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leclerc-hs · 1 day ago

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the prince of monaco - cl16

pairing: prince! charles leclerc x fem!reader summary: in which a sad prince and a common girl cross paths or charles and you find yourself in a forbidden romance warnings: ANGST, smut, language!!! idk what else I'm missing. ANGST ANGST ANGST. not proofread. word count: 5.6k authors note: SURPRISEEEEEE! FIRST CHARLES FIC OF THE YEAR FINALLY. i hope you guys like it & i know you might haaate my guts after but it had to be done LOL. let me know what you think!! love hearing from y’all ALWAYS. xoxo

The palace was too quiet at night. Not peaceful — hollow.

The kind of silence that rang in your ears and made your own breath sound like betrayal.

Marble floors stretched endlessly beneath Charles’s bare feet, cold and gleaming under the antique chandeliers. He wandered them like a ghost — aimless, invisible, half-dead in a gilded cage. A prince draped in silk robes and golden obligations, walking the halls of a kingdom he no longer wanted.

Every corridor smelled like lemon polish and old money. Every portrait he passed stared down with painted eyes— kings and queens carved from duty, immortalized in oil and expectation.

But Charles wasn’t thinking of them.

His mind was across the city, far from the manicured courtyards and diplomatic smiles. He was with you.

In that cramped little room above Le Vieux Lion, where the wallpaper peeled and the sheets smelled like your perfume.

Where the sea didn’t sparkle for tourists— it slapped the dock with rage. Where the nights weren’t silent — they breathed. They lived.

Where he remembered what it felt like to be wanted, not needed.

He hadn’t seen you in a week. Not since the news.

His father— Sovereign Prince of Monaco— had announced the engagement over dinner, voice as calm as a guillotine dropping.

An alliance. A family legacy. A strategic merger in the form of a wedding.

His mother didn’t blink, just reached for her wine. His sister, seated to his left, squeezed his hand beneath the table— the only rebellion anyone dared to offer.

Charles didn’t say a word.

Not when they showed him the ring.

Not when the date was set.

Not even when the royal tailor measured him for the suit he’d wear to sign away the rest of his life.

He waited. Watched. Swallowed it all.

And then he left.

He didn’t take the servant’s route. Didn’t don a disguise.

He walked straight out the east wing, through the marble archway, silk robe replaced by a hoodie— soft, frayed, yours.

He pulled it tight around himself like armor and slipped into the black car waiting at the edge of the drive. No driver asked where he was going. The guards didn’t move. They knew better than to ask.

Two Years Earlier

The night air outside was warm and heavy with salt— one of those late summer nights where the heat stuck to your skin like a secret. Inside the bar, the ceiling fan creaked in slow, useless circles, stirring nothing but stale smoke and the lingering bitterness of spilled gin.

You were behind the bar, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled back, fingers aching from a double shift. The radio played some old French crooner, warbling about heartbreak and cigarettes like he’d invented them. A few regulars lingered, quiet and slumped, clinging to their glasses like lifeboats.

That’s when the door creaked open, and he walked in.

Not stumbled— walked. Like he owned the damn place. Like Monaco wasn’t five miles of tight streets and old money and marble prisons, and he wasn’t one of the poor bastards with a crown stitched into his skin.

He looked wrong in the best way.

Dark jeans, leather jacket that probably cost more than your rent. Hair slightly tousled like he wanted it to look like he hadn’t just stepped out of a car worth six figures. And that face— familiar in the way a storm cloud is familiar. You know it’s going to ruin you before it even arrives.

He had that smile. The kind women warn their friends about. Lazy. Expensive. Designed for headlines.

“Got anything that won’t kill me?” He asked, voice smooth like old bourbon, like he already knew you’d give him what he wanted.

You didn’t even glance up. Just kept wiping down the bar with a rag that had fought too many battles.

“That depends,�� you said flatly. “You allergic to alcohol, or just fragile?”

The silence that followed was sharp—brief—then broken by a laugh. Low. Rich. Surprised. Like no one had spoken to him like that in years.

“I like you already,” he said.

“Tragic,” you muttered, finally giving him a look. “I already want you to leave.”

He blinked, caught off guard. And then his grin widened, teeth white against the soft shadow of stubble on his jaw.

“What’s your name?” He asked, eyes flicking down, then back up—slow, deliberate, like he was cataloguing you.

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “What’s yours?”

“Charles,” he said smoothly, like the name should mean something.

You gave him a slow, unimpressed once-over. “Charles. No last name? No title? You forgot the part where you tell me you’re a libra and looking for a real connection.”

He leaned forward on his elbows, mouth tugging into a smirk. “I am a libra, actually.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt.

“Of course you are.” You turned, grabbing the cleanest glass you could fine, and poured something sharp and unmerciful into it. “Here. Drink. Leave, Or don’t. Just don’t flirt with me like I’m stupid.”

He took the glass, eyes still on you. Sipped. Winced, just slightly—not used to the burn—but didn’t complain.

He liked it.

You could tell.

You were already walking away when he said it, voice low but clear:

“You still didn’t tell me your name.”

You didn’t stop. Just threw a look over your shoulder, that half-smirk you saved for people who thought they were too clever.

“If you come back tomorrow,” you said, “maybe I’ll lie and give you one.”

He stayed until close.

The door opened with a soft groan—that old, familiar hinge that had screamed a hundred comings and goings. But this time, it was different. The air changed. You felt it before you saw him.

The hum of the bar dimmed. Glasses clinked. Someone laughed near the back. But your hands paused—just briefly—over the half-dried wine glass in your fingers.

And then, there he was. In the doorway.

He leaned against the frame like he had all the time in the world—wearing the same leather jacket, but tonight it was zipped halfway down, revealing a black shirt that clung just enough to his chest to make your stomach tighten. His hair was messier, like he’d run his fingers through it too many times. Or maybe he wanted it to look like someone else had.

His eyes found you instantly. No scan of the room. No pretense. Just direct, deliberate contact, like he’d been thinking about you all day and came to see if the memory lived up to the real thing.

It did.

You didn’t look away. Didn’t smile. Just raised a brow and went back to your glass.

He crossed the room slowly, like he knew the weight of every step. Like he was aware that people were watching him but didn’t care. Or maybe he liked it. Maybe he liked knowing he could have anyone in the room—except the only one he wanted still hadn’t given him her name.

He slid into the same stool as the night before, elbows on the bar, that same infuriating smirk curling at his mouth.

“I came back,” he said. Voice low, warm. Like a promise you shouldn’t believe.

“I noticed,” you replied, not looking at him as you reached for a fresh glass. “Didn’t expect Monaco’s golden boy to slum it two nights in a row.”

