#tangled!reader

[velvetcloxds]

in love with you- send me a character and an au scenario and I'll write a little baby blurb for it

Can I please ask for a Tangled!AU for Geralt of Rivia + Princess!Reader, please? Thank you!

RUFFIENS | GERALT OF RIVIA

word count: 0.8k words

warnings: reader having very long hair, geralt being a grumpy little simp

Geralt knew the feeling of frustration well, an annoyance to the point of murder, that nagging tug to his brain that had his fist shaking around his glass and his eyes burning- this time, however, the feeling was different, clouded, as annoyed as he was, he was also sort of awed, vividly aware of the fact that he didn't look away from you for even a second as you walked about the drunken witchers with a smile bright enough to light up all of Kaer Morhen despite the darkness that loomed its halls. You were hardly the threatening kind, in fact, he was sure he could quite easily force the information you promised right out of you without much, if any hassle, but when he saw you or rather saved you from the tower your mother had kept you in, he caved into taking you to see the floating lights you'd very adamantly demanded to see.

He questioned your reasoning when you so senselessly considered him a trustworthy traveling companion, it spoke of ignorance and naivety, evidence of being robbed from the company of other humans or living beings for that matter since he was yet to determine what or who you really were aside for a princess. He brought you to his winter home purely for shock value, needing to pass the stony confines on the way to your destination anyway, so he considered it only fitting to tease you some in the process- he'd not, for even a second, considered that you'd be just as sickeningly sweet in a room full of murderers as you were with just the one, him, of course.

You were currently sat atop one of the bulky wooden tables, fawning over Lambert's curls as he offered you a sip of his drink, he looked up at you much like he would an innocent deer running across his path- conflicted between finding you unmentionable adorable and just a bit too foolish and weak to be around him. He allowed you to drag a hand through his curls, musing about the ways you could braid it for him so it bothered him less, giving him advice about keeping it healthy while gesturing to your own hair that spread down the table onto the floor, comically well-kept despite what might be assumed.

"Las, I shall humour your remedies for keeping the curls at bay, but you're not bringing any leaves near me," he reprimanded and you giggled as you sat back, feet peeking out from the hem of your dress as you folded your legs under you, not at all looking like the princess the witchers were accustomed to, admittedly much more satisfying to be around, to listen to and to talk to- you'd managed to charm a group of men who hated your kind with all their hearts.

Geralt was walking towards you before he even knew it, reaching out to support your back when you leaned back just a tad too far while laughing at Lambert's opinions on the different flowers he'd seen on his hunts, listing all the very many reasons why he despised them. A few hours ago the touch of the fingers spread out over the thinning material would've felt foreign, unknown, but despite how uncharted Geralt's presence was to your existence, his touch was quickly becoming familiar, comfortable regardless of how uncaring it was.

"Careful," he grunted though the sound wasn't nearly as annoyed as he wished it to be, earning a shy smile from your lips as you moved your hair out of place to turn around towards him, looking up at him with those big eyes that were daring to break through his cold exterior. "Wouldn't want you to fall and get injured, might not make it to the stars."

"Floating lights," you reminded, he was almost regretting his mistake when your smile threatened to dip into a frown, shaking his system with nerves for being the reason for it. However, luckily the notion was interrupted by a giant yawn, the motion of you slipping from the table to stand next to him being far too smooth. "And I don't think you'd mind it all that much if you didn't have to take me to see them."

"What makes you think that?" he mused and you swore his eyes were lighter as he spoke, a sense of playfulness behind the golden orbs, but you didn't think of it too much, scared to get your hopes up, instead, you gathered your hair into a big ball in your hands, smiling at the white wolf when he helped you do so.

"Just a suspicion that I have," you shrugged in return and tucked the last few inches of roots under your arm, dreading the process of having to braid the main in the morning, not used to having to do so alone- but before you could make your way to the room Geralt had pointed out as yours, you looked back up at him with a sincere smile, one he noted to be very different from the thousand other smiles you were capable of. "Thank you, Geralt," you breathed and he was notably surprised, a foreign feeling for him, you supposed because he didn't recover from the slip of emotion as quickly as you expected. "I know you're only doing this to get something out of me, but I appreciate it still, so thank you," you leaned up to kiss his cheek, a brisk gesture, hardly long enough for him to react before you were tiredly skipping away from him.

"You need to be careful with that one," Lambert noted, a perfect position to have viewed the whole scene as he looked at his friend with a knowing nod. "A girl like that won't be easy to let go of," he explained and Geralt was frozen, dazed as he looked at the arch you just walked through, frazzled and confused as the feeling of your lips still tingled against his white skin.

"Get rid of," he corrected but he wasn't convinced and neither was Lambert because right before his eyes the witcher in question stood lingering, no doubt listening to your steps, determining if you made it safely to your room, a fool really for thinking you hadn't already thread your way into his heart.

[priyajoyyy]

Tangled

Clarisse la rue x repunzel!pesephone!fem!reader

Reader spent their entire life hidden away in a tower to protect her from the outside world wanting her for her powers, its only when a certain daughter of ares finds her scared and confused, that she finally gets to see the outside world like she always longed to.

Warnings:

Toxic parents, yandere!parents, oblivious!, Clarisse being stubborn, overprotectiveness, cannon typical violence, readers not got the best survival instincts 😭, reader is blonde, more to come maybe

Gods had a weird way of protecting people. And while you could confidently say they your parents were never intending to harm you or your siblings. They definitely went about it in weird ways.

Of course you never realised this, being locked away in a tower your entire life was all you even knew. You didn’t understand that your life wasn’t normal.

You didn’t realise you weren’t the only child your parents had hidden off in magical locations to protect them from Zeus and the dangers of the world in their own twisted ways.

And so you stayed where you were, waiting in your tower for the days that your parents would come and visit or the few creatures of the forest you had befriended came to your window.

With not much else to do but paint or read everyday in the same walls. Your hair growing and failing to ever stop, getting to the point of it being constantly in the way.

🍊☀️🪷

Clarisse was beyond confused.

She was 150% sure they had come the same way they had 100 times before. She was convinced. And yet there had never been a giant tower int he middle of the path all the other times they had taken this route.

Her brother suggested that maybe they took a wrong turning, surely they were just lost.

But Clarisse refused to acknowledge the idea she could even being wrong, no she was curtain they came the right way.

Besides they needed somewhere to camp out for the night anyway, so she took off towards the tower.

“Clarisse what are you doing?” Her brother shouted after her, the girl from the Hermes cabin turning to give him a look of annoyance.

The two followed after the girl, watching for a while as she searches around for some sort of entrance before giving up and turning back to them.

“Come on, we need to find a way up” Clarisse tells the two, not being able to find any sort of entrance other than the window near the top of the tower.

“Why?” The blonde girl asked in annoyance, “can’t we just go find somewhere to settle for the night?”

“Yeah clarisse it’s getting late, we can find our bearings in the morning” her brother added.

“This is somewhere to settle for the night” Clarisse stated plainly, rolling her eyes when the two stared at her in confusion, “it’s a giant tower in the middle of nowhere with no doors…no one’s living up there”

“I don’t know Clarisse…I mean this is meant to be a satyr trail, surely someone’s up there” the boy tried to reason.

“Aren’t you curious?” Clarisse asked, “I know we came the right way, this part of the route is blocked off, there is literally no way we got lost”

She was right, this small section of the trail was hidden away, you could only get in and out through two small entrance/exits, covered by plant life to hide it off.

They had been through the secret path a million times and never once was the tower there.

“Well how do you expect we get up?” The girl asked in defeat.

Clarisse looks around for a moment, before grabbing the bag off of her back and pulling out two daggers and holding them up to the two.

“No” the elder boy stated, to which Clarisse turned and made her way towards the walls of the tower, grabbing onto the vines to test their strength, “no no no Clarisse stop it right now”

The girl ignored him, stabbing the dagger into the wall inbetween the cracks and using both of them and the vines to begin to pull herself up the wall.

“I swear to god Clarisse get down right now!”

“I’ll see if there’s another way to get up once I’m up there” Clarisse calls down to them as they stare at her dumbstruck.

“I’m gonna kill you when you get down!” he called up to her.

“I hate your sister” the blonde said to the boy nonchalantly, collapsing to sit on the floor and wait for the ares daughter to be done you her adventure so they could get to bed.

“Tell me about it” the boy replied glaring up at her as she made her way to the top.

Clarisse made her way up, using the, surprisingly strong vines and plants growing off of the tower as her main support on the way up.

Once she made it to the window she pulled herself up on to the ledge, looking down to see her quest mates sat on the ground talking, rolling her eyes at the sight.

She quietly forced the shutters of the large window open, stepping on the flower bed as she climbed through into the room.

🍊☀️🪷

You hadn’t heard anything while Clarisse had been climbing up the walls, busy in your room painting as she entered into the main room of the tower.

Your hair was laid around the different rooms, leading through doors and hanging from ceilings in an attempt to keep it out of your way, something Clarisse stared at in confusion as she quietly wondered around the room.

She was clearly wrong about no one living in the tower, there were candles and lights lit across the room, and a fire lit int he fireplace.

The kitchen was full of food and everything was relatively clean. And not to mention the yards and yards of hair laid across the place.

That’s what confused Clarisse the most, surely no human had this much hair.

She was shocked out of her thoughts when she stepped backwards, tripped on some of said hair and fell onto the floor, alerting you in the other room.

You heard the noise and turned around quickly, your hair curling round you slightly causing it to tug, getting caught underneath Clarisse and yank on your head slightly. Making you squeak in shock.

Clarisse heard this from the other room, her eyes widening as she looking towards the doors that someone clearly resided in.

Both of you grabbed your weapons, Clarisse clutching one of her daggers, and you running to grab a vase off of a cabinet. Inching your way towards the door that separated the two of you as Clarisse stood up.

Clarisse started to walk up the stairs towards the door as you walked down the hallway, both of you stopping at the door before Clarisse decided to push through it suddenly.

You screamed as the mystery girl collapsed on top of her, hair covering your face as you flailed about, trying to get her off of you as she try’s to find the dagger that she lost on the floor.

“Get off of me” you grunted, pushing the hair out of your eyes and attempting to push her off of you, “who are you?”

Clarisse finally finding her dagger, held it to your throat, causing you to stop fighting back, breathless and staring at the weapon in her hand with wide eyes.

“Who are you?” Clarisse retorted, glaring down at the girl as if she wasn’t the one breaking and entering.

“You’re in my home” you say back in shock, frowning at how the knife gets closer to you.

“And I’m holding the dagger…see how this works?” Clarisse tells you with a smirk, flipping it in her hand as she kept it near your throat.

“I-I’m y/n…” you replied slowly, not knowing what to tell her. Looking at her with wide eyes as she huffs in realisation that it wasn’t the most helpful question to ask.

“Well why do you live here?” Clarisse asks noticing the way the girl looked confused and adding, “I mean you’re in the middle of the forest in a tower with no doors…”

“And I mean what’s going on with your hair, it’s so long” Clarisse continued, “and who uses a vase as a weapon?”

You didn’t really know what to say to any of that, looking at her blankly.

“I…don’t know” you answered eventually, adding in a small voice, “can you please get off of me”

Clarisse sighed, getting up slowly but still holding the dagger pointed towards her as she did.

“Why are you in my house?” You asked meekly, staring at the dagger in fear. Clarisse rolled her eyes noticing your wariness, putting the dagger down to her side to try calm you down.

“I’m not gonna hurt you unless you try anything ok?” Clarisse stated, “I was just looking to see if we could stay the night in here, I didn’t realised anyone lived here or anything”

“We?”

“My friends, well not really my friends but, well they’re just outside” Clarisse told you, “why are you in a tower by yourself exactly? And seriously what’s going on with your hair”

“I just live here…I don’t know what you mean” you answered, “and I guess it’s just my hair…my mum says it’s special”

“Your mum? Special how what do you mean”

“I don’t know it just is” you said, “w-wait, no, I’m not meant to tell anyone that”

Clarisses eyebrows furrowed at that, looking at you as though you were an idiot causing you to blush at her.

“Why can’t you tell anyone about your hair…” Clarisse asked.

“Mummy said not to” you said hesitantly.

Clarisse smirked at that, only seconds ago you said you couldn’t tell anyone and yet here you were continuing on with the subject.

“And mummy is?” She asked condescendingly, something you didn’t pick up on as you went to answer.

“Ummm Persephone…” you responded simply.

“What?” Clarisse asked in confusion, looking at you like you were mad. Sure, she knew you couldn’t be mortal, but a demigod?

She supposed the flowers and plants in full bloom in autumn made sense by that, it didn’t quite explain the hair but she was sure it had something to do with that.

“You’re a demigod?” She asked in confusion.

“What?” You replied, furrowing your eyebrows as you looked at her, “what’s that?”

Clarisse stared at you for a moment, you felt like she was scrutinising your entire existence as she looked you up and down.

Suddenly she grabbed your arm and pulled you towards the door, you stumbling as she continued down the stairs towards the main room of the tower and leaving you stood in the middle.

You watched her as she made her way to the window, opening it again and shouting down at her ‘friends’ she told you about earlier.

“It’s all safe” Clarisse shouted, before turning back to you, “do you have any rope?”

You looked at her in shock that she was just inviting people inside your home, speaking when she sent you a look of annoyance, “no?”

Clarisse looked around the room for a moment before settling on your hair that hung around the room, turning back to you with a new look in her eyes.

“You sure?” Clarisse asked, leaning down to pick up your hair and hold it up for you to see.

“W-what? No you can’t use my hair!” You told her, rushing forward to remove it from clarisses hands leaving you stood right in front of her.

She looked down at you with a smirk, taking the hair back, “come on, they won’t hang from it or anything, they just need something to hold for leverage to get up”

You rolled your eyes with a pout at that, looking up at her before walking towards the window, looking down at the two on the ground, who were now beyond confused at the blonde girl appearing.

You leant over to reach the walls of the tower then, Clarisse running over to hold on to you as you stumbled slightly, “be careful!”

You blushed feeling her hands on your hips, shaking yourself out of it and leaning down to touch the plants and vines attached to the stone.

Clarisse watched as the plants grew, covering the side of the wall all over and bits of vines hanging down for the two at the bottom to hold on to.

Once it was fully grown you turned back around to Clarisse, underestimating how close you both were when you did so.

You smiled up at the shocked look on her face, proud of yourself for figuring out a solution to the situation, hearing clarisses brother begin to scale up the side of the wall as you and Clarisse faced each other.

Taglist:

@slaggylemon @yourmom-25s-blog @l0veshellarcelia @asvterias @ashisabitgay

Wanna rewatch tangled now 🤩

Pretty sure this is shit but oh well

[riptidelover]

I’m SICK!

[writing-fanics]

*squeals* Lucifer with a human s/o and they like watch Disney movies their laptop..

*sniffles* imagine Lucifer listening to the songs while they’re away at the hotel so whenever they come back they can duet it..

like I see the light

Abd while singing it he uses his magic to make lights float around you..

[loveliestlovelygirl]

tangle of strings

pianoteacher!anakin x student!reader

synopsis: mr. skywalker has been your piano instructor since you were fourteen years old. from the moment you met, you knew he was the one. he never expressed his feelings for you vocally, despite all the time you spent together. but after you turn eighteen and prepare to leave for college, he changes his tune.

w.c: 6.9k

warnings!! {minors dni}, dark content, grooming heavily featured, sexual content occurs after the reader is 18, p in v, fingering, oral, fem!reader, gentle dom!anakin, sub!reader, "loss" of virginity, jealousy, religious themes

the content you consume is your responsibility ♡

The piano is the only thing Mr. Skywalker told you that he loved.

He was never spotted with a girl or anyone for that matter in a romantic sense. He was always single, which never made sense to anyone in your small town because he is handsome. He’s always been handsome. His yearbook pictures from high school proved it.

When you would go over to his house for piano lessons, he would show you many things from his life, like his award cabinet, filled with every trophy and certificate he’s won from piano competitions or his yearbook photos. Those photos were one of the first things he showed you. It was one of your first memories of just you and him.

Mr. Skywalker takes a big stack of books off the shelf in his library all at once. Using his strength to balance the dusty books on his arms, he brings them to the reading table where you sit. He takes off the top one and opens it up before you.

Eventually, you find his picture. You cover your mouth as you giggle. He had thick glasses making him look like a nerd. But he was cute. So, undeniably cute to you. You wish he could be the same age. You would want to be his friend. You would want to kiss him.

If you were the same age, he could be yours.

“I wasn’t always like this,” he muses, his large body looming behind you as he looks over your head to gaze at the picture. “I used to be the kid everyone picked on. When I’d get home, I would write a song about how I was feeling. Some of those songs inspired the ones I play at my shows.”

When he talks, you gush. His warm voice is safe. He’s the kind of person you could tell all your secrets to.

And you did tell him everything you couldn’t tell your parents. You’d tell him your deepest secrets. Like the boys you crushed on. Or your new feelings of lust towards them that caught you off-guard as a teen. He understood you like no one else in the whole world. He was the first to know about your first kiss when you were sixteen. And he seemed… jealous when you told him.

“I don’t know how it happened,” you say. “One moment, we were talking and laughing. And the next thing I know, Drew is pushing me down on the bed to kiss me!” you squeal. “But don’t tell my parents. They’ll think I’m a whore.”

Mr. Skywalker pats your shoulder. “Don’t worry. I always keep your secrets. Drew is the boy in your history class, correct?”

You nod, amazed that he would remember. The last time you spoke of Drew had been several months ago. But he always pays attention to even the smallest details. That’s how you know he cares.

“I don’t know if he’s good for you,” he mutters, noticeably bitter about something. “Does he really know you? I think… he doesn’t. He’s probably just trying to use you.”

Mr. Skywalker is much older than you. And wiser. So you take his advice to heart. Maybe you shouldn’t see Drew tonight after all.

“How many times have you been kissed?” you ask him, your voice all innocent. Although your motives were anything but pure. While you might have just shared a kiss with Drew, there is one man who is truly the object of your greatest desires. You just haven’t found a way to tell him.

He shakes his head. “You know I’d rather talk about you.” That’s what he says when you pry too deeply into his private life, which only adds to your secret obsession

Anakin has always been the one thing that rivals your obsession with your instrument of choice. And it’s the only secret you kept from him all through high school because you knew he couldn’t possibly feel the same way about you.

Even if the small touches, the secret looks, and long hugs seemed to indicate otherwise. You were too afraid to ask him what it all meant. He never gave that kind of attention to anyone else.

And as an awkward teen, you were furious that you couldn’t express your love to him directly. You kept telling yourself that you would when you’re older. When you turned eighteen, you would confess to him.

Since you couldn’t tell anyone, even him, about this secret, you’d use the piano to share your soul, to put your feelings out into the atmosphere. When you play, no matter where you are, you feel him sitting on the bench beside you, watching over you. 

He taught you everything you know now. He’s the reason you chose to major in Piano Performance in college to the great horror of your parents. But what did they expect? They watched you sacrifice your youth for excellence in your craft. The nights were filled with pools of tears, cries, and screams as you played until you got the part, section, or note just right.

When your fingers rest on the ivory keys, you feel him and nothing else. He’s your muse in every song you write. 

The piece that won you a full scholarship to your dream university, you wrote it while thinking of Anakin. Your beloved piano teacher. Your closest friend. Your secret love.

He’d been in your life for so long, giving you lessons when you first showed an interest in music. How could you not love him?

He went to the same church that your family attended every Sunday. He played piano sometimes during worship service if the music minister was out on vacation or fell ill. Church was how your father met him, and they became good friends. He often came to your Sunday lunches.

Your mom always cooked fried catfish or fried chicken because that’s what your dad wanted. Mr. Skywalker, as you called him back in your high school years, would eat two plates of food. He’d say things like “I haven’t had a home cooked meal in years,” even if he was at your house just last week. You would laugh the loudest at his jokes. As you think about them now, you realize they weren’t funny, but you’re in love with him so it doesn’t matter.

After lunch, your parents would take care of the food and dishes, giving alone time with him. Like a young pup, you’d follow him outside on the back porch where you’d sit side by side on the creaky old swing.

“Do you cook or bake?” he asks you.

You haven’t the slightest idea of why he’d ask such a thing. You still lived with your parents. Your mom does most of the cooking. Your dad grills sometimes. “No. I get scared that I’ll burn myself.”

Suddenly, he reaches over for your left hand, the closest one to him, from your lap and holds it between his great palms. “Cold,” he whispers. He massages your fingers to revive them. “I wouldn’t want you to burn your hands. They’re so perfect… for playing.”

Anakin looks down at what he’s doing to you and his expression sours. At the time, you don’t know why. You wonder if you said or did something he doesn’t like because the mood changes instantly. He drops your hand and pats your thigh.

“You have piano hands, remember?” he reminds you. He smiles at you, and you feel secure again.

That’s exactly the thing that you always tell him. His hands spread out further than a whole octave, while you struggle to hit the two octave notes simultaneously without pulling a muscle. His fingers are long, and his palms are wide. You can’t compete with that.

You wonder what other things he’s good at with hands like those.

For the entirety of your high school existence, you pined and pined after him. He was always on your thoughts every minute of every day. You never grew sick of daydreaming about him. And on occasion that was reflected in your grades though you maintained a high GPA regardless. Every week was just your going through the motions of life mindlessly, only waiting for two short hours out of the week on Friday which was when you took lessons with him.

You lived solely for those two hours in which he gave you piano lessons free of charge. He said it was because you had such potential, but still to this day, you like to think he reciprocated some of your feelings even before he actually made a move on you.

For those two hours, you would sit right up against him on the leather cushion of the piano bench and play for him whatever pieces you were working on or things he assigned you from the previous week. He was never harsh with you even when you weren’t getting something.

You throw your hands on the keys, striking a dissonant chord that makes you both wince. Mr. Skywalker instantly pulls your hands away.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” he said with concern. “I promise you’ll get this. It just takes time. I know you practice too much as it is.”

