#A woman scorned feedback

[lisired]

the devil’s cup

pairing: demon!haechan x (f) reader

genre/warnings: smut, oral (f receiving), demons/underworld, mentions of death and self-destruction, unprotected sex/breeding (don’t be silly, wrap your willy!), edging, very slight degradation

summary: In a world where humans and demons are separated by earth and the unknown, you’re curious about the creatures that most mortal beings are too frightened to investigate. More specifically if they can please you sexually. As they say, curiosity killed the cat.

wc: 6.8k (this is the shortest fic I’ve done in a minute)

a/n: quick (and short) write! as always, feedback is appreciated!

There was a bit of division between the upper and underworld. 

That said, that never prevented the interaction of humans and infernal spirits. It only limited them, though even with said inhibitions in place, forbidding could only go so far within mortal control. 

Not everyone was god-fearing. Least of all demons. 

Though you weren’t exactly fearless, you were curious to a fault. Human knowledge of the underworld was limited. You lived in a world where plenty of supernatural beings - werewolves, faes, vampires and the like - coexisted in an integrated society, but demons lived in an unexplored world of their own.

Which, obviously, was the underworld. 

The church insisted it was for your own sake. You had practically never mentioned your intrigue to anyone, though that was chiefly because you were terrified to. The pastors were passionate in their sermons, deeming anyone who played with the devil a sinner beyond redemption and a betrayer of faith. You knew you’d be thrown scornful glances in an instant. 

You weren’t the only curious one. There were plenty groups of people who conjectured about the underworld and its occupants. Which was not an option for you for many reasons. First of all, they teetered on extremism. Second, you would undoubtedly be banished from society for so much as breathing near them. 

Your only option was your friend. Who happened to be supernatural himself. 

Ten laughed. “Let me get this straight. You want to fuck around with the devil?” 

You frowned. Though you definitely preferred the ridicule over the comtempt. He, however, wasn’t exactly in the place to mock you. “Come on, Ten. Didn’t you call on a succubus?” 

“Correction - you want to fuck the devil.” 

“Ten,” you whined. 

Ten shook his head. This was hilarious, because you were completely serious. It was also somewhat worrying. Most humans that had toyed with the devil for too long never survived. “Babe, I’m a vampire. Have been for sixty-two years. I’m technically in my eighties. You, sweetheart, are a human. Incubi can kill mortals like you.”

No wonder he tended to act like a cranky grandpa. You folded your arms stubbornly. 

The truth was that you were searching for a way to spice up your sex life and strangely enough, a demon sounded like exactly what you needed. You were desperate at this point. The men earth had provided for you were useless. You could count on both hands how many times you had given them a try and were ultimately unsatisfied. You were out of options. 

“One time won’t hurt, right?” you asked, batting your lashes. “Please, Ten. I just want to try. I can only die if I do it continuously.” 

Ten blew out a sigh. “Woman, you’re insane.” 

You whined, “Pretty please? I’ll literally buy you those Starbucks drinks you like everyday for a month. I need this.”

Ten mulled the offer over. On one hand, this was not only dangerous, but deadly. There was a chance that he could risk losing you in the process. But on the other, you were a responsible adult woman. It wasn’t like you would be selling your soul. You’d simply be testing the waters. “Fine. I’ll help you, but you better only do this shit once. I’ve had to bury a friend before. I don’t wanna go through that hell again.”

You lept up excitedly and cheered, “Thank you, thank you, thank you! I love you so much.”

“Whatever,” Ten said, rolling his eyes. “I’ll be back later with the stuff. And I’m taking it back after tonight.” 

Frankly, you couldn’t care less. You knew your best friend was only trying to protect you, and you genuinely didn’t intend on disobeying. You were curious, not stupid. Nor did you have a death wish. 

Ten reappeared later that night with the materials necessary to summon a demon. Technically, you could have done it without them, but that would’ve been a much more ineffective, chance-based approach. It also most likely would have taken way longer. According to Ten, the board had a ninety-percent success rate. 

He had told you, “Unless you’re like, extremely unfuckable, it’ll work for sure.”

You snorted. 

That was how you met Haechan. 

Black smoke rose from the ground, wavering murkily with a ghastly noise until it dwindled fainter and fainter. You took a step or two back, holding your breath with curious fear as you waited for the mist to clear. 

Once it did, the handsomest man you had ever seen materialized before you.

You audibly gasped. Frankly, you weren’t sure what you were expecting, but it wasn’t this. His dark hair was slicked back, forehead exposed to the breeze that temporarily coursed through your home, and he was tan-skinned. Like the heat of hell had graced his body. 

His pretty lips curled into the utmost smuggest grin. “Aren’t I lucky? I could feel that you would be gorgeous.” 

“You could feel it?” you repeated dumbly. In your defense, you were stunned. 

The average idea of a demon was a grotesque blood-hungry monster and needless to say, this nameless boy didn’t fit the bill. Part of you was half certain that Ten was pranking you, firm in his decision that it was foolish for a human to engage with a demon. He seemed like a regular, everyday being. Except maybe not. Most men weren’t this beautiful. And his presence was inexplicably strong.

Haechan scoffed, “Yeah? How else do you think I got here? I could feel your energy. It was calling me.” 

The room reeled. The air felt different, thicker. Your body lighter. There was an air of danger to this boy with a trace of something else that you were equally drawn to. 

Energy. Was it possible that you could feel his energy too? 

Given you were in a state of mental narcosis, more or less the effect of his aura, Haechan gleaned you wouldn’t respond and instead approached you. It felt like you were jolted awake when his warm skin pressed to yours, his lips and breath ticking your neck. 

“Haechan,” the demon whispered, but it felt like the thrumming of the wind. “That’s the name I want you to say tonight.”

Heat wafted over you. You nodded, because you couldn’t say another word. As if an invisible hand was clasped around your throat. 

Haechan coiled an arm around your waist, forcing your back flush against his chest. “Tell me what you want,” he purred. Your thighs were bare and he snagged the opportunity to grope them, free hand leisurely rising higher. For now, they landed squarely at your ass. “So I can help you.”

You swallowed hard. Part of you was afraid, but the other was enticed by the danger. It always had been. Your voice lacked complete confidence. “I… wanted something new. The men here aren’t adequate. I needed something else.” 

“Oh?” Haechan cocked a brow and snickered. “Don’t worry about that tonight, baby. I’ll make you forget about everyone except me.” 

For a while, you had been at war with yourself, dithering between your options. But Haechan had tempted you. Whatever fight you had abandoned you as he brought you to your bed. 

Every alarm in your body was ringing, sirening to you that danger was near at hand, but the soft lulling of his voice abated your panic. The horns were blown, but you were too far gone to hear them. 

Haechan lay you at your backside and you swayed like a leaf, throat parched dry when you glimpsed into his eyes. They were red with lust, dark as blood. “Don’t look so scared,” he reproached, but it was of little substance given the smidgen of a smirk you’d seen on his lips. 

You were still tongue tied and at a loss for breath, never mind words. 

Haechan’s touch wasn’t gentle in the slightest as he came to tear your clothes away, shredding them layer by layer. His fingers skimmed against your body and your skin scorched where he touched you. 

Admittedly, it was somewhat true that you were frightened, but this was exactly what you needed to fill the empty chasm of excitement in your sex life. Between thrill and fear, the feeling that coursed through your veins was indistinguishable. 

You had cycled through mortals and been left unimpressed each time. There was bad, and then there was decent. You wanted neither. You wanted someone to go above and beyond. They tended to do only enough to barely get you there. If even. You’d seen it all; you wanted mind-blowing.

You shivered at the cool sensation of the air against naked skin, but it was immediately negated by Haechan’s body heat. Still, it wasn’t enough. You whimpered, “Touch me.” 

“Eager, aren’t we?” Haechan snickered. “Say please.”

You didn’t hesitate. “Please. I need you to touch me.” 

Satisfied, Haechan snatched your panties with a final tear and skirted a hand between your thighs. They were already open and parted, welcoming him keenly. 

It was only when you felt his slender fingers scissoring between your thighs did you notice how wet you were. The thought alone had been arousing. The sight of him even more. It was the weaving of those individual factors that had you gathering in his palms like water. 

Haechan shook his head with mirth. “Something tells me that you don’t get wet like this too often. Do you, baby?”

The answer to that was so embarrassingly obvious that you wanted to shrink until nothing remained of you. Your cheeks stung. “No. Not really.” The more you thought about it, you couldn’t remember the last time you had been so aroused. 

If ever. 

“Aren’t you a little sinner,” Haechan said and chuckled to himself. Needless to say, he was amused. A pretty girl like you that could most likely have any guy she wanted calling on a demon because the men on earth can’t satisfy her? He was delighted. And almost humiliated on their behalf.

Like the cruel demon he was, he added, “It’s a little pathetic, don’t you think? Getting wet for me when you could easily find a human to fuck.” 

You whined, but ironically pulsed around his fingers. Those words were as true as they were humiliating. His fingers coaxed into you with a loud, wet squelch. 

Haechan eyed you with the intensity of a ravening werewolf. The likes of you were familiar - pretty girls that were too curious for their own good and went looking into entities where they had no business for pleasure. Never would you be the first or last, though regardless he had a job that he was more than glad to fulfill. 

Pleasure played out on your face. That said, you wanted more. You had always considered that maybe you were the problem. Maybe you were the one at fault because you were too greedy, too insatiable. Enough was a word of little subtance to you. 

But you noticed a sort of stark divergence here. With your previous conquests, you were unsatisfied because they took pleasuring you as if it were drudgery. This was more or less a job for Haechan, yet in spite of that, he seemed enlivened. 

Boys came a dime a dozen. Pleasure like this? It was a luxury far beyond your worth. 

“Fuck me,” you whispered. You were even willing to beg, if that was what it took. 

“Mm, no. Not yet,” Haechan said, having a good chuckle at the look of incredulity on your face at your expense. 

Never had you ever been turned down. It was always you that turned people away. Men that were bound to be disappointments in the sack lined up for you. They never hesitated to take advantage of your desperation. 

Haechan curled his fingers, sending every wall of the room reeling. Your pupils dilated when he leaned in, firmly holding your jaw to make you meet his stare. “Human boys don't build you up, do they? They just take what they want and leave. I'm going to take my time with you, baby.”

You doubted anyone had ever uttered anything like that to you before. 

His grip slackened. Not many words needed to be exchanged, the two of you content with the sounds of your soft moans and wet cunt filling the air. 

The glimmer of mischief on Haechan’s face turned pensive. “Can’t decide how I want to fuck you. What about you, pretty thing - how do you want to be fucked?”

You felt your cheeks warm in response to his question, though you had a contemplative answer. Any additional eye contact would have landed you in an early grave, but you wanted him to take control. Too many times had you had to take the lead because you chased your own pleasure. You were in dire need of relaxation. 

And if you were being honest, you'd let him have you any which way. 

“From behind,” you replied, clinging to the pretense of indifference. 

The mischief returned at the speed of light and Haechan taunted, “Scared to look me in the eyes?” 

You blurted, “Can you read my mind?”

“Yes.”

Every functioning gear within you halted and your body slammed on the brakes. Made worse by the serious look on his face. 

Then, Haechan erupted with laughter. “Sike.” You were relieved, though not amused. “I’m just fucking with you. I’m not psychic.” 

As if to apologize for the massive scare he’d only just now given you, Haechan swept in and pressed a brief yet unnaturally hypnotic kiss to your lips.

You felt like you could die at any given moment, but strangely enough, you liked it. 

It was game over when he interposed another finger between your walls, tall and slender. You were plagued by so many emotions all at once that you hardly realized how close you'd gotten in no time at all. Time expedited, but the minutes ticked slower.

You grabbed Haechan’s wrist, fighting for control of his movements, though not that he needed much guidance. It was an act of bad habit, you supposed, but Haechan smirked and let you do as you pleased. For now. 

“Haechan,” you whimpered, reminded of the name you were instructed to say. 

The man in question eyed you with a lustful awe. It was the first time you’d said his name and brother, was it a delightful noise. He hummed, “Close?”

You bobbed your head. No words needed to be said. The way your entire body responded to his touch as if it was owned by him was enough of an indication. 

In a mere instant, you felt empty and desolate, warmth fading into crisp ice without warning. You whimpered, turning to look at the culprit, but met with only a smug smile. 

No way in hell had this demon just edged you. 

Haechan beat you to a word and explained, “I want you to cum on my dick. Is that alright, princess?”

“Please, hurry,” was your desperate response. You had no protest. You simply needed to feel him as soon as possible. 

Haechan had a nice laugh at the sight of you trying to find his hands anew and fuck yourself against them, but retrieved them, bringing his fingers that were coated in your slick to his mouth and sucking them clean. Ironically, you tasted like heaven. 

You moaned when Haechan kissed you, his saliva palliative to the ache of the wait and wanting. It took your mind off of the throbbing between your sensitive thighs while he shredded what remained of his clothes. You were so wrapped in his dark magic, a pawn in his devilish game, but you didn’t care. He could destroy you until you were no longer flesh and bones and you'd say, “Thank you.” 

Haechan was ready with burning lust and he growled, “Hands and knees.” 

You didn’t hesitate to scramble into position, as if he'd punish you for wasting a second of time. Every voice in your mind was subdued and you only listened to the thudding sound of your racing pulse. It screamed even louder the closer Haechan’s body came into yours. 

A gasp tore out of you the moment you noticed his cock stretching you open, ceasing the long wait. It was accompanied by another hushed growl, Haechan’s hands finding purchase at your hips. He filled you nice and slow, the pace so agonizing that you were tempted to believe he was testing you for the sake of toying with you. 

“Don’t tease. Please,” you begged. “I want you to fuck me - hard.” 

Haechan cocked a brow, but made no protest. “Whatever my pretty girl wants.” 

You fought for breath when every inch was encased between your warm and wet walls, pulsing around his thick cock. Haechan penetrated you with a hiss at how you swathed around him so tightly. 

Your body came alive at the touch of the undead, responding to his body with voracity. Haechan had no intention of restraining himself, ramming his hips into yours vigorously. He set a brutal pace, enough to sate you and your unnatural urges. For now. Your flesh scorched with fever, broiling under his fingertips yet craving more of him, more of the singe. You were indescribably elated. 

Haechan seized you to a bruising extent and braced his teeth into your shoulder, effectively smothering a noise. You let out a cry of pain and pleasure, warped together to create some inexplicable sensation.

“So goddamn tight,” Haechan hissed, giving your ass a smack or three. Every thwack sent you clamping even tighter. “You like it rough?”

Between a thread of moans, you whimpered, “Yes.” But the way he drove his cock into you - hurried and ruthless - bundled your head into the mattress, your cries smothered by the pillows.

Haechan latched onto your hair, letting out a hollow, breathy laugh when you moaned. You were so eager to take him, never shying away from his actions.  

It was paranormal, like nothing you had ever felt before. You'd yet to discern the invisible shroud of mist that billowed in the air, the spine-chilling gale that swept over you and chaperoned his presence, but you loved it. It kept you on your toes and made you hold your breath. Something to this extent felt forbidden, like you were getting a taste of pleasure beyond human capacity. It was an ethereal and otherworldly type of pleasure.

You felt so light that you could topple over from one breath. 

Haechan’s eyes lingered on the way your whole body tremored at the impact of his thrusts, your ass meeting his cock with a slap and your breasts bouncing underneath you. Your body was gradually beginning to be coated in bruises and scratches, remnants of him that would linger even after he was long gone. 

You loved that he was rough, loved that he fucked you like there was no tomorrow without overdoing it. He only had one night to give you the best dick of your life and was successful so near in. 

Many had tried, but many had failed to fuck you like this. You knew you would be sad to see him go. 

“Oh my god,” you cried, your voice given an outfall for speech courtesy of the way Haechan lifted your head by your hair. You were melting into abyss. 

Haechan tugged at it a little rougher and demanded, “Tell me you love this.” 

“I love it. I love it so much,” you babbled. Your thoughts were revoked. Your body was on fire. You knew one thing and it was the feeling that lit you off and riled you up. 

The demon boy smiled. He wasn’t psychic, but he knew how you felt without saying. It was in how your body responsed to his, submitting to his every move. Your body betrayed you, presenting all of your emotions on a silver platter. 

Haechan discerned you were near your climax and leaned closer, teeth grazing over your shoulder when he growled, “You’re close.”

It wasn’t a question; you were close. That much was obvious. You could only bob your head, blabbering more hardly coherent sentences that he found amusing. 

You fisted the pillows and sheets for dear life, clinging to whatever you possibly could to anchor yourself. You felt like you had been put together solely to be destroyed afresh. As if his intention was to shatter you piece by piece. 

In that case, he was doing a damn good job. 

If possible, Haechan’s pace became even more merciless. “Let go,” he coaxed surprisingly gently, strumming you to climax with his fingers at your clit. Your body one-hundred percent intended to obey him, unable to defy its urges. 

You screamed with orgasm, burying your face into the pillows to smother your cries of pleasure. Tears welled in your eyes, rivulets trickling down your cheeks. Your body felt whole and empty all at once, overcome by an overwhelming sense of relief. Even after you came, you were still pulsing around his cock, eager to get him there. 

“Cum,” you begged, still waiting for him. “Please?” 

The desperacy in your voice practically finished Haechan then and there, and he grunted, “Fuck.” There was no way he could tell a pretty thing like you, “No.” 

Haechan found a bruising grip on your ass to anchor himself and his cock twitched with release inside you, his mouth parting with a series of moans and growls. You whimpered when he filled you, painting your walls with warm cum. Only then did your spent body slacken, collapsing exhaustedly against the sheets. 

Haechan flipped you on your back and kissed the corner of your lips. There was something abnormally soporific about the way he tasted, because your eyelids began to weigh more than your body altogether. 

“That’s it, baby. Go to sleep,” Haechan whispered, lulling you to sleep with his gentle voice. 

There was nothing to fight. Your body lost all strength when you climaxed, and you succumbed to sleep in a matter of mere seconds.

“Atta girl,” was the last thing you heard before pitch black darkness bled into your vision. 

When you roused from your sheets in the morning, Haechan was - as expected - no longer there, but traces of last night remained. Your bed was a mess, but you were in shambles, hair tangled on your bed and your body stained with tears, scratches and bruises.

Humorously, though somewhat questionably, only none of his semen was there. You wondered if demons could get humans pregnant. 

You were elated, but somewhat disappointed. From the beginning, you were aware that you couldn’t see him again, but after last night, you were desperate. There was no way in hell he could show you a good time to simply never see you again. It was unfair. 

The sound of your front door being pounded mercilessly startled you and you jumped out of bed, scrambling to cover your bare body and then rushed to the door.

When you opened the front door, Ten awaited you on the other side.

“You look like hell,” commented Ten offhandedly. You were always in wonder at how vampires could roam in the daylight, but allegedly, it was courtesy of potions and spell work. 

“I had a long night,” you deadpanned. 

Ten chortled and stepped inside. “I’m sure.”

You shut the door behind the pair of you and led him to your bedroom where your sheets were a disheveled mess on your bed. Last night had left the board on the floor to be forgotten. 

Disinterestedly, you plopped on your bed. There was a question billowing like fog in your brain and you feigned your most indifferent tone when you asked, “Will he want to come back?”

Ten thought nothing of your question and shrugged, leaning over to pick up the materials you'd abandoned. “Depends. Demons know these… arrangements get messy. Some care, some like messy. It's not rare. Just in case, I’ll have a witch friend of mine fix a spell to ward evil spirits off.”

“Oh,” you replied, playing innocent. But that wasn’t what you wanted. You dwelled over last night and the thought of Haechan coming back for seconds. You weren’t special, that you knew. Demons of his kind has a nonselect variety to choose from, but you knew only he could pleasure you like that again. 

Like he was catching on, Ten added, “It’s not a good idea to give him a chance to get attached. Some demons are bitter and possessive. The moment they want you to be theirs, they’ll hurt you and anyone else who gets in their way in response to a perceived betrayal.”

His warning spooked you, but not by much. You assured Ten that you understood and would leave that night behind you. After all, with all the measures taken, it was out of your hands. 

One night became several. 

In your defense, you weren’t the one that summoned him. It was because of your energy. He always claimed he could feel you. You frequently laid brooding in your home, yearning for him to return. 

And then, he appeared. You knew when Haechan was there and when he wasn't. It was his presence. You could feel it in your chest. You couldn’t explain it, but whenever he was in range, a gust of cool air would sweep over your shoulders and a thick gale would strike your lungs, rendering you breathless. 

Haechan materialized in that same shroud of mist, snickering to himself when your startled figure trembled. 

You gawked when you saw him in full glory. “How the hell…” 

“Your friend isn’t the only one who knows a sorcerer,” Haechan grinned smugly. “I felt your yearning - did you miss me?” 

Oh, did you. You had spent the past couple of weeks trying to get yourself off the way that he had, but to no avail. There was only one remedy for you and you were forbidden to have him. 

“A little,” you admitted. Though you had a feeling he could see right through you, it was a lot easier to say compared to admitting you thought of how his hands felt on your body every time you touched yourself. 

“I think you missed me a lot,” Haechan teased, stepping closer. Meanwhile, you were riveted in place, unable to move. You gasped when his hands browsed up your dress, targeting your damp panties. “Are you saying this isn’t for me?” 

You tensed and whined, “Haechan.”

Haechan gave you a smile, the same devilish one he always wore. He slipped your panties to the side and brushed his slender fingers against your dampening cunt. “Tell me you missed me.” 

“I missed you. I missed you a lot,” you confessed without hesitation. “I… I’ve been thinking about you all day.” 

He cocked a brow and crammed a pair of fingers inside you. “Yeah? You been thinking about me fucking that tight little pussy?”

Your knees were bucking. You needed him more than you’d ever needed anything before in your life. “Please,” you cried. “Please, please…” 

The demon silenced you with a kiss that made you feel so light, you almost tipped over. He caught you in his arms and carried you to your bedroom. 

When you were finished, Haechan fell heaving at your side and groaned, “You’re always so goddamn tight.”

You giggled. “You love me.” 

Like you had said some forbidden word, Haechan switched on a dime and gave you a fair warning. “That’s the snag, baby girl. I can’t love you.”

That you knew, but it stung to hear aloud. You were by no means in love with the demon you'd only fucked on two occasions, but hell, he seemed like the best option. There was a bit of venom in your tone when you responded, “But you fuck me.”

“Yes. Because that’s what I do. I have sex with you needy little humans and drain you to death of your energy. Then the next one comes along and the cycle repeats. I can’t love you because you’re going to die some day, babe. Even sooner the longer you mess around with me.” 

You blinked. He was a hell of a lot more forthright than you expected. Haechan was going to fuck you within an inch of your life. Literally. 

That was how the cycle began. Haechan informed you of a simpler way to summon him and he began to visit you more often, stealing your nights away. You never mentioned him to anyone. If Haechan didn’t kill you in time, Ten would undoubtedly burn you alive. 

You loved spending nights with Haechan, and over time, those moments together bled into days and mornings. More often than not, you would talk the day away, discussing everything under the sun and moon. 

Six years ago. Those events culminated in this later two-part dilemma you’d brought upon yourself. 

Weeks turned into months. You were growing weaker. The venom was slowly killing you, contaminating your blood far beyond human reclaim. 

Additionally, everything the two of you had said about loving each other had gone terribly south. The more you got to know Haechan, the deeper you fell. And watching you fall drastically ill under his influence tore an unfamiliar feeling from his cold heart - fear. Losing you cooled his already icy blood. 

Haechan heaved a breath, trying to remain calm. The two of you knew that this would happened, but goddamn, he would have never predicted that he of all people would fall in love. It was almost laughable. “I can immortalize you, but there’s a catch.”

You eyed him expectantly. “Like what?” 

“You’ll watch the people you love die,” Haechan said morosely. “Your entire life will fade with your mortality.”

You frowned. That was a given, but you loathed the thought of that day. No matter how far in the future it may have been. There were always immortal beings to befriend at your disposal, but the current mortal ones - your family - would pass on without you. 

But even more, you loathed the thought of them having to bury you. You would take the pain in sacrifice if it meant they never had to feel the empty ache of lost. 

“Okay.” 

Haechan shot you a look. “Okay, as in what?” 

With shaky hands, you blew out a breath and told him, “I’ll do it.” 

Haechan interlaced your fingers between his and pulled you close. The last thing he wanted was to lose you, but he also wanted you to do this completely out of your own free will. “Are you sure? This isn’t some reversible shit. No take backs.” 

“I would rather bury my family than have them bury me,” you whispered fiercely. It was all you had the strength to do. “I made this mess, now I have to fix it. I can’t let them be miserable over a stupid mistake I made. I won’t.” 

Instead of recoiling from your slight outburst, Haechan held you even firmer. It was a sensitive spot for the both of you. There were available alternatives, none long-term. This was by far your safest option. 

Death was not an option. 

“If this is what you want,” Haechan said, like he was giving you one final chance to reconsider your choices. But you were firm in your decision. This was the price that you had to pay. “Everything will be okay. Baby, I swear.” 

God, you wanted to believe him with everything you had, but you were terrified. For as long as you'd known him, Haechan had always been more calm and self-controlled than you ever were, but even now you could see cracks in his demeanor. He wanted to be strong for the both of you, knowing you would shatter the moment he did, but this had him rending at threat of rupture. 

Haechan lowered himself to your height to be eye-level with you and asked, “Can you get dressed?” 

You bobbed your head. You weren’t completely deprived of your vigor. Not yet, although you had been passing through the days on preservation potions and the like. They could sustain you temporarily, but not for very long. 

The demon boy you loved brought you to a secluded area in the woods, timing your errand perfectly. Before dusk was preferable. Evil creatures lurked in the wilderness, preying on vulnerable humans like you. Not all were fond of humans and vice versa.

And you were already ailing. 

There was a tiny cabin across a river, lying at its bank. According to Haechan, it was home of a wizard. 

“Your friend’s a wizard?” you had asked. 

Haechan nodded. “Basically. But Mark prefers being called a warlock. Apparently, wizard is an offensive term that’s only used in fairytales. I still call him Wiz, though.”

You gave him a tiny nod. Many if not most magical beings lived in areas isolated from humanity. There was long, unaccounted for history between the two races and you couldn’t blame them for any resentment. 

But it also presented the fair chance that he wouldn’t want to help you. 

Haechan opened the door to the cabin and you treaded behind him like he was safeguarding you. There was a man behind a cauldron that billowed with green smoke. 

You took a glance around. The cabin was dim, sunlight filtering through the blinds of a single window upstairs. Candles and lanterns burned, scattered elsewhere. The warlock spared you not a glance, engrossed in his brewing, though you noticed a crystal ball on the table, reflecting a perfect view that overlooked the bridge. 

It most likely had warned him someone was approaching. 

Haechan put on his cheesiest smile and greeted, “Sup, Wiz. Been working out lately?” 

Mark slammed on the brakes and bristled. “Hell no. Whatever you want - the answer is no.”

Your demon boyfriend frowned, walking beside his friend to give a slight nudge to his side. “C’mon, bestie. I didn’t even ask for anything.”

Mark didn’t waste a second. “I know. And every time you compliment me, it’s only because you want something.” Then, the warlock shifted his gaze and seemed to finally notice you. “Who’s the chick - new piece?” 

Haechan rubbed his neck. “Yeah, about that…”

“Haechan, hell the fuck no,” Mark interjected as soon as he put the pieces together. “You know you have to talk to Johnny about that.” 

