decides to brazen it out, and in fact no one notices that the doctor’s scar has apparently moved from one side of his face to the other—not even his lover. (Joan Bennett glides through this awkward part in a world-weary trance, giving a dry-martini reading to the script’s most famous lines: “It’s a bitter little world, full of sad surprises.”) The assumption that people pay little attention to the way others look or sound seems directly at odds with the power that faces and voices wield on film, and the intimate specificity with which we experience them. But noir stories often turn on how easily people are deceived, and how poorly they really know one another—or even themselves.

In The Long Wait (1954), perhaps the most extreme case of confused identity, a man with amnesia searches for a woman who has had plastic surgery. Not only does he not know what she looks like now, he can’t even remember what she used to look like. Since the movie is based on a Mickey Spillane story, he proceeds methodically by grabbing every woman he sees, in hopes that something will jog his memory. The film is fun in its pulpy, trashy way, provided you enjoy watching Anthony Quinn kiss women as though his aim were to throttle the life out of them. Quinn plays a man badly injured in a car wreck that erases both his memory and his fingerprints. This is lucky when he wanders into his old town and discovers he is wanted for a bank robbery—without fingerprints, they can’t arrest him. Figuring he must be innocent, he goes in search of the girlfriend who may or may not have grabbed the money and gone under the knife. It’s an intriguing premise, but the ultimate revelation of the right woman feels arbitrary, and the implications of all this confusion of identities are left resolutely unexamined. Nonetheless, there is something in the film’s searing, inarticulate desperation that glints like a shattered mirror.

Under the Knife

The promise of plastic surgery is a new and better self, the erasure of years and the traces of life. Taken to extremes, it is the opportunity to become a different person. Probably the best known plastic surgery noir is Dark Passage (1947), in which Humphrey Bogart plays Vincent Parry, who visits a back alley doctor after escaping from San Quentin. Parry was framed for killing his wife, so the face plastered across newspapers with the label of murderer has become a false face that betrays him. A friendly cabby who spots him recommends a surgeon who is he promises is “no quack.” Houseley Stevenson’s gleeful turn as the back-alley doctor is unforgettable, as he sharpens a straight razor while philosophizing about how all human life is rooted in fear of pain and death. He can’t resist scaring Parry, chortling over what he could do to a patient he didn’t like: make him look like a bulldog, or a monkey. But he reassures Parry that he’ll make him look good: “I’ll make you look as if you’ve lived.”

During the operation, Parry’s drugged consciousness becomes a kaleidoscope of faces, all the people who have threatened or helped him swirling around. His face is being re-shaped, as his life has already been shaped by others: the bad woman who framed him and the good woman who rescues and protects him, the small-time crook who menaces him and the kind cabby who helps him. Faceless for much of the movie, mute for part of it (he spends a long time in constraining bandages), Vincent Parry is among the most passive and cipher-like of noir protagonists. When the bandages finally come off after surgery, he looks like Humphrey Bogart, and the idea that this famously beat-up, lived-in face could be the creation of plastic surgery is perhaps the film’s biggest joke. But Vincent Parry remains an oddly blank, undefined character, and he seems unchanged by his new face and name. In a sense the doctor is right: he only looks as though he’s lived.

The fullest cinematic exploration of the problems inherent in trying to make a new life through plastic surgery is Seconds (1966), John Frankenheimer’s flesh-creeping sci-fi drama about a mysterious company that offers clients second lives. For a substantial fee, they will fake your death, make you over completely—including new fingerprints, teeth, and vocal cords—and create an entirely new identity for you. There is never a moment in the movie when this seems like a good idea. The Saul Bass credits, in which human features are stretched and distorted in extreme close-up, instills a horror of plasticity, and disorienting camera-work creates an immediate feeling of unease and dislocation, a physical discomfort at being in the wrong place.

Arthur, a businessman from Scarsdale, is the personification of disappointed middle age, afflicted by profound anomie that goes beyond a dull routine and a tired marriage. When the Company finishes its work—the process is shown in gruesome detail, to the extent that Frankenheimer’s cameraman fainted while shooting a real rhinoplasty—the formerly nondescript and greying Arthur looks like Rock Hudson, and has a new life as a playboy painter in Malibu. He’s told that he is free, “alone in the world, absolved of all responsibility.” He has “what every middle-aged man in America wants: freedom.”

At first, however, his life proves as empty and meaningless in this new setting as it was in the old; even when the Frankenstein scars have healed, he remains nervous and joyless as before. After he meets and falls for a beautiful blonde neighbor, who introduces him to a very 1960s California lifestyle, he begins to revel in youth and sensual freedom. Yet something is still not right; at a cocktail party he gets drunk and starts talking about his former existence—a taboo. He discovers that his lover, indeed almost everyone he knows, is an employee of the company or a fellow “reborn,” hired to create a fake life for him, and to keep him under surveillance. His “freedom” is a construct, tightly controlled.

Arthur rebels, making a forbidden trip to visit his wife, who of course does not recognize him. Talking to her about her supposedly deceased husband, for the first time he begins to understand himself: the depth of his alienation and confusion, the fact that he never really knew what he wanted, and so wanted the things he had been told he should want. Seconds is a scathing attack on the American ideal of a successful life, a portrait of how corporations sell fantasies of youth, beauty, happiness, love; buying into these commercial dreams, no one is really free to know what they want, or even who they are. Will Geer, as the folksy, sinister founder of the Company, talks wistfully about how he simply wanted to make people happy.

There is a deep sadness in the scenes where Arthur revisits his old home and confronts the failure of his attempt at rebirth—beautifully embodied by Rock Hudson in a performance suffused with the melancholy of a man who has spent his life hiding his real identity behind a mask. Yet Arthur still imagines that if he can have another new start, a third face and identity, he will get it right. Instead, he learns the macabre secret of how the Company goes about swapping out people’s identities. Seconds contrasts the surgical precision with which faces, bodies, and the trappings of life can be remade, and the impossibility of determining or predicting how or if the inner self will be changed. For that there are no charts or diagrams, and no knife that can cut deep enough.

by Imogen Sara Smith

[coinofstone]

For this two part episode, I'm combining both parts in one post. Unfortunately there's no commentary track on these so it's just the episodes I'm commenting on.

2x05 Beauty and the Beast pt 1

Merlin complaining about nothing interesting ever happens is the most OOC thing he's ever said

Nothing like a damsel in distress to blind a man to reason. I mean except Gaius. He's instantly distrustful of this bish. But even MERlin falls for her shit at first.

Uther flirts with the Lady Catrina at dinner and Arthur's completely disgusted while Morgana has the most devious, knowing grin on her face. It seems implied that there's an age gap between Uther and Catrina, the way he talks of her as a child.

Sarah Parrish is absolutely wonderful. Her performance puts everyone else in this series to shame.

Imagine finding a ride before breakfast charming. That sounds like my nightmare. Fully dressed and on a horse BEFORE coffee? No thank you.

The Lady Catrina's bed hadn't been slept in but her bedspread was changed 😂

I really love the way her hair is done. It's like, they used part of her hair from the front to act as a loose hair tie at the back, giving you freedom from hair being in your face without actually having to have your hair up. I wish I knew how to do that.

It looks like there's a headband in there too. I should get headbands.

There's a reeeeeally strange cut in that scene. Not sure what happened there. But it seems like Merlin is testing the waters to see if Arthur is receptive to suspicion of Catrina, but ultimately Arthur seems to dislike her without any sense of questioning her identity or motives.

Gaius trying to plant seeds of doubt in Uther's mind but he still gets yelled at 😂

How come every time Arthur 'catches' Merlin supposedly pining after a lady he threatens Merlin's life?

So, Gaius warning Uther that his new girl is a literal troll, and Uther refusing to hear it and instead responding with a thinly veiled threat - is that like the 'guy' equivalent of what women do when one of them finds a dude with a giant red flag planted on his skull that she somehow can't see, and all her girls try to warn her but she ignores it and possibly becomes a little hostile even, until the one doing the warning says 'fine but don't come crying to me when he breaks your heart'?

It's a very bad idea to watch this while eating. Just, fyi.

It bothers me that we're never really told what kind of creature Jonas is.

Arthur is excruciatingly stupid in this episode. Merlin isn't the brightest he's ever been either.

Gaius doesn't go looking for Merlin after he didn't come home at night? Arthur doesn't raise any kind of suspicion when Merlin's not there to help him get dressed for his father's wedding? Idk it's a stretch.

Merlin sliding into the hall ten seconds too late was undoubtedly the best possible outcome. If he'd interrupted the ceremony how was that going to go? There's literally no way that doesn't end with him in the dungeon, unless Uther orders him killed immediately on the spot.

2x06 Beauty and the Beast pt 2

Uther being super horny for his wedding night consummation is gross. I love Tony but bruh you're supposed to be all dignified and shit have some self respect.

It's strange to me that Catrina sets up a whole plot to blame Merlin for stealing, when she could've just as easily outed him as a sorcerer.

Arthur knowingly and willfully misleading his men so he could get to Merlin first and warn him, so Merlin could escape 🥺🥺🥺🥺

Yet Merlin still never trusts Arthur enough to reveal his magic. Arthur literally TELLS him he doesn't care if Merlin was guilty or not, he just wants him to escape before he gets caught and captured. He's DIRECTLY going against Uther, actively sabotaging the manhunt, assisting Merlin in spite of Uther's orders ... again. But still, Merlin doesn't have enough faith in him to trust him with who he really is 🥺🥺🥺🥺

Dumbasses

Remind me again why Merlin and Gaius didn't bother to involve Gwen or Morgana in their plot? At all? Did they just forget that these characters exist? I think they each had one line in the first part.

Merlin's such a baby tasting the potions for comparison.

And why is he hiding in the cupboard when there's a back door right behind him?

Catrina is literally the new GOP.

Gorgeous framing with Uther standing on the dais and Arthur looking up at him while saying all he's ever tried to do is make him proud. Arthur looking up at Uther's larger than life visage is really just, everything.

Morgana and Arthur following Uther chasing after Catrina 😂 they just want the gosssssss also noticing now that Arthur didn't bother to get dressed up for the ceremony.

Camelot really has the most incompetent guards in the history of ever.

🚨inappropriate thirst moment🚨 right in the top corner of the screen when Arthur cones around the corner, all smolder and billowing jacket, stalking up on the scene. Have mercy.

Arthur: "You're a troll!"

