#he looked so peculiar i had to sketch him

[drag00ni]

very interesting guy I met today

[twstowo]

Hello! I absolutely love your work it's always such a joy to read them! So, when I saw your asks were open, I had to ask fast! Can I request for a fluffy work where Jade, Rook, and Vil are painting their S/O? You can add on more if you need to.

I hope you have a nice day! ₍⑅ᐢ..ᐢ₎

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗SYNOPSIS: They paint/sketch you.

♡︎I almost exploded on Vil’s part.

♡︎Includes: Jade, Rook and Vil

♡︎Warning: Jade smirking

⋆⋅☆Jade

I can't picture him painting you, but I see him having some sketches of you in a notebook, probably filled with information about mushrooms.

After classes ended, you had a habit of lingering at Monstro Lounge. You'd order a drink, often covered by Jade's generosity. There, you would study, awaiting Jade's arrival whenever he was free. On one particular day, he observed you from a distance, engrossed in reading potionology books for an upcoming test. Although you were engaged in a mundane activity, he felt an unusual urge to capture you in his notebook, akin to documenting a rare mushroom.

──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────

"Jade, is that me?" you questioned as you spotted a peculiar doodle of yourself in his mushroom-filled notebook. The two of you had gone on a hike, and to assist him in identifying mushrooms, he handed you his notebook. To your surprise, amidst the detailed fungi descriptions, you discovered a drawing of your face stuffed inside a book. Much to your dismay, Jade responded with a smirk rather than a straightforward answer.

⋆⋅☆Rook

Now Rook would be the type to paint you and have those paintings of you on the walls of his room, no shame at all. If someone entered his room, he would spend hours talking about the artworks, explaining how divine you looked to the point that he had to capture it for eternity.

He would find you in the botanical garden, staring at some flowers, and out of nowhere, you'd see him with a canvas and an easel running towards you. You have no idea how he managed to get those so fast, as you were just talking seconds ago.

──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────

“Is this really necessary?” You were already embarrassed by the fact that he wanted to paint you, but the constant remarks about your beauty made you almost pass out.

“Oh, mon Trickster, I only wish to capture forever what I deem worthy of being seen by millions, as your beauty is undoubtedly impossible to-” And he kept on talking about how much he loved you, how amazing you were, how breathtaking you looked, and how his actions were undoubtedly more than worth it. With each word, you felt your legs growing weaker.

⋆⋅☆Vil

This might start with Rook wanting to paint the two of you together as a cute couple since he was your ultimate shipper. However, Vil never seemed pleased with the paintings, stating that something was missing. You thought he was talking about him not looking as good as he wanted, but after some days, he asks you to come over, and to your surprise, he tells you that he wants to paint you.

──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────

“Potato, stay still!” By the Seven, you only wanted to scratch your nose. It had been almost an hour, and you were starting to feel really hungry. You'd have to curse Grim for wasting money on his cans of tuna, leaving you with only sandwiches until the smell made you feel sick. You stared around his room, waiting for the work to be done. After all, it surely couldn’t take that much more. “Come see it.” You saw him lower the brush as he looked at you with a smile, and as you approached, you had to grab your jaw or it would drop to the floor. The way he had drawn you had nothing on Rook’s style. You looked so beautiful, it almost didn’t feel like that was you. So, that was how Vil saw you? And he was just mad that Rook couldn’t see the same thing he did.

“Oh, Vil!” You sounded so lovesick as you gave him a hug and a kiss.

[catbread0]

Hi!! It's so rare to see someone writing for this obscure fandom, I have so many request ideas lol... May I request 2007 anime Kusuriuri with a fem or gender-neutral reader who likes to draw him? Like they have an entire sketchbook full of drawings of him. Thank you kindly!

Kusuriuri (2007) x Fem Reader

Thank you for the request! I hope this is to your liking. Forgive me if it's not and I apologize for any grammar mistakes.

Enjoy reading! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ♡

Words: 644

Pure fluff

Mononoke (2007) Masterlist

Emphasis

There you were, nose-deep focused on that sketchbook of yours, drawing your colleague once again. But could you blame yourself?

Your colleague was a peculiar person. When someone would ask what his name was, he would always respond with a calming tone.

“I’m just a medicine vendor.”

Many people refer to him as Kusuriuri, a Japanese word for medicine seller. As bewildering as it is not to have a name, the way he stands out with his outfit and his appearance.

You yourself don’t even know if it’s makeup or if it’s permanent, so many questions go unanswered because he doesn’t answer you directly.

It's no wonder why you would draw him, but it's also because it feels as if he added more coloring to your drawings after you met him. 

Before you met him, you drew people's portraits, family portraits, samurais, and wedding portraits. It was the Edo period, and every time you drew or sketched, the traditional art felt as if they were a repeat of each other, even if it’s called rich culture.

However, when you saw Kusuriuri, you felt a change in your drawings. With him always looking incongruous, it added more emphasis. Your eyes would always look at him first in your drawing because of all the vibrant colors he is wearing.

That is how you saw it. Everyone looked normal and plain while Kusuriuri looked so dissimilar to the people around him.

As you were about to finish your sketch of Kusuriuri, you realized you had run out of ink. You were currently staying in an inn, and the vendors were nearby. It wouldn't hurt to be away to buy some more materials. You close your sketchbook and put it back in your box carrier.

“Kusuriuri-kun, I’m going to run some errands for a bit if that's all right with you.”

You saw Kusuriuri glance at you before he returned to continue what he was doing to his box carrier, most likely reorganizing his medicine. 

“It’s all right, return before they close the inn. You wouldn’t want to sleep outside, right?”

Kusuriuri saw you nod before leaving your shared room. Once Kusuriuri knew you exited the inn, he decided to see what you were sketching.

You never showed him your drawings. Whenever he would try to get close to see, you would close it immediately and hold a tight grip onto it. 

He opened your box carrier and started to look into your sketchbooks. He was stunned to see almost every single page with a drawing of him inside of it, including a few with Hyper, his alter form. He would look at every detail you put into each drawing. He felt a pinch of pride, knowing you make every page of your drawings with him in it.

He puts back where every sketchbook and paper goes, not wanting you to know just yet of his discovery. 

You return to your shared room sometime later, and as you start to organize your box carrier with the new materials you recently bought. 

“I’m honored to be your muse (Y/n)” Kusuriuri says with that monotone voice of his. It makes goosebumps crawl through your body, and you jolt a bit.

You were silent a bit from awkwardness, “...I apologize. If you feel uncomfortable with it, I will stop.”

Kusuriuri's lips curled upwards with his purple-painted lips, “No need to stop, continue with your drawings of me. After all, being an artist's muse isn’t easy to achieve.”

For the whole day, he would tease you about it, but he would now always look at how you would carefully draw, and you would no longer close the book.

Maybe one day you will draw a special portrait of him with you, a painting where it would feel like it's only you and him together, separated from the world around you.

~Lilly's

[kamig4mes]

heyy, could you please write headcanons for how shigaraki would react/feel with a gn s/o who gives him small things that remind them of him? like, they see a red rock and give it to him bc its the color of his eyes, that kind of stuff

hey hey honey, of course! It's the first request from mha that I make here, although I must admit that I didn't expect it to be from shigaraki! ksdjdjsj 🤭 anywaay, I came up w/ a couple of things for this boy, I hope you enjoy it

#pov: Shigaraki would react/feel with a gn s/o who gives him small things that remind them of him.

★ warnings: realistic hc, fluff, established relationship, affection, couple love, league of villains

—shigaraki!

Realistically, you don't even know how you managed to get this guy to end up being your boyfriend. I mean, your mental dictionary is so broad and far-fetched but the words "love" "consideration" "passion" seem not to be included in it but here they are both! Celebrating even the smallest things you do for him.

Sometimes the gifts with the most emotional meaning are found when you least expect it.

They were walking hand in hand through some deep neighborhood of the city with a path to the forest when something suddenly made you brake sharply and scream.

"Oh my- STOP!!"

"WHAT?!"

Shigaraki flinched when he heard you, alerting all his senses. You got rid of his grip to step back on the way to take something in your hands.

When you came back to his side he looked at you surprised, almost angry.

"Here, take it honey" your arms outstretched towards him with that smile adorning your face, he was looking at you like you were crazy "it's for you"

"If it's a fcking spider I swear to yo-"

"Who do you take me for? C'mon, just hold out your hands" he reluctantly does as you ask, rolling his eyes when you smiled in victory.

At first Shigaraki stiffened when he felt the light weight on his bare palms, moments later he relaxes when he sees that it was a small stone. But not a current.

"A red stone?"

"Yea', a little weird, isn't it? But.. It reminds me of the color of your eyes.." you confessed, feeling your cheeks (and his) burn red hot.

Shigaraki froze instead. The poor man didn't expect to hear you say that, and he never expects it! He's not at all familiar with this type of treatment and sensations that you generate for him, and despite having been dating for a couple of months, this type of affection is still unexpected for him.

Deep down, his heart warmed up like a torch, sending his brain the signal to shout out all the tenderness that you generated in him with that simple gesture. But he couldn't, he felt blocked and too shy to answer correctly.

Since your boyfriend was silent for what seemed like a whole minute, you rushed to bring his attention back.

"We must get back soon before dark, don't you think? We don't want to get lost" you laughed, awkward kissing his cheek quickly. You didn't need him to respond to your acts of love, you understood his heart perfectly. But, sometimes, you wished he would express his emotions more with you.

"And I'm so sorry for yelling earlier"

"Uh-mh, it's okay.." Shigaraki sighed, before linking his hands again and kissing the top of your head "let's go back home"

You learned to identify your eccentric boyfriend's tastes and understand his peculiar manias, but you suspected that you still had a lot to discover about his twisted inner world.

It was just another day of the year when, while cleaning inside the drawers of Shigaraki's bedside table, you came across a somewhat small and neglected notebook with his name engraved on the lid.

You decided to take a look at it, surprising yourself with the amount of sketches that were embodied inside. And you couldn't help but melt with tenderness when you saw that a large part of the drawings that filled that notebook were you portrayed. You rushed to leave it where you found it and get on with the cleaning. It seemed strange to you that that book was out of place but thanks to that cluelessness, you discovered that Shigaraki liked to draw.

From that moment on, every instrument/drawing material you saw reminded you of him. And without realizing it, you ended up buying an impeccable set of graphite pencils for him.

When Shigaraki returned home in the afternoon, a box with a note greeted him in the living room. He looked everywhere in your search, in vain. The white-hair then approached the table to inspect the gift.

"This reminds me of you, and I think it may serve you. All yours"

As he guessed, the calligraphy was yours. Upon unveiling its contents, the thousands of drawings inside his notebook whipped his mind, clearly remembering every moment he made them, especially those where you were: sitting in the living room, in bed asleep, with your back on the balcony, etc. Just thinking about it, his corners rose in a smile that, if you were looking at him, you would be disarmed of love.

"God.. So adorable..."

He may never ask you how you found out about his hobby, but that didn't interest him. Because the best piece of art he can have is you. It will always be you.

Luckily, you have in mind his love for sweet foods. It became essential for you to buy breakfast cereal, specifically the sweetest flavor that existed on the market because it seemed to be the only one that met the necessary sugar levels for him. It's the first thing you look for when you come back from shopping.

"Tomura, honey, I'm home!" you screamed once you entered his warm abode. Soon you heard how a few footsteps crawled down the stairs to receive you next to a kiss.

"You're back soon" Shigaraki took the bags from you and carried them to the kitchen, poring over their contents. When he didn't see it anywhere, he questioned you, "Did you buy it?"

"Of course, it was already running out"

Shigaraki examined your facial features to make sure you weren't lying.

"The one with the double honey-? "

"The one with the double honey and sprinkles, baby, here it is" and you waved the long-awaited colorful box.

Shigaraki blinked with a hidden surprise when you finished his sentence. He loved that you remembered the details about him, he loved feeling special and listened to. Especially if it was you.

The white-hair nodded before turning around to leave the kitchen and go back to his business, hiding from you that goofy smile that was starting to outline on his face.

Whenever you pass by a video game store, the impulse to buy a game from their range of tastes ends up taking over you in some way or another.

"What are you getting me now, puppy?" he mumbled a barely audible giggle as he took the rectangular gift and tore the wrapper "Is this another one of your jok- Oh.."

His eyes widened as he observed the package in his hands. That limited edition Mario Kart game that came out a couple of weeks ago had him so surprised.

"Damn, y/n.."

With his role as a villain, he had moved away from his gamer side quite a lot. But he made sure that no one touched his glorious shelf full of his best and favorite video games. And you were there to stock that dusty shelf, to remind him that that side of him isn't quite dead.

"Do you like it? Although it's not such an important thing"

"Isn't it such an important thing?!" Shigaraki raised his voice offended.

You shrugged your shoulder, feigning indifference even though his beautiful surprised little eyes had you internally screaming "I thought it was missing from your collection"

Shigaraki looked again the video game, his heart turning completely upside down, not believing that you could give him something so difficult to get in the first weeks of release, but you would do anything for him.

He subtracted the space between you, catching you by surprise when he pulled you by hugging you tightly.

"Thanks u, babe.."

As long as it comes from you no matter what you gave him, even if he doesn't show it to you verbally, he appreciates all your gestures.

You smile softly, stroking her hair "don't thank me, honey"

That's the way he was, shy, inexperienced, spontaneous and shy just like a little boy. But little by little that child was growing up, opening up to the affection that you offer him and experiencing the rules of love with you by his side because thanks to you the words "love" "consideration" "passion" were added to his mental dictionary with a clear and real definition, thus finding ways to show you all that love that he also has to give you.

©2024 ／ ENJOY ♡ — I was as realistic as possible, I like hc's to be like that. If you liked it, don't forget to repost it so that it reaches more little people. Thank y, I love them!

[bless-my-demons]

Redamancy: Chapter Eight

Series Summary: What happens when your soulmate is a vampire that struggles to maintain a diet of trying not to kill you? Common sense says run for the hills, nothing is worth your life - but my heart is whispering why not, what’s there to lose?

Warnings: None except for like one cuss word

Notes: Hot off the press - I just spent my day packing my house up to move tomorrow and I’m up past midnight to get this out... You guys have been so freaking supportive and I’m excited for this story to pick up!

Word Count: 3158

Series Masterlist

• March 11th, 2005 • Forks High School •

Reader

“Emotions.” Jasper says by way of greeting, placing his backpack on the picnic table that no doubtibly contains his art supplies.

“Everyone has them, yes?” I reply, my forehead wrinkling in confusion at his peculiar single-word statement.

“I can control them.” He answers, visibly nervous as if he were afraid he just opened a can of worms.

I watch him pull out his well-worn sketchbook and pencils as I decide how to respond to this new bit of information.

“Say something, doll.” Jasper looks almost pleading, worry setting in on his face.

“How does it work?” I question him, I’m in shock that he volunteered such important information in the middle of a school day at lunch as if it were a typical topic to talk about.

“Well, it started off as just being able to sense the emotions of humans and vampires in my vicinity,” he lets out a sigh as he begins shading whatever it is he’s working on. “Then I quickly figured out I can influence them. I can either enhance what someone is already feeling, take away their emotions altogether, or replace them entirely and give them something completely different.”

“W-wow,” I stutter, “that’s honestly impressive.” I raise my eyebrows as his eyes meet mine.

“I can also do small things since I’ve had time to hone my power, like it’s easy to find people I’m familiar with in a crowded area, within a reasonable distance. As long as I can get to know the person, orient myself with their emotions, it’s quite easy.” He glances down at his drawing as he finishes his explanation.

“That has to be rough, feeling everything everyone else is feeling all the time. You can turn it off though, right?” I muse out loud, I can’t imagine having a power that doesn’t come with an ‘off’ switch.

“Unfortunately I can’t, my family is usually pretty good at regulating the intensity of their emotions when we’re gathered at home. At school though… Sitting out here alone with you during lunch is a welcome reprieve.” Jasper turns back to his sketch as he admits that last tidbit of information.

“Do any of your other siblings have super powers like you?” I tease him, not ready to dive into that nugget of information about how spending time with me makes him feel.

“Rosalie and Emmett don’t, neither do Carlisle and Esme. Unless you want to count the staggeringly strong self-control my adoptive father possesses.” Jasper pauses, “Alice can see the future, subjectively though - she has to be searching for that person’s intent and as long as they make a decision, she can see it and the immediate effects. Edward on the other hand, can-“ but he’s interrupted by the bell signaling the end of the lunch period.

“You’re not off the hook now that you’ve enlightened me, I expect to finish this conversation.” I tell him as I stand and meet him on the sidewalk leading towards the school building.

“I would never leave business unfinished with a lady.” He says rather cheekily, trying to get a rise from me, but all it earns him is a huff of a laugh as we walk in a comfortable silence.

“Thank you for sharing that information with me, I promise not to tell anyone.” I vow soberly, meeting his eyes as we stand outside of my next class.

“I was never worried.” Jasper replies, backing away as students finish milling about in the hallway. “See you in History, darlin’.”

I could feel his eyes on me as I stood in front of my open locker, quickly shuffling through the books I needed for my last class of the day. It’s almost like his gaze seemed to burn me alive as I felt it travel across my skin, the hair on the back of my neck rose due to my heightened state of awareness I had towards this gorgeous man. Does he know the effect he has? Is he even aware that I am utterly at his mercy? I hate to fall in line with all the other girls that must throw themselves at his feet, most of them much prettier than I, so why me? Why does he want to take me on a date?

I glance over my shoulder in the direction I know his own locker is in and sure enough, liquid gold is locked onto its target. A steady unwavering gaze stares back, so solid and intense that it constricts my chest for a moment with the pure force of it.

I turn back to my locker and grab a pen before slamming the door shut, the warning bell signaling one minute before everyone still occupying the hallway is tardy. As I turn to hurry my way to History, Jasper has made his way to stand right behind me.

“Do you like baseball?” He blurts out quickly, as if to not lose his nerve.

“It’s probably the only sport I understand, so yeah. Why?” I counter, tilting my head in question.

“My family and I were thinking of playing a game Sunday. Would you like to tag along and spectate? Bella Swan will be there, I’m sure she would love your company.” Jasper tacked on the last part as if I needed more reason to go than just spending time with him.

“As if I could say no to you and your family.” I tell him with a smile.

“Good, so you’ll want to meet them tomorrow?” He asks with more confidence than the last request, slowly taking steps backwards down the empty hall and I gravitate with him.

My mind blanks, not prepared to be sprung with such a big step in… whatever is happening between us. First he tells me he wants to take me out on a date, now I’m meeting his family? Is this some lucky alternate universe where the insanely attractive boy falls for the incredibly average girl?