“See, that’s the thing. Johnny will kill me. And I’m technically already dead,” Haechan joked, trying to ease the mood. 

You swallowed like you could gorge all of your burdens with one gulp. Part of you was ready to accept that death was inevitable and tinkering with your fate was deadly. As a spirit from the underworld, maybe you could meet the boy you loved again, but you’d fade into a distant memory to everyone else you loved. 

Mark removed his spectacles and massaged his temple before he sighed. “Do you love her?” 

“Yes.” It was instant. He didn’t even need to consider it. That made you smile. 

“Like, for real?” Mark pressed. Like he was in disbelief. “I can’t waste time and casting energy on a pretty girl you just want to keep around for a little longer.”

Patience slowly dimming, Haechan snapped, “When have I ever cared if they lived or died, Mark?” 

You came to clutch his arm, and Haechan softened, switching on a dime. Much to Mark’s surprise. Even he couldn’t deny that you seemed to have an effect on Haechan - a grip that no else had. 

Haechan took a deep breath. “Look, my bad. But she’s special. I don’t know how it happened, it just did. And it would be easier to do a cord-cutting spell and toss her away, but I don’t want that. I want her.” 

A strained moment of silence passed before Mark finally groaned, “Fine.”

“So?”

“So, I’ll do the spell,” Mark said stubbornly. 

It felt like a weight was lifted from your chest and you could breathe easier when those words left his mouth. You watched Haechan’s face twist with relief, and he whirled you into his arms, hauling you with a supernatural strength that made you squeal and giggle. “Fuck. I forgot you’re not yourself,” he said and placed you back on the ground. 

You shook your head and smiled. Then, Haechan turned back to Mark with open arms and smirked. “Come here.”

Mark grimaced. “Absolutely not. I’m warning you. Come any closer and I’ll get Phantom.”

“Phantom?” you repeated, blinking. 

Mark whistled, and suddenly you heard a low caw fill the air. Then, you saw a creature fly from the single window at the speed of light and finally come to a rest at Mark’s shoulder. 

It was a raven. 

“My familiar,” Mark explained proudly. “Every warlock - and witchtress - has one.” 

Ignoring the way the raven - Phantom - was staring down your soul, you gave a quick nod and asked, “So, we’re really okay?”

“Yes. I’ll work on a spell for you as soon as possible,” Mark replied.

Haechan smiled and swept you into a kiss, then Phantom immediately began to caw as if she was trying to wake the dead. 

Haechan snickered and put his arms between you both. She was very prone to attacking. “Ladies, ladies. No need to fight. There’s enough Haechan to go around.” 

You snorted and rolled your eyes. But you were happy. You still had Haechan, and you always would. Nothing would come between you. Death or Phantom. 

Five years ago. 

Now, you were alive and well. And not only you, but someone else. 

After hours on your feet, you had never been more relieved to sit down. Ten eventually came to accompany you, having a good laugh at the weariness prominent on your face at your expense. 

“Tired?” he asked. 

“Try exhausted. I’m ready to drop,” you drawled. 

Ten laughed, then shook his head and smiled faintly. “Tell me how it’s been exactly four years and I still can’t believe I’m a godfather?” 

“Please,” you chortled. “They’re growing up so fast. I can’t keep up.” 

You had discovered the answer to a previous thought. Demons could get humans pregnant. As it turned out, you also had to confess to Ten that you’d been sleeping with Haechan for longer than he'd thought. After all, the evidence had been growing in your belly for nine months. 

Not one child, but two. 

Ten gave you a tiny nudge. “Haechan really did a number on you.” 

Through the corner of your eye, you could see him approaching and joked, “Speak of the devil.”

Haechan plopped down beside you, head in your lap, and said, “I’ve never had to work for anything in my life before those two.” 

You and Ten giggled. “Get off me, you big baby,” you said lightheartedly. “Who has them?” 

“Your mother,” Haechan replied, not budging like a boulder. 

Or so he thought. You were both caught off guard when your two four-year-old twins eagerly came running after you, refusing to give their mommy and daddy a break. 

Ten came to the rescue and leapt up, exclaiming, “Who wants cake?” 

As expected, your two tiny twins turned around as soon as they came, shouting, “Me!” Gratefully, you mouthed, “thank you” to Ten, who led the little army away to dessert. 

Haechan climbed into the seat beside you, and said, “We made this.”

“We did,” you replied, beaming. “And I love every part of it. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

“Me neither,” Haechan said, pressing a kiss to your lips. Now that the coast was clear, a mischievous smile crept onto his lips. “So, I was thinking that once we put the kids to bed, we could have our own little party upstairs.”

God, that sounded like heaven to you right now. “Say no more.”

Haechan snickered and lifted you into his lap. You rested your head against his lap comfortably. “I love you,” he whispered. 

“I love you, too,” you said, a smile tugging your lips.

Those three words summed up everything. There was so much you wanted to say. You wanted to tell him that you always wanted a family with him, that you wouldn’t have it any other way. That you knew in your heart that this was the way it was meant to be. But you settled for, I love you. And you settled because he already knew. 

“As much as we fuck, we should have expected twins.” 

Those words snapped you out of your train of thoughts and you stood to your feet. “Save it. We have a birthday party to celebrate.”

Haechan followed you, wrapping his arm around your waist. “Yes, ma’am. Mind if we go hit the dance floor in celebration?”

“Not at all,” you told him. 

And it was easily the most magical moment of your life being twirled around in Haechan’s arms, the rest of your little family soon coming to join you both.

[whorediaries-09]

hall of morals;

listing out some of my favorite fanfictions by absolutely talented people. as a creator on this hellsite, i know people aren't appreciated enough, so here's my cue 🩷!

if you check out their works and enjoy them, make sure to reblog and/or leave a little feedback. also make sure to read the warnings the writers have listed.

don't deny it by @weird-is-life rockstar!sirius black x reader

i'm older than you think by @wingedhallows postazkaban!sirius black x reader

siriusly; an ode to fan fic writers by @bave-de-crapaud postazkaban!sirius black x reader

flat vs flat: the prank war by @bave-de-crapaud posthogwarts!sirius black x reader

hockeyplayer!sirius black x ice-skater!reader by @lenacosse enemies to lovers trope

rockstar!sirius black x reader by @sxriusblxck

steamy make out session with sirius black by @sxriusblxck

dealbreaker by @luveline sirius black x reader

holy fool by @fuckmymunson dark!sirius black x reader

come back, be here (series) by @ellecdc posthogwarts!sirius black x reader

tattooartist!sirius black x reader by @dearharriet

so it goes by @dearharriet magician!sirius black x illusionist!reader

linger by @evanpeterswhoresblog sirius black x rockstar!reader

champagne problems by @redtaylorsversiongirlie harry potter x reader

love for cigs and love without 'em by @fictional-magic harry potter x black!reader

this feels like falling in love by @amhrosina billy russo x reader

run, run, run by @banditthewriter billy russo x reader

old wives' tale by @pillow-titties billy russo x reader

for our sakes by @pillow-titties billy russo x reader

a woman scorned (series) by @queen-haq billy russo x reader

a woman reborn (series) by @queen-haq billy russo x reader. sequel to a woman scorned.

[bi-disaster-yn]

Tread Carefully

Pairing: neighbour!Peter Parker x fem!Reader

Summary: Reader is used to being led on and then let down in love which leads to her not quite believing just how much Peter likes her.

Set after the events in No Way Home! As always, Peter is aged up to be in his early-mid twenties.

A/N: This one goes out to the all the girls who have been made to feel crazy when they’ve been led on by someone who suddenly loses interest. You are valid and you deserve so much better (and someone like Peter in this fic <3)!!

Feedback & reblogs are always appreciated <3

Whilst others seem to fall into love quite easily, for you it was always like trying to catch fire in a jar. Never successful, getting burned in the process and eventually the jar melting with all the exposure to further render your attempts useless.

Such carelessness with your emotions had led you to a solitary existence. The mere suggestion of reciprocated feelings had made you strategic and forceful, putting pressure on every encounter with a prospective lover in hopes that one day you might secure love.

Naturally, the pressure would snap any cord of bond you might have with someone and there you were, left again without any recourse. A scorned woman.

This wasn’t always your fault. Often, you’d bestow your emotions upon someone unworthy. Gaslighted with a promise of something real, you’d pursue these people only to be bitterly disappointed with a frank conversation where they confessed that you were great but all the same, not good enough.

Enter Peter Parker, your sweet neighbour who moved in next door a few months ago and brought with him a little spark that had you giddy.

The day he had moved in, he just seemed so out of his depth and alone. With the door open, he’d stood in the middle of his apartment looking round at the admittedly small number of boxes he had. Nevertheless, he looked entirely overwhelmed and frozen, struggling to even take the first step to open any of them.

You’d just finished grocery shopping as you walked past, peering in quickly when you came across the open door. From where you were standing, viewing his slumped shoulders and helpless face, it looked like he was going to cry. He looked so lost and you were sure that your help was exactly what he needed.

So, you came to the rescue. Announcing your presence, you offered your help which he reluctantly accepted. One by one, you worked your way through the boxes and worked together to set out his things the way he’d like them. At first, he was wary of you but grew more comfortable as you took things at his pace, never pressuring or hastening him.

You cooked him dinner, noting that his fridge hadn’t been stocked up yet. He asked you for coffee the next day as a thank you.

Coffee dates became dinner dates which naturally slipped into taking turns to make dinner for each other every night. He was so convenient being next door and had explained being new to the area that he had no one else really. Naturally, he gradually began to intertwine himself within your plans until you had become inseparable. Not that you minded, you hadn’t been this infatuated in a long time.

You did everything “right”.

You nurtured your feelings, trying to keep them on a leash to prevent them leaping out of control. You were calm and collected around him, allowing yourself to freak out about him after you said goodbye for the night. You made allowances for him in your plans yet didn’t hedge your bets on having to actually plan around him.

Yet, you still expected him to let you down. Some dark, twisted and nasty corner of your brain still told you that you were holding on to false hope. You had let people in before only to have them ridicule you for ever thinking that something could happen. For all you knew, Peter could be - and probably was - just the same as the rest of them.

Although, surprisingly, he hadn’t let you down to date. He always turned up on time when he said he would, except for that one rare exception that he had to cancel. Even at that, he was following up with you to reschedule and even planned and paid for the whole date because he felt so bad about having to miss your plans.

He let you touch him and he allowed himself to touch you. When your thighs lingered as you sat next to each other, he didn’t move away or sit in clear discomfort. Contentedly, he’d continue his story while you sat, completely mesmerised by the fact he’d allowed you a crumb of intimacy with just a simple gesture.

When this inevitably went downhill, it was going to kill you.

***

Winter had taken over the city. The restaurants and shops below your apartment had started to decorate their storefronts with festive lights which teamed up with the streetlights to create a cosy light in a cruelly cold and dark night.

It was Peter’s turn to cook that night. He stood at the stove making mac and cheese in plaid pyjama bottoms and a white t-shirt that although oversized, still managed to show his muscular shoulders.

You sat on his couch flicking through Netflix to find a suitable Christmas movie for your night in. As the snow began to fall outside, you wrapped the blanket round you tighter and excited yourself with the idea of cuddling up to Peter to keep warm. Peter hummed as he plated up the food; it was his Aunt May’s recipe and he’d raved about it for weeks, insisting he would make it for you.

You tried not to read into the fact he was letting you into something he’d shared with his aunt who had been more like his mother. Nor did you read into the fact that the blanket wrapped round you was one you hadn’t been able to stop touching in the store because of how soft it was. He’d bought it so he could see the big grin on your face as you smoothed your hands down it.

“You really love that thing, don’t you?” Peter commented with a sweet smile as he handed you the plate.

“It’s just so soft! How did they make it so soft?” You beamed in response.

“I don’t know, but you look really cute with it wrapped round you.” He smiled, facing the TV and taking a bite before saying the all too familiar yet equally dreadful sentence.

“I think we should talk.”

It was so out of left field and so unexpected. The horrible yet familiar feeling of dread sat deep in your stomach and destroyed your earlier appetite for a home cooked meal. Setting your plate down, you took a deep breath in anticipation of what he was going to say next. You had to give it to him, ending this over his beloved aunt’s recipe was a new low in your experience of rejections.

“Sure.” Was the only response you could muster without it sounding like you were dying inside at the very notion Peter could end all of this.

“Well, we’ve been seeing each other for a while now, right?”

Oh God. This really was it. Now was the time for the usual chat. He’d come out with some drawl about how even though you had spent every day together, ate together, slept together, treated each other like boyfriend and girlfriend, that it was of course, casual and you were irrational to think anything different. In the heat of the moment, frenzied by embarrassment, you’d agree and tell him you’d even prefer to be friends. Then over the coming months, the dejection would slowly eat away at you as you’d overanalyse the memories and consider what you should have looked for to ascertain that this would never be a serious relationship. Good enough for a fling, but not quite enough for a substantive commitment.

It was going to be a long and lonely winter.

“Yeah, two and a half months to be exact.” You stated, as if for a court record to build your case on just how much of your time he had wasted before he was about to throw this genuine and beautiful connection away. Peter merely chuckled at your matter-of-fact manner, oblivious to your serious tone.

“Well, I was wondering if you’d like to be my girlfriend?” He asked nervously, watching you with a hopeful smile.

Admittedly, your reaction was in fact, irrational.

“Sorry, WHAT?!” You yelled back, so taken aback by the question. It was what you wanted to hear but not at all what you expected.

“Oh! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.” Peter tried to explain, clearly self-conscious by his choice of timing and now considering what seemed to be a real possibility of you rejecting him. “I just thought that I really love what we have and I wanted to make it official but if you feel differently then-“

You cut him off before he could go any further by lunging over and wrapping your arms round his neck tightly. You held him like he would disappear if you let go. The longer you held on, the more tangible his question became and the more likely you were being validated that this whole thing wasn’t just a one-sided and bittersweet liaison, doomed to fail from the beginning.

Peter chuckled, managing to set his plate down on the coffee table, despite you clinging on to him like a koala. He settled back against the couch, rubbing his hand up and down your back soothingly while you sat still, completely incapable of letting go.

“So… is that a yes?” Peter asked with slight concern in his voice as he tried to measure how long you had been silent for.

“Of course, it’s a yes! I thought you were going to end this!” You confessed. Peter frowned at your response, unsure where you could ever have gotten that idea from. He had tried so hard to not be one of those asshole guys and not lead you on. He started to question whether he should have done anything differently.

“Why would you think that?” His question came with a sweet kiss to your temple. Despite you holding him hostage with a cuddle, he seemed quite content.

The heat of embarrassment claimed your cheeks causing you to nuzzle your face into his neck. This should have been a really happy and carefree moment between you both, and hopefully the beginning of many years together. Yet, your insecurities and past emotional injuries had tainted this.

Perhaps, sharing your intense fear and feelings was going to be too much for Peter. Still, if he was going to be in a relationship with you, he ought to know the truth.

“I just…” You began, sitting back to look him in the eye. “I just never get asked that question.”  

Peter looked at you with a mixture of surprise and sadness. His eyebrows furrowed in contemplation and he let out a silent “oh”. At first, you thought he was pitying you but then you came to realise that he was just appreciating how big of a deal this was for you.

“I always seem to be the practise run or the casual fling. I never seem to be enough to be the girlfriend. You know?” At this, Peter nodded silently and reached his hand out for you to hold which you gladly took.

“And with you, I’ve been trying so hard not to get overexcited or put too much pressure on you but I really like you, Peter! I’ve been terrified that you’ve wanted to end this for a while now.” You explained further, watching him get confused.

“What did I do that made you think that?” Peter mumbled, his own fears and guilt setting into him. He had been trying so hard to let people in and to think that he was potentially failing was more than a tough pill to swallow.

“Nothing.” You said simply, because it was the truth. He had done nothing wrong.

“It’s just, I let you into my apartment, which was supposed to be just mine. I talked to you about Aunt May, which was really hard for me but I trusted you with it. I… I fell asleep on you. I felt safe enough with you to sleep soundly. I just don’t think I could have done anymore to let you know I was interested.”

The lump in Peter’s throat was evident with his words. This poor, sweet boy had no idea that this was so much bigger than him. It was an injury to your very being that had attached itself to you for all time coming. In truth, Peter had opened up to you and had let you in. On the other hand, all of those boys had done the same thing. They fed you with private and emotional insights then cut off the supply when you dared tried to establish a deeper emotional connection. How were you to tell the difference? 

“Sweetheart, you didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just, not all guys are as genuine as you. They mess with our heads and then call us crazy.” You explained calmly, bringing his hand to your lips and kissing his knuckles lightly. The words took purchase in Peter’s body and he nodded at you, slightly embarrassed.

“I am sorry you’ve been through that. I just really liked you and wanted to let you in. I have meant it all and I’d really like for you to be my girlfriend.” He smiled, reaching his other hand out to caress your cheekbone. An excited and surprise giggle escaped your lips.

“I’d love to be your girlfriend, Peter.” You leaned in and kissed him deeply, putting your hands on his cheeks. His hands found your waist, pulling you to sit on his lap. You gladly obliged, not once breaking the kiss. It wasn’t catching fire in a jar. Rather, it was gathering water that easily streamed into the jar – filling it up and adapting to the shape of its keeper without any threat of burning or melting; secured simply with a screw top lid. It was different, fresh and easy.

“Okay,” Peter chuckled as he finally pulled away from the kiss. “Can you please let me know if I made a good job of dinner?”

“Sure thing, boyfriend.” You grinned, giving his lips one last peck before leaning back and retrieving your neglected plate from the table. It was starting to get cold but that didn’t matter. You were going to give it a glowing review anyway.

You draped the blanket over the two of you and cuddled into him, no longer afraid to show him just how keen you were. He hummed happily at this, turning to gently kiss your temple. Your mind and body relaxed, content in the knowledge that you need not tread carefully around your Peter.

Finally, someone genuine.

[d-z20]

The Ballad of Agatha Harkness Chapter 3

Summary: Agatha's brutal lessons continue but she has discovered something - or someone - to comfort her.

Warnings: slight physical (with magic)/mental/emotional abuse

Word count: 2.1k

A/N: The mommy issues becoming very clear now and tbh I can't blame her. I think we're all in agreement that we hate Evanora. Next chapter is where it starts getting real gay folks

Really appreciate any feedback you can give me on the story so far :)

Read the story on AO3

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Sorrow and Solace

The air was thick with the chill of early autumn, the kind that burrowed under skin and nestled deep in your bones. The coven’s central hall sat half-hidden under the long-reaching branches of an old oak tree, its roots like gnarled fingers clawing at the earth. The building was humble - rough-hewn logs held together by magic woven with necessity and silent resolve - but within its walls, power pulsed and tension coiled like a serpent ready to strike. The smell of the damp earth mingled with the sharp tang of herbs drying in bundles over the hearth, filling the space with a soothing musk. Shadows flickered on the rough, wooden walls as blue-flamed candles sputtered in their sconces, illuminating the hardened faces of witches whose loyalty was stitched with threads of fear and ambition.

Among the coven, there were those who watched Agatha with awe and those who watched her with suspicion. Isobel, a witch with dark curls and a voice that could enchant an entire village, saw potential in Agatha but feared the shadow she cast. Greta, an older witch whose loyalty to Evanora was absolute, marked every sign of defiance with thin-lipped disapproval. Agatha Harkness was not yet a woman, but neither was she the child who once stared wide-eyed at the world. She was no more than twelve, but her eyes held a storm that belied her years. She sat rigid on the cold floor, heart thumping in anticipation and dread as her mother, Evanora Harkness, moved to the centre of the room.

Agatha’s gaze flickered for a moment, a habit born from years of reading her mother’s expressions as one reads a cipher. Evanora’s presence commanded silence; she wore power the way others wore cloaks. Her fingers, long and pale, seemed to weave invisible threads as she spoke, each word binding the coven in a spell of obedience. She stood at the head of the gathering, eyes sharp as a hawk’s, scanning the room for any sign of weakness.

“Today,” Evanora began, her voice slicing through the low murmurs, “we will push beyond the ordinary incantations. You will learn what it means to wield power that breaks the chains of mortal restraint.”

The room remained still, hanging on the edge of Evanora’s every word. The witch turned her cold eyes on Agatha, a look that demanded not only attention but compliance. Agatha’s stomach churned, not from fear alone but from the gnawing need to earn even the faintest flicker of approval from her mother. 

“Magic is not kind. Magic is not gentle. Those who wield it must be harder that the iron at a blacksmith’s forge,” she continued.

This was not an invitation; it was an ultimatum. She would master this lesson, or the consequences would etch themselves into her skin like scars.

The witches gathered there glanced at each other, some eager, others masking their trepidation. Isobel kept her eyes fixed on the floor, lips pressed together tightly. Greta, her sharp nose tilted upward, shot a glare at Agatha - a look brimming with distrust and scorn. Greta’s loyalty to Evanora was not born from admiration but from fear; she had no space for rivals, least of all ones that came from within their ranks

 Evanora’s eyes bore into her child. “Stand, Agatha.”

The young girl rose slowly, the old floor creaking under her weight. Agatha’s heart thudded with a mixture of dread and anticipation. The flame of a candle sputtered as if sensing the tension. For a split second, she almost glanced at Isobel, seeking an assurance she would never allow herself to need. Evanora raised her arms and a blast seared through the air, hitting Agatha square in the chest. A collective gasp swept through the coven; only Agatha and Evanora stood unmoved.

Pain exploded in Agatha’s limbs, sharp and fierce, but she locked her knees and forced herself not to tremble. The air grew even thicker with the scent of burning wax and something more acidic. A sharp, echoing voice in her mind, one that sounded like her mother’s yet twisted with her own doubt: This is how you prove yourself. Do not falter. Do not fail.

Agatha’s fingers curled as she reached out instinctively, a violet shimmer appearing between her palms. Evanora’s expression twitched, not with pride but with calculation, a fleeting assessment of the threat this child might one day pose.

“Hold it,” Evanora ordered, eyes narrowing. “Do not let it shatter you.” 

The room darkened at the edges as Agatha’s vision tunnelled, the force pressing down on her like a weight that threatened to crush her. Panic started to bubble up, but then came that whisper - a whisper carried through the void with a familiarity that made her heart lurch.

“You are more than their fear Agatha. Take it. Control it.” Rio said.

The voice reached inside Agatha and pulled her back from the brink. The words were a lifeline, wrapping around Agatha’s fragile confidence and bolstering it against the storm. Her panic dissipated, replaced by a spark of defiance unfurling within her, mingled with the aching need for approval that had anchored her since she could remember. The voice seemed to embolden the very core of her that had learned to crave validation, to chase it like a hound after a rabbit. 

Agatha felt a surge of power, hot and wild, twisting through her veins. Sweat beaded on her forehead and her lips parted in a silent gasp. Agatha’s eyes flashed violet, just for a moment, as her fingers tightened and the violet shimmer grew brighter and sharper cutting through the blue that held her captive. The tensions snapped like a taut rope, and the force shattered  outward in a shockwave that extinguished every candle in the room

Darkness reigned for a heartbeat. The witches around her shifted uneasily, their breaths shallow. When the first candle flickered back to life, it revealed Evanora’s expression. Evanora’s eyes were wide, a flicker of surprise that quickly hardened into a glare. The moment of silence was suffocating. Agatha resisted the instinct to shrink under the weight of her mother’s scrutiny, the learned fear pressing against the edges of her resolve.

The coven remained silent, eyes darting between mother and daughter. For a moment, a spark kindled in Agatha’s chest, a taste of something sweet and forbidden. It was fleeting, but there - perhaps her mother would finally see her as enough.

Evanora lowered her hands, the blue dissipating into the air with a hiss.

“That was satisfactory,” she said. Though her expression was anything but approving. “But control is nothing without understanding. Practice until you bleed if you must.” 

She turned on her heel and swept out of the room, calling one last remark over her shoulder. “You should be good at this by now Agatha.”

In the lingering silence, Agatha’s gaze drifted to the smouldering wick of a candle, the flame stubbornly refusing to die. A silent promise formed in her mind: I can be good Mother. I will be good.

-

When night fell and the wind sang mournful songs through the branches of the forest, Agatha slipped away from the cabin, careful not to leave tracks that might be discovered come morning. She reached the hollowed tree at the forest’s edge, a place where no one followed and no one dared to look too closely. The tree’s interior, lined with the faint ghostly glow of fungi, held secrets that no other witch in the coven would touch.

Agatha’s hands were still trembling from the lesson in the coven hall, her mother’s words echoing in her mind: You should be good at this by now. Here, in the quiet of her sanctuary, she allowed herself a moment of vulnerability. The ache in her chest was a familiar one - the endless chasm of trying to earn a nod of approval, the constant fear of never measuring up. 

Her voice small and wavering broke the silence. “What did she see?” she wondered aloud, tracing the cover of an ancient tome with shaking fingers.

It was a question that clawed at her heart, an echo of her need for approval tangled with her fear of becoming something monstrous.

“She saw a rival, m’lady,” came a voice, soft as moonlight filtering through the leaves. 

Agatha’s breath caught, and she swallowed hard. The voice had been with her as long as she could remember, an unseen presence that seemed to know her heart’s deepest secrets. She didn’t know who it belonged to or where it came from - only that it arrived when she felt most alone, a whisper that always seemed to answer the questions no else dared acknowledge. And so that is what she called them: the Whisper - her Whisper.

Agatha had bitten back a smile at the pet name. It seemed every time her mother found a new way to tell her she was no good, her Whisper countered it with names that made her feel cherished, if only for a little moment: My Wildflower, My Whisperling, My Lady of Shadows. Each one soothed the sting of her mother’s cruel words, weaving a thin thread of comfort through her otherwise cold world. They made her feel seen in a way that the coven never had.

“Back again so soon?” Rio teased, gentler this time, as she knew this moment was sacred.

Agatha nodded, eyes glassy with determination. “I have to be better. I have to be enough,” she thought aloud. It was a mantra born from years of watching her mother’s eyes search for flaws.

The hollowed tree was more than a sanctuary; it was a repository of forbidden knowledge. Illuminated by the faint glow of phosphorescent fungi, an assortment of ancient tomes and scrolls rested within. Forgotten text, deemed too dangerous even for the coven, lined the hollow’s hidden walls. Agatha reached out and ran her fingers over the cracked leather binding of one such book, its title written in runes that spoke of necromancy and ancient, shadowy arts. It called out to her, not with the urgency of her mother’s demand but with a quiet promise of understanding, of power that could be her own.

“You seek what others fear,” Rio observed, a note of caution lacing her tone.

Agatha’s jaw tightened. 

“I need her to see me,” she whispered, feeling the familiar burn of unshed tears from wanting to be seen not as a threat or a failure, but as something worthy.

“Knowledge comes at a price,” Rio had interrupted Agatha’s thoughts, her voice neither condemning nor approving, simply aware. 

“Then let it be paid,” Agatha replied, a hint of defiance in her voice as she opened the book and traced her fingers over the symbols within. The rush of ancient power skimmed beneath her skin like a hidden river, dark and eager. She could almost hear her mother’s voice warning her against the dangers of power untamed, yet she pushed it aside. This was hers.

The memory of how she’d first found the hollow crept into her mind. It had been an accident, led by an inexplicable trail of flowers that wound through the forest, their petals whispering secrets to those who dared to listen. Agatha had followed, captivated, until she found the hollowed tree and its trove of forgotten magic. Rio often guided her here, nudging her to find what she needed to become more than the sum of her fears.

Yet not everyone was blind to her shifting power. Greta’s voice sharp and unforgiving, had recently cut through the din of the coven hall as she spoke to those willing to listen.

