#tales from the past arc

[scarapanna]

Man, developing an AU is such a fun but wild experience, could sum it up like this

Still planning out what story arc to start with for the storybook au blog but it shouldn't take too long on my own terms as I'm usually pretty slow when it comes to sorting things out, apologies

[more text regarding storytelling and the hk blog in tags]

[inseobts]

Hey hey so I absolutely love your writing but I have an idea and I need you to kinda hear me out… so basically law x f!reader but BUT she’s kaidos daughter GASP (that gasp was totally real) but she hides it but the find out and uh that’s kinda it but maybe like kinemon and the others of the Kouzuki know her somehow (maybe by a birth mark or her eyes or something). So yeah 😋

Shadows of the Dragon

law × reader

a/n: bestie, I spent all morning writing this instead of looking for a job lmaooo I was really into it ngl

words count: 6.3k

tags: wano arc spoilers, reader is kaido’s daughter, first meeting, fluff, slow burn(?)

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The battle for Onigashima has already begun.

Explosions echo through the halls. Screams, smoke, clashing steel. The floor shakes beneath your feet as you weave through the chaos, hood low over your face. You’re not meant to be here. If Kaido knew, you’d be caged.

Just like Yamato was.

Your lungs burn as you duck into the shadows behind a cracked pillar. The air tastes like ash and blood. You scan the fight ahead, Beasts Pirates swarming a small group.

At the center: Trafalgar Law.

He’s calm, calculating, his sword slicing clean arcs through the crowd. But there’s too many. One slips past his line of sight, a massive axe raised behind him.

You don’t hesitate.

Your blade flashes, a quick, clean throw. It hits the attacker’s shoulder, knocking him off balance before Law even knows he was there.

He turns instantly, catching the movement out of the corner of his eye. But you’re already gone, disappearing into smoke and stone like you were never there.

“Someone’s following me” Law mutters minutes later, once the fight thins out. Bepo tilts his head.

“An enemy?”

“…Not sure.”

He looks toward the shadows where you linger, high above on the rafters. Watching. Quiet.

You saved him. You didn’t have to. And now you can’t stop watching him.

That night, as the battle calms down, you leave another Beast Pirate unconscious behind.

Law appears near the crates just moments later. He sees the body, then the knife still buried in the man’s leg. Same kind of blade as before.

He kneels down, inspecting it “You again.”

You smile from the darkness above, unseen.

The next day.

“You know someone’s been helping us,” Law tells the others “Takes out enemies before we see them. Gets in and out like a ghost.”

Momonosuke frowns “A spy?”

“Could be,” Law says “But whoever it is, they’re not with Kaido’s soldiers.”

Kin’emon stiffens at that. His eyes flash toward the shadows “Did you say… ghostlike?”

Law looks over “Yeah.”

Kin’emon’s face darkens “There is an old tale… of a girl with a dragon’s eyes. One who walks through Wano like smoke. Seen, but never caught.”

“Sounds like a myth.” Law says.

Kin’emon shakes his head “Not a myth. A warning.”

You press your back to the wall, heartbeat rising.

They’re starting to notice you. But you can’t stop now. Not until Kaido falls.

Later on you start to pay more attention and you think you’ve gotten better at hiding. But Trafalgar Law is better at catching.

“Room.”

His voice is quiet, but the pressure shifts.

Before you can leap away, you feel the strange ripple in the air, the pull of his power.

Shambles.

The space around you blinks, your feet leave the ground.

You land hard on stone, the shadows gone, replaced by firelight.

You freeze.

He’s already standing there, arms crossed, sword sheathed at his side. Calm, unreadable.

“Not bad,” he says “You lasted longer than I thought.”

You say nothing, the hood still covering your face. Your heart hammers in your chest. You didn’t expect this.

He steps closer, slow and deliberate “You’ve been following me since the inner gate. Took down five of Kaido’s men without being seen. Saved me twice.” He tilts his head “Why?”

You grip the edge of your cloak tighter.

“I don’t owe you an answer.”

“You do if you want to leave.”

You look past him. The door is blocked. No windows. Just firelight, stone, and the surgeon of death with those piercing eyes.

“I’m not your enemy” you say, voice steady but low.

“That’s not an answer” he replies.

His tone isn’t cruel. It’s precise. Focused. He’s dissecting you with words the same way he would with a scalpel. Slowly. Carefully.

You shift your stance, weight toward your heel, just in case.

Law’s eyes flick down for a split second. He notices.

“You’re not used to being cornered,” he says “You don’t like it.”

“Who does?” you mutter.

He steps closer, now only a few feet away. You can see the cut across his brow, half-healed. You almost patched it yourself... almost. But you stayed hidden, like always.

“I don’t like mysteries in the middle of a war,” he says “Especially ones that move like assassins and carry Kaido’s blades.”

You stiffen. Just slightly. Enough for him to notice.

He watches you, eyes narrowing “You’re not with him.”

You hesitate.

“I’m not” you say.

“But you know him.”

That lands like a knife between your ribs. You don’t speak. Can’t.

He stares, then slowly lifts a hand but not threatening, just… thoughtful.

“Let me guess,” he murmurs “You’re not one of his soldiers. But you move like someone who trained. Someone who had to hide.”

He pauses.

“You’re someone close to him.”

Your heart kicks harder. Your hand twitches toward your hood.

He notices everything.

“I won’t say it,” he adds “But you’re going to have to. Eventually.”

You step back, the fire behind you casting long shadows “I’ve done more for your side than you know.”

“Then say it.”

“No.”

He sighs through his nose “Then take off the hood.”

You don’t move.

“I won’t force you,” he says “But if you want me to trust you, I need a face.”

A long beat of silence stretches between you.

Then, finally you slowly lift your hands and pull the hood back.

Your hair spills down. Your face is lit by firelight. And your eyes, Dragon gold. Just like Kaido’s.

Law freezes.

His expression doesn’t change, but you feel his silence is sharp now. Like something just snapped into place.

You say quietly, “Now you know.”

He doesn’t say anything. Not at first.

Then he speaks “…You’re his daughter.”

You flinch.

“I’m not him,” you say quickly, the words tumbling out “I don’t fight for him. He doesn’t even know I’m here.”

Law’s jaw flexes. His eyes narrow. You can tell he’s thinking fast, too fast.

“You expect me to believe that Kaido’s daughter, his blood, is sneaking around, saving my life and stabbing his men in the back?”

You lift your chin “I never chose him.”

He’s silent again. The fire crackles behind you.

“Yamato knows,” you add “I saw him with your group and he knows who I am. He knows what I’ve done.”

“Then why hide?”

“Because if Kaido finds out I’m against him…” You shake your head “I won’t get another chance. And neither will anyone else. I'm not as strong as Yamato.”

He stares at you for a long time. You’re sure he’s going to walk away. Or call you a liar. Or worse.

But then he mutters “…You’re reckless.”

You blink “What?”

“Reckless.” he repeats “And lucky I didn’t stab you the first night.”

You give a breathless laugh, more from relief than humor “You tried.”

He smirks faintly “I missed on purpose.”

You roll your eyes “Sure you did.”

He steps back, finally giving you room to breathe “You’re staying close to me now. No more hiding.”

You hesitate “You trust me?”

“Not yet... not fully.” he says flatly “But I’m curious.”

After that he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches.

You shift under the weight of it, but keep your chin up. You’ve already shown him too much.

“So,” he finally says, voice quiet, flat, “you can throw a blade, take down five men without being heard, and disappear into smoke.”

He tilts his head.

“Were you trained as an assassin?”

You snort, soft and bitter “No.”

He arches a brow.

“An obedient wife who had to learn how to survive.”

His expression doesn’t change, but you see the twitch in his jaw. The faint disbelief.

“…What?”

“That’s what I was trained to be,” you say, eyes fixed on the flames “Kaido wanted me to be a perfect bride. Pretty. Polite. Silent. Loyal.”

You shrug like it doesn’t matter, even though it burns like hell.

“They taught me how to move without being noticed. To listen more than speak. To smile even when I hated it.” You pause, voice low “It made it easy to sneak around later, though.”

He’s quiet. Watching you too closely now.

He says, “Then you’re surprisingly good at throwing knives.”

You let out a short laugh “Yamato taught me that. In secret. He said if I was going to be caged, I should at least know how to stab the lock.”

That earns a very slight, very rare pull of a smirk from Law. It fades fast.

“Do you know who he wanted you to marry?” he asks.

You glance at him, just for a moment “Someone powerful. Someone Kaido could use. It never got that far.”

“Why not?”

“Because I disappeared.”

You watch him now. The way his gaze drops to the stone floor for a second, like he’s putting together pieces you can’t see.

“And now you’re fighting against him,��� he says “From the shadows.”

“It’s the only place I can do anything.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Then, quietly “Until now.”

You blink “What do you mean?”

“You’re not in the shadows anymore.” His voice is soft, but steady “You showed me your face. That means you’re in it now. With us. Whether you like it or not.”

You swallow.

“I didn’t save you to join your army.”

“No,” he agrees “But you saved me anyway.”

The fire pops. His gaze softens, not much, but enough to make your stomach twist.

“You’re not what I expected" he murmurs.

“Good or bad?”

He considers.

“…Confusing.”

You huff a quiet laugh “That’s fair.”

He steps away, hands in his pockets now, a casualness that’s almost too calculated.

“We leave at dawn. We’re moving to the eastern wing. I want you close.”

Your brows lift “What, no cages? No cuffs?”

“You’d just slip them.” He glances back at you “Besides, I already know you’re dangerous.”

You arch a brow “And?”

He shrugs, dry as ever “So am I.”

You’re walking a few paces behind Law, half-shrouded by the long corridor shadows of the eastern wing. The firelight makes your cloak shimmer at the edges, but your hood is back now. He insisted on it.

He doesn’t speak as you move, he’s not much of a talker unless he’s annoyed or amused. Right now, he’s somewhere in between.

And then, around the corner, you both stop.

Yamato stands at the end of the hall, bandaged and panting, having just shoved open a heavy side door. Behind him, Kin’emon and Momonosuke follow close.

“Law! There you are—” Yamato pauses as soon as his eyes land on you.

The whole corridor stills.

You feel their gazes like blades. Momonosuke blinks, trying to place you. Kin’emon’s eyes narrow, sharp with memory.

And Yamato smiles.

“You told him” he says, voice low with something like relief.

Law glances at you, then back at Yamato “You knew?”

Yamato steps forward, nodding “She’s been helping from the start. Since the capital. I only found out a few months ago, but I kept quiet because I know that she likes to hide.”

Kin’emon steps forward now, slowly “Wait…”

You tense as his eyes roam over you, his expression shifting from suspicion to something more ancient, recognition.

“The birthmark…” he murmurs, eyes locking on the base of your neck.

You instinctively reach to cover it.

“You were a child, around my age.” he says “I saw you once. During a peace talk… when dad... Oden was still alive.”

Your breath catches.

“I thought you were just a servant. But I remember your eyes.”

Momonosuke stares at you, wide-eyed “She’s Kaido’s daughter?”

“She is,” Yamato answers for you, calm but firm “But she’s not like him.”

Law stays quiet through all of it. Watching you. While you lower yuo head to not face them.

Yamato faces Kin’emon and Momo “She never supported him,” he says “She kept me safe. Snuck food to villages, warned people before attacks. She hid it for years. But she was always there, helping everyone but herself.”

Momonosuke steps behind Kin’emon, still processing. But Kin’emon… he lowers his sword.

“If what Yamato says is true… then I owe you an apology.”

You blink “Why?”

“For not helping you leave,” he says “For walking past a child in chains and doing nothing.”

That stings more than you expect.

Yamato’s hand rests gently on your shoulder “She’s with us now,” he says “She wants Kaido gone as much as we do.”

Law finally speaks, voice as dry as usual “She’s good at hiding. Quiet as a whisper. But she throws knives like she means it.”

Kin’emon raises a brow.

“She’s also very stubborn, I'd say.” Law adds.

You glare at him “Says the man who cornered me into a room with his powers.”

“You were being annoying” he replies flatly.

“You were being slow.”

Momonosuke blinks between the two of you “Are… are they flirting?”

Yamato groans “Oh no.”

Law just turns and keeps walking “We move in twenty minutes. Don’t fall behind, princess.”

You hiss under your breath, chasing after him “Don’t call me that.”

But he just smirks without looking back.

The room they gather in is small.

You stand near the edge, half-shadowed again, cloak pulled tighter. Law’s somewhere behind you, flipping his blade open and closed in that restless way he does when he’s thinking too hard.

Then the door slams open.

Luffy barrels in followed by Zoro, Killer, and an annoyed-looking Eustass Kidd. They’re dust-covered, blood-smeared, and loud.

“Yo! Law!” Luffy waves like they’re at a barbecue instead of the middle of a war “We just trashed another floor!”

“Obviously” Law mutters, but doesn’t look up.

Then Luffy spots you.

He stops walking.

“Eh? Who’s that?”

You shift, not answering. Yamato clears his throat behind you, ready to explain. But Luffy just beams.

“Oh! Is she your girlfriend or something?”

Law doesn’t even blink “No.”

“Really?” Kidd snorts, arms crossed “You’re keeping her that close and glaring at us like that, but she’s not your girlfriend?”

“I’m glaring because you’re way too loud” Law deadpans.

Zoro eyes you, a flicker of curiosity behind his boredom “She’s been following us, right? I saw her take out two Beast Pirates before anyone noticed.”

“She’s Kaido’s daughter” Law says bluntly, like he’s ripping off a bandage.

The room goes silent.

Even Luffy blinks.

“…Eh?”

You sigh and step forward, lifting your chin “Technically. I didn’t sign up for it.”

Kidd’s eyes narrow “You’re serious?”

Yamato nods “She’s been on our side the whole time. She’s the one who warned the capital two nights ago.”

Zoro whistles low “Well, shit.”

Luffy grins wide again “That’s awesome!”

You blink “You’re not… mad?”

“Why would I be?” he says, confused “You’re fighting him too, right?”

“…Yes.”

“Then you’re with us.”

Simple as that.

Law rolls his eyes “Don’t let him fool you. He always accepts people way too easily.”

Luffy shrugs “I like her.”

You stare at him, stunned. No suspicion. No fear. Just… acceptance. Like it’s normal to welcome the daughter of the enemy with a smile and an outstretched hand.

“Thanks?” you say softly, unsure how to react.

Then Kidd rolls his eyes and mutters, “Still sounds like you picked a girlfriend up mid-war.”

Law turns to him, voice flat “Do you want to be shambled into the ocean?”

You cover a laugh with your hand.

Zoro smirks “He’s definitely keeping you close. That’s not nothing.”

“Shut up.” Law mutters.

“You’re blushing!” Luffy points out.

“I will kill you.”

“I ship it.” Yamato adds unhelpfully.

Killer says nothing, but you’re pretty sure he snorts behind the mask.

You shake your head, hiding a smile you didn’t expect to have today. It feels like chaos, but not the kind you were raised in. It’s lighter. War still rages outside, but here you can finally breathe.

And maybe… fight for something more than just survival.

The storm of battle breaks again not long after.

Steel rings out, smoke choking the air as the ground trembles beneath the weight of clashing armies. Thunder crashes overhead.

You stay close to the walls, in the dark, your steps silent, your blade lighter than air.

This is where you belong.

Not at the front. Not swinging heavy weapons like Yamato. Not rallying the rebels with a captain’s call.

No. You were trained to be invisible. To listen. To vanish. And you’re good at it.

You slip past a Beast Pirate without a sound, catching the edge of his weapon with your cloak as you pass, he stumbles, confused, then goes still as a blade brushes his throat. Yours.

One down.

You never linger. Never let them see your face.

From your perch on a rooftop beam, you watch the others fight below.

Luffy is chaos incarnate, leaping from debris to debris, fists flying. Zoro and Killer carve through the crowd, Kid hurling steel like it’s an extension of his rage.

And then there’s Law, controlled. Deadly. Calling out “Room” like a calm god of precision. You watch his fingers flick and another soldier vanishes mid-swing.

He doesn’t look at you, but you know he knows where you are.

He always does.

But something’s shifting. You feel it in the way Kaido’s men move. Sharper. Slower. Looking up. Behind. Whispering.

They’ve noticed.

You drop behind a wall and press your back against the stone.

Two soldiers stand nearby, speaking low.

“…Too many of us gone too fast” one says “No one saw who did it.”

“She’s here,” the other growls “The girl. His daughter.”

Your breath catches.

“They say she’s with the rebels now.”

“She wouldn’t. He loves her.”

“He doesn’t love anything. You know that.”

A pause.

“If she’s here, and she’s helping them... we’re supposed to kill her, right?”

“…Only if we’re sure. But we better capture her alive, or if we kill her at least make it look like an accident. Don't go ma—”

You’re already gone before they finish the sentence.

Your lungs are tight, your movements sharper than before. Every shadow feels thinner. Every glance feels aimed.

They’re looking now. Not for a fighter. Not for a rebel.

They’re looking for you.

A hand reaches from behind a torn banner, grabbing your wrist.

You twist, knife in your palm, ready to fight.

“Easy.” It’s Law.

His fingers tighten around your wrist just enough to still you. His voice is low, close to your ear “They’re starting to talk.”

“I heard” you breathe.

His eyes flick toward the rooftops “We need to move. If they know you’re here, they’ll send someone.”

“They won’t be sure.”

He stares at you “You don't know how strong some of them are.”

You glare “And you don’t know me.”

He smirks faintly “That’s why I’m keeping an eye on you.”

You pull away, stepping back into the shadow “Then keep up.”

And just like that, you vanish again. But now, they’re hunting you.

You keep your distance, wait to strike when it’s necessary. And then, it happens.

You’re climbing a rickety scaffold to get a better vantage point on the battlefield when a voice, sharp and familiar, cuts through the noise.

“There! There she is!”

Your blood runs cold.

You whirl around just in time to see a Beast Pirate, a low-level soldier, pointing directly at you from across the field. His eyes widen with recognition, then narrow with intent.

“There she is!” he shouts again “Kaido’s daughter!”

A sickening rush of heat floods your chest as the world seems to slow down for a moment.

You don’t think. You react.

In an instant, your hand finds your blade, and you spring forward, vanishing behind a pile of debris.

They saw me.

Your heart pounds as you look for an exit. Somewhere, far down the hall, you see movement, more men. More eyes.

But this time, you’re not just running. You’re not just hiding.

You’re being hunted.

Your mind races, trying to find the quickest escape route, but the sound of footsteps behind you grows louder. They’re closing in.

“You’re not getting away, princess” the Beast Pirate shouts, his voice thick with malice.

Then, a voice, so familiar, so close, cuts through the tension.

“Room.”

The air around you shifts in an instant. A pull. A tug. A lurch.

The ground beneath your feet vanishes, and the next thing you know, you’re thrown sideways, but somewhere else entirely. A shadowy corner of the battlefield, far from the soldiers who are still scrambling.

Law stands over you, the same sharp, unreadable expression on his face.

He doesn’t ask questions. Just holds a hand out to help you up “You good?”

You nod, gasping for air, your heart still hammering in your chest.

“Thanks” you manage, your voice a little too thin. You push yourself to your feet, checking over your shoulder.

He looks behind you, eyes narrowing “They didn’t see you slip away. For now.”

“But they know. They’re coming for me.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, but his hand rests on his sword as if it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“We need to move” he says quietly, pulling you along behind him.

You glance back, but it’s already too late. The soldiers you just outran are regrouping.

And then, you hear it.

“I’ve seen her!” the Beast Pirate shouts “Kaido’s daughter’s here! She’s helping the rebels!”

The words pierce through the noise like a lightning strike.

“You need to go tell Kaido.” another pirate shouts, clearly panicking “Now!”

Your blood runs cold.

Law’s grip tightens on your wrist “Stay close.”

You’re both moving again, but now, it’s not just about escaping. It’s about buying time.

“Shambles.” Law snaps his fingers again, his power yanking you both forward, but this time, it’s a wider distance. You’re thrown through the air, landing against the stone wall of a nearby ruin. But you’re still not safe.

The Beast Pirates are catching up.

You glance back toward Law “You know they won’t stop looking for me now.”

He nods once “I know. That’s why we don’t stop either.”

He strides forward, facing the group of pirates charging in your direction. They’re only seconds away from being on you.

You feel the familiar panic start to settle in, but you force it down. You know how to fight in the shadows, even when you can’t be hidden.

You swipe a hand to your side, pulling out a dagger. Law’s eyes flick to it, and a rare smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“You know, you’re not as bad as I thought, princess” he says, voice dry.

“Right now, I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t call me that” you mutter under your breath.

He doesn’t answer, only moves to block the advancing soldiers, his sword raised with calculated menace.

One of them steps forward, eyes gleaming as he sneers at you “You're in the middle of the enemy camp. You think you’ll survive this? You think he alone can protect you agaist all of us?”

You meet his gaze, and for a moment, all you can see are shadows.

“I don’t need to be protected and I don't care to survive anymore.” you murmur, and then, you move.

The soldiers charge forward, teeth gritted, weapons drawn. They must think you’re just a soft girl trained to be a wife, that somehow you found someone who protected you all this time.

They’re wrong.

You’re quick, faster than they expect. One rushes you, sword raised, and you sidestep him in a fluid motion. A twist of your wrist, a flash of silver, and the soldier crumples in silence.

Next.

Law’s already engaged, slicing through the soldiers with his surgical precision. He doesn’t need to think about it. Just moves, calm and cold, his blade cutting through the air with deadly accuracy. His power flicks like an extension of his body, ripping through the battlefield with ease.

“Room” he mutters, and in an instant, a soldier who thought he was safe is yanked off his feet and flung into the distance. Law turns toward you with a sharp glance “You’re doing well, princess.”

You twist, knocking the sword of another soldier out of his hand with a well-placed strike “I told you not to call me that!”

He raises an eyebrow as he cuts down another pirate “What’s the matter, princess? I thought you liked the title.”

“I don’t!” You lash out with a quick thrust, taking down another attacker “Don’t call me that!”

He watches you for a moment as you fight, the sword flashes in your hand a blur of motion. But instead of teasing you more, he sidesteps an incoming blow and slides beside you, his voice quieter now “Why?”

The question isn’t mocking. He’s genuinely curious, and for the first time, you can feel the weight of his attention on you. The question hangs in the air, a rare moment of understanding between the chaos.

Your breath catches as you dodge another blow. The soldier’s eyes widen in surprise when you duck, slipping into the shadows just as you’ve been trained. You’re not done yet.

You drop the soldier with a swift kick to the ribs.

Law’s voice follows you through the smoke and dust “You’ve told me to stop calling you that. Why?”

You hesitate for a moment, turning to him as the last of the soldiers scatter in defeat. The heavy weight of the title, the one that’s been used to cage you your entire life, weighs on your tongue.

You take a breath “Because that’s all they’ve ever called me. Kaido’s princess. His daughter.” Your voice cracks slightly, and you quickly steady it “I’m not a princess. I’m just… me. I’m not his.”

The words hang in the air like a challenge to the ground beneath you. For the first time, Law’s sharp gaze softens just a little. He stops for a moment, looking at you, his brow furrowing in thought.

“I’m sorry” he says, his voice quieter than before. The usual teasing is gone.

You’re not used to hearing that from anyone.

You give a curt nod and start walking again, ignoring the weight that still clings to your chest. You don’t need his pity. You don’t want it.

But you’re not used to this either, someone recognizing that you’re more than what others called you. Not Kaido’s daughter. Not some “princess”.

“Let’s just finish this,” you say, pushing forward, your eyes scanning the shadows “They’ll be back. More of them.”

Law watches you for a beat longer, then falls in step beside you, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze “Right.”

You don’t know what’s different now, whether it’s the way you both move in sync or the fact that Law’s stopped calling you “princess” with his usual sarcastic grin, but you know it’s not the same as before.

Not anymore.

The rooftop battle is chaos.

You hide just behind a crumbling pillar, smoke curling around your feet. Lightning flashes above the shattered remains of Onigashima’s highest level, casting jagged light over everything. You can barely breathe through the thick air, heat, ash, blood.

Luffy’s up front, panting hard but still standing.

Kidd is yelling something, hurling twisted metal with wild force. Killer and Zoro are bleeding but moving, their blades catching firelight.

And Law is precise. Silent. His blade is slick with sweat, his coat scorched and fluttering with each blast of energy, but he never stops. His voice is calm, clipped.

You stay hidden. He told you to.

“Don’t show yourself” he said back before the fight began “You’re not ready for this kind of power. And if Kaido sees you…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.

So you wait. You watch. And it’s killing you. Because they’re losing.

Zoro’s down on one knee. Luffy coughs blood. Kidd takes a brutal hit to the ribs and staggers, cursing.

And Kaido laughs.

“Pathetic,” the dragon snarls, his voice cracking the sky “You ants dare challenge me?”

He raises his kanabo, slamming it into the stone with earth-shattering force.

You don’t even think.

You move.

You’re in front of Law before you realize it. Blades drawn. Eyes locked on Kaido.

He sees you. And he knows.

The laughter stops.

Kaido’s gaze sharpens like a blade “You.”

The silence cuts deeper than the wind.

“My daughter.”

Law’s head snaps toward you, eyes wide “No!”

But it’s too late.

