#and behold! my new heading image

[tofu-likes-to-draw]

OK I might have just slipped and made the goofiest thing ever

Long story short, it was free period(in school) and I saw a YouTube tutorial about making patterns on procreate. So I thought “ya know what? Let’s make some badass Morbius patterns!” Then the badass pattern turned into this.

Many things went wrong in the process of making the pattern ‘seamless’ but I’m VERY satisfied with the results :)

[Dunno goatee or no goatee looks better, so…decide for yourselves]

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Idk if you remember but you wrote a small drabble where reader was konigs secret admirer and it's been eating at my brain ever since😭 would you ever consider making it an actual story?

Oh I fell in love with the concept too! Here's a part 2 to that little drabble, I humbly offer it to you with my fluffy little paws ^^

CW: 18+ smut, fluff. Nothing bad here, just sweetness. Ok maybe a tiny bit of biting and light angst because it’s König after all... (Part 1 here)

He still doesn’t know who the mystery girl is.

She likes to tease him with cute messages and a photo of her tits but won’t tell him her name or where she lives. The girl won’t come to meet him so that he can show her some love, nor will she agree to go on a date with him. She just responds to his pathetic suggestions with a bundle of emojis that are about to drive him crazy, and another message that says: “Soon!” 

König has to fall back on the bed and go to sleep with a rock hard dick and a set of twitching, lonely hands. His dream of having a proper girlfriend was shoved on the back burner ever since he joined the Jagdkommando, but now there’s a certain girl inside his head, a new, even better dream he can’t repel. The next day is no better; he even forgets what he was supposed to bring home from the store, knowing his mom will only sigh and tell him they’ll survive without some ingredient they both know is very well essential.

He stands before the butters and spreads, trying to recall what his mother wanted when he hears a soft gasp further down the aisle. He turns his head and barely catches the sight of a woman, turning in her heels and rushing down the flour section, just somewhere out of sight.

Hope and curiosity spark inside him as he leaves the butter and darts after her, calling “Hey” and “Wait” between the shelves as she flits towards the cashier in mild terror. He chases her as if he were trying to catch a thief, and the girl picks up her pace, then slows down to a complete halt… and turns.

Lovely, fearful eyes behold him the immediate second she meets his gaze, immobile hands clutching a bag of croissants and a jar of chocolate butter against her chest.

He slows down his jog and arrives in front of her with a smile, but the girl only looks more and more afraid. Even her jaw is clenched shut, the spitting image of a prey who just got caught.

“You’re her, aren’t you? The mystery girl,” he asks, trying to make it clear as day just how excited he is to finally meet her in person.

Her eyes stay wide as she blinks, the little bag of croissants crunching a bit further in her grip as she tries to shield her vital parts.

“Are you done shopping…?”

Still no answer.

She’s shy, just like he is... Maybe even more so, which is incredibly endearing: the same girl who sent him a picture of her boobs last night, the same girl who had no trouble teasing him to the point of leaking cum all over his sheets is as shy as a deer when caught in daylight. 

It’s so incredibly cute… He thought she was a seductress of the most dangerous kind, but here she is now, looking up at him as if he was some boogieman about to come and snatch her away.

His smile only widens as he looks at his little minx who just tried to run away from the individual she’s sent postcards and love letters to ever since they were kids… Who knew his secret admirer was a bashful little cutie who sneaks around the local store to get herself some sweets and snacks?

“Let me pay for those,” he gestures at the products in her hand. 

Another awkward silence follows until she finally turns her eyes to the floor and nods.

Perhaps it’s not that odd that she sent him anonymous notes and talked to him in texts and letters if she’s this timid -- he of all people should know how tough it is to walk to someone he likes and tell them he wants to go out. But he can’t help but wonder if the girl is mute, or partly deaf, or both. He wouldn’t mind. As long as they understand each other, it’s perfectly fine. 

She looks at him like he’s a god —or a monster—while he pays for her humble delicacies. She stares at him with eyes still wide while putting the groceries inside a tiny cotton bag she has with her, and says nothing when he extends his hand towards her. 

“Here. Give it to me.”

He’s trying to act the part of a gentleman to the full, and she offers the floor a tiny smile while handing him the bag. It weighs less than a half kilo, but the gesture is all that seems to matter because she is indeed smiling, shy and pleased as he shoulders the so called burden for her.

“I can walk you home if you like?” he suggests while pushing the door open for her. 

She steps out into the luminous sunlight, eyes squinting a little from the sudden brightness. Then she turns to him and says her first meek words.

“But... Then you’ll know where I live…”

“Ah! She talks,” he laughs with a full smile and watches with a spreading warmth in his chest how she starts to grin, too. She’s looking at the asphalt and her shoes but she’s smiling, incredibly beautiful and pretty, outshining even the prettiest summer day.

“Don’t worry,” he starts to banter with increasing confidence—when has he ever teased anyone, let alone been confident around a girl he likes? “I promise I won’t come howling under your window at night...”

“It’s… It’s not that,” she laughs and bites her bottom lip. “I still live with my mom…”

She starts to walk towards where he lives, and he follows, his long legs catching up with her with ease. 

“There was the COVID, and my mom is a little unwell… And with the economy… I’m still a student,” she explains while they stroll down the street.

“Really? I’m a student, too.”

“Oh…? What are you studying?”

“How to kill people,” he shrugs, cursing his stupid carefree mouth immediately. “Fuck… Sorry. That was… I mean, I’m in the army.”

“It’s okay,” she smiles.

He sneaks a peek her way, and she indeed doesn’t seem to be shocked in the slightest. Far more frightened she looked at the store when he noticed her and began to chase the poor girl. 

They proceed to talk about what he does and why, how he only just returned from a month’s training that included concealment training in the mountains. She seems interested enough in his choice of career, which he tries to make sound as striking as possible, far more intriguing than it actually is. He tries to appear a little too glorious in her eyes, fearing he won’t live up to the reputation and fantasy she has built inside her pretty little head.

What if she wanted him to be a doctor instead of a moronic soldier? Maybe she fantasized about a lawyer or a historian with whom she could have fascinating conversations… And he’s just babbling nonsense about weather meters and ghillie suits.

But her eyes are still smiling, always at him when he looks away and starts to talk with his hands. When they arrive at the little wicket gate leading up to her house, he notices she lives only about a kilometre away from his childhood home. 

She was always here, and he never knew anything about it… His secret admirer, his passionate seducer, turns out to be a harmless, lovely angel who lives right in the neighbourhood.

She takes her little cotton bag and turns to open the gate, and his hands twitch and flex. Say something clever, his mind yells, ask her out for fuck’s sake… But he needn’t worry, for his precious girl next door immediately turns back and shields her eyes from the sun while looking up at him.

“I’m sorry… I froze a little at the store. I just… This wasn’t how we were supposed to meet...”

“No? What did you have in mind for us then?”

She drops her hand back down and gives him a little halfway shrug, embarrassed.

“I don’t know. I just… I don’t even have any make-up on...”

He risks to bring a hand to her face, his thumb on her cheekbone, sweeps a little arc there to let her know she’s fucking beautiful.

“You’re very pretty,” he says, and she raises her eyes back to his, this time looking like she’s being blinded by the sun even if he’s shielding her from it.

“I really liked the picture you sent me,” he says boldly, and for the second time this afternoon, hopes the earth could swallow him right then and there. 

A pretty girl sends him one nice picture of her tits, and he has to be an asshole about it… She looks super uncomfortable, so flustered that she nearly guides her face away from his palm. 

Fuck that he’s stupid… Must he always be such an idiot and fuck everything up?

“I’m sorry... I meant to say that–”

“I’m glad you liked it,” she rises on her toes and plants a quick, flustered peck on his cheek, then turns to the gate as quickly as a whirlwind. Opens it, and returns solely to give him a bashful, naughty little smile. 

“I liked your picture too,” she says so softly he can barely hear it. 

“...Oh,” he squeaks, cheek still burning from her kiss.

“Do you want to come and see me tonight...? Mom usually drops before ten...”

“I… I… Sure.”

…

It’s a catastrophe.

His old jeans barely fit him anymore, they’ve become way too tight around the thighs. He’s put on some weight during the past few years and made sure to go to the gym every slack hour he has at his disposal, which means he’s packed a bit of muscle here and there. That, along with the many outdoor trainings, have ensured his appetite remains even bigger than usual so it’s no wonder none of his old pants fit. The only ones that don’t look utterly suggestive and wrong are his grey sweatpants, which he wore to the store today. He can’t very well wear those on a date, no matter what all those thirsty TikTok memes say...

He sighs, and grabs the black military pants he had on when he came here, pairing them with a simple black T-shirt. That’s all he has in his drawers: black, black, black, a few white ones that have some food and coffee stains on them, stains that never leave no matter how hard his mom tries to wash them for him.

The house is silent as he slips the keys into his pocket and hollers that he’s leaving. Like some lovesick, unneutered dog about to slink into the night…

“Mom? I’m going out. I… I have a date.”

“At this hour...?”

“Yeah… We’re… Going out to look at the moon,” he makes up off the top of his head.

His mom would scold him for harassing some poor girl when it’s almost midnight, even if it was her who invited him to her house. And if he’s lucky, there’s going to be a lot more action than just staring at the moon together… Not that that’s all he wants; it’s just that he’s been lonely as fuck and could really use a hug. 

Is it a crime, with the past that he has, to want some human contact? Some skin on skin memories that don’t include punching?

“My little boy,” his mom strolls into the room, looking at him with soft, worried eyes. “You look like you’re about to invade some poor, innocent country…”

“Eh… I know. All the other pants were too small.’

She smiles at him: seeing a grown man sweat like a pig before a date must be a silly sight, even more compelling when that man is your own boy. The clock ticks on the wall as she looks at him like he’s about to march off to war, his only shoes a pair of standard leather boots he’s used for two years now. He showed them some grease and a brush, managed to make them look a little less worn and torn – if he had known some cute girl back home had a crush on him, he would’ve visited a clothing store before he came here…

His mom raises a shaky hand and draws him down to kiss him on the cheek, her eyes glossy and hazed from the gathering tears. 

“I’m glad you’re finally eating enough,” she whispers with a voice that barely holds intact, and they both know why it’s shaking, why everything’s trembling; her hands, her voice and her tears.

His bottom lip is twitching too from witnessing his mom being so happy for his sake. But he doesn’t want to cry. He must stay oblivious and strong and pretend that things are finally how they should’ve been: normal and easy and wholesome and good. For her, he will never show that he’s shaking… Too many things in her life have done that when she needed them to stay stable and safe.

“Wish me luck,” he gives her a nervous smile, laughing the tears away.

“I always do…”

He leaves before his tower crumbles, slips out into the sweet, scented night.

There’s roses somewhere, roses that smell heavenly, some early jasmine too that wishes to intoxicate his mind. He realizes he has nothing with him to take as a gift for her, and cusses again. This is a fucking date, and he’s not even dressed properly; he doesn’t even have flowers to bring with him… She’s going to think he’s a nobody, some penniless freak who dresses like a crazy person when he’s supposed to dazzle her and make her swoon.

On his way to her place, he stops to cut a small branch from a flowering rowan tree and shelters it from the gusts of wind that blow from the river. The tiny flowers are delicate and fragrant, not exactly what he would’ve taken to her had he been clever enough to visit a florist before they all closed. But it’s cute enough, to him at least, especially when it’s cut from the tree that was his safe haven as a boy.

The curtains at her window shift when he arrives at the gate, and he knows she’s been expecting him, waiting for the clock to strike ten as eagerly as he.

The front door opens, and there she is: dressed far more accordingly than he; his lady has slipped into a sweet summer dress like the angel that she is. It’s bright and yellow, far from the darkness he always wears, and his heart is slowly squeezing to bits inside his chest.

“Hey,” she gives him a wide, knee-buckling smile.

“Hey,” he smiles back, marching to her door like a horny, ugly wolf. “You want to go for a walk? It’s a beautiful ni–”

The moment he arrives at her feet, the moment she sees that he’s carrying a tiny branch from the rowan tree for her, she snatches the front of his shirt and pulls him inside with a surprising amount of strength.

His forehead hits the doorframe with a thick thud before he manages to bow, and there’s a bit of a commotion after that. He huffs something akin to Oof and laughs, making the angel flit around him in a wild, flustered shame, apologizing to him at least ten times.

“Oh my god, I’m sorry! I’m sorry… I’m sorry, I’m sorry….”

“Heh. It’s okay,” he smiles while rubbing the achy spot on his head. He’s forced to sit into an old wicker chair, wide enough to accommodate his back but far too low to hold his stature. He sinks inside it like a veritable giant while she continues to fuss around him, inspecting his “wound” and taking the offering from him with a helpless, embarrassed stare.

“I’ll get you some ice,” she says before leaving him in his chair, the flower he brought softly placed on the bed. 

He’s afraid the furniture will break if he moves, so he stays as still as possible while taking in his surroundings, the soft girl adobe he has somehow managed to sneak his sorry rotten arse into. 

She has a large TV in front of her bed, a gaming console and a lot of books, candles everywhere he steals a look. The beige bedding looks freshly changed and incredibly soft, and there’s an old bunny toy on her bedstand along with another book, both loved to bits. Some houseplants on the floor appear to be doing extremely well, a small leather bag and some makeup left scattered on her desk. Rocks and twigs and dried flowers rest on her window sill, treasures she’s gathered from her trails. It makes his heart grow soft because he knows she will probably put his little offering there too. A bouquet of expensive, luxurious flowers wouldn’t have hit their target at all.

She returns with a small pack of ice and rushes to him in her flowy, blooming summer dress. Descends on her knees and brings a small towel to his forehead before pressing the ice over it, ensuring that it’s not too cold to make him uncomfortable. 

As if he could ever feel uncomfortable, seated in a wicker chair with an angel between his legs, treating his supposed wound with ice and the softest touch…

“Remember all those postcards you sent me?” he asks while she continues to look like the worst person who ever lived, simply because she was too eager to pull him inside her room.

“Sadly, yes.”

“Remember what you wrote to me?”

“Not really,” she says, dabbing the ice pack all over the rising bump on his head. “Something stupid, I suppose…”

“You told me that you love me.”

Her eyes dart to his for a while, hope and shame battling in her fae stare.

“...Oh God.”

“Many times. And then you told me that I’m cute…”

She sighs and brings the ice and the cloth somewhere in her lap. The breasts inside their soft little cell look astoundingly delicious when viewed from up here: he’s slouching in a chair and still, is able to take a rude little peek inside her dress. He slaps himself mentally for being such a goddamn pervert, but then she sighs again, the cute little peaches swelling inside her dress once more.

“That’s it?” 

“That’s mostly it, yes…”

He’s getting hard here, which is a problem. A big, big problem…

His shy admirer never notices anything, not even when he softly gestures for her to give the ice to him. He continues to press it on his forehead, trying to concentrate on the cold sensation rather than the swelling dick in his pants. 

How is he supposed to not grow hard when he knows this adorable little creature has been infatuated with him for so long? When he knows she’s flustered now, just from hearing him tease her about those silly, harmless cards?

“I kept every single one,” he tells her, only to watch how the shy girl grows even shyer.

“You didn’t…”

“I did.”

He tells her about the bullies and how they made it look like they had sent the cards, telling him no girl could ever want to be with him. It’s a sad attempt to fish for her affection and pity, words of contempt and judgement to hammer it home that he did receive those cards from this girl, he did, in fact, deserve to be loved and adored.

And then she starts to talk about how she watched him... How she went to a different school than him, but that she sometimes strolled behind him when he walked home. They shared the journey to and from school, and he was always completely unaware that he was being followed.

“You stared at this rowan tree for what seemed like hours,” she recalls with a sad smile. “Then, if a bee caught your eye, or a bird or some flower, you stopped to ogle at those instead…”

He laughs, but there’s a bittersweet stone in his chest. If he remembers correctly, these were the only times of the day he could drop his eternal guard: in school, he was being tormented by cruel kids and at home there lived a tyrant with his sad little subjects. Trees and bees and birds were a welcome distraction.

She smiles a little, but it’s not a happy smile, even if it is affectionate.

“My mom always told me to come straight back home,” she says. “But you were never in a hurry...”

He looks at her, and she looks back, some pity in her eyes. There arrives a sweet and sour pain in his heart, a feeling that comes from knowing there was someone who witnessed a glimpse of the hope and pain he lived in. That there was someone there all along… 

“You even stopped to look at dog poo…”

“Heh... Was that the moment you fell for me?”

Her lip twitches, the pity in her stare breaks. She rises a little to lean forward, and he catches her with ease as she falls there into his arms, snug into his lap. His lips find hers without effort, and sensation bleeds: his hands are sweaty and shaking as he runs them down along her dress, cups her ass so that she gives a little gasp straight into his mouth. 

That’s the thing he was pining for: for her to open that pretty little mouth so that he could pry it further open with his own. Plunge an exploring tongue inside, not too quick and not too greedy, just a little poke to see if she wants to be claimed.

The angel melts in his lap, like pure white snow, until he braces his core and rises to his feet. It’s now or never, and he’s not going to let this moment slip past his fingers. Somehow, they end up on the bed, the smell of fresh linens and her dainty perfume catching his nose before she presses a pair of weak hands on his chest.

“The flower...”

The flower... Of course. 

The flower from the rowan tree.

He huffs a laugh on her face, a relieved smile as he understands she’s only worried about trampling his gift.

It’s set aside on the table, but right after that, he attacks her again, begins the ascension to heaven. His lips won’t get enough of her, not even as he drinks her like honeydew and ambrosia: the dress he used to associate with seraphs and summer now seems like a huge obstacle between his tongue and her skin, the need to taste more of her urgent in his hips.

“Can I take this off?” He roughs a hand down the fabric that shields her breasts, relishing the tiny moan that follows when he does that. “I want to kiss you everywhere…”

Her throat makes a wet, charming sound as she swallows, her eyes now pools of dark, drunken love. 

“On one condition,” she tells him, out of breath. “If I can kiss you everywhere too?”

It’s a deal, his mind exclaims immediately, but his devilish grin is how he tells her he’s more than eager to accept these terms. His clothes find their way on the floor along with hers, black on black on yellow, but he won’t let her shiver in the cold for long. Like a man possessed, his body finds hers, her soft, naked skin colliding with his like heaven after all those lonely nights of slick, urgent fapping. 

He’s not sure who’s worshipping who here, but he vows to never again let this angel fly under his radar, no matter how perfect of a guardian she has been. A guardian angel, following him with her blessed stare, sending him heavenly messages that were real and true all along. 

She should be rewarded for her abundant gifts, and so his lips find her shoulders and her neck; they graze her nipples and claim her breasts in devouring that leaves her back arching on the bed.

“You don’t have a girl? Waiting for you back there...?” she asks shyly, even when half her tit is being sucked by his mouth.

“The only thing waiting for me back there is my hand,” he rasps while diving down, down, down, all the way past her navel and the mound she still tries to protect from plunder.

“...I can be your girl,” she whispers somewhere high above, her hands holding his head like that of an untamed dog. “If you want…?”

He breathes on the apex between her thighs, presses a furious kiss there without care. 

“F-fuck…” she sighs those thighs open, and from that point on, nothing is enough.

It’s horrible that it must be so: that he finally gets to drink his fill, and it’s still not enough. Her sighs are not enough, her trembling body is not enough. Her attempts to muffle her moans with the back of her hand are not nearly enough.

He wants more, so much more: he wants to try all there is to this with her, forever and ever until the day he dies. He wants to hear her soil her tongue with more curses as he ruins her, bit by bit, just a little bit…

“Say it,” he pants into her glistening lips, “Say that you’re my girl…”

When she does nothing but whimpers in return, he attacks her with both teeth and tongue. Bruises the thigh beside her treasure before plunging straight towards the main prize with reckless want. That’s what finally forces the words out of her mouth: his tongue inside her cunt, delving so deep he has to breathe through his nose to keep from fainting.

“I’m your girl,” she moans on the bed, a bit louder now. “I’m yours, I promise… I always… Always…”

I always was….

She doesn’t say it. She doesn’t need to. 

He grants her mercy after that, replacing the tongue with a finger or two. Slow wide circles over her clit accompanied by quick little pumps in her hole make her cum in no time, and he’s glad he listened to the dirty mess talk of his filthy comrades. Patience is not his virtue, but for her, he makes all the effort.... He for sure leaves a little memory on her thigh. It’s not very nice of him, and he fears those teeth marks might stay with her longer than just a few weeks. 

Maybe she’ll forgive him if he fucks her after this, rocks her slowly and softly, fucks her like angels ought to be fucked. But no, fucking is not the right word... He wants to make love to her. Drink her moans right from her lips while he does it.

After the climax, he’s still hard and she’s still panting.

He wonders if he’ll get slapped or kissed if he asks for permission to put it inside now... His dick is throbbing while they stare at the ceiling together, but as always, his angel is two steps ahead.

“My turn,” she says with newfound vigour, and he gets more than he bargained for: everything and more as she gives his body the same attention he just gave her. Bites his nipples a little too hard, the little minx, licks his ribs as if it’s some kind of a contest to try and make him tickle. Laughs angel trails across his skin, draws a finger down his nether hair until she meets his jutting dick.

She gives him a tame little lick at first, then slowly, expeditiously, kisses his cock from root to tip. Before due time, his thighs start to tremble, and that’s when she takes it in her mouth: sucks and licks him deep until his abs and balls pull tight. The sheet in his fist threatens to get torn to shreds when he cums, and for a moment, he forgets everything, even his name, until he notices that the poor little thing can’t swallow all his load. She almost chokes on the first spurt, withdraws to cough with her mouth closed while he hisses fat curses past clenched teeth. 

When he arrives back to Earth, there’s cum everywhere: on her face, on the sheets, all over his abdomen and his thighs, an eruption that spilled everywhere because his angel got a little appalled.

“I’m sorry,” she peeps with her mouth still full of it.

The poor girl swallows it bravely, and his heart is about to explode: his angel swallows his filthy load like a champ and looks so incredibly valiant while doing it.

“Hey,” he raises a shaking hand towards her, too weak to rise from the bed to comfort her. “It’s okay… You didn’t need to do that…”

“But I wanted to,” she complains while the thick, sticky cum drips down her cheek and onto her breasts.

“Shit… Come here,” he coaxes, and she crawls forward to nestle in the nook of his arm. 

He uses the sheet to dry the rest of it off her face. She looks up at him with that trademark seraph stare, so helpless and in love—if this is what having a girlfriend is like, then he doesn’t feel bad at all that he had to wait a little longer than most men. It was worth all the trouble and toil that he has her here now, in his arms, batting her lashes sweetly. 

“You’re still incredibly cute, you know...?” she whispers, and a mountain inside him moves. 

It’s not sorrow, nor is it yearning; it’s just sweet, simple love. The room smells of salt and sin, but there’s nothing sinful about her when she cups his chin. He knows it’s not elegant to tell someone you love them on the day you've met them, but if the one you love happens to be an angel, then isn't it a sin not to confess?

