#this tiara has so many pins in it

[sariastrategos]

Feeling cute, might take over a kingdom later idky #birthdayplans

[marvelstoriesepic]

Like a Phoenix (5)

Pairing: Mercenary!Bucky x Princess!Reader

Series Summary: An attack on your palace thrusts your only hope for survival into the hands of a mercenary who is forced to protect you, all due to a vow he made many years before. Though, those are circumstances neither of you have chosen.

Word Count: 9.3k

Warnings: Reader having an epiphany; violence; murder; blood; injuries; Bucky being intense and protective; guilty feelings; mentions of swords, knives and pain

Author’s Note: Struggled with this a little, honestly. Took me longer to write. But I hope you like where this is going. Enjoy ♡

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

You are back in the forest.

Bucky always chooses the forest. Perhaps he doesn’t like the idea of walking out in the open.

Admittedly though, the new boots Bucky bought for you at the market make it easier to walk the ground.

The aromas of moss and pine have become so recognizable to your senses that you hardly notice them anymore. The twigs and undergrowth snagging at you are ignored.

Your calves still ache and your shoulders droop but you long since learned to swallow your complaints.

And the night at the inn actually alleviated the stiffness in your neck and helped relax your muscles somewhat, owing to the fact that you slept in a bed again for the first time.

And you had it for yourself.

Bucky was sitting in the chair when you dozed off and remained there when you awoke at daybreak.

He was unaware that you woke up. Thus, you took your time to observe him.

His posture was deceptively relaxed, though you saw the tension in the line of his jaw, the way his fingers occasionally flexed as if reaching for his weapon. The smirk you came to know was gone, faded into something more reserved. His gaze was fixed somewhere beyond the window, though you doubted he was actually seeing anything. He almost looked soft for a second. So lost in thought.

As soon as his gaze touched yours though, something in him shifted and he rose from the chair almost urgently, as if sitting in front of you a second longer would render him more vulnerable in your presence.

He reprimanded you for sleeping in, although his tone didn’t suggest that he was upset about it. And he could have woken you up, after all.

It has been two weeks since everything you knew burned to the ground. Two weeks since you walked the tightrope of sorrow and dread, since you’ve stumbled along behind a man who barely spoke to you, dragged forward not by choice but by the cruel momentum of survival. Two weeks of aching muscles and dirt-streaked skin of cold nights and colder silences. Two weeks of walking, stopping, eating sparingly, and sleeping fitfully.

And still, you walk.

Bucky’s steps are purposeful in front of you. He scans the path ahead, the trees around you, and he even slows sometimes to glance at you with an expression that seems almost suppressed.

He never says anything during those moments but the way his gaze lingers makes you wonder if he is checking for signs of weakness, if he is measuring your ability to keep up.

The woods come alive around you, filled with the softest rustle of leaves, the far-off call of birds, the sporadic break of a twig, and the soft buzz of crickets sending their melody your way.

And you’re unsure what to do with the shift in your emotions regarding this noise throughout the journey.

Because it grew familiar.

Maybe you would even call it comforting.

Because for all the difficulties - the sore legs, the persistent hunger, the cold that permeates your bones at night and makes them seemingly shrink - there is an aspect of this ceaseless walking that feels like a release.

You know you should not feel that way.

Not after everything that has happened.

But there is a faint glimmer of light beneath the ash of your ruin.

And it does its best to remain ignited.

There is no curt tonight, no stares lingering too long, no pointed tiara digging against your skull. There are no expectations pinning you in place, no endless corridors of duty stretching out before you like a luxurious prison. You are no one here. Not a Princess, but also not a pawn.

You think about the way nobody at the market paid you a single mind. Eyes skimmed over you and Bucky without interest, moving on to the next transaction, the next distraction.

You expected suspicion, braced yourself for recognition. But it never came.

You were a ghost in this place. Just another face among many. They didn’t know you. They didn’t see you. You were no Princess to them, nobody to be played in political games.

You were just a girl.

Just a girl walking beneath the stars, free from the burden of her title. If only for an instant.

And isn’t that what you wished for? You have dreamed of this for as long as you can remember. Thought of this in the safety of your chambers, seeming so long ago. To escape. To run. To taste the air beyond the walls of the palace, untethered and carefree.

Here, in this wilderness are no watchful eyes, no polished manners to perform, no fake smile to force up, no tiara to wear.

You never imagined it would feel like this. Freedom. Brutal and lonely, but somehow lighter in a way you know you should not feel.

No one is here to whisper in your ear how you ought to behave.

You don’t have to hold yourself like a queen in waiting anymore.

You can slouch if you want to. You can scruff your shoes against the dirt, even though your upbringing screams at you that it is improper. You can walk with your hands swinging at your sides, uncoiled from the forced grace that has been drilled into you since you were old enough to toddle.

But for the first time in your life, no one cares if you trip over a root or stain your hem in the mud. No one cares if your hair is tangled or your hands are full of scratches.

Well, perhaps no one except him.

You glance up at Bucky again, your eyes tracing the broad line of his back visible beneath his pack, the way his shoulders tense as he scans the path ahead. He is so watchful in a way that makes your nerves tingle.

And you have seen the tiniest bit of something else underneath the hardness of him. A care and concern he conceals in small gestures. The way he slows his pace when you lag behind. The way he tosses you his bedroll without a word every night. The way he pressed his hand to your back the other day, guiding you over a steep incline. The way he lets you have the first sip of water every time you fill it up at a river.

It unnerves you how much you notice these things. How much you notice him.

And yet, for all the reprieve you feel, it’s guilt that makes you stumble slightly. How can you even feel the smallest measure of peace when your kingdom is gone, your family lost, your life reduced to ash?

You tell yourself it’s not peace you feel. Only the sense of survival you need.

But this strange life you are leading - this wandering existence - is, in some way, closer to freedom than anything you have ever known.

You don’t have to curtsy or smile until your cheeks ache from how wrong it feels. You don’t have to listen for hours and nod and pretend to understand politics or tolerate the infinite games of appearances.

The gown you wore for the most part of the journey had once been one of the finest things you owned, a masterpiece of silk and embroidery to make you stand out. A statement, not of your own choosing, but of who you were supposed to be.

It was comically out of place in the forest - the delicate stitching snagging on branches, the long skirts dragging through the dirt, the soft lilac dulled to something almost grey.

So when Bucky handed you the blue fabric he picked up at the market for you the morning after the inn, before paying for you to use the restroom, you glanced at the last relic of your old life lying discarded on the ground, its crumpled form like the shed skin of something you no longer recognized.

It didn’t feel like yours anymore.

It didn’t feel like anything anymore.

And when you pulled the blue fabric over your head, it felt like slipping into a new life.

It’s simple, unadorned, and practical. Not meant to dazzle or impress or represent anything. It’s meant to be worn.

The blue is soft. No shimmering silk, no ornate beadwork, no stiff corsetry designed to shape you into something unnatural. Just fabric. And it’s beautiful in its simplicity.

It fits differently. Not perfectly though, because it’s not tailored for you. Everybody could have bought it.

But it feels good on your skin. Less constricting. Less forceful. Less pretense.

It’s simply a garment made for moving, for breathing, for living.

Even Bucky let his eyes sweep up and down your figure when you left the restroom to find him leaning on the wall beside it, guarded emotions in his eyes but with the faintest quirk of his lips.

It’s not a crown or a title that makes you you, after all. It’s not the richness of your clothes or the recognition in strangers' eyes. It is this - this ordinary moment, this glimpse into the freedom you always longed for, stepping into something that is entirely your own.

Here, you are just a girl in the woods. Hungry and cold and tired, sure.

But unimportant.

And it makes you think.

Oh, how it makes you think.

Your throat tightens. A lump rises.

Because the weightlessness of anonymity comes with its own gravity.

For the first time, you saw your life not through the glazed mirrors of the palace, but through the unflinching lens of the world the townsfolk are living in.

These people who have never had the luxury of silk or knew the feeling of heavy crown jewels.

They aren’t worried about alliances sealed with a handshake or whatever duke might be offended at the arrangement of the banquet table.

Their days are shaped by the price of grain, the tightness of worn-out boots, and the pain in tired hands.

Your problems, the ones you have clutched to your chest like they are the heaviest load to carry, now begin to feel fragile. Insubstantial.

You have swaddled yourself in stories of how hard it is to be you. A symbol of power and nothing more.

The court's environment has been stifling, the expectations intolerable, and still-

A crown? A title? What are those compared to hunger? To cold? To wondering whether you could feed your family tomorrow?

But this realization does not feel noble.

It does not feel freeing.

It is bitter. Pungent. It attacks your senses.

It is a piece of rock stuck in your chest, not heavy enough to crush you but sharp enough to scrape against every breath you take.

It is shame for how little you have truly understood about the people you were meant to rule one day.

You thought yourself wise in your suffering, so convinced that your confinement was the most severe of all jails. But now you see the truth and it is uncomfortable. The walls of your life have been gilded - but they were also soft, padded, built to keep out the tougher truths.

It makes you feel unmoored. It causes your skin to prickle, as if it no longer fits your body. Too tight in some places, too loose in others.

You are no longer bound to the strictures of palace life, yet troubled by a strange feeling of loss for the kind of security you didn’t even acknowledge you had.

The air itself seems lighter though the weight of your guilt bears down on you just as firmly as any crown.

Your hands itch - restless and searching for redemption, for something to fix, to erase, to change.

But will you be able to do something with that realization?

Perhaps not as the Princess you were, living in the palace. But maybe as the Princess you are now, living in the woods.

Bucky stops abruptly, his hand rising in silent command for you to halt.

You freeze, breath catching.

Every muscle in his back is coiled, his neck stiffens, and from what you can see his jaw is locked shut. His shoulders rise and stay there. You watch him move his head almost mechanically, darting his narrowed eyes around. One hand is at his blade, the other still in the air, making sure you don’t get the idea to move.

“Stay behind me,” he throws over his shoulder with his head still forward. Low and gravelly.

You nod faintly, heart quickening. Moments like this remind you of how much he carries. Not just your safety but every decision. Every choice that keeps you both alive.

Your body leans instinctively toward him.

You wait a few tense breaths.

“Is something wrong?” you whisper quietly, voice unsure.

He shakes his head, but his hand doesn’t stray from his knife.

You bite down on your lip, observing how his gaze wanders through the trees and the gaps between them. You hate how acutely you observe his breathing, the manner in which his hand clutches the hilt of his sword at his side, and how the muscles in his jaw are moving. And the way you only allow yourself to release your breath again when he does, exhaling sharply and letting his shoulders droop ever so slightly upon spotting a deer further back in the bushes that flees, causing the twigs on the ground to snap.

But most of all, you hate the part of you that doesn’t hate it at all.

****

You wake up to a hand over your mouth.

Or rather, you startle from sleep violently because of a hand tightly pressed over your mouth.

Your breath rips awake with a panicked surge, though it has nowhere to go.

The scream that barrels up your throat dies before it can be born, trapped beneath a rough and large palm that clamps over your lips with a firmness that has your eyes snap open like a whip crack, wide and wild.

