#so many bloom ships

[boltlightning]

PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN: DEAD MAN'S CHEST (2006): rehearsals v. final film ➢ mastering the blade: orlando bloom

[celestialdandy]

neighbours!au for my lovely selfship <3

celestialtoaster for the win!!!! (๑>ᴗ<๑)

went a bit experimental with a color sceme, but i like it :)

[darlenicy]

not the german dub totally overdoing the “enemies to lovers” trope here

she says it in such a mean sassy way i can’t

[guinevereslancelot]

snowdrop emoji when

[welcometoteyvat]

rarepair hell

[untilyouremember]

The Fragrant Flower Blooms With Dignity

Available digitally (read further on kmanga)

Available in print

[norikuna]

MAMA, A DIVA BEHIND YOU! — toji fushiguro sfw!

prologue. → toji loves his son, he really does. unfortunately, young megumi is less than receptive when it comes to toji's efforts to impress the pretty neighbour who just moved into the apartment down the hall.

or five times megumi actively made toji's love life worse. and the one time he actually helped.

pairing. toji fushiguro x afab!reader

warnings. megumi is his own warning. mild age gap implied. non sorcerer au, toji is raising megumi on his own. reader has she/her pronouns. nothing else, just shenanigans :) toji gets knocked down a few pegs by his son 😭 mildly ooc toji <3

word count. song inspiration. paper rings — taylor swift

a/n. this is sooo silly and for fun lol 😭 i feel like you can tell this just isn't my genre or writing style 😭

mp3. i like shiny things, but i'd marry you with paper rings <3

TOJI FUSHIGURO didn't have a lot of treasures in life. he just wasn't that type of guy. treasures were for people with their lives together — the kind who budgeted for organic vegetables and owned matching socks. toji's list of prized possessions was short: a semi-reliable pay check, a fridge that kept his beer cold on a good day, and the one channel that aired late-night baseball games.

oh, and his kid. megumi fushiguro.

the little brat was the one thing in toji's life he could call a blessing without choking on the word. but lately? toji was seriously considering the logistics of international shipping. could you send a five year old punk to siberia? where was the paperwork for that?

everything had been fine. hell, downright manageable. until you moved in down the hall.

at first, toji didn't give a fuck. neighbours were usually either noisy or nosy, and sometimes the tragic combination of both. the last guy had banged on his door at least once a week, yelling about toji's late-night weightlifting sessions and muttering something about 'quiet hours.'

toji had pegged you for the same. maybe with a yoga met and too many scented candles.

but then, you showed up on his doorstep with a kind smile that could probably light up half the districts in the city. and a polite, sweet, "excuse me, but could you help me with my bed frame?"

and that was it.

the universe must've been real bored, because that was the moment it decided that toji fushiguro — self proclaimed expert on not giving a damn, was going to lose his damn mind like cupid has struck him with the painful arrows of a crush. and he was a goner.

take #1 — my neck, my back

spring in tokyo had come into full bloom, the kind of day where the air smelled faintly of sunshine, and the cherry blossoms drifted around like lazy, little freeloaders. below the apartment complex, the park wasn't much to write home about — a scrappy patch of grass, a couple of benches that looked like they'd seen some shit, and a swing set that squeaked like it had a vendetta against joy.

but for toji? it was good enough.

he'd figured this 'let me show you around because i'm so friendly' outing would be low effort. easy. casual and neighbourly, even. except now, he was leaning against a tree which was far harder than it sounded when his lower back was screaming at him louder than megumi had this morning about brushing his teeth.

but you stood nearby, smiling that damn warm and disarming smile of yours, gently plucking a stray blossom from megumi's messy hair. the kid, for his part, was pointedly ignoring you both, kicking rocks with the type of dedication usually reserved for a brat trying to avoid his homework.

toji cleared his throat, "so, uh, the area's not bad. quiet most of the time. that convenience store over there's open late. great for snacks. or milk. y'know, the owner's a bit of a bitc —"

"why are you standing like that?"

megumi's voice cut through his rehearsed tour like a rusty knife.

toji shot him a sharp glance. a look that screamed: keep your mouth shut, kid.

megumi just tilted his head, all faux innocence, and then delivered the killing blow with those sea-green eyes gleaming in what toji was certain was pure maliciousness, "dad, your back hurts again, doesn’t it?"

toji froze, scrambling for damage control, but you were already pressing your lips together, trying not to laugh. trying. but he could see the corners of your mouth twitching.

"back's fine," toji huffed, straightening up too fast. something in his spine must have popped loud enough to startle a crow off a branch, "solid a rock, hah! good as new."

megumi glanced at his scuffed sneakers, and then back up, "you said it was hard getting off the couch this morning. didn't you say you're old now and falling apart?"

toji's entire soul left his body. the punk was a traitor to a family name. he should have just sent megumi back to the clan long ago.

"don't you have a rock to kick?" he hissed.

"already did all that."

and that was it. your laugh finally burst out, bright and loud, ringing through the little patch of a park. toji found himself staring at you like some idiot in a rom-com who’d just realised he was completely doomed.

"kids, huh?" he muttered, throwing megumi a glare that promised revenge.

"kids," you agreed, eyes still sparkling as you excused yourself, something about leaving a pot on the stove. you gave toji one last look as you turned to go, warm and soft with that lingering amusement.

toji leaned back against the tree once you were gone, letting out a long sigh. megumi was still standing there, kicking the same patch of dirt, as though he were trying to discover unseen archaeological wonders underneath the earth.

"you're lucky i don’t sell you to a circus," toji grumbled under his breath.

megumi didn’t even look up, "you wouldn’t get that much for me."

smart-ass kid.

take #2 — the liar's pants are blazing on fire

walking someone home shouldn't have felt like scaling mount fuji, but toji fushiguro was now sweating bullet. the evening was crisp, the air cool enough to keep him from outright drowning in these stupid nerves, but it helped little.

the streetlights flickered on one by one, casting a faint yellow glow over the neighbourhood. nothing fancy — just rows of small apartments with laundry dangling off balconies and the occasional stray cat darting under parked car. it wasn't exactly romantic, but in the soft glow of the spring, it didn't look that bad.

you walked besides him, laughing at some half-assed joke he'd cracked earlier. and damn, toji liked that sound. more than he should've. more than he'd admit to anyone, including himself. now though, the silence had crept back in, and he was left psyching himself up for the move.

just hold her hand, his brain hissed, it's not rocket science. come on, man. no! wait, give her a compliment, call her hot. ugh, idiot. don't say that yet -

his thick fingers flexed awkwardly at this side as he tried to look natural. a valiant losing battle when every nerve in his body screamed, you have one job, fushiguro. don't ruin this.

"dad!"

toji's head snapped up like a startled animal, and there he was. megumi. his kid. his little shadow. gasping, clutching his throat, and staggering toward them like a samurai dying in glorious battle.

"dad! i — i can't breathe!" megumi wheezed, voice raspy as he doubled over in dramatic agony.

toji blinked. what the —

"i think i'm dying!" megumi croaked, collapsing onto the sidewalk with all the subtlety of a boulder tumbling down a hill.

toji sighed, already pinching the bridge of his nose. should’ve known. thid kid had been hanging around that white-haired freak downstairs too much. what had that gojo satoru been teaching him? shakespearean death monologues?

"what is it this time?" toji asked flatly, his voice like gravel.

"maybe, maybe it's the peanuts!" megumi sputtered, clutching his chest now, because why not? "the ones i ate at home! i think i'm allergic!"

toji stared at him, unimpressed. this was the same kid who could inhale salted peanuts by the handful, barely pausing for air, like he was training for some bizarre snack-eating championship.

"you're not allergic," toji deadpanned.

"i think i am!" megumi wheezed, dropping to his knees, his little hands shaking dramatically.

"oh my god!" you gasped, wide-eyed. "should we — i mean, do we need to take him to the hospital? i can drive —"

toji waved a rough hand, trying to salvage what little dignity he had left, "nah, kid’s fine. just go on home. i'll handle this."

"but —"

"it's fine," toji insisted, forcing what he hoped was a reassuring smile, even as megumi collapsed onto the pavement like he’d been struck by lightning.

you had hesitated, clearly torn, but eventually nodded, "okay… but call me if you need anything, okay?"

toji nodded, biting back the heat threatening to crawl up his neck. "yeah, yeah. go on."

the second you turned the corner, toji crouched next to his "dying" son, who immediately cracked one eye open and coughed weakly for good measure.

"what the hell was that?" toji grunted, "what did i say about huffing gasoline in the laundry?"

"don't do it."

toji flicked the punk's forehead, "mhm, so?"

megumi shrugged, sitting up and dusting off his pants. "thought i was allergic."

"to peanuts? that shit you eat everyday?"

"better safe than sorry, dad."

toji huffed, ruffling a hand through his choppy black hair. he glanced in the direction you’d gone, muttering under his breath, "you're lucky you’re cute, kid."

the next morning, toji opened his door to find a basket sitting on the mat. a pristine, gingham-lined basket packed with golden, buttery pastries and muffins that smelled like heaven. attached was a note:

for megumi! i hope he’s feeling better!

karmic justice demanded that toji sit down, scarf it entirely, and leave nothing but crumbs for the little brat. he'd earned that much.

take #3 — they didn't get my nose right!

toji fushiguro didn’t get flustered easily. fights? He could eat a punch for breakfast. bills? well, avoidance was a valid financial strategy. but you, sitting on his couch, smiling at him like you’d never met a red flag you didn’t want to rehabilitate, while unpacking groceries for him and megumi? that was uncharted territory.

terrifying.

the apartment was...presentable. which was more than he could say ten minutes before you arrived, when he'd barked at megumi like a drill sergeant to hide every suspicious stain and questionable stack of dishes. now, the faint sting of cleaning spray lingered in the air, and the tiny place almost looked cozy. not that toji would admit it.

"you didn’t have to bring anything," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

"oh, it's no trouble!" you chirped, beaming like some kind of saint. "i thought you and megumi might like some fresh vegetables. and i couldn’t resist grabbing some sweets for him."

from the corner of the room, megumi's ears perked up at sweets. he dropped the crayon he’d been chewing (toji pretended not to see it) and padded over, all innocent wide eyes and suspiciously good behaviour.

"dad," megumi started, his tone way too angelic for a kid who regularly schemed like a demonic manga villain, “can i show her my drawing?"

toji utterly froze.

megumi never asked to show off his drawings. usually, he just thrust them into unsuspecting hands like a nosy salesman who couldn't take no for an answer. this? this was premeditated.

"uh," toji grunted, squinting at the kid. "maybe later. she’s busy."

but you, bless your overly trusting heart, smiled and said, "oh, i'd love to see it! i'm sure it's adorable."

toji didn’t even have time to stop him. megumi whipped out a crumpled paper from his pocket like he was smuggling state secrets and handed it to you with an air of triumph.

you unfolded it carefully, and toji wanted to crawl into the walls.

there it was: a chaotic, technicolor mess of lines and smudges.

and centre stage?

a terrifyingly accurate caricature of him labeled "dad," locked in what could only be described as a life-or-death struggle with a rabid raccoon twice his size. above his head, a speech bubble screamed, "no!" while the raccoon yelled back, "mine!"

toji groaned so loud it could’ve registered on the richter scale, "kid. seriously?"

your laughter was instant and loud, the kind that made you clutch your sides and tear up. "this — oh my god, this is amazing!" you wheezed, doubling over.

