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mydearestbeloved · 3 months ago

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Chapter 27 [Draft]

Sung Jinwoo/Trial Player!Reader

Content Warnings: This chapter contains Implied Yandere and slight gore—this is a work of fiction, I do not condone or glorify toxic relationships and violence in real life; experimental writings—a.k.a. me trying out a different style of being more descriptive and new p.o.v.s shifts.

See < End Note > for Bonus Contents, since I feel unhinged after writing this chapter. Might delete those bonus later? Depends.

[Masterlist🦋✨️]

Beru landed beside Igris with a faint thud, his wings folding neatly behind him. His antennae twitched; his gaze fixed on the peculiar scene unfolding ahead of them.

“Even my brethren do not deign to partake,” Beru intoned, his clawed hand sweeping toward the shadow ants. “Most unusual, for they oft descend upon such spoils without delay.”

Igris followed the direction of Beru’s gesture and noted the truth of it. The shadow ants, notorious for their ravenous appetites, remained in tight clusters, seemingly hesitant to approach the carnage. Other shadows, like the bears, also hovered at the periphery. Except for Tank, who was otherwise preoccupied with a particular albino young lady. He was making himself comfortable under a canopy, as to not disturb Blanche’s dozing off on his back, drowning herself in the thickness of his coat.

How exceedingly ironic, Beru mused, his multifaceted gaze fixed upon a ravenette as she wrenched a limb asunder with ease, offering half to her pale-haired kin—who, it seemed, struggled to sever her own share from the particularly stubborn carcass. They both then proceed to take a bite simultaneously with an audible crunch.

Is this, perchance, the sentiment humans harbor when they behold us feasting upon their brethren?

Beru’s mandibles clicked.

A most curious sensation, indeed.

“Who would have foreseen that the composed one harbored such… ferocity?”

Igris couldn’t help but agree, though he refrained from speaking it aloud, as they continued to watch Red skinned off and, subsequently, mutilated another carcass.

"Mhm,"

"KIEEEK—!"

By My Liege's—!

{“By My Liege’s will!”

—is what the full oath would’ve been, had Igris spoken aloud.}

"She's scary." Trick hugged herself, visibly shuddering.

“…When did you get here?" Igris hoped what was perceived on the butterfly’s end of the communication line wasn’t as clipped as he had realized his own voice would’ve sounded. Though outwardly composed, it was quite a bit shameful for a knight such as he to admit the slight tightening of his reflexes—the instinctive reach for his sword.

He had almost drawn his weapon at Lady (Name)'s beloved summon.

Though, to be fair, Trick did just… appeared out of thin air.

At the very least, Beru had fared no better. The ant had all but leapt away, wings flared, claws at the ready.

That fact alone granted Igris a measure of solace.

The mentioned silver-haired humanoid tilted her head innocently, “I’ve been here the whole time, though?"

Ah, yes, an illusionist.

Igris recalled Lady (Name)'s words—masters of deception, skilled in the art of trickery. He had merely not expected their craft to be potent enough to slip past his senses. Nor Beru’s.

Granted, the shadows soldiers had never before been the victims of the butterflies’ targeted hallucinations.

…Fortunate that we stand as allies.

No matter how battle-hungry one could be, Igris could not deny the headache these beings would pose as adversaries. And their mistress—even without My Liege’s evident fondness—would have proven a challenge herself alone.

“Speaking of...” Trick’s voice drew his attention as she turned her head and called over her shoulder. “Bestie!”

A blonde figure perked up from her crouched position a short distance away. Sol held a stick in one hand, its tip drawing crude lines in the damp earth. Around her, a small gathering of shadows and butterflies watched intently.

Igris squinted, realizing what Sol had been sketching. Iron, in particular, seemed pleased as he admired the drawing of himself. It wasn’t particularly skillful given the medium, but the exaggerated proportions made him appear larger and stand out more than the other shadow knights drawn into the mud.

"Lady of woe,” A single rose materialized on Trick’s outstretched hand, she brought it closer to plant a kiss. “Bids her halls,” The flower was then thrown, where it burst into a rain of red petals above. “A rosy banquet.” She bowed in curtsy, the extended fabric from behind her blown in the air from the exaggerated movement, momentarily showing the pattern of fluttering silver.

As she rose from the position, she gave a wink, “How's that for your next painting?”

Sol rolled her eyes in jest, giving a mock salute, but her smile bright. Trick bring a hand to her chest and made an expression as if she was hurt, but the subtle lift of her lips, if one would look just a little bit closer, would’ve told another story.

"Anyway," Trick turned back to Igris and Beru—who now had petals stuck all over their armor and exoskeleton respectively—yellow irises alight with something almost dreamy. “Isn’t my sister just the prettiest?!”

It was a well-known fact that the butterflies were far more...vibrant than the shadows—literally and figuratively. Yet even with that knowledge, Igris still found himself unprepared for the sheer whiplash of Trick’s one-eighty.

The stars in her eyes, clasping her hands together, and the swooning sigh were a stark contrast to mere moments ago, when he could practically hear the chills that ran down her spine.

“Did you not just claim she was frightening?” Beru asked, incredulous, every little movement he made causing petals to fly off.

“That’s exactly what makes her more beautiful!” Trick retorted, as if he just offended her.

Igris sighed internally.

Then again, ‘internally’ was the only thing he could achieve in regards to his current level-locked speech—

{Do we really need to remind him?

<<Yes>>}

Back to the situation at hand—

At that point, Igris had already begun tuning them out, letting their bickering fade as background white-noises as he plucked the petals off his armor, letting the reds fell down to the muddy purple-ish ground. His gaze had returned to the ballerina on stage.

The more he observed her, the more she reminded him of a particular kind of women he had only ever exchanged curt words with in his time as a human knight.

Sharp intellects, veiled beneath layers of practiced poise and intricately folded fans. Women who, in an era that condemned outbursts and demanded submission, wielded their wits often more so any man.

The way Red’s delicate fingers plucked a shard of flesh from the centaur-like corpse was not unlike the refined precision of slicing through a Mont Blanc at an olden tea party—silver knife and fork in hand, but otherwise the picture of grace.

And Igris could not help the thought that emerged then—those very same women could be as vicious as a knife to the back upon society’s stage. Ripping one another to shreds with honeyed words and carefully calculated maneuvers that would ruin rather than kill.

Whether one was complacent or bold, none were spared in the brutal games of favor, wealth, and power.

Igris knew that better than anyone.

“F-Father—"

Thump.

“…”

His gaze lingered, distant at times.

"She reminds me of the noblewomen of old..."

As he recalled how Red often followed Lady (Name) without fail—always at her beck and call.

With a contemplative hum, Igris continued his musing.

"Court ladies?"

Trick made a grand gesture with both hands of Igris for Beru to see—

Ding. Ding. Ding!

. . .

…Where did that sound even came from—

"See? He gets it!"

Ignoring one annoyed shadow ant, she turned toward Igris beaming, her voice brimming with pride. “You’re not far off the mark, Sir Knight! My sister was a duchess!”

… ‘was’?

“You should’ve seen her, Sir Knight!” Trick continued, practically vibrating with excitement. “She was such a riot! Even now—”

"Child. Fetch."

In an instant, Trick straightened, catching a tiny chunk of flesh casually thrown her way directly with her mouth. She bit into it immediately, her silver hair swaying lightly as her expression contorted into a disgruntled one a few chews in.

Igris could only stare, his judgment hidden behind his armored helm. Beside him, Beru clicked his mandibles in what Igris assumed was shared disbelief.

How... peculiar, this court of butterflies is.

——oOo——

Red approached the trio, uniform somehow remained as immaculate as ever. The white clean, the black and red mayhap hid any mess that might’ve been. Gracefully unhurried—as if she hadn't partaken in anything as taxing as a butchery in a rainy, muddy jungle.

"Well?" One brow was arched in pointed inquiry as her gaze settled on Trick.

"…Bitter." Trick swallowed with apparent difficulty before sticking her tongue out, as though the act would’ve contributed on getting rid of the horrid taste on her tastebud.

Red’s lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, Igris thought he heard her mutter under her breath, “At least she didn’t throw up.” Then, with a quiet sigh, she continued, “Didn’t you beg Mother to invest points into some < Devourer >’s skills for you?”

A picnic basket materialized in Red’s hand. She handed it to Trick.

"A < Devourer > can't afford to be picky." Red added, watching as Trick hesitantly took the basket.

When Trick lifted the lid, the scent of iron hit both Igris and Beru. The neatly packed cubes of raw meat inside were unmistakably from the magic beasts they had slain. Each piece was cut with surgical precision, their edges clean and uniform.

Trick wrinkled her nose, initially recoiling at the sight. But, as if she had a sudden light-bulb moment, her expression shifted. She turned around, scanning the area with renewed determination until her eyes landed on the sleeping duo under canopy.

“B—”

“Are you expecting her to cook for you right now?” Red interjected; her tone flat. “No.”

"Then–"

“Freeze it for later?” Red crossed her arms. “Sure, she could. Except the fact that it'll just be ordinary meat by then. The sooner you eat it, the more points you’ll gain. That’s the whole point of this exercise, isn’t it?”

"B-But—"

"Eat."

Trick’s shoulders slumped in defeat, and she complied, reluctantly picking up one of the cubes and placing it in her mouth. Her expression was dejected as she chewed, each bite taken with the exaggerated misery of someone enduring a punishment.

Chew.

“…”

Swallow.

“…hic.”

Red let out another sigh watching Trick’s display.

“…Have the garments been handed out?”

When Trick nodded pitifully in affirmative, Red plucked a cube of meat from the basket herself. The smell of burning wafted as the raw meat darkened and sizzled between her fingertips. Then, she brought it to the younger’s lips, and Trick took it gratefully.

"Better?"

Trick nodded vigorously as she chewed, her mood visibly improving. Red patted her head gently.

"Beru."

The shadow ant stiffened, mandibles clicking in surprise. He had not expected to be called. And yet, as her crimson gaze settled upon him, he swore—for reasons beyond his comprehension—that her eyes softened.

"Here."

Red snapped her fingers, and near Beru’s feet materialized several large stacks of... tupperware???

“We noticed the soldiers weren’t eating, so we took the liberty of saving some up for you all,” Red explained, gesturing toward the containers as she fed another carefully prepared morsel to Trick. “It’s only fair, considering most of the kills were yours.”

“We do not require—”

“I am well aware that shadows don’t require such sustenance,” Red cut in smoothly. “That eating is more habit than necessity. But we wanted to express our gratitude for the meal. It was also—technically—the first time some of us handled prep work. So please, it would make us very happy if you would accept our thanks.”

Beru hesitated before peering inside one of the containers. His antennae twitched as the scent of fresh meat drifted upward. True to her words, each was filled to the brim with neatly portioned flesh—cut into cubes, spheres, hearts, stars… even bunny-shaped pieces.

Igris, though remained silent, could not help but marvel too. When had the butterflies managed to harvest, prepare, and store all this without anyone noticing? A feat that bordered on the miraculous—or the terrifying, depending on one’s perspective.

Beru glanced from the containers to Red, then to Trick—who, upon feeling his stare, conspicuously turned away, still chewing.

After a pause, he straightened. “…On behalf of the shadows, I thank you, Madame.”

Red tilted her head but did not seem displeased. A faint smile ghosted her lips.

“Please send our regards to the others.”

She nodded once in acknowledgment.

Beru then turned his gaze toward Trick. “And you as well. Thank you.”

“…Hmph.”

Red shoved feed another cooked piece into Trick’s mouth with the same gentle care—ensuring that Trick didn’t start sulking again.

And so, Igris continued to observe. The way Red treated Trick and Beru—like children under her care.

It is… oddly endearing.

——oOo——

As the last vestiges of flesh disappeared into eager mouths, loose fabrics flowed like waterfalls. When the dark warriors merged back with their master of shadows, white tunics danced like packs of swans with the reemergence of kaleidoscope flights from behind. Thus, your newborns, ready to be greeted in your gardens—their home, joined their origins in kind and disappeared from the skies in dust of gold. Left in their wake, stark and gleaming, alabaster-white under the relentless rain—terrain of eerie beauty stripped bare of chaos.

"So..." Jinwoo cleared his throat, brushing rain-slicked hair from his forehead as the bags of essence stones disappeared into his inventory. "Is this something I should expect after every raid?”

He meant to say it in jest, an attempt to break the ice fell short when the beat of silence stretched, before you turned to him, your expression soft but distant, as though part of you was somewhere else.

“Sorry,” A fleeting gold, like light rippling through water. “Could you repeat that?”

Jinwoo’s gaze flickered briefly to the battlefield before back to meeting yours.

"...That," He jabbed his thumb toward the clearing behind—or rather, to what had taken place there just moments ago—with a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Do I need to get used to that?”

“You don’t have to,” You replied softly, gaze drifting to the desolate expanse. But then, in a blink, as if only just now waking from a dream, your brows knitted, a look more concerned for him than the situation. Meeting gazes again, a thread of worry weaved your voice. “Does it bother you? I can—”

“Wait, slow down.” Jinwoo interjected quickly, raising a hand before you could go down the rabbit hole of drastic measures—only you could come up with—if you thought he was truly disturbed. Measures you would follow to a T, no matter the inconvenience. He knew you well enough by now to guess, and the last thing he wanted was for you to overthink this. “It’s just… new. Need a little time to adjust, sure—”

He'd long been desensitized to the horrors of this world. Keeping up with you had kept him on his toes more often of course, but who wouldn’t be at least a little shocked when those pretty little things displayed a primal side so openly that might’ve rivaled his shadows?

Systematic, elegant, and utterly ruthless.

Struggling to reconcile it with the image one had grown accustomed to—

You studied him for a moment, a quiet hum leaving your lips. “If it makes you uncomfortable, they don’t have to do it. They don’t need blood or flesh to function as usual, but… it’s more beneficial now.”

“How so?”

—and curiosity just won over in the end.

Your tone shifted to something more matter-of-fact. “For the younger ones, besides the extra exp to level them up, the bonus energy gained can make them more effective, stay active longer. As supports, you know the drill, but in terms of gathering information? They can further interact with people directly without being as quickly exhausted independent of me.”

Huh.

That’s useful.

Very useful.

As unsettling as the image of butterflies devouring raw flesh was, and the sight of human body made from the inside, the utility might be worth the goosebumps.

Other inappropriate uses aside—as far as his own shadows went, they were invaluable for protection and surveillance. But they weren’t equipped for subtle interactions. They couldn’t question people or coax out information—not in the way your butterflies apparently capable of at least.

As much as Beru’s value went, Jinwoo doubted anyone would open up willingly to a towering, insectoid figure interrogating them unless stated otherwise, or to any shadow soldiers for that matter, whether they could speak or not. Informed targets might not be ideal at times.

Fear was still a viable option, but he would rather not have his kids terrorize innocents.

Your butterflies, on the other hand, would definitely be more practical in extracting information if they could disguise themselves and blend seamlessly into society.

As for acting with autonomy—Jinwoo thought back to that time in the snow-land red gate and let a smirk tugged at his lips.

They’re persuasive alright.

They seemed freer also in the sense that they weren’t bound to other objects to move, with few exceptions but definitely still less than shadows were to his soldiers.

Imagine the possibilities.

Jinwoo was almost jealous.

All in all, his shadows were the perfect battle weapons, warriors, and guards. Yours? The perfect supports, spies, even informants.

How much more of a perfect complement could this be?

Speaking of...

Jinwoo’s gaze drift to you. His lips pressed into a thin line.

Should he ask you?

Should he attach a soldier to you?

Ah, so you don’t trust her after all.

The voice was insidious and sharp—like his daggers.

The pang in his chest was immediate and heavy—guilt?

I do, the heart argued, vehement.

It’s for her—

For her or for you?

Mocking.

Does she really need you to keep her safe?

Taunting.

You barely know who she is.

Then I’ll keep learning, to get to know her, properly.

Is that not just another excuse to keep her close then?

Ah.

All this time, still just scratching the surface—

He went through this before.

I want to know her (everything).

Silence.

"That's... convenient."

Really?

Jinwoo winced internally.

Was that all he can say? Couldn’t he come up with a proper compliment? Even saying something along the lines of the lame-old “cool” would be better at this point!

Why was he such a mess in front of the one person he wanted to—

“Thank you.”

Oh.

Damnit.

Damn you, for how tender you looked at that moment, standing just within his reach.

Damn you, for those knowing and fond eyes, staring back at him.

Damn you, for how soft your lips looked in that smile, directed at him.

Fingers twitched on his sides.

Damn him, for craving you to look at him (always).

“Take the < Illusionists > for example.”

You lifted your hand to his view, fingers curled, holding something out of sight, “Not only do they gain more knowledge to reach perfect mimicry…”

A single cherry blossom unfurled in your palm.

“…the duration of their skills also lasts much longer.”

Before Jinwoo could process, you exhaled softly.

He was then bombarded with multiple blossoms, straight to his face.

“Pfft.” You stifled a laugh behind your hand at his widened eyes and slightly parted lips. What made the sight sillier in your eyes was the silver butterfly perched on his cheek, chiming—

“Good day, Sir. Goodbye, Sir. Have a pleasant day!”

—before going poof!

Jinwoo didn’t move.

On instinct, his mana flared—to sense, to analyze—but there was nothing. He couldn’t detect the signature presence illusions carried, the usual flicker of magic that would have clued him in under normal circumstances.

No.

For a second there, he absolutely couldn’t sense you, even though his gaze never left yours.

And that—that was definitely not < Stealth >.

“The < Devourers > and < Conversion-ists> are more straightforward.”

You continued, as if you hadn’t just—

“To sum it up, the < Devourers > gain more physical bonuses—strength, durability, and such. While the < Conversion-ists > receive more ‘recipes,’ essentially.”

Jinwoo swallowed. His hand twitched.

“Jinwoo?”

You reached out, fingers hovering near his cheek but hesitated at the very last second, merely a hair’s breadth away before your fingertips could graze his damp skin, when you saw how empty his gaze had become behind dripping raven bangs.

“I can’t…”

His grip caught your wrist before you could retreat.

You neither flinched nor pulled away.

“You just—!”

Vanished.

Like a g̴l̷i̶t̴c̸h̴.̵

Jinwoo’s jaw tightened.

His eyes—

They reminded you of the last few chapters of the manhwa. Building up his decision to bear the fate of the whole world on his shoulders, alone. The way Normal Selner had looked at him, realizing he had already succeeded. How the illustration depicted his irises as pitch black, swallowing all light with naught a trace.

Oh, please don’t make that face.

"Jinwoo…" You gently brought his hand—the one gripping yours so tightly you felt the joints shifting under—and his other hand to your cheeks.

"See?" You closed your eyes, pressing your face against his touch.

Yeah.

Jinwoo exhaled, slow, unsteady.

Then—he leaned in.

Your presence—you—against his palms.

Right here. You’re right here.

Until his forehead could touch yours.

And so, so warm.

——oOo——

{In illustrations, we could take creative liberties to depict our reality.}

{Whether it’s creating multiple aspects out of proportions openly or changing just a single, subtle enough detail, one reason is to clue us in on the meaning behind it.}

{So, I’m curious…}

{If I described the moment Jinwoo leaned in, the moment light returned to his eyes at your touch, your warmth—

The black in his eyes rippled.

Like ink washing away, the pitch dark gave way to stormy grey. Then lighter. Until—

Against the glowing hue of blue, at the very center of it all—

(you)

If you simply knew, if you simply saw how that light reflected, unmistakable in its shape.

A heart…}

{How would you react, ‘Trial Player’? ~}

——oOo——

“What were you thinking about earlier?”

“Hm?” You blinked at him.”

“When I first asked about the < Feast >,” Jinwoo clarified. “You seemed… distracted.”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” You paused, gaze dropping. “Just…”

“Just?” He pressed gently.

“I can feel it,” Your voice was barely a whisper as your hand rose to your chest, resting over your heart.

“How happy they are.”

“‘They’?” Jinwoo asked, though he already suspected the answer.

"My children,” Your gaze met his then, and something in your expression shifted. The edges of your eyes softened, your expression so tender, so genuine, it took his breath away again. “Eating makes them happy."

“I’m happy for them,” you added simply, smiling so radiantly—

—so disarmingly, it almost made him forget the reality of your words.

Jinwoo found himself staring, wondering how someone could look so utterly beautiful in such unsettling context. Spoken of something so—objectively—disturbing with the way of tone so warmth, so truthful, so serene, that made it feel natural, made it feel... right.

And yet, he couldn’t look away.

And yet, he didn’t feel repulsed.

And yet… he was the one who felt strangely electrified—

No.

—Jinwoo was thrilled.

The hum of the gate beckoned, a low, resonant vibration that pulled you both back to the present.

It was time to leave.

End Note:

Unedited Draft of [28/02/2025]

Double update? Double update. 😉

Thank you @eternadreeblissa for providing this chapter's surprise illustration! The version I put here is cropped a bit to bring out more focus on the eyes. I'll provide the full-version + the alternate versions ('cause all of them are too good to pass up) in this chapter's reblog here! 🙏🥹❤️

How do we feel about breaking-the-4th-wall segments, Everyone? Yea or Nay? 🤔

Beru, I love you, but your pattern of speech is killing me. 😭

Igris, you're a good boy. I'm sorry I'm making you that-one-tired-roommate-of-Beru's-before-Bellion-arrived. I'm also sorry if me bringing up your past—which I also took some creative liberties on in writing—dug up any past trauma for you. 🙏🥹

Trick is dramatic, theatrical, and fangirl all-in- one. Low-key female & human-but-also-not-so version of Beru? Hmm, maybe. Hopefully, I can make her distinct enough from Beru so their kinda love-hate dynamic that I'm aiming for won't be boring. 🫡

Guess which < Children of 'Trial Player' > took after (Name)'s motherly nature the most? That's right, Red. I guess not much surprise there? She's that-one-older-sister-who-mothered but is still her mother's daughter. 🥹❤️

On crack, JinwooxReader in this chapter is basically these:

{ —1—

Jinwoo: *Making up his mind about something-something deep related to (Name)*

(Name): *Making Jinwoo question absolutely everthing about his decision just a few seconds later*

(And this won't be the last time this happen.) }

{ —2—

(Name): *Starting to openly show her dark side, still just the tip of the iceberg*

Jinwoo: "I feel scared, but that's hot."

These two are going to get more and more fucked up the further we go down this AU. Jinwoo is still in the process of falling, while (Name) is already further ahead than him in that void, she just hid it very well. Funny thing about this is part of their dynamics in the future that I'm aiming for (for now, future subject to change) being like this:

Wife!(Name): "This Jinwoo is my eldritch yandere husband and I LOVE him. I won't change him for any version of him and I'm the only who can handle this him in the multiverse." (and she can, this is not a drill, the Rulers and the World Tree bear witness, she's saying this matter-of-fact and with well-hidden yandere-ish.)

Husband!(Jinwoo): "(Name) is my wife, my only one in the multiverse, and I will tear everything apart if she's taken as much as a step away from me. Don't even try. Can she still scare me? Yes. But she's the only one who can while also makes me horny 'cause it's her, my goddess, and I'm her first and only."

TP AU!Suho: "I love them, won't exchange them for any multiverse version of 'my' parents. But mine are definitely too fucked up."

(Wait until it's your turn, boy. You might be the same or worse than them)

TP AU!Suho: "...Heh?"

(Somewhere in the abyss of my very very ancient drafts, forgotten until I feel like digging them up:

Guide!Reader: *Safe and sound until—* "Achoo!")

TP AU!Suho's younger sister (placeholder name for now): "Hmm? I love my family🦋💀."

TP AU!Cha Hae-in: "Yup, this is my reality alright. As long as my bestie is here, everything will be fine. Kudos to my other versions that married their versions of my second dearest friend Jin and have their versions of my dear nephew as their child tho. Still won't change mine for anything, my number one ship have sailed and I'm not going anywhere as long as they're here."

The ¿System?: *Chilling with the butterflies🦋 and shadows💀 somewhere* 😎🍹 }

That's all, folks!

Feedbacks are very much appreciated. Thank you for reading. 🙏💕

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toruforuu · 4 months ago

Text

gojo satoru x reader || hogwarts au (18+)

wonderwall ch.1 dusk of intrigues

✼pairing:hogwarts au - slytherin!gojo x ravenclaw!reader

✼summary: gojo satoru, the golden boy of a famous family lineage of wizards sets his sights on you, a half blood defying his pureblood morals. he makes it a goal in his life to make yours a living hell. years of endless pestering, teasing and rivalry stretching out. as times goes on, he finds himself thinking about you more than he isn’t. he grows torn between his family’s beliefs and the forbidden ache tickling his chest whenever he sees you

✼meaning: wonderwall - the person you cannot stop thinking about (song by oasis)

✼genre/tags: hogwarts au, female reader, strangers to enemies/sort of academic rivals to forbidden lovers, slow burn, angst, eventual smut, pining and yearnin (mostly gojo), built up tension, teasing, bickering and pestering, jealousy, slightly spoiled gojo, obsessed and lovesick gojo, both are pretty oblivious to their feelings

✼warnings: discrimination, death, grief, shitty parents, light bullying, mentions of hook ups, sexual topics, family pressure and trauma, mentions of injuries and violence, degradation

✼word count: 3.7K

✼chapter: 1/?

a/n: hii! thank you so much for deciding to read my writing, it means a lot. hopefully you’ll enjoy what lies ahead and it does not suck. i finally finished the first chapter. might have spent the whole Sunday trying to figure out how shit works here on tumblr instead of studying for my upcoming exams, yikes. i am cooked, but at least this is finished haha. enjoy!

based on this // next chapter

˚⟡˖ ࣪:link to playlist

˚⟡˖ ࣪:link to vision-board

When a letter came into the mail with your name etched onto it, you immediately knew what it was.

Magic was no mystery to you regardless of the fact that your father was a mere human.

You were so thrilled when you got your fingers on the letter, rushing towards your mother without a second thought. Running through the house like lightning bolt. You tugged at her skirts, all needy as you waved the letter in the air.

Her eyes beamed with something that went unnoticed by the young version of you. Your mother was well aware of the risks which came along with marrying a human as a witch. She didn’t mind the whispers at work from those noble ranked wizards nor she regretted any of it.

Because of the love which had blossomed from her decision over the years.

Because she go to have you in the end, completing your little family.

There was a one thing that made her slightly anxious though. The thought of her sweet little girl never getting the experience at Hogwarts brought her uneasiness, however, it wasn’t anything she sought after desperately. She did her best to not worry you nor herself, simply letting it play out as it was supposed to.

Yet when she saw you clinging to the letter, her original unease dissolved into nothingness as her excitement grew at the sight of you. She was just as excited as you. Perhaps a tad more than that.

Your regular school was finished in a flash. Summer was in full bloom, hotter than the last one you remembered.

You did feel a bit saddened by the thought of leaving your friends behind and lying to them about moving schools, yet the image of your future was what kept you going without looking back too often.

You felt your life was on the verge of undeniable change. You felt it then, even as a child.

You spent the whole summer break wondering and pondering on your lawn, running in the backyard. Occasionally slipping into the streets to play with your neighbours as the humid weather shined down on you.

Before you could grasp it, your mother proudly took you into Diagon Alley as it was already time for shopping. You two had made a list together, containing all the things which were mandatory to bring or simply would make your time at Hogwarts a little easier. As you swam through each shop, ticking off all your essentials, your mother filled you on her years in school. Something she never truly did before, maybe because she didn’t want to build your hopes up. Just in case the letter for you wouldn’t come. She described them as the best time of her life, which made you all jumpy from giddiness as she went on, telling you all sorts of funny stories and things you were longing to be part of. The mere thought of following your mother’s footsteps got you convinced you were also born to be a Ravenclaw. You had to be.

Soon enough you found yourself standing on the train platform, orbs taking in the sweet image of your mother. The tears prickling in the corners of her eyes were impossible to not acknowledge, however, you didn’t dare to comment on them. Afraid you would start crying too so instead you hugged your mother tightly before you bid each other a goodbye with the sole promise of writing each other letters if needed.

Without looking over your shoulder you stepped into the train as the tears found its way out anyway, anxiety was eating at you as you realised you are now among children who are also aware of the wizard world.

It’s not a secret you have to keep anymore and for a second you can’t wrap your silly little head around the fact that all you ever dreamt of is starting already, layed out in front of you.

You pushed through the crowd of bodies, doing your best to seem approachable, smiling at everyone regardless of the gnarling fear in the pit of your stomach.

Seconds later you slipped into one of the cabins in the train which is fully empty, taking the seat closest to the window, because all you were aching to do is to see your mother one more time before you leave.

And you did, both of you were frantically waving at each other. Her sending you kisses, cheeks stained by the salty aftermath of motherhood.

The door sleeked open and your head tilted towards it instantly. You were met with eyes painted the softest shade of blue, they almost looked celestial as they stared back at you. And that doesn’t even begin to cover it, the orbs stood out on the fair canvas of pale skin belonging to the boy standing in the entrance of the cabin. His locks were the colour of crestfallen snow, the purest strands of white your eyes were ever blessed with. You most definitely haven’t seen anyone as captivating as him before in your life. He was angelic even before then.

And of course you knew who he was.

A Gojo.

Who didn’t?

You might have not known his name yet, but it was still utterly clear he had to be a part of the Gojo family. Every wizard, even some lucky muggles, knew who the Gojo family was. Or rather they could point out their striking features in any sort of crowd as it was nearly impossible to overlook them.

It is one of the most eligible families of the wizard world. Not exactly for a flattering reason though, their respect is earned by their old fashioned and brutal ways. Their history reflects their deepest secrets and darkest intentions. They had a habit of following those who were marked as evil by any sane person. Perhaps they still fall back to that habit. Old habits die screaming after all.

Their never ending fortune plays a certain role as well.

He for sure looked like he came straight out of a royal meeting. His hair well kept, only few disobedient strands of hair poking out. Features looking as if they were sharpened and his choice of clothes only added points to the unbreakable imagine of his character.

What you didn’t know back then is the fact your mothers once used to be particularly good friends at Hogwarts. Roommates. As life goes, their friendship crumbled the second your mother married a muggle. Your father. Her best friend was not able to withstand the blow and put her hatred aside. Not even for her dearest friend.

You blinked at the radiant boy, opening your mouth to say a simple greeting since you didn’t want to judge him immediately.

But, God, your blood boiled the second he shot you a simple dismissive glance and scoffed before sitting down on the other side of the cabin without even acknowledging your presence any further.

He scoffed.

From that second a seed of years full of never ending pestering and teasing was planted into the soil.