“I want to be good! I want to be a star!” With that, you break down instantly and cry. He never minds when you cry in front of him.

“One day, you will be. I believe in you,” he soothes you, rubbing your back and kissing the top of your head as if you belong to him. He hugs you. “We can try again when you’re ready.”

“Okay,” you say, leaning against him to hear the echo of his heart. His heartbeat is sensual to you, even at sixteen. You can’t explain it. These stupid hormonal feelings you have for him are so wrong. But when you look up into his passionate eyes, you see the man you want to spend the rest of your life with. You have to marry him. You have to.

From the time you were five, you were afraid of thunder and lightning. Terrified by it actually. The fear is still with you today. But it was so much worse in middle school and high school. You started taking lessons from Anakin when you were fourteen years old. And you were still such a child then. You remembered the time it stormed so hard during your lesson that you had to spend the night at his house because it was too dangerous for your mother to come pick you up. But that also meant you couldn’t hide your abnormal fear of a thunderstorm from Anakin.

He had this giant plush rug under the piano. When you asked him about it, he said that it caught the sound. At the tail end of your lesson, the night you had to stay over, lightning struck close to his house and spooked you so much that you shrieked and slipped under the piano, curling up on that soft rug like a scared puppy.

Anakin was such a sweetheart because he followed you there.

“Hey,” he whispers, rubbing your back, “It’s going to be okay. I promise.”

You cry into your arms, hiding your face. “I know! I know it’s stupid of me. I just—”

“It’s not stupid. We all have different fears.” After he says that, he lies on his back beside you. “But I won’t let the storm hurt you, okay. We can stay here all night.”

And that you did. You cowered under the grand piano in his parlor all night long. That was the first time you ever cuddled with a boy, only he was a man almost twice your age. But that didn’t bother you. And it seemed not to bother him. He let you hold onto him through the night and squeeze him a little harder when you heard thunder. It has been one of your most precious memories of your piano teacher.

You had always known Anakin could be a little jealous. Any time you would mention your school friends the air would get tense, as if he didn’t want you to have anyone else in your life but him. He never said that, but he didn’t have to. There was always rage somewhere beneath the still blueness of his eyes, but his rage was never directed towards you until you told him that Drew wanted you to be his girlfriend.

You were seventeen. And you were so excited to have your first boyfriend even if you weren’t in love with him. At least people might not tease you for still being a virgin because it wouldn’t be so obvious. Anakin never did make fun of you for your innocence. He always said that it’s okay to wait until you’re ready or for the right person.

Immediately after you share the news of your official relationship with Drew, he freezes and closes the lid to the piano keys.

His jaw is tight. His voice is tense. “Maybe... we should be done for today.” He doesn’t even acknowledge what you said, as if he’s afraid to.

But you have no one else to celebrate with. Drew is a secret you keep from them because he’s not involved in church. “Did you hear me?” you press.

He grinds his teeth hard, and you hear bone against bone. Anakin nods. “I did.”

You nudge his arm. “Well?”

“Well what?” he snaps bitterly. He turns slightly to glare at you. “You know how I feel ab—about him.”

You roll your eyes. Anakin is a dramatic guy sometimes. “Drew isn’t that bad. He can be sweet. And he’s going to take me to prom!”

Anakin rises off the piano bench and pats down his black slacks. “So, you don’t care what I think then?” He’s staring down upon you with overwhelming disapproval. The muscles of his arms bulge when he crosses them over his chest.

Palms against the leather cushion, you hold yourself up. You notice yourself trembling when you realize that he’s not teasing you. He’s very upset... with you. Why would he be—does this mean—does he feel something after all?

“Of course, I do, Mr. Skywalker.”

“I told you not to get close with him!” he shouts. You’ve never heard him raise his voice at  you. “He has bad intentions. He’s just a dumb kid. What does he know about loving you?”

You start to sob. “I’m sorry. I thought you might be... happy for me?”

He scoffs. And it sounds like you disgust him right now. “I don’t want to hear about him ever again. I don’t want to know anything about your little boyfriend. Do. You. Understand?”

Having him speak to you that way made you feel like a little girl. And you hated that feeling more than anything else. You knew that you were innocent, and you hated yourself for it because it made you feel inadequate to love the man you really wanted.

But now you’d do anything to have that innocence again. You didn’t realize at the time how free you once were. Growing up was harder than you thought it would be. It almost broke you.

You were lucky to have someone like Anakin to build you back up again, even if he was the one that tore you down that time.

After he yelled at you, you rushed out of his home as quickly as you could. The silence lasted a day. And then he drove to your house and knocked on your door. He held in his hands a bouquet of white roses and on his lips was the apology you were waiting for. 

Nothing changed between you after that. Until your next birthday came around.

Up to your eighteenth birthday, your interactions were mostly harmless. But when you turned eighteen, an official adult, the tension between you had changed. The energies you both entertained shifted and became... dare you say... sexual to a degree. Anakin seemed to treat you a little differently now that you were fair game.

To celebrate your eighteenth birthday, he was there. In fact, he was the only one you insisted that mother invite. Not Drew or any of your school friends. Just Anakin. And he had to be there because he really was your one true friend. You couldn’t imagine celebrating your birthday without him. He was always a guest at your birthday parties, but he gave you a special gift this year, one so unforgettable that sometimes you hear it clear as day.

Anakin wrote you a piano solo. One that was simple, sweet, and addicting. You told him to play it again and again. After cake and presents, you made him teach you how to play it. You were very proficient now, and often could play things just by hearing them once. But the chords he chose for your song were unique and shouldn’t have meshed so well together. But they did. Just like you and him. Unlikely friends. Star-crossed lovers in your head.

The two of you stayed at the piano all evening, messing around with the song. By the end, you both had figured out how to layer the notes and chords in an even more perfect duet. Playing piano with him was almost the best birthday gift in the world to you. But it was not what you wished for.

You wished for a kiss.

But that would mean you’d have to tell him how you felt. And you were terrified. As an adult, now you could. It was more empowering than you thought it could be.

But you never did find a chance to tell me on your birthday. You were too afraid to ruin your night with a love confession. You know he would do the right thing and reject you, but that didn’t stop you from dreaming for the impossible.

When you walked him outside to his car—you insisted—your secret birthday wish came true. Not in the way you expected. But a kiss did happen. Your piano teacher kissed you on the cheek. Your face burned the whole night through. You couldn’t sleep because you wanted to know what it meant. He had never used his lips to touch any part of you before.

Physical contact had always been an important part of your bond with Anakin since the beginning. There were always the hugs that lasted just a little too long. And he seemed to always find an excuse to hold your hand. But he was your piano teacher, and the hand-to-hand contact always felt necessary and never strange.

But following your very special birthday, you found him staring at you a little longer, a little more deeply, and he seemed to always find an excuse to touch you, not in a sexual way but in a way that led you to believe the attraction wasn’t one sided.

He’d tuck your hair behind your ears, brush the side of your arm, and sit impossibly close to you that you swore you could almost hear his heartbeat. Anakin had never been hesitant to touch you before, but if there were any boundaries before, they were forgotten by him. And you enjoyed it. His new attention made you feel special and wanted. And that was all you ever wanted.

You began to touch him too. And seek physical attention from him. You would nuzzle his arm. Slip your fingers between his. Tap your shoes against his. He’d always notice, and he always hugged you or kissed your cheek in response.

You two were getting closer than ever before. Sometimes... you would barely touch the keys, getting lost in conversation. At this point, Drew and any other boy you were interested in before might as well have been dead. There was only room in your heart for Anakin.

And you had discovered a way to tell him without using your fragile words.

You sit on the bench waiting for him to get off the phone with his mother. She called him shortly after he let you in. About ten minutes later, he comes back.

“Sorry. I was worried she was in trouble,” he says, taking his spot beside you. “Now, where were we last week?”

“We... didn’t really go over anything.”

He bites into his full lower lip with a mischievous look in his eyes. “What are you paying me for then?”

You laugh because you’ve never once paid him for his time. You nudge his thigh with yours. “Honestly, I don’t really think there’s much more you could teach me.”

He raises a brow. “Oh really?”

You nod. “Actually, I’ve been writing something for you.”

His jaw lowers, and his mouth hangs open slightly. “How long have you kept this secret?”

“Since my birthday.”

He slips his arm around your back and rests his hand on your hip. “I’m impressed. Show me?”

You gulp heavily. That had been the plan today. It is ready for him. He’d never judge you even if it were bad. But you know that it’s not. You know that he’ll know what this piece means. He knows you too well. He’s too perceptive of everything. You wrote it in his favorite key, C minor.

With your hands a little shaky, your fingers glide softly across the piano and press down powerfully in chords. Through music, you profess your love. Anakin sits beside you and waits for you to finish. When you do, he’s waiting, staring with tears thickening his dark eyelashes. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t say anything, but you know... he knows how you feel.

You tug on his shirt, drawing him closer. A war of heart and mind reflects on his face. He’s doubting what he wants. His resistance is half-hearted. It isn’t long before he scoops you up in his arms and kisses you. This time his mouth is on your lips, wetting them, and tugging them apart to fill you with his tongue.

Drew was never this good. His mouth was sloppy and tight. Anakin kisses like he’s done this a thousand times before. And he kisses like he wants you. Like he’s wanted you for such a long time, despite how wrong you both know that is.

He holds you down in his lap, and you hug him tightly, carding your fingers through his dreamy hair. You start to feel lightheaded because you haven’t been able to breathe, but you don’t want to stop him. If you stop him, he might think and realize that he doesn’t want you anymore.

But you’re dying. Turning blue. You tap his shoulder. And he stops devouring you. His lips sparkle when he smiles. “Too much for you, baby?”

You sharply inhale, finally catching your breath. You shake your head. You want more. You need it. More isn’t even enough.

You spend the whole lesson entangled with one another until your mother comes to pick you up.

For the next month, that’s all you did. Kiss and kiss and kiss. Breathe and breathe and breathe. And kiss some more. You wondered why he was waiting to take you to his bed. You wanted that with him, but he never asked you to go that far. He seemed afraid. Even when his affection was overflowing in passion as you always knew it would be, it was clear that he was holding himself back. Did he need you to tell him what to do?

Your make out sessions extended beyond just your lesson time. Whenever he would come over to your house, he would go upstairs with you to your bedroom, and you’d end up tangled in the sheets. Though with every item of clothing on. Your parents never suspected anything was happening to their young, virtuous daughter. They trusted him completely. And so did you. You would have done anything he asked of you no matter the risks.

Even at church, he’d find a way to get you alone. In the girl’s bathroom. During the preacher’s sermon.

Anakin lifts you onto the sink and spreads your legs out so that he can fit between them and get close to you. Thumb under your chin, he tilts your face up to his. He grins before going in for a kiss.

Your lavender baby doll dress rides up your thighs as he inches closer. He presses up against the crotch of your panties. The dampness is cold against your tender flesh. His erection only grows as the friction between you builds, your bodies rubbing against each other in a clothed attempt to satisfy yourselves sexually.

And now you’re glad you waited and didn’t mess around with Drew like he wanted when you were together. Because that means Anakin could be your very first.

He freezes up when you try to unbuckle his big belt. Anakin looks at you strangely, almost disturbed by your actions.

You lean to his ear and whisper, “I. Want. It.” You had thought your seductive voice would be enough to cast him off the edge of all hesitation, that he’d bend to your will and give you what you want.

But all you did was kill the fire.

Head shaking, he backs away. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

And you didn’t see him for nearly a month after that. But you don’t regret what you said. You were tired of just endless make out sessions. It seemed so immature, and you knew you were ready for something real.

All of those memories, those beautiful capsules of your favorite times with Anakin, are the reason you find yourself on his doorstep, a quarter till midnight in the pouring rain.

Complete desperation.

You took your moms car without permission just to drive over despite the threat of a storm. And you’re still deathly afraid of them. But you came anyway. Because tomorrow, you’re leaving for college. You might not get another chance to fix things. Death would be better than living another moment without him.

“You haven’t been answering my texts or my calls, Anakin.”

The door is barely cracked open, just enough that you can see his pale face. Dark circles surround his rainy eyes.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he mutters, not even making eye contact.

Thunder echoes behind you. The wind blows your hair around. Leaves rustle, filling the silence between you both. It’s going to storm soon. You had been stupid enough to drive to his house just before a storm. But you couldn’t take not knowing what had happened to him and why he was dodging your calls.

The eyes that used to linger a little too long won’t acknowledge you even as you stand in front of him.

“Why are you being like this? This isn’t you!” you nearly scream. You’re so afraid that he’s not only pushing you away but also ejecting you from his life completely, as if the memories you share can be erased. He’s engrained in almost every memory you have.

“It can’t happen. Go away.”

He tries to close the door on you, but you stick the toe of your right shoe in the crack before it shuts.

“Please… please don’t do this.”

Anakin’s eyes are bloodshot as if he’s been crying. “What I want isn’t right. I can’t do it. I don’t know if I could live with myself after.”

Does he really hate me so much? Is that the truth? Perhaps it’s your naivety, but you won’t let him go so easily. You have suffered in silence for nearly a decade, pining after him, waiting for him to reciprocate the depth of your feelings. Your hands shake as you reach out to him. If he would just… hold your hand like he used to, then maybe everything would be alright.

Your fingertips brush against each other. You feel the spark instantly, and it travels down your spine, leaving you wanting to touch him more.

“What about what I want?”

Anakin blinks several times before he speaks. It’s as if he didn’t consider your feelings in this decision. “You’re… not in a position to see things clearly. You’re—”

“Don’t say it!” you exclaim, squeezing your fists. “I’m not a child. I’m all grown up. And you know it. You see it.”

Anakin sighs a long time, his eyes scanning down your body. “Of course, I see it. But that doesn’t make it okay.”

Though you can never overpower him, you still try to force the door open. “Just let me in. We can talk. Just let me talk to you.”

Anakin’s frown is firm, and his stillness enforces that he’s not backing down. “I don’t know. If I let you in… if you cry… I’ll want to hold you. Then things might happen. I don’t know if I can control myself around you.”

Hugging yourself, you gaze upwards, into eyes that finally meet yours. His eyes reveal his mourning, his grief, his lust. It’s the latter that sends shivers through your body. The knowing that he wants you is more than you can take.

“I don’t want you to.”

There.

You said it.

You have told him exactly what you want. And if you hadn’t made it painfully obvious before, he knows now that you’re no longer thinking like a little girl.

Following a sigh of defeat, he backs away from the door, and you move in.

All the lights are off in his home. He must have been sitting in the dark like a vampire. The piano lid is open. He never left it open unless he was actively playing.

Anakin strides across the room to seat himself on the piano bench. He taps the spot next to him. “You’re right.... We should talk. Talk. Nothing more.”

Sitting beside him here feels like the most natural thing in the world. Here, you’re not afraid to speak from the heart. He’d never judge you even if he disagrees. But you’re not so sure he disagrees this time.

He wants you too.

“I couldn’t let you go back. I can’t believe you drove in the rain.”

You shrug. “It’s just rain. The storm hasn’t—”

The windows flash like they would in a horror flick, and thunder comes after. With a whimper, you grab onto his arm.

“I can drive you back home once we talk,” he says emotionlessly, gently pulling you off him.

But you double down and grab his arm, tugging him back again. “Don’t push me away.”

He doesn’t do it again. He stills. And sighs. “That’s the last thing that I want to do.”

With your chin resting on his sleeve, you look up at him, wide-eyed. “Just kiss me like you always do. And don’t think about it.” You stretch your arm out and fiddle with the top button of his dress shirt. “I’m not thinking.”

His chest rises and falls with his breaths. He doesn’t stop you as you unbutton his shirt.

When you rise on your knees, you’re at eye level. He’s so much bigger than you even now. He makes you feel so small. Holding onto his arm, you lean close and peck his clean-shaven cheek. He winces as if you pricked him with a needle.

“Angel, I shouldn’t.”

You kiss him again, closer to his lips, almost tasting him. “It’s me. Don’t you want me?”

Finally, he turns and looks in your eyes. Then at your mouth. “Don’t tell anyone. You... understand how this might look. What they might say about—”

“I’m good at keeping secrets,” you whisper. “What’s one more?”

You finish unbuttoning his shirt for him. Taking care of him feels good. You run your fingertips down his chest and his abdomen. His bare skin. It’s soft and warm. Suddenly, he grabs your wrist.

“Cold hands,” he murmurs. He takes your hands between them. He rubs his hands over your fast to warm them with friction.

“Sorry.”

Still rubbing your hands, he stands and leads you to the back of his grand piano near the flashing window.

Any other time, you would be trembling in fear because of the loud storm, but tonight you’re trembling because of the new feelings bubbling inside you. You’ve never been so aroused before.

“Can I hold you?” he says as pulls you into his embrace.

You can hear his steady heartbeat and feel it pumping right against your sensitive ear. Your piano teacher holds you against him and tangles his talented fingers in your hair. He sniffs your neck before taking a bite. His teeth pinch your flesh, and his tongue soothes you. The pain he leaves in several spots along your neck means that he’s marked you as his.

Your own heart is racing at lightning speed. You can’t think. In his arms, you’re helpless to his whims. You need him to tell you what to do. All you want is to please him.

“I’ll do anything,” you whisper to him so weakly you question if he hears you.

Anakin slowly unzips the back of your dress. “Consider this a teaching moment.” His voice doesn’t sound like it usually does. The undertones are sultry and possessive. “I can’t tell you how many times I wanted to—” He stops to pull down your dress, and his eyes wander over your pretty body. You wore transparent lace underwear and a matching bralette. He can see everything you hide from the rest of the world.

And he tells you, “You’re perfection.”

That makes you want to kiss him so badly. You try to lift yourself to reach his lips, but he’s too tall.

“Be patient,” he chides. “I want you to lay down first.” He guides you under the piano.

You lie down on your back atop the giant rug. Instantly, relaxation takes over as you remember all the times you used to lie here with him, hiding from the storm. Never did you think this would be the place where you’d give yourself to him. This must be meant to be.

He follows you after fully undressing. His body is every inch a man’s.  His size makes you feel so small. He runs the risk of crushing you with his weight.

Lying on his side, he looks down at you, watching his own fingers running under the elastic of your lacy panties. “Take these off and spread your legs.” He whispers kisses to your cheek. “You can do that for me, can’t you?”

Nodding, you do as you’re told and wiggle out of your underwear. He snatches them from you and crunches them in his hands before throwing them over his shoulder. You proceed with fanning your legs open. The air is frigid as it touches you.

Anakin is looking where no one else has. “I’m so proud of you for waiting. Saving yourself just for me.”

You gasp as he kisses you between your legs. He kisses you there for a long time. It feels strange and wonderful. The feeling building inside you makes you moan and your toes curl. You feel so good your body aches. You hear your own heartbeat. You breathe but can’t find relief. Nothing soothes the need inside you but his mouth, his lips, his tongue. And before long you hit the breaking point, pleasure storming through your body from your place beneath him. Your cries are dampened by the thunderous sounds outside, but he hears you. He stops to look at your face. Making eye contact with him heightens the vulnerability of the situation. The intense way he looks at you burns. He notices every little change in your expression.

Anakin knows he made you feel good, but he still asks, “Did you like that?” He brushes the wild strands of hair away from your face. You know you’re precious to him. He sweetly kisses your forehead. “I like your taste.”

Your cheeks are seared by that comment. You cover your eyes, not wanting to let him see how he’s affecting you. “I did like it.”

“Do you want to do more?” He kisses your lips this time, and you taste yourself. “I don’t want to push you if you’re not ready.”

“I am ready!” you lift your head up and cup his cheek. “Don’t make me wait longer. I’m leaving tomorrow.” You bite your lip, knowing how dangerous what you’re about to say is because of who you’re saying it to. “Do you really want some college guy to be the one who gets me first?”

As if trying to reject the image you gave his mind, he closes his eyes and tightens his jaw. “No,” is his short answer. From the way his lips are pressed together, you know he wants to say more, but he’s saving you from his own selfish anger.

“Me either.” You rub his cheek with your thumb. “Anakin,” it feels right to call him by his first name instead of Mr. Skywalker, “I’ve waited for you. I always knew this would happen.”

He chuckles lightly. “I never gave you permission to use my name. Don’t forget—” he grunts as he slides two of his fingers between your slick folds and pushes them inside, “your manners, young one.”

These same fingers were the ones that rested atop yours when you were first learning to play piano. They pointed to the right key when you played the wrong note. They pointed to the sheet music to guide you along for all these years. They held your hands when they were cold.

And now he’s using them to teach you something new. But he’s just as skilled at fingering you as he is with music. You’re like his new instrument. He’s plucking all the right strings in just the right way to make you cry out for him. With your body pliant, he controls when you come. He doesn’t make you wait for it. He uses his thumb too and nudges until you come. It’s wetter than the last. And he instructs you to lick his fingers off when he’s done.

“Do you want to keep going?” he asks again. “Don’t hate me for asking.” He hangs his head a little.

What he doesn’t understand is how insatiable he’s caused you to be. There were so many times you thought you might explode from how desperately you wanted him. But now it’s okay if that does happen.

“Keep going. Please,” you beg. You’re not ready to stop. You’ve waited for this moment since you were fourteen years old. If it were up to you, you’d live here forever.

“If that’s what you really want,” Anakin moves from lying at your side to settling himself between your legs.

“It is,” you reassure him. Holding onto his neck, you pull yourself up a bit. “Can you kiss me too?”

He grins before pushing you down, his large hand spread out over your soft stomach, and he chases your lips as you fall. You’re partially distracted by his mouth as his cock slides inside you. You had expected it to be more of a challenge, all things considered. Throughout high school, your friends always complained about how much it hurt their first time. Some girls bled too. And that had scared you, which is one of the reasons you never took Drew up on his many offers of a “good time.” Deep down you knew he wouldn’t treat you right. But Anakin clearly is experienced with having sex. Maybe he wasn’t as alone as you thought he had been all those years.

This being your very first time, it does sting when he fills you completely, his bony hips pressed against yours. You feel the tightness and the stretch. But you enjoy how it feels. You’re so close to passing out just because this is as close as you can get to someone.

