#never lower your standards ladies—if he wanted to; he would.

[friaxza]

“It wasn’t as if I could say ‘Hey, Nia, I made this playlist for you… because I’m in love with you..’”

-Leo Macaulay

[merakiui]

moros's looking glass.

yandere!overblot!riddle x (female) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, death, victorian era, obsession, attempted captivity, arranged marriage, threats of violence, restraints, non-consensual touching and kissing note - after the death of your husband, you are left to sift through his estate. you'll soon find some ghosts refuse to remain in their graves.

To the esteemed Lady of the Rosehearts Estate: It is with a shrouded heart that I write to inform you of Lord Rosehearts’s untimely passing. It is a most unfortunate occasion, and for such reasons I must implore you to return from your seaside retreat with great haste. 

Mrs. Rosehearts’s bare hand comes down so suddenly that you hardly have any chance to brace yourself before it makes contact with your cheek. A harsh smack resounds throughout the hall, echoing within your brain until it’s all you can process. The sting that follows warms your tender skin and, though you wish to soothe it with a gentle caress, you remain stone-faced and stiff before her, a mere statuette who has been frozen in time. 

“Such insolence is unforgivable,” she seethes, swiping her glove from her butler, who holds it out with his head bowed and shoulders hunched. She fits her hand inside the pristine fabric and flexes her fingers momentarily before turning her fiery gaze back on you. “You were well aware of the ailment that consumed my dear Riddle and yet you abandoned him in his time of need! You are the lady of this house. It is your duty to remain here! Must the implication be branded on your very bosom for you to recognize it?!” 

“My deepest apologies, madam.” You lower into a perfect curtsy. “I did not possess enough foresight to know that this might happen. For that, I am truly regretful.” 

He was already at death’s door. A sickly body is meant for the hands of higher powers, or so they’ve said. I suppose this is the inevitability of fate.

“I have always been of the opinion that you were inadequate for my son,” she snaps. “If it weren’t for your family’s status, I’d have had you pulled from his life before you could ruin it further like the vapid weed you are.”

With a huff, she strides past you.

You remain in the hall, comforted by the soft tock of the old grandfather clock.

It’s not my fault your son was sickly, you think, scowling at the floor tiles. But you refuse to allow this to darken your mood. Gathering yourself, you straighten your posture and smooth the sting in your cheek with a few consoling pats.

I am (Name) Rosehearts, lady of this fine estate. I shall not waver in the face of a monstrous mother.

Though your union was one of arrangement, it took some time to convince Mrs. Rosehearts. She only conceded after her son had, quite literally, begged her. Your parents’ social status and fortune were quite persuasive as well. It was your late husband who argued with her, day and night, for the right to wed you.

“Mother, I have fancied no other to the extent I do Lady (Name). Should you come between us, I shall take her and we will be wed elsewhere—with or without your approval.”

Not wanting to lose her pride and joy and faced with the boundless prosperity boasted by the arrangement, she submitted to his demands. Thus, you were wed. You shall never forget the disdain scrawled on her wrinkled countenance as she watched you from her place in the pews. She disapproved of your dress, your disposition, your very existence. There was no part of you that could please her, but she had no choice. For Riddle’s sake, she would have to acquiesce.

Now that he’s no longer of this world, you’re feeling the force of her frosty hatred more directly. She has, by her own standards, every reason to dislike you. You could not conceive an heir to carry on the legacy. You could not be there to assist Riddle while he was on his deathbed. You could not measure up to her lofty expectations of what a proper wife and lady should be. You could not be pretty enough. The list is endless.

“My lady, the photographer is waiting,” the butler pipes up, nodding in the direction of the room.

“I understand. Thank you.”

You inhale all of your negativity, allow it to fester within your lungs, and then you expel it in a long exhale.

You must stand tall and proud in the face of adversity. Do not falter.

This is the busiest you have seen the silent, despair-tinged halls of the Rosehearts Manor. Shadows creep along floral, cream-colored wallpaper, and the curtains do well to keep the sun from poking its rays through the gloom. Your grip tightens on your lace shawl as you’re led through the foyer, and when you view the vaulted ceiling it seems to spiral into never-ending darkness. Photographs are turned over to protect those in the film who are still living. The clocks are all stopped at three in the morning—supposedly the time at which Riddle gave his final breath. Every reflective surface has been enveloped in black cloth, and every funeral attendant you pass offers sympathetic bows and curtsies. Your nose crinkles at them, but you nod your acknowledgement and continue down the hall. 

Riddle is poised on the sofa, his arms folded primly in his lap. His face is colored in a sickly pallor, and he’s dressed in his best suit. If it weren’t for how deathly still he is, you’d think he was full of life. Glassy greys stare listlessly ahead. You peer into them. He does not blink or recognize your presence.

It occurs to you that he truly is dead.

Mrs. Rosehearts is quick to shoo you away. “Distance! You’ll pollute the air near my Riddle!”

You offer her a cordial simper. “Wherever shall I sit?”

She wrinkles her nose at you but gestures to the spot beside him. “You are his wife, so you must sit at his side here.”

“Very well.” You lower onto the cushion. Riddle is arranged to lean against you. He is cold and stiff, almost like a doll. His soft hair brushes your cheek. “And what of you, madam?”

“You are to be photographed first, after which I shall replace you. Then, we’ll both be photographed.”

“If it pleases,” you reply, looking towards the camera. Gently, you close your hand over Riddle’s gloved one.

Forgive me, Riddle. I should have returned from the sea sooner, but I was cowardly and could not bear to face you as you withered away. It is with great shame that I wear this mourning dress.

Your photo is taken. For the rest of the ordeal, you remain in your head. The shuffling of bodies is drowned out, for you focus only on your husband as he’s situated on the sofa beside his mother. 

Riddle wouldn’t have wanted that, you think, but then you pause. What would he want?

You can scarcely say.

Afterwards, Riddle is placed in his coffin, his eyes shut, and carried feet-first from the house. You accompany the procession, everyone following the solemn hearse in its travels. There is a hollow in the ground, where a group of men lower the death box. They work silently and diligently to shovel soil and fill the hole. You stand off to the side, watching from behind your veil. You don’t shed tears, but neither does Mrs. Rosehearts.

It is a chilly, autumn day devoid of birdsong and sunshine.

A laurel wreath is hung on the door following the funeral, and an ornament fashioned out of his hair alongside his photo are kept enclosed in a locket pin. You hold it in your hands at all times, tucking it beneath your pillow when you sleep, cherishing this piece of him. You visit his grave just as frequently as it is guarded. Every now and then, you expect the bell aboveground to ring, signaling life from below. It never does.

Riddle left his entire estate to you. His mother could fume as she pleased, but the validity of his penmanship could not be denied. He explicitly wrote: To my wife, Lady (Name) Rosehearts: You are granted all mortal possessions within my estate as well as ownership to the property. Do with it as you like.

Your relationship with Riddle, while not free of its strains, was mostly amicable. You played your parts well enough. Even so, it bewilders you that he would leave you so much. You always assumed he’d gift it to his mother, as she seemed to have a hand in every aspect of his existence—his death included. She planned the funeral and the burial well in advance, arranged the photographer, even the outfit he was to wear.

Now, dressed in black crepe, you wander aimlessly through a quiet, covered house and wonder what you should do with so much empty space. There are still rules you must follow, of course, each one aligning with mourning customs. But now that you don’t have your husband to enforce them, you feel…lost.

Illuminated by candlelight, your reflection follows you as you walk past an uncovered mirror, trapped in silent reverie.

And then you stop.

An uncovered mirror?

In a horrified panic, you set the candlestick down to gaze at yourself in the glass.

This can’t be! All of the mirrors must be covered! What happened?!

You scramble to shroud it, your heart pounding restlessly like a war drum. For a while you stand there, waiting for something. You anticipate a shout from the shadows: Don’t you know you are expected to cover each and every reflective surface in the wake of death? Do you want to be pulled into the grave next?! Nothing happens, though. The house remains perfectly still. 

You think you hear someone breathing shallowly, but then you realize that’s you. Your chest heaves as you take in big gasps of air.

No one will know, you remind yourself, gradually calming your frazzled nerves. The mirror is covered. That is the end of that.

The grandfather clock’s midnight chime echoes down the hall. Sighing, you lift the candlestick and carry on.

“I shall retire to bed,” you tell the darkness, climbing the stairs. Riddle’s room is kept sealed, a place stuck in permanence. You refuse to disturb his things, lest you dampen his spirit, and so you beeline for your room. It’s directly across from his. When he was alive, he insisted you sleep at his side despite the bed customs between couples. Stubbornly, you refused. You recall the dismal glimmer that darkened his eyes whenever you’d decline. He would always promise the same thing—

“Should you need the warmth of another body, I am here to receive you. Forever and always.”

Pulled from your reminiscing, you turn sharply on your heel and raise the flame to light the end of the hall.

“How strange. I was certain…” You peer over the bannister at the foyer below. “Riddle, have you come home?”

Silence is your only reply.

“Foolish,” you chide, contenting yourself with the facts. “He rests peacefully in his grave.”

Burrowing into your woolen shawl, you depart for your bedroom.

In an empty house, swathed in the quilted duvet, you drift off into dreamless slumber.

It’s not the clock or the cold that jerks you from sleep. Rather, it’s the screeching noise that grates on your ears. You blink through the dark, only to cringe moments later when someone drags their nails over glass. You almost allow yourself to fall back into the sheets when you realize there shouldn’t be any human disturbances here, for you’re the only one in this house.

A mouse, perhaps?

But even you know that’s impossible, no matter how much you want to believe such faulty logic.

Throwing the covers off, you search blindly for the candlestick at your bedside. You fumble with the match, shivering like a frightened fawn, but eventually flame brightens the space. Now equipped with light, you peek outside your room, searching either end of the hall just in case. No one’s there, but the scratching continues. Incessantly, almost maddeningly, as if whoever’s doing it is trying to escape.

Nails on…glass. On glass.

Glass.

It’s coming from Riddle’s room.

The mirror!

You shuffle towards the door, only to stop short just as your foot steps in something sticky.

You lift your leg and shine the light on it. A black substance that appears to be some sort of molten tar or ink drips from your sole. With a gasp, you drag your foot upon the floor in hopes of getting rid of it.

“Ugh! How filthy!”

Resolving to wash it later, you stomp over to the door, yank it open, and poke your head inside. A rush of cold air barrages your face, whistling through the crack and out into the corridor. You stumble away in a daze. The scratching persists, angrily now, in a desperate sort of fashion. 

“Riddle?” you call out, your voice subdued and shot through with fear. “I… I’m sorry for disturbing you. I’d like to warm myself with you, if you’ll allow it.”

Just like that, the house stills. Shakily, you hold the candle out to light a portion of his room.

“I never should have left you. It must have been terribly lonely here. Lonely and cold… I’ve betrayed you in life, but in death I will be here to look after you. Forever and always. So… So please rest peacefully.”

The tip-tapping of a sharpened nail against the glass almost startles you out of your skin. You realize then that the shroud has fallen away from the mirror. 

If I must look upon it… Oh, but I’d rather not… Oh, but I must!

Steeling yourself, you burst into the room and brandish the candlestick. Thankfully, there are no monsters or humans to scare you. No ghosts to be banished. No intruders to chase off. Instead, you see yourself in the mirror.

Or…an approximation of you. Not quite a doppelgänger in appearance. This version of you is wearing soaked rags, tattered and tired, but she has your eyes. They’re unmistakable as they stare back at you.

You set the candlestick on the bedside table and inch closer to the mirror.

“Peculiar,” you whisper, reaching for the glass just as your reflection does. “Surely this isn’t me. I look ghastly!”

Your fingers brush the surface and, in a stroke of shock, just as the grandfather clock below chimes the hour, your hand goes through. Before you can think to pull away, something on the other side tugs at your wrist, frigid fingers coiling tightly. With a shriek, you resist and claw wildly at the air, stretching to grab hold of the bed. You manage to grasp the edge of the blanket, which is pulled free from its neat placement, just as you’re dragged through the mirror.

All that’s left of you is the locket pin, having fallen to the floor in a clatter during the scuffle.

You open your eyes on a room colored black and white. It looks like yours, but something is different. It doesn’t feel like yours. It doesn’t even appear lived in. Almost as if it’s been sealed like a crypt, kept in pristine condition as it awaits an owner who will never return.

Where am I? you wonder, closing your hands around your shawl. It provides you with a modicum of comfort.

A book is lying on the vanity desk, the only thing that looks just slightly out of place in an otherwise tidy room. Curiously, you pick it up and open it to read the cover: Property of Riddle Rosehearts.

“Oh?”

You turn to a random page and skim through the words: I’ve waited ceaselessly for her return, so much so I’m beginning to lose count of the days. I’ve no inkling as to what’s real and what’s false. I see her in the stars, in the mirror, in my dreams… She is lost, I’m certain of this. No one will listen to me. They’ve condemned me to my solitude in this house, but soon I’ll swap places with him and then I’ll have her. It is only a matter of time. She will be mine.

This…cannot be my husband’s diary. Or was it? This is undoubtedly his penmanship.

Surely your husband wasn’t seeing another woman. He has always been honest and sincere. He has never raised his hand to you, nor has he ever threatened you. He is gentle, albeit rough and awkward around the edges, but he means well. Furthermore, you’ve never known him to keep diaries.

If he was embroiled in an adulterous affair, perhaps it was for the best. I could not hope to give him a child. I couldn’t bring him happiness or comfort. I am a failure of a wife, you think, running your thumb over the page.

You must stand tall and proud in the face of adversity. Do not falter.

Drying your eyes, you set the diary down and resolve to keep your strength for the exploration to come. Crying will not help you here. Not right now.

Never falter.

You push the door open and step out into the hall. The photographs are turned upright; mirrors are uncovered. The staircase is on the opposite end of the hall instead of directly around the corner like yours is back home. Even with the differences, the house reminds you of Riddle’s manor.

Strange… Everything is so similar and yet it’s not.

You creep down the stairs, eyeing the crystal chandelier hanging high in the foyer. In fact, now that you’re descending, you’re beginning to notice just how many reflective surfaces surround you. Looking glasses of all shapes and sizes. Crystal decorations that reflect in dozens… It’s overwhelming. At every angle, your face peers back at you.

When you peel the curtain away to glance outside, you find an unsettling white space stretching on endlessly.

Where have I found myself?

You trot down the hall, searching the portraits for any indication of the master of the house. Instead, all you see is yourself. The other faces have been blotted out in dark ink.

This is not my home, you realize with a shiver.

The further you venture, the clearer it becomes that someone lives here. Despite the manic decor, there is not a speck of dust or a hint of disrepair. Someone is here, and they’re looking after this property.

You round the corner, acquainting yourself with a semi-familiar layout, and that’s when you find him. Your husband.

He’s hanging up another portrait with meticulous precision. This is a painting of you. It reminds you of the one your Riddle had commissioned. Only this one depicts you in the same decrepit fashion you saw before you were coaxed through the mirror.

This can’t be… Do my eyes deceive me? Is this truly—

“Riddle?”

His hands fall away from the frame, and he turns to look at you. Ruby-red eyes widen in recognition and then delight. He swoops in like a falcon, covering the distance in quick strides to gather you in his arms.

“My beloved! Oh, what wonderful fortune!” he cries, embracing you tightly. “You’ve come back to me! At long last, you’re here… You’re really here in flesh and blood! Oh, my love, sweetest rose, welcome back.”

If you were to ever meet your husband again, you were certain he’d have an earful for you, a long lecture of societal and personal expectations husband and wife are meant to adhere to. But this Riddle is…happy. He doesn’t seem angry or disappointed at all.

Rather woodenly, you wrap your arms around him. “You’re…not cross?”

“Whyever would you think that?” He pulls away from you and runs his hands up your arms, as if to assess the authenticity of your appearance.

You stare at his face. He looks like Riddle. But… Well.

He doesn’t feel like Riddle. Your Riddle—the grey-eyed Riddle—was awkward in his affections. He would never hug you so openly. He would never touch you without your approval first. He was considerate and well-mannered. Furthermore, he never called you by any endearing terms. You were always Lady (Name) to him.

Your hands close around his face to hold him still. “Your eyes—”

He blinks and suddenly the red was never there. “My eyes?”

Am I dreaming?

“Are you certain this is real?”

He smiles. “You must still be clinging to the vestiges of sleep. I assure you this is all very real.”

“So you’re truly Riddle? My Riddle?”

“Your Riddle. Always and forever.”

Tears well up in your eyes. You sink to your knees. “Oh, Riddle… Riddle, I’m so sorry. If I had just come back sooner… If I hadn’t been so scared—I couldn’t face you! I didn’t want to. I…didn’t wish to see you suffering so. It hurts…”

“My dear…” He lowers to your height and brushes your tears away with his thumb. His eyes soften with an intense fondness. “How fervently I’ve missed your voice. How desperately I’ve longed to hold you in my arms.”

“I can’t fathom it—how can it be?” you mutter, hesitant to touch him again lest he be turned to dust before your eyes. “You… You’re alive?”

“I’ve always been alive.”

“But you—your condition! You’ve been ill. It…” You inhale a sharp breath. “Your ailment worsened when you married me.”

“Do you blame yourself?” Before you can answer that, he takes hold of your chin and tilts your head. “Don’t. The fault does not lie with you. It never has.”

And then he fits his lips on yours in a kiss so sweet and soulful it momentarily rekindles your hope in romance. Shocked, you stumble back on the floor, but he just surges forward to continue kissing you. It’s passionate and hungry; he nibbles at your lip and licks into your mouth, leaving you panting and scrabbling for purchase. You cling to his suit—the same suit he was buried in.

He breaks away for breath, and you inhale mouthfuls of it. “Wait—”

Another kiss, this one longer than its predecessor. Your fingers curl into his shoulder. He pulls back.

“Riddle—”

He tugs your shawl from your shoulders in lustful impatience. You yelp when you feel his hands on your thighs, slyly sliding beneath your dark nightgown.

“Riddle!” You gasp, scandalized, and push him away. Breathing heavily, you yank the strap of your gown over your shoulder. “Just what’s gotten into you?!”

“I’ve missed you,” he confesses, gathering your hands in his. “I’ve waited for your return for so long—too long! And now you’re finally here… You’ve finally come back to me.”

My Riddle was never this forward.

“You must know I cannot give you what it is you want. I’m dead inside, a tragedy your mother is all too keen to remind me of.”

A frown tugs at his lips. “Unfortunate as that may be, it does not offend me in the slightest and it shouldn’t. I love you, with or without child.” He lifts your hand and places a gentle kiss upon the top of it.

You stare at him, horrified.

“S-Say that again, if you would…”

“I love you?” He raises his brow at you, confused. “With or without child, I love you. Always and forever.”

You drag your hand back, clutching it as if it’s injured. “I think…I might go for a stroll.”

He blinks back at you, one eye at a time. “Oh! Allow me to accompany you. It’s howling a gale out there. You would do well to change into attire fitting for the weather.”

“Of course. I’d love nothing more than to walk through the rose gardens with you. I do hope they haven’t started wilting.”

Riddle helps you up from the ground, drapes your shawl over your shoulders, and sends you on your way. You offer him a smile and turn to walk stiffly down the hall. The minute you’re out of sight, you sprint for the stairs, taking two at a time, and throw open the door to your room.

Your reflection meets you at the mirror. Without wasting another moment, you reach for her. Someone catches your wrist on the other side and tugs you through.

You’re spat out in Riddle’s bedroom in a heap of tangled limbs, your heart in your throat. The mirror shimmers with the real you. When you press your finger to the glass it doesn’t go through, but your finger touches its reflection.

“That was…strange,” you whisper, drawing away. You find the locket pin lying inches from your foot and you scramble for it, hastily prying it open to check its contents. The photo and lock of red hair remain untouched. “It was just a dream. A wild, whimsical terror.”

You rise to your feet and, after fixing the disturbed sheets, bid a final farewell to the room.

“Rest peacefully,” you say, shutting the door behind you. 

That was not my Riddle. My Riddle has never said he loves me before.

Following that night, you busy yourself with the curiosities of Riddle’s estate. In the three years you’ve lived here, you were unaware the house had so many secret spaces. Hidden doors that open into narrow passages and stairs. You’ve never had any servants, so you’re not sure why Riddle would need any of this. The house has been in the Rosehearts family for decades. As the legend goes, it was burned beyond repair and rebuilt with a better layout. A safer layout, Riddle would tell you when you questioned the tale.

“Safer for what?” you mutter, peeling wallpaper back to reveal the door to a thin crawl space. There’s never anything sealed within these rooms, but their existence is proof enough. If not for servants, these passages were meant to house secrets. “Did he know about this? He must have.”

Would Mrs. Rosehearts know? Oh, but I dread the thought of wasting ink on that insufferable woman.

You lower to your knees and peer inside the crawl space. “Hello? Is anyone home?” And then you laugh to yourself. “Are you hiding in there, Riddle?”

You receive no reply.

A Riddle with red eyes… I must have been so feverish that night, to dream a vision so crooked.

You stretch your arm inside and feel around for any hidden treasure. You expect to come away with cobwebs and spiders, not a leather-bound book.

“Huh… Perhaps I’ve been away from the manor much too long,” you mutter, sitting with your back to the wall. You open the book, wondering what its contents could be that would merit this treatment.

Books ought to be treated in the same manner we treat each other—with respect. They are filled with boundless knowledge, and they provide insight into fascinating wonders we may yet comprehend, Riddle used to say.

“‘To destroy them would be to destroy the wisdom they offer,’” you say, finishing the rest of his quote. A smile pulls your lips up. “He loved books. Riddle would never seal any away.”

You peel it open to the first page, where you find four unsettling words.

Property of Riddle Rosehearts.

It’s a diary. Riddle’s diary.

Suddenly, the house is colder and unwelcoming, as if the very foundation disapproves of what you’ve just unearthed from its bowels. You’ve never known Riddle to keep a diary. And yet…

Tentatively, you flip through the pages. It’s a log of his condition, you realize. He details his symptoms daily, every event outlined in neat, waltzing script. You weren’t aware of just how morbid his condition was. At some point, though, he begins to catalogue other happenings.

I’ve coughed up quite a monstrous thing, he writes. I cannot fathom what it is, but it has the consistency of ink, almost. It is thick and foul in my mouth. It stains my sheets and colors my teeth. Next time it happens, I shall gather enough to test whether it truly is ink.

Then another page: I cannot employ servants because I fear he will tip poison into their ears. Thus, I’ve deigned to do everything myself. I’ve mustered enough strength and willpower to stand and cover most of the mirrors. So long as Lady (Name) stays away…

And another page: He is looking at me again, knocking at the mirror. Even as I write this, I must remain vigilant. You must wonder why I don’t shatter the mirror and put an end to this madness. Rather than sever the connection, I fear it would only provide an opening into our world. I hear him every night just as the clock tolls out the Witching Hours. He speaks of a malice most concerning. It is tiring and I think fondly of submitting, but I must protect Lady (Name).

And the final page, penned just days before his death: I fear the worst is happening. I cannot continue to research the face in the mirror. It has rendered me too frail. He has been studying me in the meantime, following me through the glass. He is a perfect reflection now, an expert copy. I’ve no inkling what this implies, but I suspect it cannot be anything pleasant. I’m going to seal my findings away with what little strength I have left so that it never falls into his hands. There must be some way to stop it… this infernal ringing in my ears… the blood filling my eyes…

A dried splatter stains the page, obscuring whatever was left of his words. You leaf through a few pages, searching for a proper explanation.

The face in the mirror? A perfect reflection? What is all of this? Just what was Riddle doing while I was gone?

You find it then, a list of what he believes to be fact, all outlined in an organized fashion.

Evidence of Fact

It is confined within reflective surfaces. It cannot step out into the mortal realm (or so I’ve yet to witness), but it can follow through mirrors so long as you look into it. Though the original must remain intact.

It is most active during the hours of midnight through three o’clock in the morning. To be referred to from here on out as the Witching Hours.

It has my voice and my face, but it is not me. You must remind yourself of this when you feel yourself losing control: He is not me, nor is he the shadow I cast.

It sees with red eyes and reaches with nightmarish claws. (A devil, perhaps?)

The substance I have been vomiting ceaselessly is indeed ink, but the reflection in the mirror refers to it as ‘blot.’ It is black and viscous. It reeks of rot.

It is undoubtedly after Lady (Name).

It calls itself Riddle.

You don’t really know your husband. You’ve never known him, in fact.

He was shouldering such a heavy burden all this time… All for my sake.

You hold the diary close to your chest.

If what he writes is true, then what I experienced that night… It wasn’t a dream but, rather, a supernatural occurrence. The reflection in the mirror calling itself Riddle—that must have been the Riddle I met. The one with red eyes. For a moment, I almost thought it was my Riddle. You run your finger over the cover of the diary. If that thing is the reason my Riddle is dead…

You don’t dare think any further.

Riddle noted that Reflection Riddle is most active during the Witching Hours. If you follow that logic then the mirror should open up between midnight and three every night, allowing you to cross into a world that reflects your own. You wonder if it’s the same for the other side. If it was, wouldn’t that mean Reflection Riddle could step out at any point and enter your world? You certainly hope he can’t.

Moros’s Looking Glass, reads the bookmarked tome in Riddle’s study, a (thankfully) mirrorless space that grants you total privacy, is said to be a powerful mirror that connects the mortal realm with that of the spirit realm. It is said that mortals who look upon Moros’s Glass are bound for death and should tread carefully when they hear three consecutive knocks from within their home. 

Not if but when. A certainty.

You turn to the chapter on Moros. “‘Gave people the ability to foresee their death…’” you read, frowning deeper as the text goes on. “‘Moros is a word meaning doom or fate. It is said that once you take Moros’s hand you can never turn back, for your death is already weaved into fate.’ No escape… Could that Reflection Riddle be Moros? That might give reason to why my reflection looked so twisted.”

You slump in the chair and sigh. “I’m sorry, Riddle… I never should have left you. I should have stayed. Perhaps then we could have worked together to understand this.”

Gritting your teeth, you wipe furiously at your eyes.

All this time, he was suffering and I ran away. All this time, he was thinking of me and my well-being, and I ran away.

Before you can openly bawl in his study, you remember the notes in Riddle’s diary.

It wants me. To what extent, I’m unsure. But if it truly does love me as it claimed… Surely it wouldn’t hurt me.

You don’t want to return to that strange world with its strange Riddle, but you need answers. If it killed your Riddle… You shut the book and place it back on the shelf.

