#young fru

[danielemarigold]

John Frusciante

[larissaligus]

I really love this old video ❤️

[jaythes1mp]

1224 words, 7239 characters, 54 sentences, 27 paragraphs, 4.9 pages. Tag list: @zero-s-tea @chemicalsandghosts @yandere-enthusiast @starsdotalk @small-mushroom-fae

Your secrets are ours, kid

Yandere BatFam x Reader — CH10 -> CH9 -> CH8 -> CH7 -> CH6 -> CH5 -> CH4 -> CH3 -> CH2 -> CH1

You had always had a vague understanding that your biological father was well-off, as he would consistently transfer a substantial amount of cash to that woman each month. However, while you were fortunate enough to not have grown up in the most deprived area of Gotham, it didn't necessarily mean that you had lived in the lap of luxury either.

Despite the knowledge that your father was wealthy, you had still scraped by in a small, cramped apartment, constantly relying on his financial support and night jobs to survive. You supposed that your situation could have been worse, but it didn't make the reality any more bearable. You often wondered what it would be like to live in a well-appointed home and never worry about money, but those thoughts were quickly thrusted aside and squashed down by the woman’s polished heel. Every time, the woman’s sharp words brought you back to reality.

You hadn’t deserved that life. She would remind you time and time again.

You grimace, the thought of your mother, or rather, that woman, entering your consciousness disgusting you. You weren't sure if she'd ever truly earn the title of 'mother.'

It wasn't until you reached the age of eleven that you become painfully aware that not every child had to desperately plead with their mother for food, and that it wasn't normal for parents to hold their kids needs over their own heads.

It had become abundantly clear to you from a young age that the woman was never truly interested in motherhood and had only kept you out of a slim chance that one of the men she had whored herself out to would be wealthy. She targeted men at lavish galas, her sole purpose for going being to hook up with them in exchange for large amounts of money. They usually sent nondisclosure agreements along with the cash, ensuring her continued wealth. However, your existence disrupted her carefree lifestyle. ‘It was perfect, until you came along.’ She’d say.

She had exploited Bruce Wayne for money. Getting him drunk with enough press around to stress about his ‘playboy image’ to bed her. Afterwards, she demanded a large sum of money, and he gave it to her without a second thought. He hadn’t even fully read over the details. Just signing up for a wire transfer to her account every month for the next few years. He hadn’t even been aware of you.

Too preoccupied with training the young Robin to even be aware of your birth.

Throughout your life, the woman had consistently manipulated the truth, spinning a tale in which it was your fault that your father had ‘left.’ And, despite your reservations, a small part of you still believed her words.

She had carefully cultivated your sense of guilt, instilling the belief that your very existence had driven your father away. Her venomous words and manipulative behavior had left deep emotional scars, convincing you that you were unworthy of a loving father's affection. Or rather, anyone’s affection.

That day, when you turned sixteen, was the day that woman unceremoniously ushered you out of her home. Clothes and any belongings that she didn't deem worthy enough to sell for a few hundred dollars were carelessly thrown out into the hallway. By the time you made it back from work, most of your belongings had already been looted by the other tenants and homeless kids who roamed the building.

With a mixture of desperation and hope, you had gathered the few remaining possessions that you could salvage, cramming them into your work bag. Your fingers had trembled slightly as you dug out your old, cracked phone. Desperation clawed at your chest as you dialed her number and slammed your fist against the door.

You hadn’t been surprised when your repeated calls went unanswered. Frustration and anger boiled within you, mingled with a pang of hurt and despair. Deep down, you knew it was futile to even attempt to break down the door, as that would only result in consequences that you were unwilling to face.

With a steely determination, you forced back the tears that threatened to overwhelm you, walking to the nearest bank with a firm resolve. You withdrew every penny you had painstakingly saved over the past two years and closed the account, ensuring she could no longer access any of your hard-earned money.

Armed with the few thousand dollars you had managed to retrieve, you began a desperate search for someone, anyone, who would be willing to offer you a roof over your head. Despair gripped your heart as you realized how limited your options truly were.

At that point, the members of the Batfamily had been cognisant of your existence for about a year. Bruce having taken a DNA test for Alfred’s medical examination. Yet, despite their general awareness of your presence, it seemed they had made no direct attempt to reach out or provide assistance. On the surface, your life appeared stable. You resided with a supportive parent, attended school, and held down a job. From all outward appearances, there didn't seem to be anything particularly noteworthy or concerning about your circumstances.

But they were detectives. One would expect them to possess keen eyes for details, especially when it came to the nuances and subtle signs that might indicate something amiss. Yet, they had missed the marks, failing to acknowledge the more subtle indications of your turmoil.

Jason discovered you the morning after you had been cruelly cast out from your home. You were found sleeping outside, your weary head nestled against your overstuffed work bag. Wearing an old, frayed sweater for a makeshift blanket.

Typically, he wouldn't have paused to take note of a sight akin to this. He was all too gruesomely acquainted with the sight of homeless, neglected children on the streets. But as his gaze fell upon you, there was an unsettling sense of familiarity that snagged his attention.

The question nagged him persistently, scratching at his consciousness like an untamed itch. Where had he come across you before?

Then, suddenly, recognition flashed across his mind. You were the same child Damian had fixated upon just over a year ago. The demon spawns little obsession.

He let out an exasperated sigh, running a hand through his hair in frustration. Why on earth were you on the streets? It was blatantly obvious that it wasn’t a safe environment for anyone, let alone you. The mere notion of the young Wayne finding out that his blood kin was unhoused would undoubtedly send the typically stoic demon into a frenzy.

He let out a resigned sigh, leaning down to gently nudge your huddled form. His sharp, calculating grey eyes roved over your slumbering figure, taking in every minute detail with a sense of keen observation.

You stirred at the touch, groggily lifting your head from your overstuffed bag. Your bleary eyes slowly peeled open, blinking owlishly in the early morning light. Confusion and exhaustion mingled in your expression as you caught sight of Jason crouched down in front of you.

That was the day your life began to intertwine with the tightly woven web of the Wayne family. From that very moment, you became ensnared within the complex and sometimes suffocating grip of the Wayne's protective and possessive nature.

No use of y/n, no use of any descriptive features for the reader, no gender mentioned.

Shorter than usual, but more of a dive into the reader’s backstory.

Comments, asks, and reblogs are very appreciated! Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list.

[mysteria157]

Pairing: Sheriff!Nanami Kento x Black Fem Reader

Summary: You have a system, and it's worked perfectly until now. But in this dusty Western town, Sheriff Nanami Kento is making things...complicated.

By day, you're the town's sweet schoolteacher, loved by all. By night? You're the very secret that drives Nanami to sleepless nights and relentless pursuits.

You're drawn to each other, so it makes keeping your worlds separate a dangerous game that you can't help but play.

Rating/CW: slow burn romance, mild intoxication, brief violence, cowboy activities?, fluff, suggestive content, eventual smut, angst, explicit sexual content (eventually). MDNI!

WC: ~12k (strap in, I guess lol)

Author notes: Hello! It's finally here! I had so much planned for this story that I had no choice but to break it into parts. I struggled a little because there was a lot more world-building than I expected, but I'm proud of the result. This will be a slow burn, so please don't expect any smut right off the jump, lol.

Thank you so much, @pmpmyread @rahuratna, not only for looking this over, but for your advice and support! And thank you all for your motivation as I put this together!!

As always, likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated.

Happy reading!

Header: myself (image from pinterest) | Divider: @anitalenia @saradika network tag: @pixelcafe-network

JJK Masterlist | Ao3 | Twitter | Part Two

©mysteria157, all rights reserved. DO NOT copy, plagiarize, reupload, modify, or translate (without permission) my work to other accounts and platforms.

The saloon door creaks open, letting in a blast of scorching summer air that does little to freshen the stale interior. Nanami steps inside, the cool dimness a refreshing difference from the blazing afternoon sun previously on his back. It smells familiar—scents of whiskey, tobacco, and sweat wrapped around camaraderie like an old, worn blanket.

Tired eyes flicker up from cards and empty glasses, recognition dawning on weather-beaten faces. A chorus of solemn nods greets him, a silent salute to their town’s protector. Nanami returns each nod mechanically, his own gaze carefully schooled to hide the bone-deep weariness that threatens to consume him.

His leather boots, caked with the dust of another fruitless chase, thud heavily against the worn floorboards. Each step feels like a defeat, a reminder of always arriving too late or right before his goal slips through his hands, touching his fingertips like a tease.

“Whiskey,” he grumbles as he plops onto a stool, the wood creaking under his weight. “The bottle, preferably.”

The young bartender—who he knows means well—sends a knowing smirk that sets Nanami’s teeth on edge. How many times has he found himself here, drowning his frustrations in amber liquid? Far too many, he thinks, as a tall glass of whiskey appears before him like a mirage in the desert.

Nanami snatches the Stetson hat from his head, slapping it onto the bar with a force that sends a small cloud of dust into the air. His fingers, calloused from years of handling a gun and reins and rope, curl around the glass, lifting towards the bartender in question. The young man simply shrugs as he cleans a cup with a dirty white towel.

“You drank an entire bottle two days ago, Sheriff. Gotta save some whiskey for the rest of us.”

Nanami doesn’t offer a remark because he has been drinking a lot more lately. While he’s never been one to be too many sheets to the wind, lately, consuming until his vision is fuzzy seems to turn off his thoughts. He takes a generous sip, the whiskey burning a familiar path down his throat but doing little to ease the sting of failure. As he watches the strong alcohol slosh in its glass, he gets lost in its color. The flaxen hue morphs into the fluttering of long lashes and mocking eyes, of a form quick and nimble—always just out of reach.

“You’ll catch ‘em eventually, Sheriff,” the boy offers, more out of habit than conviction. He’s seen Nanami here too many times, that frustrated look etched on his face, chasing something far too fast for him.

Nanami huffs an admonishing chuckle. “Maybe,” he concedes, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. “Or maybe I’m chasing the wind.”

He takes another swig, the alcohol doing little to dispel the sour taste of defeat or replace the thrill of the chase, the satisfaction of justice served. But it’s all he has right now. As the waning daylight stretches long and hazy into the sky, somewhere out there, a thief laughs at the law’s futile efforts—at his futile efforts.

He downs the rest of his whiskey, slamming the glass on the counter and ignoring the eyes of patrons who dart up to him from the mild disturbance.

“More,” he demands, sliding the glass across the counter to the bartender. As he watches the whiskey pour, he wonders, not for the first time, if he’s lost more than just a criminal in this endless game of cat and mouse. His integrity, his purpose, his peace of mind—all sacrificed on the altar of justice. And for what? A town that still suffers, and a thief who dances just beyond his grasp.

While the whiskey offers no answers, it at least dulls the ache of what he can’t achieve. But that comes at a price. As his mind fades from the present, it ruminates on the past. On how he grew increasingly disillusioned with his responsibility to protect. It broods on that fateful day when a bullet tore through his dear friend’s body, losing momentum enough to strike Nanami’s badge with a dull thud—a cruel reminder of how close he’d come to joining Haibara, and how utterly he’d failed to protect him.

For a time, he disappeared, carving a new life miles away on his family’s ranch. It was quiet there, peaceful and free of the failure he feels now on a daily basis. But eventually…it wasn’t enough. It was one too many desperate souls who stumbled upon his doorstep, knowing that he would be the only one to help, that he finally decided to come back.

Not that it’s made any difference.

Nanami’s reputation precedes him—the best sheriff this side of the state, a lone wolf who gets results. His name alone makes outlaws think twice before darkening his town’s doorstep. Or at least, it used to.

These past few months, a shadow has been making a mockery of him. A bandit, cloaked in night and silence, slips through his fingers like smoke. Jewels, coins, and the like—all vanish under the cover of darkness, present one morning and gone by the time the sun rises again.

The most maddening part? It’s a woman. He’s caught glimpses—the curve of a hip, a mask of charcoal smudged behind alluring eyes, a whisper of a deep laughter on the wind. She’s a riddle wrapped in black leather, a ghost that haunts his waking hours and torments his dreams.

In all his years, he’s never encountered a more elusive creature.

He lifts his glass, ready to down the contents and ask for more when the rays of sun catch, making the amber gleam like a beacon. The flash of light makes him turn to the saloon’s grimy windows, eyes squinting against the sudden blinding glare.

That’s when he sees you.

Framed by the dusty window pane, across the street, you stand in the golden rays, a vision that seems to part the haze of whiskey and self-pity that’s been clouding his mind. Your smile always seems to make his breath catch; it’s warm and genuine and lights up your face when your smooth lips curl at anything you hear. Right now, he sees it as you bid farewell to your students. They swirl around you like an autumn breeze, their laughter permeable through the glass.

The pink-haired boy—Yuji—who loves to follow Nanami around, wobbles from around the schoolhouse, both hands on the reins of your beautiful Palomino Morgan mare, Buttercup, as he yells to you with a toothy smile.

Nanami blinks, realization slicing through his slightly alcoholic haze like a sharp knife. He’s lost track of time, nearly forgetting his daily ritual that you both share. With a muttered curse, he pushes away from the bar, throwing a few coins on the wood and leaving the half-empty glass behind.

The sudden brightness of the outdoors makes him wince, eyes adjusting to the shift, but never leaving your form. With a soft click of his tongue, Nanami’s handsome chestnut stallion, Flint, nickers at his approach on the side of the saloon, nuzzling his master’s cheek as Nanami strokes his mane and grabs his reins. The horse’s hooves kick up small clouds of dust with each step, matching the steady rhythm of Nanami’s spurs. As he crosses the dusty road, he hides his gaze beneath the shadow of his Stetson to take you in fully.

Nanami’s seen many pretty women in his lifetime. Delicate desert flowers that bloom and wither with the changing seasons. And for the sake of not being the hopeless romantic that Deputy Gojo makes him out to be, you are different. From the moment he laid eyes on you, stepping off that dusty stagecoach with determination set in your jaw and hope shining in your eyes, he knew you were something else entirely. It took him weeks to even speak to you.

Your hair, usually neatly pinned back for teaching, has come slightly loose after a long day with energetic children. A few curly strands dance in the hot breeze, catching the sunlight. Your dress, modest but well-fitted, flows down your body in pale blue, the hem slightly dirty from the grass and dirt. You stand with a posture that commands attention—an undeniable grace in the way you move and Nanami is victim to the call of your hips when they sway.

There’s a smudge of chalk on your cheek, dusty white against smooth brown skin that glows in the sun, and the slight furrow in your brow makes the side of his lips flinch to fight a smile. You’re tired—happy to have another day with children, but ready to get home and relax. You’ll probably take a bath, brush Buttercup’s mane, and try a new pie recipe. It’s little details about you that he’s learned over the years since you moved here, the small moments you’ve both shared that seem to make his heart pound faster than what it should when he’s near you.

Your beauty isn’t just the curve of your cheek or the curl of your lashes. It’s the gentle patience in your voice as you help a struggling student. It’s in your laugh, rich and uninhibited, ringing through his ears when he has the blessing to be near you. It’s in the fire that burns in your voice from ranting about yet another student leaving school to help his family’s farm, a passionate frustration that both terrifies and mesmerizes him.

The sun in this small town is unforgiving, but it paints you in hues of amber and gold, careful with its rays so as not to burn you. Nanami realized a long time ago that ‘pretty’ doesn’t begin to cover you. You’re breathtaking, in every sense of the word. A force of nature wrapped in pale blue calico and lace, stealing his breath and his weary heart with each passing day.

You ruffle Yuji's hair, taking the reins from him and nudging his shoulder to move him along, smiling as he takes off down the street towards his home. Sensing his approach, you finally turn to meet his gaze.

For a moment, Nanami feels exposed. Surely you can’t see the slight cloudiness in his irises from the whiskey? Hopefully, you can’t smell the alcohol that carries in the wind from his breath. Your smile only widens, a hint of knowing in your eyes, and his heart skips in his chest, missing a beat.

“Sheriff,” you greet him, a harmonious voice carrying a note of warmth that bubbles like hot oil in his belly. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten.”

Nanami clears his throat, fighting the rush of blood to his cheeks. “Never,” he manages, one hand resting on his horse’s flank.

“Still in the whiskey?” you tease, lifting an elegant brow. “My, my Sheriff, I didn’t imagine you to be the man.”

It’s easy for you to slice him open and leave him exposed to the open air, vulnerable. Nanami has never been one to be caught by surprise, but you always have him on his toes. In a gesture as old as the West itself, Nanami reaches up and removes his Stetson, holding it respectfully to his chest.

It’s a mechanical response, born from years of ingrained politeness from parents that have long gone, but it’s also more than that. The removal of his hat is an unspoken apology, a show of respect, and a moment of vulnerability all rolled into one.

He falters, unsure and throat tight as he struggles for something to say. To prove to you that he’s a good man and not the drunkard he feels like the mornings after a failed chase. He’s sure he looks like a schoolboy caught in mischief. But as he opens his mouth to defend himself, you chuckle, a rich timbre that makes the bubbling in his belly drip in thick rivulets down his pelvis.

“I’m only teasin',” you insist, stroking Buttercup’s mane, a mischievous smile doing little to help Nanami’s resolve.

Relief washes over Nanami’s face and he visibly relaxes, still not used to just how much you kid with him when you’re both together. He can’t bring himself to answer you or admit that drinking was exactly what he was doing. So he simply clears his throat, offering a gentle pat to your horse.

“Shall we?” he offers, moving to help you mount.

You nod, holding your breath as Nanami’s strong hands encircle your waist. With seemingly effortless strength, he lifts you onto Buttercup’s back, watching to ensure you’re secure before returning to his own horse. He swings himself up onto the saddle with ease, sliding his Stetson on carefully parted blonde locks. Side by side, you begin the ride home, your horses falling into a comfortable trot.

You never speak much, content to bask in your surroundings as you both walk together, but to him, just being close is everything he could ask for. He wishes he could whisk you up onto his horse and nuzzle his nose into the soft skin of your neck as you recall your day. He wishes he could smell the lavender soap you bathe with and the rosemary oil from your silky strands that he’s seen you buy at the general store. When he’s around you, he wishes for so much—he wants.

But an unmarried woman and man, both of position no less, would only garner gossip that he refuses to make you the center of. And his job is a dangerous one, filled with brutality and misery, of justice that seems to never be fulfilling, and he won’t be a man that leaves you in pain when he’s unable to come home.