Kaido takes one slow step forward, the storm above him crackling “You’ve been hiding behind them,” he growls “Lurking like a coward.”

You hold your ground “I’m not your daughter.”

That makes him snarl. The kanabo swings up, glowing with thunder.

“I gave you everything, and this is how you repay me?” His voice booms like thunder cracking stone “I should’ve thrown you away like you brother. Thought you were smarter.”

Your stomach twists but you don’t move.

You hear Law behind you “Get back.”

“No” you whisper.

Kaido lunges. The ground shatters.

And then—“ROOM.”

One second, you’re standing in front of a god. The next you’re nowhere.

The battlefield is gone. The air is cold. You’re lost somewhere far from the battle, knees hitting the ground as you fall from the jolt of his power.

You look around, eyes wide “Why?!”

You're alone.

You keep walking and walking, until you see Kidd and Law stand half-collapsed in the wreckage of victory, bruised and bloodied and barely alive.

You run to him.

“Law!”

He looks up and the flicker of relief in his eyes almost breaks you.

You drop to your knees beside him, checking his pulse, your hands already on his shoulder, trying to stop the bleeding.

Kidd, lying flat in the rubble nearby, groans “Hahh… damn… this hurts…”

You ignore him, completely focused on Law.

Kidd glances over and smirks through cracked lips “Tch. So what, Law? Your girlfriend gonna patch you up, cry a little?”

Law glares “Shut up, Kidd.”

You roll your eyes, already ripping fabric for bandages “Don’t tempt me to throw a rock at your face.”

“You see?” Law mutters, eyes fluttering half-shut “Not a princess.”

You snort softly, pressing your palm to his chest to keep him still “Damn right I’m not.”

He doesn’t say anything else. Just lets you touch him. Lets you stay.

And for once, you’re not in the shadows. You’re right here, with him.

You don’t want to leave him.

You glance up as one of Law’s crewmates rushes over, panting and wide-eyed.

“Captain!”

You stand immediately “He needs stitches. Internal bleeding, maybe more.”

“I—I’ll take care of him,” the Heart Pirate stammers, already pulling out medical supplies.

Law grabs your wrist before you can move away. His fingers are weak, but his grip is firm.

“Don’t disappear” he mutters.

You offer him the smallest smile “Not this time.”

Then you let go, and walk away.

The celebrations stretch on for hours.

Wano is free. The skies are clear. Kaido’s rule is shattered. And for the first time in years, you breathe without watching your back.

You’re standing by a balcony overlooking the lanterns floating up into the sky, your hair loose, a small drink in your hand. The laughter from the festival below rises with the breeze.

Yamato appears beside you, sliding you a grin as he leans on the railing.

“Still not used to this,” you say, looking up at the stars “No shadows. No running.”

He nudges you gently with his shoulder “Told you we’d get here.”

You smile. You’d never had a chance to just be with your brother. Not like this. Not in peace.

You both stand in quiet for a moment, letting the warmth settle.

Then Yamato glances over your shoulder, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Well, I’m gonna go… talk to Momo. Alone...” he says casually “Very alone. Don’t follow me.”

You frown “What?”

Then you hear the footsteps behind you.

You turn and Law is there.

Cleaned up, bandaged, coat draped over his shoulders like a cloak. Tired, but standing. Breathing. Alive.

Yamato’s already halfway down the stairs, wearing that dumb knowing smirk.

Law stops a few feet away from you. Hands in his pockets. Watching you with that unreadable stare.

You speak first “I didn’t think you’d be up already.”

He shrugs “Didn’t want to waste time.”

You shift your weight, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands “You shouldn’t push yourself.”

“Not pushing.” He takes a step closer “Looking.”

You tilt your head “For what?”

Law pauses.

Then he softly says “For you.”

Your breath catches just slightly.

He glances out toward the lanterns, jaw clenched like he’s thinking too hard about what he’s about to say.

“I’m not good at this,” he mutters “Saying things.”

“I noticed.”

He gives you a dry look.

You let him continue.

“I’ve had enough of people who only look useful when they’re strong.” he says “That’s not you. You’re not strong the way people expect, but you still held your ground. Even when it nearly got you killed.”

You don’t respond. Just… listen.

He shifts, eyes flicking to yours “I could use someone like that on my crew.”

You blink “What?”

Law exhales, as if this was harder than any battle he’s fought “Join me.”

You stare at him, stunned.

“You don’t belong here” he says, quietly now “You’re free. Don’t waste it standing still.”

Your heart thuds hard in your chest. Because you hadn’t even let yourself dream that far ahead. But the idea of being with his crew, the sea, freedom, it blooms fast in your chest, warm and terrifying and right.

You finally ask, softly, “And what would I be to you? On your crew?”

Law’s mouth curves just slightly. Not a smile, not yet, but something close.

“Not a princess,” he says “That’s for sure.”

You don’t sleep much.

Your mind buzzes with Law’s words, your heart thudding with something between fear and excitement. You lie in the quiet room the Kozuki retainers offered you, eyes on the wooden ceiling.

Freedom is loud in your chest.

By dawn, you’ve made your decision.

Yamato nearly chokes on his rice ball when you tell him.

“You’re what?!”

You grin “I’m joining Law’s crew.”

He blinks like he misheard you “Law’s? The grumpy one with the resting death glare? Does he know??”

You laugh “Yeah. That one. And of course he knows, he's the one who asked me to.”

“Wow.” He leans back, genuinely stunned “I mean, I knew something was going on between you... but… joining his crew? Really?”

You nod.

Yamato grins, proud and a little sad all at once “So you’re finally leaving Wano.”

You look out over the now peaceful land. Lanterns still float in the breeze. The smoke of war is gone.

“I’ve hidden here long enough...” you say “It’s time.”

He claps a hand on your shoulder “Then go. Find your freedom. You earned it.”

The samurai don’t question your choice. They bow, grateful and respectful, and offer quiet farewells. Kin’emon even presses a small wrapped charm into your hand.

“For protection,” he says “Not that you’ll need it.”

You smile and thank him with a bow.

The Polar Tang is docked just off the coast, preparing for departure. The sun glints off its yellow hull, and the crew bustles around the deck, laughing, loading crates, checking gear.

You approach, a little hesitant until a loud voice cuts the air.

“Oi, captain!” Bepo calls from the deck, waving wildly “She’s here!”

Law steps out from the lower deck, coat swinging behind him. He’s in full command mode again, but when he sees you, something shifts in his eyes.

He meets you at the dock, hands in his pockets.

“You’re sure?” he asks.

You smirk “I’m already packed.”

That earns a short, quiet chuckle from him “Good.”

He turns and gestures to the ship “Come on. I’ll introduce you.”

You climb aboard, the sea breeze rushing against your skin, the world stretching wide in front of you.

“This,” Law says as the Heart Pirates pause to stare, “is our newest crewmate.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Bepo cheers “Welcome aboard!”

Shachi whistles “Whoa, the boss brought back a pretty one.”

You laugh, already feeling the knot in your chest loosen. Law just rubs the bridge of his nose.

But just then, Penguin glances at you with a smirk, looking at Law.

“So… she’s the one?” he asks, raising an eyebrow “The one Kidd and Luffy were talking about? Your girlfriend?”

The words hang in the air for a moment, and Law freezes. His eyes narrow, a small frown forming.

“What?” Law mutters, his voice barely above a growl.

Penguin shrugs “Well, they seemed to think so.”

Law’s frustration is clear, and you can’t help but laugh a little, leaning against the ship’s railing “It’s not like that,” Law says, brushing his hair out of his face “We’re not—”

“You’re not?” Shachi cuts in, grinning “Then why were you looking so worried she wouldn’t join us, captain?”

Bepo joins in, his innocent smile hiding the teasing tone “Yeah, captain, never saw you being so obviously anxious… Sounds like you’ve got a thing for her.”

Law glares at them all, his face flushed with frustration “I’m not doing this” he says, rubbing his temples.

The crew laughs. You, however, are enjoying the banter, crossing your arms and smiling to yourself.

Law sighs heavily, looking at you like you’re both cursed and a blessing “I’m really starting to regret bringing her here” he mutters under his breath, but you can hear it clearly.

“Yeah, sure,” you say, laughing softly “Regret it all you want… captain.”

Penguin grins at Law one more time “Hey, she is cute, captain. You could do worse.”

Law just shakes his head in defeat, not bothering to argue anymore “Can we please just get to work?”

You chuckle, feeling a warmth in your chest. Even with all the teasing, it’s clear to you that the crew already sees you as part of their family. And while Law’s still trying to keep his composure, there’s a quiet part of you that feels like maybe this is the place you’ve been searching for.

[art]

Creator Spotlight: @mimimar

Hi! I’m Michelle (Mimimar), an illustrator born and raised in Venezuela, currently based in Italy. I enjoy making colorful illustrations that reflect the things I love: fairy tales, fantasy, tenderness and queer (especially sapphic) stories. Occasionally, I also make paper dolls, comics and animatics. I have a lot of interest in book illustration and I’m currently developing my own stories that I hope to share as an author-illustrator someday!

Check out our interview with Michelle below!

Did you originally have a background in art? If not, how did you start?

I always enjoyed drawing when I was a kid, but it only became a hobby that I did almost every day when I was around 11. At first I only used traditional mediums, but I decided to make a serious effort to learn how to draw digitally when I was 15, and once I got the hang of it I never stopped!

I didn’t go to art school so all of my learning was done through studying the tutorials and resources that other artists generously share on the internet and lots of practice / trial and error.

How do you want to evolve as a creator?

I want to do many things but what I want to do the most right now is work on books! I want to make art for other authors’ stories and also my own stories as an author-illustrator. I want to grow as a storyteller and create art and stories that will really resonate with people emotionally. I’m always striving to improve my skills as well.

I also really love dolls, so working on doll box art or as a doll designer is something I would love to do someday. I actually have been designing paper dolls on my Patreon for the past few months, it’s been a fun project that is still ongoing right now!

What is one habit you find yourself doing a lot as an artist?

Probably using a lot of purple! It’s my favorite color so I find myself using it a lot. If I can find a way to sneak a little bit of purple into an illustration or a character design then I will.

Congratulations on finishing your Ivy Comic! Did the outcome turn out like how you expected or were there some unexpected bumps along the way?

Thank you! It’s a project that I worked on very slowly in between other art because I wanted to really take my time with every spread and make each of them a fully detailed illustration. I thumbnailed the full comic before starting but I kept changing the sketch for the final spread until the very end! Overall I’m really proud of the end result. I sprinkled a lot of hidden details in every page that I hope some of the readers will notice. For example: the meanings of the flowers in each page represent what the characters are feeling in that moment, and the colors of their wardrobe become gradually lighter as the story progresses to represent their emotions, as well as the changing of seasons.

We’ve noticed that you have created some amazing cover art for TGCF. Is there another series you would like to do something similar with? 

That was another passion project that took some time to complete. Initially, I didn’t intend for them to be specifically covers, it was just a series of illustrations based on the 5 books/main arcs of TGCF. But since they were well-received and I had people telling me they wish they could use them as covers for their books, I decided to rework them into dust jackets for the english translation of TGCF!

I haven’t thought of any other specific series but I love doing cover art so maybe I’ll do something similar again in the future!

What’s your favorite part of your style? Why?

I’ve heard from other people that there’s a delicate quality to my art, this is something that I like a lot! I like pretty things, fairytales and vibrant colors. I think all of these things probably reflect in the art I make as well.

If there is one thing you want your audience to remember about your work, what would it be?

I hope that they remember how it made them feel. Feelings and colors are the two things I give priority to in my work. Most of the time I like depicting tenderness, softness and emotional intimacy. If that could reach the viewer and stay with them it would make me very happy. 

I make a lot of art with queer (mainly sapphic) themes because they’re the kind of stories I personally like and want to see more of, so whenever people tell me that my art has helped them in their journey to discover and accept themselves, or that they see themselves and their partner in my art, it is always extremely meaningful to me. When art that I made to give myself comfort can provide comfort for others, no matter how small, it reminds me once again that despite any hardships art is genuinely worth pursuing.

Who on Tumblr inspires you and why?

So many artists! To name a few:  I love @sakizo’s amazing eye for fashion and detail,  @paneeps’ gorgeous style and striking colors,  the sweetness of @bevsi’s art,  @vickisigh’s pretty colors and concepts,  @idledee’s warm and heartfelt art,  @littlestpersimmon’s dreamy wonderful art,  and @loish has been an inspiration for as long as I can remember.

Thank you so much for stopping by and sharing, Michelle! Be sure to check out their Tumblr blog over at @mimimar.

[beifong-brainrot]

One thing I love about tlok more as I age, is that it actively veers away from pitting women against each other.

While atla wasn't awful on this front, Toph and Katara's arguments often took on the flavour of Toph talking down to Katara for her percieved feminine qualities. Pairing this with Toph's insults towards male characters, specifically Aang, often having an emascualting "Don't be such a girl" type of vibe, it paints a good picture of Toph's strained relationship with femininity, and other girls, most likely due to her past, both in her family and in the ring. Katara and Toph's tale in Ba Sing Se was a nice step away from that rule, but the Runaway sorta circled back towards this argument. As much as Toph seems to secretly enjoy "feminine expression" she will still talk down to it in public.

But we can talk about Toph's internalised misogyny later. We see the phenomenon of women tearing each other down elsewhere in atla too, especially in the relations of the Fire Nation girls, like in how Mai and Azula lash out at Ty Lee in the Beach.

And I'm not saying it's bad that atla portrayed these interactions, they're a part of life and many of us are trained to talk down to other fem folks.

But it is so refreshing to see tlok subvert that trope in B1. For all the complaining about the love triangle, I really love the arc it gives Korra, who has probably barely interacted with girls her age.

When she first meets Asami, she's a little intimidated, but falls a little into that 'not like other girls' streak.

With Korra falling into more of a 'tomboy' category, similarly to Toph, it wouldn't be very unexpected for her to be portrayed with a more tumultuous relationship to femininity and people we percive as fitting into it better. This is something a lot of girl, women and fem folks go through irl.

Korra: [To Asami as she swims over to her; somewhat dismayed.] So, what do you have planned for us today? Let me guess, shopping, makeovers ...

We see that Korra has a set idea of what Asami is like based on her presentation and mannerisms, and doesn't think she can find a common language with her. But this expectation is quickly subverted when Korra and Asami race together and we see that they do get along very well.

And I like that Korra not only apologises for writing Asami off, but also attempts to partake in something feminine, makeup, showing that she's become more open to finding a 'common language' with girliness, something she previously saw as alien.

Korra: I gotta admit, I had you pegged wrong. I thought you were kind of ... prissy. [Raises hand; quickly.] Eh-No offense!

And throughout the show, although there is plenty of drama, Asami and Korra stay on relatively good terms, which is a relief. A lot of shows tend to stoke drama between its female leads, but Korra and Asami stay friendly, and more, throughout the show.

Korra: [Chuckles in relief.] Well, whatever happened with Mako, I'm glad it hasn't come between us. I've never had a girlfriend to hang out with and talk to before, except for Naga. This is nice.

And it's not just Korra and Asami's relationship that fosters an air of women supporting each other. Tlok shows us many women of different backgrounds helping each other become stronger, encouraging them to realise their potential, comforting each other in dark times and so forth. I also think it's nice to see so many older women who support and encourage younger women, as atla did not deliver on that front.

And I know it feels like such a low bar, but I think it's so important to highlight in shows, especially shows starring women and female characters.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

How to Write a Character

For creative writing to have as deep an impact as possible, you need to give the reader strong characters they can relate to on a personal level.

By borrowing from tried-and-true character archetypes and giving them your personal spin, you can create heroes, villains, and sidekicks that will affect your readers as if they were real people they knew.

Come up with a backstory

Crafting a backstory can help you flesh out an interesting character profile.

“When I’m dealing with characters,” says legal thriller author David Baldacci, “and I’m trying to explain somebody's situation and motivations, you have to look into their past, because [the] past always drives motivations.”

Ask what experiences your character had in elementary school or high school that shaped who they are today. Your character’s backstory can greatly inform your plot.

Develop a character arc

A character must evolve throughout a story.

“The character has to change,” insists crime fiction writer Walter Mosley. “The character doesn’t have to become better. The character doesn’t have to become good. It could be the opposite. He could start good and become bad. He could start off hopeful and end up a pessimist. But he has to be impacted by this world that we’re reading about.”

Plan out your storyline based on your character's goals and how achieving or not achieving them will change them as people. This sort of template can help anchor your narrative.

Do research

If you plan to set your story in a specific locale or period, do enough research to make your characters seem true to life and believable.

“What does it mean, for instance, in the Tudor era to be a male person?” asks Margaret Atwood, author of The Handmaid’s Tale. “What does it mean to be a female person? What do those things mean when they’re at different social levels?”

Empathize with your characters

No matter what the type of character you’re developing, try to find some reason you and your reader can relate to their internal conflict.

“You’re living with these people every single day for months at a time—in some cases, years at a time,” says acclaimed children’s author Judy Blume. “You had better feel for them. So, for me, yes, I have great empathy for them.”

When people can empathize with characters, they’re more likely to find them compelling.

Experiment with different approaches

If you usually write characters from a particular point of view (or POV), change things up to challenge yourself.

“Write about someone entirely through the eyes of their friends and family,” suggests journalist Malcolm Gladwell. “So do a profile of someone where you deliberately never talk to the person that you’re profiling.”

There are plenty of ways to craft compelling character descriptions—free yourself up to try new alternatives.

Give your characters flaws

To craft believable characters, you need to give them flaws.

“One, it makes the characters human, just by default, because everybody recognizes that we all have flaws and mistakes,” David says. “But two, it gives you plot elements and plot opportunities because somebody makes a mistake. Why? Because they’re flawed.”

Learn from real people

Pay attention to real people’s mannerisms, personality traits, body language, and physical appearances.

Do research, and be respectful, when you want to write characters with backgrounds that you are not familiar with. Become familiar with different people's cultures, sexual orientations etc.

Talking to people about their experiences will help form your character’s personality.

Let your characters surprise you

Character development can proceed down a host of different avenues.

“Spend a lot of time with your characters and getting to know them,” Judy suggests. “And the way that you get to know them can be different from the way I get to know them. But my way is: They don’t come alive until I write about them, until I put them down on paper.”

As you write, your character’s motivation or perspective might change from what you originally planned.

Play characters off each other

Ask yourself how a secondary character’s personality might thwart the main character’s motivation.

“One of the best ways, as I said, to develop a character is to put that character in relationship to another person,” Walter says. “So as they talk, as they fight, as they work together, we find out more about who they are and what they are.”

The character’s close friends, adversaries, and acquaintances might all have different effects on their behavior.

Take an organic approach

Over the course of the story, be ready for your characters to surprise you as much as the people you know in real life might, too.

Your characters may take on a life of their own.

Avoid static characters by letting yours have their own lives and personalities. Let their stories take you where they lead.

Source ⚜ Writing Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[ecideras]

Misogyny disguised as an appeal to canonicity

I've seen many excuses in my life for excluding women from narratives. The latest? "Canonicity". This is how some fans — in their eagerness to appear cultured, demanding, or simply "protectors of the work" — hide a latent and ancient misogyny, painted in the colours of textual purism. The Rings of Power series, which dared to make Galadriel a warrior, complex, fierce and, above all, a protagonist, has become the target of the revisionist movement that calls for fidelity to the books only when it comes to men.

It's symptomatic. When we talk about bringing Celeborn into the series, we're talking about "fixing" Galadriel, it's not about deepening a relationship or enriching the world. It's about control. This cursed verb appears in whispers and between the lines of posts and videos: "Galadriel needs to be controlled", "she needs balance", "Celeborn will bring sobriety". And when they talk about balance, what they mean is: she needs to be pruned. Because an angry woman, wounded by pain, brave enough to defy Sauron himself, seems to bother more than the Dark Lord himself.

These criticisms are not innocent. They are symptomatic of a culture that only tolerates women when they are silent, when they are supporting actors, when they love and die for men — never for themselves. And that, for me, is at the heart of this disguised misogyny.

You want "canonicity" so much, but you forget the women who are part of the canon and are solemnly ignored.

Let's talk about Inzilbêth. She is the mother of Pharazôn, the man who defines the last and most tragic days of Númenor. But she's not just any mother. She is a descendant of the Faithful — of those who resist corruption. In a world where Pharazôn represents the pride and arrogance of the Númenorians, Inzilbêth could be a character of dramatic depth: a mother torn between love for her son and horror at the path he is following. She could be the voice of the past, of the ancient faith, of the warning against worshipping the Valar and Sauron himself. But she isn't even mentioned in the debates.

Erendis, Tar-Aldarion's wife, is another powerful figure who lies forgotten in the corners of the Unfinished Tales. She is an abandoned woman, scorned by a man whose nautical ambition speaks louder than any affection. Her story is a cruel mirror of what happens to many women in the stories of men: they are loved while they serve their plot, discarded when they claim their own space. And even though Erendis' timeline predates the events of The Rings of Power, she could be mentioned — as a symbol of the price Númenor has already exacted from its women. A legend told in the courts. A warning whispered on the island's street corners.

And if they really want to keep their feet in the "canon", why don't they talk about Lúthien? The woman who faced Morgoth himself. Who, together with Huan, the dog of Valinor, defeated Sauron. It's not fanfic: it's in the Silmarillion. But female figures are only remembered in fanart or in niche discussions, never clamoured for with the same force as Gil-Galad, Elendil, Isildur, Glorfindel, Anárion, Celebrimbor or even Celeborn. The logic is simple: when the past is male, it's glory. When it's female, it's forgotten myth.

And I'm not saying that the series is immune to criticism. It's far from it. It has problems with pace, the construction of certain arcs, and dialogue that sometimes sounds forced. But it's curious — or rather, revealing — that the most virulent criticism is directed at Galadriel. Not at Sauron, with his still nebulous motivations. Not the aesthetic choice of Númenor or the lack of exploration of certain cultures. Galadriel has become the scapegoat for a wounded masculinity.

The misogyny that hangs over these reviews is not just about what they say, but about what they choose not to say. I never see posts calling for more women in the series. Tolkien's world has incredible and fascinating women. They exist, they have always existed. The problem is that many of you never look at them with the same fervour as you do the warriors.

So, enough. No more pretending that this is about being faithful to the books. If it were, many of you would be asking for Inzilbêth, Erendis, Lúthien, Aredhel, Nienor, Berúthiel, Nimloth, Idril Celebrindal, Andreth, Thuringwethil. But no. You're asking Celeborn to silence Galadriel. You're asking for silence disguised as tradition. And that, my dear, is not Tolkien. That's misogyny.

It's not wrong to want to be faithful to the original material. But it's cowardly to use this as an excuse to erase female voices that were already there — in tales, appendices, half-forgotten stories. The series has a chance to do what many books, series and films have failed to do: give space to women as agents of their own history, and not just as a silent chorus for the tragedies of men.

I want female characters. May they come, with armour or without. With wisdom, pain, fury, tenderness or glory. But let them come.

I want to see Lúthien. I want to see Inzilbêth. I want to see Berúthiel. I want to see the women that Tolkien wrote about and that fandom insists on forgetting and erasing. Because, honestly, there's nothing more "canonical" than the pain, strength and light of these women.

It's time to put aside this lazy and selective reading of Tolkien. Middle-earth is too vast a world to fit only the mould of heroes in armour and beards. It has also been shaped by women — wise, brave, charming and tragic. They have names. They have a voice. They have history. And they deserve to be told and seen.

If The Rings of Power really wants to honour Middle-earth, it shouldn't bend the knee to misogynistic clamour disguised as purism. It should dig deeper, listen to the echoes of those women who are repeatedly forgotten — and let them shine through at last. Because fidelity to Tolkien's work doesn't lie in preserving the fragile masculinity of the fans. It's in recognising the complexity of what Tolkien built — including, above all, the female characters that many insist on ignoring.

And if that bothers you, perhaps the problem was never with the series.

@spatortlove @ffaleruv

[ronnykins-needshelp]

i read an unusual amount of social media fis for 3 am but hey cumplane idea:

Whenever shen yuan goes on his rants either in the comments or in forum post or hey even twitter! Shang Qinghua pulls the imfamous " You want to fuck me so bad bro it makes you look stupid " and when Shen yuan rants personally to him he doesnt respond,

and he responds with the same thing in almost every single one of Cucumbers posts.

the fandom becomes WILD.

speculation over the whole ordeal leads to shippers, which leads the the creation of the ship name " cumplane ", which leads the discord servers and forums specifically for the ship, which leads to RPF, which leads to fujoshis/fudanshis coming in to discuss the whole orodeal aswell, making PIDW even more famous.