You must stand tall and proud in the face of adversity. Do not falter.

Stringing the locket pin on an empty chain, you fasten it around your neck. That way, Riddle will always be close to your heart—a reminder that you are not alone. You rifle through your closet for appropriate attire, casting corsets and crinolines aside in favor of clothing that grants more freedom.

But I mustn’t look suspicious, you think, debating whether you should wear a chemise or a longer gown. You pull a pair of loose-fitting trousers from a drawer next. Perhaps… Oh, this will seem so indecent! If Riddle were here, he’d advise against it. But these will allow for movement should I need to flee fast. 

Seeing no other option, you choose the bloomers and a simple blouse, both in the classic color for mourning.

Ideally, I would prefer to never go back again, but I suspect I’ll be visiting more than once. Tonight, I’ll attempt to search for a weakness. There must be something I can exploit. A tension or a spot of blindness, perhaps? There’s that white space surrounding the manor. Perhaps I ought to try stepping outside?

You change in your room in front of a covered mirror and read through Riddle’s diary to refresh yourself on the foe you’ll be facing.

When the grandfather clock’s midnight toll reaches upstairs, you hide the diary under your pillow and cross the hall into Riddle’s room.

I refuse to call that thing my husband, you think hatefully. You are not Riddle. You will never be Riddle.

You kneel before the floor-length mirror and press your palm to the surface. A cold hand pulls you through.

I must remember not to overstay my welcome. You lift your trousers to peer at the pocket watch tied around your thigh. It is fifteen minutes past twelve. The window closes at three.

Throwing the closet doors open, which is packed full of well-tailored dresses and skirts, you grab a long woolen coat and fit your arms through the sleeves. You slide your feet into a pair of low-top heels. When you admire yourself in the mirror, you spy your waterlogged reflection looking back. She vanishes in a blink.

Descending the stairs, you call out for Riddle. “I apologize for the delay. I’m ready if you are.”

He pokes his head out from around the corner, a delicate smile gracing his pale features. Meeting you at the very bottom, he offers his arm.

“I’ve waited years for your return.” He laughs. “I can wait a few measly minutes.”

Minutes? Does time work differently here? Every clock aside from the watch fastened to my thigh is stopped at Riddle’s time of death. Perhaps this world’s sense of time is warped because of that. Or maybe Moros truly has no concept of time…

“Patience is a most admirable virtue, or so they say.”

“They speak the truth.” He leads you to the door. “You’ve come at a wondrous time. The roses are still in bloom. Though, regrettably, most of them have already closed up.”

“What little is left, I will be sure to cherish.” You pat his arm and smile. “Thank you for always taking such diligence to care for them.”

If there exists a reflection of Riddle, why haven’t I seen my reflection? Surely she isn’t just confined to the mirror…

The door opens and you brace yourself for the blinding white space. Instead, you’re greeted to the sight of a flourishing front yard. It looks nothing like your own, which leads you to wonder if Moros can only replicate the scenery within the house due to the limited field of sight provided by the mirrors. The rest of this—the gardens, the stone pathway, the hedges—it’s his imagination filling in the blanks.

“Oh, it’s beautiful!” You tug him ahead, your hand easily sliding into his. “They’re quite red!”

“Aren’t they just?”

“Positively beaming with color,” you exaggerate even though you can’t see a speck of red. Everything here is black and white. The only red you’ve seen so far is the red in his eyes.

You gaze at the iron gates at the end of the property. “Riddle, dear, have we always had those gates?”

“We have.” His hand slides over yours. “To keep beauty in and filth out.”

“Filth?” You look at him incredulously. “What sort of filth?”

“Those who think it wise to flout the rules. I will not tolerate such flagrant displays of disobedience.” He squeezes your hand. “I’m sure you understand, my rose. There is no greater peace than that which is attained through order.”

“And what of exiting?”

“You’ve only just come back to me and now you speak of leaving?”

“I wouldn’t go alone. Do you not want to go into town? I quite like the circus.”

“You have everything you need here.” He kisses the top of your hand. “With me.”

So the boundary is the gate. Very well.

“I suppose that’s true. There is no greater bliss than seeing you again after so much time apart. Why would I ever want to leave?”

“Indeed. You shall never leave,” he murmurs, smiling.

Riddle takes you on a tour through monochrome gardens, pointing out all manner of delightful flora. You voice your acknowledgement when it’s necessary, but your mind is elsewhere.

I should find his diary again. I don’t believe I saw it on the desk when I came through the mirror.

You peer at Riddle’s face. He is not a fool. My Riddle was so bright. If Moros can replicate his physical form so seamlessly, then surely he knows of his intelligence.

“Riddle.”

“Yes, my rose?”

“I love you, too.”

His eyes widen. The admission must have genuinely shocked him, for his grey irises explode with red. But then he blinks it away and they’re back to grey. In these quiet gardens, he pulls you closer and presses a chaste kiss to your lips.

“And I love you. Most ardently.”

You smile and then you giggle. “Why did I leave you in the first place? It’s patently absurd.”

“A question I asked myself in cycles.” He drags his knuckle along your cheek. “Can the sea truly cure the morbs? Wouldn’t it have been better here? What can the sea offer that I don’t already have?” He clenches his jaw. “Why would you leave? Why?”

“Riddle… R-Riddle, you’re hurting me!”

He comes to his senses then and gazes at his hand closed tightly around yours. “Ah… Forgive me.” He loosens his hold and tries a relaxed smile. “Your arrival is most important. Anything that came before that is wholly insignificant.”

“Of course it is…”

He must know of my trip from Riddle. Perhaps it was mentioned in passing. I’m certain Moros doesn’t have Riddle’s memories. Despite being reflections, they are still separate entities. Or so I hope.

You return inside on account of being famished. Riddle insists on preparing dinner, claiming he’s practiced tirelessly in your absence and has been awaiting a chance to boast his skills. You allow him to do that and, while he works in the kitchen, you slink upstairs to check the time. It’s half-past two.

Just before you exit through the mirror, you poke around the room in search of the diary. It isn’t there.

Perhaps it’s in Riddle’s room?

You refer to the watch once more.

I have time. Just five minutes and then I shall be on my way.

You creep over towards Riddle’s room and, slowly, so slowly, reach for the door. Riddle’s voice permeates the air just then, calling up to you from the bottom of the staircase.

“(Name)? Dinner is almost ready!”

You press yourself against the wall just in case he can somehow see you. “Yes, thank you! Just one moment.”

Stuffing the coat and shoes inside the closet, you spare one final glance at the door before stepping through the warped surface of the mirror.

You emerge just a few minutes before three.

Much too close for my liking. You shut the pocket watch and run your hands through your hair. But that was enlightening. While not clear in its entirety, I understand the world I’m grappling with just a scintilla better.

In the coming weeks, you travel between worlds to gather as much information as possible. Riddle receives you with immense adoration every time, seemingly none the wiser to your periodic disappearances. The last time you went snooping around the second story, you realized the rooms were mostly empty and Riddle’s bedroom was locked.

You write your findings down in the empty pages in your husband’s diary: If the door is locked, he must know that whatever’s inside is of great importance. Therefore, he’s done well to keep it safe. Additionally, he appears to learn from my actions. When he’s startled, his eyes can’t remain grey. Now it’s as if he’s anticipated the shock and has taught himself to keep the façade. It is a most peculiar act. No weaknesses to detail as of yet.

You return to Riddle’s entries once more. Surely I’m missing something. There must be a weakness.

Briefly, you consider shattering the mirror. Riddle didn’t test his hypothesis regarding this method. Perhaps nothing will come of it and you’ll be rid of this menacing reflection. But then you’ll never know why your reflection looks the way it does. You’ll never know what killed your husband. You’ll never know who Reflection Riddle really is—though you certainly have your suspicions.

I must return.

When the clock announces the arrival of midnight, you step through the mirror. Only this time, when you step out of your room, Riddle is there and he doesn’t look pleased.

“Oh! Riddle—”

“What were you doing?”

“I…” You shut your mouth and fish through your brain in an attempt to recall what you said you’d be doing last time you were here. “I was changing.”

He scrutinizes you with narrowed eyes. “Into your night clothes? Did you not wish to take a stroll?”

“Oh, you must forgive me. I have been so weary… If it pleases you, perhaps we can have our stroll tomorrow?” You glance past him at his bedroom door and then reach for his hands. “Shall we sleep together?”

Riddle watches your face a moment longer. The tension in his figure relaxes, and he eventually smiles. “Nothing would make me happier.”

He guides you to your bed, but you stop him. “Your room. I’m most comfortable in your bed.”

“Is that so?”

“Verily.”

For a moment you think he’ll find some way to slither out of this, but then he’s pulling you through the door towards his room. His hand ghosts over the knob and it unlocks just like that. “I must warn you. It’s not in the��cleanest condition. I admit it was a reflection of my mind in the wake of your absence.”

“I’m certain it isn’t so terrible,” you assure, rubbing his arm consolingly. “Although… Riddle, if I may, what happened to me?”

“To you? Why, you left.”

“Yes, that is an irrefutable fact. But… It couldn’t have been the morbs.”

Riddle smiles thinly. His eyes fog over with an unrecognizable emotion. “I thought I lost you,” he explains, his hand on the knob. “I was certain you would never return.”

“But I’m here now. Whyever would you think that?”

“You died,” he says, his voice cracking. “A-At sea. You threw yourself into the sea.”

I…did that? Truly? But then it makes sense. The water dripping from your reflection. Her tattered dress. The strands of seaweed. But why? Why would I do such a thing?

“That’s why I could scarcely believe my eyes when I saw you. When you came back to me, perfectly whole and in one piece, warm and alive… I was so relieved. I’ll never let you go again.”

He opens the door and it becomes clear to you when you see a roomful of portraits and letters scattered everywhere. Your letters. Your pictures. Even your belongings. These aren’t mirror reflections. These are genuine artifacts from your world. The breath sticks in your throat. All of the letters you sent Riddle while you were away, never to receive a single reply, they’re all here, tucked away in their respective envelopes. And you know they’re yours because your signature dots each and every one, each stamp pasted on by your careful hands.

Lying on the bedside table is Riddle’s diary, where the passage you first read must be penned. The one in which he notes how long he’s waited. How very soon he’ll swap places with your husband and have you all to himself. How they’ve condemned him to this prison. They. Who is they? 

You understand it now. The sticky substance you stepped on the first night. The reflection of the other you. The Riddle who you thought couldn’t stand you and was having his silent rebellion disregarding all of your letters. It was the thieving reflection who crept into your world!

Your other self died so that you could take her place. And you know this is true because she is you, and in the midst of your melancholy back in your world you considered surrendering yourself to the sea.

“Riddle…”

“Sleep! Do pardon the dreadful state of this room.” He smiles and tugs you down onto the bed to tuck you in. “It’s late. You’ll never function properly if you neglect the moon’s call for bedtime.”

“Riddle!” You seize his wrist when he climbs into bed beside you. He blinks at you, one eye at a time. “Who…are you, exactly? You’re not my Riddle.”

He tilts his head at you. “But of course I am.”

“No… No, you’re not. My Riddle is—” you inhale shakily— “dead.”

His eyes rove over your features, flicking down to watch your hand curled around his wrist. He chuckles. “You must be so tired, my rose. Sleep. Come morning, all of this will have been a daydream lived in a daze.”

He pats the pillow and you lower yourself slowly. He follows your lead, wrapping the both of you in the fluffy blanket.

“I have always been your Riddle. Always and forever.”

“Right… Yes. Yes, of course. How…” You swallow thickly. “How foolish of me to think otherwise.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, hoping he’ll inevitably fall asleep. The pocket watch tied around your thigh continues to count out the minutes. You’ve no idea how much time has passed, but the longer you spend here the slimmer your window of escape gets. And Riddle just won’t fall asleep! His eyes remain open, observing you as you shift in and out of faux sleep. Eventually, you turn your back on him.

I cannot fall asleep here. I’ll be trapped.

“(Name)…”

Why won’t he sleep? Surely he’s tired… Do reflections feel exhaustion? They must!

“(Name)…”

You force yourself to remain calm, contenting yourself with the fact that he has to fall asleep soon.

But then there’s a hand on your arm, climbing up your shoulder like a spider on a web. His fingers drum along your sleeve.

“You’re not truly sleeping, are you?”

His voice is right in your ear, and you can hear the twisted smile in it.

You roll over onto your back. Riddle blinks down at you, still smiling that sticky, self-satisfied smile.

“You were anticipating my slumber, were you not?”

“In the hope that we might rest together, yes. Are you not tired?”

“How could I rest when I know you’re just going to slip away again?” He yanks the covers off and moves to grab the hem of your nightgown. In a panic, not wanting the watch to be revealed, you push him away, falling off the bed in the process. Landing with a thud, you pick yourself up and glimpse the time. Just ten minutes until three. You gasp and stumble towards the door.

“Stop!” he shouts, reaching for you. “Come back here! Don’t leave me!”

You yelp as something slimy coils around your ankle. You fall flat on your stomach, pulled back into the room without mercy. You thrash, kicking out blindly in hopes of untangling whatever’s found itself attached to your leg.

“Unhand me!” You grab at the door frame and pull yourself forward, grunting with the effort. “Don’t touch me!”

“You don’t get to leave! Not when I finally have you!”

You turn to look at him and bite back a terrified scream at the sight of him. He’s monstrous! The odious stench of death hangs heavy in the air. There’s that black substance again, oozing from his pores like an overfilled, soggy rag. He’s dressed differently, too, in clothes that bring forth images of decapitated royalty. The inky crown on his head and the spade-tipped Medici collar only cement this imagery. His hands are splayed with razor-thin claws, and suddenly you’re brought back to the night of that ominous tap-tapping against the glass.

The tendril coiled around your leg, you now realize, is an ebony, thorny stem.

“W-What are you?”

He grits his teeth. “Your husband.”

You reach for the stem and, pulling it taut, bite down roughly. Blot spatters your maw and it tastes rancid, but you chew through in spite of the taste. Riddle hisses at you. You manage to sever it just in time. Another vine shoots out after you and you slam the door shut before it can ensnare you.

“(Name)!” he roars from behind the door, his voice deeper and angrier. “You step through that mirror and I’ll tear you to shreds the next time you return! Do you hear me?! I’ll slaughter you!”

“I wish you luck in that endeavor because I won’t ever be back!”

The door is torn off its hinges then. When Riddle lunges for you, he narrowly misses your nightgown, instead grasping the chain around your neck. It snaps and the locket pin smashes to the floor.

“No!” You swoop down to grab it, but Riddle’s already swiped it for himself. Looking between that and the mirror, you scream a colorful word and dive for the mirror just as the clock below chimes out the hour.

You somersault into Riddle’s bedroom, your heart pounding wildly in your ribs, and feel along your body for the pendant. It isn’t there.

“No… No, no, no! Blast! I can’t… I need that locket!”

You whirl towards the mirror and this time it isn’t your reflection peering back. It’s that monstrous fiend!

He holds the chain up for you to see, grinning all the while. The locket twirls idly on the broken link. It’s an obvious taunt: If you want it, come and get it.

Your fingers curl around an iron candlestick, but you stop yourself just before you can bring it down against the glass.

I can’t break it. I need to get in, and he wants to get out. We both want something we can’t have.

You scowl at the mirror just as Riddle vanishes, and then your reflection—your real reflection, broken and despairing—is staring back. Falling to your knees, you hold your head in your hands and sob.

The next few days trickle by like the seemingly never-ending rainfall outside. You pen countless letters to friends, Mrs. Rosehearts, even Riddle himself, but they’re all ripped to shreds before you can sign them. You visit his grave, dressed in all black, crying behind your veil. 

“What am I to do, Riddle?” you whisper, clutching your parasol to shield yourself from the winter sun. “It’s an impossible foe. There is no weakness to be found…”

Your choke on your sniffle. No weakness but me. He would do anything for me, would he not? And if he can’t have me… At once, you shake your head. No. I’m not going to resort to such drastic, harmful measures. In the face of adversity, I shall stand tall and proud. I will never falter. I will never waver. That monster killed my husband. I refuse to be cowed into submission by such malevolence!

You bend down and place your gloved hand over the soil. “I never did thank you, Riddle.” A small smile pulls at your tired, sleep-deprived face. “Thank you for all that you have done. You may rest in ataraxy, for I shall put an end to the beast who tormented you in such unspeakable, barbarous ways.”

Smoothing down your skirts, you depart for the Rosehearts Manor.

After eating as much as you can stomach, you spend the rest of the day catching up on lost sleep. With your body and mind now refreshed, you approach the problem from a new angle. A physical altercation is impossible, and you’re certain it will be impossible to truly kill him. If you can’t fight, then you shall talk instead. Riddle was a logical man. Though that monster will never be your Riddle, surely he holds some shred of logic.

And in the event that he can’t be reasoned with…

You touch the pointed tip of a knife and frown. Can I bring myself to wound the creature who wears my husband’s face?

Even though you’re doubtful, you stow it in your satchel with the rest of your tools and trinkets.

This ends tonight, once and for all, even if it kills me.

You sit in front of the mirror and await the tell-tale chime of midnight.

When the mirror’s surface warps and twists, you harden your nerves into that of unbreakable steel.

In the face of adversity…

“Blast it! I’ll kill him,” you snarl and step through the mirror.

It is eerily quiet when you exit on the other side. The house is in shambles, as if a nasty storm has come through and torn up everything in its path. The wallpaper is peeling in thin curls, the portraits are hanging crooked, the mirrors are shattered, and blot paints everything in black. It drips from the ceiling like saliva from a mutt’s mouth.

Swallowing your disgust, you tiptoe out into the hall. Riddle isn’t in his room. In fact, there isn’t much of a room to admire. The door has been thrown against the wall, and everything is tattered. It occurs to you that this Riddle’s love is wrong. It is not love. It is an obsession driven by the greedy desire to possess. You gather what letters you can salvage and stuff them in your satchel, even the ones from Riddle you never received.

What iniquitous meddling. To intercept our communication in such a way… You are nothing more than a parasite that must be snipped away.

Your journey takes you down the stairs. You’re careful to avoid the blot sticking to the steps as you descend, gracefully maneuvering around it. The deeper into the house you venture, the thicker the air becomes. You pinch your nose and squint through the dark haze, pushing aside low-hanging branches and vines. Inky roses sprout from the walls, twisting towards you as you approach. You duck to avoid them.

Moros is waiting for you at the dinner table. It’s set for two. Flowers twine around his seat. It looks more like a grand throne. Yours is much the same.

A Queen needs a King, even when both are destined to fall.

“Riddle.”

“If you would, have a seat. I believe we have an exchange to make.” Your locket drops down in front of your face, dangling from a stem. You reach for it and it shoots back up towards the ceiling. “No, no. That’s not how reasonable conversations are had, (Name). If you think yourself wise, sit down and listen.”

You scowl at him. “What do you want?”

“You’re an intelligent lady. My counterpart fancied that side of you most ardently. He wrote about you often, spoke of your marvelous brain.” He rests his elbows on the table and props his chin on his folded hands. “So you must already know what it is I seek.”

“You… You murdered my husband.”

He slams his hand on the table. The plates clatter from the force. “I didn’t kill him! He withered away of his own accord!”

“What did you do?”

“Sit down.”

“What did you do?”

“Sit. Down.”

“What in blazes did you do to him?!”

“I said, sit down!” Vines shoot out from the darkness. You’re tugged into your seat and held still, posture perfect. A smile twists itself onto his ink-stained lips. “Was that so difficult?”

He waves his hand and more vines come down from the ceiling to grasp the cutlery. You watch as they cut a portion of whatever shapeless filth is on your plate. Refusing to comply, you keep your mouth shut.

“Not hungry? A shame. It’s strawberry. You enjoy strawberries, do you not? Ah, and I suppose that husband of yours fancied them something fierce.”

“Please…” You look at him helplessly, tears shimmering in your glossy gaze. “What did you do to my Riddle? Why did you hurt him?”

“Two cannot exist within the same space. I was never going to be allowed to stay in your world with him around. He was already bound for the grave.” He chuckles to himself. “Rather, it was quite fortuitous that you left for the sea. If you had stayed, I wouldn’t have been able to work so efficiently.”

“So you—you’re the reason he—”

“My (Name) left me stranded here in this hell, but you… You’re perfect. Your love is pure and soft. You are the one.”

“So what are you, truly? You’re not Riddle.”

A flower unfurls before you, its petals drying your tears. He hums.

“You’re mistaken, my rose. Who else am I if not the Riddle you cherish so dearly?”

“You’re Moros, are you not?”

He tilts his head, and you can hear the audible crack of his neck.

“Moros, an entity of doom—of death. Riddle saw you in the mirror when—”

“Not me,” he corrects. “He saw himself—what was to become of him, at least. He also saw you, here with me. This is the very outcome he was hoping to prevent.” Moros barks out a cruel laugh. “And look where it got him! A wooden bed beneath the soil. Oh, but I do understand, though. You’re worth fighting for. Dying for, even. He loved you sincerely, but I shall love you perfectly.”

“You’re a monster.”

“Nooo.” He waggles a vine at you. “I’m your husband. There’s a difference. One is imperfect, a failure. The other… The other is better, an improvement.”

“Oh, forgive me. A parasite.”

“No,” he says, stressing the word. “Try again.”

“A fiend.”

“(Name), my patience is thin as a hair.”

“I will never call you my husband, Moros.”

The vines tighten their grasp just as his face reddens with frustration. His vermillion eyes flash dangerously. You wheeze as the life is squeezed from your lungs.

“S-Stop—I can’t—can’t breathe! Please! R-Riddle… Riddle, please!”

At once, your flowery restraints retreat. He tries a smile next, but it’s tense. As if he could snap at any moment.

“There you are. (Name), my rose, I must say, it is dreadful manners to call your husband by another man’s name. So dreadful, in fact, that it incites the cold-blooded rage in my very veins. If I wished, I could paint these walls in your red. If I wished, I could tear you apart, limb from precious limb, and string you up among my flowers. But I won’t because I love you, and it would cause me immeasurable grief to lose another (Name).”

“Enough prattling. I want my locket.”

“And I have told you before that is not how you negotiate, my dear. Proper etiquette at the table dictates that you must maintain respectable eye contact, and you must never slouch. Nor should you chew with your mouth open, and if you wish to speak you must not mumble or twiddle your thumbs. You must not whine like a petulant child either. If you wish to have your locket—and I cannot fathom why—you must outline your terms. I do realize you’ve been away from your husband far too long, so perhaps he never taught you any manners. Under my rule, that shall change. Under my rule, you will be perfect just as I am.”

You tamp down a foul-mouthed tirade. “Very well. In exchange for the locket, I will give you myself.”

“In what way?”

“In any way you please, but you must first answer my questions. Truthfully.”

He eyes you dubiously. “What might those be?”

“Can you leave through the mirror?”

“I can, but only when you’re asleep.”

“What’s stopping you from existing in my world now that Riddle is gone?”

Moros smiles and the locket falls onto the table, right in front of you. “Your mourning ornament. So long as a piece of him exists in those walls, I am trapped here. As you can imagine, it’s immensely vexing.”

“And who trapped you here?”

“Why, it’s been so long I’ve no recollection. Perhaps a clever witch or a simple mistake… I do so detest living within this dull looking glass.”

“So even if I’m to keep my locket, you wouldn’t be permitted to cross over.”

“Correct. But why do that when you’re already here? You can keep those measly strands of hair. I don’t want your world if you’re not in it. So long as you’re here with me, I can stomach these colorless, glass confines.”

“Then… You’ll give me the locket and I’ll stay here?”

“Indeed.”

“And you’ll release me? I won’t be imprisoned in this…grotesque garden of yours?”

“Will you flee? Ah, but I surmise you couldn’t manage that. Not after three.”

“One more question.”

He narrows his eyes at you.

“What happens if the mirror breaks?”

“No further questions.”

“Answer me! What happens if the mirror breaks, Moros?”

“That’s not my name!”

“Tell me, or else I’ll—” You stop yourself, lower your voice, and soften the anger in your face. “Riddle, dear, please… I don’t want to argue with you.”

He studies your expression for a moment. “Why do you wish to know?”

“Riddle assumed it would give you the means to free yourself.”

“Well, he’s partially correct. If I’m to truly free myself, there must be part of me in your world, much like the hair in that locket. So that, even when the mirror shatters, I can slip out from the remaining shards and cling to that part of my existence.” His red eyes flick to your stomach. “It is a shame you cannot conceive. Even if you escaped my grasp, I could simply follow you if you were—”

“Even if I could, I would never,” you interrupt, tone clipped. “Never. Not with you.”

“Then it is very clear where we shall live from now on. You must forgive the state of our home. I’ll be sure to tidy it soon enough. If we’re to live in perfect harmony, our home must reflect that, yes? You will learn to keep house so that it never falls into ruin.”

“Yes… Yes, I understand. So… So may I—the locket?”

The vines holding you hostage slither away to the shadows, and your locket drops into your outstretched hands. You breathe a relieved sigh and pry it open to check its contents. Both are still intact.

Oh, thank you. He’s okay. He’s safe!

“Now then…” Moros offers an inky hand. “Shall we?”

Tying the broken chain around your neck, you hesitate. Eventually, you place your hand in his. “We shall.”

He sweeps you into an elegant waltz. Thick, gnarled roots shift to allow the two of you passage. He lifts you into the air just before you nearly trip over one of them. If you allowed starry adoration to shroud your sight, perhaps you would have been content remaining in this world. But this wicked place is far from a comfort. Even if your world is devoid of Riddle, it is still infinitely better than this one.

Moros twirls you effortlessly, a smile widening on his lips. “You’ve made me the happiest man, my rose. I am forever honored to have you here with me. You’ll never know just how long I’ve waited, day after day, night after night… Now we can be together forever.”

You cradle his pale face, swiping the murky ink that leaks from his eyes like tears. “Forever and always.”

The musicless dance comes to an end. His hands rest at your waist, unwilling to truly part.

“Wasn’t that just grand?”

You nod along. “I apologize for my previous behavior. It was most unbecoming. Perhaps we might begin anew? Put this mess behind us, yes?”

“My rose…” Vines slither through the shadowy brush, coiling up your legs to root you in place. His grip tightens, and a manic glint darkens his gaze. “Do you take me for a fool?”

“You are no fool, Moros.” Your hand creeps into your satchel, fingers fishing for the handle of your knife. “But you were foolish to take the face of my Riddle, and for that you have brought misfortune upon yourself. It’s unforgivable!”

