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[wifeofnatasharomanoff]

could i request a mob nat oneshot from that universe seeing nat as a mom to her kid? it says we have a kid and it doesn’t need to be overly fluffy or anything… just curious what this badass mob boss looks like as a mom

HAPPINESS

WARNINGS: a bit of violence, gunshots, cute family moments, brief angst, fluff

RELATIONSHIP: natasha romanoff x f!reader

a/n: lol me after not posting for months 😅

AU: Darkest Nights

You wake up to the sounds of laughter in the bedroom, turning, you notice the side beside yours on the bed is empty. Where were the noises coming from? You sat up on the bed to see Natasha on the floor, a batman action figure in her hand and a toy car in the other. Her red hair was up in a loose braid and you could barely see the front of her face properly, but the one face you did see was a baby boy. Well – not really a baby more like a toddler. Except he wasn’t turning two for another few months. His chubby, rose-tinted cheeks were puffed up and small but loud giggles erupted from him. Natasha heard rustling from the bedsheets and looked up at you to see that you were already up. “Did we wake you up, babe?” she asked, her eyes were on you but she still kept her focus on the baby, making sure he wasn’t putting anything he wasn’t supposed to in his mouth. Some toys they make for babies are too small, Alex was teething and liked chewing on his toys sometimes. 

The corners of your lips curled into a smile, “No,” you chuckled, moving your hair strands away from your face. “It’s past 10, I was bound to wake up by now.” You reassure her. “Oh, good – I mean, it’s just you looked peaceful. For once.” you narrow your eyes as you throw the blanket that was draped over your body off yourself. “And who’s fault is it that I’m never at peace?” you retorted, getting up from the bed. She winced, “sorry, krasivaya.” you laughed at the sarcasm that lied beneath her words and lightly threw a smaller pillow from the bed towards her. “Jerk.” she caught the pillow and set it next to her, “c’mere, baby.” her arms were long enough to reach up to your hips while you were folding the blankets. Alex squealed, his stubby little hands moved up and down in agreement. “See, even our son wants mommy to play with us.” Natasha said, her hands grabbed onto your hips and pulled you to the carpet on the floor. “Natasha!” you shouted, playfully shoving her hand away, as she burst out laughing, the baby didn’t know any better and laughed along with her. 

“You’re unbelievable. I hope you know that.” she smirked at what you had said before responding, “I think I’m believable enough, how else is–” you interrupt her, “whatever you’re going to say, don’t say it. I’m positive it isn’t appropriate.” Natasha’s hand rested on your shoulder, “Okay, I’m not that bad.” she paused, “maybe.” 

“Momyy!!” Alex mustered up a word, sliding his mini spiderman toy over to you. “You want mommy and mama to play with you, lovebug?” you smile, grabbing the toy and giving it back to him. He nodded. “Alright, you can be little spiderman, mama will be batman and –” you turn to Natasha, “what will I be?” you ask. “And mommy’s barbie!” she excitedly says to the boy as she hands you a barbie doll. “A happy family, aren’t we?” she cupped your face before pressing a soft kiss to your lips. “I’m barbie? Seriously?” she grinned without a thought, “no, you’re prettier than barbie, baby.” 

“You’re such a sweet talker, darling.” you turned your attention back to Alex, dramatically gasping before speaking once more. “Oh my goodness, where's spiderman’s car?” the baby gasped as if he was missing a car, “oh look! There it is!” you gave the car to Natasha before Alex got the chance to grab it from you. 

“Oh, no! Batman stole your car, spiderman. Go steal it back from him!” you accused Natasha and pointed at her, immediately, Alex crawled over to her and started to lightly punch her, in a poor attempt to get his car back. Which of course, didn’t do much to her at all. “You can’t have this car, it’s mine now, spiderman!” Natasha took the car in her hand and raised it up in the air to where the boy couldn’t reach. 

The sound of glass shattering pulled both you and Natasha away from playtime. “Natasha, wh—” you heard it again, except this time you saw the window beside your nightstand break. “Get the gun under the bed and take Alex.” her voice was stern, as if she was ordering you. Your eyes widened as fear crept up your spine, “Natasha, what was that?” you heard it again, but this time there wasn’t any glass to stop the noise, it was clear that it was a gunshot. You pulled a box from under the bed and took a pistol out, grabbing Alex into your arms, you slowly stood up to not gain attention from movement in the bedroom. “Darling, I– where will we go?” unshed tears pooled in your eyes as your bottom lip quivered, “as of now, go to the bar. Look for Yelena, and she’ll know where to take you.” 

You gently touched her arm, “Are you not coming with us?” she shook her head, “it’ll cause too much commotion, they’ll know you’re with me. I’ll find you. I’ll find you both. Don’t worry, baby.” you blinked back the tears to stop them from dropping, “Nat. you said this wouldn’t happen, you promised that they weren’t going to find us… I thought we were finally getting back to our normal lives!” she pulled the both of you close, kissing your forehead, cheeks, the top of the baby’s head. “I know, I’m sorry, baby, I’ll fix this. I’m so sorry, I love you both, so much. Trust me, I’ll deal with them and we’ll come back together before you can blink, krasivaya.” Natasha kissed your lips once more, “I love you.” she wiped away your tears, “don’t die.” the smile you had faltered for a moment when you said that, knowing that there could be a possibility that for an instance something could go completely, and terribly wrong. “I won’t. C’mon, you know me better than that, baby.” you let out a dry chuckle at her trying to lighten the mood. “Go. I’ll be back.” Natasha’s protective hold was gone, you simply nodded. Another gunshot could be heard from the other side of the house, you didn’t want Alex to cry so you covered his ears. “I love you too.”

[starochre]

Tips for Closeted Pagans

I made a post similar to this on my old account.

I'm in the same boat, lad. It's never easy, it's never fun. I'm in an Islamic household, so here are some tips I've learnt along the way.

-> Though most people do it, I don't recommend making an altar, at least one that isn't visible. Make them in shoeboxes! Altoids tins! Icebreaker Mint containers! I even saw someone make a jar an altar, do that!

-> Use symbols and symbolic imagery for your deities. Hell, use what reminds you of your deity. I use a freaking sheep figure for Lord Apollon.

-> Incorporate their colors into your outfits or jewelry! For example, I like to wear warm colors for Lord Apollon, maybe sometimes I'd wear purples and blues for Lord Dionysus!

-> I know this is unpopular, but get into Greek mythology media. EPIC: The Musical, Percy Jackson, Blood of Zeus, or Greek mythology. Anything to cover up why you have so much Hellenic pagan stuff. But remember that the gods are not their myths, nor are their retellings.

-> Be vague in your answers when asked. Say you just really like mythologies and stories.

Now, here are tips for those in Muslim households!!

-> Namaz/Prayer. I also hate doing it, but here's the trick. Do all acts of Namaz while mouthing hymns and epithets for the Theoi, during Dua, pray to the Theoi.

-> Roza/Fasting. Yes, you can fast! It's a good way to get rid of Maisma and other spiritual filth.

-> Hijab/scarf. Continue to do it! Veiling is a symbol of modesty, devotion, and protection.

Remember - if you can't pray 24/7, feel drained, and feel depressed, the Gods understand, and they love you all the same.

If I remember any more, I'll edit this post and add it!

Khaire and blessed be <3

[flan-tasma]

hello again!~ about the xingqiu ask, i've searched as well and there's a mention about him being a young adult? (assuming he'd be around 18-mid twenties at most) I understand your discomfort/worries about it and I understand, would you be able to write slightly? spicy head canons, not full on nsfw but just a little spicy please do not feel pressured, I'm just curious <3

💖~ ok then, let's work in headcanons for Xingqiu!

Warning: spicy, Adult Xingqiu | Google Translate sponsors me (it's a lie) If I made any mistakes in the english translation, I would be happy to read your comments! | Content in spanish and english

Estoy tratando de mejorar a la hora de hacer estos banners, creo que este es mi favorito hasta ahora 💙

Spanish:

Xingqiu es alguien bromista, tal vez demasiado para tu bien. Después de estar juntos por tanto tiempo ya hay un nivel de confianza en el que las bromas pasan de cambiar de lugar tu libro a dejar literatura erótica entre tus libros de estudio.

Y está bien, tal vez no es nada muy exagerado, pero te hace suspirar con algo de molestia fingida cuando esos libros tienen notas con cosas como "¿Probamos esto?". La respuesta es sí, Xingqiu, pero en otro momento.

Puede portarse un poco malcriado, a pesar de la tranquilidad con la que te pide besos, sabe que te está atrayendo a una trampa.

Busca la manera de salirse con la suya cuando están solos, te abraza por detrás y te susurra las cosas que le gustaría hacer contigo hasta que lo golpeas o lo besas, siempre pueden seguir jugando en otro momento.

Los apodos jamás acaban, siempre son tan lindos y se asegura de llamarte de las maneras más dulces mientras se besan.

Jamás lleva a cabo sus juegos frente a Chongyun, no lo quiere matar. Aunque hay veces en las que juega a que sí, solo cuando tiene tu permiso. Una vez que los amigos estaban conversando surgió el chiste de la razón por la que amabas a Xingqiu, el exorcista se rió demasiado y tu pareja casi le explica la versión tranquila de 50 sobras de Grey. No hace falta decir que a Chongyun casi le dan cuatro infartos antes de cubrir sus oídos.

Siempre tiene las manos encima de ti, tocando tus muslos o te sostiene por la cadera, te deja pasar primero y te ayuda a cruzar con una mano en tu espalda inferior, nunca se queda solo con eso, necesita poner toda su palma y apretar tu piel para estar satisfecho.

A pesar de que las buenas costumbres prohíben actos tan íntimos en público, él siempre roza su rodilla con la tuya, atrae tu atención con sus manos en tu brazo o tu hombro de una manera tan gentil que te pierdes en su toque, y luego sonríe para dejarte suspirando.

Los días más tranquilos son sus favoritos, simplemente se quedan flojeando en casa y duermen la siesta, no antes de que Xingqiu acaricie tus caderas, dice que lo calma para dormir.

A pesar de todos sus juegos, siempre es tan gentil cuando nota que no estás de humor para aguantarlo, también pueden disfrutar de la calma mientras leen algo o cuando espera a que termines lo que haces.

Le gusta formar corazones en tu espalda, en algunas ocasiones usa su visión hydro para crear gotas con forma de corazón y te pide que te quedes quieta mientras te besa.

Hablando de besos, él ama besarte. No le importa besar tus mejillas o tus manos, pero prefiere mil veces besar tus labios hasta dejarlos rojos e hinchados, besar y chupar tus hombros hasta dejar una mancha que sobresale y dice su nombre.

English:

Xingqiu is someone who is joking, maybe too much for your good. After being together for so long there is a level of trust in which the jokes go from moving your book to leaving erotic literature between your study books.

And okay, maybe it's nothing too far-fetched, but it makes you sigh with some mock annoyance when those books have notes with things like "Shall we try this?" The answer is yes, Xingqiu, but at another time.

He can act a little spoiled, despite the calmness with which he asks you for kisses, he knows he is luring you into a trap.

He finds a way to get his way when you're alone, he hugs you from behind and whispers the things he'd like to do with you until you hit him or kiss him, you can always continue playing another time.

The pet names never end, they are always so cute and he makes sure to call you the sweetest things while you kiss.

He never plays his games in front of Chongyun, he doesn't want to kill him. Although there are times when he plays pretend, only when he has your permission. Once when friends were talking the joke came up about why you loved Xingqiu, the exorcist laughed too much and your partner almost explained the quiet version of 50 Leftovers of Grey. Needless to say, Chongyun almost had four heart attacks before covering his ears.

He always has his hands on top of you, touching your thighs or holding you by the hips, he lets you pass first and helps you cross with one hand on your lower back, he is never left alone with that, he needs to put his whole palm and squeeze your skin to be satisfied.

Even though good manners prohibit such intimate acts in public, he always brushes his knee against yours, draws your attention with his hands on your arm or shoulder in such a gentle way that you get lost in his touch, and then smiles to leave you sighing.

The quieter days are his favorite, you just laze around the house and take a nap, but not before Xingqiu caresses your hips, he says it calms him to sleep.

He likes to form hearts on your back, sometimes he uses his hydro vision to create heart-shaped drops and asks you to stay still while he kisses you.

Speaking of kisses, he loves kissing you. He doesn't mind kissing your cheeks or your hands, but he prefers a thousand times to kiss your lips until they are red and swollen and to kiss and suck on your shoulders until he leaves a stain that stands out and says his name.

Despite all his games, he is always so gentle when he notices that you are not in the mood to put up with him, you can also enjoy the calm while reading something or when he waits for you to finish what you are doing.

