#these hands are meant to hold weapons and braid hair

[ryuluvr]

echoes of rain and love.

(wlw fem!reader x jinx, sfw)

tags: pure fluff, established friendship and mutual crush, jinx follows you around without your knowledge, silco is alive, quick mentions of weapons + bombs, shimmer!jinx, arcane!jinx (18+ age)

notes: honestly this is just self-indulgent bc i love jinx so much. it's short n sweet, sorry!

wc: 1.2k

the moon replaced the sun in the sky as the streets became more busy, people flooding in and out of the multiple bars, clubs and brothels around. you thought to call it a day, keeping only one dim lamp on in your bedroom before throwing yourself down on your double bed. it always felt more lonely at night.

with your head gently placed on your pillow, a deep sigh escaped your lips, fluttering your eyes shut after a few moments. you had no real intention of sleeping yet since you were dying to continue a book you started the previous morning, but exhaustion got the better of you, allowing you to slowly doze off on top of the covers.

close to half an hour passed before a loud crash followed by the sound of items falling to the floor woke you up from your sleep. you sat up as fast as you could, heart pounding hard in your chest as you scanned the room. your gaze moved from your books scattered across the floor to jinx standing by the window, but it took you a few seconds to realise she wasn't on the outside of it.

"look, don't be mad.." jinx began, her voice almost as low as a whisper, holding up her hands in defence while a grin tugged at the corners of her lips. "i just wanted some company. sevika's out working, and i was lonely."

you exhaled as you shook your head in disbelief, begging your heart rate to decrease as soon as possible.

"i'm flattered i'm your second option." you couldn't help but smile. this wasn't the first time your friend broke into your apartment just to see you, you just wished she would let you know beforehand and enter like anyone else would, through the front door.

you ran your slender fingers through your hair, watching closely as jinx tiptoed around the belongings she knocked over on her way in, approaching your bed with a slight pout.

"aw, come on. you know you're my first, really." her tone was playful but it was clear she meant every word. you're constantly shocked at how she can have so much energy quite literally twenty four hours of the day. jinx plopped herself on your bed, causing you both to bounce a little, eliciting a tired groan from you.

"sooo, whatcha been up to?" jinx sat crossed legged opposite you, her attention entirely on you and your answer. you had to take a few moments to think, not that you did much in the day.

"work." you rolled your eyes while tucking some strands of hair behind both ears, soon noticing the way your lamp flickered to your side. "it feels like that's all i do lately. i'm exhausted."

jinx tilted her head to one side in curiosity and you saw her pick at her own nail polish, leaving every single nail chipped. she can never stay still, no matter what.

"so why don't you quit?" jinx's question caused you to lightly laugh, assuming it was unworthy of an answer. silco has covered everything for jinx since the day he took her into his care. money hasn't been a problem for her for a while now and she currently has a guaranteed place to live. she's not entitled or even ungrateful by any means, she just has no reason to handle currency anymore.

after pushing yourself back up against the headboard of the bed, you trailed your eyes back up to jinx's face, noticing and loving the way her pink eyes shimmered in the dark room. her braids laid neatly across her lap; you couldn't help but wonder what she would look like with her hair completely down. you imagined yourself running a brush or even your own fingers through her hair, listening to jinx hum her favourite song.

"you still making those little chompers?" you asked curiously, jinx's face instantly lighting up.

"you bet! the one i'm currently working on is gonna be even bigger and better than the last! i'm thinking of testing it on some pesky enforcers once it's done." her excitement plastered a smile onto your face, giggling at her enthusiasm. sometimes you wished she would invite you to her weapon testings, but you knew she didn't purely for your own safety. hurting you in any way would absolutely destroy her.

"then, you'll have to let me know how it goes. just maybe not at one in the morning, okay?" truth is, deep down you wouldn't get angry at her even if she came to you at five.

your friend leaned forward to mess up your hair, chuckling to herself soon after. "i wouldn't count on it." her gaze quickly landed on your window due to the raindrops gliding down the glass, the sound of thunder indicating a storm was quickly approaching.

the weather was enough to make you rush out of bed and head for your wardrobe, taking ahold of some comfy pyjama shorts alongside a black oversized t-shirt, throwing them onto jinx's lap.

"you're not going out in that. i know what you're thinking." you frowned as you spoke to her, your voice full of concern and care. the other girl parted her lips to protest but you cut her off instantly. "you can stay here tonight, if you'd like."

jinx glanced down at your clothes, suddenly in her own world while she ran her fingers across the soft materials. eventually she nodded, unexpectedly giving in with a grin.

"more time with you? don't have to tell me twice." her sweet giggles filled the room, feeling your own heart swell with adoration. you turned your back to her, letting her change into your clothes in peace.

the rain continued to hammer down outside, wind howling too. once jinx stated she was done, you turned on your heel to face her, deciding to fold her clothes up for her before gesturing towards your empty bed. you thought it would take a miracle for her to settle down considering her hyper nature, but to your surprise she slid under the covers and let out a soft sigh. you've never seen her so peaceful or still before, and you weren't sure you'd ever see her this way again.

you followed suit, scooting in bed beside her and pulling the duvet further up to reach your shoulders in an attempt to warm yourself up.

without any warning jinx rolled from her back onto her side to face you, your eyes widening with surprise when you noticed her face was merely centimetres away from yours. blood rose slightly in your cheeks, unable to find any words to speak.

jinx's pink eyes remained glued to yours, and her sweet smile never faded. something about this moment was just so beautiful and you felt like there was nothing you wouldn't do to freeze time. the room was quiet, except for the distant thunder rolling in waves. you took your hand and pushed some strands of hair out of jinx’s face, your touch slow and soothing, as if trying to match the rhythm of your deepening breaths.

the soft crackle of lightning illuminated the room for a brief second, casting fleeting shadows over both of your faces. you leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to jinx’s nose, then another to her forehead, your lips lingering just for a moment. a bigger smile curled on the other girls lips, her eyes growing heavy with sleep. you both nestled closer, your legs tangling beneath the covers, comforted by each other's presence. eventually, your eyes drifted shut, and you surrendered to sleep, wondering if jinx will still be beside you in the morning.

[eternalwanderer-stories]

creators: here is a charismatic character who, due to certain circumstances, becomes an anti-hero and a very influential person in the criminal world, whose actions are explained in the context of the general setting, who calmly gets his hands in blood, but at the same time you can understand why he became like that and in general is not without tragedy

me: sounds great, but it’s still not a fact that I’ll love him, any more arguments?

creators: he is a loving father

me: fuck, I'll take it

[yourlocaltreesimp]

if I was the guide I would try to help link more then just help him with puzzles and where to go next. I would try helping with enemies and bosses by distracting them, help with stealth missions by making noise to distract guards, scavenge for things like rupees, bombs, arrows, food ect, for them, watch over link while he slept,help teach them how to play instruments cuz i doubt they would automatically know how to play, help keep them warm at night, let link vent and not bottle up his emotions,ya know cuz the poor boy deserves some help. Maybe guide reader help teach the links how to fight, cuz time, wind, and maybe legend, hyrule and how to sword fight cuz there's no way time and wind would know how to sword fight when their journeys first began, they were just kids, legend and four might have cuz legends uncle knew how to use a sword and fours grandfather is a blacksmith and in the four swords manga his father is captain of the hyrule knights, hyrule I don't honestly know if the fairies taught him how to fight with weapons, twilight was taught by rusl, sky, warriors and calamity were training/were already knights, wild would definitely have to be re taught how to fight again, and sage already remembered/ relearned how. I don't know how old first, korodai and courage were when they first learned,How would the chain react to that if they remembered? Sorry it's so long.😅

Sorry this one’s been sitting so long! This is going to be a bit of a ramble, but it’ll make sense! Took some liberties!!

𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊

Player/Guide!reader is the epitome of comfort to the boys. Much of their lives they have been taught through experience to trust no one —not even their own goddess— lest they get a dagger in the back. And at first they are cautious. A person with no ties to hyrule who is so eerily familiar with the heroes and utterly bewitching? They’re half convinced you are a trick, meant to play on their insecurities and trauma.

Time gathers his recollections first. He remembers your calm voice correcting his form and swings, your encouragement to keep improving— not with the intent of killing, but with only his safety at heart. He’d buried his blade within the thick trunk of a tree and heard your old whispers through his ears, and it all made sense. That even as his bones were cracked and reformed and the threads of time unraveled, you were consistent. Even when he wasn’t the same him that you loved before, you were back again. Protecting him, even if he didn’t need it. You were arms for him to return to and someone to hold and love.

Legend remembered almost on accident. He’d bolted up from the solid earth, rings snagging at his hair as his fingers tugged at the root. His chest rose and fell rapidly, like that of a frightened animal. You’d cautiously found your way in front of him, talking him down from the world within. Your hands massaged his palms easing the tension and removing his hair from his grip. You’d done this many times before, he realised. You were all he had for the months after leaving Koholint, your unconditional love despite his less than stellar attitude was something he felt guilty to forget. But perhaps now he’d be content to make up for it by letting you keep him there, curled up against your chest… even if he’d get some teasing.

Twilight didn’t actually remember on his own. In fact, he’s so stubborn and protective over the ‘pack’ that he likely wouldn’t have if it weren’t for Epona. For a large part, he trusted her judgment. Most animals did have a keener sense for natural disasters, but she always seemed to have a good sense of character. Sure, it was odd enough she ate right out of your hand with a happy nicker, but she just really liked apples. She’s a horse, she’s easily bribed. But even then, he’s not sure how much bribing it would take for her to lay down and let you braid flowers through her freshly brushed mane. It was trust. From all the other times you did it absentmindedly —occasionally even to him— it seems her trust in character was still sharp.

Warriors was actually slightly embarrassed by how he came to remember. Dripping wet from the rain and favourite cloak littered with mud and holes, he was rather cranky. He got showered and changed —thank the three they were at an inn— and decided to leave the stained and worn clothes as a tomorrow problem. That was until his prized blanket scarf found its way into to your mits. He tried to snatch it back, earning some odd looks and the shutter of the sheikah slate. You were frustratingly difficult to catch. It seemed that hadn’t changed. When he was ultimately successful, however, he realised that you’d actually been making an incredibly successful job at washing and repairing it as you’d done thousands of times before. He remembers you my firelight, cobalt swathed over your lap as your needle glided through the fabric. He remembered trying to imitate your stitches. He remembered how he never quite got it right.

He let you finish working.

Four was having a crisis. Do not let his indifference fool you, this man is a wreck. Best believe that beyond his surprisingly stubborn stoicism, the colors are shaking each other by the shoulders and screaming. Red recognised you immediately. His heart was quite literally moulded after your soft words and carefully love, he couldn’t forget you so long as he had a soul. Green being the mediator between them all and heard his quiet utters. The most honest a man could be that his adoration was infectious. It was you who taught him who he was. Blue took a while. So strong-willed in his stance, the he forgot you were the one to teach him to take a stand. He forgot it was you who willed him to fight for what he loved. Vio fell last, what would you expect of the mind. He hardly noticed it. The way his thoughts timed to you, the way he sought your presence and craved your voice. It was you who taught them how to be separate and yet loved them wholly. And such loyalty could only be payed back.

Wind remembered you in fragments. He remembers his parent by oath, who shielded him from the vast world he was so desperate to see. He didn’t understand it at first. But loosing you, especially when his memory wasn’t fully gone like the others, was rough. He mourned and grieved, even if he didn’t realise it. He missed being cared for. Without the looming question of what favor needed done or when it would go away. He missed you. It took a while to heal. For him to feel ok trusting in people again, even eventually curling up next to Wars when he’d try to sleep. He felt guilty, as if he were betraying you when you dug up dead feelings. But it’s hard to be a rebellious rascal when your partner in crime is finally returned to you especially after you were concerned you killed them. It takes him a while to process your back, but he’s back at your side, tugging you along by the hand as he explains his next devious prank.

Hyrule remembers you through his magic. The way your heart stutters as he heals you is familiar, a beat he’s fallen asleep to many times before and the life within it is one he can’t help but feel… connected to. He keeps a close eye out, his ears wiggling at the familiar music of your laugh and his skin unfamiliar without your own to cradle it. You share a spirit with them, a bit of your soul and theirs and a small both of theirs in you. And yet his mind can’t call out to why. It keeps him awake, taunting at him. But he knows his soul yearns for the part with yours. He knows the rush of your blood and song of your soul. He knows he loves you. Even if he doesn’t get why.

Wild takes so long to remember you for exactly the reasons you’d expect. His mind hides away the most crucial parts of itself in plain sight, never to be noticed or recognized until the memories are far too warped and rotten to actually remember anything. Anything of note, that is. But for what it’s worth, he never really perceived you as a threat. You were homey and comfortable, a trait so unfamiliar to his life of travel, he didn’t care if it left a sword in his stomach. Besides, not any yiga could take on an act that long. He took off the cooked eggs and set them onto a separate plate as you sat quietly, Wind strewn over your torso. You hummed softly the same work song he’d sung for years. One for which he didn’t know the origin, not until hearing you for what felt like the first time again. He couldn’t help but hum along.

Sky was cursed to forget you.

I must preface because he is a lover boy first and hero second. He wouldn’t care who Demise was, nor his business, so long as you were safe and loved. He loved you more than each and every star in the sky. And he’d already began to start planning your home. He knew he loved you. He knew he was made to love you. And that was exactly why he was made to forget you. That loyalty was scary to the gods. That one would devote themselves to another for little more than love in return— Hylia could not risk her heroes to stray. But try as she might she couldn’t surpress you. Not when you were already married, souls intertwined through every timeline. Your role varied, a healer, a helping hand, a comfort, a home, a parent, a lover, a souse. But you were always someone to Link. No matter what the gods declared. He remembered you only after all the others had, but he’s alright with that.

[chaosandmarigolds]

Dearest...

(Fem!reader, weapon’s dealer daughter, and yeah this is also just sadness. Sorry y’all)

He didn’t account for the emotional factors of living a lie, sure he had thought of them, but very briefly at that- barely a second thought, more of a passing notion rather than a pure line. At least it had be a passing mist, then as the days grew into nights and the nights began to liner into mornings, he found himself to be thinking of it every waking moment. Every time he looked over to you his mind flashed with how heartbroken you would be, he dreaded the very moment he was now living in.

“It’s two in the morning,” You mumble, hand finding the switch on the wall to turn the light on, hair messily in its braid and eyes riddled with sleep. After all, you had just thought your boyfriend of close to six months just woke up (not uncommon) so you chose to join him. Yet when you turn on the light you find him, in what seemed to be full gear, minus a mask that he held in his hand and in the other he held a few folders. So, unsure of what to do you laugh eyes going between the folders and his eyes, “Goodness, it’s June, I don’t think it’s the right time for…um...for costumes.”

The silence was suffocating.

The folders held all of your father’s contacts, and you knew this, after all, he had trusted Simon to keep them safe while he was aware of work. It made sense, your father was a weapons dealer with a longer rap sheet than any convict, and Simon had worked his way into your father and his business. he was strong, he was kind and he treated you with love and respect, he was a trustworthy man…or…you had thought. In that moment you slowly put the pieces together.

“Can…” Your words die on your tongue and you take a shaky step forward, reaching for it, “Can I have that, please? Please?”

As you move forward he moves back, moving the folder behind his back, his expression unreadable. He hadn’t thought of his own emotions getting caught into this, he accounted for the millionth of a chance he wouldn’t want to leave, that he would want to leave you unscathed, loved, and coated in the warmth of his love. He hadn’t thought tears would worm their way into his eyes as he spoke, “Let me go.”

To his words, you take a shuttered breath and look up to meet his gaze, voice shaky, “Then give it back, th-those are important.”

“I can’t do that.”

”I’ll call Ivon.”

A short pause, squeezing his mask a bit tighter as if it would hide the blood with the black, “He can’t help.”

A short sob rips through your throat and you shake your head, “What is this?”

He couldn’t come with an answer.

“You came for the files,” You were whispering, as if to just allow yourself time to wake up, to fully process the events before you, “Were you just going to leave? In the middle of the night and I don’t even get a GOODBYE? You were going to leave the past six months for nothing? Was-was I-Was I just… No-” You sniffle up the emotions and hold your hand out, as if waiting for him to take it but your eyes go to the folder, “Give it to me, I’ll forget about it-we-we can go back to normal.”

“Please, let’s go back to normal, Simon.” You said again, “Tell me you love me again, I don’t care if it is real or not I just want you to love me, because I love you. Tell me…” As your voice falters he looks away, taking slow steps to the door, and with a crushing wave, your tears begin to fall down your face.

“It was never real. Never meant a word did you?”

He did mean it.

“None of it, huh? You must’ve been so annoyed when I would tell you I loved you.”

He treasured those words more than his own life.

“You didn’t mean it and I fell for it. Oh god…I fell for it….I loved you.” Your words then become a hiss, “I LOVED YOU.”

A million things he wanted to say, a million times he had almost backed out of the mission and prayed he could vanish off the face of the earth. A million times he wished he could hold you once more. A million words but only two could be choked out, “I’m sorry.”

You take a heaving breath, shuttering for air and you tilt your head, “For what?”

“Breaking you.”

You stare at him for a long moment, tears riddling your eyes and you breathe slowly, “You don’t get that honor.”

Apparently, it was a good thing you never told him about the secret alarm you had embedded in your bracelet.

(That's all!! Thanks for any and all comments and feedback you may wanna leave! <33)

[the-really-lonely-mountain]

Along for the ride, to Erebor - Part 5

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Summary: Transported to Middle Earth, you must Join Thorin Oakenshield's Company as they travel to reclaim Erebor! OR: My take on the classic 'modern girl in Middle Earth' troupe. This is the second installment, so we are following the second movie of The Hobbit trilogy, and falling deeper in love with Kili on the way! This is the second part for the second movie.

