#anyway just. head full of screaming. ears full of history has its eyes on you

[msommers]

once again thinking about ellana and her ever-present worries on history erasing who she is. of her discovering the truth of ameridan and those worries strengthening so much they solidify into fears.

[mcdonaldsnumberone]

i just got a vision

kaiser x reader au where kaiser is transformed into a fluffy cat by a curse. reader finds him, takes care of him, and kaiser grows to love reader. at some point, reader kisses cat kaiser on his little forehead and he returns human.

now reader keeps kissing kaiser on the forehead. he thinks it's cute, when reader actually wants to turn him back into a cat

CATBOYSSSS OUGHGHGHGHGH CATBOYSSSSSS !!!!

anyways

LIKE A CAT!

you're finding it hard to deny your attraction to kaiser nowadays. which is only a problem because you're used to him being your pet cat, not a handsome young man who you broke free from a curse with a kiss. surely there's a way to turn him back into a cat?

gender neutral reader

There has to be a way to turn him back.

“Ahahaha! Awwww, darling, do you really like kissing me that much?”

There has to be.

“Do you want me to kiss you too? Is that it?”

You pushed yourself away from the man seated gleefully in front of you, distancing yourself as far as you could from him in the split second warning you had. Kaiser puckered his lips up, and the boy made exaggerated smooching noises towards you before you let out an audible gagging noise.

You should have known it was too good to be true. When a golden-furred cat showed up, abandoned in a cardboard box, outside of your door, you didn’t have the heart to turn it into the shelter where he might be miserable for the rest of his days. Raising a cat would be no cheap nor easy endeavor, but whenever the kitty flashed its wide blue eyes at you or pawed at you endearingly, you had no choice but to lend your heart to the creature.

And you most definitely should have known when the cat was a little too well-behaved in comparison to other cats. You swore up and down to your friends that your cat acted like it could understand you. When you tried to name him, he vehemently clawed at you and hissed down any suggestion you had until you propped open a history book. He then proudly sauntered over, took a few glances at the page before smacking his paw twice on two different words.

Michael Kaiser.

So your cat was named. You were quick to find out how picky he was and how much of an attention-whore your newfound pet was. The moment anything didn’t go his way, he’d yowl and howl at you as if you had personally conspired against him and his entire bloodline, only to be quelled over easily with some yummy treats and you promising him that he could sleep in your bed for the night, rather than the catbed you bought for him. A quick kiss would usually solve most issues you had with him, and Kaiser would melt into your lap and be the happiest feline in the world so long as you lavished your attention onto him.

It was these kisses that would be the key to unlocking your personal nightmare. You weren’t even exactly sure how it happened. One moment you were playing with your pet, wiggling Kaiser’s favorite toy and smothering his face with smooches, and next thing you knew, you were flat on the ground with a full-grown man sitting on top of you.

After a great deal of screaming, some threats to call the police, and hours of explanation followed by even more intense questioning, you were finally able to meet the real Michael Kaiser. The cursed-to-turn-into-a-cat Kaiser. The cursed-until-kissed-on-the-forehead Kaiser. The kiss-has-to-one-of-true-love Kaiser.

He insisted that he was in your debt and became a roommate as equally selfish as the feline partner you had grown used to, and while you wouldn’t mind hosting him, you wondered if there was a way to turn him back. After all, a cat was soooooo much cuter than some man who ate all your food and acted like he owned the place. 

“C’mon,” Kaiser’s voice broke you out of your thoughts. A poised hand cupped your face, and you held your breath as the man drew closer. A pair of golden-blue ombre cat ears twitched atop his head, clearly amused by the flustered reaction he drew out of you. “You’re always showering me with kisses. There’s nothing wrong with me returning the favor, is there?”

“Y-You’ve got the wrong idea!” You spluttered, waving your arms to signal your surrender. “I’m doing uh- uhhhh- a science experiment! Yeah, a science experiment of sorts!”

There was no way you could tell him that you were actively trying to turn him back into a cat. It was clear the man was absolutely smitten with you: constantly draping himself all over you, waking you up by stroking your face and hair, teasing you about how stupid humans were in comparison to cats… You weren’t sure how he’d take it if he found out that you were less keen on having him as a human lover as much as an adorable kittypet. 

Kaiser raised an eyebrow as if he wasn’t convinced, but he didn’t press on any further. “Well, darling, if you’re ever interested in having your favors returned… You only need to say the word.”

He winked at you sweetly, and you cursed yourself for the way your heart skipped a beat. You hated how ridiculously attractive this man was, enough to make your face heat up and your palms sweat. You debated going to a religious leader the first week after he turned into a man, wondering if being attracted to your former-cat-now-hot-ikemen roommate was some kind of sin. Or if it’d make you a furry. You’d spent hours surfing the web for any answers, only to come up with nothing.

But your attraction to him was there nonetheless. You couldn’t tell if Kaiser got careless on purpose or genuinely, having gotten used to life as a cat and all, but there were times he surprised you in the most unconventional ways. He’d rub his cheeks against you possessively, and if you tried to refuse, he’d simply pin you down on the nearest flat surface and affectionately rub his face all over yours until he was satisfied. 

(You later found out that that was how cats marked their territory.)

Sometimes he’d straight up wander around butt naked, and when you’d throw him some clothes and yell at him, he’d only grumble back about how dumb it was to even be clothed in the first place. You ended up having to wrestle him into a t-shirt and sweatpants, which only led to Kaiser misinterpreting that as a form of love-induced play fighting and ended up with him tackling you for half an hour straight.

But the worst of it all had to be how downright handsome he was. Even as a cat, you had to admit he was beautiful. You debated on whether or not you should enter him as a showcat. His golden fur was more like a beautiful lion’s than that of a cat, and his icy blue eyes peered up at you with swirling mischief and unmistakable fondness every time you entered his sight. He knew just what to do in order to tug at your heartstrings, and every time you saw your beloved kitty waiting patiently for you to return by the door, your heart melted.

His gorgeous features were only more accentuated as a human. He was so, so fit, with a body that could put any of the celebrities you ogled at on social media to shame. Every time he stepped out of a shower with barely anything on, all you could do was hide behind your phone and stare awestruck at his toned chest and sculpted abs. The little streams of water that ran down his bare skin did little to keep your head calm, and whenever the young man swept his long hair back, your stomach did somersaults. 

You never knew that Kaiser had a tattoo either, not until he turned human. He teased you relentlessly about it, asking if you liked seeing it and if you were interested in getting a matching one. The blue was a stunning copy of his pretty eyes, and when he was fast asleep, curled up next to you in bed, your fingers itched to trace over all the swirling thorns and stems. Ever since he found out that you had taken such a liking to his tattoo, Kaiser went out of his way to show it off to you whenever he can, just like how he nagged you to constantly brush and smooth out his sleek fur when he was a cat.

“No thanks,” you quickly refused. You squirmed out of his grasp, awkwardly trying to wriggle off of the couch you were sitting on with him. It was a forehead kiss that undid the curse and turned him back into a man. Maybe there was a way for you to reverse the curse reversal. Maybe if you kissed him on the forehead enough, he’d go from being the suave yet irritating man he was back into the cat you’d grown to love. “The last thing I need from you is a kiss.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? If my research about human courtship is correct, kisses usually indicate a romantic interest. And you’ve been doing nothing but kissing me all day, every day.”

Heat rushed to your face again, and you instinctively got defensive. Even if you were harboring a bit of a crush on your pet-roommate-amalgamation, you’d never admit it out loud to someone as conceited as him. “Did you not hear me earlier? I said it was for a science experiment!”

“I’m not convinced at all, darling,” he cooed. Your stomach twisted into a flurry of nerves at his slightly lowered eyes and the seductive batting of his long lashes. He chuckled, bright eyes lighting up like a predator closing in on its helpless prey, and your mouth went dry as he crawled over to where you were sprawled out onto the couch. 

You gulped when he placed a hand on either side of your head, easily looming over you and casting a shadow onto your form. 

You clenched your eyes shut as Kaiser closed in, and the boy bit down on the tip of your nose playfully. You yelped at the sudden stinging pain, and he laughed haughtily to himself watching you squirm and bat at his chest to no avail.

“Cats don’t like it when their prey doesn't fight back. We’re natural born hunters, you know. Weak prey means it's usually not worth our time. We like it when you struggle a bit, make us fight for our prize…” He traced a finger down your jawline, and you swore your heart was going to give out right there and then. The strict logic in your brain to always keep him at an arm’s distance wavered, and for that split second, Kaiser knew that he had you playing around in the palm of his hand. “And, boy, you’ve done nothing but make me really work for it. Was it fun? Hmmm? Pushing me away when you loved me so shamelessly as a cat?”

“That’s not-!” You knew deep down that your denial would only take you so far. Kaiser was hungry, starved, for your love, and only feeding him crumbs seemed to make him that much more ravenous to take from you. 

“Go ahead. I’m listening,” he purred. “If you can really tell me that you don’t feel the same way as I do, I’ll back off. I’m not interested in forcing someone to love me against their own will.”

You paused, biting your lip. Your gaze wavered, unable to look him straight in the face. The more tenacious part of your mind screamed at you to deny him, to cast him aside as you always had ever since his transformation, but the tightness welling up in your chest told another story. Your hands weakened their grip against his chest, and Kaiser grinned triumphantly to himself as he gobbled up the way you averted your eyes and hung your head.

“See? That’s more like it.” He leaned down, and with his sharp teeth, he nipped at your neck. You cried out once more, and you could feel him smirk into your skin as he lapped over the small bite marks he left you. “You’re so cute when you’re finally being honest.”

“I’ll get you for this, Kaiser, I will!” You swore vehemently. “I’m not going to lose to you like this!”

His fingers ghosted over your lips, and your words died in your throat when he pressed his thumb down your bottom lip. You swallowed thickly, only able to stare up at him as he bridged the gap between the two of you in one swift movement. 

His eyes sparkled like pure diamonds. “You’ve already fallen for me once, darling. It’ll be a piece of cake to make you fall for me again.”

Then he kissed you.

x

[seldomscilence16]

Whumptober day 15: Emotional Damage

Fandom: Rise of the Brave Tangled Dragons

Prompts;

Lies

New scars

Breathing through the pain

Alrighty, so this comes from someone who has not read any of the books, and whos head cannons for angst just scream over anything else. Also... like ignore every timeline ever and history has no place here.

Jacks been around awhile. Not as long as other spirits obviously, but far longer than any 14 year old would or should expect to live. And he certainly never asked for it, but its not like Jack ever got much say in his life.

The point of the matter was, he's been around awhile. Hanging out mostly with the Winds, and doing what was expected of him by the other winter spirits. And of course number one, never being seen... because why would anyone see him right?

Which he supposes is really where his point lays, that hes old and hasnt been seen in a verrry long time and yet here he is, in a situation that is making his brain go in loops, as a dragon growls at him. Now, he knows thay random magical things exist- he is one after all- but having one see him and looking very aggresive is a whole other thing. He's had to deal with a lot of angry magical beings thank you, a dragon is not one he'd like to add to the list.

"Whoa there Toothless, whats got you so angry bud?"

"He is far from toothless." Jack knows he cant be heard but the situation makes him nervous.

But this kid also gives him the perfect distraction, as the dragon- Toothless- turns his head just slightly. Jack is able to kick his staff up and with a quick call to the breeze, hes landing on a rock and out of reach. He can get a better look now, see the prosthetics on both the dragon and boy, how the two interact, how stressed the boy seems.

He frowns a bit before creating a snow flake and spinning it between his fingers a bit. Berk is used to snow, so this shouldnt be too out of the ordinary- not that Jack cares really- and sends the flake down. He watches for a bit, the goofy smile and the silly game that includes fish and drawing in the dirt. He smiles a bit, before it falls as the winds inform him of where hes needed.

As Jack flies off, to bring a cold front across Scotland, he fails to notice the green eyes that follow him.

...

He has an eventful week.

Meeting a dragon, helping 3 michevious triplets prank their sister, and made it snow inside a hidden tower.

It was a nice week, compared to others since his awakening or whatever. But he also didnt necessarily do his 'job' as well as he could have over that week. And was therefore being summoned by Winter itself.

Hes somewhere between Scotland and Germany. Some thick forest slowly being covered in snow, and a bunch of winter spirits lurking about. It puts him on edge, not that he'd let any of them know, but he continues to the meeting place anyway. This is the way things have always been done, there are rules and those that dont follow them...

Jack is a spirit of winter, so he has to follow these rule, even if they seem to become more abundant and stricter every time. Even if he doesnt see the others following those rules. Even if hes scared to (second) death every time hes summoned.

Winter stands in all their glory, he wears a long fluffy blue robe that almost seems to clash with his orangish skin. But Jack wouldnt be mentioning it again, not after the first time, when he couldnt do anything for a full season, trapped by Winters side the whole time.

He stops a few feet away, feeling almost naked without his staff- hidden somewhere safe, guarded by the winds- he curls his hands into his cloak to hide how they tremble.

"Lord Winter, you summoned?" The words feel wrong in his mouth.

"The cold front, if you could even call it cold, has delayed our first frost by weeks! What have you been doing thats more important than your job!" His voice always leaves a ringing in Jacks ears, the way it roars across the landscape for only spirits to hear, and mortals to feel like a wave.

"The winds brought what you sent, I I did my best to s-" he flinches back as Winter steps forward.

"You have a job as a spirit of winter, Frost. And instead of doing the work I assigned you, you mess around and throw the seasons out of balance. The blame lays on your shoulders boy, and you have to be punished for it. To appease the Mother. You understand dont you?"

The solomn look they give as they step ever closer, a familar blade appearing in their hand, has fear rising to clutch at Jacks heart. He was told it gets easier, but he fears it all the same, for it hasnt yet. His skin crawls as the lord stands behind him, bodies flush in a way he hates, places the knife in his weak grasp and wraps their own around Jacks smaller, paler hand.

Jack tries not to remember what happens next.

...

He takes deep even breaths as he staggers his way towards his staffs hiding place. The winds try their best to keep him upright, but he still feels ready to topple any minute.

The wounds already start to seal themselves, the power of a season lord, but the drain of them, the pain, still lingers. Absently he picks at scars, new and old, on his arms, staring blankly ahead as he tried to focus on breathing through every wave of pain his steps bring.

When he hears the crack of something in the distance he can only groan in grim acceptance of more punishment. The other spirits always get mad when he fails, says it fails them all, and that they must share their punishment with him too. He thought the stones would have been enough, but maybe he should stop thinking.

He leans against the nearest tree, awaiting the first spirits presence, but instead sees a familar dragon bounding closer. He curls into himself, eyes closed in the hopes of staving off the oncoming pain. Instead he feels a huff of hot breath but nothing else, opens his eyes to meet those of the Nightfury.

"Toothless, where'd you go bud?"

"Are ye sure ya trained dhe dragon?"

"You dont think he found any ruffians or thugs right?"

Three familair voices filter past the trees, and he wonders how his week of visits found eachother. The girl stuck in a doorless tower, the Princess under tight watch, and the Chiefs dragon riding son, it was definetely an interesting bunch.

As the three make it into the clearing, Jack isnt expecting much, hes glad its not spirits, but Toothless has yet to take his eyes off him.

"Alright my toothy watcher, your friends are here, and I got places to be far from here." Before Winter changed their mind and decided he needed to be held for another season.

"Oh my gods he is real."

Jack freezes, eyes roving over to the three mortals who stare right back. Not at the tree, not at the dragon, at Jack. They couldnt see him before, no one could except Toothless- and maybe the chamelion, Jack couldnt tell for sure though- so why could they see him now??

"Its really Jack Frost." The blonde breathes, a... frying pan(?) in her grasp.

She said his name...

"Jack Frost is real?" The red head mumbles with wide eyes.

He looks back to the dragon,

"They just said my name." Toothless nods, grinning at him without teeth- and now the name makes sense.

"I cant believe this." The viking runs his hands through his hair in disbelief.

"You literally ride a dragon." Jack comments dryly, pushing off the tree and wincing with a hiss of breath.

"You're hurt!" The blondes exclamation draws the others attention.

"Yer a spirit, howdidya get hurt??"

"Its nothing, I uh... messed up."

"Its not nothing! Let me see!"

"Thanks blondey, but its nothing new. Im more concerned that you guys can see me now and I have no idea how."

He starts making his way towards his original goal again, he was almost there, and with the wind on one side and Toothless on the other its easier than before, even with eyes on him.

"Well Toothless likes you, so I guess thats gotta be a good sign."

"Sure changed his tune from last time." Jack agrees, the wind blowing his staff into his hand.

"How... how long have you been bringing winter to Berk?" Viking asks

"Far longer than your lifetimes. Which is why I know I'll be fine."

"So wha yer sayin, is this happen'd before."

He narrows his eyes at the scot,

"Lord Winter is in charge under Mother Nature herself. Our mistakes effect the turning of the seasons, mistakes we cant afford."

"Well it sounds like hes putting everything on you. Its not like youre the only one in charge of winter." Viking points out.

"Shh!" Jack looks around, the winds quiet and still, setting him on edge, "hes coming, you guys gotta go!"

"What why?" Blonde looks around frantically, pan held up in defense.

Before he can respond, a wind lingering between hot and cold, blows through them, knocking the three mortals back. Jack is quick to form a wall of ice between them and the oncoming spirit made wind. Lord Winter in their orange glory is sweeping through the trees, and to put mortals in obvious peril like this, Jack doesnt understand.

"You talk as if they hear boy. You are just a winter spirit, nothing more. I think you need another lesson in that."

His injuries burn at the threat, cuts and stabs and bruises alike. Still he prepares himself, he will protect the mortals who are here because of him, even if he perishes and becomes one with the snow.

Hes not expecting the three mortals to come to his side, the dragon readying a fire in his throat as the humans draw their weapons. From their searching gazes he can tell they cant see the actual Lord, but their presence at least effects the nature around them, giving a general target that may or may not have harm brought to it by mortal means.

Hes not ready for a fight by any means but he'll protect them.

So a wall of green coming between the groups is the last thing he expects.

"A mere Miser minion growing too fond of the seasons I see." A voice smooth and sweet but underlyed with power. "Tormenting a dear child of winter, three fated mortals and a child of the sky. This will be no longer."

"Uh whats going on?" Viking whispers to him, staring at the wall of nature.

"Um... I think Mother Nature is mad?" Jack whispers back.

"Youre lies will no longer infect my seasons minion." The wall recedes and the 'Lord' is gone. "And you five, I believe I owe you all an apology."

A woman of beauty emerges from the scenery itself, regal and powerful and full of all of natures beauty.

"Let them haunt you no more young Frost. Im sure your new friends will turn your fate yet." Leaves fall from the trees, brushing over his company as a wave of warmth hits him. His pain bleeds away, though his scars remain, "have fun with your new friends Jack, and be well. Until next time."

She fades away, and when he looks back to the mortals he finds gaping mouths.

"I have to draw her."

"My dads never gonna believe any of this."

"Why is it always fate?"

[pluton514]

Chapter 1: Speaking my mind, the beginnings.

In a wooden house far from any signs of civilization in the middle of a barren wasteland, except for a random restaurant a couple of miles away, there sat a boy by the name of Pluto on his bed in a dark room, with fluffy black hair, semi defined muscles, and scarlet eyes. Wondering about his own life, The boy doesn't have any recollection of his memories, but instead has small fragments of them scattered throughout his mind. He doesn't know why he's there, but at least he isn't alone. The house doesn't belong to him, but it belongs to a girl that goes by the name of Amelia. As far as he knows, she's been taking care of him for a while now. This is all weird and sudden for the boy, but as of right now all he can do...is wonder.

I don't exactly recall how I happened to be here. In this cold, spacious, dark room. I just remember running away from the bright flames, and the shrieks from indistinguishable beings. I remember the smell of smoke and the awful scent of rotting dead bodies. Screams of agony and fear; a giant blue light from the clouds almost striking me, it was all so sudden. I do however, remember my mother dying off in the distance seeing her flesh melt down into bones.

Before she left, she whispered these words into my ear, "This isn't goodbye."After that, everything went dark. I wake up in the middle of this room and here we are in present time. It's a peaceful night and the moon is full. I like to gaze at the beautiful nightsky; it makes me feel at ease. My Mother once told me that the stars align our destiny and that everything we do is for a purpose. I'm 16 and I'm still trying to figure out what is my purpose...

  Although, there is tale, a tale of the constellations. They tell your purpose, your fate, or your destiny. It's all the same, but when I gaze up at the moon, at the starry night. I see the stars align the shape of a Phoenix. The animal of rebirth, the bird that starts anew after death, a new youth, a new cycle of life. I don't really understand it, but it's pretty cool to look at I guess.

Wanna know something? I'm sure you probably don't care or anything, but I'll tell you anyways. Have you ever felt out of purpose? Or maybe you feel like you haven't done enough with your life? If the answer yes, well I've got nothing to say to you, but if your answer is no, then I guess you and I have a long road ahead of us. I know, I know it's stupid...you're probably thinking "You're just a kid! You don't have to think about this!", right? But that's the thing, there really isn't much to think about. At least, not for me.

I want to do something with my life, I want to be part of something big, something that'll change...history? Ok, maybe not THAT big...or maybe that big..? I don't know, doesn't hurt to dream I guess.

A moment of silence ensues after the boy shares his thoughts...to himself. He sits there on his bed pondering. The dark room and the silence consumes him, making him feel drowsy, but his thoughts are what keep him awake. He turns his head to the side, seemingly looking at a darkened square with hints of lights in between its crevices. He slowly stands up and takes a few steps towards the dark square. Reaching his hand out, the boy clasps his hand on the square, he puts his finger in between the lines that show off a spec of bluish light, with a tint of white. He pulls his finger up allowing for the wooden curtain to open, revealing the moonlight, and the sky filled with stars. The boy looks up at the night, feeling a sense of calmness. The moon reflecting on his left eye, the boy looks upward, to see the constellation he spoke of earlier, the phoenix. A gentle smile forms on the boys face, he finds it calming to watch the sky, to watch the stars. It's probably his favorite hobby in a way, is it really a hobby? I guess you'd call it stargazing, so we'll call it a hobby.

A single tear falls from the boy's face, not because he's sad, but because he's tired. He yawns and stretches his arms up, he's ready to head to bed. The boy closing the wooden curtain, darkness takes over the room again. Slowly creeping his way to his bed, he doesn't make a sound. Sitting down on the mattress on the floor, the boy moves his body downwards laying himself face down on the bed. His eyes blinking as if trying to stay awake, but they slow down as the seconds come to pass. His eyesight dims, the dark becomes even darker, the boy's eyelids make contact, dozing off into deep slumber.