“She is not like us,” Greta had said, her eyes following Agatha with a narrowed glare. “Too much power, too much ambition. That girl will be the undoing of us all.”

The words reached Agatha, though she pretended not to hear. They pricked at the fragile shield she’d built, reminding her of the eyes that watched, wary and resentful. But here, within her sanctuary, those whispers dissolved, drowned out by the quiet, conspiratorial glow of the forbidden. Rio’s unseen presence encouraged her and the forbidden tomes yielded their secrets willingly. Each word of incantation was another step toward something greater, something that might one day earn her the pride in her mother’s eyes that she so desperately sought.

For the first time, Agatha felt the raw, untamed potential within her grow, not under the glare of her mother’s scorn, but in the quiet refuge of the hollow. The coven could think what they liked; Greta could mutter her fears. Here, where the moon rose higher and spilled its silver light through the cracks in the tree’s bark. Agatha whispered an incantation that hummed with dark promise.

The road ahead was uncertain, paved with whispers and shadows. But it was hers.

Next Chapter >

[the-lonelybarricade]

We Bleed the Same - (4/?)

Summary: The forest was a labyrinth of snow and ice... The beginning to a story we know, unfolded a little bit differently.

A gift for my darling @belabellissima💝

Also huge thank you to @popjunkie42 for her super helpful feedback on this chapter 💕

Read on AO3 ・Series Masterlist ・Previous Chapter

-

The ring, at the very least, served as a useful projectile to launch at Rhysand’s head.

Feyre’s mind was whirring like a spindle, producing one thread of thought that twined around and around and around her chest. Wife.

Rhys caught the ring from the air with infuriating ease. She wished she could have seen it crash into his monstrously beautiful face. “It’s too late to return this, I’m afraid.”

He had lied, but why? When?

“I’m not your wife!” She hissed.

Rhys mockingly clutched his chest. “Oh, how the words of a loved one cut deeper than any blade.”

Nevermind what Nesta would say about her improper attire. Feyre pushed the sheets of the infirmary bed aside, scrambling to her feet. Her boots had been removed at some point in the night, and she might have been able to find them if she spared a moment to glance around the room. But a flood of anger carried her across the stone floor, allowing Feyre to ignore the bite of cold leaching through her threadbare socks. She stopped close enough that she would have been nose-to-nose with Rhysand if he wasn’t so gods-damned tall.

She needed to angle her head to meet his eyes, and he looked so amused that someone a fraction of his height was ready to pick a fight that she couldn’t resist jamming a finger into his chest.

“You had no right,” she said, seething. “Word of something like that in this village…”

A rumor like that would travel quickly. Feyre Archeron, the wild daughter of the fallen Archeron family, married to a mercenary. Dark brown eyes flashed through her mind. And for a completely foolish moment, she wondered what Isaac would think of the news. She shook the sad, useless thought away, reminding herself that Isaac would be married by the summer.

“You said you dream of being a spinster,” Rhys said. “Now you get to enjoy that lifestyle with none of the scorn. When my contract ends, I’ll move on from this town and you can claim to be a widow.”

“Why?” She demanded, shaking her head like that might clear away this strange reality. “What’s the point in all of this? What do you gain?”

He smirked. “Besides a pretty wife?”

Feyre felt her entire body flush with anger. Rhysand was the only person who’d ever called her such a thing, and somehow he managed to wield the compliment to get under her skin more effectively than years of Nesta’s hurled insults. She wanted to scream, or find a firepoker she could use to prod at him in turn.

But that’s what he wanted. She could tell, by the way his maddening smile grew with every ounce of her temper. “You’ve already figured out what I want, Feyre. There’s history between me and that High Lord. And now that you’ve fixed his interest, I need you here. Having you as my wife is just a delightful bonus.”

“I’m not—”

Rhys pressed a finger to her lips to smother the protest before Feyre could form it in full. He said, soft as a lover’s whisper, “Don’t let Lord Nolan hear you say such horrible things, sweet wife. If you want your family to be able to stay here, safely tucked behind fortified walls, then I’m going to need you to pretend to be the open-minded, adaptable woman that I know you can be.”

She pushed his hand away. “If you think my sisters are going to put up with this ruse—”

“Then you better convince them it’s not a ruse,” Rhys said.

“How?” Feyre threw her hands up in exasperation. “We just met yesterday. They know that.”

Like he couldn’t resist, his finger returned to her lips, tracing the outline with a fixation that had her sucking in a breath. “Why don’t you tell them,” he mused, “that all those times you were sneaking out to fuck the farmboy, you were actually seeing me? I guarantee I would have shown you a better time.”

Feyre tilted her chin higher as she stared him down. She refused to feel shame for her trysts with Isaac, even if he was only a farmboy, if their encounters had been brisk and clumsy and inexperienced. That touch of humanity had kept her sane, kept her alive, through these last cruel years.

“You don’t know the first thing about me,” she said.

“Do they?”

It was meant to be cutting, but the challenge drew a much bleaker thought forward. What even was there to know?

For years she had operated on one single-minded goal: keep her family alive and together. It was a vow she’d made on her mother’s deathbed eight years ago and without it, she was little more than the winter frost, drifting aimless day after day. The only true ambition she had was painting, a passion she hadn’t touched since that summer Elain had been able to afford three small pots of paint as a gift.

They could try to flee, try to hire a boat and make a new life for themselves on the continent, but without Rhysand’s protection it would be a gamble to try to get on a ship without being tracked by the High Lord. And a small voice, worn-out piece of her wondered… what would it feel like to surrender? Who could she become if she didn’t have to fight and barter and scrape for every meal? If they could stay here and be safe from the fae, fed and comfortable… it was beyond anything she’d ever dared hope for. A marriage to a handsome—if not infuriating—man seemed a meager price to pay in the end, if she could finally fulfill that vow to her mother.

“So we’re to be married,” she said in a single breath. “And live together on this estate, acting as a married couple, presumably sharing a room together…” He nodded in confirmation. “We’re not sharing a bed,” she said, flatly.

His eyes brightened, the very picture of triumph. “Consider it done,” he said. “I’ll be on guard duty most nights, anyhow.”

A relief, and yet… she felt oddly disappointed to think she’d be alone most nights. Of all the complicated affairs of marriage, there was only one aspect she truly had any experience with. She’d always known she was too wild and too sharp to be someone’s bride, but there had been moments in the barn with Isaac when Feyre had learned she could be soft, too.

With Isaac to be married, she didn’t see why she couldn’t seek that comfort elsewhere. If she had to put up with Rhysand’s company, she thought she could at least indulge the flirty remarks and bedroom eyes, if only as a distraction. Those perfect lips had to be good for something besides kindling her temper. And at least between her legs, she wouldn’t have to hear all his rakish commentary.

I guarantee I would have shown you a better time…

Feyre steeled her nerves to continue, “And if we fuck…” Rhys stiffened. She had to clamp her lips together to smother a laugh at his expression. Clearly despite his teasing, he hadn’t considered that sex would be on the table. But there was no denying he was beautiful, and if she was going to go along with this scheme she could at least glean some measure of enjoyment from it. “No kissing.”

That wasn’t a rule she’d used with Isaac. But with Rhys, and the attention he was already paying to her mouth, she thought it would be too dangerous to let him kiss her. Dangerous to be humoring this harebrained plan at all.

“No kissing,” he repeated, sounding a bit strained. “Understood.”

He was so close that she could watch his chest rise with his next breath. She felt oddly tempted to flatten her palm over his heart, like she’d done last night, just to measure how fast his heart was beating. Did this phase him at all? From his endless look of amusement, it didn’t seem like it.

Rhys drew the ring from its velvet cushion. Despite her better judgment, Feyre held her hand out, watching his face as he delicately took her hand in his and slid the ring onto her finger without hesitation. His eyelashes skimmed his high cheekbones as he surveyed the diamond adorning her hand. For a moment so fleeting she thought she might have been imagining it, a crease formed between his brows in the faintest glimpse of anguish. It vanished before she could even hope to speculate its meaning.

Then he was smiling at her like he’d never been more pleased with himself.

“Since I’m here, wife—”

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped.

He continued as if she said nothing at all, “Would you like help getting dressed?”

Feyre resisted the urge to fidget under Rhysand’s slow, unhurried surveillance. A gentleman would have averted their eyes, or pretended they hadn’t noticed her state of undress. His eyes lingered everywhere they shouldn’t, heavy with something she couldn’t quite label as desire. But she didn’t have the sense he was displeased by what he saw, either.

“It isn’t as if the beast took my arms,” she said, turning away from him in dismissal. “It’s just a scratch.”

A scratch that could have easily found her bleeding out in the woods, were it not for the mercenary who huffed under his breath, likely thinking the same. Feyre ignored him, sweeping her eyes over the infirmary in search of something to cover herself. A wicker chair was situated in the corner of her bedside, a familiar cloak strewn over its back.

It would have to do. Her sisters likely hadn’t had the foresight to bring many clothes with them when they’d fled the cottage. She hoped Nesta had at least taken the coin Feyre stowed away, but she would need to return to sweep the cottage and see what was left behind. That was… If they were even permitted to leave. Would they be hunted the moment they stepped outside the walls of the estate?

Feyre could ask Rhys to accompany her, though her stomach curdled at the prospect of asking him any more favors. A man like him kept a meticulous ledger, and as she lifted his cloak from the chair, she knew even its use would be added to her list of debts. But she would argue if they were to act married, then what belonged to him also belonged to her.

Footsteps sounded at her back. She didn’t turn, not yet ready to subject herself to that piercing stare, and whatever smart comment he had prepared. Rhys stopped once he was close enough for his heat to warm her back, not saying a word as he reached around her to take the cloak from her hands. She allowed him, feeling him step away and for a moment believing he was taking it back, denying her from covering herself with it.

Then, slow as if not to startle her, Rhysand held the front straps open and pulled the cloak over her head. Its weight fell across her shoulders, tickling her neck with its soft fur. He pressed a palm into her uninjured shoulder, prompting her to turn so that he could wordlessly adjust the straps to her much slighter frame. Careful, all the while, not to jostle or brush against her injury.

So he had the capacity for decency. It wasn’t as if Feyre would give him a medal for it—and certainly not the thank you he was trying to tempt with his raised brow.

“There,” he said once he had finished with the straps. He gave a small laugh as he assessed her. “It practically swallows you.”

It wasn’t hard. All of her soft edges became sharper in the winter.

She shifted the cape, hating the way Rhys stared like he could see through the fur and cloth, straight to the ridges of her ribs underneath. He didn’t know they’d become more defined in the last three weeks, and she knew he was only making a light hearted comment. Heat itched along her cheeks all the same, and she couldn’t find it in herself to laugh—wasn’t convinced that it was something she was still capable of.

Silence sawed between them as Rhys waited for her to say something and she only blinked, fighting the wild thing inside her that wanted to snap and claw and bite for the insult he didn’t truly mean to inflict. When the fight had nowhere to go, she felt it sink down, draining out along with all of her energy.

Feyre sagged a bit into herself, and the next thing she knew Rhys was herding her back into that wicker chair.

“Seems like that tonic might be wearing off,” he said mildly. “Do you want more?”

“No,” she said, breathing through her teeth.

The pain in her arm hadn’t returned, but she did feel heavier. Was that the tonic wearing off, or had the world always been this heavy, and it was only now settling over her?

Rhys hummed in what sounded vaguely like agreement, helping himself to the task of lacing her boots. It was odd to watch him drop to his knees before her. Odder still, to feel his steady hand curve behind her calf and coax her leg upward so he could slide her worn boot onto her foot. He paid no mind to his miraculously clean trousers, seemingly content to muddy them by propping her heel against his thigh.

Watching those quick, nimble fingers move and pull against her laces lodged something free inside her, something she didn’t dare inspect. “I haven’t lost my arm,” she reminded him, though it lacked the sharpness she’d been aiming for.

He glanced up, pleased that she was speaking again. “Yes. But stretching those stitches is going to burn like Hell.”

Boot now laced, he set her foot down and gestured for the other. Feyre obliged, lifting her foot so he could slide the second shoe on. She supposed if anyone walked in on them, they would have looked rather… intimate.

“See?” Rhys purred, clearly sharing her line of thought. “We’re good at this.”

He looked up, both boots now laced. His hand was still curved around her calf, not quite prepared to let go. And because of the precious warmth spreading under her skin, she was willing to let him linger for just a moment longer.

“Which do you need first,” he asked. “Food or a bath?”

“I supposed this is where you offer to bathe me yourself.”

The devilish glint in his eye said he was already entertaining the idea. “I wouldn’t be opposed.”

Her mouth felt dry.

“Food,” she said. “I’ll bathe once I know you’re somewhere far, far away.”

-

Food, it turned out, meant leaving the infirmary to join Lord Nolan and his family for lunch in their impressive dining room.

Unlike the small, splintering table from their cottage, Lord Nolan boasted a broad dining table, hewn from rich, polished black ebony. More impressive than its size were the countless dishes of food laden atop its surface, all wafting decadent steam that drifted towards Feyre, twisting her aching stomach until she worried she might collapse.

Feyre willed her body upright as she swept her eyes over the generous spread. She flinched when her gaze unexpectedly landed on a pair of emerald eyes, staring back at her through the face of a snarling beast that was carved into each leg of the table. It looked enough like the beast she’d encountered the night before to curb some of her appetite, and she frowned, examining the rest of the carvings. Ward marking decorated the table’s apron—similar to the ones her father had spent the last of his fortune to have etched into the cottage exterior. She didn’t want to imagine how much the useless engraving had cost Lord Nolan.

Identical markings were carved into the backs of the chairs that Nesta, Elain, and her father were already seated in. They faced an elderly man hunched at the head of the table, dressed enough finery that there would be no mistaking him for anyone other than Lord Nolan. To his right was a handsome, much younger man—brown-haired and blue-eyed and already sneaking mooning glances towards a giggling Elain. The Lord’s son, if she had to wager a guess.

All conversation halted the second Rhys and Feyre stepped through the large, cherrywood doors. Nesta, stiff-backed from before they’d come in, set her silverware down hard enough to make Elain flinch.

“Feyre,” her father said, reaching for his cane like he intended to stand to greet her.

“I’m okay,” she said, with enough edge that her father dropped his hand back into his lap. Nesta snorted—either from the less than favorable first impression Feyre was already making, or simply because she enjoyed anything that displeased their father.

Ignoring them, and Elain’s wide-eyed stare, Feyre turned towards the Lord and offered a clumsy curtsey, which earned another thinly disguised laugh from Nesta. “Thank you for your generosity towards my family, Lord Nolan.”

Feyre hadn’t been given the same upbringing as her sisters. If she’d ever learned the proper etiquette for meeting nobility, she’d been too young to remember it. A curtsey seemed sufficient—though Nesta’s mocking sneer was quickly faltering her confidence in even that small gesture. If it wasn’t for Rhys, placing a steadying palm of Feyre’s back as he bowed, subtly, from the waist, she might have turned and darted straight out the doors.

“Thank you again,” Rhys echoed, with none of her wavering uncertainty. His voice dipped lower than it’d been a second ago. And from his tone, it sounded less like he was thanking them for a favor and more as if they’d fulfilled an obligation he was owed. As if he was the Lord. There was glee in his voice as he added, “My wife and I appreciate your kindness.”

Well now he’d done it. Feyre suppressed a sigh, her attention darting to Nesta, who’s blue eyes turned to slits. Elain’s mouth parted open, and she quickly grabbed for her wine to duck her face into the goblet, artfully evading any fighting she feared might ensue. And their father… he simply nodded to himself, eyes clouding with a sort of melancholy that caused Feyre to grit her teeth. As if this was some outcome he’d suspected, but was disappointed by. Just last night, they had all watched her walk out of the cottage, prepared for that beast to take her life. They should be grateful that she was even here. Alive.

The Lord, hawk-nosed and gray-eyed, nodded and said to Rhys, “I am pleased to see that your wife has recovered.”

His tone was bland enough that there was no mistaking his words as sincere. But he was being charitable to offer them at all. Feyre nodded her thanks, but Rhys… he just stared. Eyes narrowed slightly.

“Please, sit,” the Lord added, gesturing towards two of the unoccupied chairs, across from Nesta and their father.

Rhysand, either a fool or an unconventional strategist, claimed the chair facing Nesta. And smirked. In front of their hosts, Feyre prayed she could trust Nesta to keep her nastier comments to herself, or at least until she’d managed to corner Feyre in private. But it wasn’t helping that Rhys raised his brows at Nesta, as if daring her to say something.

“I’m relieved you’re okay, Feyre,” Elain chimed in after swallowing a large mouthful of wine.

Feyre couldn’t tell if it was said to cut the tension, or because Elain truly meant it. She glanced towards her middle sister, beautiful despite the marks of poverty. Her face was sharp and angular where it had once been full and round and flushed with life. But Elain’s eyes hadn't changed. Not in any of the years they’d been in that cottage. They were still bright and gentle, in a way that was rare to encounter in their village.

Last night, Elain’s eyes had been so wide her pupils nearly swallowed all of the brown, not a trace of the warm, honeyed tones that Feyre could see now. She could still hear how Elain sobbed, too terror-stricken for words, frozen like a doe. And when Elain spoke just then, there’d been a residual scrap to her usual lovely, lilted sing-song—from how loudly she’d been screaming.

One moment she’d been giggling over boys with Nesta and the next, their door was broken down by a terrifying, unexpected faerie beast. Feyre could forgive her sister for not trying to help. For being frightened. It was enough to know that she cared, that there was grief shining in her eyes as Elain’s lips stretched into a strained smile.

A hand wrapped over Feyre’s. She tensed, but Rhysand’s words swam over her. “It was very brave of you to offer your life to protect your family.” She turned, meeting his eyes, searching them and finding none of that amusement. Rhys leaned closer, pitching his next words just for her benefit. “Stupid,” he added, the breath of his whisper brushing along the shell of her ear. She tried not to shiver—not with Nesta watching them so closely. “Utterly reckless. And braver than perhaps anything I’ve ever done.”

She doubted that.

“Yes,” Nesta said, drawing their attention away from each other. “Well done, Feyre. It was so heroic of you to lure away the faerie that you brought to our door.”

Rhysand stilled, his fingers tightening over Feyre’s. The tone Nesta used, dripping in venom and outright contempt… It was nothing new. Though, knowing that she’d been moments away from death, it cut into Feyre nearly as viciously as the beast’s claws.

She sucked on her teeth, ruminating in the sting. What was it that elicited Nesta’s ire? Was it because of the praise, or Rhysand’s subtle prodding, or did her eldest sister truly despise Feyre so much that she didn't care that she was almost killed? Did she resent that Feyre had lived? No… no. Nesta could be cruel, but there had been grief in her eyes, too. They had looked at each other, and understood. Understood in a way that was perhaps too difficult to acknowledge in the aftermath.

Words lapped at Feyre’s tongue, too sharp or bitter or not quite right. What could she say that wouldn’t sound defensive, or self-important, or worst of all… hurt. Elain opened her mouth, prepared to mediate so they didn’t make a scene in front of their hosts.

But it was Rhys who said levelly, “A life debt is a very heavy burden, isn’t it? It can rest uncomfortably on the soul.”

Nesta’s eyes flicked between them, and she raised a cool brow. “Is that why my sister married you, because of a debt?”

“Nesta,” Feyre chided, sneaking a nervous glance towards Lord Nolan.

At most, the elderly Lord appeared bored with the theatrics, but his son was monitoring them—particularly Elain, now stiff and withdrawn from the demure lady who’d been giggling moments ago.

“What happened to Isaac?” Nesta pushed, causing even Rhysand’s casual posture to straighten, just enough that she worried the blade strapped to his back might find itself embedded in the dining table, or worse.

Their father reached towards Nesta, like he might put a hand on her shoulder to chide her for making a scene, but all it took was one cutting glance from his eldest daughter for his hand to immediately fall back into his lap. He lowered his chin.

No one was touching the food in the center of the table—hot, glorious food that would finally cure the ravenous hunger she knew was raging inside each of them.

Nesta kept her glare fixed on Rhys, challenging him to answer. He only laughed, leaning in to brush some of Feyre’s hair from her face, a gesture of casual intimacy that scorched her cheek where his fingers brushed.

He crooned, “Why don’t you tell your family how we met?”

“In the woods,” she lied. It was never something she’d been very talented at—she’d never really had a reason to, when her sister was critical of even the barest truths. Feyre wracked her mind for details that might convince them. “Four months ago, he got caught in one of my snares.”

Rhys’s lips twitched. She could practically read in the look he shot her, That’s what you’re going with?

“You would expect a mercenary to be more aware of their surroundings,” Nesta said, thoroughly unconvinced.

“Maybe I wanted to get caught,” Rhys said, flashing Feyre a grin. Then, paying no mind to the empty plates in front of everyone else, he reached across for the platter of chicken and began piling it onto Feyre’s plate.

“You must be a talented huntress,” the Lord’s son complimented. “Especially if you managed to kill a faerie.”

“She’s remarkable,” Rhys agreed. Feyre marveled at the pride in his voice. How did he manage to lie so convincingly?

When he was done with the chicken, Rhys handed the platter to Elain, who accepted it with a wary glance towards their host’s empty plate. Lord Nolan nodded in subdued approval, and that was all Elain needed to begin serving herself as well.

Rhysand continued picking up plates of various steaming dishes—vegetables, bread, sauces, even a decanter of wine that he poured into the goblet in front of her. She noticed he didn’t load his own plate nearly so generously, but when he nudged a fork into her hands, she didn’t think to question it.

She thought she might prefer to do away with the fork entirely and shovel the food into her mouth by the handful. Manners were a distant, faraway concern, but she was able to exact enough control to shovel an appropriate-sized bite into her mouth. It was an effort to chew slowly, to swallow, to look as if this wasn’t the first proper meal she’d had at least since autumn ended.

And the spices… she shut her eyes. She’d forgotten that eating could be something more than a means of keeping her body functioning. That flavor could dance on her tongue, evoking stories of the faraway lands they’d traveled across to get to this dining room. Her family had fallen quiet, equally absorbed in this rare chance to fill their empty stomachs. Rhys—thank the forgotten gods—kept the situation from being unbearably mortifying by making polite conversation with Lord Nolan and his son to fill the silence.

She learned a bit about them in the moments she could piece together between mouthfuls of decadent food. Graysen—the son—was a year older than Nesta, and he’d been training with the guards at the same age that Nesta and Elain began learning the pianoforte. From the gleam in his eye as asked after Rhys’s own training, she knew he had listless questions about their encounter with the beast last night. Thankfully, he was a gentleman as much as he was a warrior, and he reserved such questions until the last of their plates were empty.

Once the servants carried them away, he leaned forward, “Did you manage to kill it?”

Feyre wasn’t the only one who flinched.

“No,” Rhys said, jaw tight. “Thanks to Feyre, I was able to catch him with an ash bolt, but he’ll be back.”

“Great,” Nesta said, crossing her arms as she leaned back in her chair. “So—what? We can’t leave this estate without worrying about being hunted?”

It was never a problem before, Feyre wanted to snap. You never bothered to leave the house most days, anyway.

With a deep breath, Feyre said, “It’s only temporary, Nesta.”

Another lie. If the High Lord’s words were to be trusted, then the terms of the Treaty meant she would always owe a life debt to Prythian. The fae couldn’t lie, and his wording had been fairly clear.

A life debt is a very heavy burden, isn’t it?

Rhys, oblivious to his sharp words that were digging beneath her skin, nodded in agreement. “We’re putting together patrols to search for the beast and protect this estate—if he comes back, we’ll be ready for him.”

“Some of us have lives,” Nesta said. “Tomas was about to propose!”

Good. Feyre privately hoped that Tomas would fix his interest elsewhere. Out loud, she said, “If he loved you, Nesta, he would wait.”

“Not if he goes to our cottage and thinks we’re dead.”

“Write him a letter,” she said, patience thinning.

Graysen cleared his throat, his eyes wandering to Elain, as if seeking her approval as he intervened. “If you must go into town, one of our men could always escort you.”

Elain beamed at him. Graysen smiled back with an endearing, boyish sort of relief. They might have been a good match if the Archerons had managed to maintain their fortune. But without a dowry, or so much as two coins to rub together, Feyre wondered what Lord Nolan would think of a romance between his son and Elain. He didn’t seem to take any notice of his son’s budding interest—in fact, as Feyre studied the Lord she thought his eyes looked a bit glazed, his awareness drifting like a thick morning fog, not quite pinned on any one thing.

She fought the temptation to wave her fingers in front of his face. It was likely his age. People in the village tended to die long before age could claim them, and she supposed she didn’t have much exposure to the elderly—but with his wealth, and his abundant access to food and warmth and medicine, he could outlive the average human expiration.

Maybe that’s how Rhys had managed to get away with the lies. The old Lord was senile and his son—he seemed kind, though a bit too eager to find a faerie on the other side of his sword. Having killed that wolf, she supposed she didn’t have any room to judge, but… Feyre shuddered, now, to think that the creature she’d skinned had been as sentient as the beast she’d encountered last night.

“I’m tired,” she said. It wasn’t a lie. Her stomach hadn’t felt this heavy in years, and with the tonic wearing off she thought she could do with a bath, and a nap, and some method of putting this whole ordeal with the wolf and beast far, far behind her. “I think I’d like to retire, if that’s okay.”

“Of course,” Rhys said, as if he had any right to dismiss a guest.

Lord Nolan only nodded, unnervingly silent. Something tightened in Feyre’s gut.

She didn’t look towards Nesta or her father as she got to her feet. Elain offered another tight smile, but they all said nothing as Feyre slipped toward the door, Rhys trailing at her back like a new extension of her shadow.

It was only once Feyre rounded the corner and froze at the sight of a long stretch of corridor, flanked by rows of doors, that she realized she hadn’t the slightest clue where she was going. She’d been operating on a single directive: flee. Just as well Rhys had followed her, and had now stopped a healthy distance from her back, leaning against the nearest wall as he waited for her to process her next move.

Feyre sighed. “Just show me where it is, you asshole.”

He barked a short laugh before pushing off the wall, striding in front of her with more fluid grace than any man ought to possess. Maybe he’d been a cat in a previous life, and that was why his booted feet made hardly any sound as they strode down the hardwood floors, through halls mounted with weapons and hunting trophies. Though Feyre suspected they were wealthy enough to flaunt silver and gold, it was iron that decorated most of their fortress—iron sconces on the walls, iron latches on window sills, intricate iron handles on every door.

Rhys curled his fingers around one such handle, smiling at her as he stepped through the iron threshold. “Here you are—a room fit for a mercenary and his new, lovely wife.”

She could have laughed. Or wept. The room was likely plain by a lord’s standards, roughly the size of the cottage she’d shared with her family. Two rich velvet settees were settled beside a low wooden table in front of the fireplace, big enough that she wouldn’t feel too guilty making Rhys sleep on one. The large fur rug, likely won from one of the Lord’s many hunts, looked like it would make a pleasant place to nap as well.

And then there was the bed, about as large as the one she and her sisters slept on, but now she had it all to herself. That was a strange thing to come to terms with.

“I have to go soon.” His voice was gentle. “Do you want me to run you a bath?”

“I can manage,” she said, but he was walking into the attached bathing room anyway. She followed, feeling a bit lost. How was any of this real, how had her life changed so quickly, so drastically?