Blackness bleeds into the periphery of your sight, and the shadows around you are thick, pooling over the forest.

The sky is only beginning to stir, dawn gently brushing over the horizon.

But it’s not enough to tell who or what has you.

Your body twists out of instinct, trying to thrash free, trying to fight. But the grip only tightens and a face enters your field of vision.

It’s Bucky.

The shadows sculpt his face, carving his features into sharp and harder lines.

The first thought that punches through your terror, so loud and irrational, is him trying to kill you. It slams into you with all the force of your worst fears. Maybe this is the moment he decided you have outlived your usefulness, that you are a liability too large to carry and he puts an end to it now.

You just thought he would rather use his knife on you.

Your pulse is a thunderstorm in your ears and you stare up at him, your chest heaving against his hand.

He is crouched over you, the breadth of him stealing the last scraps of your vision. His hair falls loose, the strands tangled and catching faint light. His jaw is a block of stone, but his eyes are what is pinning you in place.

They are fierce, glowing in the dim light like embers smoldering in ash. The intensity is terrifying and all-consuming and you can’t look away.

The scream inside you is still trying to jump out, but his gaze holds it captive, caging it as effectively as his hand over your mouth.

His pointer finger slowly moves to his lips. A warning clear in his gesture. Be quiet. Now.

Your body locks tight. The panic in your chest swells, but you clamp down on it, forcing yourself still. You think you nod - just barely - but he doesn’t immediately move. His eyes stay on yours, boring into you so piercingly, you forget how to breathe.

It’s only when you stop squirming completely, when he seems convinced that you won’t give you both away with a scream, that he slackens his grip.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, his hand pulls back. The sensation of his touch lingers, the illusion of his hand still resting against your skin.

You suck in a shaky breath, and you think for one fractured second that you might cry. But his finger remains at his lips and you swallow the sound before it can rise.

His hand is still stiffly hovering near your face. The line of his shoulders is taut. His breathing is almost mechanical.

He is listening, you realize. Straining for something you can’t hear.

You try to follow his breathing pattern, slowing it, even though your heart is hammering so loudly in your chest it feels like it might give you both away.

Bucky’s face is closer than you’ve seen it. The sharp slope of his nose, the faint stubble lining his jaw, the way his hair clings to the sweat at his temple - it’s all there. So close. Stark and shadowed in the low light. His lips are pressed into a grim line and his eyes constantly shift from you, meticulously surveying the shadows beyond the trees with the kind of precision and control you would only expect on a predatory animal.

But he is on edge, more so than you’ve seen him. Every muscle in his body seems poised for something - a fight maybe, or a chase.

Your thoughts are scattered and tangled, but you realize that something is wrong.

You want to ask. You want to whisper, to demand what has him so wound tight. But his intensity and the sharpness of his movements keep your mouth shut.

And then, just barely above a whisper, he leans in. His breath brushes against your cheek, warm and fleeting.

“Don’t move! Stay down!” His voice is low and rough. And it’s not a suggestion. It’s a command and it roots you to the spot.

You can only stare at him.

“I mean what I say, Y/n. Stay down!”

His words hit you harder than his hand had moments ago.

Or the single word he used.

Your name.

Not princess not your highness not even darlin’ he used before to needle you. No, he said your name. It’s startling in its intimacy.

Your mind trips over it, stumbling, trying to make sense of the sound. He never called you by your name. You didn’t even expect him to know it. But now he took it in his mouth, has taken it, stripped it bare of ceremony and expectation, laid it before you like something unguarded.

It shouldn’t matter. It’s just a name. And hearing it out of Bucky’s mouth of all people should not make your heart pause the way it does. It’s like knowing how it sounds but somehow still hearing it for the first time.

He didn’t lace it with reverence or mockery, didn’t use it to wield it like a weapon to remind you where you stand.

No, the sound of your name rolls from his tongue as if it’s important. And it makes it stick to your ribs, makes it burrow under your skin and settle there.

Your name, stripped of its title, has never sounded so human.

“Do you understand me?”

You are face-to-face at this point. You could count the lines on his forehead. There is a freckle on his nose.

There is something in his voice that makes your skin crawl uncomfortably.

Is he afraid? The thought almost doesn’t compute. Bucky never seemed outright nervous, not even walking through the marketplace. But now, with his eyes like steel, his knuckles whitening against the hilt of his blade, the way he can’t help but keep his hand hovering at your side - It really seems like fear stitched into the corners of his expression.

But not for himself. For you.

Your throat bobs as you swallow against the knot rising there.

“I understand,” you whisper back to him, so hushed, he only hears it because of his closeness.

His eyes dart between yours with a swiftness that has you holding your breath. He is searching you, testing the truth of your words.

And when he finally moves away, it is slow, reluctant, as if some part of him still doesn’t trust you to stay put.

The woods abruptly seem overly silent. The type of hush that descends before something terrible happens. This isn't the peaceful, tranquil silence you have become accustomed to, even finding comfort in, during this never-ending journey. Silence from the birds. Silent foliage. Silent everything. Even the wind, typically so turbulent, halted in caution.

A snap of a branch.

Rigid Bucky.

Another snap.

Bucky positions himself in front of you.

Then you see them.

Fife men, all clad in mismatched finery, that seem to lose its luster. Their faces beat marks of wealth - sharp cheekbones, powdered skin - but their eyes are dark and hungry.

The uniforms. You know them. They are remnants of the royal army. Those men belonged to your father.

A shudder is rushing up your spine. Because they don’t carry themselves like that. They have cruel air around them. Arrogance. Greed. Spite.

Your breaths turn sharp, frantic.

There seems to be a leader. A man with hair as black as the shadows around you walks at the front. He’s taller, bulkier than the rest. And he stops a few inches before Bucky. The man oozes with haughtiness, his hand resting casually on the hilt of a jeweled sword.

Bucky is standing still in front of you. Like a stone wall. You watch the grip on Bucky’s blade tighten.

“Well, well,” the first man drawls, his voice slick with mockery. “James Barnes. The mighty soldier.” He lets out an ugly short laugh. “It really is you, eh? Went quite off the map. Imagine my surprise hearin’ you’re still up and breathin’.”

Bucky doesn’t respond. He doesn’t move. But his rage is silent. Sharpened into something lethal. He looks almost different now. More like a machine.

Boots crunch against leaves as the arrogant man takes another step toward you. His companions hang back. They look eager.

“What’s the matter, Barnes?” The leader tilts his head sardonically. “Nothin’ to say? No loyalty left to that golden crown’a yours?”

Bucky still doesn’t respond. But you notice the slight shift in his weight, the faintest tremor in his hand.

The man circles slowly then. More leaves crunch.

“How’s that little girl doin’ huh?” the man continues, his wicked smirk widening, voice dripping with feigned thoughtfulness. “Rebecca, was it?” He drags it out.

Something changes within Bucky then. Something terrible. It’s not the sharp, visible kind of anger, the kind that burns bright and loud.

It is darker. Ferocious.

Your stomach turns to water, your spine to ice.

Bucky doesn’t snarl or shout. He simply turns his head, fixing the man with a gaze so cold and venomous it sends a chill through your veins.

He holds the knife in his hand low, deceptively casual, the blade tilting forward as though it is leaning into the kill before he even moves.

You try to press yourself further into the shadows. Watching with wide eyes. It’s all you can do. Your hands are curled, knuckles white and nails pouncing on your soft skin.

You don’t know what is going on, but it seems like Bucky knows these men. You don’t like it. At all.

The air grows thicker, cunning, and it prickles on your skin, making you shiver.

“Lookin’ good for a dead man, soldier. Got a lotta nerve showin’ your face after all this time,” the leader hisses, clearly losing patience.

“Likewise,” Bucky says lowly, malice in his tone.

Your mind becomes a crowded room, thoughts bumping into each other, none of them clear, all of them loud.

“We’re just here for the girl, Barnes.” The man’s tone is casual, with a humorless laugh accompanying it. His head jerks toward you and Bucky immediately shifts deliberately to block more of your form. “Hand her over and maybe we’ll let you walk away this time.” His tone suggests that that’s a lie.

A shorter man standing behind his leader with crooked teeth and a twitchy demeanor nods fervently, licking his lips.

You feel a quiver in your throat. It rises too fast, pushing past breaths meant to fill your lungs but only causes them to stumble out of the way. It vibrates so enormously, seemingly coming from beneath your ribs, a sound dredged from the depth of your body, where words were never meant to go.

A dangerous stillness settles over Bucky.

His cheekbones catch the faint glow of the early light, making the hollows beneath them look darker, deeper, like they hold shadows he’s never managed to shake and now try to control him.

The leather strap across his chest strains with every considered breath he takes, each inhale swelling his upper body with a contained kind of violence, each exhale releasing a promise of it.

“Turn around, Rumlow,” Bucky says almost flatly. Though there is a hint of ice. “This ain’t worth it.”

Your heart is trying to run away from you, desperately asking your legs why they are still frozen in place.

“She’s the king's daughter, ain’t she.” It’s not a question. “They’ll pay through the nose for her, dead or alive.” A cruel grin. “Preferably dead. I’d expect you’d want that too, Barnes. What happened?”

Your stomach drops. A freefall into emptiness.

The blue of Bucky’s eyes is glacial, like the frozen water of a lake that will crack and shatter and make you sink to your icy death if you step too close.

“I won’t say this again.” Bucky’s voice is dangerous. Too calm. The tendon along his neck stands out against his skin. “You don’t want to do this. Walk away.” There is a readiness in the way his feet shift slightly against the forest floor.

You realize with a shudder that his eyes assess them, weigh them, calculate the angles and weaknesses of the men he seems to know.

The leader barks a laugh, sharp and hollow. “And you’re just out here wastin’ her, eh?” the leader sneers. He spits on the ground, his face twisted into something ugly. “What, Barnes? You keepin’ her for yourself? Tryn’a ransom her back and cut us out? That your plan, huh?” There is bitterness in his voice. It is startling. Almost making you flinch. Bucky doesn’t so much as twitch.

Rumlow lets his head swing back to you, greedy eyes boring through your skin. You feel like prey caught in a trap. “You gonna be a good little princess and crawl over to us, eh?” His voice is wheedling. Hungry. The insult that is your title lands hard.

“Say one more word to her and I’ll make sure you choke on it,” Bucky growls, voice rumbling like thunder.

The morning mist swirls around his feet, as though it’s afraid to touch him.

“Oh, we’ll happily take her over your dead body.”

“You’re welcome to try.”

The first man, short and younger looking, lunges, but Bucky is already moving.

He sidesteps the attack with the precision of someone who has seen this play out a thousand times in his mind. His blade flashes for a second before slicing through the air to meet the man’s neck. The sickening thud of a body hitting the ground echoes through the clearing, but other than you, Bucky doesn’t flinch.

The second and third men come at him together. And you see the difference between them and him. They are noblemen who pick up their swords with comfort and arrogance, muscles padded with blinding rapacity and movements not entirely thought through.

Bucky is just brutal.

His steps are effective, his stance is strong. There is no hesitation, no wasted motion.

This is not the guarded, sarcastic Bucky you have come to know in the last two weeks.