You yank him towards you via the belts laced around his torso. He’s caught by surprise when you crash your lips against his, whisked away in a rush of ardor. The vines slacken just so as he melts against you, pinned in place by the blade you thrust into his stomach.

And then you’re stumbling away, pitch-black blood stringing between your lips. You wipe the filth away with the back of your hand and turn from the dining room. With trembling hands, Riddle touches the handle wedged deep in his gut. There’s a flash of innocence on his face, a betrayal that carries a somber sort of pain. He looks pitiful for a second before that fearsome temper contorts his expression into something frightfully abominable. Weeds and roots thicken in retaliation, diving right for you.

“You deceitful, ill-mannered cheat!” he fumes, tearing the knife from his abdomen. Blot spatters the ground in a grisly splat. When he flings the knife across the room, blot-blood follows in an arc. “Do you not understand that this is where you belong? This is your home. I’m your husband and you’re my wife—mine! All mine!”

“I’ll never be yours!”

He grits his teeth. “You’ve scorned me for the last time! Get back here or I shall drag you through these halls—dead or alive, with or without your head attached to your shoulders!”

You shriek when he, accompanied by a following of frightful flora, lunges after you. His claws drag against your arm, almost breaking skin, but you manage to shake yourself free, just barely avoiding the vines that reach for you with thorny fingers. He slams into the wall and the whole house seems to shake from the force of it. You catch him clutching his stomach just as you jump over a rose bush sprouting from the cracked tiles.

“Stop! I implore you!” He reaches desperately, eyes wide and terrified. You almost hesitate, but then you remember this is the monster who killed your Riddle—who is trying to imprison you in this corrupt cage. “You can’t leave! I forbid it!”

Shunning him, you bound up the stairs. A stem curls around the bannister and shoots out to seize your ankle, tripping you. Your chin smacks against the steps. Blood fills your mouth shortly after, and you realize you’ve bitten your tongue. It hurts, but you must push through.

“You’re stark raving mad!” You shake your leg free of the vine, but another captures your wrist. “No! Release me!”

“Once you’re in my arms—where you rightfully belong—you shall learn proper discipline so that you conduct yourself in a manner befitting your station!”

Your eyes dart around the hall, searching for a means to escape. There must be something—anything! You can’t let him drag you down these stairs. The moment your foot touches the floor, you’ll never make it back up.

“You’ve yet to see how perfect we’ll be, but in time it will become clear,” he’s saying, watching you from the bottom of the stairs. “Soon… Soon, you’ll understand. Then we shall be wed and you will be mine for all of eternity. I shall employ any means necessary to ensure you remain here at my side, even if it means I must terrorize you only slightly.”

Scrambling with your free hand, you rifle through your satchel for anything useful. Your fingers brush the edge of a little box and the beginning of an idea sparks in your brain.

“I may not have done everything perfectly. I’ve made countless errors in my life and I will make countless more. I’ll never be what you want me to be—what his mother expected from me. But, if nothing else, I will right this wrong.”

You manage to loosen your other arm just enough to pull the matchbox free. In a wild frenzy, you grab hold of one and strike it against the surface of the box.

Moros lurches up the stairs, but you’re prepared. You kick him back down, your sole colliding with his face, and it brings you overwhelming delight to hear him groan in pain. Quite satisfied with yourself, you watch him tumble down the stairs, caught only by his weeds at the very bottom. 

The flowers, vines, and roots retreat, shying away from the flickering flame in your hand. You shimmy out of the last one wrapped around your waist. Shrugging the satchel off, you offer the letters stuffed within an apologetic frown before dropping the match inside. The satchel and the now smoldering envelopes land right before Moros’s feet, smoke curling out from the flaps.

You hurry to procure another match and, just as he scrambles to put the first one out, flick it down the steps. The leaves and petals shudder in the heat. Soon enough, they’ll all be caught in a fierce blaze.

“No…” he laments, looking between you and the withering plants. “No! No! No!” His gaze hardens, odium burning behind those malicious red eyes. “Not another step! Do you hear me?!” 

You do. You just choose not to listen.

You scurry the rest of the way, stumbling over your clumsy feet, and burst into the bedroom. Your sopping reflection is beckoning you forward with silent urgency. Seaweed hangs from her arms like a cloak. Her skin is bloated. In spite of everything, you trust her wholeheartedly.

A most haunting cry resounds from the hall. It’s filled with indescribable agony, tinged with rage and…fear.

“Don’t leave me! The world out there offers you nothing but misfortune and melancholy. You’ll never survive! You need me!” His shadow is stark against the wallpaper, illuminated by a gradually growing fire. “I can’t—won’t do it again! I refuse to be alone! I refuse! I’m right… Always right… And yet…”

Clutching the locket secured around your throat, you take hold of the hand offered in the mirror. She pulls you through for a final time just as another anguished scream pierces the air.

You fall out of the mirror on your hands and knees, chest heaving with exhilaration.

“I… I’m free. Free from that monster’s grasp!” You check yourself over just in case and, finding all to be well, breathe a relieved sigh. “It’s over…”

A thump against the mirror startles you. You turn back to see a thin, spidery arm reaching for the glass. His clawed fingertips touch the surface, but they don’t pass through. Instead, they tap a steady rhythm.

Clink. Clink. Clink.

Within minutes, he’s pounding a fist against the glass. You jerk away and hold tightly to the locket pin. It occurs to you that you’ll never truly be rid of Moros unless you destroy him. He can still slip out of the mirror when you’re slumbering, even if only for a few hours.

You dread to imagine what wretched feats he may be capable of when you submit to the land of dreams every night.

So you lift the heaviest candlestick you can find and, just as the tolling of three o’clock calls up from below, smash the mirror to pieces. The last you see of Moros is his frightful countenance awash in firelight. He looks more like a demon than a replica of your husband, inhuman features elongated like taffy stretched too far.

You’re not sure how long you spend destroying the mirror frame, but in the aftermath you allow the candlestick to fall from your hand. You deflate against the floor, gazing at the ceiling.

“It’s finally over. No longer shall we be tormented by that fiend…”

You gather the shards and stow them in a box. Come tomorrow, it will be filled with rocks, locked and bound in chains, and tossed into the river.

For now, you climb into Riddle’s bed and, soothing yourself with the warm memories you have of him, slowly succumb to sleep.

Moros’s Looking Glass is no more.

“Oh, if you could only hear his death wail!” you recount to Riddle’s grave over tea and biscuits. There’s a cup and plate set for him, placed just near his headstone. “Shrill as a squall. I was so certain it might fill my ears with blood if it went on any longer. I should hope to never encounter another sound more thunderous.”

You hum around the porcelain rim. “If you were with me today, I suspect we’d have a grand celebration. Only the victors delight in the secret spoils of a battle hard-fought.”

The sun is peeking out through feathery cumulus today. Warmed beneath the rays, boasting the locket pin on your breast, you don’t seem so gloomy in your mourning wear. Rather, you’re hopeful. Riddle can finally rest.

“Oh! I never did have the opportunity to recount my travels. The seaside is marvelous. Simply exquisite, my dear. Full of enchanting mystery. The sailors at port spin all manner of tales! I fear it may have haunted my head for the rest of my stay, for I was certain I saw shimmering tails out by the rocks. Ah, but these grotesque sirens could never hope to impress a jot of fear in me.”

I’ve endured far worse.

“Riddle…” You rest your hand upon the grass, smoothing out verdant blades beneath your palm. “I adore you.”

A gentle breeze whistles through the churchyard. You smile.

If you strain your ears, you can almost hear his voice on the wind, reciprocating the sentiment.

Five Years Later.

At the bottom of the river, stowed away in a box with rocks, shards of glass have been laid to rest.

A single red eye blinks open in the dark, trapped within the reflective surface.

Hands bring the box up onto shore, where three children crowd around it.

“What you’ve dug up this time?” the little girl asks, kneeling on the shore.

“It’s a treasure chest!” one of the boys exclaims.

“Is it truly?”

“Look, see!” The other points.

Together, they drop a particularly heavy stone onto the rusted, water-worn chains. They break apart seamlessly.

“Blast. No key.”

“Surely we can break it in?”

“Let’s give it a go.”

It takes some effort, but soon enough they’ve dented the mechanism. The box pops open, revealing shards of glittering glass. With a disappointed grumble, one of the boys lifts a chunk towards the sky. The sun catches it, reflecting its rays beautifully.

“Nothin’ but mess. Worthless.”

“Ya think? If we patch it up, it’ll sell for a few shillings. I declare thee: Magic Mirror of Mystery.” He turns towards his friends and grins. “What do ya reckon?”

“This isn’t even worth a week’s bread. Throw it back.”

“It could be worth something small.”

“Hmm. No. I reckon I’ll keep it. Let’s make it a gift.”

“Who for?”

“Lady Rosehearts! She’s always givin’ us our share for survival. We gotta pay it back. Mummy always said you pay kindliness with more kindliness and you’ll never go hungerin’.”

“Oh, that’s marvelous! I shall make a necklace out of the smaller pieces! It’ll be so pleasing.” The little girl giggles in delight, admiring the shards sparkling in the box.

“And I’ll put the pieces together into somethin’ sturdy.” 

They exchange eager glances and then gather the shards, leaving an empty box in their wake.

[coucouatoi]

now you're in my life... | h.s.

Pairing: Harry Styles X Reader

Warnings: sexual tension, slutshaming, women being viewed as wives and baby makers only (not by Harry), fluff, Harry being a gentleman, implied age gap, smut

A/N: Bridgerton fic incoming!! I'm late to the Bridgerton party but I've finally rewatched it all... also didn't reread a 7th time so if u find any errors, sorry <3

Summary:

Dearest Gentle Readers, remember that a Bridgerton Courting season is never complete without some juicy drama. Here's some tips to stay... out of trouble:

1- Don't attempt to stand out

2- Don't even try to become the Diamond

3- Don't get caught with Londons most sought after bachelor in a compromising position

Good luck readers!

Lady Whistledown

Travel is exhausting. It always is.

Travelling with the end goal being dancing, presenting yourself, being courted and then wed is excruciating.

Your mother, bless her, is more excited than you've ever seen her. The carriage is already quite cramped with you, her and your younger brother squeezed tightly against each other. Her legs bounce constantly, her fan is flapping like she wants it to break in half and the lessons. Oh god, the lessons. A second of silence is too long. You have to be bombarded with rules and tips to make you the perfect debutante this new season.

Your brother, however, is barely spoken to. He is not going to be presented to the ton until a few more years have passed. The conversations seem to bore him. Bore him so much that he has seemingly slept through the entire trip... or at least pretended to.

Your trip to London is quite long. You have taken a boat and ridden so many carriages your behind has most likely become flatter. Today is the last day of travel thankfully. You'll be arriving at your family's English estate soon enough, your father is probably already waiting in the steps most likely impatiently tapping his foot.

He and your mother are still obsessively in love with each other. Married three weeks after courting during their first-ever year as debutants. First child, you, nine months later... after that things slowed down. It took them twelve years to have another child and now, six years later, she's gotten pregnant again. Their grand finale as they keep calling it.

You can only wish that you'll be able to find someone who makes you feel even just a smidge as happy as your parents make each other. That there's someone here, in London, who will make a worthy husband and an even more worthy father.

Your mother's squeal startles you out of your thoughts as you turn into the estate. She must have spotted your father.

The time has come, you must now be the best future bride possible for all the men in the Bridgerton ton to run after.

-

You feel absolutely ridiculous. Who allowed this to be the standard for debutantes?? A feather tucked into your neatly styled hair but not just any kind of feather it's not small or dainty, no. It's tall. Taller than most things in the room. On your tiptoes, you could reach some of the lower ceilings with it. The dress is fine, the gloves are only a little itchy and the shoes are actually quite pretty. But that damn feather...

"Are you sure I can't just accidentally set it on fire?" you grumble to your mother who is your sponsor for your official debut this season.

"That would certainly bring attention to you... I'll entertain the thought" she quips with a small smile.

"I look ridiculous with it! What's the point of looking like an ostrich? Is that what English men find desirable?" you're incredibly confused. This can't possibly be something that attracts suitors...

"The Queen demands it, my dear", she rubs your arm reassuringly, "We don't want to upset her"

You shrug in defeat. Your mother is right, no one would dare go against the queen. Especially when you are to be presented in her court.

The two women in front of you are escorted into the ballroom as their names are called. The doors close as the debutante bows to the Queen.

This is it. You're next. You're going to walk in front of the entire ton as fresh meat. Someone they don't know.

Your father owns an estate here but you've only been to London twice before this. Never enough time to make friends or make any kind of impression. Hopefully, they don't eat you alive.

Your mother fusses over the sleeves of your dress. Then she tugs your gloves up, making them pull uncomfortably at the webbing between each of your fingers. You let her fix anything that she deems askew or not perfect enough. It's the nerves making her twitchy. As the doors open in front of you she pushes the feathers you wear deeper into your up-do.

"Y/N L/N and her mother Lady L/N" Your mother locks your elbow with hers as you walk forward.

The room is littered with people, London's finest and richest gathered to see what fresh meat this courting season brings.

The other debutantes are lined next to each other facing the door, their mothers or older sisters behind them peering over shoulders.

Once your eyes lay on the queen you suck in the breath you were about to take. She sits on her throne like she was born to be on it. Her head held high but her eyes inquisitive. She eyes you up and down, more than once, it makes you stand up straighter. You want her to like you, get her and the rest of the ton curious.

Your mother lets go of you as you get closer to the Queen. The last steps you take are the most nerve-wracking ones you've ever taken. All eyes are on you; men, women, debutantes, the queen's harem, potential prospects.... Everyone.

You bow to her, deeply. Your right leg goes behind your left, you bend your knees and your head tucks down towards your chest. You stay like that, it's only polite to stay low as long as you can but when your foot starts feeling numb you stand back up.

She's in front of you. Eyes locked on your face, she examines it as a smirk forms on her face. The Queen approves of you.

"My diamond, make me proud" She taps your cheek once, twice, thrice before kissing your forehead and nodding her head as she makes her way back to her throne.

What does she mean by Diamond?

-

As soon as you enter the Bridgerton ball with your family you're swarmed. It's as if you're the newly set dessert table.

Potential suitors waving pens in your face begging for a spot on your dance card.

Is this what being the Diamond is all about?

Being chased around like you're nothing more than a cheap prize to these men? That's probably what you are to them...

You fill out two dance spots at random before managing to wiggle your way through the crowd and into the actual festivities.

The ballroom is enchanting, with flowers of every kind scattered all around the room. You feel like you've stepped into an indoor garden, everywhere you look there's at least one blooming plant. It's gorgeous. You want to stay in this room forever.

The dance floor is currently occupied by couples, waltzing around each other, the choreography running through their veins as if they were born knowing them.

It's all so hypnotizing. The dances, music, seeing the ton gossip so proudly, the men trying to woo this season's debutantes and the women batting their lashes waiting for someone to walk up. It's a game, all of it and you love being a witness. Well, a player now...

"They have a buffet!" Your little brother exclaims as he runs through the crown and straight for a table littered with a large array of foods. He's going to be distracted there for at least 2 whole dances. You have the next dance clear for now so you take the time to wander around, head held high as you take everything in. Your mother had fused incessantly over how you should act tonight and over your chosen outfit. It had to be:

- Fit for a diamond (whatever that may be)

- Have flowers, by order of the Queen

- Unique enough to attract attention

- Modest but not prudish

Complicated demands under the time restraints you had but she made it work. Calling upon her best modiste contacts and personally seeing to the design of them. You have to admit she has done quite the selection for you this evening.

Your gown is a light green, sage might it be? There's a thin layer of darker tule over the bottom half and your sleeves, giving it dimension. The area that goes around your bust and upper back is lighter and full of gemstones shaped like different flowers. It looks like the modiste managed to sew an entire bouquet into the fabric. The gloves are sage as well, going past your elbows and trimmed with the same darker tule. Your mother had a spare ribbon of the sage silky fabric saved for your hair. It's styled into the updo, weaving itself perfectly between the colours of your neatly styled hair. Smaller gemstones have also been placed precariously to make sure you shine as bright as any diamond should.

They've done an excellent job at making you look like a walking dream. Tempting, gorgeous and almost unattainable.

The song that is playing is about to end, which means you're about to have your first dance of the evening. You can't even recall with whom you had simply grabbed a random pen and wrote the colour of his jacket. Too many names had been screamed at you for you to decipher which was his. Hopefully, whoever occupies your first spot manages to find you and whisk you away to the dance floor.

As the couples either leave the dance floor or get ready for the next song, you look around somewhat panicked. Is your first slot not even going to find you? That would be slightly humiliating...

"Lady L/N" you turn swiftly toward the voice behind you. "I'm Lord Talag, pleasure to finally make your acquaintance" Lord Talag takes your hand and presses his lips to the back of it. His suit is blue with silver stitching, your very first slot. He leads you to the dance floor and you both take the first positions for the waltz. The violins start first and you're instantly moving.

Arms gracefully twirling over your head as you spin backwards. As you turn you can't focus on Lord Talag but you know he's doing the same thing. When you stop your turns and face your partner, you see that he's fallen. On his ass, on the floor, in front of everyone. The other couples around you stop abruptly to not trip over him.

"My Lord! Are you alright?" you gasp reaching out to help him stand. However, he ignores your attempts to aid him back on his feet and dusts himself off.

"Good evening, Lady L/N," he says and rushes out of the room. He resembles a kitten running to beg their owner for a treat: legs kicking quickly, bum shimming from side to side, a determined expression...

You're left standing in the middle of the dance floor as everyone looks at you with a confused expression. Your own must look quite similar to theirs. Your first dance partner for the evening has walked out on you. All because he fell on his ass. Men, am I right??

Taking a breather after the embarrassing moment Lord Talag put you through is essential. You can't possibly face the ton as they gossip about it. His chances of finding a bride now are squashed, he's the laughingstock of this courting season. Well, for now at least...

The midnight air is crisp. The cold air prickles at your skin causing goosebumps but you enjoy it, your skin had heated up under everyone's stares. There's no wind, no sound (besides the muffled voices inside) and only a slight orange hue glows around you on the balcony. There are some oranges perched around you and over your head. They aren't quite ripe yet but they do look particularly inviting.

You turn to rest your bum against the marble railing, lifting your head towards the sky. The stars are bright. Brighter than you would have imagined to see in the city. They reflect over the artificial pond under you, seemingly dancing on the ripples. It's all so peaceful.

"Don't you think it's a little cold to be out here without a coat?" the deep voice has you jumping out of your skin. You turn around abruptly to see who's sharing the balcony with you.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know someone was already here" you bow politely already stepping towards the door. You're not about to have two incredibly embarrassing moments in one evening. Would the Queen be tempted to take away your 'Diamond' status?

"There's no need to leave!" He rushes towards you, his right arm extended towards the door and body facing you. You back up quickly not wanting to make any accidental contact. You're unchaperoned in a private setting with a man... Please let no one come outside!

"I'm sorry if I startled you. I just realized you were holding onto yourself quite tightly... as if trying to heat up" he adds moving away from you as he stands up straight again. He must have realized how compromising this could seem.

"Oh! No, I'm actually comfortable... I'm just overthinking" you clarify for the mysterious, albeit handsome, man. You don't want him offering his jacket or anything of the sort. That would look even worse.

"Ah, I see. These types of events always bring out the worst in people" he laughs dryly as he shakes his head. It's almost as if he's recalling a specific memory. "I'm Harry, Duke Styles if you want specifics"

DUKE??? Your nighttime patio buddy is a DUKE?? This could not look any worse. You have to leave the secluded area now! Before anyone joins you and screams indecency.

Your panic must not be very well concealed as Har- Duke Styles, gets closer to you again with his hands raised.

"I'm not going to bite you, please don't panic" his hands are waiving slowly in front of your face. He's trying to demonstrate that he means no harm but all it does is make you jump back. Your mother would berate you if she knew what was happening right now. "What's your name?" he asks in a soft tone.

"Um, I'm... I'm Lady L/N" You somehow manage to speak in a slow and stuttering manner but it worked.

"The diamond?!" Oh god. He didn't even know. "How do you have time for a breather? Isn't your dance card full?" he sounds completely shocked.

You shake your head rapidly. It's the only answer you're able to give him before the patio door bursts open as a couple attached at the lips tumbles outside. They walk straight into Lord Styles, making his knees give out and then falling straight into you. His hands grasp your waist and arm seemingly trying to get himself straight up on his feet again. He fails. He keeps falling unfortunately dragging you down with him. His left hand, the one holding your arm, quickly moves to the back of your head before it makes contact with the stone floor. The other at your waist stays there but his grip tightens, you can feel it firmly through your corset.

The couple has separated from one another and they are now looking at you both in shock. They were most likely not expecting anyone outside. They are speaking, well you think so. Their lips and arms move erratically but there's only a high-pitched ringing in your ears.

The hand on the back of your head tilts it away from them, your eyes meet Lord Styles. They are wide, worried, panicked. You're not sure why.

He's talking too but he must be whispering as the ringing is still the only thing you hear. It's getting annoying; you want to know what he's saying to you. It seems important.

Your vision blurs right before it darkens completely. You've passed out not even knowing of the commotion you've caused.

-

Tule, satin, silk, needles, charcoal drawings on the walls, books scattered on various surfaces... Where have you found yourself now? You seem to be in a study of some sort that also serves as a studio. You manage to sit up slowly, the pounding in your head spiking for a second before it settles.

"Mother?" you call out in a weak voice. How did you get here? Or better yet, who put you in here? No one answers your call so, at a snail's pace, you manage to get into a standing position. Your legs are stronger than you thought they would be, aiding you in your quest to figure out where in the Queen's name you are.

As soon as you leave the study your eyes burn because of the bright sunlight streaming in the hallway you now find yourself in. Blinking a few times makes your eyes adjust quicker making you able to tune into your other senses.

You hear mumbling, a few different voices leak out of the room right next to where you had been sleeping. You try to make out what they saying but nothing makes sense in your mind. You can't even hear them enough to confirm if you know any of the voices.

Not even considering that some may think it rude or even improper you open the door and make your way inside.

Lord Styles is the first on his feet; almost seems like a knee-jerk reaction. His posture is tight, and uncomfortable he is standing straight as a ruler as he looks at you with a terrified expression.

"My darling!" your mother rushes to you as fast as she can with her swollen feet and round stomach slowing her usual pace.

She brushes your hair out of your face before embracing you. She holds you tight but carefully as if to not break you.

"How do you feel?" she asks you once she pulls away.

"Fine, I think. My head hurts quite a bit but it's bearable" You smile at her reassuring as your gaze drifts back to the man still statuesque in the middle of the room. You don't find words to say but you do walk towards him. You don't like seeing him this uncomfortable... especially in what seems to be his estate.

"This is yours? The house?" you ask him gently. His eyes meet yours and the tension seems to bleed out a little. He's a bit more at ease seeing that you are polite and cordial with him.

"Yes, we thought it was best to bring you back here... less scandalous" He gestures to your father and he only nods back as an answer.

"Less scandalous?" you look around the room, at the three people surrounding you with different expressions on their faces. Your mother; excited, your father; thoughtful, Lord Style's; embarrassed?

"Why is your estate less scandalous, Lord Styles?" you meet his eyes, hoping to somehow be able to read his mind. Figure out why he's so closed off now. He did seem pretty willing to talk to you on the pat-

The patio. Oh my. The patio!

"Why am I here Father?" your headache spikes when you turn your head rapidly towards him. His expression tells you all

that you need to know. You're now engaged. There's no scandal because you're going to wed Duke Harry Styles.

"An outdoor wedding would be gorgeous this time of year, don't you think so Y/N?" your father smiles at you kindly. He's happy with the man you've managed to "score", even if it isn't a love match like him and your mother.

You only nod at him before looking back at Lord Styles, whom you find to be already looking in your direction. He meets your gaze and bows his head in a polite gesture, welcoming you. Welcoming you in your new home, into your new life as a Duchess.

The wedding is set to happen in 9 days. The first wedding of this year's courting season. Your mother has been on top of everything, she's practically planning the whole thing. You and Lord Styles, your fiancée, let her do it... after all this was a surprise to both of you.

Today you're choosing your wedding dress. The last dress that you'll wear as the incredibly eligible and sought-after diamond. The dress you'll become a bride and then a wife in. You'll become a duchess, Duchess Styles...

"What do you think of this one, dear?" your mother is holding a white gown with delicate baby pink embroidered flowers all over it. You nod approvingly making your way back behind the changing partition as she brings it over to you. It's only the second one you're trying on so your spirits are still high. Madame Delacroix, the modiste, was much too eager to have you wear one of her gowns on your big day. Said it was "Perfect marketing!" and she led you to her newest collection that was apparently straight from France.

You manage to slide it on with no issues and as you're about to ask the modiste for some help with the clasp in the back you hear a voice you don't recognize say your name. You stay quiet hoping to hear what they are saying.

"You haven't read Lady Whistledown yet?! This one is so juicy, she talks about Duke Styles and the Diamond"

"Please tell me you have a copy of it on you! I need to know how that happened"

Are people really this eager to know how you got engaged?

After the first girl presumably pulls out a copy of whatever they were talking about they start reading it aloud.

"But how could I forget to mention the most surprising moment of the courting season yet? London's own most wanted bachelor, Duke Harry Styles, has found a worthy bride. He does shoot for the stars, doesn't he? Or rather in the mines... as the newest Duchess soon joining the ton is Lady L/N, the Diamond.

However, the choice seems to have been made by herself and herself only. Who wouldn't throw themselves at him just to be caught in a compromising position? I certainly would! Her parents must be so proud to have such a stellar whore seductress presented this season.

The hopefully happy couple already share a house, how warm is the Duke's bed? Has Lady Y/N done what so many other noble women have wanted to do?

Congratulations to the happy couple... See you at the wedding!

Yours truly,

Lady Whistledown"

Your blood runs cold, you're frozen in place after hearing what was written about you. You don't even know who these two girls are, who the writer is or where this paper comes from. Is that really what people think of you? That you whored yourself to Duke Styles to secure a wealthy and powerful man? You haven't made a single friend yet and now this is what people are saying about you, how are you meant to live amongst them now?

You quickly undress yourself of the wedding gown and get back into your dress, you somehow manage to clasp it yourself. Before running out of the boutique you hand the dress back to your mother and take a quick look at the girls that were just gossiping.

