#had to cut it out because of an orange gown behind this one that you can still kind of see

[bebemoon]

giambattista valli couture spring 2o23, paper doll .

[thebadgerclan]

Queen of the Ice

Pairing: Nikolai Lantsov x reader

Requested by Anonymous

Summary: Before his wedding, a ball is to be held...

In one week, Prince Nikolai Lantsov would be a married man.  He had yet to meet his bride-to-be, but he knew that she was the daughter of a rather powerful nobleman.  He knew that his marriage would strengthen the crown’s power, but he knew little else.  Nikolai had been told the very basics about his future wife: she was intelligent, she enjoys reading, she was well-mannered, she had a sizable dowry.  He wouldn’t even meet his bride until a few days before the wedding!

Queen Tatiana had decided to throw her son a party before his wedding; a masked ball.  Invitations were sent out to all members of the Ravkan Court as well as the gentry.  You are cordially invited to the Grand Palace for a celebration for His Most Royal Highness, Prince Nikolai Lantsov, Grand Duke of Udova, before his upcoming marriage.  Costumes are encouraged to be as elaborate as possible.

And the attendees heeded their instructions.  Guests appeared as a variety of animals and mythological creatures, some being so bold as to come dressed as members of the royal family.  The guest of honor came dressed as the privateer, Sturmhond, an exact replica of his signature teal frock coat and his hair Tailored to a reddish-orange shade.  The mask he wore was the visage of a fox, calling to Sturmhond’s other nickname.  Needless to say, the guests loved it.

You had not been explicitly invited to the ball, but hadn’t not been invited.  So, after your mother and father departed, you pulled a gown from your wardrobe and called for your friend who also happened to be a Tailor.  In half-an-hour, you were transformed into a version of a Fjerdan sylph of the ice.  Your hair had been Tailored to an icy white, your gown was of the palest blue, glittering when you moved, tulle and silk flowing behind you when you walked.  Your mask was diamond and sapphire, obscuring your face from the nose up, and your jewelry matched.

“So,” you said, spinning before the mirror.  “Am I ready for the Palace?”  Your friend smiled, pride flickering in her chest both at her work and at you, her dearest friend, a soon-to-be princess.  “You’re ready for the world, Y/N,” she said, ushering you out the door and to the waiting carriage.  When you arrived at the Palace, you slipped mostly unnoticed into the ballroom, all the guests masked, and quickly joined the throng.

Nikolai saw you immediately, and he cut his way through the crowd to you.  “Pardon me,” he said when he approached.  “But I do not believe I saw you enter earlier.”  You spun around and came face to face with a man dressed as Sturmhond.  You only had to look at him for a moment more to realize that this was Prince Nikolai, your fiance.  “There are easily over a hundred guests here, sir.  How can you be sure you didn’t see me?”

“Sturmhond” smiled, taking your hand in his.  “Because, you are by far the most beautiful woman here.  And I remember beautiful women.”  Heat crept up your neck, and you felt your lips curling into a smile.  “You can only see half of my face,” you replied, and “Sturmhond” laughed.  “Yes, but it’s more than that.  You carry yourself with such grace and poise, such confidence.  Beauty is more than appearance, Miss…?”

You playfully retracted your hand.  “Oh, now that would defeat the purpose of a masked ball, wouldn’t it, ‘Sturmhond’?”  He smiled wider, once more taking your hand.  “I suppose it would…isdrottning.”  At your questioning look, he elaborated.  “Isdrottning is Fjerdan for ‘ice queen’.”  You smiled yet again.  “Observative for a pirate.”  “Sturmhond”’s face lit up in a wicked grin.  “I’m a privateer, I’ll have you know.  Now, would Her Majesty of the Ice care for a dance?”

You squeezed the hand he had taken.  “I would, privateer.”  He led you onto the dance floor, where dozens of other couples were also pairing off.  This hadn’t been part of your plan for attending the ball, but it was certainly turning out to be beneficial.  You had been told very little about your fiance: that he was kind, that he liked to read, that he liked the sea.  When you asked for more information or to meet him more than a few days before the wedding, you were brushed off.

But here you were, dancing with the man you were set to marry, and he seemed every bit a caring, kind gentleman.  He took genuine interest in you, listened when you spoke, laughed at your jokes, and took every effort over the evening to be in your company.  Nikolai Lantsov was a man you could be happy with, and when you left the Palace, you left feeling lighter than you had in months and even excited for your wedding.  There was more to learn about the prince, of course, but you knew firsthand that he was a good and honorable gentleman.

Nikolai, on the other hand, left the ball feeling low and dejected.  The woman he’d spent most of the evening with had been everything he could have wanted in a woman: smart, kind, caring, funny, and stunningly gorgeous.  Hours had felt like minutes in her presence, and Nikolai barely dared to name the feeling she had sparked in him.  But as he lay awake, tossing and turning with visions of his Queen of the Ice in his head, he couldn’t deny it.  He had fallen in love, a week before his wedding, with a woman he would never see again.  At least he didn’t know her name, that would be a comfort.  Nikolai would never know the identity of the woman who had stolen his heart.

***

Your Most Royal Highness, I present Lady Y/N L/N, daughter of the Duke of Adena.”  Nikolai stood as you entered the room, bowing his head to you.  You were beautiful, yes, but his heart yearned for the woman at the ball, his sylph of the ice.  You curtsied, but rather than lower your gaze to the floor, you looked him in the eye, a smirk on your face.  “Lady Y/N,” Nikolai said, taking your hand and kissing it.  “It is an honor to meet you.”

He was expecting a greeting along the lines of “The honor is mine, Your Highness,” but your response completely floored him.  “Don’t you recognize me, Sailor Boy?”  Nikolai blinked, attempting to process your words.  Was it…?  No, there was no way.  “I beg your pardon?”  You laughed softly.  “And here I thought I wasn’t so easily forgettable.”  The way you held yourself, the way you spoke…your voice, it was…  “Isdrottning?” he asked, and you dipped into another curtsey.

“At your service, privateer.”  Nikolai broke out into a massive smile, fighting the urge to pull you into his arms.  “It’s truly you?”  “It is, Your Highness.”  “Oh please,” he said, taking your hands and kissing them.  “Call me Nikolai.  I had no clue you were invited to the ball.”  “I wasn’t, strictly speaking.  I had my friend Tailor my hair and sneak me in.”  Nikolai smiled.  “But why?”  “Well, I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.  And I wanted to see what you were really like.”

Your fiance cocked his head.  “What I’m really like?”  You nodded.  “I’d been told next to nothing about you, and it was killing me.  And… you’re exactly what I dreamed you’d be like.”  The prince felt himself blush.  “Can I be honest, Y/N?”  “Please.”  “At the ball, you were everything I dreamed of finding in a woman.  And it broke my heart, because you weren’t mine.  But now… Saints, I have no words to tell you how happy I am.  Because in one night I fell in love with you.”

You gaped, feeling butterflies explode in your stomach.  “R-really?”  “Yes,” he responded.  “And I will spend the rest of my life trying to show you how much.”  You felt yourself blush, squeezing his hand.  “I think I already fell for you, Nikolai.”  He beamed, and once he realized the two of you were alone, he tipped your chin up and kissed you.  “I’m afraid we can’t speak long,” he said, his lips brushing against yours, unwilling to pull further away.  “But only two more days until I can kiss you as much as I please.”  Nikolai kissed you again, and you returned the kiss with equal fervor.  “I can’t wait.”

[gumballavocadoharry]

Birth of baby styles:

You examined your baby bump. The bulging belly had grown bigger and bigger since the past few months until you finally reached the goal of 9 months. Your hands gently caressed your smooth bump, noting the different positions that baby styles could be in.

Slight apprehension pierced you, thinking about giving birth. You knew there was going to be some intense pain and you worried about complications, you also became worried about complications with baby styles. Your glances were tossed between the wall and your belly. You clutched your heavy heart, hoping for a smooth delivery and recovery. The days felt like ghosts creeping up on you; at any day.....the baby could come.

So no surprise as to why you barricaded yourself in the house. "I'm home yn!" Harry's voice boomed through the living room. Harry could tell his vocal alert was startling for you. "Oh I'm sorry about that babe," He kissed your cheek. "I stopped by the store on the way home and picked up a couple baby things."

A reassured smile set in on your face. "That's so sweet!" You watched as Harry pulled out the variety of yellow, light blue and orange baby outfits and toys. "We don't know the gender," he reminded. You nodded and just continued to smile as Harry pulled out more and more surprises for the new baby.

Later that night, you were getting ready for bed, rather late but only because you had such a hard time getting to bed that sometimes you stayed up through the night, just to avoid being a turtle. But tonight was different.

Your water broke.

You just stared at the pool of water that had come from your uterus in shock. It was your instinct that forced you out of the bathroom and into the bedroom to wake your husband. "Harry, the baby's coming!" Like a grasshopper, Harry leaped up from the bed and grabbed the overnight bag you both had packed in the events of this day.

Harry dragged you to the car where he ran through every stop sign and red light to get you to the hospital on time. "Oh, the baby is trying to come." You clutched your stomach, making Harry press harder on the gas. Your breathing became laboured and it was cutting pretty close to delivery. Finally you arrived at the hospital, and Harry rushed you inside in a wheelchair.

"My wife is having a baby now!" The nurse sprung from behind the counter and wheeled you into the delivery room, where Harry was instructed to scrub up and you to scrub down into a hospital gown.

Your legs were already in the stirrups with a blanket draped over you and Harry was by your side holding your hand, allowing you to squeeze it once a contraction hit. "Are you ready Mrs. Styles?" The doctor asked.

"Yes! Please this hurts!" The doctor patiently reassured you that you would be fine and that it was time to deliver. "One big push yn,"

You pushed hard with all your might. "One more," You gave a big push before falling back into the bed and catching your breath. "The baby's out now," You breathed heavily with Harry anticipating to see your baby. "It's a girl." She was placed on your chest as you and Harry gazed at the beautiful baby girl that was now yours. "She's beautiful." Harry cooed. "You did amazing yn, I'm so proud of you."

Harry kissed your forehead and just looked on at the sweet little angel in your arms. Baby styles was now here.

[thatsthewrongwallcraig]

In The Woods Somewhere

Chapter 3: Fall Of Man

Summary: Memory is a monster.

Pairing: Father Ignatius x nun!afab!Reader

Word Count: -3k

Content Warnings: Dead Dove Do Not Eat 18+!, Discourse About Trauma, Past Trauma Triggering An Episode, The Usual Heresy, Angst… Lots Of It!

A/N: I don't even write slow burns…how did we get here?!

No pressure tagging: @queer-crusader @theprettiesthead @midnight-mess @blueberrypancakesworld @theidiotwhowrites

But the wind has picked us up now, we're hanging in the air

And as you grip me like an animal that you're about to spear

"Be good to me, " I whisper

And you say, "What?" and I say, "Nothing, dear"

- That Unwanted Animal By The Amazing Devil

Bowing down to the inevitable change of season, the leaves of the thick and mighty chestnut tree right behind the herb garden turned from a vibrant green to countless shades of orange and auburn, one color variation more beautiful and intricate than the other; chlorophyll withering away to grant the tree one last show of its beauty before the leaves would be dead and rotting on the floor in mere weeks.

Beautiful thing, you thought, looking at the tree from behind a dust and dirt-smeared, thin glass window, so unbothered and simply perfect in the way it grew out of the dark soil for decades now.

“BHAAAAA.” Sister Carla tore you out of your musings, not only mentally but physically as well, pouncing at you in a playful manner, nearly knocking you over, back slumping on your hay mattress.

“Carla, please.” You shoved the younger woman back, her gleeful smile dying down remarkably fast in such juvenile innocence that you regretted the harsh tone rolling over your tongue.

“Sorry.”, You tried to catch her mood from falling further, consoling her with a smile you had to work your face for, “I’m just very tired, be gentle with me, dear.”

“Oh, I figured.”, Sister Carla grinned again as she made herself comfortable next to you, the bed barely being wide enough to accommodate, “Wandering the hallways at night and smelling strange after that. Where have you been? You know you can tell me. Please? Please tell me, I want to know.”

“Carla, I’ve told you already.”, Keeping that lie of a smile plastered to your face, you took the Sisters hand gently in the palm of yours, “It’s been the wool itching against my skin so much that I mindlessly scratch it all open. Then I went into the kitchen to grab some of the alcohol Sister Margarita keeps to clean the scratches. Did you know that alcohol keeps scratches and cuts from getting infected?”

The younger woman shook her head, her rusty brown hair falling into her slim face. It didn’t surprise you just one bit that she didn’t know, being raised in this cesspit of censorship and carefully spoon-fed knowledge and education.

“Is that why you stink so much? The alcohol, I mean.” To nonverbally underline her point, Carla scrunched her nose after curiously prodding fingertips had nudged against the discolored collar of your gown.

You nodded, a sense of uncomfortable uncleanliness tugging at your insides.

“Can you please save me some from the lunch? I’d like to clean myself up, yeah?” Carla jumped off of your bed, crossing her arms in front of her chest and tilting her head to the side.

“You already slept through breakfast! Sister Margarita is getting really upset with you and Sister Iphigenia is worried. What am I supposed to tell them, huh?” Sister Carla had a point but she mustn’t know why you very willingly slept through breakfast and wanted to avoid lunch at any cost as well.

“Please tell them that I will grab lunch a little bit later and see to my chores right after because I’d like to clean my dress before the stains are too dried up to do so.” You tried reasoning with her and Carla opened her mouth to respond but a new, much more exciting thought raced to be uttered first.

“Oh, I haven’t told you yet, did I?”, Your brows knit together, feigning obliviousness, “We have a visitor!”

Sister Carla bounced on her heels, face beaming with excitement because the periodical stays of Father Ignatius unfortunately really came as the most exciting thing happening in this outsourced circle of hell.

“Oh? Already?”, Your throat rendered dry, mind reeling and thrashing in poor attempts of trying to shove the freshest memories out of your thoughts, “See? Even more reason to get freshened up properly, no?”

“Hurry! Talk is that he brought some things from the mainland for us!” Carla was almost squealing before throwing you one last look and dashing away, probably to the kitchen to help Sister Iphigenia with the cooking.

Oh, you sure knew that he had certainly brought things from the mainland. Whisky, cigarettes, and who knows what else and you could hardly believe that there were things amongst pleasure-stained sacrilege that were meant for the convent.

The thing he’d brought for you so far was chaos. Nothing but chaos and confusion, temptation - planting it in your head, his spindly roots working themselves through every layer of your conscience, making you feel like you couldn’t get rid of him even if you tried to cut him out of you.

Father Ignatius wasn’t a man of god, he couldn’t be, no, he was a hypocrite and a pretender…just like you.

As Sister Margarite brabbled an endless cacophony about the gardens of the monastery, her pride and joy, the supple inventory of the apothecary, and the almost finished renovation of the little chapel, Ignatius couldn’t bother to listen to any of it to save his life. Maybe he should propose a vow of silence upon the convent, perhaps a doable task for the upcoming weeks of lent in about 6 months. For endless minutes, the elderly woman went on and on and on about things that wouldn’t tickle his interest in the slightest, not in a hundred years’ time.

Occasionally, Father Ignatius nodded along pretentiously, taking a sip from his tea that could most certainly use some sugar or honey but god forbid and heaven shall burn anything in this place was ever made with the intent of being enjoyable.

His thoughts drifted off, away from the lunch table in the small dining room, slithering along the cold stone tiles beneath his feet and back to the confessional, towering crooked and lackluster in a nook down the hall. The memory of your wide, frightened eyes held him in an iron-tight grip, evoking a distinct flush of anger directed towards anything that had you scared and distraught like this. Ignatius knew this kind of scare that had flickered in your eyes, a sentiment way beyond awe and reverence, something had shaken you so harshly in the past that it was haunting you ever since. It hadn’t been the first time seeing you look that way at him, no, most certainly not.

Ever since the very first time Ignatius had set food past the ancient door frames, you’d looked at him like this, endlessly sharp splinters of trauma replaying in your mind, that if you dared to put your eyes on him at all; trails of nagging guilt and intangible amounts of internalized shame gushing from your lashlines, the very type of sadness everybody here, but especially Sister Margarite, was hellbent on ignoring.

Every few months, he’s watched you getting a little worse, the way you carried yourself a twinge more disheveled, at times almost regressive and him being in no place to really help you because he hardly understood what was actually happening to you in the first place; that was until the previous night: You quivering and shaking next to him after trying to purge the contempt out of your body by violently ripping at your throat - poor thing.