Luckily, that day was also the day you met your ride or die. Your best friend called Arabella who was the last one to join the cabin of the train, sitting right beside you. Call it a coincidence or fate, whatever.

She spent the whole time talking, telling you how she almost didn’t make it to the train on time due to her father who overslept. You couldn’t help but laugh as you listened attentively.

Gojo Satoru was the complete opposite when it came to attending Hogwarts. From the moment he was born, it was known he would be a wizard since he came from a pureblood lineage of the best amongst the greats.

He wasn’t nearly as excited to start as you were. He wasn’t on the edge of bouncing off the walls from joy, he was rather stressed. Stressed as much as a young boy can be. He had a role to play. An image to keep. A need to make place for himself in order to feel validated by his family which was eagerly sending him off after filling him with their poison for years.

Satoru might have been young, nonetheless he was aware of the burden weighing down on his shoulders.

The old fashioned ways of purebloods seeped into young Satoru’s mind as he grew up in the highest ranks of the wizard society, surrounded by people who shared his family’s views. So taking their morals as his was something inevitable.

When he saw you that day in the train cabin as you were waving to your mother, he felt a twinge of jealousy in his chest. His parents were probably already off to leave the transport. He felt envious of a stranger.

The way your coloured orbs lingered on him didn’t go unnoticed by him either. It wasn’t anything new to the boy, he understood you recognised him the second your eyes fell on his frame. He got pretty used to it over the years. People gawking at him, asking him stupid questions.

He recognised you too. Not for your features nor your family’s history. You were a nobody in the wizard world.

Well, not exactly.

Satoru put the dots together as his eyes landed on you. Your face was somewhat familiar.

He definitely saw it a couple of times in The Daily Prophet since your mother worked at the ministry, department of magic.

Unlike you, Satoru Gojo had a sense of the history between his mother and yours. For a simple reason, their friendship was an example of sacrifice for the greater good of their morals.

At least in his mother’s eyes.

He didn’t mean to scoff at first when you greeted him, it came naturally so he left it at that. He couldn’t be bothered to correct himself, to give in that effort.

To be fair, he found you quite amusing after a while of silence hanging between you. There was something alluring about you that he couldn’t quite put into words, couldn’t explain it no matter how hard he tried. No matter how clever he was.

Looking back it now, he wouldn’t be able to do it even today.

He can recall the moment when he captured you sitting pressed against the window waving a goodbye to your mother so vividly despite the fact it has been years. The day was chaos itself, yet the thought of you in there seems to be steady.

He watched you from the corner of his eyes the whole ride while you chatted up with a strawberry blond girl, the conversation you two were having slurred together as the years wore off.

He himself made friends on the way to Hogwarts as well, the children were basically at his feet the second they took him into their sights. Satoru Gojo recognised most of the children already as he was paraded to society from an early age.

The ride was buzzing, laughter and chatter wild. Older students passing by the cabins, gazing over the new arrivals with curious eyes.

Similar was the way to the actual castle, the atmosphere was filled with excitement bursting through most of the first years who were wondering in which house they would spend their time. The sun was beginning to set in the background, giving the situation a glow which continues to shine like gold in memory.

You kept silently praying for it to be Ravenclaw as the boat dangled on the surface of the Great Lake enveloping Hogwarts.

It quickly vanished from your mind as your gaze captured the beauty of the castle sitting on the hill. Sighs of amused woah’s and aw’s filling the air.

The nerves got you frozen into the ground as you stood in the queue. The Great Hall overwhelming with the bustling of people, slight anticipation hanging in the air as everyone else waited to see who would be the new people joining their houses.

Satoru Gojo went up to the sorting hat before you did, being one of the first ones to be called upon. The hat hummed in deep thought when it was placed on his artic locks. It didn’t take long, handful of seconds.

“Slytherin!” The hat called out throughout the whole hall, cheers erupting from the Slytherin’s table as Satoru snugly smirked. It wasn’t a surprise to anyone in the room, the Gojo’s have a legacy and there wasn’t a single one who didn’t belong to the house of Slytherin, in the last century at least.

You got lost in thought and didn’t notice your name being called, which caused the other first years behind you to chuckle and nudge your shoulder which jerked you back to the reality. Your cheeks flushed with a light blush as you made your way up, sitting down carefully. You could hear your own heart pounding in your chest so hard the blood ringed in your ears.

Admits all that, you certainly didn’t notice the gaze of Satoru Gojo lingering in anticipation as everyone waited for the sorting hat to decide on which house to send you in.

You were too preoccupied, your eyes fluttered shut as you swallowed the dry lump in your throat. Awaiting the decision.

For a second you thought it might have been a dream when the sorting hat mumbled out the word Ravenclaw.

You fluttered your eyes open, the crowd already in cheers and the hat being taken off hour head. Your chest felt significantly lighter when you stepped down to the stairs and happily hurried to the Ravenclaw’s table to sit. In the meantime, the godly like piercing blue eyes burned two holes in your back. A small part of Satoru hoped you would get to share a house, just to find out what was that alluring energy you were surrounded by.

So it felt only natural to feel a pinch of disappointment. You weren’t a Gryffindor so he didn’t mind much, that’s what he thought.

It quickly became clear the two of wouldn’t be considered anything close to the word friends.

Satoru Gojo did not bother to acknowledge you in the first few months, your existence falling into the abyss of the past. You did not bump into each other often. Your classes were seperated.

You too had forgotten about the interaction on the train as time went on. You were living your fantasy, your inner desires becoming reality.

You were so blinded by the image of Hogwarts you painted in your mind that it came as a low blow when you finally realised it wasn’t all that you hoped for. It wasn’t a total disaster, however, once the magic of the arrival evaporated it started to feel like a regular school. That wasn’t the issue, you thrived for knowledge and learning, but your mother portrayed it as a fairytale. Soon you came to a realisation her memories were in a haze of nostalgia, full of yearning which caused her to slightly over exaggerate.

You weren’t lonely, no, you had made couple of peers along the way. Hell, you even ended up sharing a dorm room with the strawberry blonde girl you met on the train, lightening each other’s rough start.

You missed your parents badly though. The life you left behind for this felt suddenly like a sore wound. You wrote letters home, usually twice a week. Your mother would respond to each one despite her work circumstances. Her words filled with fondness kept you from succumbing to the solitude you grew to feel over the first few months.

If you would look back at it now, you probably wouldn’t recall much of it. Nothing out of the ordinary occurred, it simply felt hard to function in a completely new environment and this feeling caused almost the entirety of the year to blur together.

Acing the exams, learning how to understand the rules of quidditch by which you were mesmerised. Spending your free evenings in the common room, eating in the Great hall. Learning to how to fly your own broomstick. Bonding with Arabella over your shared interests.

By the time spring came to bloom a new beginning, your sorrows were left in the cold winter.

And that’s when your world collided into yet another problem.

One you wouldn’t get rid of so easily.

Satoru Gojo was pleasantly surprised to find out his place at Hogwarts wasn’t something he had to earn, it was already served to him on a silver platter. He expected to loathe each passing second at the school. Instead of that he found himself enjoying being away from his suffocating parents, fooling around with the featherlight friends which tagged by his side since he stepped his feet onto the ground of house Slytherin.

He was a dazzling young wizard, everything came to him without efforts. His grades more than decent to begin with. He became the fastest first year at flying, surpassing some quidditch players with ease.

By the time your first year was almost over, everyone learnt to know who Satoru Gojo was and that it was better to stay on his good side. No one wanted to mess with him, no one dared to step up against him as fear was quickly spread and so were the rumours.

He didn’t mind either of it, he bathed in it.

He actually welcomed such an imagine, not bothering to deny any of the rumours. Regardless of how bizarre they were.

He hadn’t expected to come across someone who would defy him. But there you were, rushing as a hero to stand up for the muggle born boy he was picking at.

“Hey! Leave him alone, he didn’t do anything to you!” You yelled through the hallway as the sun shone through the cracks of windows, casting a halo around the white haired boy. His appearance making him look like an angel. He was far from that though.

He stared at you with a neutral expression, looking down at you as crouched down to help the other first year up. Part of him admired your bravery, however, if your bravery meant defying him then he wouldn’t have it.

“Eh?” he made a confused yet disgusted sound, giving you only that as a response before he let out a laugh filled with poison. He felt a rush of amusement when he briefly noticed the way your nostrils flared, the way the corners of your lips turned downward as you now stood in front him.

The other first year already on his way to get lost from the golden boy and his puppets.

“This is none of your business, so get lost,” Satoru stated with a small shrug, his tone lazy as if you didn’t matter at all.

“Well, it’s not right,” you hummed back, not caring about the lack of interest from his side. Gojo’s friends looked at you with their eyes narrowed, itching to be told to follow the first year or show you why to not mess with them. The signal from him never came, leaving them to simply watch over your interaction.

“So?” he exhaled, pouting his lips at you for a moment.

“Be grateful I am not picking on you,” he added as he turned his back to you, clear sign of dismissal. Your jaw flew open a little at his attitude, you could feel your temper slipping and as he began talking to his friends as if you weren’t there, you lost your cool.

“Aren’t you rude? Seriously, do you think you’re entitled to act like this?” you scoffed at him, expecting him to respond with the same kind of energy, but he barely looked over his shoulder to snicker down at you.

You hoped your interaction on the train wasn’t a definite take on your future, but as you stood in front of him now couple of months later any trace of what you were thinking before was now buried and rejected. He was the spoiled brat you had him for.

“I am talking to you,” you press further, earning yourself looks from the passersby.

He turns to face you then, slight flicker of annoyance etched in the curve of his fair eyebrows. He didn’t appreciate you using that tone. At first he expected you to seize the opportunity to walk away, spare yourself the trouble.

“I don’t take advice from the likes of you,” he spitted out, voice dropping a tone to sound firm as he glared at you. Not a shiver of regret in his piercing eyes.

Due to this very interaction he glued his sights on you.

And suddenly you seemed to be everywhere where he went. The Great Hall where you shared your meals. Your group of friends lingering near the lake. He kept bumping into you at Hogsmead. In the library.

As if on purpose, they merged the first years of Slytherin and Ravenclaw for transfiguration classes due to lack of staff.

Catching a mere glimpse of you during class made his stomach hurl as he recalled your insolence. He couldn’t stand seeing your face. So there wasn’t an opportunity he passed down on which could make your life a little rougher. It started out small and innocent. Throwing curled up pieces of papers into your hair during class. Using cunning spells to spill your ink, crunch your notes. Calling you names and chasing after you in the hallways.

Times you spent in detention couldn’t be indeed counted on your hands. All thanks to the infamous Gojo Satoru who pestered you any chance he got and somehow always managed to get out of it.

It was him who usually started the bickering, yet when it came down to owing it up, his clever mouth ran to spill all the reason why it was your fault and not his. Sparing himself from the detention and driving you crazy.

It’s what seemed right to him back then. And he kept the promise like an oath.

Your future was sealed.

credits for dividers: [@enchanthings-a @cafekitsune]

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kneelingshadowsalome · 2 years ago

Text

FATUM NOS IUNGEBIT 3/4

König x F!Reader

Summary: You have seen him in your dreams. The seer has divined his coming. But nothing has prepared you for witnessing him in the flesh. (Historical AU where König fights for the Roman Empire in an auxiliary unit, finds a cute barbarian woman and decides to keep her as his own.) Part 1 Part 2 Word count: 9.4 k Tags/warnings: 18+ ONLY. Spoils of war/enemies to lovers trope, graphic depictions of violence, historical gruesomeness, pining, odd banter, mixed feelings, romantic fluff, dubcon cuddling, eventual smut. Captor/captive dynamic. König is a brutal warrior... and a gentle giant. A/N: König takes liberties with his mouth. Dubcon is at its most dubcon in this chapter so please tread carefully <3 The actual smut happens in the next (and last) part. Long chapter because these two just can't behave!!

The days are getting warmer now.

The sun warms the tent during the day, and the sound of birds searching for a mate threatens to drive you to madness. They sing during nighttime, too, and you miss the sturdy clay walls of your hut that blocked at least some of the sounds from outside. Now you are barely sheltered from wind and rain that beat the tent every now and then and can escape the swelling song of spring and lovesick birds to nowhere. König only snores with steady content as you mull over your strange fate there in his cozy bed, wondering how crazy it is that he never lets you go when he sleeps.

If König has an early council, you spend the morning eating breakfast in bed while studying odd parchments the translator gave you. The old man was quite insulted, not because you asked, but because you showed interest in the documents that, apparently, were of least importance to him.

You don’t care that they’re “only” travel guides because they’re filled with Roman letters and numbers and usually illustrated with pictures of columns. You don’t understand a word they say and how those strange papers could ever be a travel guide to anyone, but you like to trace the letters and pictures with your finger. König clearly understood your fascination with them: he left you this morning with another smile, which told you he only thought you were simply adorable this way. He tried to tell you that the letters represent towns and the numbers tell the distances between those towns, but they still remain bizarre pieces of paper to you.

Men pass by occasionally; you can hear it from how their gears clonk and clatter and swish. You can hear the soft thump of sandals on the dirt, but you pay it no attention because you’ve always trusted that you are safe here. As long as you stay inside the tent, no one will touch you, even if they can currently see you because the flap is left open a wink.

The only times his men witness you are when König takes you out for a walk in the woods so that you can take care of your bodily needs. Everyone can see that your hands are never tied, your face is never bruised, and your posture is still that of a proud, unbroken woman. And everyone looks at you with both hunger and wonder. Apparently, you are an even tempting spoil because you are not yet spoiled.

The special treatment was rubbed in your face one time when you passed by a Roman soldier disciplining his slave, a woman who had shared your fate and clearly was having the worst of it. The other half of her face was unrecognizable, but the man kept beating her, and you stared in horror as whatever deed she had done to anger the man was now being punished far too cruelly.

“Romans very dumb,” König said from next to you without even shedding a glance at the morbid scene. No one seemed to give a shit about what was happening to that poor woman, but you would never have expected such a comment to come from König’s mouth. When you asked him what he meant by that, he only shrugged and said: “That man piss on his luck.”

You wonder if the only reason why you haven’t been raped yet is because you are some sort of a lucky charm to him. The mere thought has the effect of making your blood boil, but some distant, tender voice inside you reminds you that König is not Roman. He does not share Roman customs, even if he fights with and for them. Perhaps slaves are treated differently in his land. Perhaps in there, it is considered an outrage and an insult to the gods to beat a woman, free or not.

Whatever his reasons are for not beating and raping you to death, it was a tremendous stroke of luck that König found you first. You dropped right there on his feet when he was victorious, so of course his men allowed him to take you as his: you were clearly a gift from the gods. But now that time has passed, you understand you are by no means safe if you wander outside this tent. König can protect you only when he is present or when you are safely tucked away in his own personal space.

It’s a false feeling of safety, however, because you soon learn that out of sight is out of mind for these soldiers. Now that you are on display, sweetly and neatly on the bed, a tiny little wrinkle forming between your brows from studying the peculiar parchment, you are like fresh livestock on the marketplace, even inside the tent. You notice that someone else is in here with you only when you hear the sound of munching and turn.

A relatively big soldier is standing in the doorway, eating an apple, watching you like he would rather have a bite out of you.

And you thank all the gods and stars above you, all the spirits and the Mother below you, that he doesn’t even get to take a step before a sword impales his chest.

König kills his own man so casually that all the thoughts of him falling to the gentle side of giants disappear instantly. He even twists the sword inside the broad man from daring to cast eyes on you. And you probably should feel bad for him… But you don’t. Not at all. The apple falls into the dirt and rolls away, but the man slumps into the threshold of the outside world and the safe womb of the tent, like an offering to guardian spirits - or to you.

You look up at König, eyes wide only because you are yet again speechless, but this time because of odd, bashful gratitude.

“No touching,” he says without even blinking – it sounds like a stern explanation.

“No touching,” you agree with a whisper. König only nods, wipes his gladius clean on the dead soldier’s cloak, and carries the body into the woods.

…

You don’t know if he has lost some of the favour he enjoys among the Romans after killing one of their soldiers. You suspect he has not. Actually, you are sure his reputation only soared for it. He just showed everyone that his prize is not to be touched: you are not to be even looked upon. Romans probably respect such a thing.

A few wagons arrive one morning, carrying various supplies for the soldiers. There are many other items too, completely unrelated to warfare but all to do with pleasure and gambling and trade. You assume König gets to pick his favourites among the first soldiers, if not the first soldier, from the abundant cargo that arrived, because he brings his spoils to you with boyish excitement. There is close to nothing there for himself: only a thick, heavy cloak, made of dark wool with lush fur on the shoulders. It looks like something a northern king would wear, and you find yourself quite happy for him, but the other items he’s carrying are clearly all hand-picked just for you.

There is a dress, a pair of sandals, a bone comb, some fruit and a large, round copper dish. It serves as a mirror as you change into the dress – a Roman one, dyed ocean blue – just to appease König and get him off your back. It hurts your heart to see how happy it makes him to see you accept his gifts. He holds the dim, uneven mirror in front of you when you get the dress on, and you’re feeling strangely meek: you’re not even sure if you have put it on properly. The bone comb is milk white and has two horses carved on it – it reminds you of the offering that was never made to appease the Great Mother because it couldn’t have prevented the Titan from coming to your lands. It’s another odd omen: black horses now turned to white, but an omen for what, you can’t say.

And then… he kneels.

König falls at your feet and starts putting the Roman sandals on, tying the strings around your calves so gently that it makes you feel like you’re made of clay. The sandals are not the kind he wears: they’re made for women, apparently, because they’re so skimpy and delicate. The strings reach the upper part of your calf, and when he’s done with you, happy to have now clothed you in Roman garb, he caresses your thigh and presses a kiss above your knee.

And he looks up at you like you’re everything but his captive. He looks at you like you’re a queen. He stares at you like he’s the slave here.

“You like?”

The soft rumble catches you off guard, as does the fond caress he gives your leg. He doesn’t even try to move his hand upwards and under the dress; he just admires you from the ground, looking a bit foolish while crouched there at your feet. You swallow arduously and nod. What else are you supposed to do?

He smiles with his eyes and gives you another kiss. He presses it on the sensitive part where your calf meets the inside of your knee. He even raises his hood to do it, and you finally feel his breath as his lips meet your skin, hot but tender. You fight the urge to shrink from him, and despite it only being a soft peck, a lover’s touch, the kiss leaves a burning sensation on your skin.

Then he tucks your dress down, like a slave who simply stole a little kiss from his mistress. You’re rendered weak and silent before such reverence, but then the playfulness returns as he raises one finger, as if telling you not to say a word because he just had an idea. You look at him with odd curiosity as he crawls on all fours and reaches for something underneath the bed. You panic a little, fearing he might notice that you’ve been there, too: rummaging through his things and throwing the pieces of jewellery back there without caring to ensure that they are placed back in the same position you found them in. But he doesn’t seem to care or notice.

He tries to offer you the golden pendant first, the one that has three discs on it. It’s a little too much, and you shake your head, fearing you will upset him by declining his gift. He tries to offer you a more delicate necklace next: full of cute, filigreed beads, but you shake your head again. He wishes to give you a trinket so badly that you finally raise your hand and graze your fingertips over a leather string holding a few chunks of amber. It also bears the claws of some animal: fox, perhaps. He looks very pleased with your choice and puts your new possession around your neck. You reach for the copper plate yourself this time and hold it up to see how you look in your odd Roman dress and your humble but powerful new necklace.

“Sehr schön,” König says behind you as you take in the wobbly image. He is so, so happy - you have never seen him quite so happy. It looks like he thought this to be the prettiest, most compelling piece of jewellery too; as if the gold and beads were simply currency for him, too. As if it was obvious that you would be interested in bones and sea gold instead of the gold of men. Then he pulls out something from under his tunic: another leather string that has a large hunk of bone hanging from it. He’s presenting it to you like he wants to show how you two are now very much alike.

“What is it…?” You ask, trying to determine whether the bone came from an elk or a deer.

“Bear cock,” he says proudly while dangling it in front of you like it’s the most natural thing in the world for a man to carry the penis bone of a bear around his neck. “Makes man strong in battle and bed.”

“I don’t think you need that,” you whisper while looking up at him. It’s your first joke to him, and he laughs. Heartily.

“Kleine Fee. You have only seen me fight.”

He puts it back under his tunic as if it’s his secret amulet now. You really don’t think he needs any more luck in war, or in any other… field. He seems like the kind of man who can pleasure women all day. It’s a bitter thought, somehow, and makes your heart feel heavy. You wonder how many women he has had already when you have refused to open your legs for him.

“We can try how good it works in bed,” he offers, as cheerfully as ever.

Oh.

Oh…

“I’m—I’m hungry. I think I need to eat something,” you summon an excuse out of thin air while raising your hands against his chest to keep him away. As if you could get your breakfast down after him saying things like that…

“Hungrig? I can feed you,” he suggests, still in the happiest of moods. Then he sweeps you off your feet and carries you to the table. He’s ever generous today: you get to sit on his lap as he starts to feed you grapes.

And you didn’t think he’d actually, veritably feed you. But that’s exactly what he does. You get an entire meal: ripe fruits, a thick handful of bread, a fine slice of fat, delicious cheese. Wine to wash it down, and then some more grapes. He holds them gently on your lips until you open your mouth a little so that he can push them onto your tongue. He watches with utter content how you eat everything he offers you. He even gives you a few bounces with his knee, and every now and then, he gropes your tits: just squeezes them and plays around with them while you eat.

It is quite evident that this man really, really likes your boobs. Perhaps that is why he carries the statue of Great Mother around… To your horror, you realize the piece of carved wood is not an idol of worship for this man, just a lewd image he probably digs up and looks at when he wants to stroke his cock.

Gods... This man is even worse than you thought.

You begin to pout again, and he draws you flush against him, seeing that he somehow managed to make you displeased. Unaware as to what could have caused this, he gives you another bounce and tries to find the reason for your sudden change of mood.

“Are you fed now?”

“Yes,” you mope even more as you realize you would very much like him to continue feeding you even if you’re full. To just… do that thing with the grapes again. Just a few more.

“Gut. We have to leave soon.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “To fight.”

The camp is packed up in such haste that you find yourself under the sun in practically no time. You stay as close to König as possible without being glued to him, seeing that the new dress and hairstyle you made with the comb is high currency among the war-torn, lust-filled soldiers. Someone gives you a long whistle, which is followed by a few harsh comments you luckily don’t understand, but all the stares are cut off when König stops preparing his horse, rises to his full height, and wraps his fingers around the handle of his gladius.

You don’t get a single look after that, not even a sideways glance. Everyone acts like you don’t even exist.

The army moves at a slow pace at first, leaving a heavy dust cloud behind. It’s a fine day for travelling because there isn’t a single cloud in the sky. Everyone seems to be having a good time except for the slaves, and König is the only one who is vigilant, watching his surroundings at all times, head turning from side to side, hand never leaving his sword.

You get a horse – his horse – and a lot of hateful stares from the other women, none of whom you have ever seen before. Captive girls from other villages, you presume, and they all hate you now because you get to ride a strong black stallion while they have to march in a dust cloud with their hands bound and their feet full of blisters. Their captors don’t give much thought to feeding or giving water to these poor women, mainly because they’re too busy laughing with each other and having hearty gulps from their wine sacks. You wonder if these men have ever fed these women a single grape during their campaign.

König, on the other hand, marches next to you like he’s your servant. He offers you his waterskin, his wineskin, too, and as the march goes on, an awkward knot starts to form inside your belly.

He’s behaving so oddly. You can’t find any other reason for his behaviour than that he simply has no full understanding of Roman customs because he comes from somewhere else. (Mountains, he said, when you asked him.)

You only now notice that he has servants but only uses them to pack or set up the tent. Other high-ranking officers and commanders have their servants with them at all times, tending to their every need. König is the only one who behaves like a foot soldier: he pours his own wine, gets his rations and supplies himself, lights his oil lamps without help and never lets anyone else touch his armour or swords.

The servant he uses the most is the translator, a slave who’s clearly responsible for teaching König more and more of your words. He also serves as a mediator when König gets ready for another battle. You have naively wanted to forget the reason why these men are here in the first place, and as you see König putting on his full armour the next day, tying the swords on his waist and leaving to search for his shield, you feel like bursting into tears or a scream. You look away as he gets dressed, and refuse to give him a single kind look that morning. You stand with your hands crossed over your chest as he’s finally ready and fetches the old man to the tent again.

The Roman soon stands next to him as König takes a step and falls on one knee before you.

“He asks you to bless him,” the old translator says – weary and bored.

You stop breathing for a second and look at König, there at your feet again, head bowed, leaning on one elbow placed on a strong knee.

Bless him… For going to slaughter another clan? Give your blessing to him leaving people fatherless, childless and homeless?

Is this some sort of a joke?

“Are my words… correct? Master asks that you give him your blessing for the upcoming battle.”

You bite your lip in frustration. You want to put your hand over this proud warrior’s head and send him away with words of might and fortune, but even the thought of wanting to do that is about to make you sick.

“I will do no such thing,” you say coldly and earn a sad, confused stare from König, who raises his head to look at you with a horrifying, pleading gaze. This man doesn’t beg for anything from anyone, and yet here he is, in his full armour, armed to the teeth and looking like the God of War again, asking for a kind word or two. You turn away, not because you deny him, but because you can’t stand to be under that defenceless gaze. The Roman sighs behind you, and from the clatter of König’s gear, you can hear that he has gotten up and is about to leave.

You turn again, only to face his withdrawing back. Tense, and already beaten.

He grabs the satchel, the one that holds his Mother, but stops to look at it like it’s simply an ordinary object instead of a powerful entity. Then he places it back down on the table with a sigh. You look with horror as he leaves for war without taking his amulet, idol, fate, source of luck and joy – whatever the statue represents to this man – with him.

It doesn’t take long before you regret you didn’t give him your “blessing”.

It somehow feels wrong that he left without it. You’re his captive, but he has fed you, clothed you, kept you warm. He has practically done no harm to you except hold you through the night and have a few gropes at your tits, which you haven’t found harmful at all… The least you could do to thank him is to lay a hand upon his head or sword before he left. Just a simple little gesture, not even a true blessing… Just a little something would have sufficed, to help him go into battle with a slightly lighter heart.

Because as much as you loathe this man, you don’t actually want him dead. You don’t want him to march into battle and think you wish him ill. You don’t want König to get careless just for the sake of feeling miserable about the thought that his little slave girl despises him.

Because you don’t despise him.

You just don’t… like him.

And he’s your captor still. Why should he deserve your blessing?

But the image of him cutting through his enemies with sorrow and bleakness in his stare, walking into a spear just because he’s had enough of life and more than enough of difficult, uncaring, ungrateful women, makes your heart bleed. He could’ve taken Mother with him since he didn’t get a good luck’s wish from you, but he chose to leave even Her behind. As if his faith had failed him, as if the few things and people he has ever placed his trust in have now abandoned him.

The night rolls in, and the moon crosses the sky slowly, so slowly, as you wait for his return. The old Roman looks at you sideways every time you peek outside the flap and sigh. Your guard is a weak, old man, but you reckon that if you were to escape, the tired slave would simply follow you out of the camp and tell König which direction you have gone so that he can hunt you down when he returns. The few Romans left to guard the portable garrison would probably seize you and take you as their plaything before you managed to set a foot outside the vallus, and even if König came back to claim you, you could be a bloody heap by the time he returned.

And it’s not even caution keeping you inside the tent. You don’t actually think about fleeing at all.

In the dead of night, you go to his satchel and pull out the statue of the Great Mother.

“Dear Mother... Great Mother. Please let him have his victory. Please let him come home unhurt. Even if he fails, please let there not be a scratch on him as he falls. Please, please, please…”

You improvise your prayer as you go, thinking about something to offer Her while being captive and not having access to most of the resources you would normally go to.

“I’ll give you my next moonblood. I will give you amber and fox claws…”

Your heart hurts, knowing you just promised the necklace König gave you as your sacrifice. But it’s a small gift for his safe return, and you renew your prayer, over and over again, while squeezing the Mother between your hands and pressing Her against your forehead.

You’re not sure if She can even hear you, because haven’t you wished this man dead not too long ago? You return the Mother to her satchel and pace around the tent, about to go mad. When the first horses arrive, you almost run outside to see if you can see or hear him coming. Soldiers march into the camp: there is so much din and racket outside that you know this is the least opportune moment to go outside and show yourself to the survivors who clearly have their morale and cocks up high from the recent battle. You wait and wait and wait, thinking about whether your god is among the wounded, being carried to some other tent where they treat injuries. You go and sit on the bed; you rise up and sit on the table. Then you go and press your ear to the fabric of the tent and try to listen like a fox.

The flap is, blessedly, finally drawn aside, and you hurry to meet whoever has arrived. It’s König – of course – breathing heavy, looking slightly high-strung but primarily unscathed, and you forget yourself completely when running to him.

“Are you hurt!?”

He takes off his helmet and takes in a good breath of air, eyes melting into pure love when he sees you.

“Nein. Not a scratch.”

You swallow your relief – of course no one can get to this man. Your fears have been stupid and ridiculous. But in the deepest chasm of your heart, you thank the Mother three times. You promise to deliver her your sacrifice as soon as possible.

“You fear for me?” He asks, so excited again that you have to dig your nails into your palm so that you won’t go and clutch him and cry from joy. You don’t nod or shake your head; you only stare at him with what must look like a frightened deer stare.

Your giant comes to hug you so tight you can’t even breathe. Then he lifts you into the air, and there is nothing you can do - there is nothing you even want to do but to be there in his stout embrace. You’re so relieved that he is alive and unhurt that there are tears in your eyes, and he sees them, and smiles.

“Don’t worry, little Fee. Ich könnte dich niemals verlassen.” His voice is throaty and parched; apparently, he has shouted his throat raw on the field.

You almost say you’re sorry that you didn’t give him your blessing, but seeing how pleased, triumphant, and gleeful he is causes you to shut your mouth and shut it tight. It’s enough that you have babbled prayers for him all night, praying your knees and tongue sore.

König returns you to the ground and leaves, only to return with ample loot. Two slaves carry in a small but heavy jute sack of coin, a tiny chest filled with honey, two bottles of scented oils, three gorgeous jugs of milk, a beautiful bronze sword, all laid there at your feet.

“Für dich,” he says, throwing a wide arc with his hand to gesture that all this is now yours. You watch all the stunning, lavish, extraordinary gifts, again picked with care just for you. You remember how there was not a single coin in this tent before you were dragged in, no bronze, no gold, no milk nor honey. No fine dresses, no stolen, scented oils. How many families did he have to kill to bring all these fine goods for you?

