#Now the boy's become a man and chooses his own path | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ofoceansandtombsanew · 3 months ago

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if gods exist, they made you perfect

cw. fem!reader, childhood friend au, ace novel spoilers (1st novel), pre-relationship, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, light mentions of child abuse (garp), brief loss in ace's ability to control his powers, reader receives a minor burn

pairing. portgas d. ace x black!fem!reader

synopsis. not everyone is going to reach for ace's hand but you always will.

notes. a very indulgent idea that has been living rent free in my head since i've had it and now it is your problem. cover comes from frederic edwin church's twilight in the wilderness (1860). blazing red skies and ace simply go hand in hand.

"The Five Elders are gonna have the biggest bitch fit to ever fit," with how Ace blinks up at you in surprise, he must have been really lost in his thoughts. You broaden your smile as you plop down right next to him. "I don't think anyone's ever turned down a Warlord position before. Can't wait to see how your bounty goes up this time."

Ace snorts lightly at your words, lips stretching into half a grin, "yeah, they are not going to like that."

"It definitely doesn't help you kicked that vice admiral's ass, either," you recall the events of your final moments in Sabaody. A definitive mixed bag of.

It was a beautiful country, that much is easy to say. Still it came with more than you were prepared to witness. It's only luck there hadn't happened to be any visiting Celestial Dragons coinciding with your temporary residency. Somehow you have the feeling that things would have surely been messier if their had been.

The stint with Vice Admiral Draw will be messy enough on its own.

"Garp's gonna be so mad when he finds out," Ace shudders at even your mention of his grandfather and you snicker. "What if he comes to Fishman Island for one of his grand lectures?"

"Don't even joke like that," the back of his orange hat thumps against the side of the Spadille with his groan of horror. "I can feel his Fists of Love right now."

You feel the phantom pain yourself. If you're both lucky, the semi-retired marine is busy visiting Luffy on Dawn Island. Maybe it's not that lucky though. It isn't the first time the thought the man is even harsher on Luffy now that Ace has gone ahead and sworn his life to piracy surfaces. It's a thought you push away as quickly as you have it.

Luffy's a strong kid, he's fine.

He has a spirit that is unbreakable.

"That Draw guy deserved to get his ass beat anyway." There is no disagreement to be had with your statement, Ace murmuring something similar. He's a million miles away from where you are, however, miraculously sat on a ship sailing beneath the waves. "Isuka'll be fine," you say suddenly, cursing your inability to ease into the topic gently. "She's strong and she was on our ass since immediately after we got to the Grand Line. She'll be back to chasing us soon enough."

Hopefully.

It isn't something you can say with resolute faith.

The ensign's sense of reality itself had been shattered in its entirety. Being betrayed by the one you believed to be your savior is nothing easy to overcome. You choose to believe a woman as impassioned as the naval officer will. You won't pretend to know where she'll head next.

Perhaps she'll embark on a path that leads her back to the marines. Or maybe she'll become a bounty hunter.

Wherever her journey takes her, you can only hope it is a path with no regrets.

"It would have been weird having a bounty hunter on the ship, anyway," you clumsily attempt to soothe your friend. There is irony in how Ace became your better in terms of comforting those around you when he had been the most argumentative and unfriendly between you. "That sounds like something Luffy would do."

At the sound of Luffy's name, Ace's lips do quirk into something more real. "Yeah, that kid would invite just about anyone on his crew, bounty hunters included."

You chuckle trying to visualize what the young boy's recruitment process will be. Somehow, you doubt his prospective crewmates will have much say in the matter. "Knowing Luffy, they'll probably want to join anyway though. He's convincing like that."

"Yeah," Ace only falls deeper into his thoughts. The silence that follows is even more glum than the depths. Damn it, you curse yourself.

You've never been like Makino, you recall the kind-hearted woman from your youth. She's always been gentle, dove-like in her approach when it came to matters of the heart. Knew exactly the words someone needed to hear and knew exactly how to say it in a way that didn't feel intrusive to the recipient.

That has certainly never been you. If anything, you're more akin to Dadan and her rough expressions of affection.

You hold back a sigh, closing your eyes.

"Alright, I guess this is how we're doing this," you open your eyes at last. Shuffling, you face your friend who makes a sound of surprise at your movement. You aren't a delicate person nor are you someone with the ability to handle matters of the heart with the delicacy it deserves. It's best to handle it clumsily, the only way you know how. "Ace, the stuff with Isuka; that wasn't your fault. And it isn't on you that she didn't want to come with us."

Isuka liked Ace.

It's impossible not to like him.

Even when he was a brat with more anger at the world than he knew what to do with, you liked him. Thought he was the coolest person you'd ever met in your short 10 years of living and wanted him to like you back. You like him even now.

Everyone in the crew joined because they liked Ace the moment they met him. He's darling in how effortless he makes it.

Even a marine as firm in her beliefs as Isuka couldn't let prejudice cloud her judgement when it came to Portgas D. Ace. Begrudging as it may have been, there has always been a mutual admiration for each other in spite of the opposing occupations.

You're like the sun. Equal parts the harsh rays of summer and the gentle beams of early spring. He's whichever the moment calls for. A warmth everyone wants to experience if they're lucky enough to come across it. The gravitational pull of the universe that keeps the planets in the sun's orbit. You're amazing!

"I don't know what the hell that girl needs," rough as the sentence is, your voice is soft. "But whatever it is, she wasn't going to find it with us. That's why she didn't come."

Ace opens his mouth but you don't give him the chance to argue or sweep your concerns away.

"I'm not gonna sit here and lie to your face and say that this won't happen again," it's an ugly truth. One Ace became aware of long before you met him. Regardless, as much as you hate it, you know it'd be unfair to lie to him. "Because it probably will. There's always going to be people who, no matter how hard you reach for them, they aren't going to reach back. And you can't do jack about it.

Hell, sometimes you can't even do jill. But," Ace's brow furrows in time with your words and your heart wrenches. "But," you start once more, the back of your fingers brushing against his wrist. "for every person that won't, there's going to be someone that does." You cup one of Ace's hands in both of yours with all the care one would give glass.

When did these hands get so much bigger than your own?

Still, you lips curl upwards in your nostalgia, the warmth that radiates from him remains the same. You squeeze gently, almost afraid that if you touch him too hard, he'll break.

"And I know for a fact there are a lot of people who are always going to want to hold your hands. Even if the shit does turn into fire," you chuckle at your quick addendum and despite himself, Ace does too. You've always loved hearing him laugh, it's even better when you're the cause. "The crew. Dadan. Magra. Dogra. Luffy," you squeeze again, your thumb carressing the back of his hand. "Me. We love these hands, they're yours."

There's a spark of something in Ace's eyes you can't quite place and it's unexpectedly hard to look him in the eye for some reason. "Heh," you laugh breathlessly. Without meaning to, your grip tightens around his hand. It's warm.

Really warm.

Shit, it's actually getting kinda hot ain't it?

You see the flicker of orange and your and Ace's expressions are well-matched in panic as you realize the source. Sure enough, your hands were engulfed flames.

"Shit-" Ace swears but despite instinct dictating you back away from the flames, you find yourself holding on to staunchly.

"Shit-" you fight against Ace's attempt to pull away from you as the flames die down. "[First]! Let go!"

"No way, what did I just say?!" Oh god this hurts like hell! "I don't care if it's fire, I'm not letting go!"

You hiss through your teeth, reeling yourself in with a breath but the flames are extinguished as quickly as they erupted. "Wasn't exactly expecting to prove my point so fast but," there's another attempt on Ace's part to pull away from you again but you only hold his hand tighter. You can ignore the sting of your hands but you can't ignore the way Ace's eyebrows knit together. You can't ignore how he looks like he wants to cry either. "See," you laugh breathlessly. "I love these hands, there's no way I'm never gonna hold them.

Dark eyes, wide, look between you and your face and you squeeze his hand again. The sting of your palms is prevalent but this pain is fine. Pain is merely proof that you are alive in this moment; and in this moment there is nowhere else you want to be.

There's nothing more that needs to be said between you, you believe. Facing him, you lean against the wood as you hold Ace's hand firmly between your own. With the hand he has available, Ace slides his hat down to hide whatever expression he's making.

You close your eyes with a sigh and pretend you don't hear the sound of hiccuping. You don't feel the way his hand trembles either.

You squeeze Ace's hand and he squeezes back.

Your hands sting something sweet.

#look she's writing #one piece x reader #op x reader #ace x reader #portgas d ace x reader #portgas d ace #look it's self shipping hours #flaming pearls #sea otters #flaming pearls (sea otters)#x black!reader #ace x black!reader

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blackholesun321 · 5 months ago

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@mega-ringsandthings-world we were talking about Mihawk, as we do, and we came to the conclusion that he has never had someone love him for himself in all his ugly humanness. The world looks up at him and sees the world’s greatest swordsman, a warlord, or a man who can go toe-to-toe with an emperor. But they don’t ever see him. Know him—learn him. Because, well, it’s his fault for building that wall between himself and everyone else. For forcing everyone on the outside of his shell his whole life, and then he reaches the top alone, and... it’s everything he’s ever wanted, everything he ever said he wanted. He isn’t weak; he’s the best in the world, and he’s all alone.

And it’s empty—all of it, every second of it—empty, lifeless boredom. And he searches for something. Maybe he tries peace and lives within that state of half alive, half dead because he’s now convinced himself that peace is something he wants. Peace at all costs. But he’s still bored and alone, waiting for something, someone, anything to happen, and it never does.

Because, ladies and gentle-beings, Dracule Mihawk is a coward. He’s a coward because he chooses the easiest path of least resistance instead of charting a course in his own life and trying to make meaning in the meaningless. Mihawk is a coward, and he’s depressed. And these two things are not mutually exclusive; they are the driving force, the reason for each other. And because he will always choose the easiest path, he will never go after what he really needs, which is companionship.

That boy was good with a sword. He reeks of a gifted child, and maybe he even fell in love with swords and swordplay, but he was good at swords and then worked to be great at them. Somewhere in his history, we know he was betrayed by someone he trusted, and then he decided to never trust again. And, oh look, he runs away from everyone and everything, using the excuse to focus on his dream above everything—except when he achieves his dream. Instead of doing the hard work of trying to find meaning again or reaching out to others, he gives up and chooses the path of least resistance. He becomes a warlord for his so called peace of mind bored with hunting marines but trying maybe to have meaning or fights come to him. And he’s still bored and he’s still depressed.

Mihawk is a coward of a man who refuses to see that what he needs in his life is others to make the boredom bearable. And he doesn’t realize this for years—until Zoro. Even then, in Zoro, he sees a suicide; he sees meaning because he sees his end. But also, he sees how Zoro promises Luffy, how his crew gathers around him. He sees that and knows Zoro won’t fall like he did, won’t reach the top and then stop because he’ll have others reach it there with him.

And that’s why him giving Shanks Luffy’s poster, after years of holding a grudge against Shanks, is such a momentous act in his character arc. Because he’s reaching out to the man he personally probably views as someone he could have let as close as Zoro does with his crew. Now, he still views Zoro as a means to an end for his suffering, not yet as the character motivator to make friends and maybe open his heart up a little bit to others. No, that’s the time skip arc with Zoro and Perona. But still, that moment is him trying for the first time in forever, and it happens to be with Shanks.

