#is so far past i ever reached with any language other than english

[elumish]

I am constantly amazed by people who write stories in anything other than their native language.

[lynnie-ee]

Day 11; Dream.

╰┈➤"Your assignment for Crewel's class was easy; brewing a potion that allowed you to dream about your future at night. But you didn't expect a housewarden to appear on it, and even less to encounter him the morning after, as you were well aware of what waited for the two of you."

╰►Gender neutral reader, scenarios, 1.8k words. Mentions of marriage in almost all of them, mention of children in Kalim's part.

╰► Characters: Riddle, Leona, Kalim, Vil.

╰►Note: The prompts are based on words I found interesting and then I put them on a roulette to decide when I would write about them, lol. English is not my first language, so please let me know if there are any grammatical mistakes <3. Not proof read, I haven't written in a long time, so I apologise if anything is out of character.

╰►Masterlist / Inktober Masterlist.

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“So, if we do the potion correctly we’ll be able to dream about our future tonight?”

“That’s right, pup.” Professor Crewel nodded as he pointed at the board, where the steps for the potion were clearly written in detail, with all the considerations that were expected to be taken for the use of the components for the potion.

“That’s so cool…” Deuce mumbled, his eyes observing the board with excitement.

“You have an hour; you can start now.” Crewel signalized as each of you started to work on your potion.

By the end of the class, and after everyone had finished, it was finally the moment to drink the potion. You sighed with exhaustion, after spending the last hour doing your assignment at the same time as you helped Grim with his own potion.

“I already know I’ll be the greatest mage of all but it doesn’t hurt to see it by myself!” Grim spoke with a confident demeanour, drinking the potion immediately. You just giggled and imitated his action, although a bit slower than him.

The next morning, as you walked towards your classroom, you encountered Ace and Deuce in the middle of the hallway, with disappointed expressions on their faces.

“Oh, hello Prefect.” Deuce mumbled as soon as he saw you, which made you curious of their attitude.

“What’s the matter, boys? The potion didn’t work?” You frowned slightly, wondering what kind of future they could have for them to be in such a bad mood.

“I didn’t dream anything.” He sighed, as Ace groaned next to him.

“Me neither.” The Heartslabyul first-year murmured irritated. “Man, this really sucks…”

“Were you able to have the dream, Prefect?”

You stared at both of your friends for a few seconds, a sensation of heat reaching your cheeks after you recalled the events of the last night. You coughed to try to cover up your embarrassment, deciding to keep your dream to yourself.

“…No, I didn’t. A pity, really. Very unfortunate. Let’s go to class already, okay?” You suggested, walking past them to continue your way towards the classroom, too focussed on running away to notice the other student who was walking in the opposite direction, promptly crashing into him before you could avoid it.

“Oh, Prefect, are you okay?” You heard a voice call you as he held you to prevent you from falling.

‘Please don’t be him, please don’t be him…’ You thought to yourself as you raised your head to see the person who was talking to you. ‘Great Sevens, it’s him.’

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﹙❥﹚Riddle Rosehearts ❜ ˖ ࣪⊹ ִֶָ

“A pristine and beautiful home. Multiple pictures hung around the walls, along with diplomas and newspaper clippings that were arranged by you. A warm kitchen, a freshly baked strawberry tart on the table, matching hedgehog mugs. The front door opens, Riddle enters your home as he takes off his coat, immediately walking towards you to greet you with a soft kiss, far gentler than you have ever seen him before.

‘Hello, my rose. I see you got out of work early. Ah, you baked strawberry tart? But you must be tired. I’ll make tea while you take a break. What are you saying? I should be making herbal tea according to the Queen’s rules because of the hour? Just like old times…Fine, I’ll indulge you. Just rest for now, alright? I love you too.’ “

“I asked if you’re alright. Perhaps you hit yourself in the head?” Riddle, the actual Riddle asked once again, as you stared at him while still remembering your dream from last night.

“No, I’m okay!” You quickly stand straight, enlarging the distance between him and you, as he observes you with a stoic frown, an expression quite different from the one you recalled from the future. “I was just distracted. You probably were on your way to class, please don’t worry.”

“It’s nothing.” He mumbled, watching your nervous expression as he wondered the reason behind your unusual behaviour. “You’ll be late if you stand there, don’t get too distracted.” He added before turning back, making you sigh out of relief as you expected to be left alone to die of embarrassment by yourself, until Riddle looked at you briefly. “Ah, now I remember. Trey asked me to invite you to Heartslabyul this afternoon. He baked strawberry tart and said you might fancy an invitation.”

You stared at him for a few seconds, the question slipping out of your mouth before you could think about it. “Oh, of course, that’s your favourite, right?”

“You are correct, Prefect. Though, I wonder how you knew about that.” You couldn’t help but chuckle at his puzzled expression.

“I just guessed it right, you could say.”

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﹙➹﹚Leona Kingscholar ❜ ˖ ࣪⊹ ִֶ

“A crowded room, different people greeting you left and right, the sound of lively chattering. A frown on your beloved’s expression, Kifaji’s attentive gaze upon the two of you, the beautiful moonlight outside the ballroom. A hand guiding you outside the room, gently taking you to the garden to comfortably lay on the ground with him laying his head on your lap.

‘I couldn’t bear it anymore, I bet you were also tired from so many people. Being the spouse of the Second Prince isn’t all that good now, hm? What are you saying, you’re alright with it if it’s for me? You get so emotional at late hours, herbivore. You look exhausted, come here, I’ll carry you back to our room. Don’t you think I’ll do it for free, though, you better be a nice pillow when we arrive.’ “

“Watch where you’re going.” A harsh voice took out of your thoughts, a deadpanned expression on your voice when you realized the contrast between your dream and the man standing before you with the biggest scowl, showing you his annoyance. “Aren’t you supposed to be in class?”

“I was on my way, actually.” You stood with your back straight, trying to appear taller to show him confidence. “What about you? Aren’t you supposed to have class with Trein at this hour?”

“He’s not gonna notice, either way.” He watched as you frowned at him. “And I don’t care if he does, honestly. I’m going to the Botanical Garden, you’re coming to.” He took you by the arm to drag you in the opposite direction you were walking, a perplexed look on your face as Ace and Deuce continued their path instead of helping you.

“And why do I have to?!”

“Hm? You almost made me fall just now, don’t think I’ll let you slide that so easily."

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﹙ꕤ﹚Kalim Al-Asim ❜ ˖ ࣪⊹ ִֶָ

“Soft pillows all around the living room, warm tea, a beautiful scenery outside the window. The pleasant air of the Scalding Sands, the smell of freshly cooked meals, the joyful expressions of the children around you, were they your own or were they Kalim’s siblings? Him entering the room with the most contagious smile, running to you as soon as he spotted you to hold you in his arms, kissing you excitedly, a subtle urgency in his touch.”

‘Ah, I missed you so much! I didn’t leave for long, but I really needed to see you again. My trip was perfect, I hadn’t visited Jamil in such a long time so we talked a lot, and he sent you his greetings too! You should come with me next time, or would rather visit your friends at the Queendom of Roses? Whatever you want, I’ll arrange it immediately, so please tell me, sunshine.’ ”

“Ohhh, I’m so sorry! I wasn’t looking, are you okay Prefect?” Kalim was quick to ask, promptly inspecting your appearance to make sure you were alright.

"Yes, please don't worry, I should've been more careful..."

"What is it? Are you feeling tired, Prefect?"

"...Yeah, I didn't sleep well last night." You decided to use an excuse, not wanting to dig too deeply into your dreams from last night.

"You're always so busy! Perhaps you want to stop by Scarabia after class? Jamil is making curry tonight, maybe that'll make you feel better." He smiled warmly at you, his expression so sincere that it was hard for you to decline his invitation.

"I wouldn't want to bother you or Jamil, to be honest-"

"You're never a bother! You can also invite your friends, if you want. I'll be waiting for you, okay?"

You couldn't help but imitate his smile, chuckling at his kind demeanour.

"Of course, I'll be there."

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﹙𑁍﹚Vil Schoenheit ❜ ˖ ࣪⊹ ִֶָ

“Designer clothes, flashing lights, cameras all around you. The most elegant red carpet you’ve ever seen, posters with Vil’s face on it, fans screaming his name but also yours. His arm around your waist, reporters asking about your honeymoon, Vil replying how wonderful it was and how fortunate he was to have married such a lovely person.

‘I’m sorry, my love, I hope it wasn’t too exhausting for you. I’m glad you had a great night; you don’t know how grateful I am to you for joining me for these events. You’re concerned about being in the spotlight? You have nothing to worry about, my fans adore you. You shine naturally, my dear.’ “

“You should be more careful, Potato.” Vil’s usual stern voice rang in your ears, as you felt yourself blushing, the memories about him talking to you so sweetly still fresh in your mind. “And more attentive, too, did you rush outside your dorm without looking at yourself in the mirror?”

“I was just…distracted, this morning.”

“Don’t make excuses.” He added with a strict demeanour, but you could see that he was simply caring for you, in his own way, as he fixed your tie and buttoned up your blazer. “There it is, much better.”

“Thank you, dear.” You mumbled unconsciously, punching yourself mentally as soon as you realized the endearment that you added naturally, allowing you to observe for a brief moment Vil’s startled expression, which soon turned into an amused smile.

“A nice appearance is all it takes to make you that bold? You surely are unpredictable sometimes, Prefect. Good luck on your classes then, dear.”

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[maybeacloud]

Only The Good Die Young || E. Bridgerton

Summary: Fem!reader is staying with the Bridgertons for the social season and decides to confront Eloise about her feelings.

Word count: 0.8k

Warnings: None

<A/N> This is the first piece of fanfiction I have shared with anyone so it might be a bit rough, but if you have any feedback don’t be afraid to comment! Also, English isn’t my first language, sorry about any spelling errors :P

…

It was already past dark and most of the Bridgerton household had retired for the night. Only one person remained, curled up on a small sofa in the drawing room, her nose buried deep in a book. You could not help but stare. You were not sure you could ever get enough of it. Eloise’s hair, which had previously been pinned up, now hung loose around her face, and a burning candle cast a gentle light on her face.

You walked up to her, drawing her attention away from the yellowed parchment. “May I speak to you about something?” You said hesitantly, suddenly too nervous to meet her gaze.

She laughed “Of course you may. You can always come to me.” Her smile was as warm as always, and her eyes looked like deep blue waters in the flickering candlelight. You suddenly felt hot, as if you skin was burning, and you forced yourself to look away.

“If we are to remain friends-“

Eloise cut you off; “Of course we are, what makes you believe that we would not?” She tried to make it sound light hearted, but the words came out sharper than she had intended.

“If we are to remain friends” you started again “I can not keep secrets from you”

You looked down on your friend. Her face had settled in a worried expression. You suddenly regretted bringing up the topic but that was to no avail. You must finish what you started.

“I have these - feelings - that I would like to discuss. And I do not expect you to feel the same way…” at this point you had started pacing back and forth like a trapped animal.

“… but in these past few weeks I have come to know you as someone who is not quick to judge others, and I sincerely hope you will grant me that kindness…” Your steps slowed.

“For I hope I have not misjudged you, ms. Bridgerton.”

As you turned to look at her, your eyes meeting for the first time since you started you rambling, you knew you had to tell her. You could not keep a friendship build on lies.

Her eyes were wide and her lips were parted slightly as if she was wanting to say something. You stood in silence for a moment allowing her time to intervene. But she just tilted her head slightly, her eyebrows furrowing into an expression of worry and confusion.

You realised you had dragged this out for far too long. And you suspected your nervous fidgeting had not helped soothe your friend’s worries.

“Every time I look at you, Eloise, it’s as if my whole world disappears and I am left with nothing but blank space; I am left grasping to find my way back to reality because if I am alone with you my mind will wander to places it should not.” You could not afford to stop talking, for if you did you might not find you way back.

“I am willing to throw away whatever dignity I have if it means I get to hold you, and it scares me. Because I- I have never felt like this before.” That last sentence came out more as a whisper.

Eloise sat still as a statue, unchanged, and for a second you started to wonder if you had imagined the whole thing, but then she moved. She straightened her posture, looked down at the book laying on her lap and hesitated for a moment before fixing her gaze back onto you. You suddenly felt unable to breathe, as if a weight was put on you chest.

Eloise, without breaking eye contact, untangled her bare feet from her nightgown and slowly stood up, meeting you at eye level.

Her face was impossible to read as her expression seemed to change constantly.

“Eloise, I-“ You started to apologise, but all words left you as you felt her hand reach for yours. Her touch was warm, like a small spark that quickly grew into a burning fire. She held onto your hand, still with her eyes fixed on you. And without thinking you took a single step, almost closing the distance between your bodies.

She was close enough for you to feel her warm breaths against your skin and you could not pull your eyes from her face. You were desperate to memorise every freckle on her face, the way the flickering shadows from the candlelight softened her features and then there were her eyes. They were like a frozen lake; idle on the surface, but beneath it lies a deeper water, constantly moving with the current. They wandered across your face before settling on your lips.

“Tell me…“ She trailed of, her voice was low and husky. A shaky breath escaped your lips and she took that as an invitation to start slowly guiding your hand upward until your palm rested against the bare skin right below her collarbone. “…tell me if you want me to stop.”

And with that she fully closed the distance between you, and as your lips met hers you knew that you never wanted her to let go.

…

[otomehonyaku]

DIABOLIK LOVERS More,Blood Stellaworth Complete Set Tokuten Short Stories ☽ Ruki ver.

Original title: DIABOLIK LOVERS MORE,BLOOD ステラワース全巻連動購入特典ショートストーリ English translation by @otomehonyaku Scans can be found here (courtesy of @karleksmumskladdkaka!)

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

SUMMARY | This short story provides a slice of Ruki and Yui's daily life after the events of More,Blood. Ruki has always had a preference for soup, but when Yui prepares a particularly hearty vegetable soup for him one day, he comes to an important realisation.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Please do not reuse or repost my translations elsewhere or translate my work into other languages without my permission.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

—The first time I learned to appreciate soup was when I was in that dark cage.

“It had already gone cold, but to me, it was the most delicious thing on Earth back then. It was infinitely better than the junk I ate while I roamed the streets, after all.”

“Oh…”

Somehow, as I ate the soup she had prepared for me, I had somehow started talking about all the reasons why I had this particular preference for the dish. The story had stolen the words right from her mouth.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have brought up such an unpleasant story during dinner.”

“That’s… that’s not it,” she explained, hurrying to wipe the tears from her eyes. That’s not what I meant…”

“Do you pity my past self?”

“Pity kind of feels like… a high-handed way of putting it. I don’t mean it like that…”

“I see.” My voice was monotonous while I spoke. 

I took up my spoon again and continued to eat. 

It was a simple consomme soup, filled with colourful slices of a variety of vegetables. The soup that we were served during our time in the detention facility was a far cry from this. Back then, the few off-coloured beans that floated in the soup, though they barely had any nutritional value, were enough to bring me at least an inkling of happiness. 

While the memory resurfaced, it occurred to me that I had obtained true happiness since then, no matter how absurd it seemed.

“And to think a human would accompany me at dinner…” I mumbled to myself, earning a surprised look and a soft what did you say? from her. 

It’s nothing, I swiftly replied.

My life was saved by Him. The four of us had been destined to die a noble death in that filthy cell, and yet He had rescued us. Just like that, he became our god. Our saviour.

Someone to serve.

My brothers and I would do anything to fulfil his wishes without batting so much as an eye. And yet… What was I even doing right now?

I let her make soup for me like this. She willingly stayed with me all this time, even though she cannot become Eve. Even though I cannot become Adam.

“Ruki…?”

As we sat in silence, various thoughts stirring inside of me and picking at my resolve, I reached across the table to take her hand in my own.

“...?”

“Sorry. Would it be alright… if we stayed like this for a little while?” I said, my grip on her small, soft hand tightening. 

