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heich0e · 29 days ago

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"we're having a costume party at school next week!"

sukuna's only acknowledgement of his nephew's words is that half hum/half grunt sound he makes so often—the one that always seems mostly involuntary and entirely disinterested. to the uninitiated, it might come across as dismissive, but thankfully, having spent his entire life around his uncle, yuuji's fluent enough in his unspoken language to interpret the meaning behind the man's sounds without needing him to elaborate.

"yup!" he continues. "will jichan help me pick my costume?"

sukuna looks over at his nephew, finally tearing his eyes away from the screen of his phone.

"me?" he asks with a quirk of his brow.

yuuji is on the other side of the low table at the centre of the living room, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet in excitement with his two little hands pressed against the table top where his colouring pages and markers sit abandoned.

"yeah! i gotta pick a good one." yuuji nods enthusiastically.

sukuna breathes a short breath out through his nose, but yuuji understands that, too—the sound of his beloved uncle conceding, if not outright agreement to his demands.

"well i'm not paying for any costume, so your dad better be ready to cough up some cash," sukuna says, slumping back against the sofa behind him and stretching his sock-clad feet out under the kotatsu. "what are your ideas so far?"

"dunno!" yuuji comes bounding around to his side of the table, clambering into his uncle's lap and settling in there.

"why don't you just dress up like a tiger cub again?" sukuna asks, shifting to accommodate the squirming brat now trying to make himself comfortable atop him.

yuuji purses his lips like he's thinking about it. "papa said so too."

yuuji's dressed up like a tiger cub almost every year since he was born (sukuna has many, many photos on his phone to prove it.) it's tried and true. both itadori brothers are decidedly weak to the little boy dressed with fluffy ears and a little tail. it must be genetic.

"but kugisaki said she's dressing up like a cat, so nobody else is allowed to," yuuji adds after a moment of contemplation.

sukuna's met yuuji's school friend kugisaki nobara once or twice when picking his nephew up from school, or dropping him off at play dates on the weekend. the kid's a tyrant.

"off limits then," sukuna says—a bit resentfully, since he won't have another series of photos to add to his phone camera's gallery this year. "so what else?"

"hmmmm," yuuji holds his little chin in his hand as though deep in thought. "what about a ghost?"

"boring," sukuna replies immediately.

"a dog?"

"that's too close to a cat," the man shoots that down just as quickly as the first one. “your bossy little friend won’t like that.”

yuuji nods sagely in agreement and then tries again. “how ‘bout a police officer?"

"cops are losers, brat," sukuna says, suddenly stern. he points at him to add emphasis. "they're not your friends and we don't trust 'em."

yuuji's lips form a little 'o'.

"papa says—"

"your dad's a square, don't listen to him," sukuns lifts the hand that had been pointing at his nephew’s chest and flicks him lightly on the forehead. he yelps in complaint.

"if the police is bad then who do i call if i'm in trouble?" yuuji asks through a pout, rubbing the spot between his brows his uncle had just hit.

"me, obviously," the older man answers without missing a beat.

"oh," yuuji says, his expression evening out again as he acceptis this answer simply. “’kay!"

“so what else is there?” sukuna rubs his chin thoughtfully as he reflects on yuujii’s options. kids’ costumes are—decidedly—not really his area of expertise. in fact, the images that come to mind when he thinks of costumes should really not even be mentioned in the same sentence as children.

“i gotta be something cool,” yuuji insists, watching his uncle think.

“yeah, yeah,” sukuna grunts. “what about somethin’ scary?”

yuuji shrinks into himself a little. “i don’t like scary stuff.”

“don’t be a wimp,” sukuna teases him, but he holds the kid a little tighter and doesn’t bring it up again. there’s a black marker on the living room floor by his thigh, with the word WASHABLE printed in thick block letters along the side. sukuna picks it up, tapping it against the ground as he contemplates his options while his nephew does the same.

tap, tap, tap.

“what about a pumpkin?”

“lame. what about a demon?”

“demons are scary, jicha—“

“yeah, yeah.”

sukuna tosses his head back to rest against the sofa cushions, an arm slung across his eyes.

when he opens them again, inspecting his own forearm, he suddenly has an idea.

(when jin comes home from work, he finds his little brother and his son shirtless in the living room—one inked in tattoos, and one sporting a crude approximation of the same tattoos scrawled in washable marker. jin freezes in confusion at the sight.

“papa, i’m jichan!” yuuji beams proudly up at his father, arms outstretched in display. jin’s eyes turn next to his brother, who’s looking particularly smug.

“kid said he wanted a cool costume,” he shrugs.

yuuji goes as a tiger cub again that year.)

#happy halloween from unkuna and little yuuji #this is real dumb but it's canon to the universe bc i say so #uncle!sukuna

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soireegurl · 4 months ago

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i have this idea for a fic but i cant write, lol so im dropping it in your ask box cause youre like the best yandere writer i know on here so here it is:

you running away from yandere!heeseung when you had the chance, then you encountered a nice guy (i imagine to probably be sunghoon) and then you tell him all bout you running away, heeseung, all that stuff. butttt here's the twist.. hoon has been stalking you for a looong time so yeah kind of like reader got away from a yandere just to end up with another yandere 💥

Omggg thank you for writing in! I'm so glad to hear that from you 😊 here it is sorry for the long wait! Hope you like it!

You’d been running for days, constantly looking over your shoulder, heart pounding. Heeseung, with his unsettling gaze and obsessive demeanor, was always one step behind. It was terrifying, knowing that someone so fixated was out to find you.

His words and actions are no doubt trauma for you.

It started all nice and romantic, Heeseung was the sweetest guy you've ever met and no doubt, you have fallen in love with this beautiful man. But things started to get handy.

Ever since you guys officially got together, he has been possessive. Like to an extreme amount.

To the point where you felt suffocated and scared. You tried to talk to him about it but he always turned to the same behaviour.

You couldn't take it anymore and decided to break up with him... Which obviously didn't turn out well.

"Heeseung... I... I'm sorry. I... Let's break up."

You said not looking at him. You didn't want to see any of that madness in his eyes.

"Baby... Was that a joke? Or..."

His tone wasn't warm.... It was cold. As if, if you said "no" the next second, he would tear you into pieces.

But you can't let fear over take you.

"No. I'm serious Heeseung. I want to break up with you."

And there... Boom!

You ended up in his basement for 3 weeks.

For 3 weeks, you have been trying to run. Of course failing almost every time.

But that day... You finally got out of his grip.

Then, amidst your frantic escape, you stumbled upon someone who seemed like a beacon of calm.

Sunghoon, with his warm smile and kind eyes, offered you a moment of respite.

You poured your heart out, telling him everything: how you’d been fleeing from Heeseung, how his intense obsession made your life a nightmare.

Sunghoon listened patiently, offering comforting words and seeming genuinely concerned. You felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe you’d finally found safety.

"I'm sorry to hear that Y/n... I'm here now... I will take care of you..."

But as the days went on, you began to notice little things. Sunghoon was always there, just when you needed him. It seemed like he had an uncanny ability to show up at the right place and time.

"Oh? Sunghoon? What are you doing in my house?"

"Here! I bought you some chocolate. I thought you might need this right now."

"Oh my god that's so sweet of you... How did you know that I am in desperate need of this right now?"

You smiled and took the chocolate from his hand.

"Every time you fail a test, you always get chocolates to cheer yourself up, don't you?"

He said with a proud smile.

But... You have never told him that... And you never told him that you failed your most recent test...

So... How does he know?

But at that time, you were too innocent to even notice this was odd.

Eventually, a year later, you and Sunghoon got into a relationship.

One evening, as you were looking through Sunghoon's phone, as your phone ran out of battery and you desperately needed a phone to do some research.

Curiousity got into you and somehow, you decided to open up Sunghoon's gallery.

you came across something unsettling. A series of photos you didn’t remember taking.

They showed you in various locations, from moments of vulnerability to everyday scenes.

Your heart sank as you realized these were taken by Sunghoon.

Confronting him, you saw a shift in his demeanor. His warm smile faded, replaced by a more intense, calculating gaze.

You sensed danger. Your body is telling you to run, and of course, you followed what your body told you to do.

You ran for your life.

Why have you never noticed anything?

“You didn’t think you’d escape that easily, did you?” he whispered next to your ears and he caught up to you.

"I didn't plan all this just to let you escape..."

He said and smirked.

"What... What do you mean?"

"You know... I could have just given you a backup phone... I'm not that stupid Y/n.."

"I want you to know how much I love you... And you should love me as much too..."

The realization hit hard. You had run from one yandere, only to fall into the grasp of another.

Sunghoon’s obsession, hidden behind a facade of kindness, was just as consuming.

The cycle of escape and obsession seemed never-ending, leaving you to confront the stark reality of your situation.

#enhypen #enhypen scenarios #enhypen story #enhypen fic #enhypen yandere #soireegurl #yandere #heeseung yandere #enhypen heeseung #heesung enhypen #lee heesung x reader #heeseung #yandere sunghoon #sunghoon enhypen #enhypen sunghoon #sunghoon x reader #park sunghoon #sunghoon

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riddle-me-ri · 3 months ago

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I love your penguin fics so much I would like to request a fic of btas penguin introducing his s/o to his dear friend Eddie, but gets jealous when they get along so well (the riddler can be rather charming after all)

a/n: this gives me flashbacks to when I did a scenario of eddie stealing reader away after oz turned them away, but thankfully that won't be the case here lol. This story sorta took on a life of it's own so the length maybe crazy and I tried ending this in like three different ways..so sorry if it’s kind of a mess lol BUT I hope y'all enjoy!

Word Count: 1.1k

Content Warning: envious emotions, brief mention of violence, nothing too crazy mosty fluff here folks!

BTAS Penguin x Reader - Green With Envy

You were riding in the backseat of a limousine with your date for the night.

You held his hand as you giddily waited to arrive at your destination. His hand always felt right in yours.

Even with his webbed digits, you couldn't imagine any other hand extremities entwined with your own.

“It's a pleasure to see you so eager, dove.” Oswald gave your hand a loving squeeze.

“I'm always eager to spend time with you, Ozzie.” You squeezed back. “…I am also curious to meet these colleagues of yours, and I’m touched that you feel comfortable enough to introduce me to them.”

Oswald had kept his more criminally inclined affairs far from you, so that you can never be accused or anything or caught up in any of it.

However, he figured it was high time you meet a few of his fellow rogues, just for the sake of not having you worry as much or if you were somehow ever in a jam, he knew you would have someone perhaps like Harley to look out for you.

Oswald couldn't deny that soft enlightened look on your face when he offered the idea.

This strong gesture of trust that the both of you felt without saying a word.

Oz picked up your hand that was clasped in his and gave a peck to the back of it.

The car slowly stopped in front of the Iceberg Lounge.

“Ah, we’re finally here. Well, are you ready, darling?” He asked one more time before the driver opened his door.

“Ready as I’ll ever be!” You smiled widely, tightening your grip on his hand as you let him lead you into the club.

Oswald smiled warmly at you at your excitement.

A smile that quickly faded as the hours passed.

You had met a handful of the Rogues Gallery. You made quick friends with Harley and Pam.

Harvey was cordial enough, despite some incredulous comments about your true relationship with Oswald here and there.

You couldn’t help but feel relief when Joker got rather bored of you after you didn’t laugh at his distasteful violent jokes.

Then there was Mr. Nygma…or Edward as he preferred you to call him. He seemed surprised by you at first, somewhat in awe. Once you introduced yourself, he loosened up.

Most of them seemed decent enough. Mr. Tetch and Dr. Crane somewhat kept to themselves, but not impolite.

Killer Croc seemed harmless enough…at least in your presence.

All the Rogues were interesting, but Edward’s bouts of knowledge that he shared with you were nothing short of fascinating.

It didn’t take long for Oz to feel third wheeled to your conversation.

He always did consider Ed to be a close acquaintance, perhaps even a friend who shared common cultured interest.

Albeit at that moment, he wanted nothing more than to shove his umbrella down the green suited man’s throat.

Oswald could feel the dense bile of envy boiling in the pit of his stomach. To avoid saying or doing something rash, he decided to get both of your drinks refilled.

You thanked Oswald as he waddled over to the bar. You turned back to Edward when you heard him softly chuckle.

“It’s such a shame that Ozzie took so long to introduce us. I couldn’t imagine keeping you cooped away for so long.”

“Well, there’s no time like the present as they say..besides Ozzie was just looking out for my safety.” You looked over your shoulder to Oswald, longingly and lovingly.

Yet you couldn’t help but notice he had somewhat of a grimace on his face.

“Ah, that is true. Better late than never... how long exactly have you been with the old bird anyway?”

You began rattling about the story of how you and Oz met, with your mind so deep in thought you didn’t even notice Edward getting closer to you.

Unfortunately, Oswald walked up to the sight.

You recalled something that made you giggle.

A giggle so infectious Ed began to chuckle with you.

His hands tightened around the newly refilled glasses. How he longed for his hands to be around Ed’s neck instead.

Friend or not, he was getting awfully close to his lover.

Ed followed your gaze and his eyebrows rose up in concern.

You looked up when you noticed Oz coming into your peripheral vision.

You also noticed the strong grimace on his face. The drinkware in his hands shook from the intensity of his grip.

“Ozzie…is everything all right?” You slowly approached him and gently took one of the glasses out of his hand and replaced it with your own.

Your lips upturned slightly as your lover's shoulders slowly drooped and he took a strained sigh.

“Just…peachy..” He grumbled.

“Why don't we have a moment to ourselves outside on the balcony?” You suggested.

Oswald didn't answer but silently followed your lead.

