#or something similar. and i must have taken that as they need to be returned to the SHELVES.

[non-un-topo]

Ruminating on the possibility that a few weeks ago I shelved some books that hadn't been returned in the system yet and I'm gonna be panicking about this all fucking weekend

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

ROOM FOR RENT

PAIRING: logan howlett x female reader

RATING: explicit (18+) | WORD COUNT: 5.3k

SUMMARY: logan finds a new roommate.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: i have logan howlett brain rot and i’m not sorry. big smooch to everyone who let me yell about this to them including @eupheme @pedgito @wannab-urs @chaotic-mystery @kedsandtubesocks @undrthelights and @murder-wife 💕

WARNINGS: post deadpool & wolverine, variant!logan howlett, able bodied reader, reader being picked up (enhanced strength babyyyy), roommates to lovers trope, meddlesome pet cat, a splash of canon typical violence - mentions of blood and knife wounds, wade wilson/deadpool appearances, mild angst, explicit sexual content (18+ minors do not interact) - dirty talk, pain kink, biting, pet names, praise kink, oral sex - m & f receiving, a little dacryphilia during a blowjob, multiple orgasms, unprotected p in v, begging, size kink. if i’ve missed any, please let me know!

LINKS: masterlists | support for palestine

If Logan has to wake up to Wade's constant yapping for the rest of his life, he's going to go insane. Every morning he's jolted awake by Wade singing in the kitchen. When he notices Logan is awake, the singing stops and the one-sided conversation begins and doesn't end until Logan finally gets up from the couch and leaves the apartment with nothing but the clothes on his back.

Today, with some money in his pocket from a few odd jobs he's picked up, he finds solace in a quiet coffee shop. Sat beside a bulletin board, he scans the postings.

Art show, art show, yard sale, job opening, roommate wanted, art show--

Roommate wanted? Logan tears the paper from the pin.

Room for rent in 2 bedroom/1 bathroom apartment. One cat. Laundry on site.

He folds the ad up and stuffs the paper in the pocket of his jacket before gathering his empty coffee cup and tossing it in the trash on the way out the door, an uncharacteristic spring in his step.

Your phone rings with a number you don't recognize. You consider sending it to voicemail, already exhausted from fielding similar calls about your room for rent, but ultimately decide to answer.

"Hello?"

A man clears his throat on the other end of the line before responding with, "This the number for the rental?"

"Yep," you reply. "Were you interested in seeing it or have any questions?"

"How much is it?"

"Your half would be $950.”

"And it's a whole bedroom?"

"As opposed to a half bedroom?" You laugh at your joke but the man remains quiet and you wince. "I mean, yes. It's a whole bedroom."

"I'd like to come see it, if you've got the time."

"Sure, how's this Friday sound?" You suggest. "What's your full name?"

"Why do you need to know that?" The man's tone grows defensive and alarm bells ring in your head.

"Well, I'd like to make sure you're not, like, a wanted criminal or something," you tell him with an awkward laugh. He's quiet and for a moment you think that he may have hung up on you. "Hello?"

"Yeah, 'm still here," he sighs. "Name's Logan Howlett."

"Logan Howlett," you repeat. You give him your name in return, though he doesn't do much but grunt in acknowledgment. "Alright, well, do you have something to write down the address?"

"Just tell me, I'll remember."

After listing off the address, he ends the call with a rough goodbye. You get to work on your personal research, entering his name into a search engine.

No results.

You refresh the page, thinking that must be an error, but the same message appears.

No results.

You try spelling his name differently.

No results.

You set the phone down, anxiety starting to creep up your spine. It's hard to believe that there's absolutely nothing online about this man, who now has your full address, name, and phone number.

A sharp meow shakes you from your thoughts and you find that your cat has taken up residence on your lap, staring at you intently as his tail flicks back and forth. You run your hand over his head, scratching beneath his chin.

"You'll protect me, right?" You ask.

He leaps from your lap and struts away, fluffy tail disappearing down the hall that leads to your bedroom. You sigh.

Hopefully you haven’t just done something stupid.

Logan's attempt to leave the apartment unnoticed does not go as planned. Althea is sitting on the couch, a re-run of a talk show playing loudly, when he tries to make a run for it. He's distracted, watching her too carefully that he doesn't realize Wade has just returned from god-knows-where.

"Whatcha doin', twinkle toes?" Wade asks, startling Logan, who slams into the kitchen table with a curse.

"Fucking hell," Logan curses, rubbing his hip. "When did you get in here?"

Wade shrugs. "Sometime around the start of your 007 impression."

"My what?"

"Nevermind," Wade sighs. "You look snazzy. Got a hot date?"

"No," Logan grunts.

"A cold date, then?"

Logan pinches his nose. "No."

"Well, care to share, sugar plum? What's got you sneaking around like the Black Widow?"

"The who?"

"May she rest in peace," Wade says, tone suddenly somber.

"He's tryin' to move out," Althea chimes in. Wade's mouth drops open in shock.

"You're abandoning us?!" he exclaims. "After all we've been through?"

"Let the man do what he wants," Althea says. "Damn co-dependent freak."

"Harsh," - Wade places a hand over his chest, -"you know I have daddy issues. And mommy issues. And abandonment issues. And--"

"Enough," Logan snaps. "Yes, alright? I'm looking for a new place. I can't sleep on that couch forever."

"Is it because it smells like old people?" Wade whispers, pointing an accusatory finger to Althea, who flips him off.

"Look, this is your universe. Your timeline. Mine is gone and it's time I start making this whole thing less temporary."

Wade tilts his head and places a hand on Logan's shoulder. "My little Wolvie, all grown up," he says, wiping at a fake tear. Logan shoves his hand away, storming past him for the door.

"Remember to smile! Give 'em the ol' razzle dazzle!" Wade shouts as he slams the door behind him.

You pace your small living room and check the stove clock for the hundredth time in the past five minutes. Logan is due to see the apartment and your nerves have gone from a simmer to a full blown boil waiting for the mysterious man with no digital footprint to show up. Your cat is lounging on the windowsill, blissfully unaware of your inner panic.

Three sharp knocks at the door cause your pulse to skyrocket. You take a deep breath before crossing the short distance to the door, pulling it open with a smile.

"Hi! You must be--“

Your greeting dies on your tongue as you take in the man crowding your hallway. He's wearing a leather jacket over a white tank top that stretches tightly across a broad chest and jeans that highlight thick thighs. His dark hair is cut shorter on the sides than on the top of his head, the ends fanning out in a manner that reminds you of a cat's ears and he's sporting an impressively thick beard.

"'m Logan," he says in the same deep voice you heard over the phone, holding a hand out towards you. You slip your palm against his much larger one and you're surprised by how warm his touch is.

"H-hi," you stutter, shaking his hand. You clear your throat. "Sorry, hi. Uh, come on in."

You move aside to let him through the doorway, not missing the fact that his shoulders practically brush the frame as he steps inside. Your apartment opens up directly into the living room and kitchen with a small dining area set in between and you gesture around.

"Well, this is most of it, to be honest. I know it's not much but--"

"It's quiet," Logan interrupts. "Ain't used to quiet."

"Where, uh," -- you twist the hem of your shirt -- "where are you coming from? Exactly?"

"Kind of a long story. Right now I sleep on a couch in a shitty one bedroom apartment shared by an asshole who doesn't shut the fuck up and a blind cocaine addict."

"Oh," you reply, nodding despite your lack of understanding. "Yeah, it's just me here. Well, and Dumpling."

"Dumpling?"

As if summoned by his name, your cat appears, making a swift beeline for the newcomer. He twists around Logan's legs, butting his head against his shins. You bend down, scooping him up in your arms.

"This is Dumpling. He's cute, but he'll knock over any plants so I wouldn't recommend you take up indoor gardening if you decide to live here." Logan eyes Dumpling warily before holding a hand out. Dumpling sniffs his fingers daintily and rubs head against his palm. "I think he likes you."

Logan huffs, the sound close to a laugh, and it makes you smile. He looks up at you and for a moment you forget that you're complete strangers who have just met. He feels inexplicably familiar, his presence comforting, and you're surprised by it.

"Let's look at the bedroom," you finally say, breaking the moment. You turn, heading for the hall and he follows behind you, steps surprisingly light for such a large man. You take him to the last door at the end of the hall and enter the empty room. "This is it. It's kind of small, but all the rooms in New York are pretty much shoe boxes. It's got a closet and access to the fire escape, though.”

"Better than the couch," he says, looking around the room. "You said $950?"

"Plus half of the utilities," you add. He nods.

"Look, I'll be honest. I'm...between jobs right now." He sighs. "And my schedule can be...unpredictable."

"Oh," you mumble. You think about it for a moment. Renting the apartment to Logan would be a risk but...you can't help but notice that exhaustion in his eyes, how it's clear he's trying to get back on his feet in one way or another. "That's okay. We can work something out."

He raises an eyebrow at you. "Really? You sure about that?"

Were you?

"Yeah," you reply. "I'm sure."

Having a roommate is...an adjustment.

Logan is great. He does his dishes in a timely manner, doesn't leave any clothes on the bathroom floor, and even cleans Dumpling's litter box from time to time.

But he drives you insane and it has nothing to do with his qualities as a roommate and everything to do with how unbearably attractive he is. He could be doing the most mundane activity and suddenly you're more turned on than a faucet on full blast. On top of it all, he's surprisingly sweet for such a gruff man.

Currently, you're watching him pour himself a glass of whiskey. You know he's probably preparing to take the drink to his room so that he can have a cigar on the fire escape, but you find yourself wanting his company.

"Logan?" you ask. He looks at you over his shoulder.

"Yeah, bub?"

"Would you...want to watch a movie? With me?"

He turns to fully face you, leaning against the counter and taking a sip of his drink, dark eyes on you over the rim of the glass. You swallow nervously, prepared to retract your offer and hide out in your room for the rest of eternity, but he puts you out of your misery.

"Sure." He comes over to the couch, taking a seat that's a respectable distance away. "What are we watching?"

"Have you seen The Greatest Showman?"

A musical. He's sitting through a goddamn musical.

"You kinda look like that guy," you say from beside him. Logan tilts his head.

"I don't see it."

"It's the bone structure."

"I'm bigger than him." You mumble something under your breath that he doesn't quite catch, though he thinks it sounded suspiciously like yeah, you are. "You say somethin'?"

"Huh?" You shake your head. "No, nope. Didn't say anything."

Logan relaxes against the back of the couch, settling in. You're curled up against the armrest, a blanket covering your legs and your arms wrapped around a throw pillow. You look relaxed, at ease, a stark contrast to how you had been when he first moved in. You spent more of your time hidden in your room and he's happy to see you're getting more comfortable around him.

It's also torture. You're like a drug that he can't get enough of, a high that doesn't last long enough. He clings desperately to every smile you grace him with and falls asleep with the sound of your voice echoing in his head. He wakes up looking forward to seeing you, even if it's just in passing before you head out for your very normal job as part of your very normal life.

That's what gives him pause. You're not like him, not built for violence, and he would never drag you into that life. He thinks about Vanessa and Wade and the wedge that was driven between them they're working to repair and he can't bear the thought of having you just to lose you.

Logan's so lost in his own thoughts he doesn't realize that the movie has ended and you haven't moved. Your head is angled in a way that has to be uncomfortable, your mouth dropped open as you breathe slowly and deeply. He grabs the remote from the coffee table and turns the TV off, plunging the room into darkness as he stands and quietly approaches you.

He slides one arm beneath your knees and using the other to support your back, lifts you from the couch. You settle your head against his chest but otherwise your sleep remains undisturbed as he carries you down the hall into your room.

It's not the first time he's been in your personal space. One time he woke up to Dumpling clawing at his chest and he marched the animal back to your room for the night, barging in on you while you had been up reading. He remembers the queen sized bed in a wooden frame and a dresser with a drawer that won't shut take up most of the space, the plain white of your walls replaced by a soft blue. You've installed what he first thought were regular shelves but later learned are meant for Dumpling to use for late night acrobatics that he can sometimes hear from his room.

Logan sets you gently on your bed and pulls the quilt up to your shoulders. Before he can think better of it, he reaches a hand toward your face, tracing his thumb over the high point of your cheek. You turn towards the sensation, chasing his touch, and his chest grows tight. He sighs, stepping back and turning for the door.

Dumpling sits in the doorway, flicking his tail. Logan steps around him into the hallway, the cat's gaze following him.

"Shut up," he whispers.

Dumpling meows in return.

You're disoriented when you wake the next morning. The last thing you remember is being on the couch with Logan and watching The Greatest Showman, but somehow you've ended up in your room. You turn over in bed to find Dumpling on your other pillow, curled in a ball.

"Morning, Dumpy," you murmur, scratching his head. "How'd we end up here?"

Dumpling blinks unhelpfully at you before uncurling from his spot and hopping from the bed, leaving through your open door. It's then that you notice that you can hear grunting noises coming from the living room.

You get up to investigate and stop dead in your tracks, mouth dropping open when you find the source of the noise is a shirtless Logan doing push ups on the living room floor. The broad muscles of his back ripple with each movement, each push accompanied by a small grunt that makes your thighs clench together, imagining him making that noise when--

Logan stops, jumping to his feet and you shake your head free of the salacious image it began to create. He turns, giving you an uninhibited view of his thick chest that's covered in dark hair that trails down over defined abs before disappearing beneath the elastic of his sweatpants. You have to say something, anything, but your brain is full of static, unable to operate when he's standing there looking like that.

"Morning," he says.

"Good morning!" you reply, voice pitched higher than usual. You walk past him in a way you hope is casual, heading for the kitchen and prepping the coffee machine. "You got any plans today?"

"Got a friend who needs my help with something. Don't know when I'll be back." His voice is much closer than you expected and you turn from the counter to find him right behind you, a scant few inches of space between your bodies.

"Oh?" you whisper, keeping your gaze firmly on his face. "Is everything okay?"

"It will be."

He drifts impossibly closer, chest nearly brushing yours. Your heart pounds in your chest, a frantic rhythm that's become familiar ever since Logan entered your life. Reaching above your head, he grabs two mugs in one large hand, setting them on the counter behind you before taking a step back and turning to head for his room without another glance in your direction.

You sag against the counter, a wave of lust addled adrenaline crashing over you and leaving you breathless. The last thing you need to be doing is getting involved with your roommate, no matter how tempting he may be.

Dumpling jumps up on the counter beside the coffee pot and stares at you, likely waiting for food, but it feels more like judgment in his green eyes.

"Shut up," you whisper to him.

Dumpling meows, batting you with a paw.

You're sitting on the couch when there's an unexpected knock at your door. Logan is still gone, helping a friend and you're not expecting anyone, so you’re not sure who it could be. You check the peephole before opening the door and see the distorted image of a man in a red suit and mask supporting the weight of your roommate against his side.

"What the fuck?" you ask as you open the door in a panicked rush. The masked man waves his fingers at you.

"Hi there! I've got a very," -- he grunts, adjusting his grip on Logan -- "heavy delivery."

Logan's eyes are closed, head flopped back on the masked man's shoulder. Blood stains his t-shirt in spots that look suspiciously like knife wounds and you gasp.

"What happened to him?!" you shout. "Oh my god, he needs to go to the hospital--"

"He just needs a little power nap," the man says. "I'm Wade, by the way. You mind if I just--"

Wade drags Logan through the apartment, depositing him on your couch with a huff, wiping his hands together. He looks around and you're shocked when the eyes of the mask seem to move, as if mimicking his facial expressions.

"This is a nice place," he says. Dumpling meows and Wade gasps. "You have a cat?! I wish I could pet you, sweet kitty, but Dogpool would put me in the dog house. Ha! Get it?"

"I'm confused," you manage to say. "My roommate is bleeding out on my couch after being dropped off by some wanna-be Avenger--"

"Ouch!"

"And you're saying he doesn't need to go to the emergency room?"

"Nope." Wade lifts Logan's shirt. "See? Good as new."

Despite the blood and tears on his shirt, there's no wounds on Logan's body. He shifts, lifting an arm to smack Wade's hand away as he groans, eyes fluttering open. He glares at the man.

"Get out," he growls.

"Now, now, that's not being a very good host, Logi. What, were you raised by wolves?" Wade replies. Logan roars, a ferocious sound that's more animal than man. His hand curls into a fist and sharp metal blades extend from between his knuckles. "Okay, okay, I'm leaving, no need for the murder mittens." Wade looks at you. "You should come to Sunday dinner!"

"Wilson!" Logan shouts. Wade finally heeds the man's warnings, rushing for the door without another word, shutting it behind him. Logan sags against the couch, blades retracting into his hand. He tilts his head back, closing his eyes.

You stand there in shock, trying to make sense of everything you just witnessed. Logan should be halfway to dead by now, but he doesn't even have a scratch on him. He has claws. How does he have claws?

"Can hear you thinking," Logan says, eyes still shut. "Just say it."

"Say what?" you ask. He lifts his head.

"Tell me to get out, scream, whatever it is."

You sit down on the couch, facing him. "Why would I do that?"

"Because that's what you should be doing."

His hand rests on his thigh and you reach for it, lifting it to eye level for a closer look at his knuckles. You trace your thumb over the smooth skin, up over his strong forearm. He watches you, face almost pained.

"I'm not scared of you," you whisper. "You wouldn't hurt me."

"But I could," he bites back.

"You won't." You're certain of that. You set his hand back on his thigh and stand from the couch, intending to grab him a glass of water from the kitchen, but he stops you with a hand around your wrist. His grip is loose enough that you could break free, but you don't.

Logan looks up at you with an unreadable expression, something close to fear mixed with a conflicting emotion that you think -- or hope -- might be desire. He tugs your wrist, bringing you to stand between his legs.

"How can you be so sure?" he asks.

You place your hand on his cheek, the coarse hair of his beard scratching at your palm. His eyelids flutter and his lips part on a sharp inhale.

"You're a good man, Logan Howlett," you murmur. He closes his eyes tightly and takes a deep breath.

His next movements are quick -- a hand on the back of your thigh, dragging you onto his lap, the other wrapping around the back of your neck to pull you close, his lips capturing yours in a savage kiss. You melt into him, meeting his urgency with your own desperation, tongues tangling together and fighting for dominance.

You pull back to trail kisses across his jaw until you reach his neck, sinking your teeth into the tan skin, just over his hammering pulse. Logan groans, fingers digging into the flesh of your ass, pulling you tightly against him as his hips buck into yours.

"Fuck," Logan says, voice a deep rumble that you feel to your marrow. "Do that again."

"Do what?" you tease.

"Bite me," he demands. "Make it hurt."

You obey, biting down into his shoulder with greater effort, sinking your teeth in deep until he hisses from the pain of it and you let go, lifting your head to look at the mark you've left behind. It fades quickly, disappearing without a trace.

"Jesus," he says, pulling you in for another kiss, slow and deep, as his hands find the hem of your shirt. "Let me see you."