Greed is a grave sin according to God. 

Considering that I agreed with Him, I was awfully addicted to this greed all the same. I was the sinner of all sinners, thriving on such atrocities. When a simple bean soup was all it took to please you, the first taste of a good vegetable soup makes it easy to take such happiness for granted.

“Still, I will…” 

Never let you go, I wanted to say, but I could not manage the words. She likely did not want to listen to the mutterings of such a weak, pitiable man.

It was difficult to gauge her thoughts, but it was then that she spoke with a gentle smile on her face. “Don’t worry.”

“What?”

“I’ll be by your side, Ruki.”

My eyes unconsciously widened in response. Her soft smile made my chest ache. She was Eve and I was her captor—she should be miserable, and yet she was so extraordinarily kind. 

Did she not realise that it would only add to my suffering?

“Alright,” I replied curtly. Then, ever so unwillingly…  I let go of her hand. “The soup is getting cold. Let’s eat.”

“Yes, let’s.”

After that, we ate the soup together in silence. 

I found myself thinking there was nothing in the world that I wanted more in that moment. No matter how lavish a meal I would be served, I would cherish this vegetable soup as my favourite dish for as long as I lived.

[southtopaz]

PSYCHO KILLER - SCREAM

Summary: in which Iris Morris has to navigate her personal relationships while surviving a psycho

Warnings: Fem!reader, angst, mention of violence, swearing, mention of death, past Amber freeman x Fem reader, Tara Carpenter x Fem reader, multiple parts.

Word count: +3,5

A/n: The next three chapters won’t follow the original storyline of the movies, because I wanted to write something outside of it, but after that we get to Scream 6. If you just want to read Scream 6 storyline, skip to part 12. English is not my first language, so I apologize for any grammatical mistake.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10

"I can't believe we just graduated!" Iris exclaimed, her voice bubbling with a mix of disbelief and exhilaration. She was practically bouncing on her heels, now that they changed into normal clothes and not the ones from the ceremony.

Mindy rolled her eyes, a playful smirk dancing on her lips. "I'm mostly surprised by the fact they let YOU graduate," Iris scoffed, her tone dripping with indignation. "You're dumb as fuck"

"Fuck you Mindy, I hope you die". Iris added with a glare, crossing her arms over her chest.

"You can ask your next girlfriend, who knows maybe you have a type". The moment the words tumbled out of her mouth, Iris's eyes widened, and before Mindy could react, Iris lunged at her. In an instant, she was on Mindy's back, trying to wrestle her to the ground in a flurry of insults and playful shoving.

Just then, Chad and Tara strolled by, drawn in by the chaotic situation. They paused, exchanging amused glances as they took in the scene.

"What's going on?" Tara asked, a bemused smile creeping across her face.

"Mindy is being a fucking asshole".

"So a normal day then". Chad quipped, a teasing glint in his eyes. He leaned against a nearby railing, arms crossed, clearly enjoying the show, all while ignoring the middle finger his sister threw at him. "We were going to ask you both to come and get pizza with us and Sam, but if you guys are busy..."

At that, Mindy and Iris exchanged a glance, a silent understanding passing between them. They both knew that pizza was far more enticing than their bickering.

"Yeah, okay, we can go," Mindy said with a grin, finally managing to shake Iris off her back. They began walking toward the parking lot, the sun shining down on them, casting a warm glow over the scene.

As they walked along, Chad chuckled, shaking his head. "They are so fucking weird," he remarked, gesturing at the duo who were now playfully jostling each other again, their laughter ringing out in the air.

They reached their favorite restaurant, a cozy little spot adorned with twinkling fairy lights and the aroma of freshly baked pizza wafting through the air. As they stepped inside, they spotted Sam already settled into a booth. Iris had just finished a call with her mother, reassuring her not to wait up. Ever since the attacks four months ago, her mom had insisted on knowing Iris's whereabouts at all times, and honestly she couldn't really blame her for it. They had all been lucky, and that knowledge weighed heavily on her heart.

Chad and Mindy slid into the booth beside Sam, while Iris and Tara took their seats across from them. The familiar chatter of the restaurant buzzed around them, a comforting backdrop to the occasion. Once they placed their orders, a wave of excitement and nervousness surged among them.

"So first of all, congratulations, guys! I'm so proud of you all," Sam declared, raising her glass high in celebration. The others quickly followed suit, their glasses clinking together with a satisfying sound.

"We did it! Not even fucking Ghostface could have stopped us from graduating!" Chad beamed, his smile warm and genuine as he took a sip of his drink.

"Honestly, I'm shocked we did it, but I'm really happy," Tara added, her voice laced with disbelief and joy.

Iris's smile faltered for a moment, her heart heavy as she thought of those who should have been there with them. "Yeah, can't help but think Wes and Liv should be here too," she sighed, the weight of her words casting a shadow over the table. A heavy silence enveloped them, each person acutely aware of the absence of their friends. They knew who else was missing in the celebration but no one wanted to say her name, especially not Iris; the ache of the betrayal was still too fresh.

"For Liv and Wes," Chad finally broke the silence, raising his drink again, his tone solemn. "This is for you guys."

"Wherever they are, I hope they're proud too," Iris muttered, her voice barely above a whisper. She felt Tara's hand squeeze hers softly, a comforting gesture that warmed her heart amidst the sorrow.

After a few moments of silence, Mindy shifted the conversation. "So, what are we doing next?" she asked, her voice lightening the mood. "We all got into Blackmore University, so we're definitely seeing each other's faces"

"Unfortunately, I still have to see yours," Iris shot back, unable to resist a teasing grin.

"My face card is amazing, Iris; you should be thankful I let you see it". Mindy retorted with a mock-seriousness that drew laughter from the group.

"I'm excited to finally leave this fucking town". Sam chimed in, her enthusiasm infectious. "We just need to find somewhere to live".

As they chatted about their plans, with Chad and Mindy dreaming of living independently and Sam and Tara discussing the kind of apartment they wanted, Iris sat in contemplative silence. The idea of living alone filled her with dread, yet she wasn't sure she could trust a random roommate either. The conversation swirled around her, but her thoughts drifted elsewhere.

After their meal, they decided to head to The Carpenter's house for a movie night. As Sam, Chad, and Mindy led the way, Tara slowed her pace, matching her steps to Iris's.

"What's on your mind?" Tara asked gently, her tone inviting Iris to open up.

"What do you mean?" Iris replied, trying to feign ignorance.

"You've been really quiet during dinner, and no offense, Ris, but you usually talk way too much for your own good."

"Okay, rude," Iris joked half-heartedly, but Tara didn't let it slide.

"C'mon, what happened?"

With a deep sigh, Iris turned her gaze to the floor, the weight of her worries pressing down on her. "I guess I'm just worried."

"About what?"

"Our life in New York," she admitted, her shoulders slumping in resignation. "I don't know how I'm going to find a place for myself."

"Why would you find a place for yourself alone?" Tara asked, her brow furrowed in confusion.

"Because I have to live somewhere?" Iris replied, a hint of confusion creeping into her voice.

"I thought you were going to live with me and Sam."

"Wait, really?" Iris's heart skipped a beat.

"Yeah, we always included you in our plans," Tara said softly, her voice comforting. "I know you hate the idea of living alone, and you're just as paranoid as Sam, so obviously you're not going to live with someone you don't know on your own."

"I hate that you know me," Iris said, smiling at Tara while the shorter girl shrugged nonchalantly. “Are you sure you guys don't mind living with me?" her voice tinged with uncertainty.

"Why would we?"

"Well... I mean," Iris stuttered, the hesitation lingering between them. Tara raised her eyebrows, encouraging her to continue. "We are rebuilding our friendship after everything. I just don't want you to feel uncomfortable."

Tara studied Iris for a moment, her gaze unwavering. "I would never be uncomfortable with you, Ris," she said, her voice softening. "Also, we can use this as a way to continue building our friendship again."

"Yeah, I would like that," Iris said, nudging Tara playfully, relief flooding her.

"Me too," Tara replied, a smile breaking across her face.

A whole month of packing, and endless preparations had led to this moment. It was time for Iris to leave for New York, a city that felt both thrilling and terrifying. As she stood in the driveway, she was pretty sure her mom had no tears left to cry. The goodbye was heavy, filled with unspoken fears and hopes.

"Iris, promise me you'll call every day," her mother insisted, her voice shaky. The grip on her daughter's hand was firm, desperate to hold into her for a little bit longer.

Iris nodded, her throat tight. "I promise." And as the tears spilled over, she was grateful that Mindy wasn't around to make fun of her for crying.

Mindy and Chad were already on their way with their mom, the excitement in their voices echoing in Iris's mind, while Sam was handling the logistics of moving all of her and her sister's things. That left Tara, who would be traveling with Iris, the one who had volunteered to drive.

When Tara arrived with her bags, the moment felt bittersweet. Rachel, Iris's mom, saw her and immediately burst into tears again, wrapping Tara in a tight embrace. "I can't believe you both are moving," she sobbed, holding them as if she could freeze time. "Remember when you two would come in here and help me make cookies?"

Tara smiled, her eyes shining with memories. "Those were amazing cookies, Rachel. The best." She could almost taste the warm chocolate chip dough and feel the laughter that filled the kitchen, a reminder of simpler times.

"You're both so grown up," Rachel said, pulling them into another hug, her voice muffled against their shoulders.

"God, Mom, you're gonna scare Tara with all your tears," Iris teased, trying to lighten the mood.

"Don't be mean, dear. I'm just emotional and old—leave me alone," Rachel retorted, a playful smile breaking through her tears. They truly were mother and daughter with the same sense of humor.

Tara laughed wholeheartedly, a sound that warmed the air around them. She adored the relationship Iris had with her mom, a bond filled with warmth and understanding. In fact, she felt a pang of longing for that kind of connection with her own mother, who had always seemed distant. Rachel had always treated Tara like one of her own, and she found herself getting more emotional saying goodbye to Rachel than to her own mother.

With one last hug, Tara moved to grab Iris's belongings. "Oh, Tara, you don't have to do that," Iris protested, reaching out.

"Say goodbye to your mom," Tara said gently, resting a hand on Iris's arm, her touch comforting. "I'll put this in the car." With that, she walked away, leaving Iris alone with her mother.

"I'm really glad you guys are friends again," Rachel said, her smile warm and knowing.

"Me too, I missed her," Iris admitted, her heart aching with a mix of happiness and guilt.

Rachel's gaze softened, filled with understanding. "She is good for you. Always has been."

Iris stared at her, momentarily confused by the implication. Before she could ask what her mom meant by that, Rachel pulled her into one last embrace. "Come on, don't leave her waiting. Call me when you guys arrive, okay, dear?"

"Okay, Mom. I love you," Iris said, squeezing her tightly, savoring the warmth of her mother's embrace.

"I love you more," Rachel replied, her voice breaking as she pulled away, wiping her cheeks but unable to hide the glistening in her eyes.

As Iris watched her mother step back, a sense of finality settled over her. She turned to find Tara waiting by the car, her face lit up with excitement. Taking a deep breath, Iris approached Tara, who was adjusting the last of the bags in the trunk. "Thanks for being here," Iris said, her voice steady but her heart still racing.

Tara looked up and smiled, her expression softening. "Always. Imagine how bored you would be without me."

"Let's go and start living our life"

Iris nodded, her heart swelling with a mix of hope and nostalgia. As they climbed into the car, the engine roared to life, and with one last glance at her childhood home, Iris felt the rush of excitement wash over her.

The sun was just starting to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink as Iris and Tara navigated the never-ending roadway. They had been on the road for hours, their excitement for the move to New York palpable, but the sea of red brake lights ahead could only mean they would be stuck for a couple of hours.

"Of course there's traffic" Tara sighed, tapping her fingers on the dashboard to the rhythm of the Taylor Swift song playing softly in the background. "We should've left earlier."

Iris glanced at her, a grin creeping across her face. "Maybe but we wouldn't have this quality time together." Tara rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress a smile. They had spent the past month planning this move and the thought of finally being in the city was exhilarating. When they were younger, she recalled, they used to speak about moving to New York together after high school so they could go to the same college. Tara believed the dream was over two years ago, but now she couldn't believe it was actually happening. Gazing at Iris, she couldn't resist the smile that spread across her face.

Iris feeling the stare, turned to her friend with a smirk of her own. "Why are you staring at me you creep?"

"I can't believe you just called me a creep"

"Then don't act like one" Tara softly punched her in the arm while Iris pretended that it hurt her.

"I'm just happy"

"About what? It can't possibly be the traffic" Iris joked though they both knew what Tara meant.

"About us going to New York...together" Iris stared into Tara's eyes. "With the rest of course, but I just... I guess I never thought we would get here after everything".

"I will never not feel guilty about that" Iris stared down at the steering wheel in shame before Tara grabbed her hand and squeezed it in order to give her comfort.

"Don't, it wasn't your fault" Tara truly didn't blame her. "Don't get depressed, we still have like five hours in this car, if you cry I'm going to kill myself"

"Not guilty anymore, fuck you" They both laughed.

After a few moments, Tara received a message from Sam saying she was already at their new apartment while Chad and Mindy were close behind. It seemed as if they were the only two left with a long way to go, trapped in the confines of the car as the city loomed ahead like a distant dream.

"So what can we do in New York?" Iris asked, glancing out at the blurred skyline that gradually sharpened into focus. "Aside from visiting all the obvious places."

Tara's face lit up with enthusiasm. "We can watch a lot of movies." There was a spark in her eyes; she had always loved movies and her major in film studies reflected her passion. It was her escape, a world of imagination where anything was possible. But for Iris, who was knee-deep in her psychology studies, movies were just a distraction—something she'd never quite understood.

"When you say movies, I hope you don't mean horror movies," Iris said, a frown creeping onto her face. The very thought made her stomach twist uncomfortably. Tara and Mindy's casual enjoyment of the genre baffled her, especially after everything that had happened five months ago.

"Well..." Tara began, a playful glint in her eye.

"How can you like them so much? I'll never understand." Iris shook her head, exasperated.

"Horror movies are great for several reasons, Iris." Tara's tone shifted to that of a passionate lecturer, and Iris groaned in annoyance for the impending explanation. "First, they provide this incredible adrenaline rush from jump scares and tense moments. It's an addictive experience, really, embracing the unknown. Second, they explore deep themes, like the human psyche, societal fears, and moral dilemmas. And third," she continued, her excitement bubbling over, "it's just really fun to watch them with friends"

"I literally do not care about anything that you just said"

"You cared enough to listen until the end" Tara smiled cheekily at her, she knew Iris was just being annoying on purpose.

"Whatever" Iris muttered, crossing her arms. "Weirdo"

"Hater," Tara shot back, pointing a finger at her in exaggerated mock anger. "We can watch Hereditary, The Witch, It Follows, The Conjuring..."

"The only one I know is The Conjuring" Iris interrupted, her voice tinged with reluctance.

"Really? You watched it?" Tara asked, her eyebrows raised in surprise.

"Yeah, I watched it with Am..." Iris's voice trailed off, the name hanging heavily in the air. Just saying it conjured a wave of memories she wasn't ready to face. Amber. She had watched it with Amber.

"You know you can say her name, right?" Tara's gaze softened, her expression tinged with concern and pity. Iris hated that look. It felt like a reminder of everything she wanted to forget.

"She doesn't deserve to be named," Iris snapped, her frustration bubbling over.

"She doesn't, but how else can you move on?" Tara's voice was gentle but firm.

"I have moved on," Iris insisted, though her heart felt heavy with doubt.

"No, you haven't, and that's okay. No one has, honestly." Tara sighed, her eyes drifting toward the city lights as they flickered to life against the dusk. "I have nightmares most nights, and every time I hear a phone ringing, I can't help but startle."

Iris looked away, her throat tightening. She remembered the echoes of shouting, the blood spilling everywhere, the sound of a bullet being fired and the sudden quiet that had followed the tragic events of that night. They had all been so trusting and naïve. Now, the shadows of the past loomed large, and the memories they had with the people they once loved had been tinged with anger and loss.