Tags: Kili / Reader, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn, Modern Character in Middle Earth, During The Hobbit, How Do I Tag, Canon-Typical Violence, Kíli Is a Little Shit (Tolkien), implied soulmates, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Freeform, light smut, it's really just a brief description nothing too graphic but i certianly wouldn't want to be caught reading it, Holding Hands, Cuddling & Snuggling, Sleepy Cuddles, Protective Thorin Oakenshield Company Members, Dwalin & Thorin Oakenshield Friendship, Fluff and Humor, Domestic Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Where In Middle-Earth Is Gandalf?, Hair Braiding, Dwarf Courting, My First Tumblr Fic, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Fíli & Kíli & Thorin Live, Thorin Oakenshield Lives, Fíli Lives (Tolkien), Kíli Lives (Tolkien), sword fight training, kili is a big ole softy and i love him so much for it, tags tbd tbh lol

Word Count: 4,758

A/N: OMG!! I graduated! I got a job! I finally edited this part! I'm so tired y'all, I'm writing this author note at like midnight lol. ~AnywhoOOo~ I hope you enjoy! let me know if you'd like to join the tag list to be directly notified of chapter updates! <3

Divider credit: @cafekitsune

You woke to the usual clanging of pots and pans as breakfast was being cooked. Kili’s hand was still on your waist and his arm was still your pillow, though you were sure it’d gone numb in the night. You gently placed your hand on his cheek and gently ran your thumb over his delicate cheek bone. He looked so handsome sleeping softly beside you, it made you smile like a giddy little girl. You regretted having to softly remove yourself from him, but you had to start packing your things and getting ready for the day, which was so much easier now that you didn’t have to worry about your hair. When you were finished and your bag was neatly packed, you tenderly woke Kili up.

He stretched then his eyes popped open, “Good morning!”, he sat up energized and ready to conquer the day.

“Good morning!” You replied with a kind smile, ever impressed by his liveliness in the mornings, “Start packing, Bombur’s almost finished breakfast.”

He shuffled about beside you while you worked on the final half of your bracelet, waiting for breakfast.

The porridge was the usual white sludge meant for nutrients, not flavor. You rinsed the dishes in the river with Kili’s animated storytelling as you usually did after meals. Thorin had the company moving out when you returned.

The day’s walk was very scenic, mostly idyllic forests with little rivers, where the lighting truly brought it all together. You walked between Kili and Fili so they could give you the basic run-down of sword handling and bowmanship.

By the end of midday, the company was on the border of the forest and a field. Thorin decided to make camp there and told Gloin to make the fire while Nori, Bifur, and Oin set traps in the forest to restock the reserves or something, you weren’t listening, too focused on Kili’s hand in yours as he led you somewhere.

The extra sparkle in his gorgeous brown eyes told you he was very excited to teach you about archery. As the resident Archer, no one (his brother) could compete for your attention by correcting him. He was also excited to watch you use his bow and his arrows; an honor bestowed upon an extremely select group.

Kili was very protective of his bows, not just because of the time it takes to make such an incredibly valuable weapon, but because one time in his youth he worked for weeks carving a brand-new bow from solid wood, making the string by hand, and engraving runic talismans into the handle. He worked very hard on that bow; Only to have one of his snot-nosed neighbors snatch it from him while they were playing and accidentally snap it in half after a misstep. Kili was furious, absolutely inconsolable. Fili had to drag him from the scene of the crime to the forest behind their family house, so he didn’t hunt the kid down and destroy him. He didn’t say anything to Fili, just cursed and milled about the clearing in frustration. At first, his brother didn’t know what he was doing, concerned he was setting a malicious trap for the offending child (such a spiteful trap was almost sprung after another incident of the same nature); but as Fili silently watched, out of arm’s punching reach of course, he realized his brother was just looking for a piece of wood to make a new bow. Fili built a fire to keep the chill of the setting sun at bay, not wanting to abandon his brother to the coming night. He watched the younger mumble curses in dwarfish as he whittled the wood seemingly in his own little world. Kili hadn’t really taken notice of the fire his brother built despite using its light and occasionally throwing more wood on absentmindedly while he stayed up all night to make the string and engrave the handle. Their mother, Dis, saw them through the window in the back door in the middle of the night. Fili was sitting on the ground, relaxed, leaning against a tree while he watched his brother on the other side of the blazing fire, Kili was sitting on a rock hunched over his bow as it came together. Dis knew from that moment Fili would always look after his little brother, or at the very least try his best. The craftsmanship of the bow he made that night was nowhere near his previous bow, but it could still shoot the straightest arrow in the village. It would do till he grew again and needed a bigger one.

Kili brought you a few yards away from the camp, out of ear shot but not out of sight. After the crash course in archery during the day’s walk, you were as prepared as you could be. Kili carved a target into the trunk of a tree with his dagger, not worried about losing misfired arrows in the underbrush because the fletching on the end of all his arrows were bright yellow.

He situated you both at a reasonable distance from the target and demonstrated again how to place your fingers on the string and what position to be in when you pull the string back. When he handed you the bow you were not expecting it to be as heavy as it was. Without an arrow, you tried to pull the string back like he showed but you couldn’t move it. You looked at Kili.

“Just pull it back Y/N.” He encouraged, with a proud little smile on his face.

“I am, Kee,” you said still straining to pull it. It wouldn’t budge. He thought for a moment, trying to figure out what could be wrong—Ah! He got it!

“Here, let me help.” He came up and stood behind you. “The draw weight for my bow must be too high for you,” he said into your ear in a low hushed tone while he got into position. He shuffled his legs behind yours and placed his hand below yours on the handle and his fingers above and below your slimmer, softer ones on the string. They were much stronger and much thicker than yours. Two of your fingers were the same width as one of his, a thought that quickly had you blushing. The irresistible mental image of moaning out for him while being deliciously stretched around his capable digits as he cooed praises, was nearly too much. You thanked God he was behind you and therefore couldn’t see your bright red face.

He let you do most of the work pulling the bowstring to allow you to get a feel for the mechanics and amount of potential energy the movement created.

“And…” he made sure you were ready, “Release.”

You both let go of the string at the same time.

“Perfect! Now let’s try it with an arrow” He got one from the quiver on his back and handed it to you.

You nocked the arrow like he taught you then got into position. He helped you pull the string back like before, allowing you to control the aim.

“Ready…” You said to him this time, “Release!”

The arrow flew across the field and landed smack in the middle of the bullseye!

“No way,” Kili said in complete disbelief. You both went over to inspect the target. Sure enough, the arrow was deep in the carved circle of the tree.

“That’s amazing Y/N!” He turned to you with the biggest smile you’d ever seen. You were as happy as him, jumping up and down excitedly.

“I want to try again!” You walked over to your previous spot and lined yourself up, waiting for him to join you. He chuckled at your enthusiasm and grabbed another arrow on the way over. You repeated the process like a practiced dance, enjoying more than anything that he was your partner. He allowed you to aim again, but this time the arrow didn’t hit its mark or the tree at all; It planted itself firmly into the leaf-covered underbrush.

“Awe,” you pouted, “I rushed, next time I’ll take my time.” You grabbed another arrow from his quiver, accidentally getting your face in his. For a moment, you could feel the heat of his lips and his breath tumbling over onto your own in a near ragged pant.

When you backed away you both politely laughed it off, though you could have sworn he leaned closer to you in that brief moment.

You shot all the arrows he had in his quiver. A handful hit the target, and a few even got close to the bullseye, but none hit the center like the first. Being a good coach, he encouraged and teased when the time was right.  

Once again in your own little world, it was like nothing mattered except him. His radiant smile, his contagious laughter, his excitability; it was all consuming. As the day wore on, your arms got tired, and you were ready for a break. You helped him collect the arrows in and around the tree, so he could show off for a bit like boys do for pretty girls. He did trick shots and action shots and even pinned the pinecone you threw for him to the tree. His skills were very impressive. Your return to the camp was met with impressed exclamations.

“Was that a bullseye on the first shot?!” Bofur asked, having seen the miracle even from the other side of the camp.

“Aye!” You said excitedly, proud of your accomplishment. You didn’t even realize that you were beginning to use their dialect.

“Good job lass!” Oin said, along with the others happily celebrating with you.

After all that working out, you were hungry for a snack. You rummaged through your bag in search of the grapes you had foraged with Bilbo the day before. They weren’t in your bag where you left them, carefully wrapped in your old T-shirt.

‘They couldn’t have fallen out’ you thought as you scanned the camp for the thief, already having an idea of the culprit. You stopped when your eyes fell on Kili across the camp, leaning against a tree with a shit-eating grin as he popped a grape into his mouth.

You were livid. It was a total invasion of your only private property: your bag, and you felt extremely violated.

You couldn’t say anything to the offending dwarf or even look at him in fear of your rage exploding onto him. The camp fell silent as you walked to Kili, your anger evident from your expression.

That feeling in Kili’s chest sunk to his boots when he saw how angry you were; he knew he’d gone too far. You snatched the grapes from his hand and walked (stomped) into the field beyond the camp.

“Y/N wait—” he tried to follow you into the field.

“NOT NOW KILI” you snapped at him over your shoulder in a tone he didn’t quite think you were capable of. He stopped in his tracks at your tone, the same one his mother used when she was very cross with him. The other members of the company who heard the commotion snickered at Kili’s self-inflicted misfortune.

You sat in the field, soaking up the sunshine and eating your grapes while you calmed down. Kili moped around camp like an abandoned puppy; it was quite a pitiful sight.

When you finished your snack, you took a few deep breaths to get the anger from your system and allow your thoughts to come together to properly explain to Kili why you were so mad. The youngest Durin hesitantly joined you in the field when he saw you were done with your grapes, his footfalls crunching the grass beneath him alerting you to his presence. He sat next to you clearly a little nervous by how he picked at the grass.

“I’m sorry,” he said, looking at the ground. “It was just supposed to be a joke, honest,”

“Joke or not, Kili Durin, you shouldn’t have gone through my stuff!” You wanted to make sure he understood how unhappy his actions made you. He cringed at his full name. “You violated the only sliver of privacy I have out here!”

“Sorry, Y/N,” he said in a regretful voice you’d never heard from him before. “I shouldn’t have gone through your bag.”

You sighed and looked over at him. “I forgive you Kili,” You took another deep breath, satisfied he’d learned his lesson, “Just don’t do it again, ok?”

He smiled, happy to be back on good terms with you, “I won’t, I promise”. You smiled too, his infectious charm melting what little remained of your anger. You leaned in for a hug, knowing you both needed physical reassurance.

He sat with you in the field for a while, content to stay in comfortable silence. You’d been eyeing a beautiful patch of flowers a few feet away since you’d sat down. You shifted so you were laying on your stomach to get a closer look at their vibrant hues and decided you wanted to use them, but how? Kili moved next to you, mirroring our position, to see what you were looking at. Then inspiration struck.

“I’ll braid them into your hair!” You said excitedly. He gave you a look of surprised confusion.

“What?! No!” he was immediately against the idea and even backed away from you as if you’d jump on him any second like his brother might, “Why don’t I put them in your hair instead? They’d look much better on you.” He desperately tried to come up with a reason to avoid the inevitable onslaught of mocking he’d have to endure if he agreed to your plan.

You brought yourself to a kneel so you could look him dead in the eyes with a blank expression, “Pussy,” you simply said.

He scoffed and got all huffy and puffy, “I am not a pussy!” He said defensively, his cute accent got thicker when he was flustered, it made it so hard to take him seriously, “I just think the flowers would make you even more beautiful than you already are.”

You blushed deeply at his words and looked away from his charming little smile to keep your thoughts from your more baser mindset and to think over his offer. He started twirling the end of one of the braids he’d done the night before between his fingers. It was a sweet and absentminded motion, to which you relented with a sigh, “Alright, but you have to teach me how to use a sword after.”

“Deal!” He gave a hearty nod. You got your hair stuff from your bag and your bracelet to work on and hopefully finish while Kili did your hair. You picked the prettiest flowers and put them in the extra fabric of your shirt like a delicate basket. He dragged over a stone to sit on and got to work undoing the braids and brushing your hair out.

You didn’t realize how tight he’d made the braids till the tension was released from your scalp. You sighed in pleasured relief as he moved your hair around with the brush. That sound immediately pricked his ears.

“Does that feel good, princess?” He looked down at you and smiled as he massaged the sore parts of your head. You were too lost in the feeling his skilled hands were creating to hear his pet name.

Once he massaged the soreness away, he parted your hair and began braiding. Kili had a vision of what he wanted to do to your hair. He wanted a thick band like a crown around the top of your head and four small thin braids scattered across the rest of your loose unbraided hair.

You were on an entirely different plane of existence. You felt so calm and relaxed and taken care of with his undivided attention, it was like nothing you’d ever felt before. His tranquil voice when he asked for a flower every now and then was the only thing you could hear.

When Kili was putting on the finishing touches, Fili came and joined you in the field to see what you both were doing, sadly breaking you from your lovely state of mind.

“Kili wouldn’t let me put flowers in his hair.” You pouted after the older brother inquired about your change in hairstyle.

“Even after he rummaged through your bag!” Fili feigned offense on your behalf with a smirk as he laid on his side in front of you both propped up on his elbow.

“Shut up, Fili” Kili huffed, ashamed of his previous actions, as he carded his fingers through your loose hair to make sure it was laying properly.

“Awe, Kiwi’s embawwassed,” you said in a baby-talk voice, making you and Fili laugh a little.

Kili stopped combing his fingers through your hair and tangled them in the loose hair at the back of your head. He pulled your head down to make you look up at him looming over you. He was about to say something, but the inadvertent dominating gesture caused an involuntary moan to slip past your lips, stalling any thoughts he tried to voice.

You were both stuck in that trance for just a moment, yet it took an eternity to pass. He was unable to look away from your pleasure pinched eyebrows and slightly parted panting lips. You were captivated by his handsome blushing features and the fire in his eyes. You wanted so desperately to kiss him, to meet his lips in heated passion.

“Good gods you two,” Fili rolled his eyes. His sudden interruption snapped Kili back to reality so he could release your hair. “Get a room,” Fili finished his statement.

“Shut up, Fili,” you both said in unison with faces equally ablaze and eyes cast anywhere but at each other. The elder just looked at you two and laughed to himself, he knew at that moment you were both madly in love.

“Here’s your brush, Y/N.” Kili handed it to you, wanting to change the subject.

“Yes, thank you” You took it from him and hastily returned it to your bag then met Kili back in the field for sword training. His brother was still there passively observing (waiting till he had to step in to correct the younger as this was not Kili’s area of expertise).

Bilbo allowed you to borrow his sword so you could get an idea of what a properly fitted one felt like without your wrists being torn to shreds by the other much heavier swords of the company. Kili walked you through basic moves and positions to teach you how to make your weapon like an extension of your own body. When he tried to speed up the movements and have you come at him in mock battle, you faltered and messed up the arrangement of poses.

When this happened, Fili of course would step in with a simplified version to help you. Before long, you had an audience, and the watchful eyes and extensive fighting prowess of Thorin and Dwalin. Kili was no longer the teacher but the sentient-sparing mannequin. The sequence of positions and movements became longer the more you worked at it. It felt amazing to be capable of so much. You knew it was just choreography, but it made you better now than you were before.

You were beginning to sweat under your thick tunic. The physical exertion was getting to Kili as well. When you took a water break you removed your shirt, the coffee brown padded camisole you wore underneath being far more breathable, but much tighter than your usual outerwear. It left hardly anything to the imagination.

Your less-dressed return to the now-stamped-down grass of the makeshift training area was met with impressed exclamations, wolf whistles, and light applause. You blushed and pretended to be a fashion model at the end of a runway. They found it very amusing.

Kili came back after wondering what the commotion was about.

He saw you waiting for him, you hadn’t noticed him approaching yet, too busy putting on a silly little show. He loved seeing you like this, confident and carefree, not worrying about how you looked and focusing on something that was far more rewarding: having fun. He used the few seconds you were distracted to admire you. Your half up half down hair he’d just braided and styled, was blowing softly in the wind, and your short unruly baby hairs were matted to your sweaty forehead giving you a halo of sorts. Your camisole highlighted the alluring curve from your ribs to your hips like nothing Kili had seen before. The hem of the fabric was ridding up on your waist, revealing just a sliver of your lower tummy. Your pants kept where they were, hugging tight to your thighs and bottom.

‘Two can play that game’ Kili thought, not even trying to hide his mischievous smile. He took his shirt off and threw it in his bag.

You looked up and saw him coming to meet you. The long bangs that framed his face were clinging to it now from his perspiration. He was smirking, knowing he caught you slightly off guard. His prominent pectoral muscles bled into his strong thick arms. His waist tapered into his hips where his pants were beginning to ride low, revealing his defined adonis belt in its retreat. He exuded power as he walked towards you with his arms out a bit from his side, and his palms facing you, as if he were accepting your challenge.

“Ohho, it’s serious now, is it?” you said over a light chuckle, feigning being taken aback by his friendly challenge.

“Oh, it sure is.” He returned your light laugh and with a smug expression he tapped his sword against yours where it hung at your side. He knew he was flustering you. He could see it in the deepened flush that colored your cheeks and how your thumb picked at the leather-covered hilt of your sword.

You had to bite the inside of your lip rather hard to keep your eyes above his exposed shoulders. It had been so long since you’d felt so physically and mentally attracted to someone. The way he was looking at you made your panties dampen at the scandalous thoughts that his honeyed chocolate eyes made race through your head.

If Thorin hadn’t said, “Ready positions”, in that barking tone of his, you’d have jumped Kili’s bones and rode him off into the sunset.

You both got into the starting positions you preferred. Thorin shouted ‘Commence’ in Dwarfish. Kili came at you with harsh blows, which you perfectly countered like you’d been taught. You were able to quickly move yourself, so you were standing at his side. You took the opening and swung for his exposed ribs, but he easily blocked your attack. You pressed your blade against his to force him back and give up some ground. He stood steadfast in his heavy boots, however, and pushed back against you, getting his face close to yours to tease you.

“Good job, you remembered how to keep your grip on the sword.” He said with mock celebration. You gritted your teeth, determined to keep your footing. He glanced at your lips where your teeth were worrying your lower lip; A habit he noticed when you were focused or nervous.

“I’ve been taught well, Archer.” You shot back, as suave as you could manage under the conditions. He threw you back so he could reset his stance.

“We’ll see about that, Ibinê,” he said, flustering you again with that mischievous grin as his native language easily rolled off his tongue.

You charged at him, and your blades collided with a loud metallic clang. Your sudden advance surprised him, he backed up a few steps. Cheers came from your audience.

“Ibinê?” You strained while your blades met again in a brute force pressing match. “What does that mean?”

Kili shoved you back and swiftly turned around, a trick he hadn’t yet revealed in your spar. He abandoned his blade somewhere off to the side and turned around again but crouched in his movement so he could swipe your legs from beneath you. You fell to the ground with a muted thud, your weapon knocked from your grasp. Kili scrambled to straddle your hips, pinning down your legs with his and your wrists above your head. You tried to fight against him, but his strength and weight are much greater than yours.