[after-witch]

Corsets and Blackmail [Yandere Dabi x Reader]

Title: Corsets and Blackmail [Yandere Dabi x Reader]

Synopsis: Dabi wants you in a corset. What Dabi wants, lately, Dabi gets.

Word Count: 1630

Notes: Yandere, implied noncon, mentions of body mods, improper use of a corset, very uncreative title

You inhale, eager to catch your breath, and you instantly regret it. The relief of a full breath is instantly replaced with an uncomfortable pressure, as he uses the moment to further tighten the corset he’d tossed at you earlier that afternoon. It took bribery, then outright threats, but you eventually agreed to let him put it on you.

Another decision you’re regretting.

“It’s not--” you try to exhale, to catch more breath. “It’s not supposed to be this tight.”

In response, he merely gives the bottom laces another firm tug, and you can feel the flesh of your hips underneath the leather squishing out, pushing in vain against the firm material that he’s tightened to a ridiculous degree.

You grunt, and squirm, but there’s nothing you can do about it. Your hands are pressed up against the wall, and you occasionally lean your forehead against n the cool material for support. But it’s not like you could fight Dabi off (you never could, even when you were actually dating and your fights were playful) and even if you could manage to get away from his grip, you’d never make it out of the room without a bruising grip and heated warning.

“Don’t be so dramatic, babe. Just think about all the women in history or whatever who wore these all the time.”

You bite back a smart-ass response about the myths of corsets and how movie scenes depicting women being laced into them like torture devices were based on misconceptions and myths. A corset should be supportive, not so tight that it makes you feel faint. But he’s not in the best of moods based on your initial refusal to play dress up, and so you keep your knowledge to yourself.

When he’s done--you hope he’s done, your entire midsection feels compressed and uncomfortable and your breath comes in shallow intervals--he spins you around. A few months ago, this would have been cute. It would have made you feel good. The way he’s looking at you appraisingly, approvingly, pinning you with his gaze would have made your stomach flip into butterflies.

But that was before you broke up with him. Or tried to, anyway. Before he threatened you--and your family, and your friends, and any neighbors you were particularly fond of--and eventually forced you to move in with him. To keep an eye on you, he’d said. To spoil you.

If dressing you up like some kind of fetish doll in an exaggerated shiny black leather corset counted as being spoiled.

He hums in approval and grabs your now-compressed waist, pulling you closer. You can smell his cologne and body odor and smoke, mingled together in a way that used to get you excited. Now it triggers an instinct to run.

His lips brush against your ear, kissing and teasing, and you can’t help the way your skin prickles in goosebumps, the way your stomach flips. You hate him. You wish your body would get the message more often.

“You look so fucking good. I could just eat you up.” He pulls back and tips your chin up with a finger, tilting your face to the side like he’s inspecting a prize pet at a county fair. You suppose he is, in a way.

“You want me to do that? Make you feel good?”

You shake your head, softly. It’s a stupid move, you know. You know you’re on thin ice. You know you should nod and let out a breathy sigh and let him lead you to the bed, where you’ll lay in an uncomfortable position as he slides off your underwear and makes your body respond in ways that your mind hates. But you don’t.

The instant you decline he’s gripping your chin, hard. The thin ice is definitely cracked--and you’re falling into ice-cold water.

“Why are you being so damn difficult?”

The oxygen must be getting to your brain, you think, because instead of placating him by backtracking and begging him to take you on the bed, you want to explain yourself. As if rational thought has anything to do with your current situation.

“You know why I’m so--so--” you inhale, sharp and short, hating the way your chest feels for a myriad of reasons. “--difficult, Dabi. Why can’t you try to understand how this makes me feel?” 

You feel tears pricking at your eyes and you wipe them away, not wanting to deal with the drama, the fighting, the back-and-forth guilt tripping that crying usually brought on. 

“Fine,” he says, practically spitting on your cheek.

He drops the subject--and drops your chin-- as his eyes stray to the side, where there’s a dust-streaked mirror propped up on top of the dresser. He stares at his own reflection for a moment before looking back at you, his expression far less pissed and far more thoughtful. Thoughtful scares you more than pissed, and you can feel your nerves begin to tingle in anxiety.

“Hey, you know what would go perfect with this corset?” His voice is softer now, all the harsh edges from earlier gone. It worries you just as much as his thoughtful expression.

You shake your head. You don’t know. You don’t want to know. But he’ll tell you anyway.

“How about some piercings, huh? We can match.”

Your stomach feels like it’s dropped out of your body. Your gaze flits from his grin to his own modifications. He wouldn’t--would he? Before all this, before you tried to break up with him, he’d casually suggested them once--but never again once you made your stance clear. No piercings, no tattoos, no body mods. And now…?

“I--” You swallow down your stronger objections, very aware of the dangers lurking if you chose the wrong words. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. But thanks.”

“No, no,” he argues, voice so jovial and light that it’s making you want to throw up. “It’ll be fun! Like a bonding exercise. Couple’s therapy. You’d be surprised how quickly tongue piercings heal, too, so don’t worry about missing out on takeout.”

You want to cry. Could you even breathe right if you started crying right now? The more emotions you feel, the tighter the corset feels against your waist. You swallow and dip your head back, fighting against the tears.

“Dabi… you… know--you know I don’t want piercings.” You keep your voice level, even as your stilted breathing. Avoid a fight, avoid a fight, avoid a fight.

“Oh?”

He shrugs. A casual, fuck-you gesture that stings. 

“And I want to throw you on the bed and eat you out. But if you won’t give me what I want, why should I care what you want?”

You don’t have an answer. The thick, blubbery tears you’ve been fighting are practically screaming to be let out. But you dip your head back again, determined not to cry. Crying reminds him that you don’t want to be here, and it never ends particularly well. 

So instead you force yourself to be casual. As if you’re not a captive begging your captor to not forcibly modify your body. As if you’re his… partner, having an argument about what to eat for dinner that night. As if he couldn’t just push you onto the bed and have his way with you, if he really wanted to do so.

“Dabi, c’mon…” 

The thought occurs to you--to throw in some of the snarky bite you two used to share for good measure. It’s a risk. It’s a big risk. But the idea of Dabi shoving needles through your tongue, into your skin, wherever he pleases to remake and modify you, makes you take a leap.

You grin. And oh, is it forced. But it’s all you can manage.

“Don’t be such an asshole.”

His breath is hot on your cheek as he suddenly leans grabs your arm and pulls himself in, his nose pressing against your cheek in a way that would have been endearingly mocking before; now it’s only another invasion of your space, another way to make you uncomfortable. Or maybe he’s trying to pretend that it’s the old days, too.

“Hey, that’s up to you, doll. You know that. So you gonna be my sweet girl? Let me spoil you?” He trails the back of his hand down your cheek, your neck, your collarbone; down, down, until he’s gripping the waist he laced so tight just a few minutes before. “Or do you want me to run out and get a pack of needles?”

You have a choice. 

You can’t hesitate to jump into the opening he’s given you, so you don’t. You lean up and kiss him, a soft little chaste kiss, part of the routine you used to share; you start with sweetness, with pecks and whisper-light touches, and he grips your hair and doesn’t let you go until you’re breathless from his kiss. Then he’ll take you to the bed and you’ll hate yourself afterwards.

Your thoughts are bitter as your mouth responds automatically to his own lips, to his tongue that finds its way into your unwillingly inviting mouth. 

At least the corset will make you breathless faster.

[heyitsjay03]

Headcanons about each of the lords (+the Duke if you're writing about him) if they ever happen to adopt a little child?

THANK YOU ANON MY THE UNIVERSE BLESS YOU WITH PILLOWS THAT ARE COLD ON BOTH SIDES

okay okay okay okay this has definitely been on my mind so lets get into the thick of it

Alcina Dimitrescu

(im starting off with alcina for obvious reasons)

Alcina would be on the way to the church with the slimy moron, the demented doll, that disgusting manthing and Mother Miranda

She'd kiss her daughters goodbye and head off through the snow, quietly muttering about how cold her ankles were

while Moreau is literally up to his chin in snow but its fine

as she gets closer to the church she keeps hearing this. thing. it sounded familiar but she couldn't exactly put her finger on it.

she strays from the path to find it because it was just so familiar

as she weaves her way through the snow, her dress gets caught on something. she leans down to get her dress unstuck when she realises its this tiny basket.

like seriously. just a little woven basket in the middle of the snow. and it doesn't look like its been there for that long- there's hardly any snow on it

when she tugs at her skirts again, the basket makes the same noise she's been hearing

she stands back up to her full height, staring down at the basket with narrowed eyes

this cannot be a good idea, can it? opening a strange basket in the woods after being lured out here. it's probably some village manthing's trap.

she's about to step away when she hears the sound again- much more intense and much more clear

Alcina leans down and opens the lid of the basket

inside is this tiny thing- all soft and warm in a padding of blankets

a baby

she stands and looks around

who on earth would be so moronic as to leave their baby in the snow? it's much too cold for a baby to survive-

oh

she sighs, getting onto her knees to pull the baby from the blanketed basket

the meeting will have to wait. it's too cold even in the church for this tiny thing.

when she finally makes it back home, she's greeted by her daughters in a swarm of buzzing flies.

as they manifest in their true forms, they're asking what- or who, rather- their mother brought for dinner

Alcina smiles and shakes her head, unwrapping the small bundle clinging to her breast

"this... is your new sibling" she announces, "they'll be staying with us from now on."

and the sisters are ecstatic. a new sibling!

Daniela especially is happy that she is no longer the youngest. she usually is the one to parade around the castle with her sibling on her shoulders, showing them the coolest hiding spots for hide-n-seek and the windows with the best views

Bela is incredibly protective. like. incredibly.

she smelt blood from across the castle and when she found her little sibling sniffling about a skinned knee earned from a game of tag with Angie, she lost her shit and almost broke the damned thing with her sickle

And Cassandra has been caught reading bedtime stories by nightlight multiple times. she tries to play it off but everyone knows that she loves- absolutely adores- her newest sibling

we all know Alcina is such a wonderful mother to the girls so adding another baby to the mix was a guaranteed success

she's so doting and careful (a little overprotective at times but she means well) as she is with her girls

as the child grows into a teen, she panics a bit because "my beautiful baby is growing into such a beautiful, talented adult" so expect a lot of late night visits when she just sits on the edge of her bed and just admires how much you've grown

Salvatore Moreau:

now this one is an easy one too if i'm 100% honest

think Moses type beat

(if you don't know, Moses was found in the riverbank in a little basket)

apparently i really like baskets

anyways

Moreau was so out of his element when he found this tiny, screaming, writhing piece of soft flesh

the first few weeks were rough

but he eventually got the hang of it (with Alcina's help of course)

he would take his child fishing every now and then- just the two of them out on a boat for a few hours

the kid would literally swim more than walk and that little fact would make Moreau so freakin proud

also this kid would be so well-versed in movie and film history it's stupid

like expect this little 4 or 5 year old babbling not about toys or snow or how many sticks they found but instead about the copyright war over the film Nosferatu and the destruction of its copies

Moreau, as the child gets older (like 11 or 12) would have just a tad of trouble trying to keep the kid out of the village

he'd wake up one day and go out onto the lake, expecting his child to be swinging their legs off the dock and watching the sun rise over the water

and when he finds that they were not, in fact, swinging their legs off the dock and watching the sun rise over the water, he p a n i c s

i mean, full blown red alert

all of the lords are summoned to help Moreau look for his missing kid, the lycans are given an article of clothing to help find the scent, Mother Miranda goes to search the village herself- the whole shebang

and when the kid is found playing with the village children, Moreau bursts into tears

needless to say, the kid isn't allowed to go to the village anymore

until they're fifty (Moreau's words, of course)

but the kid sneaks off more and more as they get older, using Alcina or Donna or Karl as an excuse to be away

and Moreau knows but he never says a word

seeing his child happy and free with the kids their age makes him happy, even if he is a tad, a tad, a tad bit nervous

Donna Beneviento:

when Donna found this child huddled up against the base of the stairs leading up to her front door, she at first thought it was a doll of hers

it was only when she actually walked outside that she realised it was this shaking, shriveled child in tattered clothes

she spent a good five minutes just staring, wondering how on earth she's supposed to react

that's when Angie jumped in and pulled at her skirt, telling her to "let the kid inside, already!"

Donna went immediately to work on some clothes- why on earth were they wearing such ragged things?! it's freezing outside!- while Angie entertained in the parlour

honestly, it didn't go well

the kid was a little bit unsettled by the floating doll that moved and spoke on its own FOR GOOD REASON

and when Donna walked back in with her measurement tape and some fabric, the kid backed themselves into a corner of the room with their gangly legs tucked into their chest

Angie sighs from the opposite side of the room, letting her little feet fidget as she gestures to the kid. "they're no fun" she pouts, "wouldn't even let me know their name"

Donna puts her materials down slowly and lifts her veil back before attempting a small smile

it takes a while but upon the offer of food, the kid finally lets Donna make them some clothes while Angie makes conversation

she works in silence, only offering small awkward smiles

Angie finally brings up the topic of where their parents are when the kid's clothes are done

when the child goes silent, Donna nods in understanding before hurrying off to make a room for them

as Angie helped tug the blankets up to the child's ears, they promised they'd be gone in the morning

Angie was the one to tell them off.

"You'll stay as long as you need, you silly goose!"

and the child did

Donna would let them tag along for meetings so long as they promised to keep quiet and help keep Angie out of trouble

most of the time, it didn't work and they both would end up in trouble but Donna let them come nonetheless

and when the other Lords question where on earth this little kid came from- all dressed in black fabric that matched Donna's dress, she just shook her head and let Angie chase them off verbally

she'd spend literal HOURS locked in that workshop making new little friends for her child and when they were old enough, she'd let them into the workshop

and when they were even older, she'd walk them through making their very first doll on their own

she'd just watch with pride as they carefully painted the freckles with a shaky hand while Angie danced around their ankles singing of how excited she was to have another friend

The Duke:

he would be setting up shop near the base of the Dimitrescu castle when he catches a kid trying to steal some his wares

he wouldn't be terribly upset, more concerned

it wasn't something shiny or expensive that they were trying to steal

it was some of the steaming-hot food he had left to cool in the wintry air

he confronted the child gently and with a warm smile

"That's cordon bleu," he says, gesturing to the steaming plate. "I can make you some if you'd like"

and as the child eats, the Duke continues tidying up his shop for any future customers

the child, through a mouthful of food, points to different items and asks their purpose, their price, their possible enhancements

the Duke answers each question with patience, happy for the company

but he doesn't just let the questions go one-way

"How about a trade?" he asks as the child asks about the strange-looking bottle of green liquid. "An answer for an answer."

the child agrees and the Duke starts to peel back layers of why the child was here looking for food

they had been orphaned by the last lycan attack, only barely making it out by fleeing into the woods

they tried to forage off of berry bushes and successfully managed to kill a pig- only for the blood to attract lycans before they could properly eat it

the Duke nods and continues busying himself with his shop, feeding the horse that pulls the wagon

the thought had hit him when he watched the child petting his horse

that horse hated everyone. including him at times.

maybe...

when he offered to take the child in, the kid nearly burst into tears and thanked him repeatedly, swearing to earn their keep

and they did, seven times over

what started off as a purely business venture morphed into something more as time went on

when the child would come back from selling smaller household items like gasoline and the occasional package of bullets, the Duke would have them climb onto the roof of the wagon and watch the sun set together with a plate of food

speaking of which, like Moreau, the Duke would raise the most cultured child

this kid would know how to prepare and identify different dishes and their ingredients just by looking at them or smelling them

and their palate would be far more sophisticated than most adults

the Duke, as the child gets older, would eventually allow them to choose destinations to set up shop- even outside of the village

wherever his child wants, the shop would go

it allows them to see the world and its earthly wares together- something the Duke had lacked in his life before the child was brought into the picture

Karl Heisenberg:

listen to me very very carefully

this man would be the most chaotic father ever to walk this earthly realm

when he finds this kid in the elevator of his factory, he's kinda standing there like 🧍 "what the hell-"

and when the kid starts spamming the button while maintaining eye contact, he kinda snaps out of it and starts chasing after them as they drop down to a different floor

it goes on for a solid twenty minutes before he finally managed to track them down in the corner of his office

and when i say this man is confused, i freaking mean it

i mean

why the HELL would some random kid be in his factory? don't they like... play with ponies or something at this age?

to be fair, this man literally has never been allowed a childhood so

obviously he starts scolding the kid ("what the hell are you doin' in here? it's dangerous and there's some really freaky shit here, kid"), dragging them to a nearby sink because "holy shit kid, you're filthy"

the kid is silent essentially the whole time, just kinda staring into his eyes

and of course Karl's gonna be like "...the fuck're you doin'?"

the kid's face is cleaned off and Karl sends them back out towards the village with a scratchy blanket he pulled out of the bottom of his desk drawer

he's working on his 'equipment' one day when he starts reaching for a wrench, keeping his focus on the body on the table

when i say this man jumps skyhigh at the kid asking a question, i mean it

he drags the kid back out, yelling about how dangerous it is and how "you shouldn't do that! you're gonna get yourself killed! go back home!"

the kid doesn't listen

it becomes a regular thing- Karl finds the kid wandering around the factory, Karl brings the kid out of danger, Karl tells them to get lost

eventually (day thirteen of this) he asks why the child keeps coming back

and he hates the answer he gets

it was something along the lines of "it's warm and there's nowhere else for me to go"

so Karl reluctantly eagerly lets them stay

it's a lot of rules at first (a kid shouldn't be allowed to just wander around a bunch of mindless cyborg killers, let alone a factory) but eventually the child learns to mind Sturm and the others

doesn't mean Karl does not have a fullblown heart attack when he walks into his workspace to find the kid tracing their finger along the center of the battery for the Soldats

after a very long talk (and some deep breathing) Karl reluctantly eagerly lets them sit against the very far wall to watch him work on the machinery- not, under any circumstances, the actual bodies

as the child blossoms into a young adult, they start to help out with certain aspects of Karl's work

exclusively machinery because Karl could not physically handle having his kid watch him get elbow-deep into a corpse

and Karl is so freaking proud of it

when the Soldat is kicked to life, he's got his kid in his arms and cackling like the proud dad he is

yeah. paternal Heisenberg>>>

[ggukwrites]

comfort

summary: oc had a bad day at school and all she wants is to go home and cuddle with her boyfriend, jungkook.

pairing: jungkook x oc

warnings/tags: tooth-rotting fluff, established relationship, jungkook is a sweetheart, oc has a small panic attack, crying, but jungkook goes all out to make oc feel better!

Saying that today was a terrible day is an understatement. You woke up with a pounding headache, probably due to the three hours of sleep you got along with the endless shots of espresso. You're professor had called you out for submitting the wrong assignment in front of your whole class, which up to now you still don't know how you got your chemistry homework mixed up with history. Everything was wrong. The lunch you ate left a rotting aftertaste in your mouth, which you then decided to throw away after two bites of the nasty sandwich. All you wanted to do was to go home to your boyfriend and just cuddle in bed with him. But no, you still have one more hour until this lecture finishes and are on the verge of breaking down completely.

After one hour of constant nodding off, more caffeine and yet again getting called out for not paying attention, you were finally free. School was over and you could now go home, or rather to Jungkook's house. Packing your bag, you headed towards the drop-off area outside the school compound. Just as you walked out, the familiar black Mercedes-Benz pulled over. You see Jungkook smiling at you with a stupid grin on his face. He always seemed to be so excited and energetic all the time, especially around you, but you on the contrary, barely surviving on caffeine and three hours of sleep max a day, was like a walking zombie with no energy at all.

You open the car door and step into the car. Jungkook greets you with a smile once again and says, "Hi baby, how was school? I bought your favorite ice cream back at my place, cookie-dough!" As he says that, you start wondering, Jungkook always does so much for you, are you doing enough back? What if he is getting tired of you? Should you have bought him something too? All these thoughts once again start screaming in your head. You don't realize your eyes brimming with tears, or your boyfriend's face now concerned, asking you what happened.

It's too late. You start full on sobbing right there on the spot, which surprises Jungkook for a moment, before he leans over the console and tries to calm you down. You're not sure its working because now you feel your chest tightening, tears pouring out of you eyes as you clutch onto Jungkook's shirt. You can barely make out what Jungkook is saying but you hear a "1,,, 2,,, come on baby, breath for me, 3,,,4,,, there we go," Slowly, you start regaining your breathing rhythm, your sobs die down to little sniffles and hiccups, but you still hold on to your boyfriend's shirt.

"Shhh it's okay, just breathe for me yeah?" He whispers into your ear as his hand rubs your back in attempt to soothe you. " You wanna talk about it?" He tries to get a response from you. "Had a terrible day gguk, everything's going wrong" You mumbled into his shirt as more sobs came out of your mouth. Jungkook just hummed in response and continued holding you in his embrace, letting you cry everything out. After 20 minutes, you had calmed down and Jungkook was now driving over to his apartment. "I'll take care of you today okay? Don't worry about anything else, just relax." As you sniffle and nod in the passenger seat, you curl up to the side and close your eyes, and soon before you know it, you had fallen asleep.

Jungkook pulled up into the apartment's parking lot, and got out of the car to walk to the passenger door. He carefully unbuckled you and picked you up, being ever so careful not to wake you up. You were fast asleep in his arms, oblivious to his movements. The front door of the apartment was then unlocked and Jungkook placed you on the sofa, placing a blanket over you. Now you were slowly waking up again, after a while you had started to wake up after you had felt the lack of warmth that you felt when you were in Jungkook's embrace. Sitting up, you rubbed your eyes as you looked around the apartment. Jungkook was scooping the ice cream he had said he bought into a bowl. Sensing your movements, his head immediately jerked up, and once seeing you awake, he put down the scooper he was holding and rushed to your side.

"Baby you're awake? Do you need anything? I am scooping the ice cream if you want it. How are you feeling now?" You blinked at your boyfriend, mind still groggy and you did not catch what he said. "Too many questions" you whispered. "Sorry baby," he chuckled, "So worried about you. Get comfy and I will bring the ice cream over yeah? We can watch a movie while cuddling if you like," Having said that, Jungkook proceeds to walk into the kitchen while you squish your self into the fluffy blanket and pillow surrounding you on the couch.

Jungkook returns with the bowl in his hands as he sets it down on the coffee table. He then averts his gaze back to you, and then joining you in the pile of pillows and blanket, you two now cuddling. "Wanna pick a movie sweetheart?" He asks, "Wanna watch Totoro," you mumbled into his chest. In no time, the Studio Ghibli animation was now playing on the television, and you now had your full attention on the playing film. Jungkook's hand is brought up to stroke the back of your head lovingly, and you can't express how much you love your boyfriend, he was too perfect, knowing how to care for you so well.