No-no way, friends bring their friends over to meet their entire family before a family outing, right?

“I-I-uh-“

“Noon tomorrow, they’ll love you.” Disappearing around the corner of the hallway with a smirk in place, probably because I was gaping at him in the middle of an empty hall.

I glance around - an empty hallway! I’m late for class! I can’t even be mad, Jasper Hale has effectively monopolized my weekend and I’m more than happy about it.

• March 11th, 2005 • Home •

Reader

“Hey, mom?” I ask, poking my head in her open bedroom door.

“Yes, sweetheart?” Putting down the book she was reading and pushing up her reading glasses, my mother sits up in bed to give me her full attention.

“So,” I take a seat at the end of her bed, “Jasper Hale invited me to his house tomorrow, to have dinner with his family and just hang out I guess.”

“Oh?” My mother sounds intrigued, eyebrows raising. “A date with a cute boy?”

“Not a date!” I immediately correct her, “it’s just dinner, or whatever.”

She laughs as I pick at her bedspread. “Honey, of course you can go, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Well…”

“Well, what?” She questions.

“He also asked if I wanted to play baseball Sunday with his fa-“

“You? Play baseball?” She blurts out, incredulously.

“Mom!” I draw out the word. “He’s invited me to hang out with his family this weekend - you’ll be cool, right? When he picks me up? No interrogating?”

“Me? Interrogate the cute boy stealing my daughter for a weekend? I wouldn’t dream of embarrassing you.” She teases me with a wink.

I stand and begin to leave, “You are insufferable, woman.”

“I love you, sweetheart!” She yells after me as I round the corner to my room. Flopping onto my bed with a smile, I’m both giddy and equally nervous for the next two days.

• March 12th, 2005 • Cullen Residence •

Reader

“This is my adoptive father Carlisle and his wife Esme.” Gesturing to the two beautiful adults patiently waiting in the foyer as we walk in their home.

Thankfully my mom was at work when Jasper picked me up, giving me another day to prepare myself for the potential train wreck of them meeting tomorrow.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Cullen.” I give them a smile as I shake their hands.

“Trust me dear, the pleasure is all ours!” Esme responds excitedly, her smile wide and beaming.

“The others are in the living room, beware of what you’re throwing her into.” Carlisle warns Jasper with a smile.

Throwing me into? I glance up at Jasper with my brows furrowed, a little concerned.

“C’mon, I’ll protect you.” He jokes with me, I must be missing the punchline.

As he leads me to the living room in his house, I gape at the beautiful artwork spaced throughout. “This is gorgeous, Jasper.”

“Esme is pleased you like it.”

Not having heard his mom speak, I turn from where I was ogling a painting that appeared to be ancient. “But she-“

“Can hear you from her study and I can feel her emotions, remember?” He winks at me, show off.

Finally we walk into the space where his siblings are and I realize what Carlisle meant: Mario Kart.

Alice and Emmett are sitting on the edge of the couch, deep in concentration while Rosalie seems bored from her perch in the corner by her significant other.

“You’re fucking cheating!” Emmett bellows, frantically mashing buttons on his controller.

“It’s not cheating if you’re playing someone that sucks.” Alice taunts him, a wicked grin on her face.

“You can see the future Alice, cut him some slack.” Jasper chides his sister as he leads me to an empty section of the couch.

My eyes widen in amusement as I observe the small dark haired girl, “That’s right! You can-“

“See everything I try to do!” Emmett yells, frustration setting in as his character is hit with a shell.

It’s almost laughable, Emmett’s character Bowser and Alice as Princess Peach. I sit down next to Jasper, a few inches between us as I cross my legs and he lays an arm behind me on the back of the couch. I try to keep my breathing even as I sit here, but the excitement to be spending time with him is almost overwhelming.

I watch as Princess Peach zaps the other players into miniature size and Rose reminds Emmett not to throw yet another remote at the ground, when Jasper leans in close.

“Want a tour of the house?” He asks in a whisper, creating goosebumps down my arms.

“Yes.” I respond, probably sounding breathless, but he’s standing and offering his hand before I have the chance to feel embarrassed.

“And this is my room.” His tour coming to an almost close, since I’m still patiently waiting for a peak at all their cars.

I walk in the doorway he pointed to, stopping just inside. My eyes were immediately drawn to the bookshelves lining the wall opposite of the floor-to-ceiling windows that seemed to be a theme throughout the house. His room was much darker than all the others, warm and inviting with the shades of black and dark wood tones. Stepping closer and skirting the immaculately made king size bed, my eyes close in on some familiar titles on the shelves.

“I always see you reading and since I have quite a bit of free time, I thought I’d pick up a few.”

I turn to look at him with my mouth parted in surprise at his thoughtfulness, his hands are clasped behind his back like he’s bashful for getting found out.

“Jasper-“ but he interrupts me.

“The garage is next.” I watch him turn on his heel and disappear down the hallway.

I look down and brush my fingers on his black comforter as I smile to myself before following him, so Jasper Hale isn’t immune to his own feelings - he just doesn’t like to show them.

Walking into the garage, my eyes skip over the beautiful cars and land on a sleek little thing in the back. A Ducati 848 to be exact, it draws me in like a magnet. Immediately I knew it had to belong to Jasper, no one else seemed like the type. Rose had her red convertible, Emmett had his Jeep, and Edward had his mom-car. Alice and Esme didn’t bother with vehicles and Carlisle had a reasonable, albeit expensive, commuter.

“Wow,” my voice quiet as my fingers brushed the gas tank, “I’m impressed, Hale.”

“You know bikes?” Jasper asks with a hint of curiosity.

“Not really, but I know enough to know that this Ducati is basically a rocket and that it must’ve cost you a pretty penny.” I replied, eyes still glued to the beautiful machinery. “Why didn’t you tell me you drove a motorcycle?”

“Not many parents let their ‘teenager’ drive death traps around.”

“Touché.” I pause, “Take me for a ride?” Swinging my leg over to straddle the beast, I lean over the tank and glance at Jasper.

I know I’ve successfully distracted him by the amount of time it takes for him to respond. Grinning, I sit back and look at him expectantly.

“Absolutely not, darlin’. No way I’m risking-“

“You have safety gear, don’t you?” I tease him as I get off and walk behind him to snag the helmet placed on the counter along the back wall.

Jasper groans and tilts his head back in mock-frustration as he fishes the keys from his pocket. I squeal as I pull the helmet on and hop excitedly towards the bike.

“You’re wearing my protective gear or no deal, sweetheart.” He lays down the law as he stalks over to a cabinet, retrieving a thick coat and gloves.

I almost protest, but he’s pulling the jacket over my arms and zipping it up my chest leaving me breathless before I know what’s happening. Even with the helmet covering my face, I’m sure he senses the heat in my cheeks as he finishes checking me over.

“You sure about this?” Jasper asks, finding my eyes under the visor with his supernatural vision.

“Are you sure about this?” I counter, the unease floating around is practically choking me in this enclosed space before it vanishes in a snap.

He flips up my visor, “Riding with someone requires trust-“

“I trust you, Jasper Hale. Completely and without any reservations or doubt in your abilities to keep me safe.” I swear my words stunned him, his mouth parted slightly as I blurted the confession. As if he realized the doubt that was flowing earlier was from him and not me.

“You are…”, he mutters his response low enough that I can’t hear as he swings a leg over the motorcycle and turns to me seriously. “Number one rule, don’t let go of me. Lean with me on turns and stay tucked in. If you need to stop, tap on my chest. Any questions, doll?” Jasper asks.

“Where are we going?” I climb on behind him and scoot close enough to wrap my arms around his waist lightly, this is the first opportunity I’ve had to be this close to him and it’s amazing. I let out a small gasp when he grabs the backs of both knees to tug me closer, bracketing my hips around his to tuck me in close. He then grabs my arms and places them over his chest, the side of my helmeted head coming to rest on his large back.

“You’ll just have to wait and see, ready?” I feel a teasing chuckle rumble in his chest, so I simply nod, excitement tingling all over from where my body touches his.

The Ducati roars to life in the enclosed space and I feel it lean to the right as Jasper taps the garage door button on the wall to open our exit. My arms squeeze him a little tighter as we launch forward down the driveway, I’m tempted to wave to Esme smiling from the porch, but I decide against it remembering his number one rule of not letting go.

This is single-handedly the best idea I’ve ever had.

Jasper

This girl will be the death of me, I know it for certain.

She could ask me to bring her the moon and I would have it in her hands in a heartbeat. Taking her out on my motorcycle? Easy in theory, extremely difficult in practice. I’ve never felt as I do right now with her arms around me, her completely pressed against my back and squeezing me at every jolt and turn I make.

Heaven and Hell, having my greatest temptation in such close proximity.

She trusts me. Completely and without doubt - her fucking words. I’m positively speechless, I’ve never had someone to myself that trusted me so wholly without needing any kind of explanation or-or proof-

And her leaning over my bike in the garage? I nearly swerve us right off the road thinking about the arch in her back, the way her chest pressed against the tank, her toes barely able to touch the ground… it took nearly every ounce of control to remain rooted while she was seated atop my motorcycle.

My only regret is not showing her the garage sooner, that image of her will forever be seared into my mind. On second thought, I’m sure my mental images were extremely loud and clear in the garage - it’s a mystery how Edward can manage to be around the couples in our family. For me at least, the emotions get too much sometimes and I need breaks.

I’ve noticed that I’ve needed them less and less since Y/n literally slammed her way into my life - breaks from everyone else that is. She not only elicits a physical reaction that no one else has ever managed to coax out of me, but she has also become a mental safe-haven. Being around her energy is as easy and mindless as breathing, if only I could breathe around her without inhaling molten lava. Everything about her completely consumes me, tears me apart and builds me back up, unmakes and makes me over and over, infinite bliss and unending torture. My singer, her blood is a symphony and I am her rapt audience hanging on to every beautiful note and praying for an encore.

My singer.

The revelation clangs through my soul and grants my body with a new purpose; her. She is mine to protect, from this day onward. My left hand reaches up to anchor myself where Y/n’s hands rest on my chest, her arms not quite long enough for her fingers to meet in the middle. I smile to myself, maybe I can allow myself this one bit of happiness, to let her in.

Next

[wood-white-writer]

“Didn’t mean to make your heart Blue” || [9/…]

— OPLA!Buggy x F!Reader

“And I know no one will save me, I just need someone to kiss.

Give me one good honest kiss and I’ll be alright.”

— Mitski, “Nobody”

Pairing: Buggy the Clown (Live Action) x F!Reader

Parts: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8

Summary: You were an apprentice of Gol D. Roger’s crew in your youth, long before his eventual demise. Along with the Red-Haired Shanks and Buggy, you were a formidable trio; the embodiment of a new generation of pirates yet to come. But times changed, and so did you and your friends.  In which there is lost affections, mentions of the past, and re-bonding over a bath. Unshared thoughts and feelings of regret return from years of negligence, and whereas some aspects remain buried, others have a chance to resurface from the depths.

Warnings: fem!reader, LA!Verse, slight canon divergence, morally grey reader, mentions of violence and blood, dual-pov (though primarily Buggy's), Buggy being a simp, implications of Buggy being a horny simp

A/N: AND HERE WE ARE! FINALLY, AFTER SO MANY WEEKS, THE NEW CHAPTER IS UP! Seriously, I want to thank you all for your immense patience and support. As I mentioned in a previous post, work has been hectic as hell and I know I wrote that this chapter would hopefully be finished last week, but life took its toll. Hopefully, you'll enjoy this chapter, though I myself have mixed feelings about it.

INCLUDES SOME SELF-MADE SKETCHES AT THE BOTTOM, so you’re warned

The sun warms your face as you breathe in the fresh scent of the sea. You’re lounging on deck, hands folded behind your head and feet hanging over the railings in a rather peculiar position, but you’re perfectly content.

Luffy benched you for the rest of the voyage to Arlong Park, a decision you initially found insulting to no short degree. Well, maybe benched is not the right term to use, but more like “I don’t want you to die, and I think you need to relax this once”.

You had argued that no, you’re fine and the love bites Arlong left you are nothing compared to the marks Mihawk left on Zoro, and he’s still up and about as usual.

But Luffy is firm about his decision, and what the Captain says goes.

So, here you are, enjoying some quiet all while letting your wounds heal, and it seems that nothing can hope to put an end to this ambiance that is—

“HEY! THERE ‘YA ARE!”

…. You spoke too soon. Way too soon.

A shadow falls over your face like a curtain and blocks the view of the sun. A shadow belonging to - you make a lucky guess - a severed head that’s been talking for way longer than a severed head typically should, in your experience.

You open one lazy eye to pinpoint the exact perpetrator and see a bright red dot staring down at you from Usopp’s grip.

Buggy winks at you, making those mildly irritating clink-clink noises.

“I can’t stand it anymore,” Usopp grumbles. “You take him! He’s annoying and keeps telling me my nose is too long!”

“Because it is, you shidiot!”

“It’s average!”

“That’s what your mom said!”

“You keep my mom’s name out of your mouth, you psychotic, fucking—!”

“Be quiet.”

Both the clown and the slingshot simultaneously shut their mouths before things have a chance to escalate on a non-verbal scale, and you take this as a sign that your break is officially over and buried ten feet under.

Stretching your arms out loud enough to pop a few vertebrae, you shift to lean your back against the railing and give both boys an unimpressed look-over, like a disappointed mother having caught both of her children in the act of something. “It’s too early for you to be making a ruckus.”

“It’s 11 am,” Usopp points out.

“Still too early.” Deciding that you’d rather not deal with this with more effort than you’re willing to spend, you return to your previous position. “Leave the head, or don’t. Just let me rest.”

“Fine by me.”

With a thud and an “OW FUCK!”, Usopp unceremoniously drops the clown and forgoes his Buggy-sitting duties to do whatever he wants to do, leaving you to pick up the slack.

A string of curses flow from Buggy’s mouth, which you only vaguely pay attention to. There was something along the lines of “Long-nosed asshat,” and “Right on the nose”, but you abandon all interest in favor of feeling the sun on your cheek.

“So…” you hear him jump a little closer. “Alone at last.”

You don’t answer.

“What? Don’t give me that! I thought we were good!”

You remain selectively mute.

“Hey! Don’t ignore me! I don’t like it!”

“You survived it for twenty years. I’m sure you can stand it for a few more minutes.”

“…. Seriously?”

“Mhmm.”

You don’t know what possesses him, but he keeps quiet for most of the next thirty minutes, and you take the time to continue basking in the sun. 

It’s a luxury you can rarely afford, and you’ll be damned if it gets ruined now or all time, least of all by him. You’re not going to even open the can of worms that is last night’s events, so you lock it in a chest to be dug up for another day. 

Not now. It won't be that long until you reach Arlong Park, and shit will go down. This might be the only chance you get to replenish your strength and gods do you need it now more than ever.

"… Hey?” Buggy starts.

You let him decide whether to perceive your silence as an opening or a locked door.

“I’m bored.”

“Tough.”

“Can’t we do something else?”

“We could fish. Your head might serve as a good bait.” Despite yourself, your lip tugs a little in what is supposed to be a halfway smirk. The image of Buggy dangling above the shark-infested waters from a hook to his bandana would be an entertaining sight to behold.

He swallows audibly. “Was that a joke?”

“Keep bothering me and we’ll find out soon enough.”

“C’mon! Don’t be like that! Seriously, I’m bored! Ain’t much you can do when you’re just a head… except to give one, but that’s beside the point.”

Too much detailing, you think. He wants entertainment of any kind; you want peace and quiet. What to do and how to kill two birds with one stone? You open one eye and let it drift over to Buggy, who in turn is staring intently at you. 

In the sun, you make out every detail of his rugged face. His make-up’s almost wiped completely off the skin, with only remnants of the red lipstick and blue diamonds vaguely in place. His stubbles have grown slightly, given the lack of access to a barber, and if you get close enough, he probably stinks of—

A lightbulb goes off in your head. A devious one, blinking to every corner of your brain. 

Despite what anyone thinks, you’re not above being petty.

With a push, you sit up and glance over at him. “Anything?” 

Buggy raises his eyebrows and nods desperately. “Yeah! Anything! As long as I ain’t got to sit here doing naught-shit, I’m game!”

You turn to him, put each of your hands to the edges of his jaw, and lift him a little closer to you. Whether from the sun or just him alone, he’s warm and soft under your digits.

“Alright,” is all you say.

Buggy beams much like the bulb in your head, and a loud bark of laughter erupts from his mouth. You almost pity him, pity him for being oblivious to what’s to come.

But it needs to be done.

There’s no other way around it and he’s had it coming. He deserves this, you tell yourself. He deserves every inch of ruthlessness you can offer, and you’ll deliver.

————

Buggy blanches, lips wobbling in horror as he slowly glances up at you. Betrayal fills his bright-blue eyes and, for the first time since Orange Town, he sees you as the beast you both know you are. 

He’s afraid.

He’s afraid of you.

He knows you can be vindictive; he knows you can be brutal, but in all the time he’s known you, he’s never perceived you as cruel.

Maybe it’s time for him to reassess that thought.

“No,” he whispers softly. “No, please.”

Your face is blank, and cold, and he doesn’t know if it’s a trick of the light or not, but there’s a shadow across your face that darkens everything but your eyes. Those bright eyes he used to hold in such high regard.

“You want my forgiveness,” you state calmly as you gradually lower him to his demise. “You have to earn it.

“Please, anything but this. I’ll do anything other than this!”

But his pleas earn no mercy from you. He wiggles in your grasp like a fish out of water, and as much as he tries to beg and move and free himself, your hold is iron incarnate.

Buggy lets out an ear-curdling scream the moment he feels the water under his neck.

“NOOOOO!”

————

Honestly, how childish, you think as you begin to soak him in the basin you procured from the kitchens. He hisses like a cat as you pour the water over his head, rinsing his hair. Try as he might, he cannot escape your grasp. 

It’s not even deep enough to reach his chin, and still, he acts like it’s acid he’s been thrown into.

But you’re determined, this has to be done.

“Oh, quit whining” you chastise, getting drops of water your way with all his scuttling. “You need this.”

“You’re gonna drown me!” he accuses.

“It’s soap and water, and it’s not even that deep.”

“You say that now, sure! But the moment you let go, plop! Oh, there goes Buggy the Clown! Taken from this world too early!”

You roll your eyes. “I’m holding you up, you’re not going to drown. Now, stop acting like a child.”

Buggy is restless and continues to thrash around for a good ten seconds more before finally relenting, a look of sour disapproval on his face. It’s so caricatured and animated that it threatens to make a suppressed chuckle leave your throat.

He still looks the same when he’s mad.