[ellastone-olsen]

Beggin’ on her knees to be popular - Elizabeth Olsen

★Pairing: Elizabeth Olsen x f!reader

Summary: New person with Elizabeth Olsen at the Golden Globes. It seems like a lot of attention is attached to you two, let's see what happens at the end of the celebration.

★Warnings: very little NSFW, fluff, hurt/comfort

★Word count: 1k

★AN: In no way is it an insult to the winners, just as a fan of Lizzie, this is my alternative version. It hurt me to look at her upset face my poor baby. I also changed the design of my fics a little.

The crowd of people grew larger and swallowed you up, taking you somewhere away. Celebrities and their partners arrived every minute, filling the once spacious street. You grabbed Elizabeth's hand so that these strangers wouldn't separate you in their haste. The event was starting.

A few hours ago, you sat on a chair in a room filled with books and watched as makeup artists put the finishing touches on the image of your beloved. Your mouth watered at the sight of her white dress, which made her look too much like a bride. She was beaming with happiness, but when everyone left the room, leaving you alone, the smile disappeared from her face. You stand up from chair and walked up to her, gently taking her hand to kiss it.

“Are you worried?” You asked looking at her, but her head was lowered and gaze was fixed somewhere on the floor. A hum of agreement was all she “said.” You sighed and took her face in your hands as carefully as possible so as not to ruin her makeup. “Hey look at me, I'll be there, you're always a winner to me anyway. Do you hear?" Her big green eyes expressed gratitude and she leaned towards you for a soft kiss. You stood opposite each other for some time, touching your foreheads, until someone entered the room to announce the arrival of the car.

Your thoughts returned to the present time, as you watched from the sidelines as Elizabeth posed for the paparazzi. Not a trace of that uncertainty remains. Now all attention was focused on your beloved and your heart swelled with tenderness and pride, cries of her name were heard from different sides and you were sure that today she would take the reward.

From somewhere, aftersound of gossip about the two of you reached your ears. “They came together?” “So those rumors are true, have you seen the paparazzi pictures?” A sigh of irritation escapes you, of course Lizzie was not the kind of person to advertise her personal life. You never put pressure on her in this topic and did not think that she was hiding or ashamed of you. But how much you wanted to declare to the whole world that this woman is yours, and you are hers. Another thing that you expected from this day was to dot all the i’s about you.

Everyone sat down in places that had been pre-allocated for everyone. You took a seat next to Elizabeth and placed her hand on your burgundy velvet clad knee and covered it, woven your fingers together. It seems like someone at the next table was staring at you. The day dragged on slowly and you were already starting to get annoyed by this leading man spawned from nowhere, who is he anyway?

A couple of times you stood up to applaud Emma Stone, she was your favorite among all these celebrities (unless of course you count the woman in white nearby) and you were sincerely happy for her victory. Sitting in one place was torture and you fidgeted in your chair waiting for a break, Elizabeth also noticed this and leaned over and whispered in your ear to be patient a little. 20 minutes, 10 minutes, 5 minutes, lo and behold. The bell that signaled a break sounded like a blessing from above.

You were sewing somewhere in the labyrinth of corridors and Lizzie’s hand gently slid into yours. “There are two nominations left, very soon we will go home.” The woman clearly studied the plan of the event, unlike you. “When we arrive, we will celebrate your victory.” You stroked her hand with the pad of your thumb. Countless stars passed by, someone again looked with surprise, noticing your clasped hands, someone simply smiled. “Darling, I haven’t won anything yet, and maybe I won’t win at all.” The tone with which she said this sounded upset again. You stopped and gently pushed her back against the wall, your hands resting on her shoulders. Looked into her eyes and leaned in for a gentle kiss, ignoring the people nearby. Taylor Swift giggled a little as she walked by.

When your lips parted, your shaky breath hung in the heated air. Your hand found her again and pulled her somewhere into the far dark corner of the corridor, where there was not a soul to witness your teenage incontinence.

“Baby, not here, you’re going to eat all my lipstick.” Elizabeth laughed as your hands rested on her hips. “Mmmmm but you are so beautiful in this dress, and besides, I want these pessimistic thoughts to leave your sweet head and it seems...” The skirt of the dress was bunched up in the middle of her soft thighs. “I found a good way.” Your knee was pressed between her legs and she started grinding slowly the soft velvet fabric of your pants. “Mmmmmm Y/N.” She grabbed onto your shoulders for balance and you brought one hand down to her clothed center and stroked the sensitive bud. It was already so hot and wet between her legs, your head was spinning. "Lizzie...my love." Your mouth hovered over her collarbones, placing small kisses so that there would be no hickeys left.

The damn bell announced the continuation of the event and you tore yourself away from the woman with a roar, straightening the skirt of dress. “I hope you brought lipstick with you.” You giggled and earned a playful slap on your ass from her. "I love you too." You managed to shout before she disappeared into the toilet.

Lizzie’s nomination was approaching and you were nervous, picking at the pad of your thumb with your index nail to the point where it hurt to hold the champagne glass. “And the Golden Globe goes to...” You stopped breathing, squeezing Elizabeth’s hand tighter, all the next words came to you as if you were at the bottom of the ocean. "Elizabeth Olsen." The hall erupted in applause, Lizzie looking at you with a beaming smile. When you came to your senses, you nodded towards the stage. The cameras were trained on the two of you and before leaving, the woman leaned over and kissed you, not for the last time that day.

[spiritsong]

After seeing @felassan's post about there being two different versions of Neve and Taash's cards, I needed to sate my curiosity and went digging to see if I could different versions of the other companions as well.

Lo and behold, there are! I found them for every companion except for Emmrich. There's no way to say with absolute certainty which is the old version and which is the new; hopefully we can get some confirmation on this.

For the time being, I went ahead and marked the differences for those who have trouble spotting this sort of thing. Hopefully it's not too overwhelming for the ones that are very marked up, but I wanted to include some of the more mundane changes as well.

Neve — The biggest changes are the crossed leg (making her prosthetic more visible) as well as the metal rivet detailing on her outfit (see: the collar, the shoulder pads, the sleeves, the skirt portion). Some of what I'm calling the more "mundane" technical changes include the lighting and shadows on her staff, her nose, and her chest.

Taash — The most notable difference here is the coins (I didn't circle all the individual coins but you get the point) and the dragon in the background. In one version, the eye is more distinct, and a bottom row of teeth have been added to the dragon's jaw. There have also been changes made in the shading of her face. Her body shape (namely, the torso and her arms) have also been changed, as well as the general shape of the "spikes" on her hips and her shoulders.

Harding — Just a couple changes here. Her eye is more white/ghostly looking in one version, and the shading on her face and neck have changed.

Lucanis — LOTS of differences. They're pretty inconsequential, by which I mean there hasn't been any added/removed/changed symbolism in his card. The shading on his nose has changed, as well as the shading on his collar, hand, forearm, armpit (didn't circle this one oops), hips, and hip dagger. The purple "wisps" have changed in shape here and there. One of the orbs in the upper left have moved, and there is another orb above that one which has been removed/added.

Davrin — Just a few changes with Davrin, though they are big ones. His face/head has been changed, and the vallaslin has been redrawn. The scar on his eyebrow has also moved slightly.

Bellara — Bellara's head has shifted and her neck elongated/shortened. There are stars in the background and around her arm in one version.

As for Emmrich, I mentioned I could only find one version. I did compare the image we currently have with what I believe is the earliest Emmrich art that was shared with us (a cropped version of his card) by overlaying the two on Photoshop and didn't see any differences.

And that's it! You might have also noticed that some of the versions on the right hand side have a white line at the top of the image. Make of that what you will.

(People viewing this post on PC will have an easier time quickly clicking back and forth between the images to spot the difference. If you're on the mobile app and care enough to do so, you might have an easier time saving the images and flipping through them in your photo album. At least I know it's easier if you have an iPhone, I don't know about other models.)

[cherryberry-sugarandspice]

Magneto As A Loving Husband

Erik Magnus Lehnsherr would be the world's best husband. He's dedicated, loving, and his family is his entire world. Before he discovered his magnetic powers, I've seen how Magda and Anya meant so much to him. So, these are just my head canons of him as a loving husband and father <3

The moment Erik laid his eyes on you, he forgot how to breathe. He couldn't believe someone so beautiful exists. He didn't think it was possible, except it was, because you exist. He was immediately smitten and after a couple years of dating, you two were married.

Erik is a bit of a old school man. He prefers for you to stay at home while he works and brings home the money. He'd want you to spend the money he made, because he works hard for his wife to live comfortably and he wants to spoil you.

Date nights almost every night (before having kids). He'll take you out for a nightly stroll, his arm wrapped around your waist and you two will have to take breaks so he could drown you in kisses and compliments. He'll save up his money to take you out to an expensive restaurant and buy you your favorite jewelry and a beautiful new dress for you to wear. Seeing your beauty makes him fall in love all over again.

Erik found you beautiful no matter what. Whether you're snoring loudly, drool trickling down your chin, one eye lid half open or dressed up for him- you're a sight to behold. He could stare at you for hours and never get enough. He fears of forgetting how beautiful you are.

Erik is the type of man to surprise you with breakfast in bed. He'll make you your favorite breakfast, a fresh cup of brewed coffee, and carry the tray to the bedroom to surprise you. He'll brush his knuckles along your cheek, whispering how beautiful you are. He loves you so much.

He'll write you poems declaring his undying love. Paint your image on a canvas to hang up on the wall. Surprise you with gifts and flowers and chocolates. His heart is yours and yours alone.

The moment he returns from work Erik is in search of you. He wraps his arms around your waist and sways you from side to side, face buried in the crook of your neck. He murmurs how much he's missed you and hates that he has to be away from you, his loving wife that he adores so much and wouldn't change a thing about you.

You fall pregnant? Oh, he's the happiest man on the world! He'll pick you up and spin you around, tears in his eyes as he exclaims how happy he is. Erik is attacking you with his lips, kissing you all over your face and neck and than dropping down to his knees to kiss you all over your stomach. He wraps his arms around your waist and refuses to let go, his smile never wavering.

During your nine months of pregnancy, he's the most supportive husband. Wakes up at 2am to retrieve whatever foods you're craving. Massage your swollen ankles. Attend every doctor appointment. Build the crib and dressers. Help paint the walls and decorate the nursery. Builds you the most comfortable rocking chair for you to sit on.

He never leaves your side during labor. He didn't care how long it took. You needed him and he was there. Erik cried when your first child was born and he couldn't stop praising and thanking you. You demanded the world's greasiest burger (since you couldn't eat while in labor) and he got you whatever you wanted.

Erik is the best father to all of your children. He's attentive, he tries to make it to school events straight after work or tries to work around his schedule. Teaches the children how to ride a bike. Plays catch. He listens to them ramble on about school and what games they played at recess. Helps them with their homework. He has a bad habit of spoiling his children and giving in to whatever they demand. They already have so many toys and he knows he shouldn't buy them anymore, but he can't bring himself to tell them no. They're his babies and it's his duty as a father to spoil his babies.

Every day before leaving for work, he'll help you get the kids ready for school and give them hugs before he leaves. Erik will hug you and hold you in his arms for a moment, cheek pressed against your forehead as he mumbles how much he loves and adores you and thanking you for making him a father. He wouldn't know what to do without his family.

His family means the world to him. He'll die for his family. He loves going out on family outings. Vacations. Family photos to print and frame on the walls. Everything he does, everything he sacrifices, it's for them. To ensure his wife and children live happy and comfortably.

[boxofbonesfic]

Title: Tonality [2]

Pairing: Prince!Geralt x Princess!Reader

previous chapter

Summary: “The white wolf wants you. He’ll have no other.” As you grieve the loss of your father, your mother marries the king. Whilst you struggle to acclimate to your new life, you begin to suspect the interest your new brother has in you is less than familial.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Dark Fantasy, Darkfic, Step-cest, Medieval/GoT inspired AU, (Future)Smut, Dubcon/Noncon, Manipulation, Gaslighting, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, MINORS DNI!!

A/N: oop, another addition to the story. i hope it both answers some questions and then raises more, lol. as always, mind the warnings, and please enjoy! 😊🥰

By the time someone comes to fetch you to break fast, you are already awake. Helped into your cumbersome new gown by your lady’s maids, you pace in front of the cold fireplace. You pray the prince avoids the meal entirely, you’ve no wish to face him after—

 Your face heats, and you press your hands to your warm cheeks. You don’t want to think of it, but you can’t help it, your mind conjuring images of the prince staring at you with flushed cheeks and dark eyes, his lips curved in that  cruel smile—

 Better to avoid him altogether. 

 A soft, almost nervous knock comes upon the door of your chambers, and upon opening it, you discover Kassandra on the other side. She sinks into a deep curtsy, bowing her head. 

 “Good morning, Your Grace.” Awkwardly, you incline your head in return. “Her Majesty requested I fetch you to break the fast.” She chips happily at you, and you wonder if her good mood is true, or if she has created it for your benefit. 

 “Lady Kassandra,” you say, edging out of your room and closing the door behind you. “I trust you are well this morning.” 

 “Oh yes, Your Grace.” She threads her fingers together as a blush reddens her pale cheeks. “I did dance quite late into the evening.” 

 “I’ve no doubt you must have secured many a betrothal,” you say, and she giggles, covering her smile with the palm of her hand. “You did look quite lovely.” For a moment, you are not princess and lady in waiting—it is almost as though you are friends. Friends. Here in Rivia, you are surrounded by more people than ever before, and yet you find yourself lonelier than ever.

 “You are too kind, my lady.” Kassandra seems to find her way easily through the castle’s labyrinthine halls, and it makes you wonder how long she has been here. “Twas you that bewitched the court—if you don’t mind my saying so, Highness.” Her words almost make you stumble, your foot catching against stone.

 Your cheeks smart with heat, and your brows knit together in disbelief. “I—It was my mother who married the king.” You do not take yourself for a great beauty, not like your mother, but frustratingly, Kassandra shakes her head. 

 “Her Majesty was a sight to behold,” she agrees. “But I expect, had you not retired early, Your Grace might have received another offer of betrothal.” Kassandra casts a sly look in your direction. “Or two.”  You look away, embarrassedly recalling Lord Olthar’s proposal, his skinny, red-faced son peeking out at you from behind his fathers robes. The thought of allowing him any closer than that turns your stomach, and you shake your head. 

 “One was quite enough.” You’ve no wish to be married, especially not to Lord Olthar’s spawn. “I should hope to remain in Rivia longer than a week before a match is written in stone,” you say dryly. You’re due a betrothal, that much you know—your eighteenth summer had come and gone without one, and just when your mother’s nattering had reached its peak, the fevers had come for your father. And then, a betrothal was the last thing on anyone’s minds. 

 ”I am glad the king did not accept Lord Olthar’s proposal,” Kassandra admits with a small, secretive laugh. She leans in conspiratorially. “They say his son is rather… over fond of horses.” Her words illicit a gasp from you, your hand flying up to cover your mouth.

 You laugh too. “I dare not imagine the wedding.”

 “Fit for a queen.” 

 “The Queen of Horses, perhaps,” you retort, and the two of you dissolve into a fit of quiet giggles.

 “I imagine His Majesty will have much higher standers for your betrothal, princess.” She smiles at you reassuringly. “I do not think Lord Olthar will try again.” You nod in return, grateful for her good humor.

 “Hopefully I shall not have to think on mine own for quite some time.” Your thoughts are preoccupied enough these days without adding ones of a husband to the array. 

 “Not inspired by the ceremony?” The low, dark voice makes you turn. Lead forms hot and fast in your stomach at the sight of Prince Geralt. Even during the day, the prince strikes an intimidating figure, wide shoulders and barely tamed silver-white hair. Today, it is partially pulled back behind his ears, loose strands framing his chiseled jaw. Kassandra goes red as she curtsies, blushing deep crimson from the roots of her pale hair to the collar of her dress. 

 More out of habit than respect, you bend your knees as well, inclining your head. His appearance is sobering, the jovial mood instantly darkening. 

 “Good morning, Your Majesty.” It is all the politeness you can manage. His face looms still in your mind’s eye, his hair falling across his dark eyes as he drove into her, his hand curled in the hair at the nape of her neck—

 You suppress a shiver. 

 “Apologies, Your Grace!” Kassandra rushes to appease him, striking a chord of frustrated irritation within you. “We simply—”

 The prince waves a dismissive hand. “It is only be expected, I suppose.” He says silkily. “I know few women who do not await their wedding day with thoughts of bliss.” When his molten amber eyes rest on you, you shiver. His voice takes on an amused lilt. 

“Perhaps things are different in Redania, little sister?” You do not like the way the word drips from his tongue, as if another were in its place, one you don’t know, but that makes the the flesh at the back of your neck prickle just the same. His familiarity irks you as well—Prince Geralt speaks as if he knows you, as if he has spoken more than five words to you, not counting the ones uttered while he had been… otherwise engaged. 

 You swallow against the tightness in your throat. “Perhaps,” you say. The words are clipped, as if you have bitten off their edges. You know you shouldn’t, but you can’t help it, the barb slipping from your tongue before you can pluck it. “In Redania, one must wait until after the wedding to consummate the marriage. Does that policy hold true here as well?” 

 Prince Geralt does not give you the satisfaction of a reaction, his features schooled into cool impassivity.

 “I believe so, princess.” There is a dry sort of amusement coloring his words, as if to tell you the blow you’d tried to inflict was meager at best. “It appears we are not so different after all.” 

 You grind your teeth. 

 The prince falls into step beside you, setting the pace. To your frustration it is a leisurely one; walking with his arms clasped behind his back as he drags the conversation out. You wonder irately if he is doing this on purpose—you had walked with Kassandra to the hall the previous morning, and it had only taken half the time, you’re sure of it. 

 ”It was a great honor to attend such holy proceedings.” Kassandra’s voice seems to make the prince’s lip curl, and he cuts his eyes at her, sparing her only the barest of glances from the corner of his eye. You know, though, that the words are meant for you. 

 “Yes, truly.” The prince hums. “And how wonderful our Queen should be fortunate enough to experience them twice.” 

 Outrage bubbles up in your chest at the insult of his implication, and it takes all of your strength not to respond in kind. You glance at Kassandra, her passive expression evidence that the prince’s sly remark has either been absorbed without question or gone unnoticed entirely. For a moment you imagine his smile goes smug and self-satisfied as your own lips press together into a thin line. Your mind races as you try to formulate a response—this is not a game you are used to playing, one of guileful words wrapped in loose pleasantries, and you feel woefully unprepared for your part in it. 

 “Fortunate indeed,” you reply, forcing yourself to keep your tone light and airy. By now, the great hall is in sight, servants bustling through the busy corridor as you approach the hall. “A wisely made match, would you not agree, Majesty?” A gaggle of nobles surround the king and queen, their heads swiveling at the sound of your voice. The satisfaction you feel as Geralt’s lips curl into a scowl is a new feeling, one you are not sure you like. —he cannot  continue the game, not now, not without open insult. You can tell he does not enjoy being called to heel, least of all by you. 

 A chorus of good morning’s and your grace’s assail you like raindrops until you are practically dripping with them. You are familiar with only a select few of the faces surrounding the king and your mother, but not many. You recognize Lord Strom, Kassandra’s father, who shares the same sallow features as his daughter. He is flanked by a woman with a pinched, irritated looking expression; you had been introduced just before the wedding ceremony had begun, but you cannot recall her name now, only her relation to the king. A great-aunt—you think.  

 As you enter the hall, you note that it is already clean, all evidence of last night’s festivities gone, save for your mother, standing before you. Small tables have been set out for the visiting nobility lucky enough to be granted this brief audience with the king. The large table on the dais is already heavy laden with food, servants flanking the table on either side of the king’s chair as they wait for orders. Breakfast at home had been a family affair, gathered around the table in the hall. This, like every other event you have witnessed since arriving, is public spectacle. 

 Your mother preens at the attention. She flits from person to person, accepting their congratulations with regal grace. Once upon a time, behind the dusty pages of books she wished you would not read, you and father had called her the Pretty Peacock, the way she bustled about the manor and clucked her orders at the matron and her staff. Here, though, it seemed less amusing, and more… purposeful. 

 Though your mother seems to move amongst these people with ease, you struggle to follow her example, weaving serpentine through the crowd of courtiers, which parts like butter to a hot knife in her wake. Her gown is of a similar color scheme as yours, pale yellow with silver and gold embroidery embellishing her hem and sleeves. The crown of delicate silver and black leaves rests atop her head, the black jewel at its center sparkling. She turns to you with a smile, embracing you warmly. 

 “Trust my daughter to appear as her name is mentioned.” Your mother’s delicate, feminine laugh makes you want to curl in on yourself as the eyes of her fawning lady’s maids fall to you. “Did you enjoy yourself?” Though you cannot see him, you can feel the prince’s eye upon you with almost physical sensation. The hair at the back of your neck pricks up.

 Why does he watch me? You chance a look over your shoulder, and your back stiffens. There are people between you still, a safe barrier, but there is no mistaking it—the prince’s eyes are locked on you, and he makes no effort to hide it. You turn quickly back to your mother as he produces a slim knife from somewhere, and spears an apple from the table with it. The crunch as his teeth break the skin rings uncomfortably in your ears. 

 “T’was fine,” you answer her quickly, hoping your small, curt smile is enough to convince her. “I danced, some.” It is a lie, but one she either does not recognize or one she cares little about. One set of eyes is appeased, and falls from you. The others bore hot holes in the back of your dress. The king approaches, and you note the affectionate pass of his hand over your mother’s arm. You curtsy low, again, more out of instinct than conscious thought. 

 “Come now daughter, we are family now, are we not?” He laughs. “Rise.” His expression is warm, but you feel the word roll inside your skull like a loose marble, or a pebble in your shoe. It is unfamilitar and uncomfortable coming from his lips, but you bear it as best you can. 

 “Y-yes. Family.” The king walks with his hands folded behind his back, a habit you cannot help but note that he shares with his son. You have dreaded this, the game of getting to know one another over the cold corpse of the man who had raised you. It stings, as you knew it would. It feels insane to you, to behave as if all the years of your life prior to this were but a footnote, and this the true story. Perhaps it is you who are insane, the only madwoman adrift in a sea of sensibility.

 “Your mother tells me you’ve a great love of books,” he continues, unaware of the rolling turmoil that rocks your stomach. He casts a long glance sideways at you and at first, you cannot tell if there is reprisal or approval in his words. Then, he offers another smile, this one warm, genuine. “I trust you’ve found the archives enjoyable.”

 Your mother’s laughter cuts through the moment like a knife. “Oh, don’t encourage her, my love,” she says. “We shall surely lose her in yellow old pages.” The gallery of painted faces behind her titters with amusement, and at the same time, you feel your cheeks begin to smart. Perhaps it is the syrupy sweet my love tacked to the end of her sentence that makes your eyes burn with hot, frustrated tears, or her casual disparagement, you are torn for choice. You shake your head, forcing another smile as you blink them back. Perhaps you are simply being oversensitive, seeing what is not there. 

 “Thank you, Majesty.” You fold your hands together as you follow the king and queen up to the dais, and move to take your seat. “I shall have to bring Kassandra along with me. Perhaps if I am buried in parchment, she may yet dig me out again.” 