[scienceoftheidiot]

I've grown way too unhinged with these "asks", but I've been meaning to send you this one for a while, so please indulge me!

From what I've noticed, a lot of the Royai fan artists I follow tend to prefer drawing Riza, when they're not portraying her with Roy. But I've noticed that a number of your pieces focused on Roy only, which I find very interesting! Would you say that his character inspires you more than Riza, artistically/creatively speaking? If so, in what ways?

Please tell us more! And thank you, as always <3

Lol not unhinged at all I love to receive asks, I just always forget to reply 🥲🥲 sorry 🥲 so, first, thank you very much for asking ! 🥰❤️

And lol yeah, sometimes I feel like I stick out like a sore thumb among the Royai people. But eh, healthy ecosystems need biodiversity 🤣

I hope my answer isn't too long.

I do have a preference for Roy in drawing, for a number of reasons.

I precise in drawing, because I do love writing Riza, not more than I do writing Roy, but they're relatively even for me - even if, yes, I tend to favour Roy because he's easier for me, there, too.

I like to draw him, because I like his face, expressions and postures, and I like to explore them. He's a fun little guy to draw, when I think Riza is cool AF (and I have a lot to say about her character, too!) but she's not as fun to draw for me (once again I love her and she's in fact the female character I have drawn the most I think, because I have a hard time drawing women, but still, if I'm looking for a quick doodle, I'll go towards Roy).

But yes, they're more or less indissociable for me, and for proof my first fan art for FMA was indeed Royai (here!).

Anyway. While Royai is my favourite ship and I love Riza to bits, my favourite character in FMA is Roy. Roy first. (And my husband has understood that well, he's calling me when we do a rewatch and Roy appears on screen and I'm not watching. Like HURRY ROY IS THERE).

Now, if anyone who knows me from earlier than my FMA obsession reads this, and I describe the utter mess that is Roy, they'll understand that it couldn't have gone any other way. Here's a man in a position of power, who hides everything behind a façade, who's a nerd and highly intelligent (I admit I'm often irked by some posts in the royai fandom. This guy is smart. He's goofy, he's a dork, but he's smart. Book smart, he's a fine tactician, and he can command. Erasing that is erasing part of his identity, and I'm sure part of why Riza loves him, too), has a weird sense of humour even though he can also be intense af, is crushed by unbelievable guilt from his past actions (I admit Roy and Roza both beat all of my previous fixations in that, good job being war criminals, guys 🙃) and intends to repair what he's done as much as he can, one way or another, whose sole goal is to make things better for others/his place/his country, whatever he has to give up for it to work, who inspires others doing that, and who gets badly injured/disabled during the story and keeps going and fighting teeth and nails through it and beyond?

WELL. There is no question I will fall for this dude instantly. This is like. Checking all the boxes for me to be instantly in love with this guy. Like. I think he's actually the only one who checks ALL of my boxes.

I do think however that Roy isn't complete without Riza, and that it's the same on her side (like. I've only tagged my current fic with "codependency" but that's how I write them whatever I write). I'm just fixating on him first, but I still find Riza an awesome character, there's no debate there 😊

Here you go! I've written a novel again lol but I hope I've replied to all your questions. I can talk more about how I see Roy and Riza, I always have more to tell, but really that would just make this even more unpalatable 😅 thank you again for asking 😊

[mercurialimage]

Your cat is fucking cute

THANK YOU here she is

[deathchamber6172]

Short Story: Day Six

It's June, yayish. I made myself cookie dough today, and I tossed in sunflower to finish it off and now, I can't tell if it tastes peanut-buttery or not.

And I'm finally finalizing Avery a bit more, I haven't decided how tall tho. This story is set in Infinite, where Avery is brought back to the field to fight, but gets to meet the revived Noble team.

Halo belongs to 343 Industries.

My spartan oc (Avery) belongs to me.

Repost with credit.

1. Day Six.

Avery paced around the room; she was told to wait by Commander Agryna. There was something for her. It wasn't here until the afternoon. That did not freak her out. She didn’t circle the base for most of the morning. She argued it could just be new gear coming in. Yeah, that could be it. Avery fished her phone out of her pocket, something Roza insisted on having when she was in her recovery period after…

She didn’t enjoy waiting. She didn’t like being kept in the dark. The commander hadn’t let a single detail slip, nor would anyone, for the matter. What was so important to keep her? Avery narrowed her eyes. 1:02, yet no one was here. She took a deep breath, tugging on her collar. Maybe she could put her armor back on. Regular clothes felt too light.

A creak jerked her out of her thoughts. She saw the door opened reveal someone standing there. Avery blinked twice. The tattoo of a fist holding 3 arrows reminded her of… Jun? His green spartan armor was gone, replaced by a suit. She didn’t think he would even like that clothing. She heard there was a surviving member of Noble, but couldn’t find anything.

Then the guilt came crashing down. It squeezed her stomach and she couldn’t talk. She wasn’t ready to face him; how could she when she let the rest of Noble die? Avery turned her head away, staring at the ground.

“What? Didn’t miss me, huh?” Jun stayed in the doorway. They told him no one made it, not that they found Six’s body and did whatever. He didn’t know what to feel when he found Avery still alive.

“Jun.” The silence felt suffocating now. “I… shit, I’m sorry.” Her heart pounded in her chest. She wanted to run or hide, to do anything, but this. “I… I failed.”

“What do you mean?” He ignored how his hands twitched at his sides. “I should’ve been there, Six, not with the doctor. She could’ve made it on her own.”

“You were following orders.”

“So were you.”

“My mission was to…” Avery cut herself off, letting out a snort. It was ridiculous.

Jun glanced up at her, his head tilting to the side. “What’s funny?”

“It’s just… I thought you would hate me.” Her earlier panic was slowly catching up to her body, clinging to her eyes. “I didn’t visit, didn’t bother with making sure they were telling me the truth. And now, I’m thinking I was being stupid with worrying.”

“You won’t hear any disagreement from me.” Jun shrugged at her glare. “They… they lied to me too, said Noble was dead. Not bothering to tell me your body got found on Reach.” He looked up at her, his hand hovering over her arm. “Avery, there’s something else as well.”

“It’s been ten minutes!”

“Kat, we shouldn’t-”

Her heart dropped into her stomach. Did she hear that right? Kat… Kat? Avery took a step back from the door and brushed Jun’s hand away. This couldn’t be right; she saw what happened, there wasn’t a way- didn’t the second voice sound like Carter?

“Avery, listen-” Two figures appeared at the door, the one behind trying to draw them back away from the room. Jun tried to block the view. “I haven’t told her yet.”

“Told me what?” Avery tried to focus on Jun, and not the person who looked exactly like Noble One and Two. Nope, not looking. “And who are they?” She didn’t know what answer she wanted.

“ONI did something. Poke at something they shouldn’t, like always, and brought them back.” Jun slowly moved away from the door. “Noble is back. Shocking, I know.”

“... what?”

[larkace]

Robber Claws

hi guys! i've read a bunch of your fics and got inspired so i wrote a thing! enjoy ;) also, it's pretty long so...buckle up! love yall <3

The criminals lurk in the mist, invisible, but Sofiya Pavlichenkov knows they’re there.

She’s perched in the Lookout’s nest of her Warship in Fourth Harbour, pretending to read the documents her first mate, Kastor, has just handed to her. But her blue coat is flapping in the wind and her papers keep jostling and she’s being watched, all of which is rather uncomfortable.

Idly, Sofiya wonders what the criminals might want. A smuggling, perhaps? Out and away from stinking, crawling, loathsome Ketterdam?

Sofiya hates this city. His city. She misses Ravka, her homeland- the Little Palace.

I miss my bloody Kefta, Sofiya thinks darkly as another bought of wind spirals harshly through the Harbour. The blue coat she wears is a subtle nod to her Tidemaker status, but it’s a sad, thin piece of cloth compared to the grandeur of the Fabrikator-made Keftas. But Sofiya can’t wear her Kefta, not if she wants to blend in in Kerch- a lesson she learned long ago…

Old enemies, Sofiya. Old enemies, but not withered grudges.

Huffing out a sigh that would make Zoya Nazyalensky proud, Sofiya rises gracefully to her feet.

They’re coming. She can feel it; they’re making their way towards the ship. They don’t have to be rowdy to intimidate, that’s for sure - or to make a crowd of Merchants and Thieves part like the sea almost immediately.

Sofiya reaches up behind her head and loops her hand around a piece of knotted rope; takes a deep, steadying breath.

And she steps off the platform into the open air.

For a moment, she catches on the air as if a Squaller has caught her on a buffering breeze, but sure enough, gravity kicks in.

Sofiya welcomes the feeling of her stomach in her throat as the fall takes hold, zipping her past the sails. It's good preparation, anyway, for the three dark figures moving up the docks towards her.

As they near and Sofiya lands lightly on the deck, she confirms what she already knew: these were criminals. Her criminals.

The trio stops in front of her. They're all wearing black and gold - not a uniform exactly, but it’s a solid way to show your allegiance. None of their hands were visible, but if they were, Sofiya would find the Robber Claws emblem branded cleanly onto the backs of their knuckles. Their hoods are drawn up over their faces, but Sofiya can tell from their posture who she’s dealing with.

"Ah, Iseut," Sofiya says serenely, "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

The girl in the middle pulls down her hood, revealing shining blond hair, dark eyes, full lips. She doesn’t smile.

"Where have you been, Sofiya?" Iseut asks coolly.

"The Wandering Isle," Sofiya answers immediately, "I stopped at Os Kervo on my return to pick up some supplies. I'm only three days late, Is. Cut me some slack."

Iseut sighs, and suddenly looks less the badass, fake-waitress man-killer, and more the tired mother of a delinquent child. Sofiya feels a flicker of guilt.

She had stopped at Os Kervo for more than one reason. The "supplies" were crates upon crates of commandeered Fjerdan weapons and traps, intercepted by the First Army on their way to the Front Line. Sofiya had paid nothing to take them off the hands of the Ravkan soldiers, who honestly had no clue where to send them. What good were jerky Fjerdan guns to a sophisticated, well-oiled Second Army legion?

Sofiya could picture Zoya's face at the sight of the sad little weapons. Disgust and disdain, unshakable beauty - and perhaps just a little bit of pride that her friend had been the one to collect the Fjerdan cargo. Sofiya would work on selling it all later. She'd dump the Grisha traps in the ocean, though. Drown them like they deserved to be drowned.

"I am sorry, Iseut," Sofiya says, and her words aren’t mistruths.

"Don't apologise to me," Iseut says dismissively, "It’s your friends that were barely able to sleep the past few nights. You should talk to -"

"Destry," Sofiya's words mist the air like a fine rain, "I know."

One of the tall figures stood behind Iseut lowers her own hood. Lyra. Ly.

It made sense that the Robber Claws would send their best Bruisers to Fourth Harbour. Sofiya knew by the other Robber's posture that beneath the hood, she would find the face of Winter. But Winter wouldn't lower her hood in front of so many people, so Sofiya was content with what she could get.

"You really had Destry worried, Sof," Ly says, chastising.

"Destry can handle me being gone for weeks on end," Sofiya crosses her arms. She will not be guilt-tripped, "This job was half a week, and I was only a few days off schedule. I did tell Cherry that I'd be late." The words come out as a question.

None of them say anything.

Another flash of worry courses through Sofiya. Cherry Vlasova is a Heartrender, and one of Sofiya's closest friends. The message that Sofiya had forwarded was simple and concise: I'll be a few days late. Stopping at Os Kervo. Don't worry, no Fjerdans. Tell Destry -S.P

Had something happened to Cherry? She was an avid gossiper; her post box was always full of tip-offs (a useful source of information for the Robber Claws) but Sofiya was reliably informed that her letters were always placed on the top of the pile. Marked "URGENT."

"What happened? Is Cherry alright?" Sofiya demands.

Iseut holds up her palms, and they are callused and grease-marked. Sometimes Iseut is so well put together that Sofiya forgets she's a barmaid.

"Cherry is fine. But all our Grisha are shaken. Whilst you were away, there was an attack on the East Stave."

Sofiya's heart stops and restarts and stops again.

An attack. On the Grisha. And she wasn’t there to - to help, to defend-

"Destry," Sofiya breathes, "And Cherry - and Adali, Roza, Linnea, Yan, Anya- oh, Saints, was it the Fjerdans?"

There are many Grisha members of the Robber Claws. It was one of the reasons that Sofiya wanted to join them in the first place. If the Fjerdans had attacked -

"Everybody is fine," Ly says lowly, "We had Freya and May fixing people up as soon as we heard- and Lita, of course, but behind the scenes."