"it’s not even accurate," toji muttered, crossing his arms, his biceps straining against his shirt like they were trying to leave this embarrassing moment behind. "i won."

"dad didn’t win," megumi piped up, as smug as a kid who’d just blown up his old man’s spot in front of a pretty lady, "the raccoon stole the chips."

"megumi," toji growled, pinning him with a glare that would’ve made lesser beings tremble. the kid just shrugged, popping another crayon into his mouth like this was all part of his five-year master plan.

later, after you’d left, still giggling and promising to "treasure" the drawing, toji leaned over the kitchen table where megumi was innocently snacking on his candy.

'kid," toji said, his voice low and dangerous, "if you ever pull something like that again, i’ll eat your crayons. one by one. and i'll make you watch."

megumi didn’t even flinch, cool as a cucumber, "good luck. i hid all the good ones."

take #4 — take your broke ass home!

the neighborhood festival was the kind of event that came together with duct tape and misplaced enthusiasm. a few janky game booths, a cotton candy machine that looked like it ran on prayers, and a ferris wheel that creaked like it was auditioning for a horror movie. but toji didn’t mind. he had a plan.

this was going to be his moment.

he invited you under the pretense of "fun time" for megumi, but really, it was to show you what a catch he was. buff, capable, ruggedly charming — he was ready to prove it all. what better way than with a little festival bravado? he’d win you a giant stuffed panda or one of those oversized bears that could double as a couch. easy.

you and megumi stood by a booth plastered with painted bullseyes, rows of rubber balls stacked neatly on the counter. toji rolled up his sleeves, flexing his arms just enough to catch your attention. he reached into his pocket, pulling out a wad of crumpled cash like he was buying the entire festival, "watch this."

from beside him, megumi crossed his arms. his eyes squinted with the kind of judgment only an six-year-old could muster. then, like a sniper, he fired off the line that would ruin toji's day.

"careful, dad," megumi said, voice loud enough to turn a few heads. "that’s our grocery money for the week."

toji froze mid-reach for the first ball and his jaw clenched. slowly, painfully, he turned to face megumi, who was standing there with a look of angelic smugness.

"megumi," toji growled through gritted teeth, "let's remember who brought you here."

megumi didn’t miss a beat, "oh, right. i'm just worried that dinner tomorrow is soy sauce soup."

"kid’s got jokes," toji muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, his cocky energy now entirely replaced by something closer to "please make this stop."

"oh, i don’t think he’s joking," you teased, tears forming at the corners of your eyes from laughing too hard.

"yeah, definitely not joking," megumi deadpanned, "dad’s gonna start eating protein powder straight from the jar."

"megumi," toji barked, praying for divine intervention that would include his son being carried off by a stork, "you’re grounded."

"for what? telling the truth?"

before toji could escalate into full-on dad-mode, the game attendant — clearly desperate to avoid whatever domestic drama was brewing, handed toji a stuffed panda.

"here, sir, on the house," he said with a strained smile, like he was hoping toji wouldn’t throw a ball through the booth.

toji grabbed the panda and shoved it into your hands with all the grace of a man trying to save face, "here. told you i'd win ya something."

you had just hugged the panda, still grinning ear to ear, "who knew you had a sweet spot? i'll cherish it forever, especially after hearing how hard you worked for it."

megumi, the little bastard, had already wandered off to scope out the cotton candy stand.

toji watched him go, then glanced at you, feeling oddly resigned, "i’m never bringing him to one of these again."

"oh, come on," you said, nudging him playfully, "i'm glad we came. this was fun. besides, he's a sweet kid."

he wondered if you were half-blind, but held his tongue. instead toji groaned, rubbing his temples, 'kid’s not eating for a week."

take #5 — brought the heat back!

it was a quiet thursday evening, the kind of night that lured people into thinking life wasn’t a complete dumpster fire. the sky was fading into a smug sort of pink, and a light breeze was making it just nice enough to forget toji's apartment was a little too warm because he’d cheaped out on air conditioning.

you’d accepted his invitation for dinner, and now here he was, a grown man trying to pretend he wasn’t about to impress the hell out of you with his cooking.

see, toji wasn’t just some dude who could barely boil water. nah, this man knew his way around the kitchen — specifically around a bowl of spicy curry that could win hearts. but he couldn’t let you know that.

toji liked to think that he had a reputation to uphold: rough around the edges, dangerously hot, and way too casual about everything.

so when you walked in, he scratched the back of his head like he’d just thrown the recipe together from a vague memory, muttering, "i dunno, figured i'd try somethin’ new. if it’s bad, there’s takeout."

except this wasn’t new. toji knew exactly what he was doing. his curry was legendary in very specific circles — namely, his own ego.

meanwhile, megumi was hanging around the kitchen like a suspicious little gargoyle, all quiet and sneaky-eyed. that should’ve been the first warning sign.

and when dinner was served, toji had to admit it, it looked perfect. rich, golden curry with just the right balance of spice, heat curling off the plates like a victory lap. hah, an easy win.

you had taken a polite bite, smiling at first. until your face suddenly froze like you'd just been slapped by a fire demon.

"what, it's too spicy?" toji asked, as he watched you struggle to smile. your lips twitching like they were trying to run away.

"no, no!" you wheezed, "it's — it's really good. just got a lil' kick to it, that's all!"

kick? toji blinked. you looked as though you had been delivering a roundhouse to the face.

suspicious now, he scooped up a big bite himself. the moment it hit his tongue, he nearly choked. his sinuses exploded, his tongue went numb, and he could feel sweat instantly forming on his brow.

"what the fuck," he sputtered, slamming down his fork and lunging for his water. toji guzzled it like a man who’d just escaped a desert, while you valiantly kept nibbling as though your dignity depended on it.

megumi, sitting way too calmly at the table, didn’t even flinch. he was eating like the curry was perfectly fine, which made it even worse. this little freak.

toji squinted at his only child, "megumi. what did you do?"

"nothing," the kid said, wide-eyed and dripping with fake innocence. too fake, tsk, toji knew that look. "just...helped with the seasoning."

toji’s stomach dropped, as his blood pressure rose, "how much seasoning?"

megumi shrugged, stabbing at his rice like he wasn’t actively committing a felony, "i dunno. a lot. jus' wanted to be helpful, dad."

"y'trying to kill me? her? yourself?!"

you laughed nervously through the pain, "ah, toji. it’s really not that bad —"

"don’t lie, doll" toji snapped, shooting you a look, "sweatin' like you ran a marathon."

"so are you!" you shot back, snickering. and you weren’t wrong. toji's forehead looked like he’d just finished a full-body workout.

megumi leaned back in his chair, chewing slowly, and said with an infuriating amount of smugness, "i like spicy food."

toji pointed at him, wondering if it would be easier to pick up the kid and launch him out the window, "you better start liking ramen, ‘cause that’s all you’re eating for the next week."

"fine with that," megumi said, clearly unbothered, "isn't that what i eat all the time anyway?”

toji groaned, dragging a hand through his messy hair, which now stuck to his forehead in sweaty, choppy strands.hHe turned to you, desperate for some kind of redemption. "this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. it’s normally amazing. i swear."

"it’s fine," you laughed, even as you sipped water like your life depended on it. "honestly, i think it’s kinda cute."

that threw him for a loop. "cute? what’s cute about this? i just served you a bowl of liquid hell."

you grinned, a little too amused for his liking. "it’s the effort."

toji, for once in his life, had no comeback. he just sighed, defeated, and grabbed his phone to order takeout. megumi, meanwhile, looked entirely too pleased with himself, even lifting the bowl to his lips to smack away the remnants of the soup that he slurped.

interlude: the peace talks

you’re standing outside toji's dingy apartment building, where even the cracks in the walls look like they’ve seen some things. you’re not entirely sure why you’re here. okay, that’s a lie. you’re absolutely sure— it’s because of him. that rough-edged, broad-shouldered man who can bench press your common sense into oblivion. but of course, you’re telling yourself it’s "just to check in."

totally innocent.

you knock. a few beats of silence, then the door creaks open just wide enough for a face to peek out. it's megumi fushiguro, toji's odd kid, and his expression already screams ugh. the kind of look that says, "what does this clown want?"

"uh, hi," you say, suddenly unsure if you’re allowed to be nervous around a first grader, "is toji here?"

megumi stares at you like you just asked if the sky was plaid, "nope," he says flatly, but doesn’t move. he keeps the door partially open, like he’s either waiting for you to leave or deciding if you’re even worth his time.

"oh. okay, that's fine, i'll just —" you motion vaguely toward the stairs, already regretting this whole situation. but then the kid speaks up.

"why do you wanna see him?" his tone is casual, but his eyes? sharp like sea-glass. too sharp for someone so young. he’s leaning on the doorframe now.

you blink, mind going blank.

"i don’t...i mean, i was just dropping by to say hi. that’s all."

megumi tilts his head, scrutinising you like you’re a suspect in a crime only he knows about, "do you like my dad?"

you choke on what must be your last breath on this earth, "what?! no! i mean, what are you even saying, he's..."

you’re spiralling, and megumi's smug little smirk says he knows it. He’s enjoying this way too much.

"sure," he says with a shrug, stepping back into the apartment. he leaves the door wide open like it’s an invitation — or maybe a saw trap. against your better judgment, you follow him in.

megumi plops down on the couch, picking up a laptop like you’re not even there, "you’re not the first," he mutters without looking up.

"what’s that supposed to mean?" you ask, trying to sound casual but failing miserably.

he shrugs again, still not meeting your gaze, "just saying, dad’s got... fans." he says it with the kind of disdain only a kid can muster when talking about their parent, "but you’re, like... different."

"different how?" you ask, instantly regretting it. you shouldn’t engage. this is toji's kid, not your personal gossip columnist.

megumi finally looks up, one eyebrow raised, "you don’t seem as dumb as the other ones."

wow. compliment of the century. "that's way harsh. but thanks," you say dryly, crossing your arms. "and here i thought we were bonding."

there’s a flicker of something else in the child's eyes. a glimmer of protectiveness, maybe, "look, i'm just saying...don’t get your hopes up, okay? i don't think my dad's that type of guy."

you frown, perplexed at having this conversation with a child who barely comes up past your waist, "what makes you say that?"

megumi looks like he’s about to launch into a powerpoint presentation on why toji fushiguro Is a walking red flag, but then he stops. his petulant expression shifts, softens, just a little, "i don't anyone to be sad."

and there it is. the kid act drops for a split second, and you see it. he’s not just being a little punk — he's protecting himself. maybe he’s seen toji screw up one too many times, or maybe he’s tired of people coming and going from their lives. either way, you feel a pang of sympathy.

you sit down on the edge of the couch, careful not to invade his space, "i get it,” you say gently, "and i appreciate you looking out for me, and for your father. but...maybe your dad’s not as bad as you think."

megumi snorts, "yeah, right. i think he's a mess."