 You are relieved when the conversation shifts from you, allowing you to stare sullenly at the spread before you in peace. It is startlingly familiar, your mother’s need to ensure that every eye is upon her at all times, and you find that you are perhaps glad for it. It is exhausting to play at happiness and not feel it, and every second you do not have to keep up the pretense is one you are grateful for. Even if it comes at the expense of a little of your pride. 

 That gratefulness dissipates like smoke in the wind as Prince Geralt seats himself next to you. However intimidatingly large he had felt as you and Kassandra had made your way through the halls, he feels doubly so now. Though he has his own chair and place at the table, it feels as though it is too small to contain him, and he spills over into your seat anyway. His thigh is pressed tightly against your own through your gown, and no amount of subtle shifting on your part seems to remove him. You grimace, and the servant who is pouring water into your goblet gasps, and bows her head quickly. 

 “Apologies, Your Grace, I have offended you!” Her distress begins to turn heads, and you hurriedly attempt to placate her, shaking your head with a weak smile.

 “No, no, it’s nothing—”

 “Yes, princess,” the word drips from your stepbrother’s lips like black honey. “Whatever is the matter?” 

 You glare at him. He is pushing you, trying to force you into a confrontation for no reason you can discern—other than his own blasted amusement. You are tempted to give him what he wants, your own accusations waiting eagerly at the tip of your tongue. And you have your pick of poisons to dispense; his foul behavior the night before, his insult to the queen—

 But as you look down the table, you see few allies. King Vesemir looks at you with an apathetic sort of curiosity. And your mother… her doll-like expression appears concerned, but you can read it for what it truly is. The way her eyes narrow, her mouth tightened just so at the corners—

 She is angry. 

 You can hear her without her speaking, and your mind conjures her reprisal  perfectly, even without her input. 

 You are making a scene. You know that is what she would tell you. Be silent. Be seen, not heard.

 “Nothing.” You wish you could slap Prince Geralt, slap the concerned facade right off of his wretched face. “Nothing at all.” 

—

 The grass beneath you is brittle, and you can feel it crumbling into dusty nothing as it crunches beneath the soles of your bare feet. The low-cut hedges have grown out crooked and gnarled from neglect, their roots erupting thirstily from the baked earth to choke the narrow pathway. The garden is different now than it was when you had left, but you know it still—home. The manor looms gloomily above the garden, sticking out of the barren hillside like a jagged tooth, glaring angrily down at the cracked flowerbeds and baked earth. 

 Everything is dead here. 

 The icy wind that whips at your cotton shift, tangling it about your legs is dead, carrying with it the sound of grinding bones and last breaths. From the parched fissures in the dead, hungry dirt, you can hear whispers, and you press your cold, shaking hands to your ears to block them out. You do not know the reason, but nevertheless the knowledge remains in your bones as if you were born with it—

 I mustn’t listen. I mustn’t hear the dead.

 You press your palms against the sides of your head until it aches, dragging your feet through the dead, overgrown grass as you make your way through the garden. You want to leave, to turn around and leave this place, this terrible mirror, but your body will not obey. Instead, your unwilling legs carry you further and further into the spiral of dry, overgrown hedges and cracked pavement. The ghostly voices continue to rise in pitch until they are screaming, tortured cries leaking up from below as you approach the center of the garden. 

 It, like everything else here, is wrong, gleaming as if polished in the dim light of the dead sun. It is white like bone, and black, sluggish muck leaks from the trumpet of the nymph carved there. The sly, mysterious smile carved on her marble lips has been replaced by a grimace of abject terror, and when you follow her stone gaze, your eyes widen with the same emotion. Your hands leave your ears then, covering your mouth to try and dampen the horrified gasp that leaves your lips. 

 Your father stands before you. 

 He is still a distance away, walking slowly toward you through the garden. His eyes are blacked out, but not completely, black wriggling over the whites like a child’s scribble, black thread weaved through the skin of his lips, suturing them shut. 

 He is horrible. 

 He begins to open his mouth, and it yawns wide, the threads snapping—

 You sit up, a hand clutching at your chest. You stare around the room, panting as your mind attempts to place you in your still unfamiliar surroundings. Your heart is still races from the dream, your hands clammy and trembling. The taste of dry earth coats your tongue, and your throat feels cold and parched, as if you had walked the cold gardens truly, and not only in your dreams.

You can still see it, the rotting black threads holding your father’s withered lips shut, the black writhing ink scribbles across his eyes—

 “No.” You mutter the word softly as you press the heels of your palms to your closed eyes, pushing hard until colored spots dance in your vision. You do not want to think of your father that way, his body moldering in the earth, rotting away like he had never been in the first place. It had felt so real, the cool distant glare of the white sun, the arid earth beneath your feet—

 “A nightmare.” You say it aloud to no-one. “Nothing more.” 

 The morning sun paints a bright stripe across the blankets through the curtains of the four poster bed, and you tug them further open, squinting. Everything in your chambers is as it was the night before, though the fire in the hearth has gone down to cinders, and a copper tub has been set before it. You step out and into your slippers, noting the steam that still rises from the water. They must have brought it in as you slept, though you had not heard them do so. 

 I slept… unusually deeply. 

 You disrobe, stepping into the water with a grateful sigh. You sink in until you are mostly submerged, your nose hovering above the surface as you stare pensively at the window, studying the gray, muddled shape of the buildings beyond it. You do not want to think of the dream, or your father, but both seem intent at crowding at the forefront of your mind. 

 You know your father would tell you not to ignore it. Dreams mean things, he would say. What did it tell you? But there is no meaning you can discern from your nightmare, other than that you miss your father, and you wish he were still here, with you. 

 After you finish in the bath, you dress yourself. Instead of the multi-layered gown set out for you by your lady’s maids, you rummage through the wardrobe for one of the loose, flowy dresses more typical of your warm countryside home. You find one at the back, and as you slip into it, you feel more settled, more yourself. The creamy, peach colored fabric has one long, bell sleeve, and drapes modestly across your chest, exposing the top of one shoulder. It is less cumbersome than the heavy, three piece set they chose, and when they enter to help you, you can see the surprise written on their faces. 

 To their credit, they say nothing, simply helping braid and pin your hair, before setting the small silver circlet you wear at your mother’s insistence upon your brow. 

 It is long past time to break fast, but nevertheless, your request for a scone with butter and sweet cream is met without fuss down in the kitchens. As you eat, Kassandra marvels at your dress. 

 “I quite like it, Majesty,” she says, clapping her hands encouragingly as she circles you. “No corset? I do wonder if my father might permit me to have one made in its likeness,” she moans rather piteously. “Though I doubt he shall be pleased by my asking, it is quite bold, if you do not mind my saying so, Highness.” You look down at yourself, and then raise an eyebrow. 

 “Why should he find your request offensive? I mean no insult, but I do believe our dress more…modest than those of fashion here in Rivia.” Even Kassandra’s low cut gown exposes the tops of her breasts, the bodice molding to her body,pushing them out and up before rising back up to play at covering her shoulders. She laughs behind a hand at your ire.

 “I suppose it is all a matter of personal opinion, my lady. I do find Redanian fashion quite lovely, if this dress should be a fair representation.”

 “ ‘Tis.” You reply, finishing your biscuit. From your place by the windows, just outside the kitchen, you can see down into the gardens. Though the sight of them is sullied by the memory of your stepbrother’s wanton behavior, the glint of colored glass catches your eye. “What is that?” You ask, pointing at the colored shafts of light as they seemingly beam upward from the ground, the source blocked by lush greenery.

 “The roof of the chapel,” Kassandra says. “It is made of stained glass.” At your confused look, she continues. “The chapel is beneath the keep, Majesty, it’s roof is the center of the maze. It is quite beautiful, should you wish to see it, my lady.” Intrigued, you nod.

 “Yes, thank you. I would.” 

 Kassandra leads you down into the bowels of the castle, and you feel the walls grow cold around you as daylight through the arched windows is replaced by the soft glow of candles. The construction looks much older down here, the stone pitted and smooth not from polish but from the passage of time. Upstairs, the corridors had been crowded with courtiers, lords and ladies all seeking the king’s approval, or waiting for their opportunity to serve at his request. 

Instead, you take note of the priests in their pale robes, black ink sigils drawn onto the skin of their foreheads and the expanses of their cheeks beneath their eyes. They keep their heads bowed and shoulders stooped as they shuffle through the halls in penitent silence. 

 “Why do they paint their faces?” You ask quietly. 

 “So that the gods might receive their prayers.” 

  The chapel’s carved doors bear images of the gods you do not worship, the wood branded with the sigil of the king—the head of a wolf, it’s mouth open in an eternal snarl. Inside, the air is thick with incense, and it takes you more than a few labored breaths to grow used to it. The inside of the chapel is long and narrow, its walls lined with alcoves featuring enormous statues of the gods. Kassandra gestures to the ceiling, trailing her fingers through the shafts of colored light that stream down, bathing the sullen atmosphere in muted color. 

 “Is it not beautiful, lady?”

 “Yes, it is.” You speak truth—the glass is beautiful, unclouded and the colors  true. Images of faith are splashed across the colored surfaces; a great wolf standing beneath a full moon, devouring a beautiful maiden, the three-faced Mother bathed in the golden light of the sun, and the Spider, sitting in the center of her silver web. You watch as Kassandra makes a sign with her right hand, her middle finger and thumb pressed together. She brings it reverently to her forehead, before dropping it to her chin, and then the center of her chest. 

 It is a quiet, sullen sort of reverence, one you see mirrored in the bowed heads of the priests, and in the quiet, droning chants the monks at the pulpit continue without pause. But there is no joy here. No voices lifted in worshipful, devoted song, nor dances with arms stretched to the bright and brilliant sky. Those are the rituals of worship you know, the ones your father taught you. This place, like the garden in your dream, feels dead. 

 If there ever were gods here, they have certainly gone, now. 

 “Who is this?” You ask, pointing to the wolf. It’s golden eyes seem to follow you around the room as you trail after Kassandra, and it makes you think uncomfortably of the prince. She stops in front of it’s stone copy, and she makes the sigil again, finger on thumb, forehead, chin, chest. 

 “Father Wolf.” She says as she rises. “It is said that he devours the moon each night, so that it may be reborn in the morning, as the sun.” She cocks her head. “Do you not know the stories, Majesty?” 

 “She would not.” You turn to see one of the priests. In his hand, he holds an incense box, sluggish white smoke pouring from the gold painted slats. “Her Majesty hails from Redania. They hold to the old faith there.” You watch his eyes narrow as they drop to your gown before traveling back up to your face. His lips curve into an unfriendly smile. “I did not think to see Your Highness here.” 

 You raise an eyebrow. “In my experience father, it is a poor monarch who expects to rule people she knows nothing about.” Kassandra ducks her head, covering her mouth to hide her smile at your diplomatically worded impertinence.

 His cheek tics. “Of course, Highness.” He bows his head in a manner you know is meant to be respectful, though the acid that drips from his words is anything but. “The people shall be pleased that you are so…familiar.” He drums his fingers against the incense box, before fixing you with another small, curt smile. “They do not react well to the southland’s…” He pauses to search for a word.  “Heathenistic rituals.” 

 The words fly to your tongue before you can swallow them back, flying from your lips with righteous indignation. 

 “Are you quite sure the heathen rituals you fear are not your own, Father?”  His mouth twists with anger, but you do not cower in the face of it, jutting your chin out stubbornly. You have taken little pleasure in the shifting of your station, but his brazen disrespect sets a blazing fire in your chest. You are a princess, and you will not be spoken to this way. 

 “Father Rame.” Your belly fills with hot iron at Prince Geralt’s voice, his tone warning. So irate were you with the priest that you had taken no notice of his approach. The prince leans against one of the stone pews, his arms crossed over his broad chest. “You would do well to hold your tongue, lest my father remove it.” The priest drops into a low bow, his lips curling into a scowl. “I do not think he would take kindly to your… implications.” 

 “Apologies, My Prince, I meant only to—” Geralt raises a hand, and Father Rame’s words die in his throat. 

 “Go. And perhaps I will… forget to inform the kingsguard of your offense today.” You can tell the priest is unsatisfied, his hands clenching into tight fists in the sleeves of his robe. Nevertheless, he issues you another stiff apology through his clenched teeth, before he turns on his heel, his robes billowing behind him. 

 “Thank you.” You spit the words out as if they have burnt you. “For your assistance.” Geralt’s amber eyes dip the way Father Rame’s did, and you hate the way they drag across every inch of you before coming to rest on your face. Instead of scornful disapproval, you find something else there. Something darker you refuse to name. 

 “My pleasure, princess.” He purrs the words, and you feel them like a physical caress. You try to hide the shiver that travels down your spine, gooseflesh erupting on the back of your neck and arms in its wake. He glances at Father Rame’s retreating back. “I would pay him no heed. The good Father can be… Zealous.” 

 “That is certainly one way to put it.” You remark dryly. 

 “He will not bother you again.” He says it with a finality that makes you shift uncomfortably under his gaze. 

 “I hope not.” You brush a speck of imagined dirt from the bodice of your dress, and the prince’s eyes follow the movement. 

 “Your gown is lovely, sister.” He says, and you swallow against the sudden lump in your throat. “I have not seen its like since last I was in Redania.” 

 “Thank you.” You stiffen as he moves towards you, slow steps carrying him in a small circle around you and Kassandra. You force yourself to endure his inspection. 

 “Oh yes.” He fingers the hem of your sleeve before you step back, a little. “I hope you do not mind me imparting a bit of… Rivian wisdom?” 

 Do I have any choice? You force a smile. “Please.” 

 “This is a married woman’s color, Sweetling.” His eyes are molten honey. 

 “W-what?” You do not know which words you were expecting to fall from the prince’s smug lips, but it was not these. “I—”

 “I hope you take no offense,” he drawls, though the expression on his face says otherwise. “I only mean to inform.” 

 “H-how interesting.” You force a small smile, before turning quickly to Kassandra. 

 “My head aches from the incense,” you say, turning away from him and striding toward the door. “We should take our leave.” With a stiff, reluctant bow, you turn from the prince. “Excuse us, please.” 

 “By all means.” 

 Kassandra squeaks, hurrying after you with her skirts gathered tightly into her hands. As you push angrily through the entering group of priests and out into the corridor, you can feel two sets of eyes on your retreating back—

 Geralt’s, and the wolf’s. 

to be continued…

Thank you for reading! Please check out my masterlist for other, similar works, and follow my library blog, @box-of-bones-library for updates. ❤️

[solreino]

Swan Song

Chapter 1: Taking Flight

Summary: In preparation for your debut as Odette in Swan Lake, you encounter a few bumps in the road. Little do you know this is just the start.

Pairings: TF 141 x Reader

Word Count: 5.1K

Warnings: Eating Disorders, Toxic Beauty Standards, Creepy/Unwanted Behaviour, Period-Typical Attitudes (1910's), Innacurate Translations.

A/N: I'm not well informed about ballet, I have never danced it before, so I apologize for any inaccuracy regarding terminology. Also, the story is set mainly in Russia, so the reader is presumed to be of Russian origin.

MASTERLIST Next➔

[November 11th 1911, The Bolshoi Ballet Academy, Russia]

"1 and 2 and 3 and 4!”

Your eyebrows furrow in concentration as Mr. Lenkov begins to play Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake Suite, Op. 20a: I. Scene "Swan Theme" for what feels like the sixth time this hour. His nimble fingers dance across the ivory keys once again as the composition presumes its macabre melody.  

To say the last few weeks have been stressful would be a dire understatement. Since taking up the role of Odette in Autumn, you’ve yet to recall the last time you’d had the pleasure of succumbing to the sanctity of slumber, nor rest altogether for that matter. From dawn to dusk, you’ve found the studio becoming a second home to you; like an ever-so gracious host with a tendency for passive-aggressive hospitality, who coaxes you from the front door in promise of warm tea and a place to rest your head, insisting you stay "just one more hour". You know better, well at least you think you do, because beyond the studio door you know there’ll be no rest awaiting you, only relentless recital. Still, you don’t look back as you accept its welcoming embrace. Because- 

Anything but perfection would not suffice. You see, back-breaking discipline; impeccable precision; artistic competence; meticulous dedication, it’s nothing new to ballet and in turn, it’s nothing new to you, either. To be a ballerina means to surrender yourself to the artistry, and let your body become its mindless muse.

The Ballet industry is an anomaly compared to other artistic sectors. Unlike others, it subverges from the ideals of ‘beauty in the eye of the beholder’. Conformity is key. There are strict standards to be met and an unquestionable quota to be completed. Anything but, will not do. It disregards the need to sugarcoat its shallow requirements; skinnier, sharper, prettier, thinner; if it fulfills the requirements, it will suffice. 

Image is everything. It’s a shallow, superficial sentiment that directors set upon budding ballerinas like hounds to hares. From day one, they plant it into the impressionable minds of aspiring dancers. Uncontrollably, self-doubt sprouts like a stubborn weed. Each off-hand comment or direct dig, whether it be about a girl’s weight of en pointe form, encourages the festering parasite to root itself deeper into her mind. Then she grows older - it’s too late - and the parasitic thought has poisoned her once innocent outlook on life and has rotted it right to its roots. For the rest of her tragic life, the girl will only know the number on the scales, the image in the mirror, and the misery in her mind. 

You’ve seen it happen to others. You’ve seen it happen to you, because-  

Ballet has ensnared you - mind, body, and soul. Over the years, you’ve felt its callous claws dig deeper and deeper into your flesh, leaving scars so severe - both physically and mentally - sometimes the pretty pink ribbons you adorn your feet with prove futile in the bid to cover them. Prodding and poking and probing; fingers jabbing mercilessly into your sides, accompanying a doubly ruthless "you'll need to lose this extra weight if you want a spot on my stage". For a sport so vain, you ought to think it would go easy on its victims. A session of self-reflection proves otherwise.

You learn to bear and grin through it all. You don’t have much of a choice anyways. After all, many before you have suffered the same, and those who come after you will too. Because after many years of being a ballerina-

You learn to see beauty in the pain. 

The blood you bleed makes the red roses you receive at curtain call worthwhile; the sadistically sweat-inducing masterclasses make the shining smiles and standing ovations from awestruck audiences worthwhile; the tears make the champagne chutes you get to drink at the expense of your company worthwhile. You chase these highs like you do with stardom.  

All you've ever dreamed of since a little girl was to be a ballerina. Perhaps, it was the beautiful dresses a child of your class could only dream of back then, or how pretty the woman on the front page of your father’s newspaper looked posing on the tip of her toes. You don’t know for certain what exactly it was that enthralled you with it all. Sometimes, you wish you had never boarded that train to Moscow, never bothered with all that came with being a ballerina. It’s a selfish and self-deprecating thought, for you know if you were to stay on that homestead, there was an imminent chance you would have succumbed to the troubles of poverty you had faced back home. Admittedly, there are times you miss your life before coming to the city. None can be done about that, however.

Now, you have to push your body to its limits and beyond. Daily, you trespass boundaries you had once believed your body did not possess the ability to, reciting the same sequences endlessly, over and over again, until you physically can’t pursue your practice further that day. Even then, you find yourself persevering through the pain and fatigue; limbs heavy like lead; a mind strong like steel. If you knew your efforts were futile in the bid to rid yourself of any flaws in your dance, you would be wrong because-    

Ultimately, you knew no matter how much effort you exerted, the Dance Principal; Ballet Mistress; the reputable Madame Orlova would not miss a single thing.

For decades, word has circled Moscow of the cold-hearted, quick-witted, sharp-tongued old woman who ran the prestigious academy with an iron fist. It was just your luck that she had taken you under her wing as one of her pupils. You dare say she had taken a liking to you, though, she did have a tough way of showing her fondness onto others. 

Never a day was there without some sort of mistake to be mended by her recognition. At times you think God had cursed her to be forever unfulfilled in her outlook of life. The others in the Troupe seem to think so too. 

You dread to think of how much Mr Lenkov’s fingers must be hurting from playing the same melody over and over again for this past hour. It wouldn’t surprise you if the composition begins to haunt your dreams like a creaky, broken music box. You’ve never had the pleasure of owning one, though you had seen one in the window of a repair shop one time and-

And, as the Ballet Mistress shouts at Mr Lenkov to cease his playing, you know she has once more found a flaw in your dancing. 

The symphony stops abruptly with a garble of incoherent notes before it can reach its crescendo. Inwardly, you sigh. 

"No, no, no!" She scolds.

Her boney fingers rub feverishly against her temple in frustration. Rising slowly from her chair before you, her walking cane thumps anticipating against the studio’s oakwood floor as she ambles towards you. Wrinkled eyes bore into you; you struggle to withstand the urge not to writhe under the intensity of her stare.

"Your arms,” She begins slowly, her gaze raking over you in scrutiny, “They are stiff.” 

“From the shoulder to the fingertips,” She gestures with her hand down the length of your arm as she speaks. “It must flow, like the wing of a swan.”

She uses the moment of silence as you take on the command to survey your form, prodding and poking your stance to adjust it to her liking. 

“Do not forget this.” She finishes. 

"Yes, Madame Orlova," You nod in acknowledgment, wincing slightly each time her finger jabs into your shoulder blades and readjust your position to better suit her expectations. 

She huffs a breath in what you can only presume is somewhat satisfaction, signaling for Mr Lenovo to resume playing.

“Again!”

The song resumes its somber sound, and you take heed to the Ballet Mistress’ words. Flowing from your shoulder blades to your fingertips, you encapture the essence of the White Swan; melancholy in her mourning of a lover whose heart he had promised to another. She is vulnerable in her virtue, and she shows that in her final flight. Odette longs for the skies, for an escape from the betrayal of who she had held dear, but her wings fail her. In desperation, she flexes and flaps her wings, but alas, she cannot take flight. And so-

You spiral in a presession of slow spins, arms portraying the anguished attempt the Swan Queen takes to take flight for the final time before decelerating into a despairing descent as Odette. The tune tumbles to its end from beneath Mr. Lenkov’s fingers as you complete your practiced plummet to the studio floor, encasing your body with your arms the wings of the white swan, as the grief-stricken creature takes its final breath. 

You raise your head to look at Madame Orlova.

And, for the first time in your decade-long enrollment at the Bolshoi Ballet School, you think you see the infamously stone-faced stone-hearted ballet mistress smile. 

It's a cold evening in Moscow tonight. The winter winds thrash ferociously at the loose and unraveling threads of your scarf. Whilst it does little to protect you from the frigid frost lingering in the air, you wear it anyways as any warmth you can garner to combat the icy environment is, in your eyes, worthwhile.

Snowflakes dust your hair with specks of glistening white, gathering upon the crown of your head where you have neglected to put on a hat. They tickle your nose and gently brush against your rosy cheeks as you tilt your head back. Your face turned towards the sky; watching as the snow twirls and tumbles from the clouds above, gradually blanketing the ground ahead in a pristine carpet of soft white. It crunches as you walk towards the theatre, leaving footsteps on the once-untouched landscape. You take extra caution not to slip on any hidden ice - an injury is the last thing you needed on a day as imperative as this. 

