#like its so hard to forget since its a comic and pacing but they were together like that for weeks!! months!

[martyrbat]

batman: son of the demon

[ID: three panels of Bruce Wayne and Talia al Ghul being in love (and horny) for each other. In the first one, Bruce is in their luxurious bedroom for the first time and is awkwardly standing in his costume as Talia is behind a dressing screen and is changing into a white, satin négligée with lace detailing on it. She reminds him that they technically are married (and that she consented readily to it) but Bruce confesses, “I remember. But it's hard for me to consider that marriage real.” Talia emerges from behind the screen, looking as beautiful as ever as she walks up to him and eases his cowl off. She tells him, “Beloved, you give too much thought to what is ‘real,’ and what is not, to what is ‘true,’ and what is ‘false...’ I realize that is your way, but just this once, accept things as they are...” He strips himself of his clothes as they move to the bed—Talia laying on her back as he's between her legs. She continues to speak, “Forego your control, your discipline... just once, let yourself go... and take me with you.” Her arms slip around his neck as they kiss passionately.

The second panel is lineart of them against a white background. They look at each other lovingly, her hands reaching up to be on his shoulders as he holds her waist. The narration boxes read: ‘While still finding time to be a newlywed, a role in which he is quite unskilled... but—to his delight—quickly learns.’

In the third panel, several weeks have past. Bruce and Ra's al Ghul are walking before Talia interrupts and asks her beloved for a word. Bruce starts to ask if it can wait, due to him and Ra's discussing an important mission but she tells him it cannot. Ra's reassures, “Go, detective, we shall speak of this later.” Bruce and Talia pull away to talk in private, the background a beautiful, bright ombré of red and yellows. She has her arms up on his shoulders as he holds her waist and starts to ask, “Now, Talia, what's so impor—” but she quickly shares, “Beloved, I am with child.” Bruce starts to repeat her but Talia already confirms again, “I am pregnant.” She continues to look up at him, patiently waiting for his response as Bruce stares straight ahead, obviously in shock. He slowly repeats the words back to her in an attempt to register them, “You're... pregnant?” Before he suddenly beams! He pulls her into a tight, close embrace as he excitedly announces, “That's wonderful!” Talia smiles at him and says, “Isn't it?” Before her father can shake Bruce's hand with his own warm smile. Bruce still holds Talia's hand as Ra's tells him, “Detective, Dr. Weltmann could not keep this from me. My congratulations.” END ID]

[lightwing-s]

𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐲| 𝐣. 𝐭.

pairing: arkham knight!jason todd x female!reader warnings: angst, violence, domestic abuse  word count: 2,4k summary: gotham pulls you down, jason pulls you harder. a/n: after reading the arkham knight comic i found myself obsessed and wrote this some time ago while in between finals. there will be a part 2, so wait for it soon ♡ ⌜masterlist⌟ ⌜requests⌟

A long time ago, someone I knew, someone I loved, told me something I would never forget: Gotham has powers over its people. Just like gravity, pulling you down, making it hard for you to leave. 

At that point, I didn't understand. But as time went by, it all became clear.

I wanted to leave. And I tried to. So many damned times, almost on a daily basis. And yet, here I am. Still in this goddamn place.

But he also told me, on that same day, that although the gravity field was heavy, I could be stronger. That I was stronger. I could push it away, get out of here. What doesn’t kill you makes you a hell of a lot stronger, Y/n.

It all started on a Thursday night. I was given the day off on Friday, and like every reckless young adult, I had decided to spend my night getting drunk with my so-called friends at a bar, just around the corner of the street he once owned. Even if it’d been years, I could never not remember him everytime I walked by.

But that time, for the first time in forever, it didn’t cross my mind. I had missed it. I had… forgotten. It would be days later when the guilt started eating me up. How could I’ve forgotten him? How did I suddenly stop caring?

We were having fun, dancing around, chatting, and having drinks. Having many drinks. I must have drunk double my weight in alcohol, yet somehow still managed to stand on my two feet. My boyfriend, almost as drunk as me, hung out with his friends not paying me much attention. I guess he didn’t care that it was my birthday, but I guess even I forgot about that. It had been years since I last cared for it, nothing making much sense celebrating once he was gone.

I was looking for a toilet, stumbling my way around the crowded place while my bladder made it harder to walk around. 

And that’s when I felt it. The eyes on me. Like an eagle’s fixed on its prey. A sniper aiming at it’s target. I never understood when books and movies talked about this feeling until I felt it myself. My hair stood on end, the air suddenly thickening around me, my heart beat gaining pace. 

Something I could never, even in the wildest of my dreams, ever have imagined. I thought, maybe, I was making it all up, like some kind of drunken hallucination. Or that finally the terrors of Gotham had gone so up my head that I started seeing things. Things that weren’t real. Things that, at least, weren’t supposed to be.

Yet, there he was. Like a ghost. Clad in a red hoodie, staring straight at me through the dirty, fogged up glass window. The guy I thought I had seen the last of when I was still a just dumb teenager. 

Even though he stood so far away from me, I could see his gloomy semblance. His tired eyes, still bright blue as I had always remembered. But once our eyes met, all that pain and melancholy went away, as his face softened, and his eyes held the same sparkle in them as years ago. It could never be someone else, I would recognize my Robin whenever and wherever I saw him.

“Jason?” I whispered to myself, or at least I thought I had as I would later be informed I had drawn many eyes to me at that moment. But I didn’t care. He was here. It was all that mattered.

I had forgotten everything. Everyone. I stormed out of that crowded bar and ran into the streets. Into his arms. Arms that embraced me, tightly, like I was the last  good thing on this Earth. Like I was his own life, threatening to slip away at any moment. And for the first time in ages, I felt at home.

My boyfriend didn’t like the way I’d left that night. Well, my ex boyfriend. I couldn’t pull up with his shit anymore. Not with him being back.

After our embrace, Jason didn’t want to stay in the street for too long, at the time I didn’t know why, so I just went away with him. God knew where he was taking me, but I trusted him with my life like I always did. All I remember are the city lights flying past us, as we rushed through the streets hand in hand. His ever so sweet tone as we made our first stop under the lights of Old Wayne Tower. How he treated me, how he paid attention. His tender touch, his breath meeting mine, the scarred skin of his face as I caressed his cheek, and his soft lips against mine.

It was just me and him, the world getting blurry around us, reality and dreams blending together for a moment. And from then on, nothing else mattered. It was us against the world.

He took me home, or where I thought his home was then. He dragged me by the hand, swerving through the crowds, pushing through people, but never loosening his hold.

“I’m not gonna lose you again, Y/n.” he looked back to tell me, a mischievous smile playing on his lips, as I tried to fix his hold. His smile blinded me to everything else but him. He was  all I could see. Nothing else.

He led me through an alley to an abandoned diner, and dragging me inside, he took me to a secret door. I must have been too dumbfounded, mind too foggy, still too drunk, as I don’t remember our way up to his room. I just remember standing there, in the almost emptiness of the dark room, filled only with a bed and a desk, a picture of us as teenagers sitting on top of it. I was feeling uneasy, but yet safe.

“I thought you were dead.” I told him, voice cracking and tears flooding my eyes. “I went to your memorial”

“I know… I know it must all be too confusing to you.” he said, holding my face in his large hands, thumbs wiping the tears that had dared to fall down my cheeks. “You will understand. Soon. I just can’t explain it right now.”

Resting his forehead on mine, he took a moment to breathe. Breathe in my scent, breathe in the quiet. His eyes were closed, but when he opened them they bore deep into mine, not giving me a single chance to look away. Not that I would, no. I was already trapped in his gravity field, pushing me down, trapping me deeper, harder  than I would imagine.

“Do you trust me, Yn?” he asked, voice nothing more than a whisper. I could not reply, I didn’t know why. “Do I scare you? With my scars. With how I returned?”

All I did was shake my head no. I wasn’t scared. I would never be scared of Jason Todd. My Robin, my whole world, my safety net ready to catch me whenever I fall. And how I had fallen, so many times. And I had fallen again.

“Good girl.” he said, leaning down once more to give me a kiss on the nose. “Good, good girl. I knew you would never forget about me, because I never forgot about you.”

I was fifteen when I met Jason. Sad and lonely, walking down the streets of Gotham like there was nothing better in the world for me to do. And at that time, I really didn’t.

It was getting darker, the sun lowering down on the horizon. The loud music blasting in my ears, probably some angst pop punk tunes I was into back then, and still secretly listen to till this day, distracting me from my surroundings, making me feel like the only one in the world, when a loud scream took me off my dreamland.

“Didn’t you hear a thing?” asked this tall and dark haired boy. Removing one of my earplugs, and without any words, my confused eyes asked him 'what'. “That guy over there,” he pointed behind his back to a shadow taking the corner onto the next street. “… he was trying to rob you.”

I remember turning back swiftly, causing a sting of pain on my neck, and finding my backpack slightly open. Checking it out, I found nothing was missing and thanked him for the warning.

“You go down here every day, right? I’ve noticed you walking past here for a while. Always around the same time.”

“I live just a few minutes down.” I told him, not noticing the little hint at an obsession in his tone.

“Can I walk you home?” he offered, cheeks slightly tainted red. “It’s a bit dangerous around here at this time.”

“Won’t it be dangerous for you too?” I questioned innocently. Oh, silly me.

“I can handle myself around here.”

From then on, he walked me home every night. He also walked me to school, and also spent every free time we had walking aimlessly around the neighbourhood, pretending our lives were great for those few couple hours we had together. 

He became my shield from the world. My best friend. My white knight. He took my mind away from my family and how shitty they were. With him I was happy for a few moments, until he dropped me two houses from mine, so no one would see us, so my dad wouldn’t get mad, and I had to return to the rash, sad reality that was my daily life.

One morning, Jason came to pick me up, but instead of finding me at our regular spot, he found me at my door, wearing the same clothes as the day before, laying my head on my backpack, trying to shield the cold away with a single denim jacket and failing miserably as my body shivered intensely. On my lip, a deep cut, and a soft purple mark decorated my left eye.

“Y/n?” He shook my body, waking me up tenderly. “What did he do?”

His voice was the complete opposite of his touch, though,  covered in anger. He knew who had done that, he didn’t know why, but knew it wasn’t enough reason. There was never enough reason. He knew the culprit and he’d make him regret it. As much as I tried to, I couldn’t stop him, a pattern I would later find out would repeat itself countless times. He was too strong for me to push him away.

He aggressively knocked on my door, pushed my mom out of the way once she opened it, and searched the house for my father, the one person I hated the most in my life, and whom he hated just as much. He found him in his office, hitting the door closed behind him. Me and my mother didn’t know what to do. We just stood and waited, as we heard screams and the sound of things breaking inside the room. Her bruised hands holding firmly onto mine.

When the door reopened a few moments later, all I could see was Jason’s sore knuckles as he rushed out the house, pulling me by the wrist with. I didn’t know then, or perhaps I did, but that was the moment I fell in love with Jason Todd.

I wouldn’t see my dad till weeks later, when he returned home from the hospital. And that was also the last time I saw him, as he kicked me out for “hanging around with the wrong people”. My mom was devastated, but I didn't care. I was finally free.

A family friend took me in, and Jason continued to walk me home and everywhere else. He would visit me every night. We would often share my bed, as we quietly and secretly, made our love physical, real. As we made us into our reality. Up until he went away.

The first time Jason was taken from me had me broken into little pieces. I thought it would take long till I saw him again, but soon I received a letter from a police officer. 

In it, he told me he was put into a new school as part of this new troubled kids program.  For several months, I read him raving about his new school, the new opportunities, and how he finally had a chance at a brighter future.

I was happy for him, truly. But I couldn’t help the small knot forming in my throat from both jealousy and from just how much I missed him.

Until one day, he knocked on my door, ready to take me to school as we did before, just this time not on foot.

Getting used to Jason as a multi millionaire’s ward wasn’t easy, and I could sense him drifting away with each passing day. He wasn’t the same Jason I knew, even though he hadn’t changed even a bit with me. He just had a new life. A double one I came to know of one night when he climbed up my window.

His visits became regular, and as much as I felt Jason slipping away, Robin was still mine.

And then he was taken from me again. That time, for good. And I was never the same.

All those years, Gotham’s gravity field kept pulling me further and further down, as much as I tried to escape it. Jason’s words echoed in my head, but I knew I couldn’t be strong enough to break away. So I stayed in this city, working low paying jobs, getting around with the wrong kind of people. Trying to make my way through this tumultuous situation that never seemed to get better.

But now, laying naked in Jason’s room, covered only by the thin cotton sheets of his bed, feeling sore and exhausted, feeling cared for and complete, a whole new sense of belonging, of excitement and hope filled me to the brim. I felt unstoppable beside him, like everything would finally settle into place, allowing me to quit this gravity field for good.

Gotham’s gravity is strong, but Jason’s is a lot stronger. And I would learn it the hard way.

.

taglist: @igotanidea

[fxllingout]

GEAR 5! GEAR 5! GEAR 5!!!!

damn was wano great it definitely lived up to all the hype, it was so well written with so many great characters who had a lot of time to shine, the length of the arc was intimidating at first but i’m glad oda took his time with it, i especially loved tama and yamato and i was so happy seeing more of ace, also we got to see more of zoro and luffy’s dynamic and i always enjoy that, and gear 5 oh i was so excited when it happened i love how ridiculous and comic bookie (is that a word?) it is, its such a fun power up i wanna see it animated that would be really cool!, also jinbe finally joins the crew and he’s such a dad, sanji destroying his raid suit and worrying cause he thought he was becoming like his brothers and asking zoro to kill him if that happens :((( i just wanna give him a hug, sanji is like the one character that continued to grow on me since the time skip (excluding fish man sanji i don’t know her) and is now in my top favorites, wca was what really did it for me and now i just wanna protect him. there was so much lore this arc lots of information that some i couldn’t even pay attention to cause a lot of intense fighting scenes were happening, i have to go back to the wiki or something later to read up on everything, joyboy and the big elephant, the one piece, the world government, the celestial dragons, and the void century, and most importantly what is luffy's dream i wanna know oda you can’t keep cutting off at the most important part!!, also i wish i could read oden's journal i wanna know more about roger, so many exciting things!!!! i loved wano so much.

i also wanna talk about egghead cause even tho we’re only a couple of chapters in there’s already so much happening everyone is getting into fights left and right, i was wondering when we were gonna see more of bonney i’m so excited for her character and story, vegapunk does not look like how i imagined but i’m also not surprised lol, also they’ve just gotten to the island and they’re already fighting with freaking lucci, OH GOD HOW COULD I FORGET SABO he better be alive oda i swear or i’ll cry my eyes out if saul is somehow alive sabo has to be right, okay whatever thought process i was having is now gone lmao

i made it to the latest chapter i can’t believe it, now i have to wait for new chapters like everyone else, what a journey this was thank you for coming along with me cait it was so much fun talking to you about everything!!

GEAR FUCKING 5 BABYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY

literally nothing makes me feel more crazy that gear 5 like before i caught up with the manga i had seen the deign and went woah thats a cool fucking design and then LEARNING WHAT HE COULD DO IN GEAR 5????!??!?!?!??? like especially, im assuming youre fully caught up now with egghead, the new chapters where he just fucking decimates lucci with his cool ass loony tune powers like ive genuinely never loved a power up in any show more than i love this one.

anyways, back to the rest of your ask lol, wano is so fucking good, like im also glad oda took his time with it cause it was 1000% worth it. and so many of the characters kicked absolute ass like, i really did love the sanji fight and the shit with the raid suit as well an demon robin is my fucking queen and the entire fight on the roof with kaido and big mom and just ahhhhhhh i fucking love wano and the build up to onigashima and also, i dont know if you watched any of the episodes for wano (i wouldnt blame you if you didnt, i tried to watch a few and the pacing hurt so much) but the animation style of the arc fucks so hard, especially with the fight sakuga. AND THE LORE the lore i fucking love the lore like i dont know if i will ever find a series that will ever top the way i feel about one piece lore.

on to egghead, im so fucking happy we finally get to meet vegapunk, like i know it was 1000x worse for those following the series for awhile and hearing about him for so long but never seeing him or meeting him but now hes here!!!!!!!! and i agree, i did not think that he would look like that but seeing him now its like yeah no thats definitely vegapunk like what else could he look like but that lol. and fucking real about sabo, if oda gave luffy a brother back only to take him away immediately imma be so pissed, let my boy have his brothers 😭

i cannot tell you how happy your asks have made me, cause like im well aware at how quickly my blog switched to one piece, like i was not expecting to get into the series at all but then all of a sudden it was the thing my brain fixated on and there was no stopping that and i knew that a lot of people would unfollow cause one piece is not what they followed me for at all but then i got you asks about the series and i was just so happy seeing at least there was one person who liked my one piece posting and being able to talk about each arc with you has been so fun so thank you for talking to me about it cause like genuinely every time i saw you sent a new one i would light up

[hydrangeasimagination]

Chocolate Kisses

Homemade chocolates!! They're traditionally used in Japan as a means of confession or conveyance of your feelings.

The recipient then gets the chance to return the favor of the gift on White Day!

Usually, the reader is giving the chocolate but this time around, some characters are more keen on letting their feelings known… These are some unexpected and completely self indulgent pieces.

These are literally just a series of drabbles... Probably a little rushed and varying in length.

Credit to my friend for helping me with the chocolate idea.

=3=

Gender Neutral! Reader

These’ll be under the cut for space.

Happy Belated Valentine’s Day!

~ Dari

Aizawa Shouta / Eraserhead + Younger Nurse Reader

“Aizawa - senpai!”

The man’s heart nearly jumped out of his chest, instead setting at a rapid pace that raced against his ribs. Rattling him in his entirety from the inside.

He really wasn’t good at this.

Seeing you wrapped up in a cozy sweater and white coat isn’t good for his health even if you were there to improve said health. Especially on a day like this, where pink and red hearts decorate it along the lapels and sleeve cuffs. Making you all the more adorable.

Not to mention your call to the honorific that reflected the dynamic between you both.

Shouta nodded at you, gaze impassive, despite the turmoil lying just under the surface. He spoke your surname in a mumble, muffled from hiding behind his capture weapon.

His last line of defense to hide his face, of which he cursed for its sensitivity to blushing.

Your smile is brilliant, blinding as you bounce, “Yamada - senpai told me you had something for me?”

The chocolates he made were burning a hole in his pocket as he then proceeded to promise himself that he’d gut Yamada if it was the last thing he did. He is unable to muster a word for another minute or two, slightly shaking hand holding his creation to you.

Wrapping scattered with clusters of stars, tied messily in gray string.

“I made them for you.” The words are awkward, even he cringed at how they sounded.

But nonetheless, you smile.

You blush.

You’re touching his hand.

... It looked as if gutting Mic could be put on hold... For now.

Bakugo Katsuki + Elder Reader

Lifting your head, yawning softly and peer at the perpetrator interrupting your nap.

"Oh." You blink and give a lax smile, "Hey."

"Don't 'hey' me." Katsuki snipped fiercely though the sight of your lidded gaze caused his cheeks to burn. "Were you just sleeping here? I told you to meet me during break! I had to come looking for you."

"Mmm," The soft grunt was coupled with you rubbing one of your eyes with a fist "you coulda asked Toshi where I was."

"Who?"

You deadpanned.

"Shinsou Hitoshi? My baby brother? C'mon, you're in the same year."

He seemed to huff at that, narrowing rubies upon you to try and hide his embarrassment from forgetting who you were speaking about. "Useless senpai."

You balk before just letting your expression fall back to one of neutrality. It was too much of a hassle to get angry, he was just trying to get you to react.

"Were you ever taught to respect your elders?" The light scolding barely had any heart in it, even as you lift yourself from the warm desk. "... You needed me for something right?"

The sun silhouetted you, tousled appearance just endearing the sleepy expression you don. Peering at him in wait for what he'd come to find you for.

Katsuki twitched, fingers twitching from their place - stuffed deep in his pockets. His chin tilted down, avoiding the curious gaze now pinning his suddenly heavy body in place. The tips of his ears burned under the scrutiny, shoulders tensed while he ripped one of his hands from his pocket.

A silence filled the room.

The boy didn't need to look at your face to find shock in it.

In his sweating palm, was something wrapped in black paper - patterned with comic explosions and tied with a green ribbon.

“Sorry.” Katsuki grit out the apology. 

He meant it though, as painful was it was to bluster the words from his lips. His heart raced, his other hand trembling in anticipation.

The wait was the hardest part.

Shinsou Hitoshi + School Idol Reader

“Shin - kun, help!”

There is a light spike of panic in his gut, having watched a serious spectacle upon his entrance to school. With pretty doe eyes, you stared at him with plea for aid, a collected pile of items nearly trapping you beneath them. Arms gathered with the gifts spilling from the inside of your locker, body pinning them so they didn’t touch the ground.

The adrenaline rush was soothed as he realized there was no danger, instead replaced with a hollow, sinking feeling wavering any confidence he had. 