Anakin rocks in and out slowly. Maybe he can feel that you’re tired. He’s being gentle with you despite how much he wants to rail your cunt to shreds. You can tell when he’s holding himself back. He has that weary, pained look in his rainy eyes. A part of you wants to tell him that it’s okay. Let go. But you both know that you couldn’t handle the full extent of his lust.

“Can I come inside you?” he asks before sinking his teeth into a bruise along your neck.

Short of breath, you answer, “I said... anything.”

“Okay,” his shaky voice whispers. He buries his face into the curve of your neck and moans your name into your skin. He pulls your hair gently as he finishes, his heat spreading through your core. It’s so much that you feel it leaking out.

After, he holds you there all night long. He doesn’t let you leave. And you wouldn’t want to escape.

The three words he says to you as you leave his house the morning after, you realize that he’s lied to you all the years you’ve known him.

The piano isn’t his only love or his only obsession.

It’s an outlet, and yet a mask for his sin nature which you understand more deeply than any other girl ever will.

He’s kept his real obsession hidden from everyone but you.

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[luveline]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 | 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐨𝐧

You want to see the floating lights. Steve wants his satchel back. You come to an arrangement that is mutually beneficial… sorta. tangled!au

10k words, reader insert, fem!reader, medieval times (ish!), begrudging allies, fake dating/marriage, lots of changes from tangled movie but it’s got the spirit, I tried to be inclusive of all hair types but it is magical and floor length nonetheless, magical realism, TW for abusive mother + narcissism, mother is awful, steve is gonna show her the world is a good place!! allies to friends to lovers, pining

˗ˋˏ ☆ ˎˊ˗

Steve's hands are bleeding by the time he works his way into the tower, raw from the rough grit of old hewn stone. He hisses with every handhold he finds, adrenaline staving off the worst of the pain as his eyes scrabble for the next ledge. 

Five feet, three. His hand slaps into the dark wood of a window ledge and he heaves himself up, the joints of his arms screaming in protest. Were it not for the rumbling of horse hooves like an earthquake outside of the grotto he might've given up, hoped for a soft landing. 

The threat of being caught propels him forward. 

He lands on the tiled flooring of the main atrium of the tower with an audible plop of fabric, his satchel clunking hard by his hip. 

"Stars," he says. He breathes hard, trying and failing to slow his heart now he's found sanctuary. 

He lifts his cheek from the mosaic beneath and peers around the room. He gawps. 

It's mostly dark, and still he can make out the intricate, masterful artwork decorating the curved wall. Flowers made up of a thousand colours, petals dripping with dew, their anthers heavy with pollen. A field of every flower he's ever seen and a hundred others he's not familiar with. He has really, truly, never seen anything like it. Not even the spectacle of the Palace could hold a candle to what he sees before him. No books he'd read growing up had ever conjured an image as sharply magical as this.

He pushes up onto his elbows. Sunlight drips into the room from the wooden shutters he’d crawled through, illuminating the feet of each cabinet, a washing basin, and the brick oven under a staircase that ascends into the tower. He sniffs and finds the stick of coal dust heavy in the air; somebody lives here. 

Steve's quickly proven right when you swing from behind an alcove near the kitchenette. 

He startles backward and away from you as you advance, a cast iron pan held aloft in delicate hands and wielded with an intimidating confidence. 

"Holy- Wait! Wait, please," he cries, holding his hands palm out in surrender. 

Steve doesn't suppose you'd been expecting such a feeble intruder. He'd feel a strike against his dignity if it hadn't worked — you slow in the centre of the room, your breath coming in quick pants as the iron pan in your grip shakes. 

You're scared.

You're beautiful. 

"What do you want?" you ask, a pleading sort of twist to your question. "I don't have anything. I don't have anything worth taking." 

"Please," he says loudly. "I don't want anything. Sanctuary for the night, nothing else." 

Your chest rises. Steve feels smarmy, but he finds his eyes drawn to the valley of your chest, the bodice of your dress. A soft and buttery orange sewn with the palest pink and lilac embroidery. It's a gorgeous piece of craftsmanship, lovely enough that he wonders briefly if you're of royal descent, but the dress itself is a peasant's gown. 

His eyes rise back to your unhappy face. Your brows are pulled up at the starts, a delicate display that betrays your fear. 

You glare at him. 

"You can't stay here," you assert.

"One night." Steve pulls his satchel into his lap to procure a small coin purse. He'd love to say it was his coin purse. He cannot. "I have silvers. I can pay you." 

He will not be paying you anything. He won't rob you, though. He's not a total miscreant. 

"You can't stay," you say again, raising your iron pan higher above your shoulder. He sees a flash of something at your hip. "My mother–" 

"Holy stars, is that your hair?" 

You seize up, making an almost inaudible sound of dejection. "No." 

"Are you sure? It looks very much like hair."

Steve anchors his hand to the floor and leans downward to get a better look. You turn with him, attempting to shield your long hair from view and only helping him along. It sways with your movements, the ends near long enough to dance over the floor. 

"You have to leave. Leave!" 

Steve bites the inside of his lip. A rainbow of light arcs through the air and caresses your cheek, and the wind chime hanging in the window tinkles softly with a warm summer breeze. The tower echoes with your huffing breath. The pan is too heavy for you to hold any longer and you let it drop with a wrist-tugging defeat. 

"I'm not trying to scare you. But I really can't leave. I won't harm a hair on your head," he adds with a smile, eyebrows slightly raised in wait of your laughter. 

You don't laugh, nor do you smile. 

"My mother, she'll come home any minute now," you say unconvincingly. 

He tips his head to one side. "Then I'll speak with your mother and get her permission to stay." 

"She won't give it." 

You're really too handsome to be frowning as you are. Steve wants to do as he does with all pretty people and make you smile, but the task feels insurmountable. You want him to leave. He can't. 

"If I leave, I'll be killed," he says. While it's not a lie in its entirety, neither is it a truth.

Your grip tightens around the handle of your pan. "What?" you ask worriedly. 

He feels guilty for garnering your concern though it's exactly what he'd been aiming for, nodding his head gravely. 

"I'm being pursued by ruffians. For days now. I only need to hide here for the night while they clear the forest. They'll look for me elsewhere, after." 

His storytelling voice is clear. Admittedly much too dramatic and yet you eat it up like a child devours spun sugar. Your hands press to your chest, frying pan held in your palm like the pommel of a sword. 

"Ruffians?" you repeat.

He swoops in. "Not to worry. They didn't see me scale the tower, or even enter the valley." He gives you a commending smile. "You're very well hidden."

"Not well enough, clearly." 

"I got lucky."

You back away from him. You don't turn your back to him, smart girl, only widen the gap between your two bodies with a fluttering unease. 

"I wish I could help you," you whisper urgently, "I wish I could. But my mother, if she finds you here, I- I'm not sure what she'll do." 

Steve blinks dazedly. "She would kill me?" 

"No! Of course not." 

"Then whatever it is will be a kinder fate." 

That shatters the very last of your resolve. You visually err on what to do next, how to handle his being here. Steve’s head races with thoughts of the palace guards, of Thomas and Carol, and of you — your skin lit by the sun, and your long, long hair. 

"Do you want some water?" you ask quietly. 

The relief he conjures is as authentic as it comes. "Yes. More than anything." 

—

Your mysterious stranger sits at one end of the table in Mother's seat while you sit across from him, a small clay drinking cup encapsulated by his large hand. You're making no effort to hide how closely you're watching him, though if he's under the impression it's for safety's sake then that's best. 

He's very, very fine. 

You haven't seen a man in person before, and if they all look like this you might wish you'd ventured out of the tower sooner. He wears a worn brown tunic that shows evidence of numerous careful darnings, its top button popped open to reveal a tiniest hint of curled hair disappearing downward. 

The hair on his head and tucked behind his ears is comely as corn silk but much darker. It shines in the descending sunlight now flooding the room. There's a golden tinge to everything at this time that leaves no inch of his person unscathed; his eyes glow with it, his irises a melting brown that reminds you of rare, thick honey. 

"The flowers," he says after an aching pause. "Are they painted? They must have been a huge expense." 

You follow his gaze, surprised at his question in two ways. That he would ask, and that he would think somebody else did them. 

"They're how I spend my summers." 

"Looking at them?" 

You laugh from the pure joy of the complement he's implying, unused to his awed reaction. Mother usually nods or hums at a new unveiling, and one time you'd earned a, "That's wonderful, darling." 

You're not sure she'd actually been looking at the time. 

"I painted them myself." 

The stranger's jaw drops. "A little thing like you?" he asks. 

"I'm hardly little," you deny, neither of stature nor burden. 

"You're young, aren't you? You can't be more than twenty summers."

"What a funny way of speaking," you murmur, more to yourself than him. "I'm twenty. I'll be one and twenty, in a few days." 

His eyes narrow. "Well, what's wrong with you?" 

"What's wrong with me?" 

"You aren't married?" 

You try not to be offended and fail spectacularly. "Most don't get married until they're nearing five and twenty!" 

"Most," he agrees. "But a girl as pretty as you? Who can paint like this? Don't tell me you've been hiding from every man in the kingdom."

You turn your face from him in case he can tell how flustered you are. Two complements in one day is unprecedented. Your heart bump-bump-bumps. 

"Are you married?" you ask swiftly, hoping to redirect this line of conversation away from something as treacherous as your own isolation. Any answer would expose you.

"I am, actually. She has the most gorgeous shine to her face, and her laugh is melodic and sweet as anything, a tinkling sound. She's bronze-skinned, a slight thing, but she's worth her weight in gold." 

He grins. You can't help but smile in response, infected by his endearing affection.

"What's her name?" you ask, voice near a coo. 

"Argento." 

You stare at him. His smile gets so big it looks like it could bruise his cheeks. 

"You're talking about money." 

"She's a brilliant bedfellow, isn't she? She keeps me warm and fed every night. She's a good girl." He sighs and crosses his arms behind his head. His attempt at nonchalance is ruined when he cringes in pain and drops them gracelessly back into his lap.

You cover your mouth and laugh. He's funny. Mother doesn't make half as many jokes. 

Mother. As if the mere thought of her is enough to summon her presence, a shrill call echoes from the bottom of the tower. 

"Y/N, darling, throw down the rope for your mother!" 

You jump to your feet, slippers sliding against the mosaic floor in a hurried scratch. "You have to hide," you whisper harshly.

The stranger pouts at you. "Seriously, let me talk to her, I–" 

You shake your head voraciously at his loud volume and press your finger to your lips, eyes begging with him to be quiet. 

"Please," you whisper, "hide. I'll hide you 'til tomorrow, when she leaves in the morning." 

He doesn't move. 

"Y/N? I don't have all day!" The irritation in her voice is obvious. 

"Please," you whisper again. 

He gets up with a mild eye roll. You rush to the window and look down at your mother where she stands at the bottom, looking impossibly small. 

"There you are! What are you waiting for? I'm not very happy with you, darling." 

You lick your lips. "Sorry!" you call, turning to the rope spooled to the right of the window. You throw the rope over the hook at the top of the frame, pausing when you see the stranger lingering in your peripheral vision at the top of the stairs. 

"What are you doing? Go!" you whisper. 

He nods toward your hands. "Couldn't have thrown that down to me, could you?" 

You shoo him away, his easy laughter doing nothing to assuage your racing heart as you drop the length of looped rope down to your mother. You wait until she's secured her foot in the loop before you start to walk backwards, lifting her weight. 

It doesn't get any less laborious as you grow up. By the time she's reached the top of the tower you can hardly breathe. You cough so hard you feel nauseous. 

"Holy stars, you sound ghastly. And it's completely unbecoming to cough like that without covering your mouth. You know that." 

"Sorry, mother." 

She hums. You can't decipher what it means, but it likely isn't something forgiving. 

"I hope you had some time to think about our argument." 

You hold your clasped hands behind your back, hair tickling your knuckles. "I did… I'm sorry, mother." 

She stares at you for a moment from under dark eyebrows before her face lifts, the wrinkles in her soft forehead appearing more prominently as she says, "Darling, why do you do this? Why do you insist on making me angry?" She raises her hands to your neck, long fingernails weaving seamlessly into the mass of hair she finds there. "You know I'm only trying to protect you." 

"I know," you say, tears burning hot behind your eyes. You will them away. Crying will make it worse, it always does. 

She toys with your hair, eyes on your shoulder. You have the peculiar feeling that though she's looking at you she isn't truly looking at you, but through you. Her eyes are distant, unfocused. 

Her finger wraps into your hair, twisting a strand behind your ear over, and over, and over. You shift uncomfortably at the tugging feeling at the back of your scalp but don't protest to her touches — any touch at all feels like a gift. Mother isn't generous with her affections. 

"Maybe I've been too hard on you," she murmurs. 

You loose a pained breath as she takes her hand from your hair and brings it to your face instead. She draws a line from the corner of your eye outwards, a kind, soft petting that gives you goosebumps. 

"No, mother. I'm grateful for everything I have. I was being unreasonable, I don't need anything else. I… shouldn't have asked about the stars." 

"No, you shouldn't have." 

She moves from you to hang her robe up on the hanger. You tamp down your frowning because mother hates when you make her feel guilty and try to decide how it is you're going to escape to your bedroom for the night. You have lots of questions you want to ask the stranger. 

You spot something out of the corner of your eye as your mother flits to the kitchen. There, on the table, sits two clay cups half empty and at opposite ends. You side eye your mother and find she's distracted herself with putting a wooden log into the oven's belly, grumbling about how you've neglected your afternoon chores. 

You throw yourself in front of the table with a thud. 

"What are you doing?" Mother asks, disgruntled. 

"Nothing! I mean, I'm cleaning up. I forgot to empty these cups of paint after I finished." 

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" 

The thing about mother is that most of the things she says are neutral. Anybody else might think she was being light-hearted or blasé. She phrases everything so meticulously. 

But she is not kind. 

You laugh breathily and turn to the cups. Your heart leaps into your throat when you find the cup isn't the worst of what might give you away. Hooked over the back of the chair is the stranger's leather satchel, a ratty old thing sagging with the weight of its contents. 

You take it. The zipper snags and the cause of the weight reveals itself in a clinking upheaval, a flash of light across the floor. You throw yourself over the chair to grab for it, a mindless scrambling, silver and gems cool and sharp under your hand. You shove it back in the satchel, no clue what it is. You've never seen anything like it. 

"What are you doing?" Mother asks, her voice occluded by the soft bubbling of the cooking pot. 

"It's dusty down here!" you call. 

"Yes, well… it's to be expected when all you do is paint all day, darling." 

"You're right," you say quietly. "Of course you are, mother." 

-

Steve hadn't suspected your room would look as plain as it does. You've a simple bed with a modest quilt and one tired looking pillow, though it's been made with neat folded corners. A stuffed rabbit sits at the bottom, lavender velveteen with a pink button nose. He doesn't touch it, though he'd like to. He's not sure he's ever touched a stuffed animal before. 

He can hear you talking to your mother, or rather your mother talking at you. He must say, she doesn't sound like the easiest woman to get along with. But Steve's never had a mother, so maybe that's just what they're like. 

You have a small table to one corner covered in small trinkets. Shells, stones, papers loose and bound. He flips open the soft cover of a book and finds it filled with pencil sketches, corner to corner of every page. 

You've drawn the most mundane things in remarkable colour and detail. The cooking pot over the stove top, the washing basin, the wooden table. Your slippers, your hair brush. Ordinary things in extraordinary detail, and extraordinary colour. 

He pauses at a loose leaf of brown paper tucked toward the end of the book. It's a bird on the window ledge, a fruit dove. The face and beak are in great detail, white feathers made corporeal by the smudge of hard pastel. The wings are rough, white and pale pinks and greens unrendered. 

Footsteps sound up the stairs. 

Shit, Steve thinks. They're a hurried sound. He's been sussed. He turns on his heel to find a place to hide. 

"Shit," he says, climbing the circular platform that holds your bed and collapsing to the floor, wriggling on his back until he's hidden underneath the bed and sheets completely. 

He holds his breath as the door creaks open. 

"Um… mister… uh, stranger man?" 

He waves his hand from under the bed. 

"Oh, right. Move over," you say, and then you're getting under the bed to join him. 

Steve moves over and suddenly you're there beside him, the two of you pressed arm to arm under your bed. Your smell is impossible to ignore, the fruity fragrance of jasmine and milk-soap. He stares at your face as you settle, your eyelashes fluttering, your subtle smile. 

You turn your head to his. The two of you flinch in tandem, eyes flying away from each other to the underside of the bed. 

Oh, Steve thinks. Holy stars. 

You've painted lanterns on every slat. Purple paper lanterns that glow orange and yellow in their centres, tens of them in different sizes. It's as breathtaking as your field of flowers downstairs despite the major decrease in scale.

"Wow," he says, on impulse, "these are amazing." 

You inhale happily. "Thank you. The floating lights are my favourite thing. They always come out-" You cut yourself off with a cough. "Well. I love them." 

"'Floating lights,'" he quotes. You're strange. 

"I wanted to go see them, but…"

"But mother said no?" 

"No," you murmur weakly. He takes it for yes. "She doesn't believe they're not stars." 

He can hear each individual breath you take this close and suspects that you can hear his own. It's a funny thing to be this close to you when he doesn't know you beyond your painting and your too-long hair. He can see a lot more of your details, your tiny bumps and fine hairs.

"What's your name?" he asks quietly. 

"I'm Y/N." You lay your ear against the wooden floor to look at him. "What's your name?" 

"Steven. Steve will do just fine."

"Steve," you say, like you're testing it out. "Steve, you lied to me." 

His eyes widen. 

"Did I?" he asks, trying to disarm you with a smile and failing yet again. 

"You lied," you whisper. "What's in the satchel, Steve?" 

"It's not what you think." 

"I think it's exactly what I think." 

You're giving him a hard stare. He smiles and smiles and smiles, his facade cracking the longer you look at him. His breath all falls out in a rush, blowing the hair from his eyes as he sighs. "Alright, fine. I lied about the ruffians. In my defence, there isn't a big difference between those fools from the palace and true ruffians." 

You sit up and wack your head on the bed slats above. Steve reaches out to help though there's nothing to do. 

You push his hand away. "Palace guards?" you ask in an urgent whisper, hand held to the top of your head. 

"Obviously. They don't just let you walk out of there without a fight… Wait, why are you surprised?" He measures your sheepish face. "You conniving, deceitful gir!" 

"I might not know what it is, but I can tell it's not the kind of thing someone like you would have on his person," you say, grumbling at his insults. 

His injustice at having been tricked drops away. "You don't know what it is? You've never seen a tiara?”

Your embarrassment is adorable. You change the subject deftly. “You lied to me, let’s not forget. You’re in danger because of the consequences of your own actions. Can’t believe I fell for your sob story. I should tell my mother exactly what kind of man I have hiding under my bed.”

“Who you’re hiding under your bed with.”

You climb out from under the bed with an irritated harrumph. Steve untangles a length of your hair that’s gotten wrapped around one of the beds feet before you can yank your own head back and follows you out. 

“Don’t be mad,” he says.

“You’re a criminal,” you say angrily. 

“Nobody’s perfect.”

Your furious whispers pause when your mother starts to sing downstairs. Steve can see the debate on your face. Yes, he’s a liar, yes, he’s a criminal, and yes, you should churn him back out into the valley. Send his untrustworthy self on his sorry way and wipe your hands of him entirely. 

To do so would mean admitting to your mother that he’s here. 

“Just… don’t talk to me. And don’t steal anything.”

He grins. “As you wish, my lady.”

—

“Y/N?” a voice asks in the dark. 

It’s impossible to relax with him here. You’re worried he’s going to slit your throat while you sleep. You’re doubly worried he’ll see your unattractive resting face. Warped priorities aside, you can’t make yourself sleep. 

“Yeah?” you whisper. 

“The floating lights?”

Your eyes fly open. You get the disorienting feeling of blindness and blink in the dark until you can make out the faintest glow of moonlight under the door. “Yeah?”

“Those are called lanterns.”

You swallow a rough breath. “Lanterns.”

“Mm-hm. They’re made of paper. You light them and send them up with the breeze. The ones you’ve been seeing, they’re probably for the lost princess.”

“The lost princess?”

“Yeah. The entire kingdom floods into the town and each person lights a lantern for her. It’s more of a festival these days, but… They're supposed to help her find her way home. If she’s really lost, that is.”

You hum something, an attempt to reply, but you're too distracted to say anything else. Floating paper. A lost princess. You close your eyes and clouds of purple, pink and orange burn against your eyelids. 

— 

"You want me to what?" 

"I want you to take me to see the lanterns." 

Steve's back aches from sleeping flat on the floor all night long, and his shoulders scream every time he moves from climbing, and his hands are gross and sore with scabs, and he truthfully doesn't have the patience for this conversation. 

"No." 

"Fine. Don't take me, and I will keep the tiara as an innkeeper's fee." 

"There's usually breakfast at an inn," he says. 

You slap a steaming hot bowl of porridge in front of him. You've drizzled the surface with honey and placed red berries over the top to form a smiling face. The heat of the porridge has melted the berries into blobs that break from their skin when he pokes them with a spoon. 

"Oh," he says. Nice.

He looks up to find you dressed in a different gown than yesterday, this one made up of a green bodice with white sleeves and a white skirt. The bottom hem is sewn with dainty yellow flowers, the bodice with vines in a darker shade of green. It's a very sweet dress on an otherwise sweet looking girl, if you ignore the formidable twist of your brow. 

Fine, he'll bite. Your frown is sweet too. 

"I'm not taking you anywhere," he says, about to scoop up a bite of porridge. He's starving. 

You pull the bowl away from him, his spoon diving straight into the gnarled wooden table. 

"You'll take me, or I'll tell the first palacemen that I find who you are and where you were." 

"This isn't how you negotiate." 

"Good thing I'm not negotiating." 