Somewhere in the far distance, the Kremlin bells ring. 

Thirteen mighty chimes thunder throughout the city. You feel the ground rumble in response beneath your feet - a reminder to hurry.

Rushing up the snowy steps of the Bolshoi Ballet Theatre, you quickly let yourself inside in an attempt to escape the chilling temperatures of the Moscovian evening - and to avoid running behind schedule. 

The warm air inside greets you welcomingly. You eagerly pull off your gloves in its presence to soak up the heat it has to offer. Slowly, you begin to regain feeling into your fingers. Sighing a relieved breath, you make your way backstage as the marble floor of the foyer echoes noisily beneath your shoes.

There, you receive a not-so-calm yet begrudgingly familiar greeting. 

Pre-performance is usually like this; congested backstage corridors; a cacophony of frantic demands and directions; boxes of overflowing props and costumes rushed up and down the hall; the deafening pounding of ballerinas breaking in their pointe shoes;  dim lighting making it near impossible to navigate. However today, with your debut as the company’s newly appointed principal dancer just hours away, it feels even more nerve-wrackingly overwhelming. 

You brace yourself as you get swept away in the havoc of opening night, tangled in the rambunctious crowd as it traverses through the labyrinth of backstage passageways.

Despite the absurd amount of people crammed in corridors unable to withstand even a fraction of their current capacity, you miraculously manage to maneuver your way to the dressing room; elbow-to-rib style, ducking under boxes and weaving past those racing in the opposite direction. 

Relief hits you as you swing open the dressing room door, closing it quickly behind you as your eyes blink rapidly to adjust to the bright lighting inside. The much more quieter, yet seemingly livelier chatter of friendly conversation and girlish giggles encompasses you as you move further into the dressing room. You shrug off your coat, laying it to rest on the coathanger and take your seat in front of your dresser.

Tranquility seeps into your bones as you slouch against the chair’s backrest momentarily, soaking up the opportunity of rest no matter how short-lived the moment may be. Mentally, you take the moment to prepare yourself for the evening, and all the chaos and calamity it is sure to bring. 

Sighing, you straighten yourself up in your seat, glancing at your reflection in the mirror as you do so. 

"I didn't know you had a secret admirer.” 

You don’t turn around as the voice chimes up from behind you. You of all people know better than to entertain her playful antics. 

The voice reveals itself from its lurking in the background, resting her chin just above your collarbone and draping her arms over your shoulder. 

Your eyes meet hers in the reflection. She grins back at you.

“Valeria.” You sigh, patting the hand resting around your shoulder. “It’s good to see you.”

Valeria, crowned tonight’s Black Swan, is one of the company’s longer-serving principal dancers and has self-appointed herself as your tutor and friend as of late. Graciously, she has taken you under her wing these past couple of months as you have gradually adjusted to your newly bestowed title, joining her amongst the Bolshoi’s most prestigious ranks. 

“You too,” She smirks, a little too suspiciously for your liking, pecking your cheek in greeting before returning to her seat at her vanity next to you. “You too.”

You begin to rummage through your stage makeup, tilting the mirror toward you so you can better see, before laying out your needed products on the desk space. You pay no mind to her mischievous staring as you do so. But, as you have learned over your time acquainted with Valeria, nothing can deter her from getting what she wants. And right now, that is to find out who this supposed ‘secret admirer’ is.

"So tell us then," She drawls teasingly, "Who's the lucky boy?"

The edge of your desk presses uncomfortably into your side as you turn to give her your attention. For the time being, anyways. You yourself are somewhat curious as to what she is talking about. But the sooner you can resolve this suppositious accusation, the sooner you can resume to the real issue at hand - getting ready for Swan Lake. 

Confusion stirs at her question, and you tilt your head to the side, urging her to explain further.

A ribbon-wrapped gift box is pushed toward you. You watch on, confused. 

Valeria’s legs swing idly back and fro as she gazes at you expectantly. The corners of her lips tug further into a grin at the silence that ensues and at the completely dumbfounded expression on your face. When you give her no answer, her Cheshire-cat-like grin falters. 

The girls around you giggle, peering over from their makeup stations to indulge in the drama unfolding. Valeria shoots them a look from over your shoulder, one you cannot decipher, but it quietens them down. 

“For me?” you ask doubtfully, slightly stumbling over your words as you take the generous gift into your hands. “Oh Valeria, you shouldn’t have-”

“Not from me.” She huffs.

“I don’t understand,” you mumble, eyes scanning over the gift as you look for a label, a note, a letter, anything that may reveal the gifter’s identity. “Who could this be from?”

She shrugs indifferently, turning to focus on her reflection in the mirror, transfixed on getting the edges of her lipstick just right. 

“The girls who were here before me said it came delivered to the dressing rooms earlier this hour-” She smiles at her appearance, appreciating her flawless makeup in the mirror. Placing the lipstick tube down with a quiet thump, she turns to focus her attention on you once more. 

She pokes a finger at you in playful accusation. “-Asking for you specifically!” 

It’s your turn to shrug your shoulders, unable to give her the answer she craves, for what reason, is beyond you.  

She eyes you incredulously, before returning her attention to her mirror seemingly unable to neglect her reflection for just a moment longer.

“Well,” She gestures toward the ribbon-wrapped gift with her free hand, playing an unbothered facade. You know full well she is practically itching to uncover this mystery. “Are you going to open it?”

Your eyes dart between her and the suspicious box, almost expecting this to be some sort of ruse, perhaps she had given you a jack-in-the-box and was waiting for you to get the fright of your life; her idea of fun.

Hesitantly, you begin the unravel the sheer ribbon keeping the box from opening. The fabric rubs soothingly against your fingertips, a luxury fabric you have not had the experience of touching before. It was clear that whoever had purchased this was of a wealthy background.  Perhaps, you think, you could make this into a bow to wear. 

You don’t know what you were expecting when you lifted its lid, but you definitely were not expecting a pair of .

“Aye chingao!” Valeria startles as she leans over your shoulder to get a better look.

Nestled between a blanket of draped deluxe fabric, a pearlescent pink, almost winter-white, pair of the most exquisitely crafted pointe shoes lie. You fail to restrain the exasperated sigh of awe at the sight, carefully grazing your fingertips over its silky satin finish as if the slightest touch could possibly damage them. You can confidently say, they are the most beautiful gift you have ever had the pleasure of receiving. 

“No secret admirer,” she says.” Valeria quirks an eyebrow up at you.

"Don't be ridiculous, it's probably just costuming.” You dismiss her far-fetched conspiracies, though, you find it hard to draw your eyes away from the pair of shoes, and the fact that this had definitely not come from the costume department. So who had sent you these?

"Ha, as if Mr. Baryshev would ever allow the budget given to costuming to be used for anything but lining his own pockets!” She laughs bitterly. 

“I’ve been-” Valeria exhales out a frustrated breath, “-trabajando como un burro to afford the means to get wear this!” She growls, her hands gesturing to the coal-coloured feathered fabric of her intricate bodice and tutu. 

You open your mouth to give her your consolation before a knock comes to the door. You, Valeria, and the rest of the room quieten into hushed murmuring - just for a moment. Then-

“On in 30, Ladies!” A gruff voice hollers from the other side of the door.

The room erupts into chaos.

A tsunami of frantic ballerinas surge forward towards the row of dressers, crashing against each other like the tides of a raging sea you had heard many-medal adorning men recount about in tales of some distant land. The only redeeming thing about conducting post-performance business is the stories and tales you overhear; the rest, you are not so keen on.

You take the distraction in stride, shoving the pair of shoes more like semi-worn in pointe hand-me-downs from costuming somewhere under your vanity, and replacing them with your newly acquired gift.

“You’re going to wear them?!” Valeria hisses incredulously. 

You glance at her sideways, smirking back at the priceless expression of amused disbelief on her face.

“Well, they’re shoes, aren’t they?” You jest, grinning at her mischievously. “It would be a shame not to.”

She shakes her head in mock-dissappointment, haphazardously stuffing her stage makeup in its designated drawer before firmly slamming it shut. 

“I fear my mischief is rubbing off on you too much.” She mumbles as she looks up at you, feigning a tone of dismay, only to be betrayed by the growing smirk on her face. 

“Well,” She smoothes her hands over her slicked-back bun of cropped raven hair, "I'll see you out there." 

You give her your goodbyes as she pats you on the shoulder, rising from her chair and making her way toward the dressing room’s door. 

“Don’t let the Director find out,” Valeria whisper-shouts from over her shoulder. “You know what he’s like.”

She ushers the remaining lingering corps-de-ballet girls out of the changing rooms, winking at you as she closes the door gently behind her. 

You listen as the chatter slowly retreats from beneath the doorframe, Valeria’s distinct, accented laughter mingled with that of fast-paced Russian retreating down the echoey corridor ‘till you could hear it no more. A serene silence hugs the now-semi abandoned dressing room; those, including you, who aren’t to appear until later acts remain, a more pacific atmosphere stirs, with subdued gossiping, softer laughter, and a more slowing-encroaching sense of time.

You slump in your chair. 

You have a long evening ahead of you.

The rear of house is relatively quieter now.

You can no longer hear the lively chatter associated with the pre-performance buzz, only the occasional hushed conversation resurfacing through the suffocating silence as people pass by. Walking backstage is always an awkward feat, your pointe shoes make an unpleasantly loud noise against the cold concrete floor with each precarious step you take. 

You had felt bad for having to break them in; they were an extraordinaryly well-crafted pair of pointé shoes, they fit perfectly too, and you were certain the price tag was even more extravagant. You still hadn’t resolved the identity of the mystery gifter, but you’d make sure to thank them profusely for their kindness. For now, however, you have a debut to make. 

Your feet thump rapidly as you semi-rush toward the entrance to the left wing. The further you near, the more people it seems are gathered in anticipation for their appearances onstage. The conversation is greater here than that of in the deeper bowels of the theatre where the dressing room had been. Mingling herds of ballerinas and dancers lean idle against the walls, stretching in preparation for their scenes, and chatting amongst themselves, but done so in more gentle, lower tones so as not to alert the audience of their presence a mere wall away. 

They regard you with reassuring smiles and words of good luck as you briskly waddle by; you reciprocate them with a short-but-sweet smile. 

The music grows in amplitude as you enter the left wing officially; the once gentle thrumming is replaced with an all-encompassing eruption of expertly strung-together instruments. The welcoming embrace of the song is quickly diminished though, much to your dismay because-

The rafters here have always given you the creeps. With no help from Valeria either, who  divulges in gossip of the ‘ballerina’ who had been ‘crushed to death’ by a poorly-secured light fixture on the theatre’s proscenium arch each time she catches you gazing nervously upwards at the looming space. You know it’s mainly just the technicians who lurk up in the rafters, commandeering light cues and stage transformation sequences as the ballet progresses. 

‘You have nothing to fear’, you admonish yourself. 

Still, that doesn’t stop the hair on the back of your neck from standing up as you approach the left stage-side.

Your presence goes unnoticed for not even a second. 

Someone speaks your name in a hushed whisper.

You peer over your shoulder at the source of the sound; the silhouette of a stout-statured man emerges from the left-wing doorway. He seizes you suddenly by the shoulders before you even have time to recognise the overly-touchy-friendly Mr. Ustrashkin.

You stagger at the sudden force with which he embraces you, regaining your balance with an awkward squeak. It is only then do you see the disconcerted look that his face has taken on.

“Mr Ustrashkin?” You begin hesitantly. “Is something the matter?”

“Walk with me, dear.” He requests, but he has already pulled you into motion with the firm grip of his hand on your shoulder.

The two of you trail off to the side to make way for the group of pas de corps, and for the privacy of what you can only assume to be bad news. The ballerinas smile respectfully at you, lowering their heads slightly as they account for your company before skittering off, their ghostly white tutus fluttering by behind them like swirling snowflakes. 

When the last of the dancers had passed by, Mr. Ustrashkin speaks again. You take the small queue of silence to compose yourself exteriorly for what is to come. 

“Something..." He stalls, theatrically contemplating the correct word to use before resuming. "...unexpected came up within these previous hours. A true shame it is, but Fyodor, your dance partner, has sustained an ankle injury. As you can understand, he will be out of commission for the foreseeable future, and unfortunately is unable to perform with you tonight." 

Your heart sinks. It collapses from your chest cavity like a marionette doll on snapped strings; as its puppet master surveilled with cruel glee from above. You wonder what you had done to anger God, for him to administer such a thing onto you. On today of all days too. 

“Oh, um, I-” You stumble over your words in a tangled array of shock, panic, disbelief and uncertainty.  

“None of that now, little swan.” Mr. Ustrashkin tuts, almost as one would scold a misbehaving child. 

You recoil at the unwanted nickname, but are too overcome with internal panic at the newly arisen situation to pay it much mind. Saying anything anyways will get you in trouble, and you have climbed too far into the good graces of the executives of the company to fall out of favour for something so insignificant. 

You struggle to maintain your composure, hanging on the thread of internal and external unbridled alarm. You bite the inside of your cheek to withhold any curses from escaping your mouth.

‘On all days this could have possibly happened on.’ You mumble to yourself mentally. 

“So, if Fyodor isn’t dancing tonight..” Your eyebrows scrunch up in confusion, eyes trailing from Mr. Ustrashkin and the conversation at hand to the semi-concealed view of the stage. “Who is dancing Prince Siegfried onstage as we speak?”

Swan Lake has been going for around an hour by now, but with your appearance not until the second act, you needn’t be in as much of a rush as those in the first. You had spent that time responsibly; the majority of which was in the dressing room ensuring the costuming was to standard and ogling over the anonymous gift. Much to your displeasure, that also meant you didn’t have the pleasure of seeing everyone off at curtain opening, and you hadn’t been able to catch a glimpse of this ‘Mactavish’ Mr Ustrashkin had been singing his praises about to you. 

"Do not fret that pretty little head," The plump man quips. Mr. Ustrashkin pats your back, presumably in an act of reassurance, but the force which he uses almost sends you stumbling forward. "His understudy, Mactavish, has taken up his role."

“Mactavish?” Your head tilts to the side as the syllables of the foreign-sounding name roll off your tongue with a questioning implication. 

“Oh yes!” He startles with a cheery smile. “A wonderful dancer through and through. We scouted his talent in London and had him transferred from The Royal Ballet to dance for us instead.” He rambles on in recollection. “Though the two of you aren’t properly acquainted yet, I’m sure he’ll be substantial as a dance partner in Fyodor’s absence.”

All you can do is nod your head absentmindedly, hoping to be relieved of his unwanted presence. And, like all men are, his attention is quickly drawn to another. 

A loud laugh barks out from across in the right wing. 

“Valeria!” The now-agitated man growls lowly, his teeth grinding together as he storms toward her as quickly as his little legs can carry him. 

‘So that’s where she went,’ you think, half-bemused, half-concerned. You also thank her in your head for unknowingly getting you out of a conversation you no longer had any interest in being involved in.

Rolling your shoulders to relieve some tension that had been building up, your eyes search diligently for someplace to stretch before your presence on stage is needed. Finding one, you make sure to apply an ample amount of rosin to the bottom of your shoes before skittering your way over. 

The minutes pass by neither quickly nor slowly, more like a muddled mixture of the two. Your body moves without control, years and years of dedicated practice leading up to this much anticipated moment allowing your body to memorize the moves. Your thoughts, however, are the fore-focus of your attention. They rumble through your mind like a blinding blizzard, burying any logical thought with a suffocating, unmoveable barrier of bleak snow and amounting stage fright. 

The Pit Orchestra unleashes Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake, Op. 20, Act 1: No. 9, Finale Andante’s crescendo upon the awestricken audience as such Zeus would do to the land below Mount. Olympus with his thunderbolts. If you dare a glance, you may manage to see Mr. Lenkov strumming his harp melodically, or his musical protégé he can’t help himself but boast about day in-day out. 

The floor beneath your feet vibrates as the composition reverberates deafeningly throughout the auditorium; you would struggle to believe the crystal chandelier that looms overhead is not swinging violently nor the champagne glasses the aristocrats’ cradle has not shattered at the absurd volume. Though, it could just be the nervous shaking of your legs.

You catch fleeting visions of the dancers on stage; their shadows flickering in and out of view like the dimming flame of candlelight. Your thoughts are once again drawn back to Fyodor’s supposed understudy. Not once had you had a recital with him, and so you could only hope he was adequately practiced for his role. 

The melody of Act 1’s final act concludes with the triumphant trill of the violin ensemble. The audience erupts into an oscillating ovation; cheering, clapping, whistling; at a volume so loud it could rival its predecessor. Your doubts about Mactavish’s adequacy are quickly disproven. 

It only brings a sliver of comfort, however. 

You linger in the shadows for a moment, trembling fingers brushing hesitantly against the fabric before you. Then, cautiously, you peer out from behind the safety of the illustrious velvet curtains. Your jittery hands fiddle with their golden tassels as you gaze at the exceedingly large audience. The auditorium of the theatre had never been so full.

You try not to let the sheer amount of people overwhelm you; a thousand thousand faces staring stagebound.

You fail.

And as the announcer commences the beginning of tonight's performance, you also fail to notice the man watching you from across the other side of the stage.

 “Bolshoi Ballet proudly presents Swan Lake!”

[engeorged]

Awakenings IV

Short story four of seven in my series on gainer and feeder awakening stories, if you hear your own origin story then feel free to comment!

The New Coach

Taylor had always been sure of himself. At twenty-eight, he was in peak physical condition—a tall, athletic guy with sharp features that had earned him more than a few lingering glances. He’d always been the kind of man who knew what he wanted and went after it. Alongside his career, he trained rigorously with his rugby team, pushing himself to the limits in every practice, every match. Rugby was more than just a sport for him; it was a way of life, a testament to his discipline and drive.

But things had changed. Their coach, the man who had been like a mentor to him, had left in disgrace after a financial scandal that shook the team to its core. The cohesion they’d once had was fading, and Taylor found himself toying with the idea of leaving rugby behind. Soccer, hockey—both were tempting alternatives. He even went so far as to attend a few soccer practices, but it just didn’t feel the same. Something kept pulling him back to the team.

It was on a whim that Taylor decided to give rugby one more shot. He told himself it was just to see how things had changed, to decide once and for all if he should stay or move on. He walked into the locker room with a mix of scepticism and nostalgia, the familiar banter and the smell of sweat and old leather greeting him like an old friend.

The lads were all there, bantering as usual, the tension of recent weeks seemingly dissipating. Taylor joined in, laughing and throwing in a few jabs of his own. But underneath the camaraderie, he felt a strange sense of anticipation, like something was about to happen.

And then it did. The locker room door swung open, and in walked the new coach.

He was a sight to behold. The man was a towering presence, a true man mountain at 6 '5, with muscles that strained against the fabric of his tight-fitting rugby shirt. His arms were massive, the kind that could effortlessly lift a barbell loaded with plates. But what really drew Taylor’s attention, what he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from, was the coach’s belly.

It was impossible to ignore. The shirt, though stretched tight over his broad chest and biceps, couldn’t quite contain the round, solid mass of his gut. It protruded slightly, pushing against the fabric with a firmness that suggested power rather than softness. As the coach moved, talking to the team in his deep, commanding voice, the belly moved with him—solid, unyielding, and oddly mesmerising.

Taylor tried to focus on what the coach was saying, but his eyes kept drifting downward, drawn to the way the shirt clung to that rounded gut. It wasn’t flabby, not in the least—it was muscular, meaty, a true man’s belly that spoke of strength and experience. The way it jutted out slightly, the way the fabric hugged it, made Taylor’s pulse quicken in a way he didn’t understand. 

The coach’s voice was confident, assertive, as he laid out his plans for the team, his words full of authority. He cracked a joke, and the lads erupted in laughter, but Taylor barely registered it. His mind was spinning, caught between confusion and an intense, unfamiliar attraction. He felt his face flush as he realised just how hard it was to look away.

As the meeting wrapped up, the coach clapped a few of the guys on the back, giving Taylor a firm nod. But all Taylor could think about was the image of that gut, how it looked, how it might feel—solid, warm, undeniably masculine. The thoughts swirling in his head made him uncomfortable, like he was standing on the edge of something he didn’t understand.

He barely made it through the rest of the practice, his focus shattered, his thoughts a chaotic jumble. When it was finally over, Taylor hurried through his shower trying desperately to keep his erection hidden, his mind elsewhere. As he drove home, the sun setting in the distance, he replayed the events of the locker room over and over in his head, trying to make sense of what he’d felt. He was 100% straight wasn’t he?

By the time he got home, Taylor was more confused than ever. He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the floor, his mind racing. The image of the coach, of that powerful belly stretching his shirt, kept intruding on his thoughts. He didn’t understand why it affected him so much, why he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

He found himself questioning things he’d never questioned before. He’d always considered himself straight, never doubted it. But the way he’d been drawn to the coach’s presence, the way he couldn’t look away from that solid, masculine gut—the resulting erection, it unsettled him deeply. It wasn’t just attraction; it was something more, something he couldn’t quite put into words.

Taylor lay down on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, trying to process it all. He was turned on, yes, but he was also confused, shaken by the intensity of his reaction. What did it mean? What did it say about him? He had no answers, just a head full of questions and an image he couldn’t shake.

He tried to push the thoughts away, but they kept coming back, more insistent, more vivid. His hand wandered down his own muscular body as he replayed the scene in his head. As his hand brushed against his unsurprisingly throbbing dick. He couldn’t help himself but begin to jerk it resulting in the most intense, but guilt ridden orgasm he’d had in months. 

As the night wore on and sleep refused to come, Taylor knew one thing for certain: this wasn’t something he could ignore. The coach, with his commanding presence and that powerful, rounded gut, had awakened something in him, something he didn’t understand yet but couldn’t deny.

For the rest of my stories click here

[allyjoe755]

Family Ties Pt. 2

Benedict Bridgerton x reader

part one

WC: 1152

a/n: I originally set out for this to be the last part; lo and behold, that isn't happening. So there will be a part three!

warnings: benedict is kind of an alcoholic, slight angst

o-o-o

Five months later

Lady Danbury’s ball was, as always, a smashing hit to the start of the social season.

Benedict Bridgerton, as always, was searching for a good glass of brandy and avoiding the dance floor with the new debutantes and their mamas.

He kicked himself mentally. He had been a fool, and he had no one to blame but himself.

Francesca had debuted this season, which he supposed was exciting, but he had watched at the presentation for a different individual to make her way down to the queen.

You.

Had it truly been nearly half a year ago when he had first met you, had gotten to know you? It had only been for a day, and yet…

And yet, you had stayed. Not physically, but you hadn’t left Benedict– hadn’t left his thoughts, plaguing his mind with images of you, of your laugh and smile and quick wit.

Not even a night out spent drinking and filling other certain desires could take his mind away from it, away from you.

But you were the sister of his brother’s wife. It was ridiculous, because that meant you were off limits. If Anthony knew– oh, if Anthony knew– Benedict didn’t even want to think about the havoc that it would wreak. You were Anthony’s younger sister-in-law, which meant you were protected by Anthony.