Now here he stood, outside your classroom with a heaviness in his legs.

Staring at the chocolate he’d slaved over, a little burnt…

But enough to convey the feelings he’d had since the pair of you attended Nabu Middle. As it’d been wrapped in the very handkerchief you gave him, mopping up his bloodied nose and smiling so warm and sweet.

He cleaned it, of course.

It’s color once again a light lavender.

You told him to keep it, that it matched his hair.

Hitoshi sighed and frowned as he thought to himself, “Well, maybe next year.”

“If someone doesn’t beat you to it.”

He flinched at the nasty voice bouncing around in the back of his skull.

But he helped anyway, taking the precariously balanced boxes and letters. Obnoxiously stamped in hearts and buckets of glitter, they speckled your pristine uniform. Even after being tucked away in a bag.

“It gets worse every year.” He heard from within the room, making him lift his head. With cheekiness, the voice of a classmate teased, “You gonna break all their hearts again?”

Shinsou shifted closer to the door, peering between the gap. Watching you to shake the nightmarish arts and crafts medium from your clothes, you only stick your tongue out in response.

Huffing lowly, you turn your head and state, “I’m waiting for Hitoshi to confess, okay?”

His heart skipped.

What?

Takami Keigo / Hawks + Serious Reader

“Are you dumping a fan’s hard work off on me, Hawks?”

The slightly piercing tone of your melodic voice is enough to send a shudder down the length of his spine. A frostiness felt even through the phone - intimidating - but it wasn’t enough to keep him from smiling a little bit.

“Nah, nah,” He hummed, wings flapping in the chilly air “I’m not horrible.”

You grunt, the sound of paper crinkling made the line crackle.

He barely flinched; despite his sensitive ears ringing at the noise.

“These were handmade.”

“Yep.” Keigo agreed

Feathers ruffling, he landed, airing out the large appendages in his back. Perching on the streetlamp as he’d done many times before, staring into the glass window with an easygoing smile.

“Made ‘em myself.” He admitted, feeling the light sting along his knuckle in phantom of the burn he received.

He witnessed you fumble with the chocolate this time, scrambling to make sure it wasn’t wasted by it touching the floor. Pressing his hand to his mouth to hide a laugh, he can only feel his heart strings tangle between his ribs. Wildly spinning and wrapping his insides in an indescribable web of glee.

Your expression was so shy now, handling the wrapping with such care, “This… This was on purpose, right?”

The hero grinned, unable to stop himself.

“Why don’t you look out the window and tell me, pretty puffin.”

Todoroki Enji / Endeavor + Sidekick Reader

“Chocolate roses?”

You stared, incredulous, at the sight of them. Set in a crystal vase, woven together with a big, gold ribbon - the entire ensemble was terribly extravagant. The deliverer only giggled into the back of his hand and pressed them into your’s, leaving you staring down at them.

The scent of cocoa and macha percolating from them was lovely.

“Here’s the card!” He chirped, “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Gingerly setting them on your desk, a fellow sidekick watched in amusement from her cubicle beside you as you hesitate to look at the card.

Who would have sent you these?

They were incredibly expensive, you recognize, from a high-end chocolatier shop near the Endeavor agency - where you worked.

Even the card gives you nary a clue as to who your admirer was.

“Get well soon, stay off your ankle.”

It was signed off with a single drawing of a flame.

Giving your neighbor a look, she just shrugged, signaling that she hadn’t known either. Leaving you to puzzle and puzzle over the possibilities.

Completely unaware as your companion knowingly drifted her eyes over to the lingering presence of your boss. Amused as to see his rather hasty retreat upon being caught.

She shook her head and rolled her eyes as she thought, “Todoroki, you need to learn how to be more subtle.”

[grayfilmsandstuff]

Hey there friendo! Could I get a funky madcom matchup? I'm fine with whoever (๑¯∇¯๑) This is also gonna be hella disjointed, so I apologize in advance (╥w╥)

I'm 4'11 with super dark brown eyes and hair and a baby face; most people always think  I'm much younger than I actually am (I'm 20, but just look like a forever teen I guess) I've got dreadlocks that go a little past mid back, freckles, beauty marks and light patches all over my body (not sure if its vitiligo or not), and I wear prescription sports goggles instead of normal glasses since the straps make me less likely to lose them, and Im accidentally rough on stuff sometimes

Agender, aroace with leaning for gender neutral and neopronouns, but i dont really care much in the end ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

I've got a metric shit-ton of mental illness, so my mental state is Wack™, tho I'll point out my ADHD and Autism since those are my most prominent. Paradoxical is the best word to describe me cuz I can range from feral gremlin memelord to so-quiet-you-forget-Im-there (I accidentally scare people alot cuz of this). Relatively apathetic emotionally, and I can sometimes struggle with social cues, I'm also very childish, hyperactive and immature, and can be blunt and straight forward with my words. I have a trash sense of humor (I'll basically laugh at anything), tho I do enjoy dark, self-deprecating, and/or inappropriate jokes the most. Since most people see me as "ignorant baby", I like fucking with them by just saying the weirdest shit or casually cursing because I can. Honestly, the amount of memes, shitposts, and copypastas that I've memorized just for the sake of a joke, is amazing.

I'm academically smart to a degree, with a leaning towards the sciences, maths, and engineering. Mostly a big psychology and astronomy nerd and really big into art. I've gotta bunch of sketchbooks and folders full of drawings, (mostly character designs), from over the years and too many damn color pencils (that I will continue to add on too, because fuck yeah colors). I'm really into transformers, comics, anime, video games, and true crime. I like to lift weights and have questionable eating habits (forgetting to eat is a problem of mine so I always have snacks on me, and I tend to eat things I really shouldnt; Ex. Chalk) and basically eat like a famine survivor when it comes to food. I practically inhale my food and I tend to get aggressive if someone tries to interact with me while I'm eating or cooking. All and all tho, I'm mostly here to vibe and just live in the moment.

I have a lot of cat-like habits and tend to headbutt, rub up against, and bite and/or lick people who I like; walk on my toes alot; and prefer small spaces over wide open ones. I'm also really flexible, so it's not odd to causally find me weird ass positions. Gets the nyoomies randomly and struggles with volume control (not helped by me being slightly hard at hearing), so I'll usually pace around while talking and making random noises (echolocalia basically, and I'll mostly beep, meow, trill, make Kirby noises "poyo!", etc.,), and also hand flappy! I also like to sing to myself and have a really great range (mostly on the higher end of the spectrum), as well as decent voice acting capabilities! I mirror things alot, so if I interact with someone long enough, I'll subconsciously start mimicking them and their habits (mostly verbal quirks and accents, but physical quirks too sometimes). Very much prefer hot and humid weather and get real tried/hibernate when it gets colder. For that reason, I've got a huge nest of soft blankets, pillows, and stuffed animals.

i.. . .this was so long.. . .. i love you thank you for sending in a request but note for people in the future please don't make your requests this long it makes it rough on me

this is a good example of the longest request i'll take and this is a good example of the shortest use this to your advantage

i match you wiiiiiith...

Hank!

- Hank isn't sure where you came from but he returned to the bunker with you one day and after the shock factor was over, everyone accepted it and welcomed you in

- they really like your goggles, sometimes they'll point to their own and then point to you, saying that you were matching :}

- he's got a wack mental state too, so he understands a lot of what you're going through and helps you with social cues from the other three, and just is there in general to help out

- you also help them if they feel like they need to lean onto you for comfort or help

- he actually thinks your bluntness is helpful because he's the kind of person is mostly oblivious and doesn't understand what you're saying unless you say it directly and say exactly what you mean

- they love making you laugh at the silliest things. if makes them really happy knowing that they can make you smile or laugh no matter what the circumstances are

- a lot of the time when you say a meme or a copypasta in front of him he won't understand and will ask you what it means

- "one bad gloop and she do what i yoinky two big splurgs and a big gloopy three more yoinks, then i buy me a smoothie poured up a gloop, that's a gloop and a splurgy"

- "...i'm sorry what"

- they really look up to how smart you are and it fascinates them when you'll just ramble about a topic because they know that means you're really interested in it

- you love drawing and a lot of the time you give your assorted doodles to Hank. he loves and cherishes them because what the heck how are you so talented??

- they get onto you for eating things you shouldn't. they want you be happy and healthy, not just the former

- he also enjoys watching you cook whenever you do! he tries his best to help but the big guy has no idea how you do it

- they LOVE your cat-like habits. they love cats. period. any time you'll meow or rub up against them they just melt entirely

- the first time you picked up on something he said and started mimicking it, his initial reaction was :O but it grew more into a :D

thanks for the request! i tried to keep it short with all that you provided me, have a good day my friend

[yeojaa]

NOT YOUR FAIRYTALE - ft. myg

What do you do when you've called your wedding off but forgot to cancel your cake tastings?  Why, you ask your brother's grouchy best friend, of course. 

pairing.  min yoongi.  sort of.

genre + rating.  fluff-adjacent.  general.

warning / tags.  mentions of infidelity, cake tasting, cake tasting isn’t a euphemism, fluff and hurt/comfort, alternate universe, alternate universe - modern setting, friendship, friendship/love, childhood friends.

reading.   n/a.  a stand-alone three part one-shot.

word count.  ~1850

chapter iii.

“I didn’t mean it, Yoongi.”

The apology is off your tongue and crashing into his ears before you have a second to consider it, pleading colouring syllables in soft shades of blue.  You hate the way he’s looking at you, like you’ve found the chink in his armour and are on the verge of exploiting it.  

“It’s fine.”  Over a decade of friendship tells you it’s decidedly not fine.  His concession comes far too quickly, meant to placate whatever guilt he’d accidentally kicked up. 

It makes you feel worse, the weight increasing tenfold when he offers you his seldom-seen smile.  Gums flash, corner of his mouth hitching over soft pink tissue.  It doesn’t quite meet his eyes though, falling just short of the endlessly dark depths of his irises. 

“Seriously.  Forget about it.”  You know he’s doing his best to force you onward but you can’t help but dig your figurative heels further into the dirt.  An immovable force.

“I’m really sorry,”  you repeat, voice thick with meaning. 

Yoongi huffs a little, seemingly frustrated.  You shrink a little further in on yourself, shoulders dropping and lips shifting in tandem.  You’re probably pouting.  You feel his stare from your periphery, feline gaze focused wholly on the way your mouth turns and turns around words you’re trying to perfect.

Silence stretches on, longer than you can stand and far more awkward than you’re used to.  You can feel it like a suffocating weight, a goose down comforter in the heat of summer - heavy and unpleasant.

“I’m sorry.”  It squeaks out in the same instant he sighs.  He sounds less irritated, though you can see the tension in his chin, how it jumps the muscle in his jaw. 

“You don’t have to keep saying it.”  

“But I don’t think you’re heartless, Yoongi.  I shouldn’t have said it.”  You say it like it’s crucial - as if you might perish if you don’t get them out.  They sweep into the spaces between you, earnest and full of fear, filling all the cracks left by your own hand.

You layer your reassurances as best you can, tongue tripping over teeth as you ramble about all the different ways you see him.  

In shades of diffused morning light, lined with silver like a physical reminder that there’s always hope.  Through the lens of childhood admiration, sprinkled with childish laughter and doe-eyed awe.  With as much unconditional love as you’ve ever been capable of, wrapped up in furtive glances and curious, miserably nonchalant texts to your brother.

It comes and comes, word vomit that won’t stop until you’re brought back by the expression on his face.  It’s tender, bemused - reminiscent of a parent of an overzealous child.  You’ve seen it a million times before, though the instances were much fewer and far between now that you were older. 

You immediately backtrack.  “I’m sorry.”  This time it’s for wasting his time, for being his best friend’s annoying little sister. 

You’re tumbling over your own two feet again.  You’ve said too much by the time he speaks at all.  

“You’re more than that.”  A statement of fact, seemingly, by how he delivers it with such ease, as if it hasn’t just set your heart off in your chest, the poor thing stuttering to life (or death).  You’re not sure.

Despite your best efforts, the singular word gives you away, coloured canary red with hope.  “What?”

If he’d heard your question at all, he says nothing, footsteps never faltering.  He’s walking ahead like he hasn’t just turned your world on its axis, throwing you completely off-balance.  He doesn’t even offer a glance back, halfway down the block by the time you come to your senses.

You jog to catch up, fingers eager to close the distance you quickly eat up.  You settle into a measured pace behind him, though your mouth moves at a mile a minute.  You can feel the maddening persistence in your bones, hear it as it carves demands into what was once comfortable silence. 

“Why did you say that?”  No response.  “Yoongi!”  He doesn’t even flinch, gaze trained ahead as if he’s never been in Apgujeong before and he’s terribly interested in everything but you. 

The distinct urge to stomp your foot fizzles through your limbs and you almost do.  You’re rooting yourself to the spot, sneaker raised comically, when he rounds on you.  Brows have disappeared into his swath of dark hair and his chin tilts just so, studying you quizzically.  It looks like he’’s having an internal debate as to whether he should rib you further.

He decides against it - returning to the conversation you’re so adamant to have.  “You know, for being a Kim, you’re not that bright.”

“Excuse me?”  Indignation bursts out your mouth.  You’re focusing too hard on the words he’s spoken than the implication behind them.  They sail over your head, lost to the pretty coral that streaks across the sky and eats up the horizon. 

To Yoongi, it’s like watching his literal heart fly out the window.  He’s a little exasperated when he speaks again.  “You’re my best friend’s little sister.  I don’t know what you expect me to say.”  

“What’re you saying?”  Because you’re really confused now.  You think Namjoon would be too. 

Are you even having the same conversation?

“Do I need to spell it out for you?”  The line of his mouth quirks, corner stretching into something that borders on a smirk.  It’s devilish - decidedly not something you’re used to - and you imagine your stomach kickflips before wrecking itself on the pavement.

Your silence seems to be answer enough.  

He heaves a sigh as if he’s been terribly inconvenienced, arms folding over his chest.  The gesture should read as don’t come near me! but you have the very distinct urge to fold yourself under his arms.  You resist it by biting down hard on your bottom lip.  

“I’ve had feelings for you since we were kids.  Specifically since you had your 10th grade ballet recital and you kept the bear I got you.”  

You remember the day like it was yesterday.  You’d been lucky enough to land the coveted spot in the winter showcase and he’d been there, shoulder to shoulder with your brother, when you’d taken your bow.  The bouquet of peonies he’d brought you - in soft shades of blush and violet, your favourite colours - had nearly engulfed your frame and you’d had trouble holding both it and the sweet brown bear that came with it.

The same bear that still sat on your bedside table, propped up beside your charging cable and yearly planner.  The one you’d cried yourself hoarse over after you thought you lost it during your freshman year of college.

“I don’t understand.”  You frown, deeply.  You can feel the little dent between your brows.  It comes out when you’re stressed or confused or, in this instance, both.  

He’s more teasing than unkind:  “Like I said - not that bright.”  

You ignore the dig.  “Why didn’t you tell me?”  

“I couldn’t do that to Joon.  I promised I wouldn’t.”

Somehow, that’s more of a revelation than Yoongi’s confession.  

“He knows?”  You can’t help the gasp that ricochets out of your mouth, belligerent and betrayed.  You’re already running through the 100 different ways you’re going to kill your brother.  Because he’d known!  While you’d pined, Namjoon had known and simply stood by.  “He knows how I feel about you and he didn't say anything?”

You know if you think about it, you can’t blame him.  You’d given him a hard time too when he and Sora seemed to get along a little too well.  Call it a sibling thing.

In the heat of the moment though, you’re livid.  So Yoongi does what he does best and redirects effortlessly.   

“—feel?”  

The prompt reassigns all focus back to him, your anger toward your brother all but forgotten.  You think you could give Pikachu a run for his money by the surprise that works itself into your expression.  Heat licks itself across your cheeks, rolling like a steam engine over the exposed skin of your neck and up past your ears.  Had it suddenly jumped 20 degrees?

“I mean felt.”

When Yoongi steps forward, you’re hyper fixated on the way his mouth bends and bows, gums and neat white enamel revealed by the motion.  You’re rooted to the spot as he’s suddenly all you can see, crown of dark hair blocking the light from behind him, narrow shoulders curling in on you.  He’s near enough you can smell his comforting, woody scent.  

You haven’t been this close in - well, ever, you think.  

Then he kisses you - a chaste thing, right on the cheek - and you forget how to breathe.

“I guess we’ll need to change that.”

SIX MONTHS LATER

“I’m honestly surprised,”  your boyfriend drawls, the picture of disinterest as he leans himself against the packed counter top, elbows propping himself up.  He’s staring out at the sea of people swarming the apartment, a comfortable group of new and old coming together to celebrate something very important.

He watches as your brother narrowly misses knocking over the beer pong table, earning a groan from the participants.  Jungkook yells something about his shot being messed up;  Jimin denies a re-throw.  There’s more incoherent shouting. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”  

You’re at his back, arms twined neatly around his slender waist as you press your face into the warm expanse of his back.  The sweater he wears is overly soft from years of wear and it feels good under your reddened cheek.

You’d had a bit to drink and you were feeling exceptionally affectionate.

“You actually kept it a secret.”  Not that he hadn’t figured it out himself.  It was in your nature to throw surprise parties - you did for Namjoon and Jin and that loud best friend of yours - so he’d only figured he would get one when the time came. 

“We’re very good at keeping secrets in this family, remember?”  Your voice carries past the cotton of his clothes, filtering through laughter to kick his beating heart into overdrive.  

“Oh, how could I forget.”  He snorts quietly, turning in the same instance you unlatch yourself from him.  He has to fight the look of disappointment that threatens to pull his mouth into a pout, brow knitting in disapproval as you round on the refrigerator.

It’s only when you spin back to face him that his expression cracks and re-sets itself with glee.  Now he’s actually surprised.

Because you’ve got a cake box from the same bakeshop you’d gone cake tasting at.  He recognizes the logo on the front and the pretty frosting behind the plastic cover.  It’s shades of cream and citrus and decorated with cherries.  Your - and his - favourite cake from that day.

“You’re not supposed to see the cake ahead of time!”  It’s Namjoon bursting into the kitchen looking alarmed.

You laugh first, bright and sunny.  “It’s a birthday cake, not a wedding dress.”

But as you kiss him, cake cradled gingerly between your bodies, Yoongi thinks he wouldn’t mind seeing you in that, either.

notes.  this final chapter was short and sweet but i hope you enjoyed it.  thank you for reading!  x

tag list.  @hoodmeup​​ @loveyoongles​ @vi-hoshi​ 

[luvteez]

at your service

pairing: san x fem!reader genre + tags: smut | humiliation (in the form of wearing a maid costume bc san is a kinky weeb), begging, master kink, cockwarming, edging, unprotected sex wc: 2.2k

A smirk creeps on San’s lips the moment the door flies open. He’s made himself comfortable on the bed, legs crossed and head resting against the headboard. Before he can let out the comment that’s been lying heavy on the tip of his tongue, you lash out first.

“I fucking hate you for making me wear this.”

“Yes, you told me that around six times already,” he drawls, visibly amused by the situation. “But we had a deal. You lost, so suck it up.”

The neckline plunges too low for your liking, and the skirt — can it even be considered a skirt? — is so short that you’re bound to flash the panties you’re wearing underneath whenever you as much as dare move. Perhaps you’d find the garter belt cute, if only you weren’t wearing it with this skimpy version of a maid uniform. How much did San pay for this? Actually, you don’t want to know.

San gets off the bed, eyes trained on you the entire time. His tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth once his gaze settles on your exposed legs, making you clench your thighs together. The way he blatantly eye-fucks you has you growing wet, and you fucking hate it. It’s one thing to be put through this humiliation, but wearing this maid outfit and being aroused? Your ego can only take so much.

Once he’s standing in front of you, the power imbalance couldn’t get any more obvious. There’s him, wearing a nice dress shirt with the top buttons undone and black jeans, and then there’s you in nothing but a slutty rendition of a servant costume. The look he sends you makes you tear your eyes away from him and heartbeat rise to your ears, and you just hope for the better that he doesn’t point it out.

Luckily, he doesn’t. Instead, he circles around you, giving you a once-over from every possible angle. It’s silent, save for the sound of San’s footsteps bouncing off the walls. You wait for him to say something with bated breath, but that never comes. Eventually, he stops right behind you, and you’re pretty sure he’s fixated on the part of your ass that the skirt doesn’t cover.

The silence is deafening, unbearable even, but you don’t plan on losing this unsaid game. If San already has you dressed as degradingly as it can get, you’re not going to entertain him any further. But then an arm wraps around your waist and pins your back against his chest, while another hand snakes down under your skirt and cups your covered cunt. You manage to bite back a moan at the sudden contact, but your body betrays you with how you jolt.

