#and if the general had been a better man...

[prythiansprincess]

LOOSE LIPS | a theo nott fic.

"I like shiny things, but I'd marry you with paper rings."

word count: 2,312.

summary: a night out with the boys goes awry when draco concocts a nightmare combination of tequila and potions, causing a disastrous turn of events in which theo nott finally spills his deepest, darkest secret.

author's note: happy fluff friday! i'm writing again and trying not to hate it. please bear with me as I try to find my footing again. i'm painstakingly going through all of my fic ideas and picking out the ones that don't make me want to scream and tear my hair out. anyways enough yapping, enjoy x

♫ paper rings - taylor swift. nav. more theo.

One shot. 

Two shots. 

Three shots. 

Another and another. At a certain point, the tequila that his friends had been generously supplying him with started tasting like water; a tell-tale sign that this innocent snake’s night out — as innocent as any Slytherin could reasonably be, which is to say not at all — was on the verge of devolving into an absolute shit show of epic proportions. Still, Theo Nott had never been the type to back down from a challenge. 

Despite his complete lack of self-preservation, Salazar forgive him for the odious display of idiotic bravery and recklessness that was really more suited to his former house rivals, Theo couldn’t help but think that he was missing a crucial piece of the puzzle. Mainly, the reason for tonight’s celebration. Though he could hardly be blamed. Somewhere between his fifth and sixth shot of whatever nightmare-inducing potion-laced liquor Draco had concocted, the purpose of their gathering had understandably slipped through the cracks of Theo’s inebriated mind. 

Shame. Theo was usually sharper than this, but he could hardly be expected to be rich, handsome, and sober at all times. Merlin, he was just a man. A very drunk and emotional man with loose lips that could sink a whole bloody armada. 

In the corner of the dimly lit booth, Theo poked his best mate’s shoulder and leaned in conspiratorially. “I have a secret.” 

Mattheo blinked slowly. The drink in his hand sloshed at the edges when he placed it atop the sticky table. Clearly, Riddle was not far behind in terms of being absolutely trollied. It made Theo feel loads better about his own drunken state. 

His mate grinned. “This should be good. Let’s hear it, then.” 

Theo nodded in confirmation. Little did his curly headed friend know that Theo was about to drop the juiciest bloody secret this group had ever heard since Pansy revealed her scandalous sexcapades with plant daddy Longbottom. “You know Y/N?” 

“Of course,” Mattheo drawled, dark eyes sharpening with focus. A shameless gossip, that one. Second only to the reigning king of scandals himself — Berkshire. “She’s one of my best friends.”

Theo rolled his eyes. “No, she’s my best friend. You’re more like an acquaintance.”

Mattheo snorted in response. “Does this have a point or are you just being a twat?”

“I’m getting to it!” Theo exclaimed, flailing his arms defensively. “Okay, so, Y/N… She’s just so pretty. And funny. And smart. A complete badass, too. Did you know that she once threatened to clobber the Weasel when he hit me with a bludger by accident?” 

The memory made Mattheo smile. Even though they were light years away from the boys they had been, there was something nostalgic about reminiscing their days at Hogwarts. Now they were fully fledged adults with actual responsibilities. Well, as much responsibility as it takes not to squander away their very sizable inheritances, but that was besides the point.

“Trust me, I remember. Malfoy and I had to pull her off of him before she committed gingercide.” 

Draco’s sigh was full of longing. “We should’ve just let her do it. That might’ve been our only chance to get rid of the little weasel.”

Enzo grinned. “You know, Y/N sat by your bed in the infirmary for a week.” 

Theo smiled in earnest, his chest squeezing at the memory of finding you asleep in the chair beside his bed, but still stubbornly refusing to let go of his hand even while unconscious. 

“She did, didn’t she?” Theo asked, feeling a bit teary eyed. Bugger. He had always been an emotional drunk. “Y/N’s so great.” 

Blaise smirked. “Oh, fantastic. The best gal around.” 

Tom scowled into his pint. How the elder Riddle managed to remain in control of his faculties despite the absolute debauchery of the night completely eluded Theo. “Does your blathering have a purpose, Theodore?” 

Theo childishly stuck out his tongue. “Don’t rush me.” 

Summoning every ounce of seriousness in his utterly unserious body, Theo lowered his voice to reveal his deepest, darkest secret. His glazed eyes scanned the booth full of his closest friends and dropped the proverbial bomb. 

“I’m in love with Y/N.” 

Theo dared to glance around, expecting shit to hit the fan. Instead, he was greeted by deadpan stares. Where was the drama? Where was the scandal? Certainly not with this group of ungrateful gits.

Draco, at least, appeared slightly amused. “No shit, Nott.” 

Mattheo pouted and crossed his arms. “I thought this was actually going to be juicy.” 

Beside him, Enzo patted Theo’s shoulder. “Mate, how drunk are you?” 

Annoyance very quickly shifted the mood. “You lot are the worst!” 

Regulus chuckled. “At least we’re not emotional drunks.” 

“Shut up, Reg. You cried when you saw a baby bird take flight once and you were completely sober then.” 

The conversation descended into chaos as the boys argued for the title of most ridiculous drunk. It seemed to be a tie between him and Mattheo, which in all honestly was not the least bit surprising, but the honorable mention of Berkshire once streaking through the quidditch pitch after one too many firewhiskeys at least made him a worthy contender. Bollocks to it all, Theo had lost interest altogether. 

The second stage of drunkenness hit him hard and fast. Theo felt tired and cranky and sleepy, but despite his overall weariness, he simply couldn’t bring himself to do a damned thing about it. 

“C’mon, Notty boy,” Mattheo grunted as he pulled on Theo’s arm. “It’s time to go.” 

Unfortunately for him, Theo was nothing but dead weight as he slumped back into the booth. Part of him was still annoyed at his friends’ utter lack of surprise when it came to his sordid confession, but a bigger part of him missed you even more. 

“Not you,” Theo whined as he slapped his best mate’s hand away. “I want Y/N. I miss her! I miss her smile and her eyes and her pretty hair.” 

Tom rolled his eyes in annoyance before turning to the group. “Shall I petrify him?” 

“No!” Mattheo exclaimed. “He has to be up early tomorrow. Y/N will literally murder me if I don’t get him back in one piece.” 

“Y/N?” Theo asked hopefully. “Is she coming here?” 

“No, she’s at home.” 

“Why?” Theo whined. “Why isn’t she here? We should’ve invited her. It’s not too late. Can we call her?” 

“It’s almost midnight,” Mattheo explained. “She’s probably asleep.” 

Theo stubbornly crossed his arms and stayed put. “I’m not leaving unless Y/N comes.” 

Mattheo sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. The others weren’t even trying to help. With the exception of Tom, who kept insisting on petrification. The younger Riddle glared at Draco. “I’m telling Y/N that you’re responsible for this. If I go down, you’re going down with me, ferret boy.” 

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “It’ll wear off before the ceremony.” 

Riddle only scowled before retrieving his mobile. Theo could barely hear his frantic whispering, but he could see his best mate’s grimace as you undoubtedly chewed him out from the other end. “It’s Theo. He keeps asking for you and he gets all weepy when we try to coax him out.” 

Theo was about to argue that he was by no means weepy. Just terribly missing his best friend and demanding her company right this instance or else he refused to move his drunk arse from the likely germ infested vinyl booth. A demand that seemed perfectly reasonable in his mind.

“I still say we stun him,” Tom offered. "If only for my entertainment."

The elder Riddle's mouth flicked into a smirk. Morgana, Theo truly must be drunk. There was no way Tom actually made a joke. Mattheo shook his head before hanging up the phone. Theo brightened, searching his best mate’s expression. 

“She’s on her way.” 

A few minutes later, you appeared around the corner donning one of Theo’s oversized hoodies, sweatpants, and fuzzy bunny slippers, probably because you simply couldn’t be arsed to put on proper shoes. The sight made Theo beam. Even sans makeup and your wild, unruly hair haphazardly tied into a messy bun, you were still the most beautiful person he had ever seen. 

Theo jumped to his feet once you reached their booth. “Hi, bella.” 

“Hi, Teddy.” You giggled as Theo pulled you into a bear hug, nearly knocking the two of you over with the force of his affection. “Got a little too sloshed again, huh?”

“Nooo…” Theo replied with a little huff. You raised a brow. “Okay, maybe. S’not my fault though. These wankers kept piling me with drinks. Plus, Tom threatened to petrify me.” You chuckled at the scowl Theo sent to the utterly unbothered elder Riddle. “Also, they didn’t even think my secret was good!”

That piqued your interest. “What secret?” 

Theo flushed, shyly stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Oh, I can’t tell you. It’s top secret.” 

After a bit more coaxing, you finally talked Theo into leaving. The rest of the boys bid their goodbyes outside of the pub with the exception of Mattheo, who thankfully helped you haul Theo back to your flat. Though he did receive a stern reprimand, you still hugged your friend tightly before he stepped into the floo to return to his own home. 

Theo wobbled as you led him into the bedroom. Leaning against the bureau, he peered into the assortment of clothes you were parsing through. “The spongeguy ones. Those are my —“

“Favorite,” you finished for him. “I know, Teddy. I got them for you. And it’s Spongebob, remember?” 

He nodded in agreement, but did not, in fact, remember. Theo was too preoccupied with the way you fussed over him as you helped him change into comfier clothing. Perhaps he should get drunk more often if it earned him special treatment.

The thought crossed his mind as he brushed his teeth, eyes seeking yours in the mirror and flashing you a lovesick smile. You winked back and bumped his hip, catching him off guard and nearly knocking him off his arse. Luckily, Theo found his balance by wrapping a strong arm around your waist and holding on for dear life. 

Moments later, the two of you finally settled into bed. Theo greedily snuggled up to your side while you ran your fingers through his hair. The affectionate gesture earned you a soft and happy little sigh of contentment.

“So, that secret,” you whispered in the dark. “Gonna tell me what you’re hiding from me, Teddy?” 

“Noooo, I can’t,” mumbled Theo as he nuzzled against your neck. 

You pulled away and poked his chest. “Tell me.” 

“Never!” 

“You.” Poke. 

“Know.” Poke. 

“You.” Another poke. 

“Want to.” 

Theo grabbed your wrists to cease the onslaught of attacks and pulled you closer instead. Watercolor eyes searched yours, expecting a hint of shyness and nerves that you usually would’ve displayed at such close proximity, but instead there was nothing but warmth and love in your eyes.

Eyes seeking one another, noses bumping together, lips nearly touching yet not quite. The precipice of a first kiss, but not really. In the back of his mind, he knew that the two of you had been here before. Theo leaned into your touch while you lovingly stroked his cheek. 

“Can I ask you a question, bella?” 

“Course, Teddy.” 

Theo swallowed, blinking away the silken night. “Are we…” His voice was lowered to a whisper, soft and gentle like a lover’s caress. “Are we dating?” 

A surge of disappointment speared his heart when you slowly shook your head. He suddenly wished he hadn't asked. It would've been nice to pretend for a moment longer. At least until he fell asleep. But then he had to ruin it by opening his big mouth. Theo took a shuddering breath, but the gentle kiss you pressed against his temple caused hope to rise up in him again.

“No, baby,” you corrected with a smile while waving your left hand in the air. “We’re engaged.” 

The diamond glittering brightly on your ring finger threatened to blind him even in the dark. How could he not have noticed? The damned thing had its own gravitational pull. Theo chuckled in disbelief as he inspected the familiar gold band encasing the six carat princess cut diamond, which was tastefully surrounded by a halo of smaller stones. His mother’s ring. 

Awe washed over him as he asked softly, gently, as though Theo was convinced that the revelation was too good to be true, “You’re my fiancée?”

“Mhm,” you murmured as you pressed a kiss to his cheek, his nose, his forehead. His chin trembled when you kissed him slowly. Theo savored the pressure of your lips against his, a sensation that was both new and old to him at the same time. Even without the alcohol, you had always felt like that to him. Familiar yet unknown all at the same time. You were a complete paradox that perplexed his every waking moment, but he loved every second of it.

The fact that you were engaged made him feel like the luckiest man in the world. Theo chased after your lips, peppering you with kisses over and over again, just because he could. In fact, Theo had a civil duty to smother you in as much affection and devotion as he possibly could. Salazar, how did he ever get anything done? All he wanted to do was to kiss you until you were sick of it.

You giggled while Theo lovingly nuzzled his nose against your cheek, basking in your affection and adoration like he was starved for it. “Tonight was your bachelor party, remember? I told the boys to go easy on you, but I should’ve known they wouldn’t listen.” 

Realization came flooding back to him. “We’re getting married tomorrow,” he said in reverence. “You’re going to be my wife.” 

You nodded, smiling wide and bright for him. Only him. “You’re going to be my husband.” 

Theo mirrored your expression, the smile brightening his entire face in the most breathtaking way. Merlin, he really was beautiful. “I guess I can tell you my secret then.” 

“Oh?” 

“I’m in love with you, Y/N.” 

You chuckled. “I’m in love with you too, Theo.” 

Theo caressed your cheek, his lips meeting yours in a soft kiss as he sighed dreamily. Godric, you loved him. Utterly and irrevocably so. You giggled as Theo greedily snuggled into you again, his big arms wrapping you in his warmth as he tangled his long legs with yours. 

“Good night, Mrs. Nott.”

“Good night, Teddy.” 

[xechu]

[Honor & Vengeance] S. Geto - 夏油 傑

Pairing: general!suguru x fem!reader Word Count: 9.6k Series Warnings: please read my blog rules before interacting. 18+ mdni, explicit sexual content, depiction of gore and violence, mature themes Chapter Warnings: mature themes, description of violence, blood Tags: historical au, non-curse au, marriage of convenience, slow burn, enemies to lovers, smut, angst, hurt/comfort, fictional politics Summary: stakes continue to run high with unresolved tension between you and Suguru. But before there was any chance for proper reconciliation, Sato makes his first move - his decree catching everyone off guard and thrusting you into a future you never could have imagined. a/n: I have decided this will be the final chapter for Arc 1. And I will be taking a brief break as I go back to the drawing board to map out the trajectory of Arc 2. I hope you enjoy and thank you so much for reading! Also, a small thank you note at the end. x

Master List: << chapter 6 || chapter 8 (tbc) >>

[Chapter 7]: A King's Decree

Suguru. 

Your voice called to him, but it was softer than usual—timid, even. His eyes shift to you and you return him a gaze that he has never seen before: hope. His breath hitched, and he found himself at a loss for words, utterly stunned, as though a man who was seeing his beautiful bride for the very first time. 

Under the dreamy glow of night, you were the most ethereal woman he had ever seen. 

The two of you stood in front of the estate. Only the tender whispers of the midnight breeze and cadenced buzzing of cicadas could be heard. In this moment, the moon and stars bore silent witness to your exchange.

That’s right. He remembers now.

It was the night of your wedding.

An auspicious day for marriage, one that Haibara had helped him pick out with a famed fortune teller—not that Suguru believed in such things. If one hadn’t known any better, it would have been safe to assume that Haibara was the groom. After all, he was the one who oversaw everything down to the seamstress, music, entertainment, and food.

You were dressed in your ceremonial gown, adorned with his mother’s borrowed heirlooms, because Suguru had spared no effort in purchasing anything precious for you. The only thing he provided you with was that gilded cage, which at the time he arrogantly thought was something you should be grateful for. 

Looking back, it was indeed a picturesque day, but the hellstorm in his heart had cast a darkness over the skies.

Regrettably, he didn’t remember much on your special day. Didn’t remember what you looked like. Didn’t remember anything you said. He was too consumed by his thoughts of revenge. Too distracted by the person who always seemed to loom behind you like a haunted ghost of the past: Ayaka.

He hadn’t realized how much he had forgotten. Or rather, how much he refused to see.

But now that he was afforded a second chance, he must confess…

You were very beautiful. 

Was the woman standing before him truly his wife? 

You were so different—not just in looks, but in the way you felt.

He wanted to tell you he was sorry. Embrace you carefully. Understand you with a new lens.

Start all over again.

“Suguru—” 

“Do not address me so casually.” The harsh words spilled from his lips like muscle memory. “Let me make myself clear: you and I are only husband and wife in the public eye. Behind closed doors, do not expect us to be anything more than strangers.”

No. That wasn’t what he wanted to say.

Sure, he remembered those harsh words, but if he was given a second chance this was not at all what he would have said.

What would he have said?

But before he could rectify any of it, the features on your face wilted. Hope faded from your eyes, and shoulders slumped from the whiplash of his brutal rejection.

Suddenly, the surrounding shadows began to grow until it consumed everything in its path; all except you who continued to stand amidst the darkness. Alone. 

As he looked at you, he was overcome with a sense of grief and loneliness. 

The memory of his unjust cruelty pulled him under, drowning him in a sea of regret that he could not swim out of, its unforgiving tides engulfing him whole. 

This was the universe forcing him to confront his failures, his hubris, and stare them in the eye. Yet, gazing upon his failures could hardly be considered a punishment, because what use was the act of simply looking when he suffered no consequences? 

What use was it when you were the one who bore the weight of his sins?

…

Sleep evaded Suguru once again. Ever since the incident at the Eastern Campsite, he hadn’t been able to sleep properly. You plagued his every waking thought, and visited his every dream.

He shifted to his side and stared at the empty spot beside him. Back then, he appreciated the space, the way it was crisp and cool when he turned over in his sleep. Now, it felt strangely empty without your presence. 

It had only been a month and a half of sharing a bed with you, but he had grown more accustomed to it than he wanted to admit.

With you, things fell into place surprisingly naturally.

Perhaps it was because you were so competent. Or maybe it was your grace and determination that had enthralled him.  Whatever it was, the two of you had taken two unexpected steps forward, only to take a hundred steps back.

Since returning from the campsite, you stowed yourself away in the guest house, never once making an appearance on the estate grounds. The Geto Estate had always been quiet, but this time, the quiet was accompanied by a heavy emptiness.

A persistent nag lingered in the back of his mind to speak to you, but as days passed, it only amplified the unworthiness he felt. That relentless cycle continued until he found it impossible to approach you.

Yet, wasn’t this the outcome that he wished for all along? 

A silent and obedient wife who was hidden from the world—and appeared only when summoned? 

Now that his wish had come true, why did it feel so hollow?

Deep down, he had already known the answer.

It was because he had witnessed a sight that he could no longer forget: a magnificent bird that had spread her wings and taken flight—only the infinite sky could complement her splendor. But he had seized the bird from the sky and clipped her wings without understanding the consequences. And now, she was reduced to sitting in a cage. Even if its bars were made of solid gold and precious gems, it would not do her justice.

He may have won the battle, but completely lost the war.

Realization always came too late.

Suguru sighed and propped himself up at the edge of the bed. The sky outside had already turned an ocean blue, painting the chamber in a cool, dim hue—mirroring the bleakness he felt inside. He might as well start the day early. Soon, he and Haibara were expected at the palace to relay the details of the Eastern Campsite to King Sato.

If there was one peculiar habit that Suguru had, it was that he was always the first to wake in the estate and the last to go to bed, it was a tendency he had adopted after losing his family.

The cusp of dawn was always his favorite part of the day, alone in the eerie stillness, when the world had yet to wake. It offered a brief respite, because it was the only time when the voices calling for vengeance were asleep. 

As he made his way through the estate in ghostly silence, an unexpected figure caught his eye, emerging from the storage room.

He froze, blinking a few times to make sure it wasn’t a figment of his imagination.

But it was no dream. It really was you.

You stopped in your tracks as well, eyes wide with surprise.

“I…” you stammered, clutching the small basket of medical supplies.

His brow furrowed, a faint frown forming, but the dimness of the corridors masked the pain behind his expression. As he approached closer towards you, he saw with much more clarity: tiny splotches of blood dotted the worn linen on your hand. 

At the realization, the heavy ache in his chest slithered up to his throat and coiled him like a garrote. 

“Why didn’t you call for Yumi or one of the servants—?” 

He immediately bit his tongue. 

His words were always a reflexive shield—harsh and condescending. A cursed habit he had to rid himself of promptly if he ever wished to make amends with you. There were many things he could have—shoud have—said. 

Yet, when it came to you, he always faltered. 

“I didn’t want to wake them so early for something so small.” You replied softly. 

Small. 

He was certain you were downplaying your pain, which only added to his guilt and remorse. Why couldn’t you scream, shout, cry, or even hit him? 

At least that way, he knew how you felt… but he supposed that he wasn’t privy to such knowledge, especially not now.

He let out a sigh and briefly hesitated before reaching for the basket.

You pulled back slightly, hand tightening around the handle. “I’ll be fine—” 

“Let me.” He insisted quietly.

His hand gripped the basket, showing no signs of relenting. For a moment, the two of you stood there in a quiet standoff. His eyes flickered between you and the basket, while you clung to it firmly, unwilling to entertain the gesture. 

Truth be told, both of you were stubborn, but you were confident between you and Suguru, he was far more bullheaded. 

So of course... you eventually relented and let go—too tired to keep fighting.

…

Soft wood creaked under your footsteps as you quietly trailed behind him to the west wing—an unfamiliar section of the estate. It was your first time seeing this part, but you supposed Haibara had foregone the tour of this section, as they all appeared to be personal quarters or empty guestrooms. 

You understood that this was Suguru’s way of trying to make amends, but that only made the resentment inside you deepen. Because it was all too little, and too late.

In truth, if he had been kinder sooner you might have liked him. You would have even considered yourself a most fortunate woman, to be cherished by someone like Suguru Geto—after all, who wouldn’t?

But you couldn’t forgive him now. 

Still, you continued to follow him to the end of the hall, which was isolated from the rest of the rooms. The latticed patterns and gilded peonies adorning the lacquered door hinted that this was likely his personal quarters. A room that was far removed from everyone else, which suited Suguru's solitary nature.

As you stepped past the threshold of his chamber, your eyes swept over the room. It was spacious, furnished with expensive but minimal pieces—similar to the guest house. A few paintings ornamented the bare walls, a large bed rested at the far end, a small rounded dining table sat in the center, a large desk took up another corner, and near the window, a modest tea area with two zaisu chairs.

There seemed to be a pattern with Suguru. By no means was he frugal, but he didn’t appreciate excessive indulgence either. 

If things had been different, would this be where you stayed as well? But you quickly expelled the foolish thought from your head. Now was no time to be sentimental.

You watched as he carefully laid out the medical supplies at the dining table, organizing them in a neat row on the table. 

“Come,” he said quietly, pulling up a seat beside him.

Hesitantly, you sat down, waiting as he fidgeted with the container of the salve, and opened up the small vial of alcohol. Once he was satisfied with the arrangement, he took your hand in his without hesitation. The way his fingers caressed your skin so naturally was a bitter irony, considering he used to flinch from the idea of even having to share space with you.

His hold was gentle and warm, while his gaze stayed focused on your wound. The way he skillfully worked the disinfection, and inspected the injury showed that he was used to treating them—most likely his own.

“It’s not healing well,” he murmured, still averting your gaze. “Have you been trying to use this hand?”

“Not on purpose,” you replied, biting down on your bottom lip. There were a few times you had been careless, but it was difficult when it was your dominant hand that was injured. Sometimes you’d use it on reflex, like the other day when you tried to catch a falling cup from the table. Much to your discouragement, it still ended up shattering on the floor. 

He let out a quiet hum and gently rewrapped your hand with clean linen, each movement careful and practiced.

Looking up close, you noticed how his hands were much larger than yours. Calloused. Firm. Those were the very same hands that once cupped your cheek when he kissed you for the first time. But they were also the same hands that had touched someone else—someone he truly loved. The same hands that had been used to protect her, but not you. The same hands that recoiled in disgust on your wedding night.

Though you loathed wallowing in self-pity, it was still unfair, how you were never afforded a chance. How it took permanent wounds and bone-deep scars to finally get him to even just look your way.

Even in this otherwise tender moment, it felt like a mockery. A constant reminder that he had always been capable of such warmth, but he simply deemed you unworthy of it. 

You continued to quietly observe him as his eyes remain fixed on your hand, never once distracted from the task. In such close proximity, your heart began to ache. You had never looked at him this carefully before. But now, you could see… how thick his lashes were, how silky and lustrous his raven hair was, how his brows slightly creased when he focused, and how soft his gaze had become.

Was this man before you the real Suguru Geto?

Yet, it was futile to engage in such thoughts, because trying to know him was utterly meaningless. And you feared if you allowed yourself to understand him now, you would only be betraying yourself. 

