#and they were traveling together for a long while

[wintfleur]

CUTE PANTS

` . . ── 𝓹airing luke hughes x female! reader

𝒮. you unexpectedly meet your new neighbor . . . in cute? pants

You had heard the alarms before you had even seen the apartment building you have been residing in for the past few years. Your thighs subtly ached as you rushed up the stone inclined path that led to the building. 

A heavy breath of relief left your lips when you made it to the top and saw your fellow residents talking amongst themselves outside the apartment. No fire or fire fighters in sight, it was just a drill. You smiled politely at your neighbors as you passed them, walking closer towards the apartment building, the annoying alarm didn't bother you since you were used to the sound. 

Your eyes traveled across the small sea of residents, some stood together most likely gossiping or complaining about the drill while others chose to stand alone. Your eyes did a double take when you noticed a tall and unfamiliar figure standing on his lonesome near the small water fountain that was to the side of the building. 

He had his back to you as he looked up at the building, so it wasn't his face that caught your attention, no it was his pants. It was his joggers that had little Snoopy's with hockey sticks? On them. what an interesting choice of pants, you thought to yourself with a small hum. You could easily tell by his body language that he was anxious about something. Most likely the fire alarm. 

“No need to look so worried, they do this every other month” you spoke as you walked up behind him, your tone reassuring and soft, not wanting to startle him with your sudden presence. Your eyes widened at how fast he turned to look at you, despite your soft tone your presence did seem to startle him, making you feel a little bad. 

Luke flinched and turned around to face you when he heard your voice, his breath hitching once he made eye contact with you. He was not expecting someone so pretty to be standing behind him, hell even talking to him. His mind wasn't even comprehending your words, instead his eyes were taking in every detail of you that he could.  

He suddenly felt very ridiculous, standing their lips parted as he looked down at you. He was internally yelling at himself to say something, but he couldn't form the words. Your lips parted in slight shock as you locked eyes with his sparkling green eyes, your eyes trailing down his perfect nose and slightly flushed cheeks and to his broad shoulders. You started to become worried that you said something wrong when he didn't say anything back . . . just stared at you in awe. 

Your fingers nervously fidgeted with the strap of your tote bag, you clear your throat and continue to speak, your tone a lot less confident as it was before “safety measures and all that” 

Luke finally broke out of his trance, blinking a few times before giving you a shy nod “Oh right, umm that's nice to know” he internally cringed at his poor excuse of a response, but he was thankful that you didn't seem to mind his awkwardness as you gave him a smile. Luke brought his hand up to awkwardly rub at his nape, his fingers brushing against his curls. He was totally blowing it and making a fool of himself, he cursed internally. 

“Yeah, yeah um that's a relief” Luke awkwardly chuckled to himself, biting his lip nervously after he let out a few chuckles. Why was it suddenly so hot? he thought to himself. 

“Cute pants” you mused with a teasing smile as your eyes trailed down his body, stopping long at his pants before titling your head back to look up at him. Your teasing smile and tone made his heart start to race, and his hands start to fidget at his sides. 

Luke’s eyes widened in panic, and he nervously rubbed his hands on the side of his pants as he looked down at them, curing himself for even stepping out of his apartment wearing them. His cheeks flushed in embarrassment as he chuckled nervously at the expense of himself “It's my laundry day” 

Before you could respond Luke took charge of the conversation, wanting to move past his ‘embarrassing pants’. He held out his hand for you to shake as he introduced himself with a shy smile “I’m Luke, I just moved into 242 with my brother” 

His heart fluttered at the feeling of your soft hand holding onto his as you politely shook it. Luke only seemed to go redder at the feeling of your touch, you let go of his hand way too soon for his taste, introducing yourself “242, hmm you're right above me, do you have an explanation for all the shuffling noises at 6am?” 

Luke didn't seem to pick up on your teasing tone and he's quick to apologize, trying to explain that it was him and his brother getting up for early practices, but you found yourself getting lost in his eyes and lips, his words completely going over your head. You laughed and shook your head, cutting him off from his small rant of apologies, with your sweet tone “I'm just teasing you Luke, I'm already up by 6 so it doesn't bother me” 

“. . . oh” he mumbled to himself before joining you in laughter, instantly relaxing a little at your reassurance. He cleared his throat and looked around at the two of your guy's surroundings, avoiding eye contact with you as he shyly mumbled “Sorry, I'm not usually this awkward” 

You were quick to reassure him with a smile “It's alright, i'm sorry for –” 

“No no no it's not your fault . . . well it is but –” luke was internally panicking as he cut you off, the last thing he wanted was his pretty neighbor blaming herself for something that wasn't her fault, well not entirely her fault. His heart was starting to race as he just realized what he had said, you looked up at him in slight confusion with a slight tilt of your head “it is?” 

Luke let out a heavy breath before confessing softly as he stuffed his shaking hands in his pockets “You're just really pretty . . . and i'm standing here making a fool outta myself the more i talk” 

He was worried that he came on too strong by calling you pretty when you physically froze and looked up at him with wide eyes. But he let out a small breath of relief when you let out a small giggle and took a step closer to him, he picked up on the small ‘cute’ you mumbled under your breath before you were saying sweetly “Thank you luke, and don't worry i don't think you are making a fool of yourself at all” 

“That's a relief, because I would really like to get to know you better — if that's alright with you of course . . . I'm in need of a good tour guide.” Luke smiled, shocking himself and you at the confidence and flirtiness in his tone. Yes, he had his brother jack and his teammates that could show him around, but he would prefer it if it was you. 

Before you could answer, you heard the manager of the apartment building calling out that it was alright for everyone to return to their apartments. You watched as your fellow residents made their way back into the building. You look back to Luke to see that he hasn't looked away from you, his green eyes begging for an answer, specifically a yes. 

You bit your lip before reaching into your tote bag and pulling out your pen and small notebook where you always wrote down your grocery lists. Luke’s eyes followed your every movement as you flipped it open and started to jolt down a number. His eyes went back up to your face as you ripped the page out and held it out for him. 

“Call me and we can schedule that tour, specifically not at 6am” You teased with a sparkling smile, slipping your pen and notebook back into your bag once he took the small paper. Luke smiled and let out a chuckle at your teasing, carefully holding the paper in his hands. 

“I’ll make sure to wear a different pair of pants” Luke quickly joined in your teasing, looking down at his pants with a smile before looking back at you. You giggled and looked down at his pants with a small smile before locking eyes with him, your sweet smile turning into a flirty smirk as you looked at him up and down before confidently saying. 

“Hmm i don't mind what you wear, i have a feeling you would look cute in anything” 

Luke went completely still at your words, the flush on his cheeks were quick to come back at your openly flirting, he opened his mouth to try to come up with anything to say but nothing came out. You laughed and the sound sounded like heaven to his ears, you softly patted his shoulder as you walked away from him and towards the front door that led to the building lobby. 

Luke quickly turned around to face you and watched as you walked away from him, his eyes following you dutifully. Before stepping into the lobby, you turn to face him one more time, giving him a smile and shy wave before leaving his sight. He returned the smile and wave before looking down at the light pink paper in his hands. His smile turned into a grin as his mind tried to memorize the numbers, afraid that he might lose it during the quick journey back to his shared apartment. 

New Jersey was definitely a big change for him, a change he was finding it a little hard to get used to. Not seeing his friends every day, the practices . . . the random fire alarm drills in his new apartment . . . but seeing his pretty neighbor was one change he could happily get used to. 

𝓇oro’s note. oh I missed writing for lukey sm :( I should be posting g another luke thing soon 🫢 please let me know know what you thought, feedback is what keeps me going 🫶🏻 . . . rookie luke makes my heart melt 🥹

updated note!! : I will be making this a AU 😽

m.list wc : 1,670

˖ ་ taglist : @lesrflms @winterbarnesblog @toasttt11 @cixrosie

©️️WINTFLEUR

[grison-in-space]

I remember this happening. I was fourteen and living in Georgia, and I was pretty sure I was queer and equally pretty sure that no one was ever going to leave me alone about it. There's a great song about the moment by Vienna Teng, I hope someone has linked it for OP by now.

The moments I remember are a decade later: having spent a year of graduate school tied to Texas admitting to myself that I was unhappy with the idea that my relationships were going to have to stay online only until I graduated with the PhD and could leave Texas again, because hell would freeze over before Texas did shit for us. Didn't matter I was living in Austin, one of the first cities in the nation to legalize the civil union shit back in the 90s; I was always going to be a second class citizen that way. Immigration wasn't an option.

And then, while I was working in the field in Costa Rica, Windsor came down. Suddenly immigration from Canada was an option. Suddenly we could talk about it. So we did. And we started scrambling to take advantage before it got taken away, because it probably would, but we had learned from y'all that even if it got taken away later, the having was important. Once you were legally in the country, deportation would have been harder, right?

I was one of the second wave of people with transnational relationships taking advantage of immigration in the post-DOMA world. (Defense of Marriage Act, children: ol' Bill Clinton signed that into law in 1996, so that we filthy queers couldn't ever touch the protections afforded by a federally recognized marriage.) It was a hell of a ride. We had to travel to Boston to get married because T thought an American certificate would carry more weight with immigration than a Canadian one. We couldn't actually afford to live together without both of us working, so we had to decide whether it was worth trying on the strength of one delighted October week long visit, get married and then put our petition through. We stayed on my friend @queenieofaces 's floor for the week of my spring break in 2014 and she married us to save money, which was not exactly something we had a lot of at the time or since. Then we both went home to our own countries for a year while we assembled the legal packets, petitioned the federal government, and started trying to navigate the immigration system.

Almost everyone I met outside our families was excited for me, sometimes to an extent that felt ridiculous. We were getting married because it was a shot at getting to live together, but we were both acutely aware of the possibility of failure, of just how much we were sacrificing for a shot at a relationship. The kinds of decade long affairs where marriage was just the legal affirmation of the households that already existed were inspirational, but not us: we were taking a risk and leaping for one another, but it was a leap, not an embrace quite yet. We talked earnestly about pre nuptial agreements before discovering, slightly shame-faced, that those are really designed for people with assets greater than a single subcompact hatchback and a laptop. computer.

(A decade later, and we've nevder had the stability to put through T's citizenship paperwork. That's changing now, slowly.)

My apartment had burned down that summer of 2013, and my car got totaled that winter, and I had to deal with a lot of insurance paperwork. Sometimes the paperwork required additional in person signatures for spouses and I would have to ask: "ah, uh: what law requires the paperwork?" See, I spent a year and change married for the purpose of federal law, single for the purposes of state law, and married again for purposes of municipal law. No one ever writes down what law they use to generate a policy, but no one wanted to mail documents to Toronto and back for signatures, either. So no one was quite sure what I should do on the paperwork.

It was chaos. T spent the entire entrance interview trying to convince the confused man at the consulate that it was actually fine to immigrate to Texas on a Massachusetts wedding license even though Texas would not recognize the marriage. We got approved and moved and I went to put T on my insurance. Then I discovered that Texas outright banned any of its state employees (|ike me!) from extending benefits to partners unless their marriage was recognized by the state of Texas. I had about a week to start panicking about that and then Obergefell hit the ground.

We just left work and went down to the Capitol and everyone was cheering and hugging each other and crying. All the bars and the liberal churches were open. We listened to speeches and stories and went dancing. It was beautiful.

Twenty years ago, February 15th, 2004, I got married for the first time.

It was twenty years earlier than I ever expected to.

To celebrate/comemorate the date, I'm sitting down to write out everything I remember as I remember it. No checking all the pictures I took or all the times I've written about this before. I'm not going to turn to my husband (of twenty years, how the f'ing hell) to remember a detail for me.

This is not a 100% accurate recounting of that first wild weekend in San Francisco. But it -is- a 100% accurate recounting of how I remember it today, twenty years after the fact.

Join me below, if you would.

2004 was an election year, and much like conservatives are whipping up anti-trans hysteria and anti-trans bills and propositions to drive out the vote today, in 2004 it was all anti-gay stuff. Specifically, preventing the evil scourge of same-sex marriage from destroying everything good and decent in the world.

Enter Gavin Newstrom. At the time, he was the newly elected mayor of San Francisco. Despite living next door to the city all my life, I hadn’t even heard of the man until Valentines Day 2004 when he announced that gay marriage was legal in San Francisco and started marrying people at city hall.

It was a political stunt. It was very obviously a political stunt. That shit was illegal, after all. But it was a very sweet political stunt. I still remember the front page photo of two ancient women hugging each other forehead to forehead and crying happy tears.

But it was only going to last for as long as it took for the California legal system to come in and make them knock it off.

The next day, we’re on the phone with an acquaintance, and she casually mentions that she’s surprised the two of us aren’t up at San Francisco getting married with everyone else.

“Everyone else?” Goes I, “I thought they would’ve shut that down already?”

“Oh no!” goes she, “The courts aren’t open until Tuesday. Presidents Day on Monday and all. They’re doing them all weekend long!”

We didn’t know because social media wasn’t a thing yet. I only knew as much about it as I’d read on CNN, and most of the blogs I was following were more focused on what bullshit President George W Bush was up to that day.

"Well shit", me and my man go, "do you wanna?" I mean, it’s a political stunt, it wont really mean anything, but we’re not going to get another chance like this for at least 20 years. Why not?

The next day, Sunday, we get up early. We drive north to the southern-most BART station. We load onto Bay Area Rapid Transit, and rattle back and forth all the way to the San Francisco City Hall stop.

We had slightly miscalculated.

Apparently, demand for marriages was far outstripping the staff they had on hand to process them. Who knew. Everyone who’d gotten turned away Saturday had been given tickets with times to show up Sunday to get their marriages done. My babe and I, we could either wait to see if there was a space that opened up, or come back the next day, Monday.

“Isn’t City Hall closed on Monday?” I asked. “It’s a holiday”

“Oh sure,” they reply, “but people are allowed to volunteer their time to come in and work on stuff anyways. And we have a lot of people who want to volunteer their time to have the marriage licensing offices open tomorrow.”

“Oh cool,” we go, “Backup.”

“Make sure you’re here if you do,” they say, “because the California Supreme Court is back in session Tuesday, and will be reviewing the motion that got filed to shut us down.”

And all this shit is super not-legal, so they’ll totally be shutting us down goes unsaid.

00000

We don’t get in Saturday. We wind up hanging out most of the day, though.

It’s… incredible. I can say, without hyperbole, that I have never experienced so much concentrated joy and happiness and celebration of others’ joy and happiness in all my life before or since. My face literally ached from grinning. Every other minute, a new couple was coming out of City Hall, waving their paperwork to the crowd and cheering and leaping and skipping. Two glorious Latina women in full Mariachi band outfits came out, one in the arms of another. A pair of Jewish boys with their families and Rabbi. One couple managed to get a Just Married convertible arranged complete with tin-cans tied to the bumper to drive off in. More than once I was giving some rice to throw at whoever was coming out next.

At some point in the mid-afternoon, there was a sudden wave of extra cheering from the several hundred of us gathered at the steps, even though no one was coming out. There was a group going up the steps to head inside, with some generic black-haired shiny guy at the front. My not-yet-husband nudged me, “That’s Newsom.” He said, because he knew I was hopeless about matching names and people.

Ooooooh, I go. That explains it. Then I joined in the cheers. He waved and ducked inside.

So dusk is starting to fall. It’s February, so it’s only six or so, but it’s getting dark.

“Should we just try getting in line for tomorrow -now-?” we ask.

“Yeah, I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible.” One of the volunteers tells us. “We’re not allowed to have people hang out overnight like this unless there are facilities for them and security. We’d need Porta-Poties for a thousand people and police patrols and the whole lot, and no one had time to get all that organized. Your best bet is to get home, sleep, and then catch the first BART train up at 5am and keep your fingers crossed.

Monday is the last day to do this, after all.

00000

So we go home. We crash out early. We wake up at 4:00. We drive an hour to hit the BART station. We get the first train up. We arrive at City Hall at 6:30AM.

The line stretches around the entirety of San Francisco City Hall. You could toss a can of Coke from the end of the line to the people who’re up to be first through the doors and not have to worry about cracking it open after.

“Uh.” We go. “What the fuck is -this-?”

So.

Remember why they weren’t going to be able to have people hang out overnight?

Turns out, enough SF cops were willing to volunteer unpaid time to do patrols to cover security. And some anonymous person delivered over a dozen Porta-Poties that’d gotten dropped off around 8 the night before.

It’s 6:30 am, there are almost a thousand people in front of us in line to get this literal once in a lifetime marriage, the last chance we expect to have for at least 15 more years (it was 2004, gay rights were getting shoved back on every front. It was not looking good. We were just happy we lived in California were we at least weren’t likely to loose job protections any time soon.).

Then it starts to rain.

We had not dressed for rain.

00000

Here is how the next six hours go.