He chuckled—and God, the sound was dangerous.

“Slumming it,” he echoed. “That what you think this is?”

You finally looked at him— fully, openly. And it hit you like a slow, burning wave. He was too close. Too handsome. Too confident in a way that wasn’t just money or power. It was something in his eyes—that flicker of hunger, of loneliness, of knowing what he wanted and hating himself for wanting it.

“This isn’t your world,” you said quietly. “You don’t belong here.”

He leaned in a little. Not enough to touch. Just enough that your breath caught.

“No,” he murmured. “But it’s yours.”

Your heart stuttered. You hated the way he said it—like it was a confession wrapped in silk. Like he didn’t mean to mean it, but he did.

You slid the drink in front of him, fingers brushing his just barely—and even that felt like too much.

“You being here is a bad idea.” You whispered.

His eyes were on your mouth now. His smile was gone. “Then stop me.”

You didn’t stop him.

And he didn’t leave.

He kept coming back.

Not with fanfare. Not like royalty.

But quietly. Always late, always alone.

There were no photographers waiting outside, no clipped palace escorts, no watchful guards trailing behind him. He wore anonymity like armor — hood pulled low, hands in pockets, head slightly down like he didn’t want the world to recognize him. Or maybe he didn’t care if it did.

He came as Charles. Not as a prince. Not as a future king. Just…Charles.

Worn leather jacket, soft hoodie, shadows beneath his eyes, and the kind of smile that looked like it had forgotten how to be whole. He smelled like night air and something faintly bitter—like espresso left too long in the pot. And every time he looked at you, it would felt like you were being read, not watched. Like he saw every layer you tried to keep hidden behind sarcasm and smoke.

You hated how much you liked it.

At first, he sat at the bar.

Always in the same stool, hands cradling a chipped tumbler of whiskey he nursed more for the comfort than the taste. He didn’t flirt. Not outright. He asked about your night, the music, the bar fights you’d broken up over that week. He smirked at your answers, raised an eyebrow at your insults. Said your name like he was trying to memorize the shape of it in his mouth.

You tried not to care.

Tried not to notice the way he leaned in, just slightly, whenever you spoke.

Tried not to wonder why a man with the world at his feet kept choosing your tiny corner of it.

But he did.

Then, one night, you turned around and he was behind the bar.

Not on the customer’s side, but on yours.

He leaned casually against the shelves like he belonged there, like he hadn’t just crossed the invisible line between your world and his.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” You asked, arms crossed, not bothering to hide the irritation— or the pulse suddenly roaring in your ears.

He held up a wine glass and a dish rag with a crooked grin. “Thought I’d lend a hand.”

“You’re holding that like it insulted you.”

“Could be worse,” he said, examining the stem with mock seriousness. “Could be holding my dignity. But I think I left that back at the palace.”

You snorted despite yourself. “You’re useless.”

He leaned in closer, voice lowering just enough to stir something under your ribs. “And yet…you haven’t told me to leave.”

You said nothing. But your silence felt like permission.

He started coming earlier. Staying later.

He’d drift in before your shift ended, slip through the back door like he belonged there. Sometimes he brought pastries, sometimes coffee. Once, inexplicably, a worn book littered with his handwriting on the pages.

“Though you might like this one,” he’d said with a shrug.

He’d sit in your space like it was second nature—perching on the edge of the counter, watching you work, making soft commentary on your music taste.

“You play the same six songs,” he’d mutter, clicking through your ancient playlist.

“They’re classics.”

“They’re depressing.”

You glanced at him. “So are you.”

He smiled softly. “That’s probably why I keep coming back here.”

He asked you questions no one else dared.

Not the polite kind. Not surface things. He wanted the bones. The quiet hurts. The dreams you hadn’t spoken out loud before. Sometimes you answered. Sometimes you didn’t. But you never once, told him to stop asking.

And in return, he gave you pieces of himself. Unvarnished ones. The kind they didn’t print in the magazines.

“I hate the palace,” he confessed once, voice so soft it almost didn’t reach you. “Every room echoes. You start to wonder if you exist as all, or if you’re just…noise in a marble tomb.”

You didn’t reply. You just glanced at him until he did that thing with his jaw— the clench, like he’d said too much. Like he was scared of how much he wanted you to hear it.

There were moments when it felt like something would snap.

His hand brushing yours when you passed him a glass—not on accident, not anymore. His fingers would linger a fraction too long, just enough to let your pulse stutter, just enough to make you feel it later, alone in the dark.

The way he leaned in when he spoke, low and close, his breath grazing your neck, your jaw, the edge of your mouth like a secret he hadn’t confessed yet.

You stopped hearing his words. You only felt them.

You knew the shape of his mouth now. The way his bottom lip curved when he was trying not to smile. The faint pink of it after a drink. The way it moved when he said your name, like it was something he wanted, no needed, to taste.

And you hated it.

How much you wanted him to.

One night, while you closed up — the lights were low, doors locked, just you and the hum of the city outside—you caught him watching you.

Really watching.

He stood behind the bar, hands in his pockets, posture casual. But his eyes were anything bit. They followed you like he was hungry. Like he was memorizing the way your shoulders moved beneath your shirt, the way your fingers gripped the edge of the counter, the way your lips parted whenever you sighed without realizing it.

He looked at you like he didn’t know how to stop.

You leaned on the bar, trying to keep your voice steady, playful. “You always this much of a romantic?”

He didn’t smirk. Didn’t even blink. Just stared, his gaze flicking to your mouth, then back to your eyes—so fast that you could’ve missed it. But you didn’t.

“No,” he said. His voice rougher than usual. “Just with you.”

Your breath caught. Just for a second.

Your lips parted, something sharp and stupid rising— a comeback, a deflection. But nothing came out.

Your lips moved, then stopped.

And he looked away, jaw tight.

Not because he didn’t want to see what you were about to say—but because he already knew. And he couldn’t bear it.

The bar was quieter than usual. Only the hum of the cooler and the occasional creak of the old wood floor filled the silence. Rain tapped softly against the windows, more mist than storm, casting blurry halos around the streetlamp outside.

You should’ve been locking up. Should’ve told him to go.

But he was sitting at the bar again, legs swinging slowly, drink untouched, eyes on you like he was waiting for something neither of you could name.

And you weren’t moving. Not really.

You were pretending to count the bottles behind the counter, pretending your hands weren’t trembling just slightly, pretending you didn’t feel the way the air between you hadn’t changed.

Thicker now. Heavier. Laced with heat.

“I think about you,” he said suddenly, voice low—like he hadn’t meant to speak but couldn’t hold it back anymore.