In conclusion, Mihawk has hang-ups a mile long, but Shanks will always and forever be someone he loves and can imagine himself opening up to and standing at the top of the world with. But instead, he ran away when his vision of that ending was shattered by Shanks refusing to climb with him anymore and giving up his ability to do so—thus leaving Mihawk heartbroken and, in his eyes, betrayed once again. But the power of gay-autism-stupidity moss ball showed him he was the problem and needed to actually talk to people if he wanted to feel anything.

Also, Shanks and Mihawk made out sloppy style, on the beach after.

#one piece #mishanks #dracule mihawk #hawkeye mihawk #akagami no shanks #akataka #red haired shanks #mihawk shanks #shanks x mihawk #character analysis

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hotgirlbedtimescenarios · 6 months ago

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The Story of Us

Timeless (pt.4)

Pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader

Summary: Epilogue

Words: 1.2k+

Warnings: too fluffy and too sweet, might make you sick

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

The flash of lights stirs you from sleep when the power turns back on in the early hours of the morning. A lazy groan sounds close to your ear, its breath tickling the hair on your neck. A sleepy smile crosses your face before you even open your eyes.

You roll in Javier's arms, still pulled tight against his bare chest as you had been all night since falling asleep. Kissing the tip of his nose, you whisper, “Good morning.”

Blearily, Javier's eyes flutter open and crinkle at the edges when he smiles at the image before him. In his arms is the girl he’s always dreamed of, with a voice like honey and hair tangled by sleep and the hands he’d run through it the night before. Still next to him on the heap of blankets and pillows you’d made love in while a storm raged on around you.

“Morning, mi amor,” he yawns before leaning in for a deep, slow kiss like he's committing your topography into the memory of his DNA. You let him, and you do the same, savoring the plush pout of his lips and sweep of his tongue against your own.

The kiss breaks, and you yawn, finally stretching and examining the room around you. “How about we blow these candles out before we burn my house to the ground, huh?”

Before you can get up, Javier slings a heavy around your shoulders and pulls you in to nuzzle in the crook of his neck, “5 more minutes,” he pleads.

You give in.

---

As the morning wears on, there's a giddy, almost nervous energy between you. While you get dressed, blow out candles, and fold blankets, you steal glances at each other, giggling when you catch one another in the act.

As you sit for breakfast and finally have a chance to talk, your nerves become real, but only for a moment.

Chewing on a piece of buttered toast, sitting across from Javier, you begin, “So…”

“So what?” he teases, a smirk on his lips when he senses your shyness.

“Where does this leave us?” you ask nervously, but don’t sugarcoat it; if ever there was a time to be blunt, it's now.

Javier sets down his coffee mug, his face losing the mirth it just had, and settles into something more serious.

“Everything I said last night, I meant every single word, but,” he sighs, “I’m still head of the team taking down the Cali cartel, and that means danger for me and anyone I care about. Last time, I took the choice away from you, but now the choice is yours. If you’ll have me, I’m yours for the rest of our lives.”

He lets loose a nervous sigh, as if he has any reason to worry.

You reach across the table and place your hand atop his own, interlacing your finger before saying, “Javier Peña, I told you last night. I’m all in, no matter what.”

“I’ll make sure every second is worth it,” he promises, squeezing your hand in his for emphasis. “I love you.”

And when you look into his eyes, you know it's true.

“I love you too.”

---

A short year and a half later, Javier keeps good on his word and takes down the head of the Cali cartel empire.

And, when his superiors come crawling back again, begging Javier to sacrifice himself to yet another one of their wars, he turns them down.

Knowing you're there to love him unconditionally, all his best qualities, and the darkest parts of his soul, he finds courage and the strength to break his path of self-destruction.

Finally, despite Javier's insistence that he’d changed over the years, that he was no longer the man you once knew, and that he’d done bad things and played a hand in numerous deaths, he chooses to live for more.

---

7 years later - Laredo, Texas

A cool fall breeze blows across the Texan countryside, ruffling your hair as you sway back and forth on your porch swing, reading your book in the last few minutes of daylight.

“Dinner’s ready,” your husband calls from inside your home as he sends your oldest to come fetch you from the porch.

The little boy pokes his head around the corner of the door, eager to beckon you inside to the meal they’ve prepared you tonight. “Come on, momma,” he says sweetly, his big brown eyes the same shade as his father's, alight with excitement.

“Coming, Matteo,” you say, using all your strength to push up and out of the porch swing and find your balance before following him inside.

It wasn’t the most graceful dismount, but considering you’re 8 months pregnant and your fingers are so swollen you had to take off your wedding rings so they don’t have to be sawed off your fingers, you have a pretty good excuse. Your feet are just as swollen; you don’t even wear shoes now as you waddle inside to join your family.

What you see when you turn the corner and enter the kitchen nearly brings tears to your eyes.

Javier flashes you a dazzling smile as he bounces your youngest, Maria, in his arms as he sets the table for dinner. Matteo races over to sit at the table, pointing excitedly so you can look at the meal he helped prepare with his father for the family tonight.

Slowly but surely, you waddle through your home, passing pictures on the wall that capture moments of your life together. A picture from your wedding day when your two families finally met for the first time, one of Javier and his father Chucho building the frame of the house you now walk through, and one of the moment your son was born, his tiny body held in your arms as Javier smiles above the both of you.

And somewhere, tucked away in a scrapbook with hundreds of more memories, is a small polaroid, now weathered and faded by time, that Javier held on to through the years, from the very beginning of your journey together.

You make it to the kitchen table and sit with a sigh of relief, eager to be off your feet.

Javier steps over, leaning in to kiss your cheek, and in his smooth, surly voice, he coos, “Happy anniversary, Esposa.”

Happy tears well up in your eyes, a testament to your immense joy and overactive hormones. Everything is as it should be; you know it in your heart.

Javier made good on his promise; every second you’ve spent together since you reunited has been worth it. Every moment is filled with joy, love, and understanding, the likes of which make you feel incredibly blessed.

You savor every moment spent together, though the fear of ever losing him never resurfaced; he became wholly devoted to you and you to him. Your last kiss will be the day one of you leaves this earth, with the other sure to follow swiftly due to a broken heart.

Though the journey to now had been long and hard at times, you know in your heart it was meant to be. It was a journey you had to take, to rediscover a love that had endured against all odds, a love that never truly left you, only laid dormant in the depths of your heart.

No matter the circumstances, you would have found your way back to each other, your fates entwined from the day you were born. In any lifetime, he’d find you and you him. Your love is timeless; it will stretch on into infinity, reincarnate, and begin again. This was it, the story of us.

Thank you to everyone who read, liked, shared, and commented throughout this series! This story originally began as a sad/angsty one-shot, but I crave a happy ending; thus, The Story of Us was born.

This is my very first completed series, and I'm so proud of how it turned out :,) I hope you enjoyed the journey.

Love you lots! - KT

*everyone say thank you to TSwift for her Speak Now album. It’s always been a personal favorite of mine and it inspired this whole story obviously*

*Also, since this is a mini series, things wrapped up quick and lots of moments between Javi and reader were left to the imagination or summed up quickly within the main story. So, if anyone is ever interested in a drabble or extra scene from some of their times together not mentioned in the story just ask and I'd be happy to provide. I feel like I could write a million things about these two.*

#the story of us #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #javier peña x reader #javier pena fanfiction #javier peña narcos #javier peña #angst with a happy ending #javier pena x you #fluff #love

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miss-hyoko · 2 years ago

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Teasing Him Ft. Savanaclaw

Character(s): Leona, Ruggie, and Jack

Summary: You're trying to tease him

Tag(s) and warning(s): GN!Reader, fluff, romantic, established relationship, mutual pining, cringe pickup lines

Note: Yayy, another day means another fluffiness. Today we have the Savanaclaw boys to be teased💃💃

1. Leona Kingscholar

Today is one of those rare days for the members of Spelldrive Club. All of that because their club leader, Leona, who usually skips the club activity, suddenly joins them in practice. You're a little curious about Leona's sudden burst of motivation, but that doesn't really matter when you finally see your boyfriend play on the field. The way he leads other people, the passion in his eyes, all of that is very different from his usual lazy self. And it becomes his special charm that makes you head over heels for him.

When it's time to rest, Leona comes to you who was sitting in the shade of a tree. You gave Leona the water and towel that you had prepared earlier, making him mutter a quick thank you. Looking at him this close, you once again realize how charming Leona can be; making you involuntarily heave a dreamy sigh, feeling lucky to be his lover.

“Why the sigh, herbivore?” Leona asked nonchalantly, but you can catch the subtle worry in his tone.

“No biggie, just wondering about something.”

Leona rolls his eyes, uninterested. But as his lover, somehow you could tell the meaning of every expression on Leona's face. Therefore, you know that just now, he doesn't really mind if you want to tell him what's on your mind. But whether he'll give you a response depends on what you're going to say.

“I'm just wondering, is it possible that your real name is Dion?”

“Hah? What kind of nonsense is this, herbivore?” A frown appeared on his face, “Are you amnesiac or worse, suddenly become stupid?”

Ignoring his harsh words, you laughed lightly and tried to return his focus to your question earlier.

“Come on, Leona, that's not how you answer it. You should be asking me, why do I think that way?”

At your words, Leona suddenly narrowed his eyes suspiciously, realizing that you're up for something again. But facing your expectant gaze, Leona could only take a deep breath and give in.

“Ughh, finee,” he huffed and folded his arms across his chest, “Speak, herbivore. How can you even think my name is Dion?”

Delighted that Leona finally followed along, you smiled broadly and answered his question with a playful wink.

“Because you are Dionly man for me.”

Hearing your own answer, you giggled while the Leona you teased just rolled his eyes lazily.

“Really, herbivores? That's all that you've got?” Saying that, he then grinned and brought his face closer to yours, which made you suddenly flustered.

“Since you've already said that I'm the only man for you, how about I claim you back? Not now, but later in my room.”

2. Ruggie Bucchi

While shopping at Sam's shop, you run into Ruggie who happened to be running an errand for Leona. Both of you talk for a bit before finally paying for your groceries. When you're about to pay, you realize too late that your money is lacking. Before you can apologize to Sam and put your groceries back on the shelves, Ruggie comes over to your side and starts bargaining with Sam.

Their debate is so fierce, there's no room left for you. Once you came back to reality, Ruggie had successfully won the bargain so you only had to pay a third of the original price. Coming out of Sam's shop, Ruggie offers to walk you back, but you declined because you would rather not hold him any longer considering he was running errands for Leona. But… you still want to spend more time with him. So, taking the middle path, you choose to accompany him to deliver the goods back to Leona and then enjoy some time with him in Savanaclaw.

“Hey, you sure you don't mind this?” Ruggie asked on the way back to his dorm. “I mean, you know how busy I've been lately. After I gave these things to Leona, I still had many chores to do. I wasn't sure I could stay with you for too long.”

“No problem,” you answered rather quickly. “I can help you get your work done faster so that we can spend more time together.”

When Ruggie heard that you didn't mind lending him a hand, his tail subconsciously waggled in anticipation. He tried very hard to keep his tail under control while holding back his embarrassment, meanwhile you just laugh seeing the scene.