We’re in line. Once the doors open at 7am, it will creep forward at a slow crawl. It’s around 7 when someone shows up with garbage bags for everyone. Cut holes for the head and arms and you’ve got a makeshift raincoat! So you’ve got hundreds of gays and lesbians decked out in the nicest shit they could get on short notice wearing trashbags over it.

Everyone is so happy.

Everyone is so nervous/scared/frantic that we wont be able to get through the doors before they close for the day.

People online start making delivery orders.

Coffee and bagels are ordered in bulk and delivered to City Hall for whoever needs it. We get pizza. We get roses. Random people come by who just want to give hugs to people in line because they’re just so happy for us. The tour busses make detours to go past the lines. Chinese tourists lean out with their cameras and shout GOOD LUCK while car horns honk.

A single sad man holding a Bible tries to talk people out of doing this, tells us all we’re sinning and to please don’t. He gives up after an hour. A nun replaces him with a small sign about how this is against God’s will. She leaves after it disintegrates in the rain.

The day before, when it was sunny, there had been a lot of protestors. Including a large Muslim group with their signs about how “Not even DOGS do such things!” Which… Yes they do.

A lot of snide words are said (by me) about how the fact that we’re willing to come out in the rain to do this while they’re not willing to come out in the rain to protest it proves who actually gives an actual shit about the topic.

Time passes. I measure it based on which side of City Hall we’re on. The doors face East. We start on Northside. Coffee and trashbags are delivered when we’re on the North Side. Pizza first starts showing up when we’re on Westside, which is also where I see Bible Man and Nun. Roses are delivered on Southside. And so forth.

00000

We have Line Neighbors.

Ahead of us are a gay couple a decade or two older than us. They’ve been together for eight years. The older one is a school teacher. He has his coat collar up and turns away from any news cameras that come near while we reposition ourselves between the lenses and him. He’s worried about the parents of one of his students seeing him on the news and getting him fired. The younger one will step away to get interviewed on his own later on. They drove down for the weekend once they heard what was going on. They’d started around the same time we did, coming from the Northeast, and are parked in a nearby garage.

The most perky energetic joyful woman I’ve ever met shows up right after we turned the corner to Southside to tackle the younger of the two into a hug. She’s their local friend who’d just gotten their message about what they’re doing and she will NOT be missing this. She is -so- happy for them. Her friends cry on her shoulders at her unconditional joy.

Behind us are a lesbian couple who’d been up in San Francisco to celebrate their 12th anniversary together. “We met here Valentines Day weekend! We live down in San Diego, now, but we like to come up for the weekend because it’s our first love city.”

“Then they announced -this-,” the other one says, “and we can’t leave until we get married. I called work Sunday and told them I calling in sick until Wednesday.”

“I told them why,” her partner says, “I don’t care if they want to give me trouble for it. This is worth it. Fuck them.”

My husband-to-be and I look at each other. We’ve been together for not even two years at this point. Less than two years. Is it right for us to be here? We’re potentially taking a spot from another couple that’d been together longer, who needed it more, who deserved it more.”

“Don’t you fucking dare.” Says the 40-something gay couple in front of us.

“This is as much for you as it is for us!” says the lesbian couple who’ve been together for over a decade behind us.

“You kids are too cute together,” says the gay couple’s friend. “you -have- to. Someday -you’re- going to be the old gay couple that’s been together for years and years, and you deserve to have been married by then.”

We stay in line.

It’s while we’re on the Southside of City Hall, just about to turn the corner to Eastside at long last that we pick up our own companions. A white woman who reminds me an awful lot of my aunt with a four year old black boy riding on her shoulders. “Can we say we’re with you? His uncles are already inside and they’re not letting anyone in who isn’t with a couple right there.” “Of course!” we say.

The kid is so very confused about what all the big deal is, but there’s free pizza and the busses keep driving by and honking, so he’s having a great time.

We pass by a statue of Lincoln with ‘Marriage for All!’ and "Gay Rights are Human Rights!" flags tucked in the crooks of his arms and hanging off his hat.

It’s about noon, noon-thirty when we finally make it through the doors and out of the rain.

They’ve promised that anyone who’s inside when the doors shut will get married. We made it. We’re safe.

We still have a -long- way to go.

00000

They’re trying to fit as many people into City Hall as possible. Partially to get people out of the rain, mostly to get as many people indoors as possible. The line now stretches down into the basement and up side stairs and through hallways I’m not entirely sure the public should ever be given access to. We crawl along slowly but surely.

It’s after we’ve gone through the low-ceiling basement hallways past offices and storage and back up another set of staircases and are going through a back hallway of low-ranked functionary offices that someone comes along handing out the paperwork. “It’s an hour or so until you hit the office, but take the time to fill these out so you don’t have to do it there!”

We spend our time filling out the paperwork against walls, against backs, on stone floors, on books.

We enter one of the public areas, filled with displays and photos of City Hall Demonstrations of years past.

I take pictures of the big black and white photo of the Abraham Lincoln statue holding banners and signs against segregation and for civil rights.

The four year old boy we helped get inside runs past us around this time, chased by a blond haired girl about his own age, both perused by an exhausted looking teenager helplessly begging them to stop running.

Everyone is wet and exhausted and vibrating with anticipation and the building-wide aura of happiness that infuses everything.

The line goes into the marriage office. A dozen people are at the desk, shoulder to shoulder, far more than it was built to have working it at once.

A Sister of Perpetual Indulgence is directing people to city officials the moment they open up. She’s done up in her nun getup with all her makeup on and her beard is fluffed and be-glittered and on point. “Oh, I was here yesterday getting married myself, but today I’m acting as your guide. Number 4 sweeties, and -Congradulatiooooons!-“

The guy behind the counter has been there since six. It’s now 1:30. He’s still giddy with joy. He counts our money. He takes our paperwork, reviews it, stamps it, sends off the parts he needs to, and hands the rest back to us. “Alright, go to the Rotunda, they’ll direct you to someone who’ll do the ceremony. Then, if you want the certificate, they’ll direct you to -that- line.” “Can’t you just mail it to us?” “Normally, yeah, but the moment the courts shut us down, we’re not going to be allowed to.”

We take our paperwork and join the line to the Rotunda.

If you’ve seen James Bond: A View to a Kill, you’ve seen the San Francisco City Hall Rotunda. There are literally a dozen spots set up along the balconies that overlook the open area where marriage officials and witnesses are gathered and are just processing people through as fast as they can.

That’s for the people who didn’t bring their own wedding officials.

There’s a Catholic-adjacent couple there who seem to have brought their entire families -and- the priest on the main steps. They’re doing the whole damn thing. There’s at least one more Rabbi at work, I can’t remember what else. Just that there was a -lot-.

We get directed to the second story, northside. The San Francisco City Treasurer is one of our two witnesses. Our marriage officient is some other elected official I cannot remember for the life of me (and I'm only writing down what I can actively remember, so I can't turn to my husband next to me and ask, but he'll have remembered because that's what he does.)

I have a wilting lily flower tucked into my shirt pocket. My pants have water stains up to the knees. My hair is still wet from the rain, I am blubbering, and I can’t get the ring on my husband’s finger. The picture is a treat, I tell you.

There really isn’t a word for the mix of emotions I had at that time. Complete disbelief that this was reality and was happening. Relief that we’d made it. Awe at how many dozens of people had personally cheered for us along the way and the hundreds to thousands who’d cheered for us generally.

Then we're married.

Then we get in line to get our license.

It’s another hour. This time, the line goes through the higher stories. Then snakes around and goes past the doorway to the mayor’s office.

Mayor Newsom is not in today. And will be having trouble getting into his office on Tuesday because of the absolute barricade of letters and flowers and folded up notes and stuffed animals and City Hall maps with black marked “THANK YOU!”s that have been piled up against it.

We make it to the marriage records office.

I take a picture of my now husband standing in front of a case of the marriage records for 1902-1912. Numerous kids are curled up in corners sleeping. My own memory is spotty. I just know we got the papers, and then we’re done with lines. We get out, we head to the front entrance, and we walk out onto the City Hall steps.

It's almost 3PM.

00000

There are cheers, there’s rice thrown at us, there are hundreds of people celebrating us with unconditional love and joy and I had never before felt the goodness that exists in humanity to such an extent. It’s no longer raining, just a light sprinkle, but there are still no protestors. There’s barely even any news vans.

We make our way through the gauntlet, we get hands shaked, people with signs reading ”Congratulations!” jump up and down for us. We hit the sidewalks, and we begin to limp our way back to the BART station.

I’m at the BART station, we’re waiting for our train back south, and I’m sitting on the ground leaning against a pillar and in danger of falling asleep when a nondescript young man stops in front of me and shuffles his feet nervously. “Hey. I just- I saw you guys, down at City Hall, and I just… I’m so happy for you. I’m so proud of what you could do. I’m- I’m just really glad, glad you could get to do this.”

He shakes my hand, clasps it with both of his and shakes it. I thank him and he smiles and then hurries away as fast as he can without running.

Our train arrives and the trip south passes in a semilucid blur.

We get back to our car and climb in.

It’s 4:30 and we are starving.

There’s a Carls Jr near the station that we stop off at and have our first official meal as a married couple. We sit by the window and watch people walking past and pick out others who are returning from San Francisco. We're all easy to pick out, what with the combination of giddiness and water damage.

We get home about 6-7. We take the dog out for a good long walk after being left alone for two days in a row. We shower. We bundle ourselves up. We bury ourselves in blankets and curl up and just sort of sit adrift in the surrealness of what we’d just done.

We wake up the next day, Tuesday, to read that the California State Supreme Court has rejected the petition to shut down the San Francisco weddings because the paperwork had a misplaced comma that made the meaning of one phrase unclear.

The State Supreme Court would proceed to play similar bureaucratic tricks to drag the process out for nearly a full month before they have nothing left and finally shut down Mayor Newsom’s marriages.

My parents had been out of state at the time at a convention. They were flying into SFO about the same moment we were walking out of City Hall. I apologized to them later for not waiting and my mom all but shook me by the shoulders. “No! No one knew that they’d go on for so long! You did what you needed to do! I’ll just be there for the next one!”

00000

It was just a piece of paper. Legally, it didn’t even hold any weight thirty days later. My philosophy at the time was “marriage really isn’t that important, aside from the legal benefits. It’s just confirming what you already have.”

But maybe it’s just societal weight, or ingrained culture, or something, but it was different after. The way I described it at the time, and I’ve never really come up with a better metaphor is, “It’s like we were both holding onto each other in the middle of the ocean in the middle of a storm. We were keeping each other above water, we were each other’s support. But then we got this piece of paper. And it was like the ground rose up to meet our feet. We were still in an ocean, still in the middle of a storm, but there was a solid foundation beneath our feet. We still supported each other, but there was this other thing that was also keeping our heads above the water.

It was different. It was better. It made things more solid and real.

I am forever grateful for all the forces and all the people who came together to make it possible. It’s been twenty years and we’re still together and still married.

We did a domestic partnership a year later to get the legal paperwork. We’d done a private ceremony with proper rings (not just ones grabbed out of the husband’s collection hours before) before then. And in 2008, we did a legal marriage again.

Rushed. In a hurry. Because there was Proposition 13 to be voted on which would make them all illegal again if it passed.

It did, but we were already married at that point, and they couldn’t negate it that time.

Another few years after that, the Supreme Court finally threw up their hands and said "Fine! It's been legal in places and nothing's caught on fire or been devoured by locusts. It's legal everywhere. Shut up about it!"

And that was that.

00000

When I was in highschool, in the late 90s, I didn’t expect to see legal gay marriage until I was in my 50s. I just couldn’t see how the American public as it was would ever be okay with it.

I never expected to be getting married within five years. I never expected it to be legal nationwide before I’d barely started by 30s. I never thought I’d be in my 40s and it’d be such a non-issue that the conservative rabble rousers would’ve had to move onto other wedge issues altogether.

I never thought that I could introduce another man as my husband and absolutely no one involved would so much as blink.

I never thought I’d live in this world.

And it’s twenty years later today. I wonder how our line buddies are doing. Those babies who were running around the wide open rooms playing tag will have graduated college by now. The kids whose parents the one line-buddy was worried would see him are probably married too now. Some of them to others of the same gender.

I don’t have some greater message to make with all this. Other then, culture can shift suddenly in ways you can’t predict. For good or ill. Mainly this is just me remembering the craziest fucking 36 hours of my life twenty years after the fact and sharing them with all of you.

The future we’re resigned to doesn’t have to be the one we live in. Society can shift faster than you think. The unimaginable of twenty years ago is the baseline reality of today.

And always remember that the people who want to get married will show up by the thousands in rain that none of those who’re against it will brave.

[spatialwave]

➸ ask: “Now that arcanes over please could we get  relationship headcanons for Jayce (ignoring the ending💀) now that he’s maturer and been through shit” – ➸ pairing: jayce x reader ➸ word count: 737 ➸ tags: mdni! headcanons, fluff, post-arcane timeline, reader meets jayce after everything. ➸ notes: heavy on his trauma. he’s been through a lot, and the reader is his saving grace. 🤍

Dating Jayce isn’t perfect, but it’s close to it. You both have your flaws, and with everything he has been through, you both have a lot of patience for each other. Neither of you have been in a serious relationship like this, so it’s a learning curve, and one you both happily travel together.

Extremely monogamous, there is no one Jayce will ever have eyes for except you. He idolizes everything about you, the only person who makes his heart feel like it can love again.

He would propose to you so fast. After everything that’s happened, he knows that you’re the one and would be a fool to not marry you as soon as he can. (He makes the ring himself.)

Jayce is extremely protective of you, and while it can be overbearing at times, you often don’t mind. 

It overlaps with his abandonment issues, after what happened with Viktor, he fears losing you and always wants to make sure you’re safe. You remedy that with words of affirmation that soothe his worried heart.

He loves giving you gifts and spoiling you. Even if they’re impractical things, he can’t help it. He loves seeing the way your eyes light up when you open up another velvet box with new jewellery or the way you delicately put the 

Jayce is better at asking for help now. If he doesn’t know how to do things, he puts his pride aside and will ask earnestly. It’s usually for things, such as how to cook a decent meal or advice on how to better steer the council after days full of arguing for the better good of Piltover and Zaun.

He works best when you’re with him, needing someone there to keep him staying on track. Furthermore, he appreciates when you’re on his lap, his arm hooked around your waist as he works tirelessly to perfect the hextech research that Viktor left to him.

Since you’re both settled into your careers, he often talks about children or starting a family. Whether that’s in the cards, is up to you, and he never pressures you into agreeing. It’s you he loves, after all. (Though, he knows you would make great parents.)

He’s quick to frustration, which can lead into unnecessary arguments, but he’s always very shameful when he catches himself acting so. He’ll apologize and pepper you with so many kisses until you’re laughing and trying to weasel yourself away from him.

It’s extremely difficult for him to sleep, and even when he does, it’s only for a few hours. He leans on you for support, his heart swelling with how much you do for him, such as brewing a chamomile tea for him before bed or fighting your sleep to stay up with him so he’s not alone. 

Even though it makes his days hard, a part of him doesn’t mind because he loves watching the way you sleep soundly in his arms.

He may not get lots of sleep, but he could easily stay in bed with you all day if you were so inclined. It’s his favourite kind of day, when you can both forget about all your responsibilities and stay wrapped in each other’s arms. 

Kissing you is his favourite thing and will always be, he enjoys tasting sweets on your tongue. He loves pressing kisses to your jaw and hearing the sounds that come along with it, or assaulting your cheeks with a flurry of them to hear your giggles.

He’s extremely gentle with you. He may be rugged and tough on the outside, but you’ve never met a kinder and softer soul, even if he has his days when his past catches up to him. Your understanding and patience goes a long way.

Having his hands on you calms him, fingers brushing along your skin. Tracing patterns of runes he’s carved, sending shivers down your spines.

He enjoys evening drinks with you to unwind, a few glasses of wine and laughs about the shitty days you had. It’s the simple things in life he appreciates more.

Jayce has lived a lot of life for someone his age, which translated into a high level of maturity. He has a better understanding of how his words and actions may make you feel, and he’s a better partner for it.

Although he’s still navigating life after his mistakes, faults and trauma – you’re the one who helps make it easy.

[decagondice]

༓ A Gaze, A Glimmer ༓

Soft!Toji x reader, sfw, You each honour the other's gift at an elegant gathering, slight part two to this.

The room glows with low light, chandeliers casting a warm sheen across polished floors, while the soft strains of a grand piano drift from the far corner, mingling with the quiet hum of voices and laughter. The gentle bustle of the room swirls around him, the clinking of glasses and occasional pop of champagne corks fill the grand hall, but Toji barely registers it. His attention, as it has been all evening, remains on you—and he feels himself slip into a quiet awe at how natural you look here, among all this refinement, with the glint of chandeliers casting soft glows across your face.