So, Benedict had kept these thoughts, these feelings to himself. He had tried, over the past five months, to put on an air that said everything was fine. Perhaps he had spent more time in his art studio as an escape, but no one had noticed, and that was a good thing.

But it hadn’t stopped him from searching for you at the debutante presentation. You had said you were debuting this season. And when you hadn’t shown up…

It was the first time he had brought up the topic of you since you visited. His curiosity got the best of him, and he asked Anthony and Kate where you were.

“She has come down with a rather nasty cold,” his sister-in-law answered. “She will begin attending balls when she feels she is ready.”

“Rather disappointing she couldn’t experience her presentation to the queen,” Anthony said. His wife hummed in agreement as Anthony looked at his brother, a brow just barely quirked. “Why do you ask, brother?”

“Just curious, is all,” he answered, perhaps a bit too quickly, but he smiled at the couple and excused himself before anything else could be said about it.

Now, he was here. You were not.

And he hated how disappointed he was by it. He hated that the only thing that could make him feel at least a little bit better was alcohol, and hiding away in Lady Danbury’s garden.

He was a fool. He resigned himself to this as he sat on one of the cold, stone benches. He had to be, because he had never been so distracted and enamored by someone before, someone he, truthfully, hardly knew–

“Have you been avoiding me?”

The voice was so shocking Benedict almost choked on the brandy sliding down his throat.

There you stood, just to the side of him, your hands clasped at your front.

“You– you’re here,” he choked out, his eyes wide. He stood from his seat in a hurry.

“Of course I am here, Mr. Bridgerton,” you replied, the edge of confusion evident in your voice. “I believe I remember mentioning that I would be debuting this season when I visi–”

“Yes, yes, I remember,” he interrupted, and he hated that he did it, hated how flustered he felt. He cleared his throat. “My apologies. Your sister had informed me that you had fallen ill and would not be joining us until you recovered.”

You raised a brow. “So, you truly have not seen me at all this evening amongst the fellow guests?”

Benedict shook his head, and then, he laughed. “I hadn’t believed you would be here.” Truthfully, he hadn’t really been looking for you.

You shook your head in turn. “I don’t see what’s so funny about that.”

The side of Benedict’s lip quirked up into a smirk. He didn’t mean for you to be confused, or hurt, just–

“What’s funny about it,” he said, taking a step closer to you, “is that at the queen’s presentation, I stood for what felt like hours, watching each new debutante, and praying that the next name called would be yours. And each time, when it wasn’t, I grew more and more impatient… until suddenly, it was over.”

“I wasn’t feeling well,” you whispered, your cheeks growing pink.

“So I was told,” he replied, flashing you a quick grin. His eyes quickly darted to the rest of the garden, to make sure they were in a public enough area, that there were others close enough around… 

He realized he did not want to dishonor you by accident.

His eyes met yours again. “I had assumed, with Lady Danbury’s ball being the first, you would not be feeling well enough to attend. I had assumed you would not be here, so I did not even think to look for you amongst the crowd.”

You released a breath. “Truly?”

“Truly.” He offered you his arm, and you took it as he walked you back toward the ballroom.

“That is a relief,” you told him. “I was hoping to at least have some familiar faces at these social gatherings.”

At your words, Benedict felt something twist in his stomach. Familiar faces. That was all she was looking for. Was that the only reason she had sought him out? As an acquaintance. He was, after all, her sister’s brother-in-law. Perhaps that’s all she saw him as, all she wanted to see him as.

He smiled at her. “Of course.”

His heart thrummed in his chest… but he could do that. He could be content with that.

He just felt better with you being near.

As you stepped back into the ballroom, the musicians began transitioning into a new song. Benedict gave a polite smile and held his hand out to you.

“May I have this dance?”

You let out a giggle and nodded. “Of course, Mr. Bridgerton.”

He guided you to the dance floor and you stood opposite each other, his hand on your waist and yours on his shoulder, the others gently clasped together as you began the steps.

You continued your small talk, your pleasantries, and Benedict enjoyed watching your smile grow wider and wider– enjoyed feeling the own ache in his cheeks. When was the last time he liked anything at a ball?

He didn’t know when, but he knew why.

Benedict Bridgerton liked you. Forbidden as you might have been, he wanted you.

And so, as the dance ended and he bowed to your curtsy, Benedict accepted his resolve to do one thing.

He was going to court you.

o-o-o

taglist: @vicurious28 @pear-1206

[grugruel]

The Game

Pairing: Silco x f!reader

Masterlist

Summary: You and Silco like to keep things interesting by playing a game. Its your turn now, heat flares and tempers rise.

Word count: 2.7k

Warnings: Established relationship, hints of smut, brief choking, mentioned degrading, tension? Elutions to sub!dom!silco towards the end.

I throw the doors to The Last Drop open, making my grand entrance.

Smoke billows out through the opening, it curls around my vision as it mixes with the impure air of Zaun and all heads in the club turn toward me.

An uscher of whispers rumble through the crowd and the music suddenly halts. A mans low whistle can be heard ringing out through the crowd, aswell as the consequent "ow" and "hush" as the man next to him elbows him in the side, giving him a stern look in warning.

I was off limits to everyone but one man, and that was considered common knowledge in Zaun.

I take a step inside, smiling devilishly, approving of the general public reaction.

I let the doors slam shut behind me, welcoming the familiar embrace of the murky, green tinted darkness of the club as it envelopes me. I gaze around the room, searching for him.

I am counting on him to be in his office already, as It was a crucial part of my plan for dramatic effect. And when married to a man like him, one couldnt help but look for him in every room you enter.

All that im met with though, is an array of mixed emotions, smiles, glances and a bunch of wide eyed men and women. The crowd was divided between those who, had they not know was good for them, would hollar and applaud my confidence or those who would be scared half to death and couldnt even dare throw a glance my way.

Most bastards, however. Had already let their slack-jawed chins hit the floor at the first sight of me, and oh . . . was I a vision to behold.

Everyone already knew who I was of course, my antics were not news to them, neither were the fact that I am wife to the infamouse Eye of Zaun.

So to explain the situation, Silco and I ha'd been playing a fun little game for some time, just to spice things up. We set two rules of outmost importance, no matter what, we had to follow them.

1. Prizes asked for must be given.

2. Revenge is always permitted.

Meaning whoever manages to outdo the others previous actions in boldness, audacity, mischief etc, wins whatever prize they desire from the other and whatever we did to challenge the other, we could always retaliate however we wanted and those asks had to be met

Usually when it was Silcos turn, he'd experiment, try something new, take me in the hall, in an alley, where anyone could see. Just for the thrill if it, because we can, because who would question him?

But as of late, work has been stressing him and hes been using me. He makes a public display out of me, showing everyone just who I belong to. A power play, of course, reinforcing his claim on me and putting on a show of his brazen nature as for Zaun not to forget who he is.

And he'd do it all with a ravenous gleam in his eye, enjoying every second of my embaressment. But god help any man who makes a remark or even looks at you the wrong way.

And since he has a reputation to uphold, an image to keep clean, being the crimeboss that he is, I had never been allowed to play our game in any type of crowded setting. He needed to be respected and more imporantly, feared. Meaning he could not be put into conpromising positions publicly. Privately was a whole nother situation.

But today, that would be coming to an end. I'd been forced to accept the situation since this whole thing came about, but he needed a reminder of who he married. Although I do not have as important of a position as him, my life did not begin when we married. I was someone before him and I am my own person still.

Blinded by love, and lust. I've let him do whatever he wants to me and although that can be a welcome notion betwix the sheets, it is not when he needs to make an example of someone, not anymore.

Sevika stood leaned against the stairrailings, watching my plan unfold, eyes wide. She sprung into action, ripping the jacket off the shoulders from the unsuspecting man next to her and rushes to cover me up.

She knows you're not the kind of woman who listens to anyone who tells you what to do, with the exception being Silco. And knowing she'd get hell from the man himself if she did anything else than try, she tries.

I reject the jacket of course, gently pushing her away from me. I clasp my hands behind me back and walk slowly towards the bar with her shadowing closely behind me in hope of hiding something from the crowd.

She lowers her head to my height, leaning closer to my ear, a shudder runs through me "He wont be happy" she snarles.

"I know" I answer nonchalantly. And a ghost of a smile flashes over her lips as she shakes her head and turns around, sighing.

I sit down on one of the stools by the bar, watching her as she makes her way upstairs. I order a whiskey and take a look around the room once again, noting all the stares.

"Cmon folks, he'll be down in a minute and you know better than to stare. Get back to it." I say in a low chuckle and they do just that, knowing the truth of my words.

Minutes later Sevika comes back down, she throws me a warning glance that tells me "not in the mood" and a new feeling begins to fester within me, uncertainty. I already knew he'd be cross when I schemed my little plan up, that was foreseen. But now?

I had no time to think of the consequences, because another set of footsteps could be heard a few paces behind her, slow and deliberate. He was already punishing me and I've yet to lay my eyes on him. My stumache flitters despite myself, longing to see how this plays out. Turbulence was to be excpected, but the rewards would be gratifying.

The crowd seems to have heard the destinctive sounds of Silcos footsteps aswell, as their attention turn toward the stairs.

Through the gloom of the lowly lit, smoke filled room, the glowing red of his cigar lights up his features, giving an earie glow to his eye. He looks mightly unimpressed, inhaling a puff of smoke his eyes scan the crowd, eventually settling on my form. Clad in nothing more than the crimson red lingerie that he bought me. He was already incredibly annoyed that you would compromise him like this, but seeing you in the set that he stressed were for his eyes only truly set him ablaze on the inside.

I swiwel the barstool so that I face him completley, the bartender slides my drink toward me and I grab it as I lean back against the bar, forearms supporting me. A pleased expressions washes over my face, this was a serious matter. But I should gloat whilst I still can.

He glares at me for a minute, the club is so silent you could hear peoples breathing, very shallow, careful breaths as they try to avoid catching his attention and possibly turning his displeasure onto themselves.

He takes in my appearance, looking me up and down. Sevika had not known the ordeal of this specific set of lingerie, so she had not conveyed its importance to him.

His patience usually wears thin, but seeing me in the lingerie he clearly told me were for him makes his blood boil.

Turbulence stirs within him, feeling incredible annoyance at your clear disobediance, but also a tinge of impatience to punish you especially since you did look brutally ravishing.

And as if his hair sences his stress, a greying strand of his magnificent hair falls over his eye. He sighs deeply, gathering himself before taking action, he catches the runaway strand by combing his free hand through his hair, placing it perfectly back with the rest.

He moves the hand holding his cigar, wafting it back and forth dismissively as he turns toward the people, adressing them "Avert you eyes ladies and gentlemen, that is my wife." he orders.

"Go ahead, leave, scram, flee." He makes a dramatic shooing gesture and announciates the last word, then taking another drag of his cigar.

He turns to Sevika "Make sure they understand that they did not see anything, then leave you too. No one is to be let in." she nods and posts herself by the door.

The people flock toward the exit, creating a bottleneck effect. Carefully, eagerly even, they follow Silcos directions reinforced by Sevika. They did not need to be told twice, they had already forcibly forgotten the incident and had no intention on stickning around to challenge his temper.

As the last of the crowd have left and the doors slam shut behind Sevika, its only the two of us left, so I stand to make my way to him.

"Stay." Silco says coldly, eyes snapping to me. A shiver runs through my body, I sit back down, crossing my legs, anticipation lining my senses as I smile at him.

We hold eachothers gaze "I missed you" I say.

"So I see" he responds, striding closer, one painstakingly slow step at a time and when hes finally close enough to touch I reach out to him, taking the lining of his tie between my fingers, softly tracing it down his chest, stopping at his vest button to undo it.

He snatches my wrist, holding it closer to him, inhaling the scent of my perfume, loving the way it mixes with the cigar smoke. He kisses my wrist before pinning it to the bar-counter behind me.

Not so easily discouraged, I lean closer to him in an atempt to steal a kiss off of those ruthless lips. I let my eyes fall shut and lean further in until I feel his breath on my skin as I've done so many times before. Heat flashes through me as I imagine the taste of him being less than a mere second away, but my expectations fall short as im met by the the savour of his cigar instead.

"Tsk tsk tsk" he shakes his head "Surely you wouldnt dream it to be this easy my dear?" His tone mocking.

I scoff in pretend defeat as I take the cigar from him, taking a drag and leaning back against the counter again. "I was only teaching you a lesson, husband." I sigh.

"Oh" he exclaims, his demeanor unclear. A mix of entertainment and frustration evidens in his voice "You're teaching me a lesson hmm?" His gaze hardens and an frustrated smile forms on his lips as he awaits my response.

"Naturally."

A gleam of irritation lights in his eye, he takes the whiskey from my hand, studying it carefully as if planning his next move. He takes a slow sip, "So.." he begins, carefully phrasing his words, "Would you like to tell me how come? Because frankly, my dear. Im at a loss here." Agitation evident in his tone.

"Truly?" I question, not sure if he actually wants me to answer that. "I love this little game of ours, it can be... Oh so thrilling" I sigh in reminiscence, thinking back to past adventurez when we've enjoyed eachothers rueful challenges.

"But I do not enjoy to be used as someones puppet, not even yours. You've turned this wonderful game of ours into a show of your power, using me. So, I wanted to teach you a lesson." I repeated myself, nonchalantly.

His gaze bores into my own, furious at your choice of handling the situation, but even more so because theres truth in your words. "I have a reputation." He spits the last word, "How will I be respected if I cannot controll my own woman?" He asks, frustrated.

I sneer, "You forget yourself Silco." Theres venom in my tone, "I may not be known as "The Industrialist" but I have a reputation of my own and it is time I reminded you of it. Zaun will not respect you more for treating me like shit, and your blatant audacity to feel bad for yourself is sickening." I state coldly, and he knows your right, yet he cannot help how your words irk him. His face burns hot with shame.

"Ive let you degrade me in front of thousands of people, just for you to earn your power." I spit back.

"But truth be told, husband. Youre not a king, nor a god, and people will understand that you cannot control me. Ive never been know as conceded woman and I believe I have made that clear today." I fix my gaze sternly on his, making sure hes understood. He glares back, nodding.

Certain hes seen my point, I ease up. Work has taken a toll on him as of late, thats not his fault, but how he chose to counteract it is.

I lean forward again, softening my gaze as I carefully stroke his scar and whisper "You might have chosen me as your bride, but I also chose you, you know."

He sighs, closing his eyes, the anger melting away from him as he remebers you when you first met, and thinks of the woman before him now. Hes loved every version of you that hes had to pleasure to know and hes been incredibly stupid to put you in such positions for his own gain, he will simply find others to make examples of. He meets your gaze again, defeated "Im afraid my dear girl, that you're right, my behavior towards you have been appaling. You win, this time." A releaved expression covers my face as I've gotten my point across.

"However," he says soflty placing both hands on either side of my face, cupping it "That wont stop me from earning my retribution, game rules." He points out, pressing a soft kiss to my lips as a hand slides one hand to the back of my head, grabbing a fistful of my hair, earning him a moan from me.

He strokes my cheek gently with the back of his free hand, then tracing his index finger along my jaw and ending it with a tap at the sharpest point under my ear, "Everything." He says concurrently with the tap.

He strokes a strand of hair behind my ear before continuing to trace his finger down my neck, following it with his gaze, he grabs my throat, squeezing lightly as he carefully yamks me closer to him, making me gasp, "Has." he punctuates, finger tapping again, this time on my artery.

He lets go of my throat an continues to trace his finger outward along my collarbone, stopping at my shoulder, "A." He taps again. Silent anticipation linger between us, as I wonder where this'll end.

He takes the crimson brastrap between his fingers, slowly sliding it off my shoulder as he traces it down to the cup, "Price." He ends, the tension between us culminating, as he taps one last time at the soft flesh of my breast.%I shiver runs along my spine, I lean into again, his lips a ghost on mine.

"Naturally" I whisper against his lips, feeling him smile.

His hands continue downward, coming to a stop at my hips, holding me in place as if I'd ever wish to be anywhere else and melting me completely with his sudden tenderness. But his grip hardens, ready to take what is his. And as much as I would love just that, I was not done and he knew it.

"But, I've yet to claim my price. Game rules." I state, he steps back, knowing that he has to abide by the rules. His eyes shift to mine, pleading and lust battling for controll. "Cruel, cruel woman" he whimpers.

One side of him is itching to do whatever he wants to you and the other begging for you to let him touch you. And you're about to make him beg for it.

[versadies]

it's the pink apron phenomenon. everybody, i present; how do scara, diluc & xiao (seperate) take care of their beloved pink apron and how did they get it?

house husband au ofc ! apologies if ur reqs arent open (;´༎ຶٹ༎ຶ`)

the origins of the pink apron ! (the way of the househusband au)

SALUTATIONS. THE ORIGINS OF THE PINK APRON (twothhau)

ADDRESSED. diluc ragnvindr, xiao, scaramouche/wanderer (w/ gn!reader)

CONTENT. fluff/no-angst, modern!au, househusband!characters, cheesiness, ooc?, mentions of yakuza, wanderer is referred to as “scaramouche” here, not proofread properly (couldnt access to google docs and my grammar checker atm so i apologize for any grammar errors 😰😰)

STAMP. after some inconveniences, the houshusbands find themselves in a situation where they now have to wear pink aprons, and to your surprise, they like it ! (or, how they get their pink aprons and why they kept it)

PENPALS. @scaraslover @saving-for-xiao @dawgimsohot @ragnvdnr @chiruru @aqualesha @renamichii @mrkamisato @shenhesl0ver @serami00 @serenareiss @hiqhkey @emperatris-rinaka @bystander36 @irisxiel @ladycoleigh @034ven @dear-dairiess @owozi8 @hadesaedes @chiro-chiro-kun @hersscherofyatta @mariusvonhangme @yuzuricebun @nejibot @hoshikistarlette @solaaresque @crowbird @lordbugs @flowersforayato @headintheclouddd @estelwrld @giyusimpsassemble @irethepotatosblog @moonlightaangel @alice0blog @shotosbrainrot @sniffoat @chihawari @mxsomn @kuni-kuzushii @jiminscarmex @mitsukii14 @nejibot @ylimeprive @sachispet @loreleis-world @sn-owo @starforecasts @someonetookmynamelmao @ceylestia @astrequa @ymikkos @reallysporadicarcade @melodyyamino @dudufodd @somberrock @yevenly @lemontum @nghing

POST-SCRIPT. it’s been so long since ive written a househusband fic sooo here you go my lovelies <333 !! enjoy the wholesomeness and cheesiness as always (might make a part two w other househusbands if the people demand so)

LINKS. TWOTHHAU MASTERLIST || MAIN MASTERLIST || TAGLIST

diluc.

It was supposed to be a joke for your husband.

You thought it would be great to buy an apron for him before you go home after finding out that it got destroyed, knowing how your husband would definitely need one for his baking classes and whenever he cooks. Out of all the aprons you could’ve chosen though, you just had to pick the one that made you laugh from imagining your lover wearing it.

When you first see a cute pink apron, you just know you have to buy it, giggling to yourself at the image of Diluc wearing it. Of course, you bought another one that’s actually for him and planned on giving it to him the day after he receives your pink apron gift.

Diluc didn’t mind how you were grinning mischievously when you gave him a paper bag that contained something he couldn’t tell until he brought it out. The image of your husband’s soft expression turning to utter confusion and horror will forever remain in your head.

“Is… This for me?” He asks hesitantly.

You nodded, trying to contain your laughter. “Yes.”

He didn’t ask further after that, nodding slowly before putting the apron back to the paper bag, and you thought that was the end of it.

It wasn’t.

The next day after getting ready for the day, you were about to give your husband his actual apron you bought for him until you noticed something different when you entered the kitchen.

No, it wasn’t the fact that your breakfast is a new and different meal like everyday, nor the music that’s playing on the radio, but rather your husband’s current style.

Lo and behold stands your loving husband, an ex-yakuza boss and one of the fiercest men in the land, wearing a cute pink apron that has a cartoon bear with a chef hat on it.

You try not to laugh. “..You’re actually wearing it?”

Diluc stops preparing your meal for a moment, turning his head to look at you. “Does it look… ridiculous?”

You covered your mouth to stop yourself from laughing, clearing your throat. “N-No I was just surprised you’d wear it.”

“Of course since it’s from you.” He responds, proceeding with his task once again.

You decided to hand over the paper bag that has his apron to him. “I was just kidding about that pink apron, this is the one I actually bought for you.” You explain.

He takes one look at the paper bag you’re holding before looking away. “I’ll try it out later. You should eat your breakfast before you’re late again.”

Your eyes widened a bit at his response, surprised that he didn’t instantly change it. It’s as if he wants to keep wearing it.

Not that you’re complaining though, it is quite a sight to see.

By the time you came back home from work after that shenanigan, you thought you’d see your husband wearing the black apron you bought for him, only for your jaws to drop when you saw him still wearing the same pink apron you bought for shits and giggles.

“Did the black apron not fit you?” You asked as Diluc grabs your bag and keeps it somewhere.

Your husband pauses for a moment. “...I forgot to try it on.”

You fight the urge to laugh again. “Really?”

No, actually. Diluc did try the black apron on as soon as he finished cleaning the house away but decided to continue wearing the pink apron. As much as he didn’t want to admit, the pink apron managed to rub on him after wearing it for only half a day.

What stopped him from removing it was the memory of you trying to hold your laughter whilst smiling so wide at the sight of him wearing it, causing him to decide to wear it from now on just so he could see you smile and laugh more.

Not that you’d know of course, he’d rather get teased for wearing this apron than get teased for being such a “big ol’ sweetheart” as you comment about him.

When it comes to this apron, he sees it as a reminder of what made life worth more than he thought: you. So it’s a responsibility to take care of it.

Other than that, the pink apron has also made him less intimidating to other people whenever he wears it outside (either because he forgot or just because he felt like it)! It’s a slight change when people start coming up to you two every now and then whenever you go out.

He made sure to thoroughly clean it whenever he makes a mess sometimes, making sure that no stain has been left ignored and missed. He also made sure he won’t make the same mistake that he did with his previous apron, so he’s very careful with not ripping it with his undeniable strength whenever he puts it on and removes it.

When he finds himself in a situation where he’s required to fight – which is a rare situation, really – he’ll make sure not one single person will lay a hand on him and on the apron. He’ll be disappointed in himself if he gets it destroyed!

Of course, he did not put your money on the black apron to waste. He’ll use it whenever he goes to baking class and whenever his pink apron is in the laundry. Either that, or you use it yourself whenever you cook with Diluc despite its size! It’s quite an endearing sight to see you and Diluc cooking together while wearing the aprons.

Eventually, it’ll be a normal sight to see your husband wearing such a cute apron, even if you sometimes chuckle or grin at it. To Diluc, it’s worth wearing it if it makes you happy, especially if he’s the reason for your cute smile <3

Plus, pink kinda suits his striking red hair as much as he doesn’t want to admit it hehe

xiao.

Xiao is a different story.