They are already looking at you with wide eyes and shocked expressions. Well, at least that's what you think their reaction is to seeing you practically trip out of the shop.

You don't hear what your mother calls out to you, too concerned with the humiliation pumping throw your veins. You need to get back to the Dukes manor as soon as you possibly can. You're grateful to have ridden here separately from your mother so you don't have to leave her stranded with no carriage and very pregnant. The ride back feels never-ending... How can you ever face the ton again?

The bath water is almost boiling, perfect to wash away the shame you felt. Your mind is all over the place. Nothing you can come up with will fix this, you're stuck labelled as some desperate whore. Does your betrothed know who this woman is? What those papers are? If anyone and everyone reads what she writes about other people? The lies she creates to make things interesting... You didn't even manage to find a gown you liked for the wedding... You might now not even be able to face the public, would the Queen allow a private wedding for her diamond? Probably not.

"Oh! I'm sorry I didn't know you were back" For the second time today your blood runs cold. The scorching hot water feels icy against your skin as you look up to meet Duke Styles's gaze.

He is also stuck where he is. His feet seemingly glued to the floor, one hand holding the door handle and the other stopped halfway done unbuttoning his shirt. His eyes leave your face and trail down your nude body under the water. No man has ever looked at these parts of you, he isn't supposed to see them until your wedding night.

He swallows when his gaze snaps back to yours, probably just registering what he was doing.

"I'll let you bathe, sorry for interrupting" he turns around quickly but before he can close the door you call out to him.

"Who's Lady Whistledown?" your voice cracks halfway, desperate to get an answer that no worker has answered. Not the chariot driver, not the gardener, not even the maids that helped prepare the bath everyone avoided your question. "Why did she write about me, my lord? About us?"

He takes a few seconds to walk back into the room but eventually comes in and shuts the door.

He sees there is a small stool in the corner of the room, the maid has used it to undo your hairdo when you got in the bath. He grabs it and places it next to the tub, close to where your face is. He sits facing you with one of his arms resting on the edge, trying to look nonchalant.

"Call me Harry, no need for formalities between us" is the first thing he says, you nod as your answer.

Before speaking again he takes in a deep breath and wipes down his face, looking for a way to explain this.

"You read it?" your voice is meek, he saw that she called you a whore. He read that you threw yourself at him to trap him.

"I did. Only because the men at the club told me to" he answers honestly. "I told them that what she wrote was wrong. That yes our marriage was unexpected but not an entrapment"

"Did they believe you?"

"Yes, after I told that I am very satisfied with my future wife. How lucky I am to have such a gorgeous lady share my house, such a smart lady in my life. They wouldn't dare question me or us" his words shock you. You didn't know if he was satisfied with you or your engagement. There hadn't been a conversation about it but you're happy to hear he doesn't resent you.

Harry seems to read your mind and tuck a lock of hair behind your ear, he lets his hand fall to your shoulder after.

"She called me a whore, a seductress. I've never even let a suitor hug me... Much less seduced one" his eyes bore into you. They are enchanting and so inviting. You want him to look at you this way always like you're the only thing he could ever look at so attentively.

"That's what she does... Last season she almost destroyed Lady Eloise Bridgerton... You haven't met her yet but she didn't leave her manor for the rest of the season" his hand is rubbing from shoulder to shoulder, pinky finger grazing the very top of your breasts at each movement. You don't move or break the eye contact it feels good.

"The ton eats her words up but don't waste time thinking about what she thinks, she is a coward saying all of this nonsense anonymously" he shakes his head disapprovingly.

"So there is no Lady Whistledown in the ton? Is it an alias?" your questions stays unanswered but it is obvious that is what he was saying. No one knows who she is or rather who they are.

Harry's hand has travelled lower without you even noticing he's gone past the water and travels from your chest to your stomach. It seems casual and natural like you've done this a million times before.

Silence stretches as you take in the small amount of information about this person who spreads false claims about you and the man currently exploring your body.

He is now going up and down your legs switching legs once in a while. You don't know what he's doing or why he's doing it but it feels so intimate... so good that you don't stop him, you don't want him to.

You will bear his heirs and pleasure him when he wants you to but what he is doing now seems to actually pleasure you. His fingers graze your core and you gasp as the sensation takes you by surprise. This breaks the trance he had been in as he rips his hand away from your body and out of the water then out of the room before you can even get a single word out.

You finished your bath shortly after with your skin still tingling from where Harry had touched you. The ghost of his fingertips exploring places no one has touched not even yourself. You wanted to see how far he'd go, what he would do to you, how he would keep exploring your naked body. Seeking him out feels desperate but you have to know how far he was willing to take you. Was he just as affected by the intimacy? You knock at his chamber door softly praying that he doesn't reject you. "Come in" you hear him speak through the thick wooden door.

You quickly smooth out your sleeping gown before making your way into his chambers. This is the first time you've been in them, the amount of fabric, mannequins and art around the room surprises you. You had previously seen his work room where he designs and creates many different clothes but you had no idea he had more where he rests. You find Lord Styles lying on his large bed with one arm covering his eyes. He hasn't realized that's it you that's walked in yet so you take some time to look over his designs. You see some suits, daywear, and gowns of all kinds but then you stumble upon one that is called "My Bride". You pull it out from under some other sketches. The gown he's drawn is breathtaking, tight bodice detailed with what you think must be lace and gemstones, there's many layers of lace going downwards towards the bottom of the dress giving the impression of a flower that has not yet bloomed. He's added a simple shawl to the sketch which just adds to the elegance of the look.

"Would you make this dress for me?" your voice is loud in the otherwise quiet room. Harry startles on the bed, clearly not expecting you, sitting up quickly. He holds your gaze for a few seconds before looking at the paper you are holding.

"I can, if you want me to make it for you I will" he nods looking back up, studying your face.

"I'd like that" you smile "I'm much too ashamed to go back to the modistes anyway..." you put the drawing back down on his desk. At this point, you are only pretending to be looking around his space. Your goal is to make your way to his bed... try to get him to touch you again.

"There's no need for you to be ashamed. They should be ashamed, the ton is over-critical of newcomers" he leans back on his hands the now completely unbuttoned shirt falls off of his torso, revealing it.

"I suppose so... it's still disheartening to think that people think like that about me" you sigh walking towards him again. His eyes don't leave you he seems to be analyzing you, your actions, your body, everything.

"What can I do to make you feel better?" he tilts his head in thought, "Threaten anyone who looks at you wrongly? Find this Lady Whistledown and burn her out of existence?"

"You..." Okay, deep breaths, this is when you'll make your move, "You can touch me again... Keep doing what you were doing?" the pitch of your voice is much higher than usual as you finish your suggestion. You avoid meeting his gaze, too embarrassed to look at his reaction.

What you hear isn't an answer but the sound of him moving on his bed, towards you? God, you hope so. You still don't totally understand what his touch made you feel or why it has you craving for more. You don't even really know what "more" means.

"I wouldn't want to ruin you as some say" he guides your head towards him, forcing you to meet his eyes, so intense and inviting.

"Well, they already think you have... I just want you to make me feel good" You don't back down keep your eyes on his.

"Have you ever made yourself feel good?" Harry's voice is deeper than you've ever heard, it sends a shiver down your spine.

You shake your head as an answer, the ability to speak lost when he placed his hands on your hips. He tugs you forward, bringing you so much closer to him it makes you flush. He hums in understanding, still debating if he should do this or not... but the look on your face, the curiosity and the neediness makes his decision very easy.

He gently pulls you to lay down on his luxurious bed, the silky sheets and soft mattress feel glorious. You could stay in his bed all day long.

"Don't you resent me? I cut your first courting season quite short" he gently pecks your cheek before gliding across your lips to do the same to the other. You unconsciously follow his lips trying to have them meet yours again, you're already in a mental fog of pleasure and he's barely touched you.

"Can't answer, doll? Mh... don't worry I'll make you feel good" That's when he kisses you. Properly.

You let him take complete control as you've never kissed anyone. You don't want to make it unenjoyable for him or yourself so you follow his lead. His hands slowly bunch your nightgown up revealing more and more skin, skin that he is now seeing for the second time. He separates from your lips to look down at you, to admire your figure. Goosebumps spread all over as he delicately rubs his hands up and down your thighs spreading them apart adding him in lying down between them.

His face is inches away from your most private parts. Parts that have never been seen by anyone but your aids when getting dressed or cleaned. To aid him you didn't put any underclothing on, hoping he would accept your request. So, he's staring directly at you, making you flush from embarrassment.

"You want me to do this, gorgeous, you're sure?" your eyes meet his. His expression is unreadable, you've never had someone look at you like that. Like he wants to eat you whole.

"Please Duke Styles" you answer in a soft voice, he smirks at your answer and immediately gets to work.

What you're feeling is something completely new, foreign, unbelievably good; The curl of your toes as his mouth meets the skin you've never even explored yourself, the arch your body does and the loud gasp that slips past your lips. Who knew you could feel this way? Why did no one tell you that you could feel so unbelievably good?

Your hands grab onto the edges of the pillow you're lying on and you try to meet his gaze or maybe just to see what he's doing looks like.

Harry's eyes are already on you, your gazes meet easily, his pupils are dilated and his brows furrowed. He's so concentrated...

His tongue circles your clit sucking at it before letting his free hand join. His middle finger teases your entrance, not wanting to take your purity, he'll be somewhat of a gentleman and keep that for the wedding night.

"Ah! Harry" you moan desperately, desperate for something you don't even know, begging for him to keep going. You have an urge to shut your legs together but Harry's pushes onto your left one, keeping it pinned to the mattress.

The hand that was teasing your hole slowly goes up your nightgown, touching your skin delicately as he works his way up to grab your breast. His hand is warm on your chest, grabbing and massaging the skin he reaches.

He uses your slight distraction to prod his tongue inside of you exploring the few inches he's able to reach. Maybe exploring your inside isn't so bad... You'll be married no matter what happens...

His hand leaves your chest and makes its way back down, circling your bud. He can feel how close you are so he zeroes in. Lost in your pleasure and on his quest to make you feel good. Make you forget about the judgement the ton regards you with. He pinches your clit making your body lock up and your breath hitch but Harry doesn't stop. He keeps going until your whole body is spasming against his mattress until you're unable to make a sound with your mouth agape in pleasure.

You don't feel anything besides the tingling going from the tip of your fingers to the tip of your toes and the ends of your hair. Your heartbeat slowly stops being so erratic and your breathing calms down. As you start wondering where Harry has gone you feel a damp cloth rubbing against your intimates. You shiver at the feeling, obviously still sensitive, flinching when he gets close to your sensitive bud.

"How do you feel, my lady?" Harry's voice is soft and tender. Probably trying to preserve the warm atmosphere around both of you.

You hum positively as an answer, words lost as you meet his intense gaze.

"Cats got your tongue?" his tone is teasing. He throws the cloth away and joins you on the bed. You shake your head with a smile.

"I'm lost in thought" is the first thing you say to him, "I will be for a while after that" you sigh dreamily as you get comfortable in his sheets.

"Mh, maybe we should rush the wedding, get the Queens blessing for her diamond to wed in a rush... you won't speak a week after what I'll do to you" You just might have to march into the royal palace first thing in the morning.

[ashonheavenscloud]

the duke and i || k. sunwoo

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ contents: duke!kim sunwoo x lady!reader, bridgerton-esque au, flirting and TENSIONNNN

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ word count: 1.1k

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ warnings: none they’re just down bad KSJDJDJ

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ a/n: wrote this with mi amor @lixiesfreckless on a train ride lol🤪 we also watched season 2 of bridgerton in 24 hours earlier this week so this is 100% born of brainrot. ENJOYYYY

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Sunwoo is a gentleman, by all standards. Well-spoken, well-dressed; polite, prim and proper. Everything about the tuxedo-clad son of the duke screams elegant society. His posture, the careful grip on his flute of champagne, the subtle nods to the other respectable men in society, the way his hair is styled just-so at his eyebrows. No one would ever argue anything different at a first or second glance.

No one, except you of course.

The Sunwoo you had come to know has said, or rather, whispered words to you that cannot even be alluded to in polite society. The careful grip on his champagne flute translates rather misguidedly. He’s certainly not so cautious in the way he eyes you, the barest hint of a smirk on his lips. And his hold on the glass is certainly not as delicate as the way he holds you.

Holds your gaze. Holds your thoughts. Holds your waist when you dance and you can barely breathe as his hands tease your lower back, like they are right now.

"Something on your mind, m'lady?" he whispers into your ear, and you curse your bloodstream for coloring your skin with the most flustered tint of cherry at his proximity.

"Just counting my steps, so that I do not tarnish your shoes, your grace," you lie, not wanting to reveal what dangerous waters your mind had wandered into.

"You jest," he smirks, looking at you sideways as he pulls you into a spin, "surely my lady has no problem keeping up with me."

Sunwoo guides you to twist around, following the careful steps of the dance with your back pressed to his chest. Your heart stumbling at the feeling of his breath on your ear, you concentrate harder to not let your feet clumsily follow suit. “It is not a question of skill, but a question of maintaining both of our pride. There are eyes on us, maybe even that of the Queen-”

“Their eyes do not matter.” Sunwoo murmurs, taking your hands and guiding them over your head, into a twist, before pulling you back to face him. There’s a gleam in his irises. “Just keep yours on me.”

Somewhat reluctantly, you follow his instruction, and a shiver runs up your spine as you finally notice how intently he's gazing at you.

In the depths of your mind, there is a voice that reasons that no one knows him quite like you do. So perhaps it is not just a dance to him, similar to how multiple dances in a row have greater meaning to the trained eye.

And just like that, the touch of your hands, although gloved, becomes charged with something indescribable, something that travels to your fingertips to your stomach, eliciting that feeling that you've only ever read of.

It is not the first time it had ever happened with him, either.

Which is why when the song ends, and the two of you quit the dance floor, your eyes linger. Far too long, especially in a place so public, because despite Sunwoo’s words, there are eyes on you. But you can’t help it, not when he also keeps his eyes on yours, watching you take your place to the side several paces away.

The room feels hot, and you’re not sure if it’s the crowd, exertion from dancing, or something else entirely.

And Sunwoo’s eyes, never leaving your gaze, hold sparks that set you ablaze.

You need some air.

Excusing yourself quickly, you locate the nearest exit and duck through, hoping the next set of waltzing couples distracts enough that no one sees you disappear. The hallway leads you further into the estate, where you find a small room, perhaps an office or parlour, with floor to ceiling bookshelves and several pieces of furniture. The noise of the party is muffled, and you’re allowed silence to think- not that that’s easy, even with the respite.

Because despite being in solitude, your mind is stuck on Sunwoo’s hands trailing up your back and down your sides, Sunwoo's breath against your cheek, Sunwoo's voice in your ears-

Your reveries are halted by the sound of the door opening, that cursed head of dark brown hair peeking around the opening and sending your stomach into a tailspin again.

"I was wondering where you had run off to," he chuckles as he steps into the study, not understanding that you came there to essentially escape him.

"You should not be here," you suddenly say, breath coming out a little more breathless than you would have liked.

"Why not?" He clicks the door shut behind him as he surveys the room, perhaps checking for indecencies.

"Because...it's improper!"

Perfect, now you sound juvenile. In front of the only person who genuinely sees you as a lady at that.

“Are you feeling well m'lady? You're starting to sound like my mother.”

You huff, frustrated he doesn’t seem to understand the unreasonable state of mind you're in. Out of habit, you raise a gloved hand to your temple, as if that will quiet your thoughts.

Sunwoo does not take this lightly however; he crosses the room in a flash, a worried look crossing his face as he notices your posture and your flushed cheeks.

"Are you quite alright?" He asks, soft voice now laden with concern as he removes his glove, and raises his bare hand to your cheek, the coolness of his fingers doing little to calm the erratic beating of your heart.

In fact, you jump slightly at his touch, and this doesn't go unnoticed by him, a remark already tumbling out of his plush lips.

"Don't appear so troubled, it is only me."

"That is precisely the problem," you exhale, nearly throwing yourself into his arms as your lips crash into his.

A muffled, maybe even surprised sound escapes his lips upon first contact, and his free hand lands upon your hip to steady the both of you. At least at first.

What was truly surprising was how his grip subtly tightened around your dress, bunching in the beading and embroidery as he holds you impossibly close to him. He moves his lips against yours, and there is where you find the reasoning for all of the flowery depictions of this embrace you had read about all these years.

You collect your restraint and pull away slightly, only to find a flustered and smiling duke staring back at you.

“Well-” he pauses, just barely catching his breath, “I would hardly call that a problem.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

the boyz masterlist

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[fawnpires]

may i ask for a arthur morgan x hyperfem reader?

୨୧ — arthur would definitely love himself a hyperfem sweetheart, frills and petticoats and all.

CONTENTS -> hyperfem! + ditsy reader, older!arthur, brief mentions of an age gap relationship, lil’ bit naughty at the end but nothing serious.

you’ve always been heavier on your girlish charms, it’s been a signature staple of yours for as long as you could remember. despite the industrial, lacking-in-color, gloomy america; you were definitely the type to stick out like a sore thumb— a somewhat high society lady in a way. fashionable sore thumb. it’s not your fault you were born into such a cesspool.

ribbons in your hair and lacy, silkened dresses hugging your body wasn’t exactly the norm, at least, not when you were with him.

maybe it was because you were still at the stage of being an explorative young lady, or that naviety that’s always been branded onto your name, but you were almost— quite literally— positive that he had stolen your heart, the one that you’ve seen on wanted posters hung up on the bulletin and power wires, that man. got yourself tangled up with someone on the run, an outlaw with a reputation of a rumored depravity and ruthless violence.

he’s the exact type of man your mother would send herself on a frenzy about, the type your father would have no hesitations sending a bullet straight through the temple of his sun-kissed forehead. how strange you would expect to find yourself right on the opposite side of the warnings you’ve been given throughout your oh-so sheltered life.

but being the girl that you were, you were never one to listen. weren’t into all that abide-by-the-rules bullshit, fit right into being a proper first-class lady.

maybe that’s how you found yourself on the bad man’s lap. arthur’s lap. the prettiest— and the best damn score— that the guy’s ever won for the van der linde gang. you were the definition of a perfect doll to arthur, had a huge heart to match with the looks too. couldn’t ever resist your smothering kisses around his scar-faded face.

“y’know sweetheart, it’s still a wonder as to how i’ve got you all to myself in the first place…” he says with a throaty chuckle, using a hand to smooth out the ruffles of your skirt, “girls your age ain’t really into folk like me.”

you can only roll your eyes, pop your glossy, rosy lower lip in a pout, and think of his words as ridiculous before so confidently responding with, “oh, please. i’m the happiest a girl’s ever been, arthur.”

and he wasn’t going to lie about this, but all this constant, undying affection you had for him? an immediate swell going straight to his ego. nothing like some youthful thing’s obsession to make him feel at least twenty years younger. he’s getting older, after all— so, it was essentially just a waste not to spend those years with someone worth putting all the effort on.

although this didn’t technically make your relationship that much morally correct, by society’s standards at least.

what would a violent, older criminal on the run want with some rich family’s youngest daughter aside from the money?

they don’t get it and they probably never will, they’re not you or arthur, they know nothing about the either of you— because there was no logical explanation to that statement when he’s kissing so fervently at your lips, at your skin with a certain kind of authentic tenderness you’d only see in the motion pictures. even taught himself the silliest practice of braiding hair and tying ribbons for you. that’s what arthur wanted with you.

with him, you felt wanted. the very apple of his eye.

his usually such coarse hands were so gentle with you, molding into your supple flesh, leaving traces of him along the surface. especially visible when when the both of you are out for the night, cooped up in some small town’s saloon, his forearm enclosed around your waist and having you pulled to his side—hand absent-mindedly running up and down your torso decorated of the finest lace.

you guessed you weren’t exactly a common sight around these parts when more than enough of the saloon’s patrons started eyeing you up from across the room, albeit not daring to wander one inch closer; not if they had wanted to stumble right out of there with a broken nose bridge and a couple of teeth knocked loose.

that didn’t really stop arthur, though. something about another man, didn’t matter who the company was, bad intentions or not— he’d still meet them out back, returning to where he left you at the bar with velvet, torn-up knuckles after what felt like hours. what could he say? he just didn’t like when you were being viewed through the lenses of some obvious pervert. next thing you know, you’re being taken by the hand, arthur thankfully getting you out of that slum and helping you onto his steed, back pressed against his sturdy front.

it was near midnight at this point, and you could tell by the tranquil atmosphere settling in, fewer folks out on the trails at this time, the stars blooming across the dark canvas of the sky in glistening rows. peaceful— much rather preferred than sitting in a saloon, acting as eye-candy for those grimy outlaws.

“little brutual, dont’cha think? you finally ask in a tease, tilting your head back, gazing up at his aging face with those doe eyes of yours. made you look all the more angelic from this angle, especially with the way your smaller fingers are running over his split, blood-crusted knuckles aimlessly.

he takes his focus off of the trail for a short moment, a smug smirk pulling at his lips before looking away once more.

“who d’you take me for, darling?” he questions, that same teasing manner hidden in your voice now residing in his own, “i’m not just going to let some depraved bastards eye my girl up and down, makin’ me sick…”

you snicker under your breath. “that just makes me think i’m too pretty for my own good, huh?”

“oh yes, too pretty indeed,” arthur moves his free hand over your leg, palm starting from the outside of your frilled skirts before miraculously sliding, finding its way under the decorated layers. makes your lower stomach churn with that familiar warmth, your heart rate on a high. the things this man does so easily to you was nothing short of impressive.

“you’re gettin’ touchy…” that’s all you can bring yourself to bashfully mumble out, bottom lip being bit down on amid the pout you persisted on with.

you already feel so weak at the knees, so wound up with the simplest of touches.

“i know, baby,” he whispers to you now, a wolfish grin weakly coming to form on his lips. his hand doesn’t dare to move further from its place resting on top of you thigh, like he knew it was complete and utter torture to not indulge in exactly what you wanted right there and then. greedy bastard. “i’ll tell you what, i’ll get us a room for the night, get you outta these clothes, and you ain’t gotta worry about carryin’ all these fancy layers around. how ‘bout that?”

his words were considerate albeit evidently suggestive, how sweet. but arthur was just like that, he did that to you— a natural-born sweet talker who just happened to fall into a more illicit line of work.

with the way he was pressed up against you now, hand practically embedding itself at the soft flesh of your thigh, and a nearby inn coming into view, it was all the more apparent what your would response to be. hell, it might’ve well just been perceived by the look on your flushed face frames beneath the moon’s glaring beams.

leaning back, you’ve got some subdued, mischievous glint in your pretty eyes, and a tone in your voice that compliments with the energy he’s got exuding—

“you’ve got yourself a deal, mister morgan.”

[rache1auren]

I will always defend the sisters over the inner court. The Inner Court are rulers within their court, they are 500+ years old. They have a higher duty to take care in their words an actions. They cannot be compared to early 20 year olds who have had a lesser education as well as far less life experience.

I’m tired of people holding Nesta/Feyre/Elain to the same standard as these people, and especially tired of the reverse. The IC is made up of a High Lord, 15,000+ year old alien fae, court coordinator/stand in ruler for the night court/Velaris, commanding general of the army, and Spymaster. They are of the highest command within their respective territory. They literally have a higher duty to act rationally and morally.

Yet at EVERY TURN they are expected to be given the benefit of the doubt. That even though they are fae, that they have committed atrocities FAR worse than the sisters could ever dream of, they are held to the same standard or even a LOWER standard than the sisters.

Compare that to human girls who have known nothing but abuse, neglect, trauma, death. And then are expected to deal with it better than 500 year old fae.

Fae who when they were dealing with trauma and anger destroyed an ENTIRE city block, slaughtered a whole village in revenge. Did such unspeakable things that their friend can hardly bare to think of it. Who have fucked around for 500 years, drinking their pain away. Fae who have made far worse mistakes than setting up a court to fall, far worse than letting your sister go hunt at 14, far worse than being mean, far worse than drinking and fucking in order to cope with this power thrust upon you—to cope with the trauma of being violated and tortured, of having to witness your father die JUST as he finally showed up for them.

Or that they KEEP lying to someone they are supposed to love and respect. But they don’t believe in her enough or respect her enough to give her dominion over her own body and medical situation. Because they DONT think she’s mentally capable of hearing the news of her potential demise. Despite her having faced her own death before time and time again. Feyre has proven she could handle the news (and she DID handle it well), but it was Rhys who didn’t handle it, who flew off the rails and needed to beat up his friend in order to keep his calm, who wanted to kill his mates sister, his best friends Mate because she told a secret he didn’t want out.

How is telling a secret (regardless of intent or approach) in any way deserving of death?

So when I tell you I hate the IC, it is because of how they treat these young females with such little empathy. That they leave them locked in a house with little to no help or company, wasting away because their sister and High Lady is off doing something else. That they AGAIN lock away Nesta because she is embarrassing them and they need to show they can control her. Because if it really was just about helping her, they wouldn’t have given her free reign.l of their money (they went from paying for her rent by check, to her having full access). They would have tried to get her to talk to a counselor (because YES, they have counselors for the priestess’). That maybe the 500 year old Mor who touts herself as a savior and advocate for women, would extend her empathy to two traumatized previously human girls. Because they never help any of them unless it means something for them in return.

TL;DR fuck the IC for how they treat the sisters.

[limpfisted]

Something I think taken for granted for "good and heroic" characters like wyll is

How hard it is to be a hero in settings like this in gen. especially a solo hero.

And then u look at will especially at 17, especially after just losing half of your vision, and now being obligated to hunt devils for mizora, and not being able to tell people who you are or why you have magical powers

Wylls life has been extremely difficult.

Hes not "some rich boy." In fact, he tells you himself, he never really was. His father became grand Duke when he was 17. His father was a Duke before that, but his father was born to a poor blacksmith father and he was the youngest of six, so he worked his way up the ranks. Even as son of a Duke and grandduke---ulder was champion of the poorer "mythical middle class" lower city. All nobles and patriars are from the upper city. There's no way wyll wasn't looked down on by the upper city and then held to a certain untouchable standard as the flaming fist brat by the lower city/outer city people

And yet even at being some "rich boy" he excelled thru hard work and dedication, making things into a competition if nothing else, in which despite his Father's unsurpance to power, he still had PROOF he was the most charming, after all, he held the record for most sarabandes danced in a single evening, much to the exhaustion to the good lords and ladies of the courts.

