#'stained glass' as the title has a lot to do with it

[luluxa]

Stained Glass series

(I really should be supply some context for the arts, damn. So these two were working together to uncover a conspiracy in their government and to end the war between their country and Ryan’s. A third country and its inside men were pushing that conflict for years, which some suspected but were silenced in various ways. Shane and Ryan independently came to the same conclusion when they got to power and then tried to do something about it.

Also, Shane isn’t a nobleman, he was a teacher, then got drafted and then moved all the way up the ranks to become the Marshal, appearing very good at war and political bullshit.)

[kristiliqua]

my fav song in msr is trying not to think about it bc its bittersweet feeling and resonates with me the most (by a long shot) .

is that worrying orrr . like what does that say about me . erm

[halfvalid]

Hey! Since your requests are open, may I request opla!Zoro x reader (established relationship) where the reader has a lot of self doubt (not only in their looks, but their abilities and their place in the crew) since it’s, unfortunately, been shoved done their throat by pretty much eveyone they knew, even their parents, that they would never be good enough? Maybe Zoro figures out that they have sort of been spiralling lately and they have a talk about the readers past and the problems they’re facing and he comforts them? Maybe it ends sort of spicy or turns out full on spicy, if you’re comfortable with that!

daybreak

ABOUT

alternate title: some fluffy established relationship hurt/comfort to save my soul

rating: teen & up

characters: live action!roronoa zoro | fem!reader

pairing: live action!roronoa zoro x fem!reader

word count: 2.9k (short; sorry!)

description: zoro notices you've been seeming off recently, and you confide in him your insecure feelings of self-worth. he comforts you.

tags: strawhat!reader, established relationship, fluff, emotional hurt/comfort, kissing, no use of ‘y/n’, soft zoro, ridiculously stupidly absolutely horrifyingly fluffy. 

author’s note: thank you so much for the very lovely request! i hope i did your prompt justice; i ended up not writing any spice at the end (just slightly suggestive) since i didn't think it fit the story but i hope you like it anyway ^^

it feels slightly ooc, but i also wrote it in the span of two hours at 1:00 am so can you really blame me. 

It was morning on the Going Merry, and you were cleaning up the wreckage that had been scattered along the deck in your last battle. The crew had gone up against some other pirates; it’d been late at night, and the attack had come suddenly, what you’d thought would be a peaceful docking turning combative quickly. 

You barely remembered the fight. One moment, the warning bell had sounded, and the next Zoro was rolling out of bed beside you, grabbing his swords and darting out of your bedroom before you could even register what was happening. The fight had gone in the Straw Hats’ favor, thankfully; Zoro, Luffy, and Sanji had fended off most of the threat, and you were back on the open sea, safe from enemies for at least a little while now. 

You let out a sigh as you swept shattered glass into a dustpan, shaking out the collected trash into a nearby empty barrel. None of the men usually bothered to start cleaning up—typical—so you’d pulled yourself out of bed as early as possible to get the ship looking a little more like normal. 

Zoro had left some corpses on the deck for you to deal with, and you’d had to toss them overboard, a grimace tugging at your lips as blood stained the white of your blouse. No matter. You’d finished sweeping, at least; all you had left to do was mop, right as everyone else was waking up. 

You filled a bucket with warm water and soap, and were just grabbing the mop from the closet when you heard footsteps. You glanced up, surprised to see Zoro heading towards you, one hand grasped loosely around his sword handle as always. “You’re up early,” he said, casual as ever. “Woke up and you were gone.” 

“Figured I should get a head start on cleaning,” you answered quickly, not meeting Zoro’s eyes as you dunked the mop into the bucket. His brows creased as he watched you start mopping, pushing the handle along the deck to wipe it clear of bloodstains. 

“How long have you been doing this?” Zoro asked, after a few seconds of delayed silence. You shrugged, dunking your mop again before going for another few swipes. “We can help clean too, you know.” 

“It’s the least I can do,” you protested. You moved past him, trying very hard not to meet his eyes—but Zoro didn’t let you pass, one hand going out to grab the mop rod and stopping you in your tracks. “What?” 

“What do you mean, least you could do?” Zoro asked blankly. 

“I mean—” you shrugged, muscles limp like your entire body was sagging you down. “You and the others were the ones to deal with the pirates, so I figured I could at least—”

Zoro still looked confused, brows pulled together, forehead taut with a frown. “I distinctly recall you throwing a pirate twice your size overboard. Unless I was imagining things.” 

You sighed. “Not what I meant.” You tried to push past Zoro again, but he didn’t let you, hand still tightly grasped around your mop handle. 

“Okay, what did you mean, then?” 

“Nothing. Will you just let me finish cleaning so there aren't blood stains all over Luffy’s ship?” You sighed again, even as you attempted to keep the sound inside—but you couldn’t help it. It was like there was an anchor stuck inside of you, pulling everything from your feelings to your body down, the weight of gravity tugging at your features. 

“Luffy’s ship?” 

You shrugged. “The Straw Hats’ ship. Whatever.” 

“Our ship,” Zoro said. There was a certain twinge of something in his words; still blankness, but laced with a dawning realization that you weren’t sure you liked. “You’re upset.” 

“Nope.” This time you really did manage to get free of Zoro’s grasp, yanking your mop out of his grip and starting back on cleaning the deck. The acrid smell of iron hit your nose as you scrubbed the dried blood off—you’d have to go back in later with a sponge to get all the cracks and crevices, but for now this would be okay. 

Zoro followed you, unceasing with his interrogation. “Yes, you are. I know when you’re upset, and you’re upset. What happened.” It was more of a statement than a question—Zoro didn’t often doubt himself, really, which was one of the many things that’d helped make you stumble into falling for him. “Was it about last night? You know the cook's just making fun when he keeps a counter, right? It doesn’t matter if he brought two or five more men down than you.” 

“It’s not about that,” you insisted. 

“So you admit you are upset.” 

You groaned, finally turning to look Zoro in the eye. He’d stopped walking, the dawning sun glinting hazey gold onto his skin in the early hour. There was still an overcast of blue from the night in the sky, and it made the heavens look ethereal, watery and glittering. 

“Come on,” he urged. “Just tell me what’s wrong.” 

“It’s really nothing you need to be concerned about,” you attempted, but your voice was weak now. Zoro stepped closer to you, gently pulling the mop out of your hands. Your fingers let go easily. “It’s silly.” 

Zoro gave you a look. “Out with it.” 

“I don’t know, I just—” your fingers clenched, like your hand was trying to find something to do now that Zoro had rid you of your mop. “Comparatively I just don’t do much. So I want to help out as much as possible.” 

“Who said you don’t do much?” 

“What?” 

“I don’t think I need to repeat myself,” Zoro said. He let the mop fall to the ground, arms crossing over his chest as he watched you. “Who said you don’t do much?”

“I mean, nobody. It’s just true.” You shrugged, distinctly uncomfortable with the way Zoro was looking at you—all attentive, like he was trying to strip you raw with his eyes, uncover whatever secrets might be hiding in the pores of your skin and the gaps of your teeth. “Luffy’s the captain, we wouldn’t be able to do anything without Nami, you and Sanji are the fighters, and Usopp’s everyone’s favorite. I’m just kind of… filler?” 

The more you spoke, the worse your words got, your tone turning more desperate as the sentences fumbled out of your mouth. Zoro’s eyebrows raised higher as you went on, and you flushed, red prickling all over your skin. 

“First of all,” he started, “Usopp is not my favorite. That’d be you. And—where are you getting this from?” 

You shook your head, trying to backtrack. “Nothing. Nowhere. It’s not that import—”

“Yes, it is, and we’re talking about it.” Zoro pulled a nearby barrel by the side of the ship, plopping himself down atop it and gesturing for you to sit. You didn’t, but you did move over to the railing, hands curling around the painted wood. “Speak.” 

“I have nothing to say,” you tried. Zoro just shot you an unimpressed look, and you squirmed. “Fine. I don’t know. I joined last, so I just figured… you were all kind of already set without me, right?” 

Zoro shook his head. “We’re a crew,” he said, voice strong but somehow still gentle. “You’re part of us for a reason. What, this entire time did you think you were—expendable?” 

You fidgeted uncomfortably, weight shifting from one leg to the other. “No.” 

“Don’t lie.” 

“Yes. No. I don’t know. Last night—I only got, like what, two guys? And you reacted way faster to the situation than I did,” you started, words flailing around on your tongue as they rushed out. It was indelicate, for certain, and you yourself couldn’t make sense of most of the words—but once you started, you couldn’t stop, even as they slurred together. “I was still getting out of bed and grabbing my weapon when you’d already dealt with half the enemy crew.” 

“Don’t compare yourself to me,” Zoro said with a shake of his head. “That’s not fair. I’ve been training since I was eight. It’s different.” 

You huffed out an exasperated breath, trying not to let your frustration get the best of you. “I can't help it sometimes. It’s a bad habit.” You loosened your grip on the ship railing, staring out at the golden clouds hovering over the sky.  “Sorry.” 

“Don’t apologize,” Zoro answered. He didn’t say anything after that—giving you a space to talk, you supposed, in case you wanted to. But his hand did reach up to press against yours, pinky brushing against your finger as he held onto the railing beside you. 

“I guess I just always had these standards back at the village,” you managed out eventually. Your island had always been one of the more traditional places in the East Blue, and there were plenty rules and guidelines abound. One of the many reasons you’d left the place in favor for Luffy and the Going Merry, really. “So I just… always want to do more. It’s not that bad.” 

“Right.” Zoro’s pinky looped around your finger, now, holding it close in a soft kiss of the hands. You sighed. 

“My parents were kind of rough on me, I guess,” you tried, sneaking a glance over at Zoro’s face to see if it satiated his curiosity at all. His expression remained as steel as ever, so you just continued. “They wanted me to be the best I could. But their standards were too high, even when I was little.” You found yourself rubbing circles into the back of Zoro’s hand with your finger, more so to comfort yourself than for any other reason. “Just normal stuff, like being upset about my school grades or my combat training levels being too low. Nothing that terrible.” 

“But…?” Zoro asked, tilting his head up to look at you. You smiled, but the action didn’t reach your eyes—it was all mouth and jaw, cheeks lifting but eyes glinting with the same glazed stare. 

“It just affected me a lot, I suppose,” you answered. “Always trying to get better. Never satisfied. And I guess now—I don’t know. I don’t think I’ll ever be good enough.” 

“For?” Zoro asked. His voice was low, soft, all hollow and empty inside. There was a tinge of roughness lacing it, like he’d forgotten to clear his throat, and the scratch of his vocal chords had surfaced up along with the words. 

“Myself. My parents. Luffy. You.” Your lips tightened into a line. Vaguely, you could feel the warm pinpricks of tears starting at your waterline, and you tried to will them back, letting out a little laugh. “Everyone, I guess.” 

Zoro’s hand had come to hold yours fully, fingers woven in between yours, thumb pressed firmly against the joint of your thumb. Somehow, that one motion managed to force the last of the words out of you—all wet and soft, eyes glued fiercely to the horizon in fear of seeing what was etched on Zoro’s face. 

“We do arranged marriages back at home,” you started, trying very hard to keep your voice from trembling. it worked only marginally—there was a tiny quaver in your tone, but it was soft, not noticeable unless you were really listening hard. “And my mom used to tell me I’d die alone. Because I wasn’t pretty enough, or smart enough, or anything enough for any of the boys there.” 

“Oh,” Zoro said. It was quiet; barely a whisper. You tried for a wry smile. 

“I like helping, though. I don’t mind cleaning up or whatever. It makes me feel more useful.” You tried to tug your hand out of Zoro’s grip, but his fingers tightened, keeping you in place. A nervous laugh escaped your throat. “And I know I’m part of the crew and all of this is just silly. So it’s really fine—”

Zoro tugged your intertwined hands to his chest, causing you to stumble and glance down at him in surprise. His expression was nearly unreadable. It’d darkened, and there was a contemplative gaze in his eyes, lips parted with invisible words perched on his tongue. “Don’t do that,” he whispered, and your stomach dropped, the nervousness that had gathered inside during the conversation tightening up into a hall. “Don’t say it’s okay or that it’s not important. If it’s making you upset, then it matters.” 

“I guess,” you tried, and Zoro’s gaze lifted to fix you with a glare. “Sorry.” 

“It’s okay, I just…” Zoro shook his head. “Look, whatever your parents used to tell you, whatever you have ingrained in your head—it’s not true. And there’s nothing wrong with wanting to do more, but… you don’t have to do it. You’re enough already.” 

Your gaze softened, lips falling open to say something, but Zoro wasn’t finished yet. “You shouldn’t come out here and force yourself to clean up just to make up for your—waste of space, or something. You’re not a servant. And you’re not wasting up any space. I think everyone would agree that you’re a very important and vital part of the crew.” 

“Thanks,” you whispered. Zoro’s hand was warm around yours, and you felt the threatening droplets of tears start to rise up at your waterline, ready to fall at any moment now. Zoro just nodded. 

“You’re a great fighter, and way smarter than what you give yourself credit for,” he said firmly. He raised your hand to his mouth, then, leaning over to press a feather-light kiss to your knuckles. “And the boys on your island have to be blind, because you’re pretty enough. You’re more than pretty enough.”

He whispered the last words, all soft and sacred on his tongue. “You’re beautiful.” 

That was enough to drive your tears over the edge. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to stop the flow as the warm sensation of liquid streaking down your cheeks began. Droplets caught in the crevice of your lips, and at the hinge of your jaw—Zoro brought a hand up to wipe them away. “Are you okay?” he whispered. 

“Yeah, I just, um.” You shook your head, sniffing. “Thank you. That… helped. I think.” 

Zoro bummed out his response. “Of course,” he said easily. “You’re my girl. It’s my job to cheer you up.” He kissed your knuckles again. “And you can talk to any of us. I’m not really the best at this, but everyone else…” he shrugged. 

“You’re doing just fine,” you assured him. Zoro nodded, tugging you down until you finally took a seat on a crate beside him. “I think it’s just been worse lately.” 

“If it makes you feel any better, I think you’re better than the waiter,” Zoro said. You just laughed. 

“I think you’re biased, but thank you,” you said. “Here, I, um, I promise I’ll let you know if I’m feeling down, I guess. If you don’t mind.” 

“Definitely don’t mind,” Zoro answered. This time he placed a gentle kiss on your neck, somewhere at the bottom near the back. “Leave the mopping for someone else. You’ve already done a lot.” 

“Okay,” you whispered, eyes fluttering closed as Zoro kissed the rest of the way up the back of your neck. He placed a final one right below your earlobe. With that, Zoro stood up, sweeping one arm under your legs and hoisting you up. You cracked open an eye to regard him with a blank look. “What are you doing?” 

“Bringing you back to my room,” Zoro answered. “You didn’t get much sleep tonight. And I doubt anyone wants to watch me kissing you on the main deck anyway.” 

That was fair enough reasoning, so you didn’t complain, letting him carry you all the way to his cabin and gently lay you down onto his bed. He leaned over to press a gentle kiss to your lips—you could still taste the saltwater from your tears from before. “Want me to stay?” Zoro asked. 

“You don’t have to,” you said automatically, and Zoro raised both his eyebrows. You let out a sigh. “Okay, I get it. Yes. Please stay.” 

“All you had to say,” Zoro said, shedding himself of his shoes and swords before leaning over the bed to watch you. He didn’t slip under the covers or anything, just propped an arm up on the mattress, kneeling beside the bed. There was tender silence for a few moments before Zoro spoke again. 

“I love you,” he said abruptly, voice rough but somehow still soft. Your heart beat too fast in your chest, ribcage squeezing in on the organ and making it skip. His hand slid along the mattress to find yours, and you took the offer, fingers clasping around his palm. 