Tonight, there’s something quietly captivating about you, an effortless grace that has him transfixed. The earrings he gave you—the ones he’d hesitated over for so long, wondering if they were too simple or plain for someone like you—catch the light with each of your movements, their delicate gleam tracing the line of your neck. He hadn’t been sure you’d like them, yet here you are, wearing them with such understated charm, honouring his gift in a way that feels both simple and deeply intentional. Each flicker of light reveals his own admiration woven into your elegance. Your gaze finds his, and a faint blush dusts your cheeks, not with shyness, but with a warmth that tugs at something deep within him.

Toji stands beside you, acutely aware of the weight of your hand on his arm, the subtle pull of his suit—tailored sharp and dark, perfectly fitted. He hadn’t expected to feel this way in it, hadn’t thought a suit could change anything. But then, he’s never worn something like this, not until you bought it for him, insisting it would be just right, and that tonight would be special—a night to match the way he looked in it. He doesn’t miss the way your eyes travel over him, lingering on the lines of the suit, an unmistakable admiration that makes him stand a little taller, feeling uncharacteristically proud, feeling as though, perhaps, he could belong here by your side.

At some point, a few people approach to exchange pleasantries, but Toji finds himself barely listening, his focus held entirely by you. He watches as you greet them with quiet poise, your words gentle but confident. He notices each small detail—the curve of your smile, the way you tilt your head to the soft tone of your voice, and it all makes him feel a little lost in the moment. 

He doesn’t say much, just rests his hand at the small of your back, thumb brushing over the soft velvet of your dress, a steady touch. In the background, the piano’s melody rises and falls, each note delicate and crystalline, echoing through the grand space around you. After a beat, he leans in, his voice low, quiet, meant for you alone. “Didn’t think I’d like all this… but standing here with you…” He lets the thought linger in the air, his meaning clear, a quiet truth woven between you.

You smile, your fingers slipping over his, a small squeeze that says more than any words could. The simple pleasure of being here together, seeing him like this, in the suit you chose for him and the earrings he picked for you—both of you subtly transformed for each other. And in this room of refined elegance, with music filling the space like whispers, it’s only the two of you—close, matched, and completely at ease.

[onechicagolife]

little sis

summary: in which you have a protective older brother

requested? yes by anonymous

word count: 1117

warnings: severide!reader

a/n: this was requested and started before jack damon existed... sev’s really got siblings coming out of the woodwork 😅 

want to be tagged? link in bio <3

When you found out that you had a long-lost older brother, you weren’t entirely surprised. Your father, Benny Severide, was notorious for abandoning his family – no, his families. He left you and your mom when you were young, dropping by every other month for a weekend of good old father-daughter bonding. Those visits became less frequent as time went on when he remarried, again, and had two stepsons who you never met. Another new family. You were in your early twenties when your mom got sick and when she was near her death bed, she told you about your brother.

Kelly Severide.

You immediately searched him online once you found out he was a firefighter in Chicago, and after reading dozens of articles about the people he’s saved, you knew you had to meet him. All you had was his name and where he worked, so you traveled to Chicago and showed up at his firehouse. The connection was immediate and the bond you formed was unlike any relationship in your life, one of unconditional love and support. You decided to move there to be closer to him, since he was the only real family you had left, and he let you stay with him while you got on your feet. He was your big brother in every sense of the word. Which meant, unfortunately, he was protective of your relationships. Over-protective, one could say. Scratch that – one would say, because he is.

That is the biggest reason you’ve kept your new relationship a secret from everyone. If you could create the perfect man in a lab, he would be Jay Halstead. You’ve been dating for three months now, and it is without a doubt the healthiest relationship you’ve been. For the first time in maybe ever, you felt seen. The only problem is that you are afraid of your older brother’s reaction to dating someone he knows, someone that is older than you and someone who lives such a dangerous job. Ironic.

Kelly and Jay have worked together before and while they’ve never been close friends, their mutual friends all hanging out together at Molly’s is what led you into Jay’s arms to begin with. Hell, they even dated the same girl in the past, which makes the whole situation even more risky. You valued Kelly’s opinion more than anything and knowing he disapproved of your relationship might actually break you. Because as hard as you are falling for Jay, if your brother told you to choose, you know who it would be.

“Do you want another beer?” Jay calls out from the kitchen.

The sound of his melodic voice pulls you from your wallowing and you call out, “Sure!” You bite at the nail on your thumb, a nasty habit your mom tried for years to break, getting lost in thought again until he settles next to you on the couch. You jump slightly, muttering a thanks and grabbing the outstretched bottle from his hand.

Jay studies you for a moment, “You okay?” Before you can word-vomit all over him, a knock on the door of your apartment sounds. “Are you expecting someone?”

“No,” you hum as you check the time on your phone, “Maybe the pizza is early.” You set your beer on the coaster and stand, shuffling over and peering through the peephole. Eyes widening, you jump back from the door like it’s on fire. “It’s Kelly!” you whisper-shout, spinning around to face him with wide eyes. “You have to hide.”

He lets out a chuckle, “Seriously?” When he realizes you are not laughing with him, Jay arches a brow and lets out a scoff, “You’re serious.” He stares at you for another beat, waiting, but you just arch your brows and gesture towards the other room. Feeling a bit ridiculous but also understanding how nervous you are about your still relatively new relationship with your brother, he relents with a shake of his head, muttering something unintelligible under his breath as he hides in the bathroom.

You let out a shaky breath, calming your nerves before unlocking and opening the door with a forced smile. “Hey bro!” you try not to cringe at the sound of your own voice, clearing your throat. “What’s up?”

The older man studies your face, biting back a smile, “Can we talk?”

Before you can answer, he takes a step forward and gently pushes his way into your apartment. You swallow nervously as you close the door, eyes ticking towards the half-closed bathroom door before turning and following him deeper inside. “Is everything okay?”

“You tell me,” he counters with his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans. When you simply furrow your brows at him, he clicks his tongue. “I heard a rumor about you.”

You can’t help but snort as you fold your arms over your chest, “Are we in high school?” Kelly chuckles at the sass, still getting used to the whole younger sister thing. “Sorry,” you give a sheepish shrug, “What kind of rumor?”

“Are you dating someone?”

You blink, shuffling between your feet, “Wh-what?” When he doesn’t respond, just sends you a look, you sigh and mumble an answer.

He lifts a hand to his ear, “What was that?”

Narrowing your eyes, you fight a smile at his teasing, “Maybe. How did you know?”

“A buddy of mine thought he saw you at dinner the other night at Rinaldi’s. I thought it was a mistake, since you said you couldn’t have dinner with me and Stella because you had to work. But now that I think about it, you’ve been acting kind of secretive lately.”

Guilt washes over you at the reminder of your lies, “I’m sorry. I—I wasn’t ready to tell anyone yet. It’s still new.”

Kelly smiles softly, “Well, I’ve also noticed you’ve been happier lately. Seeing you happy… That’s all that matters to me. So, I just wanted you to know that I approve.”

Approve? Did he… did he know? No, he couldn’t. If he knew it was Jay that you were at dinner with, wouldn’t he have mentioned that part already? Surely, he would’ve. After a moment of spiraling, you actually digest his words and blink back the sudden rush of unexpected tears. You clear your throat, “Thanks.”

Nodding, he takes a few steps closer, “That’s all I wanted to say.”

“Okay,” you nod back, not turning around as he walks towards the door.

“Actually, one more thing,” his voice cuts through the silence and you glance over your shoulder with a curious look. A devilish smirk tugs at his lips as Kelly nods his head towards the bathroom, “Tell Halstead he owes me a beer.”

[satangcrush]

mammon is the type to make a whole big plan and wait and wait and wait for the perfect moment, he's got a dinner reservation set and rose petals and a speech

but then just blurts it out because he CAN'T contain himself - and it's over something as simple as you idk, buying his favorite drink or doing something for him (like making breakfast)

just the thought of being remembered and the idea of "i want to spend the rest of my life with you" being cemented in that moment that he can't form any other words than "marry me"

imagine cooking pancakes and you go to flip them and he comes stumbling in all sleepy (because he's not a morning person), and you say "good morning! I know you got home late so i made pancakes, and i even went and bought bloody syrup. That's your favorite, right?"

"...Marry me"

"....What?"

and he's coming to his senses and oh fuck did he just ruin all his plans? no, he has to go along with it. but at the same time, it feels so perfect. he wants more mornings like this- forever.

"Ya heard me. I said marry me. And there's only one correct answer here."

HAHAHA OKAY I'LL STOP SORRY I'M AJSJWJ

you are right. carry on???

-

Mammon has been preparing to propose to you for weeks. It was obvious enough. He thinks he’s being subtle but he wasn’t, in the slightest.

“Babe, can you let me see your fingers?”

That was what he had asked you a couple of days ago. Even a fool would know he was planning a huge surprise for you. Seriously, he was scrutinising your fingers so hard that you almost drew blood from biting back your tongue.

But, of course, you didn’t call him out.

.

It was a random morning after you had spent the night in his room to watch movies together. You had gotten up early to make breakfast while he was still dozing off in his room.

“Mammon.” You call out, shaking him on the shoulder.

He didn’t answer.

“Love? I made breakfast.” You continue to whisper by his side, squatting down by the bed. 

This time, he grunted and flipped over as he screwed up one eye to look at you. You stand there with a pout, pointing at the tray you are holding.

“Wha-” He murmured, still rubbing his eyes.

“Get up, sleepyhead.” You stifled a laugh, noticing his bed hair sticking up in all directions. “I made pancakes for you.”

He grunted again, finally moving to position himself in a sitting arrangement. He notices the dark red liquid on the top of the pancake and arches an eyebrow. 

“I snatched the last bottle of bloody syrup from Beel.” You say with a teasing smile. “It was a hard-won battle, you know.”

He coughs. The emotion that swelled up within him was almost embarrassing except for the fact that both of you had been in a established relationship for a long while.

“Really?” That was all he could croak out.

The innocent expression that you purposefully kept on your face infuriates him to no end. “You were murmuring about it in your dreams.”

His eyes travel to your hands, smudged with the flour you hadn’t managed to wipe away, and up to your face.

You’re so damn pretty, he thinks, but he doesn’t need to say it. You already know it with how often he says it.

“Feed me?” He says instead.

You nod, sitting beside him on the bed. You lift the fork, pancake dripping with the bloody syrup giving off an almost sickly nauseating smell. Mammon just stares at you, heart palpitating for some reason.

He eats the piece, slowly swallowing it.

It’s sweet like you.

“By the way, I finished the paperwork.” Mammon stares at you for a second, brain sifting through his memories to decipher what you meant.

Fuck.

“That was today?!” He almost jumped out of bed barely remembering his state of undress.

“Love, I finished it.” You say with a chuckle, watching him with an amused smile as you continue to chew on your piece of pancake. 

“Not flattering myself but I think I did great with this panc–”

“Marry me.”

“Wha–” You’re slackjawed and wide-eyed.

And he's coming to his senses, hands flexing as he clears his throat. Oh fuck, did he just ruin all his plans? No, he has to go along with it. But at the same time, it feels so perfect. he wants more mornings like this.

Maybe, forever. 

"Ya’ heard me. I said marry me. And there's only one correct answer here."

You stare at him and mutter something faintly like dumbass underneath your breath. But Mammon doesn’t care. He’ll be your dumbass as long as you’ll let him be.

“Confident, aren’t you?” You ask, but your smile is bright and if he looks at you closely, he can see your hands shaking.

“I swear I prepared everything but–”

“I know.” You cut him off, placing the plate down gently on the bedside table. “You weren’t exactly hiding much, love.”

“Ya’ knew?” He gathers himself after a second, eyebrows furrowed in the way that makes his eyes squint just a little. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Why would I?” You retorted back in kind. "I wanted to see how you pulled it off."

"Anyways husband, can you hurry and eat this? You have a shoot at ten, remember?" You continue, picking up the plate to shove it into his chest.

"Cancel it."

"Wha-"

"I said cancel it." He repeats again.

"We're staying in today."

[fideozepam]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐎𝐛𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𑣿ྀིྀ 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐨

As the Marcellus family arrives to Rome, they brought along their daughter and gifts symbolizing compliance and respect. Their offerings met with the scrutinizing gazes of the now emperors of the powerful Roman dynasty.

The Marcellus villa buzzed alive with preparations as dawn broke. Servants scurried about, packing crates with fine cloths, silver and jars of olives and honey, that represented Lusitania’s loyalty to Rome.

Outside, a gleaming imperial carriage, emblazoned with the eagle of Rome, awaited. Soldiers stood at attention, their armor glinting in the sunlight, while horses snorted and pawed at the ground, ready for the long journey.

Camilla stood at the threshold, her mother fussing over the hem of her travel cloak. “You must make a good impression,” her mother murmured, smoothing the fabric. “You represent us now.”

Her mother’s hands trembled ever so slightly, though her face remained calm and focused. Tugging at the fabric and brushing away invisible specks of dust, her movements were deliberate, slow - as if she was stalling for more time with her little girl.

“I know,” Camilla replied, her voice barely audible. She glanced at her father, who stood silent, his face unreadable, though his eyes betrayed pride and sorrow.

In the Villa’s entrance, carriages awaited for them. Camilla bit her lip and glanced away, her eyes catching the horizon where the estate ended. She'd never been beyond that line before. The thought made her chest tighten.

Her mother straightened the brooch at Camilla's neck, her fingers lingering there a moment too long. When she finally looked up, their eyes met. For a heartbeat, they both froze, as if the world had gone still.

Without a word, her mother brushed a stray curl from her daughter's forehead, letting her hand linger just long enough for Camilla to feel the warmth of it. That simple touch spoke of years of comfort, protection, and love-things that no imperial palace or Roman luxury could ever replace.

Camilla blinked quickly, her vision blurring.

She reached out, gripping her mother's wrist. The older woman paused, squeezing her daughter's hand in return, her own trembling now fully visible.

The carriage driver cleared his throat, breaking the moment. Camilla let go reluctantly, her fingers slipping away from her mother's as if afraid they might break the fragile connection between them. As soon as the three of them got in, everything would start, marking her final steps on the land she was born in.

The carriage door opened, and Camilla stepped inside, her family following. As the wheels creaked forward, she watched their estate shrink into the distance. Her mother’s hand rested on hers, a steady anchor, but Camilla’s mind raced. She was leaving everything she knew—her home, her cat, her sisters, the quiet life of Lusitania—for a future she could scarcely imagine.

The days blurred together. The roads were smooth but long, the air thick with dust from the carriage wheels. At night, they stopped at bustling way stations where soldiers ate loudly and her father drank wine with the Roman envoy.

Camilla spent her evenings seated beneath the stars, trying to sketch the landscapes that passed them-rolling hills, dense forests, and eventually, the glittering sea.

But no drawing could calm her nerves.

At one point, the party crossed a river.

Soldiers rode ahead, their reflections wavering in the water. Camilla felt a pang of unease as she realized how far they'd come.

Her mother noticed her melancholy and tried to cheer her. "Rome will be magnificent," she said. "Think of the temples, the gardens, the people."

"I'm thinking." Camilla replied, managing a faint chuckle as she raised her eyebrows sarcastically, but her mind wandered. Would they treat her kindly? Would her new husband care for her? She was only seventeen and felt as fragile as the thin veils she wore.

“It will be better in Rome.” Her mother assured, caressing the back of her neck.

Two months later, Rome appeared on the horizon, vast and gleaming under the sun.

She pressed her face to the cool glass of the carriage window, her breath misting it. The city seemed alive-columns of smoke from chimneys, crowds hurrying along wide thoroughfares, a roar of voices that reached even out here.

They swept through the front gates, between statues of giants and banners of crimson and gold. Soldiers were at attention, saluting; people stopped and stretched their necks for a glimpse of the carriage and the so talked new bride.

Camilla's heart pounded as they approached the Palatine Hill, where Julia Domna was waiting.

"Remember," her father whispered, "you are no longer just our daughter. You are the Marcellus legacy."

With fingers intertwined in a vise-like grip, Camilla pressed her nails against the flesh of her hands to avoid breaking into tears. She had hardly touched down in Rome, yet it was almost as if she was being dissected for every move, every fault. She briefly glanced at her father, but his composed demeanor could not calm her spiraling thoughts.

Her unknown groom loomed large in her mind. Who was he? Would he be kind-or cruel? The rumors she had heard about Roman emperors whispered dark fates for their wives. What if he didn't like her? Worse, what if he hurt her? The thought made her shiver.

She cast a glance toward her mother, who, for once, seemed unreadable. Her mother's usual soothing presence felt distant, replaced by an expression Camilla couldn't quite decipher-pride? Worry?

Regret?

The carriage came to a halt, and the footman pulled open the door. Camilla's heart dropped as a wave of hushed silence swept over the gathered crowd. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for what lay ahead, and stepped out into the dazzling sunlight, her mind still tangled with dread and the haunting question: What if he's a monster?