As you both walk, the familiar sounds of the town surround them—the distant laughter of children, the creak of wagon wheels that pass them on the dirt road, the rhythmic sounds of hoofbeats and the occasional jingle of Nanami’s spurs, the smell of fresh-baked bread that floats in the cooling breeze, mingling with the earthy scent of dust and grass.

“How were the children today?” Nanami asks, trying to break through the self-inflicting resignation that clouds his mind.

You smile, launching into a story about Yuji's latest escapade with a frog in the classroom. Nanami listens, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he imagines the always enthusiastic boy causing a fuss. He marvels at the way your eyes light up when you talk about your students, the passion evident in every word.

As you speak, Nanami can’t help but think of all the times over the years he’s wanted to ask for more. To invite you for dinner, to teach you to shoot on the acres of his ranch, to ask for a dance at the town social when you’re sitting alone, clapping along as Yuji, Megumi, and Nobara scuttle wildly in the lantern-lit barn. The words have been on the tip of his tongue countless times, but he always swallows them back. Content to tell himself he’s doing something noble even as every fiber of his being screams the opposite.

Your laughter pulls him from his thoughts, guttural and melodic in the air, and he realizes he’s missed part of your story. It feels like a crime to not be fully in your presence.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” he asks, feeling the flush return on his cheeks. His mind has only wandered off for moments, but already your house is in view, the front door signaling another end to a conversation with you. Another walk over, another day done. But you’re safe, and for now, that’s enough for him.

“Sheriff, do you actually listen to me when I speak?” you begin, playful in your accusation.

“Of course I—”

“Or you just like hearing me speak?” you interrupt, a smirk growing, mirth sparkling in beautiful eyes that always make his throat dry. “I didn’t realize my voice was so alluring.”

Nanami chuckles softly, dismounting Flint when you reach the gate on the side of your one-story house. “I’m not sure I can answer truthfully, ma’am.”

You hum, pursing your lips as you smooth the invisible wrinkles off your dress. He refrains from tracing the movement of your hands as they ebb and flow generous curves that rest beneath the fabric. “So you just like me then?”

I do.

Is what he wants to answer. Because he wants, and wants, and wants.

Instead, he guides you down from Buttercup, savoring the meat of your waist between his fingers, the warmth of your body in his hands. He waits patiently as you guide her through the gate and inside the stable behind your house. When you return, he can’t help but note the subtle disappointment in your eyes, the way one side of your lip pulls in as you bite into it. He wonders if his own face conveys the same, if you can see the subtle sag in his shoulders of having to leave you so soon.

“Same time tomorrow?” you ask, eyes simmering with what he wants to think is hope.

“Because I like to hear you speak,” he unwittingly teases, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, ma’am.”

As he moves to mount his horse, you’re transfixed by the fluid grace of his movements. He places one scuffed boot in the stirrup, strong corded hands gripping the saddle horn as he swings himself up and onto the Flint’s back like it’s nothing.

Atop his chestnut stallion, Nanami cuts an impressive figure. His sheriff uniform fits him perfectly. A tailored deep blue shirt with long sleeves rolled to his elbows and tucked into denim around a lean waist. A sturdy brown leather vest creased from long days under the sun emphasize his broad shoulders. On one side of his chest rests a gleaming tin star, a symbol of authority and responsibility with a bullet-sized dent beneath the words that signify him. On his left hip, a lasso is coiled neatly, ready for action at a moment’s notice. On his right, his gun rests in its leather holster—a weapon you’ve seen him use a few times—and a constant reminder of the dangers he faces to keep the town safe.

The late amber light casts a warm glow over his features, highlighting the strong line of his jaw and the tiny creases at the corners of his eyes—a man who’s seen both laughter and hardship. Laughter he gives you when he can, hardship he refuses to indulge. His Stetson sits low on his brow, casting a shadow over umber eyes that make his gaze seem even more intense as he looks down at you.

No matter how many times you are both together, you are always struck by how handsome Nanami is. Rugged and weather-worn, yet with a gentleness in his eyes and kindness in his warm voice that makes your heart flutter. He’s the embodiment of everything a cowboy should be—strong, capable, and undeniably attractive.

As if sensing your admiration, he clears his throat loudly, dramatically, the corners of his lips twitching as you blink back to the present.

You retaliate in the only way you know how. “And stop calling me ma’am, as if we haven’t known each other for a few years.”

You insist on this every single time the title slips past his lips. And like every time before, Nanami smiles softly, reaches up, fingers grasping the brim of his Stetson, and tips his hat to you in a gesture that’s both gallant and a little playful.

“Have a good night, ma’am.”

You roll your eyes, mouth pulling into a small smile, heart beating like a drum in your chest, before you huff. “Goodnight, Sheriff.”

He watches you enter your home, waiting until the door closes behind you before clicking his tongue and shifting his weight, setting Flint into motion. The ride back to his office seems longer somehow, the town sounds a little dimmer as he gets closer, and the alluring smell of fresh bread he noted on the way to your house is now replaced with an enticing whisper of more whiskey now that you’re no longer by his side.

The church bells chime softly as you settle into your usual pew, absentmindedly picking lint off your lavender Sunday dress. You nod politely to Mrs. Watson, the baker’s wife, as she shuffles past with a hand on her youngster’s shoulder. Your eyes, soft and inviting to all who meet them, scan the congregation with practiced nonchalance.

Pastor Roberts steps up to the pulpit, black hair slicked with too much pomade, enormous silver rings on too many fingers, his voice booming through the small church. “Before we begin, I’d like to thank everyone who contributed to our new railroad station fund. And I’d like to give a very special mention to Mrs. Thompson, whose generous donation has brought us significantly closer to our goal. Your generosity truly embodies the spirit of our little community.”

The crowd breaks into genuine praise and applause. Mrs. Thompson, always seated in the back pew in her faded but clean dress, ducks her head modestly with a sheepish smile. Your heart clenches in despair, knowing she works grueling shifts at the general store just to make ends meet, her children practically raised by her neighbors. You’re sure that she’s only going above and beyond so her husband, who works many miles away, can come home often. She probably has nothing left—you just know it—and the thought makes your blood boil.

“Now, regarding the final sum we need,” the pastor continues, clearing his throat, “I’m sure we can count on our more…fortunate members to help us reach our goal.”

From the front pew, Mrs. Jones pipes up, her haughty voice carrying over the congregation. “Oh, we’d love to help next time, Pastor! We would’ve contributed more, but we had an unexpected expense with some…essential purchases this past week.”

She adjusts the luxurious new fur draped over her shoulders, seemingly oblivious to the irony of her words. You glare at the offensive garment, boiling blood now thickening with unquestionable anger.

Like so many other wealthy families in this town, the Jones are always eager to flaunt their excess, parading their luxury with heartless disregard for those who sacrifice their last penny for the common good. Content to take what they want, they turn a blind eye to those who truly need help, their indifference as cold as the coins they keep to themselves.

To others like them, poverty is a personal failing. In their minds, if people like Mrs. Thompson would try harder, work longer, or simply stop being sad and hungry out of sheer will, they too could reach the heights of wealth and respect. Preaching a gospel of bootstraps and self-reliance, willfully ignorant of the walls that keep the poor trapped.

Stepping foot in this sweltering church each Sunday is a test of your patience and resolve. But, you push through, hidden behind a mask of piety. As the pastor’s words fade into a monotonous hum, your attention shifts to the whispered gossip around you, ears poised for information that might prove useful. If Mama was still alive, she’d probably scold you if she knew your true intentions.

“Shameful,” Mrs. Clark mutters to her friend, her tone leaking with disdain and disbelief. “The Jones had enough for that fancy social at their house last week and an entire shipment of new furs, but not enough for something that we were all asked to contribute to? Just shameful, I tell you.”

“And here’s Mrs. Thompson giving what little she has just so her man can come home more often.”

You shake your head as you pretend to join in the gossip, your resolve hardening by the second.

Bingo.

After the service, you linger, making small talk with a widow about her new rhubarb pie recipe, when you spot your target.

“Oh, Mrs. Jones,” you call out, your voice dripping with misplaced sweetness. She turns around to face you, regal in cosmetics, a shade too bright, her fur sitting nicely on her neck even as she sweats like a sinner. “I meant to tell you earlier. Your fur is lovely.”

Mrs. Jones preens, her chest puffing like a peacock, basking in the attention. “Why thank you!” she gushes, dripping with false modesty. “Got them fresh last week. I would love for you to see the rest when I’m back in town. Jimmy and I leave for Millbrook and we’ll be gone for a week or two. It’s so refreshing to meet someone who appreciates fine things.”

You offer a small smile, excitement filling your body of your plans unfolding before you. “You’ll surely be missed. I do hope you have a wonderful time.”

She beams again, red lipstick cracking down the middle. “Make sure you stop by when we return, won’t you?”

You do stop by, but it’s a day after the Jones leave, a shadow among shadows. Buttercup leans into your touch when you brush a gloved hand along her glossy mane. You hop on her back, clicking your tongue to urge her into the night.

It’s further out of town, which makes this better for you—the fewer eyes, the better. The Jones estate looms ahead, dark and silent. You leave Buttercup a few yards away, patting her side as she lowers her head to graze. “I’ll be right back, girl. Just wait for my call.”

You circle to the back of the Jones’ house, glaring at the clean paint and beautiful greenery. A flickering light from a first-floor window catches your attention, and you duck down on impulse—the night watchman, no doubt. The Jones have enough money but spend too excessively to afford a maid. While this is a hindrance you can easily deal with, it’s still a thorn in your side. Patience has always been your ally, but tonight, it’s tested.

You know the town’s law enforcement, led by Sheriff Nanami, has been increasing patrols around wealthy homes because of your activities. The thought of him potentially catching you always sends a confusing concoction of thrill and dread through your veins.

Still, you wait, hidden in the shadows and the lush greenery around you, watching the guard’s routine. He leaves every ten minutes to patrol the house, returns, and scratches the sparse hair of his beard before plopping in his chair. His yawns grow more frequent as the night wears on, but he seems to alert himself with each distant noise. It takes a few more patrols and a few deep breaths to soothe your anxiety when you think you hear hoofbeats in the distance, but eventually, he settles one final time, his chin dropping to his chest as he dozes off, and you make your move.

A few windows over, a trellis catches your eye—perfect. Years of practice have taught you to distribute your weight evenly to avoid creaks as you climb the lattice. At the second-story window, you pause, listening. From your vantage point, the only source of light dimly from the living room below is the guard’s open door. The sound of his distant snores sets you back in action.

With ease, you manipulate the window latch, easing it open slowly to avoid any squeaks. You slip inside, your feet silent as they land on a plush carpet. The lavishness is an immediate assault on your senses—the air tinged with rose and peppermint, your eyes widening at the guest bedroom walls covered in paintings and deer heads. You grimace. Extravagant niceties that those less fortunate would give their soul for the value.

You pause at the top of the stairs, eyes scanning the house around you for anyone else, ears straining for any sound from the guard below or, worse, the approach of patrol outside. Satisfied, you ghost through well-decorated hallways towards the master bedroom. Without a moment to waste, you scan the ornate space. You know to secure your exits, and your entrances, and you smirk when you spot a sturdy chair on the other side of the room.

Silently, you wedge the chair under the doorknob, its back legs lifted slightly off the ground. It’s not the best, but it should buy you precious time if needed. You turn back to the master bedroom, eyes narrowed as you move on to your next step.

You’ve seen it all before, and no matter what, they keep their valuables in the same predictable places. A bookshelf with too much space that you can push against to open a second compartment. A floorboard slightly elevated than the rest. But for the Jones, it’s the garish family portrait above their bed—the same one Mrs. Jones boasted about at church weeks ago. Another unexpected but essential expense.

Your fingers work quickly as you carefully remove the painting, revealing the gleaming safe behind it. You press your ear against the cool metal, your fingertips ghosting over the dial. With precision, you begin to turn it, listening intently for the telltale clicks of the tumblers falling into place.

First to the right, slow and steady. Click. Back to the left, past the first number. Click. Right again, slower this time, feeling for the slightest resistance. Click.

Your breath catches as the final tumbler falls into place, heart racing with the promise of success as you slowly turn the handle. The safe door swings open with a satisfying creak, and inside, illuminated by a sliver of moonlight streaming through the window, sits your prize. Stack of crisp bills and glittering jewels, a physical manifestation of the good that they can do in the right hands.

As you transfer the wealth into your satchel, a floorboard creaks downstairs. You freeze, every muscle in your body taut as a bowstring, lungs seizing in your chest. You hear the rustle of clothing—the guard stirring in his chair. It feels like seconds stretch into an eternity as you wait, hand hovering over the gun on your hip. Just as your lungs scream for air, his snoring resumes, and you exhale slowly, your racing heart gradually steadying.

You’re hyper-aware of every sound as you work. The whisper of the bills, the soft clink of jewels—each seems magnified in the stillness of this gigantic house. You’re nearly finished, only two more stacks, when another creak echoes through the house, this one closer, more deliberate. There’s no settling floorboards from a new house or snoring night guard.

Someone’s here.

Suddenly, the doorknob jiggles violently, a voice on the other side booming through the previously silent house. You know the voice anywhere, one that haunts both your waking hours and your dreams.

Your heart picks back up, ice water filling your veins as the hairs on your neck stand up straight, but your hands remain steady as you gather the last of the valuables and ease the safe closed. Even in the face of being caught, you have to remain calm. It’s what’s kept you unnoticed and alive this long.

You replace the painting, your eyes already scanning the room for escape routes. You can easily go back out through the window, but the trellis you came upon is in the guest bedroom a few doors over. The jump from this window won’t be damaging, but it’ll hurt, and you don’t have time to use your rope to help you down.

Banging erupts against the door, the wood jumping from the force of the assault. “Sir! I’m here!” The night guard’s voice joins in beneath the noise, and you hear his hurried gait up the stairs.

You don’t have time for schematics. Time’s up. You throw the satchel around your shoulder and bolt for the window, only seconds before the door frame splinters from the strength of two men, the chair tumbling across the floor.

“Freeze!” A deep baritone barks, harsh and volatile, but you’re already halfway out the window, your leather boots pressed to the paneling, your hands holding you up like a spider monkey. You can’t help but pause, your wide-brimmed hat and black bandana obscuring most of your features. Coal-smudged eyes, their true color blending with the blackness surrounding them, meet the gaze of the man before you. He’s never been able to get a photo or any sort of evidence from you, not in times like these. He’ll never know who you are. But you know exactly who he is.

Sheriff Nanami Kento stands in the moonlit room, his stance wide and authoritative. Protector of the town, your number one purser, and a man who, despite your best efforts, has made a permanent home in your thoughts.

Mysterious mahogany eyes, usually kind and warm when they look at you during the day, now burn with determination and anger. That gun that you’ve seen him use to shoot targets and make Yuji laugh now points directly between your eyes.

As you look at him—the tension in his broad shoulders as they rise and fall beneath his shirt and vest, the dark circles under his eyes that speak of sleepless nights chasing your shadow—a pang of guilt slithers down your chest. Maybe if you take a small break with your escapades, he could get some sleep. You hate it when he’s tired, especially when you’re the cause.

But these thoughts are dangerous. Over the years, you’ve let him get too close, allowed him to see much of the real you, and now you’re beginning to feel the consequences.

But you can think about this another time; you’ve stayed longer than necessary. Right now, you have a job to finish. With a hitch in your breath, you drop to the ground. You land with a thud, your ankles absorbing the impact. A sharp pain shoots up your right leg, but you grit your teeth and push through it. You can’t afford to stop now.

The wild grass is thick as you sprint through the open fields, the satchel of stolen valuables bouncing heavily against your hip. Your breath slices through your lungs in short gasps, the cool night air burning in your chest. Behind you, you hear the chaos of pursuit. Nanami’s commanding voice mixes with the night guard’s confused shouts, and the sound of boots hitting the ground tells you they’ve made it out of the house.

You ignore the ebbing pain in your ankle, pushing yourself harder, faster. The grass gets taller with every inch you gain, whipping at your leather-clad legs as you tear through the field, the darkness both a hindrance and a shelter. You use the moonlight to guide you, your eyes scanning the landscape for the rock face you left Buttercup at on your way here.

A distant whinny in your ear cues you instantly. You whistle for her sharply, praying your faithful steed is close enough to hear. Her thundering hooves answer your prayers, growing louder by the second as she matches your sprint.

She appears like magic, slowing enough for you to leap onto her back and urge her into a gallop with a click of your tongue and a squeeze of your knees. With your view no longer obscured by the tall grass, you turn back to the disappearing estate, your heart dropping when you spot several riders—Nanami’s men, no doubt—headed toward you.

Gunshots pop through the air, the whoosh of silver bullets whizzing past your ears and missing their mark. But they’re getting closer. You hold your breath, absorbing the minute fear that blooms in your chest as you risk another glance behind you. Nanami is now at the front, his face grim and emboldened.

A snort from Buttercup turns your attention ahead. You fold low over her neck, your thighs contracting and relaxing in harmonious sync with her thunderous gallops. You taught yourself how to ride after Mama died, determined to do whatever it took to make it through the world. You found Buttercup then, neglected and forgotten, a mirror of your own lost soul. Now, years later, you both move as one, you anticipating her every move born of trust and time, she responds to the smallest shift of your weight as if reading your very thoughts.

Up ahead, the path narrows, winding through a rocky formation that makes you pull in your shoulders on reflex, as if you’re squeezing to fit. You guide Buttercup with a slight shift of the reins and a coo to her twitching ears.

There’s a fallen tree a few yards away, blocking most of the path and making it almost impassable. But you know what you can do. With a click of your tongue and a minuscule pressure of your knees into her sides, she reads your message immediately, huffing before launching over the thick oak in a magnificent leap. She lands with grace on the other side, hooves kicking up dirt in victory. It buys you the seconds that you need, but it won’t be enough. Nanami and his men will find their way around, and you need this chase to end. Now.

Ahead, a boulder ten times your size, with jagged edges and thick cracks, creates a fork in the path. You form an idea that is risky but will buy you the time you need to get home safely.