“I love you too,” you whispered back. Zoe leaned over, then, the hand not intertwined with yours tilting your jaw over just so to allow him better access to your mouth. He kissed you full-on, tender but firm, mouth working against yours in a way that unraveled you entirely. Your grip on his hand tightened as he deepened the kiss, a soft sound emitting from low in your throat. Finally you broke apart, heaving for breath, exhales mixing together midair. An exchange of souls, you’d heard once, somewhere. 

“Come on,” you murmured, tugging Zoro closer to the bed so he got the hint. He slipped beside you onto it, turning your head again to meet you in another kiss. His hand drifted down to your waist, holding you securely in place.  

“I don’t think anyone should need us for a few more hours, right?” Zoro asked, and you laughed. He swallowed up the sounds with his mouth, tongue licking languidly into you as he rubbed delicate circles into the skin of your waist. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered, and then he was kissing you again. 

You let him siphon the soul out of your lungs, knowing you were getting his right back. 

© halfvalid 2023

[adore-laur]

DADRRY: PART THREE

— part one | part two

October — Flashback

The leaves from the oak and cottonwood trees are changing color at last. Their shades of varietal greens bleed into marigold and maroon ones to commence autumn in California. The weather is more than adequate when it nears the end of the year, with days never below seventy degrees. Brisk winds blow by the ocean, and migrating clusters of monarch butterflies flood orange milkweed with their stained-glass wings, looking similar to the plants they flutter around.

Driving alongside the premature sunset, you press on the brakes and pull into the crowded parking lot of the restaurant. Harry has been setting up and bartending for a wedding's cocktail hour, which he seldom does under his title as head chef. He mentioned before he left that he wanted to talk to you about something important after his shift, so he reserved a table in the dining area where both of you could eat dinner and discuss it. Luckily, he doesn't have to work his way into the early morning since someone will replace him once the reception officially starts.

It's Harry's last shift before he's home for an extended period of time. He managed to save all of his annual vacation days and is free from work for the last month of your pregnancy, as well as the twelve weeks of paternity leave he's allowed once the baby is born. That means four months to adjust to a new reality.

It's difficult to imagine how much convincing it took and the scheduling difficulties he had to come across to get everything sorted out. You're worried the restaurant will crumble without his supervision, but you shouldn't judge his expertise on the matter. He knows what he's doing.

You stroll through the front doors while smoothing the chiffon fabric of your dress that flows over your bump. You have been frequently wearing Harry's shirts ever since your stomach has gotten too large to wear your own, but you wanted to look nice for yourself tonight. It has been grueling trying to accept your changing body, which is why you strive to do little things to take care of your mental state. And even though you've been more concerned about your physical state lately, if something as simple as putting on a pretty dress will boost your confidence, you'll take advantage of the opportunity.

Carefully weaving through the decorated tables, you peer at the bar area built against the farthest wall. Harry's familiar back profile is turned to you as he washes cocktail glasses. His defined muscles shift under the tight, black button-up he wears, and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, showing the tattoos on his forearms. He's also sporting fitted slacks with matching attached suspenders. He's been growing out his hair within the last couple of months, the curls now flourishing past his ears. He always keeps them pushed back with a bandana or headband so they don't fall in his face while he works.

You don't want to be a nuisance and steal a seat from any guests, so you stand off to the side and wait for him to finish his cleaning duties. His bulky rings clink against champagne glasses as he dries them and puts them under the counter. You can hear him faintly whistling along to the music coming from the nearby banquet hall.

Once Harry finishes wiping his station clean, you watch him sneakily take out his phone and start typing something. You assume he's texting you to let you know he's done. He then washes his hands while another bartender walks behind the counter to clock in—they must be the one replacing him. You're not too knowledgeable about who all tends the bar since Harry is usually in the back running the kitchen, but it's intriguing to see him in a different environment nonetheless.

He gives the employee a friendly squeeze on their shoulder before clocking out and heading in your direction. He nearly brushes past you while taking his phone out again, completely oblivious to your presence, and you laugh before stopping him with a hand on his chest. It makes him stumble back with a confused pout, but he soon smiles in surprise when he recognizes you.

"How'd you get in?" he asks breathlessly, kissing your cheek.

"I told the security guards at the gate that my husband works here, and I'm picking him up. If they said no, I was going to tell them my water broke."

He smirks proudly. "Clever. How are you feeling? Baby's good?" He holds your upper arms, and his eyes scan your body as if you've changed drastically since you saw him only six hours ago.

"All good. Just a sore back like usual." You toy with one of his suspender straps. "What about you? It's your last shift for a while."

Exhaling happily, Harry clasps your hand in his and says, "I feel fantastic. Let's go eat, yeah? I'm starving."

He guides you through an open doorway leading to the restaurant's dining area, where the reserved table is. In the back of the room, you spot a candlelit booth with plates, silverware, and two glasses filled with ice water. The water doesn't go unnoticed by you, considering he set a goal for himself to stop drinking alcohol along with you.

A vase of beautiful red roses on the windowsill catches your eye as you sit down. Harry slides into the seat across from you. Only a few other booths are occupied; otherwise, the room is serenely quiet, with the occasional clink of metal and a sprinkle of light chatter.

"You look angelic, by the way," Harry says before taking a delicate sip of his water.

"Thank you," you whisper, nudging his foot with yours under the table. "I like your suspenders. They remind me of when you used to be a rookie assistant chef that I'd come to visit. You would wear them under your chef coat with a fancy little neckerchief. I thought you looked so adorable."

"Now I'm old and weathered," he says wryly.

"Well, you're turning thirty soon. Plus, you'll be a dad in a month. Isn't that when someone officially becomes a DILF?" You're not sure why you casually mentioned the acronym over a romantic dinner, but it's too late to retreat now.

Harry's eyes gleam, and he fails miserably at hiding a smile under his scrunched nose. "Pardon? What are you trying to insinuate, darling?"

"Nothing! Never mind,” you backtrack, embarrassed that you ever spoke. "I was only trying to bring up a nice memory—reminiscing, if you will. Forget I said anything."

"I'm definitely not forgetting that. The ugly neckerchief, however..." He laughs at himself. "God, that feels like forever ago. Time flies."

"I thought it was kind of attractive," you mumble around the rim of your glass.

He raises his eyebrows as a warning not to start something you don't want to finish, then clears his throat and sets his forearms on the table. "Speaking of work, that's what I wanted to talk to you about tonight. I want you to keep an open mind, okay?"

Your lips downturn in curiosity. Just as you're about to reply, a waiter arrives at the table with a tray of steaming dishes and places them in the center. You had texted Harry what you wanted from the menu after he left this morning, and since he's the boss, everything is free, cooked to perfection, and served promptly.

"Thank you," Harry says politely before focusing back on you. The waiter leaves, and you begin picking at your food to distract yourself from your increasing heart rate.

"Um, did you say work? Did you get a promotion? Is that even a possibility for a head chef?"

You can physically see the color drain from his face. "So," he says nervously, ignoring your questions, "the baby's coming soon, yes? Obviously."

"Right..." you reply with a suspicious tone.

Shifting in his seat, he runs a hand through his tousled hair. "Listen, the restaurant during the fall and winter isn't as busy as the summertime. You know that. And because of that, I want to be home with you and the baby as much as possible. And I will with paternity leave, but once I go back to work my hours will pick up again, and it'll be—"

"Harry, just tell me," you interrupt gently. He has a bad habit of running circles around topics.

He blows out a short breath. "I'm demoting myself. It's in the works that I'll be the sous chef when I return, so that means fewer hours and more time at home."

You're glad you haven't taken a sip of water yet because you almost choke at the admission that left his mouth. Demotion? He has never mentioned that word to you before.

"Can I ask why in the world you would do that?" you ask sharply. You don't mean to sound snippy, but pregnancy hormones, on top of Harry's revelation, cause a pit of unwarranted annoyance to simmer in your gut.

"Love, let me explain." He reaches forward to grasp your hand across the table and squeeze it. "This is my choice. It's final, all right? I'm not going to be working ten hours a day, six days a week, while you're at home with our baby. That's ridiculous."

"Harry, what about—"

"Stop while you're ahead, because you're going to overthink it," he replies calmly. "If you're worried about money, don't be. It's only a slight decrease in my wage. Everything will be fine."

Your annoyance wins as you slide your free hand down your face. "You realize that we'll need more money when the baby comes. It's common sense. Why would you think cutting your hours is smart?"

Harry scoffs like what you're saying is absolute insanity. He leans in closer so the impending argument doesn't disrupt anyone's dinner, his voice hushed yet stern when he retaliates, "Would you rather me come home every day absolutely knackered and then spend a maximum of four hours with our child before I have to get up to do it all over again? Hmm?"

You shake your head in irritation and stubbornly remove your hand from his. "It's called adapting. It may be tough at first, but it becomes second nature. We just have to wait until the baby gets here to figure out a schedule that works."

Harry falls back against the booth and throws his hands up in frustration. They slap against his thighs before he says, "Do you realize how stupid you sound right now? You're talking about money and scheduling like we're fuckin'—"

"I'm leaving." When you stand, Harry's mouth instantly clamps shut. You don't care that you barely ate your food—you can't listen to him anymore. You're awfully close to lashing out.

Heading the way you came from, you hear Harry's footsteps behind you. Once you're in the parking lot, you groan when you remember that he has to ride home with you since you dropped him off earlier. While you struggle to unlock the car, you see Harry in your peripheral, striding to stop you from going any further.

"I didn't mean it. I'm sorry." His shoulders sulk, and he looks genuinely distraught. "Can we just talk this through when we get home, please?"

Your eyes dance over his defeated expression. You don't have the choice to say no since you live together, plus you promised years ago never to go to bed angry. So, you nod your head, and he gives you a timorous smile before withdrawing to the passenger seat.

As you drive, you give Harry the harrowing silent treatment. He deserves it, especially since he's looking out the window and pouting like a child with his arms crossed. The only sound in the confined space is the air conditioner running and cars zooming past on the highway. Your stomach grumbles, and you feel terrible about leaving two plates of food at the restaurant untouched.

After several minutes of dreadful silence, Harry finally breaks the tension when you park in the garage. He grabs a white envelope tucked in the console and asks, "What's this?"

Oh. You forgot about that.

"Nothing," you mutter, unbuckling your seatbelt.

Harry rolls his eyes and flings the envelope onto the dashboard, then reaches over to take the key out of the ignition to unlock the front door. Seconds pass before you hear a slam and an echo from him shutting the door harder than necessary. It causes you to swallow down more vexation. There have been tiny arguments more often since you got pregnant, and you blame your hormones every time for getting irritated so easily. Harry usually isn't the reason for those heightened emotions, but there are situations when he can be so stubborn that you just want to shake him out of it.

Eventually, you get out of the car with the envelope in hand and head down to the beach for some time alone. It'll be nice to sit by the water and cool down, figuratively and literally. You have an inclination that if you try to hash it out with Harry right now, it will only result in more regretful words.

You reach the private stretch of sand, holding your bump protectively as you descend the wooden steps. It's chilly by the oceanside this time of year, so you grab a towel that was left on the railing from previous evenings and drape it over your shoulders in case you get cold. The October sun has fully set, with orange and pink streaks expanding across the skyline.

You sit down and reflect on the unfortunate escalation of your conversation with Harry. You love him and could never feel an ounce of hatred toward him. He has never given you a reason to doubt anything, but to put his career on the back burner without mentioning it to you is hurtful. You almost feel guilty knowing he made the choice because of you and the baby. You sometimes shy away from being the main priority because you don't want to feel like a burden. In retrospect, it's incredibly thoughtful that he wants to work less to spend quality time with the baby when they arrive. On the other hand, you can't help but worry that you won't be financially secure because of it.

"Hungry?"

Your head shifts to find Harry walking toward you with a spoon and a strange-looking fruit in his hand. It's impossible not to smile when you note the outfit he changed into—banana yellow trousers and an argyle knit sweater. All of his rings are off except for his wedding band.

He's the love of your life and has nothing but pure intentions, so how could you not trust his decision?

"What is that?" you ask, pointing to the half-cut fruit as Harry plops down next to you.

"A papaya," he replies with a shrug. "A blog said that at thirty-two weeks, a baby is as big as one of these bad boys. So, naturally, I bought one."

You have to turn your face so he doesn't see your smile. You're not giving him the benefit of seeing you crack at his endearing ways just yet. "You're an unusual man, Harry Styles. Do you plan on buying more fruit for the last four weeks?"

"I already put pineapple on the grocery list," he says unconcernedly as he scoops out a chunk of the fleshy fruit. "Anyway, I didn't come out here to discuss fruit." His tongue sticks out as he takes a bite, the spoon leaving his mouth with a pop before he points it at you. "Still mad at me?"

You internally sigh, knowing it's useless to continue acting like he's in the wrong. "I can't stay mad at you. And I don't know why I got so worked up. I was just being overdramatic."

Harry hums in thought as he swallows another bite. "Expressing how you feel isn't overdramatic. Don't apologize for having those feelings, especially toward me. Yell at me if I'm being a dick; kiss me if I'm being a dreamboat. It’s simple, baby." He finishes his little speech by shoving another spoonful of papaya into his mouth, chewing introspectively while staring at the waves.

"Was it Socrates who said that?"

He plucks your bottom lip with the spoon and murmurs, "You're feisty today."

"Back to the topic," you say before he can proceed. He knows it riles you up when he calls you that. "Money shouldn't have been what my mind first went to. It's still a concern, but ultimately, making time for our family is the most important thing. I apologize for freaking out."

"You're forgiven." He scoots closer and holds a spoonful to your mouth. You accept the sweet flavor as he adds, "And I'm so sorry for calling you stupid. Please know that is the furthest thing from the truth."

"We all say things we don't mean sometimes. It takes basic empathy to understand that part of life," you reply. There's no use in acting like you haven't done the same thing in the past.

Harry slings an arm around your shoulders, bringing you in for a warm side hug. "What you said is true, by the way. We have time to figure things out and adapt. Let's enjoy the last month we have to ourselves.”

You nod in agreement and say, "I also want to thank you for being so thoughtful and putting our family first. I trust you with this new chapter in our lives. I don't doubt you at all."

"Don't worry about it," he says with a kiss to your temple. "I'm proud of you for dealing with every mental and physical change these past eight months. And I will always be here for you through the good and bad moments. In sickness and in health, remember?"

You smile fondly and take the white envelope out from under your leg. "Are you in the mood for a good moment with me?" Harry looks confused, but he nods anyway. "When you saw this in the car, it's not nothing like I said it was. It's from when I went to my prenatal appointment a few days ago. I know we decided to find out the gender a month before my due date, so I have the results. I haven't looked at them yet."

Harry's eyes widen, and his mouth parts as he sets the papaya down. "I am not prepared for this. Wait, hold on. Let me breathe for a second." His head tilts up toward the sky as he takes dramatic, calming breaths.

You laugh and set the envelope on his thigh. "Do the honors, Styles. Let's see if your prediction is right."

He picks it up and carefully opens the seal. Unfolding the paper filled with medical information, he quickly skims the tiny lettering to look for the answer he's been waiting for.

"Holy shit," he says, his voice cracking as his hand covers his mouth.

"I'm guessing you're right?" you ask, your eyes watering.

"Girl. We're having a girl. Jesus, I'm going to cry." He wipes away his tears. "Why am I crying? I was confident it was a girl."

"Because it makes it more real," you say, leaning over to kiss his damp, rosy cheeks. "Now we know for sure."

"Come here, honey. Let me take a look at her."

You sit on your knees between his spread legs. Harry sets the envelope down and lifts your dress, revealing your bump that puts quite some distance between you and him. His hands splay across the taut skin as he leans down to kiss right above your belly button. He gazes up at you under his wet lashes and smiles against your stomach, his dimples carved deep with happiness.