Catrina: 😨😲

Me: 😂😂😂😂😂

Uther:

The TRUE best kiss in this show:

I know I've said the superior het ship is Gwen/Lancelot but I'm amending that - the truly superior ship is Uther/Troll, but I don't know that an interspecies ship can be classified as het, so they hold dual titles.

Yes, I'm taking photographs of my television and cropping them. Yes it's at a weird angle. No I'm not sorry.

That council meeting to try and make sure Uther realizes he's married a troll is literally what I imagine Melania's bachelorette party was like.

Khilgarrah's laughter is everything.

I love that Arthur never replaced Merlin with a substitute servant even though he thought he left Camelot. Just left his chambers in a mess. Then he gets super angry at the thought of Merlin hiding under his bed... like he's afraid Merlin might've witnessed something while under there? Hmmmm?

Can I just point out Camelot's most wanted fugitive is literally in the room with nobody even noticing.

The aborted hug! Poor Merlin. He deserved a hug. Great moment.

[daffodil-deity-blog]

[[ Details, details, details… i’m back!! and I did some doodles to test my tablet on the computer i jumped to. ]]

[o-neillwith2ls]

I told you so!

Prompt number: 11

Fandom: Stargate SG-1

Rating:T

Warnings: implication of abuse

—

Can be read with ‘Your cover story could do with some work’ in my episode tags. Again I’m exploring the kind of relationship Jacob and Sam had before we meet him and get to love him (because I do love Jacob, I really do!) its also a feel around for a Pre-Series story I have in mind about Jacob and Sam in particular, there’s lots of pointers towards that series in there, so feedback/ideas/comments are welcome. And you know I heard “I told you so” and thought of Jacob--for some reason 🤔

Also, thanks to Julie, my BETA I changed things back from the last time you saw them! I’m sorry in advance!

Pre-Series, about two years before season 1 begins.

Sam splashed the water in her face, hoping to cool down. She was blushing bright red and was uncomfortable.

This shouldn’t be so hard! This man! He’s supposed to be her father! She envied other kids growing up. Ones with fathers who praised them and paid them attention. She genuinely believed that she wasn’t trying hard enough and that's why he always paid more attention to Mark. No, she wasn’t envious of Mark. This wasn’t a sibling rivalry thing although she wished it were.

Every time it came to her achievements, it was “Well done, sweetheart--” then a mild push away before Mark would be praised over the smallest thing. It felt as though she was being underplayed for Mark’s under achievements. So, she’d try harder and harder, push herself more. At the age fourteen, she achieved a 4.5 on her high school diploma. He missed her graduation for work. The only cheer she heard was that of Blake’s, the one senior who had been a friend, well more than that if their age difference hadn’t been such a big deal. It's not that she didn’t love Blake for doing it, but she didn’t want to hear his cheers. She wanted her dad, her brother -- her mom. Gosh, she really missed her mom.

She closed her eyes as she used a paper towel to dry off the water from her face.

Mark had promptly ran away from home, informing Jacob that he was never joining the Air Force. Sam was five years older and even though she had rebelled a little after her high school graduation and has since college, she had come down to see her father’s head bow in self defeat. Generations of Carters had been in the Forces, ever since (possibly before) the civil war. In that moment, he thought it would all end with him.

So, she took Mark’s place. After all, for the best and the brightest, the air force had ways of getting their people on spacecraft, and she would go up in one of those programs. She already had her bachelor’s degree and her Masters. Yes, she could get a sponsor, or a grant for her PhD. With her education and skills, the Air Force could and would pay for her to join and she would have a career at the end of it and a possible way into space.

She thought it would be enough for him, that he would finally be proud of her.

Turns out she was wrong on that front too.

Even when Mark came back briefly, it just turned into another way for her Dad could criticize her, at a closer level. Every grade (despite the fact she was still the highest scorer in her class), he’d inspect and point out her flaws. To make matters worse, Mark had stopped talking to her, claiming she had taken dad’s side and wouldn’t listen to her reasoning, if she joined the Air Force he wouldn’t have to. The name Carter--would still be in the Air Force!

Then Mark left again, and her Dad blamed her… again. They didn’t speak for a while.

Then she had met Jonas.

She knew now it had been a mistake, but at the time—oh, at the time she had been flattered at the very much older, very distinguished then Captain who wanted her. She relished in the attention. Who wouldn’t? He was handsome and intelligent, but she really couldn’t see the controlling and manipulative behavior. When she introduced Jonas to her father, that behavior was the one thing her father had pain strictly pointed out to her.

As if their relationship wasn’t frayed enough, as if he hadn’t already lost his son because of this behaviour, he carried on for an hour.

She had rebelliously snapped back that she didn’t care what he thought, and she was going to marry Jonas anyway. In the end, she finally wised up to see for herself what kind of the man her fiancé actually was, and she finally ended it. All it took was a physical reminder. She was better than that. She wouldn’t accept that fate.

Sam sighed and put the paper towel in the bin. She looked at her visage in the mirror. All she saw was a woman who was alone again. A little bit older. A little bit wiser. She pulled her shoulders back and whispered, ‘no more’ to herself.

She didn’t contact her father two and a half years later after she had broken it off her engagement, for the exact reasons he had pointed out. She never wanted to give him the satisfaction of being right. She knew in the end, that’s all that mattered to him.

Not Mark, not her, not the Air Force, not anything. Just him and his opinions.

So, although she wished for her relationship to be different than what it was with her dad, she knew it never could be. He wouldn’t care if she'd been promoted to Captain, or for her theoretical work in ‘deep space radar telemetry’ No, he’d focus on her failed relationship. Even though she had broken it off two and a half years ago, he would still focus on that.

She still took a deep breath and left the ladies’ room. After all, she was a Carter.

She saw her father across the restaurant, he was still in his dress blues, she should have known and not dressed in her own casual clothes. Now he could criticise her clothes, or maybe the length of her hair. Oh god, had she smudged her makeup?

"Hey kiddo." He said standing as she approached. "No uniform?" He asked.

"No, I um, I got changed when I left work." She admitted.

"It's pretty." He told her, referring to the knee length flowery skirt and white shirt she had picked out.

She took a deep breath. Like her, not even her clothes could pass the 'beautiful' mark in her father’s eyes. Everyone who had ever met her claimed a likeness in Sam to her mother, she had sorely wished it to be true, she thought her mother was the most wonderful and beautiful person in the world as a child. But her father had never pointed it out, she supposed he couldn't see it so never said.

"Thanks." She said quietly as she sat.

He looked at her again. "You cut your hair."

She touched upon her short bob and took a deep breath in. She'd cut it from her long locks she'd had from a child after she broke up with Jonas, she'd found it liberating to do and found she felt as though she was a real woman for having done it. "I always liked it long."

She sighed heavily feeling like she disappointed him all over again. "It was taking too long to do." Sam admitted.

"What does Jonas think of it?" He asked her.

She felt the pink work up her shoulders to her neck. "He wouldn't know, I broke it off." He had a question in his eyes but wouldn’t ask it. She told him brusquely. “Two and a half years ago.”

She couldn't look as she waited for it. Four little words which would break her heart all over again.

"You--what?" He asked obviously surprised.

"He was overbearing, controlling--"

"Abusive?" Jacob said looking at her with that all knowing look he had.

"You know, dad--" she started, a little annoyed at his condescending tone.

"I told you so." He cut across.

Sam scoffed and shook her head. "There it is." She replied with an ironic chuckle.

"What?" He asked innocently.

"The famous Jacob Carter and always being right!" She exclaimed as quietly as she could.

"Well I was, sweetheart--" he started.

"Not everything is about being right, dad." She tore across him. "Did you think that maybe your daughter might like to hear 'Gee I'm sorry the one chance of love you've ever had didn’t work out.' Just once instead of hearing once again about how you're right again."

"Sammy--"

"Stop that!" She objected "I'm not a little girl anymore."

Jacob grinned. "So what? Now, you come here with a new haircut and suddenly you have all the answers?" He ended with a pity grin at her. "Have you considered that part of your problem is just that you take after me and you always have to be right?" He asked an ever- increasing pink Sam.

"No, Dad there is a difference between being correct and being right. You can be correct and still be wrong and you are just the upright example of correct."

"Thank you." He said flatly to her.

She let out a puff of air and shook her head "I can't believe I thought this was a good idea." She said as she stood to leave.

"Samantha, where are you going? Sit down."

"I'm not one of your Airman to order around!" She snapped before she walked out.

It wasn't until she was outside that she heard her dad behind her. “Samantha, stop!”

Her father gave an order and like the airman she was, she immediately stopped as her father approached.

"Do you know what you need, Samantha?" He asked as he got closer.

"I don't want to hear it."

"Well, I'm telling you anyway." He told her. "You don't need someone who just sits and listens to all your academic smarts. You need someone who listens to you. You don't need someone who hangs on every word you say. You need someone who encourages you to learn, develop, and grow. You need someone who sees you with all your imperfections and still would die for you. Most of all, you need someone who would love you, Samantha. All of you."

She scoffed and glared at him. "l'll bear that in mind." She said before she headed towards her Volvo. She got in her car and with tears in her eyes, she drove away not looking at her father. She didn’t see the lonely man, standing at the curb, looking dejectedly after his daughter as she left him behind.

4 years later Jacob’s Viewpoint (Bold from S02E09 Secrets no copywrite intended) 

I saw a man, obviously a Colonel, come over with drinks in hand. I look at him and saw immediately by sight that he was Sam's type. Older. Confident. The man needed to pass us by altogether in my opinion. I was perturbed (to say mildly) when stopped in front of us. And I saw the smile my daughter sent his way as he approached.

"Sam?" He said as he handed her the drink.

"Thank you, Sir." Sam replied politely.

'Sir?' I question in my own head. 'She knows this guy?'

"Colonel Jack O'Neill, Jacob Carter."  His old buddy, General George Hammond, made the introductions.

I almost burst out laughing although I've trained myself not to. I straighten my shoulders and look at her seriously, surely, he'll be like anyone else would be, intimidated by my two stars on my shoulders.

I don’t believe THIS was the Colonel O'Neill George had harped on about for months? This was her commanding officer? Holy Hannah, George do you know what you've done? This guy was not the right man to be her commanding officer!

"Carter? As in?" said Colonel quietly, he turned a questioning face to my Sammy.

"As in my father, Sir, yes." Sam blushed.