He tries to intimidate you. Steve is not very intimidating. He frowns and he looks unhappy rather than angry, the worst he dips into is a pestered annoyance. His stomach gurgles in the ensuing silence. 

"Why do you need someone to take you? Your mother left just this morning by herself."

You raise your eyebrows. 

Steve sighs. "And if I did take you… then what? I suppose you'll want safe passage home, as well?" 

You slide his porridge a little bit closer to his outstretched hand.

"You'll be coming back this way anyhow." 

Well, yeah. He didn't know you knew that. Steve sighs, the most pained and inconvenienced groan he can muster because everything is awful and he's hurting in six different places. You don’t budge. 

"Fine. Fine! I'll take you into the city to see the lanterns, and I'll bring you home. And you will give me back my satchel and my- uh, findings." 

You push the porridge toward him. "That was easier than I expected."

Steve wishes he could pretend your smugness wasn't sweet, either. Because he isn't going to make this easy for you, not one bit. 

He watches you pack your bag from the table and feels very, very sorry for you. For starters, you don't really have a bag, only a sack for potatoes now emptied. You take two clean dresses down from the clothesline they'd been hanging on and fold them before putting them at the bottom of the sack carefully, and then you're clueless. 

"It'll be five or six days," he says, "now I've lost my horse." 

Lost isn't the right word. His stolen horse had sprinted off into the forest and left him stranded. Another ailment to add to his list — thrown bodily off of a stallion. 

"Do you have any better shoes?" 

You look down at your pretty slippers and grimace. "No." 

"You don't get out much, do you?" 

You ignore him and pull a case of things out from under the small counter in the alcove of your kitchen. You drop a roll of linen bandages into the sack and shove the case back under the counter with your foot as you bring out a block of cheese and a box of matches. 

Poor girl, he thinks. 

"Don't worry too much about it." 

"I'm not worried," you say, topping your provisions off with a punnet of fruit and the last of your fresh flatbread covered in a beeswax wrapping. "This will be fun." 

—

You're scared enough to feel tears welling in your eyes. 

Steve walks ahead of you, shoes hidden by lush green grass as he makes his way toward the valley's exit. You're not sure he's realised you're not behind him, or maybe he has and he refuses to wait. You've finished bricking the secondary entrance to the tower closed again, and while it seems obviously disturbed you have no choice but to hope mother doesn't steer around the back anytime soon. 

Your adrenaline has been pumping ever since you jimmied the tile and unlocked the trap door. Your chest physically aches with anxiety, and your breath has begun to feel short and shallow. 

"Are you coming?" Steve calls. 

You heave the potato sack over your shoulder and take a step forward. 

The earth is soft and hard underfoot, an impossible sensation. You rock your heel back and forth and test the uneven ground for purchase. The temptation to reach down and touch it for the first time is high but Steve's still watching you, so you hurry toward him and try not to fall over. You take a huge, calming breath. 

It smells gorgeous out here. Despite keeping the window cracked and the tower clean, there's a lived-in smell that can't be escaped. Out here, you can practically taste the earth. The crisp air burns your nose. 

Steve keeps a fast pace and neither of you talk. Your companion isn't happy about his predicament and you can't blame him, you've practically taken him hostage. He isn't a poor sport either, and he hasn't been cruel. Quiet, he parts the ivy covering the valley exit and lets you pass. 

The world is even bigger from there. 

"Stay close, okay? I don't know what kind of vagrants we'll come across this far from town." 

You swallow a lump in your throat. "Uh-huh." 

You stay likely too close, your arm gracing his own every now and then. Each time you pull away and each time you end up drifting back toward him. The quiet is impenetrable. You don't know what to say to a man. To anybody. Mother's usually the guiding force of every conversation, and her insistence has left you poorly equipped. 

Steve seems content to languish in silence. 

You walk. You watch the sun move, heat burning your skin by midday. You're not used to walking such long distances or being so exposed to the elements, and by evening you hurt everywhere. Your face shines with perspiration and your shoes chafe your ankles raw, each step a barb. 

As if things couldn't get worse, guilt grabs and holds you. Guilt and fear. What will mother think if she finds out you've left? What would she say? How ridiculously naive, darling. I told you, you aren't to leave the tower. Do you seriously think you know better than I do? Do you think I'm stupid? I'm hurt. I'm hurting that you'd think so low of me. 

You try to shake the thoughts away. A shiver rushes down your spine. 

Steve holds a hand over his eyes, turning his head to the West where the sun approaches the horizon. 

"It'll be dark in a few hours,” he says. 

You nibble the inside of your cheek, voice hoarse and throat dry from your lack of conversation. "Will we camp for the night?" 

He shakes his head, the sun climbing up his neck to paint his brown hair blonde. "If memory serves, there's an inn not far from here." He smiles. "You'll like it." 

"Oh. That's good." 

"Yeah." 

You kick a small stone. "How do you know where we're going?" You'd been on a dirt path now for an hour or two, or rather two dirt paths, worn by carriage wheels. "Everything looks the same." 

"I'm an excellent navigator." 

Sure enough, he navigates the two of you toward a pretty little inn snugly hidden between a crop of towering, leafy trees, a shock of beige and brown in an overwhelmingly green landscape. 

"Le Vilain Caneton," you read off of the sign, giving him a bright smile. "That sounds nice." 

"What did I tell you? You're gonna love this." 

—

Steve doesn't feel bad, at first. 

He throws open the door. The handle slams hard enough into the wood behind it that he's surprised there isn't a cracking sound. He ushers you inside, finding that the handle hasn't broken a hole in the wall because there's already one there. 

It's sleazy, all things considered. Steve has avoided this place pretty much his entire adult life after a trade gone wrong, and while he feels his appearance has changed enough to spare him a skirmish he affects the Steven Harrington manner. Two-timing baby Stevie is nowhere to be seen. 

He's still a two-timer. Case in point. 

"Isn't it charming?" he murmurs to you, hand held aloft behind your back. Not touching but ready to if you step back. 

"Yeah," you say weakly. "Really cute." 

Adorable. 

Steve takes a step that encourages you forward into the main area of the room. The smell of cheap ale blooms and the floor is sticky with it. He regrets how it will likely ruin your pretty slippers but he isn't a coward, walking you right up to the bar where a scary looking guy stands wiping glasses with a dirty rag. 

"Are you the innkeeper?" he asks jovially. "We'd like a room." 

Scary guy squints, looks between you and Steve with apprehension. 

Steve's trying to scare you, not get caught. He throws his arm over your shoulders. You shrink under his touch. It's too late for him to pull away, guilt softening the grasp he has on your shoulder as he lays down a thick facade. 

"My wife's tired as a lamb from walking all day, could we get a hot bath drawn with that?" 

Scary guy spits into the cup with a scoff. "Judy?" he calls out gruffly. 

Steve beams. You curl into him slowly, a flower turning to the sun, hiding from the cold. You still smell of jasmine milk soap after all these hours of walking, but he doesn't miss how the lengths of your hair have grown dishevelled with sweat and wind. He wonders how long it might take you to brush free the knots and tangles. He wonders if you do it in the bath. 

You turn to him with your face shining with a trust he doesn't deserve, like you're seeking his protection. 

"Steve, I don't have any money," you whisper. 

His hand rests in the nook of your neck. "That's alright. Consider it part of your innkeeper's fee." 

"Does this come with breakfast, too?" you ask genuinely. 

Judy, a tall, lithely woman who can't be more than thirty takes her station behind the bar and smiles at you before her eyes follow Steve's arm to his body. He freezes at the calculating tilt of her head, the subtle but not invisible squint. 

"Breakfast is an additional two silvers."

"And for the room and bath?" 

"Ten for the room, five for the bath, two for breakfast." Judy grins. Her hair is like copper, shifting around sharp cheekbones. "Seventeen silvers all together." 

Steve frowns but hands over the money. 

Judy takes you up the first flight of rickety stairs to your room, and nods toward the bathing room as you pass it. She shows you where you'll be spending the night, a ramshackle room with a bed made of what Steve suspects to be more straw than padding. He's relieved at the thick quilt set and folded at the bottom. It looks clean enough. 

"I'll knock when the bath is drawn. Will that be for both of you?" 

And so. Steve had feared this, feared the bath in general, and had forgotten to explain this fear to you. 

"Both of us," he says, nodding. 

You're thankfully smart enough to keep any grievances you have at that to yourself. At least, until the door closes, and you pin him with a look that's a mixture of betrayed and furious. Your eyebrows pinch together. 

"Why did you say that?" 

"It's what's expected of us." 

"By who?" you ask, near belligerent. 

He shushes you, a frown of his own taking form. "By everybody. It's what married couples do, they share the water when travelling. And it wouldn't be proper for you to be in the bathing room by yourself, how could your husband protect your honour?" 

"You're not my husband." 

He shushes you again, this time with a severe expression that finally has you giving pause. Your eyes flash with fear and quickly clear. You take a step back. 

He holds a hand out toward you amicably. "Sorry. But it will be much safer for both of us if we can keep our ruse alive. Someone as handsome as you, it isn't right for your reputation to be travelling with me while you're still unmarried, you know? And for me…" He doesn't want to explain the horrible truth to you. If Steve refuses to leave you, to share you, to let men do what men would like to do to you, that might invite a riot.

"I don't have a reputation," you say. 

He shrugs. "It is safer for us to be married."  He hesitates, remembering why he'd brought you here in the first place. The horrible truth may be unseemly, but it could be enough to get you to bow out. "If we aren't married… Well, it doesn't bear saying." 

"What?" you ask, a curious thing. He loves it, and not only because it works to his advantage. 

"Men will take anything they find beautiful. And without care." 

Your fingers tighten around the mouth of your potato sack bag. 

"I see," you say. "Of course. I knew that, mother always says, but." 

He winces at the reminder of your cruel mother. He feels cruel himself, suddenly, for scaring you on purpose as your mother likely does, for being another member of the opposition in your life. All you want is to see the Princess' lanterns, so much so you've hidden under your bed and painted their colours painstakingly onto each slat of supporting wood. A hidden wish, and one you'd deigned to share with him. He starts to think, Maybe I should just take her. How much could it possibly cost me? 

But Steve's from nothing. He was born from nothing, he grew up with nothing. He is, in the grand scheme of the universe and its many, many stars, nothing. Another orphaned boy destined to waste his life stealing coppers from coin purses and sleeping in doorways. 

The sooner he gets that tiara, the better. No more sleeping outside. No more staring up at the wine dark sky and wondering if any of those blistering stars can hear him. 

If they can, they aren't listening. 

You put your bag down on the floor. It thunks. 

"What have you piled in there, sweetness? A mountain?" he asks, momentarily distracted. 

"Nothing!" you rush to say, standing in front of your bag like it might hide it from his view. 

The door knocks before he can question you further. "The bath!" comes Judy's solid tone. 

"Thank you," Steve says, "we'll be right out." He nods at you. "Your change of clothes?" 

You search through your bag with your shoulders to him, hunched to shield the mystery. 

"You can keep your secrets," he teases lightly. The stars know he keeps his own. 

Through the hallway to the bathing room, Judy kicks open the door, points to the bath as though he might not see it otherwise, and then the small weight by the doorway to keep the door closed. There's no steam to the water. 

"How conning," Steve mutters, closing the door after Judy's departure. 

"What?" you ask, your voice curiously strung. 

"The water’s barely hot." 

"I've never had a hot bath before." 

He looks at you through the corner of his eye. "Never?" 

"Sometimes mother would pour warm water through my hair, but no. Does it hurt, when it's too hot?" 

He can't help grinning at you. "Some of the time," he concedes. "It's a nice kind of hurting, though, do you know what I mean? You'll feel much better after." He chuckles, sticking his finger into the water. It isn't not hot, but it could be better considering its cost. "Not that this could ever hurt you." 

"A nice kind of hurting," you mumble. 

"Mm. You should try to be quick, they might want the bath for someone else soon." 

You nod, eyes darkening with your remembered predicament. You hug your clean dress to your chest. He thinks, suddenly, that your hair looks very heavy, and that it must hurt your neck. 

"I won't look," he says, voice soft with sincerity. 

Your shoulders relax. 

He sits with his legs stretched out and shoes pressed to the door to stop a potential intruder, listening, trying not to listen, as you peel out of your clothes. Your bare feet sound strange over the wooden floor, a shushing sound. Your dress and corset fall in rustling waves. 

You gasp as you step into the water. "Oh," you say, the small sound imbued with a simple, common pleasure. 

He feels the tension like fog over the kingdom waters in summer, when the heat is tangible and the nights are short. You look so soft in your clothes. Outside of them, Steve can only imagine. 

He tries very hard to push it from his mind, feeling an unwelcome heat rise anyhow. He blames it on the humidity of the room. 

You pitter for a moment, in awe of the heat. 

"How–" His voice gets caught. He clears his throat, tries a second time, "How do you wash your hair?" 

"I lather the soap in my hands and–" You seem to be victim of the same affliction as he is. "Steve, could you pass me my soap? I'm sorry, I've left it on the vanity with my dress." 

"If you want me to help you, you need only ask. I've been said to have very hard-working hands."

"I thought you were a thief?"

Steve stands up grudgingly. He usually has much better luck with the ladies, yet all his joking flirtation soars straight over your head. Not that he actually wants it to land, nor does he think he could handle your attention. 

He doesn't look at you as he grabs your bar of soap. He unwraps its beeswax covering and hands it to you, looking decidedly at the damp wall opposite. He feels your wet hand touch his. Your skin is so hot it startles him, and the bar of soap slips between your outstretched fingers, slamming and sliding somewhere unknown. 

"Shit," he says. "Alright, best cover yourself." 

He hears quick movements in the water as he turns to you, throwing his gaze to the floor, only a split flash of your naked skin to be seen. Your soap has rounded the corner of the wooden tub, lying behind your straight back. He kneels to pick it up, scowling at the scum sticking to its underside, and nearly headbutts your forehead as he stands. 

He springs back, and he stares. You have water running in rivers down your face, your wet hair framing your shining cheeks, pooling down. It covers the swell of your chest so precisely that Steve bites his tongue, forcing his eyeline back to your waiting face. You have water in your eyes like tears, their lashes turned to triangles, clinging to one another. 

You look like one of the women from his storybook. A water nymph. A siren. The room is warm with steam, and his cheeks, hot to begin with, emanate enough heat to warm your tub again as he makes the comparison. Your looks alone might draw him to drowning. 

"Steve?" you ask, holding out your hand. 

Hair shifts over your body like a dancing shadow, or a beaming light. He isn't sure. There's something about it that feels extraordinary, not just in the length of it. 

He passes you your soap. Ridiculous, he thinks. Imbecilic. Your hair is hair and nothing more. While you're achingly pretty and you have a fine hand, that is where your remarkability ends. 

"Could you turn around again?" you ask, flustered.

He turns around. 

—

"You brought your pan?" Steve asks you, bewildered. He's standing by the small, thin window, metal-wrought panes that filter the last of the sun's rays. 

You stand shivering by your potato sack and frown at him, setting the pan on the sheets. "I think we might have a more pressing issue." 

"We don't have anything." He seems to appraise your condition. "How do you usually dry your hair?" 

"You wouldn't believe me." 

"How cryptic! I'm afraid you're destined to freeze here, my heart. Or we could take you home, where you may comfortably perform whatever ritual it is that you perform and dry your hair." 

"Wasn't there a fireplace downstairs?" 

"We aren't going back down there." 

"We aren't," you say in agreement, turning his distaste of the collective pronoun back on him. "I'll go by myself." 

"That is a horrible, terrible, awful idea." 

"I'm not going home. I want to– I’m going to see the paper lanterns." 

Steve sighs. After your bath, he'd taken the smaller basin of clean water and washed up, now standing in front of you in his only change of clothes, a darker, navy tunic buttoned to the throat and simple slacks. His shoes are tightly laced even at this hour. You look down at your bare feet and feel majorly abashed by their new blisters and haphazard bandaging. You can't make yourself put your slippers back on. 

He continues his sighing as he crosses the room. He's still grumbling when he opens the door. 

"Well?" he asks, holding it open. 

You pat his arm gently as you pass. "Thank you." 

You trek down the stairs, careful with each footstep that you aren't trodding on a misplaced nail or scary splinter. Wood changes to stone flooring, tiles of a terracotta colour that are large and misshapen. You keep your eyes on them as you cross the room to its only source of heat, a blistering hearth just shy of the room's stage and piano. Somebody sits behind it on the piano bench, though they aren't playing the piano at all, but a great wooden instrument you've never seen. 

"What is that?" you ask Steve. 

He doesn't bend under your attention. He frowns ever so slightly. "What?" 

You point to the instrument as conspicuously as you can. 

Steve takes your shoulder into his hand and guides you toward the fireplace without malice. He's prompting you along, as you've stopped in the middle of the room. 

"You've never seen one of those?" he asks. 

"Not in any of my books." 

"I guess they're still new. That's a vihuela. It's a… it's a nice sound." 

You nod appreciatively, and feel much happier as Steve pulls a nearby chair as close to the hearth as he can without garnering any disgruntled looks from the other patrons. You sneak a peek at their faces. Most are naturally intimidating; there are men with weathered, unkind faces lining the walls with tankards of ale in hand; there are travellers such as yourselves, though they look hardened, sharper than you ever could, coin purses on tables as if daring you to try lifting them; there are women, sparsely, who are sharper in a different way. They remind you of a summer rose, darkly red, a gorgeous head of petals distracting from a thorny stem. 

You sit down in your chair and feel the heat of the fireplace greet your chilled skin, and your soaked back. Your dress has soaked up much of your hairs dripping, the kind of unfortunate happenstance that might spiral into your hypothermic death. Steve puts his chair beside yours and turns his entire body toward yours. You like it. It's like he's hiding you from everybody else, replacing their sneering gazes with his fed-up acceptance. You find extreme comfort in this feeling, as though Steve is the only person in the room with you. 

"Turn to me." 

"What if my hair catches?" 

"You aren't close enough for that." 

You turn to Steve completely. You look like lovers, you must, worse when he takes your slippers and holds them on top of one of his thighs. He has wide thighs, and they make you feel a feeling you don't understand. Everything you know about men has come from Mother or books. Mother claims them to be evil in their entirety. Of the few books you have, and fewer that talk of men beyond the factual, none have ever mentioned why their legs look like that, and why it will make you feel like you've swallowed something much too hot. 

"I'll make sure your hair doesn't go up in flames," he promises grandly, unnecessarily, "consider it one of my guidely duties." 

A shy, pleased smile takes your lips. "Thank you." 

"Yeah, you're welcome." He closes his eyes and tips his head back. "Stars, I'm hungry." 

"I have–" 

"We'll buy dinner. They have hunter's stew here, have you ever tried that?" 

"No." 

He laughs, crossing his arms across his chest. "Of course not. Alright, this will sound gross, but it's really old stew. Years old, maybe decades. They keep adding and adding to the pot with whatever’s in season." 

You don't know everything, or anything, really, but you know that sounds like food poisoning in a bowl. "How doesn't it kill you?" 

"They keep it really, really hot, all day long." 

You like the way he says it, even if he's maybe making fun. He almost sings each word, a melodic cadence to his pronunciation that endears you further. 

"And you've had it? What does it taste like?" 

"See, you'd think it tastes a bit muddled, right? But it's good. You'll like it." 

He makes no move to get up and get the aforementioned soup. You aren't particularly hungry, leaning back just a little so the brutal heat of the flames can warm your damp shoulder. The wetness of your dress is fading, warmed but still undeniably wet, and you wonder if the heat is hurting your hair. Mother always says to keep your hair as far from the hearth as you can at all times, and gets angry when you sit too close. 

The soot, darling. The soot will cling to your hair and ruin it. It is, in Mother's opinion, the most beautiful thing about you. 

Mother. She shouldn't be back home for days now, and still you're worrying. Mostly about being caught. But if you're caught, and she knows you left… 

You have a strange love for your mother. The kind that makes you feel sick in intensity. You want, at all times, to please her. And you know this isn't something she would approve of, Stars, she'd be so disappointed in you for taking this risk. 

You stare up at a wooden beam past Steve's head and try not to tear up. Anxiety eats at you until there's nothing left but your skin, your insides a tangled dark whorl of misery. She must know you've left home. She must know how terribly ungrateful you are for everything she's sacrificed. She must know–

"Are you okay?" 

You blink hurriedly and face Steve, hoping this will dispel the quick-welling tears clouding your vision. It doesn't work: blinking can’t erase years of pent up worry. You wipe your eyes before they can roll down your cheeks and humiliate you further. 

"I'm okay," you say. 

Steve frowns again. He's a frowny guy. 

"What's wrong?" He takes your elbow into his hand.

"Nothing. Uh…" You smile through your embarrassment. "We don't light the hearth at home, often, and uh, I think the smoke is irritating my eyes." You nod for emphasis. 

Steve does not believe you, clearly, but he squeezes your elbow and nods back. 

He looks at your face until you're uneasy. 

"I'll go get that stew,” he says, patting your arm. 

You feel strange once he’s gone. It's nice to be by yourself for a moment. You've spent the majority of your adult life alone while mother goes here, there, and everywhere. You're never allowed to go with her, too stupid for the outside world and all its challenges. 

You look around the room now and wonder if this is really the world she means. Sure, it's foreign, and it's unsettling, and without Steve by your side you might not be left alone as you have been, but you'd expected more. Where are all the insects that make you sick, and the men with cutlasses and shackles? 

Your eyes drift to the vihuela player. He's moved to sit at the opposite side of the fire. He strums lackadaisically at his instrument, his shoulders against the wall and a cup of mead at his feet. It's obvious nobody's given him any coin in a while. 

Behind him sits the piano, glimmering with the flickering firelight. You've read about them, you've even seen drawings of harpsichords, but never heard one played. You wonder what it sounds like. Any music at all is amazing to you. All you've ever heard is singing. One song. 

Steve returns with two bowls of hunter's stew. You're scared to try it but horrified that you might look like a coward in front of him. Again. Your tears had been bad enough. 