The iron handle squeaked as it turned, and a moment later the faucet rumbled, pouring steaming water into the large porcelain tub. Steaming. Now she was weeping, and she turned, not wanting Rhys to see. It was stupid—so utterly stupid, and pathetic, to be crying over a warm bath.

Footsteps sounded at her back as Rhys approached. Given how silently he’d walked before, she knew it’d been intentional, so she didn’t jump when she felt his hand on her shoulder. Feyre resisted his first attempt to make her face him. It was obvious she was crying and that was bad enough. But when it was clear she wouldn’t obey, he moved around her anyway.

They stared at each other for a moment, and she waited for him to say something about the tears streaming down her face. He didn’t. He just silently took to unlatching the cloak, until its weight dropped from her shoulders, pooling at her feet along with the weight of eight years of survival, of being solely responsible for keeping her family alive.

A sob ratcheted up her spine. Rhys gently grabbed the elbow of her injured arm, holding it steady as he unwrapped her bandages. Her eyes fell to the raw, angry skin freshly sewn together with dark, jutting sutures. She winced at the sight.

“You should be careful getting them wet,” he said. “Let me help.”

His voice held enough concern that she trusted he would be professional about it, but Feyre shook her head. “You said you need to go.”

“I can stay.”

The moment she was encased in that warm water, she knew there would be no holding back the floodgates. Nevermind that she wasn’t prepared for Rhys to see her naked—not yet, not while she was still bony and sharp and her arm looked like that.

“Go,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

Rhys pressed a hand to her cheek. It was only then that he swiped away her errant tears with his thumb. “The patrol might last a few days,” he said. “Try to stay out of trouble.”

She nearly pointed out that staying out of trouble meant staying as far away from him as she could get. But she wasn’t quite in the mood for jokes, and hearing that he would be gone for potentially days… she hadn’t realized how comforting she found his presence, until that moment.

“Enjoy your bath,” he said. “Try to eat and rest and get stronger.”

A goal. She was good at working with those.

Feyre decided she could give him one, too. “Try not to die.”

Rhys laughed. “Believe me when I say I’m very, very hard to kill.”

[taraa-dactyl]

Expedition

Read part 1 here -> Aftermath

A/N -> sorry this took so long I am violently depressed and started uni but anyways heres part 2, the plan for this fic is to have around 8 chapters (which could change as I go).

Please feel free to leave any feedback I would love to see what I can work on:)

Summary -> You're struggling with finding your place among the people following your actions during the war, feeling the scorn of the Omatikaya clan your only solace is reluctantly befriending Jake Sully as you both navigate how to find your place within the clan.

Pairing -> Jake Sully x Reader

Word count -> 2.7k

The moist pandorian grass sways and pulses beneath your feet as you trek through the forest in the early morning light. Flecks dance in the daylight that shines and break through the trees that tower over your form as you weave and dodge the fallen tree trunks and roots that spiral through the ground. 

Though you grew up on Pandora you had never really appreciated the wonders of your planet, never having a chance to stop and breath in the fresh air swirling around you, always training and fighting, moving from one conflict to another with no rest. There’s a slight pang in your heart as the realisation dawns on you, but you're quick to move on from the thought. 

You hate to admit it but Jake was the main reason you had spent so much time outside of the camp, busying yourself with random wanders through the forest. Finally getting to explore your home due to his carefree and curious nature that persuaded you to go along with his daily adventures.  

Your days since rejoining the Omatikaya clan had been a haze, you had drifted from each group of clan members looking for duties to fill your day and frankly- to give you a purpose. Since you were prohibited to hunt or even train you tried your hand at weaving, which had been dreadful according to the woman who led and trained the group. You even attempted other artisan practices like pottery and building for the clan, but similarly, it wasn’t one of your strengths.

Which led you to waking up at the crack of dawn to join the gatherers, they tasked you with an easier role of collecting fruit for the day's meals. Your satchel was situated close to your person as you scaled a thick tree trunk, eyeing the deep purple cycloid ribs of Yovo fruit that glistened in the sunlight.

You felt like a kid again traipsing along the moss covered branches, the burden of conflict no longer on your shoulders, and whilst your nonchalant attitude was a welcome change, you knew it wouldn’t last and you would eventually crave the adrenaline that hunting and fighting brought you.

The pads of your fingers grasped the juicy fruit and plucked it from the stem it was dangling from, after filling the bag to the brim you couldn’t hide the smirk from stretching across your face when the urge crossed your mind. You’re quick to bite into the fruit prepared to devour it whole before you're interrupted by a gruff voice calling out to you. 

“I’m not so sure you’ll be a gatherer if the fruit doesn’t make it back to camp with the way you're going at it.” You weren’t usually caught off guard so easily but you can’t control the slight blush that heats your azure skin. 

Jake stands at the base of the tree, a lazy smile gleaming up at you as you take in his form, muscled arms gripping his hips as he cocks his hip to the side.

“Can I give you a hand with making it one less Yovo?” His lids are almost closed as he looks up at you due to the sunlight from behind you blinding him. You’re almost ethereal as the warm light draws his eye to your strong figure, the muscles and tendons visible on account of years of fighting. 

You lazily toss the spherical fruit the large distance between the two of you, and as Jake’s acute canines tear into the skin, juices roll down his chin and pool in the crevices of his chin. You can’t help but feel embarrassed by how captivated you are by the simple action of eating, how have you been so easily distracted since your return to the clan? You had prided yourself as a seasoned warrior that was levelheaded in even the most confrontational situations and yet you found yourself constantly on your toes when observing the Olo’eyktan. Despite his blunt nature he still radiated charm and was considerate of others, somehow the violence of war against the humans hadn’t deteriorated his boyish personality. 

The smirk on his face turns into a knowing grin and you had decided then and there that he was quite annoying, with all the smirking and prolonged eye contact he sent your way. It’s like he knew your inner turmoil about the lack of restraint you had found yourself recently dealing with, that you were struggling with finding your place among the clan when your allegiances were still with Tayrangi. 

You drop to the grass in a crouch, despite the large distance between the branch and the ground your landing is almost silent. You wade through the long grass until you’re a foot away from him.

“How much do you remember from before you joined Tayrangi?” The question throws you off guard, you can’t remember the last time you had actually delved into your time in the Omatikaya clan.

Besides you barely knew Jake, was it worth it reopening the wound in front of the man? You figured you didn’t have many other people to confide in let alone be your friend, save for Neytriri who you hadn’t spoken to much since your arrival but was probably the closest thing you could call a friend since you had grown up together.

You sigh quietly to yourself before gaining the courage to speak. “Well I was Omatikayan until about 8 years old, the sky people had been on Pandora for around 23 years, the humans were growing more bold, crossing into our territory and definitely were not peaceful. I was expected to join Tayrangi, to train like a true warrior in preparation for the inevitable fight. My childhood is hazy before my training with Ikeyni.”

“Why is that? I thought the Na’vi pride themselves on being pacifists?” His confusion is almost endearing as his head cocks to the side, there's a childish curiosity in his golden eyes.

“Maybe so but before the humans arrived, we never had a reason to fight as we are generally peaceful. But since the humans had started colonising we trained more for combat rather than for skill.”

“I didn’t know that, I learn more about the people and grow a new respect for them with every custom and tradition I learn.” He’s reverent as he says it.

He breaks from his thoughts and snaps his head back to you. “Wait, so you were quite young when you lived here? That's perfect because I am still relatively new to Omatikaya and am always exploring to find new places near camp.”

You're confused about what he is saying before he snatches the satchel out of your hands and dashes toward the camp, which was quickly turning into more of a village as they built hammocks into the canopies of the trees.

Your protests fall on deaf ears as he focuses on leaving the satchel with one of the other gathers that had returned early, and excuses you from your duties on the basis of it being ‘Olo’eyktan business’.

Your eyes are almost wide, anxious because of his use of status to get you out of your daily duties, this would not go over well as you are new to the clan but also looked down upon due to your actions during the war, “You know you can’t just do that? It’s not fair to the others if I’m not pulling my weight and they have to pick up after me.”

He whips around and that stupid cocky smirk is stretched across his face once again, “Weren’t you just about to finish? You have the rest of the day free before you have to prepare dinner.” 

His attempt at reasoning doesn’t quell your anxieties. “Well yeah, but I’m still new at this, I should be available for any extra work.” 

His shoulders slump and arches his back walking with bent knees as he tries to showcase his displeasure of voicing your worries.

“Oh my god, just c’mon, I’ll take you to my favourite spot I found in the first week I was here.” He’s almost whining and quickie grabs your forearm to drag you outside the camp where the Ikran colony have swaddled around a large rocky alcove they have taken a liking to.

You try to settle yourself because you can’t help but focus on the feeling of his rough calloused hand tightly gripping your arm, it’s almost the size of your entire forearm.  

“You have an Ikran right?”

You walk past him to pet and scratch under Ta’ra’s chin. “This is Ta’ra, we bonded when I joined Tayrangi, as everyone there is bonded with an Ikran we work together for fishing in the depths of the ocean and dive off the backs of them.”

He comes up next to you and asks if he can pat her as well, you take a moment before reluctantly agreeing but warn him to give her space if she shakes him off.

HIs large hands run along her neck feeling every bump and grove on her skin, his eyes flicker back to you next to him as you both admire Ta’ra’s beautiful colours.

“That must take a lot of skill, I can barely balance on Bob when it’s windy let alone near crashing waves and other animals.”

You can’t help the furrow of your brows as you pause before your question. “Who is Bob?” The name is foreign on your tongue as there is no word similar to it in Na’vi.

He nods his head over to the dark blue and teal Ikran that slowly stomps closer to Jake.

“O-oh, Bob?” You can’t contain your judgement as you speak.

“Yeah I’m not too great at the naming thing.” He has a bashful smile that he tries to hide as he walks closer to the beast.

You yip loudly a sign for Ta’ra to dive off the ledge, her mighty wings unfold and glide in the wind which whips your hair wildly. A call echoes from behind you and you're startled by Jake’s Ikran swooping closer and closer to you which makes you dodge him as he flies into your path. He lets out a loud chuckle and banks quickly to the left, as you follow in suit.

The flight itself is reassurance that you have someone you can depend on, Ta’ra and you had been bonded since you were both young and had been inseparable since. Not merely an Ikran and not a pet but your companion which resembled closer to sisterhood.

You both feel comforted through Tsaheylu, finally getting time to yourselves to bond with each other without the pressures of training or war. Jake and Bob are further ahead of the two of you, gliding through the flocks of smaller winged animals that duck out of the way of them.

Jake’s back muscles ripple as he changes grips on the reins and repositions himself on his haunches. Your attention falls on his large feet on the handles, an extra appendage grips the bar and it reminds you that he was once a skyperson. You have a newfound respect for the man, he worked to become one of the people and became the legendary Toruk Makto. You wish you could have seen him ride Toruk because the clumsy and boyish Jake that you see in front of you was the opposite of the stories. He did not fit the role of the Toruk Makto who you heard legendary stories of, mutterings passed around campfires and told to children during bedtime stories.

Your thoughts are pushed to the back of your mind when you arrive at a cliff overlooking a valley where various animals wade through the tall grass and a pond gurgles nearby. You land near the edge of the cliff, removing your braid from the animal as you stalk to the edge in a daze. The view is picturesque, you would have never guessed something so beautiful would have survived anywhere near the humans touch at Hell’s Gate.

Behind you Ta’ra and Bob pounce on each other, play wrestling along the rocks as Jake watches you from a few paces behind. When you turn around to face the taller man he’s taken aback from the soft look in your eyes, one he had yet to see. He reaches out with an upturned palm and his lips part as if he was going to say something, he stops himself before he can voice his thoughts.

He brushes past you to sit on the edge of the cliff, his strong legs dangle over the side, the distance from the ground is highlighted from his view. You’re hesitant to join him as there is very little room along the edge, the brush and bushes overgrown making only a small spot available. Nevertheless you settle against his side and stare out at the view. 

“Places like this don’t exist on earth, it feels like a dream seeing it right in front of me.” He offers up after a beat of silence.

“What is it like, on earth I mean?” You still stare forward, watching the water ebb and flow in the pond.

“Lonely. It’s dull, a dying planet with no green and most of the animals are gone.” He mourns for his home planet, despite nothing being there for him anymore he still feels tied to the place where Tommy and his parents had been present in his life.

A hum escapes your throat and you voice your thoughts, “No wonder you wanted to come to Pandora.”

He’s quick to interject, “I didn’t plan on it, my brother the scientist died before he was supposed to come here, so I took his place in the science program and was shipped over here, was in way over my head.” He has a faraway look in his eyes by the end of his sentence, lamenting the loss of his brother and his struggle at the beginning of the Avatar program.

“And somehow became Toruk Makto.” You supply. He parrots it back to you with a chortle.

You can’t contain your curiosity when you question him. “What was it like- riding a Toruk?” 

“Freeing,” he sighs a soft smile on his lips. “Knowing you’re the biggest in the sky, nothing can touch you. I felt like I finally had a purpose among the people.”

As the eclipse nears, the two of you decide to head home, surprised by how quickly the day had slipped away. Hours of talking about your lives and exploring the terrain.

You hadn’t seen Jake since you both returned to camp, you joined the gatherers to help prepare the clans meal. Women chattered and laughed around you as they shared stories of the day and their families. The laughter rang hollow in your ears as you felt your isolation from the others. When you finally push your anxieties down and meet the eyes of the people around you you’re met with either cold stares of inquiring looks, the alienation you've felt since returning to camp prominent.

When dinner is served and the children are served you finally get your meal that you had a hand in preparing, you squat near the outside of the circle not in the mood to have prying eyes on you. You keep your eyes on your meal, your haunches acting as a barrier to the world around you as you dip further into the space between your legs. 

More people gather around the circle, filtering closer to you. You shuffle over as a little girl occupies the spot next to you, digging into her food. You watch out of your peripherals as she glances over at you and does a double take, she’s quick to tap you on your arm to get your attention. 

“You are the warrior, yes?” Her eyes reflect her innocence, she’s one of the few people who didn’t look at you in disgust or disappointment, perhaps she didn’t know what you had done. You’re hesitant but eventually nod. 

“They told us stories growing up, about the mighty warrior sent to save the clans.” Save the clans. A pang throbs through you. 

“Luaya! Come now.” A gruff demanding voice barks in front of you, the large man storms over, yanking the girl up by her upper arm. 

“What did I tell you?” He questions the girl, sending a scathing glare towards you before hauling the child away. You resigned yourself to spending the rest of your days as an outsider to the people.

[nekoannie-chan]

Planning a vengeance

Title: Planning a vengeance.

Fandom: Marvel, Captain America.

Ship: Steve Rogers X Reader (past)

Word count: 172 words.

Rating: Teen.

Summary: You wanna vengeance.

Major Tags: Vengeance.

Additional tags: This my entry to @multifandom-flash, Annie-3002 & square 8:

"Scorned woman.”

You can read it on Wattpad and Ao3 too.

@saiyanprincessswanie

My native language is Spanish so I wanna improve my writing skills in English if you notice any mistakes, please let me know and I will correct them.

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On a rainy afternoon, you were in your apartment, and deep in thought, you had noticed changes in Steve's behavior.

One day, Steve approached you and finally told you in front of everyone the decision he had made.

Steve said goodbye to the others, but when he looked for you, you were gone. You were gone, and now you wondered if Steve had ever considered your feelings.

Days passed, and you tried to occupy your mind with missions and training, but nothing seemed to work. One night, you found yourself in the usual bar, sipping a glass of whiskey. The rain was pounding on the windows; the thought of revenge crossed your mind, but you also questioned if it was worth it.

A stranger sat next to you at the bar. You began to talk, and after a few hours, you returned home with a big smile. You knew how you were going to fix what had happened.

You were going to make sure that Steve Rogers regretted what he had done.

[iron-embers]

Heya!!!

So I’ve seen your art of Hatomi and Shinjuro and it’s so sweet and it got me curious…

How did Shinjuro react when he realized that he had feelings for Hatomi?

Did he deny it? Did he stress out? Did he feel guilty? Knowing how much he loved Ruka, was it hard for him to move past his first love?

Vice versa for Hatomi too please?

I’m so glad ya think so, and I appreciate the positive feedback+interest on these two complicated adults figuring out feelings😆. I have had a long time (Too long) to really think about this and formulate how this strange relationship of theirs grew and strengthened throughout the years, so forgive the long explanation. Hopefully this helps organize my thoughts to the question😂

Everyone knows Shinjuro was extremely affected by Ruka’s passing, watching the love of his life wither away before his eyes and die in such a short time left him empty in more ways than one. While she wasn’t the main cause of his spiral, it was definitely the catalyst to finally give up. He didn’t want to be demon slayer, and most of all he gave up on being the proper role model to his sons; and he was ashamed for it, but it took a long time to finally admit it and take steps to get himself out of the drunken cycle. In the beginning he tried to busy himself with slaying demons, taking up mission after mission to get rid of as many demons as possible while asking himself that very question. Why do demons live on and yet the only woman he loved died? Asking himself that for so long, Shinjuro would wonder what is the point anymore, of killing demons only for them to comeback hundred fold, which leads to what is the point of teaching his sons flame breathing if it won’t help get rid of the demon problem, and why would it justify sending them to possibly die. For awhile he wonders why he was still alive after all the dangerous missions if flame breathing was a cheap knockoff, was he lucky, or did the gods have some sick sense of humor to not reunite him with Ruka……which leads to the unfortunate spiral of not wanting to care anymore. Because after everything he had been through, the main thing he took from it was loving someone will only bring you pain and suffering. Trying leads to disappointment, so why bother if he believed he was a failure to begin with…..and who would ever love a failure. Something he projected onto his sons to a degree, but to put it bluntly, he may act like he scorns and belittles them….but these are attempts at trying to disconnect them from him because he doesn’t want them ending up a failure like he believes himself to be. As Kyojuro said, he was once a passionate and loving father, but he changed. This was not overnight, to fight his own usual warm and passionate nature, Shinjuro resorted to numbing himself from dealing with the consequence of feeling….hence the alcohol. He refused to hope that he would ever find love again, not after loving his wife so much. Nothing could be like the warmth of her care, and how much he treasured her…and yet still died.

He is broken, he doesn’t want to be fixed, and he doesn’t want to love only to be hurt all over again.

Meeting Hatomi for the first time was supposed to be no different for him. He was so used to scaring people off with his attitude, or at least being scorned for his brash behavior, that most people would get the hint and back off. At the very least they would judge him for his alcohol abuse and treatment towards his sons. Hatomi on the other hand was a strange case. She came to the estate at the right time, he fired the last servant and he wasn’t exactly looking for a new maid. But even he realized that handling both a 10 year old plus a 4 year old that needs proper attentive care was something he mentally felt unprepared to shoulder seeing as how Ruka had been deceased for a few months now, he was stressed. Tired and fed up with the stress of two young boys needing attention and that’s when he kind of hired Hatomi? (That’s another Long story.). She did none of the above when it came to interacting with him. Hatomi was respectful, she never bothered him with questions, never judged or bothered him about his habits…she gave him space. Which he found was exactly what he needed instead of the overbearing nosey servants that he felt tried to rush him in his time of mourning, and would try to dictate to him of his need to focus on the children. Their intention was not bad, but for Shinjuro in his state of mind, Hatomi respecting his boundaries and picking up the slack that was his mental presence was a breath of fresh air he didn’t know he needed. In the beginning he was a little bitter to her, especially when she seemed to baby Senjuro and yet she would just simply smile, acknowledge his grievances with a professionalism that left him stunned. She didn’t give him any reason to dislike her despite her personal disagreements with his addiction (She showed she was uncomfortable with it, especially when the kids were around but didn’t tell him what to do because she felt it wasn’t her place. Less stress on Shinjuro she learned means giving him less reason to drink if she helped to make a calm environment) because she was patient with her understanding of his grief by giving him less to worry about, it gave him the opportunity to observe her. Overtime he noticed how adaptive she was to the situation between father and sons, prioritizing their needs and giving a stable environment, especially to a baby Senjuro who didn’t fully understand what happened to his mother and why his father was so sad. She gave them hope, encouraged their dreams at a time where he felt unable to, even he would admit he wasn’t the most hospitable employer. Shinjuro was slightly impressed with how experienced she was with both childcare, and maintenance of the household. She had a warm presence about her, calm with a wisened patience that did wonders for his bitterness. It almost made him curious about her background, but since technically he is not supposed to care, he never really pressed for it (He tried once while drunk, but the short response she gave sobered him up real quick). In turn, he gave that same respect to her. The main point was that she didn’t try to fix him, she just made sure that he would have space and an environment to where he can find his own way, no matter how long it took.

When he realized his feelings for her, it was two years into her time as a governess. Senjuro was 7 while Kyojuro was just turning 11, Hatomi made it a habit to tuck the boys into bed, finding ways to burn their energy so they don’t stay up and disturb Shinjuro. She would tell stories, talk with them and even play games until they went to bed. Shinjuro happened to be walking by, surprisingly sober enough that he heard a strange sound. Humming coming from their room. He peeked through the door and saw her humming to the kids, lulling them to sleep with a soft smile. That smile, calming yet with a sadness he knew nothing about left him to wonder, which came with curiosity….and an unfamiliar feeling in his chest. Unfamiliar because it’s been so long since he had that little first sign of affection and he thought he had smothered that with Ruka.

It was supposed to be impossible, and denial hit him like a train. (Too soon😂).

His way of dealing with it was denying that it was the romantic kind of affection, cuz that would lead to a myriad of conflictions and guilt he refused to think about. (Why add on to the reasons for his Sake addiction?). It was years of convincing himself it was a weird familial connection, that he had to see her as a family friend to protect what was left of his sanity because he had no energy left to stress about it. The guilt was there, but it was subdued telling himself that he just cared about her well-being. For the boys sake of course, cause they liked her and she took good care of them. That and while she had a similar aura to Ruka with her patience, it was a blessing in disguise that the two women had some defining differences….it eased the guilt but not enough to where the attraction faded, in fact it only got stronger with time. Considering how devastated he was about Ruka, the guilt he felt thinking he might be betraying her by feeling this way was immense and while he can deal with stress, that hopelessness thinking he must be a horrible man for feeling attracted to another woman. It took him 8 years after to even come to full grasp with how he felt about her, as he was coherent enough to know that acting impulsively with expressing it would ruin any line of trust they had. Shinjuro respected her as she was a widow as well, and wanted to keep his quiet affection for her honest, and with that, refused to take advantage of it. He knew what grief does to people better than anyone, and would never want to place himself in a situation where she would become just another object to ease the ache. Hence why he never said anything for a decade, you gotta respect his patience though.😂. The breaking point was after Kyojuro’s Death, when he did something that caused a bit of a mess that tested that tense trust, but after everything settled the once broken trust got stronger, strong enough to give him the courage to admit his affections….and finally open up to her about it. And she in turn opened up to him with her story, her past, and her motivation behind helping them. He realized that Hatomi had more in common with him than he thought, which was yet one more thing they bonded and comforted each other through such a difficult time. He found that she understood him, something he deeply admired and treasured.

A lil snippet into the story I had been writing for them…😉

He realized that she too was one who suffered much in her own life, and instead of letting it take her down the path he went, made the decision he was to weak to make. Instead of closing herself off like he had upon Ruka’s death, she found the strength to move on and heal. She instead dedicated herself to helping others in need, the consistency and nurturing gave others the strength to heal despite how broken and battered she was herself, she inspired those she cared for to keep going with such patient support. She too had lost someone she loved, and while the hesitation to love once more was present as for all these years was quite stubborn in putting her duties above personal feelings, it was not nearly as crippling. She did not let the loss discourage her from opening herself up to the possibility. Hatomi was strong, both her mind and heart….much like Ruka before her passing. Perhaps that was why he was drawn to her, while the traits were reminiscent of his late wife, they had their respective difference. Differences that he had come to respect and admire over the years, even if he never dared show it. He was afraid. He had always been ever since he had lost the only pillar of strength and stability, which caused him to spiral out of control. Too afraid to be around his sons that though despite looking so much like him, were a constant reminder of what Ruka left behind. Afraid and not knowing how to properly move on, did the only thing that drinking his sorrows away would allow. He pushed them away.

It might have been too late for Shinjuro, as his own shortcomings had an inevitable hand in his eldest sons death, at this moment …..he would not let himself be afraid anymore. He wanted to try again. He wanted to love and be loved again, because their passed loved ones would want both him and Hatomi to live and create new bonds that will strengthen their passion for life.

Sorry for the ramble, but as you can tell I had WAY TOO MUCH time to develop this relationship and any opportunity to share it is so much fun! Because I wrote too much I have no room for Hatomi in this ask so feel free to shoot a separate ask for her with how she felt on her end. Any specifics or questions I would be happy to answer! Thank you for the ask!

[synergysilhouette]

Plotting out "Khoeli" (Disney movie)

Check out my post with the summaries of the fanmade Disney Reinvention era (which includes "Khoeli") here.

Background: After the positive feedback to "Kizazi Moto," Disney decides to greenlight a pitch based on African culture, using the story of "The Child with a Moon on his Chest" from the Sotho people of Southern Africa. Ryan Coogler is courted for the role of director thanks to his success of "Black Panther" with the MCU, which he agreed to and agrees to write the script as well. While the film is originally planned to focus on the Sotho tribe specifically, it eventually evolves to a Panafrican story, mainly with West African influences based on African empires, though they consolidate the change by making the protagonist's mother a woman who comes from a South African-inspired land. Early on, the story of Hercules--and it's many adaptations, particularly Disney's own film and the 90's live-action tv show--is a big inspiration for the story. There was some discourse on whether the antagonist in the story was another wife of the king, a scorned lover, or someone who pined for him. In some versions, the king had several wives, and in other versions, just two. While Disney planned to go the monogamous route, desire to showcase non-western marriage ideals was used instead, making the antagonist one of two wives of the king. The animation was originally planned to be 2D, then hybrid, but ultimately Disney wanted it to be a spectacle and found that 3D would be the better option to showcase the action and environment. Upon deciding to make the film a musical, Disney reaches out to Beyonce due to creation of "The Gift" for the remake of "The Lion King," with contributions from Kendrick Lamar thanks to his production of the Black Panther album. Originally, the protagonist was planned to have vitiligo, but criticism early on for how Disney portrayed it was omitted, with the moon on his chest only glowing at night.

Plot

In the prosperous Kingdom of Jioni, King Dakarai and his line's divine right to rule appears in the form of a full moon gleaming on their chest at night. However, when his favorite wife gives birth to a son that carries this trait, her jealous rival gives the child away to be killed without anyone's knowledge. But the prince survives, and when he learns of his true heritage, he must travel to reclaim his kingdom and defeat his wicked stepmother.

Characters

(Note: In case this isn't already obvious, for all my posts, I usually only post 3-4 characters just to give you an idea of the world rather than a full character list.)

Khoeli--The son of King Dakarai of Jioni and his favored wife Lerato. As the true heir, he is able to communicate with animals and nature in general, as it bows only to he who "carries the blood of the moon." Having grown up in obscurity away from the kingdom, he only learns of his birth heritage when his adoptive father dies, and the his is overwhelmed with the revelation, as well as the expectation that he will dethrone his wicked stepmother Ameyo. However, the journey to understand his destiny strips away his naivete, and the trials his stepmother puts him through threaten to corrupt and destroy him. His journey to find out who he can become may require him to lose who he is. To compliment his the contrasting pattern on his skin under the moonlight, his clothing is black and white and emulate a zebra design.