"I love you," he whispers with a sniffle. "I love both of you so much. With my entire soul."

In a simple moment, everything falls into place.

——

July - Present Day

Everything is falling apart.

Well, not really, but you sure feel that way as you bend over the toilet at seven in the morning and empty your queasy stomach once again.

It's the first Sunday in July, marking ten weeks of your second pregnancy. When you woke up with a wave of morning sickness a couple of hours ago, you noticed something peculiar. As you were rubbing circles on your abdomen to ease the nausea, it appeared that your stomach had seemingly popped overnight. The curve was more prominent and firm, a small bump you must have mistaken for bloating. The bump is pretty much nonexistent in a loose shirt or hoodie, but anything tight will hug it and be a constant reminder of baby number two growing in there.

Dizzily standing, you move toward the sink to brush your teeth for the umpteenth time, then gurgle some spearmint mouthwash to diminish the rancid taste in your mouth. Pots and pans can be heard clanging downstairs as you wipe your lips, and the occasional giggle from your daughter mixes with Harry's theatrical voice, which he puts on whenever she watches him cook.

The smell of sizzling bacon doesn't help the swirling feeling in your stomach as you head downstairs to the kitchen. Their lighthearted commotion grows louder, and you stop to stand in the doorway to soak in your favorite part of Sunday mornings. Harry is in front of the countertop, and your daughter stands on her tiptoes on a step stool next to him, the two of them watching pancakes turn golden brown on the griddle.

He's in full dad mode with tired eyes and an outfit that screams: I have a toddler and pregnant wife at home. In other words, a black button-up with pink flamingos and grey pleated trousers. They don't match whatsoever, but you know he doesn't care.

He voyages around the kitchen, pouring orange juice, dropping chocolate chips into the batter, and ensuring your daughter's little hands don't touch anything hot. Your hand subconsciously holds your bump as you think about how you'll get to see him interact with a newborn again—cradling them, teaching them to walk, and pretending to eat their hands and feet. He still does that with your daughter, but it breaks your heart knowing she'll grow out of it one day.

"Good morning," Harry acknowledges with his back turned, halting your daydreaming. How does he always sense your presence?

When you don't say anything, he turns to glance at you while setting a heart-shaped pancake on a plate. Your smile grows wider as you curl your pointer finger to beckon him closer. He gives you a confused look before unplugging the griddle and instructing your daughter not to touch anything on the counter. She'll be too distracted by the cartoon playing on the television to even notice that the both of you will be gone for a moment.

Sauntering toward you, Harry sticks his thumb in his mouth to lick the excess batter off. "What's up, baby?"

"I have a surprise to show you," you whisper, accepting his kisses.

"Yeah? S'it my half-birthday or something?" he asks, his voice still gravelly and slurred from sleep.

"No, this isn't about you," you tease with a pinch to his side. "Come with me."

You grab his hand and lead him to the bathroom just down the hall. Turning the lights on, you stand in front of the mirror and say, "I'm ten weeks today. I woke up with a little morning sickness, but look!" You lift your shirt and turn to the side to get a better angle of your stomach. "It was just pudge before, but it's an actual bump now."

Harry stands behind you and rubs his hands over the swell. "No fuckin' way. You... this happened overnight. I was spooning you this morning! How did I not notice?"

"I don't know. I didn't notice either, and it's my own body." You shake your head disbelievingly and place your hands over his. "I read that women's second pregnancy will have them showing earlier. I guess that's why I popped so soon. Last time, I didn't show until fourteen weeks or something like that."

He hums lowly, pulling you further back against his chest. "I've missed seeing you like this. It makes you glow more than usual." His mouth is by your ear when he quietly murmurs, "Makes me hard."

"You're so naughty in the mornings," you say, removing yourself from his grasp and pulling down your shirt. "C'mon, let's eat breakfast."

Harry whines in protest, gently grabbing your face and turning it toward him so he can nip your jawbone and then lock your lips together. After your stolen moment alone, the both of you head back to the kitchen to enjoy another blissful Sunday morning.

——

Takeout pizza is on the menu tonight. The trunk of the Volvo is open, with blankets and pillows strewn about to create a fort-like space for the three of you to sit in. Harry had driven the vehicle down to the beach so you could watch the sunset and feel the breeze from the ocean.

You get comfortable in the trunk and set the paper plates and napkins down. Harry and your daughter are in the beach grass, picking the wildflowers that blossom there. Her hand grips bunched stems while her other holds her dad's as they wander. Her precious, fruit-patterned dress flows in the wind.

Moments later, they come strolling toward the car with soft smiles. Your daughter clambers into the trunk with your help and hands you a makeshift bouquet of yellow and purple wildflowers.

"Thank you, sweetheart," you say with a kiss to her windswept hair.

Harry places his hands on either side of your thighs and leans in for some of your affection. You peck his lips; they're pink from the strawberry Kool-Aid he made earlier. Before he retreats, he glimpses at your baby bump. He exhales and looks at you with a crooked smile, his thumb stroking the underside of your baby bump.

"Kumquat," he says with a click of his tongue.

You laugh, albeit not understanding. "Come again?"

"A baby at ten weeks is the size of a kumquat," he explains, like it's a well-known fact.

"Interesting," you say. "Well, the kumquat is hungry, so get up here and cut the pizza."

Your daughter is oblivious to the conversation as Harry scoots next to you and begins rolling the pizza cutter. His forearm flexes, and the veins bulge when he does it. "Small bites, little lady," he tells her as he puts a slice on her plate.

Reaching behind you, you grab a bottle of sparkly pink nail polish you brought out. "She told me when you were picking up the pizza that she wanted you to paint her nails."

Harry nods and pats his lap. She excitedly sits between his legs and waits patiently. After taking the bottle of polish from you, he shakes it when his ringtone suddenly goes off. He juts his lips out as he reaches into his pocket to check the number.

"Hello?" he answers, balancing his phone between his ear and shoulder. He opens the cap and begins painting her nails.

You observe his facial expressions. He has a serious look and frequently nods as he listens to whoever's on the other end of the line. You pluck a green pepper off the pizza and hold it up to him. He opens his mouth and takes it, scrunching his nose as a thank you.

"I'm good for tomorrow? Are you sure?" he asks through his chewing. You hear an unfamiliar muffled voice before he says, "Awesome, thank you. Call me if anything changes. Okay, bye." He sets down the nail polish and hangs up before resuming painting her pinky finger.

"Who was that?" you ask while tucking a wildflower stem behind his ear.

"My boss," he says, licking his thumb and wiping a smudge he made. I don't have to go in tomorrow since there are barely any reservations."

"No sparkles," your daughter blurts before you can reply. Harry freezes and eyes you perplexedly.

"What?" you ask. She points to one painted nail and purses her lips. You gently take her hand and observe it closely—no sparkles are showing up. The polish must have gone bad. "I'm sorry, baby. It must be icky polish. We can take it off and get another one."

It's almost scary how quickly the waterworks start. You exhale as you take the plate from her so she doesn't throw a fit and make a mess everywhere. She's crying and staring at Harry like he's the cause of no sparkles. Well, maybe he didn't shake the bottle enough, but you keep your mouth shut so you don't make matters worse.

Harry grabs her waist and props her in front of him. "We're not gonna start this. Mumma said we can get some more, all right? Behave, or I'm not painting your nails."

You could have predicted what happens next from experience. Her harmless fists hit his chest in frustration as she sobs. Undried polish smears all over his shirt. Harry has always been good at controlling these minor mishaps, so he inhales deeply before lifting her writhing body.

"Early bedtime it is, then," he mutters while walking toward the house.

You begin cleaning up the short-lived dinner. It isn't anything new you've had to deal with, but it exhausts you, especially when she has a tantrum during family time. You take the pizza box out of the trunk, then close it and decide to clean everything else tomorrow. You drive the car to the garage and lock up everything before stepping inside.

After putting the pizza in the fridge, you slowly go to your daughter's bedroom, listening for any crying or screaming. A sigh of relief leaves you when only subsiding whimpers indicate she's done for the night.

Your heart softens at the sight you walk in on. Harry sits against her headboard, his feet hanging past the edge of her tiny bed, as he cradles his baby girl. He soothingly rocks her side to side, his eyes closed, as he rubs circles on her back. Her heavy eyes are barely open, and her tear-stained cheeks are smushed against Harry's chest. She's in her pajamas now.

You kneel next to her bed, and she extends her arm, reaching for you. Harry jolts awake, sharply inhaling and opening his eyes. His grip loosens when he notices that she wants you. You stand and take her in your arms, her legs hugging your waist. You then sit by Harry's thighs and quietly laugh when you see the residue of nail polish staining his shirt.

Harry lazily grins and clasps his hands behind his head. "It's not funny. I bought this shirt because of her, and this is what I got in return. She's a proper menace."

You squeeze his ankle in good nature before replying, "I wonder where she gets it from."

He gasps in faux offense and grabs your daughter's hand, shaking it playfully. "Mumma's being mean, don't you think?"

She sleepily shakes her head. You raise your eyebrows smugly before smattering her cheeks with kisses until she smiles and tiredly whines into your neck.

Harry yawns before catching your gaze and jerking his head toward your stomach. "Should we tell her?" he mouths.

Your heart rate quickens. You're not too worried that she'll get upset, considering she has asked on a few occasions—as best she could with her limited vocabulary—if she could have a sibling. You think it's time to tell her the news now that you're showing.

As you nod eagerly, Harry swings his legs over the mattress and crouches between your knees. You shift your daughter so she's settled sideways on your lap, then nod again to let him initiate the conversation.

"We have something to tell you, sweetheart," he says, a fond gentleness in his tone reserved only for her. Her head turns away from the safety of your neck. "You know how you've been asking about a baby brother or sister?" She nods languidly, prompting him to ask, "And do you see her belly?"

You situate her next to you so you can lift the stretchy material of your tank top. Harry says, "There's a baby in her belly." He guides her hand to your bump. "Your brother or sister is growing in there."

Her expression is unreadable at first, but then she gazes at you with curious eyes. "Baby," she utters drowsily. She's about one second away from slipping into a deep sleep.

"I don't think she'll remember in the morning," Harry says with a laugh.

You smile dotingly and stand before tucking her into bed. You kiss her forehead and watch her doze off as Harry tells her goodnight, whispering his boundless love for her and sealing his truthful words with a feather-light kiss to both of her cheeks.

Shutting off her bedside lamp, you leave the room with Harry hot on your heels. You're in the process of pulling your tank top down on the way to your bedroom, but before you can reach the door, Harry grabs your hips, stopping you in the dark hallway.

"You can't look this good and go straight to bed," he says lowly, his breath warm and intimate.

"Mom needs her sleep before work tomorrow," you reply with a smirk, keeping to yourself that you wouldn't mind staying up a bit longer if he continues praising you like this.

"Please, baby," he murmurs, his hands drifting dangerously lower. "Just a quick one, yeah? I'll let you do whatever you want to me."

Don't give in, you think to yourself. Make him work for it. 

"Anything?" you ask sensually as his fingers begin to brush along your inner thighs, causing your knees to weaken temporarily.

Harry licks his lips, his tongue poking your neck with the faintest touch. "Don't act like I wouldn't let you ruin me, darling."

You clench your thighs around his hand, and he hoarsely groans against your skin. "But I'm so tired, Harry. It won't last very long if I want to do what I want with you."

"Like I give a shit." He cups your core with his palm, his impatient fingers stroking over the fabric of your silk pajama shorts. "You could give me the sloppiest blowjob ever, and I'd still worship the ground you walk on."

You bite your bottom lip, suppressing the urge to moan. "Will you run me a bath afterward?"

"We can just fuck in the bath instead, if that's what you fancy."

You ponder for a brief second. "It would be an easy cleanup. We'd have to do it in the downstairs bathroom, though, and you'd have to be quiet. Think you can handle that?"

"Dunno. Do you plan on making me scream?"

"I could put those suspenders you wore today in your mouth to shut you up."

He exhales a sexy sound, one that reveals you caught him off guard. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

You hum and grab his hand, raising it to your mouth to nip at the calloused pad of his thumb before walking down the stairs to the bathroom just around the corner. The porcelain tub awaits, and you turn the knob and plug the drain, water gushing out. The bay window it sits in front of exhibits an endless ocean and horizon view. The sky is fading into starlit blues and purples.

Once the water is high enough and sufficiently warm, you shut the faucet off and begin removing your clothes. Harry enters the bathroom a few moments later and quietly closes the door behind him, flicking the lock. He unbuttons his shirt painstakingly slowly while facing the mirror, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

While he undresses, you step into the tub and watch him. He's taking his trousers off now, his exposed back muscles flexing along with his biceps as he shimmies the garment down his legs. His body is truly something from an empyrean vision. Every indent and definition on his skin magnetizes your eyes.

He's entirely stripped when you break away from your reverie, his legs gracefully stepping over the tub's ledge to settle behind you. A muted moan escapes him when his cock rubs against your lower back.

"Already making noise? I haven't even started yet," you tease, leaning into him.

"Can you blame me? I've got my wife"—his fingers glide against your pulsing entrance—"dripping for me already. Absolutely soaked."

"Then do something about it."

Harry palms your clit, and you instinctively bend your knees. "I thought you wanted to be in control tonight."

"Will you be good? You have a reputation for getting antsy and taking over."

His hands travel upwards and squeeze your sensitive breasts. "Yeah? Does that bother you?"

"You know I like it when you're submissive. Especially when you whine for me and try to touch me when you know you can't."

"Go on, then. Take care of your husband."

You turn around and straddle his thigh, your name inked permanently above his kneecap that's visible through the water. "I'm going to take care of myself first."

"Ride it. You're the only one who's allowed to." His hands try to latch onto your waist, but you slap them away.

"Touch yourself while I ride you."

Harry's tongue pokes the inside of his cheek as he exhales heavily. He grips his cock, squeezing and twisting to relieve himself from the throbbing ache. You begin grinding on his leg to relieve your pressure and stifle your moans in his neck, your core slick with arousal as his thigh muscle flexes with each motion. He starts pumping, one arm resting on the edge of the tub. Your hands place themselves on the side of his neck, and your thumbs apply light pressure there, causing him to release a choked moan.

You shush him. "You have to be quiet. What do you need? Tell me what you want, and I'll give it to you since you're being so good."

"You," he whispers with a pained look etched on his face. "I need you around my cock. Need you to press against me. Please, please, please."

His voice dies with each plea, and you cradle his limp head as he fully submits to you. Whenever he begs, you entirely unravel. Your dominant wall crumbles with his whines, and his deep voice always goes a pitch higher to show his desperation for you. His pink lips form solicitous praises and carnal noises of desire. You want to kiss them until they become swollen and numb.

"I know," you say, kissing the scrunch between his furrowed eyebrows. "Fill me up. I'm ready."

Shakily lifting on his thigh, you get Harry to sit up more in the tub so he can line his cock up with your entrance. When you slowly sink, he stretches your walls and hits you deep, leaving a breathy moan in your mouth. Your fingers scratch his soft stomach, and your body leans into him as you begin to ride him. Your hand reaches down to squeeze one of his balls, making him let out a guttural moan before you stop him by covering his mouth. His muffled whimpers encourage you to go faster, your stomach pressing into his abdomen with each thrust.

"D-don't want to," Harry stutters through ragged breaths. "Let me come on your stomach. Please. You're so beautiful like this."

Who are you to say no to such a filthy request?

"Are you close?" The question lingers, and Harry seems to be spaced out from pleasure because he doesn't answer. You can feel him throb inside you as he jerks his hips up at a different angle. His glistening chest is heaving, and his eyes are pinched shut.

"Harry." You cradle his cheeks to bring him back to earth. "Are you there?"