You swallow a spoonful and your eyes water unbidden. "Oh, wow." 

"Good, huh?" 

You try not to cough. "It's rich." 

"I guess you haven't had stuff like this before, huh?" He forks through his bowl and pulls out a big pale vegetable roughly cubed. "You like potato?" 

"Yeah," you say, and before you've finished he's pushing the potato against the lip of your bowl and pulling the tines of his fork free. It falls into your stew with a small splash. "Oh. Thank you." 

You try to eat as much of it as you can but start to feel sick somewhere in the middle. You set your bowl aside and Steve, bowl emptied, drops his next to it, wiping his hands together and standing. 

You look up, puzzled. 

"Come on." 

Your hair isn't quite dry, a tugging weight for your neck as Steve slides his hand over your warm shoulder. You worry it might never full dry again, not without a helping hand. 

He leads you up the small platform to the piano. 

You look to him inquisitively. 

"It's alright. I asked them if you could try it. Just try not to play too loudly and disrupt the bard." 

"How do you adjust how loud it is?" 

He pushes down on your shoulders until you're sitting on the bench. "You play softly. It's going to be a little loud no matter what. Don't smash the keys." 

"Are they fragile?" you ask worriedly, holding your tensed fingertips above the white and pitch keys. 

"No," he says, laughing without any judgement, "move over, I'll show you." 

He sits on the bench beside you. There's not a whole lot of room, and his arm presses hot to yours. He places his hand above the keys like he knows what he's doing, and presses down. He plays a line of notes, the sounds a plinking rising melody that has you gasping in awe. 

"Don't," —he presses down a huge chunk of keys, and the sound is awful— "do this." 

You look up to see if anybody's glaring. Then you burst into giggles, face pressed to his shoulder on automatic as you try to smother the sound. He laughs warmly near your ear.

You probe curiously at the keys and try to make a song. You don't know how, don't know one note from another, you can't fathom how someone might make this into anything more than the bard's lazy fingerings. 

"Do you know anything?" Steve asks. 

Do you know anything? Mother demands. Darling, I've told you a million times…

"No. Sorry," you say. 

His voice is sincerely sweet, like he's confused you'd ever be sorry, "For what? I can play you something. Choose a song." 

"I only know the one." 

He blinks at you. You shrink into yourself as he averts his gaze, knowing what he's thinking. How useless you are. 

The song starts slowly. Steve taps one key, and then another. It lends and lists into music suddenly, the repetition of a simple melody. He doesn't sing, just speaks the words as he plays. 

"She sends me a flower to hold me," he says, an echo of song in his tone. "She sends me a flower to– night." He moves his hands up to a higher sound. "She loves me too much, so she's told me. But if she loved me, oh loved me, she might… Come to see me, oh sweetheart, come to see me, oh lover, come to see me, oh darling." He smiles at you. "Come to see me to– night." He clears his throat, hand stilling. "You'd sing the bridge again, but I think I'll spare your ears." 

"Is that yours?" you ask him. 

He drops his hand into his lap. "No. Steve Harrington doesn't pen love poems, I'm afraid." 

"Only plays them." 

His smile turns to a smirk, so sticky it's catching. 

"You're not the mouse I'd thought you were," he says.

"Was this realisation before or after I tried to maim you with a cast iron pan?" 

He's about to answer, a spark behind his eyes, when the door opens wide enough to split its hinges. The origin of the hole in the wall is clear, and he waltzes in with a band of men behind him, grinning. 

"Oh, for Stars’ sake," Steve mutters. 

"What?" you ask. 

The man at the front of the group of men — or, as they step into the light and reveal themselves, boys — sets his one un-patched eye on you and Steve, smiles like the devil, and croons, "Stevie!" 

Steve's smile is gone. 

"Eddie," he says tiredly. 

"You're back!" Eddie looks you up and down, and his expression turns to one of complete surprise. "With a wife? My, my, we have been busy." 

Steve stands, and Eddie, in all his darkness, dark hair and eyes and tunic, his grin turns mean. You hide behind one of Steve's thighs, hesitant. He drops his hand against the top of your head. 

"Why's it matter?" Steve asks. 

"It doesn't." This Eddie sounds all too cheerful. "What does matter, I'm afraid, is the debt between us." 

"I don't owe you anything." 

You watch with widened eyes as Eddie unsheathes his sword. The scabbard has a mottling of shiny reds and blacks, and the blade glows silver to white in the light. It's sharp.

Steve pulls a small knife from his hip. You hadn't realised he was carrying a weapon. 

Eddie takes a step forward, his shoes like a thunderclap across the wooden floor. 

"I'm afraid my Sweetheart here doesn't agree." 

˗ˋˏ ☆ ˎˊ˗

eddie isn’t a bad guy he’s just confrontational <3 thank you so much for reading! i hope you enjoyed, and if you did, please consider reblogging i promise it makes a huge difference <3

[call-sign-shark]

Tangled Desires (and Broken Innocence)

Summary: In the gritty streets of Birmingham, the Shelby brothers rule with an iron fist. The source of their success in the criminal underworld? Their loyalty to one another. Yet, everything changes when a mysterious girl named Lola Haze and her family arrive in town. Young, bratty, and irresistible in her short sundress, she stirs Tommy, Arthur, and John's curiosity. In her attempt to flee from a toxic home and the awful secrets she hides, Lola decides to ignite the three brothers' desire. Yet she soon understands that these violent delights can only have violent ends and that she will never escape this hell she created: a hell located between love and abuse with three men.

TW: Extreme violence, M/M/F/M, kidnapping, porn with plot, rough sex, huge age gap (Lola is legal), Dubcon, mention of child abuse, highly inspired by Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov and Lana Del Rey's song. We don't know Lola's real name so consider her (Y/N).

🫧 Playlist

🫧 Theme Song: Lolita by Lana Del Rey

🫧 Masterlist:

Coming soon on Tumblr too.

Chapter 1: Tumblr | AO3

Chapter 2: Tumblr | AO3

Chapter 3: Tumblr | AO3

Chapter 4: c o m i n g . . .

Chapter 5:

Chapter 6:

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

(More to come?)

🫧 Author's notes:

This will be a multi-chapter fic but the posting schedule will be irregular and I really don't know where I'm going with this. All I can tell you is that don't get fooled by the pink - this was supposed to be Halloween so it’s extremely dark, noncon and disturbing.

Also, I don't expect this to be popular. If you still want to be tagged just leave a little comment.

Please don't force yourself to read because you're my mutuals. It's okay to stay safe.

[hcdragonwrites]

Tangled Love

(A @semisolidmind Drabble)

Ok! I ran this by Semi before I posted just because I know absolutely nothing about LMK (except the animation can be so pretty!) just so I could get their characters down. I hope you all like it !

She just wanted to escape- both from this place and from her own mind tonight.

The ghosts of memories were walking and she had no distractions to chase them away.

Peaches walked the cool cavern halls of Water- Curtain Cave, her feet echoing in the depths. The sandals she wore and the ornamental clothing she had been thrown into made her scalp prickle and her skin itch. It was too much- but the attendants wouldn’t hear a thing about it.

She had to look the part of Queen.

Peaches, in the absence of the Lord of the mountain and his right hand and sword, was the remaining voice of authority.

To a point.

Finishing with courtly duties and listening in on behalf of her husbands wasn't a huge chore. The two of them rarely left at the same time however. If one was called away the other would remain. Or Peaches herself would be brought along.

This time however she hadn’t been.

It was the first time in ten years.

She had just this night- just this moment of reprieve and she would make the most of it. Or so she thought. Instead, she was fighting something that reared its head and struck her nerves like a asp.

However she wasn’t alone quite yet. As she rounded the corner and came to golden lacquered doors of her bedchamber - their bedchamber- she paused.

“Will that be all my queen?” One of the attending retinue of her guard asked. It was a guard her husbands insisted upon whenever both were away from home- a set of seven of the most battle scarred simians Peaches had ever seen.

They were tasked and sworn with following her everywhere - to the dining hall, to the throne room. If she wished to go and sit among the apple trees and listen to the wind play over the mountain grasses her guard would double in size. Peaches tried to not cause the denizens of Flower fruit mountain any more problems or stressors by going outside when both the King and his Brother in arms were away on a war path.

Her husbands.

It’s what they titled themselves now, after a decade of the terrible start they had on their relationship with her. When she had met the two, they had been just tiny monkeys. A sly looking ginger and gold monkey who had loved to cling to her arms and a dark black furred monkey that brought her fruits and almonds from the wild.

My sweet boys.

They had been her monkeys back then- the little prankster angels she had thought were just simple beasts, trying to survive out in the world.

She had been wrong.

The decision to upend her life, she guessed, had been floated around for months between the two disguised demons as they ate her fruit and enjoyed her touches. It was a mutual one that both had decided was the best option for her.

She took a steadying breath, coming back to the present. Peaches wanted a chance to be alone. Something so rare she craved it like a man in a desert craved water.

“Yes, general. I think I’ll retire early for the day.” She smiled at the monkey who dipped his body into a bow. The gleam of his armor set the flickers of a memory brewing. Fire in the trees, the smell of iron on the wind and a figure among the debris. She shook her head to dislodge it. The rest of them weren’t awful to her. Her husbands weren’t awful to her. They had just ….

Taken away her decisions.

“Very well Queen.” Peaches flinched, unable to quite stomach the title and what that truly meant. If I am queen then why am I without choices? “If you need us call us.”

She turned the handle in the door and slipped in side with as much grace as she could muster.

Peaches closed the ornamental doors to the bedroom, resting her head against the door. Steady. Deep breaths. In through her nose out through her mouth.

The illusion of a paradise that Wukong had built and Macaque helped facilitate always lost its color and believability when they were away. They couldn’t feed her the sugared lies and candied perceptions to tamp back the memories of that night.

It had been just another night on the small farm - a June night of heat and singing cicadas- of windows wide open and Peaches trying to escape that heat. There wasn’t much she could do to escape it. The moisture clung to her and made her bedding stick and clog her nose. So on these nights she stayed up, usually with a candle or the moon to illuminate her night, and read.

The knock on the door was not something typical.

The memory was rising and she couldn’t hold it back. I have to ride it out. Survive it.

Like she had survived that night. Getting visitors in the dead of the night had been unconventional- and she remembered the feeling of being perturbed. Don’t answer it, she told the memory. But this was the past and ghosts of the past didn’t change their course.

She had closed her book, had stepped down the hall to the door and had opened it.

I should have called through- told him to stay away! I should have never left my bed or my book.

It was a drunk man. A fellow farm hand called in for one of the families to help bring in a harvest that had proved too bountiful for the immediate family to handle. Peaches could see the man before her eyes, smell the reek of him.

A drunk.

“Well ain’t it the village spinster! Whaaa da pretty thing you are!” He was a cloud of bitter rice wine, of too much sake on his breath. The intensity of it had a physical effect on her memory and in the present, Peaches wrinkled her nose.

“You should go home Sir.” She had told him- tried to close the door.

His foot moved faster and his hands had caught the door.

A wild set of emotions swept through her. She had to sit her body down, thankful she had been able to get away from the other monkeys before the memory seized her like a vice. They would have been in a panic over her and she couldn’t let their little hearts worry so. There was nothing they could do to stop the remembering.

It was his fault this all happened. It was His. He didn’t have to be drunk and show up at my home- he didn’t have to shove his way into my house and try and grab me.

But he was just a single man. Did his actions warrant the destruction that happened next ?

“Get out!” Her memory self cried. The wooden table she danced behind as the drunk stumbled and moved towards her, was her only shield.

“The Boys Said you prefer the company of wild animals …” his speech was hard to hear. The wine had made him bold, stupid, and aroused it seemed. “I thought I would give you mtaste of what a real man was, since the villagers are al’ ‘fraid of your Witchery with monkeys.”

She had run- she had thrown her things at him. It was probably the commotion of her breaking a pitcher over his head that had alerted her monkeys. The loud clatter of the pottery across the floor had sounded so sharp and final. It had only made the man more determined.

The drunk when he did get his hands on her was furious. He swung a fist and sent stars into her eyes. Peaches had clung like a wildcat to her conscious, kicking out with legs and swinging with fists. Her nose was full of the sour smell of him- had felt his hands and fought them. A kick to his groin had sent him wheezing. Another fist to her head had Peaches crying. She had stared that drunk in his mean little eyes as he whispered the terrible things he wanted to do to her.

She had been staring in those eyes when he died.

He never got to touch more than her arms that night.

Peaches heard something step through the door that had been left open to the night. She had heard the creak of her house as something walked within it. And the sound of something- like a water skin being popped and a splash of warm liquid against her belly had shocked her.

The Drunks eyes went wide with confusion, rolling horselike in his head. His bruising grip on her wrist had let go. In the present, She rubbed those wrists, the phantom pains hard.

“..mah… belly.” The drunk had mumbled then belched a bucket of blood onto the floor. Peaches could see something protruding from his middle- something long and thin like a stick. Or a staff.

Clawed hands pulled the head back and twisted with a fury. The sound of bones breaking was loud, as if a fire was consuming dry wood. The drunk crumbled in those hands like a puppet cut free of its strings.

A new stranger stood in her home, his frame large and broad and most assuredly not human. He tossed the body like someone would toss a rag across the floor. The glowing eyes in the sudden dark were all she could see. Her mind, even in its heightened adrenaline drenched state, recognized the face pattern, saw a familiarity in the fur. There was, in fact, still a little flower tucked against this demonic creatures ear. The same flower she had interwoven in her forest friend's fur that afternoon.

“Your… your my…”

Nerves and the come down from the adrenaline high we’re making speech hard. The monkey demon before her, who’s eyes seemed to spit fire, softened. Just a bit.

“You are my Peaches.” Wukong said, touching her hair, her face, her hands. Taking stock. Then he had taken those limp hands and threaded them through his fur, trying to get them to grip. It would help his own rage and calm her fear. It was thick in the air, ruining the natural sweet smell she had. That and the slab of flesh on the floors own fetid death scent.

Wukong was not the best at this - this comfort thing. But he would rise to the occasion. He would try for her.

Fury and rage made his tail lash and the fur along his neck to stand on end.

At first she had just been a simple human that would leave little offerings to him and his brother in arms. An oddity here in the shadow of his mountain. Most humans around here feared the monkeys and kept away from all of them, having a legend that if one was harmed a great calamity would befall them.

Wukong didn’t mind being that calamity. These were his people, his subjects. So hearing the chatter from some of his kind that a women had begun to leave out gifts had of course spiked the Kings curiosity. The humans beneath Flower Fruit Mountain were his lesser subjects. So he had come down from the mountain, disguising himself as a smaller and more approachable sized monkey, to see the fuss his subjects had started gossiping about at groomings. Only to see his brother, Macaque, already being petted and tended and kissed on each of his six ears.

Of course first impressions had been terrible and Wukong, used to getting the first pick of everything, had come screeching into the clearing and demanding his own pets. It had set off a very small and very mock little battle between the two brothers in arms. One that had Peaches separating them and scolding them as she patched up the little scratches they had taken from eachother. They could have each resisted her pull but both decided that play acting a fight, even if it had started as a bit of one, was the best way to get attention divided between the both of them.

Wukong hadn’t expected to become infatuated. Her name didn’t matter to him- he had rebranded her almost the instant she came to him and offered a smile and held out a handful of sugar and dates. Peaches. After the Kings own favorite fruit, the sweetest thing the mountain produced.

His Peaches.

Of course also Macaques. He shared everything with his brother, the dark furred and six eared demon who had faced battles and won wars besides Wukong. While Wukong had been more leery, Peaches won him over faster than Flower Wine loosened his rigid posture. They had both fallen for this mortal women. And, in the traditional way she belonged to them. She just didn’t know it yet. They had touched and groomed and cuddled and tangled limbs and tails. They were practically married without the marriage bit.

Wukong rubbed small circles into Peaches back, trying to keep himself from bearing his teeth in rage.

I should have taken her home the moment she kissed me.

They had been kisses of the kind one gives to a friend or pet. It had left the warlord craving more burning with more.

Of wanting to feel her give him more than just a chaste kiss on the side of his face.

She wouldn’t have been hurt if he had just taken her home.

Wukong and Macaque had taken to one or both spending the night in Peaches trees, to keep an eye on her. Wukongs obsession had grown into a fascination and warm buttery love. A love that was becoming a wild inferno as he fought to stay still and not leap upon the corpse he had made and turn it into nothing but bits of flesh and gore the crows could carry away.

His Peaches fingers finally grasped his fur and shook. It brought Wukong back from his montage of rage to the present. If only Mac was here — but he wasn’t. He was back at home on Flower Fruit mountain , giving his brother the night to enjoy and keep lookout at Peaches den.

“That’s my girl.” The demon tried to soothe. He really wished he could set Peaches down and finish off what he had started. This place had been bad. This village terrible. He hated every thing and one here that had dared to let a drunken fool up to his Peaches doorstep and allowed this to happen. In reality Wukong was mad it had been Mac’s own sense of importance on taking it slow and letting a little thing like a life outside of Flower Fruit Mountain stop him from from revealing who he was and taking her home.

I am done trying to woo her over slowly. They could have lost her this night if Wukong hadn’t been in earshot, hadn’t heard the crash of something breaking. His clawed hands wrapped around her back and beneath her legs. Before he could realize it, Wukong had her up and in his arms, already stepping on and across the corpse and out into the June air. Mine.

“Let’s get you home, lovely.” Wukongs voice was thick with emotion. Relief to finally, finally, finally have an excuse to take his wife home, to see her sleep in a real bed and eat real food made his heart swell. No more pretending. No more longing. It was happening now. Simmering beneath that emotion was the sweet bubble, the red misting rage, of violence. Once he got her home, got her safe, got her tangled within some of his and Macaques blankets to where the sour smell of fear would be lost within the scent of them- he could come back. He would come back.

He would destroy the village for being the obstacle it was in his conquest for this mortal girls heart. It was in itself, a relief to know he was justified in its destruction.

Look what this place did to bruise my sweet fruit.

Peaches was shaking. Clinging to him. I would have her cling to me always. He pressed his nose into her neck, breathing in as he walked off. She smelled so good. He rubbed his face to hers, affectionately smothering her fear scent. Wukong felt a smile curl his face. Finally. We can go home and put the charade to bed. Finally you are mine.

Peaches' memory of that night was mostly of clinging to Wukong as they flew through the air, of his voice a rumble of soft words and comforts. He was holding her close, pressing her in. Smothering her in a sense. But she needed it. She clung to it in a way to stop herself from being sick from fright. It was strange but familiar to hold this fur, to cling. Then she briefly remembered another voice, another set of hands. When she looked up and saw that her sweet dark monkey was also here, had also been a demon in disguise, something broke in her. Maybe hysteria. Maybe disbelief. Or maybe she knew, somewhere in her mind, that no matter what she said now wouldn’t save the people- the innocents- in her village.

Peaches had been transferred into the dark arms and THATS where she finally began to cry. The shock was fading and leaving behind ragged holes of emotion.

“Safe, you're safe now.” She was reassured. Hands had lifted her chin, her sweet little monkey- now a demonic one- was gently beginning to sponge away the blood from the cuts on her face. Her cheek swelled, her eye with it.

“Please don’t kill them.” She begged. “He already took care of the one who hurt me don’t kill my village.”

“Hush love…”

“Please!”

Silence. Something cold pressed to her face- a bit of snow from far up the mountain wrapped in cloth. Macaques ears twitched like flower petals in the night air.

“It’s already done. The village is already gone.”

The memory rode itself out in the present and faded slowly.

Guilt washed over her and she cried all for a new reason. She had been the catalyst for Sun Wukongs fury. She had been the decider to his want of destruction. Peaches may not have killed them, may have had a decade to realize that what had happened wasn’t her fault, but Wukong had done it in her name. He had erased that village and all its people like a cartographer reshapes a map. To all the rest of the world, their had never been a village in the shadow of Flower fruit mountain. Not a foundation, not a brick, not even a spare hair, was left of humanity there. Instead it had been cleared as if a fire had swept through. Peaches had seen it on one occasion when Wukong had been persuaded to show her. She had needed closure. Needed the peace.

Once she had healed she had been told her village was gone. She had been given a sweet lie- that Wukong had gone back and the villagers related to the drunk had been ransacking her house to see where she kept the money or any spare wine.

When Wukong had shown up demanding they answer to the crime committed in her home, they had attacked. Wukong had enacted a king's justice as was his right. He had told the remaining villagers to leave- to never set foot upon his domain again for the lawlessness that had been enacted upon their neighbor.

It had taken two years for her to be able to relax whenever he came in smelling of fire and iron. It had taken a few years more for her to remember what Macaque had said when he had pressed snow to her face.

They were the same little monkeys they had been before. But now they had less innocence when they pressed into her face for kisses, when they asked to tangle and cuddle limbs. They insisted she stay in the bedchamber and not move to her own separate room.

It had taken getting used to movement beside her as a hand tugged her hair, or a tale twined her waist. Or a leg curled with hers or hands holding her face. Sometimes in the dark Mac would press his head to her back, using her as a pillow. Wukong would yank her in when he thought her too sleepy to remember and whisper all the things he loved about her.

It would have been sweet. It was touching in a way. If not for the way they revealed themselves. If not for that memory and what she knew now had come after.

It had not taken too long after that for her to start realizing that, though Wukong had saved her, neither of them had any regret of what happened. Neither of them was going to let her go.

When she asked about it or started talking of missing her home- the simple living, the ability to really on herself and choose for herself- Wukong would laugh and launch into one of his tales. He would brush her hair with his claws, run his face against hers and try and deflect her attention to new things.

Macaque, if Wukong was absent, would let her talk. Usually it happened when he asked her to brush his fur or he in turn asked to brush her hair. Peaches thought, just a bit, that the reason Mac was better at listening was for all the ears he had. Each time however, when she got to the part about how this had been her fault, he would stop mid way through a braid or pin and pull her in. Macaque would kiss the tears from her eyes, would press himself close to her chest.