Once you two were fully alone with the confirmation of a closed screen door, you put your hand on his shoulder as you walked up behind him.

“Want to tell me what happened there, Ozzie? D-Did I do something wrong?”

Oswald quickly turned to face you, as upset as he was…he knew it wasn't your fault.

“No, absolutely not darling! You've been doing so well taking in all my colleagues’ well…eccentricities…”

You nodded, slowly trying to come up with another reason.

“And with Edward?”

Oswald’s face tightened with a grimace.

Bingo.

You wrapped your hands around the contours of Oswald's round and loveable face and made him look you in the eyes.

“Ozzie…”

“Y-Yes…my dove?” His eyebrows perked up at the contact.

“You know I love you right?”

“Y-Yes I do…”

“And of all the…exquisite people I've met tonight…they all pale in comparison to you.”

A bashful smile spread across Oswald's face as a soft hue of red hinted at his cheeks.

“You'll always have me, no matter what…no one is going to steal me away that easily.” You giggled as you leaned the tip of your nose to the tip of his own nose.

Oswald seemed to finally take a sigh of relief. “I…I know, dove…I-It was rather foolish of me to…get as upset as I got…”

You shook your head. “It’s how you felt, I'm just glad I noticed before you got back to the table…you looked like you wanted to bite Ed's head off.”

Oz grumbled. “Well…maybe…”

You playfully smacked him on his shoulder. “Ozzie!”

He flailed his arms up in defeat. “I jest, my love! I jest!”

“Do you feel better now?”

There was a brief pause of reflection before Oswald nodded with a content smile on his face.

“Indeed…thank you, dove.”

You grabbed the glasses you set off to the side on a glass outside table and handed one of them back to Oz.

You lifted your glass in front of him. “A toast to us?”

Oz chuckled warmly as he clinked his glass against yours before taking a hearty swig.

“To us, my darling dove.”

#ri writes #batman the animated series the penguin x reader #batman the animated series oswald cobblepot x reader #btas the penguin x reader #btas oswald cobblepot x reader

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enigmaticexplorer · 1 month ago

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Let Me Love You - Part II

Masterlist | Previous Part | Next Part

General Summary. An opportunity to expand your grandmother’s business brings you to Coruscant and a chance-encounter with Commander Fox. Friendship is your intent. But feelings grow, and with them, renewed fears.

Pairing. Commander Fox x female!OC

General Warnings. Self-esteem issues; intimacy issues; trust issues; explicit sexual content.

Fic Rating. E (explicit)/18+/Minors DNI.

Word Count. 4.1K

True to his word, Commander Fox returned each day to your gallery. The dedication shocked you considering the man was a commander—the commander—who held an important and well-respected position in the Department of Security. (You researched him after one of his visits.)

For the first three weeks, each visit followed a similar schedule.

Commander Fox appeared in the afternoon during your slow hour. You showed him the sword, locked away and safely secured. Few words were exchanged. A question here. A question there. And then he was on his way, your “See you tomorrow, Commander Fox” echoing in the silence of his departure.

The visits lasted no more than fifteen minutes.

On the 31st of Yelona, Primeday, Commander Fox ignored the purpose of his visit to watch you clean a partially reconstructed sculpture on loan from a prestigious museum in the Inner Rim.

Secluded in the backroom, a bright fluorescent light shining upon the sculpture, you flourished your brush across the statue’s broken arm. Dust drifted to the floor in lazy bouts of excess.

“It’s not that exciting,” you said, voice muffled by your mask. Adjusting your goggles, you bent closer, using a pair of tweezers to extract a stubborn piece of dirt. “But it’s necessary.”

“I’m impressed.” At your disbelieving scoff, Commander Fox leaned back in the chair he’d claimed. His thighs spread wide and his arms crossed his chest. A comfortable, relaxed position that told you he intended to stay for many minutes. “It’s true. That thing looks ‘bout ready to collapse into a pile of dust.”

“It’s got some life yet.” You tossed him a severe look. “And you’re impressed far too easily.”

“I’m a simple man” was his casual response.

The minutes trickled past like the distilled water you used to rinse away remnants of cleaning chemicals. Commander Fox served as a captive audience. It…surprised you. The work was dull. Truly. And yet he didn’t seem to mind its repetitive mundanity.

“How’d you get into the business?”

The commander’s question encouraged you to remove your goggles and gloves, lower your mask, and perch atop a nearby table. You’d been at it for more than an hour. A break was warranted.

“My grandmother.” You took a long sip from your reusable water bottle. “She started as a historian at the museum on our planet. She was a curator, and she travelled to different places, learning about different artifacts and cultures, growing her connections with private collectors and well-funded museums.”

“Is she alive?”

“No. She passed away two years ago.” You pushed away a sweaty strand of hair from your forehead. “She left me a lot of money (she and my grandfather were well off) and asked me to take over her business. So I did.”

Commander Fox’s fingers drummed an unrecognizable beat against his armored forearm. “You’re not from Coruscant.” It wasn’t a question but you still nodded. “How’d you end up here?”

“My grandmother had talked about moving her business to Coruscant,” you said. “But the War derailed her plans. By the time it was over, she was too sick to move. I promised to oversee her dream.”

“It’s not your dream.”

Your eyebrows pinched together. “It is. I like this work.”

A slight press of his lips was his only reveal that he didn’t entirely believe you. “How long have you been out here?”

“Two years. I moved right after her funeral.”

“And right after the War concluded,” Commander Fox remarked.

“It was finally safe,” you said with a shrug. Pushing yourself to your feet, you stretched your neck, eyeing the commander who remained seated. “I plan to hire an owner after five years so I can return home.”

Commander Fox frowned. “You’re not staying?”

“I don’t like the city.” You glanced at the painting of unfamiliar constellations, hanging where’d you left it to dry after recoating its frame. “I miss the stars.”

“What are they like?”

The question was curious, quiet, and you stared at Commander Fox dubiously. “What? The stars?” His chin dipped. “You’ve never…”

“On Kamino—where I was raised—the city’s lights were too bright at night.” He raked a hand through his hair. Lazily mussed, a single curl caressed his forehead. “And here—you can’t see anything but the traffic lights.”

It was a sobering thought—knowing some people had never seen the stars before. You’d never considered stargazing a privilege.

“They’re…beautiful,” you said. Commander Fox was watching you, so still he resembled the statue. “They’re different colors, and it’s fun trying to map the constellations. But they’re so easy to ignore if you’re not paying attention. But when you do notice them…it’s like nothing else matters.”

Commander Fox listened with a slight slant to his head; like he was concentrating.

“And when you’re out on the farm and the house lights are turned off, you can see thousands—millions—of them.” You smiled smally. “They remind you that you’re not so alone.”

“It sounds like quite the sight.”

“It is.” You fiddled with the clasps of your lab coat. “You should go somewhere to see them. It’s worth the time and cost. Trust me.”

Commander Fox’s gaze didn’t waver as he murmured, “I’ll consider it.”

On the 11th of Relona, Primeday, Commander Fox dragged himself into your gallery with a weary glaze to his eyes and a rigid set to his shoulders. He offered a stilted nod in greeting. He checked the sword in silence. And he gave a curt nod in farewell.

The sight of him—so rough around the edges—made you frown.

“Do you want some water?”

Commander Fox faltered with his hand on the door’s panel. “Got anything stronger?”

“This is a gallery,” you deadpanned, “not a cantina.”

“Nothing? Seriously?”

“I do have some saline—”

The commander shook his head, wiping away his amusement with a fist. He ventured to your counter and, when you motioned to the backroom, he stepped away. In his absence, you returned to your task, documenting details about the vase a client dropped off for an appraisal.

Commander Fox reappeared a minute later. Gulping down water, he surveyed the vase.

“Any news?” you asked.

“Couldn’t tell you, even if there was.”

Your exasperated sniff led to him leaning against the counter; you studied the old blaster marks darkening parts of his armor. He always kept a clean, professional appearance, so the marks must’ve been impossible to remove.

“Why did you stay in the military?” You regarded him with aloof intrigue. “You could’ve left and done something different. Anything, from what I’ve heard.”

Commander Fox set aside his glass. “I stayed for my men.”

“Why?”

“I’m willing to fight for them.” He scanned your gallery, seemingly lost to his thoughts. “I…didn’t trust the candidates recommended. I knew what needed to be done. And I’d earned my men’s trust. I was their best option.”

Your attention slid to the report you were typing. “Have things improved in the last two years?”

“The Department is receiving more funding these days. Which means I can train my men better.” Commander Fox settled his eyes on yours. “I’ve chosen my replacement. And I’m training him to take over.”

“You’re not staying in the Department?”

“No.” He smiled. “I’ll do what is necessary to protect our civilians and my men. But…it’s been five years.”

You blinked your surprise. “You joined the War in its first year?”

“Served all three years.” Absentmindedly, his finger traced the rim of his glass. “The War finished right when my aging gene stopped working. I was twenty-six.”

“Five years of War-related work…” Your eyes traced the wrinkles around his eyes. “That must be tiring.”

“There are some rewarding parts.”

“Like what?”

“I get to take an hour each day looking at archaic shit.”

You broke into an amused smile. “I’m glad to know it’s not a waste of your time.”

“Never.” His head tilted, a loose curl grazed his temple, and he grinned. “I look forward to it each day.”

On the 19th of Relona, Zhellday, Commander Fox set a flimsibook on your counter, opened to a page halfway through, and retrieved a permanent stencil from his utility belt. He hunched over the ‘book.

Nonplussed by his unusual behavior, you finished the report you were typing, updated your schedule with another donor meeting, cleaned down the counter (avoiding Commander Fox’s spot), and then approached.

A quick glance at the page revealed nine boxes filled with nine, smaller boxes. There were seventeen printed numbers scattered throughout the small boxes. Commander Fox was filling in the rest. Only a handful remained.

“It’s ukodus.” He raised his gaze to yours. “I do one each morning but ran out of time today.”

You scanned his nearly indecipherable writing. “It’s a puzzle.”

“I like problem-solving.” Commander Fox stenciled in another number. Distractedly, he said, “I like taking things apart. Figuring out how they work. And then putting them back together. It’s even more satisfying when I can improve their design.”

“And yet you work in security analysis.”

He grew still. “Only for the time being.” A frown of deep concentration wrinkled his forehead. “But I’ve been taking engineering courses since the War ended. Mechanical and civil mostly.”

“And you complete a puzzle every morning?”

He gave a short nod. “I’m good at it. Better than my brothers.”

Your scoff was humored. “I should’ve known you’re the competitive type.”

“You should see me with a knife.”

“Kitchen or combat?”

“Both.” He flashed a grin and completed the puzzle, closing the ‘book. “What about you? Ever held a knife?”

“I’m proficient in the kitchen.” You felt yourself smile. “But I’ve never used a knife in combat. It seems like a unique skillset only a few can master.”

“I underwent specific training for it.” Commander Fox tapped the top of his ‘book. “My first day at training, the instructor came at me with a vibroblade and slashed open my shoulder.” Your eyes widened. “He said I was lucky he didn’t go for my exposed throat.” His chuckle was rueful. “It was a brutal class. But those lessons kept me alive.”

Your eyes fell to his left shoulder—the one he’d unconsciously shifted. “Do you still have a scar?”

“I do.” He picked up his ‘book and pocketed his stencil. “Maybe I’ll show you sometime.”

“Your knife skills or the scar?”

He winked. “Whichever you want.”

On the 25th of Relona, Benduday, Commander Fox placed a travel cup and small container on your counter. The scent of lightly roasted caf and a whiff of pumpkin carried through the air.

“What’s this?”

Commander Fox slid the travel cup closer to you. “Thought you might want something after your busy morning.”

“That was…thoughtful of you.” Discomfort tightened the muscles along your back, and you grimaced. “But I don’t drink caf.”

He let out an amused breath. “Knew I should’ve gone with the tea.”

“I don’t like tea, either.”

He blinked. “What the hell do you like?”

“…Water.”

Commander Fox squinted. “Is that a joke?”

“No.” With a rictus of apology, you pushed the travel cup back toward him. “I have mundane tastes, apparently.”

“I think your tastes are exceptional.” He waved a hand to encompass the gallery and then looked back at you. “ ‘Cept when it comes to drinks.”

Your eyebrow quirked in false disdain. “If your tastes are so refined, what’s your favorite drink?”

“Dark caf—no creamer—in the morning.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “And a strong whiskey in the evening. Neat.”

It fit him. And yet: “Why whiskey?”

He hesitated for a prolonged moment. “I…spent most of my life having decisions made for me.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “When I got here, I finally had the freedom to choose things for myself. I refused to half-ass it.” He shrugged. “I assessed everything to determine what I like. And I did the same with alcohol. Studied the different types. Tried them out. And then chose the one I liked the best. It happened to be whiskey.”

A smile began to form. “What else did you study?”

“Colognes.” He rubbed the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. “I wanted a scent just for myself.”

“What did you choose?”

Rather than answer, he bent forward and angled his head to the side. An invitation.

Setting your forearms on the counter, you leaned toward him. Your inhale was tentative. A faint whiff of cedar emanated from him; warm and woody. Blended into it was a hint of sweat.

“That’s…” You blinked a few times. “Very nice smelling.”

Commander Fox chuckled. “Glad you approve.”

“I did the same thing when I turned twenty,” you said. “My grandmother took me shopping and told me to pick whatever I wanted.”

It was his turn to stretch across the counter; his armored forearm nestled beside yours. He lowered his face to your neck.

“Rose?” he supplied.

“And jasmine.”