He hears you this time, nodding fervently until, little by little, he slips himself out of you to stand up in the water. You get up with him and sit on the edge of the tub so he towers over you, and he holds his cock and looks up at the ceiling as he comes on your stomach and chest. You hold his free hand to balance him, his legs trembling and his lips pulled inward to stop any moans from escaping.

His warm release drips down on you, and once he finishes, he falls to his knees in the water, some of it splashing over the tub and onto the floor. His hands grip your ankles to put them over his shoulders, leaving kisses on your legs. You spread them more so he can finish you off. You could quickly come in two seconds if he puts his mouth on you.

"Fingers or mouth?" he asks, hair falling over his eyes.

"Mouth. Can I come on you, too?"

He whines against your inner thigh. "Yeah?"

You whimper and nod. Harry immediately latches his mouth to suck on your clit. There's already pressure building in your lower stomach. He moves down to lick inside of you, his nose nudging your clit as his large, veined hands splay almost protectively on your bump.

"Feels so good," you say, placing your hands on the tub's edge to steady yourself. "I feel it. Please don't stop."

He licks a long stripe, not holding back by fucking his tongue inside so deep that it makes you ache. Your legs tighten around him as you clench multiple times until you can sense your burning climax approaching.

"Harry. Please, I need—" You can't finish your sentence because Harry stands up abruptly and hooks his hand under your knees to lift you, carefully stepping out of the tub and sitting you on the rug. It's messy, and it's uncoordinated. However, he's never one to give you a stagnant sex life.

He cradles you as your body shakes, then lays down on his back so you can fulfill your request. You straddle his torso, your clenching core settling on his abdomen that's deliciously slick in the low lighting of the bathroom. His thumb presses onto your clit, a move that always allows your orgasm to boil over.

Your neck tilts back, and you orgasm. Harry's hands are everywhere—kneading your ass, rubbing up and down your thighs, and groping your breasts. You're grinding on his stomach as you ride out the last of your release, your hands on his sternum. His skin is sticky with your arousal, and you eventually collapse on your back next to him in exhaustion.

"C'mere, love," Harry rasps, his arm extended. You're too far away."

You breathe tiredly, your hands resting on your bump. "I can't. My legs feel like jelly."

Harry snorts and sits up with a groan. He quickly unplugs the drain and crawls over to hover above you, leaving a wet kiss on your stomach. His hand blindly finds a towel around and begins wiping you down.

"This is the lamest aftercare ever," you say, laughing. The dry towel doesn't feel nice on your sweaty skin, and Harry's movements are lazy from the physical exertion.

"That's enough out of you," he slurs through his exhaustion, gently wiping your stomach.

"Should I take off work tomorrow?" you wonder aloud. "I want to sleep in."

"Yes," he whispers, grabbing your hands to sit you up. His eyes take in every bit of you. "Look at you. You're going to be the death of me."

Every nerve of yours seems to tingle at his words. "Hey, remember when I was pregnant last time, and you nearly broke my back during sex?"

Harry cackles way too loud, and you hush him as his hands slap over his mouth. "I was so scared when that happened. But I could only take you from behind because you were ready to pop, so it's not entirely my fault."

"Excuse me? How is that not your fault?" You yank the towel from him and begin cleaning him. "I'm surprised you didn't make my water break with how hard you were going."

"Jesus, you've got a dirty mind. Save it for later, would you?"

A comfortable silence ensues while you both get up, wrap towels around your bodies, and then head to the bedroom. You pick out one of Harry's shirts and a pair of underwear to wear as he slides into some black boxers. While you ruffle your slightly damp hair, he sneakily picks you up and lightly tosses you on the bed, making you squeal in surprise.

"Gonna take off work tomorrow?" he asks, kissing down your throat.

"Yeah. I'll lie and say my morning sickness is bad."

His kisses move to your cheeks. "And what if it actually is?"

"Then my husband will wait on me hand and foot," you say with a grin. "Feed me soup in bed. Massage me. Kiss me better."

Harry tucks your hair behind your ear. "You know I'd do that anyway, right? Just say the word, and I'll do anything for you."

You stare at his kind eyes and inviting lips. His shadow of a dimple even when he's not smiling. His perfect nose that resembles your daughter's. His cheeks that were meant to be pinched fondly. His bunny teeth that made you fall in love from day one. The love of your lifetime, with a soul that shelters a heart overflowing with endless love.

"I love you."

A whispered reciprocation is spoken, and it's all you need in this world.

——

[fishnets-fingers]

Forbidden Hours

“Sounds like someone’s projecting,” he says, voice laced with honey.

“I’m not projecting anything.”

“Sounds like what you’re saying is that you’re jealous that I have the confidence to partake in intercourse and you’re a bumbling virgin-“

“I’ve read all of the volumes of the Kamasutra. I know my way around when I need to engage in coitus for reproduction,” she cuts him off.

“Oh, sweet sweet Princess,” he whispers, using her title condescendingly. “Sex is more than just reproduction.” He strides towards her.

PAIRING - spy!harry x princess!y/n

a/n - happy first day of 2023! this is my first time writing historical fiction. it’s loosely inspired by a movie, particularly this scene. it’s not historically accurate in the slightest. you can read more about the chola dynasty here. don’t know how many parts this would have but i’m hoping to write more of these two’s dynamic. if you have any ideas, let me know. as always, like and reblog. feed back is not only appreciated but much welcome. happy reading!

Word Count - 4.2k (not proofread)

MASTERPOST | PART TWO

….

நிழல். Shadow. That was his nickname among the royal heirs. He was quiet, swift, inconspicuous, and nimble - camouflaging himself in vast rooms and gathering intel. There wasn’t a room in the kingdom he couldn’t weasel himself in; whether that be up on the roof, scaling walls, or hidden in the dark - where candle lights don’t flicker.

Growing up as the son of a British sea merchant, Harry learned that there wasn’t much for a young boy to do in the cramped quarters of the ship. He’d lost his mother the moment he took his first breath. There wasn’t a lot of maternal warmth in his life but that wasn’t to say that he wasn’t loved. He was loved in a different way, his father kept him close during the wuthering nights at sea often pointing out constellations in the night sky to remind him that life had far more in store for him than the fervent passing waves of the sea. But he was also a man that did not believe in making mistakes, so whenever Harry got in trouble, he was asked to scrub the deck floor clean until his hands bled. He learnt his way around a sword from the crewmen. Travelling to different ports of the world also meant learning different forms of combat and gathering information from people of different cultures. Stewing in a ship with ten men for months meant no entertainment, so he began sifting for stories and used their weakness and strengths against them to gain favours.

He docked on Chozhamandalam when he was twenty and was greeted with a red swallowtail flag with a pouncing tiger on it. He grew to love the people of Kaveripattinam - the bustle of the markets, the chortle of the children running about, the welcoming people, and the way art was particularly celebrated in this small port town, and the princess he set his sights on his third day of being docked there. He’s heard of royalty. Lots of royalty. Cruel rulers. Compassionate rulers. Ostentatious rulers. Modest rulers. Heard. But he’s never seen one in the flesh. Until that day.

A crowd gathered near the temple, murmurs of visiting royals spread like wildfire, and when he’d caught wind of it, he couldn’t resist. Ten soldiers walked first clearing the path, two on horses and sheathed swords followed, then came ten men bearing the weight of a palanquin. It wasn’t an ordinary palanquin, this particular one was grandiose, shimmering in gold and stained glass but the insides were draped in silk to obstruct the view of the onlookers. The Queen Mother exited first, greeting the townspeople and that’s when Harry saw her - the Princess Regnant, the one third in line to the throne. He found himself unable to tear his eyes away from the way her lips curled up in an inviting smile. Harry has seen many a sight in his life but none would compare to the way the royal blue silk saree draped around her body made her skin shimmer; it reminded him of how the first light of the sun would glint and glimmer on the steady ocean water. Her eyes were dark, like the deepest part of the sea where light does not enter. She was adorned in gold, hair piled up into a tall bun that was decorated with jasmine flowers. Their temple visit was brief, the Princess joined her grandmother thanking people for their well wishes before being escorted into the temple premises. It was her eighteenth birthday, so a feast was prepared for everyone in town. As the crowd dissipated to head to the town hall for the royal lunch, Harry lingered wanting to catch sight of the Princess again. He managed to climb a peepal tree that towered over the south entrance of the temple. He saw her again, only this time being told off by the guard as she tried to reach over to pluck a blooming lotus from the temple pond. She huffed in response settling down on the step, so the water lapped at her feet, guiding a tadpole trapped in a water bubble on the lotus pad back into the water.

Three years later, he’d made himself a name in the kingdom. His path stumbled with the Crown Prince a month after arriving. He soon became his confidant, even earning a spot in his army. The Crown Prince, Vikram, was a skilled warrior often going off on conquests under the King’s orders to further expand the country. The youngest Prince, Karthi, was sent to the island of Lanka to study apothecary and healing. And the middle heir, Princess Y/N, was known for her wisdom and strategic wit. She often presided in important meetings with the King and his counsel and implemented many strategies that helped triple the wealth of the dynasty and the well-being of the people. The first battle Harry rode alongside the Crown Prince, he was tasked with bringing home a note sent by the prince to his father detailing his plans on the war spoils to the King. Harry was entrusted with carrying secrets and messages to royalty and trusted members of the Crown. His knack of gathering information also came in handy and now was a spy for the royal heirs three years later.

Soon enough the nickname Shadow was bestowed upon him by Prince Karthi. There wasn’t a single room he couldn’t get into - even the castle. But the tower he was currently scaling was one he never had before - Princess Y/N’s chamber. It was forbidden to talk to her without supervision but in the dark of the night, he supposed it did not matter. His job description came with breaking rules and this particular information needed for her to be in the know sans protocols.

He hitched his leg up over the stone bannister and lurched his torso up to the terrace. Princess Y/N’s tower was away from the main dome of the royal vacation castle and he chalked it up for safety but now standing at her balcony, he understands why. The view was unbelievable - the vast expanse of the ocean was at his feet, calm waters painted silver with the full moon; it also overlooked her personal garden filled with coral jasmine, hibiscus, marigolds, and wildflowers. The ocean breeze carried over the fragrance of the flora straight to her room. It was well known that the princess was an avid gardener; he heard through the grapevine that oftentimes she’d sketch out the garden’s landscape plans and sometimes even join the workers to tend to the flower beds. Princes who came to court her from neighbouring territories would almost always bring a sapling of a flowering plant to gain affection.

One could get used to the view, he thinks, as he leans against the bannister one more time - the sounds of tides crashing over the shore soothe his nerves from his climb up. Being born with the golden spoon ain’t that bad. If the burden of duty came with such lavish living quarters, someone sign me the fuck up, Harry takes in the scenery before him before pushing off from it. His body instinctively makes his way to her, like a moth being drawn to a frame, or in this case a spy being drawn to the lavish canopy bed bathed in the buttery glow of candlelight. He stops in his tracks for the second time by the sight of her, not by the opulent beauty that she radiated when he first laid eyes on her but with fondness.

It’s not the Princess Regnant who’s fast asleep on her bed but Y/N. The same Y/N who bristles every time he’s in the room with her siblings. The same Y/N who straightens up her back and holds her chin up high when he cracks a joke to try and force a smile on her face.The same Y/N who looks away when he catches her eyeing him up as he hands over the sealed scroll sent by one of her brothers. It’s almost as if Harry is seeing her for the first time without any filters - except for the sheer white netted fabric that hangs around. She looks small without all the jewellery and silks. Hair raven and straight and long - longer than what he had anticipated - now that her hair has not been pinned up in a bun or bushed away from her face with intricate braids. She looks vulnerable - almost her age - a twenty one year old with a bare face that is not made up immaculately. She has dark circles under her eyes, and Harry deduces that it’s from reading all the books she has strewn over - opened - beside her on the satin sheets. Her lips are curled downwards; she frowns in her sleep and Harry has to try and fight the urge to reach over and smooth out the crinkle between her eyebrows.

He clears his throat, hoping she’ll wake up before he ends up touching her and landing himself in prison. She twitches in response, her steady deep breaths interrupted by a sharp inhale. He clears his throat again, louder this time, followed by, “Your royal highness.”

Y/N’s eyes flutter open, and she jolts up when she sees a tall figure standing beside her. “Who?” She asks, voice hoarse, eyes darting up over his broad chest.

“It’s me, Princess Y/N,” Harry answers.

“Mr. Styles.” Hand coming over to rub the sleep from her eye. “What are you doing here? In my chamber? You’re not allowed,” she states.

“I apologise, your majesty. I’ve been riding for five hours, ma’am. From the estate in the hills. Couldn’t risk having someone overhearing this for the sake of protocol,” he explains.

“So, was I right?” Y/N questions, shuffling out of her bed. Harry moves behind so she has the space to stand upright. “Are the governors convening?”

She gets no reply, making her flit her eyes up at his jade embers to find him staring at her body. Harry could make out the full curves of her breasts and hips with the flimsy white gown Y/N was wearing. Her nipples pebbled from the cold winds from the sea and peaks out the cotton fabric. She rolls her eyes, and snaps her fingers in front of his face to catch his attention. “I could have your eyes gouged out this instant, Harry Edward Styles! There are guards on the other side of this door.”

“Apologies, Princ-“

“You’re full of apologies tonight, aren’t you?” Y/N folds her arms, shielding her chest from his gaze.

“Sorry, Prin-“

Y/N laughs. “It’s far too late for formalities, Mr. Styles. Plus, they only apply to people who follow protocols and walk in through there,” she cocks her head to the carved wooden door. Considering you broke into my room by climbing my balcony, I reckon you can give it a rest. Call me Y/N.”

“Yes,” Harry nods. “Y/N,” he adds. Testing out the way her name rolls out of his mouth. He can’t help the way his dimples carve in his cheeks as the corner of his lips tug upward. I like it, he decides. He likes the way saying her name feels on his tongue, it’s rich and velvety and he wants to keep saying it again and again. “Please call me Harry.”

“Harry, tell me what you saw. Don’t leave out any details,” she orders, walking over to her desk.

Fucking shit, Harry shakes his head. How was he supposed to concentrate when the candles she was lighting only made the silhouette of her body more prominent. She could clearly see the swell of her bum and he’ll bet his entire fortune that she wasn’t wearing anything underneath other than that flimsy gown. He shamelessly lets his eyes rake up over her and his heart flutters when he meets her expenatant eyes, quill hovering over a parchment, urging him to vomit out what he knows.

“Yes. The Hill estate,” he clears his throat. “You’re right. Five governors held a secret meeting at midnight at the Bull temple. You know, the one that was destroyed last monsoon by a landslide.”

Y/N scoffs and lets out a chuckle of disbelief. “Of course, they pick the most obvious spot. Were you able to get a good look at who these governors are?”

“Yes. Do you want me to list them out?”

“Please,” she says, writing down each of the names that Harry listed. He walks closer to where she was hunched over, writing. Harry’s not surprised to see the elegance in her script.

“Impressive. Nice handwriting,” he comments.

“Hardly something to be impressed by, Harry.”

“Well, Y/N, it’s better than mine.”

“If you had tutors from all over the world, I’m sure your script will look just as impressive,” she adds.

“Of course.” He nods. “The meeting. The governors are unhappy with the decree to build schools using the tax money they’re collecting.”

“Of course they are,” she mumbles. “They’re all for taxes when they can use it to fatten themselves up but ask them to spend it on the children of their districts, they are suddenly unhappy with the new system implemented.”

“That’s not all.” Harry opens a silver box and pops a date into his mouth.

“Help yourself,” Y/N comments, shaking her head at his lack of etiquette. Harry’s face flushes with pink and he can feel the tips of his ears getting hot.