Nandipha--A woman taken in by Khoeli shortly after his adoptive parents' passing, her brother was a noble from Jioni and severed her right arm. A boomslang accompanies her everywhere she goes, and Khoeli knows it is a benevolent companion. Despite vowing to never return to Jioni, she joins Khoeli on his quest out of blossoming feelings for him, but also because of a note her parents each gave her after giving their blessing to her after passing. When Khoeli loses confidence and hope, she is there to boost his up, as well as others in their group.

Queen Ameyo--The second wife of King Dakarai and a jealous rival to Lerato. While Lerato was originally the queen, Ameyo taking her child in secret and replacing him with a stillborn made the queen die from grief, elevating Ameyo's status. While she expected this to turn Dakarai's affections towards her--especially after she gives birth to a son the same year--he grows despondent and a tyrannical king. Years later, seeing a possible civil war at hand, Ameyo convinces Dakarai to suppress the rebels, though this leads to his death shortly before he and Khoeli reunite. She had given him as a baby to a poor family during the daylight, so they would not see his birthmark, and paid them to kill him, but out of pity, they did not, and upon discovering this, she sends a pack of wild hyenas to attack their home. To go with the animal imagery, her clothing is very reminiscent of crocodiles.

Prince Askia--The son of Dakarai and Ameyo, he grew up only knowing his father as a stern and complicated man, never daring to ask his mother about what made him this way. An accomplished warrior, he was otherwise coddled by his mother, who had planned to rule through him as he got older. While selfish, he is not evil, and the revelation of his mother's deeds and his father's death puts him on the brink of madness. Seizing the chance, Ameyo turns his mind to killing Khoeli, who is seen as the root of all the destruction. Growing up in the lap of luxury, his associated animal is a flamingo.

Songs:

Left You Behind--Ameyo takes Khoeli shortly after his birth and gives him to a couple who had recently had a stillborn son of their own, and tells them to kill the former. She manipulates Lerato into believing that there was something wrong with her that led to her stillborn child, and tries to uplift Dakarai by telling him that she believes she's pregnant herself.

Live Forward--Khoeli's adoptive parents reveal his heritage during their death, but they implore him that if he is to seek out his birth family, he must not force destiny, but let it come to him. They fear his dreams of reuniting with his birth parents and being a prince will quickly be crushed with his stepmother in the way.

Expect/Except--During their journey to Jioni, Nandipha reveals how she lost her arm, and despite her grief of losing her family, she believes that for every evil deed, there will be a good outcome eventually, and she will not let her brother's evil corrupt her.

Make it Your Own--Ameyo convinces Dakarai to suppress the rebellion growing in the kingdom, especially since rumors (that she started) of a usurper are growing in the kingdom and Dakarai's aloof behavior has alienated him from his people.

Destiny Finds Me--A day away from returning to his birthplace, Khoeli is anxious to understand how his life will change, and how his adoptive siblings will do without him. But he realizes it's too late to question his choices now.

Make it Your Own (Reprise)--Ameyo turns a grief-stricken Askia into declaring war on Khoeli, reminding him that he is now king (well, not exactly), and that he cannot be inactive in the affairs of the kingdom like his father was; he must show strength and efficiency.

Save Me--Khoeli and Askia battle for the crown, but Nandipha sees how madness and heartbreak has scarred them. She and Khoeli's group beseech them to not allow the darkness inside them to result in more death, and the moon comes out, revealing Khoeli's heritage to all and stunning Askia.

Hope you enjoyed it! Lemme know if you have any questions/need more clarifications. On to the next post!

[queen-haq]

A Woman Scorned was the most perfect toxic relationship fic I have ever read. It's the best thrill ever, and the absolute joy that billy groveling got me is incomparable. I WAS HOOKED, everything was perfect, and I especially love love LOVE the fact that Y/N was a confident person in herself and realized her worth even though she had been treated like shit. It is so realistic, it genuinely felt like I was reading New York Bestselling Book. Thank you for this, I love your writing.

This comment made my day :) Thank you so much!

I had such an amazing time writing this fic and I'm so amazed at how much readers like you responded to it. I'm so grateful for the support, thank you so much.

My intent when I started writing this fic was to have a "Reader" who bypassed his radar. Someone he thought was just run of the mill, nothing special, and she turned out to be the absolute opposite of everything he'd expected. And she needed to be financially independent of him.

One day I'm going to publish this sucker, and I hope you guys will love it then too :)

Thank you again for the lovely feedback! It means so much to me.

[salonnierealexis]

Brooke sees the change as starting in our interpersonal relationships – by seeking to understand our individual blindspots and biases, learning to relate to others without negating ourselves, and speaking our mind thoughtfully, with care and conviction. And in the event that we are called out for being ignorant, insensitive or offensive, we can try to resist the impulse to either defiantly double down or instantly apologise, and instead parse the feedback for what we can learn and how we might do better in future. Some comfort with difficult conversations is necessary if we’re ever to achieve transformative change, Brooke points out: “A lot of this is about being willing to take emotional and conversational risks – because that’s what creates intimacy and understanding.” Now, when posting on social media, Brooke ascertains her motive or goal: “Is it just to get this thought out there, or to further a conversation, to change someone’s mind, or to reach more people?” That clarity makes it easier to weather disagreement, she says – or to direct your energy elsewhere.

Everyone’s so intolerant online. Am I right to stay silent?

Elle HuntWed 22 May 2024 08.00 EDTShare

A few years ago, I found myself in an unexpected debate.

My date and I had been talking about horror films. I’d always enjoyed them; he wasn’t a fan. He liked Alien, though.

My response was immediate: “Alien’s not a horror film.”

Horror films, I said, reflect the everyday: Rosemary’s Baby (pregnancy), Hereditary (grief), Midsommar (a semester abroad). Alien, being set in space, was sci-fi.

It was typical pub chat, my conviction proportional to the one and a half glasses of wine I’d drunk. But I wanted to settle the debate, so I posted a poll to Twitter.

Within less than 24 hours, it had received 120,000 votes, overwhelmingly concluding that Alien was a horror film – and vitriolic messages were pouring in.

Online, people held me up as an example of everything wrong with journalism, scouring my work for further evidence of my idiocy, and CCing my editors to demand I be fired (I’m self-employed – but believe me, at that moment, I’d have fired myself if I could).

Scorn, rage and abuse ran rampant in my replies and DMs – much of it sexist, some violent. Entire episodes of film podcasts were dedicated to explaining why I was so wrong.

The scale and feeling of the response was shocking, unpleasant and hard to brush off. For months, I second-guessed every published sentence, trying to anticipate bad-faith interpretations.

Since then, I’ve been more circumspect about what I post – and have watched, with mounting unease, as countless more people have been thrust into the punitive spotlight.

There was the woman who tweeted about enjoying her morning routine of having coffee with her husband in their backyard. The New Yorker whose joke about impulse-buying candy at the bodega drew 40,000 responses, most of them scathing. The woman whose “motherly urge” to make chilli for her young neighbours was shouted down by strangers.

All, like me, hold the dubious honour of having been Twitter’s “main character”. Our inflammatory tweets might have been ripe for ridicule and perhaps ill-judged – but online pile-ons can have huge potential for harm.

The effect? It’s no longer just people like me, who have been burned by the spotlight, who are sensitive about sharing online; it’s everyone watching on, too.

When I asked friends and followers if they fear backlash on social media, I’m surprised by who the question resonates with. They’re not journalists, experts or people with large followings. They’re just individuals on the internet.

“I don’t fear ‘cancellation’, per se, but being aggressively misunderstood,” says one.

One gen Z friend tells me they worry about being called out for posting the wrong thing – or not posting enough of the right things. Several say they edit their posts and hold off on sharing jokes for fear of inadvertently causing offence.

“The ferocity of backlash these days feels much worse than it was even a few years ago,” says one friend. A 2021 YouGov survey found that nearly 60% of Britons have “at least sometimes” stopped themselves from expressing political and social views for fear of judgment or negative responses from others – a majority view among Conservative and Labour voters alike.

The same year, a study by Pew of 10,000 US adults found “a public deeply divided” about “call-out culture” online. What some saw as people experiencing the consequences of their actions, others saw as unjust punishment.

The perception of an ‘external’ mob can create an internalised one

Africa Brooke

“You don’t even need to be someone who’s hyper-visible to be experiencing these things, the spillover into our offline lives is so profound,” says Africa Brooke, when I reach her by Zoom in New York.

Brooke’s book The Third Perspective: Brave Expression in the Age of Intolerance is a guide for how to navigate online hostility, informed by her experience as a Black woman engaged in the social justice sector, and insights from people who fear or have experienced backlash.

The online climate is intolerant of human complexity, Brooke argues, allowing no room for people “to stumble, fuck up, learn and grow”. Users treat each other as public figures who must be “held to account” and an online profile constitutes a “platform” you are obligated to use – despite the costs of misspeaking, revealing your ignorance or even holding a different opinion.

As a result, many are learning to stay silent. “The perception of an ‘external’ mob can create an internalised one,” she writes. It can stoke self-doubt, anxiety and fear of judgment.

View image in fullscreenAfrica Brooke is the author of The Third Perspective. Composite: Africa Brooke

Brooke’s frustrations came to a head in 2020, when – tired of having identity politics and labels thrust upon her as a female entrepreneur – she published an open letter, expressing her fears of “a world that forces me to submit to an ideology without question”.

The title, “Why I’m leaving the cult of anti-wokeness”, was provocative, she says, aiming to ruffle feathers on the left and the right to highlight their similar close-mindedness – and it struck a chord, accumulating 20m views.

Brooke describes her own politics as left-leaning, with “values that align with feminism” – though she doesn’t call herself a feminist. “I’m from Zimbabwe, where we haven’t used that language … we don’t wear those same labels as the west.” More important than how we phrase or identify our politics and values, Brooke suggests, is how we enact them.

She emphasises that people should generally be mindful of others, question their biases and strive for inclusivity: “You need to read the room, and understand the people you’re speaking to.”skip past newsletter promotion

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But she stresses the difference between social filtering driven by discernment and “self-censoring” out of fear, “where there’s a very real concern that the truth is going to lead to punishment”. Whether we’re second-guessing our own online presence or policing others’, “there is that culture of surveillance”.

In The Third Perspective, Brooke sets out how our innate desire to belong to “the in-group” combines with the structural design of online platforms to perpetuate pile-ons. They are dehumanising by nature, leading you to think of yourself as an “employee of Instagram”, obliged to contribute your thoughts, opinions and anger – and to manage others you see as letting the side down.

Opting out altogether is not always possible, with people increasingly obliged to maintain digital presences for their work and relationships. But what’s at stake with this febrile, suppressive climate is more than just the freedom to express ourselves online.

A 2020 study found that social media was contributing to widespread dehumanisation by stoking the perception of threat, locking people into their positions and distorting their worldview to create what researchers termed an “intractable conflict”.https://interactive.guim.co.uk/uploader/embed/2023/10/archive-zip/giv-13425WMrLo2pc9VIk/

Brooke is concerned that the often highly academic, note-perfect politics preached in particular within corners of the left might be pushing people towards apathy, hopelessness or more entrenched bigotry. “I don’t think we should go to the other end of saying ‘Fuck this’ – but I worry that we are pushing people in that direction.”

Brooke and I agree that the term “cancel culture” is counterproductive, being widely and haphazardly applied to furores with different stakes, harms and outcomes – and often weaponised disingenuously by those who seek to profit from it.

Brooke prefers to speak of “collective self-sabotage”, whereby people might speak out or stay silent in a way that works against our best interests and progress as a society.

Many people feel like they’re walking a tightrope: wanting to express themselves online or feeling social pressure to post, at the same time fearing to put a foot wrong. It’s no wonder they might stick to sharing pictures of cats – though I was once lovingly told by a friend that I was posting mine too much.

“It’s a very anti-intimacy culture we’re creating,” says Brooke – not in the context of romantic love (though dating apps have made us more brittle and prescriptive there, too), but in the sense of being open to others’ experience, self-expression and humanity. After nearly 10 years of this exhausting cycle, there’s increasing desire for “common sense”, Brooke says. “People are fed up.”

She advocates gaining an awareness of how social media pits us against each other and reflecting on how we want to participate in the public sphere. Online activism plays an important part in raising awareness of crises and causes, but it’s not the only way to make ourselves heard. “We have an assumption that to undo self-censorship and speak bravely, we need to be brave online, but that’s not the case,” says Brooke.

A lot of this is about being willing to take emotional and conversational risks – because that’s what creates intimacy and understanding

Africa Brooke

We might decide to post less, but protest, write to politicians and donate more – and try to engage others in person.

The best way to build confidence expressing yourself is “moment to moment”, Brooke says, increasing your self-awareness and tolerance for debate. “Social media should not be the training ground for any of this … It has to be a byproduct of the work you’re doing offline.”

Brooke sees the change as starting in our interpersonal relationships – by seeking to understand our individual blindspots and biases, learning to relate to others without negating ourselves, and speaking our mind thoughtfully, with care and conviction.

And in the event that we are called out for being ignorant, insensitive or offensive, we can try to resist the impulse to either defiantly double down or instantly apologise, and instead parse the feedback for what we can learn and how we might do better in future.

Some comfort with difficult conversations is necessary if we’re ever to achieve transformative change, Brooke points out: “A lot of this is about being willing to take emotional and conversational risks – because that’s what creates intimacy and understanding.”

Now, when posting on social media, Brooke ascertains her motive or goal: “Is it just to get this thought out there, or to further a conversation, to change someone’s mind, or to reach more people?” That clarity makes it easier to weather disagreement, she says – or to direct your energy elsewhere.

Since Alien-gate, I’ve shared less on social media – but I’ve tried to be more thoughtful.

I’ve often wondered, of the people who pilloried me for my provocative opinion, how they would have reacted had they been my date. They might not have wanted to see me again – but I like to think that they might not have called me stupid and complained to my bosses.

Years later, my definition of horror is less rigid. I hope they have changed, too.

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[ashadowadminkuro]

I pity you people sometimes.

Look, this is not a hate post....more of one of concern.

I have friends who are gay, lesbian, and even bisexual or pansexual or whatever sexual.

I'm a Christian, and proud of it. But I am also MORE than just that.

YOU are more than just your sexuality or assumed gender or however you identify as.

Think of it this way. Everyone is made up of parts....each part is not more or less important than the other, but each are different in their own way.

Like for me as a first example. I am a Christian, I am also an uncle, a godfather, a gamer, a Discord admin, a Redditor, a fucking degenerate league of legends player, a fucking horny weeb who browses hentai 90% of the time I am on the internet, and a guy who hates pineapple pizza.

Also if it's not clear...I'm straight, I like girls, BIOLOGICAL GIRLS, not "Cis" women...Women, as in WOMEN, a woman who is born a woman, can lactate, give birth, and identifies as a woman.

Now let's list one of my friends who is gay.

He is gay, He is an artist, he is a DnD player, He likes Warhammer 40k lore but doesn't want female space marines, He likes Bara artstyles, He works to feed his family, A good friend, and if he is lucky, a good husband to his partner.

He is gay, but he is MORE than just his Sexuality. He is MORE than just what he is attracted to.

He has more to him than just the rainbow flag, He has struggles BESIDES what ass he wants to stare at on the internet belonging to a man.

So color me surprised that he wholeheartedly does not like the current LGBTQ community.

I asked him "Why? Are you not technically a member? Being Gay?"

He replied to me "Well technically yes, but I do not enjoy how these loud mouthed people only focus on their sexuality to the point of harassing and defaming people who either misgender them or refuse to call them by their pronouns"

And I agree. Not because you people are gay, lesbian, bisexual, pansexual, or even Asexual.

I believe people are more than just what riles up your pants or panties, and I mean that as a GOOD thing. Why limit yourself to what attracts you? Are you not a person first? Who has dreams and aspirations beyond just "same sex makes me horny, both sexes make me horny"

Like I do not support what the LGBTQ stands for NOW.

But I did BACK THEN when you fought to not be discriminated or just casually killed like some parasite under someone's shoe.

That you fought for your rights to LIVE and be given opportunity to be given the same opportunities as everyone else.

But I cannot support an LGBTQ movement that indoctrinates children, thinks that every problem can be solved with sex change surgery, and makes their sexuality their entire identity and being as if there is NOTHING else about them that has ANY WORTH to the World.

If you want the best example of an LGBTQ person....Captain Holt from Brooklyn 99.

He faced discrimination, both racially and for his sexuality, and despite that he proved he was MORE than just his sexuality and color.

He is in the show a respected and acknowledged senior, deserving of his rank among the Officers of the 99, and he is gay.

The worst part about the LGBTQ is that the Loud Minority is Undoing DECADES of fighting for your rights.

TAKE A HINT PEOPLE, CORPORATIONS ARE TURNING YOUR COMMUNITY INTO A POINTLESS BORING CHECKMARK FOR VIEWS.

IS THIS WHAT YOU WANT? Your Decades of Work for Freedom and Equality, Scorned and Hated by many, even among your own people, Turned into a simple checkmark for TV shows for relevancy? To be turned into a simple marketing ploy for views?

"Oh let's make this character gay/Trans"

"Do they do anything that makes people like them?"

"No we will just include them in the show so the LGBTQ community will praise us for representation for positive feedback, We are always right, there is no way they will know we are doing this just for attention, We will make the Gay/Trans character super boring and forgettable"

IS THIS WHAT YOU WANT? Cause I refuse to see you turned into such an existence.

I still do not support same sex marriage but I refuse to see people turned into mindless check boxes for anyone wanting attention.

[dean-winchester-is-a-warrior]

Thank you so much as always!! 😍😍 I'm so happy you enjoyed this chapter. Gonna put a cut for length. ❤️

I'm really enjoying figuring out camp life and trying to take everything into consideration when thinking of their life there, including, of course, not having anywhere truly private to make out. Lol!!

I have never enjoyed the whole scorned woman = crazy woman trope. I much prefer something closer to the truth of how things like that usually go - a broken heart, understanding and eventual healing. I'm glad you enjoyed that take. And yeah, I think it may have taken him til that moment to realize that he meant as much to her as he did.

I knew I wanted Dean to apologize to Emma first. Because 1. he's always connected with kids easier than adults and 2. I wanted the reader to catch him at it, so she'd be softened to him slightly, and so she'd be more willing to believe his apology to her was also genuine.

Anyway, sorry for the ramble!! Thank you so much for your reblog and feedback that as usual has me smiling ear-to-ear. 😍😍

The Dangers of Hope Ch. 7

Series Summary: When Y/N shows up at Camp Chitaqua with her little girl in tow, her bloodshot eyes leave no doubt that she's infected. Or is she? Everything Dean has come to know for certain over the last five hellish years, is about to be challenged.

Pairings/Characters in the series: Endverse!Dean x Reader, Emma (OFC), Castiel, Sam Winchester, Lucifer, Michael, Zachariah, Risa, Johnston (OMC), Patrick (OMC), Theresa (OFC), other survivors and soldiers.

Series Explicit 18 +/Warnings: Show level violence, some gore, angst, smut, fluff all the usual for a series of mine. ❤️ Endverse!Dean (that's a warning for his anger and callousness as well as his extreme hotness. 😁) Each chapter will have their own specific warnings.

Chapter Warnings: Angst, bit of smut.

Word Count: 4,813

A/N: So, I've had this idea for quite a while. Basically since I watched The Last of Us. I loved Pedro in the role of Joel, but I kept thinking how incredible Jensen would have been. Which then made me think of how amazing he was as Endverse!Dean which then led me to this idea. Lol! I've stolen the premise of Ellie's storyline from TLOU, but made her a grown up, a reader insert, and a love interest for Dean.

If you've never seen TLOU, don't worry - you don't need to have seen it to understand this story. 😊

I've taken some liberties with the Endverse in my story, changed a few things from canon, but kept lots of things too.

I sincerely hope you enjoy the story. It will be ten chapters and I will do my very best to post one chapter every weekend. ❤️

A/N 2: Chapter 7 has arrived. 😊 I hope you enjoy it! Thanks so much to everyone who has been reading, liking, commenting and reblogging this series! It means SO much! ❤️

Series Master List || Main Master List || Tag Lists

The dividers below were created by @saradika

Three and a half weeks later

“And these would be beside every tent?” Dean asked Brandy as he looked at the rough drawings she’d made of her latest idea.

She nodded. “Yeah, on the West side of every tent. It would mean families don’t have to come to Food Storage every few days for more rations, and once the deep snow comes that’s gonna be a huge benefit for folks. Plus it’s easier for people to plan ahead and stretch their food if they have two weeks worth of rations sitting outside their tent. I mean, it won’t work once spring comes, but that’s a problem for spring.”

Dean nodded. He looked at their builders, the group of half a dozen survivors that were tasked with providing new buildings and necessities as the camp required. They’d built the sheds earlier in the year, the chicken coop last summer and were currently finishing up a small barn for the cow.

“Is this gonna interfere with completing the barn?” He asked, nodding at Brandy’s drawings. 

One of the women, he was pretty sure her name was Vanessa, shook her head. “No, we’ll be finished with the barn in a couple of days, and be able to get Lily settled for the winter all snug, and then move on to the food sheds.” She looked at the drawing again and shrugged. “They’re small enough that we should be able to get them all done within a few weeks?” 

She looked to the rest of the builders who nodded their agreement.

Dean frowned. “Lily?”

Vanessa grinned. “Yeah, sorry that’s what the kids have dubbed our little cow. Y/N has them going to visit her once a week so Ralph can teach them about farming.” She said, referring to the old farmer who had helped to plant the winter vegetables.

Dean felt his stomach twist as it always did when someone brought up her name. But he just nodded. “Okay, good. Get started on the food sheds as soon as you’re able. The deep snow is gonna come in the next couple weeks. It’d be good to have them all done by then.”

They all gave a chorus of “Okay, Boss” or “Sure thing Boss” as they nodded and took their leave. They wrapped their scarves tight and pulled on their mittens. The deep snow may not have come yet, but the ground was layered in white, and winter was sharp and stinging in the late November air.

Brandy gathered up her drawings and was headed out when Dean called her back.

“Brandy?”

She turned back to him, an eyebrow raised in question. They'd never discussed their meeting in the cabin with Y/N, but he'd noticed a slightly colder demeanor from her lately.

And he knew why, of course. 

Brandy had been one of the original dozen survivors who had built the camp together. She'd been an incredible asset from the beginning, and they probably wouldn't have survived without her planning and strategies for running the camp. He and the soldiers may have kept the survivors alive, but Brandy kept them living by organizing and planning for their food and shelter. She was an invaluable member of the camp.

But three weeks ago he'd treated her like a servant meant to do his bidding. He knew he owed her an apology, but it had been so long since he'd apologized for anything that it stuck in his throat.

Now she contemplated him, waiting for him to speak, and he just nodded. He pointed towards her drawings. 

“This is a good idea.” He cleared his throat. “So, thanks.”

Brandy stared a moment longer before a small smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. She nodded.

“No problem, Boss. That's what we're all here for, right?”

Dean just nodded and she lifted her scarf over her face and left the big cabin where Dean conducted most of his business these days, since it was warmer than his tent and could fit more people.

As he ran a hand over his face, the door opened again and most of his soldiers tromped inside. They were there to talk about security and possible threats, but Dean immediately looked at Johnston. 

“Hey, did you tell her I want to see her?”

The thin man nodded vigorously. “Yes sir. I told her yesterday. Has…has she not come to see you yet?” He looked around the room as though Y/N might be hiding somewhere. 

Dean shook his head. “No, she hasn't.” He pointed towards the door. “So why don't you go get her and tell her I expect to see her now.”

Johnston looked wary and as though he definitely didn't want to follow that order. But when Dean just stared him down, he turned and left quickly.

The rest of his soldiers began giving their reports about any problems they were having at the outposts, like equipment that needed repair or items that needed replenishing. But Dean was only half listening; his gaze kept straying to the door, waiting for Y/N to show. 

Ten minutes later, Patrick was briefing him and Dean tried to focus on what he was saying. 

“Williams has seen the group twice now, but -” Patrick cut himself off as Y/N and Johnston pushed through the door.

Y/N smiled at the soldiers as she came in. “Sorry to interrupt, but apparently I was summoned.” 

She cut her glance to Dean and her smile turned brittle. 

“I was told you needed to see me.”

“Yeah, since yesterday.” Dean responded, hardening his voice in an attempt to not seem desperate, especially in front of his soldiers.

“Sorry. Busy.” Was Y/N's curt reply. “What do you need?”

Dean took a deep breath. “I just wanted to know how you're -” he altered his words, “your school, or, uh, the school was going?”

Y/N paused for a moment before answering with a shrug. 

“Fine.”

When it was clear that was all she was going to say, Dean scowled at her. “You wanna elaborate on that?”

She raised her chin a fraction. “Oh, I'm sorry, Boss, I don’t have anything else to say right now, but I’ll be sure to write out a full report for next week.”

Her eyes shot daggers that found their mark, bringing a pain to his chest that he felt a lot these days. He’d thought it might go away if he could talk to her, see her, but it was just worse with her there.

He shook his head. “That won't be necessary.” He said quietly.

“Anything else then, Sir?”

He'd never hated that moniker more. “No, that's it.” 

She spun on her heel and walked out of the cabin. Silence reigned when she left. Dean waved at everyone else. “We'll finish this another time.” When they didn't immediately move, he made his voice a bit sharper. 

“Dismissed.”

That got them moving and they all shuffled their way out the door - all except Risa. She closed the door behind her fellow soldiers and then turned back to face Dean. 

He caught her eye and lifted his hands. “What?”

She shook her head slowly. “You're such an idiot.”

Dean dropped his hands and raised an eyebrow. “Wanna try that again?”

Risa shook her head as she walked back to him. “No, I said what I said.” 

Dean gave her a look of annoyance as she reached him and leaned one hip on the table where he stood. She raised her hand to his cheek, her countenance softening. 

“I really wanted to be the one.”

Dean scowled in confusion. “The one what?”

Risa pushed her fingers through his short hair. “The one to make you smile.” There was a long pause between them and Dean had no idea how to respond to that. She shook her head and stood up straight, dropping her hand. “But, it was obviously meant to be her.”

Dean scoffed. “What are you talking about?”

“Y/N. You know I'm talking about Y/N.”

He gave a short burst of sarcastic, humorless laughter. “Yeah, right. You think Y/N's gonna make me smile? I've done nothing but pull my hair out since she got here, so ..” He trailed off and looked away from Risa's knowing gaze.

Risa nodded. “Yeah, cause you're an idiot.” She reiterated.

When he looked back at her, Risa was smiling softly and wistfully. “Apologize to her, idiot. Try to get back what you've nearly lost. She's pissed, don't get me wrong, it might take some real groveling on your part but,” she nodded, “she has a very kind heart, so she might forgive you. It's definitely worth a try.”

Dean stared at her for a moment before he looked down at the ground, conceding the truth in her words. “I don't know how to do it.”

Risa gave a gentle laugh. “You're a smart guy. Bet you'll figure it out.”

She put her hand on his cheek again, resting the other on his chest as she stood on tiptoe to reach his lips. She placed a light, lingering kiss there and then pulled away. 

“Goodbye, Dean.”

Dean felt a jolt of worry at the farewell. “You’re leaving? Am I losing a soldier?”

She smiled and shook her head. “No, the soldier is staying. I'm saying goodbye to the woman I wanted to be for you. And the man that she…cared about a lot. I hope he lets himself be happy.”

Dean frowned, feeling the weight of her goodbye, with all of its disappointed hopes. 

“Goodbye Risa.” He said, and knowing it wasn't enough, he cupped her cheeks in his hands and kissed her lips, light and brief. “Thank you…for being the woman you are.”