Your fingers pause over a single bottle.

“In meetings. In cars. In rooms where I’m supposed to be someone I don’t even recognize anymore.” His voice dipped, softening, unraveling. “I think about this bar. About you.”

You swallowed hard. “Charles—“

"I know,” he cut in. “Don’t say it. Don’t say we shouldn’t.”

He slid off the bar in one fluid movement and stepped around it— slow, deliberate, as if trying to give you every chance to stop him. You didn’t.

Now he was standing in front of you. Too close.

The kind of close where the heat of him was brushing against your skin, where you could smell the rain still clinging to his clothes and the hint of citrus on his breath.

His hand hovered between you. Not touching. Just hanging there in the space that ached for more.

“Just…let me look at you.” He mutters, eyes sad.

You didn’t speak. Didn’t even breathe.

His fingers rose—slow, reverent— the knuckles of fingers brushed your jaw. Barely. Like even that felt too intimate. Too much.

But it wasn’t enough. God—it wasn’t even close to enough.

His hand turned, fingertips now tracing the line of your cheekbones. Featherlight. The kind of touch that wasn’t claiming, just asking.

He steps closer, close enough that your chests are nearly pressed together with every breath of air.

His thumb slid under your jaw, tilting your face up, and God—his eyes were fire and ruin and something devastatingly gentle all at once. Like he wanted to memorize you the way people memorize song lyrics. The way they memorize prayers.

His lips part and your heart nearly stops.

Then— he pulls back. Just an inch.

Just enough to break the spell. He stared at you like he hated himself for stopping.

His hand drops to his side like it weighed too much to carry.

Then, just barely, you whisper, “why didn’t you kiss me?”

He sighs, like your words physically pain him.

“Because if I do,” he says, voice wrecked. “I won’t stop.”

It was the first time in weeks you’d let yourself be seen.

You didn’t know if it was the dress—midnight black, backless, clinging to you like it had been painted on— or the third drink warming your veins, but for the first time in what felt like forever, you weren’t thinking about him.

Or at least, you were trying not to.

The music was low and sexy, something bass-heavy that made conversation impossible but movement effortless. Your friends circled you, glittering and laughing, pulling you toward the edge of the dance floor under the pink-gold haze of the club lights. You let them. You let yourself move. Let yourself laugh. Let your head tilt back when that guy—Luca—said something cocky but charming into your ear.

His hand found your hip, just light enough to feel like suggestion, not possession. And you let him keep it there.

Because Charles wasn’t here.

Because tonight, you weren’t the girl in the back of the run-down bar, aching for something she couldn’t have.

You were fun. You were untouchable. You were free.

And then— you felt it.

The shift in the room was subtle at first—like a low pressure drop before a storm. You felt it in your spine. In the way the air thickened, charged. In the sudden awareness that someone was looking a you.

You turned. Slowly.

And there he was.

Charles.

Backlit by golden light, framed by the glint of glass and sweat and movement, he looked like something that didn’t belong here. Or maybe something that the room had been waiting for.

Black shirt open at the collar, sleeves pushed to his elbows, hair falling just wrong over his forehead. Jaw tight, mouth set in something between a smirk and a snarl— like he wanted to smile but didn’t trust himself to do it.

He looked like sin. Like power on the edge of unraveling.

And his eyes. Locked on you.

Not the room.

Not the crowd.

Not even Luca.

Just you.

And when his gaze dropped—to the hand on your waist, the fingertips sprawled against your waist, to the way Luca leaned in a little too close—something dark flickered across his face.

Something in him burned. You saw it. Felt it.

Like a wire snapped behind his ribs and now he couldn’t breathe.

His jaw locked. His chest rose once, slow and sharp, like even breathing had become too dangerous. Like just standing there and not touching you took every ounce of control he had left.

The heat in his stare could’ve burned a hole through you.

Luca leaned in. “You okay?”

You blinked and swallowed. Tried to smile. “Yeah,” you said. “Just—“

Your eyes flicked back to the bar. He was still there. Still watching. Still not moving.

Luca turned to follow your gaze. “I can’t believe he’s here. That’s so cool”

“Yeah…me either.”

People moved out of his way without realizing they had. They parted instinctively, like water bending around stone. Like the room itself knew who he was.

They didn’t see the crown. They felt the weight of it.

Royalty cloaked in rage and want, striding toward the storm.

Toward you.

The air was hot and heady, choked with perfume and alcohol and the sound of people trying too hard to feel something. The lights pulsed like a heartbeat—too bright, too fast—reflecting off glass and skin.

He didn’t want to be here. But anywhere was better than the palace.

He spotted her instantly—like his body already knew where to look before his eyes did. The same way it always did. Like your presence had carved out a space in him long before he even touched you.

You stood near the edge of the crowd, black dress hugging you like a second skin, eyes bright, mouth curved in something that looked like a laugh.

And beside you—another man.

The hand on your waist, the smug, lazy confidence of someone who didn’t know how precious what he was touching actually was.

The way he leaned in, lips grazing the shell of your ear, like your body was already his to own.

Like your heart didn’t already belong to someone else.

Charles stopped breathing.

The sound around him blurred into static. His hands curled into fists in his pockets, nails biting into his palms.

Something sharp twisted low in the pit of his stomach.

Jealousy wasn’t the word for it.

This was grief. This was rage. This was how dare you.

How dare you let someone touch you where he should’ve touched you.

How dare you pretend you’ve forgotten what it’s like to stand one breath from kissing.

The club was still pushing behind you—laughter and sweat and lights bleeding through the walls—but here, in this narrow, dim corridor, it was just the two of you.

Too close. Too quiet.

Too dangerous.

He’d pulled you through the curtain without a word, fingers laced with yours like a vice, dragging you past confused glances and stunned silence. You’d followed—furious, breathless, burning.

Now, you were pressed against the wall, your back flush to the cold stone, your heart thundering like it wanted out of your chest.

And he was standing in front of you. Pacing. Seething. Unraveling.

“What the fuck was that?” He hissed, his voice low and sharp enough to draw blood. “Letting him touch you like that—was that supposed to hurt me? Was that the point?”

You scoffed, folding your arms to keep from grabbing him by the collar. “You don’t get to ask me that.”

He stopped pacing. His head turned slowly, jaw locked tight.

“You think I don’t see it?” He growled. “The way you look at me? Like you’re still waiting for something to happen, even though you know it can’t?”

Another step. His body inches from yours.

“You shouldn’t have worn that dress.”

Your voice shook when you said it: “You shouldn’t have come here.”

“I know.”