Now that he’s finally calm, you lower him so that the edge of his neck finally stands on the bottom of the basin. Then, you soak a rag and raise it towards his face.

Buggy flinches. “Can you …. Eh… leave the face?”

“There’s hardly anything there anymore, and it’ll irritate your skin if you leave it on for too long.”

“I think I can tell you what irritates me or not, like this bird bath for instance, thank you very much.” He scowls and edges further away from the wet rag. “Seriously, just leave it.”

“I’ll reapply the make-up.”

“… What?”

When you first boarded the Merry, you happened to find some leftover make-up hidden away in one of the shelves. It was strange, considering how the boat was freshly built, and imagined that one of the builders had taken some personal liberty in the large space before the project was finished.

For whatever reason, you didn’t throw it out, though you didn’t use it yourself.

If it can get him to accept the fact that he needs a wash, you’re willing to do it.

“I’ll put on your make-up if I can wash off what you currently have,” you clarify. “Deal?”

Buggy goes quiet, and his eyes widen slightly, but not out of horror or dread. It’s more like … when you catch the sight of something unexpected; a delayed reaction that stirs feelings you have yet to decipher. 

Finally, after some internal debates with himself, Buggy nods. “Fuckin’ fine then,” he utters, and despite the crudeness of his words, they’re lenient.

Content, you gently place your free hand to his left to keep him stable and use the other one to carefully drag the rag across his stained cheek. 

Buggy watches you intently through the process, never taking his eyes off you unless you’re wiping off the painted diamonds on his eyes. Your hands, for once, are soft to the touch. They’re soft for him, as though a single misplaced touch might shatter him like glass.

He used to be acquainted with the soft touches long before the cold and brutal ones. Soft fingers that pinched his cheeks as you helped apply the paint over his face. 

Soft touches against his arm when he was feeling particular for some reason, whether it was good or bad.

Your fingers intertwined with his’ as you came to terms with your captain’s death, sitting by the edge of the docks as the rain poured from above. It was cold, he was freezing, and too close to the waters for his comfort, but he wanted nothing more than to sit in the rain with you and share the heat from your fingers.

Even after everything, you’re still capable of reserving those touches for him.

After wiping the makeup completely off him, you raise the cup and fill it with water. “Close your eyes.”

He doesn’t want to, but he does and feels the water rushing down like the rain on those docks.

When he’s finally finished, you fish him up from the basin and put him down atop a soft towel on the table. Like a cat, he instinctively shakes off the residue of water, only to find you already raising a new towel towards him.

He stops moving, and you takes this as your cue to continue. You’re attentive, he notices. You wipe his face first, then his ears, then his hair. You dry it and scratch his scalp at the same time through the fabric, and he instinctively leans against your touch.

This is … nice.

“When did you cut your hair?” You ask out of the blue as you continue to dry him, making sure to leave no spot too humid.

He almost failed to catch onto your words with how at ease he is. “Hmmm?”

“You used to have long hair before,” you elaborate. “Why did you cut it?”

“…. Too much of a hassle to maintain,” he answers after some thought. “It’s hard to find the time to take care of it.”

“… I see.”

The truth is, he cut it right after he left. Not particularly clean either. You know that feeling you get when you feel like you’re losing control, and ridding yourself of any additional weight seems to relieve it? 

Well, that’s what Buggy did.

He cut it with a pair of rusty scissors, severing chunks at a time — some bigger than others — until all he was left with was pieces sticking out to each side like a madman.

It didn’t help though. It didn’t make him feel any lighter from the weight on his chest. From that gnawing feeling.

Still, he maintained the habit and got better with practice. It became more of a practical thing with time; he was a busy man, and he could do well with fewer things to get in his eyes, but it never eased the pain.

But feeling the tips of your fingers lightly graze his hair, however, he feels more relieved than he’s done in the last twenty years.

After a few minutes, you remove the towel and give him a neutral one-over. It’s the first time you’ve seen him as an adult without any of that makeup, and you’re reminded of just how much he’s changed, but also how he’s not.

Even after all this time, it’s still Buggy.

Buggy sees you watching him, and he can’t help but feel slightly self-conscious now that your eyes are on him without his usual armor.

But you don’t comment on it, nor show any surprise in any sense of the word. There are times when he hates your face, not because of anything superficial, but because you make it so damn challenging for him to figure out what goes in that brain of yours. He’s reminded of how you were when you were younger, how lifeless you used to be, and it feels like you’ve regressed to that state.

Another thing to add to the shitlist of things he’s regretful about.

He licks his lips and opens his mouth to say something when the door suddenly bursts open. Buggy jumps whereas you merely look over your shoulder to spot Zoro standing there, his eyes narrowed between you and the clown.

Buggy frowns.

“Zoro,” you speak plainly, as if you failed to notice his annoyance towards the spectacle presented before him. “Is there anything?”

“The hell is this?” His eyes flicker between you and Buggy like it’s the worst show on earth. “What’s going on?”

“He reeked,” you explain. “I have merely been rectifying it for the sake of our noses.”

Buggy wants to argue with the statement that No, he fucking doesn’t, but he suppresses it for the sake of figuring out where this conversation’s headed.

“Since when do we make it a habit of bathing prisoners?” Zoro asks, his hand resting on the handle of his sword.

“Since when have we had prisoners?” You counter.

The swordsman scoffs. “The clown’s needed upstairs in ten.”

“Sure.”

“I’m right here, you know?”

Zoro gives him a nasty look and nothing more before heading back out the door, shutting it with a forceful thud.

“Why do you even stick around with these nobodies?!” Buggy questions. “They can’t navigate for shit, they have no sense of preservation, and they suck at fighting!”

You shift back to raise a knowing eyebrow at him. “They defeated you, didn’t they?”

“That’s—! … I was outnumbered, it wasn’t a fair fight!”

“No fights are fair in the life of piracy,” you point out. 

He bites the inside of his cheek. “All I’m saying is, you’re too powerful to be with these losers. You could join my crew! Think about it! We’d be unstoppable!”

“You mean, join the same people who locked me up and whose asses I subsequently kicked?” 

“Exactly! Don’t worry, they’ll get over it! Once they see how awesome you are, they’ll accept you with open ar—!”

“I decline.”

Buggy pauses, his enthusiasm promptly vanishing and getting replaced with bitter disappointment. “You’re not even going to consider it?”

“Why would I?” You wipe away a descending drop from his right eye. “I have no interest in joining another crew.”

“You say that, and yet here you are with these losers.”

“I was never going to stay permanently.” 

He pauses. “You weren’t?”

“I’m here for Luffy, and once I’ve decided that he can hold his own weight above the waters, I’ll leave.”

“… Where will you go? After, then?”

It takes you a moment to answer, like you don’t know the answer yourself quite yet. Your hand stills for a moment before resuming with the task at hand.

“Who knows?” You shrug. “The sea is my home. I’ve missed it, so I will remain where the waves pull me.”

That won’t do on its own. Stay with me. Buggy wants to ask, and if he had knees, he’d ask on them. Come with me. Be with me. You won’t have to be an official member of his crew; you don’t have to bend to him. You just have to stay. 

Stay with him.

That’s all he’ll ask.

Stay with him until he has the opportunity to figure out a way to make it up to you. 

Stay with him so he can compensate for the twenty years you suffered in each other’s absences.

Just stay.

“Hey.” He’s surprised by his own initiative. “Why’d you even leave your crew and stick your feet on land if you love the sea so much?”

You raise an eyebrow in question.

“I mean, you were Captain of the Cross-Haired Pirates, for crying out loud! You used to be legendary!” He proclaims, almost saddened by your apparent dismissal of your previous title. “You had fame, berries, a reputation that preceded everyone! Everyone feared you! Why’d you ditch all of that? Because of that rubbery prick? Because of Shanks?”

“Is that really what you want to ask me?”

“Yeah!”

You sigh through your nose and put the towel down to recline in your chair. “I didn’t become a Captain because that’s what I wanted. I became a Captain because it provided an outlet.”

“An outlet? For fucking what?”

It takes you a few seconds to finally reach a suitable response. 

“Anger,” you admit calmly, your arms crossing over your chest as the words stir on your tongue. They must taste bitter. “I was angry, and it festered every day, churning into a poisonous substance in my body. Being a captain with a crew, I could take it out on whoever I wanted. Pirate, marine, unruly crew member, it didn’t matter. Nothing else mattered.”

It makes sense now, he thinks, the reputation you’ve garnered over the years. Beware the Beast in the East, people would chant in passing towns and harbors, like you were a ghost story. Her eyes were like swords, and her hands were twice as sharp.

There wasn’t a single place where blood didn’t paint your steps.

He never met you while you were a captain; he didn’t want to, couldn’t find it in himself to pop by even once. Still, he kept your poster hidden in the dark depths of the chest in his quarters, if only for acrimonious reminiscence. He would spend some drunken nights doing nothing but staring at it, and it was like he could feel your rage seep through the ink on the page and scorch his fingers. A reminder of what he did.

Now, looking at you and comparing you to the poster, he fails to see the resemblance. He doubts he could’ve spotted it had you reunited earlier on. Captain Cross-Hairs was sharp around the edges, with pecks of blood on her cheeks and fresh scars on her face.

He licks his lips in deliberation. “You were pissed… because of what?”

Because of me?

“I don’t know.” He watches your chest expand with your breath, mesmerized simply by watching you commit to living. There used to be a time when you didn’t. “I didn’t care about money or power. I didn’t care for much of anything, except to purge that rage from my body. I fought, and I killed. It helped, for a time; I felt satisfied, but after a while, you grow bored of eating the same meal.”

When he looked at you when you were younger, he imagined he saw the scorching sun. Burning and bright and enlightening. 

You were … everything, but he never imagined that the same fire that used to mesmerize him would burn a thousand ships in his absence. 

But he was a boy back then. He’s older now, more experienced in the ways of life, he knows better.

He knows enough.

"But the boy," you say with a certain gentleness in your voice that does not evade his notice. "He's good."

"He's weak," Buggy scoffs, feeling his belly fill with sour smoke. He recognizes the feeling. It's the feeling he got when he watched Shanks talk to you that night by the fire. The same feeling he got when he watched you stay with Shanks that day. 

"He's defeated every opponent he's come across."

"Didn't beat Arlong, though." Buggy points out with a smidgen of childish pride and smirks. "Got his ass handed to him real good if I remember correctly."

You look back at him in that narrow way you usually reserve for him when he's crossed a line, and he can already tell he fucked up.

"I watched him grow, Buggy.” You say firmly. “I was there for all of it. I watched him learn, I watched him fight, I watched him leave land. He’s not like us — he doesn’t waste time on regret. He’ll become better than we ever were.”

Buggy glowers but doesn’t say anything else, insisting on letting your words simmer in his brain until he can find the will to let them go.

You procure something from the drawers and it’s only when he looks down that he realizes it’s the make-up. With gentle hands, you lift him and place him in your lap, the brush already blue and ready.

“I’m not here to talk about what used to be,” you say. “Now hold still.”

The diamonds across his eyes come first, the brushing makes his face tickle and it’s only by sheer willpower alone that he manages to refrain from staring at you. 

“Takes us back,” he whispers and closes his eyes so that you can finish. “Doesn’t it?”

He hears something akin to a chortle that doesn’t quite reach your throat, but he considers it a small win.

“You looked a mess,” you answer. “A child could’ve done a better job than I did.”

“Wasn’t bad for your first try, though.”

Except that it was. It was pretty bad. Your hands were shaking, and you held your breath like you were afraid of making a mistake. By the time you were finished, he looked like a canvas painted by a child, but he didn’t have the heart to tell you that.

He used to think that it was strange. You were skilled at nearly everything you committed yourself to, without even trying. 

When he thinks back on it, maybe it wasn’t skill; maybe it was just an ingrained fear of failure that drove you to become the best at what you did.

Then again, your worst could never be the worst in his eyes.

You finish his eyes, and when he looks up at you, he sees the same determination and focus in your eyes as he did that day. It’s the same look you have when you’re targeting something, be it an enemy or a point of interest. It’s always the same.

And he can’t look away.

You move onto the crossbones next, and he’s happy he won’t have to close his eyes for this one. He’s not certain you can pull off his iconic look, but he’ll give you the benefit of the doubt for now.

After all, you strive for perfection. He doubts this will be an exception.

Get it? Perfection and except— You know what? Nevermind.

He can feel your attention in every stroke of the brush, feel the white paint glisten on his skin before it dries. Your warmth lingers like burning embers, he feels like getting too close will burn him, yet he wants nothing more than blisters upon his skin.

He looks at you, looks into your focused eyes, and he feels … something tightening, back where his body is. It could be his stomach, his head… other places, but he can’t tell. Arlong’s been busy abusing his body long enough that he can’t differentiate between a kick or a punch anymore.

But this isn’t Arlong.

It’s you.

He can handle a tight body if it’s because of you.

When he was young, and his body began to work in the way of a man, he would sometimes wake up and feel sweaty and … stiff. He knew enough to know what it was, to know what caused it, but he didn’t know how to approach the situation.

He knew the source of his frustrations. He knew how to alleviate them, but he didn’t. He respected you far too much to ever dare cross the threshold. He figured that simply talking to you, simply holding your hand, and being at your side would be enough. He would be content with just that.

But he watched you … develop. It didn’t seem like such a big deal at the time, but he couldn’t help but marvel at the sight. He imagined feeling your flesh under his digits. The softness across your chest and hips. The warm skin. 

He looks at you now, sees the scars peeking from under your shirt, on your face, and he wants to feel the rough edges. 

Buggy gulps and he’s rather happy now that the rest of his body is not attached to him. He’s lost enough dignity as it is.

“And now, the mouth.”

Yes, he wants to touch that t—

You take the lipstick, and in a straight line, smear it across his mouth in a way that snaps him out of his thoughts. He can feel the warmth emitting from your thumb as you finish his face, and it takes him half a mind not to—

“Done.”

Disappointment lingers in the clown’s visage, and even when you present him a mirror and see the identical likeness to his wanted posters, it does not alleviate the feeling. For what it's worth, he's impressed with how far your make-up-applying skills have reached since last time. 

It's perfect.

But it means you’re done, and the nobodies require his flashy expertise to get Miss Ginger back. 

You dump the discolored water out and put the rest of the equipment away, and he feels his head weigh another ten pounds at so. He somewhat hopes it would; maybe it would be heavy enough that you wouldn’t bother carrying him up the deck?

… Oh, who is he kidding? It’s you. You won’t have any trouble in that department even if he were to weigh as much as a boulder. Ten boulders, even.

To his surprise, instead of reaching for him, you lounge back into your seat and nonchalantly cross your arms and ankles. He’s confused. Weren’t you going to go up with him already?

“If Zoro needs you, he can get you himself.”

That’s what you’ll leave it be like. He, freshly washed, dried, and painted. You, just casually sitting like you have no urgency to get back to the world.

“He’ll be pissed at you,” Buggy warns. “And probably threaten to throw you into the sea.”

You shrug, your eyes already closed, giving him no indication whatsoever that you’re particularly concerned with the veryscary swordsman. He grins with all his teeth on show.

Unfortunately, the green-haired asshole turns up not even five minutes later. All but ripping the clown by the roots of his hair and taking him away like a sack of flour. Buggy spews curses and threats, but they all fall on deaf ears.

It’s only when he’s positioned on deck that he’s finally free of his torment, if only for an hour or two. He begrudgingly instructs the long-nosed slingshot where to sail, adding a few creative insults along the way. Hey, it’s not Buggy’s fault they’re too easy to rile up.

“Is that long nose compensating for something?”

To which he earned a slap to the back of his head. From whom, he doesn’t know, but he’ll take his victories in whatever light weight they come in.

After a while, he shifts his head to eject another insult to the slingshot when he sees that you’re standing a few feet away, your arms crossed while leaning against the railing; eyes closed but face focused and attentive.

He cuts his verbal daggers down a notch.

It gets late, the sky darkens, and one after another, the crew members resign to their chambers save for the slingshot, who still insists on going for a while longer. Him, and you, surprisingly enough. 

You stay, for all of it; neither complaining nor muttering a sound. 

You're stoically positioned on the sidelines, hardly moving at all. He would've died if he'd been standing in the same position for more than one hour, but you endured a total of six without a shiver or a strain. Like a soldier in the rain. A monk in a temple of thorns. 

A beast in an empty forest, lonesome in its hunger, yet content with what content remains buried in its stomach for the time being.

Long-nosed slingshot finally calls it a night and withdraws from the steering wheel with his hands outreached for the head. Before his dirty fingers can hope to graze the magnificent head that is Buggy's, you stretch your arm out like a shield between them.

"I'll take him."

Slingshot snorts. "Really? You want to?"

"Do you want to?"

With his hands raised in mock surrender, Slingshot relents. "... Fine, be my guest."

With a nod, you take the head and retire back to your chamber on the ship. Buggy yawns in your arms, tired, but satisfied with the warmth embracing him. Your steps feel like waves with each one you take, nudging him further and further toward the edge of sleep. Only unadulterated stubbornness keeps him awake.

It darkens for a moment. When he rouses back, he feels softness underneath him. A pillow of sorts, not comforting enough to offer him sleep, but enough to keep him relaxed.

He nudges around, like a fish in a small bowl, only to find that he's not on the table, nor in a barrel, nor a bag. The surface beneath him is made of fabric, and swings with his movements. 

He's in a hammock.

More precisely, your hammock.

“Sleep.” He hears your command. 

He finally locates you, seated by the window of your cabin with your palm under your chin, staring out into the darkened ocean.

He turns, voice diluted with drowsiness. “You too…”

“Soon.”

“Now," he almost whines.

The look you give him is not any different from the kind you usually provide, but it lacks the usual undertone of annoyance. He can tell you're tired, even if you're refusing to show it. The shadows under your eyes stand out more prominently, even in the dimmed candlelight. 

With an inaudible sigh, you stand and while he expects you to move towards the hammock, he's disappointed to see you aiming towards the door instead.

"H-Hey, where are you going?"

"The kitchens," you respond. "You can sleep here for the night; I'll take the couch."

"That's not necessary!" He wiggles so that he can look at you from over the edge of the hammock, careful as not to fall from the height. A thought dawns over him, one that makes his cheeks feel warm. "We- We can share! I don't take a lot of space!"

"You still take up too much of it."

"Are you calling me fat?!"

He's almost insulted when you don't answer to contradict his assumption, yet despite the innate urge to defend his honor and spew shit at you, he decides to let it slide.

"C'mon! I promise I'll behave," he tries again. "You'll hardly notice me. Those couches suck balls anyway, so why not?"

He watches you give it some thought for probably a good two minutes. He expects you'll decline his proposition, finding that your own pride weighs more than the need for decent sleep. 