“Cute,” San snickers, before propping his chin on your shoulder. “Just adorable.” His breath is hot against your neck as he continues to put his fingers to use. He traces your folds over the panties that are slowly turning damper by the second, toys around with your clit, and even dares to shove some of your underwear into your entrance once you’re leaking enough to his liking. You struggle to stand still on both legs as he does how he pleases, deadset on withstanding him, even if this torture is the cost. 

“I hate you,” you say through gritted teeth, but it comes out rather comical when your knees finally give up on you and you lean on him for support. The subtle moan that follows suit doesn’t help either. San only smiles against your skin before he pushes your underwear aside and slides two digits in you. The messy technique is all over the place, but he curls his fingers in all the right angles and hits all of your weak spots precisely, reducing you into a panting wreck. You throw your head back, overwhelmed by everything that’s going on, and when he pays attention to your clit again, you’re on the verge. 

You’re so close that you can taste your sweet release, but then he stops. You’re about to complain because you know full well what he’s done, but he beats you to it first.

“Come again? What did you say? You’re my maid now, so you better act like one. This is part of the deal after all.” Although he’s muttering in your ear, he enunciates every single syllable with clarity that makes your skin crawl. “Apologize.”

You know exactly what he’s after. San wants to break you. wants to crush your pride and make you his little bitch. You’d put up a longer fight, but your mind is just revolving around sansansan and the desperate want to come. 

“Forgive me.” You cringe at how small your voice sounds, defenseless even. 

“Forgive me...?” he echoes as his fingers start to move again, albeit at a much slower pace than before. You’re confused by the implication, and turn all cogs in your brain in hopes of finding the answer. 

Oh.

Oh.

The daunting realization must’ve flashed across your face because San encourages you to speak. If only you could turn your head and face him, you’d give him a piece of your mind. Not that it would’ve been effective anyway, since he has you locked in his hold.

He whispers the first syllable of the word, and you gasp. Your suspicions were right all along, but the confirmation makes you burn up even more in embarrassment. He’s really trying to stoop you down onto the lowest level. 

But you can do it. you tell yourself you can do it. After all, a deal’s a deal.

“M-master. Forgive me, master.”

San wasn’t prepared for the delivery, judging by the way he flinches. To your dismay, he pulls out entirely, leaving you gaping, and the growl that follows is borderline feral. “You’re the maid, not me. You’re the one who should be doing all the work. If you want to cum, then earn it.” With that, he lets go of you before heading back to the bed. 

You’re at a loss of words. All you can do is stare at him as he makes himself comfy on the bed again, but you quickly scramble to him when he motions you towards him with a flick of his hand. 

“What do you want me to do?” San cocks a brow as if to say is this your best? and you quickly rephrase. “Is there anything I can help you with... master?” The word feels so foreign on your tongue, doesn’t slip the right way. You hate how it’s enough of a confirmation that he has the upper hand; a confirmation that you’re nothing but his little servant. 

He smiles lazily. “Sit on my cock.” And that’s all it takes to have you straddling him. You don’t waste any time pulling his pants down along with the black briefs, letting his length spring out. He’s fully hard and flushed red, just looking inviting to suck on, and it has your mouth watering. But then: “Keep the uniform on.”

Of course it was too good to be true. There’s no way San would let you forget who’s in absolute charge here. You can’t complain though, because you’re getting dicked earlier than expected. 

You manage to slide him inside of you without any complications. Breathy moans leave his mouth as you take him in inch by inch, and the way he struggles to lie still is a tiny victory for you. Meanwhile, the way his cock stretches you out has you whining in pleasure, and your head is only spinning around sansansan by the time you’ve taken him up to the hilt.

“Can I— do you want me to move, master?” 

Maybe it was because you got your hopes up to high, but you can’t help how disdain spreads all over you when San reaches for his phone on the nightstand. “No. Sit still.”

And just like that, he dismisses you nonchalantly and starts tapping rapidly on his phone; as if having you sit on his cock while wearing a maid outfit is a daily occurrence. Your jaw nearly drops when you realize he’s fucking texting. You’re about to speak up, but then the thought of him chastising you because you’re supposed to be a maid pops up in your brain. He’d definitely do that, and he’d definitely punish you too. The question is, how far is he willing to go?

You don’t want to find out. 

So you sit still, losing track of time. You don’t know how long you’ve been sitting on his lap, trying your best not to think about his cock pulsing in you, but it must’ve been a fucking while when San suddenly tilts his phone, thumbs no longer moving. That’s when you become acutely aware of the camera facing you, and you can’t help but wonder what on earth he’s watching. 

Or what if he’s filming you—

That thought has you unknowingly clenching your walls, and you inhale sharply as you realize he’s still snug in you. Luckily, San doesn’t stir, and that realization has you going on your rounds. Maybe if you do it one more time and he doesn’t budge, you could get away with it—

“A-are you recording?” The words are spoken out loud before you even realize it.

San looks up at you and tilts his head. “No, I’m not. Why?” His voice is dripping in innocence, but then he lifts a brow and you know you’re doomed. “Do you want me to record you? Does it turn you on? Is that the reason why you keep tightening around me? Why you’re quite literally dripping on my cock?” 

Your heart almost stops dead in its tracks. So he noticed the entire time.

“Please let me move, master. Please,” you blurt out, no longer caring about your fucking dignity. “Please let me come on your cock. W-want master to fuck me dumb and show me my place.” The number of times you said please in the last few seconds is pitiful, but you don’t find it within you to care. 

“That would imply that you were thinking in the first place. If you weren’t stupid, you wouldn’t have insulted me and said you hated me.”

“You’re right, master, I wasn’t thinking earlier. Please,” you beg, vision slowly getting blurry. San truly outdid himself and got what he fucking wanted, reducing you to the point where you’re so desperate you’re about to cry. Of course you’re desperate because there’s a cock filling you up but you’re not being fucked. And as if that wasn’t hell in itself, you’re wearing this godforsaken maid outfit because you lost a bet.

“Ssh, I got you, baby.” San’s eyes instantly soften and there’s fondness lying in them. You know what he’s about to ask, but you quickly give him the green light to continue. He mouths you an ‘okay’ and reassuringly squeezes your hand before settling both of his hands on your hips. 

There’s a playful glimmer in his eyes, and then he sets back into character, smugness written all over his face. “You want me to fuck you dumb? I’m gonna fuck your brains out, alright.”

In a split second, his grip on your hips tighten. the next thing you know, he snaps his hips against you, and you’re sent three dimensions over. 

His cock manages to reach you even deeper if that’s humanly possible, and you sob. Your moans overlap with his grunts as he thrusts in and out of you at a brutal pace. You barely find the energy to keep your body up, and it’s all San’s doing as he slams your hips down on him. Eventually, he manages to flip your positions around so that you’re pliant underneath him. He doesn’t let down with the intensity when he fumbles for your clit, and your eyes roll back as you feel your orgasm approaching. 

And just a few seconds before you unravel, he pulls his cock out entirely. Fighting back the tears welling up in your eyes, you choke when he nudges his head against your clit. Precum dribbles down your slit and mixes with your own slick, reminding you that he’s not letting you come again.

“Why?” you wince. San is unfazed by your desperation.

“You wanted me to show you your place, didn’t you?” He slides his head along your slit for good measure, and raises his voice to add, “I’ll show you your place and give you what you want if you do what master wants.”

Despite the buzz in your head, you get the underlying order. San isn’t fucking around and means business, always has, so you muster up the energy to ask, “What do you want, master?”

The sly grin he flashes is the only thing you see. “I want you to say my name over and over again. And once you’ve said it loud enough, I want you to scream it.” He gently grabs your chin, forcing you to maintain eye contact with him. “I want the whole neighbourhood to know who’s making you feel good.”

[omniswords]

Chronicles of a Parisian Dumbass 16

oh gosh, i'm so sorry for the late update!! i promise i'm still working on this, little by little. i am on vacation next week, so maybe i'll get the chance to really put some work in.

in any case, enjoy today's update c:

okay, so who the hell was gonna tell me that CBG’s designed a whole-ass album cover for my favorite artist of all time?

scratch that. who was gonna tell me she designed my FAVORITE album cover for my FAVORITE artist of all time?

Bubbles, as it turns out, has known Marinette Dupain-Cheng since he was four years old. Went to school with her and everything. So that’s another scoop to the shit Luka’s landed himself in. He still isn’t sure what gave him greater whiplash: finding out about that connection, or finding her name in the fine print of Jagged stone’s album credits. He also isn’t sure whether it’s a good thing that Nino mentions little else, and especially dodges the question of if it’s even cool to actually admit to having a gigantic crush on Marinette Dupain-Cheng, or whether he’s just wasting his time.

Cool.

Cool, cool, cool.

(Luka is most definitely not cool.)

Especially for those freeze-frames of time that he wonders, to his own horror, if Bubbles has been Adrien Agreste all this time.

It takes him the better part of an hour of pacing and fidgeting with his guitar pick to realize that no, he hasn’t been casually messaging a fashion mogul’s son who also just so happened to be Marinette’s own gigantic crush. He doesn’t seem like the type to use “dude” in everyday conversation, and for another thing, it didn't exactly like up with what Marinette had said about them knowing each other in middle school.

One day, Luka swears, he’s going to take this anxiety thing out back and have it meet its maker.

Even if, maybe, he sort of is its maker.

(Okay, maybe he's going to take his brain out back, because he's definitely not responsible for that.)

But he figures, once that initial panic and urge to scream into his pillow wear off, that it might be a cool talking point between him and Marinette. One that, for once, doesn’t have much to do with either of their jobs. Or with how tongue-tied he gets around her because she just won’t stop being so pretty. Not that that’s a problem; both his sister and his mother would have his head for ever thinking that way, and even then, Rose would tell them to get in line. Something about how they didn’t raise him this way, even if two of them didn’t even raise him at all.

Luka waits a couple of days before stopping by the bakery again; it gives them both some breathing room and the time for those postcards to be finished and printed. He thinks about it a lot. The postcards. The effort. Marinette, too, but in his quietly flustered opinion, he thinks that’s a given. He doesn’t get the chance to come until close to closing time again because of his delivery shift; he just hopes they don’t mind too much. He braces himself the whole ride over for whatever may be coming: another friendly crack about napoleons and pear tarts, the beauty of the postcards, maybe even another offer of kindness if Marinette’s pattern is anything to go by.

The one thing Luka doesn’t brace himself for—which, of course, is the one thing that ends up happening—is the door propped open, and the music drifting out through the crack. And he can’t even revel in the fact that it’s one of his favorite songs playing, because…

Because Marinette is dancing. Rag in one hand, spray bottle in the other. No, it’s not like, a flawlessly choreographed routine or anything. It’s more like a mix of what Rose does during their down time when she has too much energy and nowhere to put it, and what Juleka does when she’s trying to find the rhythm of a new song. It’s blissfully unaware, and beautiful, and it feels like home, and Luka can’t stop staring.

He doesn’t mean to. He knows he shouldn’t. It’s just… he can’t remember ever seeing a moment when she was simply “Marinette, “instead of “Marinette Dupain-Cheng, Friend to Practically Everybody.” or “Marinette Dupain-Cheng, Daughter of the Owners of The Best Bakery In Paris.” or even “Marinette, the Girl Behind the Counter with the Sketchbook Full of Secrets and the connections to Jagged Fucking Stone.”

Okay, maybe he’s been watching a couple too many fantasy movies lately.

And he definitely needs to look away, like, right now, because she does this thing with her hips that makes his brain forget how to function for a second, and he needs his brain to function in every sense of the phrase, and God fucking damn it, Marinette Dupain-Cheng is hot and he’s not supposed to think that she’s hot—

And she’s looking at him. Frozen. right as he’s about to get off his bike and knock.

And, like the total idiot he can only manage to be at the worst possible times, he trips. Over his bike. And faceplants, right in front of Marinette Dupain-Cheng.

He’s somewhere between waiting for death to take him, and thanking his Ma for always getting on him about wearing a helmet, and wondering if he really was so stupid that his first instinct was to run, when the bell over the bakery door rings like mad. Someone cries out his name, and the music cuts, and there’s a skitter of footsteps on concrete. When he comes to himself and starts to sit up, he finds himself face-to-face with Marinette, who's kneeling beside him and already scanning him for any injuries.

The first thing she says, with her hand in her hair, is, “Oh, God. She’s gonna kill me.”

The first thing he says, with a wince, is, “Yikes.”

It’s then that the pain sinks in, dull and searing and throbbing all at once, as if punishing him for choosing to say that, of all things. He sits up a bit more, pain chasing up his spine and stinging his palms; his knee is badly scraped and starting to swell, he realizes once he gets a good look at the rest of him. He can’t tell yet, whether Juleka would call this karma or kismet. All he can think is that at least his jeans were already ripped.

“Can…” Marinette swallows hard, but otherwise she’s entirely unfazed. “Can you stand? Put weight on it? Oh God, oh my God, she’s actually gonna kill me.”

“I…” Cautiously, Luka tries to get to his feet, and Marinette makes space for him. All it takes is one step for a jolt of pain to shoot up his leg, and he staggers and clutches the closest streetlamp, nearly tripping over his bike again in the process. “Shit,” is all he can bite out after drawing his breath in through his teeth and holding onto it for too long. He lets it out, little by little, and his grip on the lamppost loosens. “It’s okay, I’m—I can just walk my bike to the metro station, and—”

It’s like she isn’t even listening to him; she’s looking around the bike, evidently searching for something. Finally, she finds it—his bike lock—and after it and the bakery door are secure, she coaxes his arm around her shoulder. It’s almost comical, because he’s got a good thirty centimeters on her, but it hurts too much to laugh. Or, apparently, to stammer in protest when she leads him through the side door and up the stairs to her apartment.

Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no. Seeing her in her pajamas was enough of an invasion of her privacy. But seeing the inside of her literal, actual home? Oh, no. No way.

“You’re hurt,” she says simply, as if she’s read his mind; her voice is trembling, the way voices do when they know they shouldn’t. “It’d be against like, everything I am as a person if I just let you leave.” She only lets go of him to unlock the door, and only then does it occur to him that, for a few moments that should have been blissful, they were side-by-side, and in some places skin-to-skin.

Mr. Dupain gives them a funny, almost unreadable look when Marinette opens the door. One look at Luka’s leg seems to answer any questions he might have had, and effortlessly he helps Luka to the couch while Marinette disappears into the bathroom. “You know,” he jokes under his breath, “When I imagined someone falling for my daughter, I didn’t mean literally.”

Luka’s face goes hot. “I didn’t—I’m not—”

Whatever he wants to say falls on deaf ears, and Mr. Dupain makes himself scarce as soon as Marinette emerges from the bathroom. Even as she lifts his leg onto the coffee table, Luka swears he can feel those kind, quietly insistent eyes burning holes into him all the way from the kitchen. He doesn’t get to think much more about what Mr. Dupain might have meant, or what he would have said to refute it, because Marinette is pressing an alcohol pad to the scrapes, and it stings like a motherfucker—which is probably a good thing for more reasons than one.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says weakly, because somewhere along the way, I don’t deserve it got stuck in his throat and refused to come out.

Marinette gives him a look. He can’t quite figure out what it means. “Yeah. I do.”

“Nah.” He readjusts, braces himself for the second sting of the ointment and the bandages. “I kinda deserved it. Jules would call it karma, I guess.”

There she goes again, wincing at the mere mention of Juleka. Or maybe… maybe it’s something else. Without a word, she gets up and disappears into the kitchen, and he spends her whole absence wondering what he said or did. He’s only relieved when she returns with a bag of frozen corn and a shrug as if to say, It’s all we had. She presses the bag to his knee, breathing deep in time with him, or maybe in hopes that his breathing will start to match hers. Then she speaks, and her voice wavers.

“Why would you ever think,” she murmurs, “that you deserve any pain?”

Luka opens his mouth. Shuts it. Opens and shuts again. This time, at least for a while, the words don’t even make it to his throat. Eventually, all he can spit out is, “I was. Watching. You.”

“I know,” Marinette says, turning as pink as her shorts. “I saw.”

That’s the one thing he can appreciate: she doesn’t try to downplay it or say it was dumb. Even now, she’s unapologetic, and direct, and God, maybe he’s just fallen a little more. “I shouldn’t have,” he says. “I was gonna knock, I was…” He shifts again, his knee still in her gentle grasp, and flinches. “I just… wanted to see your postcards.”

I just wanted to see you.

“Marinette.” His lips tingle just from saying her name, and his stomach is churning. “Who… who’s gonna kill you?”

This time, Marinette goes scarlet; it would look about as pretty as literally every other color and pattern she wears if she didn’t seem so… mortified. “I’ll go get one of—the postcards,” she says—stammers, more like—and as she’s heading upstairs she calls out, “Papa, he can’t walk. Can we drive him home?”

From the kitchen, Mr. Dupain winks.

1 Photo Attached

RIP lol

and no, i’m not talking about my jeans. those were already like that.

but also. 😬 oh boy.

[durmstrange]

Bilingual - Fred Weasley

Welcome to my next Fred blurb!  This one was requested by anon and I’ve never written anything like it so I thought I’d give it a go.

Enjoy!

word count: 2,338

On a particularly sunny day, you sat on the ground with your legs crossed and a book in your lap, reading over your Potions content for the next exam you had coming up in just a few short days.  Silently, as you flipped the pages of you book so slowly, a snake you had come to know well, and would almost consider your pet, slithered up your arm and back down as slow as could be.

You didn’t mind it.  The feeling of the scales on your skin was once intimidating, but it had become like a second nature to you over time.  In fact, you found yourself missing the sensation on occasion when the snake, or any snake, really, was not there.  It was a foreign feeling you were no longer used to.  

As you sat alone, you were fully aware of the looks you were getting from the passing students.  You were beyond used to it by now.  After all, what fifteen-year-old student walked around with dangerous creatures on their arm?  After the fiasco in your fourth year with the Chamber of Secrets, you were used to being alone and you were used to the stares you got from others.

As time passed, you noticed a shadow looming over you as you read, causing a pulse you did not realize you had in your forehead to begin rhythmically thumping, and you looked up, beyond irritated with whoever was blocking the warm sunlight.  

“Aye, you know you have a snake on your arm, right?”  A comically confused voice asked as you squinted up at him, making out the quizzical face of Fred Weasley, a boy who was in your year but in Gryffindor house.  You had very little contact with him, and had even been the victim of one of his pranks, once.  Even through your anger, you found yourself amused with his joke, and had kept tabs on him since.

This question had caught you so off guard that you couldn’t help but to chuckle as you placed your hand on the ground, the snake slithering off quickly to get away from Fred as if he were the plague.   “I do, but thank you for the concern,” you told him airily once the snake scurried off into its hole not far from the tree.  Just as quickly as Fred started the conversation, you ended it as you returned your eyes to the book in your lap.  At least, you had thought.  

Fred remained looming over you, an insanely amused look on his face.  You knew he was not about to give up from the look on his face, and for some reason, you were not too irritated with it.  “Does it not bother you?”  He continued to questions and you sighed lightly, closing you book and squinting up to him once more.  Why was he standing right in the way of the sun? You could hardly see him and in the fall weather, the sunlight provided you with warmth that would otherwise make you wear a jacket.

“No, not at all.  Why would it?”  An ironic smirk began to form on your face as you tilted your hear to the side.  It was moderately surprising that he was one of the few people who did not know who you were.  Doesn’t he and his brother know everyone?

Fred laughed loudly as he reached his hand out to you to help you up.  “Well, for one, people are typically terrified of snakes.  And for seconds, if they aren’t, they surely don’t let the snakes crawl all over them,” he said as you placed your hand in his.  He pulled you up and you straightened your shirt out as you chuckled.  

With a charming smile on your face, you shook your head at his words.  “For one,” you began, imitating him, “snakes do not crawl, they slither.  For seconds, they have the tendency to not hurt you if you are able to speak with them,” you told him with a nervous smile on your face, ready for him to give you hell for your ability.

For a moment, Fred did not seem to understand. He had an odd look on his face as you stepped into the sunlight once more, sighing at the warmth returning.  Then, just seconds after his face was struck with realization, words fell from his mouth that you made you positive that he didn’t think about beforehand.  “No way! Wicked!  Parseltongue?”  He spoke far too excitedly for you to keep the laugh from forming in your throat.  “You have got to help me collect some snake venom!  Do you realize what properties it has?  It can coagulate just about anything and in small, microscopic doses, it is actually really good for you!  Not to mention is can make the consumer dizzy and hallucinate…” He rambled on about snake venom, which was oddly surprising for his character.

You laughed until your stomach hurt and finally put your hand up, stopping his talking as his face turned pink.  “All right.  You need to take a breath or you might pass out from getting too excited.  Besides, you don’t even know my name!”  You hit his arm lightly with your book.  The smile on his face seemed like it was so blissful but so foolish.