After his tail calmed down enough, Ruggie cleared his throat to get your attention back, "T-that is a very tempting offer. But you don't have to sweat over it, 'kay? There's no way I'll let my lover do the menial work that should be my job.”

“But, what if I insist on helping you?” You ask again, offering your help once more with a gentle smile.

“Shishishi. Then, who am I to refuse your kindness twice?” Ruggie let out his unique laugh and once again, his tail was wagging happily.

“You know, sometimes I think you're weird,” he said suddenly, looking straight into your eyes. “Normally, people always try not to add more work to their plate. But why are you the other way around? Aren't you too kind?”

“Oh, Ruggie, I'm not such a good person.” You laughed lightly at your boyfriend's question. “I helped you because it was the job I most wanted.”

“Huh?! The job you want the most is to help me?" Ruggie pointed to himself, the man's cheeks flushed red hearing your answer that was beyond expectations.

Seeing his flustered expression, the smile on your face widened even more.

“You're almost right. But to be more precise, the job I want most is to be with you all the time.”

Ruggie's brain seems to stop working when you say that. His eyes still stare at you in disbelief. Gradually, the blush on his cheeks began to spread across his face. And just before his face turned completely red, Ruggie immediately turned his back on you and was walking hastily with his tail constantly wagging around.

“Hurry your pace, (Name)! Leona will be furious if he doesn't get his things soon!”

3. Jack Howl

Today, you were supposed to go on a date with Jack. But a few hours before your appointment time, Jack suddenly calls you to inform that today's date has to be canceled because he got a small accident during a club practice. You're a little upset that your date got canceled, but you're even more concerned about his wound. Even though he said it was only a minor injury, you still insisted on visiting him in the infirmary.

When you went to visit him, you find out that his right leg was sprained from a fall during running practice. The wound is indeed not too serious, but it still makes you worry nevertheless.

“(Name), you don't need to do all of this,” Jack pleaded with a slightly blushing cheeks, looking helplessly at you who was busy cutting the fruits you've brought for him.

Even though you two have been dating for a while, he still feels a bit strange being cared for so tenderly by you. Well, not that he doesn't like your affection, though…

Putting the freshly cut fruits onto the plate, you shook your head in rejection of Jack's request.

“You're still hurt, Jack. So, be a good boy, and get some rest if you want to get well soon.”

You took a piece of apple that you cut with a fork and gave it to Jack, “Now, open your mouth wide. Aaa...”

“(Name), it's just my leg that's injured. My hand can still function properly, you know.”

Even though he said that, Jack still shyly opened his mouth to accept the apple you gave him.

Seeing him eat the apple, you smiled with satisfaction and took another fruit to feed him again.

Apart from the small protest he gave at the beginning, Jack didn't put up any resistance when you fed him.

“T-thanks for your help, (Name). But really, I'm fine,” Jack said after you fed him all the fruits on the plate. “I wasn't careful enough before and accidentally hurt myself. This wound will heal in a few days at most, so you can rest assured.”

“That doesn't change the fact that you fell and got hurt, Jack,” you said as you poured the tea you brought into two different glasses.

“There is no fall that doesn't hurt, (Name).”

“There is, actually, a fall that doesn't hurt,” you said, smiling mysteriously while handing him a glass of warm tea. “I've been through it once.”

Receiving the glass, Jack looked at you in astonishment. “What kind of fall doesn't hurt?” he asked while sipping his tea.

“Fall in love with you, of course.”

You chuckled softly seeing Jack who almost choked hearing your answer. You immediately gave him the tissue you had prepared and he muttered a quick thank you.

“I-I suddenly think you're right, (Name). I'm injured, so I need a lot of rest to recover quickly,” he said with perfectly flushed cheeks before finally turning his back on you and trying hard to sleep.

#disney twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst wonderland #twst x reader #twst imagines #leona kingscholar #ruggie bucchi #jack howl #leona kingsholar x reader #ruggie bucci x reader #jack howl x reader #leona x reader #ruggie x reader #jack x reader #gado-gado #🍴_comp

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sheenashifts1217 · 4 months ago

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Pick A Pile #3

9/19/24

Message From Your DR Self

Take a breath and pick the image you’re drawn to first. Take what resonates, leave what doesn’t. This is a collective reading so some may resonate with this more than others. For a personal reading, check my pined post <3

Pile 1: Beach heart, Pile 2: Lightning Heart, Pile 3: Cloud Heart

Pile 1

Lyrics standing out:

“They say that we’re no good together and it’s never gonna work out

Everything you do is magic

Let em take pictures

Spread it all across the world now

I don’t know what to believe

Everything you do is magic”

Hi beautiful angels of Pile 1. Your DR self wants you to trust yourself more. You are your DR self. Your DR self is your CR self. Are you stressed about shifting? Don’t be because you’ve already shifted. Your DR self is telling you to take shifting and your DR off of such a high pedestal. There is nothing holding you back from your desires except for yourself. Get out of your own way. This I your sign to embrace all that you are and to on your power. You don’t need some outside cosmic force to make you shift. YOU ARE A COSMIC FORCE. Allow your reality to flow, it doesn’t have to be follow any rules. Magic is normal, normalize it to yourself because “everything you do is magic”. Every choice you make is shifting your reality, it’s that simple.

Your DR may include a lot of magic ad your DR self wants you to know that your s/o loves you like breathing.

Signs of confirmation, but not limited to: 444, blue bird, green leaf, dew drop, glass of water, blue, Billie Eillish, older women, dance

Pile 2

Lyrics standing out:

“Haven’t seen my mother in a long, long time

Do you really think I give a damn

I say I live in Rosemead, really, I’m at the Ramada

So many other things you can’t believe

Puts the shower on while he calls me

Your mom called, I told her you’re fucking up big time”

Hi beauties, Pile 2! Your DR self is telling you that you are having the time of your life. You may be a person who shifts pretty frequently, but to different DRs, or you may have a lot of DRs, but struggle to focus on one. Your ability to go with the flow is rewarding you greatly. If you’re shifting for an s/o, your relationship couldn’t be better. Marriage is in the near future for a few of you. Basically, your DR self is saying to sit back and enjoy the ride. Everything is going your way because you’re allowing it. Keep doing whatever you’re doing because it’s working. You’re on a path of healing and your inner child is shining. You are finally learning to give up on the thought of needing external validation and people pleasing. Keep it up because your hard work is paying off!

Signs of confirmation, but not limited to: “J”, red, crayon, curve, back road, country, serve, slay, boots, 24, 2, Taylor Swift, Willow, 90’s

Pile 3

Lyrics standing out:

“Now he’s just a shadow

My boy loves his friends like I love my split ends

My boy don’t love me like he promised

He ain’t a man, he sure as hell ain’t honest

Who are you?

He said he’d change

You want me to be yours, then you’ve got to be mine”

Hello lovely Pile 3! Why are you still doing things and allowing things in your life that don’t serve you? I know that was harsh right off the bat, but seriously, why? You know what you need and you know what hurts you. You’ve become comfortable in your cycle instead of actually speaking growth. Your DR self is telling you to stand the fuck up because you could be doing literally anything else, yet you’re self destructing. A lot of you began shifting to heal your inner child, but you began to use it to sulk and self destruct. Your DR self is you RN. You are in your CR because it is where you are desiring to be. Change your mindset to be in your “DR”, because right now, you’re making your CR be you DR by choosing to remain in the loop and keeping the same mentality. You always say you’re gonna change but don’t follow through. Actually do it, you won’t regret it. Your DR self says that things are great in your DR right now and they’re tired of you complaining about not being there when you’re not even actually intending to be there. A lot of things will lighten up once you face your shadow self and actually take that leap of faith.

Signs of confirmation, but not limited to: purple, cream, sparkles, glitter, candy, green, jeans, eagles, pen, fun, 888, 9, 23, trees, flowers

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hyperfixatedcatlover · 3 months ago

Text

The Beauty's Rebirth - Chapter 2: Mother Agent

Hey y'all! Sorry this took so long to get out! Please cast your votes! I will write all paths but I will write them one at a time so I want to know what you all would want!

TW: Child abuse, starvation, mentions of being trafficked, MDNI

I do not support or condone such behaviors in real life, this is purely fiction.

Prologue - Chapter 1 - Chapter 2(You are here)

In modeling, there is a term models are aware of. This term is "Mother agent." The mother agent is the agency or the person that discovered you.

'It's funny,' you think to yourself on the way to your house ship - as one of, if not, the most famous models in the galaxy, having a nice apartment that can also travel the stars was exceedingly helpful - 'my mother agent is more of a mother than my actual one.'

The craft driving you home is silent on the inside, but the silence is thick. The typical post-filming headache has set in, restarting the typical routine of these gigs. You smiled, you waved as you went to the dressing room, you took the expensive dress off and put on another nice, semi-less stifling outfit, waved as you went to the car, continued to wave out the window as the car drives away until you were finally out of sight. In these moments of traveling while the pressure in your skull causes the intense desire for pure, uninterrupted quiet, your mind can't help but drift. And drift it does, into the dark recesses of your brain where the memories of your childhood are.

'Mother always hated my beauty, I wonder what she thinks of it now.' Your mother was always jealous. At just five years old, the curls in your hair and the smile that shone seemed to tell her that you were much more beautiful, something she couldn't be. Of course it had to be your fault, of course she needed to punish you for it, of course she needed to starve you when you were seven to keep your figure, of course she needed to train you in acting docile and submissive, though that may have been the malnourishment that caused you to not ever speak up. Mistakes were met with harsh punishment,

"It's for your own good, you ungrateful spawn!"

You shake the memory out of your head, instead choosing to remember the kind woman at the modeling agency, which was small and didn't have that much money who took a chance on you. Poor, starving, freezing you, who she gave a roof over your head and a job, who listened to the story of your parents selling you off to become a concubine to a man thrice your age on another planet, how they faked your death at home. The woman who taught you what you needed to know. In your reminiscence, you to see something out of the corner of your eye. You catch sight of a light blue planet with golden swirls in various parts. Gold and blue… The colors cause your brain to remember someone, someone you miss dearly. I wonder how those two are doing.

The Halovian boy who was only a year older than you, and his sister who was two years your junior, the Oak Branch of The Family. They were the only two people who ever made you happy. At one of the events you were allowed to go to at just nine years of age, you got lost and began to cry no matter how hard you tried to resist it. It was at that point when a boy of slightly shorter height than yours and his much smaller sister found you. When I looked into the young boy's eyes, I felt seen. You were friends ever since, though your meetings were few and far between from how your families kept you busy.

Mr. Wood must have given him some freedom now, I know Robin is a singer, and Sunny most likely is in charge of something back home. If I can even call such a place home.

Childhood friend musings aside, your aircraft has landed in your garage, and you step out waving Charles, your Chauffer, goodbye as you scan your fingerprint to unlock the door. As you step into the home, the mewls of your cherry pie and lemon merengue pie snacks cause you to giggle as the hop towards you like they haven't seen you in months, despite only having been gone for five hours. You pat their heads and go to the master bathroom and shower, scrubbing the makeup, hair spray, and whatever else they put on your skin and in your hair. As you exit the bathroom, now wearing a satin nightgown, you see the snacks waiting for you on the bed.