He chewed down at the inside of his cheek reflecting on his unfortunate whim of trying to get to you, lapping at you like that without even giving it a second thought. Fucking idiot. Ignatius suppressed the urge to roll his eyes at himself. It had been way too much, he’d come off too strong for someone in such a delicate state to handle, practically sticking his finger in the helplessly festering wound and drilling a nail into it.

His eyes darted right past Sister Margarite, out of the dingy, rectangular window that didn't close properly anymore and probably never really had, a swiftly moving, stark white spot catching his attention as he watched it rush towards the woods.

“How long till lunch you said, Sister?” He tilted his head to the side, managing a brief smile.

“An hour, maybe two, Father. Cooking over a fire takes a bit of time, you understand.” Sister Iphigenia explained and apologized in one go.

“But of course, no rush. Would you excuse me until then, Sisters? I feel like taking a walk, enjoy the fresh breeze away from the city.” Ignatius was getting up from the table already whilst still talking, not waiting for the women to actually agree or disagree; they wouldn't dare to talk back anyway.

“Oh, please, enjoy!” Sister Margarita answered this time, not trying to hide her being somewhat upset with her monologue being forcefully ended.

“Will do.” Ignatius tapped his hand onto the table before pushing away, not just the need for a cigarette quickening his steps.

You cowered crouched down, hunched above the water’s surface in such a curve that you nearly fell forward into the narrow creek rippling cold water between your digits as you scraped your nails over the tarnished wool of your overdress. The cool of the water mixed with a stiff breeze ghosting amongst the trees caused your skin to erupt in waves of goosebumps over and over, the thin linen underdress hardly enough to keep your body’s warmth from disappearing into the air that smelled like rain, amplifying the earthy fragrance of the soil getting crushed beneath your boots.

Getting the stains out of your gown came as a troublesome task you didn’t expect. Cold water should’ve rinsed the dried blood out of the fabric just fine but you surely had to pick and scratch at it quite a bit to see any difference.

“I came to apologize.” You halted instantly, startled, sucking the air in sharply as your brain played catch up with your thoughts that ran wayward like a spilled sack of potatoes.

In a matter of seconds, you shot up from your compromising position, the soaked overdress falling to the ground with a wet thud as you turned around to see the priest standing a little uphill, waiting along the walking path. Synapses fired away relentlessly but no muscle wanted to move just now as you thought about picking up the next best stone to throw at him, ready to hurt the devil in the means to make him stay away, instead, you stood there frozen, staring like a bewildered animal, deciding whether to fight or flight.

“I am earnestly sorry for my behavior last night.”, Father Ignatius came walking down slowly, hands in the pockets of his cassock, “I want to apologize.”

A brittle twig snapped underneath the sole of his shoe and the cracking sound was like a gunshot to you, eventually tearing you out of your stupor and making you lunge forward without a plan; the only objective being survival.

“Stay away from me!” You shrieked at the man whose eyes widened rapidly.

Father Ignatius stumbled back but not nearly as quickly as you came after him, palms flailing through the air aimlessly as to where they thunder down on him - shoulders, chest, face, wherever it hurt was fine.

“You cannot do this to me!”, You heart was almost hammering through your ribcage and your voice broke over and over, not familiar with being used at such volumes, “You are supposed to keep me from all this worldly malice!”

One palm stuck down against his and the priest groaned out, his own hands trying to get a hold of your wrists that were flying through the air like the ends of a whip.

“Sister!”, Father Ignatius huffed, trying his best to remain calm and de-escalate the situation, “I need you to calm down. I am not here to do you any harm, Sister!”

However, his voice wasn’t enough to get through to you, quite the opposite, hearing him talk only fueled the desperation, the fear of being dirtied by a man's hand yet again and punished for things that weren’t your fault to begin with.

“No! You don’t understand!” The words clawed their way out of your dry throat, bordering on being sore with your yells very soon.

“Then tell me!”, First, his hand caught your right arm, the left following swiftly as you lost the momentum, “What do I not understand?”

You tried to tear yourself out of his grasp but his hold on you was too strong, firm but not painful, and within seconds your shrieking turned into sniffled sobbing; anger fed by fear mellowing into drowning despair.

Father Ignatius stared at you, eyes ever attentive yet gentle. He was shocked at the intensity of your outburst but internally groaned at himself because he could’ve figured just by the state you were in.

Lost in your own train of thought, thrashing through a spectrum of emotions that wasn’t kind to you, you rambled at him.

“Stop…stop it. This is all I have left. I can’t go back home.”, Now the words slipped past your lips in a stumbled slurry, “I can’t fuck this up, too. Please.”

“Hey, hey…it’s going to be okay. Breathe.”, The Priest took a step closer to you, thumbs gently caressing over your pulse points in an attempt to calm you, “Look at me. I know you don’t belong here, neither do I.”

Just as he carefully asked you to, you looked at him, a gush of tears threatening to spill from your lash line as it trickled from your tear ducts.

“What…what do you mean?” You mouthed, your tone barely there anymore whilst you turned horribly self-aware of your vulnerability, your affliction of wanting attention, and what it did with you once you started getting just the most meager amounts of it.

“Those things you feel. The things they don't want you to feel in a place like this. They are normal, human, you know that. There is no shame in feeling desire.”, You just blinked at the man whose gaze turned soft, features losing their aura of indifference, he pitied you, “There's no shame in having those urges and acting upon them. It's just…normal.”

Ignatius breathed the last word as an expression of his eternal exhaustion about the incredibly regressive ways of his church.

He watched you calm down slowly, the air between him and you stagnating, loading up with what felt like electric tension and he knew this had to stop, he had apologized and now it was upon him to leave you to take care of your dress.

“This is my opinion and I know it wouldn't fare well with the Sisters. Perhaps another secret to share? If you'll have me.” Ignatius wanted to let you know that you had the reins, that it was your call to make, giving you the power of choice back that had been stripped from you in the monastery.

His eyes dropped to the scabbed cuts along your neck and collar bones, a stark contrast to the thin white underdress hardly covering anything.

Unlike almost a decade ago, it wasn't Ignatius who shoved himself at you in a dusty closet like the janitor's son had done, no, he wasn't lunging at you like a hungry wolf, teeth gnashing and ready to bite in the supple flesh of you bottom lip, a shaky hand finding its way between your legs, palm curving, taking as you had tried to pull back in shock. Instead, it was you who took the leap of faith and stepped forward, closing the distance between your bodies and Ignatius wasn’t howling and barking at you, he was humming as mouths touched, lips pressing against one another tenderly, cautiously even.

For a moment, you forgot to breathe. The taste of herbal tea and a recently smoked cigarette swapping into your mouth as you just went along, stumbling through the interaction as his tongue stroke yours. The janitor's son hadn't kissed you like that, he'd eaten you alive, swallowing the sounds of panic and discomfort, shushing you to shut up or you'd be found out.

Whore.

An icy tingle shot up your spine into the nape of your neck, making you jerk your head like a pupped tugged along at its strings.

“Did I hurt you?” Father Ignatius eyes widened as he immediately loosened his careful grasp around your wrists.

“No.”, You waited for the pain of the sudden and violent twitch to fade, “Sometimes…sometimes that happens when bad memories come back.”

Time halted as you looked, stared at Father Ignatius, admiring how his hair started to curl from the humidity. Handsome devil in a cassock, silver cross heavy against his heaving chest, lips glossy with your saliva and you couldn't decide whether to run or cave, the thrum in your body so ancient and aching.

You wanted him, wanted to feel him, wanted to know what it was like not to feel disgusted and wretched in your own skin. A hand shot forward to grab at the black of his garment and you pulled, inviting him and Ignatius followed suit.

“You're not painful. You're gentle.”, You whispered, lips almost touching again, smelling him in your space but for once it didn't arouse any fear, “Would you have me?”

“Not here. Not like this. You're freezing. It's about to start raining soon.”, Broad palms cradled your waist, squeezing gingerly, “I know I'm asking a lot but do you think you can sneak out after nightfall?”

“To where?” You asked eagerly.

“The chapel? Think about it. If you want that, I mean. I'll be there.”

[stardewnoodles]

Writer Redundancies (Nega Scott x Neil Nordegraf) - 1/?

It's not every day that the way to fix your writer's block surely descends not from the sky, but ascends from hell.

As usual, link above, I'd appreciate if you say if you like it or not, but if you prefer the tumblr format, here it is:

Until the 1950’s, film rolls mass produced and shown over the globe had a major risk of starting a fire big enough to burn down an entire theater. They had a dirty little chemical attached to it that helped make the film, called nitrate. At the time (Neil assumes), it probably wasn’t common knowledge how flammable nitrate was. Movies kept rolling and films kept burning. July 9, 1937 marks the day that 20th Century Fox’s vault of film rolls in New Jersey caught on fire from the nitrate from decay and higher than expected temperatures. This wasn’t the first, or the last, time something similar to this tragedy happened. However, Neil admits, there’s an awesome spectacle to a film shriveling in the heat. The picture’s color distorts first, followed by rapid deterioration. The picture turns to ash after numerous holes chew through a horrified director’s pride and joy. Then the whole roll combusts. This scene is distinctly familiar to Neil, who’s watched it happen every night since the day he turned 18 two years, three months, 1 day, and 7 hours ago. He hates remembering his birth date. The nightmare is predictable, because it always starts the same way, but it doesn’t make it any less gut-wrenching. A projector on a plastic table with one leg supported by a cut open tennis ball cuts to memories of times he could’ve earned the success and recognition he so desperately sought out, but fails to hit the mark and is instead seen as a lazy idiot. The youngest was his child prodigy days in middle school. The oldest, only two months ago. His script was a fake, his writing skills were fake, and his “prodigal talent” is in the gutter. Neil puts his head in his hands and rocks back and forth. Very rarely is the footage soothing. This sucks. 300 movies, 300 rolls of film Neil knows by heart. He wonders whether “Rushmore” or “Bottle Rocket” will blow up first; they’ve been the most dormant over the last 293 days. 

The floor is tiled the same way the psychiatry ward was, preferring the sloppy, bland white design with dots of random colors over something cool like the rugs of an arcade. The walls are orange for now, before they turn gray and black from the burn damage. Neil clutches his side. Neil hasn’t seen either of his parents since college started, and he intends to keep it that way after winter break. A locked black door he’s never been able to open sits behind him. It’s the only means of escape, despite it never opening. Freddy Krueger couldn’t make something this messed up in his own head. Neil tugs at his hospital gown and sighs. The Burning Room. It’s a fitting name Neil gave the endless nightmare for its atonement by fire. If he’s gotten this far in life while still being, as Scott says, “totally retarded and a bit of a bum”, then the next 20, 30, 40 years will be no different. No future awaits a person but the one they make for themselves? That’s terrifying. A single mistake or terrible argument burns the bridges that had been built for years. Neil can’t accept this. The door stays locked. The projector catches on fire first, an unexpected plot twist. A fond memory of his childhood–watching his father beat The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time –disintegrates. 

Being burnt alive doesn’t get old, like the stunning CGI of The Matrix . Neil scrambles back from the projector, wiping the sweat from his brows. One of the more eccentric patients took everyone by surprise when he raided the kitchen during Fried Chicken Friday and caught it on fire before he was restrained. The projector and the mountain high piles of film rolls explode at the same time into a wall of flames. The walls are marked black and thick smoke covers the room. Neil covers his mouth with the gown. Sweat drips down his neck. He squeezes his eyes shut and starts slamming his fist against the door. He doesn’t want to be here, he shouldn’t be here, but he did this to himself. The fire doesn’t haunt Neil because it was an over the top, insane experience that permanently scarred him. It haunts him because, in this dark, back alley of his mind, he wishes the on-site firefighters (who happened to be inspecting something completely different) hadn’t pulled him out of the fire. Ten months and nine days until he was released after that day, including the days in surgery. It launches Neil into a panic whenever he sees 109 across the street on a mailbox, on a baseball player’s back, anywhere where it could be lurking. Neil wonders if he ever truly left the flames calling to him in sonorous voices. He questions, as the flames rise and grab at his feet, if the Burning Room is meant to be his real home. 

Neil jumps at the banging coming from the other side of the black door. Unsure of what to do, Neil braces himself, falling back to the flames, the only familiarity now present, licking at his large burn mark underneath the gown. His right side is hot to the touch while he coughs uncontrollably from the amount of smoke building up in the room. The door’s sturdy hinges loosen with each loud thump. Neil ducks out of the way when the door is sent flying into the fire once the lock is broken. A darkness with no end lies beyond the open frame, along with a set of red eyes boring into his poor excuse of a soul. The shadows come alive. A figure walks into the Burning Room, dusting off his parka. The hair, the shirt, the look on his face, it’s unmistakable. 

"Scott?” Neil asks. The figure shakes his head. On second thought, it would make sense. When he grins at Neil, fangs protrude from his teeth. His gray shirt has the same heart and “SP” Scott had on his green one, but backwards. The parka hangs down to his thighs, with black jeans covering up the rest of his body. On his ears, two circular loops are pinched to the top of his ear, while a small button is lodged into the earlobe. A black collar with silver spikes is snug on his neck. His skin looks as if it has walked through smoke and ash hundreds of times over. The eyes scare Neil the most. There's evil lying behind them, a downward spiral of anger and hate. “Weird. You still look just like him.” Neil looks down to see that his hospital gown has caught on fire. “Oh. That sucks.” The supposedly-not-Scott rips the gown with a swipe of his claws and lets it fall, leaving Neil completely nude and at the mercy of the flames. He’s so confused by the presence of another person in his dreams that it doesn’t seem to bother him. Before Neil could say anything else, the imposter grabs his arm and leads him out of the Burning Room to the darkness. They walk for some time until Neil can’t smell the smoke. The place he was trapped in is now a mere speck of flickering light on the horizon, just like himself. Even though there’s no light, Neil can see the imposter without any problem. “Who are you?” Neil tries again. Still he gets no response. The shadow Scott crouches down and runs a finger against Neil’s burn mark. His skin, still hot, gets goosebumps from the ice-cold touch tracing up his right ankle, then his thigh, and then to his waist. It ends right above his waist with the poorly drawn “picture” of a mountain range. The weed he smokes every day helps block out the shame thrashing and burning in Neil’s head whenever the burn mark flares up. Meanwhile, the imposter’s touch numbs the pain, perhaps even soothing it.

“Does this mean we can make out?” “I don’t think your pillow gave its consent for that, Neil. Hey, Fruit Loops or Lucky Charms with a banana for breakfast? I’m going to the store today so we don’t have to sink as low as Scott did with his meals.” Stephen Stills is at the door to Neil’s room, doing his routine morning stretches. Thank god they don’t have to share a bed like Wallace and Scott; Neil is always thankful to Stephen for allowing him to crash at his lovely abode when he’s not at college. 

“Oh. I’m awake.” Neil stares at the ceiling, debating whether to hit a joint or not for the rest of the morning. “Lucky Charms.” “You got it, Neil.” Once Stephen knocks on the door and leaves, Neil closes the door to use the mirror attached to it. He lifts his shirt, examining the burn mark under it. When he touches it, it feels like snow has been rubbed against it. The cold touch is still there. Neil shivers. He rubs his burnt side. 

“Who are you?” Neil can’t decide whether the question is aimed at the Scott that is everything Scott isn’t or himself. 

[cboffshore]

⭐ for this part of small cuts!

She had honestly expected it to burn. 

She wasn’t kidding about that - a poison said to be the deadliest in the world, enough to kill with a single drop? How could it not feel like acid? It looked enough like acid when she transferred it into the dart back at the lighthouse, moving impossibly slowly to avoid spilling. It’s no different than working on delicate machinery, she had told herself, tiny funnel poised in one hand and vial of poison balanced in the other. She expected it to be difficult, and it was, but she’d done harder things.

After everything, she tried not to rule anything out, and then the cold snuck up and caught her off guard anyway.

At least it was quick. She was thankful for that. 

Shivering in Jay’s arms, cracking the weakest joke of her life as her vision blurred and her limbs started to go numb, and then - she hates the old cliche, but damn it, it was right all along - everything went black.

And then, out of nowhere: grass. So much grass, sun-warmed soil under her back, and the white silk of the wedding gown like a vise around her chest - she didn’t even get to die in her own clothes! Was she going to have to spend eternity like this? After everything she put up with, all the running and the fighting and the unwanted touches leaving her shaking even now, she didn’t even get to change into some pants?