"It's just... I want to enjoy things again without thinking about her," Iris finally confessed, her voice barely above a whisper.  "It's like she's everywhere".

Tara reached over and squeezed her hand, a silent acknowledgment of the pain they both carried. "I get it, Iris. But sometimes, facing those fears in whatever way we can think of can help us heal, even when it feels impossible."

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of Tara's words sinking in. The traffic continued to crawl, but in that moment, the world outside faded away. All that mattered was the bond they shared, their unspoken understanding of grief, loss, and the faint glimmer of hope that one day, they might truly move forward.

"I'm sorry for what happened to you". Iris said, her voice barely above a whisper, laced with sincerity.

Tara looked away, feeling the weight of her trauma press heavily on her chest. "It also happened to you. Don't be sorry for something you had no control over." Her tone was firm, but the quiver in her voice betrayed the strength she was trying to show.

"She hurt you because of me," Iris insisted, the guilt etched across her face like a permanent shadow.

"She would've hurt me either way, Iris," Tara replied, her heart aching at the thought of what her "best friend" wanted to do to her. They both knew that she was right but Iris couldn't help but feel like without even knowing she pushed Amber to insanity.

A few moments of silence passed, and the tension between them hung in the air. Iris felt a crack in her armor and let herself be vulnerable. "I don't know how to move on," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I don't know if I ever will."

Tara squeezed her hand tightly, rubbing small circles on it with her thumb, grounding them both in the moment. "You won't forget what happened but you will move on. It will take time, but we all will." There was a warmth in Tara's eyes, a flicker of hope that Iris longed to believe.

"How can you be so sure?" Iris asked, searching her friend's gaze for answers.

"Because if we don't, then they win." Tara's voice was steady, filled with fierce determination. She locked eyes with Iris, a fire igniting between them. "And I'm not gonna let them win. I'm not gonna let them ruin me."

Iris felt her heart swell at Tara's words. "You amaze me," she said softly, a smile breaking through her sorrow.

Tara blushed, ducking her head, her cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and pride. After a moment, she looked back up, her eyes shining. "Surprisingly enough, I'm following Mindy's advice."

"Mindy's advice? Oh, we are so fucked," Iris joked, a laugh escaping her despite the heaviness in her heart.

"I know, right? Insane," Tara replied, her laughter mingling with Iris's, creating a brief moment of levity in the darkness. But then Tara's expression shifted, becoming serious. "But she did tell me something that really resonated with me."

"What's that?".

"The first step to let go of that day is to let go of the anger," Tara said, her voice steady.

Iris pondered this, frowning. "How do you let go of the anger?"

Tara took a deep breath, her gaze distant for a moment as she searched for the right words. "By acknowledging what they did. By saying their names. If we ignore it, if we don't say their names, then we are still living in that day, and I refuse it."

"I refuse it too," Iris echoed, her voice firmer now.

As they sat in the car, the city lights flickering to life outside, Tara gently brushed a stray hair from Iris's face, her fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary. The simple gesture sent a flutter through Iris's chest, a mix of warmth and something deeper that she dared not name.

Tara's hand remained intertwined with Iris's, and as they shared a look filled with understanding, Iris couldn't help but notice the way Tara's eyes sparkled.

"You're stronger than you realize." Tara said softly, her thumb tracing the back of Iris's hand.

Iris felt her heart race, her cheeks flushing slightly. "Maybe I could just follow your example". she admitted, the weight of her words hanging in the air between them. "What's the first step to let go then?".

"Well, I started by saying, Richie and Amber, the fuckers that tried to kill us." Tara's voice trembled slightly, but as she spoke the names aloud, a surprising softness washed over the moment. Iris let out a soft laugh, and it immediately made Tara smile.

"Richie and... Amber, the fuckers that tried to kill us," Iris echoed, her tone teasing yet light, as if saying their names had somehow lifted a weight.

"You see? First step." Tara beamed, her heart swelling with the shared act of acknowledgment.

"When did you get so wise?" Iris asked, a playful lilt in her voice.

"When I realized that someone had to be the smart one in the group," Tara replied, her grin widening.

"Oh, fuck you," Iris shot back, laughter bubbling up between them, brightening the somber air like the city lights emerging against the night sky.

"We are still not watching The Babadook" Iris declared once the conversation shifted, shaking her head firmly, but the mischievous twinkle in her eyes betrayed her playful intent.

"Oh, come onnnn," Tara whined, pouting dramatically as she leaned into Iris's shoulder, her warmth radiating against the taller girl's side. It was moments like this, filled with laughter and light-hearted banter, that made the heaviness of their shared past feel a little lighter.

As the drive continued, the atmosphere shifted; it was filled with laughter and banter. They talked about everything from silly childhood memories to their expectations in their new life in New York.

And if Tara and Iris held hands during most of the trip, well, no one had to know about it.

[chibsandchill]

Glory of the father

Fandom: HOTD (house of the dragon)

Pairing: implied past Aemond x AFAB!reader

Characters: Aemond Targaryen, AFAB!Targaryen!reader, Daemon Targaryen

Summary: As Daemon’s eldest it is your duty to protect your house by any means necessary. 

Warnings: Grammatical and spelling errors (English is not my native language), angst, descriptions of violence and bodily harm, a drawn out fight, not a happy ending

Masterlist

:-:-:-:-:-:-:

“Forgive me.” 

The bolt soars towards the goliath of a creature. You hold your breath. Your aim was true, too true. It pierces the great she-dragon’s eye, and her roar of pain makes the very earth tremble. And then, 

she’s falling. 

From far above the God’s Eye. Her sounds of pain are carried to you by the wind, never ending, ear-piercing shrieks. It is the sound of another piece of ancient magic ripped from the world, a bleeding wound that will never close – forever festering and weeping. Her descent is slow. Vhagar tries to stop it – spreading her wings as far as they can reach, but her body is failing her. There is nothing she can do to stop it. 

Nothing she can do to save him. 

Her wings flare one last time before she falls quiet. Her great jaws slacken and her head falls back. 

A dragon’s death is a sad thing. There is no joy to be found in watching her fall, despite the harm and death she had caused, it feels as though a piece of you dies with her. But there is no place for regret in your heart. 

Vhagar lived a long life, saw many riders fall and yet she remained. Alone. Perhaps there is some mercy in this, to reunite the queen of dragons with her beloved Visenya – with Meraxes and Rhaenys, and Balerion and Aegon. 

In the distance Caraxes roared louder than he had ever roared before. 

Thirteen days had you waited in Harrenhal for them. For thirteen days you worked to set the trap, shaved and hacked at iron to make the bolt. Thirteen days of chopping down countless trees – weirwood trees so that every god would be your witness. 

Just before Vhagar hits the water, a small figure is seen falling off her back. You do not tear your eyes off the dragon to watch him disappear into the depths of the lake. She would not go silently and alone, her last moments forgotten to time. 

You adjust the helmet on your head and wait. 

The sun has started its descent into the horizon when the kinslayer reaches the shore. His hair is plastered to his face, missing an eyepatch and hair tie. But there is no mistaking your uncle. You would recognize the sneer on his face even if you were blind, for that was all you had ever known him to be – a cowering cunt who lurks in shadows and leers at you from behind his mother’s skirts. 

Aemond One-Eye staggers to his feet, his chest heaving. 

“Coward.” He spits. 

You do not respond. 

“What? Nothing to say? Do I frighten you so, Nuncle, that you would not meet me as equals? Instead you cower on the ground. Craven!” Aemond moves to draw his sword. He’s soaking wet, and his boots squelch with every hasty step towards you. 

You straighten your back and pull your sword from its scabbard. The armor is light and you move almost without a sound, but its elaborate dragon design is infamous. Black scales reflect the dying sun when you move into stance. Aemond would not go down without a fight. 

He moves first. A simple thrust to test you. His sword is easily knocked away with yours. Another move, a quick step to the side followed by a broad slash aimed at your chest. You block it, but the hit staggers you. 

Your uncle has grown strong. 

“You disappoint me, Daemon.”

You scoff. There is little honor to be found fighting your kin. Still, you say nothing. His taunts and insults roll off you like water off a duck’s back. Instead, you step to the side. And then again, and again, until the two of you circle each other. You feign a lunge. He doesn’t move. 

The next time you lunge he’s ready. He side-steps, then twists and bashes the hilt of his sword against your helmet. Black spots dance in front of your eyes but you retaliate with a well-timed slash against his abdomen. Aemond dances away, but not before your sword cuts through the leather garb and draws blood. He moves like a blur as he twists back around. His sword but a few millimeters from cutting out your eyes. 

He would blind you, the coward. 

You grunt as you straighten up again, kicking at his knee. He buckles but doesn’t fall, barely managing to roll away from your sword. Your swords meet once, twice, and then thrice before you break off. You side-step to the left, jump back to avoid his swing, then fall down to one knee to swipe at his knee. 

This time he falls. 

But he is back up again too quickly. 

“I recognize you now.” He sneers. “You fight without honor. Just like that whore daughter of yours.”

Your blood boils. What does he know of honor? 

He comes at you again, faster than before. You parry his blow with one of your own, but you miss. Aemond’s sword digs into the flesh of your arm through the armor. Adrenaline drowns out most of the pain, but not all of it. It makes you hesitate. It makes you slow. 

You bash your sword against his, then again, and again until you’re driving him back. He is short and lithe, fast and agile, but you are your father’s daughter, and so you have both the strength, the mind, and the speed. You move around his twist of feet, dance around his blows and deliver small but significant blows to his limbs. 

“When I’m done with you,” he starts, “I’ll pay her a visit. I’ll tell her all about her coward of a father. She loved Vhagar. She won’t mourn you.” 

The irony. 

Your chest shakes with laughter, and he bristles at the sight of it. It drives him to action. He spins around to gain momentum, swinging his sword around. Your whole body vibrates with the force it hits your own sword with. It almost sends you to the ground. 

You jump towards him with your sword and just before your swords meet, you pull out one of the blades attached to your belt and thrust it into his stomach. It lodges deep in him, and he falters. His arm falls, and without his sword there to block your sloppy swing, it cuts him straight across the face. It misses his good eye, but his nose and cheek are not so lucky. The cut is deep and blood gushes out of it. 

The sound he lets out is hard to describe, but you can tell he’s in pain. 

His voice is shaking as he speaks next, but the anger in his voice rings clear. “I changed my mind. I’ll take her eye instead. ‘Tis only fitting, she did steal mine after all.”

You believe him. Shame he’ll never have the chance. 

You pull another knife free from your belt but you keep your distance. Aemond is coiled like a snake, ready to strike. The blow will be devastating, this you know. You taught him that move. 

Then, he’s pushing himself to his feet, one hand clutching his stomach, the other lifting his sword. He points it at you, flabs of mangled skin droop down, revealing the bloody mess hiding underneath his skin. You almost expected there to be scales. 

Aemond walks towards you, steps light and brisk. Dust kicks up around the two of you as the dance starts again. This time, you move first. You grab the sword with two hands, swing it upright and then pull it down. Aemond rolls away. You recover quickly, and aim another swing his way, this one lighter. He blocks it. 

“Why do you not call for Caraxes, Nuncle?” He taunts. “Perhaps then this will be a fair fight.”

If only he knew. 

“Or has he, too, realized what an old fool you are and abandoned you?” 

As if hearing his words, Caraxes high-pitched whistle can be heard in the distance. 

“Your daughter will be his next rider, I’m sure. The next best thing, I suppose. Tell me, is it true that she is not a daughter at all?”

You lunge. He swats your blow away. 

“Why, one could almost mistake the two of you for twins.” Aemond laughs. It’s a hollow, broken sound. 

He keeps on laughing. It echoes around you. The birds mimic the sound, the trees follow along. It is unbearable. It is manic, it’s insane. Your next hit is impulsive, irrational even, but Aemond’s eye is closed as his whole body twitches with laughter. Your sword cuts through him easier than butter. It slides through skin and muscle, organs and innards, until the bloodied point emerges on the other side. 

Blood trickles from the corners of his lips. 

You let him fall. 

But you do not watch him fall. 

He does not deserve it. 

He is unworthy. 

You look over his head, out on the lake. You wish he fell with Vhagar. Then you could remember him as the boy you knew, not the man he is. 

Then, a shout. It’s weak but the voice is familiar. The person shouts again. They’re shouting your name. 

They get closer. Yes, it’s your name. But who’s shouting? 

Aemond sputters on the ground, but clings to life. Stubborn to the end. 

It’s clear now. Your name. Rushed footsteps grow closer. They’re running. Fast. Your name, again. 

The voice grows clearer and clearer. 

The voice is frantic now, panicked, almost. It’s just your name over and over again. 

You start to turn, 

“Fa-”

Blood spills out of your mouth. Then, pain like never before. It burns and is freezing at the same time. You don’t want to look down, don’t want to see what you know to be true. You fall to your knees, and the sword is dragged out of you. 

You scream in pain. 

But it’s not enough for him. You can see the figure running towards you now, can recognize the shining white hair and the lean build of your father. Fingers grasp the edges of your helmet and yank it off just as the blade is shoved inside you again. 

A shocked gasp. 

You can hear Aemond staggering back. The helmet drops to the ground. 

Aemond whispers your name. It is the voice of the boy you knew, but you do not turn. That boy is gone, destroyed by this monster wearing his skin, his name, his everything. 

You want to lift your arms. You’re so terribly cold, but your arms won’t move. Your head spins, your vision shifts between focused and blurry. He’s almost here. Your father is almost here. 

“Father.” You choke out. Blood pools down your chin. It’s filling your throat. 

Daemon screams your name, and Aemond’s voice grows weaker. He’s leaving. 

Running. 

“Craven.” You call out to him. “I should have taken both your eyes!” 

It feels like time slows down as you fall towards the ground. Your father won’t make it. You’ll soon be gone, you know this. You’ll be gone and you’ll go as a failure. Aemond still lives, the monster you created will run back to his pit of vipers and lick his wounds. And then he’ll come for your family again. And again. And again. 

Warm arms catch you just as you’re about to hit the ground. You’re turned to lay on your back. There’s more blackness to your vision than not, but you see your father’s eyes brimming with tears. 

You want to wipe them away, tell him that you’ll be alright. 

But you can’t. 

And you’re not. 

“What were you thinking taking my armor to fight that bastard?!” He shakes you, then clutches you closer – stuck between punishing you and comforting his dying daughter. 

The words are right there, drowning in the blood on your tongue. 

He was my responsibility. 

I wanted to be useful for once. 

I wanted to make you proud. 

Tears fall from his eyes at your silence, but you can do nothing to comfort him. 

“Sh, sh, sweet girl,” he presses his lips to your forehead, the hand not holding you to him brushing through your hair, “it’s okay. I’ll see you soon.”

Caraxes shriek in the distance. He knows what’s happened. He knows that you will be lost to him. 

Your vision is gone soon thereafter, 

but your hearing lingers, 

and the sound of your father’s cries will be written into the books, 

for it was so heartbreaking that he brought even the gods to tears. 

[batmanlovesnirvana]

Chapter three | Entre Deux Mondes.

masterlist.

pairing : bruce wayne x fem!oc

author’s note : chapter three is here! Get ready to see a new side of Maryam and Bruce… ;) Just a reminder that English isn’t my first language, so I apologize in advance for any mistakes. xx

cw : maryam = older sister core, bruce playing emo as usual, mafia, bruce being a dick as usual, 18+, thriller, medical procedures, angst, mental health issues, noire, canon-typical violence, POV alternating, gritty, horror, illness, slow burn, action, fluff, mutual pining, forced proximity, crime families, comedy, crime, fighting ect… read at your own risk !

THE DINING ROOM was enveloped in the gentle embrace of late morning light, its golden rays filtering through tall windows, casting intricate shadows that danced gracefully across the polished mahogany table.