Then, you lower your shoulders in defeat and make your way over to the hammock. "Scoot over."

He obliges rather excitedly, and when he wiggles back a bit too much to make space, he can feel gravity threaten to drop him on the other side of the hammock. Before it gets to that point, you grab him by the side of his face and hold him until you can lift yourself and lay down. 

Only then do you lay him down, on the right side of your abdomen. He's mindful of the wounds that have yet to heal there, so he tries not to invade too much. Still, he can't deny, he's quite comfortable. Very comfortable. 

He's the most comfortable he's been in a long time - twenty years.

He surpasses the urge to push closer to you, share your warmth, and elects to look up at the ceiling instead.

"Hope you don't snore," he jokes, only to have a yawn follow promptly behind.

"I don't snore," you answer, deadpan. "Now go to sleep."

He's not convinced, but he doesn't comment on it. This peace hangs by a thread, and he'll be damned if it's cut short now of all times. He shuts his eyes, and in his dreams, he's presented with the sun on the blue skies above.

He feels warm all over.

----

Taglist: @kurinhimenezu, @carpinchootaku, @ay0nha, @teh-vampire-bunny, @lokiscure, @internationalsuper-spy, @detectivesparrow , @yuriwk , @notyuralycat, @angeli-fucking-cat, @machinema7k , @shuujin, @avatar-lover, @gingernut1314, @autumn-slaves. @marvelouskatie, @floristoflillys, @dizzyenby, @redpool, @deliri-yum22, @aemondsb1tch, @ackroxia, @gayandfairycore, @knightsfavoriteprincess, @asterizee, @aamethyst23, @lizzie1107, @cyberwears, @heylookliisten, @f41k47, @beep-beep1, @crimsonflameproxy, @unpopular-sober-thoughts, @rayleeya, @timeladyrikaofgallifrey, @fanshavegottensotoxic, @fluffybunnyu, @sirenmelody23

(If you want to be tagged for this story, just send me a message or leave a comment :))

(Additionally, some sketches of how I imagine Cross-Hairs to look like while I’m writing.)

[pretentiousgayguyidk]

Hey Hi Hello!

I saw your requests are open so here I am!

I was thinking about Ran, Rindou, Hakkai and Mitsuya with an slavic reader? Male preferably could be gn!

Also could I be the 🥟 anon If your making a list?

Feel free to ignore this!

Pre writing thoughts - Yes!! I absolutely can, I've studied a small amount of Russian and Icelandic - but it probably won't be accurate as I'll have to use Google translate to fill the gaps. I hope you enjoy this 🥟 Anon!

Post writing thoughts- Okay... Well, I wasn't expecting to write so much, so I'll have to make other parts for the other characters 😭 but I hope this is good enough considering how long it took. (Also sorry it wasn't gender neutral, I completely blanked on it)

(Name) stuck out like a sore thumb, having moved to Japan half way into the school year; it wasn't often that foreigners moved to the area. The peculiar student had certainly caught Mitsuya's attention, piquing Takashi's curiosity... Well, (Name)'s caught the eyes of everyone not just Mitsuya.

One thing that stood out was (Name)'s accent, the mix of Japanese words with the addition of deep and throaty annociations strange yet amusing; the rolling of his r's and the emphasis of the ch's and k's pointed towards Slavic origins. That note inspired Mitsuya, and in an attempt to make (Name) more comfortable he started researching traditional Slavic clothing.

"What is that?" Yasuda questioned, her brows furrowed in confusion and slight judgement - as the current piece Mitsuya was working on was out of character for him. The red, black, white, and blue fabric stood out against his usual more casual colour choices - and the sketches of geometric embroidery patterns weren't at all like the usual Kanji he used.

Mitsuya sticks his pencil behind his ear, leaning back in his chair earning satisfying pops from his spine; he had honestly been expecting this question and was expecting it to be asked sooner. He gives Yasuda a tired smile, his arms lax as they hang by his sides.

"It's a uh..." He trails off, unsure how to properly pronounce the word - as it was either Russian or Ukrainian, he couldn't tell the difference even with the little research he did - all he knew was that it was a more traditional Slavic outfit. "Byshibanka?"

He felt a tad guilty, even though the certain Slavic student was nowhere near to hear his horrendous mispronunciation; it felt like a dishonor of sorts. Yasuda raises a brow, her hands on her hips as she looks down at her club captain.

"A what?" She asks, knowing for a fact that - one: Mitsuya mispronounced it - and that two: she would never remember to look it up later when she got home.

Mitsuya sits up, running a hand over his short silver hair; his expression filled with exasperation, not at Yasuda but himself.

"It's this like- traditional Russian or... Whatever... Outfit? I wanted to give it to the new guy." He explains, earning a knowing nod from Yasuda - who knew from her first meeting with Mitsuya that he liked guys... Even if Mitsuya didn't know it himself yet.

"Oh... So you like him?"

Mitsuya shrugs, not getting the implication - as it wasn't exactly the norm for guys to date other guys. He had no idea if he liked the new kid, he just wanted to do something nice... It wasn't like he found (Name) interesting or cute.

"I don't know, he seems like a chill guy - I've never talked to him." The teens nonchalant answer only furthered Yasuda's suspicions, she wasn't going to spell it out for Mitsuya just yet; but she was certainly coming up with a scheme.

"Well, I hope he likes it... And hopefully he's actually Russian... You do know there's other countries like that, right?" She narrows her eyes, doubting that Mitsuya actually did enough research; not surprising, many teenagers weren't all that informed of nations outside of Japan and the major powers.

Takashi's eyes widen, shifting away nervously as he realizes that he completely glossed over the fact that there are other Slavic countries; he didn't bother looking at a map or anything, just looked up some traditional clothing.

"I mean- I..." He trails off, glancing down towards the pile of cloth in front of him; he didn't consider looking beyond Russia, and he didn't even know for a fact that the Vyshyvanka was Russian or not. He shrugs, attempting to wash away his own mild concern over what could be a massive mishap. "I'm sure it'll be fine... Right? Maybe he'll appreciate the sentiment?"

"I'm sure he will... Whatever, I'll leave you to finish your little gift." She states, turning to pay attention to some of the other club members.

Mitsuya felt strangely nervous, holding a box in his lap as he waited for (Name) to enter the school gardens, a place where (Name) often stayed for lunch - since he didn't exactly have many people to talk to. Soon enough, the Slavic man rounded the corner; entering the school gardens, taking his place in the corner with his lunch. (Name) didn't even notice Mitsuya, far too focused on his hunger to realize he wasn't alone like usual.

The Japanese teen finally gains his confidence, standing from his spot on one of the benches. His steps were steady, and his expression showed a lack of interest - or rather calm despite his slight anxiety.

"Hey." Mitsuya calls out casually, causing (Name) to jump as he looks up from his food. It probably wasn't a good idea to interrupt someone in the middle of their lunch, but Mitsuya's mind was oddly scrambled when it came to (Name); his usual calm and collected self thrown out the window.

"Eh? Hi?" (Name) replies, glancing away as he rubs his throat; conscious of how he spoke. His accent has always been a problem, especially with the Japanese language; it's earned more than a few strange looks from locals - as if him being visibly not Japanese wasn't enough to earn strange looks on occasion. Yet, Mitsuya didn't seem to mind his accent, in fact - Mitsuya found it endearing.

"So uh... I just wanted to give this to you." Mitsuya states awkwardly, gesturing down to the thin box in his hands; which had his name written on it, which helped (Name) - as he didn't know Mitsuya's name till reading it on the box.

"Yeah? What's the reason?" The Slavic teen questions, shifting in his seat as he sets aside his lunch box; pulling one leg up in an attempt to seem casual - even though he was very confused and suspicious. Mitsuya glances away nervously, rocking back and forth on his heels; a nervous habit he rarely ever felt the need to do.

"It... It's just a little something I made- I just uh... Wanted to... I don't know-" Mitsuya chokes on his words, feeling his heartbeat speed up as his cheeks warm; he felt strangely embarrassed by his reasoning. "I just wanted to help you feel more welcome."

"Ah... Makes sense... I guess." (Name) mumbles, glancing down to the box as he accepts it; his mind racing for any sort of clue as to what this gift could be.

The silence that falls between them grows more and more awkward and uncomfortable by the minute, neither of them knowing what to say in the moment. Finally, Mitsuya mumbles a small goodbye before turning on his heel to leave the garden.

Once Mitsuya was gone, (Name) hesitantly opened the box - his eyes widening at the sight of familiar clothing. He can't help but smile, setting the lid aside as he runs his hand over the embroidered fabric; he wasn't Ukrainian, but he had childhood friends who were - they always leaned towards traditionalism. They often wore vyshyvankas, and some other clothing that (Name) couldn't remember for the life of him... But either way, the sight of the clothes brought back fond memories.

Lifting the clothing from the box (Name) notices something, there wasn't any sort of tag or label printed onto the fabric... Did Mitsuya make this just for him? There was a note at the bottom of the box, which (Name) quickly turned his attention to.

Hey, I just wanted to make you feel more comfortable and welcome here - we Japanese aren't always the nicest to foreigners or whatever. So I did some research and made you this, I hope you like it.

It was such a simple note, but it made (Name)'s heart skip a beat. It wasn't as if Mitsuya had bought him a gift, which would have been greatly appreciated as well... But the fact that Mitsuya made it - well that was a whole other level.

"I'll have to thank him later..."

[star-spacer]

Peace and All Else

Part of my Heart Pirates x Reader series: The Sanctity of Sacred Spaces

With a life as chaotic as yours, you preferred quietness where you could find it.

You were someone who valued your peace. Not just as a personal preference, but for your job as well, as any interruption could result in an errant stitch, ruining the clothing, or a needle through the finger.

This need for quietness was ironic, considering you were on a crew of pirates, whose lives were marked by nothing but unending chaos. 

Paradoxical. Peculiar. But when you were a pirate crew who had a doctor at the helm, it didn’t seem that strange. You were simply one oddball amongst a crew full of them. Which lent to many, many escapades that echoed throughout the Tang. It was never silent, whether it be the noise of her machines humming away, or the sound of the galley’s mealtime preparations, there was always life in her halls. 

You wouldn’t trade it for any other thing, but sometimes everyone’s antics were a little overwhelming, and you had to slip away to seek out a moment of peace. Innevitably, you’d always end up in a few places. Namely: your storage-room-turned-workshop. 

After your welcoming into the folds of the Heart Pirates, they were kind enough to clear out an empty broom closet and convert it into a mini workspace for you. You had initially protested that it was too much, but Shachi had quickly shushed you by saying you’d pay it back by repairing everyone’s stuff and fixing up the infirmary’s linens. 

Eventually, those bolted shelves were filled until with rolls and rolls of fabrics, projects finished and not set in marked piles on your desk. Your walls filled with papers, ideas and sketches (both yours and not) displayed proudly. An almost-too-big-couch crammed right into the last unoccupied corner of the room, with a lopsided mannequin that Ikkaku fixed up for you standing proudly right next to it.

A home away from home.

Well, just a home now. You didn’t have any other place except with the Heart Pirates.

And in this peace, you could relax, and unwind. Pick up a thread and needle and weave your love into every fold and stitch of the fabric in your hands. Love that you hoped your nakama could feel.

Your hands jolted as the door to your workshop slammed open with a cry of your name. You grabbed the nearest object, a spare pincushion, and lobbed it with deadly accuracy at the intruder. Penguin yelped as the item beaned him right on the forehead, the brim of his hat barely protected him against your wrath. “What was that for?!?!”

“HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I TOLD YOU TO KNOCK BEFORE YOU ENTER?! AND TO NOT SLAM MY DOOR?!”

“Sorry, sorry! But can I hide in here for a bit?”

You squinted at him, anger giving way to suspicion. “Why…?”

“Please!” The man clasped his hands in front of him, stepping into the room. “I’ll do anything!!”

An idea sparked in your head. “If you take my dish duty tonight… You can stay for as long as you want and I won’t rat you out if anybody comes asking.”

Not that you particularly hated doing the dishes, you knew the importance of equal distributions of chores (Law drilled that into every members’ head on the daily), but just this once, you had something pressing you’ve been wanting to do, so the extra time gained from Penguin taking on your duty was exactly what you needed.

Penguin didn’t even flinch. “I’ll take it!”

You grinned and let out a little ‘yos’. “You can hide behind the couch, There’s space there, and the floor’s padded.”

He was full of thanks as he dove behind the furniture, shuffling coming from it as he settled there. To complete the look, you walked over, grabbing the blanket on there, and draping it over the back of the couch, making it look natural.

Just as you were patting out the last of the wrinkles, slow, steady footsteps approached your workshop. A knock announced Uni’s presence before he stuck his head in through the open door.

“Hello, Uni. Can I help you with anything?”

A drone of your name. “Have you seen Penguin anywhere?”

You had to resist a smile. “No. Are you looking for him?”

A nod. Slow eyes tracked across your workshop but ultimately landed back on you again, standing next to the couch. “He used my gloves and didn’t clean off the grease.”

Wincing at that, you wondered why the hatted man thought that was smart in the first place. Uni’s gloves were far bigger than Penguin’s, but they were also slimmer, so shoving his mitts into those could’ve popped a few stitches. “If you want, you can bring them here, and I’ll fix and clean them up for you,” you offered.

Uni shook his head. “No need. I have spares. But I’m going to find Penguin to make him clean off the ones he used.”

“Okay. Good luck.”

“Thank you. Sorry for bothering you.”

“You’re fine, Uni. See you around.”

You waited until his footsteps were out of earshot before cracking a smile. Penguin shot you a grateful thumbs up and a grin when you peeked your head over to look at him. “It’s pretty comfy down here,” he said, wiggling his shoulders a bit. “Mind if I sleep here a bit?”

“Be my guest,” you drawled, wandering back to your desk and picking up your pencil. “I’m sure the dust bunnies appreciate the company.”

I appreciate your company, was left unsaid, but you hoped Penguin understood.

Peace returned to the room, only interrupted by the sound of your pencil and paper as you sketched your way through clothing patterns. Then, the quiet whistles of Penguin’s snores began to fill the air. You paused your work, before shaking your head with a fond smile.

You didn’t know how long you worked before there was a small flash of blue and Penguin’s snores being cut off for something to hit the floor where he was. Knowing that it could only be Law’s fruit, you got up to investigate what was Shambled into your room to swap with Penguin. 

A note, attached to one of your missing pincushions by a pin.

“That bastard,” you muttered, reaching down to grab everything from the floor.

‘Stop hiding people in your workshop’ the messy scrawl of his handwriting read. 

You snickered, sitting back down at your work desk and depositing the pincushion in its rightful place on your table. Your lamp flickered on, and you moved it so it shone over the drawing on your table, a revised boiler suit for Bepo that had more ventilation, so the poor Mink wouldn’t feel the heat as much when things inevitably got hot in the Polar Tang.

Yes, you valued your peace. But your workshop was a sanctuary, too. Not just for you, but every single one of your nakama that wanted to wander through your doors, in search of help, repairs, or just plain comfort. Peace came in many forms, and your nakama’s peace was yours.

[a-court-of-valkyries]

Engulfed In Your Flames

Chapter 17: Nesta and Eris

Neris Week Day 7 (Yes, I know this is late, sorry!)

The weeks leading up to the wedding, Nesta spent much of her time being tailored for multiple gowns made from scratch. The seamstress, Marianna, had woven together dresses that Nesta would have never been able to imagine. One had been a perfect blend of auburn and violet coloring, the sleeves flowing down her arms and her train melting behind her as if she were a creature born for the wind and sky. Nesta marveled at Marianna's creation, but the seamstress had chucked it off to the side before beginning anew. Another one had been a little less elegant but still breathtaking. It was low cut, and the skirt of the gown almost looked as if it was embroidered with crystals throughout. Marianna grumbled before tossing that one away as well. 

When Nesta wasn’t being tailored to, she spent time shadowing Aryanna in making the proper preparations for the wedding. Coincidentally, her and Eris’ wedding festivities would be coinciding with the Autumn Equinox, which celebrates the world beginning their first day of Autumn, so the two celebrations would be held together. 

Something sparked in The Lady of Autumn as she worked and planned over the weeks. Nesta noticed that as long as Beron was not around, Aryanna had lit up with a liveliness and authoritativeness that Nesta had not been privy to before. It was barely there, a dim glimmer, a faint shadow of a spark, but it was more than Nesta had ever witnessed from the otherwise quiet female. She studied how Aryanna instructed the servants, who worked tirelessly, to organize decorations throughout the Forest House, showing them dozens of sketched ideas she made. Nesta aided the matriarch in deciding which meals and desserts should be cooked and baked. When asked, Nesta gave input into what attire would be appropriate for the ruling Autumn Court family to appear in—they would all be dressing in similar formal wear, but only Nesta and Eris would be truly matching. She even helped with writing the invitations for the six other courts in Prythian. 

“Here, my dear, I’ll write this one,” Aryanna said gently as she took the invite meant for the Night Court, a sympathetic look in her eyes. 

“Why do we have to invite the other courts?” Nesta asked Eris later that day when they had taken a stroll through the grounds. It had been drizzling, but Nesta did not mind it one bit. She welcomed the cool droplets as they slightly grounded her from her sizzling anxiety. “When they celebrate the Winter Solstice in the Night Court, no one else outside of Velaris is invited.”

“It’s all part of court politics and new traditions being born,” Eris explained. “For centuries, courts did not extend celebrations to each other. However, after Amarantha and the war, we’ve practically abandoned the old tradition as a way to show each other that the Fae are united when it counts.” Eris threw a ball out into the distance, and his hounds raced to see who would reach it first. “The Night court celebrates alone because for them, the tradition is more in name than practice.”

Nesta furrowed her brows. “How do you mean?”

Eris thought for a minute, trying to choose his words carefully. “Most of the High Lords are not fond of Rhysand. For the sake of Prythian, the rest of the courts worked with him against Hybern, but now that everything is in the past and things are back to normal, we have been careful to distance ourselves from the Night Court. Rhysand has a . . . peculiar reputation unlike what we have seen from any other High Lord. The courts are still furious with him for how he had reigned since becoming High Lord, not to mention his actions Under the Mountain. Then he made your sister High Lady, a female with no prior political experience and who could not even read up until a few years ago.” Nesta listened as Eris spoke. She had never heard these tales before, and Feyre never went into too much detail about what happened when she went to rescue her old love from the clutches of Amarantha. “None of the other courts take her seriously, and to prove our point, her first act as High Lady was to decimate another court during war time.” Eris paused before continuing. “To put it simply, Rhysand needs my alliance just as much as I need his, and that is one of the reasons why I have to formally invite the Night Court. It would bode terribly for them in appearances if I married the High Lady’s sister without them present. They have no choice but to come if they want to hold any sort of propriety, or they risk being made to look worse than they already do.”