With a reddened face, Fred laughed.  “Sorry about that.  I’ve never met a parseltongue other than Harry Potter, but he is known for everything, so it is exciting to meet someone who is, you know, average.” With the smile remaining on your face, you lifted an eyebrow to him.  His face reddened even further as he laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck.  “I mean—not that you aren’t special, or anything, but you really, surely are, but I mean average as in...” He paused and stopped in the middle of his sentence, signing. “I’m sorry,” he said sheepishly and gave you a slight frown.  

“It’s fine.  I am actually used to people subtly insulting me,” you replied back with a crooked smile on your lips.

Fred’s eyes widened.  “No, I wasn’t meaning to insult you,” he explained hurriedly with a panicked look on his face.  With your smile only growing further, you nodded.  “Let’s start over, yeah?”  he offered you with an embarrassed look on his face.  

You held your hand out to him.  “I’m (Y/N),”   You introduced yourself as he took your hand.

Again, Fred looked surprised.  “You’re (Y/N)?  The one who everyone thought was the Heir of Slytherin in fourth year?”  He questioned, drawing connections all together.  You felt his tone change, something you did not care much for.

With a roll of your eyes, you nodded.  “The very same.  Foolish, actually.  I am half-blood anyways and my magical father is the least intimidating or menacing man in the world,” you explained as you checked the old watch on your wrist.  It was getting close to dinner.  The slight pang in your stomach at the thought told you that you were hungry.

Fred hummed and nodded, but the look on his face told you that he was still so fascinated.  “So, were people mean to you, like they were to Harry?”  Fred continued to question without skipping a beat as you began walking slowly, him following your pace, and his eyes holding so many questions he wanted answered.  

You huffed, an angry, unforgiving noise, and looked away from Fred.  “Like you wouldn’t believe.  Bunch of fools, if you ask me.  Why is it that I am prejudiced for being bilingual when someone who speaks French and English is not?”  You asked Fred with an irritable tone in your voice.

He smiled a foreign smile to you and chuckled lightly. “When you put it that way, it does sound rather foolish,” Fred agreed and put his hands into the pockets of his pants.  “I suppose I own you an apology, then.  I told Harry on multiple occasions that it had to be you and not him being the Heir of Slytherin, given you were in Slytherin and all,” Fred explained to you and his eyes ducked to the ground.  With him trying to look away from you, you noticed how pretty his eyes were for the first time in this conversation.  

With a laugh, you shook your head.  “No need to apologize.  I’ve gotten it enough that I almost believed it at one point.  Fortunately, that is all behind us now.  Given that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is back and all, as the true Heir of Slytherin,” you spoke so casually that it almost made Fred hesitant to be around you much more. Could this all be a sham and you were evil, truly?  He pressed his lips together and stared hard at you.  

“You believe Harry, then?”

Again, you chuckled, and leaned closer to Fred.  “Of course!”  You whispered to him.  “Between you and I, my father works with the Quibbler and a lot of the supportive opinions published come directly from him,” you murmured, trying to keep your voice down for anyone who could possibly be listening.  Fred hummed in reply, something that made you frown.  He didn’t believe you.  “You are being hesitant because I am in Slytherin, aren’t you?”  You asked him.  He did not respond.  “Well, if you doubt my character, you can ask Luna Lovegood, who has become close with Harry, about myself and my family, given that I have grown up with her,” you snapped, suddenly angry.  You were ill with the fact that he could be so thick.  You were a person after all, and the Slytherin crest was just something you were forced to wear.  “It is a shame.  I had really actually enjoyed speaking with you.”  You finished with one last biting sentence and stormed off, not even hungry for dinner anymore.

~.~

A couple days after your run-in with Fred Weasley, you found yourself to still be cross with him and his attitude.  What right does he have to judge you solely on what house you were in?  Or, was that it at all?  Did he judge you on everything, from being a parseltongue to your house, down to the clothes you wore and the way you spoke?  All of it made you feel sick and your stomach felt constantly unsettled as you went on with your life the same.

At times you were in the Great Hall, you sat as far away from Fred as you possibly could, typically alone and hidden in the crowd, with the idea that if he saw you less, the more he would forget about you.  You secretly had wished that you had never met him at all, but you were unable to turn back time and you had to deal with it regardless.

During dinner on a Friday night, you sat with a book in one hand and a fork with green beans on it in the other.  You were consumed in your book, like usual, and you were trying hard to ignore the world around you while you read.  This had become normal for you for dinners.  On occasion, you would sit with Luna or another fellow Slytherin who was a reject like you, but mostly, you filled the social aspect of your day with books.

As you ate slowly, a voice tore your attention from the words of the library book.  “Do you ever stop reading?”  Fred’s voice asked, causing you to look up with wide eyes as you swallowed the partially chewed food in your mouth, nearly choking on it.  You stared at him with a slightly irritated but mostly alarmed look on your face.  “Can I have a word?”  He asked you as he nodded towards the doorway of the Great Hall.  

With a sigh, you set your fork down and pushed your plate away from you.  You strangely knew you would not be coming back to your food.  You marked your page with a strip of parchment and stood, following Fred out of the Great Hall and into the Entrance Hall.  He came to a stop and you about bumped into him, but took a few steps back away from him.  

“I was rather rude, wasn’t I?”  Fred asked with a small, sheepish smile on his lips and you stood, clutching your book to your chest, and simply nodded.  “I would like to apologize for that.  I did some thinking, and talked to Loony Lovegood like you suggested, and I came to the realization that I had branded you with a dark image without even knowing you and I hate myself for that.  It drives me bonkers when people put assumptions to my person given my last name, and I should not go the same to you for who you are.” Fred explained with a frown growing on his lips.  His shoulders hunched forward and there was a look on his face you had not seen before. You knew too well that he regretted the way he acted and because of this, you gave a small nod.  Fred raised an eyebrow, and the small smile formed on his lips once more.  “So, can we start over?”  He asked hopefully and gave you the biggest, sweetest puppy eyes you had ever seen. You loved his eyes.

With a small chuckle, you nodded.  “Yes, we can, but keep in mind that this is the second time we are starting over.  Next time, I won’t be so forgiving,” you teased with a wide smile on your face as you looked away, trying to hide from his stare.

Fred smile, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and drawing you close to him. “Luckily, there won’t be a next time.  I think this is the second start to a wonderful friendship,” he promised you as you rolled your eyes at him.

“Technically third.”

[ayuuria]

Yashahime Translation: Animage April 2021 Issue (Part 1)

Please do not repost this translation without my consent! This includes screenshots of any type and amount. If you wish to share this translation, simply link to this post.

For more information regarding the use of my translations, click here.

This month’s Animage article has more content than usual and mainly covers the music of Hanyō no Yashahime. That being said, I have decided to split the translation into three parts

Part 1: Interview with Kaoru Wada, Satō Teruo, and Nagura Yasushi

Part 2: Interview with NEWS

Part 3: Interview with Ryokuoushoku Shakai

Wrapped in the Warm Demonic Air of Spring!?

The Yashahimes, who reside in the feudal era, are in the midst of fully enjoying the spring event that is so familiar in the modern era. Surrounding those girls isn’t the nice warm air but rather the presence of a dangerous demon… …?

Spring is here! Towa, Setsuna, Moroha, and Takechiyo are blessing Easter under the bright warm weather. On this day, the three girls who carry the blood of the Dog General have turned into easter bunnies Y Setsuna, Moroha, and Takechiyo who grew up in the feudal era are overflowing with curiosity at the vibrant easter eggs Towa paints.

Well, in the illustration the Yashahimes have a warm air about them but in the main story, the girls are truly in the middle of an upheaval. In episode 21, the relationship between Riku and Kirinmaru which was wrapped in mystery up until now has been revealed. Riku himself states that he was abandoned by Kirinmaru.

In addition, in episode 22, Kirinmaru’s older sister, Zero, appears before the three of them, controls Towa’s body, forcefully breaks the seal placed upon Setsuna, and disappears after doing whatever she pleases. Zero is the creator of the cause that separated child Towa and Setsuna. Also, it seems she has a connection to Rin’s slumber. It appears Riku fondly calls Zero “Elder sister” but to Towa and the others, she is a person they need to keep an eye on.

The three girls continue to be exposed to a harsh fate. When will the girls be able to reunite with their families and live out a peaceful life known as “the flower (prime) of youth”?

Character Bios

Takechiyo A cheeky tanuki (racoon dog) demon child who works at the corpse shop. He gets snacks from the modern era when he cooperates with Towa, which pleases him. He is also aiming for the easter eggs!?

Higurashi Towa In order to save Setsuna who had her dreams and sleep stolen, she searches for the Dream Butterfly. Her explosive power when Setsuna is in a crisis is enough to leave a scar on Kirinmaru.

Setsuna She is always cool and calm but in episode 22, Zero released the seal placed on her demonic blood and Setsuna went out of control. It was resealed by Hisui’s older sister, Kin’u.

Moroha She works hard as a bounty hunter to repay her debt to Shikabaneya Jyuubee. In episode 21, she obtained the head of Tōtetsu of the Four Perils and received her first monetary reward in a while.

Spring Has Arrived in Towa’s Heart!?

In episode 21, Towa an Riku approach each other for the first time in a while. While saying there is no meaning in protecting her, Riku defended Towa from Tōtetsu’s attack and Towa told him “I like you!!” and gave him the silver rainbow pearl. Although it is not to the point of love, there certainly seems to be a special feeling budding between the two.

The Rainbow Pearls Are Zero’s Tears

The true nature of the rainbow pearls that Riku and many other demons seek out: they are the transformed tears Zero spilled onto the Shikon Jewel when she grieved the Dog General’s death. Currently, Riku possesses five of the rainbow pearls: green, purple, blue, orange, and silver. Setsuna and Moroha have the other two remaining pearls. When all seven are gathered, what exactly will happen?

The Grim Comet and Kirin-Sensei

The Grim Comet is a comet that nears the earth once every 500 years, bringing calamity with it. Working together to get rid of the comet were the Dog General and Kirinmaru during the Heian era and Sesshōmaru and Inuyasha during the feudal era. And now the modern era. Watching the Grim Comet approach once again was Towa’s middle school English teacher, Kirin Osamu-sensei. What exactly is his true identity?

Coloring the World with Sound

Director: Satō Teruo Music: Wada Kaoru Sound Director: Nagura Yasushi

To commemorate the release of the soundtrack CD, we circled around composer Wada Kaoru for a round-table discussion. We had him talk about the charm of the background music for “Hanyō no Yashahime”.

The Main Theme is the Yashahime’s “Hereafter”

— How did you create the musical composition for “Hanyō no Yashahime”?

Nagura: First, we gathered information from the finished scenarios and I created an at-a-glance music menu. After having director Satō review it, I handed it to Wada-sensei and we got together for meetings. We had Wada-sensei compose in accordance with that music menu but…

Wada: At that stage, we only had a rough direction of the story and the only finished scenarios that had final manuscripts were episodes 7 and 8. Not only did a lot of characters appear but just from reading the script, it was a constant state of “???” from the beginning like “Why are they separated even though they’re twin sisters?” “Where are the parents?” “Why is Moroha alone?”. It was then that (series composition) Sumisawa (Katsuyuki)-san and I had quite a few secret meetings where we cross-examined the information regarding the characters and story. I used that as a base for composing. While talking with Sumisawa-san, we had thoughts like “Even though it isn’t in the music menu, we probably need a song for this character” and as a result, the number songs increased unintentionally (laughs).

Satō: At first, we placed an order for 45 songs which I think is a lot for a 2 cour work. However, from there you created 1 to 5 times as many songs which I truly thank you for. I’d like to use all of them within the story.

— Wada-san, how do you normally go about composing music?

Wada: I don’t really use a piano and I just worry endlessly and have wild ideas. There are times when I think of ideas while walking. I’ve also come up with many ideas during my daily life like sitting at my desk in the office, taking a bath, or going shopping. If there are times where I can only come up with the motif, then there are also times where I can come up with an entire song in an instant. There are a variety of cases. Fundamentally, the melody I think of doesn’t get left in that spot. I consider anything I forget as something not good.

First, I need a starting point like “Let’s make something in this direction” so until I reach that point, I will rethink things over repeatedly. This time too, I had a hard time settling on the main theme that is “Hanyō no Yashahime”. The main theme expresses the world setting of a work, so I wonder how much to depict. This is why my meeting with Sumisawa-san regarding “Where exactly is this story going?” was necessary (laughs). It’s not like the music is the story’s answer checker but the main theme for “Inuyasha”, “Half-Demon Inuyasha”, is an action-adventure kind of music so to speak. Compared to that, it was a little different this time. What will happen to the three Yashahimes from here on was a major key to the motif, so in that sense, without knowing the story, I couldn’t write anything.

By the way, back then I rewrote “Half-Demon Inuyasha” three times before completing it. It was a completely different song at first and after writing and performing the piece as well as rereading the original comic again, I thought "This doesn’t fit”. Every time I’m creating a song, it’s a repetition of going in one direction or another.

Songs From the “Inuyasha” Era Have Been Reborn as A Next Generation Version

— Please tells us the characteristics of the music for “Hanyō no Yashahime”

Wada: For “Inuyasha”, it was work where the feudal era was the setting so the objective at the beginning was to heavily use traditional Japanese instruments like the biwa, shakuhachi, and flute. Rather than making traditional music like in Noh (play) or kabuki, my aim was to add the traditional Japanese instruments into the orchestra without feeling out of place. It went well in “Inuyasha”, so I continued that with “Hanyō no Yashahime”. As a work, “Hanyō no Yashahime” isn’t necessarily a “sequel to “Inuyasha”” but the music is.

Satō: This is something I also ordered. Afterall, I absolutely wanted the “Inuyasha” atmosphere. Nevertheless, this is a new story, so I wanted it to evolve as well.

Nagura: This time, we are using several musical compositions from the time of “Inuyasha”, but we’ve done new recordings of them. This is because roughly 20 years have passed since the songs for “Inuyasha” were first created. We worried that the “Inuyasha” music as it was back then and the newly recorded music for “Hanyō no Yashahime” wouldn’t take on the same color when mixed together. Thus, we had them newly recorded as a “Hanyō no Yashahime” version.

— In terms of “Hanyō no Yashahime” for example, how is the “Inuyasha” version from back then different from the “Hanyō no Yashahime” version?

Wada: The biggest difference is the tempo. I have recorded “Half-demon Inuyasha” several times after its completion but the slowest one was the first version. The tempo then was a quarter note = 120 (beats per minute) (annotation: roughly fast paced (allegro). The second hand of the clock is a quarter note = 60 bpm). At first, I looked at the comics and thought “Is this how it should go?” but when watching the anime, I began wanting to match the tempo of the animation and steadily (the music) changed into something action like. At the end, we had risen the bpm to nearly 140. This time, we can’t really use (the music) if it’s too fast so I generally keep it around 130 bpm.

— Director Satō, Sound Director Nagura, please tell us a scene within the main story where you especially felt the charm of Wada-san’s music.

Nagura: In episode 1 and 7, there’s a scene where Setsuna and Moroha rush to Towa who’s being held captive within Ougigayatsu-Hiiragi mansion, but you see, in episode 1, we didn’t use the main theme, “Hanyō no Yashahime”. This is because episode 1 was imaged as building the bridge between "Inuyasha and Kagome’s era” and “the Yashahime’s era”. During that time, based on the circumstances, we had battle type music set in but with the story having progressed in episode 7, we put in “Hanyō no Yashahime” as “Towa and the others’ music”. We were able to set it in a good way where it truly felt “Yashahimes Gather!”

Satō: We would love for people to pay close attention to that scene. “Hanyō no Yashahime” is my absolute favorite song. When I heard this song, I felt “With this, the world setting of “Hanyō no Yashahime” has been expressed” and I once again realized how amazing Wada-sensei was. For the scene in episode 7 where Towa, Setsuna, and Moroha gather, we not only redid the music but also the acting and recording for the three princesses. At a glance, it’s the same scene as episode 1 but I think it would be fun to view and compare them.

The Cheering Party During Composing

“When I was composing these (songs), there was the broadcasting of ““Inuyasha” Best Episode” on Youtube and events like “Inuyasha Café” and the “Inuyasha Anime Tracing Exhibition” were topics of discussion. That kind of hype up for Inuyasha was a like cheering party that encouraged me. I was truly grateful for it.” (Wada)

The Main Instruments of the Three Princesses

“With the various character themes, I employed an instrument that imaged each character. Towa is the flute type instruments (Japanese woodwinds), Setsuna is a koto, and Moroha is the percussion and flute. Also, Moroha’s theme has the inheritance of her mother’s blood in mind, so it’s a transformed version of the song “Overcoming Time Kagome” back from “Inuyasha””. (Wada)

[maatryoshkaa]

young god | chapter 11

chapters: | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11| 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | epilogue |

word count: 5.3k

warnings: ryu says: be extremely careful with this one. extremely triggering; extreme descriptions of violence, domestic abuse, sexual abuse of a minor, child abuse, foul language, traumatic/suggestive descriptions

description: Han Jisung finally recounts the dark events of his past, revealing just what made him into the monster he is today. the world as you knew it has flipped on its head in the span of one night, and time is running out for you to decide who you’ll stand by.

watch the trailer here!

11| young god.

“Rock-a-bye baby, on the treetop,

And when the wind blows, the cradle will rock.”

Mama’s singing voice was soft in Jisung’s ears, her gentle fingers smoothing out the locks of his hair. He was curled up into her side, his tiny fists, which had been clutching stubbornly at her nightgown, finally loosening as his heavy eyelids drooped. Jisung couldn’t even remember what nightmare he had been having before he had cried out involuntarily and woken his mother, the warm embrace that followed immediately soothing the tightness in his chest and drying the tears on his cheeks.

Mama was always so warm. Mama was home, and Mama was safe.

This was the earliest memory Jisung could remember — every time something triggered all the flashbacks, the nightmares, he would always find himself back here — in this memory, in Mama’s arms, everything growing less and less clear every time. It was like wading through muddy waters, a thickening shroud of fog, as if his memories had become a frayed photograph — blurred at the corners and fading out of focus. 

Eventually, he had stopped trying to remember altogether, and the lullaby became nothing more than white noise ringing in the back of his mind.

━━━━━━━━

“Well, aren’t you going to open it?”

The box was wrapped in gold paper, complete with a red bow and ribbon. Covered in little Santa Clauses and Christmas tree patterns, it was small, but weighted enough to make Jisung’s arms slightly sore from holding it. Father would have called him weak had he said anything, so Jisung bit his lip and sucked it up.

“Man up, boy,” he would bark, delivering a slap to the side of Jisung’s head that was hard enough to make his eyes water. “Don’t tell me I raised a little girl?”

Mama would tell him not to mind his words.

Father was watching him now, leaned back on the couch. Maybe there was a glint of impatience in his eyes, but Jisung didn’t notice it as he slowly undid the bow, fingers barely touching the paper for fear of ripping it as he unwrapped it. He never got gifts on his birthday — in fact, Father didn’t even seem to remember the date at all, and Mama never had the money to buy him anything. Christmas, though, was easier to remember.

The fluttering paper fell away to reveal a black box, and when Jisung lifted the lid it something shiny — metal? — caught his eye. 

“Cost me a damn fortune. Old geezer down at Young Wings gave me a load o’ shit...”

Mama glanced over at his father, a hand hovering above his arm before withdrawing it timidly. Jisung’s attention was still fixed on the present — it was a camcorder, and brand new; the polished silver metal winked at him, and Jisung pulled it out with wide eyes. He flipped open the screen, fingers fumbling with the power button. The red recording light blinked at him like a rabbit’s eye. Grinning, Jisung held it up to his parents, smile not faltering despite Father’s disinterested eyes and Mama’s tense features.

Mama smiled into the lens. “Merry Christmas, ‘sungie.” Jisung turned away, too fascinated with the present to notice how the smile never quite reached her eyes. 

They didn’t celebrate any more Christmases after that.

━━━━━━━━

“February 22nd, 2005.” Jisung cocked his head, squinting at the viewfinder as it came into focus. “Yes! That’s what I’m talkin’ about.” His tongue ran over the gap where one front tooth used to be — he’d lost his first tooth a couple days ago, but he could swear the strange, metallic taste of blood was still in his mouth. He scrunched up his face. Blood didn’t taste good; he decided he wanted as little to do with it as possible.

Jisung was sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor, the dying rays of the sun filtering through the window and spilling onto his hair. He had been filming video logs since Christmas — dramatically narrating battles between his old teddy bear and action figurines, or pretending he was a celebrity showing guests around the house. On some days, he would prop up the camcorder and hum a radio tune stuck in his head until he fell asleep. After all, Mama said he was too little to play outside with the other kids, and Father certainly didn’t play with him.

“Darn,” Jisung mumbled as the camcorder screen went blurry again. “Why do you keep doin’ this?” He got to his feet, pacing around his room while pointing the camcorder at random items. When it still didn’t focus, he opened his bedroom door and wandered into the hallway. His father was home — Jisung hadn’t seen him all day, but he had heard sounds coming from his parents’ bedroom — and surely, Father would know what to do, right?