Two young executives sat at one end, their suits and neat ties an almost jarring contrast to the timeless elegance of the room. They leaned forward, their expressions taut with a mix of impatience and unease, eyes locked onto Bruce Wayne, who sat at the head of the table, a pair of dark sunglasses shielding his eyes. His posture was as impenetrable as his expression, a stone-faced calm that hinted at anything but interest.

One of the executives, his voice tight with the gravity of their situation, began to speak, "I'm afraid we're at a critical juncture..." His words hung in the air, but they seemed to drift past Bruce, who had barely acknowledged their presence since the meeting began. Instead, Bruce's gaze slid distractedly to the newspaper folded neatly beside him, an artifact of another world amidst the spreadsheets and balance sheets dominating the conversation.

The other executive, sensing the lack of attention from their host, leaned in, desperation edging into his voice. "At the very least, we'll need your signature to cover these losses..." His words trailed off as Bruce, with deliberate slowness, reached for the newspaper. The quiet rustle of the pages seemed louder than it should, filling the room with a subtle tension.

The executives exchanged a glance, their confidence faltering in the face of Bruce's indifference. Alfred, standing by the side with a composed demeanor, offered them a polite, almost apologetic smile, as if to say, this is just how it is. The room felt heavier with every passing second, the silence more telling than words.

Bruce opened the newspaper, his gaze scanning the sea of letters before him. To the young executives, it must have seemed as if the words on the page held the key to something far beyond their understanding, something that captured Bruce's attention more completely than their urgent pleas ever could. The wheels in his mind turned, not on the financial crisis they presented, but on something deeper, more distant.

"Mr. Wayne...?" One of the executives ventured, his voice a thin thread of hope in the tension-filled room.

Alfred's calm voice broke through the silence, an understated prompt, "...what?"

Bruce glanced up, his expression momentarily blank, as if pulled from some far-off place. He blinked, his mind refocusing on the present, on the weight of the situation that sat before him in the form of two nervous executives.

"I... I need your signature, sir..." The executive’s voice wavered slightly, the formality strained against the raw need for Bruce’s attention.

Without a word, Bruce took the pen offered to him, his hand moving with the same detached efficiency with which he had flipped through the newspaper. As he signed the papers, the young executives watched, a mix of relief and wariness settling over them.

The hum of the Batcave's high-tech machinery filled the space, a constant reminder of the endless work that took place within its shadowed depths. The dim light cast a cold glow on Bruce's face as he stared intently at the computer screen before him, his mind racing with possibilities.

Bruce’s voice, calm yet edged with intensity, broke the silence. “What if it isn’t a partial key...?”

Alfred, standing beside him, frowned slightly, his eyes narrowing in thought. “What do you mean?”

Bruce’s fingers flew across the keyboard as he brought up the cipher on the screen, the intricate web of symbols and letters taunting them with its complexity. “What if it’s the whole key? Ignore the symbols we don’t have letters for, use only the letters from ‘he lies still,’ and leave the rest—”

Alfred’s eyes widened in sudden understanding as he followed Bruce’s line of thinking. “—blank, yes—I understand,” he murmured, his hands moving to delete the unnecessary letters from the cipher. “But that will leave most of the cipher unsolved... I don’t see how that—oh…”

His voice trailed off, his expression shifting from confusion to realization as the pattern began to emerge on the screen. The seemingly random jumble of letters and symbols was now stripped down, revealing something far more deliberate beneath the surface.

“Well.” Alfred’s tone was a mixture of surprise and admiration as he stared at the screen, impressed by Bruce’s insight.

They both gazed at the laptop, where most of the cipher was now blank. But the remaining letters, scattered across the page, began to align themselves, forming a clear, undeniable message. It was like a game of connect-the-dots, the letters slowly coming together to spell out a single, massive word across the screen:

“DRIVE.”

The word hung there, stark and unmissable, its significance yet another piece of the puzzle that they were slowly, methodically, beginning to solve.

                   After meeting with Gordon at the diner, Maryam returned to her apartment, feeling like she was about to just wither away. 

It was her only day off that week, and although she usually cherished it, her mind was too cluttered to truly enjoy it. She tried to sleep but kept tossing and turning. Frustrated, she picked up her phone and scrolled aimlessly through social media. With no notifications to distract her, she eventually threw the phone onto her bed with an exasperated huff.

Rising from her bed, her silk robe trailing behind her, she wandered into the small kitchen that overlooked her living room. She opened the fridge, only to find it almost empty. Muttering a little curse under her breath, she grabbed a lone carrot, rinsed it, cut off the ends, and took a bite. Pulling her phone out from inside her bra, she unlocked it and called the Japanese takeout down the road.

"Hey, Li, it's Maryam. Can I order the usual, please?" she asked, chewing on the carrot.

"On it. It'll be delivered in 15 minutes," Li replied.

"Thanks, see you soon," she said before hanging up. She then headed to the couch, flopping onto it. Grabbing the remote, she flipped through the channels—news, more news, reality TV, even more news, cartoons. She finally settled on an episode of Sex and the City.

As she waited for her food and half-watched her show, her phone buzzed. It was a notification from her sister Nadia, linking to an article titled, "Falcone Heir Spotted on Secret Date Night—Gotham's Underworld Buzzing!"

Maryam’s eyes widened as she read the headline. Vittorio Falcone, known to his close circle as Vito, was the eldest son of Carmine Falcone, the notorious mafia kingpin. Vittorio was strikingly handsome, with an air of mystery that made him a magnet for women. Despite his involvement in the family business, he was considered one of Gotham’s most eligible bachelors—second only to the reclusive Bruce Wayne, who, despite rarely being seen in public, still held the top spot in Gotham’s bachelor rankings. Vito's charm and loyalty to his family were undeniable, and while he had ambitions to make the Falcone empire legitimate, his ties to the criminal underworld were far from severed.

“Oh my God, are you kidding me?” Maryam muttered.

She couldn’t resist opening the article to see for herself. As she scrolled through the piece, her suspicions were confirmed—it was indeed about Vittorio and Alma’s date. Although the article didn’t identify Alma, Maryam recognized her sister instantly. That auburn hair and the red coat she’d gifted her years ago were unmistakable.

The article dripped with juicy gossip: 

"One of Gotham’s infamous bachelor, Vittorio Falcone, was spotted dining with a mysterious woman at an upscale restaurant last night. While her face was hidden, her auburn hair and chic red coat caught the attention of onlookers. Sources say the two seemed quite cozy, fueling rumors of a budding romance. Could the notorious Falcone heir be off the market? And who is the lucky lady that’s captured his attention? Gotham’s underworld is buzzing with speculation, and many are eager to see how this potential match could impact the Falcone empire."

Maryam rubbed her eyes in frustration. She was about to call Alma when the doorbell rang. Grabbing some cash, she opened the door, took her order, and handed over the money. 

Sitting on her kitchen counter, Maryam took her sushi out of the bag, the smell of fresh seafood mingling with the soft hum of the refrigerator, setting each piece neatly in front of her like little treasures. She tried calling Alma—no answer. Her eyes darted to the clock—4:34 PM. The room felt too quiet, too still. "Probably working," she muttered under her breath, the sound of her own voice a comfort against the silence. 

Without much thought, she dialed Nadia, who picked up after just two rings. 

“Have you seen it?” Nadia's voice burst through the line, skipping any pleasantries, her eagerness sharp as a blade.

“Yep,” Maryam replied, popping a piece of sushi into her mouth with her chopsticks. The wasabi heat lingered, but her tone remained cool. “Not shocked.”

“What?!” Nadia exclaimed, her disbelief palpable even through the phone.

“Okay, maybe I’m a little surprised it made the tabloids, but I’m not shocked he asked her out. I had my suspicions ever since I saw him at the restaurant where she works, looking at her like she was the last light in a dark room.”

“I can’t believe she actually accepted,” Nadia said, her voice tinged with disbelief. “And that wretched article—ugh, I swear I’ll always hate Vicki Vale!”

“She told me he kept pestering her,” Maryam said, her voice trailing off as she chewed her sushi, the thought lingering like the taste of ginger on her tongue. She shrugged, trying to brush off the unease creeping into her chest.

“Maryam, aren’t you worried? How—” Nadia’s voice rose, a tremor of fear threading through her words.

Maryam set her chopsticks down with a sigh, her calm facade barely masking the frustration bubbling underneath. “Of course, I’m worried. I’ve warned her over and over, but she’s as stubborn as a mule—just like the rest of us. I can’t control her anymore,” she sighed again, the weight of responsibility heavy on her shoulders. “She’s 24 now Nads, finishing her studies, and working like anyone else. She’s an adult, for better or worse.”

Nadia's voice softened, but the concern remained. “So, we’re just going to let this happen?”

Maryam sighed once more as she opened her curry rice container. The steam rose like a beckoning hand, enveloping the kitchen in the warm, rich aroma of spices. “She says they’re just friends. That he’s not as bad as we think.”

Nadia snorted on the other end, the sound of traffic buzzing in the background. “He’s in the mafia, Maryam. And not just any mafia.”

Maryam rolled her eyes, stabbing at her rice with her chopsticks. “Girl, that’s exactly what I told her. But try telling Alma she’s making a mistake. She’ll just brush it off and say I’m overreacting—again.”

“Well, you are kind of a brat,” Nadia teased, the smirk in her voice unmistakable.

“Only because you make it so easy,” Maryam shot back, a brief smirk flickering across her lips before fading, the frown returning to her sharp features. “Better a brat than blind,” she muttered under her breath.

Nadia hummed in acknowledgment. “Touché,” she conceded.

Maryam shook her head, the humor fading as quickly as it came. “I don’t get why he’s interested in her when she’s not even Italian.”

“Yeah, I was thinking the same thing!” Nadia said, her voice rising over the distant honking of cars. “Aren’t they supposed to marry Italians? You know, to keep the tradition, the bloodline, or whatever.”

“That’s exactly why I’m worried she’s just another fling to him. She doesn’t deserve that,” Maryam said, her voice tight with a mixture of anger and protectiveness. “Plus, he’s not just some regular guy—he’s not just another stupid boyfriend she can break up with when things go south. This is literally a mafia boss. He has enemies, and God knows what could happen to her if someone tried to get to him through her.”

“Ugh, don’t even mention it. It’s terrifying. And his family! His father’s reclusive, but everyone knows he practically runs Gotham with all his illegal dealings. His mother died a long time ago, his sister’s in Arkham, and God knows where his brother is!” Nadia paused, her tone shifting. “Not gonna lie, I kind of feel bad for him.”

“Yeah, me too,” Maryam admitted softly, scratching her nose as her mind wandered back to old memories. “She told me he wants to make his business legitimate. When I used to work for Fish, he wanted nothing to do with the empire. But when his mother died, everything changed. He got more involved. He’s always been the most down-to-earth in that family, but still… I’m worried. I talked to Alma, but now I’ll try to talk to him.”

“What?! No, Maryam—”

“Yes, Nadia. I’m going to talk to him, persuade him to leave her alone.”

“And if he refuses?” Nadia asked, her voice dropping to a whisper, as if afraid to hear the answer.

“If he truly cares about her, he won’t refuse,” Maryam said, more to herself than to Nadia.

“What… what if he actually likes her? Maybe even loves her?”

Maryam paused, the question hanging in the air like a heavy cloud. “Then I won’t have a say in it. It’s between Vito and her if their relationship gets serious. For now, according to Alma, they’re just friends. So, I’ll try to persuade him to back off.”

Nadia hummed in thought. “So, you’re going to…” she trailed off, uncertainty lacing her words.

“I’m not sure—” Maryam began, her voice wavering as she stared at the remnants of her meal. “Honestly, I just don’t know,” she confessed, feeling the weight of the situation settling over her like a thick fog.

“Be careful, please,” Nadia’s voice softened, worry evident in every syllable.

“Haven’t I always been?” Maryam tried to lighten the mood, though her heart wasn’t in it.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I thought you left that life behind years ago, but somehow, it always comes back to haunt you,” Nadia said, frustration creeping back into her tone.

“It’s not like I have a choice. I’m doing this for Alma. I’ve always done it for all of us,” Maryam said sternly, her voice firm, but a trace of sadness lingered. “Desperate times—”

“Desperate measures, I know, I know,” Nadia cut in. “It just bothers me that you always have to be the one to deal with it.”

Maryam stared at her phone, the screen reflecting her own troubled expression. “Older sister duty, I guess,” she said quietly, the words heavy with resignation. “Look, I’ve got to prepare. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Yeah, okay. Bye.” The call ended with a click, leaving Maryam alone in her kitchen, the silence pressing in like a heavy weight. She stared at her phone for a long moment, the conversation replaying in her mind, the sushi long forgotten.

After staring into the void for who knows how long, she finally decided that some stalking was in order.

With a determined sigh, Maryam picked up her laptop and typed "Vittorio Falcone" into Google. The search results flooded in instantly, painting a vivid picture of Gotham’s notorious mafia heir.

The first few links were standard—news articles from various tabloids, all speculating about his latest escapades. One headline screamed, “Gotham’s Most Eligible Bachelor? Inside the Life of Vittorio Falcone.” She clicked on it out of curiosity.

The article was a deep dive into his life, filled with photos of Vittorio at high-end galas, charity events, and exclusive restaurants. In each picture, he looked every bit the part of a modern-day prince of the underworld: impeccably dressed in tailored suits, with sharp, chiseled features and piercing brown eyes that seemed to look right through the camera. He was often surrounded by beautiful women, none of whom seemed to stick around for long, fueling the rumors that he was commitment-averse.

Further down the page, the article detailed his upbringing as the eldest son of Carmine Falcone, Gotham’s most powerful and feared crime lord. There were mentions of his education at elite private schools, his brief stint at a prestigious university in Europe, and how he returned to Gotham after his mother’s death. The article touched on the tragedy that changed everything—how Vittorio, once seen as the more distant and detached son, took up the mantle in the family business after his mother's passing, much to the surprise of Gotham's elite.

Maryam scrolled past the glitzy photos and superficial gossip to the more serious content. There were links to investigative pieces about the Falcone family's alleged criminal activities. These articles painted a darker picture—of a man who, despite his outward charm and good looks, was deeply entrenched in the world of organized crime. There were accusations of money laundering, racketeering, and even more sinister dealings, though none had ever been proven in court. It seemed like Vittorio was always just out of reach of the law, his lawyers too skilled and his connections too powerful.

Another article caught her eye: “The Enigma of Vittorio Falcone: Gotham’s Underworld Prince with a Conscience?” This one speculated on his intentions to legitimize the family business, citing anonymous sources who claimed Vittorio was seeking to clean up his father’s empire. Yet, the piece also noted the challenges he faced, not just from the outside world but from within his own family, where tradition and loyalty to the criminal code ran deep.

Maryam found herself staring at a photo of Vittorio from a charity event. He looked every bit the polished gentleman, a slight smile on his lips as he shook hands with Gotham's mayor. But the eyes—those intense dark brown eyes—held something deeper, something she couldn’t quite place. Was it guilt? Determination? Or just the heavy burden of a man trying to walk two paths at once?

The more she read, the more conflicted she felt.

On one hand, he seemed like a man trapped by circumstances, trying to do right by his family while also seeking a way out of the darkness. On the other, he was undeniably dangerous, a key player in a world that had no room for weakness or sentimentality.

And then there were the comments—hundreds of them—debating whether Vittorio was a misunderstood anti-hero or just another ruthless criminal in an expensive suit. Some praised him for his charity work and the rumors of his attempts to go legitimate, while others condemned him for his involvement in the mafia, no matter how tangential he tried to make it seem.

Lighting a smoke, Maryam let the tendrils curl around her as she exhaled slowly. With the cigarette perched on her plump lips, she decided to dig deeper into Vittorio's family.