Shen yuan unforutently founds out about this fandom a couple months after it blew up, [ entirely his fault, he ignored the shippers and called them trolls.

after he makes publiic posts fuming over this ship

" Guys first of all IM NOT GAY, I'm STRAIGHT. even IF I were gay I ould never GET GAY with the hack author who writes like a 2nd grader!! "

Peerless cucumber anlylists [ which there is a few of them ], dissect the post and called it " being delusion to himself " as his typing patterns were never this informal before.

fanart is starting to pop up and its PISSING cucumber so much. Why is he always pictured like a cat?? and Airplane is either pictured like a hamster or luo binghe/ that's illegal!! [ he has saved the fanart with luo binghe on them and has a special folder for them which he will never admit he has. ].

this goes on for awhile as that fandom becomes more popular and the fanfic community is celebrating 5k fics which is insane because this was founded a year ago.

so what dooes airplane shooting towards the sky think of this?

he thinks that fucking his biggest anti fan is a good idea

though he finds Peerless cucumbers rants quite entertaining, at times -- especially when he's struggling financially -- he wishes to shut his digital mouth up.

hes seen this from the beginning, as he is a fan of the fandom of his book.

he has seen MANY of the fics and has definetly fapped to them imagining that cucumber bro was actually there doing as the words said.

his favorite fics are him he is the top, pounding into him. which happily his fans are into the too.

he loves how the community depicts them both and absolety laughs his ass off at the airplane cucumber memes

he even took the time to buy a cumplane phone charm for his phone.

it all comes to head when the end of a promising arc is just papapa. Shang QInghua was frustrated with having to cut out most of the arc because his apartments rent had went up and by no means can afford it now unless he gets straight into the papapa.

and Shen yuan litterly ruined it for him even more.

with his rant in the comments Airplane did not infact copy-paste the same phrase but instead said,

" ok YOU CAN:BB UP show me you have the balls to actually fight me irl!! "

" Alright bet. "

and he proceeded to get dmed by cucumber the date and location, which wouldn't be a surprise bc Peerless cucumber never backs down on a bet!

the cumplane community is going bat shit crazy of this single interaction, they haven't gotten any material from the official people until now and its a breakthrough.

they did end up in a coffee shop, well at each other like a divorced couple, get kicked out of said coffee shop. shen yuan, embaressed by the fact offered to shang qinghua that they go to his apartment because " cleary, these streets arent built to handle my hate. "

which airplane would burst out luaghing and they would agree some more while driving to his place.

when inside Shen yuan and shang qinghua get into a little tussle and when yuan loses miserably because of his twink sick ass self versus the tale and muscular [ don't ask why shen yuan knows, and he's also confused by this fact ]

Shang qinghua has one arm against him as tto not crack one of his weak bones -- plus he can watch Shen Yuan squirm -- and pulls out his phone. which still have the cumplane charm on it.

when cucumber turns and accedentally see the charm he freezes, airplane wondering why he stopped struggling looks where he's looking and feezes too.

then they hate fuck about it as they tried to assert dominance in which shang qinghua won in, and he also teases him for all the cumplane fanart on his wall [ which was intentionally left there ]. in the morning with a grumpy shen yuan totally fucked out, shang qinghua takes a picture of them both and posts it with the headline;

" Guess the peerless cucumber is not so peerless anymore "

[magda-kb]

Character Analysis Of Luis Serra:

I just think someone needs to do this here on Tumblr so here we go…

Born in the remote and devoutly Catholic village of Valdelobos, Spain, Luis grew up in a reclusive, pre-industrial community that shunned modernity. The death of his mother during childbirth left him in the care of his grandfather (Man in the picture above together with Luis), a hunter whose wisdom and love shaped Luis’s early years.

From a young age, Luis displayed an insatiable curiosity and intelligence that set him apart. While his peers clung to the village’s traditions, Luis dreamed of the world beyond its mountains, finding solace in fairy tales and stories, particularly the adventures of Don Quixote. His grandfather recognized his potential, lamenting the limits imposed by their isolated life.

Later on his grandfather was attacked by a wolf and succumbed to a mysterious illness. Rumors of madness swirled, and fear gripped the superstitious villagers. The village’s chieftain, influenced by paranoia, ordered the family cabin to be burned to prevent the spread of the supposed "infection." According to the texts found throughout the game, the boy stood outside the house the whole time watching the flames, the next day he had disappeared from the village and nobody knew where the boy was.

In the modern world, Luis thrived, earning recognition as a prodigy in biology and securing a position at Umbrella Pharmaceuticals. Despite his remarkable achievements, including work on groundbreaking research, his tenure at Umbrella left him disillusioned. For example, we know that he was an employee of Project Nemesis (note to Racoon City - Nemesis T-Type).The corporation’s ethical compromises clashed with Luis’s growing moral awareness, leading to his resignation. This decision underscored a recurring theme in Luis’s character: the struggle between ambition and conscience.

Luis’s return to Valdelobos in 2004 placed him at the center of a nightmare. The village had fallen under the control of Los Iluminados, a cult manipulating the villagers’ religiosity to propagate a parasitic organism known as Las Plagas. Saddler, the cult’s leader, enlisted Luis for his scientific expertise, tasking him with enhancing the parasites. Initially compliant, Luis became horrified upon realizing Saddler’s true intentions. His guilt over his role in the cult’s atrocities drove him to seek redemption.

This is where Luis’s complexity truly shines. Torn between his past mistakes and a desire to atone, he takes enormous risks to undermine Saddler. Partnering with Ada Wong, Luis orchestrates plans to escape with the cult’s critical research sample, the Amber.

Here, too, I would like to emphasize a particular passage from the Separate Ways DLC that was already a bit of a foreshadowing of what his fate would be: Namely, during the scene in which other village members fell victim to the cult, Luis spoke of the fact that the next dance would be his… It should also be noted here that the already deceased was lying in exactly the same posture as Luis will later do… So it really was his “last dance”, so to speak (You can see it a little in the photo below, but it is clearly visible in the game itself)

Luis’s interactions with Leon S. Kennedy in the main game reveal yet another layer of his character. Despite their initial mistrust, Luis proves his worth as an ally, displaying a blend of wit, vulnerability, and a desperate need to make amends. His decision to assist Leon and Ashley, even at great personal risk, underscores his transformation from a man driven by self-interest to one guided by selflessness.

Ultimately, Luis’s arc concludes tragically yet heroically. Fatally wounded by Jack Krauser, Luis uses his final moments to ensure Leon and Ashley have the tools to fight back against Saddler. His death is not just a sacrifice but a culmination of his redemptive journey—a final act of defiance against all the things he did in the past. There is also the fact that Luis has doubts. Mainly about the things he himself has done in the past - And it is precisely these doubts that seem to characterize his last moment.

Something I would like to add: Krauser threw his knife directly into Luis’s spine. I mean clearly he aimed to kill. When a victim is stabbed in the area of the spinal cord, the spinal cord can be severed, sheared, torn, or otherwise damaged. This will result in a loss of function below the point of injury. That’s why it’s so impressive and powerful that Luis was able to muster up the last of his strength and force his hand to shoot at Krauser-hitting directly at his knife that could have killed Leon. That would now also explain why Luis can’t properly use his lighter and needed Leon to do it for him. Because after the lighter drops we can not see him move his body again…

Luis Serra is a character defined by contradictions: a brilliant scientist haunted by his complicity in unethical experiments, a dreamer shaped by the harsh realities of his upbringing, and a man who ultimately chooses redemption over survival. Something I would also like to point out is to link the whole story to Don Quixote. Because just like the self-proclaimed knight, he also had this urge of idealism throughout his life - which also led Don Quixote to make mistakes in the end and ultimately to his death... But in the end he became a hero and more or less passed on the title of knight to Leon...

[codenamesazanka]

last words

Spinner's name means "someone/something who spins". In the original Japanese, his name is just the romanization of the English word 'spinner' - 「スピナー」 (supinaa).

When characters in the manga define it, they often use 「紡ぐ者」 (tsumugumono) lit. 'a person who spins'. 「紡」 is the key character here, meaning spin, in the way one spins yarn, or spins a story.

Spinner deliberately choose this name because he wanted to 'spin' Stain's dream into reality.

Later, when he abandons following Stain to follow Shigaraki, All For One takes notes of his meaning of his name, to tell him that he'll be helping Shigaraki to 'spin' his goal [into reality]. (Viz translates this as "support Shigaraki Tomura in his crusade and do justice to your name... as one who spins this tale.")

This is appropriate, because during and since the MVA arc, Spinner has been doing everything he can to support Shigaraki's dream of destruction - to achieve their goal of 'that beautiful horizon'. Throughout the third act, Spinner's still trying to spin that dream into being.

And it is their goal - it was Shigaraki who first talked about the 'horizon' in his speech to Ujiko, the speech that affected Spinner so much he started down the path of devotion to Shigaraki; so that Spinner would be the only one out of everyone in the League to see Shigaraki's horizon in Deika (the prettiest thing he has ever seen). Somehow, Shigaraki figures this out, so that much later, when Shigaraki is preparing to decay Mt. Fuji, he dedicates this destruction to Spinner - to "build the horizon... that Spinner's been looking forward to."

But-- Shigaraki fails. Deku stops him, and Shigaraki seemingly dies. He dies without having built that horizon, without having destroying anything.

In Shigaraki's final moments, Deku tells him, "I wanted to stop you. I wanted you to stop yourself. To keep that grief and misery from spreading any further."

In Japanese, when Deku talks about this 'cycle of sadness', he says he wants it to 'stop spinning' - 「紡がれない」 (tsumugarenai). His line uses the same character meaning 'spin' as the one I talked about above - 「紡」

lit. 'so the sadness won't spin'

Shigaraki listens to Deku's words, and after a moment, says to him:

"If Spinner is alive... tell him Shigaraki Tomura fought to destroy to the bitter end."

I thought before and still think it's Shigaraki leaving some words of comfort for Spinner. He failed to destroy everything, failed to succeed in reaching his goal (which is Spinner's goal, because it's Shigaraki's goal, because it's the goal Shigaraki made for the League); but he did try his hardest. He died trying to achieve their horizon, because until the very end, he was keeping their promise as best as he could.

Maybe, it's also: don't worry about the failure; all the way until the end of his life, Shigaraki Tomura got to chase after his dream, their dream.

Maybe even, when taking all of the context from above and putting it into these last words of Shigaraki's: but it's stopped. Thus, Spinner doesn't have to spin for him anymore. The sadness has stopped spinning. Maybe: If Spinner stops on his own, Heroes won't have to stop him. If he's still alive, he can stay alive.

And see, the Shigaraki that says these words is the 'same' Shigaraki as the one in Spinner's memories of the two of them talking about games together. You can tell by the visuals:

In the panel right before Shigaraki tells Deku to deliver a message, the lock of hair on Shigaraki's face falls below his nose; and the locks of hair that frames his face falls below his chin.

But in the panel where he gives those very last words, he's wearing a black shirt. His lock of hair on his face does not reach past his nose. The locks of hair framing his face ends at the level of his mouth.

So this is the Shigaraki from Spinner's memories of them being just two gamers. This is the moment they weren't Villains or boss and subordinate; they were just two guys, close in age, (getting along better than Spinner thought, bonding over games and stuff), being friends.

Shigaraki is giving his last words as Spinner's friend; and they are to tell him, i kept our promise. i chased our dream.

[antiquepearlss]

Something that’s really cool about the Varian And The Seven Kingdoms Mini-Series that plays in my head occasionally, is how the writers treat Varian’s villain arc.

It’s something he keeps hidden. Because while yes, his past is something he’s made peace with, and is even something he can joke about with his friends. But it’s one thing to joke about something with your friends who see you as an equal, to joke about it with people who were there and affected.

But it’s almost impossible to bring up around people you’re supposed to be leading, around people who you recently met. He’s trying to earn the trust of Yong, Nuru, and Hugo. He needs to earn their respect so they trust him to lead them through the trials, not to mention the fact that Nuru and Yong are both children.

So instead of Varian ever mentioning his past- a fabled man named “The Alchemist” is brought up. Yong hears about him at the market, and asks about him at the camp fire, where Nuru regales him with the tale of The Alchemist who tried to take over Corona- the ruthless scientist who took the queen hostage, experimented on animals, and tried to kill the princess. As she goes on, she gives Yong a story that is clearly filled with exaggerations and lies, scaring him. This only furthers Varian’s desire to keep quiet about everything. Throughout the series The Alchemist is brought up again, always in a negative light. Varian always shuts down any conversation about the mythical being.

And Hugo gets suspicious.

On their way to Corona, the episode before the two-part finale, they’re walking through the woods and find Varian’s old wanted poster, and he confesses to everything.

Nuru and Yong are understandably upset and set up their tents elsewhere- having no desire to be around the person who lied to them all year, even if they understand his side of the story. It’s still a hurtful betrayal to learn that someone isn’t who you thought they were…

But Hugo stays. Hugo put it together long ago, and even if he didn’t, he knows that sometimes a part of yourself is best kept hidden- or a part of yourself shouldn’t be revealed until you’re ready. He consoles Varian, confirms he still trusts him, and assures him that Nuru and Yong will eventually forgive him too. Varian is incredibly moved by the support and affection.

The two even almost share a kiss, before they notice a blue lantern float towards them. Like one of Rapunzel’s birthday lanterns- but blue and being powered by chemical vials, with The Brotherhood’s emblem stamped on. (The fact that Rapunzel sent birthday lanterns for Varian to lead him back home from his journey made me tear up a little.)

Idk I just thought that was a really sweet way the writers handled that storyline and I love the special moment between Varian and Hugo that foreshadows the finale…

[melrosing]

The bond develops while Jaime is still emotionally attached to his sister Cersei (with whom he has a toxic incestuous relationship), making his relationship with Brienne emotionally unstable.Jaime spends a lot of time insulting and belittling Brienne, calling her a "wench," making fun of her appearance, etc. Their relationship improves, but this development may be seen as too abrupt for some readers, or dependent on a "redemption arc" that is not fully completed.

Jaime begins to see Brienne as a figure of purity and honor, which may become a projection of his own desires for redemption, rather than an equal love. He may not be falling in love with Brienne herself, but with what she represents to him.Brienne is often seen as the person who saves Jaime from himself, but the reverse is less true.This creates a "female redeemer" dynamic: she helps him become a better person, but what does she get in return?

Brienne seems to develop sincere and deepfeelings, while Jaime remains haunted by Cersei, even in A Feast for Crows. He defends her, still thinks of her as "his other half." This triangle makes the bond with Brienne more emotionally ambiguous, even frustrating.Jaime Lannister was born in 262 AC (35 years) and Briennewas born around 280 AC (19 years). So 15 years apart, Jaime is an experienced knight, a former member of the king, with decades of political, military and emotional experience behind him.

Brienne, despite her strength and nobility, is very emotionally naive. She has never been loved, neither romantically nor respected as a woman. She still lives by chivalric tales. So Jaime has the power to charm, manipulate or project onto her, while she, lacking love and esteem, could accept what he gives her even if it is not healthy.

i'll be real this was a weird thing to find in my inbox like there's no preamble you just paste a school-style essay straight in there man. it doesn't even read like you're anticipating a reply lmao but whatever you're getting one

The bond develops while Jaime is still emotionally attached to his sister Cersei (with whom he has a toxic incestuous relationship),making his relationship with Brienne emotionally unstable

yeah so the last we saw Jaime he'd literally abandoned Cersei to her fate at the hands of the Faith and wandered off into the woods with Brienne in full knowledge that he may well meet his own there. he is not emotionally attached to Cersei in anything like the capacity he once was, back when he thought they were fated to die together. and as i've said a hundred times - Jaime is going fully off the grid: if anything were to happen to Cersei, he wouldn't know about it. again: he might die out there. and neither of them would ever know what happened to the other. this is actually a more definitive detachment than I think many people think Jaime is capable of, despite the fact that it has already happened.

also thanks for letting me know Jaime and Cersei have a toxic incestuous relationship I wouldn't have known otherwise

Jaime spends a lot of time insulting and belittling Brienne, calling her a "wench," making fun of her appearance, etc. Their relationship improves, but this development may be seen as too abrupt for some readers, or dependent on a "redemption arc" that is not fully completed.

if the change in Jaime and Brienne's relationship was 'too abrupt' for you..... well I'm afraid that sounds like a you problem my friend. if you honestly hold that critique of GRRM's writing then by all means write him an email, but that doesn't actually change the fact that Jaime and Brienne's relationship has transformed.

and also 'dependent on a redemption arc that is not fully completed' - what do you even mean? Jaime and Brienne's relationship isn't predicated on Jaime 'achieving redemption', whatever that ultimately looks like on your mind. it is based on their changing feelings for one another, which are based in turn on the actions each have already taken, i.e. Jaime defending Brienne, Brienne defending Jaime.

the problem with these kinds of arguments against JB is that they come down to people who don't believe in Jaime's redemption story, and that has fundamentally broken their entire conception of his narrative as a whole, which is one about change and growth. if Jaime is ultimately moving backwards in their minds - then all the ways that he's clearly projected to move forwards in the story, such as in his romance with Brienne & his parting with Cersei, simply do not apply, because they cannot conceive of him as a forward-moving character. he is a static character to them, who cannot grow or change or really do anything except disappoint.

that's how you get these bizarre arguments that if Jaime is not moving forward in one way (redemption) then he cannot move forward in another (his romance with Brienne) because he is ultimately doomed to end up where he started in most every respect. they cannot explain what the point of this story would be, why a writer like GRRM would consider it worth telling, and there's no substance to their arguments for it: they just refuse everything that the text presents them with.

Jaime begins to see Brienne as a figure of purity and honor, which may become a projection of his own desires for redemption, rather than an equal love. He may not be falling in love with Brienne herself, but with what she represents to him.

this is pure projection. this idea of Jaime seeing Brienne as something 'pure' is vastly overstated: he describes her as 'innocent' once or twice, but this is plainly not something he finds worthy of admiration - he doesn't try to protect her from harsh truths and in fact knows that she can ultimately take them when confronted. in fact, part of the point of her relationship with Jaime is Brienne losing that naïveté she starts with - she begins to see the world in a more complex way, which is a major part of her character growth. this 'purity' thing isn't here to humour Jaime, it's something for Brienne to grow beyond.

as for Jaime seeing Brienne as honourable, I really don't know why people keep insisting that that means he sees her as a mirror. it's just the shallowest possible reading. Jaime admires Brienne and is inspired by her: this is not synonymous with seeing another person as oneself. Jaime actually has a strong sense of Brienne's character as apart from his - he can anticipate her reactions to things and how they might vary from his own, he's empathetic to experiences of hers (such as with Ronnet) that he could never personally understand. reducing Jaime's admiration and affection for Brienne to 'projection' is an insult to Brienne, presented as a critique of Jaime.

because you cannot understand how Jaime has fallen in love with Brienne, you assume that he hasn't, and that in reality he's in love with some version of himself. you describe the idea of someone loving a person that they admire and are inspired by as somehow narcissistic, rather than the basis of a great love and affection for who that character truly is.

Brienne is often seen as the person who saves Jaime from himself, but the reverse is less true.This creates a "female redeemer" dynamic: she helps him become a better person, but what does she get in return?

here's a short list of some of the things Brienne 'gets out of' her relationship with Jaime:

Jaime puts himself between Brienne and a literal bear, demonstrating that he is willing to die for her

Jaime puts himself on the line several times to defend Brienne against assault from the bloody mummers

Jaime defends Brienne's honour to Loras Tyrell and protects her from his attack, enabling a dialogue between the two that helps them both heal somewhat as to what happened to Renly

Jaime demonstrates full confidence in Brienne by giving her a priceless sword and a quest, which plainly means an enormous amount to Brienne, who has felt like a failure following the Stark girls' disappearance

Jaime strikes Ronnet for the wrong he did Brienne, pretty much the first time we've seen anyone earnestly defend her against the insults she's received all her life

Brienne is accustomed to serving others, always giving and never receiving in turn. she's willing to die for them, but noone is willing to die for Brienne. she is used to taking insults because nobody ever defends her against them. Brienne doubts herself and her place among heroes, never believing herself good enough. Brienne does not believe she will ever be loved as she loves.

through Jaime, Brienne finds someone who is willing to defend her, willing to die for her, places their full confidence in her, believes her to be a hero, and loves her precisely for who she is. Brienne finally gets back what she gives. that is what Brienne gets out of it!

also, Brienne does not help Jaime become a better person. she literally just exists, and Jaime is inspired to change. that's it. it isn't like the show, where Brienne has to remind Jaime to do the right thing: Jaime meets Brienne, and then makes the better choices for himself. again, these kinds of arguments undermine Brienne in their efforts to dismantle JB's relationship - they do not lift her up.

Brienne seems to develop sincere and deepfeelings, while Jaime remains haunted by Cersei, even in A Feast for Crows. He defends her, still thinks of her as "his other half."

Jaime actually never thinks of Cersei as his other half (though she thinks that of him). he hasn't described her as anything resembling that since basically midway through ASOS. as we've mentioned: Jaime is a dynamic character who can change!

Jaime Lannister was born in 262 AC (35 years) and Briennewas born around 280 AC (19 years). So 15 years apart

Jaime was born in 266AC actually...... also do you know what the difference is between 262 and 280?? im gonna lend you a hand. it's not 15

So 15 years apart, Jaime is an experienced knight, a former member of the king, with decades of political, military and emotional experience behind him.

Brienne is not a child, she is an adult woman with a strong basis of trust with Jaime. if you want to be bothered by the (14 years actually) age gap between two adults then go ahead but you'll have to bear in mind that that is your problem, not a problem with the relationship itself.

Brienne, despite her strength and nobility, is very emotionally naive. She has never been loved, neither romantically nor respected as a woman. She still lives by chivalric tales. So Jaime has the power to charm, manipulate or project onto her, while she, lacking love and esteem, could accept what he gives her even if it is not healthy.

i'm sorry but do you even like Brienne? because what I really get from this is that Brienne is too naïve, too inexperienced to be loved. she has no judge of character, her entire relationship with Jaime is based on nothing but her own foolish delusions. you think it's more narratively fitting that Jaime, who has never sought to manipulate Brienne, suddenly decides to make her a complete fool and humiliate her by treating her as fodder for his 'failed redemption' or whatever it is you imagine for him. and you think she'd just take it because she's so hopeless and naïve. and you think that's what GRRM's writing. that's his message. Brienne might think she's in love with Jaime, but she's just a lovesick fool who doesn't know what's best for her.

I really don't know how anyone convinces themselves this is the feminist reading of Jaime and Brienne's relationship. it's so nasty and for what?? is that what you want for Brienne? do you think that's a meaningful way to end her story? or is it really just that you don't care about Brienne, and she's just collateral damage in your nihilistic view of Jaime's arc, which cannot progress because you don't want it to. you do not actually care how her story goes, so long as Jaime's crashes and burns in the way you're hoping for. and that's your take.

Jaime and Brienne are GRRM's Beauty and the Beast. BATB is a story about redemption, and about growing together and learning to love despite initial misconceptions. it's a romance, and it never ends with Beauty tricking and humiliating the Beast. if it did, it wouldn't be BATB, because that kind of ending scorns every sentiment that makes BATB the timeless tale that it is. so to some greater or lesser extent, we do know what GRRM intends for Jaime and Brienne, and you're only going to end up looking daft with these contrarian arguments that take absolutely everything in the worst possible faith.

[saphig-iawn]

Bondage in Brushstrokes

One of the things I can provide is what I call a narrative hypnosis session. Its a longer trance in which I weave a story in your ears that begins to feel very real.

My subject today wanted one such session and we settled on a wonderfully transformative idea: sealing her inside a painting.

After some gentle fractionation, lulling her up and down, she settled deeply on my lap ready for a little tale.

She's stood before a grand wooden door, the brass of the doorknob warm from the sun in her hand. She felt a knot of nervousness as she turned it, even though the letter I sent her said that she was to just come in with no need to knock.

A wide and bright hallway greeted her, natural light spilling in from every window. The floor was clean and polished white tiles with smaller black tiles nestling at the intersections. A curved staircase winded up and out of sight. The walls were clad in a vibrant dahlia scroll with painted wood panelling at the bottom.

"Come on through, my doll!" my voice calls from the beyond the kitchen at the end of the hallway.

Her shoes echo in the hall as she moves through, and a rustic well-loved kitchen greets her. The smell of fresh baked bread fills her nose, almost lifting her up as if it was a cartoon. There was a wonderful spread of cheeses, fruits, pastries, and meats on the island.

"We'll tuck into that later, my doll, come come." Her fingers snap away from the roll of salami she was about to snack on.

She rounded the door and found herself in a tall domed conservatory. Glass and white painted metal arced above her. It felt like an exhibit at a World's Fair at the turn of the century. Deep verdant plants lined one side, massive monstera leaves bathed in the sun.

I stood up from my stool, wearing green overalls already splashed with paint, a soft, loose blouse underneath it, with a green bandana keeping my dark auburn hair away from my face.

"We're going to have a lot of fun, my doll."

SNAP

Her eyes widened as she began to strip. Her hands worked at the buttons of her dress automatically. She wondered when I wove this spell into her, but before she could finish that thought her clothes were pooled at her feet.

"Good doll, now for the finishing touch, kneel-"

She was knelt. Like she always had been. Her breath caught in her throat as she felt a ribbon grace the back of her neck. Cool and smooth on her skin, she felt it be brought to the front and tied into a bow. I held her chin with my finger and thumb.

"Perfect. Now pose for me darling." She feels her head moved by my finger and thumb and she sees a green chaise lounge. She feels herself walk over to it and recline. The green velvet is smooth to the touch, no matter which way her skin moved over it.

I move to a table behind her, take a hardback book from it and put it in her hand.

"Flick through the pages, see which one feels right to land on. You'll be looking at it for a while" I giggled.