Freya and May- and even Lita, whose powers most of the gang didn't even know of. Grisha Healers. So people had been hurt.

"What. Happened." Sofiya growls, and Ly glares at her challengingly, fists clenching. The water beneath the decking froths and bubbles as Sofiya brings her own fists together, power surging pleasantly up her arms. If Ly wants a fight, she can have one.

"Calm down, both of you," Winter's smooth voice projects from under her hood. Despite the heavy fabric, her voice is clear and commanding. Sofiya takes a breath to compose herself.

"To answer your previous question: no. It wasn't the Fjerdans." Iseut says, "We don’t know what they were."

Sofiya's brow creases at the chime of fear in Iseut's voice. She's never seen the golden-haired barmaid afraid before.

It begins to rain softly, the pattering of droplets quiet against the wooden decking of the docks.

"We should go back to the Queen’s Head, Iseut," Ly suggests, referencing Iseut’s place of work. Iseut nods once, swiftly, and glances over Sofiya's shoulder at her warship.

"Do you need to...?"

"Yes."

"Go on, then."

"KASTOR! IM GOING FOR A ROUND OF DAY-DRINKING!" Sofiya yells over the shoulder of her rain-splattered coat. She hears Ly chuckle as Kastor's scruffy head pokes out from a window.

He nods at Sofiya when he spots her, and she waves, assenting. Kastor would keep everything safe whilst she was gone. It was their unspoken agreement, unchanging and unwavering since the day they'd become crewmates.

Sofiya turns back to Iseut, Ly and Winter.

"Let's be on our way," she says, and lets her fellow criminals lead the way along the Harbour, her warship disappearing into the mist behind her.

~~~~

The mid-day slump of customers meant that the Robber Claws had the Queen’s Head pub all to themselves.

Iseut- who did not own the pub, but had put more work into it than the real owners ever did- had immediately trekked behind the bar and poured herself a whisky.

"Want anything?" She asks, directing the question directly at Sofiya despite the equal presence of Ly- and Winter (who had lowered her hood slightly now that she was back on familiar ground, with familiar faces.) Bruisers didn’t drink on the job. It slowed reflexes.

"The story," says Sofiya firmly, "It a joke about the day-drinking. What happened?"

Iseut pours herself another whiskey and the quartet take a seat at a shady little circular table in a quiet corner. The murmurs of other Robber Claws members is enough to shelter their conversation from the group- despite Sofiya being sure she was the only one unaware of what had transpired the days she’d been gone.

As Iseut begins her story, with Winter and Ly regularly interjecting with additions, Sofiya feels horror and fear clamp down on her heart like a Fjerdan Grisha trap.

Iseut’s alluring voice weaves a tale of Komedie Brute actors in bloody masks, rose-painted rubble from an impossible explosion, and worst of all: Grisha. Dead Grisha, killed by creatures with screeching metal wings.

“Only a few of our Grisha were hurt,” Iseut sips her drink solemnly, “We took your advice of keeping them anonymous and undercover. We have Erin and our other spies out searching for answers at the embassies. I’m sure you’re just as eager to find out about the winged creatures as we are.”

Sofiya nods, “I am. Thank you for filling me in, Is, really. And to you, Ly, Winter. I know you don’t like going to far from the West Stave.”

The last comment was directed purely at Winter. It’s not a lie. Winter runs a dojo for training Kerch’s women to protect themselves from Barrel bosses and scum alike; she didn’t want her clients finding out about her… Robber side. Being a criminal wasn’t the most unintimidating, friendly persona to have when speaking with vulnerable women.

Sofiya respected Winter and her clean profession. It was hard to be so kind in the Barrel. And men were rarely kind to women at all.

Sofiya knew that first hand.

Shoving away the memories- blue eyes, dark hair, gorgeous smile, charming words and sharper wounds- Sofiya stands in one fluid movement.

“I’m going to find Destry,” she says. Iseut stands, Ly and Winter falling back to flank her again, and smiles. She’s beautiful, that is undoubtful, but the attacks- the sleazy men at the Queen’s Head, the strain of the city- it’s all gotten to her. Sofiya can see it.

This city is poison, thinks Sofiya as Iseut takes her hand and shakes it. Poison and rot.

“Destry will be in her rooms,” Ly supplies, and Sofiya nods at her once.

Sofiya grins brightly, hoping it covers her own weariness, and recites, “Fair winds.”

“Bright stars,” chorus her friends. Sofiya waves over her shoulder as she slips out of the bar and down an alley. Above her, a storm brews in the clouds.

Perhaps the stars would be out that night. It didn’t matter. Nobody in Kerch saw the stars anymore.

~~~~

On her way to Destry’s apartments, Sofiya ran into more members of the Robber Claws.

Malcolm and Firefly, who lived together in shared housing in the Anvil, were shopping for new blacksmiths’ equipment. They each provided invaluable services to the Robber Claws, crafting flawless weapons second only to that of Fabrikators. They greeted her with a wink each. Sofiya moved on swiftly after trading them a Wandering Isle-crafted staff for twenty Kruge.

She picked up some baked goods on the way. She would need them. Destry- who had been her closest friend since she arrived in Kerch- was an Inferni. Fire-bringer; with an even fierier temperament. Rumour had it- and Sofiya knew the rumours were true- that Destry had been attending the University of Ketterdam when she’d heard a boy make a lude comment during an exam and lit the paper on fire with her mind. And that paper had been thrown. At the boy’s face. Ouch.

Sofiya had been nursing a whiskey in a tavern when she’d first heard the story recounted. She’d leapt up from her seat, slithered into an alley and held the recounter at knifepoint until he’d told her Destry’s name.

They’d become fast friends upon meeting. Sofiya had been in awe of someone so rebellious, so brave as to set fire to an exam paper, and Destry- well. Destry had laughed for hours when Sofiya had told her how she’d first come across her name.

But now, staring up at the ornate windows of Destry’s apartment, Sofiya feels unsure. She didn’t mean to worry her friend. Iseut had explained that her letter must have gotten lost during the riots. Sofiya cursed the post offices. So there was a deadly storm- your motto is still “We always deliver.”

Despite her trepidation, Sofiya’s feet were swift on the stairs. She had a key to the apartment, and didn’t hesitate to unlock the door and slip inside without a sound, content to watch Destry whilst she worked; even if only for a moment.

Leaning against the wall, Sofiya’s brow creases as she surveys her friend. Destry’s hair is plaited carefully into two loops at the nape of her neck, hazel strands freeing themselves gently against her light brown skin. She’s stood facing away from Sofiya, arms circled in rings of fire. The shirt she wears is Fabrikator-made; the flames don’t take to the papery material.

Sofiya takes a step forward, and pointedly drops her bag of confectionary on the floor. It lands with an audible thump.

Destry whirls, the fire at her wrists whirling into an inferno ready to strike- until Destry sees who is at her door.

“Shouldn’t have hesitated, Des,” Sofiya said weakly, “I could have put a knife in your back.”

The shock on Destry’s face dissolves. Her face splinters down the middle. Licks of fire at her fingertips wilt into ash in a pile at her boot-clad feet.

“You would have put out the flames with your water, I’m sure,” Destry says, and then flies across the room towards Sofiya, wrapping her in a tight, smoke-smelling embrace.

Sofiya would normally pull back. “Don’t be too open with your heart, Des,” she’d say, “People use your loves against you here.” But Sofiya couldn’t bring herself to say those things. The weight of the week comes crashing down on her head like a tsunami.

Fjerdan traps on my boat, attacks on my gang, tensions in Ravka boiling over… where’s safe anymore, except here?

Destry pulls back slightly to scan Sofiya’s face. She has a smear of oil on her cheek. Destry’s eyes are filled with fire, burning like an ember beneath onyx waters.

“Where. Have. You. Been.”

“Destry-”

“Don’t you make excuses with me, Pavlichenkov,” Destry snarls, “You didn’t warn us you were late! I couldn’t sleep- neither could Cherry!”

“I-”

“We thought you’d been caught, Sofi,” Destry cries, “We thought the Fjerdans had got you! I thought you died.”

The word is ugly and big in the room, choking Sofiya’s response. Death. Dying. Dead. And by Fjerdan hands. It wasn’t so rare for travelling Grisha to be caught and sent to the pyres.

“I’m sorry,” Sofiya says, because it’s the only thing there is, “I wrote- I really did, don’t look at me like that- according to Lyra, there was a storm in the True Sea. The letter sunk with the ship.”

“You’re a Tidemaker,” Destry huffs.

“Yes, which means I manipulate water,” Sofiya says, “Not stop it from overturning ships with important letters on them. Destry, I’m sorry. I brought waffles.” She offers the last sentence like a defendant on trial with the Stadwatch; one final piece of evidence to prove her innocence.

Destry brightens immediately, “Well, in that case.”

The pair of them set to work, shoulders just brushing in the cramped kitchenette. Sofiya’s array of pasties are laid out over two plates, which they lay on their laps. Destry’s job for the Robber Claws is, in few words, that of the logician. Papers are scattered all over her apartment, covered in detailed blueprints and scale drawings of buildings all over Ketterdam, Fjerda and even- rarely- Shu Han. There were no drawings of Ravka.

If Iseut had ever commissioned a robbery in Ravka, Sofiya didn’t know about it. It would be…unwise to hit out at the Ravkans, with so many Grisha in the gang.

But Destry’s job was essential, so Sofiya couldn’t complain about the lack of trays to put their plates on. Such things were useless for such an incredible mind as Destry’s.

“So,” says Destry conversationally as she lights the fireplace with a casual flick of her wrist, “How were the Wandering Isles?”

Sofiya says nothing, massaging her temples lightly. Destry manages a laugh.

“Your silence is telling, Sofi,” she warns.

Sighing quietly, suddenly feeling very tired, Sofiya says, “It was crawling with our Fjerdan friends from the North. ‘Peaceful’ Fjerdans.”

Destry spins, and she is outlined with the fire. We’re opposites, Sofiya thinks. Fire and Water.

“You didn’t-” Destry begins, horrified.

Silently, solemnly, Sofiya raised her palms to face the ceiling. Destry reaches out.

Her gentle fingers trace the scars there. Deep and painful and barely healed, the scars run red against Sofiya’s pale flesh.

“Sofiya…” Destry breathes.

“It was the only way to push my power down,” Sofiya whispers. She’s rarely so emotive, but Destry is someone she trusts with everything. It was a weakness, some would say, but they were each powerful Grisha. They were Gods in a world of men. And they would not kneel “If I hadn’t, I would’ve been caught. It was a price to pay.”

Grisha shone like lighthouses around people. In Kerch, in Ketterdam, it was safer for them- especially ones loyal to a gang, as Destry and Sofiya were. But in the Wandering Isles; where Fjerdans passed through on their way to Novyi Zem, where gang affiliations mattered less than the colour of your eyes… Sofiya tells herself she had no choice.

“Sofiya, you’ve opened up old wounds here,” Destry says, tracing the marred skin of her palms again, “You need a healer. Freya, Lita, May-”

“Wouldn’t understand,” Sofiya finished, pulling her hands out of Destry’s and placing them carefully in her lap, obscuring them with her coat, “They’re healers, Des, not warriors- they’d go to Iseut.”

Iseut. Their unofficial leader, the founder, the lighthouse in raging seas. All of the Robber Claws seemed to be caught in her gravity. She was their sun. And Sofiya… well, Sofiya was the moon. Iseut would send her to a healer, one who would stop her travels. One who would commandeer her Warship, and Kastor… health of the mind was important to Iseut.

But Sofiya was not damaged, as they would tell her. She was not broken. Her mind was sound.

I did what I had to do, to survive.

But Destry can see through it all. Through the mask, through her eyes, right to her bones. Through to her lying, treacherous heart. We’re all broken in the end.

But.

Oh, Destry, Destry, please…

“I won’t tell her,” Destry promises, “But I’d like you to know that I think you should. Tell her, that is- Iseut. She might help.”

“She might ship me back to Ravka,” Sofiya grumbles, biting into a toasty croissant.

“Oh, she wouldn’t.”

“You never know.”

“She’ll want you to heal, that’s all.”

“Yes,” Sofiya rolls her eyes, “But these wounds are of the flesh. The scars on my heart will never heal, not in this life Perhaps there will be mercy in the next, even for my rotten soul.”

“You sound like you’re auditioning for the Komedie Brute,” Destry laughs.

“Mother, Father, pay the rent!” Sofiya crows.

“I can’t my dear, the money’s spent,” Destry choruses instinctively.

Sofiya wipes away an invisible tear, “Gorgeous! We’ll make an actress out of you, yet, Destry Clements.”

“Oh, you most certainly will not,” Destry huffs.