Her thin fingers danced across the keyboard as she first searched for his father, Carmine Falcone. The results were exactly what she expected: a mix of old newspaper clippings and online articles chronicling Carmine's rise to power, his iron grip on Gotham's underworld, and the whispers of his influence over city officials. Included were several grainy images of Carmine, embodying the essence of a powerful patriarch, alongside snapshots of his younger self with his parents, revealing a glimpse of his past.

Next, she turned her attention to Vittorio’s mother, Louisa Falcone. Unlike her husband, there was scant information about Louisa, aside from a few mentions of her being a devoted wife and mother. Most sources focused on her tragic death, which appeared to be the catalyst for Vittorio’s deeper involvement in the family business. There were no public photos of her, just a few images of her attending the Catholic Church of Gotham, which only added to the mystique surrounding her.

Maryam then turned her attention to Vittorio’s little sister, Sofia Falcone. As she typed her name into the search bar, her fingers trembled slightly, an instinctive reaction to the heavy air that seemed to surround the very mention of Sofia. The results that flooded the screen were deeply unsettling. Sofia, infamously known as the Hangman, was a rehabilitated serial killer currently housed in Arkham Asylum—a chilling title that sent a shiver down Maryam’s spine.

She had heard whispers of Sofia’s story before, but now, as she read the articles, the horrifying details began to unravel. The screen illuminated her face, casting a pale glow as her expression shifted from curiosity to disbelief. She leaned closer, biting her lip, her brow furrowing with each gruesome revelation. The articles painted a portrait of a woman who had taken her family’s legacy to a terrifying extreme, a twisted sense of justice fueling a brutal killing spree.

Maryam's heart raced as she scrolled down, her hand instinctively reaching up to rub the back of her neck, a gesture of mounting unease. Her eyes widened, and her jaw clenched as she processed the horrific acts Sofia had committed. The chilling accounts felt surreal, each one more gruesome than the last, each detail more haunting. 

The doctor shook her head in disbelief, as if attempting to erase the haunting words she had just read with sheer determination. She struggled to comprehend how someone could rationalize such brutality. She had seen her fair share of darkness, but this was something entirely different.

Finally, she moved on to search for Alberto Falcone, Vittorio’s little brother. This profile, while less notorious, still carried its own shadowy weight. As Maryam read through the sparse information available, she could feel the tension in her shoulders begin to ease slightly, but her mind remained restless. Alberto was known as the black sheep of the family, often overlooked and underestimated, a quiet figure lingering in the shadow of his more infamous relatives. Yet the whispers surrounding him hinted at darker inclinations, rumors of his involvement in the notorious Holiday killings that had haunted Gotham years ago.

A frown creased her forehead as she thought of the fractured family dynamic, the burdens each member must carry. With a sigh, Maryam leaned back, taking a moment to process everything she had just read. 

The Falcone family was a labyrinth of intrigue and peril, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that unraveling their secrets was crucial to protecting Alma.

She found herself grappling with a deep sense of hypocrisy. Who was she to pass judgment? Of all people, she was far from innocent herself.

Satisfied with what she had uncovered, Maryam turned her attention to tracking Vittorio’s movements for the night. 

She started by stalking the social media accounts of his known associates and relatives. And to her frustration, Vittorio himself didn’t seem to have any social media presence—no Instagram, no Twitter, nothing. The most she could find were accounts belonging to some of his younger relatives, mostly teenagers posting selfies and mundane updates.

But then, one profile caught her eye: a cousin of Vittorio’s, a certain Francesco Vittorio, who went by the Instagram handle "frankiefalconethegreat." The name made her roll her eyes, but as she scrolled through his recent posts, she stumbled upon a video in his story that piqued her interest. The clip was taken at the Iceberg Lounge, Gotham's most notorious nightclub, known for its shady dealings and criminal clientele.

In the video, Frankie was doing something stupid—likely showing off or trying to be funny—but it wasn’t him that interested Maryam. Behind him, in the dim lighting of the club, she caught sight of someone familiar. She quickly screenshotted the video and then zoomed in on the background. The lighting was poor, so she increased the brightness on her phone, enhancing the image.

And there he was—Vittorio Falcone. He stood partially obscured, talking in hushed tones with a man she didn’t recognize. A cigarette was dangling from his fingers, and his white shirt was open at the collar, the top two buttons undone, giving him a relaxed but undeniably commanding presence.

“Bingo,” Maryam whispered to herself, her heart racing slightly as she stared at the image. She had found him. 

Taking the last sip of her Sprite, the fizz tickling her throat before she tossed the empty can into the bin. The clink echoed in the quiet apartment as she made her way to her room with a determined stride, the air thick with purpose as she prepared herself mentally for what lay ahead. 

The decision was made. Her sister was right—she was going to suit up.

Tonight was no ordinary night; it was one that demanded more than just her usual resolve.

And it had been a while since she—transformed herself, hadn’t it? "A while" might be stretching it; it had been exactly two years since she last donned the costume.

But oh well, here she was again, slipping back into that familiar darkness, like an old lover who never truly left, always lingering in the shadows, waiting for her return.

As the silk nightgown slid off her shoulders, leaving her in just her undergarments, the cool air brushed against her skin, raising goosebumps—a fleeting moment of vulnerability before she transformed into something else entirely.

She first reached for a fitted, long-sleeved black shirt. The fabric was soft but durable, clinging to her form like a second skin, offering both comfort and the freedom to move. It absorbed the light, rendering her nearly invisible in the shadows.

Next, she pulled on a pair of tailored black pants, reinforced in all the right places for both flexibility and protection. They hugged her hips and legs, allowing silent, fluid movements and tucked neatly into knee-high boots—sturdy, well-worn, and perfect for silent, agile movement—essential for the night ahead. 

With her base layer in place, she began to suit up. 

First, the black scarf, soft yet deadly, was wrapped around the lower half of her face, transforming her into a phantom. The material clung to her skin, muffling her breath, but she was used to it—the silence, the secrecy.

Then her cloak, black as the void itself, draping over her shoulders and sliding down her arms with the weight of a familiar embrace. It flowed around her like liquid shadow, designed to hide her every movement, to make her one with the night.

Her hazel eyes, naturally vibrant like the light filtering through a forest canopy and always seeming to hold a kaleidoscope of emotions, were the final detail to mask.

She reached for the black contact lenses, slipping them in with care.

They turned her gaze into a pair of dark, unreadable pools—voids that reflected nothing back, hiding her true self even further.

With her transformation almost complete, she knelt down and pulled a box from beneath her bed. The lid creaked as it opened, revealing a carefully arranged collection of tools.

Her fingers brushed over the small, gleaming knives, their blades catching the dim light, each one honed to perfection. There were also vials filled with venomous liquids, each labeled with delicate precision.

They shimmered ominously, deadly in their silence.

Small, unassuming pills nestled beside them, tiny capsules that could bring about a world of pain or relief, depending on the dosage.

She began to arm herself, slipping two of the knives into the straps on her thighs, another pair into the hidden pockets of her boots. Six more found their place at her waist, resting just behind her back, ready to be drawn in an instant. The thinnest one, almost like a needle, was delicately tucked into her updo, a silent promise of lethal grace.

The pills were carefully placed in her pockets, their weight barely noticeable but their significance undeniable.

Each one was a solution, a safeguard, a final measure if all else failed.

As she tugged on her sleek black gloves, each movement was deliberate, like a distant ritual. 

She glanced back at the mirror, where her reflection stared back with an almost haunting intensity. It was as if the mirror had captured a shadowy echo of her true self, someone who was both there and not there, like a wraith emerging from a fog.

Heart racing, she darted through the kitchen, barely noticing the empty mugs and crumbs scattered on the counter. Her footsteps were quick and light, barely a whisper on the stairs as she ascended with a mix of urgency. 

Her destination? The Iceberg Lounge, where her favorite penguin awaited

previous chapter (chapter two) | next chapter

Maryam while stalking her victims ���� :

author’s note (number two) | Umm, so my hands were itching to write a scene between Alma and Vitto, but… I was kind of scared you all would get too bored with it, even though I’m totally obsessed with this little ship. I wanted to add more depth and show things from their perspective, you know? So if you're interested in reading something like that, let me know!

And don’t worry—Bruce and Maryam are definitely on their way; I’m just busy building the narrative, lol.

Seriously, tell me what you think! Who’s your favorite character and why? I love reading your comments; they keep me motivated to write more!

[bucky-barnes-diaries]

All Things Lovely

Pairing || TFATWS!Bucky x Female!Reader

Summary || Bucky takes you on a cute date for your birthday and treats you like a princess for the day.

Word Count || 1676

Contents & Warnings || Fluff — no warnings other than some tooth-rotting and disgusting fluff <3

Authors Note || This is for @the-slumberparty Blast From The Past Challenge. This fic is a direct continuation of my All Things Pink fic. For more context, I highly recommend you go and read that one, but this continuation can be read as a stand-alone as well.

Disclaimer || English is not my first language so I apologise for any mistakes or misunderstandings!

TFATWS!Bucky Masterlist

You still had no idea where Bucky was taking you for the birthday date as he and you walked through your busy neighbourhood. You only knew that the whole day would be his treat and that he would take you to multiple places.

The first destination wasn’t that far; he said—only about fifteen minutes from your apartment complex.

As you walked, talked, laughed, and held hands, you found it so much easier not to be such a flustering and shy mess around him as you’d been in your apartment just a few minutes ago.

Your senses had gotten accustomed to all of him, but you still felt that incredible pleasant tingling sensation across your skin and butterflies in your stomach at being with him—floating on a fluffy cloud when you were in his presence.

After a few more minutes of walking, you arrived at a park. The pleasant day out made the lush and bright shrubbery shine in the sun and cascade an aura of peace and warmth. The abundant colourful flora throughout made the scenery that much prettier.

He walked you a little deeper into the greenery of trees and bushes, and there, nestled almost in secrecy, was a cute little pop-up cafe.

“Oh, Bucky. This is so lovely,” you sigh fondly as you clutched his hand in an affectionate grip.

He hummed as he kissed your head. “I knew you would like it, gorgeous.”

There were lots of drinks and delicious desserts to choose from at the little coffee truck. And you decided on a cappuccino and a cupcake with soft pink frosting on top. Bucky ordered the same and paid for it like the gentleman he was.

You found your seats on the few tables in front of the truck—enjoying the scenery, the drinks, and each other.

The conversation flowed so easily with Bucky. You always had loads to talk and laugh about—getting lost in one another like it was only you and him in the world. During the few silent moments, there was no awkwardness in the slightest, and all you did was bask in each other’s presence.

A stripe of sunlight beamed down upon you—warming your skin. You reached up, closing your eyes and enjoying the sun on your face, making you hum in approval.

Bucky couldn’t believe how radiant you looked in the sunshine. Your skin glowed like never before, making you look like ethereal beauty. It made you even more breathtakingly beautiful, if that was even possible.

He placed his hand on yours that rested on the table and squeezed it before caressing the skin with his thumb, making you focus your attention on him.

He held the same gaze as he had in your apartment—an expression of utter adoration at the perfection in front of him.

“What is it, Bucky?” You asked shyly—becoming flustered due to his intense aura of love and appreciation.

He suppressed a loving chuckle and shook his head. “I just can’t get over your beauty, doll. You’re perfect.” His smile was the most genuine ever.

Just as in your apartment, you felt a rush of heat flush your face, and your ears became extremely hot at his compliment.

“Thank you, Bucky,” you mumbled timidly as you looked down at your now interlocked hands. Your intertwined fingers fit perfectly together, and you never wanted to let go.

Bucky lovingly chuckled again at your adorableness before striking up yet another topic to discuss as you continued to enjoy the rest of your coffee and cupcake…

It hadn’t even felt like an hour and a half once you were done at the coffee truck. Being in such wonderful company made the time fly by. But Bucky was now keen on taking you to the next destination for your birthday date.

Again, hand in hand, you walked while in your own world of striking conversation and loving laughter. And before you knew it, Bucky stopped you in front of a bookstore—a cozy little place.

Your eyes beamed bright, and a smile displayed across your face.

There was no greater happiness than browsing a bookstore for hours on end—surrounded by tales of love, mystery, horror, and fantasy. So many stories to get lost in. And it was exhilarating that you would have Bucky beside you now—a huge book nerd as well.

“Come on, gorgeous.” He pulled you inside enthusiastically. Just as excited as you were. “You can choose whichever books you want. It’s all on me.”

You and he browsed aisle after aisle of books. Both of you getting lost in the striking bindings and the captivating descriptions of the books—trying to find the few that stood out the most and suited best for your personal taste.

You discussed your favourite authors and debated theories about books and their truest meanings.

Time seemed to be an irrelevant factor when it came to books, and you’d completely lost track of it until the store clerk kindly let you know they would be closing up soon.

You and Bucky met up front to go over the books you’d picked out.

There were, with no exaggeration, hundreds of books that you wanted. But you could never take advantage of Bucky’s kind nature like that, so you picked out two that were on the top of your reading list.

Bucky had chosen two for himself, as well as a third one that he held out to you.

“I don’t know if you’ve read it, but it’s my absolute favourite,” he beamed.

The Hobbit. Such a popular book, and, for some reason, you’d never read it. But hearing that it was Bucky’s all-time favourite, you would start on it first thing tonight.

“I haven’t read it, but it’s always been on my list,” you admitted in embarrassment.

“Great! I’m buying it for you then.”

You handed him the rest of your books for him to pay. He examined one of them in particular with a smirk on his face, turning it over in his hand. The binding and cover was bright pink, with a beautiful artwork on the front and white text.

“Can’t tell you I’m not surprised,” he teased—his chuckle of the loving kind.

“Hey! I’m really interested in it. And not only because it’s pink,” you teased back as you pushed his shoulder playfully.

He kissed your temple and interlocked your fingers. “Of course, doll.”

As you walked out of the bookstore, you couldn’t help but feel a warm and content feeling in your chest. The experience of browsing books with someone who shared the same passion for reading as you did was just perfect. You and Bucky continued to talk about the books you had picked out and your excitement to start reading them while you walked back to your apartment.

“Thank you so much, Bucky, for everything today. The coffee, the books, just everything. I couldn’t have asked for a better birthday,” you mumbled as you stood outside your front door, looking down at your interlocked hands. You were shy now as the impending goodbye approached.

Bucky pinched your chin and lifted your face so you could hold his gaze. “Anything for you, doll. I’m glad you had a great time,” he replied with a smile.

He was so close now, making you gasp. Your lips brushed together, causing your head to whirl due to his sweet aroma. His eyes glimmered intensely—the most perfect blues you could drown in. You had trouble breathing due to his extreme proximity.

He cupped your face, making your knees tremble. His thumb caressed your soft skin, appreciating the texture before he slowly closed the distance and placed the sweetest of kisses on your lips—laced with passion and love. Your mind exploded. Your skin tingled, and your nerves were electrified. There was no greater pleasure than kissing Bucky.

The kiss developed into one of yearning and need. Both of you wanted it to progress and for it to never end.

You snaked your fingers in the hairs at his nape and pressed your lips harder to his. Bucky’s other hand was placed at the small of your back, pulling you flush into his chest.

Bucky swiped his tongue to your lower lip, and you parted your mouth in a moan to welcome him. His tongue softly caressed yours. It was hot and steamy, and a new wave of pleasurable sensation hit you hard, almost knocking you to the ground.

Although you wanted nothing more than kiss him till the end of time, you had to pull away for a breath and calm your beating heart before it leaped out of your chest and before you turned to putty in his grasp.

You softly cursed under your uneven breath as you hid in his chest, making Bucky chuckle heartily. He kissed your forehead in a lingering touch before cupping your cheeks and making you look at him again. The same intense and loving gaze held in his face.

He leaned in, and your calming heart fluttered up again as he placed one last loving kiss on your lips, lingering them there for a moment. When he pulled away, he brushed his nose with yours, making you both giggle softly.

You didn’t want the night to end. You didn’t want him to leave. You never wanted to stop kissing him. You needed him—more than you needed breathing.