But even so, with this "cushy life" (where he would get into trouble, mind you! Where his father would encourage him to get into fights, who would train him with a rapier, where he would drink in taverns in the lower city at 14 despite being "a noble rich boy" and hand deliver letters from his father to sharess's caress before he ever knew what went on with the pretty men and handsome ladies behind closed doors.)

Have you ever been camping, like experienced the holy shit, Outside of it all? I dont even like leaving the house without my phone. Wyll, 17, traveled all over the sword coast, with one eye, who knows how many supplies.

While wyll laughs off the trauma of it, losing an eye is a real ass disability that affects your motor skills. It can be difficult to do things like cut food at first, and it can take like 6 months WITH THERAPY for everything to feel "normal" again. Now imagine fending off goblins, and minotaurs, with no therapy, no physical therapy, no doctor. Having to navigate the cold of winter, cursed lands, mountains, all by yourself.

Having to learn to use you sword again, this time without your father. Remembering him every time you pick it up. Remembering the way he looked at you every time you face down a "devil." Spitting the words he would later say to you at them. They stink of avernus, they have brought ruin

Wyll dedicated his life to laboring for the people of the Sword Coast. It's not easy. He makes it look fun, because he's so proud of himself and happy to be helping people

But its actually hard and lonely. And it doesn't come easy, even to Wyll, I think. He had to train himself, it probably took him a long time to figure out what he was doing

I dont think wyll is really as inexperienced and naive as people think. Hes been to avernus, he's fought dragons and minotaurs. He's seen terrible things, he's STOPPED terrible things, and he's going to continue doing so, and choosing to do so, with the full knowledge of what that decision means, and the hard work and sacrifice it requires.

he's fully aware of who he is and what he's capable of, and he's extremely brave and strong and competent

Its good to be good for the sake of being good! And wyll does believe in fairy tales. But his dedication to the blade doesn't come because he's misinformed. Is he as experienced and powerful as he thinks he is? No, he's 24 LOL. But he's still done a lot! Has YOUR muse hunted devils thru avernus? Has ur muse even BEEN to avernus?

Wyll ravengard genuinely is improvising half the time---but more important than simply "being" good and wanting to do good----Wyll has the experience, practice and competence in serving a community to actually BETTER and protect communities.

In fandom spaces we often talk about how certain characters are "just so good" but we like. We forget about the effort it takes to actually commit to acts of doing good, the practice and perservance it takes to competently serve the community.

You can give the people the shirt off ur back but u run out of shirts eventually. Wyll has made himself an important resource on the Sword Coast for its safety. And I think we take that for granted bc its a genre staple, but like. He worked really hard. He dedicated himself to this.

He sold his soul, and he kept living and doing good anyway

[girlsn0t]

rest - ep/ic snz, t/elemachus and a/thena

baby's first (published) snzfic. i'm not proofreading this and you can't make me <3

rest- telemachus has come down with a cold. athena keeps him company.

contains: non-graphic mess.

“Is it not standard for mortals to rest when their bodies are weakened by such ailments?”

Lady Athena’s question is rhetorical, but Telemachus answers anyway, though he does not look up from the chlamys on his lap. “It is, but the mending will not complete itself!”

The aforementioned pile of garments could easily be tended to by any number of the palace’s servants, but Athena knows that the prince is loathe to depend upon the servants. Not to mention, many of these garments and pieces of training armor are in rough shape because of his sudden interest in combat. Queen Penelope has never discouraged Telemachus from learning the swordsmanship that all young Greek men ought to know, but given recent events…well, it is no surprise that she would want her son to stay away from the training ring for a bit. Telemachus’ shoulder is still healing from his encounter with Antinous.

“Besides, what else would I be- snf!- doing right now? Just…laying around…” Telemachus’ sentence trails off, syllables becoming wandering, congested exhales. His expression goes lax. Tired blue eyes close and the prince’s reddened nostrils flare as he hitches. “Dhh…hheh…doiih…hhh- hhH’EEHHGTSHHh!” 

A violent, spraying sneeze is caught in a rapidly-snatched handkerchief, already damp from several previous fits. Congestion crackles in his sinuses with each sneeze, warping the sound and soaking the handkerchief. “HEHHGHT’SHhhu! Hh’GHshhh!”

Telemachus blows thickly into the handkerchief. Lady Athena has become quite accustomed to this cycle in the past day or two. With his immune system occupied by the myriad of lacerations and bruises left by Antinous, the prince had caught a dreadful cold that had gone straight to his nose. Athena was not vulnerable to such afflictions and studied this one curiously. What a maddening condition it seemed to be- Telemachus could hardly go a few minutes without being seized by drawn-out, torturous fits of loud, spraying sneezes. Speaking but a handful of sentences would make him cough, and he was frequently overtaken by bouts of fatigue, during which he would fall asleep propped upright by several pillows, a damp handkerchief still clutched loosely in one hand, breathing laboriously through parted lips. 

At least there was no fever, and therefore no reason to suspect infection festering in the wounds. Just a truly terrible head cold. 

With the itch in his inflamed sinuses temporarily mitigated, Telemachus is finally able to complete his thought. “Amb I just mbeant to lie around, doing ndothing?” 

“I believe that is how resting is oft defined, yes,” Lady Athena replies, a bit exasperated. The grey-eyed goddess sorts through the mending pile and examines one of the gauntlets, thin leather in need of patching after a training blade had cut through it. “You’re still raising your forearms to block.”

“I kdnow.” Telemachus sniffles harshly and yanks the thread through his chlamys. Athena purses her lips, observing the subtle signs of frustration. The prince always had a sword at his side, but had insisted upon training for a scenario in which he was unarmed, against an armed assailant. It was indeed an important skillset, and Athena had begun training Telemachus privately some nights- but the young prince often reacted with impulsive fear, throwing up his arms to block his face when a blade came towards him.

Fear, frustration, colds…what curious mortal experiences. Athena tilts her head and watches as Telemachus ties a knot at the end of his stitches and cuts the thread with a small knife. The mended garment is set aside and another one is selected.

“You will learn, in time,” Athena says softly. Telemachus does not look up at her. 

He lowers the needle and thread to his lap, each breath slow and defined. His shoulders quiver, and Athena instinctively moves forward to place a comforting hand on the back of his neck.

“I-”

“HH’AHHTSHUU!”

A violent sneeze tears through Telemachus. He wrenches to the side, away from Athena, but she can still make out some of the spray in the afternoon light. Athena sighs, lips quirking upwards in fond exasperation, and she steps away to rummage through a drawer. 

“Mby aaahh- ahh!- a-apo…” Telemachus ducks forward again, half-folded handkerchief pressed hastily to his flaring nostrils. “HhAHH’DTSHHuu! AHHDD’TSHhh! Hh’AHGSHhhh!” 

“Here.” Athena extends a clean handkerchief to the prince. He manages to open one teary eye for long enough to see it and grab it before another sneeze overtakes him.

“EHHG’Hhhtsh!!” A thick, crackling cough interrupts the fit, now muffled into the folds of the handkerchief. “HhhhHH- HHhh! Nhh…”

A final sneeze seems to slip away at the last moment, leaving Telemachus hitching into the handkerchief, bleary-eyed and breathless. Athena watches with sympathy as he catches his breath and blows with a loud, undignified gurgle. The prince folds the handkerchief over and blows his flooded nose a couple more times before finally raising his head. His nostrils are a deep, angry shade of red, trailing down to his upper lip, and a sheen of moisture clings to them. 

“Mby apologies…”

“Keep them,” Lady Athena responds with a dismissive wave of her hand. After a moment of calculation, she continues, “I know you wish to be productive, but perhaps some rest is in order. You cannot return to training until you recover, after all.” 

“...perhaps,” Telemachus concedes with another marshy sniffle. He rises, a little unsteadily, and retreats to bed. Athena draws a heavy curtain over the windows of his chambers as he settles under the covers, handkerchief still in hand. “Thangk you, Lady Athenda.”

“Of course,” The goddess responds, soft- almost tender, almost caring. “Rest well, prince. I shall be here when you wake.” 

[sillyteecup]

The Wrong Way

Roman Reigns x black!o.c

Jey Uso x black!o.c

Chapter 4

Warnings:

18+

Strong language

Misogyny

Mention of sexual assault

Taglist: @wrestlingprincess80 @nbanenefrmdao @vebner37 @theninthwonder @tshepisho @lensilver2 @trentybenty @empressdede @queen-shadow22 @becauseimher @jstarr86 @jaded-human @c-sgolden

A.N: This took me too damn long😭😭in my defense though, school has been drowning me and I've barely had the time to get this done quick enough, but ke...what can be said? Anyway, here is chapter 4 of The Wrong Way. I hope you like it. Enjoy❤️

Lori did not believe in setting expectations for people. As it was, she tried to keep her social interactions with anyone she did not know or trust to a minimal. Being a certified introvert, she thought it to be unrealistic to hold people to any social standards before speaking to them. All expectations bred disappointments as life is fickle. Human beings weren't nearly as fickle as life, but they could never be the exception to the rule.

All of that to say, she didn't know what to expect from the Tribal Prince Jey, as the first they met he grinned at her as though she were a piece of meat, and then the second time he glared at her like a foe. Now they were seated opposite each other in the matte black suv that Paul assigned to them, and he still had a scowl on his face.

"Have we met perhaps?" Lori questioned, breaking the heavy silence.

Jey tilted his head, features dancing between confusion and wondering if she was just stupid. "What?" he asked.

"Well you've been glaring at me since I landed, so I couldn't help but wonder if we had crossed paths and I happened to have wronged you by chance," she said indignantly, her irritation at his current expression slowly boiling.

"You're one to talk, when you don't look like the happiest trooper yourself," Jey said evenly, trying to keep an iron grip on his temper.

"Well I'm sure you can agree that there is nothing to be happy about as it stands," Lori pointed out bitterly.

Jey's face scrunched up in mild annoyance. "Yet you asked to ride with me. And for what? So you can shit on me for not acting like everything is sunshine and rainbows?" Jey spat, getting angrier by the sexond.

"I asked for you to accompany me so that we could perhaps get to know each other and maybe figure out a way to make this work, not have you sit there pouting like some petulant child who was denied pudding after dinner!" Lori hissed, finally losing her temper.

She watched as Tribal Prince Jey sat in his seat, jaw clenching as he likely fought the urge to wrap his hands around her neck and squeeze till she was dead. If only he knew that she had the same thoughts swimming around her mind.

"Says the immature little bitch that threw a tantrum in the middle of a meeting because things weren't going her way," Jey said venomously.

"Tribal Prince Jey I assure you that while I respect your royal standing, I cannot allow you to call me out of my name. I shall hold my tongue because I was raised to be a respectable young lady, but-" she had begun to rant before being cut off by a mirthles chuckle from Jey.

"Respectable? Girl you a whole ass ho that runs around serving up pussy to every man that smiles at you," he said maliciously.

At this, Lori's heart stopped. Her hands began to tremble as tears threatened to spill form her eyes. She mentally condemned her father to hell for the way he painted the loss of her virginity as her being promiscuous. She had always rued the day she trusted him to understand and empathize with her for what actually happened that night. But now, at this very moment, she hated him for this false portrait he had sold of her to this family. He threw her trauma like a piece of raw meat into a den of lions. One day, he would pay.

"You do not know anything about me," she said, tone lowering as she seethed in rage.

There was another one of those mirthles laughs. "I don't need to. And frankly, I don't want to. Just 'cause we engaged, don't mean I need to coddle your feelings or be your friend or whatever the fuck you were hoping to achieve here!"

Lori bit the inside of her cheek to prevent herself from speaking out of line. Just because he was an insulant fool, it did not mean she had to stoop this level down in hell to defend herself. She was a woman of honor and dignity; there was no place in her mind that was reserved for engaging in petty spats with an individual such as Tribal Prince Jey.

"If that is what you so wish, then very well," she said evenly, marking him as dead to her.

No one could say she did not try.

➽──────────────❥

Roman, Paul and Sami arrived at the family mansion, or "the palace" as they usually called it, to find Miss Loreal Moore with her maidens, and Jey waiting for them. While the maidens each took in the courtyard with awe, Jey and his fiancé seemed disgruntled.

"Damnit," Roman whispered to himself. Even after the clear warning he had given Jey, his cousin did not cooperate. Roman could not let his incompetence slide as it would set a bad example to his brothers and the rest of their cousins. But he would deal with that later.

"The lady looks unhappy, my Tribal Chief," Paul pointed out, only adding to the grating of Roman's nerves.

"Wiseman, please tell me something. Do I look blind maybe?" Roman questioned him sarcastically, to which he shook his head rapidly while stammering for an answer.

"N-no, never my-my Tribal Chief. Your eyesight is absolutely perfect. 20/20 vision I would say-" Paul rambled, attempting to calm Roman down before he angered him even further.

"Then what made you feel the need to point out something that I can so obviously fucking see?" Roman said through gritted teeth. Everybody just seemed keen on trying his patience today and he couldn't understand why.

"I apologize my tribal Chief. But, may I ask, are there any plans by chance that the Tribal Chief may have to sway the lady in our favor?" Paul genuinely asked. If there was one thing Roman appreciated about his Wiseman, it was his dedication to the family. However Roman couldn't let his real plans be known, as one of the pieces to his little chess game was in the front seat.

"The best we can do right now is be hospitable. Show her that she's in the right place," Roman said before flashing a smile at Sami through the rearview mirror. "Ain't that right Sami?" he asked Sami in what has half a joke and half a threat.

Sami caught onto this and his lips curled up nervously. "Yes my Tribal Chief, definitely," he laughed nervously, earning a pat on the shoulder from Roman.

"Wiseman, get my door," Roman commanded while keeping his eyes on Sami. The moment Paul left the car, Roman leaned in to whisper into Sami's ear. "You and Miss Loreal Moore friends, Sami?" he asked in a hushed tone.

"She's been very kind to me my Tribal Chief," was all Sami said.

"I hope you've been returning the energy. After all, she might need a new friend around here," Roman whispered, sounding genuinely concerned for the lady.

"Oh, yes definitely, my Tribal Chief. I have shown Miss Loreal Moore nothing but kindness and I would be happy to be her friend if she allowed it," Sami rambled nervously. Roman moved back and smiled.

"Good, good. You're a good man Sami," he said, ending the conversation right before Paul finished announcing his presence and opened his door.

Right as he stepped out, Ms Loreal Moore's sharp gaze shot into his direction. "Miss Loreal Moore, you seem displeased-" Roman began to say, being cut off by his cousin's fiancé.

"I wish to go home. Now," she stated, her voice trembling as she struggled to hold it together.

Roman was taken aback by her demand. Her tone sounded to him like she had likely been angered or triggered by something Jey said. His neutral gaze quickly shifted into questioning glare towards Jey, who only scowled and turned away.

"I'm sure that whatever that happened to to make you wanna do that can be fixed. I don't know you well but you seem like a smart, mature and level headed woman. So let's just-" Roman began to say to calm her down only it be interrupted again. Which was beginning to get on his nerves.

"That thing you just did; attempting to soothe my ego to gaslight me into agreeing with whatever" solution" you were going to come up with? I hate it. It is an insult to my intelligence. And from what I can see, this family seems to be built on the foundation of insulting those they feel are lesser beings to them! I am by no means a fool! I know why that-" she took a breath to control herself mid-rant before continuing.

"I know why my father sold me to you people. I did not expect to be treated kindly or for this to be a fairytale of sorts, hell I did not even expect to be treated with integrity. But what I cannot take is being refferred to by obscene words, and then having my intelligence insulted less than 4 minutes later. If this is how it is to carry on going forward, then I would rather you put me on the next flight back to my home, so that I may live out the rest of my days in unmarried bliss," she finally finished before letting out a heavy exhale.

Roman clenched his jaw and nodded. He began to rethink every time he said Naomi was too stubborn for her own good. Compared to Miss Loreal Moore, Naomi was child's play. Even though she always gently kept them grounded, she had never outright called them out on their bullshit. Let alone on her first day on the island. As much as Roman appreciated this woman's strength, he also understood that she was going to be a nasty piece of work to mould into their image. Yet he found himself enticed by the challenge. Clearly he would have to break her and rebuild her in an image he saw fit. And one thing about Roman? He enjoyed playing God. But he would have to be smart about this. She had already seen through his first trick, which to be fair he hadn't even thought was one to begin with. He was just used to solving problems like that. Nevertheless, he was going to have to get far smarter than he ever had.

"I see. Wiseman, show them to their rooms. They've all had a pretty long day and are in no state to travel right now," he commanded, noticing the storm grow in Miss Loreal's eyes.

"Miss Loreal Moore, I shall speak with you tomorrow morning at 07:00 once you've had enough sleep," he added, hoping to quell her still rising temper.

Her eyes narrowed as she bit the inside of her cheek. It was as if she had realized that now that Roman had made his choice, there was no arguing. At least she held authority to a high regard to some extent.

➽──────────────❥

Skin illuminated by the sun rising, Lori took in the appearance of her room. The walls were a dull dull beige that contrasted poorly with the dark oak doors and large, arched windows. The curtains were a glaringly bright red, an irritating sight that drove Lori to open the curtains at the crack of dawn. They with the bedding sets and the velvet couch on the other end of the room. It was big, more spacious than the one back home. She hadn't bothered to check the size of the closet as she had no intentions staying long. The carpet and sheets were black, along with the blackwood vanity set. The whole room was dreadful.

And so was this family. Lori's mind had been flooded with predictions of how the Tribal Chief would try to coax her into staying. Having caught on to his tactic yesterday and with the understanding of the weight this marriage holds, she figured that Tribal Chief Roman would likely attempt slither his way into her mind to convince her that all of this was worth it in the end.

And maybe it was, but a few words dipped in caramel would not suffice in proving that to Lori. She glanced at the huge round clock on the wall next to the bathroom door, 05:30. Her maidens had insisted on making sure that they were at her side by five o'clock sharp, however Lori resisted. Insisting that she would much prefer if for the first time in a very long time, they rested. They deserved it. And her parents were not there to tell them otherwise.

After bathing and moisturising in complete solitude for the first time since she was born, she took the long-sleeved cotton sundress that. Minerva had picked out and ironed for her, and put it on. Lori then moved to sit by her vanity and frowned. She had never done her own hair before, and now with the bonnet covering her braided hair, the lack of experience had come back to bite her in the ass. From what she had observed in Willow doing her hair, her long, voluminous afro was no easy feat when it came to styling.

What if I just woke Willow up to help with my hair, then immediately after, she goes back to sleep? That would not be cruel would it?

Her pondering of her dilemma was interrupted by a knock on the door. Confused, Lori checked the time again, 06:30. Could the girls already be awake? She stood up from the stool and cautiously made her way to the door. The knock sounded again, right as her hand had touched the handle. Finally she opened, and on the other side was the last person she had expected to see.

"Sami? What are you going here so early?" she asked him. As nice as he was, and as much as she planned to utilise him if things went south, Lori was still guarded when faced with all the members of the Bloodline. After all, who was to say it wasn't an act?

He stook tall in her doorway with a boyish grin. He sported a black Nike t-shirt and sweats with sneakers to complete the ensemble. "Good morning Lori! Tribal Chief said I should swing by and check if you're ready," he explained cheerfully. His grin however faltered when he took note of the bonnet.

"What?" Lori said, noticing the change in expression. Sami grimaced in response and gestured for her to let him in. Hesitantly, Lori stepped to the side only for Sami to usher her back to the vanity. "Sami what is the meaning of this?" she demanded only for Sami to gently push her into the chair and smile at her through the mirror.

"You don't know how to do your hair do you?" he asked slyly, causing her eyebrows to furrow in confusion.

"How did you know?" she questioned, wondering what had given her ineptitude away.

"Educated guess," Sami shrugged as his hand hovered over her bonnet. "May I?" he asked, earning a nod from Lori which prompted him to remove it, revealing her hair. "Wow," Sami gasped as he felt the soft texture of her hair.

"What's wrong?" Lori asked in concern, not sure how to take Sam's reaction to her hair.

"Nothing, it's just-I've seen healthy, beautiful long hair before but this? God, your mom must love you," Sami said, still in awe of the sight before him.

Lori just wore a wry smile at the last comment. While she was sure that Sami meant no harm as he was unaware of her relationship with her family, he still struck a nerve. When speaking of her connection with her mother, Sami wasn't asking, but Lori had been for the longest time. And by the looks of it, she would never get an answer.

"Actually, Willow is the mastermind. Before that it was her mother. The two of them have been so kind to my hair in the way they have taken care of it. In fact, I would probably have cut it all off had it not been for them," Lori explained, notes of gratitude in the way she spoke. Willow and Mrs Graham had been taking care of her hair and keeping it healthy since she was born. They were the real heroes.

"Either way, they are hair goddesses," Sami chuckled as he began to braid Lori's hair.

That's when it dawned on her. "You know how to do hair?" she questioned, eyeing Sami suspiciously as his red locks were out and untamed.

"Yup, an old friend taught me," he replied, not seeing the way she looked at him.

"And where is she now?" Lori asked curiously as Sami kept unbraiding and gently detangling.

Sami glanced at her through the mirror, eyes gleaming with a hint of sorrow. "She-uh, got married," he said before clearing his throat. He was then quick to change the subject to how he barely saw the point in styling his anymore since the island's climate was never kind to it. Lori zoned out as he rambled on and on, watching as he carefully brushed and styled her hair into a simple low ponytail with a puff at the bottom, completing the look with sleek baby hairs.

A white man can do my hair better than me? I need to up my game.

Despite the huge favour he had done for her, Lori still couldn't help but be unconvinced. Apart from him, she had met two direct members of the Bloodline, and both of them have proven to be...unappealing for lack of better words. Why would she trust that Sami hadn't had the same ideals indoctrinated in him. After all, as much as he was "an outsider", he had still been there longer than her. And since he did not offer the family prospects of wealth as far as she understood, there had to be another, more sinister reason to keep him around. If only she had thought of this on the plane yesterday.

"Sami, why are you helping me?" Lori asked, her trust issues suddenly flaring up.

"Because you're cool, duh," he replied as if it were obvious.

"Cool?" Lori questioned, unsure what he implied with the term. Her father had always considered that kind of language to be juvenile and forbid it around the house, however Lori had heard it time and again at her old University and during the two years when Lord Byron had allowed her to go to a private high school to graduate instead of finishing with a home school education. Still though, she was not very familiar with the context of the word.

"Y'know, good, nice. Cool," he simply said. Although he was not clear, Lori understood just fine.

"Oh okay. Lovely." If Sami was acting, he sure was doing an amazing job at it. Either way, her oncoming talk with the Tribal Chief would determine whether or not it mattered.

➽──────────────❥

"The Tribal Chief requested that I escort you to his office."

Tribal Chief Roman's office was cold...fitting the stories she had been told of the man who inhabited it. Perhaps it was the intense air conditioning, or maybe it was the lack of a personal touch to it's decor. Either way, apart from the spread out red and black furniture pieces, it was rather dull. Lori doubted he cared to much about the aesthetics anyway.

She had been seated on the black couch situated next to the door, about 5 feet away from his desk where he sat, nose buried in his work. Her eyes followed the clock's hands as time slowly ticked by, foreshadowing her slow and agonising ego death, should she choose to stay here. It had been 3p minutes and the man hadn't said a thing aside from "Have a seat." Part of her felt like there was an angle he was playing at here. A psychological one that she couldn't quite point out. Perhaps he was asserting dominance by making her wait on his time. If that was the case, then the one he had hoped to present would not hold up too well.

Her eyes scanned the bookshelf to her left. The names on the spines of each book caught her by surprise. While some of the books were typical of what was seemingly his nature, such as The Art of War, the others were unbecoming of what she had noted about him so far. Romance novels.

The rest of the titles were in Samoan and Italian, two languages Lori had not an inkling of an idea about. Still though, the very idea that Roman likely not only spoke these languages, but also read them was somewhat attractive. An observation she mentally chastised herself from. The very reason she had let her sights roam around the office was to avoid settling her gaze on him. Lord knows how he would react to his cousin's fiancé staring at him.

Speaking of his cousins, before she slept, Lori had done everything in her power to cleanse her memory of her interaction with Jey yesterday. Better to pretend it never happened than to let it hold power over her. Her logic was faulty, but it worked. But that did not by any means imply that she would be thrilled about being in the same room as him. The last thing Lori wanted was to be executed for murdering her fiancé. Regardless of how satisfying it would be.

"I take it you slept well?" she suddenly heard Tribal Chief Roman say.

Keeping her gaze on the window behind him, she nodded. The room was ugly but the bed was comfortable. "Yes, my Tribal Chief."

"Good. As a future member of this family it is only fitting that the best is what you are offered," he said, causing her to scoff. His gaze narrowed at the action. "Why do you want to leave?" he asked her, tone completely neutral.

"I was quite clear about my feelings yesterday, my Tribal Chief. I do not appreciate being treated like a street urchin by your family," Lori responded coldly.

Tribal Chief Roman placed his forearms on his desk to lean forward. "What did he say to you?" he asked. His voice had dropped to a dangerously low octave that struck a feeling that Lori was not familiar with in her chest. It was a mix of two feelings really; fear that was all but expected, but more surprisingly, yet minimal, lust.

"Things I would rather not repeat," she said.

"Because you're afraid?" he questioned with an arched eyebrow.

"Because I am a lady who refuses to compromise herself by spewing anything unbecoming of me," she retorted with a scoff. Yes, Tribal Chief Roman himself was terrifying, but that was not a sentiment she held towards Jey.

He leaned back into his chair, firm gaze remaining on her. "Whatever it is that he said, does not reflect our views of you. He will be corrected-"

"You mean punished," she commented, cutting into his sentence. She noticed his jaw clench at her interuption and swore she choked on her breath.

"And I will make sure, that nobody else treats you like that again," he finished, patience waning with each word.

"Why go out of your way instead of allowing me to go home?" she questioned, knowing the answer but still wanting him to completely clear up his intentions.

"You said it yourself yesterday. You know why this engagement was arranged; political gain for my family in return of financial gain for yours," he explained with a shrug.

Lori slowly nodded, the sound of the clock ticking re-invading her ears. "Where is he?" she asked. She wasn't sure why she was curious, but she was.

"His house not too far from here. Sami neglected to tell you that you two will not be living together until after your wedding," he explained, causing Lori's eyebrows to shoot to the edge of her hairline.

"How come?"

"Tradition," he stated vaguely. "Some things I have no control over, although something tells me you don't mind," he said, subtly pointing out her already existing grievance with his cousin.