Oh those cuties, I wish I could stay with them all day.

You join them on the bed when you get a message, your mother agent.

'Hey, you have a couple days off but before you go to bed, you need to hear the options to decide what your next shoot is. I'll get your answer tomorrow so you can think about it.'

'I get to decide?'

'My assistant's system glitched out and crashed, causing three events to be scheduled at the same time. I'll handle the fallout, but you should pick what you want to do.'

'Oh, okay! What are my options?'

'First option is that you could go to a planet, called Belobog, which recently made contact with the IPC and do a shoot there to increase tourism.'

'I guess I wouldn't need heavy security as most people there won't know who I am.'

'True, but you'll still have some. The next option is a shoot on the Xianzhou Loufu. An indie designer you've modeled for in the past is launching a line of traditional hanfu-inspired nightgowns and wants you to model a few, some are a smidge risqué, however.'

'I think I've shown more skin than was you're implying, I'll be fine if I go that route, but what is the last option?'

'You don't have to go to this one, I will make sure your reputation with this brand doesn't sink.'

'What do you mean? You're freaking me out a little bit.'

'The last option is with a major brand, they have a new clothing line with vintage clothes with a modern twist. The shoot will be in Penacony.'

'Oh.'

'My thoughts exactly. I'll let you think about what you want and talk to you tomorrow. Goodnight, sleep well!'

Mother Agent has gone offline

You set the phone on the nightstand and ponder.

Do I go somewhere new and help a planet's economy? Do I go to a smaller designer and give them more reputation? Or, do I go home? Where do I go?

After some tossing and turning, you fall asleep, dreams not reaching you, just a voice telling you to fly free. When you wake up, the snacks are ready for food. As the coffee brews and the snacks munch, you pick up your phone, having made your decision.

'I want to go to…'

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spider-jaysart · 6 months ago

Note

Character ask: Damian Wayne (duh!)

@venetiangoldroz

Lolll

1. How I feel about this character:

Small boy!! Very intelligent, has a good heart that he usually tries not to show off too often but it is always there with him, sweet animal lover, and is a cool, crazy, weird kid that I love so much lmao

2. All the people I ship romantically with this character:

Jon Kent

3. My non romantic otp for this character:

Jon Kent

4. My unpopular opinion for this character:

Some fans don't like that Damian is a fan of Dinah Lance as a singer, but I personally like it lol. I don't like how silly he was made to be about it though, like singing one of the songs out loud in public for example, because he would never actually do that all lmaooo, he would keep that to ONLY himself lol. Also, I'm hearing now that it was actually a crush he was having on her, which I hate. Like, yes, he's an adult in that specific comic, but I'm tired of DC making him fall for almost every female and older woman that he interacts with, like just let him be normal about them already!!! I just like him being a fan of her music and that's it

5. One thing I wish would happen/had happen with this character in canon:

Not just one thing, cause I'mma list them all here

Start getting the respect he deserves after so much😤, cause like he literally changed himself and went through so much development for years now, but it's still not enough for DC writers or even some fans!! Like, just what do you want from him anymore????? He's been trying so much for too long now!!

For writers to stop treating him like he's nothing but evil, because he's not!! He's just a kid who grew up with a kind of life that's VERY different from everyone else's and was just taught ever since from a really young age to see things in other ways because of that. He does have a heart, it's the reason why he's made so much effort to become the person and hero he is today now and has left the whole League life behind. And about him being a tough person, that's just literally his dang personality, it's not something that adds to him being "evil" at all either

For DC to also just let him choose and make his own path as a hero when he grows up. He shouldn't become the next Batman by force or go through with becoming head of the Loa either, one of the big parts about his character is about discovering who HE actually is and figuring out what he really wants for himself instead, so he deserves to make his own choices by his own will. He should also become a vetinarian when it comes to getting a career

Stop with the white washing and start consistently representing his Arab side more, just like how the artist Gleb Melnikov did very boldly and also wonderfully in Robin 2021 when drawing him

And another one for the writers is to also stop making him crush on older woman!!!! PLEASE!! Just cut it out already!!! This entire thing has been going on ever since he was just 10 years old and nothing about it has ever been "cute!" or whatever they think of it as! It's just freaking weird and I don't understand why DC writers keep doing that to him! He's just a kid, not a grown man, so treat him like it!!! And stop deaging woman who were also already much older just to be with him and stop setting him up with his own female family members too! That one's already happened twice now (Mar'i and Cassandra) and now I'm scared that the writers of the second Supersons movie are gonna push that into there too with Cassandra AGAIN and ruin the film that way, which I really HOPE that doesn't happen AT ALL!😖

Let him have an actual relationship with his Mother instead of keeping them distant so much! Damian deserves to have her in his life too, not just Bruce as his Father, and she also deserves to have him in hers as well. Despite how things may be, they really love eachother a lot and it's not fair that they don't get to be as close as they were before, which is also really heartbreaking to think about honestly

Damian should also get to have a relationship with Respawn too that can develop into a sibling one at some point if ever he ever does appear again in the future

Never let him act like a normal person, let him forever be his weird, strange self, because that's literally one of the biggest things that MAKES HIM DAMIAN and I love him for it lol. Batman and Robin 2023 tried to change this about him in it's protayal and I hated it, it felt like some imposter, which just frustrated me a lot and made some things boring too. This goes for other kinds of mischaracterizations that were done to him too, like Gotham War as the most recent example, which was a big time failure at doing it well in a different way. Writers need to learn how to get to know him better first before actually writing him in their stories, deciding how he will react and treat things that happen in said story and it's plot. Here's something else much better too, he needs to start getting writers who actually like/love, respect, and actually understand him!

I think that's all for now loll but Thank you for the ask, @venetiangoldroz !! Sorry about the little delay btw, but I enjoyed answering this!!!

#damian wayne #spider-jaysart asks

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ms-kio · 7 months ago

Text

Demon(slayer?)hood

Izuku Midoriya, Eri X Demon Slayer! 2296 Words

“Remember, boy. If you see me, run. I’m only about four hundred years old then. I will not recognize you.” The six-eyed demon commanded his pupil, the only sign of his aging being the silver white hair streaking his ponytail.

Izuku bowed, “Hai Sensei!” He said, the necklace gifted to him bouncing off his chest as he righted himself.

“And hide that necklace.” Kokushibo reminded Izuku. “Having one of my eyes on you is an immediate trial in the Demon Slayer Corps, and potential execution.” The boy nodded, tucking the jewelry under his shirt.

“I’ll only use it as a last resort.” Next to Izuku was a little girl, Eri. Since Overhaul had been imprisoned and not killed, she had no faith in her safety anywhere in this world. She was eager to step through the rip in reality behind her, to leave forever.

Kokushibo stood up, walking around his desk and embracing the two silently. He didn’t ask if they wanted to turn back, or change their minds. All he did was shove them through the portal, turning to face a mask, and a pair of golden eyes.

~ ~ ~

Izuku immediately turned, frantically looking for Eri. Where was she? He drew his Scorpion Stinger, wandering into the forest at the sound of rustling leaves. “You! Bow to the power of the Great Inosuke!” Now, Izuku knew someone named Katsuki Bakugou, and immediately recognized the attitude.

“Fight me!” The greenette shouted back. “Whoever wins has to help the other with one request!”

The boy paused for a minute, as if not believing what he was hearing. “Finally! Someone wants to fight me! Bring it on!” Inosuke howled, charging Izuku. The youngest of the Midoriya Family expertly sheathed his sword, entering a grappling match with his new friend.

Eventually, Midoriya decided to end their match, taking a deep breath in. ‘Broccoli Breathing, Friendship Bat!’ Izuku landed a roundhouse kick on Inosukes skull, causing the boy to collapse, his boar mask falling off and revealing one of the prettiest faces he had ever seen. But not as pretty as Eri’s, of course. Izuku picked Inosuke up, along with his mask, carrying him down the path towards the Final Selection, which Kokushibo told him he needed to attend if he wanted assistance from the demon slayers in any significant way.

Izuku had planned on just living a quiet life with Eri as his pseudo sister, but now with her missing -most likely separating in the portal- he needed all the help he could get.

: : :

About an hour later, Izuku had taken a break from carrying Inosuke, stopping by a river to bathe himself. The water was cold at first, but felt nice against his scars. Scars he had earned in only his first year of hero training.

The boy had given up heroism after the year was over. It had become too much for him, and he wanted to preserve himself for the people who he loved; Every inch of unscarred flesh, and every bone left unshattered in his body. He’d given OFA to Aizawa-sensei to give to students of his choosing, teaching the man how to separate the quirks and transfer them individually with Quirk Pass and how to use them over the summer. However, Aizawa had decided to have Izuku keep Danger Sense and Black Whip, being one of the few who knew of Izuku's plans to enter a world of demons, with a little girl to protect.

They had delivered the news in a last minute fashion to his classmates (aside from Bakugou), only telling them that he would be leaving, and not coming back. Izuku had cried when he told them, but he didn’t regret it. He couldn’t bear to look at the world he lived in any longer, cloaking disdain for it every minute of every day he was allowed to let his thoughts stew.

And what better place to go than Kokushibos own world? A place he might be able to find something familiar without wishing it wasn’t there.

Izuku was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he hadn't noticed Inosuke join him in the river until now, quiet and with his back turned as he washed himself. His mask and clothes were on the riverbank with Izuku's belongings, however, they weren't folded like the greenette’s was.

The duo continued to respectfully ignore each other until the hour was up, when they both left the river to dry and get dressed.

“Inosuke-san.” Midoriya spoke up after a minute, drawing the boy's attention. “Are you alright?” Inosuke paused for a minute, before sparkling and answering.

“Yup!” The bluette replied. “I was being quiet because creatures usually don’t like to talk while they are vulnerable, or their scars are present.”

Izuku smiled, then grinned. “Thank you Inosuke. By the way, what is your full name?” He asked.

“Hashibira! Hashibira Inosuke! What is your name, person-I-owe-a-favor-to?” Hashibira asked in turn, still sparkling.

“Midoriya Izuku.” The boys sparkling intensified, causing Izuku to shield his eyes. “Tone it down, will you?” The sparkling went down, and Izuku was able to see again. “My little sister went missing. She has pale blue hair and red eyes. Would you look for her when we part ways?”

“Fine! I will find your sister! You can count on it!”

~ ~ ~

Eri opened her eyes, looking around. Where was she? Where was Izuku?!

Suddenly, the horned girl heard the strike of a biwa, and her surroundings changed. She was on a tatami mat floor, in a room that had walkways and stairs on the ceiling and walls, appealing to have infinite surfaces in every direction. "W-where am I?" She asked quietly, too confused to be scared. "You are in the Infinity fortress, young one." A femenine voice replied. Up on a raised platform, a woman holding a biwa looked down at Eri. "Tell me girl. Are you human? Can you walk in the sunlight?" Eri nodded, hesitantly looking around. The woman struck her biwa again, teleporting next to Eri, causing her to jump a little. "Sit, girl. What is your name?" Eri sat down obediently next to the woman,"My name is Eri Aizawa."