In the weeks drawing closer to the wedding, Aryanna had begun to help teach Nesta some of the Autumn Court traditions, history, etiquette, and even some of the dances and music. She had taught Nesta as many dances as she could on her own within one of the ballrooms in the Forest House, but she soon had to enlist one of her sons, Bastian, to help lead since Eris had been away from the Forest House on business that week. 

Nesta had briefly met the rest of Eris and Lucien’s brothers not long after Beron and Aryanna. The introduction had made her skin crawl. The brothers made no effort to hide their obvious and shameless ogling. At Eris’ hard glare, they had quickly averted their eyes and made themselves scarce. It wasn't difficult to see which brother was in charge.

But now, with Eris gone, Bastian made his interest obvious. He stepped closer to Nesta than necessary, held her hand tighter than what should've been allowed. When he laid his hand on her back to begin the dance, he let it drift lower and lower. Nesta glared and shifted his arm harshly, to which Bastian only smirked. 

“Forgive my second eldest son, Nesta. In his growing age he seems to have forgotten the manners I taught him as a child,” Aryanna said as she scowled at her son.

They spent all morning teaching Nesta the different dances that were tradition for Autumn Court weddings and balls. Nesta learned quickly, basking in the rhythm and music supplied by some of the more musically-inclined servants. 

Bastian was not lenient in his attempts however. He subtly tried to let his hand wander again when Aryanna had looked away.

‘Mind your hand, or I'll rip it from your corpse.”

He chuckled but obeyed. “My apologies, King Killer.” Nesta wanted to claw that wretched grin off his face.

Despite Bastian’s attempts to intimidate her, Nesta had been enjoying herself for the first time in a long time. She let the notes flow over her, and eagerly fixed her mistakes when Aryanna corrected her. Nesta hardly noticed the hours flying by. Aryanna was set to end their lesson for today, much to Bastian's delight as he had grown more irritable and fidgety within the last hour. Yet Beron’s clapping hands washed the room in ice.

“Absolutely magnificent,” he noted from the doorway of the ballroom. He did not leer at Nesta as his sons did. His gaze was more one of fondness. Goosebumps formed on Nesta’s arms as he drew closer into the room. Bastian immediately departed, not even needing his father to voice the command. The Lady of Autumn shrunk at her husband’s growing presence in such a rehearsed manner that Nesta forgot her presence almost entirely. Aryanna had become used to living in the shadows, had inhabited them until she had become invisible so Beron could have all the attention. Gone was the vibrant lady as she made herself dull.

“I see my lady wife has been preoccupied with your lessons. How does the female fare, my lady?”

“She is an excellent learner, my lord. She already knows most of the dances,” the Lady of Autumn said with her head down.

Beron hummed in acknowledgement. “Would you care to spare one more dance for your future father-in-law?”

“Of course, my lord.” Nesta said getting into the proper formation. Beron took her hand and began without any go ahead. Nesta kept up easily where he led her. When he sped up, she followed. When he slowed, she matched him with grace. This dance felt different from any other she had done. Beron Vanserra was not a male merely intrigued by the catch of a diamond, but a predator sizing up his prey. As they finished he looked Nesta up and down before taking a step back. Nesta curtsied.

“I will be taking over her lessons from now on,” Beron stated, his eyes on Nesta the whole time.

“Yes, my lord.”

Nesta looked between Aryanna and Beron. “I wouldn't mind continuing my lessons with my future mother-in-law.”

“You will be continuing your lessons with me.” 

Beron stared hard at Nesta. Nesta stared hard back, then nodded.

***

Nesta engulfed Eris’ thoughts as he waited with the priestess at the end of the aisle. He didn't focus on his brothers, though he absentmindedly wished it had been Lucien here instead. He did not spare a glance at his father's proud face. He hardly even noticed the court of who would—if all went to plan—become his future citizens or servants of Autumn, nor did he give any attention to the high lords and representatives of the following courts that had gathered for the celebration of his wedding day. No, Eris only had one focus, and that focus lay with the female standing at the beginning of the aisle. 

Nesta stood straight and tall, like a soldier armed for battle. Her head tilted upwards in her signature stance. Her body betrayed no shiver of fear. She looked solid as stone. Had he not caught the subtle and almost imperceptible shift of her eyes, he'd never notice that the female before him was nervous.

Nesta was dressed in a ball gown covered in gold mesh. Shades of red and orange blended together, bathing Nesta in an illusion of flames, the illusion heightening as she moved down the aisle. Gold colored leaves were embroidered into the belt and neck line of her dress. Her hair was in her usual coronet braid, with a few tendrils flowing by her cheeks. Thousands of faelights hung and glittered from the branches that protruded down from the ceiling, and the light reflected like crystals off of Nesta’s skin. In her dress, in this light, she was Autumn incarnate. 

Eris’ breath hitched when he saw her. A foreign feeling stirred within him, buried deep within his chest. It was one of warmth, a comfort he had never known. An ember glowing, growing. Eris quickly dismissed the feeling. He noticed a faint blush on Nesta's cheeks as she neared him. A lock of hair flowed over her face. Eris found himself wanting to tuck it behind her ear.

The priestess commenced the ceremony. She read from the holy book of Prythian, reciting verses of love and unity from the Mother. She boasted in the story of Prythian’s origins. She sang hymns worshiping the Mother’s glory. 

Before the priestess could begin to conclude their ceremony, she brought forth a small red box wrapped in a gold bow. Opening it revealed two silver rings hidden inside, one slightly bigger than the other. Eris had spent a hefty price with the best craftsman within Autumn’s lands to get the rings just right. 

Looks were exchanged within the audience, but no one dared to speak as they watched the exchange. Eris’ heart beat wildly as he took out the smaller ring. When he finally glanced at Nesta, her eyes had widened, and her lips parted as she exhaled at the display of a human tradition. 

Eris took her left palm, placing the ring on her ring finger. “With this ring,” he stated, the human vows he memorized echoing throughout the room, “I vow to be yours as you are mine. In sickness and in health, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, until death parts us.”

When Eris had finished, Nesta reached for the other ring, placing it on his finger. Her hand trembled slightly. “With this ring, I vow to be yours as you are mine. In sickness and in health, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, until death parts us.”

The priestess then grabbed the ruby colored ribbons and bound their hands together. Eris stated his vows first, then Nesta. “In the eyes of the Mother, in the name of the Cauldron, I vow to unite my life to yours. With this ribbon, I swear from now until our end to be yours as you are mine.” Eris swallowed and looked down at Nesta. Her eyes were a perfect blend of blue and gray that he found kept him steady. Nesta slightly lifted her chin as Eris leaned towards her. Their kiss was soft, only lasting a few seconds before he pulled away. 

The priestess said a prayer of thanks to the Mother. “I now formally present to you, the heir of Autumn and his lady-wife, Eris and Nesta Vanserra.” At that, the guests erupted in respectable applause. 

Afterwards, Eris and Nesta did their rounds around the room, greeting the representatives and leaders from the other courts. Eris did most of the talking as he formally introduced Nesta to everyone. 

“It is a pleasure to see you again,” Tarquin said as he addressed Nesta, “especially when it is under much less pressing circumstances.” The male, despite his young age, had impressed Eris and the rest of Prythian with how quickly and efficiently he had stepped into his role as High Lord of the Summer Court, especially under such strenuous circumstances. 

By his side was Cresseida, the Princess of Adriata. Her sapphire dress greatly complimented her dark skin and white hair. She offered both Eris and Nesta a polite smile. “Good evening, and congratulations on such a beautiful ceremony.”

“Hello, Tarquin and Cresseida. Thank you for taking the time to celebrate with us today,” Nesta said. “It means a great deal to us.” 

“Well, this was certainly not an event to be missed,” Tarquin said. “It is not every day that Prythian witnesses a Cauldron forged Fae and the Prince of Autumn joined together. Eris, you have become a very lucky male.”

Cresseida hummed in agreement and took one of Nesta’s hands in her own. “After so many decades, it is always refreshing to see new faces within the courts. I would love to have you visit the Summer Court one day, Nesta.”

“I would be honored,” Nesta said, her eyes lighting up in excitement and surprise. “I have always wanted to travel.” 

Cresseida squeezed her hand. “Write whenever you are free to. You are always welcome.”

Soft murmurs filled the room once Eris and Nesta finished making their rounds in greeting the other courts. A faint whiff caught Eris’ attention. As he turned to look at the entrance, he saw the High Lord of the Night Court entering the chambers with his High Lady on his arm, her swollen belly catching the eye of everyone in the room. There was no hint of surprise on Nesta's face, but Eris could feel her tense up as she stood next to him. So she hadn't known, Eris thought. He gave her arm a subtle squeeze to let her know she had him for whatever support she'd need. 

Following them was his other sister-in-law, the two Illyrian brutes, and Amren—Eris was never sure what position the new Fae held in Rhysand's court was besides spitting jabs and attempting to appear intimidating. Before the war, he'd been wise to fear her, but in her new body, she was just as average as any other High Fae, and her intimidation tactics were futile.

Rhysand and Feyre made their way to his father and mother, greeting them as customary before making their way to him and Nesta. Rhysand looked cocksure while Feyre looked nervous and jittery. Azriel's shadows slithered around his arms, torso, and legs. Predictably, rage simmered off of Cassian's body. Eris hoped for Nesta's sake that Rhysand would keep his dog on a tight leash. Amren stood next to the brute. It was almost comical to see them next to each other given her short stature. 

“Good evening,” Rhysand said. “I suppose a ‘Congratulations’ is in order.” 

“Thank you, Rhysand. It's very appreciated,” Eris said, lying through his teeth, “but I suppose the same must be said for you and Feyre.” He alluded to Feyre’s bump.

“Congratulations,” Nesta said to them both, her voice genuine.

Feyre subconsciously laid her hand on her stomach. She gave Nesta a small smile. “Thank you.”

“Oh, Nesta, we've missed you so much!” Elain exclaimed. She rushed forward to wrap her arms around Nesta, but Nesta took a pronounced step back. Elain hesitated and then went to stand next to Feyre.

"Sleeping with the Autumn Court heir," Amren immediately remarked, a smirk forming on her blood red lips. "Impressive upgrade, Nesta." Feyre gave her a look but said nothing.

Nesta stared the female down, but it was Eris that spoke. “You are on Autumn Court soil. If you cannot be respectful to my wife, then get out.”

At the mention of their marriage, Cassian released a low growl. Multiple quips came to Eris’ mind, but he decided against them. He would behave himself tonight for Nesta's sake.

“Nesta, can we talk, please?” Feyre asked. She glanced at Eris on her arm and then back to her sister. “Alone?”

“I've said all I needed to say,” Nesta responded. Her tone was void of emotion, like she was speaking to a stranger and not her sister. Eris knew the feeling better than anyone.

“Well, if you will excuse us,” Eris said, leading Nesta to the middle of the room, “I would like to spend the rest of the evening dancing with my wife.”

He led her into the heart of the dance floor before the Night Court could respond, the eyes of the whole room on them. Other couples joined them as well, and soon they were surrounded on all sides, making it harder for Rhysand’s circle to watch over them. “Thank you,” Nesta murmured as she and Eris began to dance. Her eyes were swimming with gratitude as she looked up at him.

Eris nodded in understanding. “Don’t pay any attention to them. Just focus on me.”

Eris’ heart picked up as Nesta moved closer to him. Nesta never faltered as they danced through multiple songs. She was known to be reclusive and closed off, yet here she was in her element. She held nothing back as the notes and the rhythm radiated off of her. To say that Eris was impressed would be an understatement. Eris had mastered these dances as was tradition for the eldest son of the high lord. He’d had centuries of practice, and a majority of his dance partners had been horrid or manageable. He was used to being the best in the room, but with Nesta, Eris found himself racing to keep up with her. He had learned out of necessity and requirement, but Nesta flourished as if she was forged from its very essence. She never failed to impress him, just as she did not fail in impressing him the night before. 

***

The Forest House roared with celebration tonight. They had been celebrating the Autumn Equinox together as a court, since the other courts would be present for the wedding tomorrow. All around him, advisors, nobility, aristocrats, lords and their ladies, along with other friends of the crown gluttoned themselves in wine, food, and dancing. He had slipped away after an appropriate amount of time. Between his father, his brothers, and the many females that kept stepping on his toes during tonight's festivities, Eris took the first opportunity he could to excuse himself from the ballroom and celebrations. 

Eris walked down the halls in irritation. He had still been simmering with rage towards his father on the events that had transpired at Autumn’s border this week. Innocents had been butchered by his father’s command, dissent grew amongst the citizens, and more problems arose than solutions. When Eris had confronted his father about it, Beron had coldly stated, “I do not concern myself with the opinions of commoners. Neither should you.” Eris said no more, but held on to the oath he swore to himself to be a better High Lord when his time came. Soon, he thought. Yet here he had been, forced to celebrate all night when all he’d wanted was to spend his remaining few hours left of the day working in his office. 

He’d almost made it back to his rooms when he noticed a faint glimmer of faelight inside his office. Eris tensed instantly, and his fingers moved to the dagger at his side. His father and brothers would not be stupid enough to boldly snoop through his things themselves, with the exception of Fenryn, the youngest Vanserra. Eris wouldn't put it past one of the snakes that worked for his family to be foolish enough to get caught. Eris could only spot one enemy's shadow from under the door. As he began to open the it, Eris wondered how long he would torture the poor fool to see whom of his brothers or father had set them up to the task, and if a public execution should serve as a clear enough message. Some part of him would enjoy it, if only to find some sort of outlet for his frustrations from this past week.

A sigh of relief escaped him when he saw only Nesta. “Why does it not surprise me that you are here instead of celebrating with the rest of us?” Eris asked as he dropped himself in his chair. Nesta looked up from where she was seated on the bench of the bay window, completely content with a book and a hot cup of tea on the windowsill near her.

“I much prefer the company of a good book,” she simply responded. “Besides, this is not my court, nor is it my holiday.”

“You have as much right as anyone else. Come tomorrow you will be my wife. You live here.” For now. The words were left unsaid, but they hovered in the air between them still. The thought left a bitter taste on Eris’s tongue. He still wasn't sure how long Nesta would stay after Beron was no longer a problem and the Night Court no longer held any influence over her.

“Why is the son of Autumn not engaging in celebration with his people?”

Eris sighed. “There’s only so many times I can tolerate my feet being stepped on. They will be screaming in the morning.”

Nesta snorted. “Not everyone can be as gifted as you,” she said sarcastically. 

Eris cocked his head slightly as he took in Nesta. As always, she wore a simple dress with the same pair of brown flats. Under the light of the full moon shining through the massive window, Eris couldn’t help but think that she was the most beautiful female he’d ever seen. “Do you dance?”

“If I’m asked properly,” Nesta said as she flipped a page, not sparing him a glance. Eris took a closer look at the cover. Nesta had been engaging herself in a tome on the war between the fae and humans five hundred years before.

After a moment, he got up and walked towards her. Even from his office, he could hear the music, the roaring and shouting, and the laughter blaring from the ballroom. As one song ended and another was about to begin, he held his hand out for her. She looked at his hand and then up at him with her blue-gray eyes, eyes like a storm, eyes that he wouldn’t mind drowning in. “Nesta Archeron, will you dance with me?” 

***

He slowed his steps just slightly and backed up as Nesta twirled and twirled and twirled. Her skirts rippled like ocean waves. She caught the eye of every person in this room. Eris stood back and watched in satisfaction and awe. She was Cauldron-Made. Lady Death. His Lady Death. A fiery diamond and a hurricane forged in the midst of a star. There was no limit to her magnificence. Nesta didn't need him. She shined brightly all on her own, and he wanted everyone to know it.

Nesta rejoined herself to Eris after finishing the last twirl. She reached out her hand, and he grasped it eagerly. Eris laid his hand on her waist, bringing her closer. His finger trailed a slow line up the skin on her back, and Nesta slightly arched into his touch. She held in the small gasp from the shivers Eris’ finger left in its wake. Her body responded to his every touch, craving for it. Eris could focus on nothing else but Nesta. How perfectly she fit in his arms, how soft her skin was, how, for the moment, it was just the two of them in this room, everyone else quickly forgotten. “You were wasted at the Night Court,” Eris whispered near her ear. Nesta shivered, and at her reaction, Eris grinned. “Absolutely wasted.”

Tag List:

@ladybookstan, @nesquik-arccheron​, @theladyofbloodshed, @sv0430, @nestaspegasus, @moodymelanist, @snickerdoodlechittybangbang, @a11yswift, @fanboy7794, @lyzriel, @wannawriteyouabook, @madie-max, @gimme-mor, @lyalii, @separatist-apologist, @queentheeverythingblogel, @westrangecollectionkoalaposts, @darkshadowqueensrule, @adelindschade, @my-fan-side, @sugardoll22, @terorovaerangi, @iamreykylotrash, @nestafuckingarcheron, @o0-4139, @gesalatl, @valkryejh, @narclssis, @queen-of-arda, @noisyfangirlsstuff, @charliespringsleftconverse, @xstarlightsupremex, @randomstuffwiththelight, @chosenfamily-valkyriequeens, @beanflakester, @daydreamer-anst, @acotar-anna, @embersofwildfire, @jbirrd23, @generalpeachyboots, @wintergilmore3, @lucien-calore, @foxwithagoldeye, @queen-of-queens-nesta, @youngreaderspain, @athousandsilversuns, @daily-dose-of-sass, @cowboybarbie, @adelainaasher, @lovra974, @marigold-morelli, @cringepoems, @dahliaasyiqin, @books-books-books4ever @potatowithabrain, @ana-mica, @cherry-moja

@nerisweek

[mikailys]

MCL NewGen Ep 7 Commentary

Since there's a lot to cover I think it's for the best doing a full post, so under the cut you go~

First thing first, I have actually liked it, a lot. The whole fake dating situation is hilarious, as the continuous teasing between Candy and Mr. Mendal. In some points it kinda took a toll on me and I had to physically stop the game, get up and go taking a walk around the house because the second-hand embarassement was really something, but despite everything it was enjoyable.