“I don’t want your loot,” you whisper on the brink of tears.

“What…do you want?” The smile in his eyes fades, and it stabs your heart full of pain. “More sea honey?”

“No, I–”

“Slaves?”

“No,” you step forward. If only you two could have met some other time, in some other place… “I just…I want my freedom.”

“What will you do with freedom…?”

You finally get to see what König is like when he argues. He cannot understand your logic; he can’t understand what more he must do to satisfy you and make you happy.

“Your chief is dead,” he says bluntly, causing your head to feel two times too small for your anger and pain.

“You don’t have to remind me,” you blurt, equally bluntly. Because whose fault is that? This man is a thick-skulled, thick-cocked idiot.

“You have no husband. No village.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Why angry?”

“Because you are infuriating,” you almost shriek.

He looks at you, lost and confused, not knowing how to calm you down or make you pleased again. And it must be confusing: some gifts work, some don’t. Other times, you look at him lovely and sweet; other times you sulk and pout. You have luckily stopped your crying, but now you have suddenly decided to yell at him?

He approaches you after seemingly coming to the conclusion that you must want him to either pet or fuck you. He tries to raise his hands to touch you, but you push him away.

“Don’t you fucking dare grope me again!”

He withdraws quickly, now utterly nonplussed. If you don’t even want to be held, then what is he to do? This goes against all the laws of this world: he has arrived, triumphant and joyous from the battle, clearly favoured by all the gods, above and below, and favoured in full. The only one who doesn’t grant him a boon is you. His head tips to the side - it always does that when he’s curious or thinking hard. Then his eyes light up with understanding, and you know you’re about to hear more nonsense coming out of that oafish mouth.

“You don’t want me to fight?”

“I don’t…care what you do,” you scoff.

“Ah. You hate Romans?”

“Yes, I hate Romans. I wish they would all die. I hate their stupid battles and their stupid campaigns. And I hate you too,” your spirit rises with your words, your voice gaining volume and strength as you hurl all your frustration at him.

And he’s shocked. Not at your first declaration, nor the second, not even the third. It’s the last sentence that clearly drives a dagger straight into his heart.

He steps back, nearly toppling a milk jug as he pulls away from you. Then he mumbles something under his breath, something in his own crude language. The words are muffled by the mask as he scratches the back of his neck and leaves the tent without even taking his blood-stained armour off.

His name, the name that sounds so foreign to you, never leaves your mouth. But the following words do.

“Wait, I didn’t… I didn’t mean it.”

Not all of it.

He’s out of the tent by then, and you’re left with your beautiful gifts, your bitter sorrow and regret. You sigh and look up, hoping you could see the sky and whisper your inquiry into the night air.

Why on earth did you two have to meet like this? Why does he have to be so thick-skulled and so… So him?

You calm your racing heart and start to organize the loot he brought you. You have never liked messy places and have done your best to keep this tent from getting cluttered. You taste some of the milk he brought you and inhale the sweet scent of those oils; you dip your little finger inside the honey jar and have a taste. The golden liquid tastes like the food of the gods when paired with milk. You put the blade on the table where König usually keeps his swords and settle to wait for him.

And you have to wait for a long time, so long that you eventually withdraw to the bed, alone and with a heavy heart. When König finally returns, you can hear he has had a drink. More than one, too: he has probably drunk an entire jug of wine alone. He doffs his armour with curses and sighs, and lets it drop on the ground with a sloppy clang that makes you jolt under the furs. He eats something very noisily while throwing his helmet somewhere to the ground too, burps loudly, and sighs again: so deeply that it makes your heart burn. After getting rid of the tunic and his sandals – an operation that takes him more than a while – he crawls on the bed with a heavy breath. Your heart is at your throat as the stench of wine hits you, and his hands are clumsy and stern when he comes under the same fur and reaches for you.

“König—”

Your whisper ends abruptly as you are pulled against a familiar, broad chest. He growls at you for being awake – or at himself for waking you up with a drunken racket.

“I don’t… I didn’t…” you start weakly and have to clear your throat as he huffs against your neck, listening to what you are trying to say.

“I don’t hate you,” you finally whisper.

He grumbles against your back and buries his masked face in your neck. The arm around your middle tightens and tightens, and you hurry to praise his gifts.

“The honey is delicious. And the oils are–”

"Fee… Du machst mich verrückt."

He speaks through gritted teeth while panting laboriously in your hair. You're relieved to hear sorrow instead of anger in his voice, but it’s his body that makes you arch your back and guide your bottom to meet his crotch.

The biggest mistake you’ve ever done, surely, because the whole body behind you grows taut. He gives you a tight roll of his hips, pushing his cock against you with immediate fervour. His balls meet your bottom, tight and heavy: you have gone to bed in your ridiculous Roman dress because you were feeling cold, but you can still feel them. You can feel all of him.

“König… We–We need to sleep…”

You sound like a bitch in heat, not at all like a woman who wants to stop wherever this heated cuddle is spiralling into. König is letting out noises you didn’t even know a man could make, and it makes your cunt wetter than ever before: tight and throbbing and embarrassingly needy. You try to remind yourself that this is not the proper time or way, that you don’t want it to happen like this: with the smell of wine and blood and dirt and sweat surrounding you, with him soon thrusting that cock between your thighs and shooting his seed on the bed before he can even get it in. You don’t want him when he’s drunk, and you don’t want him when he’s clearly a bit angry with you still. You place a weak hand over his, the one currently wrapped around your middle like a bond.

“Please, I mean it…”

“Not the time for sleep, little one,” he rasps on your shoulder, mask dragged aside and mouth breathing hot against your skin. His voice is gentle but his body is not: it turns out he has only been waiting for the slightest little cue to have the permission to take you. Unfortunately for you, moaning and grinding your hips against him is more than just a cue.

“Göttin der Erde... Gib dich mir.”

He grunts odd, boorish words on your shoulder, leaving you breathless with another tight roll of his hips. It feels like a spell or a chant, the way he speaks. You want nothing more than to give yourself to him, and fear that whatever tie has been knotted between you two, whatever shackle has bound your souls together, has also granted him the ability to hear your thoughts. He must’ve heard them, or then he must smell the change in the air, because he rolls you on your back and pushes a knee between your legs.

“Meine Königin... Ich werde dich sehr glücklich machen,” he mutters more incantations in your neck, broad thigh forcing your legs further apart. He doesn’t even need strength to coax them open: they drag up and aside by themselves.

“Ah–Why can’t you talk like normal people…”

You sigh your silly thoughts out into the night air, and your fierce giant turns his head a little, now right there next to your cheek.

"Normal? Was ist das…?"

Your lips draw into a quivering little smile – you just can’t help it. Him lying half on top of you, asking what the word ‘normal’ means while smelling like an entire wine house just burned down makes your lips and heart flutter. Your soft laugh makes him raise his head a little, drunken, half-lidded eyes now fixed on you.

“The opposite of you?” You offer innocently and try not to laugh, but it’s no use. You start to snicker, then giggle, and the way he growls only makes things worse.

“You little–I will go crazy because of you,” he whispers, drunk as a heartbroken man can be. Your own heart seems to open with a flood.

“Then go crazy,” you whisper back.

And gods… He takes your sigh as a permit to go absolutely berserk. He crawls on top of you and rips your dress apart from the middle with both hands, exposing your breasts to him and the cold night air. There's a weight in his gaze that turns your nipples hard; a gaze of promise, just before he descends.

He attacks you like a starving man, devours and licks and sucks your breasts until you shake and moan on the bed, until your hands come to cradle his head with greed.

“I will make you scream tonight,” he pants roughly on your tits – you can feel the words on your skin. You’re veritably afraid that this man will swallow you before he even gets to the main event, which is no doubt to satiate the need to fill you with potent seed. He doesn’t exactly caress you, no: he gobbles you like your body is an entire feast, the generous kisses almost turning into bites when he reaches your hips.

“No–no teeth, König,” you try to whimper, somewhere on the borderline of tension and lust.

"Fee... I promise I'll fuck you like king. I'll fuck you until you cry.”

Your head goes blank from his words; from terror and love and lust. There's no time to decipher whether you should be afraid, because he scoops up your thighs, grabs you like a wrestling partner, and draws you against his face.

“Wait—What are you–”

Your words are cut off as he drives his nose up your cunt and breathes in your musk like it's divine incense. It doesn’t matter that you’re still covered by the skimpy dress he just ripped to shreds: the fabric is so thin that he could be virtually sniffing you through sheer gossamer.

There’s no escape now; he can feel how wet you are. He can practically taste it.

“König—”

You can't understand why he would want to push his face there, so you mewl and try to push him away – very weakly – but he’s immovable, glued to your scent down there, panting into your warm, wet cunt with harsh breaths and starved groans. You're lying there at his mercy, dress torn to pieces and breasts heaving, thighs spread as far as they can go.

It's futile to even try reason with a starved giant between your legs, a cunt-deprived warrior about to finally take what's his. You should've known better than to joke around and play with a man who could snap you in half – either with his hands or with his cock – and Mother was wrong: you're not smart at all, teasing a beast like this. A beast whose teeth are currently bared over your most vulnerable place protected only by a thin veil soaked with your wet.

König lashes his tongue out and presses it flat against your dress, on your throbbing womanhood, and your words turn into an ample, lewd moan.

“A–ah…”

You fall weakly back on the bed, head spinning although you haven’t drunk a drop of wine. The broad body almost trembles there between your legs.

“Ah… You want cock, ja? I can taste it,” he grunts, blunt as ever. The thought of that thing being bullied into you inch by thick inch makes your cunt clench tight. Gods, you want it, but it will never fit, never…

Unless he… Unless that's why he's down there, panting hot inside you, trying to coax you open with his mouth. Perhaps he's not that dumb after all...

“Please,” you beg for him to love you, taste you, take you, your pride melting into copper and gold, pooling somewhere down, down, down…

“Don't worry,” he speaks straight to your cunt like a man intoxicated with something far better than wine. “I will give you cock. All night.”

He lifts the dress with his nose like a dog, nuzzles under your ruined attire like it's his shelter for the night, headed back towards his plump prize. There will soon be nothing between his mouth and your poor, throbbing cunt, aching to be licked and loved by a cruel giant. A giant who brings you milk and honey and grapes and gold in all its forms…

But just when you have finally forgotten that beasts possess teeth, he sinks them into you. He sinks them into your inner thigh, waking you up from the dream with sharp, harrowing pain.

The fucking idiot actually bites you, hard.

“You fucking—Go to hell!”

You push him away in earnest now, using his shoulders to propel yourself away from him. His teeth threaten to pierce and tear skin because he's so reluctant to let go, and the horrors of the battlefield seep into your skin; the safe warmth of the womb turns into a suffocating darkness.

Your kicks have enough power to make him rise from between your legs, and the clear-cut pain in his eyes makes you want to both hug and hit him. You do the latter and hurl your fists at him, not bothering to even try to hit a target or cause pain; you just want him to stop making you afraid.

Of course, he takes your breathless state and lust-filled rage as a cue to leave – and he does precisely that, but not before he has struggled away from you and your fists in an overly dramatic manner. It would look funny in another situation, especially when he's as hard as ever, cock jutting high towards the sky just from having a little taste of your love. Drunken and slightly wobbly, he almost falls when he grabs the tunic from the earthen floor as if his tent is a site of execution where he will soon be stoned.

At the mouth of the tent, he stops, throws his head back, and roars. The guttural, booming rage echoes towards the gods like a furious curse, and you’re quite sure that the entire camp is awake by now. Every soldier nearby must be dying of a scared heart, thinking that there are either bears or Gauls upon them.

You hold your arms against your chest and safeguard your soft belly as you take in all his fury and frustration, then watch him stagger into the night, head hanging heavy between slumped shoulders. You’re left breathing, afraid and alone in the darkness, thinking about what the hell just happened… And spend the next moments in shock. Soon enough, the cold and terror fades, melting into something more palatable. You're shivering and wet, but intact, at least on the outside.

And the oddest thing is that you find yourself missing him. You miss his presence, his body, you miss his dumbness and his jokes. You fucking miss him.

The man who almost raped you.

With his… mouth.

You curl inside the furs and try to get some sleep with a hammering heart, ending up thinking about him all night. You thought he was going to pound you with that ridiculously long cock all night – and wasn't that his threat, too? – but what you didn't expect was that the giant barbarian who rips people's throats open with his teeth would want to lick and lap you into submission. You never would have thought that König wanted to bury his face between your legs, and eagerly at that.

Perhaps you understood his silly words wrong in your half aroused, half scared state. What if he meant to make you scream and cry from pleasure, not pain?

The burning bruise on your thigh reminds you that you are probably wrong, but you still wake every now and then from a thin sleep, glancing around you in despair, only to see that he’s not there. You feel so hollow that you think for a moment whether König has left the camp entirely, whether he is wandering away, towards some other adventure, exhausted with you and the war and the Romans.

The most unbearable thought in your head is not that he has left you for his dogs, however. It’s the thought that has abandoned you. That he has finally had enough. Because you realize… König hasn’t gone anywhere. He simply left to have his fun with some other woman. Perhaps he’ll be back in the morning, but his patience is gone; it has finally ended, your silly little game. A difficult slave girl who won’t even let him lick her cunt is simply no amusement to him anymore.

Just before dawn, your will breaks; it splits in half. You can almost hear it. The sound of cries is muffled in the bed that nowadays has both his scent and yours: both of your scents combined, mixing together into a wonderful haze of love and despair.

…

König comes back when the dawn is already turning into a full day.

He strolls into the tent the same way he left: with a hunched posture and unsteady feet, but the fervent vigour from last night is gone. Actually, you have never seen him so weak. The dramatic sighs, the groping and the bullying have turned into a piercing silence. His muscles have lost their strength, his head is hanging heavy between those once proud shoulders, and his eyes are cast down as if he’s hoping there wouldn’t be such a bright orb in the sky. He drags his feet as he enters the tent; he doesn’t even look your way when he goes and slumps in his chair.

You are so glad to see him that you nearly jump from the bed and fall right there at his feet. You want to kiss his thighs and grab his hands and look up at him, doting and adoring like a good little slave. You want to whimper and beg that he can give you love bites everywhere he wants.

Instead, you snap at him, voice filled with poison.

“Did you have fun raping women last night?”

There are leaves on his mask and dirt on his shins and knees. Even his hands are a little grungy, and the proud red Roman tunic could also use a wash. He sheds you a tired side stare, then sighs.

“Was?”

“Were you with women,” you spell out every word slowly like you’re talking to a child. The venom on your tongue threatens to spill out as froth. And you almost say, 'other women'. Almost.

König raises his head and looks at you with a slight tilt in his head. He’s curious again, so, so very curious. He has clearly fleed the sun into his tent rather than seek your gracious presence, which shouldn’t make you this glum... But what you just said has managed to brighten up his entire day.

“Meine Fee… She’s jealous,” he points out in a far more jovial tone.

“No. Not at all,” you hurry to say, chin drawing back from his stupid accusations.

“You are,” he says with unbridled fascination.

“I assure you I’m not.”

Your cheeks are heating up, and the nervousness inside your belly roils like a snake. How does he always manage to get you into a trap?

König leans back in his chair, now with his usual dignity on those shoulders. He even crosses his fingers loosely in his lap, looking like the conversation he’s about to have with you will, yet again, become another favourite of his. You’re not sure why you always feel like you’re being interrogated on the sly with him because König is the most simple, straightforward, blunt object of a man you have ever met. And still…

“Fucking other women is bad?” He asks innocently from that chair.

“Bad?” You huff. “Yes, if you have to force women under you, you are a brute.”

“And… ugly?”

“Very ugly. The ugliest man in the world.”

"Hm. But who say anything about forcing?"

König looks at you, calmly, as your stomach sinks from his words.

You can only stare at him as the world seems to fall apart around you, crumble into nothingness when there's sun shining and birds singing outside. Kicking him out of the tent – and almost kicking him in the face in the process – because you got afraid when he gave you a fervent little nib seems like the stupidest idea right now. If you were so willing to part your legs for him and moan under his tongue, surely some other insane woman would want to do that as well? Surely there is at least one woman in this camp who would gladly be pleased by this giant who doesn't hit or force women. Who only likes to… bite and squeeze and lick them.

You pout at him, lip almost trembling now, and he’s smiling, so, so very wide behind that mask. Gods damn him.

Then he rises and walks to you, suddenly looking like he isn’t suffering from a hangover after all. He strolls towards you with slow purpose, and you swallow the tears down, trying not to show him how they turn into ice inside your stomach.

“I have not touched women. Only you.”

He towers above you, looking down at you like you are indeed the most adorable thing in the entire world. You are not sure whether his words are to be believed, but something inside you says that this man never lies. As dense and dumb as he is, he is the most trustworthy human being you will ever meet.

“Only sleep with earth last night,” he says and starts to caress your hair. He even weighs some of it in his hand before sweeping it over your shoulder. Like you are simply his precious, silly little wife who has been spoiled too much.

“It was a cold mistress,” he laments, overly dramatic again, like a poor actor in a tragic play. Your heart aches, badly – you swear König is the most annoying man you have ever met, the most insufferable and lovable. You wonder if he has spent his seed on the cold, hard ground too. Given it to the Great Mother, who is a cold lover sometimes indeed… But not as cold as you.

You wonder how crazy it is that you have the power to drive this giant into the cold night from his own tent. König has had to face his hangover by waking up to a chilly dawn. His hand is not as warm as usual, and you start to worry that he has caught the wrath of wind spirits outside, soon rendering him weak and feverish. His skin is not supposed to feel this cold, not when he’s almost always blazing.

“I know a plant that might help,” you say diplomatically. “With your… Head.”

He looks at you, more and more curious by every passing moment. You hope he doesn’t weigh in his mind whether you are trying to poison him when he is weak. But he’s not that clever, perhaps, because he only looks at you like you’re an entire sun now, and very unlike the one that is giving him a headache today. You turn away from his hand – but not too quickly. You’re only feeling shy. And a bit uncomfortable.

“You should eat something. And drink water, not wine.”

“You care about my head?”

Gods… His voice is so, so soft. He’s seeing past all your defences again, and there is nothing you can do about it. You want to curse him but can’t. You simply can’t.

“Just… Eat some fruit, alright? And I need a kettle so that I can boil some water for the herbs.”

You rise from the bed and try to ignore his adoring stare. He doesn’t attempt to touch you again; he merely watches as you go about and eat a little something as if to show that when it is morning, people should have breakfast. Like you’re a mother trying to lead by example or a fussing young wife who is trying to help his husband. Your lips are a thin line as you search for grapes that aren’t too soft and a piece of bread that doesn’t yet have mould in it. You grab some figs: you know they are his favorite, and bring them to him to tell him you’re serious about him needing to eat.

And you feel silly.

You can’t even look at him. You’re feeling so odd, so weak, so warm inside, and it’s not because you’re disgusted; hell, it’s the opposite of being disgusted….

“I have fallen in love with you,” König says as he accepts your humble offering of food. You freeze in the middle of setting them on his palms, held upwards as if content with whatever you give him, even if it’s only a piece of bread and a few figs.

Gods. Mother… Don’t do this to me–

“That how you say it?”

You breathe in and out, calm, collected – you're not going to faint because some crazy giant thinks he's in love. Yes, that’s it… Everything’s alright. He’s just being silly again. He’s just playing his own little plays again.

But when you look at him, there is no actor there, no silly play: he’s just… König. He returns your helpless, cornered stare with warm kindness, reminding you of something, of some Roman or Greek god… Apollo. Yes, that’s it. Laureled sun god Apollo, the one everyone loves so dearly, because he always drives fear and doubt and darkness away. He’s Apollo, even though he doesn’t even prefer a bow.

And has the translator taught König the correct words? Has he memorized them so that he can say them to you when the time is right? Your lip starts to tremble, and you fight to not shudder a sigh. The old seer was wrong: this man will be your downfall.

“I’ll go get that plant,” you whisper, soft eyes wide and chest curled tight.

“Nein,” he says cheerfully, full of life and hope again. “Not alone, little one.”

…

A/N: Please don't send me death threats. Remember, big bang bang next chapter! Huge!!

Translations:

Sehr schön - Very beautiful

Kleine Fee - Little fairy

Hungrig? - Hungry?

Ich könnte dich niemals verlassen - I could never leave you

Für dich - For you

Du machst mich verrückt - You drive me crazy

Göttin der Erde… Gib dich mir - Goddess of the Earth… Give yourself to me

Meine Königin... Ich werde dich sehr glücklich machen - My Queen... I will make you very happy

Was ist das? - What is that?

#könig fanfiction #könig x reader #könig x you #könig x fem reader #könig x female reader #könig cod #konig x reader #konig x you #historical au #Roman soldier!König #könig smut

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gotham-daydreams · 8 months ago

Note

I wonder if there's something to do with timeloop sonce reader seems too normal and not panicked or distressed at all about the red dawn?

Or maybe they are just numb lol.

I'll say it here since it's difficult to say in the story without it being its own thing entirely, and momentarily taking focus off of the situation (which, i'm trying to not do considering time and the very short amount of chapters/days i have to work with) - and not only that, but I want to keep people on track and not wonder on the wrong things for too long! Even if... well, they'll soon become very obvious.. LOL! But still! If someone can piece it together, or figure it out as thungs go along, or at least suspect it, I want that to be possible!

So, this is a world where humans and nonhumans are intermingled, and again, even if I can't stay it outright, it will show through questions and certain things characters do that won't be questioned - since they're family and have known these things for a long time. Not every human is aware that someone they know is a nonhuman, as they are good at hiding and really, aside from a few key things, they seem like a human just like the rest of us.

Naturally in the story I'm going to try and show this, or at least hint towards it the best I can, but the Batfam is the best example I can give without actually spoiling the plot:

Barbara

Tim

Cassandra

Stephanie

Damian

Selina

Are nonhuman, and thus have odd abilities outside of their other skills. (Though I didn't really write or show that with Stephanie, unfortunately- which is my mistake, I forgot and was rushing) Meanwhile the others in the family are human- even if Alfred might have 'quotes' around that claim.

I say this here on this particular ask since it's less about time, and while there is something unordinary going on, think less about the days, and more on the oddities their noticing - which will become more apparent on Day 3. Along with the MCs words and how they choose to say things at certain times, or certain things they think?

All I'm saying is to be a bit more suspicious. Not everything is as it seems, and time is only an after affect, a tool to be used alongside everything else.

I didn't mention that the Batfam were monsters because, well, some of them aren't, and I didn't want to put a confusing label on it - so I instead opted to not mention it at all and imply it with the little time I have. Though, if I didn't mention the Batfam being monsters, even if about half the family is, I wonder what else I left out?

#talking daydreams #yandere batfam #the red dawn

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strawberryshortcake0413 · 7 months ago

Text

Last Hope chapter 4

Hello everyone :D i have finally decided to upload a chapter i postponed for weeks. Hope yall enjoy it, lmk your thoughts and reactions

Characters:yandere Leon S Kennedy (older version) x reader

Disclaimer: This fanfic contains dark-themed topics, such as kidnapping, depression, suicidal thoughts, non-consent, unwanted pregnancy,etc

Warning: yandere Leon Kennedy, kidnapping, non-consent, depressed reader, manipulation, Stockholm syndrome, unwanted pregnancy, emotional & mental abuse

Chapter1 Chapter2 Chapter3

God.

You were crazy. You were confused and blind. You didn't know whether it was love or hate.

Hating your kidnapper seems to be the logical explanation most people would come up with. But again, most of those people had not been kidnapped, nor was Leon S Kennedy the one who did it.

A few days ago, you had played with his nerves more than ever.

You took a small knife from the kitchen when he allowed you to watch him cook. Trying to be sneaky was harder than it sounds.

You have been his good girl for a whole month, yet trying to steal a knife to kill him.

Little did you know, Leon had already noticed your little trick, sneakily putting it in your sleeve while you kissed him.

He was happy that you were showing affection without any fuss at first. But when he saw your true intentions, he was furious.

That same night you tried to stab him when he was sleeping. Or pretending to be asleep, waiting for the right moment to give you what you were itching for.

To say the least, you got your punishment.

Even though you got him mad a couple times during the months you lived in the isolated house, it was never this bad. It never went as far as Leon refusing to acknowledge you or tamper you like his usual self.

Humans are social creatures. Communication was the key to survival starting from the ice age to the modern world. People need love, someone to laugh and talk to. Without these, life was darker than the pitch of hell. This what you felt like was happening to you. Leon was the only being you talked, communicated, snuggled in for a long time.

Now he was trying his hardest ignoring and giving you silent treatment. Thinking more about this situation, it was half funny, half painful.

If you start from the funny part, he was childish. The one who made sure to comment about how stable and mature for a family was now acting like a spoiled, mad 5 year old.

At the same time, you realized you were truly alone. Here, in this prison of a house, you at least had someone to give a shit about you at least a bit, even if it was toxic. But thinking about your past life, you had nobody for you.

Hell, if you made a bet with a stranger your mom would stab you from the back if she wanted to have your boyfriend in her bed, it was not a lie you would lose a few bucks.

You are alone in this miserable life with no one except a mentally ill old man. You were sure he had an addiction problem before by the looks of his face. It's easy to tell when you grew up with one. And worked to help those people, sacrificing everything that had the curse to be yours.

Guilt was filling the room, almost drowning you till you can’t breathe. Even if he was shit, he still cared for you. Were you this pathetic to try to crawl back in the arms of someone you attempted to murder? Yes, you were. But who cares? Who cares as long as he forgives you? You are just going to pretend everything is fine till everything is not and the cycle starts all over.

You felt even shittier when the memory of you holding the knife and sitting on his lap when he was asleep, ready to slice his throat. If your childhood self saw you like that, she would think you’re a monster.

But in the end, you were one. That’s why you have no one good enough that is willingly to stay with you.

You had willingly pushed away someone that actually cared for you without even thinking. How stupid are you to try to do that? You cared and craved the attention that came with him. You were just not used to love that you immediately persuaded it as poison.

He locked you in the same room with no food and water for 3 days. No matter how much you pleaded, he wouldn't budge in.

“Leon… Daddy… Please…” you begged again. You had already lost count of your whining and were begging for him to let you out.

“I'm sorry. I won't do it again. Please?”

Leon signed hearing your whining repeatedly in the morning before he even had his first cup of coffee. Work was already harder these past few days, your whining made it even more irritating.

Hell. He should even add a little bit of vodka in his coffee since destiny decided to play with him again.

Leon had already decided the love of his life bumped into him at the hospital, but he was starting to realize it was an illusion his heart made to bear with the pain of real life struggles.

Leon was starting to see the truth that you will never be someone he wanted. All he ever dreamed of was the perfect american dream where he had a beautiful wife and a few kids running around his house. If the Raccoon city event never happened, he wouldn’t even have looked your way.

You were rude, wild, inconsiderate, and lacked motherly instincts. Leon was not even sure if you thought like a normal person. He was not blind to your personality. When he was carefully selecting you as his future wife and the mother of his kids, he noticed quite a lot of details.

The way you responded to children crying, someone immature, or confused people asking for help or getting unlucky in life, he took notes of how you stare at them and how you respond with your body language.

He knew you were not a good person. He knew you wouldn’t be a good, caring mother.

Despite the fact he refused to acknowledge your real self, he had hoped someday you will grow to love him and want to have children of your own. Little did he know, he felt angry at himself for giving you too much hope.

In his own delusion, Leon thought you completely had given up the thought to escape and run away. Never in a million years, he would have imagined you holding a knife and almost killing him.

Now, he didn’t even know if you were the right choice to go with for the rest of his life.

But listening to your pleas, apologizing, and regrets pulled a string in his heart he hadn’t acknowledged since he was twenty something.

Maybe you realized you were nothing without him. You didn’t have the basic needs of a human if he didn’t bother to notice you. You should be grateful. You should be grateful he takes care of you better than he takes care of himself. You should be grateful he chose to save you from your miserable little life before him.

But hearing your cries changed his already made up mind. It was something he would only do for you. Something he hoped that would change your mind about starting a family.

Leon stared down at you with a cold glare as you whined pathetically before crawling and hugging his legs as you sobbed like you’re at your father's funeral.

As much as he loves his parents, only one memory is engraved on his mind from his childhood. He remembers that day, clearer than water. Holding a bare white rose while people stared at the big hole in the ground as his parents were put to peaceful sleep forever without anyone interrupting them again.

Standing there alone and confused why his parents would never come back. What did his parents do to be killed like that? Still to this day, Leon doesn’t have any idea why his parents were targeted out of all the people in the world.

His main goal is to never let any of his children go through that pain. Not in a single day he had a moment of lasting peace. Why would he not deserve a little dose of happiness others knew the taste more than once?

You were his last hope. Last hope for a new beginning. To something he can’t have again.

“I’m sorry. Please. Daddy. I love you. Please, forgive me” you cried, sniffing your runny nose while kissing his legs. As much as you would have loved to make comments about his hairy long legs, you were not in the right position to be sarcastic.

“If you try to pull that shit again, your “daddy, i love you” is not going to work again.” he muttered before grabbing your wrists, pulling you up.

“See what happens when you disobey me?” Leon eyed your tired figure from the lack of food, shower and him.

“I won’t do it again. I promise.” you muttered, hugging him hesitantly. It was a strange feeling for you. Even before you were forced to show affection, you never felt genuine enough to hug a person before. Sometimes rare visitors would hug you, it only gave you ick.

Something about it made me want to cry, while something else was making you angry at Leon. Where did his promise of taking care of you no matter what went when he was mad? Were you just a little toy for him to abandon when life gives him something sour? Is he someone that would abandon you at your lowest just like everyone else?

Walking into the kitchen you were greeted with a vegetable soup with a slice of bread, poured in the plastic bowl he bought for you specifically.

“Eat well.” Leon muttered as he sat next, watching you devour the food.

“Slower. It's not good for the body”

After a few minutes of eating, he brought you into the bedroom, showering you carefully before helping you put on a fresh set of pajamas.

“Sleep” Leon muttered as he laid beside, kissing your temple.

Warm, soft blanket made you feel like a newborn being swaddled in its mothers tight embrace. After spending 3 nights on the cold flooring of the house, the bed felt like heaven.

Not to mention the fact, after a while Leon would occasionally rub your clit through your pants or give your nipple a hard pinch enough to awaken something in your belly.

As much as he missed you, Leon quickly learned you were even worse than him somehow. The way you begged for another round at 2 am at night proved everything he needed to know.

“My baby missed me so much. Huh?” the older man smirked, feeling you clench as his pace increased. Your hands went back to the bed sheets while you babbled nonsense.