There is an awareness lighting in you that this fight is about more than just your protection.

His lips curl into a snarl, his teeth bared as if he is more wolf than man. But beneath it all, there are other emotions carrying the blade in his hand, making his actions seem like not quite his own. Something personal.

The next man barely has time to swing his blade before Bucky disarms him with a brutal twist of his wrist. The attacker crumples to the ground with a strangled cry, clutching at his arm, but he is already sidestepping another attack.

He doesn’t fight like someone who enjoys violence, he fights like someone who has lived it. Who has been forged in it. His strikes are not just attacks, they are statements. Declarations of his interest to survive, to ensure no one leaves this clearing alive but him and you.

But there is no recklessness in him. Another strike, another block, another dodge - wanton, as though he has anticipated the outcome of each move before he made it.

He fights like a man who has nothing to lose and everything to prove. Like a man who has faced death before and came out the other side as a new bitter and harder version.

You press yourself closer to the ground, heart hammering so loudly you think it might betray your presence. But your eyes can’t leave him. You can’t look away - not from the fury in his speed, not from the way he keeps glancing over his shoulder to make sure you are still there.

Rumlow lunges, blades are clashing, the metallic ring sounding so shrill, it hurts your ears. Bucky grunts as their weapons lock, the veins in his arms straining as he shoves the other guy back.

“Girl’s worth more dead than alive. You know that better than I do, Barnes,” Rumlow shouts, spit flying from his mouth.

“Shut up!” Bucky’s voice shakes with fury and he dives in again.

He meets the man with a force so brutal, it makes you flinch.

Your hands grow restless.

Your chest is constricted.

There is that helplessness again. The worthlessness you despise within yourself, the initial thought for a reason Bucky might have, to grow tired of you and end your life when he clamped his hand over your mouth earlier. The uselessness that grates against your ears and makes you want to cover them with your hands.

You see something glinting.

But it’s none of the weapons currently used only a few feet away. It’s a blade glinting in the dirt not far from you, knocked loose perhaps from the first fool who lunged at Bucky. Who’s now a dead body on the ground. You try not to pay him any mind and rather keep your gaze on the discarded dagger.

The world narrows to that single point - the weapon within reach, the chance to do something.

And you do. Scrambling forward, fingers curling around the hilt.

You stand. Your breath comes in short, panicked gasps as you struggle to find out what to do with it.

But your hesitation was enough time for one of the men to catch your arm, yanking you back with a force that sends you sprawling. The blade slips from your grasp, skidding across the ground, and you barely manage to twist as he leaps on you.

You don’t know what he aimed to hit but due to your squirming, his fist connects with your shoulder, the impact radiating pain through your entire body.

But you don’t cower back.

Fueled by adrenaline and sheer desperation, you lash out, your hands wildly searching the ground for something. And there is something. A snaggy branch is lying in the dirt and your hands fumble to grasp it. You swing with all your strength, the wood splintering as it connects with the side of his head.

Your attacker stumbles and curses and you scramble to your feet, lagging the grace you knew.

Your heart pounds as you turn to search for Bucky and find him engaged with the three others, including the leader.

“Y/n!” He shouts, visibly aggravated. There is blood on your temple, the branch in your hand is trembling. His expression is dark. Almost panicked.

“Stay back,” he roars, not even looking at the man he’s ruthlessly shoving to the ground, a knife embedded between ribs.

Your gaze is drawn to Bucky, not noticing that your earlier assailant charges at you once more, anger fueling his strength.

Bucky yells your name again. He’s furious.

You barely manage to dodge in time, a blade grazing your side. The pain is sharp. One of your hands clutches your side, your fingers instantly slippery with blood, the dark warmth of it a horrifying contrast to the chill in the air.

You gasp at the sting, stumbling slightly, uncoordinated, and in that moment, you let go of the branch. It thuds to the ground and you step back, the soldier before you, only grinning at you. It’s cruel and dark. There is blood on his teeth. He is playing with you. He is enjoying your show of weakness. Making fun of the way he can easily overpower you. Making fun of the way you are scared despite him not doing anything.

But that dagger you dropped still lays and glints on the ground, and you scramble to reach it. Holding it in front of your chest, you grip it with an intensity so strong, your hands are shaking, partly to stabilize yourself and prevent this wound from overpowering your senses and breaking you down. The nerves in your hand are screaming at you to raise it and swing the weapon at your opponent once more, but the shock in your mind is resounding even louder.

Your assailant takes a step toward you, tilting his head in mockery when you take one back, despite the dagger lifting higher.

Your heart is racing, your side is throbbing, your head is swirling, and the man facing you seems poised to leap at you again, done with his taunting antics.

But before there is anything he can do, there is a wall in front of you.

Bucky. His back.

He is moving with a reaction that is instantaneous. Like he couldn’t afford to waste even a second. His knife slashes through the air so fast and fluid, your head is spinning, deflecting the other man’s strikes with a grace that is effortless.

The way Bucky is moving is terrifying and mesmerizing all at once. There is a fury in him, unbridled rage that you’ve only seen glimpses of before, but now it’s fully unleashed. His opponent falters. Just for a second. But it’s enough for Bucky to put an end to this.

He drives his elbow into the man’s gut with a force that makes him groan loudly, then follows it with a swift and clean slice of his knife. Another body slumps down.

Bucky turns before it hits the ground, focus snapping back to you. He quickly, almost urgently, scans your body, taking in every detail. “You okay?” His voice is unnecessarily loud, but not bitingly so. It sounds more like worry.

For a moment, with him standing there before you, blade dripping crimson, shoulders rising and falling with the effort of breathing, stormy eyes so intently fixed on you, he looks almost otherworldly. Like a fallen angel - beautiful in its lethality, terrible in its wrath.

You nod weakly, even though you’re not okay. Not even close.

The ache in your side is like a persistent, pulsing signal, and your sight blurs just slightly at the corners of your periphery. It gives you the feeling of a cruel kiss that burns hotter with every breath you take. But you succeed in standing a bit straighter, gripping the dagger still in your hand more firmly. Shivers move through your fingers around the hilt but you hold on tight. It almost feels grounding.

Bucky’s eyes are wild when he sees the blood.

“He got you,” he grounds out roughly. The cords in his neck tighten, his jaw a stark line against the pale light. Teeth click together, sending out a sharp sound that feels loaded with frustration.

He doesn’t say anything more, but his hand shifts and you let him carefully press against the wound to staunch the flow, and you bite back a cry. His lip twitches, caught between a word unsaid and a growl restrained.

His eyes resemble steel, yet they flicker with chaotic elements that spin and swivel so rapidly and then slip away, leaving you unable to comprehend them and grasp their meaning.

Suddenly, there is a rustling behind Bucky and your heart lurches. It’s the leader. Rumlow. The one Bucky fought before rushing to you. He’s not down yet. He’s battered and bloodied, red streaks lining his face, movements sluggish and uneven. His breaths are labored, but he is still standing.

Bucky’s focus is entirely on you. And Rumlow sees that. He sees the momentary distraction, the second of vulnerability. You watch with fear the way he angles his body, the way his eyes are fixed on Bucky’s unguarded back.

Bucky hasn’t noticed him - he’s too focused on you, his attention divided at the worst possible moment.

Slowly at first, Rumlow moves. Then faster, his sword trembling in his hand, but raised as he closes the distance between himself and Bucky with tottering steps. His face is twisted with hatred.

Panic floods your system, so cold and all-consuming. Your grip tightens on the dagger in your hand, palm clammy with sweat and blood. There is no time to think. There is merely time for instinct, untamed and primal.

You take a breath - a shallow and painful breath - and pull your arm back, the motion pulling slightly at the wound on your other side and it still feels awkward and shaky, but you are driven by the horror of seeing it unfold in slow motion in your mind.

You let the dagger fly. For a heartbeat everything else fades away - the pain, the terror, the sound of your own ragged breathing, the feeling of Bucky’s hand on you. There is only the blade, its trajectory, and the hope - the desperate, fervent hope - that it will hit its mark.

And it does.

The leader staggers, his eyes widening in shock as the dagger buries itself in his side. His body jerks with the force and his momentum falters, his steps stumbling as he plummets to the ground. Slipping from his grasp, his sword lands uselessly in the dirt beside him. His breath hitches in broken gasps until he lies still.

Bucky spins around, his eyes immediately locking onto the man on the ground, then snapping back to you. For someone whose expressions are typically inscrutable, he looks rather shocked right now.

He blinks. And then he just stares. In disbelief. Lips slightly parted. He even loosens his hand at your side for a moment in astonishment. His chest rises and falls with heavy breaths, the strong tension in his shoulder visible beneath his blood-caked armor.

“You-” He starts to say something, but his voice falters, words stuck in his throat. He swallows hard, his gaze darting from your face to the wound in your side, then back to the man on the ground.

“He- he was going to-” You start to defend yourself, but he cuts you off with a rasp.

“I know.” He clears his throat. There is something more translucent in his eyes now, wild elements settling in place. It’s fierce and protective and proud and stunned all at once. His shoulders slump slightly. “I know.” It still sounds hoarse.

Neither of you speaks for a while. The forest is quiet again. But there is a distant chirp of birds that comes with the morning. And more light is shining through. Your hands feel weightless, the trembling so fine it’s almost a vibration.

Bucky’s hand steadies on your wound, his touch firm but not harsh. His gaze stays on you as if he is memorizing every detail of your face in this moment.

Then, with a slight shake of his head, as if remembering himself, he carefully lowers you to the ground, deliberate but brisk, as if afraid even the air might injure you further. He makes you sit on a tree stump.

He’s muttering something under his breath, perhaps a curse at the situation, or maybe just words to fill the silence, but you can barely hear it over the roaring in your ears. Pain lashes through your side and you hiss.

You don’t register if Bucky’s following words were an apology, or a curse, or something else entirely. Your ears are muting your surroundings, every sound collapsing into a muffled rush that swells in your head. You only see his muscles ticking.

Bucky is kneeling in front of you, his knee pressing into the dirt. Shadows dig deep into the lines of his face, his brows furrowed so deeply, giving the impression they are bearing the full force of the world.

Anger, worry and emotions much more deeper are stretching his mouth into a grim line.

He pulls the cloak he bought for you, the one you had shrugged off before the fight began, and drapes it around your trembling shoulders.

He grinds his teeth while doing so, hands tugging at the edges of the cloak, pulling it snugly against your frame.

His broad form casts a shadow over your shivering body.

He turns for a second and then the gleam of his knife catches your eye. Before your heart can even skip a beat he brings it to your new dress. To the part where your wound is sitting. You gasp. The tearing sound that follows makes your stomach twist and you flinch, but his hands hold you in place.

“What did you do?” you breathe, in shock. Staring at him. Staring at your side. Staring at the torn fabric.

“I need to see the wound,” he answers, not meeting your eyes. His voice appears to aim for indifference, but he doesn’t quite pull it off. Perhaps there's even a slight hint of an apology in his tone.

“Hold still,” he murmurs, softer this time, as though he genuinely regrets acting this impulsive. His fingers brush against your skin, warm and calloused, as he pulls the torn fabric away from the wound.