He inhaled deeply. A low humming noise reverberated in the back of his throat. You met his gaze and smiled; amused by his reaction. But your smile quickly faded. Your faces were close enough that it breached professionalism. You pulled away.

Slowly, Commander Fox straightened, and then he slid the container across the counter. “A pumpkin muffin. Enjoy it while I check on the sword.”

“Thank you.” You didn’t move to open the box. “I’ll eat it later.”

“Your next client doesn’t come in for another hour.” His smirk was teasing. “I won’t tell anyone you’re eating on the job. Our secret.”

Placing the box on a shelf beneath your counter, you pinned him with a flat smile. “I’ll eat it later.”

Commander Fox regarded you for a silent moment; long enough, you grew wary.

“All right.” He rapped his knuckles against the counter. “You ever heard of 79s?”

“The clone bar?”

He nodded. “There’s a celebration tonight. It’s an open invitation.”

Shocked, you couldn’t help but laugh. “Thank you, but clubbing isn’t really my thing.”

“What is your thing?”

Commander Fox’s casual demeanor was belied by the intensity of his gaze. An intensity that left you feeling oddly bare. Vulnerable. Exposed to his assessment and subsequent judgment. It set you on edge.

“It doesn’t matter.” An uncaring shrug succeeded your statement: dismissive, cold. “I’m not the interesting type.”

On the 32nd of Relona, Centaxday, Commander Fox found you in the backroom, standing beside a sink, cleaning a diamond ring. He studied the ring with a distasteful frown.

“Yours?” he asked casually.

You chuckled. “A client’s.”

“Ah.” Commander Fox surveyed the other pieces of jewelry methodically placed on the counter: a silver necklace, opal earrings, a jade bracelet. “In some cultures, partners wear rings to symbolize their commitment to one another.”

“I know,” you said. “I have my grandmother’s wedding ring.”

He glanced at your hand. “You’re not wearing it.”

“I don’t like rings.” Your attention returned to the diamond. “They make me feel claustrophobic.”

His silence felt calculated. “And if your partner gave you one?”

“I wouldn’t wear it.”

Commander Fox leaned over your shoulder, appraising the ring with a less severe expression. “Is there a partner?” he asked quietly, carefully. “In your life?”

You stiffened at the question. At the unease and insecurity it invoked.

Men weren’t interested in you. It was a simple fact you’d accepted over the years. And yet, no matter how often you brushed it aside, pretended it didn’t affect you, the hurt cut deeper than you cared to admit.

You longed for love: to love, and to be loved. But you were too independent. Too emotionless. Too serious.

Undeserving.

Unlovable.

Will never be enough.

“I don’t have anyone.” It sounded vulnerable, even to your ears, and you scowled. Commander Fox was staring at you. Far too scrutinous for your liking. You hastily recovered. “What about you? Do you have anyone?”

“No.” He tapped a finger. “My brother’s married. He’s…happy.”

“You sound surprised by that.”

“It wasn’t a possibility in the War,” he said with a blasé shrug. “But now…” His voice grew distant. “Everything’s changed. I’m still adjusting.”

“Is that something you’re interested in?” You sought his gaze, surprised to find it already on yours. “Getting married?”

He searched your face and then looked away. “Yeah. It is.”

On the 3rd of Welona, Taungsday, Commander Fox startled you from the book you were reading.

His silent entrance and equally silent approach caught you off guard. His gruff “What are you doing?”, murmured right next to your ear, made you flinch.

He arched a brow, unimpressed. “You should be more aware of your surroundings.”

“You shouldn’t sneak up on people.” Your glare lacked vehemence though your heart continued to flail as it calmed itself. “How did you get in here so quietly?”

“Training.” He winked at your unamused scowl and then extended his head to your book. “Care to explain?”

Gently, you closed the cover. “This is my favorite artifact.”

Commander Fox inspected the silver runes embedded in the book’s leather cover. “Out of everything in here, this is your favorite?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a book.”

Your smile was undeterred. “A real book. With paper.”

The commander studied the black cover for a pent breath and then met your gaze.

Ignoring his lack of excitement, you opened the book to a chapter. Elegant, silver runes titled the chapter; more runes—much smaller and less graceful—spread across the page in faded, black ink.

“Physical books are rare to find these days, and they’re usually filled with flimsi.” You skimmed a finger across the corner of the page. “But this is paper. The type made from a tree. Feel it.”

Bemused, Commander Fox removed one of his black gloves. Long fingers, scarred knuckles, a hint of ink wrapped around his wrist that disappeared beneath his armor.

Carefully, he rubbed the corner of the worn page between his thumb and finger. A slow, curious touch. A touch with practiced ease and control.

“I bet you’ve never felt paper before,” you remarked.

“I haven’t.” Restrained amusement danced across his mouth. “How old is it?”

“Flimsi became the norm about twenty-thousand years ago, so it most likely predates that time,” you said.

Commander Fox removed his opposite glove and, with a gentleness you appreciated, he ran both hands over the book’s cover. He lifted it for closer inspection. “Why’s it your favorite?”

“Because it belongs to an era we’ll never return to.” You folded your arms to your chest, rubbing your collarbone. “Technological advancements and cultural progression are important to society. But sometimes…they’re too much. We’re so focused on improving our galaxy that we don’t stop to wonder if certain things need improvement. We don’t stop to wonder if our technology has gone too far. Hell, we have warships that can destroy entire cities from space. What comes next? A planet killer?”

Replacing the book atop the counter, Commander Fox faced you.

“I think we can learn from nature,” you said. “It evolves over hundreds, thousands, millions of years. Its change is gradual. It’s patient in its endeavors.” You looked at the stained-glass windows. “Did you know that below all that metal out there there’s a mountain range?”

Commander Fox followed your gaze. “I’ve heard the story.”

“Humanity strives for forward progress but our progress is destructive. It’s greedy; it’s power-hungry. We want nothing more than to conquer. We’re killing ourselves to do it. And throughout it all, nature watches us and laughs.” You lowered your hands to the book. “Because death, itself, is nature’s ruling hand. And we’ll never be able to conquer it.”

“Darkly poetic.”

“I prefer realistic.”

“Nihilistic.”

You shook your head with an exasperated grin.

“It all comes back to feeling insignificant,” Commander Fox said. “Still don’t think you’re memorable?”

Your eyes narrowed. “Do you think you’re memorable?”

“Do you think I am?” he teased quietly.

“Calling a bunch of historical artifacts ‘junk’ does leave a lasting impression.”

“I never said the ‘junk’ part aloud.”

“Technicality.”

Commander Fox rested a hip against the counter; his expression turned solemn.

“In the future,” he murmured, “when I’m old, people will look at me and remember the War. They won’t know what I did. But they’ll remember the battles and the destruction and the fear. All those terrible things will always be connected to my face.” He paused. “I ‘spose you’re right. It’s better to be forgotten. But I don’t have that luxury.”

You shifted between your feet, eyeing him. “Is that why you still work for the Department? To make history on your own terms?”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “I already told you my reasoning.”

At his stiff tone, you grew rigid, and after a moment of tense silence, you cleared your throat. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Commander.”

“No. I didn’t—” He pinched the bridge of his nose and heaved a long-suffering sigh. When his eyes returned to yours, they were heavy with unspoken intent. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Adjusting the hem of your skirt, you waved a dismissive hand. “It was personal, and I shouldn’t have pried—”

“I don’t mind your prying.” Commander Fox braced his hands on the counter and leaned forward. “Please don’t stop.”

The lowly lilt to his voice, the quiet plea in his words, gave you pause. And as you studied him, something warm fluttered behind your ribcage, like the wings of a butterfly tickling your bones.

The sensation was so unusual, so discomfiting, you massaged your chest. Commander Fox followed the movement. Your hand collapsed to your side.

“Why do you visit me each day?” you asked quietly. “Why not send someone else? This work is far beneath your rank.”

Commander Fox tucked his helmet beneath his elbow and straightened to his full height. “Maybe it’s not the work I’m interested in.” With that, he strode out of your gallery.

On the 10th of Welona, Benduday, Commander Fox scrutinized the dark amber liquid corked within the melted glass sculpture of a phoenix. Cheedoan whiskey—a bottle that cost more than your annual rent payment.

“I like the sculpture,” you remarked.

Commander Fox scoffed. “This is considered the galaxy’s best whiskey and you’re only interested in the sculpture?”

“The craftsmanship is beautiful.” You traced a finger along the phoenix’s spread wings, individual feathers darkly colored by the whiskey. “Look at the detail in the bird’s eyes and beak, and the layering of each feather—”

“You’re unbelievable.” The look on Commander Fox’s face could only be described as fond exasperation. He bent his head toward the bottle’s cork and inhaled. “Your client has good taste.”

“I’ll be sure to let her know.”

Commander Fox angled the bottle in your direction, and when you initially refused, he sighed. “Give it a try. You’ll like the scent.”

With a doubtful frown, you reached for the bottle and inhaled.

Hints of vanilla.

A spicy draft.

Smoky undertones.

It reminded you of the warm, earthy aroma you scented on Commander Fox.

Your eyes listed toward him, and with your faces this close, you had an opportunity to examine his features: earthy brown eyes bracketed by long, black lashes; a splash of hazel near the irises, complemented by equally dark brows; a feeble pink blushing light brown lips; rounded jaw and faintly wrinkled forehead.

As you studied him, a horrifying realization dawned on you.

Commander Fox was…attractive.

A delectable blend of inquisitive intellect and patient confidence combined with a hardened physicality softened by winsome features.

It was such a disconcerting thought you immediately banished it.

“If only whiskey tasted as good as it smells,” you said. Commander Fox rolled his eyes, his shoulder touching yours. You ignored it. “You’ll have to let me know if you like it.”

He stilled. “You’re not giving—”

“I don’t drink, you know that,” you said. “And as much as I love the phoenix, the whiskey will go to waste sitting on one of my shelves. It deserves to be enjoyed.”

Commander Fox’s eyes wandered across your face: familiar in their shrewdness, yet alien in their soft reflection.

“Thank you.” His voice was low, a bit rough around the edges. “I… Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

His throat bobbed as he scanned the bottle. “I have an update.”

The change in conversation surprised you. “Oh?”

“I’m extending my visits.” He spoke in a quiet, deep murmur that had the odd effect of warming your skin to a pleasant heat. “We’ve received some new information. I want to keep an eye on…things here.”

“Anything I should be worried about?” He shook his head and you exhaled your relief. “Well, if that’s all, I’ll see you tomorrow, Commander—”

“One other thing.” He pressed his shoulder into yours. A finger drifted across your wrist; a mere brushing of skin. “Call me Fox.”

For several seconds, you searched his gaze and then smiled. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Fox.”

Masterlist | Part I - Part III

#Let Me Love You #commander fox x fem!reader #commander fox x reader

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akwolfgrl · 4 months ago

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Recipe for recovery 7

When Sanji awoke, he didn't even remember falling asleep. He was on his back in the aquarium bar. Sanji just watched the fish go by for a few moments, the enmorass gallery, and here had to be his favorite rooms. Watching all the fish swim by was memorizing, what would it be like to swim in the all blue? He was feeling less off. He was no longer nuases, thankfully.

“Cook?”

“Ah I see your finally awake,”

Both Robin and Zoro noticed and turned to stare at him. Robin had been sitting by his broken useless legs, while Zoro had been sitting on the floor near his head, Sanji had been too busy staring at the fish to notice. Robin closed her book and turned to him. Before Sanji could respond, Luffy and Chopper rushed over.

“Sanji!” They both cried, leaping towards him. Luffy landed on his stomach and Chopper his chest.

“Be careful you two!” Zoro barked at them.

“It's fine, I'm not made of glass,” Sanji rolled his eyes. He welcomed the weight, he may be a bit borken at the moment but he wasn't that fucking fragile.

“Sanji, how are you feeling? Do you need more pain meds?” Chopper asked him.

“Sanji what's for breakfast?” Luffy asked him.

“Breakfast sandwiches, so you can eat on the go. Then I'd make more pirate lunch boxes, your of course mostly meat,” Sanji began to explain his plan for breakfast when he was interrupted.

“How are you going to cook?” Nami asked. “If you haven't noticed, your legs are broken,”

Sanji whineced, like he really needed the reminder even if it was from his darling Nami. “I'll manage. Just grab some crutches. If I have to drag a stoll and sit while cooking, I'll do so. I only broke one hand after all. If Zeff can survive eating his own leg, then run a restaurant with a wooden leg I can cook for a few people,”

“Sanji no! You're only allowed to lift five pounds! It won't heal properly if you do more! And no putting weight on your legs!” Chopper cried.

“Speaking of Zeff,” Usopp stated.

“We called him,” Nami finished.

“What? Why? I didn't die. I'll be fine,”

“It's too late, Curly,” Zoro grumbled. “We already called him and were calling him again he wanted to talk to you,”

The Den den apred in front of him, held in a set of Robin's hands. It began to ring, and before he could reach for it, another one of Robin's hands picked up the speaker and held it to his lips.

“Eggplant you there?”

“Yah, I'm here. Geezer, I don't know why they called you. I'm fine,”

“No he's not!” Chopper shouted. “Sanji sustained several injuries and thinks he can just hobble around on churches with two broken legs and a broken arm!” Chopper rated him out.

“What the hell eggplant is this ture? What even happened? I thought i trained you better than to get your ass kicked this badly,”

“Shut up, old geezer, it wasn't like that!” Sanji protested.

“if I may?” Robin interrupted. “There was no fight, I suspect that the island we are located on recently had a bout of heavy rainfall. It caused some erosion. The ground Sanji was standing on gave way, taking him with. Unless he could Moonwalk, there was no way that he would have escaped.” Maybe he should learn. It could be very useful in the future.