You allow him to lift your shirt up and over your head, exposing your breasts to his hungry gaze. His touch makes you shiver despite the heat of his hands as he traces the curve of your waist up to your chest, his thumbs finding your nipples and teasing them with slow circles. You drop your head back with a moan and he takes the opportunity to kiss your neck, your collarbone, moving down until his lips wrap around one taut bud.

"Logan," you whine, digging your fingers into his hair and holding tight. He hums, the sensation making your eyes roll.

"Thought about this," he murmurs, switching to your other breast. "Every time you'd wear those goddamn tight shirts of yours."

"Really?"

"Mhm."

"Wanna know what I thought about?" You tug his hair, pulling his head away from your chest. "Sucking your cock."

He raises his eyebrow at you and you take the opportunity to slide from his lap, settling on your knees between his spread thighs. You work his belt loose, followed by the fly of his jeans. He reaches past the waistband to free his cock and your mouth waters at the sight. You could tell he was big while you were on his lap, but he's even more glorious than you imagined. Thick, long, with prominent veins and a slight upward curve that you know will hit all the right places.

You take him in your hand, appreciating the weight of him in your palm as you hold him steady. With your eyes locked on his face, you open your mouth and stick out your tongue to lick from the top of your fingers to the flushed head. He groans, his hand curling into a fist that he presses to his forehead.

"Fuck," Logan hisses. You do it again, this time swirling your tongue around the tip before taking him into your mouth, moving down his length slowly. "God, look at you. Mouth stuffed so full you're drooling, huh?"

He's right. Spit gathers at the corners of your lips and runs down your chin as you use your mouth to pleasure him. The sounds he makes above you are downright filthy, deep moans and filthy praise that have you moving faster, taking him deeper, working to get as much of him in your mouth as you manage without gagging. He cups your cheek with one large palm, thumb tracing your stretched lips.

"Keep going, sweetheart. You can take a little more, can't you? That's it," he says. Tears burn your cheeks with the effort to obey, your throat tightening around the head of his cock. "Fuck, that's a good girl."

You breathe deeply through your nose, maintaining a steady pace and using your hand in tandem with your mouth for what you can't easily take. Logan's hips begin to flex beneath you, his words trailing off into guttural growls. His cock twitches in your grasp and he moans your name before his release floods your mouth and you swallow it down.

You pull off of him with a slick pop, gasping for breath. Before you can say anything, Logan is hauling you to your feet as he stands from the couch, lifting you up with one strong arm beneath your ass and urging your legs around his waist.

"What are you doing?" you ask.

"Just getting started."

Logan kicks the door open to your room, startling Dumpling from his perch. The cat races out the door, disappearing into the living area as the door clicks shut. He sets you down on your bed and quickly rids himself of his boots and rest of his clothing before returning his attention to you.

You're lying there in your little sleep shorts that drive him nuts. The fabric barely covers your ass and there's been more than one occasion where he's shuffled into the kitchen in the mornings to see you in them, all the blood in his body rushing south at the sight. He joins you on the bed, on his knees between your spread thighs, and extends a single claw. Your eyes widen, but you don't pull away. In fact, you start squirming, hips flexing minutely against the mattress.

"Scared yet?" he asks.

"I wouldn't say that.”

He carefully slips the blade beneath the hem of your shorts, inching it up until it peeks out above the elastic waistband before twisting his wrist and slicing through the fabric like it's nothing. Claw retracted, he removes your ruined shorts and takes a moment to appreciate the vision you make, legs spread wide and your dripping pussy on display.

"You're a mess," he says, smoothing his hands over the soft skin of your legs. He lifts one of your knees, pressing a kiss to the inside of it before resting it on his shoulder. "Gonna clean you up."

Logan dips his head to your center, dragging his tongue through your soaked sex, groaning when the taste of you blooms across his tongue. Your fingers curl against his scalp, a sharp point of pleasure-pain as he explores your body. He swirls his tongue over your clit, experimenting with broad circles and sharp flicks until you're writhing beneath him.

"Logan," you cry, hips bucking against his face. He dips his tongue into your cunt, nose brushing your clit as he does, and he hums in satisfaction as your thighs tense around his head.

He looks up at you and drinks in the picture you make, gorgeous skin glistening with sweat and your back arched from the bed, chest heaving with desperate breaths. He wants this exact moment burned into his memory, certain it could chase away the dark shadows that linger there.

Logan presses two fingers to your hole, sliding them in with little resistance. You're so warm and tight, squeezing his fingers beautifully, calling out his name as he curls them when he drags them from your body.

"I'm going to come," you gasp. "Oh, fuck, just like that!"

You pulse around his fingers and he slows his movements to work you through it until you collapse against the mattress with a deep sigh. He carefully removes his hand and sits up on his knees.

"Guess I made more of a mess," Logan says. Your eyes squeeze shut with a breathless giggle.

"I'll forgive you," you reply. You reach your arms up for him and he moves to hover over you to accept your embrace. "God, Logan," you murmur, tilting your chin up to kiss him.

In this position, he's able to drag his cock through the slick mess between your thighs and you shiver beneath him, gasping into his mouth. He does it again, more purposeful this time and it drags a moan from you both.

"Please," you murmur.

"Please what, sweetheart? Tell me what you want," he replies. "What you need."

"Need you to fuck me."

Logan reaches between your bodies and positions the thick head of his cock at your entrance, pushing forward. The stretch of him is unreal, almost too much even with how wet you are for him.

"Relax," he says, holding himself steady above you. "You can take it."

You nod and he pushes forward another inch, letting you adjust, and repeating the process until the coarse hair at the base of his cock tickles your sensitive skin. You've never been so full, no other experience compares to this. No other man compares to Logan, in any way.

He starts moving slowly, dragging his hips back until you're nearly empty before plunging back inside. Each thrust puts stars in your vision, makes the knot of want and need coil tighter in your lower belly, until you're moaning his name and begging him to move faster, harder, deeper.

Logan obeys, thrusting into you with enough force that your head board collides with the wall. He sits back on heels, dragging you up with him until you're sitting in his lap and he's able to thrust up into you.

"Feel so fucking good," he says, lips against your neck. "Need you to come for me, baby."

You nod, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and holding him close, meeting each of his thrusts with a rock of your hips that drags your clit against him, your nerves buzzing with the friction and fullness. While the orgasm he wrenched from you with his mouth felt like a wildfire, this one builds and builds, a wave cresting until it finally crashes and you cry out his name.

Logan leans forward to drop you back onto the bed, reaching a hand up to grip your headboard as he continues to roll his hips into yours, chasing his own release. His thrusts begin to grow more desperate until he presses in deep and you're flooded with warmth as he growls, long and low. The sound of splintering wood breaks through your post-orgasmic haze and you tilt your head back to find that his claws have extended through your headboard, splitting the wood and embedding into the drywall.

"I can fix that," Logan says breathlessly, tugging his hand free, claws retracting. You grin at him.

"Later," you reply, pulling him in for a kiss.

You've got better things to do right now.

Thank you so much for reading! For more of my writing, check out my masterlists!

[burst-of-iridescent]

South Asian and Hindu Influences in ATLA (Part 1)

disclaimer: i was raised culturally and religiously hindu, and though i've tried to do my research for this post and pair it with my own cultural knowledge, i'm not an expert on hinduism by any means. should i mess up, please let me know.

please also be aware that many of the concepts discussed in this post overlap heavily with religions such as buddhism and jainism, which might have different interpretations and representations. as i'm not from those religions or cultures, i don't want to speak on them, but if anyone with that knowledge wishes to add on, please feel free.

it's well-known that atla draws from indigenous, east and southeast asian influences, but something i rarely see discussed in the fandom is the influences the show takes from hinduism and south asia, and there are actually far more than i think people are aware of.

so here's a (non-exhaustive list) of the main inspirations atla drew from south asian culture and hinduism, starting with...

The Avatar

the title of the show itself is taken from the ancient language of sanskrit, often considered the sacred tongue of the hindu religion. in sanskrit, the word "avatar" means to "descend" or "alight".

the concept of the avatar is a very old one, referring to the physical incarnation of a powerful deity or spirit. the idea of the avatar is most often linked to the god Vishnu, one of three supreme hindu gods collectively called the trimurti, or trinity. the avatar is said to manifest upon earth primarily in times of great need, when balance must be maintained between the forces of good and evil.

atla borrows heavily from this idea in having aang be the incarnation of a divine spirit who returns to the world during a time of immense strife, and is tasked with defeating a great evil to bring balance back to the world. and though i don't know if it was an intentional reference, it's interesting to note that Krishna, the most famous incarnation of Vishnu was also reborn amidst a fierce storm and carried through a raging sea to a new home where he would be protected from the king who sought to kill him. sounds a little familiar, doesn't it?

Agni Kai and the Philosophy of Firebending

the word "agni" derives from the sanskrit name Agni, the god of fire, though it can also generally mean "fire".

the concepts of lightning bending and the sun being the source of firebending are likely also taken from the idea of Agni, since he's said to exist simultaneously in three different forms on three different dimensions: as fire on earth, as lightning in the atmosphere, and as the sun in the sky.

Agni is a significant aspect of many rituals, including marriage rites, death rites, and the festivals of holi and diwali. the concept of Agni is one of duality: life and death, rebirth and destruction. hindu rituals accept and celebrate both aspects, revolving around the idea that destruction is not separate from creation, but rather necessary to facilitate it. the cremation of the dead, for instance, is seen as purification, not destruction: burning away the physical form so the soul is unencumbered, set free to continue the reincarnation cycle.

this influence can be seen in the firebending masters episode, which discusses the idea of fire being vital to life. the sun warriors safeguarding the original fire and demanding that zuko and aang bring fire to the dragons as a sacrifice could also reference the ritual of Agnihotra - the ritual of keeping a fire at the home hearth and making offerings to it. the purpose of this ritual differs depending on which text you refer to, but it is generally believed to purify the person and atmosphere in which it is performed, similar to how zuko and aang must make offerings to ran and shaw and survive their fire before being deemed worthy and pure.

Agnihotra is said to serve as a symbolic reminder of the vitality and importance of fire as the driving force of life, a lesson that zuko and aang also internalize from their encounter with the dragons.

Bumi

bumi's name is taken from the sanskrit word "bhumi", which means "earth". it's also the name of the hindu goddess of the earth, bumi or bhudevi.

one of the things the original animation didn't do and which i really enjoyed about the live action was that they made bumi indian and added desi inspiration to omashu. it makes perfect sense for a king whose name is as hindu-inspired as they come.

NWT Royal Palace

chief arnook's palace in the northern water tribe takes inspiration from the gopurams of hindu temples, massive pyramidal structures that served as entrance towers to the temple.

gopurams were built tall enough to be seen for miles around, beacons to signal tired or weary travellers who wished for a place to rest that a temple was nearby. it's a nice touch that the chief's palace is located in front of the spirit oasis, a similarly symbolic entryway to a sanctuary housing otherworldly deities.

Betrothal Necklaces

to preface: i doubt this was an intentional reference, and this great post talks about other cultures that could have inspired the water tribe betrothal necklaces. given the desi influence in the nwt architecture however, i figured it was worth mentioning.

the idea of betrothal necklaces being given to women by their male partners is similar to the thaali, a necklace given to hindu wives by their husbands. during hindu weddings, grooms tie the thaali around their brides' necks to symbolize their marriage. once given, wives are expected to wear their thaali till the day they die, as doing so is believed to bring good luck, health and prosperity to their husbands.

Chi-Blocking

though chi-blocking takes primary inspiration from the art of Dim Mak, it is also influenced by the south indian martial arts forms of adimurai and kalaripayattu, both of which include techniques of striking vital points in the body to disable or kill an opponent.

kalaripayattu also shares parallels with firebending, being a very physically demanding, aggressive martial art that emphasises the importance of discipline and mental fortitude. control of the mind is essential to control of the body, a philosophy similar to that espoused by iroh across the show.

Wan Shi Tong's Library

the library draws inspiration partly from the taj mahal, the famous mausoleum constructed by shah jahan during the mughal empire as a monument to his beloved wife, mumtaz mahal.

i'll end this post here since it's getting too long as it is, and the following section will be even longer. for while atla treated the concepts in this post with respect, the same unfortunately cannot be said for its depiction of guru pathik and combustion man - both of which we'll be discussing next.

[myownwholewildworld]

acta, non verba - i. a badge of honour

series masterlist | main masterlist | chapter 2 pairing: conqueror!marcus acacius x ofc!reader. synopsis: scotland, 83 AD after the battle of mons graupius. the romans have come up to the boundaries of their empire with a relentless desire to conquer the savages that inhabit the highlands. they won't rest until the Caledonian tribes are subjugated. Marcus Acacius is in charge of your clansmen's fate, but if such fate is similar to your family's, you know you need to do something about it. as the only living daughter of the tribe chief, your people look to you for leadership. power plays, treason, deception, rebellion, war, love, heartbreak, betrayal. and two souls, destined to despise each other, trying to navigate it all. a/n: well, here it is! the first chapter of my new series, set in what is now scotland, during the romans' conquest of the british isles in the 1st century. hope you guys like it! as always, all interactions welcome. thank you so much for reading! <3 warnings: 18+, mdni. death, aftermath of a battle, burial of family members. reader is an original character - female, has a name (callie) and a physical description, family history, etc. i'll try to keep the references to a minimum though. age gap (callie is 26, marcus is 48). mention of infidelity and becoming a widow. marcus’ and reader’s pov. i have taken some historical licenses for ease of writing (use of "clan" as synonym for "tribe", references to irish/celtic gods, the caledonian people speak modern scottish gaelic instead of a (proto-)brittonic language). w/c: ~4.2k. dividers by @saradika-graphics i'll be tagging some people at the end of the chapter who interacted with this post. dw, i won't tag you in the next chapters unless you ask me to! also, if you want to be removed from this post, please send me a dm.

A light breeze whistled through the nearby standing stones. The dying sun provided no heat, and the ethereal landscape was cold with hues of blue and grey. Despite the shimmering wildlife that came with the first hints of spring, the meadow was uncannily silent.

The crows cackling in the distance broke such tranquil peace and woke you from your slumber.

Slowly you blinked, something wet and warm covering your eyelids. You felt it slide down your skin, pooling in the dip of your collarbone. Your limbs felt so heavy, you couldn’t lift a hand to rub your eyes clean. In fact, you were so tired that even taking a deep breath hurt.

Your orbs fluttered shut, shattered and defeated.

Dhuosnos, God of the Dead, was calling you to His side. His presence was soothing, so inviting, the most melodic sounds guiding you to Him. With the eyes of your dying imagination, He extended a welcoming hand towards you, a soft smile on His mythical features.

“Come with me, sweet child of the tribes.” A guttural voice escaped His lips, so dark and sombre it enveloped you.

You nodded, gaze down, submitted to Him.

“You can’t just take her, Dhuosnos. Callie is yet to avenge them — her purpose must be fulfilled first before she can greet you as an equal.” A second voice, feminine, otherworldly and reassuring, interrupted your exchange.

Morrígan, Goddess of War, placed Her hand on Dhuosnos’ forearm as to stop Him from reaching you. A stone of relief, but also of disappointment, sat low in your stomach when He took a step back, head bowed towards Her.

Steadily you undid your curtsy, your green eyes locking on Hers. They were black as the night sky, Her pupils and irises indistinguishable from one another. You looked into the abyss of Her sight and felt a deep-rooted longing, one you never experienced before.

“You are not done yet, mo leanabh (my child). Your people await your return.” Morrígan palmed your trembling hand, escorting you back to the earthly plane.

“But…”, you turned around to look at Her, ask for Her advice.

But She had already vanished, a sweet scent of lavander left behind.

You gasped awake, your eyes so widened, the cloudy, sunset sky above felt like it was crashing down on you. You were laying down on a pool of mud. A deep, raspy grunt escaped your lungs as you tried to move your arms. When you couldn’t, you looked down, confused.

Aengus’ lifeless body was resting on top of yours. Your father’s henchman had made the ultimate sacrifice by hiding you underneath him, away from the prying eyes of the Romans. The dense liquid caressing the skin on your face was none other than his blood. A trickle of thick red dripped from the gnarly wound in his neck on to your cheek. His eyes were staring at you emptily, his soul had already left this world when you regained consciousness.

Your father, Murdoch of Inbhir Nis, the Caledonian Overlord, had come to the aid of the Taexalian Overlord, whose territory was succumbing to the legions of Gnaeus Julius Agricola, a Roman governor with a high desire to impress his Emperor, Titus Flavius Domitianus.

Your father had gathered as many fighers as the Caledonian lands could give him. Both men and women were called to arms when the tribes were threatened. Being the daughter of the Chieftain would not spare you. You would not have chosen differently anyway, had you been given the opportunity. Fighting for land, clan and honour was your duty as much as your brothers’ and sister’s.

The journey from Inbhir Nis (Inverness) to Cala na Creige (Stonehaven) had been unforgiving, with illness and evil lying in wait. But you all had been warmly welcomed by the Taexali tribe and were fed copiously, the uisge-beatha (whisky) being served like water.

Your combined armies, shy of fifteen thousand folk, had been ambushed at Raedykes during a repositioning exercise by the Roman troops led by Agricola’s most trusted man.

General Marcus Acacius.

His mere name made you sick, anger crawling under your skin.

Fighting off your own opponents, you had seen the Roman General charge against your father like a beast, wielding a gladius over his head. The metallic impact of their swords rang loud across the landscape. The men looked into each other’s souls, an exchange of words shared between them. You were too far to listen, too far to fully see what was really happening as warriors from both sides danced through the grass.

Then you foresaw it before it happened: the heavy Roman sword fell on your father, who was struck to his knees with the General’s blade lodged in his belly.

You tried to get to him, screaming “Athair (father)!” at the top of your lungs. His eyes locked on yours before he fell sideways. You lunged forward but didn’t get to him, Aengus stopping you in your tracks.

“No, Callie, it’s too late now”, he had sorrowfully whispered in your ear before throwing you off to one side to fend off an attacker.

And then blackness swallowed you, an enemy hit you in the head so hard you lost consciousness.

That was how you came to be where you were — with your back flat on the silt and Aengus’ body blanketing yours. The grey sky above you sensed your pain, and, at Taranis’ command, it parted in the middle. The God of Thunder released a downpour to clean the blood, soot and woad’s blue dye off your face and hair.

You cried your sadness away, rainy tears sliding off the corners of your eyes — your anger, your loss, your torment, you purged it all, sobbing until you were devoid of all emotion. Taking a deep breath, which caused a needling pain on your ribs, you pushed Aengus to one side to free yourself from his weight.

The thudding sound he made almost brought more tears to your eyes.

“Sorry, uncail (uncle)”, you muttered, hovering your fingertips over his eyelids to shut them for him. Now he could finally rest.