You take in a sharp breath at the exposure, the chilly air nipping at the tender areas of your wound. His jaw tightens. His hands go stiff.

“Damn it,” he grounds out, and you see a faint slip in his control. His features are taut, pulled into opposite directions. He is angry - there is a flash in his eyes that confirms that much. But the frustrated vibrations in the set of his shoulders sags lightly, and there is a hesitation in his fury. It shimmers underneath the blue. It’s crackling and colliding, crawling and fighting to reach the forefront. Guilt. Bitterness. Desolation.

A sharp exhale leaves him and he drags a hand down his face.

There is a tremor in his hands. And he leaks of tension. But there is something else, too. Something softer. Something deeper.

You saved him, and he knows it. But you can’t tell if that makes things better or worse.

Glancing at you then, his eyes search yours for something you’re not sure you can give. You think he might say something, but then he just releases another profound breath.

Sitting up slightly, he takes your hands and presses them to your wound. “Hold this,” he instructs stiffly, his fingers guiding yours to show you how to keep the pressure firm.

His touch lingers for just a moment before he pulls away to reach for something in his pack. You do as he says, though your hands tremble, and the blood soaking through your fingers makes you want to vomit.

You want to say something. Anything. To apologize for disregarding his orders to stay put, for being reckless, for putting him in this position. But the words don’t come. No words come. Your lips are barriers no word dares to cross. Your tongue is heavy. And you can’t really bring yourself to look at him. Especially his shifting eyes.

Instead, your gaze averts to your boots, then to the forest ground, but only to the sections that lack a corpse, your shocked mind desperately attempting to undo everything that just took place.

Squatting down in front of you again, you take notice of what he retrieved from his pack and your skin grows hot with uncomfortable blisters.

The flask glints in the morning light. Bucky unscrews the cap and the sharp tang of whiskey wafts into the air.

You press your hands more firmly to your wound in hopes of shielding it better. You start to shake your head, but he sighs heavily.

“We need to clean that wound,” he explains, and for a heartbeat, his voice carries an unfamiliar softness. Maybe it’s vulnerability, maybe it’s tenderness. You can’t tell. “It’ll stop infection.”

Your gaze drops to the ground. To the dirt, the blood, and the remnants of the torn blue fabric that litters the space between you. A defeated breath falls from your lips and you build up all your courage to let your hands slide off your wound.

“It’s going to hurt,” he says with the same tone and still only holds the flask up in his hand, waiting for your permission to continue.

Your mouth is still guarding your words. But you manage a nod.

And with that he quickly tears a strip of clean cloth from the hem of his own shirt, soaking it in the alcohol. His hands are steadying themselves, but there is that uncoordinated twitch in his fingers, a quiver, when they linger too long.

“Bite down on this,” he says, handing you another piece of cloth. You hesitate, but the heat in his eyes compels you to take it and press it between your teeth.

With a last glance at you, and another nod from you, he presses the soaked cloth to your wound.

The pain is a searing fire that tears through your side and sends a strangled cry spilling from your lips, muffled by the cloth. Your entire body jerks, but his hands are there to keep you stable.

“Easy,” he says, low and strained, but you keep on hafting to the note of reassurance. “Easy.”

Your breaths are sharp and irregular gasps, and tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

The world compresses to the searing torment in your side and the pressure of his hands on your skin, anchoring you even as the pain risks dragging you under.

“Almost done.” His voice is barely a whisper, as though the words aren’t even meant for you, but himself. His gaze falls over you, your face, lingering longer than necessary, trying to gauge your condition.

Finally, he pulls the cloth away and examines his work. “That’s the worst of it,” he says almost through gritted teeth, voice a little thicker than he surely meant it to be.

You watch him some more when he retrieves a bandage from his pack and wraps it around your side carefully.

When he finishes, he sits back on his heels, exhaling heavily. “That’ll hold for now.” His voice is low. He doesn’t look at you. His gaze is fixed on the ground. Then it’s fixed on his hands that hold your blood and the ones of the dead men lying around the clearing. The muscles in his face are tight.

You don’t look at him either. You don’t even know where you look.

All you see is this man you killed. His face is there every time you blink, imprinted into the dark of your eyelids like a haunting. His eyes wide and disbelieving, staring at you - not Bucky, the man who shielded you and bought you here - but you.

You, with the dagger in your shaking hand. You, who let it fly. The way his body had jerked, the dagger sinking into flesh, his mouth opening as though he wanted to speak but couldn’t. The way his knees buckled, and he fell to the ground like a heap. The way he didn’t get up. The stillness. Utter stillness.

No amount of air you fill your lungs with feels like enough.

The memory is too much. The knowing that he lies in eyesight on the ground is too much. Too much to hold. Too much to process. Too much too much too much-

You have killed before. In stories, in the sanctuary of your imagination, where brave princesses slayed dragons or vanquished evil knights.

But this is not a story.

This is not a knife thrown at a wooden log, or an idle thought in a quiet moment.

You aimed your throw not at a tree, but at a man. He was flesh and blood. A living, breathing man. And you made his breath stop.

Guilt twists its way up your throat like bile.

You saved Bucky - that much you know. That much you hold onto, even as your chest heaves and your heart races. If you hadn’t thrown that dagger, hadn’t acted, perhaps Bucky would’ve been the corpse on the ground instead. He might have fallen, lying in the dirt, lifeless, blood pooling beneath him.

The thought sends icy shivers up your spine.

But it does not undo what you’ve done. It does not change the fact that a man died at your hands.

This wasn’t just any man. He was a royal soldier. A soldier who should have answered to the crown. To you. He was someone who once swore an oath to the crown, to your family.

He should have presented himself with pride, with the discipline you’ve always imagined in the soldiers who served under your father's banner.

Instead, he had snarled your name like a curse, his words full of malice and predatory hunger.

He wore the insignia, the armor. He belonged to you, and yet he hadn’t acted like it. There was no salute, no respect, no recognition. Just malevolence in his eyes and voice and the gleam of his sword.

And, somehow, Bucky knew him.

There was something in his face, something dark and old and full of personal hatred.

Both their words held venom that spoke of history. Betrayal. Something you don’t understand.

How could this have escalated so quickly? One moment, you are shivering in the forest, trying to decipher Bucky’s moods and the significance of your choices. The next moment there is blood and violence and death and so many questions.

Here you are now, your thoughts shattered and wailing, grasping at fragments of logic and reason that continuously elude you.

You glance at Bucky.

He is pacing now, a few feet away, his movements sharp, almost agitated. But still controlled. He is wiping his blade clean, cloth coming away crimson, and the sight makes you nauseous.

There is a river not too far from where your clearing is. He’s told you, you would make a stop there today when you made camp here the day before. He could have cleaned his blade then. But it seems like he can’t wait to get the blood off right away.

His shoulders stand like armored gates, guarding a pressure that seems to press on him. The muscles in his forearms ripple with every tiny motion.

His features are half obscured by shadows and blood but the look in his eyes is clear, and it makes him seem more like a weapon than a man.

You are hit with the reality that you don’t know anything about him. Who is he? Really? What has he done? What has he endured? The man who carries himself like an unbreakable force, who moves with lethal and deadly precision and a soldier's instinct.

All those things said by the man named Rumlow, those accusations thrown, the ugly words about you. They try to choke you from the inside out.

Who is Rebecca? What happened to her? Who is she to Bucky?

And why did this black-haired man speak to Bucky about his loyalty to the crown? Why did he call him soldier?

Bucky has saved you. Protected you. But he did it because he promised your mother he would.

And those things Rumlow has said, the looks they all gave him - it tells a story you don’t know.

He is a mystery to you. A mystery with ghosts that still haunt him, if the look in his eyes is anything to go by.

Your eyes return to your hands. Your palms are still sticky, coated with dirt and blood - not all of it yours. You gulp down, feeling nausea knotting in your stomach once more.

Heat rises to your skin, clammy and unpleasant, a fever that clings without flame.

You saved him. That's the reality you continue to grasp at, yet it seems fleeting, hard to catch.

You saved him, but in doing so, you ended someone else’s life.

Layer upon layer of shame tightens like a noose around your neck.

It constricts. And the feeling spreads. It migrates - to your shoulders, your chest, your belly, your hips, pressing and squeezing even tighter around the part where your wound sits.

You threw the dagger at a human being. And you hit him. True enough to kill.

You want to feel relief. You want to feel proud, even. Bucky is alive and walking, and you had a hand in that. But all you feel is the way the world shifts under you, how unsteady it’s become.

You sense the chilling tendrils of guilt, winding around your chest, your throat, your thoughts.

Guilt for what you’ve done. Guilt for feeling guilty.

The cloak slips from your shoulders, and you let it. Your head bows, fingers curling into the fabric of your garment. It was new. It was blue. It was beautiful. Now it’s ruined.

“They were soldiers.” It leaves you in a breath. Maybe it makes it easier to handle that truth when spoken aloud. It doesn’t.

Bucky pauses mid-step, his back to you, his shoulders stiffening even more at your words. “Yeah.” His voice is unreadable.

“They- they served the crown,” you press. To him, to yourself, to the forest, to the corpses on the ground. You have no idea. It doesn’t matter. “They served-”You stop short, swallowing a lump down. Swallowing tears back.

“They served themselves,” Bucky bites out, his tone sharper than earlier, laced with something dark. He turns to face you then, anger shooting through his eyes, but not at you. “Swearin’ loyalty to a banner doesn’t make a man good. Men with badges and titles might do worse than those without.”

You flinch at his words. They fall. Like seeds dropped into cracks you didn’t know you had. You feel the heaviness of them. The thud in your chest, your heart catching something it wasn’t prepared to hold.

And all you can do is snap your mouth back shut.

You lower your head again. Fingers shake around the fabric of your garment from how tightly you’re gripping them. The guilt festers, tumbles, grows, and you sit there, silent, unable to reconcile the princess you once were with the murderer you’ve become.

“She was never quite ready. But she was brave. And the universe listens to brave.”

- Rebecca Ray

Part six

Taglist: @cjand10 @unaxv @bellamoret @singsosworld

[bloomeng]

I’m so curious about what their respective artifacts look like in the magical girl au! Is Jason’s his earrings? Is Dick’s the crown?