“Ah, thank you, Ms. Nico, I presume?” Zeff thankfully turned his attention to Robin.

“Yes, that would be me,”

“What was that I heard about churches?” Zeff asked.

“I need them to get back to work,” Sanji thoughtwas obvious. “Franky did great on the grill, but it's my job to keep the crew fed, not Frankys,” Sanji pointed out. “Besides of you can run a restaurant, fight, and raise me with a peg leg. I can cook three meals a day with broken legs,”

“That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard you say!” Zeff shouted over the den den. “And I raised your ass! I didn't do everything myself. I had plenty of help.”

“Can you really call Patty, Crane, and a ten year old help?” Sanji retorted.

“Your crew isn't gonna leave you behind just like I didn't leave you behind.” Sanji whineced. He really wasn't expecting Zeff just to come out and say it like that.

“Sanji?” Sanji turned his head back to Luffy, who was looking down at him over Choppers hat. “Why would you think that way?”

“Yah, I mean Nami didn't get left behind, nor Robin, nor did I,” Usopp chimed in from the floor. “Why would you be any different?”

“Because those situations were completely different. Right now, I can't fight, and I'm not allowed to cook. Nami and Robin left because they didn't have a choice. Usopp you could still fight.” Sanji pointed out, even Zeff had tried to get rid of him. He usually didn't think about his past, leaving it buried deep inside of him, but as of right now, he couldn't stop.

#one piece #fanfic #black leg sanji #sanji #roronoa zoro #zoro #nico robin #ussop #franky one piece #cat burglar nami #god usopp #straw hat luffy #one piece nami #monkey d. luffy #recipe for recovery #tony tony chopper #injury #one piece zeff

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rosanna-writer · 11 months ago

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Love at First Sight's for Suckers (2/5)

Summary: [A Feysand Newsies AU] Rhysand had a reputation. A big reputation. But fortunately for Feyre, a newsie selling papers on the streets of Velaris, tabloid gossip about the handsome, charismatic, hard-partying war-hero of a High Lord's heir means business is booming. That is, until the city's newspaper magnates get greedy, Feyre finds herself an unwitting labor leader at the center of a strike, and Rhys becomes an unexpected ally... Warnings: None

We're back with Feyre continuing to unwittingly make Rhys lose his mind in second part of my gift for @the-lonelybarricade for @acotargiftexchange! Thank you to @itsthedoodle for beta reading <3

Ch. 1 - Got a Feelin' 'bout the Headline | Ch. 2 - Beautiful. Smart. Independent.

You can read the second chapter Here on AO3 or under the readmore.

Feyre really didn't like the way that cop was looking at her. He'd already passed her corner once, and she'd forced herself to ignore him and just keep hawking papers. There were hundreds of lesser fae newsies just like her on the streets of Velaris—even though she was shouting headlines, she might as well have been invisible.

And when you were technically a fugitive, nothing less than invisible would do.

But something had made him turn around and come back. Lucien, at least, was long gone, back to his spot by the docks to finish work for the day. Feyre hoped he wouldn't come looking for her again; if she needed to bolt, Lucien couldn't travel through shadows, and Feyre would never, ever leave her best friend behind.

Recognition flickered in the policeman's eyes. He broke into a run, straight towards her. "Feyre Archeron!" he shouted.

Heads turned. Feyre's heart pounded. The faeries in the square turned their attention to her, putting it together that they had a criminal in their midst.

So Feyre became a shadow again.

To everyone else, it looked like she'd disappeared entirely. But Feyre had merely made herself impossible to grab, nothing more than a wisp of darkness, and she slid into the shadow that the nearby streetlight cast in the late afternoon sun.

She couldn't stay like this forever, so like a ghost, she passed through the solid walls and doors of the Rainbow. Feyre tried to ignore the pang of longing at the workshops and art galleries—there was no time to linger. The Rainbow had always been a safe haven, but there was one place in particular she knew she wouldn't be found.

Once she was backstage at Ressina's theater, Feyre let herself become corporeal again…only to be greeted by an ear-piercing shriek.

"High Lady! " Ressina cried. "Do you really have to do that right in the middle of my dressing room?"

"Sorry. Had a bit of an emergency, Mind if I hide out here for a while?" Feyre said.

Ressina smiled. "My favorite scenic designer can stay here as long as she likes."

Feyre leaned in and kissed the air just above both of Ressina's cheeks, careful not to touch the actress's heavy stage makeup. If Ressina hadn't been wearing an elaborate sequined costume, complete with feathered hat perched precariously on her head, Feyre would have given the female a hug.

"Painting a few trees hardly makes me a scenic designer."

"I made sure you're credited as one in the playbill. And we've been getting such good reviews, I can finally pay instead of owing you a favor. Rhysand and Morrigan are even in the audience tonight."

"Rhysand is…here?" Feyre almost didn't believe she'd heard correctly. As far as she knew, the prince spent his free time at parties and pleasure halls—not in small, lesser fae-run playhouses in out-of-the-way corners of the city.

Cauldron, did he even like musicals?

"Probably some arts patronage thing. Morrigan is on the board of damn near every charity in Velaris."

That made a bit more sense, Feyre supposed. It was common knowledge that Rhys and his cousin were close; perhaps she'd dragged him here. And regardless of why, the buzz from the prince's attendance would do wonders for ticket sales, and Ressina deserved that. In addition to performing, she owned the place, having built the business from the ground up herself. "That's fantastic news."

Ressina shrugged. "We'll see if anything actually comes of it. I don't count my dragons before they hatch. Intermission is almost over, but feel free to stay and watch the rest."

And with that, Ressina left. From previous experience, Feyre knew that backstage in the middle of a show was a busy place, so she crept up to the front of the house and hoped she could find an empty seat.

As she passed one of the private boxes, a familiar voice drifted through the open door. Feyre did her best to ignore the way her heart gave a traitorous little flip at the sound.

"Mor, are you positive that your contacts at the food bank will be prepared for the increased demand?" Rhys was saying.

That was…odd. Whatever this was about, he sounded deadly serious, not at all like a person who was out to enjoy a night at the theater. Feyre froze and strained to listen for Mor's reply, telling herself that obviously the matter was something of political importance if more people in Velaris were suddenly going to need assistance.

Yes, definitely that and not just her own inherent nosiness.

But Mor's reply never came. And neither did the chance to fade back into the shadows. When Rhys's voice drifted out from the open door again, his purr was unmistakably aimed at her. "Hello Feyre darling.

If he wasn't accusing her of anything, Feyre certainly wasn't about to apologize. "Twice in one day. Think it's fate?" she said evenly, letting her voice carry to him.

He materialized in front of her, leaning against the doorframe. At some point since that morning, he'd changed into a formal black tunic embroidered with silver swirls. Feyre found herself wondering idly if the design matched the Illyrian tattoos she'd never seen for herself—the Herald ran plenty of headlines about Rhys in compromising positions, but tragically, a picture of him completely shirtless had never made the front page.

But of course, Feyre was only thinking about that because the plunging neckline he'd worn last Starfall had sold out papers in record time.

"If it is, then I'm the luckiest male in the world." Something in Rhys's smile was just a bit too knowing. Feyre didn't like it.

But still, there was something comfortingly familiar about hearing more of his teasing. "It's nice to see you, too."

His voice floated into her head, which nearly made her jump out of her skin. Rhys had never used his daemati abilities on her before. You shouldn't be out here, not with the police still after you. The box is secluded enough to hide, and there's an extra seat. Join me.

For a long moment, Feyre just stared at him, blinking in surprise. She'd merely stolen a loaf of bread for Lucien in a moment of desperation when he'd spent several days too sick to work and her own earnings hadn't been enough to support them both. Avoiding arrest by fading into darkness hardly made her a notorious criminal, not when any other shadow-wraith could call upon the same abilities.

But Rhys knew. And Feyre couldn't fathom who might have told him or why he'd care. She didn't trust it. "You'll want something in return, won't you?"

"I might." He gave her another one of those annoying feline smiles. She scowled back.

"Fine. What do you want?"

"Draw something for me on the blank newsprint in your bag, and we'll call it even."

Feyre had never heard him sound so earnest, and his violet eyes had gone soft in a way she'd never seen from him before, either. She couldn't shake the feeling she was missing something. "I— What? Why would you want that?"

"My walls are looking a bit bare. What better way to fix that than with something you made?"

More teasing, then. They were back on familiar ground, and Feyre would have thrown a punch—mocking her art was a low blow—if Rhys hadn't praised her work before. When they'd met, she'd been sketching the skyline over the Sidra on a spare bit of newsprint leftover at the end of the day. He'd asked if she was selling newspapers to pay for art school, and she'd laughed in his face.

But after that, he'd returned to buy the paper from her every morning without fail.

"Alright. It's a bargain."

Magic crackled in the air as the bargain tattoo appeared on Feyre's arm, a swirling design that covered everything from the elbow to the fingertips of her left hand. She'd spent her whole life in the Night Court; she knew what bargain tattoos were. But by the Cauldron was this one elaborate. And beautiful.

Rhys was looking at her as if he could hear her thoughts. Feyre frantically double-checked that her shields were up—it was so easy to forget she was in the company of a daemati. "You have an artist's eye. I hope it's up to your standards."

"Bargains go both ways. Where's yours?"

"If you're that curious, undress me and find out."

It must be exhausting, Feyre supposed, to go through life unable to stop flirting for more than a few minutes at a time. But then again, Rhysand never looked tired. "Will you manage to keep quiet during the show? Or am I going to hear you blathering on about how my eyes are like stars the entire time?"

"That's something else you'll have to find out for yourself."

Before Feyre could get another word in, he took her hand and tugged her into the box. The door snicked shut behind her on a night-kissed wind.

A blonde female Feyre only recognized from newspaper photos turned and smiled at them. Morrigan, Feyre realized. She'd heard Rhys use his cousin's name, but after shouting so many headlines about her, Feyre was still caught off-guard by the sight of the Morrigan in the flesh.

"You must be Feyre Archeron. I'm Morrigan, but call me Mor. It's so nice to finally meet you," she was saying, holding out a hand for Feyre to shake.

"Oh. Um. Hello," Feyre said. There was an awkward beat of silence as she tugged her hand—which was still in Rhys's—back so she could shake Morrigan's. "Nice to meet you, too."

There was more uncomfortable silence as Rhys and Mor just stared at each other, and several different expressions cycled across their faces in quick succession. At first, Feyre didn't know what to make of it. But then she realized they must have been speaking about something mind-to-mind. Whatever the topic was, it seemed…contentious.

And that had almost distracted her enough not to notice that Mor had said nice to finally meet her. Feyre couldn't imagine who could possibly have been speaking about her to Mor so frequently.

Rhys indicated for her to sit, and Feyre did. He was right about the box being secluded; the seats were set far enough back that she'd be difficult to spot if someone came looking for her. It put her at ease.

"Do you need something to write with?" he asked, dropping into the seat next to her and stretching his long legs out in front of him.

Feyre always carried a pencil. She reached up under her cap and pulled it out of the messy bun it had been keeping in place all day. Her hair—light brown now that she was fully corporeal—tumbled down her shoulders. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Rhys staring at her, mouth slightly parted.

Before he had an opportunity to say something cutting, Feyre said, "You left a loophole, you know. I could just draw a line on the paper, and I'd keep my half of the bargain."

He shrugged. "Maybe I just wanted to see what you'd do."

Feyre had no idea what to say to that. But at that moment, the lights dimmed, and Mor took a seat on Rhys's other side. Musicians began to play the opening notes of the entr'acte. Feyre tuned it out; she'd heard it enough times when she'd been painting sets during rehearsals.

The bigger question was what she was going to draw for Rhys. As a shadow-wraith, she could see perfectly in the dark theater, so there was nothing stopping her from spending the next hour perfecting a sketch. And uninterrupted time to work on her art was vanishingly rare.

But still, it was Rhys, so the temptation to draw the outline of a cock just to spite him was strong.

Even stronger, though, was the urge to sketch his face. Rhysand was without a doubt the most beautiful male Feyre had ever seen, and since the day they'd met, she'd been eager to try her hand at capturing his strangely sensual-yet-swaggering demeanor on canvas. But a prince could have his portrait done by any artist he liked, and Feyre doubted that he'd agree if he asked him to model for her.

So even though it was against her better instincts to do something that might inflate his ego, Feyre wanted to sketch a portrait of Rhys. To her surprise, he kept quiet and still, actually paying attention to the show.

It was the longest Feyre had ever seen him go without smirking. His features were soft, and she did her best to capture that instead of the smug mask he presented to the world. Something told her moments where he looked this unguarded were rare.

She finished just as the show ended and the lights brightened again. Before Rhys could see what she'd drawn, Feyre rolled up the portrait and held it out for him with a pointed look, daring him to unroll it and examine it in front of her. The bargain tattoo on her hand faded.

Wisely, he merely thanked her and tucked it into a pocket dimension.

"Feyre, the sets you painted look like dreamscapes," Mor said, brown eyes bright. If Feyre wasn't mistaken, that was admiration.

Feyre shrugged. "The actors just needed something pretty to stand in front of while they sing."

Mor locked eyes with Rhysand again, probably having another wordless conversation. Feyre took it as her cue to leave—she could easily slip into the crowd headed for the exit, then find Ressina backstage. But Mor let out a decidedly unladylike snort, squeezed Rhys's shoulder, and winnowed away.

Rhys looked at her, and something in his eyes pinned Feyre to the spot. "Will you allow me to walk you home?" he said.

***

Rhys wasn't entirely sure he was breathing as he waited for Feyre to answer. Not that it was the point, but he wasn't sure his already-bruised ego would survive slinking back to the House of Wind alone after he'd just urged Mor to leave him alone with his mate.