Nya had only been consciously dead for less than thirty seconds and she was already hating it.

She felt like she knew the man who approached her. Black and gold robes, a face she couldn’t make out for the radiant darkness and shadowy light emanating from his face, and a suspiciously familiar rice hat, wait just a second, is that - ?

The figure knelt, bringing himself down to her eye level. Nya thought he might have been smiling gently, but she couldn’t tell. He studied her for a few seconds, unreadable.

From the center of a puddle of white and gold, she felt impossibly small. 

For a moment, she was aware of a presence far behind her - on the horizon, the feeling of thousands of eyes, some accusing, some sympathetic, and all thoroughly pained, stabbing into her back like so many poisoned darts.

She didn’t dare look over her shoulder to see who they were. Somehow, she knew , and the comprehension of it sent her into silent sobbing.

Then, a hand landed on her shoulder - feather-light and supernaturally, reassuringly cool - and the First Spinjitzu Master’s unseen eyes met hers.

“None of this should ever have happened.”

Did she say that? Did he ? Nya wasn’t sure, but there was a hurricane of orange mist around them both now, and the silk of her gown shifted back into the familiar cotton and embedded Deepstone of her old gi. The grass was gone then, too, replaced by -

- the feeling of a gritty concrete roof under her combat boots - she had somehow stood up, and the creator of her world was gone, replaced by blinding sunlight, a summer breeze, and the deafening sound of helicopter blades approaching -

first of all, MAD kudos for somehow preserving all the formatting in this excerpt. I don't know if you have a wizard doing your copy pasting or if you did that all by hand, but either way, congrats! Under the cut we go for ramble time!

GOD. Okay. This excerpt is a weird one, because the rest of Small Cuts follows a very steady flashback/present pattern when it comes to formatting. Flashbacks are all italics and set apart into their own paragraphs, bracketed by dashes like they've been torn out of a larger sentence (which.... they have, kinda), and the present is just regular writing. This is the only time the flashback BECOMES the present, and I still think it's kinda weird, but the weirdness of that does serve it in a way. I do remember experimenting with having the whole thing formatted more closely to the flashback appearance and it just DID NOT WORK. Looked awful, horrible reading experience. I like that it comes off as more of a complete, if condensed, experience than the other flashback snippets - it's a pivotal moment that I'm sad canon never even looked at.

Which brings us to what inspired me to work this in! See, when Small Cuts was written, OSSAS as we know it now didn't exist. There was ADA(DP), which was originally a solo piece. Small Cuts was my way of celebrating ADA(DP)'S first birthday, but while I was writing it, I thought it might be nice to expand on what ADA(DP) didn't get to, which is where the flashbacks come in. They actually start around the beginning of 62, when Jay and Nya flee to the lighthouse, and slowly trace Nya's path from there on out. Again, that was never meant to become a series at all, so everything after that is me working FROM Small Cuts to make it fit in. (You haven't gotten past CUF yet, but one of those flashbacks served as the basis for the final confrontation in that piece; same with IICT, which you have not gotten to yet, but that's where I expand that chess flashback.) Point is, all of those flashbacks were meant as a proto-OSSAS to fill in the gaps. Because let's be real, after Nya's captured, the camera pretty much stays on Jay. Which is ESPECIALLY prevalent when she dies.

And that's what I really wanted to play with. The grasslands sequence is probably the loosest I ever get with canon, because it's one of the biggest missed chances in Skybound, IMO. On one hand, I get it - working in a "Nya destroyed Djinjago and therefore is the most deserving target of Nadakhan's rage" angle, or anything similar, would have FUNDAMENTALLY changed the season, or at least made the chaos WAY worse. I love Skybound BECAUSE she's a hot mess, but that would have been one thing too many for the writers to handle, I think. Still, though, a compelling angle that I REALLY pray DR leans into. That would change SO many things about Skybound had they actually used it... But I digress: I wanted to stay closeish to canon here while still bringing that up.

Working off of canon: Nya didn't know she killed the Preeminent's sister realm, and I don't think anyone knew the Preeminent HAD a sister realm. I also don't believe anyone outside of the pirate crew knew about the fall of Djinjago, actually - unless I'm forgetting something MAJOR, I don't think it's ever brought up to the ninja at all. It's all very strange and vague, which influenced the tone I went for in the grasslands sequence. You were the first to figure it out and let me know, but for the uninitiated, the "thousands of eyes, some accusing, some sympathetic, and all thoroughly pained" that Nya feels on her were supposed to belong to the djinn killed in the collapse. (Side note: in hindsight, were I not committed to the Urie-Weekes lyrics titles for this, Afterlife Of The Party would have been a DELIGHTFULLY dark title for this scene.) But of course I don't say that! It was supposed to be as vague as all the ways the Hagemans COULD have woven that angle in.

Anyway, I'm just now realizing - this excerpt is the flashback sequence I have to build off of for OSSAS5. I don't actually think I want to deal with the grasslands sequence, because to be honest I think it's too good to riff on, but that means I get to go into the stuff I STILL skipped - Nya's actual experience under possession. I always feel weird when someone tells me they liked how I addressed both Lloyd and Nya's possession experiences in Small Cuts, because like.... did I? I really didn't go there as much as I should have. But that's a note for another day!!!

[realcatalina]

Is this the lost portrait of Mary I as Princess?

Let’s find out!

First of all, painting A(on left) is extremely similiar to this painting on right(painting B):

The face and proportions etc. But obviously B has very different background, some jewels are not in A. However they look as if made by same person. Or that one is an excellent copy, and the other is original.

This level of similiarity, is frankly astonishing. You’d think it is same painting after and prior to cleaning of later alterations! But it isn’t. Becase B is painting in Ashmolean Museum and nobody knows what lies beneath the layers of 19th century mixture on top of it. As far as I understand the description on their webpage, the painting not only wasn’t ever properly cleaned, it cannot be cleaned(with our current technology). They tried in 1976...but that had catastrophic results(thus those weird smudges.) 

So what could be the explanation for this photo?

1)One is copy by excellent forger/by excellent painter. We once seen it with portrait of Margaret Beaufort. The copy made about 100 years later was very true to original in most aspects. Most being the key word here. Very few artist manage to do the perfect copy. This explain some of differences, Especially B was later altered or if B is the copy. But imo both look they have some alterations.

2)They were twins(twin portraits). By twin portraits we don’t mean exactly same portraits, but two portraits which are nearly same, but have some minor differecences. Catherine Parr had twin portraits, where posture was same, outfit was nearly same, just the gown and jewelry was different.

Here, however the jewels seem to be same, exactly the same and gown also. Unless of course, the quality of photos or alterations are hiding something. Hence could possibly be the case, we just can’t see it at the moment.

3)They were made exactly the same originally, and somebody altered heck out of B. (well almost exact same, amount of forepart you see is different+ some minor differences in french hood(in A it is smaller slightly). But it could be that they were ment to be same.)

Yet it doesn’t make sense for two exact same original portraits of Mary to be made in 1540s.

Unless both are copies, based upon single original, which predates them both! This seems to be most logical to me, but it could be any of the prior options. 

I could only find photo of A, idk where it is located and B cannot be cleaned at the moment. Maybe in future technology will improve and it will be able, but right now we can’t tell what is altered what is not.

Because Ashmolean Museum doesn’t meantion the photo or any other version of this painting, I think it is sadly possible that this old photo is of painting which was lost during WW2. (usually the case with lost art.)

This 3rd option-both being copies, would explain why even A does not have perfectly accurate Tudor outfit. But at same time, it seems like A itself is subject of alterations, and some appear to be visible in the photo. 

In lower half, obviously the girdle is missing, the pattern of fabric of forepart seems off(possible altered), the shape of oversleeves is wrong(they were never this small), there is like big smudge?/dark area on right(which i marked orange), and more cuts of undersleeves are partly see-through on both sides.

B doesn’t have such weirdness as far as I can tell. Though same problem with lack of girdle and too small oversleeves(+ the too wide forepart). On A the gap around waistline revealing forepart is more historically accurate, and it existing suggest the original painting could have been done in late 1530s/ealry 1540s. Because with Parr the gap disappeared.

And this is oviously the six-cut style undersleeves. This might help us narrow down dating of Streatham portrait. And once again, it is on Mary!

But what is most interesting to me is that those shadows behind her head are as if she wore gable hood! One back veil pinned up, one down. 

Except both on same side! It’d have to be same part of the veil-which is impossible. You cannot have same part of veil both unpinned and not pinned.

I mean it is possible that Mary originally wore gable hood. This shape of french hood is strange, so it’d make sense for it to be alteration. 

Yet the way that upper part is facing suggest is not corresponding to the shape on right, this is not how gable hood should be. That loose veil should be on left(where now french hood is).

But perhaps the person who altered it, tried various alterations. Who knows, maybe they went from french hood to gable hood or other way around.

I am just saying it’s possible that original painting was showing Mary with gable hood and please don’t use this french hood’s shape as inspiration. It’s shape is not correct, though better than on B.

Painting A is not that bad for probably a a copy. I mean if you compare it with young Mary by Scrots(on right):

Then there is a lot of similiarities in the face. I know it is not perfect, but it is certainly one my new favourites depictions of Mary.

And now if you’re still reading check the date. 

It’s April the First, Happy April Fools Day!

Did I fool you? I created this painting using photopea and old photo of Ashmolean museum’s painting. Took me several hours.

So this entire post was a prank.

I hope you’ve enjoyed it and that I fooled many of you. 

[gmanwhore]

I wrote thing for Raven because I am. Yeah.

Raven sat alone in the ballroom, her fingers flying over the strings in perfect practiced movements as the bow sawed back and forth. The sound was so close to a train entering a station and coming to a stop. It was full of life and colour, even the name of the piece spoke of something wonderful, "Orange Blossom Special", what a wonderful name for a wonderful piece of music. How fitting for a place where she came to escape. 

She finished her piece, the last remaining sounds echoing off the walls. She closed her eyes to listen to the last vibrations leave the air, then started on her next piece. This was one she wrote herself. It was slow and sad. She called it "The Last Dance", and she was very proud of it. Everytime she played it she could see two shadowy figures gliding elegantly across the floor of her ballroom, their movements somber but still hopeful. Her violin wailed and sobbed with each sweep of the bow, sounding like someone asking why fate was so cruel. The ending was almost akin to a lullaby in it's sober finality.

She placed her violin back in its case, taking extra care with it. It was her most prized possession, and she did not want to lose it to those…men who wanted to play God. They weren't overly cruel-She had heard screams and pleading from the room next to her, and they hadn't even created that one-but they did not like the freedom this place offered. They couldn't get here though. The violin on the other hand was in danger. It was real, the true thing hidden safely under her cot. In the real world it was a broken, twisted thing, completely unplayable. One day she would escape and get it fixed and sit on a street corner and play the violin for all the people walking past. She wouldn't even care if they put money in her case or not. She would sit and play and watch the birds fly.

"She's gone again."

A voice shook Raven out of her world. She was lying in bed and two people stood over her.

"Maybe she was just sleeping."

"In any case, we have to get her to testing."

Raven sat up.

"What are you testing today my good doctors?"

The first man checked his clipboard.

"Reflexes and reaction speed."

Raven kept down a smile. She was very good at these.

"Wonderful."

She followed the two out of her meager room, her long black hair swishing behind her. If you looked at it in the right way they almost looked like wings. Her cane tapped a rhythm on the ground, a beat for a dance something else was doing. She wore a plain white gown, nothing like the elegant dress of her dream world but still flowing and wonderful. She radiated elegance with each step. That was another thing they couldn't take. Not her world, not her grace. Certainly not her confidence. She knew what she was made from. They could cut her open, throw as many things at her as they wished, run her ragged, but at the end of the day she was Raven and that in itself was powerful. That wasn't her line, she had been told it by a little bird who visited her dreams. Or was it a cat? Either way, it was quite calming and quite wise.

The test was simple: She must catch every single playing card from the air without a single one hitting the ground. They were released from the ceiling. The wind in the chamber was manipulated in order to make the task harder. She found it no challenge, except for the days when she could barely raise her arms let alone catch the cards. Today was luckily not one of those days. She swirled and plucked each out of the air, stooping to catch the ones that had almost fallen. It was only when the wind picked up when she began having problems. She couldn't push against it, it took so much effort…she was starting to regret how hard she had played earlier. The cards she had collected fell from her hand and joined the rest in swirling around her. 

She suddenly felt a sharp pain in her ankle and cried out. There was something implanted in several weak points of her body that could cause a shock to her system as "motivation", but very few scientists used it. It almost always had the opposite effect anyways. The pain sent her to the floor, and she simply could not get up again. She could only lay there and gasp desperately in the chamber, the wind stealing the air from her lungs. She was taken out, then brought to the infirmary where they checked her over. It seemed she had just fallen victim to her body simply not having enough energy to move her. Everyone said it was just a side effect of her make-up which made Raven question why they thought it was a good idea in the first place. Why create something that would suffer? 

She faded back into her ballroom. She sank low into her chair. It had switched from a hard folding chair to a very soft lounge chair. It was quite plush and cradled her tired body perfectly. Her dream world always knew what she needed. She couldn't control it exactly, just suggest things that may or may not be reacted to. It was almost like a friend. There was even soft, sweet music floating through the room and the scent of warm apple pie filled the room. She would fall asleep here if not for the fact she was sure she was already asleep. A moth flitted across her view and rested on her wrist. She smiled gently at it and watched as it inspected her dress for food. It flew away disappointed. 

Footsteps approached, and she looked up to see a long, tall silhouette. It looked quite like her, but she knew who this was.

“Good evening, Starchild.”

“The same to you, Raven.”

He sat cross legged on the floor in front of her. 

“Are you tired?”

She leaned her chin on the arm of the chair and nodded.

“I must have strained myself playing today. I didn’t realize it until the testing. How are your travels?”

“Wonderful. I’ve met so many people…you are still my favorite though.”

Raven found herself blushing.

“Oh, don’t flatter me!”

Starchild took her hand, pulling her up from the chair. She felt so much less tired with him.

“No flattery here.”

They began to step across the floor, getting their bearings with each other before moving faster, hands intertwined as they spun across the floor to the music’s ebb and swell. They were a swirl of black and white, lace and muslin and velvet. Nothing mattered but their dance. 

Once it was over Raven woke up again. She just laid there for a bit, smiling.

[falling-pages]

Happiest of birthdays to our very own Shadow King, Kyoya Ootori.

-

Kyoya Ootori x Female Reader

-

Genre: Fluff

Warnings: Body issues (Reader says she isn't beautiful, Kyoya reminds her that she is)

-

“Are you almost ready, my dear?”

Kyoya fussed with his cufflinks as he heard rustling on the other side of the dressing room door, short nails picking at the thread but not quite able to poke the button through. Damn thing was too small to properly fit, but he messed with it anyways, resisting the urge to take it between his teeth and make it go through.

“Go to the ceremony. I don’t want you to see me.”

At this, Kyoya forgot the link and looked up, still staring at the pale pine wood of the door. His normally punctual girlfriend, who always wanted to dress up and take pictures, wanted him to leave without seeing her? At his best friend’s wedding, of all places?

What on earth had you so worked up that you wanted to stay inside?

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” he said. “The best man has to arrive with his bridesmaid. It’s bad luck.”

“No.” Your voice was muffled behind the door, but he heard the panic raising the tone an octave. “No, it’s tradition for the best man to walk out with the groom. So go do that, Smarty-pants, I’ll meet you out there.”

Something was definitely up. Usually you wanted to show off on his arm, greet guests as you pass and steal the photographer for a few minutes before the ceremony started. He leaned his forehead against the doorframe, eyes fluttering between grains of wood. “Darling, are you sure everything is alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. But Tamaki probably isn’t. Go console him before he gets snot on his tux or something.”

Panic struck his core, nearly making him walk away, but he remembered he still had four other groomsmen back in the room to take care of him by any means necessary. It was only by them covering for him as Tamaki wailed into a tissue that Kyoya could sneak out for a few minutes to see you.

“I want to see you,” he admitted. Swallowing his pride was never easy, but he did whatever he needed for you. “I want to see my beautiful girlfriend in her beautiful dress.”

“No you don’t.” He caught the sniffle in your voice and nearly tore the door off its hinges. Why are you crying? Were you hurt? Did one of the other bridesmaids say something to you?