The grand hall was alive with murmurs, the expectations of the gathered senators, politicians, and dignitaries palpable. As the Marcellus family crossed the threshold, they were immediately met by the imposing figures of Julia Domna, the moment she entered the reception hall, the Augusta rose from her seat, her regal presence commanding the room.

She was every inch the powerful matriarch, her eyes sharp with the kind of authority that Camilla had only read about in her philosophical texts. Beside her, the two brothers stood, their faces betraying little of the emotions that might have been roiling beneath their expressions.

Caracalla, as always, stood slightly apart, his gaze steady but distant, as though he was sizing up the entire situation before making a move. He was known for his ambition, his need to dominate, but Camilla had heard whispers of his charm, of the way his confidence could make one feel seen-something that intrigued her, even though she had never spoken a word to him.

Geta, on the other hand, stood at Julia's side, quieter, perhaps more reserved in the shadows of his brother's more dominant presence. There was something about Geta's calm demeanor that left her unsure of where she stood.

Camilla's father, Lucius Marcellus, stepped forward, bowing deeply. His voice carried the practiced deference of a provincial noble addressing Rome's most powerful family.

"To the most revered Augusta Julia Domna and the noble Caesars, Imperatores Marcus Aurelius Antoninus and Publius Septimius Geta, the Marcellus family of Lusitania humbly presents itself."

Julia Domna's gaze, sharp and discerning, lingered on Camilla. A faint smile crossed her lips as she studied the young bride.

Lucius gestured gently toward his daughter, who stood hesitantly by her mother's side, clutching her cloak.

"May I present my daughter, Camilla Marcellus, who humbly comes to serve the imperial household and Rome itself."

Camilla gently bowed her head, her heart racing under the weight of so many eyes. She dared not lift her gaze to meet the imperious stares of the Caesars at either side of Julia Domna, though she could feel their scrutiny like a physical force.

After the family’s introduction, the Augusta graciously acknowledged their presence, “Senator Marcellus, Lady Marcellus, and your esteemed daughter, we welcome you to Rome, the eternal city that now looks forward to a union strengthening our shared destinies. Your presence honors us."

Her tone was regal yet approachable, she glanced meaningfully at Camilla as she continued,

"The journey from Lusitania is not a small one. You must be fatigued, yet you stand before us with grace. A testament, no doubt, to your noble lineage and fortitude."

Camilla’s grip on her robes tightens, raising her head to lock her eyes with her piercing ones,

Lucius gestures to their servants to bring the gifts forward.

Each item was meticulously unwrapped to showcase the Marcellus family's wealth and allegiance. He smiled proudly and spoke again,

"These, Augusta, are humble tokens of our reverence for Rome, for your illustrious family, and for the union that will further strengthen our bond with the dynasty."

Julia Domna and the brothers inspected the gifts with a keen eye, nodding approvingly.

There was a moment of silence as the gifts were presented, but the tension in the room was palpable. Camilla felt her palms grow clammy under the weight of the situation. Her eyes flickered to the two brothers - Caracalla first, who watched her with an air of quiet amusement. His sharp eyes lingered on her, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Then, her eyes flickered to Geta, who stood silently beside their mother, his posture more reserved but no less imposing. He regarded her with a sense of seriousness that made her wonder if he knew more than he was letting on.

Julia Domna held up her hand, signaling for quiet. The room settled into an eerie silence. Her gaze, cool and calculating, swept over the two brothers, then to Camilla, and finally back to the Lusitanian family.

"It is truly a great honor to have you here, Camilla. The question remains, however.." Her voice dropped to a more playful tone, "..which of my sons will you be marrying?"

At this, Camilla's breath caught in her throat. She had known for months that this marriage was arranged, that it was political, but until now, she had never been told which son she would marry. Her mind raced as she turned to her father, but he gave her no reassurance. He simply watched the scene unfold, his face unreadable.

Julia's smile widened as she watched the confusion spread across Camilla's face.

The air was thick with tension, and Camilla's heart seemed to thump painfully in her chest.

And then, Julia Domna, clearly enjoying every second of the suspense, finally broke the silence with a voice that seemed to stretch the moment to its limits. "Well, then," she said, her smile now almost imperceptible, "I think we've kept the decision in suspense long enough."

She turned to Camilla, her eyes glimmering with mischief. "The decision has been made. But you shall not know which son will be your husband just yet."

The Empress's laugh, soft but chilling, rippled through the room, leaving Camilla with no choice but to nod, unsure of whether her future would lie with Caracalla's brash confidence or Geta's quiet composure.

The game, it seemed, had just begun.

lmk if u wanna get tagged ! | tags : @quuinyoung @mewchiili @darkwhisperswolf @peakygirl1919 @madmads007 @eirone-and-cheese @kitkat80

[chilling-seavey]

I feel like something that goes for TWIG is you and George dating and have not told anyone besides your families and someone from the grid unexpectedly comes over, like Alex or Charles, and they see feminine products around the apartment. Like your shoes, handbag, and/or maybe your bra (for some spice) and gets really curious.

(Anon, the way you concept here relates to the way I portrayed their early days relationship in the Winter Warmers blurb I wrote last night is a little scary...are we the same person?? But I love this SO MUCH (I actually wrote this as soon as it came in while actively in the office) thank you for submitting!)

Basically, yes, the overarching concept of wanting to be 100% private with the relationship to keep it out of the limelight and unwelcome social pressures of the Formula 1 world is so TWIG. George is a little nervous to have your relationship be so publicized and scrutinized because he doesn't want that to come between you...he's seen his friends' relationships crumble because of that and it terrifies him, honestly. But it feels normal without anyone knowing except yourselves and your close families...like he's a normal person in a normal relationship.

You'd come to some races that first year but with a regular paddock pass/'sponsored' by Mercedes, coming in on your own and away from him so as to not be associated together by the press, feeling like a whole secret spy and honestly it's kind of thrilling. Even most if not all of the team doesn't know: hardly even seeing you and George in the same room in Mercedes hospitality...you're never in the garage...you're honestly impressively good at flying under the radar.

Yeah, out of everyone it drives George a little crazy that he hasn't told Alex yet but he selfishly just wants to stay in this safe bubble of normal for a little longer. Even if that means virtually lying to his best friend.

You and George didn't live in the same city so for the first while of your relationship you were bouncing back and forth between each other's apartments (and halfway around the world on some race weekends...). It was not long at all really before there was a steady stock of your things at George's just to make traveling easier for you; face wash and shampoo and conditioner and some standard makeup and maybe an outfit or two. Honestly it came to a point where your things just felt so natural to him that they just blend into the background of his apartment like they were just meant to be there.

So when Alex showed up one random weekday, George almost didn't bat an eye. Almost. Until Alex was kicking off his shoes in the foyer and eyeing the second pair of sneakers by the door.

"Your feet shrink or something, George?"

The fib was out of George's mouth before he could think, "They're my sister's. She left them here."

With Alex pacified, George kept him in the living room, busying him with snacks and conversation like he wasn't silently freaking out that his lie would come out.

When Alex excused himself to the bathroom, George panic texted you from the couch. His knee bounced annoyingly with him stuck staring at your laughing emojis you replied with to his lengthy nervous ramble. Not helpful.

"Since when do you stock up on feminine hygiene products?" Alex asked the moment he emerged from the bathroom, rubbing his hands together like he was still washing them.

"I, uh...carry them in case anyone that needs them comes over. Like Lily." George stumbled out a mention of Alex's long-term girlfriend who, in reality, did come over sometimes. He then immediately deflected with a quick, "Since when do you go snooping under my sink?"

"I needed hand lotion and I know you have the good, expensive stuff that smells like a forest." Alex flexed his fingers out as he flopped back down on the couch, his skin shimmering just a bit in the sunlight through the living room window. But Alex was a little too trusting of his best friend and so he didn't feel too bothered by George's response. He was a nice enough guy, maybe he did keep stock for Lily or his sister or someone.

Third time was the charm when they had decided to watch a movie and George got up to make some popcorn. Alex got himself comfortable on the couch, rearranging the cushions and finding that sweet spot in the upholstery. But the sudden laugh that came from the living room had George stopping in the kitchen.

"George!" Alex called in that pitchy voice he got when he was far too excited and teasing him.

George appeared in the doorway to the living room to find Alex waving one of your bras around in the air. The look on his face must have been priceless because Alex nearly cackled, "You keeping a bra around for Lily when she stays over too or is this also your sister's?"

George took three quick strides over and snatched it from him, "It's not my fucking sister's."

"If you have a girlfriend, you can just tell me." Alex said, slightly calmer now but still housing that shit-eating grin on his face. "I don't know why you'd not tell me."

George sighed, feeling a little ridiculous standing there with your bra in his hand in front of his best friend who was set on getting the truth out of him. He shrugged, relenting, "We just...wanted to keep it out of the spotlight for a bit."

"I'm not the spotlight." Alex reminded him.

"Yeah, but you have a big mouth, Alex." George laughed lightly, teasingly, before fading out with a shake of his head, trying to explain, "It was nice just feeling normal. I know once the whole grid knows or the team it'll, like, start to blend...these two halves of my life...and I know how that can end up."

"You can't be scared of that, George." Alex said gently, "Not everyone crashes and burns. Lily and I are fine."

"Lily also is in a public career of her own so she knows how it goes." George replied softly, tentatively.

"This girl of yours isn't?"

George shook his head.

"Not a model? Social media? Athlete?"

George shook his head after each one.

Alex's eyebrows raised, "Don't tell me she's normal."

"Remember the girl who checked you into that hotel back in May?"

"That really narrows it down, George, thank you."

George huffed, "The one you were on me for staring at for far too long."

"Her? Oh my God, you actually got her to agree to go out with you?! But you're so boring!"

"Alex—"

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[vellichor-of-the-solivagant]

How To Plant Snapdragons | 15

Task Force 141, Keegan & Konig x Female Criminal!Reader

Previous Chapter / Masterlist

“I need to put you down.”

You buried your face in the crook of his neck, your arms tightly wrapped around his shoulders, and your legs locked together circling his waist. You shook your head in disagreement, feeling as though he would disappear the moment he slipped away from your grasp like grains of sand, and all of this was merely a fever dream.

Keegan sighed out loud, his hands traveling from your thighs then underneath your butt, and hoisted you up, to keep you in place. He took some steps forward, peeking around the corner of an alleyway, and slowly slid down to the ground. His hands took nest around your waist and adjusted you on his lap.

“Fine, let's stay here for a short while,” he said in a low voice, his warm breath fanning your ear.

You clawed onto his clothes and forced yourself to let go. You pulled away from him and gazed into a pair of icy-blue eyes, which you didn’t expect to behold so soon, to have him before you in an unwanted place like this, when you left his side over a year ago. But it was just like this, all the times you had spent with him, always at arm's length, never truly in his arms—never he was yours.

Nonetheless, you couldn’t help but reach up to his mask and pull it down to his chin, tracing your fingers over the line of his jaw which felt a hit rough from the stubble.

You were never his, and yet, you found yourself questioning what he had been thinking over the past year as he pulled you tight to his chest.

You wanted his mouth on yours, and now, in this dark alleyway that smelled of sewers, under the cold rain, on the run from the hunting shadows, it was happening. Your lips parted as his thumb brushed over their petal softness, and you combed your fingers into the undercut at the nape of his neck.

Keegan felt tingles wash down his back, like what you have always done to him as he closed the gap between your mouths, first with the utmost gentleness, then with the hunger of a starved man. You made a delicious little sound, which he drank and responded with the same hunger, sparking a fire in his stomach that he had once lost.

He didn't want it to stop.

You didn't want it to stop, yet you knew you didn't deserve such a wish, and so, you pulled away, or tried, but he kept you in place.

“You're the one who didn't want to let go, now you're the one pulling away?” He muttered on your lips, resting his forehead against yours, and your noses touching one another.

You forced a smile upon your face. “We need to get moving, yeah?”

“Touche,” he remarked and averted his gaze onto your shoulder. “Let’s treat this first.”

You nodded, and reluctantly and slowly, you got off his lap, letting him rummage on kit he had behind him. “We don't have time to stitch it, so a bandage should work for now,” you said, patting his chest for a knife and found one. With it, you tore your sleeve off leaving your shoulder bare, and put the knife back in its place.

He didn't utter an answer, but you knew he was listening and agreed to your statement as he pulled out a bandage from the kit. Lifting your arm up, he quickly wrapped your wound with the bandage, wincing at the tugs he made to secure the fabric in place, but he didn't take long till he tied it up on a knot.

You rolled your shoulder and squeaked when he flicked your forehead. “Bro, the fuck?” You rubbed the sore spot.

“Don't move it too much, idiot.” He got up on his feet and extended you a hand. “And don't call me ‘bro’ after you kissed me.”

“Well, I was just trying to make sure I can still move,” you scoffed and took his hand with your good one, letting yourself be pulled up to your feet. “And you are the one who kissed me, bro.”

He narrowed his eyes at you and pulled his mask back up to his nose. “You initiated it, bro.”

You rolled your eyes, which he copied, and when you met his eyes once again, you couldn’t help but smile. He shook his head at you and placed his hand on your head, ruffling your hair which was already a mess. You grumbled as he started to walk and peeked around the corner for the second time. With a motion of his hand, you quickly followed him into another alleyway, and from your peripheral, you saw corpses scattered on the street, blood staining the pavement red.

You heaved a loud sigh and something crackled from your comms, Soap’s voice coming in.

“Bravo 7-1, in the blind . . . how copy?”

Just before you could click on the comms and speak, Keegan covered your mouth with his hand, pressing you against the wall as a Shadow passed by. He waved his hand, telling you to stand by, and with practiced movements he rushed towards the contractor, plunging his knife through the neck. He dragged him back to your position and carefully laid him down so as to not trigger any unwanted noises. Then, he nodded at you.

That moment, the lieutenant answered, making you sigh in relief. “This is Ghost, how copy?”

You clicked on the comms and in a hushed voice, you said, “Snapdragon, uh, Shampoo to 141, how copy?”

“Shampoo?” Keegan echoed, confusion clear in his voice.

“Long story,” you simply replied to the man, pulling a face as you listened to the 141’s reply, but it seemed like they couldn’t hear your answer at all as they went on a conversation of their own, then cursed out as it dawned at you. Your way of communicating back was the throat mic that you forgot to remove after burning Valeria’s house and Ghost took it back to the ship. “Fuck, they won’t hear me.”

Keegan reached for the wires on your vest, carefully eyeing each one. “They don’t seem damaged.”

“No, but I talk with them through a throat mic.” Your hand flew to your neck, rubbing the sore spot where you scratched and clawed. “God, damn it.”

Keegan watched you tap your feet against the group rapidly in repeat, one of your mannerisms that he picked up throughout the years you spent with him. Seeing your dejected gaze on the ground, mapping out your next moves in silence, he removed his earpiece, disconnecting it, and reached for his comms. “Russ to Walkers, how copy?”

You snapped your head at his way, eyes widening at the mention of surnames, and voices that you had longed to hear.

“Hesh to Keegan, on the way to save a British ass,” then a second of pause, “although, I don’t think this one is British. Ehh, Scottish, maybe?”

At the same time, a quiet voice answered, “On it.”

Your vision began to blur, tears threatening to run down from your eyes as you realized how much you missed their voice, how you prayed and repeated their words over and over again in your head, in fear that you would forget about them. And you let the tears fall as a searing touch, one you would burn the world for, wiped them off your cheeks.

You buried your face in Keegan’s palm, hand cupping over his, as you bit down on your lip, to silence your sobs.

“Good, I’ve got our lady,” Keegan announced and pulled you into his embrace, muffling your cries in his chest.

Immediately, Hesh demanded, “Put her on, let me talk to her. Put her on, Keegan—”

“Shut up, won't you? She's preoccupied.” Keegan swiped a strand of hair from your face and rested his chin on top of your head.

“Preoccupied?” David repeated. “You're not fucking her in the middle of the street, are you?”

Keegan had never rolled his eyes so hard until this moment. “Why the fuck would I—”

“Shut the fuck up,” you glowered, pushing on Keegan's comms, and sniffed to stop your disgusting snot from dripping on his vest. His words made you pull yourself together, almost literally making you push the remaining tears back in your eyes.

“Jesus Christ,” a chuckle reverberated from the comms, getting you to smile. “Hey, how've you been?”

“You want the truth or the filtered one?”

“Since when do you filter anything you say?”

“Touche.” You snorted. “Well, tortured, imprisoned, and now I'm here, I guess?”

“I said the unfiltered version!” He yelled through the comms, and muttered a curse, making you shake your head. “Not the short version,” he finished.

“It'll be too long of a talk, man.”

“Good point.”

“Are you alright?” Logan joined in.

You giggled at his question and wiped the excess rain water from your face. “Yeah, never been better. I feel like I could take on anything right now.”

“That's you when you're high,” the younger Walker remarked, making you gasp, his brother laughing and Keegan stifling a laugh.