"Get outta town." He says and while obviously teasing her "Sam's Dad? I've heard nothing about you, Sir." He says bringing out his hand, I shake it. Damn! I start to object to my own opinion of him. I like him, the first one brave enough to shake my hand. Also, the first one to look me directly in the eye. Sam, on the other hand, looks like a deer in headlights as I say:

"What's there to say about an old general waiting to retire?" I ask him with a sly look to my daughter.

"Dad, I talk about you all the time." She tells me. Yeah right, Sammy, now pull the other one, because I'm not buying it.

"I retired myself one time. Couldn't stay away." O'Neill told me as he took a sip of his drink.

I'm also not buying this from him. "From your analysis of deep space radar telemetry?" I ask, barely hiding the sarcasm in my voice. .

"Well, it's just so damn fascinating." He quips, and I like it, he's quick and receives a smile from my daughter. I don't immediately think too much on it, I'm too busy enjoying the banter.

"I'm sure it is. Otherwise you wouldn't be receiving the Air Medal." I shot back. I find myself drawn into conversation with him.

"We have our moments." The Colonel admits and then there it is again; she's giving him THAT smile. "Um, will you excuse me? We just don't get out of Cheyenne Mountain enough. I'm going to grab some air. Outside. General. Captain. General." He starts to walk away, and I smile. The guy is certainly not afraid of me. A refreshing change from Sammie’s previous suitors.

I realized that I liked him as he watched the Colonel turn and call out, "Waiter." As I turn back, I took a look at Sammy’s face and I see it. The look on her face was familiar to me. It was the same one my wife used to give me.  'Oh Sammy, I told you so!' I think to myself, then dread hits me, I suppose my father instincts take over,she’s sleeping with her superior officer! I can’t believe George would let that son of a bitch with his smooth talking and his charming persona trap my Sammy like this! I can’t believe I let him fool me!

Silly love sick Sammy! Did she not know the Frat rules were there for a reason!?

[yukiwrites]

Together, Even After Death

I HAD PLANNED TO POST THIS ON VALENTINE’S DAY but stuff happened so I was only able to finish it today, but it’s still february so it still counts!!! IT DOES OKAY!! I love Líf so much I’m gonna combust into flames right here and now!!! Watch out for the sin, ye who enter!

Summary: Remembering the line of thoughts she had in the past, Kiran decided to act on her impulses and give Líf the present she knew he’s always wanted, but was ashamed to get.

______________________________

It was rare that Kiran woke up before Líf did. So rare that that might have been the first time ever since they returned from Ljósálfheimr.

Wrapped around his febrile arms, Kiran rested her ear on his strong, cursed chest, hearing the faint heartbeat thumping in its characteristic odd rhythm. The more she acquainted herself with his semi-life, the more she wanted to spend it all by his side; she even noticed that his skin would usually feel cold to the touch at first, but would gradually absorb her own warmth into his, exuding its own warmth the more they touched. She looked up to his sleeping mien, slowly taking the hair that covered most of his face away as she smiled fondly, wanting to kiss the scars that bordered the curse with his own flesh, accepting all of him within herself.

Specks of dust glistened in the faint sunlight seeping through the curtains, the chill of the previous night being washed out little by little by the morning sun. Kiran trailed her fingers through Líf's cheek, tufting the most hair she could behind his ear so she could look at his handsome sleeping face unhindered.

It was strange. Watching him being so vulnerably hers made Kiran's heart ache with accomplishment, love and longing that stole her breath away. As it was true that she felt that she had come to that world only so she could meet him again, so it was that she felt as though she had to one-up all the memories of the past, so he could accept their love as it were at the present.

When they were together, he had no qualms about confessing his ever-lasting love to her, but under the eyes of the others, he'd always made sure to keep his distance.

She knew he felt inadequate. She knew he did not want to impose his undeath existence into this world and its inhabitants -- as though he were ready to leave at a moment's notice.

Yet, he was unable to even consider the notion of leaving her; she knew it. Kiran felt treasured, loved and accepted in his arms, but it was as though she were both his shackles and the keys to his freedom at the same time.

She wanted him to accept feeling accepted; she wanted him to welcome this new life with her from the depths of his very being, irregardless of how irregularly did his heart beat. She wanted him to acknowledge that that was how this life was going to play out: them, together, no matter what others thought or where each of them came from.

Placing her hand over his cheek, Kiran felt it gradually switch from cold to warm as his brows twitched with conscience of himself.

He was waking up.

His cold breath ruffled her bangs, urging her so stretch her neck just a little bit higher to place a peck in his febrile lips, quite literally waking the prince up with a kiss.

Líf chuckled under her mouth, moving his hands up her spine towards the back of her neck so as to press her more into him. "Have I overslept?" He asked between kisses, barely opening his eyes.

His heart ached with the need to be with her from the moment he was conscious of himself -- not even from the moment he opened his eyes. Being with her overwhelmed him to his brimming capacity... and he wanted more, more and more of it.

The very breaths he took depended on being around her to bring life into his lungs. It was inescapable; like a sweet prison he would never run away from, a place to return to no matter where he went during the battles of the day. Ah... being with her and only her brought the solace only the living understood -- and feeling of belonging the dead sought.

Kiran giggled under Líf's eager tongue as it searched for hers, promptly opening her mouth to allow his entrance. She wrapped both arms around his neck, pressing her body into his to welcome the eagerness of a hungry, roused man.

He pulled her towards him, turning his body slightly to the side so his back was on the mattress and hers, atop of his. He could feel her thundering heartbeat in his chest, his own poor heart struggling to accompany the rhythm, making him feel short of breath and dizzy.

Once they pulled away, he was huffing for breath, his lips nipping on hers so they wouldn't part. Kiran reciprocated the gesture, then trailed her kisses to his ear, digging her face into his neck for a tight hug. "You didn't oversleep; I just woke up a bit earlier than usual." She whispered on his flesh, making him roll his eyes in overwhelming pleasure as he felt goose bumps shake his body.

"What a novel way to wake up." He said in a hoarse voice, pressing her so in his hug that it robbed her of her next breath.

Kiran's muffled laughter brought a smile to Líf's lips, making him want this moment to never end.

He felt her body going up and down with each breath she took; he felt her and his heart thumping in the same rhythm (one struggling more than the other); he felt her lips resting atop the skin of his neck -- and wanted them to move up, up and up, towards his own.

Ah, truly, what a novel way to wake up.

"I don't want the day to start," she complained with a pout, her voice sounding cheeky by his ear. "Can't I just stay here with you all day?"

Chuckling, Líf replied almost immediately, "no." Though his arms never easened around her body or made any motion to let her go. "To rob the world of the one and only Summoner? I will not be such a villain. Not again."

Kiran snorted, a strangled laugh leaving her throat. "So serious! Maybe I'll have to become the villain and kidnap this prince, instead!" She struggled to move for a beat, forcing Líf to hold her more loosely, allowing her to rest her head on his chest and look at him from below, wearing a huge grin.

Líf caressed her face, placing wild strands of hair behind her ear. "You will never be a villain."

"Then indulge me lest I become one!" She closed her eyes, tilting her face into the hand he deposited over her cheek.

"Hah," he sneered as he flopped to the side, throwing her on the bed under a surprised shriek. "What shall I do to please you, then, my love?" He took the favored lock of hair to his lips and kissed it, making Kiran's heart skip several beats.

Her face rosy with embarrassment from how stunningly handsome her lover looked, Kiran couldn't help but gulp and bite her lower lip before looking away for a moment. "I... heard that the moon's going to be especially bright tonight. Will you accompany me to that garden once the moon is out?"

The garden of their memories from a distant past -- the one they shared many a laugh and tears in. The garden Líf visited hundreds, thousands, countless times after his death if only to relive what little he could retain from what he felt in the past.

It was a place of utmost importance to both of them, but most of all to him, so it took the prince a second longer than intended to voice his reply. "Of course," he croaked out, the red of his eyes cooling down to a darker shade.

Kiran's warm hand on his cheek startled Líf from the stream of memories washing over his heart, forcing him to blink so as to look at her wonderful visage. A small smile sprouted on his face once their eyes met, a spark of life making him take a large gulp of breath, "of course." He repeated with more vigor, the glint of love once again shining in his eyes.

"Mhm," Kiran pressed her forehead against his, closing her eyes to enjoy their shared breath before opening her mouth for a kiss.

This time, Líf was ready, willing and accepting of her caress, welcoming it with his tongue at the ready to once again taste her unique sweetness and lose himself into the wonder that was Kiran.

The Summoner and the former General of the dead had a daily ritual only known to themselves -- Kiran reveled in helping Líf into his armor once the day started, though what she loved the most was to help him out of it once the sun had set and it was time to retire to her quarters. Ever since returning from the land of dreams, Líf had never once set foot into the bed that had been prepared for him at the barracks, using Kiran’s room as his own instead.

It hadn’t been something they deliberated before attempting, though, don’t get them wrong. Since they spent so much time (or was it so little? Time flowed differently in Ljósálfheimr, so they couldn’t tell) together before returning to the waking world, staying that way was simply the norm to them -- though Líf always made sure not to be seen by anyone whenever he came in or out of Kiran’s room. Still, he never once failed to be with her throughout the nights, something that brought both of them a great deal of solace and, well… pleasure.

Due to the General of the gods’ serious and self-deprecating personality, he always made sure to watch Kiran during the day, though he did so from such a great distance one would wonder if his eyes could really see from that far. Still, he wouldn’t run from her should she choose to go to him for whatever reason, which she liked to do whenever she wanted to take a break and have his cold touch on her skin.

Kiran wanted that to change, though -- at least the distance part. She wanted him to feel proud of being seen walking beside her, not see himself as a shadow of a lost past and a defeated conviction.

Hopefully the words she had stuck in her throat and the present she hid in her coat for a few weeks would be enough to break the self-imposed shackles Líf wore in all of his interactions within the castle. Clutching her chest, Kiran pulled her hood up to hide the grin she fought against, as well as her increasingly redder cheeks.

The day felt especially long today.

However, night was still bound to fall, no matter how long it seemingly took to do so. After saying her goodbyes to Alfonse, Sharena and Anna for the day, Kiran took a walk to the garden of hers and Líf’s shared memories as dusk slowly covered Askr like a blanket. Not too long after arriving, Kiran heard the sound of Líf’s footsteps crunching the grass under them, making her turn with a suppressed smile and open arms.

Failing to see the shadow covering Kiran’s expression, Líf simply obediently took his tiny lover into his arms, bending down to hug her without taking her from the ground. He rested his face in the space between her neck and shoulder, nestling his hands on her hips as she squeezed his neck in her stronger-than-usual embrace.