For someone like Xiao, no one had ever thought about him wearing something such as a pink apron – not when it seems to be something that someone with a cold and mysterious demeanor that neighbors tend to be intimidated by wouldn’t wear. If it weren’t for you, people might’ve thought he was a criminal who’s staying in a small town in order to hide from the police that’s looking for him.

So when the well-known aloof househusband comes out of your humble home wearing a pink apron with a cheesy text on it one day after a week of moving in, everyone is hella curious and hella shocked.

Is this the same man who everyone was scared of?!

It didn’t help that he looked as if he wasn’t bothered by wearing such a cute garment, as if he’s been wearing it for ages without the neighbors knowing it until now.

The real question is: why and how?

It’s simple really, all you had to do was nothing.

In reality, the apron he’s wearing is something he willingly wore by choice just because of the memories it brought.

As mentioned before in another post, Xiao rarely cooks back when he was still serving his boss and prefers instant foods since it’s faster and easier for him. But now that he’s a full time househusband who absolutely cannot afford to let you eat instant foods everyday, he knows he has to start cooking.

Cooking is no problem for Xiao, it’s just the mess he makes when cooking that he has a problem with.

He really can’t help himself making a mess, even when he makes sure to clean after himself, he always finds himself having stains and marks all over his clothing!

So when he tells you about his frustrations one night while lying down on your lap comfortably, you remember an old garment that you saw from your box while you were unpacking your things after moving in.

The apron was a gift from your friend as a joke, and you didn’t have the heart to throw it away since it would be a waste of money for your friend, hence how it got stuck in the old box for quite a while until your husband came along and needed one.

“I know it’s not something you like since it’s not really your color,” You said with a light laugh as you show him the apron that you managed to find among the boxes that were kept by the storage room, “but you can just use this until I buy a new one for you to use. With this apron, I’m sure you won’t put a mess on your clothes since it’ll fit you!”

“You don’t need to buy another one.” Xiao says as he grabs the pink apron from you without any signs of hesitation. “This is already good enough for me. I just needed something to make sure my clothes are clean when cooking meals, so thank you.”

Your eyes slightly widen in surprise, not expecting your husband to accept your offer so willingly without a complaint. “O-Oh? Alright then.”

And so began the days when you see your husband wearing the pink apron.

It felt like you’re still dreaming when you stumble to the kitchen after waking up and see your husband cooking a liyuean dish, wearing the apron that’s now cleaned and tended to by yours truly. You had to pinch yourself to be completely convinced that you’re in a reality where Xiao, one of the most well-known dangerous members in his organization, is wearing a pink frilly apron that has a big text that says “cook lover!” on it.

It turns out that he liked it a lot since it indeed prevented himself from making a mess on his clothing – besides the ones on his arms, but it’s completely better than having a mess all over him – thanking you once again for handing him the apron.

To be fair, Xiao didn’t really think he’d like it either since he only wanted something that can help him with his little problem, it was only when he decided to try cooking Adeptus' Temptation that he changed his mind.

When he first removed his apron, he was relieved that there wasn’t much of a mess! So he decided that yes, this is worth using everyday.

He takes care of it greatly, making sure that it gets cleaned and kept well. It’s as if it’s his most prized treasure, as you jokingly said. To your amusement, he didn’t have the heart to tell you you’re wrong, because you’re right, it is something that’s valuable to him. After all, he only wore it because it’s you who gave it to him.

Perhaps you didn’t know this, but your husband is always willing to wear anything you give him – like the cute green onesie you gave him that matches yours, the nice bracelet you bought that matches his beautiful amber eyes, the pink apron and so much more that he lost count of it. If you even gave him a chicken mascot, he’ll wear it without question.

Though, this particular apron is quite special for him, because it’s the first thing you’ve ever given him after he started his househusband lifestyle. He never thought he would enjoy being a househusband – let alone becoming one in this life after everything he went through. So this apron is somewhat a reminder of how far he’s gotten in this life and how he’s free to spend the rest of his life with the one he loves most.

It started to grow on him, he’ll admit. Sometimes he forgets to remove it after cooking, finding himself spending the whole day wearing it until he finally looks at himself in the mirror and realizes he hasn't removed it.

The time when he gives up on removing his apron after cooking was all thanks to when you forgot to bring your lunch with you, causing Xiao to run after you not knowing that he still has his apron on. It was only when you pointed out that he realized what he was wearing.

He lets out a sigh. Oh well, he might as well wear it the whole day instead of only when he’s cooking.

As long as Rex Lapis doesn’t see him in it, then he could care less.

Besides, wearing the apron outside made himself look approachable and friendly to most people in the neighborhood – particularly the kids, who all stare at him in awe because of how cool his hair is.

Sometimes, whenever he looks at the apron, he’s reminded of one cherished moment between the two of you whereas you prepare your meals together for the first time since he wore his apron, with you wearing your own apron that matches his as you share hushed laughs and smiles with one another.

He closes his eyes with a small fond smile at the memory.

Oh how he could never forget the taste of your love from the meals the two of you cooked.

scaramouche.

Honestly, getting that guy to wear an apron that has hello kitty designs on it is almost impossible, especially when it’s obvious that he’d rather bury himself than wear it.

Well, it would’ve been completely impossible if he wasn’t currently making tea in your kitchen wearing such a garment, looking unbothered despite hearing your giggles at the sight.

Your imagination came true thanks to timing.

You see, the way your lover works with cooking is that he always has to wear an apron even if he never makes that much of a mess. It’s just something he finds as a required thing to do since he doesn’t want his clothes to be dirty from making meals, so he’s always found wearing his black apron in the kitchen making dishes.

One thing led to another though, said black apron was ripped after an accident that he refuses to tell you, leading him to leave no choice but to buy a new one from the only store in town that sells aprons.

Bad timing for him really, because the store unfortunately ran out of aprons that are his size due to a client that ordered loads of it for baking classes. The man was horrified when he saw that the only aprons that were available and adjustable to his size were pink aprons with hello kitty designs on them.

What made it worse was that the store won’t be able to restock until next month or more, and so he was thinking: should he just wait for a month and not wear an apron until then? Or should he just go buy the pink apron so he can go on with his day peacefully?

He thought about it, and he wanted to wait for another month since pink isn’t really his color…

But he wonders what your reaction would be when you see him in such a garment…

“…I’ll buy that apron then.” He says, plastering his usual fake kind smile to keep up his kind charade, internally grinning to himself at the thought of your shocked face. “It’s not like anything will be different if I wear this one.”

And he’s right about that - if you exclude the fact that you’ve been staring at him as though he has two heads.

When you first came home unaware of the new change, you thought you were in another universe when your husband walks out from the kitchen to greet you with the apron.

Scaramouche knew he made a good decision when he noticed you staring at him for almost the entire night, trying to hold his cackling as he continued to act as if he wasn't wearing something he wouldn’t dare to wear.

“Since when did you have that apron?” You questioned with an amused smile as the two of you ate dinner together.

Your husband innocently looks at you. “What do you mean? This is something I’ve always been wearing?”

“Don’t try to gaslight me again..”

“Hehe, just wanted to check if it still does the trick.”

To tell you the truth, he actually just thought that he could just wear the apron until the apron he wanted was available in the shop. Just like what he said to the seller, nothing would really change from wearing the cute garment, and besides, seeing your reaction of him wearing it for the first time made it all worth it.

What he didn’t expect was how by the time the shop restocks the apron he wanted, he’s still wearing the pink apron.

It’s safe to say that he got used to wearing it. He takes care of it dedicatedly and dare say even more than how he took care of his old one. He makes sure to get it carefully cleaned after times when he gets a bit messier than normal. Sometimes he even unintentionally makes his outfits match with it, something you didn’t have the heart to tell him about since you thought it was cute of him.

Of course, unlike both Xiao and Diluc, Scaramouche refuses to come out of your beloved home wearing the garment. He doesn’t forget easily nor does he not mind others seeing him wearing it. The one time when he actually wore it was when you won a bet and made him wear it outside, causing him to reluctantly do it with his usual kind facade as he plans his revenge on you.

To be honest, the real reason why Scaramouche is still wearing the apron is because of its pockets.

With Scaramouch’s old apron, there was only one pocket that’s enough to fit only one item. The pink apron on the other hand has three big pockets that a few items can fit in – particularly his hand-sized recipe notebook, kitchen tools, and spices that he received from a dear friend of his who lives in Sumeru.

So yeah, it really is worth it getting the pink apron rather than waiting.

As you watch your husband making tea for the two of you on a chill weekend, you decided to bring up something about the apron.

“Hehe, remember when you were planning to keep the apron away back then as soon as the store restocked the black ones?” You said teasingly.

Scaramouche finally brings your drinks towards your table. “It would’ve been rotting in our attic by now but,” as he places the drinks in front of you, he places his hands on his hips with a proud smile, as though he’s showing off his outfit, “I realized it does fit my color after all.”

[sl-newsie]

Spelled (Carlos de Vil x Sanderson Daughter) Descendants: A Royal Wedding

Fire burn and cauldron bubble, show me what’s the latest trouble.”

Poof!

The brewing potion sparks to life and a smoky image of Auradon Castle appears. It’s almost the same as when I left a year ago, only this time it’s decorated for a celebration. Outside Dude is chasing some frisky squirrels off the stone steps.

“Come on! This is a very special day! It needs to be perfect!” The canine whines.

You’re not wrong, Dude.

A month ago I had a visit from an owl. The creature flew inside the cottage and perched right on my shoulder. At first I was confused by my new guest but that was put to rest when I read the scroll tied to its leg.

Magica,

The Royal Highnesses Ben and Mal invite you to a royal wedding at Auradon Castle. 

So much for keeping me up to date. While Ben, Remus, and the Sea Three have kept their promise of staying in touch, I’m afraid the rest of the VKs have failed. 

“Today’s the day, huh?” Binx asks from the shelf he’s perched on.

“Yes. Yes it is,” I reply, still looking at the swirling potion.

“Do you have a wedding gift?”

A gift. A wedding gift… Good question.

“What gift do I give to my best friend and his bride? Something fun? Something sensible?”

The black cat does a big stretch. “You’ll think of something. Don’t worry too much.”

Broomsticks! I can’t think of something good this last-minute. Maybe I could copy off the three fairies? Grant them a wish? Possibly. On the other hand, doing a magic gift might look lazy and unthoughtful.

“It’ll come to me,” I mutter as I look in the mirror one last time to check my dress: a lavender sundress. Time to fix it. “By the powers of this bewitching book, change the clothes to a wicked look.”

The dress goes stiff and the fabric ripples down to turn into a deep purple gown with a black-laced corset, complete with a matching cloak and Victorian heels. Mother’s spellbook still has its perks.

“Too much?” I ask.

“Nothing is ever too much for you,” Binx chuckles. “You look very pretty. I’m sure people will love it.”

“My name is cleared, but this is the first public appearance I’ve made in a year. I hope this works.”

“And what about your aunt’s spellbook?”

Oh. Right. 

“Not a word of it,” I warn Binx with a narrowed look. “No more evil spells.”

I found it. Mother’s tipoff sent me traveling deep into the Deadwood Grove in search of Winifred’s spellbook. Lo and behold it led me to a twisted tree. Buried beneath it was a wooden chest, and within was the malevolent book itself. Eye and all. And now it remains covered and hidden within the stones of my fireplace.

“How long will you be staying-? Oh my,” father walks in from the kitchen. “You look beautiful, my little witch.”

“Thank you, father. Are you sure you won’t come?”

He shakes his head. “These are your people, Magica. It’s time you enjoyed yourself after a year of solitude. Besides, I’ve got chores to do.”

He’s right. 

“I shall return with haste,” I call before heading out the door. The sight of my broom leaning against the porch sends my heart skipping for adventure. “Fly!”

It all goes too fast. The familiar castle below awakens unwanted happy memories. Deep breath. Nothing will be the same. I prepared for this. What is new is the absence of wanted posters with my face plastered everywhere. All I can hope is that the scene of a witch flying a broom over the village won’t send the residents into a frenzy.

“Look!”

Here we go.

“It’s Magica!”

Magica? Not ‘Sanderson witch?’ 

“Hi Magica!” A little girl waves up at me.

“Um- Hello?” I wave back. What’s happened since I’ve been gone?

“Trixie! Down here!” A familiar voice yells from the castle steps.

My broom sends me down and I land with grace. After I lean it against a nearby pillar I spin around to face Jay with a wide grin.

“Jay, Jay! Thou hast grown!” I greet with a dramatic curtsey.

“Come on, none of that. Get over here!” Jay laughs and wraps me up into a tight hug. “So glad you could make it!”

“Ah! G-Good to see you too!” I wheeze. “How is the lucky couple?”

The VK’s eyes dim and he nods towards the palace. “Oh, you know. Last minute wedding preparations. I’m trying to stay out of it. My job is to be the usher. But I’m sure Mal and Evie will want to see you before the wedding starts!”

Something tugs at my heart. Is that all? Nothing else to catch up on? 

“Oh. I see.” 

I pivot crossly and strut up the stairs, leaving Jay in the dust. My mood is beginning to sour and if this is how today is going to plan out then I’m not sure  I’ll be able to upkeep this happy smile.

I sneak over to peer down the hall to Mal’s dressing room and spot Audrey giving Ben a murderous look with her hands on her hips.

“Get back to the palace, Ben!” She pushes him out and slams the door, then opens it again. “And catch your mother-in-law!”

Ben turns and sees me. “Sparks? You’re here!” He too squeezes me into a hug and I’m surprised my lungs haven’t gotten bruised yet.

“Hello, Brother Ben. It is really a pleasure to see you after all this time.” At least he tried to stay in touch. 

“Are you here to help Audrey with the decor?”

Another tug. Skip to addressing the wedding and nothing else? Granted it’s his special day but surely he understands why I would be upset?

I hold my hands up and walk away slowly. “I don’t want any part of… whatever this is. I’m just here to give you both my best wishes, as well as a wedding gift. One wish.”

The door opens again and Mal notices me. “A wish? What wish?”

My eyes flash but my temper remains tamed… for now. “Any wish you want, provided it’s reasonable of course.”

“Meaning…?”

I huff. “You know, no wishing for more wishes, no resurrecting the dead, the usual stuff. Just make a wish!”

Ben can see I’m getting uneasy. Thankfully he quickly comes up with a solution.

“Um, would long-lasting happiness work? Or is that too sappy?”

I hold back a gag. “Ben, that’s the sappiest wish you could ever think of. Pick something that actually exists.”

“How about having you as our child’s godmother?” Mal thinks out loud.

“What?!” Evie and Audrey shout from inside

“You’re… expecting?” Evie asks with a wide smile and rushes over to put a hand on Mal’s chest.

Mal backs away and both her and Ben shake their heads. “No, no! Not yet. We’re just thinking ahead. Who better would be qualified than Magica?”

Ben comes up behind me. “So whaddya say, Sparks?”

Tug! How many synonyms for pain can I discover? First all this talk of weddings and love, and then they expect me to be a godmother?

“A godmother?” My breath hitches slightly. “Witches aren’t fairy godmothers, Mal. And I- I… I need a moment.”

The gathered crowd watches with confused stares as I push through and sprint back down the stairs. Thump thump thump! Is it possible to die of a broken heart?

For if to grieve is to mourn,

And to mourn is to grieve,

What can a life be if a life is no sanctuary?

Find me a word to describe my pain,

May I never feel its sting again.

Past the doors and into the gardens. Purple flames are beginning to taunt my fingertips. How can they do this? Just- Push it off? 

The hollowness that haunts my soul,

My smile shows one who takes a heavy toll.

For if being alive and ripe alienates me from my peers,

Let me be cursed forever alone to persevere.

Lord’s purpose is ill-defined,

Between life and death can be a fine line.

“Hey, Magica!”

“Hello, sugar!”

My eyes fly up. “Hello Lonnie. Tiffany.” I can’t talk now. Not without breaking apart again. “I apologize but I must be going.”

The two girls wave goodbye and I pull my hood down to cover my glowing eyes.

Some say I look to kill,

But inside I long to love.

If to hate is to love, then in order to love one must hate.

Patience is at death’s door,

And time is weakening the score.

“Magica! Wait!”

My thoughts halt and I’m pulled back to the present. “Wha-? Oh. Hello Remus.”

The redhead jogs up and I see he’s wearing a spiffy suit just like the other men. It’s unclear what he does that calms my triggered pulse. He doesn’t hug me or smile like we’re old friends pretending nothing’s changed.

“Magica… I’m sorry. It- I know there’s nothing I can do to help-”

“That’s not true,” I interrupt. “You’re talking to me. That’s more than anyone’s given me all day. Thank you.”

Remus nods and offers a hand, which I look at with distrust. “It’s ok. I know you won’t burn me on purpose.”

I arch a brow. “Clearly you’ve never seen a Sanderson’s temper firsthand.”

He smirks and takes my hand anyway. “It takes a lot to scare my dad and me. How have you been?”

My heartrate has steadied. This is what I’ve been wanting all year. Closure. Friendship.

“It’s… Been hard. All I want is to grieve properly. Between solving my own family issues and worrying about self image… It- It came out of nowhere.” A building sob escapes me. “And now they want me to be a godmother.”

I anticipate more flames to jump from my hand again but none do. Remus’ eyes stay soft and comforting.

“I can’t speak for the other VKs but I’m sorry they’ve been distant. You deserved to be told.”

His gentle tone soothes my thoughts. “There is no man that hath power over the spirit to retain the spirit; neither hath he the power in the day of death: and there is no mere discharge in that war; neither shall wickedness deliver those that are given to it. Ecclesiastes 8:8. Death always follows, Remus. We’re just not always expecting it.”

Silence inches by. We both know no words can repair. I just need someone to stand by me.

Flash!

A bright blaze of blue light shines across the grounds. What in the name of Auradon is going on now?

“What was that?” I wonder out loud.

“I’m not sure. Magica, if you need to talk-” Remus says softly.

“The time for talking has passed,” I answer in a determined manner. “Right now I need to help. They may not have earned it but they still need it.”

The chauffeur starts jogging next to me and we head back towards the palace. “Count me in.”

Ahead of us I already see the other three VKs sprinting in the direction of the ocean. What could-? Oh my goodness. The bridge to the Isle is engulfed in blue flames.

“Any ideas?” Remus asks, sounding as befuddled as I am.

“Not exactly. How about you go help out with whatever damage there is to the castle. I’ll go handle this.”

“Are you sure?”

I give a steady nod to try to convince him and myself. “What’s the point of spending a year studying sorcery if you never use it?”

I hurry down the road and notice the captain of the Sea Three herself standing near the edge of the bridge. Mal, Evie, Jay, and Audrey have caught up with her. 

“Uma! What happened?” Mal calls out.

“Hades happened.”

“Wow. When your dad burns bridges, he literally burns bridges!” Jay jokes.

This shouldn’t surprise me. Inviting Hades to an event in Auradon is like inviting the Mad Hatter to a trial. Chaos is sure to spark. In Hades’ situation, quite literally.

“Sparky? That you?” Uma notices me standing in the back.

The other VKs turn around. Jay is the only one to smile while Mal and Evie avoid my gaze with sheepish frowns.

“Hello, Uma! It’s been too long! Thank you again for those powdered cockleshells. They were just what I needed for my draught.”

Uma sees the others’ strange looks. “What’s all this about? Y’all look guiltier than Gil caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Did I miss something?”

Jay is completely oblivious. Mal and Evie exchange glances, trying to decide how to move forward. I’m waiting.

“Um, we… Mal and Ben asked Magica if she would be the godmother to their first born,” Evie answers slowly.

Uma isn’t satisfied. “That don’t explain why you both are so awkward. Spill it.”

Mal clears her throat and lifts her head to look at me directly. “Have you thought about it? Please, Magica? It would mean so much to us.”

I hiss at her words. “Why would you ask me to be someone so important when you didn't even bother to tell me when Carlos died?” 

Everyone goes silent. One could cut the atmosphere with a sword. Here it is. No more beating around the rosebush.

“‘Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it.’ Song of Solomon 8:7. I loved him, Mal. I loved him so much. And now he’s gone.” My glaring eyes catch something gleaming on Mal’s wrist. “New bracelet?”

She sees where I’m looking and stutters. “Yeah, it’s um… All the original VK crests. I…” She can’t ignore my melancholy face and gives a sad sigh. “I- We know how much Carlos meant to you, and I’m sorry we didn’t tell you.”

“I knew.”

She blinks. “What?”

“I knew he died. When you’re a witch and you find true love, you form a love bond with them. An empathy link. You know what they’re feeling, and can tell when they’re -” I sniff. “In distress. When Carlos died I knew something was wrong. I waited to hear any news. Do you know what I was told?”

The three VKs shuffle their feet and look at the ground. “Nothing?”

“Exactly! Not one person bothered to tell me! After the first week I decided to investigate myself, and when I found out what happened-” I can’t fight the tears anymore and my eyes start leaking. Fire is crawling across my hands, which makes the VKs even more anxious.

“Magica, I- we’re so sorry!” Evie tries to comfort me.

“You never told her?” Uma asks, appalled. “Magica, if I-”

“No no, Uma. There’s nothing you could have done,” I quickly assure her. “Processing death is different for all of us. But I cannot dwell on that.” Deep breath. A gentle smile makes its way onto my face. “This is a happy day. Carlos wouldn’t want anything to spoil it. Is there anything I can help with?”

Everyone keeps staring at me. After all these years people’s stares pass right through me.

“So… Hades?”

Uma catches on and fills us in. “I tried to catch him and get him to chill but his fire hair was blowing in the wind and set the bridge on fire.”

Mal steps forward. “I need to get to the Isle and find him. Help me, please?”

“For the queen on her wedding day? I got you!” The aqua-haired pirate runs over and plummets off the bridge into the churning blue sea. Within moments he resurfaces in her octopus form. “Y’all might wanna stand back!”

She does a twirl and her tentacles send a giant wave of water rushing up to the bridge. The only one who doesn’t take cover is Audrey, who’s just walked over.

“Audrey! Look out-”

But Audrey’s too distracted by her phone to notice the giant wave coming towards her. When she gets splashed she lets out a muffled scream, then just stands there dripping wet with a shocked look.

“Thank you Uma!”

“Yeah, Uma. You’re so great,” Audrey says blandly.

“Consider it my wedding present!” Uma cackles. “Now go find your dad and I’ll get all your guests back to the reception.”

“Thank you, Uma!” Mal waves.

Uma gives a sly wink just as the VKs go sprinting across the bridge. When they’re gone she looks up at me with a sad smile.

“Mal is a good person. She’s just not the best at expressing it at times.”

“I know. In their own process of grief my name was at the bottom of the list. It was selfish to hold them to it.”

Uma stifles a laugh. “I would not think you were a Sanderson Sister. That’s got to be some of the fluffiest forgiveness talk I’ve ever heard.”

Still a pirate. I roll my eyes. “Enough chatter. Let’s get this wedding back on the road!”

Audrey really went all out with the decor. Unfortunately I’m not sure if my spells can undo the work of Hades’ power. The blue and gold banners are singed too deep. So… What now?

“Magica?”

My head perks up at the familiar face. “Jane!”