“It’s a long journey back here,” he tells her, avoiding her eyes in embarrassment and on cue his stomach rumbles.

Y/N eyes soften. “There are fruits in the basket. And here.” She walks over pulling out a glass jar filled with jujubes from the drawer by her bedside and brings it over to him.

“You have gummies in your drawer,” he notes, smirking at the half eaten jar of sugar coated coloured candy.

“I have a bit of a sweet tooth,” she tells him with a shy smile. He props himself on the table and she makes her way to her desk, watching him eat.

“Harry,” she calls out. “You said that’s not all,” she prompts.

“Your Uncle was there,” he tells her quietly, not wanting anyone to hear.

“My Uncle?” She asks, alarmed. “Can’t be.”

“I saw him, Y/N. He came in shrouded in a black cloak. He’s sired an offspring he said. Claimed that his son had a right to the throne. That’s as much as what was said before they dispersed.”

“You’re positive?”

“Are you implying that I’m being dishonest?”

“I’m not implying anything,” Y/N snaps. “I just want you to be sure.”

“I saw him with my own two eyes, Y/N. I was taken aback too. Both Princes speak of him fondly.”

“Seems like there’s a conspiracy afoot,” Y/N says, almost to herself.

“I’ll let Prince Vikaram know immediately,” he informs.

“Don’t. He’s hot headed. God knows he’ll come charging to the capital and stick a knife in my Uncle’s throat. I’ll take care of it myself.”

“What are you going to do?”

“That’s below your pay grade, spy. I’ll handle this myself. I’m heading to the capital tomorrow for a meeting with my father and the court. How long would it take for you to sail to Lanka alone?”

“Almost a week,” Harry answers.

“Okay. I want you to set sail to Lanka five days from now. I’ll have a scroll delivered to you at noon by the docks. Hand it over to Karthi. Father will want him back in the capital. Keep mum about this and you’ll be rewarded handsomely.”

Harry nods. “Don’t want gold coins this time. I want a house. Close to the sea. One with space for a yard.”

“I’ll see to it.”

“Thank you, Y/N. I’ll set sail five days from now to Lanka. It’ll also be nice to pay the old man a visit too.”

“Your father’s there?”

Harry nods.

“How is Merchant Styles? I heard he’s retired” Y/N asks.

“He took to Buddhist teachings. Become a proper monk now,” Harry chuckles.

Y/N laughs, one that’s laced with mockery.

“What’s so funny?” Harry asks, standing up abandoning the food.

“Nothing,” she gets out between peels of laughter, wiping her the tears that threaten to spill.

“With all due respect, Princess. Spit it the fuck out,” he huffs out in annoyance.

“It’s just funny. Your father practises a faith that preaches restraint of the senses as one of its precepts and then there’s you.” She bites down on her bottom lip to stop herself from breaking out into a fit of laughter.

“I don’t quite follow,” he crosses her arms.

“Of course you don’t,” she chuckles, straightening up and tilting her chin up.

“You always do that,” he points out. “Pretend you're better than me. It’s obvious you hate me when I’ve been nothing but friendly.”

“You’re not my friend. You’re Vikram’s friend. And Karthi’s. I don’t know you. And I know for a fact that I’m better than you,” YN's eyebrow raises in arrogance.

“What makes you so sure?” Harry takes a step towards her.

“Because, Harry Styles, you’re the proverbial whore of the town. I don’t go around screwing everything with a pulse,” she smiles arrogantly at him.

“How did you come upon this piece of information?” He asks her.

“News travels fast, especially with handmaidens. So, that’s why it’s funny. Your father practises self-restraint and you are on a mission to contract a venereal disease.”

“Sounds like someone’s projecting,” he says, voice laced with honey.

“I’m not projecting anything.”

“Sounds like what you’re saying is that you’re jealous that I have the confidence to partake in intercourse and you’re a bumbling virgin-“

“I’ve read all of the volumes of the Kamasutra. I know my way around when I need to engage in coitus for reproduction,” she cuts him off.

“Oh, sweet sweet Princess,” he whispers, using her title condescendingly. “Sex is more than just reproduction.” He strides towards her.

“It is. That’s what the textbook says: It's a womanly duty to service the man and bear his children. It’s sacred,” she insists, taking a step back.

“I’m surprised for someone with such progressive morals… Your view on pleasure seems archaic,” he takes a step toward her again.

“Books do not lie, spy. They have the whole truth.” She steps back again, bumping into the edge of her teakwood desk, trapping herself.

“What do your precious books say about the way your body sparkles when you reach a satisfying end?” He goads, taking a final step forward and invading her personal space.

“You are forbidden to come this close to me, Harry.” Y/N reminds him in futility. Feeling his hard chest against her, thighs rubbing up against him, she can feel his hard muscles straining against her and his warmth radiate, crawling its way into her skin.

“Call out to the guards then,” he reminds her, dropping his head down to nose at her temple.

“I will,” her voice is feeble. “You’ll be cut into pieces and thrown in the ocean.”

“I’ll take my chances,” he smirks, as his lips circuit down the shell of her ear. “I don’t see you telling me to stop.��� His tongue laves at her lobe, teeth coming to clamp down gently and tug.

Y/N squeaks feeling his action go down straight to her core. “I know how to defend myself.”

“I don’t doubt it for a second.” He stops, pulling back to look at her. “You don’t need to fight me,” his voice rings with sincerity. “Just tell me to stop and I will, Y/N.” He looks at her, searching her face for an answer.

“What else?” She murmurs, after a few moments, looking up into his eyes.

“Hmm?”

“What else? Things that haven’t been mentioned in books,” she clarifies.

His eyes shine with mischief as he simpers, dimples dazzling. “Where do I start, Y/N…” he trails off, fully pressing himself against her chest. God, she’s so responsive, he marvels at the way her chest heaves against his, heart stammering a staccato against his own racing heart. She’s soft and warm and she smells heavenly. His lips find its way to the base of her jaw, dragging up and leaving open mouth kisses on her smooth skin. “When you find someone desirable, you feel the heat pool in your belly and spread like wildfire across every nerve ending of your body.” He kisses her cheek, a hand going to intertwine with hers.

“Have you felt that?” He asks, feeling hot puffs of her breath against his neck. Y/N shakes her head. “It’s not very noble to lie, Princess,” he whispers, lips moving against the column of her throat. “I see the way you fuck me with your eyes.”

“I do not-“ her voice cuts off as Harry suckles on her jugular, feeling her hammering pulse underneath his lips. She lets out a whimper that goes straight to his fattening cock. Y/N’s mouth falls open dragging in breaths of fresh air, her free hand bracing against the desk to hold herself upright. “I do not fuck you with my eyes.”

“Really?” He says popping off, his calloused fingers come to caress the agitated spot. He was careful not to leave a hickey but he loved the way her skin turned a baby pink in response to his ministrations. “I guess I must have imagined all those times you looked me up and down?”

“I guess you did, Harry,” her chest heaves as she tries to maintain composure. It wasn’t right to be doing this with Harry. It wasn’t right to be doing this with anyone outside the sanctity of a marital bed but it’s exhilarating, breaking rules. She’s not sure if it’s Harry or it’s just the thrill of doing something that might get her in trouble with her parents. They trust her. Trusted her enough to let her move out of the capital and to the port town with her grandmother because she wishes to live by the beach. And here she was enjoying herself with a plebian. A foreigner. A spy. She met him when she was eighteen as her brother’s friend and he was handsome. Chocolate brown curls, smatter of freckles on the bridge of his nose, a perfect smile, dimples, and an alluring set of mossy green irises. She’s heard stories and rumours of his sexual escapades and as much as she detested hearing those stories, she detested the fact that she’s been comparing the princes who had come to ask for her hand in marriage to him. But all she could think of was how strong his arm was wrapped around her waist, pulling her even closer to him.

“Stubborn,” he smirks up. “See what you do to me?” He presses his hard cock against her pelvic bone, watching the way her eyes darken as she realises, the sight smirk of hers doesn't go unnoticed by him. “You’ve been driving me insane since the day I saw you on your eighteenth birthday. Went back to my quarters and touched myself to the thought of you,” he confesses. “You’ve been in my dreams ever since.” He cups her cheek, thumb moving back and forth across her lips.

“Are you going to kiss me, Harry?” She asks, looking up at him.

“Have you kissed anyone before?” He questions.

She shakes her head. “My handmaidens have kissed the people who were courting them. They told me how to do it and helped me practise on fruit.”

“That so?” He smiles, lips ghosting her Cupid’s bow. “You know kissing is pretty easy, Y/N,” he declares. “But it’s also powerful” he tells her, lips moving against hers. “‘A kiss may ruin a human life.’”

“Oscar Wilde,” she says, recognising his quote, surprised by his knowledge of poetry. She gets on her toes, pulling her intertwined hand out of Harry’s, and running it down his chest, she can feel the way his muscles ripple underneath the fabric of his shirt. Her chest heaves, belly clenching in anticipation as he lowers tilts his head to the side, noses squished and her mouth opens in anticipation.

He presses his forehead against hers savouring the moment. “And I’m sure that if I start kissing you now, Princess… I might never be able to stop,” he tells her, breathing in her intoxicating sweet floral scent. He concedes by kissing her eyelids and he’s fighting the urge to not run his hands down her body and up her thighs to see if she’s wet for him, but he steps away wanting to be respectful.

Y/N can’t hide the disappointment in her face when backs away from her. His hands come to cup her cheeks, smearing a tender kiss on her forehead. “Never met anyone who has me on a chokehold, Y/N,” he confesses. “I shall bid my goodbye.” He brings her hand to his mouth and kisses her palm, pressing it to his cheek.

“See you Harry,” she smiles. “You’ll be given the scroll at the docks at noon five days from now,” she informs, standing upright; snapping back into the person she was before being pushed up against the desk by Harry.

“Princess Y/N,” he bows, popping a piece of jujube in his mouth before making his way to her balcony. He gives her a salute one last time before climbing down the tower during forbidden hours, like he always does. But this time, he’s rappelling down the side of the stone structure with butterflies in his tummy.

part two

LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK SO FAR!

[immoralimmortals]

Akatsuki members as perfumes i own

I couldn't sleep last night because I am haunted by visions that are so very specific to me and my needs. These are all indie company perfumes currently available for purchase or seasonally available. I am a creature of my senses, and therefore I am not bound only with the curse of associating music with characters, but also scents.

Pain: The People You Love Become Ghosts Inside You from Death & Floral

Description: Heavenly musk, lingering funeral flowers, cold scent of vanilla in an empty corridor, handprints on a foggy window

This is a scent known by its fans to invoke deep emotion. It has funeral lillies to a T. The title is the main reason for my choice, though I can imagine him smelling like this. It's the definition of cold and formal, like the corpses he drags to do his bidding.

🥀

Konan: Mnemophilia from Nui Cobalt Designs

Description: Stately gardenia, antique sandalwood, Florentine iris, pearl musk, jasmine absolute, neroli, and liquidambar.

This is a scent which contains notes I have not experienced anywhere else. It is like...you took the idea of a mirror and gave it a smell? It is pristine, classy, and oh so very melancholy. It makes me thoughtful, it reminds me of glass or crystal. Another "cold" scent, similar to Pain's but more of a sister than an imitation of it. Less about death and more about memory, as the name entails.

I also considered Billet Doux from Possets, which is meant to evoke a perfume-stained love letter. Also very clean and classy, but actually brings the impression of paper and ink. Also noticeably a lot sweeter than Mnemophilia! Perhaps more for her when she was young and in love.

📷

Obito: The Emperor of Ice Cream from The Strange South

Description: Limp flowers on a windowsill, strawberry ice cream, tobacco leaves, tonka, and a dribble of young blood.

Saccharine with something to hide. The blood note on its own (i was able to try it) is actually very fruity, like strawberry. I think the visualization of dripping blood and strawberry syrup being the same is wonderful. The tobacco comes through as the scent fades, becoming more mature over time.

👑

Zetsu: A Roll in the Hay from Alkemia

Description: dried hay, fresh green grass, early summer wildflower honey, vanilla grass, vanilla leaf, and wild poppy.

This one really just smells authentically like true to life hay. I can't wear it all the time but it's so, so distinct when I do. It's a scent for when I want to imagine I'm all alone, deep in a field of tall, dried grass. The only thing is that it is probably far too innocent for him. He would not *want* to smell like this.

But I do. Because it's great.

...Okay he'd actually smell like Esprit de la Terre from Alkemia which smells like pine trees, but I don't like pine trees! I'm going to make him suffer and smell like vanilla.

🌾

Hidan: Damned Nightfall from Death & Floral

This scent is fucking purple lmao. The violets are a little powdery, like the visage of something pure, and the rest is DARK. It clings to my skin with those deep resins first and foremost like incense being burned. Despite all the food notes, not one lick of sweetness, frankly not a bit of edibility. This is a badass vibe like a jaguar hunting in the dark. It bites if I put too much on.

Description: the deepest and darkest amber blended with violets, black labdanum, vanilla absolute, espresso absolute, fresh cocoa beans, and honey

There are scents that exist that mean to invoke the smell of blood, but none of them are real enough to suit him. However, the metallic nature of Scythe from Possets is very impressive and real with a suitable name for the Jashinist.

🌒

Kakuzu: JFK and Jackie from Possets

First and foremost, this scent is old school. The leather reminds me of what Kakuzu's skin may be like; I read a fic way back describing his earth grudge causing it to have that kind of texture. Perhaps this is what he'd smell like if you somehow convinced him to give you a hug. You know. Somehow.

Description: A snap of the finest leather, a bit of oakmoss, combined with tabac blonde essence, a whiff of tea, and the warmth of silk. 

There are scents that smell like money, but I do not actually like the scent of money. I'm sorry Kakuzu.

☕

Deidara: Morton Salt Girl from Death & Floral

I know salt doesn't smell. I know it doesn't. But this is what salt smells like. If you ever get opportunity to try this, do it. It's so unique. I think this would be a wonderful scent to imagine for his clay; it is so distinctly earthy, and the salty aspect reminds me of smelling playdoh as a kid (and putting it into my mouth).

Description: yellow musk, salt, and rain on concrete.

🧂

Sasori: Forbidden Library from Nui Cobalt

This is what his puppets smell like. It's what they smell like! I do not make the rules! It is deep, it is softly masculine, it is beautifully woody. This is the phantom that haunts the abandoned castle library, who crawls out of the ancient tome in your fingers.

Description: The vanillic scent of aging paper infused with ceremonial incense, venerable bookshelves of black oak and sweet himalayan cedarwood, a hint of mossy stone, and an undercurrent of faded suede.

Bonus points: this is one of the few perfumes I reach for on the weekly. It's so, so pleasant.

📜

Kisame: Two Cups of Tea, a Monsoon, Me and You from Death & Floral

Description: rain on cracked soil, wet creosote, a swelling monsoon, desert cedar, black tea. 

I am one of the only people that seem to take this as floral. The storm is there, it is humid and sticky and moist like rain in the summer, but I distinctly get flowers behind it all. I think it suits him. (And it is one of few aquatic scents that don't smell like laundry to me nor like cut grass).

☔

Itachi: Ghostfire from Alkemia

Has the distinct impression of paleness against a night sky, like a star or a will-o-wisp. It's a strange but haunting combo of melting candle wax and melon. There is a sugared and floral version of this scent called Foxfire, which perhaps encapsulates him before everything went downhill.

Description: A luminous attraction of ethereal white ambers. Hauntingly beautiful.

Another Alkemia scent is Burning Roses, which is exactly what it says on the tin but with the unfortunate addition of labdanum, which this iteration of hates my skin chemistry with a passion. Oh, what could have been...