"Why?" Feyre said. At least it wasn't a no.

He slid his hands into his pockets, hoping he looked nonchalant. "Because I'd like to see you get home safely, and no one will bother you if you're with me."

She nodded once. "Alright."

"I can meet you at the stage door once you've gotten your coat."

"I— I don't have one."

He was pulling his own off the back of his chair and wrapping it around her shoulders before he knew what he was doing. This late in the year, Velaris was cold after dark. And perhaps it was reckless, but the risk of a few headlines about Feyre taking him home was worth making sure she didn't freeze.

At least she'd put her arms through the sleeves while she'd scowled at him, though.

Rhys looped his arm through hers and winnowed them outside to the street. Without thinking about it, he started walking towards the tenement she shared with far too many newsies crammed into the small space. Hopefully she wouldn't ask why he knew exactly where it was.

For a while, they said nothing, but to Rhys's immense pleasure, Feyre didn't pull away from him. The silence was comfortable, and for a moment, Rhys just let himself imagine that they were walking home at the end of a proper night out.

But he'd gone to Ressina's in hopes of finding Feyre there for a reason, so Rhys broke the silence. "In a turn of events, I have news for you this evening."

"Do you?" Feyre raised her brows expectantly.

"Starting tomorrow, the owners of Velaris's newspapers will increase the price they charge the newsies. Sixty cents per hundred."

Her hand tightened on his arm as Feyre's entire body went stuff. Their mating bond was still unaccepted—and therefore, faint—but Feyre's anger surged down it anyway. The force of it was nearly enough to knock him off his feet.

When Feyre spoke again, her voice was low and deadly. "Who told you?"

"I was there when they petitioned my father for assistance today. He said no, so they moved on to another strategy."

"And why are you telling me?"

"Because if this develops the way I anticipate it will, then I want to make sure you're the first to know that I won't be buying the paper from a scab. I'd publicly support a strike."

Feyre went quiet, and to keep himself from succumbing to the temptation to read her thoughts, Rhys forced himself to focus on the lights reflected on the river in the distance. Her fingers on his arm never relaxed.

"We don't have a union," she said eventually.

"Then consider this a head start to remedy that." If anyone could form one in a matter of hours, it was Velaris's High Lady. Rhys was sure of it.

"Thank you."

They lapsed back into silence again. Even if Rhys weren't a daemati, he'd be able to see the wheels turning in her head, just from the determined set of her chin and the way a muscle ticked in her jaw. He wasn't sure he'd ever seen a more beautiful sight.

All too soon, they arrived at Feyre's stoop. Before Rhys had a chance to insist she keep the coat, she shrugged it off and handed it to him. "I'm not a charity case," she said, as if she could hear his thoughts.

Rhys took the coat but didn't slip it back on. "I know better than to suggest you are."

"Good." Despite the cold, Feyre made no move to step inside. Rhys was torn between urging her to go warm up and wishing that she'd stay out here with him forever. Something in her face softened, and Rhys could almost fool himself into believing she'd let him kiss her goodnight after a night at the theater as he courted her properly.

But Feyre, he reminded himself, didn't want him like that.

Rhys started to say goodbye, but Feyre added, a bit more softly, "For what it's worth, you're going to be one hell of a High Lord one day, Rhys."

Maybe Rhys didn't have Feyre Archeron's heart, but he did have her respect. And maybe that mattered more.

"My father's not a dreamer, and the Night Court suffers for it. Good luck tomorrow."

Rhys refused to waste any more of her time; unable to resist preening for her just a bit, he stretched his wings out wide, then launched himself into the air to return to the House of Wind.

When Feyre had shown up outside the box, he hadn't been able to avoid telling Mor exactly who she was to him. And now, Rhys could practically feel his cousin's mind vibrating with curiosity as he reached for it. She reassured him—not for the first time that day—that Velaris's charities were prepared to handle an influx of newsies in need, and Rhys pointedly ignored his cousin's request for updates on what she'd termed the moonlit stroll with his mate.

Alone in his bedroom with the door firmly locked behind him, Rhys finally pulled the newsprint out of the pocket dimension. And if Feyre's art hadn't been so precious, he would have dropped it in shock.

She'd sketched him. There was something soft about Feyre's portrait that had been missing from the stiff, official ones he'd sat through with his family. It gave Rhys the strangest feeling that Feyre had seen something soul-deep within him and recreated it with a pencil on a spare bit of newsprint.

If the next day weren't likely to be long and uncertain, he would have spent half the night staring at it.

When he woke early the next morning, Rhys could still feel Feyre's anger simmering in the back of his mind. He resisted the urge to tug on the bond for reassurance she was alright—the last thing he needed was for her to feel the pull just behind her ribs and realize what it meant. So all he did was keep alert as he dressed, ate, and made his way to his father's study.

And as if on cue, when the High Lord's daily briefing was barely through, Pulitzer himself burst into the study. Darkness swirled around Rhys's father, dimming the room, a clear warning that the interruption was unwelcome.

"My apologies, High Lord, but it's urgent," Pulitzer said, bowing politely.

"What, exactly, is urgent?" Rhys's father snapped.

"The newsies of Velaris are forming a union. They intend to strike, and I'm here on behalf of the city's newspaper owners to ask for your support with breaking the strike."

Rhys stilled. For a long moment, the study went silent. The slight deepening of his father's frown—and the fact that a tendril of darkness hadn't already thrown Pulitzer from the room—made it clear enough that the High Lord was weighing his options.

"Who's their leader?" Rhys said, though he suspected he already knew the answer.

"An upstart shadow-wraith named Feyre Archeron. They call her the High Lady," Pulitzer said with a sneer.

Rhys felt a warm glow of pride—despite the darkness that rolled off his father in waves. The High Lord jealously guarded his power, and it seemed that even a poor lesser-fae female couldn't get away with a nickname he took as a threat or a jibe.

"You can't possibly—" Rhys said.

The High Lord cut him off. "What sort of support?"

"Police, if you can spare them," Pulitzer said.

Rhys stood so quickly, he nearly knocked over his chair. "There is no reason at all this needs to escalate to violence."

"As my heir," the High Lord said coldly, "you need to learn that in situations like this, it's necessary. If we make an example of the newsies, the rest of Velaris will hesitate to disturb the peace going forward. Pulitzer, you have all the crown's resources you need."

Pulitzer was bowing again and thanking the High Lord for his support, but Rhys hardly noticed. He was already storming off towards the Rainbow.

#feysand #acotar secret santa #love at first sight's for suckers

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rookfeatherrambles · 6 months ago

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Google shoved an AI onto my phone (Gemini) without asking my consent. It's there now and it's probably scraping my data. Anyway I got annoyed so I told it to write a jonmartin fanfic where Jon was an artist and Martin was his muse, and it DID (Without me specifying that it was the Magnus Archives, it just KNEW)

Anyway the fic it spat out was good but I think my Jonmartin Artist/Muse fic idea is better so I'm going to share you the summary of the thing.

I know it's plot.

I know it's cast.

I know how it ENDS

Anyway.

Featuring: Jon as a very eccentric, antisocial and reclusive artist

Martin: A man struggling to pay for his college debts, his rent and his mother's increasingly expensive medication.

Other Cast Members!

Without further ado, I give you:

CHIAROSCURO

Jonathan Sims is an artist. He's also a bit of a recluse. Given the name Chiaroscuro by the broader art community due to many of his works dealing with the relationship between light and shadow, good and evil, he's considered a modern day Hieronymus Bosch.

Chiaroscuro has no need for money, people fall over themselves to collect his work, which is, admittedly, on the more morbid side.

Monsters and chthonic entities dominate his canvas, often painted in muted strokes, whereas the light comes from a single point, illuminating a brief but fleeting respite from the looming darkness. A flower, a child, an animal. (Hope in the face of adversity and so on and so forth.) People speculate on his paintings meanings, all the time.

Art shows and galleries clamour for his work, but they never deal with the man himself.

In fact, there's no face to put to the name.

No one knows that the eccentric Jonathan Sims, a college washout living in an home far from the city and who has extremely vivid nightmares, is the real artist. He paints what he dreams of, often in great and gory detail. Are his dreams trying to tell him something?

He does not take care of himself, often dealing with long bouts of insomnia and forgetting to eat, stretch, drink water when he's working on a project.

When Jon receives a medical diagnosis, he decides to retire, but not before doing one final piece.

Chiaroscuro makes a post on social media, looking for models for his final work.

They will be compensated for their time.

In the end, Jon chooses Martin, a struggling college student who is a part time nude life model at a local studio to keep himself fed and housed. He is barely scraping by.

Martin agrees to live with Jon for 3 months while he works on his final piece, and under contract cannot say a word as to who he is

The money he'll get from this job will have him set for his education, and what comes after and will even cover his mother's care.

In typical Jmart fashion, what starts out as a professional relationship soon becomes anything but... :)

#the magnus archives #chiaroscuro #chiaroscuro!AU #jonmartin #jonathan Sims #martin blackwood #artist/muse #artist/muse AU

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bildad-the-shuhite-official · 1 year ago

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Hurt/Comfort fanfic recommendations

A late night by wilywitchwahoo G, 400 words, h/c, insecure aziraphale, crying Crowley comforts his sad angel.

Your warmth is all I have by katterv T, 900 words, physical injury, mild blood, (gorgeous) fanart included Aziraphale is hurt, unconscious and so, so cold. Crowley hates it.

Morning Glory by HopeCoppice T, 1k, hurt/comfort, gender dysphoria, body dysmorphia, genderfluid crowley, fem-presenting Crowley, insecurity, body image Crowley wakes early; Aziraphale watches him worry.

Your Effervescent Tears Cleanse My Core by TotallySnowy G, 1.1k, panic attacks, cuddling, aziraphale needs a hug It all started on a rather normal day in southeastern Londen, at specifically 4:05 AM in the morning, Aziraphale awoke with a start. Very, very peculiar for an angel, lest a nobel one at that. What was even more peculiar is that Aziraphale could feel his face become flushed. Quite peculiar indeed.

Evening Star by HopeCoppice T, 1.6k, insecurity, body dysmorphia, hurt/comfort, cuddling, non sexual intimacy, non sexual nudity Aziraphale seems reluctant to join Crowley in bed, and Crowley is determined to get to the bottom of it.

All Good Hearts are Heavy by Sarah_hadeschild G, 1.8k, depression, depressed crowley, fluff, hurt/comfort, protective aziraphale Crowley has always dealt with bouts of depression-- periods in which he cannot bring himself to do much more than exist. Over the centuries, he grew accustomed to enduring these episodes on his own. But now, Aziraphale is with him. And although the angel cannot miracle away his lover's distress, he can try the only remedy he knows with any certainty. He can love him.

Counting on your love by that_angels_demon T, 2.2k, insecure Aziraphale, body dysmorphia, kissing, making out, asexual relationship, non-sexual intimacy Having finally confessed their feelings for each other after the (almost) Apocalypse, Crowley and Aziraphale explore the physicality they've always craved. But when long-internalized insecurities come to light, Aziraphale isn't so sure his demon will want this after all…

crack me open, feel me shatter by rattatatosk T, 2.7k, nightmares, Crowley’s fall, body horror, hurt/comfort Crowley dreams of the Fall. Aziraphale is there to catch him when he wakes.

To Exist and Love by IneffableDoll T, 3.1k, hurt/comfort, acephobia, asexuality, south downs cottage, hurt crowley, ace affirming, fluff Crowley runs into someone who says some bigoted nonsense about the asexual nature of his and Aziraphale’s relationship. It leaves him fuming, so when he returns home to his angel, they talk through it and navigate the complex feelings and hurts the interaction brings up. Basically: A very ace-affirming spite fic.

Flight and Fight by Phantom531 T, 3.3k, panic attack, post season 2, hurt aziraphale, angry crowley, hurt/comfort, angst Aziraphale has a panic attack and reaches for the only person he ever needed. Unfortunately, Crowley is still REALLY angry.

Crossfire by NuriaSchnee M, 4.7k, locked, post Armageddon’t, love confessions, hurt/comfort, showering together, non-sexual intimacy, first kiss In which a shower can solve 6000 years of secrets and misunderstandings. Or: Aziraphale finally breaks down at Crowley's flat and Crowley takes care of him.

I Forgive You by Sparkling12 M, 6.3k, post season 2, hurt Aziraphale, aftermath of torture, hurt/comfort, love confessions, bathing, cuddling Crowley taking care of his traumatised angel, while plotting revenge on Metatron. Part of a series: - I Forgive You

Come as you are by fruitygoblin M, 10k, body dysmorphia, insecurity, wall sex Aziraphale visits a modern art gallery, goes on a diet, and submits to the mortifying ordeal of being known. Not necessarily in that order.

Everything I've Had by AppleSeeds M, 12k, human AU, chronic illness, chronic pain, hurt/comfort, bathing/washing, domestic fluff, childhood friends to lovers After developing a chronic illness that leaves him unable to live alone, Crowley moves back home to London where he reunites with his childhood best friend Aziraphale. Aziraphale helps to take care of Crowley and keeps him company while he's in bed, bringing them closer together and reigniting old feelings.

Touch my Tears with Your Lips by IneffableDoll T, 27k, post season 2, season 2 fix it, hurt/comfort, understimulation, making up, trauma, touch starvation, south down cottage In Heaven, there was nothing to touch. Aziraphale re-tied the knot of his bowtie again and again and again. He was alone, and nothing was real, and he was alone, and nothing was real.