He panted above you, smiling like a cat who got the canary, “If only it were you straddling me,” he whispered under his breath and winked at you discreetly. Your chest was heaving, making your breasts ebb and flow with the rhythm. The erotic tension was palpable between you.

“We have a victor!” someone said from the sidelines to break your daze. Kili blushed and stood and helped you from the ground. Your audience clapped a little then dispersed to the camp a few feet away. You leisurely walked away from the encampment along the edge of the forest to catch your breath. The extra sway in your hips enticed Kili to follow you. He walked beside you, you looked up at him delighted he got the hint and followed you. He leaned in close to say in a voice that was deeper than normal, “Ibinê means my gem.” His words took a moment to register, causing a delayed blush to color your chest and neck.

He bit his lip as a thought played behind his eyes. Growing bold from the adrenaline still in his veins, he wrapped his hand around yours, he picked up speed till he was running. He took you far from the others. The sun was setting, painting the sky in those vivid colors only seen at dusk and dawn.

Kili slowed to a stop and used his grip on your hand to bring you in front of him. He took a step into your personal space.

“Labathmizi means I adore you.” He gingerly placed his hand on your cheek like he was handling the thinnest, most precious glass in the world. You were blushing profusely, your gaze danced from his eyes to his lips. “Abnâmulzi means you are beautiful.” He pecked his lips against yours for a moment then backed you against a tree and pinned you against it with his strong hand on your hip. His voice was low and rough with arousal, “Azralizi du-nâmrul, Ibinê, means I want to fuck you, my gem.” He pressed his lips to yours in a kiss that surpassed any expectation you had. His lips were soft against yours; his hand tenderly held your cheek. You lifted your leg over his hip, his hand moved to from your hip to your thigh, and it felt like it was searing into the cloth covered skin. It slid up to your ass cheek and urged you to grind against him. You whimpered as his hardening member pressed against your soaking core. Kili met your movements, making himself hiss at the delicious friction you were both craving.

When you broke the kiss for air as lust flooded your mind and loins, “That’s really hot” was all you could manage.

You were becoming addicted to his kiss. The way his thumb would glide against your cheek and the soft, barely there little whimpers he was making as you deepened the kiss were driving you mad with need.

Your hand was on his bare shoulder and the other tangled in his hair scratching and pulling lightly on the soft brown tresses. His tongue won its fight against yours when he gyrated his hips perfectly to grind into you, causing a moan to bubble from you.

He broke away, panting. He looked at you, suddenly silent with his eyebrows pinched in a sudden focused confusion. This immediately concerned you.

You opened your mouth to ask if he was ok, but he put his finger to his lips to silence you. He closed his eyes to focus on something; dwarfs and their connection to the environment around them still confused you.

His eyes shot open in a panic, and he tore himself away from you so he could pick you up bridal style.

You clung to him as he broke out in a dash back to camp, “A pack of orc’s are coming.”  

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Taglist <3: @letmelickyoureyeballs, @nessarosefiction, @akari-rioan

[scaryspears]

Shang Tsung x Bimbo Reader

Writing for MK11 Shang Tsung was tricky, but Shang Tsung in MK1 is quite different so I guess this one was easier.

Shang Tsung wasn't a kindred spirit, but you could understand what his deal was from time to time. It was just everything else. When a former classmate of yours won as prom queen instead of you it was a day when conquest was ignited within you, so you could understand where Shang was coming from in that department. Most of the time he just bewildered you in ways you could fathom.

"I can't believe you were able to get Sindel's trust dressed like that." you said to Shang Tsung.

"What do you mean?" his brows furrowed. He was a small town boy, and a poor orphan. Surely he didn't look like it.

"It isn't..." you waved your hand around trying to think of a word, "Slutty enough."

He didn't know what that word meant, but he didn't approve. "Slutty?"

"You need a titty window somewhere." you pulled open the top of his robe. "Like here, you just need to style things up a bit more. I should take you shopping." You feigned a careful look at his hair. "You need to fix that too."

Your hands went up and Shang did attempt to restrain them but you were quicker and stronger. You untied it and proceeded to braid it. He sulked but dropped his hands.

"You know if you weren't so fussy you could've been a model." you said to him, almost finished.

"Fussy isn't the word I would give myself."

"You tried to take over the world or something, I'm pretty sure that counts as fussy." you patted his head where there were nicely done braids. "There, now your hair looks nicer."

He narrowed his eyes before carefully touching the newly braided strands. "Thank you." he said, almost reluctant. Almost.

"Your titan self can shapeshift, right? Can you shapeshift too? If so, when you shapeshift into a woman do you have female organs or anything?"

While Shang could smell your promiscuity, he couldn't help his disbelief. "That's the only thing on your mind?"

"Yeah, I'm very curious." you looked down towards his lower region but quickly made eye contact.

He saw what you did, "Why does Liu Kang value you?"

You happily rubbed your chest, "My allure is my weapon, besides the fact that I can hold my own well enough."

He tilted his head to the side, "How can you be so confident?"

"Well, you didn't stop me, now did you." there was a playfulness in your eyes. "Go ahead, test my strength."

He seemed annoyed, but he wasn't saying no, nor did he walk away. You sighed and rolled your eyes.

"Fine then. Experiment on me, or whatever."

You've been with nerds before, so Shang wasn't bizarre on the list of men you held an attraction for. Not to say nerds were bizarre, sometimes they just didn't get it.

Shang looked you up and down for himself. You walked towards you, with confidence but a curiosity. Being a small town street boy stunted him from giving eyes at any body, but he still felt attraction towards people. He did feel something towards you, he just didn't think much of it.

He looked into your eyes, "I want to hurt you." he admitted.

BDSM? No pressure, you could handle this.

"How bad?" you asked.

He kissed you, it was sweet at first but then it turned bruising. There was something immature about it that made you thankful you were still young. He started sucking on your neck, but you felt a bit of teeth in there.

"Let's go somewhere private." you urged.

He chuckled, a smirk to his lips. His gaze wasn't one of admiration, which was new, but you appreciated his playfulness and honesty.

"Lead the way, princess."

[daenysx]

hello! this is based on a request from @thehumanistsdiary. thank you for being so sweet, i hope you like this. requests are open!!

my masterlist

worried

aemond targaryen reacting his wife overwork herself with a sword.

you love being married to someone like aemond targaryen, he always supports you to do whatever you want. if it were someone else, they wouldn't possibly want their wives to train with sword, but aemond loves seeing you with a sword, your hair full of braids. you mostly use sword training as a way of relieving stress. life at court is not easy, almost every day you have someone who makes you angry, mostly because of stupid comments about your life or your husband.

today, you need to spend your time having tea with the ladies at court. it would not be your first choice, but as the wife of the prince you should attend to these gatherings. at first everything was normal with kind words and sweet smiles, but then the moment you leave the table you hear one of the ladies talk about your husband. it is more like a loud whisper actually, only meant for her best friend who sits next to her. she says how handsome, wise, and kind prince aemond is, if only he had both eyes she would definitely try to convince her father to make arrangement for her to marry him. you get frustrated, all you desire is to go back and shut her up, make some snarky comment and completely stop her from ever mentioning your husband's name. however, you cannot do this, it will only draw attention and you shouldn't be cross with important people which are related to these ladies. aemond tries to unite people with all those council meetings, you don't want to endanger your husband's plans.

you are close to door, you decide to leave. in your chambers you quickly change your clothes to your usual training outfit, your hair is already braided. you leave your chambers with quick steps for your sword training. it's only you this time, you are simply practicing and normally this wouldn't feel like a difficult thing to do, but you are really angry, you spend more effort and breath. your legs are shaking from moving, you still keep going. you spend minutes with sword, only trying to release all your anger. you don't even realize your husband who is approaching to you with worried eyes. aemond says your name but you don't hear him, you continue your movements. he comes to you and makes you throw your sword away with a skillful movement. you gasp, finally realizing what you're doing, aemond is there to hold you. his arms are around you, try to help your balance because you're literally shaking.

"is there any reason you overwork yourself like this, my love?" you look at him with wide eyes.

"of course there is, my prince. i was only trying to stop myself from doing something stupid."

"stupid? what happened, did someone say something?"

"well, just a lady actually. i do not wish to talk about it with you."

"if there is something you do not wish to tell me, i will not insist. however, i cannot let you hurt yourself just because you get angry with some woman."

"you literally do it all the time, my prince, get angry with someone and spend hours with a sword."

"not the same thing, you are still shaking, i will not see my wife hurt herself with a dangerous weapon. you can cut yourself being so careless."

you stop arguing with him, you know he's right. you step away from aemond, and hug him again, this time your arms around his neck, his hands on your waist, bring his lips to your hair. he helps you sit on the ground with him, doesn't care about anything, he only wants you to breath steadily and stop shaking. he pulls you to his lap, you try to calm down and look at him. that lady was right only with the first part of her sentence; aemond is extremely charming, wise and brave. you feel your jealousy in your veins, you don't want any other woman to feel like you about him. still, you cannot prevent this. you hold him, bury your nose to his neck.

"you know, there are ladies at court who thinks you're handsome and kind." your voice sounds like sad little girl who doesn't want to share him.

"well, i might appreciate compliments, but there is only one lady in this court for me. i just wish her to think of me as handsome and kind. a princess actually. a princess who tries to use her sword the moment she hears a comment about her husband. i might admit though, this is quite impressive."

you sit on his lap in a more comfortable position, kissing his lips with all those passion and tiredness. he kisses you back holding your face between his hands.

"you like me being jealous of you, husband?"

"i like you calling me husband quite more, to be honest."

"it was hard not to say anything in return, i'm sorry if i worried you."

"it's fine my love, i would be more upset if you accidentally hurt yourself."

you have your arms around his neck once more, your fingers in his hair. you feel extremely tired now but the shaking is gone. your husband helps you stand up, holds your hand and leads you to your shared chambers.

"now, it would please me to help you release this tension of yours with more effective ways, my sweet wife."

[bumblebugwrites]

chapter 4: i bet on losing dogs

Pairing: Victor!Treech x fem!Reader

Summary: The time has come for the 11th Annual Hunger Games, though it seems to you that no amount of time can truly prepare you for the weight of what comes next.

Warnings: Cursing, Suggestive Themes, Mention of Injuries, Character Death, Weapons, Violence.

Word Count: 6.2k

Taglist: @nekee-lilac02, @mr-panda357

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

You do not see Colt again before the Games begin, and though you manage a few moments alone with Bee, it is only because you begged Calpurnia for the right to braid her hair the night before.

The young girl is back in the clothes she was reaped in when you appear in the doorway of her room, gracing the wooden frame with a light knock that has her head twisting in your direction. She is afraid, that much is clear, fear leaking out of every open feature on her small face, and you take a moment to steady yourself in the way you often found yourself doing for Fawn when the weight of the world seemed too much. 

You do not say anything as you enter, only bringing your hands out from behind your back to reveal a brush and several small rubber bands meant to keep her hair in place, and she nods, giving you permission to advance further into the room. As you approach, Bee moves to stand, clearly eyeing the seat before the vanity in the corner of her room, but you only shake your head, climbing atop her mattress and positioning yourself behind her as she clings to the edge of the bed. Reaching a careful hand out, you smooth the mess of strands on her head before running the brush through the sea of chesnut locks. 

There is something soothing to the pattern of your motions, and you feel your own shoulders begin to lose some of their taut energy. Bee begins to relax as well, no longer visibly shaking as she leans her head back into your touch. 

Setting the brush down, you begin to section off the pieces, pulling them into a careful pattern on the back of her head, and suddenly, she feels so small. So much like Fawn, wolfing down the last of her toast before coming to sit before you, fidgeting with the sticky hands of a child. You want to cry, but you fight the urge, swallowing the pain in your chest in favor of focusing on the work at hand. Each fold in her hair feels like some sort of sacred spell, and you find yourself in a state near prayer, repeating the sentiments you had braided into Fawn only days ago. This child is loved. This child is loved by me. Why can’t that be enough?

As you reach the last careful pleat, twisting a final band into Bee’s hair, the fear returns, flooding your system once more. The trance of the moment is gone in an instant, and bile rises slow and angry in the back of your throat. You are opening your mouth to say something, to croak out some useless sentiment, when she whips around to face you, burying herself in your chest, small arms coming up to grip you tightly. And it is all you can do to hold her in return, pressing her closer, closer, and placing a soft kiss on the crown of her head. She doesn’t deserve this. No one deserves this. 

“Thank you,” Bee whispers, and it is muffled by the fabric of your shirt, but that does not stop you from catching the wetness in her voice. You do not reply, afraid your own voice might crack if the words on your lips bubble out. Instead, you nod, pulling her tighter against you until it is time to go. Until the Peacekeepers arrive at the door to her room, ushering the two of you apart, and even then, it is a moment before you relinquish the girl to their grasp, slipping a single already loose strand behind her ear and drying some of the tears beginning to roll down her cheeks. And you don’t know what else to say so you repeat her words from only moments before.

“Thank you.” For you allowing me to know you. Even in small part. Even in the worst days of your life. Thank you.

When the Peacekeepers come for Bee, several more follow to collect you, bringing you down to the lobby where you are met with the other mentors. Most look as though they have been up for hours, and several, including Treech, look like they haven’t slept at all. Your brow creases in concern as you cross to stand by his side. 

“You look exhausted,” you state, restraining yourself from reaching out to tidy his curls.

“Thanks. You look like shit, too,” he grumbles in reply before his head shoots up, a slow look of regret spreading over his features. “I mean, like you haven’t slept– Like there are bags under– But you look gr– fine.”

“Thanks,” you respond, though it sounds more like a question as you say it. “Did you get any food this morning? Coffee?” 

“Yeah, I had coffee. I had a cup of– like four cups of coffee,” Treech speaks, nodding at the end of each new phrase as though reassuring himself he’s finished speaking. His hands are shaking.

“Nothing to eat?” You ask, looking around to ensure no one is looking before taking one of his hands into yours and pressing it flat between your palms. You try not to think too hard about the movement. About the implications that follow. About the feeling of his fingers grazing your wrist ever so slightly.

“I– I–” He takes a deep breath, steadying himself, and you feel his hand move, snaking around to give yours a squeeze. “No.” You nod, understanding. You’d barely been able to manage the piece of toast you’d forced down your throat this morning. Still, you dip your hand into your pocket, producing a napkin from the hotel room with a small croissant wrapped neatly inside.

“I saved it in case I got hungry later, but honestly, I don’t think I could stomach it if I wanted to,” you say, extending it in his direction. And for a moment, Treech only looks at you, eyes wide and unsure, but you nod, and the spell on him seems to break as he reaches for the food and begins to eat, slowly at first, then nearly inhaling it.

Not even five minutes later, the group of Peacekeepers begins to usher you outside, this time filing the group of you into a single van, and you find yourself wedged in between Teff and Treech, the latter looking a bit better after having eaten something. To your other side, Teff appears nervous, pulling repeatedly at his collar and drumming his fingers in a smooth pattern against his knee. You fix your eyes ahead, meeting the gaze of Lux, and even her typically unshakeable composure seems to be caving slightly as she digs ardently at her nailbeds, nearly tearing at the skin. Casting your gaze down once more, you try to breathe, but each inhale feels ragged, as though there is no amount of oxygen you can take in that might be enough. The van jolts to a stop. 

When the double doors to the back swing open, you fight the urge to wince at the sunlight that pours in, nearly blinding you with its intensity. Instead, you attempt to get a good look at your surroundings, feeling your gut begin to sink at the sea of red just visible from your place so deep in the van. You recognize it easily, though, from last year’s Games. Academy Red. It is not difficult to recall the hours of footage taped within the Academy, putting all those selected for mentorship positions on display, and you wonder if this year will be the same. If they will make you a part of the show or keep the cameras confined to Flickerman out of fear of detracting too much from the action with your presence.

It is two Peacekeepers to a person as they guide you inside, and frankly, you’re surprised they don’t chain your wrists and ankles. You remember the man with the white hair and all his talk about appearances and making victory an honor. This must be your reward. But how free is a dog without a leash if there is still a gun pointed at its back, keeping it in place? 

You ignore the sick feeling in your stomach, thrusting your shoulders back and keeping your head held high; you have to be calm. For Bee. For Colt. You have to be calm for them. 

When you enter the room, which appears to be more of a lecture hall, it is set up in an odd fashion. The screens at the front mirror their positions from last year, with one for each tribute and a larger screen at the center, which would likely stream the Games, but with eight desks, the surrounding area looks sparse and pathetic. Especially given that the desks for 1 and 2 are pushed together to facilitate better communication between mentors with partners. You breathe another unsteady exhale as you are led forward, brought to stand beside a chair painted with a large 10 in between those for 7 and 11. This is really happening.

No one speaks, with the exception of the large audience of Academy students being led into the surrounding stands. From the back of the room, you recognize the particularly grating voice of Lucky Flickerman, and a single glance over your shoulders reveals that he is seated at a table, a half-drunk martini in his hand and his microphone just in front of him. The man with the white hair is there. Snow. He stands before the central screen, and after a few moments of waiting for the crowd to settle, he begins to speak.

“Dr. Gaul will be here momentarily to join us for the beginning of the Games, but for now, I would like to get a few things straight. As mentors, this is where you will remain until the end of the Games. Food and drinks will be provided three times a day and aside from use of the bathrooms, you will not leave this room until we have crowned a victor. This applies even if your tributes are dead. Now, the Games will begin following the countdown, as I am sure you are all aware, and they will also be televised in their entirety. That means if Lucky Flickerman is on screen, you are too, so look alive.” Snow continues to ramble, but you find your attention elsewhere, lingering on the two screens marked with Bee and Colt’s faces. Beside each is a number, and it doesn’t take you more than a second to register that they mark the donations received by your tributes. Your gut sinks at Bee’s measly sum of 82, and your eyes flit down to your screen, scanning your options. Not even enough for a bottle of water. 

There is a sudden noise at the back of the room as the double doors are flung open. Your head jerks in the direction of the disturbance only to be met with an odd-looking woman, each eye a different color and her hands tucked away in a set of latex gloves. It is unnerving the way she surveys you. All of you, victors, as though you are prey, and for the first time since the arena, the hair on the back of your neck raises with the distinct feeling that you are being hunted.