"well, sometimes messy people need someone to believe in them," you say, surprising even yourself with the honesty in your voice.

he doesn’t respond right away, just stares at the laptop screen like it holds the answers to life. finally, he sighs, closing it with a decisive snap.

"fine. you can...hang out with him. or whatever. i won't pull any dumb shit,” megumi suddenly pauses at the slip of his tongue, “wait, don't tell him i said that word. but if this screws up, i'm saying ‘I told you so."

he sounds like he’s just agreed to let you borrow his favourite video game.

you smile, relieved, "deal."

just then, the front door opens, and in walks toji, all feathery raven hair, sweat-slicked muscles, and a duffel bag slung over his shoulder like he’s just conquered a small country. he pauses when he sees you, eyebrows raising in surprise. "hey, didn’t expect to see you here," he says, voice rough but warm.

before you can respond, megumi pipes up from the couch, "we had important business."

megumi watches you leave, your footsteps echoing down the hallway. you turn back once, smiling at toji like he’s just said something funny — or maybe like he’s not completely hopeless. his dad stands in the doorway, looking uncharacteristically relaxed, a satisfied smirk on his face that makes megumi's stomach churn.

how disgusting.

the second the door clicks shut, toji sighs like some kind of romantic hero from the bad drama his dad loves to secretly watch, running a hand through his choppy black hair and scratching at the back of his neck.

"isn't she cute?" coming from a guy who once tried to flirt with a waitress by asking her how many push-ups she thought he could do.

toji disappears into his room, leaving young, burdened megumi stranded on the couch with his thoughts. his dad — the six-foot-four slab of muscle and bad decisions who calls protein shakes "wizard juice" — is clearly falling for you. and honestly? megumi doesn’t hate the idea. you’re nice. you don’t talk down to him like other adults, and you don’t smell like motor oil and regret like toji's usual crowd.

but toji? his dad couldn’t woo a cactus. if this is going to happen, megumi's going to have to step in. it's the responsible thing to do.

he grabs his laptop again, boots it up, and clicks on the email icon with all the gravitas of a general preparing for war.

to: thestrongest@mail.com from: demondog02@mail.com subject: hey gojo i need help message: hey gojo i need help.

he hits send, satisfied. within ten minutes, there’s a reply. gojo's always on his computer nowadays, swamped by senior finals.

to: demondog02@mail.com from: thestrongest@mail.com subject: re: hey gojo i need help message: why are u emailing me. i feel weird emailing a six year old.

megumi rolls his eyes. he’s six, not stupid. he definitely thinks he's smarter than gojo satoru.

to: thestrongest@mail.com from: demondog02@mail.com subject: re: re: hey gojo i need help message: i think my dad has a crush.

there’s a pause. megumi imagines goji sitting in his weirdly pristine apartment downstairs, wearing those stupid sunglasses he insists are cool, trying to process what he just read.

the reply comes in two words.

to: demondog02@mail.com from: thestrongest@mail.com subject: re: re: re: hey gojo i need help message: come downstairs.

then another one.

to: demondog02@mail.com from: thestrongest@mail.com subject: re: re: re: hey gojo i need help message: let’s debrief. i got cookies.

megumi shuts his laptop, slides off the couch, and heads for the door. it's time someone with real intelligence got involved.

megumi fushiguro sits at the kitchen table, eating rainbow cereal and trying to ignore the way his dad is pacing the room like a stressed-out gorilla. toji fushiguro, a walking, grunting tank of a man, is mumbling under his breath about "women" and "bad timing" and something about his shirt being "too tight." not that his dad has any normal shirts — just those stupid gym shirts.

megumi, as the only person in this house with half a brain cell, knows exactly what’s going on. his dad's got it bad for you.

not that he thinks that his dad would admit it. no, his dad's strategy for dealing with his obvious feelings is to act like a complete idiot whenever you’re around. last time, he dropped a dumbbell on himself while trying to show off. the time before that, he laughed so hard at one of your jokes he spat coffee everywhere. megumi had to clean it up.

so yeah, his dad was hopeless, and apparently, it’s megumi's job to fix it.

but megumi doesn’t think of himself as a matchmaker. he thinks of himself as a tortured genius, forced to live among lesser idiots. and frankly, he doesn’t even like the idea of his dad dating. because that's gross.

but the truth is, megumi's tired of toji stomping around the apartment like a lovesick rhino, and if getting you and his dad together means toji might finally stop asking megumi if his hair looks "cool," then so be it.

he starts small. when you knock on the door that afternoon, megumi answers and blocks the entrance like a bouncer, just like gojo told him to.

"oh, dad's not here again," he says, casual.

your face falls, and megumi immediately clocks it. bingo.

"you're in luck today, lady. wait here," he interrupts, darting inside, "i'll grab him."

except his dad is in there, muttering something about a broken pipe in the kitchen, while tapping furiously on his phone. megumi marches in, hands on his hips.

"i let her in," he announces, like a town crier.

his dad looks up, like a deer caught in the headlights of his own stupidity, "what? why didn’t you tell me? damn punk," he scrambles for a shirt.

"i'm telling you now, dad," megumi says, dully, "also, you’re acting like a weirdo. just go talk to her. ask her out."

toji freezes, halfway into his shirt, "what's gotten into you, kid? gonna drop a knife on me, huh? what am i supposed to say?"

megumi resists the urge to roll his eyes so hard they fall out of his head, "i don't know. say hi to her. maybe don't mention the gym."

his dad frowns, "you're six, punk. what do you know? people like hearing about that shit."

"not normal people."

once toji is finally presentable — or as presentable as a man with permanent bedhead and a scar on his lip can be — megumi ushers him out of the room. then, like the misunderstood mastermind he is, megumi follows quietly, lurking behind the door to eavesdrop.

toji opens the door to find you standing there, fiddling with the strap of your bag. his usual dumb smirk creeps onto his face, "hey, didn’t expect to see you here," he says, leaning on the doorframe like he thinks he’s starring in a cologne commercial.

"yeah, i was just...in the neighborhood," you say, sounding way too nervous for someone who claims this is a casual visit.

megumi winces. they’re hopeless. this is your neighbourhood, too.

toji scratches the back of his neck, a nervous tick Megumi’s only seen when he’s trying not to embarrass himself, "well, uh, you wanna come in? i was just... doing some cleaning. we can...talk, or some shit like that."

megumi knows for a fact that there's a lie in toji's words. the only cleaning his dad's ever done is shoving everything into the closet and calling it "organised."

but somehow, it works. you step inside, smiling at him like he just offered you free ice cream. now, that would be a decent offer.

from his spot behind the door, megumi mentally pats himself on the back. phase one: complete. he decides to clock out, flopping back on his rumpled bed to pull his laptop back out, immediately logging back onto his game.

but by the time you leave an hour later, toji looks like he just won the lottery. you’re smiling too, waving awkwardly before heading down the stairs. and ugh, gross! you lean in and press a soft kiss to toji's cheek before you turn.

as soon as the door shuts, toji leans against it and lets out the most ridiculous sigh megumi has ever heard.

"hah, kid. she likes me," his dad says, grinning like a lovesick idiot.

megumi, standing in the doorway to the kitchen, crosses his arms, "that's foul. but no thanks to you."

his dad opens one sharp green eye at him, and scowls. "what’s that supposed to mean?"

"it means," megumi says, feeling a lifetime of bribery for ice-cream excite him, "you owe me. big time."

toji’s standing in the doorway, looking at megumi like he just asked him to join some cult. he scratches the back of his head, giving megumi that look — like he’s trying to figure out what the hell his kid is up to now.

"eh, you look weird today," toji mutters, a half-smirk tugging at his lips. he reaches down and ruffles megumi’s hair like it’s no big deal, making it stick up even more. his hair gets all spiky and untamable, and megumi scowls, smoothing it down, trying (and failing) to get his dark spikes to behave.

"yeah, whatever, dad," megumi mutters under his breath as toji turns and saunters off into his room. toji’s probably about to do a hundred push-ups and gloat to himself. megumi can already hear the dumb grunting from the other room.

as soon as toji’s gone, megumi sits back down at the table, shoveling a spoonful of cereal into his mouth.

for once, the apartment is quiet. no random phone calls, no weird people showing up, no random training sessions that sound more like a one-man wrecking crew than “exercise.” just peace.

it’s bliss.

he takes another bite of cereal, enjoying the calm and the fact that someone else is going to have to deal with toji’s nonsense for once. it’s about time.

to: thestrongest@mail.com from: demondog02@mail.com subject: mission accomplished message: it worked. my dad's in love.

a few seconds later, gojo’s reply pops up.

to: demondog02@mail.com from: thestrongest@mail.com subject: re: mission accomplished message: that's great! wanna help me with the guy i like?

megumi squints at the screen, blinking twice. he closes his laptop with all the gravity of someone who has just solved world peace.

to: thestrongest@mail.com from: demondog02@mail.com subject: re: re: mission accomplished message: no.

[inkskinned]

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

[hearts4hughes]

tied up - rafe cameron x fem!reader

warnings: master manipulator!rafe ; mentions of violence ; sexual innuendos towards the end

a/n: the second i saw rafe tied up and sweaty in this episode, i KNEW i had to write about it. this is probably the first of many writings relating to this scene.

the ship rocks gently beneath you, creaking in time with the water lapping against its sides. you step carefully, feeling the weight of the metal plate in your hands, warm against your fingertips. the scent of food mixes with the salt air, thick and lingering, though you’re sure he won’t touch it. rafe sits a few feet away, hands bound to a pipe in front of him, his head drooped forward. he doesn’t look up as you approach, but you can feel his awareness.

you pause, just out of reach, and the light catches his profile—a bruise blooming darkly his eye, his lip split and red, dried blood marking his mouth like some careless stain from when jj knocked him out. he lifts his head slowly, almost deliberately, and his gaze finds yours. his eyes are sharp, narrowed, an intense blue like broken glass in sunlight, calculating and unreadable.

the plate feels heavier in your hands, like it’s suddenly full of something fragile. you set it down, the scrape of metal on wood cutting through the silence like a match. he doesn’t move, just watches you with that unblinking look, like he’s trying to measure how much of you he could break if his hands were free. the thought chills you, but you don’t step back.

“eat,” you say, trying to sound calm, detached, but your voice feels too loud in the confined space. his mouth twitches, a hint of something that might be a smile, but it’s too cold, too hollow. you can see the strain in his shoulders, the pure anger in the way he holds himself, but underneath it—something else. a flicker of vulnerability he’s trying hard to hide.