I have also been wondering this myself and I’ve come to a tentative answer (however this is subjected to change if I come up with better ideas)

The artifacts transform with their users but in their dormant state:

Bruce’s is a brooch which he allegedly wears in honor of his mother which is a half truth (I’m toying with the idea of having him modify the brooch into cufflinks)

Robin (all of them) were given a small robin shaped pendant and each of them were allowed to choose how they wore it (Dick - a collar pin chain/ Jason - a pendant necklace/ Tim - a cufflink/ Steph - attached to a headband/ Damian - a collar pin)

Jason’s— as many have correctly assumed— are his earrings

Tim’s is also a pendant—cause he’s still hanging onto that robin title— that he wears as a necklace usually under his clothing

Steph’s is a barrette that she sometimes clips to a band to wear as a headband or clips to a hairband to wear as a bracelet (Bruce has been telling her for years that she was going to loose it this way but when it’s obvious she’s not gonna stop he made her accessories that she could attach it to securely)

As Oracle Barbara’s artifacts are her rings as Batgirl her artifact was a belt buckle

Duke’s is an ear cuff because I want it to match his little wing headpieces

Dick’s artifact I’m undecided on—I just can’t see him wearing a lot of jewelry— I want each of the artifacts to be wearable items that are believable enough to be worn in every day life and be in the rough placement of the artifact in costume but that doesn’t really work for Dick I’ve checked and the only accessories he wears in canon are watches and belts neither of which fit the vibe so right now I’ve been considering a pin so that he can move it around as he pleases similarly to how Steph uses hers (examples of how Dick wears it: cufflinks, tie pin, bracelet charm, collar pin, loose in his pocket…)

Cass I was thinking some sort of hair ornament that would transform into the clips she wears in costume but I just don’t see her wearing clips so maybe when I redesign her batgirl/black bat design I’ll revisit I was looking at the comics to see what she wears out of costume and I noticed when she dresses up she usually wears a necklace so I think that could be cute

When they transform:

As I mentioned Dick’s becomes his circlet and Duke’s his winged headpiece

Barbara and Jason’s remain as rings and earrings respectively

Steph’s becomes her tiara

Cass’s is subject to change but for now it’s her hair clips

Tim’s is the circular chest plate thing that forms the bow

Damian’s becomes Alfred the Cat’s collar

Bruce I have yet to design so to be continued

I’m thinking I might design some of the artifacts for fun I don’t have a lot of experience in prop design so no promises but I think they would be super cute

[hyunpic]

Tbh no Tommy Hilfinger (how do you spell it??) fit has ever really slayed at the met gala so I'm not super surprised that the outfits were really basic... but idk, I think skz deserved better especially because the mets are more like a fashion show, not an award show (people watch it for the outfits)

yeah that’s true and i didn’t have my expectations high at all for the fits once i heard it was gonna be all tommy hilfiger.

i just feel like the looks that were designed were really bland like there was no flavor in them and they were trying to play it safe and really advertise that tommy hilfiger brand. with an event like met i would’ve loved seeing more dramatic looks and more dazzle, not this commercial friendly look. and them being the first ever kpop group to attend, tommy had this really good opportunity for a grand moment and he just let it fall flat

even with these fits they wore, what could’ve made them better was if there was more accessories.. like im flabbergasted why none of them wore something in their hair (except felix’s braid) but many of them having long hair so they could’ve added something there like flowers or some kind of jewelry/tiara ANYTHINGGGG to really pump up the prince vibe some of the outfits were trying to give. even with hyunjin’s fit, i wish they had his suit jacket open to let people see the pattern on the shirt underneath cause it was very pretty but it stayed hidden the whole evening.

and don’t let me even get started how dirty they did changbin and seungmin like they didn’t even have the decency to give them those lil flower button pins on their jackets the rest of them had and changbin’s outfit really wasn’t tailored for his proportions well at all. really disappointing 😶‍🌫️

[starlightglimglam27666]

Hey guys!

I'm going to do CMC + Rumble, Diamond Tiara and Silver Spoon (Oh and Cozy Glow, too)

• Most ticklish out of just the 3 crusaders

• Loves being tickled by Diamond Tiara and Rumble (because of how gentle they are)

• Rarity knows she is ticklish and wrecks her

• Her blush is obvious because of her coat and loves when ponies point that out

• Her most ticklish spots are her tummy and sides

• Her horn is pretty ticklish, too

• Loves to wreck her friends

• She tickles Cozy Glow whenever she acts up (probably not used to being reformed)

• Loves to tease, making others feel flustered

• Has lots of tickle fights with her sister and friends

• Canonically ticklish

• Actually likes being tickled

• Many tickle fights with her siblings

• Her weak spots are her tummy and hooves

• Also canonically loves wrecking others

• She tickles her friends on a regular basis

• As the leader she knows her friends' tickle spots

• She enjoys teasing her friends

• Has adorable laughter (have you heard it on the show?)

• Doesn't mind being tickled

• Very ticklish wings

• Her sides are also very bad

• Has a knack for wrecking others

• She's an evil ler

• She uses feathers from her wings

• Will pin her lee down and go to town on them

• Merciless and relentless

• Quite ticklish

• Hates when ponies point out her squealing

• Can't lay still when tickled

• Her weak spot is her tummy

• She used to wreck blank flanks, not so much anymore

• Gives cheer up tickles

• Helps others to embrace it

• Extremely gentle as a ler

• Merciful and lenient

• Slightly less ticklish than Diamond Tiara

• Literally loves tickling

• Weak spots are her hooves

• Her tummy is pretty ticklish too

• Wrecks her lees, blank flanks or not.

• Shows no mercy

• Teases constantly

• Most ticklish of the bunch

• Gets tickled a lot by the others

• His weak spot is his tummy

• His wings are only slightly ticklish

• One- sided tickle fights with Thunderlane (Thunder always wins)

• Only tickles by accident

• I have 0 ler headcanons for him

• Sorry dude, you're very lee coded.

• Switch- loves tickling and being tickled

• Her laughter is joyous and bubbly

• Was tickled a lot by Twilight and her friends

• Her weak spots are her tummy and wings

• Her neck is also a weak point

• Loves to tickle as much as the next pony

• Uses the feathers from her wings to tickle

• Her hooves and tail are also common tickle tools

• Won't go over boundaries and will ask if she went too far afterwards

• Very merciful and will stop when her lee asks

[dailycharacteroption]

Pop Culture Builds 13: Sailor Moon

In many a fantasy story, destiny is sometimes inscrutable, but always seems to pull through in the end, be it a terrible doom or an unlikely hero rising to the occasion and saving the day.

If Destiny was an entity in the Sailor Moon series, however, you might be forgiven for assuming that they were completely off their rocker when they deemed that the fate of the universe rested in the hands of Usagi Tsukino.

A lazy and selfish girl and chronic academic underachiever (and a bit of a crybaby), very few would assume that she was hero material at all. (perhaps this is why she could get by with a Kentian-level secret identity of a simple outfit change) However, she is in fact the reincarnation of Princess Serenity, and the current bearer of the title of Sailor Moon.

With the divine power granted to her by her cat advisor Artemis and the transformation brooch, she (reluctantly) took on the mantle of a Sailor Senshi and fought for justice, and in time, grew to become a true hero, casting aside her cowardice and indolence for bravery and determination alongside her fellows.

Usagi is more or less the character that serves as the flagship for the “Magical Girl” genre of manga and anime, and while she was not the first, she is a lot of people’s first image of the archetype, so let’s have some fun building her in Pathfinder!

Usagi is human, but that need not be the case for your build.

My first thought with Sailor Moon was to make her a magical child vigilante. It only makes sense right, given that the archetype is directly based on the genre. However, the more I looked at it the more I realized that the magical child’s spells really just did not gel with what the character’s capabilities are.

As such, I elected to do an alternate build, specifically the zealot vigilante archetype, which grants her access to the divine magic of a cleric, which as we’ll see is much better at emulating her blessed cosmic powers.

As far as talents go, perhaps the most essential is Transformation Sequence, which grants her the same flashy quick-change abilities as the magical child archetype! Additionally, she should take the Redemption Inquisition from her zealot archetype, giving her a way and an imperative to offer those who were turned to evil by sinister means a way back to goodness. Beyond that, consider the channel energy, empower symbol, and zealous smite talents from the zealot archetype, and the harsh judgement and returning weapon (for her tiara, which we’ll get to later) for her other vigilante talents. As for her social talents beyond transformation sequence, I’d recommend beginner’s luck, case the joint, feign innocence, gossip collector, many guises (thanks to her disguise pin), notorious fool, obscurity, skill familiarity (perform: sing), and well-known expert (exclusively in regards to manga and video games).

As far as feats go, Iron Will, Familiar Bond, and later Improved Familiar are important to grant her a cat and later silvanshee familiar as a stand-in for Artemis. Meanwhile, she should also take Improved Unarmed Strike for those times she fought hand to hand with the forces of evil. Beyond that, feats that improve her divine magic and abilities are a good idea.

As a divine caster that uses both offensive and healing magic, Sailor Moon should be packing the cure spells, as well as dispel magic and other spells that can remove negative conditions and enchantments. Additonally, holy smite and spear of purity, as well as other attack spells based on light and untyped damage are all good choices. Atonement is also a good idea as well.

Usagi does have some signature equipment at her disposal, such as her tiara which doubles as a throwing weapon, easily represented as a glamered holy chakram that gains the returning property from her vigilante talents. Meanwhile, Usagi has wielded a number of magical rods which mostly served to channel her powers, but essentially any magical rod that can also double as a light mace can work here, adding it’s power to her arsenal, though a liberator’s rod, rod of steadfast resolve, or scepter of divine providence make the most sense thematically. Beyond that, equip her with armor and magic items befitting her needs.

If that doesn’t appeal to you, you could always go back to the obvious choice of the magical child vigilante, or perhaps a chosen one paladin. Alternately you could go full cleric or warpriest, using disguise self items to represent the transformation. If going for a 2E build, the vigilante is an archetype for any class in that edition, making pretty much any caster an option there, though obviously cleric, oracle, or a divine-casting witch is the natural pick there.

The fact that the transformation sequence talent exists means somebody knew that magical transforming heroes deserved better than the spell list that the magical child is stuck with. So feel free to use this build with any sort of magical vigilante hero, not just an Usagi-expy!

[waltwhitmansbeard]

Perc'ahlia Week Day 5: Fairytale/Class

can't believe we're five days into @percahliaweek! we've come so far! you can also find this on ao3!

Vex knows what it is to be hungry. She knows the ache, the curling belly, the hollow beneath the tongue. Hunger begets want, and she is a woman who has wanted a great many things in her life. Nights on the street, days chasing food up trees and down alleyways, her ribs clacking against her brother's as they huddled for warmth—Vex knows what it takes to survive.

How many eyes has she watched slide past her, as if she were made of the cobblestone beneath her feet? How quickly did she learn to be able to differentiate between pity, disgust, disappointment? How often did she have to game out her next move, weigh the pros and cons of this atrocity or that, in the name of not starving to death in the night?

She used to resent it. She wasn't entirely sure who she resented—her mother, for not having enough; her father, for taking what remained; her brother, for giving her everything he had when he had nothing to give; herself, for taking it—but the resentment filled the hollows, became the nutrient she thrived on. She let her skin harden, calcify into brick. A brick wall doesn't starve.

But brick walls crumble, given time, given exposure. It turns out love is just as effective a form of erosion as water. Somehow, she ended up here, no walls, no brick, just a girl standing in front of a mirror, her hair done up in curls and pins so that her cheekbones look incredible, wearing a silver and lace ballgown and a tiara like something out of a fairytale. She can hardly remember what the starving girl looked like, though sometimes, when the candlelight glints off of the jewels draped around her neck, she can still see the hunger in the corner of her eye.

The door to her dressing room opens, and her hungry eyes flash to Percy, who stops dead in his tracks upon seeing her. "Oh."

This, at least, is an expression she did not have to learn. Her hunger knows his, times the tripping of his eyes along her reflection, and she smiles despite the fluttering in her stomach. "Oh, yourself."