“I’m sorry,” he suddenly murmured as he finished dressing your wound, his thumb softly brushed over your bandaged palm. 

Why…

If he was truly sorry, why hadn’t he come sooner?

Why did it take this divine intervention for him to apologize to you? 

“Don’t…” your voice cracked, quickly pulling your hand away from his. “Don’t say that.” 

His fingers curled in the space where your hand had just been, as if grasping onto something that could have been. His expression was indecipherable. 

“There’s nothing else I can say,” he quietly said. “I have no excuse.” 

“You’re right, you don’t.”

His eyes shifted slightly, searching yours as he struggled to find the right words. “Tell me… how can I fix this?”

“You can’t.” You replied, barely containing the bitterness in your voice.

Suguru always had this bizarre effect on you. He had this way of making you feel as though you were about to crumble before him. He had this way of getting under your skin, and thrusting you into situations that made you feel helpless and vulnerable.

You hated it.

“I don’t want your apology,” you continued, trying to reel in the hurt clawing at your chest. “I can’t forgive you, because this is all built upon your own shame and guilt. Not because you genuinely want to afford me kindness and respect…

“If you did, you would have done so long ago… when you chose me to be your wife.”

Suguru’s jaw tightened. There was no explanation he could offer, words alone could not console you, because what you said was all true. He had asked himself countless times since your injury: had things panned out the way he wanted—would he still feel so remorseful? Would he still have looked your way? Would he still have been so captivated by you?

“You’ve made it abundantly clear… what you want.” You smiled wryly. “I’m abiding by your wishes. Don’t you dare change your mind.” 

Immediate silence followed, and you found yourself wishing you hadn’t come here at all. Once again, you’ve followed his lead at the expense of yourself. How many more times do you intend to sacrifice yourself? How many more times until you lose yourself entirely?

You stood up and made your way to the doorway, eager to escape him. Without affording him another chance to speak, you said: “So let it continue to be: behind closed doors, we will be nothing more than strangers.” 

And then you left.

His mind told him to give you the space and that he’s already caused enough pain, but his heart screamed for him to chase after you, hold onto you tightly, and mutter endless apologies until you grew tired and relented. Yet, there had already been too many instances where he had acted selfishly, including bringing you into his room and dressing your wound. The more desperately he wanted to make things right, the further it pushed you away.

For the first time, he felt… despair. 

Suguru sat in the weight of your absence, gazing at the bloodstained linen left on the table, haunting in its stillness—a painful reminder of how you bled for his indifference.

—

You quietly made your way back to the guest house, morning had broken through the sky by this time. Servants were awake and readied themselves to start the day, as you passed them, they politely bowed and greeted you good morning. Some even showed concern for your hand and wished you a speedy recovery. 

Four months. 

It felt like a lifetime ago but it had only been four months since you were wedded to Suguru. The last time you walked the estate grounds (not that you had much opportunity to) it was still warm, but now, a subtle coolness had begun to blanket the air. Since your marriage time seemed to warp strangely, some days felt long, other days felt as though it didn’t move at all—suspended in time. Only the waning of summer to autumn marked its passage.

The crisp morning air stirred a memory of the clinging summer heat, the first time you stepped foot onto the Geto Estate. Before you even had a chance to settle, you were immediately whisked into a small room where the seamstress worked on the finishing touches of your ceremonial gown. As soon as she was done, a veil was tossed over your head and you were ushered hastily to the ceremonial proceedings. At that point, you still weren’t sure who your husband was, the only person you knew was a kind man named Haibara, who tended to you. Yet a naive thought had crossed your mind then, if Haibara was so kind then surely the lord of this house—your soon-to-be husband—must be a decent man as well. 

But you were wrong.

Perhaps, this was the price you had to pay for postponing your calling.

Had you answered it sooner, then you could have avoided this farcical marriage altogether. 

.

.

.

For as long as you could remember, your father had always been a private man. There was no doubt he loved you, but a quiet distance always lingered. There were facets of him that remained inaccessible, even to his own daughter, and one of those inaccessible facets was your mother.

By all accounts, your father and mother should have never met, but fate always worked in mysterious ways, weaving two people from vastly different worlds together. You had never known much about her, except for a few things: she was a spirited woman, she spoke her mind, she was an excellent swordswoman, she died giving birth to you, and above all, she loved you and your father deeply. 

Other than that, she remained a faceless enigma. 

It wasn’t until a few years later—when you were about six years old—that an older man showed up at your home, and your father’s usually gentle face immediately darkened. 

He was your mother’s father.

You remembered it as if it were yesterday, because that fateful reunion altered the trajectory of your life forever…

“You didn’t even come to her funeral, and you dare show your face now?!” Your father seethed. 

That was the first time you'd ever seen him lash out—he had always been a mild-tempered man.

“I had business to take care of overseas. I came back as soon as I could,” your grandfather said. But he didn’t appear sad. He didn’t even sound shaken. At the time, you couldn’t comprehend how his heart seemed to be made of stone. His daughter was gone, taken too soon, and yet his expression remained composed.

It was the first time you'd met your grandfather, and even then, he had a commanding charisma. Had it not been for his silvery hair—you would not have been able to guess his age. 

Your father had once told you that you had a grandfather who was a fisherman, but seeing him before you—even at a young age—you could tell he was not. His posture remained disciplined and poised. And his clothes were clean and immaculate, too tailored for a simple fisherman. If anything, he looked more like a captain or marine general.

“I see she left behind a beautiful little girl,” he said, kneeling down to meet you at eye-level. A small smile played on his lips, as he whispered a quiet ‘hello’. 

You stared at him, something about the familiarity in his eyes captivated you. It was as though you felt your own mother in him, despite never knowing her. A part of you felt elated that there was family outside of just your father. Truth be told, it felt rather isolating over time when it was always just you and him.

“You don’t just get to show up here unannounced—not when you were never there for her,” your father snapped, yanking you protectively behind him. “Do you know how much she missed you?!”

“Son.” His voice lowered, laced with warning. “It would be in your favor to temper your emotions in front of your child.”

Your father gritted his teeth, but he quickly fell quiet as though your grandfather’s words had struck his senses like a thunderbolt. 

“What do you want?”

“I have come here to offer help.”

“Help?” Your father’s tone was incredulous. “I don’t need your help.”

“Don’t be foolish. I could care less about you—you’re a grown man, but I cannot allow my granddaughter to be subjected to such an environment.” 

“I will not allow you to take her away from me.” 

“You’ve truly gone mad,” the silver haired man scoffed, and shook his head. “Who said anything about taking her away from you? I will stay here, of course!” 

“What?”

“You think she’ll grow up well given your current state? Don’t be stubborn and just accept the help.”

“I will figure it out.”

“Look at yourself—you’re a complete disaster. You think you're worthy of being her father right now?”

“That is not up to you to decide—”

“If you do not fix yourself, then I will pluck her from your cold hands if I must.” 

Your grandfather sized up your father, who stood taller, even despite his senior age. But unlike most silver-haired men you’d seen—frail, and shriveled with time—your grandfather was like a stallion: proud, unyielding, and vivacious.

“She would not be pleased to see you and her own daughter in this state,” he continued lowly. “So I suggest you take me up on my offer.”

The air grew tense, but even at your young age, you did not feel distressed from such heavy emotions. You had always been perceptive—quiet, and wise beyond your years—something your father had attributed to his shortcomings as a parent, because no child should have ever been forced to grow up so quickly. 

Was your perceptiveness a blessing or a curse?

Even now, you weren’t so sure.

Yet, the perpetual sadness behind your father's eyes was unmistakable, even when he smiled at you. Sometimes, you couldn’t help but feel as though he forced himself to love you. Though you recognized now that sadness and yearning often went hand in hand—for the tenderest love was also the most painful. 

His love for your mother revealed itself in his anguish.

It did not escape you: the quiet sobs from his office when he thought you were asleep. The way he would murmur your mother’s name—a name you would have never known if you hadn’t been eavesdropping. And the way he would quietly wish to be with her, when he turned to cheap plum wine to numb his grief in solitude. 

Even from a tender age of six, you always feared that one day you would lose your father to the dark abyss of grief and sorrow. 

And so…

“Papa,” you timidly said, tugging on his hand. “Let grandfather stay.”

Little did you know, that one request would open an entirely new destiny for you. 

Over the next twelve years, you grew up with your grandfather by your side. Very early he revealed to you a world that had always existed in parallel, hidden in the shadows—one that you would have most likely lived on to never know had it not been for him. Eventually, that was also how you met Yumi, an orphan girl that was taken in by your grandfather. 

Your initial impression of your grandfather had been correct: he was no fisherman. Rather, he was the ringmaster of an elusive organization that existed to serve the people.

What initially started as humble trades and ledgers, soon expanded into sustaining the ecosystem of the lower class. And that elusive organization was none other than the Merchant Guild. 

Legacy. Duty. Birthright.

It wasn’t just some lofty mythos bestowed exclusively upon nobles and royalty. Everyone bears them in some form, no matter their walk of life. 

And you were no exception. 

It had never been your grandfather’s sole intention for you to succeed him. He had only shown you this life to give you another choice. Even as he drew his last breath, he had never pressured you. “For birthright without merit only breeds incompetence and entitlement,” he would always say.

But you had long proven yourself to be worthy of taking the mantle of Guild Leader, perhaps even more so than your own mother. The path of the Merchant Guild was not for the faint of heart. As noble and righteous as it may be, it was a path laden with burden and sacrifice.

A legacy to carry in secrecy. 

A duty to fulfill in the shadows. 

A birthright to claim in silence. 

Now, more than ever, you felt the compulsion to assume your destiny—to reclaim a part of your identity that had been stolen.

For the throne had been left empty for far too long. And now, it whispered your name, beckoning you to step into your power.

.

.

.

Amid the throne room, Suguru stood face to face with the serpent he had longed to kill. In his mind, he’d slain the serpent a million times. Some days it was a quick beheading, and other days, it was slow and agonizing. He imagined the way he would plunge his dagger into his heart, and watch as the serpent’s face contorts in horror, agony, and then to desperation. He would beg for mercy in between pained gasps, and when he realizes that there will be no salvation—his face would warp to despair, as the light dims from his eyes. To this day, he wasn’t sure how he managed to look Sato in the eyes while holding fast onto his restraint. Perhaps it was proof that he’d already sunk too far into the deep. 

This private audience with King Sato, however, filled Suguru with an unusual dread. There was no doubt you had intrigued the king. As a matter of fact, you had intrigued everyone, even the palace advisors could not stop whispering about you. The way everyone had eyed him today when he had walked through the palace corridors did not go unnoticed, though he pretended not to care. But this newfound attention ignited an inexplicable urge within him to shield you from everyone’s line of sight, because nothing good could possibly come from gaining Sato’s interest—only ruin.

“You’ve done well, General Geto. As always, you never fail to meet expectations.” Sato looked down on him from his throne. In this angle, he truly looked like a snake. His eyes were naturally vicious-looking. His features are sharp and pointed. But after nearly four months apart, the change was unmistakable—Sato had aged quite drastically. Perhaps his paranoia had been slowly wearing him down. Suguru had heard whispers among the high court that Sato’s mental descent had been progressively getting worse, though it was a heavily guarded secret.

“You honor me with your praise, Your Majesty.” 

“It is no praise if it is the truth. Though if we are being frank, it is mostly thanks to Lady Geto that our two nations have avoided war.” 

“Indeed. You honor her, Your Majesty.”

“An intriguing woman indeed… strategic and wise just like her father.”

Suguru paused at the mention of your father. 

He hadn’t expected Sato to speak of him so knowingly, for all he recalled of your father was a well-to-do judge who often kept to himself and played by the rules—one among the many faces, who quite frankly, stood out more than him. But something about the familiarity unnerved him, because Sato didn’t just acknowledge someone without reason. 

And so it begins, the exchange of deadly words dressed in noble courtesy.

“Tell me, Suguru—have you been taking care of your wife after her injury?” 

“Yes, she’s recovering steadily. Thank you for your concern, Your Majesty.” 

“I do regret summoning your entire family,” the King said, voice lined with feigned sympathy. “Had it not been for my call, she wouldn’t have been wounded. Alas, I will ensure to set matters straight with the Eastern Region.”

“Please, Your Majesty. There is nothing to regret. House Geto’s pride lies within our ability to serve our great nation.”

“Yes… what loyal subjects I have. Truly, I am blessed.” Sato rubbed his chin, his gaze piercing—as if assessing Suguru’s every movement, twitches, even down to the way he breathed. “But I must admit, I found myself curious… how exactly did your wife come across such peculiar information about the Eastern Region?”

The question, though seemingly harmless, set a fiery blaze through Suguru’s body. It was as he feared, the serpent had set his sights on you and was ready to bear his venomous fangs. 

“I’m afraid I haven't had the chance to ask, Your Majesty. Given her current injury, as her husband, my sole focus is to ensure her speedy recovery first.” Suguru tried to give a diplomatic response, while flawlessly masking the dread that was clawing his insides. 

Sato hummed, obviously disappointed in his general’s response. “I suppose my curiosity is a rather trivial matter. What was most important was that we won this round.”

Suguru remained silent, only deepening his bow, hoping that Sato would drop the subject and move onto the crux of his private summons.

“Though it makes me wonder… how much do you truly know about your wife?” 

He shoots a darkened expression at Sato, a warning glare that he couldn’t quite conceal. The impulse to kill him on the spot was nearly impossible to repress, restraint dangerously unravelling by the second. It would have been easy, there was no one around except for servants, whom he could easily take down even if they all converged on him.

In four strides, he could reach the throne. He would draw his sword and aim for the throat before Sato could even scream—cutting clean through the windpipe, flesh, sinew. A single breath, and the blade would split him open. His blood would dye the wooden floors. His body would crumple at the foot of the throne, crimson staining the seat he ruled from—

“I jest,” the King chuckled hollowly, as if he could see the violent bloodbath in his general’s mind. “Though if I may impart some wisdom to my cherished general: it is always important to know who your allies are. You’d be wise to understand who exactly shares your bed before you wake up next to an enemy.”

“Let’s hope that the apple falls far from the tree. After all, betrayal is a difficult thing to recover from, don’t you agree, General Geto?” 

Suguru nearly let out a dry laugh at the irony.

“Ever wise, Your Majesty. Though I have full confidence that my wife will never be the one to put me in such a position.”

“A fortunate man you are,” the king remarked in a subdued voice. “Anyway, enough small talk as I know you are probably worried sick for your wife and eager to return home.” 

“The main reason I summoned you today isn’t a secret assignment, but rather, gifts for Lady Geto—which I hope you’ll deliver on my behalf.”

Suguru maintained a calm exterior, despite the thrumming in his chest.

Something felt amiss.  

Sato had worn a smile this entire time, and Suguru knew better than anyone that the tyrant only ever smiled when he was confident that victory was ascertained. 

The King snapped his fingers, and a few royal servants spilled into the room. 

His first gift was rare purple silk from the west. It was a unique purple reserved only for the members of royalty, no other nobles were allowed to wear it—not even if they were able to afford it. Wearing it would be a treasonous declaration that you had viewed yourself on par with royalty, and could even be a punishable offense. 

The second was a priceless necklace, dubbed the Phoenix’ Talon. An exquisite gold necklace inlaid with rare rubies from the south. This particular necklace had belonged to the late queen, and was even known to be a national treasure, displayed in various high society events. Many nobles had inquired about this necklace throughout the years, but it seemed no amount of fortune they offered was enough to purchase this necklace. Now, Sato was giving it to you freely. Surely, this would cause unsolicited rumors and even worse: social isolation. The nobles of high society would perceive this as the king’s blatant favoritism. And there would be no one to aim their jealousy at but you.

Most would have been seduced by these gifts—distracted by their luxury and splendor—failing to realize that they were laced with venom.

But then, came the final gift.

A scroll, embellished in golden silk and stored in a lacquered mahogany case. 

At first glance, it paled in comparison to the purple silks and Phoenix’ Talon, but Suguru knew without a doubt that those two gifts were merely diversions. 

This was what Sato truly wanted to give you. 

“As King, I hereby recognize Lady Geto’s heroic contributions to the empire. Individuals like her are the pride and backbone of our great nation.”

Suguru held his breath in anticipation. As Sato grew more eager, so did the general’s dread. He helplessly watched as the king—now grinning ear to ear—plucked the scroll from the case and slowly unfurled it. 

He began to read…

“By the power vested in me, I bestow upon her the land of Izuma. Henceforth, she shall bear the title of Her Grace, Lady of Izuma. May her wisdom, leadership, and compassion bring about hope, and usher in a new era of prosperity.”

Izuma.

This appointment struck Suguru like thunder. Because as soon as he heard the name, he knew...

This was no gift.

It was a punishment—an exile. 

The barren, harsh lands of the North: Izuma. Notorious for its unforgiving winters and infertile soils. All lifeforms struggled to thrive in such unrelenting conditions, whether it were crops… or people. Nobody went to Izuma by choice, either you were born into the cradle of despair, or you were exiled there. 

Early in his reign, King Sato had made several attempts to revitalize the northern frontier. But Izuma was too brutal, too isolated, and logistically impracticable. The efforts quickly turned from valorant ambition to a pesky obligation, and eventually, he abandoned the revitalization plan altogether. In order to still appear as a gracious king, Sato would send aid once a year, but it was almost immediately apparent to the civilians of Izuma that it was a complete farce. An insult, even. What use were seeds, when their soil was cracked and dry? What use was livestock, when it couldn’t even survive until spring?

Every noble appointed to Izuma shared one commonality: they had somehow offended the king. Sometimes the offense was obvious, other times not so much. Worse yet, all of them eventually descended into madness and took their own lives, no less than a year after their appointment. Suguru strongly believed that their deaths were premeditated by the king and had nothing to do with mental decay. 

However, this time, something was different. 

You were the first woman to ever be bestowed a noble title in her own right. Not through marriage. Not through joint inheritance. And to Suguru’s knowledge, no woman in the nation’s history had ever held such a title alone. With such social revolutions meant that all eyes were inevitably on you. Not only that, but you were still Suguru’s wife (at least in the eyes of the public), so even if Sato had planned for your demise, it wouldn’t be so easy for him to exact it. Yet, there was no room for complacency. Just because Sato could not carry out his sinister plans now, it didn’t mean he wouldn’t do it later—the motion has been set.

“The decree has been written.” Sato’s smile only seemed to have grown bigger, more menacing. “You need only to deliver it to Her Grace. I trust you will deliver it wisely, General Geto.” 

Suguru accepted the decree in his hands, but could not hide the way it trembled under the crushing weight of your death sentence. Rage surged through him at the injustice, but even so, this rage felt undeserving. What right did he have to feel this anger when he was the cause of it? 

Sato had already sunk his fangs in you before you even realized you’d been bitten. And now, your husband was supposed to be the bringer of your sentence.

Once again, he had failed you. 

He had sworn after the incident at the Eastern Campsite, that he would not commit the same mistake twice. He had resolved himself to set things right, but before he ever had the chance to begin, here he was—reduced to a mere messenger.

The bitter irony wasn’t lost on him. 

Perhaps this role was always meant for a coward like him.

What came of this private summons wasn’t anything Suguru could have imagined—not even in his worst-case scenarios. Sato’s paranoia is becoming more and more deranged.

Whatever the reasons were, one thing was now abundantly clear: 

Sato sees you as a threat.

And with this decree, he had declared war on House Geto.

…

As Suguru stepped out of the throne room, the look on his face was enough to tell Haibara that something had gone horribly awry. Normally, Haibara would already be at his side, asking a barrage of questions. But this time, he simply fell a few cautious steps behind, mutely observing as a palpable darkness loomed over the general. 

Suguru continued to walk mindlessly, a flurry of thoughts spiraling and only a moment away from snapping. He had exiled you in your own home, and now, the king planned to banish you even further, sending you to Izuma to fail and die in disgrace.

For the first time since his family’s death, Suguru was met at a crossroad—a choice he had to make which would inherently alter the course of his ambitions. 

Two paths lay ahead of him: allow you to go alone, or follow you to Izuma.

The easier and more convenient route would have been for him to let you go alone. As a renowned general and a noble lord, Suguru would suffer virtually no backlash with this arrangement. In fact, remaining here—near the capital, would have been the more sensible thing to do. It would be Suguru’s way of declaring loyalty to the king, allowing him to keep his position and power, while exacting his vengeance in the shadows. 

Leaving the capital would only put Suguru in a more precarious situation. Not only would his departure send a dangerous message—that he had aligned himself with you against the king—but his absence from the imperial court would also diminish his power and sway, pulling him further from his own path of vengeance.

But if he left you to go alone, it would completely destroy your reputation, even if you now had a title of nobility. No one would respect you. No one would heed your commands. They would all see you as a woman who had been repudiated by her husband, even if on paper you were not officially divorced. You would be branded a pariah in society. Scandal would follow your every move, and you’d become a laughing stock, a living example of what a disgraced woman looked like.

The more Suguru thought about it, the more it had awoken something primal within him. That same inferno that once fueled his vow to bring about Sato’s death was reignited, untamed and all-consuming. He had nearly forgotten what it felt like, after years of sitting in the flames himself.

He had already betrayed you once. 

He will not betray you again.

Though deep down, he had full confidence, if it was you—even without him—you could somehow turn the tides around again, even in a place as desolate and hopeless as Izuma. 

Still, he could no longer wallow in guilt and remorse. Words were cheap, and silent thoughts were even cheaper. If he truly meant to atone then it must begin now, with action. By no means was he giving up his plans on vengeance. But if he had to veer off course just to prove himself to you—to prove that he was sorry… then so be it. 

For now, he shall immediately make haste back home to you.

—

“Geto-sama.” There was a clear surprise on her face.

“Yumi.”

“Are you here to see my Lady?”

Suguru gave a curt nod, only then realizing how pathetic he must look with two rolls of purple silk in one arm, and two ornate boxes stacked in the other. Though these were not his gifts, it was certainly easy to misunderstand that he was trying to appeal to you with superficial offerings. Knowing you, bombarding you with material gifts should be the last form of apology. In fact, he was certain it would only sour things further.

“She’s not here at the moment. I can let her know you stopped by—”

“Where could she have possibly gone?” His scowl deepened. “Why are you not with her—”

“And why are you being so crass to my lady-in-waiting?” your voice cut in from behind.

Suguru fell silent and turned to find you standing a few steps away, holding a small porcelain vase with a single stem of pink carnation. It caught him off guard—he hadn’t taken you for someone who liked flowers, it was rather… unexpected. But he digressed.

This was already off to a terrible start, and the unimpressed stare you gave him only made everything worse by tenfold. 

“What are you doing here?” Your gaze flicking down to the ridiculous pile of gifts in his arms.

“Let’s talk inside.”

A small disgruntled frown played on your lips. Without another glance, you brushed past him, making your way inside the guest house.

“Yumi, please help Geto-sama with those.”

He took your instructions to Yumi as an invitation to enter.

Admittedly, this was only the second time Suguru had seen the guest house. He’d forgotten… how quiet and isolated it was from the main grounds. And yet, it was so much more vibrant here. So much more like home.

The first (and only other time) was when he inspected the finished structure. Haibara had offered to handle the finishing touches, but Suguru figured the least he could do was see the gilded cage for himself—not that it redeemed him as a husband. He supposed it was just a selfish way to ease his conscience.

As he stepped inside, Suguru noticed how little had changed. He hadn’t realized how few belongings you had—just a few garments folded neatly on the shelf, some books stacked at the corner of your desk, half-written parchment that looked like you’d been practicing your writing.

His father’s dagger also rested on your desk. However, the most peculiar was a sword, propped up in the corner.

He hadn’t realized how much it truly meant to you, until now. Swordplay wasn’t some casual hobby, as you’d once brushed it off to be. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have had such a masterfully crafted weapon, tailored specifically for you. Unassuming to the untrained eyes, but it could not escape Suguru.

You didn’t simply train to pass time. You devoted your life to the blade.

But before he could delve deeper into his remorse, he noticed something else: two headrests and blankets on the same bed. His eye twitched. An irrational displeasure bloomed in his chest.

“You share a bed with your lady-in-waiting,” he remarked. 

“Well, she’s certainly not sleeping on the floor.”

“Haibara could have seen to it—” 

“I’m sure you didn’t come here to discuss the personal quarters that you’ve arranged.” You cut him off. “So get to the point—why have you come here with those ridiculous gifts?”