“It was Never your fault Peaches.”

“I remember. I remember he went back- you said he—“

“Hush love you’ll grow hysterical. What Wukong did was justified- he defended you.”

“He killed.”

“I have killed.” He kissed her temple, gentle in his reprimands. He wouldn’t try and brush her words beneath a rug like Wukong. Instead he gave her a smile as wide as the crescent moon. “Let’s finish your hair and get you dressed. We can go see the baby’s, I know how you love the baby’s.” Baby monkeys were her weakness. They had been what led to her loving Mac before she had known he was a demonic warlord.

Peaches rubbed at her eyes and stood, the sorrow in her heart heavy still but the tears at least had stopped. Now she was just tired. Tired and cold and wanting to escape the feeling of it all. So she shed her courtly attire. All the clips and jewels and baubles and bits felt heavy. She placed them within the box at her armoire, then loosened her hair from its bindings. Jade pins, pearl necklaces, golden bracelets with bells of silver (Wukong loved this the best of all) all glimmered back in the firelight.

A pretty price.

She snapped the box closed.

On nights like this, she wanted to wear nothing but her smock, her simple clothing, and bury herself as far as she could go into the bed she shared with her husbands.

It was more of a pit set into the ground, circular in nature. Silken pillows, red sheets and a hoard of anything plush and furred had been thrown into the pit. It was also a snug place to bury herself within and one of the few things she didn’t feel resentment too right away. When the outside felt too bright and she couldn’t go about the mountain to her usual quiet places, she would retire here. To burrow, to bury, to hide.

Peach fell back into the pit of blankets and pillows and pulled herself beneath a fur of some striped monster Macaque had skinned and gifted to her. Tonight the bitter truth was hard to swallow and did circles in her head.

You did this. You caused this. You killed them. This is your fault.

She closed her eyes and hoped … hoped for what might be the worst thing yet. Her husband's return.

A time later she stirred. Something was in her room- was walking to the bed. Peaches felt a flutter of fear before hands reached into her hiding place and simply slid her out.

“Hello darling.” The silken voice belonged to none other than Macaque. His clawed hands entwined around her waist, his teeth nipping at her ear. “You are up late.”

“Does that mean it will be a late morning?” Wukongs voice came from the other side of the room. Peaches could see the ginger monkey removing armor from his shoulders and stretching. As the darker brother kept making a snack of her shoulder, Peaches noticed that the shine of Wukongs paldrom was dimmed. Something black coated the golden imprint of sunbursts across its armored surface. “I love late mornings! Means more time together.”

Blood?

“Peaches?” She turned her head, trying to see Mac. He had left off nipping her skin. A hand came away from her wrist and tipped her chin, forcing her to stare directly into his violet eyes. “What has upset you?”

Everything. Myself. Wukong. You. It was that simple question that set her sorrow to flowing again. She was confused, upset, and she wanted comfort. The only ones who could give her comfort were the very ones who caused her distress.

A vicious cycle.

The pillows behind her sagged. Wukongs hands were more aggressive in their touches, turning her about to stare into her face. He noted the tears, the bruising beneath her eyes. His lip curled in anger.

“Has someone upset you?” Wukong asked. He seemed ready to stand again, to grab his armor and step out into the night. “I will drag them here to give an apology. You name them and I will fetch them.”

Peaches shook her head.

“Just ….” You killing the villagers, Macaque telling me plainly that it was for the best, and my own head making me relive that night of events. Over and over and over.

“…. Myself.”

His face softened as he chirped a reassurance, pressing his nose to hers. Macaque peppered her in gentle and butterfly soft kisses to the back of her neck. The three fell back into the nest, limbs entwined and hands holding. Macaque had Peaches face buried in his chest as she sobbed silently. He cooed. He whispered how everything would be right as rain in the morning. His hands ran through her hair and messaged her scalp. Wukong held his Peaches, pressing her back to his chest in a solid wall against the world outside. He lavished her in praises and compliments, sometimes getting carried away and talking about himself until his brother would remind him with a flick to his forehead that it was their Peaches he should be reassuring.

And through it all, through this twisted and tangled weave of limbs and fur and warmth and sorrow, Peaches felt love. It grew in this dark place still, wanting to thrive. But how could it?

Still she fell asleep, lashes sparkled with tears and her heart lighter. One could only be sad so long in the wake of such waves of attention. Wukongs and Macaques love was the only solution to this ailment they had inflicted upon her, and she, the addict, swallowing the medicine that would give her release.

[slvt4felix]

♡ I See the Light ♡

Pairing -> lostprince!felix x thief!reader WC -> ~6,700 words Includes -> tangled!au, violence? (frying pan incident), reader is a criminal, fem!reader, lowkey abusive and manipulative "mother", kidnapping, magic, Bbokari as Pascal Summary -> After stealing a particularly precious item from the King and Queen, the royal guards push you deep into the woods during an exhilarating chase. You stumble across an interesting tower and start to climb, unaware of what you will come across once you reach the inside. Or rather, who you will come across and how this unique person will completely change the trajectory of your life. Author's Note -> I am like the biggest fan of Tangled. It's my all time favorite Disney movie. And when I think of Felix the first thing that comes to mind is sunshine and I feel like he is so Rapunzel coded. So yeah... don't mind that this fic is literally just all my favorite things combined. I hope you like it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Also this was only supposed to be one part, but I'm slowly starting to realize I'm really bad at writing short stories... so this story will definitely be multiple parts!

Masterlist ♡ Next Part

You pant, desperately trying to catch your breath as your legs move faster than they ever have before. They are starting to ache, along with your feet, your lungs, and just about everywhere else. But you can't stop, not right now. Not with the heavy footsteps just a few feet behind you and horses loud in the distance.

You stole something. Well, technically you have stolen many things, but what can you say? You were an orphan and never given the chance to make money more nobly. And this time, the object was just something you couldn't pass up.

You keep running, eyes trained directly in front of you. You desperately want to look behind you to see how much time you have, see just how much danger you're in, but the adrenaline and fear have you locked in. You won't stop, won't glance back at the angry guards until you manage to get some headway.

Your boot-clad feet heavily trample the ground underneath you, damaging the delicate blades of grass and petals of flowers that seem to multiply by the second. If only you were able to look down, you would notice the nature changing subtly underneath you. The rocky area you were previously in changed into a thick forest, covered in clover and wildflower.

If you weren't in this situation, perhaps you would've taken the moment to admire it. To take in your surroundings, breathing in the beauty of nature. But again, now's not the time. Maybe one day you will have the ability to stop and smell the flowers, but today there are more important matters at hand.

You hear a twig snap behind you and an unsettling crash. You instantly realize it to be a branch in the path that you had just jumped over. Luckily enough, after years of training, running, and stealing you can navigate your way through many terrains if needed. However, it seems like the guards behind you weren't so lucky. You swiftly turn your head and find exactly what you expect. The two burly men who had been hot on your trail now lay on a pile on the grass as the distance grows between you and them. You chuckle a bit to yourself upon realizing they must have dropped like dominos, one tripping with the other landing right on top. At this point, you were thankful for anything that could make you laugh.

Looking back ahead of you, you zone back into your mission. Your body aching to take a breather. You take a sharp turn, long used to getting out of these situations. This route change leads you down a steep hill. You almost tumble all the way down, but thankfully your dark brown boots have enough traction on them to help you safely make your way down. You jump off the last little way because what's escaping without a little extra adventure.

Now being back on the soft flat grass, you take in your surroundings, analyzing to try to make the best choice. The guys weren't likely to stay down for too long, so you have to make a decision and fast. You don't have time to try to get ahead, they would catch up in no time.

You realize you have been running for a while to try to escape the men. You weren't keeping track, but this is about as far as you have ever made it outside the kingdom. Everything looks untouched, giving off the vibes that maybe you shouldn't be here. It's ethereal looking, yet a bit unsettling at how everything seems to be in perfect harmony. The branches on the trees sway harshly in the wind and feels as if you were the one to disturb the peace, your presence entirely unwelcome.

You shake off the thoughts and roll your shoulders a bit. This was not the time for superstitions or paranoia.

'Maybe if those stupid guards hadn't chased me for so long,' you think bitterly. But in reality, you know you can't hold it against them. It's just their job, just like this is yours. It's just the way it is.

Typically you would have everything completely planned out. Especially the escape route. But, there was really no way to prepare for this. You usually don't get caught soon enough to actually get chased.

Panic floods your body as you begin to hear angry voices again. You're running out of time. The goal today was not to go to prison. You sigh angrily realizing there really isn't any simple escape route this time around. Before your brain even processes it, your feet are moving on their own accord, simply in fight or flight mode. But, today seems to be your lucky day and nature seems to be on your side.

You glance behind you after a few steps noticing that the men still hadn't caught up enough for you to be in their vision. In this slight hesitation, your foot catches on a branch growing from the ground likely belonging to one of the beautiful weeping willow trees surrounding you. It appears that the trees have inhabited this place for ages, their roots buried deep into the group and long wispy branches that hide practically everything behind them.

You stumble forward, your arms unable to find anything to grasp. You land harshly on your knees, making you hiss out in pain. You were definitely going to be covered in grass stains after this.

You quickly gather yourself, standing to your feet taking in your new surroundings. You falter a bit, unsteady due to the weight of your backpack making you a bit unbalanced. You must have fallen through into a small cave. The willow's long branches came down to hang in the entrance, blocking anyone from seeing the small hideaway. You're surrounded by rough, cool stone. There's a noticeable temperature difference that provides relief to your damp skin. The sun was beating on you aggressively the whole run, but hey at least it was bright enough out to see in front of you. It was the only reason you were brave enough to do this in broad daylight. Although it was easier to slip away in the dark, sometimes the paths of the kingdom and the forest surrounding can get pretty difficult to navigate after dark.

You hear heavy footsteps coming from the area you had just narrowly managed to escape. They sound pretty scattered, your mind providing you with the image of multiple royal guards rushing into the serene environment. You almost giggle at the thought of them all dressed head to toe in golden armor. A large sun engrained in their chest plate.

You peek slightly through the covering, seeing exactly what you had imagined. They are searching the area hastily in hopes of finding any clues as to which way you went. They look like children playing dress up, some of their spartan-like helmets falling over their eyes when they turn their heads obviously not fitting them properly.

One stalks past the opening, startling you backward. You hold your breath in fear. They may look silly, but that doesn't diminish the fact that they could positively ruin your life if they manage to capture you. You make your way farther into the cave, expecting to run into a rock wall blocking you in. You had planned to just hide it out in here until it was safe to leave, but soon you realize there may be another way to go about it. It seems to not really be a cave like you had initially thought. Rather, it appeared to be a tunnel of some sort. As you continue to walk the light grows dim. Before you know it, you can no longer see more than 2 steps in front of you. You put your arms out trying to feel in front of you. It would suck to run face-first into solid rock.

You bite your lip gently, starting to grow a little nervous at the lack of light and ability to see what's ahead. But you just have to deal with it at this point, anything to put more distance between you and the angry guards.

Soon you spy a light at the end of the tunnel, opposite from where you entered. You no longer hear any yelling or stomping and it gives you hope that maybe on the other side, there would be no one searching for you. They surely would have made it there by now if they could find it, right?

You emerge from the tunnel, eyes squinting as the sun's bright rays abuse your eyes again. When you finally adjust to the new lighting, you look around in amazement. You were somehow in a completely new area, large mountains and hills blocking the place in. It was unlike anything you had ever seen before. You had thought where you had just come from looked untouched, but this right here was actual nature at its finest.

It wouldn't be hard to believe you were the first human to step foot here in ages, the area completely overgrown with plants and animals. Yet, there was one unavoidable thing that proved that theory wrong. Standing high amid the greenery was a tall tower. It appeared nearly ancient, the stone crumbling a bit with vines wrapping their way up the walls.

It's honestly mystical with a stunning waterfall coming from one of the mountains just beyond the tower, painting the scene with a light mist. You notice that as the sun hits the vapor just right it creates little mini rainbows.

"Woah" you whisper. You aren't usually the type of person to talk to yourself, mostly preferring to keep your thoughts in your mind, but at this moment it felt perfectly justified. You spin in a circle, trying to take everything in. You had never really seen anything like this, despite the beautiful architecture the kingdom was made up of. This felt like something out of a fairy tale. Which you were so not used to. You aren't typically the main character. More likely the shady best friend or the villain who never really lives up to their name.

For a minute, you feel like someone else. Like one of the beautiful girls in the books you read who end up with the loves of their lives. Or even the protagonist in a high fantasy novel. At this point, you honestly wouldn't be that surprised if a fairy with sparkling wings flew out in front of you. It didn't even really feel like real life.

You approach the tower, eager to explore what you have found. You make sure to carefully walk across the wood that appears to have been thrown over the stream haphazardly in an attempt at a bridge. It doesn't exactly look stable and you weren't looking to get wet. But it was the only way across and you just had to get a closer look.

Surprisingly, you make it across with no damage and you sigh in relief. The material of your outfit does not feel nice wet. You had learned that the hard way last time you had stolen something.

You scan the perimeter of the tower, shocked at the realization that there is no door. You double-check, a little put-off at the idea, and again find no door. Not even an opening or one that had been covered by the overgrown bushes and flowers that had taken over the landscape.

'Who makes a tower with no entrance?' you question, your stomach turning slightly beginning to get an eerie feeling. It was just a little… odd. But who were you to say how something should be built? You aren't exactly an architect. And maybe things were just built differently back then.

You knew it was ridiculous to try and justify something as weird as this, but you couldn't help your brain trying to connect the dots. But it just doesn't make sense. You take a few steps back, trying to figure out how to approach the situation. The lack of an entrance is disheartening as you were beginning to think maybe you could've stayed here for a while. There was no way you could go back to the villages of the kingdom right now. They would definitely be searching for you. And if you could find an easy way into this place, it would be a nice spot to hide out until everything cools down.

You spot windows near the top of the tower and suddenly you realize, the window directly above you is wide open. That is your chance. You feel around the stone bricks that make up the base of the building hoping you can catch your fingers in the cracks. You manage to get a little bit of a grip, but not much. There's no way you could make it all the way up there by just climbing. None of the rocks jut out enough.

You gasp out, an idea rushing into your head. You reach down where a leather sheath is strapped to your thigh. You carefully grab your dagger out. it was only one, but it could definitely help. You didn't like carrying a knife on you, but it did become really useful sometimes. You didn't use it much, especially not to hurt people. It's more of a just-in-case option. You bring the metal up to your eyes admiring how the afternoon sunlight reflects off it, the handle carefully engrained with beautiful roses.

You would be lying if you said it didn't kind of make you feel like a badass.

You lodge the dagger into the cracks and use it to try and pull yourself up a bit. It was definitely helpful as you thought. You kick your feet against the stone, hoping to find a decent push-off spot. With the traction on your shoes and your leather gloves protecting your hands both providing a bit of grip, this might actually be possible. And at this point, what exactly did you have to lose? It would be such a nice shelter to rest in for the night.

You carefully, make your way up the tower, thankful for the wood that occasionally wraps the bricks giving you a place to catch your breath.

Finally, you manage to make it to the top, your chest heaving slightly and your fingers burning from the pressure. In your haste to pull yourself up the last little bit of the wall and slide through the window, you fail to notice the soft noises coming from inside. There's some shuffling, but you brush it off assuming it's some animal that had also decided to make this place its shelter.

You throw your leg through the window taking a second to sit there and catch your breath. You're straddling the bit of wood framing the window, it's delicately carved and decorated with light purple flowers on the ledge. You take a mental note of them, hoping to admire them later once you're settled.

Deeming yourself steady enough, you pull your other leg through standing up in the large room. As much as you want to take everything in, you first slip your backpack off. Nervous that things had gotten jostled on the way up. You open the buckle and slip the top open. You set the bag gently on the ground, squatting next to it as you pull out a sparkling crown.

You sigh in relief that it was still there, it hadn't fallen out. There wasn't even a singular scratch on it. The feeling of the cool metal weighing heavy in your hands punches a sigh of relief from your lungs.

"Thank God," you whisper to yourself, breaking the gentle silence of the room you entered. You had stolen the crown. It’s why the royal guards were after you. You had entered the castle through the ceiling and stolen the crown, the guards just barely noticing as you were exiting. It was the most valued object in the whole kingdom. The importance of the crown is in how it is associated with the lost prince.

It was the most well-known story in the country and maybe even the whole world. Everyone had been so ecstatic. The Queen and King were having a baby. An heir to take over the throne when they grew old and gray. But, the Queen had grown increasingly sick as the pregnancy progressed. You had been just a baby when all this was happening, but over the years you have heard of the story many times. It was hard not to. It was everywhere you went.

Thankfully, the Queen recovered. They had found a magical flower that had the power to heal her. The baby came soon after and the whole kingdom rejoiced. They had a beautiful baby boy, with golden locks and soft skin. They released a bright lantern into the indigo sky in celebration.

However, everything went wrong that night. The new parents had heard their baby cry in the early hours of the morning but when they got there he was already gone. Never to be seen again. They still hold hope that maybe one day their baby will return home. Even going as far as to hold an annual festival for him and releasing hundreds of floating lanterns into the sky on his birthday. It was honestly a gorgeous sight.

You go to put the crown back into your bag, still nervous to get scratches or fingerprints on it. It was worth a lot of money. A deal you couldn’t pass up. Just as your fingers leave the smooth metal you hear a shuffling noise coming from your side. Your head shoots up looking to discover where the noise is coming from.

You're shocked at the sight that greets you. You stand up, nearly stumbling back at the surprise. There in front of you was… another human? How in the world had he gotten up here? You didn't hear anyone else climb up after you and it's hard to believe someone could do that silently. Did that mean they had already been here when you arrived? Why were they here?

So many questions flood your head that you barely have time to react as an object comes flying toward your head. You quickly duck down, just barely missing the dark metal by an inch. You pop back up, thankfully agile from all your years as a criminal. Once you regain your footing, your eyes take in the sight of a young man standing in front of you. He has probably the lightest blonde hair you have ever seen in your life paired with deep brown eyes. The sun shines on him, making him look as if he was the sun lighting up the room. You're a little taken aback at the sight of him. Typically you are pretty good at reading people, but it seems like you aren't exactly making the best choices today. He doesn't exactly look like the type to try to hit somebody over the head with a heavy frying pan, but here he is sanding with the weapon of choice in his right hand.

He stares back at you while standing in a nervous, defensive stance. But to be fair, you would also be feeling quite uncomfortable if you had tried to take someone's head off and somehow managed to miss.

The stare lasts longer than most people would deem necessary, silence yet again filling the large stone room. Yet, neither of you break it. You're still reeling in shock from the frying pan.

Finally, you gather yourself and question him. "Did you really just try to hit me with a frying pan?" you ask in disbelief. His eyes widen when you speak. He looks more shocked than you feel, which is really saying something. He looks as if he has never interacted with another human before. For a split second, you wonder if maybe you were being too harsh on him.

But before you can get another word in a call sounds from outside.

"Felix, my love, I'm home," a woman yells in the distance. The boy's, who you now assume to be Felix, head shoots to the window in a panic. He turns to you, now looking even more anxious than before.

"You have to go, you have to go like now. She will actually hurt you. Like with more than a frying pan," he whispers as he comes much closer, his voice a surprisingly gravelly tone. You can practically feel the vibrations of it on your skin and you're stunned for a moment, frozen in place. He grabs your wrist, not unkindly, and leads you to the back wall of the room. You watch him carefully as he proceeds to open the door to an armoire, making you wonder what exactly his plan is. He gestures inside and you simply stare at him struggling to comprehend the situation.

"I'm not hiding in your closet," you spit, slightly insulted he would even suggest that.

"Do you want to get killed?" He asks, his tone firmer this time. You can tell he's serious, and your hands start to shake upon realizing how urgent he sounds.

He continues on despite your silence, eager to get you to follow along. "Listen, I don't know who you are or why you're here, but this is really bad timing. I was going talk to her about something important and now... you're here," he starts sounding utterly defeated. He knows explaining the situation to a random stranger likely wasn't going to help, but he was still going to try.

"She doesn't normally listen to me and she definitely won't if she has to deal with you, so just please hide. Just until I can get her to leave. Then I guess I'll figure out what to do," he finishes with a sigh and stares back at you hopefully. You simply nod slowly a little stunned. Felix realizes this is the closest he'll probably get to agreeance and doesn't try to convince you any further.

He grabs your hand gently as you step into the closet, helping you stay stable in the crowded space. You're surrounded by clothes of every color, so many blues and pinks that if you squint hard enough you can practically imagine you're walking into cotton candy.

"Just stay quiet, I'll try to get her to go away," He states quietly. He nods at you reassuringly and it comforts you. You still feel very trapped, but you no longer feel as nervous, rather trusting the man to take care of it for you. You don't know why he hasn't freaked out at you yet, but if he was going to, it probably would've already happened. He shuts the door slowly, dimming the small space. You watch his figure until the last little bit of light can no longer slip through, shutting you off from the room you had just been in.

Thank God you're not claustrophobic.

Once the door is completely shut, you're unable to see anything aside from black for a while, your eyes refusing to adjust to the sudden darkness. However, you listen carefully to everything happening outside the armoire in hopes of getting a better read on everything happening.

You hear Felix shuffling around in the room, obviously cleaning things up and maybe even hiding things considering his fearful reaction to the women's yell. You can hear her shout again from outside, but you can no longer make out what she says. The wood is too thick to depict more than a murmur. But, Felix seems to have heard what she has said. The noises from the room get much louder and rushed. Before suddenly they stop.

You hold your breath in the quiet, anxiously waiting for what comes next.

Felix takes a deep breath, glancing around the room one last time to make sure everything is nice and clean. He had noticed your bag left by the window, the stolen crown peeking out. A little chick, whom Felix had named Bbokari had been poking around next to it making him laugh in adoration of the small creature. He must have hidden when you had broken in, scared of the stranger. But that was to be expected, considering every time mother arrived home, Felix would tell the small chick to hide, pushing him out of sight. Now, Mother wasn't mean or an animal abuser. She had never hurt Bbokari before, but Felix honestly did not want to take that chance. She wasn't exactly a fan of critters or any type of outsider making their way into her tower.