His hand slams against the wall beside your head, not to scare you— just to steady himself. His face was too close now. The warmth of him coiled into your skin. His eyes search yours, wild and desperate and so goddamn full of want that it hurt.

“You’re not his,” he whispered.

You stalled. “Im not yours, either.”

He leaned in closer — mouth almost bursting yours, his breath warm and ragged.

“Say that again,” he dared.

You couldn’t. Not with the way he was looking at you.

“I hate you,” you breathed.

“I know,” he said, voice breaking.

And then he kissed you.

Hard. Desperate. Starving.

His hands cup your face like he’d dreamt of this a hundred times and never thought he’d actually get to feel it. Your fingers tangled in his shirt, yanking him closer, closer—mouths crashing like waves, clashing with every single ounce of frustration and ache.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t even polite.

It was heat and fury and I’ve wanted this for so long tangled in every brush of lips, every muffled groan, every helpless moan he pulled from your throat.

He kissed you like it hurt.

Like he couldn’t stop even if he tried.

You don’t remember the walk to your apartment. Just the quiet tension between you. The warmth of his hand brushing yours but never holding it. The hum in your chest that hadn’t stopped since he kissed you.

You unlocked the door with trembling fingers. Left the light off. You didn’t need to see the room. You needed to feel him.

You tugged at his shirt, breath hitching as your fingertips brushed skin. His hands were all over you now, like he couldn’t decide where he wanted them — your back, your hips, your jaw, gentle and desperate at once.

He knew he shouldn’t be here. Not in your apartment. Not in your bed. Not looking down at you like you were something he’d prayed for and never dared to ask.

But he was. And he couldn’t stop if he tried.

You were under him, lips swollen, pupils blown wide, your breath catching every time his fingers traced skin. And all he could think— over and over— was mine.

You arched into him, and he couldn’t stop the sound that tore from his throat.

Every inch of you was fire and familiarity, like his hands memorized your body before even touching it. Your thighs wrapped around his hips, nails dragged down his back.

He groaned into your skin, forehead pressed to your collarbone.

“Are you sure?”

She nods, breathless. “You’re already here.”

It was more than permission. It was a confession.

And when he sank into you—slowly, carefully, reverently— the world full on stopped.

It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t rushed.

It was slow. Intimate. Almost painful in how good it felt—like every thirst was peeling back layers they’d spent building.

Moans swallowed into kisses. Skin against skin. Fingers tangled. Whispers like promises neither of them could keep.

He touched her like she was sacred. She kissed him like she’d never get the chance again.

“You look so good like this,” he murmured, voice thick with awe—like the sight of you beneath him had knocked the breath clean from his chest.

His lips trailed along your jawline, slow open-mouthed kisses dragging fire across your skin. He wasn’t in a rush. He wanted to taste every inch of you. To savor.

You gasped softly when he reached the hollow beneath your ear, and he felt it. The sharp intake of breath, the way your body arched, the flutter of your pulse under his tongue.

His hand slid along your waist, fingers pressing gently into your hip as he anchored himself to you, like he didn’t trust that this moment was real.

He lifted his head just enough to look at you.

Your eyes were heavy, glazed with want, lips parted and trembling.

And he couldn’t help it. He smiled. Not his royal smile. Not the careful, curated one they taught him to wear.

This one was raw. Private.

Just for you.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he whispered, brushing his nose along yours.

Your fingers reached up, sliding into his hair, and you pulled him back down. Kissed him like he was air, like he was yours.

And Charles, normally composed, trained, restrained. Melted.

Right there, into your mouth. Into your body. Into you.

Present Day

You’re pacing now, your bare feet silent on the floor that suddenly feels too cold, too clean, and your hands are shaking. Not violently or visibly, but enough that you can feel your pulse throb between your fingers.

“You should’ve told me,” you say, your voice not quite a scream but not quiet.

You turn to face him and he’s just standing there. Standing in the middle of your living room like he doesn’t belong to any part of it, like he’s not the reason everything in your body burns and aches.

“You should’ve looked me in the eye,” you breath is shaking now, “and told me you were going to marry her before I had to read it on a fucking television screen.”

He winces. But he doesn’t argue.

Of course he fucking doesn’t.

He never fights when it counts. He just lets things happen.

“I was going to tell you,” he says quietly. As if saying it softer will make it less cruel.

“Oh,” you laugh now. It’s sharp and ugly. “You were goingto?”

You arms fold across your chest because you need something. Anything. To hold on to.

“When?” You ask. Its a quiet kind of fury, tighter and more precise. “After the ring was on her finger? After the palace sent out save-the-dates? Or were you planning to do it after your wedding night, when you needed someone else to fuck.”

His eyes flash and there’s something wild there now, wounded and defensive, but he doesn’t move.

“You don’t get to do this,” your voice trembles. “You don’t get to kiss me, hold me, say things to me like they meant something, and then just leave.”

His jaw tightens but his hands are clenched at his sides. He won’t interrupt you and it only makes you angrier. Because he’s so calm. So composed.

“You were never a detour,” he says. Finally.

“Then what was I?” You ask, and your voice breaks. “What the fuck was I to you?”

His voice rises now, like he’s been holding it in for hours, for years.

“I didn’t want this!” He shouts. “Do you think I wanted to fall in love with you? To walk into a bar and meet someone who made me question everything I’ve spent my whole life being told I have to be?”

You blink, completely startled by the honesty in his voice. With the way it sounds like he’s choking on his words.

“Then why are you still choosing her?” Your voice softer. “Why are you marrying someone you don’t love?”

He looks at you like he’s bleeding. “Because I don’t have a choice. Because if I don’t marry her, everything I’ve spent my entire life preparing for. The crown, the country, the people. It all falls apart.”

“No,” You say, eyes locked on him. “It doesn’t fall apart. You’re just afraid.”

He doesn’t deny it.

“God,” you laugh. “You’re a fucking coward.”

He’s still just standing there. Looking at you like he’s drowning, like he knows what he’s about to do will haunt him forever. But he’s going to do it anyways.

That’s what love looks like.

A crown. A cage. And the person you would burn for walking away because the fire scares them.

“You don’t get to look at me like that.”

His brows furrow, “Like what?”

“Like I’m the one breaking your heart.”

He flinches. Just barely.

But you see it. You always do.

You walk to the sink, turning away from him, and turn the faucet on just to do something. “I hope she’s worth it.”

Charles swallows hard. “Don’t do that.”

You spin, your hands still dripping with water. “Don’t what? Don’t act like I’m the one being unreasonable while you walk away from the only thing that ever made you feel something?”