"Do you have control over how often we are to interact?" she asked half-jokingly.

"Don't push it," he responded in a tone similar to hers. "I would advise you not to worry too much about the personal aspects of your engagement. The moment you two are married, you can get your own place nearby and only have to interact during public appearances," he said, tone reverting back to serious.

She fought the urge to ask if that was his arrangement with his wife a she had not seen her yet. Unless of course the divorce rumor was true.

"Until then, I am to stay here with you and Sami?" she inquired.

"Are you comfortable with Sami's presence?" he asked. His omission of her comfort with his own presence did not slide past her though. But she would let it seem as if it had.

"Yes. He is good company," she acknowledged.

"Then he will stay here as well. Anything else?" he asked. An answer immediately came into mind.

"Yes, actually. Could one of your staff perhaps get an interior decorator on the phone?" she requested, taking him aback.

"I do not like how my room looks," she specified, putting him at ease.

"I'll have it arranged as soon as possible. Is that all?"

She nodded wordlessly.

"Good. I'm assuming Sami informed you about today's agenda if you stayed?" Lori shook her head 'no' in response as her features festered into a look of curiosity. Sami must have thought that there was no way in all seven variations of hell she was staying there. Never say never, they say. Tribal Chief Roman ran his hand down his face and sighed, attempting to quell his frustration at Sami omitting this information.

"Today is your welcoming ceremony. The day when you're being introduced to the entire family and our ancestors as Jey's future bride and as a future princess to the people," Roman explained.

Lori's stomach twisted into knots. If there was anything she hated nearly as much as being blindsided to marriage, it was large gatherings and parties. All of those eyes on her, perceiving her always sent her into a spiral. If the very people that conceived her saw her as inadequate, who was to say that these people who did not know her from a table spoon harboured similar sentiments. Not to mention the whispers of gossip that she found mind numbing. A fact that would be hypocritical if Lori herself was a gossip.

She preferred self-preserving journalist anyway.

Nevertheless, she had chosen to stay and become a part of this bloodline that many considered to be of high esteem. Lori had chosen to become Tribal Princess Loreal. No longer Miss Loreal Moore. She would finally be rid of the last tie to her wretched father. If anything, that just sweetens the deal. This ceremony was just the starting point, one she would overcome with poise and grace.

"Is there a specific dress code, my Tribal Chief?"

[redjadethewriter]

Which Arcane Lady Is Girlfriend or Wife Material?

The women in Arcane League of Legends are some of the best developed animated characters I’ve seen in a long time, specifically designed for adults to watch. Unlike animated characters aimed at children, they cater to an older audience. As someone who enjoys animation and appreciates the quality of storytelling it offers, I want to explore something fun in this blog: using the female characters as an example. My focus will be on whether they would make compatible companions for me. To illustrate this, I’ll draw from my own preferences and experiences, particularly when discussing the qualities of each character. Ultimately, I’ll be determining who fits my standards of being girlfriend material and who doesn’t.

Before I dive in, I want to point out, in the series, Caitlyn and Violet stood out as the more explicit couple. However, Jayce’s relationship with Mel was not as clear-cut. While they hooked up, they were not explicitly a couple. On the other hand, Jayce and Viktor had a stronger, more established connection.

In my opinion, Viktor and Jayce are actually a compatible couple. It’s clear that they were into each other. Although the writers didn’t explicitly state it, Jayce seemed to be attracted to Viktor and displayed a bisexual inclination.

Viktor, on the other hand, is an enigma. He was never interested in Sky. Actually, for a second, I thought Viktor was asexual. However, I soon realized he had a soft spot for Jayce. Viktor probably is Asexual, but it’s important to note that Asexuals can love and be in a healthy relationship as well. But who really knows what Viktor’s sexuality truly is?

But come on, who spends their lifetime trying to get Jayce to save his version of Viktor by convincing him of his beauty, imperfections, and all? It’s worth mentioning that Jayce, in season one, wanted to un-alive himself, and guess who stopped him? Viktor. Throughout seasons one and two, Jayce constantly thinks about Viktor, even during the sex scene with Mel. That’s not just bro love, that’s love-love. It’s a love shared between companions.

However, when it comes to Cait and Vi, in reality, their relationship would never work. Their communication with each other is not the best. And let’s not forget that Cait looks down on the people from Zaun. As for Vi, she herself holds no allegiance to any nation or people. Her love is conditional, not unconditional. That’s why the two women in her life went through a growth phase and changed into people she didn’t like. Vi was judgmental and lacked acceptance. How can two judgmental people be together romantically? They can’t. That’s why Arcane is fiction. Furthermore, Cait completely ignores the fact that Vi is a lower-class citizen from Zaun.

Can you imagine your romantic partner ignoring your heritage, culture, and where you come from, only seeing you as an exception because of their desire for you? This imbalance of chemistry ruling the mind too much and reason too little is problematic. Both individuals are allowing chemistry to guide their decisions, despite underlying issues that would not work in reality. It’s similar to what Vi mentioned to Cait in season one - they are like oil and water. From my perspective, I can confidently state that the composition of oil cannot be changed. While oil and water can temporarily bind with certain tools, they will eventually separate. Cait and Vi, in reality, form a toxic mix. In the show, they serve as red flags to be mindful of. Although they are both attractive characters and share chemistry, these factors alone do not sustain a long-term relationship. Thus, I believe Jayce and Viktor serve as a better example of a compatible couple in the story compared to Vi and Cait.

Now that I have finished explaining my thoughts on the better couple, let’s shift our focus to the characters who I believe are capable of building a lasting romantic relationship. Additionally, I will discuss the reasons for considering these characters and also highlight the ones that should be avoided without any exceptions.

Ambessa

Regardless of how anyone chooses to frame it, Ambessa is a woman to be avoided. Once I discovered the inspiration behind her character, I realized she’s someone we can learn a great deal from. It’s important to be cautious of anyone who finds themselves attracted to her persona. In essence, Ambessa is the female equivalent of Niccolò Machiavelli. The writers were quite clever in their portrayal. They had Ambessa teach Mel about embodying both the Fox and the Wolf, while Machiavelli spoke of being both the Fox and the Lion. Though the terminology differs, the underlying mentality remains the same. The aim is to disable enemies enough so they won’t feel compelled to get revenge. That’s why Ambessa is merciless toward civilians of an empire she takes over. Manipulation is the focal point. Ambessa and Machiavelli share traits such as violence, deceit, treachery, and using others to their advantage. Ambessa passed on these characteristics to her daughter as well.

Now this moves on to Mel.

Mel is another red flag for the very reason I mention her mother as someone to stay away from. While she may have a caring side to some degree, in reality, she’s manipulative. Nonetheless, there are positive traits that can help redeem her negative qualities, allowing her to use them for good. However, I wouldn’t risk myself on that notion unless there was a clear sign it would end up okay.

On the one hand, she can change and not be like her mother. But on the other hand, in the series, it’s something I wouldn’t count on too much. I do give her praise for helping fight Ambessa, but I would still tread cautiously in a romantic relationship with this character. She can swing in either direction, depending on the influences.

Therefore, Mel is a gamble at this point. Getting involved with her could potentially lead her partners into terrible circumstances, both mentally, emotionally, and physically.

Next on this following, the no-compatible trend is Violet/Vi.

The only good thing about Vi as a character, based on my preferences and opinions, is her strength and protective nature. While some may find her attractive, her personality is lackluster. She uses humor as a coping mechanism, but it’s clear that she’s struggling with her own problems. As I mentioned earlier, she’s conditional, meaning she can’t accept her partner changing or evolving. This reminds me of people who resist change and hold onto toxic fantasies and memories, leading to disastrous situations. For instance, Powder, also known as Jinx, wouldn’t have had to save Vi if she had accepted that Vander was gone. Furthermore, Vi lacks loyalty. Her transformation into an enforcer for Piltover exemplifies her chameleon-like nature, lacking a solid individuality. You know those people who change their looks to fit their partner’s tastes? Vi acts like them. Many celebrities engage in this behavior, altering their appearances and personalities according to their partners, but it’s not healthy. Additionally, Vi is not a good listener. Although she is comfortable talking about herself and being vulnerable with certain people, she is oblivious to her partner’s issues. Unfortunately, Vi is too mundane to keep me interested. Her interests revolve around fighting and being tough, lacking the complexities that make a character intriguing. It’s no surprise that Cait told her she was becoming predictable. I can’t help but think, “Cait, she’s been predictable since season one. She is the most transparent character in Arcane.” I have to be honest about this. Vi is just not a mystery, and some people, like myself, enjoy unraveling the complexities of a romantic interest. So, what happens if there’s none of that? Well, there’s only sex. While some people may solely be interested in the physical aspect, that’s not me.

Next on this list is Sevika.

If there’s one goon worthy of falling in love with, it would undoubtedly be Sevika. Despite her involvement in illegal activities, particularly under Silco’s command, she embodies the true meaning of loyalty. Sevika’s allegiance has always been unwavering towards her nation and its people. She aligns herself with leaders who prioritize this quality, such as Vander, until she discovered his lack of loyalty to the community. Sevika, on the other hand, takes immense pride in her work. Even though Silco held the reins of power, she efficiently managed the lanes, ensuring that everything ran smoothly for him. She was the driving force behind the functioning of businesses and the well-being of the people. Despite tempting offers from the power-hungry chembarons, Sevika remained loyal to Silco. In season two, when the chembarons sought to hand Jinx over to Piltover, Sevika stood firm in her belief to never betray their own. Additionally, Sevika possesses a softer side. Her concern for Isha was clear when she and Jinx searched the prison block for her. Sevika’s help in helping Jinx infiltrate Stillwater prison to rescue Isha showcases her compassion. It’s worth noting that their primary aim was to find Isha, with freeing the others being an added bonus. Sevika is not only a protector, but also someone who speaks her mind. Her bluntness stems from a genuine desire to do what is right. Despite her interest in gambling and fighting, she remains a complex and captivating character because of her grounded nature and unwavering principles. For me, Sevika is a dependable partner, someone who can smoothly navigate everyday life. The best part is that I wouldn’t expect anything less from her. She is resolute and unswayed by others, and her loyalty is an incredibly attractive quality. With Sevika, there would be no insecurity or fear of infidelity. She would stand by her partner’s side, no matter what.

Now let us move on to Caitlyn, aka Cait.

You would think that I would place Cait after Vi or before Sevika, considering I talked some trash about her. I mean, Cait is a character who tends to look down on others when unfortunate events challenge her perspective. However, I attribute this primarily to her sheltered life and the naiveness that resulted from her mother not teaching her the harsh realities of the world. I have to admit, Cait’s mother never instilled in her the importance of holding a higher position in life to effect change. The elites hold power over the lower class. So, when Cait was disgusted by how the Undercity residents lived, she failed to realize that it was the upper-crust of Piltover who was responsible for their plight. Instead, when she witnessed the consequences of inequality and the oppression faced by these people, her mind automatically labeled them as animals. Consequently, she dehumanized them. In season 2, she even resorted to using biological warfare tactics in her pursuit of Jinx in the Undercity, disregarding the well-being of innocent citizens. I’m fairly certain there were casualties resulting from her use of the grey. So, when you really think about it, she may have caused more deaths than Jinx. Now, why would I mention Cait, after praising Sevika’s admirable qualities? Well, despite Cait’s transformation into a dictator, there are certain positive aspects about her that I cannot overlook. One of them being her empathy and capacity for compassion when she gains a deeper understanding of things. Her world was shattered in season one, having been betrayed by a citizen of the Undercity for shimmer and taken captive by Jinx in her most vulnerable state. That’s a lot of trauma to endure. Furthermore, she witnessed Jinx launching a rocket at the council. However, in season two, Jinx confessed to Cait that she had no idea her mother was there. This goes to show that Cait is not immune to narrow-minded thinking.

Cait is known for being super analytical and her ability to read people. She pays close attention to those around her, unless she’s consumed with thoughts of revenge. Unfortunately, this obsession blinds her to those who manipulate her, which ultimately led to her letting Maddie and Ambessa into her home. On the other hand, when Cait is not seeking revenge, she genuinely cares about the people close to her and is willing to help them, even if it means sacrificing material things.

One person Cait has a good understanding of is Vi. She can predict Vi’s actions, showing just how observant she is. Cait is not only attentive to her partner, but she also acts as a protector in her own unique way. While she may not possess Vi’s brute force, she adapts and learns new techniques to become a more efficient fighter and protector. She even goes as far as sacrificing her own eye to ensure Mel’s victory over Ambessa.

Like Cait, I can relate to making tough decisions and doing whatever it takes to accomplish goals. Cait maintains a stoic demeanor, but she let her guard down with the people she trusts. Additionally, Cait’s intellect might actually make her a captivating conversationalist, despite her privileged upbringing, which I like that. Her marksmanship skills and classy demeanor add to her appeal. It’s worth noting that in season one, Cait went through a rebellious phase as she sought to find her own path outside of her elite status. This quality is truly admirable. Actually, it’s cute.

Cait handles challenges exceptionally well, especially when faced with skepticism and lack of support. She takes initiative and is willing to take risks to achieve her objectives, refusing to let anyone stand in her way. While it’s unclear if Cait is capable of loving someone unconditionally, her love for Vi suggests that she is. However, Cait needs to acknowledge and embrace Vi’s background, understanding that Zaun and the Undercity have both good and bad individuals, just like Piltover. Cait’s ability to love someone less fortunate than herself is a testament to her character.

I must admit, I have a soft spot for characters like Cait.

Now let us move on to Powder, aka Jinx.

I love both Powder/Jinx. Although they are the same person, my love for them is unconditional. It’s not surprising that Ekko had a crush on Powder when they were kids. Powder is incredibly creative and practically a scientist and engineer, as she creates her own weapons. For instance, she designed her own grenades and crafted guns that perfectly suit her fighting style. Whether she goes by Powder or Jinx, she always likes to make a grand entrance. Even in the alternate universe, Powder showcased her true character - caring, thoughtful, loving, compassionate, and empathetic. There’s just so much to adore about her. Despite her possessiveness, it stems from her fear of abandonment. She simply wants to be useful to those around her. Unfortunately, Vi never really nurtured this side of Powder, and allowing others to bully her didn’t help either. It’s disheartening that we had to witness an alternate universe where Vi is no longer alive to see Powder rise and become the leader. In that reality, she became a solid foundation for her brothers, Mylo and Claggor, and they no longer belittle her, as shown. She even prevented Mylo from embarrassing himself in front of a girl. It’s a stark contrast to the world where Vi is still present. Powder is a vibrant individual with excellent taste in music. She embraces her quirkiness, loudness, and expressiveness. Her thoughtfulness and adorableness shine through when she customized an arm for Sevika based on her gambling habits. Powder pays attention to people and their interests. She even drew in Ekko’s journal, similar to how someone in love would leave love notes for their partner, except hers were cute doodles with hearts. Although she is young in this series, Powder, also known as Jinx, possesses many qualities that could lead to a fulfilling long-term relationship.

Despite the trauma and everything else going on with Piltover versus Zaun, the qualities are still there. Jinx, in particular, exhibits selflessness when the situation demands it. She has shown her willingness to protect those in need, which is commendable. In fact, she offers more positive support than Vi ever did, as evidenced by her actions towards Isha. When Isha had a memory flashback, similar to the one Jinx experienced in Season one, Jinx jumped alongside her, holding her hand. It is clear that Jinx can use her past experiences to forge stronger connections with others in the future. She strives to do things that were not done for her in the past, seeking to provide the support she longed for. This growth from past mistakes shows her commitment to personal development.

Furthermore, Jinx possesses a unique way of being a protector. While she may not have the physical strength of Vi, she compensates with her craftiness and agility. Using her skills as an intuitive gunslinger, she leverages speed and precision to her advantage. This is why I believed that Jinx and Caitlyn would have been a better match as a long-term couple. They complement each other perfectly. Caitlyn desires someone who will stand beside her, and Jinx has that persona to be that person. Not to mention the loyalty factor. Jinx yearns to be useful, always ready to lend a hand to those who appreciate her presence.

Moreover, let’s not forget that Powder can be quite the gangster. Her entrance with the balloon blasting her music was absolutely hilarious. The expressions on Ambessa’s and Caitlyn’s faces were priceless. We should be grateful for her stylish, yet badass persona.

Conclusion:

Who is the better romantic partner, based on my preferences? Well, considering that I relate more to Jinx’s persona, Caitlyn or Sevika might actually be a more grounding partner. However, Caitlyn is a lot less blunt, so I might be leaning towards her. I really admire the discipline she has in her life. On the other hand, Powder’s persona is also quite appealing. I’m not sure, to be honest. Oops.

[itsawhumpsideblog]

BBU Community Days 2024, Day 13

April 26 / Writing Prompt: "MADE FOR IT" / Write a BBU story based on the prompt and share it!

CW: for institutionalized slavery, whipping, foot injury, blood, emotional abuse

Most boxboys were transported to their new owners after purchase in the boxes that inspired the term- long, narrow crates into which they were packed and shipped- but not KV1946. On the day he was sent to his Master, KV1946 was washed and dressed in slacks and a sport coat and ordered into the back seat of a car. He was careful not to wrinkle the clothing when he fastened the seat belt and he folded his hands carefully in front of him and sat very still during the ride.

He would have liked to spend more time looking out the window, but he had been instructed to sit properly, which meant straightening his spine and looking directly ahead. KV1946 tried not to feel nervous and instead focused on remembering his training. There would be cleaning to do, household management, serving at meals... he could do those things. He had been trained. Perhaps he would be able to please his Master.

It was slightly more than an hour before KV1946 saw a large house come into view. It was situated in the middle of extensive, beautifully manicured grounds and the car pulled up in a circular drive out front. KV1946 sat very still until the WRU employee who was driving ordered him to get out and stood to greet her client.

Someone had opened the door and his Master was coming down the wide front steps, smiling broadly. He was in middle age, dressed in a fine suit and adjusting his cuffs in a way that suggested he didn't need to adjust them but wanted the WRU lady to know he was the kind of man who wore cufflinks on a Tuesday morning.

"Welcome, welcome," he said, spreading his hands wide as if showing the WRU lady that the grounds were hers to enjoy, for the minutes she would be present on them. "Is this my young man, then?" He strode over to KV1946 and peered closely at him with a smile that was as much a show as the cufflinks.

KV1946 stood quietly, as he had been trained, with his hands clasped loosely in front of him; his new Master circled him very slowly, examining the merchandise.

"I'm told you did very well in your training," he said. "I was pleased to hear it. We hold very high standards, here." He looked KV1946 in the eye in a way that seemed to require a response. KV1946 lowered his eyes deferentially and said quietly, "Yes, Master."

The man gave a delighted little laugh. "Very good! Very good, indeed." Then he ignored KV1946 to speak briefly to the WRU employee and hand her an envelope with a discreet but substantial tip.

When KV1946's Master had finished speaking, even though the WRU lady was still right there, standing outside her car, he turned away from her and shifted his attention to the Pet as thoroughly as if she had never existed.

"Come inside," he ordered his newest purchase. "I will show you the house and acquaint you with your tasks. Referring to you by serial number is vulgar; you will be called Francis." And off he swept with KV1946- now Francis- following as quickly as he could.

The next hour was a whirlwind tour of the home and, to an extent, the grounds. Francis' responsibilities lay entirely inside, but Master wanted him to know where things were around the property, in case of some need. Francis hoped desperately that he could remember all of it and when he was told to go begin fixing lunch, was relieved to find that he knew the way to the kitchen.

Lunch was served without any particular difficulty and then Francis cleaned the kitchen until it sparkled. Afterwards, he retrieved Master's laundry and spent some time treating stains and loading the washing machine. After that, there was dusting in the office.

All the while, Master sat on the porch in the sunshine with a long-stemmed glass in hand. When he saw Francis, he looked very satisfied and said, "I don't know why I didn't get one of you a long time ago."

The satisfaction made Francis' heart leap. Master's happiness was his own sense of security and he found that he desperately wanted to hear another approving word. He would be perfect for Master. Master would like him and keep him and he would never be sent back to the WRU, like bad Pets were. Even the thought made Francis shiver. He had seen, at least enough to have an idea, what happened to Pets who were sent back.

Late that evening, Francis began to feel overwhelmed. It was hard to remember the long list of chores and the order in which they were to be completed. He wracked his brain, ignoring a slight headache, to remember whether he was to do the ironing before setting out Master's clothes for the following day, or after.

He guessed incorrectly and Master, now dressed in a smoking jacket, entered his room and frowned. "Where are my clothes?" he demanded of Francis, who froze and tried not to look as nervous as he felt.

"Master?"

"No, no 'Master'. You were to lay out a suit and then begin the ironing. I want to have my room all to myself, not spend my evening waiting on your pleasure to have clean clothes." He shook his head. "This is not what I was led to expect when I purchased you."

"This Pet is very sorry, Master." Francis hung his head. He could hear the rough, nervous edge in his voice.

"Finish the ironing and then go to the basement," Master said in a very firm tone.

Francis' hands were shaking as he finished the last few items and although he wasn't sure what would happen in the basement, he did know that he wasn't looking forward to finding out.

When he got there, Master was already standing at the bottom of the stairs, his arms crossed, with a small switch in his hand. There was a chair in the center of the room, away from the walls and the bit of bedding Francis was allowed- or would have been allowed, he thought. He would have to see if Master took it away for his infraction.

"I am going to be lenient on you, because it's your first day here," Master explained. "Sit in that chair and hold up one foot."

For a moment, Francis was mystified, and then he realized what Master planned to do. He sat and gripped the sides of the chair so that Master wouldn't see his hands trembling. Master took Francis' heel in one hand and raised the small whip, bringing it down on the sole of Francis' right foot with surprising force.

Francis let out a soft cry and then clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle the noise. Master looked at him with something like disgust.

"What are you crying for already?" he asked. "It can't possibly hurt that badly. You were made for this, after all." He didn't seem to want a reply, which was as well. Francis kept his hand over his mouth as the whip connected again with the sole of his foot.

On the third blow, Master let out a small cry of his own and jumped back suddenly, letting Francis' foot fall to the floor.

"I've cut myself," Master exclaimed. He was holding up his left hand, which was bleeding from a single laceration across the backs of his fingers. Master made a noise of frustration and pain and then said through gritted teeth, "Wait here, I don't want you making a mess."

He disappeared for a moment and returned with a plastic box, which he thrust towards Francis. "It's a first aid kit. Bandage my hand for me."

The absurdity of the situation never occurred to Francis; he simply opened the kit, found an individually wrapped wipe to clean the wound and then the gauze and medical tape. While he dabbed away the blood, Master hissed and swore under his breath and when Francis had taped on the bandage, he shook his hand as if it smarted.

Francis almost dared to hope he would give up on the rest of the punishment, but there was no such luck. "Hold your foot out," Master said. Francis did so, holding his leg up with both hands under his knee. Using only one hand, Master continued the flogging, ignoring the drops of blood that fell to the floor. Francis pressed his lips tightly together to prevent another upsetting display of emotion that would only make this worse and waited for it to be over. When he thought he might not be able to stand any more, Master finally straightened up and nodded once.

"Clean that up," he said, gesturing to the blood spatters on the floor. "And I expect you on duty as I told you in the morning." Then he stalked up the stairs, taking the whip with him.

In the basement, Francis sat in the chair and tried to collect himself. His breath coming in shuddering sighs but he squeezed his eyes shut and fought to stay quiet and controlled. When he rose to clean the floor, he walked gingerly on the outside of his foot. His vision closed to a pinprick of light as he worked, shutting him off from the pain, pushing it away so that it felt almost like another entity. But when he finally lowered himself carefully to his cot, the agony washed up over Francis and he hugged his knee to his chest and cried himself to sleep.

In the morning, Francis was woken early by the pain. He was still clutching his knee and his foot still stung so badly that he was almost afraid to look at it. When he worked up the courage, the news was not good. The foot and ankle were badly swollen and the sole of his foot was covered in dried blood.

When he dressed, slowly and painfully, Francis found that his sock fit, though tightly, but he couldn't get his shoe on over it. He pulled at the shoe, tugging at the tongue and trying to force the heel, until he was crying again and was about to risk being late for his duties. At last, Francis gave up and ascended the stairs, fully dressed except for his wounded foot in its soft, white sock.

Master wasn't downstairs yet and Francis began the first chores of the day, limping badly as he made the rounds of the house to water the plants and then headed back to the kitchen to begin breakfast. He cooked eggs, toast and sausage and fried some tomatoes and arranged it all on a large plate. He brewed coffee and set a place at the dining room table with understated-but-elegant china and a crystal glass for orange juice. He placed a newspaper above Master's place and kept the food warm until Master seated himself at the table and rang for it.

Francis brought out the plate and went back for a mug of coffee and then for the orange juice, ready in a clear carafe to be poured fresh for Master. It was on the third trip that Master, nearing the end of the page he was reading, caught sight of Francis out of the corner of his eye and looked up in displeasure.

"What is that?" He asked, gesturing dismissively at Francis' feet.

"This Pet was unable to get his shoe on," Francis said in a very small voice. He found that his mouth had gone dry and it was hard to speak.

"This Pet has orders not to appear above stairs in less than immaculate condition," Master corrected him coldly. "I took care that you would be fit to serve. Go below stairs at once and fix the issue. Do not appear above stairs under-dressed again. My guests will be here for a morning garden party in one hour. I expect the porch swept and mimosas staged on the table. There will be finger sandwiches for lunch and you will stay outside to serve." He turned back to his newspaper, which meant that Francis was dismissed.

Shaking in the aftermath of his fear, Francis limped back down the stairs and almost fell onto his pallet, where the odd shoe sat. He eyed it with distaste for a moment, but there was no time to waste. It was going to be a busy morning and he would need to use all of the time to prepare. Francis tried again to put the shoe on, but still without success.

He took a moment for a deep breath and a sigh and then began to unlace the shoe completely. With the laces off, he was able to place his foot inside it and lace the shoe up, after a fashion. His foot was already beginning to throb and when he stood, it took all his training to keep him on his feet and headed up the stairs.

Francis was driven nearly to distraction by the pain, but he was somehow still upright and had even managed to put out a clean, white tablecloth and a vase of flowers to display the mimosas before Master's guests arrived. As ordered, Francis stationed himself next to the table with a tray to collect empty glasses and to keep the table supplied with drinks and light canapes.