You swallow hard and look away, training your eyes ahead on the screen, trying not to flinch at the sounds of her footsteps echoing throughout the cavernous space. Two desks down from yours, Trawl shivers visibly. She reaches the center of the room.

“Welcome, victors; we are so pleased each of you was able to join us for this momentous occasion.” Dr. Gaul’s voice drips with something poisonous. Something like a threat, and you begin to feel as though you are missing some key piece of information. “Mr. Flickerman, whenever you are ready, I believe all of the tributes are in place.”

From the back of the room, Lucky Flickerman grumbles something about having to run on other people’s schedules before standing from his seat and making his way to the front. 

“Alright, people, try not to look so vaguely threatening and downtrodden; you’re going to be on television, for God’s sake.” He clears his throat, doing what appears to be a vocal warm-up of some sort before nodding to the man behind the camera. Somewhere behind you, a man’s voice counts down from three. 

“Hello and welcome to the eleventh annual Hunger Games. I’m your host, Lucretius ‘Lucky’ Flickerman, and joining me today are the eight mentors for this year’s tributes. Speaking of tributes, it looks like we are just about ready to begin, so without further ado, let’s switch over to those arena cameras.” 

Behind him, the emblem of Panem vanishes, fading into black, before a brand new image populates the screen.

“What the fuck?” You don’t mean to let it slip; you are on national television, after all, but when the darkness lifts, you really aren’t sure what else to do. The cornucopia is there. That much you recognize. And the tributes, they still stand in a wide-spread circle around it. But it is not the stadium you recall from your Games. Instead, the tributes find themselves on an island of sorts, lush with grass and surrounded by a stream that departs into smaller floods behind them, shooting off into a large wooded area. Although, upon second glance, the stream seems too deep to really qualify as anything less than a river, cutting all twenty-four children off from the safety of the treeline.

“This isn’t the arena!” Antonia whips around to face Dr. Gaul, rage evident in her features. The woman only smiles. Still, that does not stop Teff from making his own demand.

“Where are they?” 

“Well, if you must ask, since the rebel forces in the Districts thought it appropriate to bomb the old arena, we decided to go a different direction this year.”

“That’s not fair,” Beau barks, and his words almost seem like a snarl. “You should have told us– We would have trained them differently!” At the front of the room, Lucky Flickerman’s faux smile begins to dissipate. 

“Could we try not to disrupt the broadcast–” he hisses through gritted teeth.

“If you would like to leave, I’m sure your tributes would be very understanding if we notified them you’ve given up.” Dr. Gaul’s voice drips with a sickening sweetness.

“We can’t leave. You made that clear when we got here,” Treech growls, and the woman before you feigns a look of surprise.

“Oh? Did we? Well then, I suppose you will just have to adapt.”

There is a tall sign attached to the cornucopia, with a facade of LED lights, much like an old scoreboard; you recognize it from your own Games. As Lucky Flickerman clears his throat once more, it begins to count down. 10. Your eyes do a frantic search of the screen, scanning for Bee’s chestnut braid and Colt’s broad build. You only manage to find the latter. 9. You watch as he steadies himself, crouching as though preparing for a race. And really, it is a race, but you want to shake your head and scream, recalling the advice you had drilled into each of their heads in the prior days. Do not engage with the cornucopia. 8. She catches your eye finally. Bee. Her hands are curled into two neat fists by her side. You swallow hard. 7. You watch her spot Colt, several platforms away. Stay together. Please, God, stay together. 6. For a moment, you are back in the arena. The boy from 5 twitches in his place, and you want to reach out and steady him. But it is not real, and he is dead. 5. 4. Your hands are shaking. Your breath is unsteady. Treech is looking at you.

3. Something moves in the water. Something large.

2. The boy from 8 steps off his platform a split second too early. It blows. To his left, Bee brings both hands up to shield her face, sinking away in panic. Her heel nearly slips, and you feel like throwing up. 

1. The room is silent. Dead silent. On the screen, the tributes begin to run.

Bee skids backward off the platform, landing awkwardly in the grass. She plants her hands at her sides, lifting herself slightly, and you watch as her gaze veers toward the remains of the boy from 8, who was dead before he hit the ground.

“Don’t look. Don’t look,” you mutter to yourself, hand gripping the back of your seat. Any of the mentors have yet to sit down.

Five platforms away, Colt is mere feet from the cornucopia, and you narrow your eyes, attempting to spot exactly what he’s going for. On one of the rocks close to the mouth, there is a machete propped atop a bundle of rope. Smart boy, you think. If he can reach it in time, the other half of your mind taunts distantly.

Back at her platform, Bee is still struggling to stand, knees visibly shaking even through the distant footage. Several yards away, the first of the tributes have managed to make it to the river. Almost simultaneously the boy from 2 reaches the cornucopia, turning, knife in hand, out towards the approaching competition. In a flash of silver, the weapon has lodged itself in the chest of the girl from 5. A loud signal sounds throughout the room, marking her death. 

The girl from 11 takes a careful step into the water, and you wade through thick memories in an attempt to pull forward her name. Olive, your brain supplies. You wait, breathing seemingly suspended as she plunges deeper into the expanse, and feel beside you as Teff tenses. She is older, you note. Probably about eighteen. Her last year in the reaping. She nods to the boy on the bank, her District partner, and he takes a hesitant step forward. Then, so fast you think you may have imagined it, she disappears, yanked below the surface. Teff steps forward, hand reaching subtly from his side as though he intends to save her. There is thrashing at the surface, and over by the cornucopia, another tribute falls, the boy from 3. Olive’s head reappears, and she is screaming, a swirling mass of scales encircling her throat. Arms dart out, grasping and pulling at whatever is urging her downward. She disappears again, and this time, she does not resurface. The alarm rings out, and Teff stumbles back, sinking into his chair. You want to go to him. You cannot. Colt has reached the cornucopia.

He is off as soon as the rope and machete are in his grasp, and you note that the girl from 1 has armed herself with a crossbow. Not good. She loads it with ease, and a single bolt whistles through the air, piercing the stomach of the boy from 12. His District partner, who had been making her way to his platform, likely in an attempt to coax the poor frozen boy to flee with her, lets out a vicious scream, and you shudder at the pain, raw and palpable in her voice. She eyes something on the ground before picking it up and beginning to advance on the responsible party. A sword, you quickly note. Her eyes are alight with rage. With the promise of vengeance and, she looks almost like an angel of death, setting out to reap the soul of her fellow tribute. The girl from 1 stumbles back. In shock or fear, you are uncertain, but you can see the pace of her breathing increase as she fumbles to load another bolt. It clicks into place and she raises the crossbow, sending it whizzing straight past her target. Celica, you note from the screen plastered with the District 12 girl’s face. She continues her advance, slowing now as she grows closer. The girl from 1 loads another bolt, and this one hits, piercing through Celica’s shoulder. She growls, and it is tinged with a muffled sound of pain, but does not stop. Another shot sounds off, this one entering her stomach, and her advance, though slow, continues until she is only inches away from the girl from 1, her head dipped to load the weapon a final time. She never does. The sword enters her stomach and she looks up, something mirroring surprise painting her features. Both girls sink to their knees together, and it is odd the way they collapse forward, almost appearing as though they are intertwined in an embrace. The alarm sounds twice, a piercing buzz amid the chaos, and Lux lets out a sob.

Bee is on her feet now, head whipping around in wide arcs. She is looking for Colt. He moves in her direction with a sort of urgency in his step, ducking his head and just missing the blade of another knife sent spiraling across the arena by the boy from 2. Instead, it plants itself in the neck of the boy from 4, who collapses to the ground, blood leaking from his open mouth. Trawl lets out a string of words you don’t quite understand before turning away for just a moment, eyes brimming with grief. You are so distracted you almost forget to note the girl from 2, slowly approaching Bee from her right side. The small girl does not seem to see, still slowly approaching the river, eyeing the boy from 11 as though assessing the threat. Where the fuck is Colt? You note Mags, Trawl’s girl from 4 nearby, eyes lingering on the still coughing form of her District partner from the water’s edge. She notes the option to escape but forgoes it, turning back towards the boy to kneel down beside him. 

“What is she doing?” Trawl questions, face white with fear.

“She’s making sure he doesn’t die alone,” Treech responds, voice flat with detachment, but his eyes tell a different story.

The girl from two is almost on Bee now, grasp firm around the bar mace in her hand, and like a shining light in the dark, there he is. Colt. Leaping in front of Bee and swinging his machete around in a wide, arcing motion. The message is clear. Get back. Her eyes narrow, but she seems to think better of attacking the pair, turning her gaze back toward her District partner. The alarm sounds. The boy from 4 is dead, and Mags reaches forward to brush his eyes closed before turning to survey her surroundings. You watch her eyes land on the boy from 11, and you feel a thick bile begin to creep up your throat, unsure if you can watch her kill him. At only 12, he is the youngest tribute in this year’s Games. 

Across the arena, you watch as both the tributes from 7 and 6 assess the river, clearly considering the safest means of crossing. Beside you, Treech is completely still. You watch as the boy from 6 begins to back away, preparing to take the leap, before sprinting forward and pushing off the ground. He clears it, though not by much, and you fight the urge to gasp at his actions. The girl from 7 approaches next, soaring across, followed by the girl from 6. 

A field away, Colt seems to realize that Bee will never make the jump alone. He dips, whispering something to her before staying bent over to allow her to climb onto his back. No. They’ll be too heavy. There’s no way they’ll make it. 

He backs up. Mags is a foot away from the boy from 11, and he whips around to face her, eyes wide with fear. She lifts up a hand. To push him– No. He flinches away, but she does not continue her approach, only offering her open palm. He eyes it suspiciously, then looks over her shoulder, seeming to note the four approaching tributes from 1, 2, and 3. He takes her hand.

Mags pulls the pair back and, almost in unison with Bee and Colt, they start toward the river. Bee’s eyes are screwed shut, hands digging into the fabric of Colt’s shirt. Similarly, the boy from 11 looks petrified. All four reach the edge of the grass and jump, and when they collapse on the other side, it is nearly in a pile, but they all make it over. You breathe a sigh of relief, attention shifting back to the boy from 7 who takes the leap and seems to clear the bound until his heel slips, footing on the bank failing, and he tumbles into the water. His District partner darts forward, instinct probably, but it is no use; the river seems to swallow him whole, and unlike Olive, he sinks like a stone.

Treech’s face remains cold and unfeeling, but his fist clenches and unclenches by his side, and in a single, barely noticeable movement, he flexes his jaw, huffing out a long breath.

You are not sure when, but the male tributes from 5 and 9 have died, their screens overlayed with the Capitol’s domineering emblem. The girl from 8 is gone too, putting the death toll at twelve, only seven minutes in. Half the tributes gone in one day. You sigh, sinking into the chair beside you, watching as Colt and Bee make for the woods. Still alive. Not safe, but still alive.

After several hours of seeming inactivity, the Academy students begin to lose interest. Several stand to leave following the bloodbath, and most follow in the remaining hours of the day. This year’s pack quickly set up camp in the cornucopia, likely gleaning security from the surrounding waters while the remaining tributes spread themselves in the woods, most using the remaining daylight to search for food and a safe water source.

You give Teff a quick squeeze on his shoulder as you pass behind him to pour your third cup of coffee, and he pauses his conversation with Trawl momentarily to give you a solemn nod. The District 4 mentor does the same, face lacking its typical mischievous smirk. They both look exhausted already, grief topping most shoulders like a wet blanket, heavy and inescapable. 

You snag a mug for Treech as well before reconsidering, having remembered his shaking hands from the morning and reaching for a water bottle instead. 

On your way back to your seat, you nearly collide head-on with Lux, who scoffs, sending a pointed glare in your direction, and you almost ignore it. Almost.

“I’m sorry. About your tribute.” She has only just whisked past you when you speak, and for a moment, she freezes in place before spinning slowly to face you, eyes still cold.

“I don’t need your apology.”

“I’m not trying to–” you start, but she cuts you off. 

“Don’t.” And this time, her eyes soften as though she is trying to say something else. You aren’t sure you understand, and suddenly, Lux steps forward, painting her face with the meanest look she can muster before whispering in your ear.

“If you apologize for every lost tribute, you are going to spend the rest of your life swimming in guilt. Don’t start now. Not when we both know this isn’t your fault.”

When she steps back, she gives you a shove. Not hard, but enough to jostle the coffee in your cup and it spills over slightly, dripping onto your sleeve. When she walks away, several sets of eyes are trained on you, but you fix your gaze ahead, feigning frustration and moving to approach Treech.

“What happened there?” He asks, lifting a single brow in question.

“Nothing. Just Lux being Lux,” you say, taking your seat beside him. And really, it’s not untrue, but no one needs to know the rest.

“If you say so,” he mumbles, just as the camera view switches to his remaining tribute, Hazel, who has secured herself a spot tucked away in the trees for the night.

“Brought you a water,” you say, extending the bottle in his direction. He reaches to take it from you absently, accidentally brushing his fingers against your own. His eyes flit in your direction at the contact, but he doesn’t say a word, only uncapping it to take a sip.

You watch him closely, the bags beneath his eyes far worse than two nights ago. Far worse than when you had– Not the time. You shake the thought from your head, and for a while, it does not plague you. But it is still there, lurking beneath the surface. Had he had another nightmare? Trouble sleeping in his room all alone? Had he slept at all? It was a miracle you had made it through the night without anyone beside you. You recall the couch in your tributes’ suite. The silence of the room. No muffled snores from Treech or movement from Fawn. No distant babble from Lennox’s bed, who could hold a whole conversation in his sleep if pressed. Just the ticking of the clock hung on the sterile hotel wall. Overpowering. Constant. A reminder that time will pass and you will remain here in this cycle. 

From his place beside the screen, Lucky Flickerman interrupts your thoughts.

“So, how about that river?”

The next day passes without much activity, and you find yourself beginning to doze off on the third day when the screen suddenly switches to Colt and Bee, monitoring an avid discussion between the pair.

“I don’t like it,” Colt states, crossing his arms and pinning her with a hard look.

“Just for a little while. Come on, we’ll cover more ground that way,” Bee pleads. “We have to find water.” Colt only continues to stare her down, uncertainty plastered all over his face, and you find yourself sitting up, mentally pleading with him to say no.

“Come on, you idiot, it’s not worth it,” you mutter, causing Teff to look over in your direction.

“Fine. But we meet back here in one hour. And if anything happens, you start screaming.” No.

“That seems inadvisable,” Bee snarks and you almost forget your frustration, so caught off guard by her wit.

“I don’t care. So help me, God, if you die out there, I will bring you back so I can kill you again myself.” Colt threatens, but it is all empty, affection seeping into the edges of his tone. Your heart feels as though it is folding in on itself, and you recall Bee’s words from the night of her interview. We both know he has a better chance and when I’m gone, you can’t just leave him to die. Please, promise me. When. The word rings out in your head, pounding against the inside of your skull. When.

The two part from one another with nothing more than a shared nod, and you find yourself standing from your seat, wringing your hands. 

Twenty minutes pass, and your heart rate is through the roof. The camera sticks with Bee until it doesn’t. Until it is just behind the girl from 9, peeking out over the shrubs. Watching your tribute. Something in her hand glints. A knife.

“Fuck–” You feel the gazes of the other mentors hot on your neck, but you do not care. All you care about is the girl on the screen, eyes fixed on the bush beside her, inspecting its berries. The girl from 9 begins to stand, having inched close enough to safely lunge for Bee. And then she does. And all you want to do is look away, but you can’t, eyes glued to the screen and wide with fear. The young girl begins to scream, thrashing in her attacker’s grip. Your eyes brim with tears, hot and angry. You do not move, completely powerless.

Suddenly, seemingly from nowhere, a trident thrusts itself through the girl from 9’s torso. She lets out a yelp before sinking down on top of Bee, unmoving. Distantly, you hear the alarm sound, but it is not over yet. Colt carries a machete, and as far as you know, none of the tributes had left the cornucopia with a trident, which means– The girl from 2 steps into frame, fixing Bee with the same look she had only two days ago, and you want to cringe away from the scene. With a single move, she kicks the body from on top of the young girl, leaving her to scoot away, hands pressing into the dirt. Behind her, you note the presence of her District partner, several throwing knives tucked away in his belt. Still, he stands cool and unmoving, simply observing the scene before him. The girl points her trident at Bee, who kicks out at her feet, attempting to sabotage her balance. It does not work, and she continues her slow advance until Bee is pinned back to a tree. She raises the weapon, and there is a sharp intake of breath from behind her. The alarm sounds. Her District partner hits the ground with a thud, revealing a visibly displeased Colt.

“What did I tell you about dying?” Relief floods your lungs in one swift motion, and you want to sink to your knees and give thanks to whatever higher power has just allowed Colt to find Bee, but the moment is shortlived as the girl from 2 darts forward, thrusting her trident in Colt’s direction. He catches it before the blow can land, his machete lodging itself between two of the prongs, but she pulls back, swinging again with a speed he can’t match, this time piercing through the muscle in his shoulder.

“No!” And you aren’t sure if it’s you screaming or Bee, but suddenly, she’s on her feet, launching herself onto the other girl’s back and wrapping both arms around her neck. The girl from 2 stumbles before steeling her gaze and slamming herself back into a tree, causing Bee to cry out in pain and release her hold. She hits the ground with a thud only to shrink as the larger girl pivots, fixing her with a glare.

“Bee!” Colt calls out, moving in her direction, and it is almost as though she is the only other person in the world. You think of Colt’s sister, only a year older than Bee, and you recognize that look. It is the same one you give Fawn. It is deadly. 

Bee sees it coming first, the way the girl from 2 whips around, drawing the trident back. Her hands surge forward as though it can be prevented. As though her weak grip might be enough. It is not. And she is looking at Colt, and he is looking at her, saying something indecipherable before his shaking hand reaches down to graze the three prongs impaled in his stomach. 

The girl from two moves to pull it out. To leave him bleeding and twitching on the forest floor, but he grips the handle, keeping it steady, before with one final ragged breath, bringing his machete in a wide, arcing slash across her face. 

She screams, gripping the wound that cuts straight through her eye, and you note that it must be surface level, though you would not be shocked if the attack left her blinded. Still, no amount of screaming can drown out what happens next.