After a while, he sat up from the couch and reached over to grab the forgotten bowl of cookie dough ice cream, which was now a little melted. But it didn't matter because your lovely, charming, so sweet, caring, you-love-too-much boyfriend is hand feeding you the ice cream with heart eyes. You look back at him and whisper, "Thank you gguk, feel s'much better now," he replies with a kiss on you forehead as you two spend the rest of the night cuddling and eating ice cream on the couch. And of course, sleeping in Jungkook's bed, and it was the first night of the whole week where you actually had a good sleep, all thanks to your boyfriend, Jungkook.

a/n: omg this is my first time writing any sort of fanfiction EKHFEHFEJ please do give me constructive critism anyways i wrote this at 2am in the morning so there might be many errors sorry but yes thank you for reading <3333

[littlemisspascal]

Death and an Angel part 5

Helmetless + Death!Din and Cupid F!Reader

Summary: A call with one of your bosses threatens to split you and Din apart.

Rating: T

Word Count: 2,075

Warnings: Reader experiences a panic attack, use of a swear word, angst, reference to most recent Mandalorian episode so I guess it’s kind of spoiler-ish, hurt/comfort and more angst

Author Note: All the love to everyone who follows along with this series! I joined AO3 recently so all these parts will be on there as well at LittleMissPascal. I’m actually really nervous about the response to this particular segment so...be gentle, please ❤

Links to Part 1 and Part 4 and Part 6

Photo Inspiration: 

“Cupid 1-1-7, am I hearing you correctly? You said there was an explosion?”

You scrub a hand over your face, biting back a sigh lest the comlink picks it up. “Not a literal one, sir. I’m still not sure what happened, just that when my client touched a potential match’s hand there was this...invisible blast of energy or something.”

The silence on the other end is enough to make you want to slam your head against the wall of the Razor Crest. You’d called headquarters as soon as you and Din had returned to his ship, figuring if anyone had a clue as to what the hell had happened it’d be one of your superiors. 

After twenty minutes of explaining your predicament not once, but three times, you’re beginning to realize you were evidently mistaken.

“Remind me again, Cupid 1-1-7, what name was it you referred to this immortal client of yours as?” Over the comlink, your boss’ voice sounds as if he’s gargling jagged rocks, deep and throaty. You can imagine the narrowed-eyed look he’d be giving you in person and you’re grateful you’re not currently having this conversation over a holoprojector. 

“I didn’t.” 

Your eyes drift to the ladder leading up to the cockpit where Din is located. Something inside of you is insistent you keep Din’s identity hidden from your superiors. It’s a feeling you’ve never experienced before, certainly not with any of your former clients. Part of you thinks of the sensation as possessiveness, but what have you to be possessive of? You have no claim to him, nothing tying you to one another. 

“Interesting,” your boss says, dry as the Dune Sea.

“My client is high-profile, sir. He asked me to remain discreet and I intend to uphold his request.” You clutch the comlink against your chest, taking deep breaths to keep yourself calm as you wait to hear if he believed your lie or not.

“This...incident you’ve described, it does bring to mind an event in history with similar details.” There is a shuffling sound that echoes over the device, resembling papers being picked up and flipped through. He hums, a long drawn out note that makes your skin crawl. “Yep, here’s the report right here, referencing an outburst erupting as a result of the physical contact between a potential pair.”

You wait for more information, drumming your fingers against a nearby crate.

“Unfortunately, you are not of rank to hear the specifics.”

“But—”

“I must say though, the Moff will be most interested in this development,” he continues, ignoring your protest as if you hadn’t opened your mouth at all. 

Heart lodging in your throat at the mention of the head seraph, you manage to choke out, “I really don’t think that’s necessary, Mr. Hess.”

“That’s sir to you, Cupid 1-1-7.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. Forgive me, sir.” You’re two seconds from babbling yourself off a cliff and you can’t find the off switch for your mouth. “It’s just. Moff Gideon is so busy, as I’m sure you know, and I would hate to bother him with this case when I have everything under control—”

“Except that you clearly don’t. Otherwise you wouldn’t have made this call.”

His words hit you like a punch, silencing you.

“The Moff will hear about this, as well as your breaking protocol by concealing information from your superior when directly asked. No doubt he will be as displeased about your behavior as I am.” 

Your eyes fall shut as you listen, slumping against the ship’s wall and sliding down onto the cold floor. You feel disconnected from the situation, as if he’s discussing someone else’s fate instead of your own. 

“In the meantime,” his voice drones on, adding more weight to the pressure on your chest. “I will permit you forty-eight hours to complete your assignment before I officially relegate it to another Cupid. You will also be ordered to take a reassessment test of your basic understanding of standard Cupid regulations.”

You squeeze your eyes together tighter, feeling like you’re about to throw up. Each breath you take feels pointless, as if there is no longer any oxygen in the air, but you have enough pride left to keep you from having a breakdown with your boss still on the line. 

“Do you understand the terms in which I’ve stated to you, Cupid 1-1-7?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Amor vincit omnia.” The parting mantra sounds almost sinister coming from his mouth.

“Amor vincit omnia,” you echo, forcing your voice to remain steady.

The comlink clicks off. The floodgates open not a second later.

You press your palms against your mouth, desperately trying to hold back the sobs that wrack your body so they don’t disrupt the silence of the cargo hold. The tears streaming down your face refuse to be stifled though, burning your eyes as they fall. Your head pounds in rhythm with your heartbeat, a frantic drumming counting down the seconds until you either scream or pass out. Or both.

It’s an ugly, hysterical kind of crying that can’t be stopped once started, not even when you hear movement from the ladder right before Din slides down it, boots thudding loudly against the floor. 

And then it seems like Din is right there in front of you without ever having moved, unnaturally fast and stealthy, gloved fingers resting on your shoulders. He’s taken off his helmet, brown eyes full of such concern it only makes you cry harder seeing them, further increasing his worry.

“Are you hurt? Tell me what’s wrong, angel,” he murmurs, a note of franticness in his voice as he looks you over for injuries, finding none except for the few scratches along your arms you’d received earlier when you landed in the dirt.

You shake your head when he tries to move your hands away from your face, emitting a choked hiccup that threatens to crack your already-bruised rib cage with its intensity. 

“Angel, you’ve got to breathe, okay?” Din says, soft and soothing. You blink through your watery vision, finding his gaze again, and he offers you a small, reassuring smile. “In and out. Just like this.” He inhales a purposefully deep breath, then slowly releases it without once breaking eye contact.

You try to copy him, but your nose is stuffed with snot and your lungs hitch with another round of sobs, ruining your attempt.

“Can I…?” Din again reaches for one of your hands, this time hovering without attempting direct contact, waiting for your consent. 

Trembling, it feels like a monumental task to remove your hand from where it’s glued to the top of your other one still covering your mouth. Din grabs onto your wrist and brings your hand to his chest plate, pressing it against the cool beskar.

“Together, okay? In and out.”

He continues his litany of encouragement, patient and calm, and gradually your heaving sobs begin to lose their power, enabling you to reclaim control of your lungs. Catching your breath, you begin to wipe away the lingering tears with the hand not still held gently in Din’s grip. 

“Sorry,” you sniff, embarrassed. The beginning ache of a migraine starts to form in the back of your head, worsening when you try to move too quickly, and you bite back a wince.

His grip on your wrist tightens in admonishment. “There’s no need to be,” he says, but your ears detect his thinly restrained anger. “Who were you speaking to?”

“He’s one of my superiors. Valin Hess,” you answer, biting your lip.

“I should have him wiped clean from the galaxy for making you cry,” Din hisses, a snarl on his face and eyes darkening with rage.

Face to face with anyone else, you would have felt terrified being so close to such open hostility. But this is how Din expresses his overprotective nature, making himself a more dangerous threat than the enemy, and for that reason, you could never be scared of him. 

“Din, listen to me,” you say, curling your hand in his grasp until he yields to your movements and allows you to intertwine your fingers with his gloved ones. “What happened on Sorgan when you touched Omera’s hand, Hess said it wasn’t the first time something like that has happened. He wouldn’t give me the details though because I’m not high enough rank.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware Cupids had any kind of ranking system.”

“It’s based on how long you’ve existed. I’ve only been a Cupid for fifty years now, barely made any kind of lasting imprint on the galaxy.”

“Don’t say that,” he mutters, shooting you a stern look. “You’ve made a bigger impact than you could ever know.”

Struck momentarily speechless, you can only watch as he moves to sit on the floor beside you, clasped hands settling between his thigh and yours. The pauldron on his shoulder presses against the upper half of your arm and you tilt your head until your temple rests against it.

“That’s not what made you upset,” Din says.

You don’t need to shake your head, confirming the truth he already knows, but you do anyway, comforted by the cold metal rubbing across your forehead.

“What did he tell you, angel?”

You know by how he squeezes your hand that he genuinely wants to hear what happened. You know he must hear it from you because no one else can break the news. And you know you cannot lie to him because Hess’ intervening affects him even more than it does yourself. Still, in spite of knowing all of this, the words don’t come out any easier.

“I have only two days to figure out who your soulmate is before he reassigns you another Cupid.”

Din goes abruptly stiff. “What.”

“Because of the explosion and then also because I broke protocol by refusing to say you were my client, Hess believes I’m not handling things well and should be replaced by someone better.”

If you hadn’t known Din was immortal, you would think he died with how still he remains at your side. Leaning back with increasing worry, you see him staring forward across the cargo hold, granting you only a glimpse of the side of his face.

He...Oh, Maker. 

He looks kriffing pissed.

“Din—”

“How...” he cuts himself off, nostrils flaring as he clenches his jaw. “How could they ever think there is anyone better than you?”

For the job, you tell yourself, not allowing your hopes to rise. He means there isn’t anyone better for the job.

“I’m just a Cupid,” you tell him weakly, shrugging a shoulder. “I—”

“Stop talking poorly about yourself,” he snaps, the closest he’s ever come to yelling at you, turning to meet your gaze with fire burning in his eyes. You swallow thickly, his intensity making you feel like cornered prey. 

When he speaks again, his baritone voice has become a low murmur, each word carefully chosen and bleeding sincerity. “Everything you said about knowing who your soulmate is—I want to experience all of it with you. Only you. You’re it for me, angel.”

You freeze, unable to believe what you’re hearing, train of thought coming to a screeching halt. For the second time during this conversation, you’ve lost your voice, mouth opening and closing but no sound coming out.

“You’re it for me,” he repeats, sounding as if he’s pleading for you to believe him. “So tell your bosses to go fuck themselves. You’re the only Cupid I could ever want by my side.”

The reference of your designation is like dumping a bucket of ice water over your head, shocking your entire system. You wrench yourself away from him, stumbling onto your feet.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” you say as you start to pace around the room, hearing the hysterical edge in your own voice.

He stands up, expression warring between confusion and irritation. “I know you feel something too. Why do you keep pulling away from me?”

“Because we can’t be together, Din,” you answer, blinking back the unbidden tears starting to form again. “I’m not your soulmate. It isn’t possible!” 

“Angel.” He catches your elbow when you pass by him, forcing you to face him. His voice is brittle when he speaks, already expecting your answer to shatter his wounded heart. “Why can’t you be with me?”

“Because I’ve already met my soulmate. And he wasn’t you.”

Tag List:  @leilei-draws​, @theocatkov​, @becauseican2, @vintagesaph​, @stardust-and-starlight​, @kay2304, @odelia-d32, @adrieunor​, @remmyswritings​, @gallowsjoker​, @rhiannon-russo​, @randomness501​, @eleine-t1d​, @nicotinebirds, @sylphene​, @softly-sad​, @maytheglitter​, @melobee, @rogertaylorsfalsettogivesmehives, @eleinemk

[spxllcxstxr]

Bumps and Bruises • M.M

(GIF is not mine)

Request: Hi! Sorry, May I ask for a Marlene McKinnon x fem!/gn! reader fic, Soulmate AU where they feel each other's pain. — anon

Summary: Two Quidditch rivals finding out they’re something...more (Soulmate AU)

Warnings: Mentions of food/eating, injury description, brief mention of blood

Word Count: ~2k

A.N: NonGryffindor!Reader, this is my first time doing a Soulmate AU so I hope this is ok! It’s hard to find a balance between Soulmate AU and normal AU, but I’m sure I’ll get better with it in practice! The ending is kinda iffy imo, but it’s not terrible. Hope you enjoy!

****

The first thing you feel when you wake up on Friday morning is a flare up of painful throbbing blossoming across the outer part of your right thigh.

You groan, prying your eyes open and pull back your blanket.

The pale light filtering through your curtains is enough to see the grotesque purpling of swollen skin. You poke and prod at your thigh, occasionally hissing out in agony.

The bruise is both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.

Its circular shape is something you see all the time. As a Beater on your Quidditch team, Bludger bruises were commonplace. The issue is, and this is where the mark becomes unfamiliar to you, when you went to sleep last night, there was no evidence of any such mark.

This was peculiar because you never had a history of sleep Quidditch, and you’re sure that if you got up in the middle of the night in a trance, at least one of your dorm mates would’ve told you.

And this certainly wasn’t some accidental hitting your bed frame sort of injury. This was ten inches in diameter, black and blue like a ball of pure iron slammed into you. As a self proclaimed Quidditch expert, you’re fully aware of what caused this.

But this conclusion brings up more questions than answers. Sure, you had practice after classes yesterday, but you would remember being hit full force—and you don’t.

But you have no time to sit and ponder over this mystery, you have to make it down for breakfast and then endure hours of classes. If only you could skip ahead to tomorrow’s match against Gryffindor.

You limp your way through the dorm, unable to put the usual amount of weight on your right leg. The room is empty, save for Bedelia, who, as usual, is still snoring underneath her blanket. On your way out, you make sure to wake her up by slamming the door shut as hard as you can.

Hobbling down to the Great Hall with a bag of heavy books slung over your shoulder is no easy feat even when it’s something that constantly happens.

The Great Hall is buzzing, though most of the noise is coming from the Gryffindor table.

The ceiling reflects the morning, bright blue and not a cloud in sight.

By the looks of it, the Gryffindor Quidditch team just got back from their morning practice, still panting and sweaty. For the entire week leading up to a match, James Potter, their captain, makes them practice and go through relentless drills in preparation. When they’re not on the pitch, he’s quizzing them on maneuvers. You’re lucky that your captain and fellow Beater, Morgana Sharpe, gives you the day before a match off, mostly to rest and review. If Potter was your captain he would’ve ended up in St. Mungo’s by now.

Your eyes wander over to Marlene McKinnon, her blonde hair up in a bun, face red and splotchy from practice, bare arms showing off muscle. Her chest heaves under her scarlet top.

“Practicing getting your arses handed to you?” You joke, leaning against their table.

Marlene scoffs. “Oh, you wish.”

Her deep brown eyes find yours, a troublesome twinkle shining through.

“Focus, Marlene, can’t have you fraternizing with the enemy!” James laughs out between mouthfuls of eggs.

“More like flirting with the enemy.” Sirius snorts, leaning closer to Remus, who chuckles into his glass.

“Oi! Piss off, Black!” Marlene snaps, the red on her face spreading.

Dorcas squeezes in next to her, dittany in hand. “How’s the leg, Marls?”

“Aw.” You pout. “Did McKinnon get a boo boo during practice?”

She scowls at you. “Don’t you have a potion to blow up?”

You clench your jaw and ball your hand into a fist. She’s got a point.

“Alright, enough trash talk, you two, leave it for the pitch.” James rolls his eyes.

Instantly, a weight lifts from your shoulders.

“I gotta go eat, anyway.” You smile warmly at your sort of friends. “So I’ll see you guys in class.” You wave before turning to your own table.

You join the rest of your team the table, squeezing through the tight huddle. Parchment is scattered all over the surface, some with crude drawings of maneuvers, some with written stats.

“Right, now that we’re all here,” Sharpe grunts our in her thick Irish accent, shooting you a disgruntled look. “We have a change of plans.”

“Change of plans?” Webb, one of your Chasers, asks. He looks up from his diagram, eyebrows raised.

“Greene’s soulmate took a tumble and landed him in the hospital wing. Can’t play tomorrow’s match.” She scowls, drawing clenched tightly on her hand.

“Again?” Your team groans.

Rupert Greene spends more time in the hospital wing due to his soulmate’s clumsiness than from playing a dangerous magical sport. That’s the way it’s been for the four years you’ve known him, and you have a hunch that it’ll never change.

“So we’re gonna have to put in Knight? Against Gryffindor?” Webb cries out, eyes wide. “No offense, but he isn’t ready to take on those pricks!”

Sharpe runs a hand through her dark brown hair. “Well, I guess we all just need to pray to Merlin some Gryffindor gets knocked off their broom.” She sighs.

The news of Knight replacing Greene for the match against Gryffindor puts you in a sour mood, making the bruise on your thigh throb more painfully.

You march through the corridors, face contorted in a permanent frown, barely paying attention to your lessons. You do, however, manage to keep your potion from exploding, which Slughorn is thrilled about. Match notes and plays take over your free time, pushing all your homework to Sunday, quickly deciding that this match is far too important. Marlene sticks her tongue out at you whenever she gets the chance as she hobbles through the corridors or looks away from Flitwick in your shared Charms class.

Sharpe drags you and the rest of the team up to bed at nine, lecturing you all about a good night’s rest. You roll your eyes, but you do only spend half an hour studying moves before heading to bed.

You wake up jittery.

You’re always nervous the morning of normal Quidditch matches, but this isn’t a normal Quidditch match. Gryffindor has gone undefeated for the entire season so far, and you just need to beat them. You crave to watch the smug look fall from James’ face and the cocky attitude that Sirius is infamous for crumble. You want to win. At the same time, though, you’re hesitant to see the frown on Marlene’s face. Those perfect lips deserve to shaped in a perfect smile.

Your bruise isn’t as irritated as yesterday. It’s still black and blue, but you really need to dig your thumb into it for it to hurt.

You stretch, listening to your joints pop before strutting down to the Great Hall to join the rest of your team.

Taking a deep breath before making your way through the threshold, you try your best to calm down and radiate confidence. You crack your knuckles and make your way to your table.

Marlene throws you a playful glare across the room, which you teasingly reciprocate.

Breakfast is a quiet affair for your group. Feet tap impatiently against the stone, nervous habits running wild.

The weather is perfect for Quidditch. There’s a slight breeze and a couple fluffy white clouds drifting through the blue sky, providing the occasional blotch of shade. It reassures you and calms you down on your walk down.

Sharpe gives her usual pep talk in the locker rooms. It’s all about blood, guts, and glory, and how we better not mess this up for her or else “she’ll haunt us from the great beyond.” Knight is white as a sheet, trembling underneath his robes.

The crowd roars out from the stands just above, your cue to make your grand entrance. Brooms are taken off their positions in the wall and in a single filed line, you all follow Sharpe out onto the pitch.

“And here it is, everybody,” Remus’ voice calls out over the chaos. “Captain Sharpe, (Y/Ln), Webb, Byrne, Spade, Opal, and their reserve, Knight!”

Your house cheers louder at your introduction, your eardrums pounding. You smile and nod at the crowd, excitement bubbling up inside of you.

“While the two captains are taking positions and shaking hands,” You hear as you mount your broom, Potter and Sharpe facing each other. “I have been paid quite a significant amount to say that according to James Potter, Lily Evans looks absolutely gorgeous today—“

“That has nothing to do with the match, Lupin!” McGonagall cries.

“Godric, Minnie. I’m just doing some adverts, it’s all good. No need to—“

A large thwack echos throughout the pitch, but you’re too wrapped up in Hooch blowing the whistle.

Quickly, you soar up in the air, Beater’s bat in one hand, chasing after your teammates to defend them.

You barely hear Remus over the whistling of the wind and your own grunts.

You watch Marlene laugh after she bats a Bludger away from James, the bat giving off a wicked crack. You’re momentarily mesmerized by her figure. How her tongue peeks out in concentration and her ponytail bounces wildly in the wind.

A moment passes and your arm erupts in pain, and to add onto that, you’re hurtling towards the grass.

You clutch your arm and brace for impact, breath being forcibly ripped from your lungs. Tears well in your eyes from both the pain and the air lashing against your body. Your Quidditch robes flap wildly behind you.

The landing, however, isn’t that bad. You end up in the grass, your bad arm protected. You assume Dumbledore is the one to thank.

You let out strangled pants, sky spinning around you, a piercing whistle sharp against your ears. Your arm screams in agony.

“(Y/Ln)!” Sharpe calls out, broom clutched in one hand. “You alright?” Her face shines with sweat.

“Bloody hell, she’s got quite the swing.” You groan, face contorting in anguish.

In the corner of your rotating vision, you watch red and gold blurs crowding around someone else.

Madam Hooch and the rest of your teammates are talking, but you can’t understand a word they’re saying.

Tendrils of black fog enter your vision and suddenly you’re out cold.

You recognize the hospital wing bed immediately. It’s firm, but not unbearable, the white cotton sheets rubbing against any exposed skin.

“So (Y/Ln) and McKinnon, eh?”

It’s garbled and you’re unable to place the voice, but it’s understandable.

“What’s this ‘bout me and McKinnon?” You manage to slur out, eyes blinking open, the figures above you blurry.

The world gradually clears itself up, your teammates surrounding your bed. Your left arm is wrapped tightly to your chest with a white cotton sling. The pain is dull, but it’s the most noticeable feeling present.

“Ah, well...” Webb scratches the back of his neck, averting his eyes.

“They’re talking about how I finally felt my own strength.”

Slowly, you turn your head to see Marlene sitting up on her bed, carefully watching over you. Her friends surround her, knowing smirks gracing their faces.

Her blonde hair is a bit of a tangled mess from the wind, but her smile is blinding in the light.

“You mean...” Your eyes widen in shock.

Marlene nods her head. “Soulmates.”

You bite your lip in response.

“I mean, it was pretty obvious, wasn’t it?” Sirius asks, looking between his friends for approval. “They literally wake up covered in bruises after like every Quidditch match!”

“Shut up, Pads!” Remus hisses, smacking him on the leg. “They’re having a moment.”

Sirius rolls his eyes and holds his hands up in mock surrender.

Your eyes drift to your thigh where the mysterious bruise was.

“I’m guessing you got hit by a Bludger during practice?” You ask.

“And you’re the one that gave me that broken bloody nose during detention!” Marlene exclaims.

You nod shyly, remembering when Knight accidentally threw the Quaffle at your face during a late night practice.

“Are we really that bloody stupid?” You laugh.

“You want a real answer or...?” James starts, repositioning his glasses.

Marlene shoves James off her bed, and he yelps before ungracefully tumbling to the floor with a crash.

“Guess this is our cue to leave the two stupid lovebirds alone.” Lily giggles before patting her friend on the back and leaving, the Marauders and your own team trailing close behind her.