Their laughter fills the air, and Sofiya thinks that maybe there is hope for her rotten soul, after all.

~~~~

The man returns late from the pub wearing only one shoe.

A bottle drained halfway of mauve liquid dangles limply from his pale fingers. The veins in his foot are blue in the half-moon’s light.

He slurs a broken melody. She catches a few words as he passes below her on the street.

“Hmm… perish… light… air… fire… hell… hmmm…”

The man’s name is Danyl Harrop. And he is going to die tonight.

“Hmm… shadow… devil… rot… earth… sun… burn… lose….”

Harrop continues down the road, heedless of the mud on his bare foot. He'd be blackout drunk in the morning if he survived.

He wouldn’t.

Silent as a breeze, steps as soft as downy feathers, she leaps from the streetlight where she was perched.

She strikes.

She is ash and shadow. She is a storm of fire. She is vengeance.

She is death.

Harrop yelps as she pins him against the tree. His face is as white as the moon, with eyes like black craters.

“What’re you doi-” he slurs dazedly, but she silences him with a wave of her hand. He blubbers like a fish on land as he tries to shout for help.

“For King and Country,” says the girl. Stepping away from Harrop, she lets her power hold him against the tree, keeping his muscles upright. She surveys him like an artist would their unfinished masterpiece.

The girl whispers, “Sleep tight, Danyl.”

Flicking her wrist, she snaps his neck. He’s still alive, barely, so she latches on to what little of his mind there is left and strips it like an onion. For a man who is out so late, so drunk, on what the girl remembers as a work-day, he knows too much.

Secrets. They feed this girl, nourish her. There is a skip in her step as she turns away from Harrop; without her supporting his muscles, he collapses against the tree. She leaves his mind just as it goes dark.

There is no need to hide in the treetops upon her return to the city. It gleams just half a mile away, most of which is roiling seawater. As the girl wanders along the road back to Ketterdam, she finds Danyl Harrop’s shoe in a puddle of mud. The girl laughs at the sky. She flips a coin into the shoe, whispers a heartless prayer to her Saints, and moves on.

Back to Ketterdam. Back home.

~~~~

Ok, so that's that! I left it on a bit of a cliffhanger... I may have created a whole plot... so there might be some more coming soon!

all these excellent characters (save Sofiya, Danyl, Kastor and the girl at the end who kills Danyl- who has no name... yet *wink*) belong to the following:

Iseut is @littlegirldorothea's

Destry is @finnick-annie's (I may have made them besties👀👀)

Cherry is @brekkercookie's (they are ALSO besties👀👀 we have a trio omg)

Winter is @cressjacquine's

Lyra is @no-mourners-at-my-funeral's

Malcom is @blackpheonix’s

Firefly is @ask-shadowbon’s

Erin is @lightningboytytonjesper’s

Adali is @apple-bottom-jeansx’s

Roza is @vampire-rights’s

Linnea is @alonlyfangirl's

Yan is @lucentcorrigan’s

Anya is @queenlilith43’s

Freya is @smol-evil-gremlin’s

Lita is @the-whispers-of-moonlight’s

May is @saltyfortunes

and the "Fair winds, bright stars" motto as created by @spicy-tomato-sauce's

oh and the whole Grishaverse is the wonderful @lbardugo's <3

if I missed anyone or you want to tag anyone go ahead!

[wifeofnatasharomanoff]

Cat it holdi.ng a guita r

cat it hodling guit r

[draw-you-coward]

“Till death do us part. And forever until the end of eternity.” pls? For sweet Trahearne and Roza?:3

ohh this turned out longer than i thot ;;3;; hope u like it tho! might post it as a second chapter in that fic since it could fit nicely

~*~

Roza’s step is silent, as it always is. Trahearne only knows he has come to visit when Harley leaps off his lap with an elegant swish of her tail and patters off, mewling plaintively.

“Hello, princess,” he hears from the kitchen. “I’ve brought treats for you, like I promised. Yes, I have.”

Trahearne shakes his head with a smile, putting his current crafting project aside and rising from his large armchair (Roza says it is a rocking chair, but he isn’t certain it is supposed to move like that). He has protested before, without much intent, about giving Harley food, since he still cannot find anything resembling a litterbox. But Roza has only pointed out that she is finding things to eat anyhow, and it serves little purpose to “starve her of deserved treasures,” as he puts it. Trahearne does not even know where he is buying cat treats from.

He reaches the kitchen and leans against the doorframe, watching Roza pamper his overpampered cat with a wide, foolish smile he cannot keep from tugging at his cheeks. “Good morning.”

“Good afternoon, dear lover.” Roza puts Harley down on the counter, and she rubs against his arm. “You are depriving her, I see. It is a good thing I am here.”

Trahearne doesn’t know whether he’s serious or not, even when he picks up the bag he has dropped on the floor and brushes past him with a wink. “I have something to show you,” he calls over his shoulder.

Trahearne joins him on the couch as he opens his bag and rifles through it, ducking his head to peer inside. “Did you get me food as well?”

“I am your treat. Do not get greedy,” Roza scolds, although it is with a flash of teeth. He pulls out a small scroll, and pauses. After a moment, he hands it to Trahearne.

“I do not know if I want this, but if you like it you can keep it.”

It is an odd statement, coupled with an equally odd discovery: the scroll is of sylvari craftsmanship, made from finely-woven pith turned light from a few years of aging. Trahearne unrolls it curiously, and reveals a coloured ink portrait of a sylvari, with a young smile and deep indigo bark. His branches bloom into brilliant violet foliage, and his blue eyes seem to sparkle from an unseen light.

“It’s beautiful.” Trahearne glances up to find Roza watching him intently. “Did you paint it?”

Roza barks out a sharp laugh, and Trahearne, although not one to laugh at someone else’s expense, lets himself smile. Roza is many wondrous things, but artistically gifted is not one of them. Trahearne had a small collection of hideous painted pots in his old office that proved it.

“No,” Roza replies. He nudges his chin towards the scroll. “Do you recognize him?”

Trahearne looks at it again. His first thought is that it reminds him of Dagonet, back when they were saplings, but the physiology is wrong. Large eyes, long ears, a thin, hooked nose, a segmented pattern outlining his cheeks…

Trahearne looks at Roza in growing surprise, and then, at his slight smile, back at the scroll. No, it can’t be. But… “This is you. The resemblance is uncanny.”

Roza nods. Trahearne holds the portrait up next to his head, still half disbelieving, and he rolls his eyes but holds still. Side by side like this, there is no denying it. That is his Roza smiling at him from the scroll, steeped in colour and joy he does not have.

“How?” Or perhaps why? Had he commissioned this?

Roza sighs, squeezing his largest branch and slumping against the couch. “Long story short, there is a seer, living in the Grove, who is very skilled with inks and paints. Their life’s work—ah, Wyld Hunt—is to document our kind. Due to their connection to the Dream, they sometimes paint the faces they see in there. I had… a thought, so I went and asked them a few questions. And lo and behold,” he gestures loosely to the scroll.

Trahearne runs his thumb over the material, staying shy of touching ink. “That is amazing—I have never heard of anything like it before. So this is… what you looked like before you awakened?”

Roza shrugs. “I do not know; my memory of the Dream is hazy at best, and there are no mirrors there. But presumably, yes.”

“Amazing,” Trahearne repeats, staring at the portrait once more. Roza only looks at him.

“Is that what you think?”

His tone is what makes Trahearne glances up at him. It is worryingly difficult to read, as is his expression, and for the first time he considers why Roza wanted to show him this.

“I think is a lovely painting,” he answers honestly, “But it is not the Roza I know.”

Roza’s lip pulls back in a wry smile. “It is the Na Rós you never got to. A perfect, unmarred sylvari.”

Trahearne frowns in concern, touching his wrist. Roza’s eyes flicker with movement, and although they are pitch black instead of brilliant blue, they are familiar, and Trahearne would know them in the most turbulent storm on the darkest night. This is his Roza. The painting is a stranger.

“He is everything I can never be,” Roza says simply. “Look at the light in his smile. Would you not prefer someone who could laugh with all their heart?”

“No,” says Trahearne.

Those eyes he loves fix on him, large and dark. He used to think they were vacant, unknown, even eerie. Now he can navigate through their depths with only his heart to guide him.

“He is a beautiful thing, so young and happy.” Roza leans closer. “Are you not drawn to beauty?”

“There is beauty in fragments,” Trahearne replies. He traces the pattern on Roza’s cheek, carved from colourless bark, with his forefinger. “In mended shards glued back together.”

Roza smiles without humour. “Are you calling me broken pottery?”

“Do not make me tear this painting to make a point.”

Roza makes a noise like a laugh, more of a hiss. He surges forward to kiss Trahearne, wanting for—love, confirmation, a promise—whatever he is searching for. Trahearne kisses him until he calms, until the shoulder beneath his hand slumps, until Roza’s emotion bleeds out with his breath.

“I am sorry,” is the first thing he utters when they part. He bows his head against Trahearne’s neck, as if too cowed to meet his eye.

Trahearne tilts his head upwards. “Do not be.”

“Do you ever wish that—”

“No.” Trahearne doesn’t let him finish his sentence. “And no, and,” he pretends to consider. “No.”

Roza grins weakly. “You must get tired of me sometimes.”

“I think I already answered that.” Trahearne leans down to kiss him once more, and meets lips that are soft and yielding. “Dearheart, know this. I will not be tired of you when you are at your best, nor at your worst, nor at any point in between. Did I not tell you that I weighed all my odds and chose you? I will continue to choose you, my dear Roza, for forever. Past your fleeting life. Until the end of eternity.”

Roza hides his face into his neck, the long bridge of his nose a hard line below his ear. His chest quavers lightly, and Trahearne strokes his back in slow, soothing motions.

The scroll lies to his right, forgotten. It is a lovely painting of a stranger. Perhaps one day, if he is willing, he will ask Roza to commission a portrait of himself. It would be nice to have one to hang up.

~*~

thank u so much!! <33

send me a soft starter?

[irreplaceable-ecstasyy]

Could we perhaps get a part 2 to the Marya and Helene running away fic?!

YOU WANTED A PART 2?!?! I GIVE YOU A PART 2!!! SORRY FOR THE WAIT BUT HERE IT IS!!! <3

Part 1 here

Vanya Vorobev trudged her way through inches of snow after a long day at work, boots heaving to free themselves from the ground that trapped them. Snow coated her short locks of red hair that pooled at her shoulders unceremoniously in a mess of tangles and knots. How dreadful the winters could be. It was no different than what she had had in Moscow and her dislike for these horrid days only grew. If work had ended any earlier, she would have beat the stir of the oncoming blizzard but here she was battling her way through with the residue of her strength. A full day’s sewing garments had drained her but there was something that kept her going. Or to be more precise, someone. Someone at home waiting to welcome her with open arms and preferably a cup of hot tea laced with rum to shake the cold away.

The walk to work was never an issue for the morning weather was always pleasant but it was always unkind during the evening. Work was even more unpleasant for her supervisor would never allow her colleagues and herself off early. The weather was no excuse to dismiss everyone early as they had deadlines to meet and quotas to fulfil, both which Vanya despised with all her being. She had filed complaints before to her higher ups but was met with harsh laughs and mockery for being so bold. They would jest at her for being a woman then threaten her with their class and gender. God, how she despised those pesky imbeciles and their horrid perverted words. She always gave in and she hated it. If only they knew the power she possessed. What she once had before this life but she had left all that behind for this one and she did not regret it for a moment.

Amidst the blizzard, her eyes were squinted to see through the haze of white, a hand raised to shield the snowflakes that might obscure her vision. Aggressively, she stormed through the building blanket of snow at her feet, unbothered by the way the cold seeped into her boots. Warmth awaited her as a reward for her efforts and a little water never hurt. Eventually, she defeated the storm. She collided against the gate of her home with a soft grunt then yanked it open after fumbling about with the lock. As she stepped into her garden, the gate slammed shut behind her with a very unsatisfying thud and that was when the door of her home swung open. She bolted towards the entrance and was greeted by a graceful breeze of warm air blowing in her face, accompanied by the scent of soup and fresh bread.

The door closed and Vanya was engulfed in a warm embrace. A face pressed against her back, arms wrapped around her waist in a firm hold and a light giggle filled the air. Sighing softly, Vanya leaned into the arms of her lover… her wife, to be more precise… and she craned her neck to look over her shoulder at the head of curls in her line of vision. Roza Sorokina Vorobev. Or, Hélène Vasilyevna Akhrosimova, as we all know. Vanya Marya turned around and pulled Hélène into her arms, burying her face in her hair to take her all in. Hélène moved her hands to hold Marya’s cheeks within her hands, lifting her head to kiss her gently on the lips which Marya happily returned. They had been deprived of affection for too long. Yes, in their terms, a day was long. The kiss lasted for a while then it was followed by another and then another one until Hélène pulled away to speak.