Master greeted the guests and showed them to the back porch, handing each a drink as they passed through the door to mill about on the flagstones of the porch. The hand he had injured while punishing Francis remained bandaged and Master had placed it in a narrow black sling to go with his morning coat.

"You poor thing!" one of his guests cooed. "Whatever have you done to your hand?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing," Master said, clearly pleased at the attention. "Just a little cut, the doctor says everything ought to be fine before many weeks have passed." He waved the other hand languidly, dismissing the opinions of doctors who, he implied, fussed too much.

"You bear it very bravely, I'm sure," the woman assured him, patting his shoulder sympathetically. She finished her drink and held it out, secure in the knowledge that the help would be by to collect it immediately.

Francis moved away from the safety of the table to take the glass. He tried not to shuffle, which would probably make Master angry, but his foot was throbbing so badly that he could hardly think of anything else. He hoped he could go back and stand behind the table, in the shade, and put all his weight on his left foot for just a few minutes.

"Doesn't your pet mind just standing there like that?" another woman asked his Master. "Won't he get bored?" Master looked over as if he had only just noticed Francis standing there, as if he was so used to Francis that he was no more noticeable than the trees.

"I can't imagine so," Master said in a musing voice. "After all, isn't that what they're made for?"

The party lasted for a few hours and by the time he brought out the finger sandwiches, Francis was shaking and sick with pain. At each step, he wondered whether his leg would give way and drop him- and, more importantly, the sandwiches- to the ground, right there in front of all of Master's guests.

Somehow, he got through the rest of the morning and then the afternoon as well; luckily, Master seemed to be tired out by the effort of hosting and went to take a nap. Francis could limp as much as he needed and stand on his left foot only while he cooked and cleaned. The day went by very slowly, but in a strange haze. The foot went numb after several hours and Francis was a little relieved, although the numbness made it hard to balance when he walked.

At last, Master turned in for the night and Francis went back to the basement. He sat down on the top step and eased himself down with his right foot held in the air. At the bottom, he very carefully untied and unlaced the shoe and drew it off, his heart pounding uncomfortably as feeling came back into the swollen flesh. With feeling came terrible pain and Francis could feel the small supper he had been allowed turn over in his stomach. He hopped desperately to the toilet in the corner of the room, but nothing came up and after a few long moments, he finally collapsed onto his cot.

Later, Francis barely remembered that day. It was not so different from many of the ones that came after it and working while he was in pain became the most ordinary thing in the world for him. But it was one late night, in a different house entirely, that Master's words came back to him.

It had been a long day; Francis was still expending more energy than he knew in trying to understand his new home. Sir and Ma'am were kind, but could be confusing sometimes. Francis was always waiting for them to change, to become angry, to begin ordering him about. He did not expect to live without fear, but the relentless struggle to make sense of his new life was taking its toll.

That night, Sir carried Francis up to bed while Mikey and Nathan stayed downstairs with Ma'am. It was not so late, really, and the sun had only just dipped below the horizon, but Francis had been running hot all day and the pain in his feet was making him restless.

"I'm so sorry you aren't feeling better yet," Sir said, sounding like he meant it.

"Francis will be in working order soon," Francis replied. He hoped it was true.

"Don't worry about working," Sir said, for some reason, but it was in a cheerful tone that might almost have been a joke and Francis was more confused than frightened by the words. He wasn't sure how to respond, and so he didn't. Instead, he lay still and watched Sir bustle about.

Sir straightened his blankets so they laid across his shins, not over his bandaged feet where they would feel heavy and hurt Francis. Then Sir put a thermometer in his mouth and waited patiently for the result. After three minutes, he removed it, peered at it, and shook his head.

"It's about what I expected," he said and then placed a cool water bottle on Francis' head. It was soothing to his hot skin and racing mind and almost made Francis feel like he might be able to fall asleep.

Maybe it was the high fever that made him so bold, but Francis looked up at Sir, sitting there quietly, watching him with such worry on his face and he dared to ask a question.

"Sir- if Francis might be permitted- er- why are you and Ma'am doing all of this?"

"What, taking care of you guys?" Francis nodded and worried that maybe he shouldn't have spoken, in case Sir thought he was ungrateful.

Instead, Sir smiled and shrugged a little. "Humans take care of each other- it's just what we do. I guess we were made for it."

Master List

Notes: Some backstory for Francis!

Tag list: @pigeonwhumps, @cepheusgalaxy, @i-eat-worlds, @honeycollectswhump @taterswhump,

@starfields08000 @whumpsday, @fruitypinapple00, @currentlyinthesprial

[chowdersinterlude]

Dunce

Denki Kaminari x Fem!Reader

contains: Fluff, slight angst??, denki and reader have a little argument buttttt you could never be mad at him<3

summary: Denki (being the show off he is) is always surrounded by girls, but never thinks to what you might feel seeing YOUR boyfriend being touched and flirted with by other girls

Cons of having a dumb but hot boyfriend (the internet's standards) is that every girl is gonna want him.

Since patrol day is kinda silent you decide it would be a perfect time to spend time with your loud-loving boyfriend<3

After you text him (of course) he’s IMMEDIATELY there, but where? Oh there.. amber yellow hair standing out in a crowd

But oh?, he’s surrounded by fangirls

You decide to walk up to him and pull him away, but as you try to he just swats your hand away

“Please wait princess, I have fans here.”

What the fuck? Is this mf stupid?

“Denki Kaminari, and I’m your girlfriend”

He sighs and lays his gaze on you, but obviously is quickly shifts to the girl in front of him who’s touching his chest

“Woah there, calm down ladies”

He laughs and giggles

All of this makes you furious, but ultimately if he actually loved you, he would’ve been moved out of the crowd soooo? You decide to go and hang out with someone else.

Y/N💓 : Kiriii can you meet me at our spottt??

Kiri : Sure!! I’ll be there in a sec💪

What a cheesy idiot. Anyways

As you walk to the secluded parking spot next to a specific park you’re met with crimson red eyes and a warm smile

“So I guess I’m always the last one huh?” You tease and softly nudge his arm

“So what’s up?” He looks up at the sky, puffy clouds forming unknown shapes

“It’s just my boyfriend being a dick” you scoff and smirk

“Why? What did denki do now?” He puts an arm over your shoulder and pulls you close

“He just doesn’t understand what it’s like to be jealous”

“To see people touching YOUR partner”

Kirishima tilts his head

“What do you mean?”

“Him with his pride just lets girls flirt and touch all over him”

Anger starts to build up in your lower stomach

“It’s really fucking annoying seeing it”

The anger slowing fades away when kirishima pulls you into a hug, wrapping his arms around your waist

“Have you talked about it with him?” He says as he pulls away

“Well I tried?”

“He just brushed me off and continued to talk with the girls”

“Maybe we can confront him together”

Kirishima bumps his fists

“Sure you little idiot” you laugh at him softly

“Lets go” he pulls your hand

“Lead the way”

You interlock fingers with him and walk next to his side, doubt leaving your body when you turn to see Kirishima's determined face.

What an idiot..

“Y/N there you are!” The blonde exclaims and runs towards you

“I was looking for you to apologize..”

He scratches the back of his neck

“Denki. We need to talk” you let go of kirishima’s hand and stand in front of him

“W-what? Talk about what? Are you gonna break up with me?” His loud and clumsy personality leaves his body when he hears your words

“No denki. I wanna talk about some boundaries”

His gaze softens a bit from your reassurance.

“Denk, I’m your girlfriend not those girls who keep touching you”

“It pains me to see girls touching on what I call mine”

“My love, My boyfriend”

“You need to learn to tell people you have a life partner and stop being a dunce”

He nods almost frantically and hugs you tightly

“I’m sorry y/n”

You and kirishima both know this boy is gonna need a lot more than just talking.

[the-fiction-witch]

Lapis Heart

Media - The Artful Dodger Character - Jack Dawkins Couple - Jack X Reader Reader - Y/n Rating - 15 (SAD AF) Word Count - 4401

I finished up my usual work and rubbed my eyes a little taking a moment to sit on the stairs and take a breath. But before I'd even fully exhaled-

"Maternity patient. Room two." Hetty barked on her way up the stairs,

"…Can't you just-" I began but immediately got a slap round the back of the head from an already annoyed Hetty, “Okay!” I yelped, Muttering some very rude things under my breath I headed into room two to check on the patient. I walked in and stood at the doorway looking over to the young patient in the room, she had Y/S/C skin, Y/E/C eyes, long Y/H/C hair, a black cord around her neck holding the pendant of a lapis heart and was sniffling and crying softly, I had to admit it was heartbreaking to see such a young lady in this position. I took a deep but silent breath before striding over to her bedside and putting a gentle hand on her shoulder "Hey sweetie, I'm Jack. I'm here to make sure everything's okay. Can I ask you a few quick questions and check a couple of things?"

she nodded unable to stop her tears,

I continued to maintain a gentle, calm composure so as not to agitate the young girl further, I began to softly ask her a few standard questions "Can you tell me your name sweetie?"

"Y/n…" she sniffled

"That's great, perfect…Y/n, that's a beautiful name." I smiled, I didn’t want to ask but… I had a feeling, “Are you alone here sweetheart?"

she nodded unable to hold back her tears from flooding her face

"Hey there's no need to cry sweetheart." my heart ached for her I continued to rub her back and try to console Y/n, "It's okay sweetheart, can you tell me a little about what's going on sweetie?"

"I- I- I-" She sniffled unable to stop crying to even get a word out, "I'm gonna have a baby…."

My heart shattered at her words and I gently placed a hand on her shoulder to offer her as much reassurance as I could "Hey…hey it's okay sweetie. A lot to take in I imagine. I take it this wasn't in your plans sweetie, can I ask who's the father?"

"He… he left."

My heart broke further at her words and my anger began to build at the thought of the child's father abandoning her in such a distressing moment. I took a few deep breaths to keep my emotions in check before gently asking my next question "Did he know about the baby sweetie?"

She nodded "I told him, he said he never wanted to see me again… he promised he loved me, he'd marry me, and I told him about the baby and he hit me… told me he never wanted anything to do with me and skipped town."

Each word that came from her mouth seemed to make mine drop lower, my heart began to ache and I found it difficult to keep my anger in check. I took a deep breath and clenched my fist against my leg so as not to show any signs of anger "N-he hit you sweetheart?"

she nodded

I closed my eyes and my fist clenched tighter hearing her response to my question. But I maintained composure and forced my hand to relax once again "How far along are you sweetie?"

"Six months."

"You've done so well to hide your belly sweetie, would you mind if I checked how the babies going?"

She nodded, "I put my corset extra tight… so no one would know. My landlord will kick me out when he finds out."

I nodded knowing that this was unfortunately the case with a lot of landlords. I gently began to feel around her stomach, seeing if I could feel any details of the baby "How have you felt in the pregnancy sweetie? Any sickness, pain or anything of that sort?"

She nodded "Very very sick."

I gently began to feel around her stomach making a soft hum to indicate that I had heard her response “That’s normal for a lot of expecting mother’s sweetie, you’ve still managed to hide your pregnancy well enough to make it to six months so you’ve done very well.” I said kindly I continued rubbing gently around her stomach before moving my hand to softly feel around one area in particular "Okay so just gonna check the baby real quick, might get a bit cold in a sec okay? I grabbed my stethoscope and gently placed the piece on her stomach to listen to the babies' heartbeat, after a few seconds I smiled and let her listen, "Hear that sweetie? The sound of your baby's heartbeat, sounds strong and healthy.”

She blushed and softly smiled "He sounds strong… and happy…"

My heart fluttered at the sight of her blushing. I returned the smile and gently put my hand back on her shoulder “He does indeed. A happy, strong baby” I said “He has a very strong mummy to show him how to be big and strong.”

Y/n blushed hard again

I saw her blush and smiled again, finding it absolutely adorable “It’s true sweetie, it takes a lot for a woman to endure nine months of pregnancy, but you’ve managed to hide it for more then half that time. You’re a strong and brave girl.”

"What am I to do? I can't hide it forever… my landlord will kick me out, my family don't want to hear about me, the father's gone to god knows where… whatever will I do?"

my heart continuing to ache at her words. I closed my eyes for a moment as I thought over her problem, it was a tough situation. Eventually I opened my eyes again and met her eyes with mine, my gaze was soft and I hoped she could hear the compassion in my voice “Honestly…I don’t know sweetheart…this situation isn’t one that can’t be solved easily” I told her, "But… I'll be here, no matter what I promise you. For you Y/n and your baby."

"… thank you, doctor Dawkins,"

I nodded softly and gently laid my hand over hers “Please, call me Jack,”

she nodded with a soft and tender smile

I smiled back softly and continued to gently hold her hand. As I looked into her eyes I couldn’t help but think how breathtaking she was, and that only made seeing her in her current situation more heartbreaking.

I checked on Y/n every day following the day I had first met her and I was happy to find her getting more comfortable since her initial panic. One day I knocked on the door to her room and entered when I heard her call out, I entered to find her little room, it wasn't much honestly I immediately felt a pang of pain as I took in her room. Not a room for a young, expectant mother. I was surprised the landlord got away with calling this a rental and not just… a cupboard. With just her bed, a desk and a single countertop. Y/n laid in her little single bed in a loose cotton dress with her bump on full display, her necklace as usual around her neck as she fiddled with it,

I strode over to her bedside and sat on the bed beside her while trying to keep my smile at bay as I took in her full belly “Hey there sweetie, how are you feeling today?”

"Dizzy… nauseous… baby kicking like he's playing football."

I smiled slightly at her words, imagining how the baby must be moving around so much in her growing belly, I reached out and gently placed a hand on her protruding stomach “Baby’s a feisty one then?” I asked jokingly

Y/n Nodded but smiled "He's calmed down a little again… now you're here."

My heart fluttered slightly at her words, a tiny blush appearing on my cheeks that I quickly tried to hide by clearing my throat. I continued to keep my hand on her stomach, still trying to get over the fact of how prominent her belly was “Maybe he likes the sound of my voice?” I joked with a small smirk

"Maybe he just feels calm becuase I feel happy… whenever you’re around."

Her words struck a chord within me, making my heart skip a beat. I’d only known Y/n for a short while but already I was getting attached to her, she was unlike any one else I’d had before. I found myself smiling slightly and rubbing her belly softly “Maybe he does. I’ll come by and see you all the time then huh?”

"I'd really like that… but… we shouldn't" she said "People they'll… talk."

My heart immediately dropped as she said that, realising she was right, the last thing she needed was people gossiping since her position was already delicate as it was. I slowly pulled my hand away from her stomach and tried to push down the small pang of heartbreak I felt “I suppose you’re right. We can’t have gossip.” My voice suddenly became more professional, trying to mask my disappointment

"Besides… you wouldn't want to be associated with a…" She trailed off "A stupid little whore like me…"

My heart shattered hearing her call herself that, I never wanted her to refer to herself like that “No no no, don’t call yourself that. You’re not a whore Y/n, you’re young and you made a mistake. That’s all, you’re a lovely girl and you’ve just fallen on hard times is all. So much more than what you said.” I kept my voice firm as I said that, I never again wanted to hear her call herself such things. My thoughts quickly shifted to her last statement, how I ‘wouldn’t want to be involved with’ her, those words stabbed at my heart like a knife “Besides, I never said I wouldn’t want to be involved with you. You’re sweet and lovely and… “ I trailed off and took a breath to stop myself from ranting, I could no longer deny the fact I had started to develop feelings for her in this short time. I sighed, knowing I couldn't fight it "Fuck it-" I said before I kissed her

My heart skipped a beat as her lips pressed to mine, I let out a soft gasp from the suddenness but immediately melted at the feel of her lips on mine. I closed my eyes and without thinking I grabbed her shoulders and held her gently, my lips beginning to move against hers. My grip on her shoulders tightened ever so slightly as her lips continued to move against mine. My heart was absolutely soaring and I slowly slid my hand up the side of her neck to hold her face and softly pulled her closer, the other hand still holding her shoulder, trying to savour and memorize everything about the moment, the feel, the taste, her scent

Y/n pulled back her eyes wide as she looked up at me "Jack I-

I was breathing deeply after we pulled apart and looked into her wide Y/E/C eyes. My heart was racing and I could barely think or speak, a million things running through my head. However, one main thing was how beautiful she looked when looking at me “N-Y/n…” My voice came out hoarse and shaky

"Do you… really feel this way?" She asked innocently

I looked into her eyes and the way she was looking at me, innocence and uncertainty like she didn’t believe my feelings could really be true. I reached out and gently stroked her cheek with the back of my hand. “Of course I do sweetie. I really feel this way. Honestly and genuinely.”

"Oh Jack!" she pulled her arms around me,

My heart fluttered as she pulled me against her, her stomach prominent against me. I wrapped an arm around her waist and held her close, my other hand slowly moved up to the back of her head, my fingers gently threading through her hair as I held her against me

"I feel the same." She whispered

My heart skipped a beat as she said those words, hearing that she returned my feelings. I was sure she could feel the way my heart was racing “You do?” I asked softly, not wanting to believe it at first, in fear it was just wishful thinking

she nodded getting teary from tears of joy

I felt my heart skip again when I saw her begin to tear up, my grip on her waist tightening ever so slightly and pulling her closer “Hey hey, there’s no need to cry, sweetheart. You know I can’t bear to see you cry” I said softly, gently rubbing her back and slowly threading my fingers through her hair. I leaned forward and gently pressed a kiss to the top of her head, my heart feeling as though were about to burst “I don’t want you to cry, not when I know that you…return my feelings. I know your situation isn’t exactly an easy one, but I promise I’ll be here for you. No matter what.”

"Thank you Jack," she smiled "I love you… so so much!"

I felt my heart burst upon hearing her say that, I was practically unable to believe she was saying those three words to me, I never thought I’d hear it “I-I love you too sweetheart.” My voice was shaky and emotional as I spoke and held her closer.

I eventually Y/n and I moved into a little house by the sea, taking care of her like she was my wife, I even gave her a cute little ring to wear so she felt like my wife. With the promise we would get married as soon as the baby comes.

I arrived home after a long day and tossed my hat and bag by the door "Y/n! I'm home sweetie!" I called out

"Kitchen!" she called back

I couldn’t help but smile as I heard Y/n’s voice from the kitchen, her sweet, melodic voice that I had come to love so much in the time since she had come back into my life. I closed the door behind me and entered the kitchen, immediately spotting Y/n with her gorgeous curves emphasised prominently by her prominent belly “Hey sweetie, how’re you? You’re looking absolutely beautiful”

"Fine, baby is kicking away again."

I chuckled at that and moved to stand closer to her “Is he now?” I asked as I gently placed a hand on her stomach, the place where the baby was currently kicking away. I continued to gently rub her belly, feeling the soft kicking feel like small thumps against my hand, a big part of my heart melted and fluttered whenever I interacted with the baby “Looks like baby is a cheeky one” I said affectionately

"Ummm don't know where he could be getting it from," she said tapping my nose

I raised an eyebrow and playfully rolled my eyes, but a smirk appeared on my face “Hmmm I wonder” I teased back, holding her waist with a hand and gently pulling her closer. Now that she was a lot closer to me I couldn’t help but let my eyes wander down to her protruding belly, so large and full of life. “You look so beautiful right now,” I told her, my voice becoming slightly hoarse

"I'm as big as a house!"

I chuckled softly and gently shook my head, my gaze never leaving her “You’re not. You’re just a beautiful pregnant woman, and I can’t keep my eyes off you. Especially like this” I gently placed my hand over her belly again

"Humm I get this feeling I'm going to be pregnant alot." she chuckled

My heart jumped when she said that and I couldn’t help but let my mind wander, imagining Y/n having another baby after this, and another time after that, always seeing her with my children in her belly, growing them. The idea made my heart thump and my lips quirked into a smile. My heart fluttered at her words, picturing her curvy body continually swelling up with children. I smiled and continued to gently rub her stomach, my thumb making small circles on her belly “Is that so?” I asked with a playful smirk “And why’s that?”

"I have visions, the moment I give birth you'll be trying to drag me back to bed with you!" she laughed

I could feel my face heat up from the mental images her words brought up, my mind immediately going to what happened once she gave birth, I chuckled slightly at my own racing thoughts and my voice became a little breathier “Maybe you’re right, can you blame me though?” I pulled her close again, my arms moving to rest around her waist, and I allowed my hands to gently drift around her hips and rest on her round backside “You look so gorgeous right now, and I can only imagine what you’re going to look like once you’ve given birth.”

"Maybe you won't like me anymore… let's face it Jack you've never seen me not pregnant."

I let out a small scoff and shook my head “I find that highly unlikely, I’m far too obsessed with you, no matter how you look.” I leaned forward and gently kissed her neck “Besides, I’m not going anywhere anytime soon”

"I'm glad. Now sit the but I made roast chicken for dinner." she giggled,

I chuckled at her words and gently kissed her neck again before pulling back “You know you shouldn’t be eating chicken right now.” I said in a slightly reprimanded tone

"I'm not. I have a salad. You have chicken… I may not be allowed to eat it, so I'm going to make you eat everything I can't just so I can watch you eat it… and maybe taste it on your kisses."

I was touched by her words and her reasoning behind giving me the chicken, even if it was a selfish reason to get a taste of it by kissing me. I raised an eyebrow and smirked at her “Is that so? you're going to stuff me aren't you, feed me everything you can't have."

"That's the plan."

I chuckled and gently pinched her hip “Of course it is.” I said playfully, pretending I wasn’t secretly excited by her plan.

It wasn't long before the day finally came, I had been working at the hospital as usual checking patients when Hetty rushed in and all she had to say was 'Y/n' and I dropped everything and bolted to the room to find her already a few hours deep into labour. I immediately went to her side, holding her delicate hand in mine and trying to calm her down as the pain of labour washed over her

“You’re doing so well sweetheart, I’m here now, I’m right here.”

I couldn’t help but notice the worried look on Hetty’s face and another nurse, but I tried to ignore it, focusing on Y/n and her face, trying to keep her calm as her body squeezed painfully to push the baby out

“You’re so close now sweetheart, you’re doing so well, it’ll be over soon just focus on me” I reassured her

"Jack…" Hetty began her hands covered in blood

My heart was racing, I could tell something was wrong, and a feeling of dread was building in my stomach. I turned to look at Hetty for a moment “What? What is it?” I asked anxiously, squeezing Y/n’s hand in mine

"The baby won't come… what do you want us to do?" Hetty asked giving me a choice I never wanted…

My heart froze in my chest, this couldn’t be happening, I couldn’t make a decision like this, it was my worst nightmare. I slowly looked down at Y/n, who was desperately trying to push, trying to give birth to the baby. I gently cupped her face with one hand and pushed her hair back and away from her sweaty forehead as I searched her face for what she was silently asking. I looked into her wide pained eyes, and I saw something, it was as though she was silently asking me to make a decision. I swallowed hard and looked up at Hetty, holding back tears as I spoke “I….I pick Y/n” I managed to get out, my voice shaky

Hetty nodded and immediately set back to work, going back to trying to assist the birth with the other nurse. I turned my attention back to Y/n and gently stroked her cheek

“Hold on sweetie, just hold on” I said, my voice pleading her to keep holding on

Hetty called in more nurses, and they worked as hard as they could, the scent of blood in the air

I never left her side, holding her hand in mine, squeezing it in support and fear until it was practically red. I wanted nothing more than for her and the baby to be ok, but I could see the nurses were struggling “Just hold on, it’s going to be over soon just hold on” I repeated over and over, stroking her hand, desperately trying to keep her awake and calm but she was fading fast. I snapped my head to the sudden sound, my heart racing and my eyes widening, my breath catching in my throat, “Is that..?” I asked quickly, hoping the small sound meant good news

Hetty and the nurses rushed the baby away before I could see,

Seeing the nurses and Hetty rush the baby away had my heart in my throat, my brain racing with what could possibly mean. I gripped Y/n’s hand tighter, wanting to stay where I was, but needing to know what was happening with the baby. I turned back to Y/n, who was breathing heavily but was looking up at me “Hey. You hear that sweetie, that’s the baby crying, that's our baby… he’s okay…”

"Jack…" Y/n's voice was horse, weak, strained every letter as she squeezed his hand with what little strength she had "Please… look after him…" she begged tears in her eyes

My heart shattered hearing her words, I could tell what was happening. I held her hand tighter, my own tears welling up now and beginning to fall down my face “No. Don’t say that, you’re going to be alright, we’re going to have a family together, you, me, and the baby” I could hear the pleading in my own voice, trying to deny what was happening in front of me

"Promise… me… Please…" she begged

The tears were falling properly now, streaming down my face, I couldn’t stop them as my heart shattered in my chest "I…I promise" I choked out, my voice trembling as I squeezed her hand. I gently stroked her cheek and brushed her hair back

She used the last of her strength to pull her necklace from her neck locking it in our intertwined hands, "Keep him safe… keep him strong… I love you… so much…" she cried as her eyes glazed over and her head fell back, with a final breath as a single tear rolled down her cheek "Name him…. after the stars…"

“I love you too, I’ll keep him safe I promise, I love you. I love you so much” I repeated over and over, desperately hoping this would all just be a nightmare, and I would wake up with her sleeping beside me. All the air left my body, and the tears began to fall more profusely, silently flowing down my face. My heart shattered, and my hands started shaking as I held the necklace tightly, my hands trembling as I held her lifeless hand. I didn’t take my eyes off her face, sitting there by her as I silently cried, my heart shattered, and my mind racing with memories of her, of us together

Once the nurses confirmed it was too late, I gently laid her hand back at her side, feeling my legs give out and collapse on the chair, a strangled sob escaping me as I buried my face in my hands

I sat there for a while, silently sobbing for Y/n, crying for her beautiful life, her laugh, and her smile, the pregnancy, and the way we planned to start a family together. Eventually, my sobs subsided, and I slowly looked up. Remembering the necklace she had given me, I gently opened my hand to look at it, my heart breaking again as I looked at the beautiful, heart-shaped necklace she often wore I pulled it around my neck almost hoping it would strangle me so I could be with her,

"It… it's a boy, he's strong. and he's happy." Hetty said softly holding the baby in her arms as she offered him to me

I sat there for a moment, staring at the baby, my mind still stuck on Y/n, but slowly my eyes went towards the baby in Hetty’s arms. My breath hitched again when I saw a small head of Y/H/C hair, the familiar colour, and as I looked at his face, I saw that he had Y/n’s eyes. I gently lifted my hands to take him, gently supporting his head and small body in my arms, my hands shaking slightly as I stared down at his tiny, beautiful face

"So you know what to name him?" Hetty asked

I gently nodded, not taking my eyes off the baby as I gently stroked his head, my mind racing with a name, I knew exactly what name I would give him “Orion” I said softly. I gently held him against my chest and leaned down to gently kiss the top of his head, a mixture of sadness, love, and grief swirling in my chest as I held the little baby close, my entire body was shaky and my eyes were still puffy from all the tears I had been shedding over this whole situation.