The reason for him to not squeeze her into a tighter hug as he would like was solely due to his armor -- since it was full of spikes and layers, it constantly prickled and pinched Kiran whenever she tried to initiate any contact while he wore it, so they came up with a perfect hugging position through much trial and error, and that was how they stood at the moment. Blinking, the General of the gods looked up at the starry sky from within Kiran’s scent, slightly tilting his head to the side. “The moon does not seem to be particularly bright tonight, I’m afraid. Should we come back another time?”

Kiran went down from her tiptoes, prompting Líf to loosen his grip on her so they could look into one another’s eyes. She pressed her forehead on his, placing her hands over his febrile chest, enjoying how it went from cold to warm with her touch. “Actually, that was a random excuse. I just wanted to take a walk with you here tonight since I had something I wanted to tell you.”

Líf felt something scratch the weakness that was his heart, as though he had chewed on sand, his brows flickering with an unknown emotion. “Something to tell me?” He straightened his back, looking at Kiran from his tall height. She tucked her hair behind her ear with one hand, squeezing Líf’s with the other. She then proceeded to unbuckle the gauntlets covering his hands and forearms, his reaction to it one born out of habit: he simply turned his arms to help her do it more easily.

In Ljósálfheimr, Kiran often asked Líf to hold her hand with his own skin, rather than with his armored gauntlets. To her, it meant the world to feel him on her; to remind her that him being right there, beside her, was not another dream nor illusion. It then became a habit to always have their skins touch whenever they had the luxury to walk hand in hand.

Kiran gulped, not knowing where to start, trying to busy her mind with the puzzle that it was to help that man out of his gauntlets. “I… I never told you about my life from before, right? Not right now, not back then.”

That made the fallen prince gulp and take a short breath. “Your life… from back in your world, you mean?” He asked, receiving a silent nod in return. He felt his stomach turn and cold seep into the heart that didn’t feel like beating anymore. His body grew colder than usual, dread taking ahold of his mind and feelings.

Kiran noticed that he felt colder to the touch once she was done with one gauntlet, promptly tying it to his belt as it was their custom. She peeked at him from under her bangs, meeting his lifeless gaze and flinching with emotion. “Would it be okay if I spoke about it? It won’t sound as bad as you’re thinking.”

Líf suddenly felt the urge to take a deep breath, using his now naked hand to take off the mask holding back the lips that wanted to speak. “I…” he hesitated, frowning deeply as he avoided Kiran’s gaze. “I would be… lying if I said I was never curious about it.” He confessed under a strangled voice, his throat hurting to let the words flow. Kiran’s hands stopped midway to the next gauntlet, her eyes fixed on him. “However, I could never bear to ask. To remind you of what you have lost and most certainly long for -- the home you were stripped away from to be plunged into a war that was not yours to fight.” He looked to the crunched grass beside Kiran’s feet, not being able to bring himself to look at her in the eyes. “Furthermore…”

He pressed his lips into a thin line, feeling petty at what was about to leave his mouth, ultimately deciding to leave it shut.

“Furthermore?” Kiran tilted her head to the side in question, holding Líf’s armored hand with both of her small ones. “You know you can tell me anything, Alfonse.”

Ashamed, Líf glanced at his beloved twice before taking a sharp breath. “I also did not want you to remember it or miss it. I wanted to selfishly keep you here with me -- back then and now -- the ones waiting for you to be damned!” He choked something akin to a sob, though his eyes remained dry, covering his face with the back of his free hand in embarrassment. “How could I wish for something that would undoubtedly bring pain to you and the ones you love? How could I compare to the family, friends and life you’ve led? Someone like me, who lost everything…”

Kiran couldn’t help but smile, her eyes burning with tears as her chest overflowed with warmth. She stretched her arms to touch Líf’s face, bringing his gaze down to her, the warm hand in his cheeks sharing the temperature to bring him back to the semi-life rather than the undeath. “I kind of could tell, ever since back then, but to actually hear it for myself is another thing entirely.” She giggled, forcing Líf to look at her giddy expression and widen his eyes.

“Kiran- but why-” befuddled at his beloved’s ready acceptance of his terrible, ugly feelings, Líf could only hold her arms in awe.

“You’d think wearing a mask all the time would conceal your thoughts, but you’re still as easy to read as you were before, you know?” She moved her fingers from his cheeks to the back of his neck, pulling him down to her height so as to place a short kiss over his lips. “I’ve always wanted to tell you about my world, but I refrained because I knew that you’d feel just like how you’re feeling now.” She trailed one hand to his icy chest, her touch making the curse blink from blue to red, then back to blue, as though infusing his body with her warmth.

Líf pressed his lips into each other, almost pouting, and turned his head away lest she read everything that was going through his mind. That stole a chuckle out of Kiran, who went back to unbuckling the remaining gauntlet while humming.

Once she was done, she tied it on his belt, right beside the other, and finally took his bare, left hand into both of hers, bringing it to her chest so he could feel her heartbeat. She trailed her fingers through the long, black scar that separated his skin from the curse, the pale blue it radiated slightly illuminating her face in the growing darkness of the night. “There was not magic in my world.”

“...” Líf remained silent as she paused to look at him and smile.

“None at all, you know. Instead, we had more, well, scientific advances.” She bobbed her head to the sides, never letting Líf’s hand go from her chest, hugging it with both arms. “I won’t delve into this, though; what I wanted to say is that this world? Askr? And every other world the Heroes hail from? They’re all, um, games in my world.”

“Games?” Líf raised his brow.

“Like, uh, tabletop games? The closest I can get is dice games with personalized units.” She gestured ‘tiny’ with one hand, flustered. “This isn’t going how well I wanted it to go, but I need this point to get across.”

“I can mostly understand.” Líf reached out to her face with his free hand, tucking a few strands of hair behind her ear. “Dice games with wildly different stories, you mean? All of us?” He asked in one breath, his shoulders sagging with the next he took after Kiran nodded. “All of our suffering… documented in a game for others’ pleasures.” The words left a bad taste in his tongue, though he didn’t mean to make Kiran feel bad about it in the slightest. “At least you were safe from the perils of our fights before you were summoned.” He mused, not wanting to move his hand from her face. “Were there wars in your world as well?”

Kiran closed her eyes and tilted her head to Líf’s hand, enjoying his touch. “No. Not in my lifetime, anyway. So you can imagine my surprise when I was suddenly sucked inside a game I had just downloaded- I mean, a game I just started to play. Everything was so different and overwhelming! The difference in technological advance aside, it was all so confusing. I was so, so scared and lonely… Every night I prayed to be flinged back home since I felt that there was nothing for me here.”

Líf’s hand froze in place, stopping even the slight caress his thumb was making on Kiran’s skin. He pressed his lips into a thin line, his eyes narrowing to an almost close. Seeing him react just the way she thought he would, Kiran felt her heart sting a bit -- it hurt to see the one she loved think so little of himself, but she also felt her heart being filled to the brim with the love that seeped through the self-containing actions of Líf’s.

The Summoner turned to kiss her beloved’s palm, stealing his gaze back into hers. “That’s how I felt at first, of course. I mostly missed my family since they were suddenly so far I wouldn’t be able to reach them with a simple message, but it’s not like we were that close to begin with. Besides, what I found here,” she hardened her grip on Líf hand over her chest, “is something I would never be able to find there, no matter how long I searched for.”

Opening and closing his mouth -- Líf didn’t want to be presumptuous and say that he was what Kiran had found here, though he wanted more than anything to be able to say that proudly -- the General simply lowered his head, allowing his long bangs to cover his expression.

“With time, I realized that this is truly where I belong -- and that I was pulled here for the sole reason of meeting you.” She said finally, once again taking his left hand and fumbling with it. “That day when- when Hel invaded for the first time… I realized it then, when her scythe claimed my life for the first time.” She brought his fingers to her lips one at a time, placing a kiss on every one of them. “That I’ll go back to my world when I die here.” She breathed out over his skin, his eyes widening with the revelation. “I don’t remember for how long I stayed there, though, before being pulled back again by this world’s Anna. A second? A lifetime? I couldn’t say. My life per se was already here, with you, before I realized it. And I can say with utmost conviction that I would live half of a life if I had remained in my world after meeting you.” She closed her eyes, then shook her head. “No… Maybe I had always been simply surviving day by day, without a clear goal to strive for. I only found my true calling when I came here, to meet you and become this world’s Summoner. This is the place I want to be, and I want you to be right there with me as I walk through my life in this foreign world.” She concluded with a slight hint of tears in her eyes, her hands finally settling after surreptitiously placing a ring on Líf’s finger. “Will you stand by me?”

Líf’s brain short-circuited for a second.

His eyes as wide as they could get, he slowly lowered his gaze from Kiran’s to the foreign sensation around his ring finger. Once he saw the golden wedding band proudly standing over the mix of the curse and his skin, his eyes glistened in a bright red, the tip of his nose burning with emotion. He opened and closed his mouth, unsure of what to say, not realizing a wide smile bloomed at the corners of his lips.

Kiran had said so much. There was so much information to digest and his brain was working so very slowly – and while every alarm was beeping inside his head, the only thing he could hear was the sound of his thundering heartbeat in his eardrums.

That, and his inner voice howling at him, saying that he had been proposed to in the most irrefutable manner possible: she disclosed information of the place she was born in, something Líf had always wanted to know, ever since the days he went by Alfonse; and told him that she belonged right there with him. How could reply anything but yes?!

The moment words finally went back to making sense, Líf choked a cough, taking a deep breath. “I-” realization and embarrassment hit him all at once, making the very large man shirk away from the small woman, wanting to hide himself in shame. “I do not have… I do not have a ring prepared for you-” he said in a thin, pitiful voice, stealing a loud chortle from Kiran.

“Hah! Don’t worry, I didn’t expect you to -- I can tell you the place I got this one from, though.” She winked, once again kissing his hand, no, the ring atop of it.

The curse covering Líf’s face turned bright red to go with how the flesh over his cheeks blushed. He was doubly ashamed for not thinking about the ring, since making a promise with her in his semi-life state (not to mention the vow he had made to fight for Thórr, something he could never forget) was so far from his mind that, although it would be a lie to say that it never crossed his mind, was swept under the carpet of his brain. It was mind-boggling how a simple accessory such as that ring could lift the unspeakable weight he was carrying over his shoulders: the shame, the guilt, the horror of being unfit to be with her, despite the prince he had once been staying right there beside her as this world’s heir; it was all gone like smoke. Poof!