Colt hits his knees, and the whole forest seems to shake with the impact. You want nothing more than to reach out and touch him. To wipe the sweat from his brow and promise him it will be alright. You think of the sister he will never see again. Of the children, she will have someday who will hear his name spoken in tales, a whispered fable at the dinner table. You remember his father, who had worked so closely alongside yours; Colt’s face the echo and legacy of all his achievements. Of days spent in the slaughterhouse when he was too small to pull his own weight, and you would slip some extra meat into his scale so that he might meet 

the required amount. Of the story, he never finished telling you on your final day. Something about Old Man Higgins from down the street being so blind he wore his shoes to work on the wrong feet. You long to hear it again. To hear the sound of his laugh, lighter then, fill the space between you. You would listen to the ending a thousand times if it meant you could hear it just once.

No one holds his hand as the life ebbs from his body, but he does not look afraid. He keeps his eyes on Bee, the ghost of a smile on his lips as he shudders one final breath. The alarm sounds. The girl from 2 has pulled the machete from Colt’s limp hand, though with her vision gone, she stumbles forward almost aimlessly, swiping in all directions. Bee lets out a muffled sob, and the girl’s head whips in her direction. You are going to lose them both at once. All that to lose both of them on the same day. Bee doesn’t move, choking on her own tears, her eyes fixed on Colt’s unmoving form, and it is like watching your worst nightmare play out in slow motion. Bee lets out a cry; the girl stumbles forward. Bee takes a ragged breath; the girl lifts the machete. Bee shifts, eyes glancing upwards, fixed on her demise– A hand reaches out from the shrubs to her left, pulling her in, and in an instant, she is gone.

[quicktosimp]

Sit, Stay, Good Boy

Summary: Aonung is acting like a brat again; it seems he forgot his last lesson.

Here's a visual of the genitalia: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53553106

Aonung/Na'vi!Sully!Reader

Warnings: 18+, Impact play, Cock Torture, Dom!Reader, Sub!Aonung, Humiliation, Degradation, Masturbation, Cunnilingus, Alien Genitalia, Aged Up

“Damit!”

Turning my head, I look over and see Lo’ak; he was holding his nose, blood poured through his fingers.

“Lo’ak, are you okay?” I scrambled to my little brother, pulling his hands away so I could assess the damage.

“What happened this time?” Kiri asked, following closely.

“Ma’Itan!” We both parted for Sa’nu as she pulled Lo’ak further into our marui.

Lo’ak didn’t fight Sa’nu as he tried to wave us off, “I’m fine. Fishlips is in a mood today, and apparently, I got in his way,” His voice mumbled by his hand.

Sa’nu managed to peel his hand away, showing us the start of purple bleeding from the bridge of his nose and into the corner of his left eye, and it is already swelling shut. Rage flashed through me. This bastard targets my brother whenever he’s in a mood, and I am sick of it.

“That cursed boy keeps doing this! I do not know why Jake will not take these matters to the Olo’eyktan, but if he doesn’t, I will deal with your father myself,” Sa’nu grumbled as she weaved through the salves and ointments on in the rafters. 

“It is alright, Sa’nu. Aonung is mostly on good terms with me. Let me see if I can get to the root of this. It would be better to handle this ourselves than to disrupt the Olo’eyktan,” I explained softly.

Neteyam has always been known as a strong leader, but as his twin, I was meant to be the soft healer, but it wasn’t underappreciated when it turned out I was an excellent diplomat. My calm demeanor has always been good when I have to butt into things. 

Sa’nu frowned, her brow creasing with worry, but it was Lo’ak who spoke first, “Bad idea, Sis, he’s already hit one of us today. I don’t want you to be next.”

“Ma’Ite, I agree with Lo’ak. The Olo’eyktan’s son has already struck your brother today; I cannot promise that I will be able to handle this rationally if another one of my children were to be harmed,” Sa’nu explained worryingly. 

I walked over and hugged her, “It will be alright, Sa’nu. Aonung has done nothing more than send barbed words my way. I do not think Aonung is barbaric enough to lay a hand on me,” I was soft but firm in my reasoning.

I could feel Sa’nu’s sigh against my braids as he hugged me back, “You are far too stubborn. Even if I told you not to, you would still go and meet him.” She pulled away, holding me in her outstretched arms, “But you will take something for your protection,” Her words were final.

I smiled and nodded my head, “Of course, Sa’nu.”

“I still don’t like it, but if Fishlips does anything, make sure you get him good, Sis,” Lo’ak grumbled.

Sa’nu sapped her head at Lo’ak, “You will do well not to antagonize him; if I find out that these brawls have all been started by you, not even Eywa will be able to find you,” Her words were harsh, but her eyes betray her concern.

Using the distraction Lo’ak provided, I slipped away, all the while grabbing my weapon. It is my favorite, made of braided pa’li hair that is connected to a hand-carved wooden handle. I spent hours carving and painting it to my liking. Sempu said that it was similar to a tawtute weapon called a whip. I love it nonetheless. I use it for many things, such as dancing and reaching for things. I even used it to grab onto branches out of my reach and swing through the forest with it. But for now, it will have a different purpose.

I walk the sandy beach of Awa'atlu. Many others wave at me, and I wave back. As the calm Sully who helps and plays with the children, I was accepted quickly along with Tuk. Others looked on, seeing me as friendly and relaxed. Not one of them knew that I was on a mission. And not one could comprehend that the following actions could be my own. 

I walked further away from the village to a quiet, isolated spot. Forgotten by many, but it is a place that I know Aonung visits when he’s upset. Looking around, Aonung was nowhere to be found, so I settled into some of the rocks nearby and waited. 

It wasn’t long until I heard the sound of feet on the sand. Peaking around, I see Aonung, his face marred by this anger. To others, his face would bring fear, but I felt nothing but righteous anger for what he did to my baby brother, but I held those emotions under a tight, calm facade, and I will not budge from it. 

Unknowing of my presence, Aonung walked by my hiding place, and I struck. Using my whip, I wrapped the length of it around his ankle and pulled. Aonung quickly fell, his face now buried in the sand. As he recovered, he spun around, snarling until he saw my face. His face turned to one of fear as his ears pinned back, and his tail became stiff. 

“Please, I’m so-”

“Shut up, I didn’t say you could speak,” I snapped at him, my face completely cold.

Aonung audibly shut his mouth quickly as he looked up at me, waiting for my next move.

“Now sit pretty,” I commanded him.

Aonung moved into the proper position, on his knees, legs spread, ankles touching, arms behind his back, and his chest pushed out.

“You will nod your head yes or no to my questions, understand?” I questioned blankly.

Aonung quickly nodded his head, afraid of angering me anymore.

“Did you hit Lo’ak?” I asked him, already knowing the answer.

Hesitantly, he nodded his head yes.

“Did you approach Lo’ak first?” 

Again, he nodded an affirmative.

“Did Lo’ak antagonize you first?” Knowing that Lo’ak would have retaliated, I love my brother, but he’s stupid.

Slowly, he shook his head.

“I see. Last question: did you strike first?” 

Aonung’s eyes widened as he stared up at me. I waited for his response, giving him the time to answer. And he did, slowly nodding his head, his eyes never leaving mine.

“You’re being a good boy for me and telling the truth, but that doesn’t excuse your actions. You sought a fight, and you struck my brother unprompted,” I wrap the length of my whip into a coil and hold it out so the handle is facing Aonung, “Tell me, how many lashes do you think you deserve?” 

Aonung leans in and kisses the handle before muttering, “25.”

I sat and looked at him stonily, not allowing him to see how shocked I was. 25 is not a number I would have thought of, with my hand maybe, but with my whip, absolutely not. 

I brought the whip under his chin, lifting it up into an uncomfortable angle, “You really are trying to be a good boy for me. But I will not accept your ridiculous request. I will just have to think of something."

I circle around him, watching his reactions. Aonung sitting in his proper position, not moving a muscle. Thinking about a suitable punishment. This has been an ongoing problem; thus, the punishment must reflect that. But 25 lashes with my whip would cause far too much damage. It would leave him bloody and raw. But if it was over several days…

“Stand,” My voice was firm.

Aonung stood quickly, his arms still behind his back and his feet shoulder-width apart. I trailed my fingertips across his shoulder blades and down his back. While mostly gone, there are traces of my previous marks, sealing my theory. 

“I’ve come to notice you act out every time you’re almost healed. So, to save my sanity and my brother's face, we will be working on a new routine. Every night just after eclipse, you will join me here and will take five lashes or 15 spanks. This will continue until I can trust you to behave yourself,” I back up and point to the rocky wall, “Remove your tewng and assume the position.”

Aonung quickly obeys, untying the straps of his tewng and folding it neatly before he walks over, kneeling in front of the rocky wall and placing his hands high on the wall, giving me the perfect angle for his back.

I readied myself behind him, unrolling my whip, “For tonight, I will add five additional lashes for the stunt you pulled today. You will face a total of ten lashes tonight. Is that understood?” 

“Yes, Sumtsyìp,” Aonung responded dutifully.

“Good, now count,” With that, I raised my arm and cracked the whip.

The resounding sound was loud as the braided pa’li hairs met his skin.

“One,” Aonung said, attempting to sound unbothered.

I raised my hand again and struck the whip. 

The muscles of Aonung’s back flexed as he gritted out, “Two.”

Once more, I raised my hand, but I flicked it twice this time, sending two lashes back to back.

“Three, four!” Aonung’s voice was louder as he fought to stay in place.

I quickly laid one more on his back before he could catch his breath.

Aonung moaned as he stuttered out, “Five!”

I walked closer to Aonung, needing to asses the physical damage and his mental state before continuing. Upon closer inspection, Aonung’s back had five red lines crisscrossing along the back, raised but not broken. Aonung heaved in a breath, his chest stuttering. I grabbed his chin, making him face me, and the sight broke my heart. Tears were streaming down his face as he sucked in sobs. I caressed his face as I brought my lips to his in a tender kiss. 

“You’re being so good to me, Aonung,” I gave him gentle praise, “You don’t have to worry about anything, just let me take care of you,” I kissed him sweetly again, soft but passionate, before I pulled away, “Are you good to continue?” I questioned him, needing to know before I continued.

“Ye-yes, I I’m good,” Aonung stuttered out, his voice low.

I caressed his face one last time before I backed up, assuming my previous position, “Five more to go.”

I raise my arm higher, aiming for untouched skin, flicking my wrist so it lands across his upper back.

“Eywa! Six!” Aonung’s voice was high and whiny, making me wonder about his intentions.

Deciding to test my theory, I aimed lower, down near the tailbone; a quick flick and there was a new mark.

“Oh fuck! Oh fuck! Seven!” He moaned, rolling his hips.

I couldn’t stop the giggle that left my lips, “Is my naughty boy acting like a slut?” I asked him.

“I’m sorry, Sumtsyìp, I didn’t mean to,” Aonung tried to apologize.

“Don’t worry slut, I’ll take care of it after,” I slipped back into my unfeeling roll with ease, quickly aiming for his back twice.

“Shit! Fuck,” He moaned, making my cunt throb, “Eight! Nine!” He remembered to count.

“Good boy, I almost had to give you more,” I praised coldly, “Now turn around and face me, hands behind your head,” My instructions were clear.

On his knees, he slowly turned to face me, his arms behind his head, chest pushed out. Aonung’s pretty little slit housing his sex organs was relaxed, the tip of his cock peeking out.

“You really are my little slut, but don’t worry. I’m here to take care of you; I always am,” I said softly before quickly whipping across his slit.

Aonung’s eyes went wide as he knelt over, his face in the sand, as he gasped for breath. His legs shook, but that didn’t stop his hips from rolling. I watched him with amusement, waiting for him to count, but it seemed that while lost in his sea pain and pleasure, he forgot. While thinking about how I was going to punish him for miss counting, I expected the lashes on his back. Raised, and would leave bruises, but no slit skin, and not a drop of blood. Absolutely beautiful.

“Sit up,” I demanded.

Slowly and shakily, he does. Leaning back up on his knees, I could see now that his cock had slipped out, hard and covered in sand. 

I sneered down at it and toed it with my foot, “That thing is going nowhere near me, covered in sand. But if you must, you can take care of it yourself.” 

Aonung looked at me as if I was Eywa herself, “Thank you, Sumtsyìp,” And his hand drifted to his cock, the base of his cock is the same light blue as his skin, lightening into a pretty baby purple at the tapered tip of his cock; the shaft is covered in spines similar to that of his kuru. Aonung started at the base, gripping it firmly before slowly moving upward, the spines flexing and bending under his touch, then moving back down, away from the tip, which I had struck.

“Oh fuck,” He moaned breathlessly, his head tilted back.

His mouth opened wide as he licked his lips, making me eager for more. So, I closed the distance between us and threaded my fingers through his hair, pulling him to my relaxed slit. I didn’t even have to ask before Aonung latched on; his free hand came up and wrapped around my hip, holding me in place. All the while swiping his tongue across my slit. The wet muscle was eager to enter into me. 

“Such a good boy,” I growled, pulling his hair more, giving me a whimper in return.

Always crafty with his tongue, Aonung pushed through with ease, wiggling his tongue around my insides. I moaned as I rolled my hips into his face, covering him with my slick. Thank Eywa Aonung doesn’t have a gag reflex; his long tongue is able to slide deep inside me while my inner tendrils wrap around his tongue and trail into his mouth. My tendrils wanted to lock him inside me, thinking that it was a mating. Each wiggle and thrust of his tongue sent sparks of pleasure through my body. 

“Oh, that’s my good fucking slut,” I groaned.

I could feel Aonung’s hand working underneath me and the moans that traveled through my core. I looked deep into Aonung’s eyes, his big blue orbs filled with lust, love, and devotion, as he pleased me, and I knew I would give him the world in return.

“Cum for me, Nung,” I ordered softly.

Aonung’s eyes widened as his body shook, his hips thrusting erratically. His spurts of cum landed on my leg and foot. By Eywa, his moans and deep vibrations are mixed with the sounds of his whines, feeling like a tawtute vibrator but playing my favorite song. 

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, Nung,” I rolled my moaned as I came. I rolled my hips as I rode my high. My thighs shook as Aonung continued to pleasure me. All I could think about was his tongue and sparks of pleasure that flowed through my body as I gasped for air. 

“Such a good boy, such a good fucking boy for me. My slut, no one else's,” I growled as I ripped him away from 

my slit, bringing his face to mine.

“Yours, always and forever yours,” He whispered reverently, his eyes telling the truth.

No matter how many bumps we encounter, we will always have each other.

Taglist: @loakstahni

Dividers by @cafekitsune

[dreamonseems]

King Haaland Part 2

Erling Haaland X Female Reader

Summary: Reader is brought to Norway as a slave, and King Erling buys her.

If you guys have any requests for this series, let me know in the comments or send me a message!

Ok, so I'm using Google translate for the Norwegian language, so if you speak, I'm sorry if it's not the proper way of writing it, lol.

Also, I am so happy you guys have been liking this series! Thanks for all the love, guys!

"Kom, liten en, for å sove,(come little one time to sleep)" King Haaland beckoned, hoisting me over his shoulders. Confusion and panic welled up within me, causing me to stammer out, "Wha... what?!" Seeking reassurance, I turned to Celine, desperately hoping for some clarity.

"You will be fine. King Haaland is a good man. He won't do anything to you that you don't want. You're just sleeping in the same bed, that is all," Celine assured me, offering a small, comforting smile.

As King Haaland strode down the hall, carrying me like a sack of flour, my heart raced with a mix of trepidation and a flicker of hope. He kicked open a massive wooden door adorned with intricate carvings and gently placed me on the floor as he closed it behind us.

Taking a moment to survey the room, my eyes wandered over the grandeur it held. A large bed, a wardrobe, and a trunk caught my attention, while weapons adorned the walls alongside cozy animal furs. The juxtaposition of comfort and danger left me unsettled, yet I found myself drawn to the bed, curiosity compelling me to poke at its softness.

"Fortsett å legge deg ned,(go on lay down)" he commanded, breaking my reverie. Startled, I turned to face him. "What? You do remember I do not understand, right?" I blurted out, a surprised squeak escaping my lips. Standing before me, he stood naked, his physique a testament to his strength and the intricate Viking tattoos adorning his powerful frame, are beautiful. Clearing my mind of such distracting thoughts, I quickly regained composure and focused on the immediate issue at hand.

My cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and I quickly covered my eyes. "Where are your clothes?" I demanded pointing at his clothes, my voice tinged with exasperation.

Confusion clouded his face as he looked down and burst into laughter. "Vi skal sove. Jeg trenger ikke klærne mine, lille,(we are going to sleep I do not need my clothes little one)" he chuckled. I felt my frustration deepen. "I still do not understand," I confessed, my brow furrowing in confusion.

He gestured, making signs for sleeping, pointing at his clothes, and then signaling "no." I deduced that he meant he didn't wear clothes to sleep. But how was I supposed to sleep with him naked?

He sat down on the bed and pulled me towards him, pointing at his hair. It was as if he was instructing me to undo his braids. Tentatively, I climbed onto the bed, positioning myself on my knees. With hesitant fingers, I began to unravel his intricate braids. As I finished, I ran my fingers through his hair, untangling any knots. A satisfied moan escaped his lips, which both surprised and unnerved me.

I swiftly withdrew my hands, realizing the intimacy of the act. In my haste, I lost my balance and began to fall, but Haaland's swift reflexes caught me, preventing my descent. I found myself perched on his lap, his deep gaze fixed upon me.

"Vær forsiktig, lille,(Be careful little one)" he whispered, his eyes holding mine with intensity. At this close proximity, I couldn't help but notice his true handsomeness. He looked young, his features softened, and it occurred to me that perhaps he wasn't much older than I.

Despite this realization, I pulled away from him, retreating under the furs and signaling my desire to sleep. He chuckled and shook his head, retreating to his side of the bed. There were no unwanted advances or intrusive touches. He simply lay down, closed his eyes, and left me to find solace in the comforting darkness.

As I nestled myself beneath the furs, a wave of relief washed over me. In this moment, it seemed that everything would be alright.

The enigmatic King Haaland respected my boundaries, and a glimmer of hope emerged, whispering that perhaps this unexpected journey held more than just fear and uncertainty.

As the morning light illuminated the room, its soft beams dancing upon the walls, I slowly became aware of my surroundings. The weight of the previous night's events still lingered in my mind, intertwining with the present reality. King Haaland, a figure both captivating and mysterious, sat on the edge of the bed, his presence commanding attention.