She pressed her thumb in the side of the book and let the pages rustle past. Just before halfway she stops and looks at the page and felt a touch confused. The page was filled with one sentence over and over and over.

"I'm a good doll"

Confused, she goes to say something but finds no words leave her lips. Her eyes widen once more and tried to turn and look at me but her head will not move.

"It always takes you by surprise, doesn't it? But you're a doll, being still is what you're made for."

A warmth blossomed in her chest as those words entered her mind, and she began to embrace the stillness I had woven into her from the first time we had a session.

"You see, my doll, I had everything painted already, I was just missing my subject..."

I trailed off as I began to paint, the sound of the bristles on canvas tickled the air as I began my work painting her feet.

She then began to feel strange. No- not strange... different. Like her feet were being compressed, wrapped in tight bandages.

She was unable to say a thing.

Then the feeling rose, her calves, then thighs, like they were being tightly wrapped and encased.

"You have such pretty legs my doll" I mused, bringing deep blue shadow onto the chaise lounge where her legs rested.

Now she began to feel strange. Like the chaise lounge was pulling her in, like it was being flattened out wrapped around her, the velvet caressing her skin.

But still the feeling rose, a tight encasement creeping up her still form.

She wondered if her eyes had been open too long because the text of the book was becoming so blurry, but then she realised that her eyes were fine. The book had changed. The words now nothing more than close approximations, scattered marks of paint across the page.

But even then, when her eyes drank the facsimiles in, she felt their meaning deep in her body.

I'm a good doll

Soon the feeling was up her arms, her hands seemingly part of the book she was holding. Soon her chest and shoulders became part of her surroundings.

Then she felt the bristles of my brush across her lips.

A single stroke sealed them shut.

She wanted to bite her lip, to moan, to tell me how good she was feeling, but those feelings melted away when I dabbed my brush on the canvas for the last time.

A wave pleasure washed over her from head to toe. Every part of her sang with pleasure her total bondage was complete.

"Now where do I put you..." I wondered aloud.

Like a soft jolt on a car ride while she was happily asleep, she felt a shift as I took her off my easel. Confusion rippled in her painted mind.

She oblivious to the fact that the chaise lounge was now empty.

That the book was gone.

That was she was now nothing but paint on my canvas, encased and sealed.

Everything clicked as she felt an impossible warmth on her cheek. It was like resting her face on a loved one in a cuddle. The warmth moved down her body, across her breasts, down her arms, over her sensitive areas, and down her legs.

She felt so good beneath my fingertip.

"Now... I could put you in the living room, let all the dolls enjoy you knowing you're bound in there. Or I could put you in the bedroom, deliciously restrained from joining in the fun. Or maybe the kitchen so you could watch the dolls go about their day in their cute maid dresses."

I brushed my finger over her sensitive area.

Her whole body pulsed with pleasure. Every part of her connected in her bondage; the perfect conductor for pleasure.

I continue caressing the canvas, knowing the pressure is building in her. That delicious ache growing with every passing second.

She needed to scream. She needed to buck and rut and bite and dig her nails in. But my brushstrokes kept her still, the pleasure building even more.

But the rubbing wasn't stopping, and the pressure kept building, and the climax was coming, and the rubbing wasn't stopping, and the pressure kept building, and the climax was coming, and the climax was coming, and the climax was coming, and the climax was coming!

Her mind flooded with pleasure as she climax. Her painted bondage holding her still as the pleasure stormed across her. There was no part of her that wasn't lost in pleasure.

Her bonds cradled her as the afterglow settled in, easing her muscles, soothing her body, slowing her breath.

"I think I'll put you in the bedroom."

[anika-ann]

Walking Back Into My Own Myth - A.B.

Type: long one-shot, significantly AU, supernatural elements

Pairing: sorcerer!Andy Barber x reader   Word Count: 22,2k (🥹)

Summary: They warn you not to wander the woods alone; but the woods feel more like home than the house you grew up in. They warn you not to confuse your head with childish tales of supernatural; but sometimes fiction feels more real than your own life. They warn you not stay alone with a man you just met, let alone in his house; but sometimes danger lurks in unexpected places. Sometimes, one can rely on the kindness of strangers. ... Or can they?

Warnings: soft dark, NSFW, 18+, smut (unprotected sex, oral, fingering); softdark but rather soft I think (come on, it’s me, also sort-of redemption arc?), dubcon, sex pollen and non-consensual ‘drug’ use, orgasm control, allusions to praise kink, possessiveness; supernatural elements, near drowning, mention of a dead animal, arseholes relatives, allusions to mostly emotional (past) abuse, minor injury and blood, language and SO MANY words and so much smut; 'little bird' as a term of endearment

A/N: Alright. First of all, this is one of rare occurrences of me writing softdark, so be warned. Second, this story is a callback to a perfectly innocent lovely event by @yenzys-lucky-charm back in autumn, specifically to this post. And third, I do realize that 22k fic is a massacre. I believe it flows best when read as a one-shot, but if you are understandably intimidated by that, there is a heart divider approx. in the middle where I feel taking a break is most suitable. At your convenience. Enjoy 💕 A/N 2:Dividers by @saradika-graphics 

The frozen leaves were crunching under your boots, a soothing sound between your harsh breaths and huffs and occasional curses interrupting the otherwise peaceful song of the woods; rustle of the glazed grass, soft creaks of the branches bowing to the wind, a barely audible clinks of sharp snowflakes having created a beautiful harmony.

A harmony much needed after you had just left the utter chaos of a family gathering which, as usual, ended up in drowning the holidays in a cesspool of negativity. And as it often did, the negativity seemed to revolve around you.

You didn’t know what you had been thinking, coming here. You had a life outside of this small town, a mostly good one too; you had no reason to visit your hometown whatsoever, year after year, naively hoping for a change. But family was family, your mother always said; one did not turn back to their own blood, even if they had become the almighty big city girl.

As if. As if you were that.

The said big city was now finally feeling at peace as she had walked out of the door, having had her fill of lousy loud human beings, turning to the quiet of nature instead.

The one place where you all truly came from.

The one place that loved you no matter what.

The one place where you had never been and never would be judged.

You had always been drawn to woods, even as a little girl.

To the quiet place to hide from the overwhelmingly loud world, from boys pulling your hair until your eyes watered for their fun, from other girls cutting it for the very same reason, from teachers waving it off with kids can be a bit cruel, so what?

Of course you kept escaping. The embodiment of the cliché of a small town since young age; the designated weirdo. The one who’d rather ran through the woods than the few streets and newly built clothes store; the one who was more interested in fairytales and myths than videogames; the one fascinated by pagan tales from the old continent and local legends than the Bible. The very definition of pariah; side-eyed by peers, looked at through fingers by the adults and elderly. No matter how much you had moved towards normalcy to be approved of during the years, the small-town folk, as always had put the label on you having used the special kind of glue they were experts at making. It stuck.

And so did your love for the woods.

Hikes became your hobby, the woods your only solace. The safest place on Earth; for which many gave you strange looks still, more so since you had moved to a big city that offered but a daily walk in a minuscule patch of greenery.

Naturally, parks weren’t the same as here; here, in the woods, you felt like you could finally breathe.

The only reason why you had chosen the city was your job; your job and the visceral need to leave the very people you had just left in the house far behind. The city was but a jungle of steel and glass and concrete, constant noise and raging sea of people crushing your soul; but if there was one thing you hated more than the suffocating atmosphere of a city, it was the small-town gossip and narrowmindedness. 

You only came back to your hometown once a year, for Holidays. And every year, you regretted it.

The constant jabs from your family, about your job, your tiny apartment you finally moved into after years of having to cohabitate with various unique personalities; about your hair and make-up, about your weight, wrong no matter which side of the scale it leaned to. The never-ending biting remarks about being unable to keep a man. And all that, followed by offended comments that you couldn’t take a little teasing.

Mocking was the right word. Goddamn bullying.

So no, you could not take a joke like that; especially when they were twenty in a row.

And you had tried, you truly had. You nodded and chuckled and complimented and helped around the house, but nothing was ever done right. And you suffered the mocking, because in the end, those people were your family and family loved each other and maybe you were indeed a little too sensitive. So you kept trying, year by year. You had been to Sunday school as a kid, despite despising it, really – so for Holidays, you joined everyone in their prayers, coming to midnight mass, participating in traditions. Like a good girl; like a good daughter.

You accepted the family hypocrisy too and participated in that silly and very much non-Christian tradition of theirs, of all single family members throwing apple peels into water to reveal the first letter of their future spouse’s name; every year, despite the game being rigged, an utter nonsense, if for nothing else then for the fact that everyone ended up with an O or C or U, because, well, that was what apple peels looked like. Ironically, all your siblings and cousins had actually married someone whose name started with the very letter they had received in their ‘prophecy’, a little too self-fulfilling for your taste; but you congratulated them anyway and kept throwing the apple peels in too.

And you did it wrong, again; a scandal. This year, your apple peel curled mysteriously enough to a create a form resembling a cursive A, the first in family history. You always had to have something extra, didn’t you? God.

You loved your family; you did. You told yourself you did, because no one was perfect and unconditional love was bull. But you had never felt so completely alone and unloved as when you were with them.

You wondered why that was; and the answer was clearer than the skies on a freezing December night. The tears that stung in your eyes had little to do with the wind growing icier and sharper; it had everything to do with clearly being an unlovable person.

If you never came back from your walk, they probably wouldn’t even notice. Not until they felt like humiliating someone, again, and suddenly realized their favourite target was missing. Who would be their next victim? Probably you. The joy of talking about someone behind their back was a great substitute to laughing to their face, you supposed.

You scoffed and sniffed, shaking your head as you resumed walking. The short trail you had set off to – slightly underdressed, you had to admit – looked different than usual this time of year. Indeed, only the frozen over, crunchy leaves instead of snow; not even winters were what they used to be. You should have never come back.

As the falling snow finally seemed to stick, rather pieces of messy ice than soft snowflakes, you made the executive decision to stay away from your relatives and this town next year.

This year would be last they ever they’d ever see you.

Arriving to the clearing among the trees brought a genuine smile to your lips, the first one in two days. The sight of the lake – too small to become a favourite destination of families during summer heatwave, hugged from afar by tall white birch trees and caressed by long leaves of grass and reeds with a single old willow tree offering a sanctuary to a little girl wishing to enter other worlds through reading – moved something deep within your chest. A memory of peace, nostalgic longing for days when life had been easier – but it hadn’t.

You gulped, letting you heart lead your steps. Pulling out hands from your pockets, your fingertips grazed over the white bark, flexing gently as if to grasp the harmony of the old days where escaping the judging looks by getting lost in old myths still appeared like a plausible solution to all problems. Brushing over the thin branches of the willow tree, you could almost feel the summer breeze toying with the leaves, protecting your ears from the echo of scoffs and cries. Stupid fairytales! Pick a real book for God’s sake at least! Learn the Scripture instead! Blasphemy! Fables for silly children! You’re messing and confusing your head with those childish fantasies!

One corner of your lips rose higher, a memory of just how much fonder you grew of the stories with every speck of dirt people threw at them. Folklore, was the right word. Old wives’ tales. Legends. A touch of magic from times when people still believed in it and wrote their faith into traditions that could be sacred and bloody all at once. How was that different from drinking the blood and eating the body of Christ?

The hypocrisy of a small town.

You too, were a bit of a hypocrite, you assumed; you badmouthed the apple peel tradition, only to dive with fascination into myths and traditions of another; but those, those were yours to explore, yours to cherish. Not pushed at you.

You remembered sitting in the willow’s shade, much smaller at the time, reading with batted breath the stories of crime and punishment for toying with forces beyond human compression, with life and death. A series of stories passed by word of mouth, gathered and weaved into simple poems; a tale of two sisters walking in the death of a night on Christmas Day to a frozen lake, wishing to glimpse their future in the water surface. You recalled the moral of this particular story too; it was better not to know; in the story, one of them learned about her upcoming marriage, the other about her own death. Was it truly something one wanted to know…?

Perhaps there was morbidity to it, but it used to fascinate you; the mystics of it all, the morals, the question of what if you had that chance. What would you do? Would you, too, be seduced by a mirage of your dead beloved to walk to your near demise? Would you give in to the temptation of riches at expense of a life? Would you risk gods’ punishment for wishing to know what only gods were meant to know, your future?

Would you?

With a bitter chuckle, you crouched by the lake, fingers carefully caressing over the thinnest layer of transparent ice.

Years and years ago, even a month ago, you would say it was not worth it to tempt fate. It was better not to know, to be content with what one had at any given moment, to only keep on hoping for a happy ending rather than to learn about an inevitable tragedy; such was the message of the old tale, sticking with you firmly your whole life. 

Then, two weeks ago, your cheating dick of a boyfriend – ex-boyfriend, naturally – graciously gifted you a broken heart as an early Christmas gift on top of everything else barely kept together with your weak hands.

Would you like a glimpse of the future, a speckle of hope, looking at you from the water surface? Yeah. Hell, you might jump into the ice-cold lake if it meant someone would tell you everything was going to be okay.

A shiver ran down your spine as a gust of cold wind blew, weaving snowflakes into your hair; a prompt and a warning, you would have thought several years ago, a childlike faith in the supernatural.

But there was no supernatural. Oh no, humans managed to punish themselves and each other just fine on their own, sometimes without a crime preceding it.

With another chuckle – because what was the worst thing that could happen? You’d see your own face staring back? – you pressed against the thin layer of ice, surprised by its firmness.

“What the-“

You leaned into it further, pushing harder, more bewildered by the resistance than anything; a distant sound of a creaking wood reached your ears, the wind playing in the branches.

An echo of a voice.

A soundless whisper of your name.

Your head snapped to the direction of the almost haunting voice, nothing but the clearing and the woods surrounding you.

“I’m losing my mind…” you muttered under your breath, sighing, turning back and pressing against the ice once more.

The sudden loud crack took you by surprise, your feet slipping as you retreated your hand too quickly, losing your balance.

The next thing you knew, a scream was dying in your throat as you gulped for air, the freezing water gripping you neck to toe, your suddenly heavy limbs feeling like having to move through thousands shards of glass.

Your body spasmed painfully at the brutal temperature drop, even your lungs burning from the seemingly colder air.

Your heart thundered in panic, beats so wild the poor muscle might actually burst or simply give out, your temples pulsing with its frantic echo. Your vision blurred with black blending into all the white surrounding you.

This was what encounter with death looked like; ice-cold, sharp, pale and hopeless.

You were going to die and your heavily flailing limps barely keeping your head above water would not be enough to save you. You were going to drown. A bastard child of a sob and desperate gasp for air tore from your lungs, the ice cutting through your skin and flesh.

Then, the haunting call of your name again, closer, warmer.

Come to me.

I need you.

Fight.

You hungrily bit for more air, your head spinning, the voice growing louder with every word, urgent, but soothing all the same, like a helping hand extended.

Don’t you give up.

Come find me.

It might have been God; might have been the spirits of the woods. Most likely, it was the shock making you hear imaginary voices.

Your fists clenched despite feeling like your knuckles were being grazed by razors, a deep cut not drawing blood but making it turn into ice instead. Still; you pushed against the water, feet kicking madly, the tears springing from your eyes as burning as lava in comparison to your skin.

Another kick. Push. Arms so heavy, and so, so cold, thousands of knives piercing your flesh, tearing a desperate raw cry from depth of your lungs.

You squeezed your eyes shut and screamed again, pushing with all your remaining might, throwing your arms around.

Solid surface. Crunchy leaves. Your dug your numb fingers into the stiff ground, grabbing nothing but dirt but pulling and kicking out at the same time anyway.

A minuscule motion; your chin, your neck, on the solid ground. Not thick ice – earth. The woods. Your best friend.

A pathetic cry of laughter burst from your ribcage, shaking violently as you forced your muscles – not even feeling like your own anymore – to keep pulling. To keep kicking out, an absurd imagery of your ex’s face being behind your feet causing you to choke out a brief bark of laughter again and pull. And again and again, your shoulders, torso, legs, sagging against the frozen land.

Your body shook beyond your control as you tried to roll over, your boots making a pathetic splashy sound that barely reached your ears over the pounding in your head. Your chest was expanding and deflating rapidly as you laid on your back, slow blinks against the still falling snow and the sight of grey skies. Every single cell in your body screamed in pain, every motion like a fresh stab wound, but you couldn’t stop; you couldn’t stop shaking.

Whatever survival instinct you had took over as your hands pushed pathetically by your lower back so you could sit up and then scramble to your feet.

The process of standing up seem to last an eternity and half, the temperature dropping further; and when you did stumble to your feet, standing on legs that bent to the wind almost as much as the leafless branches, you nearly toppled over and fell head first back into the lake, your vision blurring.

Whether the water surface would show your future was the furthest thing from your mind; it was just the cold. Brutal, deadly cold. That and warmth.

That, and the strange kind voice, perhaps your very own guardian angel who seemed to love you, the only being in this goddamn universe, whispering in your ears.

Come, my love.

Keep walking.

And you did. Dry sobs erupting from your throat, boots practically freezing to the ground in between every step, exhaustion and the unforgiving cold etched into the very fibre of your being, you dragged one foot along the other, step by step, the miniature distance walked mocking you harder than all your relatives combined.

But it wasn’t their voices you heard; this one was sweet. Like a hot chocolate with whipped cream and pinch of winter spices on top, warming your frozen bones; like what you imagined a hug by a fireplace felt like, a kiss to your temple with affection without pretence. Like gentle palms cradling your face before his lips touched yours, tasting like true love; like a burning touch to your bare skin, dragged so softly, teasingly, before finally giving you what you desired.

Come to me.

I’ll keep you warm.

Keep you safe.

Dark spots danced in your vision, making you dizzy, your heavy eyelids slipping shut; your knees, quaking so hard they could no longer carry you, buckled and sent you plummeting.

Your palms met a rough surface as you flailed your arms out, barely caught against the bark of a tree, scraping your skin enough to draw blood. Your eyes snapped open, another ragged sob tearing from your achy throat.

And that was when your vision cleared despite the blur of tears.

A light.

A cabin. A small house; a cottage? Who the fuck cared.

It was an occupied house; warm light spilling from one of the windows, smoke coming out of the chimney, a promise of everything your body desperately cried for. Almost feeling its warmth radiating all the way to your numb fingertips, you gritted your teeth, strength you never thought you possessed poured straight into your veins, having already almost frozen over.

In the very back of your hazy mind, it occurred to you that you had never seen the house despite your numerous hikes; then again, you had no idea where you had walked, left being right and right being left, the only one certain direction being forward.

Again, who the fuck cared. You had never seen a cozier place in your lifetime; a lifetime that was soon going to end should you not will your useless legs to keep moving forward.

Reaching the porch staircase, you grabbed onto the beautiful wooden railing for balance, propping up to make the step.

And missing it.

You sagged against the railing, barely catching yourself before hitting your head. You propped back up, forcing your leg to rise higher, one step, two steps; the one remaining as tall as the Everest.

You sobbed again, lamenting the absence of the warm honey-like voice. Where was it now, huh? You were so close and needed another nudge, another-

The door of the house opened cautiously, revealing an outline of a figure, inviting light spilling around him; a tall, broad man, his face, the most handsome features you had ever set your eyes on, twisted in a frown and a flicker of horror.

For a beat of motionless silence, it flashed through your slippery mind who of the two of you appeared more frozen in the absurd scene; another beat, light and delicious warmth pouring from inside the house, like an oasis in the middle of a Siberian dessert.

And then he was moving, without a word, only sucking in a horrified breath as his hands slid under your arms and lifted your near deadweight with little effort, helping you not only to overcome the last step, but also the endless distance from the stairs into the doorway.

The interior was warm enough to make angels weep, enveloping you like a loving hug; but his touch felt like a central heating poured into your veins, his grip firm and certain despite the ice patterns having grown on your clothes surely cutting into his skin. Perhaps all alarm bells in your head should be ringing as he kicked the door shut behind you, leaving you alone in the middle of godknowswhere in a stranger’s house, a stranger who was now leaning you against the wall as your legs gave out at last and fought with the zipper of your coat no less, but they didn’t.

No alarm bells; all you heard was his gentle whisper.

“Let’s get you out of these.”

Zipper torn away, hands sliding under the fabric to peel it off of your violently shaking body, your teeth kept clattering.

“I’ll get you warm in no time.”

Your sweatshirt next. Your boots. Your socks; a cry of pain escaped your bluish lips, his warm hands gently enveloping your foot to allow you bask in his warmth.

“I’m sorry, I have to do this. We need to get all these off.”

Your shirt followed.

Your body, as if on instinct, moved slowly but willingly in tandem with him, small motions to aid him rid you of the cold until it didn’t.

You could feel the change of temperature bite into your icy wet skin, a lick of sharp pain; an instinct led you to reach out back for your clothes to fight the once again brutal change.

He grasped your hands, easily gathering your wrists in one palm, a gentle but uncompromising grip.

“No--- no! Look at me. Can you hear me?” he asked.

The squeeze on your wrists and the direct question finally pushed you from mindless haze to blurry reality.

It dawned to you that yes, climbing back into cold soggy clothes would not help.

Jaw quivering, teeth still clattering, you nodded, not trusting yourself to speak, only following his order. And oh, were you looking, the reality creeping in slowly, but gaining sharp edges just as a brief smile passed his lips.

“Good.”

That he was. Good.

And incredibly handsome.

Not but a few years older than you, dark well-trimmed beard complimenting his sharply cut features, elegant nose girls must have swooned over as much as over the surprisingly warm blue of his eyes and his slightly messy hair combed up in a way that called for your fingers to run through it. His shoulders and arms, while not enormous, gave impression of being able to carry you without too much issue, lean waist and long legs with muscular thighs making him look like some sort of a fever dream of yours; or in this case, a brain-freeze dream.

“I’m going to pick you up and carry you to the bathroom, alright? I’ll start a bath for you,” he explained, his hands already sliding under your body – and gods, was his touch like a taste of heaven, so deliciously and thoroughly warming against your painful goosebumps – rising to his full height and delivering on his promise as your hands automatically reached to wrap around the back of his neck for stability.

He did not even flinch at the icy touch; he did not even blink at the fact he was now carrying a woman, a perfectly vulnerable woman, stripped to her underwear sticking to her stiff nipples, so cold and soaked through that the fabric might as well be non-existent, completely see through because of course you had chosen white today. But he just kept walking. His gaze roamed, perhaps growing slightly darker, but mostly focused on your face and the path.

He truly must have been a figment of your imagination.

The cloudy droplets remaining on your skin seeped into the lovely light blue of his henley, a shaky apology spilling from your tongue, earning you another smile and a shake of his head, the former turning softer when you stuttered out a ‘thank you’ as well.

Without a word, he set you down once he reached his destination – bless the floor heating feeling like prickly heaven against the soles of your feet – moving to the bathtub and starting the water as you simply stood there, wrapping your arms around your body for both warmth and keeping your non-existent modesty. As he tested the temperature, he checked up on you from the corner of your eye, a swift head-to-toe glance before he took a small bottle by the tub, adding a few droplets to the water. Soon, the bathroom was filled with pleasant smell of fresh blossoms and herbs.

“We can’t have the water too hot as not to shock your system, but this essence can work true magic, believe me. Come on.”

An absurd idea of being thrown into the water and having your head held down under struck you, freezing your feet to the floor.

He remained stood straight by the tub, tall and large and so much stronger than you, hovering. His concerned eyes met yours, suddenly wide with fear.

A warm voice; a haunting whisper.

Come to me.

I’ll keep you warm.

I’ll keep you safe.

A shudder rocked your body, still trembling with the cold having seeped deep enough to reach your very soul.

Come, my love.

I need you.

“Can you hear me, little bird?” a voice cut through the fog of your mind, causing you to wince, an image of a baby swallow of all birds flickering in your vision.

A hazy memory of the innocent sweet creature having fallen from its nest, your own small hands, hands of a curious child, tenderly holding it in both palms as you lifted it back to its home. There you go, little bird.

A sharper memory, hands stained with dirt as you covered the small bird in its shallow grave, having found its wing torn away just as a group of boys were running away from the lake, with a burning hope in your heart that the bad luck meant to follow those who kill a swallow would catch up with them. Your tears felt cold on your cheeks, so cold against the white-hot anger of having seen them hurt an innocent creature, a breathy whisper of sorrow and compassion on your lips. There you go, little bird. No one can hurt you now.

“I’d never hurt you, little bird. I promise.”

You blinked, eyes refocusing on his sincere features, his hands raised in the most universal gesture of meaning no harm.

What an odd phrasing, you thought. What an odd nickname. Endearment, really.

Another shudder ran down your spine, but your feet began moving on their own volition, shaky steps towards the bathtub, the man’s steps, in return, retreating to give you space.

Something in your heart trembled softly at the gesture, the smallest of relieved smiles in the corner of your lips, one he hesitantly reciprocated.

“I’ll leave you now. I will only bring some dry warm clothes and leave them by the door, okay? I’ll wait so you have time to get in,” he assured you. “I’ll knock and I won’t look.”

“W-why?”

The question fell from your lips before you could think twice about it, earning you a sad smile speaking of just how profoundly he understood the duality of the question.

Why wouldn’t you take advantage when it would be so, so easy?-- - Why do you, hell, everyone, think I am not worthy of staying for and looking?