“How was your day at work?” Hélène murmured as she removed Marya’s bonnet, tossing it onto the couch lazily.

“Awful as always. Today could have been worse but thank heavens for my colleagues. My supervisor insisted that we worked until the wind died down but we demanded that we returned home since we weren’t getting paid for overtime,” Marya told her with a scoff.

“What did your colleagues do that saved your day?” Hélène inquired, taking Marya’s coat to hang it up on the coat rack.

“They had my back,” Marya simply answered.

Raising a brow, Hélène’s gaze followed the woman as she walked to the kitchen to help with dinner that was still cooking. “Okay. What did you do?”

“I raised my voice.” Marya shot Hélène a smirk and it earned her a small round of an applause.

“How terrifying~ Oh, you’re truly my feisty dragon!” Hélène exclaimed.

Marya picked up a spoon, stirring it in the air dramatically. “If there’s anything I’ve kept from my previous life, it’s that name,”

“I’m not complaining. I adore it.”

“Keep it in your pants, Kuragina.”

Hélène hugged Marya from behind and kissed the back of her neck. “It’s actually Akhrosimova now~”

“Oh?” Marya smirked lightly. “How cute.”

“You’re not supposed to praise your own name.”

“I was praising you, stupid.”

“Ah. Thank you~ I appreciate it very much.”

“You had better.”

Marya abandoned dinner just for a moment to attend to her wife, drawing her into her arms to press a kiss to her lips. She ran her hands through Hélène’s curls and rested her forehead against hers gently. Hélène hummed softly against Marya’s lips and cupped her cheeks delicately. Before they could lean in for another kiss, a voice cried out. A loud shrill sob filled the house and Marya pulled away from Hélène to look towards the corridor where the cry had come from. Hélène acted quickly. After a kiss to Marya’s cheek, she dashed down the corridor and entered a room that appeared to be where the wailing came from. It went quiet, save for the occasional sniffles and reassuring whispers, and Hélène came out of the room carrying a little girl who was no more than the age of 3. Their little girl.

Her cheeks were stained with tears pouring down, eyes red rimmed from crying too hard and her little fists clutched Hélène’s blouse tightly. When the little one saw Marya, her face lit up and she held her arms out to her with grabby hands, finger wriggling insistently for Marya to pick her up. Children were funny little beings. Their moods could switch within a matter of minutes and Marya was not one to complain for she found it very easy to figure her way around the ways of parenting. The girl squealed in excitement as Marya plucked her from Hélène’s arms and she buried her face against the woman’s neck where she was perfectly comfortable. Hélène stood beside Marya, a hand on their daughter’s back to trace circles in a comforting manner, and she smiled at her wife.

Etoile Kuragina Akhrosimova. That was her name of their little one. She was not their biological daughter but they loved her as their very own. They had adopted her on the day she was born. Prior to her date of birth, a co-worker had confided in Marya about an unplanned pregnancy which peaked Marya’s interests. All it took was a question, one that changed her to love not only as a wife but as a mother. This colleague of hers trusted Marya with the birth of a new life and she had never been more honored to have the privilege of raising a child of her own with the woman that she loved. This was God’s greatest gift to them, a sign that he had given his blessing and Marya, until this day, was eternally grateful. She prayed to God every night, thanking him for all that he has given them and praising his generosity. There was nothing more in the world that she wanted.

“She’s been asking for you all day and when the blizzard came, she thought you were never coming back,” Hélène stated quietly, a solemn look settling upon her features.

“Oh… Poor dear. Please don’t tell me she’s been crying all day.” Marya looked at Etoile who was beaming up at her, her wet cheeks dried from rubbing her face against her mother’s shoulder.

“She didn’t, and thank goodness for that… She started crying when you did not show up on time. Sat in that very spot”- Hélène motioned vaguely to the sitting room- “and stared at the clock for hours.”

Etoile held up two fingers. “You said 4… You came back at 8.”

“I’m so sorry, Etoile. I promise I’ll make it up to you,” Marya cooed softly then kissed the little girl’s cheek.

“Promise?” Etoile lifted her pinkie finger which Marya hooked her own pinkie around with a smile.

“I promise.”

Etoile was more than pleased. She hugged Marya tightly and nuzzled against her neck, tucking her head in between the crook of her shoulder and neck. Hélène giggled softly and wrapped her arms around the both of them, her little family. Every day was just perfect among the three of them; though, they did yearn the company of their families back in Moscow, the place that was once their home. Marya missed her goddaughters as well as her old friend, Pierre. She wrote to them as frequently as she could but with how letters were being tracked, it would risk revealing their location to those who were searching for them so her stuck to a quota of two letter per month; three in case of emergencies or festivities.

It had already been two months since Marya sent her letters to her dear family but it was not forgetfulness that created the hiatus. It was the incredibly patient wait both her and Hélène had to endure as well as the receiving end of the letter which consisted of Pierre and Natasha who branched out to Sonya and Mary. Hélène’s receiving end consisted of her brother, Anatole, whose letters also were addressed to Dolokhov. Waiting was never a simple task, unless one were disciplined like Marya or as easily entertained as Etoile. Hélène was terrible at passing time and two months had felt like an entire year to her. On the bright side of things, she did not have to wait any longer.

A knock echoed through the house and it was followed by a drumming of fists that were much gentler than the former. The door rattled with every knock, especially with the overly-enthusiastic rhythm and Marya feared that the door might cave in soon. Hélène went to answer the door hurriedly for she did not want their guests standing in the middle of a snowfall for too long, Etoile waddling closely behind her after Marya had settled her down to lay out the table. When the door swung open, Hélène was greeted by a pair of arms flinging over her shoulders which pulled her into the tightest but warmest hug she had ever received in a long time.

“Vanya! It’s so good to see you again!” Natasha exclaimed but she paused her excitement. “Wait… Or is it Roza?”

“It’s Roza, ma charmante.” Hélène leaned in to whisper into the young girl’s ear. “But it’s exclusively Hélène for the lot of you~”

Natasha beamed and squeezed Hélène tighter in the hug. “It’s been so long!”

“It has! Your godmother and I are so happy to have you here.” Hélène noticed the way Pierre shuffled awkwardly beside Natasha and she pulled away from Natasha to greet him with a hug. Baffled, Pierre wrapped his arms around her and patted her shoulder. “Hello, Pierre. It’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too, Elena. Hélène… Uh- Roza,” Pierre stammered but he was smiling in amusement. “I apologize. You have quite a number of names and you didn’t specify which to use in any letters.”

“Hélène will do, my dear. I see you haven’t changed at all,” Hélène jested as she nudged him gently in the side with her knuckle.

“And neither have you,” Pierre jabbed back. His eyes widened at the sight of Etoile clinging onto her mother’s skirts, head peeking out from where she stood behind Hélène and he knelt down. “Is this little Etoile?”

Natasha gasped, a hand flying to her lips. “Oh, she’s gorgeous. Hi there.”

Etoile’s eyes twinkled in curiosity and pure joy to see the people that Hélène had shown her before in photographs. It was as if her picture books had come to life. She waved at Natasha then approached her slowly. These people in front of here were her own relatives she was meeting, other people who she could consider her family aside from her mothers. Leaping with joy, she buried herself against Natasha in what was supposed to be a hug and she stayed in Natasha’s fur coat for a while. Her fists clutched the furs and Natasha picked her up with a light giggle. Pierre watched them fondly and he placed a fairly large hand on Etoile’s back, rubbing circles in a familiar and comforting manner.

“She’s an angel,” Natasha swooned as she leaned into Pierre who kissed her forehead.

“She gets that from her mother,” Hélène said as she motioned to the kitchen where Marya came rushing out.

“Natasha, darling! How wonderful it is to see you! And Pierre, old friend, you’re looking well!” Marya cheered as she drew the two of them into a welcoming hug.

Pierre grinned at the sight of his dear friend. “Marya, it’s good to see you”- He was startled when Natasha interjected.

“Marya! Where have you been? It’s rude to be late. You taught me that lesson yourself,” Natasha scolded her godmother mockingly.

“I know I did but truth be told, I just got back home a while ago and I had dinner to prepare. Please excuse this minor inconvenience. I promise, it won’t happen again,” Marya swore.

“It better not. Now come give your favorite goddaughter a hug!” Natasha bounced into Marya’s outstretched arms and Etoile was sandwiched comfortably between the two ladies before Natasha passed the little one to her mother.

“Sit down at the dining table, my dears. Food is ready. We can’t have it going cold,” Marya insisted as she ushered her guests to the kitchen. “Hélène, dear, could you close the door?”

Hélène complied and skipped to the door to shut it as she was told but stopped when she saw four figures in the snow making their way to the door. Two men clumsily kicking through the snow and two women walking like completely normal humans with their arms linked. One of them, the tallest male of the lot, was mocking one of the ladies for her height and this small lady happened to be the smallest of the group. From what Hélène could see, she had quite a feisty attitude and very quick retaliation. As this tall figure ruffled the shorter figure’s hair, the shorter one struck, the back of her hand whipping the taller’s side swiftly and it elicited a loud high-pitched whine that Hélène knew all too well.

“Told you to stop bullying her,” Dolokhov laughed as he hit the taller man’s head.

“It’s not my fault that she can’t take a joke.” Anatole rubbed the back of his neck, scoffing at his companion before side-eyeing Sonya who was glaring daggers at him.

“Can we please be civil?” one of the girls squeaked out meekly, specifically Mary Bolkonsky who was clinging onto Sonya’s arm for dear life. “Marya won’t appreciate this behavior.”

“I doubt she’d appreciate anything we do,” Dolokhov added.

“Would you guys rather argue in the snow or come inside?” Hélène called out to the group which caught their attention and Anatole gasped.

“Sister! Oh, dear god, it is so good to see you alive and well,” Anatole cheered as he abandoned Dolokhov’s side to race up to his sister, swooping her in his arms for a big bear hug. “How are you?”

Hélène squeezed her younger brother with love as she leaned into the hug. “I’m fantastic! I’m glad to see you! Fedya, Sonya, Mary. Welcome!”

“All attention on me, please?” Anatole requestion politely and Hélène pinched his cheek.

“You always were a joker. Come in, otherwise I might get a scolding from Marya for leaving the door open for too long.” Hélène moved out of the way, allowing the group to come in.

“And now for my turn!” Dolokhov declared and embraced his friend, one hand tossing his coat right onto the rack with precision (finally living up to his name of being a crazy good shot).

Hélène could have sworn she heard Dolokhov sniffle but crying would be quite uncharacteristic of him. No matter the circumstances, Fedya Dolokhov never cried. The winter wind might have caught him with a cold which was not very good. Hélène did not want anyone to return to Moscow with a burning fever. That would mean that they failed to be hospitable. But once more, crying and falling ill were not words in the vocabular of Dolokhov. If either of that happened in one day, then something must be wrong. For all Hélène knew, she could be in another universe but that was irrelevant. Why fret now?

“My dear Feddy. How have you been?” Hélène purred.

“Never better. Has Marya been taking care of you?” Dolokhov asked as he threw a look over Hélène’s shoulder.

“That is your biggest concern? Of course, she has! She pampers me a lot,” Hélène answered dreamily.

“Good! I actually wrote her a letter asking if she was and she only responded with “Dear Fyodor, we are fine. Stop wasting parchment paper, yours truly, Marya D,” Dolokhov storied.

Hélène snorted and laughed. “Ah- I’m aware of that. She wasn’t very pleased by your doubts in her.”

“I’m just concerned!” Dolokhov debated and scowled.

“I know you are. Now, stop sulking and make yourself at home. You’ve received your attention. I have other guests to attend to.”

“Yes, ma’am~”

Dolokhov skipped off with a hum as Hélène watched in amusement, shaking her head lightly. As for the two very similarly quaint and bashful ladies, Hélène also gave them a hug. They were not close but they appreciated affection as a warm welcome, metaphorically and physically, after bickering in the snow and troika ride for too long. Marya, despite her well-known dislike for Dolokhov and Anatole, had shown an accepting attitude as she greeted them with a handshake far too polite for the occasion. At least she allowed them to touch her hand with their icy ones, unless one were to count the fact that she was wearing mittens to avoid direct contact.

Etoile, who had been in Marya’s arms, demanded for Anatole to carry her and without hesitation, the man picked up his niece and twirled around the room with delight. The blonde had screamed, “Is this my beloved niece?!” as he spun which sent Etoile and Hélène into a fit of giggles. As much as she trusted her brother, Hélène still had to keep an eye on his as he played about with her daughter. He could get a little too absorbed in his own mind to consider caution. At the same time, the sight of her own brother and daughter bonding brought tears of joy to her eyes.