Suguru let out an inaudible sigh. 

“They’re from the king himself,” he replied, with a seriousness in his voice.

You lightly scoffed. “So the king’s great general is now running his errands as well?” 

Suguru returned a sharp glare at you, but he couldn’t bring himself to direct his bitterness at you. After all, you were only in this predicament because of him.

He presented the gifts to you one by one, reliving the same dread as he did in the throne room. But once again, you had proved yourself to be well-informed—almost suspiciously so.

Indeed, you were the daughter of a judge; it wasn’t uncommon for you to know how to read and write. That alone would already set you apart from the majority of women in society. But you weren’t just well-read, you were experienced—shaped by realities no amount of education alone could give.

Just how much have you endured?

What else have you sacrificed?

Suguru watched as your fingers delicately brushed the silk, and then the necklace. Your gaze was more scrutiny than admiration, which he had fully anticipated now that he’s come to understand you a little more.

It was true: you were not easily swayed by material and superficial things like jewels, fortune, prestige, status... something he had callously assumed in the beginning. 

The both of you may have shared the same sentiment about the absurdity of Sato’s gifts, but as you sat before him, posture poised, eyes defiant, with the sunlight trickling onto your figure—a divine premonition roused the depths of his core: you, dressed in purple silk, ornamented with the Phoenix’ Talon around your neck.

You were made to rule. 

To overcome. 

To conquer. 

“Is that all?” 

Your voice abruptly pulled him back to reality. 

He blinked a few times. 

“No,” he let out a small resigned sigh, and slowly slid the box across the table. “The king had bestowed upon you… a title.”

His hesitation did not go unnoticed. 

You studied Suguru’s face for a moment, he had never worn this expression before—at least not in front of you: burdened and unsure. Quietly, you braced yourself before reaching for the box, flipping open its lid, and taking out the golden scroll. 

Your eyes trailed the words on the scroll…

Royal Decree of Appointment By the Grace and Authority of His Majesty, King Sato To all lords, nobles, and citizens of the Empire, Let it be known that Lady Geto, through her demonstrated valor, strategic insight, and unwavering dedication to the Empire, has thereby, distinguished herself in matters of great national importance. As such, by the power vested in me as Sovereign of the Realm, I hereby bestow upon her the title of Her Grace, Lady of Izuma, and entrust to her the governance of the Northern Province and all lands therein. It is my wish as Sovereign, that this unprecedented appointment will usher a new era of prosperity for the North. Henceforth, Her Grace will be a beacon of hope and glory. So decreed and sealed in the 35th year of King Sato’s reign.

Izuma. You were not oblivious of the mare’s nest.

This was a denunciation disguised as benevolence. 

Your actions had somehow incurred the king’s wrath, though you could not fully comprehend why. The only reason you could think of was the information you procured for the negotiations had raised suspicion, but even then, any fair-minded ruler would have been pleased with this outcome. Which could only mean that your previous observations from the campsite lined up... Sato wanted war all along, and you had foiled his agenda.

At this revelation, you, too, had arrived at your own conclusion: there was no longer a need to dance around an odious king who sought senseless bloodshed.

Many would have perceived this as a curse, but to you it was a newfound blessing. In a land where Sato had turned his back on, you will take it as an opportunity to exert the Merchant Guild’s influence. It would be an arduous ambition, but you had no doubt in the guild’s collective abilities. No matter how unexpected this development was, the circumstances only strengthened your resolve. 

And the fact that he had bestowed the title solely upon you, meant that Suguru had the option to remain here. 

Perhaps, this was the silver lining among it all.

Kings always believed they were the most important piece on the chess board, and though it may be true, they often forget that the Queen was the most powerful piece.

This is where you shall reclaim your power and autonomy. 

This is where you will part ways with Suguru Geto.

—

Suguru watched intently as you read the letter. Anxiety prickled him, as he found himself unable to read your thoughts nor feelings. You were right in front of him, but you had never felt more distant—the small dining table between the two of you felt like a chasm that had cracked wide open.

“I see.” You finally broke the silence, fingers slowly rolling up the decree. “If it’s the king’s will, then who am I to refuse?”

For some reason, your lack of resentment and protest only deepened the ache in his chest. He had expected you to remain composed but seeing it all come true before him, it felt as though a dagger had twisted in his chest.

“I will send word to King Sato immediately. I shall depart tomorrow morning.” 

Suguru shot an incredulous look at you. So soon? Why were you saying it as if you’ve made up your mind to go without him?

“I’m coming with you.”

“There’s no need.” 

“I did not ask.”

You shot him a dangerous glare. “Then I command it,” you snapped.

A strained silence fell between the two of you. 

The tension so palpable it felt as though it was about to snap at any given moment. This time, it wasn’t just the usual defiance in your eyes; there was an unmistakable contempt. 

“As the Lady of Izuma.” You firmly enunciate. “I forbid you to cross my borders, General Geto.” 

You moved to call for Yumi, but he intercepted your steps—standing right up against you, the sudden closeness took you by surprise, making your breath stutter. 

His eyes held an urgent plea. 

“I implore you to think about it. You will be publicly ruined if I do not go with you—”

“And why does that matter to you?” You retorted, anger finally breaking through. “You don’t get to decide that you want to be a caring husband now.” 

“I will set things right, I swear it.” He paused, his voice steady, but the storm behind his eyes betrayed him.

“You think too highly of yourself, General Geto.”

You couldn't help but let out a hollow laugh. “Bold of you to continue demanding trust from me when you have not done anything to deserve it. Let me make myself clear: I will no longer follow your lead.” 

“I know you resent me, and rightfully so,” his voice low, but the tremble in it was unmistakable. “I will not demand any more from you, except for you to allow me to follow you.”

Pathetic. 

His acknowledgment was something you wished for long ago, but now it meant little. Even so, you couldn’t resist the way your heart throbbed at his words.

“Shouldn’t you celebrate?” You spat, bitterness curling your every word. “This is a chance for you to publicly disavow me—you will bear no consequences. And then you are free to marry the one you love.”

Your words were like a blade, sharpened by truth.

Until recently, Suguru had always believed divorce between you was inevitable. He had never allowed himself to imagine a future with you, blinded by duty, vengeance, and the past. But hearing you speak so plainly of being disavowed, as if you had long expected it of him, hit him like a tidal wave.

“Don’t pretend like you care about my ruin…” your voice shook, and for the first time, you struggled to hold back your tears. “Because I was already ruined... the moment I married you.”

The confession knocked the air out of his lungs, and nearly brought him to his knees.

He thought Sato was cruel for murdering his family, but he supposed he was no different, arguably worse. Because he had subjugated you to his indifference, killing your spirit, slowly but surely—while keeping you physically alive. 

Over and over again.

“I beg of you… just let me go, Suguru.” 

At the sound of his name, something within him snapped.

Somewhere, in the depths of his heart, he craved your vulnerability. He had a twisted desire to see you flustered, instead of always donning an aloof facade. But now, as you begged him for the first—and what seemed also like the last time—he wished he didn’t have to see it.

Because your words held finality.

And that was something he never thought he would be so unprepared to hear.

In that moment, he selfishly wished you’d cling to your pride. Even if only to maintain appearances. Even if just to soothe your father’s worries.

You didn’t have to love him. You just had to stay.

He bargained with himself, despite knowing that he would eventually want more. But for now, he must pretend that this was enough.

At this point, Suguru realized Ayaka had only ever been a beautiful illusion—a symbol of a past that no longer existed. He had refused to admit it at first, but looking back, he was forced to confront what had long been true: he’d already stopped loving her. 

What he had clung to was the comfort of memory, of a version of himself unburdened by duty, vengeance, or consequence. To continue loving Ayaka would mean rejecting the man he had become.

You were his gravity, the only one who could tether him to the man he wanted to be.

Now, more than ever, a singular truth resonated loud and clear:

He could no longer pull himself away from you.

“Please… allow me to follow you, Your Grace,” he whispered, stepping closer until he was barely a breath away. As if letting you drift even a step away might mean losing you for good.

You dropped your head, unable to meet his gaze—afraid that if you stared too long, you would once again, lose yourself to him. 

“No,” you quietly replied, shaking your head. “I can’t continue to sacrifice myself for you—you are not worth it.” Though you weren’t sure if the words were intended for him or for you. 

“You have sacrificed enough,” Suguru quietly admitted. “So allow me to return it.”

You looked up at him, unable to hide how much it hurt. You wanted to stay strong, you didn’t want to give him any more parts of you, but the emotions behind your eyes betrayed you. 

Your mind reasoned that you could use him—just as he had used you. But your heart had screamed at you to reject him, that it was better he remained here.

To protect yourself from any more pain.

To remove yourself from a place that had no space for you.

Why couldn’t he have just seen you for who you were from the very beginning?

Why was it only now, that he looked at you with so much ardor in his eyes—

“As long as you allow it, Your Grace.” He reaffirmed once again, more determined this time. “I vow to be...

Your general when you need a blade.

Your husband when you need a shield. 

Your ally when the world is against you.”

His words were like an enchanting spell. You had never known Suguru Geto could say such sweet things. 

Even at this moment, he was bewitching. And you hated yourself for it—for being enticed by mere words. For continuing to ache because of this man.

Before you could utter another word, he took the dagger from the desk behind you—his father’s dagger. He unsheathed it and to your horror he sliced his palm clean, vibrant crimson trickling down his arm, and saturating the sleeve of his garment.

Your eyes widened in panic. “What are you—?!” 

Suguru takes the decree from the box and unfurls it across the small table, smearing his blood across the scroll. Parchment and golden silk now dyed in his crimson.

“My fealty shall be bound by blood,” his voice low, as he looked at you with an intense gaze. “So long as you command it, I will follow.” 

For Suguru, there was no turning back now.

He had shackled himself to you.

And yet, he had never felt more liberated.

Writing © xechu - please do not redistribute, translate, or repost any of my works.

Tag list: @katsukiseyebrows @uzuimirika @saoirses-things @what-just-happened-to-me @exitingmusic @vellichor01 @miacakess @webyueve @anujah9

a/n #2: thank you for the support and love for this series. To be honest, I had never expected there to be so much thoughtful discussion about this series and it's very inspiring. I try to respond back to each message just as thoughtfully because I know you took the time and effort to send me such sweet and encouraging notes. Thank you to the consistent likers/rebloggers as well - you may think I don't see it, but I do, and I've come to even memorize your user by heart. It is thanks to you all that I'm able to really gain more confidence in writing something that resonates with me (fun fact: I used to write poetry before delving into long form writing). You've all been so kind, funny, sweet, and incredibly smart in the way you present your thoughts and ideas. Although H&V is going on a short break, I hope I won't keep you all waiting for too long and can cook up some good storytelling for Arc 2. Until then - much love. ❤️

[kovacs-on-the-ring]

YOU KNOW WHAT BASIL, YOU KNOW WHAT? IM SICK OF IT, YOU COME ONTO MY REBLOG OF A 4 YEAR LONG POST AND MAKE-

And make some good points about the current state of the Infinite Sandbox.

I think in truth that the Halo PVE Sandbox has been slacking since CE, with ODST measuring up to it in second place. There's a reason I only play rebalance mods for 2, 3 and Reach.

The Plasma Rifle had somewhat of a place when duel-wielding was still a thing, though I'm aware that Duel-wielding inevitably just means that the gun is individually worse to compensate. The shield stripping power isn't a huge factor when the noob combo is most well known for the plasma pistol, the most common gun in the series.

I think I'd mind the Carbine's absence less if the stalker rifle felt better to use, which I'm aware is entirely subjective. And the stalker rifle reminds me of the Halo 2-3 Beam rifles(I guess 4 too), in that feels like the hitscan sniper option for the covenant faction, which in practice makes me go "man I really wish I was using an SRS rifle right now." Again, I know these are subjective and I'm not intending to paint as not so. The Carbine felt unique to use in the sandbox, as it's a precison rifle that let you control the pace of your shots in a manner that the battle rifle and even later DMR couldn't(reticle bloom). The Commando takes that role obviously, with the stalker rifle filling the other role as the covenant/banished precison weapon. Another side thing is that carbine ammo was everywhere so having a fun to use precison weapon that never ran out of ammo was a neat bonus in PVE modes, though I think the commando sort of fills this niche now that skimmers carry them.

And this is a totally unrelated factor to the pure gamplay aspect, but having skins on some of these weapons that entirely remodel them to look, frankly, sick as fuck compared to their base models(talking commando here), makes them so much more appealing to use on a moment to moment basis. That's not me saying everyone who plays infinite should be dumping money into the store, it's pointing out how less generic designs could help improve game feel. ANYWAY, I appreciated your analysis, Basil!

Listen i already bought Halo Infinite but i’m so fucking mad they dropped my fucking Covenant Carbine for this shitty plasma burst replacement. It went from a murderous mid-long range semiauto rifle to having a wild spray with mild tracking that hits only at mid range of you’re lucky. Transphobic as hell, i loved that gun.

[blueberry-ry]

Read your post on fanon interpretation vs canon fact and if you don't mind me asking: what or which fanon interpretations do Jedi and Mando fans have that gives you such a headache?

Oh dear where do I even start- Jk I know exactly where:

Jedi fanon:

The evergreen "the jedi deserved what they got" which makes me sick and I hope everyone who actually thinks that one day explodes into the ether;

Whatever the hell they made Obi-Wan become, what is that, that is not my man what has this fandom done to him-

"The jedi steal children" factually untrue and the fact that people genuinely still believe this is concerning;

"The jedi are slavers bc they own the clones" again untrue, that's the Republic, which also forced the jedi to conscript in the war, so no the jedi had no saying over any of this;

"The jedi abused Anakin" factually untrue, that was Palpatine;

"The jedi are a cult and/or like the catholic Church" ok clearly you just want to project, I get it, but you are clearly doing it on the wrong people, bc no the jedi do not work like a cult and they certainly do not work like the fucking catholic Church, and all you need to understand that is the most basic of history books or even just common sense;

Mando fanon:

"All mandalorians see a child and ask "is anyone going to adopt them?" and adopt the child without waiting for an answer" which might seem cute and cool on the surface but like, can we chill out with this one? Especially since it's literally said that mandos get most of these kids from battlefields?? In which they themselves were fighting in?? And since these kids are clearly not-mando then they must have been from the other side?? Like ok the mando adoption thing is cool, but let's be a bit more careful with it, ok?

"All mandalorians are the best parents in the whole galaxy bc they all love children!" untrue and also, loving kids is not just a mando thing, that's smt that exists in pretty much every culture they are not special bc they "love children" come on now;

Jaster's whole "perfect man, right all along, can do no wrong" fanon perception of him, boring to no end;

Or also how people make him buddy buddy with every single jedi that meets him over his ideology, which is just not smt a jedi would admire you over-

Satine, literally everything people make up about Satine;

THE TAUNG BLOOD THING OMG- and how it's used to make X mando character be "a better choice" at being the Mand'alor like, omg thank you for reinventing monarchy I guess????

Know what, since I'm already complaining I'm gonna add smt about the clones too, as a treat

Clone fanon:

"They all speak mando'a / they all wanna be mandos" factually untrue even in the books that created the concept of mando'a-speaking clones, and it's overall just boring, god forbid they decide to be something of their own noooooooooooooooo;

"They got Jango's adoption mando genes" ah yes, the famous mando genes, of the culture famous to adopt, and so barely share genes between them, those genes that totally exist sure. My god Jango never even tried to adopt a kid, he literally got a bio one via cloning tube let's be real;

Literally everything about Fox;

The Command Batch.... I can't stand the concept of the Command Batch;

Rex risking being culled bc he is blond??? Hello???

Also him being bullied by his batch so he gets adopted by the Command Batch??? Meh

The way fanon in general always focuses on the eugenic part of the clones upbringing (aka the Kaminoans culling or doing experiments etc.) but never explore the more military aspect of it. I guess it's easier to talk about the sci-fi stuff (that feels so far away from us) than the actual gritty and close to us stuff that is the fucking military;

Alpha-17 becoming the good older brother/father figure. That literally goes against everything we see of him, I don't get were it fucking came from;

[smilingformoney]

can I have some Frank smut?? please? I love you <3

To Find Warmth

Frank Benson/Reader

Summary: You’re a humble Army Corporal, lost somewhere in Russia with only Lieutenant General Frank Benson for company. It’s cold. There’s only one bed. What do you think happens next?

Word Count: 5.3k

AN: Anon, you’re in luck. I don’t usually do requests but I wanted to do a one shot and needed an idea, so here it is!

Warnings/content: smut, power imbalance, older man/younger woman, there was only one bed, huddling for warmth

Read on Ao3 or below the cut:

You joined the military when you were young and stupid. Oh, how things change.

Well, you were still young. But you hoped you weren’t so stupid.

You’d imagined heroism, medals, parades. Glorious battles defeating the bad guys.

What nobody had told you was how much military work was fucking tedious.

What nobody had told you was that you would end up freezing your arse off in some abandoned shack in the middle of nowhere, unable to go anywhere thanks to a raging snowstorm, unable to call for evac because the storm cut off your signal; unable to do anything except wait for the storm to pass.

Even worse, you were stuck there with one of the grumpiest, surliest, most disciplined officers you’d ever had the misfortune of working with.

Lieutenant General Frank Benson.

He wasn’t even supposed to be there. He was way too high ranking to actually go out into the field. But your mission was urgent, the dickhead who was supposed to come with you had broken his leg, and Benson had volunteered to take his place, for reasons known only to him.

“Don’t question me,” had been Benson’s irritated answer when you asked why on earth he was accompanying you.

So you didn’t. Because he was an officer, you were a humble soldier, and defying the pecking order of the British Army was a one-way ticket to harsh disciplinary action.

You shivered as you stared out the window of the cabin, watching the snowstorm whirling by. It was so thick you could hardly see more than a few feet beyond the window, and when Benson returned from collecting wood for a fire, he looked more like a Yeti than a man, covered as he was head-to-toe in fresh white snow.

He shoved the door closed behind you then, without a word or a glance your way, dropped the wood by the fireplace and knelt down to begin trying to start a fire.

He didn’t give you any orders, so you went back to staring out the window, wondering if you’d ever feel your fingertips again.

After a little while, you heard the crackling of a fire. You turned around to see that Benson had managed to get a fire going, and he was already peeling off his gloves to warm his hands over the flame.

He didn’t order you to warm yourself, but nor did he order you to bugger off, so you joined him by the fireplace and knelt down to join him in warming your hands over the fire.

“We’re going to stay the night here,” Benson grunted eventually.

You said nothing. He hadn’t asked you a question, and you daren’t ask him any. If he wanted your input, he’d ask for it. Also, your lips were probably too cold to move anyway.

“Even if the storm stopped now, the snow’s too thick to navigate through in this light. We wait until morning, when we can see better. Hopefully, the storm will have stopped by then.”

You nodded to show your understanding.

“Once you’re warm enough to move, get your sleeping bag out. I’ll take first watch. At 0400 hours, I’ll wake you to take second. Wake me when the sun comes up.”

You nodded again. Apparently satisfied that he was as warm as he was going to be, Benson heaved himself to his feet with as much precision as he could when he was wearing several layers of thick insulation.

You subtly watched out of the corner of your eye as Benson lifted the strap that carried his rifle on his back and set about carefully checking his weapon. He frowned as he did so, because he was always frowning, but in that moment it looked as if he were angry at the rifle, like it was the cause of your predicament.

Figuring you were also as warm as you were ever going to be, you pushed yourself to your feet with less practised precision than Benson had, then turned to the bag you’d propped against a wall and extracted your sleeping bag.

When you turned back to Benson, he was standing with his back to the wall, facing the doorway, rifle in his hands, ready to fight any assailant that came through — never mind the fact that if you couldn’t leave the cabin, there was no way anyone else could get to it.

Is he really planning on standing like a Queen’s Guardsman all night? you wondered.

Probably, was the answer you gave yourself. Well, he could knock himself out doing that.

You unfurled your sleeping bag and laid it out in front of the fireplace, close enough to feel the heat but not so close as to hoard it all and leave Benson with none.

You were so cold that you didn’t even bother taking your boots off; you just climbed into the sleeping bag and closed your eyes.

During your time in the Army, you’d slept in some strange places and some uncomfortable conditions. But this was more than strange, and you’d take sleeping tied to a tree branch fifty feet in the air over this any day.

The floor was hard. The fire did very little to soothe the cold that was freezing you to your very bones. And you felt extremely conscious of Benson’s presence, as if he were watching you sleep.

You weren’t sure how much time had passed when you gave up trying to sleep. You sat up, the sleeping bag still wrapped around you. The night was darker for sure, and the fire had gone down a little. Benson was now sitting on the floor, his rifle on his lap, still watching the door as if expecting an attack at any moment. And the storm was still raging outside as if Queen Elsa was having night terrors.

“Sir?”

Benson glanced down at you, his expression blank but for his permanent frown.

“I can’t sleep. Perhaps I should keep watch while you get some sleep.”

Benson looked back at the door.

“Thank you for your suggestion, Corporal. I’ll keep watch until 0400 hours.”

That was that, apparently.

He hadn’t given you an order, so you unwrapped yourself from the sleeping bag and stood up. You carried the sleeping bag over to Benson, then wordlessly sat next to him and threw the sleeping bag over your legs like a blanket. You held up one corner pointedly, and Benson lifted his rifle to allow you to place the sleeping bag-cum-blanket over his legs too. You pulled your pistol from its holster on your hip and held it on your lap.

Somehow, you were more comfortable like this than you had been on the floor. Maybe it was the safety of having your gun in your hand; maybe it was easier to sleep sitting up than it was lying down on the horrible hard flooring. Or maybe it was the warmth of the fire on one side, and Benson on the other.

Whatever it was, you must have managed to fall asleep, because the next thing you knew, Benson was shaking you awake.

“0400 hours,” he told you shortly. “It’s your watch.”

You yawned and blinked yourself awake.

“Yes, sir,” you said sleepily.

“Do you recommend sleeping upright?”

Your half-asleep mind took a moment to realise he’d asked you a question.

“Yes, sir. And I recommend we swap places. That way, you have the warmth of the fire on one side and my body heat on the other.”

“Very well.”

Benson stood, and after some maneuvering, you were sat slightly further left than you had been, and Benson was sat to your right; within minutes, his grip on his rifle had relaxed, and you knew he must be asleep.

Nothing much happened during your watch. In fact, nothing happened other than the occasional snore from Benson. The storm seemed to be dying down, and by the time you saw the sun beginning to rise, the raging storm had calmed to a mere flurry

You’d only placed your hand on Benson’s shoulder, not even shaken him yet, when his eyes snapped open. His grip on his rifle retightened, and he was on his feet within seconds.

Anticipating his next order, you reholstered your pistol and set about rolling your sleeping bag back up to put it back in your bag.

“Move out,” Benson ordered after evaluating the scene through the window.

You hoisted your bag onto your back and followed him outside.

It took all day to find civilisation, and in all that time, Benson hardly said a word to you except to tell you it was time to stop for lunch from the tinned food in your bag, and again to tell you to move out.

You came across a small fishing village. You weren’t entirely sure where you were anymore, nor were you particularly confident Benson knew. You were surely still in Russia, but that didn’t narrow it down much.

The locals stared at you, because of course they did. If you were at home and some obviously foreign people emerged from a nearby forest with guns, you’d stare too. They eyed you with natural suspicion, though when Benson approached the least frightened looking local and asked in Russian if there was a hotel, there seemed to be a loosening of the tension you’d brought with you when they realised the gun-carrying foreigners spoke their language.

There was only one hotel in the village, since the population was so small and they weren’t exactly a tourist hotspot, and it only had three rooms. One was occupied and one had a broken window, which left you with only one room available — and only one bed.

The innkeeper asked if you were hungry, earning a simultaneous “Da!” from both of you, and Benson passed her some rubles in exchange for a promise of a warm meal.

The first thing you did was lock yourself in the bathroom, strip naked, and stand under the hot shower for ten minutes.

When you came back into the hotel room, Benson was sat at the small table in the corner, already digging into the plate of food in front of him.

“I couldn’t wait for you,” he grunted.

You shrugged. You were starving too, so you just sat and ate in silence.

“I managed to get a signal,” Benson said eventually once he’d finished eating.

You looked up at him, waiting for him to continue. He carefully wiped his mouth with a napkin, then folded it up and placed it on his plate.