“You see how much I love you?” Leon muttered as he stared at your dilated eyes.

As you nodded, he felt a satisfaction he hadn’t experienced in a while. Soon he felt himself finish inside you.

“Promise me. Promise me that you would love me forever”

You took a long shaky breath, brain foggy from the your body was being warmed by his warm cum.

“I will… I will as long as you do” you said as Leon captured your lips in a passionate long kiss. Spit connecting you two still as he pulled away. “Sweet dreams baby”

Next chapter start: Leon grinned to himself as he started connecting all the clues God left for him. Your moody, bratty behavior, sweet cravings, morning sickness. He was trying to tell Leon his dreams are coming soon.

Now that he knew you were with a healthy child, he was never going to let you go. If he had to fight for the sake of his child, he wouldn’t hesitate even if it’s you. After all, a child was more important than your temporary stupidity.

#leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy #leon kennedy angst #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy imagine #leon s kennedy #re6 leon #yandere #yandere leon #yandere leon kennedy #leon s kennedy x y/n #leon s kennedy x reader #leon scott kennedy #leon s kennedy smut #last hope

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tthevoic3s · 27 days ago

Text

From Blood Births Life and Death | Chapter 19

Bonding, Toasts and Pocket Rides

Word count: 3652

MASTERPOST

It was already past dawn, the sun hanging in the pale morning sky.

In the small cottage tucked near the woods, Maya was still sprawled on the warm, woven napkin of her makeshift bed—legs crossed, blanket draped over her shoulders—as she lazily munched on a crumb of soft bread and berry jam. A crumb to Andrew. Practically a whole slice of toast to her.

She couldn’t quite tell what kind of fruit the jam was made from, but fuck, it was the best breakfast she’d had in years. No kidding. Who would’ve guessed that medieval-style food would beat the stale, pre-packaged cookies of the colony rations?

That shit tasted like cardboard soaked in chemical preservatives.

She wiped the corners of her mouth with the back of her wrist, eyes half-lidded in lazy amusement as she watched her friend.

Meanwhile, Andrew darted back and forth across the room, fumbling through his morning routine, trying—and failing—to get everything together at once.

“Are we going to the library again?”

Maya spoke with her mouth still full, a smear of red jam lingering on her cheek despite her earlier attempt to wipe it away.

He turned to her and nearly tripped over his own feet, catching himself just in time by grabbing the back of the nearest chair.

“Yeah, and I- Gods! I overslept.”

Once he regained his balance, he turned again toward the bed, hands on his hips as if he was pondering his next move.

His sleeping shirt lay tossed there unceremoniously—the bed was undone, the sheets still crumpled and slipping off one side. He raked a hand through his hair, still mussed from sleep, dark golden messy waves falling over his shoulders, then fumbled to tie it back into something—anything—that might pass for a half-decent ponytail.

He grabbed the nearest clean shirt, twisting it the wrong way before yanking it over his head and smoothing it down with both hands.

The human followed him with her gaze, her dark eyes sweeping across the on, her usual, trademark grin printed on her face.

In exchange for a few mornings spent hidden in the drawer of a library desk and a few — well, actually, a lot — of logistic problems due to her being vertically challenged, she really was living her best life so far. At least two weeks had passed, and right now, she wasn’t really having any kind of responsibility on her back. Not yet.

Mars had promised her to show up and tell her when she would have been needed for the plan, but the preparations for the hidden base were taking longer than she expected. It wasn’t exactly surprising.

After all, they were the most resourceful unit Higgs could have, due to their training, and that bastard probably was breathing down their necks, squeezing them like a sponge between one research mission and the other.

She huffed. Still, she hoped the scouts didn’t change their mind and decided to let her stay with Andrew just to keep her out of trouble. Basically, hiring him as her full time babysitter without an employment contract.

They had long discussed about her being the closest person to Friedrich’s ideals, and having, perhaps by fate, bonded with an islander. According to Mars, since the first day they had talked, it made her useful intel. May believed it, and had trust in them. But waiting was boring. She wanted the ACTION.

Anyways, it wasn’t like she could complain about being spoiled by a giant nerd who treated her as a very respected guest – well, outside of the pocket rides, but those were part of the logistics, and to be honest she had already gotten used to them.

As soon as Andrew put his usual cloak on and slung his satchel over his shoulder, Maya sprang to her feet, brushing off her lap the last bread crumbs from her breakfast. She darted onto his outstretched hand, then scampered up his arm like a tiny squirrel, gripping the folds of his sleeve and cloak for leverage. With a quick scramble, she dove headfirst into the chest pocket of his shirt, landing with a soft thud. She ended up upside down, her legs flailing as she tried to right herself, but the fabric wasn’t showing mercy that day.

“A little help, perchance?” Maya quipped, still wriggling wildly until Andrew’s hand came down pinching at her sides to free her from that awkward position. She sat more comfortably, peeked out and gave him thumbs up, her hair a mess from the earlier struggling.

This was routine, by now.

Looking down at her, he snorted.

“I genuinely don’t understand why you insist on doing this by yourself.”

“Hey! I’m a very independent pocket sized woman, thanks! Plus,” She grinned, “I’m lowkey getting better at climbing you.”

“You’re weird.”

“Yeah, been told.”

—

The door clicked shut behind them and they began their usual walk towards the village centre, its heart, with the main square, the shops, the people, and, of course, Andrew’s little corner of heaven. The library. During the first part of the trip, where the paths were still thin and empty, Maya had the luxury to peek out and enjoy the view from her eighty-feet-tall observatory spot.

The leaves were still damp with the fresh morning dew, lightly swaying with the soft breeze that tousled her hair. The air was still cool and crisp, and it carried the scents of the nearby forest. Insects hummed in the distance, and looking down, Maya could see the giant sized grasshoppers jump from leaf to leaf.

She had seen the island before, during her endless – and probably unauthorised – trips with her father, but from this angle? Everything was different, and she couldn’t quite get tired of it.

It was simply crazy how someone could even think about destroying such beauty for profit. She snorted. And for what noble purpose? Building a Walmart with a one-thousand-lot parking space? Because anyways the giants were savages who wasted the potential of their land?

Please.

Only someone whose brain was as rotted by capitalism as Scott Higgs could come up with such an idea.

And Maya? Maya hadn’t ever been that much of an ambientalist. She just treated the matter like it was common fucking sense, but apparently the so high esteemed General wasn’t the archetype of said qualities.

And so, as soon as the first buildings of the main square loomed into view, and the distant buzz of voices echoed up from the streets, Maya quickly cut short her daily hating-on-Scott session and ducked her tiny head back into the warm fabric of her friend’s pocket, hiding from the bustling world above.

It hadn’t been long— just a few greetings from passers by accompanied by Andrew’s very not enthusiastic response— after a few steps and the click of the key, silence again.

As soon as she felt the signal of Andrew leaning forward slightly as he sat at the desk, Maya stood, her boots wobbling slightly on the soft cotton “floor” beneath her feet.

Gripping the edge of the pocket with both hands, she hoisted herself up, her body swinging lightly over the rim before she landed deftly against the open expanse of the desk below. Then, quickly, she slid inside the open drawer Andrew had prepared to hide the tiny person staying in his workplace.

It wasn’t luxurious, but liveable enough. Andrew had folded a clean cloth inside so she could sit comfortably, and the drawer smelled faintly of the lavender oil he used after cleaning. He kept it always half open so that some light could come in, and — when the coast was clear from any nosy client — she could peek out and chat with him while he was working, which was very frequent. Andrew never seemed to mind, even if Maya’s presence could have been described as slightly deflective, or, like Maya would say, a pain in the ass.

Today was no different.

A few hours had passed, and after being enclosed in the reign of boredom and eavesdropping library client discussions, she decided it was time to peek up from her cosy hiding spot to annoy her friend with the usual set of questions.

“I still don’t understand why you bring me to work every day.” She said, one eyebrow arched.

His eyes didn’t leave the book laid in front of him on the desk.

“Safety precautions.”

Maya snorted. “And for what? You think I can’t handle being home alone?”

He sighed, a long frustrated sigh like he was dealing with a toddler, and closed his book.

Then, turned slightly towards the human in the drawer, his chin resting on his hand.

“First of all: no.”

Maya rolled her eyes.

“Not saying you’re irresponsible,” he continued, defensive — even though he probably was stating just that. — “but I won’t leave you to wander alone in a house where you’re no taller than my teacup.”

“Oh, shut up. Do I look like the type to get injured in stupid ways?”

Andrew gave her a flat look.

“Maya. Do I have to remind you that, the first time we met, you were unconscious, bleeding on the ground after your runaway and I had to patch you up?”

A beat of silence.

Then, a small smile perked up on her face, and she raised both hands in mock surrender.

“Touché.”

Andrew blinked, confused by the sudden foreign sounding word.

“What?”

Maya let out a little laugh.

“It’s French, dumbass. I forgot you only know how to speak English.” She stopped, her eyes tracking back to him. “And.. oh, about that.”

“Hm?”

“How come? I didn’t expect you to understand me.”

Andrew looked genuinely surprised at her words, but let her continue, curious. He pushed his already closed book forward on the desk, setting it aside once for all, and made some space for Maya to sit while talking.

“I don’t know… thought you,” — she said, between pants and huffs as she climbed onto the polished surface of the desk — “spoke some kind of whimsical elvish-sounding language or something.”

Andrew chuckled. She sat more comfortably, resting her back on the nearby book, and kept talking.

“I mean, you can’t deny it’s a little weird. You thought we were extinct, yet even your name sounds human!”

He looked at her for a couple of seconds, the tiny smile not leaving his lips as he searched for a proper response. Maya could tell from his expression that he liked that question. Not that he had been asked before, but it just seemed so to her.

“Well, actually, we have our language.” He said, leaning forward slightly as he fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve. “Still, New Script, which, I suppose, is what you call…English has been spoken for… centuries. Old script is much rarer nowadays, and many of us can’t even write it anymore. It’s mainly reserved to the councillors or well.. language experts. Before humans went extinct from this island, our ancestors figured that the language the last humans brought to us was easier. Faster to write. More versatile. It became an everyday thing, speaking it, and so it spread.”

He smiled faintly, his eyes darting to the side as if he was being under judgement, almost afraid of having said something wrong.

“Or, well, that’s what the books say.”

Maya looked at him, almost gawking, eyes wide. For a moment, she said nothing. Then,

“Great job, nerd.”

She smirked.

“Didn’t expect you to be so smart either.”

Hold up, Maya. She mentally facepalmed.

Despite how racially insulting the previous sentence might have sounded — Maya realised too late, visibly cringing — Andrew seemed not to notice.

“It’s not a big deal. By spending all my time in a library I got interested in what I read. And,” he continued, his voice still shy, “not to be weird, but history about your kind has always fascinated me in a way nothing else has. Humans were basically a legend, a myth. Some thought you were extinct, some thought you lived far away, on the other side of the sea.”

Maya kept listening to his voice, and then, all of a sudden, that sensation hit her. She hadn’t been paying much attention at first, but there was something about how he talked that scratched her brain. The same quiet yet passionate way of explaining things, the habit of watering down the knowledge he had by being humble… that’s how her father used to talk to her.

That’s how Fred used to narrate about the island, its nature and history, the beauty of it and its people and traditions. Everything he studied.

Yeah, Andrew was a nerd in the same exact way her father was.

“Hey, you okay?” He asked, pulling her out of her thoughts.

“Hm?”

“You’re… smiling.”

Oh. She didn’t even notice.

She had been smiling — an excited, full toothed smile — like a little kid being told a fairytale.

She just shrugged.

“Nothing. I like hearing you talk. It’s interesting. You’re so quiet usually, you should do it more often.”

To her surprise, he blushed—deeply. Color rushed up from the tips of his pointed ears all the way to his cheeks and nose, leaving his face flushed with a vivid shade of pink. For a heartbeat, that little smile wavered, only to return a little bit wider, still shy, but clearly tinged with something close to pride.

“No one has ever… told me that.”

Andrew said, his voice small, followed by a nervous chuckle. His hand drifted up to his collar, fingers finding the small emerald pendant at his neck. He began to fidget with it as to ground himself, the delicate lace twisting and curling between his fingers.

”I discovered most of these things thanks to my father.” He continued. “Well, through the book collection he kept in his study. I spent whole days buried there as a kid, Levi used to make fun of me sometimes.”

Maya smirked and hummed in response. Her hands slid on the leather cover of the book she was sitting on as she leaned backwards, tilting her head towards the nearby window. With its curtains partially open, she could see the scene unfolding outside. In the main square, men were setting up stalls, women in flowing silk robes walked together while chatting animatedly and carrying floreal compositions, kids scurrying around with pigment smeared hands. Everyone was contributing to the decoration of the place with ornaments of all kinds, from simple flowers, to ribbons, and paintings on the walls.

Maya’s eyes swept from corner to corner of the small painterly-like landscape she could see through the small window, focusing on every detail. The whole square was washed in a vibrant blue colour, from the ceremonial dresses to the tiniest decorations. Cobalt drapes framed doorways, swinging lightly with the breeze, and the same tint painted details of faces of women and men alike in delicate makeup.

She knew that color was unique to the Island, not so much for the hue itself but for the properties of where it came from. Used for centuries and by tradition associated with the Goddess of War, Partying and Worldly Pleasures, that blue was extracted from a precious mineral, — worth millions, and realistically the main reason of human interest towards the island itself.

But to Maya? The price behind the material ornating the square mattered less than zero. To her, tiny in a world astonishingly larger than anything she'd ever been used to, the view wasn’t simply fascinating. It was like being grabbed and thrown into a fairytale. A kid’s dream.

Noticing her rather unusual stillness, Andrew leaned down, his face now at level with the human sitting on the book.

“You like the view?”

Not startled by the sudden proximity, she simply nodded, her eyes still not moving from the scene outside. He smiled, and let his gaze follow hers.

“They’re already hanging the lanterns, huh.” He said.

”They’re still off, though.”

”The festival night will be in three moons. This year the preparations are really active, I must say.” He replied, giving a small thoughtful hum. “We’re usually late for the celebrations.”

Maya’s party animal eyes lit at the mention of the festival night. She had heard about the local traditions — figuratively, through what her father told her, and literally, since she could sometimes hear the music from the colony.

”You going, right?”

He blinked. Caught off guard.

”I’m not exactly… the party guy. I usually help my brother with his stalls in the morning. But… dances, loud music, people…” he shook his head, firmly. “No. Not for me.”

Maya tossed him a glare. The deepest ‘I’m-so-disappointed-in-you-young-man’ glare she’d ever given him since they met.

“What?!”

“Come on!” She groaned, “You can’t be serious. It’s awesome! You can’t tell me you’d rather stay buried in your books” She gestured animatedly, her eyes wide while talking to him like he was crazy.

Andrew just sighed. Knowing Maya, that reaction should have been expected. Barely three weeks and she was already giving him life advice. Incredible.

“I swear,” she continued. “I’ll drag you out by myself if i don't see you getting out of your damn house in a pretty shirt and makeup.”

He just stared at her for a moment — partially pointing out in his mind the sheer impossibility of her threat — while she, ever the stubborn one, had already made her way on top of the highest pile of books in front of him, pointing an accusatory finger in mock rage.

From a human point of view, the same rage a hamster would be capable of showing. Actually, a German, gun wielding hamster, but that was another story.

Then, almost randomly, Andrew froze mid laughter. His ears twitched slightly as a faint tap tap tap — footsteps, small ones. Almost too soft to notice, like the drum of fingertips, but having maya around had gotten Andrew used to it. He turned towards the source of the sound, holding up a hand to stop Maya from talking.

“What?!”

A sharp flick of his fingers. Stay quiet.

A creak, from the far end of the room. A pause. Another creak, louder and definitely audible this time. Maya’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.

With his hand still drawn up towards Maya, got up and crept slowly towards the side of the room just near the window, each step measured as if he were the one afraid to make more noise.

Please, not again. Not another tiny spy who wants to shoot me in the face.

Another step closer, and then-

The sound of fabric ripping.

Thud.

Andrew froze.

“ ¡Mierda! Stupid fucking grappling hook- Agh-!”

A woman’s voice, from behind the curtain. Yeah, definitely another human. Now the deal was discovering whether the tiny intruder wanted to shoot him or not.

Andrew hesitated, hand hovering above the fabric. Then, he drew the curtain again with a rapid pull. A puff of dust billowed up, momentarily obfuscating his sight.

A cough. “God damn it!”

Finally, he locked eyes from the source of that voice. No bullet yet. Just a small figure, slightly covered in dust, standing in front of him, not far from his boots.

“Oh, here you are.” She spoke again. Craned her neck to look up at him, eyes widening slightly. “¡Madre de Dios!, y’all are definitely taller when seen in real life.”

Andrew just blinked, confused. He had never seen that soldier.

Small, not much taller than Maya. Buff, darker skin and black hair tied back. A weird accent.

She dusted off her pants, stretching a bit, nonchalantly.

“Thanks for the help, tall boy. This damn thing got stuck,” she said, adjusting the cable of the harness attached to her belt. “Now, where’s Maya?”

Silence. Andrew still looked stunned, as if he was still processing the recent course of chaotic events.

“Maya, come on, the ginger one… loud… wait, are you even the right native-?”

“Sarah!”

There Maya was.

“It was about time!” She shouted, making her way towards the other woman.

“You- know.. her?” Andrew finally managed to mutter, his voice coming out way more high pitched than usual.

“Oh, so you can speak.” The soldier said, “Now move, I’m here to speak with her. Ah, and I hope the door is closed to visitors.”

His whole face flushed red, and he stepped aside, single handedly locking the front door without moving his eyes from the two.

The soldier, - Sarah, that was her name - grabbed Maya by the arm as soon as she approached, yanking her closer. Her attitude changed in a sudden. Everything in how she moved now spoke urgency — the sharpness in her movements, the tight grip around Maya’s arm, the way her eyes flicked over her shoulder every now and then.

Maybe she had kept the unconcerned attitude just not to startle him, but now, together with the fact that Maya didn’t tell him, or probably didn’t expect her visit only made him suspect that something was off.

"Whoa! Hey!” Maya stumbled a little as she was brought closer, “didn’t know you marines had an order to skip hellos!”

She expected a grin, a snappy retort. Nothing. If anything, the soldier’s grip just tightened, her eyes locking with Maya’s in a cold stare. Maya paused.

“What’s going on? Did something happen?”

Sarah leaned in, voice low. “The base is ready. Mars told me to get you. He needs to talk. We need to go, now.”

Maya frowned, clearly struggling to identify what the problem was. Judging by what she had said, everything seemed to be going according to plan. Then why all the panic?

“Okay, and…?”

Sarah pulled back, glanced towards Andrew, who was currently standing aside with the same expression of a kid waiting outside the principal’s office — stiff, probably too aware of himself.

“It’s important. Mars will explain.”

Maya glared at her, exhaling sharply through her nose. “Right. Because vague orders always mean nothing’s on fire.”

#from blood births life and death #g/t #g/t writing #oc: andrew #oc: maya #oc: sarah #g/t ocs #gt community #g/t community #g/t art #sfw g/t #gt #giant/tiny

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usagi-chwan · 16 days ago

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I remember (BSDxReader, Part 2)

🌸 Characters in this chapter: Mori and Fukuzawa.

🌸 Spoils: yes! For Mori, his part takes place in the world of Beast (the BSD spin-off), and more precisely in the last volume, the fourth; for Fukuzawa, it is essential to know his past in order to read his part.

If you cannot remember the background to this headcanon, feel free to read it again in the previous chapter!

Mori

- You wake up, uncertain and disorientated, feelings that are confirmed and reinforced the moment you realize you are lying on a medical bed, surrounded by white curtains.

- The gentle warmth of the sun caresses your arms and face, the only parts of your body not covered by the immaculate gown you are wearing. Without a doubt, you are in a hospital, but... How exactly did you end up here?

- The scent of cherry blossom wafting freely through the half-open window prevents you from concentrating as much as you would like. Or is it the sleep that is still clouding your senses?

- Anyway, after a few minutes, a young woman dressed as a nurse appears from behind one of the curtains, slightly surprised to see you awake.

- "At last, you're awake, Rintarô was beginning to worry. Even your colleague woke up before you, that's saying something."

- You only listen to him a little, managing to catch a few scattered snatches of what she is saying. Why do you do this? Simply because this nurse is the spitting image of you: same face shape, same age, same hair color, same eyes... You simply feel as if you are looking in a mirror, and you do not understand how this can be possible.

- So you do not respond, but this does not seem to bother the young woman in front of you, who turns slightly in the direction of the curtain.

- "I suppose, now that you've found her, you'll want to change my appearance, won't you, Rintarô?" the nurse asks, crossing her arms.

- A dark-haired man then appears in turn, and it is only then that your eyes widen. You know him, but you do not know from where, or perhaps this uncertainty is temporary, which is what happens from time to time with your abominable power.

- You have lived many lives, and remember only a few elements of most of them. In this life, you were simply in the service of Dazai Osamu, Boss of the Port Mafia, without really understanding why he insisted on recruiting you in person, when your power is simply useless in combat. Of course, you can be reborn, but this rebirth has several counterparts, in addition to the one concerning your scattered memories: you return in the form of a mere newborn.

- But you are sure you know this man: the feeling of nostalgia that rises in you at the mere sight of him is irrefutable proof of this.

- "Even if you keep the same appearance I'm not likely to confuse you two, Elise," the man then declares, smiling gently at you as the tears begin to roll down your cheeks unstoppably. "I'll always be able to recognize the woman who once saved my life," he adds as he looks at you, soothingly.

- "And I'm happy to have been able to save you in turn, and thus repay part of the debt I owe you," he finally finishes, addressing you directly, wiping away your tears with a handkerchief.

Fukuzawa

- You were no stranger to that exhilarating yet excruciating sensation. That of being drawn to something you knew almost nothing about.

- Reminiscences of your past lives, pushing you irresistibly towards the unknown; which is exactly what was happening to you at this very moment, as you crossed the streets of Yokohama, with incredible ease for someone who had never set foot in this city... At least in this lifetime.

- There was no doubt, as you felt this deep sense of nostalgia, that Yokohama was a place that had been dear to you at one time or another.

- Your steps finally finished guiding you on their own, leaving you in front of a building, perplexed, which you hesitated to enter.

- But you wanted to get to the end of your wandering and diffuse memories, so you continued on regardless, entering the building, which had a café on the first floor.

- Trusting your instincts once again, you made your way up the various floors, until you came to one of them, in front of a closed door, through which snatches of conversation were escaping.

- You knocked, waited a few moments, before a young man with cropped silver hair came to open the door, a gentle smile on his lips.

- "Hello, Mademoiselle, welcome to the Armed Detective Agency! Come in, we'll listen to your request."

- Without really understanding, once again, you followed him for a few steps, before stopping dead in your tracks, in the middle of an office teeming with life (except perhaps from a certain brown-haired man covered in bandages who was sleeping peacefully on his desk). Ignoring the questioning calls of your guide, who was surely waiting for you to follow him into the customer areas, you observed the office, slowly passing your gaze over every detail.

- You had been here before. And now your instincts were screaming at you to head for one door in particular, located at the far end of the room. Which you did, at least until someone got in your way: a blond, rather tall man with glasses, which he pulled up with a deft gesture.

- "I'm sorry, miss, but this part of the Agency is not open to the public."

- Still silent, unable to know what you might say in this kind of situation anyway, you tried to get around the man, who interposed himself again.

- The tone was about to rise slightly, you could feel it. At least, until a voice that sounded strangely familiar intervened: "Let her pass Kunikida. Don't worry, I know what I'm doing", he added, seeing the look on Kunikida's face.

- The man who had just spoken was none other than a young, dark-haired man with crinkled eyes and a cap on his head.

- Bowing slightly to thank him, you were able to continue on your way, passing through the famous door that was off-limits to the public, which led you straight to a door, on which you knocked lightly, hearing an affirmative answer authorizing you to enter, which you did the next second.

- Behind a desk covered with files, a silver-haired man dressed in a kimono and haori. Who looked up from his work when he realized you still had not uttered a single word.

- Only to stop dead in his tracks as he recognized you, despite the tears streaming freely down your cheeks. You were the one who had saved him in the past, preventing him from going to war and losing his humanity forever. He had so much to tell you, so many excuses to thank you... But he had never been able to express them, and never thought he would be able to, sure he would never be able to see you again, because of your random power.

- Then he got up and came over to hug you, as if his life depended on it... Which, to tell the truth, it did.

- Even if a certain squinty-eyed young man was not pleased, as he was currently munching on a sweet with a distinctly jealous pout. Which did not stop him from explaining the reason for his decision to his bespectacled colleague.

- "This young lady, my dear Kunikida... Is none other than the original founder of our Agency. Well, more or less," Ranpo declared, watching the eyes of all his colleagues widen in incomprehension.

- "But... She's much too young to have done something like that, isn't she...? It's impossible," interjected Atsushi, completely lost, just like his comrades.

- Except for a certain Ranpo, who, with a smirk, replied : "the impossible is always possible in a world governed by supernatural powers, don't you think?

And that's it for today! Requests are still open, of course, so do not hesitate ~

Kisses 😘

#bsd #bungou stray dogs #anime #fluff #bsd headcanons #fukuzawa x reader #fukuzawa yukichi #mori x reader #mori ougai

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mikeyisbrooklyn · 5 months ago

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Huh, this is gonna be my first chapter of Why We Can’t Have Nice Things that I didn’t already post on Tumblr before I started uploading onto AO3.

Well that just won’t do… hmm it won’t be as organized as the other three but I may as well spoil the Tumblr peeps before I officially post it.

(Warning: this is the final rough draft before the actual final draft that gets posted on AO3 in a few hours.)

Why We Can’t Have Nice Things (4)

Price regretted vocalizing how much he missed paperwork. He knew he would be behind upon his return, but as he limped into his office, he had two stacks of papers so high it swayed in response to any nearby movement. And this was apparently the leftovers after Simon tried to keep it from building up in his absence.

“Glad to ‘ave you back.” Simon grunted, as he held Price’s office door open for him. The warmth in Simon’s voice would be imperceptible to anyone else, but Price caught it. “Don’t croak anytime soon, I don’t want to even think about all this red tape you work with again, let alone handle it.”

“Not so easy being Captain, is it?” Price joked back as he went to sit in his chair slowly.

“That’s why they pay you the big bucks.”

Price let out a single rueful chuckle, knowing how untrue that was—at least, compared with all the shit he had to clean up. Speaking of, he had work to do…

He managed to be both the last to arrive and the first to exit the small party celebrating his return from leave. No one, except McTavish, was thick enough to try to keep him longer—but even the Scot let him slide away after seeing the look of pure exhaustion in Price’s eyes. He didn’t even get half of what he wanted to get done and Price knew that with each day back the more would pile on. That was the nature of the job, even if he couldn’t hit the field, the fight never ends. Price half-heartedly shambled to his room for the first time since getting back to base—not even having entered the room upon arriving with Gaz offering to take his things there for him—and laid down in his bed without even disrobing in a paltry attempt to sleep.

Though being fully clothed didn’t help, the real ailment that kept his eyes was the nagging voice in the back of his head. The one telling him how far behind he already was and would continue to be if he didn’t shape up. It didn’t matter that it was only his first day back, it didn’t matter that if it were any of the 141 or anyone else he would call them mad for thinking they could fill a two month gap in a day, it didn’t matter that he was specifically put on desk duty to not exert himself. All Price could hear in his head was how everyone’s tone with him since his injury had skated on caution, and all he could see were the carefully formed faces of professional soldiers that he could still clock as worried when they didn’t think he was looking.

*Liability*

Price shot up in bed so fast he thought he might get nauseous. Again. That’s been happening too much. He shook his head and ignored the brief pain of getting up on his leg too fast. Price knew he ought to get some rest, but he also hated being behind more than he hated being tired; despite his better judgment, Price slunk back to his office as the dusk turned to twilight.

The rising sun tried and failed to shine a light into Price’s office, as it was blocked from window entry by his drawn curtains. Price sprung up from his desk with a shout at the knock from his door; and if the top sheet from a stack of paperwork was stuck to his face as he did, then that was between him and his maker.

“John?” Nik’s smooth baritone seeped through the door and its vivacity made its way into Price’s very being even with the distance. Or, it tried to anyway, as when the warmth started coursing through him, it was as quickly flushed out by…guilt? Embarrassment? “Mishka, I know you’re in there. Are you alright?”

Damn it all to Hell, there was that cursed worry in Nik’s voice. Price hadn’t even done anything. Had he? He mumbled a half-hearted affirmation that he was coming.

The moment the door was open wide enough, Nik’s arms were around Price. Price stiffened and quickly forced himself to relax, but Nik noticed all the same.

“Mishka?” Deep brown eyes analyzed him, and then, “you did not sleep last night.”

It wasn’t a question. He just knew, Nik always knew when Price wasn’t taking good care of himself. And he was always there to rectify that. When the captain skipped a meal in favor of picking apart intel, Nik conveniently brought servings for two when he came around. Many a night would Price be found with a blanket and neck pillow whilst he slept on his desk if not for the Russian guard dog waiting patiently nearby. The crick in Price’s neck right this instant tells him he would’ve appreciated that act more than ever last night, but Nik was on a mission. In fact…

“Nik. What happened to Amsterdam?” Price deflected. There was no point in lying to Nik, but that didn’t mean Price had to acknowledge his dissecting gaze.

“Nothing. This is simply pit stop.” Nik retorted. “I wanted to see you. I’ve done this many times.” There was a tension in his voice. Not quite arguing, but very much so challenging Price to misstep. Price knew that, yet again, Nik was right. The pilot had made it a habit to visit the base mid-mission and Price never complained about the company. He wasn’t now either, but even he caught the edge in his own voice; as if he was trying to rush Nik off or…or didn’t want Nik there.

Fuck. That’s—that’s not true. Right?

“John?”

Fuck. Price was spiraling again. “Ah, yea, ‘m sorry.” He grabbed the back of his neck and futilely started on the crick in his neck. He stood still for a second—two, three—too long before moving aside. “Come in.”

Nik hesitated and eyed him. Then he eased his stance, something that almost looked casual—if Price couldn’t see just how clinical and forced it was. “Hm, I was hoping to share breakfast, while I have time away from mission. Off the base, of course. I’m sure you have not fed yourself, da?”