“so, they send you down to try to convince me to eat? think it would soften me up or something?” his voice is rough as it echos through the confined room. “i already told sarah that i’m not eating until they untie me.” he says with pure defiance. his eyes bore into you as if he’s trying to study you.

you turn your head, your gaze diverting to the dusty floor. “actually, no one sent me down here. they could give a shit if you starved or not. it would be doing everyone a favor.” you avoid his eyes, afraid that your confidence would melt if you met them.

for a second, you wonder if he’s about to say something, something meant only for you, and the realization tightens in your chest like a warning.

“then, why are you here?” he asks harshly. you look up to meet his haunted eyes, a chill runs down your spine and butterflies settle in your stomach. “what happened to never wanting to see me again, huh? what happened to ‘i love you forever’ ?”

his words command a flood of memories to rush through your head. your breathing becomes heavier as you remember it all; the lingering gazes, the sweet nothings, and finally, the way the absence in his eyes as he shot sherif peterkin.

“you know what happened, rafe,” you warn, your voice cracking slightly. he smirked, almost as if he could sense your anxiety. “you know why i left you.”

rafe’s smirk deepens, twisted and bitter, and he leans forward as much as the bindings allow him. “left me?” his voice is low, mocking, but there’s something raw in it too. “come on. we both know you didn’t leave me—you never really left me.”

the words cut through you, sharper than you expect, and for a moment, you can’t breathe. he watches you, waiting for a reaction, relishing it, and maybe even needing it. his gaze is relentless, pining you there like you were the one in restraints.

you force yourself to meet his eyes, even as every instinct screams to look away, to leave the room, and to escape. “i did, though. i left you because you weren’t the man i started dating. you were this,” you gesture to his bruises, his dried blood, and his hostility shimmering in his expression; the man who seems like a stranger and yet is all too familiar.

“you’ve always been mine.” he mutters more to himself than to you. “and i’m- i’m trying to change, y/n. i’ve been trying to change.” he says sternly, almost as if it was obvious, but it wasn’t. “y-you people don’t understand that i can change. i can change just as easily as you and sarah did when you started hanging around those goddamn pogues!” he raises his voice, jolting forward, and causing you to jump back.

when he notices you flinch, his gaze softens. he take a deep breath and sits back. you swallow harshly as he shifts from 0 to 100 in mere seconds.

“i’m just trying to change for the better; for you.” his voice is soft, not like what it was before. you can hear the sadness and the desperation dripping from his mouth.

it’s a trap. it’s all a trap. you’ve known rafe long enough to sense when he’s being manipulative, and he’s at his peak right now. you don’t respond, shaking your head, and going to grab the plate of food. as you grab the mental dish, his hands clasp around your wrist. the plate drops to the floor with a clatter.

“don’t- don’t go.” he whispers softly. his eyes search your face for even an ounce of reciprocated feelings. you bite the inside of your cheek as you ponder the possibilities. “stay here with me… please.” he isn’t speaking anymore, no, he’s begging.

your guard completely falls, leaving yourself vulnerable, and raw to his manipulations. when he senses the sudden shift, it’s as if he latches onto you, stringing his webs tighter around you.

you relax your shoulders with a sigh, not saying yes, but not leaving. he smiles and his eyes fall to your plump lips. his grip tightens around your wrist, fingers wrapping around your pulse. his breath is shallow and ragged, as if he’s afraid you’ll drift away.

your pulse quickens, a silent thrum that feels too loud, too obvious. his thumb moves softly, tracing small circles against your skin, a touch that’s barely there but enough to send a rush of warmth up your arm. you could pull away, break the moment before it goes any further, but you stay still.

rafe’s eyes drop to your lips, his jaw clenching as he takes a steadying breath. he’s drawing you closer, erasing the distance you swore to keep. “you don’t have to stay,” he murmurs, but his fingers tighten, betraying his words. “but… I don’t want you to leave.”

he inches closer, his face barely a breath away as his scent fills your senses. you can feel him hesitating, struggling against something, something that holds him back as much as it pulls him forward.

thousands of thoughts, warnings, and memories flash through your mind like blinding headlights, but they quiet under the intensity of his stare. then, he leans forward, closing the final sliver of space between you. his lips press softly against yours, and as if surrendering, you begin to kiss him back. the kiss begins gentle and sweet, but quickly turns into something desperate and fiery.

his tongue teases your mouth, slipping against your bottom lip. he’s frantic, raw, almost as if he’s afraid of losing you again, like he’s trying to make up for everything that happened. your lips slot against his like a puzzle piece.

you pull away breathlessly and stare at him. he lifts his arms that are bound by rope just enough for you to slip under them, now straddling his lap. you settle on his lap, something hard presses against your ass.

he smirks, “feel what you do to me, baby? i’ve missed you so much.”

the way he stares at you then and there tells you that you’ll be his forever. that there is no escape from him, even if you allow yourself to believe so. you’ll eternally be stuck in his web as he dances around you, only adding more silk to restrain you.

“calm down and untie me.” he says with a twisted grin. “let me take care of you, sweet girl.”

[sassy-cass-16]

look man. look

essek saying "bren" out loud, claiming a position on caleb's side as the mouthpiece of his regards to astrid, did something to me. i can't tell if it opened a wound or punched me or gave me a hug. all i know is that i am feeling so many emotions right now

more under the cut because i'm about to get rambly:

"bren aldric ermendrud" is a separate character from caleb widogast. he's a young boy learning how to make magic. he's a deeply traumatized and indoctrinated teenager. he's the boy who curled up with astrid and eadwulf in a freezing tower for warmth all night.

essek never met bren. he met caleb and he's never known him as anyone else. if i'm remembering correctly, caleb never even said the name "bren" to him during the campaign, and neither did any of the nein.

essek knows caleb widogast. he knows the man who held up the object of his worst crime and then kissed him in the bowels of a ship and made a floor of infinite stars for them to walk through together. he knows the person who healed over bren's wounds—thinly, but enough. he knows the man that the boy has become.

astrid knows bren. she barely knows who caleb is. she still calls him bren after hearing him referred to as caleb repeatedly. she can't know him as the man he is, she only knows the boy. there's some of bren in caleb, but there is no caleb in bren.

essek saying "bren sends his regards" is him gauging astrid's reaction, on one level—if she freaks out, which she did, she's in opposition to caleb's cause and thus a threat. on another level, it's essek delivering a very different subtextual message from caleb: "the boy who loved you is giving you one final warning."

because essek is a threat to astrid. their last meaningful interaction was slinging spells at each other in the blooming grove. and that's funny in a "current boyfriend vs ex girlfriend exclusively fight each other" kind of way, but it's also deeply tied to caleb's recurring theme of transformation. "bren sends his regards" also means "i have healed enough to love enough for someone else to know this name and use it with my consent. and this someone else is your enemy. what does that make you think i've become?"

it also does a fantastic job of communicating subtle offscreen discussions that have happened over the years since the end of c2. we don't have the details of when or how caleb told essek his birth name, but we know that he did, and we know from all of c2 that the name bren occupies a place of immense emotional weight for caleb. it functions similarly to a deadname in terms of who uses it and for what purpose. trent exclusively calls caleb bren to wound him and place himself in a position of power. astrid calls him bren to remind both him and herself of who they used to be—same with eadwulf, though obviously he's not here.

the first time we hear essek say "bren" is on caleb's behalf and confronting one of the narrative representations of caleb's trauma. it's four words that manage to communicate "i, your enemy on a hundred levels, can speak for both the man i love and the boy who loved you, because i know him in his entirety."

astrid knows bren and essek knows caleb, but only essek can speak for both. because at some point, caleb gave bren to essek. and we know this from four words. four IMPROVISED words.

god. this moment is just so fucking good

[pretty-little-mind33]

Friedrich Harding x wife!fem!reader

Summary: The letter with the news of your cousin's death comes with something more sinister; a marriage proposal. (7k words)

Genre: SMUT (mdni)

Warnings: age gap (35/22), porn with heavy plot, reader is Anna's younger cousin (no physical descriptions), enemies to lovers, virgin!reader, innocent!reader, arranged marriage, dubious consent in the beginning, oral sex (f receiving), p in v, unprotected sex, breeding kink, manhandling, aftercare

As a child, you remember dreaming of your wedding day, your hand clutching linen sheets, hidden under woolen blankets, cheeks burning, hair a mess, as you laughed with your sisters in the darkness. You would talk of gourmet four-layered cakes, blooming lilies, and of whose lips yours would kiss at the altar.

You can vividly remember how important Anna's wedding day was to your Aunt and Uncle, how much they fussed over their oldest daughter, your Aunt brushing out her blond curls as you and your three sisters watched from the doorway. Anna's marrying the son of a wealthy shipman, your mother had said, explaining all the happy commotion. You couldn't understand why that could possibly matter so much, especially because Anna had told you months earlier that she was madly in love with her future husband. 

That is what seemed so important to you. Love. 

Anna's wedding was beautiful. She looked like an angel in her white-lace gown, the color almost matching the white in the blond of her hair, and she looked up at her husband with so much adoration.

You were always Anna's favorite, perhaps because you only had six years difference in age, so she insisted you be her flower girl (even if you had just turned fourteen and many of your younger sisters sobbed for such an important role). 

Anna had kissed your hairline in the halls of the cathedral, squeezing your hand in hers as she promised someone would love you as Friedrich did her. Her words, albeit reassuring, must have confused your young mind because all during the ceremony, your gaze was stuck on her future husband and on the way he cupped her cheek so delicately as he kissed her.

A new, unfamiliar, feeling blossomed up in your stomach. 

However, as soon as the happy couple was wed, they'd sailed away, leaving you heartbroken and without hearing from Anna, apart from the occasional birthday letter, for eight years: eight long years, four of those you spent in America, working as a governess.

You hadn't married as your family wished. You had no interest in any man once you'd made up your mind you would only marry for love for there was no man you did love. So your father had sent you away to make money instead. As the oldest daughter in a family of only girls, that was your duty and you never once resented your role or that Anna's love set unfulfilled expectations for you. 

Not until you received news of her death, along with a marriage proposal. 

Friedrich Harding wanted to marry you? 

You'd almost burned the letter in fear it was some sick trick, but the more you stared at the cursive and read his words, the more the memories from the one time you had seen him came to mind, and with them the burning in your stomach you still do not understand even in adulthood. 

He gave no explanation, just that he needed another wife, that Anna loved you the most, and that he wanted you on the next ship to Germany as soon as possible. 

You read the letter again and again. How could he ask you to make such an important decision so quickly? How could you marry Anna's husband? Your poor, innocently sweet, beautiful cousin, who was now dead. Grief washed over you.

How could you take her life? Replace her?

You had wept yourself to sleep that evening and still, you had quit your job, sent a letter to your parents, and taken the first ship out—not exactly understanding why you had.

~ * ~

"Aunt Y/n!" you hear the small shrill cry of a girl as you lift the hem of your dress and gently press your boot into the gravel. The sky is bleak and cloudy, convenient for a graveyard. You strain a smile, making a small huff as a small girl wraps her arms around your knees. "Oh, you did come! Papa promised you would." 