He jiggled the doorknob, but of course you had locked it. “Yes, I do. Please let me in.”

With the stern warning in his voice you finally relented, unscrewing the lock and allowing him inside. To keep out danger and prying eyes he slipped in and quickly shut the door behind him, scanning for what had happened before his gaze landed on you. Remarkably, you were uninjured, perfectly kempt; he could find no reason for your distress.

You took in his eyes on you, perfectly calm, yet his voice betrayed his confusion. And he looked perfect, of course he did, in his black tux and burnt orange vest and cummerbund and tie, somehow taking that drab color and making it look regal on his handsome frame. He had the face of an angel and posture of a king--and here you were, looking like a piece of overcooked fish.

Similarly, he was trapped for just a moment by your beauty, admiring how your hair was pulled back and to the side, trailing over your shoulder, what the sunset orange gown did for your figure, a v-neckline cut deep across your chest, and leaving your arms exposed. What was it they said about not outshining the bride? It didn’t matter, because in his eyes, you did.

“You look…” his eyes snapped back up to your face, taking in the contour of your cheek, the thick, heavy lashes framing your pupils.

“Horrible.”

“Stunning.”

You shook your head, clenching your fists in the skirt of the gown. “No, no, Kyo, I look like a crack whore,” you sobbed dryly, withholding your tears, though you knew if you smudged any of it, there were more layers underneath to catch. “The makeup artist was like, thirteen, and she tangled my hair and it hurts to blink--it shouldn’t hurt to blink!”

He only chuckled, pulling you into his arms as he rested against the doorframe. “You do not look like any such thing,” he chided, nestling his nose in your hair. “You look quite beautiful.”

“She put me in enough makeup to drown a rat,” you continued. “I am going to break out so heavily after this, why did Renge even choose these stupid colors? I know she likes bold makeup looks and fashion choices, but I don’t, and I feel...why would you even want to be seen with me? Why would you to walk me down the aisle with everyone watching and me looking like this?”

He only held you tighter as you ranted, smothering you against his chest and massaging his fingers gently against the nape of your neck. Seeing you sad broke his heart, but because of your looks? Because you couldn’t see the absolute goddess he had the privilege of laying eyes on each and every day? That’s what nearly broke his soul.

As much as you wanted the tears to fall, to wash away some of the makeup, your eyes stayed dry, leaving you nestled in his chest breathing in the scent of his boutinerre and old spice, wondering how you had gotten lucky enough to snag him. He only continued stroking your neck, letting his fingertips crawl down your back to press your spine, calming, repetitive motions keeping you present.

“I’ll make you a deal,” he said quietly, and your heart began to race. His deals and propositions very rarely worked out well for all parties involved. “When we get married, you can choose the colors, the gowns, and the makeup.”

When. You liked the sound of that. Digging your face from beneath his arm, you smiled up at him. “I would have thought that would be on the table, anyways,” you said coyly, a tone which he returned.

“You underestimate my father’s standards for Ootori public events.”

However that may be true, all that mattered to you was the assurance in which he said the sentence. It was a promise, a contract, a vow; and Ootoris were not known for breaking their contracts.

“You’d marry me looking like this?”

Kyoya blushed, standing up to his full height and swiftly turning you against the door, pinning you beneath his gaze. “I’d marry you right now, in this room, with no one but a priest,” he whispered, dipping to press a kiss to your lips. “I’d marry you with makeup, without it, in this gown, a wedding dress, or pajamas. I’d marry you with no hesitation at all.”

With each declaration he kissed you, unworried about smudging the mistoned lipstick, or disrupting the frizziness of your hair as he held your face firm, even as you wiggled, trapped between his body and the wall, but kissing him back just as eagerly, knowing that you, too, would marry him in a heartbeat.

“Are you almost ready? We’re about to walk out!”

The knocking and Haruhi’s voice sent you scrambling away from the door, instinctively pushing Kyoya back until he stumbled into the vanity, a brief noise of surprise and disappointment leaking from both of your lips. The wood was thin--there was no way she didn’t hear what was going on--but you turned tried to regulate your breathing as best you could.

“Umm, yep, I’m almost done.”

Her retreating footsteps signaled Kyoya to come back up behind you, warming his hands on your hips. His weight felt nice, reassuring, as did his laugh as his mouth met the back of your neck.

The ridiculous situation had you laughing with him, eventually turning to more kissing as you turned around, before leaving him with a lingering peck and grabbing your bouquet. “A hundred yen says Tamaki’s pulling his hair out looking for you,” you mumbled.

Kyoya took your chin and gave you one last kiss before opening the door. “I’ll take that bet.”

-

Kofi

[astrox]

BAKUGOU'S BIRTHDAY DAY 3

PROMPT #3 ➭ The princess only threw masquerade balls. No one has seen her face.

Recommended by my lovely friend Ana (@reawakened-goddess) Also Thank you for 200 followers!!

INFO

➭ contains: princess y/n/masquerade ball/mentions of parental abuse/barbarian prince bakugou

Nights like these are why Bakugou hates parties. The mysterious king hosts a ball for their daughter around the same age as Bakugou. No one has seen their faces because the king is strange and loves mystery, all while in the name of his made-up god. He includes his daughter in his weird antics and wears an iron mask that hides their identities. Judging by how the helmets were made of metal, it seemed heavy on the king's shoulders.

His mother forced Bakugou to mingle with other kingdoms in hopes he would find a bride—he's also was 'asked' to wear a suit. He stuck to himself and the drink inside his glass from the moment he arrived. Sure—it would be wrong of him to not talk to his friends he spotted in the crowd for the remainder of the night.

When it came time for the princess to appear on the dancefloor, no one was behind the large doors for a grand entrance. At first, Bakugou wanted to laugh, so he had an excuse to leave early. Instead, he retreats into the garden, thinking he will be alone.

Oh, how wrong he was—

Escaping out the tall glass doors, Bakugou took one final sip until he tipped the rest over a shrub. He would go back to get another one, but in all honesty—the booze tasted like shit. Loosening the tie around his neck, he discards it on the ground, not caring if someone witnessed him doing it. He also knows there's a water fountain if he follows the shrubs lining the side of his path. Ignoring the bells ringing, Bakugou hears the sound of someone struggling.

Since he has nothing better to do so, he investigates. The cries of blundering brought the prince to the fountain he was looking for. It's so large with a statue of a woman pouring water from a vase into the pool below. There Bakugou finds a woman kneeling in front of it. He could tell by the fancy ball gown she wore. He suspected her of being the missing princess, honing the same looking helmet as her father. In her hand, she fidgets the end of a knife in the keyhole of a lock. The lock was the only one keeping her mask together. A couple of tries later, she accidentally drops the blade on her lap. Luckily the fabric of her dress cushioned the knife, leaving her unharmed.

However, the helmet's weight became too overwhelming for her to ignore. She picks up the knife to repeat her method again. Knicking at the lock, she mutters several prayers, spinning it in different circles, unaware of Bakugou stepping up behind her. Failure after failure leads the princess to cry out profanities.

"If you keep doing that, you're going to cut a finger off," Bakugou spoke abruptly, making the girl jump.

"Who's there? The guard? Father?" She asked, holding the sides of her mask so the weight wouldn't bring her down.

"I'm someone who can take that thing off your head if you want-" Bakugou offers, getting closer and closer to the girl. His request made the girl turn her body towards his voice.

"Please, sir! I don't want this on my head anymore!it hurts so much!" The girl pleads. Bakugou sees that the girl is trembling. He believes it was out of fear.

'Crazy bastard,' Bakugou is what he called her father internally. It's his nature to judge people from what he's seen or heard. He doesn't care if you're royal, noble, or commoners—nothing escapes his potty mouth.

Bakugou approaches the girl, wrapping his hand around the lock. "I'm going to melt the lock off—tell me if it gets hot."

"I will thank you," She promised. Bakugou's palm began to boil and burn a bright orange. His free hand rested on the girl's shoulder after asking for permission. His hand slowly turned the metal lock red. Seeing that, he turned up the heat and the metal liquified. Tugging on it harshly, Bakugou manages to tear the lock off her neck. He catches the metal that would drip onto her dress.

A sharp intake escapes her lips as the mask falls apart and hits the ground. Bakugou met face to face with what had been hidden underneath. (Hair length & colour) fell down her face, and (eye colour) eyes reacted to the light of the full moon. Bakugou found the girl quite beautiful, but the bruises on her face told another story.

Her eyes slowly started to glossy whilst she observed her hands. Those same hands felt her face before her eyes meet her saviours. Tears are collected in her lower lashes.

"I don't know how to thank you, sir-" She said, voice cracking.

"Stop calling me, sir! it's weird!" Bakugou retorts and then follows with his name. "My name is Katsuki Bakugou,"

The princess quickly corrects herself as she recognizes him and bows. "Thank you, your majesty,"

Bakugou didn't acknowledge her gratitude. He was curious about the bruises on her face. Plus, she doesn't seem so concerned for the guest she ghosted inside the castle. The two were alone together, with no guards in sight to protect her.

Sitting down on the edge of the fountain, the princess rubbed the back of her neck, thankful for the relief. But now comes the hard part.

"What happens if you go back in there looking like that?" Bakugou asked, sounding more like a demand.

Looking down at her broken mask, the princess wipes her face of the new tears. Her lip quivered. "Father will compel me to beg his god for forgiveness...before he beats me again and again. By tomorrow, I'll be forced to wear the iron mask again as punishment for weeks until my father is satisfied,"

Minutes later, Bakugou is flying away on the back of his dragon. He has the princess sitting behind him, arms wrapped around his waist. He stole you away, promising her protection and a better life. Perhaps his mother's hopes would finally happen.

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[theshadowgardenx]

Fine Things Suit You Well

Ed gets into Stede’s clothes again. The one thing he couldn't bring himself to throw out, the terribly, horribly, deliciously,  Stede scented linens. Shirts made of egyptian cotton, jackets made of the finest leather he had ever felt, sweaters of pure sheep's wool, silk dressing gowns- he couldn't throw it away, not if he tried. Because as much as he hated that idiotic, beautiful man, he couldnt get it out of his head. You wear fine things well. Stede had looked at a man who had been nothing but cruel, nothing but wild and unkempt his entire life, and he had tucked a silk cravat into his breast pocket and told him he wears fine things well.

It's love. He was more certain of it than he had ever been of anything after he lost him, when the pain that had struck through his chest like a bolt of pure fire was worse than any maiming. He's sure of it when he wraps himself up in Stede’s robe at night, the wine colored one with flowers and birds embroidered carefully over it. He's sure when he crawls up into the nook that was Stede’s bed, when he curls into himself like a child and cries. Not silent tears, not a gentle rolling of saltwater down stubbled cheeks, but like a dam breaking. Heavy, wet sobs that shake his frame with each gasping inhale, that lit a fire inside aching lungs desperate for oxygen that wasn't coming. Sobs that were borderline screams, fingers white knuckled with his grip on the sides of the silk robe he didn't deserve to wear. Because he didn’t deserve fine things, including Stede, and that was even clearer now. He had been left behind again, not as Blackbeard, no that he could handle, but as Ed. He heaves another sob, rolling to shove his face halfway into a pillow, and somehow that makes it worse. It smelled like the orange marmalade Stede had for breakfast every morning, and that god damned Lavender soap that he had stores and stores of inside his closet. It's too much, too much Stede, and Ed’s heart breaks all over again. He falls asleep when he has no more tears left to give, when his sobs are quieted to pitiful wheezes in his chest. And he dreams. 

He dreams of a field of lavender. Stede is there, and he smiles at him, brighter than the sun. “I was waiting for you, darling,” Stede says, pulling Ed into a kiss that tasted of honey and marmalade, And for a moment, Ed lets it happen. But he was the one left waiting, like an idiot, and as he feels his dagger in the palm of his hand, thrusts it into his soft underbelly, feels the gasp of blood into his mouth he feels satisfied. Feels the anger inside him die at the gurgle of blood from Stede’s lips, and when he looks into his eyes, expecting to feel content, all he feels is pain. Because Stede looks disappointed.

He wakes to the sound of yelling, of Frenchie slamming open his door breathlessly. “Ed!- I mean Blackbeard, uh- captain sir- the Captain- Stede’s back!” he gasped out, mouth gaping like a fish. Ed barely had time to process before his body was moving on its own, not bothering with boots as he grabbed his sword, face dark as he shoved Frenchie out of the way. Stede had the gall- the fucking nerve- to come back? He was going to kill him. Was going to cut his belly and watch the guts of that coward spill onto the deck. 

But none of that happened, because the second he saw Stede, he felt his heart crumble. No matter how bad he tried to summon up his anger, to stoke the fire in his belly so he could stab this idiot, he couldn't. Especially not when Stede, suntanned and with a stubble, freckles dotted over strong arms and soft cheeks, breathed his name like it was a prayer. “Ed.” Said with such reverence he felt like he was going to buckle. He barely managed to hold his glare as Izzy shoved Steed forward, and he held his sword out so the end touched the man's belly, bottom lip trembling with anger and heartbreak. And he could do nothing but stare as Stede opened his mouth, rushing to apologize, to explain himself, to quell the look of despair in Edwards' eyes desperately. 

Could only listen as Stede’s words caught around how Chauncey had dragged him to the woods at gunpoint that night, had told him he ruined beautiful things- “I ruined you, Ed”- how he had brought the world's greatest pirate down to nothing. His blood boiled, chest aching as stede stepped closer despite the sword biting into his skin, eyes glassy as he continued. Telling Ed how he had gone back to Mary, convinced Ed was better off without him, only to find that his family was no longer his. To find that his children had a new father, his wife a new beau, that they were thriving in his absence. Of how Mary tried to kill him in the night, how he realized he loved Ed desperately, how he had faked his death- Ed couldn't help but be proud at hearing the details- how he had been searching for Ed for weeks. How he had been living out of a rowboat, been chasing whispers and rumors of a Kraken sailing the seas, wreaking havoc. How he would have died at sea before he gave up searching, because he didn't deserve Ed- and then he was grabbing his arm, throwing his sword down as he pulled Stede down to the captains quarters with him. Once the door had slammed, a sob bubbled from his lips pitifully, and he shoved Stede down onto the remnants of his bed. “I was going to kill you. Was-was gonna run you through and watch you bleed, but you just have to be such a damned gentleman don't you?” His lip trembled as he settled in Stede’s lap, letting soft lips and calloused hands hold onto him, to hold him closer like he was the one who had left, like he was going to fall apart if Stede didnt hold him tight enough. And when this stupid, beautiful man pushed his hips down, swallowing his sobs with a kiss full of love, he all but fell into him. Let the scent of Lavender and salt swallow him whole, let his mouth be devoured entirely. And as Stede again rocked them together steadily, like the swaying of the ocean, that stupidly soft mouth whispering to him “Fine things still suit you, Edward,” he couldnt help himself. Blackbeard, the Kraken of the high seas, rutting against this beautiful man like a teenager in a closet with their first crush. Kissing him deeply, tasting of the orange marmalade he couldn't bring himself to stop eating, the only comfort he allowed himself, forced their bodies closer- stuttered as that delicious friction hit his delirious brain just right- and he gasped against stede’s mouth, ruining the gown he had stolen from stede’s closet. He had came in his pants like a teenager, and he couldn't bring himself to be embarrassed when Stede was holding him close and wiping his tears, laying them side by side on the bed. All he could feel was warmth as he locked his arms around the beautiful man next to him, not feeling that ache of loneliness for the first time in months. And after hours of talking, as he watched Stede fall asleep, as he brushed a golden curl out of his face, he let himself think Maybe I do deserve fine things. I've got the finest thing of them all right here with me. 