He thought he saw a glimmer of moisture in her eye, but she blinked it away quickly and pulled out from under his hands. She moved to the door in a few strides and, with one last smile thrown over her shoulder, she walked away.

***

That afternoon as the winter sun headed into the west, Dean made the decision to go talk to Y/N. This was ridiculous. They were a camp of less than 150 people, continuing to try and avoid each other was impractical.

He'd just go tell her that.

He walked to the school because she was usually still there this time of day. But when he got there, the schoolroom was empty. He looked around the space that he hadn't seen in over a month and had to shake his head.

What had been a cold empty shed not even three months ago was now a warm, inviting, cozy space. She'd had a little camp stove installed, and on the Northern wall, replacing the fall leaves that had been there, was a giant, beautifully sewn quilt. He recognized it as the same design as the one that hung in the big cabin. 

Hannah, who was Ralph-the-farmer's wife, had made it out of old scraps of material. It took a long time to gather enough scraps for a whole quilt so he knew this quilt probably took her months of hard work. But of course she'd gifted it to Y/N and the school. That's what Y/N brought out in people - hard work and generosity.

The small wooden table in the room had four chairs around it now and he wondered where she'd snagged the other two chairs. 

The kids’ blanket seating had been enhanced slightly with the addition of a few pillows, and on the western wall, beside the old map, two long, weathered planks of wood had been nailed in place to serve as bookshelves. The books he'd brought back had been placed lovingly on the shelves, not a single corner bent on any of them. 

He sighed at the changes and felt a warmth flare to life in his heart. Y/N did this too - seeming to warm the spaces around her without trying.

He walked out of the schoolroom and was just starting to walk back to his tent when he heard high pitched giggles coming from the side of the school just seconds before three small bodies hurtled forward, chasing and grabbing on to one another - Emma and her two little friends. He couldn't remember their names.

When they all saw him, the laughter fell away and Emma's eyes got wide, fear and suspicion filling them instantly. It felt like a punch when he remembered the way she'd climbed up on the chair beside him that one time, shy acceptance in her expression as she asked him to read to her.

He hated that she was so scared of him; he had to try and fix that much, at least. 

“Hi girls.” He said in what he hoped was a friendly sounding voice. Emma's friends nodded and waved at him slightly. But Emma stayed on high alert.

He looked at her two friends. “I need to talk to Emma, so you girls head on home now.” 

They looked to Emma who looked more scared than ever. But she whispered goodbye to them and they ran off.

Dean got a bit closer to her and went down on his haunches. He took a second to think what to say to her.

“You know, you don't have to be scared of me.”

“I'm not.” Emma said quickly while her big blue eyes were shrouded in fear.

Dean nodded. “Okay, good because…” He struggled to find the words that would help. “Cause I thought maybe I scared you a bit before. When I, uh, needed to talk to your mom alone.”

Emma nodded, the suspicion growing in her gaze. “When you were mad at Mommy.”

Dean shook his head. “No, I wasn't mad.” 

Emma gave him a look that said she didn't believe him and he conceded with a nod. 

“Okay, I was a little…upset, but I was just…confused. Eventually everything got figured out.”

She didn't say anything, clearly still highly skeptical. 

Dean took a deep breath and decided  to just go for it. “Anyway, I didn't mean to scare you and I'm…sorry about it.” He cleared his throat. “And I promise not to scare you like that again. Okay?”

Emma stared at him for a long time and he kept hold of her earnest blue gaze throughout her scrutiny. Slowly a smile spread across her face.

“Okay.” She said, accepting him at his word. “Then can you come over again for supper tonight? I can read a bunch of words now, mommy taught me in the books. So, I could help you read the story this time.”

Dean shook his head at the speedy ways of forgiveness in a child's heart, and for the first time in more years than he could remember, a small smile turned up one side of his mouth. 

He reached out to pat her cold cheek. “I'm not sure, kiddo. We'll have to wait and see.” Emma was about to argue the point but Dean stood up. “Now it's gonna be dark soon and it's way too cold for you to be out here without a scarf. Don't you have one?” He asked.

Emma nodded. “Yeah, but I don't like it. It itches.”

Dean hummed. “Ah, yeah wool does that sometimes.” He unwound his own scarf from around his neck.

“Here, I'll trade you.” He said as he wound the polyester scarf around her neck and up over her cheeks. “Now, you head home.”

Emma's eyes were bright and happy above her new scarf as she danced away, skipping through the light snow that blanketed the ground.

He watched her go for a moment before turning back to head home himself. But he stopped dead in his tracks as he saw Y/N standing in the path with an arm full of wood. Silence reigned for nearly a full minute. Finally he reached forward to take the wood, but Y/N shook her head.

“No, I’m fine.” She nodded toward the school. “Just stocking up for tomorrow.”

“Right.” 

More silence. Y/N’s voice was quiet when she finally spoke. “Thank you for the scarf. It’s been impossible to get her to wear one.”

He nodded and then realized something. “How long were you standing there?”

Y/N took a deep breath, answering on an exhale. “Since just before you promised my daughter not to scare the shit out of her again.”

Dean nodded and closed his eyes. “So, basically the whole time.”

“Yeah, basically.” She took a beat pause. “Thank you for that.” 

Dean nodded. She walked towards the school again but before she could close the door and shut him out, Dean called to her, knowing his voice sounded desperate.

“I needed to believe it.”

Y/N turned in the doorway, a frown on her face. “Needed to believe what?”

He took a step closer, feeling choked by all the words he wanted to say that wouldn’t form properly in his mind. Y/N stared at him for a moment more before huffing slightly and walking into the schoolroom. He followed her inside, closing the door against the wind as she dropped the pile of wood into a metal bucket by the stove.

When she turned back to face him, she was scowling. “Dean, I don’t know what you want here. What do you want me to say?”

He shook his head. He didn’t want her to say anything. He wanted to say things, so many things. “No, nothing.” He croaked out.

She crossed her arms over her chest, bunching up her too big jacket. “Then what are you doing here?”

He took deep breaths in through his nose, pushing the words out through a closed throat. “I needed to believe it.” He said again, quieter this time.

“Believe what?” Y/N asked in frustration.

He stepped close to her and she took a step back before refusing to retreat. He gazed at her and wished more than anything that she really could just see inside his head so he wouldn’t have to try and get it out.

But he looked at the ground quickly and then back at her. His breathing was slightly labored and his voice was thin as he spoke. “You’re so dangerous to me, Y/N.”

He knew he said the wrong words when her forehead wrinkled into a deep frown and she nodded. “Because - I’m a psychic monster? Or because I’m a croat? Why exactly am I dangerous this time?”

“Because you’re you.” Dean answered loudly, speaking over the end of her question. He sighed in frustration; he was getting all of this wrong. He looked up to the heavens, as though they could possibly help him, and tried again, speaking softer.

“I needed to believe that you could control my mind or my…my feelings because…” He trailed off and looked at Y/N hoping she’d just know what he was saying and finish the sentence for him. But she was still just frowning in confusion.

“Because,” he continued, “my feelings when I'm around you are…dangerous. For me, I mean, they’re dangerous. Y/N I can’t…” He shook his head. “The way you look at the world? And the way you change how I see it too? It’s so fucking dangerous.”

He waved his hand, trying to encompass everything. “This world is ugly and shitty, and fucking ended! We literally lived through the end of the world, and now all that’s left is this - this dark, violent, bullshit reality.” 

He shook his head and his voice was filled with awe. “Yet somehow you move through it like this,” again he struggled for the words to describe her, “like some kind of lighthouse, like a refuge for every cold, lost thing. And I - “

He cut himself off, not sure he was making any sense. But Y/N had stopped frowning and was now just contemplating him.

He shrugged. “And when I’m around you, I feel warmer than I’ve felt in years, brighter.” He shook his head and moved away from her, embarrassed by his confession and knowing he wasn't saying it right. 

He stared at the map as he spoke. “So, I needed to believe that the feelings weren’t real, that you’d just forced me to feel that way. Because if the feelings and thoughts you bring out of me are real?” His shoulders slumped. “God, I’m so fucked.”

He felt Y/N come up to stand just behind him on his right, but he stayed staring at the map as she spoke.

“Why? What’s so dangerous about warmth and light?”

His voice was barely audible as he answered slowly. “Because they bring hope. And hope is a lie. It’s a lie I believed for a long time, a lie I clung to. The lie of possibilities, of family, of good conquering evil. And when the lie was revealed and the world fell apart, the truth almost killed me.”

After a moment he turned to face her and felt his heart skip as he saw her expression of sadness and the tears that sparkled in her eyes, even in the growing dusk.

He lifted a hand to cup her cheek and thumbed away a tear as it fell over her bottom lashes. “And Y/N, if I allow myself to hope again, and it gets crushed by the world again…” He shook his head. “I won’t survive it, I know I won’t.”

He took a step closer to her and felt her warmth penetrating his cold bones. She grabbed his free hand and held it in both of hers as he dropped his other hand from her cheek.

“Or…” she said, her voice filled with conviction, “or we can both hope, both fight, and both win. Even if we never get big wins, the little ones still count. And they add up. Every day we’re here alive is a win. Every time we smile at someone and they smile back is a win. Every time the sun shines so bright you have to close your eyes, every time we hear Emma giggle, every time our stomachs are full, every time we do something to make our home here better - every small thing adds up to big wins.”

Dean shook his head. He knew that trying to resist the pull of her light and life was pointless; she’d been pulling him out of the dark, and changing his plans since the moment she’d come into his life. 

He used their connected hands to pull her tight against him and watched heat enter her beautiful, red-ringed eyes.

He bent his head, but before his lips touched hers, he whispered words that came much easier now. “I’m so sorry, Y/N. For all of it. I’m so sorry.”

Another tear fell down her cheek and she smiled and bit her lip. “If I say you’re forgiven will you kiss me?”

He pretended to mull it over and then nodded. “Yes, I think that’s fair.”

In the dusky twilight around them he pulled her close and pressed his lips to hers; his arms tightened around her as she moaned softly. 

He was definitely counting that sound as a win.

***

Over the next month Dean resumed his dinners with Y/N, the difference being that he was there nearly every night, and he’d stopped pretending to himself that he didn’t relish every moment with her and Emma. 

Over the evenings spent together, Emma had warmed more and more to him so that now she ran to meet him every time he walked through their tent flap, holding her arms up so he’d pick her up and toss her up into the air, catching her in a swooping motion as she came down. It made Y/N gasp every time, but Emma squealed with delight. He’d set her down and she’d grab his hand, nearly three times the size of hers, and pull him over to the table.

He’d take off his heavy canvas jacket within the relative warmth of the tent, and drape it over Emma’s shoulders, making her giggle as she drowned inside it. 

They’d sit around the table and share the day's events, though Emma usually did the majority of the talking. It always brought a mixture of feelings when he listened to her bubbly, excited stories. It made him happy and terrified at the same time. She was so precious he couldn’t help but smile, an expression that was becoming easier for him as the days went by. But also, his chest felt tight and he could feel terror creep in as the darkness whispered a warning, telling him that he couldn’t possibly keep her safe. He’d lose her, and Y/N too.

Sometimes that thought woke him from a deep sleep and made him shake and sweat. It was proving incredibly difficult to make all his fears go away. But as soon as he saw Y/N’s smile the next day, it felt easier.

In fact it was becoming increasingly difficult to go home at all, to leave her warm cozy tent and return to his dismal gray one. But they were trying to be careful and move slowly in deference to Emma. They didn’t want her to feel confused or unsure of things now that she finally seemed so at ease. 

So they hid their kisses and their caresses until after Emma was sleeping, at which point they’d usually try and brave the cold long enough to enjoy some alone time, even if it was encumbered by bulky jackets and scarves. They never had enough time, but they’d managed slightly more satisfactory make out sessions in the empty school and in Dean’s tent. But they were always too rushed and things had to end too quickly.

Dean ached for her more and more every day.

One evening in mid December, the air was much milder than usual; the day had been unseasonably warm and the night held on to a trace of it. Dean had Y/N pressed up against the side of the thick canvas tent, sucking on the soft skin just below her ear. As her breath caught and she angled her head so that he had better access, he was practically vibrating with how badly he needed to feel her. 

As he breathed into her mouth, he slowly unzipped her jeans, letting her tell him no if she wanted. But she just nodded and bit her lip.

He watched her face as he slipped his fingers under the waistband of the leggings she wore as an extra layer against the cold, and then down into her panties. He desperately tried to stifle the moan that wanted to escape as he felt how soaking wet she was for him.

“Goddamn.” He whispered roughly as he slid two fingers inside her, rubbing his thumb against her little bundle of nerves and making her bite harder into her lip to keep quiet. He decided to help her out and closed his mouth over hers, swallowing up her small moans.

He pushed in and out of her body, his cock hardening as she gripped his forearm where it disappeared into her pants while her cunt clenched tight around his fingers. He passed his fingers over her sweet spot a couple of times and she fell over the edge. She broke off their kiss to bury a scream in his neck, muffling it with his thick collar. 

As she came down she clung to him, her hot breaths creating puffs of white in the cold air. She moved her hand to cup his hard on through his jeans and was just reaching for his zipper when they suddenly heard Cas’ voice inside the tent.

“Emma, where is your mother and Dean?” 

Dean groaned. What the fuck? Y/N squeaked slightly and pulled her hand back, making him absolutely throb with need. He was gonna slaughter his best friend. 

They were quickly righting their clothing when Emma's voice reached them, and it didn’t really sound like she’d been sleeping.

“They’re outside the tent, kissing each other.”

Y/N’s eyes got huge and round and Dean stifled a snorted laugh behind his palm while she slapped his bicep. 

“It’s not funny. Jesus, we’re gonna traumatize her!” She said in a horrified whisper.

Suddenly Cas’ head poked around the side of the tent and he frowned. “Are you finished kissing?”

Y/N buried her head in Dean’s chest and Dean scowled at the angel. “Well, we sure as hell are now.”

Cas nodded, completely ignoring Dean’s frustration. “Good. You need to come inside. I have incredible news.”

Dean sighed and rolled his eyes. “What news, Cas?”

The angel’s smile was surprising in its rarity and it made Dean raise an eyebrow.

“I know why Y/N isn’t a psychic.”

Jensen RPF and Any/All Characters: @lyarr24 @lacilou @deans-spinster-witch @globetrotter28 @suckitands33 @akshi8278 @evznackles @jackles010378 @impala67rollingthroughtown @krazykelly @candy-coated-misery0731 @envyaurora95 @spnwoman @deans-baby-momma

Dean Fics Only: @roonthelittlespoon920 @slamminmine @zepskies @safiyas-world

Any/All Fics Regardless of Character or Fandom: @kazsrm67 @slut-for-evans-stan @sexyvixen7 @nancymcl @hobby27 @waywardcheshire

Everything Incl. Fan Edits: @k-slla @leigh70 @eevvvaa @kickingitwithkirk @foxyjwls007 @notinthislife50 @roseblue373 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @avanatural @mrsjenniferwinchester @all-alone-he-turns-to-stone @deangirl96

[lalunanymph]

bewitched (II)

summary: Bound by the laws of a forced marriage to stop an impending turf war, can two conflicted souls find love amidst their clan’s deep-seated prejudice and hatred… or will it prove a strong enough force to destroy them for good?

pairing: naoya zen’in x f!reader

genre: forced marriage

chapter warnings: misogyny, explicit sex, adultery, tension, language, mentions of abortion, degradation, creampie, angst, mentions of infertility, mentions of murder 

a/n: this boi is hefty and lonk (12.k+) so pls enjoy :> likes, reblogs and feedback is always appreciated <3

masterlist ➺ act three

The fact that your husband had made another woman pregnant caused you immeasurable pain, but not for the obvious reasons.

It was in his hamartia of casting you as the fool to his plans that had caused the concubine-in-training to walk around with her nose in the air, brown eyes glinting whenever she caught sight of you like you were her competitor and not her superior in every way. You consoled yourself with the idea that no matter how the tides turned, you may be the scorned wife but at least you were a wife.

At best, Ira would be his concubine and if she had a daughter, her rank would remain under you. Some selfish part of you wanted her to bear him a girl; at least she would not walk around, subtly gloating with that unmissable glow and staring down at you as if you were the despicable one.

Naoya had not made a move to reenter your marital bed again and the morning breakfasts that you took with him were enjoyed in the silence of your bedroom. He had not yet struck out and chastised your impertinence and you enjoyed this quiet respite away from him.

But, one morning, it all ensued to your detriment when the door to your room banged open.

“Master Zen’in–”

He shrugged Misa away and stalked towards you. Having gotten used to his vacillating moods, you set your bowl of pumpkin soup down and stared up at him with an impassive mien.

“Misa, can you tell your mistress that I will not allow her personal effects to be removed from my chambers?” You had seen your husband in various states of anger, but this was the worst of it all, especially when he turned his withering glare towards your lady-in-waiting. “I will tolerate separate living situations but not separate sleeping circumstances.”

Misa paused her pale face in stark contrast to his dark rage. “S-Sir, do you really want me to tell Lady Zen’in that?”

Without breaking eye contact with your husband, you sat back in your chair. “Misa, could you please tell Master Zen’in that my personal belongings will be removed from his private rooms effective immediately?”

Noaya dropped all unfazed simulacrums when it came to negotiating with you, completely unhinged when he bore down on you. “Wife,” he growled, “Why are you defying me?”

You stood up, taking subtle pleasure in how he had to take a step back. “Tell me why you’ve defied our marital vows first and then I’ll answer that question.”

He narrowed his sharp eyes with an air of incredulity. “Do you really expect me to explain to you what I do outside of the walls?”

The tight band that you wrapped around your emotions snapped and you bared your teeth. “Outside the walls? Outside the walls? Do you hear yourself?!” You let the anger fully consume you, face growing hot with the audacity that was this man you had the misfortune to call husband. “You made our cook pregnant, Naoya! Our cook! And now she’s walking around like she owns the estate.” Taking a deep breath, you pressed a palm to your chest, trying to calm your erratic heartbeat and sudden burst of short breaths.

Succinctly summing up what you felt for him, you uttered, “If you cannot treat me like your wife, I will no longer regard you as a husband.”

That seemed to break any form of civility that Naoya was attempting to salvage with you and he grunted, turning on his heel and storming out of your bed chambers. The door to your room wobbled on its hinges from his forceful slam, leaving you and your ladies-in-waiting stricken.

You unlocked your shoulders and sank back in the chair, shaking from head to toe. No one spoke for a moment, and from the corner of your eye, Misa stood up and walked over to you. Her hand was a warm press on your arm and you took in another deep breath.

“Take everything that belongs to me from his room,” you ordered in a trembling voice, closing your eyes to avoid a ripple of pain from crossing your features. “Everything that belongs to me. I no longer want him to darken my sheets.”

This was a grievous trespass that you could never forgive; this was not how a man should treat his wife. You had seen how kind your father was to your mother and how he had never once betrayed her trust as much as he was in the power to do so. Once upon a time, Jiro made you feel like the only woman in the world who hung up the stars and moon in the sky. Though the laws of society dictated that it would be men who spearheaded a marriage, you had seen firsthand how peaceful matrimony could be when a man truly loved a woman.

What Noaya felt for you was not love. You could not even delude yourself to believe he liked you, not when he spoke down to you, demeaned you, and made another woman pregnant without your knowledge and consent.

Half of you were thankful that you were not pregnant with his child. You could never imagine an innocent soul tying you to that odious incarnation of a man. You would never bring a child into the shambles of a marriage like this, no matter how many times it was drilled into you that a baby would be a ‘blessing’.

Such a union between two people that was shattered beyond repair could not be fixed with a blessing.

It would take a miracle.

“What do you mean she refuses to return to your bedchamber?”

Naoya tried to make himself seem as small as possible, but when faced with the large wrath of his father, it was useless to hide how this error had cost him. As it was, Naobito struck him across the cheek, infuriated at his offspring’s ineptitude. Naoya merely cracked his head back in its original position, fixing his father with an inscrutable countenance while simultaneously ignoring the horrid throbbing in his already injured cheek.

“That Kamo girl holds half of your inheritance,” Naobito started, flexing his palm, fixing his son with a disgusted stare. “And if you fail to keep her and word reaches back to Noritoshi that there are whispers of mistreatment, this whole alliance will be thwarted.”

“It’s not my fault that she cannot give me a son,” Naoya spat acidly. “Face it, father. You got me a barren wife.”

He braced himself for another slap, but this time, his father upped the ante. Naobito gripped his son’s hand in an iron hold, slamming it onto his desk and unsheathing his knife from the scabbard around his waist, raising the weapon up high.

For one split second, Naoya was no longer the decorated 25-year-old Chief of Hei but had reverted to a terrified 5-year-old who yelled out in fear and whose strength would never rival his father’s. The knife flew down and Naoya flinched hard. He expected the white-hot flames of a stab wound, but when he pried his eyes open, the knife had sunk in between the cracks of his fingers.

Naobito let go of his son and he went stumbling back, the hand that was almost decapitated curled tightly to his chest.

“If you cannot find it in yourself to try harder, then you are not my son,” Naobito said simply. “I will pass your inheritance to Zen’in Megumi and you will forever be relegated as second in command to a boy who is half your age. Is that what you want?”

Trying hard to stop his lower lip from quivering, Naoya shook his head.

“Good.” Naobito sheathed the knife back and regarded his son with cold blue eyes. “I want you and Y/N to get away from the estate for a while. We have reason to believe that her distant relatives are trying to claim her back to be wed to Kamo Choso to obtain her share of the fief.”

“B-but we bought her,” Naoya whispered, not believing what he was hearing. “They cannot steal from us because–”

“It would cause an all-out war,” Naobito surmised for his son. “I am well aware of what is at stake, son, but the question is–” his father fixed him with a hyperborean glare. “–do you?”

Naoya clenched his fist to keep it from trembling and dropped it to his side. Adopting the submission that had kept him alive since his mother – the sole source of warmth in his life – had passed on, the young man bowed slightly and left his father to his grim thoughts.

He was quick to find out what his father meant by having the both of you out from the estate. By noon, orders were given to pack his things and draw the largest carriage, one that sent off word that the young Master and Lady were heading off for a long holiday. He saw you standing rigidly by the front gates, surrounded by your ladies-in-waiting with a parasol shielding your head from the bright rays. You barely spared him a look, expression pale and drawn.

Naoya heard someone calling his name and noticed Ira walking over to him. If he zeroed in on her stomach hard enough, he could make out the softening of her curves where his child was currently growing. He was not cruel as to turn her away and accepted her well-wishes of safety, not missing how she begrudgingly bowed to you, still needing to acknowledge your status as the lady of the house.

He entered the carriage, shoulders rigidly set as he gave one last sweeping look at the estate. His affairs were handled without his consent; the Hei warriors would train under his father’s regiment, Ira would be taken care of and his chambers would be cleaned before he returned back from his extended honeymoon. It was a farce; a way to keep up appearances of the Kamo-Zen’in pact without naysayers whispering to the wrong people. He dreaded to find out what would happen if Noritoshi got word of how he had treated you.

As it was, you hadn’t said a word to him, resolutely staring out of the carriage window, hands curled on your lap. He supposes you were graceful enough to not comment on the cook’s sudden appearance and he reluctantly gives you credit for your level-headed ability to take things in stride.

Woo her, his father’s words floated back in his mind. Make her fall in love with you and be charming. She would conceive easier if she is comfortable with you.

To Naoya, that was a load of absurdity but seeing as how Naobito had sired close to twenty children between his legal wife and concubines, he supposes his father knows the best methods to conceive a legitimate heir. Naoya hid his disdain with a bored expression, not even bothering to cajole you into a conversation. The holiday residence his father was sending him to was located in a neutral district under the Zen’in rule and was surrounded by hills and crisp air.

The perfect place to conceive in Naobito’s words.

As for you, you were not looking forward to this honeymoon. You had no idea what could’ve brought up this sudden change of view in your father-in-law’s mind but if you had to hazard a guess, it would be because of the fact that you were no longer allowing Naoya into your bedchambers. It was the one right you had as a wife to not be disturbed during your moon blood week but seeing as you still had yet to get it, you had to fake it with chicken blood on your sheets to keep him away from you.

Before the carriage pulled away, you didn’t miss how Misa had stopped Ira, consternation written on her pretty features. That was one argument you didn’t want to be privy to; Misa could be terrifying when she was incensed on your behalf.

In the carriage, your husband’s silence was expected and since the both of you knew next to nothing about each other beyond how each other’s naked bodies felt like, you didn’t know how to strike up a conversation with him. A part of you didn’t even care.

Whatever reparations the Zen’ins were extending towards you would not be welcomed on your end.

This holiday would be filled with nothing but tense silence and stony looks if you could help it.

“Are you not ashamed?”

Ira glanced over at the prime handmaiden who was plucked from the deepest lodgings of the Kamos to taint this household. She was your closest confidante and the young cook held no delusions that the current twisted moue on Misa’s face was an indication of the vehemence towards her relationship with the young master.

She lifted her head, narrowing her eyes. “Surely you are not chastising me when your mistress can’t even fulfill her duty.” Her audacity took even Misa aback who was used to the presumptuous nature of the Zen’ins but not from their inferiors.

“Why–”

Ira scoffed and turned her back at your posse, knowing they cannot refute her reasoning. In the eyes of the inhabitants in the estate, your standing was tenuous at best, your position not solidified with an heir.

Misa’s words pierced the frigid atmosphere. “Careful, Ira. Even the most cunning squirrel eventually falls down to the ground.” Continuing on, her next words were colder than the previous winter’s air. “You are not yet a concubine. Do not perceive yourself as such until we know the gender of that whelp you are carrying.”

Taking care to not expose her irritated expression, Ira stalked away from the group, head held high. They let her go, unable to counter her stubbornness and resoluteness at destroying your marriage with Naoya. Misa frowned at the retreating young woman's back. This girl, she thought, feeling a stab of annoyance on your behalf. Does she really think that she can become the next Lady Zen’in?

Misa watched as Ira passed Naobito and while it was required to show respect to the Zen’in Elites, there was a niggling thought that the older man’s lingering stare on Ira was more disconcerting than she had imagined. There was a fleeting heated look in Naobito’s scrutiny that she could not shake off.

Could it be…?

If there was one thing that Misa was good at, it would be to stay invisible until she could uncover the truth.

The cold crisp air of Takayama filled your senses with peace that you almost didn’t mind the ten hours you were stuck in the carriage with your sullen husband. The ride to the ryokan that the Zen’ins owned was filled with sparse conversation, mostly centered around Naoya begrudgingly checking in if you needed the restroom or if you were hungry. You had no idea what caused this sudden change in your husband’s treatment of you, but you reasoned it must’ve been because you were his sole companion during this journey.

Even if one was displeased with the company around them, it was human nature to try and connect – no matter how fleeting it was.

You have never experienced the mountainside in your life and couldn’t help but pop your head out of the carriage. It didn’t matter that you were exhibiting behavior that a lady should not have; you were genuinely enthralled at the bright sun beating down the foliage and the winding roads that sloped upwards towards the hillside.

Throughout your girlhood, you had dreamed of visiting the countryside, the city walls of Kyoto stifling and constantly filled with political rife from the nearby fiefs. It was your father’s stern insistence that you stay under the roof which stunted your worldview, and you found yourself embarrassingly charmed by the sight of paddy fields and villages sprawling underneath the carriage’s wheels that made you feel like the queen of the world.