You guide Buttercup down the left path, your hand reaching for the pistol on your hip. You wind up the reins in one hand, squeezing the leather to hold you steady as you swiftly turn in your saddle to face the dusty world behind you. With the change in position, your hips work against the momentum of Buttercup’s stride instead of with it, and your tweaked ankle stings with every slap against her side. But you’ve practiced this before, and your balance is perfect, hand steady even as you move at breakneck speed.

Nanami and his men emerge from the curve of the path, eyes locked on you with deadly intent, and in that split second, you take your shot.

You’re not aiming to kill or even injure—your target is the lanterns that hang from each saddle horn. Amidst the bucking of your hips and the wind that whizzes past your ears, you hold your breath—forcing your heart to slow as your vision tunnels, and your finger squeezes the trigger. Before Nanami and his men can even reach for their guns, the air cracks, gunshots from your firearm hitting their mark to make the lanterns explode. It has its desired effect—their horses are startled, bucking onto their back feet as they whine in fright.

Nanami doesn’t want to, you can tell from the look in his eyes, but he has no choice but to look away. His eyes leave you as he tries his best to console his stallion and the rest of his gang. You take advantage of the chaos and twirl back around, relaxing your hand on the reins and exhaling the painful breath that was lodged in your lungs.

“Good girl,” you murmur, patting Buttercup’s neck as you coax her into a more fierce gallop and disappear into the night, the sounds of pursuit fading behind you. The satchel on your hip bucks with your mare’s kicks, reminding you of a job well done.

Even with the adrenaline of success thrumming through you, your mind always wanders back to the ‘why’ of it all.

When the guilt tries to curl in your chest when you least expect it, you remember Mama’s sunken face as she divided a molded loaf of bread between the two of you. You remember the hollow eyes of your neighbors too proud to beg. You remember the day you and Mama stood outside the general store in your hometown, staring at a display of fresh fruit, its price more than your weekly earnings. You remember being shooed away by the store owner, muttering about “ill-bred women,” lowering the tone of his establishment.

That night after Mama finally fell asleep, you stole for the first time. So skinny that you could slip through the gap in Mr. Thornton’s fence of his apple orchard. You took only one—a small, slightly misshapen apple covered in dirt—fear rattling your bones at the thought of being caught. But its sweetness, shared with Mama the next morning, was everything you could have asked for.

The concept of right and wrong has always been blurred for you. You’re certainly not right in the eyes of the law, or perhaps even in the eyes of God that Mama believed in so much. But when you distribute your spoils in the dead of night, slipping money through house doors. When you see the disbelief turn to joy on a widow’s face because she can feed her children another week. When you watch a frail old man cry over a warm coat that will see him through the winter—you sleep a little better.

The world isn’t fair. You learned that lesson far too soon in your life. But in your own way, with these midnight heists and heart-pounding adventures, you’re trying to balance some sort of scale. It’s not justice…but it’s something. Something that lets you look at yourself in the mirror each morning, that calms the angry, helpless, and hungry child still living in your memories.

Tomorrow, you’ll begin distributing this wealth to those who truly need it. Yuji's grandpa will have enough to buy his grandson new clothes. Mrs. Thompson will have enough to make up for the remaining savings she gave to the church. And come Monday, you’ll greet Sheriff Nanami with a warm smile as he walks you home from a day’s work at the school, your secret safe for another day.

The thrill of every heist, the satisfaction of outwitting the law, the knowledge that you’re helping those in need—it all mingles in your veins like the sweetest whiskey you tease the Sheriff for indulging in. As the stars twinkle overhead as you wash the coal from Buttercup’s nose that hides her white markings, you allow yourself a moment of pride. It’s probably not much in the grand scheme of things, but to someone in this town, it’ll mean the world.

“Did you hear about Mrs. Jones’s place?”

“Ma says the bandit struck again, cleaned them out in seconds!”

You keep your face carefully neutral as you pick up on your student’s conversations that dance on the hot air, but you’re filled with pride and guilt. You can’t help but think of Sheriff Nanami, of the frustration you see etched on his handsome face so often. Even yesterday, those determined eyes flickered with hints of shame. For a moment, doubt creeps in, whispers in your ears like a tease, threatening to unearth everything you’ve worked for.

But then you look at Sarah’s new turquoise ribbon that compliments her wheat-colored hair as she twirls in a circle on the dusty road. You remember Tommy’s gait as he said goodbye to you just minutes ago, no longer wobbly now that his toes have room to move in new shoes.

The whispers of your students and how surprised and elated they were to find money under their doorstep make you steel yourself. Despite the risks, despite the growing complexity of your feelings—it’s always worth it.

Your life is a study in contrasts. Mornings are quiet affairs—a cup of coffee, a soothing hand down Buttercup’s mane as she eats her breakfast, the silence of an empty classroom. Afternoons explode with energy—eager questions, laughter, and the occasional disagreement amongst your students. You think of Mama, how she read to you as a child, planting seeds of knowledge that would one day bloom into your passion for teaching. It’s another way you give back—maybe some form of atonement you aren’t ready to address—but to fill another generation’s head with knowledge is a gift you wouldn’t trade.

Coming to this town years ago was an escape—from the pain of Mama’s death, from the constant fear of your life as a thief. You only meant to stay a few months, take what you needed, give it back to those like you, and vanish. But loneliness has a way of anchoring a soul.

Months became years. A solitary existence morphed into friendships with neighbors and an undeniable connection with the stoic sheriff who walks you home, an unspoken affection blossoming between you.

Years of experience have made you attuned to the whispers in town. You know how much Mr. Fletcher has hidden away in his safe. You know what date and time certain shipments come in and who they are going to.

Lately, though, whispers of a different sort have caught your ear. Tales of a hidden treasure in the old mine outside of town. Yuji talks about it almost every day, how his grandfather is convinced the treasure is real. The town’s cobbler rolls his eyes at the rumor, often grumbling about how the citizens should focus on earning revenue through hard work and no shortcuts. The more adventurous of the town have scoped the plains around this town time and time again. But it’s never bore any fruit.

Even you have dismissed it as just another local legend. But the thought nags at you, a persistent itch you can’t quite scratch. While you do not doubt the well-meaning residents of this town, they may not have your experience. They may not know how to scale a rocky mountain or where to look. But you do.

You’ve spent years justifying your actions, convincing yourself that the end justifies the means. That it’s a necessary evil in a world that turns a blind eye to suffering. To walk away now feels like the biggest betrayal of everything you’ve fought for, everything your Mama taught you about standing up for those who can’t stand up for themselves. Even last night, you went through your routine of reiterating that what you’re doing is for a good cause.

But the twinge in your ankle when you woke up this morning. The bleariness in your eyes from little sleep. The exhaustion weighs heavily on you. The loneliness is more palpable every morning when you roll over to an empty bed. Because you can’t share the darkness of your secrets with anyone. Is it selfish to want a normal life after being exposed to the rotten core of it? To want stability, a future untainted by the shadow of your past, to want love? Or is it more selfish to continue on this path, risking everything—including the hearts of those who’ve come to care for you—for a cause that seems never-ending?

The infinite revolving of these thoughts makes you think twice about those rumors. So…what if the treasure is real? What if there’s enough hidden away to help everyone in town, to right all the wrongs you’ve seen? Enough to let you hang up this hidden life for good, to just be the schoolteacher—no more lies, no more risks, no more seeing the weight of failure in Nanami’s eyes.

Hours later, after your students have long gone, you’re atop Buttercup, having decided an afternoon ride might clear your head. You break through the bustle of town, the sun painting the landscape of open plains. As you crest a small hill, you scan the horizon, absorbing every detail with practiced observation that’s served you well in your double life.

You remember it all from your first few weeks here—a dilapidated shed outside of town, a small lake where wild animals drink from to the north. But with more focus, to the West, you spot unfamiliar rocky terrain. What catches your eye is how the rocks seem to fit together—not stacked with the random chaos of nature, but with an almost deliberate precision. It’s as if the hands of a giant stacked them long ago, their edges now overgrown and softened by wind and time.

If you were to slowly move the rocks over time, you could find an unexplored cave on the other side—not a mine like the rumors claim. Whatever it could be, it’s definitely worth investigating. You make a mental note of its location, your innate sense of direction and topography—honed by years of midnight runs—ensuring you can find it easily again.

As you make one last sweep across the landscape, your ears pick up on the stressed mooing of cows and the yells of men. After riding toward the source for a few minutes, you finally spot the commotion. Mr. Williams’ well-maintained fence is broken with wooden boards sprawled on the plains as a group of cattle amble and run free. They shuffle as fast as their heavy bodies will take them, mooing loudly in distress.

You’ve done some wrangling as a young girl, a grueling job that paid you very little to feed you and Mama, so you immediately hone in on the weak points of the fence and the patterns of the cattle’s movement.

You spring into action, clicking your tongue and squeezing your thighs around Buttercup to make her take off. The wind whips through your hair, loosening curls from your usually neat bun. As you draw closer, your heart leaps in your chest.

There, in the midst of the chaos, is Nanami. He sits on his stallion with an easy grace that makes your mouth go dry. Eyes narrowed with determination, cheekbones glossy with sweat and dirt. His vest is gone, and you note the navy long sleeve that squeezes his thick form, his forearms exposed and veiny. His strong biceps flex as he twirls his lasso, long fingers cinched tight around the base of the noose, wrist twirling in a motion you’ve thought about late at night with your fingers buried deep inside of you.

Gods, he’s handsome. Even that first day when you both met in front of the general store, Nanami reaching down to collect the books you had dropped, you knew then he would be your undoing. He has proven to be the one constant in your mind when you should be thinking about your goal.

He’s the kind of man that you could bring home to Mama, though you’d have to keep a watchful eye on her so she doesn’t flirt herself. He’s the kind of man who can work the fields and protect a town, that can fend off criminals and walk children the school, that can come home after a long day and kiss you until your eyes roll into your skull. That can grunt in appreciation from the fingernails that dig into his back, your legs wrapped around his waist as he buries himself to the hilt and—

“Need a hand, Sheriff?” you call out, shaking yourself back to reality, swallowing the saliva in your mouth. You can think about him later. Right now, that adventurous itch comes to life at the base of your spine. You love being a teacher, but you miss things like this—the thrill of the ride, the tingling sensation of a challenge, and Nanami’s presence all combine to create a heady rush of adrenaline through your veins.

Nanami’s head turns at the sound of your voice, deep brown eyes widening in surprise. The movement of his wrist stops, and his lasso plops on his head, musing perfectly parted blonde locks as the rope smacks the sides of his face. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—surprise, yes, but adoration and something more pungent that makes your skin tingle.

“Ma’am, this isn’t exactly—” he starts, but you’re already taking off.

A whistle from your lips springs Buttercup into action, galloping a wide birth around the scattered calves. You free your own rope from your saddle horn, the weight in your hands a comforting reminder of late nights practicing in your stable. You hitch up, bunching your thighs with hidden strength, twirling the lasso once, twice, feeling the perfect balance of it.

Then, with a fluid movement, you send the rope flying towards the calf closest to you. It arcs through the air before finding its mark, settling around the calf’s neck with perfect precision. You ignore the feel of Nanami’s eyes on you as you wrestle to rebellious calf back into Mr. Williams’ yard. The man himself is already releasing the rope and ushering the calf away from the fence that is slowly being repaired by his ranch hands.

“Where did you learn to do that?” Nanami asks when you pace up next to him. The lasso is still haphazard over his head, lips parted in astonishment.

“Are you implyin' that I shouldn’t know how to do that, Sheriff?” you tease, guiding Buttercup in a slow trot around Nanami and his stallion. He fumbles to correct himself, cheeks heating as he pulls at the rope around his neck and shoulders. “Should I only know teachin' and how to care for a home?”

“N-now you know that’s not what I—”

You cut him off with a sharp chuckle, making another rotation around him and his steed, a mischievous glint in your eye. “You’re so gullible.” He throws you a wary look, finally pulling the lasso off his body in a huff. “Now, are you gonna help me, or not?”

You and Nanami fall into sync, working in tandem to herd the cattle back into Mr. Williams’ enclosed space. It’s perfect choreography—when Nanami moves right, you’re already swinging left.

Before long, you spot a flash of white in your peripheral vision. Deputy Gojo leans against the fence, his shock of white hair practically reflective in the sun. He’s been practically absent up until this point and, unlike you and Nanami, seems in no rush to join the action. He eyes you with a charismatic smile, flirtatious in his gaze, but you’re quick to roll your eyes playfully and get back to the task at hand.

There’s a grace to Nanami’s body as he works. His hips roll with each movement of his horse, the rock back and forth, a rhythm hypnotic and alluring. The muscles in his denim-clad thighs flex as he grips his mount, powerful and thick. His face maintains his usually iron-faced composure, focused on the task, but an undeniable beauty to his concentration. The setting sun enhances his features, the shadows accentuate his strong jaw and cheekbones. A bed of sweat traces a tantalizing path down his neck, disappearing beneath a collar that’s three buttons undone.

As you drive a cow forward, Nanami is there to lasso and guide it home. The way he hands his horse, the quiet commands and clicks, the subtle shifts of his body, and the grunts that leave his form when he throws his lasso—it all speaks of a man completely in control, and you find it mesmerizing…and utterly arousing. There’s something primal and enticing about watching him move, about being in such perfect harmony with him. It’s a blaring reminder of the attraction that’s been simmering between you.

At one point, you end up riding side by side, so close that your legs brush against each other. The contact, even through the layers of your dress, is scalding. You steal a glance at Nanami, darting through the disheveled curls in front of your eyes, only to find him already looking at you. Those dark eyes are smoldering—intense with an emotion that radiates from you both and squeezes your throat tight.

As the last cow meanders through the repaired fence, you both are panting from exhaustion, guiding your horses to a slow stroll. Mr. Williams jogs towards you both, followed closely by Gojo, a lazy saunter and an ever-present mischievous look on his face.

“I had no idea you could wrangle so well,” Mr. Williams exclaims, waving enthusiastically as he reaches up and takes the reins of both your horses to lead them towards a water trough. “That was incredible. I have no idea how to repay you.”

You wave him off, trying not to preen under the praise. Gojo's incredibly rare and well-bred snow-white Quarter Horse saunters up to you, the animal indignant in his strides just as much as its owner.

“Well,” Gojo drawls, crystal blue eyes sweeping appreciatively over your form. “Didn’t think a schoolteacher had fine lasso skills. Any other skills I should know about? You can show me at the town festival in a few weeks.”

It’s undeniably forward, enough to make a dignified man turn beet red in anger and a fragile woman faint. But it’s Deputy Gojo Satoru—uncaring of the world that he feels revolves around him.

“Gojo,” Nanami snaps, harsh and biting with an undercurrent that makes your spine straighten. “For once in your life, stop pestering every woman within a few feet of you.”

You can’t help but chuckle, shrugging dismissively and patting Buttercup’s neck as she drinks. “No harm done, Sheriff. I’m sure Deputy Gojo here was just being friendly, weren’t you?” You ask, voice laden with a double meaning that makes Gojo smile warily, suddenly apprehensive. “Though I’d caution against mistaking friendliness for interest. Wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea and end up disappointed…again.”

Gojo's jaw drops, Mr. Williams chokes on a snort a few yards away, and you hear Nanami stifle a harsh grunt that cracks on the edges.

Gojo sputters, pale white cheeks burning, his usual confidence faltering in the night air as he flaps his gills. “I’ll have you know, I’ve never been disappointed in matters of the heart.”

You hum nonchalantly, pursing your lips in disbelief. “Oh? So that wasn’t you I saw sulking behind the saloon last month? What was it you were muttering? Something about Geto turning you down for the second time?”

At the mention of Geto's name, Gojo's blue eyes widens, a squeak eeping from glossy lips. Nanami, unable to contain himself any longer, lets out a bark of laughter.

“I—that’s not—how did you—” Gojo stammers, looking between you and Nanami with wide, suspicious eyes. You simply shrug, glancing at Nanami. There’s a glimmer of amusement there, a shared moment of mirth at Gojo's expense. At some point, Gojo grows tired of entertaining you both, clicking his mouth in annoyance and taking off towards town. You snort at his retreating form, giggling with the rush of excitement of the evening.

When Mr. Williams sees you both off, the night is a cool blanket around you both. The moon sits high, a silver pendant on the velvet black sky, while the stars twinkle like scattered diamonds. For awhile, you both ride in silence, the rhythmic clop of hooves a soothing melody to your turmoil from earlier in the day. The air carries the scent of grass and wildflowers, mixing with the sweat that lingers on your skin. It’s Nanami who breaks the quiet, his deep voice a relaxing current of electricity down your spine.

“He will only take your wit as a challenge,” he muses, mildly amused.

“Gojo will forget all about me the minute Ms. Foxworth bats her eyelashes at him.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle, casting his face in a brief flash of masculine flirtation that makes your heart skip. “And Ms. Foster,” he adds, catching onto your game.

“And Ms. Chamberlain,” you continue, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

“And I’m pretty sure Mrs. Jones,” Nanami finishes, snorting to himself because she’s married, and that’s never stopped Gojo before.

Your eyes meet, scandalous realization settling over you both, and in that moment, the ridiculousness of it all bubbles up inside. Laughter erupts from you first, a released cascade of glee as your head tilts to the night sky. The sound of Nanami’s deep chuckles mingles with your giggles, creating a harmony that seems to resonate in your very bones. It feels good to laugh with Nanami. Just like any other time you spend with him. It takes your mind off the thought of leaving this town—of leaving him—forever.

The night is cool against your skin, but your chest blooms with warmth. You’re about to comment on the beauty of the star-studded sky when you notice Nanami reach into his vest pocket. He pulls out a cigarette, lips wrapping around the filter with a firm but gentle grip.

Your heart sinks, a leaden weight pulling it further down your rib cage. You’ve noticed he only smokes when he’s particularly stressed, and the sight of it now, after such a wonderful evening, makes you frown. You know it’s because of his work, the harshness he sees every day, and his relentless pursuit of the bandit—of you—only makes it worse for him. The remorse gnaws at your insides like a rabid animal.

Doing your best to mask the torrent of emotions threatening to consume you, you aim for a teasing approach. “Stressed, Sheriff?” you ask, quirking an eyebrow and hoping he can’t hear the slight shake in your voice.