“A Navy vessel in the Barents Sea. They have a short stop at Svalbad, then they’ll arrange to pick us up tomorrow evening.”

You glanced at the bed. It was a double, but not particularly generous in its space.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” Benson said, as if reading your thoughts. “Since sleeping on the floor is an impossibility for you.”

“Sir, respectfully, you should sleep in the bed.”

Benson raised an eyebrow at you. “Why is that, Corporal? Do you think my old man’s back can’t take sleeping on the floor?”

“No, sir. But there’s room enough in the bed for both of us. There’s no point one of us being cold and uncomfortable for the sake of propriety. I’m sure your wife will forgive you, given the circumstances.”

“My ex-wife’s forgiveness is of no importance to me. I simply don’t wish to make an attractive young female soldier feel uncomfortable sharing a bed with an ugly old male officer.”

“You’re not ugly, sir.”

Benson’s lip twitched as if he were trying to smile but had forgotten how.

“Nothing to say about the ‘old’ part?”

“No comment, sir. My apologies for the comment about your wife, sir, I wasn’t aware.”

“What, that a grumpy, old Army officer can command an entire corps but can’t keep his own wife in check?”

You hesitated. Benson never spoke to you except to give you orders, and here he was asking your opinion on his failed marriage, as if it were something you had any knowledge or right to speak on.

“I spoke out of turn, sir, it won’t happen again.”

Benson looked at you as if he were trying to drill a hole into your skull. You held your ground and your breath, waiting for him to reprimand you.

Instead, he just stood up, announced he was going to take a shower, then disappeared into the bathroom.

You stacked up your empty plates and left them outside, then climbed into the bed. You kept a layer of thermals on, both for the warmth and the awkwardness of sharing a bed with your superior.

Benson didn’t say anything to you again that night. He just turned the light off and got under the covers, making sure not to touch you, and both of you were asleep within minutes.

When you woke up again, it was still dark. You weren’t sure you’d had that much sleep. What you were sure of was that you’d woken up because you had a great big heavy lump on top of you.

The lump snored.

Lieutenant General Frank Benson was asleep, snoring, on top of you.

Not that you’d ever thought about how he slept, but you would have imagined he slept on his back, his hands by his sides, or maybe across his chest like a vampire. You certainly wouldn’t have thought that he would sleep face-down, one arm dangling off the edge of the bed — nor would you have thought that he would sleep on top of you.

“Sir?” you whispered tentatively, recalling how easily he’d woken up the night before.

Nothing.

You gave his shoulder a gentle nudge.

This time, he moved, only to shift off you slightly, but at least it was enough for you to breathe again.

As he moved, the arm that was dangling over the side came back into the bed and passed over you — and stopped just in time for his hand to rest on your breast.

Your breath hitched. You knew it was an accident, but even so — Benson’s hand was on your breast.

He had large hands. You’d noticed it before, watching him hold his rifle, or his radio. Perfectly ordinary-sized items seem to shrink in his grasp.

And now one of his large hands was cupping your breast.

Not just laying on top of your breast — it was actually holding it.

You felt a very dangerous twinge between your legs as Benson’s fingers tightened their grip, ever so slightly.

You chanced a glance at him. He was lying on his side now, one arm tucked underneath his pillow, while the other was still holding onto your breast. He was also still snoring, and definitely still asleep.

You knew you should move his hand. But you were still heavy with sleep, and moving your arms felt like an impossible task.

“Sir —” you whispered.

Benson responded with a grunt. Rather than moving away further, his grip tightened more, and he was definitely now groping your tit in his sleep.

His hips shifted slightly, and you suddenly had something new to worry about — the unmistakable bulge that was pressing against your side.

Benson grunted again, his grip tightened, and he rolled his hips again.

Lieutenant General Frank Benson was humping you in his sleep.

It was almost laughable. Almost — if you weren’t fighting the urge to respond in kind.

You hadn’t told him he wasn’t ugly just to appease him. You thought him more than not ugly — you thought him downright attractive. Maybe he was older, but he was still handsome. What his wife was thinking letting him go, you had no idea.

Benson rolled his hips again, and you heard a shuddering moan escape his lips, his hand squeezed tighter on your breast — and then his movements stopped quite suddenly.

His heavy breathing paused. For a few moments, Benson was silent and still, as if he were keeping watch again… as if he were awake.

You kept your eyes closed, hoping he’d think you asleep, unaware of what had been happening. You’d much rather he think you didn’t know than experience the awkwardness of you both knowing what had happened.

To your disappointment, Benson retracted his hand and moved away from you to roll onto his back with a grunt.

A few moments’ silence. Then: “Shit.”

You didn’t move. You didn’t open your eyes.

“You’re a bloody pervert, Benson,” he grumbled to himself.

You heard him sit up, but you didn’t hear him stand. You cautiously opened your eyes and slowly turned your head to look over at him. Benson was sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to you, hands clenching the sheets either side of him, and his head hung slightly. In his dark black thermals in the dead of night, you could hardly see much more of him than his hands and his head.

Slowly, you sat up, and scooted over to him, one leg hanging off the bed with the other tucked underneath you.

“Sir?” you asked tentatively. “Is everything alright?”

Benson didn’t respond at first. He slowly raised his head and turned to look at you, that unreadable frown etched into his brow.

“Fine, Corporal. Go back to sleep.”

Without hesitation, you moved back to your side of the bed. Benson scoffed.

“You’re very good at that, you know,” he muttered.

“…Sir?”

Benson looked back at you, already lying down again, this time on your left side so you were facing him.

“Obeying orders.”

“…Isn’t that Rule 1 of the Army?”

Benson smirked, just a little. It was the closest to a smile you’d ever seen on him, and his ever-present frown even smoothed out a little.

“Never once on this mission have you questioned me.”

“You told me not to, sir.”

“Did I?”

“On the first day, on the plane, sir. I asked why you were replacing Bates, and you told me not to question you.”

Benson seemed to ponder this for a moment.

“Yes, I did, didn’t I? And you obeyed that order without question, like a good girl.”

The shadow of a smirk on his lips deepened a little; he didn’t miss the way your breath hitched slightly. In the silence of the night, every little sound, every breath, was heightened.

Benson stared at you through the darkness, as if studying you. Then, he said, “Did you know that you snore?”

“I do not,” you protested.

Benson chuckled. “Oh, you do. Only lightly, but you do. Enough that I can tell when you’re sleeping… and when you’re not.”

Your eyes widened in alarm.

“Are you such an obedient soldier that you’ll let your superior grope you in his sleep before you protest against him? You can say no to me, Corporal. If you disagree or protest, I can take it. You won’t hurt my feelings.”

“I — I know that, sir,” you said meekly.

“So if I suggest that I sleep on the floor for the rest of the night — what would be your response?”

“You… should sleep in the bed, sir.”

Benson tilted his head curiously.

“Are you suggesting you take the floor?”

“No, sir. There’s no need for either of us to take the floor. And it’s so cold, we — we should share body heat, sir.”

Benson’s eyes narrowed darkly.

“Oh, we should, should we? Very well. I’ll take your suggestion on board, Corporal.”

He pushed the duvet down and swung his legs back onto the bed to resume his place on the left side of the bed. You rolled over to face away from him; he turned towards you, so that you were once again lying with his torso pressed against your back.

You shivered. Benson chuckled and placed his hand carefully on your waist.

“Next time, you should ask for a mission to the Bahamas,” Benson muttered, his breath hot on the back of your neck. “I’ll even put in a recommendation for you.”

“Would you accompany me on that mission too, sir?”

“Would you want me to?”

“You’ve been a much better mission partner than Bates would have.”

Benson chuckled. It reverberated through his chest, which felt soothing on your back — and, God help you, arousing.

“You don’t have to lie to me, Corporal. You can question me, and you can say no.”

“I know that, sir. When I next find myself in disagreement with you, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

Benson’s fingers stretched out a little against your skin, as if he were trying to inch ever closer to somewhere less appropriate, but slow enough that you couldn’t tell.

You didn’t resist. You didn’t stop him. And you certainly didn’t say no.

Not even when his fingers reached out to the hem of your thermal top. Not even when his fingertips brushed against your bare skin.

And when his fingers slipped under the waistband of your thermal trousers, the way your hips bucked against him was completely involuntary — but that didn’t mean it was undesired.

Benson seemed to be testing you. With each small movement, he paused as if waiting for you to say no, but it never came. When his fingers threaded through your pubic hair, you didn’t stop him. When his hand moved further down and cupped your bare flesh down there, you still didn’t stop him.

And when a single index finger slipped into your wetness, Benson groaned with desire.

“Tell me to stop,” he grunted into your ear.

“…No.”

His finger dove deeper, until he found the spot he was looking for. He pressed teasingly against your sweet spot, and you whined.

“Pull your trousers down. If you’re not going to stop me, then give me room to move.”

“Yes, sir,” you breathed.

You hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your thermals and slid the fabric down your thighs until the waistband was wrapped around your knees.

“Good girl,” Benson murmured softly in your ear, and he chuckled when you shuddered slightly. “Do you like that, Corporal? Do you like it when a superior gives you praise?”

As he spoke, he began circling your clit with small, precise movements, and you whined.

“Only — only when it’s you, sir,” you managed to say.

Benson hummed approvingly. He picked up the pace slightly, and your hips shook in response, as if reaching out to something very large and hard just behind them.

You thought he might rub up against you again, or even get it out, but he did nothing about the erection that was pressing up against your arse. His focus was entirely on circling your clit, his movements as precise and methodical as they were in every other aspect of his life.

He was completely still otherwise. The only sign he was even awake, other than the heavy, arousal-laced breathing, was the movement of his finger between your legs.

You, meanwhile, were very obviously awake. You whined and clutched onto the bedsheets as you felt the pleasure rising within you. Some part of your mind reminded you that you were in an absurd situation, that you would never have expected Lieutenant General Benson to start fingering you in the middle of the night — but that part was quickly drowned out, especially when Benson’s fingers moved away from your clit and slipped inside you instead.

Two fingers went inside you, and Benson wasted no time teasing; he pumped his fingers in and out of you, as if he were trying to collect as much of your juices as possible — and boy was there a lot for him to collect, because he knew what he was doing, how to curl his fingers to reach your G-spot, and his aroused growls in your ear were enough to set you off on their own.

His thumb reached out to flick against your clit, and you knew you were done for. You cried out as an orgasm washed over you, and Benson didn’t cease his relentless movements. He continued to finger you until the aftershocks of your orgasm wore off, and when he pulled his hand out from between your legs, it was only to grab the waistband of his own trousers and and yank them down.

You felt the very large and hard something again, but this time it was bare, and it was sliding up against your flesh, its head poking into the wetness that his fingers had gathered between your legs.

“Tell me to stop,” Benson said again, his voice thicker now, less controlled.

“No,” you said again.

He gripped your hip, holding you still, as he pushed his hips forward — and you felt the tip of his cock breaching your entrance.

You were both silent except for the sound of your breathing as Benson pushed further inside you, getting deeper and deeper until he was buried up to the hilt.

You’d heard other soldiers, and some officers, call Lieutenant General Frank Benson “a massive dick.” You wondered if any of them knew he had one too.

For a few long moments, Benson didn’t move. He just laid there, hand gripping your hip, cock stretching your walls in a way no man had before.

“I must have missed this part of the training for keeping warm in cold conditions,” you said.

“Surely you remember the best way to keep warm…”

Benson rolled you onto your front very suddenly so that he was lying on top of you again. He slipped out of you just a little as he moved, but he quickly rectified that and thrust back in again.

“…is exercise.”

He placed a forearm either side of your head, hands gripping the pillows for purchase as he began thrusting into you hard.

Benson wasn’t much of a talker usually, and it seemed he wasn’t any different in bed. He just grunted and growled in your ear as he fucked you into the bed.

You weren’t particularly verbose either. Other than the occasional mumbled “sir…” the most you managed to get out was a moan.

You wanted to ask him if this has been his plan all along, if he’d invited himself along for a chance to get you alone, or was it something he’d decided to do partway through the mission? Or was it not planned at all, and he was simply following his dick’s orders when it found itself pressed up against a woman’s arse?

Instead, all you managed was a garbled groan.

When your second orgasm hit, it was a complete surprise. There was no build up; Benson just shifted his position slightly, and it was as if he’d found a button inside you that said fuck here for instant orgasm.

Your walls clamped down around his cock as suddenly as the orgasm hit you, and Benson found himself following your lead, his cum filling you up before he could even consider pulling out.

He came loud. If anyone were looking for you in the village, they’d certainly find you now. His deep voice, usually so calm and controlled, cracked as it filled the room with Benson’s cries of pleasure.

He slowed his thrusts to a stop, then for a few long moments he laid on top of you, breathing heavily, sweat dripping from the end of his nose and landing in your hair.

“Warmer now, Corporal?” Benson said eventually, his voice slightly hoarse and still out of breath.

“Yes, sir. And, sir…”

“Hm?” Benson responded absent-mindedly as his nose nuzzled ever so lightly behind your ear.

“You’re balls deep in me, sir. I think you can call me [Y/n] now.”

Benson laughed. He actually laughed. There was something delirious about it, as if he’d only just realised the strangeness of the situation. You wanted to see his face, to see what he looked like with a smile, but he was still pressed up against your hair, as if hiding his laughter from you on purpose.

Slowly, he unstuck his body from yours, and pulled his softening cock out. Lines of cum from both of you followed it, and Benson wordlessly climbed out of the bed to make his way to the bathroom, leaving you laying in a pool of jizz, wondering what the hell had just happened.

Well, at least you were warm.

- - -

You woke the next morning to the smell of bacon and eggs.

You sat up in the bed, blinking, and looked around. Benson was already up and dressed, wrapped up in his layers of thermals again. He was sitting at the small table, two plates of steaming bacon and eggs in front of him, already halfway through his plate.

“I tried to wake you, but you were dead to the world,” Benson said when he saw you moving. “You ought to work on that. If an enemy attacks in the night, they won’t wait for you to finish your beauty sleep.”

“Understood, sir,” you said wearily.

You threw back the blanket and went to the bathroom before joining him at breakfast.

You tried desperately to figure out if your memory of Benson fucking you in the night was a real memory or just a dream. It certainly felt real, and the details of it weren’t slipping away as dreams often do in the morning. But it was so absurd, it couldn’t possibly have happened. Could it?

You washed your hands and returned to the bedroom to wrap yourself up in your thermal gear again before sitting down to eat. Benson had finished his breakfast and was now bent over the bed slightly, examining a map he’d laid out on top of it.

You watched him as you ate. That ever-present frown was still there. His narrow eyes examined the map carefully, his stubby finger tracing a line across the map, muttering to himself as he tried to figure out where you were and when the Navy ship he’d contacted would get to you.

“We walked almost a hundred miles,” Benson concluded without looking up. “We’re not far from the border. We’ll need to walk about thirty more to meet the ship in Norway, so eat up. You’ll need the energy.”

“When we get home, I’m going to a sauna, and I won’t come out for a week,” you grumbled as you turned back to your bacon and eggs.

While you finished eating, Benson rolled up the map and returned it to your bag. He was acting his usual focused, disciplined self, but he seemed a little less grumpy than before. Not quite cheerful, but more relaxed, less agitated.

He looks like he just got laid, you thought.

Once you were finished, Benson ordered you to move out, so you strapped your bag to your back and holstered your pistol. Benson already had his rifle strung across his back, and promptly led you out of the hotel, leaving a pile of rubles on the dresser.

This time, the villagers paid you no mind. The novelty of the foreign soldiers had already worn off, and when it was clear you were simply resting and not adversarial, they lost interest and resumed their lives.

Benson led you into the forest again, resuming the path you’d been following the day before. You walked in silence for a while, Benson looking straight ahead, his eyes darting around occasionally as he looked for threats. You, meanwhile, were still trying to figure out if last night had really happened.

“How are we getting across the border?” you asked eventually. “It’ll be patrolled, surely.”

“I’ve identified a location I believe will have the weakest defence. When we’re closer, I’ll need you to radio ahead to the Norwegian border patrol and request assistance.”

“Understood, sir.”

“I think you can call me Frank now. After all — I’ve been balls deep in you.”

Your eyes widened and you glanced over at him. Benson was still looking straight ahead, his face unreadable as he led you through the woods.

One thing was for sure — it definitely hadn’t been a dream.

[bedes-silliest-soldier]

Conscription is a fascinating topic in American history! On the one hand, for much of our history, we’ve been highly skeptical of professional standing militaries. On the other, that doesn’t mean there weren’t forms of military service that large numbers of people didn’t participate in. Every British colony (except Pennsylvania, because it was run by Quakers) had a militia, and every able-bodied free, white*, man had to serve when called upon, though colonial leadership often preferred to convince people to volunteer for militia service, believing that volunteers would be better than conscripts. Militia service was often short-term and local, though.

During the American Revolution, the Continental Army (a separate institution from the militia, as the US’s first standing professions army) did draft people who were registered militiamen for periods of nine months. Draftees could hire a substitute if they wanted, as they could do in the colonial system.

During the American Civil War, the Confederates started drafting people pretty early on, and the US started drafting people in 1863 — this was HIGHLY controversial, because the wealthy could still hire substitutes, and the first half of the nineteenth century was a period in which social hierarchy was supposed to have disappeared among white men. It cost $300 (I may be wrong about this number) to hire a substitute, which was a highly unrealistic amount of money for anyone who wasn’t wealthy.

The government reinstituted the draft during WW1, but the US wasn’t involved in it that long and not many people got drafted.

There was conscription during and after WW2, and many draftees served well, and the US kept the draft for years afterwards (my grandfather was too young to serve in WW2 or Korea but he was in the army for a while in the late 50s because he had to be).

The draft came back for Vietnam, and as is very well-known it became highly controversial, so much so that after the war, the Army decided to get rid of the draft and switch to an all-volunteer force.

France and Britain didn’t have the draft at the time of America’s founding, though Prussia, Austria, and Russia all used forms of it. Countries having large standing armies recruited through the draft is really a result of the French Revolution, with mainland European powers copying the French Levee en Masse in order to raise armies large enough to fight the enormous French one in the 1790s and during the Napoleonic Wars. This is the system the US tried to copy starting in the 1860s, when all things French were all the rage in the US military.

All that to say, Americans arguing about the draft is older than the United States.

*some colonies allowed people of color to serve, some didn’t. Generally more northern colonies did and southern colonies didn’t, because of the prevalence of slavery (which was legal everywhere but less economically important further north)

Way back in I think 2011-2012, I made a remark on my long-since-deleted Twitter account that there was a reliable phenomenon where every six months or so you'd get a "we should bring back the draft" take from some pundit at The Atlantic or The Washington Post or whatever. On the surface, these takes were never about military capability, they were always about the author's personal social engineering project to fix the issue du jour— it'll bring rich and poor into contact and promote cross-class understanding, it'll reduce alienation from the military, and so on.

I find it interesting what a hardy weed this is. Today the posts are still there, except now they're on Substack, and now they're about fixing today's social ills— it'll make low-quality men more marriageable and cure inceldom, it'll provide purpose and address existential ennui, it'll bring progressives and conservatives into contact reduce political polarization, etc.

Whatever the problem, mandatory military service is apparently the cure. I actually disagree with the takes that America is a highly-militarist society, but this seems like a surviving example of a phenomenon that has probably stretched all the way back to Rome or beyond.

[maxiemumdamage]

OK, back to the rewatch and continuing with the Badge and the Burden:

I SO stand by my assessment that Weiss is the immature one and is the only one actually in the wrong. I get why Ruby's behavior in class and beforehand would be grating and annoying, but Ruby being annoying in no way means she doesn't deserve to be leader, that she's unqualified or that Weiss would be better suited for the position.

Weiss gets mad that Ruby is slacking in class. I get that. However, although Ruby is nodding off during Port's introductory spiel about Grimm in general — of course she is, she's been fighting Grimm in her backyard for years, and he's not sharing tactical information, just making vague statements — she tunes in when Port starts talking about world history and duty.

Ruby starts doodling and goofing off with her team only when Port says he's telling a personal story about a "handsome young man: me!" And like...at that point, why wouldn't you zone out? He's not saying anything Ruby doesn't already know when he talks about the duty of Huntsmen, we know from her conversations with Ozpin and Blake that Ruby knew the job she was signing up for from minute one.

In contrast, Weiss is writing down literally everything Port says, despite it not actually being actionable information, or facts to memorize. And given the narration lapses into "blah blah blah" at times when the scene is in Weiss's POV, she's also struggling to pay attention.

I'm also struck by exactly what Port says: "a true Huntsman must be strategic, well-educated, and wise." And I suspect when he says "who thinks they already are all of that?" the correct answer is that none of them are. Because none of the first years are educated Huntsmen yet; that's WHY they're at Beacon! To learn and get experience and develop their tactics.

Weiss isn't ready yet, Port knows it, and her fight against the Boarbatusk proves it. Because Weiss is losing until Ruby offers tactics and helps her. She's dodging some of the Grimm's attacks, yes, but she also keeps attacking head-on and suffering for it. She's striking a hugely armored beast in the places where it has the most armor, the face and sides. Weiss lunges right at the tusks and then tries to grapple for her sword against a two-ton angry demon bull. Yes, she gets distracted and finally loses her sword because of Ruby's cheering, but her weapon getting caught and foolishly trying to grapple for Myrtenaster were both bad decisions Weiss made all on her own.

I also find it interesting that the actual boiling point for their fight, when Weiss yells at Ruby "Stop telling me what to do!" happens when...Ruby has not yet actually told Weiss what to do. Until now, Ruby trusted her teammate's judgement, but Weiss has just made her very bad decision to grapple, got disarmed and nearly hurt for it. Ruby offering tactics at that point was a kindness and justified concern. Plus, Ruby probably could read the posters in the room from her vantage point, and thus had information Weiss didn't that she was quick to share. Again, Ruby is in the right!

And up until that one quick tactical advisement, Ruby has not actually tried telling Weiss what to do. All morning, what Ruby has been doing is just getting the team to spend time together and have fun (which is a good thing; that's how they're gonna bond). She's been cheering for Weiss up until this point in the fight, and...yeah, Weiss said she was trying to focus and that wasn't helping. But given she only snapped at Ruby when their entire team was cheering, Ruby could've realized it was actually about Weiss not liking her personally, and kept cheering and trying to help because she was trying to fix things.

I also find it worth pointing out that Weiss, at least at this point in canon, is not the strategic fighter Port says a Huntsmen must be; as pointed out, she made very bad judgement calls against that Boarbatusk. Weiss always ends up listening when Ruby is directing her in combat, because Ruby has good tactics and quick judgement. She is strategic, exactly as Port says a good Huntsmen should be.

Weiss knows that, on some level, I think; it’s why she deferred to Ruby during their Initiation in the Emerald Forest. Ruby dictated their tactics against the Nevermore, but before that, she told Weiss "cover me!" It was not a request, it's the one time Ruby did in fact tell Weiss what to do, but Weiss did it. Weiss also did end up using Ruby's directions during her in-class fight against the Boarbatusk, even if she yelled at her about it during and after class.

Weiss's frustration during The Badge and the Burden is less about Ruby's behavior and more about herself — she's suddenly very aware of the ways in which she's lacking, as a tactician and in terms of field judgement, and it drives her nuts that Ruby has those things in spades. Especially because Ruby also comes across as happy-go-lucky and immature and silly when they're not in the field. But Weiss can then use the latter issues to justify her frustration about not being in charge, and pretend the former issue — Ruby having skills and talents that Weiss lacks — isn't what's actually bothering her.

I also found one freeze-frame from when Weiss first scolds Ruby for cheering on her...very interesting. Hulu's not letting me take a screenshot, but when Weiss says "I'm trying to focus!" and yet singles out only Ruby to scold when the whole team was rooting for her...Ruby looks sad and ashamed, sure. But Blake's expression is flat, eyes narrowed; I'm sure she wasn't thinking anything good. And Yang, in seconds, went from a big goofy grin to GLARING DAGGERS at Weiss when Weiss yelled at her little sister.

With animation like RWBY's in Volume 1, nothing came cheap and everything was there for a reason. It's noteworthy that we see how Weiss being mean to Ruby immediately turns the whole team against her; we're seeing why Weiss could never lead this team.