You stood up, your knees trembling like a newborn calf. A searing pain stabbed your skull, dried blood and dirt gathering on the wound on your scalp. With a straight back, you dared to look around you. The bodies of your own men and women were scattered around the hills of Raedykes. So many lives lost, you heard all your ancestors screaming from above, their cries falling upon you in the way of rain. The green, long grass was reddened with blood, but the weeping sky had started to wash away the atrocities committed by the Romans.

Then you saw him. Your athair.

“No, no, please, no...”, you whispered as your sight became blurry again, dragging your feet towards the fallen body of your dad.

Your soul tried to tear itself apart, become its own entity. You had to summon the last drop of the royal blood that ran through your veins to keep yourself in one piece. You knelt before him, craddling his bloody hand between yours. Unconciously your body rocked back and forth until you hugged him, laying flat on top of him.

Time stood still, like a thread on the expert hands of a wool weaver. It could have been minutes, hours or days, your pain too great to bear, to comprehend.

And then you felt a hand lightly tap your shoulder.

You startled, your mind and body jumping back into survival mode, gripping your sgian-dubh (small knife) close to your chest.

“It’s okay, mo phiuthar (my sister). It’s me, Torcall”, a raspy, masculine voice forced you to focus on the man in front of you.

He was your father’s most important tacksman and also husband to your older sister Mairead — your sweet Maisie, as you always called her. She was the eldest of the four siblings while you were the youngest. Always so witty and quick with a joke, Maisie kept up the spirits even when the circumstances were dire — in fact, before your paths had parted during the battle, she jested about your H-shaped shield being larger than you.

When you turned around, Torcall flattened his hands on your shoulders, slightly shaking you so you would come back to reality.

His blue eyes pierced through you, the situation becoming clearer in your mind. Thousands of your tribesmen were dead. Your father too.

“Maisie?”, you asked in a hush. Your heart clenched when your brother-in-law shook his head no. You were afraid to speak, but you did nonetheless. “Aodh and Somhairle?”

Torcall stared at you, his silence speaking loudly. “They are all dead.”

The air evacuated your lungs, feeling as if a spear had run through you. Learning about the death of Maisie and your twin brothers broke something within you, something fundamental and primal. They were your everything, your most trusted confidants. Despite being of different ages, you all were so tight-knit it was difficult to find one of you alone.

A heart-shattering wail escaped your lips as you bent over yourself, your chest snug against your knees.

Morrígan had unashamedly claimed most of your family that day, except for your beautiful mother. Now Her words made sense: you were yet to avenge them, to fulfil your purpose. She had spared you for a reason, not so you could pity yourself, knees deep in the mud.

To avenge them, you had to kill the hand who showered this tragedy upon you.

General Marcus Acacius.

A raven’s strident, gurgling croak forced you to look up to the skies — a subtle reminder that Morrígan was watching closely. The massive bird was circling above your heads, like a vulture waiting to feast on a carcass. With resolution, you wiped away your tears, your sobs now silent, and nodded at Torcall.

“I understand. How many…?”, your voice faltered before you could finish your question.

“A couple of thousands. We have found cover in the Dunnottar Woods while we regroup and… bury our dead.” Torcall replied, his eyes averted with the last sentence.

You had lost a sister, but he had lost a wife, the mother to his now half-orphaned children. “I’m sorry”, you muttered, your lips pouting once more.

“She died fighting, the death of a warrior.” His proud voice did not waver. “And your father?”

Your heart wept at his mention but managed to control the anxious fluttering.

“The General killed him.” Your teeth gritted with hatred.

“Mo bana-phrionnsa (my princess)”, one of your father’s retinue members bowed his head to you once you walked into the circle they had formed in a meadow between the trees.

A few dozen men were scattered around the area, fires lighting the dark night while shades of red and orange flickered, creating fiery, dancing shades. You held a torch and carefully waved it in front of you, looking at the faces who watched you back eagerly.

You saw in your men what was brewing inside you: despair, defeat, sorrow. All your souls grieving in unison — all of you had lost someone that day.

At six and twenty, you did not expect to be in this position. You were the youngest daughter of the Overlord — you were never meant to lead your people. The task ahead of you felt titanic, unachievable.

But you had no other option. General Marcus Acacius had forced your hand.

He came, he saw, he conquered.

And now you had to deal with the gut-wrenching outcome of his departure.

“We’ll go back home to Inbhir Nis. But before that, we must give burial to our people.” You had to make a herculean effort to infuse your tone with steadiness.

Torcall first, and then the rest, bowed their heads to you.

“As you command, mo bana-phrionnsa”, he replied, and quickly barked orders around in your stead.

Your chest felt heavy with responsibility and grief. What pained you the most was not being able to carry your brothers and sister with you back home. They would not be buried under the cairns near you family home with the rest of your ancestors.

And what was worst — thousands of lives now depended on you. The weight of your tribe's destiny heavily rested on your shoulders now, like Atlas carrying the heavens.

Maisie, Aodh and Somhairle had been lined up on a patch of wildflowers that you had picked yourself the night prior — their arms were threaded together with your sister in the middle. Your clansmen had also surrounded the makeshift burial pit with wood to aid the combustion.

As you placed the last stone on top of them, you also deposited a bright, bloomed thistle. The flower that blossomed in every nook and cranny of your beautiful motherland, despite the harsh winter or conditions it faced. Like the phoenix rising from the ashes, it would always come back, stronger and more brightful than ever.

Devotion, bravery, determination, and strength — the thistle was a badge of honour for the Caledonians.

With a renewed brawn unbeknownst to you, you threw the lighted torch and watched as the fire consumed the bodies underneath the stones.

There were no tears left within you. Only purpose and resolution.

The way back to Inbhir Nis was tiring and soul-crushing. Hiking through the Cairngorms had been a difficult task with so many people behind you, but luckily you all managed to make it through without any losses.

With each mile covered, you saw the devastation left behind by the Romans. If this was any indication of what awaited ahead, you should start bracing yourself for what you would see. It seemed that the Romans were set towards the northwest — Inbhir Nis was right in their path.

You quickly recognised the landscape as you walked towards Loch Moy. A thick, dark column of smoke towered above the pine trees. Your heart raced as you picked up your dark green skirt and ran towards the loch, ignoring the calls of your brother-in-law.

You could run through those woods blindly — this was the land where you were born, the land you were named after. Your name was an unusual one — Caledonia, in honour of the earth beneath your rushing feet. Just a few people called you Callie, mainly your family and closest friends. With your bright, fiery red hair, green almond eyes and a face dotted with freckles, you were the epitome of your people. That was probably why when someone new learned your name, they always said it suited you.

Dodging the last few trees, you made it to the edge of the loch. In the shallows, the crannog of Naimh, your community’s healer, was burning down to its foundation. You covered your mouth with a sombre expression, your eyes itchy because of the dense smoke and unspent tears.

The Romans had gotten to your settlement before you did.

“Callie, wait up”, said Torcall behind you, struggling to catch up with you.

He halted right behind you, the silence between you was almost tangible.

“The rangers have returned from their reconnaissance mission.” His voice was plain, contained. You turned your heard towards him, slowly, hardening yourself for his next words. “Your mother is dead.”

The last glimmer of hope within you vanished. A single tear skidded through your cheek — angrily, you wiped it off.

You were alone in this world. Everyone you cared for had been taken from you.

“Is everything to your liking, Dominus (Master)?”, the male roman servant asked in a low hush, head bowed, eyes fixed on the cobblestone.

“Yes, now leave”, Marcus dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

The General looked around him with a mixture of curiosity and disgust. He was accustomed to much more elegant surroundings. Although the barbarians did try, their architecture was nothing in comparison to Rome’s.

The castle he was in was small and it only had two floors. It was mainly made of sturdy, grey rocks and dark wood. The design was not very sophisticated, all square and rugged edges. It had two towers and a barbican. The decoration inside was bare, with just enough furniture and no luxuries.

The only warmth was brought by the colourful tapestries adorning the cold, thick walls — one had caught Marcus' attention at his arrival when he first entered the dais. It told a story he had not heard before.

A dragon-like figure lurked beneath the rippling surface of a lake, attracting the attention of the villagers. At dusk it would emerge, a guttural sound echoing in the dead of night, as if it was calling another. Any bìrlinns (wooden vessel) left on the shore would appear destroyed the next morning. Fishermen were worried and called upon the town's druids, afraid of the Loch Ness monster. To appease the beast, every full moon, the druids would whorship the creature, bringing oblations and sacrificies to quench its thirst.

Marcus made a mental note of keeping his distance from that Loch Ness. As a devoted Roman, he was wary of the mystic creatures that skulked in the depths of human fear.

Although he missed his home, he had several debts to pay. The Emperor would not accept no for an answer, so he had to be a reluctant participant in this incursion — in fact, neither Domitian nor Agricola had really asked him to tame the highlanders up in Caledonia. They knew his skills would be most needed in combat, having been praised by bards and poets alike after his many years in the battlefield.

At eight and forty, Marcus Acacius had had his good share of tragedy and death, both personal and in war. His life had not been easy, having to forge a name of his own since childbirth and then having been recently betrayed by his own spouse.

The thought of Livia still angered him — she had had the audacity of blaming him for her infidelity, accusing him of always being away, of loving Rome more than his own family. Her cheating had been going on for as many years as their arranged marriage, throwing a doubtful shade on his paternity to both his children.

His life had come crumbling down in the last few months, so maybe coming to Britannia had not been such a bad idea. Female adultery was a crime penalised with death and that was a decision that Marcus had yet to make — outing Livia’s unfaithfulness would condemn her to Pluto's realm. Did he really want that for who had been his wife for more than thirty years?

Pinching the bridge of his hooked nose, Marcus walked towards the only window in the room. The roman took a deep breath and exhaled steadily — he needed to think of something else.

His mind went back to the battle of Mons Graupius. The spilling of blood never became easier with time — if anything, it had become harder, splintering his soul further. If he closed his eyes, he could still hear the piercing, pained shriek of a woman as he imparted death on Murdoch of Inbhir Nis.

Her hair was dyed with black soot and tied back, her face covered in a blue paste and ash. He was too far to catch the colour of her eyes, but he thought them dark azure. The fierceness of her expression took him aback, her voice shouting a word he did not recognise. But his eyes did not have time to linger on the feral woman a few yards away, because a savage attacked him.

His hand stilled on the rocky window’s sill. The barbarians called this place Inbhir Nis. The stone castle was that of the chief’s family, atop of a hill with views to the scenery underneath. It was rudimentary and lacked many commodities — nothing comparable to his villa in Rome. The tribal settlement was formed of huts made of stone, timber and hay.

Agricola had decided to burn down the outskirts of the town and killed the wife of the clan chief making a macabre example of her, so the people would submit to the Roman’s yoke quickly, crushing any opportunity of rebellion. The message was clear: Rome would not tolerate being challenged. Anyone who did, would face the most painful of deaths. The governor left to go northward, leaving Marcus behind to rebuild the area to Rome’s standards. The emperor had deemed the location an important enclave for his empire, being the main town in the Moray Firth.

Marcus was standing in what he thought was the bedchamber of Murdoch. With the Overlord and his family alienated, the primitive people of the highlands needed educating and he had been given the task of doing so. Not a welcomed one, but he had a duty to Rome that had to be fulfilled.

With a heavy sigh, he undid the brooch at the base of his neck, relieving himself of the heavy, white sagum (cape) that was part of his attire. He threw it on the uncomfortable bed. He unfastened the golden, laurel-shaped bracelets around his wrists, and then proceeded to undo the tight knots that held his armour in place.

Then a knock on the thick, wooden door broke the silence of the room.

“Come in”, thinking it would be his male servant, he didn’t turn around.

“Dominus, dinner is ready”, a very soft voice with a very marked accent made him look over his shoulder.

A pair of very bright, almond-shaped, emerald-green eyes locked on his, framed by what he would describe as fire hair — so red it looked like a hellish aura crowning your head.

So bright were your eyes, he almost felt his soul being examined by your hypnotising gaze. Marcus had never seen eyes like those.

How dared he stand where your father did? Anger shimmered under your skin, but you kept it in check. When you realised you were holding his gaze for longer than what was appropriate for a servant girl, you averted your eyes, inspecting the stones under your feet.

Torcall called you mad for doing this, but you had made up your mind. If you really wanted to overthrow the Roman General and win back your family’s castle and land, you would need to sew yourself into his everyday life. Gain his trust, learn his secrets and use that information against him. Your people were counting on you for freedom, and you would not allow yourself to disappoint them. Even if it was the last thing you did.

“Who are you?”, his raspy voice filled the atmosphere as he resumed the task of undoing the ties on his armour.

Did he have no shame, undressing himself in front of a maid? Mind you, you were not an innocent servant, having been widowed recently. But still. The romans had no modesty, you assumed.

You had to think quickly. You had learnt that the governor and the general both thought the whole chief’s family dead, so you could not out yourself. A very few, selected people called you Callie, almost always in the intimacy of your home, when strangers were not around. Your nickname was precious to you because it was only used by those you loved.

“My name is Callie, Dominus”, you offered your nickname in a rusty Latin. It had been a while since you had to use a language that was not your native one.

“Callie.” The way your name rolled off his tongue gave you goosebumps. You didn’t like the way he pronounced it — it lingered in his mouth for too long, dragging each letter. You wished your words back, but you couldn't change it now.

Instead of clenching your jaw, you nodded. “Yes, my lord, I’m one of the servant girls who tended to the clan chief’s family before you.” You explained, your head still bowed.

You ventured your eyes up for a second, catching a glimpse of his naked torso. Unconsciously, you pursed your lips. The way your heart pounded loud for that one second made you furrow your brows in confusion.

He might be a gorgeous man, but he was a killer. And you had no taste for soulless murderers, that much you knew about yourself.

“Call my attendant, Atticus, to help me get ready for supper. I have no need of you. And ask the kitchen staff to heat some water and bring it up here.” His tone was emphatic, unwavering.

His rejection, in other circumstances, would have been most welcomed, but you needed him to trust you, to confide in you so you could plot his demise — to destroy him. This was not a good start to your plan, but you needed to play the long game.

“I could certainly help you with a bath now, Dominus, but your wish is my command.” You forced the words out, when in reality you wanted to spit them to his murderous face.

He just nodded in your direction, his movements stiff and measured. “Just my attendant will suffice, now go.”

With your fingers laced on your back, you curtsied, walking backwards towards the door of your father’s bedchamber. You could not seem too eager, or he would become suspicious.

When you were in the corridor with the door closed behind you, you took a deep breath and straightened your back.

You would not take no for an answer. Marcus Acacius would yield to you, whatever the cost.

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[mostlymarvelsstuff]

Winter Fireflies

Summary: Despite knowing Natasha for years and dating her for a while now, you're still unaware of when her birthday is. So when Yelena lets it slip, you decide to give her a small surprise.

Authors note: Happy Birthday Natasha! 💖

Authors note 2.0: sorry this is out so late, I got distracted today lmao. Smutty birthday drabble coming later!

Word count: Marvel Masterlist Nat Masterlist

   When you walk into the kitchen, you're bummed by the abscence of Natasha. You’ve been trying to track her down since you’d woken up alone in your bed, and had already looked in practicaly every other corner and crevice of the place. Thankfully the kitchen had at least been nice enough to give up Yelena, and you were sure would know her sisters whereabouts.

   “Do you know where Nat is?” you ask, strolling over to the fridge for a much needed bottle of water

   She shrugs, “She spends a lot of time alone on her birthdays”

   You choke on the sip of water you’d just taken, “What did you just say?!”

   “Oh shit” she exclaims, eyes going wide. She knew her older sister liked to keep a lot of things close to her chest, but even she hadn’t seen this coming, “She really didn’t tell you?”

   “No.” you admit, turning your head away from the blonde

   The two of you have been together for little over a year now, and you’ve been friends for nearly five, so the fact that you still had no idea when her birthday was left you feeling more than a bit embarrassed. Because even though nobody else knew either due to Nat having Fury wipe the more personal info from all her files, you thought that the bond the two of you had that helped forge your relationship would have changed matters for you.

   Didn’t she trust you enough by now to let you in? Its not like she hadn’t opened up to you about other things. You knew about most of her experiences in the Red Room, including her massive guilt and her nightmares. You knew about the Ohio mission and her sisterly bond with Yelena. You knew about Dreykov and his abuse. So why was her birthday such an elusive subject?

   Yelenas brows furrow as she registers the multitude of different emotions etched upon her features and though this is her sisters fault for not being open with you, she feels guilty for letting the meaning of the date slip

   “I am sorry, Y/n. I thought you knew”

   You just nod and let the fridge door slam harder than intended, “Not your fault”

   You have half a mind to just turn and head to your room for the day and ignore anyone that came knocking. If your girlfriend wanted space and privacy so badly, then you’d give it to her….but the bigger part of you knew you couldn’t do that to her. Natasha isn’t doing this out of spite or to intentionally hurt you, she just gets a little lost sometimes.

   “Where does she go?”

   “I’m honestly not sure” she answers, afraid she's only dampening your modd “But I know she's always back around dinner”

   You glance at the clock and see that you have about three hours, “Wanna help me with something?”

    She notices the hint of excitement in your eyes and finds herself intrigued, “I would love to.”

    When Natasha had returned to the compound she had expected to find you in the kitchen helping Wanda make dinner, but when she didn’t find you there she imagined that you must still be up in your room. To her confusion however, you aren’t there either, and she feels a twinge of guilt knaw at her chest. She should have told you by now what today was and why it was so hard for her, she knew you’d be understanding. And regardless, should have at the very least have left you a note so you didn’t have to wonder why you’d woken up alone.

   “Sestra(sister)” 

   She spins around in your doorway, “Lena, have you seen Y/n?”

   “Funny, I was asked a very similar question from her this morning”

   The redhead shuts her eyes, “You must think I’m a terrible girlfriend”

   “No” she admits with a shake of her head, “But I do think you are very lucky to have the one that you do.”

   Nats brows furrow, “I agree, but why do I feel that has a hidden meaning?”

   The younger woman shrugs, “I wouldn’t know, but she's in your room”

   Nat nods, and though she's still suspicious she heads off to her room instead. Once there she opens the door and is met with quite the surprise. Right above the doorframe a few streamers are hung, in the corner by her widow is a bundle of different colored balloons, and in the middle of her bed sits you with a couple of boxes.

   “Kotenok(kitten), what is this?” she asks, despite the obvious answer. Afterall, she hadn’t told you so why would you celebrate her even if you did find out todays signifigance

   “Its your birthday” you reply with a smile, “I know its been a while since you celebrated, so I hope this is okay. I didn’t want to go too overboard on decorations and presents, even though you definitely deserve to be spoiled”

   Taken aback by your gesture, she finds herself beginning to get choked up, “I- yeah, yeah. Its more than fine”

   “You sure?” you ask, feeling a bit nervous that you may have overstepped

   “I’m sure.” she responds, walking twords you, “I’m sorry I never told you, I just…I never had this. In the Red Room, special occasions didn’t exist. And in Ohio, everything about them was fake. There wasn’t any real gifts, care or love and I…I didn’t want that again. I didn’t want a giant fake display of affection meant for show. I wanted something truly meant for me, something real”

   You gently cup her face and wipe away the tears that she hadn’t even realized had been forming and slipping down her cheeks, “Well, I can assure you that this is all very real, baby. And all for you”

   She gives you a soft smile, “Yeah?”