Nanami pauses, the unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. He looks at you with a flicker of embarrassment, highlighting the tired lines around his eyes that you wish you could smooth away with your fingertips. “Ah, my apologies,” he says, moving to put it away. “The smell—”

You wave him off. “I don’t mind. Not much of a smoker when I need to relax.”

He hums but doesn’t respond, striking a match and cupping large hands around the flame. The brief light illuminates his face, casting shadows across his face. You find yourself transfixed by the way the flame reflects in his dark eyes, like embers in the night.

He takes a long drag, the tip brightening in burnt orange and gold. Nanami exhales, the smoke curling seductively from his nose and into the air, the sight more enticing than it should be. “So, when do you smoke, ma’am?”

His voice is entirely too low, entirely too deep. You playfully glare at the use of ‘ma’am’ for what feels like the nth time since you’ve known each other. You decide to be mischievous, precariously throwing caution to the wind.

“Oh, you know,” you say airily, looking up at the sky as you try to emit an air of faux innocence. Nanami looks at you cautiously, raising a dark blonde eyebrow expectantly, eyes narrowing as he picks up on the teasing tilt in your voice. “You smoke when you’re stressed. I smoke to unwind from a job well done. Preferably, after taking a good man for a ‘ride’.”

Heat simmers beneath your skin as you speak, low and husky and loaded with suggestive humor that surprises even you.

It’s an immediate effect and more satisfying than you could have ever imagined. Nanami sputters, choking on the smoke. His eyes go wide, and crimson erupts up the glimpse of open chest and neck, visible even in the moonlight, spreading to his cheeks in a way that makes you want to trace its path with your lips.

You can’t help but giggle as he coughs. “You make it too easy sometimes, Sheriff,” you say between laughs.

Nanami clears his throat repeatedly, desperately trying to regain his composure. But you catch the corners of his mouth twitching, fighting a smile that makes you bite into your bottom lip. His chest heaves as he takes in deep breaths, and your eyes watch the way his shirt stretches across his wide shoulders with each inhalation.

“You’re trouble, you know that?” he finally manages in a rough voice, glaring at you with a mix of exasperation and fondness that warms you from the inside out.

“So I’ve been told,” you reply with a wink, reveling in the way his breath catches again at your boldness. He shakes his head with a chuckle, turning back to the open plains in front of him.

You notice that some of the tension has left Nanami’s shoulders, his posture relaxed once more. Your guilt eases a little, knowing that, at least for this moment, you’ve managed to lighten his burden rather than add to it.

“Gojo likes trouble as much as he likes wit. Stay away from him and pick someone else.” He pauses, opening his mouth as he weighs his next words with delicacy. “I imagine you have a line of suitors with far more promise than Gojo hoping to escort you to the festival.”

Nanami’s voice is soft, almost wistful, wrapped around an overwhelming cluster of resignation that makes your heart clench painfully in your chest. His eyes are fixed on the horizon as your horses walk side by side, but you can see a tightness around his mouth, a tension in his jaw that speaks volumes.

“I haven’t really paid much attention, to be honest,” you admit, surprised at his sudden remark. You try to keep your tone light and nonchalant, praying he can’t hear the slight tremor, the silent truth that threatens to spill from your lips—that the only man you truly notice is him. Every day, all the time, from sunup to sundown, it’s always Nanami Kento.

Nanami hums thoughtfully, fingering the sharp cut of his jaw. “That fellow from the saloon a few weeks back? He seemed taken with you.” He pulls in a deep drag, sunset orange ebbing to life at the tip.

You can’t help but roll your eyes. The memory of that particular encounter was both amusing and exasperating. “He was three sheets to the wind, Nanami. Claimed to know my drink of choice and got it wrong when he recommended scotch, of all things.”

Nanami exhales a smoky breath, the wisps ghosting around a smirk that makes him look statuesque with the rolling plains behind him. “You prefer moonshine,” he muses, “The kind Kilmer makes, if I’m not mistaken.”

Your heart skips a beat at his casual observation. Moonshine isn’t exactly legal in town, but when the bartender Kilmer works the saloon on Wednesday nights, most of the residents ask for his prized moonshine if no deputies are around. Of all the things for him to pay attention to, your drink of choice seems like such a small, insignificant detail.

You bite the corner of your lip to keep from breaking into a wide smile, belly warm at the thought.

“Not like I can admit to that,” you tease, digging your teeth harder into your bottom lip as the simmering grows in your stomach. “Aren’t you supposed to be upholdin’ the law?”

As soon as the words leave your mouth, you want to snatch them back. You’re aware of how much pressure the sheriff places on himself. How he feels unworthy of the badge on his chest. There has never been a day in your knowing him where you felt he was undeserving. Of the town, of all of its citizens, of you. If you could turn his face to a mirror and stand by his side while you tell him just how deserving he is, you would in a heartbeat.

Nanami’s smile fades slightly, a heavy weariness etching onto his features. He takes another drag and turns his head away as he exhales. “This town is small, and times are hard. Sometimes…moonshine is all someone can afford if they need to get away from the world for a while.” He pauses, his eyes meeting yours in the moonlight. “A good lawman knows when to look the other way for the sake of his people.”

It’s times like these when you admire the man Nanami is. He’s rough around the edges and stern with the law, but he’s also empathetic enough to know when some rules should be lax based on those they affect. Maybe he could think the same about you? Maybe he could understand your self-imposed noble acts and forgive you for causing him so much pain.

Nanami clears his throat, seemingly eager to change the subject. “The man at the general store two months ago? He could hardly string two words together around you.”

“He was at least five years younger than me,” you counter, giggling at his persistence. “Hardly appropriate. What will the town think?”

“That you’re incredibly picky—” he starts, but you cut him off with a playful swat to his arm.

“Or maybe,” you chuckle with a playful roll of your eyes, “they’ll think I have standards. Is that so wrong, Sheriff?”

“Not at all. Though, I can’t help but wonder what those standards might be.”

Oh.

You’re immediately aware of how dangerous this conversation has become. You’ve never flirted so blatantly before, never with such clear intention. The banter between you and Nanami has always been a harmonious push and pull, as natural as breathing, even though you both treat it as a forbidden dance. But this shift now—it’s palpable, exciting, and terrifying all at once. But the night air, the lingering adrenaline from the cattle drive, that pump of electric fire that pulses through your veins when you can feel free for a moment, all of it makes you bold.

“Someone kind,” you begin, your voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking any louder might shatter the moment. “Intelligent also helps, dedicated to his work and cares about the people around him.” You risk a glance, hiding beneath the curtain of your curls. Your heart races, each beat echoing the recklessness that coats your tongue with every word. “Someone who notices the little things…like a lady’s drink preference.”

The words hang in the air, heavy with implication. It’s as if you’ve finally given a voice to the undercurrent that’s been flowing between you, transforming your ocean of subtle flirtation into something more tangible, more precarious.

Nanami’s gaze, usually so controlled, molds before your eyes. In the flickering embers of his cigarette, you see something molten, a desire that slides down your body with liquid arousal. His lips purse around his cigarette, your eyes flickering to the muscle that curls around the filter, watching with rapt attention as he inhales deeply, slowly.

When you slide your eyes up to meet his, your breath catches at the still-burning intensity. Your vision tunnels to the reflective desire in his eyes, the moonlight on his face, the tension that crackles between you like lightning before a storm. It’s almost too much, your chest tightening with still stolen breath in your lungs.

But just as quickly, he looks away, severing the connection and turning to exhale a plume of smoke into the darkness.

“He sounds like a fool.”

The tension breaks like a dam, and you find yourself choking on a surprised laugh, chortling at the full smile he shoots your way as if bashful. He seems like a flirtatious teenager, basking in the attention from his crush, and you hold on to the sight—to the way it’s making you feel.

As your laughter fades and he puts out his cigarette on the heel of his boot, the atmosphere shifts again. The sizzling lust that danced around you both softens into something more intimate, more tender.

The moonlight catches in Nanami’s hair, turning the golden strands liquid silver. No longer the pristine part he maintains, the strands fall in gentle tufts around the tops of his ears and over his eyebrows. Your fingers twitch on the reins of Buttercup, itching to reach out and brush those disheveled strands away, to feel if they’re as soft as they look.

Nanami, soft when he speaks again, almost reverent. “You’d be surprised, you know,” he murmurs, looking at you once more. “Just how many people notice you.”

His words sway in the air, loaded with meaning. You find yourself frozen, caught in the earth of his gaze, the sincerity making your throat dry. Even as your hips move with Buttercup’s trot, it feels like the world narrows to just the two of you, eyes on each other as everything else fades into insignificance.

Suspended in time and bathed in moonlight, you wish you could push a little further, draw out a confession, or make a declaration of your own. You want to stretch this moment into eternity, to live in this space where you only exist as a schoolteacher, and Nanami could put his own happiness first, just for once.

But reality intervenes, as it always does, with a painful wave of guilt that crashes over you. The weight of your secrets, of your double life, of your part in his pain, settles heavily on your shoulders like lead. So, instead of the words you long to say, you offer only a gentle smile, letting the serene silence of the night envelop you both.

As the first glimmers of the town’s lamplights come into view, you allow yourself this moment of peace. You bask in Nanami’s presence beside you, in the rhythm of the horses’ hooves, in the soft ‘plop’ of his Stetson against his back with each step. You breathe in the memory of shared laughter and adventure, storing it away like a precious treasure.

It’s dangerous—this indulgence—you know. Every shared moment, every word, every loaded glance yanks you further into a web of feelings you can’t afford to have. But as you ride side by side through the moonlight, you can’t bring yourself to regret it. Not tonight.

Instead, you hold this memory close to your heart, a keepsake against the long, lonely nights ahead. It’s a bittersweet reminder of what could be, in a world where you aren’t who you are—a world that exists only in these fleeting moments under the vast, star-studded sky.

By the time you clamber up to your doorstep, Buttercup is already resting in her stable, and that terrible feeling of guilt and confusion roars to life in your chest. You wrap your hand around your doorknob before turning to look at Nanami. He’s still there, with messy hair and sweaty skin, as he reaches into his vest for another cigarette. Handsome and otherworldly and right there. He catches your stare as he places the filter between his lips, one eyebrow quirking up in concern.

“Everything alright?” he asks, the unlit cigarette dangling as he speaks. “I’m not leaving until you’re safely inside.”

You wish you could relish in his concern, bathe in his care, and savor the warmth that blooms in your chest. But you’re not sure you’ve even earned it.

“I’m goin’, I'm goin',” you joke, cracking the door as you step one foot inside your home, still angled to him.

“Well, hurry along then,” he insists, a gentle demand lingering beneath. He lights the cigarette, cheeks pulled in as he inhales full-chested and exhales a deep plume of smoke. Through the haze that dances around him, you find mischief as he smirks. “Ma’am.”

The laugh leaves you before you can stop it, rolling your eyes at his deliberate use of the title he knows annoys you. With a final wave, you step inside, closing the door behind you.

The laughter dies on your lips as soon as the door clicks closed and you press your forehead against the cool wood, eyes stinging with the promise of tears. The clop of Flint’s hooves slowly fades as Nanami gets further away from you, and the only thing you wish at this moment is to yank open the door and run to him. To run away from your terrifying thoughts and forget everything.

Next week, when Mr. and Mrs. Phillips leave town, you have another heist planned. It should feel promising. Another chance to do good, to make others happy at the expense of your safety. But the thought sits heavy in your stomach, the lightness you felt moments ago with Nanami leaving in a flourish.

That nagging feeling from this morning, the festering loneliness born from your decisions, finally breaks free now that you have nothing else to distract you. It makes everything so much harder now. The thrill that once drove you feels muted now, overshadowed by something else—something warm and achingly intimate that’s taken root in your chest.

You slide down to the floor, back against the door, bottom lip quivering as conflict rages like an inferno within you. Tomorrow, you’ll have to start preparing. But tonight, you can’t help but wonder if your heart is truly in this anymore.

Thanks for reading! Here’s Part Two!

[cartmandefender]

why is Eric Cartman the way he is?

i hate to go all sigmund Frued on you all but i believe he is simply a byproduct of Lianes horrible parenting.

the psychological strain Cartman must have been under due to his mothers copious drug addiction and prostitution would have alternate his brain chemistry and morality from an early age, not only does she not conceal her promiscuity, she lets him watch! teaching Cartman that boundaries simply do not exist, and manipulating people via sex, along with breaking the law, is acceptable.

furthermore she’s enables him by not acknowledging his wrongdoings , in his prime developing years she was too drugged up to raise him, pretty much leaving Eric to his own accord. he has no clue what’s right from wrong and i believe he thinks being a horrible person is the only way to protect himself, i think his bad behaviour is a primal reaction, almost like fight or flight, which over time manifested itself into sadism, as we all know he now gets pleasure off hurting others

Eric also lacks of farther figure creating a crisis in masculinity for him, which he compensates for by acting out and being violent, as he has no clear masculine authority figure in the house to teach him right from wrong, i also believe that Liane enables that and Cartman has almost turned into the male authority figure in their household, a burden he shouldn’t have to bare at such a young age, he’s the one calling the shots because there’s no dad to do so

to simply put it, Cartman has mommy issues lol

[the20thangel]

The Dragon and The Raven Chapter 14: Warging Lessons.

Chapter Summary: Benjoct begins his warg lesson, growing frustrated at the slow process when his dragon princess decides to provide stress relief services. A certain person from the past comes to visit in dreams.

Tags: Smut, 18+ NSFW, angstishFluff

Taglist: @poppyflower-22 @alastorhazbin @callsignwidow @whimsicalmystic02 @mercedesdecorazon @rhaenyrathecruelwithteats @ithilwen-blackwood

word count: 2.7K

Masterlist

Ben stared at his aunt and the lord of Winterfell before laughing, his cackles frightening the whole group. The only person who seemed not bothered by the young lord’s outburst was Jaesys, who, in turn, began cooing, looking at his father. Alysanne would have swooned at the scene if she weren’t so worried about her nephew’s reaction to their plan. The Blackwood lady turned to Princess Aemma, who was staring at her husband with slight worry but was trying to hide it. 

After a minute, Benjicot finally calmed down. 

“I’m sorry, but it seems so far-fetched; you want me to try something I have only read in books. We don’t know if I even have enough blood from the First Men…” 

Aemma squeezed his hand, making him pause and face her. 

“It wouldn’t hurt to try, right? Look at my family; we asked Dragonseeds to come and try to claim dragons to support us in the war… If my family can have magic to bond our dragons, why can’t yours have a different magic to warg into animals.” explained Aemma to her husband while caressing his cheek. 

Benjicot smiled, leaning into his wife’s touch. She had a point; he just didn’t want to get his hopes up in trying something that could potentially amount to nothing, but again, just like the Dragon seeds, the outcome would never be certain unless he tried. Nodding, he turned to Cregan, letting him know that he was willing to try to learn how to warg. 

Cregan beamed, “Great! Using a raven or crow from Blackwood Lands would work best because they will sense a familiarity with you.” 

Aemma grew excited as she answered for Ben, “You can use my raven, Ben, the one you gave me when we started courting.” 

Benjicot smiled at her, placing a chaste kiss on her cheek as he stood with Cregan. Both lads eagerly wanted to start the process, Leaving Aly with the princess and little heir. 

After allowing a small moment of solitude to pass, Aly moved to sit next to the princess. As she finally allowed Jaesys to return to his mother’s arms, she asked how the princess was doing. 

Aemma nuzzled her baby, smiling as he cooed. She turned to answer Aly,  “Okay, there are days when I just want to wallow in my grief, but thankfully, Ben and Jaesys are always there to bring me out. Ben has also been amazing in being so hands-on with our son…truthfully it surprised me. As far as I knew, lords tend not to be so hands-on, but then again, many people also expected me just to hand my baby to a nursemaid.” 

She knew the greens were surely like that; she saw how out of touch Alicent was with her children.  Her mother rightfully criticized the green queen for that. 

Aly smiled as she replied, “Ben was always excited to have children; he would always take time to play with the children of the village and our younger cousins; he had more patience than Davos.” 

Bringing up Davos opened a wound in Aly; it had not even been a full year since her brother's and eldest nephew’s death. She knew Davos would have made an amazing uncle, adoring Jaesys with so much attention and gifts. He also would have enjoyed teasing his shy younger twin endlessly for wooing a Targaryen princess, but alas, fate was cruel in the form of Brakens. 

Aemma smiled, knowing the ghosts of their loved ones were close; grabbing her hand, the princess and lady leaned on each other, quietly reminiscing about their families. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As the days passed, Benjicot spent many grueling hours reading and practicing the process of warging, but so far, nothing seemed to make process. It was frustrating for him; he wanted to support Aemma but felt like he was failing so far. He was also growing upset, having to place most of his lordly duties on Aly and Aemma while he trained with Cregan. Both women didn’t seem to complain, but Benjicot knew that putting all the engagements to them was unfair, especially since Aemma herself was taking her lessons from her father, preparing for the announcement from the Queen proclaiming Aemma as the new official heir to the Iron Throne. 

Rushing into his tent after another day of failure, he grabbed his cloak and threw it to the ground in frustration. Sighing from mental exhaustion, he sat tiredly on the bed, rubbing his hand up and down his face and trying to cool off. The rustling of the tent’s entrance made him look slightly up as he and his princess walked in wearing mostly red today. Warmth spread in Benji’s stomach; he always felt like this whenever Aemma decided to wear red instead of fully black. She looked gorgeous, and he was greatly considering asking a seamstress to make a dress for the princess that would have ravens and dragons embroidered just like their son. 

As the princess walked in, she noted her husband's mood, quietly sitting beside him and taking his hand into her own. After a moment of the two sitting in quiet peace, Ben raised their intertwined hands and kissed Aemma’s hand. Smiling, Aemma turned to her love, raising her other hand to move some of his hair from his forehead. 

“How was your day today?” asked the dragon princess, frowning slightly as Ben huffed quietly. 

“Frustrating… I just can’t seem to grasp how to warg… all I seem to be doing is growing headaches,” explained Benjicot as he felt his frustration coming back. 

Aemma moved closer to him, knowing he was placing so much pressure on himself. 

“It will come; just don’t push yourself too much. I don’t want this process to hurt you; skin changing can become dangerous.” pleaded Aemma. 

