#I finally find someone who understands me. Not that he’s talking about The Untamed.

[woman-child91]

It’s official. I would rather this movie be about any of these kids except the one it’s about!

- Doug Walker

Me: This is exactly what I thought of the two main characters in The Untamed.

[harryforvogue]

Part One | Chapter Nine: Another Man

Bellefonte, Pennsylvania

June 1919

Later that night, we depart in the hallway after dinner. Another tense dinner, with no conversation of eye contact between us. It's a good thing the food was good and I was hungry or I would have kicked his shin under the table until it bruised.

I send him off by shooting him a look and he answers by ignoring the look, focusing on entering and locking the door of his room. I stand by as a guard by his door for a moment to be there if he decides to have a change of heart and decide to sleep in my room, but after a minute of silence, I enter my own room and close the door behind me.

I stare at the empty space beside me on the bed, hand outstretched against it. I imagine his body, his warmth, his breath on my neck as I fall asleep.

***

The silence lasts only a few minutes as the door beside mine suddenly creaks open and I hear pacing outside my door. Raising my head, I catch the knock just in time. The knocks are more like thuds, like rocks falling onto the ground. They're fast and loud, no doubt disturbing the rest of the house. Every knock makes me jolt and I feel the pound against my heart like loud music does.

It could be Grace. The knocks sound very frantic so whoever is on the other side must be frightened. Maybe it's Grace who's had a nightmare, looking for comfort.

Padding over to the door, I slowly open it to reveal Harry. The sight is startling. His shirt is drenched with sweat, curls sticking to his forehead, chest heaving as his wild eyes take in my room, stepping into it without asking me. I stand to the side, stunned, letting him pace around like a predator searching for his prey.

"I heard something," he mutters, pale-faced, shakily running a hand through his hair. He finally turns to look at me. "Was there someone here?"

"No," I say, alarmed, heartbeat in my ears. I step forward, holding a hand out. "Harry. It's just me."

"Christ," he whispers, staggering to a stop. He slowly lowers himself to the edge of my mattress, running a hand tiredly over his face. "Annaliese. Who was here? Are you hurt? What are you doing awake?" He suddenly stands up again, reaching for my wrist. A moment passes and then he releases me, sitting back down.

Terrified by his appearance and aware of the weight of his hand lingering on my wrist, I wrap my arms around myself. "It's just me. I was about to fall asleep."

"You were about to fall asleep," he murmurs to himself, rubbing his eyes. "Fuck's sake. I thought you got hurt. I heard some shouting so I thought... fuck's sake."

Unsure why his anger is directed at me, I sit besides him and tentatively place a hand on his shoulder, feeling the sweat under my fingertip. He violently becomes aware of my hand on him because he shifts backwards and shoves my wrist away. The untamed eyes look at me darkly.

Hesitantly, I move back from him. "Sorry."

"Didn't I tell you not to touch me?" he snaps, standing up. "Fuck's sake, Annaliese. How many times have I told you? Do you deliberately choose not to listen to me? Do you want me to be angry at you constantly? I don't fucking understand you."

He's never spoken to me like that. I open my mouth to yell at him back and demand what his problem is, but when I take a step forward, he moves back, eyes filled with something different. It's not anger anymore. Fear.

I pull my hand into my lap. "Sorry. Do you...want some water?"

"No, I don't want any water."

He stands up and begins to pace.

Unsure what to say, I nod and glance away from his unfocused eyes, jaw tight. I move back onto the bed and fold my legs. His eyes follow me. Squirming under his gaze, I try my hardest to find another topic to talk about. The clock is ticking loudly.

A while later, I hear him audibly swallow before he sits back down on my bed besides my legs. He looks at the floor. "I had a nightmare," he tells me quietly. He tucks his curls behind his ears. "Thought it was real and coming from your room. The noise, I mean."

I simply nod, not wanting to inspire another outburst.

Harry sighs, dropping his shoulders. "I just wanted to make sure you were alright." He slides his hand cautiously closer to me, his pale hand against the dark sheets, the moonlight streaming directly onto the mattress as if it's a spotlight and this scene is a vital part from a play that must be scrutinized.

I move away from him before his fingers touch my ankle, causing his hand to stop moving promptly. "I'm alright."

"Okay," he says quietly. He makes no motion to move or depart from my room. I listen to the clock anxiously, hoping he leaves the room soon.

"Please don't cry," he says, glancing at me carefully.

I wipe my face with my sleeve. "I'm not crying. Please go to sleep."

"You want me to leave?" he asks.

"You're scaring me."

I can hear how my words affect him. "I'm scaring you," he repeats, frowning down at his lap. "Annaliese. I just wanted to check if you were alright. I was worried about you. Don't be upset with me."

"I'm not. Please go to sleep."

The bed's balance evens out when he stands up. I wait to hear his footsteps as he leaves the room, but to my horror, I only hear them advance closer to me. He stops in front of me and waits a moment, before muttering, "I'm sorry for scaring you. Could you stop crying?"

I sharply glance up at him. "Harry, it's okay."

His green eyes are clouded, his blinks slow as my words marinate in his head. "I'm apologizing, Annaliese."

"And I'm telling you it's alright." Please leave. Please please leave. "Go to sleep, Harry. I don't want this anymore."

His head snaps up. "Want what? Tell me, I'll fix it."

My eyes begin to sting treacherously. "Harry, please just go."

"I don't want to."

"I don't want you in my room. You won't let me touch you. You'll yell at me if I try to comfort you. I don't know what you want from me, so please, make it easier on both of us. Just go back and try to sleep. Or...or have a warm cup of milk. Or have a snack. Please just..." Leave.

A few seconds later, Harry looks away at the wall behind me and lets the words settle into his head. He nods faintly and then begins to walk to the door.

Before he leaves, he pauses and turns around. "Warm milk will help me?"

"Yes."

"Okay," he says, hand on the door. "I'll do that."

Without another word, he lowers his gaze to the floor and then turns, promptly leaving my room. When he shuts the door, left is just me and that loud clock.

***

The morning is awkward. Harry's avoiding me more than usual, sitting on the other side of the table rather than his usual place across from me. Even Grace feels the tension as she doesn't ask Harry too many questions about why he's so quiet.

I've spent too long thinking about that night. Should I have let him stay? He was hurting, but I turned him away. I shouldn't have done that.

Harry goes back to his room to take a nap. I don't end up saying anything.

***

Stepping outside immediately after breakfast is like a breath of fresh air. In New York, I'd leave the house for mornings only to head to work, but here I am going at my own volition into town. My hat is on my head, my outfit clean, and my head ready to be cleared. I say goodbye to Geraldine and Jared who have just roused, stumbling out of his bedroom, and then head back outside, vowing to return to pick up Grace for lunch.

Instead of wandering straight to town, I take a detour through the hills we all sat at yesterday, and I continue further until I'm by the line of trees that stand guard between this town and the next, more busy rural area. Twigs and sticks snap under my shoes as I duck under the branches of trees and conceal myself from both towns in this no man's land. The ground is soggy and mud sticks to my boots, but the sweet scent of sap and bark allure me and beckon me forward almost as if I'm in a trace. New York doesn't have these types of spots, or if they do, I have yet to discover them. It's a congested place with towering buildings and fast cars, the furthest thing it could be to my homeland. It's times like these where I catch a glimpse of the real countryside that I recall where I'm from and how dearly I miss it sometimes.

Moving to New York was a deal I made with Harry as he decided it was best to run away from his family, specifically his father, thinking an ocean between us would be the most effective way to cut off ties. It hasn't worked that well for us, in terms of staying put. I wonder if we'll have to move again.

I use the line of trees as my defense, letting them protect me as I continue to travel. The ends of my pants are getting wet, causing a cold shiver to run up my spine, but when I catch a glimpse of a small creek, I forget my discomfort and waddle eagerly over to it.

Creeks like these don't exist in New York. I put my purse down, crouch over, and scoop up some water, letting it run out between my fingers. I do it again, tightly closing my fists, watching the water escape through the cracks once more. The water is delightfully cold. I stick my hand in there for a moment to see how long I can last without caving. Only about forty seconds. It's that frigid. The temperature of the water grounds me, and I look back up, appreciating the scenery a bit more, sighing.

My reflection in the water swims in front of me. For the first time since arriving here, I am alone with the company of my own thoughts. As I glance around, I become terribly aware that I'm in a foreign state, in a foreign country away from my own, speaking a language that I've forced myself to learn to become a student in a separate country, and now I'm living with people I've only just met.

I frown deeply at my reflection. Then, I stand back up and continue walking to town, cleaning off my hand.

***

I return to the house to change my clothes and retrieve Grace. Geraldine informs me that the men have gone out for a walk themselves and it's funny that I didn't bump into them. I refrained from telling her that I went through the woods again to avoid people.

As I'm getting ready, I hear my door open, and see Harry enter. Through the mirror, I acknowledge him with a look, and resume brushing my hair gently.

"You didn't tell me where you were going this morning," he says awkwardly, shifting his weight to his other foot as he leans against my bedpost. "You have to tell me."

"And why's that?" I ask.

He frowns, gesturing vaguely with open arms as if it's an obvious answer. "Because I want to know where you are."

"We're in a random state, Harry. Do you think I would run away or something?"

"No," he says. "But just a heads up would be nice."

I put the brush down. "You were asleep."

"Could have woken me up."

"Harry, I'm fine. I'm taking Grace to town and then coming back so you'll know when to expect me."

He steps forward and sits on my bed, leaning in. "This isn't about me controlling you, Annaliese. I just would like to know where you are, for my own sanity."

"Your own sanity," I mutter, standing up, walking to the closest to pick out another shirt and skirt.

"Yes, my own sanity."

I briefly remember how Geraldine had told me that Harry's eyes found safety when I'd come into the room. The look on his face is stern and unmoving, though I can see the cracks in this facade. He's scared.

As the realization dawns on me, I nod. "I will tell you next time."

Harry wipes his hands anxiously on his pants. "Good. Good." He hesitates, opening his mouth to say something, but stopping immediately. He does this a few more times. "We need to talk about last night."

"I don't want to talk about that right now."

"I don't know what you meant," he continues persistently, standing up. He sticks his hands in his pockets, green eyes watching me. "When you said you didn't want this anymore. What did you mean? I don't know what that means, so you're going to have to spell it out for me."

For a second, he looks like the Harry that I married. He looks at me nervously like how he did when he saw me walk down the aisle at our wedding. A man of steel nerves, it's impossible to make Harry nervous, though it seems like he's always on edge these days. He looks younger and less tired, more like a child awaiting praise from his mother or school teacher.

"It means," I find myself saying, aching to reach for him, "that I don't know how to talk to you and it worries me. When you get like that, I want to help you, but it's like you're not even Harry."

"I am Harry. That person is me, Annaliese. I was just scared." He hesitantly puts a hand over mine. It's cold, despite the summer heat.

"I know, but I wanted to help," I admit. "I don't know how to. I know it probably happens more than I realize. Just tell me so this marriage is a little more tolerable. For both of us."

A flicker of hope passes over his face. "This marriage," he repeats. "It still...exists, doesn't it?"

My eyebrows crease with worry. "Of course. What are you saying?"

"You have a choice," he says with a shake of his curly head. "I've been thinking about it, Annaliese. Don't look at me like that. I'm not going to keep you here against your will, though I feel like I'll want to if you ever decide to..." he trails off. "But I won't. If you want it, I'll allow it." His eyes are dark and his upper lip trembles. "I won't like it, but if you want it..."

My fists clench, nails digging into my palms. "God, I want to hit you so bad right now."

He takes a step back, eyes wide. "What?"

"It's nice to see that hasn't changed."

The thought of leaving Harry hits the bottom of my stomach like a stone. Despite my having no option in leaving, it's my love for him that keeps me in his binds as well.

"I don't want to leave you," I tell him, growing angrier. "I just want you to come back to me."

His eyes clear up, though the turmoil on his face stays. "I'm right here, Annaliese," he says tiredly. "I'm standing right in front of you. I'm speaking to you. What more do you want from me? How many times are we going to have this argument? We talked about this in Atlantic City. There are some things I just can't give you, and you have to respect that. I'm giving you what you want. Spending time with you, traveling with you, being your husband."

"You want me," I say slowly, "to be your wife and support you as I watch you hurt yourself."

"I'm not hurting, Annaliese," he sighs, sitting down on my bed again. "Please understand that. I'm not asking you to tend to me like you're my mother or asking for favors. I just want to exist in peace."

"Your mother? Harry, in what way am I asking to be your mother? You know me. You know the kind of wife I am!"

"I do know," Harry says tightly. "I know you always do things your way and I'm telling you I don't want that to change. Please, if you want to, leave me. I won't stop you." He looks to the floor. "If there's someone else you want, or if you want to go back to France. I will let you go. I will pay for it."

When he stops talking, the clock in the room is louder than ever. I am stunned at him voicing his thoughts.

"What? What did you just say?" I whisper in disbelief. "God, Harry, what the hell did you just say? Do you have any idea-!"

"I know what I said. I mean it. I've been thinking about it for some time. I want you to be happy so please consider it." Harry refuses to look at me. "Don't be mad, please."

Leave him? I've never even given thought to having a life without Harry in it. The longer I wait for him to say something, the more I realize I don't want him to say anything else.

"I am going to walk away," I say quietly, "before I say something I regret."

"Annaliese, think about what I'm saying." He grabs my wrist as I'm walking away from him, tugging me back firmly. "Listen to me. I'm serious. I will do it for you."

I want nothing more than to elbow him in the ribs and make him apologize, but I feel my throat closing up.

I force my arm out of his grasp and step away before he can catch me. "Do not," I hiss, "mention this to me ever again or I will make you wish you never said it."

Coming home after work to a man that's not Harry. Holding someone who is not Harry.

"Annaliese... Annaliese! Get back here!" Harry calls after me, but tears have formed in my eyes, not out of sadness, but anger. I'm angry at him for suggesting such a thing.

But as I continue to walk away from him, sadness fills my chest.

I'm a bad wife for walking away from him again, aren't I?

Loving someone who is not Harry.

Fighting with someone who is not Harry.

***

Harry doesn't leave me alone for too long. When I'm in the garden an hour later, Harry's there. He sits next to me and begins talking immediately, without waiting for a response or taking a breath.

"I'm an awful husband, I know. What I said was wrong, and my apology didn't come out right. Last night was completely my fault," he takes a deep breath. "I was scared. And that's not an excuse, but it's all I have for you right now. I didn't mean that I want you to leave. I'm saying that if you're unhappy, I don't want that. I care about you too much to see you have to suffer with me. I just want what's best for you."

The sun is beating down on me. I remove my hat and begin to fan my face."What about us?"

"For us? Annaliese, I don't think you're happy with me."

I don't reply. I don't know what to say to that. How do I tell him that my happiness should not be at the front of his thoughts right now? How do I tell him that I don't know how to help him without seeming like a bad wife myself.

Harry waits a few moments before sighing. "I'm sorry. Please don't be angry."

Before he leaves, I grab his hand and push him back into the grass, glaring at him. I can't help but feel anger more than anything at him. I want to say something to him that will tear him like he tore me.

"I told you not to take your anger out on me again."

He blinks down at our hands. "I won't do it again. But...Annaliese, I can't even begin to explain how much anger I have inside me."

"Then tell me what to change to stop bringing that anger out. What am I doing wrong? Tell me!"

"It's not you! Christ. I've told you that before, haven't I? I wish I could tell you. It's like..." he looks over the hill, searching for words as if he'll find them there. "It's like there's static in my head and it's all I hear all day and it irritates me so I lash out." He squeezes my hand and leans in. "You know I'm not like this. I used to be so good. And this anger I feel isn't at you. It's anger at myself. What I've done."

"You've done nothing wrong," I say firmly. "You have done nothing wrong in your life."

Harry's eyes darken as he shakes his head, looking away. "The things I saw," he says slowly, closing his eyes. "I wouldn't... God, I wouldn't be able to explain the things I've done. It was all survival. Things I've done to people who look like you and me. Who had families. I..." he trails off, taking a sharp breath. "Annaliese, I try so hard, every single day and night to avoid thinking about it. Please, don't make me talk about it. I'll remember and I'll get angry and I'll hurt you. Don't push me."

"So if you won't talk to me, who will you talk to?"

"I don't have to talk to anyone. I will one day forget all that happened. All the pain I've caused." He looks at the sunset. "And then we'll be okay."

I bite the inside of my cheek. "When do you suppose that will be?"

"I don't know, but I hope soon. I'm losing my fucking mind being in this body." His hands begin to tremble. "If you knew what I've done, Annaliese." He glances at me, eyes shimmering, voice breaking off. "You'd pack up and leave. Right now. You'd march into that house, throw my ring away and walk out of my life and you know what I'd do?" He clicks his tongue. "Nothing. I would watch you leave and be envious that you get to leave me and I don't."

"Jesus, Harry."

"Do you understand," he strains, "that you're all I have right now?" He presses a palm to his eye.

"And do you understand that you're all I have? Why are you trying to get rid of me?"

"I'm not!"

"So stop suggesting it, you idiot!"

Harry sighs and watches Grace, who's come outside, for a few seconds, jaw tight and expression unreadable. "I'm trying. I think I just need some space."

"Space," I repeat, plucking some grass. "More space than I've been giving you? How do I know you'll come back to me?"

"I'm your husband. Of course I'd come back."

"Sometimes people don't come back," I say.

Alarmed, he turns to me. "I'm not going to hurt myself. I have that much respect for you."

I glance at him. "And what about for yourself? For your body?"

He gives me a wry look. "Annaliese, I could care less about what happens to this body. The issue isn't that. It's my soul that belongs to you. I'd never do anything to my soul."

"Your soul and your body both belong to me."

Harry's eyes soften the slightest bit. "That's true. I won't hurt either, for your sake."

I rise to my knees. "If you hurt yourself, Styles, I will kill you. If you die on me, I will kill you, do you understand?" I say, holding his collar. "Don't think that I won't."

He watches me, startled, and puts his hands on mine, prying them off his collar. "I won't do anything, for your sake."

"And for yours! How do I know I won't find you...gone...after I've gone out for a drink with my friends?"

Harry smiles for half a second, causing my heart to begin hammering. "Because you'll kill me if I die on you."

"Exactly. And... and I'd bloody miss you."

He doesn't say anything for a minute. He speaks again as if he's telling me a secret, too afraid to say it with his full voice. "I'd miss you too. I miss having you in my bed, in my arms, everywhere. I miss it every second of the day. But I just...can't do that. I thought of you lying with someone like me..."

"A regular man," I argue.

"No," he insists dryly. "I am not any ordinary man. I'm riddled with guilt. I wouldn't let you touch me and be soiled by it."

Grace runs by with some grass in her hand. She waves at us and then heads back to the house. When he leaves, we begin talking again.

I say, "So all this time, it was about you not wanting to ruin me."

He gives me another half smile. "I told you the problem was me. How could I live with myself after ruining such a person? The guilt I'd feel. The anger. I'm afraid I'd hurt you."

"You could never hurt me."

"Annaliese, you don't think I see how badly you're hurting right now? I wish I could do something to help, but it all requires my touch and I can't do that. This trip is supposed to help you as well as help me. I'm trying in that regard but, please, don't push me to do something I'm not comfortable with. I've been hurting you for months. You don't think I realize it? I hear you crying, Annaliese. And while you cry, I just pray that you find comfort in something else besides me."

I freeze, my body suddenly cold and aching. I side eye him, throwing him a warning look. "Don't tell me you're saying what I think you're saying. We just talked about this, you prick! I will claw your eyes out if you say so much as one more word."

He says it anyways. "Another man could make you happier."

Frustrated, I push my palms against his shoulders and shove him into the grass angrily. "You asshole! Don't you ever fucking say that to me again."

He grabs my relentless arms, alarmed. "Stop, Annaliese."

"You say that to me again and I'll remind you who you're married to!"

"Annaliese. Okay. I'm sorry." He's trying to dodge my blows. "Annaliese!"

I break myself from his grasp and stand up, pushing the hair out of my face angrily. "Thin fucking ice, Styles," I growl, taking deep breaths. "You're on thin ice. Now get up, I want to go back inside."

Are these the conversations we're going to have now? I think to myself as we walk back inside, scared. I don't want that.

[popcorn-kitten]

Dates don't always go the way you plan, and sometimes they do!

Fandom: FNAF SB Rating: General Pairing: readerxSun warnings: None Summary: Sun is supposed to have a date with you tonight. Your first date! For the third time! The anxiety that had him canceling the previously scheduled dates rears its head again and threatens to ruin this one too, but you're not content with letting this chance slip by again.

read on ao3

Sun held his phone in his shaking hand, thumb hovering over your name.  His internal conflict was making him nauseous. He couldn’t imagine canceling on you again.  If he did, would you ever give him another chance?  This’d be the third time.  He wouldn’t have given anyone a chance after the first so why should you give him a fourth?

If he didn’t go tonight that would be it. You’d never talk to him again. You’d hate him.  You’d leave and find someone else and marry them and maybe you should. You deserved someone better than him, someone who wasn’t so scared of embarrassing himself that he’d cancel multiple dates. 

Sun’s heart hammered in his chest and when he met his eye in the mirror, he almost vomited.  He looked a mess.  His hair was still wild and untamed, he was pale, sweating through the white shirt he’d picked out, an-

“Mr. Sun!”

The daycare attendant jumped and spun quickly to see the little boy in the doorway.

“You asked me ta tell you when-when moms and dads got here and they’re here so I came to get you like you asked!” The child’s enthusiasm was almost irritating to Sun.  Couldn’t this kid see he was having a crisis?! Still, work was work and he’d spent more time than he should have in the bathroom already. Left the kids unattended for too long. His anxiety instantly shifted to all the possible injuries or messes made in his absence.

Sun launched himself out of the bathroom to check on the kids & distribute them back to their parents without any more cause for incident.

As the final parent left, with a snide comment about his chosen date outfit (he knew it was a bad idea, he knew it looked awful. Stupid stupid stupid!), ending pick up after an eternity and simultaneously far too quickly.  Sun still hadn’t texted you. He still wasn’t ready to go. He couldn’t stand the thought of losing you.

Sun jumped when his phone buzzed in his pocket.  His hands dropped from his mouth – he didn’t notice he’d started biting his fingers, a bad bad habit he needed to work on – and checked the notification.  He yelped when your name came up on the caller ID.

A million thoughts swarmed Sun’s mind – you were canceling (a relief followed by panic and deep-seated grief) you were at the restaurant and wanted to know when he was coming (he wasn’t. he couldn’t wait to see you), you’d realized what a waste of time pursuing him was and were ending it before he could disappoint you further (devastating but understandable).

Sun answered and flinched at the shake and pathetic sound of his greeting.

“Hey Sunny, come open the door, my hands are full.”  Your voice was like a refreshing glass of cool water after days in the driest desert. His shoulders instantly relaxed and the shaking almost fully subsided.

“Y-yeah! OK yeah coming!” Sun’s legs began carrying him in a random direction before he paused, uncertain where he was supposed to be going.    

“Uh…wh-what door?” He was so ready to do anything you asked he hadn’t even considered what your request was referring to.

Your laugh, warm and inviting, flowed through the speaker.  “The daycare door, goofus! Come let me in, see you in a sec.”  The call ended and Sun remained frozen for a moment to process.

The Daycare doors?  Here?  You were HERE?! 

Sun scrambled, dropping his phone in the process to get to the door as quickly as he could. Why were you here?  Did he forget you were supposed to meet here? Did you say you would be picking him up?  Did he forget he said he’d drive?

Sun flung open one of the large wooden doors, leaning his body out of the frame with a torrent of questions. 

His mouth snapped shut.

All the concerns and confusion dying on his tongue when his eyes found yours. The tension in his shoulders melted away with your warm smile.  One he couldn’t help but return.

Sun stood a little straighter to take you in.  His face burned as his mind and eyes fully comprehended what was before him.  There you stood.  Kind, caring, beautiful, wonderful, patient you. You, with a bouquet of yellow daises and scarlet roses in one hand, a picnic basket in the other. 

“I hope this isn’t too weird, but I uh…I guess I figured you might be canceling because you’re uncomfortable with going out? So, I thought maybe a date here would take some of the pressure off.”  You’d started out confident but felt your own face flushing as you registered the shocked expression of the tall man before you.  He was dressed in a white shirt and clean pants.  He was going to come see you tonight!  That realization soothed some of your own internal anxieties about misreading the situation between you both.

Sun’s eyes lingered over every part of you as his face heated quickly, body going rigid.  You were clearly dressed for the date; your outfit was like nothing he’d seen you in before.  Your silhouette was breathtaking and the colors seemed to reflect in your eyes in a way Sun had never gotten to experience before. His fingers twitched with a barely contained desire to reach out and feel the fabric that was lucky enough to be draped across your body.

Time seemed to drag by as you awaited Sun’s response.  The continued silence had you shuffling awkwardly and the thought that he’d been canceling because he didn’t actually want to go out with you was returning with vengeance. Maybe he’d felt bad saying no?  Maybe he thought it was kinder to cancel than outright reject you?  Maybe you were really just super wrong about what you thought he felt.

“O-or maybe this was a dumb idea.” You forced a small laugh out. “S-sorry Sun I should have taken the hint the first time yo-“

“Come in!” Sun’s shout cut you off and caused you to jump slightly.  There's a heavy tinge of panic in his voice as he stepped back into the daycare to make room for you to enter.  “Please, please come in, Sunflower.  Sorry, I was just…surprised to see you.”  Sun’s arm shook as he held it out in a welcoming gesture.

You looked between his face and arm with a small frown. “Sun really it’s ok I’m sorry I shouldn’t have-“

“No no no!  Please!  Please stay!”  Sun looked almost frantic – fearful. “Please don’t leave.”

It was how quietly he spoke that last part that bolstered some of your confidence back up.  You took a breath of your own and entered the brightly lit play area.  As you passed Sun his expression relaxed into his usual smile and the tension seemed to evaporate. 

“So so so so sweet of you to come!  I-I’m sorry I canceled before I…I’m happy you decided to come here.”  Sun’s sincerity was palpable, his large hand resting just below your shoulder blades as he walked beside you into the daycare.  “And with gifts too!  Wow…wowie I’m…thank you, Sunshine.” Sun sounded sheepish as he glanced away from you and bit his lip. Cute.

You suppressed the shiver that threatened to roll through you at the sensation of his warm palm and long fingers – that when spread almost reached passed your mid-back.  Unconsciously you leaned in closer to Sun as you walked towards the security desk. You glanced up at Sun who wore a large smile – his face coated in a deep red flush.  You grinned at him in turn and moved to face him, holding the bouquet out to him. 

“For you, good sir!”

Sun gently took the flowers from your hands and brought them to his face.  He closed his eyes as he took a – almost comedically – deep inhale of the blooms, followed by a loud sneeze.

You couldn’t help the laugh that his surprised expression pulled from you and when he lowered the flowers from his face the sheepish grin turned almost dopey when your eyes met.

“I want to marry you.” Sun’s voice was dreamy as he spoke the wish aloud.  It only took a moment for him seemingly realize what he’d said.  Sun began to sputter out apologies, trying to take it back, but not really, but wow that was inappropriate, and haha oh god.

“Sun, breath.” Your command was kind as you took one of his hands in yours and gave it a squeeze, shutting him up instantly. 

You continued, not wanting him to rile himself up again, “I think I’ve known you long enough that you don’t have to apologize for yourself anymore.  I know you can get intense, it’s one of the things I like about you.  You’ve got a lot of feelings and aren’t afraid to experience them.  I don’t want you feeling like you have to explain every little thing you say you’re embarrassed about.  I want you to feel safe with me.”  You pause for a moment to make sure he’s listening.

“Obviously we are not getting married anytime soon.  But I think it’s sweet that you’re so sure of it being something you want.  I can’t promise right now that I’ll get there but knowing that you’re actually looking for something long-term is…nice.  It means you aren’t just trying to mess around. I appreciate that about you.  I might have been weirded out if anyone else said that but…I don’t know…it wasn’t anyone else, it was you.” You chuckle at yourself for the actual absurdity of it all. 

That was a big ass red flag and here you were happy to invite Sun in regardless. Because somewhere in your gut, your heart, your soul, you knew he wasn’t trying to play with your feelings.  He wanted you in his life and you were finding it hard to keep him out of yours

“But no, we aren’t getting married anytime soon, becauuuse, you have some actual dates you need to take me on before we can have a wedding.”  You give him a teasing grin and release his hand, turning to open the basket you’d set on the security desk, pulling out the meal and dessert you’d prepped earlier in the day.   “How about we have this first one, yeah?”

Sun could have cried if he wasn’t so busy trying to fully accept this wasn’t a dream, his shoulders relaxed and he felt, for the first time in weeks, the anxiety that had been permeating his being left to make space for the warmth and love he had for you.

“Yes! Yes! Yes! I’d love that, Sunshine!”  Sun dipped down to press an excited kiss to your cheek pulling another laugh from you as you playfully swatted at him.  You smiled, ready for whatever this new experience was going to bring.

[firaloveatea]

I'm sure I forgot stuff but I tried to cover as much about her as possible.

Neon's Character Concept and Bio

Chaos Neon

Age: 18 (pre time skip)/20 (post time skip)

Height: 160cm

Blood Type: TBD

Birthday: 12/12

Affiliation: Straw Hats, Heart Pirates

Hair: Navy Blue, untamed curls/waves

Eye color: Red

Personality:

Growing up with Luffy, she actually has a very similar personality to him, though she has more brain cells and is willing to talk things out rather than fight all the time.

Trusting in an almost blinding fashion and devotion so strong she will put her needs last when her crew needs more attention.

Neon is as socially dumb as Luffy, but does have more common sense. She mostly doesn't understand things around romance, dating, and things of sexual nature besides what she experiences from Sanji and Brooks's preverted habits.

She is also very petty. The price will always be paid, just don't know when or how.

Out of the A.S.L. Neon is more like Sabo, where as Luffy and Ace are more similar. In disagreements it would be Neon & Sabo vs. Ace & Luffy or Ace & Sabo vs Luffy & Neon. It was a blue moon is any other combos happened.

Abilities:

Knife throwing+Accuracy

Neon has learned how to throw knives and works on her accuracy all the time. Yes, she can juggle the knives as well

Flexibility+Balance

Luffy likes to say Neon is part rubber from how flexible she is. She possesses double jointed and trained her body extensively all because as a child Ace and Sabo wanted to see how much she could fold her body in weird and odd ways. She liked the freak out it keeps practicing.

Neon also has amazing natural balance. I haven't figured out the full extend of this balance, but girl is a hard worker and keeps pushing her limits.

Haki

During the two year time skip, Neon learns and masters observation and armament haki.