Conversely, the man who was supposed to be your king sat in silence, facing the opposite window towards the dense foliage surrounding the other side of the carriage. The journey came to a stop and the driver disembarked. Since this was considered a honeymoon, servants and ladies-in-waiting were not permitted to attend to you and your husband’s needs. It was just you, him, and a few staff at the ryokan who were well-versed in not being seen or heard.

The inn itself was a modest abode compared to the luxuries of the Zen’in estate. Naoya disembarked the carriage without so much as a second glance at you. and you trailed after him, always three steps behind. The driver rounded the carriage to remove both of your belongings, saddling them upon his shoulders while genially refusing your help.

“Wife,” Naoya barked, breaking you out from your friendly conversation with the driver. As if you were a dog, he gestured to you with his two fingers to follow him. “Come. We need to settle in.”

Already detesting his treatment, you covered your grimace by bowing your head, trailing after your husband. A middle-aged woman with smile lines greeted you and Naoya with a low bow. She showed you to your rooms and you were inwardly dismayed to find that you were both sharing a bed. That thought wouldn’t have upset you last time, but now, with the new revelation that he had been disloyal to you, you suddenly couldn't stomach this absurd holiday.

The moment the doors closed behind the both of you, you took your belongings, intent on walking towards the small alcove where a thin mattress waited to be unfurled. As soon as you passed him, Naoya shot his hand out to grip your arm, holding you back.

“Where are you going?”

You fought back the urge to scoff and tried pulling your arm away. “I will sleep in the next room.”

“Your place is with me,” he spat and you fought back the urge to scream in frustration when you tried to evade his firm grip.

“My place is wherever the hell you are not,” you argued back. You should’ve known that resisting Naoya was futile. In one swift move, he had you over his shoulder. Your case of belongings flew from your hands, tumbling down to the ground in between your yells of protest.

He threw you onto the bed, ignoring your shrieks and pressing you to the mattress with his larger build. The panic overwhelmed you and the memories of your wedding night tore through you and you fought back a sob, closing your eyes and waiting for him to roughly push into your unprepared cunt.

But, he did no such thing.

The pad of his calloused fingers touched your face and you froze, unused to the tender contact. Prying your eyes wide open, you were shocked to find him looking down with contemplation in his gaze.

“The servants will think that I am your captor instead of your husband,” he said and you tried not to shiver when his thumb touched your lower lip.

“Isn’t that what you are?” Trying to shift your face away, you were stopped by the firm grip of his palm around your chin.

“Look at me.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, not wanting to give in to his brutish ways. As it was, you felt the first stirrings of lust in your body and you tried to tame it down, not wanting to give in to him when he treated you like this.

“I said look at me, wife.”

The anger was palpable in his tone and your eyelids fluttered open, reluctantly meeting his dark gaze. Wisps of his hair fell in his face and you resisted the urge to push them aside, the press of his body on yours messing with your resolve. Your steadfast hatred for him was like a crocheted piece; if one were to find the idle thread that formed the main structure of the composition and tug on it, the whole work would swiftly unravel. You despised how you were slowly falling apart for him.

“Tell me why you hate me.” Those words made your anger flare to disproportionate heights.

“Let me go–”

“Fine,” he said, the beginnings of a grin playing on the edges of his mouth. “I will let you go. On one condition.”

You waited with bated breath.

“Kiss me.”

His request ricocheted in your mind. You were sure that you had misheard him. “What?”

His warm breath caressed your chin and mouth, the whiffs of the citrus extract he wore wafting up to you with a firm insistence. Much like his scent, you were assaulted by the tightening of your core when his cock stirred against your lower belly.

“You heard me,” Naoya drawled, removing the hand around your chin to wrap around your throat. “Kiss me, wife.”

You were conflicted and didn’t know what to do. The teasing look in his eyes did little to assuage your nerves and with a jolt, you wondered how his lips would feel molded on yours. Naoya and you had tried almost every position in the carnal attempts to conceive a child, but not once have you felt the press of your husband's lips on parts of your body that were not your breasts or cunt.

Shifting your gaze to him, you swallowed hard. “I don’t think we should–”

“It’s a simple request,” he countered, leaning close enough for the tip of his nose to bump yours. Echoing your thoughts, he said, “I’ve planted my mouth on your sweet cunt every night, wife. Don’t tell me you’ll be shy if I kiss you–” his thumb slipped between your lips, “–right on these lips that speak.”

It was too intimate. This was what couples who were in love did; this was what you and Jiro used to do before he was hauled away, never to be seen by you again. Kisses were given as a form of connection between two people who cared about each other, which you and Naoya were firmly not.

But damn did you want to kiss him. A secret part of you wondered what it would be like to finally give in to the fleeting chance of his affection so that you could delude yourself into thinking that the both of you had a shot at working out.

It wouldn’t hurt to try, would it not?

Taking in a deep breath, you closed the distance between you and Naoya, tentatively brushing your lips on his. He responded by parting them and your heartbeat quickened, leading you to mold your lips with his, angling your head to the side to give better access to your mouth. He groaned and you were taken aback by his reaction; you had never heard such longing in his sounds before. Feeling emboldened, you brought his lower lip in between your teeth, nibbling on the plush flesh lightly.

Naoya took it as an invitation to touch your lower lip with his tongue and you parted your mouth on instinct. The taste of his tongue twining with yours was a heady sensation and you squeezed your eyes closed in supplication, palms drifting to cup his face.

All too soon, the kiss ended with him pulling back slightly, a string of saliva connecting both of your lips together. It was you who broke it when you turned your face to the side, disquieted by how heavy you were breathing just from a mere kiss.

“Now, was that so hard?” he said, voice dropping into a baritone which meant he was getting aroused.

Your eyes rippled shut and you dropped your palms from his face. “Can you let me go now?” The question was posed in a small, shaky voice.

Surprising you once again, you felt his weight off your body. Naoya released you from his hold, rolling off the bed and tugging on the sash of his kimono.

“What’re you doing?” you hissed, fear shooting through you when the pale view of his back came into focus.

He swiveled around to regard you with an impassive stare. “Going for a dip in the onsen.” Pausing, a thought seemed to come to him and a slight frown tugged the corner of his lip down. “You can come with me if you want.”

You didn’t give him a reply. Naoya took your silence in stride and finished undressing, reaching for an unlined yukata in the chest closest to his feet and wrapping his strong frame with it. Without another word, he left you in the bed and stalked out of the room, leaving you to your devices.

Shuddering an exhale, you sank back into the plush mattress, ignoring the almost pathetic throbbing of your core. You could hear the soothing trickle of spring water outside the room and closed your eyes, inhaling and exhaling deeply. There were about two things you were positively sure of now: one, that the very first kiss you shared with your husband was enough to leave your body shaking and two… a part of you desperately wanted to do it all over again.

You couldn’t give into those thoughts.

Since your husband had given you free rein to do whatever you wanted today, you decided to put what had transpired behind and explore a small library nook. In that inconspicuous corner were some works from scholars that you were familiar with. Though education was not a requirement for many highborn young women, your father had insisted that you would be well-versed in reading and writing in the event that you would be a nobleman’s wife. Seeing as how you were now married into the upper echelons, your father’s foresight has come true.

Skimming through the passages, you were absorbed by the different views from an era that was long gone. As part of your education, you were aware of information that the outside world was going through bouts of famine and war, information which was mostly oblivious to your country. This was a time when resources were scarce and global conflits were transpiring. No mere commoner could receive these facts, but it was accessible to you due to your family’s high rank as the region’s daimyos.

Soon after your father’s death, Noritoshi had taken his duties in stride, and if it weren’t for you sullying your family’s name with Jiro, you would’ve had a meager choice in deciding who you wanted to marry. As it was, you had an inkling that you were bought by the Zen’ins due to the Kamo’s close relations with a powerful shogun who had the emperor’s right ear. These games of politics and strife that men played vexed you and you didn’t want to be caught in the eye of it all.

Your duty was to look pretty and bear children but even that responsibility seemed to elude you.

“Lady Zen’in, can I get you some tea?”

You snapped the book shut and whirled around to find the elderly woman from earlier, her smile lines accentuated as she took in your surprised expression.

“Oh! Sorry, I was deep in thought,” you muttered, cheeks heating.

Her laugh was gritty and she waved her wrinkled hands in front of her face as if to brush off your apology. “It’s fine. Tea?”

“No, thank you,” you replied back, plastering on a smile when you remembered your manners.

She bowed, offering her help once more. “Can I be of any service to you and the young master?”

You took a gander at the books available and gestured at the collection, your interest piqued. “Who did these books belong to?”

If she was surprised that you could read, she didn’t show it. “They belonged to my son. He was exiled from the land for displeasing the region’s daimyo and these books are all I have left of him.”

Though her words were uttered with the careful consideration of someone who had rehearsed it multiple times, there was an undertone of sadness you could not unhear.

The region’s daimyo. That would be your husband’s family. Internally, you wondered what transgression someone must’ve committed to having offended the Zen’ins to warrant an exile. You didn’t dwell on it too much, especially when her gaze flickered to your stomach and you felt scrutinized by her fleeting look.

“Would you like me to read your palms?”

You set the book down, suddenly intrigued. The art of the occult always interested you and though you grew up with the notion that it was a mockery of religion, there was a part of you that wanted to sample it just once. Nodding, you sat the book down and folded yourself into a lotus seating position. The older woman took her place opposite of you from the modest chabudai, her legs folded in a similar fashion.

Taking your hands in her surprisingly soft ones, she upturned your palms to make it easier for light from the swinging lamp overhead to illuminate them. Squinting, she traced the deep ridges of your hands, the twisting of her mouth luring you closer to her so that you could hear what she was about to decipher.

“A strong heart line,” she uttered and ran one finger across your palm. “Indicative of resilience.” There was a pause. “You have two crisscrosses. It means twins in the future.”

Your heart leaped to your throat. “Twins?” you said in disbelief.

The older woman nodded sagely. “Or, two children.”

Feeling your heart sink to your belly, you half-hoped her words were true; there was nothing that would delight you more than if you could carry two souls into the world at once.

“But… your romance line,” she continued and you stiffened. “It’s cut through by your heart line which means a tough marriage,” her tone suddenly turned wistful. You are not happy with your domestic life, are you not?”

You were not sure how to reply to her and settled for a partial lie. “Marriage is… not an easy path.”

“It is not,” she agreed. “But with your strong heart, I am of the opinion that whatever troubles you are facing will be weathered with a gentleness and grace unparalleled by any woman I’ve seen.”

Retracting your hands to your side, you gave her a small bow of gratitude for reading your future. She let you stand and leave her alone in the alcove, her words buzzing in your mind.

Twins… a sturdy heart… gentleness and grace...

Your mind went to your husband who was probably taking this opportunity to stay in bed as a repose from the arduous journey. A part of you was not ready to return to the room and you dawdled along the outside of the ryokan, walking over to the open-air view and leaning your arms over the wooden beams to take in mother nature’s wonders. The slowly setting sun was painting the dips of the hills and valleys a brilliant orange and you exhaled slowly, palming your lower belly.

It felt like your body was in a state of limbo; you were not pregnant nor were you without a child. Your mind was on a loop, Naoya’s words flitting in your mind. What if you were barren? That would hardly be a surprising fact considering how many years your mother took to conceive Noritoshi and the dangers she put herself in to give your father an heir.

In the end, her performance in the marital bed was subpar at best and your father didn’t push her any further, pouring all his energy into training your brother into the daimyo he was supposed to be while relegating you with whatever spare affection he could afford. Failure was written in your bloodstream and you tried not to let the tears fall at that thought.

Why can’t I just be pregnant? Closing your eyes, you let the setting sun kiss your face. It would solve all of my problems and keep the Zen’ins off my back.

“Wife.”

You scrambled to open your eyes and pry yourself away from the ledge.

Naoya was regarding you with a tilt in his head, the split of his yukata showing off his flush and toned chest. “Are you… alright?”

Shaking those thoughts and the fading lights from your mind, you bowed slightly. “Yes, I am.” You paused, deciding to be civil, “Thank you for your concern, husband.”

The corner of his lip tilted upwards and you were reminded of how that juncture of his mouth felt pressed on yours. Flushing lightly, you wanted to take your leave of him when he clicked his tongue, joining you by your side. In the setting sun, he was even more striking than what you were used to and you felt your mouth go dry.

“I believe it’s best we try to get along for the sake of these two weeks,” he started, giving you space to allow your gaze to roam over his countenance, seeking out a flaw in his suggestion. “I, for one, do not want to spend my whole holiday with a woman who can’t even bear to be in the same room as me.”

Turning your face away from him, you said, “I have no intention of insulting you, husband, but it is your actions that make it suffocating to be in the same room as you, not my impertinence.”

Instead of finding offense in your words, he chortled. “You surprise me at every turn, wife. Your tongue is like a knife and is sharp enough to draw blood.”

You had no idea how to reflect his words and stood dumbly by his side, watching the sun dip below the horizon.

“Tell me, wife,” he broached and you let yourself glance at him for a brief second before darting your gaze back to the scenic green peaks. “Why do you hate me? You haven’t answered my question from earlier.”

Forcing yourself not to scoff in his face, you gritted your teeth, mapping out the slopes of a nearby hillock that would be a perfect spot to build a house on. “I… detest the way you treat me.”

Naoya was wordless at your confession and you heard him exhale a low chuckle. “I give you everything, do I not?” He turned to face you and you forced yourself to stand your ground and not cower. Your days of hiding from his anger were over; you had nothing to lose and would go toe-to-toe with him if the situation arose. “I give you beautiful kimonos, expensive food, a roof over your head, a warm bed, and yet… yet you cannot give me what I want.”

Though you were ready to disregard his words, you found your defense lodged in the back of your throat. Your reticence stretched out, the manic thoughts jumbling in your mind; was it even worth it to defend yourself when he was resolute on painting you as the useless wife?

“Your mother had trouble conceiving too, did she not?” Naoya’s gaze searched your face for a shred of revelation as to why this marriage between the both of you was doomed from the start. “My fool of a father did not take into account that infertility can be passed on from a mother to a daughter when he bartered for your hand in marriage.”

“I apologize for being a d-disappointment,” you murmured, trying hard to not let him see how his words were making your lower lip wobble. “And if you want to get rid of me, please send me back to my family. You can marry Ira or any girl of your choosing and I… I will no longer defy you.” Steeling yourself, you met his gaze. “Naoya-sama, I am not happy in this marriage.”

There. The words were out and laying in the open to be flayed alive by the iciness in your husband’s gaze.

Rather than reacting with rage like you would expect him to, his eyes rippled close and a long exhale passed his shapely lips.

“I know.”

It was your turn to decompress. In a small voice, you asked, “What do you think we should do?”

His grimace struck concern in the depths of your heart. “What you and I have been trained to do since we were children, Y/N–” Turning his back to you, he tilted his head to the side so that you could make out the outline of his side profile.

“–Do nothing but grin and bear it.”

Naoya’s words rattled in your head long after he had left you by that ledge. It echoed during dinner which was a morose affair as you sat across from him, picking at your dishes and not sensing his gaze flitting to yours, intermittently frowning at the despondency in your countenance. The word divorce hung heavily in your mind and you wondered how he would respond to that notion if you were to bring it up.

Though lawful separations were heavily condoned in this society, especially initiated from a woman, there were grounds to prove a marriage was dissolvable – and that was to justify that one of the other spouses was infertile. Since Naoya was proven to be the opposite of that, the onus would fall on you as the breaking point of this sham of a marriage.

Your husband barely looked at you, absorbed in his own thoughts and he didn’t even look up when you stood from the chabudai. A stony beat of silence passed and you took your leave, heading into the alcove to find rest on the hard tatami floors. You heard Naoya heave a quiet sigh and you slid the shōji doors closed, unlooping your obi sash and disrobing. Since it was cooler, you didn’t mind sleeping in the nude, unfurling the mattress and settling under the covers.

One blink of your eye and you startled, surprised to find yourself waking up still in one position. A quick look outside of the windows told you that it was probably the early hours of the morning and you rolled over, intending on going back to sleep when you heard a low whimper from the bedroom. Tensing, your mind flashed traitorous thoughts, picturing another woman in between his sheets. But, at the next second, you noticed that the lowered whimper was coming from your husband and you cautiously got up.

Loosely wrapping yourself in your kimono, you staggered out of the alcove in the half-darkness, moving closer to his form under the bed sheets.

In the dimness, you could make out the furrow in his brow and gently shook his shoulder. Drowsy dark eyes clapped on you and you froze, thinking you had crossed the line.

“Y-you were having a nightmare, Naoya-sama,” you whispered. You expected him to chastise you for waking him up, for yelling at you that you were disrupting his rest… not for him to pull you into his arms. You fell into his embrace with a sharp gasp, your kimono almost slipping off your body and exposing your bare chest.

Though your husband and you used to share a bed, this form of contact was unexpected and you were like stone, not even daring to breathe. Warm palms clasped around your waist and he buried his face in your hair.

“Husband–”

“Don’t fight me,” he mumbled tiredly, “Not tonight, please.”

You had no idea what had caused him to sound this broken, but you pushed those thoughts aside, cautiously sinking into his touch. The press of his body was slowly warming up to you and your eyes fluttered shut. This close, you could smell the citrus from his hair and skin, enveloping you like a second embrace which you returned by pressing your nose to his jugular.

“You’re so warm,” he whispered, running his palms up and down your back. He reached your bare shoulders and stiffened, sharp eyes softening with an unknown emotion. A pregnant pause filled the air. ‘Did you go to sleep in the nude, Y/N?”

You nodded after a beat of hesitation, hearing his breath catch.

“Tempting,” he muttered, tightening his grip around you. “You’ve been denying me for weeks, wife.”

You knew what he was asking for and whatever bit of comfort you gleaned from his embrace was shot to dust. “I-I have to go–”

He never let you resurface from the depths of his arms, holding you steadfastly to his side. “Why do you always insist on defying me at every turn?”

“Because you have a mistress,” you whispered, and in this close proximity, there was no way that he couldn’t hear the pain leaking freely in your tone.

Naoya exhaled. “I had to do it, you know that right?” You didn’t answer him and he continued justifying his adulterous ways. “I need an heir and you can’t provide me with it–”

“What if I could?” you mumbled, trying hard not to tear up at his words. “You never even gave me a chance and you went behind my back to impregnate another woman.” Another beat of silence. “I know you have little regard for me, Naoya-sama, but I am your wife. I have a standing in your life and… you should’ve at least told me.”

He didn’t apologize; he never did. But, you could sense the reluctance in his form when he carded his fingers through your hair, turning your face to his. Not wanting to look at him, you closed your eyes, preparing yourself to push him away. You should’ve known that resisting him was like how the sea could never stay away from the shore for too long. Land and water met once more despite the stubborn difference between them when he gently kissed you. Your breath was stolen for a second time this night when you felt his tongue prod your lower lip, explicitly asking for permission to plunge deeper into your resolve.

You let him, tasting his reticence and his regret when he pushed you deeper into the mattress. This time, you didn’t resist him or succumb to him; you were a willing participant to his ministrations. Rough pads of his fingers skittered down your bare shoulders towards your chest, pushing off your robe. You gasped when wet lips met the juncture of your neck and shoulder, curlicues of lust and need dragging you under when he trailed kisses down your body, right towards your aching breasts.

Taking one sore nipple into his mouth, you gasped at the pangs of pleasure, feeling much too sensitive. His defined body pressed you down into the mattress, keeping you hostage to the sensations he was inflicting upon you, sucking and toying with your nipples like they were his favorite flavor.

Gasping out his name, you barely had time to react when he pushed you onto your knees and hands, your ass up in the air. Naoya lifted the hem of your kimono, the stretch of the fabric loosened from your lack of an obi which allowed the split to showcase your bare cunt to his feasting eyes.

His warm tongue parted your wet flesh and you buried his name in the sheets. Your lower body was swaying in tandem to his strokes, his tongue like an instrument that got you hitting all the right notes, keening his name in a half-crazed frenzy. Thick digits sank into your heat, all three at once and you cried out, flinching hard from the onslaught of pleasure.

You detested how well he could map out your body and felt those same warm palms reach forward to cup your breasts, thumbing your nipples which sent horripilation running up and down your skin.

“Naoya,” you moaned, too lost in the pleasure to remember your honorifics. “F-feels so good…”

The lewd sucking sounds coming from his mouth on your cunt accompanied your heavy breathing. Stars were dancing behind your eyes and you were about to climax when he pulled his lips away. There was one second when you were once more aware of your surroundings, but that was all taken away when the tip of his cock pushed past the tight and hot ring of your cunt.

Crying out his name, your face was almost smashed into the mattress from the force of his first thrust. Setting a pace that had you trembling and gripping the sheets, Naoya was not kind or gentle, pumping his cock into you at a punishing pace that shook the bed frame. Low, ragged moans were spilling from your lips and you sounded no better than a bitch in heat, whining and begging for your husband’s cock.

And oh, did he deliver.

Naoya was ruthless when he found your special spot, knowing where it was when you flinched hard and rocked your hips back to meet his, a cry of pure pleasure spilling forth from your lips. You were no longer lucid or aware enough to refrain from crying out his name, convinced that half of the ryokan could hear your passionate love-making. As if he was proving a point, Naoya lifted you by the nape, pressing your back to his defined chest.

You were whining, barely comprehensive of anything beyond the sensation of his cock gliding through your wetness and warm palm occasionally landing on your ass. The lewd cacophony came to its eminence when you seized, your release rushing through you like curls of heat, soaking your thighs with his cum and yours.

His kisses on your neck brought you back down and you let yourself sag in his embrace, knowing that he would be there to catch you this time. Naoya did not shy away from showing affection, freely planting his kisses on your collarbone, nape, and lips. You enjoyed those tiny stamps of his warmth, content to kiss him back whenever he returned to your lips.

Drawing you closer to his side, he threw the covers over your barely clothed form and sank his lips into your hair.

“Satisfied?” he rumbled, voice lowering an octave.

You could only nod meekly. To your surprise, he asked you this question: “What is your favorite memory?”

You slowly pried your wet eyes open and fixed him with a confused stare. “Pardon, husband?”

“Your favorite memory,” he said, expression unreadable. “What is it?”

Not knowing the game he was playing, you reluctantly turned on your side to fully face him. “When I was a girl, we used to have peaches that came straight from the northern regions. My mother would crush them and mix them with ice chips to keep us cool during the summer days. We had servants but she always insisted on doing that for my oniki and I.” You admitted in a quieter voice, “I miss those innocent summer days.”

Naoya exhaled at your words, nodding emphatically. “My mother used to boil sugar and dip apple slices in them during summers. She would give them to me without my father’s knowledge because he didn’t approve of unhealthy food.” He smiled at that memory and you found that you liked that subtle upward tugging of his lips.

The next question you asked was poised almost meekly as you didn’t know how he would react to the memory of her. “What was your mother like?”

Naoya tightened his grip around you, inadvertently pushing your face further into his neck so you couldn’t see his reactions. “She was beautiful and brave,” he murmured. “She never took any misgivings from my father and she always stood her ground to protect me, no matter what it cost her. And I miss her… every single day.”

At that revelation, you breathed out a gust of air, understanding where he was coming from.

It seemed almost counterintuitive to your resolve when you first arrived for your supposed honeymoon. But beyond any rhyme and reason, Naoya was starting to get under your skin, settling somewhere dangerously close to where your tender heart was beating erratically.

Naoya glanced at the sleeping woman next to him.

There was a swirl of emotions in his chest, ranging from anger to tenderness, right down to apathy and more rage. Though the crux of your relationship was simple – the both of you were a married couple – he thought that the past few weeks had made it abundantly clear that you were not compatible with each other.

Naoya had made himself a promise before he left the Zen’in estate; if you were not pregnant within the next few weeks, he would seek grounds for a divorce that would be beneficial to the both of you. You would be free of him and he… he would be free from his duty and the abominable anxiety that came from talks of a turf war.

He just had to prove to his father once and for all that you were barren for him to go through with the legal proceedings.

It would mean potential disaster; the regions that were joined under the Kamos and Zen’ins would take this divorce as a slight and erupt out in wars but he was prepared. He had done the calculations, mapped out the Zen’ins’ strength against the Kamos’ flaws to come up with a strategy that he would present to his father should the old man approve of the divorce.

Naoya would never call himself a quitter, but this whole thing was out of his league.

You and your depths of emotions were out of his league.

He knew how to fuck and spout pretty words that would get the prettiest woman into his bed for the night. He knew how to set a girl’s desire off and get her bending to his whims. But the one thing that Naoya Zen’in was undoubtedly capable of was love.

He couldn’t fall in love with you; he couldn’t love you. Not in the way you wanted him to.

Rakes like him never settled down or found contentment with one woman; this was all done in cognizance of his own flaws.

From your words to your ability to open up in the face of ridicule and strife, you were a woman of caliber and warmth. Someone who would make a formidable lady in a powerful household. If it weren’t for your inability to bear him a child, Naoya would’ve found himself enamored with you. You were perfect in every way… but that one simple flaw that you had was also the cornerstone for forced relations like this. It was truly a shame you couldn’t carry his children.

Like a kitten, you nuzzled into his chest for warmth, not sensing the turmoil clouding his mind. Naoya hated to find himself in this position; he was little more than a whorehound before you even met him. He had fathered and forced numerous women to abort his seed and yet you – the puny, and frivolous you – was capable of making him question everything he held as his principles.

If he wasn’t so disgusted with himself, he would be disgusted with you, too.

Naoya sighed and gazed down at your belly. It was soft and hollow, devoid of his child. He had remembered how bitterly he had reacted when he heard you had received your moon’s blood and how he had wanted to curse this sham of a relationship. You may not know it, but everything on his shoulders hinged on the fact that he had to impregnate you before it was too late.

Before the wars started and the ever lingering threat of the Kamos caught him in their shitstorm.

He was right on your wedding night to say this…

You better fucking hope and pray that you’re carrying my child soon, witch.

His mind inadvertently strayed to Ira. That was another loose end he would have to focus on when he came back. If she gave him a son, Naoya was in every right to make her his concubine, regardless of your feelings. She had proven her worth in getting pregnant when you couldn't and deserved the right recognition for her efforts.

It didn’t mean that he had to love her – oh, no. This was not that kind of relationship but rather one of convenience. She would live in luxury and he would have a son that would carry his legacy and name; someone worthwhile that would make even Naobito proud. A part of him wondered how his father would react to the news if such a blessing were to occur.

Drowning those thoughts, Naoya let himself sink deeper into your embrace. He must admit that the sight of your pretty face after his nightmare was a soothing change, but beyond that… he could not let himself dwell on it.  

This would be a one-time thing. After this holiday and after he fulfilled his duties as a husband, he would stay away from you.

That was the best he could do to no longer incur his displeasure at your inability to obey him as any good wife should.

Beyond a shadow of a doubt, Naoya Zen’in would not fall in love with you.

The next morning, you awoke to the smell of miso soup and lightly fried fish. Your husband was sitting by the chabudai, flipping through a paperback and picking at his food. Noticing that you were awake, he flashed you a smirk, that expression completed with his bare and toned chest causing heat to rush to your cheeks.

“M-morning, Naoya-sama,” you said through a yawn, stretching your legs. To your embarrassment, your inner thigh muscles were protesting with every flex, the tenderness from your cunt radiating all throughout your lower body, and you whined at the sudden pricks of pain.

“Wife,” you found him frowning at you. “What is the matter?”