~ ~ ~

Nakime glanced at the girl, noticing the exhaustion on her face. "Come, girl." She said, putting her biwa down. "You look tired, you can lie on my lap." The pale blue haired girl cast her a thankful look, accepting Nakimes offer and almost immediately falling soundly asleep, in what looked like the first time in days.

Not an hour later though, Nakime sensed the Upper Moons. They were granted permission by Muzan to enter whenever they pleased, much to her irritation, so Muzan allowed her to kick them out after 24 hours if they were too bothersome. Kokushibo and Akaza were never a problem, Daki and Gyutaro mostly minded their own business, but the other three could get annoying as hell. It was even worse when Doma and Akaza were in the same area, she always had to clean up their messes. Though, she really couldn't blame the ladder.

Kokushibo was the first to reach Nakime and the sleeping girl, much to her thankfulness, who seemed to catch on to the situation and went to quiet the loud ones. Namely Doma, but the others too. Roughly 15 minutes later, the others arrived.

They were all quiet, much to Nakimes temporary relief, until Doma opened his mouth. "Aw! How cute!" He said quietly, to everyone's surprise. But, he wasn't quiet enough. The girl jumped, clutching onto Nakimes kimono in fear, snapping awake instantly. The biwa demon glared at the blonde, placing a hand on the girl's shaking form.

"Doma, you fool." Akaza hissed. "Kokushibo said to be quiet." The demon promptly decapitated Doma with his hand, veins bulging.

"I was just trying to be nice!" Doma protested.

Nakimes anger had been steadily rising, but immediately simmered down when the girl stopped shaking, standing up and timidly approaching the decapitated head. The gore didn't seem to bother her as blood dripped onto her feet, proceeding to hold the head up to Domas' still standing body. "H-here you go sir." She said quietly, the demon taking his head and putting it back on his head.

"Why thank you little girl!" He said. No longer trying to be quiet, but not loud either. The girl quickly zipped behind Kokushibo, clutching his hakama pant leg as she eyed the other demons cautiously.

~ ~ ~

Kokushibo looked down at the little girl, giving her a questioning look as she returned his gaze. It was silent for a moment as they had a small staring contest, until she wrapped her arms around his legs. "You look like you need a hug." She said, as she closed her eyes and pressed her face into the side of his thigh. The demon's stoic demeanor broke as a small smile graced his face, placing a hand on the girl's head. A calm, peaceful sensation washed over Kokushibo as he ruffled the girl's hair, his eyes falling closed in a happy manner, his smile widening ever so slightly. But, the moment was ruined when the duo heard the metallic clang of one of Domas' fans clattering to the ground.

Kokushibo almost felt bad for his second.

~ ~ ~

As Akaza turned around to face Kokushibo, he saw something he never thought he would ever see in his life. 'Kokushibo is smiling. Upper Moon One is fucking smiling.' Using his compass, Akaza sensed Doma was about to turn around and say something stupid, so he quickly slapped a hand over his superiors mouth, motioning to Kokushibo.

'And Doma stayed quiet. Doma is being quiet- WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON!?'

~ ~ ~

Muzan Kibutsuji was quite confused when he felt large amounts of panic, shock, and confusion from Akaza. But oddly, Upper Moon Three wasn't dying. This caused Muzans confusion to rise. He looked into Akazas head to hear: 'Kokushibo was smiling. Upper Moon One is fucking smiling.' Akaza then quickly slapped a hand over Domas mouth.

'And Doma stayed quiet. Doma is being quiet- WHAT THE FUCK IS-' And thats where Muzan left Akazas mind.

He then decided to visit Kokushibos head and felt a peaceful serenity in the demon. His eyes were closed, but he could feel a small child hugging the demon's body. From Upper Ones memories, he saw the face of a red eyed girl, with a small, barely noticeable stub of a horn. In the background, the demon king could hear Daki fawning over the girl in her head. Muzan then shifted to Doma, who was stunned to silence, almost feeling bad when the blonde dropped his fan.

~ ~ ~

Eri jumped when she heard a metallic clang, looking over to the blonde man, who seemed relatively shocked. Eri hesitantly let go of the six-eyed man's hakama, walking over and picking up his fan. "S-sir?" She stuttered out, drawing his attention. "You dropped this." The girl held up his fan, seemingly snapping him back to reality.

"Oh, thank you! I was just surprised, it's not often you see Kokushibo-dono smile." The blonde smiled, who Eri remembered his name was Doma, from when Mr. Kokushibo was telling them about his world.

She gave a small nod and hurried over to said pink-haired man, hugging his legs in a similar manner. "You also look like you need a hug." Eri said. This one was Akaza. Kokushibo had described him as one of the better ones, he wouldn't hurt her. She didn't notice Akaza giving Kokushibo a panicked look, asking for advice. The demon only nodded towards the girl's head with his own, prompting the nervous demon to pat Eri on her pale blue locks. Eri didn't notice any of this, only leaning into the demon's touch, happy for the comforting gesture.

Eri then passed out, stressed by the recent development, and light headed from the last blood draw.

~ ~ ~

Akaza panicked again, quickly catching the girl's limp body as she fell. Did he do something wrong?! He glanced around to see the other Upper Moons snickering, even Kokushibo had an amused glint in his eye. Akaza then glanced at Nakime, begging her for answers. She only smiled and gestured to her lap, Akaza quickly placing the girl with her.

"Akasa, you dolt." Daki snickered. "The kid's just tired and stressed. Don't worry your pink-haired head." Akaza sighed in relief, almost wilting. But he, and all the other Upper Moons, went ramrod straight when they sensed Muzan in the room, bowing immediately. Aside from Nakime, who simply straightened in attention.

"Originally, I was going to make her my heir, and train her to be the next Demon Queen." He stated. "However, it seems being with you six would be better for her. Teach the girl the ways of the Upper Moons, only then I will make her the new ruler of demons." Muzan then warped away, presumably returning to his office. All of the demons were shocked at this new development, Muzan was not one to give up even an ounce of his power.

"Well well well!" Doma was the first to speak up. "That is quite interesting! What should we teach her?" He asked.

"I'll teach her hand-to-hand." Akaza offered.

"Swordsmanship." Kokushibo continued.

"I'll teach her how to appear human for when she becomes a demon!" Doma said.

"I'll help with that." Daki also said. "And Gyutaro says he'll teach her about poisons. Hantengu, you and Doma can teach her psychology. And Gyokko, you and Nakime can teach her about music and craftsmanship." The lewd demon ordered, not afraid of her superiors. During this, Nakime had put the girl to bed, much to Akazas relief. He swore, if anything were to happen to her, Akaza would kill everyone in the room and then himself.

~ ~ ~

Muzan choked. What now?!

#demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #izuku midoriya #eri bnha #eri mha #crossover #fanfic #mentor kokushibo #post manga ending #demon slayer x my hero academia #kimetsu no yaiba x boku no hero akademia #kny x bnha/mha

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theuntoldoriginsoftheportmafia · 6 months ago

Text

The Untold Origins of The Port Mafia

“War has a way of blackening all it touches, doesn’t it?” - Fukuzawa Yukichi

“True, but it is from the deepest of darkness that the brightest lights come” - Mori Ougai

Great roaring fires that blaze, bright and strong, choosing either to gently guide others into the light, a place of healing, or ignite a path through the dark and lead those same broken souls to victory, whatever sacrifice it may require.

-------------------------------------------------------------

This is a long fic. It is a semi-role swap AU that restarts canon by going back 15 years before the start of the main series and asking what would happen if Fukuzawa had joined Fukuchi when he was deployed to Tokoyami Island to fight in The Great War. Who would he have met? What would have become of him? And of Fukuchi?

Will a dark beginning lead to an even darker end?

Along the way Fukuzawa will meet a doctor, an angel, an author, a genius and many, many others. Read to follow their journeys as they twist and turn but eventually end up right where they're supposed to be.

-------------------------------------------------------------

TABLE OF CONTENTS

(all chapters are linked, just click on the one you want to go to. The ones without lines under them have no been posted yet.)

Part One - The War

Chapter 1.1 ❀ The Two Fukus ❀

Chapter 2.1 ⚔ The Battlefield ⚔

Chapter 3.1 正 The 356th Infantry Division 正

Chapter 4.1 ⚐ The End of The Great War ⚐

Part Two - The Doctor, The Butterfly & The Wolf

Chapter 1.2 ✾ The Sadness of Those With Wings ✾

Chapter 2.2 A Doctor and His Daughters Begin a New Life

Chapter 3.2 ♂ The Other Brother ♂

Chapter 4.2 🜛The Silver Wolf 🜛

Chapter 5.2 Mori Ougai and His Bodyguard

Part three - The Takeover

Chapter 1.3 ☜ The Child Detective ☞

Chapter 2.3 〜 The Boy In A Human Body 〜

Chapter 3.3 ☠ The Death of A Mafia Boss ☠

Part Four - The Port Mafia

Chapter 1.4 The World's Greatest Detective Does Consulting

Chapter 2.4 ⏲ Miles To Go ⏲

Chapter 3.4 ⚠ When Life Gives You Lemons . . . ⚠

Chapter 4.4 ✗ Who the hell is Edgar? ✗

Chapter 5.4 ⛼ The New and the Old ⛼

Chapter 6.4 The Many ＞The Few (Or the One)

Part Five - Escape

Chapter 1.5 ☽ The Hitman’s Dream ☾

Chapter 2.5 ♘ A Detective Must Be Armed ♘

Chapter 3.5 ䷸ Bandages & Coattails Flutter in the Wind ䷸

Part Six - The Armed Detectives Agency

Chapter 1.6 🜚🜛🜠🜜 Tachihara Shunzen’s Entrance Exam 🜜🜠🜛🜚

Chapter 2.6 ✎ The Matchless Maths Teacher ✐

Chapter 3.6 ✐ Kunikida Doppo’s Entrance Exam ✎

Chapter 4.6 🜡 Tachihara Michizou’s Entrance Exam 🜡

Part Seven - The Story Begins

Chapter 1.7 ⏴ The Black Lizard Attack Squadron ⏵

Chapter 2.7 ⛰ Disaster in Ihatovo . . . Almost ⛰

Chapter 3.7 ⚞ The Tale of The Man-Eating Tiger ⚟

Chapter 4.7 ❅ To Rescue A Demon ❅

Chapter 5.7 A Weretiger Worth (many times) His Weight In Yen

Chapter 6.7 The Book ✑

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Originally posted on my other blog @knockyasocksoff2022 where my other fics and BSD content are. I just felt like it deserved its own blog because it got so long and I want more people to see it because I'm really proud of it. Sorry if the summary was cringy af. I was trying to make it sound like a real book summary, and not give spoilers.

This fic is my baby, I've been working on it since January 2024. I wasn't even going to post this until it was done, but I'm lacking motivation and I want to know if people even like this so screw it!

There are 20 / 30 chapters finished right now, so if you'd like it finished pls, pls, pls leave comments and likes. I need motivation to continue.

Update schedule is whenever my brain gives me sudden bursts of inspiration, but comments always help me remember to keep going so those are very welcome.