Weapons:

Throwing Daggers:

Weight: 15.9oz Blade Thickness: 5mm Blade Length: 7-1/2" Blade Steel: 1050 High Carbon Handle Length/Material: 6-1/2" Overall Length: 14" Style: Knife Product Family: Thrower Steel Family: High Carbon Steels

Throwing Knives:

Weight: 6.4oz Blade Thickness: 3.5mm Blade Steel: 1055 Carbon Overall Length: 10" Style: Knife Product Family: Flight Sport Steel Family: High Carbon Steels

A leather whip

Concept History:

Neon originally started off as the Female Main Character for an original fiction work of mine called Neon Red Eyes. It was a Stardust-inspired fantasy world where Neon was the Hybrid Daughter of the terrible Demon King and a Powerful Witch. Her mother would eventually understand why the Demon King sought her out as the mother of his child and fled while heavily pregnant. 18 years later, Neon would come home to their little cabin to find her mother murdered and the King’s right hand waiting for her. She was tossed into the dungeon since emotional distress sealed away her powers the King was after. There, she would meet a Pirate Captain, who had been captured before her. His crew would pull off a heist and rescue their captain, bringing Neon along with them. It was mainly romance focused on Neon and the Captain, who would eventually take down the Demon King, but it never worked that part out.

When I finally caved and started One Piece, I took Neon and added her after making some changes that would make sense to the One Piece world. Having Magic and Demonic powers didn’t. Her being Buggy’s daughter was supposed to be funny and stuck. I wanted her to be Luffy’s childhood friend because that guy needs someone more consistently by his side. As I got further into the show, my inner simp was sad that I hadn’t found my favorite character. No one was tickling my fancy.

Then Trafalgar Law started to show up on my tiktok fyp, but he hadn’t appeared in show for me yet. I speed ran to Sabaody. Now my tiktok had been giving me Japanese dub Wano clips, nothing English dub. I watch dub because I multitask while watching my shows. I got to Sabaody, and I heard him speak. Matt Mercer. Sold. I found my favorite character and wanted to punch Kid in the face.

Now I won’t lie, Neon was meant for Luffy. Childhood friends to lovers cliché since I don’t do it often. But Trafalgar Law took over, Grumpy x Sunshine, Enemies to Lovers, it held more of my favorite troupes. The power dynamics and struggles. Her being bratty and him always wanting his plans to work out. I started my self indulgence dabbles that are now posted.

I do have a Luffy AU in my mind but to post both seems like too much work. There are differences but nothing huge. I could post all of pre-time arcs and then branch off after time skip but I’m not sure about posting both. I will write my Luffy AU dabbles and keep them for myself. Unless my sister and friends talk me into posting like they did with my Dabbles with Law.

Her last name being Chaos is super recent. I had brewed up a Crack AU where Della married Shanks during his year long stay in Windmill village, then stole Ace, Sabo and Luffy from Dadan and Garp wasn’t gonna fight Della.

I called it Chaos House AU, because of the chaos caused by the kids, yes, Uta would have stayed with them becoming Neon’s sister. So five chaotic children being raised by a pirate and a woman who thrives in chaos… the family name for Della and Neon being Chaos fit too well.

[monstersandmaw]

'Threefold'* - mmf vampire/human fantasy romance story. *(working title)

Sorrel:

Wandering from my adoptive father’s cottage through the silent, winter-locked forest that straddles two fractious kingdoms, I stumble across a vampire who’s a long way from home. At first the deadly stranger seems melancholy, but it soon becomes apparent that all is not well with him. My fears are confirmed when his red-headed mate finds him and starts talking about getting him to feed, so I bolt.

Turned around in the snow, and frightened by the presence of a predator whose kind have long despised and feared witches for the powers some of us wield over the undead, my magic bursts out of me in a wild, untamed rush, leaving me exhausted and vulnerable in its wake.

But when the vampire with calm, grey eyes and midnight black hair says he can take me to someone who can teach me to control the magic I’ve tried to keep hidden and contained all my life, I find myself facing the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make. Leave my beloved father and entrust my magic and my life to a vampire and a coven of strange witches in another country; or try to dampen my magic once again, and continue my life in this remote forest, isolated from the distrustful humans of my kingdom and hope for the best.

Nikolai:

I rarely find the chance to escape the petty squabbling of the vampire court, and I’m definitely too weak to be travelling alone near the border with the human kingdom, but I’ve never been one to pass up an opportunity when it presents itself. I'm not hiding. I just need a rest. I haven’t fed in over a month either, but I can’t face the thought of what happens when I do feed. Out here, on the fringe reaches of my territory, not even animals dare to break the silence where a vicious war devastated the lands over a century ago. I understand why nothing comes here though - I fought in it, and I’m the one who put an end to it with one, terrible act of treason.

Despite our distance from the palace and my capital city, Rowan appears behind me like an ember in the night; my bonded mate for over a century now, but even he can’t find a way to get me to drink just now.

Then, in a flash of wild magic, our world is turned upside down in a spray of snow, and I find myself offering to lead this witch into dangerous territory for a vampire. She’s tough and clearly powerful, but beneath all that bravery she’s afraid of what’s happening to her. Perhaps uniquely among my kind, it’s something I can relate to, and it’s linked to my problem with feeding. I can see that Rowan doesn’t like my offer, and I can feel it radiating down the bond.

I may be the king, but if he doesn’t like it, he’ll let me know in private. He always does.

Rowan:

Stubborn, wilful, beautiful, vulnerable. All words that flit across my mind as I finally catch up to my mate and monarch, standing in the snow near the perilous edge of our territory. His strength is waning and he’s not feeding, and now he’s adopted a witch like a stray pup. He needs to be back in the safety of the palace, not gallivanting around out here in the trees like a fledgeling.

When the witch’s powers go off like a trebuchet’s load, it stirs up old memories I’d much rather leave buried — especially here on the border where my mate faced down the old king without me. That conflict saw human, witch, and vampire nearly tear the continent apart. Wounds heal, but the scars on my hands and body haven’t faded, and I’m not about to let my king kick off another war by wandering into the heart of the witches’ Freehold just to help one forester’s adopted brat.

But, as with most of my mate’s schemes, I find myself drawn along like flotsam on a current, and I’m not the only one tugging at the bond between us…

End-game polyamorous, MMF romance between two male vampires and a female witch, set in a medieval/renaissance fantasy world (magic, supernatural are known, but it largely mirrors ours). Multi-chapters.

Themes will include: found/chosen family, LGBT characters, protectiveness, bonded mates, poly sex, blood drinking, age gap (romantic and sexual partners are all consenting adults), magic, compulsion/mind control, distrust and prejudice, violence, injury, scars and disability, PTSD, and difficulty feeding/ingesting food. No pregnancy.

I didn't go into any detail about the context of the themes to avoid general spoilers, but if you have any questions about any of them, I'm happy to discuss them in more detail. There is no non-con or coercion between romantic partners (for the compulsion/mind-control tag in particular).

Coming soon on early release for all Patreon supporters from $3 up

oh no, i really didn't need to start another story...

*glares at the fantasy setting, mmf vampire/vampire/witch story taking form in the dark wibbly corners of my head and contemplates smacking it with a rolled up newspaper to wait its turn or feeding it the remainder of my lunch to see if it grows*

[osakunt]

Hi!so i heard your request is open and may i request a hc where The haitanis(saperately)were in a arranged marriage and before meeting the bride they were like hating it and will make sure to run hell on their bride.BUTTT when they finally met they realise that its their crush who they are(madly)in love with.Make it Flufff

➟ ARRANGED MARRIAGE W/ HAITANIS [timeskip]

➟ Thank you for requesting, babes ! Pls enjoy <3

Ran

When he gets told that an arranged marriage is to happen. He was calm. But not calm enough

When asked to at least follow up and text the person he is to marry him, Ran automatically turns away acting like he didn’t hear shit.

The man cringed at the idea of even getting married with someone he didn’t know. So this is what he did

1. Made sure to text the person “just know I already dislike you”

2. Went out with random people and post on his social media because he knew you’d find out some way or another.

3. Trashed his place so the people who supervised him gave you a bad report about him. Sadly he got a little OCD and decided to clean up -

Plan A :backfired 🏃🏻‍♀️

Once it was time to finally meet each other, Ran thought it was a good idea to not get dressed formally. He wore a shirt that he specifically cut holes into and some shit colored pants and hair untamed.

“I hope (L/n) - san still goes along with this. They’ve been thinking of backing out. I understand that the peace between both gangs are on the line. And seeing how Ran has been acting, I doubt Bonten will even have a good clan to be their back bone when needed”

Hearing Kakucho talk to Kokonoi, Ran instantly stops and speed walks to the area the two were standing. “L/n ?? As in (L/n) (Y/n)… Kucho tell me it isn’t the the youngest of the (L/n) clan ….”

“It is….do you know them” Kakucho was lost as fuck but seeing the older man freak out he called in Rindou to help his brother out.

Once things were explained and cleared up, Kakucho sighs and sends the oldest Haitani to go fix up.

“Bet you were surprised it was me, Hmm ?” Ran sees your mouth moving but isn’t paying attention due to him taking in your appearance. The way you held yourself and greeted him even after the shit he had done to get you to rethink things.

“Y/n, I think this’ll work” Ran throws you a lazy smile. To think that he would throw a chance away with the person he was in the dumps for was completely stupid to him. Why would he want to throw away something that can bloom into something real. Something loving and something one and only.

“We can even get married now” he swings an arm around you, coming all up on you like Toji’s worm.

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

RINDOU

Let’s say his family wanted his bum ass to get married already so his parents said ‘fuck it, let’s arrange a marriage for him’

“The hell makes you think I’m going to go through with this ?” He yells looking at his superiors not carrying if they were his parents “ You’re 23 going onto 24. It’s time” his mother mocks him leaving the room to deal with other things. She didn’t care if he was throwing a fit.

Rindou being more snarky than Ran, he goes around making comments on how he’s fucked this big number of women and for all he knows could have children.

This is false. Yea he’s had his little sexcapades but wraps his willy cause like…fuck them kids

Anywhore ~ he found a way to get in contact with you even if the rules said that you guys couldn’t talk just yet until a certain day.

“Listen. I don’t know you and you don’t know me. If you were the one to suggest this false of a fake- fuck you. HONESTLY FUCK. YOU. who the hell do you think you are getting my family to agree to this shit” he hangs up without letting you even talk and you’re just there like ‘oh so this is how he wanna be ? Bet say less’

Seeing that Rindou isn’t going to at least try to make a good out of it, you decide to speed the meeting closer. As much as you didn’t want this, you wanted to at least meet with the big mouth who talked down to you.

The days comes and there he is. The click clack of your heels is heard on the shiny floor. Starting from you legs and traveling up to meet your stoic gaze and raised eyebrow - Rindou’s eyes widen at who was in front of him.

“Just came to say that you’re free to go. I only ever accepted cause I heard good things from your parents and cause I actually kinda liked you. Oh well it is what it is” you step to turn around but Rindou gets up from his seat in the café

“…..don’t go….I mean not yet- fuck” he can’t believe the fuck up he is going through right now.

Pushing back his hair from his face, he offers you to sit and you comply with the most professionalism you could give. “In my defense I didn’t know it was you. I wouldn’t mind having you as my wife ,ya know. To be fair I actually tolerate you.”

“I’ll accept this marriage simply because it’s you” his words caught you off guard because this bitch just cussed your ass out ?! SIR WTF !!

When Rindou got home after convincing you to continue the arrangements - he strides into his parents home to give them a hug. “Why didn’t y’all tell me it was Y/n. I thank y’all for understanding my wants” he kisses his moms cheek and hugs his father like never before

“Should I send her an apology with roses, or something…??”

[darkdevasofdestruction]

My Beloved Cherry Blossom ~ Yamaoka Kazan/The Oni x Fem!Reader

Note: Since Kazan lived in the feudal era, and died there, his S/O would be someone from that time, so, just like him, she'd be dead, so the shock of seeing the dead back alive would be great for him...Who also died in a painful death. Haha.

"My son, you reached the age when you have to marry and ensure the continuation of our bloodline. Since you haven't bothered looking for a potential wife, I took the liberty of finding you a pretty girl. She is the daughter of a respectable samurai who guards the Emperor, and her father ensured she is a very capable, smart and understanding woman, so she will be able to deal with your...Temper." Kazan's father sat down with his son, who scowled, offended at what he heard, but despite all this, he was well aware of this bother he had to deal with. "...Yes, father." he muttered, sharply looking down at the floor. "We will go to meet her tomorrow, at her home, an in less than a month, we will have the marriage. I know you are not the type to care about families and women...But you have to do anything in your power to ensure the honor and survivability of the Yamaoka bloodline." yes, of course, his father just had to sigh in disappointment. "I understand, father. I will make you proud." Kazan answered before leaving the room to train, as a way to let out the pent up rage.

Who needed women and a family? He certainly didn't care about that. They were a nuisance. A weakness, at best. Father is too much of a sentimental, even for a samurai. What a ridiculous charade...

And his displeasure continued even the next day, as he dressed in a rich, official kimono, to show off his heritage, but at the same time, his long hair was put in a disheveled ponytail, rebel strands flying with the wind, and the neck of his outfit was lowered down enough to show his outlaw-ish predisposition. Needless to say, his father was angered by this side of his son - Surely, he taught him better! - But it was far too late, and they had already arrived at the L/N estate.

Just outside the big, beautiful house, a petite young woman, her long dark hair shining like ebony, her skin as white as snow...She looked so frail that she'd almost resemble a snowdrop. And she was delicately playing a soft, yet sorrowful tune on her bamboo flute, while her father put a pink flower in her hair, looking at her with nostalgia and love.

Kazan look at his own father, before glancing back at the girl whom he found out was named Y/N, and realised how big of a difference it was to was a son, compared to having a daughter. The difference in the two men's behaviour was huge.

He once heard a samurai, whose wife had just given birth to his daughter, "Treat your daughter the way you wish her husband would treat her." He didn't care at first, obviously - Kazan's mind was never on marriage - But now he was beginning to understand the meaning of his words, for they were wiser than anticipated.

Her father was tender, and treating her as if she was the soft petal of a cherry blossom, and his voice was low, loving and respectful, not wanting to startle her in any way...He was talking as if he was trying to keep the zen equilibirum intact at all costs.

The love between a man and a woman is supposed to be like Yin and Yang...

But how could Kazan possibly behave in such a way, when all he knew was to be a rageful brute who would destroy everything in his path in the loudest, brashest way possible?

"Ah, Yamaoka-san, you have arrived. And you brought your son with you. It's an honour finally meeting you, Kazan. Here, this is my daughter, Y/N. Y/N, dear, why don't you go prepare some osmanthus tea for our tired travelers, while I guide them to our table in the cherry blossom garden?" her father pat her hair, and in return, she bowed slightly at the guests, offering them a gentle smile, that would put all of Spring's flowers to shame. "Yes, right away, father. I hope you will like our flower garden. Papa had them all planted in honour of my mama. They are all her favourite kinds and colours." ah, yes, of course. Women have a special kind of bond with their mother - That was something he would never be able to fully comprehend, Kazan realised very easily, by the way the girl was close to shining as soon as she talked about her birth-giver.

The son of the Yamaoka family obvious saw women before - He wasn't an idiot - And he had enough experience with them...But there was something different about this one. She was...So...Innocent? She seemed to naive and not from this world, almost as if she had no idea of the terrors of the world outside of her residence.

It was such an endearing thing, almost exciting - But the young samurai wasn't sure if he wanted to protect this innocent ignorance at all costs...Or if he wanted to shatter it into pieces and taint it completely.

But that question was easily answered as soon as she came back and started pouring tea for him. And then later in their marriage, the way she behaved so gently with him, it was so weird, so foreign to him, and yet, it made him feel something else...Something completely different from the bubbling, infernal rage he could feel in his chest all the time.

It was soothing, mending his soul completely, for some reason that he couldn't comprehend at all.

But why should he, anyway? He was content just having her by his side whenever he was home. Only she was able of taming the storm that clouded his mind and soul.

His little cherry blossom.

And only the Gods knew how many men he had to kill to make sure she isn't harmed, or prayed upon. He never realised how many desperate, disgusting, dishonorable and lecherous men could be, but Kazan wasn't going to let her see anything other than the honour of a samurai - Like him, his father, and her own father.

However, not even her gentle soul would be able to contain his rage whenever he'd hear that dreadful, shameful nickname they would call him.

"Oni-Yamaoka"

Why was he an Ogre, all of a sudden? Because he brought justice upon the fakes who made a mockery of the code of the samurai? Because he wanted to protect the sole person he cared for in this life? Even his father was against the aggressiveness he displayed on the battlefield, and in the actions he took...It almost felt like even his father was agreeing with that stupid nickname!

"Here, Kazan, lay your head on my lap and forget about your worries, at least for tonight." Y/N pat her lap with a sweet smile, her eyes gleaming with love and benevolence as she reached out her other hand to reach out to him, and as if possessed, he followed her lead absent-mindedly. "Y/N." Kazan called out after a few minutes of having his eyes closed, feeling himself relaxing as her fingers were soothingly playing with his long, untameable hair. "Why do you always tell me to lay on your lap, whenever I'm angry?" "Do you not like it, darling?" she asked, but the passive smile on her face showed that she knew that wasn't the case at all. "I do. I was just wondering why." he grumbled in a lower voice, which made her muse, her smile shaping into an almost kitten-like one. "My mama always did that to papa. She said that the best place for a man to relax is on a girl's thighs. I don't think she was wrong." oh, what a sweet giggle she had. It sounded crystalline, like a river of diamonds going through the forest. "...I won't comment on that." the man closed his eyes, not wanting to give in to the flushed sensation he felt hearing something so embarrassing. "You do not have to be embarrassed, my dear. We are man and wife. There is nothing we could do or say that would be worth or deemed as embarrassing." she reassured him with an amused tone, as her small hand touched his bare chest, just where his heart would be. "Why are you not afraid of me, like the rest of them? You are nothing more than a frail woman. You have the eyes of a baby fawn, and the frail bones of a rabbit. You are nothing more than a flower in comparison to me. I could snap your neck like a twig if I'm not careful touching you. And yet, you allow yourself to be vulnerable around me, and while at it, you encourage me to be the same as well. I will never understand the complexity of women and their thinking." the samurai sighed, grumbling in faux annoyance. "My, my, was that what was on your mind? How lovely of you to be concerned about me. Well, I will tell you a little secret, since you are so curious, but make sure it stays between the two of us, alright?" she giggle softly, almost like a little child kissing her crush on the cheek, and it made Kazan's heart flutter. Was she truly trusting him with a secret? What did he do so worthy to her that she deemed him the perfect candidate as a secret-keeper? "I would not dare tell your secret even to the Emperor himself, or my father." came the samurai's vow with such seriousness, that made the girl grin. "You see, women aren't physically strong like men are, but what we lack physical prowess, we make up for our incredible emotional strength. So, I believe that, at least in these times of war and bloodshed, a man's role is to protect the physical body of the woman, while the woman's role is to protect her man's heart and soul. Without balance, there is no future and no happiness, wouldn't you agree? If we don't make the best out of this life, and look at the beauty of the world...Then have we even lived at all?" there was wisdom in the words that Kazan deemed rather naive, and yet...What she said wasn't wrong, per se. In fact, it was true. He was well aware that, with his body, the best he could do was protect her, but he would never be able to sooth her broken heart the same way she does to him...And likewise, he remembered the mirthful laugh he let out when she tried lifting his weapon from the ground.

However, he wasn't going to say anything out loud, and decided that, instead of voicing his opinions, he'd rather grunt and close his eyes, letting sleep take over him, his head still resting on her soft thighs.

Maybe having a wife wasn't as bad as he once thought...

But times change fast - Years pass, lives pass, the river passes...And yet, only one thing doesn't pass, and that is Yamaoka Kazan's rage, which only grew stronger and stronger with each day, and each time he heard himself getting called "The Oni".

He was desperately angry, and not even Y/N's loving touch or sweet voice could save his soul, so much, that in fear of accidentally hurting her, he decided to stay out and train or go on and kill more and more samurai impersonators, hoping to somehow release all his anger and be able to return home.

He knew Y/N would be worrying for him, but she needn't do such a thing, it would only hurt her heart, and that was the last thing he wanted. He was strong, and feared - Who would dare go against Yamaoka Kazan, anyway?

The days away from home multiplied, and he was away for a stupefying month...Y/N must be crying, worried sick. He wasn't afraid of anything physical in this world, yet the thought of her doe eyes shedding tears...It was something he was terrified of, especially if he was the cause of that.

But on the way home, he found a pink lotus flower, and he thought she would love it, so he gently took it with him back home. It was raining, and an ominous feeling crept into Kazan's heart, and he realised there seemed to be an almost dark aura around his home.

It wasn't yet sleeping time, so why were there no candles lit? There was no sign of any living being there? Where were the servants? Where was his beloved Y/N, waiting for him on the porch, playing the flute the way she always did?

Something was not right...

The man rushed inside the house, and as soon as he slammed open the sliding door, he was met with nothing that he expected - Pools of blood on the floor, while the otherwise neutral-coloured walls were splattered with the red liquid, and the corpses of the servants were brutally mangled and thrown around as if they were defect ragdolls.

It wasn't the horrifying sight that scared him, but the fate of his wife - So he made haste and ran to their shared room...And there she was.

In more pieces than she should be in.

Her hair was a mess, her kimono was a mess, her make up was a mess...And she had been tortured, from the way her wounds, slashes and cuts looked on her body.

Who...? Who could do something so...So...Disgusting...To a defenseless woman who had no means of fighting back? Where was the honour in defeating a weak civilian, such as her? What was the purpose of this massacre?! Was it to anger him? To bring out the Ogre from him? Is it what they all wanted? To see The Oni they feared and hated so much? They got revenge on a small woman, just to get to him?!

"Ah, Kazan, finally. Took you quite a while to return home...I thought her body would rot away and get swarmed with maggots by the time you'd return. And what's that in your hand? A flower? Did you want to apologise to her with a stupid flower? You have caused my daughter immense distress, and yet, she loved you to the very end. You should have seen her cry out your name, praying for you to come back home and save her...But, alas, the Ogre is never home! He is so busy killing, that he didn't realise he killed his own wife! Hahaha! Yamaoka Kazan, you are a pathetic excuse of a man, you could never come close to her strength! I tried everything to get her to tell me your secrets...But she didn't say a word. She ignored me. In the end, she came to hate me, her own father, who cared and loved her since she was born...And she loved you, some spineless monster who knows nothing but carnage!" what...? What was this man saying...? Is he truly implying that he tortured his own daughter to death, for...Information...On him...? "What...Did you do...?!" red was the only thing he could see, as he couldn't help but stare deep into her dead eyes that still held the fright and agony they last felt when she was still alive. "I KILLED HER! I KILLED MY OWN DAUGHTER, Y/N! This whole marriage was meant to bring down your stupid family of brutes and uncontrollable monsters! It was meant to kill YOU! But she was stupid! Nothing more than a sentimental woman! She LOVED you, a monster who knows only bloodlust! It's YOUR fault that she is dead, Kazan! YOU killed her! YOU!" her father yelled at him only meaningless gibberish.

In fact, Kazan couldn't comprehend words anymore. Instead, he could only hear whispers - They were soft and feminine...They sounded like Y/N...Could her ghost be talking to him? Was she trying to calm him down one more time, from beyond this world?

Yes, you were a saint, truly...It was a pity you had to meet him...If you hadn't, you'd have still been alive...And your beautiful flute song would still resound around the forest, along with the thrill of the birds.

"I am sorry, Y/N" was the last thing Kazan thought...

As The Oni took over completely, and went on the greatest blood shed known to mankind at that time...

------

What am I doing here...? What is this strange place...? It looks nothing like the beautiful flower garden Kazan made for me...So where am I?

The girl looked around like a confused meerkat, asking herself a limitless amount of questions, only to look down and realise her beautiful pink kimono was dirty with mud, and she gasped in shock. How could she let that happen! She can't let Kazan see her like this, what would he think?!

Ah, yes, that's it, just look around for Kazan, he'll surely know what's going on!

However, instead of finding her strong samurai, she saw three other people, all looking of a different race than her, and wearing such strange clothes...

Was she behind fashion, and she had no idea? She was sure she was buying only the best kimonos there were...!

"What are you just standing around for?! Run! We have to repair the generators!" a girl with unnatural coloured hair yelled at her before she sprinted the hell out of there.

Generators...? What are...Generators...? And why is this place so creepy...?

Hold up...This paper wall maze...This was from her home! Yes, that means she was close to home!

She ran through the little maze with a smile on her face, only to see one of the man working very focused on some kind of contraption, and he urged her to help him out. She sheepishly crouched opposite of him, frightened, but she carefully tried to do something, but instead, a loud noise and sparks came out, and she shrieked in fear, shielding her face as she fell on her back.

"What kind of sorcery is this?!" she cried out, her eyes watering. "What the hell is wrong with you?! Do you want to die that badly?! Get a grip and do something useful for once!" the man screamed in her face, before running the hell out of there.

Why were they all so rude to her...?

She was so used to her family, her servants, friends and Kazan to be nice with her, that she didn't realise people like these existed too.

A bit shaky, Y/N got up, trying to pat away the dust from her dirty kimono, and continued to look the estate...Only to find her home...But why was it in such a deplorable state...? Surely, she wouldn't allow her beloved home to end up like this...!

As Y/N made her way inside the home, she noticed the scary amount of blood splattered all over the place...Almost as if there was more red than colours of walls an the floor. It was so frightening...And confusing.

Who died here? And how in the world...I mean...She was sleeping, and then...

Oh.

Oh.

No.

She wasn't sleeping...

As soon as she stepped into her room, she didn't notice the blood on the floor, but the discarded pink lotus that laid on her pillow. As she crouched to take the flower in her room, she got a sudden flashback of her memories from the night she died...

She waited for Kazan, and the elderly servant woman was comforting her, pouring her tea and patting her back, as she played the same flute song she did when she first met beloved.

But then, her father paid her a visit...And a true hell was unleashed...

Her own father did something so atrocious...Such a betrayal was nothing she could ever phantom in her own life, and yet, her life was ended not by a stranger, but by her own kin.

As silent tears escaped her eyes and streamed down her delicate cheeks, a loud roar shook the whole estate, and the brusque blurting in the room of a huge man was enough to fright her to fall on the ground with a startled yelp.

And yet...

The raised weapon, the samurai garments he wore...And that Oni mask... There was only one person in the world who could look like this.

"Kazan...?" her voice came out weaker than a whisper, and she wasn't sure if he even heard her calling out his name. For a split second, she was terrified of the thought of that horribly enormous weapon striking her down where she stood, in her own bed, for the second time...And yet...

The monstrously big man dropped his weapon and slowly crouched in front of her, picking up the flower and putting it in her hair, pinning it away from her gorgeous face.

"Y/N...It really is you..." his voice came out as a dark grunt, in fact, in very much sounded like a demon, and yet, his moves and actions seemed more delicate than even this lotus flower.

The girl started laughing from happiness, allowing more tears to escape her eyes, being reunited with the love of her life, and she threw herself in her arms, feeling safer than she ever did in her life.

"I missed you so much, my dear Kazan...I missed you so...I can't believe such things happened to us...And yet, here we are, together again, even in death, even in hell." as she said that, she slowly took away his mask, and revealing his rugged face, obviously one of a man seasoned in war and tortured to death - She put her hand on his cheek, just as he used to do with her, and caressing him, she leaned in to plant a kiss on his forehead.

It was meant not only as a lucky charm, but as a 'home sweet home' as well, for there was no home without Kazan's arms wrapped around her protectively...

And there was no home without the petite body of his beloved S/O in his strong embrace, watching her fall asleep.

"I promise you never leave you again, my beloved cherry blossom." he said so, and yet, having been in this Hell longer than her, he knew of the atrocities she, as a Survivor, would have to endure, and the hell the Entity would put on the both of them.

And yet...

If anyone even dares to look at her the wrong way, The Oni would make sure that, no matter how immortal the Killer might be, he would bring an end to them.

He already lost her once, and he's not going to let a tragedy befall her ever again.

[robininthelabyrinth]

CQL-verse! The characters have the same age gaps between them as their actors and actresses! Wwx and Jyl are the same age, jc is 5 years younger than them. Lxc is 3 years younger than wwx&jyl and lwj is 3 years younger than him. Nmj is two years older than wwx&jyl and nhs is 8 years younger than him and the same age as lwj. (1/2)

Meng Yao is 2 years older than nhs and jzx is 2 years older than MY. I'm leaving the Wen Sibs out of this because otherwise WN would be the same age as wwx and WQ would be 4 years younger than him. But hey! If you want to go with that, go crazy! I was thinking more of Yunmeng Sibs focus, but I will be happy with anything! (2/2)

ao3

Untamed

Nie Mingjue hated the Wen sect to the point of death and war, but he had always had trouble hating sad and gentle Wen Ning.

Wen Ning was technically his peer – there were only two years between them in age – and therefore capable of the same sorts of responsibilities and duties towards righteousness as Nie Mingjue, meaning that he ought to hate him as much as all the rest. But at the same time, Wen Ning was only part of the main branch family indirectly, a ward of Wen Ruohan; he was constantly suppressed and even tormented by Wen Chao, the eldest son of that family. If anything, it seemed almost as if he’d been brought into the family just to act as the family’s scapegoat, the inferior copy that was so hapless that he made that self-indulgent hedonist Wen Chao appear somewhat competent in contrast.

Nie Mingjue couldn’t imagine treating any of his own cousins that way.

He and Wen Chao were often compared, both being about the same age, and their young brothers were of similar age as well, both of them only fourteen; this juxtaposition made sure that every single person in the cultivation world talk of them in the same breath. Nie Mingjue always came out the better in the comparison, and Wen Xu the same for his, which in the minds of most people balanced out, but which caused Wen Chao no end of rage. He knew he couldn’t take out his anger on the talented Wen Xu and so took out on poor Wen Ning instead.

Nie Mingjue hated the Wen sect.

He did not hate Wen Ning.

Wen Ning, who should not be here.

“Please,” Wen Ning said, nearly in tears, as he threw himself down to the floor in front of Nie Mingjue. He’d burst into the room in the inn Nie Mingjue was staying at, the guards that no sect leader could do without no matter what they wanted following close behind in alarm until Nie Mingjue had waved them off with a gesture; he’d been panting so hard that he’d only just now caught his breath. “Please help this useless older brother do one good thing with his life.”

Alarmed, Nie Mingjue reached out and caught Wen Ning by the shoulders, pulling him to stand and even forgetting himself enough to reach forward with a sleeve to dab away the tears staining the other man’s face.

“What is it?” he asked, feeling anxiety curdling in his gut. He’d spoken with Wen Ning before during the discussion conferences, both when he was younger and even, in a few stolen moments, after he became sect leader; he knew Wen Ning had a steady personality, if a weak one from all the bullying he endured, and that he was not given to unnecessary hysterics. If he could tolerate Wen Chao’s endless torment with a faint smile and a don’t worry sect leader Nie once you’re used to it it’s more funny than anything else, then what could make him act like this? “What is that you need help with? I do not understand.”

Wen Ning looked tired. He always had, his health had always been poor, but now it seemed worse than ever; there were circles under his eyes, and Nie Mingjue had no idea how he’d managed to get away from the Nightless City to come find him. The town he was currently in was close to the border the Qinghe Nie shared with Qishan Wen, but it was still an effort, especially for someone like Wen Ning. He might be a member of the Wen family by name, but his freedom was significantly curtailed, and it wasn’t only because he was sickly.