“Is this a reunion or a roasting competition?” You questioned.

“Both,” he simply answered.

You rolled your eyes, and silence rolled in for a moment, which you immediately broke. “Hey, make sure to mention me to the 141 or show them something that tells them you're not a threat.”

“Rog,” Logan quickly replied, ever the quiet and straightforward man more than Keegan.

“This guy's looking funny tho,” Hesh commented and you knew immediately what he was gonna talk about. “A mohawk, really? He looks like a rooster. It gives off the vibe of someone who made a bad decision in life. He should have just shaved it all off.”

You shook your head. “Like you can talk.”

“At least I don't look like a stegosaurus.”

You covered your mouth, clamping your lips, and closed your eyes to stop the laughter threatening to escape from you. You thought your first impression of Soap was bad, referring to him as a rooster—an ostrich even, and here your brother was, calling the Scot a dinosaur.

You removed your hand from your face. “You need to stop,” you demanded, breathing heavily to calm yourself. “Because if you don't, I won't be able to stop laughing and we will get compromised.”

“Rotten pineapple looking ass.”

“Stop—”

“The dark evil troll from Trolls Movie.”

“Hesh—”

“The visual representation of hair growing on the tip of the penis.”

“BWAHAHAHAHA—hmph!” Keegan's hand clamped over your mouth, but it didn't stop you from laughing on his hand, hitting the Sergeant’s arm. Your body trembled, your eyes watered and it felt like air had been knocked out from your lungs.

You were so going to hell for this.

But your laughter immediately died down as you heard footsteps rushing towards your location, and you shot a look of apologies to the sergeant.

He shook his head at you and gestured at you both to get to work, just like the old times.

Soap looked over his shoulder once more, eyes narrowing at the dim alleyway behind him for the third time. He could have sworn he heard some voices, but everytime he took a stumbling step forward, his footfall and the conversations between Shadows would drown out the noise which had been following him for a few minutes now.

He got in contact with Ghost, but he had not heard a word from their bonnie since he escaped on his own. And the Lt. even stated that you stayed behind to let him escape and gave him a phone to contact Price, but the phone had died down due to the unfortunate weather.

 Although, at first, he was a bit cautious of what you wrote on the notebook, at the moment, their last resort was to believe your words, and his mission now was to get away from the Shadows, meet up with the lieutenant and get Price.

Only, if he wasn't so dizzy right now that it seemed like everything was spinning and he fell on his knees.

“Hey.”

Shit. He rushed back up on his feet. That sounded American.

“Leave me no choice.”

The next thing he knew, a hand covered his mouth. He struggled to get out of the man’s grasp, the slickness of their clothes made it hard along with the fact his arm was hurting and he was dragged back into an alley.

Just as Soap got hold of the man's arm, something was shoved before his eyes, making him freeze. A photo of a woman between two men, hugging one another and sporting huge and bright smiles on their faces. His eyes widened at the features of the woman.

Bonnie.

“Recognize her?” Hesh let go of Soap and slowly backed away from him, still showing the photo whilst he raised his other hand in the air.

Soap pushed himself to the wall. “That's . . .” he trailed off, scanning the man from head to toe. Sounds American, looks American.

“My sister,” Hesh confessed and stashed the photo in his pocket. “We're here to help around, by her request.”

Soap frowned. “Ye donnae look like her.”

“She's adopted.”

That made him frown even more. How could someone just casually say that? But more importantly, why didn't you mention any family members to the 141 before? Heck, now that he raked his mind about you, he barely knew anything about you at all. You were like a big puzzle with so many pieces missing and the pieces he had in his hands might even be lies.

“If you don't believe me, feel free to ask anything that can make you believe me,” Hesh offered and reached for his kit, fishing out a roll of bandage and a stim shot, which he threw at Soap.

Soap easily snatched it from the air and stared at the ivory fabric, then met the man’s eyes, cerulean ones to viridian. “You couldn't stop Shepherd from capturing her?”

Hesh raised his brows. “Goddamn, she's hiding this much from you lots?” He clicked his tongue rapidly. “You’re mistaken.”

“Mistaken?”

“She let herself be captured.”

Ghost stared at the photo the man in a skull mask showed to him. He positioned a knife against the man’s neck and had him pinned against the wall. But he remained unmoving from his place, inching the blade closer to the man’s throat. “What's this?”

Logan stayed silent for a moment, eyes unblinking, boring straight to the lieutenant’s eyes, and in a monotone, he said, “A photo.”

“Fuckin’ hell—I know what a photo is,” Ghost grunted, pushing him harder against the surface, but the man remained unfazed. They were at the top floor of the cathedral where they could see most of the vicinity, and just as when he thought he was alone, with no Shadows following him, lurking in the dark to strike him, this man appeared like a ghost on the hunt for another ghost.

“A sibling photo,” Logan quipped.

Ghost frowned underneath his balaclava, annoyance getting onto his nerves. “You're her brother?”

Logan nodded. “We came to help.”

Ghost narrowed his eyes at him. “Why should I believe you?” he questioned and darted his eyes down to the man's hand, watching him reach for his comms.

Logan disconnected his earpiece and with a click, he spoke. “Gremlin, come in.”

Not a few seconds later, your voice echoed from the comms that the lieutenant now could hear. “You with the Lt. now?”

Ghost's grip on his knife slightly loosened and held back the sigh of relief that threatened to rush past his lips.

“Yes,” Logan croaked.

And your next few words made something that Simon had already buried in the dark long ago to step into the light once again.

“That's a relief. Take care of him for me.”

Keegan already getting in action while Simon is still walking to that point 💀 (I had fun thinking of insults to Soap's mohawk, sorry not sorry) The Walkers being menaces tho, and I'm sorry for the late update, I forgot I didn't upload it here on Tumblr.

Next Chapter / Archive of Our Own

Taglist: @yyiikes , @the-faceless-bride , @cassiecasluciluce , @annoyingstrawberryballoon @unicorngirly1, @thriving-n-jiving, @squidalapobre, @tallicaside @eustassh

[shady-tavern]

Preview for "A Heart of Death and Hope" the December Short Story

(This story contains mentions of suicidal thoughts and a request for death, please be sure to take care of yourselves)

*.*.*

Once upon a time, a girl was born to a loving if quiet mother and a strict, rigid father. When she reached five years of age, the Ceremony of Hearts was held, her parents waiting until one of the traveling priests came to their little town to find out just what heart their child had been born with.

Her mother took her to the priest, for it was said that the mother formed a child's heart since they carried them beneath their own for so long. Her mother was nervous, the girl could tell, for if a child was born with a bad heart, the mother always got blamed for it.

The ceremony was held in private and was, all in all, nothing exciting. The priest pricked her fingertip for a drop of blood, the little girl bravely keeping from flinching away and then he held her finger over a slip of paper, squeezing a bit to make the blood drop onto it, before carefully dropping a spot of ink onto the paper as well. 

The two colors ran together, soaking into the paper and the priest turned away before he could see the end result.

Another superstition was that if anyone but the mother and child saw the outcome of the ceremony they were going to change it, that a stranger's eyes could influence or perhaps warp the truth.

The little girl knew what the paper strips of her parents looked like, her father's narrow and red and edged in only a little black, while her mother's was all blood. The more the red prevailed, the purer the heart. The more the black prevailed, the more a heart was tainted.

Her mother stared at the strip of paper as black spread and only a faint outline of red remained, her face suddenly drawn tight and full of silent fear. The priest turned around and stared at the slip, going silent and still as well.

"A heart of death," he murmured quietly as he studied the way the liquid had soaked into the paper, the forms and lines and shapes it had created. "I have only ever seen such a thing once before."

"Please don't tell anyone," her mother whispered, grabbing the paper and closing her fist tightly around it, as though to hide it away. "She's only so little."

The priest glanced between them, clearly torn, before he pulled out another slip, dropping only a tiny bit of ink onto it before he reached for the girl's bleeding finger once more and pressed more drops onto it, making sure the red prevailed even as black tried to eat into it again.

"That is all I can do," he said and her mother traded the slip she held for the new one with a big shivering exhale of relief. The priest threw the original piece of paper into the small fireplace off to the side. "Now go and speak of this no more. But woman, remember, you may lie but the child's heart will not change because of it."

The girl felt her mother's hand tighten around hers before she was gently but insistently pulled out of the room the priest had been given by the mayor. Outside other parents waited with their children and they perked up with eager curiosity.

"What did she get, Madleine?" one of the women asked. The girl remembered her, she always came around on washing day so they could do those chores together. Her son was a freckled, quiet boy who liked to help bugs out of the washing basins and who protected spiders from other, rougher children.

"A heart of hope," her mother answered, a smile on her face as she held out the strip. "Look at all that red fighting back the black!"

The other women made appreciative noises, though some glanced at the girl with slightly wrinkled noses, tugging their children closer, a shine of jealousy in their eyes.

"Next," the priest called out and the girl's mother took that chance to usher her away, as another mother eagerly stepped forward.

"Don't tell your father," the girl's mother whispered, quiet but with a fierceness the girl hadn't seen from her before. "Your heart is one of hope, understand?"

"I don't want to kill anyone," the girl whispered back, worried and unsure. "I don't want to hurt anyone either. Maybe the priest was wrong?"

Her mother tugged her into an alley before she dropped down to one knee, grasping her shoulders and looking at her with quiet intensity.

"Death is not a terrible, awful thing and many things can die, even things not made of flesh and blood. If you do have a heart of death, then choose what you end." She pressed a kiss to the girl's forehead and whispered, "Never fear yourself, my dear girl, even the darkest heart can bring good into this world if they know where to direct their darkness."

The little girl fell quiet, thoughtful, and her mother smiled at her, pressing another kiss to her forehead before she rose to her feet and offered her hand. The girl took it and they headed back home, where her father was already waiting impatiently.

He seemed satisfied enough with the results of the ceremony, nodding once before he handed the slip back to her mother to be framed and put above the mantle, between the slips of her parents.

The girl's mother cast her a look when his back turned and the girl nodded. She knew when to keep a secret.

They went about the rest of the day as usual and by the time the little girl laid down in her bed, she had thought about her heart a lot. A heart of death. Her mother had said that it wasn't a bad thing and she decided that it wouldn't be.

If she couldn't have a good heart, the least she could do was bring death to bad things.

*.*.*

The girl never mentioned the true nature of her heart to anyone and instead let everyone believe that she had a heart of hope. As she grew older, she found herself paying attention to where the light fell short. 

She befriended the boy no one wanted to talk to and secretly dropped off potatoes and a little basket of picked berries at the grim neighbor's house once a week, no one speaking to the woman who lived there and who had faced terrible hardship in her time.

And bit by bit, the girl noticed other things as she grew older. How some people seemed to have darkness clinging to them like an oil film, flickering between the folds of their clothing like tiny, licking flames.

Her father was among them, though his darkness was subtle enough that she had almost overlooked it. The girl had always kept a bit of a distance to her father and he to her. So long as she obeyed him, he was only strict, not cruel.

When he died a year later, taken by a sickness, she grieved and yet, a small part of her was relieved as well. Her mother seemed to come alive in the wake of his passing. Singing and dancing suddenly filled the house, his blood-slip vanishing from its spot on the wall and it was as though there was more light in their home again.

The girl stayed away from the other people that carried more of that darkness, an instinctive feeling in her gut warning her that there was nothing good to be found near them.

Right up until, when she was fourteen years old, there was a person with the darkest shadows yet, who went from house to house, selling miracle tonics. It had been a bad year for the entire region, with a far too wet spring and summer, the rivers swelling large and there had been a couple of houses built near the water that had gotten swept away.

The girl hoped the stranger wouldn't come to their house as well, but one evening, while her mother sat by the table, repairing and mending various things, a knock sounded from the door.

The girl knew who it was and she had seen everyone fall to the stranger's charms, even the grim old woman and the cautious, nervous young candlemaker who had moved into their town after marrying the miller's son.

"I got it," the girl called out, her mother settling back down with a nod, returning her attention to her work.

Swallowing nervously, the girl headed for the door and pulled it open. It was indeed the stranger, his smile friendly and disarming, but no matter how nice he looked, it couldn't hide the oil-slick darkness that seemed to coalesce along the edges of his clothes and the tips of his hair, almost looking like it was dripping down.

The stranger introduced himself as a wandering alchemist and doctor's apprentice. He said that he was selling cures and remedies for all kinds of ailments, from an unwanted wart and persistent cough to terrible fevers. 

"Why don't you take this little sample?" he said when he realized that the girl had no intentions of buying anything from him. "Give it to your parents, just so they'll keep staying healthy. They ought to take it right away even! Let them know that I'll only stay in town another day before I move on in case they do desire to buy my tonics."

He held out a corked little vial and while the liquid inside looked downright honey-gold, the girl saw the same oil-slick darkness on the outside of the vial, as though it was oozing from the man's sleeve and down his wrist and fingers to coat the glass.

"It's alright, take it," he said, insistently holding the vial out further and the girl hesitantly reached out, silently resolving to throw the vial out where her mother couldn't see.

The moment her hand brushed the stranger's, it was as though the darkness dripped off of him, sliding away to leave regular shadows and color behind and he jerked back with a sharp gasp, dropping the vial to let it shatter on the doorstep.

"Are you alright?" the girl asked, startled, but he didn't seem to hear her. If anything, he stared off into the distance, a horrified expression overtaking his face.

"What am I doing," he whispered and took a downright stumbling step back, pressing his hand to his mouth, his gaze darting about. He almost dropped the doctor's bag he was carrying that held the tonics. "What just happened..."

He breathed out the last few words as he turned around and left as though in a daze, his free hand raising to his temples as if he was suffering a sudden headache.

The girl stared after him, startled and confused, until she heard her mother call out to close the door, that it was getting drafty.

"Who was it?" the girl's mother asked when she returned and the girl shook her head.

"No one, just a prank," she answered. "Probably the butcher's son, he's of that age now."

"I'll speak with Richard when I visit his shop the next time," her mother said. "I'll ask him to teach his son better ways to express his mischief."

The girl nodded and sat down to help her mother, though her mind kept wandering and she stared down at her hands. Had...she done that?

*.*.*

This story will be published on the first of December on my patreon and ko-fi! Thank you all so very much for your support, your likes and comments and reblogs and tags.

If you want to read other stories I've written, feel free to go check out the Masterpost!

[darlingshane]

Let's pretend it's 1996

Duncan Carmello x F!Reader

Summary: You've always wondered how things would have turned out between you and Duncan if you didn’t break up. It takes 10 years for you to see him again at your High School reunion. This night brings a lot of bittersweet moments between you and him, and you can't help but wonder if after all this time you could make this work again.

CW: fluff, crack, light angst, regrets, memories, exes, high school reunion, drinking, singing, kissing.

Word Count: 3,8k

A/N: This fic is set in 2006, the year the show was released. Duncan never dated Nicole, instead he was with reader. Also, I'm not a lyricist so forgive my cheesy ass song that I wrote for Duncan, but I know this is something he'd write.

— Links: AO3 // Masterlist

After sitting down at the table, you start bobbing your head to the sound of Car Fire, the band playing live, led by none other than Duncan Carmello—your ex. They've taken the stage to kick off the party, while the stragglers keep arriving.

Your friend Pam has left you alone momentarily to procure a couple of drinks. In that time, you've found yourself caught in a web of memories about your Duncan that trace all the way back to high school. It's in this very same gym you're in where you cheered for him from the bleachers when he played basketball. The very same place where you dance together during prom, and you couldn't imagine life with anyone other than him. And now it hosts your 10 Year High School reunion. You promised yourself that you'd never attend any of these cheesy events, but Pam convinced you to come along. She’s in the organization committee, and she was very adamant on you being here tonight.

Pam sets your glass of wine on the table right in front of you, and gets close to your ear to say something over the music playing, “you're staring.”

“What?” you slowly pick up your glass and bring it up to your lips.

“Tell me that you're not still pinning for that asshole.”

“I am not pinning,” you scoff and take another sip to swallow the lie. “I’m remembering. Remembering is not pinning.”

“Tell that to your face.”

You've always wondered how things would have turned out between you and Duncan if you didn’t break up. You were high school sweethearts, the ones that every thought they'd be together forever. But fate had different plans. You wanted to become a journalist, had your mind set on going to college on the other side of the country, and that put a strain on your relationship. Distance was not kind, and a year later there was no more you and Duncan. The last time you saw him was that summer, when you came back and everything went to hell. You haven't seen him in person since. You’ve seen him in pictures that your old classmates have on Facebook, but you never thought of reaching out, despite him being on your mind more often than not.