“I feel everything with you!” He yells, words bursting from his throat. “Every time I’m with you, I can’t fucking breathe. I can’t think. I can’t fucking sleep. I walk into the palace and I feel your hands on me like they’re branded there. I see your face in every goddamn crowd. I dream about you when I have to lie next to her, and I hate myself for it.”

You blink. Staggered. But he’s not done.

“You think this is easy for me?” His voice breaks now. “You think I don’t want to choose you? That I haven’t stopped and stood in front of almost every mirror rehearsing how I’d say the words I’m done? That I haven’t imagined running—just running— until I could crawl into your bed and never leave?”

“Then do it,” you cry. “Fucking do it!”

He stares at you, breath heaving, soaked in silence.

And then softly—too softly— he says:

“I'm not brave enough.”

And that’s what finally does it. Your heart breaks in full. Like a dam giving way.

You let out a harsh sob that tastes like surrender. You push past him, hand over your mouth, body shaking as you try to hold yourself together.

But he follows.

“Don’t,” you say. “Please don’t—“

But his hands are already on you. Not to claim, not to kiss. Just to hold. Just to feel you. His arms wrap around your back like he doesn’t know what to do. His face buries into your neck, and you feel it. His breath hitching, his shoulders trembling.

He’s crying.

“I love you,” he says, muffled. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

And you sob harder. Because that’s what makes it worse.

Because he means it. And it’s still not enough.

#charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc #f1 imagines #f1 x reader #charles leclerc angst #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc fic #f1 imagine #f1 x female reader #f1 x y/n #f1 x you #f1 one shot

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atlaculture · 4 months ago

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Hello!! Firstly, I love your blog, thank you so much for providing such useful and interesting information! Secondly, how was pirate culture in the Qing dynasty? Especially in regards to their clothes. I'd like to make an Earth Kingdom pirate oc, so I've been taking some inspiration from Jiang from the comics and Ching Shih, a famous pirate, but I'd love to see any information you could provide about this topic! Thank you!

What a neat question! The pirate culture during the Qing Dynasty was really interesting. Since I know I have a lot of historical fashion fans follow this blog, I'll show you the inspiration board I created first and then try to connect it to the Avatar world. If you're interested in the history of Qing era pirates or the greater context behind my clothing recommendations, you can click on the "Keep Reading" line.

So what might the pirates of the Qing Dynasty have worn?

Since Qing Dynasty pirates spent most of their time in the South China Sea and docked along the China-Vietnam borderlands--- both the Qing Dynasty and the Tây Sơn Dynasty had employed these pirates at different points in time--- they were likely a mix of Chinese and Vietnamese culturally, if not ethnically. Their clothing would reflect this, as well as incorporating fabrics and cuts that would be suitable for a tropical climate. In general, their wardrobe would be very Southeast Asian in style.

Since you seem to be designing a female OC, I figured I'd make a collage of clothing and accessories that a Qing Dynasty lady pirate might have.

Headwear

Khăn lươn (Vietnamese Women's Headwrap) - Used to keep hair neat and out of the way. It's like a halfway point between a turban and a hairband.

Khăn mỏ quạ (Vietnamese Women's Headscarf) - A bandana that Vietnamese women would wear over their Khăn lươn to shield their hair from the sun. It literally means "Crow's Beak Scarf", because the bandana forms a triangle shape at the front.

Mũ chữ Đinh (Vietnamese Military Officer's Hat) - Many Qing Dynasty pirates would offer their services to the Tây Sơn Dynasty (Vietnamese) navy. I can imagine some pirates wearing these hats as a spoil of war.

Nón lá (Asian Conical Hat) - A traditional hat that is commonly worn in Asia by any profession that labors outside. It's probably the hat most associated with East and Southeast Asia.

Đinh Tự (Vietnamese Women's Hat) - A giant, wide-brimmed hat made from dried palm leaves--- it's basically an Asian conical hat on steroids. Whereas the nón lá is relatively gender-neutral, the dinh tự is considered a feminine hat.

Tops

Yếm / Dudou (Vietnamese/Chinese Halter Top) - Fun Fact: Its original purpose was to keep the belly warm, as the stomach is the sea of chi!

Áo gấm (Vietnamese Tunic) - A thin overcoat worn over the yếm. It's often fastened with a sash.

Áo bà ba (Vietnamese Folk Shirt) - A lightweight shirt with slits on the side.

Suoyi (Chinese Folk Raincoat) - A cloak made out of local materials such as palm leaves and grass. It was also worn by laborers in Vietnam, Japan, and Korea.

Bottoms

Kangkeng Le (Thai Fisherman Pants) - They're from Thailand, but I've seen them worn in other parts of Southeast Asia.

Váy (Vietnamese Skirt)

Miscellaneous Speculation

Kiềng (Vietnamese Gold Necklace) - Traditionally, gold or silver Vietnamese/Chinese necklaces were solid rings of metal, rather than being composed of small chain links like European necklaces. I imagine a powerful Asian pirate queen would wear at least three kiềng necklaces.

Tattoos - Since Confucian cultures traditionally considered body modification (including cutting your own hair) to be a sign of rebellion and criminality, tattoos would be the perfect status symbol for an Asian pirate! For a uniquely Vietnamese look, you could try incorporating ancient Vietnamese (Dong Son style) patterns to your design. Alternatively, they could have "protection charm" tattoos on their body, to ensure that the spirits watch over them while at sea or during battle.

Cormorants (Fishing Birds) - Historically, the fishermen of China and Vietnam have trained these species of bird to catch fish for them. I think it would be really cool if your pirate OC had some bird companions.

Weapons

Going to lean into the Vietnamese influence for the weapons as well. Most Vietnamese weapons were heavily inspired by Chinese weapons, but with uniquely Vietnamese touches. Generally, these weapons tended to have more tapered blades, metal engravings with floral patterns, and rattan-corded grips with smaller guards compared to their Chinese counterparts.

Dadao/Trường đao (Chinese/Vietnamese Machetes)

Jian/Kiem (Chinese/Vietnamese Doubled-Edged Swords)

Changdao/Guőm truòng (Chinese/Vietnamese Two-Handed Swords) - Fun fact: These swords were really popular with Chinese and Japanese pirates during the Ming Dynasty, as well.

Niuweidao - I don't think there's a Vietnamese version of Oxtail Sabers. Anyways, I've discussed Zuko's trademark swords at length elsewhere. They're civilian weapons that look very pirate-y to me.

Who would the Earth Kingdom pirates be? How would they make a living?

It has been shown that their is a Vietnam analog in the EK, as I've posted about before. The Swampbenders have some Vietnamese inspiration, as well. So the main base operations for EK pirates might have been that EK village that Zuko and Iroh begged in. Maybe the jerk that Zuko stole the swords from was a pirate.