“My little sister is going to be attending the lectures at the Cloud Recesses,” Wen Ning said.

“The - Lan sect lectures?” Nie Mingjue repeated blankly. It was a stupid thing to say; of course it was the Lan sect’s lectures, who else would give lectures at the Cloud Recesses? And yet, at the same time – “The Wen sect hasn’t gone to them in generations.”

“Sect Leader Wen asked A-Qing to look for something,” Wen Ning said. “I don’t know what. He talks to her more than he talks to me, when she’s treating him with acupuncture and other such things – he only wants blood relations treating him now, so she’s passing along what she can do, the doctors all say she’s talented – he told her something, I think, but I don’t know what, he doesn’t talk to me…and she doesn’t talk to me, either.”

“She’s sixteen, they’re like that,” Nie Mingjue said, trying to offer comfort, but he didn’t like the sound of that – Wen Ruohan growing reliant on the medical skills of a teenager, talking with her as if she were an adult…it didn’t speak well to the Chief Cultivator’s state of mind. “So she’s going to go spy on them?”

“She is. And maybe more. There’s – there’s something back in the Nightless City, something Sect Leader Wen is refining in order to increase his power. Whatever it is, it’s powerful and evil.” Wen Ning looked paler than usual, somehow. “It was something that was kept in a cave near our village when we were younger, once. Sect Leader Wen took it away to study, and it made something go crazy, I got hurt, and my parents – anyway, it doesn’t matter. I can’t go near it without losing my senses, so I really don’t know anything about it. But I know that Sect Leader Wen only has a piece – and the Lan sect has another.”

Lan Xichen had never mentioned such a thing, but then again, he wasn’t really old enough that Nie Mingjue would expect him to know everything about his sect – he was after all a full five years younger than Nie Mingjue, three years younger than Wen Ning; he was still only seventeen, having only just graduated from his uncle’s classes the year before. He was only very technically sect leader, in the same way Nie Mingjue had only been technically sect leader after his father’s death, although unlike Lan Xichen Nie Mingjue had fought his way to step up to the task for real early on. He himself was only barely considered an adult at the age of twenty-two; it was no surprise that in the Lan sect, which had Lan Qiren to rely on, Lan Xichen might not know it all.

Or perhaps he knew, and simply didn’t say. Each sect was entitled to its secrets.

“What are you thinking?” Nie Mingjue asked.

“I’m thinking that my sister is constantly afraid for me, even though she’s younger than me,” Wen Ning said solemnly. “I’m thinking that she will break her own principles into pieces to protect me. I’m thinking that she’ll find whatever it is, or find a hint to it, and then Wen Chao will take his forces to burn the Cloud Recesses to the ground in search of it.”

Nie Mingjue could see that.

He didn’t want to, but he could.

“My brother is attending those lectures,” he said blankly. Nie Huaisang was there right now. He could be in danger – no, he would be in danger. Nie Huaisang wasn’t a good cultivator, and at fourteen, he was just a baby. Nie Mingjue had sent Meng Yao with him, nominally as his attendant, but in fact to get the benefit of the classes himself and also bully Nie Huaisang into actually learning something – he’d brought Meng Yao into the Nie sect after Jin Zixuan, full of guilt over how his father had treated a boy only two years his junior, had sent him a letter beseeching him for help following Meng Yao’s public and humiliating rejection from Jinlin Tower – but Meng Yao was only sixteen, of age with Wen Qing; what could he really do?

Moreover, sending Wen Qing and not Wen Xu, even though Wen Xu was the same age as Nie Huaisang and Lan Wangji, indicated that Wen Ruohan didn’t want his more promising son to get involved in whatever it was that he was planning, or maybe in whatever consequences followed. If Wen Chao really were to try something violent, they couldn’t afford to have a weakness already there…

“I need to get A-Qing out of the Wen sect,” Wen Ning said, and Nie Mingjue turned to look at him in shock. “Permanently. I’ve begged her to go, but she won’t leave me, she won’t leave our family of the Dafan Wen, but she has to. Something bad is going to happen soon. I know it. I don’t mind trading my life for hers, but she has to live.”

“Is there any way you can go to the Cloud Recesses as well?” Nie Mingjue asked, his mind already racing. He’d long ago given up on helping Wen Ning because he knew the other man wouldn’t turn traitor against his family, being an upright and filial child, but if his family had reached such a depth of corruption as that, then it was only right to leave them behind. If Wen Ning was finally accepting that, maybe there was something he could do. “You’re sensitive to the – whatever it is. Right? Maybe Wen Qing can suggest bringing you around to help her find her way to it.”

“How would that help?”

“It gets you somewhere safe, while I can rescue Dafan Wen – without a threat to you or to them, your sister would have no reason to insist on staying,” Nie Mingjue said, though it wouldn’t be him, exactly, that did the rescue – he’d need a firm alibi lest Wen Ruohan use it as an excuse to start something with his Nie sect. He might have prepared for war as much as he could, but the Wen sect was still stronger; if war broke out, he needed to make sure that he had the moral high ground.

Luckily, Wei Wuxian, that walking calamity of a head disciple of Yunmeng Jiang, had of late developed the habit of wandering over to visit various other sects, including Qinghe (and Nie Mingjue in specific), at his leisure, and no one ever would think to blame him for such a strange thing as a subsidiary sect of distant Wen sect cousins disappearing.

After all, Wei Wuxian had no reason to know or care about the Dafan Wen, and everyone knew he abjured politics completely, violently and repetitively, so as to make no mistake about anyone who might otherwise see him as competition for the Jiang sect’s true heir, Jiang Cheng. The five-year gap between their ages kept them from being compared – you couldn’t expect a child, and at fifteen Jiang Cheng was still very much a child, to keep up with an adult just turned twenty like Wei Wuxian – but there had always been whispers given everything with Cangse Sanren, and Wei Wuxian had had to work very hard to put a stop to them.

Wei Wuxian’s wandering habit had started back when he’d been trying to find Jiang Yanli a new fiancée to replace the engagement he’d broken by fighting with Jin Zixuan, however shameful it was for him to fight with a boy two years his junior. It was for that that he had come to Qinghe to meet Nie Mingjue, leading to them hitting it off as friends despite Nie Mingjue expressing that he had absolutely no interest in getting married to Jiang Yanli, or indeed to any nice young lady at all; then, in turn, Nie Mingjue had brought him to the Lan sect to meet Lan Xichen. They’d gotten along as well, although the most notable outcome of that visit had been little Lan Wangji developing a crush on his elder brother’s new friend while Wei Wuxian remained blissfully oblivious. His wanderings had continued even after Jiang Yanli and Jin Zixuan had found their way back to each other, affianced once again through their own choice rather than their parents’.

Said parents had not yet been informed of this new situation, as they were waiting for the right time to mention it. Or perhaps more accurately, the right situation to exploit with it…

Now, Nie Mingjue thought. Now was the time. It would work perfectly.

And not just as a distraction.

“Are you sure…?”

“I am,” Nie Mingjue said. “Whatever it is, Wen Ruohan must be kept from obtaining all of the pieces; he’s already too powerful, and more power will only make him more arrogant. I’ll speak with Lan Qiren. Once I take the Dafan Wen back to the Nie sect, your sister will be able to testify to whatever it is that she was asked to search for, which will give Lan Qiren the evidence he needs to get his sect’s approval for retaliatory measures. Moreover, using Wei Wuxian to help me will force Jiang Fengmian to support me as well; there’s no way he’d ever refuse to back him to the hilt.”

“The Jin sect –”

“Will join us,” Nie Mingjue said, thinking of Jiang Yanli and Jin Zixuan’s yet-to-be-announced engagement. Once Jin Guangshan realized that he would be pulled into the same boat as the rest of them whether he wanted to or not, any resistance he had would crumble like a structure made of sand being beaten down by the tide. “They won’t have a choice. Is there anything else I should know?”

“There’s a child,” Wen Ning said, biting his lips. “Around the same age as your brother or my sister, or maybe the Jiang sect heir, I don’t know, around that. He helps Sect Leader Wen with whatever he’s doing.”

“A child helps him?”

Nie Mingjue didn’t like the sound of that.

“I don’t know. Some secret his family knows, I think…his surname is Xue.”

Nie Mingjue frowned.

“I don’t know much about him,” Wen Ning added. “Only that he has some history with the Yueyang Chang clan. Bad history.”

“That’s a good start,” Nie Mingjue said. He realized that he hadn’t yet released Wen Ning’s shoulders, and gave them a small squeeze before doing so. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention. I will do everything I can to help you.”

Wen Ning looked at him with admiration in his eyes, making Nie Mingjue feel a little hot under the collar.

“Thank you, Chifeng-zun,” he murmured, and Nie Mingjue shook his head.

“Call me by name,” he said, and tried to smile. “You’ll be here a lot in the future, if all goes well.”

Nie Mingjue hated the Wen sect, but he didn’t hate gentle and sad Wen Ning.

He didn’t hate him at all.

[yanderenightmare]

bitchy bratty catty pretty-girl who gives fuck-all, the school tries to straighten her ways by introducing her to a temporary captured shiggy, who is soooo fucking pissed off at this smug pretty bitch, going to track her down and make her pay!!!! >-< plez Mizz Nightmare

yandere kidnapper ! SHIGARAKI TOMURA

TIP-JAR

goodiebag WARNINGS: yandere, dubcon/noncon, abuse, profanity, bullying, anxiety, drugging, kidnapping, abduction

CUTTHROAT

“Wow! Right for the kill?! You’re real cutthroat.”

She wasn’t really surprised to hear that they’d caught him, and unlike many others she wasn’t surprised to hear that they’d be holding him on campus. She had full confidence in both the faculty, the promising Hero-course students, and UA’s security system, knowing damn well it could serve well as a prison not just for the students who went there, such as herself, but for the leader of the League of Villains as well.

To say she felt safe as she walked with Aizawa to meet him would be an understatement. She knew why the teacher had been tasked with taking her there, the intention being to scare her, give her a picture of what scum she would become if she continued down the path of fuck-all she was currently on. But, even though she wanted to rebel against taking any orders, she was feeling something far more superior than the will to fight back, something that trumped safety and laid waste to fear, she was feeling thrill. 

This would be a means to an end, a cure for boredom as well as a way to show once and for all that she was a hopeless cause, maybe then these obsessive heroes would leave her the fuck alone already.

“Wow, you’re really ugly! I mean, they warned me you were, but I could never’ve imagined it’d be this bad!”

She was jeering laughs at the lanky figure who towered over her, his hand wrapped tightly around her throat and his eyes spiraling in disbelief in process of understanding why what was found beneath his fingertips wasn’t turning to ash.

“Aren’t bad guys supposed to be sexy?” Her idiotic rambling only succeeded in confusing him more as she shrugged his seemingly useless normal hand away, walking to sit down on the floor, knowing it would be a while until Aizawa let her out again. “You know, to seduce and lure people into their ranks?” She looked over the meal tray he’d flipped out of her hand before seizing her throat, nothing sharp, no cutlery, no broken glass, just one measly apple. “I’m guessing you’re not in charge of recruiting. I mean… who would ever want to follow your ugly mug?”

She watched in anticipation of what remark he’d hurl her way. She’d heard he was bratty, she’d heard he was the one who could set her straight, divert her from this collision-course she’d set herself out on. Yet, his response was more than disappointing, not at all the tornado of a tantrum she had been preparing for. “You talk too much.” He didn’t even sound at all any provoked by her words, dismissing her as he slowly made to pick up the apple from the ground, checking to see if it was his quirk that was gone or if there was something else afoot, finding his answer in the ashes of the fruit.

“Come on.” She drawled, crossing her legs beneath her, keen eyes looking at him as he too sat back down to lean against the wall, looking only a fair bit of annoyed with her presence, as though she were a stain on his shirt, an inconvenience of some sorts. “You were gonna kill me!” She laughed, his red scrutinizing orbs looking to her with a sneer. “Without a thought, in cold blood, no remorse, even after I gave you food like the mutt you are, the least I can do is spit in your face!” 

He didn’t answer. Eyes still set on her where she sat planted without a single care, annoyed with how comfortable she looked, as though she were in her element, as though she was winning some sort of game, a game that wasn’t even about him as her eyes flittered to the black-glass of the window every now and again.

She clicked her tongue, beginning a new ramble. “Tell me, Shiggy.” She smiled, eyes wicked and gleaming and untamed. “That quirk of yours…”

She might have phrased it all like a question, but Shigaraki could hear it plain and simple, how her one goal was to mock him, poke at him until he burst, and not even for the sake of watching him burst, but for the sake of proving to whomever was on the other side of that glass that they couldn’t tame her. He didn’t need to know her entire story to see that much, how he was being used as a pawn to convert some meaningless pretty-girl.

“Can you control it? Or does everything you touch turn to ash no matter your desire?” It wouldn’t have been out of place if she’d licked her lips with how dripping with venom her words were. “It’s like the Midas touch, isn’t it?”

Her poetic phrasing of his deadly quirk had his eyes narrowing, but he hadn’t much time to think her wording over before she began a new escapade.

“Have you ever fucked anyone, Shiggy?” She didn’t even look at him as she asked, alerting him of what he already knew, how she had no interest in his answer, only his reaction, and the reaction his reaction would beckon from the people in the other room. 

She was trying to rile him up, prove how vicious she could be, prove how she hadn’t a single fuck to give. 

“I bet you’ve never truly touched anyone. How could you? I mean, first…” She laid down on her back with a careless roll, looking to the ceiling, ignoring him if it weren’t for the fact she was talking to him, or about him, or at him. “Who would ever want to fuck you? All those wrinkles and all those scars. You look like the onset of death.” She giggled, and he watched her tits bounce as though they were laughing at him too. “I cannot imagine anyone willingly wanting whatever you have to offer. And even if you force it on them, you’d be bound to fuck up with how much they’d struggle.” You’d think she carried a vendetta toward him, with how personal her attacks were, yet it was all given away with how little she was paying attention to him, as though she’d judged already whatever it was she found interesting and was now done with him. All she remained focused on was creating a show, to see how far she could take it before anyone came in to stop her, how much she could poke until something snapped, how much she could bend until something broke. “Just one slip of the hand and you’re left with your dick only halfway wet in a pile of dust.”

He didn’t know if she knew how correct her imagery was, he guessed she didn’t, he wanted to believe she’d show a bit more restraint then, a bit more unease, more respect. She acted as though she wasn’t trapped in a box with a notorious villain, seemingly unaware of her own stature as well as his. She was nothing but a school-girl and yet she felt comfortable enough in her safety to be lying on her back, flinging insult at the person she was locked in with.

“I don’t see how it could bother you for too long though.” Again, she had him intrigued. “I mean… pretty stupid bitches who’re only worth one fuck anyway can’t really be counted as a loss, can it?”

It was clear she didn’t view herself as one of said pretty stupid bitches, even though a pretty stupid bitch is exactly what she looked like in Shigaraki’s eyes. Perhaps that was her point exactly.

“Have you ever dusted someone who did count as a loss?” She rolled over, head propped up on her elbows, laying in her palms, her feet kicking the air behind her. “You ever fuck up so bad? Committed an irredeemable act? Something so unforgivable even you can’t forgive yourself?” Her eyes were set on him again now. “Do you think about it every day?” Her tone shifted then, to something sadistically sweet. “Does it hurt just as much now as it did then?” Her face split into a grin, eyes ablaze as she observed, searched for a breach in his composure. “What happened to mommy and daddy, Shiggy.” She singsonged, toying with him. “Were they your first victims? Did you cry? Do you still cry? Or did they deserve it?”

Her look was earnest, salacious until she rolled her eyes in boredom at his lack of response.

Sighing, she calmed back down, briefly. “I get it… You don’t want to play with me ‘cause you don’t think I’m a worthy player.” She scoffed as she looked to the side with a melodramatic drag. “You should check yourself. We keep you in a cage, give you food, have you on a leash and collar. You’re nothing but our pet!”

She giggled again, biting her tongue, gnawing on it between the rows of her teeth with her mouth open in a wide smile.

“You know… My quirk is called immunity, but it should really be called repellent.” She looked at her hands then, now kneeling in front of him. Her gaze split like lightning, snapping to look at him again, a catlike smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth. “You and I aren’t that different, are we?” It looked for a second as though she were about to stand up, but the movement fell short as she instead gave way to crawl closer to him, one elegant arm followed by the other, all with the grace of a huntress, a panther easing in for the kill. “In fact… I think I’d go as far and say we’re the exact same…” His eyes didn’t deceive him, this time she did lick her lips, only now her words weren’t dripping with venom, but with some other sickly-sweet nectar. “’Cause…where I never let anyone come close, you let ‘em come close… only for them to die!”

“That’s enough.” He must have closed his eyes the second he felt her breath fan over his face, because he’d missed the time the erasure hero had walked in. “This was a waste of time.” The dark-haired man groaned, disappointed.

“Aw, really?”

She wasn’t in front of him anymore, to his surprising disappointment, though her sweet smell still lingered about him pleasantly.

“And I was just getting to the fun part…” She walked to the threshold of the cell-door, not once indicating she’d turn around and take one final look at him. “Well, anyway… tootles, pet.”

Even as she insulted him, she did it twice over by not returning his gaze.

-

She was still sleeping, she noted as her mind, though still groggy and drowsed out, became lucid enough to start thinking. She was sleeping, yet the sleep felt unsafe, as though her alarm was bound to go off any second, firmly shaking her awake and telling her time was running out for her to get to school. And if she’d slept through the alarm, a teacher was soon to come fetch her. Yet, for now she remained halfway asleep, waiting for an alarm or a knock on the door unknowing of how it would never arrive.

He wasn’t sure if it was the drug that had perhaps made some of her senses dull under the impression, for… surely she should feel that her mouth was stuffed full and made to suck on a rag, surely she should feel that her wrists were tied together behind her back, and how her thighs and legs were secured together in a frog tie, the rough rope, scratchy in texture, and how it scraped against her soft doughy skin. Perhaps he didn’t tie them tight enough. It was hard to get a good grip without accidentally dusting the ropes, but he knew the struggle was worth it, seeing her now, in all her defenseless vulnerable rightful glory.

“Not so tough now…” He taunted at her small sleeping frame. Even with her clothes still on, he knew her naked body was only a mere touch away from him. How he could spread her open without her being able to kick, only wiggle for him, like a worm on a hook. No… that imagery is too ugly to be describing her, when she’s so far from ugly. She’s more like a butterfly trapped on a pin, wings fluttering hopelessly, reduced to nothing but beauty, nothing but a little doll for him to play with, tamper and poke fun at just like how she’d done back when he was captured at UA.

He decided pro putting the blindfold on her, perhaps the product of her bullying him in the cell, her jabs at his appearance subconsciously having gotten to him despite himself wanting to dust them off like he did with everything else. Her comments were sharp, and seemed to have the same type of immunity her body had, where his ego, much like himself, hadn’t the thickest of skin. Besides, she was… so painfully out of his league.

It hardly mattered though, now that he would regain all the control.

She laid on her stomach, face mushed against the mattress. He’d removed the pillows and comforter so she’d be placed like a centerpiece on his little operating table. She looked so harmless now, so sweet, especially tied up the way she was, and with those whimpering moans that were simmering to the surface, breaching her sleep, escorted by her wiggling, her delicious tempting little wiggling, begging for Shigaraki to come introduce himself, now with the turned tables.

“Did you really think I was just gonna let it slide?” Her wiggles came to an abrupt holt, breath caught in her throat, making her choke out a curt gasp through the thickness of her makeshift gag. “Did you think you were safe? Like you were simply spitting on a grave. No ghosts coming to haunt you.” She panicked once she felt the bed dip, four fingers sharp in their venture, sweeping up her back, settling around her neck, drawing out painful sudden studded goosebumps, spreading across her skin like wildfire in a field. “Silly little slut.” She squealed at the feel of his warm breath on her cheek, unable to move away, her head halfway buried in the soft mattress, teeth sinking into the cloth in her mouth when his tongue, wet with drool, large and flat, dragged up her already teary cheek. “Boo.”

Her ears were burning, so much blood gushing and rushing and pooling in her head like a storm, she barely registered him drawing back with that maniacal giggle, where with as trademark as it were, there was no doubt where she was or who she was with. Yet, she hadn’t the time to think about it, she hadn’t the time to regret or answer questions she hadn’t even the time to ask, because as her mind was cooking up chaotic whirlwinds of fear, crippling fear despite being crippled enough already, brutal fear that her gut feeling like acid festering and mind reeling in on itself in such vehemence she felt she might just faint, give out like a light in a blizzard, she was given no time before he was talking again, pushing her even further out on the edge she found herself, stepping on her fingers one by one, with no mercy as she dangled above jagged rock that were sure to spear her like an arrow through a dove.

“You were wrong, you know.” She felt his hands trace a careful set of four fingers down the fabric of her shirt, rubbing into her spine, further pushing the breath from out of her lungs. “I’ve fucked before.” He spoke casually, though peppered in between the notes of nonchalance was found the spiked flavors of spiteful mockery, like the mean girl on campus, like how she usually talks, like how she had spoken to him. “But, what I haven’t done is played with someone’s body the way I’m gonna play with yours.” He listened to her whimper, sobs surely to soon wrack through her body, uncontrollably and thoroughly, making her gasp and choke on nothing but air and fear. “I mean, it’s only fair.” She heard the shrug in his voice, that sarcastic sigh and lightheartedness. “You fuck with me, I fuck with you.” This time he growled and she swore she would piss herself with how scared she was.

He was going to kill her, she knew it, she could feel it crawling up and down her body as though mites were hidden in her clothes. She already sensed him peeling off her skin, flaying her with her screaming. And in those seconds, those hopeless seconds, she wished for death, for it to be quick, painless, like simply snuffing out a light. She nearly prayed, squeezing her eyes shut to pray to that God or Devil she never believed in, never needed as badly as she needed them now. She wished for her heart to give out, for the right vein to pop, for a lung to collapse, anything, just for her to be dead before he had the mind to torture her to death.

“Does that sound fun, pet.” And there she broke, waterworks in full effect, no longer simple silent tears but something that had built under pressure like boiling pot of water, bubbling, soon to be blubbering incoherent sobs out into her gag, all to his vengeful amusement.

He watched her for a moment, one longer than he’d probably intended, despite not having view of her eyes, watching the blindfold wet as her eyes leaked at the complete overwhelming loss of hope, lips sucking on the gag those tears that managed to escape and run down to salt her lips.

“So pretty, aren’t you?” He accused, giving her barefoot a squeeze, making her wiggle with what mobility the bonds allowed her, looking handicapped, as though he’d disintegrated both her arms and legs when he’d simply tied them up where they would be stored safely and out of the way until he deemed it okay for her to use them again, where until then… she’d remain his little immobile toy. “Pretty little girl, all tied up.” He giggled, both amused and pleased, leaning down to tug those locks of hair that had curtained her face behind her ear, making the thin wisps at the back of her neck bristle in alarm. “All alone with the big bad ugly villain.” He bit it out with a smirk, and she swore she felt venom drop where he spit the words on her face. “Pretty girl… dressed in such pretty things.” He mused, tugging on the fabric of her silk pajama shirt, his other hand stroking a thumb over himself and his caged member, the beast behind the boxer, the one she was still so completely unaware of. “To hide her rotten core.”

He snickered some more at the notice of how ticklish she was, or perhaps it wasn’t as much a reflex but rather a violent display of her fear, how she kicked, or tried to kick her legs, once his hand with its lanky slender fingers danced a pattern on the sole of her foot.

“They won’t be of much help to you now…”

It’s was a cute display, seeing her struggle in an attempt to swat away his spidering hand, endearing, had him drooling he realized, but didn’t bother to wipe his chin, instead giving into the urge he had to touch what was so temptingly sprawled out before him.

“I bet you think of these as your armor, don’t you?”

All five of his fingers touched down on her shirt, and soon there was no shirt left to separate his dry course fingers from her warm skin. He nearly let out a gasp as he watched how she stayed in place, having not become a pyramid of ash. Her beautiful body still right there, warm glowing skin still touchable, more touchable than anything else.

“Keeping you safe from prying eyes and hands… Not my hands though.”

He could excuse how he hesitated on the fact of him wanting to enjoy himself, wretchedly and thoroughly, gorging in every moment he was gonna make her scream, but… he knew that wasn’t the reason… he was… and he hated to admit it, but… nervous. He had this gorgeous creature trapped and under his thumb and he was nervous? No matter how terrified she was and immobilized it was like she still had the power, just like she had in that prison cell.

Perhaps it was due to the fact that he’d thought about her everyday he was trapped in there. She had said she would see him later yet she never once, not once, came a second time. Why would she lie? Just to fuck with him some more? One last and lasting punch in the face? He had dreamed of it. How many times had he fantasized about doing every possible nasty thing in the book to her, teach her a lesson, make her beg, make her kneel, make her bow before him? But now, having her right there, this frail little girl who wouldn’t have the strength to fight him even without the tight rope holding her down, this little girl who despite being just that had him enthralled for months, still just as hellbent, enslaved, spellbound to make her pay… but that wasn’t it either… making her pay was only half of it, maybe even less… what he wanted, what he truly wanted, was to prove to her that he could have her wrapped around his finger despite being what ugly freak she’d made him out to be, that despite being ugly, he could have a pretty-girl like her melting.

He gave fully into his wishes then, her shorts gone with a touch, leaving her in a precious pair of cotton boxers. A sigh of reverence left him, a shudder running through him. He was expecting red lace or something exotic, something vain and narcissistic meant to enhance or simply show off just how pretty she was. He figured that was what she’d dress in, something sexy, because she had the full body that one believes go hand in hand with hot lingerie, yet… she’d chosen comfort. And why wouldn’t she? When she could make it look like the hottest item his eyes ever had the privilege of seeing.

“Fuck…” He drawled, now with a wanton whine, his hand giving himself a squeeze as his cock was beginning to strain uncomfortably inside the confines of his boxers. “Just look at you…”

He only barely dared touch her, not just out of fear of her disappearing like anything else would, but because he didn’t at all feel as though he had the right to put his hands on something so beautiful.

“You shouldn’t be allowed to wear clothes.” He stated, still in awe. “Not when they cover up this perfect body.”

She screamed into her gag as he grabbed around her waist, pulling her pliable little body up into a kneeling position, then pulling and arranging some further to have her in the same position, just over his slap this time, with his bulging cock rubbing through the fabric of his briefs up into her still clothed sex, though with both cloths a thin material she felt the abrasive ticklish friction begin to stir something in her lower abdomen despite her fear and no regard to her disgust. And now, provided with the full view of her delectable little frame, her precious tits sprung free and strutting towards him with how her arms were bent in their confinement behind her back, and perky by both the cold wind of his breath and the goosebump-giving anxiety, leveled with his face, looking eager to receive his mouth, perfect nipples for him to suck on, gnaw between the rows of his teeth.

“These perfect tits…” He licked his lips, hands kneading one mound greedily as the other held her steady. “And this…” He placed all five fingers on the fabric of her panties, turning them to ash, all five staying to touch the delicate skin of her sex, feeling her quake, such a good replacement to feeling someone disintegrate. He groaned out a curse, body sagging, slouching at the sight of her exposed bare little private, he hunched over in awe as he ran his fingers through to disappear in the slit of her precious pussy. “This perfect little pussy.”

She wiggled on his digits with a squealing whimpering sob, so alive and warm and soft he could cry with how safe he was beginning to feel, without the fear of touching just a bit too much getting in the way. Although he was feeling the slight sensation of inferiority in the light of her perfection, or maybe even because of it, he decided he’d give a little scare, perhaps as a means of tipping or evening the scales.

“You know, pretty girl…” His other hand, the one not currently preoccupied with cupping her pussy, brutally brazen for the first time, spread its fingers to stroke the dome of her ass, before curling like claws to grab a fist-full of the ample flesh, making her jump and lose balance, resulting in falling flush against his chest all with a muffled cry. Her face mushed against his collar, her wet reddened nose painting tears onto his throat, such a strange type of comfort against his scars. “I’ve never slapped anyone?” He could feel her heartbeat and how it hammered like a race-horse on the track. “Or, no, I’ve slapped plenty, but a slap from me means death, usually.” His hand ascended, wrapping around her throat, all five fingers with hungry-pressured fingertips, guiding her back off his chest to sit properly, though leaning to bite her earlobe, all to feel her rub down on his aching cock some more. “But I slap you and it means pretty marks and pretty screams, doesn’t it?”

He laughed, knowing full well that he wasn’t going to hurt her, or at least not as badly as he had given reason to think.

“Such a fucking pretty girl, aren’t you?” He trailed a path of wet open-mouthed kisses down her neck and between her breasts, gripping her waist as she recoiled back. “With pretty tits.” Breath labored, or hefty with greed and desire. “Pretty girl with a pretty pussy.” He squeezed her sides, as though getting ready to make a ragdoll of her again, pulling her into the desired position. “Let me taste you.”

Her heart hammered like a hammer hitting an anvil, as she was placed on her back, hands crushed beneath her, uncomfortably wrenching in their bonds. Her mind, stuck in its prospect, hadn’t pieced it together, despite having been stripped naked, she still hadn’t given it a thought, hadn’t dared give it a thought, but his comment made the realization coat thickly, drape her and the pressure seemed too much for her mind to take, plummeting into a free-fall. He wasn’t just going to kill her, he was going to rape her first.

Thighs easily pried open for him to settle in between, scooting back on the bed so he could lie down, lower half humping the mattress desperately, imagining having her wrapped around him, but all in good time. She shook more than writhed, seizurely beneath him, with her blushed pussy a beautiful slit so ripe for the taking, quivering at the warming breath he whispered upon the tender flesh. With his hands wrapped around each their ankle he pushed her thighs and legs up and out of the way as to not have her knee him in the head while he feasted.

He listened to her struggling to breathe, her stomach rising and falling sporadically with her sobs, untuned and painful and begging for any kindness he had to spare, he was going to give her exactly that. Kindness.

His chapped lips felt so good it was cruel, abrasive and inescapably delicious, welcomed yet unwelcome by the bucking of her hips as she squealed into her gag, falling prey to more and more hopelessness. His tongue came second, warm and wet and long and strong, sliding in between her folds only to swipe up and flick off at her clit, forcing a shudder to run all the way through her core into the tips of her toes, mind reeling.

“So cute.” He noted the sensitivity with a mocking jeer, the sound simmering on her skin. “I bet a pretty girl like you’ve never been fucked by a guy like me before.” Then his teeth were the ones to make an impact, grazing over her budding clit with how it reached out in search for stimulation, having its wish granted in such a sense forcing her toes to curl. “Come on my ugly face, pretty-girl.” She really couldn’t resist with how his words were tickling on that sensitive spot, and how intent on finding and following that spot that had her coming on done and abusing it, playing with it with his tongue and chapped lips, switching between such smooth soft yet forceful pressure and bristled rough chaffed contact, making her spasm, wanting so desperately to tug her arms loose to push his incessant face off, because she wouldn’t be able to resist it, she was going to come and make an humiliating mess on his tongue just like he wanted, the knot was going to snap and she would be screaming from the force of it.