Ben shook his head, “I want to support you, be your eyes in the air; I want to prove to you and everyone how much I can bring into our marriage…” 

Aemma kissed him before she replied, “Yes, but what good will come if my husband ends up injuring himself because he constantly pushed himself beyond his limits? Warging is a skill; you have magic in your blood, as I do, but the magic needs to be trained, just like how I built my dragon riding skills. I was born with the magic to bond with dragons and ride them, but I did not magically wake up with a strong bond between Sliverwing and me. I worked hard for years with her to build our bond; there were days I was too frustrated, but my father and mother both made me realize that forcing skills to appear quickly was not the route to go; it would have only hindered my bond and caused serious repercussions. So be patient, my love; your hard work will come to fruition.” 

Benjicot sighed, knowing his dragon princess’s words to be true. He kissed her back briefly before separating himself from her and asking for Jaesys. 

“Daemon has him, says that the Blackwoods have been hogging him for too long, and the boy also needed to know his Targaryen roots. His words, not mine,” replied Aemma as she stood from the bed, walking behind Benjicot and placing her hands on his shoulder. 

Mischievous, the princess smirked, pressing her body to her husband. She began messaging his tense shoulders, causing the raven-haired lord to groan. Leaning to his ear, Aemma whispered. 

“Besides, I felt you were going to be tense, so I decided to use this free time to release you from any tension.” 

Benjicot blushed slightly at his wife’s words. Determined not to falter, he decided to play on. “Oh, and what plans do you have, wife? Will you serve me on your knees and-” 

Ben sharply inhaled, seeing Aemma knee before him, and spreading his legs open. Aemma placed her hands on each thigh, squeezing them a little, making sure to keep eye contact as she replied. 

“What a wonderful idea, husband. Let me serve you tonight.” 

With that, she reached forward and grabbed Ben’s clothed cock messaging it and squeezing it for a moment before she freed it from his clothed restraints. She stared at it as it slowly started to harden and rise. Spitting in her hand, she grabbed his rod again, moving her hands in a circular motion and up and down. 

Ben groaned, spreading his legs farther, allowing Aemma to come closer to him as she spat on him, squeezing his cock before continuing with her motion. Once she knew he was fully erect, she leaned her mouth to him, placing a kiss at the tip before dragging her tongue slowly down to his base and enjoying his loud groan from his mouth. 

Benjicot felt like he was in paradise with an angel. As he placed his hand on Aemma’s head, he entangled his fingers in her sliver waves, tugging a bit, which prompted the princess to lick upwards before taking him into her mouth. 

“Fuck Aemma!” exclaimed Ben as he felt her warm mouth around him. 

Aemma smiled. Hearing her name coming out of his mouth in a pleasurable tone, she continued her attention to him, moving her head up and down and swirling her tongue around him like he was a sweet candy. She moaned, feeling his hands grip her hair harder, pushing himself deeper into her mouth. She begins feeling wetness pool under her. 

At hearing her moan, Ben began panting, feeling his release coming fast like a train; as he tried to pull her off, it only caused her to suck harder, which pushed him to the edge. Letting a loud grunt, he released himself in her mouth. Opening his eyes, he moaned loudly, seeing how his beautiful wife swallowed every single drop. She looked so angelic, her purple eyes slightly hooded, staring at him. With a smile, Aemma released him with a loud pop, kissing the tip again before she moved up and sat on his lap. 

“How was that for you, my love.” She whispered, wrapping her arms around his neck.

Ben chuckled as he, too, wrapped his arms around her waist, dragging her body closer to him, causing her to grind on him. Both lord and princess quietly moan at the sensation. 

“Wonderful, you are a divine, sweet girl; now let me return the favor.” He stated as he kissed her hungrily. 

Aemma moaned again, allowing her raven lord to push his tongue into her mouth and explore the inside of her mouth. Still feeling mischievous, she lightly sucked on his tongue, which prompted him to growl in pleasure as he retreated slightly. Before she could tease him, she squealed when she felt him bite her neck. Her squeal quickly turned into moans again at feeling him attack her neck with love bites. 

Gasping, Aemma began to grind herself on him, feeling her husband’s cock awaken again. She moaned, feeling him against her. As much as she wanted him inside of her, she remembered the caution from the midwives: she shouldn’t lay with her husband until 3 moons after giving birth. Jaesys was barely turning two moons. 

“Ben, we can’t; the midwives warned against laying with you until Jaesys is 3 moons,” she whispered, although she didn’t want to stop. 

Ben kissed her again before replying, “I don’t have to be inside you to make you find your release angel. Take off your small clothes; I promise I won’t enter inside you.” 

Aemma, slightly confused, raised herself and did as was told. Once she removed her small clothes, she gasped at Benjicot’s stronghold, roughing, pulling her back onto his lap. She whimpered, feeling his stiffness nestle in between her folds. Ben placed his head on her neck, licking her neck and huffing as he felt her slick wetness coating him. Placing his arms around her waist, Ben began to move his princess, allowing his cock to slide in between her lower lips, savoring her moans and gasps. 

Aemma closed her eyes in pleasure, wrapping her arms around Benjicot’s head as she, too, began to move and grind herself on him, enjoying the feeling of him sliding. 

“Mmmhm, yes, Ben, just like that,” she whispered, for she only wanted him to hear how good she felt. 

Ben, wanting to hear more, began to roughly and faster grind himself to her, grunting at how much wetter she began. She was gorgeous, and she was his, and he was hers. No other man will ever compare to him, and no other woman can hold a candle to her. They were made for each other, and both princess and lord knew that thought to be entirely true. They were always meant to find each other. 

“Please, Ben, please..” Aemma began to plead, moving her hips faster, wanting to bring her release faster. 

“Please, my love, I can’t give you something I don’t know.” Ben taunted, although he, too, was coming close to his second release. 

“Make me undone…I need your release; I need you to bring me to ecstasy,” commanded Aemma, leaning her hips as she felt like she was going to burst. 

“Go ahead, sweetling. I will never deny you,” assured Ben, groaning as he and Aemma simultaneously allowed their release to flow over them. 

Both moaned at the sensation, holding on to each other until their ecstasy soothed over, panting. Both stayed frozen, smiling at each other. 

After a moment, Aemma kissed Ben sweetly, playing with the hairs on the back of his neck. Smiling at the kiss, Ben caressed her face. Allowing each other to feel their love for each other. 

“We should probably bathe before someone comes with Jaesys; I’d rather not see my father with our fluids still on us.” proposed Aemma, rising from his lap. 

Benicot laughed but silently agreeing he did not need to give his good father an excuse to stab him. Taking his wife into his arms, he walked them both to the bathing section of their tent. 

As the night progressed, Daemon finally returned the baby to his parents, wishing them goodnight as the young family prepared for bed. Jaesys snuggled in his bassinet, and the babe cooed in his sleep. Aemma snuggled into her husband, breathing in his scent as she allowed the realm of dreams to welcome her. Lastly, Ben, too, entered the realm of dreams. Two ravens flying around him welcomed him as one landed before him. Benjicot’s eyes widened, seeing the raven transform into his twin. His shock grew as the second raven flew down, Jaesys transforming out and landing in his uncle's arms. Davos smiled at the babe, tickling the baby as he turned to his younger twin. 

“Look at you, snagging a Targaryen princess, aye,” smirked Davos, watching as Benjicot openly gaped at him.

“What, the dragon got your tongue, Ben? Close your mouth before a fly enters; I don’t think my good sister would appreciate that.” Davos laughed as Benjicot glared at him. 

“How…what… how are you here? Where am I?” asked Ben. 

Davos shrugged, placing his nephew back in his father's arms. “Not sure, this could be your dreams or the realm in between; regardless, the old gods have decided to be generous with me and allow me to meet my nephew; he's a handsome bugger, isn’t he…a proud Blackwood, he will grow into.” 

Benjicot smiled, slightly agreeing with his twin: “He has Targaryen qualities, too; he has his mother’s eyes.” 

Davos nodded; the Blackwood genes were beautifully enhanced thanks to the Targaryen's otherworldly beauty in his nephew. 

As the twin brothers continued making small takes, Davos felt his time was coming to a close. As he expressed his thoughts, Benjicot frowned. He was not ready to let go of his twin. 

Davos chuckled, walking to his twin and hugging him. Benjicot was always the sweeter of the two. 

“We are proud of you, Ben; Mother, Father, and I are all proud. You will lead our house to glory. You will be the first in generations to warg, allowing our allies and enemies alike to see the true power of having the blood of the first men. Continue on your path, brother; you will be successful. 

Sniffing, Benjicot smiled tearily at his twin, knowing their time was up. Walking away from the young father and son, Davos smiled. 

“Tell your princess I thank her for honoring our customs and that her brothers are safe with their families.” 

Ben gaped at the words. Nodding, he stared in awe as his brother transformed into a raven again, taking flight and flying away from father and son, with sweet little Jaesys cooing, his purple eyes following as the blackbird became smaller and smaller in the distance.

[theunvanquishedzims]

Targeting Emmitt Otterton was genius, actually

We know him as a florist and a family man, and most people get distracted by the naturist club, but Emmitt works for the mob. Specifically, he's the florist for the biggest wedding in Tundratown and Little Rodentia, the crime lord Mr. Big's daughter.

If you haven't seen the bonus shorts that were released after the movie, there's an episode framed as a reality tv episode following Fru-Fru as she plans her wedding. At the end there's a throwaway line about the wedding flowers being Midnicampum holicithias, followed by a smash cut of the bride and guests going savage.

These seemed to be a trendy new flower in Zootopia, new enough that people wouldn't recognize the bulbs or know the terrible effects they can have on people. You know who did know? Otterton. He was on his way to consult with Mr. Big, where he would explain how the flowers got their nickname "night howlers" and discourage Fru-Fru from using them in her wedding, or else follow safe handling procedures.

He wasn't a random attack. He was deliberately targeted to prevent him from telling Mr. Big, paving the way for the Big family and all their guests (and likely polar bear bodyguards) to go savage, opening a power vacuum in Tundratown and Zootopia's crime scene, as well as shaking the faith people had in their leaders. Another short followed Mr. Big as he rose to power by looking out for the polar bears and establishing Little Rodentia. He was a beloved community man, he and his sweet young daughter going savage would be a shocking event that would make animals large and small feel unsafe around predators.

I like how the movie climax happened, an intimate moment of trust and betrayal between Judy and the establishment, and between Judy and Nick. But I also like how clearly they were setting up for the big confrontation to be Gazelle's backup dancers being targeted so they would attack her onstage. And the original Zistopian concept was dark fun, but there's still plenty of danger and intrigue in the final version to play with.

[nervousstarlightobserver]

Seraphim Eye Practice + Headcanons

(I made these well before the official episode came out so these are older designs)

These are the eyes that I have finished and I’m proud to share with the world. I have given the seraphim names and some head canons to go with them. I also aged up all of the seraphim outside of S-Snake because I love how baby she is.

S-Hawk is actually one of two. I don’t know how I got it into my head, but I liked the idea of Mihawk having twin seraphim. They came about like regular twins, but if they were tube babies.

They are both called S-Hawk and they were separated when they were very young. Both are overprotective of each other because of being separated. The one you see at the very top is Crowley and the one at the very bottom is Montoya. Inigo Montoya and Crowly. Both of the twins eyes were replaced with robotic ones. They can even change color! Blue for Docile, Yellow for Alert, and Red/Pink for Danger. There is also Green, but none of the Punks know why they turn green since they rarely flash green. 👀

Crowley has the cloned devil fruit; but Montoya, on the other hand, ate an actual devil fruit. I call it the Fuse-Fuse fruit! It is a paramecia type that can fuse two or more things together. Both organic and inorganic materials can be fused. He typically fuses with S-Gecko. Montoya and S-Gecko were placed together while Crowly was placed with S-Crocodile and S-Catapiller. Crowley doesn’t use a sword, instead he uses a guitar that doubles as both a gun and a battle ax. It is the turducken of weapons. I kept their eyes similar to their original design (manga) since that’s what I stared with. Not much to talk about. But both of their wings are like that of a crow and not a hawk. The Punks don’t have a lot of knowledge on bird wings apparently 🤷 Crowley has tons of piercings I just didn’t add/you can’t see any of them. He is very much punk rock vs. Montoya who is very elegant vintage.

I’ve been calling S-Crocodile Dharma. Dharma Al Dini. I had a different name that started with a D for Dharma but I forgot to write it down so I had to change it. After watching a play through of Venba, I got the idea of Crocodile being able to speak Tamil and eating Indian food and that’s how Dharma came to be. Dharma knows how to speak Tamil and how to cook. I also gave him an Italian last name because of the whole mafia theme Crocodile’s got going on.

I had an outline of S-Crocodile way before it was revealed and what I have written down is so far off from the original that when I look at the seraphim I’m like, “Why are you so different?” And then I remember that when I first met these characters we only knew S-Hawk, Snake, Shark, and Bear and we didn’t even know if they were conscious. Dharma is very soft spoken and is very muted compared to Crocodile. Crocodile exudes confidence and superiority. Dharma is a very gentle presence and, while confident, lacks the same authority and charisma his prime does. (I’m calling the OGs Primes so I don’t have to constantly write out their names).

I made his eyes a star bursts with light coming out of them. Kinda like a start shooting light. I changed his eyes to be more of a warm honey color than Crocodile’s harsh gold (before Toei decided to change Crocodile’s eye color for no reason). I really wanted to show the difference in their personality in an obvious way. I also gave him makeup around his eyes because I thought his face looked to bare and it became a theme for nearly all the seraphim. I made Dharma’s wings that of a sparrow’s due to that one cover story, also his wings are closer to his hips than his shoulders. His aesthetic is a casual glam. He look effortless and like an average guy, but also extremely expensive.

S-Snake is a very curious child. She is very sweet, adventurous, self-assured, and bossy. She is trusting to a fault that her older brothers are over protective of her. I have named her Yumi. Yumi Stone. She and the others discovered that her devil fruit doesn’t require that they actually look at her, in fact, you don’t even need to see her for her devil fruit to work. The only qualification is that there is love. She can petrify the other seraphim because they love her and each other. She has used her powers on couples and parents to try and test how far her powers can go. Her powers also have some healing properties to it. She is interning under S-Gecko to become a doctor (This is due to trauma which I will get to maybe never).

Okay, to start off, I love how cute I made her!!!! Look at her, look at my baby! She is the definition of adorable. Her eyes were the most fun and, shockingly, the easiest to come up with because I had the idea of making each of the seraphim have unique eyes (by the time I hit S-Flamingo I had officially run out of ideas and just said fuck it close enough). I made her eyes a light purple because I thought it would break up all the warm colored eyes I was doing. I added the rings and the mini-stars because I loved the idea of her having like a sorta planetary eye. I nearly did the rings for Dharma and S-Gecko, but I scrapped the idea because it was not working. I gave her some small eye liner because all of the others had some form of make up. I didn’t want it to be to extreme and wanted to keep it simple for her and it ended up in her eyes looking more owlish and it’s just—mwuah!❤️ Not on purpose but I fell in love with it. That small little thing has also made me head canon that her wings are like an owls. Her eyes are easily my favorite over all. Yumi doesn’t have any specific aesthetics, she just wears whatever she thinks is cute or what her brothers pick out for her. She can really be any of the boys aesthetics when she wants to be. Like one day she can have a biker jacket on and the next she’s wearing a gardener outfit.

Next Batch! And I won’t be starting with S-Caterpillar, I’m saving him for last 😉

S-Gecko’s name is Frankenstein. At this point you can already tell the second theme that I picked out for the seraphim is that they are all of their names are based off of different fictional characters because I like to think that they choose their names from their favorite characters!

Frankenstein was also the first one to be created. We literally do not know how long he was a warlord for, but we do know that he lost a shit ton of blood to Kaido way back when! I like to believe that Gecko Moria was the entire reason the seraphim program exists because waaaaayy too many people forget that in his prime he was an actual candidate for becoming an emperor/the pirate king.

Frankenstein (just Frank or Stein depending on whose talking to him) is very similar, yet extremely different from his prime. • Similarities include : both work with the dead, are tacticians, and are very heavy sleepers. Stein is a workaholic and the other seraphim rarely, if ever, see him since he mainly stays in his room. He is very abrasive and is regularly seen wearing a scowl, but he also has a wicked sense of humor that you don’t get to hear often and is even funnier because you don’t expect it. He is an actual certified doctor which is important to know because he is the other seraphim’s primary doctor, but his day job is to work as a mortician. Despite his job as a mortician, he’s very delicate with the bodies. He has never attempted to raise the dead like his prime. He has never held any shame or disgust towards a body. He will do small things that seem illogical to some, but he was always superstitious type. He will sing lullabies to dead and gently push hair out of their faces. He will recount his day like he was talking to an old friend or a patient. Stein is a religious person in a loose sense. He won’t pray to any god and swears like a sailor but he won’t go out of his way to actively piss off a spirit. Stein is Montya’s best friend. In my head their relationship changed from two people that knew each other in passing to closer than anything. Montya developed some pretty serious separation anxiety after he was separated from Crowly. Once he was placed with Stein he just clung onto him and never let go. Stein, despite being very much a loner and not really a people person, let him cling to him. When Montya’s eyes were replaced with robotic ones and were malfunctioning, he used his devil fruit to create a sort of cooling agent to stop them from overheating. They had small little moments like these that built up over the years in captivity that made them inseparable…literally. After Montya ate his devil fruit he was forced to go under a series of experiments to test the limits of his devil fruit. One where they used Stein as a “motivator”. After one world government agent took it too far, in a panic, Montya fused himself and Stein together. It took several weeks to get them to unfuse forcing the WG to drop the experiment altogether. The two of them still fuse from time to time just to feel close. Frankenstein is the only person Montya has ever fused with. Not even Crowley.

Stein’s pupils are actually two different colors! They are two, three way triangles. I originally tried making his eyes like an atoms but I scrapped that idea. His wings are similar to an albatross. He also looks like Moria at his prime. Also I do realize that I gave him eyebrows even though he doesn’t have any, but they looked too good to discard. His aesthetic is yeehaw goth (Mihawk better watch out cause he’s side eyeing your territory). It is polarizing to see him and Montoya together because of how different their personalities are but still are best friends, yet him and Crowly absolutely hate each other with a burning passion and only really tolerate each other when Montoya is around. The second he turns around they are already throwing down and throttling each other into the stratosphere.