She squeals and hurries over with a gleeful smile. “You made it! I haven’t seen you since…” Her voice falters and she gets a saddened look. 

I give her a soft hug. “He’s with us today. Let’s make this wedding the biggest bash of the century.”

Her smile returns. “Right! Where should we start?”

“I’m off to fetch the bride and groom!” FG announces from down the aisle.

“We’ll come too!” 

Ben’s parents join her and in one big poof they vanish. Jane and I exchanged animated looks.

“Guess that leaves us to tend to the guests.”

“What do we say? ‘Sorry but the couple of the day is missing?’”

I shrug. “I could spell them to fall asleep until they get back.”

Uma gives me a pointed look. “As tempting as that is, you need to steer clear of too much magic. Girl you just got your name cleared! The last thing we need is another witch hunt.”

“Alright! Then I shall need assistance.” I throw my arms up and look around. “I need a phone-”

“Right here.” Uma hands me a small plastic tile. Is this what people are using? “Do you not know how to use a phone?”

“And you do? I thought there was no internet on the Isle.”

“That doesn't mean we never knew what a phone is. Here, turn it on.”

Uma presses a small button and the screen lights up with a picture of the ocean. “Behold! What kind of sorcery is this? Explain yourself, magic box!”

The pirate laughs at my flabbergasted surprise and touches the screen. An icon of names pops up and I very carefully click on the name I need. It’s ringing…

“Hello?”

“Tiffany, is that you?” I ask.

“Magica? Hi, sugar! What’s going on? I’m here for Mal’s wedding but everyone’s gone.”

I give a nervous laugh. “Yes, um- There’s been a slight delay. Did Audrey already call you?”

“Yeah I’ve got the taco bar set out but people are getting antsy.”

“I was afraid of that. Think you could whip up something if I get you the materials?”

I hear an excited holler. “Absolutely!”

Perfect! “Ingredients coming at ya! Pots and pans, sugar and spice, disappear from here to there when I snap twice.”

Two snaps and a flash of pink sparks and I hear Tiffany gasp. I’ve still got my touch!

“We’ll meet you in the banquet hall.” I close the phone and give Uma and Jane a mock salute. “Let’s go!”

We sprint across the lawn and immediately I spot Audrey’s eye-catching tent that’s set up down the hill. Hundreds of guests dressed in many different colors chatter and mingle. Now we just need to hope that Tiffany’s miracle baking can distract them a little longer.

“Almost there! We need to-”

Poof!

I run past Mal and- Hold up.

“Mal, guys- you’re back! And all dressed up I see!”

I’m no longer near the palace. Instead I’ve been spirited away to a forest, joining the VKs, Ben, Audrey, FG, Ben's parents, and- Hades?

“Hey, Sparks!” Ben waves. “We had Fairy Godmother bring you here for the wedding!”

“Wedding? Oh! A more private party, hm?” The other thing that’s different is- My dress? “Evie!”

The blue-haired VK grins. “Now you look like you!”

“You’re a Sanderson witch, Magica,” Mal explains. “We want you to be you for our wedding.” 

I finger the purple locks that have replaced by blonde ones. "The hair too?"

"Dizzy would go nuts if you didn't!" Evie giggles.

I can be me. They even outfitted me with the hat and everything.

Mal looks around the forest and smiles. “Ok, I can work with this! All it needs is…”

“A little VK flair?” Evie inputs.

“That is exactly what it needs!” Mal agrees.

“Let’s do this!”

And here we go!

“Gather ‘round in the forthcoming night, the roaring embers blinking bright.”

I snap my fingers and golden sparks pop to life and sprinkle throughout the waning sunlight. A cozy atmosphere never hurts. Ben returns with Hades and they’re both carrying a red carpet.

“I thought he was all mad and stuff?” I whisper to Mal.

“It really wasn’t his fault. He didn’t do it on purpose.”

Aw! This is going to be a proper family wedding after all! FG waves her wand and pillars form in two rows down the aisle while Jay sets flowers on them. An altar of vines and roses grows at the end. When we all get in position, with FG as the officiant and Evie as Mal’s maid of honor, Hades starts to walk Mal down the aisle to Ben. I feel myself getting worked up and excited, and I can see they’re both really happy. Jay, the ring bearer for Ben, fetches the gorgeous ring.

“Mal Bertha, with this ring, I pledge everything that I have to you. My life, my kingdom, my heart. I promise to always be there for you, to accept everything that you are, and to always put you first.”

Now Evie takes Mal’s ring from Hades and hands it to Mal.

“With this ring, I pledge to you all the days of my life. All of my burdens and all of my joys. I promise to be my best for you, to share all my secrets and to keep yours, and to choose good always.”

No more tugs. My heart is soaring at the beautiful scene of true love. Hours earlier I was terrified to confront true love again but now I’m overjoyed at their happy moment.

“Do you, Ben, take Mal to be your wife, to love and cherish forever?” Fairy Godmother asks.

Ben’s eyes shine and never stray from Mal. “I do.”

“Do you, Mal, take Ben to be your husband, to love and cherish forever?”

Mal looks confidently joyful. “I do.”

“By the power vested in me I now pronounce you husband and wife! Bibbity-bobbity whoo!”

She waves her wand, and in another split-second poof! we’ve been transported back to the banquet hall. 

“There you are!” Uma waves at me. “You just- Poof! Are you were gone!”

I smile sheepishly. “Um, sorry. It’s kinda my thing. But this time it wasn't me.”

“It was my idea!” Ben declares and squeezes my shoulder.

By now the whole crowd sees we’ve returned and cheers loudly. We appeared at the top of the stairs- Much too out in the open for my taste. I start to inch away but Jay pulls me back.

“You’re a part of this too, Magica.”

Something catches my eye. Mal’s bracelet starts to glow, and we see Carlos’ charm shimmers the brightest. Oh, Carlos. Dude comes running up next to me wearing a spiffy bow tie, and I know we’re all thinking the same thing. He’s here, in spirit.

"Mal," I speak evenly. "It would be an honor to be a godmother."

The newlywed smiles and both her and Ben press me into a hug. "Thank you, Magica. Thank you so much."

“Let’s dance!” Evie pulls Doug into the crowd and everyone starts jigging.

“You too, Magica!” Jane waves me over to where her, Tiffany, and Lonnie are.

“It’s the Sanderson witch!” Chad shrieks and all but runs straight into a column.

Audrey rolls her eyes. “Shut up, Chad. C’mon, Magica!”

After all this time I still can have friends. A Sanderson witch having friends. Maybe one day I can set mother free and I can have her back too. But one day at a time.

“Trixie! Wanna join us for sky dancing?” Jay points to the platforms lifting people into the air.

I shake my head. “No, thanks. I think I’ve overspent my welcome. Besides, that looks really dangerous.”

“Says the witch who rides a broom!” Jay taunts.

“At least I have a broom! What’s to stop you from falling off of those things?”

“Get up here, Sparky!” Uma calls, both asking and ordering.

I roll my eyes. “Very well. Broom!” In a split second it appears in my hand. “Fly!”

All of my troubles stay behind. The cool night air refreshes my thoughts and for the first time in two years I’m actually having fun. No more screaming or villagers running away. Even though Willow’s probably still mad at me. 

Someone grabs my hand and suddenly I’m spun into the crowd. Goodness-!

“You stayed!” Remus grins from his own platform. “I’m so glad you’re here! May I have this dance?”

A carefree laugh escapes me and I begin to swing to the music. “You really don’t want to know about my family’s history of social events, Remus. But… Yes. I would love to dance with you.”

Oh. Oh. I wonder if…?

“Looking good, guys!” Jay cheers us on.

Is it possible…? No, life is too short to worry about Fate and true love. I’m finally happy.

We all make mistakes. Some are kind of messy, others… Almost successful in cursing an entire kingdom. But that’s past me now. And not only so, but we also glory in tribulations also: knowing that tribulations worketh patience; And patience, experience; and character, hope: And hope maketh not ashamed; because the love of God is shed abroad in our Hearts by the Holy Ghost which is given unto us. Romans 5:3-5. 

You helped me through this, Carlos. We all will remember you. Wherever you are, we wish you all the best.

(Thank you to Cameron Boyce for his wonderful talent, may he rest in peace.)

[muffinlance]

Cheating at Pai Sho Outtake: Crew Interrogation

Opened up Cheating at Pai Sho and this alternate version was just chilling in my notes. I ended up using the “Sokka goes out drinking with the crew” version instead, but behold, the crew messing with Zhao’s men:

* * *

Sokka was entirely unclear on whether the crew didn't notice him under his newly replaced guard helmet, or just didn't care.

"Look sharp, Ensign Other One," a fellow creepily anonymous skull-mask-guard said, giving Sokka an elbow nudge to the chest plate, and firmly putting an end to the did they know or just not care question. "Hostiles incoming."

"What do we do?"

"Mess with them." The guard lifted his faceplate. Hawker Genji winked at him, then let it drop.  

Heavy boots stomped up the loading ramp, mere minutes after Zuko and the resupply party had left.  

"Attention on deck!" one of the newly arrived armored-but-not-wearing-helmets guys bellowed. None of the crew had any particular reaction to this bellowing, probably because it was a few decibels below what they were used to. The man's lips twisted down. "The port commander has ordered a mission debriefing. You will assemble all crew—"

"Yes," Genji said, and the same time a woman next to him was saying "Agni blight it," and handing over a handful of coins.

The port inspector snapped his head towards them. "What was that, crewmen?"

"Nothing, sir,” said Genji. “Just won a bet. Thanks, by the way."

"Nothing, sir,” said the woman. “Just lost a bet. Thanks, by the way."

A third crewmember snickered, and stifled it as soon as the dock officer whipped around to glare. And suddenly Sokka realized why everyone on the Wani had put on their own helmets: near-complete anonymity.

So began the messing with.

%%%

The crew was, basically, locked in the mess hall. Except for the people who the port officer had hauled off to speak with one-by-one; they, presumably, were being released into the Wani wilds elsewhere, to minimize the getting-their-stories-straight thing.

"Do it," Genji urged Sokka on. "I'll give you a silver if you do."

"He's low-balling you, kid," Assistant-to-the-Doctor-and-Occasional-Pikeswoman Satomi advised.

"What even is a silver worth?" Sokka asked, having grown up in a region largely decoupled from the greater world economy. "I need a baseline for how much this is worth to you."

"A silver is worth about five kilos of rice if they don't know you're from the Wani," Satomi said. "Half that if they do. Hold out for a gold from him, at least. That's ten silvers, or an hour with a really good hooker."

"Sssh," Helmsman Kyo shushed, in a manner most shushily. "I can't hear what they're saying." He had his ear pressed to a metal pipe that connected to another pipe that ran to the room the port officer was doing his interrogations in. "Wait no, I got it. Okay, so we're up to The Avatar appeared before Prince Zuko in a column of light which vanished into the sky, leaving behind the last living airbender. The airbender lives on our roof and helped us fight off the Southern Savages that attacked us from the sky on their snow-white beast. It sounds like they're—yeah, they're finished! Next up!"

The uninterrogated remainder of the crew all assumed their sullen stances, and waited for the the port officers to drag the next of them off. Satomi was picked, and went with some literal dragging of heels. "Oh no, not me."

The Wani crew, as it turned out, tried very hard to be consistent in their ridiculously over-the-top rewrites of the truth.

"We don't get battle stories to brag about," they'd explained to Sokka. "But we do get Avatar Hunt ones."

Kyo pressed his ear to the pipe again, and continued his narration. "Okay. Good, good—she laid out the basics again. And she's adding—oh wow, this is great—'Together with our new airbender, we brought the light of Agni to the frozen heathens, and converted them to our cause. Now they worship graven images of Fire Lord Ozai and leave offerings at the rusted ruins of our ships—'  

Sokka. Knew what he had to do.

%%%

"Sit," the port inspector ordered.

Sokka sat.

"Your fleet commander demands an explanation for this wasteful expenditure of resources to the south," the man snarled. "Tell me the truth of it. Start from when your ship departed this port the last time."

"Well, I'm not going to be able to help you with that," Sokka said. "You see, I was out minding my own business on my culturally inferior ice shelf when the light of Agni shown upon my world. Also, Avatar something-something? I forget what they told me to say. Anyway, long story short, I'm a converted Southern Savage. Hail Fire Lord Zuko's Dad!"

It might just be the sleep deprivation, but the guy's expression was hilarious.

%%%

"How did you all get written up for insubordination?" Zuko shouted. "I was gone for less than two hours! You're not even in the navy!"

"Yeah," the Water Tribe peasant said. "That officer guy got really angry when he thought I was giving him a fake name. Then he heard them calling me 'new guy' and just wrote up Pikesman Kazuto. Sorry, Kazuto."

"He… what?" Kazuto, who was carrying the last sack of rice aboard, paused long enough to look befuddled.

The teenager shrugged; his armor clattered and creaked even worse than Jee's. "What can I say? Just because I'm not part of the navy doesn't mean I'm not part of this crew."

There was. There was so much cheering and backslapping. Zuko had left for less than two hours, and now his crew liked a Water Tribe barbarian more than their prince.

[tokoyamisstuff]

Breaking Bonds Ch. 6

Synopsis: Rabban and you have a long-due honeymoon on Lankiveil.

Warnings: Masturbation, unprotected sex A/N: I'm not good at writing smut but enjoy this lil' treat either way! 💌

"No man chooses evil for the sake of evil; he only mistakes it for happiness, the good he seeks."

- Mary Wollstonecraft

[Previous Chapter]

There was no going back now - you've long since passed the point of no return. And still, no matter how much time passed, you couldn't shake this nagging conscience off...

...after all, you had selfishly become enamored with a man that had - and still causes - so much misery in the entire Empire and especially your home planet.

To be fair, while the Baron alone decided about the tax height, your husband has at least greatly lifted the burden on his colonies lately, concentrating on gathering ressources instead of harassing the populace. His men were advised to tone it down, and shall a village not be able to provide the demanded amount, they'll have two more chances before there'll be consequences.

That was his way of expressing what he could otherwise never put into words.

Rabban was snoring softly besides your insomniac self, shuffling close enough to wrap his arms around you. He pressed your body against his chest from behind, a content sigh escaping his throat at the feeling of your skin against his.

"Good morning, my Countess" he purrs, nose nuzzling against your neck before tracing kisses across your collarbone. You return the favour, nails tenderly raking across his scalp. "Good morning, my Count."

Your husband's touch soon becomes more eager, groaning shamelessly as his hands wander upwards to massage your breasts, who betray you and stiffen under the touch. "Glossu, you're insatiable."

"To my defense, I've waited more than long enough" he teases, nibbling on your earlobe. His hand rested under your navel just for a brief moment before wanderin downwards. "And besides, we still have an obligation to fulfill."

Your laughter soon turned into pleased moans as well, music in your husband's ears as he slid under the covers, head settling between your spread legs with an almost predatory glint in his eyes.

"Let me wake you up properly, dear."

This whole situation still felt like a bizarre daydream - one your past self would refuse to believe to ever become reality.

A short while back you loathed this wicked man with a passion, were nothing but repulsed and petrified whenever he was near you - but right now you were yearning for his touch at every opportunity.

After that first fateful night spent together marked the beginning of something more intimate, it was also new terrain for both of you.

While you expected a cruel joke, revealing itself just when he'd gain your trust, your husband feared his feelings being used to control him for your own benefit.

Needless to say, neither of it occured.

Maybe you had completely lost your mind, but at this point you couldn't care less - at least that was what you told yourself on this important day.

Since Harkonnen troops had now completely retreated from Arrakis, until your husband would be called to battle he decided to grant you this heartfelt wish of reuniting with your family.

The image of your planet in space was a sight to behold, never ceasing to amaze you. An ice world where seasons would last for years instead of months, known among the galaxy for it's precious whale fur.

From afar, it looked almost as sacred as your father had always described it in his tales.

He was a man of unbreakable faith - at least until the death of your eldest brother on the frontlines of the resistance. Your whole family stopped practicing the religion entirely since then, except for occasional prayers in time of distraught.

After his loss, your father said that god has left this planet the moment House Harkonnen set foot on it.

Whereas you still miss him painfully, the grief strickening to this day, you were also relieved that he did not have to see you like this - his beloved daughter, giving her heart and body up to the enemy.

"Welcome home" Rabban declared as you prepared for the spaceship to land, already preparing to descend towards the planet's surface.

You seemed both aloof and apprehensive at once, so it wasn't long until Rabban offered you his hand as means to placate. "It'll be fine."

Will it be, though?

Since birth you had been among them, attended this farce of a welcome committee alongsides the other natives. It was not a voluntary decision, presence was mandatory.

You remember very well how much you wished to have the courage and throw a rock at your oppressor - but knew what deadly consequences it'd bring for you and everyone else.

Yet right now you were on the other side of the coin, and taking a good look down on yourself - skin bleached through the lack of sunlight and dressed matching to your spouse - you wondered if they'd even differ, or simply see you with the same burning hatred that you felt back then.

"Now arriving: Your beloved rulers, Count and Countess Rabban!"

Eventually you felt nauseous as the shuttle opened and you were greeted with exagerrated fake applause from the capitol, retracting your intertwined hands before anyone could see.

With the planet being currently in spring, bright sunlight hit your face, eyes needing some time to adapt after the eternity you had spent on Giedi Prime.

The Beast looked at you with a mixture of worry and irritation, brushing his fingers over your back yet again you winced away. The current situation made it impossible to bid it any more concern, but your behavior left a bitter aftertaste.

Of course he understood. While in private you could act like lovestruck fools all you want, however it was dangerous to do so in front of witnesses.

Ironic, considering you're officially a married couple.

For that very same reason he was also unable to go too easy on your - otherwise the other Harkonnen's were to notice, and such weakness would not remain unpunished.

However this tiny act of affection might also be interpretated as courtesy among two weds...

...so why did you insist to tear yourself away from him?

As the two of you strutted through the tremulous crowd, accompanied by his best soldiers, he reminisced back to easier times.

Rabban vaguely remembered that at every arrival of his you stood out ouf the crowd - at least to his eye - even long before your ways would actually cross.

Oh, how drunk he got on your fear back then, excited by the defiance he detected in your eyes nonetheless. It was as if your emotions were written right on your forehead and damn, what a feisty little quim, weren't you?

He secretly prayed that one day you'd put those thoughts into practice, commit something so imprudent that he'd have an excuse to drag you into his chambers despite your status. Implementing his own means of punishment, without ever allowing you to escape....

...in hindsight, this might've been a precursor of this strange infatuation after all. Better keep this to himself though - even he knows this isn't exactly considered romantic.

In the midst of the formation your family awaited you - or rather what's left of it. Scatters of a once great bloodline.

Rabban looks over to you, only a silken dress cascading down your body in the shivering breeze. The cold did not seem to bother you at all, in fact the soft glow bestowed you an even more divine beauty.

The serenity you were radiating was slowly crumbling however, as you came to a halt far away from your kneeling loved ones. Seeing them like this felt horribly wrong, a perfect symbolfor the harsh reality of this marriage which you desperately tried to shove back into your head.

You were hesitating, eyes darting helplessly between your husband and relatives. "What are you waiting for?" Rabban speaks in this low, authorative voice of his. "You may leave."

His approval was enough for you to drop the composure together with your remaining dignity, running towards them as you broke out into irrepressible sobbing.

A sinister look decorated Rabban's face as you collapsed into your mother's arms, a dangerous mixture of jealousy and obsession stirring in his mind. He tries to ignore it, internally fights to contain himself for your sake.

You are the stunning image of your mother, he thinks, trying to distract himself with trivial annotations. The children however - your younger siblings, as it seems - he doesn't warm up to that easily. Not really his area in general, but he'll figure out once he has brats of his own. Better not think about it too much, the pending responsibility leaves him with an odd unease.

A girl around five years of age he overhears asking why you were accompanying the 'behemoth', timidly peeking over your shoulder as you had lifted her up. "You know, I can understand every word" he retorts flatly and in perfect Lankiveili. It catched you by surprise, since the Harkonnens on your planet kept mostly to themselves. Of course, as a leader it made perfect sense to at least know the common global language.

Sometimes you forgot that your husband was in fact a sophisticated man, just wildly - intentionally - underestemated.

"Leave my sisters alone!" your younger brother, barely eleven years old, leaped in front of you, a shakily pointing a wooden toy sword at the Beast.

"I thought we got rid of all the males in the Årud bloodline..." Rabban spoke in sadistic amusement, crossing his arms as he assessed the boy. Well, your mother was pregnant back at the time and the Count was not really paying attention the following years. But you wouldn't deliberately make things worse by pointing out his disinterest for politics, knowing he already felt inadequate.

"Please, dear husband" you try to appease him, hands clasping together in a begging manner. "He's just a child. No one's questioning your rule. It's not worth it."

"When I was his age, I already partook in huntings" the Beast harrumphed, face contorting into an almost-snarl. "Killed my grandfather a few years after." He reached out for your brother, who was rooted on spot, cowering in fear...

...and just when you were about to intervene, he put his hand on the boy's head, slightly ruffling his hair. "You have a brave heart. Become a good warrior and make your family proud."

Rabban then turned to you, looking at him absolutely flabbergasted. "Just leave" he spat, waving his men over. "Got important business to take care of. You'd be no help either way."

You crack a smile, tiptoeing to peck a quick kiss on his cheek before turning around, this unexpected public affection left this mountain of a man - and frankly everyone around you - completely baffled.

"What are you looking at, you dogs?!" he shouted at his squad and their chatters ebbed out with his command. "Get. To. Work! Anyone I consider useless, I'll kill on sight."

It wasn't until Rabban and his men were actually gone to run errands for his uncle that your folk was able to breathe freely again, now truly cheering and celebrating your arrival.

You were almost considered a national hero, your marriage being considered the most noble sacrifice, ensuring the prosperity of Lankiveil.

No one dared interacting with you more than necessary, though. It was simply not worth the risk of earning the wrath of the infamous Beast.

"This detestable waste of a mother's love! Threatening a child like that. Did you see how scared your brother was?!"

"Lower your voice" you interrupted your own mother, who felt comfortable enough to verbally lash out at the Beast now that you were in your own four walls. "My husband has eyes and ears everywhere. Just- just be glad he didn't actually do anything."

"Don't tell me what to do, young lady" she scolded you harshly. "You may be our Countess now, but you must never forget-" The words die in her throat, her soft caress of your cheek having pulled your hair far enough back over our shoulder to reveal the choke mark on your neck.

A mere lovebite of some sort - he had a bruising grip, and holding back was never his forte. This is nothing compared to what he's normally capable of, but a sadist remains a sadist.

You want to back away, but your mother got a hold of your wrist, pulling up one of the sleeves only to find more bruises scattered across your arm.

During the act you rarely ever notice - in fact it was rather enjoyable - but how should you tell your mother that the most hated person on this forsaken planet kissed those minor injuries afterwards, mumbling sweet affirmations as his hands draw circles on the sore skin?

She seemed desolate, on the verge of tears and yet may have realized at this moment to better not speak against a man that was capable of practically anything.

"Mother" you assure her, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had settled between you licke a thick haze. "You needn't worry, I promise."