He smirked with the taste of her essence on his tongue, giving her a couple more torturous kitty-licks that had her brutally recoiling by the oversensitivity he was abusing. It served well as an ego-boost as he was suddenly feeling the urge to take her blindfold off, make her gaze upon who had her wrapped around his finger. What more, he wanted to remove her gag, hear what she had to say to defend herself, what pathetic please she would come with to try and prevent him from going any further.

His mouth sloshed its way up her stomach, hands touching and grabbing and groping with greedy fingers onto anything and everything they got ahold of, feeling up her smooth skin and soft flesh, before having made their way to grab at the blindfold. Her eyes were petrified, blinking rapidly, especially every time his clothed cock bumped into her bare pussy, leaving strings of spit and fine silken cum to hang from between where she parted with the cotton of his pants.

She was thoroughly out of it, delirious, fear-ridden and numbed with pleasure, cotton yet swivel-eyed as he fought to be her focus. He pulled the gag out of her mouth too, wiping his chin before turning the fabric to ash, eyes looking her over all the while.

His tongue rolled over his lips. “Such a pretty face.” He gathered her face between his fingers, blunt fingertips pushing into squishy bloated cheeks. “Even prettier with those tears you fucking crybaby.” It will never get old, the feeling of nothing happening still under all his five fingers. “Even better with my handprint, don’t you think?” It was funny how she didn’t seem to pick up anything of what he was saying. “Or covered in my cum.” Her brows had scrunched so hopelessly close together, whimpers upon sniffles and whiny mewling and hiccupping panting, so pathetic and precious. “So fucking pretty.” He groaned, giving his lips a second wetting with his tongue. “Kiss me, pretty-girl.” He scrunched her lips together some more, leaving her incapable of refusing.

She tasted herself on his tongue, choking on the sweetness as he forced it like a slug down her throat. Her own tongue submissive in nature, staying beneath and out of the way of his. It was a series varying from needy whimpering moans and growls that followed from his throat, poured into her receiving mouth, giving nothing but weak whines in return. His one free hand, the other one still holding a firm grip onto her chin and cheeks, continued in its hungry exploration, grabbing with an almost childlike curious freedom, leaving painful marks in their wake, having her yelp against his willful lips, which smirk grew upon every inch of reaction she fed him, until pulling away in a haze, panting, with a new little wish he was going to have her be the star of.

“Let me fuck that pretty face.”

She hadn’t the time, nor the mind, to form any protest, reduced to mere whimpering as he pulled her back into a kneeling position, conjoined thighs and legs folded beneath and supporting her ass, still with her arms tied snuggly and unbudgingly behind her back, made to watch him fiddle with the band to his sweats, pulling them below his hips and falling to his thighs, displaying his surprisingly clean boxers and not so surprising hardness. Cock throbbing within its confines, fighting desperately to come free. His hand pulling his boxers down and, cock springing loose, slapping against his abdomen, standing long and hard, tip blushed red and angry, a bead of pre-cum spilling sweetly from his slit.

“Open up, lick it up.”

She’d been lost in taking in the sheer size of him, girth thick and threatening, looking bigger than what she could wrap her hand around, her stomach twisting in tension and unease. Too caught up in imagine it ripping her apart than realizing how he was going to fit it into her mouth first.

Her eyes widened upon the thought, lips slightly apart in horror, bottom-lip quivering. “Come on, pretty-girl.” One hand tugged on his shaft, the other gripped her face, protruding nails to sink into her jaw, prying her mouth father apart to accommodate his size.

She whined at the taste of him, arms struggling behind her back, knees shuffling wider apart to support herself as he pushed on further, fingernails still digging into her soft cheeks, making her lips pucker into a soft welcoming oval. He liked the way her brows furrowed into that beautiful look of plead that had his balls aching where they hung, soon to be pressed up against her soft skin, smothering her chin. He also enjoyed how her whimpers had turned to delicious little vibrations of his cock, drumming alongside his length, such pretty friction.

“Come on, take all of me.” He licked his lips as he urged, other hand coming to caress the back of her skull, gathering her pretty locks between his fingers, abandoning all regard to how she should be turning to nothing but dust molecules instead of being a nice warm soft wet pleasure hole for him. His usually small scrutinizing scarlet eyes turning moon-wide with lustful frenzy. Voice ragged as he clawed at her scalp to obey him, no thought to her whining in protest. “You can do better.” His tip met with the back of her throat and her whine turned more desperate, nearly a scream, but he couldn’t care, not with the memory of her talking to him like he was some pussy-bitch, he was going to show her who the bitch and who the boss was. “Such a pretty little thing with such a nasty filthy ugly fucking mouth.” He spit through grit teeth, begging to fuck the back of her throat, having her gagging on him, hopeless in search for breath. “A mouth like that is only good for one thing.” He gave a few more painfully deep ruts, having her eyes roll back at the loss of breath, before ripping loose again. “Same goes for that pussy.”

“No, no.” She scrambled on the bed, trying to get away, trying to rip free, so hopeless he should have felt bad, but couldn’t bring himself to the feeling as he sat there and laughed, eyes wild, dick prospering, hand pumping his length to the sight of her.

He followed her pathetic struggling little shame, climbing on top of her. The panic swallowed her again, forcing a overwhelmed rush of sobs to come spluttering and blubbering and screaming from her little shape caught beneath him. “Such a little slut.” His fingers were at once groping her pussy, diving between her folds to rub her slit and clit. “Still so wet, are you excited?” She turned her head away as she struggled, eyes squeezed shut. “Aw, pretending it’s not me.” He snickered. “Good luck.”

Offended, he decided against making it pleasant for her, thinking she deserved as little sympathy from him as she had showed him, but his brutal actions slowed at the feel of the pressure around his finger when he’d pushed it inside her.

“So tight.” He stated, shocked as he tried swirling the digit inside, to feel the walls giving little wiggle-room to do so. She winced as he hooked, a heavy breathy shrill type of wince, as though he was pulling a knife from her gut.

He left the finger there, much to her discomfort.

“That comment…” He started, working her tightness as much as he could, still with only one finger. “When we first met.” His other hand gathered her face again, forcing her to look at him as he leaned down, resting his forehead on hers, wanting to see those eyes as he got confirmation on his suspicion. “You said you push people away… that you were a… repellant.” Her breathing hitched as she sniveled like a little girl who scraped her knee. “Did that count for this as well?”

He hadn’t yet let the smile stretch on his face, but the chiding smirk started to grow as the answer was clearly displayed all over her face and by the telltale feeling his finger shoved inside her way too tight hole told him.

“Aww, is the pretty little girl a virgin?” He gave her no inch of regret, even with the fact clear as day. Having worked her tightness well enough to cram another bony-knuckled finger inside her, making her cry out. “Don’t worry, that pretty pussy is in good hands.”

She owed him, this way they would be even. Besides, he wasn’t making it completely miserable for her either. Her face might be telling one story of torment, but her drooling pussy was telling him something utterly different. Perhaps it was due to her amateur ability to hold on, but she was soon creaming all over his fingers, body spasming in tired bliss, eyes fluttering for a moment or two, trying to grasp what the fuck was happening. It was adorable.

“I think my little slut is ready.”

She murmured a sigh, energy spent on crying and struggling and coming twice already, all she could do was moan when his cockhead broke through her tight little weeping hole. He had to moan as well at the snug hug her pussy squeezed and seized him with, biting roughly into his bottom lip, tooth snaggling in the dip of his scar. Brows raised in bliss, scrunched in an eruption, as he sunk deeper and deeper into her tight convulsing cunt, preciously clutching around him, fluttering upon the fulfilling snug fit that had her toes cramping in their curled state, eyes zoning out, unable to focus, mouth blubbering and chewing on incoherent sentences, only capable on slurring out muddled moans and wet gasps as he fucked slowly into, lolling his hips forward carefully, holding onto the mouthwatering feeling of her warmth around him.

He pushed his thumb into her clit, which had her back arching and moan ripped from her throat before she settled down into the mattress again, welcoming the stimulation where she was crippled to preventit. “Your pretty pussy loves being taken by my disgusting cock, doesn’t it?” She could only hum and croon in reply, as he hit the very back, pushing into her cervix with a rather soft nudge, having her result to sucking on her bottom-lip, purring whines like a little kitten taking pleasure from their master. “I hear it in your pretty moans.”

He was no longer biting out the word pretty as though it were a curse or venom on his tongue. It sounded more like praise than anything, something akin to awe, pride even, smug for having it all under his thumb, burying his cock inside the word, for being the one to have reduced such a pretty thing to such a pretty mess, all for him, all by him, making her all his.

She made a shuddering gasp, moaning into his mouth as he leaned down. “Oh, is the pretty girl gonna cum all over my disgusting cock.” He cooed, all five fingers placed on her cheek when cupping it to have those gorgeous opium-blown eyes look at him when she came undone, for him to find such dangerous satisfaction in seeing her conquered beneath him, finding it to be the last push to send him off his own edge as well. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum in that pretty pussy.”

He made to have that final bone-crushing kiss, faces mushed together in a sloppy mess of wet slippery tongues and drool, moaning and groaning, inhaling each-other.

Reduced to mere gasping and panting. Cock, having for the first time felt the fulfilling pleasure of blowing inside the warm comfort of a precious goddess, feeling her gush and come all over him in the near split-second, feeling her clench and tighten around him like a vice, robbing and ringing and milking him for every drop he was worth. He gave some more pumps, pushing deep within her, felt a shudder run down the underside of his cock, overstimulated and satisfied for the first time.

Still coming down from his high, he made to take in her shape and state.

He hadn’t really fantasized she’d be so pliant after being fucked, but looking at her now, he couldn’t imagine her any other way, anything more right then her glossy sweat-slicked body spasming in aftershocks of her orgasms, laid so preciously snug against his chest, thighs visibly shaking with still small feeble stuttering moans slipping from her lips in blubbers. He wasn’t too far from the same state himself, having had only barely the mind before exhaustion rendered his limbs too heavy for moving, to untie the knots and rearrange them into something more comfortable. He decided tying her wrists together in front of her to be better, legs free but too tired and dumbed-out to struggle.

He looked at her drowsy state with a smile, betting he could make such a grateful little pet out of her, and if not, then scramble her mind through so many cruel methods, and make do with a brainless toy instead. But, looking down at that blissed-out hopeless look on her face and that dainty defenseless body he’d manipulated and forced to its knees, he couldn’t really see how any cruel methods would be needed.

It seemed to him that all she needed was cock, a couple of orgasms forced from her pent-up body, a little relief. The little brat was just a bit grouchy and grumpy because she hadn’t had her pussy played with. He could relate, he also gets frustrated when not getting his dick wet for a while. She was just begging for someone to come handle her and that’s all there was to it. Just look at her now, so sweet and spent, lying in his arms.

Come to think of it, he knew for a fact that he wouldn’t be needing to apply any harsh treatments in taming her, she just needed to be tied up and made to feel just how good being taken care of feels until she accepted it willingly. And if and when she decides on being bratty, he’ll have plenty of methods of shutting that trap right up, or in making her scream.

TIP-JAR

[gamerbearmira]

Peter Pan Antoni? I can see an off shoot where he comes and finds 15 year old Mirabel and brings her to be the lost kids mother

Hello hello! Sorry this took so long to write, I've been busy with finals and I'm just now finishing this on my lunch period 😩

But here we go! This the snippet I got ;) In this AU, Antonio was never at Casita, and Bruno went to Neverland when he was much younger, around Mirabel's age. Let's get into it!

Written by: Me!

Warnings: Mentions of Abandonment

Type: Hurt/Comfort, Fluff

Words: 1,490

_____

Neverlands New Mom

Mirabel sat in her room…no. Nursery. She sat in the nursery. She had been there for the past decade. Looking to her side, the clock read 12:05 a.m. That was it. It had officially been one week since any of her family interacted with her. Her mom, dad, and sister Luisa had been busy all week. Abuela and Isabela deemed everything she did wrong, so she avoided them regardless. Pepa and Felix had their own kids to worry about, and Dolores and Camilo had chores.

She just wanted someone to talk to. Someone to be her familia, anybody, she didn’t care.

“Maybe I’ll just go to sleep,” she said, shaking her head as she stood. She turned and climbed into bed, gently placing her glasses onto the table. “Buenos noches Casita,” she whispered before closing her eyes. The house clicked its tiles.

After about 2 hours of not being able to sleep, she heard the nursery window open and something hit the floor. Mirabel kept her eyes shut and did not move. She stayed dead still. The little pitter patter of feet ran across the floor, before finally stopping.

Right in front of her bed.

She held her breath and didn’t move. “Why isn't Casita doing anything?!” she thought. She heard the person move again, taking something off the bedside table.

“Psst,” the voice said. It sounded child-like—no older than 5 or 6 maybe. “Pssst…wake up!” it whispered again.

Mirabel was hesitant. This random voice appeared out of nowhere and now was calling her. On one hand, she’s scared out of her mind. On the other hand…it's a child and Casita hadn’t reacted so…

Mirabel opened her eyes and quinted as she looked at the blurred blob next to her. The blob moved and she clenched her eyes shut. When no pain came, she opened her eyes to see…a boy. Getting a better look at him, she realized that he couldn’t have been older than 4, maybe 5. His hair was curly and untamed, and his clothes were tattered, and there were a couple holes here and there. His wide, curious eyes watched her sit up, and look at him. For a moment, they just sat and looked at each other, before the boy finally spoke up.

“Hola,” he whispered, looking at Mirabel with a smile.

“H…Hola,” Mirabel said quietly. “Who…are you?” she asked. The boy smiled wider and put his hands on his hips.

“My name is Antonio! But you can call me Tonio,” he proudly declared. “What’s your name?”

“Mirabel…Mirabel Madrigal,” she moved forward a bit. “Why are you here? How did you get in? This is the second level!”

Antonio giggled, shaking his head. “I got in through the window! Your house is very nice,” Casita clicked its floorboards happily, to which Antonio smiled. “And I’m here to take you with me.”

“Take me where?” Mirabel pressed. The boy didn’t even look worried or scared. He looked quite happy, actually.

“To Neverland of course!” He made jazz hands.

“N-Neverland? What is that?” Mirabel asked, a bit scared. Why did this random little boy want to take her away? What was Neverland?

“It’s the world's best place to be! My friends and I are all like you—We’re lost kids! And Lost Kids always end up in Neverland, thanks to me,” Antonio spun around in circles, giggling some more. “We never grow up! And you get to come with me, where you'll be happy forever!”

Mirabel blinked a couple times before shaking her head, moving to sit on the edge of her bed. “Lost Kid? B-but I’m not lost, I have a family, a home!”

Antonio frowned. He knew she didn’t understand. Moving to sit next to her on her bed, he held her hand. “I know it’s sad. It’s always sad at first. When your family doesn’t love you and they leave you all alone,” Mirabel looked into Antonio’s eyes. They looked understanding. “But…that’s how it is. We Lost Kids have to stick together. We’ve been lonely and we don’t have a mom in Neverland. And seeing you—Well you could be our mom! You won’t grow up, but you don’t have to grow up to have a mom! And you’ll never be lonely again!”

Mirabel looked back into her lap, still holding Antonio’s hand. Neverland…it didn't sound bad. After all, she wouldn’t be lonely…and it sounded like the kids weren’t supervised, she couldn’t leave them like that! And from what it sounded like, she didn’t have to worry about not having a Gift—

But wouldn’t her family miss her? Wouldn’t they worry? She thought hard and long. And came to one final conclusion—no. They wouldn’t. It had been a whole week, and not once had she been acknowledged. So she could leave and—

“Mirabel?” Antonio called, snapping Mirabel out of her thoughts. SHe looked down at him, and he was standing in front of her, holding her hand. “We have to go now,” he said gently. He was only 5. But even he could understand the situation at hand.

“Leave? Right now? Don’t I have to pack my things or—” Casita flipped the tiles and Mirabel’s everyday bag appeared next to her. She opened it and peeked inside. In it were 2 dresses, some needles and threads, and her spare glasses. “Casita?” She looked at the house. She knew that Casita understood and it made her think—had the house done this before?

“Antonio, I have one more question before we go,” Mirabel asked, walking over to him.

“Anything!” he beamed.

“Have you…have you done this before? Have you been to Casita before?” Mirabel said, swinging her bag over her head. Antonio thought hard for a moment, eyes closing in concentration. A moment later he perked up.

“Yes! A long time ago, I came here and picked a kid—his name is Bruno. I think he's your age,” Antonio smiled. “Why?”

Mirabel nodded. Casita had done this before. Mirabel had seen the family tree—in between her mama and tia was a young boy, who’s name was Bruno. They didn’t talk about Bruno. Abuela had said he’d run away before any of the grandkids were born, and never came back. But now it was making sense. He didn’t run away—he had willingly left with Antonio to Neverland, and was living there because he was left alone by himself. And now it was Mirabel’s turn—but she didn’t feel bad. Now, she might have a chance to be happy; and maybe meet Tio Bruno!

"Are you ready?" He asked, holding out his hand again. Mirabel took it and nodded.

"I'm ready." She then watched him climb onto the windowsill. "Wait…how are we going to get there?"

Antonio laughed. "We're going to fly of course!" He jumped out the window, to which Mirabel threw her head out the window. She looked around frantically, wondering why he just did that. "Up here!" He called. Mirabel looked up and saw that he was flying! He was really flying!

"H-How are you doing that?" Mirabel whispered loudly.

Antonio flew close and took her hands. "You just gotta believe," he guided her onto the windowsill where she shakily squated.

"Tonio, I-I don't think this is very safe," she whimpered. Antonio shook his head, continuing to hold her hand.

"Come on; just close your eyes and think hard about flying. I promise, you won't fall," Antonio gently stated. Mirabel looked into his eyes and saw no lie. She would have to trust him.

Closing her eyes, she kept thinking about flying. She loved the idea of flying, ever since she was little—that's one of the reasons she loved butterflies so much. She kept thinking and thinking about it. While she was doing that, Antonio slowly pulled her away from the window. She didn't fall though; her body levitated mid air, and she stayed there.

"You can open them now," Antonio said. Mirabel opened one eye and looked down. She was flying! She was really doing it! "See? It's easy!" Antonio said again.

"I-I'm doing it!" She laughed. It didn't take her long to get the hang of it, as it was surprisingly easy. She and Antonio spun around in circles, Mirabel smiling the first genuine smile she had shown in a while.

"Now that we've got that, we must go," Antonio grabbed her hand again, getting ready to go. "Second star to the right and straight 'till morning!"

Mirabel looked back at the house one last time, and waved sadly. "Adios Casita," she patted the house beam, to which it sadly waved its window shutters. "Maybe I'll see you again one day."

With that, both Mirabel and Antonio left, soaring high above the clouds and towards the stars. Mirabel would miss her family and Casita, but she knew this was for the best. These kids felt alone and needed a mother, and if she needed to be that mother, so be it.

And now, she was off.

To Neverland.

------

I hope you like this! Took me a hot minute to right, but I digress :)

Feel free to ask more about Mamabel, Papatonio, Housebroken, Mermay or any other AU's you find on this blog!

I also take art suggestions for all aus on this blog, including Cocooned!

If you have an AU idea, send it in and I'll expand on it best I can!

[potteresque-ire]

Commentary ~ Little Red Little Green Episode 18, “Fruits & Found Family”

Link to original post in Chinese, posted 2021/05/23. Link to official English translation.

(Disclaimer / Notes + Commentary under the cut!) (TW: possible eating disorder)

Disclaimer / Notes:

While the posts by Little Red Little Green (LRLG) are among my most favourite candies, I’d like to remind everyone that they are fake rumours, and should be read and enjoyed as such. ie, all CPN below!

The English translation linked above is the only one authorised by the Fake Rumour House; therefore, please treat all content below as a very casual, very *unofficial* convo between fellow turtle friends! ❤️💛💚

With Chinese being a highly region-specific language, my reactions to it is necessarily filtered through my background, which is, admittedly, somewhat removed from Gg’s, Dd’s and LRLG’s. However, it is not uncommon for even c-turtles (and several times, LRLG themselves) to be lost with what they read / heard due to regional differences ~ which reflects the reality of communicating in the Sinosphere. In fact, the regionality of the dialects used by different “characters” in LRLG’s dialogues is among the most critical elements that make these posts so authentic-sounding, and so difficult to replicate. A fun activity of following LRLG is to watch c-turtles patch their regional knowledge together, from local slangs to food choices, to make sense of what’s going on. 

Okay, with that all said *phew* ... onto the commentary! “p. X” refers to the panel number in the official English translation (there are 7 total in the Twitter post). 

p1. “Fairy”

Likely referring to the similarity between Gg’s current role for 玉骨遥 (The Longest Promise) and LWJ. Dd was praising Gg for being “fairy-like”; Chinese “fairies” (仙) have a certain style especially in visual media, similar to ... LWJ’s ~ otherworldly, white robes that billow in the wind, peaceful to the point of distant, scholarly, delicate. In between the lines, Gg likely said he was simply playing LWJ (hence, the ”act another me” in the translation), which Dd protested... and said Gg was simply playing himself. Whether that means DD IS NOT LWJ!!!!! 😡😡😡 or something else, we’ll know what we get to watch the show!

p1-p2. “Heat”

Yes about the Chang’e 嫦娥 reference!! Despite Houyi 后羿 shooting down 9/10 suns and saving the day, his wife is, indeed, more famous (and therefore the star, the more powerful one), because she’s frequently featured in Mid-Autumn festival art, along with her pet rabbit 玉兔 (”Jade Rabbit”),:

(Chang’e with her bunny, traditional Chinese painting. Source.)

Below is Gg’s rendition of Chang’e / Jade Bunny pair ~ Chang’e being the superman in the drawing while Jade Bunny is crouching on the planet!! 

Guess of the missing convo from Gg’s side: Gg had wanted to bring something to Hengdian (where the filming of The Longest Promise was taking place) to cool himself down, and Dd had said it wasn’t necessarily. Hence Dd’s “My bad my bad” and the promise to send that something to Gg.

The loveliest line in this segment for me—and for many c-turtles— is the one about white hair. Turning grey a common, but very old-fashioned way of expressing worry and poor Dd, who hasn’t even turned 24, is claiming he was turning white because he got so worried every time Gg complained about the heat (Aww). 

Turning grey with worry isn’t limited to romantic situations — it may happen to doting parents with wayward children, for example, or to ancient patriots over their crumbling kingdom. However, it’s also one of the more (very!) dramatic ways to communicate tragic love in Chinese fiction before Western influence allows “love”, as a term / word / character, to be used explicitly in writing romance. 

Here’s a little example, a little diversion that may be of interest. Those who are familiar with the Wuxia classic Return of the Condor Heroes 神雕俠侶 by Jin Yong 金庸, whether it’s the book or its numerous visual adaptations, may remember how the hero, Yang Guo 楊過, went white at his temples overnight after his Shifu and lover, Xiao Long Nv (小龍女), didn’t show up at the cliff at the end of his 16-year wait for her.  

Set photo from a TV adaption of Return of the Condor Heroes, 1995. Turtles may find the actress playing the perenially white-wearing, calm-to-the point-of-aloof Xiao Long Nv, Carmen Li 李若彤, familiar ~ she also played Lan Yi in The Untamed. 

The 16-year wait, the invitation to Carmen to play Lan Zhan’s ancestor (when the two shared similarities in aesthetics and personality), were two of the three references from Return of the Condor Heroes I picked up from The Untamed (the last one was more specific—WWX mentioned Yang Guo’s master 獨孤求敗). This tribute is unconfirmed, but MXTX did say before that Jin Yong’s works were her inspiration. I also read a (small) discussion on whether LWJ’s hair carried a few pieces of white in the final episode, or if the lighter strands in it were a trick of the sunlight. (Here’s a screenshot of the approximate place to look!!) 

While I lean towards the latter (the sunlight), turning white with worry, with love, is a tradition in Chinese storytelling. Here’s a little something I’ve noticed too, on this note ~ both in the actual interviews and in these fake rumours, Dd’s word choices, the way he conveys emotions are sometimes surprisingly traditional. It can be because of his background (which would require a study of how Luo Yang people and Koreans talk); it can be because the traditional way of talking allows for fewer words to be said, fewer things to have to be explicitly explained (example: LWJ), but the effect is that Dd has supplied the most romantic lines in LRLG’s posts because of that ~ romantic because it harks back to the rhythm, the themes of old poetry, of ancient stories that, as were true everywhere in the world, were about love. 

Okay, back to the rumour (and hoping Dd won’t look like Bad Wig Yang Guo in a few more summers!) ....

The line after the one about white hair ... the way I understand the original Chinese sentence is “Heat is The Reason”: ie, anything Dd wants Gg to do and Gg disagrees, Gg would use heat as The Reason (R) to not do it. This anything may be eating, for example, which also has a strong possibility as conventional Chinese wisdom says that heat causes people to lose appetite. Dd’s worry would therefore be: Gg refusing to eat because he claims it’s too hot to do so.

“Corny joke” ~ the Chinese for this is, literally, “cold 冷 joke 笑話”, which becomes a pun as the gzry (team members)’s joke was about the (cold) winter and black hair. So... Dd threw a corny joke to combat a corny joke :D .

p3. “Apple”

The first half I also had to rely on c-turtles to help me interpret what it meant! Regional dialects aside, LRLG has captured dls’s very quick wit, the way his ideas freely hop from one concept to the next and this hopping carries traditional + popular cultural references that I know only a fraction of, not being a local after all. 

I’ve read an additional interpretation of this segment: “big fruit” 大果兒 (as in dls: “Those are all big fruits, all big fruits”) is a Northern Chinese, traditional slang for women—dls might have connected that with the previous line in the convo about being Guowang, as explained in the translation, and “big and juicy” + “touch to feel” being suggestive phrases. Then, given the rare usage of the big fruit = women slang, dls expressed surprise that Dd understood what he meant, went on to say he expected Gg to know it (implying Gg could’ve taught Dd the meaning) ... 

Which led to the entertaining part of this segment. Dd was like “You guys (= Gg + dls) talked?” Dls appeared to have thought of the scenario customarily inviting this question (scenario: someone on the verge of catching their spouse cheating) and began playacting that scenario, started to stammer ... as if he had just been got caught trying to chat up someone’s spouse  ~  ”I-I-I....how to say it ...”. Dd caught on dls’s playacting and went along, continued with the “accusation”: “You’re stammering”. Dls then noted that Dd’s accusation was scary and Dd smiled, ending the playact ~ so, ah, readers, never mess with Dd’s spouse!! Dd gets scary!! 

(BTW: ”nijia na kouzi” 你家那口子 was explained in the translation for a reason ~ It’s a warm, friendly term for a dear friend’s spouse. 😊)

p4. Lychees

Lychees. Has everyone tried them? It’s important not to over-eat them though...

In which the “Feeding Gg” saga continues! This segment is one of those that are wonderful for fic writers who wish to capture Gg and Dd in words. Gg, like many brought up in traditional families, has trouble saying “no” outright, which is often considered rude. As such, he resorted to delay tactics, something he had also done with the fried noodles in The Makeup Room BTS. 

In the BTS, his delay tactics had been to argue that Dd hadn’t eaten his box of noodles and therefore, he couldn’t start (~2:35 mark)—as proper manners indeed dictated. In this dialogue, his delay tactics was to say he’d eat the lychees later, that the lychees would make him too full for the proper meal (rice). 

A cute thing about this convo is that rather than pouting and grumbling his only being LWJ’s replacement (as he had hilariously done in the BTS), Dd had, apparently over the last three years, become an expert on countering such delay tactics. He peeled the lychees, which not only removed a major obstacle for eating, but also set a timer as peeled lychees get dry quickly (and Gg, despite being a picky eater, didn’t seem to like to waste food). He said the fruit could make appetiser. He got the help of their team members, who assured Gg that two lychees would be all right.

Gg’s response to the assurance... takes a little time to explain. 

The original Chinese line for “Great, great, you’re so awesome” was 絕了絕了你們絕了。 “絕了”, a popular phrase used by Chinese netizens, was repeated three times.

絕, literally, means the extreme, the absolute, the end. 絕了 means pretty much the same ~ a thing that is 絕了 is standing en pointe at the edge of the cliff that is The Absolute End of a spectrum. It is the Ultimate. It can't be surpassed. It’s unbeatable. 

絕了 is usually used in a positive sense, as in the English translation, with the positive being implied. If I say the LWJ photo above is 絕了, for example, I don’t need to specify that the extreme in 絕 stands on the good end. It’s understood given the audience of this post are mostly turtles (HELLO *waves*). We’re all heart-eyes here. We agree, without saying, that this photo is The Top, The Pinnacle; it can’t be better. 絕了 is higher praise than Excellent; it’s so good that there are no adjectives for it. Its own presence defines How Good It Is. 

But 絕了 doesn’t have to be positive. If my audience is Su She ... he’s likely to take the same “This LWJ photo is 絕了” to mean the Mariana Trench kind of Absolute—the bottom of the bottom, the Unbeatable, Adjective-Defying Worst. 

絕了 allows for that understanding too.

In this scenario, I interpret Gg’s 絕了 as taking the meaning of both extremes (which make it a fantastic phrase choice!): that Gg thought Dd and the team members were being both the Absolute Best (for thinking of Gg, caring for him) AND the Absolute Worst (for going against his wish to not eat!) Gg’s 絕了 also signals defeat; if Dd and his team members were The Absolute ... Whatever, then poor Gg had no choice but to yield to their wishes. I can already imagine his “I can’t believe I lose this way” Look (see: every rock-paper-scissors he lost, which was ... pretty much all of them), mixed with, perhaps, a healthy amount of bunny tooth warning (how dare Dd et al banded up against him)...

Those bunny teeth had to be taken care of, right? And so Dd went on to say lychees being good omen that ensure things would go smoothly for the eater... targeting Gg’s being a, as c-turtles call it, 小迷信 (literally, “Little Superstitious”, a young + adorable + superstitious person). Dd said that to help Gg justify the choice to eat, to make Gg feel better about his defeat. 

(Of note: I had actually never heard of lychees being associated with good luck before, and a quick search online also didn’t yield any result. This could be a relatively rare association Google failed to catch ... or something Dd made up on the fly to make Gg happy.) 

(Lychees have, however, been associated with romance. If Emperor’s Smile 天子笑 was The Love Drink in The Untamed, then what is Concubine’s Smile 妃子笑? Answer: it’s the RL name of a type of lychees, lychees being the fruit very much adored by Yang Yuhuan 楊玉環, the consort of the Emperor Xuanzong (685-762 BCE) of the Tang Dynasty and one of the four most beautiful woman in Chinese history. Since lychees had only been grown in southern China, the emperor had had the fruit couriered, in express mode involving many horses, to the palace up north to please his favourite wife. Lychees had become a symbol of love from that historical tale.)