   “Yeah” you assure her, gently kissing her lips, “Now come see what I got you”

   Despite her current age, youd think she was a kid again with the dizziness she feels as you lead her over to the bed. You pull over the larger all white box first, and she immediately knows its the kind of box that bakeries have. Her eyes are practically shining with excitement as she looks back at you and you gesture for her to open it.

   Inside she finds a white circular cake thats decorated with running gold icing and intricatly made icing flowers. In the middle is a small plaque wishing her a happy birthday, and in all honesty, if this was all she ever got from now on then she’d be happy.

   “I hope you like sprinkles, I had them put them between cake layers for you.” you ramble, as you were honestly a bit nervous on how shed react to everything

   “I love sprinkles” she says, looking back at you, “And I love the cake. Thank you detka(baby)”

   You practically beam at her, “You're welcome. Now, open this”

   The next item you hand her is also in a box, only this time its black and definetly isn’t from the bakery. If she had to guess, its some form of jewerly. She takes it from you and opens it to reveal elegant golden bands, one for each wrist.

   “I’ve been working on these for a while now, Tony helped design them of course” you explain, “They can do everything your widows bites can. That way, you never have to go undercover, or even to one of Tonys galas, without them again.”

   She honestly hadn’t expected you to have remembered the brief conversation she’d had with you about how, despite practically being a weapon herself and always having a hidden gun or blade on her during undercover ops, she just feels like she’d feel more secure with her most trusted tool.

   “They don’t even look like weapons.”

   You chuckle, “Well, that was kinda the point, so I’m glad to hear that”

   She smiles at you and sets the box down to grab your hand, “Thank you, Y/n. This really has been the best birthday”

   “Don’t thank me yet, we still have one more thing” you tell her, glancing back over at her window to ensure it was dark enough outside

   “Another gift? Detka(baby), you shouldn’t have” 

    You squeeze her hand, “Actually, this ones from Yelena”

    Amused and curious, she follows as you lead her over to the widow and she lets out a soft gasp as she catshes sight of whats just beyond the compound in the woodline. Just on the edge, in a few of the pines, lay stings of light that glow a faint yellow, that flicker on and off in turn. 

   “Forrest stars” 

   Its merely a whisper, but you hear it along with the wonder in her voice. You imagine she must be reliving on of the few good childhood memories she has and you can’t help but wrap one of your arms around her and pull her closer

   “Happy birthday, baby”

Taglist: @wandaromamoff69 @mmmmokdok @nataliasknife @natashasilverfox @when-wolves-howl @danveration @naomi-m3ndez @sheneonromanoff @sayah13 @likefirenrain @nighttime-dreaming @just-a-torn-up-masterpiece @readings-stuff @chaoticevilbakugo @crystalstark02 @wackymcstupid @xchaiix @iaminluvwithnat @lovelyy-moonlight @blackwidow-3 @mistressofinsomnia @that-one-gay-mosquito @yomamagf @yourfavdummy @justarandomreaderxoxo @scoutlp23-blog @whoischanelle15 @lissaaaa145 @eline03 @wizardofstories @imthenatynat @marvelonmymind @fluffyblanketgecko @bitch-616 @dakotastormm  @zoomdeathknight @rayeofmoonlight @aeroae @sashawalker2

[q-nihachu]

Timestamps from Niki's stream with summaries of the Tubbo-Herobrine lore!

2h 39m - Empanada and Niki wonder why Tubbo is on so late with a weird skin. They decide to go talk to him.

2h 40m - They find Tubbo dressed as Herobrine, spinning on his back on the ground to music. Bagi explains that he has a date with Fred and is probably nervous.

2h 46m - Bagi uses rainbow jelly on Tubbo, and he resumes standing upright. He seems to have a sort of weird power where, when he points at people, they disappear or reappear.

2h 53m - Tubbo makes all of the eggs disappear and reappear. Niki asks him if he’s evil, and he shakes his head. She gets blinded for a few seconds.

2h 55m - Tubbo flies into the air and logs off.

(interim)

3h 9m - Niki, Bad, Empanada, and Richas are working on Empanda’s egg carton room when they see Herobrine-Tubbo on the tablist again. Niki goes to see what’s going on.

3h 10m - Tubbo, in a different voice: We are not done yet. Take me to shells. Shells now. Small little shells.

Niki figures out that he means the eggs but refuses to take him to where they are. He calls her the “Keeper of the Shells” and continues to ask to be taken to them.

3h ?m - Niki: Do you know Tubbo? Are you Tubbo?

Tubbo-Herobrine: Unimportant.

3h 26m - Empanada arrives.

Tubbo-Herobrine: Shell, I must share news. Are you important?

Empanada: to my family and friends yes

Tubbo-Herobrine: In everything?

Empanada: oh I don’t know?

Tubbo-Herobrine: What is everything to you?

Empanada: my family and friends

Tubbo-Herobrine: So you are important.

3h 30m - Tubbo-Herobrine points at Empanada, and she disappears. He thanks Niki, but she asks him to bring Empanada back. He says “In 60 seconds.”

3h 31m - He asks Niki if she’s important. She says everyone is important. He brings Empanada back.

3h 33m - Tubbrine says he needs a home, and Niki says they can help.

3h 34m - They find out Tubbrine is a creation of Tubbo from the Tubchunk. He asks them not to tell Tubbo about it.

Tubbrine: Creator will not be mad. Just will have to start over. When start over, I end. I end forever.

3h 38m - Tubbrine now says he needs the “Jump keeper,” seemingly referring to Niki.

Tubbrine: I struggle with jump.

3h 41m - Tubbrine stands in the water and says that it hurts. Niki puts down scaffolding for him.

3h 48m - Niki figures out that there’s a conflict Tubbrine needs help with. It seems to have something to do with Tubbrine’s ranking of the eggs’ importance. Niki thinks he’s looking for Sunny.

3h 51m - Tubbrine says he wants the egg with the aggressive personality that “may be powerful.” Empanada guesses he wants Moon, Sunny’s alter ego.

Tubbrine: May be childish.

Niki: Sounds like Richas.

3h 53m - Tubbrine says he can’t say Empanada’s rank, but she’s high.

~ 3h 56m - Tubbrine disappears.

3h 57m - Tubbrine reappears while Niki is afk and insists that Empanada go with him. She leaves a sign for Niki explaining and does.

3h 59m - Niki returns and starts to panic, searching for them, but quickly finds them nearby. She continues trying to decipher what he wants.

4h 5m - Richas arrives with Bad, and it seems to be what Tubbrine was looking for! Tubbrine questions him in a similar fashion to Empanada about importance.

4h 14m - Tubbrine makes Richas disappear, saying he was dangerous.

Tubbrine: Shell is now safe. 

Tubbrine: The rank dictates.

4h 15m - Tubbrine: What does shell want?

Niki: We want him back. Can you bring him back?

4h 17m - They ask his name, and he says “I am Creation.” He brings Richas back (about now? I might have missed it).

4h 20m - Creation says “Done” and leaves. Niki explains everything she knows to Bad, and they agree to respect his wishes and not tell Tubbo. They decide to go investigate the Tubchunk.

4h 26m - After not finding anything at Tubchunk, Bad and Niki plan to ask Tubbo questions without revealing exactly what happened.

[fatkish]

Could you please do a yandere mha react to oblivious wife reader please?

Since you didn’t specify characters, I’m just going to do Bakugou, Hawks, Tomura and Dabi. Also, I hope you don’t mind but I’ll be making it a/b/o. As I wrote this, it kinda just turned into the Alpha omega relationship between you guys, oops<3

Yandere Alphas Bakugou, Hawks, Tomura, and Dabi x Oblivious Omega Reader

Bakugou:

You are not allowed anywhere near any Alphas or Betas and Omegas must be pre-Approved by him

You’re not allowed to leave the house without him by your side.

The only non-omega allowed near you is Kirishima

He won’t let you cook with knives or handle hot things, he’ll let you stir the pot or help him in the kitchen but you’re not allowed to cook alone

The only things you’re allowed to ‘cook’ are microwaveable foods

No oven or stove for you

He might seem controlling but he explains it all as him protecting you and you accept it

He loves snuggling with you and constantly scents you to the point you can hardly smell your own scent

He smells like caramel and spice, like spicy pepper not like nutmeg or something

Hawks:

Anything you could ever want or need is already provided for you so there’s no need to go anywhere

You want to go outside? Okay, but you gotta stay within arms reach, or better yet, just let him carry you

He’s such a good alpha right? Always taking care of you so you don’t have to lift a finger

Loves when you preen his wings as a thank you for taking such good care of him

He won’t let you cook for him, if you do, he has to be in the room with you

Hawks secretly sneaks feathers into your clothes so you constantly have his scent on you

He’ll switch out these feathers so that he’ll have the ones that smell like you

His scent is similar to buttermilk pancakes and fried chicken

Tomura:

You’re naturally a homebody which is perfect for him

You don’t even notice that he slowly started to let you leave less and less often

You thought he was just looking out for you

If there’s a new manga/anime you want or if there’s a new game you want to play, don’t worry, he’ll go get it

You have Toga go buy you some sheet face masks, bath salts, body lotion and other stuff so you can pamper Tomura as a surprise

You take care of his skincare and help him with his scratching since he’s such a good alpha and you want to return the favor

Tomura loves having you pamper him

He enjoys taking baths with you and having spa days

He acts like it’s annoying but it actually helps his skin

You’ll give him full body massages with super hydrating lotions

He’ll be completely relaxed and best of all, you put his artists gloves on so he can hold you

He smells like old books, and petrichor with a hint of floral

Dabi:

Your anxiety makes you the perfect omega for him

All he has to do is coddle you and enable you to stay in your comfort zone

Don’t worry about anything, he’ll keep you safe and bring you whatever you need

If you want to try to leave the house, he’s coming with, he stays by your side at all times scaring off anyone who tries to interact with you

You’re constantly treating his burns and helping him with his staples and such

He won’t admit it but he loves being taken care of since he thinks it’s so cute

He’ll growl at the league members who try to go near you

The only member allowed to be with you is Twice

He smells like pine wood smoke and wintergreen mint with a hint of musk

(Hope you enjoyed)

[sunnyhvnny]

Can I request Maegor roughly breeding his wife after she asked him if she could stop bearing him children since she already gave him a lot?

This reminded me of Aegon IV response after Naerys asked him if they could stop trying for children.

Tw: dubcon, breeding

She was warm and comfortable under the heavy blankets as the moonlight filtered in through the open window. Ever since her youngest son had been born four moons ago, she rarely got any sleep. Tonight, though, he went down without a fuss as did his older brothers. She wasn’t one to believe in any of the Gods but she couldn’t deny that she believed a miracle had happened when her babe’s lilac eyes finally blinked shut.

She wasn’t sure if Maegor would join her in her chambers tonight. Since she had given birth to their first child, she had found him spending more and more of his time with her. His other wives didn’t seem to mind and even relished in his absence.

Things were different, now, though. She couldn’t quite place what it was but she had noticed a small shift in her husband. Similar to how he acted when he first married her and wanted an heir. Ever since their youngest, Valarr was brought into this world, she saw less and less of her husband. As she talked to his other wives or strolled around the Red Keep at night with her babe and toddler with her, she had noticed and heard Maegor with his other wives.

She wasn’t going to confront him about it. He had taken other wives for a reason and it only made sense for him to visit them and give them his seed. Truthfully, she was thankful for it. It was something she had been wanting to bring up to Maegor ever since Valarr was born. She had carried and brought five of his children into this world. She was exhausted and hoped that if she explained it to him he would agree to her not having any more children.

She admired her husband as he walked into her chambers. Maegor had an easy confidence about him. A confidence that she saw in no one else but him. He didn’t say anything to her until he had stripped himself of his boats and outer clothing. When he was in just his tunic and simple breeches, he finally turned to her and climbed into bed with her.

His smile was hungry as he crawled over her still form and his kiss was hungry when he captured her lips. She returned his kiss but refused to give in to the same hunger and pulled away before he could deepen it.

“Maegor, I need to talk to you,” she spoke quietly. Her face was only a few inches from his and she felt his grin more than she saw it.

“I have something I need to tell you as well, my dearest,” Maegor said with a peck to her jaw. She laughed lightly at his playfulness and motioned for him to talk first. “I talked with the maester today. He told me that you are not only healed enough for me to rejoin you in bed but for us to try for another child.”

She felt her blood run cold at his words. Was that why he was so giddy? Because he planned on putting another babe in her. Maegor must have felt her stiffen because he pulled away slightly and looked down at her with a frown.

“What is it?”

His news had knocked her off her axis and left her spinning. He was likely not to go for her idea now.

Her voice was breathy and nervous as she found the words to speak. “I was thinking of our children recently, my love. I have given you five children. Five heirs and I am tired. Not just from carrying them within me or birthing them, but of everyday things that come with raising so many young children.”

Maegor’s lips thinned and his face become unreadable. “Children can be tiring, my wife. That is in their nature.”

She bit her lip before continuing, “I know, Maegor, but I ask this as your wife and someone who loves you: please, no more. Have children with one of your other wives and let me enjoy time with the children we already have.”

At her plea, Maegor frowned at her and gripped the soft hand that was playing with his tunic in his much larger one. “I have many wives and you are the only one who has given me heirs.”

“I know but-”

Maegor pulled the blanket off of her and looked down and her figure. She was wearing a sheer red nightgown. It was his favorite color and barely concealed anything.

“You are my wife,” he growled and she realized that she could see the moment that he not only rejected her plea but the moment that her kind husband left and was replaced by a man that they called cruel.

With a hard tug that he made look easy, he ripped her nightgown from her body, leaving her bare beneath him. “You will perform your wifely duties and that includes taking my cock when I want and giving me as many children as I see fit.”

She knew it wasn’t possible but for a brief moment, as he threw off his tunic and began undoing the strings of his breeches, she could have sworn she saw fire in his lilac eyes. Her heart was hammering hard against her chest and the moment finally caught up with her. Not only was Maegor saying no to her request, but he planned on proving a point. He was going to put a babe inside of her again whether she liked it or not.

She tried to squirm and turn away to leave. To get out from beneath her husband but just when she moved an inch, Maegor grabbed her fleshy thigh and pulled her close to him. She looked at her husband and willed her eyes to tell him to let her go but what he saw on her face must have only made her angrier because he snarled and gripped her hips roughly in his large calloused hands. He swung her legs onto his shoulders as her lower half was lifted off of the bed to meet his cock.

She gulped and held on tightly to the sheets. His cock was large and throbbing and even it looked angry. She sent a silent thank you to whatever God might be listening that she was aroused every time she saw her husband nude. At least she wouldn’t have to take him dry. Because she knew he would take her whether she was soaking for him or as dry as the dunes in Dorne, she had learned that after he insisted they marry and her father refused. When he promised he’d be quick and that it was the only way to get her father to agree to the union.

“Maegor, please,” she whimpers as the head of his cock pushed against her entrance. Tears were starting to form in her eyes and she couldn’t tell what made that so. Was it the callousness in him or his roughness towards her? Was it the fact that she knew that this would not be the last babe that he forced onto her? That he would keep filling her and expecting her to birth his children until another one of his wives finally managed to bring a living child into this world.

He didn’t reply to her whimper. He barely acknowledged it as one hand left her hip and gripped his cock to move it to her entrance. He slid into her with a groan and didn’t think to go slowly or let her adjust to his largeness as he started thrusting into her. His other hand left her hip and her bottom was returned to the mattress below. She breathed heavily, gasping for air as Maegor slid almost completely out and slammed back into her hard. Every time his body collided with hers, the roughness sent her sliding further up the bed until her head finally hit the wooden headboard.

She couldn’t form a coherent sentence, not even in her head as her husband made it abundantly clear that her cunt and womb, while on her body, belonged to him.

She pushed her hands against his chest, trying to get some of the heaviness off of her but he only took them in one of his hands and pinned them to the bed as he rutted ferociously into her. Her whimpers had turned to moans in spite of herself. Every slide of his cock and every time it pounded against that sweet spot inside her made her body hum.

She lifted her hips to meet his but his pace was too brutal for her to keep up and he only managed to pin her hips to the bed beneath him as he switched from thrusts to grinding into her.

She choked out a loud moan at him not only hitting her sweet spot but him now grinding against her clit.

Maegor looked down at her and met her eyes for the first time since he forced his cock into her. His eyes hadn’t softened and she felt as though she was looking at a possessed man. His hand, which he propped by her head came to grip her throat. He squeezed hard but not enough for her to worry as he started to speak.

“You see, my beloved, this is what happens when you don’t want to perform your wifely duties.” He rolled his hips so hard into her she could have sworn she felt his cock in her throat. His hand on her throat prevented her from arguing or saying anything and he grinned humorlessly at her pathetic attempt. “I will not have a disobedient wife and you will bear all of the children you can for me. I don’t care if you cry or scream, I will force you to do your duties.”

His grip loosened and his hand found one of her bouncing breasts. She could barely see him through the tears in her eyes and she turned her head to look at the wall to her right as he took her.

He grabbed her breast hard and leaned down to lick her nipple, humming when milk started to dribble from it. After he sucked a bruise sloppily on one he moved to the other and she knew she wouldn’t be able to hide the purple blotches on her breasts or the bruise that was sure to be on her neck tomorrow.

For one horrific moment, she wondered if she would have to try and hide it. Would he let her out of this room or would he keep her in this bed and continue to fuck her until he felt satisfied that she would be with child?

She was brought out of her thoughts as she felt a tingling warmth in her cunt and abdomen. She knew she was close and she knew she couldn’t hold off, not with the pace and brutality that Maegor fucked her with. Before she could let him know she was already arching her back and rolling her eyes as her count fluttered around his cock.

Her husband groaned loudly at the feeling of her walls squeezing him and his own thrusts became sloppy. He looked down at her. She was sweaty and a mess and her tits, heavy with milk and covered in wet splotches bounces with every thrust.

The sight made a coil in him wind and before it snapped he leaned down, putting his full weight on her, and whispered, “you’re going to take my seed. You’re going to take it and not complain and when I fuck you again later, you’ll take it because even if you don’t know your place, your cunt does.”

With those words the coil in his abdomen snapped and with a loud grunt and one last hard snap of his hips, he spilled his seed into his wife’s warm cunt.