#good omens #crowley #aziraphale #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #good omens season 2 #good omens fic recs #good omens fanfiction

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gamerbearmira · 7 months ago

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THUNDA

AU by @queenofthedisneyverse

I got bored and decided to take a break from drawing for asks and. Wrote this??? I mean it just came to my mind, and I remembered that comment thread from a few posts ago lol 💀💀

Anywayyyyy I've been thinking bout this au recently, so why not right for it

Let get it

---

Félix sat in the break room, having just come off the air. He had been there since 5 a.m., and he was tired and hungry. Of course, in his rush that morning, he had forgotten his lunch bag, and he cursed himself for that. He didn't like the station's food and he didn't feel like going out to any gas stations to buy any. Plus, his sister-in-law's food was way better than anything he could buy or make.

He tapped his foot, then perked up, remembering Pepa was at home. He quickly pulled out his phone, typing in the small keyboard, and waited impatiently for it to send. Service in the station sucked, unsurprisingly.

'Pepi can you bring me some food?'

Félix watched the screen for a while, growing more impatient before the next message popped up on the small screen.

'Be there in 15'

Félix breathed a sigh of relief, shoving his phone into his coat pocket. As he waited, his other coworkers, a few of the news anchors, and the other weatherwoman entered the room. He greeted them with a smile, and they joined him at the table.

"Hey Félix! Not surprised to see you here first," one of the news anchors, Cisco, said with a smile. He then looked confused. "Where's your food?"

Félix rolled his eyes. "Ay, I forgot it at home," he said, leaning forward. "But it's all good, my wife's gonna bring it to me. She'll be here in about 10 minutes."

One of the other news anchors suddenly spoke up. "You know Félix," he said in between bites. "We've never seen your wife. What's she like?"

Félix looked up in shock. "Really? I've never shown any pictures of her?" He asked, and the others shook their heads.

"You talk about her all the time, but you've never actually shown us what she looks like," the other weatherwoman, Emilia, said with a shrug as she took a bite of her food.

Félix furrowed his eyebrows. "B-But I have a picture of her on my desk?"

The others looked at each other and laughed, confusing Félix. "Bro, you have a picture of Thunderstorm from The Unwanted on your desk."

Félix blinked. "Yeah. That's my wife."

Cisco snorted, waving his mango around. "Yeah right. It's 2008 Félix, you think we're gonna fall for that?"

Félix pulled out his phone. "I'm being so serious, she's my wife," he flipped through his photo gallery, before finally coming up with some photos of him and Pepa. "Look!"

The group leaned forward, looking at the many photos of Félix next to Thunderstorm. A lot of them seemed to be in a concert, and there was only one where he was next to her taking a selfie. Emilia pursed her lips.

"No way," she said, leaning back in her chair. "You must've just had backstage access. And in that picture, she's not even looking at you!"

The others agreed, and Félix flipped his phone back around, flipping through some more photos. He finally got to the one he wanted, and showed them, smiling triumphantly. "Oh yeah? How do you explain this?" He said, pointing at the picture on the small phone. The others leaned forward once more, looking at the photo.

It was a wedding photo. Félix, obviously dressed in white attire, and Thunderstorm, or Pepa, in a long black dress and a sunflower bouquet in her hands while she stood next to Félix. The others stared at it, before murmuring amongst each other. One of them finally spoke up as Félix pulled his phone back. "No way. That's edited."

Félix pulled a deadpan face and was about to speak up when he got a message on his phone. With a smirk, he crossed his arms. "Well, speak of the devil. She's heading into the building right now."

The others rolled their eyes, seemingly tired of Félix antics. They denied his outrageous claims, not believing for one bit that Félix was married to Thunderstorm, one of the biggest singers of one of the biggest rock bands. But Félix just smiled and turned his head to the door as the click of heavy heels sounded through the hallway.

"Félix, I brought your lunch!" A voice called from the hall, and the others snapped their heads towards the doorway. And there she was. Thunderstorm, a.k.a Pepa Madrigal. She stood in the doorway, scanning the room with a nonchalant look. She had on dark clothes, a long dress with tall black heels. Her makeup was similar to her stage makeup; clearly, that was just how she dressed. Next to her, there was a small boy, no older than 3, who clung to her dress, and he perked up at the sight of Félix; the two shared an uncanny resemblance.

"Pepi!" Félix, casting an "I told you so" look to his coworkers, smiled, pecking Pepa on the lips. The other's jaws dropped, and Pepa checked the clock on the wall, while Félix picked up and smothered Antonio.

"All right mi amor, I have to head out," Pela said, handing Félix his bag of food. "I have rehearsal at the stadium, and then I'm gonna be rehearsing with the group after that."

"¡Adios!" With one last kiss, Pepa waved goodbye, leaving the break room with Antonio. Félix sat down, unpacking his food with a smirk. His coworkers stared at the door before turning to Félix.

"He's married...to Thunderstorm..." Cisco said.

"And he has a kid with her...?" Emilia stated next.

"Three. I have three kids, " Félix corrected, taking a bite of an arepa. The others just kept staring at him. "Do you believe me now?"

The other news anchor spoke up. "Wait, wait wait," he said, waving his hands. "But your last name is Castillo. Hers is Madrigal. So...what's up with that."

Félix shrugged. "I go by Castillo here at the station so none of their groupies try and come here. It was my last name before I got married. It's Madrigal now."

The others were shocked. They asked Félix a million questions, which he happily answered. One of them suddenly had a realization and spoke up. She pointed to one of the many band posters in the room. The one of the band.

"Wait, so if Thunderstorm--er, Pepa, is your wife," she said. "Isn't Chemical Chameleon her son? Does that mean he's your son too?"

"Yup. My second oldest. My oldest is in college right now," Félix said.

"What about Rose Thorn? A-And isn't she sisters with the Lonesome Butterfly?" Another asked.

"Yeah, they're my nieces. They have another sister, she's in college too," Félix stated nonchalantly.

"Oh my gosh. Does that mean that...Abuela Crimson...is..." Félix smiled again.

"Yup. My mother-in-law," Félix took another bite of his food as he watched the faces of his coworkers as they processed this new information. They slowly started piecing things together. And it was the most entertaining thing to him.

----

Bro was not kidding and they were FLABBERGASTED I mean it's insane. They saw all them pictures on Félix's desk and though that they weren't true 😭😭

It's all fun and games until the lead singer of one of the biggest emo rock bands walks in and hands your coworker his lunch bag

Félix's coworkers after seeing him kiss Pepa:

#my asks #my asks are open #encanto #encanto au #au #encanto antonio #encanto Félix #encanto Pepa #rock band #rock band au

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wcamino-confessions · 4 months ago

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howdy! im kinda looking for some advice. i would like brutal advice, even if its not what i want to hear.

so i have two roleplay characters that i received through tryouts within a clan. i have been using these characters for over a year and have been really attached to them. i love these characters, ive put a lot of thought and effort into their stories as well as money into their art galleries.

sometime in- i wanna say- january the clan’s instagram page was hacked and almost everything was deleted by this hacker. they tried to get the account back but it was unsuccessful. they made a new page with a new clan as the clan’s owner decided to retire the clan and the clan leader made a new one. the clan owner just basically owned the clan while the clan leader lead the clan.

during this time, i was just receiving a kitten (they were almost an apprentice according to the time rule) character and there was no roleplay or clan at the time so together to temporarily pause our ages as we couldn’t develop with the absence of a clan. according to the clan leader, she made an announcement in the groupchat that aging was still happening while she worked on the new clan and everything. unfortunately, due to how many people are in the groupchat and how often we all talked, that message was buried. it never got to us.

so for months, we had paused the character’s aging. in april, the clan finally started to pick up, the information was being posted and the clan was beginning. the couple of us spoke about resuming aging after the three month hiatus of there being no clan, no timeline, no roleplay. basically the clan didn’t exist and i felt like these characters were stuck in static, the aging didn’t matter.

the litter groupchat and i were talking about how excited we were to finally get the development in that we didn’t have. we didn’t officially have an apprentice ceremony due to there being no clan at the time so we were looking forward to that being announced in the next chapter as our characters were sitting at 6 moons old. so we had planned to message the now clan leader about that but the next morning, bout two weeks after the clan started picking up, the clan leader messaged us about warrior names. we gave them our names and they said they would make the announcement of our warrior names in about two weeks.

in our groupchat, we were confused and decided to ask our clan leader about pausing our ages during the three month hiatus. they then informed us pausing ages wasn’t allowed, this was news to us and we were upset.

while applying for kit tryouts, we are asked a very basic set of questions and those questions involve kit, apprentice and young warrior development ideas. during the absence of the roleplay, we were still kits but 5-6 moons at the time of the clan being deleted and remade. the reason why we were upset is because of development, younger development is important to have a strong foundation to build on. that is something i expressed during our conversation with the clan leader and they shot me down.

I didn’t like the fact that my character was being controlled by someone that isn’t me; so I mentioned that and the clan owner exploded. I didn’t feel like I was in the wrong so I argued that our characters ages shouldn’t matter to them and after arguing for a while. i brought in the litter’s ownership and they agreed with us.

unfortunately, I got heated during our conversation and was really pushy about the conversation to resolve it with the result I wanted. I had to step away from the discussion and went to bed.

in the morning, I apologized to the clan leader about how heated our conversation got. I did feel bad but after their response, I wasn’t. The clan leader decided to remove me from the clan, we never had an issue in the past and this was the only thing. however they lied to me saying that i had been reported by multiple different people for “aggressive” behavior in the past and that was a “final straw” in their eyes. i was really confused and went to message them back, i was blocked. In the past, I have never had an issue with anyone. I did message around and see if I might have upset someone, but after talking to EVERY person within the clan, they said they never reported me for aggressive behaviors.

i decided to delete my social medias and talked to the litter’s owners on discord. i figured i would have to give up the characters i had put so much work into as i was being removed. I spoke about getting reimbursed for the artwork I put into the character’s artwork that I paid for. Both of the characters were roughly worth $200 and $500 respectively.

when it comes to removing ownership of a character for a terms of service break, the art get reimbursed and the design is taken. thats where i got my logic from, furry artists terms of service.

however, i wasnt asked to give up the character and I have decided recently to start using them again because the payment hasn’t been sent to me. I feel like it’s very unfair to be forced to give up a character without being paid for the money you’ve put into the character. it’s been a couple months since that conversation and i’ve heard nothing from both of the litter owners. I did inform the owners that I would be continuing to use the characters if the art value wasn’t reimbursed. that was our last conversation; they didn’t reply after that.

Am I in the right to continue using these continue to use the characters? Am I in the right to ask about the reimbursement payments? Should I stop using the characters? I dunno what to do. I don’t want anymore drama but I don’t wanna be fucked over.

#submission

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rynneer · 5 months ago

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Blood of Durin: The Complete Edition

Chapters 5 & 6

Y/N doesn’t know how she found herself in Middle Earth, how she found herself among the Company of Thorin Oakenshield, or how she let herself be captivated by the elder Durin prince—but she does know one thing: she’s carrying his child.

Updated weekly, or read the full version here

Chapter 5: Rivers and Roads

been talking ‘bout the way things change.

–Rivers and Roads, The Head and the Heart

You toss and turn in your sleeping bag, struggling to get comfortable. Loud snoring fills your ears. Ever since the troll incident, the dwarves insist on keeping you and Bilbo in the inner circle to protect you. It’s touching, but you wouldn’t mind sleeping on the edge if it meant a bit more quiet. Thorin elbows you in his sleep, muttering.

You give up. Squirming out of the sleeping bag, you carefully pick your way through the cluster of dwarves to the fire, where Fíli and Kíli sit up on watch.

“Y/N, you should be in bed,” Kíli scolds you lightly. The dark-haired brother leans against a mossy, fallen log, stretching out his legs leisurely.

“I can’t sleep, and I’m bored, so I’m taking watch,” you reply, settling across from the boys. Your phone vibrates in your pocket, startling the dwarves. An alarm you’d forgotten to turn off, reminding you of a doctor’s appointment scheduled for tomorrow. But you won’t be making it.

Fíli peers at the device in your palm. “You’ve yet to explain your little… light tablet?”

“Phone,” you correct him. “It’s a phone. We use them for talking to other people who are far away, or sending them letters instantly. It plays music, it has books on it, pictures… it pretty much has my whole life on it.”

Fíli leans over and holds out his hand. Hesitantly, you pass him the phone. Kíli scoots in close to stare at it in wonder, the glow of the screen illuminating his face. “Is that your family? A sister?” He takes the phone and tosses it back to you.

You look down at the screen. It’s a picture of you and your best friend, a stupid selfie you hadn’t bothered to delete yet. Now, you’re glad you haven’t. “It’s my friend,” you whisper. Your thumb traces the edge of the screen, and you swipe through the gallery. Your dog. A bird’s nest in the eaves of your parents’ porch. A book you planned to get your dad for his birthday. Another one of your dog.

“Do you think they know I’m gone?” you ask softly, to no one in particular. Your vision blurs. “I miss them. I miss air conditioning, I miss hot showers. I miss home.”

Kíli shifts in the leaves, studying your downturned face. “Would it help to talk about it?” He offers you a sympathetic smile when he catches your eye, but you drop your gaze again. The only response comes from the crickets in the bushes.

“I miss our home as well,” Fíli says quietly, finally breaking the silence.

“But you’re going to Erebor,” you point out. “Your people’s true home.”

He shakes his head. “Erebor is but a story to us, Y/N. A bedtime tale. We were born in Ered Luin, the Blue Mountains. That is home.” Fíli pauses, looking out over the horizon. His pale blue eyes are distant. “And if we succeed, we leave it forever.”