Did Gg get Dd’s message then, the love and care packaged in those peeled, sweet fruit awaiting his bite? Yes, but not without a little more fight! “Eat eat eat, (I’ll eat) until you go bankrupt” is a literal translation of his final line. Tonally, I can see the following as being an alternative translation: 

“Fine fine fine. I’ll eat, it’s not like I can bankrupt you by eating anyway!”

If it sounded a little sulky, that’s because it did ... a little sulky AND fiery. As expected from our favourite Chongqing Big Pepper 😂😂😂 (Poor Gg).

Dd smiled at that, needless to say. He won!!! He got Gg to eat!! The world shall rejoice!! 

p5. “Showtime”

There’s a show coming up for Dd (the YH concert maybe?), and Gg offered suggestions. 

The sweet point of this segment is about half-way down the conversation, in the piece of paper 📄 Gg gave to Dd (after “This is for you.”). Dd took the paper, noted the many words on it, and started saying 我把我整個靈魂, translated as “I bring my entire soul”.

c-Turtles have, based on these words, hypothesised that Dd was about to read out a quote that Gg had written on the paper, with the list of items Gg thought Dd should take, before Gg stopped him with a call of his name (“WYB”). The quote was included on the translation (”I give you my entire soul...only, a little good, love you.”) I have also talked about the same quote, in more detail, here.

I’m equally stumped on the final line of this segment. (Sorry!!)

p6. “Found Family”

It’s a heartwarming segment. While LRLG had previously noted that the TTXS bros had communicated with Gg, this segment made clear that they care for him like they do for Dd ~ as family.

* dls mailed Gg a lot of fruit for sharing with the film crew. “Family member needs to be impressive” is a rough translation, but this line does defy simple translation because 排面 a highly cultural concept that has much to do with the equally complex, Chinese concept of face (which this article explains... somewhat adequately). The message to take home is that dls cared enough about Gg that he wanted to make sure Gg wouldn’t lose face in front of the film crew; that, by having enough gifts (fruits) for everyone, Gg wouldn’t be viewed as cheap or inadequate or stingy, or whatever adjective that wouldn’t befit his top idol status. Because dls saw Gg as a member of his family. 

* The prescription from hg had been mentioned in a previous LRLG rumour. 方子 is a Chinese medicine prescription, which, unlike Western formulations, is individualised both to the discomfort / ailment and to the “body constitution” of the person who'll take it, the latter deciding the kind of ailments the person is susceptible to, and which ingredients are expected to be more effective. Chinese medicine also places a strong emphasises on long-term conditioning, whether it’s for recovery from a certain condition or for general good health. A good 方子 is therefore a far more complex and personal thing than, say, a scribble of “paracetamol” / “acetaminophen” on a piece of paper. :D

* fg’s gift for Gg (xx) is something for the waist. A brace support, maybe? For example?

My favourite line in this segment is when hg asked what will Gg and Dd do when they reach hg’s age. Given that the last two items (the prescription and xx) were health-related, I interpreted it as hg worrying about Gg and Dd’s health when they grow old... with all the health problems they already have. It’s the kind of thing a worried parent say to their children ~ my mom has said the same thing to me as well. 😢

p6. “The Cat Paw”

Not quite sure what’s happening here ... not sure what the cat paw is. (Sorry!!) But that é in the translation is Dd’s signature laugh (collection here), which is written as 鵝 (”Goose”) in Chinese 😂.

p7. “The Cat Toy”

Dd appeared to be shopping for a cat’s toy (something that can “hook the cat” in the translation, such that the cat can entertain itself and not rely on human companionship as much). Gg had already bought the toy though and sounded quite proud of it, told Dd to return the toy. The implied cat was, of course, Nut (堅果 Jianguo)... which had been repeatedly referred to in LRLG’s posts as Gg’s daughter.

p7. “Cool vs Cute”

Gg is often viewed as cute, and Dd as cool. Did Dd dislike Gg taking cute pictures for public consumption? Were they scheming an exchange of image? :D

And that’s it for this issue! Ooh, this took unexpectedly long ... I apologise for the ridiculous delay between the original post and this commentary! 

(I wrote half of it, then RL struck and I forgot about it.) (I’m hopeless.) (I need a 方子 for poor memory!!)

[opluffys]

Surprise! - Killer x Reader

school is fucking hard. i don’t like how this turned out tbh but this is for my one piece people :) . thank you for being so patient, i appreciate it. like all the other fics here, this was posted to my archive account too, luffys. sorry i’m too lazy to find a gif, forgive me ;( . pls let me know if it copied weird/if there are errors, sometimes that happens. pls enjoy!!

-smut/nsfw-

Wrapped thinly in the cool sheets, your legs spread wide while your agile fingers dipped into your soaked folds. Eyes closed, mouth agape, practically screaming.

Not a care in the world who could hear you, not a single care if that rickety door creaked open and suddenly, you were hosting a show.

Not a single care when someone had walked in.

One of your glossy eyes popped open, in shock, and hidden arousal. When you had seen who it was, you only smiled and continued your ministrations.

"Surprise." You grinned, slipping two fingers deep inside of yourself, mewling at the feeling.

He stayed silent, large figure obscuring the flood of bright stars that painted the night sky. You could just hardly tell, but you knew he was looking at you. His head just barely turned in your general direction.

"You're not supposed to be here."

You laughed, "Yes, I'm aware."

"You belong to the surgeons crew."

"Are you going to tell on me? Summon red hair to see the horrible things I'm doing?" You gasped, faking a worried tone.

"You couldn't go to someone else's room?" He asked, shutting the door quite harshly, you tightened your legs.

"I don't know this ship. This happened by chance." You paused, looking him over. He is a very attractive man, and that uniform he has on is doing him nothing but justice.

"How about you enjoy yourself a little, before your captain gets you killed." You spread yourself for him, whining at the cool air.

He laughed.

It was a very distinct sound, but you honestly could care less. You've heard many laughs in your lifetime. One shouldn't be judged for the sound they make out of joy.

"Nervous?" You teased, rubbing yourself slowly.

"Not at all."

"Liar."

He approached you slowly, like an animal hunting prey. Holding your soft thighs with scarred skin, subconsciously, you moved closer. His thick fingers coated with your arousal, he pushed into your tight walls. You squeezed your legs tightly, not wanting just his fingers.

"You can barely handle two fingers. Yet, you're begging for me." He chuckled quietly.

Moaning when he curled his fingers inside of you, you nearly came right there.

"Fine, since you want it so bad..." He mumbled, you looked up at him, then the leather pants of the outfit. You nearly drooled when you noticed the print of his erection. You imagined a thousand different ways of how he could fuck you.

He noticed you looking, and started palming at it, making you grow impatient. Just to get you really riled up, he would deeply groan or sigh.

You sat up, trying to get him to pay attention to you, just to result him in pushing you back down. You huffed. "No doll. I'm calling the shots here, in case you haven't figured that out yet."

Agonisingly slow, he lowered the material of his garments, basically becoming a striptease.

Your breathing quickened, you hadn't been so excited in so damn long. Your body yearned for his hands anywhere on you.

Pressing his tip to your anxious folds, he slowly stretched you open, inch by inch. You whimpered at the feeling, you're not sure you've ever slept with anyone of this size before.

"Relax. I can't fit if you're squeezing me the entire damn time." He groaned almost silently, he was right, but it felt so good, you couldn't control yourself.

The problem wasn't with how aroused you were, no. You were soaking wet, pretty much leaking over his cock. It was his fucking size, he was so big. You wouldn't tell him, though. Screw his ego.

With a few deep breaths, you relaxed your body, lightly spasming on his length as he tried to push himself deeper within you.

Screaming out in pure pleasure, you finally felt him bottom out. You were crying, it was a little painful, but it hurt so good.

"Fuck, you're good."

You nearly purred in response, happy to hear such a thing come from someone like him. You knew he was just talking about how your pussy feels, but it's still apart of you, no?

He pulled out of you slowly after thrusting his hips a couple of times, not interested in this kind of position. It was boring, the only good thing is he could see the way your face contorts into bliss when he stretches your tight cunt, as well as your soft breasts bounce gently with every single move he made.

He helped you to sit up, and flip over so your stomach was touching the bed. You arched your back when you felt his calloused hands tracing blemishes on your smooth skin.

"Look how soft you are..." He had almost growled in want,  "That soft skin of yours won't last a day with me, girl."

"Prove it."

That shit grin on your face dissipated instantly when you felt his harsh grip on your hips yank you closer to him. His large hands groping and squeezing the curve of your ass. Whimpering in want, you backed your hips behind you, a silent sign that you wanted more of him.

"Impatient."

You grinned, "I'm not the only one." You felt his length behind you, slowly pushing in. You hummed, your body finally feeling contented bliss.

Your soft and slick walls fluttered around his cock with every swift movement, screaming in pleasure as he hit all the right places inside you.

"You're amazing, you're so fucking amazing..!" You gasped, insides grabbing him in a vice grip. He groaned lowly, he was seeing stars fucking into you. Watching your small body eat him up greedily while you begged for more, fuck...

Picking up the pace, your cries were muffled by the comforter below you. He was fucking you deep into the mattress, and hell, you wouldn't dare complain. It felt fucking phenomenal, being bent in such a way you thought you couldn't achieve. His strong arms on each side of you, watching the muscles flex with every thrust.

You tried to quiet yourself down so you could try to hear him, he was so damn silent, you had to question yourself if you were any good for him.

"You're pretty quiet." You whimpered, feeling him waver for a moment, stopping while still comfortably inside your warmth.

"Want me to scream like you, babe?"

You giggled, "Maybe. Would be nice to know if I'm making you feel any good back there..."

"You being alive up to this point is an affirmation of that, isn't it?" He asked, bringing you up to straddle him.

"I can say the same to you. Just because I'm smaller than you doesn't mean you're stronger."

He smiled, unbeknownst to you, of course. "Is that so..?"

"It is. You made a mistake by switching positions, see," You placed your hands on his broad, muscular shoulders. "now I'm in control. I have you in the palm of my fucking hand, babe." You smiled, teasing his earlier pet name.

Raising your hips to slowly lower yourself onto him, his grip on the bedsheets tightened, he was reacting even more than you were!

"Look at you, such an untamed, wild thing. Sitting calmly under a woman's touch- a woman's body. I caged you, albeit temporarily." You heard him snarl deeply, unable to speak while you rode him slowly.

"Imagine if Eustass saw you like this, crying under me," his hand trailed slowly to your waist, bruising in the grip it held. Your smeared lipstick followed the curve of your lips as best as it could, "Angry? Don't be, it's just you and I. I'm yours, yet loyal to one man." Your hands snaked to his back, nails sinking into the muscle.

"Imagine if Trafalgar saw you like this, sleeping with the enemy." He chuckled, "Think twice about how you want to talk to the second in command, doll." Easily overpowering you, he began to move your body up and down as he liked, sliding you over his cock. You couldn't even fight him on it, the pleasure too much for you to even think logically.

"Ohh, oh fuck. You're gonna kill me. You're gonna fucking kill me..." You moaned, leaning closer to him as he assisted your ride. "Hey," he slowed down for a second, still pumping into you every so often, "kiss m-me..." you whimpered, hot tears pouring over your smooth skin.

"I won't look. I promise." You placed your hands on his shoulders delicately, grinning devilishly when you noticed him flinch.

"Please..?" You smiled warmly at him, giving him such an odd feeling, how could he say no?

"If you look, I won't hesitate to slice you in two. Understand?" He threatened, his voice dropping to a darker tone. Subconsciously, it made you squeeze around him tighter, feeling a new high behind the threat. He felt this, of course, shaking his head a bit.

You closed your eyes, feeling his warm lips barely connect with yours, the both of you pushing closer to close that nonexistent gap in between you. His taste drove you feral, nearly growling and making other animalistic sounds while pathetically bouncing on him.

You wanted to see him, desperately, fucking badly. But you made a promise.

And pirates don't make promises.

"You're fucking hot..." You mumbled, not completely on accident, you haven't even noticed, immediately regretting your decision when you noticed the shift of mood.

His grasp shifted from your waist and hips, to tightly around your neck.

Gasping and struggling for air, you wrapped your legs as tightly as you could around him, it hurt like hell for you, but it obviously restricted his breathing as well. Just barely, though...

"I'm s...sorry." You whispered, voice sounding unfamiliar to even you.

The grip on your throat loosened, just enough for you to inhale the cool air into your burning lungs. The muscles and tendons of your thighs and calves were burning, sighing contently when you released him.

"I know you're angry,"

"Angry?" He chuckled, his blonde lashes falling delicately over the tanned skin of his cheek, "Angry doesn't begin to describe it, babe." He growled, squeezing your hips hard.

"but," A wolfish grin spread onto your lips, looking up at him with lust burning in your irises, "what kind of pirate would I be if I kept my promises..?"

"I should use you as a shield in Onigashima."

You laughed, wrapping your arms around his wide stature, "Sure, if that's what you really want. But tell me, how many have seen your face and lived through it? Maybe think about keeping me around for a little while longer. Pretty please?" You teased, resting your cheek against his pectoral muscle.

He grimaced, you had a point. He hadn't remembered the last time he's had such an intimate partner like you.

"Fine."

"Fine?" You questioned, not moving from your surprisingly comfortable spot on his muscled thighs.

"After we're done here, you go back to Trafalgar."

You frowned, that isn't what you had expected him to say at all.

"Relax, it isn't like we won't cross paths in the future." He rocked his hips into your own gently, making you softly gasp and moan into his chest.

After the two of you decided that talking time was over, he quickly pushed you onto the mattress once again, your ass in the air while your shaky legs barely held you.

His grip on the supple and soft skin of your hips was painfully bruising, which only added to the pleasure he provided.

You placed your hands behind your back in offering of him holding onto those instead, he grabbed them instantly, gripping your wrists to anchor himself to you.

Hot tears pricked your eyes once more when you felt him snug against your cervix, cursing the barrier that prevented him from going on further. He didn't mind, though. He enjoyed what he could fit into you just fine.

Panting and groaning deeply, he was much more audible with the mask off. He was entranced by the way your cunt took him in, your juices coating more and more of his dick every time he slammed back into you.

Even though you really couldn't take all of him, your soaking warmth wanted nothing more than to feel his imprint deep inside of you. He didn't want to harm you though, so he pushed in just what you could handle.

He watched as your ass jiggled with every thrust, his calloused and large hand groping and kneading the soft flesh.

You whimpered under him, feeling your velvety walls squish his cock as tightly as humanly possible, you lost count of how many times you had orgasmed, each one more powerful than the last.

Your spine curved to the point it was uncomfortable, face buried in the scratchy material of the sheets, your toes curled, hands turning a burning white around Killer's large hand, you screamed, moaned, groaned, pretty much every sound imaginable as your orgasmed ripped through you once again.

He was surprised at the sheer force of your orgasm, groaning as he felt his cock twitch from deep within your slick heat.

You whimpered and babbled incoherent words at the feeling of overstimulation burning your nerves. Your pussy still squeezing and convulsing around his hard cock.

He cursed deeply under his breath, your tight warmth sucking him back in protest of feeling him pull out.

He too felt his release sneaking from behind, just a small push and he'd be diving into that ocean of pleasure.

You spurred him on with words of praise, mumbling how good he felt, gasping at how he stretched and filled you perfectly.

His hips stuttered, dick twitching deep inside as his hard muscles made contact with your softer back. He groaned deeply as he pushed himself inside once more as deeply as possible, dragging his cock against your walls as he marked you with his release.

Feeling your abused hole get stuffed full of his cum pushed you over the edge, just the feeling of being deliciously full made you convulse under him again, squealing in a mixture of pleasure and pain.

He pulled out of you agonizingly slow, making you whimper with a hidden need of wanting to be pinned under him again. He hovered over you a moment, fighting that exact same urge while watching your pussy leak his seed. He smiled to himself, knowing deep down that no other man could make you feel as he did.

He pushed two digits inside your sore cunt, stopping the flow of his cum onto your spread thighs. You made a sound, even unknown to you what it was, you knew you just couldn't take it anymore.

He pulled his fingers out, digits glistening of your juices mixed with his own. He brought them to your agape mouth, humming to himself as you wrapped your swollen lips around his fingers. Sucking them clean with a smile while attempting to tease him while circling your tongue over his fingers.

He lay next to your drained body, a thin sheet of sweat covering the two of you. Pulling you to his chest, you smiled while laying next to him.

Looks like he'd keep you around for a while.

[oumaheroes]

Stargazing

Word Count: 2030

Characters: England, France- FrUK

---

‘If you could go back to any era, which would you choose?’ There is a stone in-between France’s shoulder blades, something that finally tips the scales from being comfortable into not, so France rolls onto his side, cradling his head in his hand.

From his spot in the grass next to him, England turns his head lazily, the movement long and slow. His eyes are the last to move, fixed on the stars, and they find France’s with a sharp flick, ‘What?’

‘Are you too drunk to listen?’ France lifts a heavy arm and reaches across the small distance between them to brush some errant hair away from England’s forehead and lets it stay there, tangled in his roots. France himself is wine soft and slow, warm in his stomach and chest from both the day and the drink which settles within him.

England huffs, ‘More like drunk enough that I can stop pretending you’re worth listening to.’

France hums indulgently, far too jovial at the moment to search for any unintended offense, ‘oh, the lies you tell yourself. They do amuse me.’

England frowns, head still facing France and cheek pillowed in the grass.  Wine is not enough to soften him entirely, it seems, ‘that is rich, coming from you.’

France brings his hand down from England’s hair to lay it across his mouth, ‘I’m not starting anything with you this evening, I’m too full.’

England opens his mouth and, very gently, bites the meat of the pad of France’s hand. Just to show that he could and to be difficult, showing that he won’t go down without a fight. France’s small input in the ridiculous battle is to leave it there, refusing to give in. Eventually, England lets go and moves his head away, although not before pressing his teeth down just that bit harder. France reclaims his hand and allows him escape without protest.

‘What drivel did you ask me?’ England looks back up at the sky again, high and cloudless above them.

‘If you could be in any era again, any that we have lived through,’ France repeats, ‘which would you pick to go back to?’ He has caught England in a good mood, one where he has allowed himself to be seen, for a time, without anything sharp covering him. Drink has made him pliant and loose tongued and France, in a similar mood, is keen to make the most of it.

England rolls his head slightly back, considering the question, ‘How long do I get in the era?’

‘No, don’t do that, don’t make it technical. It’s not a difficult question.’

‘It most certainly is, running water always influences things,’ England’s mouth twists in a wry hint of a smile, ‘and it’s one thing to pop back to the Tudor times for one of the court parties and quite another to have to spend more than a week there. I do not lament the loss of hose and codpiece.’

‘I do, they made my legs look fabulous.’

England snorted and rolled his eyes, ‘Why am I not surprised.’

‘You’re avoiding the question,’ France twists away from him briefly to feel for the wine bottle they’d been drinking from. It had rolled away slightly, the slight incline of France’s garden causing it to move easily as they shuffled about and he takes a long swing of it before laying it between them, neck resting on England’s stomach. He’s past beyond the point of using glasses now.

‘I’m not avoiding the question, I was trying to-‘

‘No stop, you’re ruining it; I’ll go first,’ after brushing the grass underneath to clear it of stones, France returns to lying on his back, arms behind his head, and ignores England’s tut of annoyance, ‘I think I’d actually want to go back to the days under Rome, just for a visit.’

England sits up on his elbows and takes a sip from the bottle himself, ‘I hadn’t expected that of you.’

‘No?’

‘God no. I would have thought you’d want to go back to one of your King Luis. You know, peak opulence, decadence- all that faff. You still love the fancy balls and the clothes, and the needless tat that came with it,’ England takes another sip of wine and runs his tongue over his teeth, ‘the dances and the jewels, the silly little court rules of behaviour. The gossip.’

France chuckles, ‘you were so funny every time you were dragged along- so out of place! You couldn’t go more than an hour before letting your true colours slip free.’ England was never truly refined for very long, especially when it came to the Versailles’ court standards.

‘Anyone with a lick of sense was immediately out of place,’ England quips drily and lays down again, placing the cork back in the wine as he goes.

It sounds nearly empty- shame. It was a nice year and the last of the bottles that they’d brought out to the garden. Dinner had been a late, informal affair in France’s kitchen- homemade bread and creamy, locally made cheese with chicken. Simple and filling, comfort food for the both of them. The summer heat made them both unwilling for anything too excessive and the entire day had been spent doing lots of nothing much at all; England lounging about in shorts that France refrained from teasing him about lest he stop wearing them.

‘Yes well,’ France lifts his head and clumsily bats him in the stomach with the top of his hand, ‘despite that indeed being extremely enjoyable, I do mean it. My choice of era, I mean.’

England makes a soft noise that gently demands elaboration, a low rumble in the back of his throat but France needs no prompting. He presses a knuckle into the softness of England’s stomach and feels him breathe in deep and slow.

‘I’d love to have nothing to be responsible for again. Everything was done for me, as a colony- the way my cities were built, the improvements made to my industries, the negotiations for trade and commerce, everything. I’d like to revisit being a child, in the closest sense of childhood our kind has,’ France pauses, mulling that over, ‘Imagine that again, being small but without fear of being so. No politics, no money driven economy, no push for growth. We have spent so much of our lives racing to get somewhere, striving to be more that I can hardly remember what it was like to be nothing more than an idea, existing just to speak for the lives that called themselves mine.’

France turns and catches England watching him, eyes searching and heavy, ‘Does that make sense?’ he asks him.

‘No,’ England’s answer is immediate, ‘no, and yes. The desire to be I understand, but I detested that age.’

France smiles at him, understanding masked by the dark. England does not, and never did, like being anything other than in perfect control of himself. Relinquishing that to someone else, even for his own benefit, has never been anything more than a horror.

‘Well,’ France says, ‘that is my choice. I liked being looked after and I have so much to do nowadays that it would be nice to have nothing to do once again. Nothing more than wander about my fields and see my people, or visit a northern barbarian across the sea.’

‘Don’t talk about Scotland that way, you’ll hurt his feelings.’

France laughs and reaches down to find England’s hand, open palmed and curled fingers by his side. He intertwines his own with it and brings them upwards, watching as together they cut across to block the light from his house and silhouette into a tangle of them both.

‘So,’ he says, running a thumb across the skin of England’s knuckle, ‘what era would you choose?’

England sighs, a light thing but France can hear a yearning there, ‘Any of the years I was at sea. The 1500’s when I was first starting out and even up to the 1700’s when things became more regimented- any of them. To be able to just get in a boat and go, no one knowing when I would come back or even where I was going.’

France shudders, the idea of being out in ocean that deep and so alone chilling him. For creatures that revive after death, who can wake again and again and again as long as there is a body to return to, the ocean is a lonely, painful place to die. To sink lifeless into murky depths, only to reawaken there in the dark press of salty sea; most nations avoided it as much as they could, wishing to avoid the long, drawn out death choked by waves and forgotten on the seafloor.

England never had such a healthy fear of the oceans. He went out into thunderous storms and monstrous waves as if enchanted, unable to resist the pull of something untamed. England sailed off as soon as he was able, going out for further and longer than anyone else dared and losing himself in the harsh life of the brine. He was a different creature far out at sea, something so strangely alive and perfectly at home for a man made from the soul of the mountains and land.

‘You always were a strange one for the macabre,’ France drops their hands back down and finds England once more looking at the sky, the reflection of stars glinting in his eyes.

‘The seas never change,’ his voice is quiet and distant, ‘some things do change, of course- the boats we sail on, how we do so. Things shift on the sea, the lands we travel to and from are washed away and changed with time but the sea itself is always the same. I appreciate it for that, it is predictably unpredictable. Constantly refusing the press of mankind by being the one thing we can never truly understand, for all of mankind’s new fancy gadgets.’

England gives a sudden, dry laugh, ‘I used to navigate the world by constellations, now I have to travel just to find some stars. To the highest peaks I have, or deep in my countryside to avoid as much light pollution as I can. But out at sea they are as they have always been, the same things I have watched and tracked for thousands of years. That is when I can just be as I have always been.’

The sky hangs overhead, speckled and bright and now, France notices, startlingly empty, ‘I often forget that they’re there,’ France speaks to the sky, ‘Funny, isn’t it? How something so fundamental can disappear and mankind not even notice. How odd to forget that stars are there, then to not notice they’re gone.’

‘We are cursed or blessed to remember what’s past,’ England offers, ‘which one depends on who we remember for.’

They lay in silence for a moment. France feels the collected years sit with him openly, laying on his chest and heart like tiny weights. The ground pushes against his back, firm and unmoving, and he breathes in deeply, smelling the heat of the summer in the air. He is here. He is now. He is. Still, after all this time. He watches.

To exist is to change, to live is to evolve and move with the flow of time, but France understands the want for something constant in the flood, something that stays recognisable and the same throughout the years. The older he gets, the more he yearns for it keenly.

‘You’ve gone and made things serious,’ he lifts himself back up on an elbow, England looking at him without moving his head, ‘just like you to take a light conversation and ruin it.’

England raises an eyebrow, “Oh the lies you tell yourself; they do amuse me.”

His French is accented with a Norman dialect, a gentle dig and refusal to fully let France have what he wants and France laughs at it, at this one unchanging constant he is stuck with. He leans down to kiss him, hair curling into England’s face and hiding what remains of the night sky.

----

AN: Every time I try writing one of these small drabbles, I start out with a particular idea and tone in mind but gosh darn it they never go where I intend for them to.

Today we have ended up with this, two old men talking themselves in circles in the summer grass.

[lillianofliterature]

LOTR preferences || 2/?

main masterlist | imagines/preferences masterlist

DO NOT REPOST.

if gifs not sourced, they were found on google, lmk if they’re yours! I couldn’t make out the url on the elrond one or I would have linked it!

I wrote these sort of in an imagine style to make it more immersive since the prompt for this one is dialogue based. 

some are longer than others (by a lot, oops) and some phrases or descriptors may have been repeated a few times, but there’s so many characters and I only have one brain and I didn’t feel like reading through all of them again to make them all perfectly unique. it’s been a long road writing these xD 

elvish translations: melamin = my beloved/my love, melda = beloved/dear/sweet

tw: slight gore mentioned in aragorn’s

(more below the cut-off)

their first ‘i love you’ (confession)

aragorn | word count: 647

Aragorn was always quiet about his feelings and often times reserved, being an introverted person. Those three words came when he could no longer withstand the pressure of not telling you how he truly felt. The risk of your eyes wandering to find another had crossed his mind more than once and the possibility of something happening before he had had the chance to overcome his nerves was overwhelming. And one day, as he was in the midst of this inner turmoil, you slit your hand open while sharpening the blade of your sword against a whirling  grindstone. 

He had been nearby, working with the string of his bow, when your cry of pain pierced the air. The sword rattled to the ground as you stood and pressed your hand against the palm of the other in your best effort to quench the rush of blood. Without a second’s hesitation, he came to your aid and whisked you into the smithy shop where there was a store of medical supplies for such an incident.

In his panic, he chastised you.

“Why aren’t you wearing the guard I gave you? I explicitly told you not to use the grindstone without it!”

Tears burned in your eyes as he poured a stout smelling liquid over the wound. “I took it off because it was chafing my wrist when I pushed against the blade,” you said.

“It would have prevented this, (Y/n). Look at what you’ve done to yourself!”

“Aragorn, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean for it to happen!” 

“You must obey my instruction when I give it to you. I do not speak just to hear my own voice.” 

There was a tense pause in your urgent conversation as he rinsed your hand in a basin of cool water and examined the wound up close with gentleness. His relief was audible as he realized the cut was much smaller than the loss of blood had let on. With a slower pace, he began bandaging your hand with linens.

His voice softer, he spoke again. “I tell you these things to protect you, (Y/n), not to patronize you.” 

“I know,” you sniffled.

He could see that his chastisement had startled you as much as the wound itself. He hadn’t meant to make you uncomfortable, but he needed you to know how serious this could have been, how badly you could have injured yourself.

“I apologize for my harshness,” - he caught your gaze with his own as he continued - “But I need you to take care of yourself. Especially when I offer you the means to do so.”

He knotted the linen and tugged at the cloth with his teeth before snipping it short with a pair of shears lying nearby. The heat of his breath against your fingers sent a wave of chills across your skin. When he glanced up at you, he saw a twinge of embarrassment in your expression.

“I always end up doing something reckless or clumsy, no matter how much I try to better myself,” you muttered. Avoiding his gaze, you stared at your wrapped hand as he released it from his grasp. 

The next words that left your mouth caught him off guard. 

“Why do you bother with me, Aragorn?”

He swallowed. 

His eyes drifted downward to your bandaged hand. Carefully, he took it in both of his and cradled it between his palms. Your breath caught in your throat, searching his face for any hint of insincerity. Of course, there was none. When his eyes flickered up to meet yours, there was something glimmering in his eyes. Something quiet and untamed. Tender. 

“I care for you, (Y/n). I care for you very deeply. So deeply, in fact, that I think there is no better word for it than love,” he confessed, gently tracing his thumb over your knuckles. “I love you, melamin.”

boromir | word count: 952

Boromir had never been one to display much emotion. He had been taught from a young age that a man was not a creature of sentiment or expressive feeling, so he was not well versed in the commitment of making himself vulnerable. It wasn‘t until he began to see how this pattern of detachment and stalwart solemnness began to affect your relationship that he worked harder to make larger strides in undoing the toxic misogyny his father had engrained in him since boyhood.

You of course knew that Boromir had an emotional side; a softer, sweeter disposition he bore around his younger brother and even around you on occasion – before he subconsciously corrected himself. He had begun to notice that whenever he puffed his chest or resumed that “manly” behavior, you pulled away from him. You grew quieter, you sought solitude, you became annoyed more easily.  His arrogance, you knew, often acted as a wall of self-preservation. But you were tired of being on the other side of that wall, waiting to be let in.

It was after an argument between the two of you that he realized this wall of his was going to have to come down. Even though he had been defensive at first, he soon realized his refusal to be wrong, his hesitance at expressing emotion, his worry about becoming vulnerable – it wasn’t worth the risk of losing you.

You had since shown him that emotion wasn’t a weakness, it was a strength. He knew you understood where his hesitance and his way of thinking brimmed from, you always made the effort to understand. You weren’t asking him to change – you were asking him to grow. 

To allow himself to be Boromir.  Fully, completely, without restraint.

This was his moment, so to speak, in which he knew he was ready to give you everything. His pride had been holding him back for so long under his father’s approval – it was finally time for him to trust you and allow himself the comforts of self-expression.

He was ready to say it first. He was ready to be the one to get vulnerable first.

On the evening he decided to take his first big step into that growth, Minas Tirith basked in the white hue of moonlight. He sat beside you quietly, allowing himself a moment to gather his thoughts. Twirling in between your fingers was a pale blossom from the White Tree that he had plucked for you. Patiently, you waited. You could tell by his calm demeanor and open countenance that something had shifted within him since your last talk – his shoulders were relaxed as he walked, he had let himself stroll along slowly beside you instead of marching quickly like a soldier. He seemed relieved. At peace.

“I have something I must ask of you, my dear,” he began.