PFP from: https://nmousesedits.tumblr.com/post/187968275018/x-free-to-use-source

Background from the flashback scene in the anime where Fukuchi is asking Fukuzawa to join the military with him but I got the screenshot itself from: https://iwritenarrativesandstuff.tumblr.com/post/728235003081834496/bird-symbolism-in-the-fukufuku-breakup-scene

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anamazingangie · 3 months ago

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a princess and a painter | Daemon x Rhaenyra

☆ Rated E ☆ 7.5k words ☆ Complete! ☆ by AmazingAngie ☆

tags: Royalty!AU, smoking, loss of virginity, cousin incest, period typical attitudes

She wondered what it was like to be an artist. She wouldn't find out, no, if anything she was doomed to be some sort of object in a gallery. Carved from marble. Chunks of what she could have been and would have wanted, chipped away until all that remained was pale and smooth and inoffensive. Until she was exactly what her parents wanted her to be. Because that was her purpose in life, wasn’t it? That was what they had always told her. Her appearance—her actions, her existence, was a reflection of their parenting. Of their family. Of their country.

Vaguely inspired by 'The Crown' in which Rhaenyra is a well behaved princess and Daemon is her cousin who pushes every boundary given to him and inspires her to do the same.

Read on Ao3! (or below the cut)

England, 1938

Rhaenyra hadn’t had many boys in her rooms, though she supposed this boy was more of a man. Daemon Targaryen was twenty-four to her sixteen, and he looked it. He was tall, and though not the most muscular of men, he walked and moved with a lithe confidence that spoke to his strength.

She imagined he could be an intimidating man if he wanted to be. But in her presence, he had chosen to be charming and he succeeded in that quite fantastically. They had met the previous morning—nods of recognition that were suitable to pass between a princess and a man—her cousin, she thought? Or her uncle once removed? Her grandfather's, brother's, youngest son, if she recalled correctly. Farther from the throne than she was, but still with a strong current of royal blood in his veins.

It was funny, how obvious that was. She didn’t need the nose of a hound to know his last name was Targaryen, no one would, not with his eyes and hair and smirk. But he was a bit of a pariah, the third son, and not one willing to fall in line behind the others.

She didn’t know much about her cousins, at least not more than whispers her mother discouraged around the dining table but embellished when taking tea with friends. But she knew of Daemon—his photos were often in the papers, or rather, photos of him.

Not him making speeches, or cutting ribbons. No, they were of him at bars, drunken in the streets and disheveled. She had to hide her grin when they met that morning, when she got to see him in the flesh—his hair slicked back save for a stubborn strand that fell across his brow. He looked every bit a prince then, as he did now, so many hours later. The newspaper didn’t do him justice, smudges of dark ink creating shadows where there were none, and hiding the best and brightest of his features.

Daemon hadn’t gone into service—even with talks of war brewing. He hadn’t turned to the faith. He hadn’t even attended university to learn the laws and become a solicitor. He had gone to France, to art school. Her father had scoffed at the notion, of a son, of a man in line for the throne—albeit not near the front, choosing such a ridiculous path for life.

But Rhaenyra had admired it then, when she heard. Thinking it must be nice to live a life creating things others liked to look at. She admired it now too, perhaps even more given that Rhaenyra spent her days feeling like she was one of those things that had been created for others to look at.

A bit like a sculpture, maybe? Carved from marble. Chunks of what she could have been and would have wanted, chipped away until all that remained was pale and smooth and inoffensive. Until she was exactly what her parents wanted her to be.

Because that was her purpose in life, wasn’t it?

That was what they had always told her.

Her appearance—her actions, her existence, was a reflection of their parenting.

Of their family.

Of their country.

Daemon didn’t seem impressed by the space she called her own, despite the large size of elaborate quarters carved out for her in the palace. His seemed to carefully scrutinize the walls—the furniture, and even the floor. He wasn’t looking in awe at the grandeur, and his eyes didn’t widen in envy at the luxury she spent her time in.

No, instead his first words were about what it lacked.

“There are no mirrors?” Daemon said, looking around her bedroom curiously. It was an odd thing to notice, she thought—made stranger still by its relevance to the thoughts that had seemed to swim in her head throughout the day.

Perhaps it was coincidental, but no one had ever noticed the absence of them in her rooms. For her walls were hardly lacking decoration—papered with something thick and expensive, with foiled vines stretching across it like they were trying to reach the sun. It was a droll tragedy, how they were doomed to end at the ceiling, never reaching the sky. Sadder still were roses entwined with them, all mere buds that would never bloom.

She hadn’t chosen the paper. She had even tried to rid the room of it, once, finding a seam and picking at it with a hair pin until a maid found her and scolded her. Sometimes she looked at those marks—scratches in the thick paper that couldn’t be repaired that remained a reminder she had tried to change her circumstances once.

A constant comfort, perhaps.

She had chosen the paintings on her walls, at least. The expanse of them big enough to hold several of her favorites—pieces deemed to garish for the gallery, but not inappropriate for a girl of her age. She liked some of the darker ones—the heavy oils that displayed realistic scenes of murder or adultery. Works from the Renaissance or when her ancestors walked these halls, then gruesome acts and religious imagery were some of the few subjects artists felt drawn to.

But she liked pretty things, too. Viserys had once called her taste childish, scoffing at the bright colors and abstract styles that impressionists used. Rhaenyra thought it interesting, how so much could be said with so little detail. How much richer it was to look at, when such things were left up to imagination.

It took talent, the modern paintings equivalent in her mind to a poem that shared as much as a published volume of history. More words didn’t make something better. Didn’t make something true. Perhaps that was why she hated her reflection, for it was more detailed than any picture or portrait, but it didn’t seem to portray who she was at all.

Maybe it was part of what drew her to Daemon, curiosity not stemming from his unruliness but rather his shared interest in the world. Or maybe it was envy, either for his talent or his passion and ability to commit years of his life to its study. She would have no such luxury, at least not within the walls of a classroom.

She had her tutors, but her concerns once her education finished would be with the country, the people, not silly pictures, as her mother called them. Everything Rhaenyra liked was silly, her interests brushed aside while her mother insisted upon the importance of charity work and appearances. As if they weren’t one in the same, money directed towards causes that would make them look better, prop up their position even higher while doing alarmingly little for the lower class.

Not that she cared about that, either. She was just tired. Tired of true intentions being hidden behind bobbed hair and bright smiles. Speeches about how they were doing their best that people would accept simply because her father was nicely dressed and descended from the Kings and Queens that lined the halls of England's finest gallery.

It was exhausting, the inability to be yourself, even in your own rooms. Though this was the closest she could come, and so she shouldn’t have felt the need to justify her decor choices to him, a near stranger despite their shared blood.

But they were her choices and for once, she was curious what someone would think of them. What he would think of them. He had a quick wit that kept up with her own. He was handsome, and he knew it, but he didn’t hold that like a weapon against her throat—didn’t use it as an excuse to make cutting remakes. At least not towards her. She didn’t think he would tease her, if she told the truth—and so, she did.

“I don’t like my reflection,” She admitted. The words sounded silly between them, and she suddenly cursed herself for not making up another reason.

Her distaste for such a thing had stemmed from her childhood, the warnings of how she was a reflection of her family turning literal in her younger selves mind. She feared she would see them looming behind her in the pane of glass, like a shadow of ancestors warning her of the potential for disappointment.

She grew out of the childish fear, but not the dislike for such objects. She didn’t like looking at herself—being forced to see what others did. See what others believed. The good girl who always had fresh stockings and polished shoes, skirts the perfect length—necklines appropriately modest. Compliments towards her were endless, and well earned by the effort she put in. She knew she was comely, not needing a mirror to prove she was pretty.

Not just pretty, but perfect.

She didn’t feel perfect. She didn’t want to be perfect. And she didn’t want to see evidence of the illusion her appearance gave. Didn't want to become convinced by her own tricks, for fear she might lose sight of her own self.

“You surprise me.” He admitted, though the words sounded fond. “I thought a princess would want to do little but stare at her beauty.”

She tilted her head up, trying to stand taller—as if that would disguise the feeling that curled in her gut, the one that made her feel uncertain and small from her inexperience . She’d been called beautiful before—many times in fact, far more directly than his comment, which was really more of an implication than a statement.

But it felt different between the four walls of her room. Different when they were alone. Different when it was Daemon, and he was looking at her like that.

She laughed, hoping it sounded natural despite the tightening of her throat— “Hardly so.” And then she smiled, though it wasn’t as genuine as she’d like, either, “Are all princesses not beautiful? What need does a rose have to remind itself of its petals?” It was his turn to laugh, a sound quite a bit deeper than hers—and one that made her feel something deep inside her own gut

“Are you a rose then?” He asked, and she shrugged. “Perhaps.”

He took a step closer, “A proper english rose?”

She took a step back, and it wasn’t lost on her that he was herding—for that’s what it felt like, her closer towards the bed. This was supposed to be her territory, but somehow he was the collie and this was his field.

“I don’t know.” She admitted, feeling quite like a dim sheep.

Daemon paused—seeming surprised that she had discontinued their banter. But he wasn’t discouraged, going so far as to reach his arms out and pull her towards him. She followed his lead, as he folded her into an embrace.

Rhaenyra hadn’t hugged many men—perhaps a dozen? And none so recently as a girl—near women, of sixteen. She hadn’t realized how much she missed it. How good it felt to nuzzle closer against the crisp lapels. The warm scent of smoke and spicy cologne they used to try and cover it was so distinctly man . It distracted her into relaxing, though she had enough awareness to notice the comically loud sniffing noise.

She pulled back, affronted—looking up at his grinning face. “You smell like a rose.” He said, and she laughed, tipping easily back into his arms and making a point to noisily sniff his collar—she had to go on her tiptoes to do so, and her lips brushed his jaw in the process.

She didn’t think it was intentional on her part. But maybe it was. She certainly didn’t protest at his response, which consisted of catching her face in his palm. Tipping her chin up until her gaze was forced to meet his own. His hand stroked down her jaw, thumb pressing at the hollow of her throat before cupping her neck.It was odd, the weight of a hand there, though not unpleasant.

It fell to her waist, pulling her closer to him still before he tipped his own jaw and brought their lips together. Rhaenyra had kissed a few boys, and a few men, but none like this. This was the type of kiss children weren’t allowed to see—it wasn’t a promise of affection, it was a promise of more, of lust.

She’d heard whispers of naughty stories, even thought she’d come close to being kissed in such a manner herself! But this was different. It was intoxicating, the way his tongue pressed against hers—exploring her mouth and claiming the territory as its own before his teeth followed, scraping against her bottom lip and inspiring her to follow his lead.

They ended up on her bed, somehow. He must have had more awareness than her, because she felt them moving—felt his hands running down her back and gripping her hips as she attempted to straddle him. She swore at the style of her dress, too narrow for what she wanted. The rayon made noises of protests as it tore from the strain, but the stiff lining beneath trapped her legs all the same.

It wasn’t elegant how she huffed, jumping off Daemon before fussing with hooks to try and remove it. Daemon laughed, but it wasn’t a cruel sound—simply one of amusement over her antics. He pulled her closer to him, attempting to undo the hooks at her side while he remained seated on her bed. He wasn’t doing a very good job, she noted. He seemed distracted by looking at her. His eyes unapologetically meeting her own, as if looking for an answer to something.

Finally she grew frustrated, “What?”