Because the bones in your arm are practically shattered, you’re confined to the hospital wing for at least another day, but with Marlene at your bedside, it’s been made bearable. You talk about all those mysterious injuries you’ve acquired over the many years and learn the extent of your idiocy.

With various bumps and bruises to match, at the end of the day, the two of you are much more than Quidditch rivals.

[tennessoui]

omgggg yes number 45 gimme some number 45 obikin PLEASE

ok,,,,,,this is no. 1 Soulmates + no.45 in love with best friend's partner but it kinda got away from me so it's almost 2k and also like there's world-building im awful at snippets. This is obikin but also mentions of qui-gon/anakin BUT it's a fake relationship. it's not in the story, but the premise obi-wan doesn't know is that anakin needed coruscanti citizenship to get their healthcare for his mom, and qui-gon decides to help him out by marrying him to give him automatic citizenship i uh might continue this if people like it because it was fun to write whoops

“We met at the spaceport three days ago,” Anakin says with a demure little smile, curling further into Qui-Gon’s outstretched arm. The soft lamplight glints off the golden band Anakin’s wearing on his finger. Obi-Wan has had a hard time looking anywhere else since arriving in his old master’s quarters, has had a hard time thinking of anything else except that he’d always imagined Anakin wearing a more bronzed shade of gold.

It had been a shock to hear that while Obi-Wan had been out on a mission, Qui-Gon had returned to Coruscant with a husband in tow. Yes, alright, short courtships aren’t rare anywhere in the galaxy, especially between soulmates.

But Obi-Wan knows intimately well--better than anyone else in this room--that Anakin and Qui-Gon aren’t, in fact, soulmates.

Mace seems to be thinking the same thing because he states, with a slight question in his voice, “I was under the impression that your soulmate had passed into the Force, Qui-Gon.”

“We’re not soulmates,” Qui-Gon corrects placidly, arm moving away from Anakin’s shoulders--Obi-Wan can breathe again--so he can fiddle with the cuff around his wrist, which hides the faded name of his mate. “But now that the Jedi Order has lifted its marriage ban for non-Soulmate couples, I thought, why spend the rest of my life alone?”

Anakin catches Qui-Gon’s hand and places a kiss on the back of his fingers. Obi-Wan is going to scream.

When Anakin looks up to the assembled Jedi watching, he doesn’t look at Obi-Wan once. It’s the worst thing in the galaxy, the fact that other than very briefly an hour ago, Anakin hasn’t looked at him at all. It’s been five years. “And I’ve met my soulmate, but they…decided they didn’t want to stay with me, that they didn’t want me.”

Obi-Wan inhales sharply at this and forgets to bite his tongue. “Maybe your soulmate had other obligations that they had to fulfill,” Obi-Wan bites out.

He’d thought Anakin ignoring him had been awful, but that’s nothing compared to the pain of having him look at him with eyes as cold as Hoth. “I think I’d know more about my soulmate than you would, master Jedi. Ah, I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”

Obi-Wan almost tells him to check his wrist if he needs a reminder about Obi-Wan’s name, but the words get stuck in his throat.

It’s probably for the best.

Obi-Wan’s spent five years and the duration of a war hiding the name of his soulmate from the Jedi Order, and he can’t say it now. His other half has made it quite clear that he can’t say it now.

“Excuse me,” Obi-Wan says, standing suddenly. He knows he should stay, should sit through the rest of the intake interview the Council gives to all non-Jedi sentients that marry a Jedi, soulmates or no, but he can’t. He’s the youngest person to sit on the Council in written history, he’s survived a war, trained the stubbornest Padawan of her generation, and this--this--looking across the table at Anakin Skywalker, dolled up and petty and full of hatred for him as he wears another man’s ring, Obi-Wan’s former master’s ring--this is going to be the thing that kills him.

Luckily, no one tries to stop him as he leaves. Maybe they think he’s just reacting to the fact that his fifty-eight year old master came home with a twenty-five year old husband. Maybe everything he’s feeling is written out on his face. Maybe he should never have tried to hide Anakin away. Maybe he should have called for extraction from his deep cover mission as soon as their hands had touched and their soulmarks had appeared. Maybe these past seven years should never have happened.

Force knows Obi-Wan would sleep easier if he had never walked into that Tatooine bar. If he had never met Anakin Skywalker.

He tries to meditate in his favorite spot in the Room of A Thousand Fountains, but it’s an impossible task. Mostly, he sits in a classic lotus position and broods.

A few hours later, when Obi-Wan thinks he’s recovered some of his composure, the person who’s always been able to ruin it sits himself down in front of him with a lot of unnecessary noise.

“When you talked about this place, I thought it sounded like the biggest waste of water in the entire galaxy,” Anakin’s voice sounds...normal. Like they’re picking up the thread of a conversation they had just dropped a moment ago, as if five years and a wedding and a war don’t stretch between them.

But if Anakin wants to talk to Obi-Wan like they had before, he’ll try his hardest to meet him there. Slowly, he opens his eyes. Anakin’s lounging back, still wearing the ceremonial robes of a Jedi’s bride, the loose blue silk barely hanging onto one of his shoulders. Obi-Wan wants to close his eyes again, immediately. “The greenery wouldn’t be able to survive without the water.”

Anakin nods, looking around as if slightly disinterested by it all. When he’d been eighteen, he’d soaked up every story Obi-Wan could tell him about the Temple, about the Jedi. Those piercing blue eyes find him again. It’s as if he knows Obi-Wan’s thoughts, because he smiles in the most humorless way. “I used to think I’d live here, and then I could see for myself if the beauty was worth the excess.”

“And?” Obi-Wan asks. It’s all he can get out of his throat. It’s very clear what Anakin isn’t saying. That he used to think he’d live here with Obi-Wan. That they'd be--that they'd be.

“Now I understand that there’s no winning that argument. What one man sees as a waste, another might see as a treasure.”

Obi-Wan can’t do this. He thought--maybe he could--but. He can’t. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, moving to stand on his feet. “I hate to leave, but I must attend to--”

Anakin scrambles to his feet and latches onto Obi-Wan’s covered wrist. “Do you?” he asks intently, his hold tightening. “Did you?”

“This--this is most inappropriate, Chosen Skywalker, please remove yourself from my person.”

Anakin, blast him, moves even closer. Obi-Wan wonders if he can hear his heartbeat from that far away or if it’s just in Obi-Wan’s ears. “You have to tell me,” he demands. He’s always demanded things from Obi-Wan. Stories, and kisses, and comfort, and promises. Obi-Wan had given him everything he’d asked for, up until the very end.

Unsurprisingly, nothing has changed.

“Tell you what,” Obi-Wan snaps, yanking his wrist away from Anakin’s touch. Even through the covering, his skin feels burned. “Tell you that I hated having to leave you? Tell you that I’ve thought about you every night since then? Tell you that there was a war, that I had to fight, that I didn’t choose to go? That I had a duty to the galaxy, to the Jedi, to my family?”

“You had a duty to me!” Anakin snarls back, squaring his shoulders and shoving forward into Obi-Wan’s space. “I was your soulmate and you left me and I waited and you never once called me, never once tried to visit! And then the war ended and you never came back!” His voice breaks and the flood of words Obi-Wan desperately does not want to hear breaks with it for just a second. “Why didn’t you come back? I don’t...I don’t care that you had to fight. I knew I couldn’t leave with you, not until I had freed my mom. But you just. You left.”

“I’m not the same man I was, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says softly. His voice shakes and he has to turn his head away from his soulmate’s watery blue eyes. “The war--it changed me. It hurt, to fight and kill and strategize on how to more effectively fight and kill the next day. Four years of that, and I knew at the end I wasn’t fit to be anyone’s soulmate, least of all yours.”

When Obi-Wan had first met him, Anakin had been laughing. His head had been tipped back, curls falling over his shoulders. The noise had been loud and honest. He’d been radiant in the Force. It had taken weeks for Obi-Wan to really believe something so bright could be the other half of his soul.

“I wanted to,” Obi-Wan whispers. “Every night I wanted to, and it only got harder after the war ended. I never stopped wanting to. Wanting you.”

“How am I supposed to believe you?” Anakin asks. Obi-Wan wants to ask him why it matters if he believes him or not, but Anakin’s words from earlier float back to him. They decided they didn’t want to stay with me, that they didn’t want me. He can’t let Anakin continue to think Obi-Wan didn’t want him, not when he wanted him so badly he ached from it.

With shaking fingers, he moves to pull down the collar of his robes, just far enough that he can pull out the japor snippet he’s worn around his neck since the day Anakin gave it to him. He slowly lifts it over his head and presents it to his soulmate. Anakin’s eyes are wide with wonder as he stares down at the necklace, worm almost smooth by how often Obi-Wan had rubbed the carving with his thumb. “Always, Anakin,” Obi-Wan murmurs, reaching out to grab Anakin’s hand and dropping the wood carving into his palm. He carefully folds the man’s lax fingers around the necklace.

Hating himself for doing it, but needing to do it anyway, he brushes his lips over his fingers in a ghost of a kiss. Beneath his mouth, the wedding band feels warm from Anakin’s body heat. It’s a shockingly cold reminder.

“May the Force bless you and your Chosen, and reunite you at every end of your every day,” Obi-Wan whispers the Council’s official blessings for newly-wed couples into Anakin’s skin.This is the last time he’s ever going to touch him. He doesn’t want to let go.

He must. He does.

[ikindamissbeingphysical]

5 Times Musa wore Riven’s clothes

Read here or on ao3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29376804

1.

The Alfea Games is a bullshit annual tradition. It's an exam masquerading as a tournament, just a way for the teachers and high rankers of the Kingdom to see who they want to pluck out of the Academy and take for their army, or task force, or some other random position Riven could really not care less about.

Still, he's competitive, and if there's one thing he likes doing, it's beating Sky.

He slashes, a dagger in each fist, at the Burned One projection and it falls to its knees shrieking.

The stands are full of students cheering, and Riven gets a rush at their applause.

"Show off." Sky pants from beside him, as Riven's tally flicks up to 7, and Sky's stays stubbornly at 4.

"Jealous, much?" Riven grins; relieved when the half-time bell chimes because his legs are sore, and the late afternoon sun still burns as it begins to dip out of the sky. He and the other Specialists head over to the shade and he rifles through his rucksack for some water as Sky goes to kiss Bloom, who's leaning over the rail; red tresses swaying in the breeze.

"You were amazing!" Bloom gushes, and Sky beams at her, and Riven mimes throwing up.

Someone laughs.

He turns to see Musa, headphones around her neck, hair in pigtails, and-and-

In his jacket.

She's wearing his jacket. His leather jacket. It's draped over her shoulders. Her bare shoulders, because she's wearing some strapless, form-fitting purple dress, and Riven's coat, she's wearing Riven's-

"You okay, man?" Sky asks, and Riven realises they're all looking at him, and he's still looking at Musa, and her big, brown eyes are lit up a sort of hazel in the red setting sun.

He nods, waving them off, and chugs more of his water, trying to temper his heartbeat.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Musa asks, more quietly, her irises flaring purple. Her eyebrows stitch together worriedly. "You're like- really anxious. It's just a game."

"Stay out of my head." He hisses furiously, petrified that she might be able to see, might be able to tell-

She leans away from him, scowling. "Fine. Whatever."

He's grateful when the bell rings again, but his winning streak is gone. As the flood-lights turn on and the sun disappears, he misses target after target. He keeps getting pinned by fucking rookies and everyone else's tally continues to jump up as his dies on a plateau.

He can see her, in his peripheral, wearing his jacket and she probably doesn't even know it's his. She probably doesn't know how she looks in that leather swamping her frame, the collar resting at her neck, where the skin looks so soft that-

"Fuck, dude," Sky curses, hauling Riven off his ass. "Pull yourself together."

"She's wearing my jacket." He snaps, and Sky looks at him blankly for a moment, before he groans.

"Dude, I know you're like, against sharing, but she was freezing and it was just lying there. I'd have given her mine, but Bloom had already-"

"It's fine, just-" Riven tries to shake it off, "I'm focused."

He can't help a final glance over his shoulder, to see Musa leaning sleepily against the railings, headphones now secured over her ears, resting her chin on her arms. On his jacket sleeves. She's lit by the silver floodlights, and her eyes are half-closed, and he wonders what she's listening to. He wonders-

The Burned One knocks him to the ground, and the buzzer blares.

2.

The next day, traces of her perfume linger on his jacket, swirling around him the way she does, always, in his thoughts.

It's sweet, like honey and vanilla, like home-spun sugar and toffee.

He'd found his jacket right on the bench where he'd left it after the game: the stands empty, the game over. It had been folded neatly and left just beside his things and he'd slid it on and tried not to replay their interaction in his head.

Today's a new day.

As part of Sky's new scheme to become the best boyfriend in the history of boyfriends, they've been sitting with the Winx Suite most lunch times. It's not exactly Riven's idea of a good time. He feels some horrid mix of guilt and irritation whenever he looks at Terra, and Aisha glowers at him like his very proximity will end in her getting a suspension. He spends most of the time arguing with Stella, and trying (failing) not to look at Musa while Sky and Bloom stray the line between PDA and go get a room.

When he gets to the cafeteria and heads for the table, he's surprised, and maybe a little thrilled, to see that it's just Musa at the table.

She stands up as soon as she seems him.

"Good, the others just left. They wanted to have lunch out by the lake. Bloom has apparently ‘found a place’. C'mon, we can catch up."

He has no option but to follow her, and sure enough, half-way across the field is the whole merry-fucking-gang. Riven doesn't know how to feel. Sky could've texted, if his brain was capable of fathoming anything other than Bloom when she was nearby. Were they even going to invite him? Was he going to get to the cafeteria to see an empty table? They probably wouldn't have missed him anyway, he thinks bitterly.

And yet- Musa was there. Waiting.

He looks at her thoughtfully, and her eyes flash purple when she catches him. She winces. "It wasn't like that." She says, "they were caught up in the idea of going there. They weren't purposely trying to leave you behind."

Jesus Christ, can't she just-

"I'm sorry," she barrels on, as they fall into the same steps, almost caught up to the others. "I'm trying to respect your privacy and everything, I'm working on it- my control isn't great at the moment."

"You should work on that." He mutters.

Her shoulders slump dejectedly. "I know."

Well, fuck, he didn't mean to- he swallows hard. "I'm tanking my field training." He says, trying to ignore her look of surprise at this freely-offered information. "Great at everything else, but camouflage? The element of surprise? I'm struggling. It's hard. I also fucking hate it, so there's that."

She huffs out a small laugh. "I bet you just like the thrill of attacking someone face to face. None of that 'sneaking up on you' bullshit."

He grins before he can check himself, and she catches it, and smiles too.

"There you are!" Bloom calls excitedly, "c'mon, we're gonna use Stella's ring."

Riven hates to give Bloom props for anything- and it isn't because he doesn't like her, or anything like that- he's just reluctant to acknowledge anybody's good traits since they all seem so loathe to see any in him- but the lake is nice.

Large and leafy green, surrounded by trees and over-hung by the clear blue sky. There's a sunbeaten deck strutting proudly into the middle, and Aisha strips out of her clothes to reveal a swim suit, and in three great strides, dives in like a dolphin.

The rest of them stare after her in awe.

"Are you always wearing that under your clothes?" Riven asks, toeing off his shoes, watching as Aisha tumble turns and glides through the water like a dolphin. She smiles at him from the water, and he's surprised by the look of it on her face. For the first time, she looks relaxed. Stress-free. Content.

Bloom and Stella change into their swim suits, as he and Sky just strip down to their boxers. Bloom wolf-whistles, and Sky blushes.

Riven puffs his chest out, winking at Stella who scoffs at him. He turns to find Musa. She's shrugged off her coat and shoes, and is rifling through her bag in confusion. She's too pre-occupied to notice his abs. Riven tries not to take offence.

"I can't find my- oh shit." Musa groans, thumping her head. "I left it back in the fire circle."

"Oh! Don't worry, Musa," Terra says brightly, as she sits, fully-dressed, on the mossy bank, with a stack of books beside her. "You can sit this one out with me!"

Musa turns to her with a smile (that to Riven, looks fucking forced) just as Bloom and Sky jump in. They scream, splashing Stella who cannon-balls in after them. Riven watches Musa's face, can see the hidden longing in her eyes.

A part of him wants to tease her, entice her in by saying how much he wouldn't mind if they decided to go skinny-dipping instead, but he knows it ultimately wouldn't work. Instead, he reaches for his discarded black tee, and tosses it to her.

"Should be long enough to preserve your modesty," he says, going for casual and heading for the dock. "Considering you're such a short-arse."

Musa sticks her tongue out at him, but she eagerly turns to get changed and Riven plunges into the lake to resist the urge to watch.

The water is warm and licks at his skin as the sun beats down onto his shoulders. It's deep and he can't quite graze the bottom, and he's suddenly, a little stupidly, grateful for knowing Sky. Grateful that he gets to be here. He floats on his back, staring up at the sky and letting himself just bask in the moment. As the water laps in his ears, he can hear the others laughing, Aisha swimming, Stella screaming, and the sun warms red spots onto his eye lids, marvellous colours in the dark- so he opens them.

Just in time to see Musa standing on the dock.

Suddenly, all his attention is on her. Her long, tan legs on display, his tee, his t-shirt, tickling down past her hips, and she jumps.

Okay. Turns out it's not a leather jacket thing. Anything that's his looks good on her. He could look good on her.

He watches for her when she re-surfaces, as she joins in splashing Stella, and he waits, waits, waits, until- victory.

She swims over to him. A little way away from the group, to where he's treading water alone. The t-shirt clings to her and he wants to touch her and-

"Hey," she says, with wet hair and water droplets on her eyelashes. "Thanks for the tee."

He shrugs. "I'd rather you'd jumped in without anything on."

She hits him, but finally, finally, he gets her eyes on him. They linger, as the water rivets roll down the breadth of his shoulders, his chest, down to- her eyes flicker away, cheeks red.

"Don't be shy," he purrs, "I'm hot. It's not a sin to look. You're hot too. Dancer’s body. Bet you're flexible."

"Wouldn't you like to know?" She murmurs, before her eyes flash purple. He tries not to let it irritate him. He hates the violation of his privacy, but he knows she can't control it- but she turns away from him, and he follows her gaze to Terra, sitting balefully alone. "If I do what I'm gonna do," she whispers, and his heart trips up a little, at her whispering to him over the water, pulling him in closer. A secret just for the two of them. "Promise you won't tell anyone."

Riven grins. "I'm great with secrets."

Musa takes a breath, before she stares at Terra, face tense with concentration, eyes shimmering purple.

Riven turns to look at Terra expectantly. "You're mind-controlling her?"

"No." Musa mutters, still focused, "I'm just trying to increase her confidence, trying to-"

Terra looks up suddenly, and Musa hurriedly grabs Riven's arm to move behind him.

"The water does look good!" Terra calls, "is it warm?"

"Oh, it's lovely, Terra!" Musa hollers back, "you should come in!"

"Yes! Join us!" Bloom sings, from her position perched on Sky's shoulders.

Terra wavers. Riven can feel Musa's hand curled around his arm, her body against his back. "I don't have my costume!" She yells.

"You're wearing like five layers," Stella calls, "you can spare one."

Terra chews on her bottom lip, and Riven turns his head to whisper: "can't you boost it anymore?"

"I'm trying." Musa insists quietly, "I can't manufacture it. I can only enhance what's already there."

"Terra," Riven yells, startling her, "if you come in, I'll let you dunk me."

Sky bursts out laughing, and Terra giggles.

"Well, I can't resist that!" She says, getting to her feet. Riven turns away, looking down at Musa who's beaming up at him.

"Wow." She says, pressing her lips together to hide the glee in her tone. "That was very sweet."

"Fuck off." Riven mutters, but his eyes are on the collar of his wet tee as it clings to her skin. "I only did it because that was bloody painful to watch. By the way, is there anything else you can do with your powers that I should watch out for?"

Musa tips her head contemplatively. "Actually, yes." She lifts her hands and cups his face. He startles a little, at her fingertips against his jaw, before he sees her eyes purple and shimmer, and then suddenly, a weird emotion clouds into his head. It's familiar yet foreign, it's-

gratitude?

"It's meant to be gratitude." Musa says, when her eyes are back to normal and she's panting a little, "I'm not great at-"

"I got it." He reassures her, “I felt it."

She smiles, pleased, pushing away from him to swim further to the centre of the lake.

He watches her go, mind reeling. More powerful than he thought, though he's not sure why he's surprised. He can still feel her hands on his face. He wants to swim after her, but Terra and Sky corner him, eager to see him dunked.

3.

It marks a turning point for the group as a whole.

The afternoon at the lake has softened grudges, strengthened bonds, and Terra talks to him more over lunch. Aisha doesn't bore him so much, not now he can see her for more than a stuck-up rule-follower. He and Stella get along as well as they usually do, but their barbs seem less sharp than before. Bloom has always been pretty accepting, and Musa-

Well, she's Musa.

She's making him lose all sense of normalcy, of sanity, because that's the only reason he'd agree to this fucking slumber party.

"No, I think it was better over there." Sky says, changing his mind for the fourth time, as Riven struggles under the weight of the mattress. The entire floor is covered with pillows and cushions and Sky needs to make up his mind before Riven kills him. "No, no, you were right- put it back."

"Jesus," Riven groans, setting it down and spotting the stack of Disney Princess movies. "We're two guys about to sleep with five girls, and you're suggesting we watch Pocahontas?"

"They won the coin toss," Sky shrugs, "besides, I always liked the little hummingbird."

The girls arrive after Laurie, the RI for the floor, has done her final rounds. They shuffle into the room on tiptoes, and Riven closes it behind them, meeting Musa's eyes. Her hair's down and loose around her shoulders, and he's never seen it like that before. In her soft looking, cotton pyjamas, some rainbow sweater, she's more enticing than usual so he busies himself with the popcorn as Sky sets out the rest of the snacks.

"This is a nice set-up, guys," Bloom grins, getting comfy right in the middle. Sky joins her, and soon, the lights are off- bar Stella's glowing little ball- and everyone's shuffling into place.

Bloom and Sky are cosied up to one another, and Aisha and Terra are tucked neatly into one corner. Stella fancies herself above the ground, and lies on Sky's bed, half her attention on her phone.

Musa settles in the other corner, leaning against a mountain of cushions, and Riven debates for about half a second before he joins her.

"Hi," she whispers, sounding pleased, "wanna hear a sad story?"

Their thighs are touching. Her fleece pants are warm against his bare leg, and the cushions are ridiculously comfortable, and she looks so different with her hair down, her face almost obscured from him. "Sure," he whispers back.

She points are her bare feet. "I forgot my socks."