“Because you deserve better, little bird,” he said, sincerity threaded in the simplicity of his words.

You deserve everything, the echo of the warm voice washed over you, fresh tears stinging in your eyes.

“Stay as long as needed. We have all the time in the world.”

With those words, he finally left the bathroom and closed the door. The key remaining in the lock from the inside; you could easily deny him access and force him to place the clothes outside. It would be a wise thing to do, too, to protect yourself, especially with how vulnerable you had already revealed yourself to a stranger, a much larger man who could choke the life out of you or take whatever he pleased.

So why did you want him to come here, to check up on you, to come closer and look, the thought awaking an entirely new kind of heat inside you?

You shook your head, peeling off your ice-cold underwear and climbed into the tub as fast as possible, even as you knew it might hurt at first, the reward only coming after a while.

Instead, an entirely different experience awaited you.

You couldn’t supress the moan of pure bliss as the water enveloped you and warmed you through in an instant with what could only be described as love; tenderly grasping your frozen-through flesh, caressing your skin in a way none of your lovers had ever bothered, leaving not warmth, but heat in its wake, your muscles relaxing and stringing with anticipation all at once.

You observed the water, not having even stilled yet, with mute wonder. Your skin, having earned grey undertones, was back to its natural colour without a tinge of pain, having you swallow a cry of relief. Essential oil or not, your stranger had not exaggerated; this indeed felt true magic.

It was a mere bath; but it felt so sinfully good your body turned pliant in an instant, your adrenalin-filled mind clearing and fogging in bliss.

Carding your fingers through the water curiously, it felt as if the water returned the affection tenfold, caressing your skin all over again, slow and sensual. A circle on the water surface with your middle finger felt like an invisible soft touch up your inner thighs, a teasing that left burning need in your core, so painfully out of place and oh so right and addictive. Swirling your hand in the water playfully; a sensation of hot lips attached to the apex of your thighs, firm and hungry.

“Good--- heavens-“ you sighed, head tipping back, your lips parting with a gasp, something in the back of your mind tingling with danger.

Having nearly died – and the realization should be like a bucket of ice-cold water, a terrible pun intended, but it was nothing short of exhilarating instead – you did not retreat from the danger, sinking into it instead.

The delicious warmth inside you only grew as if a reward, your fingers gliding through the water again, a breathless whimper on your lips as you felt a delicious stroke deep within your sex. Another curling touch to the water; a curling pressure against your special spot, stars flickering behind your eyelids.

“Fuck-“

Come, my love.

I’ll keep you warm.

I’ll keep you-

A knock shattered your illusion; you grabbed the edges of the tub with a gasp, blinking open your eyes not having realized you had closed them, sinful images of the very man who now stood behind the door dissolving and yet remaining torturously vivid in your mind.

“Everything alright, little bird?”

“Y-yes. You can come--- come in,” you stuttered, heat of embarrassment washing over you like a tsunami.

God gracious-

What kind of a crazy person were you?Who in their right mind, no matter how scrambled from near-death experience, would lust and touch themselves – but were you? It felt like someone else did, and gods, did you love that feeling, needing more – who would do this, right in the bath that the kindest stranger, so respectful of their privacy, ran for them? Imagining him, no less, his large warm hands gripping you as if he never wanted to let you go, needed you more than air-

He slowly opened the door ajar, a careful, respectful peek inside the room as he slipped a pile of neatly folded clothes through the crack, his gaze finding yours.

“I hope you’re feeling better, little bird.”

Oh he had no idea just how much better. He couldn’t have and yet, something in his gaze sparkled, something dark akin to amusement, so alluring, quickly replaced by a flicker of contentment once you nodded, not trusting your voice, again. It was only then when you realized you were still slightly above water and perhaps, whether he wanted or not, he did get a peek of your breasts.

Not that he commented on it. Because out of two of you, he was apparently the decent one.

“Good.”

Without any prompting, he moved back.

He was already closing the door, when you blurted out the question. “Wait---! What’s your name?”

You gulped as he paused, his gaze meeting yours again.

“Andy. You can call me Andy.”

You tested the name on your tongue, a sweet treat you found yourself wanting to taste over and over.

He rewarded your efforts with a smile, one that had air catch in your throat.

He had smiled before, a heart-stopping curl of lips on an exceptionally handsome man. But now, for the first time, his smile reached his eyes; warmth like no other spread through your veins, a longing settling in your chest as the door closed and you were left alone – and wanting – once more.

The clothes were too big for you, sleeves and pantlegs too long, unsurprisingly; and unsurprisingly, they were as just as Andy said, warm. And very soft and comfortable, with tones of a scent that made your head spin in the best way, tempting you to bring the sleeves up to your face and breath in deeply just before you rolled them up.

They were just a pair of sweatpants, a henley and a sweatshirt, boxer briefs and a pair of fluffy socks; but they felt like home.

And so did the space.

Andy had carried you up the stairs; a beautiful staircase made out of light wood with traditional sturdy railing, offering a view of the ground floor. Sneaking from the bathroom however, it was not where you headed straight away, your eyes drifting towards the other two door at your level, your stomach making a funny flip; perhaps an office or a guest bedroom and his bedroom. The tingle in your fingertips as your hand reached out of its own volition for the doorhandle was almost unbearable; you had to clench your fist hard enough for your nails to leave moons on your already scraped palms.

You shook your head at your own creepy urge to explore, turning a sharp right towards the stairs instead.

Heading down where you could hear clinks of dishes, you took every step slow, fingertips brushing over the railing; it almost seemed to pulse with warmth of life, causing your breath to catch. Or perhaps it was the view of the ground floor.

When Andy had brought you inside, your vision was still rather blurry, all your attention focused on not dying of hypothermia and on the handsome stranger sent to you by heavens itself; now, when you had the opportunity to appreciate the interior, you did.

The living room seemed as if cut out from a lifestyle magazine, except it didn’t, little details making the scape appear actually lived in. A quilt thrown over the armrest of a small sofa, a pillow or two on each of the pair of armchairs in earthly tones of green, large enough to hide in comfortably with a book, the stony fireplace inviting for cosy winter evenings; the three books balanced on the coffee table in a hazardous stack whispered of how Andy might have spent some of his evening exactly like that. Four bookshelves filled with readings of various length, in between several pieces of art on the wood-panelled walls, not expensive on a first glances, but perhaps all the more loved. A pair of wide windows offered the last remnants of daylight, aided by the warm fire of the fireplace. Multiple plants to compliment the earthly tones and woodwork; and yet what made you smile was the abandoned empty cup, whispering of this place being someone’s home.

Resisting the urge to linger and perhaps examine just how soft was the quilt and how comfortable the armchair would be, you followed the noise to the kitchen; rather spacious as well, tuned to slightly darker colours than the rest of the house, the light entering from large windows prevented it from being too dark in daytime, the lamplights immersing it in warmth at nighttime. The wide counter stretched along two walls as well as the cabinets, creating enough space for variety of dried herbs, teas, spices and other casings as well as several basic appliances, the workspace almost robust in comparison to the dining table with three wooden chairs and soft emerald cushioning.

There seemed to be so much love and attention poured into the space, much like into the cozy living room, that couldn’t but you wonder which of the two were the true heart of the house to Andy.

As you entered and he turned to you with a smile, you couldn’t but believe it might be the kitchen, for he looked as if he belonged; and with an unfair pang of jealousy, you realized it was also hard to believe he lived in his home alone.

Then why did he give you his clothes, a voice in the back of your head questioned. Why did you see no photographs of a lovely wife or family? Why did he look at you from head to toe and back, meeting your gaze with his smile growing, a content, almost possessive glimmer in his eye?

You were losing your mind, you were sure; and the unfairly handsome stranger was the cause of it.

As he was the cause of you liking the fact all too much, the flash of a memory of how good it had felt to play with the water, imagining his hands mapping out every inch of your body, made you shiver and your breathing waver.

You needed to get a goddamn grip on yourself.

But how could you, when his warm voice washed over you, a gentle deep timbre, friendly, resonating in your ribcage?

“Hey. Good enough fit?”

“Yes,” you agreed quickly, clearing your throat as your voice came out rather choked. “Thank you, Andy. I can’t repay you enough.”

“Nonsense. Come sit down,” he beckoned to the table lightly, taking a wooden tray with two cups of tea and a teapot and setting off the same direction. “I don’t know about your tastes, but I think this tea could be just what you need.”

You smiled hesitantly, your heart swelling at his offer. He had already done so much for you, helped you in, ran a downright magical bath for you, lent his clothes to you; sitting down and stealing more of his time felt like an imposition, taking all too much with no way to repay him indeed. And surely, he had so much better things to do.

But it would be impolite to refuse, you argued with yourself as your steps instinctively followed him, as you pretended it wasn’t the way the muscles on his shoulders and back shifted under the thinner navy shirt he had changed into hypnotized you, his mere presence, a certain quiet charm, tempting you to stay. And if was asking you to linger for a while longer… yes, it would be very impolite and you’d be your worst enemy.

After all, tea sounded like a wonderful idea for your suddenly parched throat.

“’Kay.”

His smile with a crinkle in the corner of his eyes was like a caress on your cheek, ending with his fingertips under your chin to tip your head back for a kiss.

You needed to get a grip on yourself. Fast.

As you sat down across the table from him and he set one of the cups in front of you, the strangely sweet herbal aroma washing over you as well as his attentive gaze, you caught yourself wrapping your hands around the cup not only for warmth, but for steadiness as well.

Your heart seemed too unsteady in the face of the handsome man, skipping a startled and entirely too pleased beat when you took note of him doing the same with his cup – almost comically small in his large hands – revealing an absence of a wedding ring.

Come to me.

Come, my love.

I’m all yours.

Heat flushed your face at your observation and at the painfully clear echo of a sweet voice, your head snapping back up.

Andy observed you with certain kind of curiosity in his blue eyes, wordless intensity that almost made his irises appear darker. It had your heart hammer in your chest with everything but fear. It was magnetic, almost coaxing you to climb over that damn table separating you and-

“Thank you,” you blurted out, nodding towards the tea, taking a quick centring breath and then cleared your throat. “You have a lovely home, Andy.”

“Thank you. It took a while but… I did make it into my own space.”

My own space, he said. A deliberate or coincidental choice of words?

Was he telling you, between the lines, that there was no one else and that he had noticed your ogling and didn’t mind, welcomed it even?

Or was it subtle reminder that you were but a guest invading on his own space and peace and his hospitality was nearing if not already overcoming its limit? People did not choose to live secluded like that on accident.

Mostly, you reminded yourself self-deprecatingly.

“Thank you for letting me into your home. I promise to be out of your hair soon,” you assured him. It earned you a disapproving frown.

“Nonsense. I’m glad you’re here. It’s pretty cold outside.”

“No kidding,” you muttered, lowering your gaze briefly. “I just… I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

Meeting his eye again at his thoughtful hum, there was something infinitely warm in his features; it travelled through your veins, a shot of ecstasy of being wanted spreading into every cell in your body and making you feel light and anchored at once.

“Don’t worry, little bird,” he said, one corner of his lips rising higher in almost a smirk as your breath caught at the endearment rolling off his tongue with what could only be liked to indulgence. “That’s impossible.”

He held your gaze, your heart thundering in your ribcage, minute breaths coming out short by the minute as he seemed to lean in closer, stealing oxygen from your lungs, heat pooling in your belly. Fuck, he was so close, tempting lips framed by the beard you just knew would be soft and just the right amount of harsh against your skin, against the intimate flesh of your thighs-

“What happened at the lake?”

You startled in your seat a little, hands twitching, a powerful painful skip of a beat of your heart, the intimate bubble having grown around you popping with a loud snap.

“W-what?” you breathed out. “How did you know-“

“It’s the only body of water nearby,” Andy responded, voice perfectly levelled, oblivious to the cold fingers of fear creeping to the back of your neck. He smiled even, despite the concerned lines on his forehead. “Suppose you didn’t decide to get a dip in the fountain and walked all the way from the centre of the town.”

I’d never hurt you, little bird, I promise, his earlier words echoed in your head, followed by another almost haunting promise.

I’ll keep you safe.

And then, a sultry one:

I’ll keep you.

“Oh.”

You laughed nervously, shoulders slumping.

It felt so silly to be thrown off guard by his question; it made perfect sense he’d figure out you were by the lake. And you had to admit, that quip of his was quite funny too – as much as it was clear he added it to put you at ease.

“Eh, sorry,” you muttered, unsure where to look, too embarrassed to meet his gaze. Your hands found the cup again like a salvation; a steady point and the ideal excuse.

Taking a sip, you were shocked at the alluring taste; sweet with just a hint of something savoury, tingling on your tongue and sending pleasant heat all the way down your spine, euphoria exploding behind your eyelids. You didn’t remember closing your eyes but when they fluttered open, you imagined this was what seeing the world in colour for the first time after years of being blind felt.

You took another sip almost instinctively, certain it had to only be the first impression, sweetly warm liquid a blessing for your body; but it tasted just as delicious, striking every chord of your senses just right and beyond.

“Good?”

You refocused your gaze on Andy, his eyes firmly set on you, an almost mischievous twinkle in his irises.

“Like nothing I’ve had in my life,” you said bluntly, earning a chuckle and – was that a hint of a blush on his cheeks as he lowered his gaze a took a sip as well?

“Uhm, thank you. It’s one of my favourite blends I’ve ever made.”

That stunned you.

“You’ve made this? That’s incredible.”

Granting yourself another taste, you then set the cup down almost religiously. Andy watched you do so, a pleased smile in the corner of his mouth, having returned to holding your gaze, expectant.

Right. He had asked you a question before you experienced a little taste of goddamn Eden on your tongue.

You taste like Eden on my tongue, honey.

A shiver ran down your spine, your mind scrambling for the ice-cold memory of the lake, so wistfully distant and yet digging its claws into you all over again.

“And uhm, to answer your question. I just… I was by the edge, slipped and fell right in,” you said, shrugging it off to hide a different kind of shudder, freezing water as if beginning to pool at your feet, slowly swallowing your ankles and creeping up ad up…. “I didn’t-- the ice wasn’t too thick and I just--- it was… I barely made it out.”

You didn’t realize your hands had started to tremble as your voice trailed off, vision blurring slightly, until a warm hand covered it, steading your hold on the cup. The air had grown too thick in your lungs, making it difficult to breathe in; and then it was gone along with the water, with just a few words and a lingering touch.

“I’m glad you did,” Andy whispered, voice as gentle as his touch. “I’m glad you found this house too. That you’re safe.”

I’ll keep you warm.

I’ll keep you safe.

Concern. Care. A ghost of a promise you had trouble grasping, a voice so close to your ear you could almost feel the warm breath on your skin, but you knew that should you turn, you’d only see air. So you didn’t.

And you could not keep looking forward either, not anymore. Unable to bear the sincere weight of Andy’s words, you instead glanced at his hand enveloping yours so easily, so naturally; so right. As if it belonged there and always had.

But it didn’t, did it?

Your hands, you – didn’t seem to belong anywhere. Never had. No one had ever wanted you to stay. No one had ever cared enough.

Not until Andy.

“Well at least someone is…” you muttered absently, swallowing the sardonic chuckle.

And how pathetic was that? Not of him, but of you? A complete stranger, taking you home like a stray nearly-drowned kitten on Christmas Day, because no one else wanted you and he was the only one to give a damn.

Gods, how sorry he had to feel for you? How fucking lame was it of you to have even thought of him such sinful thoughts when all he must have seen was a-

A gentle press to your hand had you squeeze your eyes shut as to keep the tears suddenly gathering at bay.

“Hey now. What do you mean by that? I’m sure there are plenty of people who worry about you, family, friends… a partner,” he added after a brief hesitation and was that not a case on point.

Of course he was hesitant.

Why would there be one? Who would want you as their partner?

You scoffed.

“Sure,” you echoed.

Heavy silence settled over the room, suffocating and itching, only interrupted by your slow wavery breaths. Andy’s hand remained over yours, as motionless as he seemed overall; a scene frozen in time.

Was he judging you? Resisting the urge to laugh at you? Pitying you? Or did he feel nothing at all, so profoundly disinterested now that you slipped so carelessly, opening up?

That was how things always were, weren’t they? Once façades began to crumble, once people started to reveal true colours, they were vulnerable to judgement; and with the mystery cracked like an old toy, the intrigue was lost, along with their interest.

Was that what was happening now? All the kind care, all the sweet words Andy had said, losing meaning because they never held one in the first place?

Swallowing thickly, you looked up, unable to bear not knowing, preferring to tear off the band-aid at once.

A lump grew in your throat as you caught his eye, worry etched into his expression, a soft frown above an even softer gaze. Compassionate. Gentle. And laced with an inexplicably deep understanding.

He might as well be staring into your soul.

And you didn’t know how; but suddenly the dam just burst.

And you told him all, barely pausing to take a breath.

You told him about having been the pariah all your life, about feeling so alone, only finding solace in nature and fables and myths, at never being enough, for your family, for your friends, colleagues and boss… and clearly for every single one of your boyfriends since two of them had simply left and the latest one hadn’t even had the decency to leave before jumping into someone else’s bed.

About being but a side character to your own story, because no one ever believed you could be important enough to be the lead. And perhaps not even you; not anymore.

But the funny thing was that as the words spilled, you didn’t sob once. As if someone had untangled your tongue and the coil of pain in your chest at once, you went through tender, achy points of your life as if you were listing important plot points of someone else’s story, someone you did not even care for, really.

You wept silently, voice hoarse but steady, tears of not pity nor rage but cold comfort streaming down your burning cheeks.

You sipped your tea in between and all you felt was relief; speaking these things to a man who was basically a stranger, a stranger who showed you more kindness than all people you know had in a year and judged you less than all your past company combined,was incredibly liberating.

It felt like letting go. It felt like dropping dead weight you hadn’t realized you had been carrying, just so you could rise to greatness.

And something unreadable in Andy’s unwavering gaze whispered with tender determination that he believed that was exactly what you were meant to do for some reason.

His thumb ran over the back of your hand, having relaxed in his grip, turning it over to caress the sensitive skin of your wrist, sending a pleasant tingle all the way down to your toes.

“You deserve so much better than your family’s poison, little bird. As for those assholes, the last pathetic piece of shit in particular… well, I bet he doesn’t even realize what’s he lost, he’s just that daft.”

Normally, you had tendency to defend Jason when anyone bad mouthed him, the habit sticking for days after he had revealed himself to be a lying cheating bastard; but now, you remained quiet, a corner of your lips even rising up in a genuine smile as Andy’s finger seemed to draw a nonsensical pattern over your skin as if he wasn’t spitting profanities. Your gaze, tears having already dried, lifted to meet his.

You felt warm; so thoroughly warm as if your bones had been never known a day of summer, achy in the constant cold, until now.

Until this strangely charming man whose silence could speak volumes, whose words felt like a balm to your soul; because unlike when spoken by others, his words threaded lace as tenderly as a spiderweb around the wounds in your heart, cradling it with gentleness and a promise of steadiness.

You couldn’t put your finger on it; something about Andy made you want to believe. And to give in; to anything. To give in to something you hadn’t even realized you had buried and was now creeping its way out to the sun, eager to bask in his comfort and praise.

And gods, the quiet powerful outrage in his voice made your heart flutter, your core stirring with heat and whispering that ‘pathetic’ was the last thing that came to Andy’s mind when looking at you. The heat having taken permanent residence deep within you had nothing to do with the warmth of the bath or the tea and everything to do with his ever-present touch, the rich timbre of his voice, his undivided attention.

“And you’re never alone, little bird.”

Gods, he was handsome; almost maddeningly so. He must have chosen secluded life, you thought; attractive people like him had it easy, people agreeing with them left and right, tripping over their feet to be in their social circle and tend to their needs, bask in their light.

And he was quiet, respectful and so incredibly inviting, making you open yourself up and wishing to be seen, because being seen by him meant being appreciated; it was too much to resist.

“I’m sorry I sprang all this on you,” you said, so dully in comparison to the power behind his own words, but as you did, you realized you should be apologizing. In fact, you should be going; it was getting dark and as lovely as Andy’s attention was… burdening him with your past was the least attractive thing to do and the crawl of embarrassment found its way out onto your skin, your hand retreating from his. “I… I don’t know what got into me. I should go; I definitely am overstaying my welcome at this point.”

Andy tilted his head, brows creasing; not in quite in anger, only discontent. 

“I told you; that is impossible. We haven’t even finished the tea,” he pointed out, already reaching to pour you another cup. “And I’m glad you got this out of your chest, it feels like you needed that. And I was happy to listen… as much as I feel like someone should teach your asshole ex how to treat a woman as precious as you.”

You gulped at his last words, the flutter in your heart inevitable at his praise, your exhale slow and shaky as Andy’s fingers carefully found your hand again once he finished serving the tea. You hesitated in retreating your hand again, the touch almost electrifying.

You were flattered; so awfully flattered and absurdly needy for this man and his attention which seemed to go way beyond what you could imagine in your wildest dreams.

It would be so easy to be convinced to stay a little longer, perhaps explore what turn the afternoon, evening or even night might take; which was why you had to leave. Because this was not you.

Was it?

Andy’s fingers interlaced with yours, his voice dropping to a murmur. “If I had a woman like you, I’d cherish her every day. I’d treat her like a damn queen.”

You couldn’t explain it; the sensation came as sudden as lightning from clear skies and just as powerful; his words like a tender kiss to your throat, right over your carotid, your eyes fluttering shut, your breath stuck in your lungs.

A hazy image of a living room, a cup with a couple of swallows drawn in thin lines on the coffee table, fading into a blur as the focus shifted on one of the armchairs; you sprawled in it like a queen indeed, one hand laid on the armrest in a fierce grip as your fingers interlaced with those of another, the other hand tangled in his hair.

Bare thighs held apart by Andy’s shoulders wedged in between, a large hand pressing firmly against the flesh of your inner thigh as if burning a brand, his tongue licking deep into your pulsing channel, his beard the most delicious burn against your sensitive folds, his groans and your moans mingling in music of eager lovers, head thrown back with your throat raw from the cries of his name.

“Andy, please-“

The potent jolt of pleasure in your core snapped you back to reality with a gasp on your lips, furious blinks focusing your vision back to Andy’s face; there was a gleam in his eye, but it was his smile, so genuine as he squeezed your fingers reassuringly, so damn gentle and completely unaware of how aroused and wet you were, that had you feel a pang of shame in your gut.

What was wrong with you-

“Like you deserve. You deserve so much better and so much more, little bird.”

You deserve everything.

I will give it to you.

You’re mine to keep and cherish-

“Thank-- thank you,” you stuttered out, head swimming with the echoes of the poignant image, swearing you could feel brands tenderly burned into your skin where Andy had touched you, a tingle in your core as he tasted you so indulgingly, an echo of his beard burning your intimate flesh--- except Andy had not done either of these things outside of your messed-up head.

“Nothing to thank for, little bird,” he said, a lopsided smile adorning his lips even as his brows creased in a soft frown. “We’re missing something here. How would you feel about cookies with your tea?”

Staying for another cup of tea was a terrible, wonderful idea.

Basking in Andy’s presence with his attention focused solely and so unwaveringly on you flushed your cheeks with heat and kept stirring the barely containable explosive attraction to him; but worst of all, it lowered your inhibitions bit by bit, your confidence, as shaky as it was these days, growing under his touch and seemingly genuine interest.

Interest in you.

You had long abandoned the idea of him viewing you as completely pathetic; and with each inch of space between you disappearing, your heartbeat was picking up. With each half-smile, with every question about what you considered the most boring cliché parts of you, you were being pulled into his orbit, intrigued by the lack of sharing information about himself all the more.

“I’m not all that interesting, little bird,” he said when you asked. Instead of an answer, you were gifted another inch of distance erased, his stormy blue eyes boring into yours. “I’d rather hear all about you.”

He was a beautiful puzzle; and the more enigmatic he appeared in comparison to you as you stripped a layer after layer of yourself, the more you craved to figure him out.

And with every entry into his mind kindly denied, you found yourself craving to explore him in the physical world then at least.

To feel the muscles of his arms shift under your palm, to confirm his lips tasted as sweet as the tea he had been drinking with you, to find out just how much of a mark his beard could leave behind when his lips trailed down the column of your throat, over the sensitive skin of your thighs. The need burned within you, causing you to shift in your seat several times already in search for friction, your body almost beyond your control as you turned your still connected hands so your smaller one covered the back of his, most of your willpower focused on not slipping your fingers under the hem of Andy’s sleeve to brush your fingers over his forearm, the very forearm you could almost feel pressing against your throat softly as he pushed you against the wall and drove into you with wild abandon, over and over until your knees could not hold you-

“Give me something, Andy,” you asked, fighting to keep your voice steady as you felt your breathing quickening again with the unholy images painted in your head. “What do you enjoy doing? What is your favourite meal, favourite colour, season even… scent or taste?”

Oh honey, you know my favourite taste.

I’ll have you taste it on my tongue once I’ve had my fill.

A scorching shudder rushed down your spine, your hand automatically reaching for your cup as your throat turned dry for the n-th time in Andy’s presence.

“I enjoy working with herbs,” he admitted after a while, an absent, fond note to his voice. “Essential oils. Natural remedies. Teas and… others--- What?”