S-Flamingo. Better known as Donquixote Sancho. He is the very antithesis of Doflamingo. Not in a “they look exactly the same but we are totally different” but in a “Everything I do, I do to spite you” kinda way. Sancho is a priest and is respectful to literally everyone but the people in power. He lives modestly and refuses to live outside of the bare necessities. He refuses to use Doflamingo’s devil fruit and doesn’t even see it as his own power. He uses a god damn sword that is made out of seastone all the way through just because he doesn’t want to use Doflamingo’s devil fruit. Sancho loathes Doflamingo with such a passion that he takes everything he knows about him and flips it on its head just so he can avoid being reminded that he’s technically his son (brother. Him-Something?). Doflamingo has short hair? He grows his out. Doflamingo has an atrocious, outrageous sense of style? Wears nice, plain clothing. You can see where this is going. The only reason I gave him sunglasses was because I didn’t think he looked like Doffy enough without them. Each of the seraphim are supposed to be recognizable despite not even having the same color palette as their primes so just ignore the sunglasses (now that I’m looking at the photo again I realize that I forgot to give him makeup). His wings are similar to a swans.

Now is the little bastard’s turn. S-Caterpillar.

Or better known by the others as Godbrand Puck.

Now let’s get one this straight about Godbrand. He is almost exactly like Buggy. In fact the world government would consider him their first perfect, and only, total success. He emulates Buggy to a T. He is loud, eccentric, and all around flashy. Normally the world government would consider this to be a flaw that they can just beat out of him if it wasn’t for one very special factor. He is physically incapable of feeling pain. He isn’t just called Godbrand for shits and giggles. He has been branded with both the Slave brand and the Word Government’s symbol multiple times. Not once did he scream out in pain. In fact he stared giggling the first time it happened. He even fell asleep during one of these “sessions”.

Puck is the only one without green blood because when Vegapunk was first experimenting he decided to lace the artificial devil fruit with the DNA to make the seraphim automatically born with the devil fruit. This lead to the interesting discovery that due to the nature of Buggy’s devil fruit and the inherent nature of devil fruits permanently changing a users body, Puck’s pain receptors were completely severed. They tested this theory on several other Buggy clones that ended up in total failures because of the Chop-Chop fruits nature to split apart. Some of them were missing limbs or organs, others simply didn’t form correctly like an arm coming out of the head or the eyes were placed on the neck, sometimes there were an extra set of something like a row teeth or more than one head. Because Vegapunk tampered with re-adding the devil fruit into Buggy’s DNA none of his clones came out right leaving only Puck. The Golden Child. A Miracle. The Best out of a series of total and utter failures left with an extremely desirable trait in the World Government’s eyes. A solider who could continue on without being held back by something as trivial as pain. Of course until you realize that “desirable trait” leaves him with the inability to seek treatment. Biting his own fingers off. Swallowing his teeth and chewing on his own tongue till it’s bloodied. Ripping out stitches and IVs. Walking on a infected leg that has completely rotted bellow the knee. After that Vegapunk vowed to never clone another the same way he did Puck. Both too risky and high rate of failure. Even if the clone does survive, their could be some unforeseen complications down the line. With him being unable to feel pain, he feels no fear. Remember when I said he was almost exactly like Buggy? What is Buggy’s most notable traits? He is a complete and utter coward terrified of pain and will do almost anything to avoid it. But Puck? With him unable to feel pain, he feels no reason to fear anything. Why feel fear a fate worse than death when that “fate worse than death” is just feeling pain? That little chip the WG and Vegapunks invented to make them unable to feel anything or disobey orders? That is merely a controlled shock that will make them feel excruciating pain. So with that in mind, can you see where this is going? That little desirable trait that they oh so loved in the beginning has bitten them in the ass because this insufferable little shit doesn’t follow orders unless he wants to. Oh sure he won’t be able to “properly” move for a while but can just use his devil fruit to still make it work. What “fate worse than death” can they make him feel? He can’t even experience something so universal to the human experience that he believes himself to be above it all. He’s better than humanity. He is better than the other seraphim because they are all held down by the temporary emotion known as pain. They are below him because they are held back by something so…unnecessary.

Puck is everything the Buggy pretends to be. Puck is confident, powerful, and better than everyone else. He’s basically God. At least in his own eyes. Puck is a raging narcissist, like clinical textbox definition of a narcissist. He like Buggy, but everything is cranked up to an eleven. If crazy was a kind of clock, Buggy would be a single full rotation. Luffy would be like twenty full rotations and then clockwise and then back again on the perfect level of fun crazy and absolute Eldrich abomination. PUCK would be the exact opposite of Luffy landing on the worst amount of self import delusional asshole. He thinks himself a God with the power to back it up. His blood is that of the seraphim, a species that was once considered godlike, and Buggy, an emperor of the sea. He is the nepotism of blood. He is every last one of Buggy’s WORST possible traits. He is a narcissist, psychopathic, asshole. None of the other seraphim like him or understand him. And he doesn’t like or understand them. Worst of all, he is just as much of charismatic genius as his prime.

This brat has the critically thinking skills as Crocodile mixed with Buggy’s chemical expertise and Shank’s level of haki control. On my first post, you can see Puck with four wings. Because Buggy’s devil fruit already allows him to fly, he uses his wings as living armory. He can separate his feathers to create either daggers or swords depending on the situation. He uses his armament haki to make his feathers as strong as steel. Or he can uses his feathers for recon missions (think Hawks from MHA). He can also use his devil fruit for a variety of other situations. He uses it for espionage and undercover missions. He can cut his hair or limbs to appear taller or shorter. He removes his wings, nose, his own dick and Adam’s apple (if the situation calls for it) to go better under cover. He’s also knowledgeable enough about surgery to perform top and bottom surgery to easily switch between male and female when going under cover. He has entire rooms fill of wigs, makeup, clothing, dyes, jewelry, and other accessories specially for him. All his years undercover has made him an excellent actor. He knows what to say to get them to do what he wants. He knows how to persuade someone. No matter how much the others hate him, they have to admit, he is damn good at what he does.

For his design to most important thing to me was clown. I wanted to nail that performer look without making it too much or too bland. Buggy’s makeup is iconic. I’m like 90% sure Buggy has an egg. So I wanted to nail that Star of the Show look without butting into his territory. Of course I gave him Star first to not alone tie in the whole celestial feel, but it was thematic. I originally wanted to add in a moon since he already has a Star and a Sun but it just wouldn’t turn out how I wanted so first thing I asked myself was, “What is some of the most iconic clown makeup?” Then I remembered. TEARS! You can see a small blue tear on his left eye for 1.)Buggy is a bit of a crybaby and 2.)I didn’t want it to distract from the star too much. For the heart and the spade on the top of his forehead, it ties into playing cards. The heart and the spade are from a childhood drawing of mine where I made a monster using the four suits. Diamond and Club for the eyes. Heart on the forehead. And Spade as the nose. I took that idea and simplified it down to make the forehead not look as big. His eyes are easily my second favorite because we have a lot of warm colored eyes so that made him standout a lot more. His eyes are also the only ones that aren’t totally connected. All of the other seraphim’s eyes are very soft in some kind of way, Frankenstein being somewhat of an exception. All of their eyes are rounded in some kind of way. Dharma has a lot of curves to his eyes. The pointed edges of the twins, Yumi, and Sancho has been rounded off. Hell, even Frankenstein’s eyes have rounded lines in them to make appearance softer. Pucks eyes are completely sharp, there are no soft or rounded edges. Even the smaller stars are very straight and stiff. There is no softness in his eyes. There is nothing soft about Puck. His eyes are radioactive green. They are toxic. They are dangerous. They are tempting. He is the prettiest poison you’ve ever seen. His makeup, his nose, his hair and clothing are all attempts to make him appear softer than he really is. And of course, if you’ve seen my drawing of him, his wings are based off of duck wings. 1.) It’s a pun because Duck>Puck. Pretty self explanatory. And 2.) To make him appear weaker than he really is. You don’t look at a duck and think, “Total Murder Monster Hellbent on Making the World Kneel to Him”

Sorry for the long post. This is the longest I’ve ever written on this website so far and I had a lot I wanted to say before we got any new chapters or episodes that totally debunks any of my theories or lore. Maybe I’ll add on to this post by making the seraphim and their primes interacting with each other for the first time. And I hope you enjoyed! You can ask me questions if you want.

[endlesscolddreams]

Why fruk? All they do is fight!!! That's exhausting and toxic

I know I took a long time to reply to this but I wanted to have time for it.

There are many reasons, from the usual rivals to lovers to the doomed lovers and gravitational forces that keep clashing to the lovely reason of face family (children), but I'll admit, I don't think face family is a thing. While I do love it, I don't think it's realistic at all in nation aus, they're too young and focused on ambitions and other matters; besides, they'd never join to raise the kids because France is not a parent, only when kids are older and interesting; England mellowed to kids with age, but he was a brat himself, America was the one pulling the strings like only a child does, tbh. 

I could give you many reasons, from their personalities to the fact that there's not a single soul that knows them better than the one who witnessed all your failures and victories, but I decided to address the point you make about it being exhausting.

It is, but at the same time, it's invigorating.

As someone who comes from a house of maniacs who always fought, I'll admit I don't understand it that well sometimes, but there's a point to be made here, and that is: love is not enough.

These two are really good to showcase this point because they do love and hate each other like no one else, and that's not enough. I think that's the main appeal of this ship tbh.

Their love is not enough to be together, not enough to be apart, not enough to ignore the other, and not enough to lower their guard and properly try. And isn't that the most humane and real fact? I do gravitate towards them in all the ways they're portrayed because of it. You can make them sweet, you can make them less proud, and you can make them human and fragile, but in the end, they're who they are and will always fight. But while they do fight a lot, they are used to it; they're desensitised to it, even if it looks toxic or abusive. They have a mutual understanding that no one—them included—can understand properly, but it works for them, which is enough to make them crave this push-pull relationship.

They are ancient, they are used to a certain level of cruelty, and their morals are flexible. Besides,  they have thick skin and don't care about certain words or violence. They are and always will be opposites, that's how they operate, their role in the world, and how they feel comfortable acting, because that's what built their identities up and carved their name in history.

(BTW if their hate was really deep and vicious, they would use Canada and America against each other, and the lack of shippers of frus and engcan tells me that maybe people do get that deep down they don't hate each other.)

They're also sadomasochistic in complementary ways. They both enjoy causing each other pain.

As I see it, France is more of an emotional sadomasochist; he finds real pleasure in humiliating people, and tears can be aphrodisiac in beautiful individuals, so it's a treat when he can't wrap someone in his fingers, and England doesn't give him that pleasure. He also enjoys feeling pain; he is that one individual who abides by the rule that the most pleasure can only be obtained with a certain amount of pain, and he does love teasing but can't handle it himself. Who else can fulfil his inner desires? Even those he will never admit he has? England will because he sees who he really is underneath his well-made web. England can make him feel his own poison, and as much as it's infuriating, it makes him addicted to more, and he won't deny himself that pleasure. (No pleasure goes to waste for that guy)

England craves something more physical and cathartic, so he enjoys when the other presses and doesn't give up when he doesn't give them the pleasure of showing his pain (he is too proud, really). He also has a sharp tongue that hurts people without his intent, so he needs someone who loves himself enough to not break with his vitriolic words (France loves himself too much to believe his words). England also enjoys hurting and being hurt; it can be relieving and usually clears his mind, as little does. Besides, it's a win-win situation because France also looks his best trying to contain his tears at his feet and is amazing at teasing England until he breaks down without taking advantage because he prides himself on being a good lover above all, even his own desires sometimes, which can be reassuring to someone as jaded as England.

There's also the fact that he does enjoy playing the game. England enjoys mental games, and this is pretty much an even one; sometimes he breaks, sometimes France breaks, which will never cease to be a motivator to keep it up despite that nasty fact that France enjoys reasons to do things, emotions, and all that crap. France is invested; he finds it fascinating in several ways and longs to be the one to really understand England or make him fall for him, whichever comes first (he lacks self-awareness sometimes for such a self-proclaimed wise nation). And England is, underneath all his bitterness, a little romantic, so he quite enjoys being pursued, so why not? At least the frog is one of the best-looking nations, despite his many flaws. (I will admit I don't really portray England as tsundere as the anime makes him but the fact still is that he will never be open about his desires, will never be dovey and sweet as France wished him to be but France kind of grew to like that part of him too, despite not being cute)

I could also add the fact that they're both dominant. That's another point of contempt but also complimentary; I'm simply in love with the idea that they switch up and France is that annoying dominant bottom who uses England as he wishes, not really realising that England quite likes being used like that (cough, cough, English vices). They never win with each other because they end up unwillingly giving each other reasons to keep up.

France calls it fate, England his curse. Either way, they'll always be connected by history, geography, and even humanity.

I rambled my way around the point, but the thing is, they enjoy this game, (It's their game) and yes, it can be tiresome.

Sometimes they really need to step out and give it a rest, but they're both confident enough to know it's temporary. They'll cool down when things get too bad and then call each other to gossip about something and find each other in the same bed in a single day, not really knowing how but thinking that yes, they actually missed that annoying guy.

Personally, I don't see them fighting all that much, but they do know where to poke to provoke, and France is usually the one poking because he needs drama in his life, and England gets bored easily, so he needs a push to keep lively, but they do know where to stop. (England goes along with it because it suits him and everything is boring; he keeps thinking too much, and this way he's engaged in something that's not self-destructive for once. France just lives for the movie life the drama queen)

So, they don't fight as much as you'd think; it's mostly for show because they need to be the antagonist force, and it's mostly about their differences in handling things and views that usually don't stray all that far, so it's reserved for their nationhood things. The fact that in Canon France demands to fight/argue with Germany also adds to my view, because who will counter him now? (He needs that voice of reason/oposition/ there; it's just unnatural to not have it there.)

So yeah, it can be tiresome, but in a comforting way. Is that a good reason to ship them? Maybe not, but there's no doubt they make a compelling case. Be it hate or love, they're not indifferent to each other, and that's a fact.

Sorry for the long rant but I've received like 3 questions about fruk and I joined most points here.

[v3nusxsky]

My dove!|fluff

Prompt~ based off the TikTok sound "is she your girlfriend girlfriend or are y'all just talking? Bitch if I kill you are you dead dead or just not breathing"

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

When the school received news of the new readers, Lesso was furious. A liability. Another obstacle to hold evil back from finally beating good. After all evil hadn't won for years now. What use would a reader be? Well it was then and there she decided you would not hinder her goal. Evil would beat good this year. And she would do anything to achieve that. Nothing was off limits for her. After all a world where evil isn't as powerful as good is a world out of balance. Some silly reader wouldn't be impacting that. Or would she?

The day you arrived at the school, petrified and alone was the day she realised her plan to win would be a treacherous path. A reader. A never that looks like an ever. God what had she been tortured with now. How would you be of use to her? Of course Lady Lesso hated move in day. After all she had once experienced being ripped from her house in Gavaldon and transported here. Although she likes to tell her self she didn't look as pathetic and petrified as you did. No evil knew no fear. And Lesso was perfectly evil.

The first class with you drove Lesso mad. You had absolutely no knowledge on how to be evil. God you couldn't stop day dreaming. It was damn right infuriating. No one had the guts to not pay attention to the great dean of evil. But you. Y/n of Gavaldon seemed to have no fear. Did you not know of what she could do to you? The insistence of the young reader was admirable really. But regardless it made Lesso work harder. You wouldn't stop the goal of winning.

Soon enough you wormed your way into Lesso's thoughts. No matter how hard she tried to shake you from them, you were just there. Constantly. Like a thorn in her side. You clearly weren't happy here. It was obvious. Even a trip to the doom room hadn't sorted you out. God what was she to do with you. No see the trip to the doom room had only ignited feeling in the reader as well as Lesso herself. She was her usual intimidating self. The kind that would have most normal people cowering from her whimpering in submission. But not you. No. You just flushed Scarlett unable to remove your gaze. She stalked towards you, like a fox and it's prey. Nothing phased you. Even after seeing the collection of items the doom room held, you weren't fearing her wrath. Lady Lesso isn't one to get side tracked. But you intrigued her. She just had to understand what was going on. Why didn't you fear her? And why won't you leave her mind?

It was only when the frustration of its peak that the issue resolved itself. Lesso lost her temper at your ignorance in her lessons. As the rest of the Nevers filed out of the room, she stalked you, waiting to pounce. You were always last to leave. Probably down to the fact you day dreamed so much you missed dismissal. Seeing her moment she went for it. Jumping into action and pinning you to the solid oak door. You audibly gulped, eyes flicking all other her body. The same flush reigning over your cheeks. Your teeth sinking into your bottom lip, hard enough to spill the liquid gold that hid underneath. The action alone is what caused the band to snap. With an almost animalistic growl the older women took your lips in her own. Tasting the delicious tangy taste of your blood. The moan found its way free of throat only to be swallowed by the bruising kiss. It was rough, passionate but oh so desired by you both. Only when breathing was a necessity did you pull back. Foreheads resting against each other as you caught your breaths.

Since the kiss, Lady Lesso felt as tho she was going insane. It's all she could think about. The feel of your lips on hers, the taste of your sweet blood that was thumping through your veins right now just waiting to be spilled and even the way your body felt pinned by her own. Insanity that's what this was. Frustratingly incurable insanity. Never to be stated. Needing this insanity to end, Lesso found the perfect time to pounce. Once you were all alone heading to the library she simple grabbed your arm and started walking off. You didn't even struggle just simply allowing her to do as she pleased. Only when you had been dragged to the perfect secluded spot did her lips find yours once again. This time her own milky white teeth piercing your lip. The taste of your oh so pretty blood was unmatched by anything else. And she wondered how it would look spilled on that beautiful pale skin of yours. The whimpers and whines you'd make she she began making it spill. This time it was you who broke first mumbling "be mine Lesso" onto her lips. Her dark chuckle met you. "Oh dove. You're confused. You. Are.mine" she all but growled out before capturing your lips once more.