[river-bottom-nightmare]

bruce wayne week day 2: gala rated T, no archive warnings apply, tagged: past bruce wayne/harvey dent, implied/referenced violence, brief suicide mention

how was it, bruce thought to himself, that he could withstand torture both physcial and mental without any lasting damage, but the one thing that had him trembling and ready to crawl out of his own skin was an itchy suit?

he’d grown out of them, was the thing. when he was young, alfred had ensured that he’d always dressed properly for any occasion, be that a wedding or charity event or board meeting. before that, his parents—well. they had made sure bruce was presentable enough for their friends to pinch bruce's cheeks instead of awkwardly patting his shoulder.

but now, newly returned to gotham with a thousand new scars and a hardened grip, bruce realized he had lost his tolerance for finely pressed and ironed fabric. none of his old suits had come remotely close to fitting him, and alfred had manhandled him in front of a mirror to take measurements, sending them off to his favourite tailor. bruce thought he'd cried out all the tears his body had left to give the day he came home, hugging alfred's frail body far too tight, but his eyes still managed to get all hot and uncomfortable when alfred's fingers hesitantly mapped the broad expanse of his shoulders, trying so hard to ignore the slashes, the stabs, the burn marks, the brands.

his shoes were too loose, the pointed style apparently a new trend in the gotham elite. bruce and alfred had worked on a pair of dress shoes together, ones that wouldn't fall off the minute bruce moved at anything more intense than a brisk walk, but bruce still longed for the comfort of his thick-soled boots.

those same shoes were tapping on the ground, making far too much noise, but bruce forced himself to take a breath and let the flower-scented artificial spray calm him down. logically, it made no sense at all, but bruce had always placed gotham on pause in his mind. he'd expected to come back older and harder and fiercer to find gotham exactly the same, waiting patiently just for him.

instead, bella revero had cut her hair and dyed it blonde, and was wearing a long, flowing, glittering pantsuit instead of a long, flowing, glittering gown. tom thompson's hair was a healthy salt and pepper when bruce left, but now the man was two tufts away from being completely bald. thicky-applied makeup somehow accentuated wrinkles instead of hiding them, no manner of well-cut suits could hide a growing potbelly, none of the waiters that had given bruce snacks and orange juice were working anymore, and most everyone bruce remembered being roughly his age had moved far, far away from this wretched hole of a city.

there were times when bruce slapped himself upside the head for the absolutely moronic decision to come back to gotham and announce ta-daaa! not dead! he should have just been batman and let bruce wayne's useless name and dishonored legacy be swallowed up by gotham.

footsteps behind him. bruce had tuned out most of his training, knowing that it would only hinder him as brucie wayne, only make him look suspicious. but he'd kept a basic background awareness, unable to turn that off, and these thuds were heading right for him. bruce tensed, his false smile probably turning brittle, two seconds away from whirling around and grabbing his attacker's arm so hard, the bone would shatter.

a heavy hand slammed down onto his shoulder, but right before bruce made a move, a voice spoke right next to his ear, smooth and low and capable of making his entire body relax without any input from him whatsoever.

"what the actual hell are you doing here, you motherfucker?"

"harvey," bruce sighed, turning around to give the man a relieved smile. "thank god. i thought i'd have to go through this all by myself. you didn't tell me you were coming?"

harvey's mouth pulled into a painful grin, one that didn't look the least bit friendly, and there was a bulging vein on his temple, a nervous tick that bruce knew he didn't have before.

"you alright there, harv? you're looking a little—," bruce gestured vaguely to harvey's face, "—red."

harvey's grip on bruce's shoulder tightened, fingers digging into muscle and sending painful twinges up bruce's shoulder, and bruce tried not to show his surprise. he was two seconds from shoving off harvey's hand himself, but just decided to grit and bear it. harvey wouldn't ever hurt him.

"you have been gone," harvey said, enunciating every word, "for years. i didn't know where you were. i didn't know if you were ever coming back. then i hear that you're home from a goddamn newspaper, and you just showed up to this party without telling anyone."

"i was on the guest list," bruce pointed out, automatically putting up a simplified version of his brucie wayne facade. he widened his eyes, putting a little cluelessness into the fluttering of his eyelashes, just enough to keep his cover in case anyone was recording him, just enough so harvey believes him.

"what the fuck are you doing with your eyes," harvey said flatly.

so apparently harvey knew him better than he thought.

"look, harv, i was gonna call you, i really was—"

"i thought you were dead," harvey hissed, and his best friends eyes have more lines on them than bruce remembered and he doesn't have to tip his head up just to see harvey laugh anymore and there's too much broken love in harvey's voice for them to be standing in between a gilded trash can and a spiked bowl of punch.

"harvey,,," bruce started, not knowing exactly where to go from there. he'd taught himself to prepare for any possible attack, any possible conspiracy or unmasking or targeted hit, but he'd completely forgot about his own friend. he'd forgotten he had a friend.

luckily or unluckily, harvey interrupted him before he had the chance to fumble his words. "i thought you were dead, i thought my best friend had finally fucking followed through with what i tried so hard for years to stop."

it hit bruce like a punch to the gut. he wasn't aware harvey had ever been trying.

"and now,,, what? you're just fine? you're dressed like a poser and your hair's all neat and trimmed and you're smiling at people like the only thing you care about is getting into their pants. plus, that's the fourth glass you've had tonight."

"we're already an hour in," bruce replied automatically.

"we're only an hour in," harvey said.

there was a pause. not an uncomfortable one, because it had been years since him and harvey were ever uncomfortable with each other. it was like harvey couldn't decide whether or not to reach out and strangle bruce for worrying him or break down for hurting him or hug him for coming back home.

bruce couldn't tell him. harvey worked too closely with commissioner gordon; daring bruce to steal mary jane from the principal's stash and shotgunning it out of his mouth was leagues away from keeping the secret that bruce was a dangerous, trained vigilante from everyone he knew.

"it's okay, harvey," bruce said, his voice completely sincere for the first time this night. "i found other ways to cope."

"i don't like those other ways," harvey sneered, eyes the glass in bruce's hand.

"other ways," bruce said. "you don't have to worry. i'm fine."

the photographer for the gotham gazette had snapped a picture of him entering, and no one would notice if he left now. bruce wayne couldn't be beating up pedophiles in the narrows if bruce wayne was getting drunk at a high-class gala. he'd planned to leave three hours in, a respectable amount of time, but meeting harvey had thrown him off balance.

he brushed past harvey, heading towards the butler's exit in the back of the ballroom. "enjoy the party!" he called behind him as he left, eyes wide again, clueless and fluttering and oh-so blind to the devastated way harvey watched him leave.

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[hephaestiions]

flood.

for the @drarrymicrofic prompt: flood. this is decidedly not a microfic, i am an embarrassment to the community. it is also once again, 3.08 am, so i have no idea how much sense this makes and no patience to wait till morning to post. here goes.  

TW: parent death, hospitals, seizures (non-graphic). 

The day Mother dies, things keep happening one after another.

Draco has a vague understanding— distant and loose, sand through his fingers in Santorini— that things happen one after another everyday. But knowing something all your life doesn’t really compare to the brutal moment of understanding it, really understanding it, for the first time.

For one, Mother died. Her heart gave out after one last seizure that Draco wasn’t there to see. He’d gone down to the cafeteria for a breakfast muffin, which in retrospect didn’t taste good enough for the price he paid. But then again, the last seizure couldn’t have looked very much different from the first or the twenty seventh or the one before the last, by which point Draco had lost count and sensitivity to the vision of his mother’s body curling in on itself over and over. Repeat a word enough times and it stops making sense and all that. The Mediwitches arranged her to look peaceful— possible finally— folding her hands and shutting her eyelids, stretching the skirt of the paper thin Mungo’s gown across the width of the bed like massive butterfly wings in an exhibit, polka dots and all.  

Within three hours, the solicitor sends a letter so oily that Draco compulsively washes his hands after reading it, the curling letters of venerated father’s dutiful wife aftereffects he can’t blink enough to rid himself of. The Mediwitches bring him document after document, three separate Healers pop by to offer their effusive condolences and the patient in the room next to Mother’s comes in to tell him that he had been a very good son indeed, to be so patient in his her dying days. She says it with a trembling lower lip and too-bright eyes and Draco gets the distinct feeling there is someone out there who ignores the memories of a sweet old lady with a walker she can’t quite wrangle into submission while going about their business. There’s a part of him that sneers. There’s a part of him that says fair. A third part says, I wish and Draco has to physically grip the armrests of his uncomfortable chair to not smack himself in the temple.

He smiles at the old lady, kisses her hand and signals behind her back for a passing Mediwitch to take her away.

Pansy pops up at noon in a navy suit Draco suspects she borrowed from Blaise. “I have a conference in the evening,” she says, and Draco nods. “I’ll cancel it,” she adds, and Draco shakes his head.

“It’s all under control, I assure you,” he tells her and she snorts, loud and rude and comforting, in his face.

“I assure you,” she repeats, mimicking him. “Draco, I am not your supervisor.” A few seconds of staring ensues before she tacks on, “I just don’t want you to have to do this alone.”

“I’m not—” he blurts out, before realising he is, he very much is, he has been for a week and a half, and cuts himself off. “It’s under control,” he repeats.

“So he hasn’t been around?” she asks, looking about as though expecting someone to spring from the aggressively artificial bushes in the lobby. “The bloody arsehole.”

“It really isn’t—” his chest feels tight with the intercrossing wires of too many aches, “—his place anymore.”

“Is that what you’re telling yourself?” she asks because she’s a cow without manners.

“My mother just died. I haven’t been telling myself much, I didn’t have the time.”

Pansy doesn’t have the grace to look chastened. “How long have you been here?”

“Not for very— oh.”

“Draco?”

He blinks at her. “Four days, I believe. That’s, oh. That’s quite a while, isn’t it? I thought— I hadn’t— realised.”

“Oh, for fuck’s—!”

He looks down at himself, clothes he can’t remember changing into, hands that won’t stop shaking though he can’t feel them, feet that feel swollen and raw.

“Go home,” Pansy says. Her palm against his cheek is warm and smooth and Draco notices, for the first time in a long time, how much he wants it to be large and calloused. “Darling, Draco, go home.”

“It’ll be empty.”

He hates it when her face goes that pinched. “I’m cancelling the conference.”

For a moment, Draco wants to give in. Go home with her, let her fuss and make him soup and peel him an orange and stay up the night with him, pouring out glasses of red. But he can’t.

“It’s under control,” he says again, and hopes she won’t push. She doesn’t, because she’s Pansy.

—

The first thing he notices is that the wireless is on, something about the Glasgow Cathcart by-election turnouts crackling through the speaker. Draco spends a prolonged moment wondering if four days of sleeping around pain potions has done osmotic damage to his brain. Labour holds, Draco hears before the rest is cut of in a sputter of static. The silence in the room is oppressively heavy. Harry’s hair looks messier than ever.

“Who told you?” Draco asks.

Harry’s brow crinkles. “Told me?”

“My mother—” Harry looks concerned. Draco feels wrong-footed. “No one told you? Why are you here?”

“Narcissa—?”

“She’s— No one told you. You’re— she died this morning. Heart failure. I was at Mungo’s.”

Harry’s expression goes from concern to shock to horror to a sort of complicated blankness so pathetically fake that Draco wants to shake it off. He doesn’t, standing by the Floo instead, awkward and uncertain. Harry’s here. Harry didn’t know Mother died but he’s here. Which brings him back to—

“Why are you here?”

“Because I couldn’t stay away,” Harry says, like it’s simple. He shrugs. “I tried and I couldn’t, so I came here, but you weren’t there. And I thought I’d leave, but then it looked like you hadn’t been here in a while, so I—” he breaks off. “I, well. I cleaned up. There was dust everywhere, and the post was piling up and I looked in the kitchen and you didn’t have any food, so I— Oh, God, Draco, God, are you crying?”

Draco blinks, and yes, he is in fact crying, that is what the burning in his eyes was all this while, his face is wet with it. Once the tears start, they don’t stop, soaking the skin of his throat with rivulets of salt water. Harry couldn’t stay away. Harry checked his post. He’s here.

His knees buckle and Harry’s over in a flash, holding him up and close, whispering sorry, sorry, I’m so sorry in his ear.

“I didn’t see her,” Draco says, muffled into the fist clenched in Harry’s shirt. “When she died, I was— I wasn’t there. I didn’t see her, she died alone. Merlin, I spent four days in Mungo’s and she still— she still died alone. Harry, I—”

And there, there’s the hand threading through his hair, curving around the side of his face. He’s missed this, fuck, every lonely moment sitting in uncomfortable chairs while his mother wasted away before him, he’s missed this. He allows himself to remember her now, pale and still and small, remembers the old forgotten lady in the room next to hers, remembers the terrible breakfast muffin that left crumbs all down his front and the Healer’s drawn face when she told him. Harry pulls him closer still.

Mother’s dead. Mother’s dead. The dam breaks.

[separatist-apologist]

Part 7

I'm considering our little serial to be completed with this chapter. Thank you @forestwitch7 for the prompts, I enjoyed writing them. I was thinking we could continue our serials with a new prompt, and my asks are open if you want to see something that could be extended over the course of a week or longer. I do have a jealous Elain prompt (non-smutty) and a jealous Lucien prompt (smutty) that I want to complete, so if you're hoping to see either of those things, they are in the works.

As per usual, this is NSFW, 18+, edited with my eyes closed, and more soft than teasing. It's also the longest chapter thus far (as warning). These two dorks can't help themselves.

--

--

Elain was nervous when Lucien stepped into the River House, a stack of paperwork tucked beneath his arm. His eyes slid through the room, surveying the occupants without betraying his emotions. If he cared she sat there, needlework abandoned in her lap, he didn’t say. Rhysand met him just outside the hall and gestured for Lucien to follow. He left without a backwards glance. Starfall had happened weeks ago and though they’d had a nice night, he’d left the next day and hadn’t said a word since. She felt nervous and, if she was honest, a little hurt. It had been her first time being intimate with a man that way and she supposed she’d hoped he might…call on her that next day.

Take her on a real date. She’d fretted over his silence to the point of anxiety and now that he was back, she couldn’t untangle what it meant. Had he come to see her or for some urgent political matter that could not wait? Elain turned her thoughts over and over in her head until she was a mess. Feyre joined her, Mor at her side, the two unaware of Elain’s inner turmoil as they drank tea and discussed the previous evening at Ritas. Elain listened absently, letting herself tune out her own thoughts in favor of their excited gossiping.

“Elain?” Lucien’s voice cut through the chatter just as the sun began to set. All three women silenced, their eyes locked on his face. Besides Solstice, had anyone ever seen the two of them friendly in the same space? Judging from the surprise on both Mor and Feyre’s faces, Elain guessed not.

“Do you want to get dinner?” He asked smoothly, arms crossed over his hunter green jacket. His expression was almost a dare. Say no. Reject me in front of your family.

“Yes,” she replied, too breathless. No one in that room believed this was the first time he’d asked her to spend time with him after hearing her response. If there was any doubt, Elain knew she squashed it when she stood quickly, tossed her needlepoint onto the chair behind her, and walked confidently towards him. Lucien was smiling with such open affection it made her heart flutter.

She waited until they were out of the River House and walking down dark, paved streets before she asked, “Are we really getting dinner?”

“I do plan to eat,” he replied, causing her to flush. “Sorry I was gone for so long. There was a disturbance…but I thought I’d show you something.”

“Oh?” She asked, her heart pounding a near painful beat in her chest. Lucien only smiled, both eyes focused straight ahead.

He stopped her in front of a pretty brick building half covered in inching, leafy vines. Lucien pulled a silver key from his pocket, slid it into the door, and gestured for him to follow her. The interior was beige and housed two doors on either side of the walls, with a staircase leading up. Lucien walked her up two flights of stairs to the third floor and opened the door with a shiny number 7 hanging just above a peephole.

“I have an apartment in the city,” he told her with a wink, pressing a spare key into her hands. “I should have told you about it ages ago.”

“That’s okay,” she swore breathlessly, stepping inside. She wondered if Lucien had decorated it or if it came furnished. She supposed it musthave been him, given the rich oranges, browns, reds and yellows that stared back at her. It was very much an Autumn pallet, bright and lovely and put together by someone with an eye for art and fashion.

“You can come even if I’m not in the city,” he continued, walking her through the living room and down a hall where his bedroom lay. “If you ever need to get away…or you miss me.”

He said that last part like a joke. She opened her mouth to inform him she missed him all the time but got tripped up when her eyes fell on a huge, four poster bed hung with sheer white curtains. A bed. On the floor were dozens of fat red pillar candles and with a snap of his fingers, each sprang to life.

“You’ll get wax on the wood,” she whispered, frozen in the doorway.

“A small price to pay,” he shrugged, putting his hands on her shoulders. “You can say no, you know. It doesn’t have to be tonight.”

Elain nodded, her mind forcing her to compare the scene before her with her only other experience. The room had been dark and cold, sparsely decorated and entirely masculine. She’d just assumed that was the height of romance in the moment but even though Lucien’s room, too, was masculine, he’d softened it considerably with the candles and the draped curtains. Even the blankets were a soft brown with a cream-colored throw tossed over a corner, making his bedroom feel warm and inviting. She looked over her shoulder at him, unsurprised by the flame burning in that russet-colored eye. His gold eye was wholly fixed on her face, and she wondered if he could see past her flesh.