[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

☠️ Something Dread, Something Red: Chapter Seven

Something Dread, Something Red: Stuck in a proposal to a Marine Commodore, you escape minutes before your wedding in one last ditch effort to avoid getting married to a tyrant. Barely making it to the port of your town, you stumble across a ship just starting to leave and beg for passage off the island. You fail to notice that the people you beg for help, are pirates.

Warnings: None.

To Note: “Red Haired” Shanks x FemReader

Word Count: ~3.2k

Previous | Masterlist | Next

Your eyes are everywhere and nowhere at the same time. With the sun slowly lowering beneath the horizon, twinkling lights illuminate the cobbled streets. You haven’t seen much of the hustle and bustle of the town’s day life, but the night life is only just beginning. Street vendors selling pop-up stand food emerge and begin their tune, calling for customers while food sizzles over flames. The firelight reflects in your sparkling eyes, and your mouth begins to water from the smells.

“My stomach is definitely hungry now,” you whisper, fingers unconsciously curling around Shanks’ white tunic. The older man laughs at you, more than happy to hear that even common street food is not below your standard.

“We can try some of it later, once I know that your stomach can handle it,” he tells you, looking down into your face and trying his hardest to resist relenting to the pleading pout that has appeared. “I’m serious, Aria. Hongo said that your stomach is hardly used to our food. You could make yourself really ill if you dive into street food head first.”

“Oh, I do hate it when you’re right,” you huff at him, lips pouting a little further. “But I haven’t gotten sick since that first week now, have I? Surely a little bite won’t do any harm…”

Shanks raises an eyebrow at your words. You have a way with words and facial expressions he’s come to learn at the beginning of your stay on board the Red Force. Surely a byproduct of your upbringing. The ability to control one’s emotions and face is a strict quality among nobles.

“Bat your eyelashes at me all you want, Madam Aria,” Shanks replies, raising his hand and flicking your hat from its perch on your hair so he can fully see your beautiful face. The strings catch around your throat, keeping the hat resting between your shoulders. He then gently knocks his knuckles beneath your chin. “No street food until Hongo says so.”

Curses.

Your gaze turns petulant, and you let out a huff in complaint. All these wonderful smells and you can’t even have a single bite!

“That is very cruel of you, Captain,” you huff demurely, looking around at the stalls with a more-than-necessary mournful gaze. “Well, it’s not like you can keep me from buying my own food.”

Oh? The noble lady is now using blackmail? Shanks chuckles, knowing that while you could indeed buy your own food against his wishes, you are a stellar patient to Hongo and wouldn’t dare go against anything he has told you.

“Come, the men are waiting and refuse to begin drinking without you present.” Shanks says, turning your attention away from the tantalizing street food. His fingers run down your forearm before finding your own and claiming them. “Best stick close; these nights can get a little rowdy when the drinks come out.”

Letting Shanks lead you through the crowd by hand, you force your mind away from his warm grip to consider his words. The men are waiting and refuse to begin drinking without you present. Why would they refuse to drink without you? You’ve never intentionally intruded on their drinking time and tend to stay on the fringes of their drinking nights, watching and observing rather than partaking. Hangovers look painful.

“Why are they refusing to start drinking without me?” you finally ask after a minute or two of walking and contemplating in silence. Shanks glances at you, a curve on his lips. You are a smart woman; clearly, you got yourself out of a very bad situation all by yourself in an extraordinary way… but you aren’t that observant when it comes to what the crew thinks of you. “Shanks?” you probe again. “I don’t even drink unless it’s wine.”

“Remind me to introduce you to Mihawk,” Shanks muses, thinking of how you and his old friend would have similar tastes in refined alcohol. “They want to start the night off with you since this is the first island you’ve been on besides your home. They want to celebrate.”

Your forehead scrunches.

“They are going to get highly inebriated, aren’t they?”

“In your honor, Aria,” Shanks laughs at your facial expression. “In your honor.” The rest of the way to the bar is spent in silence, your fingers holding onto Shanks’ warm ones as he leads you through increasingly busy streets. You have to admit to yourself that in your excitement, you hadn’t taken into account what it would be like to be surrounded by so many people. It’s almost suffocating for you. Shanks, feeling your grip tighten into a clench, glances back at you. Your eyes are darting about, and you’re breathing at a heavier rate. You look like a prey animal wanting to bolt. So he gives your vice grip a gentle squeeze, redirecting your attention away from the people and back to him. Your eyes meet his once more.

“We’re almost through the thick of it. It’ll be quieter once we reach the outer harbor,” he promises you, his words assuring and soothing. It still amazes you that he can calm your fraying nerves with but a few words and gentle reassurance. The anxiety attacks you suffered from living under your mother’s roof usually took a lot more than gentle words of affirmation to placate what your mind had locked itself in. Taking a deep breath and trying to remain calm beneath the streetlights and racket of the nightlife, you nod at him.

Just as Shanks promised, when he leads you down a little cobbled road that hangs between two vendors selling leftovers from the morning bakes, you feel your nerves settle as noise and people fade to a distant rumble. Of course, there are still people about, but not in the congested quantity you and Shanks have just vacated.

“Claustrophobic?” Shanks softly questions, slowing down his pace now that he has you out of the midst of the nightlife. You loosen your grip on his hand before shaking your head.

“I— I don’t think so. I’ve just never been around that many people so close to me at once,” you speak, placing your other hand over your beating heart. “It reminded me of how I felt in Bonn Manor. It was—” You sigh and stare at the distant waters of the Blue. “It was suffocating to me, like I was trapped inside a marionette doll for my mother to puppeteer in front of guests.”

Shanks can’t imagine what it would be like to live as someone else’s puppet, but he can understand not having the freedom to do what you so wished. He can’t help but look closer at your body, checking all the places you had looked so sickly thin and bony. Even with only a few weeks of good food in you, you’ve already rounded out some of the points on your body. In passing memory, Shanks wonders if the terrible bruising he’d seen on your back and torso has healed. He wants to ask you about them. Desperately desires to know so, in fact. But he doesn’t want to overstep his boundaries with you. It’s not like he can just ask you to remove your tunic so he can inspect your torso.

“You’ve cut your strings, Aria,” Shanks finally replies, glancing at the bar you and he are nearing. “And we’re going to make sure that no one can thread you again.” Looking into his serious face, you fully believe his words. Shanks is a man of his word. All the men on board the Red Force are. Pursing your lips, your eyelashes flutter while you contemplate the very strings you have cut.

You can still feel them on your back, dragging along as you walk and leaving behind a trail that will no doubt lead your mother right to you should you make even one mistake. She is a tenacious mother whose child has disobeyed. You shudder in thought of what you would face should you ever land yourself in her presence again. Your attention is diverted when Shanks lets your hand go and takes your chin in hand.

“Aria?” he questions, seeing the storm of thoughts behind your lovely eyes. You’ve been thinking hard about something, something that bothers you. “What is it?” There is no way you are going to unleash all your worries and fears upon this man, not when he has already taken on so much burden because of you.

“I don’t know the first thing about bar etiquette,” you state frankly, watching as Shanks’ eyebrows furrow and laugh lines appear. The pirate snorts at you.

“First rule of bar etiquette: there is no bar etiquette. Just be polite, which you always are, and mind yourself. Sometimes people go looking for a fight when they’ve had too much to drink.”

Oh, you know that all too well. Your mother has a perchance to indulge in an entire bottle of vino when you displease her. She is somewhat of a violent drunk, both in fist and word. She also has a favorite crop she likes to use for “behavior correction.”

“—if anyone tries anything with you, come get me, okay?”

Staring into Shanks’ brown eyes, you nod before plastering a frank look on your face, pushing back your worries and fears.

“I’m not the sort to go looking for trouble, Shanks. That would be unbecoming of me, and you know it.” Another chuckle and a twitch of his lips, and the man draws his thumb across his lips.

“Aye, but it’s not you I’m worried about…” he muses, knowing full well that at least one drunk will be stupid enough to try and sidle up to you to shoot their shot. You are an incredibly beautiful woman. “Just stay close to at least one of us while we’re here. I don’t want you getting drink on your new clothes.”

That only makes you scowl in reminder that he’s paid for your clothes, and with a knowing grin, the pirate directs you into the bar.

The number of dirty looks you’ve sent Shanks is entirely unbecoming of you as a lady of good breeding, but the man is being entirely ridiculous, and you are at your wit’s end! It’s hard for you to get over him paying for your clothes; you are more than capable of doing so! All you have to do is pawn off one of the expensive gems on your pendant. It’s as simple as that. But no, you haven’t been allowed to pay for your clothes, and apparently, your drinks too. Shanks has requested a glass of the bar’s best wine for you to try out because you have made it very clear that you do not drink booze, you drink wine, and then smugly left you fuming with a glass in hand.

“And here I thought I was being petulant,” you softly murmur to yourself, eyeing the red-haired man over your glass. He and the men are several drinks in and playing rounds of cards to determine who will be buying the next round of drinks. You think it’s ridiculous but also find it somewhat amusing to watch them fight over who is sneaking looks and who is slipping cards into their sleeves. Of course, even though the men are very engrossed in their card game, that doesn’t stop Shanks from periodically lifting his gaze to check on you. Each time he does so, you reply with a look that only makes him grin and flash his dimples. “Entirely ridiculous,” you huff to yourself, turning away to pick at the cheese and bread Hongo has approved of.

It’s not a glamorous meal by any means, but cheese, bread, and wine are delicious, and it’s not the kind found on the Red Force. You’ve been told that both are locally made, so at least you get to try some of what Ingles has to offer. Nibbling on a piece of cheese, you listen to the snail singer belting out a tune that apparently everyone but you knows. More things you don’t know. How frustrating.

“With the number of scowls you’ve sent the captain, I’m beginning to wonder what he did,” your gaze breaks away from the singing snail.

“He knows what he did, Snake,” you simply reply, ripping off another chunk of bread and eating it as delicately as you can. Some habits you’ll never get rid of. “Who’s winning?”

“Benn. Pretty sure he snuck a look at Lime’s cards, though,” Building Snake grunts, nodding at the barmaid after she refills his tankard. “Then again, they’re all playing dirty tonight.”

“Should I be surprised?” you question. Pirates are pirates, after all.

“Usually they play straight, no peeking or nothin’, but they’re going a little harder tonight since we’re celebratin’ your first island.” The pirate shrugs, scratching the back of his head.

“Sounds more like an excuse to just get inebriated. I do hope they can swim because I cannot, and I will not be rescuing any of you if you fall overboard.”

“They can take care of themselves, little lady. You just enjoy yourself and don’t worry about us.” Building Snake goes back to join the table, and you watch on as the game of cards continues. But even as the night continues, your enjoyment dwindles to be replaced by worries and fears. Three weeks of freedom on board the Red Force have nearly tricked your mind into believing that you are safe and stable. But it’s a temporary solution, is it not?

Lingering thoughts of safety trouble you, even after the men wrap up their drinking and cards and herd you back to the Red Force in a protected circle of drunk men. You are rather impressed at how well they can still move despite their state and only shake your head at the thought of what the morrow will bring: a hangover. You’ve only had two glasses of wine, not nearly enough to cause you to lose inhibition. But you certainly feel its effects.

While everyone else heads below deck to get some much-needed rest, you remain on the highest deck, sitting in a chair and gazing at the stars. You thought that the alcohol would make you feel less worried about your situation and future, but if anything, it has loosened up the emotions you hold so tightly in your chest. Fears and insecurity are biting at your heels like rabid dogs while your mother tightens your cut strings around your neck like a noose.

“All that effort to make you relax and I still find you thinking.” Shanks’ soft voice breaks the quiet night, and twisting your head, you see him coming up the stairs from the main deck, bottle in hand. You eye it. “Water, little one,” he reassures you, coming around to take the seat next to you with a sigh. “I’ve been drinking long enough to know that I’ll need it.”

Humming in reply, you gather your legs to your chest and rest your chin on your knee, now looking at the calm waters. You never realized just how much you liked the sea until you spent three weeks on a ship out of necessity. For a few moments, quiet stretches out, and the sounds of waves slapping the hull fill the deafening silence.

“You’re worrying again.” How infuriatingly astute of him to notice. Is there nothing you can hide from the captain?

“It’s nothing you need to be concerned over, captain,” you say. Shanks rolls his head to look at you with raised eyebrows. You refuse to look at him, choosing to keep your gaze on the water. Back to being formal and reserved, Shanks finds it frustrating and saddening. He sighs and leans back in his seat.

“It was the Lord of the Coast,” he starts, thinking back to the fateful day his life changed. Lord of the Coast. You know what that is, a Sea King. A vicious one, too. Your history tutor spent an entire week giving you lectures on the Sea Kings, so you know a bit about them. What has Shanks done getting mixed up with such a dangerous beast? Your eyes flicker to the place where his left arm once resided. Oh. “I met a little boy, Luffy, on Dawn Island. He hung around the ship while we rested and got supplies. Loved the idea of becoming a pirate. Nearly took his eye out one day trying to prove himself.”

Now your attention is entirely on Shanks. Of course, you have wondered how he lost his arm, but you certainly have the manners not to outright question him. But losing an arm to a Sea King? Losing only an arm to a Sea King? You know that Shanks is smart and clever, but not just anyone can tangle with a beast and live to tell the tale. Seeing that you are finally looking at him, Shanks continues.

“Me and the crew had a run-in with some… disgruntled pirates. They weren’t too happy we had already drunk the only bar dry. Luffy got mixed up in the mess, and the next thing I know, the boy’s been taken out to sea by the disgruntled captain.” Your eye twitches a little; there is no need to drag an innocent little boy into a disagreement. What kind of pirate does that?

“At least he could swim, couldn’t he?” you softly question, hoping that the boy hasn’t just been dropped into the sea to die. A wry smile appears on Shanks’ lips.

“Course he could,” he tells you. “But he ate the devil fruit the men and I had in storage and made a scene in front of the pirate.”

“Saltwater…” you murmur, slowly realizing in horror that the pirate did drop a little boy in the sea, knowing full well that he wouldn’t be able to swim. Your eyes burn, tears threatening to form. “Oh no, don’t tell me he drowned.”

“He didn’t. I got to him in time,” Shanks reassures you, taking a sip of his water as his shoulder aches in memory. “But by the time I got to him, the Sea King showed up and lunged.” He swings out his remaining arm like an axe. “I lost my left arm, but I saved Luffy, and that, that was a sacrifice I was willing to make.”

“You wear your sword sheath on your right hip,” you point out, eyebrows furrowing as reality weighs heavily in the air. “You’re…”

“Left-handed, indeed I am,” Shanks finishes for you. “I’m not afraid to help those who need it, Aria, no matter what sacrifice.” A chill runs down your spine, for you know that he means those words. You can see it in his eyes. But you don’t want him to sacrifice more of himself just for you.

“I can fight my own battles now,” you say, willing those words into your heart and mind. Shanks has no doubts about that.

“True,” he echoes with a nod. “But who says you have to fight those battles alone?”

Date Published: 1/16/24

Last Edit: 7/29/24

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[kneelingshadowsalome]

I am so in to König and the confident solder lady (btw we need a tag name or a callsign for her, maybe a poll?) but anyway I go insane for that dynamic!❤️‍🔥 I am on FIRE after I read your stories and it's NEVER enough 😭🤣

so I imagined this scenario about them

They are out on a mission to capture someone. When König finds the target the lady solder, still under the effect of how brutal and efficient König is with his hands disposing of the enemies, says to him:

L - Bag n tag me...I mean HIM

K - *looks at lady solder while filthy thoughts run through his mind*

now both of their minds are in the gutter...as well as mine, but mine never left😈

Confident soldier lady is so unhinged even König is at a loss sometimes 🤨 And our soldier babe? She gets off on those baffled, bewildered looks a little too much (shame on her).

One day when they're cuddling, sweaty and spent after another heated session that was supposed to put her in her place – how curious that it does actually work, even if only for like 5 minutes – she crosses another line.

"König… Could you kidnap me sometime? You know, in a roleplay fashion," she asks while drawing circles on that godly, muscled, sweaty chest.

The said godly muscled sweaty chest almost stops breathing.

"Kidnap you?" König repeats, appalled and with pure loathing in his voice. "I hate kidnappers... And I hate slavery."

She nearly rises to give him a pointed remark about how funny it is that he hates that shit when at the same time, doesn't have a problem with treating her like a possession. But calling a man like König out on his double standards would be futile, so she settles for seething with quiet resentment while curled up there in his arms.

Right.

Yeah… Of course this guy wouldn't know what roleplay even means.

..........

Next week she's walking back to the bus after visiting a sibling, a bit anxious about getting back to base and seeing König again. She still has over a week's worth of leave left, but she wants to go back to spend it with him.

It's sick... Everything about this relationship is sick, twisted, and crazy. She’s always running back to him like a cat who hears her owner has opened another canned tuna in oil. She's so in her thoughts about how to torture that jerk in return that she doesn't quite notice a white van pulling over right next to her.

He barely fits inside the cargo space with her, almost folds her in half while ducking and stepping inside. The car groans under the weight, slants slightly to the side, and she starts to panic and squirm from realizing this is actually happening.

Next thing she knows, she's being picked up from behind like she weighs nothing. A large palm lands over her mouth the minute she’s about to scream – she makes a tiny little noise through her nose but the palm moves to cover that as well.

The street is silent, it's a lazy afternoon in the suburbs, everyone is at work and children are at school, and no one can hear or see how some psycho hauls her inside that van.

"Shh. Stop fighting," a familiar voice bleeds into her ears, muffled and warm.

It can't be…

But then again, didn't she just make a wish upon a psycho star?

He notices she has stopped fighting, just like he ordered her to. He feels how she surrenders to a far stronger beast – just like she's supposed to. And then he purrs.

"Das ist eher so… Be good now. Be a good girl."

Yep...

No one speaks German like that. No one calls her a gut girl like that.

The palm leaves her mouth, and she's being lowered gently on the floor of the van. She turns to look at her captor with both hope and dread pounding inside her chest.

"König…?"

It's pointless to utter that name when the man before her is exactly his size and build, moves like him, has those same cold, blue eyes that gain a warmer tone every time they land on her. The only thing that makes her take a double check is that he's not wearing a hood this time but a black balaclava. Oddly enough, it makes him look a bit more human. She can see the shape of his jaw, the perch of his nose, usually disguised by the baggy sniper hood he's so fond of...

But what the new mask also does is that it makes him look even more menacing: he looks like some of those terrorists they've always fought against. He looks like the biggest bank robber ever put to this earth, he looks like he's about to shoot dozens of innocent citizens and then kidnap someone to take as his prize and drag them into his rape lair.

The notion should not make her squeal like she's looking forward to being that person…

"You're mine now," he looks down at her, lying at his feet like a stray cat about to be taken back home, then turns to walk out of the van. By the time he slams the doors shut, she's smiling – she might be in need of some serious help, but she can't deny König is at his best when he comes out to play.

….....

His house is surprisingly neat, albeit it is no doubt also a man cave for a soldier who rarely spends time at home.

She’s not carried into a cold lair or a secret dungeon underneath the house. No, she gets to stay in his bedroom, on a soft, king-sized bed. He "forces" her cook for him, and praises her meals like they’re some sort of gourmet dishes. It lights a little flame inside her chest, a fire that doesn’t burn but only feels warm. She starts to tidy his place on her own accord.

It's cute, and it's fun, their little kidnap game.

It’s also kind of entertaining to play house with König like this, especially when her "kidnapper" comes to her every night and takes her gently but intensely, with a passion that renders her silent.

It starts to resemble the most domestic little scene until after one week, she snaps out of it.

She doesn't fight back at all.

He calls her his, asks if she has everything she needs as they lay together on his ridiculously large and nice bed. She doesn’t miss her hard army bunk one bit.

She snaps out of it because he brings her a dress.

She fucking hates dresses.

Well, perhaps she doesn’t hate them... but she hates the particular dress he bought her. It's white and has flowers on it – yuck – is she supposed to cook him a nice, healthy meal while wearing that? Let him lift the hem and take her against a counter whenever he wants? Does he think she’s just going to open her legs for him every night after serving him like a docile, doting little wife?

That night, she fights like a wildcat when he comes to her. She enjoys the way he's panting by the time she finally surrenders to him. He sounds like a dog in heat, he's grunting like a man who has one job too many, trying to restrain his little alley cat so that he can push that heavenly cock inside her. She's dripping wet by the time he gets there, looking up at her captor with lightning and thunder in her eyes.

"What's gone into you now, meine Wildkatze?"

"That stupid dress, that's what's gone into me," she hisses as he tries to be gentle again – she suddenly hates it that he's gentle.

"You'd look good in it," he tries, and she almost spits on his face. Her heart hurts for some unfathomable reason, her lower lip juts out with a furious pout.

"Well you'd look good in rags…!"

And just when she thinks he couldn't make it worse… he makes it worse.

He just laughs. Gently, and heartily.

"Is that the best you can do, little one?"

"You'd make such a good wife..."

The only thing she can do is gasp for air as he makes love to her, as those eyes hold her captive gently, so gently – has he become so gentle just because she cooked him for a week and cleaned up his stupid man cave?

Did he kidnap her just because he realized that would be the perfect way to trick her and transform her into a good little housewife?

Good god...

"If you don't set me free tomorrow, I swear I'll… I'll run away!"

She’s the one panting now, and her threat has little effect save for the hauntingly familiar flash of dare that makes those blue eyes look brighter for a second.

"That's what cats do sooner or later," her King tilts his head – the cock inside her gives a demanding pulse, and she has to fight the urge to moan.

"…but they always return home."

[thesirencult]

BRINGING DOWN OTHERS IS LOW VALUE

Today I had the joy of getting a message from a nice young lady who wanted to thank me for my advice and sweetly asked me if I wanted to be friends with her ❤️

This made me understand that having a platform may be a way to share our individual opinions but we should have in mind that, especially on Tumblr, many people come across our content and we have responsibility to correctly and ethically influence them by adding value to their lives.

So, I want to thank every single one of you for following me and sending sweet messages. All 1,205 of you. We are a small corner on the internet and I don't care about appearing "mysterious" and "unapproachable" to my digital friends.

If you have a question/a content suggestion or just want to say "Hi!" don't be shy and use my AMA or private messages. I'll try to answer to all of you.

Also, thank you for being patient with me as I'm finishing up with this exam season and have not posted anything in the past few days. A few of you reached out for tarot readings and a birth chart analysis and we got even closer, so thank you for trusting me with your time, money, hopes and wishes!

I asked the young lady if she wanted me to write a post about something specific or if she had any content suggestions. She told me that she wanted my opinion on "pick-me" girls who bring other women down. She added that it would be interesting to "know how do this girls think". Your wish is my command young lady!

Shall we start ?

After you queens... 👑

Have you noticed something? People who are high value and successful are always eager to extend their hand to other people full of passion and ambition. They become mentors and leaders for other women and men. They set the standard by example. Usually these people are kind hearted, yet know how and when to set boundaries.

All in all, they don't bring other people down, they build them up.

This women and men build ladders for others to climb at the top with them but they know, they have to protect themselves and their loved ones from vultures, because someone can bring you down even if you are thousand meters above them. They just have to pull the rug underneath your feet.

Someone who is high, won't try to lower someone else's value. Someone who is low is not accustomed to the loneliness of the top. They want to surround themselves with other low value individuals to feel powerful. That's the pack mentality and that's why mean girls/boys hang in crowds.

We all had that "friend". She was insecure but always downplayed. She was always jealous of other people and you could see it but you never thought she was jealous of you. Why would she be? When you talked about your crush/business idea/ambitions it was always : "Ew he is ugly.", "Who are you Elon Musk?", "A law degree? You don't even know how to think critically.".

That friend and you fell apart when you started investing in yourself, and that's when the veil fell off and you saw other girls like that.

The pick-me girls.

A couple days ago, I had a "History Of Economic Thought" exam (It's a very interesting topic to research and if a similar class is available to you, I suggest that you take it!). It was the last one I had to take in person.

I felt awful, anxious and tired. Two weeks of hard work, studying everyday, staying up till light came through the blinds and commuting two hours back and forth to and from school had made me emotionally and mentally tired. I needed some loving from my cat Mr. Mau and a toffee nut latte.

I did my 10k steps by the sea and decided to open up Pinterest and make myself feel a bit better. I searched up "fall aesthetic", "studying aesthetic", "toffee nut latte from Starbucks" etc.

Under a pin there was this comment by a girl calling all women who are "obsessed" with fall, Starbucks and cute photos of pumpkins, "silly a** basic white b*tches".

I then went on TikTok and came across a video of a woman who was being shamed for having a 35k engagement ring (you know which one I'm talking about, the one her man, an amazing king ate the interviewer up and left no crumbs). A woman had commented "she is a gold digger and when he cheats on her with a good woman she'll get what she deserves".

Excuse me what ? So a good woman is one who tries to please others by accepting less than she deserves. I'm not one who would want a 35k engagement ring, buy me a 3k one and 32k of gold for investment purposes, but if her men believed she deserved that, then so be it.

Why are you trying to get picked? Do you think men marry the good girl? Do you think any man who will only see you as an innocent, precious lovely angel will be able to take all of you?

These women are playing a dangerous game. They so badly want to get picked and mostly they get picked but for all the wrong reasons. They love how guys on podcasts praise them online for being "feminine". They love the attention of boys who find them cool.

Sweetheart, you need a man who will find your rage and your sweetness sacred.

You need parents who will understand that you have your own dreams, needs and that you are not just an extension of their egos.

These women and the so-called "good guys" (uhh don't let me get started on those") are sad inside. They would love to have your own wildness and freedom. They feel jealous that you are still that magical bitch holding your pumpkin spice latte with a fresh new set and while doing kick boxing on Wednesday afternoon.

Girls, watch some Legally Blonde. It's the literal blueprint 😉 It made me come to terms with my girly nature as a girl who grew up a tomboy.

You don't have to be just bubbly and feminine. You don't have to be just a dark feminine, femme fatale. You can be all of those things because we are multilayered beings. Lastly, we have the gift of metamorphosis. Don't be afraid to transform and break the mold.