“Oh, Kiran,” Líf took an unsteady breath, lowering himself while also bringing Kiran close to him, ultimately claiming her parted lips into his own. He inserted his tongue into her mouth, searching for hers so he could taste her innermost flavor, robbing her of her breath and coherent thought in one sitting.

“Mpph…” Kiran rolled her eyes in pleasure as Líf dug into her mouth, sucked into her lips and nipped onto her tongue, lazily wrapping both arms around his shoulders. He didn’t let either of them take the shortest of breaths -- he kissed, kissed and kissed her until both of their lips were swollen and wet, always wanting to dive into each other sweetness for a moment longer, for a second longer.

“My Kiran, my own. Oh, my love…” He repeated between kisses, licking her lower lip before diving once again within her mouth, pressing her body into his own with such hunger Kiran’s legs felt weak as she let herself be carried by the strength of his hug alone. He held her weight with one hand behind her back, his eager and hungry lips trailing down her chin and jaw towards her ear. “I am forever yours. Forever, and all that comes after it.” He sucked and licked her skin, leaving love bites whenever he touched as he rapidly went back up to her lips, claiming them once more.

“Ahn…” A moan died by Kiran’s lips once they met Líf’s, her arms hungrily tugging on his hair as though urging him to go further, further.

In the middle of their kiss, Líf slightly bent forward, using the hand that pressed Kiran’s thighs into his own to go behind her legs instead, taking her into a bridal carry. Kiran almost bit his tongue in surprise, widening her eyes as they pulled away.

“Aren’t we… hahh… going to…?” She tried to ask, short of breath, glancing at the wide grassland around them.

“Oh, yes,” Líf replied with a chuckle, nipping at her lower lip and pulling it for a bit before releasing it. “If I simply wanted to claim your body, as long as you are comfortable, anywhere is fine.” He started, pressing his forehead on hers, a large, genuine smile wide on his face. As per their own experience back in Hel and in Ljósálfheimr, there were no shortage of places for them to become one at. “However, I want to make love to you, Kiran. And I cannot do that here.”

Kiran widened her eyes and covered her face with both hands, her cheeks feeling as though they were on fire. “Why am I the one feeling this way when you were the one getting proposed to?!” She shrieked, kicking her legs in anticipation and glee.

“Haha!” Líf laughed for what seemed to be the first time in his life -- and perhaps it had been the first time during this semi-life -- pressing a loud kiss in Kiran’s cheek before turning around to go back to her room.

Although Kiran was used to taking Líf's armor off, somehow she fumbled more than usual today -- her hands felt so weak they could barely unbuckle the belts, especially with the greatest distraction that was Líf's mouth: he couldn't help himself in tasting her at every breath, at every possible moment.

She trickled her hands through the hard and cold metal, her eyes fogged with desire as her brain gasped for more oxygen under Líf's unrelenting kisses. Once the final thud of the armor fell on the floor, Kiran immediately felt her body being lifted in a bridal carry once again, to be properly laid on the bed right after.

Dizzy, her face flushed with lust and an overwhelming need to feel Líf's thrusts into her, Kiran arched her body towards her beloved's as he peeled her camisole out of her, revealing her glistering body and nude breasts.

Never had Líf felt laughter come to him so easily as it had been since Kiran proposed -- he couldn't contain the wide smile nor the eventual chuckles whenever he saw her make a funny face out of unbridled lust. He felt so mind-shatteringly free his body felt unspeakably light -- and every sensation coming from his tasting of Kiran's sweet flavor was multiplied a hundred-fold, making it feel as though he had transcended life and death themselves.

He was finally, truly, hers.

And oh, by the gods, she was the one who claimed him for herself, so it only stood true that he would do the same! He couldn't help but revel on every moan that came out of her throat; on every twitch her body made under his touch. He pressed his hands down her skin, committing it all to memory more than he already had.

A familiar body, a beloved skin, a shared heart.

Líf felt utterly and absolutely complete. It was as though his heart had been missing a piece up until that moment, but now, oh, now it was full to its utmost capacity.

"I love you, I love you so much, my Kiran..." He whispered over her skin as he licked from her jaw to her collarbone, not leaving a single part of hers untouched by him. He sucked on her nipples, enjoying how they hardened under his tongue, grinding them between his teeth ever so slightly.

"Alfon-ahnnn...!" Kiran's body trembled in delight as he carefully distributed his love through her body, digging her hands into his scalp once he settled on her breasts.

He did not stop there, however, the hunger of a man whose love was reciprocated one that couldn't be matched -- he wanted every inch of her to be touched by him, to be marked by his feelings. He sucked on her abdomen, then over her hips, leaving mark upon mark under his wake -- he bit her inner thighs and growled a chuckle when Kiran flinched under his teeth, as an adorable 'eek' left her throat.

Slowly ascending to his knees as he kissed from the inside of her legs to her calf and ankle, Líf rubbed his throbbing erection, hidden within his pants, into Kiran's underwear, making her cover her face with both hands, wanting him to the point of losing herself. Líf trailed the kisses from one ankle to the other, descending once again to the middle of Kiran's legs, stealing a sigh of pleasure from the Summoner.

As he nipped and sucked on her skin, so close to her innermost insides, Kiran shook and trembled, turning the bed sheet under her into shambles with her nails. "Hah-nn... A-Alfonse, you're- ahn... I'm losing my mind here..." She shook her head to the sides, her vulva pulsating with hunger, wanting to be filled to the brim with him.

"Oh, but your taste is so addicting -- I love it so..." Líf replied as he nipped at Kiran's clitoris over her underwear, making her jump on her skin and squeeze her eyes in pleasure.

"Hhng... Hah..." Kiran huffed, barely able to speak. "Love me... Love me properly... Oh, Alfonse..." She pleaded, weakly extending her arms to invite her beloved inside of her.

Líf felt his nose sting once more, the adorableness that was his beloved -- his wife? His wife! -- shaking him to his very core. He could barely feel his feeble heart as it beat to its utmost capacity, his mind swirling with thoughts of Kiran and only Kiran. "Oh, my love," he bemoaned, quickly claiming her swollen lips into his own, rolling his eyes in pleasure as he tasted her flavor yet again.

With Kiran's help, they pulled down her skirt and underwear at the same time, finally liberating the way for them to become one like so many times -- however, unlike so many times, they would finally do so under the compromise being together for all eternity.

Until his feeble heart stopped beating and death claimed him once more. And beyond. 

Until her body refused to leave his side and chose this world to perish into. And so much further.

"I love you, I love you," Líf huffed, licking her lips at the same time he freed his erection, prodding it at her vaginal opening.

Tears of pleasure rolled down her face as Kiran choked a sob while she cupped Líf's face with her hands, panting at the same frequency as he did. "I love you too, so very much..." She moaned as she felt him press the glans on her vulva, squeezing her eyes once he slowly slid it in, her moist insides welcoming him with unbridled thirst.

Líf closed one eye in pleasure, her insides sucking him in as fast as he put it all in. "K-Kiran, you-"

"D-don't move yet, I think- I'm- aahn...!" Kiran's body shook with climax only with Líf's first insertion, her entire being overflowing with desire for him. She closed herself around him so, he had to take a short breath so as not to come himself. "I- ah... Oh, it feels so good..." She threw her head back in pleasure, wanting him to stay inside of her forever.

Líf bit her chin to make her turn her head towards him, all of his cells pulsating in a frenetic rhythm. He pulled out with difficulty as Kiran sucked him in with hunger, and thrusted back so as to rub on her sensitive spot.

Soon Kiran's legs lost their strength around his waist, her entire body softening under his slow and strong thrusts.

The General professed his love whenever he had the breath to do so, his lower body longing to become one with Kiran until both of them had depleted their energy, which only seemed to soar higher and higher as his movements accelerated.

Kiran's arms slipped on Líf's back due to the sweat and lack of strength on her limbs, but she managed to hold onto him by digging her nails into his skin, scratching it deeper as his thrusts accelerated.

They moaned in unison by one another's lips, the humid air around them fogging even more their gazes and minds. Each time Líf thrusted so deeply his and Kiran's inner thighs rubbed on one another, Kiran squeezed her eyes further in delight. She was barely able to form coherent thoughts, her entire being focused on the approaching orgasm -- the second of the many that were in sight for this night that reserved for them and only them.

"Alf-ahn...!" She cried out, tears of pleasure rolling down her temples to her ears as Líf powerfully pounded her one last time before the climax shook her entire body. She felt the heat rise from her inner thighs and reverberate through her stomach, legs and finally into her heart, making her choke a sob.

Líf's fluids dripped down from inside her, his erection still throbbing, ready to please her all night long. He nudged his nose into hers, their rasped breathing mirroring one another. "Kiran, my Kiran... mine, my Kiran..." he rolled his forehead on hers, his hair sticking onto his skin from sweat. He slowly pulled out only to put it in just as slowly, still under Kiran's spams from the climax.

"Ah-ahnn..." She squeezed him into her hug, bringing his face close to her. "I- I love you so much... don't let me forget tonight, please, please, oh please... give it all to me..." She begged in a hazy, hungry plea, her mind already shut down since quite a while ago.

"We are one, now, my love, oh, my Kiran... and I shall never forget tonight..." He licked her lower lip before inserting his tongue into her mouth at the same time he dared another thrust, enjoying how a moan died in Kiran's throat under their kiss.

Although that night wasn't their first -- and far from being their last -- to them, it was, in truth,  the first night of the rest of their lives.

[skeletonwoman]

J is for Judgement

This is a part 2! Comes after a part 1, and a part 1.5!!

You smile at Dick when he darkens the pet stores doorway.

“Hey baby, hey baby,” he greets and you snort, coming around the counter to give him a hug. You’ve never been much of a hugger, but hell, he’s just the cuddliest.

Also he smells like a tasty man.

Pulling apart, he leans against your counter, an attempt at being casual and you hide a smirk.

“So, bestie,” he begins and you waver in place. Luckily the space is empty apart from the two of you. “I’ve got a thing tonight, if you’re interested in coming.”

“Going out on the town with my bestie?” You begin, about to rain him in stupid compliments.

“Ah- not, the town…” He cuts in and you hum, wrinkling your brow. “Dami is throwing the dog a birthday party,” his tone drags the words as if it’s a chore, even though it sounds like tonight might be the best of your life, “and it’s just a small gathering, family and close friends. I was wondering…”

He gives you a sneaky look.

“Yeeees?” you sing-song back and he licks his lips, trying to hide smile.