The room seemed to hold its breath as our eyes met. I felt a flutter of vulnerability, unsure of how to navigate my next move. His gaze, though inscrutable, held a certain tenderness that belied his formidable stature. A blush crept across my cheeks, and I instinctively looked away, momentarily unable to meet his penetrating gaze.

"God morgen, lille,(good morning little one)," he spoke, his voice a deep and melodic rumble. The words, foreign and yet strangely comforting, hung in the air. I gathered my courage and met his gaze once more, searching for any clues to his intentions. There, amidst the enigma of his eyes, I detected a glimmer of kindness, a flicker of understanding. It was a stark contrast to the tales of Viking kings I had grown up hearing—ruthless conquerors with hearts as cold as the winter seas.

"M-Morgen,(Morning)," I stuttered, attempting to speak his language, my voice barely above a whisper. I worried about my pronunciation, fearing that my words would fail to convey my thoughts clearly. However, his slight smile reassured me, as if he understood the meaning behind my imperfect words. It was a gesture of acceptance, a gentle acknowledgment of my efforts to bridge the gap between us.

As the sun ascended higher in the sky, signifying the start of a new day, I found myself seated beside King Haaland, partaking in a morning meal. The feast before us was a display of abundance, with an array of fruits, freshly baked bread, and hearty meats. My stomach churned with a mix of hunger and apprehension, unsure of what this shared meal meant for our newfound relationship.

Haaland ate with a measured grace, his movements fluid and controlled. There was an air of discipline and strength that emanated from him, a testament to the rigorous training he undertook as a Viking king. As he finished his meal, he stood, signaling his departure to engage in his daily training regimen. With a nod to me, he left the room, his figure exuding an aura of power and determination.

Left in the company of Celine, the day unfurled before us like a tapestry waiting to be woven. Together, we embarked on a series of chores and tasks that had become our daily routine. Yet, amidst the mundane tasks, Celine took it upon herself to teach me the intricacies of the language spoken by King Haaland and his people.

Words flowed between us, both foreign and familiar. Celine patiently guided me through the pronunciations, the grammar, and the nuances of the language. With each lesson, I felt a growing connection to this new world, a sense of empowerment as I began to grasp the means of communication in this foreign land. It was as if the words themselves were bridges, spanning the divide between my old life and the one I now found myself in.

Throughout the day, we moved from one chore to another, the sound of laughter occasionally punctuating the otherwise quiet atmosphere. As I swept the floor or tended to the hearth, I absorbed every piece of information Celine imparted, eager to grasp the intricacies of this culture and its language. It was a way for me to find my footing in this unfamiliar realm, to understand the customs and traditions that governed the lives of those who called themselves Vikings.

With each passing moment, I grew more adept at stringing together coherent sentences, my tongue beginning to mimic the inflections and cadences of the language. It was a small victory, a glimmer of progress in a sea of uncertainty. And as the day gave way to evening, I found solace in the fact that, step by step, I was inching closer to understanding the world that now enveloped me.

As the days turned into weeks, and the weeks transformed into a month, my life within the halls of Haaland's kingdom settled into a rhythm that felt strangely comforting. Each night, I would find myself in the embrace of sleep, sharing the same bed as the grand Viking king. The initial apprehension had dissipated, replaced by a growing sense of familiarity and trust.

Mornings began with the sunlight peeking through the windows, casting gentle rays upon the room. Haaland would rise from his slumber, his presence commanding, and his gaze warm. We would gather for breakfast, sharing meals that were no longer marked by tension or unease. It was during these shared moments that I realized Haaland's true nature, one that defied the expectations often associated with kings.

Throughout the day, my hours were occupied by a myriad of tasks and chores. From tending to the castle gardens to assisting in the kitchen, I immersed myself in the daily workings of the kingdom. Celine remained my steadfast companion, guiding me through the intricacies of the language spoken by the Viking people. Together, we navigated the complexities of grammar and vocabulary, piece by piece unraveling the secrets of their linguistic world.

However, it was during one of our conversations that Haaland revealed a surprising truth. His eyes twinkled mischievously as he confessed that he understood and spoke my language, albeit to a limited extent. He had learned it in secret during Celine's early days as a slave in his kingdom, he started practicing it more when I was brought here. It was a testament to his intelligence and curiosity, a demonstration of his desire to bridge the gap between us.

As the days turned into nights, Haaland proved himself to be a benevolent ruler, respectful of my boundaries and wishes. He possessed a playful spirit, often engaging in lighthearted banter and jests, effortlessly dispelling any remnants of fear or apprehension that may have lingered. It became clear that beneath the hardened exterior of a Viking king lay a compassionate and understanding soul.

Haaland's linguistic prowess extended beyond my own language. Through his interactions with merchants and travelers from distant lands, he had acquired fragments of various tongues, becoming a polyglot of sorts. This revelation only deepened my admiration for the king, highlighting his thirst for knowledge and his willingness to embrace diversity.

In this dance of languages and cultures, my world expanded. I found solace in the fact that despite our differences, Haaland and I could communicate and connect on a more profound level. The barriers that once seemed insurmountable crumbled, leaving room for understanding and companionship to flourish. Within the halls of the kingdom, I discovered not only a king but a man who defied expectations, captivating me with his intellect, his kindness, and his capacity for growth.

Today, an unfamiliar emptiness greeted me as I awoke in the vast expanse of the bed. It was a stark contrast to the usual routine, where King Haaland would patiently await my awakening, eager to embark on our shared breakfast ritual. Uncertainty gripped my heart as I made my way through the echoing corridors towards the grand feast hall.

As I neared the hall, the clamor of raised voices pierced through the air, causing me to halt in my tracks. Haaland's commanding voice reverberated against the walls, sending shivers down my spine. My instinct was to retreat, to remain hidden and observe from the shadows. With bated breath, I peered around the corner, my eyes widening at the scene unfolding before me.

"Finn den hesten og bring ham til meg!(find that horseshit and bring him to me)" Haaland's words thundered through the hall, his frustration palpable as he directed his words towards Gunnar, Knut, Sven, and Balder—his most trusted warriors. Their determined nods indicated their compliance as they swiftly exited the hall, leaving Haaland seething in his own discontent. In an outburst of rage, he lashed out, his foot connecting with a nearby chair, shattering it into pieces.

My heart skipped a beat as I involuntarily flinched at the sound of destruction. In that moment, Haaland's piercing gaze pierced through my hiding place, his eyes locking onto mine. "Forlat meg!(leave me)," he bellowed, his voice echoing through the hall, the words stinging like a verbal blow. Feeling the weight of his anger directed towards me, I turned on my heels, fleeing from his presence.

Tears threatened to spill from my eyes, my heart heavy with a mixture of confusion, hurt, and disappointment. Haaland's outburst had shattered the delicate equilibrium that had been established between us. The realization that he could unleash such fury upon me left me feeling vulnerable and betrayed. Yet, I refused to let my emotions consume me. With every ounce of strength, I willed myself to be resilient, to hold back the tears that threatened to betray my true emotions.

Steeling myself against the pain, I pressed onward, reminding myself of the strength that resided within. I refused to let this sudden shift in Haaland's demeanor define my worth. With each determined step, I vowed to remain steadfast, even in the face of uncertainty and unspoken questions that lingered in the air. I would find solace within myself and seek understanding in due time.

As I retreated to the solitude of my chambers, I allowed myself a moment to collect my thoughts. The once familiar walls now seemed to close in around me, suffocating me with their oppressive silence. I longed for the comforting presence of Celine, but she was nowhere to be found. It appeared that I was truly alone in this bewildering turn of events.

Resting my trembling hands on the edge of a table, I closed my eyes, attempting to steady my racing heartbeat. Haaland's anger had struck me deeply, leaving me questioning everything I had come to know about him. Was his previous kindness merely a facade? Or was there something more beneath the surface that I failed to comprehend?

As I battled with my inner turmoil, a soft knock on the chamber door startled me. Tentatively, I approached, hesitant to face whoever stood on the other side. Slowly opening the door, I found myself met with Celine's concerned gaze. Her presence brought a flicker of relief amidst the storm raging within me.

"Y/N, I heard what happened. Are you alright?" she asked, her voice filled with genuine concern.

I struggled to find my voice, but eventually managed to utter, "I... I don't understand. Why did he... why did he yell at me like that?"

Celine sighed, stepping into the chamber and closing the door behind her. She gently placed a hand on my shoulder, offering a reassuring squeeze. "Y/N, you must understand that Haaland's temper is as fierce as his loyalty. He carries the weight of his responsibilities heavily, and at times, it spills over onto those around him. It was not directed at you personally."

Her words provided some solace, but the ache in my heart remained. "But why did he tell me to leave? What did I do to deserve such treatment?"

Celine looked at me sympathetically, her eyes filled with empathy. "I believe Haaland's outburst was driven by frustration and an overwhelming sense of pressure. He didn't mean to hurt you, Y/N. Please remember that."

Tears welled up in my eyes, threatening to spill over the dam I had painstakingly constructed. "I just don't know how to face him now. How can I trust him after this?"

Celine's grip tightened, offering me the strength I desperately sought. "Trust takes time, Y/N. We all have our flaws and moments of weakness. Give him the chance to explain, to make amends. Remember, there was kindness in him before, and there may still be kindness within him yet."

Her words echoed within me, resonating with a flicker of hope that refused to be extinguished. Perhaps this was a test, a hurdle we needed to overcome to forge a deeper connection. With renewed determination, I wiped away my tears and straightened my posture.

Later that night, the room was immersed in darkness, with only a faint glimmer of moonlight filtering through the window. My body lay tense on the bed, entangled in a web of conflicting emotions. The events of the day weighed heavily on my mind, casting a shadow of dread over the chamber.

In the midst of my restless slumber, I sensed his presence before I saw him. Haaland's figure materialized, his silhouette cast against the dimly lit room. He moved with a familiarity that was both unsettling and comforting, his steps echoing through the silence.

My eyes fluttered open, and I pretended to be asleep, hoping to gather my thoughts before confronting him. I felt the mattress yield under his weight as he settled beside me, the faint scent of Mead wafting through the air. His voice, tinged with a mix of regret and vulnerability, broke the stillness.

"Are you awake?" he inquired softly, his voice carrying a hint of apprehension. I remained silent, my heart pounding in my chest, uncertain of how to respond.

"Fuck," he cursed under his breath, his frustration evident. The warmth of his arms enveloped me, drawing me closer to him. Anxiety coursed through my veins as I wrestled with my conflicting emotions.

"I am sorry, little one. I did not mean to yell at you. Please forgive me," he implored, his lips pressing gentle kisses against my forehead. His apology hung in the air, laden with a sense of sincerity that tugged at my heartstrings.

"Why?" I found myself asking, my voice barely above a whisper. His admission caught me off guard, my curiosity piqued.

"I have a traitor in my ranks, selling my secrets. The frustration got the best of me," he explained, a mixture of weariness and determination coloring his words.

I let out a frustrated huff, my anger mingling with understanding. "Fine, I understand. Just... don't do it again," I conceded, my tone softening slightly. Despite my lingering annoyance, a sense of empathy welled within me, recognizing the burdens he carried as a king.

He chuckled, his laughter resonating through the darkness. "Yes, little one. I promise," he vowed, his voice laced with sincerity. A shy smile tugged at the corners of my lips, his presence somehow managing to ease the tension that enveloped us.

"Now, go to sleep. You're drunk," I teased, attempting to lighten the mood. His laughter filled the room once more, mingling with the soothing rhythm of his breath.

"Yes, you are quite fiery tonight," he jestingly remarked, yet his hold tightened around me, pulling me closer. As sleep claimed him, I found solace in the safety of his arms, an unexpected warmth radiating through my being.

That night, as slumber claimed us both, I found myself nestled in the king's arms for the first time. Unbeknownst to me, an ember of happiness ignited within my heart, signaling the possibility of a deeper connection. In the midst of uncertainty, a glimmer of hope emerged, weaving together the delicate threads of forgiveness, understanding, and the potential for a future intertwined.

Part 3

[vellichor01]

ACOTAR Love Languages

A/N: So, I genuinely believe that the love languages are more of a guideline than anything, but also that the ways people show love isn't necessarily the way they give love. So I made this for my favorite men in the ACOTAR series. Hope you enjoy!

Rhysand

Gives love in the form of gifts and words of affirmation.

He gives so generously of himself all the time.

Whether it's a dress made specifically for you, or a gift based on your favorite hobby, or a skill you're trying to hone.

He will tell you he loves you six ways to Sunday.

Telling how proud he is of you, how beautiful you are

Leaves you notes everywhere

But he needs words of affirmation.

More than probably anyone on this list

He needs to be told that he's redeemable

That he's not a monster

That he's worthy of love

That he's worthy of you

That he is kind and that he is good

Cassian

Gives love in the form of acts of service

He believed for so long that he was only worth anything for what he can do, rather than for who he is

Will absolutely cook for you, any day of the week

He will run you a bubble bath, and wash your hair, and give you a whole body massage after a long day

He will brush your hair and braid it for you

But he never feels so loved as he does when you're spending time with him

It doesn't have to be anything fancy

Grocery shopping

Reading books together on the couch

Cuddling together in bed

Doing puzzles

Or training at the gym

It really doesn't matter

Because you could be doing these things with anyone

But you choose to do them with him

And it warms his heart so much

Azriel

He shows love through quality time

He spent so much time alone growing up that he never wants you to feel that way.

He'll set you on the counter while he's cooking so you can talk about your day

He'll stay in bed with you until the last possible minute before you have to leave for work

He'll sit on the couch while you rant about your newest book with the biggest smile on his face

But he relishes physical touch

But only from you

He's so touch starved

Holding your hand out in public

You always sit side by side when you're eating just so he can rest his legs against yours

Sitting in the couch, running your fingers through his hair

Massaging his aching muscles when he gets back from a mission

The way you will run to the front door as soon as he gets home to give him a hug and kiss

And he will scoop you up immediately, bury his face in your neck and just relax and breathe in the fact that you're still there and that you're his.

Lucien

This man is a gift giver

He'll gift you weapons

Or plushies

Or neat trinkets from Day Court

He loves the way your face lights up every time you open a present from him

And it's not always extravagant

Sometimes it's just a coffee from your favorite shop

Or a new book that you've been talking about

But you appreciate it all the same and he loves you for it

And he's not materialistic by any means, but he loves when you give him gifts too

Being the youngest brother and not being well loved by his family meant a lot of hand me downs or going without

So he loves whenever you go out of your way to get him something, no matter how small

And if you make him something, he'll probably tear up a little

You have a friendly competition over Solstice presents

Eris

He will show you he loves you by spending time with you

He's so busy with High Lord duties and Court politics and whatnot

But he always makes sure to have time for you

Even if all he can do is have you sit on his lap while he does paperwork

Or carve out an hour to go get lunch

He will always find a way to make time for you

And he loves when you give him acts of service

Keeping your home clean so he can devote all of his time solely to you when he gets home

Bringing him lunch that you've made for him

Probably the most traditional dynamic of any of them, but you make it work for you

Helion

He shows you love with physical touch

Will not let you leave the house without a hug and kiss

Pulls you onto his lap while you're reading

Cuddles with you every night without fail

Keeps your arms linked together when you're out walking

Will absolutely press a little kiss to your temple as you're falling asleep

But this man needs to spend time with you

He waited so long for you to walk into his life that he never wants a second to go by without you

Your nightly ritual is sitting there reading to each other over tea

You spend so much time together in his library, for work and pleasure alike, and he wouldn't have it any other way

Thank you so much to @writingsbychlo and @clairebear08 for being so encouraging as I've started writing again! I appreciate you both so much

[goldfish-afterhours]

ROB THEM BLIND - ONE

— Home // Genshin Impact Bank Robbery AU

“Welcome to Minlin Bank. How may I help you today?”

As the line shuffled forward slowly, Lumine felt her throat becoming tighter and tighter; the note stuffed in her jacket pocket growing heavier and heavier. She was sweating—partly from the thick jacket engulfing her body, its hood flopped to her eyes to obstruct her face—but also because of what she was about to do. 

‘This is a robbery. I am armed—do not think about resisting or alerting anyone. Put all the money in this envelope and you will not be hurt.’

Lumine had scrawled those words on a piece of lined paper last night, ripped straight out of a notepad. Multiple discarded drafts littered her hotel room from all her attempts at obscuring her handwriting. 

“Next! Good morning, sir, welcome to Minlin Bank.”

The person in front of her left for the desk, and Lumine shifted forwards, so she was now the first in line. All of a sudden, she felt very exposed, as if all eyes were on her now that she was at the front of the line. She clenched her fists. I can do this, she told herself. I have to do this. 

“Next!” A cheery clerk waved her over. She looked young, even younger than Lumine, with bright eyes and black hair braided in two loop pigtails. For a moment, Lumine felt dazed. How would her actions affect this young bank teller? Would Lumine be able to sleep soundly tonight, knowing that she had threatened someone so innocent? 

The young lady’s voice broke into Lumine’s thoughts. “Welcome to Minlin Bank. How can I help you today, ma’am?”

Lumine took a shaky breath. Before she could back out, she pulled her hood tighter over her head, plunged her hand into her pocket, and—

“Get on the ground! Get on the ground!” a deep voice bellowed. Gunshots sliced through the air, embedding themselves into the walls like meteors with a sickening bang! Glass shattered, and the poor clerk serving Lumine screamed. 

“Last chance unless you want your head blown off! Get on the ground!” another voice shouted above the chaos of people crying and bodies falling to the floor. 

Lumine felt someone tug at her clothes. “What are you doing? Hurry and get down!” a woman whispered, looking up at her with eyes wide in terror.  

She crumpled the note back into her pocket and dropped down with everyone else. Most people were cowering on the floor with their hands over their heads, but Lumine was bold enough to tilt her head up slightly to catch a glimpse of what was going on. 

There were four—no, five of them. All male, all wearing some sort of mask to hide their face. The man who had shouted first donned a sinister red mask, with bared teeth and horns sprouting out of its head. He was so big he made the machine gun in his hands look tiny. Red tattoos ran down his arms as he tapped the muzzle of his weapon against anyone who held their head too high. Two men leapt over the counters, bags in their hands. A loud thump and the shriek of metal against metal meant they had successfully broken into the tills, and Lumine could hear the rustling of paper as they stuffed the cash into their bags. 