He gives the chick a tiny pat on the head with his index finger, the small bird tweeting happily, before curiously picking up the crown. It shined brightly, the sun catching on the metal as he picked it up.

What in the world? he thinks in confusion. Out of all the things Mother has brought home, this is definitely not something he's seen before. It does, however, remind him of the fairytales he had read as a kid before she had confiscated them in an angry fit. She didn't like when he read about that stuff. It had confused him greatly, as she had never really told him why. So, rather than reading about princesses he was often stuck with books about nature or fiction stories about romance.

The chick pecks at his foot, urgently, trying to remind him of the situation at hand. He snaps out of it quickly putting the crown back in the leather bag. He brings it over to the stairs in the corner. He peels back the one broken step, shoving the bag beneath it. Not even mother knew of this hiding spot. He had to hide the bag, she would ask way too many questions about where that came from. He knows that realistically he should be scared about a stranger practically breaking into the tower. But maybe there's a small part of him that wants to prove himself to his mother. Show her that he really can handle himself. He's turning 18 tomorrow and maybe just maybe now that he's old enough, she'll let him go.

He's had this dream since he was little, to see the floating lights. Every year, they appear on his birthday. Hundreds of bright yellow lights fill the sky, and he cannot seem to figure out why. Either way though, he can't help but feel like they're meant for him. And every year, without fail, he watches them. He looks forward to it all year round, waiting for the day he can see the floating lights gleam again. It's his dream to see them up close in person, but it's starting to seem like it may be simply that- just a dream. How silly of him to think it's something that could actually happen.

Mother becomes very angry anytime he asks to leave the tower, or simply mentions anything about the outside world, but he feels confident this time. She's definitely going to let him go; she has to right? It's his only hope.

"Darling, I'm not getting any younger down here," Mother Gothel yells, sounding exasperated. He quickly picks Bbokari up, hiding him on a ledge behind a curtain, giving him a loving smile before rushing to go help her up.

She had created this tower without a door, purposefully hoping to keep him as far away from the outside and other people as she could. And hell, he couldn't blame her. After all the stories she has told him, he's thankful he's never been exposed to the harshness of the world.

Felix jogs over the window, leaning over the edge, feeling the soft spring breeze blow through his hair.

"Coming Mother!" he yells, adding excitement to his voice. Despite his earlier nervousness, he can't help but be excited whenever she comes home. She often takes long trips, only coming home for days at a time. He'll take any sort of human interaction he can get.

Felix grabs the rope from the wall next to the window, swinging it over the hook hanging down. He throws the rope over, watching his Mother grab it harshly once it hits the ground. Since there is no door, they use a sort of pully system. There's a loop at the bottom of the rope that mother slips her foot into and she holds onto the rope as Felix pulls her the rest of the way up.

It was exhausting, but he's gotten used to it over the years. Luckily, he's gotten a lot stronger over the years. Especially since now that he's older she goes on her trips a lot more. Don't get him wrong, he's thankful, he really is as these trips usually involve getting food or gifts for Felix and her. However, the days can get lonely and fast. There's only so much cleaning, baking, painting, and singing a person can do. It's the reason the walls of the tower are completely covered in different paintings. Some have even been painted over multiple times; he ran out of space long ago. Being home alone for days on end without being able to go outside isn't exactly the dream life some people would think. But he gets it. There are reasons he can't go outside and he must abide to keep himself safe.

So, he pushes the anger and resentment deep inside, painting on his happiest face for her to come home to. He finishes pulling her up and wipes a bead of sweat from his face as she finally steps into the sun-lit room.

She walks over to his bed, placing down her basket and shawl before returning to him. She always looks a bit run down when she comes home, her hair a bit more grey, wrinkles on her forehead, and this haunted look in her eyes. Honestly, it's enough to make him never want to go outside.

The woman caresses Felix's cheek gently, looking into his eyes. He has always loved whenever she was gentle with him, providing love and care, but it's starting to becoming rarer with each passing day.

"Felix, I don't know how you manage to do that day after day, dear," She says softly with a bit of concern.

"It's nothing, Mother," he reassures her, despite how exhausting it truly is. She lets go of him, before he can even finish the sentence, her gaze scanning the rest of the room.

"You keep it so nice and clean in here, it's so nice for Mumsy to come home to," she says, always impressed by the things he manages to get done while she's away. Felix cringes a bit at the statement, knowing he had finished cleaning at barely 7:30 am. It truly was the easiest part of the day. Honestly, the hardest part is always the waiting. Waiting for someone, anyone, to talk to or really just anything to do.

Mother walks over to his mirror that stands near the wall. It's circular and nothing fancy, framed in wood, but she looks at it as if it holds all the answers to life, like it's the most important thing in the world. Sometimes Felix wonders if she loves the mirror more than she loves him, but he quickly pushes that thought down, not wanting it to sour his mood anymore than it already has.

He follows her over to the mirror watching in disdain as she examines her face. Lifting her eyebrows and wincing as the skin drops back down, wrinkled and droopy from her trip. She glances up at him, making eye contact through the reflective glass. In this moment, Felix decides he needs to ask her. He's been waiting all day, or really his whole life, and he really just needs to put it out there.

He opens his mouth ready to admit his dream to her, but he's quickly cut off.

"Felix, my love, would you sing for me?" she asks, and despite her trying to hide it, he can detect the desperation in her voice. He's learned to pick out even the slightest change of tone from her over the years.

Felix's eyes widen, almost comically. How could he have forgotten. It's always the first thing she asks for when she gets back. Of course, she would want him to sing for her. His plan is just going to have to wait for a few more minutes.

He nods repeatedly, rushing off again to grab all the necessary supplies. He places Mothers chair down in the center of the room, before grabbing his flimsy stool, setting it in front of the chair. He sits down quickly, trying to hurry the situation along despite knowing how mother likes to take her time during the process. Going too quickly can become a bit more shocking than refreshing, but today was not the time for relaxation.

Mother finally comes over and takes a seat in her usual chair. She grabs Felix's hands and he can only hope she doesn't feel how sweaty they are. He's so nervous about how the conversation is going to go.

His mind is racing as he opens his mouth to start singing. The words coming with ease, practically muscle memory now with how many times he has sang it for her.

"Flower gleam and glow," he starts, his low voice bouncing off the circular walls. He can see her instantly start to relax as his voice fills the room. It makes Felix feel a bit better, knowing how happy it makes her when he sings. As the song continues, he starts to speed up, again eager to get it over with. Mother's eyes open again in panic, wanting the feeling to last longer.

"Wait-" she starts to say, but Felix has already made it to the ending line. As the song comes to a close, Mother jolts forward practically turning into a new person. Her hair is back to it's usual shiny raven color, a new sense of life brimming from her eyes, and all the wrinkles immediately disappearing from her skin. She's young again, just like she likes to be. He can't blame her, who doesn't wish to be young again.

Normally at this time, Felix would compliment her or tell her how he finds her beautiful before and after, but this time there is something else weighing on his mind. He can only hope that the wood of the closet is thick enough and that he had managed to close the door all the way, knowing sometimes it wouldn't latch completely.

This is the last thing he wants you to find out about. He's terrified you'll turn out to be one of those ruffians and thugs Mother warns him about, wanting to steal him away and use him for his magic.

Oh yeah, Felix has this magical ability where he can heal people with just his touch and voice. He can easily make anyone young again and heal all kinds of wounds. It's why he's in this tower, locked away. It's to keep him safe. Mother doesn't want his power to end up in the wrong hands.

She looks down at Felix in disbelief, not understanding why he is acting this way. He stands up abruptly from the small stool, the same one he has sat in since he was a child, and starts to talk, unable to keep it in anymore.

"Mother, tomorrow is a very special day. Do you know what day it is?" he asks, mouth running a mile a minute. She stands up with him, grabbing his wrist lightly, trying to stop him from pacing around the room. All the energy is making her head spin.

He doesn't even wait a second to let her respond, before reminding her, "It's my birthday!"

"Ah ah ah," she starts, "I distinctly remember that your birthday was last year." Felix tries not to let himself physically deflate at this. She always loves to play games like this.

"That's the funny thing about birthdays, they happen every year," he says gently, not wanting to anger her.

"What is it you want this year? How about those muffins you really liked from that one bakery?" she says, figuring that's what this conversation was about.

"Actually, Mother I was thinking, maybe I could go see the floating lights?" he asks, "The one's that fill the sky every year on my birthday."

At this her gaze immediately darkens, and he realizes that he was right. It's only a dream. It's not something that could come true. He should have known better. She would never let him leave the tower. She's told him this so many times before.

Yet, he couldn't help but try. It's who he is. He's too hopeful and innocent for his own good.

"Felix, you know how I feel about you leaving the tower," she states, her voice a low tone. Felix suppresses a shiver, his body reacting anxiously.

"But Mother-" he starts, hoping to explain himself.

"No buts, they are just stars, Felix, nothing worth putting yourself in danger for," she says, using an argument he had thought of many times.

"They aren't though, I have charted every single star in that sky, and it just doesn't fit. I can't help but feel like they are meant for me."

"Felix, do not argue with me" she says, her volume rising drastically. He knows she can get worked up fast with sensitive topics, but he really wishes she would just listen to him.

"Don't ever ask to leave this tower again," she says sternly as her grip around his wrist tightens harshly. He winces, tears pooling in his eyes, but he doesn't let them fall.

'Don't cry,' he repeats desperately in his head. She would never take him seriously or believe he could handle himself if he cried in front of her.

"Yes, Mother" he says back quietly, knowing there is no use fighting with her. She pats him gently on the head, satisfied with his answer, before moving back over to her basket. She starts to put her things back in their rightful spots, unpacking after her trip.

"Mother-" Felix starts again only to stop as her head aggressively snaps towards him, anger evident on her face.

"Enough about the stars, Felix," she yells in disbelief. Felix shrinks back instinctually. That wasn't even what he was going to say.

"I was actually thinking maybe you could get me more of those special paints you got me a few years ago," he says timidly, trying to come up with something else that she would be more willing to comply with.

"That's a 3-day trip," she sighs out in annoyance.

"I just thought it would be a better idea than... you know," he explains.

"Alright, dear, are you sure you'll be okay?"

"I know I'm safe as long as I'm here," he says back knowing just what she wants to hear. Felix helps as she goes to repack up her stuff, preparing for the long trip ahead of her.

"I love you, my flower," Mother says before she leaves the tower again, climbing down the rope to the soft grass of the outside world.

"I love you more," he says back. It's his usual response, but this time the words feels heavy coming off his tongue, almost as if it doesn't really weigh as truthfully in his heart as it did this morning. Everything just feels wrong.

Bbokari steps out from behind the curtain, chirping at him loudly. It was surprising how loud such a tiny animal could be. Felix walks over to him, gently petting him.

"Everything's going to be okay," he says softly, unsure if he's truly assuring the chick or himself.

A loud snore startles him from the interaction. Bbokari turns his head cutely towards the closet where the noise came from.

Felix sighs bumping his head lightly on the wall above the ledge.

“I don’t want to handle that right,” he says with a chuckle. Bbokari just looks up at him adamantly and Felix knows exactly what the little bird is trying to say. He can’t just keep you in the closet.

Felix rolls his eyes playfully before heading over to the armoire to let you out. However, he does grab his frying pan on the way… just in case.

More parts coming soon!!

[oneshlut]

AHHHHH, YOU WRITE FOR VARIAN??? It's so hard to find anyone who does that- could you possibly write hcs for dating him?

A/N: EEEEK!!! yesyes, varian's one of my favs to write for!!!! i may have a thing for dorks,, ty SOSO much for the request, this was so much fun to write for! (for my followers, or just any1 else.. KEEP REQUESTING VARIAN)

Explosive Heartbeat (Varian x Reader) [Headcanons]

Rules For Requesting

Characters I Will Write For

Masterlist

Summary: General dating/relationship headcanons for Varian

As friends, you're kinda like nerd buddies! Varian would rant to you on and on when you visited him in his lab. After a bit, Ruddiger seemed to grow affectionate towards you, so you kept visiting. You'd help him with his experiments sometimes, but you'd mainly hang out with Ruddiger, reading a book somewhere. The two of you grew close! And.. Varian found himself hoping you'd visit more and more.

As partners? Well, Varian doesn't change much, but he definitely becomes a lot more awkward. He tries at romantic advances, but.. they don't turn out well. While dating him, expect lots of dorky, unsuccessful flirting attempts.

He tries for you, though! Varian doesn't know much about romance, other than how to artificially create it. Which he.. hasn't figured out how to do yet. At least he has a natural source, now. He finds himself relating to a lot more.. lovey-dovey things, that he'd normally never understand. In a way, you opened his eyes to love. All of these emotions, suddenly exploding inside of him--all because of you. Sweet, huh?

Varian often finds himself distracted when you visit. He hardly gets any work done because you're there.. which is partly his fault, for looking at you every 20 seconds. He's grown a love-hate relationship to you visiting. Mainly "love", though.

After you leave, he immediately groans, thinking of all the things he did wrong around you. You can find him ranting to Ruddiger afterwards, mainly complaining about the way you made him feel. Not the way you made him feel, but rather the way you made him act. He feels a fool around you.. and wonders why you even love him back.

Ruddiger isn't gonna stand for that bullcrap. This little rat rascal bites Varian to snap him out of it. Once he gets over his self-concious arc, Varian finds himself smitten. Sometimes he becomes a blushing mess just thinking about you. Now he's tripping over his own feet, (with as awkward as he is), and Ruddiger feels as if he's made him even worse.

About the failed flirtings. They're hysterical. But, talking about some things that actually land in your relationship, are nicknames. For him, you range from Var, nerd, V, to some of the more romantic ones, like "hun". He seems to get flustered at that one. As for romantic nicknames for you? He.. well, he tries. In turn, Varian also uses hun or honey, seeing as they're the most comfortable, but he doesn't use them often. Either calls you by your initial (if it works), or just some inside joke like "geek" or "smart-alec"

Surprisingly, or maybe not, Varian's an absolute sucker for PDA. Him, being the dork he is, will explain to you the physical benefits on the human mind to hugs and physical affection--and when you actually hug him, he'll freeze. He's grown used to your touch, though, and finds himself hugging back most of time time, if you don't startle him. If anything, he loves to hold your hand. If he's opened up enough, he'll let you hold his hand without his gloves.. may not happen often, though. But yes, anywhere you're going, Varian's holding your hand. No way around it.

Sometimes you'd fall asleep at his lab, most likely with a book in your hand, and it's the most adorable thing he's seen. Theres an 89% chance that Ruddiger's there, snuggled up next to you. Varian makes sure to wake you up before it gets late.. on your busy days. If he knows you have nothing to do in the morning.. he'll leave you be to sleep till morning. He knows you need the rest, and you looked too cute peaceful to wake up now. (This situation can go for Varian aswell, especially if he spends nights awake working on experimenting)

As for dates, you two would have many home-dates, but if you're going anywhere, you're going to the library! Despite the location being extremely tame, he still feels nervous asking you out. Corona's libraries were always quiet and peaceful, and the best place for Varian to nerd out to you about any chemistry books that they happened to have. Either this, or a field somewhere out in Old Corona. Exploring dates were fun aswell, where one of you would take a backpack and just wander around the forests, chatting about any little thing that comes to your mind. If nowhere else--Monty's sweet shop, if it's a special day of sorts, like the Day of Hearts.

Oh, how could I forget? The Day of Hearts was always a holiday that Varian would pass over, seeing as he had more important things to do than indulge himself in romance with.. himself only. So when you reminded him about it, he almost spit out his hot cocoa. And if he was being completely honest, he most definitely forgot about it. Feels slightly ashamed, but now excited for the holiday! Excited to spend it with you, mainly.. And of course, you sign the journal together. Varian's still a nervous wreck, so his signature was a bit more shaky than he'd like it to be. It was the thought that counted.. right? If you stumble into Rapunzel and Eugene at the festival, expect lots of adoring coo-ing from Rapunzel and relentless teasing from Eugene. He's still as dorky and sarcastic as ever when confronted with the teasing, but the fit of flushed red on his face gave away everything you needed to know.

But Rapunzel's right. The two of you are extremely cute together, you even look like you were made for each other! The simple thought of that makes Varian want to faint, but he'll come to terms with it eventually. Just know that romance is definitely not his strong suit, but he managed to not draw you away, so he's gotta be doing something. Otherwise, Varian stays his loveable, dorky, sarcastic self. But now, with just a little bit more of hand holding.

And you did sign the Day of Hearts journal together, so if that doesn't give you a telltale sign of where your relationship is going, I don't know what will.

[talesofesther]

tangle me in all your broken pieces (and watch me stay) | ch 3

Loki x Reader

Series Summary: An Asgardian god has just threatened your planet and you were called in to provide a little help. What you didn't expect was to develop a strange soft spot for said god, who hid more pain behind his cold facade than you thought possible.

A/N: This story is already occupying a very special place in my heart.

Word count: 4,2k

Masterlist | Read ch 2 here

You arrived at Stark Tower a little before noon. The quinjet landed on top of the building and you were once again relieved to be stepping out of it. The ride back had somehow been even worse than the one before, as there was a heavy shadow looming in the air.

Loki had been quiet since he'd stepped back in the jet after the meeting with Odin, his eyes always downcast, fixed on his cuffed hands. You couldn't blame him—even though it felt foreign to see him so… broken, compared to the confident god you first saw being escorted to his cage a couple of days ago—you could only imagine how bare he must be feeling without his powers.

You walked out of the jet and followed Tony inside the top floor of his tower, trying to ignore the weight of a certain stare on your back. Sometimes you forgot just how much money Tony had, being here was a good reminder. Floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked all of New York allowed the sunlight to shine on the plush, velvety burgundy couches, the marble walls, the exaggerated chandelier, and the fancy built-in bar. You certainly won't mind living here, it was quite a step up from your humble apartment.

"I'll arrange for someone to go pick up your stuff from your apartment," Tony spoke, glancing at you over his shoulder, "do you want to go with or wait here?"

"I can wait here," you shrugged, "As long as they bring all my clothes, my laptop, and my cat."

Tony stopped in his tracks and waited for you to reach his side. He narrowed his eyes, "So we're having an actual cat too?"

You opened and closed your mouth, "Uh- I can't leave her alone in my apartment for so long, Tony."

The billionaire hummed halfheartedly, resuming his path toward the elevator at the far end of the room. "No scratch marks on my furniture, please."

"Me and Thor will have to hang back for now," Fury called, walking up to the built-in bar and pouring himself a drink, "I assume you have it handled from here?" He raised an eyebrow at both you and Tony.

"Yes, darling," Tony answered with a smile and pressed the button for the elevator. He whistled and gestured with a hand for Loki, "Come on, reindeer games, you're with us."

Thor let go of where he had been holding Loki by the arm, "I'll see you later, brother." Not waiting for an answer, he threw a smile your way and joined Fury, already asking about the drink in the director's hand.

Loki approached you with staggered steps, huffing out a sigh when he stopped beside you. He still had those same traces of anger lingering on his features; lips drawn into a line, eyes just a tad narrowed, shoulders tense.

The elevator arrived with a ding and you, Tony, and Loki stepped in; with Loki in the middle.

Your hands were clammy, you brushed them on your black jeans to try and chase the feeling away. You didn't know why you were so nervous, this had been your idea, after all. Maybe it was because you could feel all that tension flowing off of Loki—with him standing so close to you, his shoulder mere inches away from touching yours.

The ride down a few floors was agonizingly slow, with only the low humming of the elevator as it moved.

You cleared your throat and broke the uncomfortable silence. "Tony," you called, leaning just a tad forward so you could see him past Loki. You showed him your wrist and wiggled it, raising your eyebrows pointedly.

A deep frown etched itself into Tony's features until his eyes lit up when he understood what you meant. "Oh, right." Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a thin, black bracelet with an even thinner strip of soft green light around it. "Because we are civilized," he began, turning to Loki. "I took the liberty of making you this." He raised the bracelet in front of the god, who looked wholly unimpressed.

Unceremoniously, Tony reached for one of Loki's wrists and clasped the bracelet on him. It closed comfortably yet forcefully, it wasn't coming off anytime soon. Once it was secured, he finally removed the uncomfortable handcuffs Loki was still wearing.

A grimace appeared on Loki's face, he rubbed his wrists as soon as they were free. You winced as you caught sight of the reddish skin from where the cuffs had been pressuring. He then turned the single wrist that now styled the new device, observing it closely with a small frown.

Loki chuckled; "You can't expect this little thing to keep me here."

"I can, actually," Tony explained, gesturing to Loki's bracelet, "This little thing has a tracker and if you try to leave this tower when you're not supposed to, or try to take it off, we will know pretty much immediately." His smile was proud and just a tad mocking.

A scoff went past Loki's lips. "Lovely," he mumbled.

"I would really like it if you did try to escape, by the way," Tony suggested, rather animatedly, "Gives me an excuse to test my new security system." There was a sly smirk on his lips, he shrugged, "You'd probably survive."

"Tony! Come on," you groaned, shooting him a glare.

The billionaire rolled his eyes; "I'm kidding, relax."

The elevator finally arrived at what would be your new home. A whole floor exclusively for you and Loki—it had been your request, you figured it would be more peaceful this way and you knew Tony had the means and space to make it happen. As the doors slid open the first thing you noticed was the living room, it was big, spacious, and had a massive burgundy couch with a huge TV in front of it; on one side of the living room was your own set of floor-to-ceiling windows along with the double doors that led to the balcony, on the other side was the kitchen, an open concept adjacent to the living room; further into the room were two doors, one beside the other, which you assumed were the bedrooms. Everything had a beautiful modern look and exuded luxury, the least you'd expect from something Tony built.

"Right, I'm dropping you two off here and heading down to the lab," Tony clasped his hands together, then turned to you; "Your room is the one on the right, I'll ask them to drop your things there."