Your hug envelops the small girl's back, your hand skimming her long blond curls, which remind you so much of Anna's. Your lip trembles. "I am here, darling," you murmur, holding her close. You lift your head and look up from behind your bonnet, the black lace ribbon digging into the skin of your neck. You see a person in the distance, a man who is reluctantly closing the doors to what you assume is the mausoleum. 

Bile rises in your throat but you hold it in as you stroke Clara's head. 

"Is that your Papa?" you ask her hesitantly. 

Clara nods, turning her head and holding you even closer at the distant sound of thunder. "Mhm. He is just saying goodnight to Mama and Louise. He brings them flowers every day." 

You nod solemnly, watching Friedrich approach and Clara moves to your side, her small hands still clutching the skirt of your dress. You press your palm over your stomach, suddenly wishing your corset was ten times looser than it is as you hold your breath.  

Once Friedrich is closer, Clara runs to him and he doesn't hesitate to pick her up. Her small black dress bunches up around her ankles, her legs against his hip, as she hangs from his neck, nuzzling her head under his chin. Friedrich looks at you and you inhale, shame burning in your cheeks at the way his gaze lingers over you. 

It is as if he looks past you.

"Herr Harding," you greet, moving closer, but pause when you realize the motion is clearly unwanted. 

Friedrich clears his throat, no hint of a smile on his face. "Thank you for coming so quickly," he pauses and looks to the side, adjusting his hold on Clara. Your journey had taken around three months, which is hardly quick, but you simply nod, unable to find your words. "I see that Sylvester informed you where you could find us upon your arrival."

He looks at his coach, where the man who had driven you stands by the door and tilts his hat. You turn and meet his gaze, your eyebrows scrunching up in confusion and you turn to Friedrich and shake your head.

"Actually, Herr Harding, I did not know you nor Clara would be here. I- well, I wanted to visit my cousin." You leave a solemn pause before continuing. "Sylvester kindly recommended the ride upon my request. Please, do not be cross with him. I told him I would have walked anyway—" 

"Walked? This late? And unaccompanied?" Friedrich sounds horrified. Clara, hearing his tone, hides herself further into his neck, her tiny hands clutching at the collar of his fur coat. He smoothes a hand up her back and sends you a disapproving look. "I am pleased Sylvester offered his services. I will not have my bride out alone at this time of night. It is simply inappropriate." 

You tense, sensing his irritation with you already. As punishment for your foolishness, you assume, he has you take Slyvester's coach home, alone, while he and Clara are in the other just behind yours. 

He had explained it was too painful for him to open the mausoleum again, but promised you could visit Anna another time. You try your hardest not to cry so soon as you sit in the coach, your body jostling around as the wheels travel across the cobblestone. You hold onto hope that the situation will improve. It had only been half a year since Anna and Louise's death. 

You knew to give Friedrich time. 

Your wedding day approached quicker than you had wished, your family sending their approval for a small ceremony with only you, Friedrich, and God. They couldn't make the journey so soon, and Friedrich didn't care to listen to your request to have, at least, your mother with you. So the ceremony happened in his local church, with only Clara (upon her insistance which Friedrich did not deny) and the priest as witnesses. 

As a simple courtesy, and what you liked to think was an apology, Friedrich had left a gorgeous white satin dress in your bedroom as the morning of the wedding approached. Next to the dress lay a veil, the same one Anna had worn. 

You felt like an imposter, staring at yourself in the mirror, the intricate lace of the accessory covering your face and shoulders. The dress was new. You assumed Friedrich didn't want you in Anna's dress. The veil was tradition, naturally it would be passed on. As Anna's cousin, it was only fair. 

You adjust the puffed sleeves near your shoulders as your mind wanders. Friedrich clouds your mind involuntarily, images of his lips on yours and his hands squeezing your hips. You remember Anna's whispering, all those years ago, about what happened on a woman's wedding night, and you can't help but feel warm. Guilt gnaws at your stomach, realizing you're fantasizing about Anna's husband. You shut your eyes but you can still picture Friedrich's hands; those long, strong fingers threading themselves in your hair as he kisses you and tells you he loves you.

Your eyes snap open as you stare at your reflection. Because he must love you? Or want to love you? Why else would he have asked you to marry him? 

Your corset feels tight once again, the wedding dress feels itchy, and your heels hurt as you stand at the altar listening to the priest's questions. Your future husband's face is concealed and blurred behind your veil but you can imagine his sharp blue eyes piercing through you. 

"On behalf of God, you may kiss the bride."

Slowly, Friedrich's hand lifts your veil over your head, wisps of hair fall into your face and he pushes them away as his thumb presses against the apple of your cheek, for only a moment. You lift your arms, hesitant to touch him, and you barely have the chance because as soon as his lips press against yours, he's dropping the veil over you again and pulling himself away, his breath shaky.

Your vision goes blurry again and you aren't sure if it's from the veil or the tears that threaten to fall down your cheeks. Your stomach is in knots as you convince yourself that it is a mistake. That he hadn't meant to kiss you so coldly. That he still wants you here and that he'll hold you in his arms tonight like a husband is supposed to. 

"Go upstairs," Friedrich demands calmly, hanging his hat near the front door. He reaches for a cigar in his pocket and mutters for Clara to go with her governess. 

He doesn't look your way but you listen to his request anyway, creeping up the stairs like a ghost; all dressed in white. You enter the main bedchamber and sit on the end of the bed, simply waiting. 

You aren't sure what to do as you wait for him to join you. For him to bed you like you had been taught to expect on your wedding night. But the sky soon grows darker and the door doesn't open. You hear no movement from out in the hall, no indication that Friedrich is near, and you don't even realize you have fallen asleep until you hear the birds chirp from outside and at the first indication of morning, you rip off your veil and throw it at the vanity in the corner.

You don't bother to remove your wedding dress as you hurry down the stairs, hands gliding down the mahogany railing, anger and hurt coursing through your veins. You search around the house, finally finding Friedrich in his study, sitting on his armchair while he has his breakfast.

You don't think as you storm inside. "You did not join me," you state, your voice strained as you stand in front of him. 

Friedrich lifts his gaze, mustache twitching when he sees you still in your dress. He doesn't look pleased but he doesn't answer and that only hurts more. 

"Ah, so you have nothing to say?!" you hiss angrily, walking closer to him. This time, he stands and you pause in your advancing. 

"Why should I have joined you?" Friedrich asks calmly.

You look horrified. "Because I am your wife!?" 

Friedrich chuckles darkly, shaking his head as he runs a hand over his jaw. "You are not my wife, Y/n. Anna is my wife. In every way that matters to me, she is my wife." He stares at you, his expression hard and unforgiven, and your heart shatters.

"I- I do not understand," you whisper, your eyes becoming glossy. You show him your wedding ring as if that proves something. "Then what is this? What does this mean, Friedrich?" 

Your gaze drops to his hand as you finish the question and you see that he hadn't removed his previous ring. His ring from his marriage with Anna.

He had taken off yours as soon as he had gotten home.

You lift your eyes to lock onto his, your eyes stormy with hurt and fury—which only worsens once he continues, "On paper, you are Frau Harding now. Which means, you will take care of my estate, you will help care for Clara as a mother would, and you will keep up appearances for the sake of my business and our families, but we shall never consummate the marriage. We shall never share a bed, do you understand me?"

Every word he speaks hurts you and you suddenly feel so humiliated. How could you have been so foolish? You clench your hands into the skirt of your wedding dress, the tears finally slipping down your cheeks. Your head hurts. All your efforts to have love have just led you into a loveless marriage, with a man who was never yours to love.

You turn your head away, his words sinking in as you frantically wipe at your tears, desperately erasing them from existence. You look up at him and see he hasn't moved, his expression still unreadable and his stance tense. 

"As you wish. Then I shall never be yours, and I shall hate you till my last breath," you spit, your voice unwavering.

~ * ~

Being Frau Harding proved much easier than you imagined. Clara is a sweet girl and she's an obedient child who learns quickly. The servants are friendly and the estate is grand. And your husband, although he does not spare you a second glance, isn't cruel. He doesn't lay a hand on you nor does he force you into his bed whenever he feels like it, which you learned from some of your high society friends is worse than a man who won't kiss you. 

You are incredibly lonely, all alone in the huge house, but you've learned to live with the feeling. Friedrich is away on business most days, which mostly leaves you and Clara on your own. 

Once more, on a sunny afternoon, you find yourself sitting on the carpet in her playroom, your dresses, the black color replaced by light pastel creams, splayed across your legs as she shows you the new porcelain dolls Friedrich had bought for her from his latest travels. He'd return in the early hours of the morning.

"This one looks like Mama," Clara says and brushes the blond hair of one of her dolls, framing the doll's pale skin, andhumming happily. 

You smile. "Ah, yes, well, she looks like you." You pretend to move around the little china tea set Clara loves so much, pouring some invisible tea for her. Memories of Anna's face cloud your mind, causing a familiar gnawing in your chest.

"Tell me more about Mama," Clara whispers and crawls over to you. She climbs into your lap, not caring when the skirts of your dresses become cumbersome as you chuckle. Clara tucks herself into your arms, still holding her doll. Lately, she's been asking you to tell stories about you and Anna as children, and as much as the memories cause an undeniable hurt, you always indulge her.

Just as you finish the story, one of Clara's favorites, you hear the creak of the playroom door closing and you turn your head. You see the faint remnants of smoke from Friedrich's cigar where he had been standing and your stomach twists.

"May we climb up an apple tree, like you and Mama did?" Clara asks innocently. 

You look at her again, a faint crease in your eyebrows. You aren't sure if you have any apple trees to climb in the gardens, but you don't want to deny Clara something that may make her feel closer to her mother so you simply nod. You stand and hold out your hand. 

"Well, go on, go find Edith and ask her for your coat. There is a slight chill outside." You squeeze Clara's hand and watch her hurry out to find one of the maids.  

You sigh, holding a hand over your stomach to calm your nerves. Just as you walk out into the hall to find your shawl and shoes, you see Friedrich standing in the opposite doorway. His gaze is hard and you gasp, "Oh!" 

"I pray Clara is mistaken when she tells me you plan to take her climbing," he says, holding his cigar between his index and middle finger, pressing it to his lips momentarily. He looks at you with what you can only describe is pure disdain. You feel nauseous.

"I was simply taking her outside, for some fresh air," you say, keeping your distance from him. 

"Without my permission?"

Your jaw tightens and you narrow your gaze. "My apologies, I did not realize I had to ask your permission to take my child out into my gardens." Your tone is curt and harsh. Friedrich narrows his eyes in return. 

"Do not take that tone with me," he states firmly. You almost wish he'd scream at you. Instead, he's always so controlled and restrained. It's almost more infuriating than if he would lose his temper. It is as if he is unfeeling. "Clara is not your child." 

Hurt swarms your chest. You know she is not yours, but the reminder hurts after all the months you spent with her. "Oh? Is she not? Then what, pray, is my role here, dear husband? This is what you asked of me. To care for your daughter. It isn't like I will have any children of my own, now is it?" you retort, venom in your words and Friedrich's jaw clenches.

"No. Because that would require a husband willing to touch me." 