For the first time in a while, his words did not provoke a visceral reaction; not the kind that kindled the crackling heat within you. Rather curiosity and admiration, your smile softening without your permission.

“I know you said you’ve made the tea… hell, probably the essential oil for the bath too.” He nodded in confirmation, tilting his head slightly in curiosity. “It’s just… I would have never guessed. You…”

“What is it?”

You chuckled, shaking your head, worried you’d offend him not by your thoughts, but by your clumsiness. But a squeeze on your hand encouraged you gently, having you lick your lips as you gathered your scattered thoughts.

They all seemed so scattered in the past hours, gathering only for all of them to be pulled to Andy and the intense stormy gaze of his.

Storm. Danger and freedom. Freedom to be.

“It’s silly, you just… you seem like the kind of person whose mind is always racing. This… quiet force, keeping to yourself, intelligent, so strictly rational,” you tried to explain, already feeling like you were failing.

“Are you saying I’m a madman for my interests, little bird? A charlatan?”

Something flashed in his eye, but not angry; challenging almost, tantalizing, making your breath hitch.

Try me, honey.

Oh? Look at you, giving up so easy.

Giving yourself up to me.

You shook your head, both to erase the sultry voice in your head and the sinful images it painted and to deny Andy’s words.

“No. I’m saying many people would argue that trusting herbal remedies and nature’s healing power is everything but rational. But-“

“But you are not one of those people, are you?” he finished for you, a slow smile spreading on his lips, just a hint of condescending that seemed to pull you in closer despite your better judgement. “You know better than that, little bird, don’t you?”

Let me, honey.

Let me and I’ll teach you all you need to know.

You gulped, willing your lips curl up in a smile. “I do. That’s why I keep coming back from the city. Nature will always feel like home.”

Andy hummed, a satisfied smirk that felt like a lick straight up your core settling on his lips, causing your free hand to curl in a fist at the sudden blissful assault on your senses--- gods what was happening with you?

“Speaking of power… you called me a quiet force. What did you mean by that?”

Caught off guard in more ways than one, you cursed the slip of his--your tongue.

“Well, I didn’t mean that as a bad thing-”

“Explain it to me then, little bird,” he coaxed, gaze hypnotizing you, seeing so deep you were sure he was becoming aware of the effect he had on you, if he hadn’t known the whole time, that goddamn smirk of his almost wolfish, a taunt you desperately wanted to respond to as your body had been for hours now. “If it’s not bad, what is it?”

It was obvious it had to be the opposite then; but he wanted you to say it. There was no denying the heady tension in the room, setting your skin aflame; there was no denying he was flirting and he was not at all subtle about it anymore and yet, the cold silver of insecurity whispered to you that you should hold back, hold up the last defence before he could destroy you completely.

“Sometimes… there’s power in silence,” you whispered, honestly and yet evasively. “It makes words even more powerful then.”

He considered your words for a moment, gaze flickering down to your lips, your tongue instinctively flicking out to wet the sudden dryness.

“So you’d rather we sit in silence?”

But you make such beautiful noises for me.

Don’t hide from me.

Let me hear it all.

You were going to suffocate.

You were going to suffocate if Andy’s hand didn’t move, didn’t grasp your wrist and pulled you up, his body colliding with yours so your lips could meet and he could drink the answer straight from your mouth just for his other hand to sneak between your bodies to tease and taunt you with his fingers, sliding so easily into your sweatpants, his clothes like a claim on you, more of a claim to have them pool at your feet as his fingers finally breached you-

Your breaths were coming out short despite your efforts to slow them down, your core pulsing as if you had been kept on the edge of bliss for hours, knowing the feeling all too well despite never having had a lover attentive enough to bother with even five minutes.

“Not-- not quite. I like… talking to you.”

“Mmm, me too. Why is that?”

You shrugged with a shaky smile, shifting in your seat and rubbing your thighs together as his voice, that damn voice, Andy’s and the sultry one in your head sounding just like him, felt like a relentless teasing in its own right.

“I--- I like hearing what you have to say. And I… like your voice. It’s warm… gentle.”

And sinful. Powerful.

So powerful you could command me to get on my knees for you and I would, without a single thought, stripped bare if you wished so, lips parted for you and awaiting, dripping down my thighs like I am now, pleading for you to use me, basking in your possessive touch, gentle or rough or both, crying my voice hoarse when begging for more-

The potency behind your own thoughts had you jump to your feet with a loud scrape on a chair that seemed to barely rattle Andy as you slipped from his grasp, his gaze simply following you, the smile remaining on his lips.

“I should go-“

He straightened in his chair, forearms leaning onto the table, his sleeves riding up just an inch, the silver of skin causing your head spin with the urge to touch it, to lead him to lay it over your own throat as you’d walk backwards toward a wall-

“Stay, little bird. It’s already dark and… don’t you want a reprieve from the chaos, from the terrible behaviour of your relatives?” he questioned, both reasons somehow seeming like but an afterthought. “You should stay. I have a guest room if that’s what you’d like.”

But I don’t think you do.

I think you want something else.

All you need is to ask, honey.

Ask and I’ll make sure gods themselves hear your cries when you shatter for me over and over and still beg for more.

“I-“

He reached out for your wrist, long fingers circling it easily and pressing just a little.

The touch rushed through you like a wildfire, whiting out your vision.

A large sculpted body covering yours, lips drinking hungrily and sharing the sweet tangy taste on his tongue as you whimpered, craving more and more and more. One hand circled around your wrist to keep your hand pinned next to your head, his free hand roaming, pinching, squeezing, until it settled on your hip, grabbing firmly to guide you as he thrusted into you, so deeply and fully, his tongue wickedly exploring your mouth and swallowing your every plea to never stop, his name the only thing in your mind and on your lips, your other hand fisting the sheets as you desperately tried to meet his thrusts halfway; to have him reach deeper, to own you, to mark you, to make you his, only you, only him, always.

The pleasure pulsed within you as strong as if you were just there, nearly causing your knees to buckle, your hand barely catching onto the edge of the table.

And all of sudden all you could see was Andy’s face, smirk wiped off to make space for concern as he towered over you, one hand firmly holding yours while the other carefully rested on your hip to support you.

“Are you alright, little bird?”

No. No you weren’t.

You were losing your goddamn mind and he was not helping and you should go whether it was dark or not, because if you didn’t, you’d grab Andy by the hem of his stupidly ordinary shirt that was hiding the most delicious body and you’d kiss him deep, begging him to do to you all the things your mind had conjured in his presence, pleading him to have you however he’d like, to use your body in the most depraved ways he could think of.

“I’m fine,” you choked out, stepping back hastily and on instinct beaten into you – verbally and more than once literally – since childhood, you grabbed your empty cup and walked to the sink, feeling Andy’s worried and bewildered gaze on the back of your head as you started the water.

The worry etched into his gaze just before you escaped his grasp – so genuine and kind – made you wonder just how out of your mind you were.

How much of the flirting you had imagined as an aftermath of hearing a voice so painfully similar to his giving you promises dripping with sin? How much of it had been real? Your own body was your worst enemy, betraying your attraction to the man who hadn’t hesitated to help you, respectful when he had had all the chances to take advantage---

Just how much of his actions had been sincere, nothing but selfless aid to a person in need, that your brain had twisted into a desire of his to mirror your own?

Your hands trembled as you washed the cup, the echoes of pleasure still travelling through your body, now soured with doubt and fear of your own wild imagination.

Andy’s warm presence behind you made your breath hitch, tension building in your back as all your body called for was to drop the damn ceramics and lean back to his front, rubbing like a cat in need of affection, to grasp his hand and lead it to the apex of your thighs and just press to relieve some of the painful throbbing. He reached around you to stop the water as you stood taut like a bowstring about to snap, feeling his breath fan over your cheek, your lips parting to taste it on instinct, eyes falling shut.

Please, you wanted to whisper or scream, not sure what you would beg for. Just please.

“No, little bird… queens don’t do the dishes. Less so when they are guests in my house.”

You gulped as you felt him take the cup from your now motionless hands, setting it down carefully to the sink, the heat radiating off his chest too much to bear.

“I’m… not a queen.”

The words were meant to be filled with humour, self-deprecation even, but you barely spoke at all, throat almost too tight to get the words through.

“I will treat you like one,” he promised, a tempting rumble in his chest, his lips mere inch from your burning skin, his beard scratching it just slightly, sending you spiralling into madness. “If you let me.”

Let me, honey.

Let me break you in ways you didn’t know you always yearned to be broken and then put you back together.

Ler me claim you.

And fuck, you should go.

You really, really should go, but as you opened your eyes, catching a glimpse of your reflection in the window, your eyes wide and cheeks flushed as if you had a fever, his presence the problem and the remedy at once, you couldn’t will your feet to move.

As if trapped in his orbit as he watched you in the reflection too, eyes as dark and burning as coal, his gravity pulled you in; you turned your head towards him, hesitantly meeting his gaze, instantly finding yourself trapped in it.

Scorching heat licked at your core, spreading through your veins like a wildfire when his fingers traced along your jaw, lips hovering so close to yours as if still asking permission and yet, his thumb pressed against the corner of your mouth as if he was the one who couldn’t contain himself. You shuddered violently at the simple touch, your muscles clenching harder as not to fold and lose your last crumbling defences.

Why resist, little bird?

You’re already mine, aren’t you?

Always have been.

“Stay, little bird. Stay and I’ll show you how you deserve to be treated… loved on,” he coaxed, gaze flickering to your lips having pressed in thin line to contain the whimper threatening to spill; his thumb brushed over your lower lip and tugged lightly, leaving no hope for the next needy sound not to escape. Gods, the spark of lust in his eye, the satisfied drop in his voice at seeing your body betray your desire, gravitating towards his. “That’s it. Let me show you how precious you are. How beautiful… how tempting.”

He released your lips from his touch only in favour of skimming his own over your mouth, nothing short of a temptation, as if you weren’t already seduced by the sweet promise alone.

Shock of pleasure rippled through you at the barely-there contact, images flashing though your mind anew, Andy kneeling between your legs as you lied sprawled in the armchair, your body trapped under his so sweetly and torturously as he filled you like no other, his lips devouring you as you laid facing him on the very bed, bandaged hand on your hip, his dextrous fingers sneaking to tease you open for him, his hardness pressing against you, his name a breathless plea falling from your lips.

And as the mirages dispersed, the throbbing need stayed.

“Please,” you heard yourself whisper and for the second time today, the dam broke, letting all you had been keeping for what felt like eternity spill out without control.

The second his lips fully pressed to yours, you were lost and felt finally found.

Explosive desire all but set you aflame as his hand moved to your hip to spin you just so he could corner you against the sink, his other hand grabbing the back of your neck to keep you steady.

And fuck did you need to be kept steady, because his lips didn’t explore carefully; he devoured you right away, your desperate whimper swallowed by his tongue licking into your mouth, your hands having somehow scrambled to grip the fabric of his shirt and fisting it as you pulled him even closer, every inch where his body touched yours a salvation by hellfire; every empty space between you like icy winds. 

Coming out for air felt like drowning in the frozen lake all over again, body only warmed by Andy’s lips tracing a burning path down your throat, the zipper of your hoodie tugged down, fabric pushed aside to reveal the painfully stiffened nipples under the thin fabric of the henley, a satisfied groan vibrating against your carotid as Andy cupped your breast and flicked his thumb over the hardened peak.

He might have as well relentlessly played your body for hours, the surge of pleasure causing your hips to meet his in a frantic search for more, your head spinning. You were burning. You were burning and you were cold and you were going to lose your damn mind unless he spun you around, tore your clothes away and filled you up with his cock this very fucking second-

“Andy, please-“

“Please what, little bird?” he chuckled darkly, the scrape of his beard and the huff of air against your throat unfairly spine-tingling.

His hand sneaked under the henley, fingertips brushing over your belly, over your ribs, squeezing your flesh higher and higher, his other hand carding into your hair and not quite tugging, but keeping it in a firm enough grip to prevent you from escaping the assault of his mouth on your throat.

As fucking if you wanted to escape this-

“I need you,” you choked out, feeling the desperate tremble in your body.

Somewhere back in your mind was a small voice wondered how you had never needed a man like this, wanted yes, but not like this; you craved him. For this, for his touch, for his mouth back on yours, for a single point of contact you’d claw your way out of hell.

You released the dead grip you had on his shirt just to slide under the fabric and the pulse in your core at finally truly touching him was nothing short of unholy and you needed more.

“Oh honey. What do you need from me?”

He rocked his hips against yours, his hardness pressing briefly against your mound and you whimpered, your knees nearly buckling.

Yes, yes, yes, again-

“Maybe this?” he suggested huskily as he repeated the motion against your arching body, a cry escaping your lips, feverish words you no longer had a control over spilling as the all-consuming fire licked at your insides.

More, more, more-

“Yes. Please--- touch me, take me-- make me yours- please”

Andy stepped back, your body suddenly feeling freezing cold, his hold on your hair easing so you could face him as he stared straight into your eyes – the perfect picture of desire personified with crimson lips curled in a smirk and irises almost swallowed by how wide his pupils were blown. Absurd fear of him rejecting you now, now after he had given you a taste, filled your lungs like icy waters, reluctantly melting as his broad palm made its way down your front torturously slow, fingers almost absently tangling in the laces of your sweatpants as he stopped just so far from where you needed him the most.

He held you gaze just as you held your breath in anticipation, his fingers sliding under the hem of your sweats, under the waistband of the boxershorts and lower and lower as he spoke, the sight of him hypnotizing like eyes of a predator to a willing prey.

“Oh little bird, that is exactly my intention,” he assured you, barely audible over the roar of blood in your ears, your whole body vibrating with need. Please, please, touch me- “But I’ve been a good host, haven’t I? So I think--- fuck, you’re drenched for me, so fucking needy--- that it’s time for me to feast and taste as much of you as I want.”

You didn’t quite hear him over the whine crawling out of your throat as he dipped his fingertips in your slick only to quickly retreat his hand and leave you so torturously empty again.

But gods, he kissed you and you could breathe again even as it wasn’t enough, his grip on your hip steering you to move, to walk backwards, your vision a blur, all your senses swallowed by Andy; his hot lips and skilled tongue, demanding touch echoing your own, grabbing you, searching almost frantically for places he hadn’t explored yet, mirroring your own greedy hands, your sweatshirt lost somewhere on the way as he steered you to the right, your nostrils full of his scent and the sweet aroma of the tea indeed having lingered on his lips—and suddenly you were stumbling and falling, soft landing in Andy’s arm as he lowered you to one of the armchairs, pulling at your sweatpants and boxers at once, his touch finally back where you craved it more than anything you ever had in your damn life, his name a broken prayer on your lips.

And then his lips were gone from yours, trailing down your neck, a graze of teeth that made you see stars, his thumb circling your sensitive bud and causing your hips to jerk into his hand, a sweet chuckle dripping of sin filling your ears.

“So responsive, little bird, so needy… don’t worry, I’ll give you what you need,” he vowed, your eyes opening half-mast only to witness him retreat and sit back on his heels, his hands planted on your knees, mouth attaching to your inner thigh just above your knee, a poor substitute to the taste of heaven his thumb had offered you.

He was tormenting you; he was tormenting you, denying you what you craved, not only stalling but stalling further, his mouth leaving hot wet trail up your drenched inner thigh, the sensitive flesh burning under the soft scrape of his beard, your legs spreading in mute yet urgent plea. And still, he continued indulgingly slow; your hand twitched as to move and give yourself some relief, but an instinct warned you that it could only prolong your torture.

“Andy-“

He smiled at you from where he had just pressed a bruising kiss to your flesh, eyes dark as the night itself, glimmering in the dancing flames of the fireplace reflecting on the goddamn mug you had spied earlier too, reminding you of how his lips had touched the edge of his cup with indulgence, how he had met your gaze as if he had known, as if he had known already he was about to drink from you.

It was not enough; nothing was enough, and you shifted in his grip, your hips sliding lower on the chair, core pulsing in emptiness.

“Please, please, Andy, don’t keep me waiting, I need you-“

One of his warm palms sprawled over your lower belly, pressing hard to keep you still, his tongue licking a languid stripe up your skin glistening with your juices, and he was so so so close-

“Fuck, honey, you taste so sweet… such a vision, begging for me so prettily.”

You didn’t recognize your voice as you sobbed in frustration of being praised in vain when he didn’t touch you when you NEEDED IT--- and then you were throwing your head back as wave of ecstasy washed over you, Andy finally flicking his tongue over the cut of you.

You grabbed the armrests with such vigour you might worry about breaking it had you not been delirious with want, hips bucking forward and this time, Andy had mercy on you – he groaned at the taste of you, licking with indulgence, twisting his tongue just right, his hold on you easing as the pressure inside you built and built and you were meeting his advances with enthusiasm, your hand finding purchase on his hair, to ground yourself, to beg him to continue without words because you had no voice.

You were tittering on the edge of release, every single cell in your body singing praise to Andy’s name for the waves of bliss almost reaching you, when his hand found yours and tore it from the armrest, fingers interlacing with yours and squeezing.

You would have never thought that could be your undoing, but it was.

Stars exploded in your veins and you tasted stardust on your tongue, a raw cry torn out from your throat, your back arching as white-hot pleasure shot down your spine and curled in your core with the heat of supernova being born.

And it wasn’t stopping. Andy wasn’t stopping, instead he pushed harder against your hips as you writhed against the overwhelming sensations, his tongue curling and breaching you, tasting the very depths of you and your cries were a breathless plea to the gods to have mercy on you and to Andy to give you more and more and more-

His pleased groan resonated in your bones, the force of bliss nearly shattering them to dust for the winds to take; but instead, Andy’s grip on your body moulded them into something torturously  beautiful and divine, the sound pulled from your lips nearly unhuman as you fell apart, the world tilting from its axis and balancing on the only steady point of the damn universe, on his hold on you, his tongue gathering proves of your undoing with lustful glee, his thumb drawing circles and swirls over your hipbone in silent approval.

By the time his mouth finally retreated, you were shaking, chest rising and falling in rapid successions, your vision blurry with tears as he rose to his feet and released your hand in favour of cradling your wet cheek, the forefinger of his other hand following the salty path of your tears, painting your swollen lips with them tenderly.

Even with vision unfocused, you were all too aware of the straining fabric of his pants, of the lustful glimmer in his eyes, lips shining with your arousal curling in an almost sweet smile.

“You’re stunning when you fall apart for me, little bird. Even more so than I imagined,” he declared softly, so painfully softly you couldn’t but whimper at the praise, the sound muted as his thumb pressed against your lips much like back in the kitchen, this time pushing its way inside your mouth, gaze zeroing on the eager reaction of your body.

You sucked his finger right in, almost blinding desire bursting in your belly, a carving for just a taste of him, for feeling the weight of him in your mouth as you’d swirl your tongue around him, heady aroma of sex filling your head. You needed. You needed to feel him and your hand acted without your permission, reaching to stroke his hardness, to move to kneel in front of him right there and feel the hard floor against your knees because it wouldn’t matter, it would be fucking privilege to-

Andy’s hand landed on your shoulder, light but firm, his eyes still feasting on you hungrily sucking on his thumb with a heart-stopping smile, tongue sneaking out to lick his lips as you still reached to feel the weight of him in your hand at least, moaning around his finger as the true craving – to have him fill you where it mattered the most – rocked through your entire body.

“So eager, little bird… but not now,” he retreated his hand from your mouth, gently slapping away your hand from him and pulling you to your shaky feet instead, body flush to his, lips on your ear. “You asked me to make you mine and that’s exactly what I’m gonna do.”

You weren’t sure how exactly you got upstairs between stumbling on your boneless feet, your greedy hands and all-consuming assaults of his lips on yours; but what you were all too aware of was how whenever his lips detached from your mouth, you were already missing them as if it had been eons, and when he released you from his hold in order to strip his pants and boxers and to rid you of your top, it made your body cry for his attention all the more.

You had but a glimpse of his length and it made your mouth water, your core pulsing in desperate emptiness all the more painful when he sat on the edge of the bed and you could finally take him in your hand, appreciating the smooth warmth length, precum leaking, inviting you to stroke him and sink onto him right away.

“Come to me, little bird,” he husked, tugging at your wrist to have you straddle his thighs, hand like a burning brand landing on your hip, already pushing you down as if you needed encouragement.

His name fell from your lips like a prayer when you felt the head of his thick cock catch at your entrance, hips bucking in foolish need to take him all at once, to have him fill you to the brim.

“Yes, little bird, I’m right here… look at me.”

His broad palm cradled your cheek, sliding along your jaw to grip just a little too tight and force you to meet his hungry gaze even as your own irises must have glazed over when you slowly begun sinking down on him, satisfaction and greed shooting through your veins and curling in your lower belly, your thighs shaking with effort to hold yourself back.

Until you couldn’t.

With a desperate whimper you pushed your hips flush to his despite the slight tinge of pain, the reward of white-hot pleasure all-consuming, Andy’s groan like the sweetest melody and a soothing caress down your back.

Fuck, he was breath-taking and you could die right there and hell you would die if you didn’t move, didn’t feel the deliciously thick length of him drag slowly through your pulsing walls, driving into you again and again, filling you like no other, slow, fast, deep, sloppy, it didn’t matter, you just needed more, you needed to move, bracing on his broad shoulders, nails digging into his bicep, you needed-

He pressed firmly on your hip to keep you still, your cry of despair at being denied swallowed by his mouth, his smile wicked and addictive, only feeding your desire to feel him more, your muscles straining as you fought to rock your hips just a little, needing the smallest friction like your life depended on it.

And Andy wouldn’t let you.

With strength beyond comprehension, he held your middle in a cage, his mouth having never ceased to devour you as his free hand slid from your face, fingers trailing over your collarbone to your breast, fondling all too briefly as you tried to arch into his touch, before he moved on over your belly, pads of fingers circling in the slick dripping down his length, a languid caress where you were connected like a bolt of lightning down your spine urging you to try and thrust forward only to remain achingly still, a whimper pushing past your lips.

It bordered on cruelty; your core pulsed with such force it almost hurt, every cell in your body as if on fire only Andy could quench but instead continued to tease you, groaning into your mouth as he indulged at the sensation of being sheathed in your throbbing warmth.   

The relief when his fingers retreated was a punishment all the same, the second his touch disappeared your body crying for it to return. His lips detached from yours just as his palm sprawled over your lower belly, so full of him, his voice a rumbling siren’s song as you felt sweat running down your back from the tension taunting your muscles.

“You feel me, honey? Feel how deep I am?”

He watched you with hooded gaze, predator boasting at catching his prey in a deadly trap she so willingly crawled into, your core spasming at the hunger in his dark eyes hypnotizing yours, half-mad with the animalistic desire.

“Yes-“

With a satisfied hum, his hand retreated again, causing you to whimper because no, that was where you wanted him to touch you, you wanted it everywhere, you needed him to keep owning you—

“Fuck-“ you sobbed as his fingers trailed over your throbbing clit, your walls clenching around his length, your abdomen trembling with effort to fight his grip and chase your release. “Andy, please, I-“

“Oh, but this isn’t just about you, honey, is it?” he scolded you gently, hoarse voice dripping sin and satisfaction as he returned to petting the apex of your thighs, the sensitive flesh gripping him like a vice and it was just not enough. “I wonder how long you could keep still on your own if I asked you, how long until you’d beg me-“

Not a second longer was the answer, more so when he twisted his hand so wickedly that long fingers continued teasing your entrance while his thumb circled your clit, agonizing need rushing through you like an electrical current, your whole body arching and yet staying so painfully still, writhing in his hold, tears of frustration gathering in your eyes.

“Please, please, please, please, Andy, love, please-“

His fingers stilled, ceasing their torture and yet it felt like denying you further until just as your sob pushed past your lips, his hand gently cupped your face, so painfully tender it had your wet eyelashes flutter, a sudden reprieve as Andy’s gaze seemed to trapped you outside of time and space and your own body; it felt like a sip of fresh water on an unbearably hot day, his damp fingers tracing the lines of your face, something flashing in his gaze, something you could not hope to comprehend but felt so achingly soft.

“Gods, you’re a vision, little bird, so beautiful… so thoroughly and undeniably mine, aren’t you?” he whispered, something akin to reverence in his voice as he continued to brush his fingertips over your skin as if committing you to memory.

And then he was kissing you; your breath caught at the unspeakable delicacy of the kiss, even his beard feeling softer as his lips carefully danced against yours, almost meekly, as if you could dissipate into thin air if he pressed too hard. The disparity to his previous advances was staggering, your heart fluttering, tears gathering in your eyes for an entirely different reason. He was just so damn soft.

“Andy…”

His smile against your lips was just as delicate as his kiss, your heart stumbling in your chest when you found him observing you with glassy eyes, his thumb, still carrying the heady aroma of your juices, brushing over your lower lip lovingly.

“I’ll give you everything I have, love… can’t seem to deny you,” he mused, one corner of his lips twitching up, his hand slowly sliding down your body, appreciating every inch of flesh in its path, his touch growing firmer as he went, his lips nearing yours again, his deadgrip on your hips releasing at last, speaking his next words directly to your mouth and angling the world from its axis all over again. “Take what you need, little bird.”

The words cut through you like a bolt of lightning, burning through every fibre of your being at once, the violent desire having been building through the past hours slamming into you at once, twice as hard, impossible to contain.