I also noticed that after Weiss wins the fight, Yang's got her hands balled up into fists on the table and Blake, again, has her eyes narrowed. They're pleased Weiss won her fight, sure, but they're not happy with her. And when Weiss storms off, Blake and Yang exchange a long glance before we cut to Ruby trying to talk to Weiss. I have zero doubt that had Ruby talked to her teammates about Weiss, even before Weiss said all that awful stuff in the hallway, they'd have been 100% on Ruby's side.

Weiss says Ruby has only been a nuisance and not a leader, but that's not true. She says Ruby did nothing to earn her position, but that's not true. And Weiss says all Ruby does is act like a child, but Ruby does take things seriously and shape up when the situation demands it. Ruby just...

...doesn't act like Winter, I'm realizing is the real problem. Winter is Weiss's only model for what a Huntress or commanding officer should look like, along with maybe General Ironwood (since James is a friend to the Schnee family at this point, and has been for a long time). Weiss thinks a real Huntress is emotionally repressed and stuffy and snappish and constantly refusing to explain her thoughts, lean with praise and heavy on criticism. Ruby isn't like that at all, which makes Weiss not respect her. Weiss has no concept that Huntsmen and Huntresses are also people, and are allowed to act like it. Ruby, in contrast, grew up with Qrow Branwen as her most immediate role model for what a Huntsmen looks like; she knows you don't have to be perfect to be amazing at the job.

Ruby asking Weiss why she no longer believes in acting as a team and Weiss replying "not a team led by you" is really "not a team lead by anyone but me." Because Weiss at the start of the Beacon arc is imitating Winter Schnee, whom Weiss thinks is the ideal Huntress, very closely.

And I think Port realized that the issue had nothing to do with anyone immediately involved but Weiss. It's not about Ozpin and the teachers, it's not about Ruby, it's about Weiss feeling as though she did her best and came up short anyway.

(But of course, being team leader isn't just a badge you wear into battle, but a burden you carry constantly. It's not an accolade or praise that Weiss has been denied — despite the fact that Weiss would make an abysmal team leader, she really does have the makings of a great Huntress if she can learn to listen.)

This is a problem of ego and entitlement more than it's actually about Ruby, which is why Ruby's name never even comes up. It's also why Port is so generous with praise for Weiss, in class and initially when she approaches him afterwards. (Despite her doing a not-so-great job, as I detailed.) For her to accept the criticism that's coming, she has to feel like the person saying it appreciates and respects her. Port makes a point to say she's a great fighter, but has a terrible attitude, meaning that no, she is not well-suited for leadership.

Something RWBY understands very well is that leadership is a skill separate from all else. You can be a great fighter and not know how to communicate with, direct, and utilize a bunch of other people.

Port said exactly what Weiss needed to hear: that her current attitude would get her nowhere, that she has a great team she needs to appreciate even if she's not in charge of it, and that self-improvement should be her focus for the immediate future. Frankly, I do not think anyone in Atlas would've said that to Weiss friggin' Schnee; it was feedback she could only hear at Beacon.

In contrast, the part of Ozpin's talk that was useful — "it's only been one day, it's too soon to say you aren't a good leader" — could've come from anyone else. And the stuff about leadership being a burden, always needing to be at her best...that was actively to Ruby's detriment. It made her mindset going forward super toxic.

And yeah, Weiss coming back late that night and seeing Ruby had been cramming probably also helped their relationship — certainly, I don't think Weiss would've fetched coffee or made that bunk bed confession (a little immaturity on her part) if she hadn't seen Ruby trying to shape up. But I also think them having any kind of real conversation could've done the same job. Especially something like what Ruby and Blake talked about the night before Initiation, i.e. WHY Ruby wants to be a Huntress.

So, this went from a rewatch/reaction to a Ruby defense post/"Why Weiss was at fault" but I'm okay with that.

On a more lighthearted note, I just noticed that Ruby has an empty mug in bed with her, meaning Weiss 100% gave Ruby her own coffee cup. Also, that Ruby potentially had tea, which I imagine she prefers to coffee.

Because drinking coffee at 9pm was in fact a spectacularly bad idea, and how you can tell Weiss usually had Klein to make drinks for her.

[coconutjelly]

Crisis, Part 6a

Link to all parts

After sitting down with Bernard, Kon gives him a second to settle into the couch on his own before passing him a plate and drink. Bernard is positioned between Kon and Tim, and Kon… tries to have only very normal feelings about that. 

Once Bernard gets settled, he starts to let the TTK fade, since the whole point of that was just to make it easier to hold him comfortably. An indignant squawking sound and unfairly adorable pout alerts him of Bernard’s opinion on the matter, so he leaves a little of it around his shoulders, sort of like slinging an arm across his back, he guesses?

“Should I be worried about this?” Tim asks them, and Kon immediately feels a blood clot form in his brain from how tense his whole body goes as he snaps his TTK field back to the surface of his own body. 

He mentally berates himself for being so comfortable with Bernard and all flirty, or whatever it is they're being. It was one thing when they were all in bed together, but obviously it’s way too weird to be telekinetically hanging off Tim’s literal actual boyfriend right in front of him. Not that, like, going behind his back would be better– actually that would take him from weird into terrible not-quite-a-human being territory, but obviously he wouldn’t do that. 

He just needs to stop doing it at all. 

Anywhere. 

In front of, or behind anyone’s back. 

…he is not going to think about being behind Bernard’s back right now, Christ.

“Like, do I need to find you a twelve-step program of some kind, babe? Are you going to be having withdrawal symptoms?” he continues with a smirk, entirely unaware of Kon’s personal bro code crisis in progress. “Or should I just skip to enablement and start engineering a TTK gravity blanket?”

He’s…he’s not mad, Kon realizes. He’s teasing Bernard for how much Bernard likes his TTK. It isn’t– Is that– Is that a normal response? It doesn’t feel like Tim’s response right now is being normal, and he’s pretty sure most of the girls he’s dated would not have had that response. Then again, it’s not like he’s the expert himself on dating guys. Or even humans in general, really.

“Hmm, you could try,” Bernard says slyly, “but I doubt anyone could recreate the original Superhug.”

And that is…wow. That is a thing for Kon to hear someone say about the literal clone of Superman, isn’t it?

The one thing that Kon has never been and could never be is an original. His powers are engineered and biohacked. His knowledge was prepared, collated, and uploaded before he was breathing air. Even his civilian identity was created for him by Superman and Batman. Hell, he wasn’t even the result of the first attempt.

“Ha, I think you���ll find there is nothing original about me, man,” Kon huffs, trying not to sound too self-conscious or otherwise weird about hearing that.

“That is not true,” Tim says softly, seriously, and again, it’s like the moment means something to him, that he needs Kon to understand something he’s trying to say. 

“It… it isn’t?” Kon breathes. Because if there is any one person in the world who he wants to think of him as something unique, something worth having on its own - even more than he wants Bernard to think that - yeah, obviously it’s Tim.

The eye contact between them stretches out again like it had in the kitchen, only this time, Kon is aware of Bernard trying to subtly glance back and forth between them. He’s grinning to himself but clearly trying to hide it, probably because he thinks they’re both such big weirdos.

Tim seems to catch the tension, too, because he blinks once really hard, then puts on a playful smile and says, “Of course not. You constantly find new and fascinating ways to deviate from mission specs.”

Bernard elbows him in the side, which Kon appreciates, since he can’t actually tackle him for that comment with Bernard between them. 

They settle into the movie after that, Bernard sitting cross-legged beside him, with his knee just resting against his thigh.

While they eat, Kon lets his TTK hesitantly move back across Bernard, just a little bit. It earns him a delighted little wiggle from the other, but no verbal response. Kon realizes that his other knee is touching Tim, so it’s easier than anything for them both to be back in his TTK field after not too long.

Tim rests his head against Bernard’s shoulder at one point, and it– He can’t know exactly where he’s got the TTK, but still, they had played around with the transitive nature of this ability, and it’s– But it’s not because he’s trying to, Kon knows. But still…

Kon struggles to be normal about the way it feels to feel Tim’s head resting on his shoulder, like he’s somewhere nice to be.

[goddamnitmahtin]

Dami’s Teddy Part 3

Damian settled into bed, holding Danyal close. Things were eventful recently. Jason had told Father who he was. And Father was reacting… like Father. While Damian was admittedly excited to see Jason again in a setting that wasn’t secret, it was hard to be anywhere near either of them right now.

Damian had started to get over the shell shock of how different Father was from Mother. He was learning to adapt. He started to have an understanding of when smiling was appropriate and when it was not. He was learning how to censor his words to be more acceptable. He was learning how to do mundane tasks he had never done before like board games.

All of this was training for a new uncover mission Father was preparing him for. He was to go to public school as a normal teenager in the hopes that his public persona would give him the chance to monitor the youth. Father said that the children writhing the school walls were the future of Gotham and that Damian had to be there in order to protect them while undercover.

Obviously Damian was skilled enough for the task. He could kill a man within seconds and had experience with schooling as he was currently enrolled in a private academy. But Father said that it was imperative that Damian act the role that he needed to play in order to not raise suspicion and that public schooling was a far different social climate. He needed all the other students to believe he was a normal boy in order to “make friends.” Damian was planning to use any bonds he developed with others to gather intel for his mission. As he was not in any need for more people in his life.

But Damian was not finished with the training yet so for now he was stuck in the manor most of the time. It was annoying. It had been bearable before but now with the way Father has been acting about Jason, Damian did not even want to be there. It felt like watching a support beam crack on the ceiling above you. Except Father was the ceiling. And the idea of Jason being dead was the support beam.

Damian watched specks of light flicker off of Danyal’s tinsel. It was calming after a day of watching Father barely hold himself together. Damian didn’t know how to feel on Father’s better days, let alone his worse ones.

On one hand, he felt ashamed of himself for ever wanting to look up to him. How could Damian ever think that a man who was so weak psychologically could be a good role model for him? Mother would have never reacted that way. Grandfather even more so. But in the other hand… Father seemed genuinely distraught and Damian wasn’t sure he was quite used to an adult caring about Jason so much yet. Damian was just so used to being the only one that saw use in his brother.

Could one person really bring a man so many emotions? Damian was always taught that was weak. That he was meant to continue the bloodline and make sure Grandfather’s perfection would continue through genetics in each generation. He was never taught to actually process what others meant to him. He hadn’t ever considered that he actually enjoyed Jason until he couldn’t see him anymore. Was that what Father felt? If so why was getting him back so sad?

Damian sighed looking at his teddy, “I wish I knew how to understand. Nothing makes any sense.” He whispered it softly, afraid of the words coming out of his own mouth. If the version of him that lived with Mother could see him now, he would laugh in his face and call him childish. He was childish. But maybe that was because he was just a child.

It’s hard to understand when you’ve never experienced it. Damian knew the teddy was silent. It was always silent. But it didn’t mean Damian didn’t understand what he had communicated. He may have been pretending that the bear was talking to him but it was the closest thing to a confidant he had.

“I do not understand why Father is so sad Jason is alive. If he cares for him as he says that he does it does not make sense,” he said.

When you lose someone important to you, you grieve and learn to move on from the loss. And that process can take a long time. Sometimes if you think you’ll never get something back and come to peace with it, it can feel like you went through all that pain and grief for nothing when you do get it back.

Damian thought about that. It seemed to make sense somewhat. Like training hard for a mission only for grandfather to give it to someone else. Experiencing pain and feeling like with wasn’t for any real reason. Pain that could have been avoided. Injury that could have been prevented. Allies that didn’t need to be lost.

But your father isn’t mad at Jason for that. It wasn’t your brother’s fault, what happened to him. But he does feel betrayed that Jason didn’t tell him until now. Danyal’s plastic bead eyes seemed to hold some sort of deep wisdom within them.

���I suppose that is a reasonable explanation,” Damian muttered. He did not want to admit that he was starting to see the issue. It made him feel bad for feeling mad about their behavior. He wanted to feel mad. He wanted to feel like he was allowed to be mad. But now he just felt guilt. Which was ridiculous.

Damian remembered how upset Jason was when he found out Father had let the Joker live. He felt like his death had not been avenged. At the time, Damian had agreed to the sentiment as the Joker was a liability to keep alive under any circumstance anyways. He had told Damian that the betrayal was inexcusable.

But then Damian met Father. He saw how easily he would snap and kill everything in his path if her were allow himself one single kill. At first he thought that Father was weak for that. And in a sense he still believed that. But perhaps it was more of a strength in the long run that Father knew his own limitations and stuck to his rules. His self control was ironclad and anyone who wished to be a great fighter was smart to try to imitate the ability.

Things were so complicated. He didn’t know which side to be on in the fight. If he had to pick a side. He did not want to. He respected his brother and cared for him in a sense. And he was learning that Father had a reason for everything he did. It was just so much. Damian didn’t want to be a part of it.

He really wanted to sleep. But it felt impossible. Before he met Father, things were so simple. The only thing he had to care about was training and his missions. Every problem that did not involve his orders was not his concern and he didn’t have to feel bad for not being concerned. He didn’t have to care about anything but gaining the respect his Mother claimed he needed to earn.

Damian rolled onto his back, staring at his ceiling. It was tall and shadows of trees outside his window were dancing on the surface. Damian used to hate that. He hated that it wasn’t dark. But he remembered the night he held Danyal close and realized that he could see the stars.

Look at the sky, the teddy had communicated. When Damian looked, he realized that the manor was high up enough on the hill that the smog of the city wasn’t as bad. He could actually see the clear sky. And in it were the stars. Damian had seen stars before but he had never gotten to stop and actually enjoy them. Now, in the manor, he could.

“Danyal, I cannot sleep,” he said, groaning as he rubbed his eyes. His mind was far too full to allow slumber. He wished to do something. He wished for something familiar. He wanted to feel like the house he resided in was’t experiencing an unspoken civil war.

We could steal Alfred’s cookies.

“Excellent plan.”

…

The next morning Damian was found perched on top of the fridge in the kitchen hiding in the shadow provided by the small cubby of space. His head was slumped onto the teddy in his arms and Coraline was softly broadcasted to the kitchen. The cookie jar was open in the boy’s lap and it was clear that a few were missing.

Alfred sighed, pity washing over him as he saw the typically prideful child crumpled in defeat. It made him think of Young Master Dick and how he used to hide in cubbies and corners that were high up when he felt himself going into verbal shutdown. Alfred suspected that was not the case for Young Master Damian and that it was instead a response to the recent stress of Master Bruce and Young Master Jason reuniting.

“Old man”

Alfred smiled at the teddy, “Good morning to you too Danyal. Let’s get the young master to bed.”

“What should I do?”

Alfred smiled as he gently got the sleeping boy down and cradled him into his arms, “Just let him sleep in. Be there for him.”

“Okay.”

Alfred then carried Young Master Damian back to his room and tucked him in once more, Danyal in the sleeping boy’s arms.

[offdxty]

Seeing Arthur cry feels like being ripped apart, as if someone, or something, digs its claws straight into Kane's chest and pulls - pulls, pulls, pulls until bone separate and muscles tear, until a beating heart is exposed and defenseless, ready to be taken and squished.

It feels devastating, it feels like something Kane wants to fix - and yet all Kane does for a very long time is to... watch, again. He just turns his head as much as needed to have his shimmering eyes rest on the man's form, taking in the sight of a body fighting so hard against what must hurt him to the very core---

Kane watches knuckles turning white, eyes being squeezed shut, tears running across cheeks in the very same way as they do for Kane himself. He listens to every word that is spoken - to questions that seem to be made of the most primal needs and fears, showing a side that Kane hasn't really seen of the man before who'd always appeared so strong, so... collected.

They hit him, straight into the chest. Everything does. Everything sinks deep, collects there, has Kane swallow as his brows furrow as the need to try and help, to make it better, becomes unbearable; He cannot take away what pains the man, however. Cannot go back in time and tell him that he's doing everything he can, that it isn't his fault for his loved ones to have died.

He tried, and he'd failed. As much as Kane had wanted to reach Arthur, attempting to make him understand that, despite all of it, he is still worth being alive, being a someone who can make decisions, change an outcome...

---He's only created more hurt. He didn't want to do that.

He's... seeing it now. He understands new points of view, new perspectives.

A bottom lip is sucked between teeth, a set of colorful eyes falling closed as moments of heavy breathing pass, of emotions that turn the air surrounding them amost too thick to be breathabe.

Why would I want to live without you?

A heart misses a beat, another tear falls across a cheek. Why would I want to live without you? It's perhaps the most intense thing that has been said to Kane so far; It shouldn't matter, with Arthur claiming that he does not care, that he's only here to study him...

And yet, these words are voiced out in such a pained way, so real and raw.

Why would I want to live without you? How would that be living?

Kane wants this to be personal. God, listening to it, he feels his heart getting carved out while also growing with all the warmth it receives; The fact that Arthur phrases it this way almost feels like he truly means Kane as a person, talks about him, not just anyone...

It could still be meant in a much more general way, however - with the doctor not knowing how he is supposed to exist when he's losing another person he's been talking to, another living being that he had once interacted with. He'd lost the daughter of his husband, he'd lost the husband himself, and he'd lost a man long before that - a previous partner, a love interest.

Kane could just be another one down the line.

...But it feels... it feels nice to take it personal. In a way he cannot quite explain - and perhaps feels a bit guilty over - Kane likes it, to know that there could be so much thought being connected to him already that his absence, his death, would have such an effect on a man who is only doing his job.

Who claims to not care, and yet here he is.

And Kane blinks his eyes back open, watches, looks, stares, takes in the sight - face reddened from the strain of emotions that sit so tight inside his chest, cheeks and lips wet with tears, shimmering eyes rimmed in a very similar way.

He could say so much. Should say so much, perhaps. Maybe he should say nothing at all, because Arthur demands this topic to be done - to not be continued, to be forgotten about, possibly. Perhaps Kane shouldn't even do anything - shouldn't move, shouldn't act, shouldn't offer anything here and just... turn away and around, accept it, offer the man his demanded peace and quiet.

... But Kane is... he is Kane. Whether this is what the original Kane would have done, he doesn't know - but he knows what he is wanting to do, and that is to reach out.

So he does.

A warm hand is what moves first, putting itself on top of the one holding the cane with so much force; A thumb begins to rub gentle circles into those sore knuckles, tense skin, taut muscles - slow and kind, one circle after another, allowing warmth to soak into the skin.

And then, he leans in. The whole of him does.

Kane has to turn his torso a bit awkwardly for it to work, but he doesn't care, ignores the sting in his side. He moves both arms once more, wraps them around a pair of sturdy shoulders, allowing his chin to come to a rest against a shoulder; Holding on, his embrace tight yet careful, meant to be felt, with his fingers splaying on the other's back...

You think I want to survive another person?

"You've been so strong." A warm voice, soft and tender, mumbled against the shape of said shoulder, into the fabric of a shirt with an equally as warm breath, an exhale, bright eyes that stare straight ahead without really looking.

Kane feels instead.

Not watching, not taking in the sight, not observing... Feeling instead.Experiencing.Acting.

"You did everything you could, Arthur. You did everything you could, you tried so hard. It's not fair that things happened the way they did... but you were there for them. They weren't alone."

Just like the other Kane wasn't alone when he died. Where Kane had just watched, hates himself for not having done anything, he had at least given the other company.

That's what Arthur had said himself, not too long ago.

...Maybe, just maybe, being a something for once... would take pressure off of the other. As much as Kane hates the thought, as much as it slices his heart open and serves it on a silver platter... maybe it's best if the other doesn't try.

If he just watches. If he doesn't feel the need to jump in. ...If he doesn't watch at all. If he can be somewhere else when it happens.

It's the opposite of what Kane had said earlier, and he knows. It's contradicting itself - his previous attempt to make the doctor act instead of giving up on himself, on someone else, before he can even know whether he'll be successful or not.

Being alive... it means a lot of things, it seems. It can't be right or wrong all the time. It can't be black and white. Sometimes it is gray, perhaps - in a lot of ways.

A swallow. A deep inhale of air, of a scent he's grown to used to, one that brings Kane comfort.

"You're right, it won't change anything. I have a lot to learn still, perhaps I won't be able to learn it all - I don't know. But I now know that I shouldn't have said what I said - I shouldn't have asked you to... do something that is a lot bigger, and much more impactful, than I can comprehend. I was wrong."

A hand that moves away from that back, trails up to a neck instead. Cups it in a ginger hold, fingers to a hairline.

"You're alive either way. You've seen so much. Made many decisions. This is another decision you're making - it's part of being human. Please forgive me for having ..."

Eyes squeezing shut.

"... Put strain on this. On us. On you. I will try to learn until the end. Maybe I can make up for it then - maybe I'm wise enough to see, and to apologize once again in a more... profound way."

Arthur inhaled slowly, letting the breath sit in his lungs before he slowly released it back into the world. He sat there, very still, as if moving might make something worse; his hands were still resting on the handle of his cane, but he had stopped pressing his thumb so harshly into the handle. 

Breathe in. Hold it for two. Exhale. 

He wasn’t mad. He wasn’t hurt, he was… he was something else entirely. He was trying not to fall apart, after Kane had practically sliced him in two. Arthur never fell apart in front of others, he never had - even when dating, even when living with someone else, he had never allowed himself to crumble. 

Kane’s words weren’t in the air, anymore. They had sunk into Arthur, far too deeply; they filled his throat, shoved his lungs out of place - and he didn’t know how to force himself back open. 

He never did. 

He couldn’t even bring himself to look at Kane, not right away - because yes. Yes, he’d been there. Yes, he’d broken protocol. Yes, he’d stayed longer than he should have, he’d touched more than he should, he’d cared more than he was allowed to. More than he wanted to. He’d crossed every line, both the ones drawn for him and the ones he’d drawn himself - and he’d done it willingly. 

Why? Because Kane had been in pain. Because he’d looked at Arthur like he was safe - because Arthur had chosen to be safe. Because he’d chosen to protect Kane for these few days, because he wanted Kane to be comfortable before he passed. 

Because he’d decided, for some reason, that that mattered. 

He inhaled again. He held his breath, as if it could buy him more time to keep himself together. He couldn’t fall apart in front of the other; he couldn’t fall apart in front of anyone, but especially not Kane. Not when Kane was bleeding out in front of him, open and vulnerable and far too innocent. 

Arthur opened his mouth. He closed it again. 

More silence passed. 

“… That’s not fair.” The words were clipped when they finally came; formal. Not cold, not clinical, but more like he was defaulting to a mode of speech that kept him feeling somewhere safe. 

Somewhere detached. 

“I didn’t ask for your hope. I don’t want it. I don’t want you to believe in me, and you shouldn’t believe in me.”

His jaw flexed. He looked away; he didn’t want to look at Kane. He didn’t want to even look in the direction of the man; he didn’t want to be here with him. He wanted to leave.

But then what? Then Six would come back? Someone else would come in? Arthur would be accused once more of being too emotional? 

His body was still. His posture was rigid.

Inside, he was screaming. 

He wanted everything Kane was saying - of course he did. He wanted to be the one who saved Kane. He wanted to grab him, to pull him out of here - he wanted to take Kane somewhere that he could be safe and happy, he wanted to take him out and ‘forget’ to keep an eye on him - but then what? What if it didn’t go that way? 

What if he opened his hands to catch Kane when he fell, and came up with nothing? What if this ended with him clutching the body of someone he loved? 

He’d done that before. 

He could see her face - the way her arms were so small, almost always dirtied from playing outside. Her voice. Her laugh. The way she had looked at him wary, and then trusting. 

He could see her eyes half-open, her face so still, in a position that no one deserved to spend eternal rest in just because he couldn’t look at her long enough to fix it. 

He could see his partner. Silent. Just as empty-eyed. Buried better, solely because of the grief of burying her improperly. Arthur had grown. Adjusted. He'd become comfortable with death after losing her, gaining the ability to arrange his body.

He could see Kane. Wary at first, just like she had been. Now, it was trusting.

Just like she had been. 

His thumb was pressing so hard into the cane that he could feel the bones in his wrist shifting under the pressure. He needed it - he needed something. 

Every time he tried to care, someone died. And every time they did, a part of him died with them. Did he have anything else to give? Was there any part of himself that was still genuine to him? 

It wasn’t avoidable, though. He cared for Kane. He loved Kane. Kane was going to die. Those were facts - and Kane was right. Denial wouldn’t help him. Trying would at least be something - it would mean that Arthur wouldn’t have to deal with regret on top of everything else. 