He shook his head, returning to the task at her waistline while he spoke, “I just, can’t imagine why you wouldn’t like looking at yourself.”

Her breath caught. “It’s not that.” She said, wetting her lips—her mouth that had seemed wet to the point of embarrassing when they were kissing now felt dry. “I just don’t think it’s very accurate.” she paused, “Or maybe it’s too accurate.” she pondered, wondering if that was the truth of it.

“Have you had your portrait painted?” He asked, successfully freeing her from the taffeta skirts. She awkwardly slipped out of it, hating the inconvenience of side closures. She was sure she looked a mess now—hair rumpled and in nothing but a slip, but it was hard to be embarrassed with the way Daemon looked at her.

“No,” she said slowly. “Not since the invention of cameras.” she teased.

“A painting wouldn’t show you what you look like. It would show you what I see when I look at you.” He said, sounding awfully serious despite her state of undress.

“Are they not the same?” She asked, fingering the undone lengths of his tie.

He smiled, leaning back against the bed. “Let me show you,”

“Now?” She teased.

He shook his head, “No, now I’ll show you something else.”

It was her turn to grin.

She hadn’t planned this. Inviting him to her room. She thought he was handsome, true. Interesting, perhaps. But she hadn’t expected this fascination —the way her eyes followed his every move. She understood now, the way maidens would wait on their suitors every breath. It would have been pathetic, maybe it was, but he was too charming to make her feel anything other than warm.

And then after dinner, he had cornered her.

“I wish we had more time to talk privately, princess.”

“Talk?” She had queried, a bit skeptical.

“In your rooms, maybe.” He had hinted, reaching to wipe something from her shoulder—a piece of imaginary lint, to be sure, her attendant would never allow her to leave her room with such a thing on her person.

“My mother would say you are seeking an invitation for something less savory than talking ” She said, blushing a little at the implication. If she was wrong, if he truly craved mere conversation, he’d think her probing foolish.

“And if I am?” He asked, not looking the least bit bothered by her search for the true meaning of his words.

“I suppose…I would say to follow me.”

She hadn’t spoken to him of her inexperience. She assumed he knew of it—she was a princess, with few opportunities, and few interactions with men willing to risk their place by propositioning her. Not to mention the scandal it would cause if news broke that she…before marriage...

It felt too late to mention it, when she had already agreed to have him in her rooms. She knew what the implications of that were, she wasn’t dim.

When a man asked to go to your room, it was because it had a bed, and beds were for….

She knew the basics of what they were for at least. She just didn’t know about… this. She thought it would be awkward. A bit of fumbling before two nude forms met each other. She didn’t expect the teasing—the tongue tracing her shoulder blades while teeth plucked silk straps from them.

There was so much kissing—endlessly their mouths met, drinking each other's moans and laughs and cries as their hips ground together in a way that inspired their lungs sing in pleasure.

Rhaenyra didn’t have much insecurity about what lay beneath her slip, constant dress fittings and physicals long sense undoing her sense of modesty. She had un-stylishly full breasts that felt heavy but sat high on her chest, even when the hooks of her bra were undone. Her waist was small, but curved into hips that she swore made their own sigh of relief as she peeled her girdle off. Curves weren’t in fashion, much to her chagrin. The suit of nylon an attempt to hold in what her body begged to truly be. Because of this she was unsurprised by the fact the metal suspenders had dug in, leaving angry marks behind as she tossed aside her hose.

When she turned back to Daemon—feeling relief over the removal of the offending garments rather than embarrassment over her bare body, she delighted in his expression. It was a bit awed, a bit dumbstruck. He looked younger—lighter, and it was so sweet she had to stifle a giggle.

He made no move to well… move, and she huffed, her patience wearing thin even if he was looking at her so nicely. “It’s your turn.” She said firmly, and he nodded—his tie had been loosened by her wandering hands, so it came free easily. She was sure a few links for the buttons would be found in the plush carpets of her room, so that garment was swiftly set aside too. It was hard to care about her potential carnage, when she was so eager in wanting more of him to be exposed to her.

And when he was… dear lord.

Rhaenyra thought she knew what the male form looked like. She treasured her books on greek sculpture after all! She’d been to galleries across Europe. Her fingers had traced the marble lines of Michelangelo's most famous works. And so she didn’t think a nude man would be a stranger to her, and it wasn’t strange! It was…gorgeous.

She realized she probably had a similar expression that he’d had a moment prior—something dumb as she took in what was his naked body. As she came to terms with what she wanted to do to his naked body. Desires she certainly hadn’t felt when looking at the marble forms in a gallery. She swallowed, before gesturing for him to come closer. It tickled her, how he obeyed, how he brought his lips to hers in a gentle kiss.

He was softer than a statue, made from flesh and bone and sculpted by a pantheon of gods rather than the palms of a mere mortal. Perhaps that was why he was even more lovely than any creation she’d seen in a museum. But she couldn’t reflect on this for long, not when his fingers were roaming and tongue lapping at the swell of her breast.

He was lazy in the exploration of her body, unhurried in a way that both tormented and thrilled her. Though he seemed to move too slowly, time was passing so quickly, pleasure seeming to turn to steam and rise through the air before grasp it with her palms or come to terms with it at all. And when his mouth met her cunt—

Gods, indeed, for this was the sort of pleasure out of mythology rather than bibliography.

This must be what people lived for. What they killed for. What wars were waged for. This feeling, it was everything. She was lost in it, the tongue battling against her folds despite both being on the same side that was her pleasure. She didn’t know when her fingers found his hair, but they were twisted in the silver locks—holding on so tightly it must have hurt—but when she let go he growled. It was as if her grip had kept the beast at bay, and now it was freed from her thighs and ready to strike, its mouth meeting her own as they teeth clashed and in a sloppy kiss.

Her hands found his hair again, and their bodies found each other too—slotting together like they were made for this, it took the simple guidance from Daemon’s fingers to press his length inside of her. She thought it hurt, but she was distracted by the fact she was being devoured. By the fact his teeth were digging into her neck and his thumb twisting the peak of her breast. There were too many sensations flowing through her for the contractions in her cunt to phase her.

Not until they started feeling good.

She was quiet now, she thought—no longer moaning, her lips silenced by Daemon’s own. The noise was of him inside her the slick slapping sound of flesh repeatedly meeting each other. The sound reminded her of a baker kneading dough until it was ready to rise, and that made her want to laugh too—but she couldn’t, she didn’t have space inside her to make sounds. She was too full of him.

Perhaps he was kneading her rearranging her with his cock until she was perfect for him. And she was rising for him, too, everything seeming to tighten as she approached a new height she didn't think she was capable of. She was delirious now—comparing herself to baked goods! Whatever she was, whatever this was, it truly was good. It was better than good. It was… everything.

It was perfect. But better than that. Because it was tangible and real.

She was still holding onto his hair when he came, ducking his head in the side of her neck and pressing gentle kisses to the curve of it. She winced when he slipped out of her, the absence of pleasure making lingering pains noticeable.

He stood and slipped the rubber from his length, which she was equal parts fascinated with and disgusted by, before lazily throwing it in a waste basket that was decorated with baroque scrolls.

She had a moment of fear when he reached for his pants—it was mixed with embarrassment and attraction to his nude form, but the fear overshadowed them both for she was worried he would leave.

He didn’t, though. He fished out a lighter and a package of cigarettes before dropping the wool trousers to the floor. When he returned to her, he propped himself back against the headboard, and made no move to cover himself before lighting the coil of paper.

“Have you smoked before?” he asked, looking at her curiously. She shook her head, eyes following the trail of smoke that blew from his lips.

When he passed it to her, she took it eagerly—-following the steps she’d seen her father and his men do thousands of times before. She coughed inelegantly, inhaling too deeply and too much before cringing in embarrassment at her poor showing. When she caught her breath, she was happy to pass the offending thing back to him, shivering a little at the drag of his calloused fingers against her own.

“It takes practice.” He insisted, showing off by blowing a ring of smoke towards her ceiling.

“Does that get better with practice, too?” She asked, looking at the space between them to implyl the true meaning of her words.

“You hadn’t done that before, either.” He said, catching her gaze. She didn’t think it was a question but she shook her head all the same.

“When you come to my studio, you can find out.” He said, a little smug.

She tried not to show her enthusiasm, her pleasure that he still wanted to see her again. She had heard of men and their appetites, knew that his charm might be as much of a facade as her own. Falling from his features when he was alone and had no need for her body for his pleasure.

“You still want me to come?” She asked, trying to be brave as she stole the cigarette from his hand. She didn’t cough this time, which seemed to please them both.

“Why wouldn’t I?” He asked, his expression one of amusement, causing little wrinkles to form at the corners of his eyes. She reached out to feel them, stretching the skin that wasn’t her own with her thumbs and grinning because he let her.

“Some might say a deflowered rose has little left to offer.” She said, a bit primly, narrowing her eyes and tilting her head to see how he’d respond.

He surprised her, putting the cigarette out on the lacquered surface of her night stand—chemicals melting and mixing with the scent of smoke. It would leave a mark, she realized. One she’d have to explain, but that was for later, and for now he was pulling her back into his lap—a duvet between their loins but leaving enough skin exposed to make her blush.

“I don’t think that’s true.” He said, leaning back against the headboard and cradling her hips with his palms. “About the deflowered rose, they still have lots to offer.” He specified.

She giggled, cupping his face, “Like what, exactly?” she asked.

They were maybe an inch apart now—noses brushes, breath tangled, when he whispered, “They still have thorns.”

Daemon left that night, like she knew he would.

The smell of smoke faded.

Rhaenyra wrapped the rubber in toilet paper, stuffing it beneath every bit of garbage she could find in her room with hopes of disguising it. The sigh of relief she felt when trash was emptied with no question was astonishing.

No one asked about the mark on her side table, but it remained. A divet in the lacquer, showing a man's defiance—only a few feet away from her own act of rebellion, scratches at the seam of foiled paper.

It was the only outside sign of his presence in her rooms. Aside from the square of paper he’d withdrawn from his pocket before leaving. It had the address, for his apartment and his studio on it, written in the hand of a well bred Targaryen, not a loop out of place—too ingrained in them from a young age to be absent even in a casual missive.

The paper was worn now, from being folded and carried in her pocket. Even though she had memorized the numbers that very night she took it with her everywhere. Too afraid someone else would find it. Too afraid to throw it away. She needed it as a reminder he was real. That this was real.

His studio was small, in a good part of the city but a poorly maintained building. The windows were big, and the amount of light extraordinary—but it was drafty, curtains doing little to hide this as they blew in the breeze from the gaps in the window panes.

The floors were old planks, the finish long since having worn away, leaving them an uneven shade of brown that was barely remedied by the cedar oil she could still smell in the air. It hid the scent of damp, at least, mixing with the smoke of his cigarettes and his cologne.

She loved it, though. The mismatched pieces of furniture and the large rugs clashed horribly but did a great deal to cover the damaged floors. And there was art everywhere. Not the type in her books, or in the galleries, or not just those types.

His collection was varied—he seemed to dislike most of them when she inquired, which amused her endlessly. But he had such an appreciation for their existence and creativity. The way he talked about art, the way he respected things for being different, rather than trying to make them all the same.

It was…extraordinary.