"Stop," Friedrich growls, looking away and taking an inhale of his cigar. "Stop acting like a petulant child for once, Y/n." 

Your cheeks burn in embarrassment. "Oh! I am the one being childish?"

"Neither you nor Clara are to go outside at this hour. It is cold and dangerous and ladies do not climb trees. It is unbecoming."

"It is September! And hardly—"

Clara runs up, pulling on her father's trousers. "Can Y/n and I play in the gardens?" You stare at her, then your gaze flickers to Friedrich. He twirls his hand in Clara's ringlets, careful not to mess them up too much, and smiles at her with a softness he's never awarded to you.

"No. It is dangerous. Plus, you need to finish your French studies, Schatzi (Treasure)," he explains plainly and you juststand there, unable to speak up even when a look of disappointment crosses her features. She just nods, listening to her father. Once Edith takes her upstairs to her room, you glare at Friedrich. 

"You cannot keep her locked up in here! She's a little girl who craves adventure!" 

Friedrich looks more and more agitated. "You are a horrible influence on her. She needs stability, routine, not vapid stories that will put foolish ideas into her little head!" 

"Vapid? I was telling her of how Anna and I—"

"She does not need to hear stories that will make her sad—" Friedrich says sternly. 

You walk closer, clenching your hand in your dress. You're much closer to him now. "Make her, or you, sad?" you challenge and that seems to be the last straw for him because he slams his palm into the doorframe, causing you to flinch as ashes from his cigar fall. Friedrich lets out a shaky exhale and glares at you.

His eyes flicker from your face and then downwards for a moment and something burns inside them that you haven't seen from him in the months you've lived here. You open your mouth to make another comment but decide against it when shuts his eyes, his lip trembling with hurt. He doesn't speak either and instead, he leaves you standing alone in the hall.

~ * ~

Rain drums against the window as you lace up your boots. Clara stands by the door, looking outside as she watches the sky turn orange and pink. She turns to look at you and smiles, but there is also a hint of hesitation behind her icy-blueeyes. "Will Papa be angry with us?" She asks you, her voice small. 

You smile at her, putting on your coat and bonnet. You kneel and adjust the buttons on her coat as you wink. "That is the fun of it, pumpkin," you pause and think, plus he's an arrogant prick so who cares.

Clara nods and she looks outside at the rain and mud. She grins. "Okay."

All her worries seemed to melt away as soon as the raindrops hit her bonnet with a soft splat. She's a giggling mess as you lead her further into the gardens, the damp grass wetting her shoes. You take her small hands in yours as you dance in the rain. 

"Mama would not have allowed this," she says breathlessly, grinning as she dances with you happily and kicks more mud with her shoes. "But, I am glad we can do this. I am glad you are here," Clara adds in a whisper and happiness spreads inside your chest. You laugh and laugh and twirl so hard your expensive bonnet falls into the mud, rain drenching your hair as it continues to pour over you. 

Thunder claps, the rain falling harder and harder, and eventually, the sky turns dark, chasing you both back inside the house as you slam the grand front door, leaning against it and laughing.

You drop your wet fur coat onto the carpet as Clara does the same. The little girl keeps giggling. You kneel next to her to undo her shoes and run your hands over her arms to warm her up. Clara wipes at the soaked fabric of her dress, holding it up as it drips, and she keeps giggling. 

However, the sound of someone clearing their throat startles you both. 

Clara tenses. She drops her dress, turning around to stare at her father. "Papa," she whispers. Your heart is pounding as you stay on your knees, dropping your hand from Clara's arms. Your wet dress is clinging to your corset, the cream color of your dress turning half-translucent from the water. You don't dare look up at your husband as you bite down on your lip, tasting blood in your mouth. 

He wasn't supposed to be home until tomorrow.

"Edith," Friedrich's voice cuts the tension as he calls over the maid. He doesn't sound more angry than he usually does and Clara's hand finds yours, squeezing. You hear the faint sound of Edith entering the hall and then Friedrich continues, his voice unemotional. "Bring Clara upstairs. Run her a warm bath, clean her up, and then put her to bed, thank you. It is past her bedtime." 

"Y/n," Clara whispers your name as her shoes, coat, and then herself, are hurried upstairs without a word. You keep your head low as goosebumps explode across your exposed skin. Your wet hair sticks to your cheeks and you realize you've left your bonnet outside and the curls in your hair have flattened. Your dress, the one you assume must have been Anna's dress is ruined—the expensive satin completely covered in sticky mud.

"Stand up," Friedrich demands, his voice strained. You do as he says, holding your breath. You hesitate to look up at him, but when you do you feel heat rush up to flame your cheeks. Your husband doesn't look upset, not in the same way you have seen him look before. Instead of contempt, his eyes are dark and intense with a feeling you can't quite discern. His gaze drops to the collar of your dress, where the sleeves hang and expose more of the skin of your collarbone.

"I can explain," you whisper, knowing that whilst he truly hadn't been cruel to you up to now, your behavior tonight was unacceptable and warranted any punishment he deemed suitable. 

Friedrich stalks closer, his jaw clenched. You back away a little, gasping as your back presses against the wood of the door again. "Please. I am sorry," you mutter, hands and body shaking. You aren't sure if it's out of fear or from how cold you are. "Please do not be angry," your voice trembles. Friedrich is still walking closer and what's worse is he hasn't said a word. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, preparing for a blow of any kind. He would be in the right to scream at you—strike you even. You had deliberately disobeyed him. None come. Instead, you feel his hand on your cheek, gently caressing your cold skin and you tense. This is the first time he's touched you since your wedding.

"You're shaking," Friedrich points out, looking over your frame. His eyes meet yours. "Do I scare you?" 

Your stomach twists at his words and your eyes snap open. You're breathing heavily now and his touch feels so foreign on your skin. You don't quite know what to do. "N-no–" you whisper. It's the truth, he's never scared you. What you're feeling now feels completely different than fear. It's a feeling you don't quite understand. You feel the dampness between your thighs, something that only happens when you are around him. 

Friedrich quirks a small smile, the first one you've seen directed at you. His hand slides down from your cheek and trails down your arm until his fingers curl around your wrist quite tightly. "Come. You will catch a cold," he says, pulling you closer and down the hallway into an open door. 

You don't move at first, eyes wide, but when he looks back at you and sends you a nod, you follow him into the parlor. "Friedrich, I- I must go upstairs. I need to clean up, please. What are you doing?" 

He leads you into the room, gently guiding you into his armchair. Your dress soaks the fabric and you feel out of place and cold. You watch him as he kneels by the fire, beginning to make it for you. To warm you up. You've never seen him make his own fire, the servants have always done that but he doesn't call them in. Plus, it seems like he knows what he's doing. The flame sparks and warmth slowly spreads across your skin. 

Once the fire is going, your husband turns to you. You're still shivering, but the warmth helps. Friedrich is still down on his knees, looking up at you with an unreadable expression.

"Is it working?" he asks, kneeling closer.

You feel dizzy and you whisper, straining a smile. "Ah, the fire? Yes, it is working. Thank you, Friedrich." You can barely focus on his question as his fingers start delicately unlacing your boots. He's being so intimate. You open your mouth to question him, but he speaks before you do. 

"No. Not that. Your little outbursts," Your husband chuckles, smiling. His hand slides up your calf now and hooks into your stocking, peeling the drenched fabric from your skin. You gasp, shifting against the chair and sitting up.

You open your mouth to protest but he does the same with your other leg. The flames from the fire cast a glow on his features as he sends you a warning look not to question him and your stomach burns. 

"My outbursts?"

"You think I have not realized how hard you try for my attention? How you do anything for even a sliver of my time. Have I been neglecting you, hm? Is that it? Do you crave me that much, Mein Liebling (my darling)?" His voice is sharp, almost mocking. 

Your eyebrows crease and your lip trembles. "You know what you have done. You have kept me, chained to you forever, without so much as the solace of your liking. I am an accessory, not a wife—you have said as much—nothing more so please, Friedrich, do not mock me." 

Friedrich looks up, his gaze dark, and he hums. Then, he lifts your skirt and disappears underneath the fabric. You sit up, your skin shivering as you feel his lips slowly inching up your thigh but you cannot see him. Fear strikes you. "Friedrich? What is—What are you—oh—" 

He's still underneath your skirt and he hooks his hand under your undergarment, his palm splayed upon your hips as you slouch in the armchair. 

Your face is burning warm and you gasp, covering your mouth with your hand, as he pulls down your undergarments and exposes you. You squeeze your thighs instinctively, attempting to hide yourself from his gaze. You wish to kick him away, but something inside you stops you. Almost like a desire you do not understand. Friedrich clicks his tongue, pushing them apart as he continues to kiss your inner thighs, near your most intimate place. 

"S-stop—" you whine behind your hand. A burst of unfamiliar sensations explode in your stomach. It feels good, but you're also scared of what this means. Friedrich continues for a moment until he feels you shaking and then he emerges from underneath your skirt. He pushes the fabric down, his hair is a little messy and his face is flushed. He wets his lips.

"It is alright, let me," he tries convincing you, gliding his hand up your legs and bunching up your skirt near your waist. You whimper, knowing he can see you bare and needy for him. You can see him now, see what he wants to do, and your fear eases a little. Your mind is spinning as you begin to understand. He wants to take you.

What had changed?

You shake your head, scrambling to sit up, and frantically push your skirt down. "You shall not touch me. I am not your wife," you say, your voice shaking. He has no right to touch you after what he had said and done.

Friedrich chuckles, his hand still splayed on your thighs. "But, you are, aren't you? My wife. Now, I am only doing what you want so let me show you what a good wife does with her husband." 

He grabs your ankle and lifts your leg onto the arm of the armchair, opening you up and you gasp. However, his lips find your slick hole, kissing and licking like a starved man.

He's rough and clearly a little angry. You tremble, tears in your eyes as you focus on the new sensations. You're whispering his name, your voice hoarse as you let out small whimpers. "I have been good to you," Friedrich grunts, tasting you some more and he moans into your folds. "I have kept my distance, I have let you stay pure, but you consistently disobey me. You put my daughter in danger and why? For my attention?" 

Your legs shake and you push up your skirt, finding his hair to hold onto as his tongue explores inside you in ways you didn't even know were possible. Tear stains fall down your cheeks as you accidentally tug on his hair harder than you'd meant to, whimpering. Your leg falls from the arm of the armchair and Friedrich leans back on his heels. 

"Stop being so damn difficult," he reprimands and lifts you up into his arms. You gasp. He's surprisingly strong and it doesn't take long for him to practically throw you onto the maroon, plush, loveseat near the window. 

The rain still hits the window and you gasp again, choking on a sob as Friedrich reaches behind you and with a grunt, half-rips your dress and corset. The materials fall over your shoulder, exposing your breasts to the cool air. You look up through teary eyelashes at your husband and your stomach twists in anticipation. Friedrich's blue eyes are dark and he licks his lips once more. 