All the relationships you had after Duncan didn't work out, and it was solely on you. You could never bring yourself to love anyone when he was still a constant presence in your heart and mind. It’s something that you probably never got over, which is kind of pathetic considering he was the one who couldn’t overcome his issues about your long distance relationship. You should hate him, but you never did. You never could. All his concerns were valid, but you were too focused on getting your degree and traveling all over, something you’ve dreamed of since before you met him. And he felt like he wasn’t part of that. He had his life here and wasn’t willing to consider moving away, even if it was just for trying. The pressure was on you to make it work, and it made you feel like a failure for not doing your best to fix the situation. That’s why he was an asshole. He was just a kid, people would say… but so were you. There was too much you had planned for your future to throw away for him. He could've met you halfway, but because he was so damn stubborn that it all ended in a bitter note that left an aftertaste in your throat for years to last. This is mainly the reason you didn't want to come here today. You know it'd be hard to ignore everything you've put in boxes in the farthest corners of your mind. Now, the dust has cleared, lids are open, and you can't bring yourself to close them again.

This evening, he's singing all the songs he wrote in high school, which you remember every lyric to. You're the sole owner of two copies of the one and only album they ever recorded. One of those he gave to you, it came with a special dedication at the back. And a second one you bought to support the band. They're both in an old box labeled ‘Don't open’ that contains everything that you collected from that past relationship and that you've always been unable to get rid of that sits in the back of your closet.

You try to think about all the horrible things he said to you the last time you talked face to face in an attempt to put him out of your mind; but to be honest, it felt like such a surreal conversation you're not sure if it happened or not. You're not the one to hold grudges and yes, he was just a kid, who had just turned 19, and it'll be really petty of you to hold onto that forever.

As the short performance comes to an end, Pam leaves again to set up the next activity at the stage. Music starts playing from a playlist now as you wander around to pick up some appetizers from the buffet table to stuff your face with. Then you meet your colleagues from the school paper that are all gathered at the bar. You have a couple of drinks and a few laughs while catching up with them and everything that's going on with their lives.

Your social battery starts draining as your bladder keeps filling quickly. When you come out of the bathroom, you make a stop in the hallway to study the wall of memories of the class of 96 that holds a lot of moments frozen in pictures that you had forgotten. School events, trips, different clubs, yearbook portraits and personal pics of different groups of friends shine anew as if they were taken yesterday. They're all labeled by year, and the walk down memory lane ends with a graduation picture of the whole class. Your eyes travel back to a collection of snapshots dedicated to prom. There's one of Duncan where he's smiling proudly in his messed up tux after being crowned prom king. Another one of the two of you where he has put his crown on your head to share the win. He later on bought you a tiara, saying you were his only queen. Your heart sinks when you see a more intimate pic of you slowly dancing in his arms. You still remember what song was playing, how he smelled, how his hands caressed the exposed skin at your back. It seems to come alive for a second when you hear his voice behind you…

“I still think you should have been crowned that night.”

“I was a nerd. Haven't you heard? Nerds don't get to be prom royalty,” you say after swallowing the knot in your throat. You don't look back, you can't face him yet. Not this close.

“That's not true. Look at you, you were by far the most beautiful in that gym.”

“Well, it wasn't a beauty contest, either.” You sigh, staring at the most popular girl in school standing on stage with her crown next to Duncan.

“So, you're not going to turn around?”

“I don't think I can yet.”

“That's cool. Take your time.”

“You sounded good up there. I thought you guys went separate ways.” You fidget with your fingers, unable to move any other part of your body to look at him.

“We did. We just got the band together again.”

“You still got it.”

“You think so?” He still sounds so boyish when he says that.

“Hm-hmm.”

“I was hoping you'd come today.”

“Yeah? Why is that?” you keep your eyes glued to the pictures on the wall.

“Cause I needed to tell you that I didn't mean any of that shit I said when we broke up.”

“Duncan, you don't have to say anything. It's—”

“No. I do have something to say, cause I was a jackass. Thought that you deserved better than me. I knew if we stayed together, I'd hold you back. You were doing what you loved, and I'd have just gotten in the way so… I took the coward's way out. I thought that if you hated me, you'd just move on. Then it was too late when I realized that it was the biggest mistake I've ever made. I need you to know that.”

Listening to him opening that old wound makes your eyes well up, but you manage to reel those in.

“I tried to hate you,” you say. “Never could. Even when it hurt, even when I couldn't move on… I couldn't bring myself to hate you.”

It's then that you finally gather the courage to shift in your heels and face him.

“Hey.”

“Hey, you,” the way his lips curve up at the corners is utterly disarming. “I didn't think you'd talk to me.”

You shrug, “I didn't think so either. But here we are.”

“Here we are,” he echoes. “You look great.”

“You do, too.” And he does. Up close, you can see he's really grown up into his own with his simple dark suit and unbuttoned black shirt. “Look at you. You're wearing a suit, and you've gotten rid of that horrible mullet.”

“Yeah,” he laughs sheepishly, scratching the back of his nape, messing up his shaggy curls. “Would you have a drink with me?”

“Hmm,” you pause and try to decide whether that it's something that you'd like to do right now. “I don't think that's a good idea.”

“Why? Did you come here with anyone?”

“No, I just don't have anything else to say to you.”

“Are you still mad at me?”

You shake your head. “Whatever happened all these years ago is all water under the bridge, Duncan. You said what you wanted to say. I don't think it'd be healthy to sit down and keep rehashing the past.”

“Oh, I get it, you're scared.” He says with a teasing tone.

“I'm not scared.” You scoff, crossing your arms tightly against your stomach.

“No? You look terrified right now, hotshot.”

“I'm not.”

“Are so.”

“I'm not”

“Are so.”

“What, are we in school?” You bring a stop to it.

“Well, we are in a high school.”

You both stare at the other and break into laughter.

Duncan tucks both hands in his pockets and shrugs like he used to, biting his bottom lip with a smile before trying again.

“C'mon, let me buy you a drink for old times.”

“I think drinks are free.”

“Even better.”

“So I'm a cheap date now.”

“Hey, I didn't say anything about a date.” Duncan starts walking backwards, heading to the gym doors. “I'll be at the bar. Come. Don't come. It's up to you.”

You watch him disappear behind the big doors that clank upon closing. The music buzzing behind them temporarily comes to stop, and you hear murmurs in its place. You step closer to see through the window that Pam is taking the stage to inform everyone with mic in hand that games would start soon before letting the music resume. You look to the side to get a glimpse of Duncan taking a seat at the bar. Against your own wishes, your hands push the door open and let your feet zero in on his direction.

His face lights up when he sees you. He raises his glass up to you. “Look who decided to join me. I knew you couldn't resist.”

“Please, don't flatter yourself. I just needed a place to sit,” you say, parking your ass on the free bar stool beside him. “These heels are killing me.”

The waiter comes over, and you order another glass of wine while you watch Duncan go over a booklet left on the bar with the necessary information of all the attendees from the Class of 96.

“Is this true? You live in New York now?” Duncan shows up your page with your bio, and two pics of you side by side, one from your teen years and a recent one you send to Pam to assemble the class book.

“Hm-hmm.”

“And you write for a surfing magazine, huh?”

“Surfing magazine? What are you talking about? It’s called Surfeit. It has nothing to do with surfing.”

“I know,” he scoffs, “I was just messing with you.”

“Were you now?” You squint at him.

“Yeah, I gotta confess I’ve known for a while. I subscribed to that thing a few months ago.”

“Get out of here.”

“No, it’s true. I know you’re one of the founders. I’ve read all your pieces, I particularly liked the one about the invasion of the cum trees. It was fascinating.”

“Yeah? You think that one will put me on the right track for a Pulitzer?” You chuckle before taking a sip from your glass. “So, you’ve been keeping tabs on me.”

“Just recently.” He puts down the booklet and lifts his beer to his lips.

“Just recently? Why would you do that now?”

“Why?” he sighs. “I don’t know, I guess I missed talking to you. I found one of your articles online a few months ago, and it felt like I was hearing your voice when I read it, so I started looking for more, and I found Surfeit and I got most of them in the mail— It’s kinda pathetic, isn’t it?”

You balance your head side to side, measuring which side you lean on. “I think it’s sweet. I like this new side of you.”

“Which side?”

“You’re honest. Well, I suppose you always were, for the most part, but I used to have to pry words out of you when we weren’t talking about music, sports, or video games. I like that you offer them now without me asking, and that you’re capable of reading anything that didn’t come from a Playboy. I don’t think you were our target audience when we started the magazine, but I’ll take it.”

Biting his bottom lip, he looks down for a beat. “Okay, now it’s your turn to share something pathetic you’ve done to level the scales.”

“Hmm, I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Cause I’m pretty sure I’d win, and you’d laugh at me.”

“C’mon, I promise I won’t laugh.”

Clearing your throat, you look down for a beat before confessing.

“You know, I was just thinking earlier, when you were playing on stage, about all the stuff I kept from you in a box and that I still have. All the mixtapes, the Car Fire albums, the tiara you bought me, all the anniversary presents… all the pictures… I’ve hauled them over several states. I took it by accident to London once. I just can't get rid of anything. I never look at what's inside, whatsoever. I don’t need to, but it's always there cause, you know… cause I’m a pathetic loser and I never got over you.”

You feel your face going numb as you finish saying that, and when you look at his eyes, you see that his smile has disappeared too. Is he pitying you? It’s the only thing you can read on his expression right now, and you instantly regret telling him that.

He opens his mouth to talk, but he takes too long to respond. And before he can say anything, you promptly stand up and try to head out the door.

Surfing the crowd, you bump into Pam.

“Hey, I was looking for you. Come on, games are starting. Sit down.”

“I was going to—” You point at the door with your thumb, but she doesn’t hear you. She grabs your arm and takes you to the tables where everyone is gathering.

Your weak protest attempt goes unheard by your friend, who leaves you alone once more to explain the first game on the microphone as someone else starts handing a sheet filled with trivia questions to everyone. They range from school-specific questions to 1996 pop culture. This is the last thing you wanna do right now, but you pick up a pen and start filling your answers without putting too much thought into them.

“Hi—” the high-pitched feedback from the microphone tears your eyes from the paper, and you find Duncan back on stage, strapping a guitar to his shoulder.

“I’m sorry I’m taking the stage again,” he says as the people from the organization committee start asking him to get down, with Pam fuming on the side.

“Actually, I’m not sorry. There’s someone here today and she… she opened her heart to me and I just stood there like an idiot cause I’m not good with words like she is. I… I thought I could say better with a song.”

You lock eyes with him instantly. You can see him swallowing the lump in his throat as he positions his hands on the guitar. He looks down at the strings for a beat before letting his fingers play the first chords. After a moment, his voice joins the melody in a mid-tempo rock ballad…

Your voice knocks down my own pride, All the things you wrote, all the things you shared. Sleepless nights, restless days. Guess I never figured out, How to let go, how to walk out.

Wish I had gone along, But baby, it’s too late now. If I could go back, I’d rewrite our last goodbye Instead of losing you that night.

There’s nothing like a fatal flaw, Caught up in my own fears and lies, I pushed you away, said you weren’t it. You walked away, I stayed right here Watching the years slip by.

Wish I had gone along, But baby, it’s too late now. If I could go back, I’d rewrite our last goodbye Instead of losing you that night.

And just for kicks, let’s pretend it’s 1996, We’re flying high, we’re back in that field The grass holding us up, watching stars collide.

Wish I had gone along…

Please tell me it’s not too late…

I’ll wait for you to say… baby, there’s still a chance.

The gym goes silent when the last chord fades away, and you can’t hear anything over the sound of your beating heart as you study every word sung in his song. You’re aware that all eyes are on you, expecting to see your next move, but you’re paralyzed in your seat.

Someone starts clapping, and the rest of the gym follow suit, breaking the spell you’re in.

You raise up from your chair and head out the door at a fast pace while the party resumes like nothing happened. You make it all the way to the courtyard and when you look back you see him following several yards behind, closely catching up.

Your feet come to a halt by the fountain, and you wait for him to face you.

“You know, you’re a liar,” you utter as he stops in front of you.

“All I said in that song was true.”

“No, you said you weren't good with words. I beg to differ.”

“You liked it?”

“Well, it wasn’t Bohemian Rhapsody, but it was good. It sounded like Oasis in their good years.”

“I mean, no one can beat Bohemian Rhapsody,” he snorts, shoving his hands in his pockets and shrugging in true Duncan fashion.

“Did you really mean it? If you could take it back, would you? You think we would’ve made it?”

“I meant every word of it, sweetheart. I never wanted to be with anyone else. I don’t know if we would have made it. I’d like to think that in another universe we did… You said you kept everything and I just choked up cause I did the same thing. I could never let you go, you know?”

“So, we’re just two wallowing assholes that couldn’t pick up the phone in 10 years?”

“Guess we are.”

“What do we do now?” You ask, folding your arms against your stomach.

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

“I’m not the same person you remember, Duncan. We can’t just pick it up like nothing happened.”

“I don’t think I am, either. Maybe we could just stay in contact and see where that goes?” He takes out a hand out of his pocket that comes with a cell phone attached to his fingers. “Here, put your number in there.”

“It's funny,” he says as you pick it up from his hand and start typing your number in his contacts.

“What's funny?”

“Us being here, standing on the same spot where I first asked you out.”

You gaze away from the phone for a second. “Right, I didn't notice that. What was it? Homecoming?”

“That's right.”

When you're done saving your number, you call yourself to have his number registered on your end and give it back with a warning look, “don’t make me regret this.”

“I won’t. I give you my word.” Duncan purposely clutches his fingers softly around your hand when reaching for the phone. He uses his opposite hand to caress the shape of your knuckles.

The familiar touch makes your hair stick out, your breath gets caught in the knot of your throat, wrapped in a layer of regrets and unsaid words. There’s an I love you trying to force its way out, but you don’t let it. You can’t. It’d be ridiculous if you did. Instead, you step closer and cup his face. He lets out a sigh, preparing for what’s coming as your face shortens the distance. The same magnetic pull that brought you to him the first time over ten years ago takes hold of you as you capture the warmth of his lips in a tender kiss. His hands, driven by that same force, smoothly travel to your waist to hold you closer against him. You sway with the gentle breeze as you allow your lips to move with his to the sweet rhythm of that song that still lingers in the way his tongue delves past your lips. As you're drawn into the depth of his mouth, you curl your arms around his neck in a tight lock as one of your hands slides into the back of his hair. He moans in your mouth as a reaction to your fingers massaging his scalp. It’s easy to get lost in that moment and forget how to breathe as your lips ache for more, for all those missed years of kisses, you suddenly feel fused with him making up for all that lost time.

You’re not sure who pulls back first, perhaps it’s both.

He’s just as breathless as you are when your lips part and your foreheads meet instead.

“Wow,” he says under a shallow breath.

“Yeah, wow,” your lips draw a smile.

“Do you wanna go back inside?”

You shake your head. “I like it here.”

— Credits: beautiful divider by @firefly-graphics

[zosan-secondchances]

The Pirate King of the North: Part 3

Main Themes: Villain Sanji, Alternate Universe, Zosan Ship

Warning: Long post ahead with One Piece spoilers. Contains strong language, drug use and explicit content.

Part 1 | 2 | 3

Law

Zoro-ya…

Zoro

DON'T.

Law

We've passed by the same block thrice.

Zoro growls. His fists clench as he continues to stubbornly walk ahead of the other man.

Law

Are you seriously this hopeless at directions?

Zoro

Shut up!! We're here.

Law cautiously looks around. His assumption was correct–the green-head is an idiot.

Law

We're in a damp back alley that smells like piss, in the middle of the night, behind some–

Just as Law is about to take another step, a couple of drunken men get roughly thrown out from a tavern and onto the stone footpath in front of him. The bouncer yells unruly curses their way and slams the door behind him. Law sighs, exasperated, and proceeds to follow Zoro, stepping over the writhing drunkards without a care.

Law

Lovely. Look, just tell me where you want to go and I'll take us there. We've wasted enough time already. Are you even sure that we’re on the right island?

Zoro

Shut up. This is the right place. I’m sure of it…this time.

Oh good, they haven't cleared it out yet.

Zoro confidently walks towards a large metal rubbish bin behind yet another shoddy tavern. He readjusts the swords around his waist, and jumps up onto the container. The top half of his body hangs over the opening and the bottom half flails his legs to offset his balance to make sure he doesn't fall all the way in.

Disgusted, Law covers his face with his arm, glaring at Zoro's behind.

Law

You said you can get us in touch with the Pirate King.

Zoro ignores the man and proceeds to dig through the trash, arms deep. Some of the contents spill over the edge, and some he chucks in random directions by hand.

Law

Ugh… Is digging through the trash really how we get to him? It took us two whole days to travel just to get here for this?

Zoro

FOUND YOU!

With a couple of kicks in the air, Zoro's feet fall on the ground. He has his hands cupped together close to his chest. He quickly shuffles past Law, avoiding eye contact, and begins to whisper into his hands as he finds a quiet dark corner while his back is turned towards the other man.

Zoro

I need you working for me now. Come on.