Your attentive gaze gave him permittance to continue.

“Your forgiveness,” – his hand covered yours as his voice softened – “I want to apologize for my arrogance throughout our courtship thus far. It was not my intention to hurt you with my attachment to my own pride.”

You leaned forward to interrupt him, but he held up his hand to stop you. You hadn’t wanted him to apologize – you didn’t blame him for a learned behavior he had had no choice in being raised into. But evidently, Boromir felt in necessary to express his remorse. Shutting him down was the last thing you wanted to do, especially if this was what he felt was right. You decided to listen.

“I never knew that I would find someone who would open me up like you have. I never even knew there was such a possibility for me to learn to allow myself to feel as you have. You know I was never allowed to show weakness as a child, or what my father perceived as weakness,” he glanced down at your intertwined hands as he swallowed over his next words, “I was not even allowed to cry. It was not the way of a soldier, or a steward’s son.”

When his eyes lifted to meet yours again, you could see the glistening of his tears in the moonlight. You tightened your grip on his hand, covering it with your other.

He seemed comforted by this as he continued. “But I am able to do so now, to allow myself to feel and become vulnerable. I owe you my thanks for that, (Y/n). If it weren't for you, I fear I never would have allowed myself to grow, to become a better man. A stronger man.”

He leaned forward suddenly, his peaceful expression shifting into excitement. “I love you, (Y/n), with a passion that even the fires of Mordor could not compare. And I thought that I would have to swallow my emotions to be the man you wanted, but instead you had given me freedom I have never been offered before.”

“Oh, Boromir,” you murmured. The image of his smiling face blurred as your own tears gathered and spilled over your cheeks. Your eyes fell to the blossom in your hands and the promise it held of everything to come – of what you already had, here, in his company.

His thumb gently tugged at your cheek as he wiped your tears. When you softened to his touch, he cradled the curve of your jaw in his hand. You leaned into him, covering his hand with your own.

This is all you had ever wanted.

For Boromir to be free, for his heart to be opened, for him to accept your love.

“I love you, too,” you whispered, pressing your lips to the palm of his hand that caressed your face.

faramir | word count: 522

The complete opposite of his brother, Faramir had little to no trouble in connecting to his more emotional side. In fact, he was always eager to shower others in kindness and compassion. It had long been the thing his father hated most about him – Faramir was weak in Denethor’s eyes. Luckily, Faramir’s gift for sentiment could not be so easily squelched. It was what you loved most about him.

Faramir adored you all the more for your acceptance of his openness and empathetic abilities. He never had to filter himself around you or attempt to not be “too much”. He was expressive, kind, and vulnerable. He wasn’t afraid to cry, he wasn’t hesitant in displaying his softer side. He was just Faramir, the way Faramir was supposed to be. And in your eyes, he was perfect.

Those words of declaration, those three tender notes of sweet promise, when they finally came, did not necessarily come as a surprise. He had always been upfront with his feelings towards you – and respectful - with his affection and doting words of affirmation. Shy, but honest. But that did not mean they meant any less when you heard them spoken for the first time.

Faramir, though he had long known that he loved you, had not planned the moment he would confess to you. He knew the right moment would happen along, and happen along it did.

One fine afternoon in the sunlit halls of the library halls, your laughter echoed with an unkempt ferocity that made his heart melt. Evidently, the way he had attempted in retelling his brother’s joke was far funnier than the actual content of it. You had laid your hand upon his shoulder as you doubled over in a chortling fever of amusement. In seconds, his embarrassment had been assuaged your beautifully wild laugh that in turn encouraged his own to spill forth.

There you both stood under the setting beams of the warm sun that filtered into the halls, leaning into each other for support as you felt your sides begin to ache. His gentle hands gripped your forearms as you gasped for breath between cheerful bouts of laughter. He had been able to calm his jovial fit much sooner as his admiring gaze fell almost blissfully solemn. 

He couldn’t look away from your lips that were split into a wide smile, unconcerned whether your laugh was ladylike or if your posture was stiff. Those little crinkles in the corners of your glimmering (e/c) eyes were like the fine details of a painting. Oh, how deeply he had fallen for you.

When you finally began to catch your breath and your laughter had quieted enough for a lower octave to be heard, the words slipped effortlessly between his smiling lips with a soft chuckle. “I love you.”

Your boisterous laughter faded into breathy vowels as you asked, “What did you say?”

“I love you,” he repeated.

His smile didn’t waver. He was so sure, so sincere.

You could only smile up at him graciously, a light laugh of merriness flowing through you.

How perfect this moment was, how blissfully perfect.

eomer | word count: 413

It happened one the eve before a long patrol - that could result in battle  - that he and his men were preparing for. Eomer, knowing he could promise himself a certain outcome, did not want to leave you waiting until he returned to say all that he needed to. He wanted to be sure he left no loose ends fraying in his absence.  He wasn’t one to leave things to chance.

As he walked out to the stables to prepare his supplies and brush out his steed, you followed along with him, eager to spend every minute you had left together before his departure. There were inquiries and concerns exchanged while he filled Firefoot’s bale with oats and cleaned his shoes of any muck. When he was reassured that you and Eowyn would care for each other in his absence, he felt one last thing needed to be said.

His hands wove through Firefoot’s mane as he considered his next words, soothing the horse’s nervous anticipation. The lull in conversation reminded of you how close dawn truly was. He would be gone soon and you would be left to worry and pray for his safe return. Busying yourself with tasks that would seem miniscule in comparison.

He patted the broad neck of his steed before wiping his hands clean and stepping nearer to you. “There’s something I think you should be aware of before I go,” he began. 

His tone made you worry.

“I think we are both aware of our feelings for each other since our courtship began,” he took your hands in his as he paused for breath, “It’s no surprise to you that I feel passionately for you. I don’t think it would be news for you to hear these words, but I would feel better having spoken them before I take my leave.”

You waited on baited breath. Was he truly going to say it after all this time?

“I love you, (Y/n), with every inch of my being, and I plan to act on that knowledge when I return.”

Yes, you already knew he loved you, and he knew you loved him. But to hear those words spoken aloud after the years you had pined for each other and in the months you had courted, it was the last bit of resolve you needed to face the world while he was away. And evidently it was the last bit of peace he needed to carry himself forward. 

eowyn | word count: 312

Eowyn had long been sure of her love for you, but had lacked the courage to admit it. of course, she had no qualms with being the first to say it – of course a woman could say it first just as easily as a man and with just as much meaning. But when would the right time occur? How could she be sure you felt the same? That she would not be left with a gaping pang of regret?

But Eowyn, against all of her worries, knew the moment when it came.

And of course, her bravery shown through.

Her confession did not happen under the moonlit stars or in the halls of her uncle, nor even in the walls of her homeland. It happened in the uncomfortable, sweaty musk of battle as arrows pierced hide and swords battered shields. It happened as an enemy blade came bearing down on your armor as you lie defenseless in the wreckage, your weapon thrown own of reach.

You had accepted your death just as the thudding of boots came nearer and the Uruk’s bloodthirsty gaze drifted upwards, its blade halted. The beast stepped over your impaired body and poised the tip of its blade toward the approaching figure with a twisted smirk – and it was then that the sharp twang of her blade meeting the Uruk’s pierced the air. She parried quickly, shoving the beast back into a stumble. She stood over you, wielding her shield and blade with grace and courage enough for a hundred men – or perhaps a thousand.

“You will not harm the one I love!” she shouted.

Your heart raced in the frenzy chaos of the moment – both from adrenaline and from the realization that Eowyn, the great lady warrior, the bravest heart you had ever met, had confessed her love for you while protecting you with her own life.

elrond | word count: 928

Elrond was extremely mindful of his feelings and how he attached himself to others. He was quiet, reserved, and did not care for taking unwise chances – especially when it came to feelings such a love. He had given much thought to the subject and took his time in considering what his feelings might be – if it was simply the fleeting sensation of infatuation, a connected sensation of friendship, or truly the sensation of love itself.

When he found his every thought resolved itself back to you and nearly everything he saw or read prompted him to share it with you, he knew that he had fallen in love. And thus, it soon came time to be honest with you about his earnest feelings for you. It was time to finally say it.

During a private dinner with him, Elrond had prepared his words carefully. As he dotted the corners of his mouth with a red satin cloth, he cleared his throat. But before he could speak, your voice incidentally interrupted him.

“Elrond, do you think I’m a witless human?”

The words he had almost spoken caught in his throat. He lifted his gaze to yours across the table, studying the remorseful expression that had overcome the smile you had worn only minutes ago. He had felt that something about you was off that evening; your spirit seemed dampened like the fallen leaves of autumn when drenched with the harvest’s cool rain.

“Of course not. Why would you ever think that?”

He watched as you toyed with a piece of warm pastry, poking at the flakey crust distractedly. “I suppose I- I…I worry that I am unworthy of your company. You are a great lord and I am nothing but a wanderer who happened upon your halls years ago. There are many who are still uncertain of me, many who would rather I leave your courts and make my home elsewhere.”

“Anyone who say such things about you must be the witless creature, (Y/n), not you,” he reassured.

Your eyes met his. There was an urgency to your tone, an urgency that taunted him unintentionally. “I am dull and plain, milord. I do not belong in your world of elegance and majesty. I am like the dust of the earth and you- you are like stardust.”

Still silence fell as Elrond processed your words. You had returned to formalities, which you seldom did unless the situation called for it. This time, in the comfort of your shared solitude, it was not expected of you. Where had this all come from? Had someone chastised you? Spoken ill of your character?

He rose slowly from his chair and made his way to you. You kept your eyes on your plate, suddenly overwhelmed by a bashful sense of embarrassment. Every step he drew nearer, your pulse quickened.

The warmth of his hand stilled the nervous fidgeting of yours.

As near as he was to you now, knelt by your chair, you wondered if he could see the tears burning in your eyes. You blinked, dissolving the blurry liquid from your vision. You held your breath very still, only taking shallow breaths –you feared anything deeper would encourage more emotions to present themselves.

When his other hand swept your hair from your face, your breath caught in your throat. “You are the furthest thing from dull, melda. Do not compare yourself to the dust that is trampled by the feet of beasts – you are far more precious than even the light of the stars. You are worth far more than you give yourself credit for.”

The soft touch of his finger pulled your chin towards him, warranting your gaze to meet his. “I have spent these last two months considering how I might tell you this, and I find that is more perfect a time than ever,” he paused only to admire your eyes and the loveliness that reflected in them, “I am in love with you, (Y/n), and I fall more in love with you each day that passes.”

Your (e/c) widened and you felt your chest tighten – how could this be possible? How could he, the great elven lord of Rivendell, think of you as anything more than a wanderer? No matter how much you doubted yourself, you knew you could trust his words, despite the shock they invoked. He was never one to speak with haste or make himself vulnerable to anyone apart from his children. You were stunned to silence, waiting for him to take it back.  But he never did.

In fact, his brows drew together in an expression of absoluteness and he spoke again in a calmer, more pronounced tone. He took one of your hands in his and pressed it to his heart. “You are the most marvelous creature that has ever walked into my life. I am the one who has been graced by your presence. You have enriched my life when before it was simple and lonely…you are stardust, melamin, not me.”

Your sorrowful tears turned to joy as they poured from your eyes and spilled over your flushed cheeks. When you leaned forward to embrace him, he opened his arms to accept your human display of affection. A little too enthusiastic, it might have been – you wrapped your arms over his shoulders, pulling yourself to the ground where he knelt.

His chuckle reverberated against your body and you found yourself wondering how you had ever doubted your belonging here with him – there was no other place in Middle-Earth that could hold your heart.

arwen | word count: 420

Arwen had known from the moment she had met you that something was meant to last between the two of you. Call it instinct, desire, or elven wisdom – whatever it might’ve been, she felt it clearly much like her father’s visions. Although she hadn’t been sure if it was the bonds of friendship or kindred spirits for some time, until her connection to you was proven by your shared desire to be near each other whenever you could.

She confessed to you on the morning of your departure with part of her father’s guard to oversee the treaties between your peoples. There was much riding upon the success of your deliverance and the treaties themselves – there was much hanging in the air, stiffening the backs of many anxious elves that mounted their steeds alongside you. Just as you finished loading your saddle, her voice carried across the yard of the stables and met your ears, drawing your attention towards you.

“I thought you were supposed to be with the farewell party at the gates?” You inquired. The smile her presence brought onto your lips warmed her heart.

“I am,” she drew near until she was within arm’s reach of you, “I came to say goodbye personally. I have something to tell you before you go.”

“Oh? What is it, my lady?”

“I want to offer you this,” – she took your hand in hers and discreetly place something within the grasp of your fingers, folding them back over it – “If you would but promise to take great care of it.”

Opening the palm of your hand, you found the cool glint of the Evenstar glistening back at you. To say that you were stunned was an understatement – surely this was not what it seemed to be. Was she offering her heart to you?

“Arwen, are- are you asking…?”

“I am offering you my heart with this jewel, that you may carry me with you while we are parted.”

You searched her eyes for any hint of uncertainty, but you found none. She knew what she was doing, placing this jewel in your care. She was offering you her love, her fidelity, her loyalty. Herself.

“But this must mean that-“

“That I love you,” she murmured, taking a step closer. She curled your fingers around the Evenstar again, this time enclosing her hands around yours. Her eyes flickered down as she placed a soft kiss to your knuckles, sealing her promise. “And I will be waiting for you when you return home.”

legolas | word count: 259

It came in during one of the many nights that you sat close by him during the Feast of Starlight in his father’s halls. When he had seen your ceremonial gown laced with silver ribbon and your hair flowing free of any braids or decorum, he felt as though every thought and feeling he had harbored for you in his heart had been sealed by that moment. The need to confess his feelings came on so strongly that he could hardly speak throughout the feast, knowing the next words that passed through his lips would be ones of affirmation and promise. 

It happened in the basking glow of moonlight, just after you pointed out the constellations that glimmered brightly above you. He had placed his hand over yours gently, his fingers trembling slightly with anticipation. 

You glanced at him as his fingers enclosed around yours. His glimmering blue eyes narrowed down at your delicate hand, not yet meeting your inquiring gaze. His brows dipped together as though he were working very hard at thinking of what to say. 

“Legolas?”

He swallowed back his nerves before looking up to say, “(Y/n), you have been like my very own star, illuminating every part of my being with your passion. I think it must be time that I tell you just how much I care for you,” - his other hand came to cup the hand he held, encasing it in the warmth of his touch - “I love you, (Y/n), with a fire that burns brighter than the sun itself.”

galadriel | word count: 207

The lady Galadriel, even in her vast grace and eloquence, could not find the words to say all that she felt for you. In the dusk of a summer evening over a private supper, she handed you a carefully folded letter that had been sealed with silver thread. You took it gingerly, looking up at her with curious eyes before unfolding its contents and delving into her written speech.

In it she had poured everything - from the moment she had met you to the very minute she had realized how her heart was binding itself to yours with the slow cadence of the changing seasons. She expressed that though her life had spanned a great millennium, you had brought a youthful curve to her smile, a liveliness she had not known for some time. At the very end of her confession that had been penned with her delicate penmanship were the concluding words of affection. She was in love with you. 

When you looked up at her, the letter quivering in your hands, she glanced away momentarily before saying, “Every word I wrote is but the truth I feel in my heart,” her smile was as dignified as ever, “and I cannot deny it any longer.”

haldir | word count: 365

He will have thought about it for a very long time and have every word prepared to the syllable. The setting was carefully planned, the way he spoke and carried himself was rehearsed - for declaring your lifelong love for someone was no lighthearted matter. It could determine the course of his existence, as well as yours. Haldir wanted nothing less of himself than utter perfection, knowing well that you were worth every bit of his effort (and so much more). 

So there he waited in the beauty of the Lothlorien moon glow for your arrival. He had your favorite delicacies made in the kitchens by the skilled elves in the upper palace. There were pastries filled with tart berries and lathered with warm crème, a centuries-aged mulled wine, and votives shimmering in the grass. All to tell you that he loved you - to declare his heart as yours.

But all of that changed when you arrived suddenly and rushed up the slope to meet him. Unexpectedly, you took him in your arms and held him there without warning. There was a quiver to your body that he felt against his skin. He returned the gesture without hesitation.

“Melda, what is it that troubles you?” 

You spouted off about how horrible your day had been and how glad you were to have had this meeting with him, how it had kept you going throughout the gradual disappointments that had taken place since that morning. You went on to tell him how much he meant to you - all without explicitly saying ‘i love you’, but somehow he knew that had been what you meant. 

Without thinking, he said it over you shoulder in a whisper just loud enough to be heard by your human ears. It hadn’t been the way he had carefully planned out, but somehow it had been sweeter this way than any other way he could have imagined. It was natural, pure, and made his heart full. 

“I love you too, Haldir,” you murmured in return. He permitted himself to succumb to your human expression of affection completely as he tightened his embrace and gently nestled his chin over your shoulder. 

gimli | word count: 346

The saying “the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach” must have applied to dwarves as well. For one night as you and the other members of your Fellowship bedded down for a meal and a few hours’ rest, the savory flavor you managed to infuse in the meager ingredients you rationed had done just that to Gimli, son of Gloin. It had been only a brief moment between handing him his own helping and sitting down next to him with your own that the words of adoration escaped his mouth.

“My love be yours, lass! This brew is delicious!” He had proclaimed, his voice rising higher above the hushed sounds of delight as the others enjoyed your cooking. Then his own words registered in his hungry mind - as they did to the rest of the group.

The spoon halted in his mouth as he froze stiff under the several inquiring looks from around the fire. Legolas’ expression was contorted in such a confused way, Gimli would have make a jab at the elf had he not been the object of attention himself. He hadn’t thought it possible for the dwarf to harbor feelings - well, positive ones, at least.

Your smile drove the dwarf’s cheeks into a reddening fit. “Your what be mine?” 

“Uh, ah,” he swallowed quickly and slurped in another mouthful of broth, “I dedn’t say anythin’.”

“Oh, I think you did, Gimli,” Aragorn chimed in with a wide grin on his face.

“I think he might ‘a said he loved her!” One of the hobbits proclaimed, encouraging a roar of laughter around the fire. 

Gimli muttered something over his bowl of stew that he cradled close to his beard. You smiled at him, knowing he was too embarrassed to even offer a rebuttal. It may not have been outright or plainly spoken, but you could see through the hard-pressed and unfeeling exterior he always wore that there was something soft not too far below the surface. You were happy to hold the affections of a certain red-haired, axe-wielding dwarf. 

frodo baggins | word count: 612

Frodo loved nothing more than a peaceful day spent in the flickering shade of the forests and crossing through little creeks and rivers - especially if you were with him. He often invited you to tag along with him on his adventures to find a good reading spot or explore some hidden oasis of the Shire he had yet to discover. He always wanted to be with you. 

On one such day, Frodo couldn’t stop thinking about you. Every thought turned and found its way back to you. Each time he tried to concentrate on the book he cradled in his hands, his eyes wandered readily to find your peaceful face indulged in your own little world, just content to have his company without the need for conversation. 

He adjusted himself where he sat in the forked trunk of a comfortable tree and tried one last time to immerse himself in the paragraphs printed on the yellowed pages of his book. It was no use.

Minutes passed and Frodo couldn’t try any longer. His eyes settled on the texture of your (h/c) hair that you had left down that day with no braids or ribbons tying portions of it back. The midday sun that filtered through the canopy of trees sent waves of gold across those soft tendrils he loved tucking behind your ear. You sat primly at the base of the tree, weaving the stems of flowers together. 

Quietly, he admired the contour of your nose, the curve of your cheeks, the delicate shape of your lips and the pink tongue that poked out every now and then as you tried to concentrate on your pleats. A dreamy smile took over his quaint expression. The contented sigh that passed between his lips pulled your gaze up to meet his.

His sweet smile encouraged your own to make an appearance. Both of your hearts fluttered. “What’s that look for?” 

“I was just admiring how beautiful you are with sunlight in your hair,” he said. His voice was sugary and tender. It reminded you of the rich pastries his uncle offered you each time you came for a meal. So delicately ruch with sweetness that it sat in your belly and warmed, mixing perfectly with the twang of a hot berry tea. Frodo was like that - the perfect mix of everything natural and sweet. Pure.

Your blush overtook your expression and your averted your gaze bashfully. As your thoughts rushed with anticipation, wondering what was to come next, if anything. Perhaps he would say something else or return to his book, you couldn’t be sure. 

There was the definitive sound his book snapping shut and the scuffle of his feet as he hopped down from the tree. You teased him with a glance when he sat next to you and tucked his legs underneath him, turning your fingers around the stems of budding dandelions. His eyes studied your face for a moment longer before he wandered down to follow the steady work of your hands.

“What are you making?”

“I’m weaving a bookmark for you,” you answered. “After it dries, you can take it out and use it for other books.”

There was that fluttering in his heart again. 

“You’re marvelous,” he whispered. 

A short chuckle escaped you and your eyes widened with a mix of shock and curiosity. “I’m just weaving flowers, Frodo. It’s nothing special.”

His hand covered yours. Your fingers stilled.

“Of course it is. Anything you do becomes special.”

“Frodo, I-...”

“I love you, (Y/n).”

“You- you what?”

He traced his finger along your cheek, tucking your hair behind your ear like he always did. “I love you.”

samwise gamgee | word count: 1,084

Sam had planned every minute of his confession. He would invite you to supper, cook every bit of it himself, and put it all in a picnic basket to be eaten in the quaint garden of his home. He had rehearsed his words over and over again, both to Frodo and the looking glass that hung by the front door.

When you arrived that evening, it was obvious that something was turning in that head of his (he was never any good at being discrete), but you didn’t let on as if you suspected anything. You figured that if Sam had planned something special, he would enjoy the surprise on your face better than the curious questions that would deflate his excitement. With a basket in tow, he led you back out the front door and onto the stone steps of his beautifully gardened walkway.

You paused to admire the lilies and tall-reaching sunflowers as he bickered with the key in the lock. Unfortunately, both of you were too distracted to notice the picnic basket slipping from his grasp. Before either of you could react, the beautifully packed picnic had tumbled out onto the dusty stones around your feet. 

A loaf of bread that had been carefully wrapped in parchment seemed unscathed, as did the little pot of warm stew that had been tied shut with a thick ribbon over the lid. The jars of honey and jam clinked as they rolled into each other, a packed cheese board tumbled out and into the grass, and a lovely golden pie feel top-first onto the porch step with a splat.

Your first instinct was to clasp your hands over your mouth and stare idly at the unfortunate mess. Your eyes flicked to Sam, who stood with his back to you and his hand still on the key that stuck out of the door. His shoulders sank and an audible sigh of remorse left his lips.

“Oh, blast it!” he exclaimed under his breath, bending over to turn the basket right-side up.

Poor Sam.

“Oh, Sam! I’m so sorry!” You stepped forward out of your daze and tucked the jars in your arms. You picked up the stew that had only barely spilled a few drops when it tipped, careful not to knock the lid off anymore. When you set them down by the basket, you noticed the pie that had been smashed had splattered onto Sam’s feet and trousers. Helplessly, he tried to shake the gooey tart off, but to no avail.

“Let me go inside and get some towels,” you offered. Scooting between him and the doorpost – and narrowly avoiding the pie yourself – you took the key from his fingers and twisted it back, opening his front door wide open and quickly heading for the bathroom.

When you came back, damp towel in hand, Sam was slumped by the grass, picking up the cheese and berries that had hopped out like little frogs. You sighed at the sight of it, knowing he had most likely prepared and cooked every bit of this meal himself. You couldn’t help but notice that he looked rather defeated.

Approaching him, you could hear him muttering under breath, things like, “Samwise, you blundering fool” and “now the night’s all ruined because of your clumsiness”. Gently, you placed your hand on his shoulder and bent over to capture his attention. He stood and looked at you, a frown drooping his eyebrows together. It was enough to make your heart break right then and there.

“Here, leave that to me and let’s get you cleaned up.”

Taking his hand, you led him to the little bench by the potted tomatoes and gestured for him to sit. He sat down with a groan and reached for the towel, which you pulled out of reach. “It’s alright, Sam, I can clean it off.”

“You don’t have to do that, (Y/n),” he interjected. There was an embarrassed twinge in his tone.

“I know I don’t, but I want to help. You went to all this trouble to give me a lovely evening out and I want to do what I can to help make it happen still,” you reassured. You knelt by his feet and began wiping the crème and berries from his trousers, letting the water soak in and draw the hue out.

“Oh,” he sighed, rubbing his face tiredly with his hand, “This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.”

You glanced up at him curiously, quirking a brow. “Sam, it’s alright. It’s just one date – we can always try again and next time I’ll lock the door for you. Or I can carry the basket, although I can’t promise I won’t be the one to drop it.” Your snickering didn’t seem to assuage his deflated excitement.

“No, tonight was-…I was going to- to-...”

You leaned back on your haunches, your hands still. He was going to what?

“Sam?”

His silent anxiousness worried you. Tenderly, you placed a hand on his knee and bent forward to try and catch his gaze again. Bashfully, his eyes darted up, but they did not meet yours. Instead he focused on your hand that settled on his knee and found himself smiling softly, despite the tears that had welled in his eyes.

Following his gaze, you realized what you had done – the heat rose in your cheeks and you began to pull away, but his hand stopped you. With a sweet touch, he wove his together with yours and looked up at you. Your pulse quickened  - you had never seen that look before, in his eyes. The one where they shimmered almost like stars and his smile tipped to the side. He looked almost blissful.

“I had planned on telling you I love you. I had everything planned, including baking your favorite pie with little hearts woven into the crust. I wanted tonight to be special, so you would remember it when we’re old and grey and start forgetting what we ate for second breakfast.”

Sam watched as your smile grew, shrank into shock, and then grew again. When you sprang forward and enveloped him, it took a moment for him to register your sudden warmth pressed against him. But when he did, he happily returned the gesture and wrapped his arms under yours, tucking his chin over your shoulder. He could smell the sweet scent of lavender wafting from your beautiful hair.

“Sam, I’ll never forget this night for as long as I live.”

merry brandybuck | word count: 409

With Meriadoc Brandybuck, nothing was ever subtle. The young hobbit had planned his confession like he might any other adventure or trip across the country. From morning until night, Merry had something in store for you to slowly build to the moment he was prepared to confess his truest feelings. 

It started with pulling you out your door at the crack of dawn to watch the sunrise over Bywater Pool with a quaint breakfast in the square (which you forgave him for when he presented those deliciously warm muffins) and was then followed by a light frenzy of morning shopping from the markets that were selling sweet-tasting goods and homemade wares. He had seen the way you had eyed that little locket with the (f/c) jewel dangling from it and bought it when you weren’t looking, slipping it into his vest pocket. 

Not long after you had visited your friends in the Green Dragon Inn, there had been a lovely wagon-ride through the rich Green Hill countryside to reach the borders of the Shire, followed by a lunch under the trees of the forest in the curve of the hillside shadows. He watched fondly as you went about collecting flowers to braid into a crown for the two of you. After your meal had been finished (along with a day full of snacks and goodies he had brought along), he had led you on a hike the rest of the way to Tuckborough where the Great Willow sat patiently waiting for dusk. 

There, underneath the swaying loveliness of the weeping branches, he turned out his pocket and clasped the necklace around you from behind. 

A gasp escaped your surprised smile, “What is this?!” 

“I saw you eyeing it this morning when we were in the square,” he planted himself beside you, tucking your hair behind your shoulder, “And I thought you should have it.”

“Oh, Merry,” you looked down and marveled at its glimmering beauty, pressing your fingers to the chain, “You really shouldn’t have! This cost a few good silver pieces!”

There was pure adoration in his eyes when you looked at him, a look you hadn’t seen so fully expressed before. It was then, in the pause between phrases, that he said it all with just a look. You had never felt such butterflies before.

“No price could ever compare to the amount of my love for you, (Y/n).”

Oh, he was smooth. He was very smooth.

pippin took | word count: 430

Pippin mightn’t have been the most creative when it came to planning elaborate dates or settings in which to confess his innermost feelings with, but he was no less sincere. When the quick knock had come at your door one morning before you had even had the chance to devour your first meal of the day, you hadn’t expected to find him standing anxiously on the other side. 

He wore that same crooked smile that alighted his whole face and held tightly in his hands was a bouquet of wildflowers. By the looks of them, he must has run up the lane carrying them - some daisies had lost a few petals and you spotted the dirt-knotted roots hanging from his hands from where he had pulled them from the earth. It was messy and imperfect, but it was Pippin. 

There was something so endearing about his childlike naivety when it came to the “proper” way of presenting things, such as the mop of unkempt curls on his head, the bruised flowers in his clenched hands, and the wide-eyed energy he never went without. You loved every bit of it.

You certainly hadn’t expected him to suddenly become shy when he began to explain the bouquet he placed in your hands, his fingers lingering over yours a little longer than necessary. He was never one to be slow to speak.

“I-I, uh, I thought you might like these pretty flowers, y’know, because pretty things like other pretty things,” he smiled for a moment and bounced on his feet, until he seemed to register his own words and how they might be taken, “Uh, not- not that I see you as a ‘thing’ or...anything.”

“I know what you mean, Pip,” you smiled at him through the blossoms as you pressed them to your nose, inhaling their sweet scent. 

“I also came to- uh- to tell you about my feelings.”

“Your feelings?” 

“Ah, those,” he giggled and spared a glance at his feet, “I just meant that I have feelings for someone. For you, that is. I mean. And, uh, I wanted to come out and say it. Like that.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “Oh, Pippin, that’s wonderful becau-”

“I love you, that is,” he concluded before adding a rushed, “You don’t have to say the same, of course. I was just putting it out there.”

You tucked in your widening smile and concealed your blush behind your daisies. “I do feel the same way. Would you like to come in for breakfast?”

You knew he never turned down a meal.

tags: @moony-artnstuff​  @wellfuckmyexistence​

[canary3d-obsessed]

Restless Rewatch: The Untamed Episode 19, part two

(Masterpost) (Other Canary Stuff) (Previous Post)

Warning: Spoilers for All 50 Episodes!

The Man Comes Around

Over at the Wen Indoctrination Tower, which seems to exist just to torture Lan Wangji with stair climbing, Lan Wangji is climbing the stairs. Too bad his cultivation level is too low to be able to just jump up. At least this time his leg isn't broken.

This is the first vengeful stair-climb in the show, but not the last. (Parallel gifset here).

The Wen guards are stationed all the way at the pinnacle of this tower to guard...what? Why are they not at the bottom of the stairs? What is this location for, actually? This is further up the stairs than the scenes with the indoctrination lectures. Anyway, it's been three months since Wen Chao threw Wei Wuxian into the burial mounds, so naturally these guards are talking about that exact thing as Lan Wangji approaches.

Lan Wangji knocks them all down with a blast from his guqin. Did you know his guqin is named Wangji, by the way? It is. A guy who is that lazy about naming his quqin maybe shouldn't feel so superior to a guy who named his sword "whatever." 