He is extraordinary, she thought, when they reached his own works. The talents of the old masters mixed with an innovative palette, creating something modern but respectful and not at all like she had expected from him.

It was genuine, when she said she loved his work.

It was scary how genuine she thought the same words might be in regard to her feelings for him.

He drew her with charcoal first. Portraits and limbs and a dozen poses. Quick sketches that hardly looked like her but exposed so much in the ways they did.

His hands were a sooty mess after, leaving prints on her hips when he fucked her. He’d laid her over the drafting table, every thrust of his hips pressing her breasts against his drawings, smudging the lines and obscuring the subject further.

“They’re ruined,” She said, running her fingers over the dark lines that dragged across the page. Sweat and oils from her skin having distorted the beautiful forms he’d outlined on the paper. But he shook his head and sounded confident when he said, “They are exactly what I wanted.”

She wondered if she was what he wanted.

She was grateful she wore black that day, as she pulled the cotton twill over her smudged chest. Grateful for her etiquette lessons, for it kept the tears at bay when she said goodbye.

“You’ll be back.” He said, and it wasn’t a question. But she wasn’t sure it was something she could promise, either.

That night she was intentional in the way she looked at her reflection. Thinking for the first time she looked like something of her own making. Or of his.

It washed down the drain, leaving behind once more pale skin.

She was punished for missing her lessons. Questioned about where she went and what she did. The unaccounted for hours in her life seemingly unacceptable to those who were paid to care for her.

Viserys assigned her a new guard, a man of the faith turned devotee to the crown, who watched her like a hawk with clear blue eyes. Her every step was shadowed by his own, his looming presence at her door long after she went to bed. The worst of her indiscretions had not been realized, but she was being punished for them all the same.

She saw Daemon once at a dinner, weeks later, but they didn’t have a chance to mingle or speak.

He was not shy in the way he gazed at her, she would even say he was rude in how he started. But she didn’t mind it. She liked it, the feeling of being alive under his gaze, of being seen. She had forgotten how heady that feeling was, how desperate she was for more of it.

But it seemed life was determined to keep her from it. He was noticeably absent from the small birthday celebration they had for her the following month, the larger party canceled due to talks of war which would make celebration seem uncouth.

“Oh, his behavior towards you didn’t seem quite appropriate.” Her mother admitted, giving her an apologetic smile along with the explanation.

His interest in her hadn’t gone unnoticed. And her mother—or the crown, did it even matter which? Had decided it wasn’t of her interest.

Rhaenyra stared at the mark on her nightstand.

Then, one day, it was gone.

“There was a dent—some sort of damage, I do apologize for it not being noticed earlier.”

It was replaced with something eighteenth century—white with gold gilt. It was pretty. It fit the room perfectly. It was as if the previous piece was never there. A priceless antique that had been in the palace for centuries was easily replaceable to a family like hers.

She wondered if she would be replaced that easily too.

Her brother Baelon was young, but of just as good breeding. His hair was platinum and his irises purple. He would have the same tutors as her, and tailors. Even more opportunities than her thanks to his gender. What would happen if she stumbled? If she became marred like the nightstand was. She might not be thrown away—but she would be set aside, something better taking her place.

She didn’t get much sleep—her eyes were searching for something that was no longer there.

Her mind was searching for a reason to stay here.

She should have been ashamed, that when she heard the news of an invasion that could motivate England to finally act, that her first thought was of freedom. People were scared, and when scared they were sloppy.

She stole a coat, giggling despite her unease in regards to this escape. It swallowed the red burgundy velvet of her gown, hiding the stretches of skin that had been allowed for the evening and falling past her hands. It was easy to slip away while cocooned in its embrace. She kept her head ducked low while she caught a car.

The address spilled from her lips quickly, eagerly, the engine revving as it accelerated towards the outskirts of London. The driver was listening to the radio so loudly it hurt her ears, but she could barely hear it over the pounding in her chest. She was grateful for it, either way, that he didn’t try to make conversation.

The car didn’t linger, seeming to disappear as soon as her heel met the curb. Four steps lead to the door that boasted his address, something old and grand and appropriate for a member of her family to have.

Leaves decorated the stoop, saturated with water and squelching unattractively beneath the leather soles of her shoes. She realized, somewhere between paying her fare and knocking on the door before her, that this was perhaps a foolish idea—what if he wasn’t there? What if he laughed at her? What if—

The door opened.

The hall behind him was dimly lit, and she realized he must have been sleeping because a pair of half buttoned pajama pants were all that covered his form. She couldn’t help but grin at his tired state, his rumpled hair.

A giddiness at being close to him again overtook the nerves and then he was kissing her.

The next morning he made her eggs, while she watched in rapt fascination—never actually witnessing the task before. He drank coffee instead of tea, offering her some only to laugh when she nearly spat it back into the mug. “It takes some getting used to,” he said.

“I think I’d like to get used to it.” She admitted quietly, looking down at the mug of dreadful liquid. It may have been vile but she was grateful for the grounding nature of its heat in her palms, the euphemism it offered when discussing a more challenging topic.

“There would be a media storm,” Daemon mused, though he didn’t look bothered by the thought.

“We’re British, we can handle some rain, can’t we?”

“I do have experience making women wet.” He said cheekily. She gaped at the jest, reaching over the counter to hit him, but he caught her palm and pulled her to him.

“I’d like to weather a storm with you.” He said, more serious now.

“I’d like to do more than just that.” She admitted, smiling before their lips met—and she found coffee didn’t taste as bad from his tongue.

They went to his studio—the radio turned off, eating rations an older woman from upstairs insisted on dropping off. She was nearly blind, Daemon whispered to Rhaenyra before letting her in. Daemon told her that they were newlyweds and the woman grinned, saying she would be back—- muttering something about fuel before trudging up the remaining stairs.

Daemon posed her, and sketched at a canvas for what felt like hours before they broke for lunch. They ate her offerings and napped on a dusty chaise lounge. They didn’t wear much clothing, too enamored with each other's nude forms to bother.

Daemon became nearly frantic in his work—layering oils and mixing paint until the smell of turpentine permeated the air, growing even stronger as hours passed. He was too caught up in his work to take breaks for smoking, or —to her annoyance, sex, at least not until the light turned bad.

Then they would come together, in more ways than one.

When he showed it to her, she almost wanted to cry. Because it was her. Hair long, eyes alluring, lips turned up in something her mother would call a smirk. Her form was bare but for a sheet, as was her face and she had never looked more...perfect was a cursed word on her tongue. She wouldn’t use it.

But this was how she wanted to be seen.

And it was how he saw her.

And that was all that seemed to matter.

She felt very young and small as they left his studio—dressed in an ill fitting navy suit and large sunglasses that hid the most notable of her features. She’d huffed, when the store didn’t have any pants—a novel style she had never been offered the opportunity to wear in her life in the palace. Daemon promised she could have all the pants she wanted, they just had to get out of this god forsaken country first.

It was strange how no one looked at them on the busy streets, too caught up with their jobs and lives and concerns with war to be bothered by the pair of blondes slipping onto a train.

Daemon had a friend file paperwork for them, ink drying on the license declaring them wed before they even stepped off the train. They stayed at an inn, a raunchy establishment named Silk Street. Daemon loudly exclaimed his intentions towards his new bride before the evening began, and though she had been embarrassed at first, she drank too much and had too much fun dancing with him to care by the time they retired.

“They have to know I deflowered you,” he said between kisses, “Can’t let them take you away from me.” he insisted, sounding almost desperate, justifying the treatment he gave her with a few more whispers before dropping his mouth to her cunt.

She tried not to give him the satisfaction of screaming—biting her fist until the marks bruised. But soon she couldn’t resist, whimpers and shouts turning to broken cries while her hands grasped his hair.

When they left the next day, there were jeers and glares in equal measure.

The room on their ship was, thankfully, better insulated.

Rumors didn’t break of that night, or their travels. Though Rhaenyra had little doubt word of it made it to her parents—the crown. She hadn’t heard from them either, despite sending them her address months prior. It was her friend—another cousin, Laena, who told her that they placed a tiny announcement in the paper. There wasn’t even a photo, just a short message saying she had wed and moved to another country with her husband.

Baelon was announced as heir a week later.

Rhaenyra was right, she was easily replaced—at least in their eyes.

There never was a media storm like they worried, she thought, looking down at a newspaper sticking to the wet concrete while she waited for the stupid beasts they called pets to find a place suitable to pee. They were unbothered by the rain that dampened the shoulders of her coat, the scent of wet wool mixing with the rose perfume she still favored.

It hadn’t been long, since they had left. Months, though it felt like a lifetime sometimes. Reminders were still easy to come by, poking at fears that had yet to come to fruition. Her parents held the strings too tightly for her betrayal to be fully revealed. But she had worn a veil at first, when she left their apartment—not because she mourned her old life, but because she feared strangers would recognize her in this one.

She didn’t bother anymore. Between the flush that winter left on her cheeks, her loose hair, and the dark coat, she found there were few similarities to the english princess she once was. She liked wearing Daemon’s old things, hanging off her shoulders and belted tight around her tiny waist. But he kept his promise, buying her pants, though they both preferred her in skirts for… reasons.

She painted her nails red. Wore red lipstick, too, and though Daemon complained about the marks it left on his neck, he didn’t seem to mind them late at night when it left rings around his cock. That was something she had learned about, too. There was freedom in this life, a type she’d never known.

The pair of hounds pulled her towards home golden and red coats shiny even in the poor weather. They stopped twice to sniff in front of a barber shop, where a large mirror served as a backdrop for their list of services. She found herself unbothered by it, blinking mindlessly at her reflection before pulling the beasts towards home.

She was eager to be home—tossing the twill leashes, coat, and keys into a heap by the front door. Daemon would scold her for it later, but she didn’t care. He thought he was so much more dignified than her, learning menial tasks while he was at university. She’d had maids for those things, and hadn’t quite built the habits he boasted just yet.

She hadn’t tried that hard, either. But she would rather learn than get a maid—she didn’t want to give up their privacy. The luxury of being responsible for the state of their own things. She wasn’t sure they could afford one, either. .

They weren’t rich the way her parents were—how could they be, when they were people rather than an institution? But Daemon had his mothers old apartment and investments, teasing that she was his favorite, given that she willed it to him despite being the forgotten third son.

“Is that why you are so attention seeking?” She had asked, “Worried they will forget you if you aren’t in print at the breakfast table?”

“Me? Of course not. I’m unforgettable.” He had argued, and Rhaenyra found she couldn’t disagree.

He made sure she would never be forgotten, too.

Every stroke reads like a sentence, leaving the finished piece more akin to a love letter than a painting. It’s extraordinary how he captures her—his wife of twelve years, and the once princess, Rhaenyra Targaryen. It’s her nude body we admire, but it seems only a fair exchange given the way her husband bares his soul.

It’s no wonder they’ve taken the art scene by storm, and I feel lucky to have been in its path. The wreckage of emotions left behind is a gift as it renders you more time to examine the beauty of their shared work. .

#hotd #fanfic #ao3 #daemyra #daemon x rhaenyra #house of the dragon #Rhaenyra Targaryen #Daemon Targaryen #fic #a03 #daemon x Rhaenyra #HOTD #Angie writes

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