“Do you want to come inside?” You mumbled as your fingertips ran down his cheek. “I know Alpine would love to have you over, as would I. Maybe we can watch a movie and order dinner? Or start on some of the books? And then maybe after we can have....”

You couldn’t finish the sentence. That last word hitched in your throat. You were shy in telling him that you wanted to take a giant leap in your relationship and end the night with burning passion.

Bucky understood wholeheartedly what you wanted, and his face beamed in acceptance. He wanted all of it, just like you. He craved and longed for it.

“You know I would love nothing more, gorgeous.”

Thank you for reading 🖤 Feedback through a comment is highly appreciated! Or let me know through an anonymous ask if that feels more comfortable. As well as a reblog to share my work with other people!

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[legend-the-dumb-jock]

Oink! I loved your last post about replacing addiction to cigarettes by addiction to stinky male feet! Oink! Thats very, very hot!

Im already your obese, hairy and stinky pig with tiny co*ck but i would wish to feel more humiliation, if thats possible. To feel painful adfoction, to be stuck doing humiliating things such as serving stinky male feet or sweaty armpits unable to stop! Oink! Maybe i will find myself unable to wear any cloth except tight uncomfortable thong or i will find myself getting addicted to wearing a chastity but having painfully blue balls and only dreaming about relief? Oink! The more humiliating it will be, the better it would be for me! Oink oink!

And again, thank you for your posts! Oink!

You type your message in your phone. You thought being this far hairy beast was going to be enough but still your tiny member craves more. You need to….humiliation… addiction. You phone falls from your hands as intense orgasm shoots though your fat body. You moan in ecstasy as you’re sitting on the couch. Sitting in your own sweat. Your stomach is so tight from already you’ve wished on yourself. You rub it moaning. And that’s when you feel it. Looking though sexual bliss you see your stomach…. Get rounder. Blowing up a little more than before. Hairy getting thicker as more sweat begins to pull. The smell of your fat body gets even worse as it’s kicked into high gear. You struggle to to get up but find that you can’t. As if there are invisible hands on your body you are forced to a new stance being on all fours. You massive gut touching the floor as your manage to crawl about oinking like a proper pig. That’s when you hear the door open. Kicking your fat head up you manage to see a man. Beautiful. Nothing like you have ever seen looking down at you as he shuts the door. “My my the piggy is already ready for me!” You squee uncontrollably. English now being a second language to your natural tongue of pig. You see him take off his shoes and the smell hits your snout as something unreal. Something that makes your eyes water. He takes a seat in his chair. you lick the floor the whole way.Picking up each drop of sweat that comes off his meaty souls. When he sits down he flicks on the tv. Props a foot up and snaps his fingers and points to his feet

“Come here pig. I know you want these socks from daddy. Come on. Take a whiff of these large souls”. And he hold a massive foot. Bigger than you have ever seen before. Your pig tongue falls out of your mouth. You can’t help it as the drool begins to spill on the floor. You waddle crawl to him. Your big gut dragging across the floor. And when you get in reach of his sweaty souls he pushes his big meaty foot right in your face. “Breathe in pig. I know you’re addicted to smelling these bad boys”. He coughed a little “whew. They stink. That’s what I get for not washing them for the past month”. You’re eyes are watering as your peel his socks off with with your mouth. “Go on suck the sweat from them. You know I don’t give a pig water.” And you begin sucking the sweat from his sloppy wet sock. You do the other one the same.

On command you begin licking them clean. Tasting every day of the filth he has accumulated on them. You’re in ecstasy. In a trance by his sweaty smelly feet. He puts a large foot in your face and pushes you aside. Pulling his pants down “time to eat pig and he’s right at attention”. You dive for his member and begging to satisfy every massive inch of his 11 inch pile. And when he begins to finish you take in every drop. Your stomach churns and gurgles and you gain another 1/2 pound. He pats you on the head and says “that’s my pig slave. Now that you’ve ate I’m going to have a proper meal”. A belch erupts from you from all the sweat you just drank in. He takes off his sweaty shirt and as if on autopilot you begin to suck his suck from the shirt. Entranced by the musket taste and the stony of filth your covered in. Being a fat pig already you wanted more. You wanted an addiction. Think of yourself as an alcoholic. Only with sweat. You crave it. You need it. Going hang in hand with the juices of man. You’ll need it to stay alive now pig. And as you can tell each time you satisfy your pig urges now you’ll be forced to gain a little weight. Some ounces here. Some ounces there. Bad new for you is that inspired you with a heavy shooter and really stinky sweaty gym bro. The muskiest I could find. So get ready to bulking. You’re going to be growing daily. After all… when you’re a heavy drinker you need it daily too right ? 😈

[miloouch]

BLUE GENESIS - PROLOGUE

Sini Aliz, a 19 years old girl is gifted the opportunity of a lifetime.

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TW: mention of alcohol, mention of death, mention of deadly disease (cancer).

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A/N: Hello people from Tumblr! Here I am, presenting you my first ever work published on the internet. It is only the prologue for now but the first chapter will see the light in probably two or three days. I've planned for this fic to be a romance story between Neteyam and the protagonist. I also plan to add a tad bit of angst and mayyybe a little bit of smuty content. Of course there will be plenty of interactions with other members of the Sully family so it won't only be a one on one story.

I've put a lot of effort into this work and I really hope you'll take pleasure as you read it. I would be more than happy to hear any feedback as it is always useful.

I thank you for you interest.

Enjoy!

-

PS: English is not my first language and I apologize in advance for any spelling/grammatical errors.

Word count: 1,043.

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2163, Earth.

Sini had always been perceived as an outcast or a troublemaker by society, never really fitting in and spending her life by herself on the desolated planet the Earth had became. She was different in some ways. Some visible, like her heterochromia that gave her one brown eye while the other was green. Some invisible, just the same as the deadly disease she had carried around for the past four years of her life.

She had been diagnosed with lung cancer when she was only fifteen, the pollution of the ambient city air bringing various viruses and deadly diseases that had killed numerous humans.

She was on her treatment at first, hoping for remission, but about seven months ago the doctors who were in charge of her informed that her cancer had reached its final stage, the tumors slowly shutting her body down day by day. Sini's hope for survival all crushed and whipped away in an instant.

Since that day, she lived even more carelessly than she ever had before, going out every time she wanted to feel alive.

Tonight was no different as she was seated at the bar she went to anytime she wanted to get shit faced. Anytime she wanted to forget she could possibly not wake up the following day.

She had already downed a few shots, her brain feeling fuzzy and her surroundings blurry. She was quietly enjoying her alone time, sipping on yet another shot when she felt a light tap on her shoulder. She redirected her attention as she turned around on the bar stool to face the person behind her.

It was an old man, probably in his mid sixties, with greyish hair and a warm smile. Behind him was also a younger lady who was maybe in her late thirties or early fourties. She also displayed a kind smile as she looked at the seated girl. The man slightly cleared his throat before speaking.

"Sini Aliz?" He asked, only receiving a timid nod from her.

"I'm Dr. Armand Katz and she's Dr. Sage Garcia." He introduced the two of them, moving to the side to give his colleague some more space.

"We would like to talk to you in private if you'd allow to use some of your time." Armand explained.

Without saying a word, Sini got up from the stool, the dizziness caused by the alcohol in her system making it somewhat hard for her to keep a solid balance as she was feeling tipsy.

She followed the two outside the bar as they made their way to a dead end street not far from their previous location. As they came to a stop, the doctors turned around, facing her once more.

"So what do you two want?" She bluntly asked, blaming the alcohol for the rude demeanor she had just displayed. She was usually not the sweetest person to be around and the drinking only made it worse.

Sage let out a small huff of amusement at the girl's question before giving her an answer.

"We'd like you to be a part of our scientific program." The woman explained, earning an intrigued look from Sini before continuing.

"We've heard of your condition and we'd like to offer you a golden opportunity for remission. A new life." She said as Armand slowly nodded his head in approval.

Sini furrowed her eyebrows. How the hell could they offer her remission? She had no idea who they were. Yet, they seemed to know everything about her, from her name to the disease that slowly killed her even though she had kept that a secret. Despite her hesitation, curiosity got the best of her and it was the time to ask another question.

"What's this so called 'golden opportunity' that you have to offer me?" She interrogated the two, her bicolor gaze fixed on them.

Armand took a few steps forward before answering the question.

"We are part of the Avatar Program. Us and a few other scientists will be going to Pandora to study the flora and fauna of the said planet." He spoke.

Sini had heard about the Avatar Program while she was in the hospital, undergoing her intense treatment to cure her cancer. She had been so intrigued by the expedition that she had spent most of her stay studying and learning about Pandora and its inhabitants. She had also read about Jake Sully, the man who had earned the respect of the Na'vi people and became one of them. She had learned about the war the humans and the natives had fought, Sully going against his own race and siding with the clan and staying on Pandora once it was all over. That was a story that had always fascinated her.

Snapping back to reality, she focused back on the scientists and then asked another question.

"How does that program could possibly cure me from my cancer though?" She thought out loud, a wondering pattern plastered on her face. Armand and Sage gave her a small smirk before he answered the question.

"We want to offer you spot as one of the Avatar who will be on our team. We will provide you with a new body, a healthy one. An avatar of your own." He paused and turned his head to his colleague, allowing the woman to continue with the information.

"For this physical trade to occur we'd have to collect everything that you are and place it in the Avatar body. That means you'd have to die." She said, a persistent gaze fixed on the younger girl that stood in front of them.

Sini hummed as she took in the information. She would have to die?

She had thought of her death countless times in the past four years. She knew the remaining time she had being alive was like a ticking bomb, ready to explode and destroy everything. But now things seemed different.

She felt like she finally had the opportunity to be in control of the situation. The freedom she felt from it was so grand, she felt overwhelmed.

She looked forward at the two individuals who were waiting for a response from her.

"I'm in." She blurted out, the excitement clear in her voice.

[gyllord]

Hunter X-5 / Brad Wolfe Headcanons

(not my gif)

Helloooo guys, this is my headcanon for Hunter X-5/Brad Wolfe in the Loki serie for a fem!reader ! (By the way, plsssss someone write a fanfic about him bc there's literally NONE and it's a big issue). It's my first one, it's only my opinion so feel free to have other opinions on this (but tell me about it 'cause I wanna knowww pls :')) And English is not my native language so sorry for any mistakes. Enjoy your reading!

(This is really short I know sorry :()

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

-He would definitly want everyone to know that you're his girlfriend.

-ALWAYS touching you in public.

-No place to sit? That's fine, your boyfriend Brad is here and he'll be more than happy to help you. You sitting on his lap would definitely happen and he'll never complain about it. He'll put his arms around you, keeping you close to him and preventing you from falling. From time to time he'll kiss your cheek, your forehead...

-He would never let anyone talk shit about you or he'll confront them.

-He's not the jealous type 'cause he's kind of confident you know? And he trusts you. BUT that doesn't mean he's not possessive. If a guy ever tries to flirt with you, your boyfriend will never be too far, ready to show him you're already taken and that you're not interested and all.

-If you don't know about his life in the TVA, he'll protect you from it, he won't tell you anything about it except if he really has to. Being Brad Wolfe is his new life and you're a part of it, the TVA belongs to the past, he wants to move forward and truly live his life.

-If he's taller than you, he'll love to mess with you. Putting stuff too high so you can't reach it and therefore have to call him to help you.

-He'll touch your waist whenever he can. I mean, he'll just touch you everywhere whenever he can.

-He'll compliment you for everything, I mean, you're his pretty girl. Calling you "sweetheart, darling, babe". He'll even have to invent pet names for you because he can never get enough of finding new cute ways to call you.

-He finds you absolutely stunning no matter what you do, no matter what you wear.

[the12thnightproject]

Chapter 18: Sight, Sound, Smell, Taste… Touch: de Sousa’s banquet provides a sensory experience on multiple levels.

All Chapters Archived on Ao3 

Logline - With Mai, Hideyoshi, and Aki missing, Mitsuhide and Katsuko reluctantly team up. Disguised as a merchant and his concubine, can they outsmart the man known as the God of Deceit?

That night, when we left for the house de Sousa had been renting, we traveled on horseback. To be specific, we were to share a horse rather than taking a palanquin. I tried to raise one eyebrow in inquiry, since it seemed odd that Mitsuhide would switch transportation modes.

"My goodness, Kaya, is there something wrong with your face? Or are you attempting, for whatever reason, to imitate a rabbit?” Of course he raised one eyebrow as he said it.

The sixth thing I hate about Mitsuhide. He can raise one eyebrow and won’t teach me how.

I sighed and gave up on the nonverbal cue. "No tiny box tonight?"

"On the small chance that we'll need to make a hasty exit, I would prefer not to leave that up to the speed of a palanquin." He gestured to his horse. "Up you go."

My kimono was too narrow for me to hop up with my customary acrobatics, but I managed well enough without ripping anything, although I was left somewhat draped across the horse. “Do you plan to lead me across the city?"

Not dignifying that with a comment, he simply swung up behind me. "I trust you won’t fall off."

Given that I was sitting rather (too) snugly against him, I figured it was an unlikely prospect especially when he reached past me for the reins. Not wanting to think about how his body felt, firm and solid against my back, I instead pulled the conversation back to necessary business. "Is this another sit there and be distracting evening, or will I get to use my new toys?" I patted my hair. At Mitsuhide’s instructions Sho had placed three knots in it, each secured by one of the hairstick/lockpicks.

"Plans may need to be adjusted based upon the evening. de Sousa has promised some form of 'entertainment,' whatever that might mean to him, which may allow us an opportunity to search through his papers." He spoke directly into my ear, his voice pitched to a low purr that I could hear quite clearly under the sound of the horse's hooves on the hard packed dirt of Sakai's streets. "One hopes that you were underplaying your ability to read the Nanban script."

"I can read it. Not quickly though. It depends on how cramped the handwriting is – Westerners often write letters on top of each other to save on paper." I drew a little plus sign in the air to demonstrate their method of ‘crossing pages.’ “But I can at least read their alphabet.” No need to mention that that learning had taken place in modern Japan. But while I'd taken classes in school on the English language and alphabet, I'd never been particularly great student. Even so, the knowledge from that early education had returned when I began taking lessons from Francisco, and motivated by the need to locate my brother, I’d learned far faster as an adult than I ever had as a teenager.

Mitsuhide made a noncommittal sound that indicated he was thinking things through. Likely, he had a plan B, possibly a plan C, and was refining them as we spoke. Aki was much the same. Actually I was as well. Contingencies could make the difference between dead or alive.

I left him to his unspoken plotting. It was interesting how he seemed to be able to lock his thoughts and feelings away and completely focus like this. While I still felt off balance and uncertain after last night's argument, for Mitsuhide, it appeared to be done and over with. He was as ambivalently autocratic to me as he had been on the first day in Sakai. In fact, neither yesterday's argument nor that night last week when it had seemed like we’d accepted overtures of mutual friendship had made any dent at all his this personal armor. Or maybe they had, but he’d simply replaced the armor with something stronger.

While I was glad to leave the fight with dust, I regretted losing those moments of peace and understanding.

de Sousa's townhouse was not very far from Mitsuhide’s (we easily could have walked, were it not for our need to stay in character). Like the one Mitsuhide was using, the building was longer than it was wide, with a storefront that abutted the street. Unfortunately for de Sousa the rear of the house was against the town's moat, and the fragrance that arose from it suggested some of Sakai citizens used it as a toilet.

I didn’t realize I was wrinkling my nose in response to the smell, until Mitsuhide stared at me, and tapped his own nose.

Whoops.

Carefully, I wiped my face of all expression, aware that Mitsuhide was watching as I did so. He nodded approvingly as Kaya’s bland mask slid into place, and then undid all my work by noting, “One would hope we won’t be required to employ the moat as part of that quick exit.”

Oh gross.