And though there had never been a choice in whether they would be together, hearing him tell her she could say no if she wanted, that he wasn’t in a hurry, did something to her. He made her feel seen, feel special.

Loved, even, though she was too afraid to admit that was what was happening out loud. What had started as her attempt to get Azriel’s attention, to distract herself from her own boredom, had become much, much more. She almost laughed at how different things were, how important Lucien had become to her. She wrapped her arms around his neck instead and pressed a kiss to his mouth.

“I want it to be tonight,” she told him softly, her lips touching his as she spoke. Lucien smiled, his skin practically glowing.

“Good,” he replied, hoisting her off her feet and into his arms. “Because I’m tired of waiting.”

Lucien dropped her to his bed, climbing onto the mattress with her. Elain yanked down his neatly made blankets as Lucien shucked off his shoes, jacket, and shirt. Her fingers moved towards the buttons at the back of her gown but he stopped her.

“Let me,” he asked, his voice rough with desire. She nodded, nervous and excited, shivering when his hair brushed over her collarbone and his fingers slid down her spine, quickly undoing the buttons of her dress. She watched, eyes wide, as he slid the sleeves slowly down her arms, the skin of his hands rough against her own.

Lucien leaned back, shirtless and gleaming beneath the flickering candlelight, eyes reverent. “You are so damn beautiful,” he murmured, reaching out to brush her cheek. The way he looked at her and the way she spoke the words made her feel as though her value to him was not just her beauty.

“No, you,” she replied, pleased when a flush stained his golden cheeks. He smiled, charmingly embarrassed by the compliment, before going back to her under garments. She let him fully expose her, resisting the urge to cover herself with her hands as she looked at her again, his jaw slack and eyes wide just as he’d been when she’d come out on Starfall. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. She wanted to tease him but something about his expression made her stop. Instead she settled back against the fluffy pillows on his bed and gestured for him to come to her.

He did without hesitation, his lips slotting between her own quickly. He poured all his unspoken words in the kiss as he settled between her body. She wanted to tell him, wanted to say the words but she was afraid she’d break the spell.

So she poured back. I love you. Don’t leave me again. I love you. I love you. I love you.

Lucien’s hips ground against her, proof of his want and Elain gasped as memory of his cock in her mouth flooded back. He was so very large, much bigger than Graysen had been. Would it hurt, she wondered, running her nails down his back.

“I can feel your thoughts,” Lucien gasped, nipping down the side of her neck. “I won’t hurt you.”

She frowned. Had he felt everything? “Yes,” he replied again, smiling against her skin. His fingers tweaked against her nipples, the sensation hooking roughly in her gut. He looked up, his face resting in valley between her breasts, his eyes impossibly soft. “I love you too, you know.”

She started to say it back, a giggle bubbling in her throat, but Lucien’s mouth clamped over one over sensitive nipple, and nothing felt funny anymore. Desire coursed through her veins, taking over her body just like the day he’d taken her in the garden. She felt needier now, desperate in a way she hadn’t then.

He surged forward again, kissing her hotly, his tongue messy against her own. It was a prelude to what he planned to do between her legs, and she wished he’d stop teasing her and get on with it. She was way too shy to just ask and when he broke the kiss, she whined, pushing his head down her body.

Lucien chuckled darkly, his breath warm on her cool skin. “Say please,” he whispered, rubbing the flesh of her thighs just close enough to the crease of her center without actually touching her. She lifted her hips and wondered if he’d deny her if she didn’t do as he asked.

“Please,” she begged, delighted at the groan that slipped from his throat.

“Embarrassing,” she teased, squirming against his fingers.

“Oh you don’t know the half of it, sweetheart,” Lucien crooned, lowering his mouth to her body. She squealed, delighted by both the nick name and how willing Lucien was to play along. Her thoughts vacated at that first swipe of his tongue, dragging her back to that place of limitless burning heat. She couldn’t take her eyes off him, his hair spread over his broad, muscular shoulders, one hand pressed against her lower abdomen to keep her pinned to the bed. His eyes were closed, the expression on the part of his face she could see utterly lost, as though he were experiencing some form of nirvana just by touching her. She could see his hips grinding against the bed in time with her own and she wished he wasn’t wearing pants. She wanted to see him fully undressed.

She felt electric beneath his touch, building up, up, upbefore she shattered around him with a scream and a fistful of his hair, forcing him to stay clamped between her trembling thighs. He didn’t stop, his tongue sweeping over her in quick, efficient circles until she was sobbing mess. She tugged and he came, his mouth covering hers with an intensity that excited her. She hooked her fingers in the waist of his pants and tugged.

“Impatient,” he tried to tease but the word was more groan. She watched him roll over and stand quickly to shuck off his pants.

“Wait!” She cried, drinking in the hard, naked, muscular body standing in front of her. Lucien shifted his weight from one foot the other other, his cock twitching beneath her gaze.

“Now who is beautiful?” She asked while he crawled back to her.

“Still you,” he promised, kissing her gently. She hesitated when she felt the crown of his cock notch against her entrance.

“Go slow,” she murmured. Though his expression seemed pained, Lucien nodded, his hair creating a curtain between the pair of them. She could pretend they were in their own little world where no one but them existed.

She sighed when he slid that first inch in, her body stretching but not in a painful way. It was pleasant and comfortable and by the time he was fully seated inside her, Elain regretted asking him to go slow. Lucien seemed to be strained above her, his body weight braced on his elbows beside her.

“Are you okay?” He gasped and she nodded, leaning up just enough to kiss him.

“You can move,” she told him with what she hoped was a sweet and not deranged smile. Lucien nodded, sliding himself out too slowly for her liking, grunting as he came back in. She let him for a moment, worried that perhaps he needed to prove to himself he wouldn’t hurt her, before she hooked her legs around him and drove her heels into his ass, forcing him to snap into her hard.

“Oh,” she gasped at the same time he did. “Again.”

Whatever leash Lucien held himself with vanished and Lucien thrust hard, the sound of their flesh meeting punctuating the silence around them. She was building again, writhing beneath him, doubly so when his hand snaked between them to rub quick circles over her already swollen clit. She was panting, begging.

“Harder,” she heard her voice plead, half stunned at the sound. “Don’t stop, Lucien, please.”

Lucien grunted again, sweat dripping down his back. “So fucking wet,” he groaned, the sound more animal than man. “So tight. Fuck, Elain—”

His words were drowned by the sound of her scream, so loud she was sure his entire building heard it. Lucien didn’t stop though the snarl that erupted from his throat made her shudder even as blinding white pleasure stole her last little sense of self. She was an extension of him and he the other half to her. Connected, Elain felt as though life suddenly made sense.

“Again,” Lucien demanded, somehow increasing his speed, pounding into her with an intensity that threatened to drive her mad. She was whimpering, her whole body overly sensitive beneath his hands. She moaned at the feel of one of his hands palming her breast, tweaking her nipples before gliding back to the quivering nub of flesh at her apex. “Again.”

And whatever it was that existed between them, the bond or their connected souls, made her desperately want to please him. She bit her bottom lip so hard she tasted blood, her hips unable to keep up with the pace he’d set, her thighs still trembling from her last release. He didn’t let up, even in the wake of her pleas.

“Please, Lucien. Lucien, Luci—” Her climax was edged with pain, the scream hoarse. Lucien growled with pleasure, pumping once, twice, and then once more before he held himself over her, groaning loudly with his own release. She could hardly catch her breath, her vision spotted, her body utterly wrung out when he collapsed atop her, head buried in the crook of her neck.

“Did I hurt you?” He asked, kissing along her jaw.

“No,” she whispered, her words threatening to turn to hysterical laughter. “You were perfect.”

His teeth tugged along her ear and though she was exhausted, more arousal speared through her.

“Are you hungry?” He asked, withdrawing himself from her body. She frowned, mewling with protest. Lucien merely smiled as he clambered from the bed, padded across the room, and returned with a warm rag to wipe her up with.

Elain propped herself up on her elbows to look at his flagging erection, his beautiful body, his absurdly lovely face. “I love you,” she said, tasting the words as she said them. Lucien beamed, seeming as though he were lit with some inner light only she could see. He tossed the rag back into the bathroom before joining her in the bed again. He dragged the blankets over them, cuddling her into his arms.

She smiled when he kissed the top of her head. “I love you, sweetheart. Are you hungry?”

“Yes,” She admitted, snuggling closer into his chest. “But it can wait.”

“Tell me what you want, Elain.” “You,” she said without hesitation. “With me, all the time.”

His thumb stroked over her cheek. “Consider it done.”

[another-fantasy-world]

5:1 with Natasha Romanoff

GIF isn’t mine

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Title: The 5 Times Natasha Held Her Tears Back, And The One Time She Couldn't

Pairings: (Romantic) Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Warnings: Angst. Just pure angst. Maybe a sprinkle of Fluff. Major Character Death

Reader Pronouns: She/They, (I don't even think I put the reader's pronouns in, but it's what I was thinking of.)

Word Count: 5065 words

Author's note: I was feeling angsty these past few weeks so why not? I think this is all the angst I have stored in my body for this month. I'll go back to writing fluff now. I sincerely apologize for this.

⊱ ────── {⋅. ♪ .⋅} ────── ⊰

I.

You hated this.

Of course you did. SHIELD managed to destroy what you considered a home. It wasn't the best, they made you fight each other, they made you sit in a chair, electrocuting you or injecting you with weird chemicals. But you were their best, the best in that institute, and now you would have to fight for the top spot again.

“You. You're facing our newbie. We need to test her strength.” This too old to be alive, bulky man pointed at a brunette girl, who was now shaking.

“Let's see if you are what they made you out to be.” Madame B uttered as the guy pushed you to the center.

“Begin.” She said, her eyes focused on your movement.

You begin by circling the brunette, sizing her up. The perks of the power you were born with is that you can easily see their weak spots, parts that would make them cry out for mercy that you'll never give.

She begins the fight with a fatal mistake, running at you with her fist almost hitting your face, you caught the fist and twisted it just enough for her wrist to be broken. She didn't scream, which was disappointing.

You decided to do the next move, still holding her broken wrist, you held her elbow and flipped her onto her back, knocking the air out of her.

“Stand up.” You glared at the brunette, pissed that she was knocked down way too easily.

And she stands up, hiding her broken wrist behind her back as she fought with her legs and feet instead. Blocking a high kick, you held her right foot and slammed your elbow to her knee as hard as you can, making her leg bend in an unnatural way, this time making her scream in pain as she fell down to the ground.

“Eliminate the weak.” Madame B's voice echoed in the room

“Understood.” You replied, kicking the brunette so her face is on the ground. No matter how hard they train and brainwash you, you refused to see the face of your victims as they died, so you always turn their head the opposite way. She cries and begs for mercy, and you smirk at her pathetic attempts of surviving. Should've fought better then.

Producing a dagger from your thigh, you straddled her hips and plunged the dagger deep into where you know her heart is, making blood pool around her.

“Hmm.” Madame B hummed, her body language shows her positivity.

“Fine. We'll take her in.” Madame B said to your previous handler

You stand there, bored out of your brain as people clean the mess you made.

“Natalia.” The name Madame B mumbled brought you back to reality as a gorgeous redhead made her way to you.

“She's going to be the one you'll see frequently. Both of you are going on missions, so get along girls. I can't have our greatest assets kill each other.”

“Natalia.”

“Y/N” you accepted her handshake, her tight grip on your hand as she pulls you close.

“You'll regret killing her.” her voice faltered, giving away that she's close to sobbing her little heart out.

“The weak has no place in this world. It's kill or be killed, Natalia.” You bit back, your grip also tightening

As your handler led you away to a cell specifically made for you, You could swear you heard Natalia say something.

You turned back to see Natasha's beautiful green eyes lined with tears she desperately pulled back.

“Remember me.” She mouthed, tilting her head up to prevent the tears from falling.

It was the first time you saw Natalia hold her tears back

II.

You don't know how to feel.

Natalia escaped the Red room. You were extremely proud of her for escaping this hell. But you were pissed that she didn't even try to inform you of it.

You had been in a mission, an attempt for you to forget about the bond you and Natalia had, It didn't work, because the second you landed, you teleported to her room. A new power that you obtained from them, only to find her bed occupied with another. You grit your teeth and opted to kill this girl that's laying on your beloved's bed.

“Silence. Don't waste your time. She is not here, and killing that girl will not erase that feeling in your heart. We have another mission, let all your frustration out on that.” Your new handler said. This handler was much more gentler than the last one you killed, and you refrained from killing her because of that. She had become a mother of sorts.

“Another mission? I just got back.” You shook your head.

“You need to. I think you'll be interested in this one. Budapest” She hands you a file.

…and Natalia's face was plastered on the file.

“What is this?” You grit out

“Natalia joined SHIELD.”

The anger you felt was what led to where you are now.

“Y/N! Stop! Listen to me!” She grunts as you both land blow, after blow. You, letting all your frustrations out with your body, and her defending herself

“Why should I? You left me. YOU BETRAYED ME!” You say, your thoughts clouded

“They're using you! Fuck. They only see you as an asset for fucks sake!” She winces in pain as your dagger nicks her face, blood dripping from the wound on her face

“I know. So come and save me.” You mumbled when you had her in your arms, a dagger on her throat, threatening to slice it open.

“...I can't” She says, holding back her tears, her hands trying to find your other hand, trying to find comfort in this sick reality

“Then so be it.” You say with finality, hearing your handler say that the mission was complete, and you fulfilled your role of being the distraction.

You drop Natalia, her hand on her throat, trying to stop the bleeding. You both know it wasn't lethal, but it was still bleeding a lot.

“Be careful Natalia.” You whispered, before turning away from her, refusing to see her teary eyes. The sharpshooter was by her side in an instant, making you wish that it was you comforting her, not this man named after a bird.

Natalia can't help but stare at your retreating figure, guilt, regret, anger and sadness weighing her down. 8 years of training with each other, 8 years of flirty missions that would get you both punished, and 8 years of friendship, thrown down the drain, all because she refused to fight for you, all because she was following the rules set for her. It was then she realized, SHIELD isn't that much different from the red room and HYDRA.

Natasha held her tears back once again.

III.

You felt excited for once.

After years of boring, too easy missions that were given to you, you were finally qualified enough for a mission with the Avengers, as if mass murdering people and assassinating people weren't enough qualification. HYDRA suspects that the Avengers will interfere with this specific mission, so they sent you to be a guard of some sort. You complained at first, wanting to move around and not be a body guard, but now you were relieved that your handler persisted you take this role.

“Come here often?” The green-eyed woman says, ordering herself a cocktail.

“No. Not at all. My sister was invited to this whole thing, and I just tagged along. Her personal bodyguard if you will.” You say, facing her and sipping your drink

“Natasha.” She chuckles, extending her hand

“Y/N” You chuckle back, she changed her name again.

“You never changed your name?” She asked, scooting closer to you, sipping on her orange-colored cocktail.

“It's part of my charm, why change it?” You smirked

“What are you doing here, Silence.” She says, her playful attitude disappearing, a frown now placed on her pretty face.

“Ouch, Natalia. Busting out the professional nicknames, that's painful. And giving up on that flirty tactic already? My, my. You must be getting rusty then.” You say, clutching your heart in faux pain

“I don't have time to waste, Y/LN. What. Does. HYDRA. Want. From. Samantha. Durkink?” You chuckled at her attempt of fishing out info

“Why don't you ask Samantha herself?” You say, lifting your glass to the target's general direction.

Natasha's eyes followed the direction you pointed, and there she was, the target, dressed in a dark violet medieval era-like gown, her eyes then roamed around to the delicately decorated ballroom, fit for a royal ball.

You watch her as she tried to get through the crowed that was dancing, laughing lightly when you see her struggling. You then laughed once again when a man mistook her for a dancing partner and instantly pulled her to dance, the crowd was dancing together, all in sync, which amazed you.

After a few minutes, you decide to take Natasha out of her misery.

“May I cut in?” You ask the man who was dressed like that one prince from that movie, Ice or something. You only saw it when you babysat Red room candidates.

He nodded and you slipped Natasha into your arms, your hands on her waist and palm, while her hands were on your shoulder and palm. The two of you waltz quietly for a few minutes, before you leaned into her ear, the one you knew had her comms.