“Father?” Jisung called, his voice coming out more timid than he’d intended. “Um, I—I know you don’t like to be bothered, but my camcorder isn’t--isn’t working. U-um...could you, m-maybe—”

Jisung’s stutters were cut off by a loud, strange gasp that made him freeze at the door. It sounded as though someone was in pain, but not quite. The door was shut, but when he listened closely he could hear...heavy breathing...heavy breathing, and a woman’s voice. 

“Mama?” His voice was barely above a whisper as one hand scrabbled for the doorknob, twisting it open. Inside, it was dark — but his camcorder was zoomed in, and Jisung watched as it finally focused on two figures on the bed. One, his father.

And two, a woman who was definitely not his mother.

Jisung’s gaze darted wildly. Clothes were strewn all over the floor — a red cashmere coat, his father’s dress shirt. His wide, confused eyes flickered up again, adjusting to the darkness. Father wasn’t hurting the woman — no, he was kissing her; she was on top of him, touching him, and he was letting her, and Mama was nowhere to be seen, and — and — 

His camcorder clattered to the floor and Jisung felt his heart stop, both heads on the bed snapping in his direction.

“Baby, we have a little visitor.” The woman spoke first, the cool calmness in her voice turning Jisung’s skin to ice.

“Get out.” His father had locked eyes with him, and when Jisung’s feet stayed frozen in place, his father pushed the woman off and strode towards him. “GET OUT!”

Something in Jisung clicked and he unfroze, fingers slippery with cold sweat as they grabbed at the fallen camcorder and he dropped to his knees. His father was standing in the doorway now, Jisung scrambling to push himself away — back into the hallway, back into the light.

“If you ever speak a word of this to your mother, boy,” his father’s voice was a low rumble above his head, like thunder before a tempest. “I’ll ram that camera right into your skull.” His finger came to rest on Jisung’s forehead before pushing, hard, and Jisung fell backwards, watching his father’s dark face disappear behind the closed door. His head hit the floorboards, hard, but he crawled to his feet, breaking into a run back into his bedroom and slamming the door shut.

Jisung glanced down at the camcorder, a pounding headache beginning to ebb and flow between his ears. The red recording light was still blinking with the comical innocence of a child’s eye — as if forever oblivious to the things it had seen. He slid to the floor, feeling like he was about to throw up, and punched the button to stop the recording.

━━━━━━━━

“June 3rd, 2006.” The ice cream truck rushed past him, and Jisung lightly whistled its tune as it disappeared around the corner. “This is my neighbourhood! Here’s the basketball court—” He pointed the camcorder through a chain-link fence, where a couple of older boys were in the middle of a game. “There’s Levanter Park—” — a children’s playground surrounded by tall lavender flowers — “And in the distance, that’s Miroh Heights.” He shifted the camcorder upwards to film the tall buildings looming in the distance, behind the suburbs. “And we’re back to my house!”

Ever since Mama had started working more shifts, Jisung had been able to sneak out more without anyone noticing. When Father got home, Mama would have to leave, and vice versa. 

Jisung had tried his best to forget the woman in Father’s bed — after all, he hadn’t seen her since, having begun avoiding his parents’ bedroom altogether. Sometimes, he wondered if it had happened at all. It was all so strange. It must have been a nightmare.

He swung open the front door, reaching down to unlace his sneakers — and froze. On the doormat sat a pair of red heels.

Did...Mama own red heels? 

He ran into the kitchen, a familiar nauseous feeling settling in his gut. There, sitting on top of the kitchen counter, was the woman from months before. She was wearing the same cashmere coat despite the summer weather, loosely draped over her frame so her bare shoulders were exposed. 

Jisung’s breath caught in his throat. Somehow, he willed his feet to move, every fibre of his being screaming for him to run, to run into his room, to run out the door, to run anywhere that wasn’t here. But instead, he lifted his camcorder, shaking as he tried to focus on her face. This was real. He needed something to show someone that this was real. Sensing the movement, the woman turned, eyes widening in surprise before a dark smirk curled across her blood red lips.

“Well, well. Look who we have here, hm? Filming something?”

“I-I won’t tell Mama,” Jisung blurted, and the woman’s face darkened. “P-please don’t tell F-Father—”

“Oh, he’s not home, pet,” she chuckled, and stood up. Jisung felt as if his feet had rooted in place, throat painfully dry as she slowly walked up to him. “It’s just you and me.” 

There was a red Zippo lighter in one hand, and the other fished in her pockets as if looking for cigarettes. She lit it with a crackle that made him jump, and ran a long finger down the side of his cheek before glancing down at the camcorder in disdain. “Naughty, naughty. You look just like your daddy, though. Same pretty-boy eyes.”

She held his chin between two of her long, red nails and Jisung shrank away from the touch, the sound of his ragged breathing filling the air as his eyes brimmed with tears. “Not quite a man yet, though, are we?” The woman chuckled, her breath reeking of cigarette smoke and liquor. With a smirk that made Jisung’s gut flip, she shrugged the red coat off her shoulders, the heavy fabric hitting the kitchen floor. 

She was wearing nothing but lace lingerie underneath, her catlike gaze flickering back to Jisung. “Say, mama’s boy, want me to teach you how to be like daddy?” Jisung was frozen, pupils quivering as his eyes darted back and forth. “Just give me your little camera, hm? You can touch me, too. I’ll make you feel real good.” Her hands were touching him, they were grazing his shoulders and chest and roaming lower, and lower, and — 

Jisung shook his head frantically, hands shooting out to push her away — but a red-taloned hand caught his arm and halted his feeble attempts. The woman scowled, and before Jisung knew it his arm was burning  — she was pressing the lit cigarette into his forearm to snuff the flame. With a choked gasp he squirmed in pain but she wouldn’t let go, red nails digging into his forearm like a snake’s fangs as his nostrils filled with the smell of her perfume and his own burning flesh. His fingers were trembling violently around the camcorder, clutching it close to his chest for dear life.

She pressed harder, and a scream of agony ripped through his throat before he could stop it, making the woman loosen her grip in surprise. Seizing his chance, Jisung yanked his arm away before a voice thundering through the house made him halt in his tracks.

“What the fuck is that?”

So his father was home. 

The moment Jisung’s eyes shot up to meet the woman’s, it all made sense. She was leaning back on the kitchen table, red lips spread wide in a Cheshire Cat’s taunting smile. She was toying with him — she knew that the moment his father came down, wrenching the camcorder from Jisung’s hands would be child’s play.

Snapping out of his horrified state, Jisung finally willed his legs to move and he sprinted out of the front door. The woman’s high-pitched laughter was ringing in his ears even as he made it to the sidewalk and ran out of his neighbourhood, as far away as his legs could possibly carry him. The sky had darkened, the red hues of the sunset making him shiver involuntarily. When Jisung finally collapsed, it was in a field of lavender flowers on the outskirts of town.

He threw his head back towards the sky, and let the sobs rack his body until he lost consciousness.

━━━━━━━━

“December 31st, 2009.”

His own voice sounded foreign to his ears, barely above a hoarse whisper. His house was always so quiet — tip-toes and whispers and furtive glances, for as long as Jisung could remember, as if one wrong move would set off a bomb.

What Jisung would give for quiet in moments like right now.

He could hear shouting and banging on the other side of the house, shaking the walls and making him jolt with every sound. The moment it had begun he’d froze, bare legs hanging off the side of his bed before — as if by reflex — snatching the silver camcorder off of his dresser. He hadn’t picked it up in months — no, years — hadn’t been able to touch it since without feeling nauseous. The moment his skin brushed the cold metal, the memories would shoot through his head like electricity. The grits of dust it had collected bit into his palm now, his own erratic breathing filling the room.

“You fucking whore — you want to leave me? That it? Do I need to remind you that I’m the reason you’re still alive?” 

Father. Father’s voice always carried no matter how far away he was. Jisung heard pounding on the floorboards, the sound of someone running — no, crawling; his mother’s fingernails were scrabbling at the base of the stairs. There was a crash, and the struggling stopped momentarily.

“N-n-no, pl-please—” choked sobs were closing up his mother’s throat; Jisung could hear the thick tears in her voice through the paperlike walls. “You can h-hit me, y-you can — I won’t mention your--your other woman, just--God, not in front of Jisung.”

Jisung heard his father wheeze an incredulous laugh. “Jisung,” he spat. “You should’ve gotten rid of him when I told you to, eh? I’m telling you, Ji-Eun—” his mother’s name sounded foul in his father’s mouth — “I never wanted any of this.” There was a blow, and a cry of pain. “But you just wouldn’t get rid of the baby, huh? You just had to fuck everything up, and you still bitch about how hard your life is every fucking day.”

“N-not Jisung,” his mother gasped desperately, “Chungho, he’s your son—”

“THAT BOY IS NOT MY SON!” His father’s sudden roar made Jisung leap to his feet, eyes darting around his room frantically. “I never wanted a son, that boy is a mistake you made and kept.” There were footsteps coming up the stairs now, getting louder and louder — and with a jolt of horror, Jisung realised that his father was dragging his mother towards his room.

Before Jisung knew it, there was a deafening bang on his door that nearly sent him toppling to the floor, as if a body had been slammed hard on the other side. The fighting had never happened so close before — it was always, always on the other side of the house, always downstairs, as if Mama had wanted him as far away from it as possible.

Mama always told him to stay far, far away from the danger, from Father — but it had never been this bad. Jisung would always stay in his room and pray for it to end — pretending as if the shouting, the banging, the screaming was all just static from the TV he could tune out if he tried hard enough. But he knew it had been getting worse as the years passed, Father’s drunken rages growing more and more violent; Mama’s face growing sickly pale and paler still.

The sound of his bedroom door cracking at the hinges snapped Jisung back to reality. Shaking, his eyes shot to the window, under his bed, then to his closet doors. Feeling as though his feet were dragging through wet cement, he felt his legs propel him towards the closet, not even managing to shut the door properly before his bedroom door came crashing down in an explosion of splinters and plaster.

Father was crushing Mother’s weak frame into the ground, both their faces scratched from splinters of wood. Jisung’s body was pressed against the back of the closet — he was long past the age where he could hide away from the fighting in the closet. He was taller than he was years ago, his limbs having grown awkwardly lanky and so he barely fit anymore. The camcorder shook violently between his fingers as he aimed it through the tiny crack in the closet, the small crack of light revealing a fragment of the hellish scene.

Father’s huge hands were wrapped around his mother’s throat and every fibre of Jisung’s being was on fire, every inch of his body screaming for him to open the door, to save her, to stop him. His mother’s voice echoed in his ears, telling him to stay away from the danger, to run, to stay away — but Father was killing her, he was killing her—

He lowered the camcorder, trembling fingers ready to push the door open — and froze. At that moment, just outside the closet, his mother tilted her head upwards. Her eyes met his, wide and bloodshot with fear, and Jisung felt his heart stop. Mama, I’m coming, he wanted to scream, Mama, Mama, I’ll save you— 

Face contorted with pain, swollen eyes locked on his, she shook her head ever so slightly. Then Father’s fist came down with a sickening crack, and her eyes rolled backwards into her skull.

The silence that followed seemed to swallow Jisung whole. 

This couldn’t be. This wasn’t happening. Mama wasn’t — Mama couldn’t be. But her whole body had fallen limp like a rag doll, and the house felt infinitely emptier, and at that moment Jisung just knew what horrible thing had just happened.

Father’s erratic breathing on the other side of the door brought him back, if only momentarily. “Shit,” the man muttered. There was so, so much blood pooling from beneath Mama’s body, slowly leaking a trail towards Jisung’s hiding place. “Bitch fucking--fucking asked for it. Had it coming…” 

Little broken sobs were beginning to bubble in Jisung’s throat as the horror sank in, pathetic hiccups growing louder the harder he tried to shove them down. His vision was growing hazy. His head was throbbing. And when his father wiped his bloodstained hands on his dead mother’s body with the nonchalance of wiping on a rag, something in Jisung’s chest snapped.

Jisung tore through the closet doors, the hoarse sobs licking like flames in his throat giving way to a roar of anguish. His eyes were burning with tears, gaze tinged with crimson red, ears ringing as his face contorted into something animalistic, something he had never felt before, something that wasn’t him. Everything was spinning; the floor was collapsing beneath his feet and threatening to swallow him whole. His hand wrapped around a long fragment of broken wood, and, as if it was an anchor to the last bits of sanity he had left, Jisung let out a bloodcurdling wail and plunged it deep into his father’s neck.

The man howled in pain, wheeling his large body around, but Jisung had already sprinted through the splintered doorframe and tumbled down the stairs. There was dark, slippery liquid all over the floors that reeked of blood and alcohol, shattered glass from bottles sinking into the soles of Jisung’s feet as he ran, his father’s heavy footsteps shaking the ground right behind him.

Jisung found himself in the kitchen, and the caricature before him turned his blood into ice. His mother had been cooking: a pot boiling over on the stove sending hot water splashing onto the tiles and onto his bare feet. The corners of his vision were blurred like a fish-eye lens, the camcorder dented but still locked between the fingers in one hand and slippery with blood. Little details jumped out at him. An open jug of cooking oil. An abandoned meat cleaver on the counter.

He whipped around just in time to see his father lunge for him, and Jisung’s mind went blank. He felt his fingers find the handle of the meat cleaver, his eyes bulging out of their sockets and trained on his father’s chest — and charged forward.

Jisung drove the knife straight into his father’s flesh with a terrible force he never knew he had, a neverending scream tearing through his vocal chords -- and brought it down again, and again, over and over and over, until several eternities later, when Jisung’s screams had finally given way to quieter, quivering sobs, his hands stiffened and he dropped the knife with a clang.

Suddenly, the house felt enormous, a seemingly endless silence flooding the suffocating air. Somehow, he got to his feet and limped out of the kitchen, stumbling back up the stairs.

“Mama,” he mumbled. His vision was blurry, eyes darting everywhere and refusing to focus. The camcorder was forgotten in his hand. “Mama?” Jisung dropped to his knees by her side, shaking hands touching her hands, her blood-drained face. 

Jisung didn’t know how long he stayed like that, by her side, silent wails racking his body as he felt the warmth slowly seep from her skin. Mama was always so warm, Mama was always safe, Mama was all he had—

And Mama was dead.

He wrapped his arms around her limp frame, trying to lift her from the growing pool of blood and down the stairs as best he could. His legs gave way before he had reached the bottom, toppling down the steps, and he landed hard on his side, dragging his mother’s body the entire way down. As Jisung’s hands scrabbled to push himself back up, crawling forwards into the kitchen, his mouth went dry as he caught a full glimpse what he had truly done. 

Red. That was the only way he could describe the remnants of his father, a giant crimson mass soaking the white kitchen tiles. Red blood on his own raw, bruised hands. And a familiar red lighter that had skidded from his father’s pocket and was now lying in the mixture of fluids on the floor tiles. The cooking oil was still on the countertop, and the moment Jisung’s eyes fell on it there was only one thought coursing through his mind.

In a single, final motion he lurched forward and brought down the jug cooking oil, feeling it sear his eyes as it splashed all over the floor, the walls, the body — before fishing the the red lighter out from the pool of blood and vodka. With the last of his strength he flicked it open, eyes mesmerized momentarily by the tiny flame — and let it fall to the ground.

Flames erupted from the floor, enclosing him in a circle of fire and heat. It was like a bomb detonating, the walls shaking violently as black smoke flooded his lungs. Choking, Jisung’s hands blindly snatched at the flames for his mother’s body, desperately trying to lift her out of the fire. The camcorder’s acrylic strap was sticking to his palm, melting into his skin as it grew unbearably hotter, flames licking at his skin as he limped forwards, no longer able to tell if he was dragging himself out of the fire or further inside of it.

Jisung’s palm smashed the screen door and it burst open. The blast of freezing winter air that hit him as he stumbled out of the building finally leached the energy from his bones, and Jisung collapsed, skinned knees buried deep into the fallen snow. The night sky was a hollow purple, the weak lights of stars drowning in the black billowing smoke from what once was his home. Cradling his mother’s lifeless body as the house burned to the ground behind him, weeping with the agony of an angel cast to the infernos of hell, Jisung could almost hear a familiar lullaby ringing in his ears.

Rock-a-bye, baby, on the treetop

When the wind blows, the cradle will rock

When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall

And down will come baby, cradle and all.

Somewhere, a firetruck sounded, followed by the growing wail of police sirens approaching — but Han Jisung was laughing like a madman.

━━━━━━━━

“They told me that there was nothing left from the fire but bones,” Jisung had told you. “The delivery lady — Old Mrs. Hwang, I think — was the one who called the police. I woke up right before the paramedics arrived and hid the camcorder’s memory chip in my pocket. It was like I already had the reflexes of--of a murderer.”

“What happened then?” You had asked him, your voice barely above a whisper. “Did they…”

“Find out? Never. How could a ten-year-old single-handedly burn down a building? More importantly, why would he want to? I must’ve looked traumatised enough, because the whole thing was written off as a gas explosion. Faulty pipes, something leaked, and the moment my father turned on the stove the house went up in flames.

“I was famous across the country,” Jisung’s voice was ironic, but his eyes were flat and hollow. As if he had already condemned himself long ago. “Everybody pitied and swooned over the poor, orphaned boy — but after a month had passed I became a ghost again, floating from orphanage to orphanage. Then I met Minho—” his eyes snapped up at you— “And after the kidnapping case, it was like everything had snapped again. I couldn’t run from what I had done — I could still see it, every single time I closed my eyes.

“I couldn’t save her. I should’ve died that day — no,” he had chuckled hollowly, “maybe, I never should have been born.”

The moon was three-quarters full, a pale teardrop outside your bedroom window. Your mind had been in limbo for hours now, shifting endlessly back and forth between what Jisung had said, what you had heard, and everything you had seen until now.

Jisung had finally fallen asleep beside you on the bed, his eyebrows slightly furrowed but his breathing otherwise even. You had made him stay the night, a request that surprised the both of you — Jisung, who had still been respecting the distance you had forcibly wedged between the two of you — but you couldn’t bear the thought of him having more nightmares. Especially not after tonight.

Funnily enough, you thought, you’d much rather have a wanted serial killer safely sleeping next to you than out roaming the streets doing heaven-knows-what. A voice in the back of your mind mentioned how you had never expected that your first time with a boy in your bed would be under circumstances that were...less-than-favourable, but it wasn’t like you could do anything about it now.

It all made sense. It all fit together like a grotesque puzzle: the way Jisung reacted with the colour red, all his strange, uneasy symptoms, why all the victims were known to be abusers or mistresses, and oh, God — his family. Your mind flashed as you imagined him bringing the knife down on his abusive father, the scrap metal on his kidnapper — and the stone on the dead man from the Yellow Wood. It was like he had his own Mark of Cain — whoever hurt him would have the pain and wrath reenacted upon them thousandfold. 

Maybe it should have felt wrong, what you were feeling — you should have been repulsed, you should have turned him in on the spot, you should have written him off as a monster, a murderer — but you didn’t. No matter how much you tried, you couldn’t bring yourself to hate him. You’d seen the moments his facade had cracked and revealed the raw, vulnerable, broken boy underneath; you could feel the regret and torment he was living with every day, eating away at him from the inside like a disease. And, most of all, you saw the flashes of the boy he might have been in his wide, sheepish smile and bright, mischievous eyes, in his gentle hands and soft voice. In the fleeting moments of happiness that had been robbed from him too young. And now, you realised that you were certain about one thing.

You were absolutely, hopelessly in love with Han Jisung.

Your eyes wandered to his sleeping face, studying the dark circles beneath his eyes, the stress ingrained in the lines of his features. You had seen the same shadows in Lee Minho’s expression — these boys who had grown up with worry and pain etched into their faces like scars.

Jisung shifted slightly, mumbling incoherently and changing sleeping positions. After hesitating for a moment, you gently took his wrist in your hand, gingerly studying his hands and ankles.

Sure enough, there were faint white lines where cable ties and rope had once burned into. Jisung’s shirt had hitched up slightly, revealing rosy skin dappled with numerous bruises and mapped with more miscellaneous scars that all told the same, horrible story.

Your eyes finally settled back onto Jisung’s face again, a knot of bittersweet emotions festering in your chest. Outlined in the silver moonlight, he looked ephemeral — like a young god with too much power thrust into his hands, cold and damaged and beautiful; capable of the most terrible things. 

You didn’t know what was going on inside his mind, and you had no idea how things would change when morning came. It felt like he was slipping from your grasp the harder you tried to hold on. Was this how Minho had felt? Out of control? If so, you were beginning to understand why the coroner had wanted to help Jisung in the first place, to mask the ugly truth. To protect his friend, the only brother he’d ever known.

“Trust me, y/n, I was in your position once, too. You’re just like how I was.”