Dolokhov slid into a vacant seat at the dining table beside Sonya who groaned loudly in dismay for him to hear and Natasha laughed opposite them. Mary looked away, girding herself. Pierre waved to them awkwardly and pushed his falling glasses up his nose, scrunching it from how his glasses slid off his nose once more. The house was filled with Etoile’s giggling and cheering as Anatole spun around the room with her. Her cheers were contrasted by the quiet hissing and snapping from Dolokhov and Sonya who had decide to strike up another petty argument over Dolokhov’s manners. Oh, the joy to have the familiarity of the orchestra of sounds Hélène and Marya had been so used to in Moscow. They never thought that they would ever have the homeliness of Moscow in their own house but with this family of theirs, they brought the entirety of their home with them.

In all honesty, Marya did miss the ambience of Moscow. She would never forget it though. The gossips, the opera, the parties. They were all part of her being. She stood at the kitchen door with great fondness for everyone in the room, breathing in a refreshing whiff of air. It would have been nice if it were not for Anatole’s overwhelming perfume but it would do. Clapping her hands together, she sat at the table and everyone sat to join her.

“I won’t speak long. I’m sure everyone is hungry a long journey but I would like to thank you all for coming such a long distance to see Hélène and I. We have missed every single one of you dearly and I don’t think there’s a day that is more blessed than today. I hope we can gather like this more frequently in the future. But for now, we will cherish what we have,” Marya spoke, glancing at Hélène who was swooning over her. “Enjoy your dinner and may god bless you all.”

“God bless you too,” Mary chimed in her seat and when everyone turned to look at her, her cheeks flushed a deep shade of red.

“How adorable,” Hélène cooed.

“If you responded like her, maybe you’d be adorable too,” Marya interjected which earned her a frown.

“Are you saying I’m not adorable?” Hélène gasped dramatically.

“And we eat!” Dolokhov interrupted which worked like a charm.

So, they ate their dinner as one loving family. Hélène had Etoile sat on her lap as she fed the little girl. While so, they chatted with Anatole and Dolokhov in their weirdly positioned triangle but it worked. Natasha, Sonya and Mary shared their own triangle where they whispered and giggled in soft whispers in stark comparison to the other trio but neither groups were bothered. Marya was far too busy for a conversation as she was gazing at Hélène who was speaking to their daughter and feeding her with some bread and soup. Her daughter and her wife. Her heart was so full and with everyone here with them, she felt as though she might just pass out from the joy. She could very well but she did not wish to make a fool of herself.

And Pierre. Dear old Pierre. He observed his old friend and his former betrothed with an easy smile that came to his lips, distracted to the point he had forgotten about his dinner. He had never seen Marya so romantically endearing nor had he ever seen her openly display her emotions towards Hélène who she had once despised with every bit of her soul. Hélène was kinder now; much more kinder than she used to be when she carried the title of ‘The Queen of Society’. The title she held now was different, a better one for a change. She was now a mother and a wife to the woman she loved, and my God did that make Pierre proud of his intervention in their plans to grant them such happiness. He too had found his own happiness fairly quickly with Natasha which he was grateful for. It appeared that everyone at the dining table found their happy endings, or beginnings.

A curious thought. He wondered how things had been if he had refused to help Marya and Hélène flee Moscow to start anew. Would they be this happy, decently happy to an extent or miserable? Pierre was not willing to make a bet. Whatever it was, he appreciated the moment. He thanked the Lord above who gifted them this life and began to eat when Natasha tapped his shoulder for his attention. All was well.

[mordoriscalling]

Life (of) Surprise (5/6)

Jaskier lies to his family about being engaged to Geralt for the second time… and there are way too many surprises involved.

Part 4 of the Singer and the Sailor AU that no one asked for but I wrote anyway (again).

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4)

V - A Surprise Is Executed

Jaskier is so very in love as his niece sits in his lap.

Zofia couldn’t be more perfect. She’s so curious about everything, so cheerful and full of awe, like a tiny, beautiful sunbeam. From her father Nasir, she got her eyes almost as dark as coal, her medium-brown skin and her raven-black hair, while she resembles her mother – Jaskier’s sister Amelia – in angelic facial features and a mop of curls atop her head. She turns one-year-old tomorrow, which funnily falls on his and Geralt’s wedding day, and Jaskier couldn’t love her more.

With immense fascination, Zofia plays with Jaskier’s necklaces, tugging at them and trying to put them into her mouth. When Jaskier tells her not to do that, she looks up at him, seemingly surprised to find him there, but then recognition dawns on her face and she smiles.

“Unca!” she exclaims excitedly.

Jaskier melts.

“That’s me, Zosia,” he replies, his voice wavering. “I’m your uncle Jaskier.”

Zofia flashes him one more smile before her attention is caught by the floral pattern of his shirt. She grabs at the material and he giggles, explaining the names of the flowers to her. The girl tries to repeat some of the words he says, failing hilariously. As Jaskier laughs at her attempts, he hears another person chuckling too.

It’s only then that he realises that Yennefer has been here with them the whole time.

They are sitting in the comfortable armchairs in the music room in his house. Amelia has gone out shopping together with Rozalia, Ciri and Dara, leaving her daughter in Jaskier and Yennefer’s care. Not that Jaskier cannot be trusted with small children by himself. Yennefer is just a... coincidental backup. She only came here to drop Ciri off so that she would hang out with Dara. Really.

As Jaskier tears his eyes away from Zofia, he’s surprised to find Yennefer gazing at him and his niece... wistfully. The emotion is gone the moment she notices him looking.

“We didn’t get to meet Ciri when she was this little,” she says defensively.

“Would you like to hold her, then?” he offers.

Yennefer’s gaze turns sharp, lightning-like, but before Jaskier can start rambling and take it back, she answers, “Yes.”

He takes Zofia into his arms and carries her to put her in Yennefer’s lap. The girl fusses and begins crying, scared by the closeness of a person she doesn’t recognise. Jaskier crouches at Yennefer’s side and tries to talk to Zofia soothingly. When that doesn't work, he shows her his necklaces and this, at least, distracts her enough to stop her weeping.

When Zofia calms somewhat, Yennefer puts her hand on the girl’s back. Zofia looks up at her and Yennefer smiles so warmly, so beautifully, that Jaskier’s heart flutters a little bit. She talks to Jaskier’s niece in such a soft, gentle voice that Jaskier just sits down right there at her feet and watches her, stunned.

“You’re a sweet child, aren’t you, little Zosia?” Yennefer croons, still smiling, when Zofia touches her locks with a delighted giggle.  

“My, my,” Jaskier murmurs, with a certain degree of awe he finds himself unable to conceal, “When one bears witness to you like this, it is not a hardship to believe that you have a heart.”

Yennefer snorts. “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” she replies, not looking away from Zofia.

“Of course!” he laments. “Her affections are held by but the chosen few and alas, I’m not among them. With me, she knows no mercy! Woe me, for she swore to strike me with a near-fatal blow. After all, she’s stolen the heart of my very own guardian angel!”

What he means is Yennefer’s recent relationship with his long-time agent, Triss. Yennefer doesn’t show an ounce of shame about that.

“If you think that everyone’s thoughts revolve around you,” she answers, allowing Zofia to play with the rings on her fingers, “Then I’m slightly concerned for your mental well-being, starlet.”

“Concerned, she says!” Jaskier exclaims. “You wouldn’t be concerned about me even if I were on the brink of death. Such is my miserable fate, despised by the world’s most powerful woman!”

Yennefer sighs in a way painfully long-suffering. “Your dramatics are exhausting, starlet, and I refuse to suffer them. Leave it for tomorrow.”

It is then that it hits him.

“Oh my god,” Jaskier breathes out. “I’m marrying Geralt tomorrow.”

Yennefer gives a very Geralt-like hmm. “Who would’ve thought.”

“Oh c’mon,” he protests, “I’m quite a catch!”

She raises one perfect eyebrow. “It baffles me that some people seem to think so, and Geralt most of all.”

“You’re just bitter, witch,” Jaskier grumbles.

Yennefer actually chuckles at that, her violet eyes glimmering with amusement. Zofia gets bored of sitting in her lap and tries to get off, so Yennefer puts her on the floor. The girl reaches out for Jaskier. He takes her little hands in his, helping her stand up. They make a slow round around the room until Zofia decides to head back to the armchairs, sit on the carpet and play with one of Jaskier’s Gucci slippers.

All throughout, Yennefer watches her with that gorgeous, affectionate smile. Jaskier can see why Geralt was mad about her.

“You two are a very unlikely pair,” Yennefer remarks when Zofia crawls to her and inspects her shoes.

“Yes, well.” He shrugs. “Opposites attract, and all that. I like to think that we’re two puzzle pieces. A perfect fit.”

“Puzzle pieces!” she repeats, barking a harsh laugh. “Oh, starlet, if only it was this easy.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” he bristles.

“Don’t be foolish,” she chides. “A real relationship starts after three years. Before that, it’s just a romantic comedy.”

Jaskier purses his lips but doesn’t argue; she did spend almost a decade married to Geralt.

“Any advice, then?” he asks jokingly.

Yennefer actually considers it.

“Always be kind to each other,” she tells him, her face twisting with echoes of old, deep pain.

Jaskier only nods. They don’t speak for some time, focusing on Zofia. The girl starts getting moody after not seeing her mum around for such a long while. It’s a miracle she hasn’t got upset much earlier anyway. Thankfully, Amelia and the rest return a few minutes later.

“I think you haven’t shown us the wedding rings,” Yennefer says apropos of nothing after she returns Zofia to the safety of Amelia’s arms.

Jaskier blinks in surprise, realising that she’s right. He and Geralt had them made only two weeks ago. They decided on two silver bands, as gold felt too impersonal, both with a satin finish, Jaskier’s ring additionally encrusted with diamonds. Since Geralt entrusted them to him for safekeeping (and possibly also because Dara is their ring bearer anyway), Jaskier’s been, delicately put, protective of them. He only allowed anyone to see them in pictures.

“I haven’t, actually,” he admits. “Do you want to see them?”

Everyone nods. Reluctantly, Jaskier heads to his bedroom, where the box with the rings is hidden deep in a drawer of his bedside table. He’s more than certain to find them there. His heart stops when he discovers that they’ve somehow disappeared.

Gut-twisting panic rises within him. With shaking hands, Jaskier rakes all the drawers, then looks everywhere in the bedroom, but the box is gone.

“Fuck,” he curses with feeling. “Fuck, fuck fuckitty fuck!”

He more or less runs to the kitchen, where the rest waits.

“I’ve lost them!” he cries. “Help me look!”

Without another look at them, Jaskier goes about rummaging through the whole place frantically. Living room, the two guest rooms, the bathrooms – and still, nothing. He whimpers, wondering how’s Geralt going to react. He’s going to be disappointed, of course, but not surprised maybe, Jaskier did fuck up greatly once already. God, what if –

“Jaskier!” Ciri calls from the living room.

“They’re here!” Dara.

Jaskier rushes to them and sees the rings, resting in their box, on the coffee table, which baffles him so much that he stops dead in his tracks. He’s sure they weren’t there when he searched the room a few minutes ago.

“What,” he says, “the f – hell.”

Dara giggles. Ciri does too. Suddenly, everyone else is in the room, laughing hysterically.

“What’s so funny?” Jaskier demands. “This isn’t funny!”

Between one wheeze and another, Rozalia chokes out, “Of course you haven’t lost them!”

“You guard them like a dragon guards its hoard!” Amelia adds. “It wasn’t easy to take them away from you.”

Letting out a scandalised gasp, Jaskier points an accusing finger in the general direction of his sisters and Yennefer. “You – !”

“Your panic was extremely gratifying,” Yennefer says with a shit-eating grin.

“I hate you,” he grouses, shooting the three devious women a sulky look. “Why would you do that to me?! It wasn’t funny!”

“It was,” Dara objects. Ciri nods in agreement.

“Not you too!” Jaskier complains, throwing his hands up in the air. “You’re supposed to be on my side, young man! I’m surrounded by trai –”

“Just look on the inside of the rings, Julek,” Roza sighs tiredly.

He frowns, taking the bands to inspect them. “There’s nothing on the inside –”

There is, in fact, something on the inside of the rings. An engraving in small, elegant cursive, which wasn't there even a few hours ago.

Lead me, dearest, to the coast of tomorrow

Jaskier swallows hard, his throat suddenly tight. It’s such a sweet sentiment – his own lyric, the words he wrote for Geralt, in Geralt’s favourite song of his, with a lovely twist.