Considering that Froggy Swamp denizens and other Water Tribers would probably be marginalized by EK society, I think their would be good reason for them to become pirates. Especially since waterbending would obviously be a very useful skill to have at sea. Also, since the Northern Water Tribe is shown to be a bit sexist, I could see the surprisingly not-as-sexist world of EK piracy being especially appealing to the ladies of the NWT. As far as EK natives go, farmers and fishermen who've been displaced by the Fire Nation would probably also turn to piracy. Similarly, jaded or corrupt Earth Kingdom and Fire Nation naval officers might switch to piracy, as well. What drives a person to piracy would definitely inform their clothing choices and weaponry.

Like the real-life pirates of the Qing Dynasty, Earth Kingdom pirates likely have no real national loyalties. If you paid them enough, they'd be willing to fight for either the Fire Nation or the Earth Kingdom. You also have to pay them off to cross their territory unscathed. Pirates raid merchant and military ships alike. For refugees who could afford it, they likely paid pirates to smuggle them into Ba Sing Se. Pirates probably also smuggled goods between nations, as well as drugs.

I also think Earth Kingdom pirates would worship water-related spirits, like Yue (+ the Ocean Spirit) or the Painted Lady. Perhaps they'd lay out offerings to spirit alters they'd have onboard or even "feed" the offerings to the seas themselves.

The Greater Context of Chinese Qing Dynasty Piracy

Who were the pirates of the Qing Dynasty?

The pirates of Qing Dynasty were predominantly made up of former farmers and fishermen. During this period, population growth in China lead to land shortages and many farmers lost their land either from being unable to keep up with rising taxes or outright theft from corrupt officials. Fishermen turned to piracy when fishing could no longer guarantee their survival, especially with European pirates and colonial ships invading their waters. In general, extreme poverty drove people to piracy.

Also, Chinese pirates were surprisingly more accepting of female leadership than men from more "respectable" parts of society. This is due to the fishermen roots of many pirates. Traditionally, when a fisherman died, his wife was expected to take over his boat and crew. Also, the two most prominent patron Chinese gods of seafarers are goddesses, Guanyin and Mazu.

What did these pirates do?

Qing Dynasty pirates were a unique fusion of bandit, mercenary, and drug smuggler. Obviously, if you planned on sailing through pirate-infested waters, you had better pay off the pirates to be left unscathed. Otherwise, your ship was getting plundered.

Qing pirates also offered up their talent for violence to the highest bidder during times of war. In the 18th century, Imperial Vietnam would frequently hire and train up Southern Chinese pirates to assist their fleets during naval battles. Those who earned merit during these conflicts would even be granted official military titles. In 1857, the Chinese government would even employ these same South Sea pirates to take down the Portuguese pirates terrorizing their waters.

Finally, as Qing Dynasty piracy reached its epoch at the same time as the First Opium War, Chinese pirates participated in a lot of drug smuggling. As pirates have no loyalty, they had no issue serving as middle-men in the profitable European drug trade.

Where were these pirates found?

The South China Sea was the stomping ground for Qing-era pirates, particularly the Gulf of Tonkin. In terms of ports and towns, they tended to spend a lot of time in the border areas where China met Vietnam. Remember that these pirates offered their services to both Imperial Vietnam and Imperial China, so they didn't exactly have national loyalties.

#atla #avatar the last airbender #avatar #atlaculture #earth kingdom #vietnam #cultural fashion #cultural weapons #I went a bit overboard with this post #no pun intended #I'm just really into the idea of incorporating more Southeast Asian cultures into the ATLAverse #I also just think outlaws are kind of neat #replies

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pineconepie · 1 month ago

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What do you think about platonic yandere mermaid with a willing reader?

TW: Attempted kidnapping, parental yandere, infantilization, depressed reader (nothing too sad),

...

Life has never been easy for you. It's dead end job after the next, stress toppled upon stress, and no time to do what you love. At least, when you still had the energy.

As the years have dragged on, that fire inside of you seemed to dim. Hobbies that once filled you with passion became a chore.

The only thing that brightens your day are walks to the beach, like today.

You sit at the dock and take off your shoes. No one ever really visits this place. Even if people did come by, it's too cold for most people to enjoy. Not you though. You wiggle your toes in the icy ocean water as it laps over your feet.

Something gently brushes your leg, making you jolt.

You relax when you realize it was probably a large wave or a piece of seaweed. The calm quickly dissipates when it happens again, this time more insistent. You look around for whatever was touching you, but can't find anything.

Recently, your visits to the beach have been different, more strange. Sometimes you'd feel like you were being watched, and when you came to the beach to talk to yourself and lament your own sadness, you'd find a pile of seashells or a dead fish next to you, that certainly wasn't there before.

Though it unnerves you, no one else has shown up to claim the dock as theirs, and it's a routine you don't want to break just yet.

"I think I'm finally losing it," you laugh to yourself, rubbing a hand over your face.

"No, I do not think so."

You almost jump up in surprise, looking behind you to see who said that. When you turn back to the ocean, you're faced with a... man?

He has long, slightly messy off-white hair and vibrant blue eyes.

His ears are longer, too, pointing into triangles at their tips. He stares at you curiously, eyes wide with interest.

"Oh my God!" You put a hand over your heart. "Jeez, you scared me! How long have you been watching me?"

The man shrugs. "Long enough." His voice is gravelly and deep, as if it hasn't been used often. "I did not mean to startle you." He blinks slowly at you.

"Yeah, well..." you mutter, turning your head away from him. Now you feel embarrassed with the knowledge that someone heard you talking to yourself. "What are you even doing here? Where did you come from?"

"The sea."

"Yeah...okay," you deadpan. If you're crazy, at least this guy beats you in that department. "Well, since you've apparently seen me here many times, you know my life story. Who are you?"

The man thinks for a moment before speaking. "Indigo. And you're (Y/n), yes?" he smiles widely when your mouth drops open. "I told you I've watched you a lot. Besides, you speak so often to yourself. About how much you despise your job and other such things. A child shouldn't need to go through all of that stress."

A what? You gape at him. This is so strange. Everything about him feels strange.

He sinks down below the water only to resurface moments later with a handful of shells and assorted beach items. One hand holds them all out to you.

"Would you like these?"

Maybe you are the crazy one, because you hesitantly reach out to take them. They're beautiful, like all the other shells you'd find next to you. You blink. "Were you the one giving me shells and... fish?" Indigo nods. "Why?"