“You have approximately 7 minutes to leave the building with your team. I personally dislike what they are about to do, but HYDRA has found a rather unorthodox way of burning evidence. And as much as I don't like it. It's a way easier way of...burning the evidence away with a bang. You understand right?” You pat her head, looking into her eyes fondly, letting your guard slip for just a second.

“I'm proud of you.”

And that was all Natasha could hear for the past hour. Even as she stared at the now burning mansion, the screams of people that were trapped in that building resonating in the air. Even as she was being suffocated by her team's emotions because the mission failed. All she can hear and see is you. Your eyes burning with passion she had never seen before, not even in missions, you always had an emotionless look on your face, much like hers. And yet, there you were, under the chandelier, looking at her like you care for her, looking at her like she's your world, looking at as if you...love her.

And that was what led Natasha to hold her tears back, even if she was in the privacy of her own room, her eyes on the small rectangular box you gave her.

She refused to believe that you love her. No. Love is for children. Love isn't meant for her. Love isn't meant for you. Love. No. She doesn't deserve love. Especially not from you.

She held her tears back harder when she realized. When all the “unexplained circumstances” happened, she never found who caused it. And now she knew. Now she realized.

You never stopped caring for her after all these years.

IV.

You care for her

After months of beating yourself up, you finally accepted it. You care for this reckless, red-haired assassin, who always seem like she never gets her life together. This green-eyed goddess who can never catch a break. This assassin who betrayed you. This woman who babysits Gods. This woman, who's sleeping beside you, her face oddly peaceful and calm, a complete opposite for what you were feeling.

“Idiot. Spending time with other idiots has made her an idiot herself.” You mumbled, flipping a page of this random fantasy story that's been translated to Russian.

“Hmmn. You were talking shit there Y/LN?” She stirred

“I was. You slept for 2 days Nat.” You say with no emotion in your voice.

“So mean.” She says, reaching around you, pulling you close and buried her head on your stomach. You were taken aback. She was never like this...unless

“What happened yesterday Nat? You know how forgetful I get.” You smiled at her sweetly

“Well, we were on a mission in Indonesia, and you killed your handler to give me ice cream.” She smiled

…ah- her brain must've reset itself when she almost drowned

“...I'm sorry Nat.” You say, a frown on your face.

“When did you start calling me Nat?” She asks, to which you just smirked

“Free, Proven, Easy, Loyal, Secret, Care, Loyal, Love.” You spoke in Russian, and Natasha's eyes turned blank, before they turned into panic

“Y/N? Oh my god.”

“...You have become annoyingly American.” You scoffed, annoyed that her first words after being brought back to reality are that of a Typical American

“Well, I at least needed to pass as American born or else I would've been deported you ass!” She goes to punch your face, but you blocked it with your book.

“Not the face Natalia.” You mumbled, rolling your eyes when she winced in pain

“Don't force your body. You have a flesh wound from the bullet that grazed you.” You say, placing your book on the nightstand and guide her to lay down.

“You promised not to use those words unless needed, Atrax.” She grunts, a cold hard glare directed to you.

“And I knew you wouldn't like living in a false reality, Widow.” You thumped her head with your palm.

“...That reality is a dream we once knew.” She mumbles, tears threatening to fall

You hold her face, wiping the tears before they fall. You knew her as much as she knows you. She hates showing weakness, She hates crying, So you vowed to never let her cry in front of you again.

“It's a dream that I can make a reality.” You nodded

“what?” She asks after a while, surprised

“If I could escape this hell, I would. And I'll bring you along with me, even if I have to tie a rope on your waist. We'll travel to a peaceful land far away and build ourselves a beautiful house with a backyard. Maybe a kid or two. But no more than that. 2 dogs, 2 cats, 3 spiders and 1 snake” You quoted yourself from 10 years ago, making her chuckle, but abruptly stops

“We were young.” She says, frowning

“And?”

“We were foolish Y/N. We were kids!” She shouts in your face

“...ah. I understand. You think that I break my promises? Well newsflash widow. I didn't break a single promise I made!” A look of anger in your face, you drag Natasha by her uninjured arm and pulled her right in front of the bathroom mirror.

“Look at me. Look at you. I promised you that someday you'll look at ballet as a form of comfort and not remind you of the pain it caused, You dance whenever you feel the need to cry! I promised you that you'll get out of that damn red room with or without me, And look what happened! Granted that I wasn't the one to get you out, I made sure you never returned. I promised that someday we'll look into each other's eyes without a dagger on each other's throat...” You trailed off, her green eyes tearing up again.

“I promised that I'll never let you cry in front of me. And I intend to fulfill that.” You say, wiping the tears before they fell once again

“It's not crying if tears don't fall.” You quote her from 12 years ago

And at that moment, Natasha let herself indulge in this sinful dream of hers. Her lips touched yours as moonlight made her bare skin glow, her taking what's rightfully hers, sitting on her own throne. The sweat trailing down her skin as quiet music erupt from both of you. You never wanted this moment to end, but alas the sun rose, and it was time to face reality once again.

“I can't...” She says the moment the sun shone through the curtains.

“I understand.” You say, standing up to get yourself dressed

“I'll leave you with a choice then. If you change your mind.” You softly say to her, left hand clutching the bag that you need and the other holding her face softly.

“See you in a minute.”

Natasha once again held her tears back, her hands trembling as it held the two envelopes that seem so heavy. One containing fresh, new, fake identity and a plane ticket to God knows where. And the other held a car key, a house key and some money to aid her travel back to the compound. Well the choice is heavy. To leave the Avengers behind, and rekindle a lost flame in a faraway land, or to stay, and continue to fight and to protect.

In the end, Natasha chose them.

V.

You felt at peace.

A couple months at a quiet town did wonders to your mental health. You were now playing piano in an old studio made to teach young students ballet. It was now abandoned, but you bought it, just for the nostalgia

“I knew I'd find you here.” You hear her voice echoing, You stopped playing Swan Lake, OP.20, Act II for a second

“Hmmhmmn. You've always been the better spy out of both of us.” You say, switching your piece to The Nutcracker: Dance of Sugar-Plum Fairy

“Ah. My outfit isn't fit for ballet” She says

“That never stopped you before, Widow.” You chuckled, smiling wider when she started to dance to the rhythm you set.

“Why didn't you stay there?” She asked while floating around the room, your piece now switched to The Sleeping Beauty, Ballet Suite, Op.66a: V. Valse.

“Not my scene, as I hate to admit. I missed the chaos. But I miss the silence too. It's a tough choice.”

“Trust me. I know.” She scoffs, then her eye widens at how insensitive that sounded

“Heh. Of course.”

“Switch to Giselle, will you?” She asks, her toes supported her weight even though she's not wearing pointe shoes

“Bossy.” You mumbled, but complying anyways

And there you both reveled in the bond you both had. Both expressing your feelings in the way that you knew the most. Music and Ballet. Your feelings of Regret, merging with Natasha's, Your feelings of Shame, battled Natasha's sadness, Your pride shoved down your throat as Natasha also shoved hers. As the melody you played turned into a much softer tune, Natasha's love vibrated through the air, as did yours, The feelings you held back came crashing down as you too try to hold back your tears.

There was no need to explain to each other. You both knew. Well, you sure hope she knew what you think. After all, you left her a letter in each envelope. And while she never sent a letter back, she had the habit of hacking into your morning radio and deliver small messages through Morse code, leaving you to figure out her puzzle of a message.

“You're happy. I like that.” You say, abandoning your piano to approach her

“I'm happy because of them.” She says, her green eyes staring back at yours

“Good. I'm glad. You seem different now.” Your eyes filled with tears, turning your back to her as you wiped the tears from your eyes

“Dance with me?” You take the hand on your shoulder, and let her guide you in dancing. Waltz has always been your favorite.

“I felt like we've done this before.” She says, her head dropping on your shoulders

“Perhaps in another life.” You concluded, spinning her

As you continue dancing to the silent music, you can't help but think how much you loved this woman. And that you could never handle the pain of letting her go again.

You also knew what this felt like. Farewell. Last Dance. You held her closer.

Natasha was saying farewell.

Natasha was saying farewell.

Natasha was saying farewell.

Natasha was saying farewell.

Natasha was saying farewell.

But you can't let her go. Not now. Not when you just accepted that you do love her, you're in love with this divine being, you're in love with Natasha Romanoff.

Even when no one taught you how to love, even when you knew love is for children, even when you know she's too good for you, even when she's an entirely different person when she's with you, her gentle gazes drown you, even when you know you're not worth of even touching her. You still accepted that you are in love. You are in love with Natalia Alianovna Romanoff.

And you know she feels the same. So why?

Why?

Why was she walking away now?

Why?

Why?

Why are you letting her get away?

Why?

Why?

Why did you let her break your peace?

Why?

Why did you let her break you?

“Take care of yourself.”

Four words and the sight of her back getting farther and farther away is enough to completely shatter your already broken heart.

Madame B was right. Love is for children.

Natasha didn't need to look back.

She couldn't

Not when your sobs ring throughout the whole studio

Natasha once again held back her tears.

Natasha once again held back the words.

Natasha once again held back her feelings.

Natasha once again held back her tears.

She can never get you back now can she?

Natasha held her tears back.

I.

Pain. Dark. Cold.

That was all you felt right now.

Hours ago, you fulfilled another promise you made when Natasha left you. To make her feel pain. To make her feel the pain she caused you. You fought the Avengers one by one. Catching them off guard and capturing them. Creating cells for them and them only.

You created an elaborate trap for all of them.

You wanted all of them to feel your pain.

You wanted them to know the feeling.

The feeling. The feeling of pain you felt every time Natasha chose them over you.

The feeling of pain when they stole Natasha over and over again.

But you knew you were only making excuses for yourself.

Who could blame you?

Well, all of them apparently.

And then you saw how Natasha fought for them. Screaming for you to let them go. Her resolve never faltering as she fought, taking the floors of the building by storm. Reaching each area where you keep each Avenger captive.

It was then you knew.

They were the villains in your story. Always in the way of you getting your princess back.

Oh how blind and foolish you were.

You were always the villain in their story. The ex-hydra agent who killed more than The Winter Soldier and Black Widow combined. You were the evil sorcerer.

And them? They were the royal knights protecting the Queen.

You scoffed at yourself. Of course you would make a grave mistake. You let yourself drown in the emotions you weren't supposed to have anyways.

“That heart is what'll get you killed. Mark my words, Silence.” Madame B's last words before you killed her.

You deactivated the whole building before leaving a note for Natalia.

You teleported to the rooftop, letting the air kiss your skin. You let yourself enjoy.

Because for once in your life, you don't know what happens next.

“... Atrax.”

“Widow.”

“How could you?”

“...A circle has no beginning nor end. What happens in the beginning shall happen again in the end to fulfill the cycle.” You say, drawing your dagger and turning to face her in all her glory.

The Sun's rays gently touches her skin, leaving her glowing slightly. This. This is one of the many memories you wish to remember when you get reincarnated once again.

She pulls out a familiar dagger. The one you gave her before you blew up that one mansion.

“Are we really going to end this way?” She says, anger and pain shone in her eyes as her face mimicked an emotionless stare.

“It would seem so.”

And so the clashing of blades began. Punch after punch. Kick after kick. Takedowns after takedowns. You don't want to lose. And neither does she.

You both then engaged into what you can call, the dance of death. With the clashing daggers as the music and combat as your choreography.

And then Natasha changed the rhythm. Using her dagger to slice your cheek, just as you did her in Budapest. But that also caused her to open a weak spot of hers.

Ignoring the pain, you decide to change the rhythm as well. Moving like a snake, tangling your feet to hers, making her fall down. You then slammed your boot on her chest, slowly putting pressure, slowly smashing her ribs, making her clutch your ankle, trying to gasp for air.

“Any last words Nat- Black Widow?” You ask, pointing the dagger right above her heart.

“...I love you.” Natasha finally let the three words out of her mouth, regretting not saying it earlier.

You tensed up, your shoulders tensing. Anger flared in your eyes.

Why now?

Why?

Is this fake?

Is she lying?

Why?

“Why now?” You whispered, not even bothering to hold back your tears.

You're tired.

Too tired.

“I always did. I just- Ugh. I just never had the courage to tell you.” She grunts out, trying to push your foot away, but you ended up digging it into her deeper.

“...Liar.” You gritted out, swiftly plunging the knife deep in her heart, enjoying the feel of her blood slowly emerging from her heart, the sight of the life in her eyes slowly fade.

You broke your ritual. You didn't turn her back to you. You saw her face.

…

Why?

Because you didn't kill her.

Natasha thought she was dead. In fact, she felt your dagger dig into her skin.

So why?

Why does she feel your hand in hers.

Right...

You have powers.

…

You have powers.

She instantly opened her eyes, her brain catching up.

“NO! What have you done! You stupid! Reckless! Piece of Shit!” She says, she slaps your face as she sees your eyes closing.

Pain Transfer.

You transferred her pain to your body. You transferred her lethal wound into yours. You sacrificed yourself to save her from the death that you, yourself, caused

You basically killed yourself.

“Forgive me, Natalia. I broke our promise.” You pulled her bloody hand from your chest and held it tightly in your hand.

“You promised to stay alive as long as I am. You never break your promises.” Natasha held her tears back, crying will make it real.

Your death isn't real. No. But loving you is.

She never got the chance to show you how much she loves you.

“This is our reality Nat. I was foolish to think I could ever change it...” You trailed off, coughing out blood. This was the first time you thanked your powers for moving so slow. You have more time. With her. And that's all you could ever ask for,

“...Stop crying Natalia. Heroes always win remember? Besides, I knew you'd let yourself die before you ever think of killing me, so I did it myself.” You grinned at her as best as you can.

“Idiot.” She whispered

“I love you too you know? Please remember that I love you. They love you too. But I love you the most.” You whispered back, the moonlight shining on your bare skin.

Natasha always go back to that night you shared whenever she sees the moonlight, but now, it's corrupted by the feeling of your grip slowly loosening, until it's only her that's holding on.

It was you who always held on.

You held on to the bond no matter how many times you got hurt because of it.

You held on to the hope that someday, you'll get to call her yours, and she gets to call you hers.

You held on, even as she repeatedly let you go.

And she can't help but regret that. She regrets it so much more now.

Now, she's the only one left.

There was nothing more to hold on to.

Nothing but the promise of living a life without you by her side.

Nothing but the memory of your smile.

The memory of you scolding her every time she got hurt.

Memories of you laughing

Memories of you dancing. Dancing with her.

She doesn't know how to say bye to you.

She doesn't know how to let you go now.

It seems like, she's done it so much that she forgot how to do so now.

She remembers every single promise you made. And the one promise you broke.

She can only hope that you can forgive her.

She's going to make you break your own promise.

But it's void now right?

You're gone.

She can cry now right?

She can cry as she reads the last letter you left?

She can cry as she reads the journal where you put all your memories in, because you're afraid of forgetting her, right?

She can cry as she opens the velvet box right?

She can cry as she puts the ring you left her as her necklace right?

She can cry as she reads that all your properties are now hers, right?

She can cry now.

She can let go of her feelings now.

But she can never let you go.

And then, for once Natasha used FRIDAY's soundproof function.

For once. Natasha let her emotions run rampant.

For once, she cried. She sobbed. She screamed. As if it'd make you come back.

If you were foolish enough to think that you can change reality, Then Natasha was foolish enough to hope you come back.

Natasha couldn't hold her tears back anymore.

Taglist: @jj-arms​ @satxnsupreme​ ​

[dovechim]

blessed be the fruit 01 (m)

➾ 3.6k, taehyung x reader, future OT7

➾ loosely based off The Handmaid’s Tale. In the New World Order that is Gilead, your life depends on your ability to bring a new one into existence. 

➾ warnings: unprotected sex, mentions of infertility, pregnancy, mentions of dubcon

➾ a/n: I had serious hesitation and doubts about this. but after a three month break and looking at it from a distance, I still want to go ahead with this AU because I want to draw attention to the themes of reclaiming agency & identity whilst under oppression. So I hope that you could get the message I’m trying to convey rather than focus on the noncon indubitably present in this AU. 

I'm saying this to clearly outline my intentions, for I do not condone rape or non-consensual sex whatsoever. 

that being said, I have plans to turn this into an ot7 series fic, but here is a little starter just to kind of test the waters a little :-) if you’re here, I've already warned you about what you’re signing up for, so please skip this if uncomfortable and refrain from sharing any malicious thoughts with me.