Price frowned and crossed his arms. So was this what they were doing? Relaxed stance or not, Price knew this was a standoff—not even mentioning the subtle dig at his ability to take care of himself. He’d had dinner, and a quick glance to the clock showed that it was hardly past 0800, so it wasn’t absurd that he hadn’t had breakfast yet. He wasn’t a lia—*urk*, he fought what felt like rising bile at the bottom of his throat and internally shook it off. The point was, he could feed his damn self. But if he said as much, it’d definitely come across as petulant whining. No, no he would not play into Nik’s hand so easily. Instead,

“Nah, ‘aven’t but it’s cause I was gonna eat with the boys. Planned to make an appearance at the caf, ya know, keep morale up.” He lied through his teeth. Price would stay in his office for days on end if no one came to grab his arse. And Nik knew that too, showing as much with his singular raised eyebrow.

“Oh? Then I can join you.”

“Sure you wanna spend however little time ya got eating the slop they call food ‘ere?”

“You forget who you speak to, rodnoy. I have lived off of nothing but the grubs from the earth, I handle ‘slop’ just fine.” With that, Nik looped his arm around Price’s waist and suddenly and swiftly pulled the man out of the office doorway and against Nik’s side.

Though a small part of Price enjoyed being manhandled just a little, he could tell it was also a way to end the conversation. He was familiar with Nik’s tricks after so long—the way the Russian would use his strength and suavity to poke at each of Price’s weak points with the precision of a sniper. Normally, Price took the usage of those tricks as a sign he needed to relax—trusting Nik’s judgment above all else, but right this instant something ugly flared inside him and caused him to pull away from Nik. The moment he did it felt like something not only in his core but something in the center of the earth ***broke***. As if the very balance of the universe was thrown off. It crushed more than that damned rubble.

In response, Nik froze and several dozen emotions ran across his features. A twitch downward from where his lips meet his right cheek, a scrunching of the space between his eyebrows, and his eyes—God, it was *always* his eyes wasn’t it—taking on a fire deep in their brown like embers in a forest moments from going ablaze. “Wh—“

Price forcefully aborts whatever Nik is about to say by grabbing his hand and moving back into the pilot’s space—though not as close as before. “Sorry, sorry, still waking up. Los’ my balance.” It was some of his worst work to date, but it felt impossible to lie to Nik. It’s why he couldn’t meet his eyes when the fib left his mouth, instead busying himself with closing his office door behind him. “Lessgo.” He grunted, pulling Nik along the hallway without another word. Thankfully, Nik didn’t give him a taste of his medicine and pull back; the holes being drilled in the back of Price’s head could be ignored for now.

To Nik’s credit, his eyes never left Price, even through the attempted conversation—if you could count Nik not-so-subtly probing Price for what was wrong under the guise of causal interest and Price’s increasingly brusque, noncommittal grunts in response as *conversation*. Those eyes were so sharp and scrutinizing that Price was starting to feel like he was about to get sick, ruining his appetite, but something else—something that felt just like that flare from moments ago—started festering, too. Was it indignation? Enmity? Rancor? No, no it couldn’t be, he’d never feel that way at or about Nik. He just wished those damn eyes would stop studying him. Stop waiting for him to—to what? Prove him right, was that it? Price wasn’t stupid, he knew Nik didn’t want him to be in such a hurry to get off leave. He knew Nik had all but begged Price to take it as an opportunity to take a “much needed break”. He remembered the arguments that ended in soft cuddling and quiet assurances, and it’s in his memory he recalls that this *feeling* at the pit of his stomach stuck with him even after the heated debates died. ‘Cause this wasn’t a fluke, this was a developing pattern. Price would try to maintain or regain some sense of normalcy and Nik would swoop in and take the reins. It was never malicious, more like a father keeping his son from touching a hot stove, but Price wasn’t a damn child. He wasn’t a damn liab—

Price thanked a god he didn’t pray to that a few sergeants came over to bother him as he felt bile slowly rising to the middle of his throat. In fact, he used them as an excuse to cut breakfast short, much to Nik’s chagrin.

“But you are not finished!” The Russian stood up as Price was already walking his tray to a nearby trash can.

“Sorry, the boys need me. I’ll make it up to you later. Good luck on the rest of yer mission.” And Price didn’t even give Nik a chance to respond as he left him standing there without so much as a look back, which caused him to miss the slightest quiver in Nik’s bottom lip.

The following weeks were more or less uneventful, at least, relatively. On desk duty, Price didn’t get to live out the eventful days, he only got to read about them in the paperwork he was about ready to go mental over. Every pile he managed to get done, another two would appear. Luckily, he was able to at least lead trainings and spars, even if he couldn’t participate.

There was also the constant, nagging, sick feeling at the pit of his stomach, getting worse with each time he blew Nik off. Truly, if whatever the hell this feeling was didn’t kill Price, the increasing guilt might. Nik certainly didn’t spend his every waking moment on base with the 141, typically only there for a safe and familiar place to do repairs or the occasional invite or visit, but it seemed like lately every chance the pilot had away from Chimera or any other dealings saw him present. And more importantly, looking to spend time with Price.

Surprise gym sessions. Nice romantic dinners. Invites out to private, scenic walks or long drives. Even a planned helo trip as a “spontaneous adventure that doubled as a relaxing holiday”. All of which Price found excuse after excuse to turn down or bail out of part way through. At first, he made an attempt to seem deeply conflicted but as time went on his excuses got limper and his defenses more meek.

The truth was, Price *was* conflicted just not in a way he could genuinely express. It was as if every waking moment Nik and those piercing eyes, analyzing his every step, made him anxious and frayed his nerves. And John Price doesn’t ***do*** anxious. Watching Nik watch him like a hawk was worse than being pinned down with heavy fire and nothing but your bare hands—at least then Price knows no matter he does he’s got to fight his way out or die trying. But this? Nik threw Price off his rhythm, he made Price a kind of vulnerable and open he had made extra sure to never be. And at the onset of the relationship—their *romantic* relationship, Price knew it meant opening up more and Nik was a patient man. More so than Price deserved, he knew that much. Slowly and surely, Nik was able to peel back the layers and break down the walls and Price was actually relieved to have something with someone where he didn’t feel this incessant need to *be* anything. Or to perform or have it all together. It was just him and Nik and it was simple and now…now it’s not.

Because Nik thinks Price fragile—knows he’s breakable, because Nik can tell Price is slowing down and getting himself hurt in stupid ways he should be better than. That’s why Price knows Nik is really always around now to keep a close eye on him, covering it with a saccharine veneer of romance and chivalry—not that Nik didn’t do those thoughtful things all the time but…but this is different. Price knows it is, it’s what the feeling in the pit of his stomach tells him. It’s what the bile slowly climbing to the top of his throat assures him. It’s not Nik’s fault, he’s just trying to protect Price’s dumbass from getting himself hurt again. Nik’s just trying to be the fixer he always has been, the fixer Price could always rely on, the fixer Price now needed. But Price knows that he’s the one thing Nik can’t fix, because he’s not a problem that’s solvable; Price is a liability, plain and simple.

And telling himself that over and over doesn’t make it any easier to get off his knees in front the toilet one night while the moon reaches its peak, nor does launching what little food he’s eaten recently into it ease the bile that’s burning his esophagus.

Price is pretending he didn’t spend far too many hours sobbing, clutched to a shitter like a teen who just reached the worst part of his first binge, the next morning while watching gaggles of rookies do laps when his luck—if one could call it that—runs out.

“Jonathan.” Normally, when the Russian man said his name, it was with mirth or some degree of panic considering the circumstances of their employment. But right now, Nik’s voice carried a gruffness only matched by Price himself, sounding all the more imposing thanks to his size.

Price turned to see Nik walking towards him with a determined glare and steady swagger. A spike of cold rushed down Price’s spine as he not-so-subtly looked for a way out. It was too late to pretend he hadn’t heard his approaching partner, he had already turned in his direction. He couldn’t conjure up some “incredibly important” captain’s business as he had just admitted to the now preoccupied rookies that he was free if needed; he had the feeling Nik heard that. And if he outright ran away, he wasn’t actually sure Nik wouldn’t just chase him down.

That final thought had heat pooling in his gut. Dammit, now isn’t the time for his dick to make his internal conflict worse.

In all of Price’s catastrophzing, Nik had gotten closer and closer, until finally being a breath away from him. Somehow, in this open field, he felt more trapped than when he was under that rubble.

“What is wrong?” Nik sounded like a man trying to keep the worry out of his voice, far too clinical to be believably neutral. “Are you hurt and do not want me to see? Is there something I have done? Something I have not?”

“Not sure what the hell you’re talking about.” Price, unfortunately, also did a terrible job at acting indifferent. There couldn’t be a clearer sign that they ought to simply speak plainly, but John Price never did simple when it came to matters of the heart.

“Jonathan.” Nik all but growled, more desperate than angry.

“Stop saying my name like you’re my bloody father.”

Nik frowned in confusion and exasperation. “Why will you not answer the question? I know something is wrong.”

Price dragged a hand down his face and let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding as he turned towards the dying grass. “Nik, just drop it.”

“Nyet. You have been…” Nik seemed to weigh the words in his mouth before continuing, “off for weeks now, Jonathan. I have waited for you to tell me what ails you in your own time, but the more time goes by, the more… the more you pull away.”

Price did all he could not to freeze as if caught with his hand in a cookie jar. He would not admit how he failed at this. “Nik…Nik, I—no, I’m just still playing catch up. And even then, I’m always busy.” He hardly finished speaking before Nik cursed in Russian, something Price vaguely recognized as an exclamation of disbelief. Bullshit.

“Are you so busy, Captain,” Nik continued, something like venom at the back of his throat upon using Price’s title. “That you cannot spare a glance at meals, or even attend them—or anything I plan to do with you—at all? That you have not spoke more than a single sentence to me beyond niceties?”

Price knew he was wrong, hell, he knew in Nik’s shoes he might even have been twice as vindictive about it. But still, that feeling in the pit of his gut turned into some awful beast inside him—the bile reaching the top of his throat and coming out in form of words he didn’t mean. “Are you daft? Go ask any of my men, if it’s not training or op prep or bullshit paperwork, it’s damn near impossible to get a second in with me. Think you’re meant to be special?” Price regretted those cruel words as soon as they left his mouth. It only got worse when he watched Nik’s face shift; gone was the frustrated but desperate look of a man reaching out—throwing a Hail Mary, now what sat on the larger man’s face was pure detachment.

“Yes, that is what most men think when they share a bed. My apologies, Captain,” The words left Nik’s mouth colder than a tundra. “ I will leave you to your busy schedule.” With that, Nik turned and left. Catching up to him wouldn’t be hard. Screaming his name, or even an apology would be easier.

But Price instead stood there, speechless, hating himself more than he had ever before. He promised himself he would do better, that he wouldn’t *ruin Nik*. That’s what he was doing, right? So why…why did it feel like he couldn’t have gotten it more wrong?

#nikprice #cod nikolai #captain john price #handwritten by a lost boy #baby’s first fanfic #cod #cod mw2 #simon ghost riley #cod mw3

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welldonebeca · 2 months ago

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Happier Than Ever - Year 15: young people fall in love with the wrong people sometimes (1/7)

Summary: There’s only so much someone can take before snapping. Fifteen years is a long time to be patient. Luna knows that well; Warnings: Angst. Tension. Some fluff, kids, domestic fluff. Toxic relationships.

masterlist

Previous chapter: Year 10 (Part 3/3)

First chapter: Year 0 (Part ½)

Luna ran her first finger down the pretty little button nose of the beautiful baby girl in her arms, and she couldn’t help laughing a little when she chased it with her pouting little lips.

Juniper, like the little nickname she always played with her little sister.

And oh, wasn’t Juni the littlest of all little sisters? The only girl her nine brothers who would undoubtedly spoil her, cuddle her, protect her, and play with her to their hearts’ content.

Her last one, her last baby.

And maybe she had said it with with Sweetie, and Sammy, and Lex, and Blue, and Dash. But she was her last one – the doctor had been merciful to her during the c-section and made she wouldn't ever need worry about pregnancy again, and Cato wasn’t there to protest and even know.

How poetic that her final baby was the daughter she had longed for her whole life – the daughter she had convinced herself she would never have.

It had hurt, of course — the pregnancy, the birth, all of it. Her body had struggled. Her uterus was so fragile they were afraid she wouldn’t be able to give birth naturally without a rupture. They weren’t even sure she’d be able to carry Juni to term – by the 34th week, she’d been confined to strict bedrest. The doctor called it ‘as thin as a paper sheet’.

It was terrifying.

But Juni was here, and she was utterly and simply perfect.

Nine full weeks today, her girl.

“You are so beautiful,” Luna cooed.

Oh, she was indeed.

Juni had her hair, brown and pin straight – so far, at least – the first one of her children to do so.

After nine blonde boys, someone looked like her, at last.

And, of, she was so beautifully chubby, and so tall already, with those healthy rolls and chubby cheeks. The doctors had worried very needlessly about her, she was a healthy girl, growing just like she should. She was perfect.

“Mama,” came the tiny, eager voice. “Is she wake?”

Luna turned to the door to the corridor, and Dash looked so excited as he waited by the door with the nanny. His blue eyes were wide with wonder, and his little hands opened and closed again and again, as if holding himself back with every ounce of willpower he had in his little body.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the nanny apologised, stepping just inside. “But Odysseus wouldn’t stop asking about the baby.”

Luna laughed softly, her gaze shifting to her sweet boy — her youngest boy, just a few days past two and a half. But Odysseus was such a big name for someone so small and tender. No, to her, he was her Dash.

“Come here,” she beckoned gently, holding out her hand. “She just woke up. But no running.”

Dash nodded solemnly, his tiny legs carrying him toward her with careful, measured steps. His excitement was written all over his face, his cheeks pink, his little body practically trembling with eagerness.

He’d been so proud to become a big brother. Why wouldn’t he be? He had so many older brothers to look up to—so many to teach him how to be one. She was sure all he could think about was how to follow their example for little Juni.

“She is so pretty!” he squeaked as he reached her side, peering at the bundle in her arms. “She looks like you!”

Luna’s heart melted. She reached out to gently brush his blond hair back from his face. He had a little bit of her, she could see, even it most people only saw his father in him.

“Do you think so?” she asked with a soft smile.

Dash nodded intensely, his eyes never leaving the baby.

“Yeah! Her hair is brown, like yours!” he stood on his tiptoes, trying to get a better look. “Can I hold her, mama? Please?”

Luna chuckled softly, softening.

“Not yet, Dash. She’s still very small,” she reminded him. “But you can sit next to me and see her up close.”

Dash’s grin spread wide across his face, and the nanny helped him come sit on the space by her side in the large, and her boy leaned as close as he possibly could to the baby in her arm.

“Hi, baby,” he whispered. “It’s Dash. I’m your big brother!”

She couldn’t help smiling. Yes, he said that every time – to her belly, to Juni when she came home, and every morning and night he came to say hello to her.

“She knows, baby,” Luna caressed her hair. “She remembers you.”

Dash’s eyes widened, lighting up.

“She does?” he asked. “But does she know I’ll protect her?”

Luna leaned in, kissing his temple.

“I’m sure she does,” she assured him.

But, of course, the moment of calm didn’t last. Luna barely had a second to enjoy the quiet before a commotion broke out downstairs, the raised voices echoed through the house, cutting through her peace like a blade, and she exchanged a quick glance with the nanny before standing, her heart sinking.

“Mama?” Dash asked, sounding worried.

Luna softened her expression for him, placing a gentle hand on his cheek.

“I’ll be back,” she told him. “And Miss Anna is going to help you play with Juni, okay?”

The nanny nodded quickly, taking Juniper, and Luna tried not to wince in pain when she felt the old back ache she got for weeks after birth for the last five years. She braced herself with one hand against the wall as she made her way down the stairs, taking one step at a time, sore, still working on her balance.

But the shouting only grew louder as she descended. By the time she reached the second set of stairs, Luna could clearly make out at least three voices mixing together in anger, the harsh tone of a fight brewing already.

Prince and Hunter were in another screaming match with their father.

The boys were growing up — too fast, honestly. Prince was fourteen already, his voice had deepened and he was getting taller than her, and Hunter, at thirteen, nearly exactly one year younger, wasn’t far behind. And their temper wasn’t too different from Cato’s.

As she reached the last step, her worst guess was confirmed. Cato had his hand on Prince’s face, gripping his chin tightly with his fingers digging into the skin of his cheeks, forcing her boy to look up at him, his eyes burning in fury and his knuckles white.

“You wash your fucking mouth before you speak like that to me,” Cato growled, his voice low, seething with barely controlled rage.”I’m your father, I’m not one of your bitches.”

Luna’s stomach dropped and her blood boiled as Prince’s jaw tightened, his blue eyes full of defiance and fear, and Hunter stood right near him, his fists clenched, his face pale but his stance protective, as if ready to jump in at any moment.

“What do you think you are doing?” she screamed, not even able to keep her voice straight.

All three of them froze at her words.

Cato turned first, his grip on Prince’s face loosening slightly but not falling away entirely, and his gaze met hers, hard, and he wavered with surprise.

“Luna,” he began, his voice low, as if trying to control the situation.

She didn’t let him even try.

“Let. Him. Go,” she commanded, her voice cold.

Archie was frozen behind Ted, his big brother outrightly protecting him with his body, and the sight of it made her taste bitter on the back of her mouth.

Cato hesitated for a moment before finally releasing Prince, his hand dropping to his side, and Prince immediately took a step back, his chest heaving as he rubbed at his cheeks, his angry eyes shifting to the floor, and Hunter stepped closer to his brother, his fists still tight but his expression softening as his eyes moved from Cato to her.

Luna walked to him in hard steps, ignoring them pain as she put herself between him and her boys.

“What the hell is going on?”

They all made silence for a moment, Cato staring right over her shoulder at the boys.

“He-” Prince started.

“Don’t,” Cato interrupted sharply, cutting him off.

“Don’t what? Let him speak?” she glared back at him. “Get into the kitchen.”

Cato squared her up, visibly swallowing his frustration and she stepped closer, firmer.

“Get. Into. The kitchen,” she repeated.

Finally, he broke the stand-off, storming off into the kitchen. Luna waited, watching his retreat before turning to the boys.

“Are you alright?” she asked, reaching for Prince’s chin carefully.

It was a little red, but nothing that would bruise.

Prince nodded stiffly, his pride clearly hurt, and Hunter gave her a little nod as well, his fists finally unclenching as he glanced toward his older brother.

“You…” she said, looking at Hunter and the other boys, “go. I’ll figure what got into your father.”

Prince’s jaw tightened, his voice low with bitter anger.

“He’s just being himself.”

Without waiting, he stormed off, Hunter trailing after him. Luna turned her attention to the younger boys, Ted and Archie, who had been silent witnesses to the scene.

“You two, upstairs,” she instructed firmly. “Homework. Now.”

They exchanged a nervous glance but didn’t argue, quickly retreating up the stairs.

Luna sighed as she moved her hand down, her skin just feeling overstretched over her scar, holding the spot as if it would change anything as he walked to the kitchen.

Cato was standing by the counter, his face twisted in anger, like a sulking child.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” she slammed the kitchen door behind her, the sound echoing like a thunderclap. “How dare you?”

To touch Prince like that? Grab him?!

He could have hurt him!

“He was disrespecting me!” Cato roared back, his finger jabbing the air. “That little shit disrespected me in front of Brutus not even an hour ago. And if you hadn’t come down here and made a goddamn scene, I’d have taught him the lesson he’s been needing for a long time!”

Her blood boiled.

“You don’t get to talk about my son like that.”

“He’s my son too!” Cato shot back, his voice rising. “I’ll teach him however I see fit!”

Luna’s eyes narrowed, her voice dropping to a deadly calm.

“You can teach your students however you want. Your little tributes. But this is my house. Those are my sons.”

She wasn’t going to let him walk all over the boys, and she wasn’t going to let him treat them like fucking punchbags.

“They’re spoiled brats because of you! You coddle them, and now they think they can run their mouths at me!”

“They are the only reason I haven’t packed up and left you,” she threw back, louder than him. “And you’d do damn well to remember that.”

Cato’s nostrils flared, his jaw clenching as he took a step toward her, his voice low, almost pleading.

“Luna, we just had a baby,” he said, reaching out to touch her arm.”Don’t-”

But she stepped back.

“And that only means I was stupid for one night eleven months ago. Don’t you try to change the subject.”

She hated him. She absolutely hated him. And worse, she hated how he still knew how to bend if he worked hard enough, how to soften her. And maybe she’d made that mistake of letting him back closer to her dropping her guard and taking what he gave her, but every time she let him an inch close he proved why he was kept so far away. And they were damn good reminders.

His jaw tightened again and the flicker of softness in his face vanished, replaced by anger.

“You don’t get to talk to me like that,” he hissed, his finger pointing at her. “That’s exactly why those boys don’t respect me — because you don’t.”

“I will talk to you however the hell I want,” she shot back. “And if you want to grab and fight someone, go find someone your size. Not a child.”

“They’re my boys too!” he shouted, his voice rising to match hers.

Cato’s nostrils flared, and for a moment, she thought he might explode, but instead, he laughed bitterly, shaking his head.

“You really think you’re some kind of saint, don’t you? Keeping this house together with your self-righteousness while I’m out there doing everything for this family—”

It her turn to want to laugh.

“Everything?” Luna interrupted, her voice sharp and cutting. She took a step closer, to him, and Cato took one back. “You think throwing money at us and stomping around this house like a tyrant is ‘everything’? You think being feared by your own children makes you a father? You’re not doing this family any favours.”

His jaw tightened, his hands flexing at his sides.

“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” he spat.

“I know enough to keep my children from you,” Luna snapped, her voice colder now, the heat in her anger simmering in her belly. “You think you’re the man of this house? Then act like one. Because right now, all I see is a bully who can’t handle being challenged by a fourteen-year-old boy.”

The room fell into silence, and Cato stared at her, his chest rising and falling as if he were trying to find the words to fight back, but none came.

“If you ever, ever, put your hands on them like that again, I swear on my own name, Cato, you won’t have hands to touch them with anymore.”

“You wouldn’t do it,” he snickered back.

She didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink.

“Test me,” she said. “I dare you.”

There was a little voice right in the back of her mind for a long time, waiting for a reason – wanting for any reason.

If he was giving them out so freely now… well, she wouldn’t think twice.

She turned to leave, ready to put distance between them, when his voice cut through the silence between them.

“I’m leaving for the Capitol,” he announced flatly. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

She didn’t stop walking, her reply as cold and dismissive as ice.

“Don’t rush it.”

But before she could take another step, his hand shot out, gripping her arm like a vice and yanking her back toward him. The sudden force pulled her closer than she wanted to be — closer than she ever wanted to be again. His face hovered above hers, sharp and shadowed, his breath hot against her cheek.

Luna froze, her pulse pounding in her ears as she tried to keep her expression steady, unreadable. But her body betrayed her — a shudder ran through her, not from desire, not from anything even resembling that, but from raw, bone-deep fear. And she was right back to the reason she put so much distance between them in the last five years.

Cato’s lips curled into a thin, cruel smile. His eyes, cold and unfeeling, dug into hers, as if daring her to flinch.

“And I don’t get a goodbye kiss?”

Luna’s jaw tightened, her throat dry. She forced herself to breathe through the panic clawing at her chest. She rose onto her tiptoes slowly, her movements stiff and mechanical, and pressed her lips to his in the coldest, most lifeless kiss she could muster.

It was stiff. Dry. A kiss that felt like anything but an act of affection when she touched his hardened lips with her own..

But it was.

It was intimation, his speciality.

Cato was the one who finally let her go, stepping back as though he had already won, and Luna stayed frozen as he left the kitchen, her hands trembling as she smoothed down her dress, steadying her breath.

“Mum?”

The voice startled her, and Luna’s head whipped toward the sound, everything in her still ready to run away.

The kitchen door creaked open fully, and there stood Prince, his light eyebrows furrowed in a deep frown, confusion and anger mixing in his eyes.

“What was that?” he asked, light eyebrows joined in a frown, confused.

She stared at him, confused for a moment, still stiff, her pain flaring up again.

She needed to sit down.

“After what you saw? After what you said!?” Prince pressed, stepping closer. His voice was rising, his teenage indignation sharper than any blade.

Luna sighed.

Prince was 14. The world was black and white in his mind, everything was one thing or the other. There was no grey in his mind, no room for the nuances adulthood forced them all into.

“He screams at us! He… he breaks thing! He broke my door twice!” her oldest list. “He scares the boys!”

Luna closed her eyes. He did. And he scared her as well.

But Prince didn’t know that, did he? He never got to see it, she was good at covering it up, she was good at pretending the intimidation tactics never got to her, at wearing those big sleeves and the good make-up when she pushed him too far, and how many of her smiles were as practised as Cato’s own now.

She had always been good at knowing when to fight back and when to fold, at knowing where the line was and how not to cross it. She was good at surviving him and keeping from going through that.

And maybe that was what she hated most of all in herself.

“And you… kiss him?” Prince asked, his cheeks red. “You… you just… kissed him!”

“It’s complicated,” she said simply.

Because it was.

Because she wanted to leave, but where would she go? How would she keep them, how would she feed them?

But where would she go? How would she keep them fed, safe, protected? What judge would grant her custody of all nine boys and her girl, when Cato had money, connections, and a reputation that masked the tyrant they had to watch and live?

“You threatened him!” Prince’s voice broke again, raw with disbelief. “And then, in the same room, you kissed him!”

His words stung more than they should have.

Luna’s chest ached as she looked at her son, too young to understand how deeply the world could cut, how it could pin you in a corner and dare you to find a way out.

Her lips parted, but no words came.

How could she explain half of it to him?

“I’m doing the best I can,” she decided, finally. “And sometimes, the best I can...”

She didn’t finish the phrase. Sometimes the best she could was a kiss, or a night, or any distractions that would keep him thinking he had the upper-hand.

But Prince stared at her, his face twisted in pure disgust, outrage covering his boyish features like an endless fire.

“I hate him!” he declared, his hands curled into tight fists at his sides. His voice was trembling, not with fear, but with the sheer weight of his fury. “When I grow up, I’m going to leave! And I’m taking everyone with me!”

Luna’s breath hitched, her heart clenching.

Oh, her sweet boy.

“Don’t speak like that,” she whispered, her voice cracking for a moment as her throat tightened.

“I will!” he shot back, his voice shaking with how much determination he was putting on it. “I’ll win the Games, and they’re all going to come with me. We’ll live in grandma’s city, and if you want to stay with him, then you can stay all alone!”

The words struck her like a blow, cutting deeper than anything Cato had ever said or done.

Luna’s eyes filled with tears, a hot, the pressure threatening to spill over. The thought of being without them — without her babies — was unbearable. She would die before she stayed a single day away from them.

She reached for him, pulling him close, her arms wrapping around his thin frame. When had he grown so tall? How was he already taller than her at just fourteen?

“You don’t mean that,” she whispered desperately, her voice trembling as she held him tighter. “You—”

“I do!” he snapped.

Luna pulled back, her hands cupping his flushed cheeks, her thumbs brushing the anger off his skin as if she could soothe him. As if she could somehow make him see.

“You’re a child,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “You don’t understand—”

“I understand enough!” Prince interrupted, his eyes fiery. “And if you want to stay, you stay. But I’m not staying. I don’t care what I have to do, but I’m not gonna live like this!”

Before Luna could say anything more, Prince stepped away from her, his movements sharp and deliberate, and turned around. She reached for him again, but he was already walking away.

And then he was gone, leaving her standing alone in the kitchen, the weight of his words pressing down on her like an elefant.

She covered her face with a hand, leaning into the counter, exhaling.

God.

Luna didn’t see him through the day after that. Prince, Hunter and Ted went off to their afternoon training, and she helped Ted and then Sweetie with their homeworks, and checked what Blue had brought to finish at home – his class was learning letters now, he had to paint the vowels, even though he could already read in the same level of Lex and even Sammy.

She asked the cook to make Prince’s favourite for dinner – salmon with passion fruit sauce, and green salad with all the garnishing he loved. Luna made sure to be the one to serve everyone as they sat in the kitchen, one by one of the boy – even Dash, who just needed a little bit of help with cutting things up, but it was fine. Still, the kitchen was quiet as she did, and he didn’t meet her eyes as she put his plate down.

“Your father is at the Capitol now,” she told the boys. “He said he’s returning tomorrow, but you know how he sometimes gets caught up with work.”

Work, it was what she called. His time was bought with all things possible, to be spent entertaining people however they wished.

She pitied Cato in that small, hollow part of her heart she wished didn’t exist. She hated him, yes — hated him for the way his pain turned into anger, and his anger turned into bruises on walls and doors and skin — but she pitied him too. He had no control over his life, his body, his choices. He’d long since traded them all away, a pawn for the Capitol’s whims. And though he might have earned his victories long ago, he’d never truly escaped the Games. Not really.

And Luna... loved him, a little, in a way. No more than she hated him, now, no, because he never let himself be helped, or shared, or did more than let his resentment pile until it spilled over on them – and the boys wouldn’t even understand why! They could never understand why, because they were children, and they shouldn’t know those things.

She loved the person he used to be. She mourned him a little bit more every day.

“And how was training today?” she asked, her voice purposefully bright, as she forced herself to look up at them.

Hunter was the one to answer, lighting up in excitement;

“I almost got the eye with my arrows!” he told her, very excited. “But Ted tried to show off again, and the instructor made him do twenty extra laps.”

Ted scowled, poking at his salad with disdain.

“I wasn’t showing off. I just—”

“You tripped and fell trying to jump that wall,” Hunter cut in with a smirk, never one to ever wait.

“I didn’t trip!” Ted snapped, his cheeks turning red.

“You always trip,” Archie spoke up. “You’re clumsy!”

Ted blushed more, and Luna touched his cheek softly.

“I’m a little clumsy too,” she told him. “It’s fine.”

She glanced at Prince, hoping he’d join in the teasing or at least crack a smile. But he remained silent, eating mechanically, his eyes just on his plate.

“And what about you, Prince?” she asked gently, trying to draw him out.

He paused, his fork hovering over his plate, before finally answering in a clipped tone.

“Fine.”

Just one word, cold and distant, and it cut through her like a knife.

She wanted to reach for him, to ask him more, but the hard set of his jaw and the way he refused to look at her made her hesitate.

Instead, she turned to Blue, ruffling his messy hair with a warm smile.

“And what about my blue boy? What did you do today?”

Her blue boy — lover of all things blue. Blue was the reason they had blueberry bushes in the backyard now.

“I painted all the vowels today! The ‘O’ is my favourite ‘cause it’s round like Dash’s face and he looks like an O!”