He lay on top of her, panting as she quietly sniffled. He didn’t bother to check to see if she was alright, he was still upset with her for suggesting that she stop bearing children for him. He kissed her collarbone and pulled out of her, watching his thick white seed spill out of her pussy. He grabbed his softening cock and ran it through his seed and around her cunt. He made sure that most of it made it back inside of her and when he pulled away, he admired the mess he made of her.

[nayziiz]

Witness | CL16

Summary: In the shadowy world of Monaco's elite, the Leclerc family reigns supreme. Charles Leclerc, the charming middle son, maintains their pristine public image—until one rainy night, during a fit of rage, Charles does the unthinkable. A young woman witnesses his actions, and her terrified eyes haunt him. Consumed by guilt and fear of exposure, Charles embarks on a desperate search to find her before she can destroy his family’s legacy. As he delves deeper into Monaco's underbelly, Charles must confront his own darkness and the lengths he will go to protect his family.

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x OC (Marie)

Warnings: Violence, blood, angst

Masterlist

Chapter 5

It took a week of surveillance around the old town for Charles’ men to find Marie. He had men stationed everywhere from her apartment block to the casino. They managed to get her shift schedule and full address from her manager, who was reluctant to share the information, but when he heard Charles was the one asking, he handed them a full copy of her personnel file with all of her information included in it.

Marie was a lot of things, but she wasn’t daft. She saw the same men at similar spots over the course of the week. They tried to disguise themselves and pretend to be occupied with things around them, but she knew what was happening. She didn’t bother with hiding or deviating from her usual schedule anymore. She knew if Charles wanted to find her, he would.

What she didn’t expect was finding him outside her apartment door when she returned from her late Thursday night shift.

“Mr Leclerc,” she greeted him as she turned the corner and spotted him.

“Ms Dupont,” he greeted her back.

“Did your men tell you I took an extra shift tonight and you felt you needed to check in on me?” She unexpectedly retorted at him as she unlocked her apartment door.

Charles was taken aback by her abruptness. He didn’t think she would notice his men.

“You might need to relook your surveillance team, they’re not very discreet,” she added as she beckoned for him to enter her apartment and he did.

“Noted,” he nodded as he took a look around her apartment while she placed her handbag on the kitchen counter.

“Mr Leclerc, if you’re here to harass me about that night, there is no need. I still have nightmares about it,” she pointed out.

“Not here to harass you, Ms Dupont. Simply here to explain myself,” Charles responded, turning around to face her.

“Explain, then,” she said, her voice firm. Charles took a deep breath, trying to find the right words.

“I know you have no reason to trust me, but I want you to know that what happened that night was... an accident. I lost control, and I've regretted it every day since. I'm not a monster, and I never wanted you, or anyone for that matter, to see me like that.” He started. She listened, her expression unreadable.

“Why should I believe you?” She wondered.

“Because I have nothing to gain from lying to you,” he replied. “If you go to the police, my life as I know it is over. My family’s reputation will be tarnished. But more than that, I don't want you to live in fear because of me. I just... I need you to know the truth.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken fears and questions. She could see the anguish in his eyes, and for a moment, she felt a flicker of sympathy. But she couldn't forget what she had witnessed.

“Witnessing a murder isn't something I can just... move past,” she finally responded.

“I understand. Just know that I'm truly sorry.” Charles nodded, relief and sadness mingling in his expression.

“But, wait. You haven’t actually told me why you did it,”  Marie reminded him, her voice steady despite the underlying tension.

Charles looked at her, the weight of her question pressing down on him. He hadn't planned on explaining himself tonight, but he knew he owed her some kind of answer. He took a deep breath, trying to find the right words.

“I... I was protecting myself,” he began slowly, his eyes searching hers for any sign of understanding. “That night, in the alley, the man tried to rob me. It wasn't supposed to go that far, but he was... aggressive. I didn't mean to... it just happened so fast.”

Marie listened, her expression a mix of scepticism and curiosity. She had seen the brutality in his actions, the uncontrolled rage.

“Protecting yourself?” she echoed, her voice tinged with disbelief. “You beat him to death, Mr Leclerc. That wasn’t just self-defence.”

Charles flinched at her words, the truth of them cutting deep.

“I know. Something snapped in me. I've never... I’m not like that. But at that moment, I lost control,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. 

Marie studied him, searching for any sign of deception. She wanted to believe him, to find some sense in what she had witnessed. But the fear and the horror of that night were still too fresh in her mind.

“Why should I believe you?” she asked, her tone more accusatory now. “You could be saying anything to get me to keep quiet.”

Charles sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“I know it’s hard to believe. But I’m telling you the truth. I’ve been trying to find you, to explain, because I don’t want you to think I’m some monster. I’m not,” he said. Marie’s gaze softened slightly, though her guard remained up.

“Why did you even bother looking for me? Why not just hope I never show up again?” she asked, genuinely curious.

“Because I can’t live with the thought of you out there, terrified of me, thinking the worst. I don’t want you to live in fear. I want to make it right, somehow,” Charles replied earnestly.

Marie didn’t know what to say. Part of her wanted to trust him, to believe that he was more than the violent image seared into her memory. But the other part of her, the part that had been running and hiding, couldn’t shake the fear.

“I would like for you to leave, please,” Marie's voice was firm, though a tremor of lingering fear was evident. “And, you can have your guard dogs rest. I won’t be telling anyone about what you did.”

Charles felt a pang of guilt as he registered her words. He hadn’t realised just how much his presence, and the unspoken threat of his family's power, had weighed on her. He nodded slowly, accepting her decision.

“Alright,” he said softly. “I understand. I’ll leave.”

He turned to go, but hesitated at the door, glancing back at her one last time.

“Marie, I’m truly sorry for what you’ve been through. I know my words don’t mean much right now, but I hope someday you'll see that I’m not just the man you saw that night,” he added, almost defeated in a way.

She stood silently, her arms crossed defensively over her chest.

“Good evening, Mr Leclerc,” she nodded.

“Please, call me Charles,” he insisted. She didn’t respond, but her eyes held a mixture of relief and exhaustion.

Charles took that as his cue to leave. He stepped out of her apartment, closing the door quietly behind him. The weight of the encounter settled heavily on his shoulders as he made his way to the car. He signalled to his driver and the guard waiting by the car, waving them off with a tired gesture.

“No need to follow her anymore,” he told them. “She’s not a threat.”

The driver nodded and got into the car, while the guard looked momentarily confused before complying with Charles' instructions. Charles watched as they drove away, feeling a strange mix of relief and unease. He knew this wasn’t the end of his troubles, but it was a step towards resolving them.

Marie, inside her apartment, leaned against the door, her heart pounding. She had stood her ground, but the encounter had shaken her deeply. She knew she couldn’t trust Charles fully, not yet, but there was a small part of her that wanted to believe he was sincere.

She sighed, pushing herself away from the door and heading to her bedroom. She needed rest, and more than that, she needed to think. The days ahead were uncertain, but for the first time since that horrific night, she felt a glimmer of control over her own fate. As she lay down, her thoughts were a chaotic swirl, but amidst the turmoil, there was a faint hope that maybe, just maybe, things could change for the better.

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

Taglist: @headinthecloudssblog

[sh0tanzz]

I think it would be great if you share your thoughts about placements as a post like venus signs, mars signs etc 🫶🏻

SHOSHO’S VENUS SUMMARIES

reminder this is based on my own knowledge/observations of these placements, if it doesn’t completely resonate with you remember other placements, aspects and factors could change how your venus manifests itself and these are meant to be general

Aries Venus: Very affection to your face lovers. There’s emphasis on the effort and excitement of the early stages of initiating relationships which is why it’s said they love the “chase” They’re more impulsive in romance so sometimes they can start/end things VERY quickly or they’re quick when deciding if they’re attracted to/like someone or not. Sometimes if they don’t have placements to stabilize the impulsive energy they can move too fast or expect too much too early. NO aries venus making fun of your crush is NOT the easiest way to express your feelings pls. Enjoys being alone but seethes at couples post. Despite having detached feelings they definitely can be possessive. Need relationships that makes them stop and smell the roses but still feel their autonomy.

Taurus Venus: They love to provide wellness and stability in their relationships. Taurus Venus women are absolutely sweethearts omg they’re such givers and want people they love to be comfortable and taken care of. Taurus Venus being possessive is relatively true but how far they’ll take it depends on other placements/aspects. Taurus Venus is definitely hedonistic, their venus is home at the planet of pleasures. Pretty traditional in relationships (believes in roles, courting, etc) They’re also prone to prefer more steady changing relationships rather than something fast paced and overly intense. They hate when their feelings and relationships are rushed or don’t move at a natural safe pace. Taurus Venus men tend to make very reliable bfs imo unless they have placements that make them stingy/unavailable.

Gemini Venus: Their ideal types, love languages, and what they’re into can change often since they can be easily influenced by information or new things they learn/see about people and relationships. To have them interested you must have them feel intrigued/mentally stimulated. They find intelligence attractive and are the type to be into quirky nerds or people that have wittt humor. They are written off as cheaters since they like variety/versatility but imo they just lose interest quickly if they feel bored or limited, whether they cheat or not is based on their own personhood and other aspects. Their flirt game is super proficient since they have a natural way with words. They tend to crush on people that they admire for their intellect. Their types are almost always never solid unless they have placements that says otherwise.

Cancer Venus: Super sweet and romantic when they don’t have much negative tension from other placements. Similar to Taurus they can be a bit old school or have more traditional relationship ideals. They love emotional intimacy. Very sappy and need a sense of safety within all relationships. They can however get their hearts broken or disappointed because they’ll have high hopes in the people that they date/are interests in but don’t get the energy they give out returned. They can become cold and wall themselves up during times of heartbreak. For cancer venus/mars men their parents/mothers relationship can def impact how they view relationships. If they allow themselves to be vulnerable that’s how you know you got them. Very sentimental and sincere in their relationships and even somewhat emo? I think of beach dates at night when I see them.

Leo Venus: Loves giving/receiving praises and compliments from their crushes, words of affirmation are a big love language trait. Leo venus women have solid standards imo. Wants to brighten up or bring more fun and ease into the lives of people they love, wants to serve a generous purpose to their partners. Very aware of how they feel and whether or not a relationship is satisfying them; they’re also very aware on whether or not their family or friends approve of the person they’re with. Big fans of creative impactful romantic gestures. They can sometimes view their lovers as an extension of themselves and are big on their partners being someone they can have pride in. Ngl their crushes can be celebs that are out of reach 😭. If/when they’re jealous it’s honestly..funny like omg you lost the idgaf war. HATE being embarrassed romantically.

Virgo Venus: So cautious in love but has a big desire to connect to someone. Pretty reliable or purposeful partners. Very big on the idea of pure intentions. Pretty picky or have very particular ideals for their crushes. They are lowkey attracted to people that are out the way or don’t bring too much attention on themselves. Not fond of relationship drama and extras that aren’t practical or of substance/usefulness (similar to cap venus). Gets actual butterflies in their stomach bc their anxieties go straight to their digestive 😭. They almost always have a significant relationship experience, example or idea that they model and develop relationships after. Virgo venus people lowkey have to be careful of someone taking advantage of their want to do good by their partner. Can accidentally self sabotage by their anxieties and idealisms towards relationships.

Libra Venus: Secretly strategic in their love life and pursuits like they PLOT on people. Daydreams about their crush’s face or stares at posts of it. Pretty accommodating in relationships. Needs a sense of reciprocation. Romantic in the ways that you see in the media, like if they could live in a romcom they would. They -love- love and the feeling of admiring someone. Can be very fickle with their interest however. Libra Venus girls who are interested in men DEF love pretty boys. Similar to cancer venus they can also be let down when the energy isn’t matched. Their ideal types are pretty open or versatile but they’re still into attractive/photogenic people (placements can affect this). However they hate a pretty face without a personality or talents. SOOO susceptible to falling into situationships or relationships without solid titles pls BE CAREFULL WITH THAT.

Scorpio Venus: Very intentional lovers. Secretly attracted to the loser bf trope 😭. Has very all or nothing views on relationships. Tries to be in control of how their crush perceives them. Needs honesty and transparency from their partner to function in relationships. Very intuitive partners !!Highly observant of the people they love. Stalks their crushes socials tbh. People think they’re all sexual deviants but tbh no a lot of them are highly protective of their intimacy. Desperately needs someone to match their freak, not sexually !! so hard for them to find someone who wants the same things as them. Some scorpio venus men like being ordered/told what to do . Can be prone/susceptible to relationships that are tumultuous or has extremes and can have a power imbalance within it. Sometimes into people who aren’t obvious in their interest towards them.

Sag Venus: Chronically looking for Mr/Mrs.right 🙂‍↕️. Can’t stand relationships with extreme power imbalances. Let’s their s/o do ANYTHINGGG like genuine favoritism towards their spouses 😭. They try to not allow their feelings to become too complicated. Are actually ok with being single for a while. Attracted to people who are devoted to something whether it is a cause, morals, set of principles, hobby, lifestyle, or religion. Also people with diff backgrounds, cultures and povs. Very comfortable in their sexuality also a lot of sag venus people are…fruity LOL. Hard for them to be mad at their lovers for a long time I’ve noticed ? SOMETIMES they can be hypocritical in relationships 😭. Very generous lovers both the men and women. If not interested in foreigners they’re very into people who have major experience within life that can teach them something.

Capricorn Venus: Why are we the love police like actually LMFAOO. Sacrificial and willing to endure for the people they adore. A part of us dies of embarrassment when disappointed with the people we like. Secretly geeks out abt whoever’s caught their eye in the confines of their room. Hyper realistic when it comes to love ideals. HATEs the dramatics, extras and games. Tries so hard to balance their goals with a love life. Likes people who are self sufficient. Similar to scorpio with all or nothing thinking in relationships. Will phase out of existence when the feelings get too complicated. No guys we can’t plan/imagine the future everytime we are in love with someone. Swear there’s always age difference stuff happening. You can tell how much a cap venus likes you by how much they’re willing to share/give you of anything that’s theirs. Silent pining.

Aqua Venus: Relatively unorthodox lovers. Goated at the friends to lovers trope (honestly anything to lovers). Covert hopeless romantics. Needs a relationship balance where they have time and space to themselves. Quietly protective over their spouses. Never dates or is attracted to the same type of person everytime, there’s always something distinct about them. Secretly strict lovers, yes do as you please but don’t disappoint them. Manages to know you better than anyone else. Also needs someone to match their freak. Studies the person they like so they can be an efficient partner. Hey so like no it’s not normal that everything gives you the ick. They love deep talks or someone who’s observant. Dislikes when a relationship moves too fast. Aqua venus men either hate hookup culture or loves it no in between.

Pisces Venus: If they could build a partner from scratch they would 😭. Highly accepting of their partners flaws despite that however. Loves and acknowledges even the smallest most little detail about their partners. Extremely forgiving TOO forgiving almost. Living proof that true adornment can exist. Needs to be careful of confusing admiration with romantic feelings. Can also allow themselves to be single for a pretty long time. Admires their crushes from afar. Also plots on the people they like. Will defend their s/o to the endddd of the earth if need be. Love language depends on the day, time, hour, and what song they recently listened to. Quietly goes insane when in love but tries to be chill about it (they fail). Don’t think I forgot you it’s not normal that anything can give you the ick either pisces venus !

[sunflowersoap]

back on my bullshit once again. thinks about how the headspace gangs reaction to starting to forget basil can probably tell you a lot about them.

for example, aubrey being EXTREMELY protective over that flower crown. her absolute rage at kel for kicking it off. her thinking "it used to belong to someone, we should return it." very similar to "how DARE basil ruin all our photos! they used to belong to all of us, and he throws us all out like we were nothing! he doesn't even care! he turned his back on all of us! on mari! she used to be here! she used to be a part of our lives! you think just because she isn't here you can just throw everything away? why don't you care? why don't you CARE?!"

her attachment to objects makes me think she values gift giving as a love language. this thing was so important to them, so I'll give it back. I'll give them this to show I care. this thing is special. it's not just an object to her, it's a physical display of their affection. so losing that object feels like losing the last bit of that love.

her being so intent on returning that flower crown even if it's broken and damaged. because someone loved it, so it must be special. her extreme protectiveness was still there, but now it was in a more destructive way. she's so protective of mari and her memory that she assumes the worst of everyone, because everyone pulling away and abandoning her or acting like everything was okay didn't just feel like a betrayal to her. she felt like they were betraying mari. that's why it pissed her off so bad when kel said think of how mari would feel. because oh, NOW you want to think of how mari would feel? NOW??

kel remembering the pictures also sticks out to me. he remembers basils words, even if his memories are so foggy. he has an attachment to those memories. this can also possibly tell us something about him. he doesn't hold on to objects as much as aubrey does, but those memories are everything to him. he listens, he holds all those moments so close to him. even when he's forgetting basil, he remembers all those little quirks he loves. he listened intently to basil, he cherished every single moment. he remembers his favorite things and why he does things and little details about him. even if he's forgetting the fact basil takes pictures, he remembers that they have pictures and WHY they were taken. his focus isn't really on the photo album in the real world. it's on the fact basil is sad and aubrey is so much different. his attachment isn't about the object. it's about the fact it means a lot to BASIL. that's why he wants it back. it makes basil happy. he doesn't understand why aubrey would do it, because his attachment was never to the album. it was "this makes basil happy and brings him joy. he loves this thing. he loves talking about it." so he memorized all his rambling about it. he isn't as attached to the album itself as aubrey is. it wasn't about the photos to kel, it was about spending time with basil. so to him, aubrey's anger seems irrational. it's honestly kinda like different love languages. hers is gift giving, his is quality time. so it doesn't make sense to him. it's basils thing. why would she steal it? it's his passion.

hero, if I'm recalling correctly, doesn't really need to be reminded of basil at the last resort. even while he's forgetting him more and more, he's keeping the group on task. he's bringing up the worry about forgetting things about basil. he looks out for basil. he's trying to keep the group positive. that's what he's trying to do. looking out for basil even when everything's becoming a blur. protecting him even when he isn't there. that's how you see heros love for basil manifest. protecting him. he jumps in to save basil with no hesitation. he tries to solve the fight between aubrey and basil. he looks out for basils health and safety. even if he doesn't know much about basil anymore, even if he's changing, he looks out for him. no matter how difficult it is, he protects him. because if basil can't protect himself, he'll do it. because basils his best friend and he loves him and he needs someone who looks out for him. if basil can't protect himself, he'll help as much as he can. even when he can barely remember him, he remembers he needs his help and THATS enough to keep going.

sunny? simple. he knows basil so fucking well. he knows basil talked to him about things he never talked to about anything else. he's terrified about something happening to basil, enough to have so many rooms of him dying horribly as worst fears. he feels like he can't save their relationship so he runs from it. he knows all of basils worst fears. he knows how trusting basil was of him. he knows how much basil cared about "who he thought he was" (despite what his mental illness makes him think, it's who he IS. not what he thinks he is.) he knows basil like the back of his own hand. he knows his worst traits, he knows his worst fears, he knows his pains and his insecurities and his guilt and his grief. THATS how sunny expresses care and his love language. knowing someone to that degree and listening.