…

I'm sorry I threw you away. I was afraid that you were tapped. Or that you'll explode.

…

C'mon. Just…I'll feed you extra or something. What do you guys like again?

Law's patience is wearing very thin. He approaches Zoro, tapping him on the shoulder with the handle of his own sword.

Law

Zoro-ya, what's going on?

Zoro jolts. He turns his head to look at Law over his shoulder. His ears have turned red. In the palm of his hand, two tiny curious orbs peek over at the doctor.

Law blinks in surprise, looking at the transponder snail with two curly brows above its eyes.

—

At the other end of the line, a den-den mushi with one eye awakens from its peaceful nap.

Den-den Mushi

Purupurupurupuru

A delicate hand answers the call. He lifts the snail’s handset close to his face.

Sanji

Hello?

My beloved! What can I do for you?

Mhmm… Uh-huh. Huh.

That sounds like fun. Sure, I'll help you.

I'll see you soon, my love.

Den-den Mushi

Click

The call put Sanji in a pleasant mood. He is on his bed, reading a book on his stomach while smoking a joint. The one-eyed transponder snail readjusts its shell happily before hiding inside itself comfortably for another long snooze. Sanji thinks that's a great idea, and snuggles himself further in the overly large pink feather coat that draped over him like a blanket, bumping the wavy red sunglasses that sat on his forehead.

Doflamingo shifts in reaction. He is splayed naked next to him with his hands behind his head, resting comfortably against an especially large pillow that looks proportional to his massive figure.

Doflamingo

“My beloved,” hmm? Who was it?

Sanji

None of your god damn business, you ugly fuck.

Doflamingo lets out a deep sinister chuckle.

Doflamingo

This your new toy?

Sanji

He used to be.

Doflamingo

The swordsman, eh? I'm glad to hear that you're making progress.

Sanji

Thanks, cunt.

Doflamingo turns his head slightly, nodding at Sanji's hand with the stick.

Doflamingo

Pass it here.

Sanji stretches his hand and gently places the joint between Doflamingo's lips, giving him a chance to take a long deep drag.

As thanks, Doflamingo holds the air in his lungs, leans over and captures Sanji's lips onto his to breathe the smoke directly into his mouth, making the other man moan deliciously. He takes the hint and pushes further in, shoving his long pointed tongue further down his throat.

Sanji lets him flip him onto his back, welcoming his full weight by spreading his legs wide so the large man can fit between his figure. He opens his mouth, giving him further access.

After a few moments of exchanging deep penetrating kisses, Sanji exhales the smoke out through his nose. He pulls back slightly to look Doflamingo in the eyes.

Sanji

Don't touch him, okay?

Doflamingo

You're no fun.

Sanji

I'm serious.

At this point, Doflamingo knows when he can push his luck and when he can't, especially with that tone in his voice. He raises a hand, telling the other man that he won't bother him further about it. Shifting back onto his pillow, he returns his gaze to the blue and the green-haired commanders standing guard by the doorway. They'd been assigned to make sure that he behaves himself which is the usual routine, but nevertheless he finds it entertaining that they always refuse to watch the show directly in front of them or make any eye contact at all.

Doflamingo 

Think the blue one will actually let me have a go at him this time?

Sanji

Only if you want your dick bitten off, darling.

----------

A little drink to quench the thirst. Doffy is a big boy.

[vikenticomeshome]

Great God Grove: Patience's New Relationship:

Minor spoilers for the speed dating section of Hobbyhoo below the read-more. Proceed at your own risk.

Godpoke, the mostly blank slate of a player character, is tasked with being the Matchmaker at the Soul Cricket bar's speed dating night. They match the three candidates, and then they are given one final task by the owner of the bar, Patience.

She loves to tell stories about all sorts of mundane things, which can last multiple hours. She has worn out the patience of humans and gods alike. She believes that she is the ultimate challenge in match-making.

The solution to this puzzle is to take some words from Styella:

"It jewst makes me smile to spend time with yew"

Sometimes words played back by the Godpoke are seen as coming from the original speaker. Good examples are speech from the Gods. In other cases, like this one, words played back by the Godpoke are seen as coming directly from the Godpoke. It is left ambiguous as to if they can speak with their own voice, or if they are mute.

Patience takes these words to heart and immediately falls for Godpoke. But, did Godpoke really mean what they said? Or did they just say what they needed to say in order to get the romantic light bulb and proceed with the story?

Of course, Godpoke is the player character. For the most part, their personality is determined by the player. With characters like this, we have one major way to determine a canon personality. We look at the options that they don't have. These are the things that the canon Godpoke would not do.

For example, Godpoke doesn't beat up the gate guard to leave Hobeyhoo early. The gate guard is refusing to do his job and open the gate to BuzzHuzz because "Oh partner mine" has been boring lately. Dude, the apocalypse is imminent, and I need to get to the Spire. Get over it. Also, while they bonk Da Bizzyboys on the head in self-defense, they don't go further than necessary. They don't pull out a Big Iron or anything like that. They also don't suck up the animal barricades, like Kondle's pigs or Cara's birds, to clear the way, even though Megapon is capable of doing it. They also don't just stral the romantic bulb. They talk things out instead.

None of that confirms whether they were being genuine with Patience though. Godpoke can just hurl insults, bad advice, or lies with Megapon after all. There's probably no way to confirm it either way. So, I'm just going to assume that they meant it.

So, what does a relationship between Godpoke and Patience look like? Well, Godpoke still has their work traveling all over the Grove for mail delivery and resolving people's commujication problems. Patience still runs her Soul Cricket bar.

And when they spend quality time together, Patience has her long stories about all sorts of mundane things. The key word here is "mundane". If Patience has a problem, she gets to the point. She didn't tell a four hour story when she needed Godpoke's help as a matchmaker, after all. But, if Patience wants to tell Godpoke about all of the dogs who went past the bar that day, then she can drone on for hours.

I think these stories would be quite soothing. The Godpoke isnt facing an apocalypse, transporting large loads of mail, or struggling to find just the right words from one person to resolve another person's problem. All they have to do is get out of their work clothes, get into something more comfortable, snuggle up to Patience's chest, and listen to her talk. Megapon doesn't even need to come into it, since they wouldnt need to grab strategic lines. I also think that Godpoke would find her voice very soothing as the stories start to blend together, especially with their head in that position

After a long day, it is likely that Godpoke would fall asleep during Patience's stories. Now, would Patience be upset over this? I don't think so. Her problem was that people would get sick of her long stories and push her away. But then, Godpoke stuck around to listen and cuddle. I think she would really love the idea that Godpoke found her voice so soothing and relaxing that they fell asleep in her arms.

And then, she adds in some physical affection, while never missing a beat in her stories. She gives them forehead kisses, scratches their back right between their shoulder blades, kneads their hands and feet, gives them light tickles, etc. It's all about finding what kinds of affection Godpoke enjoys receiving. She manages to find several of their weaknesses. And then, her evening stories become a game. How quickly can the combination of her soothing voice and her probing those weak points melt Godpoke's brain and send them to sleep? Meanwhile, Godpoke tries to stay awake as long as possible. They also try to give some physical affection in return to help Patience relax, which she absolutely loves.

However, it gets to the point where Patience's voice is near-hypnotic ASMR for Godpoke. They tend to lose the game, and it isn't even close. They both get a lot out of it. Patience gets to cuddle and tell her companion stories. She gets to watch Godpoke slowly turn to mush under her hands and voice. And Godpoke gets plenty of soothing affection, followed by the deepest, most restful, sleep.

[foxesscramble]

in honor of the holidays here's some foxes and co going home for the holidays (set sometime in the future)

Somewhere in Wisconsin:

Matt Boyd just won his last game before their winter break.

Dan and Matt make their rounds to say goodbye to everyone as they disperse for the break.

They head out and grab a taxi, making a quick stop by their house to grab their luggage.

They’re headed home for the holidays.

Back to where their families were collecting for the holidays.

Back to South Carolina.

They were unbelievably excited to see everyone.

They had a secret that they were finally telling the foxes when they got them all together.

Dan cradled her growing belly

Somewhere in Colorado:

Renee compiled a list of care advice for her neighbor who is petsitting for her while she’s in South Carolina.

It’s a hefty list and Renee is once again grateful for her kind, elderly neighbor who had volunteered herself immediately after hearing Renee was going to be traveling.

She made her rounds saying goodbye to all her pets before grabbing her suitcase and keys and heading to the door.

She sent a text to Allison to let her know she was about to hit the road.

Text sent she said one last goodbye at the door before locking up behind her.

South Carolina, here we come.

Somewhere in New York:

Allison carefully packed her clothes into her bag.

Had she possibly packed too much for her two-week trip? Probably, but she hasn’t seen anyone in a while, and she likes to look good.

Allison checked her phone for the time before grabbing her suitcases and putting them by the door.

She did one last walk-through to make sure she didn’t forget anything before turning all her lights off and grabbing her luggage.

She closed the door and locked it before making her way out of her apartment. 

She sent a text to Renee to let her know she was leaving and got in her car.

Somewhere in Germany:

“Nicky, Liebling, if you don’t get your ass down here we’re going to miss our flight!” 

Nicky swears as he collects his bags in a hurry, his feet pounding down the stairs of his and Erik’s apartment.

Germany had done Nicky a lot of good but he was undeniably excited to head back to the States.

Back to his family.

“I’m ready! I swear!” 

Erik laughed and herded him out the door.

They made it through the security check with 15 minutes to get to their boarding area.

They laughed as they ran through the airport, their luggage flipping and bumping into the back of their legs.

They were the last people on the plane, but they made it.

Nicky was going home.

Somewhere in California:

Kevin lugs both suitcases into the trunk of his car before he helps Amalia into the back seat and gets her buckled into her car seat.

They were driving all the way to South Carolina because Amalia had recently become deathly afraid of planes.

Settling in for the two-day drive, they'd barely made it 30 minutes into the trip before Amalia determined it had been a long time and it was time for snacks.

With a deep breath and a silent prayer to all things holy, Kevin pulled into a gas station to get snacks and have a bathroom break.

He knew the drive would be rough but 'Grandpa Coach' and 'Gran Abby', as Amalia had taken to calling her grandparents (maybe Kevin should have stopped calling them by name), would be more than willing to take Amalia when they got home.

Amalia spent the rest of the 36 hour drive rotating between excitably talking about seeing her aunts and uncles, singing the entire Frozen soundtrack at the top of her little 4 year old lungs, and sleeping.

Somewhere between Kansas and South Carolina:

"If you touch the stereo one more time, Josten, you're losing your hand."

Hands held over the console.

Hand kisses.

Smoke breaks.

Lots of snack breaks.

Neil gets fruit cups and Andrew gets candy.

Their cats joined them for the trip.

Sir sits in Neil's lap the entire ride but King gets the zoomies every 30 miles.

Andrew has to repeatedly remove him from his feet so he stops getting close to the pedals.

They call Bee halfway through the drive to make sure she’ll be there when they get there. She and Andrew chat while Neil takes a bathroom break.

When Neil comes back Andrew’s frame has relaxed a bit further. 

They were both excited to see everyone but that didn’t take away the anxiety of having that big of a group together again.

But the foxes were family and they couldn’t wait to see their family.

Somewhere in North Carolina:

"Okay, and you packing the girls' blankets?"

Katelyn and Aaron may resemble headless chickens trying to get their 13 month old twins together and ready.

Katelyn has been tasked with the girls' things and Aaron has been tasked with actually getting the girls in the car.

One of the twins is passed out in their car seat and the other is sobbing and throwing a fit.

Aaron is trying to calm her down and Katelyn is driving.

It took about an hour to get her to stop crying and when she did Aaron took a deep breath and fell back in his seat.

He rested his head back and closed his eyes, letting the quiet sounds of the road soothe him.

That calmness lasts for a good minute before Katelyn lets out a loud, FUCK!

"I forgot our suitcase!"

Somewhere in South Carolina:

Abby fluffs the decorative pillow for the hundredth time in the past ten minutes. 

She’s already vacuumed and swept every room in their house. She’s gotten all the spare bedrooms ready and taken out all of the blowup mattresses. Most of the kids were staying with them with the exception of those that had kids.

They hadn’t all been together in so long and it felt imperative that the house looked good for everyone.

Wymack came up behind her and gently took the pillow from her hands before setting it back on the couch.

“The place looks amazing, Abby.” 

Abby turned around and shot him a doubtful look.

Wymack laughed roughly and leaned forward to place a careful kiss to her forehead. 

“They’re just going to be happy to be here. I don’t think they’d care if it looked like a pigsty in here. Everything is okay, and you know why?” 

Abby leaned her weight against Wymack’s chest. “Why?”

Wymack pulled back slightly so he could send her a fond smile.

“Our kids are coming home."

[faeries-child]

No place for love part 2

OTHER PARTS: Part 1

Pairing: Azriel x oc/reader

Summary: She was the only way to get the information the spymaster needed, but he would have truly given anything not to see her again. Not to be at her mercy, completely under her control, for she awakened things in Azriel that he would rather had kept in slumber.

Warnings: Mature content, nudity, prostitution, eventual smut, mention's of SA, fighting and a lot of other triggering things :,)

NOTICE: I AM A DYSLEXIC, NOT A NATIVE ENGLISH SPEAKER, I WRITE THESE AT 2 AM, HAVE MERCY :)

(Also, I got some inspiration to this chapter from one of the episodes from BBC Sherlock, where there is the legendary Irene Adler)

The man under Brianna had started to annoy her. She had kept him company for hours now. Fucking him, making love to him, pleasing him however he wanted. She was tired, tired of him. His smell was all over her by now and she wanted nothing more than to wash it off in a long warm bath, that she could maybe get to enjoy later, if she succeeded in her mission. 

She was straddling him, running her hands on his chest and smiling down at him. The man was panting heavily under her, eyes closed and his hands still keeping her hips securely in place on him.

 “I do not believe I can go for another round anymore love” he said looking up at her. He seemed to be intoxicated with everything around them and especially with her. 

Brianna thanked the mother that it was over now. Now she could start the real game. “My lord, did I wear you out? but there were so many things that I still wanted to do.” She let out a fake giggle at the end to convince him of the act she was putting on before him. 

She rolled off him, leaving him on the bed. Brianna walked to the other side of the room, where her robe was abandoned on one of the many cushions that covered the floor and made up the makeshift lounging area of the room. She pulled the robe on to cover her naked body. Turning to face the man again, she smiled that vicious smile she knew to make in situations like this. 

“Tell me my lord, now that you are back from your travels, what's next?”

“Oh Brianna. Why must you remind me of that boring thing people call reality?” 

He turned on the bed so he was facing her. In his eyes Brianna could sense a bite of annoyance. But to Brianna he was a simple man, nothing more than plaything in a bigger game she got to play. Getting the right information meant that she would get to meet the high lord’s spymaster again. 

To Brianna it was fun, refreshing almost. Talking to someone who at least tried to be a gentleman. Someone who tried not to look at her only as an object to be toyed and fiddled with. 

“I was only meaning to ask so I would know if you would continue to grace us with your presence in the future. Many of my girls miss you, they would be delighted to offer their services to you.” You lied through your teeth, like hell would you let any of the girls near this man. He wasn’t the worst that there was, but if you would have been given the choice, you would have burned him to ashes before he ever laid a finger on you the first time. But at least he was simple at mind. Easy to control, easy to impress. 

“My Brianna, always so sweet tongued.” He got up from the bed, starting to collect his clothes from the floor and putting them on. “But yes, I will be staying for a while. Business in the east went well, so now me and my men are preparing for the next stage.” He spoke not realizing how much he was giving away.

Brianna could truly now tell that he wasn’t the brightest of the punch. But she had gotten enough information, it was not yet enough proof to prove anything, but at least she had something interesting to report back to the shadowsinger and the high lord. 

Brianna smiled and walked towards the man, straightening his collar while looking into his eyes. “I am sorry to inform you that our time together has now come to an end, my next client is waiting already.” 

At the right moment the doors to her champers were opened, revealing Daphne at the entrance.  “I am sorry my lord, but I must ask you to leave my lady's room now, but if you are in the mood, you can enjoy a drink downstairs at the lounge bar.” 

“Of course, and oh!” The man turned to look at Brianna before saying “I am sorry to disappoint the other girls you were speaking of, but you, my Brianna, are the only one that can satisfy my hunger.” 

He bent down at her level and kissed her as a goodbye, then smelling her neck when straightening his back. After that he left, and deep inside Brianna could feel a shiver of disgust, making her want to burn all that he had touched, including herself. 

It was wrong to say that she had gotten used to it, no one could get used to it. No matter how many times she laid with these men, every single time she imagined herself somewhere else. She wished she could put a dagger through all of their hearts. If only she had the freedom to do so. 

Daphne looked at her lady, her friend. Starting to close the door so she could have a moment to dress and gather herself. Maybe bathe as well. Daphne knew the expression on Brianna’s face, she knew that her friend needed to wash off his touch. 