Deciding to tell him the truth, you uttered, “My legs… they are very sore, Naoya-sama.” A light flush dusted your cheeks. “I–um– think it was because of last night's… affairs.” Adding one last divulge to your worries, you said, “And I can’t… I don’t think I can stand.”

That got him concerned. Naoya put his book down and walked over to you. You expected him to be full of praise for himself at having reduced your legs to agonizing quivers, but he was decidedly surprising you at every turn. His arms looped around your waist and he lifted you close to his chest in a bridal style, bringing you into the private washroom. If you were a fish, you would be gasping for water, thrown out of your element from this sudden tender disposition he held for you.

As if the rocky start to your marriage was all a horrendous nightmare, this version of Naoya was gentle when he ran a dampened over your face and between your legs, helping you clean up after last night’s activities. You were stunned when his trademark impish smirk was back and he chuckled at your wide eyes.

“Do you have something to say to me, Y/N?”

“You’re… acting strange,” you whispered. At your words, his frown returned.

“Can’t a man attend to his own wife?”

Any other woman with a weaker heart would’ve believed that shoddy lie; that a husband who once despised them would treat them as if they were made of glass. But, deciding that you didn’t want any more conflict before the morning could even begin, you switched your attention off, enjoying the momentary caresses of the warm cloth on your skin, even letting him tug your kimono off your body to leave you fully naked in front of him.

One thing led to another and his cock was soon lazily thrusting into you, your moans smothered from the press of his lips on yours. The wall was a pillar to which he held you up against, content to rut into you at his own pace. You were starting to discover how much you adored the feeling of his lips on yours even as his cock was pistoning in you; it was an endearingly intimate yet filthy sensation. This time, it was you who tightened your legs around his waist, not willing to let him go long after he spilled into you, much to his smug delight.

The both of you ate breakfast together and later, you found yourself arm-in-arm with him, leisurely strolling in the merchant square of this tiny village that belonged under the Zen’in’s rule. Sellers, peasants, and artisans all recognized him and bowed deeply, expressing their gratitude at having a Zen’in son in their midst. They showered you with free gifts like flowers and sweets from their modest carts and you were gratified at their kindness, bowing at every show of their pledge of loyalty until Naoya playfully told you to stop less the people thought you were a commoner.

The Kamo regions were never this friendly under your father’s rule. But during his first day of duties as a daimyo, your brother had overhauled the old tax rules to now only collect 5% from every household, which was a stark difference from your father’s regulations of 20%. The villagers had grown considerably warmer since Noritoshi’s appointment and even cheered for your family when the news of your marriage to Naoya was announced through a village-wide proclamation.

Your husband was all-smiles today, a perfect example as the next Zen’in daimyo and you were his radiant new bride who might be carrying his next heir. You wanted to tell Naoya that you had yet to receive your moon blood, but the day’s preoccupations made it hard for you to steal him away from his duties. Though this was a honeymoon, you were content to shadow behind your husband when he greeted the villagers, inquiring about their conditions and listening in to their complaints.

A part of you suspected that with the tensions brewing, he would want to have a gauge to see if the villagers were firmly on their side. But as much as you tried to remain inconspicuous, these people knew of your origins. Once or twice when the both of you strolled onto a new street, you were greeted with your family’s motto (“Blood will prevail!”) as well as shouts of, “Kamo-san! Kamo-san!”

That did not delight your husband one bit and you tried your best to ignore those salutations, your shoulders all but up to your ears whenever your family name was called out in the streets.

“Why are they cheering for the Kamos?” you inquired to your husband tentatively after the both of you were back in your carriage. Naoya snapped his gaze from outside the window, a sliver of annoyance lighting up his expression.

“That is none of your business, Y/N.”

His callous demeanor after a day of brightness left you weary and you hunkered down into your seat. “But, I believe it is,” you tried to argue with him. “After all, your father asked us to leave for this honeymoon after what happened at the estate.” Knowing you had the gist of why this holiday had transpired, you prodded further. “How did those samurai manage to breach the walls?”

Rather than buying into your curiosity, Naoya sighed. “I would prefer if we do not speak of your odious family while we are on our honeymoon, wife.”

All the fight you wanted to carry out leached from your bones and you echoed his heavy sigh. Absent-mindedly, you rubbed your stomach and he caught your motions. “Are you in pain?”

Blinking, you dropped your hand. “Oh. No, I’m not. I was–” stammering for a lie, you came up with one in a flash. “–I’m hungry.”

His expression melted into one of amusement. “But you just had a few sweets and a hearty breakfast.”

Chuckling sheepishly, you said, “Maybe my body needs more nutrients.”

Naoya didn’t question you any further and you were glad he was distracted when the road narrowed and there was a drop towards the end. For when the carriage passed by a bend in the forest, you came face-to-face with the same man who had once tried to kidnap you. He was partially hidden in trees and when you clapped your gaze on him, he froze; as if there were a joint beacon on the both of you, his attention was caught by yours and vice versa. His wild eyes were considerably tamed, hair tucked into two low buns, the frizzled ends lending to his overall brutish appearance. The gleaming blood from across his face was no longer there and he assessed you with quiet contemplation.

Your low gasp seemed to attract Naoya’s attention and he was poised to look out your window when you turned to him, blocking his vision with a plastered on sweet smile. “I just thought of–of peaches!” you said and laughed. “Do you think we could have that for dinner, Naoya-sama?”

He didn’t refute you, though a look of confusion flitted across his countenance. “Of course, wife. I’ll make a request for it.”

Once the carriage rounded another bend, you exhaled and darted your gaze back towards the place where you last saw the man.

He had vanished.

That night, you received a rather strange letter.

The elderly woman whose name you still hadn’t found the time to inquire stopped you, pushing a scrap of paper in your hand with a whispered, “They requested me to hand this straight to you,” when your husband was out of earshot. In true Naoya fashion, he was stressed from the day and wanted a dip in the onsen pool, leaving you behind to your whims once again when you had told him you wanted to visit the library.

You arranged yourself behind a pillar to avoid prying eyes, unfurling the small scroll. In it were three words, but you knew those words well.

Blood will prevail.

Scanning your eyes over the words, you didn’t recognize the writing. It was not from someone you were intimately acquainted with and when you flipped the paper over, you were once more disquieted.

Right side wing.

To anyone else, it would be nothing but gibberish, but these were words you grew up speaking to Noritoshi. It meant–

“Oniki, wait for me!” you cried when he tore past you, the field which you both raced through was filled with grass that was almost as tall as you. Noritoshi’s laughter bounced across the verdant meadows, reaching your ears as you struggled to keep up with his long legs.

Huffing, you paused, and lost sight of him. Tears welled up in your eyes and you bunched your fists to your face, fighting back a sob. A tap on your shoulder made you glance around and you found your brother giggling at you, a daisy caught in his hair from his wild goose chase. You forced yourself not to cry, already accustomed to his previous treatments when he brought his clasped palms from behind his back.

He slowly un clasped his hands to reveal a fuzzy green line on his palm.

“S’caterpillar, imouto!” he said and shoved it in your face. You were not the least bit disgusted by it and prodded it with your pinkie finger.

“Where did you find it, oniki?”

“By the honeysuckles,” he cried out and skipped in excitement. “C’mon, Y/N! I’ll show it to you.” You followed the black-haired boy towards the edge of the meadow where yellow honeysuckles dotted in between the dense green. Noritoshi set the caterpillar back onto the petal where he found it, and grinned at you.

“Let’s make a code word, imouto.”

“A code word?” you were sure you heard him wrong.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “If we ever want to meet up with each other–’specially when dad forces me into those boring meetings–I’ll tell you…” he paused and trailed off, before a brilliant white butterfly caught his attention. “–right side wing!”

You tilted your head to the side. “R-right side wing?”

“It means the last place you saw me, got it?” he said with an impish grin. “If we saw each other in the kitchens, we’ll meet there. Or, if I saw you in dad’s library and I waved at you, we’ll meet there to go and steal more biscuits, ‘kay?”

Understanding dawned on you, bright and insistent and you nodded. “Okay!” you chirped and his grin widened.

“Catch you on the right side wing,” he said and you frowned.

“B-But, we’re here, dummy,” you pouted.

Noritoshi only flicked your nose with his index finger. “The last place we saw each other, Y/N.” Oh. That would be–

“The middle of the meadow!”

Noritoshi nodded excitedly. “Yes, Y/N! You’re getting it!”

You came back from that memory with fond recollections, curling your palm around the piece of paper. Those were the last few fond souvenirs you had of your brother before he became bogged down by your father’s death and subsequently, his duties as the next daimyo in line.

His ascension wasn’t an easy one and you remembered with frail fear how he had to wage war on those who would not cooperate; even those who shared the same family name as him.

But, before you could get sentimental, you wondered if this letter even from Noritoshi in the first place. It would be impossible; your brother would have no inkling of you being on a honeymoon. Unless…

You had entertained those thoughts, thinking that the emerald green armor that laid siege on the Zen’in estate was sent by your brother. But since your messages were verified by the staff, there was no way that you could ask him this question without rousing suspicions on yourself.

There were no other Kamos in the vicinity of this area as this was under the Zen’in rule. Your mind wandered to that strange man again and something about him felt familiar. It was a name… or a word. You couldn't be sure. Thinking back to your conversations with Naoya, you recalled the day before he left for his diplomatic mission.

He had told you about the fire in the sake distillery and there was a name… it was a Kamo, too, but someone who you have never heard of before.

It came to you in a flash and you fought back a gasp.

Kamo Choso. It was Kamo Choso that had tried to kidnap you; it was he who had stood by that bend in the forest with those watchful dark eyes.

Right side wing…

This was a Kamo sibling code that somehow he knew. You had no doubt of it.

Your husband would be occupied in the onsen for a good hour and seeing as the distance between the time you last saw Kamo Choso and when you arrived at the ryokan was less than five minutes, you decided to take your chances. The stable doors were unmanned and it was easy for you to take one of the Zen’in steads.

It was a good thing your father was insistent on you learning how to ride a horse as much as he was insistent on you learning world history, language, and writing. As you set out into the darkening night on horseback, you were suddenly reminded that you had a lot to thank your father for. Though he wasn’t as present as you wished he was back when he was still alive, he had given you a set of skills to navigate this world. Unlike Noritoshi, your father didn’t just give you up to the wolves and expect you to survive. He gave you the tools to do so.

The ride was swift, the horse recognizing you and soundlessly galloping out from the ryokan stables down the narrow dirt path that led to the forest. With the lack of moonlight, you had to squint across the dirt-packed road and when you saw a figure in the distance, your heart sped up. He was unmounted, on foot, and he regarded you with those same sunken dark eyes.

This time, you were not afraid of what he was capable of and remained upon your stead, staring down at him.

“Kamo Choso.”

Before he could introduce himself, you muttered his name, windswept from your break-neck speed ride into the forest.

“Kamo Y/N,” he grunted back, the dusty traveler's cloak he wore hiding the glint of his katana and its leather scabbard. “How good it is to see you again.” His deep voice coupled with how tall he was made you almost scared to set foot onto the ground. But in this circumstance, you knew you had the upper hand; this was Zen’in land, and by marriage, you were a co-ruler of this fief. Any harm that would befall on you from his hand would swiftly be dealt with and he would have nowhere to run or hide.

Dust stirred from your getas as the hard soles landed on solid ground. You gazed at him in open distrust. “I would’ve thought our last meeting was enough to keep you away.”

His deep chuckle surprised you. “I am on a mission, Y/N-san,” he said with no preamble, and you frowned at his use of honorifics. He could not be younger than you; the weary lines and dark circles under his eyes made him look even older than your husband. “And it’s to deliver a message to you.”

“A message? From who?”

“Kamo Noritoshi.”

You froze. “My oniki. What does he want?”

Choso shook his head. “We were supposed to kidnap you under the pretense of that seige to take you back to your family estate.”

Those words struck you dumb and you glanced at him in mute confusion. Sensing your questions, he darted his gaze surreptitiously around him.

“I don’t have much time,” he stated, “This place is swarming with Zen’in supporters and they would gut and hang me out like an anchovy to dry if they ever found me.”

In one quick breath, he relayed Noritoshi’s message: “Watch out for yourself in the Zen’in estate, Y/N. I have received word that the marriage deal we struck will be eradicated if you do not fall pregnant and that harm will befall you. Seeing as how little of a time limit they placed on you, if that event does not happen, send a letter to me from an envoy that I have dispatched to the Zen’ins under a guise. He will be there in two full moons. Noritoshi.”

Two full moons. That was in two months.

Your breathing was coming out in harsh pants. “W-wait, what does it mean that harm will befall me?”

Choso’s rigid expression didn’t waver. “It means that the Zen’ins will get rid of you either by murdering you or selling you off. You are no use to them if you do not conceive.”

“But the Kamo shares and land–”

“They are selfish, arrogant, and hasty mongrels,” Choso growled and his vehemence shocked you. “They think we are the brutes and the murderers but they are equally as abhorrent.” Mustering up his hatred for the Zen’ins, he said, “They think they are above the laws of savagery just because they wear silk to sleep. Do not trust those serpents, Y/N.”

“What happens after I send the letter to the envoy?” There were many things that could go wrong with this plan, namely how you would be returned back to your family.

“Noritoshi has placed precautions in case this marriage goes south,” Choso said in a tone that showed his reverence for your brother. “And if he wanted to save you, he would. Trust me, Y/N.”

You didn’t think you could, but seeing as how he risked his life to drop by in enemy territory just to relay a dangerous message, you had to give him some credit due. “And after I return back home… what then?”

For the first time in that evening, Choso dared to look you in the eye, pinning you to the spot with the intensity of his gaze.

Reluctantly, he told you the truth. “You are to be married again.”

That thought displeased you, but you didn’t let it cloud your judgment. Marriage was always in a woman’s cards and you were no different. You were nothing but a bargaining chip to be sold to the highest bidder in these games that men played and women suffered in. Casting those dark thoughts aside, you wondered who Noritoshi had in mind.

“The man who they have decided on. Who is he?” You were half-afraid of the answer.

Choso scrutinized you steadily, his gaze unflinching and unwavering even if yours were brimming with terror.

“You are to be married to me.”

© all works belong to lalunanymph. do not copy and repost

[blackbat05]

I see you (Part 2)

Namor x Atlantean/Human Reader

Plot: You accept the stranger's offer and experience the depths of power that you never had before.

A/N: Back by popular demand! Thankfully I had the brain cells to write this. This is part 2 of <I see you> but I think it could be read stand-alone as well! Again, hope you enjoy it and really appreciate the feedback! Use of Y/N.

Genre: PG-13 (Mentions of blood, violence)

"Will you join me?"

With each step you took, you relished in the scent of the dead bodies littered around the Conservatory of Posideonsis. You find yourself lingering in front of the mural that depicted the heroics of Atlantis' hero. You could gag.

Raising a hilt, you send a blast into the wall, shattering the intricate art into nothing but rubble. A hand is on your shoulder, grounding you back to the present.

"Have you got the vibranium?"

"My people have secured it, thanks to you." Namor gives a fleeting glance around the Conservatory and takes in your tense posture. Never make a woman angry.

A groan could be heard nearby under the collapsed pillar. A body moves.

"Is this how you betray your King?" The scientist coughs out weakly. You gave him a scathing glare, bending down to his eye level.

"Arthur Curry is not my king."

The water construct on your hilt takes the shape of a sword, making clean work of the scientist. Blood splatters diagonally on your face and suddenly you look almost feral to Namor. He can't help but swell with pride at your following words.

"I have a new king."

You don't bother to clean the blood on your weapon, for they serve as a reminder of your liberation. Your salvation. As if the dead could still feel, you pry the weapon from his hand.

"I'm sorry it had to turn out this way Vulko, my comrade. But if Arthur Curry continues to side with the surface world, Atlantis will pay for it in blood."

You leave what was your past behind, swimming together in silence with Namor to the royal chambers.

"You do not mourn?"

"They had their chance and wasted my sympathy." You spat. "You have shown me a greater purpose, my king."

"Stop!"

A group of Atlantean guards intercepts the two of you, spears meant to force one backward.

"Put down your weapons intruder!"

Even now, Atlantis scorned you for your mixed heritage and was eager to blame you.

Blocking you from their vision, Namor shoots his own spear with ease, piercing through the armor of the mighty Atlantean army. Blood floating in the water, he removes his weapon.

"Our fight is in there." He points to the oak doors that led to the chambers. "I would hate to see you get hurt before we even start." Without another word, he leaves you trailing behind feeling rather perplexed.

You can't seem to bring yourself to open those doors. Wordlessly holding your hand in his, he pushes through the broken defense, refusing to cower under the presence of the two Aquaman standing tall and mighty.

"Y/N of Shayeris, you must understand that you are committing high treason. I urge you to stand down and we can resolve this peacefully with you and Talokan."

Your blood boils at the Leaguer’s patronizing words. Namor steps back, waiting to watch the verbal sparring match with much interest.

You can hold your own fort.

“Treason? Treason!” You trembled violently at the words. How fast the night had turned. "All I did was warn you of the atrocities that the League was getting Atlantis into! If Atlantis can't protect our homeland, our minerals..." You trailed off.

"Then I will find a better place that is worthy of such power."

"Y/N, I implore you to see reason. Siding with Talokan will not do you any good."

"That's where you are wrong Kaldur'ahm," you sneer at your former ally and friend. "I simply chose the side that heard me."

Switching on your weapons, you started to make a gigantic dragon construct. The two Leaguers changed their stance, every muscle in their body alert and ready. How you were ready for revenge. But, you could not forget your original purpose - aiding the king of Talokan.

Namor is beside you once more, an unspoken agreement between the two of you. Without warning, he flies straight into Kaludr’ahm, landing a well-aimed blow into his chest. The structure around them cracks, as Namor takes the fight outside. The message from the king was clear. It was time for you to be heard.

Loud and clear.

***

Pacific Ocean

0700hrs, CST

"This is Cat Grant reporting live from Taos, New Mexico where Aquaman will be making a statement about the unprovoked siege on Atlantis by unknown forces."

You switch off the screen, focusing on the piece of vibranium that was retrieved from the lost kingdom.

"You are troubled. Should I have killed him?"

Namor gently puts away the tool in your hand on the table, lifting your chin up to look at him. You shake your head. Swimming to the window beside your workspace, you take in the view that the wide ocean had to offer. He knows better than to pry.

"Your wounds will stay, but they will heal. The sea is a great healing force."

And so he instructs you to close your eyes. To listen to the sound of the ocean. To follow his breathing. Your breathing becomes more rhythmic and soon, the weight of self-blame lifts from your heart. You open your eyes and he turns your body to him.

How strange life could be? Your brilliance was overwhelming, yet you were broken, struggling to piece yourself together. You were so similar to him but so strikingly different at the same time. The king could not explain his attraction to your unwavering sense of loyalty. But why should he be? After all, he was the one that embraced you.

Maybe, that was love.

"We will be great together," Namor tells you.

And every bit was true. Unleashing your potential, he saw how you had nearly obliterated Atlantis with your rage. With you by his side, all he had to do was to put Wakanda in a chokehold. With patience, there will be results.

After all, Namor had picked up a diamond in the rough and he was never going to let it go. Not in this lifetime.

***

Back to part 1

[mrs-avenger3000]

Pair: Wanda x reader

Type: Angst, a little fluff

Summary: You and Wanda have been in a secret love affair, you’re head over heels in love with that Skovian beauty, yet she’s happily in love with Vision, she has you whenever she wants you and yet your too powerless to walk away. You know what you’re doing is wrong and you know Vision is good for her, yet the thought of her being with anyone but you sends you into a blind rage.

Warnings: contains suggestive comments and cursing

Please do not copy my work or repost with the intent to take ownership of my work :) Feedback is as always welcome as are reblogs, comments and likes

Happy reading 😁

Not Mine To Love

Your breath came out in heavy puffs, her hands roamed back up your body, her rings scraping the skin softly, their coolness causing goosebumps to arise. Your mind was still reeling from your high and you barely noticed the woman place her head on your chest. A soft smile spread across your face as your arms came down to wrap themselves around her, you used your other hand to pull the covers over the two of you. Your hands traces small patterns on her back, loving the way her body reacted to your touch. She shivered slightly and you smirked. Leaning up you placed a kiss on her head. “What time is is?” She asked, her voice hoarse from the way she was screaming your name.

You sighed, glancing at the clock. “Just past midnight.” You said nonchalantly. She sighed, sitting up.

“I have to go.” She mumbled not looking at you. She did this every time. You’d give her the best sex she’s ever had and then she leaves feeling guilty.

“Wanda, please. You don’t have to leave.” You say with a slightly vulnerable edge to your tone. The witch looked at you. Your position leaving your chest bare, her eyes dropped to your breasts for a moment, then her eyes traveled to your neck which were covered in marks from her, as was your stomach, breasts and inner thighs, your back covered in scratches. She knew she would always love seeing you bare her marks. She knew she’d always love you. But she also loved Vision and she loved him like she had never loved anyone before. Except maybe you.

Not that she told you any of this.

“I have to get back to my room. People will notice if I’m not there.” She said as she secured her breasts away in her bra as if you hadn’t just had them in your mouth. She dressed quickly and with a ruffle of her hair she was about to leave.

“He will notice. Not people. Vision your boyfriend.” You muttered in a distasteful tone. She paused her hand inches from the door handle.

“Don’t do that.” She grumbled. You cast your eyes to her, she was already looking at you. And you could feel the butterflies in your stomach as you stared at the woman you were so hopelessly in love with, you stared at her.

“Do what?” You say as you lean over and pick your shirt up, you put it on and curled your knees into your chest, resting your chin on your knee and glancing at her. She sighed running a hand through her hair.

“Act like a scorned lover. We’re not together. I’m not cheating on you I’m not sneaking around behind your back, I’m not lying to you. So don’t get to act like I’m hurting you.” She snapped, a cool edge to her previously loving tone. You scoffed. She was hurting you, she was hurting you more than anyone else had ever before. Watching the woman you love, happily in love with with someone else is the worst form of torture to have ever existed.

“Close the door on your way out.” You stated turning away from her. Not wanting to watch her leave.

You stepped into the kitchen, the make up felt heavy on your neck and chest, but you didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of seeing her marks displayed. You were going to show her why she should be with you. Your silky pjs felt soft against your skin as you walked to the kitchen. You hesitated slightly as you saw Wanda and Vision there. As well as the rest of the team. Natasha noticed you first. She smirked as she let out a whistle. “Good morning, you look as sexy as ever.” She flirted. You giggled walking over to her she held out her hand and you took it. She twirled you around and whistled again. “Damn baby, you do look too good to be single.” She joked.

This was a common thing between the two of you. You’d flirt mercilessly with each other but it wasn’t ever serious.

You could feel Wanda’s eyes on you. Your attire was sexy and you knew it. Your shorts showered the curve of your butt and they clung tightly to you, leaving little to the imagination. Your vest top deliciously displayed your cleavage that your push-up bra was exaggerating. Not to mention the fiery red colour. Which by the way is Wanda’s favourite colour.

You smirked at Natasha. Your finger tracing her jawline before coming under her chin and lifting her head. You leaned in. “Wanna change that?” You said seductively. She placed her hands on your hips. Leaning a little bit closer.

“And if I do?”

You smirked. “Ohhh don’t be a tease Romanoff.” You giggled she bit her lip.

“Oh but it’s so fun.” She replied lowering her voice so it came out more huskily. Then suddenly there was a loud crash.

“Do you too mind. Some of us are trying to eat.” Her voice broke through the playful flirtation. You cast your eyes over to Wanda. You rolled your eyes before pulling away.

“Speak for yourself Maximoff, I’m enjoying the show.” Tony chuckled.

“Well that was unexpected.” Natasha commented as you both made your way over to the fridge.

“What friends don’t flirt?” You say as you pored your cereal into your bowl.

Sitting at the island you were opposite Wanda and Vision. They were gazing lovingly at each other. This filled your mouth with a sour taste as you watched them. You jumped when you felt Natasha’s breath fanning against your neck. “You really wanna make her jealous?” She asked. She knew about what was going on between you two. She was the only one who knew. You nodded discreetly. Nat smiled. She grabbed your stool pulling you closer. The movement causing a scraping sound to echo through the kitchen. This got Wanda’s attention. Natasha’s hand slipped onto your thigh and you couldn’t help the flutter of excitement.

“I- um what are you doing?” You said in a low tone. She smirked.

“So, I was thinking. Since Tony is throwing his party tonight, did you wanna… maybe go together?” She asked loudly. You smiled getting what she was doing.

“Depends is this a ploy to get me into bed?” You laughed. She rolled her eyes playfully at you.

“No, come on I’m serious.”

“Okay then, yeah sure. I’m single your single, why the fuck not.” You say.

Wanda abruptly stood up. “I- we have some news.” She stated. Never taking her eyes off you. Everyone turned to her as Vision stood next to her his arm falling around her shoulders. Wanda held up her hand. Your eyes zoned in on the huge engagement ring on her finger. Your stomach dropped.

“We’re getting married!” She squealed. And just like that your heart shattered. You stood up almost knocking your chair over. Grabbing your bowl you threw it into the skink. The spoon clattering against the metal of the sink. You were filled with this white hot rage, it burned you inside and you couldn’t stop your hands from shaking. Engaged!! Since fucking when?!

You left without a word. Sure fake flirting with Natasha to wind her up was all fun and games but getting engaged. You… you didn’t know what to say or do. You couldn’t find it in yourself right now to be happy for her, you were just pissed. Pissed at the fact that not even six hours ago she was sneaking out of your room with shaky legs. You headed to the training room. Feeling the need to punch things. Preferably Wanda in her gorgeous face.

You thought about the way your heart fluttered when she smiled at you.

Punch.

You thought about the time you shared your first kiss.

Punch, punch.

You thought about your first time and how good she made you feel.

Punch, punch, punch.

You thought about the first time you realised you were in love with her.

Punch, punch, punch, punch.

You hadn’t realised you were crying until the tears hit your chest. The bad swung violently and you wrapped your arms around it the force of the swing made you stumble. You shakily made your way out of the gym. Your hands shaking, knuckles cracked, bleeding and swollen.

You stepped out the gym and bumped into the one person you hoped to never see again. She looked at you, she saw your tears and frowned. She reached for your bloodied hands but you ripped away from her. Hurt flashed through her eyes and you almost felt bad.

“Don’t touch me.” You spat your breath now coming out on angered pants.

“Y/n-”

“No, I can’t- I can’t watch you get married. I can’t!” You say sadly.

“I’m happy with him. I love him.” She whispered.

“And I love you. I’ve always loved you. But I get it now.” You say tears falling from your eyes at the realisation.

“W-what?” She whispered as your gaze connected.

“You’re always going to chose him. I was fooling myself into thinking you’d someday leave him and we’d be happy. All those moments we shared in secret, all the kisses, the soft touches. Everything. You share those moments with him too. You let him- I just- You’re not mine to love. You never were.” You stated swallowing the lump in your throat.

You then walked away from the love of your life.

Ahhh! Nooo sad ending 🥺

I don’t really think I’m all that good at writing angst so let me know how I did…

Tag list

@blackxwidowsxwife @g-cordelia @causeitswhatjesuswouldfreakingdo @cristin-rjd @yeetus-thyself @xxxtwilightaxelxxx @upsidedowndanvers @wanda-nats-slut @i1ovewanda @littlewinchester15 @fishlikestuff @gengen64 @procrastinatingsapphictrash @liladoesfanfics @gengen64 @baller2412 @rice-wiife @tomy5girls @srtamercurio @nothingisrealanyway @marvelwomen-simp @darshikaria