I don't really know where I'm going with this. I just think this game and the way different characters show love is very interesting.

[icycoldninja]

Can u write the DMC boys in a scenario where they were turned into little kittens because a particularly smart devil managed to cast a magic spell on them to escape?

When they woke up, they’re very confused as to why their clothes are suddenly much bigger than they are and so do their weapons. Only when they look at their reflection in the nearby puddle do they realize they become a little kitten

Now they’re cursing in distress, which, sound more like distressed meows from a sulking kitty

And that caught the reader’s attention as she was searching up and down for them, not knowing what happened to her bf before she stumbled across a cute little cat near the pile of fallen rocks

Reader: What are you doing here little fella? Where’s your mom? Did you happen to come across my boyfriend? Can I bring you home with me?

The boys: ‘HONEY!! IT’S ME’ *distressed meowing being inserted*

Now the reader takes care of the little kitten she brought home, not knowing it’s her bf meanwhile she’s just praying for their well-being and hope that they get home soon (erm…about that) She usually plays with them, buys things for them for enrichment, etc and not only that, she usually rants to the little kitten that even though she do love the boys, she can’t help but feel that there’s a rift between their relationship because of how much time they spend with their job, which makes her feel neglected in a way but she can’t blame them. Meanwhile, the kitten, that happens to be her bf, is actually paying close attention to her words, their heart aches because they unknowingly neglect her by overworking themselves, which leads to little to no time for their relationship

After a few days, they return back to normal. Reader is glad they’re back home but is confused about what happened to her favorite little kitty. That’s when the boys explain that the kitten is them…which leads to a very awkward conversation afterwards, ranging from ‘Are you okay?’s; ‘What happened/?’ to the boys explaining that they heard her confession and both the reader and them promising to work out their relationship

P/S: No joke V looks like an Oriental Short hair cat like…no explanation needed

and Nero looks similar to an Ocicat

For Vergil and Dante. It’s rather complicated but they’re either Russian Blues or Turkish Angoras

Here’s a little illustration of cat V I made…I’m rather proud of it

yeap that's accurate. Cool drawing, btw.

Sparda boys + V x Reader kitten situation headcannons

¤ Dante ¤

-Somehow, a particularly powerful demon managed to cast a spell on Dante and turned him into a cat.

-Dante was super angry about this and started screeching at thin air, convinced he was speaking English words.

-While returning home from work, you came across this very kitten, sitting and meowing in distress. Naturally, you decided to help him.

-Dante was happy to be with you, but he couldn't understand why you didn't understand what he was saying. It took some time, but he eventually concluded that he must have been speaking cat.

-You cared for the cat-Dante for a little while, growing super attached to him in the process. Oh how you loved this fuzzy little ball of fun. You also vented to it, shamelessly dilvuging all your fears and issues with your relationship due to how much time Dante spent away from you. All this information went into the cat's wars, and registered in Dante's brain.

-When the spell eventually wore off, you were very sad, but hey, at least you had your boyfriend back!

-After asking about his strange absence, Dante was reluctant to admit that he was the cat you'd taken care of all along and that he remembers every moment; every word.

-He then apologized and promised to make more time for you, much to your delight. Thankfully, Dante is lighthearted and doesn't judge much or you'd be in for one hell of a lecture.

■ Vergil ■

-Vergil couldn't believe something like this had happened to him. How could he have been foolish enough to get turned into a cat?!

-He was very angry, and naturally began grumbling to himself while trying to head home.

-This was where you found him, meowing sadly like the poor little kitty he was.

-Of course, you brought him home, and began treating him like your adopted child, unaware that this was actually your boyfriend.

-You poured out your soul to this harmless kitten, venting about everything that upset you, including how Vergil's continuous absence saddened you.

-When Vergil returned to normal (which took a few days), he decided not to say anything about it. He simply couldn't bear to tell you he, the MOTIVATED one, had been changed into a cat. Instead, he took more time off for you, surprising you with his sudden change of schedule.

□ Nero □

-Nero didn't really understand how this happened, but hey, it's not all bad!

-While laughing about it to himself, he saw you crossing the street, and decided to meow to get your attention.

-Your attention he got indeed; the next thing he knew, he was being given a bath at home, and then a lot of pets and scratches behind the ears.

-He also got to listen to you talk about your day, in far more detail than you ever told him. It made him kind of jealous. A cat was getting to know more about you than your own boyfriend did.

-When you started talking about how your boyfriend (him) was hardly ever around, it all clicked into place. You felt neglected! Aw shit, Nero really fucked up this time.

-Once he turned back to normal, he set out to change things, even promising out of the blue that he'd put more time into your relationship. When you asked him why, he ended up inadvertently revealing he had been that kitten you so adored all this time.

● V ●

-V was just a few seconds too slow to avoid this demon's beam of magic, and ended up getting turned into a cat.

-Oh, this was so distressing. Griffon and Shadow were no longer around, so V was all alone. When cats are frightened and alone, what do they do? Meow.

-You happened to hear this meowing as you were out and about looking for him, and being the kind soul you are, rushed to help the terrified kitty.

-V was then given a glimpse of how royalty lives. He was pampered, doted on, petted almost every 2 seconds, and waited on hand and foot.

-He also got to hear a lot of your secrets, including how you felt lonely without him around. You missed him much more than he realized, V realized, and made a mental promise to fix that once he was human again.

-You were dismayed to lose your kitten, when that eventually happened, but overjoyed to have your boyfriend back. It was then when you were informed that he never left. V was the cat all along, and from that moment onward, he would make more time for you.

[tybalt-you-saucy-boi]

Let's talk about what Winner's Theory means for the next season of Life SMP, and what we could see depending on who wins Secret Life.

Disclaimer: I know this is just a theory and they don't actually base the new games off of the winners of the previous season, but that's the fun of theorizing.

Etho - Underselling himself, no longer the best at PVP, but with a long legacy of obliterating all competition in death games. Loyal to a fault to his team, with no expectations from them in return. A bit similar to how Scott plays in terms of his alliances, but more likely to be hostile towards others outside of his group. We could see another season similar to Double Life, with game-mechanic incentive to keep your teammates safe at all cost.

Cleo - Similar to Etho, but with a lot more arson. She's also loyal to her team, but if anyone crosses her they will be her biggest target, regardless of a previous alliance. You cannot betray Cleo without life altering consequences. You get one chance and then it's over. I would expect something that will be ruthless and unforgiving if you make the wrong move. Something that feels like stepping on eggshells.

Sidenote: Cleo is the only member of the Divorce Quartet without a win so far, and it would really tickle me if this was her season.

Joel - He's a leader, but also distant from his pack. Only one in his alliance to live outside their walls. First one on yellow. Started a cult. He's with them but he's also with himself. His game is vengeance, for Lizzie, for Jimmy, for Mumbo. His season will be brutal. It will start out brutal and it will end brutally. Players will be picking themselves up from the floor the minute they spawn in. Imagine a season where everyone starts in the Nether. That's Joel's revenge.

Bigb - You thought Cleo was gaslight? This man can pack some fire in his words. And what a season for it! His alliance is pretty much doomed, trying to pull themselves out of the wreckage, but he's got plans that go beyond Skizz and Tango. Right from the get-go with his first task he's marked as the odd one out. He gives out lies like they're candy, and not just for his own preservation, but for FUN. His winner's season will be built on chaos, not knowing where you stand among everyone else, and rewarded for tricking and betraying others. This will be the return of the Boogeyman.

Gem - Big risks, big rewards, bigger fury. The newest member of the series and defying all odds to earn her place in victory, in her season players will face challenges they've never seen before, but will be stronger beyond measure if they come out alive on the other end. Regardless of which life you're on, you'll have just as much chance of winning right up to the end, but the victor must be prepared to risk it all for their spot of glory. This will not be a season to shrink back from and make logical plans before acting. One must have quick feet.

Impulse - Almost the opposite of Gem, Impulse has taken his time, patience is his virtue. He's been so close to winning, but he'll know when the time is right to strike. He'll do whatever it takes, but it will be intentional and planned. I anticipate his season will be one with rough terrain, similar to the big rift in the middle of the Double Life map dividing everyone across a chasm. Reaching other players will be treacherous by foot, but ripe for planning elaborate traps and schemes to secure the win. Most certainly players will need to work hard for it.

Scar - Lone wolves roam free! He's been forced to work for himself alone this season, and so far he's reaped plenty rewards! The next season will give players a motive to work alone, and they will have to build themselves up using their own ingenuity and wits. Making yourself look like an underdog will be vital, stealing will be even more necessary, and the world will be ripe for monopolies. It's a real war out there, and you can't trust anyone.

[boundinparchment]

Blasphemous Rumors - VII

“Marry me.” He said it with such blasé that you weren’t sure you heard him correctly.  Silence surrounded the two of you and he leaned down and tilted his head, watching you like a specimen under a microscope. “Just for a year.  A marriage of convenience.  Consider it nothing more than a harmless experiment for the sake of curiosity.” Il Dottore/Female reader with established personality.  Slow-ish burn.  Semi-enemies to lovers. On AO3 here. Likes, reblog, and comments appreciated.

The return to the Palace was gray and rainy, and you rode, the air tickled your nose with the familiar scent of wet grass and loam.  Spring back home smelled similar when the ice thawed enough to let the green blades peek through.  It lasted only a few weeks before everything froze over again, fleeting.  A knot formed in your chest as you stared out the carriage window, watching stretches of wildflowers and grass grow scarce, fingers of frost reaching as far as they could until all you saw was covered in snow again.

Your remaining time with your husband, who now sat across from you with a pen in one hand and a writing pad across a folded knee, was…

Well, not unpleasant but certainly far from romantic, given the circumstances of a loveless marriage to a deranged scientist who once said Ruin Guards parts were more valuable than human labor.  Being out of the capital was a nice change of pace but you were hardly under the impression this was nothing more than a means to an end. 

Even if you had enjoyed that kiss…

You tried not to dwell on the knowledge you passed along or what awaited you when you returned.  What was done was done.  Any attempt to broach the subject would, in your opinion, only leave you open to scrutiny. 

And Lord Dottore was a dog with no bite inhibition.  He was only satisfied when everything logically lined up and the answer was satisfactory enough to close all possible questioning.  Even then, he always found loopholes in the same way Lord Pantalone exploited every contract he wrote.

Your thoughts were broken by the man across from you clearing his throat, a sound that threw you back into your office over and over again every time he had a rebuttal for your questioning.  You turned your head to find him holding out a piece of paper.

“I need your opinion on something,” he said.

He wanted your input?  That was new.  He rarely ever solicited your thoughts; they were simply required for your employment and thus continued access to inside information.  Even the wedding had been a matter of you taking care of almost everything with little input from him.

Il Dottore asking for a second opinion that wasn’t his own was an impossibility.

You tried to keep your face neutral as you reached out and took the sheet of paper but your eyebrows shot to your hairline the further down you read.

“Is this a list?” you asked, incredulous as your head snapped back up to look at him.

Your husband gritted his teeth as he sneered at you, the air taken from beneath his wings. 

“How astute, dorogáya moya.  Yes, it’s a list.  Milestones most married pairs go through along with...a set of guidelines.”

“You hate guidelines,” you deadpanned.

More accurately, he hated your guidelines and rules when it came to what was an acceptable expense and what wasn’t.  That earned you a slight smile, all teeth and saccharine sweetness .   You were dancing on an edge you were intimately familiar with: one wrong word and you would tumble over. 

“One must know the rules in order to break them; that is quite different from my disdain for their enforcement.  While we managed the wedding well enough, we’ll have an uphill battle convincing the necessary parties, namely Pantalone.  He has a keen eye for detail as you’re no doubt aware.”

Your left thumb played with your wedding rings idly.  Little escaped Lord Pantalone’s attention for precisely the same reason: how could one exceed limitations of wealth and power if he did not perceive conventions and understand where the limitations for most laid?  Probably one of the many mutual understandings between the Second and the Ninth. 

Inhaling deeply, you slowly let out a breath through your nose as you looked down at the list again.

Propose

Have rings made

Wedding ceremony

Travel outside of work when schedule allows

Purchase property away from the Palace

Meet parents

Corresponding mugs

Attend event (public and private)

Have an argument

Pet names

Divorce eligible upon one-year anniversary when either party feels experiment has concluded.

All relatively normal, you supposed.  Your heart caught on numbers six and seven and you bit back a smile at the irony of it all.  Given your parents weren’t present at the ceremony, it only made sense to include the idea, although you could hardly imagine the man across from you in the cramped old-fashioned house.  After everything, you weren’t certain if they would be overly-welcoming or defensive; your mother’s letter had been full of congratulatory shock laced with remarks that they were getting by just fine.

You had, however, received a letter the morning after that abysmal chess match.  Your father’s handwriting was shaky, his once solid and smooth letters jittery and jagged.  He only mentioned that winter up north was not as ideal as predicted and that you and your husband were welcome once the storms cleared.  You knew better than to mistake the dark stain on the corner to be an ink splatter.

It was a matter you were saving for when you returned and knew your schedule.

And number seven…

How did he even know about that one?

“You can itemize in fifteen minutes and yet you made me suffer you and your Segments’ antics as though the process is like pulling teeth,” you remarked.  “Am I allowed to make suggestions?”

Instead of a response, Lord Dottore held out the capped pen.  It was still warm when you took it and uncapped it, mindful of the point.  You combed through, adding your thoughts as you assessed.  A few of your amendments were, perhaps, more selfish than practical, but if you were only going to be married once before you were eventually convicted of treason, well…

Commuting would pose a two-fold problem.  The first was purely logistical and the second was optics if he worked late too often. 

If he was set on the mugs, then tradition stood that they be handmade, which could be done when visiting your parents.  Usually spouses made the other’s, a continued symbol of providing warmth and sustenance.  In the capitol, and among the Fatui, it was more common to purchase pre-made ones; you favored the hand-crafted pieces your parents had, even if the handle on your father’s was a bit too unwieldy in your hand when you held it.

You added two new items: share one unique hobby with each other; no inebriation or use of narcotics or other substances.

Lastly, you amended the last item with the condition that the divorce settlement scaled with the length of marriage.

“Living outside of the Palace means commuting, with the additional optics problem of you working late, as is inevitable,” you started, capping the pen and returning both it and the paper to your husband.  “And we will be at a loss to discuss each other should someone ask about details; we should continue to try to be…meaningful with one another.  Chess is a start.”

Negotiations were not precisely your forte, which was one of the reasons you remained in your position at the Palace and only traveled a handful of times.  Your sense of scale was not ideal and after seeing your family get the short end of the stick, you did not want to be additionally responsible for failing to meet specific goals.  That was what civil lawyers were for, in your opinion.

But as the carpet in your office attested, Lord Dottore did not like simple-minded individuals who took everything at face value.  Your job was to manage his accounts while also protecting his interests and those of Lord Pantalone, of the Tsaritsa, in the process.  Your husband was, as you learned over the years, one who enjoyed any and all challenges placed before him. 

Even if those challenges were just looking through his itemized receipts and asking why he needed thousands of mora more than what his materials were valued at.  He would owe more money during annual audits if he did not mind his expense reports and neither of them needed that headache, did they?

“It may not always be possible for me to return for a meal or have the time to dedicate.  If this is a matter of not wanting to be alone, I can send a Segment in my place,” Dottore offered.

“This is a matter of our colleagues believing we care for another,” you replied smoothly.  “Was it not you who said this entire thing needs to be beyond believable?”

He gave a hum as he continued to read, his hand making two corrections.

“The only instances for inebriation would be for an experiment.  And the divorce settlement will include rights to properties and other assets.  Best to cover all bases.  Does that sound fair enough to you, Accountant?”

It was not like he was giving you much of a choice.  The generosity with the settlement was unnerving and you narrowed your eyes at him as he continued to speak.

"I concede that your point about optics still stands.  If I am unable to make a meal, you’ll be notified discreetly,” your husband said, tucking away the list.  “Many will expect you to stop working due to your change in position.”

“Do you?”

Lord Dottore’s lips curled, absolutely offended as though he ate something foul. 

“Work is how one keeps a sharp mind.  But you should be prepared for Pantalone and several others to attempt to make it happen, one way or another.  If that occurs, my only expectations would be to manage expenses on my behalf; as you do now, except on the other side of the desk as my representative.  Living outside of the Palace would afford you more freedom.”

What an odd turn of phrase, you thought.  Why would you need more freedom?

But if you were not working, that meant you would be reliant on him for money.  You couldn’t not work.  In the event you were still able to smuggle information and be paid, that kind of activity when you were actively not employed would put a target on both of your backs for an audit.  And then your income would be questioned. 

Lord Dottore did not take kindly to liars and cheats who wronged him. 

And you very much valued your life.

Bad enough you had to trust him with your well-being and assume he had no reason to harm you.  Your parents thought the same about the loans from Northland; the terms were clear and everything was projected to be affordable. 

That was a dangerous thing, trusting a Fatuus.

“I could not be solely reliant on your generosity,” you replied.  “Even if it was not at the Palace, I would still work elsewhere, if only for my parents.  I could not rightly expect you to cover that expense.” 

“As I said, work is one keeps a sharp mind.  You and I are on the same page, I assure you, but I would not keep additional assets from you if you had need of them.”

You nodded but felt a dangerous shift nonetheless.  His kindness was not true, genuine kindness, born of the usual desire to help someone.  After all, this was the man who stormed into your office and proposed as though he was telling you about the weather outside.

Lord Dottore set aside the writing pad and stretched his legs out, resting his boots on the seat next to you.  He was so tall that such a position was his only option.

“Speaking of your parents, have you heard from them?” he asked, head tilted slightly.

His tone was casual enough but something in the way he asked felt off to you.  You dared not think he cared enough to bother giving such a sentiment much thought.  Perhaps he recognized a relevant duty to keep you safe, to check in with you on such things.

Either one required what you were not quite willing to give.

You nodded, eyes lingering on the frigid landscape for a second as you collected yourself. 

“I did.  They extended an offer to go stay with them when the weather up north clears a bit.  My father always gets worse in winter, he would make for poor company right now.”  Your thoughts earlier came back and you continued.  “The artisans up north have great workshops nearby.  We can take care of items six and seven in the same trip when schedules allow for it.  My parents haven’t had company other than me in years.  I’m sure they’ll be overjoyed to entertain a Fatui Harbinger.”

“They hardly need to stand on ceremony.  I would prefer if they did not.”

“I’ll tell them as such when I write them back,” you said.  “They may not listen but never let it be said I did not try.”

“What does he suffer from?”

“He caught one of the variants of influenza some time ago and never fully recovered.  He worked the mines as a child, which, as everyone knows, causes long-term respiratory problems, among other things; his body was ill-equipped to begin with.”