Maybe you weren’t so different from Minho, after all. Because as you watched Jisung’s sleeping figure, felt his body warmth pressed up beside you as something in your chest swelled in both tenderness and pain — you knew you were more than willing to lie for him, too. If you could save Han Jisung’s life, if you could bring back the boy with the happy, angel-like smile from your very first date — no, if you could keep even a fragment of the light and peace left in his eyes, then that was what you had to do. You would hide everything until — until the case was closed.

And maybe, you thought as the moon burned into your drooping eyes, just maybe, everything will be okay.

[autisticlalna]

Snarky Honk, good for him! Important to have suitable recipients for your daily dose of sass and rudeness.

And same!!! It's ooonly in our heads, I forgot just how many Tales were out by then! Karl going through Masquerade, Honk handing him the book in the Inbetween, ooooo still gives me goosebumps!

But yeah, I feel like I remember him tweeting about a Tales comic at some point? He's making a lot of content and go at your own pace of course but Mr Jacobs please provide Tales. Literally rewatched Masquerade highlights after the lore today!! Quackity's stuff can definitely be intense, there aren't a whole lot of breaks for humor and stuff. But the streams are broken into chapters, which make them a little easier to spread out over a while! Definitely made it easier to rewatch only the fiance-specific bit of it :,D

And I know, Karl's narratives just lend themselves to shadow stuff so well?? Especially the way you characterize Honk? Which makes me think (a) you and Karl probably have similar narrative instincts, which is cool, and/or (b) Karl's a fan of whatever started the original spau, which I know was Hermitcraft, but I feel like there was Kingdom Hearts influence? Which is so Karl? Either way, the way that Honk and Karl's stories parallel/mirror each other? Karl just stumbled into this interdimensional force, and as a result, both he and Honk become middlemen straddling the line between human and shadow without really belonging to either, with a whole lot of sentient spooky castles tossed into the mix!! Not to mention that Honk slowly can rely on Karl as a source of solidarity less and less as he forgets more of what's going on! It's all aaaaaaaaaaa and you're so cool and it's fun to talk about with you, dspau and Tales are the main connections I keep to DSMP as I fall further and further into podcasts fhfsghf

yeah i think masquerade was the latest tales ep when i made undercover agents?? its wild to think about how much has happened since then, but also it's only been 3 episodes since then but So Much Has Happened holy crap. aaaa im still really proud of UA, it came out p much exactly how i wanted and that's such an awesome feeling

oh that's good to know!! the chapters thing i mean. honestly i Am excited to get to watch q's lore bc i saw the v first las nevadas stream w/ glatt and the cinematography!! holy fuck!!! between tales and las nevadas, dsmp is really going in hard on making stuff Cinematic

spau having kingdom hearts-y elements was unintended at the start i think BUT i extremely love kingdom hearts and am currently looking at my rolled-up organization xiii poster haunting me from across the room so . GUILTY AS CHARGED. also finding out that karl a) likes kh and b) intentionally based the inbetween off of castle oblivion made my day i love kh so much aaaaaaaaaaa

YEAH YOU GET IT!! YEAH!!!!! they're stuck on the boundary and it's only making things more and more complicated as things fall apart but they're just trying to keep their heads above water

HAHA SAME i kinda went full on into the blaseball fandom back in march and didn't..... really leave............... and kinda stopped keeping up with dsmp, but i love tales and dspau so much and im always super happy to talk about it!! also you're very cool and i get excited every time i get an ask from you :D thank you for encouraging me and talking to me about stuff, it means a lot !!

[padme-parker]

Collide / Chapter 1

[a Star Wars x Avengers crossover]

Summary: With the fate of the universe lying in your hands, you are sent on a mission to a galaxy far, far away.

Warnings: none (I think)

Word Count: ~3k

A/N: The readers ‘superhero’ name is Star btw, so I hope that clears up any possible confusion (there will be a backstory/flashback later as to how she got that name). This is the first series I’ve ever written, so there's gonna be some major plot holes and shit that doesn’t make sense!! I’ve been trying to work through the kinks and make it seems as logical as possible. Sorry and Thanks for reading :) xx 

also I didn’t really proof reader so sorry if there like,,, a lot of mistakes

image is from the 100! (but this isn’t strictly about the 100 !)

“and I scream from the top of my lungs, what’s going on?” -4 Non Blondes

You sat down on the couch with a huff, Tony had taken the remote away from you after you decided to replay Revenge of the Sith for the 100th time. It was the team bonding movie night, occurring every friday. Peter and you were more than eager to rewatch it, however the team was not so ecstatic about it.

As soon as Tony saw your eyes light up, he immediately knew what you were thinking of, “And don’t even think of asking FRIDAY to play it for you.” You let out another huff, deciding to leave so you could have some time to yourself.

“Star, where are you going!?” He paused the show, as he and the others turned to you.

“Well, since you took away my joy, Mr. Stank, I’ve decided to ogle Anakin Skywalker in the comfort of my own room.” You could hear the snickers let out by the team as Tony muttered under his breath, unpausing the show as the theme for Sense8 started to play.

As you entered your room, you took no notice towards the figure in the corner. You were just about to flop down onto your heavenly bed before you were interrupted.

“Miss L/N.” You let out a scream as you turned to the figure. Quickly unholstering your weapon, you pointed it at the figure, finger guns ready to shoot if needed. “Cut the crap L/N, and put the ‘gun’ away.”

“Damn Fury, I could’ve been changing! What the hell.” You gave him an incredulous look

“Oh you’re funny, but we all know that you don’t give a damn if someone sees you half or fully naked. Not that I’d want to, cause frankly I don’t.” Your eyes widened with shock, mouth falling open, “Nevermind that, I’m not here for chitchat. I have a mission for you that requires your focus to be….elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere..? EYe- sir it’s the 21st century, not the 18th century.”

“Yes, well regarding the place you’re going to, our timelines won’t be explicitly the same.” You gave him a questioning look, he continued, “Tell me young L/N, have you ever heard of the force?” Oh at this point he must’ve been tickling your pickle, I mean what kind of joke is he playing at?

“Yes, of course I have! It’s a fictional power from a fictional movie!” Opting out on the ‘DUH!’ at the end just in case Fury decided he wasn’t in the mood to play games anymore.

“Wrong, agent L/N. You’re absolutely wrong.” At this point you were seated on your bed, hands clasped together and placed on your lap. “In fact, where do you think you got your powers from?” Oh shit, maybe you should’ve thought about the fact that you could move things with your mind before saying that the force was fake.

“I don’t understand, even if what you’re implying is remotely correct, it would be impossible! There’s also no way I could even go back to the past to change it” Before you could utter another word, Director Fury motion for you to stand up.

“Come with me agent L/N, you have much to learn.” He said as he directed both of you out of your room. Soon you found yourself in front of the doors to the meeting room. Walking in, you noticed there had already been files laid out across the table. “Take a seat, L/N. I’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”

“First things first,” I’m the realest, HA! I’m funny, good one y/n.  “The force is real, it’s essentially what gives you your telekinetic powers. Second, because of Doctor Strange, it has come to my attention that the fate of the universe lies in your hands.”

“Wait, what? Why me? Is it because I’m a huge Star Wars fan..? I mean come on! What about Peter, he likes Star Wars too!!”

“Cause I said so, and no, Peter is too young.” Yeah, but apparently old enough to be watching a show with the team that contains nudity, but then again he is 18. Poor kid would just blush at the thought of sex.

“Okay, but even if I did agree to doing this, wouldn’t it be too late for me to at least try to solve anything?” There were a million thoughts and questions running through your mind.

“Time runs at a slower pace in our universe than it does in theirs. If our calculations are correct, we are currently in the Revenge of the Sith timeline.”

“But I thought it was, ‘A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away…’ not the present..” you rebutled

“Ah, yes. We contacted Mr. Lucas himself. Turns out he too is force sensitive, and gifted with foresight. That’s why he wrote the books and comics, along with creating the movies. He did it so he would never forget about where he’d come from, but it also served as a warning. When he first had visions of the downfall of the Jedi Order, he fled. Using a bridge that connected Coruscant to our Earth. That’s how he, and many other force sensitive beings like you, can inhabit the earth.” He explained.

“That still doesn’t answer my question, how-”

Fury interrupted you before continuing, “Right, like I said, time runs slower here than it does in their universe. While time in his universe runs faster. Before he left, Qui Gon Jinn hadn’t been born yet. He’d left their universe when he was merely 22, about the same age as you. At the age of 32, he’d already released A New Hope. On Earth, he ages slower. Had he stayed within his universe, he would’ve been dead way before you were born.”

All this new information was giving you a headache. “Hold on, you mentioned a bridge.. What exactly is it?”

“Well agent L/N, the bridge is located in the middle of Antarctica, precisely the south pole in an underground ice cave. The bridge can either be used to summon other beings or to travel to different planets. It just so happens that we have one here on Earth. How? We have no idea, but we’re working on it.”

At this point, you were confused and wouldn’t be able to comprehend any new information if he gave any. Noticing the distant look on your face, Fury dismissed you.

“I’ll give you the night to think about it, but remember, the fate of the universe lies in your hands, Y/N. We don’t have much time to waste.”

-

You sat on your bed, hands raking through your hair. Hours ago you were so excited to rewatch your favorite movie, and now you were about to be thrown into that universe. You didn’t know whether to be elated or terrified. Fury said that there were other force sensitive beings on Earth, so why would they choose you? Surely there was someone stronger than you that they could send. But then again this meant that you would be seeing THE Anakin Skywalker.

You looked at the files again to get a better grasp of the mission. Join the Jedi Order. Befriend Anakin Skywalker, Obi Wan Kenobi, and Senator Amidala. Eradicate the Titan race. Hold on, they wanted you to kill a whole race of creatures. If you couldn’t kill a fly, then there was no way you’d be able to off a whole race.

You decided to shoot Peter a text, asking him to come to your room. It didn’t take long before you heard a knock on your door. You responded with its open and Peter came into your room, flopping down onto your bed right next to you.

“What’s up buttercup?” You scrunched up your face. Ew, save it for MJ. Speaking of MJ, you wondered how the two of them were doing. However, you chose not to say anything and instead focus on the situation.

“Okay Pete, I’m going to tell you something and you absolutely CANNOT repeat it to anyone else. Not even Ned.” You paused, waiting for him to nod before continuing, “So like after Mr. Stark so rudely interrupted our rewatch of Star Wars, I went to my room to watch it myself. And then one thing led to another and nowi’mgonnabetravelingacrosstheuniverseandplayingjediwithTHEANAKINSKYWALKERandofcoursedaddywankenobibutFurywantsmetokillawholeraceofbeingsbecausethefateoftheuniverseliesinmyhandsnow.” You turned to Peter hoping his advanced hearing allowed him to understand what you just said, but instead you just received a flabbergasted look from him. “ ᵖˡᵉᵃˢᵉ ᵈᵒⁿ'ᵗ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ᵐᵉ ʳᵉᵖᵉᵃᵗ ʷʰᵃᵗ ᶦ ʲᵘˢᵗ ˢᵃᶦᵈ…” You waited a few seconds expecting that he would catch on eventually, alas he didn’t. You began to repeat yourself, only this time slower.

“...so you're telling me that the force exists and i got stuck with a FREAKING radioactive spider bite??” Dear god, this boy was going to be the death of you.

“Peter, that’s not the point!” You said, trying to get back to the subject, “The point is that by tomorrow I’ll be in a whole other universe, that up until today, didn’t exist to us. This is supposed to be fictional dude, and now it’s becoming my reality! OUR reality! What if I get impaled by a lightsaber? I’m only 20, I can’t die!! Or worse, what if Anakin doesn’t like me?” The severity of the situation was just now hitting you, so many things could go wrong on this mission, but the whole universe was counting on you. The weight of the world began to crush you and breathing became hard. Falling to the floor, you laid in a fetal position, arms clutching your knees.

From the corner of your eye you could see Peter's arm reaching out to touch your shoulder, “Hey, star, you're okay. You’re gonna be okay. C’mon sit up and take a deep breath with me.” Carefully, Peter hoisted you up. You sat criss cross applesauce on the floor, parallel to Peter. Following the breathing exercise, you felt yourself calming down.

“Thank you, y’know you didn’t have to do that. But I appreciate it, a lot.” You knew you weren’t getting a wink of sleep tonight, so you asked Peter if he could stay for the night, which he agreed to. The two of you spent the night talking about the most random things, and before you knew it, the sun had already risen.

Noticing that it was morning, you offered to make some breakfast for the both of you. However as you got up to move, FRIDAY interrupted you, “Miss Y/N, Director Fury requests your presence in the meeting room.” Letting out a loud groan, you told FRIDAY that you would be down soon.

“Well Peter, it looks like I’ll have to make you breakfast once I get back.” You gave him a quick nod before making your way to the meeting room.

“I trust that you spent the night thinking about the mission, agent L/N. So, what have you decided?”

You cleared your throat before responding, “One last question, then you’ll have my answer.” Fury briefly nodded, signaling for you to continue, “Of all places within our universe, why there? Titan is within our solar system, wouldn’t it make sense for the avengers to travel there and just..” holding up a two finger gun to your head, you pretend to shoot yourself and die, “y’know? I mean it would save us a lot more time.”

“Well to put it simply, they have technology far more advanced than ours, we need a special weapon in order to carry out the mission.” You hoped that Fury wasn’t referring to THE weapon. If you went, that would mean you’d be forever changing the timeline, and there’d be no way to fix it. But if you didn’t go, Anakin would fulfill his prophecy, he would live the life of a liar, traitor, and puppet. You wouldn’t be able to forgive yourself for letting Anakin suffer.

“Fine, I’m in. When do I leave.”

-

The flight to Antarctica was long and boring, you would’ve slept but your nerves kept you up. But as you felt the jet land, you couldn’t have been more relieved. You were finally back on land. You could kiss the ice if you wanted to, but chose not to. Who knows what kind of ancient bacteria is lurking.

The entrance to the cave was surrounded by many agents. Although it was quite literally in the middle of nowhere, security was still a top priority. Entering the cave, you clutched the fluffy jacket that was wrapped around your body. You walked in silence, admiring the cave until the agents stopped in front of a hatch.

“This is as far as we can go. Climb down the ladder and follow the path, Fury will be waiting for you.” One of the agents informed you, as the other bent down to open the hatch. Well, here goes nothing.

The first thing you noticed was the change of temperature. Above the hatch, it was freezing, but below it was warmer. Warm enough that you broke out in a slight sweat, but not warm enough to melt the ice. The second thing you noticed was how well lit the passage was, which surprised you. There were lights hanging onto the wall. Hmm, there’s no way they could be solar powered, it's too far underground. They must be powered by the bridge.

You followed the passage, noticing a slight hum that grew louder with every turn you took. Soon, you found yourself in front of a door, a faint green hue escaping from under it. You slowly pushed the door open. The sight in front of your very eyes had you mesmerized. The bridge itself was made of a stone like matter, hovering above the ground. Walking closer to it, you took note of it’s spiral pattern and engravings.

“Welcome agent L/N.” Fury’s loud voice startled you out of your trance.

“The symbols, what do they mean?” You asked

“Well, we're not entirely quite sure what they mean. But we do know that it’s a language of sorts. You see, if you tap the symbols in a specific order, you can travel to a different world or summon a person.” Fury turned to you, handing you a necklace. “It’s a communication, tracking, and code device, all in one. Use it when you need to communicate vital information to us. All the codes you need are in the device, but be weary of using them, any only summon one of us if absolutely needed. It also includes mission details, like the time on Earth and a countdown. If you're not back the day the countdown is done, we will come find you.” He demonstrated how to use the device, pressing a button to bring up Coruscant’s code.

“Now, exactly how does this work ?” You pondered

“It relies on the energy being emitted from the bridge. For it to work, it’s essential that you stay on a planet with a bridge. If not, we won’t be able to track or help you if needed.”

Not another word was uttered as you went to remove your jacket. The black long sleeve shirt along with the black jeans and combat boots you were wearing was going to make you stick out like a sore thumb in the Jedi Temple. Reaching for the device around your throat, you pressed the button. You took a deep breath before touching the first symbol. A warmth began in you, starting from your core, expanding to the tips of your fingers. With each symbol you touched, the vibration of the hum increased. You continued to touch the symbols needed, pausing slightly before touching the last one.

“What now? Do I jus-” There was now a chill in the room, your hair lightly swayed. A small swirl of green mist appeared from behind the bridge, expanding until it filled nearly half of the room. “Do i just walk in..?” Fury nodded. You took hesitant steps towards it, your heart beating louder with each step. Before you fully engulfed yourself into the mist, you turned towards Fury, “If I don’t come back, tell-”

“You’re going to come back. You have to. The avengers, human race, and every inhabitant of the universe is counting on it.” Letting out a shaky breath, you nodded before stepping into the mist.

The further you went in, the less you could feel Fury’s burning stare on the back of your head. As it became weaker, you began to see a concrete wall. You reached out to stabilize yourself, it felt as though you were being kicked out of the bridge. The mist dissipated the second you stepped out of it. Hugging the wall, you look around the concrete room, noticing a heavy look door in front of you. With all your might, you pushed the door open. You began to sluggishly walk down a corridor, tripping over your own feet every couple of seconds. Damn, I really should’ve slept. All of your energy had left your body, and now it felt like you were going crazy as you began to hear a voice in your head.

Who are you? That voice, it sounded so familiar. Too focused on trying to figure out who the voice belonged to, you failed to notice the Jedi running up behind you. It was the ignition of a saber that made you freeze, followed by, “Stop right there! Turn around and face us sith!” Oh, so apparently you were a sith now. You raised your arms up slowly, showing that you weren’t a danger to them. Fully turning around, you were mesmerized to find who was in front of you. Or more like, the crowd in front of you. Your eyes scanned through the familiar faces until you locked eyes with him. His eyes followed your every move, his gaze strong and hard.

“Anakin…” You whispered, your knees buckled, sending you to the ground. Your eyes fluttered close, the exhaustion taking a toll on you. Before you could fully fall asleep, you heard the voice softly respond,

It’s you.

~~

read ch 2 here

omg yall I feel like this sucked ass, I rushed the last couple of paragraphs cause I just really wanted to publish this. I’ll probably come back in the future to edit/rewrite it once I get some stuff sorted out. as of rn I'm thinking of doing a love triangle but idk. Also please tell me how you feel about the title,,, I’m stuck between ‘Borrowed Time’ and ‘Clash’, I only went with the former cause it seemed fitting but I also really like the name ‘Clash’. lmk what you think !!!

[enigma-im]

Nothin’ But a Good Time

Rating: Explicit Relationship: Dremora (Demon) X Male!Human (Nord) Warning: Anal, Demon sex, Deals with a demon, Skyrim, blowjobs, handjobs

Word count: 2676

Summoning an unbound Dremora means that it can turn on you. This Dremora has a better idea than just killing the summoner.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

'Summon an unbound Dremora' it was a difficult spell and a dangerous one at that. To conjure a Dremora was on its own, dangerous. To conjure one that you know will attack you is just plain stupid. Yet, desperate times call for desperate measures.

The dungeon wasn’t a challenge for a mage as talented as myself. It was almost comical to be tasked with a quest like this. The Skeevers die on sight, the Draugers are similar to practice dummies, the puzzles are elementary at best. I will be paid in no time at this rate. If only every mission was like this.

As I near the final room I learn that extending some modesty once in a while might be beneficial to me and my ego.

The room ends with a dragon priest instead of my anticipated Deathlord. I really should have kept my mouth shut but the new reward of a mask keeps my spirits high. I face the spirit with a new wave of optimism and cockiness until the graves give way to Draugers. This is fine, I can deal with that. Down the way towards the floating priest two more coffins give way to Deathlords, alright this is less ok.

The battle is full of loud explosions of fireballs and lightning strikes. The Draugers become more of a hassle as anytime I try to deal with them I have to take my attention from the three major threats in the cavern. I take to summoning familiars and Atronachs, drinking bottles after bottles of Magicka. I pick off bits of health from the Deathlords as I try to avoid hits from the priest. His magic staff is becoming too much a problem that I fear I may lose my life this day.

Carding around the edges of the room for the hundredth time I take a direct hit from the Dragon Priest's staff. I hit the ground harder than reasonable, sliding along the uneven cobble on my shoulder. I quickly attempt to stand but the room turns, I fall back with a heavy sigh. I see the low life Draugers come in for the kill. In a last-ditch effort, I cast one more summoning spell, conjuring the one being I swore I wouldn't.

In a swirl of black and purple, a Dremora is officially summoned. Without preamble, the dangerous demon snaps forward and fast. It takes on the Draugers quickly with inhuman strength and speed. As everyone is distracted I look through my bag for potions or food, knowing the unavoidable battle that will come to me.

I watch from the corner of my eye at the Deadra armored beast fights. It takes care of the undead creatures very well, finishing off a Deathlord in the time it took me to swallow down minor healing. Once I catch my bearings I stand and begin to loot through the dead bodies, begging to gods for a potion or two. When that, thing, is done it will turn its ire onto me. I must be prepared for the fight.