"...if we had been informed of your visit, we would've prepared festives" she croakes as she changes the topic, needs to do so in order to keep her grace. "We'll make up something right away."

Guilt was eating her alive and you knew it - the day when the Baron proposed this alliance, she had to pick between loss and loss.

As a leader, she absolutely chose correctly.

As a mother? Not so much.

All logic asides, it pained you to be reminded that she put the fate of strangers over your own. If your father was still alive, he would've rather let this planet fall into chaos than willingly lose another one of his children to the Harkonnens - if only metaphorically.

To a certain extend you sympathized with Rabban's rage- the feelings of a child abandoned by their own mother.

But then again, what's one ruined life compared to so many others, an entire civilization even?

...and do you truly consider your life to be ruined?

"Sure..." You swallow harshly, try to suppress your emotions to enjoy the scarce time you had with your loved ones. "That sounds wonderful."

Meanwhile Rabban was in the greatest hall of his mansion, slumped on the throne of your ancient monarchs - which he stole it for his private collection long ago.

He tries soothing himself through meaningless pastimes, yet materialistic luxury and fleeting pleasures did not hold the appeal they once had...

...they could not substitute your presence, at last - and without it his thoughts spiraled back to the only coping mechanism he knew: Violence, or worse.

This cannot be love, the feeling he had heard so much about yet never experienced in all his decades of life.

Why would anyone want to feel this way, being so desperate for someone else?

Sadly the attempt to drown his violent urges in expensive beverage only intensified his intrusive thoughts, dampening the little self-control he still possessed. Luckily sober him had all servants informed that he was under no context to be disturbed - otherwise not all of them would make it to sunrise alive.

Wait a second...why did he even fucking care what you'd think of him?

This was his planet, his servants, his everything! And you were his wife! Your whole purpose was to endure and obey each and every of your husband's whims, no matter how depraved!

Shit, this is the exact reason you'll always shy away from him in the end. He just can't get out if his skin - and right now it was itching for blood...

...all just because you were currently not at his side, enjoying yourself with people that were what he could never be for you.

He loathed this godamn ice block of a planet, it's people and rites and especially the fact that he could never replace or even imitate the home your heart has on here.

Now that he saw how you acted with people that you truly loved, it was all obvious to him: You had merely arranged yourself with the circumstances - but would never willingly choose him.

Rabban's frustration wandered right down to his pants, sent an even more pulsing desire straight to his cock as he remembered the ethereal way you walked besides him in that delicate sin of a dress.

Fuck, it's been an eternity singe he's done the work himself - after all, he he had countless women to pick from to tend to this need...

...but he knew damn well that unless it's you, he'd only be left unsatisfied and eventually kill them.

Your husband spread his legs on the throne, pulling back one leathern glove with his teeth while the other squeezed the hardened member swelling beneath his belt.

Growling moans he had bit back until now fell casually from his lips as he pulled his dick from it's confines, gripping the angry shaft fiercely. Swiping across the slid already leaking precum, he intended to make a quick end of it.

His eyes fell shut, head rolling back as he tried dwelling in pleasant memories of your naked form beneath him, the way you moaned his name like a sacred prayer each time you came undone.

"Shit, Y/N..." he rambled out, grunts and groans mixing with incoherent Harkonnen swear words as he eagerly stroked himself.

"Yes, my Count?"

The sudden appearance of your voice made his blood run cold, eyes snapping open only to catch your silhouette in the doorframe, calmly watching the scene unfolding before you.

His face instanty dropped into stern hostility, peering at you like he was considering murder as nerest solution to escape this humiliation.

"What the hell are you doing here?!" he barks, not yet bothering to cover himself as to not admit his embarassment. "Enjoying the view, I guess."

"Bitch" he thought, contemplating to shove his cock down your throat just to make you shut up. Albeit you strode towards him keenly, a smug smile playing on your lips when his manhood twitches at your approach.

"You seem stressed, my love..." you chant oh so alluring in his ear as you lean over him, the nickname pulling at his heartstrings. "I can change that."

There was something so fundamentally wrong with doing it right here, giving yourself to an oppressor right on the throne of your people...

...maybe Rabban had already corrupted you, because that fact was exactly why it aroused you enough to discard all morality in exchange for temporary carnal pleasure.

All you knew was that right now you were in charge - and the very man that had done so much wrong was literally wax in your hands.

Irony of fate, one would say.

Your fingers teasingly ghost across his shaft and Rabban lets out a noise of both disapproval and desperation, hips bucking against your palm to find some release. "I missed you" you speak, invitingly batting your lashes.

"Stop lying" this utter wretch spat weak, tentatively, the lust in your scent feeling like being stabbed. You smile down on him in return, unimpressed by his vocal attempts to push you away.

His defense falters as you straddle his waist, kissing him with an affection like he was something precious and not in fact the most despicable person you've ever met. "I'm not lying, Glossu."

He wants to say something, anything, but his throat closes, a torn-out sob being all he manages to wring out.

Primal need takes the wheel again when you push your panties aside, folds sliding across his member in preparation and god you were so wet already, just for him.

Both of you sighed in relishment as you lowered yourself on his cock, meekly clawing into his shoulder as you adjusted to his size. Meanwhile Rabban's hands busied themselves on your ass, back, thighs, every damn inch of skin he can get while his hips chase yours.

The Beast kisses your pulse point as he pulls you impossibly close, face hidden in the crook of your neck so you won't see how he falls apart right in front of you. Yet your name keeps erupting from his lips as you ride him, not yet a plea but certainly endearing.

He holds you in an almost bonecrushing hug as you ride him, your tits spilling so scrumptiously out of your cleavage that he can't help but sink his teeth into the thin fabric, earning an ecstatic yelp in return. Soon his tongue dives into your mouth in exasperation, only ever breaking the kiss when the lack of oxygen became too hard to bear.

As the pace speeds up your husband finally brings himself to watch you grind on his crotch, the view enough to drive him over the edge. Both awe and passion wash over him in the tidal wave that was his orgasm, so much pulsing inside of you it borders on obscene.

Even long after overstimulation followed his peak, he couldn't stop the jackknife-like thrusts into your sensitive cunt as your high chased right after his.

Who wouldve thought that sex filled with laughter instead of cries could be this...enjoyable?

An odd tranquility sets above the two of you, remaining in the position for a while before either of you dared to move.

"Convinced now?" you ask between short, ragged breaths, heart fluttering while his practically beat like a drum.

"Dunno" he hums playfully, sweaty foreheads stuck together as he mirrowed your smile. "We might have to repeat this a few times, just to be sure."

Both of you broke our in boisterous laughter and you nudge his side, chuckling some sweet nonsense about him being insufferable.

"SERVANT" You almost fell down from the seat by surprise, and Rabban yelled for no one in particular once again. Panicking, you wanted to pop off his softening member and hide - yet your husband had other plans, still holding you tight.

"Nah -ah -ah" he gurred with a shiteating grin on his face as he felt his pride returning. "We don't want you to waste a single drop of my precious seed, don't we?"

Asshole. He really was incorrigible at times...

Gladly your dress had fallen down to your hips, far enough to cover your priavtes yet not enough to hide the peculiar embrace the two of you still shared.

"A partnership is no fight for dominance, you know?" you whisper as a maidservant entered - an elderly Lankiveilan woman looking down in unease. You wanted to be swallowed by the earth right then, being seen defiled by the enemy in front of one of your own people.

Oh, you just knew he was enjoying showing off what was rightfully his, didn't he?

"Just playful banter" he promised, hands still lazily roaming your body. "Run us a bath" he orders, "Then get lost. And leave some new attire at the door."

The servant nods and commits her work in silence, shooting you one last, pitying look before she disappeared as fast as she came. Rabban insisted on carrying you to the magnificent bathroom, sinking into the relaxing scented water and pulling you to his chest once again as he began to ponder.

For once he got what he wanted without taking it by force - you returned to him out of your own free will...

...and what an amazing feeling that was.

By Harkonnen logic, he should be terrified of the effect you have on him, put a stop to it immediately - all of what happened was considered pathetic weakness in his culture, nothing more than a flaw.

But damn it, he wouldn't trade it for the world.

"What are you brooding about?" you ask, fingertips tracing the several scars on his chest. "Why are you really here? Surely you did not just come for...this."

You snort in amusement, joking "I thought I'd look after my husband, before he gets bored and blows something up."

The Beast grinned at your words, allowing himself some sort of vulnerability as he seeks your reassurance. "I thought you'd seek the comfort of your old home."

His words made you furrow your brows in confusion, almost offended by his assumption. "This is my home now" you answer firmly, pressing a wet kiss to his knuckles. "You are."

The answer pleases him as it seems, pulling you in for another kiss, limbs tangled with each other in an inescapable embrace.

"Perhaps you want to accompany me tonight?" Your husband had helped you out of the now cold water, having stayed there until your discomfort became greater than the joy of closeness. "The people of the capitol will hold a small festival."

Rabban seemed bewildered, insulted even at the suggestion. "Why should I bother with those savages? This is beneath me." You roll your eyes at the man, not wanting to hear that belittlement for your culture coming from people who hunt others for sports.

Quickly towel-drying your hair before slipping into traditional clothes rather than the one he had picked out for you, he swallows the frustration of this separation through your different styles.

"Maybe because your wife is one of those 'savages', and so are you. You're half Lankiveili, hell, you even carry one of our names!" you correct him, pointing an index finger directly at his face just for him to gently slap it away. "You've been born and raised here, not on Giedi Prime."

"So?" he retorts matter-of-factly, glaring at you. "A dog born in a stable still doesn't nicker." You almost facepalmed, unnerved by his blatant stubbornness. "But you can't deny your blood. Your mother-"

"Was a Bene Gesserit, first and foremost." Rabban interrupted you, tired with the discussion already though he elaborates. "Their children are nothing more to them than means to an end."

There was a subtle hint of disappointment in his voice, one you could very well resonate with. "But- I mean, you weren't useful to her, right? Hence the younger brother."

Wow. That sounded way less insulting in your head - and you were sure had anyone else but you pointed this out, they'd been six foot under already.

"Thanks for the reminder that I'm inferior to my brother in every way" he gritted, not seeing the point of this useless conversation. You looked at him sympathically, cupping his face with both hands but he turned away in anger. "N-No, I didn't mean it like that. I-"

Well, things can't get any worse than this. Might as well speak your mind. "Bene Gesserit are ordered to kill genetically undesirable children immediately after birth..."

You see him clench and unclench his fists, but take his hand and intertwine your fingers with his. "...and yet you're here. What do you think that means? She loved you dearly, I'm sure of it."

He twirls you into his arms, effectively shutting you up with a breathtaking kiss. Your lips searched his again as soon as he pulled away, yet he already went for the door.

"Alright alright, I'm feeling generous today. We'll go. Just don't complain if I ruin the mood."

That very same evening, your husband participated in the festival with you - well, more or less. He mainly remained on the sidelines, following you like a shadow and eyes shooting daggers at everyone looking at you for too long.

His soldiers he had warded off to another place, so they'd leave your people alone for tonight - and als that there wouldn't be any witnesses to his tameness.

This whole parade reminded him of a rather unpleasant part of his childhood, what it means to be born in between two worlds and fully belonging to neither.

Many years ago his mother, Emmi Rabban, had dragged him to such an event in an attempt to make her son embrace his heritage.

People would look at him with revulsion and hostility - a natural reaction, considering his Harkonen outerior, even though he was a mere child back then. He used to tell himself the mantra that being feared something to be proud of, more reliable than some feeble goodwill.

Ultimatively, when one of the other children started throwing rocks at young Rabban, he saw red...

...and like so often, only when his anger subsided and he returned to his senses, the adults were able to pull him away from the bloody heap he had beaten the other into.

It was not the first time his mother had looked at him that way: Shame, disappointment, fear of her child and what he was capable of. Regret of having kept him alive, if your theory was true.

This core memory only strenghtened his taunting disconnection and self-loathing.

After that day, Rabban's mother had stopped bringing him anywhere public at all. Kept him trapped at home as often as possible, like a feral animal restrained by a cage.

And yet here he was again, watching you enjoy yourself as you sang and danced in the streets, never breaking eye-contact and gifting him the sweetest of smiles. Whenever you returned to his side, you clung to his arm and babbled about whatever, not minding what your precious subjects or even your own family might think of you...

...kissing him so openly, so deeply, as if you were proud to be his wife, despite everything.

Maybe this planet wasn't that bad, all things considered.

"You know, you could stay here. Until I secured Arrakis for your arrival, I mean" he promised solemny later that night, as you warmed each other under the sheets. "And I'll take you to Lankiveil as often as I can."

Rabban's offer made you stirr in your almost-slumber, witnessing his pale face glow more lively under the chimney's embers. "Why would you do that for me?"

The question caught him off guard, fumbling with his words. "Don't mock me, woman. This is the first time I felt something like this. Its...difficult for me, to say the least."

"Well, I'm grateful for the offer" you mumble sleepily, guiding his hands to rest on your hip. "But my place is at my husband's side."

After this long and eventful day it was no wonder you couldn't stay up for much longer, the security your husband's hug provided guiding you into a sweet slumber.

Rabban lets out a shaky breath, unable to fathom how he deserved feeling such bliss. He covers you with the blanket, waits until your breathing pattern indicates you're fast asleep until he dares speaking his mind.

"I love you, Y/N" he whispers, feeling a profound sense of happiness encase him after confessing this - mostly to himself.

[Next Chapter]

[ribesrubrum]

[pictures: There seems to be several pictures of a few places around Paldea. The first of which, perhaps surprisingly, being the flower field near the former Ruchbah Base, where several of Carmine's Pokemon are playing in the fields. Amarys can be seen in the background, training at the center, and there's a few pictures taken of her battles there. She commands her Pokemon easily even against the onslaught of Fairy types, and if the images are anything to go by, she seems to have secured a victory against Ortega. Though it seems like Linux has learned a new move...?

Anyway, the second set of photos seem to be in Uva Academy; there's at least one picture of Ren checking in with Director Clavell, seeming to speak excitedly about recent times while the older man listens. There's a picture of Amarys speaking with him and another teacher, Jacq, and they appear to be discussing intriguing topics, given the interest on each party's face. There is one where they all stare at the camera, though!

The next to last set of photos appears to be taken in a restaurant in Medali; all three of them have ordered delicious food, and the images all range from general chatter to beautiful food shots. It's clearly a lovely time shared by all.

...And then there's a couple back at Ren's house; Amarys holding what appears to be a photo album in her hands, and she looks through each photograph dutifully. There even seems to be a blank album next to her; something to fill with her own memories. And...there's a picture of Carmine looking through her own photo album with Ren, and no, she's definitely not tearing up a bit--]

Paldea's even more beautiful than I could have imagined. I'll admit it! My expectations were met and then some, and Ren took us to some of the most delightful places. I really can't thank them enough for showing us around!

I'm taking Ren clothing shopping tomorrow morning, and tomorrow evening, our flight back to BBA goes out. It's almost surreal, but I can't wait to get back to learning; there's a lot of things I want to do now, and I've got all of the time and energy in the world now to tackle them head-on.

...

Though, I am going to kick Ren's rear end in for managing to surprise me! We'd been working on a surprise for my darling since we first went off to Kitakami, and I wanted to do something nice for our six month anniversary--see those photo albums? One of Ren's friend's grandma, she makes these beautiful handmade photo albums with the help of her Spidops, and they're a sight to behold! Along with the memories inside. But this brat! They went and made one for us and our adventures! There were photos I never expected to see ever again in there, and...ugh! My heart can't take it! So I demanded to be able to take them clothes shopping; no second hand, and absolutely no school uniforms!

You should have seen my beloved's reaction, though. I felt a little bad keeping it a secret for so long, but seeing her face...well, it was worth it. ♥

Ren's gone out for a little bit with her, and I'm staying behind and watching the house, and playing with this...video game system they have, for the moment. I can't read any of the text to this game I'm playing, but I'll ask them about it later; it's a rather cute game, though, if nothing else.

[delulu-with-wandanat]

Romanoff-Maximoff Family HC

Sharing my personal head-canon for my Romanoff-Maximoff family bcos I love them. And this (probably) will be my base anytime I make a Parents Wandanat or a Romanoff-Maximoff family fic 🫶😩

Just a disclaimer it’s probably gonna be very all over the place, like it’s not well thought out. I just wanna share my thoughts cus domestic Wandanat AGHHH 🥰😭🫶 Also this is long, like REALLY long. Idc here u gooo

In general:

They have 3 kids; Their eldest is adopted (but has Nat’s DNA, I’ll get into this in a bit.), and the other two are biological twins.

How you may ask? They’re friends with many VERY smart people, I don’t need to explain myself. (Or magic if ur nasty ;D)

The twins are boy and a girl, like Pietro and Wanda.

Natasha is 'Mom'

Wanda is 'Mama' (But to Natasha she is mommy-)

Natasha is the chill parent.

Wanda tends to overreact (Naturally, we all seen MoM. But it’s out of love guys it’s ok-)

But when Natasha gets angry she’s the scariest one.

They’re both retired from the Avengers after Endgame to raise a family.

They live in Westview.

They both only go on missions when absolutely needed.

And maybe sometimes go to the compound to teach the new Avengers.

They have enough money to last them a lifetime and THEN SOME- (I mean obviously they were an Avenger)

But they’re not the type to stay still, especially Nat.

Lord and behold Yelena’s little story came true, Nat becomes a science teacher at a local High School.

Is she qualified? I mean she was an international spy, I think she’s overqualified tbh-

Meanwhile Wanda opens up a small food business.

Wanda LOVES cooking for her family and her foods are really good!

People of Westview tried to convince Wanda to open up a restaurant cus it’s just THAT GOOD. (She could honestly, money was absolutely no problemo)

Her secret ingredient? Love… and the fresh ingredients she grows in their backyard-

Have I mentioned Wanda loves gardening? Because she doess!! (Cottage core wives HEHFJE)

But ultimately she decided not to open a restaurant (yet). Considering their kids are still young, she wanted to enjoy motherhood as much as she can.

Once the kids are all out of the house for College, then she’ll open a restaurant.

Natasha, being the good wife that she is, offers to quit her job as a teacher. She thought Wanda had too much on her plate taking care of the kids. Therefore not opening a restaurant.

Wanda reassures her that it was simply because she wanted to enjoy motherhood as much as she can.

The kids (Eldest):

Their eldest, Scarlet Hawkins Romanoff-Maximoff.

Scarlet is adopted, but she's half related to her little siblings because she has Natasha's DNA.

They saved her from a Red Room like facility. Instead of kidnapping girls, they take the DNA of a Red Room graduate and breed them to create a new line of Black Widow soldiers.

They stopped them in time, fortunately. (Or did they??)

Scarlet was surprisingly attached to Natasha. When they found out it was because they shared the same DNA, they decided to adopt her.

Scarlet easily warms up to Wanda.

Since Scarlet didn't have a name, they gave one for her.

Scarlet was from Wanda's callsign 'Scarlet Witch.' Because when she was a baby she was somewhat obsessed with Wanda's crown.

Baby Scarlet would run around the house with Wanda's crown pretending to have witchy powers.

Hawkins from, you guessed it, Hawkeye. Who is also her godfather.

She is basically the spitting image of Natasha, except with blonde hair and blue eyes. Probably from her biological father, whom they never figure out.

But who cares? She has two amazing moms, that's all she need.

And no it’s not Steve’s. Though they did thought it was.

(Scarlet may also be changed to Y/n from time to time cus I know ya'll love Parents Wandanat)

Unlike her little siblings, Scarlet being the oldest is the responsible one.

In truth she is, but she has her moments. Unlike her little siblings though, she never gets caught.

She also has a super soldier serum in her blood because of the experiment. (ion know if that shit is canonically possible but idc i aint giving myself context:))

The Twins:

As mentioned their twins is a girl and a boy.

They're biologically theirs through science. (again, or magic if ur nasty ;D)

The older the one being the girl, Alianova Lena Romanoff-Maximoff.

12 minutes older and never let her little brother forgets that.

From the name you can tell it's from who and who, just a different variation of it.

Yelena basically jumped on her feet when they told her Alia's middle name.

Her nickname is Alia.

She is the reckless one of the twins.

She inherited Wanda's powers, so mind reading, telekinesis, etc. (Idk her powers ok)

She looks a lot more like Wanda, except she has Natasha’s red hair.

But you can see the Natasha in her. Her face shapes are basically Wanda but radiating Natasha energy.

Their youngest, Pietro Xavier Romanoff-Maximoff.

We know where Pietro come from, who in the fuck is Xavier?

(He is my OC that I made in my little delulu fic. He is Natasha and Yelena's little brother, this is a whole separate thing so you can just ignore this. It's a fun fact tho LMAO)

(He was also the one who sacrifice himself, that's why Natasha is here now. If u guys are interested I might just make a HC for him. Ps: The whole purpose of him existing was for me self-inserting myself as Natasha's little brother and so Nat can live-)

(Very terrible of me I know-)

His nickname is Piet.

He also inherited Wanda's power, but much like his namesake, he is a speedster.

Initially each of the twins would have a set of Wanda's and Natasha's last name.

So; Pietro Xavier Romanoff and Alianova Lena Maximoff.

But they went against it when Yelena said "You know people are gonna think they are a child of divorce right?"

He’s basically the perfect combination of the two.

Facial features wise probably leans a little more towards Natasha, but the brunette hair is all Wanda. Though it has a tint of red in it.

He is more of the calculated risk taker.

But Alia just simply likes to call it "A chicken"

They're both huge troublemakers.

Except one is more calculated, and the other just want to watch the world burns-

But naturally Pietro let his sister drags him to numerous troubles because he does NOT want her to call him a pussy-

The twins would definitely use their powers for troublemaking shenanigans.

Wandanat as Parents:

Natasha is the type to play sport with them, even though she herself is not much of a sport person. Yea she works out, but not sport. (Ya get me?)

Regardless, she takes the time to invest in whatever sport the kids are into at the time.

One time Scarlet was into Softball, Natasha went and practiced with her.

One time the twins was interested in basketball, the next day she got herself a basketball shoes and put up a basketball ring on their driveway.

Both of them are wonderful moms, honestly the best.

Wanda loves to pack their kids lunch, and the kids LOVE her lunches. Since Wanda has a reputation as a good cook around Westview, their classmates would often try their lunches.

Wanda even opens a catering at one point, but ultimately she stopped because she was getting TONS of orders.

One time, Scarlet turned it into her little business in school.

"Yo, my mom is making her infamous chicken paprikash. 10 dollars and I'll give you one."

"OOO ME ME" "I'll do it for $13!" "15!" "I'LL GIVE YOU 20 DOLLARS-"

Wanda loves to teach them arts and crafts, music, and of course, cooking.

Wanda would teach them how to play the guitar as she learned how to play at one point when she lived at the compound.

Natasha loves to help them with their homework, as she herself was a teacher now. (Also a former Russian spy)

She's always calm and collected when teaching them what they didn't understand. The kids love learning from Natasha.

Because Wanda would get frustrated and go "MATH IS MATH-"