I read some players didn't like the fact it was way shorter than the others but I didn't really mind it. It had everything I expected and even more. Nonetheless I have to agree with the ending, it could have been a little lesser rushed but as for the things were unfolding on Jason's route, that was for the best. I liked how Candy rushed out of the apartment without a caring in the world, leaving Jason and the realtor discussing in there lol

I won't spend a lot of words on how Candy "decided" it was the right moment to move out, I understand she wants her autonomy and indipendence but the Tasha's sketch wasn't a good example. If such a scene had happened in irl, it would have had a different ending. Certainly my mother wouldn't have defended her knowing that I would have to go to work while my sibling is messing around, trying some TikTok trend in the only bathroom of the mansion. But alas that's how they do it in the Dolga's household and, as a consequence, Candy has to wash herself in the kitchen sink... I feel for you love :/

Anyway, leaving this nonsense aside, the whole visit to the apartment was a nice, peculiar emotional rollercoaster. Starting with a Jason who blindly agrees to pretend to be our fianceè, to a Candy who has to pretend to be his mistress. Damn, Jason really? You didn't have any other ideas in that pretty head of yours? What were the chances...

And so begins the banter between the two, with a pinch of sexual references. At the beginning, they were funny, ngl — I was a bit shocked to hear such innuendos from Jason already, but that's fine, I'm not complaining AT ALL.

However, the problem was their excessive repetition, and given the context, they were totally out of pocket rip realtor who had to witness this whole charade, I would ask for a raise for the hours wasted with these two

As they say, the joke's gone far enough and Candy, after being humiliated for the thousandth time, goes apeshit with JayJay. I really appreciated when she dropped the act and demanded some respect. Knowing her backstory it's obvious that hearing all those mean things and having to play the role of the mistress, even if only for pretend, brought her sorrow and unpleasant memories Ioan when I catch you, you filthy worm >:(

Unfortunately, Jason doesn't realize the gravity of the situation he created and continues to tease her until Candy finally bursts into tears and tells him about her past with Ioan. I loved how as soon as she tells him, his expression completely changes, and he suddenly slips into the who did this to you trope.

I mean- LOOK AT HIS FACE, LOOK AT THE SUDDEN CHANGE OF EXPRESSION WHEN HE HEARS ABOUT IT UGHSKJSNKA I LOVE HIM SM AGENT

And so we get the special scene. I think it's one of my favorites; it's the first time we see Jason being so distressed and regretful while apologizing to Candy and carefully wiping her tears. BEAUTIFUL.

I love when my men beg for forgiveness.

After the special scene Candy cheers up, even if still pissed at Jason, decides to forgive him because, quoting her verbatim, she "doesn't want to stay angry with him indefinitely" oh dear you're also so down bad

Also, it seems that Jason already knew Ioan's last name, and it also seems that he wants to make him pay. I'm totally in for whatever form of revenge you pick dear, 'cause he deserves it. A bummer though that my Goldreamz and EPMC collab headcanon will remain only a mere headcanon :(

The episodes ends with the poor, traumatised realtor kicking us out of the apartment and Jason, who is trying to talk business with him (maybe he wants to pay her back for ruining the visit and giving her a second chance to rent the apartment?), while Candy is running out with tail between her legs, ready to start the afternoon work shift. 🙃

What an eventful lunch break it has been, uh?

Anyhow, the next ep leaves me confused?? Although I don't like Roy and I don't want to know anything about his weird swimming practices — I'm curious in how they're going to include Jason with such a peculiar plot. 🤔

[maopll]

Could I request something like this https://www.tumblr.com/maopll/712602219674058752/hello-hello-may-i-request-zhongli-kaeya-ayato?source=share

but with Kaveh, Itto, Childe, and Thoma?

My muse | genshin edition !

#pt.1 here || pt.2 !

⌗:, where you draw your lover in a sketchbook only for him to soon find out the peculiar way you show your love and adoration for him ♡

⌗:, a/n: what if I draw them in jojo poses ?...

⌗:, warning: there are gingers and blondes and bullchucker. there's mention of blood in childe's part.

⌗:, pairings: kaveh, itto, childe & thoma w/ gn!reader

KAVEH —

It was a warm Sunday evening. The afternoon glow of the sun illuminated the room. You and your lover, Kaveh, are basking in the quiet comfort of eachother. On the sofa, you sat crossing your feet and sketching countless pictures of what or of who. Your lover sat on the other side, making minute and very careful details of splendid architectural designs. You noticed the way his face would scrunch up when he would make those little designs on the railing or even on the roof. The way he would do a soft 'yes!' When he got something right on his first try. You recorded down every single detail on the small sketchbook of yours. When you would feel his gaze upon you, you would be quick while closing the book lest he sees what you made.

However, on his birthday you decided to gift him the sketchbook. He was dumbfounded and asked why you would give him something you were using. Until he flipped the pages and marvelled at the beautiful drawings you made of him. for him. It was simple yet so meaningful to him. His eyes filled with tears with how pure and sweet your love for him was. You were his everything, a beacon of light in his world.

ITTO —

Having you as his s/o was like winning the lottery. There wasn't a single moment that he didn't enjoy when he was with you. Whenever he would be playing onikabuto fights with the kids in hanamizaka, you would shelter yourself under a tree and sketch away the little doodle of your lover. Capturing each and every little detail of his face. The way he would scrunch up his nose when he would be thinking of his next move or the utter look of shock on his face when he would lose for the nth time...

Nevertheless, you find this hobby to be quite comforting. The sun was already starting to set, and the kids had returned home. Your lover hadn't won a single round, but he doesn't care much about it. As soon as they were gone, he went up to you screaming, "Hey babe!" only to find that you have fallen asleep. It's alright he's strong enough to carry his lover on his back, but he was in for a little surprise. When he picked you up in his arms, he saw the sketches, doodles of his and his...abs? although he has minimum knowledge about art and anatomy, he was still surprised seeing someone looking very similar to him and his name on YOUR notebooks. Ofcourse your one and only oni should be the one to grace the pages of your sketchbook! and also to grace your soft lips!

CHILDE —

Bloodshed, Bloodlust, Bloodthirst. That's all he knew all his life. He barely found respite, but with your coming into his life, things started to get a lot better, and he found happiness with you.

Your lover, childe, has gone out once again to take care of some "business." Apparently, he has loads of things to take care of, so today was another one of those sleepless and quite cold nights in Snezhnaya where you yearn for your lovers warmth but unfortunately he cannot be there. The candle was lit by your bedside table. You used the faint glow it provided to draw on your sketchbook. After all, you needed something to help you sleep, and this was the best thing you could do now. It was 3 p.m. now. Childe entered through the front door into your shared home. He tiptoed softly and carefully to not wake you up since it was an odd time to be awake. He stepped foot into your room and smiled, seeing you fast asleep. It was quite cold, and your blanket wasn't on top of you. While pulling the covers over you, he saw him drawn on your sketchbook. He looked at the drawings and he felt butterflies in his stomach. A faint shade of pink was dusting his face and a small smile graced his lips. "ajax?...you're home?" you spoke in a drowsy tone. He smiled and said "I'm home" while removing the sketchbook from you and setting it aside. Although the room was quite dark, you swear you saw a faint glimmer in his eyes...

THOMA —

He runs back and forth around the house from morning to evening. As expected, he grows tired by the end of the day, even if he tries napping during his breaks. You, however, seize this opportunity to admire his angelic features more closely since he is static in one place. At least for some time...

The Kamisato Estate was obviously busy with him conducting some classes about housework and dealing with the housework of the estate. Finally it was four o'clock in the afternoon and he had finally got his much needed rest. While he dozed off on your lap, taking in the comfortable warmth, you were busy sketching away on your sketchbook. His eyes, his sleepy face, his ruffled hair, his parted lips. Not a single detail would you miss. When his rest was finally over, he got up, but you had fallen asleep. It's understandable since you also work around the house with him a lot. When he tried getting up, the book fell from your hand. Whilst trying to pick up the book, he saw his sketches on your book. He was amazed and embarrassed since he was drawn so intricately on such a small piece of paper. A soft hue of pink bloomed across his face. He turned his body towards you and gently caressed your face. He kissed your temple and whispered "sleep well dear.."

[dicentsalve]

Hey I really love your art style it's amazing... And since we had la squadra and l'unita headcanons may i ask for zucchero & sale headcanons?

I like the direction we're going

Thank you, bb!

I haven't really thought about them as much as I'd like, but I have a couple of notes

First of all, I'd like to note that these two work quite closely with Luka, receiving possible information from him due to influence and a certain power (I will also touch on Luka a little and note that every member of Passione knows and respects him, regardless of status within the family. I mean, boy at least passed Polpo's test and was left without a stand🧍)

Buuut not always they can pay for the services provided

● Sale

As I mentioned, he's Squalo's older brother and has been working at Passione longer, but he still hasn't been able to get higher (if we don't take into account the events of Vento Aureo)

Since I gave Squalo the peculiarity of unusual teeth, Sale has them too, but less expressed and not so noticeable. His central and lateral incisors are normal, but starting with the fangs, as they approach the edges, the sharp teeth become more expressed. Btw, this pisses him off.

Has impaired water exchange up to dehydration.

Doesn't have a driver's license. Can't drive, could I say, if close communication with Mario hadn't forced him to learn it.

For some inexplicable reason, I associate Kraft Work with a cactus (that's why in one of my old sketches Squalo calls Sale a cactus ass🧍), in connection with this: Sale loves cacti. And Mario, with his ridiculous clothes, btw, resembles a cactus. Maybe that's why they're still together.

Doesn't like fish very much, but eats it to annoy Squalo.

Obviously a Tuscan, like his brother, but he has no accent or dialect in his speech. He uses dialect words only for confidentiality or out of harmfulness.

Has a stand since birth, which is why, even in childhood, having mastered the stand, he became proud and impudent And was a bully in childhood 🫵

Based on the Kraft Work ability, I like to think that Sale has a slight peculiarity of "dropping out" of a conversation/situation and just staring at one point for some time.

Like Squalo, he also has problems with his parents. But for them, this is rather a huge ground for jokes than a burdensome problem.

● Zucchero

Mario isn't only an inattentive, careless person, but also has some problems with his eyesight. Not in the sense that he needs glasses, but he has "tunnel vision", which neither Sale nor Zucchero himself knows about, believing that everyone has it. So in order to concentrate on the road, he can't look away even a millimeter. Otherwise, he is a really good driver, who has saved them from total ass more than once.

Lefty.

Very hunched over.

Despite his last name, he is rather clumsy and slow (in general, everything that, ironically, a lack of sugar in the body leads to), requires more time to process information, which also infuriates Sale.

Quite often he goes to women, cuz of which he often doesn't get in touch and gets scolded by Sale for his recklessness.

He's involuntarily acquainted with Tiziano and already doesn't have the best relationship with him, although they have only met once.

Since Soft Machine uses a blade, Zucchero is very good with bladed weapons.

He likes decorative poodles (I won't explain it)

Lives with Sale cuz it's safer and cheaper (he's just too lazy to clean the apartment)

Often takes Sale in the evening after work to see the sunset (he forgets the way home)

And original of meme

[brothermouse]

Sunday doodle 8/11/24

Pitched this idea last week and got some positive responses so here’s one part of my new project. You know where it’s a collection of sketches and letters set in a steampunk alternate history world where some guy is traveling through Deseret, drawing cool stuff he sees and trying to convince his friend back home that he’s not going to get murdered by the Mormons.

Letter transcript:

My Dear Friend Victor,

As my previous letter was sent from a rather dubious, yet reliable location, I anticipate that this letter shall outpace it and reach you first. As such, I shall briefly recount its contents.

First you must know that I am well and relatively unscathed. When I arrived in St George I believed all my rough traveling behind me and it would be airships all the way to Salt Lake. Hardly thirty minutes in the sky a band of Confederate Holdouts revealed themselves and took control of the ship, intending to sail it back to one of their secret enclaves in the South to aid in their misguided “war effort”. Fortunately they were foiled by a Deseret Federal Marshal (Lt. Whitterby of the Danite division) who subdued the rebels and orchestrated an emergency landing in the town of Kanab, a good distance east of St George. As I said, the exact details are in my other letter which I sent from the Kenab post office. The postmaster there seemed old as Methusala, leading to my doubt on the speediness of that letter’s delivery. This letter I shall send from the St George post office which is of a more modern fashion.

But I must tell you of the mechanical wonder I encountered in Kanab! After the ordeal the band of Johnny Rebs were locked securely in the Kanab town hall (the town is too small for a proper jailhouse). The other passengers and I were given a little rest and refreshment in the same building (the town is also too small for a hotel). I took this time to write my previous (or possibly forthcoming) letter and send it off. After a while we heard the sound of twin airships approaching. These were the Thunderbird and the Tiancum, which Lt. Whitterby called for. One to return us to St George and the other to take away the villains. He asked us to remain where we were, that we might witness the official arrest and then sign documents witnessing that the correct persons were taken into custody (I swear these Mormons are obsessed with everything being witnessed!)

When the Deseret Marshals marched in they were accompanied by the most peculiar automatons. I was able to make sketches, which I have included. There were four of these contraptions, one for each of the Confederates. They each bore the stern face sculpted from copper or brass, I could not tell. I was told that they bore the face of that wiley old General O.P. Rockwell, who gave our General Sherman and all those Union boys such a rough time in the siege of Echo Canyon.

Each Rockwell was directed by its operator to stand directly behind the hijackers and hold the criminals' hands behind their backs, like a pair of handcuffs. Just as I was wondering why entire automatons were called for what a mere pair of handcuffs could do, one of the scoundrels broke free and made a break for it, rushing as though he would leap out of the window to freedom! But then the Rockwell machine did a strange thing. One of its hands dropped, as if it was on a hinge and a small device extended from the open wrist. With a pop, it shot a tiny harpoon attached with a thin wire at the man. I wondered at this, as the harpoon and wire were both far too small to catch a fish, let alone a desperate criminal. But when the harpoon struck him there came a sound like a deep angry buzzing and the man became stiff as a board and toppled over as if dead!

The foiled escapee was looked over and determined to still be alive, (though with quite a lot less fight in him) and was bound in the same manner as the rest. In asking Lt Whitterby what had just transpired, he told me that the machines “Rockwell Automatons” where based on a design currently being used in both London and Chicago ment to assist local law enforcement in apprehending and holding dangerous criminals. When I brought up how easily the man had been felled, the Lieutenant told me that that particular innovation was of pure Deseret origin. In the Chicago models a simple gun is concealed in the wrist, and the London model is given a club. Both were determined to be far too brutal for the liking of the Deseret Marshals, so an alternative device was created. This deceive, I was told, delivers a small electrical charge to the target, not powerful enough to kill, but just enough to temporarily confuse the nervous system and render the target harmless.

But look! I have been writing and sketching aboard the Thunderbird so long that we have been returned to St George so that I might continue my journey to Salt Lake! I must finish this letter and mail it while I can. As always I shall write to you whenever I am able.

Your friend,

Jacob K. Steinsworth

P.S. Please thank your wife, Isabel for her insistence that I carry a pocket Bible on this trip. It proved quite useful during the ordeal with those Confederate hijackers. Again, the full details are in the other letter.

[thiswaycomessomethingwicked]

In Klatchian there is a word for hovering-between-states-of-acknowledgment-of-truth(s). It is a short word for a long sentiment and an even longer process. Vetinari believes it to be one of the most beautiful words on the Disc. In a brash moment of inter-personal warmth, he said as much to Downey who promptly asked for the word. Vetinari delivered it. Downey exhaled smoke from the fag he had on-hand and said, I suppose it has a nice grey quality to it. I suppose it is fitting that your favourite word would be that colour. Forty years is a long time. It is also not long at all. [...] The Patrician, formerly known as the dog-botherer, has always been strange. Strange boy, when they were lads, who promptly grew into a strange man. Still, Downey supposes they all have their peculiarities and eccentricities. For him, it is his creatures, those beautiful tropical millipedes and hissing cockroaches and ghost scorpions. Also, his plants and fungi. The old classic of Butterfly collecting. The new classic of Beetle collecting. Other things, too.   On fresh paper, with a sharpened styli, he begins to sketch out what Vetinari wants to see of himself. What could the back side of a man without much of it look like? As in, he had flesh but then the gunne ripped through it. Exit wounds are harsh, expanding things that shock and surprise. He remembered seeing Cruces then turning Cruses over and seeing what the shot did to him upon leaving his body. Apply that to Vetinari’s chest. He wonders what the world would be like if Vetinari had died that day. Strange, for he cannot imagine life without the man crab-walking around being queer and difficult. Downey has known him since boyhood and there is a sort-of forced, faux concept of permanence when you’ve known a man since boyhood. He’s small chested, Downey presumes. Vetinari’s rib cage is clearly not the largest ever made. He isn’t like Downey, he doesn’t take up space how Downey does when he wishes to. Yet, he also strangely cannot compress himself in terms of essence, how Downey can when he wishes to. Vetinari takes up a specific amount of space physically and spiritually (let us be poetic about this for a half-second) and that is that. No more, no less.

annnnd the Downlock board.

They're going to be so functional and normal about each other!! I foresee zero (0) problems.

[Downey version]

[Vetinari version]

[yanci-indigo]

Hillary "Maggot" Bruce as my questionable creation..

Yes you read that right! Bruce might be one of my OCs with questionable tastes and peculiar behaviors. I haven't shared his backstory yet, but just let you all know, he was once in a darkest pit before he escaped with himself and his raw strength from Mississippi.

Aside from his backstory, I also had trouble redesigning him since he looks similar to Jack Paige from Under the Devil's Moon by Libra (I recommend to check on them AHHH THE STORY IS SO GOOD!!!). I got panicked when I first saw Jack, but now I simp on him hihi. But yeah, it's just me overthinking stuff and ensure safety measures from those issues.

Sorry for the long introduction, and yes I'll get on to my process on finalizing his character design.

PHASE 1 : Ears Problem

I always thought there is a problem in his bat ears physics. Turns out it lacks gravity! I checked the Oriental Shorthair cat pictures as references and fixed his bat ears.

PHASE 2 : Body Structure

The ears are stylized, as Oriental Shorthair cats are known to have large ears resembling a bat! Also they have really long limbs, making them look taller in their anatomy.

For the body, I used my boyfriend as a reference of a thin body (crazy actual reference). Maggot was 17 in 1920 and puberty just hit him a few years ago. He was around 6'3" feet tall. Talk about height boost lol.

PHASE 3 : FINALIZING CHARACTER DESIGN

I made his overall design sharp, pointy, and unhinged. He is not in a right mind whenever he goes, so it's best to leave him alone. I also drew him as a vampire: being a nocturnal beast and a cannibal hunting for a man as his victim and a meal (he doesn't eat women or children). Also look at him just enjoying his vampire costume ^^

(he's broke but not homeless huhu)

And there we have it! His final design is his portrait that I posted here in this blog.

Thank you for your time reading all of this until the end. Just want to make an excuse to share these sketches hehehe. He's actually my favorite, and don't even try guilt tripping me lol.

That's all darlings, bye!!!!