Dash lit up, his small hands flying to his cheeks.

“I do?” he squealed.

Sammy reached for him, poking his cheek with a finger.

“You do!”

The boys erupted into laughter, their chatter finally spilling into the room. For a moment, the kitchen was alive again, filled with the kind of energy Luna loved. She let herself settle into the moment, her gaze moved back to Prince as she pecked on her food, the stress still making her shoulders heavy and eating a full plate hard. He still sat stiff and quiet, his focus pinned to his plate, eating as though he were anywhere but here.

Her heart clenched. She hated seeing him like that — so upset it kept him away from all the fun with the other boys.

Then, just as she was about to prod him again, Prince spoke, his voice low but audible over the chatter.

“There’s a competition,” he said, still not looking up. “At the end of the month. For the older kids. Sixteen and up.”

Luna took in a deep breath, trying not to show more than neutraliyy. God knew she didn’t want to ruin it.

“Really?” she asked.

Yes, she did know about those. She never classified for any when she was in school.

“A competition?” Lex asked.

“Yeah,” Prince said, setting his fork down and finally looking up. “Dad told me about it. It’s supposed to be a big deal. Only the best get to join.”

Luna nodded slowly, trying not to harden up.

“I remember those. Your Aunt Juno got… fourth place in her final year.”

Hunter’s eyes widened.

“And you think they’ll let you in?”

Prince hesitated, his jaw tightening as he looked from her to Hunter. She didn’t like any of that talk – competitions, them being trained into little soldiers… but it got him talking, so Luna had to swallow her pride and let him do it.

“Dad wants me to be good enough,” he explained, not meeting her eyes. “He’s been pushing me harder in training — making me run extra drills, spar more. That’s why I’m sore this week. It’s cause I’m using my muscles more.”

Muscles. Of course.

Hunter blinked, looking sceptical.

“Dad wants you to be in it?” he asked, completely not believing in him. “Like, actually compete with the older kids?”

Prince nodded strongly.

“He does!”

“You have to be sixteen,” Ted interjected. “You’re not even close. You won’t be sixteen for forever! When you’re sixteen, I will be almost fourteen.”

“And Dad doesn’t like spending time with us,” Archie added bluntly, stabbing a broccoli with his fork. “He wouldn’t be training you.”

Luna’s stomach twisted. Archie was far from wrong, and that was terribly sad.

Before… Cato put some effort into the boys.

He was there for the birth of Prince, Hunter, Ted and Archie. He was active and changing nappies, and cleaning them, feeding them at dinner, playing with them… after Sweetie, he started stepping away, being a little less present. He wasn’t able to attend the birth, and by the time she was having Sammy, she didn’t want him in the room, and he barely did much more than look at the baby.

And, of course, the older boys were growing up and started having their own tastes and personalities and wills, and didn’t look at him like they were looking at a hero anymore. He didn’t even try with Lex, Blue or Dash, and it certainly made her happy to not have him even pretend with Juni. Cato had never picked her up once, or changed or… anything. He barely looked at her.

Prince’s eyes flickered to Archie, none of the meaning of his words even seeming to get to him.

“Well, he said I could do it if I worked hard enough. He said that when he was my age he was already competing with the big kids and I just have to prove it to him that I can do it.”

Hunter still didn’t look convinced, but the spark of competition in his own eyes was undeniable.

“Well, if you’re in, I wanna train too. What if they let me in next year?”

“You’re too young,” Prince said flatly, though there wasn’t any real malice in his tone. “You’re just thirteen.”

“You are just fourteen!” Hunter argued back, huffing. “And I’m much faster than you, and much better with a bow!”

Her throat tightened. The thought of the boys in that competition was just… terrifying. She’d seen those kids, they were huge. Her boys were just little kids with big limbs.

“Well,” she interrupted, her voice firm but calm, “if I remember right, it’s a competition for kids over sixteen. Neither of you are sixteen yet.”

“See!” Hunter pointed at Prince.

But her oldest wasn’t any convinced.

“Dad said they will let me in if I’m good,” Prince affirmed, very strong as his fork scrapped the plate. “And I’m good!”

“I’m good too!” Hunter argued.

“You’re a kid!” he argued.

“You are both kids,” Luna interrupted them, unable to take it anymore, and lowered her voice quickly. “All nine of you are kids.”

The boys fell into silence, and she stood up, trying to take in a deep breath, trying to control her own anger.

Was this what Cato wanted them to become? Little soldiers, eager to skip childhood just to become prey to those people?

“I’m fourteen, I’m not a kid!” Prince argued.

“Yeah, neither am I!” Hunter spoke up.

She let out a breath. Well, she had them at 19 and 20, and she was fucking kid then. Why wouldn’t they be kids when they were barely out of their cribs?!

“You are kids,” she corrected them. “All of you. And you should be spending your time thinking about school, about what games to play, about what you want for dessert — not about training for some competition that isn’t even meant for you yet.”

Prince’s jaw clenched, his fork frozen mid-air. He looked away, his whole face full of defiance.

“But Dad says—”

“I don’t care what your father says,” Luna cut in, sharper than she intended.

Sweetie, Lex and Sammy looked up at her with big eyes, scared, and she softened her face.

“I mean… I care,” she lied. “But this isn’t about him. This is about you.”

Hunter crossed his arms, pouting, and she rubbed her temple.

“But if Dad thinks Prince can do it, then why not? And if Prince can do it, then I can do it! If he was competing-”

“Because your father didn’t have a mother to stop him,” Luna interrupted, the words tumbling out before she could stop herself, her voice trembling with frustration, and maybe too loud. “He didn’t get to decide what he wanted to do with his life. He just had a selfish idiot telling him to fulfil his dreams for him. And look where it got him. Do you think he’s happy now?”

The boys fell silent, their eyes flickering to one another. Even Prince didn’t have a response to that.

Luna realised too late what she’d said, the truth of her bitterness filling the quiet like a storm cloud, and her hand flew to her face, covering her mouth, but the damage was done.

A soft, trembling whine broke the silence, and she looked up just in time to see Dash’s big blue eyes welling with tears. When he started to cry, her heart just broke.

Oh, God.

She ran to him.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, scooping him into her arms and holding him close. “I’m so sorry, my sweet boy. Mama shouldn’t have yelled. Mama was so impolite today.”

Luna scooped her littlest boy into her arms, rubbing his back, trying to comfort him.

“I was so harsh, I’m so sorry,” she looked at the boys.

She rubbed his back in soothing circles, murmuring apologies, and his cries softened as he buried his face in her shoulder, clutching at her.

Her eyes traced the other boy, and Blue’s little lips were curled in sadness as she caressed his cheek, and the other were all tense as they looked at her. Luna wasn’t the type to yell, she never treated them like that.

“I was too harsh,” she told them quickly, her voice softer now.“I’m sorry. I just… I don’t want this for you. I don’t want you to live a life running back and forth to the Capitol, being close to those people. You know how I feel about them, how much I hate the games and what they do to people. I just want to keep you safe.”

Prince stared at her, his eyes unsettling as they bore into her.

He was Cato’s perfect little copy. Skinner and a tad shorter, but the same boy she used to watch enchant girls in school when she was that age.

For a moment, he looked like he might argue back. But then his shoulders slumped, and he pushed his plate away, suddenly uninterested in the food he’d been so happy to eat just a moment ago.

Hunter shifted uncomfortably in his seat, glancing at his brothers, who were all unusually quiet now.

“We were just talking about it,” he mumbled.

Luna held Dash tighter, wishing she could take back the last ten minutes and hold her family together. But there it was — her fear laid bare, her words too sharp for boys their age.

She kissed his little temple, and the boys went back to eating slowly, even her littlest one, but everyone was quiet for the rest of the night and when they went to bed.

Next Chapter: Part 2/7

#cato hadley #cato hunger games #cato hg #cato #cato x reader #cato x oc #cato hadley x reader #hunger games #hunger games fanfiction #district 2 the hunger games #cato thg #cato thg smut #alexander ludwig #alexander ludwig fanfiction #alexander ludwig angst #alexander ludwig x reader angst #cato hadley x reader angst #cato hadley angst

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whisperingmidnights · 10 months ago

Text

Starcrossed: Chapter Three

Word Count: 4,865

Pairing: Rhysand x reader

The parched grass rustles beneath my bare feet. Even the sparse shade of the lemon trees had not spared it. Tips of leaves that should be lush and green are yellow and curled, fragile beneath my fingertips. What little fruit has grown is no more than a collection of small, green buds at the moment, barely half the size of my palm. The area will require more than conjuring a brief shower would allot for. I will need to ground myself and make a connection with the earth itself to summon that much rain.

My connection to the land in Day is tenuous than Autumn, where I feel the roots of the trees as though they ground me themselves, but I am still in Prythian. All of this island is my home, I must simply concentrate harder to affect change. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I meander towards the heart of the grove, trailing my fingers along the sun-bleached bark of each tree trunk I pass. Yes, it will definitely take more than a few cool, Autumn storms to properly rehabilitate this grove if there is to be any hope of a decent harvest this year.

If I can bring this one back, Grandfather will take me to some of the larger orchards to properly stretch my magic – something I’ve only ever done with Papa present. We don’t share the same power, but there seems to be a common thread between our abilities that allows him to help me reign it in when I feel overwhelmed. The idea of unleashing myself without him to fall back on is equal parts thrilling and terrifying. As if in response, magic sparks at my fingertips, little flashes of blue lightning that raises the fine hair on my arms. It’s too soon for all of that, I haven’t made a proper connection yet. Pausing beneath one of the larger trees, I call it back in with a deep, grounding breath. I can’t allow myself to think of it so much when I need to focus on centering myself.

A warm breeze nips at my bare ankles in a poor imitation of the pup I left dozing alongside Clover at my grandfather’s feet this morning. He’ll have them both thoroughly spoiled in another week, I’m sure. Focus, I need to focus. The grass is dry beneath the soles of my feet and the late morning sun is already overbearing. Wind whispers through the trees and I follow it in a counterclockwise path through the trees, turning whenever it shifts until I find myself at a barren space at the heart of the grove. Sinking my toes into the dry dirt, I spread my fingers wide and tilt my face towards the endless blue sky. Energy pulses faintly beneath me, but it’s like pulling from the bottom of a bone-dry well. No wonder there’s a drought. There’s not enough magic in the land for it to regulate itself and call in a storm from Spring. And there likely won’t be until after the peak of solstice celebrations, when the Day Court falls into alignment once more with Summer.

We so rarely discuss the magical bonds uniting the correlating solar and seasonal lands, likely because of the nightmare of political infighting our courts are prone to, but I wish it were more thoroughly researched. Grandfather hadn’t mentioned feeling any sort of drain on the energy of the land here, surely he would if he had noticed it. Why hasn’t he noticed it? There has been no such disturbance in the lands of Autumn, Papa or I would have noticed. Perhaps it’s worth mentioning later, but now I need to focus.

Unlike the humus-rich soil of Autumn, the earth beneath me is sandy and hot. My eyelids flutter closed as I push the first few tendrils of my magic into it through the soles of my feet, an offering that trickles into the dry well of power like the first few drops of water into a bucket. At first, nothing happens, so I push out another short burst and feel it sink down, down, down into the land. Something sweet, like ripe citrus, floats along my tongue.

There’s a brush against the core of my magic. A tentative touch.

Then a violent yank that sends me crashing to my knees.

I can’t breathe through the pain of it.

There’s a desperation to the way the land drains the magic from me. It’s thirsty as a newborn pup with all of the viciousness of the mother. I would scream, but I can’t force the noise from my throat. My cheek remains pressed against the ground as I sob without sound, my fists clenching until my nails break through my skin. The warmth of the sun fades from my skin as I pound my fist desperately against the dry dirt.

Slowly, the draw on my magic releases, and the pain begins to recede.

Fat raindrops splatter first against the dirt. Then my hands and cheeks.

I open my eyes.

The hem of my grandmother’s dress is stained with earth and grass. It’s the first thing I notice as my blood drips into the newly formed mud. Rainwater streams down her pale, freckled arms as she pulls me up into them. My fingers toy with the ends of her red ringlets. I did that often as a child, didn’t I? She’s saying my name, my full name, but I can barely hear it over the ringing in my ears.

Blinking, I glance around at all of the guards swarming the grove. Their weapons are drawn. There is no enemy for them to face. There is only me, coughing violently into my bloodstained fist.

“I’m alright,” I croak, cringing at the state of my dress. The pale fabric is covered in dry grass and mud, stains that vanish with a wave of my grandmother’s hand. A guard reaches down to help me up, but stops short at the sight of my hands. My palms are ravaged. The gashes torn into the meat of them are far worse than they should be. A slower, lighter trickle of magic flows to the area, knitting the skin back together before I can blink.

“Kit?” My grandmother’s voice is no less urgent for its gentleness.

“I’m alright. No harm done, see?”

“What happened? I heard you scream-”

“Did you?” I allow her to help me stand and vanish the rest of the stains from me. I still feel as though I could use a bath or five, but I am clean enough for the moment. “I didn’t. I didn’t hear anything. It was like I was under water, I couldn’t hear anything. Not even my own heartbeat.”

“Has that ever happened before? I’ve watched you many storms, little fox, but I’ve never seen you have a reaction like that.”

“No, I…I had to make a connection with the land first. It..it’s what allows me to summon them so easily at home. But, Grandmother, the land felt drained. There’s no magic here, nothing for it to help regulate itself. It…it was like a husk.”

Thin brows knit together and she shakes her head at me, cupping my cheek.

“Let’s get you home and settled, kit. We can speak to your grandfather once you’ve had a moment to rest and change, yes?”

“It would be nice to be clean,” I acquiesce, thinking of the recently installed nozzles in the corner of the bathing chamber that will allow me to avoid the tedium of a bath. The water falls like a soft, steady rain and even heats to my liking. Nothing sounds more perfect at the moment than that. “The rain should stay through the day, I think, now that it’s begun. We should check back tomorrow, though, and see if the land is retaining-”

“Let’s allow your grandfather to worry about, sweetheart. You need to rest a bit.”

I don’t have to be a scholar to know my grandmother is right. Every joint and bone in my body burns with a fire it will take time to extinguish. She brings me to my room once the guards return us to the palace, and I don’t bother looking for my maid as I shuck the clothes I’d worn and make a beeline for the bathing chamber. Standing beneath the water as steam rises around me, I tilt my head forward and allow the gentle pressure to dispel the tension in my back.

No matter how I try to redirect it, my mind drifts back to the way my magic was pulled from me. The lands of Autumn have known me my entire life. I have a connection there that I cannot hope to forge everywhere, but I never expected the land here to have such a hungry, violent reaction. I wish I could believe it is because we are close to the renewal the solstice will bring and, perhaps, my grandfather is running a little thin…but it doesn’t quite ring true.

Unfortunately, I don’t have much time to think on it. My maid, a wood nymph named Asterope, bustles in as I’m rinsing the conditioner out of my hair. A large, fluffy towel drapes over one arm as she hangs a lovely gown on the back of the door. She’s blossomed here, literally and figuratively, practically overnight. The lush, white jasmine blossoms sprouting from the thick, braided vines encircling her head, fill the bathing chamber with their beautiful scent as she comes over to help towel me off.

“Your grandparents have received guests,” she says, her reedy voice as soft as a breeze. “They would like for you to join them in the solarium.”

I can’t imagine there’s much sunshine to be had since the clouds rolled in, but perhaps that’s why they chose it. A room made of glass is an easy way to watch the storm revive the palace gardens.

“Of course,” I murmur, helping her to dry my hair. There’s no time for the elaborate braids Asterope specializes in, so I leave it down and wild as I slide into the dress she brought me. It’s beautiful, constructed of panels of thin, blue-green fabric beneath an almost rust-colored, sheer overlay; it flows like dark water over the curves of my body. One of the gauzy straps slides easily over my shoulder, while the other is designed to drape from it in such a way I know would delight and scandalize Iris in equal measure. Though the coloring appeared strange at first, it reminds me of the forest leaves that often float atop the ponds and lakes of my home court, and my heart aches for home.

Only a little, though. Just enough.

Once my skin is buffed and lotioned until it nearly glows, I’m released to wander towards the solarium at my leisure. The typically sunlit halls are cast in stark, cold grey as rain pelts the windows. Through the watery haze, I can see the trees whipping in the wind. At the end of the hall, two dark tails peek out from beneath a low settee, wagging anxiously as thunder rumbles overhead. The puppies are together, at least. I’ll make my appearance as brief as possible and return for them.

The doors open as I step up to the threshold. Candles fill every corner of the room, glowing gently at the heart of the storm. The din of conversation greets me as I take in the members of my grandfather’s inner circle milling about the room. It’s easy to spot our guests at the heart of conversation, all of them clothed entirely in darkest, mourning black. Two of them have wings unlike anything I’ve seen before, large and leathery and tipped with vicious looking claws, but I don’t have time to marvel at them once my eyes settle on the male they’re flanking, so consumed by his conversation with my grandparents that none of them notice my arrival.

My heart stutters in my chest and I fight to take a normal breath as I take him in. Hair as dark as a raven’s wing falls over his forehead, providing a beautiful contrast for violet eyes like twin pools of twilight, lit by the faintest starlight. He’s tall and broad with a jawline chiseled by the Mother herself and I…I want to run. My grandmother’s eyes flit to meet mine and she smiles, holding a hand towards me.

“There she is. Rhysand, I don’t believe you’ve met my granddaughter.” Vaguely, I’m aware of her saying my name and know it’s my cue. I can’t breathe, can’t even think, but on instinct I drop into a deep curtsy and hold it. My thighs burn from the effort, but I don’t shake as I rise. My etiquette instructor would have been proud. The High Lord of the Night Court locks eyes with me as I rise, standing at my grandmother’s side, and something warm blossoms within my ribs.

He’s beautiful. The most beautiful male I’ve ever seen.

A hint of a smile, soft and wicked, tugs at his lips and my heart flutters again.

“What pretty manners,” a blonde female coos, tucking her hand in the crook of the High Lord’s elbow. I hadn’t noticed her behind him, lingering between him and the tallest male in the group until she steps forward. “Though little else could be expected, I imagine, from one of Autumn’s heirs. I hear Eris has quite the little family now, though I hadn’t expected any of you to be so…grown.”

“I am the eldest, lady,” I reply, lifting my chin as I meet her gaze. Her eyes are the color of acorns, warm beneath the frosty indifference glazing them. Her scarlet lips twitch as I press on, “but there are three of us who have reached maturity.” I don’t know why I feel the need to defend myself – or my family – to her, but I can’t stop myself. She gives me a curt nod, blonde waves falling over her tan, slender shoulders. “My brother serves in our army and my sister…” What is there to say about Iris? It isn’t as though she does anything of note or has a reliable talent beyond being pretty and keeping up with court fashions. “Iris is herself.”

“How lucky she is permitted such freedom,” the female says mildly. I purse my lips as I turn her words over in my mind, considering the implications of them. The High Lord seems to be about to speak, the abnormally tall, winged one interjects.

“How is the princeling enjoying life as a soldier?” I glance up at the male, letting my gaze wander over his bulky frame, bound in dark, unfamiliar leathers, before I finally meet his hazel eyes. They’re as dark and deep as the forest, with a playful sparkle that reminds me of sunlight dancing on leaves. I think he means to be condescending, but that goading spark reminds me so much of Linden when he’s trying to rile me that I meet his question with a shrug.

“Well enough. Do you serve as well, my lord?”

“My lord,” he laughs, throwing his head back as though the title is ludicrous. The sound is rich, full of unexpected joy, but I can’t hide my own confusion. Who else would be in a High Lord’s entourage if not their high ranking lords and ladies? I glance to my grandfather and note the amused smile playing at his lips before Night’s High Lord cuts in. “Lord Cassian. I like the sound of that, Rhys.”

“You’ll have to forgive my general, lady. He is still adjusting to the social aspect of his role.” His voice is cool and smooth as dark silk. Those violet eyes dart to the male with a significant look in them, but it only serves to make the male chuckle. “Cassian is a skilled soldier…”

“But you don’t let him out very often?” I ask, glancing between them. My grandfather chuckles lowly into his wine while my grandmother sighs, shaking her head. The big one - Cassian - smirks at the question, but the High Lord raises a shoulder in a casual shrug.

“Much less often if he can’t mind his manners,” the blonde replies, throwing a withering glare over her shoulder. The general seems unfazed, at best. “What few manners he possesses, anyway. I’m afraid an etiquette instructor would be lost on him. Tell me again why we brought him, Rhysand?”

“Too many high-ranking lords lost their heads in the last week,” the High Lord says drily. Too many of my grandfather’s courtiers fall still at the statement. “I had openings that required filling in order to make proper introductions, Morrigan.”

Morrigan. I’ve heard that name, but I don’t quite remember where or why. I glance around at the members of my grandfather’s inner circle to see them shifting uncomfortably, their eyes darting between the Night Court general and the other, impassive winged male gazing out at the crowd. There’s cold aloofness that fits over him as closely as his leathers, and I get the feeling he wears it like armor against the world. It’s an air that Linden would try to put on in his youth, but it never quite suited him. Like our beloved uncle, my brother has always been too quick to smile, to give into a jest to lighten the mood.

This male doesn’t appear to have ever smiled before.

From the shadowed folds of his wings, tendrils of darkness begin to stretch like languorous kittens yawning in the sun. My breath hitches as I realize what they are, that the male at the High Lord’s side is a shadowsinger. A rare gift I’ve only studied in legends or copies of ancient ballads, the fabled shadowsingers were a law unto themselves. Traditional wards and boundaries don’t apply to them, they can’t be held by traditional shackles or bonds, and they hear the secrets hidden in stone or carried on the wind…or so the legends say.

I wonder if any of it is true. If it is, well, perhaps there is a reason everyone else looks so wary.

“I hope the transition hasn’t been too difficult, Rhysand,” my grandfather says mildly, “all things considered.”

All things considered. The young High Lord’s eyes dull at the statement, what little shine they’d had is lost and my heart aches for it. How awful it must be, to have to bury your family and proceed with your duties as if none of it matters. Shadows flicker in my grandparents’ eyes, telling their own story of the bloodbath that ended in my father and grandfather’s own ascensions. I don’t often think about Beron Vanserra or the ally he’d found in Day’s previous High Lord since, by all accounts, both courts have flourished since my birth. Now, though, looking at Night’s new lord…I wonder how awful it initially was for them, how painful it must have been.

A bright blue bolt of lightning splits the sky then thunder booms after it, rattling the solarium’s glass panes. A wave of nausea washes over me in time with the rolling thunder and I inhale deeply through my nose, pursing my lips until it passes. It serves as a good reminder that I need to speak with my grandfather about today. Grandmother’s steadying hand is warm at my elbow, and I manage a small smile at her before I turn to the High Lord of Day with my chin raised.

“Grandfather, may we have a moment?” His lips quirk at my formal request but nods, kissing my grandmother’s temple. He hands off his wine and excuses us, tucking my hand into his elbow with a gentle pat. In my periphery, I notice the captain of his guard step up to my grandmother’s side. All day, it seems, there have been guards stationed around her if not directly at her side. Is it because of the Night Court’s visit? I’m not unaware of their reputation for ruthlessness, but this visit seems purely diplomatic.

I glance back over my shoulder, but my eyes don’t meet hers as she’s drawn into conversation with Morrigan. Instead, I find Rhysand watching us intently as his shadowsinger looms over his shoulder, darkness swirling around them like a shield. I wonder if, perhaps, they might be as nervous to be in foreign territory as my grandfather’s court seems for us to be hosting them. His head inclines ever so slightly in my direction, a subtle nod that makes me turn around, my cheeks warm.

Once the solarium doors have shut behind us, we’re immediately set upon by two nervous smokehounds. Nova and Clover follow closely at our heels until we find ourselves sequestered in the smaller of his studies. The dogs pile on the fluffy pillow conveniently placed in the corner behind his desk, where my grandfather seats himself. I sink into the plush settee at the side of his desk, foregoing the rigid, high-backed chairs before him. My grandmother must lounge here while he works; her warm, sweet scent is embedded in the cool, soft fabric and the thin blanket thrown over the back of it.

“How are you feeling?” Grandfather asks, his High Lord persona falling away to reveal the gentle, kind demeanor he’s always handled me with. Concern flashes in his amber eyes as they sweep over me, along with a sort of consideration he’s not given me prior. “Orlaith mentioned you had some difficulty earlier, though I admit we did not have time to get into the details of it before our guests arrived.”

“You didn’t mention you were expecting anyone earlier,” I counter, casting a brief glance at the door. A thin strip of golden light shines around it like a frame, a ward he only activates when he means for the conversation to remain private. I wonder how easily the shadowsinger would be deterred by it.

“It was a surprise to us all, sunshine, but not an unwelcome one. Our previous dealings with the Night Court were not always so favorable, but I like Rhysand. He lacks his father’s quick temper. They’ll be with us overnight and, in the morning, we will sit down and discuss trade negotiations. You may sit the formal meals out, if you’d prefer-”

“Oh, no,” I shake my head, eager to put to bed the notion that I’m too drained for company. “I’m fine, Grandfather, truly. A little worried, perhaps, for the state of your lands, but physically I am well.”

“Tell me, my clever little fox, in detail what’s troubling you.”

Without hesitation, I launched into everything I’d seen and felt in the land as I’d tried to make my own connection, how drained it had been. He listens quietly, his gold-ringed fingers steepled as he nods along with my observations. A faint smile plays at his lips and certain softness mists his eyes as my story winds to a close, but he waves it away as if it’s no matter when my brow furrows at the sight of it.

“You don’t seem as alarmed as I thought you might be,” I sigh, resting my chin against my palm. “What do you know that I don’t?”

“One would hope I know a great many things that you don’t, sunshine. That lemon grove is your grandmother’s favorite,” he muses, twisting the signet ring around his finger. “She spends a lot of time walking there. I imagine, at this point, her own magic is more thoroughly entwined with it than mine is.”

“How is that not more concerning? You’re High Lord-”

“And she is my Lady. Should you become Lady of a court, I think you’ll find yourself tied to your territory in a way that may differ from your husband’s connection.”

“You don’t think I’ll be High Lady of Autumn?” I ask with a frown.

“There’s no way we can know for certain until it’s done, darling girl, and I hope we are many centuries off from finding out. Apen is too young to tell and Linden is still unproven. You may not always be the strongest of your siblings, but that does not mean you are not an incredible asset to your court, or any other that may have you. Tell me, why do you worry so much about remaining your father’s heir?”

“I…I guess because it’s always been, I don’t know, expected of me. H-he’s been training me in court politics and procedure-”

“Training you would always require, as his daughter if nothing else. What else?”

“I just…I feel…tied to it, I guess. Like it’s fate or something, I don’t know. Why do you ask?”

“I worry for you. I don’t want you to spend the entirety of your life waiting for your father to die for a position you may not assume. I know your father must seem ancient to you, but he’s relatively young for a High Lord. I hope he reigns for a millennia, so you might live for more than a title or duty or whatever it is you believe is expected of you.”

“Why are you saying this?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest. I feel like little more than a petulant child being told I can’t have my way, but I don’t understand. My father has always told me how family and duty shaped his life, how he’d trained and fought and bled to fit the mold his father created for him. It is simply the way things are done, isn’t it?

“Forgive me, sunshine, I know how this must sound. I’ve been reflecting lately on my own life and choices, how different things might have been if I had made different choices. Better choices, perhaps. I am grateful for all I have now, for the family your grandmother has given me – a family I would not have if anything had been different. I am grateful for my path, but it has been hard. I do not wish to see you or your siblings struggle the way the rest of us have. I want you to be happy, to live and explore and have experiences that bring you joy. Do you understand?”

“I…I think so.” I don’t, but maybe he’s just feeling sentimental? He and my father have not always had the easiest relationship, but they have made more of an effort in the last thirty years or so. Maybe the news of Aunt Jesminda’s pregnancy has stirred up old feelings for him? My uncle’s paternity had apparently been a well-kept secret until my father’s ascension, so perhaps it’s related to that. “But you don’t think there’s anything to be worried about with the lemon grove?”

“No. I believe I know exactly why the drought is hitting harder there, and I promise it’s nothing you need to worry over. I do want you well rested before I take you anywhere else. It might be worth sending for your father-”

“No,” I stutter, shaking my head, “no I don't need him. I’m fine, I promise. I’ll rest tomorrow and then I’ll be fine to check on the lemon grove again, I swear. I can handle this.”

“Only if I’m able to go with you, then. I can’t feel your power the way your father does, I’m not sure I can forge the connection with you that he’s able to, but if the land requires more magic then I will be the one to make that sacrifice. You are young and untested yourself, sunshine. I won’t have you take on more than you should.”

“Yes, sir.” He laughs at my forlorn sigh and rises, helping me to my feet before we turn on the napping puppies. “What will we do about the hounds?”

“Oh, I think they’ve finally found a place where they are at ease. We’ll leave them for now, they’ll come find us when they’re hungry. Are you hungry?”

“Starving, if I’m honest.” The nausea from earlier has abated and, after all of this talking, I’m ravenous. His large, warm hand rests on my shoulder as he steers me towards the door. It opens the moment the light fades from it and, together, we make our way back to my grandmother’s side. She speaks candidly with the young High Lord as his general throws his head back, laughing at something she’s said. There’s a dewy glow to her freckled skin, and a radiance that only the Lady of Day could possess. She hasn’t seemed tired or sick in the way that often accompanies a strain on one’s power. Is there something I’ve missed?

My eyes drift once more to Rhysand, and that warm spark in my chest flares again like a beacon. It’s a wonder no one else can see it, I feel as though I am walking around with an ember of light flaring to life beneath my skin. He looks at me again, and my conversation with my grandfather is quickly forgotten in the depths of those violet eyes. Something sparkles in them, a fleeting bit of starlight that vanishes the moment I blink, but it was there. I know it was. I think it was for me.

#rhys x reader #cs universe #cs au #acotar x reader

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hestzhyen · 5 months ago

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Chapter 66 Trepidation Posting

Well, dear void... I begged for Seitei War lore and a finger curled on the monkey's paw. Where to even begin?

Rough TL of the editor's notes:

First Page: 封じられた記憶… [fuji rareta kioku...] "Sealed memories..." Last Page: 妖刀も妖術もなくただその剣技で- [yoto mo yojutsu mo naku tada sono kengi de-] "No enchanted blades, no sorcery, just swordsmanship-"

Iori Lore and Dad Stuff

What a cute creature.

Her fake last name is Yoshiura (吉浦): 吉 (yoshi) for good luck/joy and 浦 (ura) for bay/creek/inlet. Nothing particularly interesting or exciting about it but it has a nice sentiment.