For a good minute, Jaskier is rendered speechless. When he finally manages to speak, he looks at his sisters and whispers hoarsely, “Thank you.”

“Oh, don’t thank us,” Amelia replies. “This was Yen’s idea.”

Jaskier stares at Yennefer, his mouth hanging open.

“The rings were lacking,” she explains with disdain that he sees right through.

Before Jaskier knows what he’s doing, he’s moving. He sweeps her into a tight hug, ignoring her protests about it.

“Oh, witch,” he murmurs to her, “You’re so wonderful.”

“That I am,” she replies. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

He chuckles, giddy all of the sudden. Yennefer shoves him away.

Jaskier laughs harder and blows her a kiss, enjoying her disgust.

[kate-read-that]

-мами, папочка!! (Mommy, daddy!)

Rose covered her eyes with her arm and turned around. She could hear the storm against the window and the window roaring, and she knew her son would come the second she saw the first raindrops.

Dimitri yawned besides her, woken up by Lev's cries. They both looked at each other knowingly as they heard the little footsteps approaching, and the little boy jumped to their bed before they had time to say anything.

-Shh, its just another storm, honey, lightnings can't hurt you -Dimitri murmured softly while caressing Lev's long black hair.

-No like it-little Lev shook his head and hid in his father's chest-. Too loud.

Rose walked to the kitchen to get the little boy some warm milk as Dimitri kept trying to xalm him down.

-Lev, you can sleep with us id you want, but you have to know that storms aren't hurtful. They are just climate phenomena, and this one will pass just like any other.

-Only you would tell a kid that storms are just "climate phenomena" -Rose came back with a plastic cup and rolling her eyes. Both Dimitri and Lev looked at her from the bed, marvelling at their favourite woman in the world. That is, until another lightning stroke and Lev hid under the blankets.

Rose sat on the bed next to him and lifted the bed sheet a little, peaking at their son with a smile.

-Now, Lev, what do we do when a noise is scary?

-We... we make... a scarier noise. To... assert dominance.

Dimitri lifted a brow at that and looked at Rose. His looked seemed ro say "did you really said that to a 3 year old kid". Rose smiled sweetly and got Lev from under the bedsheets.

-Exactly, so, if the lightnings scare us...?

Lev looked at his mother for a second, then turned at his father and, when he saw Dimitri looked as lost as him, he turned to the window and started roaring.

Dimitr looked alternatively at his wife and his son with equal looks of surprise. While his wife laughed, their son kept howling and roaring at the sky with the most furious expression a three-year-old can fanthom.

-кричать громче! (scream louder!) -shouted Rose between laughing.

-I knew teaching you Russian was a bad idea -mustered Dimitri while trying to contain his own smile-. Okay, Lev, I think the sky has taken the hint. It'll never try to scare you again, I'm sure. Do you want to sleep with us?

Lev shook his head -Sky is scared. я в порядке. (I'm fine)

-Okay, chipmunk, but if you change your mind we're here-Rose kissed her son's black hair and picked him up-. Now it's time to go back to bed.

Lev didn't complain, he just waved at his father, who was still sitting on the bed with a smile, and drank the mil his mother was offering him.

Rose came back a few minutes later and jumped to bed next to Dimitri. Inmediately he hugged her and turned the light off again.

-We have the best kid in the world.

Dimitri did laugh at that, for Rose's anoyance.

-And I'm the annoying parent?

-No, you're the over protective parent. I'm the proud one-he could hear her smugness in the dark as she kept talking-. He speaks two languages perfectly, and I know Dad is teaching him Turkish as well when he comes. He's funny and brave and sweet and...

-And his poop smells like death, just like any other poop. He doesn't speak perfectly, he's three. I don't know whats funnier, how motherly you are or how competitive you are about it.

-Oh, come one. Its not my fault if Declan is the only kid that can compare to ours. Of course, Sidney is his mom, so of course he would speak English and Spanish and Italian -Rose rolled her eyes even though her husband couldn't see her, and felt the way Dimitri shook with his laugh.

-Roza, I just... I swaer I'll never figure you out completely.

-Dont compliment me, Comrade. I have to get up early tomorrow and I dont have time for a quickey before.

Dimitri groaned in annoyance, yawning again and kissing Rose's hair.

-As much as I love your line of thought most of the time, Roza, I agree right now it's not the best timing. Lev could come back and there's no need for traumatic experiences just yet -Rose let out a laugh at that, so loud Dimitri hushed her to make sure Lev wouldn't wake up. Dimitri staied silent for some minutes before talking again-. I agree, we have the best kid in the world. Do... do you think we could have more?

Rose hummed before talking-Are you asking me for permission, Comrade?

-I'm not the one that would have to carry a baby for nine months.

-You helped me so much through the whole thing and afterwards its almost an equal job. You got up to feed Lev everynight since the birth day until a year had passed.

-Yoy haven't answered my question. You'd have to stop working for a few months like last time, but as soon as the baby is born they'll give me time off and I can...

-Dimitri, I have no doubt you'd help me out like last time. I've thought about it, too, but I'm scared we won't have enough time for both. We already have to find time to be with Lev and another baby will make it harder.

Dimitri seemed like he hadn't thought about it, which told Rose that was a recent idea in her husband's mind.

-But... -Rose turned to look at him-if we want to have more kids... Lev will start at the Academy in two years. I have been thinking, and once he's five he'll spent most of his time in St Vladimir.

-If you got had the baby then, the age difference wouldn't be that big, and we'd have time to adapt to the baby before Lev comes back in Christmas-as always, Dimitri followed her mind without problem. They both smiled at each other and kissed.

-We have a son, and we'll have more. We have our family -Rose said, with that smile that made Dimitri think everything was possible-. We made it.

-We made it, Roza. We have our family.

[angelicspaceprince]

Proposal Addict

Author: Ama

Title: Proposal Addict

Pairing: Zhuk/Reader

Character/s: Zhuk

Word Count: 2, 896 words

Warnings: Character death, its a bit sad, lots of Russian thats probs wrong its from google translate

Tags: @trelaney

Prompt: Zhuk had this weird obsession with proposing, but it’s not like you minded.

Notes: I wrote this ages ago and realised that I hadn’t published it here. I have 3 fics (including this one) that’ll be coming up within the next like 30 minutes or so, see how I go (all prewritten). Thanks to @monsterlovinghours for helping me out with the vows bc ya guy Ama here struggles with the romance

Buy Me a Coffee

Proposal Addict

The two of you had barely started dating when he first asked you. To be fair, he was incredibly drunk and mumbling nonsense in a mix of Russian and English as you carefully led him up the stairs and into his room, umming and ahhing where appropriate as his huge form leans heavily on you, causing you to stumble. That’s when you catch a genuine question through the mess.

“Ty tak khorosho zabotish'sya obo mne. Vykhodi za menya, roza?” You look up at him in slight confusion.

“Zhuk, I don’t speak Russian remember? Can you repeat it?” You ask him as you push him onto the bed, yelping when his hands grab your wrists to pull you down with him. It takes a few seconds for him to remember what he said and translate it, his face unusually expressive as you watch amused at the sight of him try to use his alcohol-soaked brain.

“Will you marry me?” His words are slurred and his accent his thick, but you know instantly what has been said.

You know that he was too drunk to mean it, and telling him so would just end with him insisting that you were wrong. So, instead, you lean in close to kiss him gently before pulling back. “Ask me again tomorrow.”

“Why?” This was as close to whining at the Russian would ever get to, and you found it adorable. You shrug.

“I might just say yes.” A happy purr radiates from his body as he slowly starts to fall asleep, snoring loudly as his arms keep you trapped against his chest.

After that, it just became a regular occurrence. Zhuk knew he wanted to marry you pretty much the day he met you, and even though you thought he was joking with the constant proposals, it always made him smile that you never said no, just to ask again the next day. Which he did. Every single day.

Sitting next to each other by the fire, reading whilst holding hands? Well, you were reading, Zhuk was looking down at you with a small, fond smile on his face. “Dorogaya?”

“Mm?”

“Will you marry me?”

“Ask me again tomorrow, perhaps then I’ll say yes.” You lock eyes with him, a small smile on your lips as you both allow yourself to feel comfort from the inside joke.

Walking alongside one another in the garden in total silence? Zhuk would always pull you down to sit on one of the few seats and get down on one knee in front of you, a ring made out of strands of long grass he’s picked at in his hands. “Marry me, malishka?” You take the ring and put it on calmly before kissing the back of his hand, the smirk on your lips giving away your answer already.

“Ask me again tomorrow, lyubimiy. I might just say yes.”

A rare night where you could both just lay in bed together, enjoying each other’s company in silence when suddenly Zhuk says in a quiet voice ‘Y/N, ty lyubov' vsey moyey zhizni, vykhodi za menya zamuzh?’, you don’t even need the translation to know what he’s asked.

“Ask me again tomorrow, dorogoi, perhaps then I’ll say yes.”

He only ever questioned it once. You wanted to go to a market to check out the stalls, and he never could deny you anything. You were looking over a blurb of an old, worn novel when he asked you quietly. “Marry me, kiska?”

Quickly you reply. “Ask me again tomorrow, I might just say yes.” He chuckles, unable to hold back the smile on his face as you put the book back, clearly not interested once you’d read the back.

“Why is it you never say yes?” You blink as you put your hand around his arm and start to walk towards the next stall. You seem to consider your answer before you finally give it.

“Because I never want to stop hearing you say it.” You finally confess as you meet his eyes briefly, only pulling away when your attention is pulled away from him and towards the seller of the stall.

It was a couple of years before your answer changed. It was nothing special, to be honest, Zhuk thought you were going to say the same mantra you had repeated every day and for once wasn’t going to ask. When you brought it up as you sat comfortably in his lap with his arms around you, you could almost feel the shrug. “Will your answer change if I ask?”

You hum. “You never know until you ask.” He chuckles.

“Marry me, tsarina?”

“Yes.”

There is a pause as he pulls back to look down at you, your face spit with a cheeky grin. Clearly, he wasn’t expecting that and it was a rare occasion you got one up on your partner. “Y/N?” You hum to let him know you’re listening. “Is this-”

“Legit? Uh-huh.” You turn so you are straddling him, arms locked around his neck. “Zhuk, moya lyubov', I love you more than anything else on this earth. Every day with you feels like what heaven should feel like. I want nothing more than to be able to call you my muzh. So yes, dorogoy, I’ll marry you.”

Both of you ignore the Irish accented ‘fookin’ finally’ that comes from the room next door as he pulls you down for a slow, deep kiss as he slides the ring that he totally has not been keeping in his pocket for over a year now over your finger.

You figured it’d stop there, you were engaged, why would he continue to ask? But he still did, every day. And, just like always, you’d smile and tell him to ask you again tomorrow. During the stress of planning a wedding that was suitable for the both of you, it was a nice reminder that through it all, you loved each other. And the comfort you found with your little exchange helped with your pre-wedding jitters. When you wake up the morning of your wedding, you roll your eyes when you see him looking down at you with a small smile on his face.

“Marry me, kroshka?” You snort before moving to snuggle up against him.

“Ask me again in 8 hours. I might just say yes.” You tease before kissing his chest lightly. “I’ll see you at the altar.” You promise as you stand up to get ready. He grumbles as you leave the bed, clearly wanting you to stay with him for a bit longer. “Remember your promise?” You ask just as you throw on your robe and move to sneak back into the master bedroom, your maid of honour insisting the two of you spend the night apart for good luck, even though everyone knew any attempt to keep Zhuk from you would be foolish. What they didn’t count on was you sneaking out to be with him.

“I won’t make you cry.” He repeats the promise you made him make when the both of you started to write your vows.

“Good. If anything smudges, you’ll be facing the wrath of my cousin, got it?” You warn playfully before walking back over to the bed and leaning in to kiss him softly. “At the altar?”

“At the altar.” He says against your lips, hands resting over yours. You have to pull away, knowing he won’t be the one to move away first. Once you’re out the door, he falls back onto the bed with a thud. He hated wedding traditions.

The morning was hectic, everyone rushing around to get last-minute preparations organised and to get the two of you where you needed to be on time. It was all a blur for the both of you, being pulled in different directions by different people who seemed to have a better idea of what was going on and what was happening, when it was happening and where it was happening. Still, Zhuk stood in front of the mix of both your and his friends and family right on time, just as you were rocking up to be walked down the aisle.

Zhuk rarely cried, and never did so in public. But seeing you in your wedding dress that just seemed to accentuate your beauty and made you, if even possible, even more perfect than usual in his eyes? He was in awe, and in shock that this was finally, actually happening.