He stands and begins to undress as your chest heaves. You sit uncomfortably on the loveseat, half hanging on the end, simply waiting for Friedrich to touch you again. Your mind screams at you that you should be scared, but you aren't. You're almost excited.

His hands are back on you, tearing more of the dress as his hands grip your hips and pull you flush against him. "I shall buy you a new one," he whispers in your ear as the dress, which was already covered in mud, falls from you—torn and ruined. Friedrich promises this as if he has noticed this dress was one of your favorite dresses. As if he's noticed you would wear it more than the others.

Which is impossible. Friedrich doesn't notice you.

You feel something hard press against your core and you gasp, hands grasping the cushions as you look down between your naked bodies. Friedrich looks different than you do between his legs and it looks hard and angry. You whimper, hand grasping for something more to hold than some cushions. You try moving away, but Friedrich's hands tighten on your hips as he keeps you close. 

His lips attach to your nipple, causing a small cry from your mouth that he quickly muffles with his lips. Your eyes widen as he kisses you, one of his hands leaving your hip to rest against your cheek, his thumb pressing under your chin. You melt into his kiss, your mind going fuzzy as he finally gives you what you've been craving all these months. Friedrich grins against your lips, positioning your hips as he begins to press inside you. 

You gasp, pulling your mouth away. "Shh, little dove," Friedrich's voice in your ear causes you to freeze and you realize his movement has paused as well. "It will not hurt you much. Your body is made for this. It will open up for me."

You're breathing heavily and anticipating some horrible pain. When you feel him fill you up, your body moving against the loveseat with the thrust, a tear escapes your eyes from the sting and the intrusion. Your skin bursts with goosebumps and Friedrich's hand caresses your cheek, his lips kissing your neck. 

You feel him slide out and you can breathe again, until he thrusts back in a little harder and you squeeze your eyes shut as you let out a small whimper. Tears threaten to spill from the pain but when Friedrich's hand comes to the back of your head against the cushions, holding you as he leans in and lets you cry into his shoulder. "Only a little while longer," he coos, his hips not faltering his movements as he groans into your hair, pulling on the strands. 

The pain slowly subsides, turning into pleasure, as his movements continue. You lose track of time and place as Friedrich makes love to you, kissing and biting your skin as he whispers mocking praises in your ear. As his thrusts become less rhythmic, you clench around him as his words become more pointed. 

"You're nothing like her. You don't act like her, nor do you feel like her," he mutters in your ear and your stomach twists as he compares you to Anna. "But, I cannot resist you either. Look at you, taking me so well. You are so beautiful. I am going to make sure you carry my child. Isn't that what you wanted, mm? To be mine?" Friedrich groans and you feel something inside you snap as warmth explodes in your stomach and a strange liquid fills you up, the substance smeared across your thighs.

Your body feels heavy as you let your head rest on the plush cushions. You blink, your eyes are unfocused and tired, and you barely register Friedrich shifting around and pulling out of you until he's leaning over you, his hand gently tapping your cheek. Your eyes flitter open and he's smiling.

A real smile. 

"Come. Up. You need rest," he says and drapes a woolen quilt over your naked, sweat-shimmering form and then lifts you into his arms once more. He's half-dressed again, just in case he runs into any servants, but you only fully come to when you feel a warm cloth pressed in between your legs, wiping away the white liquid and streaks of blood. Exhausted, you whimper and then some time must have passed because you feel the bed dip and strong arms pull you in against him. 

You blink, eyes tired, but you no longer feel sticky on the inside of your thighs. "Friedrich?" you mutter into the darkness as the figure next to you turns out the oil lamp. 

"I am here," he whispers, his hand playing with your hair. You can't see him in the darkness but his voice doesn't have the anger or firmness it always does. Instead, he sounds almost guilty. 

You let out a shaky breath. "Please do not be upset with me," you whisper, lips dry as you lean your head against his shoulder. You're savoring his presence, almost afraid he'll disappear. "I am sorry. I shall try harder to be like Anna. Please, I promise I shall try. I do not like it when we argue. I do not like it when you are away. I am lonely—" Your confessions are interrupted by shifting and then you feel Friedrich's nose press against yours and his warm breath fans over your lips. 

"You do not need to change anything. It is all my fault. I have been selfish and weak. I have been so consumed in my grief I have ignored what was right in front of me. Sleep now, all will be well. I am here with you, and I shall be here when you wake," Friedrich says it like a promise and he seals his words with a gentle kiss on your lips. And when the morning light shines into the room, you're both still tangled under the sheets; skin to skin. 

~ * ~

"Papa!" Clara shrieks, jumping into his arms as he steps down from his Coach, removing his tall hat. He grins at his daughter and scoops her up in his arms, resting her a little more uncomfortably on his hip. She’s grown up quite a bit since the last time he did this.

You walk down the steps, your movements slow, as you cradle your son in your arms. When Friedrich looks up and sees you, his smile only widens and he drops Clara onto her feet again as he walks over and hesitates by his son, instead cupping your cheek. 

"Good evening, my dove," he whispers. 

It had taken weeks for you to trust Friedrich's change in behavior. After all he had gone from distant and cold, to loving and warm in the span of mere hours.

Friedrich had explained everything that morning: how he'd rushed into a marriage, forced by his business and family, when he wasn't ready to move on, and how your presence—so similar and yet so different from Anna—had only made things worse.

He had apologized profusely for neglecting you for months, but what truly earned his place in your bed was his patience. He did not force you to forgive him, instead, he waited until you eventually did. 

Not long after your forgiveness everything had changed for the better when the doctors told you were expecting a child. Friedrich was over the moon. He was turned upside down, becoming nothing like the husband you had known for the last few months, instead, he was present and doting and it was as if he'd finally decided to court you. 

To love you. 

"I am sorry I was away when it happened," Friedrich whispers, gently moving the blanket that covers little Friedrich's face as the sleeping baby simply rests against your breast. Friedrich's hand moves up to push away some curls from your forehead. After all, it has only been two weeks since little Friedrich's birth and you were still exhausted. "Why you insist on nursing him when we have help for that, I do not understand."

You send your husband a pointed look. "He is mine. I will care for him." 

Friedrich smile simply grows and he cups his hand around your nape, pulling you in gently and kissing your hairline. He feels Clara's hand pulling on his tailcoat and he lifts her up into his arms again. "Do you like your brother, Schatzi (Treasure)?"

Clara hums and hides her face in his neck again, causing a low chuckle from his chest. You smile at her and then look back down at your son. He's so beautiful. You lift your gaze and see a look in Friedrich's eyes. One that isn't happy nor sad. Your stomach twists and you catch his gaze. "Are you okay?" you whisper, your voice low. 

Friedrich looks at you and for the first time since you'd fist met him all those months ago at the graveyard, he looks right through you. You inhale. You know where his mind is. Anna and Louise. You hold your breath, afraid you'll lose him again, but that cloudy look in his eyes soon disappears after a moment and a soft smile curls his lips. He leans in and kisses you, keeping your son hidden and safe between both your chests as Clara's feet sway against your dress and she rests her head against his shoulder. 

"I am. I will be, Mein Liebling (my darling)," your husband promises and leans his forehead onto yours and after a breath he says,

"I love you."

~ 🤍 ~

^ this is how I imagined the dresses reader wears (left: during the graveyard but in all black. middle: wedding dress. right: her favorite dress)

[thatbuddie]

i know we’ve been saying this for so long but like, this is almost unprecedented, y’all. normally when you want queer characters and queer relationships you have to SEARCH for them. you go into shows knowing they have lgbt+ rep and ships. especially for m/m otps. they’re planned beforehand. they are introduced with the idea of “these characters are achillean and will get together.”

but this? buck? i can assure you no one on the 911 team thought he would be introduced as bisexual at any point. but the truth is, just like it happens in real life for so many bisexual people (and queer people in general), he’s found himself. he’s found his truth, his light. he’s realizing this was always who he was even if he did not understand it before or have the words to express it properly. we’ve watched a character organically grow into one of the best (if not the best) representations of a bisexual individual there has ever been on tv.

and buddie? oh my god don’t get me started on buddie. they bloomed. they’ve happened organically. they were never ever ever supposed to be what they are. and yet here we are, 6 seasons later, knowing we are getting there. knowing they are each other’s heart and soul. knowing they will be together not because execs created them to be together but because they make sense. finally there has been a show brave enough to see the magic and beauty of what they themselves created. they’re taking a chance on them, on us, and i think there will never be anything else to top this.

we should enjoy this. we should savor it. this is special. a once in a lifetime kind of thing (just like buck and eddie are living their once in a lifetime love story.)

[kou3218]

The History of Lightcannon

Warning, this is very long so buckle up. (Also spoilers for Arcane)

For those wondering where this ship came from and how it's bloomed from something that was pretty niche into something nearly mainstream. It's an interesting journey. So let's dive in.

(Note - Updated post with more information on the history. It's actually older than I realized.)

Let's start with some context, Lightcannon is the name of the ship between two characters from the MOBA game, League of Legends. Officially launched in October 27, 2009.

Luxanna Crownguard (though she prefers Lux) from the kingdom of Demacia. She's a mage whose skilled in light magic. She became a playable champion on October 19th, 2010. She is literally the Light...

...To the Cannon known as Jinx (formally known as powder.) from the slump of Zaun. A psychopathic loose cannon whose also a uncertified genius when it comes to tinkering. She became a playable champion on October 10th, 2013.

Both residing in the world known as Runeterra.

Now you might be wondering, "How in the hell does a pretty blonde noble mage girl from a kingdom of knights get shipped with a blue haired psycho steampunk Harley Quinn knock off that's a continent away?" (Don't pretend Jinx wasn't made to cash in on the hype of Quinn. Riot is known for cashing in on trends.)

(edit 12/3/2024)

Well originally, I thought it was due to the Cosmetic Skins that League is known for releasing for it's champions. They usually have some fun special interactions with characters and even some lore. Creating AU's of sorts. Some are one shots, and others get expanded up into full on spinoffs with stories and their own expanded narrative.

In 2015 RIOT launched the Star Guardian set. Basically a Magical girl set for the characters: Lux, Jinx, Janna, Poppy, and Lulu. And this set is what many thought kicked off lightcannon. Myself included.

In the Star Guardian lore, they are childhood friends. With Lux being described as, "Cheerful, courageous, and just a bit clumsy. Lux shines the brightest among her Star Guardian team as its captain."

While Jinx is described as, "The cynical teen rebelled, refusing to treat her powers as anything more than a plaything to serve her own interests. While Jinx scoffs at protecting a world she doesn’t trust, she does believe in her childhood friend Lux—and if someone could see into the depths of Jinx’s heart, they’d see a furious, burning need to keep those she holds dear out of harm’s way, at any cost."

If you are at all familiar with Magical Girl shows, you can see how this kicked it off. There is always an undercurrent of Yuri in ever MG series. For this, the classic, Good Girl x Bad Girl with a heart of gold. This even got it's own cinematic. With plenty of shots of Lux and Jinx Longing for each other.

With some rather fun interactions in game.