“Daphne, wait.” She said looking at her friend's eyes. “I have message for you to deliver” 

“What is it Anna?” 

Brianna fully turned to her friend and smiled at her, knowing that soon she really could meet the shadowsinger again soon. 

“Send a message to the high lord and his spymaster. Tell them that I have information that they will want to hear. “

Azriel’s pov:

Azriel, Cassian and Rhysand had been enjoying a quiet evening in the townhouse when the fire message came. Cassian had Nyx sitting on his knee, the little boy was chewing a wing of black bat toy that Nesta had gotten him for a present on his 1st birthday. 

Message appeared in front of Azriel's nose, making Rhys and Cassian turn their heads towards him. “What’s that?” asked Cassian, while trying to keep the little boy still on his leg. 

“The brothel already answered you?” Rhys concluded, making the assumption based on the frown on Azriel’s face. After the visit Azriel had been quiet, at least quieter than usual, which worried Rhysand. His friend hadn’t said anything about who he had met or what had happened at the brothel. 

“Yes” was the only thing Azriel answered. Not wanting to let his brothers know how helpless he had been before the woman. 

“So this means…?” Cassian asked, trying to pry more information from his brother. 

“Me and Rhys are taking a trip to the court of nightmares” Said the shadowsinger, thinking that bringing the high lord with him, he could maybe get more serious information from the woman. 

Azriel still didn’t know her name. In his mind he had started to call her “the woman”, not knowing anything else that fit better. She was certainly no girl. Even though she was young, no one inexperienced could act that way. Her eyes had been so dark and Azriel knew that based on the little bits and pieces he had seen of her living space and life, she had seen more than most of others. 

After Gathering their weapons, they put on Hewn city-appropriate clothes so they wouldn’t stick out like sore thumb in the dark catacombs of the city that resided under their beloved house of wind.

 This time Azriel took extra care in securing daggers and truthteller on his belt, not wanting to be caught off guard. Memories of the woman haunting his mind. He had not been able to shake her from his mind. That devilish smirk entering his dreams, his shadows whispering about her every second he got. He wanted her, but at the same time he wanted to stay as far away from her as he could. Lock her up and keep her to himself, leave prythian and never see her again. 

She was going to be the end of him.

Hewn city:

Rhysand gave him suspecting look, when arriving at the front of the brothel. Azriel however ignored the look and closed his eyes. Breathing deeply once, before stepping inside the place. He gestured to Rhys to follow him. 

Azriel saw the girl from earlier. She was beautiful as well, he assumed that all of the girls here were. Daphne his shadows whispered to him. 

Daphne approached them. Seemingly taken aback by the high lord’s presence. So the woman had not told anyone that the high lord would be joining them tonight. She curtsied to the high lord, as well to him. Azriel only nodded to her. 

Rhys had raised his glamor. Trying to blend in, not to cause unnecessary attention and rumors that the high lord of the night court had been seen in a place such as this. 

“We received an invitation. According to you, you have what we asked” Rhysand said, keeping his voice calm,  but still demanding power. 

“Right this way my lord’s” was the only thing she said, turning and starting to walk towards the stairs. 

Azriel and Rhysand followed. Not questioning where she was taking them.

Why are you so tense? It was Rhys, speaking directly into Az’s mind from the open crack that had left for him. 

Be on your guard brother, please. 

It was the only thing the shadowsinger had time to say before reaching the familiar door. Daphne opened it for them, revealing the already familiar room to Azriel. 

They took a step to the room. Both him and his brother assessing the space. 

After making sure there wasn’t anyone else in the room and that the door was shut, he gazed upon her. 

She was at least dressed this time. In a blood red dress, revealing her neck and chest so that it would leave any man drooling. Dress was simple, but clearly expensive, seeing that it was perfectly tailored to her, hugging in all the right places, before widening to airy hem pooling down at the woman's feet. 

Last time he had been so focused at not staring at her, that now that when he looked at her face. Truly looked at her in a beautiful dress and hair that fell freely past the woman’s waist in curls. She was the most beautiful creature that he had ever come across. Right in that momen, Azriel knew he was doomed. Because for him she truly was THE woman, the only woman.

“Good evening, lord of shadows”

continued... (part 3 hopefully coming soon :,) )

[noirandchocolate]

It's the winner of my poll, so I hope you'll enjoy a nice big post about...

Yiga Clan Mask Culture and Traditions Headcanons!

History

The Clan adopted the practice of wearing masks fairly early on after their founding 10,000 years ago. Veils were already worn by powerful Sheikah monks as a symbol of martial prowess (being able to fight with hampered or absent sight), wisdom (being able to "see" what others could not, despite or because of a self-imposed "blindness"), and asceticism (being humble and near-anonymous). Those among the ancient Sheikah who worked as assassins, spies, guardians, and interrogators for the Crown also tended to wear masks covering at least part of the face. So, when the Sheikah who decided to defy the ancient King's genocide banded together to form the Yiga Clan, taking to wearing masks and veils to obscure their identities was a natural choice. The early Clan's face-coverings were among the first items they painted with the Inverted Eye that became the symbol of the group's defiance of their prior role as Hylia's chosen protectors and servants of the royal family.

The original Master Kohga, who had been the Chief of the Sheikah settlements around Satori Mountain, never actually wore a mask! (The practice of doing so had not fully standardized yet.) Instead, he took up wearing a veil to honor his grandfather, Monk Mogg Latan, and as a sign to those who would ask him and his people to shed their heritage, that he would not back down.

However, the First Master did provide the origin to one aspect of his successors' masks: While Sheikah who were considered masters in their chosen fields (including monks) traditionally wore a hairstyle featuring five long ornamental sticks, the First Master chose to wear six, as a symbol of a) his people's split from the Royal Family (cut an arrayed set of five sticks straight in half and you end up with six sticks--the formerly central one broken down the middle), and b) their continued claim to the power associated with the number three (note that the Sheikah monks found in Shrines (and Maz Koshia) all wear/display six golden bracelets). As you know, the current Master mask now features three horns on each side!

As time went on, in addition to providing protection and anonymity to Clan members particularly when traveling outside their main "hideout" base in Karusa Valley, the masks also became a unifying aspect of membership and family within the group. In other words, the masks are not only meant to hide one's face from outsiders, but to signal to insiders the bond between them. All within the Clan may don the mask, all may wear the same "face." All carry the symbol of the Inverted Eye. All are working together, all are playing their part. The Clan as a whole is quite a collectivist culture; the masks are one very obvious aspect of that.

The current mask designs have been in place for several millennia now, but it did take some time for the style to "settle" into this level of tradition and immutability. The Yiga have quite ancient scrolls and artworks depicting their ancestors wearing different styles of masks, including curved rectangular ones mimicking the shape of ancient monks' veils, and more complicated and demonic or deity-looking masks for Masters. During one period a few centuries into the Clan's existence, another Hylian monarch (this time, a Queen) sent troops across the kingdom to search for any remaining Sheikah (remember, Kakariko Village was "hidden" to most) to eradicate them. The Yiga began to appear "out of nowhere" to wreak havoc and sow discord among scouts and military camps, wearing masks painted with the inverted eye and large, red, smiling mouths. Quite unsettling!

How They're Made and How They Work

Masks are crafted of wood and, in the case only of the Master, an overlay of molduga bone. All those taking up the job of craft-work among the Yiga learn to make masks, but there have always been a few specially trained masters of the art who create masks and associated ornaments for the Master, Right Hand, presumptive Heir, and any spouse (Mistress or Consort) of the Master. These in particular are expected to be perfect, both in their specially-measured fit to the wearer's face and in their symmetry of shape and inlaid, painted design. And so, training to make them goes beyond the ordinary mask-maker's education, involving a great deal of practice but also meditation. A keen eye for detail and steady hands are paramount. These crafting masters are highly regarded, and often take on new names related in some way to their teachers', when they achieve their new position.

Yes, the masks are solid wood. Yiga are able to see "through" them using magic. The vast majority of current Clan members share a heritage that allows them to use magic (a subject for another post!) at least to some degree, and this Sight skill is one of the very first things Yiga are taught--whether as young children or as new additions if they join as teens or adults. As with many Yiga abilities (again, to be discussed in the future!), Sight has an accompanying rune/talisman that will keep it going perpetually. This is etched into an "active" mask when it is given to its owner. So, the owner puts on the mask, instantly starts the...for lack of a better word "spell," and then the rune keeps the ability "flowing" for as long as the user wishes.

Those vanishingly few Clan members who are completely devoid of magical ability must ask someone else to activate the rune for them. Unfortunately, their Sight through their masks is impaired by the fact that none of their own energy is being used to power the rune as it "flows." Such members do not take on/are not assigned to roles that will take them outside the Karusa Complex, as masks are absolutely required for such positions. Instead, they stay home, usually wear veils instead, and work within the Clan in other vital ways.

Current Designs

All Yiga masks save those for the Master and Right Hand share the same basic curved oval shape that contours around to cover the sides of the face, again for anonymity and conformity. Really the only difference about those two, too, is the addition of horns. All masks are marked with the Inverted Eye.

One other slightly different mask is that worn by the Heir, which is additionally marked by a curved slash of red down the sides of the face (most prominently visible in profile). This marks the Heir as one who is working to grow into leadership and one day wear a horned mask.

The horns on the Master and Right Hand's masks have that curved shape because they are meant to not only be horns, but flames. As in, flames of righteous fury against those who betrayed the Clan's ancestors, and the purifying flames of destruction they've hoped would purge the Kingdom of its ruling class! The red inlay of them of course matches the red of the Eyes, but also symbolizes the burning core of the Clan's intended vengeance.

The Master has three horns per side, and the Right Hand has one, so perhaps you've wondered: is there a two-horned mask? Why yes! I headcanon that there is! It is reserved for a Right Hand who is also the Heir. Which is not a very rare occurrence, since a Master would likely hope to rely on their Heir as their second-in-command, once they're of age and they've proven themself to be reliable, skilled, and powerful enough. (Great training to be Master themself one day!) Our current Best Guy Kohga remembers this mask as the one his father wore during his early childhood before his Nana died and Dad became Master. Kohga himself was also eventually given the two-horned mask when he became his father's Right Hand.

He was very proud to wear it.

He did not get to wear it for long.

The metal side ornaments on Yiga masks are meant to resemble fangs, and are meant to add an edge of ferociousness to the Clan's appearance. Even members who are not actively working in more martial positions wear them--a style similar to Footsoldiers', but with the subtle difference that the center ridge of their three-ridged design is red, instead of the top one.

Footsoldiers' ornaments are straighter and dagger-like, evoking their prowess with smaller, more concealed weapons and bows. The top ridge colored red indicates that they are in a martial position and their work--and if necessary, their bloodshed--protects the more "civilian" population of the Karusa Complex.

Blademasters' ornaments are curved and sharper, a show of their ferocity with larger, well, blades. Although usually hidden by their hoods when in they're in full uniform, their ornaments do still feature the three ridges with the top one in red.

The Right Hand's ornaments share the basic shape of the Blademasters', but are segmented more smoothly down their whole length, with the final, sharp segment at the tip in red. These show that the Right Hand is at the top of the martial hierarchy of the Clan, at the forefront of the Clan's protection and ready to stain their weapons ("fangs") with the blood of their enemies.

Finally, Master Kohga's ornaments' more hooked shape are similarly meant to represent curved fangs, but the more rounded, shiny red end-pieces are meant to evoke skill not only with weapons but with the special arcane techniques only a Master is trained in. The larger, round, red center of their five-ridged design shows that Master Kohga is the central figure for the Clan--not just the Chief or "top banana," but someone who lives among their people and keeps them together. Powerful, deadly, but also a unifying force.

Traditions Surrounding Masks

As suggested above, Yiga children start wearing veils and practicing using the Sight technique pretty young, so they're prepared for donning their masks when the time comes. Kids officially get their first masks at the very start of the year during which they'll turn eleven. Depending on the Clan's birth rate for a particular year there might be only a few getting masks or there might be a big group. Getting one's mask involves...

A trip to Satori Mountain with Master Kohga! The Mountain being a very important place for the Clan, it has been chosen for the children's (usually) first time leaving the relative safety of Karusa Valley. The Master takes them to the sacred spring among the sakura trees near the top, where they remove their veils and put on their first masks. This ceremonial part of the trip is fairly short, and involves a pledge to stay safe beneath the mask and to work to the best of one's ability for the Clan. Then, the kids get to have some fun exploring, doing some fun little tasks set by the Master--things like "pick four different kinds of mushroom" or "find the tree marked with the Eye." This is meant to give the children not only a chance to practice using Sight out in the open, but the opportunity to get to know the Mountain...and...well, to run around being kids rolling in grass and climbing trees, out in the world under the sky, using the basic tracking and stealth skills they've been learning through their childhoods. (This is truly another of the current Kohga's favorite days of the year. Man loves the kiddos.)

Once you've received your mask, you're also considered old enough to start doing more involved chores around the Complex and figuring out what jobs and roles you might want to start really training for. So it's a Coming of Age kind of event! Children's mask ornaments are again the same as footsoldiers' and civilians', but they have the lowest ridge painted red. Under the protection of everyone else. They'll have these until they turn sixteen--another milestone.

Clan members are expected to keep their faces covered or disguised even at home, once they have been given their first masks. I've said it before but it belongs in a post on this topic: one's true face is, after that age, reserved for one's very immediate family. Parents, grandparents, siblings, spouse, and kids/grandkids. So, when a child goes up Satori Mountain at the start of their special year, the moment between when they take off their veil and when they put on their mask may be the last time they see the real faces of their friends with whom they share an age. Honestly, it's quite poignant, a sort of shedding of one's childhood self and taking on of a new identity among the Clan.

After death, a person's final mask is kept for their family's area down in the Clan's ancestor shrine halls. Masks are cared for by family members as part of specific festivals and are brought out for various events like weddings and funerary rites within the family. Since so much of a person's energy flows through their mask over the time they wear it, it's believed to still carry a part of their essence. So it's felt that ancestors are especially "present" and watching over you, when you visit your family shrine, or when their masks are made a part of your special days.

Yiga masks are quite tough, and broken and outgrown ones are burned at home. Those who are assigned to jobs and missions outside the Valley must be adept at the disguise technique, but if one's mask is broken to the point it can no longer be worn and it is at all possible to break away from one's task, one is supposed to return home to retrieve a new one right away.

((Sooga's insistence on wearing his cracked mask is considered quite unusual and odd. It's honestly only permitted because he is the Right Hand and thus his horns and uniforms already make him stand out. He did have it reinforced and repainted after the incident. I gave his stated reasoning for keeping it in a prior post, but...it's also because he was initially ashamed at having broken the work of a master craftsman so shortly after he received it. To this day, years later, if pressed he will say that his mask is serviceable so there is no need to trouble anyone. Of course, now more than ever anyone would love to make him a new one, but...that's Sooga for you. T-T))

Married couples traditionally remove each other's masks on their wedding night, before shedding any remaining disguise. This is a profoundly intimate show of love and trust. Even within a marriage, consent must be given before taking off one's spouse's mask.

Once you turn sixteen, in fact, no one is allowed to remove your mask without your express permission. Even when you're disguised under there. That includes parents and romantic partners. It's considered incredibly rude and childish especially after that age, to grab at someone else's mask to try to remove it.

That said, poking at or rapping on someone's mask is just silly behavior between friends, and caressing a masked cheek is loving. Also, touching masked foreheads together is a gesture of closeness between family, friends, and partners. Especially with a romantic partner, it's like a masked kiss. Yes. It's true. Yiga bonk foreheads like kittycats. (/silly, not really)

Because Yiga tend to spend a lot of time with their faces--even their fake faces--covered up, as a culture they tend to be quite expressive with their bodies and vocal inflections. They don't have facial expressions to rely on for communication purposes all the time, so head-tilts and hand gestures and other body language are adopted from an early age to get one's point across. Of course this doesn't mean they don't know what facial expressions are and mean (don't be ridiculous)--they know those things too, for when they're using an unmasked disguise and for dealing with other races. Just...they tend to talk with their hands a lot and can tell another Yiga's intent or emotion by how far they're tilting their head or how they're leaning their body. In fact, not gesturing as much or using subtler postures is just as much considered "reserved" or "quiet" among the Yiga as simply keeping one's volume down. There's nuance in these things, that outsiders might not realize.

Yiga doing espionage have to sort of mitigate these instincts/learned behaviors; they can sometimes come off weird or unsettling, otherwise! Think of those travelers you may have seen on the roads...how they wave and call to you a little too enthusiastically, and smile just a bit too wide... But surely they're just friendly! You should go over to them and talk. If you're lucky, they might even sell you some bananas, at very fair prices!

And the last thing you see, will be the blood red of the Inverted Eye.

And there you have it! A whole bunch of headcanons about Masks! Hope you had a good time reading!