He smiles. "I don't like seeing you sad, which seems to be often. I wanted to cheer you up. And the fish is to make sure you don't go hungry, but you never take it." He pouts and rests his arms on the wood beside you. "I hope you aren't neglecting yourself. Younglings like yourself should not be doing so. It makes me sad."

You must admit, he's very sweet. For a moment, you're about to thank him, when you see something sparkling under the water.

"Are you wearing a mermaid tail...?"

Indigo meets to where you're gazing at, chuckling. "It isn't a costume, little one."

You huff in offense and cross your arms, but lean over the edge of the dock to get a better look at his tail anyway. He gently splashes you with it, making you jolt back in shock.

"W-what?" It takes you a moment to comprehend it, and when you do, you gasp, pulling him closer by the shoulders to look closer at it. It sparkles with iridescence, looking beautiful in the raising moonlight. You're breathless. "This is—wow! Am I hallucinating right now?"

His hands land atop yours on his shoulders, a big grin spread across his face.

His skin feels slick and moist, probably because he spends most of his time underwater. "No, sweetheart," he says fondly. "I am as real as you are. I hope I'm not scaring you even more. Humans are easily startled things, I've noticed."

"Oh, no, not at all," you laugh. Your mind spins with excitement, not fear. "I mean, I've always known there had to be things existing besides humans, but to see it myself is... wow." You realize you're still holding onto his shoulders and let go. "Sorry about that, um..."

"It's okay, sweetheart," Indigo giggles. His fingers wrap around yours loosely. He hums, running his thumb across the palm of your hand. "Your hands are smaller than mine. Soft too. I've heard your rants; to me, it sounds like human life isn't quite meant for you." He looks up at you.

"Probably," you shrug. "If I could've, I would have stayed a kid forever." As soon as the words leave your mouth, you feel embarrassed for saying them in front of him.

He smiles though, not a single sign of judgment in his gaze. "Then why don't you?"

"I can't, really. That's not how it works," you try to explain. Indigo doesn't look any less confused. "When you're an adult, you have to grow up mentally too, or else people think you're weird. Even if it's something small, like sleeping with plushies or watching cartoons." You pause to glance at him. "You know what those things are, right?"

Indigo nods. "I can get the idea, I think." Then he frowns. "But that sounds dreadful. Merfolk get to choose when to mature and leave the nest whenever they want without judgment."

"That does sound nice." You can imagine it; the freedom to just exist the way you please.

It almost reminds you of some fictional world out of a fairy tale.

Something from a movie.

He pauses, then pulls himself upwards to sit by your side, much to your shock. The air feels cold against you, until his arm drapes over your body. Despite being wet, he's warm. You find yourself leaning into his hold.

"How long has it been since someone held you?"

The question catches you off guard. How long had it been? You lean further into him. "I can't even remember." Indigo holds you tighter. He smells salty, like the sea itself. It makes you want to fall asleep. When was the last time you got a good night's rest? You close your eyes.

His chest rumbles when he speaks. "Merfolk have strong familial instincts. I have read books on humans stating they also have the same instincts, but it doesn't appear so for you. If it were true, your parents would still be taking care of you," he coos. A hand strokes your cheek. "You must be feeling so neglected. Unloved, unwanted."

"I've learned to accept it, at least," you say sadly.

"Don't!" he exclaims loudly, and you jump. Immediately he sighs and holds you closer. "Don't say that, little one. No one should be without the affection and attention they deserve, especially children like you. I cannot bear seeing you cry like that anymore." His voice lowers to a whisper. "Please let me help you."

Something wet lands on your forehead and slides down your face, making you wipe it away in confusion.

Indigo leans away from you with an apologetic smile on his face. You stare up at his tear-stained face in shock.

"A-are you okay?" you ask with worry lacing your tone. You reach up to touch the side of his face, wiping the tears away with your thumb. Indigo only seems to sob harder at that.

"No matter what I gave you, it never made you smile. For days I watched you crying about how you hated your life, all alone. I just wish I could—" he chokes on his words and stops, wrapping his arms around you. It hurts, almost suffocating you because of how strong he's holding you. "Whenever you cried, I cried with you. It always broke my heart to see you so sad." He buries his head into your hair and sniffles.

You have no clue what to say, so you just rub circles into his back. This poor man just wants to see you happy, but none of the items he'd bring you worked, no matter how beautiful or shiny they looked.

"If I had known I wasn't just going crazy, I would've appreciated them," you try to comfort him.

"Then why didn't you eat any of the fish I gave you?" He looks at you with his sapphire blue eyes, sad.

You nervously smile. "Well, uh... humans usually need cooked food or else we could get sick." You watch in shock as another bout of sadness overcomes him again and he hugs you back to his chest.

"I did not know that!" he cries. "Oh Gods, I could've gotten my own child sick..."

You're about to say that you're not actually his kid when you decide against it.

He obviously thinks very strongly that you're still young, and you're sure he knows that you're an adult. Something tells you that it'll only hurt his feelings if you argue about it, so you stay silent, letting him have his moment.

After awhile he calms down, loosening his grip but not letting go. "Please... live with me," Indigo says. "I live in an underwater cave far below here, where I can keep you safe and hidden from everyone else. Let me protect you from all of it. I'll cook your meat and warm your bed and love you more than your parents ever did. Please let me take care of you."

You sigh. "I can't do that." As much as you want to. "I have a life here, and I barely know you."

"But you are miserable."

"I think living in a cave with nothing to do sounds pretty miserable too, all things considered."

He looks distraught for a second, but then calms himself. "Okay."

"Well, I'll still visit," you offer. He says nothing. "Well... uh, I gotta go..."

Just as you stand, he tries to pull you back into the water. Inhaling sharply, you clutch onto the wooden beams of the dock. You manage to kick him off and scurry out of reach.

Your blood runs cold when he glares at you, demeanor changing as he cries and yells for you to stop and come back. The expression feels scary, not right, like it goes against the laws of the universe to see on him.

You feel a mixture of terror, guilt, and heartbreak as you rush off the dock and don't look back at Indigo. At least he can't chase after you.

...

A few weeks pass by, and life only gets more stressful, even worse than before.

You keep thinking about Indigo and his offer. What would happen if you just said yes? What could possibly await you if you took his hand and followed him into the ocean? What if you just abandoned your old life altogether and accepted the new one he spoke of?

An escape.

The thought lingers in your head long after it had came.

Your life is already horrible enough as it is; bills and taxes to pay, friends turning their backs on you and talking badly behind it, a boss who does everything to make your life hell for no reason...

Is there any reason to say no?

Before you know it, you're standing back on that same old beach with a suitcase. You hope most of the things inside it won't be ruined by the water.