You opened your mouth to speak, but Tony beat you to it; "And the cat, yes."

You stepped out of the elevator and a moment later Loki begrudgingly followed. The god didn't wait for you or spared Tony another glance before walking into the living room, taking in the place, his fingers tracing the velvet of the couch as he looked around.

"Thank you, Tony." You watched Loki for a beat longer before turning back to your friend. "Truly." You smiled softly.

A sigh escaped Tony's lips, his eyes darting to Loki, "Hope he's worth all this drama." Settling his attention back on you, he raised a finger, taking on a serious tone, "If you need anything, if he does anything, you call me, understand?"

"Yes," you reassured him, burying your hands in the pockets of your cardigan. "I will, don't worry."

With that, Tony bid you goodbye for now, and you were left alone with Loki. A soft breeze came in through the open windows, sending a shiver down your spine. Everything had happened so fast, one moment Fury was dragging you out of your apartment to help stop a god who wanted to rule over your planet, and now here you were, being roommates with said god. A quiet chuckle fell past your lips. What are the odds?

"You have a strange kind of courage."

Loki's voice rang through the quiet room, capturing your attention and urging you to turn around and face him. Once you locked eyes, you raised an eyebrow at him, silently asking that he elaborate.

"Or should I say… stupidity," A devilish smirk came to Loki's features, and he took slow and calculated steps toward you. "Locking yourself here, alone, with me." His voice grew huskier, lower. His bright eyes roamed up and down your body, until he was close enough that you could nearly feel his breath on your lips. "Oh, the things I could do to you," he whispered, the daunting tilt of his lips ever-present.

You held the silence for a moment longer, doing your best not to avoid his gaze. You knew what he was trying to do; he wanted to intimidate you, make you feel vulnerable and small. Just as he was feeling right now.

"Aren't we past the bluffing already?" You mimicked his smirk. You could tell he was caught by surprise when his eyebrows knitted together in a confused frown. A quiet laugh escaped you and you rolled your eyes. "Come on, let's go see your room." You didn't wait for an answer before walking around him and towards the two doors at the back.

You turned the door handle that led to what would be Loki's bedroom. It was pretty simple and bare, still. There was a double bed against the wall, a dresser, a desk in front of huge double windows, two bedside tables on each side of the bed with a lamp on one of them, a bookcase without any books, and another door that you assumed led to a bathroom.

"It's cozy," you mused, "Give it a little personal touch it'll soon feel like home, right?" You turned to look at Loki, who had made his way to you and was analyzing the room with narrowed eyes.

Instead of entertaining your attempt at banter, he said instead; "you don't want to challenge me, mortal."

You threw your hands in the air, "Oh my god, when did I ever challenge you?" You asked exasperatedly, losing the remains of patience you had. "Is this all you know how to do? Threaten the people who want to help you?"

"Help me?" Loki all but growled, "Because of you I'm stranded on this pathetic planet, and my magic has been taken from me." He spat the words with clenched fists, towering over you, "Don't think for one minute that I've forgotten how you've messed with my mind, just wait until I've-"

"Because of me you are not rotting in a dungeon forever," you raised your voice to match his tone, shoving a finger at his chest, "Because of me you're free from the people who fucking tortured you."

Loki blinked multiple times as soon as the words left your mouth, almost as if you'd slapped him. His lips hovered open yet he didn't speak.

You softened when you caught the flash of hurt in his eyes as the memories undoubtedly came back to the surface. You closed your eyes, breathed in, and opened them again. "Believe it or not, I actually meant it when I said I only wanted to help you."

A half-hearted scoff went past his lips and he shook his head. "And why would you ever do that? Surely not from the goodness of your heart." For the first time, his voice held something other than anger, you just couldn't pinpoint what it was. "What is it that you're after?"

You shrugged as a melancholic smile graced your lips. It was rather sad that Loki couldn't fathom the thought of help coming without a price. "I don't know, maybe I'm just that stupid, right?" You stepped out of his bedroom, holding the door handle, "I'll be outside if you need me." With that you closed the door, leaving Loki alone in his room.

For several moments he simply stood there, eyes fixed on the plain wood of the door. Then a shaky breath went past his lips, and his shoulders sagged; all anger washed away, leaving room only for sorrow. Slowly, reality finally started to down on him. Loki turned around in the spot, gaze roaming over his new chambers. From out the window, he could see the never-sleeping city of New York, the world he once wished to take over; it felt like so long ago already, a far-fetched attempt at filling the gaping hole left in his chest from empty promises.

A sharp sting of pain suddenly pierced his back, going down his spine as he stretched. He winced, rubbing the sore spot. Telltales of his captor, the one you'd freed his mind from.

You. Why would you do what you did? What could you possibly gain by trying to help him?

You confused him, a mystery ever since Loki first laid eyes on you, one he was yet to uncover. The fact that you had been able to pry into his mind so easily, see glimpses of his misfortunes, made him feel uneasy. And from all the things he assumes you could've done, you chose to cut The Other's hold of him, and nothing more.

Loki would never admit to the relief it had been, almost as if plucking out an arrow that had been piercing his skin and making him bleed. He refrained from dwelling on the matter for now, especially if you'd insist that you wanted nothing from him—unlikely.

He took one step forward, and then another, and one more. And his vision grew blurry. He opened his mouth only for a choked sob to stumble out. He'd never felt this bare, this defenseless, this vulnerable.

Loki raised his hands, fingers trembling. He tried to bring all his energy to his fingertips, gritting his teeth as his tears fell past the bottom lid of his eyes and dropped to the floor beneath his feet. Nothing. Not even a single spark of green.

Loki's knees hit the floor. He brought his arms around himself. His whole life, living amongst kings and warriors, his seiðr was all he had. And now, he doesn't know who he is without it.

He wanted to blame you. He so desperately wanted to lay the blame on you for losing his powers, for his exile on earth. Alas, it was a weak attempt. A lie that would do him no good in the end.

Several minutes went by with Loki kneeling on the floor of his bedroom, fading into the background like many times before. And like many times before, he eventually picked himself back up, drying his own tears with the back of his sleeve, and taking deep breaths to calm his bruised heart.

Loki made a beeline for the bathroom, maybe a warm shower would do him some good.

─── ·❆· ───

You were sitting on the kitchen counter when Loki finally left his bedroom again. Tony had already gotten Happy to bring most of your things from your apartment, your cat included. The fluffy ball of grey fur lay beside you as your fingers mindlessly scratched behind her ears, making her purr contently.

The sound of a door closing made you look up from your cell phone. Loki approached you as if he were a stray cat seeing a human for the first time—you briefly wondered just how long it would take him to feel comfortable here. His hair was damp, falling just a little past his shoulders in shiny raven curls; he still wore the same clothes from before and you made a mental note to ask that Tony arrange more clothes for him.

"Hey," you greeted gently with a small smile, "Did you calm down?"

Loki gave you an unamused glare before averting his gaze to the windows on the other side. "No," he mumbled just for the sake of it.

"I'm ordering a bit of a late lunch," you wiggled your phone even though he wasn't looking at you, "Would you like something?"

Slowly, Loki's eyes trailed back to you. He said nothing as he momentarily held your gaze, before focusing on the cat laying beside you. A rather adorable frown came to his features then.

You noticed. "Loki, this is Rain," you introduced, gesturing to the cat. "Rain, that's Loki," then gestured to the god, "He's gonna be our new roomie."

"That's a strange name for a cat," Loki commented, taking half a step closer to you.

You simply shrugged, "It was raining pretty hard the day I found her on the street, it seemed fitting." A beat of silence passed. "You… can pet her if you want, she's friendly," you suggested timidly, pursing your lips as you looked at him.

Loki's eyes shot back to your face, his stern gaze returning. "No."

You sighed and pushed yourself off the counter, much to Rain's dismay, "Okay, listen, whether you like it or not, this is gonna be your life for the foreseeable future, yeah?" You kept your voice as gentle as you could, "So can we try not to make each day feel more miserable than the last? I mean, you have to admit that this is better than whatever dungeon they were going to throw you in." With a tentative smile, you gestured widely to the whole floor that now belonged to both of you.

Loki kept silent, his jaw set tightly in place.

At last, you admitted defeat and accepted the fact that chit-chat would not be a thing. You groaned; "Just- do you want lunch or not?"

"Of course I want lunch," Loki snapped, "I haven't eaten in nearly two days."

Immediately, your eyes went wide with shock, "You haven't-" You hesitated, "What do you mean you haven't eaten in two days? Didn't they feed you back at the Helicarrier?"

It was a fraction of a second, but you thought you saw Loki's gaze softening at your concern. "Why would they bother?" He simply asked.

You gulped, trying to conceal how this made you feel. "No wonder you're so grumpy," you mumbled in an attempt to lighten the mood. "What would you like, then?"

You quickly discovered that Loki was worse at deciding what to eat than you were. For today you settled for pizza, not exactly healthy, but simple and tasty enough. When it arrived, Loki took his slices and promptly locked himself back in his room. Living with him certainly would be an experience; taking him out to connect with your world, that would be a challenge.

─── ·❆· ───

It almost felt like floating. For a moment, he was almost at peace as he fell, and fell, and fell. And then he was alone, wandering through uncharted, hostile lands. Each day was a battle just to keep breathing, to keep walking. His body was weak and giving up on him when he was found, and then, his voice started fading with each of the screams that no one cared to listen to. His skin burned, ripped open, and healed. Only to go through it again, and again. Until all fight was snuffed out of him.

"You will long for something as sweet as pain."

Loki woke up with a start, sitting up on his bed so quickly that a thousand stars danced in his vision. His breathing came out in desperate huffs of air, making his lungs sting and not nearly enough to calm his thundering heart.

He looked around frantically, feeling his lower lip wobble and his cheeks dampening when he didn't recognize his surroundings immediately. Clutching the sheets to ground himself, Loki closed his eyes and did the breathing exercise he taught himself. Slowly, the fog cleared, yet only a little. And when he opened his eyes again, he remembered why he was in this bedroom.

With a long sigh going past his lips, Loki buried his head in his hands, nails clawing at the root of his hair. He could feel his clothes clinging to his body because of the cold sweat.

He couldn't stay here. He needed to get out.

The floor felt cold against his bare feet, it grounded him to reality. Gulping down a lump in his throat, Loki took staggered steps to his door, reaching the handle with an unsteady hand.

They couldn't keep him here forever, they couldn't expect a damn fancy bracelet to keep him from leaving. He'd break it, cut it off if he had to.

The walls around him were suffocating, closing in on him as he stumbled into the living room. It was so dark, nothing but a void of pitch black with even darker shadows shaping the outlines of the furniture around him. Who was to say no harm would reach him here?

A pathetic whimper fell past his lips, tears clouded his vision. He had to get out. He had to escape. He had to-

"Are you okay?"

Loki halted in his steps. His hand gripping tightly onto the back of the couch.

Quiet. The night suddenly became so quiet. The walls were far away now, he realized. There was a cold breeze coming in through the open doors of the balcony, and a single dim orange light coming from the kitchen beside him, chasing away the darkness. Loki could breathe again.

He took several deep breaths and felt the relief in his lungs. Slowly, he turned his gaze to the right, to where the soft light and the sweet voice came from.

You were standing in the middle of the kitchen, holding a steamy mug between both your hands and looking at him with eyes just a tad too wide. You were dressed in a purple hoodie with black sweatpants. This was the first time Loki had seen you wearing anything that wasn't black, he noted.

A small frown came to your features and you took a single step closer, "Is everything okay?" You repeated when he didn't answer you.

"Yes," Loki mumbled, pointedly avoiding your eyes. "Just needed a bit of air."

You nodded in understanding, taking a small sip of your tea. If you felt the troubles inside his mind, you didn't show it.

It was… strange, how your voice was able to pull him from the depths of his own mind. Loki forced himself not to dwell too much on it. You had successfully distracted him, that's all.

He straightened his posture, feeling a little self-conscious for being witnessed in such a state. "Don't you sleep?" He raised a brow at you, praying you wouldn't notice the rawness of his voice.

You tapped your mug. Your gaze on him was unwavering, almost as if you could see into his very soul. Loki shifted his stance; not for the first time, he felt way too bare before you.

"I could ask the same of you." You walked closer, and then past him, heading towards the balcony.

Loki followed. Thoughts of escaping long forgotten. You intrigued him.

The air outside was colder than the floor beneath his feet. From this high up in the tower, the wind was almost howling. New York looked like nothing but a sea of blinking lights.

You leaned on the railing, mug in hand as you looked down at the city. Loki approached slowly, warily, until he stood beside you.

"Sometimes, even if I don't want to, I can feel… whispers of people's feelings," you continued, voice quiet amidst the wind. "The nights are calmer," You closed your eyes, breathing in deeply, "Quieter. Sometimes I like to enjoy the silence."

For a long moment, Loki said nothing. He blinked lazily as he mulled over your words. He'd be lying if he said your abilities didn't fascinate him. And then, he remembered, and his breathing stumbled again.

He had to know.

"How-" Loki hesitated. He focused down on his hand, on the faint scars on the back of it. "How did you know?" It was nothing but a breath, as if he didn't have the guts to speak louder tonight.

You turned to him, cocking your head to the side.

Loki pursed his lips. "How did you know… My mind was…" He cursed under his breath when the words got stuck and tangled in his tongue.

"I felt it." You told him simply, your voice as soft as satin. "When they first brought you in, I- I felt this… heaviness, like something wasn't quite right…"

Loki chanced a single glance towards you, only to find your eyes already focused on him. They were shining under the moonlight, "Like it was hurting you."

You spoke as if it was a secret, one you weren't sure was yours to keep.

Loki sneered. He avoided your gaze promptly, knuckles turning white with the force he gripped onto the railings.

"You're ridiculous," the words fell past Loki's lips before he could stop them. They were all he had to protect himself. "Why would you ever go against your peers to help someone like me? When I've threatened your life and killed your kind?" Yet now, he didn't know if he was saying them to mock you, or to punish himself.

"I don't believe you're truly bad," You confessed without an ounce of doubt or anger, voice steady and gentle as the cold wind.

Loki's gaze found yours again, and he couldn't recall if anyone had ever looked at him the way that you do.

Your smile didn't hold happiness; "You have sad eyes."

⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Ch 4 coming soon.

Thank you for reading this little story. Feedback and reblogs are literally what keeps me motivated to continue posting here, so I’d appreciate it if you could take some time to reblog and comment. <3

You do not have permission to repost, copy, or translate my works on any platforms (even with credit), please respect.

Loki’s taglist: @iamlokisgloriouspurpose @justaproudslytherpuff @justanotherkpopstanlol @chronicallybubbly @chaoticqueen33 @7minutes-tomidnight @uncle-eggy @oliviaewl @dd122004dd @tani725 @innebulae @mochminnie @mayemperess @alyeskathewave @buginktsworld @cremebruleequeen @wyvernthekriger @cheshire-salvatore-mikaelson @avengersfan25 @mischief2sarawr @yokolesbianism @athenasproverbs @h-l-vlovesvintage @princess-ofthe-pages @daisy-the-quake @talesofadragon @rainbowsocks @alexandra-001 @mary-jinx @stevenknightmarc @falconxsoldier @ladymercury8 @shirukitsune @ladymischief11 @starkzdaughter @navs-bhat @creat0r-cat @anundyingfidelity @creationcitystreet-em @or-was-it-just-a-dream @agustdpeach @agent-tempest @spidermantaylorsversion @127djarin @imthedoctorlove @lokidokieokie @cookieeecutter @anuncalledbridge @awkwardnesshabitat @nixtape-foryou @acehyacinth

[priyajoyyy]

Tangled masterlist

Clarisse la rue x Pesephone!repunzel!fem!reader

You had spent your entire life hidden away in a tower to protect you from the outside world wanting you for your powers, its only when a certain daughter of ares finds you scared and confused, that she finally gets to see the outside world like you always longed to.

[part 1]

Clarisse finds you hidden in a tower in the woods and realises you might be the daughter of a god

[part 2]

Clarisse helps you get over your fear of leaving (rather forcefully) causing you to leave your tower for the first time in your life

[part 3] coming soon

You finally get to explore the world you’ve always wanted to your entire life, with Clarisse and her quest mates leading you back to camp

[part 4] coming soon

Arriving at camp, you get to meet Chiron and all the other campers, learning more about your heritage and why your parents chose to hide you away

[part 5] coming soon

Your parents realise you’re missing and aren’t very happy you’ve been taken from safety and taken to somewhere anyone could find you

[alloftheimaginesblog]

beautiful {flynn rider}

prompt: “Have I ever told you that you’re beautiful? Cause you are. I think it all the time.”

character: flynn rider x reader

Honestly you were still a little confused as to how this adventure came to be however you weren't mad about it. You had met Flynn Rider in the forest because of course you would meet a handsome stranger who decided to help you get to where you wanted to go with the price of a place to stay for a while.

"Okay, you can come down now!" Flynn yelled as he cupped his hands around his mouth, "Just watch, it's a bit-"

Too late.

You'd already slipped at the top of the muddy hill and were currently screaming as you tumbled down.

"-slippy," he muttered as he prepared himself to catch you.

He hadn't been prepared for how fast you were rolling down the hill and instead of catching you gracefully and charmingly as he'd hoped, it ended up with the two of you tumbling down together and with you smacking your head pretty hard off of a mossy tree stump. The string of curses that left your mouth surprised even Flynn who cursed like a sailor.

"Are you alright?" He asked, panicked, as he scrambled upwards to crouch over you.

Groggily, you opened your eyes, vision spinning and warping slightly, as his face came into focus and all of a sudden you felt like you had drank too much wine, "Hi," you giggled.

"Oh, good, thank god you're okay," Flynn breathed a sigh of relief but when your giggles continued, his relief turned to concern, "Uh, (y/n)?"

You couldn't stop giggling and your cheeks felt hot, "My god, you're beautiful, aren't you?" It was true, to be fair. Flynn Rider was a beautiful man and he knew it. He knew that one smile and a person was putty in his hands.

"Uh, what? I mean, I know but what?"

"Have I ever told you that you're beautiful?" You asked, frowning, "Cause you are. I think it all the time actually."

Oh, he was going to enjoy this.

"Oh really? So all those times you scoffed and told me you didn't find me attractive-"

"Lies, every single time."

Flynn's laughter was loud and triumphant. He knew you'd been lying! he stretched out a hand, "Can you sit?"

He helped you to sit up and everything started to spin again, "Ah, you're concussed!" He concluded as you grumbled in pain, "Or maybe you just got some sense knocked into you... either way, I think we should find a doctor to take a look at you. Let's get you up and I'll help you to walk."

As he helped you up and helped support you as you staggered along beside him, your hand found his bicep, "Strong too. God... you're gorgeous."

Flynn laughed, "I can't wait to tell you what you've been saying when you're back to normal. Can't wait to see how red your cheeks go!"

[ghouljams]

Could we see Liebling get some hooks of her own into our nasty boy König? Or is she deliberately trying to avoid doing that since it’s technically a two way bond?

Not the nasty boy lol we're all so mean to him... Liebling is trying to avoid him getting hooks in her, buuuuuut that doesn't mean König isn't trying to get her hooks in him. He is going to get tied to her one way or another, the how doesn't matter.

You make two cups of tea out of habit more than anything else. You have a guest, you're a good host. Never mind that this is just the backroom of the shop and König is more of a persistent loiterer than anything else. You think you've reached an unsteady agreement with him about that actually. You had him sign a hastily drawn up volunteer form(mostly because he won't let you pay him, the bastard) and now you feel like you can breathe easier about him helping with things. He was... a little too enthusiastic about the volunteer thing, but you don't really have the brain power to think about that.

You hum and swipe around on your phone while you wait for the tea to steep. You've been narrowing down monsters in your spare time, trying to learn what you can past what your grandmother taught you. Nothing you look at even sounds close to König. You glance at your timer and close your phone, grabbing one of the little sugar packets off the shelf to rip open over König's mug. He has a sweet tooth you've noticed, an unhelpful monster hunting detail.

When you walk back out to the shop with your hands full he's busy fixing the wobbly leg on your potting display. He hums in acknowledgement when you go to stand behind him, not moving from where he's seated on the floor fiddling with the wood. You really don't know what he's doing to it, but the grain keeps shifting and writhing as he coaxes it to do... whatever he's coaxing it to do.

"I made a cup for you," You tell him, leaning down to hold out your offering, "You take it with sugar, right?"

König pauses his work, turning to look at you, at the offered mug. He doesn't budge.

"I'm trying to be nice, it's not gonna bite ya'." You roll your eyes. No, he thinks, you aren't going to bite him.

"Danke," He says finally, taking the floral patterned mug from your hand gingerly, "This is very kind of you, Liebling." He smiles, breathing in the scent of cinnamon, feeling the tether you offered him latch into place. He can't help the purr that rumbles in his chest, watching you crouch down to inspect his work. You're so close. He leans closer, breathing in your scent, feeling all the other little threads you've hooked to him shiver excitedly.

"How do you know I take my tea with sugar?" He asks, holding the little mug between two big hands. You glance at him, at his attentive stare, knowing anything about him is embarrassing enough you can't look at him when you admit it.

"I notice things," He shivers like a cartoon cat, a buzz going through the edges of his form as he sits straight up. You are trying to ignore the way his eyes crease happily.

What a pleasant surprise, he hadn't noticed. They're so thin, just gossamer little things, but they're there. Little tethers between the two of you, one for each thing you noticed and accounted for, each kindness you quietly performed.

He strums one of them and your shoulders twitch. You must not have noticed either. Oh, this is going to be fun.

[red-hairshankswhore]

HELLOO!!???! WTF?! WHY DID THIS JUST COME TO ME NOW?

[alitheakorogane]

Venti: [seeing his SAGAU!Imposter/Cult AU self and his actions] No... no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, this is bad, this is very very bad, this is really bad... They just can't get my personality right!

Scaramouche: Who cares?

Venti: Well, it's easy for you to say...