~ ✿

[sirenat-t]

(I’m Happy For Your Sorrow; Yandere Clemens x Reader Part 3)

FINALLY! It’s complete! The Yandere Clemens Averink series has come to its conclusion after over a year! Thank you so much if you’ve stuck with me this far into the project, and of course a huge thank you to @blackmoonowl for allowing us to use her characters in our own works!

I wanted this finale to capitalize on the horror aspects of yandere, as this trope should always be used for horror stories and never actual romance (I will die on this hill). Please be warned, this chapter contains stalking, psychological horror, attempted (possibly actual) murder, and being trapped in a very bad ‘relationship’. If these are triggering to you, then please skip over this chapter🙏

Without further ado, here is the grand finale you’ve been waiting for!

————————————————————————Clemens was never one to jump into an idea without thinking it over to the fullest degree. Finding a way to get you into his grip physically is different than doing so mentally. Mental manipulation was easy enough for him. People are like chess in that sense. Your choice determines their next move, and if they are easy enough, you can back them into a corner using your foresight and their gullibility alone. However, once you get good enough at it, it becomes more akin to a chore than a game. That’s what it had become for Clemens. People are so predictable to him that it’s no longer interesting. However, you were strange in the way that he couldn't truly wrap his head around the way you thought. Truly, the world had been cruel to them all, but Clemens was stuck in the peculiar predicament of being almost heartless whilst the world fell around him and his family. It seems everyone here had their own way of viewing the world that was warped by their upbringing. Rudolph viewed the world on high guard, Claude viewed the world through anger and distrust, and Percy viewed the world through bloody rose-tinted glasses. Clemens didn't have that. He was emotionless. The facts were all that he looked at, or at least that’s how he used to be. Now the facts are saying something he has never considered before. He is not emotionless, but quite the opposite. All it took was a different perspective.

A final brush stroke to the canvas, and it was done. Another painting to add to the collection. Clemens decided to visit some old patterns. He had been so infatuated with painting you to look like all these different emotions that he forgot his classic style was embedded in not feeling anything at all. And, there you were. He looked at his piece of art, slick paint glistened in the candlelight. Your face was painted blank as a fresh sheet of paper, and cold as a stone. It was beautiful.

‘If only you were here…’

That thought kept ringing through Clemens’ mind. Countless sketches of your face were littered across his desk and some even drifted to the floor in his obsessive artistic haze, but nothing would ever compare to the masterpiece that would be you seated in his chair, face crushed with despair while he painted you in real-time, keeping those sights of your sweet misery all for himself. Clemens placed his brush down on the easel and took to his desk to start brainstorming the plan to get you in his clutches for good. You’re already halfway there. Your mind is swamped with his face and your heart races in fearful anticipation with each room you enter. By all means, you’re his psychologically, but now it's time to make that physically as well. He’ll have to think about this especially carefully.

~Your POV~

It was hard going about life like nothing was wrong. People had been getting increasingly worried about your outbursts and sudden panic attacks out of nowhere. It got to the point where you would go completely silent with a thousand-yard stare, shallowly breathing as if you'd seen a ghost. Any conversation you were trying to hold would be sidelined by you glancing around with unease and choking on your words when you saw something out of the corner of your eye. Of course, it was all the same vision. Red coat, brown hair, amber eyes. Some of the wardens stopped talking to you all together. You remember their words before they left you for good…

“Darling, until you figure out what’s wrong I’m afraid I can’t do anything for you” Maximilian.

“You’re being hysterical…more so than usual. Figure it out…then we can talk” Richard.

“I can assure you, I am not the source of your visions. I would never use that on you, my dear. Unfortunately, I have work to attend to. Perhaps we’ll talk another time” William.

One by one, your friends started to avoid you. It was hell all over again. It seemed the only person who still stood by you was Bernard. Never once did he leave your side. If you were staring into space, he would bring you back and take you somewhere else. If you felt unsafe, he walked you back to your room. And if you wanted someone around, he would be right there, no questions asked. His big heart was one of the only reasons you weren't destroyed at this point.

~Present Tense~

You are seated on your bed with Bernard on the adjacent chair, trying to explain your visions in a way that doesn't make you seem utterly psychotic. Your eyes are knitted tight with anxiety and unease, your mind feeling like a whirlwind of fire.

“I can’t stop them. I see someone in the corner of my eye wherever I go”

Bernard looks puzzled and a little apologetic,

“I see this is affecting you deeply. Are you sure William is not using his hallucinations on you? He may be doing so by accident”

You shook your head. Oh, if only it were that simple. This whole debacle would’ve been long over by now.

“No. I’ve asked him”

You both sat in uncomfortable silence for a few moments. By now, Clemens had been in the back of your mind and the corner of your eye for over three weeks. Only one conversation was held between you two, but you’ve seen him more times this week than any other person in the manor this month. It's ridiculous. Why this? Why now? Just…why?

“I am at a loss, I’m afraid…But, whatever you need from me, do not hesitate to ask. I am here to help you, always”

This is the umpteenth time Bernard has said that to you. It made your heart feel full in the past, but it rings mostly hollow now.

“Thank you..” You say with less and less hope each time you utter that phrase

Bernard senses this change in attitude and his face falls to a frown. It hurts him to see his friend hurt so much by something he can’t help. He places a hand on your shoulder, one of the last comforting touches you truly accept. Touch from anyone else makes you wince or jump all because of the creeping thought of the touch coming from Clemens. The large amount of distance between the two of you was the only saving grace these hallucinations gave you.

“I have duties to attend to, unfortunately. I’ll be here to check on you this evening if you would like to meet here”

You nod, your face looking more like a slate than a person,

“Yes please”

“As you wish” He nods back.

He starts to make his way to the door. Bernard turns his head to you, a note of forced positivity evident in his expression.

“Please take care of yourself, my dear”

You sure as hell would try, but there is no guarantee that it will work. You give a very soft and shaky smile paired with a little thumbs up. Bernard returns your smile and just like that, he's gone. You are left alone in your quarters, something that became far more frequent in the past week. Outside, Bernard walks down the opulent hallway, eyes cast downward as he worries over his human friend.

“Bernard” A voice calls to the tall warden.

Bernard looks up to see one of his fellow men.

“Clemens! Good to see you once again. How can I help you?

Clemens has not come for the conversation. He never does. It is a rare occurrence that the silent warden would ask anyone for anything, but today is a special occasion.

“I have been hearing around the manor recently that (Y/N) is unwell,” Clemens’ said in a flat tone, as usual.

Bernard keeps himself as kind as ever as he responds to your undetected stalker.

“Yes, they have been feeling uneasy for a while now. We do not know how or why this has suddenly happened to them”

Clemens nods silently, but inside he's taking a twisted interest and joy from it all. It's simply incredible how your emotions affect everyone in the manor. Like a spider web, everyone was caught up in the wonderful entanglement of your positivity. Once things become shaky and the web starts to break, people begin to fall off one by one. It's a delightful sight to behold, and even more, a delightful confirmation of your slipping sanity given to him by the most gullible person in the manor.

“Odd..” Clemens feigns innocence.

“Very odd indeed” Bernard chimes in.

Only a handful of seconds pass before the red-dressed warden clears his throat, ready to get to the point of this conversation.

“Where are they now?” Clemens asks,

Bernard looks back, the door to your room just a short distance away. He eyes it with concern,

“They are in their quarters, and it seems they have no intention of leaving them any time soon. I have made arrangements to meet with them later this evening. I am hoping I can provide them with some type of comfort”

Bernard is saddened by the reality that his human friend is in so much distress, but Clemens has to hold in his smile at the knowledge that he single-handedly turned the most optimistic bundle of sunshine into a frightened recluse. Emotional manipulation is so much more fun when you can also emotionally reap the benefits. This rush is powerful, unlike anything he has felt before.

Clemens knew better than to just go up and knock on your door. That might be the stupidest thing he could do in the position he has secured himself in. No, this psychological game isn’t over yet. You can be pushed a tad further, and he knows you can. You might not believe it, but there is always deeper to fall than you'd expect, and he’s all too ready to keep pushing further and further until you’re at your breaking point.

“I see…” Clemens said curtly.

He keeps his true thoughts to himself with a skilled poker face. No need to indulge in small talk when it will only serve to make him look suspicious. Cold and calculating is his brand, and he will stick to it like glue until the time is just right. He starts to walk off, not even bothering to bid Bernard goodbye, but that type of behaviour is not unusual for him. Bernard sputters out a quick farewell, but it doesn't even register in the ears of the obsessed man.

Clemens has been taking note of more than just your face. He has been observing you in full, and that includes keeping tabs on your schedule. Over the last week and a half, he has noticed the strange behaviour of you exiting and subsequently returning to your room just a short while later. You waffle back and forth as if you didn’t know where to go, but you knew you had to be somewhere. He concluded that it was a response to you feeling constantly uneasy. You desperately tried to find comfort in locations that are now tainted by his face. Even your room no longer feels safe, and that gives him the perfect way to make a power move that would tip the balance of this game in his favour. Bernard stupidly revealed part of your schedule he could take advantage of. How easy would it be to forge a letter from your best friend, telling you to meet them somewhere at whatever time is most convenient for him? God, it’s so easy it’s almost not fun anymore. Clemens walks to his room, footsteps keeping a brisk pace making his heavy cloak flow behind him. He’s got a letter to write.

~Later That Night, Your POV~

Bless Bernard for showing up. You skipped dinner, so he brought you up a full plate. You couldn’t finish all of it though, not when you’re nauseous all the time. His company is welcome, but not exactly impactful. He did everything he could to make you feel better, and you knew that. Sadly, his best only does a mediocre job, but it’s not like anyone else can do any better.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t help but think of that vision. It’s all I can focus on. I can’t stand it anymore” You sigh, and Bernard cringes with worry and sympathy at your apology.

“Do not apologize, please. I only wish for there to be an explanation for all this”

You wish for an explanation too. At this point, after all the anxiety, you are sick of telling half the truth. It doesn't matter how delusional you sound, you already sound insane so you might as well be transparent with him. Bernard’s your best friend. He wouldn’t dismiss you, right?

“I’ve noticed something about the visions...”

Bernard’s ears perk up and he waits for your description of these elusive sightings,

“They look like Clemens”

Immediately, a mixture of surprise and confusion morphs into the tall warden’s expression.

“Clemens? Why on earth would you see him?”

You take a short breath,

“A few weeks ago we had a small chat. I don’t know what went wrong, but he seemed upset once it was over. He’s made no attempt to talk to me since, but these visions only started after we finished talking. I just don’t understand why that conversation would affect me so much”

Bernard’s expression became purely puzzled. It's very strange indeed. You both have no idea just how strange the situation, as well as the man in question, has truly gotten.

“I will talk to him and see if he has been seeing you more often too. I doubt he would actively seek you out, so there is a chance that these visions are just you catching a small glimpse as he passes by”

That’s not true in the slightest. That wouldn’t explain the library incident where you caught him staring at you, and the most terrifying part of it is, that he could've been there for about an hour. Moreover, what of the many times people just barely missed him while you saw him from the corner of your eye? It had to be methodically planned for it to be so perfectly timed over and over again.

“I'm not sure… I know Clemens doesn't like to speak to anyone, but don't you think that explanation is a bit too convenient? I’ve seen this vision several times a day for weeks now. What are the odds he is always passing by at those exact moments?”

A very reasonable concern, but unfortunately Bernard’s kindness stretches out to those who don't deserve it.

“Clemens is not one to reach out to people. I have known him a long time, and I can tell you with certainty that he would not try to follow you so adamantly. I will talk to him and clear up this misunderstanding. You don’t have to worry about a thing, my dear”

Bernard starts to smile. Finally, there’s some hope to resolve this, but it’s truly a shame that nothing involving Clemens has a happy ending. Your heart is pained by the fact your best friend didn’t believe your concerns. A while later it is time for him to leave. You don't have much hope for that conversation, but you're willing to take a chance on it. You bid your friend farewell, and he is off on his way. You close the door, going back to your solitude.

…

’So, you want to speak with me..? Clear this up? Very well, let’s clear this up. I’ll make it very clear that you shouldn’t get in my way’

~Third Person POV~

Bernard walks around, determined yet clueless on how to find Clemens. Thankfully for him, he wouldn’t have to walk much farther. Clemens took no risks with your meeting with Bernard. He eavesdropped on your whole conversation, and while he was happy that he had managed to weasel his way into your head so much, he couldn't say he was happy with Bernard. The big oaf has no clue who he is messing with. If there’s one thing Clemens has other than his knowledge, it’s conviction. The German took no shit when it came to what he took seriously, and you are a very serious matter. The one thing that could keep you from being completely and utterly his is Bernard. With how close of friends you two are, it’s as if the two of you are welded together, even more so now that you’re losing your sanity. Bernard is your last pillar of stability, and he was determined to knock it over. He might even feel some joy watching your last bridge be burned to ashes.

Bernard’s eyes scan the area in front of the basement entrance, where they keep all the prisoners. He never liked this place. Far too much negativity for him. The door is wide open, revealing the dark descent down the stairway into the endless hallways of prison cells.

“Bernard.”

The warden dressed in brown turned around to come face to face with the very man he wanted to see.

“Clemens, there you are! I have been searching for you”

Clemens felt another emotion creeping its way into his heart. While he had been indulging himself in the multitude of emotions you bring, he started to feel the first emotion you brought upon him; anger. Bernard was the final obstacle he needed to be rid of. This is the man who has the best chance of sabotaging the happiness he desires so desperately, and may he be damned once again if he ever lets that happen.

“Have you now?” Clemens speaks, a twinge of passive-aggressive sarcasm poking through his words. Bernard is so dense he doesn’t even notice it.

“Yes, it’s about (Y/N). They have been seeing things recently and that has been the cause of their unease, and they say the visions they experience look like you. I know it sounds silly, but they are my best friend, and all I want is for them to be happy. I wanted to ask you if you have been seeing them more often as well. Perhaps you two have been crossing paths unexpectedly and this is all a mere misunderstanding”

It was very hard not to laugh out loud at that statement. Bernard had never been the brightest flame on the candelabra, and this just solidifies that belief into a fact.

“Yes yes, happiness. What more could a man want?”

This was a tone unheard of by Clemens. He never jokes, not even if the joke is cruel. Bernard’s eyes squint with sudden shock and confusion. What’s going on with his fellow man?

“Yes…we all care a great deal for (Y/N), and I know you two have not gotten along in the past, but don’t you wish to help them in their stressful time? I’m sure they would greatly appreciate it”

Clemens rolls his eyes. Good lord, he doesn’t know how much of Bernard’s ‘positivity’ he could take. It’s nothing like yours. Bernard’s positivity comes from a place of shallow guilt. He wants to repent for his past by hastily placing others first. Clemens knew about the heavyweight Bernard carries on his shoulders, I mean, the man doesn’t exactly make it a secret. Meanwhile, your positivity is birthed from wisdom and patience. An ideology that harmonises the mind and soul.

Clemens begins to walk towards Bernard, each step is slow and methodical. His face was blank as usual, but his aura is far darker. Anyone could tell this wasn’t Clemens’ usual disposition. Bernard’s stance becomes less open, shrinking back a little. He senses the strange change as Clemens gets closer.

“Yes, they would love it if this was all a misunderstanding. No, I’m not interested in helping. Not the way you want me to”

Clemens kept approaching, and it was clear this was not going to be a friendly chat. Bernard begins to take some steps back, keeping his eyes on Clemens as the two are locked in some sort of standoff. Neither of them ceases their movements and the more Bernard backs up, the only way left to go is down. His hand grips the railing and he carefully starts to descend the staircase, looking up towards Clemens all the while. Clemens follows and closes the door behind him, cutting them off from the outside world. No light except the candles burning away at the wax they are embedded into illuminating the stairwell. The angle and lighting serve to highlight the hostile energy radiating off of Clemens. The orange glow that emanates from the candles elevates the fire in the German’s eyes.

“Clemens!?” Bernard’s voice is full of concern but is promptly ignored.

“I can see why you two are so close. You both have the same blind faith in life. Look where blind faith got you. This is why you cannot trust your ‘fellow men’. How many times do you need to be disciplined before you understand your kindness doesn’t make a difference?”

Clemens grabs one of the torches off the wall and tosses the hot ball of fire down toward the tall man. Bernard wastes no time trying to swat the cluster of heat away but is sadly met with a fresh burn to his face. The torch lands in front of his feet, catching his long heavy cape with a flame that proceeds to grow larger each second. Clemens watches with a straight face as his ‘colleague’ is almost set ablaze by his hands. Bernard manages to tear the heavy garment off his shoulders in time for the flames to not reach his spine formation. He watches as his clothes are now a burning pile of fabric on the cold cobblestone floor. His peer just tried to kill him.

All the while, Clemens inches closer and closer down the stairs. Bernard looks around for anything. He eventually lands on a long spare plank of wood that lays against the wall with some other scraps from the dungeon. He brandishes it with a grip less than confident. He takes several steps back, trying to gain distance, but Clemens' pursuit simply continues once he reaches the bottom of the stairs. The red-clad warden took long strides and reached down towards his waist. The large red cloak that covered his sides is pushed aside to reveal the sheath of his sword. His hand grips the hilt and the sound of his clean blade slipping out of its covering shakes Bernard to the core. Clemens takes a swing and the blade cuts into the wood that is held up in front of Bernard’s face. The poor, kind, and frightened warden’s heart pulsates harder than it ever has in this manor. Another hit of the short sword slices into the middle of the wood, and one last side swing made it so the wood was cut in half. Clemens swings his sword upwards into the bottom of the feeble wood, successfully startling Bernard enough to get him to relinquish his grip on the plank. The blade comes scarily close to Bernard’s chest, and he watches Clemens toss the piece of wood past him, leaving him defenceless. The sound of the wood hitting the cell door behind him echoes through the chambers. Before Bernard could do anything to reason with the stoic German, the cold blade of his short sword was placed to his throat.

“Even now, I can't say I feel any remorse” Clemens states dryly,

Clemens’ insane stare leers down into Bernard’s soul, the tall man’s brown eyes filled with shocked distress. One man is filled with apathy while the other is filled with horror.

“I don't understand. Why are you doing this!?”

The sharp metal pressed harder against Bernard’s neck, causing him to wince.

“Because I want to. No matter how unreasonable it may be”

It became silent for a moment minus the sounds of the prisoners' moans and cries of anguish echoing faintly through the cold damp corridors. Clemens inspects the emotion on his foe’s face. A grimace, tightly knit eyebrows, and trembling lips that fail to conceal his terror. Perfect. Fear is exactly what should be felt. Clemens begins to speak again, his tone as cold as the dungeon itself.