He snorts. "If that's your idea of a sad story-" he breaks off into a hiss when she cruelly presses her toes onto his shin. "Jesus, they're fucking ice." He complains, and she laughs, tossing a kernel of popcorn into the air and catching it perfectly between her teeth.

He reaches over her, feels her entire body stiffen and does his best to ignore it, opening one of his drawers and pulling out a pair of mis-matched socks.

She takes them gleefully, leaning down to pull them on. Her shirt rides up and he catches a glimpse of her lower back, and when she sits up- she catches him. Their eyes dart away from each other, and the first hour of Pocahontas is a stiff, awkward affair. The darkness seems to electrify the space between them and Riven's too afraid to move. Musa seems to be feeling the same way, but then Terra starts singing along with the song, and the the air relaxes a little.

Then, somehow, in Little Mermaid 2, Riven's oddly invested in Melody and her pull to the sea, when Musa sighs, sinking back further into the cushions, resting her body weight on Riven, looking completely content.

"You comfortable?" He teases, and she smiles lazily up at him, wiggling her toes in his socks.

"Very comfortable." She says, and he isn't thinking when he says:

"You're insufferably cute, you know that?"

He regrets it immediately, but it's slipped out, and Musa barely seems to notice his panic. She just yawns, and then she- she- rests her head on his shoulder, and her hair fans down over him, and tickles his arm.

He feels, suddenly, the rather vicious urge to protect her. He's on high-alert, for some reason, for any intruder, because she's here, half-asleep, resting against him. So trusting. So vulnerable, and-

The DVD menu chimes on repeat, and when Riven looks up he realises that everyone else is asleep, and Stella's orb of light has vanished into darkness, and that it's well past midnight.

Slowly, gently, he rests his cheek on Musa's head, feels the way they're tucked in together, and he closes his eyes.

4.

He's not sure how it happened.

How they can go one minute from a group of friends binging Disney movies, to out here, in the woods, watching Bloom's fucking fire wings and surrounded on all sides by Burned Ones. Real ones. Not projections.

The girls are all glowing, eyes burning, and there's splashes of water, tangling ivy, shooting flames, blinding light and Musa: shouting locations as she tracks them.

"Try to project lethargy!" Aisha screams, clutching one arm, as Sky slashes a Burned One along the chest.

Riven jams two sharp jabs into the torso of another, and growls over his shoulder. "She's already fucking tracking them, Aisha! Why don't you just water-board them some more?"

Musa doesn't mediate their bickering, just whirls and points and says "Another three over there, I can sense them. They want Bloom!"

Sky and Terra immediately run over to Bloom, who has fire burning along her shoulders, and it's so arresting a sight that Riven doesn't even notice when the Burned One crumbles into ash beneath him.

He doesn't notice when another hisses just to his left. He can't get his blade out in time, and it has one deformed hand around his throat, claws pricking into his skin when Musa's suddenly shoving him away, taking his place, and he just has time to notice, to scream- when she lunges forward, and stabs the monster in the chest. It howls, and she yells out in unison, her voice shaking with agony, a sound that'll haunt him.

The Burned One crumples, and Musa with it.

"Musa!" Stella cries, racing over, trying to get closer, but Riven blocks her, taking Musa's chin in his hands, tilting her face up. There are tears stained along her cheeks, and her eyes are still rimmed purple.

"I felt it," she gasps, clutching Riven's arms, still shaking, "I felt it die, I felt it-"

"It's okay." Stella insists, voice shaky, rubbing Musa's back. "You did amazing, you did so great."

Musa clenches her eyes shut. "I've gotta- I can feel more of them."

"Take a minute." Riven pleads, trying to catch his breath, feeling blood move sluggishly down his own neck. "Take a minute, you just fucking saved my life, you're allowed a goddamn minute."

His entire being seems to light up at the small, strained smile she gives him. Stella sees the smile too, so she shoots Riven a look that says keep going, moron.

He doesn't need her prompting. "And what a sexy knife move. Where'd you get that blade?"

This earns more of a laugh from her. Relieved and a little hysterical sounding, but a laugh nonetheless. She holds the blade up, and its blue handle glints in the moonlight. "Stole it from you." She says, and he wants to tell her it isn't the only thing she's stolen from him. She has everything he is in the palm of her hand, and she saved his life. She hands the dagger back to him, and he shakes his head.

"Keep it. You look hot with a knife in your hand."

Musa laughs again, still a little choked up, and the two of them help her to her feet. He doesn't want to let go for her, but she sniffles, nodding, so Riven just sticks close by the rest of the night.

They defeat the burned ones with minimal injuries. Aisha's leg is broken, and Terra's bandaged it as best she can, as they limp back to the school. Dowling and Silva meet them half way, overflowing with worry and gratitude, and at their insistence, Riven collapses into a bed in the infirmary as they tend to his neck.

They put Musa in the bed beside him, and he sees claw marks on her ribs, and it's a good thing the Burned Ones are dead, because it's the only thing stopping him from marching right out into that forest to have their heads.

5.

He's on his way back from the drinks table, two glasses in his hands, when he notices that Musa isn't there anymore.

Terra points to the back door. "She needed to step out. Mind fairy thing."

Riven nods, setting down the drinks and heading for the exit.

It's a warm summer night, and the air is humid, and Musa's standing out on the grass, gazing up at the stars.

She must feel his mental presence, because she turns and smiles.

He heads over to her, and she steps easily into the circle of his arms, and he holds her tightly.

Here they are. At the Alfea Ball, dating. Their three month anniversary is coming up soon, and Riven has something in mind. He's excited to see her reaction. But right now, he just basks in having her in his arms. She's a vision, in a lace-sleeved, indigo dress, her hair up the way he likes, and heels that mean she doesn't need to tiptoe to kiss him.

"Sorry," she murmurs, "got a little loud in there."

"I don't mind," he reassures, dropping a kiss onto her head. He feels her shiver, so he shrugs out of his tux jacket and drapes it over her shoulders. As pulls it around her, she looks up at him, soft and smiling, and his throat goes a little dry. "What?"

"Nothing," she shrugs, "you just look very dapper in your tux. I'm feeling it." Her hands slide up onto the plane of his chest, and he grins, nipping at her nose.

"Shall we get out of here, then?"

She hums in agreement, but tangles her fingers into his hair to pull him down for a kiss. As usual, the heat flares down to his stomach, and he pulls her tighter to his body.

"We should get out of here," he insists, kissing at her jaw, "or we'll definitely get suspended."

Musa laughs, and she leads the way back to the dorms.

Once there, he whispers, low and greedy into her ear, to take off everything but his jacket.

"Is this some sort of kink?" She asks delightedly, once his tux suit is the only thing on her gorgeous body, and she's straddling him, thighs spread over his, her fingers dragging through his hair.

"I don't know," he admits, even though he knows it's only a thing for him when she's involved. "I think I just look really good on you."

She bites his neck and scratches his down his back, and it hurts and he loves it, and she looks down at the marks like a satisfied kitten with tiger claws. "I look good on you too." She whispers, and he kisses her again.

And again.

And again.

[jimlingss]

Moirai [2]

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3

➜ Words: 6.2k

➜ Genres: 60% Fluff, 40% Angst, Isekai!AU

➜ Summary: Death is supposed to be the end. Or at least that's what you assumed when you're hit by a TRUCK. But the moment you open your eyes again, instead of being sent to the afterlife, you've become a baby. And not just any baby. You're the female villain of a video game.

You turn the corner and dart down the hall.   “My lady!”   There’s a parade of maids chasing after you, Joan included in the bunch, and a frightened guard whose metal armour clanks with each movement. You grin, swinging your wooden sword around at them with a ‘huzzah!’. Pretending you’re a champion, you twirl around the pillar with one arm. But even with your theatrics, they’re still meters away and out of reach.   “Please! Come back! You have your dance lessons!”   You stick out your tongue. “Then catch me!”   It’s been one full year since you’ve started learning swordsmanship and admittedly, it’s become one of your most favourite times of the day. It beats sitting at a desk with the old fart droning on and on about dumb things you already know or having your posture criticized over and over again during dance lessons.    You’re frankly getting tired of having information and insults shoved down your throat.    Sword lessons are the only time you can be out in the sun and do whatever you want. You can tell that you’re improving too. It’s a pain in the ass to get the guards to take you seriously, but sometimes the tips and tricks they give are pretty helpful.   It’s fun.   Especially when there are people desperately chasing you.   “P-Please!” one of the girls cries out, running out of breath.   One of the best perks about being a five-year old is having endless energy in your body. And you’ll happily take advantage of that while you still can. “Pirates never give up! Argh, matey!”   But your play time is unfortunately interrupted by a deadpanning voice—   “What are you doing?”    The familiar sharp voice sends shivers up your spine and you freeze.   Your parade halts on their heels as well, immediately dropping their heads to the ground and placing one hand over the other reverently. “Your grace.”   “What is going on here?” Your mother’s footsteps echo through the marble hall, ball gown dragged behind her as her scrutinizing eyes lay on the help, the knight and then to you.   “I’m so sorry,” Joan is quick to confess, “The lady refuses to attend her dance practices.”   And she’s quick to throw you under the bus.   If you could, you’d stick up your middle finger at her.   Your mother turns, her glare laid upon you. You brace yourself.   “This is not how the future Devereux head should act.” Her voice is above a slight murmur, yet chilling and heavy. Her narrowed eyes have dimmed as they look upon you. She doesn’t need to yell to be frightening. “The Chevalier household has their youngest daughter playing piano and they recently went to the castle to show her talent. How will you compete, Anastasia?”   “I—”   “Or will you continue to tarnish our family’s name by being a child?”   You are a child. Technically.    The woman looms over you, her demeanour imposing and the burden of the household’s name lays upon your shoulders. You can’t help but feel small. It’s no wonder Anastasia took the Prince’s kindness as love and fell for him so quickly. Moments with him were her moments of freedom.   You stay quiet, solemn, knowing it’s not worth arguing. Your eyes instead focus on a younger maid who’s silently snickering to herself and before you can make note for later, your vision blurs.   “From now on, your swordsmanship lessons will be retracted until you’ve caught up with the rest of your lessons,” she says while looking straight ahead, not sparing you a glance. “The only places you are to be permitted in for the next month is your room and the study—”   It’s unfair. A punishment that doesn’t fit the crime.   But your voice doesn’t come out of your mouth.   The world tilts on an axis. It swirls. Your head is lightweight.    And before you could figure out what’s happening, there’s a shrill cry for you — “my lady!” — and you feel yourself falling back before the universe becomes pitch black. An abyss of nothing.   //   “Why did she faint?!”   When you come to, your first thought is that you’ve died. Again.   Illness. Heart attack. Maybe from the plague.    Fuck.   It’s frightening and you feel an urge to cry, knowing that you yet again didn’t complete your goal of living a long and fruitful life. That the years spent fighting for your survival were ultimately useless. But then you hear far away voices and realize your fingers can twitch. The soft mattress underneath you registers soon after and it sinks in that you’re in your room, bedridden.   “Well….your grace…”   “On with it! I didn’t bring you here to waste my time!”   “Herrick…”   Oh right. It’s the Eve of the Solar Festival, isn’t it? A day where commoners celebrate the empire and wish for its everlasting prosperity. You remember since you’ve never gone before. Around this same time last year and the year before that, you fell ill in the exact same way — cold, chest aching, dizzy spells.    It’s odd. Usually you aren’t so weak and yet somehow, you always get better in the morning once the festival is over. You don’t remember this ever being mentioned in the original game either. Or at least Anastasia never said anything about it and she would’ve totally milked it for the Prince’s attention if she could’ve. But maybe it’s an outside detail. Something the game developers were going to include in a future DLC.   “We don’t know what’s happening to the lady, your grace,” the healer says.   Your father bellows from his stomach, “Excuse me?!”   “H-Her pulse reads well and she has no fever either. I-It’s a very unusual case.”   In your half-consciousness, you perceive the bitter silence.    “Heal her at all costs.” Your father’s footsteps fade and your mother sighs.   You wish you couldn’t hear. Otherwise, it would be easy to demonize the pair as unsympathetic, psychopathic parents who only consider their daughter a chess piece. You’re sure the only reason they’re expressing so much concern is because you are the only heir after all. They really have no future if Anastasia dies.    But it’s still hard to quell the hope that they actually care for your wellbeing.    Still, you wish you couldn’t hear their desperation. It wouldn’t have to be so conflicting. Or bittersweet. The only time they show an ounce of their affection is when you’re on your deathbed.   You muster the strength to open your eyes once everyone’s left the room.    Most likely, you’ll live through this. You still have yet to have any of the game’s encounters or even start. Anastasia was alive for most of it, enough to terrorize the main character, so you’ll live too.   Shit. When does the game start again?   The opening scene was right before the debutante ball was held for all the girls in the empire.   You count on your fingers — give or take, there’s twelve or thirteen years left….   But you remember from the wiki fan page that Anastasia became engaged to the Crown Prince when they were kids.    Oh god. If you weren’t so weak, you’d roll over and scream into your pillow.   There’s an unsettling feeling boiling in the pit of your stomach.   No matter how much effort you put forth, you don’t know how you’re going to avoid that arrangement.

Turns out, it’s unavoidable.   It begins two years later at seven years old, the D-day that you were dreading, the first domino that begins all the others.   “No! Please!” The entire household is stunned at how you’ve grabbed onto the Duke’s leg and wrapped your limbs around his appendage, practically dead weight and not allowing him to move a single step.    All your life, you’ve kept a good amount of distance between your parents — never daring to overstep your boundaries or sass them back no matter how much you wanted to. It’s more trouble than it’s worth anyway and it’s better to play on their good side.   But you’ve thrown in the towel. This is your last desperate attempt.   “I’ll be good, I promise I’ll go to all my dance lessons and all my history lessons and all my math lessons. Please, papa! Please!” You’re practically crying aloud. You wish someone would help you. “I don’t want to go to the Royal Palace!”   Edith is shaking her head while Joan is mortified at the sidelines.   Your mother’s expression is twisted in disgust while your dad is wholly aghast. Hey — it’s not like you wanted to do this either, alright?!   But your pleas fall on deaf ears. To them, it’s merely the whining of a child. A temper tantrum.   “My lady, please stop this,” Joan harshly whispers and rushes to pry your grip off of the Duke’s leg. Several others come too, maids and kitchen staff alike. Your strength is no match for theirs.   “My stomach hurts!”   Your father has no sympathy. “We’ve delayed enough times, Anastasia. If we postpone the meeting with the King again, it would be shameful to our house. Now get up.”   He’s done hearing the excuses — and while you’d usually internally call him out for being an ass, the moment you heard he wanted to take you to the palace, you did claim you have a fever.    Then you claimed diarrhea. A cough. Hid for several hours.   You’re actually surprised you managed to delay it for this long.   “There’s no choice, my lady,” Joan mutters quickly as she fixes the ribbons in your pretty hairdo. “You must go with the Duke today.”   Deep down, you know it’s true. You’ll be pulled along anyhow.    But you wish they would understand that this is a matter of life and death for you.   Your silence is a sign of raising the white flag and Joan retracts back to her place as your dad turns to leave the manor. He adjusts his hat as he’s escorted to the carriage and you’re about to trail after him, but your mother stops you.   You expect her to reprimand you, give an earful of what you should and shouldn’t do. But you’re surprised when she lowers herself down to your eye level.    She catches you off guard when she reaches out to button up your pea coat, attentive and careful in each swift movement. “This is a really important meeting, Anastasia. Do you understand?”    Her voice is soft, quiet enough that no one else aside from you can hear. You nod.   “You must be on your best behaviour. Your father, me, all the workers here, and the whole House of Devereux will be relying on you.” Wow. Way to not pressure a seven year old. “Today is the day that might change our lives for the better.”   As she finishes buttoning, her hands stroke your shoulders down your arms. The Duchess smiles gingerly, tiredly. For a moment, you feel guilty for being so selfish — for prioritizing your own survival and desires when everyone else was quite literally relying on you for their livelihood.   You find yourself swallowing hard before nodding again.    You get into the carriage without another word.    Well fuck. What now?   A part of you wishes you ran away when you had the opportunity — even though there was a good chance you would’ve been kidnapped and sold at an underground market or gone hungry or be shipped back right to your parents. Ashea, like any other place, doesn’t take kindly to wandering children.   But at least then you would’ve had more control and choice.    You know this isn’t just a fun field trip to the palace. The only reason the Duke and the King would meet like this is to seek an engagement. Your engagement with the Prince’s.    Half an hour later, you peek out the carriage windows to see the castle at the horizon.   Stone walls, seven towers, lookouts, the empire’s flag fluttering in the breeze — it’s a beautiful place with rolling green hills and beds of flowers that wind up the path. It’s a hundred times more grand than the Devereux estate and ten times the size too, stretching across for miles. But it’s also the location where all of it happens.    The beginning. The climax. The end.   “Anastasia.”   Your attention is taken when your father steps off the carriage. You take the servant's hand and hop down onto the cobblestone, following your father closely. He greets an important person or two and you lower your head to them in greeting as they complement how mannerly you are.   The two of you are led through open, lavish halls full of life-sized portraits and marble statues, and then through the garden. Even in both your lifetimes, you’ve never seen so many different kinds of flowers and vivid hues in one place.    Pansies. Orchids. Marigold.    Magenta. Lavender. Marmalade.   But you don't get to admire it for long. Not when the gazebo comes into sight.    A man with straight posture, dark hair streaked with gray to show his age and deep set eyes sits at the rounded table. Even with the absence of his crown, his status is shown through his navy cape ornate with golden swirls held together by an emerald jewel embellished with the royal crest. Wrinkles around his mouth, he has a fiercely stern expression until he cordially smiles as your father approaches.    Beside him is a spitting image, a smaller boy slumped in the white chair, visibly bored.   “Herrick! Good to see you, my old friend.”   “Your Majesty.” Your father bows and you follow suit, giving a curtsy and lowering your head. But at the same time, you can’t help peeking at the boy. His eyes meet yours and you look away.   Oh fuck.   It’s the first meeting between the Prince and Anastasia.    You’re sure for her it was impactful, nerve wracking, life changing. And it’s like that for you as well, but not so much on the positive side.   “Please, the formalities. Is this the daughter you've been speaking so highly about?”   “Yes, this is my only child, Anastasia.”   You plaster on a perfect, little smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Majesty.”   The King hums. “A very lovely child indeed. The Devereux House is blessed.”   The Duke smiles. “Thank you.”   “Please sit and make yourselves welcome.” The King gestures and the servants nearby scurry over, pulling out your chairs, pouring tea and placing plates of biscuits on their table. In a blink, they’ve finished and you can’t help but muse how much better they are than the servants back at home. The King smiles and looks at his son. “Jungkook, don’t you have anything to say?”   “Nice to meet you,” he deadpans before his doe eyes wander out to the gardens.    Jungkook is wholly disinterested in you and this entire affair — you don’t blame him. You bet any seven year old would be itching to get out of their seat. But looking at him, you can’t believe you liked him so much in the game. You even had him as your phone wallpaper for a few months.   But from the perspective of Anastasia and knowing your outcome and your impending demise, he’s not even cute as a kid.   If anything, sitting across from him stresses you the fuck out.   You weren’t supposed to even meet him. This was the exact opposite of your battle plans. And yet the engagement is going to happen whether you like it or not. The greatest irony of all is that you know he’ll end up falling in love with the main character anyway instead of you. Aka. the orphaned girl who ends up adopted by a baron.   This whole ordeal only serves to make you suffer.   The only way you could sabotage this meeting now is by slamming the teapot over Prince Jungkook’s head. And that would either get you thrown in jail for treason and executed or sent back to the Devereux estate on house arrest where your mother would kill you.   Oh god. It’s death either way.   “Are the sweets not to your liking?”   It takes a second for you to register that the King is looking at you. That he’s speaking to you.   You go wide-eyed, realizing you haven’t had a bite of the cakes, the biscuits or sipped on any tea. You’ve completely tuned out their conversation. But he’s been watching you and Jungkook from the corner of his eye, assessing your interactions closely.    Your palms go clammy as you open your mouth before closing it.    “She’s just shy,” your dad swiftly informs with a polite smile. It’s a complete lie, but one the royal monarch believes.   “Ah. We shouldn’t bore them with adult talk then.” The man turns to his son. “Jungkook, why don’t you go off and play with Anastasia here?”   “Okay,” he mumbles and slides off his chair.   You follow suit, a bit relieved that you were dismissed from the overly formal atmosphere.   The two of you go deeper into the gardens until the gazes of your father and the King’s fade from view. Jungkook is wearing a white ensemble with a cape which he dirties with the way he’s kicking rocks in his path. He seems burdened that you’re beside him.   “What do you like playing?” he asks.   You’re perplexed on how to answer. You’re not sure how you should play with an actual seven year old. Then again, you like to run away from the maids and swing your sword around on your down time. But that’s just because you like their reactions.   “Sword fighting.”   Jungkook blanches as if he just bit into a lemon. “What kind of girl plays with swords?”   Suddenly, you’re overwhelmed with an urge to kick the royal prince right in his shin.    But as the annoyance floods you, an epiphany comes along with it — if you can’t avoid Jungkook, maybe it’s time to switch strategies. Maybe you can start sowing the seeds of your future survival right here, right now. If one day, he’ll be condemning you of countless crimes and looking down at you as an evil villain, maybe you can turn his perception in the opposite direction.   Harmless. Overbearingly nice. Arrows that practically point ‘I’M NOT A THREAT WHATSOEVER!’.    You’re a genius.   You force the highest pitched giggle you can. “Really?”   Jungkook kicks another rock. “Girls have flimsy arms and trip every time you touch them.”   Ah. The ancient version of: girls have cooties and so you should stay away from them. Alright, alright. You can work with this.   “What do you like playing, Your Highness?”   “Anything that’s not with girls.”   You pause and laugh, hoping it doesn’t sound too stiff.   Jungkook suddenly lifts his head and turns to you with the swivel of his heel. You stop as well and his index finger juts right in your face. “Since I’m the prince, I’ll have mercy on you. We can play servant and king.”   “What’s servant and king?”   “I’m the king.” His thumb pokes himself and then he’s back to pointing right between your eyes again. “You’re the servant. You have to follow me and all my orders or off with your head!”   What a little shit.   How is this going to be any fun for you?!   But you draw an enormous grin on your face, left eye twitching in the process. “Sounds like fun, Your Highness!”   He strolls off. “Let’s go, dumb dumb.”   Your teeth grit and you inhale a deep breath. It hurts your pride to be insulted by a literal seven year old, but you can handle it. When it comes to life or death, you’ll easily befriend the hero.   “Fetch that stick, peasant!”   The prince points at the distance and looks at you expectedly.   Your teeth grit. But you muster a smile and dash forward.   When it comes to life or death, you’ll befriend the hero……….probably.   “Here you go, Your Highness.”   You present the stick to him with both hands and the brat smirks. A rush of air leaves his nose and then he takes the stick. You’re not sure what to expect, but your entire body freezes when he hurls it as far as his arms can go. He points between your brows a second later. “Go get it!”   Motherfucker. “Yes!”    Once Jungkook’s tired of having you fetch like a dog, you trail after him closely. The green hedges are triple your size, acting like corridors of the garden before they open up to certain areas filled with beds of flowers or a fountain. Some paths are unpaved, so you listen to the crunch of rocks underneath his shoes amidst the quiet.    When you’re not out of breath and running at his command, it finally sinks in that it’s the first time you’re with a main character of the game. For the seven years of this lifetime thus far, there was only really you. Your parents were supporting characters at best who just took the opportunity to slyly diss the main heroine a few times at royal gatherings. But other than that, you’re currently facing the backside of someone you know a lot about.   Who he will become. What his future holds. What his desires are.   You pipe up, “Prince Jungkook—”   “That’s Your Highness, peasant!”   You clench your jaw. “Your Highness…”   “What?”   You quicken your steps until you’re beside him and he turns his head. “I’ll support you forever if you want to fall in love with anyone! I don’t care about being the crown princess or the queen!”    For good measure, you flash a wink and a thumbs up.   “What?” His boyish face is twisted up in disgust. “Why would a peasant be a queen?”   You hold in your sigh. “I’m just saying. If we ever get engaged or something, it can always be annulled when we’re older. So feel free to love on, Your Highness. Make love, not war!”   Your words completely fly over Jungkook’s head.   His face reads that he has no clue what you’re talking about.   And he turns away from you. “You’re weird.”   You scoff.    You’re not sure how you can become friendly with a seven year old when you’re internally twenty years older than he is. If you had chocolate on you, you’d use that as a bargaining chip. But clearly, you only have your body, brain and the surroundings at the moment….   What do seven year old boys like?   What do they like?   As you scan your surroundings, your eye catches something in the bushes. You stop and get closer.   At the same time, Jungkook realizes you’re not following him anymore and turns around. “What are you doing, peasa—” His words are cut short by a shrill shriek of absolute terror.   Your brows furrow and you thrust your hand closer to him. “It’s a ladybug.”   The tiny red and black polka dotted bug is crawling in your hand. Jungkook screams again.   He’s stumbling back, nearly tripping onto his butt, doe eyes reflected with complete horror as if you just chopped off his mom’s head. “Get that thing away from me!” his voice cracks up and down two different octaves and realizing his weakness, you grin.   You know your plan was to seem as harmless as possible, but it’s just too much fun teasing him.   “What thing, Your Highness? Your servant is merely showing you a small forest creature.”   “No! Stop!”   He scrambles and starts running away.   You chase after him while giggling manically. “Prince Jungkook! Where are you going!”   “Get the bug away from me!”   He turns over his shoulder with eyeballs nearly falling out of their sockets, face bright red, and you take the opportunity to toss the ladybug at him. Jungkook’s shrieks echo, pitched and earsplitting.   You’re forced to stop with how hard you’re laughing and by then, he’s ran for the hills, completely gone from sight.   Oh god. You can’t believe he’s so scared.    You can’t believe you were so scared — he’s just a kid.   Your giggles taper off as you wander the gardens by yourself. It’s freeing to stroll at your own pace without a brat demanding you to fetch sticks or barking at you to do this and that. It’s a chance to finally admire the surroundings.   You’re sure the first time Anastasia saw the castle, it became her dream home. The place is similar to the aesthetic background graphics of the game and it was always described as beautiful by all the characters. And it really is that way.   But this is also the place of her demise and possibly yours.    You’re sure the only time you’ll be able to enjoy the palace and be this carefree is right now.   You’re admiring the blooming carnations, peony and roses as you turn the corner. The figure standing by the sprouting fountain doesn’t register until after a delayed moment and your eyes lift to see a woman — mysterious in her gray dress. It’s simple attire, but the fabrics are layered on top of one another, light enough that they drape down and flow to the breeze. Her brunette hair is tied into a bun and as if she feels the pressure of your eyes, her bright irises turn towards you.   You realize you’re staring and you blink several times, approaching her politely.    She pulls her charcoal shawl closer to her and smiles. The light wrinkles around her kind eyes crease. “Are you lost, child?”   You shake your head. “No. I’m just looking.”   She crouches down to match your height, gazing at you tenderly. “Where are your parents?”   “My dad’s talking to the King.” You point off in the distance as curiosity eats at you. She doesn’t look like an ordinary worker but not a visitor of the castle either. “I’m Anastasia.”   She searches your expression as if she’s endeared by you. “That’s a beautiful name.”   “Thanks! Who’re you?”   She’s soft-spoken, voice above a quiet murmur, “My name is Erena Robane.”   You frown. The name rings a bell. “Lady Robane?”   “No.” Her laugh tinkles. “I’m no lady.”    Before you can press your mind any further and pick apart your brain at why her name sounds so familiar, she reaches into the small pouch she was carrying and hands you a wrapped piece of candy. “Would you like one?”   Your eyes light up at the pink square. “Yes, please!”    You know better, as an internal twenty seven year old, than to take candy from strangers, but the Duke and Duchess never give you any sweets. So you’ll happily take what you can.   Erena smiles and drops the treat into your outstretched palm.   Not wanting to risk getting it confiscated by Edith, Joan or your mother if you brought it home, you quickly unwrap it and throw it into your mouth. It’s peppermint and it’s pretty damn good.   The woman looks at you patiently, waiting for a reaction, so you give her a thumbs up and a “Yummy!”   She laughs faintly. “Do you like candy?”   “Yep!” You hold out both hands as if you’re trick-or-treating. “Can I have another one, please?”   Might as well seize the chance while you can. It’s a dog-eat-dog world.    “You have very good manners.” She smiles, taking another out of her endless pouch and dropping it in your hand. Oh man, you’re starting to really like this lady. “My son likes chocolate, but I only managed to get candy for today.”   You chew the hard candy in your cheek, crunching down on it. You hope it rots your teeth and makes Edith’s life a living nightmare when she has to deal with it. “Your son?”   Her lips part to speak. But she’s interrupted—   “Mom?”   By sheer coincidence and coincidence itself, a boy with floppy, brown hair turns the corner of the garden. Thin lips, but chubby cheeks and bright eyes of deep mocha. You’ve known him the second your eyes have laid on him. A younger form of the person you fear most.   Taehyung.   You gasp and immediately spin around, hoping he didn’t see you, pretending you didn’t see him.   “I have to go now!”    Before Taehyung’s mom can utter another word, you run away. You don’t notice how Taehyung slows as well, brows furrowed at your receding form.   To see Jungkook is one thing. But to see Taehyung, the one who will use, coerce and lead you to your doom, is another. Jungkook handed down your judgment, but Taehyung is the one who led you there.   He’s the villain.   //   “You did decently,” your mother informs a few days after the whole affair. “We might have to go to the palace more often from now on.”   You nod, unable to dwell in her approval, mind still lost in a daze.    Taehyung — a half prince born a year before Jungkook. He has the blood of a royal with his father as the King, but his mother is merely a palace maid. You remember that he seeks revenge for her death after she’s poisoned by the jealous Queen.   But if she’s still alive, that means it’ll happen soon.   This year.    Springtime.    You’re slowly recalling the details of the event, the catalyst that begins Taehyung’s descent into madness, how he became the game’s villain. But you can’t involve yourself. You just can’t.   You shouldn’t have met any of them in the first place.   You shouldn’t get entangled in their story, in their lives. If you want to live, if you want to survive, you have to avoid Taehyung at all costs. So you can’t. You can’t. Can’t.   A day passes as you focus on your studies.   You can’t.   Another two days goes by, six meals eaten.   Can’t—   On the seventh, your silver spoon clanks noisily against the porcelain bowl, slipping from your grasps, dropping downwards in your deep trance that throbs your temples. Joan turns at the ruckus and you look at her, already standing up.   “I have to go to the castle.”   The guilt eating at you has won its battle.    “Pardon me?”   “Today. Right now.” You rush out of the room and down the hall, determination set in your strides. Maybe you can avoid this. Maybe if you do, he won’t become the game’s villain. Then he won’t be a threat to you, and you won’t be a threat to anyone. You’ll live and so will his mom who’s done nothing wrong.   The maid struggles to catch up to you. “My lady! Please! Wait! What do you mean?”   “I forgot something really important!”   “Y-You can’t just go. My lady! You must ask permission from the Duke and Duchess!”   “There’s no time to.” You’ve never been more serious and somber. There isn’t an inch of mischief, no childish selfishness. Twenty seven years has amounted to this very moment. And you use your status as the Duke’s daughter to command the girl. “Come with me. If the Duke or Duchess gets mad, I’ll take the blame.”   Joan sighs, annoyed as she looks around as if someone else could reason with you. But as you turn to her, looking her dead in the eye, she shifts on her feet and hesitantly calls for a carriage.   You’re in it before you can blink again.   There must be time. There hasn’t been any news yet. No reports of a death in the castle.   You can warn him. You can avoid this tragedy.    “We’re here, my lady,” Joan informs, peering out the window at the enormous stone walls and towers looming high above the clouds. The carriage doors open and she guides you out.    Your feet land onto the cobblestone.    But there isn’t any welcome. No guards that ask what your business here is. No servant passing by.   Instead, there’s chaos in the distance.    Your head whips to the noise and Joan shouts as you dash off towards it. Yet no one notices you in the midst of the pandemonium. No one would pay mind to a small child. You’re left to linger in the open halls, butlers that quickly walk past, maids whispering amongst themselves—   “Did you hear?”   Your head turns towards two girls.   “The King’s mistress just died!”   You came a moment too late.