I'm in a better headspace now so I can do some thinking that needed to be done last week. Let's take some notes about the current arc and it's continued focus on one of Kagurabachi's key themes: Daddy Issues™.

Chihiro: lost his dad through tragedy, memories haunt and drive him. Was loved dearly and loved his father back in return. Acting on his grief in violent ways.

Hakuri: lost his dad through abuse, let go of his memories and found closure on that front. Was loved dearly then discarded but never stopped loving his dad.

Iori: lost her dad through his own guilt, trying to recover her memories of him. Was loved dearly and seemed to love him back in return. The memories she had with him were so upsetting that she passed out when she got them back.

Hiruhiko: mostly unknown right now, but clearly special to John and spoiled a bit by him. Surprisingly wholesome relationship despite how unhinged he is. If he was truly adopted like many fans think then John was probably a doting dad from the start.

So the "similar" traits based on what we know are...

Lost Their Dad: Chihiro, Hakuri, Iori

Dad Murdered/Killed: Chihiro, Hakuri

Dad Deliberately Abandoned Them: Hakuri, Iori

Were Always Loved by Their Dad: Chihiro, Hiruhiko, Iori

Dad was Burdened by Guilt: Chihiro, Iori

And the "unique" traits are...

Abused by Their Dad: Hakuri

Clings to Memory of Dead Dad: Chihiro

Dad Forgot About Them: Iori

Spoiled Brat Thanks to Dad: Hiruhiko

Chihiro and Iori are the ones being directly compared right now. They both lost their fathers, but Samura's a real piece of work compared to what we know about Kunishige. He chose to forget her in order to protect her whereas Kunishge went into hiding to stay with Chihiro. One child forgotten on purpose, one clinging to memories because that's all he has left.

Yeah, Samura's not winning any "Best Dad" awards any time soon- but it's hard to blame him when we see what the family was enduring because of his reputation after the war. Any half-decent parent wants their kid to grow up without having to see that kind of stuff. Samura just let guilt have too much influence over his choice on how to manage it, in my opinion. Kids should have a bit of say in how they're raised too. Not a lot but at least enough be able to feel seen and heard.

As for the other two, Hakuri and Hiruhiko are in pretty good shape. Hakuri's still smarting over the loss of his dad most likely, but he got the catharsis he was craving when Kyora finally acknowledged him right before he died. That particular wound can start to close up and heal as Hakuri moves on through the story, unlike Chihiro and Iori's at present. And Hiruhiko seems to be in the best spot out of the four as John's special little guy who can do whatever he wants. Spoiling kids isn't being a good parent but Hiruhiko's in a pretty good state all things considered- probably the best out of the four. We have plenty more to dig in with him so this'll get revisited once development happens or new information drops.

But yeah. Chihiro being rightfully angry at Samura for deciding to sever the parent/child bond so lopsidedly tracks with his unresolved trauma. Of course he thinks he wouldn't want to change a thing about living with his father. He's still deep in mourning and floundering in the morass of grief he uses to push himself forward. I wonder if we'll get commentary on this at some point... it's such a core aspect to his personality and the story that it might be saved for the end.

Iori's choice is left for another chapter but I have a feeling she'll agree with Chihiro and keep the memories despite the pain and danger they bring. Samura's guilt needs to be addressed and the daughter he chose to forget should have the biggest part in confronting him about it! The story can become an escort mission of sorts to keep Iori safe until that happens, which leads to easy action so hooray for us.

Perception and Being Perceptive

Yeah, he is. But that's not all.

And here we go, we're back to how people look at Chihiro and judge him without knowing the truth. Samura, Kunishige, and the other Bearers are "heroes" who seem to have some rather serious crimes buried in their pasts. Chihiro is a "murderer" stricken with grief killing those who try to destabilise society. Simple, no-frills parallels between guys drowning in guilt that anyone can pick up on.

What else is going on here? Well, those who were saying the hotel was inspired by John Wick are almost certainly correct with sorcery and fights being forbidden within it's walls. The Manager and his staff/followers enforce this with his own sword technique: Reigen One Sword School/Style (no relation to Reigen Arataka of Mob Psycho 100 fame). 礼 (rei): salute, thanks, gratitude, etiquette 玄 (gen): mysterious, occultness, profound

How... polite?

No, that's not Kumeyuri, and anyone who asks gets a bonk on the head for not paying attention.

Small note that wasn't kept in EN: Hiruhiko refers to Toto as "Toto-san", which is cute. He respects her and/or she's older than him.

Of course Toto summons Hiruhiko in so he can begin his own training arc by facing off against the hotel's staff. The bloody pin being used to tie his hair back will definitely not inspire a ton of fan art, trust me. It will be a Hiruhiko-free week everywhere (RIP my feeds). But Hiruhiko's really racking up the service industry experience between being bonded to Kumeyuri with it's geisha spirits and learning how to fight from hotel employees using a polite sword fighting technique.

Other than that, it's not clear if Kuguri's in this hotel or not but chances are extremely good that we'll get more hot-blooded action next chapter as Hiruhiko and Chihiro both learn by doing. Maybe they'll meet again, maybe not. The only guaranteed thing is that Sumi and Moku are wasting their time by prepping the seal on the roof because Iori's not going to want it even if it's finished before another dramatic escape is made.

Desperate cope theory while I'm here: maybe we can see Hakuri again soon since he and Hiruhiko have that "what is friendship, anyway" thing going on with Chihiro. That cut from Hiruhiko yapping about battling to the death as "equals" to Hakuri on the page turn in chapter 54 is still eating at my brain, yes. And Chihiro just reminded us that he feels inferior to Hakuri (he's gonna become his samurai it's canon no one can take this from me). Depends on how the next chapter plays out but I'm hoping. Dying. I'm dying without Hakuri. Please I miss him so bad just one new panel is all I'm begging for.

"Truth"?

OK. Time to let the brain worms squiggle freely over about two pages' worth of Seitei War information.

So, first... a translation note (sigh). The subject of how the war ended will probably come up now that the beginning of it was given to us (or at least, a particular version of it).

Chapter 9, if you forgot. Thank you Hella for catching this when I was all set to yap about the implications of an armistice vs. other ways to end a war.

How the war ended is still a mystery but it might not have actually been an armistice as implied by the English translation of the signboard. The word used in Japanese to describe it is 終戦 (shuusen), simply "end of war/cessation of hostilities" in a formal and pretty final way. The method could have been anything: surrender, peace treaty, and so on. An actual armistice would use 停戦 (teisen - temporary ceasefire for negotiations), 休戦 (kyuusen - a short-term truce/suspension of fighting), or 偃武 (enbu - mutually laying down arms but without the finality of shuusen) to describe both sides agreeing to pause the fight. So there might not have been mutual feelings that the war needed to stop for both sides' benefit like an armistice would imply, leaving a lot of room for the losing side to build up resentment.

Of course we all know that peace treaties coming from armistices can do the same thing if they are crafted poorly- The Treaty of Versailles used to end WWI is probably the most well-known example in the West. But the ambiguity exists in Japanese and should have stayed in English in my opinion. Folks who remember this signboard from early in the manga might be confused if it turns out the end of the war wasn't so peaceful or mutual after all.

With that out of the way, I want to talk about how fucking suspicious the story of how the war started is.

Keep in mind that Chihiro, Iori, and the Masumi don't know the truth of what actually happened- they're only recounting what they were taught or read about.

"But that all changed when the Fire Nation attacked" this is not.

小国 (shokoku): small country. NOT the actual name of the place, just describing it for what it was. "Twenty-two years ago... a 'small island nation' appeared in the south-east seas..." would be more accurate. (Thanks as always, Hella.)

So, right out of the gate, a whole damn country appearing out of nowhere full of people using magic rocks to attack the mainland sounds like something straight out of a child's fairy tale. You're telling me that Japanese Atlantis rose out of the ocean and became hostile right away, completely unprovoked? That's the kind of framing used to justify showing a foe no mercy. It's an essential part of successful propaganda- dehumanise the enemy, make them seem unknowable, monstrous, and imminently threatening.

The datenseki bit is especially interesting. How did these undersea people have natural compatibility with a stone named as if it came from a meteor?

雫 (da) - drop, trickle 天 (ten) - sky, heavens 石 (seki) - stone

And in such quantities that they could wage a war with it, despite it being rather scarce? (Only 250kgs exist per Sojo in chapter 11; same weight as nearly 12 average-sized countertop dishwashers in Freedom Units.) I suppose a giant meteor could have dropped in the ocean on their territory, or they could have mined it from the seabed, but I don't believe this conveniently simplistic version of events for a second. Not after so much emphasis was put on how shady the Kamunabi is and that they are hiding a lot of shit from the general public.

I doubt an island rose out of the sea as the story claims at all, honestly. While Japan does sit on the Pacific Ring of Fire and sees little islands pop up then vanish back beneath the waves all the time, one big and stable enough to have a whole nation's worth of people on it would not have gone undetected for so long. It beggars belief that the mainland didn't know they had a whole bunch of people living off the coast underwater unless they were using sorcery to hide from sonar and exploratory/research missions.

My bets are on this "invading" nation to have been a populated island that existed for a while and for some reason -probably related to the datenseki- war broke out between them and the mainland. Classic grab for resources, discontent with the mainland rulers vs. the island's own government, everything's still on the table. Maybe they were a long-lost fragment of society that tried to reintegrate, who knows?! But does anyone really think a war that started with such one-sided aggression out of the blue would have the population reacting to the people that saved them like this?

Not exactly a "hero's welcome".

"Disappear", "Atone for your sins", and "mass murderer" painted on the side of someone's house with garbage dumped in front is not reflecting the sentiments of people who are happy that the threat to everything they know and love was dealt with. That's outrage! Probably something to do with how the enemy was "wiped out" (JP:掃討 [soutou], cleaned up/swept clean/mopped up, specifically of enemies.) Sounds like the so-called invaders from Japanese Atlantis were thoroughly eliminated...

Iori is very young here, probably elementary school age. So this is a few years after the war in an unknown location- there's a chance this was on the enemy's island, but why would he live among the remaining enemies? He doesn't need more guilt than he already has, seriously. Also, since he was reputable as the fastest swordsman alive when the blades were being handed out, he most certainly wasn't a defector from the enemy's side. Thus I believe this scene takes place on the mainland.

It seems to me like it wasn't all sunshine and rainbows after the war so the Kamunabi came up with a publicity campaign and squashed the truth somehow. But that doesn't erase the memories of the people involved, either as participants or witnesses. I'm extremely curious as to how other members of the war generation remember things. The blades themselves were only used in empty fields (according to Azami, ch. 9) so the Kamunabi could spin that any way they wanted and likely did. But if that was the case, then who saw what and told others to kick off the harassment campaign? Are there mainlanders who dissent to the Kamunabi's rule because of that information not being completely suppressed and thus help out the Hisaku- like Kyora and the Sazanamis were implied to be doing? Remember, Kyora wasn't quite manipulated as thoroughly as Chihiro recounted to Uruha in chapter 48. He definitely had some personal and/or political sympathies with our favourite group of silly bad guys:

Chapter 22. "Dissidents" aren't business rivals or competitors- they're specifically political opponents against the current regime. The term used in Japanese (異分子 [ibunshi], outsiders/alien elements) has slightly different connotations but can mean the same thing.

This is what I meant by the monkey's paw curling at the start of this post. We got crumbs that only really raise more questions instead of answering anything. For now I am still clinging on to the theory of the Seitei War being a civil war... mostly because I don't know if the author intends to tell a story with blunt commentary on the misdeeds of Imperialist governments.

Possible Real-World Influences

Hakuri has nothing to do with this, I just miss him.

So, I know a lot of people have Attack on Titan's swerve into "What the Hell, Author?!" territory still fresh in their minds and I do too. What Hokazono-sensei's setting up here has some eerie similarities with a corrupt government hiding a lot of shit and the mysterious enemies being more sympathetic than they should be... I just hope we don't take the same route of "both sides were bad, so the military needs to protect us all and destroy the worse evil" that seems to happen a lot in these WWII allegory stories.

Not to get political about an action manga, but the discussions in Japan over how to teach younger generations about what went down in the WWI and WWII eras are pretty tense right now. A great deal of emphasis is put on the suffering of the people that happened after Japan was nuked twice -which was a tragedy- but the real story is lost in the debates about what and how much to teach. There's a lot of folks who want to minimize and omit lessons about the war crimes the nation committed in China, Korea, the Philippines, and the rest of the Pacific. There are even a handful who vociferously defend them as "necessary" things that happened during wartime.

I see a lot of this reflected in Kagurabachi's arc right now. We've been told several times that the Kamunabi's version of events can't be trusted and that there's something awful that was covered up. The Hishaku want some secret to come to light and it will almost certainly have hugely negative impacts on the Kamunabi, the Bearers, and likely Kunishige too. Chihiro needs to know what happened as a core part of his character arc, and it will probably come with the realisation that the conflict he's embroiled in is much more complex than a simple revenge mission can solve. Whatever the truth of the situation is will shatter his worldview.

Where Attack on Titan failed in executing this sort of plotline was making the Titans a genuine threat that needed to be put down after revealing what they really were. You don't set up obvious real-world parallels to groups that have suffered greatly in the past just to say they were a real threat all along. You don't downplay a government's corruption and cruelty with "well the other guys weren't great either". But this isn't an AoT blog so I'll stop there.

I don't see a reason to be nervous about Kagurabachi making the same mistakes right now after the sensitive writing around difficult topics from previous arcs. I'm paying close attention to where the Seitei War information crumbs lead us, though. I'm interested in most things the author has to say if it's well-told but I'm not going to stick around for justification of jingoist ideology. I also hope that the author will be able to tell the story he wants even if it happens to go against the government's prevailing sensibilities.

We don't know yet where this will go so I'll just wait and watch with a bit of trepidation. I trust Hokazono-sensei to not repeat mistakes other authors have made, but he could well make new ones as an author writing his first-ever serialisation. I just want whatever comes of this plotline to have something interesting to say like the others before it...

We'll leave it here for today, dear void. Thanks for reading all this if you got through it and let's sit tight for some awesome hotel fight action next week! Say something nice about yourself once a day in the meantime. Every other or even just one day is fine if that's all you can manage too- we all start somewhere.

#kagurabachi #long post #Dad powerscaling notes: Kunishige > John > power gap > Samura > Kyora #Back on my meds and yapping too much again as is tradition #Yes I know volume is not the same as mass just let me have fun by rehashing a tired old joke #Hokazono-sensei will be legendary if he calls out shitty Imperialist attitudes in the current political climate just saying #kb ch66

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miraculouslbcnreactions · 4 months ago

Note

A friend started watching Miraculous a couple of weeks ago; he was curious, and I accidentally sold it by spoiling him S5's finale. "Oh! I really enjoy the twist when the bad guy wins!" he said... I swear I tried to save him!

Anyway, he went through the honeymoon phase with S1 and S2. Now that he has watched half of S3 (btw, in our country, both Disney+ and Netflix DO NOT have the episodes in order, save for each season's 1st one and the finales), he went on a rant on Kwamibuster saying "c'mon! So, Marinette can hold all the trinkets without any consequence, why they do that?! Is a nice stand alone chapter, but there is no great consequence!" I just told him "welcome to the fandom!" and he went "OMG! I turned to the dark side!"

He still has Gabriel on a 8.5/10 scale, since he finds saving his wife as a noble if twisted reason to turn villian. Though he doesn't understand why Gabriel found Lila useful at the end of Oni-chan. I... don't have the heart to tell him about Chat Blanc nor Gabriel's later actions.

Were S1 and S2 really the best of Miraculous? I remember enjoying S3, but now hearing his fresh pov, I'm starting to have my doubts about when it all went to worse.

I was also relatively late coming to the fandom, so I got to see seasons one to three all in one go. I watched them over a series of a few weeks and my memory of that process is this: I thought season one was mediocre with a handful of truly bad episodes, but the premise was a lot of fun and had real potential. I started reading fanfiction after watching the few episodes because I love identity shenanigan romances and I wanted to see people tell this one without being held back by the show's format and intended audience. This is probably the only reason I finished season one. I didn't like the show so much as I thought it was good enough to watch so I could fully understand the fanfic.

Origins is where my opinion changed. It was legitimately good and even felt like a soft reboot for Alya, Adrien, and Chloe. I thought this indicated that the first season had done really well and so the show had been cleared to have a true overarching plot and serialized elements in the coming seasons.

Season two initially seemed to back that up with the Chloe stuff and Marinette meeting Fu, but then Queen Bee happened. That's the moment when I realized the show was never going to live up to its potential. It was incredibly disappointing to see Chloe go from finding the bee to revealing herself on national television within a few minutes. That is the least interesting way you could possibly play her finding the bee. I have referred to this choice as the canary in the coal mine before and I stand by that. If they couldn't handle something as tried and true as a mean girl redemption or do something interesting with Chloe finding the bee, then we were not in for a good time.

The introduction of Carapace just further confirmed that read. Nino wasn't carefully chosen for his miraculous. He was just in the right place at the right time and got the best miraculous for the situation. Chloe getting the bee felt more fitting and she wasn't even chosen for it! She just got to keep using it for some reason even though identity reveals were supposed to get you benched. It was weird and was also another warning sign of things to come. Identity reveals and their consequences would just become more and more confusing as the show went on.

While all of these things were disappointing, I don't fault anyone for being willing to keep watching because it wasn't all bad. Season two showed us that the show was going to suck from a long-form perspective, but it could deliver solid short-form content. Your friend put it really well:

It's a nice stand alone chapter, but there is no great consequence!

The early seasons of Miraculous had a lot of fun standalone chapters that had no greater consequence. Disappointing for those who wanted a serious story, but you don't need to tell a serious story to be good. If the show had stuck to a more lighthearted tone and just put out disjointed, but fun mini-stories, then it would have been fine. Not amazing, but serviceable. An endless series of writing prompts that don't really fit together, but that allow for a ton of fun fan content as people pick and choose which episodes to play with. I would have still had issues with some of those episodes, but because they didn't actually connect, I would have just shrugged and focused on the stuff that was fun. In fact, that's what I was doing for the first four seasons! There's a reason this blog didn't exist until mid season five even though I've had issues with the show since season one.

For example, does Chat Blanc technically ruin the love square by establishing that Adrien's love for Marinette isn't strong enough to keep him from killing her? Sure, but when it was just a random what-if episode, I could ignore it as one-off bad writing. Season four then chose to have Chat Blanc show up in Marinette's nightmare and also featured Marinette promoting Alya instead of Chat Noir, leading me to assume that Marinette was keeping Chat Noir at arms because of Chat Blanc. This changed how I viewed Chat Blanc. That episode suddenly mattered to the entire show and wasn't a one-off thing I could ignore.

The official word is that Chat Blanc had nothing to do with the season four conflict, but that's really not clear in the actual text to the point where I almost want to call BS. Why did you give Marinette a Chat Blanc nightmare if he doesn't matter to her mental state? That makes no sense!

Even if we embrace that official word, Chat Blanc is still not a one-off episode. It apparently haunts Adrien and kept him from the season five final even though Adrien never actually learned about Chat Blanc, which is frankly even more damning than my initial read of season four. It's now super official that Adrien's love for Marinette isn't enough to save the day and I'm not interested in a show that's sticking to that choice and repeating it ad nauseum (Chat Blanc, Ephemeral, and the season five ending). The one-off bad episode has now poisoned the entire show and it's not the only episode that did this.

We've reached a point where there are multiple choices haunting the show, making it so that there really aren't any more fun standalone chapters. Even if season six is written more like those early seasons, are any of us going to be able to enjoy love square hijinks when we're also waiting to see if Adrien will ever learn the truth of sentistatus or his father's death? And what about the knowledge that love will probably never win? It's hard to forget that, especially as more and more people learn the love square's secret identities, endlessly cheapening that reveal. Combined that with them maintaining the statue quo of Marinette being unable to act normal around Adrien and it's hard to picture season six being anything like a good time.

While I can't picture it, maybe you can! Seasons one to four all had episodes I enjoyed even though I was aware of the large scale flaws. Season five is the one that ruined that for me because, while there is no real overarching plot for the season, there was enough connective tissue that no episode felt like it truly stood alone no matter what the writers say. That connective tissue made the problems impossible to ignore and, now that my brain is in serialized mode, I can't go back to episodic. The season five cliffhanger of the lies is also too serious a point for me to mostly ignore it like I did with the other bad cliffhangers. The lies aren't just a dumb plot point, they're an incredibly serious character beat that I can't overlook. Every time the love square is on screen, I'm going to feel a little sick because I know canon isn't going to give this massive betrayal proper weight.

There's also retroactive rot at work here. Because the show has serialized elements, the more the show poisons its plot and characters, the more the rot creeps backwards, ruining the early stuff to the point where the flaws feel glaring. Knowing Chloe's ultimate fate makes it hard to enjoy her early canon writing. Knowing that Ladybug will fight Gabriel alone makes it hard to enjoy Ladynoir's big "you and me against the world" moments. Knowing that Gabriel will eventually win makes it hard to enjoy more moments than I can count.

So, to answer you question:

Were S1 and S2 really the best of Miraculous?

I'd say that the first four seasons all have good standalone episodes and even some good setups that would just never pay off. Season three and four just feel worse than the first two because that's when it started to become really clear that those payoffs would never come since the show had to finally own that fact with things like Chloe "damnation arc" and the lack of consequences for the mass identity reveal.

They also have more setups than the first two seasons and those probably stand out in your mind as being bad. That's how bad writing tends to work when that writing issues are more structural than scene-based. The longer the story goes, the more the cracks in the foundation show. The writing is rarely getting actively worse, there's just enough of it to properly show just how bad it is.

I do think season five was worse than any of the others, but only because the episodes had that awkward thing where they were try to be both episodic and serialized, really highlighting how bad the show was at long-form content. It wasn't so much that the writing got worse as it was that the show focused on the writing style that highlights its flaws. Season six going back to more truly episodic story telling may make it work for some people even if they hated season five. Only time will tell.

#anon ask #formula show problems #ml writing critical #ml writing salt

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writing-until-i-drop · 4 months ago

Text

Wildflowers For A Hangman Ch. 26

Summary:

Daisy, a career novelist, moves in with her college best friend Phoenix who has been permanently assigned to Top Gun with Dagger Squad. She finds herself instantly connected with a cocky pilot who's soft only for her and Jake can't help but want to know everything about her. When the past comes knocking at both of their doors, will they stand together or fall apart?

Or: The Dagger Squad can't cook and Jake falls in love with a woman who makes a mean lasagna while they work their personal trauma.

Jake "Hangman" Seresin x writer!femOC | 18+ (eventually) minors dni. Fluff, smut (eventual), idiots in love, past trauma.

Natasha eats blueberries while giving Daisy anxiety, Daisy makes Jake's brain stop working, and Mav and Hangman have a short but meaningful moment.

AO3 Link

Previous Chapter

“We should talk about renewing the lease,” I shouted over the music, flipping pancakes. Tasha was sitting on the counter, eating the blueberries that were supposed to be added to the batter.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Tasha spoke through a mouthful of fruit, “I think you should move out.” The words didn’t process immediately, lingering in the air as the pancake began to burn in the pan. Move out? How could my best friend want me to move out? We didn’t argue, I cooked her favorites whenever she wanted them, I didn’t leave my dirty clothes on the hallway floor unlike someone I could point fingers at.

“You should,” I took a deep breath. “You should keep explaining before I start crying.” Tasha snorted out a laugh, hopping off the counter to hug me from behind and I moved the pan off the burner to keep myself from burning anything else.

“You know I love you and how much I love living with you, my little tequila tornado,” She kissed my cheek. “But you’re engaged, you and Hangman fuck like rabbits, which, ew.” Okay, so Natasha wasn’t mad at me. I laughed softly. “And you’ve got boat loads of money, sooooooo,” She squeezed my hips. “I think you should buy a house and start filling it up with more nieces I can spoil.”

“Jake and I haven’t even talked about all of that stuff yet, I mean, kids yeah, but not moving in together.” Natasha made a angry buzzer noise,

“You’re engaged, nauseatingly in love, and did I mention all of the sex?” I pushed Tasha off of me, shaking my head as I laughed. She stuck her tongue out, “You’re telling me if you pulled up a Zillow listing and texted to Hangman, he wouldn’t agree to buy the house without even looking at it?”

“I think he’d at least look at it,” I busied myself while Natasha laughed, throwing out the burnt pancake. “But before you kick me out, at least let me talk to the guy.”

“Whatever,” Natasha grabbed one of the pancakes off the stack and took a bite. “Aww, there’s no blueberries in this one.”

“That’s because someone was slacking on their blueberry duties,” I pointed the spatula at her. “Now come on, we’ve still got some batter left.”

Natasha’s idea of moving in with Jake had quickly taken root in my brain and she was right, technically I had enough money to buy a house all on my own. Nothing fancy, I didn’t have millions lying around, but I had enough and I also had an agent who loved making me happy.

“Hey, baby,” Jake sounded out of breath. “What’s up?”

“You know how you like to say things that make my brain explode?” I bit the tip of my thumb, eyeing the yellow fixer-upper Jason had sent me. One story, three bedrooms, a fenced in backyard. It needed a little love and DIY but the more I looked at the listing photos, the more I could see it becoming the perfect first house. A yard for Pretty, an office for me, and plenty of space to have the Daggers over.

“You’re cute when you’re flustered,” Jake chuckled. “What’s going on, baby?”

“Move in with me. I’ll buy this house Jason found for us, you let me decorate however I want, and maybe you can move some of the boxes shirtless.” Jake’s silence transitioned into random noises and half sentences. “Not so fun being the one who has to reboot their brain, is it, cowboy?”

“You want to buy a house?”

“Well, Tasha said I should buy a house and start having babies with you,”

“Jesus, Wildflower,” Jake choked and coughed. “You’re hell bent on giving me a heart attack this morning, aren’t you?” I laughed, laying back against the pillows next to Pretty Boy, who was snuggled up for a mid-morning nap. “I’m like two miles away from your apartment, give me a few minutes and we can talk about this in person.”

“You out for a run?” I dropped my voice a bit, teasing him, “All hot and sweaty?” Jake groaned,

“I do not need to be hard while running two miles, Wildflower. Behave.”

“Or what?”

About an hour later we were laying in bed with the laptop perched on my lap. Jake had refused to take his hands on me since entering my room, even when I forced him to shower, which had been a little complicated with the size of our bathroom.

“How long has Jason been looking at houses for us?” Jake asked, kissing my shoulder.

“About a week,” I pulled up the list of houses, condos, and apartments Jason’s real estate agent had sent over. “I really like the yellow one but it’s going to need some work to make it perfect.”

“Lucky for you, your husband is good with his hands,” One of those hands slid over top of my thigh, squeezing. “In more ways than one.” If we weren’t careful, we’d never end up looking at the houses.

“Hands to yourself, fiance,” I elbowed him gently, “We’ve got things to talk about. Especially if you want to keep calling yourself my husband without the paperwork.”

“We could fix that, all we need is a witness and a judge,” Jake moved the laptop, moving me on top of his lap. Jake kissed my jaw, then my neck, “And I love the yellow house, even if I’m going to break my back renovating that kitchen.”

“We can look at houses with already remodeled kitchens,” I offered, tilting my head back to give him better access to my neck. “Save your back.” Jake made a rumbly noise when I dragged my nails gently down the muscles of his back, “Or maybe we keep looking and-fuck, Jake.” He chuckled, sucking a hickey into my neck.

“I kind of like the idea of building the kitchen of your dreams with my own two hands.” Was it possible to be any more in love with Jake? I didn’t think so.

Daisy had been solely focused on the idea of moving in together. I tried not to take it personally that it was more because she was avoiding one of her writing deadlines. Not that she wasn’t excited for the right reasons though. The day after we had viewed the house on her laptop we had scheduled a viewing of the house and put in an offer, I tried not to feel like a sugar baby while Daisy managed all of the finances involved. I made good money as a pilot but according to the phone calls I had overheard between Daisy and Jason, my bank account was nothing compared to hers.

Rooster was understanding about the whole thing, apparently he was looking forward to living alone. Without a roommate he could “play the field more.” Javy was also excited, he and Phoenix were talking about moving in together. Well, they were mostly arguing about it. Javy liked his apartment, it was nice and there was a pool at the complex. Phoenix didn’t want to pack her stuff and she liked how Daisy had decorated their current apartment.

But today was all about Mav and Penny. Well, mostly Mav. He had decided to wear a suit instead of his dress whites for their wedding and didn’t trust that any of us had suits that weren’t leftover from junior prom, so he had ordered us guys to meet him at a local shop to get fitted for suits.

“Never I thought I’d see the day where Hangman got engaged,” Maverick patted me on the shoulder while I looked between fabric samples. “Proud of you, kid.”

“Thanks, Mav,” I sighed. “I’m glad you’re going first though,” I was. I wanted to see one of the other aviators get married to sooth the irrational part of my brain that liked to whisper that it would never work. That someone who risked their life every day when they went to work, disappeared for months at a time for deployments, and couldn’t always talk about what they did. The risk, the secrets, the possible time spent apart… I was worried.

“And I’m glad Goose and Ice did it before me,” Mav said softly, getting a far away look in his eyes. “They showed me what a good marriage looks like and I’m hoping you and I can do it half as well as them.”

The sentiment hit me hard. I thought about my parents and my sisters, how happy they all were in their marriages despite the challenges. I looked down at the silver band on my left hand, the ring Daisy had gotten me to wear when I wasn’t in the air even though I told her I didn’t need one. I knew its weight was minimal but staring down at it, knowing what it meant, that made it feel like a thousand pound weight on my finger.

“No paisley suits, Hangman,” Mav patted my shoulder again before walking away. I laughed softly to myself, I had flipped to an orange and pink paisley fabric swatch without realizing it.

Jake: I love you

Daisy: I love you too

Daisy: Can’t wait to see you in your suit xoxo

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#bet writes #top gun maverick #top gun fanfiction #jake seresin #fanfic #jake seresin x oc #hangman x oc #wildflowers for a hangman fic

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duskandcobalt · 10 months ago

Text

Everywhere, Everything: Chapter Seven

Chapter Summary: Elain heads back to Velaris for Christmas after rejecting Graysen's marriage proposal.