I don’t notice the silence for a moment as I reach for the minor magic potion at the bottom of a broken urn. It doesn't occur to me till I feel the dark presence behind me. With a quick breath, I turn and throw a bolt of ice at the demon. With a lazy effort, it pushes the ice off like it was a bug in the way.

"Generally people give thanks but I can't say I'm too familiar with Nord customs," the Dremora chuckles. I straight at his laugh, utterly confused. The being cocks a dark brow at me with a grin," You seem a lost for words."

"Aye," I eye him," just a bit of miscommunication."

His arms cross while changing weight to one leg," How so?" His demeanor is startling, to say the least. I have never interacted with demons before, well in a friendly manner at least. I've killed a few to use their hearts for potions, I'm no saint. The college generally warned against conversing with them unless you can have the upper hand.

"I was informed that this conjuring spell was to summon an unbound Dremora," I clarify.

"That I am," he tilts his head with an amused smirk," Do you believe I have no free will? That I will attack anything that breathes? I found the deal is far greater than the taste of freshly spilled blood."

I sober at his words," the deal?"

"Yes, the deal," he chuckles," you summon me, I protect you, now I get something in return. Give and take sort of thing." I eye him cautious, not open to making deals with conniving creatures like him.

"What kind of deal?"

"Hmm, not sure. I haven't decided on what I want yet, but I do have ideas," he answers in thought.

"What could you want," I slide my hand towards my dagger, cautious but not completely open to fighting just yet. The Dremora casts a glance to my hand then back up at me. His brow raises again but he either doesn’t care or doesn’t mind me reaching for my weapon. Arms still folded he begins to circle me, walking lazily around with his eyes wondering my body.

"What do I want," he taps his finger against his elbow," many things. The better question is what do I want that you can give me. You could be my slave, do my bidding here in the living realm. To kill who I demand, to retrieve what I desire. But I don’t need another one, I already have all the slaves I want. You could give me something I haven't reveled in for a while." he stops his circling and walks towards me. Panicked, I back up till I thump against a wall. Quickly he grabs my face and regards me in an appraising way. "You are very handsome for a mage, most are old and cynical. You are young and full of mirth, perhaps I shall partake just this once," he hums as his thumb brushes my cheek.

"W-What do you want," my resolve slips for a second. I'm not ignorant or oblivious, he wants something I myself haven't partaken in since starting college. Before the time of my studies, I took to parading around as many women as I could, drinking and partying with the liveliest of maidens. I have never been with a man, let alone a demon.

"Here is the deal, you take my seed and we call us even," his hold switches to my throat," if you don’t, then I take your blood as payment."

"You're seed," I ask confused," do you believe you could impregnate me?"

He scoffs," No you stupid man, I wish to spoil myself inside you. Once I do, then we are square. This acceptable, Nord?"

"Blood or cum, such an impossible choice," I roll my eyes," as long as you don’t rip me a new one I will reluctantly lay with you, demon."

"Reluctantly," the Dremora laughs," you caved very fast for someone who is reluctant."

"I'm not above my ego to rather die than fuck a man, just be fast and I can forget about it," I sneer.

"Like I'd give you the curtesy to forget," he chuckles darkly," but if you insist."

I startle when head leans down and captures my lips with his, wasting no time shoving his tongue down my throat. The intrusion sends a jolt down my spine, spurring my interest just a peek. A chill runs through the room and the rock bites into my skin. I shiver when I feel the hard grip of his hands on my uncovered hips.

"You seem to be less reluctant now," he whispers in my ear as his hips brush against mine. I look down at our now nude bodies, seeing my hardening cock against his thigh.

"Is but nerves," I scoff. He hums in an answer as he lowers onto his knees. Its almost a powerful sight to see such an evil being kneeling. The sight is even more uplifting when he grabs my half-hard dick in his hands, stroking me in a lose hold. His mouth joins in for a moment, my spine snapping straight as the electric feeling runs upwards. "damn, Dremora. Ever heard of pacing one's self," I ask as my hips buck. He chuckles around my cock, the vibrations feeling divine.

"You were the one who wanted fast, and I'm the one who didn’t want you to forget," he kisses along my shaft, palming my balls with an uncoy look. His attentions are not what I expected, the sight more arousing than anticipated. I watch him lather my member with his tongue, bucking and sighing with the feeling. I rest my head back to the wall, mouth parted in an unending breath. As I feel myself nearing my end he backs off.

"Don’t want you to end so soon my handsome Nord, now it's your turn to be on your knees," He laughs. I give him an unabashed face before doing as he says. I get down on my knees ready to return the favor. He confuses me by not standing but crawling around behind me. It seems he is ready for the main course. He grabs my shoulder and pushes me forward. I catch myself on my hands as his hand rests on my back.

His clawed fingers trail down my spine, my skin tingling with anticipation. I can feel the warmth of his cock resting at the crease of my ass. The tip nudging just barely between my cheeks. His palm slides over my lower back before trailing over and cupping my hips. He swiftly pulls me flush to his thighs, his cock gliding up and settling close to his stomach. The weight is similar to the one in my stomach, the suspense making my own cock twitch. He pushes me away then pulls me back to him again, enjoying the tension in the air.

I fall onto my forearms and buck back into him with a groan," Just put it in already!"

His deep chuckle echoes in the room," so eager aren't we? I thought this was supposed to be my payment."

I look over my shoulder at his wicked grin," what? Cant, we both get something out of this?"

"I suppose we can," he tilts his head. The Dremora says nothing else as he continues tracing his cock on my ass. Soon he grabs ahold of one of my cheeks, clenching the muscle between his fingers. He spreads me open and regards his new toy. I wait with bated breath as his other hand lazily trails down to rest his thumb over my pucker. My stomach clenches as I choke on a gasp, I guess the eagerness is getting to me. He chuckles as he presses his thumb to me, massaging before inserting. I let out a long groan and rest my head to the filthy floor. He lets himself just rest there, humming as he listens to my panting breath.

"Please," I find myself crying out, not sure what I'm asking for. He somehow figures it out as he removes his thumb and grabs ahold of his cock. He presses himself to my entrance, slowly pressing his tip inside. There is resistance but he pushes on. With a sudden pop, his head is engulfed. The image and the reality of someone being in my ass make my cock leak and a whine let out from my chest. Before I could beg some more he pushes in farther. His head sliding further inside, the unfamiliar feeling of something this far inside me is intoxicating. My anus being stretched isn't pleasant, it aches and stings. Still, my cock remains hard and drips pre to the floor. His length rubbing along my prostate makes the pain feel like nothing.

I relish every inch till his hips are finally flat with my ass. Once he is to the hilt I hear him breathe. He sucks in a greedy breath and grips my cheeks with a painful hold. I can feel my hips try to move, the urge to buck back into him is strong. God, what my guild would think of this. Hell! What would my church think of this?

"By the divines, you are the tightest hole I have ever had the pleasure of fucking," the Dremora calls out in wonder," I believe this will be sufficient payment indeed." before I can comment he pulls back then thrust forward with a sharp snap of his hips.

"ack-, fuck," I cry out. I rub my forehead along the ground, the bits of rock digging into my skin. I hardly notice them as he pulls out again and bucks forward. He finds a pace quickly, using me like some common whore. Seeking his own fulfillment as I whimper and cry in the dirt. His inhuman cock does wonders to my insides, his length hitting places I never knew existed. My cock bobs with each thrust, a string of pre falling to the ground make me groan. I find myself reaching under myself and gripping it. The mixture of him and my hand makes my brain feel fuzzy.

"Are you going to touch yourself, my little Nord," he chuckles above me," Love the feeling of my cock rearranging your insides?" I whimper like a dog as I stroke myself, twisting my hand over my tips then clenching my base. If I knew being fucked in the ass was so grand I would have done this sooner. I'm almost curious if being fucked by a Nord is the same as this? Perhaps a Dremora has better prowess with these kinds of things. Either way, it's hard to think, at the moment a Dremora is a way better lay than any of my past lovers.

"Faster," I cry as I buck back into him. He laughs, curling his fingers over my waist. He slides them down over my stomach, feeling my muscles flex with each push of his hips. His fingers wrap around my base as my palms massages my tip. He gives short quick strokes that make me see stars. I continue pinching along my head as he rubs up against my shaft. My grunts and groans stutter as he fucks me from behind harder, knocking the breath out of me each time.

"Cum for me, my little Nord. I want to feel you squeeze my cock as you do," he rumbles beside my ears. I have no strength to deny him, falling victim to his assaults quickly. In a flash, my body seizes, my spine arching as I feel my balls tighten. I scream like I never have before as I shoot white ropes onto the dirt-covered floor. He doesn’t stop squeezing me, milking me for all I have as his own thrusts stutter. "Yes, just like that," he grunts. As I fall limp on my arms he thrust once more before stilling. I can feel his hot load coating my insides, the feeling is divine. He gasps hard, one of his hands making scratches along my sweaty body.

We both catch our breaths, resting for just a moment in such a dangerous surrounding. He soon pulls out of me, sitting up straight on his knees. I can feel his cum dribble out of me, trailing over my taint and onto my balls before dripping to the floor. I watch between myself as the drops darken the floor.

"You took my seed, the payment is fulfilled," he stands and walks around to my front. He kneels down in front of me as I fall limp to the floor. He grabs my chin and forces me back up on my hands," Till next time, my little Nord." he presses a kiss to my lips then with a smirk, he vanishes. I fall once again onto the floor, naked and defiled.

"till next time," I mumble to myself with a content grin.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I wanted to write a MLM story and this smut came out. Also my best friend wanted me to write one too. so technically this is dedicated to him, Love you bro.

I love skyrim so enjoy this mess.

Check out my Archive | Masterlist | Main Blog

[owlhart]

This Is The Way

So this is the way that I say I need you.

Winter tumbled headfirst into spring, luscious fields of green scattered with magneta ginatias and white myrtle peaking through the melting snow as blowballs swayed in the warm breeze and hellebores danced under the golden sunlight. The skies were painted a baby blue, white wispy streaks of clouds floating lazily across it and Triss would have loved for nothing more than to lie on the grass and stare at the clouds all day. But alas, she was stuck inside the Tretogor palace at a summit with Foltest, who was bickering over something trivial with Vizimir. 

The meeting dragged on and on and on and despite her best efforts to focus on the matters being discussed, her mind wandered off before being pulled back to the present when she felt the weight of Philippa’s gaze burning into the side of her face, heavy and restless. Triss wet her lips unconsciously and Philippa’s eyes flickered down towards them briefly before snapping up to meet her eyes. Triss shot her a curious look but Philippa withdrew into herself - not visibly but Triss knew her well enough by now to recognise the signs - walls slipping back into place, and the moment of connection was broken.

When the two monarchs had grown tired of arguing, they retired into the dining hall for a drink - though to be honest, Triss thought she also deserved a drink - leaving the two sorceresses alone in the great hall. Triss moved over to stand beside Philippa, who was simply staring out the large glass windows.

“It’s a beautiful day,” Triss said, “but you seem like you have a lot on your mind.” 

Philippa’s shoulders deflated ever so slightly.

“I always do.”

They shared in the heavy silence for a while before Triss turned to leave, only for Philippa to catch her by the hand. Triss let out a soft gasp and glanced over her shoulder. Philippa was still staring out the window and she had never looked beautiful than now, bathed in the warm orange glow of the setting sun.

“Stay.”

The single word lacked Philippa’s usual authoritative tone but was instead tinged with hesitance and uncertainty, a cross between a question and a plea. 

Triss recognised the unspoken meaning and she nodded, brushing a thumb across the back of Philippa’s hand.

“Ok.”

And Philippa smiled.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

This is the way that I say I love you.

Summer rolled in like a heat wave, and everything from the temperatures, the colours and people’s emotions, seemed to intensify. 

After much pleading and cajoling, Philippa had allowed Triss to drag her to Toussaint on one of those rare weekends when neither of them had to attend to any pressing matters.

Beauclair was bustling with life with all its sophistication and elegance, and the two of them spent the better part of the day wandering through the maze of multi-coloured buildings, heels clicking on the cobblestones and hands brushing against each others. Philippa ordered a few boxes of Everluce and Est Est from the winery to be sent to Montecalvo and Triss restocked on some rare herbs at the herb store. They explored every nook and cranny of the city, ambling past the jewellers - Triss’ eyes almost popped out at the size of one of the sapphires which Philippa found comically appealing - and the perfumery and the tavern.  

And when Triss’ stomach started to protest quite loudly, Philippa let out a low chuckle and led Triss to the Knights Dormant Square, where they sat down outdoors at a restaurant overlooking the lake, the Beauclair Palace a majestic background against the backdrop of the surrounding mountains. 

Triss wished that she could capture this moment - a profile of Philippa glancing out at the waters that sparkled like diamonds in the sunlight, swirling her Fiorano with a content smile tugging at the corner of her lips - it was absolutely picturesque.

“I wish we could have more time to enjoy life like this,” Triss mused, resting her chin on her palm.

Philippa hummed in agreement, taking a sip from her glass slowly. 

“We will, once we’ve changed the world.”

Triss stared out across the lake, trying to hide the blush flaring up in her cheeks. “We?”

“Hm?”

“You said ‘we’.”

“And?”

A heat started creeping up the back of her neck and Triss rubbed at it nervously.

“It’s nothing.”

Philippa placed her glass down on the table, eyes softening a fraction. “It’s not nothing if it’s bothering you that much.”

Triss bit her bottom lip, taking her time to collect her thoughts. Philippa waited patiently, neither pressing her nor dismissing her, and for that, Triss was grateful.

“Sometimes, I just don’t feel like I’m good enough. I know I am. But sometimes...it’s just a feeling, like I’m not as powerful or as experienced or beautiful,” her hand fiddled with the collar of her blouse, “and...I don’t know, I just look around me and...I wish I could be...more. Just more.” Triss winced sheepishly. “Never mind, I’m just being silly. Forget I said anything.”

Pursing her lips, Philippa turned to face Triss fully with a serious expression.

“It’s easy to doubt yourself, but you are beautiful and you are powerful. And your power and experience will increase over time. Wanting to achieve more is not a bad thing by any means. But do not change for anyone else. You are who you are, who you can be, who you want to be, regardless of what others may think or what they expect you to be. Don’t compare yourselves to them, because they don’t hold a candle to you.”

Triss sucked in a breath, looking slightly emotional. 

“Thank you.” - for believing in me; for loving me and for loving me for who I am.

Nodding, Philippa took another sip of her wine and slid a velvet box across the table almost casually.

Triss’ eyes bugged out once again at the cornflower blue sapphire pendant hanging from the silver chain.

“It reminded me of your eyes,” Philippa shrugged.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

This is the way that I say I’m yours.

Summer eased into autumn seamlessly, warm shades of red, orange and yellow washing away the cooler blues and greens. 

Philippa had been gone for the whole day, attending the autumn solstice festival with a noblewomen and Triss could only imagine the more intimate activities they would get up to that night. And against her better judgement, jealousy curled around her heart with a vicelike grip and try as she may, she could not shake the feeling, no matter how much she told herself that Philippa was only doing it to obtain information and leverage.

It was irrational and it was unfounded, but insecurity and lack of confidence was something that had been engrained in her since she had been young. She had gotten better at overcoming such flaws but now and again, they would rear their ugly heads and she would have to fight to avoid sinking into the abyss.

Sleep evaded her most of the night and by the time Philippa returned the next morning, the anxiety in her heart had grown, lodging itself in her throat and twisting her stomach and gut unforgivingly.

“Triss?”

Her head snapped up towards the sound when Philippa stepped into the room.

“What’s wrong?”

Triss flinched slightly at the hard tone. Wringing her hands frantically, she mumbled, “nothing, I just...you...you were just gone for a while and I was wondering when you’d be back and-”

“Triss,” Philippa interrupted, taking both of Triss’ hands in her own. “Stop pacing. Look at me.”

Triss stopped, insecurity fluttering across her face. Philippa held her gaze, leaning forward and touching her forehead against hers as she placed Triss’ hand over her chest. The rhythmic thumping of Philippa’s heart pulsed against Triss’ fingertips, steady and soothing. 

She knew how Philippa felt about her - Philippa would never voice it in such obvious terms but she would let Triss know in her way. Still, there was always an insecurity tucked away in the back of her mind, a little part of her that always needed reassurance. It was stupid because she knew better - she knew Philippa’s mind, she knew her heart. She knew Philippa.

It was stupid.

It was so stupid.

Gods, she was so stupid.

The tears fell from Triss’ eyes and Philippa shushed her gently, giving her hand a little squeeze and pressing it harder against her chest, fingers splayed between the gaps of hers.

It beats - “For you and only you.”

Triss nodded wordlessly, biting her lip to keep the sobs from escaping even though her shoulders shook with the effort.

Philippa kissed away her tears.

“And you have all of it.”

Triss buried her face into the crook of Philippa’s neck and Philippa wrapped the younger sorceress in her embrace.

“All of it.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

This is the way that I’m learning to breathe.

The trees shed their autumn robes of fire red and golden yellow and the thick carpet of crisp leaves was soon replaced with a velvety bed of snow. Triss breathed in the sweetness of the air with a blissful smile, the chill sending goosebumps across her arms almost deliciously. 

She had always loved everything about winter - the crisp air, the shimmering drift of snowflakes, the refreshing crunch of the snow beneath her feet - there was a tranquility and a sense of freedom that she associated with the whiteness of winter.

The gentle flapping of wings caught her attention and she looked up just in time to see a grey owl soar through the air, dipping down gently as it drew closer before landing on her shoulder. 

“Hitching a ride?” Triss twisted her head and placed a tender kiss on its beak. “Are you tired already?”

Philippa gave her a piercing look and let out a quiet hoot in response before she started fluffing her feathers. Triss smiled fondly and rubbed the top of her head, relishing the softness of her feathers. Philippa hunkered down at her touch and shifted slightly closer to Triss’ cheek, eyes sliding close in comfort.

Triss continued on her way, the rhythm of her footsteps lulling Philippa into a semi-conscious state and she nestled her head against the welcome warmth of Triss’ cheek. Triss slowed to a stop at the steps of the staircase leading from the garden to the castle of Montecalvo and turned to look once more across the blanket of snow.

She inhaled deeply and her heart swelled at the same time.

“I love you very much,” she whispered to the sky.

Philippa nuzzled her chin affectionately, a hoot rumbling in her chest, and Triss had never felt more content.

[patricia-von-arundel]

A World on Its Side: Prologue - A Temporary Sanctuary; Strange Smiles

Art by @zaaschila​

An anon sent this what-if:  What if: Jeralt's mercenaries was in actuality not a mere mercenary group, but one with more organization and it has its own squad section that acted in the shadows like spies or infiltrator. What if: they received a request that ended up with them secretly raided the place where El and her siblings were experimented on? (I'll leave the number of survivors to you) What if: they rescued the kids and disguised them, raising them along with Byleth in the merc group?

I opted to keep Jeralt as a mercenary, and then, well... 

Before I start the story, I’m going to explain some of my thought process in how I wrote it, and then of what I’m concerned about with it. I would really, really appreciate feedback as to whether this particular style seems to be working, or if I goofed it and should scrap it and start over using a more traditional story format. This is just part 1 - I didn’t intend for it to get this long (shocker, I know), and we’re just getting to where the action starts, despite the format being an attempt to keep it short and sweet. So, uh... yeah. Under the cut, some info/thoughts.

This was initially just going to be Edelgard being rescued through meeting Byleth and training as a mercenary, but then I wondered what would happen if they somehow eventually wound up at the monastery anyway (bear with me when I haven’t given the reasons for that chain of events yet - I do have a chain, I promise), and then it became... well, I don’t want to spoil everything, but there’s more. And then it was the usual “well, shit” moment of realizing I didn’t have a drabble, I had this whole, stupid story. With inconvenient nonsense like a plot. 

...Bother. 

So what I wanted to try to do, to keep it as short as possible (ha!), was write it in more a... well, not a comic-book format, obviously, but as if it was, or perhaps a serialized pulp kind of story, since the whole “what-if” thought came from my love of the Marvel “What If?” comics I read as a kid. Not a whole lot of introspection or exposition in here, just action and movement from one scene to the next. No room for lollygagging in the mind. 

And I think that worked broadly, but what I’m concerned about is that it muzzled Edelgard. Especially since she doesn’t have a lot of chance to show her anger and her pain without introspection, because she almost never talks about it. She felt to me at risk of losing her bite - and of getting over what happened to her too quickly. And that’s the last thing I want, because without those parts of her, she’s no longer, following the canon scenario of her childhood, Edelgard. It can be argued that a certain degree of softness might be acceptable if she was in the hands of Jeralt after the experiments rather than (I assume?) Hubert and Thales/”Arundel,” but I still worry that it becomes too much. Or that when the darkness in her does surface here and there, it rings false, because nothing else in the text supports it. I shouldn’t rely on readers’ knowledge of that side of her. That’s sloppy writing and bad characterization. 