Things became more bearable for Lesso now you were hers. She'd take you anywhere anytime she deemed fit. You submitted to her willingly. You were hers and that was clear to you both. Apparently just the two of you though. In class, Hort is trying his luck with you. Of course your protective girlfriend was eyeing the situation closely. How dare he try it with her dove. Hers. Not his. When Hort brought a hand to cup your cheeks Lady Lesso snapped. The secret would be out. But that would be more bearable than watching some one hair wannabe Werewolf touching what belonged to her.

"Hort" she growled stalking over, enjoying the slither of fear in his eyes. "Back away from my girlfriend!" She hissed out. The warning clear. The rest of the class intrigued. Did Lesso say girlfriend?

"Girlfriend? Is she like your girlfriend girlfriend or just girlfriend?" Hort puzzled out loud. God he really did have one brain cell and that's it. His pea sized, shrivelled up brain cell working overtime.

With a smack of her can just missing Hort cracked throughout the room. "Bitch if I kill you are you dead dead or just not breathing?" Her tone was threatening and dark. You knew your girlfriend was protective of what's hers, but to go that far? It made you chuckle and watch the scene unfold in front of you. Moving to stand by the side of the angry redhead.

The boy quacked in his boots literally and scampered off. God what a whimp. And with that Lady Lesso took you by the hand and lead you away. "Dove, you. Are. Mine. It seems you need a reminder." She growled at you before capturing your lips in a rough dominant kiss. Oh yes this reminder would be deliciously painful.

Word count~ 1228

*A/n ~ kinda like the possessive Leo. Now this could make absolutely no sense as it's been written at like 4:30 am but I actually kinda love it*

[a-tale-strawberry-flavored]

✨This post is a masterpost and will continually be updated! ✨

ASK BOX STATUS: OPEN!

Hi hello! Currently working on references and such so it's a bit slow! However you can send in asks some characters may not be available and some will be. Replies will be slow but there!

Strawberry Von Fru: Askable

#strawberry von fru character tag

Had lost her right horn and mother to a tragic accident while her dad was away on work, had a close relationship with her mother unlike her father who was too busy at the time...but after events he tried to better his relationship with his daughter, though Strawberry has adopted Frubble Fylass as her father figure and hangout around him constantly, the two work together and go on adventures often!

Gem Apple Frubble!Fylass/Fryinn: Askable

credit for inspiration belongs to @george228732

#frubble fylass/fyrinn character tag

A kind Frubble who has served as his home kingdom's knight was a loyal knight who's now retired and lives a life of a farmer however he does still wear his knight gear when he ventures with friends or by himself! Is the father figure to Strawberry Von Fru and few others.

Knight gear:

Waddle Dé Yore: Not Available..

A young Waddle of unknown genetic origins...often looked at as an outlier to waddle Dees has somewhat a bit of an odd reputation thanks to this. She works as a postal delivery girl for her village the wings despite being odd come in handy for her job. She's secretly a hero her village looks up to and carries a Trident as her weapon, staff when in casual attire.

[keebwee]

Ask game! Askin about fruhand ❤️✂️

(Hope I did this right)

u chose the greatest ones LMAOAOA. gonna be doin this with rottmnt fru since he's my favorite rn

❤️: What is one of your OC's best memories? - this is a tricky one. i think probably when he was a kid, before he accidentally killed his parents (whoopsies!). it'd be a simple domestic moment, but the fact that fru doesn't have them anymore (and the fact that it was so rare, seeing as there were constant arguments) makes it one of his best memories. maybe they're having a family cookout, im not sure. maybe they're playing on a playground and his parents are pushing him and his sister on the swings and down the weird slimy slides.

✂️: What is one of your OC's worst memories? - this is a tie between accidentally killing his parents at age 4-6 and when he was first forced into the nexus, and thus forced to kill someone his age in order to win the fight. he'd probably be around 10 at this time. big mama is a bitch.

to elaborate on the killing his parents thing, fru has magic that basically summons magic lions !! they look similar to familiars from skyrim. as a kid he had no control over them.

his parents were arguing, it got intense and when he walked into the room he accidentally got involved. he gets scared and his INNER LIONS COME OUT. RAGHHHH. CRAZYY.... they kill his parents and his sister runs away (she isn't found. she comes up later tho <3) THIS IS INSANE FOR A YOUNG CHILD TO WITNESS. so obviously he's traumatized. myrtle (my beloved) ends up taking care of him after that

[thirsty-boba-fett-posts]

Part IV of a fic that needs a name and, if we’re being honest with each other, a bit more direction. Eventual smut, but apparently I like a slow burn and lots of character development.

Parts I, II, and III are all available should you need them. I hope this fic finds the audience who needs it the most.

tw: rather large arachnids, misogyny, objectification, trauma, erotic longing, Daddy kink (if you squint)

…

She got along well with all manner of animals, domestic and otherwise, so what transpired when the small contingent of diplomatic emissaries, ministers plenipotentiaries, and a dull-eyed prince arrived should not have surprised Daimyo Fett.

The Princess was less inclined to wander than when he’d first met her on Brao, so after a few weeks Fett left her to her own devices. She still accompanied him into town with Fennec and the Gamorreans, but otherwise she was free to do as she liked. The Princess and Drash became fast friends, as he suspected they would. Drash was ill-suited to be the handmaiden of a princess, but that was just as well. What The Princess needed was a partner in crime. When he heard them giggling together, he was reminded how young she was and he felt a pang of guilt for finding her so attractive.

The contingent arrived at midday, hailing from The Princess’ home system - the neighboring planet Tilmov from which the system took its name. Fett, having spent the morning receiving tributes and hearing grievances, had seen neither hide nor hair of The Princess when 8D8 announced the names and ranks of each member of the pompous little flock of politicians and royalty. Somehow, Fett knew this was about her.

Fennec snorted audibly when Minister Plenipotentiary Sanroinov made the offer. In exchange for The Princess’ hand in marriage (as if it was Fett’s to give) there would be a surprisingly hefty dowry and a treaty with the acting Prime Minister of Brao absolving her of her father’s crimes and thus the death penalty.

“LEP,” Fett called to the ratcatcher droid. “Fetch the princess. Have her come to the throne room.”

Her fancy-bred tooka, having taken to Fennec, sauntered lazily into the throne room and made his way to her side. She lifted him up and held him in her arms like a baby.

“Fru, can you believe these pompous little dwarfnuts?” she murmured in her best approximation of baby talk.

Fett chuckled.

In walked The Princess, as regal as ever, carrying a burlap bait bag with a Dune Spider the size of an astromech droid trailing obediently behind her. Fett had seen The Princess and Drash in the kitchen teasing each other into fits of laughter as they crafted balls of gelatin and meat the size of black melons. He’d wondered at the time what they were for, and now he had his answer. As she approached the throne, Fett caught the expressions of genuine shock on the faces of the contingency from Tilmov. Whatever happened next would surely be entertaining.

“Princess, what have you got here?”

“Oh - I trained him. Look!”

She turned to face the Dune Spider and pointed her index finger into the air. The Dune Spider raised itself to its full height and clapped its front legs together in a threat display. The Princess clicked her tongue and reached into her bait bag for a meat sphere. She tossed it up high and the Dune Spider speared it out of the air with the sharp dagger of his front leg. The squelching sound of the gelatinous ball made one of the emissaries blanch.

“Ah, very good Princess!” Fett exclaimed proudly. “These men are here from Tilmov. The prince here has offered a dowry and a treaty of absolvement in exchange for your hand in marriage.”

The Princess stiffened. Her brows knit together.

Fett continued. “Have you any interest in marrying this prince?”

“No,” she replied, visibly nervous.

“Very well then,” Fett turned to address the Tilmov dignitaries. “You have your answer. You may return to Tilmov. Princess, run along and check the larder for sweetbreads and have 8D8 order as much as you need. Take your new pet with you.”

The Princess let go of the breath she’d been holding and her eyes brightened. She picked up her skirts and trotted off towards the kitchen, the Dune Spider skittering enthusiastically behind her.

“Respectfully, Daimyo, what use have you for a princess in exile?” asked an envoy with an especially cadaverous face.

“I think I could find some use for an army of trained Dune Spiders,” Fett replied with a chuckle. “You’re dismissed, gentlemen.”

…

Feedback would be lovely. I honestly have no idea where to go next. Requests are open.

[thehufflepuff02]

Chapter 4| A Turn for the Worse

Jake sat there with Neytiri in his arms, enjoying the comfortable silence that surrounded them. Jake rubbed Neytiri’s back with his free hand as she slept. It was a peaceful night, the moon shone bright, casting a beautiful light on the couple. Jake admired the stars, a soft smile gracing his face.

Grace and Mo’at had offered to watch the kids for the night under the condition that they don’t surprise anyone with more of them. Him and Neytiri were quick to assure them that won’t be happening. Right now anyway.

Jake’s eye caught something in the night sky, bring him out of his thoughts.

A new star in the night.

It was a ship accelerating . Heading straight for Pandora.

“Baby, wake up.” Jake asked Neytiri through his panic.

She sat up confused, still half asleep. “What ma Jake.”

Jake silently raised his had, pointing towards the ship, light years away.

“What the hell do you mean humans are coming back?” Grace whispered, her voice full of panic. Jake had woken both Grace and Mo’at up from their slumber the second they had made it back home, to the high camp.

“I mean what I said Grace, Skypeople are on their way back to Pandora.” Jake answered.

“He is right, I saw it as well. " Neytiri confirmed.

“But why must they come back?” Mo’at inquired.

“Ma, what’s going on?” Kiri asked, stepping out of the hut. The concerned whispers must have woken her.

“Nothing, sweetheart. Go back to bed.” Grace replied Quickly, nudging her gently.

“What is all the noise.” Little Tuk asked, her too, now awake.

“I don’t know why I spent all that time putting you all to bed if you all just decided to wake up less than three hours later.” Grace muttered.

“Come here, Tuk. " Neytiri said, her arms open for the young Na’vi to run into. Neytiri picked Tuk up in one swift movement, her daughter now rested her head on her shoulder.

Both Lo’ak and Neteyam walked out, visibly confused to why everyone was up. “Dad what’s wrong?” Neteyam asked.

Jake let out a long breath, dragging his hand down his face. “Lo’ak go wake up Norm, Trudy and Spider I’ll tell everyone together.”

One year later…

Jake flew over the trees of Pandora on his Ikran, Bob, the rest of the war party right behind him. Trudy drove her Samson above them, ready to help. They flew straight for the maglev that was without a doubt, bringing supplies to a sky people base.

“Ground team go!” Jake directed through the intercom.

Na’vi came out from the bushes, equipped with weapons and riding dire horse. As the Maglev grew closer, they grew angrier. This was their land and the sky people were destroying it. The Omaticaya and every other Na’vi for that matter had every right to be mad.

They threw grenades at the tracks. Within seconds they exploded, destroying the bridge. The Maglev was thrown off track and crashed, the different compartments flew in every direction, each one catching fire as they hit the ground. The whole area was engulfed in flames and smoke.

Jake dove down lower aiming his gun at one of the enemy Samsons. He tightened his grip on his gun and fired, taking down the ship. Neytiri did the same with the one besides him, only she did it with a bow and arrow. Jake found it much more impressing. They continued until all the enemy ships were destroyed.

Jake landed finally, joining the rest of the team. They began to raid the Maglev, stealing all of the weaponry inside. “let’s go people, let’s go.” Jake urged. The military would be here soon.

Above them Neteyam and Lo’ak watched for the sky people.

“bro, we have got to get down there.” Lo’ak said, turning towards his older brother. Neteyam could already see the excitement growing on his face at the though of helping with a raid.

“No way! Dad will skin us!” Neteyam argued, knowing it was no use.

“Come on. Don’t be a wuss.” Lo’ak told Neteyam, diving down to the ground.

“Lo’ak, get back here you….” Neteyam let out a groan of frustration. He too dove down towards the ground.

They could here Norm as they landed, instructing the war party. “We’re taking the mags, the RPGs, the stingers.”

“Bro, let’s go. Come on!”

“Lo’ak!” Neteyam tried again. It was no use, his brother was already getting off his Ikran and running right into the raid.

“Okay let’s go!”Lo’ak shouted.

“Take these weapons. Here boy go.” Lo’ak was handed a weapon. Neteyam was almost positive he didn’t even know how to use it.

“Lo’ak!” His younger Brother ignored him, shouting battle cries.“You don’t even know how to use it”

“Dad taught me.” Lo’ak smirked.

“Gunship’s inbound! Fall back!” Neteyam heard his dad yell over the cheering Na’vi.

A huge ship flew towards the destroyed Maglev, shooting missiles at them. The sky felt like it was raining missiles, explosions and fire everywhere.

“Bro, come on!” Lo’ak yelled as he ran from the fire.

Neteyam was right behind him running but he wasn’t fast enough. A missile shot down behind them, instantly bursting into flames and throwing them off their feet.

“Lo’ak where are you?” Jake yelled, running in the direction where his two sons went. The fire was burning hot as ig grazed his arms. “Neteyam!”

He spotted Lo’ak. He was alive. it felt like a thousand pounds was lifted off his chest. “Easy, easy, you okay?” he asked,grabbing his sons shoulders.

“Yeah.”

“Where’s your brother?”

“That way.” Lo’ak told him, pointing left.

“Where is he?Where?” Jake asked, standing up. “get outta here! Go on!” he ordered.

Jake began to climb the ruins of the Maglev shouting his eldest sons name. His heart sunk when he saw a trail of blood staining the metal. "

“Oh,no, no, no,” he quickly jumped down. “oh, god.” Neteyam lay there unconscious.

He rolled him over.

“Dad?” Neteyam asked.

“What are you doing here boy! what the hell were you thinking!” Jake raved, once he knew Neteyam was alive.

“I’m s…I’m sorry.”

Jake draped his son over his shoulder, running towards his Ikran’

“I’m sorry, sir.” Neteyam apologized again.

[kny-stardust]

Interlude II — Hantengu & ???

Word Count: 4650

Summary: When the old Hashira first met you, he just didn't want to see a young life being taken away by the demons. Later, as a father, he did not want to see another child of his to die in this meaningless conflict. He only understands that children are meant to walk their own path, even a risk life such as the Demon Slayers, when you're too far away for him to decide to let you live your life however you want.

You did. You actually did it.

He didn't want to believe it, but he knew it was not a dream.

You did cut that boulder in two, with a single strike.

In the end, all of his efforts were for nothing.

You far surpassed his expectations, and managed to learn a breathing technique on your own, without his help, despite his attempts of sabotaging you.

Hantengu didn't think much of you in the beginning. To his eyes, you were just another fool young that was messing with things beyond your comprehension. It didn't help that you had your siblings coming with you.

He simply couldn't understand. Many children came to him in search of power to take revenge on onis that have taken everything from them except their lives. And he turned them all down, making them give up and value more their lives, and live on without getting revenge. You weren't like them. You still had your family with you, even though two of them were no longer human. You could still live a semi normal life if you wanted, both you and your siblings. If you came to him asking for shelter and protection for your family, he would have welcomed you with open arms, even if it meant housing two demons under his roof. He would have done that, because then he would actually be helping someone, a young one like you, instead of wasting his time training you and getting attached to you only to sent you to the slaughter and then mourn your for it, to torture himself with this guilt, of not having done enough for you. Like it happened with his late friends and students.

That's why he tried to scare you at first, with that test and the initial training. All those harsh words, all that violence, his distance, it was to make you give up. His test to you had been much harder than it should have been at first, with that very purpose of making you quit. He managed to get that with much tougher children, especially boys. They usually either gave up during the test, failed it or quit the moment he said the actual training would be much harsher. He thought it wouldn't be much different with you. He actually believed it would be easier, since you were a girl.

Except you didn't quit. You accepted the challenge, for your unconditional love for your siblings.

So you were one of the stubborn ones, but how long would your stubbornness last against his training? He was generous when he thought you would give up in less than two months. Many didn't last half a month.

But you did. You actually continued everyday, even if your whole body was hurt, even if you were dead tired. And you still managed to smile so gently and so genuinely to him and your siblings.

Your smile... It reminded him so much of hers.

In the end, it was he who didn't last two months. He couldn't keep being that cruel to you when you still had that lightness in your heart. He stopped hitting you as hard and was less ruthless when training you.

However, that didn't mean he gave up on making you quit.

Oh, no... For the first time in quite a while, he was very determined, more focused on something other than his own misery.

He would NOT allow you to become a slayer.

He began to leave you to your own devices. He taught you the bare minimum and in an oversimplified version of what he was supposed to train you. He just taught you what he planned to teach you, showed you only once the moves and how to wield a sword, and never corrected you in anything. He knew that you would never actually grow, and hoped your frustrations would make you think you were inappropriate for the job and make you give up.

Don't get it wrong. You had potential. A lot of potential. Aizetsu words were enough for him to think so, and he thought that more after you passed his test. You could become a great slayer of trained properly. He saw it when you began catching up on what you were supposed to do, and your talent shone when Aizetsu stayed for a while and trained you. He was sure that if he gave you enough time, you would eventually learn how to use his technique, even though he put all those obstacles on your way.

So, he gave his ultimatum: to cut the boulder. And you had to do it on your own. He even went as far as to forbid Aizetsu from aiding you in any way. He was sure that this should be what would make you surrender, to give up this life and live a normal one.

This was really his last chance of making you give up. And the would not cave in this time. He vowed so. He would not see anyone become a slayer while under him! He had had enough! He had lost too many already! Friends, students, master, and even his own sons to this life! His only two living sons were neck deep in that life and he knew he could not take them away from it, but he could prevent you from ever entering this life! He was determined in not allowing you and your family in his life! He no longer saw you as just his students, nor your siblings as long term guests in his house. You were his daughter. Your siblings were his children too. He didn't want to loose you, to loose his family again! He couldn't. He wouldn't be able to bear the pain...

And yet, you continued to train. Day after day. Harder and harder. He could see you giving your all in your training. He heard you leaving before everyone woke up, and even making breakfast for them, and arriving much after they slept. You can take a slayer out of a slaying life, but you can't never take a slayer out of one, especially with someone who worked his whole life with that. That was how he knew how tired you were. How the dark circles under your eyes grew. How you became more and more thinner. How he saw more and more wound in your hands that he bandaged them in your sleep. He was having trouble sleeping just thinking that you would get yourself killed at that rate.

He was determined to put an end to this, when you suddenly... Changed.