He gave me that smirk, and I wondered if his lack of tastebuds also extended to a lack of an olfactory system. Although if that was the case, why did he habitually burn cinnamon and sandalwood?

I was still trying to blank out my face again when a servant appeared. The servant let us inside, escorting us through a semi-exposed courtyard, past the offices and storehouses, and up to de Sousa’s living quarters on the second floor. The narrow rooms weren’t really adequate for any sort of entertaining, so, rumors of a 'banquet' had been greatly exaggerated. No more than dozen other people had been invited, including, to my surprise, Yoshimoto. If I got a free moment later, I would have to ask him how he had managed that. He’d probably just say that an Imagawa does not need to manage.

de Sousa had made an attempt to create a Western style dining atmosphere, by pushing several long, tables into one big rectangle. But without a way to raise the tables to waist level, and without any Western chairs, there wasn’t any other choice but to eat kneeling, the traditional Japanese way.

Mitsuhide was seated next to de Sousa, and across from Shojumaru, who claimed that he would be helping to translate anything, if needed (via some careful eavesdropping, I learned de Sousa's Jesuit translator - a.k.a that murderous priest - had been sent to one of the Southernmost islands). Apparently de Sousa wasn’t certain what to do with me, the only female present, but ‘Kyubei’ got his Yandere on and stated that he refused to let me out of his sight amongst all these other men.

Upon being asked by de Sousa to translate that, Shojumaru told him that Kyubei wanted his whore close to him, because he didn’t trust other men around her.

Ok. Ouch.

Whore.

See if I run interference between you and Sho any more.

The final result of that interaction had me seated between Mitsuhide and Yoshimoto, and across from Shojumaru, ready to pick up on any information spoken in Portuguese. But if Mitsuhide thought that the dinner table discussion would offer him any information on Hideyoshi, or Mai, or the missing weapons, he would be disappointed with what I overheard. While I dutifully tuned in to the conversation for any non-translated threats or other dangers, what I got was a conversation about art (which explained Yoshimoto's presence, as the man enthusiastically took part in a long discussion of Italian masters).

In the meantime, what should be done about the mound of stew in my bowl? It was some heavy meat based thing, smelled somewhat gamey - not off, exactly, but to someone like myself, who prefers a plant based diet whenever possible, it was difficult to choke down. Idly, I noticed that Shojumaru wasn't eating his either. Oh he was going through the motion of lifting his food to his mouth, but eventually it ended up back in a dish. Had someone poisoned the food?

Hm. No one else had any problems with the meal, so maybe Shojumaru was also a vegetarian. It was possible he was a strict buddahist, as some sects did recommend a no-meat diet. Mitsuhide had no difficulty with his serving of glop, but then it probably reminded him of his own cooking.

 "What do you think, Miss Kaya?" Startled, I realized that Shojumaru had addessed me. "Senhor de Sousa wants to know if you are interested in art?"

"Oh. Um. I don't know much about it." Which was true about both myself, and Kaya. While a courtesan likely would be able to intelligently converse about all forms of the arts, I was pretty sure that everyone was aware that Kaya had been a peasant sold into slavery. It would not be surprising for a peasant to be ignorant of art and culture. "But Master Kyubei is teaching me all sorts of interesting things about books and drawings."

Shojumaru translated that accurately to de Sousa, who then responded with something extremely crude. Thankfully, I'm not easy to blush, but my pulse must have jumped, because Mitsuhide gave me a quick glance. Then again, it could be because one of the words de Sousa used was familiar in any language. Even Yoshimoto looked displeased when he heard it.

Once again Shojumaru smoothly erased de Sousa’s crudity, saying diplomatically that no knowledge is wasted.

At this point Mitsuhide-Kyubei entered the conversation. "This one was an ignorant char when I purchased her. I find it far more satisfying to teach someone how to respond to my suggestions, what to think about the world of art, how to behave and to obey my desires. It’s actually faster than retraining a stubborn woman's badly learned habits." He turned and laid a possessive hand on my arm. "She responds to tutelage admirably."

Gee thanks Professor Higgins. Glad to know you're growing accustomed to my face.

He wasn't finished yet. "It is lovely to take a wild thing, domesticate it and know it is your creation."

While Shojumaru rapidly translated this for the Nanban, Yoshimoto chose this moment to rise to Kaya's defense. "I find it more satisfying to meet a woman who can teach me something. Passionate arguments are more exciting than blind obedience."

Which, thank you Yoshimoto for the defense, but your timing sucks. Thanks to him, I hadn’t been able to hear what de Sousa and Shojumaru were saying. Had Yoshimoto forgotten that he was responding to a creature who was just a character Mitsuhide was portraying? Or was he simply behaving as he would normally? I couldn’t even reassure him that everything was fine, not here.

"Passionate arguments are fine, as long as one wins them." Mitsuhide addressed Yoshimoto for the first time. "The greatest victory is to take the sword of defeated opponent as they fall to their knees and swear fealty to you.''

That... apparently had a double meaning for Yoshimoto, who flinched at Mitsuhide's sudden intense stare. Shojumaru now sent a rather inscrutable look our way as well, and the increased tension in the air felt choking. If I had not been disguised, I would have tried to change the subject, or defuse things somehow - but Kaya wasn't the forthright type. In character, I could only stare at my bowl while the gamey smell of meat added to an overall feeling of illness.

Finally de Sousa, who must have simply wanted to be the center of attention, clapped his hands, and announced he had hired a theatrical troupe to perform dances for the evening. Within moments, a house servant had silently cleared the table, and rearranged the room with a mocked up performance space at the far end.

A group of musicians and dancers emerged from the top floor – had they been sitting up there waiting all night? Hopefully someone had managed to get them some food… but I doubted de Sousa would have thought of it. Then again, given what we’d just been fed, the entertainers were probably better off.

Though the musicians weren't loud enough to be distracting, the dancers were beautiful, and wore exquisite jewel toned dresses with even brighter embroidery that sparkled in the lantern light. Their movements were slow, but hypnotic, and after that heavy meal, no one seemed inclined to do anything by sit and watch.

During the great rearrangement, Mitsuhide and I had positioned ourselves near the stairs to the ground floor, and while the rest of the guests were enthralled by the dancers, we slipped out of the room and tiptoed down the steps.

As we skirted around the edge of the courtyard, something splashed my sleeve. I glanced up to the exposed sky, just as Mitsuhide said, "Good. Rain. That is auspicious." He sounded like he was talking to himself, so I didn’t ask why he thought that was so. Maybe the sound of the rain on the tile roof would cover up any noise we made.

I followed him into the room de Sousa had set up as an office, or, well a private study of sorts. The only difference between de Sousa's office and the one that Mitsuhide was using in our own dwelling, was that he, like Francisco, (and, for that matter Aki) had somehow managed to lug a Western style desk into the room – then again, maybe Aki and Francisco had transported theirs in via the wormhole or something. Or maybe there was some ship that only carried furniture from one county to another so that their merchants could have some place familiar to sit.

Surprisingly, de Sousa's desk was not kept locked, which was a disappointing because I wanted to try out my new toys. Either he had nothing to hide or, more likely, he didn’t believe anyone here would be sophisticated enough to investigate him. Mitsuhide opened a drawer and removed a small stack of scrolls and letters written on the heavier western parchment. "One hopes that you’ll find these readable."

It was an intimidating pile. "What are the odds that we can bring some of these home? Er, back to the town house." It was not home.

"I have no knowledge of how he has these categorized or whether he would notice something  missing, but it’s best to cause as little disturbance as possible. Keep everything in the same order.” At his borderline mansplain, I considered pointing out that I had searched his room without disturbing anything, but since that would probably prompt another argument, I held my tongue. “I suggest you scan each one for key words until you can confirm whether it is business or personal. I will stand guard." He moved to the doorway stayed there like a sentinel.

As that seemed like a workable plan, I quickly settled into a rhythm for the project. The letters on western parchment were all written on a feminine hand, and proved to be from his 'dearest Paloma.' I flipped through those with only a cursory glance. Mixed in with the personal letters were inventory lists, shipping records, even a few papers that looked like invoices, which potentially could pinpoint a time period and date the weapons were due to arrive. "Do you know about when de Sousa pulled back the shipment? Most of these are dated."

He gave me an approving nod – my question must have merit. "Mid to late seventh month. At least that was when we learned of it. However things might have been moving behind the scenes prior to that." He spoke quietly, the majority of his attention was on the door.

Just to be safe, I skipped past any correspondence prior to ‘Iunius.’ I couldn’t remember what year the Portuguese had switched from the Julian calendar to the Gregorian, but neither one corresponded to the Japanese lunar cycle anyway. Once I found the correspondence in the likeliest window of time, I read the letters more carefully. One shipping document referenced “Nofunga” Oda -- that must be the initial order, or at least a confirmation of sale. At that point in time, it seemed that de Sousa still intended to fulfill the request. Another letter, also mentioned Oda, but only in passing - speculating on whether or not he would contend to allow self-governance of Sakai, and if not, would it be useful to send a party to negotiate with him directly.

Interesting, but not what I was looking for.

And then I found it.

Correspondence from Shojumaru, offering to broker a deal for weapons, to be supplied to Motonari Mouri in exchange for silver provided by Kanamori Iekane.

The page blurred in front of my eyes.

Iekane.

Iekane. Even though the last name was different – he was no longer using Aki’s – it had to be the same man. Of course he was in this. Maybe he'd been so since that day five years ago when he locked me in a crate among one of Motonari’s weapon shipments.

"What is it, brat? You're staring at that letter as if it’s going to eat you.'' Mitsuhide's voice broke into my reverie /panic. Same difference at this point.

"It's confirmation that-"

A loud squeak interrupted me. The sound a staircase makes as it protests the weight of travel. This was followed by the clatter of footsteps, and voices. de Sousa, talking about some ceramics he wanted to show off.

In one smooth motion, Mitsuhide slid shut the door to the office and was across the room while I was registering the noise… and the implication. He swept the stack of correspondence back into the drawer, then lifted me up and plopped me on top of the desk. "This is not the time to protest my next action, as we are about to become extremely visible to the rest of tonight’s guests."

"Huh? Shouldn’t we just hid-”

That was all I got out before Mitsuhide kissed me.

While my brain was still processing the sudden liplock, Mitsuhide pulled me closer, until his leg was between mine (or as between as my narrow kimono would allow). I swallowed a protest, knowing that this was a performance, part of our agreement to show public affection. Not real.

How does one fake act a kiss? Should I close my eyes? Ok, yes, probably, Kaya would have her eyes closed. Commencing eye closure.

It wasn’t a terrible kiss, as sudden, barely warned kisses go. Not that I would know. But he could have made things unpleasant for me, especially given the character he had established as Kyubei. It could have been overly intrusive, or painful, or oppressive, or gross, or-

He broke away and slid his mouth toward my ear. "This would go much better, if you could at least pretend to participate. With enthusiasm, if at all possible.”

Director’s notes? Now?

Although he did have a point. I took a deep breath, prepared to channel my inner Meryl Streep. "You surprised me.  Give me a moment to catch up, all right?"

The clatter of footsteps and murmur of voices grew closer.

After a split second in which Mitsuhide was either praying for patience, or counting to ten (he just had a sort of 'give me strength’ look in his eyes), he placed his hand on my cheek, and slowly dipped in for another kiss.

This new kiss, he took his time. His lips gently glided across mine, his embrace keeping me easily balanced on the desk. The gentleness did what the surprise could not, and a previous unknown voice inside me went, ‘more!’ and before I knew it, it stopped feeling like an act of theatricality, and started feeling like an act of mutal desire.

His body was all lean muscle and kinetic strength – I wanted to feel that strength on my skin, to slip my hand under his clothing and savor the texture of his flesh, to savor the vibration of his heartbeat beneath my palm, a vibration that echoed in my ears. I pressed myself closer before any logic could overrule action, grinding my hips against his, opening my mouth to his tongue.

Someone moaned… was that him? 

Please don’t let that have been me.

Then annoyed voices from the corridor intruded and Mitsuhide finally ended the kiss, though he did not let me go. He turned to face de Sousa, Shojumaru, Yoshimoto, and a Japanese merchant whose name I had not caught. They were all staring at us from the now open doorway. I hid my face in his shoulder in not entirely feigned embarrassment.

Cinnamon and sandalwood.

"What the hell are you doing in my private office?" The words were in Portuguese but there was no mistaking the intent behind them.

Mitsuhide didn’t bother to wait for someone to translate, he simply proclaimed, "My toy was looking so lovely tonight, I simply had to be alone with her. But the rain chased us out of the garden."

Toy. It was as if the wall to the courtyard opened up and the cold rain had splashed all over me. Right. Acting.

I knew he did not truly consider me a toy. I also knew that the kiss had simply been part of the performance, one that had needed us to at least look like we could not keep our hands off each other. So that’s… what method acting is. I guess I do have an inner Meryl Streep after all. Acting. I had been acting too.

Without switching from that conversational tone, Mitsuhide patted the desk. "This furniture is perfectly stable. Can someone procure one for me?"

de Sousa waited for Shojumaru to translate that, but even with the benefit of the translation, he still looked irate. His response was something along the lines of if Kyubei wanted to turn his house into a brothel then he ought to have brought more women, or at least offered to share.

I wondered if Shojumaru was going to translate that back into Japanese, but whether or not he would have done so was destined to remain a mystery, for Yoshimoto stepped forward to play diplomat. "Senhor de Sousa, perhaps you could show us those ceramics from China now."

After one final look of envy, de Sousa shepherded the group toward the storehouses, but Shojumaru continued to eye us. He didn’t say anything, and that overly friendly smile stayed on his face, but there was a hardness in his eyes now.

As Mitsuhide helped me off the desk, Shojumaru's gaze went to its surface. Scanning for incriminating papers maybe? Thank the Gods that Mitsuhide had managed to get de Sousa’s correspondence back into the drawer before initiating that ‘seven minutes in heaven’ act.

"I take it it’s too much to hope that de Sousa will allow us to use his bedroom?" Without waiting for a response, Mitsuhide bowed to them. "In that case, we shall return home, as I am hungry for a different sort of meal. Kaya, you may let go of me.''

Trust him to point out that my hand was clinging to the front of his kimono.

Right.

Disengage grappling hook.

I let go, and followed him out the door, aware that this was probably one of those fast exits he had warned me about.

Hopefully… not through the moat.

My senses had already been through enough this night.

@bestbryn @lorei-writes @selenacosmic @lyds323 @akitsuneswife @tele86

[ccohanlon]

castaway: an interview

Traveller and diarist C.C O’Hanlon spent most of the first half of his life at sea aboard a variety of vessels until marriage, children, and ill health held him ashore. He has come to think of himself as a ‘castaway’.

Now in his late 60s, C.C. is still as restless as he was in his youth. During the past decade he has wandered ceaselessly, from Australia to France, Germany, the U.K., Morocco, Italy, Ireland, and Spain. Recently, he has come to rest on the Salento Peninsula, in southern Italy, where he and his wife of 33 years, Given, are restoring a 200-year-old limestone village house.

C.C. was one year old when he first went to sea, a long voyage to Italy from Australia aboard an old Italian immigrant ship, accompanied by his parents. He became a qualified sea navigator in his early 20s. He funded the building of a small yacht of his own by delivering other people’s yachts and writing and photographing for UK and North American yachting magazines.

He has the hard-shelled demeanour, brawny bulk, and gnarled, bearded features of an old salt but C.C. is a surprisingly thoughtful, informed observer of nature and an expressive writer. Earlier this year, the respected Dutch publisher, Thomas Rap, announced that it had commissioned him to write a non-fiction book about the sea and his uncomfortable relationship with settlement and the shore.

It felt entirely appropriate that we should connect by email from seas at opposite ends of the European continent — me by the Baltic in Jurmala, Latvia, he by the Adriatic, in Puglia, Italy.

How did you become a castaway?