Because he looks dashing, a gold-trimmed suit jacket of navy velvet and a lavender vest beneath it, as if he were the Whitestone crest come to life. However much the tailor was paid, it wasn't enough, because he did a wonder on those silver pants.

The door closes, and he comes up behind her. It's a bit awkward, as her many skirts and petticoats make things difficult, but he manages to get his arms around her, hook his chin on her bare shoulder. "The people of Whitestone have no idea what they're in for."

Vex fights the urge to wipe her clammy hands on her satin skirt. "Well, neither do I, darling."

"What are you talking about? You've been planning this ball for months."

"Yes, well..." She turns to frown at him. "Planning a ball and hosting a ball are two entirely different things. And this is important. Whitestone's first Winter's Crest ball after..."

She doesn't need to finish the sentence. "Is that what has you worried? Whether or not you'll outshine Delilah Briarwood?"

"No..." She starts chewing on her lip, before remembering that her makeup's already done. "What if they can tell?"

His brow furrows, and he slips his hand over hers to tug her toward a chaise lounge between two towering armoires. They sit, and he asks, "What if they can tell what?"

She shrugs. "I'm not from money, Percy. I've gotten good at faking it, and it was easy to do when Grog and Scanlan were around being so obviously distracting, but...I'm a lady now. They're going to be watching me."

"With the way you look, they're going to be mentally undressing you." She flicks his nose, and he laughs. "Vex'ahlia, the last nobles who claimed any kind of authority in this city committed atrocities that will haunt the streets of Whitestone for generations. So long as you don't plan on committing any kind of genocide tonight, I think we can call the event a success."

"I just don't want to embarrass you." She feels so small when she says it, like she has just stolen an apple from a cart in the market and is trying to eat it before she gets caught.

He lifts her chin to look her dead in the eyes. "You cannot embarrass me, because I am proud of every single thing that you do."

"Even that time I lied to Gern and stole his broom?"

"Especially then. Leadership takes guile and, frankly, a questionable relationship to morality."

She leans into his side. "It is nerve-wracking though, the idea of all those eyes on me. I mean, don't get me wrong, I look amazing, and this dress deserves eyes. Still, I've never been so...front and center."

"Well I, for one, think it's about time Whitestone and its guests see what a treasure its First House holds."

And they do. Vex and Percy descend the grand staircase together, her arm tucked into his, her chin high and her gaze steady. All around, the leaders of Whitestone and the who's-who of Tal'dorei have gathered, but Vex focuses on not tripping down the steps instead of on their expectant gazes. As they near the bottom, she is relieved to find her brother just off to the side, his arm around Keyleth's waist and shit-eating grin on his face. Not bad for two kids from nowhere.

The night is magical, like a story her mother would tell her before bed, of princesses and magic and romance. The grand ballroom is all aglitter in candles and ice, and Vex is hardly ever off the dance floor. When he pulls himself away from Keyleth, Vax waltzes her around, and she only cries a little when he tells her how proud he is of her. Grog is surprisingly deft on his feet, and Scanlan actually casts enlarge on himself just long enough to take her for a spin or two. At some point, she and Keyleth and Pike find themselves twirling in a circle, laughing until they can't remember what was funny in the first place.

But most of the time, she is in Percy's arms, letting him lead her in whatever dances he learned in his youth here in the castle. He's nimble and confident and so very warm, and she is happy to rest her cheek against his and breath him in. Perhaps as hostess, she should be spending more time with her guests, mingling and networking and thanking them for coming, but honestly, they've been given delicious food and romantic music and enough flickering candlelight to put the stars to shame—what more could they ask of her?

The ball does not have any official end, and guests start to drift off to their rooms or homes on their own, until only a few stragglers remain. Pike and Scanlan dance quietly together in one corner, and Vex's pretty sure she saw Vax whisk Keyleth off to bed a while ago. Vex's eyes droop, but before she can suggest going to bed themselves, Percy tugs her hand. "Come with me."

She'd follow him anywhere. "Of course."

He leads her up the stairs and onto one of the many balconies jutting out of the castle, and before she can shiver once, his jacket is off and draped around her shoulders. Catha is high and bright, and the snow on the grounds below glitters like diamonds.

"I have a present for you." There's something in his tone, mischievous and proud and...nervous?

"Oh?" She's too tired to pretend she isn't eager to find out what it is. "You know how much I love presents."

"You know how much I love giving them to you." He slides a hand into the pocket of the jacket, and whatever he pulls out is small enough to be hidden in the curl of his hand.

Now she's really curious. "Well, show me."

"Patience, Vex'ahlia. I need to ask you something first."

She threw a ball today. She shouldn't have to take a quiz to earn her Winter's Crest present. "What do you need to ask me?"

"Do you know how much I love you?"

She wrinkles her nose. "Yes."

"Do you know how lucky Tal'dorei is to have you on its side?"

"Yes."

"Do you know that there is no one else in this life or the next I would rather spend all of my days and all of my nights with? No one else who occupies my every waking thought, stars in my every dream? No one else whose happiness I would rather devote my energies to achieving? No one else I could imagine building a family, a future, a legacy with? No else but you?"

Her throat is thick, her eyes stinging. "Yes."

"Good. Three for three. Just one more question to ask, then..." When she sees the ring, sparkling and so very beautiful, she grips the rail of the balcony to keep herself upright. "Lady Vex'ahlia, Baroness of the First House of Whitestone and Grand Mistress of the Grey Hunt, would you do me the honor and the privilege of being my wife?"

She can't even say yes. She just nods, tears flowing freely, as he slips the ring on her finger and captures her lips in a kiss. A fairytale, an absolute fucking fairytale, this wild and wondrous life. He kisses her until she can't feel the cold air of the mountains anymore, and then he murmurs, "I nearly asked you earlier this evening, when you were worried you were going to embarrass me. Honestly, can you imagine?"

She laughs. "Yes, well, I probably would have been an absolute wreck all night if you had." She looks down, flutters the fingers of her left hand so the ring catches the moonlight. "It is a gorgeous ring, darling, well done."

"I wish I could remember which dead relative it belonged to, but there are just so many."

"We'll thank them later." She stretches up to kiss him, pull his lip between her teeth. "I rather think we have some celebrating to do."

And her prince sweeps her inside the castle, the echoes of her laughter rippling over the lawns into the winter night above.

[yooniesim]

I completely agree w your last post!! Imo it's ironic when mm people get up in arms about alpha skin details when it's like... most of the kid/toddler clothes I've seen that registered as age inappropriate to me has been mm (altho my mama was old-school so I personally see things like crop tops for kids/toddlers as too much). There's a specific way that a lot of mm simmers make toddlers especially look "older" (super long adult hair conversions, for ex.). And I'm not saying it's *bad*, it just highlights how the adultification of Black kids exists almost everywhere, bc why is a long ass mm ponytail on a non-Black sim toddler a-okay but a long kinky alpha hair on a toddler is now "yassified" and "toddlers and tiaras"?

Yeah I agree tbh, I mean I see the adultification of child sims from both sides so there's no need to just vilify alpha simmers for it. To me it's a little bit how alpha simmers have also been almost universally pinned as the villains of the paywall debate despite many mm creators also doing scummy shit or even doxxing and getting away with it. But I still barely see anyone talking about that vs alphas perma-paywalling. I don't think it's intentional but I do think black ppl get criticized more harshly whatever they do and there's a higher amount of black alpha simmers bc its been very hard to find cc for us in mm style for a very long time. So a lot of ppl don't have any choice but to be alpha/mix. Also shocker some ppl just like alpha style! I don't think kid sims need a full beat and giant eyelashes and floor length hair, hell no lol, but I do think it's... interesting the type of language that gets used when discussing this topic and who gets the brunt of the criticism.

[saintmeghanmarkle]

Diamond earrings and the murder of a journalist: a tale of two principles by u/Mickleborough

Diamond earrings and the murder of a journalist: a tale of two principles ‘On 2 October 2018, Jamal Khashoggi, a US-based journalist and critic of Saudi Arabia’s government, walked into the Saudi consulate in Istanbul, where he was murdered.’ BBC18 days later, on 20 October 2018, there was an admission of sorts that Khashoggi had been killed by Saudi operatives. More details would unfold, but let’s stick with the 20 October 2018 date for now.The following is largely based on Robert Lacey’s book Band of Brothers, specifically this page on the Robert Lacey websiteMeghan was given a pair of white and yellow diamond earrings by Crown Prince Mohammad bin Salman of Saudi Arabia. She’s been photographed twice wearing them. Note the dates.A triptych. Crown Prince Mohammad bin Salman is in the middle.The first appearance: 23 October 2018Meghan wore the earrings at a state dinner in Suva, Fiji, when the Sussexes were on their tour of Australia, New Zealand, Fiji, and Tonga. This was 3 days after the Saudi Arabian government revealed that Khashoggi had been murdered by Saudi operatives.What might Meghan have known when she decided to pin the £500,000 / $635,000 earrings to her lobes? At best - just that they were from the Crown Prince. There would’ve been aides and private secretaries to keep her informed of topical events. But - to be generous - perhaps she wasn’t aware of Khashoggi’s murder and / or the Saudi Arabian connection.Note that when the story broke out about Meghan wearing questionable earrings in Fiji, Meghan claimed to have ‘borrowed’ them. The British Royal Family doesn’t borrow jewellery from jewellers; when push came to shove, Meghan’s legal advisers stated that, as wedding gifts to members of the Royal Family were recorded as the property of the monarch, Meghan technically had ‘borrowed’ them from the late Queen. However, the practice is that a royal has, in effect, a permanent loan of certain jewellery, such that they become associated with her - think Diana and the Cambridge Lover’s Knot Tiara. So, in effect, the earrings could be regarded as Meghan’s. In any event, it was her decision to wear them.The second appearance: 14 November 2018Meghan again wore the earrings at a dinner in Buckingham Palace to celebrate the then Prince Charles’s 70th birthday.By this time the media had reported on possible connections between the Crown Prince and Khashoggi’s murder. There was nothing conclusive then, but it was out there.Could Meghan argue that she wasn’t aware of current affairs? Apparently, around that time, she claimed that she read The Economist, and possibly not much else. But between 1-14 November, The Economist had at least 2 articles linking the Crown Prince to Khashoggi’s murder.Regardless, Meghan chose to wear the earrings again.AfterwordIn February 2021, US intelligence agencies found that the Crown Prince had approved Khashoggi’s murder. Washington hasn’t issued sanctions: Guardian.Meanwhile, how did Endeavor deal with Saudi Arabia?In spring 2018, Saudi Arabia invested $400 million with the Endeavor talent agency (this is how the New York Times describes it, although it had merged with William Morris by then), under Ari Emanuel, whereby the money would finance Endeavor’s growth in exchange for Endeavor diversifying Saudi Arabia’s growth in sports, events, TV and film production.Emanuel said the murder was ‘very, very concerning, really concerning.’ Shortly after Endeavor returned the $400 million and walked away. Not many other companies with large contracts with the Saudi Arabian government have done this: New York TimesIn the endThere might have been international and / or diplomatic incidents if the earrings had been returned to the Crown Prince (never mind setting a precedent for all other gifts from that regime). But it wouldn’t have been too difficult just to stop wearing the earrings - certainly easier than returning $400 million. post link: https://ift.tt/OU6wNT8 author: Mickleborough submitted: June 26, 2023 at 05:21PM via SaintMeghanMarkle on Reddit

[briosomakeup]

Top 5 Bridal Hairstyle Trends for 2025 Brides

The Indian wedding is all about stunning locations, beautiful décor, lots of food, and a gorgeous bride and groom. To look perfect is the dream of every bride on her wedding day, and hairstyle plays a critical role in enhancing the looks of the bride. Along with the outfit, jewelry, and makeup, the right hairstyle is very important to match the whole wedding vibe.