🎇

[im-goofball]

rubs hands together. do the gorosei have families in your lore? if so I'd like to see their parents [or hear about them], what did they look like in their youth? Do they have devil fruits or are they yokai? PLEASE 🙏

OMG IT'S CHRISTMAS!!

The Gorosei during the Void century, art by my co-lore creator @genri-o

Warcury-Born in the Year of Sun 595 AF

(48 y.o. in 643 AF when it all begun)

-Born as a middle-class noble, but family died in a tragic shipwreck when he was just a baby

-Was took into the Saint Vlad's Orphanage when he was just one year old by an unknown person

-After leaving the Orphanage at 16, he started studying law in the prestige Royal Law Academy that he has been saving for his whole life

-At twenty he graduated with honours and became a judge, aspiring himself to climb the hierarchy to get the highest position in Slaviugia Kingdom

-He became the Supreme Judge of Slaviugia at 35, recorded in the Year of Sun 630 AF, the second youngest person to get this job in history

-Was elected as the Chief of Royal Court in the Year of Sun 633 AF and became one of Tsar's advisor's year after

Ethan-Born in the Year of Sun 596 AF

(47 y.o. in 643 AF when it all begun)

-Born as an orphan in the land of Wano

-At 5, he was found starving in the streets by shogun Kozuki Saisho and his men, who then took him in as his son.

-For the next twelve years he was trained by the greatest blade master in that time, Lunarian named Andaiell Daerlion, with his younger brother Sutara (who he greatly envied due to the fact that he was Saisho's biological son, and therefore was shown more love then Ethan recieved)

-At age 18, he became one of the Moon Guards, elite group of twenty samurai directly operating under Shogun and protecting his and his family's life.

-Ethan had medicore education, despite being adopted into the royal family he never recieved any royal title nor any proper education as he should have (Wano still had strict rules when it came in their 4 Classes: 1. Royal family, 2. The Church of Moon, 3. Nobles, 4. Commoners) and so he is terrible at math and had to hone his reading skills by reading many books and poems. He was naturaly skilled in caligraphy though

-He adopted the name Ethanbaron after the creation of the WG, and he still mostly responds if people call him Nusjuro since he lived with that name most of his life

Saturn-Born in the Year of Sun 598 AF

(45 y.o. in 643 AF when it all begun)

-Born as the only child of royal Jay Garcia bloodline, son of king Methone and queen Anthea of the Greecion Kingdom

-Lost his mother at the early age of four as she died of miscarriage and then his father at the age of twelve after he died of an unknown illness

-Became the king month after, recorded in the Royal Cronicles: Year of Sun 610 AF

-He was spoiled a lot when he was a child, especially by his father who taught him a lot about politics. Most nobles and members of Grecion Royal Court tried to manipulate him and treated him like a snobby child, which of course he was, but he was much more dangerous and smarter then they thought and quickly got rid of oposition whilst he grew in power

-When he grew older, the passion he and his mother had for science grew larger and at the age of fourteen he atended the Academy of Sciences and graduated at the age of seventeen with honourifics

-In the Year of Sun 620 he was wedded to princess Tethys Saerlios, who was still eighteen at the time

-He was opposed to this at first, he had never met her after all, and had no idea what she was like

-The first time they met was in a lab Saturn thought belonged to one of the Royal physicians, but was surprised to find a young woman fixing a star-ship's motor. Not realizing it was Tethys , since she was dressed in an engineer's clothes stained with oil and lab glasses he came closer

-The first thing Tethys said to him and she was still with her back turned to him was: "Could you hand me that screwdriver over there?"

-Saturn was dead set on marrying that woman

-At the dinner table Saturn realized that the princess he was supposed to marry and that messy engineer from the lab before were the same person

-They married after a year, recorded in tue Royal Cronicles: Year of Sun 621 AF

-After 6 years, they had their first child and heir to the Greecion Kingdom, Jay Garcia Dione and 3 years later they had daughter, princess Jay Garcia Rhea

-Saturn and Tethys became one of the most influencial people of their time with their inventionsa and scientifical/engineering knowledge aslo the fourth wealthiest in the All Blue

Mars-Born in the Year of Sun 589

(54 y.o. in 643 AF when it all begun)

-Born as the third son of the royal Mars bloodline of Aurelion Kingdom, son of King Deimos III. and queen Aurelia

-His older brothers, Feobos and Sandos died in hunting "accident" in 598 AF and his mother, Aurelia commited suicide three months after

-Mars became king at the age of eighteen after his father, who grew mad with grief died in Trail of Sun by Mars' hand as he was unfit to rule and almost brough Aurelion to ruin, recorded in Sun's Cronicles of Aurelion; the Year of Sun 607 AF

-At the age of 35 he went to war with the ruler of Themisto Isles, the King of Storms, Shepherd Ju Krono, after the man invaded one of Mars' allied kingdoms for the goal of conquest

-The war was known as The Falcon War and took three years till Mars defeated Krono on battlefield, killing him with his own sword the Stormfeather. The end of the war was recorded to be established in 627 AF

-Since Krono died, Mars was debating on the peace treaty with Krono's only son and the Crown Prince, Shepherd Ju Peter who became the new king of Themisto islands at the young age of 13

-He took the boy as his son two years after, since it was discovered Mars was unable to have children so his bloodline would die there. (And he seemed rather fond of the sassy child)

Peter-Born on the Year of Sun 614 AF

(29 y.o. in 643 AF when it all begun)

-Born as a child out of wedlock of king Shepherd Ju Krono and unknown woman, theorised to have been a commoner

-Since Krono had no other child and never married due to his how shall I say... flirty personality, he had no other choice but to legitimize Peter and name him his heir and Crown Prince

-Whilst growing up, Peter was mostly looked down upon due to his "stained blood-status" and never had any great relationship with his father, but he still loved him nonetheless

-He became king after his father Krono died at the age of 47 by the hand of an enemy, king Marcus Mars

-He became fondof the man after meeting him, as he was the only person who took him seriously despite his young age an little of experience as a ruler

-They became rather close for the next two years and Peter was not really surprised when Mars offered an allience and then proposed the Rite of Two (a ritual with sake cups, bur much mire complicated then the one origanting from Wano)

-Despite The Falcon War and the tragic death of his biological father, Peter never felt any hate or negative emotion towards Mars, as he understood that it was Krono who was the agressor

-Peter even offered to adopt Mars' name, but the king refused.

They are not eaxctly devil fruit users, because they never eaten the fruits containing their yokai powers, rather they were given to it by Mu (details for later asks).

I will show you Jay Garcia family, also @genri-o 's artworks, later on in the ask (if you ask for them of course)

[satancopilotsmytardis]

""Everyone else sucks!" Magne says cheerfully." I think this sums up how you write the League's attitude pretty well, lol.

Though Toga is so sweet. She finally finds people who accept her quirk and are willing to give her blood as if it doesn't mean anything, as if it doesn't mean the world to Toga (they do know, they know now) and I love that for her.

"Dabi wishes he could take some of the work from his shoulders" They're so sweet. Especially with how much you make sure the reader knows Dabi does take off of Shigaraki's shoulders. Even here, when as a cat he can't work as much, he's helping.

I love Compress. Without Dabi, he's the second in command and he fills that position well. Of course Onigiri is actually first but since we don't count that...

Shigaraki arguing with his cat over said cat's drinking habits is funny as fuck. No wonder Compress thinks Onigiri is some kind of nomu.

The designer sounds fun! The thing about fashion! Yes! Absolutely! Especially since they're UA gym uniforms you'd think they would be fireproof, but no. God, I cannot imagine how expensive quirk adjusted clothes would be, if you think about how expensive even glasses can get (which are rarely covered by insurance). Damn.

It's interesting to see them pick their outfits! Nice!

Oof, being told off like that has to suck for Spinner, but it's something he needs to hear, especially since they're going to work with Stain in the future.

Oh, that's interesting! How Dabi views all of their resolves now that he's calmer than in canon. I like that a lot.

The League interacting with each other without the constant threat of death is so nice to see. I love that for them. They deserve a happy domestic life (of planning and training for terrorism).

I'm really happy that Muscular and Moonfish aren't part of the League here! It shows that they're really Shigaraki's group and he makes more confident decisions. I mentioned more of this in my last comment, but yeah, I like that a lot.

Dabi's trust in Shigaraki has grown so much since the first chapter. Not only Shigaraki, but everyone in the League. He trusts that they won't hurt him, that Tomura especially will keep him safe even while he's a cat and small. Ahhhh, I love this. Well, at least he trusts them not to hurt Onigiri. Dabi is once again seperating himself from the others by making a clear cut between Dabi and Onigiri. He thinks he can only be either one or the other. Oh damn.

The fact that Shigaraki especially tells the League that the Doctor is lying should he tell them to do anything really speaks of how much trust he has in the guy. It's none.

Compress being in physical pain about how Shigaraki washes his fancy clothes is very amusing.

"He can enjoy being human for a little while" if only Dabi knew how incredibly wrong everything starts going in the very next scene.

(I felt like with more scenes, I should add to my last comment and finish my reaction to this chapter! Thanks for giving us this!)

The League is a family!! Shigaraki didn't just give them a job, he gave them a home! It's all about connection baby!!!!

Magne deserves to be loud and supportive and really earning of the title "Big Sis" by treating the rest of them like family! Toga deserves to have people who accept her "evil" quirk as a part of her and not even blink about giving her what she needs to fuel it! And Compress deserves to show off how intelligent he is!

I think we all should spend more time thinking about how everyone being a superhero would affect pop culture and the world. Like Superhero movies? Documentaries now. So do the Sci-fi and Fantasy genres take off more? In a world with people with non-standard human biology, are there more years required to train as a doctor? If there aren't, how many more medical malpractice suits are made? Why does the fashion in the age of superheroes look so similar to that of fashion from well before that time? I can't get into all of these things in my writing, but it's something that SHOULD be considered in the world-building. MHA rests on the idea that all entertainment comes from heroes, heroes are the toys, heroes market products, heroes make clothes, etc. But I would like to mention if that is true, it speaks to an even more stilted and withered version of culture than has been explored in the Canon.

Spinner's having a rough time, but just like Shigaraki having to see his ideas/behaviors were stunting his growth, Spinner is at a point where he needs that too. This guy went from a law-abiding citizen to a villain from watching some videos online of a serial killer. That's not a great pipeline, and it's clear he's kind of using his obsession with Stain to keep from deeply examining the societal and racial injustice that he's been facing his whole life and deciding how he wants to fight back against that. He has strong beliefs, but he'll only be able to see them realized and stand up on his own if he takes the time to figure himself out and not just try to rip-off of someone else's.

Muscular and Moonfish are never part of my League! All my homies hate Muscular and Moonfish! ✊🏼

Thank you for going back for the rest of the chapter and commenting here! I'm so glad that you found so much to enjoy in the missing material! 🖤

[renarinkholin]

Heyo, so, I noticed your reblog on a post mentioning "Dier Venture" and now I'm intrigued... is that a Mistborn oc fic I smell? Exploring the Venture family? Because if so, I would love to read it! (If Dier is just an obscure canon character or something else entirely, ignore this ask. 😅)

OH BOY UHHH OKAY SIT DOWN LET ME TALK ABOUT SECRETS IN STAINED GLASS.

(Character portraits by the insanely talented Elisgardor on Instagram)

Dier Venture is my character for a murder-mystery actual play series Secrets in Stained Glass that just finished airing! It's set 10 years before the events of The Final Empire book, at a weekend winter solstice party hosted by House Elariel. We use the Mistborn Adventure Game system to build our characters and roll the dice, and the mystery and storyline itself were written and run by the ever amazing, ever wonderful @rashenditrash as our illustrious Narrator. There's a lot of fun references to the books and secrets tucked away, and even though it's technically a prequel, we did a lot of work to make sure things would fit within the Mistborn canon as seamlessly as possible.

It's five episodes long, though there's some written bonus content as well! The series was edited and produced by yours truly (it nearly killed me, but it was absolutely a labor of love) and you can watch the whole thing on YouTube or listen to the audio versions on whatever podcast platform you prefer. Though, I will say, for any audio listeners, there are a LOT of visual assets and graphics for this show so if you just listen, it might be worth coming back to look up the visual elements afterward.

Lo, trailer be upon ye:

As for Dier himself... (fine, i'll put a cut to save people's dashboards, open for more info on The Trashboi™)

Dier is a known Coinshot and all around terrible trash person who makes only the best life decisions because it turns out when your name is "Venture" you can get away with quite a bit without having to deal with pesky things like "consequences." Or so he thinks, at least. He's the first cousin of the recently ascended House Lord, Straff, and is technically second in line for the house title after his cousin's little brat of an heir, Elend. No one in House Venture is really thrilled about that, including Dier himself, since he's probably the last person anyone should ever put in charge of anything and has made it no secret that he considers himself completely allergic to responsibility.

I love this asshole with my whole heart, I put WAY too much effort into developing him, and he was a blast to play. I could talk about him for hours, and Matt was an utterly ruthless Game Master and just really dug into all the messy complexities of this terrible boy and Why He Is Like That, Why Did You Make Him Like That, Feather????

The good people of the 17th Shard Discord may or may not be bullying me into doing a 10-hour stream so that I can just blab all the Dier meta into the world. We'll see.

Regardless, I love to talk about him, so if anybody ever has Dier Venture questions, my inbox is literally always the most open, haaaaaa. I will never turn down an opportunity to run my mouth about an OC and that is a threat.

[septembersghost]

How do you think the order of the JM story goes now, if there is one?

i know some people very much don't like this conversation, which is okay, but i do think there's a lot of insight about her and her experiences and her writing that exists within it. i won't go too in depth into that, but the story and progression has significance in my mind, so:

i think there definitely is an order, though only taylor herself knows or could wholly explain that. i want to also preface this with the memory of what a big deal john was at that time, because sometimes i think people either don't remember or don't know, since he's not at that stature now, but room for squares, his debut album, came out in 2001. by 2009, he was working on his fourth album (battle studies, on which taylor featured) and had seven grammys. he positioned himself as this soulful, sensitive, misunderstood guy who was so passionate and lovelorn and dedicated to his music. the friend who introduced me to him was starry-eyed about him, the idea that he had a bad boy streak only added to the appeal. slow dancing in a burning room was on all the swoony playlists (though i was partial to 3x5 and stop this train, and then we got war of my life and edge of desire...). due to his status as a musician, and the specific compliments he gave her (ie: stevie nicks to his tom petty, "this girl is going to be around for a long time") i get why taylor looked up to him and felt that infatuated thrall. (his infamous playboy interview had not happened yet btw). he lived in a duplex in gramercy park that was converted from a church parish house, it still has stained glass windows (stained glass windows in my mind, i regret you all the time). remembering that context is an aspect of the story here. anyway, this is very subjective and my own interpretation, but, to me, they'd go like this:

superman (because it's innocent and sweet and hero-worshipping. "he's not all bad like his reputation") -> i can see you (trying to keep it professional, but developing a situation) -> electric touch (some are attributing this to JG, but i really don't see it because it's very closely aligned with treacherous, and this is the first date, and she's already so nervous and fatalistic. i also have some feelings about the subject here, the duet, and half of my heart. electric touch in and of itself sounds like it could be a JM title. patrick's verse is extremely john-coded. as is, "and you won't need space or string me along..." when connected to his own writing) -> ours (the situation is now serious feelings from her. "they'll judge it like they know about me and you...the stakes are high, the water's rough, but this love is ours.") -> treacherous (parallels back to the idea of hiding away, sleepless nights, an edge of danger. "your name has echoed through my mind and i just think you should know that nothing safe is worth the drive..." the two headlights also appear both here and in electric touch) -> foolish one (she's in love and realizing he isn't feeling the same, and she's already questioning herself and some of the manipulation she's experiencing. "you give me just enough attention to keep my hopes too high.") -> haunted ("don't leave me like this, i thought i had you figured out, something's gone terribly wrong, you're all i wanted") -> dear john (it all falls apart, and she is deeply hurt and scrambling for solid ground, and reassuring herself that she got out in time. "you are an expert at sorry and keeping lines blurry, never impressed by me acing your tests") -> the story of us (he acts as though everything that happened wasn't even a big deal, where to her it was defining. this and dear john could maybe be reversed? but i feel like that breaking point of devastation already happened and she's trying to get her bearings in the story of us. "this is looking like a contest of who can act like they care less, but i liked it better when you were on my side, the battle's in your hands now, but i would lay my armor down if you said you'd rather love than fight") -> i knew you were trouble (basically a reiteration of "i should've known," "and the saddest fear comes creepin' in, that you never loved me, or her, or anyone, or anything..." again hearkening back to "half of my heart is a part of a man who's never truly loved anything") -> would've could've should've (she's grown up, she has all the power of hindsight, maturity, and experience, and she realizes the full extent of damage that was done and that she carries with her. she didn't emerge as unscathed as she'd originally tried to convince herself. she's still haunted and battling the memories. "i damn sure never would've danced with the devil at 19, and the god's honest truth is that the pain was heaven, and now that i'm grown, i'm scared of ghosts, memories feel like weapons, and now that i'm grown, i wish you'd left me wondering." every single one of the previous songs speaks directly to those lyrics. "living for the thrill of hitting you where it hurts, give me back my girlhood, it was mine first").