“If you were interested…” His mouth drags the words out and you feel like you’re vibrating from the inside out.

“Innnnn?”

“Coming with me to the party tonight?”

“Yeah!” You shout, throwing your fists in the air and bouncing around in a circle before pulling up in front of him, dropping your excitement and blanking your face. “Yeah, sounds cool, no biggie, if you want, no prob, Bob.”

Dick beams at you, still leant against the counter. “They’re going to love you.”

“You bet your ass they will, Richie!” Your bravado has his expression softening with affection, even as your stomach flips with a sudden and crushing panic. Hiding this, you catch his hand in one of yours and swing them. “I am excited to meet Barbaraaaa.”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes and grinning, before pushing off the counter and dragging you about the store.

“Help me get the damn dog a present, it can be from both of us, obviously,” he says, before muttering. “Dogs birthday party, Jason didn’t get a birthday party last year but the dog does?”

You don’t tell Dick about the guy today. You know he notes the scrawled number on your hand and he smiles a little, but when you don’t mention it, he doesn’t ask.

As you’re walking home, Dick having promised to pick you up later, you stare at your phone.

Debating.

Screw it.

Me: Hi, this is Y/N from the pet store, I didn’t get your name today

You wait ten seconds before shoving your phone into your pocket out of anxiety and instead focussing on tonights hellscape.

You have to make these people love you. You have to!

Ignoring the silence and stillness of your pocketed phone, you instead focus on reviewing what you know about Dicks family.

Surprisingly- little.

Honestly? You barely know anything about them.

Except:

               He has two dads, Alfred and Bruce

               He has four brothers, Jay, Tim, Duke and Damian

               He has two sisters, Steph and Cass.

               He has one not sister, Barbara, also his unrequited love

               He doesn’t have favourites between any of them.

Luckily, as you start up your stoop and your chest starts to heave, your phone vibrates in your pocket.

Unknown Number: I’m Jason

You wait. For something, anything.

After two minutes, you’ve entered your apartment and, phone still in hand, made your way to your closet.

After ten, you’ve set the phone back on your bed and are deciding between a red bodysuit and a yellow crop top.

After twenty, you’re in the shower and anxiously shaving your legs even though you’ve decided to wear long pants.

At the thirty minute mark, out of the shower with your hair wrapped but before you apply moisturiser, you pick up the phone and give in.

Me: What do you do, Jason?

Putting it back down, without much expectation, you pick up the moisturiser once more but pause when the device beeps again.

Jason: I’m a freelancer, mixed martial artist.

Jason: Do you like lunch? Or breakfast food.

You try to grin too wide at the messages. He seems a little… unsure, maybe. You’re into it.

Me: I love lunch, and breakfast- for lunch or breakfast. What do you think about dinner?

You nab your red bodysuit and slip yourself into it, then fight on your favourite pair of pink corduroy pants. Gazing at yourself in the mirror, you frown, look at your closet, frown harder.

No.

“You’re hot.” You growl to your mirror self. “I am hot. And I am loveable and tonight is going to be great and tomorrow you can go out with Jason and kiss that gorgeous face.”

His visage pops up before you, scarred and unusual.

You hope his scars are more innocent than- well, than other scars in this city.

Maybe he got them in the womb, or terrible acne that forms perfect lines.

Oh boy.

Jason: I usually work nights, late, and I’d hate to cut our night short because I need to get to work

Your lips purse.

Oh shit!

Dickard: I’m coming up, you better look hot

Shoving away your awful, awful, just awful realization, you look back up at yourself in the mirror and grimace. Throwing on a light coat of lipstick and a layer of mascara, finishing off the makeup you’d been wandering through while texting with-

No.

Leaping up, you grab your jacket- that guys jacket-

Oh hell, you’re so dumb.

Pushing out every thought to do with night time activities and vigilantes and, worse, villain criminals, you throw on the jacket, put your phone and wallet in the pockets, slip on some shoes and snatch your keys.

“Shit,” you murmur, spinning around and nabbing your perfume from the table and spritzing yourself and the jacket. “Shit, shit, shit.”

Bounding for the door, you wrench it open just as Dick raises his hand to knock. You stare at each other, for a moment, while you pant.

“Running late?”

Shoving Dick backwards into the hall, you lock up behind yourself and turn back to him with a cheesy smile. “Show me your Daddy, Dicky.”

His expression goes blank and you hiss out a breath.

“No. No! Don’t-”

“I think maybe-”

“Oh shut up,” you growl and he laughs, throwing an arm over your shoulders and leading you out of the building. “Y’know, I’ve don’t know that much about your family. Like I know the cast, obviously but you’ve literally never told me where you live, and you’ve never-”

Dick grimaces, and you can tell he’s unsure and maybe embarrassed.

“It’s fine, it’s fine, I’ll figure it out, I doubt they know much about me, anyway!” You laugh, your throat tight and panicked and he offers a weak smile and a quick squeeze.

  “Oh, f*ck me, Dick.” You stare at the gates.

The Gates.

Not to heaven, or arkham, or anywhere so pedestrian, oh no.

“F*cking Wayne Manor, Grayson? As in Dick Grayson, adopted son of Bruce Wayne?”

Dick shrinks in his seat, driving up the lane, since the gates had opened automatically, for him.

“I’m going to kick your god damn ass, Grayson, I’m going to end you, you’re the worst, literally the worst,” the car stops, “you’re so f*cking dead, you dumb bitch, I can’t believe you’ve done this,” your door opens, “and I’m just so excited to meet your family, Dick! Hahaha!”

You take the hand proffered through the car door and rise to come face to face with- shit- Tim Drake.

Recognisable, famous Tim Drake.

“Hi! Dicks brother Tim! He’s so proud of you,” you greet and Tims lips twitch upwards at the sides, though his slightly warm, slightly protocol expression changes little beyond that.

“Welcome, Y/N, Dick’s mentioned you a lot and we’re all so excited to finally meet you. In the flesh.”

You try not to frown at his weird phrasing, only for it to get worse.

“Oh. Did Jason leave his jacket in your car again, Dick?” Tim asks, his gaze moving from the jacket on your shoulders to Dick, who is sidling up beside you.

Jacket. Jay. Jason. Phone number. Freelancer. Night time work.

Shit, shit, shit, please be a coincidence, please be a coincidence. F*cking Dick, f*cking shit, damn, heck.

You smile absently at the pair.

“Oh, no, this one is apparently very similar to Jasons but Y/N has assured me she found it in her building,” Dick assures him, and you look between the two, gauging their reactions.

Tim grimaces, and Dick frowns at him.

A vigilante gave you this jacket. You just got the phone number of a possible vigilante named Jason. Dicks brother Jay is named Jason and he’s got a jacket like this.

Please.

Hell.

You spot others emerging behind Tim, from the gigantic Wayne Manor doors.

Dick’s eyes dart to them and he slings a comforting arm over your shoulders.

“Let’s get in and out of the cold, hey Tim? C’mon, lead the way.” His voice is jovial but he holds you back a second as Tim sends him a look then starts toward the doors. His face tilts toward yours, a soft whisper coming through your hair to your ear. “I’m so sorry, I should have said something sooner, it’s a- it’s hard to explain, you know I’m adopted, we’re all pretty adopted around here and it’s such a difficult situation and its not like I have the greatest relationship with Bruce and- I’m sorry, Y/N, I should have said something sooner.”

The apology brushes over you and you tilt slightly against him, your forehead setting against his shoulder and he presses a kiss onto the top of your head.

“Thanks, kiddo.”

“We’re two years apart, you galumphing oaf.” You growl back, just as you step through the doors and come face to face with a group of people staring at the pair of you.

Your eyes lock on a beautiful red haired woman, her face stark for a long moment as she takes in the pair of you before everything on her face is hidden with a blink of an eye.

Oh crap.

You step out of Dicks grasp, pointedly, and offer a weak smile to the red haired girl. Barbara.

Shit, hell.

Everyone stares at the movement and it takes you a second before you see him.

“Is that Jasons jacket?” A kid asks loudly, Damian, hopefully, but your eyes don’t stray from the man at the back.

Jason from the pet shop.

“Relax everyone,” Dick laughs, his eyes moving from you to Jason and the pair of you stare at the obvious expression on his face. Dicks voice trails off. “It’s not Jasons…”

“Jesus and the Joker,” you gripe, your eyes darting from Barbara to Jason to Dick.

“So this is your jacket?” Dick asks, gesturing to the beat up brown coat on your shoulders. “How’d she get it? How’d you get it?”

Jasons head twitches in a shake, eyes locked on yours and you squint at him.

“No! Jason. Don’t make her lie. How’d this happen? Why’s she still got it?” He glances at the staring group and sighs. “She got it like a week ago.”

“Three days.”

You grit your teeth, glaring at Jason.

“Shall we, everyone, head into the living room? Alfred, dinner?”

Your eyes dart to Bruce Wayne, his voice and face clearly recognisable from several television segments, and you watch as the group silently and with thick tension move single file through a door. Beside Bruce, another man, Alfred, you guess, steps up close to him and murmurs something before Bruce nods.

Beside you, Dick tangles your fingers.

“Hey, best friend?”

Your eyes slide up to his and he offers you a pathetic smile.

“Dick,” you say softly, as the others exit, leaving the pair of you a moment. “Cards on the table, a group of those people who run around at night visited me and then that night you were out with Jay one of them visited again and he gave me his jacket and then he took it back but then he gave it back and then Jason came into the pet shop today before you did and I got his number and I texted him and I realized that hot guy Jason from the store was some kind of vigilante guy because of what he said and now I get here and they’re the same person and your brother Jason is the Red Hood? And he’s running around with other vigilantes who have hair the same as these people we’ve just walked into and please call me crazy, Dick, that I’m a big ol’ loon, please?”

You don’t mess with the f*cked system in Gotham and you certainly don’t get involved with someone involved with the f*cked system.

“I’m Nightwing.” Dick says in a rush. “And kinda Batman.”

Your nose wrinkles as you try not to burst into tears.

Just… One thing after another.

“It’s okay, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Dick pulls you into his chest and you don’t resist. He’s Nightwing but he’s still your Dickie, your platonic soulmate. “I was going to tell you soon, but I know how you feel about all of it and I didn’t want you to hate me or my family before you met them.”

“Dick!” Someone yells obnoxiously before being loudly hushed.

“I didn’t know about this Jason thing, I wish he’d have spoken to me, this is my fault for mentioning you to them.”