Once he took your hand and lead you up in front of the priest, he couldn’t take his eyes off of you. Everything was muffled. To the point that you had to nudge him when the priest asked him for him to read his vows three times. He could feel the amusement from his comrades but brushed it off as he starts to recite the words that took him months to perfect, having annoyed Scarafaggio and Scarabee over it near daily. He just wanted it perfect for you.

"For far many more years than I care to admit, I existed in darkness. I saw the sun, but didn't feel its warmth. I knew the stars were there, but felt none of their enchantment. You, dorogoy, were the light my life was missing. From the moment you set foot into my life, you've been a candle to my darkened soul, a beacon to my lost heart. With you by my side, I have no need of the moon, the sun, or the stars. You are my sun. You are my moon. You outshine all the stars in the night sky. I have asked you many, many times now, darling, if you would marry me, and each time you've smiled and told me to ask you again tomorrow. Even as we stand here, know that I will never stop asking you to be mine, just as I will never stop loving you. Moy svet. Moya lyubov'. Moya vse. Moya prekrasnaya zhena. Will you marry me?" He squeezes your hand as he finishes, your eyes welling up throughout.

You can’t hold back your tears as he finishes his vows. “You bastard, you swore you wouldn’t make me cry.” You whisper out, causing a chuckle from the crowd. “I’m tempted to say tell you to ask me again tomorrow just to see what you’ll say,” you start as his hand moves up to thumb away your tears, being careful not to smudge anything, “but yes. Moy obozhayushchiy muzh, I’ll marry you.”

To be honest, you thought once you were married the proposals would stop, but the only thing that changed was the frequency. Instead of daily, it was near daily.

The first time it happened after the wedding was literally hours after the reception. The both of you decided you needed a minute just to relax and ended up just lying on the bed, you on top of him as you rest your head against his chest, his hands cascading through your hair and tracing nonsense patterns against the skin of your back.

“Marry me, moya zhena?” You look up at him as he just smirked down at you. You roll your eyes.

“We just- We are- Fuck it. Ask me tomorrow. If you’re lucky, I might say yes, moy muzh.” You shake your head in amusement as you lean back down.

So it continued, every moment he felt the urge to propose, the words just seemed to slip out. Sometimes, you’d remind him you were already married to which he’d reply “ah. Well, that makes me a lucky man. Marry me again, moya zhena?” You’d roll your eyes and tell him to ask again the next day with a small smile and blush across your face. Other times, you’d just tell him to ask again tomorrow, perhaps the answer will be yes. Like your own special declaration of love for one another, only something about it felt deeper than just the two of you saying ya lyublyu tebya.

Then, it happened. To be fair, it was bound to happen eventually, Zhuk was surprised it took as long as it did, but still, it wasn’t a pleasant experience.

He got hurt.

To be fair, it wasn’t lethal, but it still knocked him around a little bit. By the time he was brought home, he was unconscious with Bee making sure he slept and wasn’t in pain. He was aware that you were in the room with him, his hands itching just to be able to hold yours. He could vaguely hear Scarabee telling you that it was a near miss, that he was incredibly lucky, and that he’d be fine in a couple of days. Your hand slipped into his and his whole body seemed to relax. It always just felt right when your hands were in his.

He slept for what felt like weeks, but was really just a couple of days. You didn’t leave his side once, having one of the staff bring you food, and the other dons would periodically call in to check on you. Still, your hand never left his as you anxiously waited for him to wake up.

It was late, the sun had gone down and you were sleeping when he started to stir. Him squeezing your hand and groaning lowly at the slight pain caused you to wake up with a jolt, but waiting in silence to see if he was alright. His voice is weak, but still, he manages to say what was on his mind. “Marry me, moya prekrasnaya zhena?”

You look at him in disbelief because you start hitting him, each smack feeling like nothing as you continue to slap at his skin, crawling into his lap to get better coverage of his body. “You, you bastard, don’t you come in here with your moya prekrasnaya zhena bullshit, you are hurt! You could have died! What the fuck, Zhuk, what the fuck is wrong with you?” You stop hitting him in favour of just laying down on top of him as you start to sob against his skin. “I thought I was gonna lose you. Never seen you so still.” He hushes you as his hands move to squeeze you tight against him.

“You didn’t answer my question, moye solntse i zvezdy.” He reminds you gently.

“Ask me again tomorrow, it might be a yes when I’m not pissed off.” You grumble into his skin, causing him to laugh lightly. “Not off the hook, mister.”

“I know, moya zhena, I know.”

It was a few weeks later that you celebrated your second wedding anniversary. The both of you decided to go to a smaller part of town to a restaurant the both of you liked. You had requested minimum security, just wanting the night to be between you and Zhuk complied. Afterall, who would go after either of you in a small restaurant in his own district.

Turns out, an idiot would.

You walked out in front of him, thanking him for holding the door and reaching back to link arms with him. He saw your face go from one of pure bliss and happiness to one of pain and confusion before he heard the shots. He yelled for someone to go after the shooter and another to call a medic as he helped you to the ground, ripping your shirt back to see the damage. The bullet was still inside, but you were bleeding out pretty heavily. Clearly, it had nicked an artery, or perhaps even your heart. He didn’t care, he just wanted you to not be in pain. You gasp out loudly as he balls up his jacket and puts pressure on the wound, causing the pain to increase as your blood soaks into the dark fabric. “Zhuk.” Your voice is already weaker than usual. “Zhuk, look at me.”

“You’ll be fine, Y/N.” He assures you. “We will get you to the hospital, they’ll take care of you, just- just- stay with me, please tsarina.” He begs. It breaks your heart to hear his voice so weak and broken, as if he knows the prognosis without even needing a medic’s opinion. Still, he held onto hope.

Your hand moves up to brush away unshed tears, even though you have to pull back when your muscles become weak. “Zhuk. Moy muzh. Will you marry me?” You say with a small smile on your face, tears streaming down your face.

Zhuk tries to blink away the few that are threatening to fall, but they land on your cheeks despite his attempts. “Ask me again tomorrow, I might just say yes.” He says with a broken smile as he pushes down harder.

Your laugh is breathy when you hear your answer, going to reply when you realise it's too hard. You breath one more time, eyes locked on his as you try to portray how much you love him through them before your chest settles, and your eyes go glassy.

The shouting of ‘no, no, no, Y/N, moya zhena, please, no’ alerted the paramedics to where you were exactly, rushing in to try and pull your rapidly cooling body away from the sobbing Russian, large body seeming to be impossibly small as he clings to you as if you would wake up in his arms and reassure him it's fine.

Instead, you slept on.

[posh-with-2-fields]

rules: tag 9 people who you want to know better/catch up with and then answer these questions.

tagged by: @msdanvers, thanks Roza!

3 ships: clexa, blackhill, hosie

last song: birds by imagine dragons, since i’ve not listened to any of folklore yet

last movie: the avengers... which was like a month ago at least oop

currently reading: 3 marvel fanfics lmao (one on my phone, two on my pc- got distracted while reading the first, started the second lmao)

currently watching: Rewatching some bits of The Expanse, should be finishing Legacies

currently consuming: water lmao

currently craving: some chocolate, but.. there’s none in the house rip

I’m tagging: @awstark @vcdanvers @danielleroserussells @josettessaltzman @natashasromanofff @brielrsons @lvrsonbrie

[linamirasaki]

The Usual of 1-D

🌸

 Class 1-D was bustling with students when three figures stepped inside the class, and others greeted them with their own style of greetings.

 “Morning, leaders!”

 “’Sup, you three!”

 “Good morning, Mirasaki, Sakaki and Shiroyuki!”

 The three either replied back or nod as the three made their way towards their seat that, coincidentally are next to each other. Only Mizuyuki was in another class which is 1-E.

 As Lina slid into her seat while carefully placing her bag beside the table, a pair of hands crept from behind, covering her eyes.

 “Guess who?”

 Giggling, Lina took off the calloused hands off her face, before turning to her partner in crime.

 “Morning, Roza!”

 “Morning, Lina-chan!”, the boy replied, before sliding onto his seat in front of Lina. “How was the meeting?”

 “It was like usual. But, thanks to a certain idiot, I almost got scolded by Mizuyuki-kun.”

 Roza chuckled as he glanced towards the male beside Lina, the owner of the seat beside the window like all anime protagonist

 “It’s her fault for being too cocky.”, Haruto retorted, eyes still trained on his own work.

 “What did-“

 “Alright, no fighting, Lina-chan!”, Roza grinned while covering her friend’s mouth from letting all kinds of curses.

 “It’s your fault for initiating it, Roza.”

 “Ehhh~ That’s mean, Sakaki. I was only trying to ask them about their day, that’s all.”, Roza pouted, turning his attention towards the blue haired female sitting on Lina’s right side.

 “You know how they are during meetings. Thanks to them, most of our meetings were extended with those two’s cat and dog fight.”

 Meanwhile, Lina slumped on her desk, not liking the fact that Roza just covered her mouth, seeing that she is the type that cannot shut up. Her pouting session was interrupted when a screen was shoved in front of her face.

 Glancing towards the owner of the smartphone with a questioning look, Lina took the phone reading the contents.

 “Shall we go? After school?”, Sunahara Adi questions with a small smile, already knowing the answer.

 Lina’s eyes sparkles as she read the advertisement of a sweets shop that just opened near their school, then proceeds to show the ads to Manami and Roza, who show much interest to the aqua haired girl’s invitation.

 “For a quiet person, you really know your ways to bring her back up, Adi.”

 Adi returned to his seat beside Roza before replying to his childhood friend, “Well you could say that, Haruto.” Smiling, Adi returned his gaze towards the now cheerfully chattering girl beside Haruto. “After all, she is the one who brought me back.”

🌸

  “For the history class after this, it will be self study session. So please make sure to behave yourselves.”

  “Hai~”

  It wasn’t unusual for class 1-D to face these situations due to the lack of teachers and most teachers tend to focus on the third years who are facing entrance examination later.

  Another reason why the teacher didn’t mind for this specific class being left alone is because of the presence of three members from student council in the class. Teachers trust the student council after all. And the students in 1-D can’t be considered as rowdy students unless provoked.

  Of course, unless provoked.

  It was quiet, with only the sounds of papers flapping being heard throughout the classroom. All were focused on finishing their homewrk for the day including Lina, until...

  “Psst! Mirasaki-chan!”

  Lina turned around at the whisper of her name, seeing one of her female classmate passing her a folded note.

  “They said to only put one vote!”

  ‘Vote?’

  Lina gave her a questioning look before opening the folded note. Lina’s figure stiffen as she scanned the writings on the note, internally gagging.

Vote For The Most Handsome Boy!!♥️

#strictly for girls only!!

Shiroyuki Haruto-8

Sunahara Adi-3

Mikizuki Roza-2

Akimitsu Akihatsu-2

Zakura Shin-1

Hamori Nakio-0

Mizuki Isogai-0

Romizu Haizou-0

Ikizumi Aki-0

On the other hand, all eyes of the females in the class trained on Lina, except for Manami, eager to know the obvious result. And what stupefied them was Lina rolling the note into a ball before throwing the balled-up note towards the person beside her.

Namely, Haruto.

It wasn't hard enough to produce a smack sound, but the gasps were heard, making those unrelated question the sudden tension.

The silence were cut with Haruto's clattering chair as he tear up a page from his notebook. With anger plastered on his scowling face, Haruto literally smacked the ball of paper onto Lina's cheek instead of throwing it.

"You stupid woman!!"

And that's how another war started in class 1-D, as the others that deemed the fight interesting joined along.

Tables pushed aside. Chairs clattering. Papers balled up. Cheers erupted. War cries let out. The homeworks forgotten with some pencil cases on the floor.

"Now this is what you call total chaos.", Manami muttered, already used to the war scene before her.

"Why not? It's fun!", Roza grinned as he balled up another piece of paper for the fight. "You should join in too, Sakaki!"

"Nah, I'll pass."

As soon as Manami gave the reply, an eraser came flying hitting her hard on the forehead.

Once again, silence consumed the whole class as they stared at the now trembling student council.

"NOW WHO THE HECK THREW THAT. COME AT ME, YOU GRIT!"

Alas, the war resumed.

⭐

Bonus:

In the class 1-E, the students were also self studying when the loud cheers shook them.

"What was that?"

"Is that 1-D?"

"How come they never got reprimand when they're always noisy like a war is going on?"

Mizuyuki chuckled at the statement.

'Maybe there is a war going on. If it's those two.'

[wifeofnatasharomanoff]

Say Yes To Me, give me my son back!!!!😭

😭😭 guysssss i discontinued the series

but if i ever have the motivation to be nice to yall one day I might update 🤫