Curiously, there was a man standing at the front entrance of the bank. He had no visible weapons on him, and his arms were crossed. He was clearly not acting as a lookout—his back was to the front doors. Yet he made no effort to subdue or intimidate the people either. He just stood there, watching, white hood shrouding his face. He almost looked like a grim reaper dressed in white. 

“Hey, girlie. You’re holding your head a lil high. Got a death wish?” a playful voice breathed down Lumine’s neck. For a moment, she contemplated turning around and punching him right in the middle of his elaborate crimson mask, but that would surely draw too much attention. Instead, she covered her arms above her head like everyone else, even pretending to tremble. But in reality, her blood was burning through her veins. 

The groan of the counter and the sound of boots hitting the ground alerted Lumine that the robbers had obtained their goal. It was only a matter of minutes now. 

“Okay, okay, you can all get up now,” the man in the red-horned mask said. She craned her neck up to peek from her hood, and several customers were also starting to stir. The loud bang of a gunshot, however, made everyone drop to the floor once again. “Just kidding~ Stay down and count to a thousand. Any person who moves before that gets a bullet in their tongue.” 

‘One, two, three, four…’ Lumine could practically hear everyone counting under their breaths. But if she waited to one thousand with all of them, the criminals would definitely slip away, and she could not let that happen. 

‘Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight…’ At this point, the thundering of boots faded away. The only sounds audible in the bank were heavy breathing and muffled sobs. 

As quietly as she could, Lumine slowly got to her feet, careful not to rustle her jacket. No one paid her any notice. Lightly, she stepped around the shaking bodies on the floor. Shards of broken glass sprayed the counter and floor. Bullet holes decorated the walls and the ceiling; surprisingly, the fish tank in the corner of the room came out unscathed. A bright red goldfish flicked its tail in the water as it changed direction, unconcerned with the violence that had just taken place. 

The police had not yet arrived, but Lumine could hear their sirens in the distance. And if she could hear it, that meant the robbers would hear it soon too. She had to leave, right now. 

Lumine carefully stepped through the giant hole in one of the glass entry doors. The road was deserted, all pedestrians having fled the moment the armed robbery began. 

She shut her eyes. Wind whistled past her ear. She could hear the street lamps humming lowly, a cricket chirping, the soft paws of a cat leaping onto a fence, and—

Heavy boots. 

Lumine’s eyes flew up and she broke into a run to the back of the building, down an alleyway, towards the direction of the sound. The footsteps were soon joined by the low rustles of paper money being jolted against a moving bag. Right before voices became audible, Lumine slowed to a walk, then tiptoeing on the cobblestone walkway.

“...talk too much. You think this is a game?” a voice snapped, his voice dripping with annoyance. 

“What’s wrong with that? I might as well have some fun with it!” 

Lumine pressed her back against the wall, summoning the courage to peer past the corner. Three of the five robbers were walking down the alleyway. A large bag was hoisted over the biggest man’s shoulder, while the ginger-haired man who had threatened Lumine was walking beside him, one hand in his pocket while the other twirled a gun around his finger. The third person with them was unfamiliar; she must have missed him during the chaos. He was much smaller than the other two, but he seemed to be scolding them without any fear, despite the largest man’s bicep being the size of his entire head. 

“C’mon Xiao, let Itto have a little fun with it! What’s the problem?” the ginger-haired man said airly. 

“The problem is he acts like a stupid oaf. Him just being there makes us more likely to get caught,” the one called Xiao retorted.

“Hey, I don’t act stupid!” Itto exclaimed indignantly. “In fact…you act stupid! Stupid!”

As they bickered with each other, Lumine took the chance to creep closer and closer behind them, darting into the next alleyway or behind corners to remain out of sight. They were talking so loudly to each other, she was sure they did not detect that someone was trailing them.

Until her foot hit a pebble. It barely made a sound as it fell back on the cobblestone paths. 

But these robbers were better than she had given them credit for. Xiao immediately stopped in his tracks. “Shut up.”

“No, you shut up!”

“We’re being followed.”

Lumine held her breath, but the footsteps became louder, as if they knew exactly where she was. She waited a few moments—maybe they would dismiss it as their imagination and be back on their way—but they came insistently closer. 

Okay, too close. I have to go, she thought. But before she could even move a muscle, a hand flew between her shoulder and neck, trapping her against the wall. 

“Now, now, what do we have here? Someone trying to play the hero?” The elaborate red mask was now resting against the side of his head, revealing his face. This is never a good sign—it meant he had no fear of her seeing what he looked like, since dead men tell no tales. His voice was playful and smile teasing, but his blue eyes were void of anything, as if they barely registered Lumine in front of him. “Didn’t you hear the big, scary man? You want a bullet in your pretty face that badly?” He leaned closer, but she did not flinch. 

“No,” Lumine responded. “I want compensation.” 

Before the man could respond, she pulled out the crumpled note from her pocket, unfolding it with one hand and shoving it in his face. “I was just about to rob them when you stole my target.”

The man squinted his eyes at the note before scoffing. “So what? You want us to open our bag right now and hand you a stack?”

“Just one stack? Don’t play. I want to talk to your boss. I’ll negotiate with them.” She put the note back in her pocket.

His lips curled into a sneer. “And just why would we let you do that?”

“Because you’re going to want this back, won’t you?” Lumine spun a blue charm around her finger. 

The man seemed to do a double-take. He looked down at his belt, confirming that the blue charm that was hanging from a chain on his belt loop was indeed gone. He looked back at Lumine, no sign of surprise on his face, but she could see that he was now clenching his jaw. 

Lumine winced as the cold metal muzzle of the gun made contact with her cheek. He was still smiling, but any trace of amusement was gone. “Give that back, girlie,” he said smoothly, as if chiding a toddler, “and I promise you’ll still be able to see out of one eye after.” 

Itto, who had been listening quietly behind him the entire time, finally broke his silence. “Hey, wha—? Didn’t Zhongles tell us not to hurt anyone if we can help it? You can’t shoot her just for that, Ajax!” 

“Watch me,” Ajax responded, clicking off the safety of his gun. 

The shortest one who had detected Lumine in the first place tugged at Ajax’s arm, the one holding the gun against her face. “Don’t,” he insisted. “Just bring her to him. He will decide.” 

Ajax’s eyes flicked to glare at Xiao, and for a moment, Lumine thought he was going to turn the gun on him instead. But instead, the ginger-haired man sighed and lowered his arm. 

He stepped away, and Lumine let out a gasp of relief, her heart threatening to leap out of her chest. 

Ajax shrugged. “Alright, alright, I can’t argue with my brothers, can I?” he said. “Count yourself lucky, little lady. You just earned yourself an audience with the Guili Assembly’s head.” He shook his head at them, as if they had just convinced him not to buy an ice cream cone instead of murder. “But watch yourself.” His empty eyes flicked back to Lumine, and she had to will herself not to flinch. 

“One wrong move and you’re dead.” 

[halsins-herbal-underpants]

Give Me Nothing To Hold

(Give Them Everything To Take)

A Halsin sadfic fea. Dayan (my Tav)

Rating: Gen

Note the tags!

CW: subjugation, emotional trauma, Lolth-sworn drow slave society

approx. 6.5k words

Read on Ao3

Trapped together by fate and circumstance under the thumb of a cruel Drow Matriarch, Dayan tries to offer Halsin a moment of peace. But in the Underdark, peace is antithesis to control, and control must be maintained. At any cost.

If only Dayan hadn't tried to give Halsin something tangible to hold, then maybe the druid wouldn't have had the last real piece of himself taken away.

Just a bit of events of Halsin's time in Menzobarranzan, set in the semi-AU of my Tav playthrough. Dayan and Halsin belonged to the same House & knew one another through Halsin's time in the Underdark.

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Dayan wished he'd eaten that morning. Nerves were making his stomach rumble with angry bile, and the last thing he wanted was an errant gurgle raising the Matron's irritation more than it already was. The situation was tense enough, and Dayan didn't want to add to it. Especially considering the focus of her ire was entirely his fault in the first place.

The wood elf currently knelt in front of the great chair in the Matron's hosting chamber, his forehead touching the cold stone in the proper posture. His arms were stretched before him to show he held no weapon. 

Dayan had to scoff at the idea. He didn't have clothes -- she wouldn't allow it when she was angry with him. The notion he could have secreted a poisoned dagger on his person was absurd.

 But the Ilharess was paranoid, of course, though no more than any of her peers. Her paranoia had served her well and seen her through seven assassination attempts, three of which were from her own daughters. It was that same paranoia that arranged this tableau before them.

The elf that prostrated himself before the Matron was incredibly large for his race, his only clothing the floor-length mane of pretty auburn hair that spread over his body like a cloak. It was unbound, spilling messily over his shoulders, sporting not a single one of the elaborate braids it usually did. 

Something about that made Dayan feel uneasy. That hair was always ornamented with braids, elaborate twisting designs often woven with jeweled charms. To be allowed before the Matron in her audience chamber with his hair loose and wild was discomforting. Dayan's jaw creaked from clenching it tighter and he held his breath in a jolt of fear, but then relaxed slowly. She hadn't heard him. Her attention was focused, sharp and unyielding, on the wood elf. 

He'd entered the chamber before the Matron, walking slowly before the assembled servants with head bowed; one of the higher concubines led him to kneel in front of the dias by a silver chain hooked to a rune-carved collar around his neck. Dayan recognized the common pit-slave collar that inhibited magic. The wood elf was a shapechanger, Dayan knew. A druid, though he wasn't quite clear on what that meant. 

It didn't matter though, whatever power the elf may have had -- the collar denoted his current status and that was to be kept from accessing even the most basic of magics. It was only removed at the Matron's whims. She would not be removing it now.

Around him, the Matron's servants and swords had gathered as usual, awaiting their House Mother’s orders. As soon as she’d entered, foreheads touched the floor, silent and swift. Dayan had tried to keep his eyes on the lone chained figure as he crouched; the huge elf dropped to his knees with surprising grace and joined the rest in supplication.

The only thing that belied his perceived calm was a trembling in his hands – the delicate chains that attached to his shackles softly clinked, and Dayan felt his stomach drop and body prickle in fear.

But by the time the Matron arrived at the front of the chamber and took her seat, the trembling had stopped and the chains that wound around both his wrists and ankles were still and silent as the grave. It was impressive, Dayan thought, before he had to bow his head fully and hide his face. 

The wood elf's name was Halsin and it was Dayan's fault he was here.

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"So after everything I have given you, all the ways I have sought to please you, my parzdiamo...this is how you repay me?" 

Her words were short and clipped, acidic enough to burn. Slowly and too casually, she reached into a fold of her dress, between her breasts, and withdrew a short silver knife and sheath. The sheath and handle were decorated in some way but difficult to see from a distance. She held it aloft in long, delicate, sharp-nailed fingers and tilted her head at the wood elf. 

He was silent, did not so much as twitch, and she smiled without mirth. Proper behavior; even in her anger, she was pleased.

"Servants, you may rise," she said airly, her legs slowly uncrossing, then crossing again. The slit of her spider-silk dress slid apart and showed her sharp-heeled shoes, leather bindings crossing up shapely calves. Her gaze fell on Halsin. 

"You, my bear -- you will lift your head, sit up and speak. But only those loyal to me may stand."

Halsin finally looked up, rose slowly to sit on his heels. His hair slipped over his shoulders, but couldn't fully hide the lines of his gorgeous body. Dayan knew if the Matron was not there, there would be intrigued, curious and bawdy whispers among the servants, same as there always was when the consort was allowed to wander the rest of the grounds. But for now, there were just wide-eyed looks and slight smirks hidden behind hands.

 Something about the attention made Dayan want to curse at them all, grab a blanket and run over to wrap it around those broad shoulders. Grab--

--grab his hand and run--

"--a gift," came a low, soft voice that only trembled a little at the edges, and Dayan realized he had drifted into impossible daydreams once again. Halsin's expression was calm and stoic as stone, though open and unguarded. You could be nothing else, speaking to the Matron.

"It was a gift, Mistress. A gift, only. I swear to you I am still loyal, still--" He stopped and Dayan blinked to see that stoic face warm slightly.

"Yes...?" It wasn't a question, so much as a command, the drow woman's silver-painted lips spreading subtly at the corners into something Dayan wouldn't have called a smile.

"Still yours," Halsin breathed, ignoring the snickers that surrounded him from the drow lining the walls. "I swear to you by my heart -- the knife has no true blade, I cannot use it to hurt you, to hurt anyone. I kept it because it was a gift." 

The Matron tilted her head to the side in thought. "Do you swear to me by your deft hands and pretty eyes?" she asked softly. Halsin didn't reply. She continued, her voice getting slightly louder at each sentence.

"Do you swear to me by your bones and blood? By your tongue and teeth? By the impressive cock that hangs between your legs?" 

She didn't reprimand the quiet giggles that circled the chamber, but nor did she smirk herself. She just watched him with hooded eyes, her words less a jest and more a list of what the wood elf may lose if she found his answers wanting. Halsin's face was flushed darker now and he swallowed thickly.

"I swear it by everything I am."

"You are darthiir! " She spat, rising in one swift motion and Dayan wondered how the wood elf did not flinch at her thunderous anger. The Matron's moods were so mercurial; perhaps he had just grown used to outbursts.

"You are nothing that I do not make you."

She walked up to him and grabbed his chin, her nails digging into the soft flesh of his jaw as she pulled his face up and up, stretching his neck painfully so he could meet her dark red eyes. 

"Do not lie to me, parzdiamo, I will not have it. If this knife is not as you claim, then I'll know was an assassin's trap and you an unwitting dupe. And I will not have a fool warm my bed." She let go of his jaw and unsheathed the knife. 

Dayan let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. The blade was dull and broken, rusted through in a way the handle was not. It would not cut hair, much less skin. The Matron peered at it and then gave a low chuckle.

"This is very old. And obviously from the surface. The craftsmanship is lacking, as all things are there. This blade has fallen to rust." She ran the blunt tip of it over her arm and snorted as it only cut a narrow, bloodless line that barely burned. "Useless. A poor gift indeed." 

Halsin said nothing, but he seemed to relax -- though, only a little, because he was wise enough for that.

She turned back to him and touched his face once again, but this time her fingers were gentle on his cheek.

"Who gave this to you? You only need to speak their name and you will not be punished. But you must understand I cannot be disrespected in my own home. You accepted a gift behind my back. Not that you thought of it like that, I'm sure," she laughed softly and brushed fingers through the wood elf's bangs. To his credit, he didn't flinch. 

"You just saw something shiny and pretty and wanted it, mmh? Silly thing," she teased, her laugh like sharp, glittering glass. Her finger grazed down his sweating forehead and tapped his nose. "If I'd known you craved shiny baubles and fripperies, darling child, I'd have long ago spoiled you rotten. Perhaps I still might. We'll go shopping soon, yes?" She held the knife between her fingers, her amused smile growing tight.

"Who gave this to you?"

Halsin took a deep breath. He tried to keep his expression calm and stoic as before, but it faltered right before he spoke, a flicker of true fear crossing his features briefly.

"...I do not know, Mistress. I -- I can't remember." 

Dayan flinched but luckily the matron was not looking his way. If Halsin refused to tell her, then he would be punished severely and it would be all Dayan's fault. But if he told the truth, well. He'd still be punished, but less severely, at least. Perhaps he’d even get to keep all his limbs. 

And Dayan would be sacrificed to the Spider Queen. Or fed to the temple arachnids. Or flayed alive and set on a pike as a warning to other servants. Or she might just slit his throat in the audience chamber, let him bleed out at her feet...

Dayan's hands couldn't stop shaking.

He gave the knife to Halsin because it had roses carved into the silver handle.

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Dayan approached the wood elf slowly during his meditation, in their Matron's garden. Slaves weren't usually permitted to sit in the gardens but the Matron made an exception for her favorite consort. 

In truth Halsin hated being singled out like that; it made most of the other slaves avoid him, if not outright mock him for his perceived status. It was maddening to them, a male of the wood elf race garnering the adoration the Mistress and Master bestowed upon him.

If only they knew what form that admiration often took, they might have been more hesitant to condemn him. 

They might, but Halsin knew in truth -- they would still hate him, just because they could. So he spent most of his free time alone.

Until lately, at least.

"Halsin?" the guardsman whispered quietly, making sure to approach the consort with a wide berth. Halsin startled easily when approached from the back, he'd learned. The wood elf looked up and his soft frown, the expression he normally wore when alone, disappeared entirely when he saw Dayan. 

"Oh!" A smile, soft and warm, spread on that handsome face and Dayan felt his stomach flip. He couldn't help but feel a small jolt of pride at how much more at ease Halsin looked when he saw him approach, in these brief, furtive, stolen meetings. 

He wanted to say 'happy' instead of just at ease, but he knew too many things about the wood elf's day-to-day to ever say that. 

"Yes, my friend? What can I do for you?" Halsin asked, curiously.

"You can scoot over so I can sit," Dayan teased and Halsin laughed softly, moving over on the bench and allowing Dayan to plop down. They didn't have long -- the consort's next chaperone would be approaching soon. Dayan had made sure to memorize the schedule between shift changes well. So he didn't waste any time on pleasantries, as much as he craved hearing Halsin talk. 

"Here, look at this," he said. "I've had this for a long time, but just realized you might be able to identify -- well, here."

He pulled a knife from his pocket and held it up. It was silver, with carved vines and leaves and flowers alongside the edge of the handle and wrapped around its base. The sheath was heavy leather and also carved with the same imagery. "Can you tell me what these are, surrounding the handle? I'm sure they're a type of surface plant but I've never seen one in the books I have. Tell me you know a lot about plants. Druids know plants, right?"

Halsin had to chuckle at that. "You could say that," he mused as he peered at the silver handle. Dayan held out the knife, intending for Halsin to take it to look closer, but the consort bent to bring it to his eyesight, but did not reach out to touch or take. He knew better. It was already risky enough talking to the drow guardsman. 

"Those are roses," he said with a genuine smile as he gazed upon the beautifully carved petals. "A type of climbing vine -- here, see these lines denoting the vine wrapping around the base? And here, these are the leaves...this the thorns...the blooming roses are the nicest part, in my opinion." Halsin met Dayan's eyes, his brows raised in surprise. 

"Where did you find such a thing? Depictions of surface flora are not at all common down here, unless stolen from above." 

Dayan hummed in thought, and then shrugged. "Perhaps it is from the surface," he said. "I don't know, I took it off a corpse decades ago." 