And a classic scene from one of the stories

However, it was pointed out to me by @questionablecuttlefish there were people before the star guardians that were already shipping them together as for back as 2014!

Barely 3 months after Jinx was released. The first lightcannon fanfictions started to appear. Which is kind of crazy!

This also pre-dates ekko - who became playable on May 29th, 2015!

Now at the time, Jinx didn't have much lore. She was just the crazy boom girl, and it was hinted at that she had a history with Vi and Warwick. (Too be fair, VI's lore was kind of all over the place and she was mainly "Police Brutality, LoL.) So she was kind of malleable.

Lux however had a lot of lore. She was born into a high standing Noble family that is sworn to protect the king. Hence the name Crownguard. She is depicted as a bright, cheerful, and optimistic character. She's also related to the champion Garen, her older brother. However, she is a mage and magic is hated in her country of Demacia. So, she has to hide who she really is. Garen does know and accepts her. There are also a number of stories where she has done very questionable things. One of her decisions led to her trusting the wrong man, Sylas. A criminal mage that tricked her into helping him escape. Which ended up triggering a mage rebellion, which led to a lot of people dying. (And her OG lore, she operated as a spy. Which some people have played with.)

Sounds familiar right?

So a big part of what drew these two together was the potential these two could have if they met. The idea that Lux finds someone who encourages her to be herself. To let her magic free and accept all of her. Which could also apply to Jinx as well. The idea that they could be who they truly are with each other. And still drawing a bit from the Star Guardians down the line with the whole Good Girl x Bad Girl.

Again, this was still pretty niche. Very much a crackship, but people were pretty creative in what they thought of.

Then came a big shot in the arm for the ship, the Cinematic trailer for Wildrift.

This trailer had jinx hoping around runeterra and grabbing people to join her team to fight. The first person she grabs in Lux, whose bored and wants something exciting to do. And here comes this manic pixie dream girl who pops out of nowhere, jumps in her laps, takes a selfie, and then pulls her into a portal to fight a giant monster like she wanted. Plus the fact that Lux can create pretty shiny lights and massive magical explosions doesn't hurt either. With a lot of the promo stuff having them act like friends helped to fuel it further.

And then, a year after this, Arcane launched!

This not only gave Vi more depth, but also Jinx (Originally named powder). She went from, "lol, random, psycho murder, boom girl." To an incredibly tragic character who who just want to hug and tell her everything is alright.

And it wasn't that we wanted Lux to fix Jinx, we wanted them to help each other. And with the ending of season 2, the viability of Lux and Jinx actually meeting skyrocketed even further. With Jinx faking her death and sneaking onto an airship that was seen over open water.

Possibly to Demacia to get a fresh start? Not impossible. Maybe even be her guiding light.

Additionally between season 1 and 2 or arcane. There was this fun little Chinese Animated web series called, Valoran Town. It didn't have too much an impact on the ship, but was still a bit more fuel for it.

Basically, a slice of life series about the champions living in a small town. The main story focusing on Lux as she runs away from home trying to live free and independently from her overbearing Brother Garen. Her best friend and now roommate in the series is Jinx! Since a lot of promo material for wildrift did have them acting like friends, this felt like they were kind of leaned into that angle. Which worked pretty well.

Each episode is about 5 minutes long, but it's just super cute and fun. Also a nice pallet cleanser from the heart ache of arcane.

This person was kind enough to upload and subtitle all 12 episodes.

Give it a watch, it's free. (Just turn on closed captions.)

So, yeah. That's the history of lightcannon. We love it for many reasons, but for me. It's the potential they could have. It's very much a crackship, but I will sail it everyday. Hope you learned something.

And some funny things to think about.

Lightcannon and Caitvi/Piltover's finest means that Jinx and Vi have the same taste in women. Upper class femme.

But it also means the Crownguard sibling also have the same taste in women. Or, at the very least, have a kink for criminals/killers.

Garen with the Noxian assassin Katarina.

Lux with Sylans and Jinx.

Which would also make Lux and Jinx Bisexual too, so represent.

Yes, I support timebomb too. Arcane Season 2 episode 7 is beautiful. I see why people ship Ekko and Jinx together. I'm a multi-shipper. You can do that. They both love Jinx, and she deserves all the love.

[george-oswald-dannyson]

Rooster Teeth called one of their trans employees a slur as a """"joke"""", and then gave her a coded nickname so they could keep calling her a slur while the cameras were rolling

The Anime Binge-Watcher's Queer Anime Ship Tournament!

The first round is approaching its end! Yes, I know RWBY isn't really an anime, but Bumbleby's exquisite slow burn more than deserves to up against the powerful queer storytelling of Bloom Into You. Which one will prevail? Cast your votes now!

All Round 1 Match-Ups

Rules and Full Bracket

[pyxxiestyxx]

Truth and Rumors

You didn't exactly plan on being your space station's liaison to the Affini Compact, but everyone in leadership had fled into the darkness of space hours before the plant's first ships jumped into position. Clearly someone had tipped the C-Suite off somehow; honestly, you couldn't blame them. Everything you had heard about the Compact was…rather terrifying, really. Behemoth plants with rows upon rows of teeth, infectious parasites ready to take over your mind, eternal servitude and endless labor with no pay…you shuddered at the rumors, at the stories. Perhaps worse was the actual propaganda produced by the plants; not that you or anyone else on the station was legally allowed to watch it, but even the few still frames that were shown to you had painted a grisly picture. The limp figure of some Terran Navy hero, cuddled and coddled by the hulking beast of a plant behind her. Apparently they had changed the soldier's gender, or something? The report accompanying the image was rather unclear for that particular detail. And now, here you were: sitting nervously in the largest conference room on the station, the lone Terran at a desk made for over thirty to sit at comfortably. When the Compact had hailed your station, you were one of the few working the comms station, and everyone else had either fainted, screamed, or panicked. Not that you were much better, but it was apparently enough that you were voluntold to answer it. The voice of the caller was…strange. Different, somehow. Calming, and yet thrilling. She introduced herself as Lady Violetta Larella, Fourteenth Bloom, she/her. Blushing, you apologized for not referring to her by her title earlier. In your defense, you hadn't realized she was nobility. She seemed to enjoy that, for some reason. You had only been sitting at the table for a few minutes when there was a sharp knock at the door. The Lady entered as gracefully as one possibly could when entering a door made for someone at least five feet shorter, her long dress trailing behind her as she clasped her hands and smiled. "Hello, darling. It's so lovely to see you in the flesh, so to speak! And just look at you! Why, that video feed certainly dulled your charms~" Her voice was dripping with genuine affection as she stepped over to you, taking a knee and reaching an elegant hand out to tussle your hair. You couldn't help but shudder as she did so; your nerves dancing in abject joy as she gently pet your head. Your eyes slowly closed in utter delight as you sagged back into your chair, your tensed muscles relaxing one by one by one... "Oh, but I apologize! Playtime can come later, dear. Let's get down to business, shall we?" You blinked in confusion as you realized She had stopped petting you, and couldn't stop yourself from letting out the smallest of whimpers as She began to withdraw Her hand. Every single one of Her eyes, each of which ranked among some of the most verdant jewels you had ever seen, quickly seemed to shift and dance to a brilliant violet. Her hand returned, sending your worries scuttling for the door as She did so. "Well…perhaps we can take a few minutes, first. Just to make sure you have been thoroughly examined, of course; it would be my duty as Own…as Overseer of this operation to guarantee your mental and physical wellbeing~" You smiled dreamily as you were picked up and held by Lady Violetta, happy that everything you had heard about the Affini was so clearly wrong. She grinned at you, a wide smile that showed all Her many, many pretty teeth, and held up a single, succulent berry, the sight of which made your mouth water. "Now then…let's play a fun little game. When I stroke downward on your cheek, I want you to open your mouth…"

[clockwayswrites]

Cozytober Day 3: Hot Chocolate

masterpost

“You just had to make a mess on your way, didn’t you?” Jason asked as he stepped over Danny’s shed clothing.

“Yes,” Danny said, just to be cheeky.

He could be cheeky with Jason. Jason might huff and puff or snark back, but it was always in good fun with each other. Somethings were off limits, but they’d both made a deal to be honest about what those were. So far it had worked out.

Jason sighed. “Leave me to clean up your mess after you, carry you around, make you hot chocolate…”

“Hot chocolate?” Danny asked, sitting up in Jason’s arms. Jason’s hot chocolate was a thing of the divine.

“Mhum,” Jason agreed with a hum as he dropped Danny carefully onto the couch.

Danny let himself lay there like a dead fish as he tried to give Jason his best puppy dog eyes.

“Put those eyes away,” Jason said with a chuckle. He leaned down and pressed a kiss right between Danny’s eyes. “I already said I’d make it. Do you want the works?”

“Yes,” Danny said. He shifted a little on the couch so that he could still watch Jason as he moved over to the kitchen area of the open plan space. “Your day?”

“Oh. It was okay,” Jason said as he gathered what he needed and put a pot on the stove. “I think that we’re finally making some real progress on the plans for the affordable housing. There’s a place in German that does a lot of what we want and need in their prefab walls. Obviously shipping that far would make it cost prohibitive, but they seem interested in maybe setting up a workshop here as long as Gotham helps with the initial costs. It might be a good deal in the end for both them and the city.”

“That’s great!” Danny knew how hard Jason had been working at this project, and how many times there had been insurmountable seeming roadblocks.

“It really is. And a new industry means new jobs. We might be able to tie it in with the workforce alternative we’ve got started with the court system too. I might also be counting my chickens before they hatch but…”

“Hope.”

“Yeah, but hope,” Jason agreed softly.

“Proud of you,” Danny said.

He could see Jason’s ears flush all he way from the couch. Danny tried to tell Jason he was as proud of him as often a he could, both because of the cute response but because Danny didn’t think Jason knew how good he was.

“Nothings don’t yet,” Jason said.

“Proud. Of. You,” Danny said with pointed enunciation.

Jason muttered an adorable grumble as he fussed with breaking up the real chocolate bar that he used in the hot chocolate. Danny closed his eyes and just listened to Jason moving around, out of words the moment. One of the reasons he liked being at Jason’s more than his tiny shoe box was the noise of someone else moving around him.

“Up we go, boo,” Jason urged softly some time later.

Danny cracked a wide yawn and used the moment of swinging his legs off the couch to get himself somewhat sitting up. Jason slotted into place beside Danny and helped prop him up before he tipped back over again. Danny happily burrowed in against Jason’s broad shoulder.

“Eyes open,” Jason said.

Resisting a grumble, Danny opened his eyes and took the large mug in front of his face. He cradled it for a moment, just enjoying the warmth, before he took a long, slow sip. The richness of chocolate and warmth of spice bloomed over his tongue. Danny let out a happy sigh.

“The best.”

Jason chuckled. “You just like me for my hot chocolate.”

“Lies. Also have a very nice co—”

“Danny!” Jason admonished between a bout of startled laughter.

Danny grinned to himself, proud as always to make Jason laugh like that, free and bright. He rewarded himself with another sip of his drink.