He’d never quite been the same, even though the local physician said he should consider himself lucky to be alive.  What good was that, he used to say, when he could no longer tend to his business and try though you might have, the books were never quite even again?

Nevermind when the debt collectors showed up the first time and ransacked what little you had stashed away.

Something crossed over your husband’s face and you only caught the tail-end of it as his lips pursed in thought. 

Your right hand fell to your left and you played with your rings idly, pulling and pushing them over your first knuckle.  Overall, such a meeting would likely be fine, mild even.  They never made a scene at the bank, after all; they were not about to start now in front of the Second Harbinger when such a thing would put their daughter’s life in danger.

But such a thing meant ingratiating Lord Dottore into your life.  Into your family.

As though the two of you cared.

Which couldn’t have been further from the truth.

[redisaid]

Strangers - Part 3 of ???

Colors and Photographs

I forgot I love this AU a lot. It's more of the same bullshit I always do, but I don't care. Bon appetite.

5006 Words

Read it on Ao3!

Sylvanas Windrunner—burner of trees, blighter of cities, former Warchief of the Horde, former Banshee Queen of the Forsaken, former Ranger General of Quel’thalas, now wearing the title of repentant prisoner and nothing more—sits upon a ridge, looking down at her camp in the Maw, contemplating. Above it, an arcane flare blazes bright in alternating hues of blue and purple, and it is for this reason that she hesitates to return to it.

Next to her, Dori’thur perches on a spur of rock, silent and staring as ever, though the piercing gold of her eyes feels extra judgemental in this moment. Years of time being stared at by an owl have not prepared Sylvanas for this moment, where it seems to be asking her, “Why don’t you go to her?”

The answer is complex. Too complex for an owl to understand.

That’s what she tells herself, at least. In reality, a drop of water rolls down the exposed skin of her arm, chill on chill, to remind her of the real reason. She’d just taken a bath in Korthia. Her hair is still wet.

“Inconvenient,” she mutters in Thalassian.

Dori’thur, she supposes, must be fluent in it now. In moments where she is more prone to amusement, this makes her grin, thinking about the day she will eventually return, and have the beast somehow hooting in her nasty little Highborne dialect. What then, Tyrande?

She wears the new leathers Vereesa sent for her, and they don’t fit quite right. Not yet, at least. Her old set, worn as they were, were perfectly molded to her unchanging form, but comfortable. These are of a similar, but updated style. The top is too baggy for the fine stitching around the sides and neckline. The leggings are too tight in the calf but not enough in the thigh, and woven with useless ties down the sides that don’t even serve to help her in loosening or cinching where needed. Definitely something Vereesa would choose—style over substance.

Sylvanas prefers her clothing like she does anything—simple, precise, and practical. These leathers offer none of that, but she can fix them, with time.

And time, well, she has plenty of time.

It has been some time since Jaina Proudmoore’s ostentatious arcane flares have lit the monotone skies of the Maw. Keeping count of what might equate to days has been her chore between visits. It has not been a pleasant one. Sylvanas has never enjoyed dwelling on time and its terrifying numeracy.

Still, she knows it has been a while since she’s seen Jaina. She knows she’d prefer to do so with dry hair and properly-fitting clothes. There is still a spark within her demanding she not show her enemy any weakness, she supposes. Her lonesome repentance has not dimmed that yet.

Nor does it change the fact that the living always seem to hold a schedule that conflicts with her own.

She relents, after a time. Minutes, petulantly spent dripping onto twisted stones. Sylvanas has names for all the formations, because what else is she to do but invent geographic classifications. There is only so much of her mind that can be occupied by the endless search for lost souls. This rock she calls Broken Tree, because it has branches or sorts, but all end in blunt ends, their sharp edges perhaps snapped off by a rampaging minion of Zovaal’s long ago, or perhaps not long at all.

What does it matter? It doesn’t. Time is irrelevant. It crawls on, unfeeling, with or without her.

So while Sylvanas doesn’t want to be wet and ill-prepared for company, she doesn't want her company to leave because she’s kept them waiting too long. While Jaina Proudmoore isn’t exactly the most welcome of guests, she still makes for better conversation than an owl.

First, before she descends from the stone branches of Broken Tree, she reaches into the pocket of these unnecessarily embellished leathers. Really, isn’t that just like Vereesa to pick something like this? These damn ties. She never had good taste, and apparently still lacks it. Even the compact that Sylvanas pulls out of her pocket is adorned and impractical, its silver embossed with a hunting motif, a deer leaping over a stream, but the latch sticky and difficult to open.

Sylvanas would rather it remained closed, but she is unfortunately in need of a mirror. She hates looking at herself. It has been a dreaded chore since her first death, her first transformation into something she was not meant to be. Now she is changed again, and the blue eyes that look back at her don’t belong on her face and never have. Her eyes were a soft grey before she died, not blue like her sisters. She misses the distinction, even though this blue is not like theirs either.

But the face that stares back still doesn’t feel like hers. The ashen skin, faded hair, wet and stringy and plastered to her gaunt frame. She only sees the banshee within the body—the long fangs and sunken cheeks, the ghastly hands with too long fingers, reaching out to harm but unable to touch. Embodied now, she is still a ghost. A dead thing lingering and not wholly dead, but never to live again. She is a monster, an abomination, a blemish on her own existence.

But still, she sets the compact on a higher branch of Broken Tree, and uses the mirror to ensure she pulls her damp hair into a respectable and straight ponytail, devoid of imperfections. She might be a monster, but she will be a well-groomed one, even if it kills her for whatever time this death would be.

She catches another set of eyes in the mirror. Dori’thur’s yellow eyes reflect back their own glow. The spectral owl tilts her head, amused by the reflection.

“What are you looking at?” Sylvanas asks of her anyway.

Perhaps she too is vain, for the owl seems to be looking at herself rather than her charge for a change.

“Birds,” Sylvanas mutters to herself as she ties the ponytail tight, and gives one quick glance back toward her own reflection before she closes the compact.

She swears she hears a slight huff of disappointment behind her, but when she looks back, Dori’thur is staring at her as passively as ever. Always watching. Never not. It’s maddening, but Sylvanas thinks she might become concerned to see that damn bird do anything but that, should her attention ever be diverted.

She enjoys a brief respite from those yellow orbs as she begins to move toward her camp, and Dori’thur takes to the grey sky above. There is no color in hell, save for the white and pale teal shades of the owl, the yellow of her eyes, and the odd reflection of blazing blue that meets Sylvanas when she dares to look in Vereesa’s gaudy little mirror now and then.

Well, at least today there’s new colors. Blue and purple arcane light still projects into the sky from her camp, and now that she knows what that means, Sylvanas does not meet it with aggression this time.

She thinks it silly to announce herself. Surely Jaina has sighted Dori’thur circling overhead, and well, there is no one else here. Wandering souls do not count, in Sylvanas’ opinion. They are not even akin to ghosts such as herself, and seem to lack awareness of their surroundings, awareness of her, and the ability to do anything but screech out their confusion and fear.

She finds Jaina Proudmoore an array of new colors in her grey world. She is bent over a crackling orange and red fire she’s conjured for herself, but looks up with eyes of natural and subtle blue through stark white hair, streaked with gold. Today, she wears no armor, no regalia, and dresses casually in a white button up shirt and high-waisted navy leggings that tuck into high brown boots with bright, polished brass buckles. The contrast of her is almost blinding. Sylvanas has to blink away the color so it doesn’t overwhelm her vision all at once.

But Jaina is still there when she opens her eyes again, and she’s offering a kind, polite, and rather diplomatic smile—the kind that humans so famously do where they don’t show any teeth. Sylvanas does not deign to return it, and feels the expression would look too ghoulish on her, teeth or not.

Instead, she nods.

“Before you ask,” is what she greets Jaina with, “I have attempted to keep count. It has been about thirty days since I’ve last seen you.”

A month. There was so much Sylvanas could have done with a month on Azeroth. Troops to be trained, equipment to requisition, artillery to inspect. Even without a military to command, she could visit her sisters. She could travel, go to see someplace exotic and far off—Winterspring or Feralas, maybe even a trip back to enjoy Pandaria instead of battling against the mage standing in front of her within its confines. She could read so many books. She could rest, or whatever equivalent of that was left to her.

Counting the days is worse, but she’s done it because she knew Jaina would ask. She feels the corners of her lips pull up into a grin in spite of her resistance when Jaina’s mouth opens, then closes, meaning to utter a greeting but instead having to contemplate what this means for her.

“It’s been a week for me,” Jaina tells her. “And thank you, for counting.”

Sylvanas nods again. She is nothing if not efficient and proficient in her ability to provide necessary information. A good Ranger knows how to observe and report above all else, after all.

But she is not a Ranger. She is a grinning ghoul, a monster, the last devil left in a monotone hell.

She wills her mouth to stillness again, and feels her ears flatten along with it.

Jaina clears her throat. She turns, and Sylvanas can now see she has taken the liberty of setting her tea kettle over the fire to boil. She seems to look for a moment as if Sylvanas will take offense, but that comfort was for her guest, not her. She does not need to drink, nor does she care to. It is not her concern what Jaina does with something that is for her.

It is her concern when Jaina—seeing she’s unchallenged—is so bold as to pour the contents of the kettle into two mugs, and not just one. Sylvanas’ hard-won neutral expression turns to a frown unbidden.

She makes a point of walking past the steaming mug without acknowledging it as she goes to sit on the opposite rock stool from Jaina. To her credit, Jaina does not press the issue, and simply takes up her own, leaving the offending object to sit steaming on the ground, abandoned and unwanted.

There is a glint of recognition of all of this in her eyes as she looks to Sylvanas, sipping at her own tea. Those eyes are nearly as watchful as Dori’thur's and while they aren’t as severe in their judgment, Sylvanas feels as though there is no escaping what they observe in her. There is no doubt that Jaina is picking her apart, piece by piece. She may never say how, and that would be wise of her, but Sylvanas knows she sees every move she makes, every detail of her appearance and demeanor.

The mirror was a cruel thing for Vereesa to give her, at least she thought at first, though perhaps her sister did not know of her dislike of mirrors in undeath. Now Sylvanas understands the gesture. It was a kindness, an odd one. Vereesa was cognizant of her enough to know that, if she was going to be observed, she would want to do so knowing she was presentable. Much less if she was going to be observed by someone with such keen eyes as Jaina Proudmoore.

“Thirty days is a long time,” Jaina notes, finally, mercifully blinking. “Your sister had to arrange for something, and wanted to wait until it was ready.”

“I don’t see why you need to apologize for her then,” Sylvanas tells her as she settles onto the stool, crossing one leg over the other and again cursing the stupid, useless tiles that bite into the sides of her thighs.

“I suppose I was, wasn’t I?” Jaina says. She smiles again over her mug, clutching the bright copper in both hands as if to warm them, or perhaps just for comfort. If she can observe Sylvanas, then Sylvanas can observe her too, after all.

Jaina then points with a nod toward the ground beside Sylvanas’ stool, where a small package wrapped in brown paper resides. Even dull brown paper and flaxen twine are a welcome change from grey.

Vereesa��s handwriting is present on the corner of it, its black ink easily visible as Sylvanas picks the package up, with her messy, rushed scribbling spelling out “Lady Moon” in Thalassian characters. She would always write like she had something better to be doing, and clearly, still thinks that she does.

But what does Sylvanas know about that, really? Her little sister is almost as much a stranger to her as the woman who delivers her letter these days. She knows Vereesa as a disorganized and immature Ranger Captain with a lot of discipline left to learn—a spoiled little sister whom she was part of spoiling, certainly. She doesn't know her as a leader, a mother, a person thoughtful enough to send her mirrors and little paper packages. All of these things are strange to even imagine describing Vereesa as.

Sylvanas is careful as she opens the package. She can save the paper, use it for maps or notes. She still has plenty left of the stack that Jaina brought last time, but who knows how long it will be before she sees her again? Rationing supplies is part of what keeps Sylvanas sane here, and so she saves the paper rather than tearing it, and the twine too.

And she knows Jaina notices all of this, but she does it anyway.

Inside are three things. A small envelope of a different brown paper, which sits atop a long, flat glass bottle, padded with a mate to the towel Vereesa included in her last package. Sylvanas knows what it is without looking at the label. The shape of it, the floral scent that already fills her with nostalgia, even though the bottle is sealed shut—it’s her favorite shampoo, from Quel’thalas.

She nearly drops the bottle.

Her sister is a mother and leader and a person she no longer knows, but she clearly still remembers Sylvanas being angry with her for swiping her bottles of Camberon’s Lemon and Honeysuckle shampoo. It was expensive, after all. Too expensive for little silly girls, Sylvanas remembers saying.

But Jaina is smiling and watching her, conspiratorially so. She eyes the envelope and not the shampoo, and Sylvanas can’t fathom what means more than Vereesa remembering such a small thing.

Still, she sets aside the shampoo and its towel padding. She laments not having either for her bath today, and resolves another is in order sooner rather than later. Her hair does not dry nicely when it’s up, after all.

She opens the envelope to find it contains a small picture, framed simply in pale, knotty pine. A photograph, an invention of gnomish origin relatively recent in the annals of Azeroth’s history, after her death even. She has been photographed, but such perfect images of her likeness were not possible while she was alive. She only has the memory of her reflections, and portraits that have no doubt been burnt or broken by now, both from spite for her actions and disrepair of the places where they once hung proudly.

But on the plate she finds her sisters, their warm skin and shining hair and blue eyes. A bit of purple swirls in Alleria’s that wasn’t there before but it is so small a change compared to what Sylvanas has undergone. They are still themselves, at least on the outside.

With them are three faces Sylvanas doesn’t know, hasn’t seen, but knows who they belong to. Arator no longer has the pudgy baby cheeks that reminded her of her deceased brother. He is long and thin and elegant in many ways that remind her now of her father, but stocky in others that show the human half of him. He looks worried, blue eyes shining with concern as he glances more toward his mother than the camera.

In front of Vereesa are two identical redheaded, gangly youths. Giramar and Galadin. They wear their hair shorter in human tradition, and it makes them look far more human than their cousin of similar heritage. They look like trouble, is all that Sylvanas can think. They look like Vereesa.

Jaina smiles wider, a few teeth on display now. They are flat and distinctly human, even the half-elven boys in the photos still have little blunted fangs, but Jaina lacks them entirely. Still, she seems pleased. She expects a reaction.

Sylvanas does too, but finds herself more interested in her sisters than her nephews. She’s probably still spent more time with Arator than Alleria has, but he was a baby, and he likely does not remember any of it. But her sisters, why is it they get to remain unchanged by it all? Is that part of her penance too? If she had made the right choices, could she look in the mirror and find herself again? Do they even appreciate it when they do?

“I understand the wait, it must have been a real feat to gather them together for this,” is what she offers Jaina, photograph still in hand, eyes squinting at her sister’s faces, looking for any equivalency of change within them.

“I’m sure it won’t surprise you of all people, but Alleria was the hardest to wrangle, apparently,” Jaina reports.

It does not surprise Sylvanas. She huffs a laugh because of course she was. Alleria looks as though she’d rather not be there, and perhaps that is why her son seems worried. Alleria hasn’t been worried about another person and their feelings a day in her life, so for that reason alone, he seems nothing like her, though his long hair shines the same color gold as hers.

There is a bitterness that clouds her thoughts that reminds Sylvanas she is perhaps where she belongs. No doubt she does not belong in this photograph. Her greys would sour the colors of it. The gold and blue of them, of the Alliance. No, those were not colors for her.

“Vereesa told me you helped her with Arator, when he was still a baby,” Jaina goes on. “I remember him as a child too, so it’s so strange to see him grown now.”

Sylvanas realizes she has no idea how old Jaina Proudmoore is. The white of her hair belies an age that is much younger than such a feature would tell of in humans. But still, she knows of her father, her lineage, and does a quick calculation. Yes, she supposes Jaina knew her nephew as a boy, somewhat.

Strange. It’s all very strange. That is a good word indeed.

This woman knows her family so well, sees her sisters and her nephews regularly, yet Sylvanas has only ever seen her here in her prison, and before on a battlefield. Once during a trial. Only in times of stress and duress. Never before today in casual dress. Jaina cuts a fine figure without all those layers of mage robes and armor, actually.

“He was a good child, easy to manage,” Sylvanas reports. “Easier than Vereesa, certainly.”

Jaina laughs at this. Sylvanas wonders if she has the context for the joke. Does she know how her little sister tormented her? How, when she grew out of that, she moved onto constant whining?

Well, she is Vereesa’s friend, after all. No doubt she knows about the whining.

“Vereesa’s boys carry on the illustrious red hair of their father’s name I see. They’ll do well with it in Quel’thalas, should they be welcome there. It is relatively rare among elves,” Sylvanas goes on.

Not as rare as dark hair, of course, but she can still remember Lady Liadrin back when she was just a priestess, and being both too holy and too oblivious to the amount of attention her red-hued locks brought her, back when she was younger.

But Sylvanas supposes she knows little of the dating scene in Quel’thalas these days, and little of chasing redheads. There is only grey in the Maw, except when Jaina Proudmoore visits and colors it to the point of blinding radiance.

Jaina laughs at this too though. She nods sagely. “I don’t think there was any escaping it for them. But yes, they look a lot like their father.”

Their father, who as Sylvanas remembers, died to save the woman in front of her from Garrosh’s bombing of Theramore.

It’s all so complex and entangled. Jaina’s life has brushed up against her own in so many ways, yet they’d never really spoken until that first letter she’d delivered. Even when Sylvanas turned against the Jailer and offered her assistance in defeating him, Jaina would not speak to her, only listening to her counsel with a daring glare. No doubt she blamed her for what happened to Anduin. It was fair, Sylvanas blamed herself too.

Sylvanas wonders if Jaina feels as protective of her nephews as she does of the Alliance’s own High King, who apparently calls himself her nephew in name only.

And now, she searches Sylvanas’ face for signs of reaction, fondness, and humanity when looking at a picture of her own family.

Sylvanas struggles to find anything but nostalgia for connections long cut and things long made untrue by the relentless march of time. Such numbness rings true for the banshee in her, but it strikes a discordant bell for the soul that’s been restored to her. The same soul that gets lost in that nostalgia in the countless lonely hours of searching. Sylvanas misses her sisters. She always has. She knows she will never fit into their happy little photographs. She will never again shine with them in brilliant blue and gold.

She supposes this is what Jaina Proudmoore looks for when she studies her face. She wonders if she’s been able to find it yet.

“I suppose I have you to thank for orchestrating this,” Sylvanas says as she finally looks to her, and sets the photo down on her tie-bedeviled thigh.

Jaina waves off the responsibility, releasing one gloveless hand from the copper mug. Her fingers are practiced and graceful with every movement, aware. A mage through and through.