(I'm suddenly remembering a plush lamb I had as a child, whose eyes were orange, that I named "orange eyes.") (I, however, was three. And I had a lot of plush lambs. Little ones. Grown-ups found it hilarious to give them to me.) (Native speakers of English can probably guess what OP's real name is. Hint: it rhymes with Canary.) (Everybody else: there is a kid's rhyming song called Mary Had A Little Lamb. OP's name is Mary.)

Anyhoo, after Lan Wangji is finally finished with his dramatic entrance, Jiang Cheng comes flying in from wherever he's been hovering for the past 20 minutes of stair time. A bunch of Lan sidekicks also flood into the frame from wherever they were hiding during the wide shots of LWJ on the staircase.

In case you hope that CQL Lan Wangji is as much of a top (offscreen) as MZDS Lan Wangji is (on the page), here's a gif for you.

(more after the cut)

He uses the patented Lan string attack to choke this guard.  Lan Wangji doesn't have to hold a guqin string in his hands to choke someone with it. He doesn't even have to tighten it, judging by how absurdly not-tight this string is.

Or maybe this guy is choking on the chin strap of his helmet. This is exactly how OP's son reacts when OP sticks a bike helmet on him. (Note: it's GOOD that they are following choking safety protocols on set. Very good. However, they could have just left the string out and pretended, and it would look better, in this instance)

The Wen guard tells Lan Wangji and Jiang Cheng about the whole "thrown into the burial mounds" thing.  Team Let's Find Wei Wuxian is not happy to hear this.

A Vengeful Ghost

Meanwhile, in some Wen office somewhere? Where the hell is this? Yiling, we get an ominous shot of the rooftops where Wei Wuxian is lurking and then we see Wang Lingjiao trying to sleep and having a nightmare.

Wang Lingjiao has gone to sleep with a full face of makeup on instead of washing her face before bed. She has forgotten the important maxim, Go To Sleep Pretty, Wake Up Zitty.

She leaps out of bed to go cling to Wen Chao and freak out about Wei Wuxian's ghost. Wen Chao is trying to read the sports section and has clearly had enough of this crap. This has presumably been going on for a little while now.

Wang Lingjiao is in a new outfit, which is...pajamas? It has the feel of a 1930's French peignoir set, and it's much more softly colored than her usual bright red-purple combo. If this is her pajamas is it weird that her day clothes are a lot more aggressively sexy-looking than her nightgown? A freak in the streets but a lady in the sheets.

Wen Chao rants about the Sunshot Campaign and talks some smack about Wen Qing, and then leaves to go to the bar and watch the game with Wen Zhuliu. After he leaves Wang Lingjiao freaks out for a bit and then looks at the notice he was reading.

The notice basically says that the Sunshot Campaign is kicking their ass. She should be proud for inspiring the name of the campaign with that kite-shooting bullshit she made up at Lotus Pier. Before slaughtering everyone.

No Matter What You Do, I Only Want To Be With You

Back at the Indoctrination Tower, Lan Wangji and Jiang Cheng are having feelings about Wei Wuxian. Jiang Chang does all the talking but Lan Wangji's thoughts are louder because a sad violin is playing Wangxian while they talk.

Jiang Cheng tells Lan Wangji about their meetup plan and says he thought WWX had dumped him to go find Lan Wangji in Lanling. Lan Wangji telepathically indicates that this didn’t happen. This means two things: 1. Lan Wangji has been hanging out in Lanling, where Jiang Yanli has been hanging out, so maybe they have bonded over the past 3 months and 2. This is the first time Jiang Cheng has talked to Lan Wangji since Wei Wuxian disappeared. 

Much as my fic-loving heart would like to believe these two spent three months on the road together looking for Wei Wuxian, in fact they are both important high-level fighters in an active military campaign, and Lan Wangji was busy taking back the Cloud Recesses while Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian were having elective surgery. They probably both were assigned to the "Indoctrination Bureau" mission and this is the first chance they've had to talk about Wei Wuxian.

Is it heartbreaking that, while Wei Wuxian was helplessly getting his ass beat because he'd sacrificed his golden core for Jiang Cheng, Jiang Cheng believed Wei Wuxian had abandoned him for Lan Wangji? Yes. Yes it is.

For some reason Jiang Cheng is hesitant to believe that Wei Wuxian really was thrown into the Burial Mounds. I mean, I understand not wanting to believe Wei Wuxian is dead, but given that Wen Chao is the dude who oversaw the massacre of all of the people at Lotus Pier, including kids, why would Jiang Cheng think his guards are wrong? Maybe he just feels like Wei Wuxian is invincible, since so far he kinda has been. 

The Sword is Mightier Than Not Having a Sword

While they've been chatting, the Lan disciples have found their swords. One disciple is holding Bichen (LWJ's sword), Sandu (JC's sword), and OP consults wiki Suihua (Jin Zixuan's sword). Another disciple is holding Subian (WWX's sword).  

Jiang Cheng grabs Sandu while the Lan disciples, who apparently know their gongzi’s heart, offer Wei Wuxian's sword to Lan Wangji. 

Lan Wangji takes Subian (Bichen: What am I, chopped watercress?) and immediately tries to draw it. Like you don't do. It's sealed itself, which apparently means that it's upset. It's unclear if it's upset because Wei Wuxian is dead or if it just misses him, however.  

Lan Wangji definitely misses him, and wonders, out loud inside his own head, where Wei Wuxian is. Um, he's in the Burial Mounds, dude, they just told you. Well, I guess he's actually in Yiling proper at this point, haunting Wang Lingjiao as he promised her he would.

Twa Corbies

The scene shifts to Qinghe, where there are about 12 dead bodies lying around, which in this show means that there are really a few hundred. In fact, per Jiang Yanli's statement "nothing can be seen but corpses covering the plains." The camera can't see most of them, is all.

Wen Xu's head is hanging in the doorway, and the Jins talk about how Nie Mingjue killed him, cutting his head off with just one swing. Is this foreshadowing anything, like perhaps someone else's head being cut off by Baxia in just one swing? Nope, definitely not.

A couple of crows are perched on a body, totally not eating it, but Jin Zixuan gallantly zaps them with a talisman to make them fly away anyway.  It might be noteworthy that nobody used to use talismans but gradually more and more people are using them - particularly people who have spent time with Wei Wuxian.

With mony a lock of his golden hair-o, we’ll theek our nest when it grows bare-o

Asshole cousin Jin Zixun says “scavenger rights,” so Jin Zixuan puts him in charge of collecting all the bodies. 

Since OP just finished watching fur-collar-happy Nirvana in Fire, these crows look to me like they are wearing luxurious fur collars. Where OP lives, crows are not this fancy. 

A Romantic Corpse-Filled Interlude

Disaster het Jin Zixuan goes to help Jiang Yanli get out of the carriage but she rejects his hand just like he rejected hers back in Gusu.

Jiang Yanli is extremely shocked when she sees Wen Xu's severed head, and turns away in horror, preferring to calmly rest her eyes on dozens of crow-pecked corpses.

Jin Zixuan tries to comfort her and she tells him she'll be going now, thanks for the hospitality. He tries to say that he has to personally deliver her to a representative of the patriarchy one of her brothers, but then one of her brothers shows up.

Lan Wangji and Jiang Cheng arrive, having presumably flown there from Qishan. They show that they are flying by blowing a fan on the ground and then jumping off of a box, which is better than the effects we were subjected to earlier in the episode.

Jiang Cheng rushes over to have an emotional reunion with Jiang Yanli, while Lan Wangji rushes over to have an emotional reunion with Wen Xu’s severed head. Jin Zixuan kind of spoils it for him by talking about Wei Wuxian's absence while Lan Wangji is trying to have a moment.

The whole time Jin Zixuan is talking to him, Lan Wangji appears to be gazing into the middle distance but in fact he is staring at Wen Xu's severed head. This is the guy who led the burning of Cloud Recesses, killed a bunch of disciples, and personally broke Lan Wangji's leg. Lan Wangji stares at his head for more than a full minute before glancing away.

Jiang Yanli hasn't seen Jiang Cheng since they were in Wen Qing's clinic, and she is happy he's recovered. When she asks about Wei Wuxian he gives her the bad news in the classic Jiang fashion, which is to say nothing, but look stricken until your interlocutor figures out that something is horribly wrong, but not precisely what.

Four Angry Men

Inside the fortress, Nie Mingjue is slapping the table and saying, this bad boy can hold so much resentment and vengeance. They're having a mini war council and we're getting a better sense of Nie Mingjue's anger management problem. Note for those who don't get the gif reference: this is a The Godfather joke, not a sex joke, but it can be both, if you like.

We're also getting a little more info about Baxia, who seems to be eager to go fight even without anyone wielding it. (Her? Him? Them? do swords have gender? I don't know). Well done, person below the camera frame whose job is to rattle Baxia in a menacing manner.

They've got a giant model of the battle targets, which looks like it was carved out of real rock (I mean, as much as any of the rocks on this show look like real rocks) and has its own table and everything, decorated in Nie colors. Where was this before they took Qinghe back? Has Nie Mingjue been traveling with it? 

Anyway, I'm assuming Nie Huaisang made it, because it's pretty nice. Hopefully they will keep it around for tabletop gaming after the war is over.

Jiang Cheng is upset but is using his anger management mantra to help control his temper while Jin Zixuan and Lan Wangji talk with Nie Mingjue. 

Lan Wangji talks by leaning forward meaningfully, mostly not by using any words, but he asks for a battle assignment and Jiang Cheng immediately joins in. They both want to go find Wei Wuxian. 

Nie Mingjue says Yiling is too difficult of a target, but Lan Wangji puts on his determined face, which is apparently very persuasive.  

After Team Find Wei Wuxian leaves, Nie Mingjue asks Jin Zixuan to hang back so he can ask him how Meng Yao is doing. This is the first time he finds out that his ex didn't go to Lanling. Jin Zixuan tries to delicately remind him that Dad's got, like, SO many bastard children, they really don't have space for all of them. Nie Mingjue dismisses him immediately and abruptly. 

Nie Mingjue might invite the straights to his party but he isn't interested in actually socializing with them.

Unconditional Soup is Only for A-Xian

Jiang Cheng can't sleep, and takes some time, now, to be sad about Wei Wuxian. Presumably he spent the prior 3 months being mad, not sad, because he really thought he just buggered off without saying anything for all that time. Which is sort of fair, but sort of not. One thing about these two bros is that for as close as they have been and as much as they love each other, their mutual understanding has some big, messy gaps.

Fortunately while he is feeling sad, Jiang Cheng does not try to draw Subian from its sheath, because wouldn't THAT be awkward.

Jiang Yanli can't sleep either, and comes to sit with him. Jiang Cheng feels bad that she's wearing herself out with worry and she says "As your sister, I have nothing to do but to worry about you." Jiang Yanli isn't one to complain but she doesn't like being inactive or helpless. In Lanling she was far from the war, but now that she's in Qinghe she'll make herself useful by tending the wounded, and later she'll help Jiang Cheng shoulder his responsibilities as he takes over the Jiang clan.

At the moment, however, all she can do is fret and make soup. As she gives Jiang Cheng a bowlful she reminds him that he absolutely has to rescue their brother who has, according to his captors, been reduced to bone dust.

With all the impossible shit that Jiang Cheng is expected to achieve - and in many instances, does achieve - he is absolutely the embodiment of the Jiang Clan's motto. Fuck his father for disrespecting him because he hadn't figured out how to do everything by the age of 16.

Definitely Not Chilling in Yiling

Back in Yiling, Wen Chao is hearing the news that the Qishan Indoctrination Bureau has fallen and that he's being called back to Nightless City. Wen Chao says he shouldn't need to go back because his dad has a new right-hand man. That new right-hand man, we will eventually learn, is Meng Yao. Wang Lingjiao, meanwhile, is hiding under the bed covers and deciding it's time to dump Wen Chao.

She locks the door and goes to pull out her jewelry box, which is locked and hidden under the bed. Maybe this is Wen Chao's jewelry box, because she acts kind of squirrely about opening it. Upon opening the jewelry box, she doesn't find jewelry but a pair of bloody fake eyeballs staring at her.  She screams and freaks out and then the wind picks up and we hear the sound of a flute, playing the "I'm here to fuck your shit up" tune that Wei Wuxian likes.

Wang Lingjiao runs to the door and pulls down the protection talisman that's pasted above it, and pastes it directly to her chest instead, which is, we will learn in the next episode, the worst idea she could possibly have at this point.

Then she uses a poking stick to go flip the jewelry box open and finds it's full of ugly-ass jewelry again, plus an improbable number of weird round paper-mache biscuits that have been painted gold. None of this jewelry looks anything like the exquisite accessories people wear in this show, which means this stash was put together by the practical effects department, not by the costume department.

Anyway, Wang Lingjiao apparently thinks she can sell this fakeass stuff for a good price, so more power to her. But then we get a short glimpse of the menacing eyeballs again, this time on the floor, having moved out of the box and brought their little blood pool with them. Screeching ensues.

Next episode: Lady in Red!

Soundtrack: Twa Corbies, by Steeleye Span

[capsized-heart]

l’ incendie

Pairing: Hal x Reader

Summary: You grew up as witness to the atrocities committed under the British crown. Lord Grey is your father and newly pledged councilman of the royal court. Now, England has a new boy king, one who is set on keeping peace in Europe. You are determined to see England burn, even if it means corrupting the lionhearted boy of Eastcheap.

Word count: 10k+

Warnings: explicit smut, strong violence, sacrilegious imagery a blowjob in a chapel lmao

A/N: l’ incendie ; French translation for fire

..so..I watched The King back in November and have had this idea in my brain for the past 2 months now?? It literally consumed me. All throughout my last few weeks of classes and final papers, this is honestly all I could think about, like I’ve been bumping the soundtrack and rewatching the film to plan this, I looked at Lord Grey’s true lineage (he aint Scottish btw I made that up..but he really was related to King Edward lol).......I’ve just had to get this out of me for so. long. and I’m so happy that I finally have! It feels like this huge weight is gone, but I’ve enjoyed this creative process so much, like it’s so exciting when you hyper-fixate find a new piece of media that you enjoy so much that you dive completely and utterly into everything about it that you can get your hands on, and this is my piece for this!

And my boy Timmy?? Had no fucking clue who this guy was before I saw the film, now I’m writing fics about him a;sdkfjskj but you’re here reading this so. we’re both guilty.

I love story arcs like this where you see a character’s slow descent into corruption and having it revealed that someone was talking in their ear the whole time....i eat that shit right up. Reader’s character is heavily inspired by Lady Macbeth. Using wiles, using sex, etc. Ooh baby. I had fun with this. 

gif credit to @michonnegrimes​ 

Scotland was once your true home. Moors, lochs, rugged mountains, biting cold, all. You remember the endless mist and gloom, the wet winters of your childhood that made the creaking wood of your cottage whistle and moan. Summers were warm and mild and the highlands bursting with rich green and sunlight, running through fragrant fields of heathers, bluebells, myrtle with your skirts damp with dew, shrieking and choking on laughter as your older brother, Callum, chased you all throughout your little village of Kirkcaldy. Laughing himself, grabbing at you and wrestling you down into the mud, blossoms, and river water.

“Yield! Yield to the English crown or perish, wretched witch!” Callum would boom in mock play, tickling your sides until you’re gasping for air and tears stung your eyes.

“Aye! I yield!”

“What? You mad girl! Take it back! We are Scots!”

And then Callum would descend on you with all the wrath of England and you’d be howling with giggles and screams.

Returning home at nightfall smelling of wind and rain with vibrant wildflowers tangled in your hair and dirt streaking the skin of your cheeks, still plump with baby fat. Scarce food, but stomach full of adventure and blissful naivete. You were happy. 

Your father would scold you promptly before his voice would soften a touch, smoothing back your hair from your face. Round, curious eyes and missing teeth. A feral, untamed child. 

Daughter of Lord Thomas Grey. His precious girl. So much of your mother in you, the same fight, the same spark and love for life. Until you had ripped her body from the inside out and she had lost too much blood, the wet nurses unable to stop the bleeding and she had given her last breath cradling you lovingly against her naked chest.

You had killed your own mother. 

In your early years, Callum and your father gave you nothing but warmth and protection, the sole surviving daughter of Grey lineage. But a child can only be sheltered for so long. Your world is a man’s world. Your country is no stranger to bloodshed. 

The Anglo-Scottish Wars have endured for as long as you can remember, rebel leaders beaten down by English captains and more Christian blood staining the lush lowlands with every day. Robert the Bruce. Percy Hotspur. Blood all the same.   

You are bleak, wild, uncivilized in the eyes of the English. 

It’s all your people have ever known. Weary, resilient Scotland. 

You have no memory of your mother, your earliest memory being the image of William Wallace’s torso strung up in the village square and the ensuing riots that had truly put the fear of God in you, mounted soldiers and civilians clashing in a fury of slick, gory steel, longswords and blacksmith daggers, a fear so raw and primal it struck you frozen and you’d soiled yourself in the midst of chaos. Callum had grabbed you and raced the four miles home as you bellowed atop his back with great, ugly heaves, snot and tears dribbling down your chin. 

You didn’t need to understand the politics of rebellion or Wallace’s stake in it all to understand a massacre. 

You have no memory of your mother, only murder in the name of the English king. 

But you’ve learned to nurture that little glowing kernel of survival, of the fighting spirit and grit inside you that had evidently cost your mother her life. You’ve kindled it, watched it ignite with every passing year of war, your body flourishing into the figure of a young woman with embers in her soul. A stable simmering of flushed coals beneath your skin, glistening in the pools of your irises, ready to flare up and burn all you touch should you choose to. 

You feel it now as a jostling carriage takes you to Northumberland, England. You sit quietly, watching the hills of Scotland tremble by, eyes hungrily drinking up as much of its strong landscape as you can.

Your father and brother have already gone ahead to England to make arrangements for Callum’s recent engagement to Isabel, Countess of Essex and only daughter of the Earl of Cambridge. You are reuniting after a lonely week, perhaps your last, to ever see your homeland. 

Callum’s betrothal didn’t come as much of a surprise, rather, you’ve been counting down the days until your village lifestyle was doomed for inevitable change; for years, your father has been preparing the two of you for noble life outside of Scotland. Son and daughter subjected to the arts of chivalry, proper etiquette, gentility. The best that your little village could accommodate.

Your father and his maternal ancestry have interestingly long influenced the English courts, as his title of Lord would suggest. Through his grandmother’s side, you are distant descendants of Margaret, Duchess of Norfolk. 

King Edward himself. Now cold and buried in London’s Westminster Abbey. 

The coals jump, flames twisting at the idea of relatives long dead sitting idly on the opportunity and resources for a coup d'etat, instead choosing to line their own pockets and watch your country crumble from the comfort of their English estates. 

The carnage and murder of monarchy feel that much more personal to you. 

With your brother’s new marriage, Callum will acquire lordship and be gifted property in Essex. Your father will be secured a seat in the king’s council. You will be given rooms and hospitality in the castle as a noblewoman available for marriage. As Lady Grey. 

A lick of fire coils up your throat. 

God save the king. 

**

The switch cracks so hard against the skin of your knuckles that your lip draws blood when you bite back a scream. Pain diffuses up your arm in fractured, ringing jolts and your eyes flood with hot tears. You hazard a look at where an angry welt has already started to flush, red and pulsing on the back of your hand. 

“Again.” Says Miss Hunt.

Your gaze falls to the open manuscript in front of you, to the passage that you’ve rehearsed aloud for the past two hours. Your tongue works nervously in your mouth, swallowing. Sweat glistens your brow. You think you may even be trembling. 

You draw in a quick breath and begin again:

“Time and tide wait for no man.

The life so short, the crafts so long to learn.

People can die of mere imagination.

And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche-”

Another crack and this time you can’t restrain the cry that leaves you. You blink back the heat blurring your vision, set your jaw when Miss Hunt clasps her hands coldly behind her back and looks down at you over her hooked nose. 

“Your voiced consonants are absolutely horrid, girl. Don’t close up your mouth. If you are to perfect the King’s English, you are to completely forget that savage dialect before I cut out your tongue. Am I understood?”

Miss Hunt gives you a smart swat to your cheek.

You nod quickly. 

Another stinging swat.

“Am I understood?”

“Yes, Miss Hunt.”

Satisfied, she turns on her heel, granting you a few precious moments of quiet, of rest. Afternoon light filters into the chamber in dusty, silvered shafts, hueing the book’s pages in a drab of diluted grey. The inked words of Chaucer bleed back up at you as you settle your breathing. 

This English sits like gravel in your mouth, low and rough and choking up your throat. Sharply iambic, as if everyone is talking down to the other. 

England’s English sounds slow and stupid.

You wonder if Callum had this much trouble mastering the accent. You wonder if Callum, as a Lord, has ever been slashed with a switch.  

Since your arrival to England and for the better part of a year, Miss Hunt has dissected every syllable of your speech through bodily punishment and repetition, ripped out any trace of Gaelic, any remaining trace of Scotland on your tongue and sutured it back together with mouthfuls of Chaucer and pompous, exaggerated vowels. 

But pain, degradation, and humiliation are wonderful motivators. And to your horror, it has worked.

Your father recently introduced you to a few councilmen out of courtesy and as the sister of the soon to be Lord Grey of Essex. You politely discussed politics, entertained banter and jests of marriage proposals. None questioned your status as an English noblewoman. 

Masquerading with voice and poise. 

But that hasn’t stopped your secret, unseen resistance. 

Miss Hunt may have taken your language and cadence, but her practices have only shown you the true powers of speech, knowledge, shown you just how intimidated and afraid all of England is of the bold north, of any European empire threatening its legitimacy. 

A cowering dog with raised hackles and snapping teeth, but only so out of mad fear. 

The harder Miss Hunt pushes, the deeper you dig into your own studies. By day, you are her sole pupil. By night, by candlelight, you are the pupil of Cicero, studying rhetoric and the power of spoken influence. You’ve also begun to study French as a means to bolster your wiles and mental arsenal. 

You are already a so-called savage by blood. Learning the language of England’s arch rival will do nothing to hurt your reputation. 

You feel a bead of sweat slide down the base of your spine as the switch swishes impatiently in Miss Hunt’s clutches. Oral recitation and the simultaneous reduction of your accent demands every ounce of your concentration. You know already that if you are hit again, the skin will break and you’ll only be reprimanded harder. Miss Hunt is sadistic and cold with her beady eyes and that ugly high starched collar.

“Again.” Her voice clips evenly.

So, you inhale a strong, supportive breath and begin again, pushing down the smolder in your chest.

**

The day of the wedding is cloudless and full of sunshine, a rarity for England. Callum has been bustling about the chapel’s back rooms in nervous energy all morning, fixing his hair and dress shirt over and over. You send your father to go and calm him down as you tend to Isabel, shooing him away quickly so your father’s mirrored jitters won’t affect her before the start of the ceremony. She gives you a small smile of thanks.

Isabel looks beautiful sitting in front of the mirror as her maids finish arranging her hair. Back straight as a board, plump lips and cheeks the color of a rosy, coral pink. You help to pull the veil over her face and the thin fabric does nothing to mute her radiance.

You see the flickering range of emotions in her eyes as she sees her own reflection. The life that all women are fated to live. Her last moments of true freedom, uncertainty for the future, and that small, significant trickle of vanity at having a perfect day of her own. 

You see it all. After all, you are a woman. 

She relaxes a bit when you lay a comforting hand on her shoulder. Her gaze finds yours in the mirror. 

“You and I will soon be sisters,” she laughs softly. You give her a pleasant smile.

“I would want nothing more.” 

Her throat works as she swallows tears, gives you another radiant laugh. “Someday, you will be sitting here, too.”      

The truth of her words causes your smile to weaken, but you quickly hide it by busying yourself with her skirts and lace. Your world is a man’s world, even outside of war-torn Scotland. One man’s world, to be exact. 

King Henry IV.     

“And I expect you, my dear Isabel, to be at my side when that day comes.” You say to her. She nods kindly. 

Your brother and Isabel are married a few hours later beneath the rainbowed, iridescent wash of stained glass and chiming church bells. And as the newly wed couple beam at you and their close company of friends and family, as you see Callum hold his wife proudly on his arm, you think that the bride and groom may truly love each other despite their arranged marriage. The possibility of such a happiness makes you grin wide and the familiar coals to simmer down ever so slightly.     

The reception then moves to the chapel’s outdoor gardens. Ornately trimmed hedges, chirping birdsong, bubbling marble fountains, and the sweet fragrance of daisies and roses perfume the budding spring air. 

The sun is warm on your skin, the air brisk and comfortable. You keep your fur lined mantle draped around your shoulders, your embroidered sleeves catching hints of daylight, the jeweled metalwork glittering about your waist. And with your hair twisted with ribbon and pinned back with a light linen caul, even Isabel herself murmurs that you look as refreshing and incandescent as the flowers surrounding you. You smile back teasingly, whisper that no one could possibly compare to the blushing bride. 

As sister of the groom, you mingle politely, accepting congratulations and kind regards.  

You see familiar faces, lords and fellow council members alike, and some of those not yet well acquainted. You meet Cambridge, Isabel’s father and a bird of a man. Gangly limbs and a flittering that accompanies his quick movements, but cordial and gentle. He tells you the union of your families will be prosperous, benign. You agree.  

Then, Cambridge is pulled aside by a young man. Cambridge seems to recognize him instantly and clasps him into an embrace, chuckling heartily.

“Hal! You made it!” he exclaims. The two talk together briefly before the young man turns to you. 

He’s tall and lean, broad chested with sloping shoulders. The angular planes of his face are undeniably handsome, a strong nose, full dark lashes and brows that frame his bold complexion. Black, unkempt curls and soft, hooded green eyes that hold an undertone of vigor, like his very gaze has commanded attention his entire life. They flicker over you quickly, as if you’d imagined it yourself, a trick of the light. 

You don’t miss the way they linger at the exposed dip of your neckline, however.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” He then asks of Cambridge, his voice a soft murmur and his eyes never leave you. 

Cambridge looks quickly between the two of you, as if acknowledging your presence again for the first time since this young man’s interruption. He burns bright red, stammering, then gestures to the stranger beside him.

“Of course. My lady, may I present my cousin, Henry. Prince of Wales.”  

The suddenness and sheer absurdity of it all almost makes you burst out in laughter.

Cousin? King Henry IV’s eldest son is the cousin of your father-in-law? 

With this marriage, you realize your family is now tied to the most powerful family in all of Britain. Yet, no one in the wedding party seems to have even acknowledged the presence of the boy prince dressed simply in dark cloak and tunic.

And then you remember. Prince Hal is a drunk, a dangerous playboy from Eastcheap. His claim to the throne is as illegitimate as the probable dozens of children from his bedded girls. 

And asking for a formal introduction from his cousin? It’s utterly laughable, pathetic even.

Hal’s gaze is unwanted, skin prickling from where his eyes trace the curve of your chest in a way that makes you feel vile. 

So, you wet your lips, pretend to wordlessly accept his flirtations and give him a slow flutter of your lashes. The reaction he so craves from you as his chin tilts back in delight, hungry to see more. 

“Your reputation precedes you, my lord.” Your words drip with venom. Flowery girl with a serpent’s sharp tongue. 

The barb makes Hal’s features tick in surprise, shock before settling back into a cool demeanor. 

“Then you’ve heard of me.”

Your mask of amour stays firmly in place.  

“It is hard to be deaf against such defamatory gossip.”

Hal hums softly with a hint of a smile, breaking his gaze to look out over the reception, ego obviously bruised. Cambridge goes pale as a sheet.

Isabel suddenly swoops in with the apology of wanting to introduce her father to a newly arrived guest and excuses him, hauling him away by the arm. Cambridge looks relieved to go.

And then it’s just the two of you beneath the halo of rose-tinted light. 

“Beautiful ceremony.” He says simply. Hal is incredibly soft spoken for a prince and you find yourself unconsciously leaning in to hear him speak. Part of the intimate charm that makes him so alluring to women, you think. A whispered promise only for you.   

“I thank you, sire.” 

He takes a step forward. It startles you, enough for him to crowd you against the garden trellis wall. Ivy and lavender press into your back, dancing in the same breeze that peppers goosebumps down your spine. You shiver softly. Hal steps closer.

“I pray this is not the last of today’s festivities?” His words ghost over your throat, tickling the shell of your ear. 

“No, sire. There will be a dinner tonight,” you reply just as quietly. You understand the game perfectly because it is the same one you have been playing your whole life. You indulge him, fire sparkling behind your fluttering eyelashes. “Surely your cousin will be expecting your attendance.”

Hal leans over you, hair tickling your face, green eyes glimmering. Up close, you see that freckles and beauty marks dot his skin. “I’m sure he will.”  

You think you see him incline his head as though to kiss you. For a moment, you’re frozen, entranced. 

You turn your cheek and his lips brush your temple. He hesitates with a low chuckle, keeping his close proximity.

“Then, I will see you tonight, my lord.” You whisper. Your fingers graze his arms as you sidle out of his reach. You can feel his eyes on you as you go and rejoin the other guests. 

You leave him burning. 

**

The tavern teems with merriment and the sound of fiddle, fife, and drum. You feast on broiled meats, roasted potatoes, greens, sweet breads and cakes until your stomach is full to bursting. 

 The glow of candlelight is lush and sensual, throwing shadows over the faces that only hours before you had shared with in prayer and communion in the church of God. Now, every attendant indulges in debauchery.

You’re drunk, blood pounding with mulled wine and spiced ale and cider. Pleasantly warm and head swimming, watching Callum and Isabel and friends and family dance about the room as if possessed, twirling in swirls of colored fabric that make you laugh and clap along in breathless euphoria. 

You catch a glance of a figure standing in the doorway. You see the motion of a glass moving to lips, throat working to swallow drink. When the glass falls, you lock eyes with Hal.

You beckon him forth with a crooked finger. He grins wickedly and sets down his cup. 

Despite the obvious wine in him, his steps towards you are sure and true and his hands feel good against you when they caress your waist, pull you against him.

You play coy and twist out of his arms. He groans. 

He follows you like a dog until you’re in the midst of spinning bodies and then you turn to him. Giving him the permission to finally touch you.

His eyes ignite. He splays a hand on the middle of your back, perfect pressure, authoritative, the other gripping you tight and then you’re both cackling with drunken mischief as he guides the two of you across the creaking wooden floor. 

You let him support you, lean against his chest, enjoying the sensation of being held so close. The thrill of feeling wanted. 

Even if it is all a charade. 

The strings and beat of thumping drums careen to a crescendo that has the entire tavern whooping and hollering in delight. You break apart from Hal to join in as the music flows through your limbs, absolutely enchanted, throwing back your head like that feral child from girlhood.      

Hal looks just as wild, the rumored wayward prince. Long, dark locks falling in his eyes, tunic unbuttoned and disheveled. Light and shadow dancing across his face in a manner that makes him look devilish.  

He pushes a glittering goblet into your hands, eases his strong fingers around your own to help bring it to your lips. You see the unmistakable red slosh of wine and wordlessly drink. He watches you tip back the goblet, watches rubied jewels of crimson spill down the sides of your mouth and down the skin of your throat.   