Crimson is the colour that denotes life. But these days, only the rare few have the privilege to don that colour; the deep red hue of the cloak that is meant to simultaneously draw attention to, and also hide your figure.

Handmaids are to be seen and not heard. They are to speak only when spoken to. The white wings that adorn either side of your head keep your gaze lowered reverently at all times. Meek and subdued, but always watching, waiting.

The supermarket is quiet and orderly as you stroll through the aisles with your partner close by your side. You have never seen more than a glimpse of her face, neither have you heard more than a few words of her voice other than the greetings you exchange when you meet every morning.

Even the task of grocery shopping, which you used to enjoy before the rise of Gilead, has become nothing but a sham. There is no decision to be made. Your purchases are entirely dependent on the coupons given to you by the Wife of your Household. Today, it’s the usual rice and vegetables, with one or two oranges thrown in as a request from the Cook.

“Under His Eye,” you murmur as you pass the other Handmaids and their partners, all doing their shopping with their partners.

You can’t see it with your head lowered, but there are armed guards stationed throughout the grocery store with guns cocked and menacing stares. The Eyes are always watching and listening, and you begin to feel suffocated.

“I believe I have everything I need,” you speak in a lowered voice, turning slightly to your partner, thinking of how to best hurry her along without making it too obvious. “Is there anything else you lack?”

“I too, am done, OfJeon,” your partner replies back, and you have to physically stop yourself from flinching.

Even though it is the proper way to address another Handmaid, you avoid using the names bestowed upon you by their Household’s Commanders. You try your best to not associate yourself with that name, for fear that you might come to forget your own in due time, but it gets more and more difficult as the days go by.

‘Of’ denoting possession, and ‘Jeon’ for your Commander’s last name. Put together, they form your identity, the identity that Gilead has carved out for you as an object.

The moment you forget your real name is the moment you lose yourself.

“Let us depart, OfPark,” you say with tightly clenched lips, grateful for the white wings that hide your bitter expression as you turn toward the exit of the grocery store.

Your basket is heavy with groceries, and the wind whips up your red cloak the moment you step outside. You glance up for a moment to see the gray skies, feel the wind on your cheeks before you dip your head down again, cautious of exposing your face for more than a second.

Here, to blend in is to survive.

“Have you made all the necessary preparation, OfJeon?” Your partner asks as she links her arm through yours, and you begin the slow march home.

You drag your feet slightly, hoping to prolong the walk. Aside from the brief half hour of grocery shopping every day, you hardly get a chance to be outside. To remember what the real world feels like, even though it is changing so quickly every day. You’re too busy trying to memorise the way the wind feels against your cloak that you are caught slightly offguard by OfPark’s question.

“Preparation?” Your voice comes out slightly unsure.

“For the Ceremony, of course,” comes her reply, and you can’t stop yourself from inhaling sharply.

Is it already that time of the month? How could you have lost track?

A lump forms in your throat as you attempt to calm yourself. “Yes, OfPark. Everything is ready.”

You are lying through your teeth, but the thing is, interactions are kept to such a bare minimum that no one knows you well enough to know that you are lying. If today is the day of the Ceremony, it means a visit to the doctor’s this afternoon. Your breath speeds up at the thought of it, palms becoming sweaty.

OfPark comes to a stop outside of your house, and unlinks her arm from yours.

“Blessed be the fruit,” she says by way of farewell.

“May the Lord open,” the automatic response falls from your lips without much thinking.

Then the gates open, and you enter the house quietly, setting your basket on the kitchen counter. You can hear footsteps coming from the main hallway as soon as you take your white bonnet off.

“You’re back, I was just about to send a guard to fetch you.” In her royal blue dress that tapers at her waist and falls nearly to her ankles, the Wife of the Household is always neatly pressed and well put together. Kim Yeri fixes you with an annoyed glare as she brushes her silky blonde hair behind her ear. You haven’t known her by that name in a long while, because like any other woman, she is only to be addressed by her title in society.

“Did you forget your appointment?” She demands, crossing her arms. She has never been outrightly mean to you, yet her manner is far from friendly. But its totally understandable, of course. Which woman would be content knowing her husband was required by law to fuck a baby into someone else?

“No, Madam. The line at the supermarket was-“

“Get in the car. We’re already late.” Yeri is not interested in your excuse as she cuts you off, turning to grab her purse, and her dress flows gracefully behind her slim figure as she walks to the door.

You barely have time to put your bonnet back on, fixing it so that it is presentable once more before following her outside. Yeri is already in the back seat of the black SUV car, and you climb in beside her. You catch a glimpse of Driver Jung’s eyes in the mirror, but quickly glance away before Yeri can catch you.

Drivers aren’t allowed to have Handmaids of their own. Instead, they live to serve the Household of their Commanders. As the car pulls smoothly out of the front gate, you begin to wonder who Driver Jung was before Gilead. If he had loved ones that he lost. If he too, was slowly starting to forget the person he was back then.

The blacked-out windows of the car don’t allow you to see anything outside. It is a tense journey made in complete silence as you can feel Yeri’s annoyance slowly mounting into a barely withheld fury. It is the same every month. You try to sympathise with her, to put yourself in her shoes as someone who has to accompany the woman her beloved husband is to have sex with to a fertility check-up.

When the car stops, Driver Jung rushes out of his seat to open the door for Yeri first, then he crosses to your side and opens your door. You thank him with a shy nod, careful to keep your eyes fixed on the ground as you follow Yeri into the clinic.

The waiting room has about one or two other Wife-Handmaid pairs.  As you walk in, you catch the eye of one of the Handmaids who is heavily pregnant. Her swollen belly protrudes from her red cloak, and her hands look so small in comparison as she strokes her bump reverently. The Wife sits beside her, a look of pride on her face as if she were the one pregnant.

It is such a rare sight to see a pregnant Handmaid these days. Even though the Handmaids were specially selected because of their fertility, your lack of a baby bump is bearing down on you. Each Handmaid is given three chances at each assignment. Three chances to conceive before they are moved to the next Commander. Three assignments in total before she is sent to the Wastelands.

Lining the walls are portraits of Commanders dressed in black, and their Wives dressed in blue, holding little bundles wrapped in white. The couples are all smiling with joy and pride in their eyes.

The Handmaids are nowhere to be seen in the happy families of three.

You don’t know if you should envy or pity the heavily pregnant Handmaid.

Thankfully, due to Yeri’s- or should you say your Commander’s- high status, you are bumped to the front of the line. The receptionist tells you to enter the doctor’s room, but Yeri waves you on with disinterest.

“I can wait outside here, can’t I? She won’t dare try anything,” she says this last part with cold frown, settling herself down on one of the waiting chairs.

“Of course, Mrs Jeon,” the receptionist says with a pleasant smile, then turns to show you into the doctor’s office.

You read the name on the door before you are shuffled into the white, sterile room.

Dr Kim Taehyung.

Two female assistants help you to take off your red cloak and dress you in the standard white gown. You sit on the chair, legs spread wide into the stirrups. The assistants lower a privacy curtain that conceals your face, leaving your lower half anonymous as you hear the door open, then the doctor’s footsteps.

You don’t even get to see his face before you feel his touch on your knees. Dr Kim Taehyung clears his throat before he moves to the side, dipping his gloved hands into a small dish of what you can only assume to be lubrication. The white privacy curtain is nothing but a thin sheet, so you can still make out his figure as he bustles about. You can even see the slope of his nose as he turns his side profile to you for a second.

It’s not until he speaks that you are jolted out of your thoughts by how deep his voice is. “How are you today?”

“I’m good,” you answer hesitantly, unconsciously crinkling your medical gown in your fist. No one has ever asked how you’re doing.

“That’s great, now let’s have a look, shall we?” You can hear the smile in his voice, and you feel your body relax a little.

He seems to be kind enough, this Dr Kim Taehyung. Much different from the doctor you had on your first visit. Dr Kim Taehyung has his bedside manner down pat, and even though you can’t see his face, he makes you feel a little bit less tense. His voice soothes you as he talks, saying random things about the weather as he spreads your legs.

Dr Kim Taehyung positions himself in between your thighs, and you feel his gloved hands dangerously close to the apex of them. “So, it says here on your chart that tonight is Ceremony night for you.”

“Yes,” you swallow hard at the reminder. “It is.”

“And how are the Jeons treating you? Everything okay at home?” You can feel him spread your lips with his fingers, starting to poke and prod around as you close your eyes.

“Yes. They treat me very well,” you answer.

He must have caught the monotony of your voice, because his fingers pause.

“You know, you can talk to me. If there’s anything you need.” His concerned voice is like a beacon of light, but your eyes dart around the room cautiously.

You think about the millions of things that you could tell him. How unfair it is to be reduced to a walking womb, and yet, how desperate you are, knowing that this is your third month at the Jeon’s household, and if it doesn’t work…

You swallow all of these thoughts with your fists clenched. You can never let your guard down. He might be one of the Eyes, pretending to be kind so that you might let slip a blasphemous comment about your Commander. There’s no way you’ll incriminate yourself like that, so you just keep your mouth shut. After a while, he goes back to examining you.

“… Alright then,” Dr Kim Taehyung says in a resigned tone. “Let me just check you over and make sure everything is good for tonight. This might feel a little uncomfortable, but just relax for me alright?”

You can’t help but tense up, ironically, at his instruction. But then you feel the warmth of one of his ungloved hands on your thigh, and as he bids you to relax again, he slides his fingers into you, and you can feel his fingers, thick and solid. Your thighs twitch, coming into contact with his hips that are in between them, and he lets out a gentle laugh.

“It’s okay… just a little more.”

Then, he withdraws his fingers slowly, and you let out a breath of relief. It didn’t feel bad, definitely not like the first visit where you felt violated. Dr Kim Taehyung’s gentle and respectful manner is… almost pleasant. You’ve long forgotten what it’s like to be treated like a human being, and not just an object.

“Looks like everything’s in shape, you’re due to ovulate these few days,” he declares, taking off his rubber gloves and tossing them in the bin. “Not that it matters, anyway. Jeon’s probably sterile. Hell, all of the Commanders are sterile.”

You freeze at the sound of that blasphemous curse word. But more importantly, you have to make sure you heard correctly.

“Wh-what do you mean?” You watch his shadow behind the sheet as he ticks a few things on your chart.

In this society, ‘sterile’ is a forbidden word. There is no such thing as a sterile man. There are only women who are fruitful, and women who are barren. But you know better than to subscribe to such damning ideology.

“Darling. I’ve seen so many top Commanders’ Handmaids in this room. In and out, month after month they come back and their Wives ask me why they aren’t pregnant yet.” He places a hand on your knee again, and that human contact makes you realise how much you crave the warmth of another person.

At the same time, his words awaken the hollow desperation in your chest. If… if Jeon is really sterile, that means no matter how many times you try, you won’t get pregnant. If all the Commanders are really sterile, then no matter how many assignments you get…

“It’s your third month here, isn’t it?” His kind voice accompanies the gentle stroke of his thumb on your knee.

Before you can answer, he steps away from you, walking to the door and double checking that it’s locked. Then, he’s between your legs again, and this time, his ungloved hands are caressing the top of your thighs. You can feel his hips pressing against you insistently.

“I can help you,” he says in a low whisper. “It’s your last chance.”

Your mind is in a fog. It’s hard to think clearly when you are craving his touch on your body, and the way in which he wraps your legs around his waist so delicately has you wanting to give in. Let this be a form of rebellion. An act of reclaiming your body and your agency, giving it to a man who treats you like a human being, and more importantly, deciding who you give it to. So that when Jeon performs the Ceremony with you tonight, no one but you will have the secret pleasure of knowing that someone else was here before him.

And if you do get pregnant, you will have the last laugh as you watch Jeon raise a baby that isn’t even his to begin with.

How’s that for rebelling? It’s no longer just about getting pregnant.

“I’ve helped many other Handmaids before,” Dr Kim Taehyung continues furtively. “They were all on their third Assignments. I saved them from the Wastelands.”

You don’t need any more convincing. You reach out and pull the thin privacy sheet aside, finally revealing Dr Kim Taehyung’s face. He looks taken aback at your bold actions.

“Do it, Doctor,” you fix your eyes on him with determination. “Get me pregnant.”

Dr Kim Taehyung looks as if he wasn’t expecting you to say yes to him, and delight slowly spreads across his face. But he can’t help himself from bringing one of his hands to your face, brushing your cheek and admiring your silent, resilient beauty.

“U-um, okay. He-here goes,” he fumbles with his dress pants, and the confidence from minutes ago is nowhere to be found. It occurs to you that he might have been fibbing about helping the other Handmaids before you, but it doesn’t matter. It’s no longer just about getting pregnant, anyway.

Thanks to the lubrication, he slides in easily. You catch a glimpse of him before he does, and a second later you feel his girth acutely. During the Ceremony, the lights are always turned off, so you never have a chance to see what Jeon’s dick looks like. If you were to compare, it feels around the same as Dr Kim’s. Except this time, you are doing this of your own accord.

The squeaking of the chair against the floor is deafeningly loud as he begins to thrust earnestly, and the thrill that you could be caught at any moment makes you feel more alive than you’ve ever been since the rise of Gilead. You can feel him at your cervix as he grips your thighs, and you make sure to wrap them around him tightly.

In an unprecedented move, Dr Kim reaches down to brush his thumb against your clit, and your walls clench around him in response. He swears under his breath as he shifts his position to rest his elbows on either side of you so that he can increase the strength behind his thrusts.

“Sh-shit, you feel so good,” he groans as he sneaks his hand in between your bodies once more to pinch your clit. No one has cared about your pleasure like this in a long while, and you feel your body responding to his ministrations, your orgasm rapidly approaching.

“Ha-harder, Doctor,” you feel his cheek press against your breast. “Cum inside me.”

You swear you can feel him twitch inside you, as he bites his lip hard. You have a hard time holding back your derisive laughter as Dr Kim Taehyung gets more turned on than ever. So this is his kink? This is the perfect job for him. Seeing Handmaids who are more often than not desperate to get pregnant, no matter by whom.

You feel a modicum of power back in the palm of your hand, which is more than you’ve felt in ages. The feeling of having power over someone else as you watch the pleasure take over Dr Kim Taehyung’s expression is addictive. The man is losing himself in between your legs, his fingers digging into the flesh of your thigh. Meanwhile you are the one watching him rut pathetically, straining to reach his end.

“Cum inside me, Doctor,” you say again, squeezing your walls around him and relishing his groan. “I’ll make you cum inside me.”

“Pl-please, call me Taehyung,” he pleads, raising himself up on his elbows to beg for a kiss.

You oblige, watching his desperation slowly take over his entire being. His lips are soft as he kisses you like a man starved, and you wonder who was the last person he kissed like this. Does he kiss all of the Handmaids he impregnates?

The next words you say are perfectly calculated. “Taehyung, I want your baby.”

There’s no reaction other than his hands clenching into tight fists, and his breathing getting harsher and harsher as his cock slams deep into you, and you clench around him one more time, only to feel him fill you up with his cum. The seed that you need to get pregnant and save your own life.

He doesn’t stop thrusting. His cock is still twitching inside you, and you can still feel the cum threaten to leak out. Dr Kim Taehyung lets out a long sigh of contentment as he expertly tilts the chair so that your hips are slightly raised.

When he’s satisfied, he slowly pulls out, eyes glued to the mess in between your legs. Only a little bit of cum is dripping out, and he reaches for a tissue to clean it up. The way he’s looking at you, a little bit too fondly, makes you realise that this is getting a bit too personal for your liking.

“Blessed be the fruit,” you remind him, and the phrase is like magic. You are all reminded of your roles in this society, and the forbidden act which you have both committed.

Dr Kim Taehyung seems to sober up when he hears this, as he tucks himself back into his pants and attempts to straighten his doctor’s coat.

“May the Lord open. You should… um. Stay here for the next ten to fifteen minutes. The nurses will be in to help you get dressed shortly,” he clears his throat as he lets the privacy curtain fall back into place. “And um… good luck.”

He leaves the room hurriedly, and you close your eyes, squeezing your thighs together and feeling the warmth that his cum leaves behind, feeling like your body is finally yours again.

You don’t know how much time has passed before the nurses come in and help you get dressed, and when you walk out of the room, Yeri makes a pointed remark about how long she had to wait. You follow her without a word to the car, waiting as Driver Jung opens the door for her, then you.

All the while, a secret smile upon your lips as you feel the cum from earlier drip down your inner thigh.