“No, no,” she says. “I merely brought it up to Vereesa and she ran with it. She said she wanted some photographs for her home anyway.”

Still, Sylvanas sees through her meddling. Mages always want to fix and change and alter. They cannot leave nature well enough alone. Jaina Proudmoore brings her colors and views of a world she cannot have and cannot help it, just as she surely does not know how her fingers look as though they’re tracing runes even when they do not.

But it is Sylvanas’ nature to haunt and wail and linger on a life long gone. She is a ghost, after all.

She supposes it is fitting she may yet spend centuries here, shepherding the dead.

And Jaina Proudmoore will go home to have more tea with her sisters and her nephews and everyone that will certainly be glad Sylvanas isn’t something they have to worry about anymore. She will put happy photographs on her mantle in Boralus. She will meet so many people and do so many things that this odd chore will be just another appointment on her busy calendar.

And yet, she and the things she brings will be the brightest colors Sylvanas sees until her penance is done.

“Vereesa said she didn’t have time to write another letter and apologizes for that,” Jaina relays. “She still wanted me to bring you the photograph, and whatever that bottle is I suppose.”

“Shampoo,” Sylvanas tells her. The Common word for it is so silly. It sounds like something one would name a fluffy little lap dog.

She watches as Jaina cranes her head a bit to read the label. No doubt she can read the Thalassian. Sylvanas is sure she can speak it too, but chooses to speak the human tongue to her anyway.

“Well that was nice of her,” Jaina notes.

It was, but it’s more than nice. It’s both infuriatingly confusing and overwhelmingly loving. Sylvanas deserves neither. She was ready to be forgotten. She was ready for no one to remember her name, to curse its mention, and to forget anything they knew about her, much less such a small detail as her favorite shampoo.

A part of her wants to keep that detail for herself, but it burns within her. She wants to talk, to vent, but also desperately to keep everything within the fortress of herself. Such nostalgia for her is a part of the pain, the loss of it all.

But Jaina Proudmoore, perhaps, is a person who can understand that.

“It was a favorite of mine,” the words spill out before she can rethink them. “Back…before. Vereesa always used it without my permission. It’s expensive.”

But what does Jaina Proudmoore of all people care about elf shampoo? Of photographs and colors and mugs of tea ignored, left to cool on grey dirt. Why did she come back with no letter to deliver? Why does she smile at these words, this time genuinely, where a dull canine peeks past pink lips, unadorned with makeup or the mask of war. She is just a woman, a friend of the family Sylvanas no longer knows, a stranger. Still, she seems happy to listen, intrigued.

“That sounds dreadful. I’m thankful to only have brothers then. Derek and Tandred would never take any of my toiletries, or at least never admit to it,” Jaina tells her through that smile, giving up her own tiny, innocuous details.

Sylvanas remembers Derek Proudmoore, gasping on the deck of her flagship for breaths he no longer needed. The seawater stink of him, the barnacles that still clung to his tattered coat. She remembers questioning even then why she did the things she did, even as her Dark Rangers peered at her with concern in their red eyes. A part of her knew it was wrong, even though those that return to unlife must make the choice to do so themselves. She and her Valkyr lacked the ability to force them as she was forced. That requires a mournblade, but there will be no more of those ever forged. Never again.

And now his sister jokes with her about how he would never steal her things, or whatever makes her white hair shine so brilliantly even when there is no sun to light it.

Perhaps Sylvans should ask her about her hair care routine. What else is she meant to do?

Instead, she apologizes, “About Derek—”

Jaina doesn’t let her. “He’s told me. You don’t need to explain. It was his choice, you merely offered him the vehicle to take it. Honestly, for all of how it worked out, I should thank you, for being part of what brought my brother back to me.”

“You should not,” Sylvanas assures her.

She cannot possibly offer the explanation as to why. It was never meant to be Derek. Some other Kul Tiran admiral was the target, another sailor sleeping in a watery grave. But the opportunity presented itself and Zovaal had told her that Jaina Proudmoore must die, and this was the best way to do it.

She was always far too hard to kill. And Baine always was too soft. In truth, it had all worked out for the best.

Still, it’s a change of heart from the woman who stared daggers at her for daring to put Anduin in the Jailer’s hold, even though it wasn’t entirely by her own choice. Such forgiveness Sylvanas supposes comes with time, though it has only been a year for Jaina since then.

Longer still for her.

But now the words are spilling out of Jaina, and it seems that the silence of the Maw demands filling from the both of them. “I’ve missed him so much. Derek’s death was incredibly hard on my parents. I was young then myself, maybe a bit too young to really understand, but I think a part of me missed him in the way that his absence affected them more than anything else. Even now, I’m happiest seeing him with my mother again, and how much joy he brings her.”

Sylvanas doesn’t often like to dwell on Derek Proudmoore, but the thought of an undead man being embraced by his living family hits her in a place she didn’t know was so exposed. She’s seen so much rejection of her Forsaken, though they are hardly hers anymore, so much hatred for them. She cannot imagine anything else but that for them.

Does Jaina have happy photographs of him next to those of the Windrunners on her mantle?

It isn’t her right to ask the question.

In fact, she can’t say anything at all.

“Derek drinks tea still,” Jaina tells her. “He says he likes how it makes him feel warm for a time. I thought you might enjoy it.”

She wraps her gracile fingers around her mug again, and tilts her head to the second one on the ground.

Sylvanas picks it up, but does not drink from it. She holds it, and admittedly relishes in the warmth that flows into her hands as she listens to Jaina talk about her brother with a fond grin.

[runnning-outof-time]

Helpless | Tommy Shelby x Reader

Request: no - written for @cillmequick ‘s 6 month anniversary celebration

Pairing: wartime!Tommy Shelby x Reader

Summary: (Y/N) falls for a charming soldier at one of her family's parties. From the second her eyes fall on him, she's helplessly in love.

Warnings: mentions of drinking, war

Word Count: 2895

A/N: this isn’t one of the songs you had on your list, Alex, but I just couldn’t pass up this opportunity for your celebration. I hope you don’t mind some showtunes being sprinkled into the music mix ;) Happy 6 months, Alex - this community is a better place because you’re in it.

A/N 2: this is based off of the song Helpless from the musical Hamilton. I’ve used some lines from it - they’re italicized. The end is left open on purpose…I didn’t want to follow the second half of the song so closely, so it’s been left up to you. Enjoy! :)

PLEASE LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK!

Comment/Message me if you want to be tagged in stories similar to this one!

(Y/N) took a deep breath before she entered the main room of the banquet hall that her family's revel was being hosted in. She was never a fan of these engagements, but it was something that she needed to get used to. She stepped into the room and subconsciously smoothed down the material of her powder blue dress before looking around to find a familiar face.

That face came in the form of her sister, Amelia. She was only a few years older than her, but she was certainly more conditioned to the events than (Y/N) was. It was because of that that (Y/N) always looked to her for help. Thankfully she always got it, or else she definitely would have looked like the black sheep of the room.

"Amelia!" (Y/N) called for her sister as she approached her.

Amelia turned around at the sound of her name and was immediately greeted with her younger sister's smile. "(Y/N)!" she repeated her sibling's name in a similar fashion, reaching out to hug her then. "You look lovely in that dress," she complimented once they pulled away.

"As do you," (Y/N) returned the compliment, looking over her sister's peach colored dress with a smile.

"Let's get a drink," Amelia suggested, taking hold of (Y/N)'s elbow and starting off to the refreshments table before she could get a word out.

The two ladies stood by the table, sipping on their champagne as they surveyed the room, watching the party happening around them. (Y/N) was the first to break the silence, "did dad invite any off duty commanders and their regiments tonight?" she asked, curiosity in her voice.

Amelia whipped around to look at her sister, a surprised look on her face, "are you looking for someone to spend your time with, (Y/N)?" she asked, a teasing grin forming on her face after she was finished speaking.

(Y/N) felt heat rising to her face, now realizing how her previous question could be taken. "No!" she answered quickly, her voice sounding a little too defensive for her liking, "you know I like seeing the soldiers at these events...it helps me to know that they're still alive despite the horrors happening around them," she then defended her original standpoint once she calmed herself down.

Amelia pursed her lips, looking at (Y/N) for a few moments. It was almost as if she was trying to see if the calm expression her sister was wearing was true or if it was just a facade. She bit back her smirk then, deciding to forego the teasing...for now. "I believe he's invited a few to come. I'm not sure how many will show though," she answered, her words making (Y/N) nod.

Their father was a prominent figure within the British Army. He was unable to fight due to an injury he sustained in a previous war, but the staff still kept him on for his intelligence. He liked to throw these revels, especially when it seemed as though good things were happening on the battlefield. (Y/N) didn't know the finer details of the war, but the fact that they were at this event must have meant things were going in the right direction.

"Soldiers incoming!" Amelia teased (Y/N), bringing her out of her thoughts with a giggle and a grin.

"Stop it, please, Amelia!" (Y/N) responded, only half-dismissively, as her eyes snapped to the main doors of the event hall.

The two women went silent as the group of soldiers walked through the doors. They watched them closely trying to get a read on each of them. (Y/N)'s eyes stayed stuck on one of the men who had harshly cut, dark hair and a sharp jawline. She couldn't ignore the fact that her heart started to race the second she spotted him. It was like nothing she'd felt before. No matter how much she tried, she couldn't pull her eyes from him.

"Didn't you hear me, (Y/N)?" Amelia's voice came back into the picture once the attractive man moved behind one of the other men in his company.

"What did you say?" (Y/N) asked, her eyes focused in the direction of the man for as long as she could, keeping her line of sight there even after she turned her head to look at her sister.

By the time she did look at Amelia, the other woman had a wide grin on her face. "You didn't hear a word I said, did you?"

"Of course I didn't...that's why I asked," (Y/N) hissed, not even trying to craft a lie.

"You spotted someone," Amelia figured it out, her grin growing wider, if that was even possible.

(Y/N) exhaled a huff and looked away from her sister, happy that the man she'd been entranced by was still in the same spot that he was before so that she could look at him again. There were two ways that she could go about this: lie about it or continue with the truth.

"Which one is he?" Amelia chimed in again as she followed (Y/N)'s line of sight over to the group of soldiers that were conversing on the other side of the room. She'd obviously picked up on (Y/N)'s cues...(Y/N) silently cursed her for knowing them so well.

(Y/N) bit on her lip and looked at the man for a few moments longer before she leaned in next to Amelia's ear. She kept her eyes on the man as she harshly whispered, "that one," while subtly pointing to the raven haired soldier who'd now stepped off to the side of the group. "He's mine," she then added, turning to look at her sister with a serious expression on her face.

Amelia raised her eyebrows as she looked at (Y/N), taking a moment to let her words sink in. She'd not seen her sister look, or speak, like this over a man in a while...not since Jeremy Matthews in school. There must've been something she saw immediately in him. "Him?" she asked then, pointing over at the group.

(Y/N) followed her sister's finger, checking to see if she was pointing at the same man that she'd been looking at. "Him," she confirmed, her smile breaking through the fight she'd put up to keep it off of her features.

Amelia fully turned to (Y/N) as she heard this confirmation. (Y/N)'s eyes widened as she took in the look her sister was wearing. "I'll be right back," the older of the two stated, leaving her spot before (Y/N) could open her mouth to protest.

(Y/N)'s heart rate picked up for the second time in this short span as she watched her sister saunter her way over to the group of soldiers. Unlike the first time, it was now beating out of worry. What's she gonna do? she thought to herself, holding her breath as Amelia came to a stop in front of the man they'd spoken about.

Amelia put her brightest smile on as she approached the man her sister had her eyes set on. He was talking to a man by his side, but that didn't stop her from tapping him on the forearm. "Excuse me, sir," she began, her words making him halt his conversation and look in her direction.

She was immediately encapsulated by his eyes. They were the deepest blue she'd ever seen and she was certain after only seconds of looking into them that she'd never met anyone with such striking irises before, and that she wouldn't for the rest of her life. A slight voice began speaking in the back of her mind as she stared into them. What if you would just... she didn't let the thought finish as (Y/N) popped back into the center of her thoughts. She saw him first. She's the reason you're over here. You're doing this for her.

"Can I help you?" the man asked, his voice deep and gravelly. Amelia had to repeat her new found mantra as it blessed her ears.

She put her polite smile back on, reminding herself of her sister as she answered his question, "may I speak to you for a moment?"

"Sure," he answered, the slightest grin that formed at the corner of her lips making her almost slip from her intentions again.

I'm through, (Y/N) thought to herself, her stomach sinking as she watched Amelia speak to the man. It felt as though all bets were off when she watched her take him by his arm and turn him towards where she'd come from. But then he looked at her, and (Y/N) was almost certain that she forgot how to breathe for a moment or two.

"Where are you taking me?" the man asked Amelia, his brows furrowed together as he still let her wrap her hand around his elbow to begin moving him from his group.

She turned him before saying anything, and that made him look straight ahead at a woman standing at the side of the ballroom. She was wearing a light blue dress and was by herself. He was immediately intrigued by her.

"I'm about to change your life," Amelia answered, a grin in her voice as she began leading him towards her sister. She was able to see the man grin from the corner of her eye. This is for (Y/N)!!, she screamed to herself.

"Then by all means, lead the way," he replied, his grin apparent in his words. He was certainly intrigued by where he was being taken. "I don't believe I got your name," he said to the mysterious woman who he'd been pulled away by.

"Amelia (Y/L/N)," Amelia answered, her eyes still set on (Y/N). They were about halfway over to her.

"As in Peter (Y/L/N)?" the man tried to make a connection to the host of the party.

"Yes. He's my father," Amelia's answer was short because they were only a few steps away from their destination.

(Y/N) waited until they stopped in front of her to begin speaking, "(Y/N) (Y/L/N)," she introduced herself, a smile gracing her lips as she bit back her nerves. Goodness, he was even more handsome up close.

"(Y/L/N)?" the man asked, surprise present in his voice as he glanced over at Amelia.

"My sister," Amelia filled him in, smiling at him before looking back at (Y/N).

"Thank you for your service," (Y/N) brought his attention back onto her, and she just about melted as she watched his eyes glance over her before a grin tugged the corner of his lips upwards.

"If it takes fighting a war for us to meet, it will have been worth it," he responded to her, his words setting butterflies off in her stomach.

"I'll leave you to it," Amelia chimed in, making (Y/N) remember that she was still standing there.

(Y/N) smiled at her sister as she walked away before she focused her attention on the handsome soldier in front of her. Oh what I'd give to go for a swim in those eyes...get yourself together, (Y/N)! She snapped herself out of her thoughts before she managed to get stuck there. "I don't believe I got your name," she restarted their conversation.

"Shelby. Thomas Shelby," he formally introduced himself.

"It's nice to meet you, Thomas," she smiled at him.

"You as well," he sent a smile back.

"You're not from around here, are you?" she asked him another question, a curious look forming on her face.

"No," he shook his head once, "was it evident?"

"Yes, it was," she answered him, a smile breaking them on her features. She felt like she should pinch herself...how was this man still talking to her??

"How so?" he asked her, now being the one wearing the curious look.

"People from around here don't look like you," she told him her reasoning behind the question, her answer making him raise his eyebrows. She immediately began to heat up as she saw his expression. Have I messed this entire thing up?

His answer served to calm her down though. "I'll take that as a compliment, Miss (Y/L/N)," he said to her, his grin returning.

"Call me (Y/N)," she corrected him after a rush of confidence flowed through her. He nodded his head at this information, making a mental note of it.

"Well, (Y/N)..." he started off, stepping ever so slightly closer to her, "can I interest you in a dance?" he asked, holding his hand out to her then.

She glanced down at it, the feeling of exhilaration bubbling up inside of her as her smile returned again, "I'd love a dance," she answered him, slipping her hand into his so that he could lead her to the dancefloor.

—

It'd been almost two weeks since (Y/N) met Tommy at the revel, and over that time, she'd been writing to him nonstop. He hadn't been sent back out yet; his company was on a short leave period, which was why he was able to attend her family's party. The feeling that she felt the second she set her eyes on him hadn't left her yet.

She could almost feel the weight of his lips on hers when she thought back to the kiss they shared in the back hallway of the banquet hall as the night was winding down, and she swore that she could hear him talking to her whenever she read the letters he sent.

He'd told her all about his life: of how his mother had died a few years back and his father officially left the family right after, that he and his two brothers left their remaining family to fight, and that he didn't have much to his name, but he swore that he'd make something of himself when he returned to Birmingham - where he was from.

She wasn't afraid to admit it: she was helplessly in love with him. She felt that she could do anything when she looked into his eyes...the sky was the limit when she was with him.

"Post came," Amelia announced as she entered the sitting room that (Y/N) was occupying. "There's something from Tommy," she said with a grin as she flipped through the envelopes she was holding. She then picked it out and held it up, "I wonder what he's written in this one?" she questioned, her grin growing.

"Can I have it please, Amelia?" (Y/N) asked, standing from the chair she was on to retrieve the letter.

"Will you read it to me?" Amelia asked a question of her own as she turned to look at her sister. "He's such an eloquent writer," she continued, holding the envelope just out of the younger woman's reach.

"Give me the letter, Amelia!" (Y/N) exclaimed, trying, and failing, to get the letter into her own possession. She struggled a few more times before she was able to grab Amelia's hand and take the letter from it.

"I'm just saying, if you really loved me, you would share him," Amelia stated once (Y/N) had won the struggle. Her statement sounded joking in nature, but there was a slight tone of jealousy hidden in the undertones. If you pried enough, you'd get her to admit to the fact that she regretted bringing Tommy over to meet (Y/N). She'd thought about him and his eyes every day since that night. As much as she wished the memory would fade, it was still there; stuck in the back of her mind.

(Y/N) didn't catch those undertones because she was too busy working on opening the envelope. She quickly unfolded the letter and excitedly read what he'd written to her. The words made her heart flutter. It was nice to hear that he was still doing well and that he was happy to read what she'd written to him. The sentiments she shared with him were abundantly returned, which made her overjoyed. Then she got to the end of the letter. "Oh my goodness..." she breathed, reading it over a few times to confirm that she wasn't making his last few sentences up.

"What?" Amelia asked, peering over her sister's shoulder as she tried to get a glimpse.

"He's going to be sent back out once the weekend's finished," (Y/N) began filling her sister in on what was written. The thought of him going back out to the front lines made her heart drop. She'd forgotten the war was even happening these past two weeks. But the sentence he ended with made her stomach twist even more.

"I'm sorry to hear that, sis," Amelia frowned at the news.

"That's not all he wrote," (Y/N) continued, not wanting to dwell on the sad news...not when the possibility of the future was hanging in the balance.

"What else did he say?" Amelia eagerly asked.

"He's asked if he could come and speak to dad..." she paused, looking right at her sister as she finished her sentence, "he wants to ask for his blessing."

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MASTERLIST

Listen to the song Helpless from Hamilton:

Here.