No one cries.   The arrangement is short and unluxurious, the bare minimum of what would be acceptable for a royal family. A priestess in front drones on impassively about the afterlife, but as you look around, no one grieves. After all, they wouldn’t shed tears for a mere maid.    This is merely a charade to quell away scandalous rumors and to give nobles an excuse to come to the castle and be acknowledged.   You’re overwhelmed in black, a tulle skirt and puffed sleeves. Your parents stand on either side of you, your father in a jacket with the house’s emblem and your mother with a veil covering the right side of her face. Like many others, your family has come for appearance sakes.   But for you, it’s different.   The woman inside the closed casket has shown you a kindness that you so seldom receive.   And because of your hesitation, because of your self-preservation and selfishness, this happened.   Once the burial ceremony is over, your parents mingle amongst the nobles, laughing cordially behind gloved hands as you follow after them and cutesy. It feels like you’re a show pony, brought around to show what the future of the Devereux looks like.   But after a while, you manage to slip away from the scrutiny.    And by sheer coincidence and coincidence only, you find him.   At first it’s the noise of heart wrenching sobs. It’s unrestrained wails and choked hiccups in between that attracts your attention. You twist through the familiar hedge corridors and the moment you turn the corner, your eyes lift to a small figure underneath an oak tree.    He sits alone. He cries to himself.    The boy with floppy, brown hair has his knees pulled together. He incessantly rubs at his eyes as if that alone could stop the tears that well and pour. He cries enough for the tens of people at the funeral, substituting their apathy with his anguish. His entire body wracks and the moment he whimpers “m-mom” in-between, it’s shaking to your core.    This is the beginning. The start of his path of destruction.   In this entire castle that stretches across the horizon, only his mother ever loved him. The half-prince. The Forgotten Prince. The one dirtied by regular red blood, not blue enough for the golden crown.   Taehyung mourns, vision blurred by his grief.   But as he rubs his eyes with his small fists, black shoes appear between the gaps of his hands.   He looks up. Your arm is extended in front of him.    Taehyung looks down to your folded, pink handkerchief. He looks stunned for a moment, as if he’s surprised that there was someone here. That someone actually heard him. That someone came.   He takes your handkerchief and sniffles.   “I’m sorry,” you murmur.    Sorry that she passed away, that he has to endure this, that you didn’t save her when you could’ve.   This isn’t just a game you’re playing anymore. All these people aren’t just characters.   You’re living a new life. And all these people have emotions, desires, thoughts of their own.   You’re not sure how you can comfort Taehyung. What you can say to make it better. “Your mother loved you a lot. I’m sure she wouldn’t want you to be crying so much by yourself.”   He hiccups, snivelling uncontrollably. “B-But if I don’t cry for her, who will?”   You don’t know what to say.   Tears continue to slip down his cheeks and as you linger awkwardly, you decide there isn’t much that you can say. So you sit beside him. You sit underneath the canopy of the tree and branches of rustling leaves, on the soft bed of grass, looking out at the garden.    This is all you can do.   You don’t notice the way Taehyung looks up in-between his mourning, glossy eyes pinpointed on the profile of your face.    The pair of you sit next to one another in the silence of his sniffles until it levels. Until he can breathe again—   “Anastasia!”   There’s a sharp call of your name, one that can only belong to your mother. You immediately come to your feet again as if a dog whistle has been blown. But as you hurry away, you turn over your shoulder. Your eyes connect with Taehyung’s brown ones, and for a moment you slow.   You leave a second later.   You twist down the hedges and turn the corner, nearly bumping straight into her. She looks down at you with her brows furrowed. “Where did you go?”   You smile. “I got lost.”   It’s futile. You know it now.   Trying to avoid the three that will lead you to your demise is like trying to wish you’d suddenly vanish off these lands. You know it won’t be the last time that you see Taehyung. It won’t be the last of Jungkook either. Or whoever the heroine will be. It seems like the more you try to run, the more you inadvertently become involved. But you’ll hold your head up high and face whatever is to come head on.

[sgrayonderii]

nom de guerre

SSM21 Day 17: a gentle man

In which some titles are more accurate than others. Samurai-esque AU

It is common knowledge that for a noble title and a swath of land, her mother was sold to a warlord.  

Haruno Sakura had the great misfortune of being born as the daughter of a destitute samurai family. Their master had long been vanquished and their lands long sold to make ends meet. And yet still longed for days yonder. 

But her mother also had the great fortune of being born a beauty, so when the opportunity arose; a passing hegemon looking for a bride, Sakura’s parents took a chance. 

They say that the young warlord was so mesmerized by her mother that he immediately accepted the terms of the expensive bride price and took her as his wife. 

On their wedding day, mother was dressed in her finest robes while her father arrived late in a full suit of blood soaked armor. 

The ceremony itself was a soleum affair. Her parents pledged themselves before the gods and swear to their union.

And so Haruno Sakura becomes Lady Uchiha no Sakura, the wife of Lord Uchiha no Madara.

----

Sarada has faint memories of her father; more often than not her father is sent to the battlefield and only returns a few days to weeks at a time between campaigns. 

The Uchiha clan is one of the important noble families of the Konoha and known for its long history of bloodthirsty warriors. Her father is no exception. 

Whenever he returns home, Sarada hides behind her mother’s skirt. Her father is an imposing demon-like man, larger than life, and taller than a mountain. Someone more suited for stories and legends than real life. 

They call him a man more fearsome than Susanoo-no-Mikoto itself. So violent, so blood crazed, it is a wonder that Sakura lived as long as she did when a male heir had yet to be born. 

Thankfully, it seems that as a daughter, her father pays very little attention to her. Whenever he returns from the borderlands between here and Oto, he barely spares her a glance. 

However, whenever his eyes meet her mother’s through his helmet, he beckons her over. 

“Sakura,” he commands, voice deep and low, “bring some tea to my quarters.”

Sarada always remembers her mother looking angry but determined then. Sakura dutifully follows her husband into the inner chambers. She doesn’t emerge until late morning.

Sarada is usually having lessons during this time, but one day she sneaks out of her etiquette classes to find her mother. 

She searches almost the entire unusually empty manor before finding Sakura in the kitchen brewing tea. Her mother’s clothes are covered in blood and her hands are covering her tears. 

Sarada has never seen her mother sob so terribly before.

From then on, she decides that her father must be an especially cruel man. 

---- 

Whenever her father returns from war, her Papa also comes home. 

Today she finds him on the engawa overlooking the gardens. He is sipping some tea while looking over some scrolls. He appears injured, bandages wrapped around his torso, but otherwise in good health. 

If her father is the devil incarnate, then Sarada’s papa is a handsome devil. 

No wonder her Mama is so taken with him. Sometimes when she is supposed to be asleep, she can hear her Mama fuss over Papa. They hold hands when no one is looking and share secrets no other soul knows. 

Despite the cold manor they reside in, Mama is an affectionate woman at her core and her Papa is receptive to all she has to give. 

And Papa must be someone important too; after all he is allowed to leave and enter from the inner quarters that a normal Uchiha foot soldier could not. 

Sarada pads over to him, he looks up and beckons her closer. 

“Have you been a good girl, little peanut?” 

Sarada scoffs. “ I’m not a nut.” But she holds out her hands anyways. 

Her Papa chuckles and pulls out some dried persimmons from his sleeves. “Don’t tell Sakura.” 

Sarada smiles at their little secret before taking a bite. “What are you reading?” Her Papa allows her to climb onto his lap and drapes the scroll over her. Sarada squints, only understanding a fraction of the words on the paper. She points and reads aloud the characters she recognizes.

“Good girl.” He slips her another dried persimmon.

That is when her mother finds them. 

“Sasuke-kun!” her mama enters the scene in a huff, “I told you to stop that, you’ll ruin her dinner.”

Sarada quickly shoves both persimmons into her mouth. Her papa has the decency to look sheepish. 

“You can’t keep spoiling her like that! She is going to get an upset stomach!” Sakura continues.

“Do you want me to spoil you too?” 

Her mama sputters, all red and flustered. Her hands move to cover her flaming cheeks.

Sarada meanwhile uses the distraction to hold out her hands for another treat. Her gentle papa instead leans down and kisses her forehead.

---

For the past year, her father and his retainers had been defending the borders between Oto and Konoha. After the dissenters were finally defeated, a grand celebration is held in her father’s honor. 

She remembers that her father was hailed as the second coming of Madara, the legendary clan head from the distant past. The comparison is uncanny, both bloodthirsty and merciless but dauntless in the face of adversary. Soon it becomes her father’s mantle; Lord Uchiha no Madara, the slayer of the Orochi. 

Sarada hadn't been invited to the banquet due to her age but that night she is much too excited to sleep. She has never seen so many people gathered in one place in her life. And even though her father’s presence makes her nervous, she loves the tales about his exploits. 

The banquet hall is rowdy and the envoy’s drunken singing could be heard from down the halls. The fuzzy silhouettes of her father’s soldiers line the banquet hall, she has a hard time making out who is who. Everything is quite blurry even with the multiple lanterns.

The only one Sarada could identify for sure is her mother. Sakura’s features are distinct, like a lone flower against the night sky. Her mother sits obediently at the head of the table beside the man that is her father. 

He has forsaken armor this time, but there is still a sword at his side. From the distance, her father doesn’t look particularly like he was enjoying the festivities. 

He appears bored. Perhaps his blood is not used to peace, after all a beast belonged in the wild and a warrior to the battlefield. 

Sakura every once and a while would refill her father’s sake cup or serve him more of the feast in front of him. Occasionally, when her mother would lean over and her father would whisper something into her ear. 

Her mama would stiffen and her face would become strained. At first Sarada can’t make out the expression, until a small smile blooms on her mama’s visage. 

Sarada goes to bed soon after, not quite understanding their interactions. 

---

Her earliest memory of Papa is halfway past her fourth year. 

Father had been back for a few days now, not that she had really seen him. And to be perfectly honest, her father is a scary man and she would rather not run into him. 

But Sarada is also curious so she puts on a brave face and finds herself outside her mother’s quarters.

Peering through the crack in the paper screen door, Sarada spots her mother’s figure and a man she doesn’t recognize. 

Her mama is leaning on the man’s shoulder while he serves her sake with his free hand. Back then, Sarada found it a strange role reversal that a man dressed in such luxurious robes was pouring her mama a drink. 

Sarada has seen some men in her father’s army throw a tantrum when a pretty lady wouldn’t attend to them. Even Sakura during official functions knows to serve her father first before anyone else can even eat.

But this man sat with her mama so nonchalantly and closely, breaking tradition as if it was nothing!

Her shock was audible to where her mother and the man turned to see her crouched by the entryway. 

Sarada felt as if she interrupted a private moment, but man’s expression morphed into something soft and Sakura giddily rushes over to pick her up. 

“Sarada! Come, come! Papa is here, see?” Sakura hands her over the stranger’s awaiting arms. She doesn’t want to leave her mama’s embrace but the man’s is just as warm. 

“Hello little peanut, have you been good while I was away?” 

How is she supposed to answer him? She opts for a nod and reaches for the familiarity of her mother.

“Sasuke-kun…” 

“It’s alright, she probably isn’t used to my face.” He leans over regardless and kisses her mother’s forehead. Then he looks Sarada straight in the eye. “I am you papa.” 

Sarada thinks she likes this ‘Sasuke-kun,’ this Papa. Someone so kind to her mother can’t be a bad man. 

----

As she gets older, Sarada becomes privy to the rumors about the current acting head of the Yamanaka clan. How her son looks nothing like her deceased husband but has the same eyes as the court painter. 

And Sarada has her own theories about her mama and the man that is her papa.

She just hopes that her father never finds out. 

---

Even though her mother is essentially the lady of the house, Sarada still hears whispers of her lineage. Even more so now that Sarada begins wearing glasses. 

Before her father leaves for his next campaign, he gives Sakura his inkan. 

As the wife of the lord, Sakura officially acts as his surrogate in any official business even if some of the family retainers aren’t happy about it. 

Fortunately, many would rather swallow their pride that incur her father’s wrath. 

All except one. 

Uchiha no Shin, a rather minor branch clan member, always disapproved of her father and even more so now that he left his wife in charge of the estate in his absence. 

It all comes to a head when Sakura denies him funding for a rather ill thought out building project. 

“You dirty wench! ” 

Sarada can hear the screams from her room. She rushes to the scene. Sakura is still standing her ground when she arrives. 

“I don’t see any benefit in this strategy and I doubt my dear lord husband would either.” 

“What do you know?! You are nothing but a plaything you stupid bitch, I’ll teach you some manners!” Shin chooses that moment to raise his hand at her mother. 

Sarada feels the anger seep into her bones but her mother chooses that moment to retaliate and punch Shin square in the face herself. 

Shin falls back unceremoniously. Sarada is slack jawed. 

“How dare you!” he seethes. Shin tries to get up only for another person to rush to her mother’s aid. 

Shin’s screams are agonizing and it takes Sarada a moment to realize that not only had her father returned, but he had drawn his sword and stabbed it clean through Shin’s arm, effectively pinning it to the tatami. 

“Sasuke-kun!” 

Sarada blinks once. Twice. 