A breathless scream tore from your throat.

You cried out Andy’s name, your body acting on an animalistic instinct of chasing pleasure now that it finally could, nails digging into his shoulders for support as you rocked your hips against his with wild abandon, head thrown back in ecstasy every drag of his length through your tight walls sparked anew, coil rapidly tightening and undoing in your belly as it wasn’t nearly enough, never enough, more, more, more-

“Fuck--- that’s it, honey, keep going-” he groaned, hand stroking your back slick with sweat, his other hand gripping your ass cheek to guide your movements just the tinniest bit to your mutual pleasure.  

And you listened, chasing an unreachable peak, grasping at Andy’s neck, moving closer to his still maddeningly clothed torso, bouncing up and down, grinding your pelvis against his and it was not enough, not with your hands so firmly planted on his shoulders when your thighs alone quivered with exertion, a rare catch of his shirt against your clit nearly making you see stars and pushing them away from your reach all the same, fingers fisting his shirt in breathy outrage.

“Andy, please-“

“I’ve got you, honey.”

Next thing you knew your head was spinning, your body achingly cold as you were tossed on the bed on your back, Andy’s touch gone; and then he was hovering above you, his warm body completely bare at last, stretching over yours as he sheeted himself in your heat in one single thrust, stretching you to your limit again and feeling like heaven and hell combined.

His mouth captured your needy whimper when he once again remained all too still, one of your hands, having started to explore the god-like body of his, grasped at the wrist and pinned next to your head in an exhilarating display of control, leaving an ounce of it for you too as you jerked your hips against his, over and over, unable and not wanting to stop for even a moment, because you could feel it at your fingertips, the taste of pleasure unparalleled awaiting you when you’d come around his cock and felt him spill inside you.

The thought alone had you writhe under the soothing and yet frustrating weight of Andy’s body, his kiss tinged with amusement before he released your lips, setting them free to chant his name.

“Patience, little bird. I told you I’ve got you.”

And by gods, he did. He did, pinning you to the mattress and driving into your tight channel over and over at almost punishing pace, his hand sneaking between your bodies to swipe up the juices smeared all over your and his thighs and toy with your swollen bundle of nerves, blinding pleasure lighting you alive.

“Yes-“

“You feel like fucking heaven, honey. Will never have enough--- come for me. Give it to me, show me you’re mine-“

Falling apart felt like scorching heat consuming your body, burning every single cell in its wake, a shuddering breath of Andy’s name like a prayer rising from the ashes back to life, his spent filling you to the brim just as you were being reborn.

And so was your need.

You had never felt anything like it, the crushed seeds of logic in your mindless haze whispering of how this shouldn’t be possible, how you should be beyond sated but with every taste, with every peak, each more powerful than the other, your thirst was not quenched but rekindled, your limp body craving more, more, more; more of this, more of Andy, more of anything and you would die unless you’d get it.

You could barely focus your gaze on Andy’s face hovering above yours, a bliss having flushed his cheeks pink and his eyes with tantalizing glimmer, his fingers tender as he pushed your damp hair from your face.

“Please…” you rasped, not recognizing your voice anymore, blood rushing past your ears wildly. “More.”

His smile was soft, a gentle press of his lips to your forehead and the slightest rock of his hips against yours pulling a desperate keen from your parched lips.

“Do you want to be truly mine, little bird?” he asked, his voice grave and raspy as his breath fanned over your face.

“Yes!”

“Truly? Bound to me?” he continued, the words not carrying any meaning, his voice, gods, his voice, like a caress over your inner thigh, like a touch of bliss somewhere deep within you, in your very soul, a promise of endless pleasure. “You’ll be mine, mine to love and keep and protect… and I’ll be yours…”

Anything. Anything, just more, more-

“Yes- Andy, please.”

A peck to your lips, then another to your cheek and one to the corner of your mouth; each sparking a flame licking at your womb, causing your muscles to spasm, your hands, now free of his hold, grasping at him, nails dragging down his back, urging him to move inside you, your hips buckling pathetically as all your energy had been burned out while your need pulsed with life within you all the more.

Please, just-

“Bless you, little bird, I waited for you so long and did not even know… tell me you want me.”

“I want you-“ you sobbed, vainly pulling yourself up to be flush against his body.

“Need me-“

“Need you. Only you- please.”

“As you wish, little bird.”

All of sudden, a flash of ice-cold clarity cut through your haze, an agonizing stutter of your heart in your ribcage.

The low lights of the bedroom reflected on the blade which seemed to materialize in Andy’s hand out of thin air, a gleam of determination in your lover’s eye.

Wincing helplessly under his heavy weight, you squeezed your eyes shut, your life – a good life, not bad at all –flashed before your eyes, a muffled cry of confused want and utter terror escaping your lips as you tried to make yourself as small as possible.

You could feel him shift above you, inside you, the smallest motions sending almost nauseating desire through your body still, tears of overwhelm gathering in your eyes and spilling over as your heart fought for every last beat you’d be given in this life.

You were going to die.

It was the most absurd thought flying through your head, a painful chuckle almost tearing through your lips; you were about to die, mad with arousal for you own murderer and should anyone ever learn, you were going to turn into inspiration for a cautionary tale for the very books you had been reading since you were a child. Or perhaps those on serial killers.

You didn’t want to die!

“N-no, please, please, Andy-“

It was pathetic. Voice hoarse from having pleaded him to fuck you, for more and more and more; it was almost a foreign voice and yet undeniably yours, somehow still laced with devastating desire not to live, but to be ruined by his cock over and over, still thrumming deep within you.

A low grunt and a hiss; droplets of thick warm liquid landing on your forearm, coppery smell tickling your nostrils.

You couldn’t help it; you always had been morbidly curios, hadn’t you?

With a shuddering inhale, you cautiously blinked your eyes open, heart once more skipping a painful beat, your hand twitching to cover your mouth.

Features twisted in mere discomfort, Andy glanced from his right palm – from the crude deep cut on his own palm – to your face, grimacing as if only now his pain registered, eyes wide with something other than lust and satisfaction for once.

Compassion?    

“Don’t worry, little bird. I’ll be gentle and I promise it will hurt for but a second,” he rasped, your body turning rigid with horror. “Stay still for me, love.”

And you did.

Mutely, with but shaky breaths on your part and his, his grasp on your left wrist was shockingly tender as he laid your hand on the sheets, staining your skin with crimson, his blood seeping into the fabric below. His gaze held yours just as gently, something apologetic and warm in the thin ring of blue around his blown pupils.

You inhaled sharply at the sting of pain, a whimper of Andy’s name pushing past your trembling lips and then it was gone. From the corner of your eye, you could see the blade, having appeared so suddenly, disappear just as fast.

Andy’s thumb stroked the heel of your palm, his lips curling softly in a smile, the hand which had held the blade moving to cradle your cheek.

“Are you ready, little bird?”

As the fear slowly dissipated, you left the forgotten hunger for his body creep in slowly, blooming from your core through your belly, your chest, through your limbs all the way to your fingertips and toes, warming every single muscle, every nerve ending, tingling in your lips, growing and growing with every rapid beat of your heart, a shudder rushing up your spine at the gentle onslaught of want.

A single beat of your heart, two, three, four- and then it slammed into you with force of a star being born in midst of chaos, back arching, muscles straining with instinct to continue chasing the carnal pleasure, hips thrusting up as you felt Andy stiffen inside you again with a breathy chuckle.

“Yeah, you’re ready, love,” he hummed, lips slanting over yours, stealing your breath, every minute roll of his hips sending a shock of ecstasy through your system bordering on pain he drank straight from your mouth.

His hold crept from your wrist to your hand, fingers interlacing, palm sticky with blood pressing against your own wound.

You wailed.

The guttural sound rippled through you just as you hit another peak, Andy’s thrusts stuttering with a curse on his lips as your walls gripped him in a vice, your whole body spasming with paralyzing waves of euphoria, tears springing from your eyes.

Your body floated. You’d swear, had you had any control over your lips, that your soul ascended to another plane of existence. Nothing held you chained to earth anymore. You felt free and weightless and full of light, all-consuming but so so warm and soothing you felt a sob tearing from your chest, a distant sensation of your lover – your lover, your love, your everything – spilling inside you, his lips pressed to your throat, his weight on you, his gentle hold on your hand the only things grounding you and wrapping you in an overwhelming feeling of safety. 

Your name, softly spoken; whispers of little bird, tender pets to your hair.

Growing aware of your body trembling in aftershocks, whatever unbearable pressure you distantly remembered crushing you finally released you from its clutches. You opened your heavy eyelids, a blurry image of a stunningly handsome man, Andy, all you could see; and you were at peace with that.

He still held your hand firmly in his, leaning over you, worried gaze roaming your features as you felt your chest heaving with slow ragged breaths.

“Andy…”

“I know, little bird… it was almost too much, wasn’t it,” he whispered, your heavy eyelids slipping shut again, a tender kiss landing on them.

“Mmm… ‘most,” you echoed, exhaustion settling in every fibre of your being now that feeling of deep contentment washed over your body, cleansing you of the insatiable hunger.

“That’s my pretty little bird.”

A brief peck to your forehead was the only warning you got before Andy’s warmth slowly lifted from you, oh so carefully sliding out of you, a vague sensation of your nose scrunching in discontent reaching your brain. He squeezed you fingers too, you thought, but his voice sounded as if from miles away.

“I’ll be right back, honey.”

His retreating steps were the last sound you heard before sleep took you into its merciful arms at last.

You didn’t feel the careful touch of a warm cloth washing away the proves of intense love-making from your most intimate flesh, nor the kiss to your hipbone. You didn’t feel another cloth wiping away the blood from your hand, couldn’t see Andy’s pained frown at the shallow cut on your palm, nor you could hear the hoarse whisper as he traced his fingertips over your wound, erasing it without trace, a weak smile passing his lips.

No one but him could see him even as he felt thousands of judging eyes on him when he walked back to the bathroom, washing the blood off of his hands and tearing away a strip of clean cloth to wrap around his own palm, tightening it more than necessary with every tug, the throbbing pain only justified; a fraction of punishment that should be inflicted on him, a lump growing in his throat as he dreaded and couldn’t wait to walk back and lay on his bed, sharing it with someone after endless years of solitude.

Leaning his hands on the sink with a shaky exhale, he hung his head low even as something so light and beautiful thundered in his ribcage, fingers flexing, the fresh wave of pain pushing him to look up. The face starring at him from the mirror was one of a selfish monster; a selfish monster craving love just like any other being with hot blood pulsing through its veins.

He just wanted to love and be loved. Was that really so wrong of him?

It didn’t matter anymore; he’d made his choice and made yours as well.

Stepping back into the bedroom, he found you sound asleep, somehow having turned to your side, facing the door as if you eagerly awaited his return and the dreams took you too early. The frown on Andy’s face softened, something sweet humming in his heart, the lump in his throat releasing just a bit at how peaceful you appeared.

Circling the bed, he stretched alongside your body, propping on his elbow to feat his eyes on you.

You glowed with wild beauty, hair a soft tangled mess around your head, skin still flushed, kiss-swollen lips parted, bare skin of your tempting body enticing him to touch.

My little bird.

I’ll keep you safe.

I’ll keep you warm.

You deserve everything and I will give it to you.

You are mine to love and cherish and protect.

With a sigh releasing the immense pressure in his ribcage, he brushed his lips over his fingertips before bringing his forefinger to the side of your neck. Drawing tender lines, his touch trailed to your nape, down your neck, over your shoulder blade and shoulder, a swirl of ink left in its wake reaching gently over your collarbone almost to your breastbone. Curls as delicate as your soul, thin petals of wild flowers and trees; and surrounded by the beauty of nature, a little swallow.

Content with his handwork, pressing a soft kiss to your nape, Andy laid himself behind you, arm wrapping around your waist to pull you flush to his chest, your soft warm body moulding into his perfectly as if it was always meant to be.

He draped covers over you both to keep you warm as he had promised.

Slowly pulled into consciousness by fingers carding through your hair as gently as if threading through dreams, you felt your lips curl in a brief smile, the sensation of a warm firm body wrapped about you protectively rousing you from your sleep with finality.

Just as slowly, the events of yesterday came back to your memory like an echo, echo of freezing-cold water, all-consuming need and overwhelming relief found in Andy’s arms, in Andy’s bed.

That was where you were, feeling just as relieved; just as light even as sleep still weighted your body, delaying your movements and making them sloppy, your hand landing ungracefully on Andy’s chest, his quiet chuckle causing you to purse your lips and finally will your eyes to open.

The first sunrays were peeking through the bedroom window, casting light to the warm space, illuminating Andy’s form from behind and giving his tousled hair almost supernatural glow; and yet it was nothing compared to the soft glow in his eyes as he watched his fingers toy with your hair, as his gaze met yours, dreamy, with a tinge of concern.

“Good morning,” he husked, voice warm and gentle like a cup of coffee on a cold winter afternoon.

“Gd mornin’,’” you muttered in response, causing a brief smile pass his lips, before his brows drew together, his dark blues roaming all over your face, his fingers trailing down your cheek.

It was a little unnerving, the attention, your awareness of just how much of a mess your appearance had to be after a long wild night spent tangled in the sheets insistent in your mind; and the fact you were still completely naked safe for the duvet Andy must have covered you with did not help your case.

He did not seem to mind.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like a changed woman,” you replied without as much as a thought, only to be surprised how true the words were.

You did feel different; transformed, for the lack of a better word. A huge weight you hadn’t been aware you had been carrying seemed lifted, aches and worries in your heart and mind soothed, the only ache remaining being a pleasant reminder of last night. One brief flash of fear; a memory of a blade and blood, yours and Andy’s – but where you could see a cloth wrapped unceremoniously around his hand, you realized you could flex both of your hands without as much as discomfort.

Before you could ask – why your hand carried no mark while Andy’s carried a potentially still bleeding mark of something you did not understand and yet seemed to understand better than yourself – he spoke, hesitance lacing his voice.

“Well… you are. You are mine,” he whispered.

The thought sent a surge of warmth through your chest, a smile unwittingly spreading on your lips. Feasting your eyes on the man who had indeed made you yours quite thoroughly, his unfairly handsome features made you almost oblivious to how quiet and shy he sounded; and how fast his heart thundered under your palm.

“You’re bound to me now, little bird, as I am to you. Forever.”

Forever mine.

Forever yours.

You blinked, unsure what he meant and yet; the sincerity and gravity of his words left no doubt that he was sharing a profound truth. A quiet, powerful presence of an ancient entity not to fear but certainly respect hummed in the depths of your ribcage.

In your silence, Andy moved his hand so the pads of his fingers now laid tenderly over your collarbone, instinctively drawing your gaze, air catching in your throat in awe.

Dark indigo-like ink adorned your skin, stretching from the curve of your shoulder as far as you could see over your collarbone and cleavage, a breathtaking piece or art; a love letter to nature etched onto your body in simple precise lines without shading. You heart raced in your chest as you reached out cautiously, fearing the tattoo you did not remember getting might disappear.

It did not; but images filled your mind, images of your bare body standing in Andy’s bathroom, your back to the mirror, glancing over your shoulder and marvelling at the intricate pattern, delicate leaves and swirls as if protecting a small bird; a swallow.

The astonishment stayed within you as your gaze refocused on the inked skin of your chest, your mind a whirlwind of confusion. You would say with certainty you had never stood in the bathroom like that nor admired the tattoo; and yet, you were absolutely sure, somehow, that this was what your back now looked like, this was what you would see if you walked to the mirror and made the image true.

Your stomach fluttered, a tingle of caution; and still, no matter how much you tried to make sense of why, you were not scared. Curious, rather; fascinated even.

Glancing up at Andy, you found him watching you closely, his eyes brimming with careful hope and expectation of a blow to his face at once.

“How?” you breathed out, his unhappy grimace deepening.

The sight twisted your heart.

You were lost; and yet it seemed he was the one needing guidance and support and all you yearned for was to give him exactly that.

As you placed your hand on his cheek, already missing the sensation of his heartbeat, his eyes fluttered shut, a shaky inhale rattling his ribcage. He nuzzled into your touch, a soft scratch of his beard against your palm. His hand slid to your waist, fingers flexing briefly as he met your gaze, his eyes a storm of emotion.

“A bonding like that… requires three elements of a body; saliva, seed and blood. Once exchanged, along with your consent and with the drop of potion in your tea… we belong together now, little bird. And… there’s no force on the earth that could tear us apart.”

Your pulse skyrocketed at the gravity of his words.

It sounded terrifying; it sounded definitive.

It sounded wicked.

And it sounded right.

It should scare you, a low voice whispered in the back of your mind, but it was drowned in the melody of your heart finally finding peace.

Forever. No force on Earth that could tear us apart.

The echo of the voice having been with you ever since you fell through the ice and nearly drowned washed over you sweetly; if felt like coming back to a safe harbour after years and years spent on a raging sea.

You didn’t understand technicalities; you did not understand at all. But you understood how the fact this was right was everything that mattered.

That and the fact Andy was watching you now, perhaps even more overwhelmed than you, awaiting your reaction to the confession because that was what this was. A confession. No matter what his words would have said, the weight of his transgression was written in his cerulean eyes.

And your heart ached and called for his.

Sliding your hand to his nape, you shifted closer, slow enough to see his eyes widen and lit up with hope before you brushed your lips over his, a pained sound in the back of his throat almost making you stop; until his fingers flexed in the flesh of your waist and gripped, pulling you flush to his chest, free hand sliding under your cheek to angle your head and deepen the kiss, your lips parting in invitation and a plea.

Like a spark of life to your body; like a drop of the most precious of wines on your tongue. Exhilarating. Addicting.

“Oh little bird…”

The soft cautious voice turned warmer, lighter and heavier with desire all the same as both his and your hands began to roam, every touch like sunbeams shining from within your bones, your body arching against him in instinctive search for bliss.

“What if they come looking for me?”

Andy smiled as you blurted the question, licking into your mouth instead of an answer and making you keen, the hold on your hips encouraging you to meet the roll of his own.

“They’ll never find you, love. This house does not exist in the earthly realm, not for most of the year… don’t worry, little bird.”

That piece of information should worry you, yet you could not bring yourself to care enough; instead, the tingle in the back of your mind whispered of earthly plane and other realms, of forces beyond comprehension, tales remembered from childhood of unhuman entities coaxing people into their grasp with a promise of what their heart craved.

Feeling the thunderous heartbeat under your palm, the warmth and firmness of Andy’s body, there was no denying how wonderfully alive and human he was; and yet, words of potions and bonds and forevers were telling a different tale.

“What are you, Andy?”

Another smile, mischievous as his touch trailed down your chest over your belly, along your hipbone, grasping the back of your thigh to lift it so he could slot one of his muscular legs between yours, the delicious friction against your rapidly dampening core causing your thoughts to scatter.

“Does it matter?” he whispered to your ear, teeth nibbling under your earlobe, drawing a whimper from your lips.

No. No, it did not. The one thing he was was devious, his lips chaining one kiss after another along your throat, your head thrown back as your nails dug into his back.

“I’ve had many different names, little bird. The only one that will ever matter to me is the one falling from your lips as you shatter for me again.”

The image was almost palpable, Andy’s soft hair in your fingers as he lifted you towards the stars and yet; another question, much more urgent, cold fingers of doubt creeping along your spine, threatened to put the flames of bliss igniting in your body out at once.

Forever was a long, long time, no matter how much of a hyperbole Andy could have used.

And in your experience, men did not love for even half of it or less and chose their forever with much more care than he had.

“Why me?”

Andy’s body turned rigid for a moment, safe for his head snapping up to search your gaze, the wheels in his head turning as he tried to decipher your tone.

You willed yourself to hold his serious gaze even as your heart raced, worried you had overstepped; worried you might get what you bargained for. Heartbreak.

Whatever Andy found in your gaze – be it pride or desperation – it drew a sigh from his lips, his touch retreating from your intimate flesh in favour of grasping your hand and linking his fingers with yours.

“The moment you fell into water… I knew you were mine and always had been,” he said slowly.

Your breath hitched, threading uncertain waters again, in more ways than one.

The moment you fell into water… he knew. Whatever that meant. The moment you fell-

The moment you heard him for the first time. The voice, even as it had been veiled with mystery at first, the voice you later recognized as his own pleading for you to fight. The very moment…

“I… I think I heard your voice,” you whispered, certain you’d find laughter in his eyes, because what you were saying was absurd, a figment of imagination of an extremely stressed mind, but there was no trace of it. Not at all.

Warmth, yes. Humour? Not in the slightest.

“Yes, that’s possible.”

“But… how? Why?”

Sighing again with a gentle squeeze to your fingers, he let his other hand wander, soft pads of his fingers brushing over your skin, following the lines of your tattoo with his touch and sight alike, speaking lowly, almost absently.

“Time is an illusion, little bird. An elaborate one, but only an illusion. On Christmas Day, the veil surrounding it is the thinnest – that is why people who come to the blessed lake on Christmas Day and cut though the ice do glimpse their future. Those who fall in… they literally soak their body in the ability.”

“Ability…?” you echoed weakly, your breaths coming out shorter as intangible weight settled in your chest. “Ability to… glimpse into the future? No, that’s not--- not-”

Flashes. Images of you looking over your shoulder, a precise picture of a tattoo you had yet to see, Andy kneeling between your legs as you laid sprawled in the armchair, his body draped over yours, hand pinned next to your head, his bandaged hand on your hip as his lips devoured you on this very bed-

“Little bird?”

You opened your mouth, no sound coming out, your head spinning as the images replayed in your head, over and over, hazy and yet sharp, details you could have not imagined, not truly. “I-- yesterday, I saw these… flashes, I was sure they were-”

You gulped, cheek flushing with heat at the admission, your gaze fixed on Andy’s chest, unable to meet his eye until his fingers slid under your chin, tipping your head back just a bit, his gaze intrigued – and serious.

“…fantasies.”

A little smirk passed over his lips, a flicker of mischief that soon gave way to something softer and graver. “But they weren’t, were they?”

You shook your head, even as the glaring truth was only now dawning to you.

“I saw this too. I think? Maybe. Your injured hand… and I think I saw-- I have a swallow on my back, don’t I?”

His eyes widened, a speckle of pride in his gaze as he slowly nodded.

“Yes. I’m sorry, little bird, I know it’s difficult. From what I know it is hard to make sense of these images. Those who bath in the lake at the sacred time…” he trailed off, a frown twisting his gentle expression, another sigh leaving his lips. “If they survive, they are bound to fall into madness, the strain on their mind too great.” 

Your heart stopped.

It must have, because the sudden stab of ice-cold fear tore straight through it, blood crystalizing in your veins.

You couldn’t breathe. A few words and the icy waters of the lake surrounded you all over again, filling your lungs with thousands of needles, the glassy shards all around you pulling you under, pulling you down, down, down-

“But--- but does that-“

And just as fast, a warm firm grip pulled you back up, a protective cage of hands cradling your face, gentle and steady, your vision reducing to pair of fiery blue eyes.

“No. No, because you are mine. We are far from the earthly realm and you are bound to me the most potent way there is. And if, if that’s not enough, I will find a way to protect you even if it’s the last thing I ever do.”

I’ll keep you safe.

I’ll keep you.

I’d never hurt you.

You’ll be mine, mine to love and keep and protect and I’ll be yours.

Your heart was soared, tears gathering in your eyes at the warmth radiating from Andy’s palms alone. There was no space for doubt left whatsoever. His blazing determination would scorch the entirety of the earthly realm he had spoken of and leave nothing but ashes if it meant keeping you safe.

And that, that was exactly what made no sense; because you had not encountered a single human being in your whole damn life that would feel a fraction of the affection Andy seemed to harbour for you in less than a day.  Nothing was as real as his hands on you, as the sweet ache in your body from yesterday, and yet this, this could not be real.

“Why? Why of all people, why would you choose-”

“I told you,” Andy said, just as passionately, pleading for you to understand. “You fell and I knew better than anything that you were mine and always had been.”

You didn’t understand. But perhaps you did. Or you would.

Perhaps that was what he meant when he said time was an illusion; right now, you did not know, but you would and that was all that mattered, because you might as well know already.

Your head spun, pressure building behind your eyes and yet you could not tear your gaze away from the soft storm in Andy’s eyes.

Let me, honey.

Let me and I’ll teach you all you need to know.

“So what… it was fate?” you muttered, the words, yet again, absurd to your own ears.

Andy smirked, the expression so out of place and so perfectly fitting to his handsome face your stomach made a little somersault. Releasing you from his grip, he simply continued to cradle your cheek as his other hand began to toy with your hair, his smile softening as you felt yourself relax at the tender yet playful action.

“Fate is a series of deliberate choices, little bird,” he said, letting the strand of your hair fall only to wrap another one round his finger. “I… I made my choices, some of which I am not proud of, and you made yours. You chose to come back to your hometown. Chose to escape the family gathering. Chose to walk to the lake and try your luck looking at the water surface with shy hope – because years ago, when you were still a child, you chose to read a particular book of legends.”

With every word, your heart was picking up again, hammering in your ribcage, your mind latching onto pieces of information Andy could have guessed but spoke with unshakable certainty.

But then, the look in his eye was painfully tender you shuddered at being at the receiving end, thoughts scattering again, reducing themselves to one single thought.