“(Y/N) is far more knowledgeable than I gave them credit for. I thought I had it all figured out, but I was wrong. They showed me the truth, and it was disgusting. I first admired their wisdom, but now I simply admire every part of them. You understand, yes? You are their friend after all”

Bernard’s mind is a whirlwind of questions, not all of which will be answered by the time Clemens is done with him. The distant sounds of prisoners wailing for freedom added to the tall warden’s unease.

“What ‘truth’..? None of this makes sense!”

Clemens sighs. Of course, Bernard wouldn't understand, and why would he expect him to? He leans down towards the man who is shakily kneeling before him, face becoming harsh and scolding,

“Do you have a brain in that large head of yours, or is it all empty space?”

Bernard’s eyes shot wide open. He had never heard Clemens speak in such a way. Truly, his friend is almost a completely different man now.

“That ‘talk’ we had was more than a simple conversation, it was an epiphany. Never once had I doubted my intelligence. If I am one thing, it is logical. I trust everyone here knows that very well. That, however, was false. I was as blind as the next damned man. The whole time, I had been driven by the denial, fear, and anger of my emotions. I thought I was better than what my heart told me, that I had cut it out of me long ago, but I have been listening to it every day.”

Clemens grip on his short sword tightens little by little as he recounts the way you destroyed him. Slowly, his knuckles turn white with the burning hatred he feels towards your kind wisdom, but the deep respect and love he has for your intelligence in an area previously thought to be useless by him.

“I have humanity, and I hate that. I hate that they made me look at myself for what I truly am. A petty, emotional human. They made me the most miserable man here, but now I have found a way to be happy…and that is to ruin them.”

Clemens’ arm thrust out and grappled into Bernard's undershirt, pulling the frightened man towards him with much force. His short sword is tossed off behind his cloak. Bernard’s trembling hands could only hold on to the German’s arm for stability, too blinded by his steadfast kinship towards his fellow men to try and tear himself away.

Clemens is still his friend, right? A friend that never talked to him, never showed up, liked him, or even tolerated him…oh.

Clemens decides he hasn't had enough. No, He has to cut Bernard even deeper, but not with his sword, no. With something even worse. With a tone too cold for Bernard’s liking, Clemens leans forward and utters in a manner too chilling for even this dungeon,

“Would you like to know something? They have been telling the truth. I have been watching them, following them every day, and you didn’t believe them”

At that moment, Bernard felt like his heart had been stabbed. He didn't believe his best friend because he wanted to assume the best in his peers. All you asked for was some faith in your experiences, and he couldn't even give you that. Maybe if he believed you, he wouldn't be in this mess.

“Do you still wish to call yourself their friend after you failed to help them?”

Bernard’s eyes became downcast. Clemens is right, isn’t he? What kind of friend doesn't support their loved ones?

“I-...” Bernard couldn't find the words, but maybe there were none to say anyway.

Clemens felt satisfied when nothing else came out of the large man’s mouth. With the extra strength granted by the determination to secure you for himself, he tightens his grip on Bernard’s white undershirt and hoists him up until his knees are not touching the ground anymore.

“I almost feel sorry for you. No brains and no sympathy”

Clemens had premeditated the place where he met Bernard. The dungeon was perfect. He has Bernard backed into the hallway with the first prison cell. The cell door isn't closed, and the space is enough for him to slip his hand in, open it, and shove Bernard inside. And that's exactly what he did. In one quick movement, the iron door was pulled back. The heavily rusty hinges groaning from the speed at which the door was forced open, and Bernard was thrown backward inside. It took a lot of strength, but when you're as fiercely determined as Clemens and as shocked as Bernard, it becomes possible. Bernard lands against the cold stone with a thud and hasn’t the speed to pick himself up before the iron door is slammed shut. The last words Clemens hears is his fellow man pleading for mercy.

“Clemens, no- WAIT!”

Some banging on the door ensued, but it didn't matter. Those doors are impenetrable. Bernard wouldn't die, at least he won’t if someone finds him in time. Either way, Clemens now has some time to figure out how to deal with Bernard if he manages to get out. It will be a while yet until someone has a shift in the dungeon. Clemens walked off, ignoring the banging and pleas for escape from his imprisoned peer. He ascends the stairs and shuts the dungeon door, leaving no sunlight to reach into the cold dark space. He takes a deep breath. That took long enough. His hand reaches into his pocket, feeling the folded letter he forged. Clemens had long since finished that note, and it was convincing enough. Bernard’s writing was easy to replicate; highly emotional with bad printing. It was harder to fake the shoddy handwriting than it was to actually forge the contents of the letter. Now all that’s left is to drop it off. He silently wades through the halls, making his way to your door. He’d known which room was yours by now. Funny how weeks of stalking will reveal that info. Making sure that no one is around to see, he slips the tip of the letter beneath your door and goes on his way. Time to wait.

~Your POV~

Meanwhile, you are trying to get ready for bed. You turn around to walk to your desk when you notice something by the foot of your door. You go over and pick it up. It reads;

‘Dear (Y/N). I understand you are still feeling unwell and I want to help you as much as I can. You know I care deeply for you and hate seeing you hurt. I would like to invite you to the Gold Wing common room tomorrow at four o’clock in the morning. I understand this hour is quite early, but I felt it would provide you with some ease knowing it would be only the two of us awake. I can bring tea as well. Have a good night.’

Bernard

Looks like you should go to sleep earlier than you normally do, but after hours of tossing, turning, and laying on your bed, you couldn’t sleep. You just wanted to be with your friend. It isn't necessarily Clemens that made you so unstable, it was the fact that no one believes you when you see him. You've heard the ‘gaslighting’ jokes back in your old life in the modern world, but god, actually experiencing it makes it so it’s really not funny anymore. You’ve done every psychological trick in the book. Brushing it off, going to other places, being with other people, and taking time for yourself. Nothing changed. In fact, it got worse. It’s gotten to the point where you think you see him in places that are simply impossible. Through the window of your room was the worst one. Your quarters are so high up in the mansion that it would be impossible for anyone to get that high, let alone keep themselves pulled up enough to peer into your room, but facts didn’t matter anymore. Nothing has made sense since the fateful day you talked with the red-clad warden. Deep down you believe these visions are a product of hyper-paranoia, but paranoia has the silly little effect of embedding itself into the very fabric of your reality.

The letter is sweet but strange. The nice part is that it will be just you and your best friend, and that support was one you simply could not afford to lose. You were so desperate from anyone safe to be around that even requesting to meet at strange hours in the morning just seemed like him trying to be considerate of your predicament. You will do anything to restore normalcy, and if becoming an early bird is the way to do that then so be it. Normally, you’d be terrified of this place at such an hour, but it couldn’t be any more terrifying than it is during the day. Some candles are lit, signifying the beginning of a new day. Luckily for you, Matthew’s intrinsic connection to the manor acts as some form of a clock. The halls are much dimmer than usual, but it’s just bright enough to make your way to your destination. These are ungodly hours to be awake. The sound of your footsteps is quiet, barely audible as you walk faster than average in hopes of clearing your buzzing mind.

Simultaneously, it is time for a certain someone to finally confront you. Truth be told, Clemens was worried about a confrontation. It is imperative you reach a certain level of brokenness before he shows his face in full to you. By now, all the times he let you spot him from the corner of your vision before vanishing in the blink of an eye will have taken enough toll on your psyche. Even better, the constant doubt you receive from everyone else pushes you further to the brink. Your friends help to break you without even noticing.

Yes, you may be trapped in here with all of them, but you have not had the same traumatic experiences as them, and a fresh mind is a fragile mind. It is much easier to get under your skin than the average inhabitant of the manor, and like always, he is correct. You are sufficiently cracked in the ways of mental stability. The cold static environment of the manor only served to add to this spiral of insanity. Sighting after sighting, hallway after hallway, day after day that stretched out for who knows how long…it all blended together. Perfect to get you to crumble even faster. There’s only one move left to play before this little game of psychological chess is over. Checkmate.

Clemens staked out near your room that night. It wasn't too difficult. Even if someone passed by in the hallway, with enough apathy you can make anything look passable. He knew it was a matter of time until you came out, and sure enough, he heard exactly what he was searching for. The sound of creaking door hinges broke the silence through the dark hallway. There you are, looking both ways before starting your little panic parade down the hall, and finally, no Bernard to get in his way. He swiftly follows, ensuring his footsteps are kept in time with yours to not give away his position. You walked with urgency, your hair flowed in the small breeze you made for yourself. Your hands are held to your chest, and if they aren't, they are tangled in your hair, almost as if you were trying to forcefully pull the thoughts of fear and paranoia directly from your head. It was simply precious. How he wishes to be behind you, hands laced in your hair, watching you twitch and squirm as he takes your place in trying to pull those thoughts out, loving your despair as you both come up unsuccessful. Unfortunately, it’s too late for either of you to get rid of each other. You’ve cemented yourselves equally in the other’s mind, and there's certainly no going back to the way things were and Clemens is all too happy to welcome this exhilarating change. A new miserable expression for him to heed every day. Do not be mistaken, it’s not just your face he admires. It’s your mind, your words, your impact, your ideologies. You’re the antithesis to his worldview, and he wished for nothing more than to control you, the source of everyone's hope, directly in the palm of his hand and make you a pawn for his contentment.

You stop pacing to take a short breather in an open foyer. The room is cold, but the chills of anxiety are colder than that of the air. Your breathing is heavier than it normally would be. You simply couldn't understand. Why could nobody see what was happening? Are you truly starting to lose it in here? Why did this only start happening after one conversation? You’ve only seen his full face twice since that day, and you felt more awful each time you caught a glimpse of that cursed visage of him. You are starting to think that it really is all in your head until you hear something. A misaligned footstep. You're not alone. You immediately turn around only to be met with a face most horrifying.

“(Y/N).”

Clemens spoke in his usual tone of voice. He wore his usual expression too, unreadable. After all this time, Clemens, in the flesh. Time stopped for a moment right then and there. Your heart drops with all the speed of a meteor hurtling toward Earth, and your breath hitches so sharply one could have mistaken you were choking on something. All drops of blood in your body froze as you finally see him in full for the first time who knows how long. Countless times you’ve seen merely a sliver of his face, but now you get to witness it in full, and it could not be more terrifying. Despite your horror, a smile creeps up on your face. He’s here, and he's real. You knew it was real.

“You’re here…”

Your smile grows along with the tears that are forming along the bottom of your eyes.

“Haha. I knew it..! It was real! Haha— I was right! I knew you were real!”

You are stuck in a terrifying mixture of terrified and overjoyed. ‘I’m not insane!’, you celebrate to yourself, but that's not exactly the case. Yes, it was real, but you’re also not the same person you were when this once started. Your mind has been scarred by the haunting image of his face and looming presence. Each tiny glimpse you caught of him was like a puzzle piece and now you’ve collected every piece - every detail - of his completion. Now you get to see the final image. It’s an image that never in a hundred years would you wish upon yourself, but here you are, rejoicing in your worst nightmare. To your surprise, Clemens barely smiles along with you. He walks closer, but you haven’t the ability to move away. You’re stuck like a deer in headlights.

“Yes, I am real”

He says with an unidentifiable tone. Each step he takes is another concrete confirmation he is in front of you, talking to you, looking at you.

“You were right from the beginning. It wasn’t the rose painting you saw, it was me.”

The red rose painting Bernard convinced you you saw, was just him.

“I was in the library as well, watching you read your book...”

You remember like it was yesterday, screaming bloody murder when you looked up and saw his eye staring at your figure.

“I was so close to being found. A shame Henry wasn't fast enough. Maybe then people would’ve believed you.”

He’s mocking you, but oddly his face shows no signs of superiority. He wears the same type of face he always does; nothing. You struggle to get the air unclogged from your throat. Your brain is a foggy mixture of outrage, relief, bafflement, and terror. The urge to run away is strong, but your need for answers is far stronger. He’s finally here after so long, and you need to know what the point of it is.

“Why?” You ask quietly, voice nothing above a pathetic whisper

He walks closer, now directly in front of you. His face is dimmed by the small light of the candles, shadows covering the majority of his face. He reached out, and you shut your eyes tight. Unexpectedly, you get pulled closer to him. He embraces you, keeping you nice and flush against his body.

“Because I hate you” He states plainly.

Despite his statement, he holds you tighter, cradling you with a gentle yet terrifyingly firm grip. It’s like he’s hugging you. A very controlling and possessive hug. The insanity Clemens had been driving himself into over the past month has built up immensely. He couldn’t let anyone else know about this newfound love of emotion, nor could he let word get out about his obsession. He knew his actions were irrational, but now that he knows the truth about what it means to be human and what it means to be him, irrationality is always at the core of decisions. What else can we do except for what our flawed brains tell us?

“You tore away everything I thought I knew about myself, and to make it more insulting, you did it with that forgiving smile on your face. I thought I lived above it all. I never let my emotions dictate my actions. I only did what was logical, but you showed me I was blindsided from the very beginning. I am a human filled with as much emotion as the next idiotic sinner. It’s just as you said. Discarding humanity was never the answer. The answer is to embrace it…”

The words you spoke to him did this. All you wanted to do was help. Sharing your compassion has always brought good into the world. It was your greatest strength. How could your idea of happiness be twisted and warped into something so horrible?

“And my emotions tell me I want to ruin you as much as you ruined me. I can promise you that nothing will bring me more joy in this life than knowing you are as broken as me”

You couldn’t speak. Nothing you could say would make any sense. Joy is sorrow, and hatred is cruel love. What could you possibly say? Clemens doesn’t push you for a response. It seems he’s content to simply stand here in silence with you in his arms. He’s waited long enough for this moment, and he’ll savor it whether you have words to say or not. You hear him take in a content breath, slow and easy.

“You may not know, but I am an artist,” He says gently. His thumb tenderly grazes over your spine, creating a frigid shiver that runs through your back down to the soles of your feet.

“I’ve been imagining things, something I do not usually do. I’ve been imagining you in my room, seated before me. A blank canvas on my easel and brush in hand, painting you for hours”

The mental image alone is enough to make you feel utterly sick. You try your hardest to force your brain not to think of it, which is far easier said than done.

“I find your sorrow captivating, (Y/N). I can’t deny the amount of happiness I feel knowing you are miserable. I love you, and I hate that. Even now, I wonder if I should hold you, or rip your throat out”

Every bit of fight in your body has been sucked out. All that’s left is to be frozen in time. He’s smarter, faster, and stronger than you'll ever be. What hope do you have of escaping? What on earth does he want from you now? It seems no actions you can take will fully please him. In the end, he hates you. He said it himself.

“T-Then what do you want me to do?” You asked, your voice fractured as smashed glass.

He thinks for a moment, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest clashing with your staggered shallow huffs.

“Stay. I’ve finally found my happiness, and it’s you.” Clemens softly explains, “You’ll stay even though I hate you, ja?”

You nod your head. It’s better to stay in line than to try and push him away in such a dangerous state. Clemens unveils the smallest of smiles. Of course, your agreement does not come from any willingness, but he’s so happy you're complacent. Truly, you feel hopeless to escape him.

“Wonderful. You will come back to my quarters with me, and I will show you where you will sit when I paint your portrait. You can see what I have been working on as well”

While his voice is calm and collected, Clemens feels his heart quicken. The rush of vitality caused his grip on you to get momentarily tighter. It was certainly noticeable too as you tense from the more firm touch.

“This is ‘excitement’. It is nice…”

“...”

“Ich liebe dich…”

He escorted you to your room with newfound satisfaction. It is cosmically ironic how the two of you swapped emotions. While Clemens has now found the answer to fill the empty void in his heart, you feel empty and caged. Your mind and face are wholly empty while there is a new spark of life within his eyes. You couldn't feel your legs as they shakily carried you along in his path. Clemens keeps a brisk pace, and the air feels extra cold this early in the morning. It felt like either two seconds or an eternity before he stopped. You’re at his quarters. He opens the door and what's inside makes your stomach churn like the pits of hell.

Countless paintings hung up on his walls, all of your face. Drawings and sketches of your image strewn across the floor. He had turned his room into an obsessive sanctuary dedicated to you.

“Oh my god…” You gag on your words as they feel ripped straight from your throat. Your face is pale as a ghost and your body feels numb. You have never felt worse in your whole life.

Clemens didn’t say anything in response to your horror, instead, he gently took hold of your cheek, wiping away a small tear you didn’t even know fell from your eye.

“You’re even more beautiful up close”

You’re petrified to the point you don’t even feel the small kiss he places on your cheek where your tear leaves a streak of dampness, and that is exactly the way he likes it.

~Time Skip~

You sat there, motionless in the grand velvet chair he had in his room. You stare at nothing in particular. You’d seen every painting in his room by now. There was nothing left to look at.

“Augen bitte hier…”

You’ve learned by now that if he speaks as he's painting you, he wants you to fix your posture and look at him. You’ve made the mistake of refusing, and it’s safe to say you’ll never make it again. You fixed your line sight towards him once more, straightening out your shoulders and lifting your chin higher. Despite his vacant visage, he seemed pleased,

“Perfekt”

His voice was smooth and dark as he focused intently on his brush strokes. You sat there, motionless and expressionless for a few more minutes until he placed his brush down, and walked towards you. You showed no signs of fear, disgust, or anger as he neared you. He stood in front of you, bringing his hand up and brushing it through your hair. He mumbled something about you looking beautiful, but you had heard it all before.

Ever since Clemens had gotten you in his grasp, he had been more vocal about his feelings. He’s far more open to expressing how beautiful he thinks you are, how much he despises you, and how happy he is that you’re dispirited. Most of your days are spent at his side now. He doesn’t seem keen to let you out of his eyesight, especially when there are other people around. When people see you with Clemens, they don’t seem willing to converse to you. You just accepted the reality that no one wants to talk to you anymore because they hate you now that you’ve changed, but the truth was Clemens had taken advantage of your strange behavior to weave a story about you losing your mind. No more did they have the sweet bundle of sunshine they loved, and he furthered his lie by saying you didn’t want to speak to any of them out of paranoia and doubt. Emotional manipulation had become his ultimate weapon, and it was terrifying how well he wielded it against you and everyone you loved.

Who you love…

You wondered where Benard was. Nobody has seen him for a while, and you haven't heard anything about his whereabouts. You hope he’s okay.

“Don’t let your head fall as I am painting you, okay? I need to see you clearly”

His hand went to your chin, stealing your gaze and tilting your head upwards. You swallowed dryly as you looked into his eyes. Those eyes never held anything good in them. You nodded weakly, agreeing to his words.

“Yes..”

He leaned closer, shifting his grip to bring your head to the crook of his neck. The smell of paint and old books evident on his clothes.

“Gut. Dat ist besser”

Your life as a caged muse was just as empty as you are, and he couldn't be more happy for your sorrow.

—END—