[ixtaek]

I know I’ll probably get killed for this but I have a theory why LU is the most popular Link Meet AU.

First off, if an AU is drawn instead of written, it’s going to be more popular, because strong visuals give people more stuff to latch onto. Especially if the art is really cool, colored, and distinctive. Each Link in LU has a distinctive design that makes them visually easy to tell apart and a unique skill-set they bring to the table. I know some folks don’t like that Wind and Four are composites of multiple games which are spread over several canonical centuries, but part of why it works is because the games they encompass have very similar looking Links (I’m sorry Spirit sweetie). Every character wears something that naturally exists in their game, but is visually distinct as “them”. Even Four, who looks the most different from his in-game sprites, is still modeled after the stained glass window from Minish Cap. An outsider to Link Meet AUs but a knowledge of Zelda games (like myself) can easily walk into the AU and say “oh ok that’s the Link from Twilight Princess and that’s the one from Skyward Sword” pretty much at a glance.

But there are lots of really cool well drawn distinctive Link Meet AUs out there, so why is this one doing numbers? I think it’s also because there’s very little extra headcanon attached to the LU boys in the comic itself. Everything about them is pretty closely tailored to their games, from appearance to skills to personalities. The only completely canon relationship in LU iirc is Malon and Time are married and Sky and Sun are dating. Most AUs I see add in some of the artists own flair or ships or identities into the Links, which is great, but it can create a more limited sandbox for others to play in. Like if an AU has RavioLi as canon or it’s definite that Link and his Zelda are related, then people who ship ZeLink can’t put their own spin on things. If you’re adding a gender identity or disability or something to your AU, then people feel uncomfortable trying to change that in fanworks, and may not engage as much because of it. And especially if you have like, a big extra non-game mechanic going on that runs how the Links are meeting that people may be intimidated by. Fandom lives in the ability to adapt and project a little. The more you make “canon” to your AU, the fewer wild ideas people will run off with linked to it.

Another reason, and I say this with all the love in my heart, is that because LU has become so intrinsically linked with the hero titles (ie the game names), some people wanna differentiate by giving their Links different names than Time/Twilight/Wind/etc. Which is totally fine and honestly really fun, but it’s not as immediately identifiable for some as the game names, which can be a barrier. And sure, if you know the lore well enough some are obvious—the one with pink hair is the one from ALttP, the one with a fairy name is probably the OG Link, the one with any sort of body of water referenced is probably Wind Waker—sometimes there are overlaps. Like OoT Link and OG Link could both be called fairy boy. Wind Waker and Link’s Awakening could both be island names. This isn’t insurmountable, but it’s a barrier that LU doesn’t really have.

This ain’t to say other Link Meets AUs aren’t great, cuz they are! I follow a few of them and enjoy them immensely, and several get a lot of engagement! This is just my theory as to why LU has become kinda the Ur example of the Link Meet AU, and why the fandom is so big compared to other options.

I’m not tagging this because I honestly don’t want to discourse. I just want to ramble.

[landwriter]

For the fic writer asks: 22 & 57? 💜

Cecil, hullo, thank ya <3

Do you title your fics before, during, or after the writing process?  How do you come up with titles? This at least has not changed! During. I title them very early on (usually) through until when it's nearly done (sometimes). I come up with them easier than I think you do, haha - they sort of just appear unless I've made the mistake of temporarily calling it [x] AU which can end up being rudely sticky and then hard to find a real title for. I refuse (irrationally) to use song lyrics or poetry, and am given to short, punchy, straight-forward titles. This extends to the (too many) titled WIPs as well as the whole nine fics I've got up on AO3 haha

How conscious are you about including symbolism or foreshadowing in your fics? Classic example of my mind going completely blank when asked a question I definitely have an answer to. Uh??! I'm definitely not like [foreshadowing here] or [insert symbolism] levels of conscious about it, but long stories like Oaths definitely have a lot of little threads for people to pick up on. However I am working on a big project that has foreshadowing that's excruciatingly conscious because I've decided, foolishly, to attempt a bit of mystery. And while I love symbolism as a mode of communication between characters (flower language, a Pointed Gift of a Scarf, stained glass iconography and chironomia, fairy tale nonsense, etc.) I'm not sure I do, like, authorial symbolism, much at all? but I am addled by heat and could be wrong!

(fanfic writer asks)

[rottenresponse]

BURSONA MASTER POST!!

(Rottenresponse Edition) ((Will definitely be updated))

The Title basically spells it out for you, so WITHOUT FURTHER A DO HERE WE GO!

But-

I'mma put one of those read more lines because I'd hate to make someone unknowingly scroll through this whole fucking thing by accident </3

Also Also, Important Sidenote but I see all the Bursonas as Brothers (whether they be Step or directly biological), So please remember that while reading this <3

Youngest of the bunch

Twitch addict

Possibly Cupidromantic

Likes wearing YouTuber/Streamer Merch, no matter what it may be or how much it may cost

Definitely wears those Gaming Cat Ear Headsets when gaming/streaming

Made his own Twitch Channel after his favorite E-Girl dropped him from her Mod team and blocked him on all her accounts (It's a long story, we don't get into it)

Eats S'mores cereal straight out of the bag (It's a comfort food)

Would have definitely been a fucking IPad kid if he was born in today's generation

HE'S A FUCKING CREATURE!! A SILLY GUY!! A GOOBER EVEN!!

Being real for a minute, idk what kinda creature he is, but he does have cat like tendencies and he is part Phantom

The tips of his ears, fingers, etc, are blackened due to how often he'd tinker with charcoal and gunpowder when he was younger

Don't get me wrong, he still does, just not nearly as often due to how it stains his food and comfort items

SPEAKING OF COMFORT ITEMS!! THIS MF HAS TWO ✌ DOS: The Handmade flag L'manbur helped stitch into the inside of his cloak + A walkman he got as a birthday gift when he turned 16

Due to him having more apparent phantom-esk genes, Whenever his face isn't covered by the Shade over his eyes it looks a little something line this!

Trans (FtM) + Binding

Claims to not be interested in relationships, but definitely hints at having a crush on someone that none of the Burs can fully figure out for one reason or another

Middle child that is often reduced to the role of Family Babysitter

Angsty Emo Hot Topic little guy

Is the only Bur in a committed relationship with someone (TNTduo beloved)

Has scars on his face that make an upside down U with an X stitch where the bridge of his nose is (would be in the picture above)

Wears red glasses purely for the aesthetic since he broke his proscription ones a looooong ass time ago

Also insists he doesn't need his prescriptions despite being far sighted and not being able to see much past his hands after fully extending his arms in any direction

Definitely the fluffiest hair out of them all, simply due to how little he cares enough to style it

Gained his white strands due to stress despite being the second youngest

Is ferturnal twins with Ghostbur

MERCILESSLY MOCKS GHOSTBUR OUT OF ALL THE OTHER BURS, BY A LONG SHOT

Is much more Angry and Sarcastic than he is emo and bitter like Vilbur

Does, indeed, genuinely care about Ghostbur despite treating him so poorly a majority of the time

Isn't keen on showing outward affection towards his brothers no matter how they try to coax it out of him

Revivebur is the kind of brother that would leave little, small presents outside of his brother's doors or in out-of-the-way areas in their rooms as a sigh of affection

^^^^ Most commonly old poems he wrote about them, or random small gifts he bought from the store for them like sweets or stickers

Phantombur!

The Oldest Bur of the bunch

Aroace + Demiboy

Handles their finances and most of the bills like Water, Electricity, Garbage, etc

The Bur with the most noticeable Phantom appendages/attributes

Sensitive to sunlight, which is mostly why they carry an umbrella around with them a lot of the time

Occasionally uses hoods or Said Umbrella indoors, due to how overwhelming the lights can be to at times

Has taken up the role of being The Father Figure of the household, outside of L'manbur

Is the only Bur aware of what happened to their parents, and refuses to elaborate on what happened to them or lead to their disappearance.

Ghostbur!

Demiboy + Panromantic Demisexual

Has a comfort/childhood sheep plushie named 'Friend' that he takes with him everywhere in the house

The one time he took it outside, Revivebur hid it too well and caused Ghostbur to burst into tears after telling him he lost it

Revivebur was grounded for a month and they let Ghostbur choose what they had for Dinner after they found Friend again

Is technically older than Revivebur by a few minutes? But Ghostbur doesn't care, and Revivebur will MURDER HIM if he even so much as mentions it

Due to him also having more visible Phantom qualities compared to his brothers, he has the ability to turn translucent

Although, BECAUSE Of this, his skin is much more sensitive than it'd be normally

Asides from not being a big fan of certain textures and sounds, he also isn't that big of a fan of being by himself

He tries to be social, but struggles with the loud noises that come with it

Gained his love of music boxes and melodies through his brothers, but mainly L'manbur

Would beg his parents to sing him to sleep when he was younger, and occasionally asks Phantombur or ARGbur to sing him in the present

L'manbur!

Woooo Straight Cishet Ally moment <3

Second oldest Bur

He actually doesn't live in the house?? But he does come by to visit often

Plans to have a wife and a child in the future

HE ALSO HAS A PLUSHIE LIKE GHOSTBUR AND L'MANBUR WAS ACTUALLY THE GUY TO GET HIM FRIEND IN THE FIRST PLACE IBSBISBU

^^^^ L'manbur's plushie is a little fox named Fundy

Is the closest to Argbur surprisingly enough

Used to be a big music nerd back in High School, and actually makes his own music on the side between work and his other hobbies

ARGBur!

The third oldest fucker in the house

Actually ended up running away from the house at some point due to his affiliations with a certain missing person's case

Is debatably more online than Simpbur is, but Is most definitely more tech savvy

He actually ended up helping Simpbur set up his custom PC build and some other technical difficulties that he didn't know how to properly handle himself

Probably has a thing for cryptids after his time in the woods, just saying

Gay, just Gay

A big thanks to those who read this far!! I'm still definitely gonna update this with more info later because OMG IT IS SO, S O LATE GOOD GOD-

Have a good day/night broskis <3

[scaryscarecrows]

My Feet Have Led Me Straight Into My Grave

AN: ‘Roots and Leaves’. Title from Paper Route’s ‘Glass Heart Hymn’.

* * *

Gotham being Gotham, it takes a lot to stick out. You have to work at it.  So Dove, in the middle of a conversation with what she privately suspects is the Missing Link, good God, engage your brain, sir, doesn't clock the weirdo on Sunshine. Not until he very nearly runs into her and she has to hop aside.

Instinct says to cuss him out. Instinct gets slapped down when she sees who it is.

The brand is hard to miss and impossible to mistake. Once she sees that, she sees the rest of him; mud, plant bits, bugs, a blank expression that says he's running on autopilot. Fear toxin? Concussion?

“I'll call you back,” she says, hangs up before the Link can argue. “Kiddo. Kid, what the hell?”

He doesn't seem to register her until she gets a good grip on his arm, and then he flinches and shudders back to reality, eyes wide and spooked.

“No–”

She yanks her hand back before he can panic further. He doesn't bolt, but he looks about to.

“Hey, hon, what's goin' on?” Something, clearly, and fuck, if they've got a new crazy running around...the Gravedigger or something stupid... “You okay?”

Stupid question. He doesn't answer it, either, and right about now Dove remembers that Crane is out of Arkham. Last she heard, he’d holed up in the Narrows, which is across town, but…

“You didn't run into Scarecrow, did you?”

Silence, but he shakes his head, slow and unsure. They'll table that for now.

“C'mon, you're gonna get hit by a bus.” He doesn't move and she nervously gives his sleeve a quick, firm tug. “Hood.”

He follows her, shuffly and slow, but sticking close enough for her to make sure she doesn't lose him in the crowds. Christ...what's going on around here? He's not--he's unarmed, helmet nowhere in sight. He honestly just looks like a normal person that got caught in the crossfire; jeans, jacket, t-shirt.

Fucking Batman...fucking bullshit…

Hood's dead silent for the walk, save for his gasping breaths. Something bad happened, it must have, this isn't like him. And what's with all the yard shit? It's almost like he fell down a hill, but…

“Okay,” she tells him, once they're in her apartment with the door locked, “stay here. Just a second, okay?”

He doesn't answer, but he doesn't run, and she figures he'll be fine while she drops her purse and gets the lights on and all that.

Okay...she'll try her best to get him cleaned up, but not with her good white towels, with the dark blue ones that hide stains. Get the bathroom rug outta the way...glass of water, just in case...there. All set.

He's hasn't budged since she left him, but a little nudge has him moving again, arms held close to his sides and shoulders hunched like he's trying to shrink. That ship, Dove thinks wryly, has sailed.

It had been, really, a relief, to find that out. Robin had been small, small, small. Joker was a tall man, deceptively strong, and he would have been able to pick the kid up. Hood's nearly unrecognizable now, but the one of the first things Dove had thought, in a fit of shock and I thought you were dead, had been, let's see you fuckers hurt him now.

“Here we go, just siddown and we'll--Jesus Christ.”

Now, in stark lighting, the mud and bugs and leaves make sense. Hood's hands are filled with splinters, cheap wooden shards that jut out in all directions. Several nails have been ripped off and his clothes are dirty and torn.

Someone tried to bury him.

Dear God.

“Okay, hon, just... just don't move and we'll get these out, okay? Just stay still.”

He doesn't so much as wince when she starts removing the splinters, even though several of them go deep between his knuckles and Dove is well aware of how painful missing fingernails are.

She's maybe halfway done with his right hand when he pulls away, tumbles off the toilet to his knees and shoves the lid up. Before she can do anything, he's retching, body heaving as he spits up...grime. Gritty brown bile with bits in it.

Comfort him? Don't touch him?

Water. She brought that water glass in, now's the time for that.

He finally stills and silences, slumped over the bowl and gasping for air. His hands are bleeding where they're gripping the sides, red trickles drying against the porcelain, and she hesitantly reaches over him to hit the flusher.

“Rinse your mouth out,” she says, moving the glass towards his lips. “C'mon, that shit can't stay there.”

That takes three or four rounds and a refill at the bathroom sink, but finally he collapses against the bathroom wall, eyes half-shut. When he stays there, Dove runs a corner of a towel under the water and scrubs it carefully across his face before rubbing it over his hair, dislodging more dirt and plants and a couple of bug parts.

Jesus. Jesus Christ, what the hell is going on?