Arthur didn’t think it’d matter, though. He didn’t know if there would be enough of him left to even feel guilt. 

He’d doomed himself, the moment he’d decided that Kane wasn’t a thing. 

His eyes were hot, wet, in a way they almost never were. He blinked carefully, to not let any of his tears fall; he could feel that weight in his chest only getting worse, getting heavier, too big now to handle. He swallowed thickly to try to push it down, but it wouldn’t budge; it only pushed harder, strangling him, choking him. 

“I don’t want to see you die.” HIs voice was softer, broken. God, he didn’t want to see Kane die. But that was where it was going, wasn’t it? He’d already lost Kane. Kane was going to die, and Arthur was going to die with him. Even if his body stayed moving, nothing else would stay living. 

His voice didn’t rise. His breath caught again; “I don’t want to see you die.” It was repeated, softer this time - childlike, as if saying it again might somehow undo it. He couldn’t undo it, he knew; Kane was going to die. 

Kane was going to die. 

He was certain that if he tried to speak more, the tears in his eyes would fall; so he waited. Kane would die. Arthur would live. That was how it went, how it always went; Arthur would carry it. He would survive. 

His hand flexed against the handle. They’d tranquilize Kane. They’d cut him open, they’d call it humane. Arthur would be gone. He’d be back at home, out of this damned place, and he’d just sit somewhere, knowing that he was alive when Kane wasn’t. 

He felt sick. He hated how the drug made his mind spiral, how he could visualize it all so clearly. He had seen dead bodies. It didn’t take much to imagine Kane in one of their places; he felt sick. He could imagine the dead look in the man’s eyes, he could imagine the cold feeling of his body. He could imagine how quickly he’d stiffen, the smell, the silence - all of it. All of it was too easy to imagine. 

He felt sick. 

Arthur’s jaw twitched, shooting a familiar pain up near his eye. He covered it as well as he always did, but the tears in his eyes fell as he closed them; he kept his head turned away, didn’t yet move to wipe them, as if that could keep them hidden. 

You could live for both of us, Kane had said. 

Arthur hated how hopeful it sounded. He hated that Kane meant it, he hated that it almost made sense; he swallowed again, but it didn’t quite work, his throat tight and aching. 

He turned his head, finally, to look at the other. Tears in his eyes, on his cheeks, his chest aching from holding in every goddamned thing that was trapped inside of him. It was unbearable. It tore him up from the inside - and yet he held it anyways. 

“Why would I want to live without you?” The words weren’t rhetorical. They weren’t angered, they weren’t cruel - they were gutted. Empty in the way of a man who had lost too many, and couldn’t bear to lose another. 

His throat ached, still. He swallowed hard, but the tears didn’t stop.

He felt sick. 

“How would that be living?” he continued, his voice hoarse, frayed. “You think I want to survive another person? You think I want to spend the next twenty years writing reports and pretending I didn’t see them cut you open like-“ 

His voice cut off by force, Arthur shutting his eyes and looking away once more. He rested his chin on the heel of his hand, pushing his thumb too hard against his teeth; he liked the pain from it. He liked the pain that burned behind his eye, he liked the pain in his leg.

Distractions, and beautiful ones at that. The question still burned, however:

How was he supposed to live for Kane, when he couldn’t even live for himself? 

Arthur shook his head, stayed looking away. “If you die, then I don’t want to be here. I don’t care what you think I deserve - I didn’t ask to be alive.” I don’t want to be.

As if he could explain survivor’s guilt to Kane. 

As if he could explain that there wasn’t a way to ‘save’ Kane, because he was already grieving him. 

His eyes stayed wet. His face stayed away, his thumb stayed pushing hard against his teeth. He didn’t want to live without Kane - but he also didn’t want this conversation. He didn’t want to think about his family, he didn’t want to think about death, or about Kane dying - he didn’t want to be told that he was lucky to have life, that he needed to exist and be happy that he could. 

“I don’t want to talk about this,” he said, bluntly. Firm. “It won’t change anything, Kane.” 

[veritas-scribblings]

stiff - @into-the-jeggyverse - words: 1,566 | I hadn't meant for this to be so long, but it ended up so long | I got stuck in James's internal drunken narrative | And in unnecessary but fun to write Barty and Sirius backstory

It had taken nine months to turn Sirius Black into the biggest fucking menace to ever grace the halls of Hogwarts Castle. By the end of his first year, he was sassing the professors with one hand and charming them with the other. Sweet talking the castle house elves out of midnight snacks. Creeping around Hogwarts in the dead of the night. Picking arguments and fights left, right and centre with anyone who even dared to breathe incorrectly.

It had taken nine months to turn Sirius Black into the biggest fucking menace, and it had taken significantly less time for Orion and Walburga Black to decide that they weren’t about to risk their only other heir to the terrible, terrible influence that Sirius is. The less time around Sirius, Sirius had said morosely, the better. And when Sirius had gone and grown his hair and pierced his ear and discovered the joys of inebriation and discovered Muggle Rock and discovered every vice so very beneath the House of Black, and then had proceeded to ice the cake of deviance by running away from home…

Well, apparently Orion and Walburga Black had decided they were absolutely, beyond any shadow of doubt, right.

A terrible, terrible influence Sirius was, indeed.

James Potter has been going to stuffy ministry functions his entire existence, like they’re annual “bring your child to work” events and he’s to be toted around and put on display for the benefit of stuffy ministry officials eager to get their claws into the next generation of mindless automatons.

Only James Potter is no longer a child. And James Potter has no desire to be yet another mindless ministry automaton. And still, nevertheless, here he is.

At another stuffy, ministry function.

It’s one and a half hours into the event held in honour of…Merlin only knows what…and James has Sirius hanging off one arm yammering in his ear about…Merlin only cares what. Over the years, he’s developed this almost subconscious ability to tune the boy out and offer up only vague platitudes; a highly necessary ability, because Sirius is already at risk of becoming the voice in James’s head.

When James spots the beautiful, mystery boy across the room, he doesn’t recognise him immediately. He knows he should, honestly, but he doesn’t. The boy—nay, young man—is young, elegant and nigh-graceful in a sea of old farts with an expiry date within the next fifteen-or-so-years. He descends into James’s life like an angel, a prince shrouded in shadow. There’s something about this beautiful young mystery man with his slender form and his sleek black robes and the holier-than-thou expression and way in which he holds himself that kindles ‘feelings’ inside James’s stomach. “Approach me,” the young man seems to say with that dark sidelong glare of his, “just try to speak to me, I dare you.”

And dare, James would like to. However, with his quidditch refined reflexes, he can sense an obstacle a kilometre away. It hits his radar like a bludger aimed straight at his head, and the name of said obstacle is Barty Crouch Junior. If there is anyone in this mortal world who can rival, and possibly even out-do, Sirius Black for the crown of ‘biggest fucking menace to ever grace the halls of Hogwarts Castle’, that would be one Barty Crouch Junior.

James has had run-ins with Baby Crouch. He’s gone head-to-head with him on the quidditch pitch, because Baby Crouch was the most biased and snarky commentator James has had to battle in all his years of playing quidditch. He’s gone head-to-head with him during the Library Wars when Baby Crouch had decided that table by the window was his and, one Full Moon, Remus had decided that he’d be a territorial son-of-a-bitch about it, and Baby Crouch had declared the whole thing great fun, lost limbs included. He’s gone head-to-head with him to win the affections of Lily Evans…until he’d realised that Baby Crouch had been merely fucking with him for shits and giggles.

He knows that Baby Crouch is not an opponent to be trifled with, and now it looks like the bastard is sniffing up James’s beautiful, mystery man.

“You distract Crouch. I’m going in,” James hisses, tugging on Sirius’s arm. He snatches away the glass of wine Sirius has started chugging.

“Huh? What? No, absolutely not. You are not leaving me to the mercy of the foot-in-the-grave masses to go and get your rocks off in the bathrooms, you slut.”

“Pads,” James whines, “look at him, he’s beautiful. We’re meant to be! It’s fate! You’re not going to stand in the way of fate, are you?” He tracks the movements of the beautiful, mystery man across the room as he weaves through the crowd like a dancer, glares jealously when Baby Crouch leans over and whispers in the beautiful, mystery man’s ear and gestures at the glass doors that lead to the garden outside.

No way in any level of hell! Things happen in gardens. James should know. Dirty, dirty things…

“No, what I’m going to do is stop enabling your frivolous, whorish behaviour.” Sirius tugs on James’s arm to try and pull him away, but James will not go. James is rock. James is marble. James is a statue erected somewhere in honour of the beautiful, mystery man.

“Look, Pads. He’s beautiful,” James insists. “He’s my prince. My dark, scowl-y prince. We’re going to get married. And you can be my best man. You can give me away. Look at him! Isn’t he wonderful?”

To Sirius’s credit, he does as James requests. He glances around the function hall, scanning the crowd milling about: the politicians chatting up prospective backers, the ministers, the Department Heads, James’s mother who is trying her hardest to politely exit a painfully dreary conversation.

And then Sirius frowns, says darkly, “What, one Black isn’t enough for you? You need the pair?” He stares so intently at James that James is sure he’ll actually turn to stone.

Black. Of course. Stupidity is a bitter, metallic taste. It’s only in retrospect that James realises why Regulus Black had seemed immediately so familiar; he has that ‘Ancient and Most Noble House of Black’ charm about him. The ‘back straight, chin high, clean and crisp tones’ kind of charm that Sirius has spent years trying to shake.

“Yes,” James whispers under his breath, “a pair…”

“You’re drunk, you idiot.” Sirius snatches a canapé off the tray of a passing waiter and shoves it into his mouth. “Merlin’s balls, you’re such a lightweight.”

“It’s just…he’s beautiful, and he’s all grown up. When did he grow up? Why didn’t you tell me he’s all grown up now?”

Regulus really has grown up. When they were still in school, James had seen photos of him when he’d been little, from before Sirius had dramatically departed Grimmauld Place. Regulus then had been a scrawny, awkward kind of little, all knees and floppy curls and angry, little frowns that had impressed James with their intensity. James had never met him—he’d been shipped off to Beauxbatons before James had ever had the opportunity to—and at the time he’d been somewhat relieved. Regulus had looked leagues away from Sirius in terms of personality.

Now in person, though still from a distance, James can see the similarities. Sirius and Regulus both have the same distinct pride and air of superiority about them. They just have it in different shades.

“No, but really,” James insists, “if we get married, you and I, we’ll be brothers. Look at him! He’s wonderful. Beautiful.”

“Stop saying that! You’re going to wake up tomorrow morning and you’re going to combust with embarrassment. Or with a bloody hangover.”

“No, I won’t,” James frowns, scandalised, “If I get to speak with him tonight, I’ll wake up a happy, happy man. He’s absolutely radiant. …he looks just like you, Pads.”

“Don’t try to speak to him, you idiot, you’re just going to embarrass yourself. And he does not look like me. That’s just fucking weird.” When Sirius scowls, the scowl is so very familiar. “No, you know what? Fine. Fine. Go. Talk to him. Off you trot. ”

Sirius lets go of James’s arm, brushes off James’s robe to smooth the creases, and steers him in the direction of the beautiful and mysterious Regulus Black. They’re getting closer, Sirius’s hands on James’s shoulders, wading their way through the crowd. They’re magnets, James and Regulus, and Sirius is the force pulling them towards one another. They’re an inevitability, James and Regulus, and Sirius is the hand of fate.

And when Regulus stands before him, James is oh-so-very-small beneath the judgement in Regulus’s gaze. Regulus’s hair is black, not the black-black of Sirius’s hair, but the brownish-black of ebony wood. His eyes are a speckled grey with little flecks of white. His mouth, James notes awestruck and despairing, is drawn into a thin line like James has managed to offend him before he’s so much as had a chance to speak.

“Hello, brother. This is James Potter. He’s excellent at transfiguration and charms, and has wicked mad Quidditch skills. And when he isn’t lubricated on excessive amounts of wine, he can even be somewhat well-spoken. Be gentle. James…good luck…,” Sirius delivers a reassuring pat to James’s shoulders, “you’re going to need it…”

[babybobbysstories]

Kendra - Chapter Two

A year later, when Mike got a job at Johnson Technologies, he was floored when he first met his new boss.

Kendra Casanova was a stunning brunette, with big, round breasts that she wasn’t afraid to hide behind loose, ill-fitting clothing. Poor Mike was so intimidated by her, that he could hardly string a few words together in a complete sentence without sounding like a stuttering fool. He also just barely managed to avoid wetting his pants. It certainly wasn’t made easier by the fact that she towered over his unimpressive 5’ 2” frame. Kendra made a point of wearing her “power heels” to work, and on the odd occasion that Mike was in a conversation with her, he was forced to crane his head upwards to make eye contact, like a child addressing an adult. This inevitably meant looking up over the tops of her big breasts, which she thrust out proudly before her within her snug, low-cut tops. Mike’s mouth would go dry, and he would gape up at her gorgeous face like an idiot.

Although he did everything possible to ingratiate himself with his manager, Kendra remained aloof and uninterested. Indeed, with her youthful beauty and the body of a goddess, she had no lack of boyfriends, all of whom easily outclassed Mike in every way. It was with acute jealousy that he watched them pick her up after work, whisking her away on yet another hot date. He could only imagine what it must be like to be a guy who could have his way with Kendra. The prospect made him shiver with arousal and envy.

Sadly, there would be no such dates for Mike. For one, he knew he could never bring a woman home, not with the pungent smell of pee from his diapers constantly filling the apartment. But perhaps more damning, was the laughably small size of his penis. Even when he was horny and as stiff as it could be, it barely reached four inches, and that was being overly generous. Of course, when it was in its normal state, it was hardly an inch in length and it more closely resembled a toddler’s penis than that of a man. Perhaps it was due to his constant, daily masturbating in his diapers that prevented it from growing to a normal size but as a result, it remained ridiculously small.

The one time he’d managed to make out with a girl in high school, she’d laughed out loud when she discovered his child-like nub and the date had been abruptly terminated.

Back when he was living under his mom’s roof, it was a different situation. Mike had enjoyed nothing better than masturbating himself silly after he’d been pinned into his fluffy nighttime diapers and put to bed. This had resulted in several late-night spankings when his mom had caught him, but he simply couldn’t stop himself. The fact was, his thick cloth diapers were incredibly soft, and the multiple layers caressed his little child-sized member in the most erotically torturous way. Of course, it was mortifying that the teenager had to wear them in the first place, but once his mom pulled his babyish plastic panties up and over his triple-thick nighttime diapers, he secretly let out a sigh of contentment. The moment she tucked him into bed and closed the door to his bedroom, he would frantically rub himself to an eye-crossing orgasm. It was in such a restful state of bliss that he would slowly drift off to sleep and soon begin wetting his diapers, thoroughly soaking them like the sissy bedwetter that he was.

And of course, now that he was once again wearing them in his apartment, he delighted in changing early for bed and playing with himself as he fantasized about his beautiful boss, Kendra, and her fabulous, sexy body.

After he'd climaxed, he was filled with shameful feelings of guilt, but his pragmatic side acknowledged sadly, just how much he needed to keep the diapers on for bedtime.

Perhaps it was his constant, daily masturbating that also led him to have so little control over his staying power. He would scarcely rub himself for two minutes before he felt himself erupting in his diapers, splashing the tiny little load of semen into his soft, fluffy diapers.

Things continued on in this manner until one day, when Mike received news that a distant uncle had passed away unexpectedly, leaving him a sizable inheritance. This was exciting news for the nearly destitute young man, and he could barely stop himself from bragging about it to Kendra, the next time he saw her in the break room at work. Hoping the money would finally make a difference to her, he was pleasantly surprised when she actually deigned to make conversation with him.

Holding her coffee cup in her perfectly manicured hands, Mike practically trembled before her and he was once more reminded of what a superior female she was. His mouth suddenly went dry again as he looked up into her dark, beautiful eyes. He found himself stammering, clumsily trying to fashion a coherent conversation with this exquisite woman, so vastly far above his social station.

But it was after that initial episode that Kendra actually started to acknowledge Mike, greeting him in the hallway or waving goodbye to him on her way out of the office. He tried to tell himself that the money (and there was a lot of it) wasn’t the only reason she paid any attention to him. Instead, he told himself that it was his modestly attractive looks and humble personality that she found engaging.

One time, he had gotten into the elevator at work to find her already in it, coming up from a lower floor. He stood, facing away from her, staring at the polished aluminum doors before him and his heart pounded in his chest, knowing that only eighteen inches behind him, stood his babe of a boss. Dirty, perverted thoughts filled his head, and his little penis twitched anxiously as they rode the short ways up to the eighth floor.

As he stepped out of the elevator, he suddenly felt his bottom being pinched and he gasped with surprise. Looking back, he saw Kendra wink at him playfully, before strutting away sexily to her office.

Mike was practically floating on air as he made his way back to his cubicle in a daze.

Nothing much happened for the next week until a company function came up and Kendra’s date unexpectedly canceled at the last minute. Stopping by Mike’s cubicle, she asked him if he would be willing to fill in.

Mike gulped hard and stammered out a reply, indicating he would be delighted to join her, and he sped home after work to get ready. Rushing back in his best shirt and slacks, he couldn’t believe his luck in having landed a date with Kendra. A million possibilities went through his head, and he barely stopped himself from masturbating before heading out to go meet her.

*********************************************************

Kendra wasn’t sure when it was that she first became aware of Mike as a person. It was probably a month before, that she had needed to call him into her office to address some deficiency in his work. Although it had been a minor affair, the young man standing before her looked like a scared little boy, and she had a random thought that he might wet himself before her.

It was several months later, that the shy employee initiated a conversation with her, bragging about a huge windfall of money he’d inherited. Clearly, he thought he could make a big impression on her and while under any other circumstances, she would have ignored the runt, for some reason, she found herself starting to contemplate the two of them together.

All things being equal, Kendra preferred a tall man, muscular in stature, and manly in his bearing. That was what she was used to, and that’s who she normally dated. Mike was anything but that. With his short height and delicate frame, he looked weak and a little effeminate, although his baby blue eyes did give him an almost child-like cuteness.

Kendra knew instinctively that with his eager-to-please personality, there was little that he wouldn’t do for her, if she were only to ask. She had recognized his type all throughout high school and college—shy little wimps that fantasized about being with a woman like her but in reality, had no chance whatsoever.

Slowly, ideas began to form in her head of how a relationship with him might develop. These were ideas that she’d never consider with her traditional boyfriends, but things that just seemed more appropriate for a shy little boy type like Mike.

The idea of controlling Mike like a lost puppy started beginning to appeal to Kendra’s darker side, and she found herself thinking more and more about the things she would do to him. It was after a second disciplinary incident—this time for an oversight on his part, that the random idea popped into her head of putting him over her firm lap and spanking him like a child. Kendra could easily imagine his lily white bottom being flattened repeatedly by her wooden paddle and quickly turning it to a flaming red as he helplessly kicked his feet and cried like a baby. She knew that not only did she have the superior strength to make it happen but also the force of character.

In addition, she began pondering the idea that it would be fun to somehow control his sexuality. She knew very little about chastity devices but after doing some research on her computer at work, she soon discovered that there were a vast array of choices for weak males that needed controlling.

One day, the company was having a function after work and Kendra’s current boyfriend called at the last minute to tell her he’d be unable to take her to the event. This was disappointing, as Kendra loved the mind-blowing sex she had with the hunky guy, but it wasn’t the end of the world.

For a minute, Kendra contemplated calling one of her other studs and then she stopped herself. Maybe this was fate telling her to reach out to Mike, the little geek down in data analysis.

While she could have easily just picked up the phone and reached him via the company intercom, she decided to physically go down to the eighth floor and see him in person. Part of her wanted to see how he’d react, and she was looking forward to making him blush and squirm under her intimidating presence.

After unbuttoning one more button down the front of her tightly-fitted top, she sauntered over to Mike’s cubicle. As he caught sight of her, his mouth opened like a drawbridge and his eyes widened in amazement. Bending over slightly, Kendra treated Mike to a jaw-dropping view of her impressive cleavage and big breasts as she explained her need for a date to the company event.

In response, Mike couldn’t babble his acquiescence quickly enough and he spilled his cup of tea in the middle of his clumsy reply.

The night went well enough, and Kendra found Mike’s adoration and shyness endearing. Of course, nothing happened, sexually speaking, although Kendra gave him a peck on the cheek when they said goodbye for the evening.

It was a month later, and Mike was beginning to think he’d never hear from Kendra again when she asked him out on a more formal date.

It was afterwards that she suggested they go over to his place for another drink when he balked and tried to make an excuse to prevent her from coming over. Stammering like a fool, he babbled that his place was messy and he didn’t want her to see it but Kendra, an astute judge of human behavior, could tell something wasn’t ringing true about his explanation. They parted company with an awkward tenseness and Mike berated himself for the next week.

Later on, thinking he could somehow make it up to her, he had a modest bouquet of flowers delivered to her office, accompanied by a desperate note of reconciliation. When she finally responded back, Mike was so excited that he pinned on his diapers as soon as he got home and masturbated furiously to an orgasm that made his head swim. All through the weekend, he stayed inside and continued to diddle himself, as visions of Kendra’s big, mouthwatering boobs filled his eager imagination. His favorite fantasy, was to imagine her breastfeeding him, as he lay his head on her lap and nursed hungrily from her mammoth boobs. Indeed, by Monday morning, his little limp penis was tired, red, and sore.

At last, on Wednesday afternoon, he got a text from Kendra, inviting him to stop by a nearby wine bar for a drink after work. Mike was overjoyed, although his choice of clothes that day was a bit nerdy and anything but impressive.

As soon as they got in Kendra’s car, she slid her hand over to his crotch and slowly began fondling him over his slacks. Mike gulped hard and a bead of sweat trickled down his brow. Unfortunately, between his nonstop masturbating, and the fear and intimidation he felt in the presence of his sexy boss, he just couldn’t get it up. Confused and a little frustrated, Kendra kept probing, trying to find his elusive package. Of course, this only had the effect of causing his shy little member to shrivel even further, like a frightened mouse.

“Are you…are you an eunuch?” Kendra asked incredulously.

Mike blushed a bright red and he swallowed hard.

“N-no, it’s just…I mean, it’s just that I, uh, have a kinda, um, small cock,” he confessed haltingly.

“Honey, that’s not a cock,” she said firmly in no uncertain terms, “Don’t ever use that word to describe what you have. No, a little dicklette that is that small is only deserving of the word ‘penis’.”

Pulling the car over to the side of the road, Kendra shut off the engine and turned to face Mike. His face was a blazing color of red all the way down his chest and he feared that she would tell him to get out of the car.

“I think you better show me what you’ve got,” she said firmly, as she fixed him with a steely look.

Mike gulped again and tried to stall her but Kendra just pushed his hands aside and began undoing his pants. In less than a minute, she’d unzipped his fly while Mike whimpered in protest, watching with fear and dread as she pulled his underwear away to expose his tiny little package.

Kendra began to smile and Mike felt a brief moment of relief until her smile became a grin and then she started laughing out loud. Looking back at his distraught face, she laughed and laughed, unable to stop herself. Mike felt tears of shame beginning to well up in his eyes and he started considering opening the door to run away from her.

“Oh honey,” Kendra said when she could finally control her laughter, “Don’t be sad—some little boys just never grow much down there. I think it’s cute as a button.”

Mike was hardly consoled by such an appraisal, and he bit his lip in angst. And he was hardly flattered by being compared to a little boy, although deep down, he knew his little bits did most closely resemble those of a child. Quickly zipping up his pants, he looked out the opposite window, crushed with humiliation.

“I think I wanna go home now,” he bleated, nearly in tears.

Kendra reached over and pulled him close, mashing his face against her big, soft breasts.

“Hey, I’m sorry sweetie, I didn’t mean to laugh,” she said placatingly, “Look—I think you’re very nice. Tell you what--if you’ll forgive me, I promise not to say another word about it. What do you think?”

Mike looked up into her pretty, glittering eyes and he was completely helpless.

“Um, okay, I guess,” he said barely audibly.

Kendra bent down and kissed him passionately and despite his crushing shame, he felt the first stirrings of a tiny erection.

**************************

All through the week, Mike lived in a state of anxious uncertainty, not knowing where he stood with Kendra. Finally, on the following Tuesday, the phone on his desk buzzed, and he picked it up to answer the inter-office line.