You hadn’t considered that. “I guess we’re in the same boat, then.” You set your phone down. Rolling onto your stomach, you rest your chin on your folded arms. “Would it help to talk about it?” you ask, echoing his brother’s words.

A smile tugs at the corner of Fíli’s lips. “I will speak of our home,” he replies slowly, “only if you speak of yours.”

Kíli raises an eyebrow at you. “You cannot avoid the matter forever, Y/N.”

“Where would I even start?” you groan. “Our worlds are so different, Kee.”

He tips his head to the side in thought. “What do you enjoy doing?”

“I don’t know. Reading? Watching movies? Playing video games?“

They look at you blankly. You run a hand through your hair and puff out your cheeks. “Okay, so a movie is like a play, but you can watch it wherever you want. And a video game is… I don’t even know how to explain it.” You pause, considering the two dwarves before you.

Kíli’s bangs brush just above his eyebrows, parted slightly in the middle. He’s the only dwarf without beads or braids, opting for a simple clip that holds back some of his hair. But Fíli, he styles himself after Thorin, sweeping his hair back over his head to reveal a sharp widow’s peak, just like his uncle’s.

“You know, you two look exactly like you do in The Hobbit movies.”

“I thought we came from your book,” Kíli says, brow furrowed.

“They make books into movies,” you explain. “Of course, the book is always better, but they did a… a decent enough job.” You roll your eyes, thinking of the fierce debate over the movies’ quality. “But you said you’d tell me about Ered Luin. So, what do you do for fun? What do you miss?”

“I haven’t been in a forge in ages,” Fíli sighs, leaning back and folding his hands behind his head.

Kíli snorts. “Surely you do not mean you want to work?”

“It’s satisfying,” he protests. “You cannot tell me you don’t enjoy it at least a little bit!”

“If I must work, I would rather be out hunting, not toiling over an anvil all day.”

“I think it sounds interesting,” you offer, sitting back up. “What do you usually make? Swords and knives?”

“Far too many farm tools and horseshoes.” Fíli picks at the grass beneath him, twirling stems between his fingers. “There is not much use for weapons without active warfare.”

“Ah, you sell yourself short, brother!” Kíli says, leaning over and snagging the dagger from your belt. There’s a dark twinkle in his eye. “He made this very blade.” He tosses and catches it, handing it back to you hilt-first.

“I’ve made better,” Fíli cuts in hastily. “I made that when I was still practicing a new technique. It’s an older one.”

You pass the knife over your forearm, brushing away the hairs it shaves off. The moonlight glints off the steel’s edge, fine as a razor. “Could’ve fooled me. How old?”

Fíli shrugs. “Oh, thirty years, perhaps? I dusted it off for the journey in case I needed a spare.”

“Damn. Older than I am,” you remark.

The brothers look at you, stunned. Fíli drops the blade of grass he had been fiddling with, and it flutters away in the breeze.

“What?” you ask, growing hot beneath their eyes.

“Y/N,” Fíli says softly. “Exactly how old are you?”

You didn’t think their eyes could get any bigger when you tell them your age.

“You’re a child!” Kíli gasps. “You’ve no business being on your own, let alone on a journey like this!”

That comment makes you bristle. “I’m just as much an adult as either of you. You just age slowly.”

“But less than thirty? Mahal, you’re hardly more than a stripling!” Kíli gives his brother a strange glare.

“Look, obviously humans and dwarves are biologically different,” you snap. “You’re, what, sixty? Seventy?”

“Eighty-two and seventy-seven,” Fíli corrects quietly.

Despite your words about dwarves aging slower than humans, hearing Fíli actually confirm their ages makes you uneasy. “Well, most humans would be grandparents at that age. Great grandparents, some of them. If not dead. But you and I, we’re at about the same stage of life.” You do your best to seem nonchalant, rolling your dagger between your palms. “We come from different worlds, boys. Don’t forget that.”

Leaves rustle behind you. You jump and grip the dagger tightly, whipping your head around. A little squirrel scampers up a tree with chattering noises.

Fíli snickers. “A fearsome beast. Good thing we’ve you to protect us.”

You stick out your tongue.

Kíli smiles, eyes half-closed. But suddenly, he sits up, a thought occurring to him. “Do you have any suitors?”

“What?”

He smirks at you. “You’re a decent-looking lass. Surely, you’ve been courted?”

You fidget with your dagger. “Not really,” you shrug. “I tried asking a guy or two out, but nothing ever happened.”

Fíli glances up at you, but doesn’t quite make eye contact. “Is that common? For the woman to do the courting?”

“It goes both ways, I suppose. Maybe you meet on the internet, or maybe you meet in person, and you talk for a little bit, go out on some dates… it depends.”

“For dwarves, the dwarrows make the first move—there are so few dwarrowdams, after all,” Kíli explains. He starts making a list on his fingers. “First, he’ll give her a special gift to show he’s interested, like a weapon.”

Fíli, who had been watching you closely, suddenly seems very interested in a beetle crawling on a root.

“Then, when he really wants to court, he’ll ask to braid her hair, and give her one of his beads. Marriage comes with different beads and braids.”

“Oh, like a ring. We use rings to propose,” you explain when Kíli frowns. “The guy gets down on one knee, puts the ring on her hand, there’s lots of crying.” You wave your hand in the air dismissively. “Sappy stuff. But what about you? Any special ladies back in the Blue Mountains?”

There’s a small knot in your stomach as you ask. Something in you hopes the answer is no, that maybe you’re the one who’s caught their eye. The eye of one of them, anyway.

You’re a fool to keep denying it to yourself—something about Fíli draws you in. His gentler ways. Even now, sitting quietly by the fire, he looks thoughtful, pensive. His brow is furrowed slightly as he watches the little bug, his lips pursed. But you know better than to get your hopes up. Yes, you may be the only girl any of them have seen in months, but they’ve lived far longer lives. Fíli has had plenty of time to fall in love already.

Kíli shakes his head with a smile. “Nay, too soon for that. Dwarves only fall in love a single time.” His eyes flicker to his brother. “With our Ones.”

“What’s a One?”

It’s Fíli who answers this time. “The one person Mahal crafted for a dwarf to be with. But not every dwarf has a One, not necessarily.” His lips press into a thin, strained line. “There aren’t enough of us for that.”

“Like soulmates?” Your eyes fall to the dagger in your lap. Something about Kíli’s explanation of courting gnaws at the back of your mind.

“Do Men have Ones?” Kíli asks.

“Some people think so. I don’t know if I do or not. It must be nice, though,” you remark. “Not having to wonder if you’ve got it right or not. Not having to go through the heartbreak of failure.”

He hums in agreement. “I suppose so. For someone who hasn’t courted much, you know an awful lot of songs about heartbreak.”

“It’s a popular subject,” you reply with a shrug. Fíli’s eyes are still downturned, though his little beetle has vanished. “You good, Fee?”

He jumps slightly, face hard to read in the dimming light. “I’m fine.” He clears his throat and starts to stand. “The fire could use some more wood–”

“I’ll get it,” you interrupt, swifter to rise than the dwarf. “My legs are killing me, just sitting here.” You arch your back, moaning as something pops. Grabbing a small hatchet by the fire, you tramp through the brush to a small, dead tree you’d spotted Bifur hacking away at earlier. You swing at some of the lower branches, bracing your arms against each blow. Low murmuring comes from behind you. Glancing back to the fire, you see Kíli crouching by Fíli, muttering with him.

“Yes, Kíli, I can tell you’re doing your damnedest to–” Fíli breaks off abruptly as you haul the branches back. He rises quickly to take them from you. “Allow me, lass.”

Before you can assure him that you have it handled, he’s taken the wood from you and arranged it in a pyramid atop the embers. With a gentle breeze from his mouth and a few added twigs, he coaxes the flames back to life. You scoot closer to the fire. “That’s better,” you sigh. “I never knew summer nights could be so chilly.”

“Sit here, then,” Kíli says, shifting and making room between him and Fíli. He pats the space invitingly, wiggling his eyebrows. “It’s warm.”

Your lips twitch. “Ah, why not.”

He was right; both dwarves pressing in on either side of you creates plenty of heat.

“You can go to sleep if you wish,” Fíli comments, glancing at you. “We hardly need three people on watch.” He dips his shoulder, and you oblige, sliding down slightly to lay your head on his tunic.

His fingers stray to your thigh, lightly tracing his thumb over the hilt of the dagger.

“You can have it back, if you want,” you offer. “I didn’t know it was something you’d made yourself.”

A small, wistful smile graces his lips. “No. It was a gift.”

Chapter 6: She Calls Me Back

why am i so obsessive, hanging onto every sentence?

–She Calls Me Back, Noah Kahan

Rivendell. Holy shit, Rivendell.

The beauty of the elves’ valley in the movies always stunned you, but it pales in comparison to the real thing. The grumbling and muttering of the dwarves fades in your ears as you look around, following Elrond up to his home. Wind whispers through the leaves. A cardinal twitters in a stately elm tree, its fiery red feathers blending into the sunset behind it.

“What are you gawking at?” Fíli asks from beside you. His lips are set in a frown.

“Everything,” you breathe. “Are you seeing this?”

“Looks like the woods.”

“Fíli, I’ve never seen a view like this in my life. I swear, if I dropped dead now, I’d die happy!”

He rolls his eyes. “Try to stay alive just a bit longer, aye? We’ve got a job to do.”

“Y/N?” Gandalf looks over his shoulder at you.

You prick up your ears and quicken your pace. The wizard ushers you in front of him to fall in beside Elrond. “I was just telling Lord Elrond of your unique arrival,” he explains. The Company pulls to a halt at the threshold of Elrond’s house.

That’s Elrond, that’s Elrond, that’s Lord fucking Elrond. You can barely hold his gaze. The elf arches an eyebrow at you. He’s asked you a question.

“Sorry,” you mutter, ducking your head sheepishly. “You’re just, uh… it’s all a bit overwhelming.”

“Is there anything we could offer you to make your stay more comfortable?” the elf lord asks. He looks you up and down with a slight frown.

You grow even hotter under his scrutinizing eyes. Your shirt is dark with sweat stains, and your jeans are plastered with a paste made of mud and pony hair.

Gandalf hides a wry smile in his beard. “I am sure that we could all do with a good bathing,” he remarks lightly.

Elrond nods, lips twitching slightly. “That can be arranged.” He opens the door and lifts a hand to a passing elf, saying something in their elegant tongue.

She dips her head and smiles at you. “This way, my lady.”

The she-elf leads you back out into the trees to a wide pool, fed by a small spring. It’s shielded from the rest of the valley by a mossy cobblestone wall. “Please, take your time. Dinner will begin at eight.” She vanishes.

You set down your backpack and pull out your small bag of toiletries with a frown. The shampoo and conditioner are almost spent—something tells you the dwarves, with their obsession with hair, may have stolen from your precious supplies. “I’m going to murder Kíli the next time I see him,” you mutter.

But next to the pool, you find three small bars of soap. You rub them between your fingers, determining that two of them must be for hair from the silky texture.

Your clothes stick to your skin with sweat. You peel them off and drop them by your bag, shivering as you slip into the cool water. A pleased sigh escapes your lips, and you sink below the surface. Your hair swirls around you, tugged by a gentle current. Coming back up, you whip your head back like in one of those fancy shampoo commercials. It’s less graceful than you hope, your wet mane slapping your back unceremoniously. Even in Middle Earth, physics must prevail. Oh well.

The elvish soap feels like satin against your skin as you lather up, the sweet scent of vanilla filling your nose. Weeks of blood and grime slide from your body. You run your fingers gently over the line on your shoulder. To Fíli’s dismay, the cut you earned during your training session left a thick, pink scar. Every time he looks at it, you can see the guilt in his eyes. It’s frustrating—you’re proud of the mark. It proves that everything that’s happening is real, but he doesn’t seem to understand.

Fíli. Thinking of him makes you frown. He’s been acting strange lately. A few nights ago, you’d sat up with the brothers on watch, swapping stories and sharing things about your respective cultures. But the normally chatty prince had grown quiet when Kíli asked you if you had any romantic tales for them, and began explaining dwarven courting rituals. Since then, he has avoided your eyes.

“Lady Y/N?” A soft call comes from behind the wall. “Your presence is requested.”

With a startled look at your watch, you realize you’ve lost track of time, and swim to the edge of the pool. “I’m coming!”

A dress drops over the cobblestone wall, followed by a pair of sandals. It’s a light green gown with an ivory trim, and long, gauzy sleeves. You slip it over your head, sucking in a breath and fumbling with the corset laces. Tying a crude bow in the back, you can only pray you don’t spill out during dinner. Without a hair dryer, all you can do is wring the water from your locks. You brush your hair quickly and weave it into a tight braid down your back, securing it with one of your few hair ties. Looking down at your feet, you frown. The delicate elvish sandals look out of place on your battered and bruised feet. What you wouldn’t give for a good bottle of nail polish.

“Lady Y/N?” The elf maiden pokes her head around the corner. “The table is laid, my lady.”

“Actually, the thing that surprised me most was seeing how everyone looks like they do in the movies. See, in the book…”

You’re chattering away with the elves, though Fíli notices you never hold eye contact with Elrond for long. Something about the dark-haired elf intimidates you. Elrond sits at the head of the table, Gandalf on his right, Thorin on his left. Elrond seated you next to Gandalf so he could speak with you, but other elves keep ducking in to ask you questions or offer to refill your glass of wine. Fíli shifts in his chair across from you, teeth clenching each time one of the pointy-eared creatures bends over you.