It's night time, and you wonder if Indigo will even be around, let alone willing to speak to you after rejecting his offer and running off.

You stand by the edge of the dock and call his name.

No answer.

You sigh and sit down, burying your head in your hands. It takes you a few minutes to notice the sound of the water sloshing quietly. It gets louder as you lift your head.

"(Y/n)!" He lunges for you, pulling you into his trembling arms. The hug is so tight you feel you might choke. "(Y/n)... (Y/n)...!" His tail swishes around in happiness. He pulls back to repeatedly kiss your forehead. "Please don't ever do that to me again!"

He's acting like he presumed you were dead, and you wouldn't be shocked if that was a genuine worry of his. You pull away slightly. "I-I... wanted to talk about... you know, your offer..." Indigo looks at you with wide, hopeful eyes. You breathe in slowly before continuing. "If it still stands... I wanted to tell you I—"

"Yes!" Indigo grabs your arms. "Yes! A thousand times yes! Oh, Papa will make you so happy and loved, sweetheart! Don't you worry; no more bad guys or work. Nothing bad will ever touch you again, not my baby." He squeezes you tight and nuzzles his cheek to yours.

Despite everything, despite the suddenness of it all, something about this feels so right. You feel safe in his embrace. Even better, you're happy. Genuinely happy, like you haven't felt in years. Indigo looks at you with the widest grin you've ever seen when you hug him back.

"Papa?" you mumble, not thinking much of it before saying so.

Indigo blinks in surprise, then beams. He picks up your chin and kisses your cheek.

"You'll always be safe here with Papa. Safe from all the big, scary monsters," he smiles widely.

"I brought a suitcase," you tell him, gesturing to all your items. "Uh, blankets, changes of clothes, essentials, some plushies..." At 'plushies,' Indigo practically shimmers with happiness.

"Aww, you have toys," he croons, looking like he could burst from excitement. "Oh, you're going to love it down here, sweetheart. Just wait until you see our home. Hold your breath now, and hold onto Papa." He lifts you up in one swift motion with just one arm. Its clear merfolk are naturally stronger, as he holds onto your suitcase with the other. "Ready?"

You nod and suck in a breath, closing your eyes shut when he dives underwater. Instead of coldness like you expected, Indigo's body warmth protects you from the chill.

It isn't long before you open your eyes and take in the sight around you, in awe. There's schools of fish swimming along coral reefs of vibrant colors, and the moonlight hits the water surface, illuminating the dark depths around you two.

He swims into a cave, and lifts you out of the water.

When you wipe the water out of your eyes, the first thing you notice is how cozy it looks for a cave.

There's no electric appliances anywhere, so torches are lit on a rock for light. Everything is handmade looking. There's seashells everywhere, decorating walls, chairs, and shelves of old, worn books.

At the corner is a nest-like pile of what appears to be seaweed, woven together as bedding.

It looks lived in and sweet, something out of a children's book. When you glance back at Indigo, he has the widest smile plastered across his face. There's hope and excitement twinkling in his eyes.

"What do you think?"

"It's cute."

His chest puffs out in pride. "Thank you." He walks towards the makeshift bed. "This is where we sleep, of course. The nest is a lot softer than it looks." He gently tosses the suitcase down. He notices your confused frown. "Ah, merfolk's families tend to share one giant nest with their offspring for years. It's good for their protection."

"Won't you, like, suffocate, if you sleep out of water?"

He laughs. "No, of course not. My gills work both ways, so whether I'm above or below water, I'm fine. Oh, and I have learnt how to cook food as well. Thermal vents aren't very convenient for cooking meat, but I figured it out." He notices you're shivering and gasps, rushing to your side. "Are you cold, sweetheart?"

"I mean, yeah, kind of..." You look up at the cave roof. Water drips through the cracks. "It's pretty chilly down here."

"I apologize. I should've thought of that sooner. Merfolk don't exactly require large amounts of heat, so I forgot. Papa's going to get you out of those wet clothing, is that okay?"

You nod, lifting your arms up and allowing him.

He makes quick work of it, humming under his breath and wrapping a large fur blanket around you securely. "We can wait for your other clothing to dry properly, but until then, this will have to do."

When he cradles you back to his chest, you feel like a newborn - swaddled in his arms and pressed against his bare skin. He carries you somewhere deeper into the cave, into an area that you hadn't noticed before.

In the middle is a crack in the ground under the water, where steam emits, as if its connected to the thermal vents Indigo mentioned. He sits you down gently on a nearby rock and grabs a nearby raw fish, stabbing it with a stick.

He swims back to the bottom, and though you can hardly see anything through the water, you can assume he's cooking it with the vent.

In less than ten minutes he resurfaces with cooked fish. You're impressed.

"It smells great," you comment. "You are aware you could also probably just use the torch, right?"

"Oh, I know," Indigo replies nonchalantly. "It'd just take longer than this method, which can cook meat fairly quickly. Besides, fire is quite dangerous." He sets the fish down on a plate made of something similar to clay and places it in front of you.

He watches you closely, smiling expectantly at you.

"You didn't give me silverware," you mutter.

He chuckles. "You'll eat with your hands now, little one. I heard humans eat with weird metal objects, which seems quite frivolous to me. We are all animals, after all, even if humans aren't connected to nature the same way others are." He reaches forward with his sharp claws and caringly slices your fish into tiny pieces. He moves a chunk closer to your face. "Here, Papa will feed you."

And you let him, opening your mouth and swallowing down the surprisingly delicious fish. Indigo seems pleased. It continues on like that until your tummy feels full. He claps.

"My baby ate all of their dinner. Good job." He kisses your forehead. "Now, I think today has been tiring for you, so let's get ready for bedtime, hm?"

Your eyelids droop slightly as you realize how tired you really are. He smiles softly, understanding as he lifts you up in his arms yet again.

You lay your head against his collarbone, wrapped up in the soft warmth of the fur. He takes you back to the nest, laying you down gently atop the smooth, soft surface, then crawling in himself.

He settles with his tail coiled around both of you and presses your ear against his chest. With the rise and fall of his breath and the steady beat of his heart, you quickly begin to fall asleep.

"G'night, Papa," you whisper. For some reason, calling him that feels right.

Indigo chuckles, voice breaking. "Goodnight, my little one. Papa loves you so very much. He'll never let go of you."

You're too sleepy to even register he's crying while holding you fiercely. You just bury your face deeper into his arms and drift off.

#yandere #parental yandere #platonic yandere #yandere mermaid #yandere x reader #yandere oc #familial yandere #tw infantilization #yandere age regression

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