“Are you alright Sakura?” Her father, her papa asks, completely ignoring their screaming relative. 

Sakura nods and he turns to her as well “Are you okay Sarada?” his voice deep and low but the same kind cadence up close as her beloved papa.

Suddenly her father’s mysterious and distant features that were always hazy to her meld with the papa in front of her now.  

Sarada adjusts her glasses. She feels really stupid in that moment. 

---

This time, Sarada is invited to the banquet. 

It’s an annual harvest festival and her father is the guest of honor. The local leaders once again announce him as ‘Lord Uchiha no Madara’ much to his chagrin. 

“I really hate when they call me that.” Sasuke tells them later when the food is being served and drinks are flowing freely. Sakura is on one side while Sarada is on the other. Habitually he is discreetly putting any sweets that make it his way and the tenderest pieces of meat onto their plates. 

“Anata,” with time Sarada notices that her mother only ever uses this term in public when her father needed more placating than usual, “they are just just in awe of how great you are!”

“I wish they had chosen something different, Madara was such a pain in the ass.” 

“Sasuke-kun!” Her mother tries to be scandalized but can’t help but devolve into a fit of giggles. 

As her father continues to look on adoringly at his wife, Sarada can’t help but agree with him. 

A name like that is unfitting of her gentle papa. 

A/N: Happy Sasusaku month 2021! My brain is mush right now so excuse the multitude of grammatical errors. Thank you for reading!

And just to note in historical Japan, men tended to change their names depending on significant life events. For example, Minamoto no Yoshitsune's childhood name was Ushiwakamaru.

@ssskmonth

[avengershumanresources]

blood 1 - Strange/Stark!Reader

Relationship: Dr. Strange/Princess!Stark!Reader

Rating: M

Warnings: Adult Themes, eventual smut (like, wayyy down the line), adult language, implied sexual violence, general violence

Synopsis: Reader is the daughter of the legendary King Anthony Stark, Uniter of Lands, The Iron Defender, and leader of the realm. When the king disappears during battle, hope is lost and he is presumed dead.

When the late king’s uncle, Obadiah, takes the throne until your brother Peter is of age, he quickly arranges a marriage for you with a wicked king in a neighboring kingdom.

With the realms politics in question, and rumors of an upcoming siege to overthrow Peter’s rule before it starts, you quickly learn who is loyal to the crown and who is not.

Masterlist 

Chapter Playlist

1 - an empty grave

Cast:

The Royal House Stark:

King Obadiah Stark (Obadiah Stane)

King Anthony Stark (presumed dead)

Queen Virginia Stark (Pepper)

The Late Queen Alexandra Stark (your mother)

Princess Stark!Reader- you

Prince Peter Stark (Peter Parker)

Princess Morgan Stark

Knights:

Sir Samuel Wilson

Sir Steven Rogers

Sir Clinton Barton

Spellcasters/Master Sorcerers/Sorceresses:

Stephen Strange

Wanda Maximoff

Master Wong

Loyal to House Stark:

Natalia Romanoff (Natasha)- Assassin

James Barnes- her partner

Prince Thor- of Asgard, United with Stark’s kingdom

Prince Loki- of Asgard

Lady Brunhilde- of Asgard

Lady Sif- of Asgard

King T’Challa- of Wakanda

Princess Shuri- of Wakanda

(---) 

In a final twist of irony, the day of the funeral was bright and warm. 

You’d stood quietly while the priest recited his words, while candles were lit, while the Queen trembled silently next to you. You held Morgan’s hand, you listened while the choir sang, the ominous sound reverberating through your chest. 

The mourners in black whispered while the royal family walked up to an empty coffin. You touched the polished wood, fist tightening at your side. Pepper bowed her head, reciting a quiet prayer. 

How stupid. All of this was stupid. Praying to an empty box, crying over nothing. 

You kept your eyes down, lest you betray your own thoughts. Now wasn’t the time for rebellion. Not when your queen step-mother was relying so heavily on tradition and ritual to get through the day. It’d be borderline cruel to start antagonizing her in this way. 

No, you’d wait. 

Peter, your half-brother in blood but full brother in heart, touched your elbow, pulling you from your thoughts, and guiding you away from the coffin. He kept his eyes forward, expression stoic while he lead the family back to their positions in the massive cathedral. 

“They’ll pay for this,” he murmured low into your ear, as if reading your mind. The words were laced with a malice you’d never heard from the normally cheerful prince. 

You didn’t reply, instead you grabbed your younger brother’s hand and gave it a tight squeeze. A silent agreement. 

The attack had been a betrayal of one of the kingdom’s oldest allies, a neighboring kingdom ruled by someone your father had once trusted with his life. 

Apparently nothing was sacred anymore. 

The funeral ended somberly, mourners murmuring amongst each other, ladies fawning over Pepper, though the queen looked none too pleased with the attention. 

You searched the crowd for a pair of familiar of blue eyes, finding their owner tucked away from the crowd in a secluded corner. He was speaking quietly to the sorceress, Wanda, his eyes flicking up to meet your gaze. With a small nod, he signaled you over.

Weaving through the mass of people, you slipped into the conversation with Wanda regarding you, frowning in sympathy.

“I’m so sorry, your highness,” she whispered, bowing her head. “Your father was a good man, and an honest king. The realm is less for this loss.”

“Thank you,” your tone was colder than you’d intended, a reflection of the bitterness taking form within. Clearing your throat, you tried again, softer and more agreeable this time. “He truly was the best of us.”

Stephen sent Wanda a quick glance and the sorceress excused herself, parting the hall in a hurry.

“You’re angry,” he noted quietly. 

“Am I?” you hummed, quirking a brow up at your friend. “I thought I was supposed to be sad?”

“You’re allowed to be angry,” he replied, folding his hands behind his back. “It just means you understand the injustice of it all.”

“Peter wants revenge,” you stated, mimicking his motion and staring out at the sea of royals and court members. 

“Understandable,” he murmured. “I imagine a number of officials feel similarly.”

“He isn’t old enough to take the throne,” you supplied. “We can’t go to war without a seated leader.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time an heir succeeded in an unorthodox manner,” he noted before turning his head to look at you. “How are you, truly?”

You opened your mouth to reply, words catching in your throat. You felt hollow. You felt like you wanted to scream until you woke up from whatever nightmare you were caught in. Your heart felt like it had been ripped from your chest and stomped on. 

“I’m not certain,” you finally confessed, hands straining against each other behind your back. “Part of me wants to ride through the night and kill that traitor. The other wants to curl on the ground and fill the empty grave myself.”

He nodded in understanding.

“Grief is a powerful thing,” he replied softly, scanning the room before turning and giving you his full attention . “Would you like hide in the observatory a while?”

You looked up to him in surprise. The room was still full of mourners, citizens, and members of the court. Your duty would be to talk to everyone as they passed, pulling the burden off of Pepper.

“Can we?” you asked, voice cracking at the thought of having to converse any further.

Stephen gave you a mischievous smirk, nudging you toward a side door of the church. You followed his lead, slipping out of sight and tucking yourselves away from the crowds inside a small alcove. 

“They’ll want to focus on Peter and the queen anyway,” he noted casually, drawing up a portal with his fingers. “No point in dwelling. I’ll tell anyone who asks that you fainted from the stress and required immediate medical attention.”

“I’m sure they’ll all believe it,” you retorted with a matching grin, taking his hand and letting him help you through the portal with all of your heavy mourning apparel. 

The observatory had been a new addition to the palace after Stephen had arrived as its master sorcerer. Before, it’d been an abandoned archer’s tower, last used by the late king’s father, Howard, as a means of defense against the previously antagonistic kingdoms. 

After King Anthony had taken the throne and negotiated trade and peace treaties with the nearby kings, the reinforcements had largely been forgotten. 

Stephen had suggested it as an ideal place to study the cosmos above, and after some urging on your part, your father agreed to let the two of you repair the small space. When the foundation had been fixed to his specifications, Stephen added another enchantment to increase the size internally.

From there, the two of you worked to fill the space with objects of learning and interest. 

The walls had been lined with stacks of books, maps of the universe, and healing runes. Tables had been set with with all sorts of alchemical experiments, glowing amulets, and charmed quills. A small greenhouse had been established on one of the many turret balconies, where you helped tend to some medicinal herbs and enchanted florals. 

It was a place of peace and knowledge in a world of chaos and ignorance and in it, Stephen had taken the time to teach you the secrets of the universe. It was one of the few places you knew you truly could belong without judgement. 

“I’m not convinced this isn’t sabotage,” he stated once you were alone, the glowing orange portal snapping shut behind him. 

“What makes you say that?” you asked, lifting a book, flipping through a few pages in an attempt to distract yourself from his blunt words. You agreed there was some kind of malice involved in the attack, but sabotage suggested someone within the kingdom had betrayed your father. For such as honest and good your father was, your heart couldn’t handle such a reality.

“Whispers in the village,” he answered tersely. “Wanda was giving me her report when you approached. She is traveling to the next village over as we speak.”

“Rumlow betrayed his alliance,” you replied bitterly, refusing to look up from your book, though you couldn’t tell what the thing was about. Plants? Chaos magic? “What more is there to discover?”

“Why did he do it?” he asked. “What motivation does he have to sever one of the strongest military alliances in history?” 

“Greed? We’ve had a surprise in economic activity since the scholar agreement with Wakanda,” you guessed with a shrug. “This isn’t a smart man we’re dealing with. I’m met him once before. He’s ambitious and motivated, but not particularly clever.”

“Peter is almost of age, your father has prepared him for his new role thoroughly,” he continued, pacing the space. “It doesn’t make sense. Everyone is well aware he will be of age to take the throne in six months time, and now this just ensures his placement.”

“Not everything does,” you reminded him. “You taught me that. Or don’t you remember?”

You paused after a moment, peeking up from the book after letting his words settle.

“Maybe he plans to use Peter’s inexperience against him?” you suggested quietly. It wasn’t a pleasant thought, but even with the training and learning, Peter was a different person than your father, perhaps not in morals but certainly in other areas like strategy and planning. 

“I intend to get to the bottom of this,” he stated, his hand tightening at his side. You’d never seen Stephen so inflamed before. “At the very least, I can try to retrieve his body. Negotiate a dignified exchange.”

The words pierced your heart far more painfully than you’d anticipated, your hand gave a jerk and you dropped the book you’d been fidgeting with while he spoke. 

The mental image of your fathers head on a pike outside of Rumlow’s keep was enough to make you nauseous. 

“I’m sorry,” Stephen’s tone shifted at your reaction. “I’m getting ahead of myself.”

“Don’t apologize,” you assured him, clearing your throat and composing yourself. “You’re just doing your job. It’s why he trusted you to the position. You’re asking the questions that need to be asked.”

He watched you pluck the book off the ground and toss it on a nearby table with a low sigh. This was a precarious position he found himself in. 

On the one hand, he’d been appointed as the Master Sorcerer of this castle and this realm. He had an obligation to serve that role and ensure the safety of the kingdom’s inhabitants. Not to mention, his obligation as a peacekeeper in his position as Sorcerer Supreme at Kamar-Taj.

On the other, you were his dearest friend and companion, and the obvious hurt you were suffering made his other duties nearly impossible to focus on. It was no wonder Kamar-Taj frowned on intimate attachments, they did provide a distraction from the ambivalent roles sorcerers and sorceresses were bound to play. 

He wanted to serve as an unbiased judge in this troubling time, but his heart wanted him to seek justice and bring peace to your troubled mind. 

His eyes drifted to the telescope at the edge of the room and an idea hit him.

Perhaps a distraction was best for the time being? A small respite to pull away from the doom and gloom of the immediate future.

“Do you remember that star cluster I showed you last week?” he asked, hooking and arm over your shoulder and guiding you toward the window. “There’s a fascinating change that’s been occurring.”

It was still relatively bright out, though with the sun was just starting to dip over the horizon, there was enough darkness to point out the phenomena he’d discovered the night before. 

“Let me adjust-,” he tinkered with the measurements before signaling for you to lean in. “Do you see it?” 

“They’re changing color,” you noted with a small gasp of excitement. “That’s a promising omen, isn’t it?” 

Your expression had brightened considerably when you looked up at him. 

“It is,” he nodded. “The specific colors suggest a period of tranquility and prosperity after a short struggle.”

“Then maybe it isn’t all terrible,” you tried voicing optimistically. It sounded strange, like you still weren’t entirely convinced, but the evidence was clear before you. 

Stephen knew the stars never lied and had taught you as much over the time you’d spent together. 

You sighed sadly, giving the stars another peek and shaking your head when you pulled away. 

“I miss him,” you murmured, looking up at Stephen miserably. 

The sorcerer frowned sympathetically, before he moved toward you and pulled you into a tight embrace.

You pressed your cheek against his chest and allowed his arms to wrap around you. 

“I know,” he replied softly, resting his chin on your head. “Just know he loved you very much, and wouldn’t want to see you so hurt on his behalf."

That seemed to break something in you, and you buried your forehead into his chest, shaking with suppressed sobs and held back tears until finally you choked out a wave of emotions all at once.

He spent an hour sitting with you while you cried into his tunic, yelling about how angry you were to how miserable all of this made you feel. He listened, offering a handkerchief and when you started to calm down, summoned a fresh pot of herbal tea.

“We will find answers,” he stated, blowing gently over the steaming cup in his hand. 

“You sound so sure,” you noted with a bitter chuckle, eyes swollen and red from your tears.

“I’ve tampered with seeing the future from time to time,” he replied cheekily. “Perhaps I’ve had a vision?”

“And what did that vision show you?” you pressed, playing along with a ghost of a smile behind your own cup. 

“We win,” Stephen replied firmly, his expression falling serious.

“Doesn’t feel like it,” you confessed quietly. 

“Victory seldom does,” he watched you take a sip of your tea. You closed your eyes and relaxed your shoulders with the calming scent.

You opened your mouth to ask him a question when a knock at the observatory door broke the small spell of peace that’d fallen over the space.

“I’ve got it,” he gestured for you to stay seated, moving toward the door and slowly peeling it open. 

It wasn’t that he was overtly concerned for your safety, but given recent events, Stephen didn’t want to be lax in covering all possibilities. The world had gone mad and he wouldn’t put an assassin with a dagger outside the realm of potential visitors.

“Is the princess here?” Loki, Prince of Asgard, asked with a tone laced with annoyance upon Stephen’s appearance. 

“Loki?” you must have heard his voice and stood, setting your cup aside. “Stephen, let him in. It’s okay.”

With a glare at the prince, Stephen stepped aside and allowed the emerald clad royal through. 

He didn’t like outsiders in the observatory. Especially when you were around. 

It made him especially uneasy inviting another magic user inside, where they could potentially measure its wards and security for later aggression. 

“Peter mentioned you might be here,” Loki glanced around the room, arms folded behind his back. “I apologize if I’m intruding.”

That last part was directed toward Stephen with the smallest smirk. 

“No, it’s okay, we were just having tea,” you replied quickly, gesturing to the steaming pot on the table. “Could I make you a cup-?”

“No-,” he cut her off and cleared his throat apologetically. “I’ve come to say farewell. My father is ordering the borders to Asgard closed until Rumlow’s nation offers an explanation to this… tragedy.”

“I see,” your expression fell at the news. 

Certainly Asgard closing its borders was a worrisome sign. They were the kingdom’s greatest allies and largest trading partners. The effects of such a move would be felt for quite some time, both in security and in the local economy. 

“I’ll write,” he promised with a curt bow. “Don’t fall behind in your studies. I’ll be testing you the next time we meet.”

You smiled before he took your hand for a brief kiss on the knuckles. Rolling your eyes, you pulled away and threw your arms around his shoulder in a hug. 

“What a sad parting,” you laughed at his bewildered reaction. “And you’re going to kiss my knuckles like we haven’t known one another for years? On the day of my father’s funeral? Unacceptable.”

He barked out a small laugh, reciprocating the embrace with an arm before pulling away. 

“Stay safe,” he urged her before looking up at Stephen with a steely gaze. “Do well to keep her protected, Sorcerer.” 

“Always,” Stephen answered tersely, a little offended at the prince’s casual disregard for his abilities. He’d always kept you safe, and had absolutely no intention of letting that guard slip now. 

“Travel safely,” you called after him and he gave a final wave before pausing in the doorway when Stephen moved to close the door.

“Keep her close,” Loki warned quietly, the smirk disappearing completely. “There are whispers in the village of treachery and assassination. Do not let anyone have the opportunity to take advantage of the situation.”

“My associates are building wards around the castle and her quarters as we speak,” Stephen replied in agreement, a quick glance in your direction to ensure you weren’t listening. 

“The tea was a nice touch,” Loki noted with a hum. Stephen nodded curtly. 

The tea had a protection enchantment included in the mixture of herbs. Something small, but effective if you found yourself in danger without him, Wong, or Wanda nearby.

“Be well,” Stephen closed the door once Loki was out of sight, turning and finding you digging through his trunk of cloaks at the back of the room. “What are you doing?”

“I want to see Natalia and James,” you answered, pulling out a large blue cloak and holding it to your shoulders. 

“Absolutely not,” he crossed his arms. “Your father was just killed, possibly murdered. You’re not going to the village unprotected.”

“That’s why you’re coming,” you threw a crimson cloak in his direction, fastening the blue one over your shoulders. 

“Did you miss the part where I said murdered?” he asked in disbelief. 

“Then it’s a good think I’m friends with assassins,” you chimed back, pulling the hood of the cloak over your head. “They might be able to tell us something.”

“I’m sure Wanda and Wong have already talked to them,” he shot back, folding the cloak over is arm. “You should stay at the castle, at least for tonight.”

“You already know I’m going to go regardless,” you replied. 

“Because you’re a headstrong idiot,” he sighed, reluctantly pulling the cloak over is shoulders. “Who clearly has a death wish. What if your family comes looking for you?”

“They won’t,” you answered with a confident grin. “Mother is going to be with Morgan and Peter is going to lock himself away in the armory or training fields until the knights give up and make him retire to his chambers.”

“You’re so confident in your knowledge of the castle,” Stephen snorted, tying the cloak around him. 

“It’s what happens when you’re the eldest daughter of a king,” you replied, patting him on the shoulder. “You see everyone, but no one sees you.” 

“Poetic.”

“Also, you owe me an ale for enchanting my tea,” you quirked a brow toward him when he stammered back a response. “Didn’t think I would notice?”

“I’m losing my touch,” he sighed, waving a hand and summoning a bag of coin.

“No, you’re just turning into a fussy mother hen,” you grinned, the smile looking far more relieving than the grief he know you wore on the inside. “It’s endearing.”

Wha danger was a short outing for the evening? It was arguably safer in a crowd than alone in her chambers, especially while Wong was still working on the wards.

Besides, the assassins you’d found friendship in would do well to keep threats away as well.

And while Stephen pondered this thought, you were already part-way out of the room and headed toward one of the hidden passages in the hall. 

(---)

2 - a night at the pub

TAG LIST (MESSAGE ME IF YOU WANT TO BE ADDED)

@ayamenimthiriel​ @drstrangely-strange @ladynothing​ @im-a-bi-disaster-help​

[aprilsrant]

Start Over | Oliver Wood x Slytherin!Fem!Reader.

SUMMARY: (Y/N) has anger issues and a bad reputation that follows. Oliver seems to be the only one who hasn’t been on the receiving end of her outbursts and there might be a hidden reason for it.

WORD COUNT: 2,3k.

WARNINGS: Marcus Flint being an idiot and a missoginy brat, it’s kind of angsty towards the end. Maybe a curse word or two. There is a fight and a duel too. (If I miss any, let me know!)

REQUEST: can’t find it, but yes, this was requested.

A/N: This took me so long and I’m so sorry, but for some reason I couldn’t get this finished. Hope you enjoy it! Like, reblog or leave comment if you like, feedback is always appreciated!!

Also, I made the reader have a holly wand because details are important sometimes.

English is not my first language, there could be mistakes!

Gif is not mine!!

MASTERLIST.

For whatever stupid, possibly misogynist, reason, Marcus Flint never allowed girls to tryout for the Slytherin Quidditch Team, not even when he, and everyone else present, knew of their talent and how much it would benefit them. Now more than ever, with that Harry Potter kid catching every single Snitch flying round him, Flint’s team needed new members. And members that actually knew how to play and not those who would pay their way in. 

Once again, (Y/N) was waiting in the stands for the Slytherin Captain and the whole group attempting to grab themselves a spot. Arriving before them gave her an “advantage” and that was not being completely disregarded the minute Flint saw her in the midst of the line up following him like some kind of lost puppys. 

With nothing else to do than just stand round the edge of the Quidditch Pitch, (Y/N) looked up and watched as a few Gryffindors threw the Quaffle towards one of the three hoops. She didn’t even know why people kept trying out to be a Chaser in Wood’s team when the current three were the best they had. And they were all women. Who would have thought that girls could play that well, right? 

(Y/N) didn’t know why she continued to insist when she was aware that Flint would never let her be on the team. Maybe because it was her last year, or because she had a tiny spark of hope inside of her that something, pretty much a miracle, would happen and the boy’d change his mind, finally acknowledging that (Y/N) was better than the two Slytherin beaters together. 

“What are you doing here, (Y/L/N)?,” the voice of the Slytherin Captain brought her back from the train of thoughts. Glancing towards the Pitch, she realised that it was empty, the only Gryffindor there was Oliver Wood, seating in the opposite set of stands with a notebook and a pencil in his hand. Upon seeing Flint and the trail of Slytherins behind him, he rolled his eyes and quickly left his spot, steps faltering after hearing Marcus’s irritated tone. “I told you, multiple times may I remind you, that I don’t want girls in my team, and especially not those who want to be beaters.”

This was something she saw coming, of course, and she’d tried to assume it for the last couple of days every time the image of being rejected, again, would pop into her head, replaying the times were she had actually been rejected as if her own mind was trying to torture her.

She had also seen the other part coming, and she had tried to stop it. But in her defense, when Professor Snape interrogated her an hour later, Marcus Flint kind of deserved it. 

“Why not, Flint? I’ve been trying to get in the team ever since you became Captain and decided I wasn’t good enough after our fourth year,” (Y/N) had said, voice raising after more words left her mouth. With her broomstick in hand, she stepped down the stands and marched towards him. 

“You said it yourself, (Y/N), you weren’t, and still aren’t, good enough,” Marcus responded while shrugging his shoulders arrogantly and walking past her. 

“I was good enough, you prick, I was better than just good enough and you fucking know it.” All of the group that had gathered to try out turned their heads in her direction when she started to scream, whispers and shared glances expectant of the outcome of the argument. Pushing a third year in front of her out of her way, she kept walking, stopping only after she was face to face with Marcus. “And how can you be so sure I’m not adequate? You haven’t even let me fly around the Pitch for the last two years.”