You glow as you talk. Fíli unconsciously wets his lips as he watches the way your dress hangs off of your body. Thus far, he’s seen you only in your strange, blue trousers and your formless “t-shirt” that mask your figure. You fit right in with the dwarven men, matching their rowdy demeanor when it’s called for and occasionally joining in with Kíli’s roughhousing. But in elvish fashion, you’re the very picture of femininity—despite your lack of beard. The soft, translucent sleeves make every gesture seem almost unbearably elegant.

He’s smitten.

“See something you like?” Kíli smirks. He spears a couple pieces of lettuce on his fork and elbows his brother. “Better close your mouth before a fly wanders in.”

“Take Fíli and Kíli, for instance.”

Fíli perks up when he hears his name.

“So, Kíli obviously has brown hair, and Fíli is blonde, right? But in the book, they both have yellow hair. But!” Your eyes sparkle with delight as everyone hangs on your words. “But, then some things have happened that only happen in the book. Like losing the pony and the boys nearly drowning.”

The boys. You’ve begun to refer to Fíli and Kíli as “the boys.” It warms him, knowing that you’re comfortable around them. You seek them out more and more often now, even offering to take watch with them. He closes his eyes and leans back in his seat, turning the past few days over in his mind. Sitting up at night with you under the stars, you napping with your head on his shoulder and arms around his waist as you ride, even your elbow stabbing him in the side in your sleep is a pleasant reminder of your presence.

Your voice rising in song breaks him from his thoughts.

“Oh, misty eye of the mountain below, keep careful watch of my brothers’ souls…”

He recognizes the song. The first few words, at least. You were always quick to skip past it when you played your music, saying it wasn’t time for it yet. Now, he understands why—it’s about them.

“Keep watching over Durin’s sons…”

Fíli gazes at you, transfixed. He’s heard you hum, mumble softly along to your songs, but to hear you actually sing… Mahal, it’s enchanting. The way you roll your r in Durin just like how the dwarves do, the emotion you put into the words. No, your voice isn’t perfect—the notes fall a bit flat here, rise a bit too sharply there, and you wince slightly every time your voice cracks. But that just makes it even better to his ears.

“You’re staring,” Kíli whispers. His eyes widen when he glances down at his brother’s lap. There’s a distinct bump. “Fíli!” he hisses, hastily covering Fíli’s legs with a napkin. “For Mahal’s sake, control yourself!”

But the fire in Fíli’s core only grows as he listens. All too soon, you finish, dipping your head with pink cheeks at the applause from the Company. One of the elf musicians lays a hand on your shoulder, leaning in with a smile.

And something snaps.

Abruptly, Fíli stands, pushing his chair back roughly. “I’m full,” he mutters, turning on his heel and storming off. His shoulders are tight, fists clenched by his sides.

You break off mid-sentence, jaw hanging open as you watch his retreating back. “Kíli? Is he, uh…?”

Kíli tips his chair back and rolls his eyes. “He’ll be alright. He doesn’t feel well, that’s all.”

You rise from your seat. “Maybe I should go see–”

Kíli’s eyes widen and he leans forward quickly. “No! No, just let him be. He gets in a foul mood when he feels poorly. Best to leave him alone.”

“Oh,” you say quietly, sitting back down. You wish now you had paid more attention to him during dinner. But it seems you’ve missed your chance.

“Oi, lass!” Bofur calls from down the table. He grins at you and raises his wineglass. “How ‘bout another song, then? One of those ‘hop-hip’ ones you told us of? Hammy-ton?”

“Hamilton,” you correct him. Kíli’s eyes light up, but you shake your head. “Sorry, I’m not really… it’s been a long day. I think I’m ready for bed. Thank you, Lord Elrond, really. I look forward to our stay.” You stand and give your best curtsy, tripping slightly over the hem of your dress. Gathering your skirt in your hands, you make for your room. Maybe you can talk to Fíli in the morning, make sure he’s alright.

Fíli paces back and forth in the small bedchambers, pulling at the collar of his tunic in agitation. He found some elvish nightclothes neatly folded on the bedspread. At first, he disregarded them, but he remembered how you had marveled at the elves’ clothing. And that’s how he found himself clad in the silver silk.

“That was stupid,” he scolds himself. “Good job, Fíli, you went and made a fool of yourself in front of her. What must she think of you now, storming off like that?”

“Fee, shut up,” Kíli groans. His little brother lays his forearm over his eyes to block out the moonlight. “I covered for you, I promise. She just thinks you were feeling ill and needed to turn in early.”

“I should go to her. Say something to her,” Fíli mutters, ignoring him. “Apologize. Explain myself—no, no, that wouldn’t do!” He flops backwards onto the bed, outstretched arm smacking Kíli in the face.

“Oi!” Kíli shoves him away. “Get off me, you dolt!” He rolls over onto his face. “Fíli, you’ll see her in the morning. And then the next day after that, and the next, and the next. You’ll have plenty of time to apologize to her. It’s past midnight—go to sleep.”

Fíli sits back up, shaking his head. “You were right, Kíli. It was rash of me, giving her that weapon. I extended a courting gesture without her understanding. And now,” he waves his hand towards the door, “now we’re in Rivendell, the place she’s been the most eager to see, full of some of the fairest beings she’s ever seen. What chance does a dwarf like me have with a woman like her? Please, tell me I still have a chance, Kee.” He pauses. “Kee?”

But his brother is fast asleep, snoring softly.

Fíli sighs. He stands and crosses over to the window, squinting into the moonlight. The river lies just a few hundred yards from their room, starlight reflecting on its glassy surface. Some lyrics from one of the love songs you’d played drift through his head, something about city lights and water. A plan begins to form in his mind.

Nodding slowly, the prince swings a leg up and over the windowsill, dropping to the ground and heading up the path.

Heading up to you.

#fanfiction #fíli #fili x reader #fili x you #kíli #the hobbit #blood of durin #rivendell #elrond #jealous Fíli #everybody lives #update

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atamascolily · 1 year ago

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pmmm oneshots by subject

Just for fun, I put together a guide for my Madoka Magica oneshots on A03, sorted roughly by subject matter/theme. All are 7K or less, most in the 1-3K range. This is not meant to be a comprehensive list and will probably be instantly out of date, but can still serve as a good general reference. Enjoy!

inspired by art

Curation - The Law of Cycles isn't a person. It's an institution.

No Exit (The Nighthawks Remix) - Based on Nighthawks by Edward Hopper.

Balancing Act - Kyouko and Madoka take an unusual route to find Sayaka's witch, unaware Homura is watching from the shadows.

Marked - Junko Kaname invites Homura on a family trip to a local hot springs resort. Intrigued by Homura's refusal, Junko investigates--revealing a secret of her own along the way.

HomuMado Bittersweet Angst

The Night Parade of One Hundred Witches - Once a year on the anniversary of Walpurgisnacht, the streets of Mitakihara are home to a most unusual parade.

Flying Home - Soulmate Goose AU.

Memento - Mami does her best to help when Homura's grief over Madoka manifests in bouts of coughed-up spider lilies, though it isn't enough.

surreal weirdness

Orrery - Homura's apartment is out of this world.

Return to Sender - The epic story of Homura vs. junk mail.

Projections - Homura redecorates her apartment.

Splice - There's someone else out there besides Homura with control over time. The question is, what does she want? Scene 0 AU from before Scene 0 was released.

Witches

Absentia - As Homura investigates the mystery of Walpurgisnacht, one question eludes her: where is the witch's grief seed?

Strange Loop - The Stage-Constructing Witch narrates a familiar story with an unfamiliar twist.

Junk - Mitakihara's new magical girl duo has their work cut out for them when the Hoarding Witch manifests on the Kazamino City border.

Sticky Fingers - Kyouko needs Mami's help to get out of a sticky situation when a routine witch-hunt goes awry.

Trompe-l'oeil - Mami plays a deadly game of hide and seek against an elusive witch inside a reality-bending art gallery.

tea and sympathy - An invitation to visit the Dress-Up Witch means you will never be lonely again.

Fun and Games

Loosely connected series of one shots in a modern AU where the characters are playing an RPG based on the original series.

Fun and Games - It's another eventful session of the Puella Magi: Magica RPG: Mami one-shots a witch with her Tiro Finale attack, a new player joins the party, and Sayaka fails an important roll with devastating consequences.

She Who Fights Monsters - Kyubey convinces the gang to reconvene for a new campaign of the Puella Magi: Magica RPG, but all bets are off when Homura realizes the GM is up to his old tricks.

What Goes Around - Things get weird after Homura ousts Kyubey as GM of the ongoing Puella Magi: Magica RPG. Well, weirder, anyway. Homura and Mami Roommate Shenanigans

Inspired by Mitakihara Anti-materials spinoff manga. Domestic fluff AUs.

Moving Day - Homura moves in with Mami.

Soba ni Iru (Soba Noodles By Your Side) - Homura's first night in Mami's apartment.

Partnership - "I figured we could both use some tea," Tomoe said by way of greeting. "You had difficulty sleeping again, didn't you?"

Dirty Laundry - Homura finds a creative use for the washing machine.

Mami Character Studies

Childish Things - Mami stumbles across a box of childhood memorabilia.

half-life - Mami wished to live, but she didn't give any thought to what that life might look like, and now she's paying the price.

Twenty Facts About Mami Tomoe - Fragments from a tragedy in slow motion.

Fireflies - While searching for witches, Mami has a wondrous experience at an isolated shrine.

Fluff and Crack

Wash Cycle - "I like it," Sayaka said honestly. "It's just not what I expected heaven to be like, that's all."

The Adventure of the Sapphire Soul Gem - "Huh?" Sayaka said, unable to believe what she had just witnessed. "Did that goose just eat my soul gem?" Kyouko was faster on the uptake. "Quick, grab it!"

Final Form - Madoka and her friends get an unexpected glimpse of the Incubator life cycle.

Mermaid in My Tub - Kyouko intervenes in time to save Sayaka from becoming a witch--sort of. Now Sayaka's stuck living in the bathtub in Mami's apartment with a mermaid tail, and Kyouko is determined to make the best of it.

Sayaka Miki and the Terrible Horrible No-Good Very Bad Day

out of order - This place is a dead end, but so is she, and it's not like Sayaka has anywhere else to go at the moment, so she might as well make the most of it.

descent - The witch is still out there calling for its next victim, though not for much longer now that Sayaka's here. She's close enough to transform into her true self and leave this crude matter behind.

tainted - Caught up in despair, Sayaka rapidly loses touch with reality.

Miscellaneous Crossovers

No knowledge of the other fandom is needed.

Death Comes for the Incubator (x Sandman). Kyubey confronts his own mortality at last.

Memories of Somebody (x Bleach). A chance meeting between Homura and Ichigo reveals unexpected connections. Post-series (PMMM) and post-Memories of Nobody and Fade to Black (Bleach).

Palimpsest (x Sandman). A garden, a maze, a mysterious hooded figure. A book of pages written and erased again and again. In between timelines, Homura Akemi comes face to face with Destiny.

The Immortal Dragon's Disciple (x The Way of the Househusband). Homura Akemi finds an unlikely mentor in ex-yakuza turned househusband Tatsu Kuroda.

Good Morning, Ms. Saotome (x Sayonara, Zetsubou-sensei). Junko Kaname sets up Ms. Saotome on a date with an eccentric teacher. Madoka has a front-row seat for what comes next.

xxxHolic-inspired Fusion AUs

No prior knowledge of xxxHolic is required.

asynchronous - The Dimension Witch dwells in a shop specializing in the granting of wishes... for a price.

a butterfly dreaming - Mami's perfect life comes to an end....but is the person who wished for this really so bad?

life in fantasy (the butterfly dreaming remix) - Mami Tomoe never, ever listens. Once again, Homura is left to cleans up the mess. Whumptober 2021

Cui Bono? - Mami wakes up in Homura's apartment, surprised and grateful to have survived her disastrous encounter with the Dessert Witch. But her host's contradictory behavior raises an important question: what exactly is Homura getting out of this?

Careful What You Wish For - Trapped in the Box Witch's labyrinth and paralyzed with guilt over Mami's death, Madoka is rescued by the most unexpected person imaginable.

Rude Awakening - Homura's latest fight with Mami might be a dream, but what awaits her upon waking is all too real.

Sticks and Stones - After a fight between Sayaka and an unknown opponent ends with the former grievously injured, Mami reveals an unexpected connection between them. Null Magical Girl Weirdness

Unlikely to make sense if you're unfamiliar with the Null Magical Girl light novel.

Null and Void - Fourteen-year-old Kosane's attempt to contract with Kyubey unexpectedly fails.

null thoughts, head empty - While waiting for the space-time collapse, Kosane and Kyubey discuss Incubator biology and the nature of the human soul.

Schrodinger's Incubator - The only thing more impressive than solving the perfect locked-room murder mystery is preventing it from happening in the first place. Miscellaneous

Tracks - Madoka searches for Sayaka along the train tracks.

Inventory - Homura sorts through the contents of her shield.

Family Business - This time, Madoka and Sayaka are rescued from a witch's labyrinth by the Tomoe twins, a magical sibling duo gifted with a flair for the dramatic, deadly aim with rifles, and fabulous fashion sense. It still ends badly for everyone.

Gingerbread - Nagisa and Mami make gingerbread together.

Parallels - Despite everything they have in common, Mami and Homura never quite connect. Then again, parallel lines never meet, except maybe at infinity.

Power Sources - Madoka and Sayaka discuss the topics they chose for their science essays, unaware of the relevance to their future lives.

Five Things That Probably Never Happened in Any Timeline (And One That Definitely Did) - Visions of a kinder, gentler magical girl show that never was. [based on the opening credits]

#puella magi madoka magica #madoka magica #my fanfiction

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