You hug him tight before pulling back and shaking out your hair. Pasting on a smile, you beam at your best friend.

“It’s a party, Dick, for a dog, I think we should focus on that for now and hope I haven’t ruined any chance to make Barbara like me.” You laugh half-heartedly, before taking his hand and stepping purposefully toward the doors everyone else waits behind.

Heck this was a heck one like just definitely took a while and quite stressful to write idk what was going on

[tomsrebeleyebrow]

Finding Love by the Nile | pharaoh!th x fem!reader

Summary: New Pharaoh Tom is young and handsome. After succeeding to his father at a very young age, he is now respected and loved by everyone – but mostly desired by the all ladies of the Egypt Kingdom. As big as his harem can be, one particular creature catches his attention since long time ago and now, he is determined to make her his.

Pairing: Pharaoh!Tom x Commoner!Reader

Warnings: some cute cocky Tom moments but full fluff power

Word Count: 3485

A/N: I’m such a sucker for Egyptian mythology since forever so I decided to combine this passion with Tom, because I’ve never read something like that(?). And there is actually a Tutankhamun exhibition in Paris (and I wish so hard I could go tbh), that’s how this idea popped up into my brain 😗 So yeah, we’ll see how it goes!! Hope you like it ✨

⚠️ For the sake of the plot with the time period and ethnic details (Antic Egypt), the reader (Y/N) will have black/brunette hair, brown eyes and a little tanned skin. Tom will also be a bit more tanned. Thank you for your understanding!! ⚠️

masterlist

City of Giza, Egypt – c. 1539 BC

(Y/N) walks in the streets of the city center. It’s barely ten in the morning. People mill in the alleys and the merchants don’t hesitate to scream about their good deals in hope to tempt new customers. Children weave in and out the crowd playing tag, as their giggles full of life mix with the regular morning hubbub.

Always so much life, nothing changes.

This is the place where the young (Y/N) was born and grown up, in a kind family in a modest home but where it was good to live in. But nothing goes as we plan them to be. And (Y/N) still remembers that particular day where her destiny changed.

The old pharaoh left the world of the living to join the Other Side of god Osiris. All Egypt cried its deceased king who reigned for almost thirty years. And all Egypt got surprised to see a twelve-year old boy announced as his heir. His only child. When the boy was officially proclaimed as Pharaoh of the Egypt Kingdom, the population got to finally discover the face of its new ruler. So young but already with a disconcerting beauty. Wild brown hair due to ridiculous curls, but that seemed weirdly soft to touch. Big brown eyes so deep and sharp but warm at the same time. Him and (Y/N) were the same age at the time. She couldn’t stop but stare at him with marvel and astonishment. Both their worlds were different: the rich sovereign family on one side and the servant people on the other. But that didn’t stop the aforesaid people to cheer and honor their new king chosen by the Gods. And (Y/N) did the same.

Then time flew by and (Y/N) is now eighteen. Long and thick brunette hair cascades on her back, framing a luscious body as well as her gorgeous visage, with hazelnut eyes and soft lips. Stride across the streets of the city, on a market day, is one of her favorite hobbies. It is nearly impossible for her to miss this day, unless if her father needs some help for work.

‘(Y/N)!!’ As she hears her name, she turns her head toward the voice.

‘Oh, hi Nana! How are you?’ Asks (Y/N) with a warm smile.

It is “Nana”, as casually named, the old neighbor lady next to (Y/N)’s household. She is like a second grandmother to her and they truly are fond of each other. (Y/N) couldn’t miss an occasion to pay her a visit.

‘Good, my child, thank you. I bumped into you father while going out and he asked me to tell you, if I saw you, to join him in front of the bridge outside the city.’

Oh. (Y/N) knows more than well what that means.

‘Your father is making more and more return trips to the Royal Palace. It seems like the Pharaoh appreciates his fabrics a lot!’ Laughs Nana.

The Pharaoh. Just talking about it makes (Y/N) let out a big sigh. She is not the only one that grown up, the young Pharaoh from six years ago back then has also changed. Quite a lot.

(Y/N) observed his evolution during several visits to the Palace. Born in a modest family of linen farmers since decades, the young lady grown between fields and weavers and was determined to carry on the traditions. Everyone liked their textiles made of linen, including the royal family who put its trust in (Y/N)’s father. As soon as she was able to work (quite early), her father brought her with him to the Pharaoh’s Palace to deliver and propose new textiles. Of course she always stayed behind to let her father handle the family business, but she took advantage of it to observe the new “little king”, – as some people called him at first –, at any occasion. His mother and close advisers were always in sight to guide him at the beginning of his reign.

Still in power nowadays, he is now known as the young and handsome eighteen-year old Pharaoh idolized by all the country. Besides getting more self-confidence, he doesn’t stop and rush around like a madman to develop Egypt. And the people respect him for that matter. But what noticed (Y/N) over the years was, in addition to all that, that he became a true charmer. More like a lady-killer, in fact. He knew that. ‘The Pharaoh is so handsome!’, ‘He is more and more beautiful!’, ‘Did you see his muscles?’, ‘He must be blessed by Ra, God of the Sun!’ All the time. Any woman falls in love with him and, without anyone noticing well not really but anyway, the young Pharaoh created his own harem. Of course, like he would care. (Y/N) noticed with great regret even if she will never admit it out loud the number of young ladies increasing each time she visited the Royal Palace with her father. One even more beautiful than the other, wearing dresses too much fitted – probably created with the linen of her family – and some black kohl around the eyes, they were free to go around the Palace as they wish. But where (Y/N) could see them endlessly was next of him. All the damn time. This is what people call jealousy.

(Y/N) sighs again thinking about this all over again. She couldn’t stop, this feeling is stronger that she imagines. But it is time for her to accept her fated destiny…

‘Thanks Nana, I will go find him’ Replies finally (Y/N) while taking the granny in her arms for a hug, ‘And you, be careful at the market, okay? I’ll see you this evening!’ She then takes her leave and starts walking to the bridge, while waving to Nana on her way.

After a few minutes she catches sigh of her father who is rushing to reorganize some textiles in his barrow. (Y/N) speeds up to help him.

‘I’m here, father!’

‘Ah, there you are (Y/N)!’ exclaims her father, turning towards his daughter’s voice, smiling. ‘I was checking if I took all the textiles to show to the Pharaoh. There we go. Everything is ready, we can go.’

Both of them set off and cross the bridge heading to the Royal Palace. It is around twenty minutes walk on the other side of the river. This is the perfect time for father and daughter to chat together about anything. The Palace is located in the South of Giza by the Nile. The air is hot, as usual, but walking by the water creates a fresh breeze that lightens their steps.

‘I see you’re wearing the new dress you made yourself yesterday’ notices her father, a proud smile showing.

The dress worn by (Y/N) is her own creation. Her mother taught her at a young age how to weave textile to then sew it and create costumes, and (Y/N) took a great liking in it. Today she wears a straight mid-length dress in cream-colored linen she tinted, with the collar and straps sewed in big stripes of pearls. The bottom of it is embellished with some patterns of Isis’ feathers. Her feet are covered in strappy sandals in dark leather.

‘You really are talented, sweetheart. I am so proud of you’ continues her father. He adores his daughter more than anything in the world, and nothing could make him happier than seeing her walk on his steps. He is sure she will accomplish great things in the future.

‘Thank you, father’ smiles (Y/N), ‘Mother also helped me a lot with the pearls.’

‘You are both talented and beautiful women.’

A peaceful silent takes place in the discussion. Both of them were all smiles and little by little, the Royal Palace is appearing in the arid horizon. (Y/N)’s thoughts start to turn upside down again, her throat is dry, her hands sweaty and an uneasy feeling begins to grow in her stomach. For some time now, it was the same. A sort of odd stress that she felt as soon as she was near the Pharaoh’s Royal Palace. The Pharaoh.

‘Your mother and I combined two types of linen to create a new type of textile. I wonder if it will be to the Pharaoh’s liking.’

Everything goes blank around her and her father’s words wanders in the air. Could I appeal to the Pharaoh? That’s impossible… (Y/N) never spoke directly to the Pharaoh, or maybe if she had to present or give some information about a textile. She just assisted her father in his task so she couldn’t imagine getting herself noticed or, even worst, being seen as someone disrespectful to the royal family. And ruin all her father’s business.

But the Pharaoh has, in fact, an intriguing personality. (Y/N) could sometimes feel his eyes on her when she was displaying textiles, while her father kept explaining all the details and features. Or he would just call her and ask her to come closer to “see the textiles better”. Of course it was not the textiles he was looking at.

‘(Y/N), we are here.’

As waking up in the middle of a dream, (Y/N) gets a grip of herself and they in fact arrived. She can’t even remember passing near the guards at the entrance.

Come on, (Y/N). Breath in…. And out…

Her father put the barrow next to the entrance archway that leads to the throne room. He picks some textiles, keeps them under his arm and starts to walk inside the Palace.

‘Father, I err… I think I will stay outside a bit. I-I got a bit hot when walking so I will join you… A bit later…’ mumbles (Y/N) while playing with her thumbs.

‘Are you sure? Do you want me to ask some water to the Phara-‘

‘No! no no no, don’t worry, father… R-Really, I just need to rest a little’ insists (Y/N), showing him a begging look.

‘If you insist, sweetheart… Sit in a shade place and do not hesitate to ask if you need something. You can join me when you feel better’ finishes her father slightly worried, but still left a kiss on her forehead. Deciding not to insist on it, he enters the Palace before glancing one last time at (Y/N) who, to reassure him, smiles and waves at him to go.

Finally alone, (Y/N) moves the barrow and places it in the shade of a jasmine tree. She decides to sit down on the sandy ground, back against the open side of the barrow and head lying of some textiles that make great pillows. She closes her eyes and empties her mind. The jasmine above her leaves a delicate perfume in the air, big palm trees swing there leafs with the wind and some birds sing in the distance. So calm. The breeze of the Nile is still refreshing the air, to (Y/N)’s pleasure. This oasis is a true haven of peace and nobody here to disturb her.

‘At least I will not see him today…’

‘I hope you’re not talking about me?’

(Y/N) jumps and lets out a squeal. She then brutally stops in her tracks of standing up because she loses her balance and lands with a chaotic “BOOM” in the middle of textiles in the barrow. And she hears that same voice chuckling at her. Its seems kind of familiar… That’s weird… Wait- When she finds her way out the piles of textiles – careful not to damage something – and is ready to stand up, she can’t believe who is in front of her.