As we are entering 2025, numerous bridal hairstyle trends are emerging that are known for their beautiful blend of elegance with tradition.

Looking for the best Bridal Hairstyles in Pune? Continue reading to learn about the latest trends and select the perfect look for your big celebration. If you are a bride-to-be and looking for trending wedding hairstyles for 2025, below is the list of top 5 bridal hairstyle trends for 2025:

The Classic Bun Hairstyle:

The classic bun is the timeless choice for every bride as it gives an amazing traditional as well as elegant look. This hairstyle is often decked with flowers, especially roses, jasmine, or Gajra. The overall appearance of the bun can be enhanced with decorative pins, hair accessories, or fresh flower petals that match the outfit of the day. The vibrant attires of brides are mostly complimented with white or red flowers to give brides a divine look. The best part of this hairstyle is that it keeps your hair in place for many hours so you can perform and enjoy your wedding rituals.

Soft Waves with a Maang Tika:

Soft waves with a beautiful maang tika are a perfect hairstyle for those brides who want a romantic and effortless look for their big day. To pair this hairstyle, a bold maang tika or a maatha patti can do wonders. Many brides choose this hairstyle for their haldi or mehandi look because of its simplicity and elegance.

Half-up and Half-down Hairstyle:

The half-up half-down hairstyle is the best choice for those brides who wish to be traditional with a little touch of modern look. For this hairstyle, the upper section of hair is either braided or pinned back while the hair of the lower section remains loose either curled or straightened. This is one of the latest Indian bridal wedding hairstyles 2025 that suits most of the face shapes and hair lengths. Numerous hair accessories like floral pins, tiaras, and jumar tikkas go perfectly with this hairstyle.

Sleek Ponytail with Gajra:

Another hairstyle which is trending among brides looking for a modern, contemporary look is a sleek ponytail with Gajra wrap. With this hairstyle, brides can enjoy their wedding functions completely.

Messy Buns with Side Braids:

The messy bun is an all-time favourite hairstyle that will remain trendy in 2025 as well. However, this year, brides are experimenting with this hairstyle with side braids to give it boho-chic and traditional elegance. This hairstyle can be paired with shimmering hairpins, delicate pearls, or tiny floral accents.

Also Read Blog:Bridal Hairstyles to Flatter Your Face Shape

How Brioso Helps:

Brioso, one of the top bridal hairstylists in Pune, has been delivering premium services for many years. Being in the beauty world for so many years, Sonal Burde has a great understanding of the latest trends in weddings and bride hairstyles. Sonal Burde is a well-known and trusted bridal makeup artist in Pune. Her friendly and pleasant personality makes every client very comfortable so they can tell their vision about the wedding looks. Sonal and her whole team try to make their vision a reality.

The bridal hairstyles in 2025 are all about blending tradition with modernity. Because of this trend, brides can enhance their personal style with a touch of Indian aesthetics. So, what are you waiting for? Choose your favourite hairstyle for your wedding day and astonish everyone with your elegant look!

Conclusion

With these trends, you’re sure to find the ideal bridal makeup look to match your style and personality. Whether you’re planning a lavish party or a private ceremony, the appropriate cosmetics will enhance your attractiveness and increase your confidence on your special day.

These top 5 bridal hairstyle ideas for 2025 provide brides with a variety of options. There’s something for everyone, whether you want a bright, contemporary style or a timeless, traditional look. Remember to consult with your hairstylist to choose the perfect haircut that complements your dress, the overall wedding theme, and your personal style.

We specialize in creating bespoke Wedding hairstyles in Pune that reflect your ideas and taste. Whether you want a classic updo, romantic waves, or a trendy bridal ponytail, our professional stylists will make sure your hair looks picture-perfect on your wedding day. Visit our website and indulge yourself. Take a look at our bridal hairstyle makeup gallery of incredible makeup looks we’ve done on stunning brides. If you like what you see or have any questions, please call us right away to set up an appointment.

[hijabkart]

Embracing Elegance: The Hijab for Brides

In recent years, the hijab has gained popularity as an elegant and meaningful addition to bridal attire. For many brides, the hijab is not just a symbol of modesty and faith, but also a statement of personal style and cultural identity. HijabKart is dedicated to providing brides with a wide array of beautiful and stylish hijabs that complement their wedding day look. In this blog, we explore the significance of the hijab for brides, its various styles, and how HijabKart helps make every bride’s day special.

The Significance of the Hijab for Brides

The hijab holds deep cultural and religious significance for many Muslim women. On her wedding day, a bride’s choice to wear a hijab can symbolize her commitment to her faith and traditions. It represents modesty, respect, and a connection to her cultural roots. Moreover, for many brides, wearing a hijab on their wedding day is a way to honour their family and heritage, adding an extra layer of meaning to their special day.

Variety of Styles

At HijabKart, we understand that every bride is unique and deserves a hijab that reflects her style and personality. That’s why we offer a wide range of hijabs in various styles, fabrics, and colours to suit every bride’s taste.

Traditional Elegance

For brides who prefer a classic look, traditional hijabs made from luxurious fabrics like silk, satin, and chiffon are perfect. These hijabs often feature intricate embroidery, lace, and beadwork that add a touch of sophistication and elegance. Paired with a traditional wedding dress, these hijabs create a timeless and graceful appearance.

Modern Chic

Modern brides who want a contemporary twist on the traditional hijab will find plenty of options at HijabKart. Our collection includes hijabs with trendy designs, such as asymmetrical cuts, bold colours, and unique draping styles. These hijabs can be paired with modern wedding gowns to create a chic and fashionable look that still honours the bride’s cultural and religious values.

Customized Creations

For the ultimate personalized touch, HijabKart offers custom-made hijabs. Brides can work with our designers to create a hijab that perfectly matches their wedding dress and overall theme. Whether it’s a specific fabric, colour, or embellishment, our team is dedicated to bringing the bride’s vision to life.

Enhancing the Bridal Look

The hijab is not just a head covering; it’s an integral part of the bridal ensemble. At HijabKart, we believe that the hijab should enhance the bride’s beauty and complement her wedding dress. Our hijabs are designed to be both functional and stylish, ensuring that the bride feels confident and beautiful on her special day.

Accessories and Embellishments

To add a touch of glamour, many brides choose to accessorize their hijabs with decorative pins, brooches, or tiaras. These embellishments can add sparkle and elegance, making the hijab a stunning focal point of the bridal outfit. HijabKart offers a range of accessories that can be seamlessly integrated with our hijabs to create a cohesive and dazzling look.

Practical Considerations

We understand that comfort is key on such an important day. That’s why our hijabs are made from high-quality, breathable fabrics that ensure the bride stays comfortable throughout the ceremony and reception. Our designs also consider ease of wear and secure fitting, so brides can focus on enjoying their special day without any distractions.

Conclusion

The hijab for brides is a beautiful blend of tradition, faith, and fashion. At HijabKart, we are committed to providing brides with hijabs that not only honour their cultural and religious values but also enhance their beauty and style. With a wide variety of designs, fabrics, and customization options, HijabKart ensures that every bride can find the perfect hijab for her wedding day. Celebrate your special day with a hijab that reflects your unique identity and elegance, and let HijabKart be a part of your unforgettable journey.

[rpvlix]

👞- What’s their favorite pair of shoes? 🎀- What kind of accessories do they like to wear? - Ast

//ohh shoes are my weakness... i have never been good at shoes. But I have been having Ast fashion thoughts recently so we will see what i can do...

👞

It may come as some surprise that Astathis actually prefers rather plain footwear. It is generally hidden under layers of elaborately embroidered cloth anyway, it may as well be more functional than it is beautiful.

Ast's go-to pair (though rest assured, he has many) is a strappy, closed-toe, flat, knee-high sandal in a neutral golden brown leather. They're well-worn, but they do not really show their age except in the softness of the material, broken in by hundreds of thousands of steps.

🎀

Ribbons are always a must, in any outfit, any hairstyle. Lovely satin stripes of color and luxury. Hair combs and pins as well, especially those with ornate and intricate metal work. Flowers themselves can be an accessory, and often are in Astathis' ensembles, but things with floral motifs are also a big hit. Necklaces, earrings, other facial jewelry. Ast's collection of accessories is much larger and cycles more often than his shoe collection, you are not likely to see the same piece more than once.

Astathis doesn't care much for hats or particularly unusual headpieces, but a nice circlet is more than appreciated and there was a phase where he sported tiaras. When it comes to headwear it's a very delicate line between simple elegance and gaudiness. Too simple is boring, too much is distractingly hideous.

[perfectlypanda]

When visiting the many islands that comprise the Fire Nation, it was not uncommon for their royal majesties Fire Lord Zuko and Master Katara to don the traditional dress of the host island.

Zutara Week Day 1: Tradition

I’ve been working on this one for... a month? On and off. Earlier this year I pinned some beautiful Thai brocade to a Pinterest board, and then kept thinking about how I could incorporate something like it into a Zutara piece. Although Japan and China are usually listed as primary inspirations (with a nod to some Southeast Asian elements), given that the Fire Nation is on the equator and is a volcanic archipelago, I’ve always head-canoned that areas of it swing much closer to the cultures of tropical Southeast Asia. So creating a piece inspired by Thai national dress gave me a chance to indulge that headcanon (and an excuse to stare at many photos of gorgeous Thai clothing). 

While I did end up doing a lot of research, I must stress that these are a fantasy inspired by Thai national dress. These are not meant to be accurate representations of Thai national costume, because I know they aren’t, and because I took liberties in my design choices. For example, Katara and Zuko are wearing outfits of different levels of formality, because I couldn’t resist putting Zuko in something that would show off his lightning scar. There are also many overlapping elements between Thai and Cambodian national costume, and the images I used as inspiration may not always have been correctly attributed. If you’re interested, the website for the Queen Sirikit Museum of Textiles explores the history of Thai formal wear and has a lot of lovely photos. 

It’s hard to see in the finished image because it’s shrunk down, but I designed the pattern for Katara’s skirt from scratch based on similar styles I found, but incorporated a flame in the middle of the design for a Fire Nation touch. The small gold embroidery on Zuko’s pants uses the inner most flame of this design. Zuko wears his Fire Lord crown, and Katara wears her dual moon-flame crown. Katara’s tiara-esque headpiece was inspired by images of Thai theatrical performers. Zuko’s shoes are inspired by similar long toe Thai shoes I found, although not from any one specific source.