I also doubt Edelgard was still being experimented on this late in her life, but I needed to make it late for the sake of that damned plot. That won’t change regardless of whether I decide to rewrite it. I could stretch out her time with Jeralt and Byleth a little bit more, I suppose, if it just seems too unlikely she was still there only a year before the events of the game start. (Again, I doubt it myself. But I needed it for the story.) You can probably tell at the beginning that, before the plot wormed its way in, she was initially written to seem younger than seventeen. I haven’t changed that (yet). 

So... now what I have to decide is whether to complete the story in this choppy, scene-to-scene format, or scrap it and do more development in a longer story. Therefore, I will happily accept the most scathing criticism you can throw at me. (I mean, I would anyway, but for this, I’m asking for it! Please tell me if Edelgard is just... completely unrecognizable.) 

This is also... well, you may see this story as choppy for other reasons. Personal reasons I will go into at a future time. Whether you like it or not, let’s say this story is something of a rebirth. And with birth comes starting anew. Never a quick and easy process. Shaky steps.  

All that said, if it does work - I hope you enjoy. This is not my usual style of writing at all, so it was kind of fun to just write the exciting parts. Even if the real excitement won’t begin until later. 

Part 1/?

Rating: TBD (this part is probably a T, just for the beginning)

-

She tensed at the sound of footsteps, biting back a whimper - even that would hurt. She was too weak to lift her head, time now a blur of slippery consciousness. The footsteps were the first thing she had heard in... in what seemed a very long time. She could no longer say how long. There was just herself - and the silence. 

They’re all dead. 

I’m dying, too. Then the rats will eat me. 

The rats were gone, for now. Sated by the flesh of the others - the tortured, mutilated remains of those who had been her brothers and sisters, left to rot around her. She no longer opened her eyes. She told herself she had grown accustomed to the smell. 

Perhaps she wanted to die. To be quiet and still, as they were - to feel no more pain. No more fighting the shackles. No more screaming beneath the needles, the knives, the magic. No more agony sent coursing through her with every frantic beat of her heart. 

She lived, though. Whatever she might long for - she lived. 

And they were coming for her again. 

She hugged her arms around herself, curling up as small and tight as the chains would allow, despite the pain of movement - it was almost involuntary. She had begged, at the start. Begged them not to hurt her. Begged for the others to be alright. Begged for her father to save her. But it did nothing. So now, she lay silent, and still, and alone. 

The steps were coming closer now, echoing in the stone corridor. But something curious about them - they seemed almost... hesitant?

Father?

Her breath caught, hope like a taper within her scarred, aching chest. But just as quickly, it was gone again: the voice she heard was not her father - nor any she had ever heard before. 

“The lock,” it said - deep and rough, even in hardly more than a whisper. “Be quick about it. We don’t have much time.”

“I know, I know.” A woman’s voice now, but just as rough. It made her think of the kitchen girls gossiping under their breath, their accents so harsh it sometimes seemed almost a language of its own. “Shut up. Lemme work.”

The soft clattering of metal pushed slowly, carefully against metal - an even softer click - then the familiar scrape as the door separated from its thick iron base. 

“Wait here,” the first voice said. 

“You’re the boss.”

A candle - he had a candle. How long had it been since she’d seen natural light? The ones who kept them here used strange, glowing orbs, set high against the walls, casting only faint, greenish light to the floor below. She wanted to stare at that bright little flame, despite the pain against her eyes. But it was too much. She looked at the man instead. 

It was hard to make out details of his features, candle or not, but there was clearly a harshness to them that matched his voice. Sharp eyes, scarred face. 

Scars. 

She opened her mouth, but no sound could force its way past the rough, swollen surface of her throat. She didn’t know him, but he wasn’t one of them, and that was enough to relight that taper, deep inside her. 

Those tentative steps again - he held the candle out, casting it around the cavernous room, empty of all but chains... and corpses. 

And her. 

“What the hell?” He was breathing shallowly, through his mouth, and suddenly she was very aware that the stench was still there. A trickle of the nausea she had felt the first time she smelled it, realized what it was, once more twisted through her belly. Like her whimper, she fought it back - dry-heaving had more than once made her pass out from the pain. If she passed out, he might think she was dead, too. She would be left. 

Please! But still, she could force out no words. 

“They sure didn’t mention this...” the man said. She didn’t look down to see what he saw. She didn’t want to see, truly, what they had become: the sisters who had braided flowers into her hair and showed her how to knock apples from the trees. The brothers who had called her silly names and sometimes read her stories. That was not all there had been, but it seemed, now, all she could remember: the childhood things she had not known to treasure. Things that could never come again. Things that no matter how many times she told herself to forget, her mind seemed simply incapable. 

“What is it?” the woman asked, sotto voce, from the doorway. 

“Pretty sure it’s the Hresvelg kids. But they’re all long - wait.”

Sudden light, full in her eyes, and she gasped and shied back. Bolts of agony - in her head. In what remained of the rest of her. 

When the opened her eyes again, he was crouching before her, holding the candle carefully aside. His own eyes were brown - and softer, friendlier, than any she had seen for a long, long time. 

She felt her lip tremble, but resisted the urge to cry. Crying hurt, too. And besides - like begging, it did nothing at all. 

“Hey,” the man said. “What’s your name?”

For the first time in days - weeks - months - she found her voice again: 

“Edelgard.”

-

“What’ll you do with her, Jeralt?”

Jeralt - the first time she had learned the man’s name. They had made a makeshift sling for her across his back; she was too weak to walk, much less to ride, and so was strapped in a blanket like some swaddled infant. She might have cared more if all of her focus was not on staying conscious - even at a slow pace, every step the horse took sent nauseating agony pulsing through her. 

The man - Jeralt - seemed to consider for awhile, then sighed heavily. “I was going to bring them back to Remire if they needed some patching up before I figured it all out, so I guess I’ll take her home with me. Maybe some company her own age will open the kid up a little bit.” 

“If this one survives. She’s in pretty bad shape, Jeralt.”

“She can hear you, you know. Anyway - just another reason to keep her with me, at least for now. It might be hard to hide 11 children just reappearing, but one? Simple accident. Poison made to look like some common ailment. Anyone who kills 10 children - 10 Imperial children, no less - doesn’t seem likely to care about killing one more. I’ll figure out what to do when she’s gotten some of her strength back.”

It was night - Edelgard could see the outlines of trees against the sky, and the stars above them. The world smelled of wet leaves, the earth, a clean chill that spoke of autumn. Despite her discomfort, she couldn’t ignore it - couldn’t stop a frisson of... of almost hope. 

“Still back there?”

“Yes,” she said.

At some point, she slept.

-

She woke to blue eyes, far too close to her own. 

Her first instinct was to scramble away - but even attempting to push back with her arms brought a cry of pain she could do nothing to suppress. She hunched her shoulders and closed her eyes once more, breathing in harsh gasps, until the sharpest of the agony subsided, leaving the familiar, dull ache that she had come to know so well. 

“Sorry.”

“You don’t sound particularly sorry.” The words out before she could stop them, somehow defensive of her own childish behavior - but it was true. She heard no apology in that voice. 

“Huh?”

Edelgard finally forced her eyes open again. The others, thankfully, had retreated - instead of looming over her, they now watched from beside the bed. They belonged to a girl about her own age, perhaps a little older - though without a current date, Edelgard had long since lost track of how old she now was. The girl had messy hair that matched those blue eyes and well-patched clothing. She was still staring quite unabashedly. 

“My father said he’d be back soon,” she said - as if already dismissing her attempt at an apology. 

“Your father?”

“Jeralt. He said you might be thirsty when you woke up. No food yet. Are you thirsty?”

Non-sequiturs. It took Edelgard a moment - thinking was hard enough through the haze of pain. Was she thirsty? She had found herself, at times, lapping at puddles on the floor, desperate, telling herself it was moisture seeping through stone, and nothing more. 

Silent, painful attempts to speak, the night of her rescue...

“Yes,” she said - trying to hide the sudden, urgent realization of need. “Please.”

“I have to be careful.” Another strange, contextless statement - then the girl was up and gone, right out the open door to the outside. Edelgard could see the grass there, and the dark trunks of trees just beyond. 

For the first time, she wondered exactly where she was. She looked around - a small cottage, perhaps? No more than a cabin? There was a semblance of two rooms, but no complete wall or doorway between them. She seemed to be in the smaller of the two. There was little to see - rough, chinked-wood walls; beams across the low ceiling; one bed besides her own, and what looked like a pallet on the floor between them. The next room was only in partial view: a fireplace, a table and two chairs, cured meat and dried vegetables hanging from ropes strung across the walls. 

She had never been anywhere like this. But it wasn’t the hell beneath the palace in Enbarr - sunlight streamed through the narrow window next to her bed, and across the threshold of the open door on the other side of the room. She could feel the warmth; hold one weak hand up and watch it cast a shadow across the quilt around her. That was what she must focus on. 

Sunlight. 

Freedom. 

The strange girl returned, now with a bowl and a ladle. She stopped short of the bed, and seemed to consider for a moment, looking towards the other room. “Do you want a cup? I think at least one is clean.”

Edelgard shook her head. Best to try not to think about it all just now. Best just to pretend that of course she knew how to drink from a ladle. Best to ignore the protests of her swollen throat as she swallowed - and to ignore as well the water that spilled down her chin, her chest. It was cold. 

“Slowly,” the girl said. If she noticed the mess Edelgard was making, she said nothing. 

-

Cleaning her wounds was like yet another round on those tables, strapped down and screaming. Except... it wasn’t like that at all. Somehow. Despite the pain. 

“Do I need to have her hold you down?” Jeralt asked, nodding his head towards the strange girl - Byleth. Her name was Byleth. “This is going to hurt like pure hell.”

“No!” Too frantic - Edelgard stuffed it back: the terror of it. Her wrists and ankles were still raw, where the chains had bitten and rubbed away the skin. “I... I can stay still.”

The washing wasn’t so bad - it hurt, and a lot, but he was careful and quick. She could finally see the full extent of what had been done to her: her legs, her arms, and most of all her chest were a tangled web of scars and puffy, red-and-purple half-healed incisions. She could hardly stand to even look at them. 

No one here had asked what they meant. She wasn’t going to tell them. She might not ever tell anyone. Anyone who knew was already dead - or would be very soon. 

Worse than the washing was the brown glass bottle - spirits. Strong ones; just the smell made her eyes water. “Sure you can stay still?” he asked the first time. 

She nodded. She was not sure at all. But she would. 

He took her hand, extending her arm out, over the floor. There was a tub there. His fingers were gentle, but held her firmly. 

“Won’t take long,” he said. 

She held her breath. 

On her other side - another hand slid into hers. She looked over, startled. 

Byleth. Her eyes met Edelgard’s. She was almost... smiling?

The alcohol was like acid against her swollen, abused skin. Her back arched, and she fought desperately the urge to twist away - and to scream. Still, her mouth opened, a silent cry, and she felt the tears streaming down her cheeks. 

Each of her legs. Her other arm. A rag, wiping agony against her chest. By the end, she was shaking with voiceless sobs, her body trembling all over. 

Byleth never let go, except to move to her other side, even after Jeralt said, “There we go, kid. I’m sorry about that.”

Edelgard kept her eyes closed, as if that did any good against the tears seeping from them. She felt scoured - flayed open, every nerve set ablaze. 

“He does the same to me.” Byleth’s monotone voice - but did Edelgard imagine the hand around hers squeezed, just slightly? “When I get hurt on missions. I took a sword to the back of my shoulder last summer, and he did that twice a day for two months. He does it to himself, too. You should hear him curse.”

It was by far the most Edelgard had ever heard her say at one time. But what caught her attention was - “Missions?”

“Mercenary missions.”

“You’re... mercenaries? You are? I mean - you, not just your father?”

“Yeah. For... awhile. I don’t remember exactly how long. Do you want some soup? You can try having some food now. But only a little bit at a time.”

Even when Byleth’s hand left hers, Edelgard could feel the warmth of it against her palm. 

A blur of weeks - she still slept often, and drank water almost ravenously. Food, even soup, was more difficult to reacquaint herself with; her stomach seemed to twist and clench, rejecting it. 

“Take what you can,” Jeralt said. “Just take what you can.”

Her wounds were healing - leaving raised, jagged scars, tattoos she did not need, would never need, to remember the place from whence they came. But there were no more baths of spirits, at least; just water now, every morning. It almost felt good: to be clean. To be cared for. 

As weeks became months, Jeralt encouraged her to begin walking again, to rebuild the muscle that had wasted away. Her legs and arms were so skeletal, fragile, she had almost grown afraid to even attempt to use them. 

But Byleth said, “Here,” and held out an arm. 

Edelgard hesitated - then placed a hand upon it. 

She would have been embarrassed by how tightly she clung, if she wasn’t focusing the entirety of her attention on her trembling, stiff, knock-kneed legs. She understood than how a foal must feel, stumbling to its feet for the first time after birth. 

Outside the window, she could see that winter had arrived: the trees bare, the sky low and grey. They must be well north of Enbarr - there was snow on the ground, more than she had seen since her time spent in the Kingdom. But nothing gave any greater clue as to where they might be. She hadn’t asked - she wasn’t sure she truly wanted to know. Not yet. 

When walking grew easier, Jeralt had her lift books or small pieces of firewood, to strengthen her arms. Byleth did the same, though surely it wasn’t necessary - even so young, Byleth was already all lean, hard muscle. Edelgard found herself watching how it moved, though she couldn’t say why. Envy, perhaps?

She didn’t understand many of her emotions, now. She kept them to herself. But she liked Byleth’s company, curious as it was, and she liked that odd little almost-smile Byleth sometimes gave her. 

She also watched, through the window, as Byleth trained at weapons: sometimes with Jeralt, more often alone. Jeralt was gone quite a lot - missions? - but Byleth stayed behind. She practiced most often with a sword, but occasionally with the axe used for cutting wood, or a long, sharpened stick in place of a proper lance. 

As the snow melted and daffodils began to peek through the crust of frozen earth, Edelgard felt almost whole again - or as whole as she was now likely to ever be. She still ached sometimes, but it was dull - bearable. She went outside, and could walk the perimeter of the little cottage six or seven times before beginning to feel exhausted. She woke in the morning eager for breakfast, plain as the fare on offer truly was. 

But with all of this came clearer mind - including the nagging reminder of the vow she had sworn, beneath the palace, as her family lay dying around her. A vow she would keep, even if it ultimately meant her death as well. The time had come - the time for true preparation to begin. 

The first almost spring-like day, warm and breezy - that was when she finally asked Byleth, “Will you teach me how to use weapons, as you do?”

Byleth lowered the makeshift lance, for a moment looking almost confused. “Why?”

“Because... because I'd like to learn. And it would continue to... to build my strength up.” She should have prepared an excuse in advance, instead of stammering all over herself. 

But Byleth, as usual, seemed not to notice. “Okay,” she said. “What would you like to start with?”

And so Edelgard began, slowly, to prepare for the future.

To prepare for vengeance.

-

It was late spring when she finally confessed. It was only two months until the Garland Moon, and her birthday seemed as appropriate a time as any to leave. She could not put this off any longer - it was time to accept that. 

But she also could not stand the thought of leaving Byleth without warning. Especially since...

“Kid?” Jeralt’s voice, late in the night - soft, but Edelgard no longer slept deeply or soundly, and woke at the slightest noise. “Hey - this again?”

In the meager moonlight seeping between the closed curtains, Edelgard could see Jeralt standing beside the pallet where Byleth now slept, half-bent over her. Byleth was on the pallet, just as she should have been. But she was sitting up, and her eyes were open. Open wide. The meager moonlight seeping through the curtains seemed to catch in them, so that their deep blue appeared almost green. 

It was not the first time it had happened - and if anything, the frequency of it was increasing. Each time, it lasted only a few minutes, then Byleth would begin to stir and murmur, as if waking from perfectly normal sleep. She saw a girl, she said - but never elaborated, and Jeralt did not ask, and Edelgard did not know if it was her place to do so, despite her curiosity... and her concern. 

She liked Byleth. She liked Byleth... in ways, and for reasons, she did not understand. That hand holding hers. An arm to help her stand again. Strange, wordless smiles. For the better part of a year now, Byleth had been here, a constant companion, helping, serving, teaching. 

And now, when Byleth might be the one in need, Edelgard was leaving. She had to. But she owed Byleth at least an attempt at explanation of why.

“I would like to show you something,” Edelgard finally said one morning, as they were finishing breakfast. Just the two of them, Jeralt gone again; Edelgard was not ready to face both of them, though she suspected Jeralt already knew much of what she was going to say. 

“Okay.” Byleth cleared away the table, accepting the request as easily as always. “Where?”

“Outside.”

It felt almost like summer - hot, the air still and heavy. Perhaps that was why Edelgard could feel the sticky discomfort of perspiration against her hands as she lifted the now-familiar old axe they used for practice. 

She had never allowed herself to do this before, yet she knew herself capable of it: gathering all the power now contained within her. 

The power of two Crests. 

She drew the axe back, and hurled it before she could second guess herself. 

Capable. Yes - the strength they had whispered of with such hungry need...

The axe flew, a blur of silvery-blue, and sliced completely through the slender trunks of two young trees before stopping, with a reverberating thunk, deep inside another.  

Edelgard left it there and turned to Byleth, speaking the words before she could fight them back: “I have to leave. And soon. There... there is something I must do.”

Byleth just stared at her for what seemed a long time, her expression almost... concerned? It was hard to say. It was always hard to say. 

“I know who you are,” she finally said. “And I know where my father found you. That’s why we came here - because it was safe for the Hresvelg children, if they needed to be kept hidden. But you were the only one who lived.”

Edelgard looked down, afraid her expression would offer more than she was yet prepared to give. “Yes.” At least that part she wouldn’t have to try to explain. How long had Byleth known? “They were doing... experiments. They wanted...” She took a deep breath, and forced her head back up, her eyes meeting Byleth’s. “They wanted a weapon.”

She told it all: the experiments. The deaths. The dungeons. She told it before the begging voice in the back of her mind could gain control. By the end, she was looking down once more: at her arms, crossed tightly against her chest. 

At the scars. 

“Two months until you go looking for them?” Byleth asked, when Edelgard was finally silent once more. 

“Yes. Two months and a bit.”

“Go get the axe.”

Edelgard looked up then, surprised - it sounded almost like an order. But Byleth stared right back - then turned and left. Walked into the house without another word. 

Edelgard blinked. 

Then, she did as told. It took three tries to jerk the axe from the tree. She didn’t want to use her Crests again. Even with no one watching, she felt self-conscious now. Vulnerable and exposed. She bit her lip and took a deep breath before turning back. 

Byleth had gotten a charred remnant of log from the fireplace, and used it to draw a large X on a tree - a far bigger one than those Edelgard had severed, and far closer to the clearing where they trained. 

“Can you hit that?”

Again, Edelgard was surprised. She looked at the tree, then back to Byleth. “I... I suppose so?”

But the axe flew far to the left of the target. Edelgard did her best to keep her expression neutral, but there was no way to hide the flush that rose in her cheeks. “I... perhaps I am tired. My apologies.”

Byleth cocked her head, considering, apparently, the untouched target. “That’s what we should focus on,” she said. “Before you leave. Your aim. We can do that in two months.”

But they didn’t have two months.

-

Edelgard was half-awake in bed, drowsy, blanket pulled to her face. Jeralt was packing to leave again, and quiet as he was, it had been enough to keep her from sleep. Byleth was in the other room, preparing food for his journey. 

An ordinary evening - until came the desperate, frantic pounding at the door. 

Edelgard sat bolt upright, sleep forgotten, her heart pounding at the sudden noise and the accompanying, baseless, terrified thought: They’ve found me. She pulled the blanket to her shoulders, like a child after a nightmare. Byleth was standing in the partition between the two rooms, and Edelgard tried to focus on her - bright, alert eyes. Her hands by her side... but one held a knife. 

It was Jeralt who opened the door. 

Edelgard tensed. Blood pounding in her ears - she could hardly understand what they were saying. Something about an attack...?

It’s just boys. Just three boys. Nothing dangerous about them. Dressed in uniform, though they did not appear to be military. Something familiar about it, though - had she seen such uniforms before? When she was younger, maybe?

One of them - the tallest among them, his unkempt blond hair falling across his face - was scanning the room, as the other two talked to Jeralt. 

Jeralt sighed. “Guess I’ll have to leave a little later than planned. Kid, you -”

The blond boy pushed past him - his eyes had locked on Edelgard. She met his gaze, letting the blanket drop, and lifted her chin. A boy. Not dangerous. 

Jeralt tried to grab his arm. Missed. “Hey -!”

Byleth had the knife up. 

The boy ignored them. And now Edelgard could see the shock in his expression. 

He stopped a few feet from the bed. His eyes were huge, his cheeks flushed. 

He spoke one word - one word that chilled her more deeply than the coldest winter day. 

“...El?”