Word Count: 6.6k

Warnings: mentions of dv (please see authors note below), smattering of smut (18+ pls)

Missed the first six chapters? You can find the Masterlist for this fic here 🥰

A/N: *peaks out from the hole I've been hiding in* heyyyy 😅

Once again, I must begin by saying thank you for all your lovely comments and messages about this fic and all the others. I cannot appreicate how much it means to me. A special thank you to everyone who's checked in with me over the past few months and given me kindess, support, and patience. There are some lovely people on this app and I am so honoured that you choose to read and engage with my fic.

Please note that there is a very brief mention of domestic violence in this chapter within the context of a conversation. If that's something you'd rather skip reading, please feel free to do what's best for you.

ENJOY XX

Read on AO3

The fire was dwindling down, empty cups were scattered on every available surface, Christmas music played over the speakers, and wrapping paper was strewn on the floor of Azriel’s living room.

It’d been a Christmas like all the others - drinking and eating and lots of gifts exchanged, though Nyx had made out the best of anyone, spoiled rotten by all of his aunties and uncles. They’d played a few games, exchanged a bit of gossip about mutual acquaintances, and throughout all the festivities, Azriel had kept a careful eye on Elain.

He watched her now, his brows pulling together above the rim of the whisky glass he’d raised up to his lips. She was sitting quietly in her usual spot on his couch, lazily tracing circles around the rim of her nearly empty wine glass.

There was something different about her tonight that he couldn't quite place but he was determined to figure out. While everyone else had been enjoying themselves, he could sense a peculiar cloud of something sad that seemed to follow Elain around no matter how hard she tried to smile and laugh and pretend like everything was okay when it was clear - to him, at least - that things were far from fine.

His first sign that something was wrong was when Elain had walked into his house earlier, avoiding eye contact and barely even bothering with a proper hug as she muttered a ‘Merry Christmas’ and a ‘thank you for hosting’ all while hiding behind a pile of gifts stacked tall in her arms. Even when she'd come back home with Graysen in tow she hadn't held back from him like that and her iciness had caught him completely off guard.

He’d been so anxious to see her again after all this time, that he hadn’t fully considered the reality of the situation. Azriel knew that the last time they’d seen each other had been tense but it hadn't ended badly by any means. And sure, he hadn't spoken to her properly in well over half a year but she replied to his sparse texts and he still woke up to a voice note from her on his birthday so he’d figured that that had to count for something. That maybe that was to be their new normal. He’d resigned himself to taking what he could get - that’s what he’d told her after all on Nesta’s porch that night. He wanted her in his life in whatever way he could have her.

The second thing to clue him in that something was wrong was that right after she’d placed the presents under the Christmas tree, Elain had made a beeline to the kitchen and poured herself a shot of whatever bottle of alcohol her eyes had landed on first.

It wasn't that he wasn't used to seeing her drink, although she’d certainly never been a drinker in the way the rest of their friend group indulged, but he’d never once seen her drink like this - knocking back shot after shot when she thought no one was watching. It was rare for her to even pour a drink without asking if she could. Almost a decade of knowing her and Elain always asked permission no matter how many times he insisted that she help herself to whatever she wanted.

Azriel had counted at least seven trips to the kitchen tonight - all for a drink, none for food. Even the speciality cheese she adored and that he’d purchased just for her after she confirmed her attendance, sat untouched. But for having downed a minimum of seven drinks, she didn’t really appear to be all that drunk. He had to give her credit because she held her alcohol surprisingly well - the only real give away that she was drunk was a slight stumble as she stood up from the sofa the last time she went to the kitchen and a droop to her eyelids that could be attributed to exhaustion.

Elain had sat quietly most of the night, speaking only when spoken to and channelling most of her attention on Nyx when he’d been awake but now that her nephew was fast asleep on the sofa next to her, Shadow curled up at his feet, she had no real distraction and Azriel watched curiously as she shifted uncomfortably in her seat, opening her mouth a dozen times as if to speak only to seemingly decide against it and retreat back into herself.

He’d planned on once again cornering her to try and figure out what the hell was going on and to see if there was absolutely anything he could do to ease whatever clearly ailed her. He’d intended to follow her into the kitchen the next time she went to drown her sorrows but he never got the chance because after a prolonged moment of silence amongst the group - she finally spoke.

Azriel all but froze as Elain cleared her throat and wrung her hands together in her lap, tugging at the sleeves of the long sleeved black top she was wearing. Her empty glass of wine had been carefully placed on the coffee table in front of her.

“Graysen proposed,” she hiccupped, nervously tucking her hair behind her ears as she delivered her news without even a second of preamble.

The two words were softly spoken and she’d said them in one breath with no break in between but Azriel heard her loud and clear.

His stomach dropped, the three or four drinks he’d consumed turned sour in his stomach and did very little to ease the pain of his heart slamming against his chest as Nesta and Feyre began firing off question after question - all of which were ignored by Elain and none of which he could actually hear over the incessant buzzing in his ears.

He prayed that he’d heard her wrong. Prayed that there was no way she’d actually said what he thought she’d said. It wasn’t until he saw Feyre reach for Elain’s left hand that Azriel forced himself to focus, his eyes zeroing in on her fingers - at the vacant space where one would expect to find a ring after an announcement such as the one Elain had just made.

“I said no,” she whispered, catching Feyre’s confused expression as her sister’s index finger slid over Elain’s bare skin.

No.

She’d said no. She’d said no. She’d said no.

Azriel repeated the words to himself over and over again as it was his own personal mantra, drilling it into his head as he finally allowed himself to breathe. He couldn’t look at her face, couldn’t bear to find out what expression he’d find there. All he could do was stare at her hand - at that perfect, unadorned finger - no glimmering diamond to be found.

“A few months ago,” he heard her tell the girls.

“Why’d you say no?” Nesta asked, her voice soft although Azriel could hear the smallest inkling of relief in it that mirrored his own feelings. He wondered if maybe Nesta had seen through Graysen’s facade as well and had quietly hoped that her cousin would come to her senses and leave him.

Azriel tore his attention away from Elain’s fingers and up to her face only to watch as her eyes lifted to meet his for a fleeting moment before she quickly looked away from him and back to Nesta.

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “We hadn’t even talked about it and I was caught so off guard. It just didn’t feel right.” She took a deep, staggering breath, Azriel could see the shimmer of tears beginning to well along her lash line. “I don’t think I ever really loved him…. I never really like them all that much.”

She said the last part to herself, a drunken admission whispered to the floor. It was a confession that she’d spent her entire adult life with men that she didn’t even truly care for. Azriel couldn’t bring himself to wonder why she did what she did or why she’d finally admitted it. He wouldn’t let himself consider that maybe she found herself staying in meaningless relationship after meaningless relationship for the same reason he found himself avoiding them all together.

“I think… I think I may need to lay down,” Elain muttered after a moment of tense, awkward silence. It was clear that no one in the room quite knew what to say or do. Feyre and Nesta were staring at her dumbfounded. Cassian and Rhys were exchanging mildly panicked looks as they tried to figure out what to do in this situation. “I feel a little dizzy all of a sudden.”

“Come upstairs,” Azriel was on his feet before he could even think to stop himself, speaking without even consciously meaning to as he bypassed Feyre and Nesta to get to Elain. He stepped forward, one hand outstretched towards her.

He didn't miss the look Feyre gave Nesta. A silent enquiry as to whether they should let him take her upstairs - as if the two of them knew what had happened the last time he and Elain had been left alone on Christmas. Nesta just nodded, one subtle dip of her chin that had Feyre watching in stunned silence as Elain placed her hand in Azriel’s.

Neither of the girls had ever said anything to him about that night other than to acknowledge that Elain had, in fact, flown home the following morning. An emergency at work was the flimsy excuse Nesta had given him the following day when he’d called her and done his best to enquire about Elain’s whereabouts without raising any suspicion.

Azriel carefully pulled Elain up, keeping her hand in his as his other arm wrapped around her waist to keep her upright as he slowly and carefully led her up his stairs, guiding her to the guest room a couple doors down from his own bedroom.

He flipped back the duvet and sat her down on the bed. He could feel her eyes on him as she silently watched him lower himself to his knees so he could unzip her boots and slide them off her feet.

“Lay back,” he tapped gently on her calf, hands hovering around her in case she needed help.

“Not the first time you’ve said that to me,” Elain quipped, flopping back in a less than graceful manner before turning onto her side to face him. There was the tiniest smirk on her lips, the smallest bit of amusement shining in her sad eyes. He almost found himself smiling at the drunken comment until her expression changed, those pretty lips of hers turning down at the corners.

“Az.. will you stay with me? After everyone goes?”

Azriel grimaced, ignoring the pull from the part of his heart that was ready and willing to bend to her every whim. “I can’t, Elain.”

“Why?” Her eyebrows pulled together to create a small crease on her forehead. He fought the urge to reach out and smooth away that visible line of tension with a gentle pass of his thumb. “You always used to stay with me.”

“It’s different now,” he exhaled, shoulders dropping as he absentmindedly ran a hand through his hair. “You’re not mine, Elain.”

“That’s not true,” Elain frowned, fighting to keep her eyes open. “I’ve always been yours.” She said it with every bit of drunken sincerity in the world, whispered soft and sweet even as she lost the battle to sleep and her eyes began to flutter shut.

Her words were like a knife to his heart. He knew she never would’ve said it if the amount of alcohol in her bloodstream didn’t outweigh her good senses. He had no idea whether she’d even remember any of this in the morning.

“Why did you stay with him? If you didn’t love him? If you didn’t like any of the others? Why would you stay with them?” Azriel couldn’t help but ask, going against his better judgement to seek an explanation for the questions that had haunted him for years even if he knew that whatever answer she gave him, it was unlikely to offer him any semblance of peace.

“It’s easier to pretend if there’s someone else,” Elain’s hands came up to her throat, her fingertips mindlessly searching for something. She frowned when she came up empty, her nails digging into the space between her collarbones instead. The sight unsettled Azriel enough to momentarily distract him from what she’d just said.

The necklace he’d given her on her birthday a few years ago, the one she’d worn religiously every day since, the one that tethered her to him, was missing from her neck and it was like a punch to his gut.

“The chain broke,” Elain whispered, having followed his line of sight to where he’d been openly staring at the place the gold pendant had sat against her skin for half a decade. “It’s in my bag, I was hoping you’d be able to fix it.”

Azriel nodded, relieved that she hadn’t actually taken the necklace off herself. He stood there, arms hanging uselessly at his side for a couple more seconds until her eyelids drifted shut once again. He walked towards the door, deciding to let her sleep this off, but he paused before he could leave, turning towards her once more.

He thought maybe he was a sadist because asking these questions, pushing for these answers, would only serve to expand that ever growing crack in his heart. Still, he couldn't seem to help himself.

“Lain?” Part of him hoped that she’d already drifted off to sleep, that she wouldn’t answer and he wouldn’t get to ask his question and have to hear her response..

“Yeah, Az?” The corner of her eyes crinkled as she looked at him, squinting.

“What did you mean?” He asked. “When you said it’s easier to pretend?”

She paused for a moment, teeth scraping over her bottom lip as she turned so she was on her back, her eyes focused on the ceiling.

“When I’m with someone else,” she started, voice so quiet that he had to strain to hear her over the music carrying up the stairs and under the gap in the door. “It’s easier to distract myself from the fact that sometimes I want you so badly, I think it might kill me.”

The ache in his chest was so sharp and so immediate that he had to grip the handle on the door harder just to feel like he had some sort of control over his body. He had no idea what to do with that information. Had no idea what to say back. He’d waited what felt like a lifetime to hear her say those words to him, he’d just never imagined that it would be so painful.

He couldn’t speak, could barely even remember his name. He hadn’t realised how long he’d been silent until he noticed that she’d fallen asleep, her head now tilted towards him.

Azriel set his shoulders and backed out of the room, quietly shutting the door behind him. He took a deep breath, pushing back every bit of emotion that he felt, before slowly making his way back downstairs.

Elain stuck an arm out from under the covers, her fingers blindly reaching to her nightstand for her phone. It wasn’t until she felt the sharp corner of a wooden surface instead of the rounded edge of her own bedside table that she realised that she wasn’t at home in her own bed. She peeked out from under the covers, taking in her surroundings with one blurry eye.

Light was beginning to filter in through a pair of cream curtains covering a rather large window. The bed she was in was comfy and not completely unfamiliar, the bed linen looked similar to a set that she’d helped Azriel choose back when they’d gone shopping for…

“Fuck,” Elain groaned, sitting up and dragging her hands over her face.

She wasn’t at home. She wasn’t in her designated room at her sister’s house. No - she’d been fast asleep in Azriel’s guest bedroom.

It didn’t take much to figure out just how she’d ended up here. The pounding in her head and the dryness in her mouth were enough to tell her that she’d maybe taken it a little too far with the alcohol last night.

She’d started drinking before they’d even left Feyre’s, just a couple of glasses while getting ready that she told herself were for liquid courage. She’d known the second that they pulled into Azriel’s driveway that she’d need far more to get through seeing him again under a whole new set of circumstances that only she was privy to and so she’d thrown caution to the wind and had been throwing back drinks any chance she got.

She really hadn’t even been planning on telling anyone about the proposal but after an hour or so of drinking, she’d felt the urge to say it - to let them know what had happened. To let them know she and Graysen were done. Elain couldn’t remember much past the moment she’d drunkenly blurted out the news.. she remembered Feyre and Nesta’s surprised faces and the faraway look on Azriel’s face when she’d dared to glance at him but everything past that moment seemed to be a blur.

If she really tried to push for details, she could vaguely remember being helped up the stairs because she was too far gone to manage on her own but that was all her hungover brain could string together.

“Lain?” The low register of Azriel’s morning voice rumbled through the door as a knock lightly sounded on the surface. “You up? Can I come in?”

“Yeah, come in!” She called back, wincing at how sore her voice sounded in her ears.

Elain sat up, quickly running a hand through her tangled hair as she propped up a pillow behind her and let the duvet fall to her waist. It was so much colder in this room than she’d expected and she didn’t fully register why until Azriel walked in.

“Morning, how you feeling? I brought some -” he’d been halfway through his sentence, sleepy eyes scanning over her until they widened at the exact same time the tips of his ears went red.

She’d lost her top at some point during the night - something she hadn’t realised until the cold morning air had hit her bare skin. Azriel turned around quickly, the glass of water in his hand sloshing over slightly with the speed at which he averted his gaze. “Fuck. Sorry! I thought.. You said to come in and I thought… fuck .”

Elain quickly tugged the sheets back up to her chin, fighting the urge to pull them over her head altogether and suffocate herself from embarrassment. Twice now, she’d woken up in Azriel’s house on the day after Christmas naked in one of his beds. Maybe next year she’d check off the last remaining room.

“No, I’m sorry, I didn’t even realise I - wait, you can turn around…” she fumbled with her words, watching as he slowly turned to face her. His cheeks were pink and the hand that wasn’t cradling a glass of water and an entire pack of headache tablets came up to fidget with the worn neck of the old t-shirt he’d chucked on this morning. “I always get so hot at night and I usually sleep with a fan and I just must’ve… taken it off. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, I should’ve gotten you a change of clothes but I didn’t want to…” he trailed off, coming closer to hand her the water as he opened up the packet of tablets and slipped out a few. “I barely saw anything, if that helps.”

Elain took the tablets from him. “Barely anything, huh?”

She took a small bit of satisfaction from the way he frowned in confusion before he caught on, the blush that had finally subsided from his cheeks came back full force.

“ Not what I meant,” Azriel shook his head, raking a hand through his hair as she tossed back the tablets. “There’s plenty to see… just the right amount.”

“I’d stop speaking now if I were you,” Elain rolled her eyes. “Thank you for the tablets and the water and for letting me stay the night.”

“It’s nothing,” Azriel shrugged, gingerly sitting on the very edge of the bed. His eyes scanned over her again, lingering on the bare skin of her shoulder that had escaped the cover of the duvet before they slid to her fingers and then back up to her face. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Could be better,” she answered, realising that she hadn’t actually gotten around to responding the first time he’d asked her. “Can’t drink like I used to, I suppose.”

“You’ve never drank like that, Lain.” Azriel chuckled. “I think that’s part of the problem.”

He was right. She was notoriously a lightweight when it came to alcohol and had never needed more than four or five drinks before she was just the right amount of drunk.

“A shower and some food and I’ll feel brand new,” she sighed.

“I’ll grab you a towel and some clothes,” he nodded, fingers mindlessly tapping at his knee. “Have a shower and come down, I’ll make you some breakfast and then if you’re up for it we can go over to the studio and I’ll fix your necklace. Fresh air might do you some good.”

“You don’t have to do that, Az. I’ll call Feyre to pick me up and get out of your way.” Elain started to look around for where she might’ve tossed her top, suddenly anxious that she’d been here too long. That she was eating into his day, once again taking up time that she didn’t deserve.

“I know that I don’t have to, Elain. I want to.” He insisted, voice gentle as ever as he looked over at her. “You aren’t in my way.”

Elain didn’t say anything, just looked down at her lap as he stood up, adjusting the waistband of the plaid pajama pants he had on. “Chocolate chip or blueberry?”

“What?”

“Pancakes,” Azriel clarified, a shy grin on his lips. “Chocolate chip or blueberry?”

“Blueberry, please.” Elain couldn’t help but mirror her grin, especially when her stomach audibly grumbled at the mere mention of food.

An hour or so later, Elain sat quietly, perched on a bench top in Azriel’s workshop. She was warm from the scorching shower she’d taken and clothed in an assortment of clothes that he’d handed her with a towel this morning - his shirt, his sweatpants… a lacy pair of underwear she recognised as the ones she hadn’t bothered to search for when she’d snuck out of his house the previous year.

She watched him as he took a seat, sliding a frame of protective glasses over his eyes before he fired up a small torch. He situated himself, leaning forward as he began to carefully solder Elain’s necklace back together.

She told herself she was just watching a master at work but her attention had drifted from the actual work being done to focus on the movement of his deft fingers, the shifting muscles of his strong back and shoulders. She studied the side of his face - the slope of his nose, the concentrated furrow of his brows, the way his lips pressed together as he worked.

She didn’t realise just how intensely she’d been staring at him until she found herself looking into his actual eyes rather than just his side profile. Elain quickly sat up straight, rolling her shoulders as she lowered her eyes and tried to keep her cheeks from flooding with colour.

“You said the necklace broke while you were changing,” Azriel stood up, pushing his glasses back, using them like a headband to keep his thick hair off of his forehead. It was ridiculous that he managed to look good even like that.

“The way the chain was broken,” he spoke carefully as he approached her. “It didn’t look like a simple snag, it looked like there was some force behind it.

Elain swallowed, her cheeks now burning for an entirely different reason. She turned to look out of the window to her right, pretending to watch the snow as it drifted lazily from the cold, gray sky.

“Lain?” Azriel tried again. He was standing in front of her now, just inches from her knees. “How did the necklace really break?”

Elain paused, unsure how to proceed or what to even say. She couldn’t lie to him. Not again. She’d told herself in the shower this morning - after she’d had a small cry and wallowed in self pity - that this needed to be a new start, that she couldn’t keep shutting him out. Especially now that she no longer had the excuse of having a boyfriend in the picture.

“Graysen… he didn’t like the necklace very much,” she started. “He always had an issue with it, even before he met you. He didn’t like that I never took it off or that it was from a friend . It only got worse after he came home with me and saw us and then when I… when he proposed and I said no, he said that if I didn’t want to accept the ring, I needed to take off the necklace. I guess to prove that I cared about him even if I didn’t want to marry him just yet.”

“You didn’t take the necklace off,” Azriel stated, eyes boring into her even though she couldn’t quite bring herself to look back at him.

“I couldn’t do it,” Elain’s voice shook slightly as she thought back to that night. “He obviously wasn’t happy with my choice and so he just… he reached forward and pulled it off of me.”

Elain’s eyes were shut, her heart racing at the memory of how she’d felt that night. How alone she’d been, how momentarily afraid. She couldn’t bring herself to tell Azriel that she’d woken to a small, raised scar on the side of her neck the next morning. She hadn’t realised that she’d been crying until Azriel’s hand cupped her face, the rough pad of his thumb gently sweeping across her cheek to brush away hot tears.

“I’m so sorry,” she mumbled.

“What are you apologising for?” Azriel asked.

She could hear the restraint in his voice, the underlying anger that he carried on her behalf.

“I don’t know,” Elain finally looked at him, giving him a sad smile. “I’ve just been so awful to you for so long now.”

“You haven’t,” he assured her. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Lain. I just hope you know that how he acted - pulling this off of you - that’s not okay. You didn’t deserve that.”

“I shouldn’t have led him on…” she shook her head. “I wasted his time. I wasted yours… he was right to be angry with me.”

“Look at me,” Azriel demanded, palm sliding from her cheek down to her jaw so that he could tilt her face up towards his. “None of that matters.”

“It does though because I -”

“Elain, did he ever…” Elain’s eyes travelled to the clench of his jaw, the way his throat flexed as he trailed off. “If he put his hands on you…”

“No, Az.” Elain lifted her hand up to cover his where it still cradled her face. “There were words occasionally and he’d… when we… never mind,” she blushed, swallowing away the bitterness at remembering what the sex had been like after an argument or whenever he’d been jealous. “It was never… he never hit me.” She said finally.

Elain studied Azriel’s face carefully. Let him see that she was okay. That the only marker that anything had happened was a broken necklace that was easily mended.

She knew where his mind had gone - knew his fears of her being treated the same way his mother had been treated.

He’d confided in her years ago - told her about what he’d witnessed growing up and the anger he felt towards the man he didn’t even care to call father. Explained how ashamed he felt at being too small to really be able to do anything to help.

Elain couldn’t bear the thought of him feeling like that again. Certainly not over her.

“Azriel,” she squeezed his fingers to get his full attention. “He didn’t hurt me. I promise.”

“Okay,” he nodded eventually, worried eyes meeting hers for one more moment as if to confirm that she was in fact unharmed before he leaned back and picked up her necklace from where he’d sat it on the bench next to her hip. “Here, just like new.”

Elain didn’t reach for the necklace, instead she just gave him a shy smile and echoed the question she’d asked him when he first presented her with this necklace all those years ago. “Put it on me?”

Azriel returned her smile with one just as shy, waiting as she gathered her hair and twisted it up to move it out of the way. His hands slipped around her neck, the chain cold against her skin.

Azriel’s head dipped so that he could see what he was doing, his cheek skimming her hair as he took his time fastening the necklace. She’d missed the feeling, the reassuarance that the small bit of gold nestled against her chest provided her.

“Last night… Did you mean what you said?” His question was so quiet, half hushed by the way his face was tilted into her hair.

“Oh god,” she groaned, dread seeping through her veins.

She’d been wondering all morning what had happened last night, had been trying to fill in the blanks between the bits she could remember… which wasn’t all that much. She was scared to even ask - afraid to know all the ways she might’ve embarrassed herself the previous night. “I don’t really remember what was said, to be honest.”

He finally pulled back and straightened up, hands reaching forward to gently maneuver the necklace until it sat just right around her neck. Each brush of his fingers against her skin made her shiver in a way that she couldn’t possibly hide from him.

The way that he was looking at her certainly didn’t help. Neither did the drag of his thumb against her neck, right over a pulsing vein that gave away her racing heart.

“Right,” Azriel gave her a nervous smile that made her stomach drop in anticipation. “When Nesta asked you why you said no…”

“I do remember that part,” she cut him off, unable to bear hearing it again although she knew it could only get worse.

“Well, when it was just us upstairs, after you’d asked me to stay -”

“Jesus, Az, I’m sorry -”

“Not something to apologise for,” the fingers of his other hand tapped out a pattern on her knee that caused yet another shiver to zip up her spine. “I asked you why you stayed with Graysen or with any of the others if you didn’t even actually like them and you told me that it was easier to do that than admit that you, um… wanted me.”

Elain bit the inside of her cheek as she glanced away from him yet again.

“Is that true?” Azriel prodded her for an answer and when she found the courage to look at him again, the look in his eyes, the unmistakable heat, threatened to stop her heart altogether.

“What happens if I say yes?” She felt breathless, a little dizzy. Just like she felt a year ago when she’d been in a very similar situation - sat on a countertop, Azriel standing in between her knees. Their entire world balancing on a precipice.

She wasn’t sure when she’d started to lean into his touch. Couldn’t pinpoint when her face had moved so close to his that his nose practically grazed hers. She had no way to tell if he had leaned down or if she had keened upwards, her body arching up to him like a flower seeking the sun. She didn’t know when any of it had happened but she didn’t fight it as her eyes fluttered shut and her lips parted in anticipation.

Waiting. Wanting.

He didn’t answer her, only smoothed his thumb over her throat once more before repeating his own question. “Is it true, Elain?”

“Yes,” she breathed, her voice verging on desperation.

Azriel swallowed once, eyes tracing a slow path from her eyes to her lips before he answered her with action.

Their lips met, clumsily at first though they fell into rhythm quickly, muscle memory kicking in as their mouths came together in a way that bordered on frantic. Her hands tangled in his hair while his ventured to her waist, pulling her into him while simultaneously pushing her further back onto the workbench until she was practically flat against it, his body pressing hers down.

“Elain…” Azriel’s voice was almost pained as he said her name, his lips coasting along her jaw, a different kind of restraint in his tone than the restraint he’d spoken with a few minutes before.

“Please,” she all but whimpered, desperate to feel his lips on hers again.

“Can’t do this if you’re going to run again afterwards, Elain.” He told her, his hands still wandering, sliding under the soft fabric of the shirt she wore. His shirt.

“I mean… my flight is booked for tomorrow,” she couldn’t help but joke, squealing and squirming as his fingers pressed into her side as punishment.

“S’not funny,” he grumbled.

“Sorry, sorry…” she schooled her face into a serious expression. “I do have to go tomorrow but it won’t be because of this, Az. Not this time. I promise.”

“We have a lot of talking to do,” Azriel told her, all the while his hands travelled further up her torso until his fingers grazed the soft skin of her breasts.

Just that slight touch had her tugging him down towards her as she leaned further back once more, presenting herself to him. His for the taking.

“Later,” she told him. “Talk later.”

She knew it was stupid - to once again go down this route without having properly spoken about what they were doing. What this was. If it was even anything. All she knew was that she was tired of pretending. Tired of being afraid of the unknowns, of the what ifs. She wished she had any idea how this would all end, how it would play out. But that was a conversation for another day. Right now, all she wanted, all she needed , was this.

“Later,” Azriel agreed, smiling into the crook of her neck before coming back up to kiss her again. This time it was unrushed, almost lazy. He took his time familiarising himself with her mouth the same way he took his time circling her nipples with his thumbs. She moaned into his mouth - half at the blissful feeling of his hands on her skin, half at the memory of what that same motion had felt like when he’d slid his hand up under her skirt the last time they’d done this.

“Always want you like this,” she admitted, mind hazy as his mouth travelled down her neck and over her sternum as he pushed up her t-shirt until his lips were on the bare skin of her stomach.

“Yeah?” his fingers tucked into the waistband of her sweatpants, tugging them down as she lifted her hips to aid in the process. Her underwear was pulled to the side, his fingers gliding over her entirely too easily with how wet she was for him. She heard him swear under his breath, in awe at his effect on her.

“Always,” she reiterated, gasping as he slowly slid a finger inside her. “For you. Always like this for you. Az, please can we just -”

She was speaking complete gibberish, anxious to get what she’d been coveting all this time even if she hadn’t wanted to admit it to herself. She didn’t want to waste any more time.

“Don’t have a condom with me,” he told her with a kiss to the inside of her thigh as he continued to touch her. She was distracted from her disappointment when he added another finger - tested the stretch of her.

“You don’t have any here?” The lack of a condom hadn’t been an issue last time but it had been a year and she knew Azriel had a rotation of girls that he occasionally saw so when he didn’t follow up with a but I haven’t been with anyone, she didn’t let herself linger on it for too long.

“Don’t really make it a habit to have sex in my workplace very often, or ever, to be honest. Safety concerns and all…” he trailed off, his breath hot over where she ached for his touch. “So this might just have to do for now, wanna make you co-”

His words were cut off by a shrill ring from somewhere besides them.

“Ignore it,” she told him, hips tilting up in search of more as she flung a hand out to the side in search of her phone. Her fingers blindly fumbled on the screen until the ringing stopped.

Azriel continued, fingers curling in just the right way as he circled her clit with his tongue - ever so slowly bringing her closer and closer to the edge.

“Az, oh my God, I think, I think -” Elain gasped, grasping at his hair. She wanted to tell him she was close, to not stop, that she was going to come. But the shrill ring of her phone sounded again, effectively ruining the moment.

“You should probably get that,” Azriel reluctantly pulled away, fingers slipping out of her. He sighed deeply, forehead resting against her bare thigh as she reached for her phone and glanced at the screen.

Two missed calls and fourteen unread texts. If it wasn’t for previous trauma of missed calls and texts, she might’ve let it go and urged Azriel to continue. She tapped on the screen a little harder than necessary.

“Hello, Nesta.” Elain huffed as she sat up, gently pushing Azriel away as she adjusted her underwear and pulled her pants up and her shirt back down.

Azriel grinned, shamelessly watching as Elain made herself decent to speak to her sister while she tried to pretend like she hadn’t been splayed out on his workbench half naked, with his mouth in between her thighs mere moments ago.

“Where the hell have you been? I’ve been texting you all morning, it’s almost one in the afternoon. I’m glad to know you’re alive.” Nesta rattled off, exasperated. “Azriel wasn’t answering his phone either.”

“I’m alive. I’m with him. I’ll be home soon.” Elain’s words were short. She couldn’t keep the annoyance out of her voice at having their time so rudely interrupted.

She knew the moment was over, that she’d need to go back to her sisters and explain herself. God knows they’d be anxiously waiting for answers now that she’d sobered up. But her disappointment faded because the way Azriel was watching her with bright, happy eyes and lips swollen from kissing her more than made up for it.

She half listened to whatever Nesta was saying, too focused on the man in front of her - his dark, messy hair. His broad shoulders and strong arms. His calloused hands. All those tattoos that snaked up his arms and over his chest - old, familiar ones and a few new pieces that she longed to learn about. His enviably long eyelashes. Those kind emerald flecked eyes.

This was Azriel. Her Azriel. Her best friend.

How could she have ever thought this was anything but exactly right?

#elriel fic #everywhere everything #my writing #elain x azriel #modern au #acotar fanfiction #elriel fanfic #elriel smut #once again posting at 1am on a work night #oh well what can ya do #overlook any and all mistakes actually that’s what you can do #no one yell at my girl nesta #shes simply concerned for her sisters wellbeing #the chapter in which elain and azriel find at least one singular braincell to share between them #i say this with love #okay bye its bedtime

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