I stumbled ashore, somewhat damaged, in my 30s and let others convince me it was time to settle. Big mistake. I ended up rootless, a nomad, more unsettled than I had been at sea. I’ve been stranding ever since on a series of different shores.

Which has been your favourite voyage so far?

My very first passage alone in a very small yacht from the island of Jersey, in the English Channel, to Crosshaven on the south coast of Ireland, a distance of about 290 sea miles. This was in the mid ‘70s, before everyone had GPS. I had a couple of compasses, a wristwatch, a radio receiver, a barometer, and an old sextant I was teaching myself to use. Paper charts. Hardly any safety gear.

It wasn’t an epic voyage. I was very inexperienced. It took about three days. But when I finally made landfall, I felt like I had mastered some arcane craft, an ancient magic. I could find my way across a featureless sea.

What challenges are there in leading a life as a castaway?

For me, living close to the sea — being aware of its presence, being alert to its constantly changing state — and yet being frustrated, often, because I’m unable to actually get out there on it.

I miss voyaging.

What inspires you?

Unusual young people, like Hannah Lily Stowe, whom you’ve featured here. And certain solitary, rarely remarked upon, but rather extraordinary people who live (and voyage) at the margins, like Kris Larsen and Nick Skeates.

Also maps. Or, more specifically, nautical charts, maps of the sea. I have, maybe, a couple of hundred of them, many more than half a century old. I read them as I would a book.

A chart is a wondrous artefact.. At first glance, it’s just an annotated image of a stretch of water and its littoral, a repository of essential data. But a chart is filled with history, geography, oceanography, metereology and several hundred years of maritime lore and experience, all conveyed in a visual language that has evolved over centuries.

A chart can pique your curiosity about the physical world: the magnetic anomalies of the north-east Pacific, say, or the inshore canyons of the Atlantic coast of Portugal, which can form waves that reach a hundred feet in height. Or it might draw you into a real-life adventure up the Congo, the world’s deepest and maybe most mysterious river.

Is there a book about the sea that you would suggest to read?

There are two:

My childhood favourite was Arthur Ransome’s We Didn’t Mean To Go To Sea, published in 1937. I wish more kids would read it these days and imagine themselves sailing the tiny Goblin without adult supervision across the grey North Sea.

The other is The Starship And the Canoe, an unusual double biography of a famed physicist who dreamed of designing massive, improbably powered rocket-ships and sending them on manned voyages to Mars, and his son who lived in a tree, in between voyaging in hand-built, sea-going kayaks along the north-west Pacific coast, from Canada to Alaska.

What does the sea mean to you?

Possibilities! Every encounter with the sea is different. Nothing there is fixed or immutable, nothing is ever the same. When you venture out into it, you can never be sure what to expect and that element of uncertainty — of expectancy, of risk — is at the heart of sea-faring.

The sea always provides powerful experiences, whether it’s excitement, wonder, awe, puzzlement, terror, misery, tedium, frustration, longing, self-doubt, deep satisfaction, loneliness, or enlightenment — but never quite when or how you might expect them.

You can never take the sea for granted — it might, after all, take your life — and whatever you get from it, good or bad, savour it, no matter what.

First published in The Sea Library magazine, Latvia, as part of a series, When I Grow Up, edited by Anna Iltnere, 2021.

[daisyachain]

On the topic of steampunk, we might be far enough from the 2008-2012 mainstream emergence to look back on it as a completed cycle and try and diagnose why all that happened. You could say it was one of the last full English-language subcultures (integrated music, literature, aesthetic, ideology, public discussion) to have its moment before the post-social media proliferation of microcultures. Off the top of my head, you could see the last wave crest in the 2010s with: the Atlanta-based trap scene, the west-coat hipster agglomeration, and then intercontinental shut-in steampunk.

This is speaking from the location of shut-in central, so there are probs other mainstream waves that I'm missing, but, defining mainstream as something that might reach a resident of Nothing, Nowhere, you could argue that it's less than mainstream. Grime? Big in the UK, not so much across the Anglosphere. Soundcloud/mumble rap? Influential on a younger generation, doesn't quite have the same established cross-media cultural complex associated with it as trap....as far as I'm aware..........feel free to chime in on what I've missed.........

Back to steampunk, it didn't absorb into/influence the mainstream the way that trap and hipster scenes did. The key crossover has been the visual aesthetic associated with the movement rather than the music or ideology--your average person most likely saw something with gears in an online store without ever hearing the kind of associated corset cabaret or reading China Mieville (I also haven't read China Mieville). That seems to leave it as a subculture without a centre, a recurring visual motif still apparently going strong without any kind of emotional/philosophical backing for good or for bad. Still, it's not just gears, begging the question: how on earth can steampunk music exist, if it's not experimental noise?

The basis of steampunk is alternate history and alternate technology: could the tools around which 'modern' life is structured have been developed using a different underlying technology, and would that difference in technology have altered the way that the massive historical distortion of the Industrial Revolution played out? If steam technology (implemented ~1800) were the basis of transport development rather than the internal combustion engine (~1860), would the suite of technologies that followed have skipped out on important developments such as electrified appliances/digital computing/etc.?

There are works published through the 20th century that could fit with the idea, but the genre and terminology come up alongside cyberpunk--not after it, since The Anubis Gates (1983) predates the broader discussion of cyberpunk that followed Neuromancer (1984). The genre builds in anglo sci-fi/fantasy spaces through the '80s before having a mainstream breakthrough in the late 00s.

Steampunk looks back and melds Industrial/Victorian aesthetics with modern ideas right after the goth rock scene emerges. Hard to say whether steampunk was born out of goth aesthetics, but there is some interplay between the subcultures. Goth rock looks back to the romantic impulses of the 19th century, seeking a heightened emotional world that reacts to modern science and commerce the way that Romantics reacted to Enlightenment science and physiocracy/early capitalism.

On the other hand, steampunk seeks to place those modern ideas within the past, not rejecting the clarity of 'modern' ideas for the mystery of magic, but rather making 'modern' ideas seem more compelling by dressing them up in antiquated aesthetics. A car? Banal. A steam-powered car? Cool. A steam-powered car with a carriage body? Cooler. Steampunk renders the ordinary alien, making it appealing to romantic impulses without discarding enlightenment ideology*

*Heavy caveat.

To try and sum it up: steampunk is about how people/societies unfamiliar with 'modern' ways of living would react to and interact with modern technology. It's about how technology shapes patterns of movement, thought, and living, and how a mix-up in the order of technological development could throw off the social order that we're familiar with. Or, it can be about how the tendency for a society to organize in certain ways will manifest itself no matter what technology is available to use, and how familiar patterns might emerge with distinctly unfamiliar technology. Did the Industrial Revolution shape us*, or did we* shape the Industrial Revolution? Was the single defining era of social and technological development (NOT IN A GOOD WAY) set in stone, or was it an accident of chance?

The caveat is that the use of the Industrial Revolution as the focal point for steampunk stories means that most of them ignore, elide, or positively portray the imperialist war, torture, murder, chattel slavery, genocide, and theft carried out by European states to fund industrial developments (with some exceptions, e.g. Everfair). Most steampunk stories are written by upper/middle-class Anglophone US or British writers, imagining the implementation of alternate technologies within white/European/English society to create an alternate version of the author's personal sphere. Rather than looking at the integrated systems that enabled/drove technological development, steampunk has a habit of considering technological discovery as pure chance and then going from there.

An offshoot/parallel evolution of Anglosphere steampunk is Japanese steampunk, which I don't have as much experience with. Taking a surface-level look with Miyazaki and Anno, steampunk aesthetics come out in stories where destructive industry is encroaching on pre-industrial areas. These works are less focused on the consequences of different technologies or different paths of development so much as they are focused on the impact of technological development in general--industrialization is industrialization, whether by steam, gasoline, genetic engineering, or anything else. Rather than standing in for an alternate historical path, steampunk creations are used to more clearly mark the line between 'old' and 'modern', isolation and integration, pre-Perry and post-.

Side note: I'd classify dieselpunk/biopunk/dungeonpunk as steampunk, while cyberpunk stays separate. Cyberpunk asks: how will our current society shape the implementation of future technologies (i.e. if space ships and time travel are invented in a highly stratified, monopolistic commercial society, would they ever be used for good)? Steampunk+ asks: how would our current society have come about with different technologies? One takes the present as given and looks forward, the other looks backward and tries to alter or erase the present.

Now that that's out of the way: what are the actual artifacts of steampunk that we have? Why are they steampunk?

The word 'steampunk' comes about to describe literature, but it's steampunk construction projects that are the proof of concept for this movement. They show what could have been accomplished by chance with technology available in the time preceding 'modern' developments. More importantly, they're physical hobbies with a defined, challenging-but-not-impossible endpoint and they're a fun thing to do that you can show off to your friends. Unlike some subcultures where you must 'be', steampunk is something you can 'do.' I'd bet that it's the building aspect of the subculture that has kept it alive this long, when the aesthetic/ideological part of the subculture can come into/fall out of fashion. People get into baking or woodworking in a much longer-term and fulfilling way than they get into black leather. For the most part.

Steampunk literature, then, is a harder part of the movement to pin down. Earlier works like The Anubis Gate and The Difference Engine are more on the social scifi/speculative fiction side of things while later (kids') books like the Alexander Pryor series/Leviathan/hell, even RQG use the technology to facilitate old-fashioned rip-roaring adventure. There is a pretty even split between steampunk books that lean into the alternate history/specfic part of the genre and books that use the concept to replicate the aesthetics of pulp without seeming outdated. I say confidently. The thorny questions of tech and society that drove early steampunk die off in favour of looking cool, leaving a relatively slim canon. For all its flaws, there remains a consistent stream of specfic cyberpunk coming out through the 21st century in a way that doesn't happen with steampunk.

Steampunk fashion is pretty self-explanatory: it takes the stripped-down pre-injection-moulding look of early machinery and applies it to everything, with a healthy injection of bronze spray paint. The griminess of faded dyes, coal smoke, or ink illustrations is applied over a fairly colourful moment in fashion history in a sort of offshot of the Victorian goth movement. Not much to say here apart from corsets, gears, and goggles, fashion is fashion.

Last thing, music. Where the lit/aesthetic starts in the 1980s, the music develops more into the late 90s and 00s. Steampunk-associated music tends to use the cello, upright bass, harpsichord, violin, and other 'classical' or 'classy' instruments; tends to have operetta-type vocals (clean, enunciated, sung spoken-word), tends to have a straightforward 4/4 rhythm coming out of goth rock. By using acoustic instruments and avoiding guitar (acoustic or electric) and drums, it follows the same alt-history philosophy where post-80s (big, glitzy, synthy) songwriting is implemented with non-pop instruments.

In contrast to the regressive tendencies of steampunk lit, steampunk music has a female presence and draws from third-wave feminist readings of Victorian social mores. Associated artists like Emilie Autumn try to apply modern conceptions of liberation to characters in their lyrics who chafe against the strictures of the steampunk era. Alternately, bands like Steam Powered Giraffe or Whatever The Hell That Obscure Guy Was That Sheetghosting Mentioned (I Forget) use steampunk contraptions in their stage shows, integrating the technological rather than ideological steampunk into their music.

So: (anglophone) steampunk has a philosophy of 'what if?' set out mostly by 1980s sci-fi, an aesthetic that develops in conversation with the new romantics/goth scene, a crafting subculture that is mostly disconnected from the ideology of steampunk due to functioning as a fun hobby, and a lit scene that doesn't really get off the ground due to a lack of willingness by majority-white authors to engage with the foundations of our world. Because you can't go too far into 19th century alt history without running into imperialism and slavery, the genre in general has turned away from substance and towards style. The thread that connects the various iterations/expressions of steampunk is the desire to recreate a familiar song/society/contraption with an unfamiliar technology, a wish to re-evaluate the current/accepted/modern by pulling it apart and recreating it from its constituent bits, but mostly a desire to dress up cool and imagine if you were a guy in a top hat who made eight hundred thousand pound sterling from your father's cousin's exploitation of people in an unimaginably cruel suffering machine

[laegel-the-druid]

Hey everyone!

It's probably a bit early to start posting, but I'm way too excited! I'm new. Very new. I'm new to everything I will be doing here.

I'm new to Tumblr, I'm new to writing, I'm new to roleplay, I'm new to World of Warcraft... (yes I know, I'm very late) but here I am! Starting a new blog about my main character on WOW, Laegel.

I started playing this game last weekend, and I'm already in love with it. Actually, I already played it after Pandaria been released, but only few months unfortunately, and it was so long ago. But Wow never really left my mind, and I'm glad to get to play it again, and for a long run!

For now I'm playing all alone, and even tho I hope making new friends during this fantasystic journey, it's probably not a bad thing. I feel like I don't have a very common gameplay, even more for a MMORPG. Every other players that I have encountered so far are just so fast, rushing the quests, and hurry to level up. At the opposite I'm looking for an immersive experience, taking the time to read the quests, and listening to the PNJ, trying to understand the world I'm getting in, slowly building my character personality and background, and roleplaying by my own. (If you're also this kind of gamer just let me know please... I mean, I can't be the only one) I feel like I'm more a season 1, or level 1 type I should say, than an end-game enthusiast, even tho I can't be so sure of that as I never experimented the end-game of Wow.

I've always been interested about roleplaying, but never really had the gut to start despite the opportunity I got in the past. It may sounds stupid but I always felt like it was something mystical with a billion rules that I wasn't aware of, and so I won't be good at it in any ways. I mean, of course there are rules, and I don't want to be an annoyance for the other roleplayers or ruin their experience, but there's nothing so unrealizable or out of my reach either.

I'd like to say the same for writing. You will probably notice that English is not my native language, and my writing skills are far from being good, but I really do that for myself, experimenting new things and have some fun during the process! I'm not really thinking that anyone would read my blog anyway, but if you ever do, please remember that I'm just starting and be indulgent with me. I am also very open to any constructive criticism that would help me to improve! And if you are also a Wow player willing to play with me, feel free to contact me, I will be glad to meet you in Azeroth as well!

Lyra~

[hoenniswheretheheartis]

spontaneous drabble - nursery rhymes?

--

So with my Vrandish alt about to reach Il Mehg and as close to a homecoming as she'll get, I've Had Thoughts about what traces of her past life might be left, given how far into ruin Voeburt has fallen.

Then I had the idea 'what if she was the subject of a nursery rhyme that's just stayed in the collective conscious of the children (pixies)'. The first line came to me randomly and I tried writing up the rest.

I'd like to have added Fae language, but without a detailed enough dictionary / guide, I stuck with English for now.

--

scene:

Imagine you're strolling through Lydha Lran , greeted by your "stage name" while Feo Ul's proclamation that you're already theirs still rings in your ears. The nearby frolicking of some pixies gives you pause as you try to place where you've heard their nonsense song before. It... wasn't it some old nursery rhyme you knew as a child? Surely there wasn't that much fae in the words though... that's not how it went.

It takes a moment to register, but you recall it... it was a tune about being careful of the fae folk, right? To not give them your name and to be ware of their power?

Then you listen closer as they repeat the start, rusty memories of learning the fae language filling in the few blanks you can't quite make out... this story is different; the perspective - it's been flipped! but now... oh gods, is this song about you??

--

Eleana Eleana where did you go Eleana Eleana why won't you show? The Fae want to play but you'd said another day So Eleana Eleana where did you go?

Eleana Eleana hike up the track Eleana Eleana don't look back Gone again today is there any other way For Eleana Eleana to come back?

Eleana Eleana precious to your Da Eleana Eleana come home to your Ma We said it wasn't us but they still cause a great big fuss for their Eleana Eleana, missing little star

--

The pixies laugh, more absorbed in their game than the 'nonsense' lyrics that go with it. You take some solace that your family name doesn't seem on their tongue, but something about it sits wrong within you, poking uncomfortably at that ball of Light you've been holding in ever since Holminster Switch.

...you really ought to get back to finding Urianger.