You stopped arriving late and leaving early. You started spending more time with your siblings. You had meals with them, talked to them, played with them, you went to sleep with them, you were becoming healthier, like any girl of your age should be. To his eyes, you were living the life you were supposed to. There was just one thing that bothered him: you still left the house to train. You left after breakfast and returned before dinner. And he knew you were training because you always took Aizetsu's sword with you.

He kept his silence as he continued to watch your routine.

You still came back hurt from your training, somehow even more hurt than before. He was wondering how could a woung girl like you get so much wounds in your arms and legs. And you were being secretive too, bandaging yourself in your bath as to not show your siblings anything. What were you up to?

Then, you changed again.

It wasn't clear at first, but he soon realized that you coming back home earlier and earlier. And you weren't as hurt as before. You also seemed a bit mind absent, not hearing your siblings calling you until they pulled your sleeve, or just staring at something for a prolonged period of time with no real reason. One of your siblings even pointed that out, and you replied shyly that you were thinking of a couple matters and got to caught up on it, but that it was nothing for them to worry.

Nonetheless, you were spending more and more time with your family, playing with them, talking, joking, caring for them. He once caught you and your siblings dancing and you showed them a small dance that you had been practicing for some time, and that it was not ready yet. You were actually living the life he had hoped for you from the beginning, but you still climbed up the mountain and stayed there for a couple of hours before coming down.

Maybe you were giving up on that path?

He thought that until he heard you waking up early again, making breakfast to them and leaving before everyone woke up.

Oh, no. Not this again.

He wasn't going to let you go back to that habit of yours, that made you sick for weeks. He had had enough. After waking your siblings up and sharing a short breakfast with them, he set up to follow you to the mountain.

Today, he would be "sincere" with you and ask you to give up. The very fact that you didn't come to him yet showed that you haven't been able to cut the boulder. He would lie to you and tell you that if you couldn't do that, even after one year he gave you the test, that you should give up. Maybe... That was all you needed to give up the path of a slayer. It was low blow? Yes, it was, and he knew that, but he couldn't spend not even one day more with you wasting your youth like that. He just couldn't.

However, when he finally found you, you had cut the boulder. You had actually did it.

It was then that he fell and cried. He had promised you that once you cut the boulder, he would sent you to the Final Selection. He had to fulfill his words. He was about to sent you to slaughter! He was going to loose you too! But there was nothing he could do about it now, except be opened up with you.

He told you everything. All his feelings and thoughts. His sleepless nights worrying about you. The heavy burden he carried while lying to you. About all the people he lost due to this lifestyle, either by death or by not being able to be on the same page. He didn't spoke about his family, though, as even after years, that was a sensitive topic to him. Except this, he told you everything else.

And how you responded to that?

“I... I won't say I'm not upset that you tried to go against my wishes. I really am, because all this time, I thought I wasn't enough and you didn't train me properly because I wasn't worth the effort. But... I'm relieved that it wasn't the case, and that you were honest with me in the end. So, I won't blame you for anything, because all you've told me just shows that you really cared about me and my family, and that makes me happy, uncle.”

Oh, what did he, a sinful man, do to deserve such a sweet child as you? If only if you knew that those words of yours hurt him so much when he knew that he would have to send you to the Final Selection. He could only pray that you would come back to him and your family.

The day you left for the Final Selection, Hantengu couldn't sleep. The words you said as you went your way, left him stunned for the most of day, and echoed as ghosts of the past. More specifically, the names you said. Sekido. Urogi. Karaku. When was the last time he heard or said those names?

It was a couple years back. He still remembered it as clear as day.

His students had been unable to survive the Final Selection, which he found odd. Dying was something common in this line of work, which was sad, but he learned to manage his feelings. However, it felt like his students were being purposely targeted. How could this be? He first thought that he hadn't prepared them enough, but even though he made the necessary adjustments and some of his best students went to the selection, they still died. He only learned what happened when Aizetsu returned from his selection. He was the only one to return. None of his brothers were with him. And his son wouldn't stop crying.

“Father... Why...?” He asked him as soon as he returned home, grabbing him by the clothes. “Why haven't you told us that mother became a demon? You said that an oni killed her! Not that she had turned into one!”

Yes. He hid it from his sons. It was easy, since his boys were already big enough to take care of themselves and their younger sibling even if both him and his wife were away. She had left to meet her father to discuss something, and had yet to return. He received a message that she had already left for home, yet there was no news of her. When he looked for her, he found out why. She had been attacked and turned on her way back home. He found her eating a young couple on an alley.

By the rules, he would have to kill her, and she had already eaten human flesh, unlike your siblings. There was no way to save her other than killing her. But he couldn't do it. Not to his wife. Not to the mother of your children. He couldn't kill her. So he fought and weakened her, leaving long lasting wounds on her body, and trapped her in the Mount Fujisakane, where she could never escape. He had cut and damaged pretty badly her wings to make sure she couldn't fly away, even if she healed. However, he was sure that with how badly he hurt her, she wouldn't be able to survive the Selection that was close by. He told everyone, including his sons, that his wife had died. His boys cried, sure, but they managed to live on their loss, and he thought the same, until Aizetsu returned and said those words.

“She attacked us, father! Mother tried to kill us! She killed everyone! I saw her eating them with my very eyes!” His son cried as their entire world fell around them. “Tell me, father! Why did you lie to us?! Why?!”

There it was. His answer. The why of all his students, and now his own sons, died in the Final Selection. His wife was killing and eating them. This was his punishment for his weakness, for his soft heart. The love of his life killed his children and he was an accomplice.

The night the Final Selection began, Hantengu left his house. He place a Wisteria charm around the house. It was never too much to be careful, especially against demons. Hantengu took a spare sword he had and began climbing the Mount Sagiri until he reached the split boulder. In front of it was the swords he made for his sons, and around the clearing, the swords his students who died. He came here yearly, on the anniversary of their deaths, to pay respects, to apologize for their deaths. After all, it was all his fault.

They should have known that as well, as they never appeared to him, neither as a ghosts nor in his dreams, unless it was to torment him in his nightmares. And yet, they appeared to you, and they apparently even helped you. He could only suppose it was with training. They should not want anyone else to die by his and his wife’s hands.

Hantengu fell to his knees in front of the split boulder and began to cry.

“I’m monster. I’m well aware of that. I know that the only thing I deserve from you is hate and spite. I have no right to be here in front of you nor to ask you anything, but...” He sobbed as he pressed his forehead to the ground. “I beg you! Please! Protect (Y/N)! You must have seen her all this time training! She just wants to save her brother and sister! She has no fault! She carries none of my sins! I’ll endure anything you want to do with me, even killing me! I know I deserve the worst! I just beg! I beg you to bring her back home, to her family, to where she belongs!”

Silence was his only response. He was alone. And alone, he sobbed, trying to deal with his own misery and despair. Maybe solitude was his punishment for something in his past life, and he was doomed to loose all of those he held dear. He stood up, still cleaning the tears that stubbornly ran down his cheeks and turned to leave.

“My love?” A voice called him, making him stop. It was a voice that he hadn’t heard in years, only in his dreams, more as a torment than as a delightful memory, but it was sweeter than he remembered. He turned slowly, and there he saw her, with the white, flower patterned kimono he had given her in their last wedding anniversary, with the very same blue eyes he fell in love with so many years ago. “You’ve grown old, my love. What is it? Did you forget how to take care of yourself after I left?” She asked with a soft giggle, and it sounded like music to his ears. He just stared at her in disbelief, making her laugh again. “What is this now? Did a cat caught your tongue? My Hantengu was never at a loss for words.”

“(W/N)…?” He tried his voice, but it came out trembling. “Is it… really you…? Am I… dreaming?”

“I can assure you, my love, you’re very much awake.” She said as she took her hand to the side of his face, brushing off a couple lasting tears. Her touch was cold and it sent shivers down his spine. “Now, this is odd. I don’t remember you crying so much like this, except in our marriage and when Sekido was born. What’s gotten to you, my love? Did these ten years changed you so much?”

Hantengu couldn’t reply. He fell to his knees as he hugged her, crying his heart out. (W/N) didn’t say anything. She just held him close and caressed his hair.

“(W/N)! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” He told her between his sobs. “I shouldn't have left you alone! I should have gone with you! If I had, you wouldn’t have been turned! Then, our sons wouldn’t have…!”

“Ssshhhhhhh.” She shushed him, her long fingers passing through his hair. “It was never your fault. There was no way either of us could have known or prepared for it, however we knew of the risks of this life when we chose it, didn’t we…? Don’t apologize.” She says as she breathes in deeply. “If anything, it is I who has to apologize. I… was the one who took their lives... Of your kids... Of our children... I am... The only one at fault, here...” She says, sobbing as tears fall down her face. “I am so... So sorry, my love...”

“None of you is at fault.”

“It's no one's fault.”

Those voices catch the couple's attention, especially Hantengu's, who turns quickly to face them, his face going pale. From the middle of the mist-surrounded trees, many children come forth. Each of them was using a haori with similar pattern of his and also having a mask of distorted figures, long teeth and a pair of horns, either on their faces, holding on their hands or hanging by their hips. Hantengu remembered that his sons began to make those masks as a way of role playing among themselves and his students, pretending to be slayers and onis. They all went to the Final Selection with their respective mask.

They all looked at them with sympathetic eyes, and began to speak. One after the other.

“Mother's death was a shock to us all. We all mourned for days.”

“It was also a surprise when I found you at the Final Selection, as an oni.”

“I didn't understand at first, when I died, but I did later...”

“Mom, you weren't the same back then, were you?”

“Father used to say that once one turns into an oni, they are not the same as they once were.”

“But, I guess father still loved you, even as an oni, and couldn’t kill you, literally and emotionally.”

“Father always made sure that you would be remember by how you were, how you took care of us.”

“Because of that and the shock, I couldn’t even think of killing you. Any of us could.”

“I remember seeing Sekido, Karaku, Urogi and Aizetsu trying to bring you back to your senses, even as you attacked them.”

“We know now that father was trying to keep the memory of you alive his own way.”

“And that mother was not in her best mind and moment of that time.”

“So, we don’t blame any of you. We never did.”

“So, no hard feelings, okay?”

As they spoke, a new round of tears came out from the two adults, who became the children in the situation. The kids then gathered and trapped them in a big hug.

“We know it must have been hard, for you two.”

“We’re sorry we didn’t come up earlier. We were thinking of a way of helping you both.”

“But it’s over. Everything was solved.”

“Mother is free and herself again.”

“Father doesn’t need to blame himself anymore.”

“We want you to move on.”

“We know it will take a while before mother and father can join us...”

“But we will be waiting for you!”

“We’ll be waiting right here!”

“So we’ll be a big family again!”

“That’s a promise, okay?”

“So don’t blame yourselves any longer.”

“It hurts us, seeing you two cry like that.”

They couldn’t say anything with those words. The couple just hugged their children back, that started to disappear, one by one. In the end, the two of them were alone. Hantengu stood up and looked at his wife, who was still wiping off her tears.

“(W/N)...” He called her, but was unable to continue.

“When I came here… I was so afraid… I thought that you hated me… for everything I’ve done to them… to you… I came here prepared to beg for your forgiveness… But I was so scared of you looking at me with the same eyes as him…” She said, before looking at him, caressing his cheek. “But then, I saw you… and realized my worries were for nothing.”

“I never blamed you... Never once...” He said, holding her cheek with his hand. “I just wished I could have done more for you.”

“You did. You respected and loved me, despite of what had become of me.” She said softly. “And you raised a wonderful girl to be a strong woman. (Y/N)... She’ll be a terrific slayer in the future.”

Hantengu couldn’t help the light chuckle leaving his mouth.

“She will. Definitely.” He said, closing his eyes and touched her forehead with his.

He breathed in deeply, enjoying the moment, before he opened his eyes. She was gone, and he was alone in front of the boulder. He looked at the swords of his sons. They hadn’t appeared to him.

“They still must be upset that I lied, huh?” He said, remembering how his sons were. “That’s okay. I’ll wait for as long as necessary, until you three forgive me.”

He then turned and started to climb down the mountain. It was late, and he wanted to make sure his new children were okay.

SNAP!

The sudden feeling made him stop. The man stopped what he was doing and looked up, up to the sky and the stars. It took him a while to understand what happened. Someone under him had died and the snapping feeling he felt was their bond being broken. He sighed, as he closed his eyes.

“What a hassle...” He mumbles to himself.

“Oi, Sankoji.” The voice of his companion gets him out of his thoughts. “Are you full already? If so, mind giving me that one?” He asked, pointing his long fingernail to the body in front of him, his golden eyes glowing with glutonny.

“I’m not.” The first one, Sankoji, said, glaring at him, the other’s face reflected in his dark eye.

The silence continued for a while, before the second demon asked.

“What’s up with you? You aren’t this thoughtful when eating.” He said, before chuckling a bit. “Careful. It will give you a bad digestion.”

“That’s stupid crap that humans made up, Shinjuro.” Sankoji says annoyed. He doesn’t understand why he still hangs around him. No. Actually he does. This guy is the least annoying and the most sane among the lower ranks. He sighs as he continues his midnight lunch. “It’s none of your business.”

“If you say so.” The other says, turning to his own prey.

Sankoji continues to eat as he tries to remember who that demon was. It doesn’t take long for him to do so.

He remembers a woman hanging around a village at night with her baggage, which he recognized as a couple of swords. Nichirin ones. He believed that he would be able to find out where that swordsmith village finally was if he turned her into an oni. He managed to find her, but the swords were gone, and so were most of her memories once she turned. He just left her there and went about his business. He didn’t know what became of her since then.

She did survive for quite the long time, huh? But she ultimately died, like many others before her. It was unfortunate though, since he could still feel her fading strength, and she had some potential. Sankoji checked her last memories, and he saw a young girl with red eyes and Hanafuda earrings.

He froze, staring at nothing, chills running down his back and his heart beating fast. He breathes in slowly, trying to focus on his food, but her image kept crawling back to his mind over and over again. He turned to see if his companion noticed his reaction, but their eyes met, with a shared uncontrollable fear. Not a single word is said as they stand up and leave, neither of them feeling hungry anymore, not with the fear running through their veins.

“Let’s kill her if we ever cross paths...” Sankoji and Shinjuro say at the same time, their eyes meeting once more, with the kanjis of ‘Fourth Rank’ and ‘Fifth Rank’ staring at each other.

I'll be honest with you guys... I almost cried a couple times writing this one.

Also, a slight warning: as a couple must have noticed, I was posting this on the Wednesdays and the Saturdays, but I'll go back to just posting on Saturdays because, it's taking me too long to write this, so I can't keep up. Once I get a bit more calm, with a couple more chapters prepared, I'll return to Wednesdays and Saturdays, okay? Hope you understand, and see ya!

[topconfessions]

Ok I can understand if you don’t want to answer this question as it’s very loaded but I feel you’d be the type to have a mature opinion on it. So it’s completely unrelated to kpop but anyway what’s your opinion on the allegations against MJ? As a longtime fan I always assumed he was innocent but recently I’ve been reading about the accusations and I’m starting to think there may be some truth to it, I hope I’m wrong though.

He was innocent but had an undiagnosed chronic psychiatric illness. He was severely mentally ill and because he came up in a time where mental health resources didnt exist nor was respected, promoted or shared, if you had mental issues to the point to the point where it manifests like Michael, you were held accountable in a henious manner for it. I think people today want to blindly rewrite history or forget (unless you're young) that bring mentally ill was a death sentence up till 2010.

Someone like Michael today couldn't get far in the industry being this different and off putting cause his oddities would've been presented to him in his face excessively in both positive and negative manners. He was clearly in frueds adolescent stage of development mentally and his mental illness is just as severe as schizophrenia. I'm sorry but that's just the truth.

There Is no truth to it. Michael was physically abused by the FBI agents and he was investigated rigorously for 17 years and his entire home was raided with extensive files kept on every aspect of his life, he was monitored as well. He did have an inappropriate socializing relationship with children in terms of boundaries but again this is because he had a severe mental illness and I put his illness up there with Disassociative identity disorder or schizophrenia.

No one confronted Michael about being this mentally warped and unwell cause he was too powerful and beneficial in his ill state to people who needed money from him to do it. If beyonce had this same sort of issue or oddity, everyone would be rushing to tell her to face at some point that they think she needs to get diagnosed and she would be shipped off to get psychiatric treatment with it framed as "rehab".

Also please research again cause he was lied on and the story was a lie, the details changed several times and Chris tucker warned Michael to leave certain families alone cause of family that targeted Michael tried to target him and he got used by them himself. Michael was a people pleaser and couldn't say no so that one kid who accused him, Michael befriended him in the first place cause his mother kept calling him blowing him up during the bad tour begging Michael to take her son and let him go on the tour with him after they filmed a commercial project together. Michael tried to ignore the calls several times but let the kid come along.

Michael lacked professional boundaries and was too personable with people. That could never happen today cause you need to go through publicists, PR team, lawyers, representatives and the such. Michael had deep rooted issues that would've taken his whole life up to his 70s heal if he lived. A long term work in progress.

Also please understand that Michael was statically the most famous person on earth after Jesus christ, princess Diana, and Elvis. In that order. He had a rare freedom to live the way he wanted to to the point that it defied logic cause he was a billionaire and at the top plus he was extremely mentally ill with no treatment or awareness of it so he lacked the ability to have mature social and self awareness of how he differed from others.

As far as the literal big question of if he did it or not, no. He didn't. he wouldn't have made it past 40 if he did. That's just a fact. Also I always got the impression from him he would commit suicide in some way or pay for voluntarily suicide and have it marked off as a plastic surgery related death if he was guilty. I'm still amazed he lived till 50 with his type of life cause anyone else wouldn't be able to make it to that age.

He is innocent but his extreme poor decisions and extreme way of living and mental illness illicit feelings of him being guilty cause people can't stomach how he got away with living in such a unique circumstance and not caring enough to conform to the expectations or society.

Michael having this issue kept a lot of people safe. Jay Z and Beyonce wouldn't have half the assets and businesses they have and Sony would just be broken up into a cluster of shares if Michael had the normal intellect of a regular grown man. Deep down I can feel everyone knows they're lucky Michael was mentally stunted and difficult.

He didn't do it.

He really didn't.

Also I'd like to know how old you are and how much you know about MJ cause I notice people under 27-30 usually have this consensus about him.