Please forgive the background, backgrounds are hard. 

♥ Please do not repost. If you like it and want to show people, share a link to this page instead. Thank you!

[rosesandcloves]

Unwanted Years

Chapter one: Mrs Mikaelson

~Klaus Mikaelson x femme!oc

When she married the love of her life she never expected him to spike her wine with his blood and then drown her in the bathtub on their wedding night, betraying her only wish: to stay mortal. In a rush to get away from her insane husband she finds herself in the macabre town of Mystic Falls where she encounters a handsome stranger who takes her in. Meanwhile her husband will stop at nothing to find her. But what will his betrayal cost him and those in his way...

She stood in front of a floor length mirror in a wedding dress at last. Today she is to marry a man many feared, but she thought she would love for forever. Its interesting how forever is different to different people. Her fiance was some 1000 years old, his history was 10 times her forever yet he was still willing to risk his heart on a mere mortal like her.

But despite all that they bettered eachother. They soothed eachother's pain. They were happy.

She pinned a tiara to her hair and smoothed out the sleeves of her ivory gown and took one last look at herself in the mirror, knowing that the next time she saw herself she would be forever changed.

She is about to marry an original vampire. And he was about to marry a human.

***

Soon enough she finds herself walking down the aisle. Her heart pounds in her chest and he hears it as soon as she enters the room. She walks down the aisle and he turns to see her in her wedding dress for the first time.  "You're as beautiful as the day I met you love, and you always will be." Klaus whispered into her ear.

Elijah stood next to his brother. His best man. He looked at her in a way she did not recognise. Pitty. She shrugged it off, his date had cancelled last minute. However, it puzzled her to see him showing emotion, so blatently.

As Klaus placed the ring on her finger she pictured her life ahead, but it was unclear, blurry. He would never grow old, but she would, she could never live a normal life, but she knew she wouldnt want to share her limited days with anyone else.

Perks of having a husband who lived through the last millennium, is he was amazing at dancing. His strong arms lead her around in a romantic waltz. Their first dance as husband and wife. She thought how ironic it was when the minister talked about living as equals. She would never be equal to him would she? He has 100 times her strength, he was invincible. She could be taken out by a rusty nail.

The speeches were made and they danced the night away with their friends, and soon enough it was time to go home for the wedding night.

***

Once they got to the hotel Klaus fetched her a glass of wine while she went to the bathroom to draw herself a bath. It was a long day and she wanted to relax and sooth her tired muscles.

She had barely been in the tub five minutes when she was interrupted by her new husband. "Hi love, here's your drink. May I join you?"

"Of course, don't you remember, what is mine is yours"

He stripped down, revealing his muscular figure, and he got in the bath behind her so she was sitting between his legs, her head layed against his chest.

She took a sip of her wine. The two of them talked about their wedding and how perfect it was, and soaked up the beginning honeymoon phase. Her glass of wine long empty she laid on his chest, now glazed with sweat from the heat of the bath.

"I can't wait to spend forever with you Klaus" She sighed.

"Yes... forever..." Klaus trailed off.

All of a sudden he plunged her head under the water, holding her down, she tried to fight against him but even her most primal plee for oxygen was nothing against his supernatural strength. After a few minutes she went limp, stopped fighting.

It was done.

Klaus carried her to the bed, laid her down and waited for her to wake.

Part two

[sarcastic-trash]

TBHK Characters + What I Think They're Insecure Of

This is strictly headcanons and I'll definitely project onto some characters (I'll give you guys a note of which ones). Nene's and Mitsuba's is canon though with a bit added on.

Yashiro Nene

Her ankles are a canon insecurity but, I also think she'd be insecure of her legs in general - not just her ankles. Her calves, thighs, and ankles are all things she is insecure of herself. At one point I believe she was insecure about having a smaller chest but, she realized that big boobs aren't exactly the norm. All sizes exist.

Yugi Amane - Hanako

Personally I think Hanako has a decent amount of confidence. However, I think he's insecure about his height. He has a crush on Nene as we all know and Nene typically likes taller guys (*cough* Teru *cough*). I think he's always had this insecurity but, it heightened when he saw who Nene liked.

Minamoto Kou

I feel he's insecure about whether he's helpful enough. Let's be honest, Kou looks up to Teru and they do look similar except Kou looks obviously younger. So, I feel Kou is comfortable with his looks enough to not consider himself ugly. I just think he has an insecurity of if he's helpful enough or if he's a good friend.

Mitsuba Sousoke

He was canonically insecure of his personality at one point (pfft same dude) - I believe. I feel like Mitsuba likes how he looks but, is also insecure that he's too "girly". I feel he's fairly confident in his looks other than that. He comes to realize he likes his androgyny.

Yugi Tsukasa

He's actually so hard to think of an insecurity for. If I had to pick one I'd say he's insecure about his clinginess. He seems so careless about how touchy he can be but, I feel secretly he may feel like it's annoying. I don't know - Tsukasa is such a hard character for me to pin point an insecurity for.

[UPDATE: An anonymous user submitted their thoughts on Tsukasa's insecurity. Link here.

Natsuhiko Hyuuga

I feel like he's insecure about being too clingy as well. While he's insecure about that, he's also insecure that if he's too distant people will think he doesn't like them.

Sakura Nanamine

I honestly don't know! I love her character design and everything so it's hard for me to think of anything. I'll say maybe she's insecure about herself in general. It's nothing specific really - she doesn't talk about herself a lot or really talk much at all. Maybe she's not fully confident in how she appears to others - looks or otherwise.

Aoi Akane

She wears a whole ass fake persona so she's probably insecure about her personality. I feel like thats a given. I also think she's insecure about her family and home life - this is definitely projection by the way. Since she wears a fake persona, it makes me think there's stuff at home going on. I know from experience when your going through things you adopt a fake personality to display to others.

She gives me that vibe.

Akane Aoi

I think he's insecure about his self worth (self projection lol) due to multiple rejections over the course of many years. He's had to feel worthless at one point or another. Anyone would have likely felt that way, getting rejection after rejection since their first year of middle school. I think after the whole supernatural bullshit, he was probably insecure about that - given his hatred for supernaturals.

Minamoto Teru

So I saw a headcanon that like Kou and Tiara, he has fangs too. He's just insecure of them and I actually really like that. I also think he's slightly insecure about his own personality as well (self projection except I'm not popular lmao). He's known as Mr. Perfect yet, his personality is so unlikeable? That would make even the most shameless individual insecure.

Yamabuki Lemon

I'm gonna try to think of one for Lemon cause I wanna include him. So, I'd say he's insecure of his interests. Lemon is iconically seen face in his phone - always, without fail. I think him having an insecurity about his interest could explain that and his lack of interaction with others.

[decamarks]

ok so i'm going through stuff and starting to get a better grasp on some of the things that i missed in Petscop. i'm curious, what's your take on Belle/Tiara? i don't remember if you talked about them in that big essay you posted in feburary because essays like that kind of turn to mush in my brain.

OH BOY belle... yeah i didn't talk about her much (or at all?) in that essay, since it was more broadly about petscop as a series than any individual characters. i might someday write something exploring specific story elements/characters because good god there's a LOT to talk about there, and hopefully i'd be able to write it in a way that isn't as much indefinite word mush to the mind </3 BUT for now i can offer you a short summation of my thoughts.

like all the other characters in petscop, it's honestly kinda hard for me to pin down a singular 'take' on belle, especially considering how the series framing seems intent on kinda... keeping her locked up, so to speak. she's confined to the quitter's room, which directly reflects amber's room as they both bear the same symbol—she's behind some perceptual bars, and you have to blur your eyes to see between them. belle isn't often allowed the spotlight: she talks to paul on the phone, but we can't hear what she says; she has 153,822 hours in the game, practically none of which we get to see... it's important to remember that belle isn't part of the 'family', and the petscop footage we see is being curated by that exact family. what we see certainly isn't the full story.

name/identity alteration being as central to the story as it is, it's probably important to clarify why i'm only referring to 'belle' and not 'tiara'. basically, tiara is not a fully formed identity—she's merely an entity that belle attempted to be reborn into when she was a child, out of external pressure from the family. belle was adopted but unaccepted as herself, so the 'tiara' identity was born out of a need to assimilate, desiring acceptance. rainer is the person who initially attempted to aid in this process, probably the one who suggested it to her due his familiarity with rebirth, but that obviously didn't turn out well. hence the infamous FUCK-FUCK-FUCK save file.

upon realizing how over his head he was, rainer tried to reverse the damage, though his control over the situation was a lot more limited than he wanted it to be. there wasn't anything he could do to make the family accept her, and there wasn't anything he could do to 'fix' her. he definitely seemed frustrated by it—with belle, with himself, with everything else happening around him, really—hence how everything he says in petscop 12 is written with a strange, almost singsong sort of derision towards belle, and, though less directly, himself. this is basically rainer at his lowest, right before his suicide, with many allusions to his forthcoming death written in the same mocking tone.

after rainer's death, belle was left in a sort of liminal state of existence—transitory purgatory. she failed to become tiara because she couldn't finish the process; half-formed, unable to emerge from her 'egg', she sort of became... softlocked. she was clearly still attached to attaining this identity in some way, hence her absurd time spent running petscop starting around 2000, after rainer's death. the game is the last remnant of tiara, and of rainer, so she keeps it close to keep both alive.

while paul and rainer's transformations are sorta linear (care -> paul / daniel -> rainer), belle's process is more like belle -> tiara -> belle. her pressure to assimilate definitely parallels care's story, in which care rejects the identity forced on her (with marvin believing/wanting her to be the reincarnation of lina) and instead becomes paul. but unlike paul, belle never becomes someone else; in the end, she's still belle. comparatively, it almost looks like stagnation—or worse, regression. on further inspection, however, that is anything but the case. as a child, belle sought to become tiara only out of a need to be accepted by her (frankly awful) family. though as we see her in the present, as an adult, she seems quite distant from this identity. paul definitely doesn't refer to belle as tiara; if my memory isn't failing me, i believe paul initially doesn't even make a connection between tiara and belle? if he's unfamiliar with the name, it serves to show that 'tiara' as a concept is very much trapped within the world of the game, stuck in 1996, no longer truly representative of the present in which paul plays the game. belle seems much happier to be part of the 'family' that paul proposes at the end of the soundtrack video, where she's his sister simply because paul loves her no matter who she is—same with the contents of the 'new life letter' written by lina. it's that unconditional acceptance that allows her to be belle, and not tiara. so her process was more like belle -> tiara -> BELLE.

honestly though i don't think i could summarize belle's situation nearly as well as this really good analysis of her. it examines her as a character and her circumstances pretty much exactly how i see it, so i highly recommend reading that if you want to get a better understanding of her.

that being said, if you want MY personal opinion on belle... i simply think she's the best. the fact that paul calls her a puzzle genius and her extensive knowledge of petscop's abstruse features like the phonetic writing system just delights me. i think she'd be insane at tetris. also i think her sprites with the eyes are completely hilarious and the entire scene of her aggressively signaling paul to look right is just like, the best scene in the entire series actually. in conclusion: petscop kid VERY epic.

^ look at her. looking.