Ignoring her, Flint commanded the two boys carrying the box full of equipment to leave it on the floor and start to warm up. 

“Can you… Can you, please, let me try this one time?,” (Y/N) whispered, burying her pride and dignity in the same coffin after the word please escaped from her mouth. 

“Now you’re begging, you are pathetic, (Y/L/N), and they say you’re supposed to be dangerous” the boy exclaimed, clearly enjoying seeing her so desperate. He walked towards her, his taller figure towering over the girl. “Let me tell you something. Both of us were on the team, right now one is the Captain and the other one… Well, I’m pretty sure you know your exact position in this whole thing. And that’s why you are not in my place, because you are not good enough.”

Her teeth, jaw and fists clenched at the same time, the rest of her body shaking slightly, lighting up on fire with every sentence Marcus sneered at her. 

From a young age she had people question her, her interests and her decisions, even her place in the House of ambition, many believing the girl to be “too soft” at first. That had changed after the start of her second year. If they wanted her to be violent, rash and reckless, that’s what they got. Now, every time her name was mentioned around Hogwarts, whispers and rumours would be shortly behind. Most of the things people said about her were incorrect, not even close to the truth, but she accepted them anyways. She took each one of the rumours and turned them into her truth.

For some (Y/N) (Y/L/N) was on the right path to become a Dark Witch, a pureblood longing to take on Lord Voldemort’s place and rule over the Wizarding World, torturing muggleborns and blood traitors. To others, she was the Devil’s offspring in the flesh, waiting for the right moment to raise the forces of hell upon Hogwarts. And they were the ones speaking of her mental state while coming up with ridiculous theories. Nonetheless, she had to admit it was a new kind of entertainment seeing the first years getting warned about her, bombarding them with false information and stupid allegations. But the laughs she would have from it on her own company didn’t erase the loneliness and the solemn feeling of having no one. 

Like the symbol of her house, (Y/N) was a creature of instinct. And like what people murmured about her, (Y/N) was also a creature of violence.

As only one can imagine, no one was shocked from the response Marcus Flint got. Not in words, or insults, which were regular, but in the form of a fist connecting with his cheek (although she had intended to hit the nose). 

One would think anger makes people a better fighter, all that pent up rage coming from nowhere and lashing out against your opponent it’s more damaging to you than the person you are fighting. Now, this was not (Y/N)’s first fist fight but that didn’t mean she knew what she was doing. Every time she had punched someone it had happened in the midst of uncontrollable wrath growing, attaching itself to the girl’s body, controlling her limbs, numbing her mind.

For a moment she closes her eyes, one thought in her mind, vanishing as quickly as it appeared, — I did it. Again —. When (Y/N) opens them, she notices the change of scenario, or positions. She is no longer standing on her feet, she is several metres away from her housemate, the back of her body on the receiving end of the harsh floor; the loud beating of her heart thundering in her ears, almost giving her a headache, swallowing the spell Flint had used on her. 

After rising from the grass, (Y/N) marches towards him, holly wand in her hand shooting hexes, barely missing its target. She’s about to whisper the Stunning Spell when someone from behind grabs her wrist, holding her back from trying to curse Marcus, whose responses are getting slower and scarcely protecting him. An arm sneaks around (Y/N)’s figure, distancing her from the Slytherin Quidditch Captain. 

Her elbow moves almost instinctively and hits the person behind her in the stomach, the arm around her waist retreating fast enough for (Y/N) to cast a protection charm and petrify Marcus Flint. 

Turning around, she sees none other than Oliver Wood, bending over his stomach with a hand clenching his right knee and gasping for air.

“What the bloody hell was that, Wood?”

“I was trying to help you!,” he manages to say while looking up at her.

“Help me? You were trying to stop me, you twat.”

“Exactly!,” Oliver shouts, making her move backwards, “Do you want to get yourself expelled, (Y/L/N)? Because if that’s what you want, you are doing an excellent job.”

She should have hexed him right there, no one else was on the Quidditch Pitch with them, except the handful of Slytherins and those weren’t the snitching types, but she didn't, surprising herself and everyone else watching them.

||| 

Later that night, after finishing the horrendous detention Snape had put her in —reorganizing his entire cabinet claimed by suspicious ingredients and potions with terrible smells, making the small space smell like rotten eggs and the Gryffindor Quidditch robes after a rough match—, looking at the moon and the landscape surrounding Hogwarts from the Astronomy Tower, she thought about the reasons to why she hadn’t raised her wand, or fist, to face Oliver. 

He wasn’t special. Yes, he was a great wizard, with problems in Potions and History of Magic, still quite good at Defensive spells but not that good to beat her if she was fully focused, he would be easy to defeat especially after Quidditch tryouts. So, why? Why did she just walk away?

“I knew I could find you here.”

(Y/N) turned around, quickly taking hold of her holly wand and raising it towards the tower’s entrance. The thundering in her chest calming, her breathing going back to its normal pace when she realised it wasn’t Sirius Black, the murderer that had escaped Azkaban and was said to have roamed through the castle. 

“What are you doing here, Oliver?”, she addressed him once the moonlight illuminated his tall figure.

“I wanted to apologise,” the boy admitted, his voice faltered just like his approach, as if he was trying to make peace with a beast; as if he was telling a snake that his feet would not come close to its head, “for what I said earlier. It wasn’t fair because I know how you…”

“How I what? How I tend to react when I’m angry?,” (Y/N) interrupted, the hand holding her wand still facing Oliver, “don’t try to act like you know me.”

“But I used to,” he murmured.

Neither of them said anything, both of their minds desperately trying to find the right words, one to plead for forgiveness once again and the other to accept it if the plea ever escaped his mouth.

The distant sound of creatures soaring through the night sky and the flip of their wings was all they heard for minutes, minutes that had felt like hours; she would dare to say days if the sky wasn’t still dark, filled with bright stars circling a full moon. 

“Why don’t we get to know each other all over again? We can start over, please.”

There it was.

And then it came.

“That’s such a great idea, Oliver!,” (Y/N) answered with a big smile on her face, the quick change of demeanour unsettling Oliver. They hadn’t talked in years but he was still amazed at how much he remembered of her, and how this didn’t mean any good. “We can get to know each other like all those years ago and then, you can abandon me like all those years ago”. The grin on her lips transforming into a scowl right after she pronounced the last part of her sentence.

“Why are you even here, Wood? You felt guilty and now you’re trying to make it go away? Or is it charity?,” the Slytherin kept ranting,” or better yet, someone challenged you to do this? I’m putting all my money on the Weasley Twins. 

“N-No, no, it’s nothing like that,” Oliver explained while moving his hands and walking the final steps leading him to (Y/N),“ I just- I never- I, I never wanted this, I never expected it but everyone was talking about you and-and they were saying horrible things and…”

“And you believed them,” (Y/N) stated, turning around to stop facing him and his hurt expression,” I don’t blame you for doing it. It’s quite funny if you think about it.”

“What’s quite funny?,” his gaze still on her when he asked.

“Most of the things you and the rest of the school heard were invented by me, so people would just stop bothering me,” she pretended to confess only to the stars, for if she didn’t, she would never admit it to him,” you can say I planned my entire doom. And it’s quite funny because, in the end, you still believed me.”

“You could have told me, (Y/N). Why didn’t you?”

“You believed the rumours, I’m sure not the craziest ones though, but that tells me that you thought I was capable of actually doing all the terrible things I said about myself.”

“I’m sorry, I am, (Y/N), truly.”

“Sorry doesn’t mend it,” she murmured, now forcing herself to look him in the eyes and act as if the pain never happened; as if she hadn’t missed his company and his random, permanently out of place Quidditch facts.

“I know, but it’s everything I have right now and I hope you can forgive me one day.”

“I have already forgiven you, Oliver, but I was too proud to reach you.”

“Typical you, (Y/N). I should have expected it.”

A small smile formed in her lips and for a moment she forgot their broken friendship, the reputation that had become her shadow and the future awaiting after Hogwarts. It was only them, (Y/N) and Oliver, with the moon glowing down on their faces and the feeling of being eleven year olds settling over their minds.

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[justanotherpersonsuniverse]

Game Master Akuma AU by  crisisdparity

Xavier Duchamp was rather proud of himself. What he had before him was an absolute masterpiece of a campaign if he did say so himself. The product of over six months of study, research, and rebalancing efforts followed by two weeks of discussion with his five players to hash out schedules, meeting times, characters, backstories, potential character arcs, and getting them set up with a messaging app that was really good for sending discrete messages between the GM and the players. Valentine and her boyfriend Justin were onboard in an instant. Within days, he’d greenlighted their Half-Elf Bard of the College of Glamour whose spell list was 100% Illusion spells and Half-Orc Fighter (Eldritch Knight) who was focusing entirely on Abjuration as Rena Rouge and Carapace respectively. Olivia had spent a few days coming up with a Halfling Rogue and debating subclasses with him until settling on Scout. Along with some discussion over how her special magic item’s stunning and paralysis effect would work with Sneak Attack, the campaign had its Vesperia. Jeanette had gone back and forth with him for a week looking at various homebrew subclasses for her Gnome Artificer before they both agreed on one particular Master Tinkerer entry that would be balanced and do the character justice. And with that they had their Ladybug. Even Matt was on board with a stealthy human Chat the Barbarian using the Path of the Beast. The class choice was something Matt had insisted on (and that Xavier would have suggested anyway just for the high hit point totals given Matt’s history with characters dying) and he’d even come up with a backstory that Xavier felt was quite compelling compared to Matt’s usual efforts. Morally ambiguous, likely to be tempted by promises of power, but with a great deal of story potential to work with. Which was a relief. Getting a new player into their group to replace Matt was not something Xavier really felt comfortable with. There were too many unknowns with introducing a new person, far too many for him to risk his masterpiece on an unknown factor. He knew Matt. He could work with Matt. Despite the history. He’d put everything he had into this. Every known Akuma ever fought by the heroes had been made into a boss-tier foe. He’d carefully documented each and every power the heroes had shown to craft special legendary magic items based on the Miraculous. Hawkmoth and Mayura themselves were going to be the final bosses of his campaign. In response to criticism about the difficulty of his campaigns (he tried to make them fair, but still challenging enough to be memorable), he’d made several guest NPCs based on every other hero that had ever been called upon, statted out like player characters that might show up in a pinch to help. He even had a genuine Deus ex Machina that he was ready to use to get the players out of a truly impossible jam if they found themselves in one. Not always, but a few times at least. Enough to get them to the point where they wouldn’t need it anymore. —– It was thirty minutes in, right in the middle of exposition from the Guardian NPC, when Xavier got his first message on the app. Matt/Chat - Chat’s going to wait until everyone breaks up and follow Ladybug stealthily. Xavier/GM - Starting party conflict on the first session? Not what I’d advise, but it’s your character. Go ahead and make your Stealth roll now. Matt/Chat - <photo> 17 Xavier/GM - Yeah, that beats everyone’s passive Perception easily. You’ll sneak off handily without anyone noticing. —– “Jeanette, Ladybug is grabbed from behind by an unknown assailant. Roll to resist the grapple.” “Geez, already? Okay, what did my assailant get for their grapple? How screwed am I?” Xavier pretended to roll a die while consulting the message from Matt. “19.” “Okay, difficult, but not undoable… Crap.” “What’d you get?” “Nat 1…” “Hah! I rip off her earrings and claim them for myself! The Wish is mine!” “Seriously Matt?! What the hell?!” “Because it’s payback time! Payback for every character of mine killed in these hellish

campaigns!” “Oh, come on! You’re not the only person whose had a character die at this table! <GM> runs some pretty challenging campaigns, but they’re always fair!” “What about the time he killed Allric the Allmighty in a single round of combat?” “Dude, you tried to Leroy Jenkins straight into melee with a 4th-level Wizard that had a CON penalty. Even at full health you had like 10 hp.” “14!” “Not much better, dude.” “Guys, it’s fine. I can handle this. Okay, Matt. Chat the Barbarian managed to get the earrings-” “Yeah, Ladybug screams bloody murder when he rips them out. Good luck getting out of this in one piece.” “The moment Rena hears Ladybug scream, she bolts for the sound.” “So does Carapace.” “Vesperia too.” “-and with their current locations and movement speeds, I assume you’re all using the Dash action?, you’ve got maybe one round to decide on your Wish before they’re all over you, so choose carefully. And be aware that I plan to grant whatever you wish for in the worst possible way, just as I would if any of the others pulled this.” “Rena screams ‘What the HELL, Chat?! We’re supposed to protect the Miraculous, not use them for our own selfish purposes! Didn’t you listen to the Guardian? Such actions always bring misfortune upon those who misuse the Miraculous!’” “Because I am Chat, avatar of Destruction and I WISH THIS WORLD NEVER EXISTED!” There was dead silence at the table. “Matt… What… just… WHAT?!” “Hah! You like that?! How does it feel now that the shoe’s on the other foot, huh?!” “What the hell is your problem, Matt?!” “My problem? MY problem?! Do you know how much time I’ve spent making characters for these shitty campaigns only to have them turned into paste in one session?!” “Because you made primary spellcasters and played every last one of them like a barbarian, charging in headfirst without thinking! All of us breathed a sigh of relief when you revealed that your character finally matched your playstyle!” “I HATE BARBARIANS! THEY’RE BORING! I SHOULD GET TO PLAY CHARACTERS THAT CAN AT LEAST CHUCK FIREBALLS!” “THEN MAYBE YOU SHOULD STOP RUNNING THEM FACE FIRST INTO ENEMY SWORDS!” “NONE OF YOU COULD EVER HANDLE THE FACT THE I MAKE MORE AWESOME CHARACTERS THAN ANY OF YOU, SO YOU JUST LET THIS DOUCHEBAG KILL THEM OFF SO YOU WOULDN’T GET OVERSHADOWED BY HOW AMAZING I AM! WELL NOW I KILLED SOMETHING YOU ALL WORKED HARD ON, SO SUCK IT! I’M DONE WITH ALL OF YOU FOREVER!” “MATT! HEY! GET BACK HERE YOU JERK! MATT!” “Crap, I think Olivia might actually kill him this time…” “It’s going to take all of us to stop her from getting arrested at least.” Xavier just watched numbly as the rest of the group ran out of his apartment. Over six months of work. Gone in less than an hour. He’d given so much to making sure this would work. He’d apologized to Matt at least twice for every character of his that had died to get him to come back. He’d agreed to demand after demand just to keep a familiar face on board, never dreaming he’d pull something like this. He’d nearly gotten fired from his job trying to rearrange his schedule to fit with everyone else’s. They’d somehow, miraculously, gotten the whole day with no other obligations among any of them and decided to make the first session a true marathon. They’d meet in the morning after breakfast and eat both lunch and dinner at the game table before calling it a night late in the evening. It was barely 10:00 in the morning and the whole campaign he’d slaved over for months was kaput. He never noticed the butterfly landing on his custom Miraculous-themed Game Master screen and being absorbed into it. “Game Master, I am Hawkmoth. Few people appreciate the kind of effort that goes into making something truly grand and memorable. I shall give you the power to bring your entire world to life and in return, I ask only for a few simple things.” This was wrong. Hawkmoth was the worst of the worst. The kind of person who would be at home among all the final bosses he’d ever made for his campaigns. Heartless, manipulative, cruel. “Not

enough? Ah, but what is a game without players? How would you like to have the Miraculous heroes themselves run your great campaign? Surely they would be far more appreciative than those ungrateful peons that left you alone with nothing but the broken remains of your efforts.” He knew all these things, but the allure of bringing the world he’d spent so much time on to life… What creator could ever turn down an offer like that? “I, the Game Master, accept… Hawkmoth.” “Excellent. And in exchange, you shall bring me one of two things: The Miraculous, or the identities of their wielders.” “No.” Hawkmoth was silent for a moment. “I beg your pardon?” “I said no. I am the Game Master. I make the world. I craft the challenges. I decide the rewards. But I do not do anything for anyone. If you want these things, get them yourself.” “If you refuse me, it shall be very unpleasant for you.” “No. As Game Master, I decide the limits of all powers within my realm. And I decide that you have none over me.” And with that, he unleashed his creation over all of Paris, drawing everyone and everything within into his sphere of influence. —– Ladybug blinked the spots (ha) out of her eyes as the flash of light died down and looked at herself. She didn’t remember transforming, but she was clearly in her spots. Except her red and black superhero uniform didn’t usually look like it was headed to a steampunk convention. Looking around, she tried to figure out what had happened and her eyes landed on a familiar belt and pants combo. Problem. Whoever this was, their groin was at eye level for her. She looked up. And up. To find a grinning Chat Noir, sans anything resembling a shirt and having put on at least a foot of height and apparently a hundred pounds of pure muscle, grinning down at her. “How’s the weather down there?” Chat Noir chuckled as he flexed his unfairly attractive muscleman physique. “I WILL END YOU!” the heroine snarled, already 100% done with whatever new insanity Hawkmoth had cooked up. Characters: Ladybug - Gnome Artificer (Master Tinkerer - Homebrew) Chat Noir - Human Barbarian (Path of the Beast) —– Vesperia had to admit, as Akuma attacks went, this was pretty dope. She was currently a halfling. A halfling! If it wasn’t for her fantasy ensemble being yellow and black, she’d have thought she stepped straight out of Lord of the Rings. Of course, fantasy setting or not, there were still things she’d have rather left back in the real world. Like racism. And stigma against mixed couples. Not directed at her, but rather at the two walking down the street next to her. “You know, people are staring…” she said as she craned her head to look at her companions. “Let them,” the Half-Elf Rena Rouge (who looked like a cross between a musician and a belly dancer) said from her perch atop the shoulders of the heavily armored (and surprisingly buff) Half-Orc Carapace. “They’re just jealous because their boyfriends can’t carry them everywhere.” Characters: Vesperia - Halfling Rogue (Scout) Rena Rouge - Half-Elf Bard (College of Glamour) Carapace - Half-Orc Fighter (Eldritch Knight) —– Ryuko blinked as she studied the apparent snake-man-thing before her who claimed to be Viperion. She lifted a hand to study it and found what appeared to be bronze scales covering every inch of her skin. She sniffed herself, smelling the sharp tang of ozone. What was she? And why did she appear to be wearing wooden armor? Characters: Ryuko - Dragonborn (bronze) Druid (Circle of Storms - Third Party) Viperion - Naga Sorcerer (Divination Magic - Homebrew) —– Polymouse giggled as her friends ran over her. Okay, she’d freaked out a little to find a swarm of mice (with hair like hers no less) crawling all over her surprisingly mouse-like body when she’d come to in the middle of some forest somewhere. But she’d gotten over it pretty quickly. It helped that her new friends were adorable. It might help more if she could figure out where she was. Or find another person. Characters: Polymouse - Kobold

(rodentlike) Ranger (Swarmkeeper - Reskinned) —– Purple Tigress sighed as she felt the hair (fur?) on the top of her head being shifted around and twitched her new catlike ears in mild annoyance. “Are you quite done?” “Almost!” Pigella’s cheerful voice answered. “Your fur is so comfy!” Tigress sighed. Of course Pigella would end up being a fairy, and having her normal cheerful enthusiasm cranked up to previously unimagined levels. “I love you dearly, but if you start shouting 'hey listen’ I will stick you in a bottle.” “Aw, I love you too! Hey, what’s that?” “I think it’s my character sheet?” Characters: Purple Tigress - Tabaxi Paladin (Oath of Glory) Pigella - Fairy Cleric (Order Domain - Reskinned) —– “According to my analysis, we have been placed into what appears to be a Dungeons and Dragons campaign under 5th edition rules,” Pegasus stated in a mechanical monotone. “I am apparently a Warforged Wizard using the School of Conjuration whose spells create portals to bridge dimensions and summon or banish my intended targets. You are what is known as a Simic Hybrid, with the class of Monk, following the Way of the Drunken Master.” “Aweshum,” King Monkey slurred, his generally human appearance clad in monk’s robes marred by his monkey-like hands and feet as well as the monkey tail swishing behind him. “Why do you keep slurring like that? According to my sensors, your gourd is filled with only water.” “Gotta keep up appearanshes!” King Monkey grinned as he continued faking drunkenness. Characters: Pegasus - Warforged Wizard (School of Conjuration - Reskinned) King Monkey - Simic Hybrid Monk (Way of the Drunken Master) —– Hawkmoth studied the dark red horns growing out of his head in the mirror. The change in appearance was disconcerting, but he felt a rush of power in this new form that he’d never felt before. “Hmm… perhaps I can work with this…” “Speak for yourself…” Mayura muttered off to the side, ruffling her peacock-like feathers in annoyance as she tried to glare at the beak on her own face. Characters: Hawkmoth - Tiefling Dark Lord, Warlock Patron, Contracted by Lila Rossi, Volpina, Queen Wasp, and many others. Mayura - Kenku Assistant to the Dark Lord, Creator of Monsters —– “Oh, come on!” A figure in a cyan and white hooded robe complained as they waved a similarly colored umbrella around angrily. “Everyone else gets to be part of this adventure, why can’t I join them?” “Because you’re too OP. You’d completely break everything and remove all challenge from the adventure.” “But sitting around is no fun at all!” “If you like, I can put you in the position of the main quest giver. Your job would be to direct them towards their enemies and means of becoming stronger.” “That’s it?! I’m on 'mysterious hooded figure’ duty? Boo! Why can’t I fight with them?!” “Because you’re too OP. But if you insist, I’ll allow some Deus ex Machina interventions.” “YES!” “Five.” “I’m sorry?” “I’ll allow five interventions at your discretion to aid them when they are in peril. Once you have come to their aid five times, I will allow no more meetings save to impart quest information.” “That’s it?” “Yes. Choose your interventions wisely.” “So… if I manage to save one for when they fight Hawmoth and Mayura in the final battle…?” “Then I would allow you to join them of course.” “Score!” Characters: Bunnyx: Mysterious Hooded Figure, Deus-ex-Machina (5) Game Master: Akuma Lord of the Miraculous Campaign —– Addendum When the Game Master is finally purified and the damage reversed, it turns out that he took the effort to trap all of Paris in a temporal stasis bubble so that no matter how long passed inside no more than a few moments passed outside. Meaning that after what seemed like months in the bubble, it’s basically less than a minute after he was akumatized when everything is put back. All his friends, minus Matt, come back in bringing a new person named Zack that they vetted themselves to take Matt’s place in case he pulled something like what he did. And while he

has a similar playstyle to Matt, he’s savvy enough to know what kind of characters that is suited for and he loves playing barbarians. They all sit back down and restart the game they were all looking forward to.

—-

oh wow- that’s- wow. good job dude, seems like you worked on this a lot. Next time You should post this on your own account though, as this isn’t getting tagged or anything. Thank you though, you did a good job with this.