‘I didn’t think you would be that fearful, (Y/N).’

No, that’s not possible…

Well it is?! Right in front of her eyes is the Pharaoh himself. He stands there, towering her, his torso puffed out and hands on his hips. Clearly (Y/N) couldn’t help admiring that true masterpiece. His naked and defined torso displays a pectoral collar made of golden slab, beautify with many gemstones such as lapis lazuli, cornelian and turquoise. His wrists, biceps and ankles adorn very large bracelets that look heavy just by watching them. About his costume, he wears a classic shendyt around his waist, extending to above the knees and hold by embroiled gold and blue belt. His sandals are similar to (Y/N)’s but more sophisticated with gemstones. Finally rests on his head his shiny khepresh on which the uraeus stays in the middle of his forehead like a third eye. (Here is a link of Tom’s outfit -> https://goopics.net/i/WLDoV)

And it is after a few seconds of total blank but mostly of delicious contemplation that (Y/N) comes back to her senses (again) and becomes aware of what is happening. Panicked, she throws herself at the Pharaoh’s feet.

‘I BEG YOUR PARDON, OH MY PHARA-‘

‘Calm down, (Y/N), no need to act like this!’ Laughs heartily the young king while looking at the trembling woman, forehead pressed against the ground. ‘Stand up, please.’

(Y/N) consents to his demand and begins to raise only her head but after another approving look of the Pharaoh, she stands on her two legs shaking the sand off her dress. She doesn’t dare to look at him in the eyes and her heart beats so hard it could jump out of her chest at any moment.

‘You are an emotional woman, (Y/N). Wait. Don’t move and close your eyes.’

What?

The Pharaoh moves his hand closer to (Y/N)’s face so she instinctively shuts her eyes, before she feels fingers brushing the remaining sand off of her forehand. When they gently slide on her cheek and disappear, she then opens her eyes and flutters her long eyelashes a few times.

‘There you go, you are as gorgeous as before.’

‘I-I, my Pharaoh Tutankha-‘

The aforesaid Tutankhamun interrupts her by putting his index on her plump lips.

‘I already told you to call me “Tom” when we are alone.’ Another quirkiness of his. ‘And please forget about “my king”, “my Pharaoh” and other honorific titles, it makes me feel so much older than I look like…’ whines “Tom”.

He is still a child.

‘… As you wish, “Tom”’ answers (Y/N) with a simple but humble nod, smiling. Then she asks ‘My father is already inside the Palace to display our textiles, shouldn’t you be there?’

‘I told Mother to do the job today because I wanted to get some fresh air…’ He sigh before adding ‘… At least I got the opportunity to be in your company.’

And here is the smooth Pharaoh again.

‘I’m sure your concubines would appreciate your presence even more if you join them…’

‘Pff, they are not really useful to me besides-‘

‘With all due respect, Tom, these kind of details don’t concern me. At all’ suddenly interrupts (Y/N), looking away with displeasing eyes just by the thought of him being… Intimate with ALL these DIFFERENT women.

Stay calm (Y/N), don’t lose it.

There is a heavy silence between them and Tom doesn’t waste time to break it. ‘Excuse me, (Y/N)… It didn’t mean to broach this subject…’ He corrects himself while scratching the back of his neck, feeling a bit awkward and calling himself stupid in his head. And that is when (Y/N) could notice some strands of hair poking out his headgear. In fact she also notes that its way too forward on his forehead.

‘If you will allow me, Tom…’ She steps closer, stretching her arms out to finally grab his headgear between her head. ‘Your khepresh moved… I will arrange it.” And (Y/N) replaces it the right way. She decides not to mention about the adorable rebellious hair, choosing to gaze at them when he will not look.

Unconsciously, (Y/N)’s hands leave Tom’s headgear to slide and slowly caress his face, ending their way on his jawline.

Her hands are soft for a weaver… So soft, thoughts Tom, lost in his countless dreams and fantasies.

‘Thank you, (Y/N).’

When (Y/N) is aware of her action, she hurries to take away her hands but the young Pharaoh is faster and catches them back, his grasp firm but at the same time gentle.

‘These hands can create many beautiful textiles… I wonder what other wonderful things they could do for me…’

He brings her hands up to leave kisses on them. (Y/N)’s cheeks turn as red as she got sunburned. His eyes oh my his eyesstare deep in her soul, full of such desire that (Y/N) couldn’t think of something to say. She is like hypnotized, captivated by this man’s handsome figure and unctuous words.

‘C-Come on, Tom… Don’t say-’

‘Yes (Y/N), I insist… You are much more precious to me than you can imagine…’

Hands intertwined, they never look away. They stare hungrily at each other, like they could devour a one in front of them with the eyes. The only sound heard is the ibis flying over the gigantic garden to go to the Nile. How could (Y/N) even think about THE Pharaoh of Egypt himself being so interested in her, daughter of traders-weavers? And yet, Tom couldn’t look away or even think about doing so.

Is this a sign from Hathor, Goddess of love?

‘Follow me (Y/N), let’s have a walk around the oasis’ proposes Tom and before waiting for any answer, he drags her with him and goes down the stairs that leads to the Palace gardens. (Y/N) doesn’t even protest, she already knows that nothing can stop the young Pharaoh when he has an idea in mind.

Once they arrive in the oasis – that is a private place only reserved to the Royal Family – and walk for a bit, they stop in front of a huge pond liven up with tones of aquatic plants, fishes and birds. Rows of acacia and jasmine trees surround it, as if to hide the pond from curious eyes, but some sunrays continue to reflect on the clear water coming from the Nile nearby.

Astonished, (Y/N) gets close to the pond, full of life, while slowly letting loose on Tom’s grasp. He lets her go without a word and admires her in a loving way. He wishes he could keep this delightful image engraved in his mind until he dies: this woman with a goddess’ aura, the sun warming her impeccable skin and her hair dancing like her dress in rhythm with the wind and the leafs.

I want to make her mine.

Then (Y/N) turns and calls out to the Pharaoh ‘Tom, come see how beautiful the fishes are!’

In a snap (don’t you dare laugh at that word), the young king joins her at the water’s edge. He perfectly knows all species in the oasis, fishes included, but every second is a chance to be with the one he secretly loves so much. Once next to (Y/N), Tom wraps an arm around her hips and embraces her. Both of them, one head laying on the other, admire the exotic fishes shaking and splashing everywhere in the pond.

But in reality Tom and (Y/N) look at their reflection in the water. Both reflections, standing together, bodies interlacing lovingly.

And in a whisper Tom takes his chance ‘(Y/N), please, be my Queen.’

(Y/N) bits the inside of her cheek because it is like her dreams comes true, little by little but still is.

And stopping herself from laughing she answers ‘First, you get rid of the tones of kohl around your eyes and then of all your harem.’

‘Isn’t it more important to start with the girls and then the kohl?’

And (Y/N) couldn’t stop herself anymore and lets out a heartily laugh. Her answer is silly, his answer is also silly. But this entire situation is even sillier that (Y/N) could imagine. And Tom of course joins her and laughs.

‘No, first the kohl because there is too much of it and because I like looking at your eyes all natural.’

‘You’re right. Actually this thing is such a pain that my eyes get irritated at the end of the day’ huffs Tom blinking exaggeratedly his eyes at (Y/N) while approaching his face of hers, looking like a crazy man. (Y/N) doesn’t stop to laugh at him. And she impresses herself and dares to leave a kiss on the corner of his mouth, which gets him by surprise.

‘And then I want those girls out of here, and after we can discuss about this Queen thing’ murmurs (Y/N) still close to his lips.

‘Don’t tempt me (Y/N), I might get a bit too excited and do all that just for you’ adds seductively Tom brushing his lips against hers, while smirking.

‘Aren’t you the Pharaoh?’

‘I sure am the Pharaoh of Egypt, love…’

And all of the sudden Tom lifts (Y/N), making her leave her a surprised squeal, and carries her bride style. Now he can’t hold anymore and kisses her straight on the lips and they both savor this moment.

‘… And I will show you now.’

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[moody-bloosh]

hydrangea (Prosciutto)

please have sum quick self indulgent, Servant!Prosciutto angst bc i was in the mood for some sadness.

Am I destined to never see things through?

"Assassin!"

Weakly, dimly, he saw your figure running to him. Though his vision was hazy, he would be able to tell it was you. He could find you blindfolded, hands tied behind his back.

You were his beloved Master, his precious lover. He could never lose sight of you. Your visage was forever imprinted in his heart.

"_____," he mumbled weakly.

Staggering towards you, you caught him just as he began to dissipate. Tumbling together, you did your utmost to shoulder most of the impact. Already, you could see the tiny orbs of light drifting away from his body and into the night air.

You wanted to cry, to scream. But you couldn't do any of that right now. Because at the very least, you wanted him to see that you would be fine. You wanted to send him off with a smile so that his heart would not hand heavy at the thought of having to leave you.

Just as he had been your strength so many times, so too did you wish to be his strength now. With what little strength he had remaining, Prosciutto cupped your face one last time. His beautiful blue eyes, the ones you could spend days getting lost in held your gaze firmly and he raked his eyes all over your face, as if to commit every single little detail of your image to memory, one last time.

"Listen to me," he mumbled weakly. "You are stronger, better than you think. You aren't useless, you aren't unwanted."

His hands were shaking now, as if he was struggling, trying desperately to keep holding on to you. Placing your hands over his to steady him, you nodded solemnly.

"I'm proud of you, _____. You've so much potential in you..."

Such a far cry from the crying, clueless, trembling Master who'd summon him accidentally. Seeing how far you had come filled his heart with so much love he never knew he could be capable of feeling.

He can't help but feel angry at himself for having to leave you at such a time when you were in full bloom, when everything was good. He should have known that good things were not meant for someone like him. But loving you had been such a pleasant dream that he had been willing to forget that one thing.

"I'm sorry," he says and that is enough to make you crack.

Your tears slipping down your cheeks as fast as quicksilver. Prosciutto never apologized for anything. So why now?

Before he could fade fully, Prosciutto brushes his lips against you once last time.

"I'm sorry I couldn't grant your wish."

And then you were alone again. Like a tide, your tears came hard, screaming, wailing out for your lost lover.

You didn't even have anything of his left...

Hugging yourself tightly in a weak fascimile of how Prosciutto once held you, you cried. You wept as you considered his last words. That incorrigible fool... Why did that have to be his last words? Why did he agonize over that?

'You already granted my wish, you idiot."