No one. No one had ever looked at you like that.

“Much like you chose to help out a little bird back to its nest when only a child yourself. Chose to release a spirit of a baby swallow mere days after, perhaps even unwittingly calling luck upon yourself that would once find its way to you.”

“How- how do you-”

“I told you. I knew when you fell. Because I got to glimpse beyond the veils of time too,” he explained gently, letting silence stretch, allowing you to process the information that was nothing short of absolutely overwhelming. Mind-blowing.

He had seen; he had seen parts of your life no one even knew about, moments you barely remembered. He knew about a small, meaningless act of kindness years and years ago, he knew-

The sudden realization stuck you like a lightning, a choked sound born in the back of your throat, a breathy whisper.

“Little bird…”

“Yes,” Andy confirmed, just as quiet, gaze glimmering with affection as his fingers moved from caressing your hair to your shoulder, reaching behind you, blindly following lines of a tattoo you knew were there and now knew why. A small swallow amongst the leaves and swirls. “And that’s your why. All these images of your life, past, presence, even future, flashing before my eyes. They showed me all of you. Who you were, how good, how sweet, an innocent soul with faith in forces of nature and beyond… you were perfect. You are perfect, little bird. And I couldn’t let you-- not when I knew what might happen if I--- I knew you were to be mine and I wanted to be yours. I steered you, just a little and I knew it was wrong of me to meddle with your life and I knew I should have let you go… but even when I did, your steps lead to me still and then you were here, and I-”

Your fingers silenced his laments, confession and declaration all at once, a simple touch to his lips working like a charm, his eyes falling shut.

Your heart was beating so vigorously you were sure it would beat its way out of your chest.

There was so much to process, so much to feel, so much to understand and thread through; but at last, you understood two things.

One: this truly was meant to be, be it fate or series of choice or divine intervention.

Two: he needed to stop.

“You saved me.”

Andy shook his head, taking your hand into his and holding it to his chest, lips barely moving as he whispered.

“No and it’s not that simple. My voice and enchantment might have helped, but you saved yourself. And since the moment you did, since you came in, I’ve done things, wicked things to have you-“

You recalled the scorching need for him, the bath, the tea, his touch eliciting visions, little puzzle pieces falling into place, even as the image remained all too incomplete; the puzzle of him, a simple man with something extraordinary throbbing in his soul, a lonely man craving love beyond what you could possibly imagine, tortured way beyond what he had brought upon you yesterday and had soothed all the same and you couldn’t.

You couldn’t but forgive whichever transgressions he had committed if he was beating himself over them and his original intentions were threaded by something soft and pure.

It was your turn to cradle his cheek and wordlessly ask him to look at you and trust you.

Obeying, Andy hung onto your lips, two two pools of cerulean sadness awaiting judgement and asking forgiveness all the same, almost absurdly so, because you had a feeling that should he want to, he could have made you mad for him all over again, a drop of a potion, a flick of a hand, and you’d have no choice but to succumb to him.

But he didn’t.

It only solidified your decision.

“No, Andy. You saved me… your very own little bird,” you added with a smile tugging at your lips. “And maybe calling a little luck upon yourself in the process, I suppose. I—whatever you have done… it only sped up what I would have felt for you either way. And… if I was meant to be yours, if I am yours… then you were meant to be mine.”

A shaky inhale. You had never imagined a man of his built would spoke in such small vulnerable voice, but he did. A single word, tinged with careful hope:

“Yeah?”

“Oh Andy…”

Actions speaking louder than words, you pulled him for a kiss, soft, slow and deep, the softened flame of your desire flaring up again, this time with no doubts or unspoken questions.

His lips tore away from yours with an urgent plea.

“Show me, love.”

“Was trying to,“ you muttered, confused and a little hurt, only for Andy to shake his head and bring your hand to his lips, a tender kiss to your fingertips sending a tingle of electricity rushing through your body all the way to your toes. “Andy, what-”

“Think of us… of a pattern, a mark… much like your tattoo. If I am yours… where would I carry your mark?” he whispered, the fervour in his voice making your heart stutter in your chest.

Oh Andy.

You did not need to think for long; there was only one choice, truly.

As he squeezed your hand, enticing you to touch him as if that was enough to make the pattern appear, his gaze eagerly followed your movements as you carefully brushed over his sternum.

With a breathless chuckle on your lips, you watched the ink of a familiar colour – the colour of your eyes, you realized, only slightly darker, much like your own tattoo mirrored a darker shade of Andy’s eyes – draw a line of the pattern on your mind, perfectly matching your own. Over his collarbone; over the mass of his shoulder; over his shoulder blade.

As you retreated your hand, content with your handiwork, you caught Andy’s soft, so achingly soft gaze, zeroed on your awed smile.

Whatever he was – whatever he was beyond yours – he carried something good and beautiful in his very core.

“Thank you, love.”

A gentle kiss to your fingertips, another little jolt of energy; as he placed your palm over his rapidly beating heart, no ink spilled anymore. Before you could marvel at that, he captured your lips with his, a brief kiss before he sighed with emotion so profound you felt your eyes prickling with tears again.

“I think you saved me, little bird. And I will spend forever by repaying you.”

You didn’t know how long forever was. You didn’t know what awaited you, even as you soon might get a glimpse of it, but one thing you knew for sure.

“There’s no rush, love… we have all the time in the world.”

And in the earthly realm, just as Andy said, as soon as the clock struck midnight on a Christmas Day, the house disappeared from view; along with the woman, once a superstitious kid, carrying her to a happier realm she may never, ever leave.

And with the house was long gone, invisible and untouchable to mere human senses, the only trace of her left was but small droplets of blood on the white bark of a birch tree; giving birth to unearthly crimson blossoms as soon as the first spring sunrays caressed it with its warmth, the ices of the lake melting.

Complete masterlist

Andy Barber and misc masterlist

Phew... You did it! You finished reading!

If you find some time and energy, please, let me know if you enjoyed 🥺 Honest. This is one of my rare soft dark babies and I'm nervous as hell posting this and I obviously spent a lot of time on this one, so... hoe with me? 🥹

Thank you for reading either way 💕

BTW, the book referenced in the story is very much real and used to be one of my favourites as a teen. It’s Kytice by K.J.Erben (translated as A Bouquet of Czech Folktales, I cannot tell if it's a good translation as I haven't got my hands on it; or biligual version simply called Kytice).

P.S. everything is a oneshot if you post it in one go 😌🤭

[skyshipper]

The Handmaid’s Tale: Spoilers & Long Rant

Full disclosure, I didn’t watch the series finale of The Handmaid’s Tale or the majority of the past several seasons. I have, however, read the recaps and saw the comments from the writers and Elisabeth Moss on the final episode. I was once a major fan of this show. It brought me into fandom life and to Tumblr, eventually learning how to make proper gifs and for that I am thankful. It’s been a wonderful creative outlet for me and a fun distraction from the stress of every day life. After all these years, I didn’t think this show could still enrage me but it has. I’ve seen the reaction from fans who stuck with this show over the years and you’re not crazy - the show is badly written.

The interviews from the writing team and Elisabeth Moss post-finale are full of condescension. Their final message has been to reduce the audience to “silly girls” for appreciating the romance in this story. A romance they continuously fueled by promoting “Team Nick/Team Luke” nonsense via marketing (which was ridiculous and insulting by the way). I keep thinking about how they feel like Aunt Lydia trying to shame and dismiss anyone in the audience who cared about Nick’s character and the romance themes in this story as foolish girls. It’s insulting and gross.

I haven’t watched this show since early season three because I thought the writing was terrible and off the rails once they went off book. But I always kept up with Nick’s scenes because I thought Max gave a beautiful and nuanced portrayal of that character. More than anything I’m disturbed by how they’ve treated Max Minghella. I’ve seen the comments from some of the cast and the writers. They constantly bring up his looks as a driving motivator for the reason people cared about his character. To reduce his brilliant performance to nothing more than the audience thinking "he's hot" is unprofessional to the extreme. It’s rude and mean to both the actor and the fans.  I keep thinking of the comment I saw where Max said he wondered if he was playing his character wrong this entire time when he read his character arc for the final season. When the narrative doesn’t make sense to the actor who portrayed him and put time and effort into the performance, there is no other explanation than that it was completely contrived. And no surprise, that is how it came off to the audience.

A major problem with this show (god there are so many I could write a fucking novel) has always been that the initial terror of living inside the regime of Gilead was real and horrifying in season one. It was impossible to get out or have the slightest bit of autonomy so the act of love was the ultimate form of resistance. They ruined all the horror felt in the first season by making it very easy for people to come and go from Gilead to the point of absurdity. They gave characters the most insane plot armor and wrote to “scenes” instead of storylines that made actual sense. June had the ultimate and most insane plot armor of them all, but there are many, many others.  Look at someone like Janine. I love Madeline Brewer (as an aside, she really deserved an award for her brilliant performance in season one), but her plot armor was ridiculous. She was a Handmaid, sent to the colonies, a Jezebel, a Handmaid again…..I think!? I don’t even know what they all did with her but the fact she wasn’t dead at some point was laughable. And I don't mean that I wanted her dead, I wanted them to write a storyline that made sense for an insanely talented actress. The writers often treated these characters like dolls in a toy box inserting them in whatever way the felt like at the moment instead of telling a believable story.

Throughout the years the writing failed the majority, if not all, of the main cast members. They spent way too much time on guest character arcs that went nowhere instead of writing a believable  progression for the full-time brilliant cast members they had. For example, I’m no Luke fan, but his character and even Moira had nothing to do once they made it to Canada. I genuinely felt bad for the actors who are very talented and were left for years with nothing of substance to do. They should have mapped out the main cast storylines in believable ways from the beginning instead of adding all these guest stars whose storylines often filled no purpose. The cast and source material have always been top notch it's a shame the writing failed them so spectacularly.

Other major issues throughout the series include not addressing race in the rise of Gilead (not to mention how may black women died because of June's stupidity), how they relished in torture porn (how many times did they show women being abused for the sake of shock value) and pushing a narrative of feminism that basically can be reduced to women are good no matter what atrocities the commit (I’m looking at you Serena) and all men are bad by virtue of being male. The fact that they had June become friends with and forgive Serena is disgusting and implausible. The first time this show really angered me was when they had Serena hold down June and rape her so that she could get her baby faster (a disgusting episode written by Yahlin Chang who was a co-showrunner this season). In the end these two women are suddenly fine and friendly because “women rock,” I guess.

The failures are many and the successes few. This show really did have a brilliant first season but they majorly lost the story as soon as they ran out of source material from Margaret Atwood. Long term fans deserved better. Margret Atwood’s source material deserved better. Max Minghella and Nick deserved better. So long Handmaid’s Tale. You were an epic disappointment and often insulting.

P.S. If you want to go watch a brilliant show about fascism please go watch Andor. I’ve said it before but even if you’ve never watched a Star Wars show or movie in your life, it’s incredible. It is brilliantly written, had an incredible cast and is perfectly executed. The story is wonderfully told, the characters feel realistic, their outcomes are often not predictable yet their ultimate conclusions feel true and deeply satisfying.  If only The Handmaid’s Tale could have been written the same way.

[pininghermit]

Gift of Fate

AN: if you saw this on my ao3, no you didn't. Is it weird to write platonic stuff for him? Yes, but I want to.

Genre: fluff, found family

Pairing(s): Alucard x Platonic Reader

Summary: If he had been the Alucard of legend, the rumored savior of old tales, these people might have lived. But he wasn’t that Alucard anymore.

His slow heart pounded in an erratic rhythm. He pushed aside the shards of shattered wine bottles, uncaring of the glass biting into his skin. The surrounding ruins, broken furniture, faded tapestries, blurred into nothing.

Had the rotting flesh that adorned the castle not been enough of a warning? He summoned his sword, the weight familiar in his grip. Whoever dared trespass here would not be met with the welcome they expected.

Dracula’s castle welcomed no guests anymore. It once had. When his father met his mother. When love had breathed life into its halls. The last time its doors opened, two human corpses had hung outside them, rotting in the cold air. Now, death reeked from every cranny and crevice.

Long ago, these walls had known joy. A young master, he, had run through its corridors. Love once lit its chambers, and golden sunlight poured through the windows, warming stone and soul alike. Now those same rays only served to highlight the layers of dust, the decay of a forgotten past.

Alucard halted at the castle’s main door, sword gripped tightly. He listened. A heartbeat, soft, faint, alone echoed in his sharp ears. No other sound accompanied it. He scoffed at the fool who dared step into his father’s domain. Weakness would not betray him again as it had in the past.

The scars on his body were reminders etched into his skin as eternal warnings. No amount of alcohol could numb the pain that lingered in those wounds. It burned always, like the doom of patricide that weighed on his every breath.

He had once thought his father weak. In his arrogance, he had scorned Dracula’s fall. Fate, ever cruel, had broken him too left him hollow, drowning in his own despair.

Breaking from his stupor, Alucard slammed the heavy wooden doors open. He moved through the woods like a shadow, soundless and swift. The noise had been close, so close it felt as though it echoed from the castle’s empty halls. But he knew better.

His sword cut through the air in a deadly arc, swift and final. But no cries rang out. No burst of warmth from a severed artery sprayed his blade.

And then he saw it.

His sword suddenly felt heavy in his hands as he took in the scene. Blood soaked the earth in a deep pool around his boots. Five bodies lay still. Four men and one woman. A fleeting pulse clung to one, withering with every heartbeat.

Merchants, he decided, looking at the scattered goods. Bandits had attacked, overwhelming them. The couple had tried to fight but failed. The survivors had fled quickly, gathering what they could in their stolen minutes.

If he had been faster, perhaps he could have helped. If he had been the Alucard of legend, the rumored savior of old tales, these people might have lived. But he wasn’t that Alucard anymore. He was the man who stared emptily into nothing, passing his days in the wine cellar. The blood, the stillness, it was too familiar.

He could leave. The night creatures would erase the evidence by morning. He could return to his misery, save himself the fruitless seconds of caring. Yet… death lingered here, and he knew it too well.

Then he saw movement.

A faint shift, soft as a falling leaf, caught his eye. Hidden near the woman, tucked into the bushes, you stared back at him.

Wrapped in a bundle of worn blankets, you looked at him, stormy gray eyes unblinking.

He froze. In his two decades of life, Alucard had rarely seen human children. He had been one, once, though those memories were distant and faded. Vampires did not have children, not like humans did. They were creatures of cold immortality, unchanging and barren.

Yet here you were.

Your small eyes met his, wide and curious, assessing him.

No… this had to be a mistake. He could take you to the nearest village. Humans cared for their own, didn’t they? Surely they would take in someone so small and vulnerable. But even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew the truth.

Food was scarce. Famine, drought, and night creatures left little for anyone. Even in his isolation, he knew how ruthless humanity had become.

And you… you were different. Your skin held a faint tan, a sign of a warmer place. A tropical town, perhaps. Merchants, he decided again. Your parents must have traveled far.

You wouldn’t find love among strangers. People would see you as an outsider, at best. At worst, a servant. A slave. That fate would be no kinder than leaving you here for the night creatures.

A tuft of dark hair peeked from beneath your cap. You sat so still, tucked deep into the bushes. Had your parents hidden you, desperate to save you? Blood spattered the earth, but not a drop touched you.

Then you cooed. A soft, fragile sound that cut through the silence like a knife.

You didn’t know. You didn’t understand. You had no idea your parents were gone, that they would never return. Your smile was ignorant of the blood around you, of the death that loomed so close.

How could you smile?

He wanted to scream. They’re gone, he wanted to tell you. Your parents are dead! He wanted to shake you, to make you understand. But he didn’t.

Instead, you reached for him, little hands stretching out through the air.

Something in him broke. Without thinking, he picked you up, cradling you in his arms. You were so light. Lighter than you should have been. You blinked up at him, eyes unwavering, curious and calm.

Your small fingers curled into his hair, tugging. “Ow,” he muttered, untangling the golden strands from your tight grip. You smiled wider and stuffed a piece of it into your mouth.

“It’s filthy,” he grumbled, pulling it back.

You giggled, toothless and unafraid.

For a moment, he simply stared at you. How could something so small survive this? How could you look at him—HIM—and smile?

The sky darkened. Staying out would be unsafe, he knew. So, he made his choice. He would take you with him.

‘She does not belong with you,’ a voice hissed in his mind. ‘A fool to trust again.’

But you didn’t hear the voices that haunted him. You simply smiled, a fragile light in the dark. When your small fingers wrapped around his, he stilled.

So small… but not weak.

“You wish to come with me?” he whispered.

You cooed in reply, soft and sweet.

Alucard...no, Adrian held you closer as he turned toward the castle.

Just as he was about to step toward the castle, the bloody scene reminded him of its lingering presence. Gritting his teeth, he shifted you in his arms, shielding your face as best he could. You didn’t need to see what had been left behind. He would return later, he decided. Your parents...what remained of them would stay close to you.

Adrian pushed open the castle doors. They groaned under their weight, a sound like the ghosts of the past exhaling. Distantly, he noted that the corpses still hanging outside needed to be taken down. It would do no good to keep such grim reminders where a child could see.

You were eerily quiet now. Adrian glanced down, surprised to find you fast asleep, still tucked snugly in his arms. Your small face was peaceful, eyes closed and mouth slightly parted, the faint warmth of your breath a stark contrast to the cold emptiness of the castle.

You twitched in your sleep. Unnamed, your name lost to death, to bloodshed. What was your name? He wanted to ask, but what good would it do either of you now? Should he dare. Dare to give you a name and risk his heart again?

Adrian had buried that part of himself long ago. But somehow, when he looked at you, it stirred back to life. He had found Adrian again when he found you.

It was only fair he gave you a name.

“Ilvanya,” the word escaped him, soft and reverent, a name carried from a forgotten tongue, spoken only by people long gone. A name that meant gracious gift.

“Ilvanya,” he whispered again.

The child sleeping in his arms twitched but remained undisturbed, unaware of the name now given to you.

Dusty furniture and crumbling stone didn’t seem appropriate for someone so small, so fragile. After what felt like twenty minutes of struggle, Adrian managed to locate a satisfactorily clean pillow. He hesitated, reluctant to let you go, but carefully pried you from his arms and placed you on the cushion.

The loss of warmth startled him more than he cared to admit.

There were things he still needed to do. He would bury your parents for your sake, and perhaps for theirs. His mind began assembling a mental list, a torrent of tasks that hadn’t mattered in years. The castle would need cleaning. Windows repaired. Food, water, clothes. How much did human children need? A nursery, perhaps.

His life, once confined to the wine cellar in self-destruction, had suddenly erupted into movement.

His father’s libraries would hold the answers, he was sure. Everything ever recorded lay buried in those shelves. Somewhere, a book on human children existed. His mother must have had one after he was born.

Adrian looked back at you, a child small enough to fit into his arms, but somehow bright enough to cast light into the darkest corners of the castle.

The world is cold here. You don’t know how long you’ve been in it, only that it isn’t right. The ground pokes at your back through the blankets, hard and uneven.

It smells strange, sharp, like the old iron pots your mother used, but worse. It makes your nose wrinkle. You blink, and there’s dark, dark everywhere.

Then… there’s a sound. Slow. Heavy. Feet.

You don’t know what it is, but you feel it closer. You try to focus, but the edges of the world blur when you blink too long.

Something blocks the sky. It’s tall, bigger than anything you remember. It doesn’t move like other things do. Tts steps are quiet, like the cats that crept near the house.

The tall thing stops. You stare at it, and it stares back.

Golden. There’s something gold, like sunlight peeking through clouds after it rains. You blink at it...hair, though you don’t know that word yet. You like the way it shines. The face underneath doesn’t look right. Too pale. Too still. Its eyes are strange, bright and glowing, like little fires in the dark.

You’re not afraid. Should you be? You don’t know.

The tall thing tilts its head. You do too, because maybe that’s what you’re supposed to do. Your mouth makes a sound. A soft, uncertain coo. It always works. It makes people come closer.

It works now.

The man (you don’t know what that is, either, but that’s what he is) moves closer, his golden hair swaying slightly. He stops, then bends down, and everything feels bigger, his shadow, his face, his hands. He smells strange, like earth and stone and something faintly… warm. Not like your mother’s hands. Not like your father’s chest when he carried you.

He stares at you with his glowing eyes, his mouth a flat line. You wonder why he doesn’t smile. Grown-ups smile when they see you. They talk in sounds that make you giggle and touch your cheek softly.

But not him.

You reach out, your small hand finding the air between you. Your fingers curl and wave, searching. Hold me, they say, though you don’t know how to ask.

The man doesn’t move. For a moment, you think he’ll turn and leave you here, alone in the cold again.

But he doesn’t.

His arms scoop you up, and the world shifts. For a moment, you don’t like it. So high, so fast but then you’re against him. His chest feels strange: hard and steady. Not like your mother’s, but still warm enough to make you stop crying.

You look up at him, studying the lines of his face. His hair is close now, close enough to touch. It’s soft when you grab it, like the blankets at home. You tug hard, and he makes a sound low and sharp.

“Ow.”

You giggle because it sounds funny. He doesn’t smile, but his mouth moves, and he pulls the golden strands from your fingers. You try to put them in your mouth before he can, but he’s faster.

“It’s filthy,” he mutters.

You don’t know what that means, so you smile at him anyway. Your toothless grin always works. He stares at you, long and quiet, and you stare back. His face doesn’t soften, but you think maybe he’s not angry.

The man holds you closer. He smells better now, like something steady, something safe. You like him.

Your hands find his chest, small fingers curling into the black cloth that covers him. It feels thick and strange under your touch. You rest your head against him, pressing your ear to the thudding sound inside him.

Thud-thud, thud-thud.

It’s slow, not like the quick, warm beats you know. But it’s still there. It’s enough.

Your eyes grow heavy again. The dark is warm now, and the bad smells are far away. You feel the man moving, his steps steady. The world sways softly as he carries you, and for the first time in a long time, you feel safe.

You don’t know where he’s taking you. You don’t care.

The thud-thud sound lulls you to sleep.

[celaenaeiln]

in like a one person gets one, who would dicks soulmate (platonic or not idk) be? i’ve asked this to several ppl and the answers are usually wally, donna, or jason though i’ve seen some ppl say slade, roy, and bruce.

Anon your ask has literally been haunting me at night. I thought I knew the answer but then you hit me with a Donna!! But between Bruce and Donna, I can't decide so I'll just present a case for both.

Bruce

Bruce and Dick are soulmates on a cosmological scale. The DC universe ordained them to always find each other because they're quite literally a fated pair.

Batman: Legends of the Dark Knight Issue #23

Bruce: The only regret is that I'm out there alone. It felt good having someone at my back, being part of a team...but no sense wasting time wishing for something I'll never have.

Dick: He's cool, dad...d'you think we'll ever see him when we play Gotham?

The universe literally brings them together no matter the circumstances.

Convergence Issue #4

"The bond between you and Bruce Wayne echoes in every reality."

I don't think there's any stronger evidence for Dick and Bruce being soulmates than this.

But if that's still not enough I have more-

The Multiversity: Guidebook

In Bruce's world he lost Dick and in Dick's world he lost Bruce, but still in the end they somehow find each other. In every universe that has Batman, if someone is his partner it's always Dick.

In the medieval ages world-

Batman: Dark Knight of the Round Table Issue #1

The world of "A Christmas Carol" with Ebenezer Scrooge -

Batman: Noël

In a world where Bruce is a doctor at Arkham -

The Batman of Arkham

Dick is always there as his second.

Here's another interesting but depressing fact: In worlds where Dick Grayson has died as Robin, Bruce Wayne has never taken in another Robin.

This is because on top of the fact that Dick and Bruce as fated to meet, Dick means the entire world for Bruce. Like sometimes Bruce will come across a case with a child involved and the first thing he'll think about is Dick.

Batman: City of Madness Issue #2

Bruce's mind and life is literally consumed by Dick Grayson on a cosmologically spiritual level.

Donna

Donna is Dick's soulmate on a twin-sister spiritual level. Dick and Bruce are two halves of a whole, yin and yang. Dick and Donna though are one person. Their relationship is like taking paint and mixing it together to get something new. Like in those comics where two people look at each other and there's a "zing!" and suddenly it's an instant connection. That's them.

Titans (2016) Special 1

additionally:

Titans (2016) Special 1

New Titans (1988) Issue #89

Dick and Donna have no secrets. They're like a jigsaw puzzle, their pieces fall right into place.

He's always there for her-

The New Teen Titans (1980) Issue #38

They're so special and integral to each other that when an evil witch erases Donna from everyone's memories, there is only one focal point for her. One focal person for her throughout the years. Even though he doesn't remember her, Dick literally goes back in time with his future daughter Mar'i to help Donna, his soul-sister-

The Titans (1999) Issue #25

In every. single. moment of Donna's past Dick appears again and again to comfort her and be her pillar from Robin to civies to Nightwing. In the "Who is Donna Troy" Arc, as the story goes from the origins of Donna to the present, it becomes very clear that Dick is her centerpoint.

They're the definition of soulmates.

She knows him better than anyone else and he knows her. She even had him walk her Donna the aisle for her wedding. He was given that honor because of who they are to each other.

Tales of the Teen Titans Issue #42

I...

just-

Tales of the Teen Titans Issue #50

to love like that...

They're made for each other.