“Be still for me," she says. "Okay...let's just…”

There's a lot of splinters. Every time she thinks she's got them all, another one is there. But finally she's got one hand done and Hood's breathing is a little less frantic.

“What the hell happened?” she asks him, because if someone's going to come looking, she'd like to grab her gun. If he doesn't answer, she'll just go get it–

“Harley,” he breathes. “Harley Quinn, she--I--I didn't know she was there, I didn't, Sheila said it was safe an' I--I swear I didn't know–”

Dove does not know a Sheila, but Hood’s starting to get worked up and it’s for the best to head that off.

“Okay, okay,” she soothes. “Okay. Is Harley going to be looking for you?”

“I don't–” He swallows. “I don't think so.”

She hates to ask, but she has to.

“Is Sheila?”

He shudders and curls in on himself.

“No,” he whispers. “No, no, no, she's dead, I didn't--I didn't know, I didn't mean–”

Who was she? Sounds to Dove like she might have, frankly, fucked around and found out, but Hood’s upset, head tucked against his knees to try to muffle his sobs, and maybe it’s best to just let that go for now.

“Okay, honey. Okay.”

She's partway through his right hand when he sniffles and rasps, voice thick, “I tried to save her. Honest, I did.”

Dove has no idea what's gone on, or who Sheila is, but she knows Robin. Knows he's telling the truth.

“It's not your fault, sweetheart,” she says. “Now be still, we're almost done here.”

THE END

[bakuliwrites]

Hurt

Fandom: The Arcana

Characters: Lucio Morgasson, Nadia Satrinava

TW: Angst, Blood, Self-harm, Mentions of Death, Red Plague, Depression

A/N: I felt inspired by the song "Hurt" (I like the Johnny Cash version a lot, the original is by Trent Reznor from Nine Inch Nails, both are excellent versions).

I hurt myself today, to see if I still feel.

Lucio’s hand weeps red, shattered crystal embedded in his fresh wound. Even in his frailty, he has retained some amount of strength. Though maybe it’s just enough to shatter a wine glass in a temper-tantrum. Blood trickles down his wrist, drips to the silken sheets beneath, invisible droplets on his bed’s crimson hue. The stains are hardly noticeable on a mattress marred already with the consequences of his vanity. Those damned beetles had made such lovely dye. It makes sense they’d be the things to betray him. 

Lucio picks at the shards of glass still stuck in his skin. The pain, if he’s even feeling any, dulls in comparison to the anguish he feels when he looks in the mirror. He’s had them all removed from his room, so he doesn’t have to stare at the haggard, pathetic creature that gazes back at him. He doesn’t recognize that feeble figure, hunched and stiff, baggy clothes hanging off their thin frame. All vivacity leached from the stranger that leers back at him. 

I focus on the pain, the only thing that’s real.

Lucio squeezes his hand shut, watching as the blood seeps through his fingers. He relishes that tiny amount of pain. The feeling of living. Of hurting. It’s better than feeling like he’s dying, withering, wasting away. His lungs are heavy with liquid and his limbs floppy with fatigue. How is it that the great Count Lucio has been reduced to a sad, skeletal mess? Disease-ridden and decrepit?

“Your highness, should I call for Doctor Devorak?” an attendant questions as they poke their head into his bedroom. Lucio grabs the other wine glass on his bedside table and chucks it towards them. They narrowly dodge it, the glass bursting as it hits the door. Lucio is left in silence once again. Wicked, angry thoughts pummel his skull, threaten to burst through and set the room ablaze. He doesn’t want to die, but maybe it would be better than the sorry existence he’s been cursed with.

I wear this crown of thorns, Upon my liar’s chair.

He leans back. Once, the great Lucio had sat upon thrones of gold. His adoring subjects had showered him with praise and adoration. Now, he’s forced to prop himself up on sweat-stained pillows. Once, he clothed himself in furs and jewels. Now, he wears a thin, cotton nightgown that’s much too large for his withered frame. Once, Lucio had been loved. Now, he is forgotten.

He wonders if there’s anything he could have done differently in his life. Surely, this is all the doing of someone else? It’s someone else that infected him with this stupid illness. It’s his mother’s fault that he had to go to such extremes to gain the power he so rightfully deserves. If only she’d just given him his title on his eighteenth birthday, like she was supposed to. If only she’d just died, like she was supposed to. Papa did it well enough. Why couldn’t she?

Full of broken thoughts, I cannot repair.

Lucio is alone. He is hated and for what reason? Isn’t he a generous Count? A beloved, illustrious Count? He can see when Nadia, Asra, and Julian roll their eyes at him. He can hear their exasperated sighs and mocking snickers. They delight in his affliction. There’s a sparkle in their eyes, as they wait for him to shrivel up and disappear. Doesn’t anyone love him?

A soft knock on the door. Lucio ignores it, incensed and bereft. He casts a withering gaze at Nadia as she enters gracefully, her brows furrowed and forehead crinkled with concern.

“An attendant told me you were bleeding. I can send for Doctor Devorak,” she offers, her tone soft and warm. It fills Lucio unwillingly with relief. A flood of affection. Maybe someone does care about him after all. 

“Don’t bother,” he croaks, hardly recognizing his scratchy, quiet voice. Is it even his voice? Or some tragic old man’s? 

Nadia glides over to him, lips set in a frown as she sits at Lucio’s bedside and inspects his injury. She pulls bandages from a drawer that was once filled with a secret stash of alcohol and other delightful treats. Now it’s filled with first aid items, because it’s all too often that Nadia or Julian have to come to his rescue now, a thought that fills Lucio with fury and hate. 

What have I become? My sweetest friend. Everyone I know goes away, In the end.

“At least let me wrap it, so you’re not getting blood all over your sheets,” Nadia insists, gently taking Lucio’s hand and bandaging it up. He watches keenly as she slowly wraps the strips of cloth around his hand, securing them tight. His hand in hers looks so thin, so frail. If she wanted, she could probably crush his bones to powder. But she doesn’t. Her touch is gentle. She is always gentle and warm and loving. Even when Lucio is horrible. When he’s monstrous and bratty and ill-tempered. Nadia has remained, ever loyal, ever caring. 

“Thanks,” Lucio whispers. Nadia merely smiles softly, though he can see the surprise glittering in her eyes. He knows it’s not often that he appreciates her, not anymore. In their youth, when they first married, he showered her with affection, with gifts, with love. But as the years have gone on, infatuation gave way to irritation. And, as many impulsive marriages do, things broke down. Now, they sleep in separate wings. Entertain separate people. The ghost of a marriage haunts these palace halls. But even still, Nadia has always been his greatest friend. His most trusted friend. Even if she seems to hate him, she remains at Lucio’s side. While everyone else abandons him. 

And you could have it all, My empire of dirt. 

“How are my citizens?” Lucio tries, his voice raspy and dry. Nadia’s crimson gaze is stinging.

“Abysmal, my husband,” she returns gravely, “Our case numbers are increasing by the hour. The quarantine center is at maximum capacity. There are riots now, calling for a cure, begging us to do something. Dissent is imminent if we do not act fast.”

It’s only now that Lucio notices how weary his wife looks. There are dark circles under her eyes and her face is gaunt. Has she been eating? Sleeping? Her shoulders slump as they never have before. Her motions are sluggish, not elegantly languid as they typically are. This city is running her ragged. Stupid, ungrateful citizens. 

Or maybe it’s your fault, something whispers in his mind. It sends shivers up his spine. A seed of truth, planted in his brain. Has he exhausted her? Has he ruined her? A once proud, vivacious woman brought to devastation.

Parasite, echoes through his thoughts, Leached of your health. But look at what you’ve leached from her. Look at the ruin you’re leaving behind for her. A kingdom of detritus. Of despair and dust. An empire of dirt.

He imagines Nadia, left to puzzle together a city torn apart by chaos when he dies.

If I die, Lucio reminds himself, I’m Lucio Morgasson, mighty and powerful. I’ll pull through. Won’t I?

Guilt eats at his heart. Isn’t he the reason for all this? A returning thought. It keeps coming back. He keeps ruminating over it. He sees it written on Nadia’s face. Can she sense how sorry he is? He doesn’t want to say it. He shouldn’t have to say it. She should just intuitively know. She should know how sorry he feels, for her and for himself.

He reaches his golden hand up. His arm feels heavy on his shoulder. It’s never felt heavy before, but now it feels like a great weight. It takes all his effort to lift it. Gently he brushes aside a strand of her deep purple hair and tucks it behind her ear. She seems taken aback, but after a moment, leans into his caress and closes her eyes.

“Where have the days gone when we sat on the veranda together, in one another’s arms, looking out at the sunset until it gave way to the stars?” Nadia wonders wistfully. 

“We could still do that,” Lucio puts forth, his voice sounding small to his own ears. She smiles ruefully, and he knows why they can’t. Why they can never do that again.

I will let you down, I will make you hurt.

A coughing fit seizes him. Nadia leans away, but keeps her hands steady on his. He sounds disgusting, phlegmy and ailing. He can see the hesitance on Nadia’s face, sense the caution in her tense body. She leans away because he’s revolting, isn’t he? Weak and ineffectual. Not the man she married. Not the powerhouse, the stallion, the Adonis, the Count. He’s a tragic mess, barely held together by the thin skin that stretches over his protruding bones. 

“If you’re going to just sit there and gawk at me, then you can get out,” he snarls at her. He’s mortified. No one should see Lucio Morgasson like this: despairing and fragile. Not even Nadia. She merely frowns at his commentary, but remains. It infuriates him. She should leave. He doesn’t want to be seen like this. He shouldn’t be seen like this. 

“I’ll sit here, if you’d like,” she puts forth, seating herself in the permanent chair by his bedside. It appeared when he fell ill. It’ll stay there until he’s better. Or until he’s gone.

“I don’t want your company or your pity,” Lucio returns, pulling the sheets up and turning away from her. He wants her to hurt. He wants her to feel how hurt he is. When she leans away from him like that. When she thinks of how sad and pathetic he must look.

“Leave,” Lucio hisses, dissolving all tenderness in an instant. Incinerating it. A moment ago, she had loved him. She’d been gentle and tender. And then she leaned away, reminding him of how horrid she thinks he is. Nadia gives a deep sigh. When Lucio turns around again, she’s gone. And he’s alone in his room, staring up at the ceiling, wishing he hadn’t been so hurtful. Because all it’s ever gotten him is a lifetime of pain and loneliness. 

[starksvinyls]

Title: Helpless Rating: Teen+ Pairing: Peter Parker & Tony Stark Tags/Warnings: Whump, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Kidnapping, Hopeful Ending (guys i can not stress this enough that it is 1 line at the end) (if you're looking for deep h/c with a lot of 'c' it's not here), Pre-Relationship (if you squint) (seriously you can read it as platonic or pre-relationship <3), Canon Divergence from Post-Endgame Summary: Tony is kidnapped, drugged, and feeling very helpless. He's sure no one will notice he's gone for days. He forgot about one person, though. Notes: for @febuwhump day 1: helpless

AO3 Link

The first thing Tony is aware of is the pain in his head. The next is biting metal around his wrists. He blinks slowly, eyes adjusting to the scant light in the room. All the walls are concrete, as is the floor, and when Tony looks, he sees a couple small windows high up. Basement. His vision is still a little blurry, so he tries to blink his surroundings back into focus, but it’s futile. Tony thumps his head back onto the table he’s strapped to, and stares up at the stained ceiling. 

A door scrapes open. Tony doesn’t know how long he’s been laying here; he knows he’s been losing time. Suddenly, a man is in Tony’s line of sight. Through his still-blurry vision, he can make out a pudgy balding head with small wire framed glasses perched on it’s pig like nose. 

“Ah, Mister Stark,” The man has an Eastern European accent, but Tony can’t pick out where exactly from. “Good to see you awake.” 

“Wish I could say the same,” Tony slurs.  

The man purses his lips. “If you can talk, the dosage must be wearing off.” 

Tony’s breath hitches. Drugged, of course. His vision, the time loss, not being able to think clearly. Fuck. 

The man steps over to a table, Tony isn’t able to watch what he is doing, it hurts his neck to keep his head up for too long. Another thing he curses. Very little sound came from the other side of the room, but Tony knows that isn’t an indication of what might be happening. 

When the man turns back around and comes over, Tony glances down and tries to jerk away when his brain registers the IV kit. A constant stream of whatever this psycho had shot him up with could only mean more of this disorientation. 

His captor’s eyebrows come together, an angry look clouding his features. The metal around Tony’s wrists tightens, and he winces. Then, the man gets to work setting up the IV, hanging an unmarked bag full of a pale yellow liquid on an IV pole he had pulled closer. 

It only takes a moment before dark spots start to appear in Tony’s vision, his muscles all relax - like a full body exhale - and then his mind fizzles out. 

The next time Tony is even marginally aware, there’s a bright light hanging over him, blinding his already spotty vision. He blinks until he can make out shapes enough to make out the man from before, standing over him. He gets a glimpse of a lab coat before seeing someone else step towards the table. The new figure hands the pig nosed man something, but Tony is drifting again before he can figure out what it is.

——

What feels like only minutes, but must be hours, later, Tony blinks back awake. It’s dark

now, moonlight barely reflecting off the small windows near the top of the walls. His mind is a little clearer, thank god, and his vision isn’t blurry anymore. There’s no way he can make a break for it though, his hands, and his ankles Tony suddenly realizes, are still held tight by metal. 

Trying to get his genius mind back online enough to try and at least parse together who the hell has him, if he can figure that out, he can probably figure out the where. With that, it shouldn’t be difficult to think of how to get back to New York, Tony just needs to known how many miles he’s dealing with. But, he keeps losing his train of thought. Ideas keep fizzling out, lost along synapses, and the harder he tries, the faster he loses them. 

Whatever that psycho gave Tony sure as hell took him out. Not having full use of his limbs, being tied down, held captive, wasn’t quite enough to keep Tony down as long as he had his mind. But take that away from him, he was like a sitting duck. 

He tries to think about who might know he’s missing, and it just makes him more depressed about this whole situation. The Avengers were no more, Rhodey is out of the country doing bureaucratic BS, Happy is on his honeymoon with May, and Pepper is in Tokyo on business. 

None of them will notice that Tony isn’t there. 

Tony clenches his jaw and tries again to think of a plan. 

——

The sun is starting to come up, the warm light overtaking the cold of the night through the tiny windows of the basement. Refusing to sleep, scared of what might happen, Tony is still awake. While laying there, Tony had done his best to take stock of his body. His muscles were still jelly-like, but he could feel several long cuts along his chest and torso, clearly stitched back up. He panics, his breathing becoming quick and shallow. What was this motherfucker doing to him? Why was he doing this? 

After several rounds of the breathing exercises his therapist had introduced him to, Tony was able to calm down enough to not hurt himself. But, he is still no clearer than he had been. He’s truly starting to worry. Typical drugs should have worn off by now, without the IV still in, which he woke up without hours ago. Whatever this mad scientist gave him is something Tony isn’t familiar with. 

Tony is starting to think that maybe he’ll be stuck down here for days, maybe weeks (if the mad scientist doesn’t kill him first) before anyone finds him. Three months in that cave, he had survived. But Tony doesn’t think he’ll survive this. He’s truly helpless here. 

An hour ticks by, Tony staring at the ceiling and counting the minutes. There’s a thump above him, like someone upstairs fell to the floor. It gains Tony’s attention and he strains his ears to hear anything else. Another thud. 

Suddenly there’s yelling. A gun goes off, Making Tony startle. Maybe someone did notice he was missing? Some did come for him! Tony can’t help it, a relieved sob breaks free from his chest. More yelling, more thumps, and then the faintest familiar sound. How could Tony have forgotten?  

Thwip thwip.