“That’s it. That’s a good girl.” He cooes. 

The flames feel desperately hot, flushing your skin and cheeks, burning bright behind your lips. Or perhaps it's the alcohol? Or the prince’s wandering touch that now seems to be cupping your breast, tongue lapping at the trails of wine…

The heat is suddenly too much and you push away to a secluded corner filled with empty tables to catch your breath. Hal slumps beside you. His head lolls, dipping to press another whisper of a kiss to your jaw and his weight feels comfortable against your side.

You don’t know what comes over you. Perhaps you truly are possessed.

You turn into him and then your hand is reaching between his thighs. 

Hal exhales sharply in your ear. You harden your touch, feel him widen his stance to accommodate you. He braces an arm behind the small of your back, supporting himself on the space of the wooden bench as your fingers slip below the waistband of his trousers. 

He gives a strangled sigh when you grip him tight and begin to coil your hand. His head lolls once more, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, panting, bursts of hot breath fanning over your throat. You feel your own breath quicken, feel yourself getting excited.

You mesh your other hand into his curls and pull him closer, press your body flush against his. Hal moans, keening, his arm now around your waist. You shush him quietly, tightening the hold in his hair.   

To any patron, you look as though you’re only consoling a drunken boy, simply talking in the muted light. The shadows hide you both but the flames shine in your eyes.     

“Enjoying the festivities, my lord?” You sigh into his cheek. 

“Please don’t stop..” Hal whimpers. 

You chuckle through a half-lidded gaze and work him harder. It’s delicious, erotic. 

You hold all power, all of England in your delicate grip. 

You watch his mouth fall open, dark brows furrowing, feel him tense against you before the eldest son to the crown spills himself onto your fevered palm with a sharp gasp, chest heaving.  

“Good boy..” you murmur with a cheshire smile, running your fingers soothingly down the line of his jaw. Hal shudders with aftershocks, eyes closed, forehead glistening with sweat. 

Before he can attempt to try and reciprocate the favor, you wipe your hand on his cloak and stand to fetch another drink. 

**

You avoid Hal afterwards and don’t see him again for the remainder of the night. You think he must have gone home with another girl to satisfy himself and it makes you smile knowing you are responsible for laying that trap, for letting him taste pleasure, driving his desperation and taking it all away just as easily. 

Your brother and Isabel spend their honeymoon in London before returning to her home in Essex. They write to you, informing of their safe arrival at the new estate and that you will have to come visit in the very near future. It warms your heart. You already miss them terribly. 

Soon after, your father is awarded the scarlet, fur-trimmed peerage robes of the House of Lords and with your new rank, you experience the privilege of wealth for the first time. 

Rich foods, dresses and flowing silk skirts, cosmetics, more books and manuscripts than you can imagine. You glow with health, beauty, pride, and sharpened wit.

But you have not forgotten your burning flame. Aided by money and status, your little light only grows stronger.

**

King Henry IV dies of sickness on a warm March morning. It had only been a matter of time, the stubborn man had been calling your father and the other lords to his bedside for the past several months to continue to discuss the politics of his own wars. In his dying breath, Henry IV saw that his empire had fallen to civil strife. 

Court and kingdom are called to witness the coronation procession and as you stand with the lords and ladies of the crown inside Westminster Abbey, inside the church containing the tomb of your distant descendant King Edward and the generations of his forefathers, the same Gothic abbey where British monarchs have turned men into rulers and tyrants, you watch the archbishop anoint Prince Henry of Wales with holy oil. 

His curls have been trimmed clean, his bare skin and body presented to be blessed with the sign of the cross. All old ritual, old prayer and Latin incantations that have been performed for over a thousand years.

So what is a new boy to wear the crown?

Beneath the arched stone cloisters, baptized in the sunlit streams of stained glass, you watch that same ceremony unfold again with burning heart. And harmonized by the tolling of bells, Hal is dressed in royal robes, regalia, scepter and all, shedding the title of prince as you all pledge homage to your new King of England.

“All hail King Henry.” The archbishop calls out to clergy, God, and country.  

“King Henry!”

**

Neither you nor Hal feel the heat of embarrassment when the court is ushered into the dining chamber and you meet again in candle and firelight. The feast is an intimate setting, shared by the company of Hal’s new council, clergymen, and close family. Your father is seated alongside Cambridge, Chief Justice William Gascoigne, and the archbishop; even his sister, Queen Phillipa of Denmark, is in attendance.

Hal’s appearance and demeanor is surprising to you.  

He looks striking, handsome as ever in his new robes and you can sense that familiar aire of charisma and confidence you remember from the wedding as Lord Chamberlain presents gifts from the monarchs of the world. A jeweled vase from King Wenceslas of Bohemia, a trinket of a mechanical bird from the Doge of Venice. Hal is jovial, good humored and merry. 

The presence of his cousin and sister seems to comfort him greatly. And rightfully so, considering he now sits on the throne of his dead father. Dead as well is the alter ego of the delinquent prince.

Like a spoilt child opening wrapped packages at Christmas. The privilege of royal blood. 

When the final trunk is presented, a gift from the Dauphin, you quite nearly let out a low snicker. 

A ball for the boy king.   

You see Hal hesitate before picking it up and the silence throughout the chamber is long, uncomfortable. The entire court seems to be holding its breath. Yet, you know there is an aspect of truth to the Dauphin’s gesture. 

A boy indeed. You recall Hal’s touch and him gasping into your neck, his muffled begging, how quickly he had finished in your hand…

Then, the cool magnetism returns to his features. He locks eyes with you and you wonder if he is thinking of the same moment. You are both proud challengers, wielders of personal charm. 

You wonder how long it will take to break him completely.    

There’s a glimmer in his gaze you think to be from the blazing hearth as he tosses the ball once against the chamber’s stone wall, then catches it deftly with youthful poise. 

**

After the coronation dinner, the court is dismissed and you find yourself to be one of the last remaining patrons as guests trickle out into the adjacent hallways and disperse through the rest of the castle. You deliberately hang back, watching your father, Cambridge, Phillipa, and William slip through the doors, slowing your step so that Hal can catch sight of you.  

“Lady Grey,” you hear. His voice is galant, hushed with that same temptation of seductive promise. With your back still facing him, you can’t help but smirk. 

You feign surprise and turn.     

“Yes, my lord?”

Hal beckons to where he stands by the fireside. You gather your skirts and join him in the welcoming nimbus of light and warmth. When you bend to curtesy, his fingers find your chin, tilting your eyes to his own and forcing you to rise to your feet.

“None of that is necessary, my dear,” he whispers. He keeps your face cradled between thumb and forefinger, a delicate pressure, one that makes you feel precious as he holds you close. “Tell me, did you enjoy tonight?”

“Immensely.” You smile. Indeed, you have. The Dauphin might as well have spoken on your own behalf.  

Hal hums, pleased. His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, then eases in between the petals of your pink lips. You purse them ever so slightly and watch his self-control start to simmer. The candles burn low around the two of you, the only source of light emanating from the hearth itself. You are reminded of how the shadows flickered on the planes of his face the night of the wedding. Now, you see the same shadows again, but as king.  

“I want you to have something.” He says finally.

He looks reluctant to break his touch from you, but you see his hand disappear within the folds of his robes. He then produces a glittering pendant with a golden chain, a necklace that looks ablaze.

Amber, you realize. 

The surprise that crosses your features is genuine. Baltic amber set into teardrop sterling silver and gold, a gift from Rupert of the Palatinate and the kingdom of Germany. An extraordinary piece.

Hal’s hand finds your waist and you turn to offer him your bare neck, pulse pounding. You have no say, no power to even deny this token of affection. 

His caresses against your skin as he fastens the chain are soft and featherlike and you can feel his breath on the top of your spine. The pendant is heavy, rich with precious stone and gilded metal, settling between the valley of your breasts. It feels cold, but shines like an inferno. 

He lingers, tracing your shoulders when his mouth presses to your ear. 

“Turn. Let me look at you properly.”

When you do, the weight of Germany itself, of foreign and fallen kingdoms and countries, conquered and pillaged and burned, simultaneously settles between the tender skin of your sternum. 

Hal’s eyes cloud with dark delight when he sees the flaming amber. He takes your chin back in hand, angling your face every which way, studying how the firelight glints off the pendant with a sensual curiosity. 

“Beautiful.” He murmurs. 

Your body begins to react on its own accord, chest rising and falling with faster breaths, your cheeks blooming. 

“I thank you, my lord.” 

Still cradling your jaw, he brings himself closer with only a whisper between the two of you. His crimson robes seem to swallow you completely, like the gaping maw of Britain’s lion, a mantle of blood. He speaks into the gap between your mouths, yet you feel every word upon your lips.

“With this gift, I expect to see you more around my court, Lady Grey. Am I understood?” 

The tension he commands is unbearable. He watches you carefully, dark eyelashes fluttering. Trapped like a pinned butterfly. Then, you understand he’s waiting for a verbal response. 

“Yes, my lord.”

He releases you.

The pendant suddenly feels more like a collar. 

You’ve underestimated Hal. He is just as much the player as you.

**

You keep your promise. You see Hal daily in passing, often dressed in full regal attire as he comes from the council chambers, your father, William, and the rest of his train tailing close behind. The twinkle in his eye when he sees you is discreet, reserved only for you. The amber pendant remains fastened around your neck at all hours of the day, even while you sleep and bathe, like fire and ice between your breasts. A piece of Hal always with you. 

The two of you are a queer, twisted pair of sweethearts. You’ve yet to be fully intimate since that wedding night, but the pressure that ripples with every fleeting glance, every grazing touch of lips and skin is enough to prove your attraction for each other. Or rather, the attraction to the game. 

You keep Hal on his toes, never fully give in even when he invites you out for evening strolls in the palace gardens and the safety of darkness envelops you both. It is your nightly ritual to walk the grounds together amongst hushed breezes and chirping crickets, you as a means to unwind before bed, and a way for Hal to clear his mind of the day’s tolling demands. 

And tolling they are. Despite his bravado, he is easily irritable, tense. You listen when he speaks to you plainly about his frustrations for the court and archbishop, how they all expect from him the same swift retaliation of his father. 

You find Hal’s consciousness of this want to break tyranny quite curious. Sons are typical to idolize their fathers and see past faults. It is why you know how cruel kingship has endured in Britain for generations; learned behaviors become expected and change more difficult. You’ve even seen that same behavior in your own brother.

And Hal’s trust in disclosing even this to you is telling. The thread to unravel the boy king.

Tonight, you dare to pull at it, heighten your girlish wiles and offer him a lingering kiss and soft words. You tell him that Christendom is damned and tease that it’s his own fault his council is made up entirely of old, graying men, your father included, when he could have anyone else.   

Hal’s spirits seem to lift a little with a ghost of a smile, understanding you perfectly as his arm snakes around your waist. He pulls you into a secluded labyrinth and settles into the stone seat of a fountain, pulls you atop his lap. The kiss he returns is fierce. 

Without the burn of alcohol to subdue your senses, every touch is intensified tenfold. Hal feels it too, his breath coming ragged as he breaks the kiss to mouth down the skin of your neck, the dip of your collarbone, your chest. His hands wander beneath your skirts.

“It is only polite that I return the favor..” You hear him say.

Your mind is reeling. You knew this moment would eventually come, yet you feel ill-prepared when his fingers brush your core, his other hand gripping the back of your neck. You gasp, finding his lips in another tangled kiss, straddle him completely. 

It’s strange, exhilarating to be on the receiving end of your little game. 

If you are to truly break Hal, you are to first make him believe that he holds any sort of power over you, to reverse that dynamic you had set the night of your brother’s wedding. 

You are to let him touch you. 

And like the flaming sword of Raphael, Hal’s pendant, it is time to finally draw upon your fire. 

You hate how good Hal is at this. He knows just where to caress inside you, the right amount of pressure, the weak spots at your throat and just below your ear. Your competitiveness takes over and you push him back against the fountain, start to circle your hips, grind yourself down on his hand and grip at the rich fabric of his tunic to better anchor yourself. 

His eyes pool with lust with every sigh from your lips, watching you closely. He rolls his thumb, picks up the tempo of his fingers, relishing the sight of you slowly falling apart on top of him.  

But it isn’t enough. You lean in and wrap your arms around his neck. He responds in tandem, gathering you close as you rock against him, the friction of his thighs sending you closer and closer to that threshold of pleasure. 

“Please..I need t-to…” you whisper into his neck, into his mouth. 

Words of magic. Hal’s expression flares with masculine pride, the delight of pleasing a woman. 

The last of the day’s golden hour spills over you both in glowing, peached splendor and with the sound of the fountain’s rushing water as your only witness, you muffle your final moan with a desperate kiss, bliss pulsing behind your eyelids. Hal keeps his fingers where they are, coaxing the last waves of your orgasm out of you, cradling your chin with his other hand as his lips part yours, slipping tongue as you come floating back down to earth.

You’re dazed, flushed, lazily kissing when he removes his fingers. Slick when you suck them into your mouth and taste yourself. The velvet of your tongue makes him shiver.

“Now, what ever are we going to do about your council, my lord?” You murmur once you catch your breath. You gently kiss his fingertips.

Hal only smirks and pulls you to him.

**

Your plan begins to take motion. With each passing month, you worm your way deeper into Hal’s heart with honeyed words and empty promises. He confides in you more and more as he grows wary of his councilmen, trusting only the pretty face he sees in the privacy of his bedchamber each night. Graced against silk pillows. 

You sense the crushing pressure upon him, his own doubts and fears. You slowly leech away his magnetism, his charisma, and take it for yourself. His eyes dim, harden with resolve. Gone is the assurance for peace. Hal instead grows cold, timid, questioning his every move. 

You only burn brighter.  

**

There is talk that a French assassin has breached the castle.

You hear the conversation for yourself when your father and William are called down to the dungeons, hear Hal speaking directly to this assassin as you linger at the top of the stone staircase. 

“Qui êtes vous?”

“J'ai été envoyé par le roi de France pour vous assassiner.”

Hal’s voice is cool, calm as he pries for details. The assassin’s responses are noticeably vague. You infer it to be out of his own self interest. 

Then, nothing. Days go by with no direct action from Hal.

You grind your teeth. War with France would be the perfect fruition of your schemes, the final act in a tragedy deemed to be an epic of British monarchy. War with France would show Europe and the rest of the world the extortion and murder of the English crown; not that these neighboring countries needed such a reminder. But England and her king have been blind for too long.

Previous attempts at quelling war had caused Percy Hotspur to rebel, Prince Thomas of Lancaster to push on and die alone on foreign soil. 

Is Hal not trying to prove himself in this same way? Proving he is not like his father? Just as Thomas had wished for his peers to see him as a commander and better equipped to bear the crown despite being the youngest son, is Hal not guilty of this same charge of public approval? 

And having the privilege to sit idly atop a throne amidst all this makes your blood boil. Idleness is instability, you’ve learned this years ago. 

You will be the one to push Hal to war.

**

You are sewing one afternoon in an empty chamber when the strained voices of your father, Cambridge, and William reach your ears. Hushed and argumentative, it draws you to your feet, possesses you to lean against the frame of the door and just out of sight.

You hear the disgust in your father’s tone when he speaks of the king. The weakness in forgiving France, the lunacy of Hal’s ascension. It amazes you, grips you tight at hearing such passion and loathing; you’ve never heard your father speak this way about anyone, let alone the head of England’s monarchy. Slander and defamation carry swift punishment. 

You learn that he and Cambridge have been approached by French agents. The three men debate quietly as you stand against the door, nearly panting. A coup d'etat? The idea excites you more than it should. But you perish the thought quickly before you can get ahead of yourself.

Why only approach the two of them? Surely to turn England’s people against their ruler, a greater number of conspirators would prove to be more efficient? You know distrust is not uncommon among Hal’s council, so possible traitors would not be hard to find.  

This approach means your father and Cambridge have been judged weak in character by the French. Insecure, lacking, most likely to bend at the knee for candied prospects in exchange for loyalty.

And now as you eavesdrop on your own father, you know Lord Grey does not have faith behind his king and is too afraid to do anything with it. You know that if you had not gathered this knowledge for yourself, you would never have been told so, unseen as all women are expected to be.

These French agents and councilmen think they hold all power with their debates and their meetings in private, oblivious to the fact that it is women who move the world. Women like you, wielding their very sex to push these men as pawns. 

Are men not born into this world by women? Do men not seek a woman’s tender embrace for love and comfort and to carry on long, unbroken lineages of royal blood?

Your own father, as all his peers, are blind to the influence you bear over Hal. Even Hal himself. 

**

You find yourself in the king’s private quarters one cold night, sitting in front of the hearth and watching the crackling, shimmering flames that warm the room. The soft silence is comforting to you as you sit bathed in orange glow, wrapped in furs and waiting for Hal’s return. 

Your mind wanders. You think of the French assassin still held captive in the dungeons beneath your feet, how the man had been granted asylum in exchange for a confession. 

“Quel était le l'ordre?”

“Que je devrais tuer le roi d'Angleterre.”

And with the French approaching Cambridge and your father, it is certain, undeniable that tension is thick and stakes high for all of England. 

You are standing on the very brink of war, standing flush at the edge of a swallowing cliffside with dragging winds and dark, inky waters swirling beneath you down below. Waiting to embrace you, like the jagged shores of St Kilda, the northern shores of Scotland. Calling you home like a siren’s song. 

And Hal only needs one final pull before you both fall together. 

The chamber door opens and the king steps inside. His presence is stormy, like a cold wind blowing into the room. 

He’s dressed handsomely in a navy tunic and dress shirt, a mantle that drapes over his burdened shoulders. Yet, his hair is mussed and disheveled and you can see the tightness around his eyes. His once youthful glow now gone, but a sharpness to him that you think resembles a pike; diligent, wary, and still capable of hurting you if you’re not careful.

You pretend to quickly wipe away tears before you stand to greet him. Hal sees this and his brows draw together in concern, further contorting his expression into one of pain. He comes to the fireside.

“Good evening, my king,” you say as he takes your hands.

“What upsets you so?” he asks you directly. His voice is strained, sets your pulse aflutter more than it should. You give a small, breathless smile, a shake of your head.

“Nothing of your concern, just innocuous thoughts, my lord. Let us go to bed.” 

But you do not move in the direction of the luxurious canopied bed, one you have grown intimately familiar with. You stay exactly where you are and let Hal’s mind race.

His fingers grip your chin and when you meet his eyes, they’re bold and smoldering, the first touch of life in them you’ve seen for sometime. His grasp is strong and a muscle ticks in his jaw.

“Speak freely to me. Please,” he whispers. “Of all people. My dear, speak true.” The last word falls like a plea from his lips. You suppose it is one as he pulls you closer. A boy desperate for truth, constricted and poisoned by a council of vipers.

Unknowingly turning to the girl with the pretty mouth as she pours poison into his ear. 

At this, you bite your lips and summon tears that spill forth, pool your vision. You let the familiar sensations take over, the shortness of breath, the depleted posture, and pretty soon you’re trembling, weeping in Hal’s arms.  

“This assassin. It frightens me,” you say finally, broken. “If he had fulfilled his order and taken you from me, left me here all alone…oh, Hal. I’m so afraid.” 

His thumb circles your cheek, silent. You sense that dangerous cocktail of anger and darkness simmering just beneath his skin. Anger at the world, anger reserved for his dead father.

“France means to have you killed, Hal. Then what of us?”

Us? England?

Tears drip down your neck and onto your rising chest. Where you’ve left the first clasp of your blouse carefully unbuttoned. You press yourself to him ever so slightly, look up through tear-soaked eyelashes and embered iresis. 

“Then what of me?” you whisper.

Hal’s lips are crushing against yours. You feel every ounce of his anguish, every bit of tension wound tight in his frame, every doubt, every fear. You feel the restraint as he cradles the back of your neck, his other hand finding your waist as he pushes you flush against him. The dichotomy to feel love, to feel comfort and safety and to relieve and dispel just a hint of the pressure building inside him. The dichotomy to conquer, the urge to channel this animosity in a way he must be familiar, to ravish you completely. 

With your bosom rising and falling so sweetly, eyes glittering with tears, looking almost divine with firelight circling the shine of your hair in a golden halo, you watch Hal’s walls collapse. You let him succumb to that mirage of safety and warmth, to ease his conscience. You will both get what you want, eventually. 

You break apart to kiss the line of his throat, his pulsepoint, where you know he’s weakest. Hal gasps as you thread your fingers through his curls, bring your lips to his ear in a soft lull.

“May I have you tonight, my king? Completely?”

His response is immediate, yet wordless when he tilts back his head and feels your mouth against his jugular, the hand at your waist tightening. 

At last, you lead him to the bed with the intent of christening it. 

He pulls you atop him, helps you unthread the bodice of your nightgown. Despite the blazing fire behind you, the air chills your shoulders, your chest as you slowly expose more and more skin, finally letting the thin fabric pool around your waist. The feel of his bare hands cupping your body fuels you, act as your catalyst. Soft, firm. 

The amber necklace swings like a golden pendulum when you stoop to kiss him again, his fingers ghosting over the skin of your back. Hal’s desires are plainly stated as you feel him harden against your inner thigh.

There is no time for coy deception tonight. You make quick work of his tunic, leave his trousers and instead unfasten and pull him through, positioning where he wants you most. Hal is already nearly panting.

You arch as he settles inside you, a biting stretch that has both of you sighing when you bury yourself into the crook of his neck. Something long-awaited. You stomach the discomforting pressure and set a rhythm, one that has Hal cursing into your hair.

“You must protect the women of England, my lord,” you whisper. “Who will do so if you are gone?” You punctuate your point with a well-timed swivel of your hips and Hal moans low and guttural. “Your wives and children. Can you protect me?”

Hal’s arms wrap around you, nearly choking on pleasure. “I will. Anything for you. Please...” 

Unseen by him, you grin. You can practically hear the crashing ocean waves, to feel the quench of water at long last! You think you could make him do anything in this moment with how enthralled he is in bliss. 

You sit back and Hal’s hands glide over the smooth expanse of your stomach, watching his eyes grow dark, the amber pendant swinging between the two of you. The discomfort in your belly is gone and you start to mirror Hal’s pleasure, head falling back, sighs growing louder. 

And as the two of you finally fall from the cliffside and towards the waiting waters, Hal gives a soft cry, vision rolling and you feel his heat spill onto your inner thigh. You kiss him until the strength drains from his body, a true succubus as Hal at last descends into sleep, relaxed. 

You have the king’s word. 

**

You awaken the next morning to find the bed empty and cold. Surprised, you dress alone and return to your chambers to call for your breakfast. When you send for your father to share his company, the servant returns and tells you Lord Grey is currently engaged and his presence cannot be requested.

“A meeting, you mean?” You ask the servant rather crossly. Why must everyone speak to you in riddles? You obviously did not sleep much the night before and had trouble long after Hal had finished, like a slumbering babe beside you. Typical.

Your mood sours further in that you won’t be able to share this meal with your father. You despise spending mornings in solitude. It seems like it’s been ages since you’ve last seen each other in private, with no councilmen lurking about.

“No, my lady,” the servant stammers slightly, the words stumbling out of his mouth. “Lord Grey is condemned and is forbidden from taking meals before tomorrow morning.”

“What?” You growl at his vagueness. Your anger and irritation rise hot and fast and you’re tempted to hurl the glass cup of strawberries at this blubbering young fool. 

“Lord Grey and Cambridge await execution tomorrow morning for treason, by order of the king.” 

Your world stops. You send the servant away with a ghost of a whisper.

When the door snaps shut, you laugh mournfully. So the gossip had come to naught. Hal had indeed kept his word. Your stomach turns in nausea. Food is suddenly the last thing on your mind.

You rush to your writing desk, overturning bottles of ink, hands shaking when you retrieve quill and parchment, attempt to pen a desperate letter to Callum with a fevered hand. But before you can draft a single sentence, your blood turns cold.

You have not heard from your brother, from Isabelle in weeks. Have your worst fears already come true?

Glass and fruit explode against the far wall.

You tear out of the room like a bloodied banshee in search of Hal, fingers tinted crimson from cut glass and mashed berries. 

And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off, and

cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee

that one of thy members should perish, and not

that thy whole body should be cast into hell.

One of Miss Hunt’s chosen passages from the book of Matthew comes crashing into your mind. You are like Eve, you think. Bearing the burden of Original Sin with lust and curiosity. You have tasted the fruit and have seen the evils of mankind. Never in your wildest dreams could you have imagined your plan backfiring so horribly. 

Now, hellfire awaits your father, for you when you draw your final breath your last day on this earth. Suddenly seeming to loom that much closer. 

You approach Hal like Samuel’s ghost did to King Saul on the eve of war, the Philistines instead of the French. Interchangeable, cycles of warfare that have dawned for milenia and will continue until the end of time.  

He looks terrifying, colder and more severe than you’ve ever seen, outfitted in those horrible blood red robes that one coronation dinner long ago you had once thought he looked becoming. 

You know with one wrong word you could be joining the two men to die at first light. Your mind races. 

“My lord, to think my own father had been plotting against you sickens me,” you speak slowly. The sentence stings like venom in your mouth, damning your father. Hellfire burns brighter. But it is the only way you can protect yourself. Your grisly appearance, your quick breaths, it is all to sell your story. “May I accompany you tomorrow morning as witness?”

Hal’s lips twist into a hint of a smile, the shadow of his former self. “Of course, my dear. Lord Grey may have failed his fatherly duties as protector, but I will not.” 

**

And so, with your hands wrapped in fresh bandages and stitchings, you stand in a courtyard with wind whipping around you, the only Christian woman among councilmen and knights as you watch your father lay his head upon the chopping block. His hair has been shaved off to ensure the killing blow will be swift and true. Shivering, pale, and damp with sweat, he looks like a ghost. Soon, he will be one. You want him to see you in these final moments, for him to know that you will utterly destroy this king, but you cannot risk the danger. 

Like the coronation, Latin prayers are recited, only this time they are prayers for your father and father-in-law to find peace in the afterlife. The last time you, Hal, Cambridge, and your father had shared company like this had been at the wedding. You know now that Callum and Isabel are truly dead. In the blink of an eye, Hal has slaughtered your entire family.

Weary, resilient Scotland.

You do not cry. You must show your loyalty.

“Requiescat in pace.”

Weak, fragile as Lord Grey starts to whimper aloud. No daughter should see their father, their protector through girlhood, like this. 

The axe glimmers in the sunlight and is brought down with deadly precision. Your father’s head rolls grotesquely off of his shoulders in a wet gurgle. His body is shoved aside and Cambridge is pushed onto the block next, now slick with fresh blood. 

Neither you nor Hal flinch.

**

You are now fatherless, Hal, kinless when you enter the neighboring chapel alone. You sit in the first pew respectfully, head bowed as Hal crosses himself and kneels before the altar. With his back to you, you study the firm line of his spine, his clasped hands with the beaded rosary held firmly between. Unmoving, statuesque. He prays for a long time.

Thou shalt not kill. 

You wonder if God is so forgiving.

The images of angels, of Mary and Joseph and flawless purity are what drive you to march up to Hal and kiss him hard. He hums in surprise, brows furrowed, the pressure behind his mouth mirroring yours when you grip the back of his head.

You want to kill him the same way he had murdered your father. But you settle with digging your fingers into the back of his neck and relishing in the way he hisses against your lips. You fumble blindly with the fastening of his trousers.

“What are you doing?” he growls.

“Shut up.” You bite back.

You’ve never been afraid of Hal before today, you’ve had no reason to be. You’ve been so careful to build the reputation and the facade he sees, using words and sex to push him like the chesspiece you had thought him to be. And he’d pushed right back.

You want to hurt him in the only way you can.

He cries out when you suck him into your mouth with teeth and harsh pressure. You’re anything but gentle, taking him as far as you can so that you’re choking and Hal is grunting and pulling at your hair and the lewd sounds of your lips and tongue echo to the tops of the vaulted ceiling. 

You’ve both lost family today. You are both selfish and full of quiet rage. The consequence of Hal’s choice is evident in how hard and wet you mold your mouth around him, how his hand tightens and pushes you farther down, wordlessly ordering you to finish him off in this holy church.

Like Christ Himself with bandaged hands, you twist and work at whatever you cannot fit between your lips. His hips snap forward, tears collecting at the corners of your eyes with burning throat, your scalp stinging from where he yanks back your hair, your linen caul disheveled. Saliva dribbles out of your mouth.

When his moans grow high and desperate, you take him out of your mouth and Hal’s release splatters white on the skin of your cheek, mouth still agape. He slumps forward on his knees, panting, as if still in prayer. The rosary dangles between his fingers. 

Thou shalt not commit adultery. 

The cross looms before you, silhouetted by candlelight. It is too much and you turn away.

**

If the change in Hal’s nature had not already been felt by all, it is seen in his dress. No longer does he donn the regalia of red cape and sceptre, but dark tunics and jackets that fit snug over the expanse of his chest. No more are the billowing robes, now replaced with tight military clothing and jackboots. A captain preparing for battle.

Hal recruits John Falstaff and countless other marshals for his campaign. It’s truly happening, you think. France will soon feel the wrath of England as your homeland and countless other countries have. 

The amber necklace sparkles.

Tomorrow, Hal sets sail across the English Channel. Another crusade to add to the Hundred Years’ War. You wonder if French women are just as lustrous as the rumors suggest. 

This is the last night you will be together like this for some time. The thought of Hal with another woman makes you quicken the hand you have around him and he gasps into your chest, spilling onto your thigh like that wedding night centuries ago. You’ve already made love countless times tonight, your bodies fitting together because it is only natural for two corrupt souls to find solace in the other. 

Masquerading with voice and poise. A boy from Eastcheap and a Scottish girl. 

As Hal shudders against you, kissing your throat and twining his fingers into your hair, he tells you he loves you.

You think you may love him too, in that twisted way of how fire craves oxygen. You need each other to fuel chaos. 

You understand better than anyone the burden of a child forced to grow up, the weight of decisions and the toll it takes. Only the strong can endure such hardship, only the strong can triumph and come out on top. It has been so forever, a law as old as the world. 

 The speed at which Hal is already hard again makes you chuckle darkly. He pins you to the bed, hovering, eyes bearing into you before he enters you just the same.

“You were made to be beneath me,” he rasps, gripping your face with a single hand. His eyes glitter in the low light. The double entendre of his words make you rake your fingernails down his back in angry lines of red. He sucks a bite into the skin of your collarbone. 

 You know that when Hal returns from France, he will no longer be yours. He will be changed, most likely to marry a foreign princess to ensure peace. You think of Isabel and how she had evidently been the one to put you in this position of status, how a marriage is a man’s means to gain power. A law as old as the world. 

Do you want him to be yours? The same way the English crown has raped and pillaged for the thrill of conquering the barbaric? A trophy? A prized kill? Still, the thought makes you bitter.

You say you love him back when he finds the spot below your ear, pushes your legs apart to drive into you that much harder.

There’s a bit of you that prays he will be victorious, that he will return to England and be yours again. But even if your paths do not cross in the future, you know you will see him again where the flames grow hot. Be that in his chambers or down below.