“Ms. Casanova would like to see you in her office,” Kendra’s assistant told him without preamble. Her tone of voice was curt and neutral, making Mike fear the worst.

“Did-did she say wh-what it was about?” he stuttered.

“I’m sure she will tell you herself,” she replied brusquely before hanging up the line.

Mike gulped back his fear, wondering what he could be getting disciplined about. He went over the work he had done in the last week, but he couldn’t think of anything that might have landed him in trouble.

On shaky legs, he made his way to the elevator and rode it up to the 14th floor where Kendra’s office was. As he came up to her assistant’s desk, the attractive woman vaguely waved her pen behind her.

“She’ll see you now,” she told him.

Mike swallowed hard and tugged at his shirt collar as he opened the door and cautiously entered his boss’s office. Kendra was on the phone, and she silently beckoned him to take a seat in the leather chair before her desk.

Mike took a moment to glance her way without wanting to look like he was checking her out, even though that’s exactly what he was doing. Today, she was wearing a slim, hip-hugging pencil skirt and a clinging, very low-cut sweater top.

She looked absolutely ravishing.

Despite himself, he couldn’t take his eyes off her perfectly round breasts and his mouth watered with desire.

At last, Kendra terminated the call and she smiled at Mike for the first time.

“Thank you for coming up,” she said as she rose to her feet, slowly coming around the front of the desk. In her five-inch pumps, Kendra was like an amazon goddess as she looked down at her flustered employee. Bending down, she suddenly planted a wet kiss on Mike’s cheek.

“I have a little something for you,” she said seductively.

Mike felt his little penis twitch and his heart skipped a beat.

“Y-you do?” he asked.

Picking up a small box with a FedEx label on it, she reached inside and pulled out a small, felt pouch.

“Yes I do, and I think it’s just what you need,” she said as she opened the pouch and dropped a small, stainless steel chastity device into the palm of her hand.

Mike swallowed hard in anxious fear as he stared at the contraption, instinctively pulling away as he grappled with what it was.

“Come on, stand up,” she said, her voice taking on a cutting firmness to it as she pulled him to his feet.

Reaching down, she pushed his hands aside and began unzipping his slacks.

“No wait—I don’t think…” he whimpered uncertainly, “I don’t wa-want that.”

“Mike, if there’s going to be any kind of future between us, this is going on and I’ll be the one to determine, when, and if it comes off.”

Mike felt like a bucket of cold water and just been dumped on him. He squealed in protest as she abruptly yanked his pants down, followed by his pee-stained underwear. Like his life was flashing before him, he suddenly realized the implications of this terrifying device. If he couldn’t escape from it, it spelled an end to his nightly masturbating and threatened to put an end to any future orgasms, however pathetic they were.

“Stop-please stop,” he cried plaintively but Kendra had already tugged his little package through the steel cuff ring and was deftly positioning the thimble-sized cage before his tiny, quivering head. She swatted his hands aside as she put the cage over it and mated the alignment pins with the holes on the ring, mashing his minuscule shaft within. With a quick insert of a long key, Kendra rotated it, locking the intimidating device in place.

“There—perfect. It's definitely just what you needed,” she smiled triumphantly.

Mike whimpered as he grasped the device and tried desperately to free himself.

He couldn’t imagine why she felt this was what he needed.

“I hope your last orgasm was a good one, because I’ve decided that your first period of lock-up will be three months,” she told him like she was delivering a death sentence.

“Three-three m-months?” he quaked nervously.

“Mm-hm,” she grinned, “That will allow you to get adjusted to a lifestyle free of orgasms and without being able to play with yourself. Trust me—you’ll thank me later,” she said as she dropped the key into her purse.

Mike stared back at her in disbelief.

“Your mommy should have done this a long time ago, but better late, than never,” she continued.

Mike sputtered and mumbled to himself, ashamed of his spineless subservience to this woman as he shifted his feet in place uncertainly. Kendra saw his distress and she hugged him tightly, pressing his face against her big, soft bosom comfortingly.

“There, there,” she said sweetly as she whispered in his ear, “You’ll be just fine, you’re my baby now and you have absolutely nothing to worry about.”

But Mike did worry.

He worried all that afternoon and on the way home from work. He kept squirming in his seat, trying to get comfortable with the strange new device that was locked implacably around his genitals, compressing his little shaft and making sure his penis had absolutely no chance of getting hard. As he made his way home, he tried to wrap his head around what it would be like, not being able to play with himself anymore. How was he going to manage?? He dearly loved masturbating in his diapers as soon as he got home, but now—Kendra had irrevocably taken that away from him.

Visions of her big, beautiful boobs and her pretty, smiling face filled his head and his tiny penis flexed madly within its cage. Not for the first time, did he reach down and try to get some relief but it was no use.

When he got home, he immediately rushed to his bedroom and pinned on his fluffiest set of diapers, nearly ripping the rubber panties in his rush to get changed. He sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed himself for all he was worth but it soon became apparent that it was hopeless. The act only made him hornier, and his eager little boy-sized penis throbbed with bitter frustration.

An anxious knot of unrequited arousal formed in the pit of his stomach and he tried unsuccessfully to think about something else. Anything but his gnawing, desperate need for an orgasm.

Mike didn’t understand Kendra’s actions, and he began formulating careful plans to beg for the key from her. He simply couldn’t go on without being able to masturbate and the idea of waiting three months to be able to cum was unthinkable.

On the other hand, of all the strangest things that had ever happened to him, it seemed that he was on the cusp of a fantastic, life-changing development. From the signs she was giving him, it appeared as if Kendra was actually planning on making Mike her boyfriend, an inconceivable notion only just the day before. He tried not to think about his bedwetting habit and how that might impact any relationship between them, going forward.

He’d cross that bridge when it came.

[syrecjh]

I WANNA SEE A REVENGE PRANK FROM MITSUKI😭

── .✦ REVENGE PRANK

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || katsuki bakugo x reader,

Prank w his mom

It had been like four months since that chaotic prank you and Katsuki pulled on his mother—Katsuki raising his voice in pretend disrespect at his childhood house while you bit back laughter. Mitsuki’s expression had gone from shocked to thunderous in less than a second, and honestly, even though it was just a joke, the fear had crawled up your spine like a spider. But she forgave you. Or so you thought. She still called you “honey” with affection, still yelled at Katsuki for trivial things. So you assumed—naively, foolishly—that she had let it go. That she’d taken it on the chin like the powerhouse woman she was. But oh, how wrong you were.

Tonight had been simple, soft, unremarkable in the best kind of way. You were still flushed from a three-hour jog that neither of you had expected to take so long, but the weather had been too good to resist, and Katsuki looked too good in a sleeveless shirt, sweat-soaked and cursing the sun. Now, fresh from the shower, he padded across the wooden floor of your shared apartment in nothing but gym shorts and damp, tousled hair. You wore your favorite pajama pants and a hoodie that might’ve once been his, the hem of it brushing your thighs as you scooped rice into bowls. The scent of garlic, soy, and seared meat danced through the room. Domesticity wrapped itself around the house. Everything felt peaceful. Normal.

“Kats babe, food’s done,” you called, tossing a kitchen towel onto the counter.

“‘Bout damn time,” he grumbled, but his voice was soft, fond. He moved to help you set the table—chopsticks, water, the side dish you’d forgotten in the fridge—and that’s when his phone rang, slicing clean through the hum of everyday ease. He muttered something about Kirishima and work, rubbing the back of his neck with a hand still damp from the towel. He put it on loud speaker.

But it wasn’t Kirishima.

It wasn’t even Bakugo’s mother.

It was a stranger. A woman’s voice, calm, professional. “Hello, I’m calling from Fukui General Hospital,” she said, and instantly your blood turned to ice. “We’re terribly sorry to inform you… your parents were in a car accident. Mr. Bakugo is currently stable, being monitored in ICU. Mrs. Bakugo... she’s in surgery. We’re doing everything we can.”

Everything inside you dropped.

Bakugo froze. The color drained from his face so fast you thought he might fall. “What the hell are you saying?” His voice cracked—low, panicked, venomous in a way that meant fear was already wrapping its claws around his throat. “You sure this ain’t some fuckin’ joke?”

The nurse on the other end, God bless her method acting, replied gently, “I understand how difficult this is to hear. Please come as soon as you can.”

No dinner. No shoes. No time to change. The two of you were in the car within minutes, Bakugo gripping the steering wheel like it had done something wrong. His hands were trembling. Your hand reached over his, holding it firm, and he didn’t shake it off.

The hospital reeked of antiseptic and too many bad memories. The nurses were already expecting him. They ushered you in with somber expressions. First, Masaru. You found him in ICU, hooked to machines, a IV dangling from his arm. Bruises painted his face in careful, strokes. He looked peaceful, but broken—an image too cruel for Katsuki, who clutched the foot of the bed with both hands, breathing through clenched teeth, muttering “Old man, you better get through this. You better not fucking leave me.”

And then came the final act.

The nurse pulled you both aside. Her voice lowered. “We’re sorry… Mrs. Bakugo didn’t make it. The injuries were severe. She was declared dead on arrival.”

Katsuki didn’t speak. His face went blank, then crumpled—so slight, so unlike him, like a mountain breaking slowly under the weight of time. You had never seen him cry before. Never seen his lip tremble. But his eyes went glassy, and he stood beside her hospital bed like a soldier before a flag-draped coffin. You gripped his hand tightly.

“She was a pain in the ass,” he whispered. “Always yellin’. Always naggin’. But… she’s my mom.” He swallowed hard. “She was... fuck. I didn’t say it enough.”

“I know,” you murmured.

“I loved her, damn it. Even when she pissed me off. I should’ve said it more. I should’ve—”

“GOTCHA”

The voice shot through the room like lightning. You didn’t even scream — your soul just momentarily left your body. Mitsuki Bakugo rose from the dead with smudged hospital makeup, plastic tubes dangling, and a devil’s grin curling on her bloodied lips. And Katsuki? The Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight? He let out a sound that could only be described as a squeaky yelp — something between a breath hitch and a war cry that never made it past his throat.

“WHAT THE HELL—” he roared, tears threatening to go back from his eyes and stumbling back like she’d exploded out of the hospital bed. You had your hand over your heart, knees weak, and your jaw slack with betrayal. “Are you—ARE YOU KIDDING ME RIGHT NOW?”

“Oh, now that’s the tone I wanted to hear earlier,” Mitsuki said sweetly, sitting up like a horror movie villain who’d just won an Oscar. She peeled off the fake heart monitor pads with flair. “What? You two thought you’d pull that rude little scene on me during dinner and I’d just let it slide?”

“That was four months ago!” you squeaked, half-laughing, half-needing a defibrillator. “We thought—You DIED, Mitsuki!”

Masaru, from the adjacent ICU bed, let out a quiet snort of laughter, dabbing at the fake bruises on his temple with a tissue. “She had the whole staff in on it. I told her it was too much, but you know how she gets.”

“Too much?” Katsuki bellowed, hair still wet from the rushed shower, his tank top now soaked in nervous sweat. “YOU FAKED YOUR OWN DEATH!”

"Oh my god,” you whispered, still frozen. “She... she bribed the hospital staff.”

“She bribed the hospital,” Bakugo echoed, stunned.

You sank into the nearest chair, laughing helplessly through the adrenaline that still fizzed in your veins. Mitsuki, ever unbothered, swung her legs over the bed like she owned the hospital wing. “You made me the butt of a joke in my own house, brat. You deserved to cry like a little boy who lost his mommy.”

“And I was crying!” Katsuki growled, pacing like a madman. “I said I love you! Do you know how long it took me to say that to anyone?”

Mitsuki just cackled. “Payback. It was so beautiful, sweetheart. A real tearjerker.”

You turned to Masaru, wide-eyed. “How much did she pay them to go along with this?”

“Oh,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the hallway. “She has her way.”

You groaned into your hands. “I knew she was being too nice these past few weeks.”

Mitsuki stood, peeling off her hospital gown to reveal her usual jeans and blouse underneath — like she’d just clocked out from a shift at a prank reality show. “Dinner’s cold by now, but I’d love to join you both for a warm plate of karma.”

Bakugo muttered something about “never trusting another human being again” as you followed them out, still wheezing from emotional whiplash. He was gripping your hand like it was the only real thing left in the world.

“Oh, and Katsuki,” Mitsuki added with a smirk, pressing the elevator button, “I’ve got the footage. Might show it at your wedding.”

“You’re not invited to our wedding,” he barked, red in the face.

You just looked at him, laughing as you leaned into his side. “She’s totally invited.”

He groaned.

And somewhere in the sterile white corridor of that overqualified prank hospital, Mitsuki was already planning part two.

I REALLY THINK MISTUKI WOULD BE LIKE THISSSS😭😭😭😭

[mysteryanimator]

Castlevania: Aria of Sorrow adaptation

(Mystery's edition because why not)

55k words btw be warned

(note this board isn't fully representative of how I would go about an actual adaptation of the games, however consider it as a taste test of what could be since this was me just exploring ideas and such)

This came to be for this silly board because I’m Mystery, if you’re new here I tend to go overboard, building out whole mini hypothetical reimagined world for a two, turned ALMOST FIVE minute, sketch animatic.

Here I’ve come to the point of an Aria of Sorrow adaption aka a really really elaborate AU that takes into consideration the 2017 Castlevania and Nocturne series and goes "hey what if there was a future adaptation"

Please don’t eat me, game people (or even just show people. People in general LMAO). This is for me and for my enjoyment. You do not need to interact with this if you do not like how I’ve engaged with pre-established work of fiction. This is purely for my own entertainment.

At this point, it wouldn't be called Castlevania: Aria of Sorrow. It would be something along the lines of

Castlevania: Collection of Remnant

Castlevania: Remnant

Castlevania: Dramaturgy

Aria of the Castle

Castlevania: Natsukashii  (an ode to how Castlevania used Nocturne to reference not only location but also a plot thing that occurs)

I still like Aria of Sorrow better but you know, working with the punches because this is far from the original Aria of Sorrow. The board is called Dramaturgy simply because half of the characters are dramatised versions of other characters (more on that below). Also the song Dramaturgy by Eve has been one of my major influences for my art/storytelling since it’s release.

With that, let’s get actually get to mystery’s adaptation version of Aria of Sorrow! Apologises for the long wordy text and any grammatical errors! If y'all have any questions I'm happy to clarify!

General Synopsis:

Soma Cruz, an exchange student from America comes to study in Japan, Nagano University in 2035. There he has come face with a deep history and comes to terms with who he is as now he has a target on his back by a all powerful family.

Is what they say he is? Is he truly Dracula reincarnated?

(I had been mentally pronouncing him as Filipino simply because i know too many Filipinos with that last name. Though him being Mexican works. I feel it may be important since it would be an interesting touchpoint with Olrox interacting with a person from a place that has been deeply colonised by Spain/catholicism, and see the trickle-down effects from it. Also, these two cultures have a lot to do with identity and pride/shame with who you are as a person, and your own family lineage/history in a modern-day context.)

Also other stuff that would occur:

Mizrak and Olrox are currently tracking down a corrupt family known as the Jōnzus (the readapted version of the Graham cult which I'll expand later on). For the interim, they have settled there for the time being. (If I was doing this more realistically, Mizrak and Olrox would have a minor role, but this is for me so they get to have larger impact to the plot). This is in reference to how in the original games, the Graham cult follow Olrox after the fall of Graham, though here I've turned it on it's head to fit with the 2017 and nocturne series.

Alucard is a professor at Nagano University under the alias Genya Arkiado (Olrox and Mizrak think it's stupid in a loving way, and Alucard gets caught out by the antagonists because of his name, oh my god). As he jumps from job to job. Travel like a man, as they say, though curiosity gets to him with Soma Cruz. BTW, when Alucard is introduced, we don't know it's him, he'll have straight black hair and everything. Then he says his name in front of the class and thats ep 1. The only reason I drew him with his nocturne hair was that I didn't want him and Olrox to have the same silhouette, as I'm almost certain this will be going into my portfolio until i outdo this one.

Julius Belmont and his cousin Yoko Belandes are on a trip to Japan to get him out of the house due to an 'accident' causing immense brain damage and amnesia. He’s finally feeling better and trying to reinvoke memories, Yoko's friend, Mina Habuka invites them to stay at her home.

Mina is a university student at Nagano University and is studying the same course as Soma. She genuinely wants to change the world and recognizes the government's current position to undermine the weak and how capitalism makes the poor even poorer. She also knows a lot more then she lets on. The first half is very Maria Renard core, but this isn't finalised and I want to flesh her out later when I can as her own character.

Graham Jone's (reimagined as Graham Jonzu/Ryūichi Jōnzu) whole spiel, which I get more specific down later

At the end of it- is Dracula still alive, and these people are fucking going crazy over being a dark lord candidate only to realise they’ve done this for nothing to really fuck up Graham mentally? Haven’t decided but to toy with a concept like this would be interesting in terms of themes and messages.

2035 Nagano, Japan

I honestly dont have too much for this BUT, it is specifically set in Nagano, Japan because that’s where the original game is set. I even scouted locations on Google Maps for it for where it could realistically be.

The University of Nagano would be a promenent place (as in the literal public university of Nagano. Half the storyboard takes place on the Miwa Campus, but with the interior changed because im using 3d models)

There would be a moment where we do see Soma's original home, either in America (his current home), or in either specifically in Philippines or Mexico depending on the ethinic background chosen for him.

There’s also a large vintage car scene in Japan that would be a major location in this made-up series. This would further the themes of past and future, I'll expand upon below. Events like classic cars and coffee exist there because it's where you'd find villains and antagonists congregating in an open space. Protagnists and the like will also find themselves here, and it won't be off for them to have happened to stumble upon because it is neutral grounds, like the university, however, this place ANYONE can be there with without any plausible deniability. Though I vaguely only know about the Tokyo scene, so not entirely sure about the vintage car scene in Nagano but , every single place on earth there will be small communities that come together for these things if you really look.

Also this is a made up sceanrio, so i can do whatever i want LOL

Themes

It’s a Mystery trademark thing, I need my themes and meanings. It’s also just more meaningful to me to connect/create anything. Also much easier to plot out how to create meaningful events and cohesively strong narrative. While I do not have the beat for beat episodic stuff (i need to be productive y’all), these are good jumping off point.

Identity:

Every single character’s identity comes into play. Graham and Soma being the most obvious since their ties are related to the Dracula, and then every single dark lord candidate that would pop up in the series. Soma questioning who he is according the identity slapped onto him, but also his identity that has been shaped by his own growing up experience. Think of Superman.

However characters like Alucard being brought to question about their own identity, who HE is as a individual outside of his bloodline but also within it. This would go for Olrox, Mizrak, Mina, Julius and literally every single character within this show who has a speaking role. Identity is important and it is powerful.

Family, bloodline and relations

Of course since this follows the footprints left behind by the Tepes family, I also ended up somewhat fleshing out the Graham’s family which I’ll get to talking in-depth later! I thought they would be a interesting parallel!

Also since this is set within Japan itself, it would be fun to explore Mina Hakuba’s family and traditions. The Belmonts in a modern context, Soma’s whole deal, and then the new family with Mizrak and Olrox. What family can mean in a modern context anyways since this is a queer couple which stands outside traditional norms from the get go <3

This is also a thing in both Nocturne and the 2017 series, but also you gotta rehash your themes for each decade !!

Past & future

Since this is set in the modern day, it is important to have the past inform the present day and what could come of the future.

Not only is this talking about historical world events like the defeat of Dracula, but the history all these characters intend to make of themselves. Their own legacies. The past is the context for the actions every single character makes.

This would also cover the inaccuracies of historical events and how history has rewritten it. The lives of Dracula, Alucard, Olrox, and Mizrak in modern-day perception amongst historians. Perception is another theme here, which overlaps both identity and past & future.

There will also be a point where these immortals will acknowledge the existence of the Dracula and Nosferatu films, along with any other vampire media like Interview with a Vampire. I think that would be really funny. Also, Soma will be found playing a game called The Castle's Vanity to directly poke at Castlevania.

I also think this would be really funny in the context of Olrox and Mizrak, then those two witnessing their inaccurate portrayal and going "yk sure."

Also, I very much intend (I'm talking as if this would get serialised, it isn't, I'm speaking in hypothetical), having the vintage cars be a driving home point on history as it will come to point out geniune connection/interest to its history or flaunting it like an accessory.

Of course, there are many others themes are at play (like love and idol culture), with further nuances depending on each hypothetical episode down to each hypothetical scene and what they intend to convey. Furthermore, the themes would be wholly be influenced by a group of people and specific ideas would be more at the forefront to hone down on, while others may be on the back burner. Again, speaking hypothetically, I'm playing scenarios in my head as if I'm in a dollhouse, except if the dollhouse was a mini made up studio and im sitting in the corner drawing boards and asking there for a window in the setting somewhere. Really obscure joke, but the ones who get it know my obession with windows/boxes in media since who knows how fucking long LOL

Graham Jones & Cult

For this I ended up heavily readapting and expanding upon the existing source material of Graham Jones with consideration of the current world since the games/storyboards are set in 2035. While none of this really showcases itself in the board, it’s something I really wanted to flesh out.

I recognize he is most likely based on Jim Jones and Billy Graham, the point to reason of why I'm deviating away from organised catholic religions (trust me I love to discuss the horror of catholicism) is to focus on the corrupt power of prominent leadership positions in the world, which still ties to Jim Jones and Billy Graham's leadership roles but on a much more larger scale, like the government, the law system and education. While it is isn't going to be exactly catholicism, since we're set in Japan, it will touch base on conservative ideals, which does go hand in hand with catholicism, supressing the rights of minorities. This is a major thing that occurs in both the 2017 series and Nocturne.

Graham Jones

Here he’s readapted as Graham Jōnzu/Ryūichi Jōnzu. A 32-year-old, half-Japanese professor at Nagano University. At night he’s a crazed sorcerer following the footsteps of his family has built him to become. THE new dark lord.

The Jōnzu part is in reference to his Japanese name in the game. Ryūichi roughly translates to first dragon, directly a homage to how Dracula’s name stems from son of a dragon. From birth alone, he has massive shoes to fill and his world crumbles if he doesn’t fit the mould. Going to absurd lengths like killing others to ensure his place. The moles have significance to their placements too! The most obvious is the moles on his neck looking like a vampire bite, the rest were inspired by actors like Luca Marinelli (death stranding 2 chokehold, also Graham has a almost playful personality like Higgs), then the obvious, Marilyn Monroe. Also I noticed in a lot of character designs as of late, there's become an associationwith beauty marks to an innate high status of wealth and/or beauty. His redesign outside of the other characters that appear here is more solidified, because he is suppose to have that million dollar handsome nepobaby air to him, akin to Bruce Wayne.

Moving on from design to personality, Graham has a massive obsession with wanting to be the dark lord in the games, I thought it would be interesting if it ended being almost theatrical because he ends up playing a charicture of Dracula. Being something he’s not to achieve a specific likeness while Soma himself stays true to being Dracula by being himself. Also the game this is taking from is called Aria of Sorrow. Aria. Opera. Performance :>

He will happen to just personality wise appear differently to every single character when he initally introduces himself that it makes even the audience question Graham intentions. He acts entirely different to the lovers (Mizrak and Olrox), to Alucard/Genya, to Soma, to Mina, to everyone. He even dresses slightly different, his voice is pitched differently, the way he holds himself. However after a few introductions its suppose to settle in that this man is more terrifying then we realise because he keeps jumping around personality wise you can't pin point his next actions until he drops the act. It's rather the waiting game because from the get-go, everyone knows something is off and Graham knowingly lets that air of danger hang over them because he enjoys that thrill.

Graham’s themes to be explored are in contrast to Soma in that he explores identity and the choice of what you decide to give meaning.

Another side tangent. He would own a VW Beetle because he’s a rich asshole and nepobaby. I’m making him overlap with Mizrak and Olrox at a cars and coffee event. Probably him and his family used to win all the comp awards until Mizrak and Olrox pull up with their fucking genuinely pristine VW Beetle. This man is going to get so petty so fast.

JONZU FAMILY (readapting the Graham cult)

The Jōnzu family is made up of strong and powerful sorcerers. Able to weave and manipulate inanimate objects at will, tying into the idea of weaving and writing their own fate (and demise). There are many cousins, siblings, aunts, uncles, and the like. Most of them are government officials or in greater positions of power/leadership roles (Graham being a professor for one), though people like grandparents and others are traditional shamans (also still in major positions of power, mind you). Not all of the family is called Jōnzu because his family tree is MASSIVE, which is why it will take a while for the audience and characters to realise Graham Jones/Jōnzu is one of the main villains. It would also take a moment for people to realise how awful he is, or even what he actually is like because with every single character he’s a completely different person. Going from “is he just a pretentious asshole- holy shit he’s eating a body???”

In this hypothetical series, the Jōnzu family is suppose to contrast Mina Hakuba’s family who would also comprise of shrine maidens, spirit mediums, and other practitioners who uphold traditions in a much more healthier manner. The Hakuba family works in harmony with traditions and the current world peacefully.

This by far will be coloured by a POC lens, or just a ‘universal’ asian lens. Though this can be perceived by family with stricter upstandings and expectations. That’s what the Jōnzu family. It is supposed to criticise this notion, but give the insight of why they exist still in modern-day society, despite how some of these types of families are run, can still be quite traditional at times.

They desire— no, they demand-perfection. Every is by design. Everything has order and structure for a reason. There’s a reason why certain things work that get people to bend to other people’s will. Specifically, Graham's parents work within the justice/law area as reference to how game-Graham often talks about punishing Soma for crimes and giving judgment over him. Also Graham would either be a law, criminology, or a history professor. Still undecided.

Graham has to walk in the literal coffin his family has made for him. Born on a particular day in a particular year. Everything is calculated and precise. His life is planned out for him, what he should or shouldn’t do. Anything outside of the particular perfected numbers is a massive failure. His identity was made for him.

To be a dark lord candidate. He is his family's successor and saviour.

Graham does not condemn these actions of his family to restrict his life. He actually doubles down, which just makes everything worse. Graham’s life is kind of playing off of Greek tragedy. Doomed from the start and doomed the end, also tying into his whole dramatic theatrical side to him. He leans into it all.

A very important note, Graham's inner family circle (so his mother, father, and any siblings he has) are cannibals. The surface level is that they all very badly want to be likened to vampires; however, peeling the layers to this speaks of their all-consuming obsession over needing to be someone else and their need for control/domination over others. This ends up resulting in them being more like zombies because by this point, they've become a hive mind. They are cannibals by choice and for the thrill of it.

Vampires such as Mizrak and Olrox drink blood out of necessity. They do not have a choice; however, the Jōnzu family does. The way Mizrak and Olrox consume is very different from the Jōnzu's, and while they may look similar, tonally, they feel so wildly off. Like you know, something is definitely off. They're both selective on whose life ends; they have neat fancy dinners, but they're not the same. This is not only a commentary on the superficial v genuine connections, but also both sides of the coin how cannibalism as visual metaphors are used to depict different things (well more so the spectrum now I think about it).

FIGHTING STYLE

One main aspect is that despite having the ability to probably do insane, lethal damage from afar due to his abilities to warp materials and make him deadly, he just never goes for far-away killing blows. In fact, the majority of ALL his far away attacks are absurdly performative/dancey like and lead to only restricting/pinning/suffocating people. Only once he's in closer range, he'll switch up to actually do proper lethal damage. He's still an insecure man in battle, so he wants to see people vying for their lives up close because it feeds his ego. Of course, that is such an ass way to go about attacking people, but for him, it doesn't matter because he's pretty powerful and nothing has stopped him, which further eggs him on to be way more performative in battle, making it his own little stage. He's also a massive science guy (one thing about Dracula is that he has major knowledge in medicine, science and such, showcased in ep1, so that's like the only good trait he's gotten from him), so he knows what parts to avoid, what parts to target and the like. In summary, he likes playing with his food. Ergo, why he licks the sword HAHA.

Besides this, I thought about his visual performance of his fights for the board because that was the most important to convey his personality in a manner of seconds. This consisted of a lot of arm movements, thinking about conductors for orchestras for tighter spaces. Also, this scarf thing floats in the game, so I dialled that up to 100 and made it a main feature. It is also connected to Graham, which means harming it in its default form (scarf) WILL harm him. It also connects to what you consider to be important, and depending on your obsession with it, it will hurt you because you've attached yourself to it and chose to give it meaning. To the audience, it's just a scarf, to Graham, it's far more personal and one of the very very very few things that identify him as Graham and not Dracula reincarnated.

The scarf funnyily enough can turn into anything and imitate ANYTHING (similar to the concept of how you can wear a scarf in anyway shape or form). There was a really hard balance because Graham is both very creative AND not at the same time. He limits himself to the box of being Dracula or other people (aka remaking Alucard's sword and almost DOING WORSE because it's not his forte). Yet you can see him literally choking out Alucard, making A SYCTHE, etc. He's a hypocrite by design.

Teleporting, an ability in his game boss fight, is used minimally because this readapted Graham HATES LOSING/RUNNING FROM A FIGHT. He will never admit defeat, so having him forced to teleport is so wounding to his ego. Any other abilities, like the meteor balls or Dracula-like abilities, will be showcased in a final fight between Soma and Graham (or gradually be showcase one by one in each fight before the major final showdown). By that point, the scarf is gone by his own choice, which sucks because it's such a cool concept, but Graham's character calls for not utilising his own identity to the fullest; he's not living up to his actual potential. There is so much more the scarf can do, he just is hyper-focused on BEING DRACULA. This guy has a lot of potential and doesn’t actually use it well, for a guy who keeps talking about his own great potential of being Dracula he forgets his own individual potential.

Also, Graham will end up fucking up his body so badly in order to obtain Dracula status, he will turn into his final form in the game (pictured below). It's such a fucking sick design, and I need to see it on a screen. Which, not gonna lie, is very reminiscent of that Frankenstein body that had Dracula and Lisa's soul in the show, so basically think of that but somehow ten times worse because Graham so badly wants to play God. At this point in time, he probably is going to try to frakenstein himself to the other dark lord candidates that are showcased throughout the series. At this point, he's hit the trifecta of vampire, zombie and frakenstein.

Personally, I can very much see him dying at the end of the series or after two seasons, simply because he refuses to live as himself. Time and time again there will be those glimmers of the there being an out to choose to be himself, but he rejects the notion time and time again, and as a result, it becomes his demise.

As I thought deeper into Graham and fleshing out the board at the same time, having a motorbike chase scene as a must, I realised Graham would want two forgemasters to indulge into his power fantasy.

Enter Issac and Julia Laforeze. Cousins of Graham. They actually originate Castlevania: Curse of Darkness, though actually have no ties to anyone but each other, though thought narratively these siblings worked out.

(btw if you want to know, no, these forgemasters are not cannibals, they respect life and understand their place in the world.)

Before we actually get further in, a quick note on the Seal of Haagenti, which associated with both the Jōnzus and Laforezes. Haagenti is the great president of hell and is the 48th demon in the Ars Goetia. They are known to transmute all metals into gold and turn water into wine.

Graham is actually more associated with Valac, another demon in the Ars Goetia and a monster found in Bloodstained. In a previous iteration of the board, Bloodstained and Aria of Sorrows were going to be more closely tied together; however, I opted out since the Haagenti seal better suited the narrative as a whole as I included the forgemasters. Another note, any religion or mythology is showcased in neutral light; however, there is a definite showcase of people twisting it to suit their personal needs and backfiring because why the fuck are humans messing with supernatural affairs without any careful consideration (the Laforezes do that's the key difference, they know their place, Graham doesn't).

Now let's actually talk about Issac and Julia.

The Forgemasters

Issac Laforeze

Issac is a more direct imitation from the Curse of Darkness game and would definitely fit personality-wise with this new ‘Dracula’. He’s dramatic. He’s theatrical. Performance and drama. His name stays as Issac because Graham would probably be really picky about it. Series show Issac vibes wise felt very in line with the series show Dracula felt. Mirroring that with game Isaac felt right to match here.

Also COME ON, game Issac in motorbike gear chasing down Mizrak and Olrox. He would be absolutely ruthless on the road and you know he’d get up after a nasty crash. It also helps that the ‘Hector’ is not only a forgemaster, but a healer/medic for the magically attuned.

Also both Issac and Graham probably have like a different outfit per ep- mostly just Graham, since his whole spiel is wearing identities, and therefore has an outfit to suit his persona. Issac, however, I’ll be honest, there’s so many cool outfits he can wear that limiting him to just one seems absurdly impossible with out spoken about his self expression would be. So it would contrast Graham’s need to conform to identity, while Issac’s is used for his expression of identity. Theyre cut from the same cloth but they go about life very differently per say.

This is also to say, I had no idea how to dress Issac for the board because I kept mentally jumping between multiple ideas.

FIGHTING STYLE

He is also dramatic and theatrical as Graham, maybe even more, simply because he's way more comfortable in who he is and doesn't feel pressured to a single identity (he's honestly very enby coded).

He ascribes to different dances for fighting, such as wacking, vouging, and tutting, which are 'mostly' arm-based. Also, Qiang Shu would suit him well because here he also has his spear. Though truly I believe limiting his fight style to JUST those is limiting, it’s more like a baseline because he has that choice to do whatever he wants.

By the way, whenever you see his or Julia's insane weapons (they indeed have multiple), those are solely and purely hand-built, no magic. So when you see Issac's weapons shrink or grow, that's simply because they built mechanics like that. They enjoy the craft of it and are also talented enough to not rely on magic.

Julia Laforeze

This one was a tad harder because I had the choice of either adapting pre-existing characters or just construct a entirely new one, even though really for the short storyboard, it doesn't matter.

For this iteration, I decided to give Isaac a trans younger sibling named Julia (she/they) who used to go by Hector. She’s a forgemaster like her brother, but also magically inclined to heal. She does the same with her own night creatures and runs a small store that is both a mechanic bike shop, having parts to sell and whatnot, and selling *other stuff*. They genuinely just have a forge.

This ties into the Jōnzu's inherited ability to weave and mould physical material objects; however, the Laforeze can mould the living. They cannot bend metal. Graham thinks it's stupid that they mend motorbikes, cars, or any mechanical thing by hand since there is definitely someone in their family who could, but they love the craft of it genuinely and genuinely respect for life itself and the reason why they have the easiest time with creating nightcreatures. Something that gets really lost on Graham, but it's not too big of a deal since they're the only family who does healing really well, and the perfect candidates for his own power fantasy. However, he does explicitly question it multiple times, and Julia will keep repeating the same answer (Graham is being dramatic, if he doesn't get attention for a minute, he'll shrivel up and die or something /joking)

Julia Laforeze is in reference to Issac’s actual younger sister, called Julia in the original games, who acted as a merchant and had strong healing powers. She was also Hector’s presumed love interest. So here it's kind of a mix of being an original character and a readapted character like Graham. Basically, a child between game Julia and game Hector. Also, this is the only reason why her name is Julia, though I do think about changing it to something else, but it's the placeholder for now!

Her current redesign is not final, though I do believe she would be strongly tied to a lot more experimental non-genderconforming attire like Issac, and self-indulgent sake, she would be really into the Harajuku fashion scene. Especially from the early 2000s as a nod to the game's original release.

If we’re literally going with the Aria of Sorrow talking about identity, I personally think talking about trans-identity would be very important. If this was actually being pitched, I doubt this would fly for a show and there would be no way in hell there would be enough time to develop this (maybe), but also this is my little day dream scenario. Also really interesting conversation to have had with a trans character who pulls out souls from hell or other dimensions and gives them a body. It’s so on the nose but like, the material IS THERE.

How we go about Julia's deadname, I'm not entirely sure because everyone's personal relationship to it is very different, and I have made it a point that every single character's identity is pulled into questioning, which would include Julia. Outright refusing to say the name is a valid pathway (like in the game Tell Me Why), but also acknowledging the name to empower her chosen name is also just as valid. HOWEVER. We don’t need to explicitly tell the audience that Julia is a stand-in for the 2017 series' Hector, given Graham's general insanity and Isaac's more prominent role and name. Like you learn that just through general observation.

Also, Julia is just allowed to exist as Julia. She's firm in her own identity in comparison to Graham.

FIGHT STYLE

Julia's fighting style is also similar, being performance and proud of it like Issac. She does not shy away from who she is, even when she's actively transitioning in the show.

However, she's simply more Olympic ice-skater coded. There is still a massive performance-based air to her, but it's like she glides across the ground despite being absolutely human. She also knows when to pull her punches so that when she can show off the most/do the most damage, they COUNT. It's half the reason why she basically aura farms with these dramatic cameras and then disappears and reappears when she needs to.

The sole reason why these forgemasters are so dissimilar to the 2017 series (to even more closely tied to a whole new character) is simply because they are their own people. With their own identity. You can still be born with the blood of your mother and father, but you shape your own destiny. You are the sum of your own choices. Each person is unique, you cannot be replaced.

It's on the audience to realise that Issac and Julia are supposed to be those replacements, and you know from the get go from gut feeling (hopefully) that they simply can’t be those replacements. Not because they’re not good enough, it because this is a whole different Issac, and this is Julia. Let them exist as their own people rather then what they should be. Then they would be able to do some pretty cool things once they’re unbound from the story they are intended to rewrite. Looking at you Graham (who refuses to change).

By the way, Graham and the whole family are villains, but Issac and Julia (the Laforeze family) are antagonists. The difference is slight, but the difference is important despite them being connected.

Andddd I think that’s all I have for now! I’ll probably update this here and there if I actually do something with this since Soma, Mina, Yoko and Julius aren’t developed and hadn’t planned to develop them further then the surface base for storyboard sake! Though this was mostly just to have my thoughts out when boarding, and other people seemed to be intrigued for what I had in mind!

Again this was for fun! Please don’t eat me alive 🫶 Let me play dollhouse (in this case, dollhouse is a pretend building in which i sit in a room and talk to people on how we should go about vampires kissing or fighting for their lives)

If y'all have any questions or need me to clarify anything lemme know because I know I can definitely get wildly off topic or run into tangents without finishing up my previous thought!

since y'all read this far, have this wip where the graham fight was timed to descendants 2. Graham is very descendants coded if you think about it.

[adventuringanxiously]

KCD2 Companion Perks

As someone who didn’t know shit about dick when first getting into these games, I felt the tiiiiiniest bit catfished by the steam banner—

Henry’s surrounded by Hans, Žizka, and Katherine all looking very much like companion options for later on. (Seeing I could buy women’s clothes from the tailor only cemented this misconception.) Obviously, this was not that case. Really about the closest you get is keeping Capon’s ass alive during story quests and ferrying Rosa around. And I’m not mad about it! Being a guy alone with his horse and dog fits what the game is going for. But as someone who really loves all these characters, I am a bit sad we can’t interact with them more.

So, I’m going to pretend this is an alternative universe where you can bring the cast along. (Then I’m going to double pretend that they have affection levels and if you max them out you get a secondary, cooler perk.) Yes, this does sound a lot like the companion system from Fallout 4. Anyhow—

Hans Capon

Initial Perk: Charming Smile – Something about having a noble peeking over your shoulder makes conversations go smoother than they normally would. (Henry’s charisma increases by 3.)

Max Affinity: Impeccable Shot – You always knew Hans was the better archer, but he’s never been this good. Not that you’re complaining, you need all the help you can get. (Hans’ marksmanship increases by 5.)

Romance: Audentes Fortuna Iuvat – With him by your side you think you could be bold forever. (Henry’s warfare is increased by 3.)

Katherine

Initial Perk: Under their Noses – Katherine knows just how to go unnoticed, even when wearing ostentatious finery. (Conspicuousness is decreased by 15.)

Max Affinity: Sneak Attack – When sneaking up on two enemies, if you kill or incapacitate the first Katherine will kill or incapacitate the second.

Romance: Balm for the Soul – You soothe each other’s monsters. Every night results in a restful sleep. (Henry’s energy reduces half as fast.)

Jan Žižka

Initial Perk: Wage War – Žižka is nice enough to teach you a few tricks. All of them are dirty. (Henry’s Warfare increases by 3.)

Max Affinity: Skullcracker – Nothing like a man with a mace watching your back. Even down an eye, Žižka is a terror. (Žižka’s heavy weapons increases by 5.)

Samuel

Initial Perk: Vengeance - There’s few other men you’d prefer to have at your back in a fight. Especially since Sam keeps drawing enemy attention off of you.

Max Affinity: Almost-Brother - When taking on multiple opponents Sam can jump in and prevent a killing blow.

Godwin

Initial Perk: Debauchery – With Godwin you can drink twice as much as before. Perhaps his godly aura is keeping you sober. Oh well. Time for more wine!

Max Affinity: Mysterious Ways – It seems Christ Himself is in your corner. Enemies will randomly become tired or drop their guard.

Dry Devil

Initial Perk: Drunken Master – Sometimes you wonder how the Devil is still standing, let alone hitting targets at 50 paces. But he’s an apt teacher all the same. (Henry’s Marksmanship increases by 3.)

Max Affinity: Long Shot – It is utterly ridiculous the things you’ve seen Hynek do with a crossbow, and now you’re getting the hang of it too. (The farther the target the more damage Henry does.)

Kubyenka

Initial Perk: Charmingly Obnoxious – You’ve had to cover for this idiot so often you’ve found yourself better able to speak in general. (Henry’s speech increases by 3.)

Max Affinity: Devil’s Luck – You are convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt this man should not be alive. (Kubyenka turns a blow that should have killed him into one that kills the enemy.)

Janosh Uher

Initial Perk: How the Sausage is Made – Janosh knows the best cuts of meat and how best to preserve them. Your hunts are always more successful with him.

Max Affinity: Unexpected Guile – It’s easy to lose track of Janosh in the middle of a fight. So easy that enemies keep dying from being stabbed in the back while you were keeping them busy.

Adder

Initial Perk: Backup Plan - You’ve never run this much (or from so many angry husbands) in your entire life. At least it’s made you faster. (Henry’s speed increases by 3.)

Max Affinity: Cat Calling – Just because you can ignore Adder threatening to fuck somebody’s wife doesn’t mean the enemy can. And, since you’re with him, they take offense to you as well. (Henry’s taunts are twice as effective.)

Rosa Ruthard

Initial Perk: Noble Education – Rosa has a lot to say about a lot of things and she’s more than happy to narrate your entire time on the road. You take it as an opportunity to learn. (Henry’s scholarship increases by 3.)

Max Affinity: Sniper – Sometimes a headshot from the back line is all that stands between you and victory. Rosa, luckily, is good at those. (Rosa is more likely to hit critical areas in battle.)

Romance: Shining Armor – Being her ever-loyal knight has made you able to withstand the toughest battles. (The effectiveness of Henry’s armor increases.)

Klara

Initial Perk: Undergrowth – Klara has taught you how to skulk about unseen, even in places you shouldn’t be. (Visibility is reduced by 15.)

Max Affinity: Women’s Work – Sometimes you can really tell how many years Klara has spent working with bandits. (Potions poured into stews or used to coat weapons are more effective.)

Romance: Physician Heal Thyself – You comfort each through the worst. (Henry’s alchemy is increased by 5.)

Black Bartosch

Initial Perk: Sword Master – You can see why von Bergow was so impressed. Your tourney wins are nothing compared to what Bartosch can do. (Henry’s swordsmanship increases by 3.)

Max Affinity: Total Eclipse – Bartosch can pull off combos you can only dream of. This does a lot in terms of stripping the enemy of their armor.

Romance: Black Knight – Side by side, you stand through the trials of life. (Henry’s vitality is increased by 3.)

Musa of Mali

Initial Perk: Man of Letters – With Musa’s help your potions are more effective. All that education going to good use, it seems.

Max Affinity: Potion Master – Musa is more than happy to throw potions at you doing a fight so long as he doesn’t have to participate.

Bonus:

Istvan Toth

Initial Perk: True Hate – You’d kill him if you could, sadly circumstances prevent that. It’s made you rather grumpy. (Henry’s intimidation creases by 10, overall charisma decreases by 2.)

Max Affinity: Enemy of my Enemy – You hate to say it (do you really?) but Isrvan is rather good at the business of killing people. (Istvan’s warfare increases by 5.)

Chamberlain Ulrich

Initial Perk: Endless Lamentation - You wonder if Ulrich will ever shut up. Probably not. The sheer boiling rage it elicits is useful in a fight, though. (Henry’s unarmed increases by 3.)

Max Affinity: Human Shield – If Ulrich had figured out by now that you’re dodging behind him to ward off blows, he’d probably hav something to say about it. Sadly for him, he has not. Perhaps if you’re lucky one of them will kill him. (Henry’s armor effectiveness increases when behind Chamberlain Ulrich.)

Ignatius

Initial Perk: Smelling the Roses – Ignatius seems to know how to gather the most herbs with the least amount of effort, and they always last longer. And thank Jesus Christ! Your back is killing you.

Max Affinity: Stampede - As it turns out, most people don’t expect to be bowled over by a charging ram in the middle of a sword fight. Frankly, it’s their fault for not paying better attention.

(Feel free to yell at me if I missed something obvious. Would love to hear if anyone has any other ideas.)

[howtobecomeadragon]

The Bridgerton Glow Up!!!

...and Will's hair

the netflix show Bridgerton does this silly thing where a character looks a little rougher (or tbh, more period appropriate) in earlier seasons but then gets a (modern) ✨️glow up✨️ for the season in which they get their main romantic story.

a few examples below:

anthony bridgerton in s1 vs s2. in s1, anthony is going through it, being a control freak and experiencing a doomed romance. he's rocking mutton chops, which were popular in that time period! but not to modern audiences. in s2, when he is the romantic lead for his happily ever after, anthony looks much more cleaned up (through our modern lens) and ready to win over the heart of his fair lady... and ready to make the audience swoon.

colin bridgerton in s1/2 vs s3. colin has a boyish good natured look in the earlier seasons, with his pinchable cheeks and swoopy hair to match his innocent pursual of a woman that had bigger fish to fry. but when it's his time to find true love, colin shows up in s3 and returns from his travels tanner, some sexy experience with women, and with a hot pirate vibe. the boy that the audience watched sympathetically before was now the man the audience had the hots for.

and of course, our lovely penelope featherington, whose transformation was most obviously acknowledged on screen. in s1/2, penelope often bemoaned that her mother kept fitting her in awful colors and that she didn't feel pretty in her clothing. in s3, penelope is determined to marry and decides to sink her savings into a new wardrobe in pursuit of that goal: she starts wearing blues and greens that suit her coloring better, but also dresses that accentuate her waist more, show off her figure, and highlight her... ahem, considerable assets. she looks less girly babydoll-ish and more of an attractive adult woman. and the moment she makes her debut in that dark green dress, she DOES catch the eye of her long time crush. while penelope is a bit of a morally ambiguous character, you can't help but cheer for her to get her happy ending. the audience watches and knows: men want her, women want her, everyone wants her. and her boobs are to die for.

finally, to the point: WILL BYERS and his much talked about hair!!!

will's hair has been the brunt of endless jokes. a ton of casual viewers probably know him as "the bowl cut kid." the cruel memes have been popular, the st reddit posts and comments about his hair somehow get hundreds or thousands of upvotes. even though bowl cuts were popular for kids and teens in the 80s, the modern audience is not into it and therefore can't seem to take will seriously sometimes. the other boys grow out of their boyish looks and are getting girlfriends, while will still has this same haircut and isn't interested... in girls. the whole combination counts him out for swoonworthy romance for a lot of the audience.

BUT. that's because it wasn't his season yet.

enter s5 will byers. his hair is shaggier, messier, more grown up. less boy-ish, more man-ish. less innocent and sleek and sheltered, more rugged and mature. i've looked around at comments on the teaser and have seen a total lack of jokes about will's hair. what i HAVE seen is people talk about him more as a main character, one with powers maybe, speculation about him being hugely involved in the plot. he is being taken seriously finally! and of course that's not just his hair. but. i'm sure the overall glow up did.

bylers love will, no matter his hair or clothes, but in order to make the general audience take will seriously, as a character and as a romantic lead, the glow up was used to put will in a place of being noticed, of being more attractive, with nicer clothes and hair.

if the audience couldn't stop making jokes about will's hair, they wouldn't have taken a gay love story about him with mike seriously. with the bridgerton glow up, they are a lot more likely to be on his side and rooting for him.

gay yearning with a young looking haircut that people laugh at results in people laughing at the gay yearning.

gay yearning with a fresh, more mature haircut will result in people cheering for will's reciprocated feelings. he is tortured, he is plot relevant, he is important, and he's handsome. and he's getting the boy of his dreams. this is his season.