"A corpse!" Halsin gave a teasing laugh, bumping Dayan's shoulder with his own. "Of course, I don't know why I expected a different answer." After a beat, he met Dayan's eyes. "Stolen or not, old or not -- it is a weapon you're not allowed. You're playing dangerous games to bring it out this close to the manor, my friend."

Dayan nodded, smiling ruefully. Halsin was not wrong, he was playing with fire. Although it wasn't exactly like he thought...

Dayan grasped the handle over the carved roses and pulled it out of the sheath, holding it up for the consort to inspect the blade. 

Halsin flinched and drew back involuntarily, even though he had once admitted he trusted Dayan more than his Mistress. But, well, learned lessons are hard to break; especially when they have been so painfully taught. 

Dayan winced and lowered the knife. "I'm sorry," he whispered sincerely. Halsin relaxed, shaking his head with a chagrined look.

"No, no. You're fine. I apologize for my reaction." 

Dayan didn't say anything, just pursed his lips briefly, his stomach hurting for some reason -- and then put his attention on the knife in his hand. The blade was rusted nearly through and broken at the tip. They could both see it was nearly as blunt as a butter knife. 

"I made sure it wasn't dangerous before I decided to show you." 

He remembered the look in Halsin's eyes as they traced the fine carving work of the swirling vines and plump leaves, and the pretty roses that looked to be lightly brushed with a shiny red paint. Almost entirely faded, but when it caught the low glowing light of a nearby sussar tree, it shimmered in a soft pink. 

Halsin's gaze had turned almost as soft as he looked at it, and Dayan wondered if he was remembering the last roses he'd seen. It would have been a long time ago. They didn't grow in the Underdark.

He bit his bottom lip in hesitation as he re-sheathed the knife; and then in a bold, abrupt move he reached out for Halsin's hand as it hovered uncertainly around his chest, fingers lightly grasping the silken toga he'd been allowed to wear that day. Dayan slowly took it in his, waiting for the other to balk and yank it free, but the moment never came. Halsin just looked down at him with briefly wide eyes, his cheeks warming. He felt the larger elf's fingers twitch as if wanting to squeeze them around Dayan's own.

Dayan realized this was the first time they'd touched hands.

"I want you to have this," the drow said, placing the object in Halsin’s palm and wrapping his fingers around the knife handle. He saw the consort was about to protest, but he quickly interrupted. "Please. In truth, I kept it to give to someone...important to me," he murmured. "But then he..." He paused, looked away. "Well, he's not here anymore. But now I have you," he added, more brightly.

Dayan didn’t realize what that might have sounded like, rushing to get through his impromptu, embarrassing speech, but Halsin certainly did. The flush on his cheek spread to the tips of his ears and he dipped his head, his long graceful mane falling to hide his reddened face.

"A thing like this is wasted on me," Dayan continued in a rush, oblivious. "I've never even seen a picture of a rose. They're pretty, if this is accurate," he admitted. "But I can't appreciate them like someone who knows what they are can. Like you can." 

Dayan looked down at the knife. "Roses don't exist down here, but -- here they do,” he tapped the handle with a finger. "Maybe this can be a comfort? I don't know. I hope it can be."

Halsin found it hard to respond. "Why would you...want to do this for me...?" he asked softly, more softly than he'd ever spoken to Dayan before. There was confusion in his voice, hoarse with unbidden emotion. 

"I just -- you're not --" He paused and then had to let go of Halsin's hand. He couldn't look at him and say this at the same time. The wood elf squeezed the knife tight.

"You're not meant to be here," Dayan said softly. "I don't mean like slaves shouldn't be here." His eyes darted to the wood elf's face, then away. "I mean -- you aren't meant to be here, Halsin."  He hurried on, embarrassed, sure he sounded like a madman. 

"I don't know why I say it. It's just...something I feel." He was silent for a beat, then glanced around the garden and leaned closer to Halsin, voice barely a whisper and words quick, as if afraid of speaking what he wanted to aloud. "When I sleep--we drow don't often trance, you know," he said, though he suspected Halsin must have learned this by now. "It's more nightmares than memories. I try to just sleep, not meditate. But sometimes I still will...and sometimes when I do, I see Lady Silverhair between the nightmares. I think she told me."

Halsin's brow wrinkled and he opened his mouth to ask, but Dayan cut him off. He didn't have time to explain that particular curiosity right now.

"Memories are cherished things for your kin, right? I read that somewhere. They ground surface elves to your history, where you came from. But sometimes...memories are just pain, especially when you're--"

He paused, then murmured quietly. "Especially when they're all you have."

"They're not real roses," he continued, "but it's something tangible you can touch that reminds you they exist. Not just a memory of them. And sometimes that's nice to have, I think."

Dayan glanced up at the manor and blanched -- the replacement guard was just barely visible around the corner. He rose quickly, before Halsin could speak and quickly tucked the knife deep in a fold of his toga, where it couldn't be seen. He didn't dare look at Halsin's face, didn't dare meet those eyes or let his own drift over those lips he dreamed about. He paused before fleeing, only a second, and touched the wood elf's shoulder.

"You will see roses again, I swear it," he whispered. And then he ran.

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"...Someone pressed it into my tunic at one of your...parties, Mistress. I do not remember who." 

There had been so many parties lately; the Matron's House had just conquered an enemy, razed the family's manor and everything inside to the ground. A conquest of a particularly fruitful land to the Lady's coffers. She'd been throwing lavish events to show her power and celebrate. Halsin had featured as a particularly sought-after entertainment at most of them. 

"I wished to find them, to thank them, but they must have left before I could. And then I was...I was afraid to tell you," his words wavered, stammering a little to sell his fear, but not overmuch. "I just kept it, growing more and more afraid to reveal my deception. I shouldn't have, I know. Please forgive me, Mistress, please--"

"I know this pattern on the handle," she interrupted, fingertips tracing the flowering vines on the knife. Halsin blinked in confusion -- sometimes it was hard to follow his Mistress's mind. "These are roses, are they not? A beautiful blossom that is said to contain dangerous thorns beneath its petals. Some are believed to be as long as a man's hand."

She turned her face to him, looking down her elegant nose at her currently-favored consort. "Is that what you are, Halsin?”

He shivered. The Mistress so rarely used his name, it always made him uncomfortable to hear it on her tongue.

“A rose sent to me from afar, with thorns hiding just under your lovely petals? Perhaps one day you'll wrap your vines around my neck and run back to your accursed sun, mmh?"

"No! I swear it, Mistress. I am here because of your..." It was hard to get the words out; no matter how technically true they were, the meaning was drenched in painful irony.

"...Generosity and kindness, after all. I would never hurt you! And I do not want to be anywhere else," he said and inwardly winced at such a boldfaced lie. He shouldn't have said that, she wouldn't believe him. Nobody would. 

"I am yours, only. Let me prove it to you, as you so often like," he added, his voice dropping, tone turning as sultry as flowing silk.

She only crooked one arched brow upward and he felt the back of his neck begin to sweat. He was saying all the wrong things, being all the wrong things. But all he could think about was Dayan's words, his eyes -- such a pretty violet shade, like gemstones, standing out starkly against all the crimson that stared at him daily. He couldn't betray him, he wouldn’t.

Halsin's mind whirled; in truth she knew his aching desire to return to the forest and flowers and sun. Sometimes she brought up the idea just to force him to deny the truth of his soul; sometimes she looked at him with sad eyes and stroked his hair and whispered apologies they both knew she didn't mean. She enjoyed soft words and hot tears on his cheeks -- perhaps the pity made her feel powerful.

Perhaps she just enjoyed watching him hurt.

"I..." He exhaled a long, hard breath and looked down at the floor. His knees were starting to ache, the chill seeping into his bones, despite his natural warmth. It couldn't ever keep the cold that radiated out of every stone away for long. "The roses do hold thorns, yes," he said miserably. "But it's only protection. My thorns were...worn away by your careful hands long ago, Mistress. I only wanted a memory of home. Just a small one."

It seemed his gamble had paid off; the Matron's eyes warmed and she slowly bent, a hand reaching to touch his face. To rub her thumb over the wetness in the dark hollows below his eyes. Halsin almost instinctively nuzzled into her hand -- she smiled, and he knew he had done well, he had made the right choice, said the right words. She approved of his weakness, at least for now.

"My sweetling, I wish there was a way I could make you understand that this is home, now. You only hurt yourself in your longing." He nodded, like a good boy, chastised so gently by her words. 

"Lovely bear," his Mistress almost purred. "Perhaps I will have one of my surface raids procure an enchanted rose that cannot die and does not need the sun. I'll keep it in my bedchamber, mmh? And you can gaze upon the pretty thing whenever you wish." 

The idea was abhorrent, of course, like everything else she ever offered him; but Halsin gave her a watery, weak smile.

"Perhaps," was all he said, and it turned his stomach to say that much. But the woman was satisfied and she nodded, giving his cheek a condescending pat and rising to her full height. She did so love to tower over him when she could. He hoped it signaled this farce was almost over. 

But then she opened her mouth to speak again and he froze; he'd forgotten, he realized.

Her moods were so mercurial.

"However," she said, haughty, and Halsin felt his blood run cold. "If you do not or cannot tell me who gave this to you -- if your memory is so unreliable…" she trailed off, her eyes sharp – and Halsin knew he’d saved himself from nothing. 

"Then you will still need to be punished, my dear." She sighed, folding her hands together. 

"You know you cannot accept gifts from anyone but myself, without my permission. Nothing, without my permission!" She snapped. "You didn't tell anyone, and you kept this hidden. You made a choice. You know better." 

Halsin had to keep his teeth from gritting, loathing how she so often spoke to him like a child. He might play into it to keep her wrath at bay, but he didn't like it. He fought not to glance over at Dayan, the drow's presence like a thorn in the back of his mind. It didn't matter, though. He wouldn't betray him; and he couldn't blame him. The gift had brought him happiness since that meeting, however fleeting.

"It is not a transgression that requires me to lose my favorite bear however," the Matron added and Halsin's face relaxed a little, though the tension remained in his shoulders. He did not look up at her, keeping his head lowered and his hands folded in his lap. He watched the chains from his shackles settle over his knees and shimmer in the low light. He felt his back bend unconsciously, as his body tried to fold in and make himself smaller.

He heard, rather than saw, the sound of a blade against leather, but dared not look up until she demanded it. But out of the periphery he spied her hand drop, and one of her wicked-looking daggers was gripped tightly in it. His face blanched but he kept himself from shaking, just barely.

The Matron lifted the dagger, sweeping the point of it across the room at her servant swords, eyes narrowing as she studied their faces. Most of them were looking at her, expressions either carefully blank, subtly wary, or eager. 

Perhaps one of them, then -- eager was interesting, sometimes, but messy. Wary was often boring, so relieved to not be the victim they punished with more fervor than necessary. Dull and expected. Blank was efficient, at leas--

Wait. The Matron stopped, her eyes narrowing even more, as one face was very blatantly, and with some difficulty, avoiding her gaze.

Oh, cowardice. Cowardice was always fun. 

"You!" she snapped, pointing at the anonymous drow guardsman. She didn't know his name, but who cares, really?

Dayan felt all the blood drain out of his face. 

"Me?!" he said, his voice high and tight, and instantly knew that had been the wrong thing to say. He glanced at Halsin, seeing the wood elf's shoulders tighten at hearing his voice. 

"Y-Yes, Matron," he added quickly and walked to her, trying to keep his hands from shaking. She held out the knife, and watched him stop and stare at it a moment before she sighed in irritation and gave it a shake.

"Are you simple, boy? Take it!" she hissed and Dayan quickly did as she asked, the blade feeling awkward and unfamiliar in his grasp. He knew it would be sharp though; sharp enough to ease through a throat with the lightest touch. But she'd said Halsin wasn't to be killed. Perhaps just cut? He didn't know if he could...

He saw the consort actually risk a look up, meeting Dayan's eyes. Halsin's were wide, but not in accusation, but empathy. He understood and was telling Dayan without words he needed to stop hesitating before he was gutted for insubordination. Dayan shifted his grip, trying to look calm and collected and nodded at her. He walked over to Halsin, trying to avoid looking into his eyes directly once he got close. The last thing he wanted is for the Matron to suspect there was any connection there. 

His chest burned; like a hot iron brand pressed to the flesh...no, not that. He knew what that was like. This was so much worse.

But yet, he didn't let his hands shake.

Dayan stood next to the kneeling wood elf, careful not to step on the long ruddy-brown tresses pooled about his legs.

"Where shall I begin, Matron?" he asked, his voice wavering only a little bit.

Her deep ruby eyes roamed over Halsin's servile form. And then she smiled. 

Dayan felt something squeeze his heart in its iron grip.

"His hair," she said simply. "Cut it off. All of it."

◈━◈━◈━◈━◈

"What?!" Halsin's head snapped up, his eyes wide. "You can't!" The change was instantaneous -- where there had been a calm, restrained consort awaiting punishment without fear, now sat a frantic, terrified wood elf, already half to his feet. "Mistress, please, -- you can't, please!"

The Matron's eyes widened in surprise and then narrowed dangerously. She took a step towards Halsin. "Did you just speak against me, darthiir?!"

His hands went to clutch at her spider-silk skirt and she balked, unsure how to react for a moment, taken aback by Halsin's sudden panic. She gripped his wrists to pry his hands off her; the servants around them were rousing, confused and anxious, looking from one to another, wondering if they should step in. 

"Please, don't do this my lady! I'll do anything! I'll take any punishment, hot irons, whipping. I'll entertain a thousand of your guests, I'll live with my head buried between your thighs, please!” Halsin’s voice was more afraid than Dayan had ever heard it, words stammering out, falling over each other as he begged without shame. “Oak father as my witness, I will do anything!!" His eyes were wide and white at the edges, like a wild animal about to bolt. He rose to full height and immediately half a dozen guards surged forward. He gripped her hands, tears in his eyes, ignoring or perhaps unseeing the drow moving towards him.

"Talthara, please," he half-sobbed, and the Matron's eyes widened. She slapped him then, hard, her nightstone ring cutting deep into his cheek. 

"How dare you!" she spat. "You are not allowed to speak so familiarly with me in the audience chamber!Bind his arms!" She watched as her guardsmen pried Halsin's hands off her skirts, pinning him down while he howled in fear and rage, and bound his arms behind him with a heavy chain. 

Dayan wasn't one of them. The dagger was no longer in his hand. He wanted to help, he wanted to jump on the others and tear them away from Halsin, take the dagger and stab it through the bitch's heart, grab the wood elf and run. 

But where? There was only cold stone and unforgiving darkness. But he couldn't let this happen. He couldn't--

"What are you waiting for?" the Matron snapped and Dayan realized she was talking to him. She eyed the weapon on the ground. "I am in no mood for games, boy. Pick up the thrice-damned dagger and do it!

Dayan's daydreams evaporated into smoke and ash; if he tried to free the wood elf, do anything but what she demanded, Halsin would suffer for it. And it'd be more than this, it'd be so much worse. He'd already done so much to him with his stupid gift, he couldn't put the druid's very life in danger. 

He picked up the dagger, but his hands were shaking so much. Halsin was roaring like a wild beast, and his eyes kept flashing gold. A shimmer flickered over his skin, like lightning, and every time the runes on his collar would glow, white hot. Dayan could smell the elf's skin burning beneath it. 

After it seemed he was going to continue fighting to change to his bear form, the guards began to beat him with fists and feet, so he'd quieten. Dayan's hands twitched to grab his scimitars; his vision was blurred, edged in white. Something felt hot in his head, and warm wetness covered his cheeks.

He actually felt himself start to lurch forward, a hand moving to his weapon of its own accord, but a grip on his arm stopped him. One of his fellow house swords -- he gave Dayan a quick shake of the head. The drow gritted his teeth in grief and anger and turned back, but did not move again. 

Betrayer. That's what he truly was. He'd caused this. He doubted Halsin would ever forgive him.

Halsin finally collapsed, bloodied but alive, and docile as a lamb as all the fight in him evaporated. He lay limply, sobbing softly to himself, and didn't look up when Dayan came closer. The drow raised the dagger, watching those powerful, broad shoulders shake, and then stepped back and dropped his hand to his side.

"...I can't," he whispered. The Matron stepped up to him and grabbed him by the hair -- she was at least half a head taller than him. She yanked his head back painfully.

"Say it again. I want to be sure I heard you correctly, jaluk," she snarled and Dayan gritted his teeth.

"My lady, look at him! He's in tears, I, I can't..." He swallowed, then set his jaw firmly. "I won't."

She didn't even take a moment of consideration. With more strength than he thought she would have, she shoved him into the waiting arms of two of his fellow guardsmen. They'd traded amusing stories just a night ago, he thought idly. But they grabbed him without hesitation, held him painfully tight, arms wrenched so far behind his back his shoulders creaked. 

"Twenty lashes," she told them dispassionately. "Rub rock salt into the wounds. Then fifteen more. A cell afterwards." 

Halsin didn't raise his head as Dayan was dragged from the chamber. He didn't raise it when the Matron straddled him, dagger in hand, one of her sharp stiletto heels spearing into his back as she bent down and grabbed his hair in a fist. "These men are all the damned same," she spat. "Weak and soft and pathetic."

The last thing Dayan heard before being pulled back into the dark, was a knife slicing cleanly through hair, undercut every so often with a ragged, broken sob. 

◈━◈━◈━◈━◈ 

When Halsin rose that morning, his hair tickled his heels. He ran to tell grandfather; he'd begun to grow it out because it delighted the old elf so. Reminded him of the olden days, he said, when he himself was a young elf in High Forest. It was somewhat old fashioned by the time Halsin was old enough to know how he wanted his hair, but he still liked it. He liked it the most when grandfather ran a wooden comb through the length and braided it for him while telling him the story of his life.

The day it tickled his heels had been the day his grandfather's body decided it was time to return to the earth. He'd cut a long, long strand from his head and his father wound it around grandfather's hands, clasped together on his chest. Halsin did the same for his father, when it was his turn to reside in High Forest; and then his mother, and brothers and sisters after. 

He'd laughed when the girls had taken his hair in hand at the summer festival and twined it in elaborate braids for fun. They pulled him to them by the braids cheekily, one by one, and kissed him until he was breathless and they were breathless and their entwined bodies spilled to the woven mats below. Drunk on Winterfest wine that tasted sweet against his lips, he kissed the boy beneath him as he begged for the braid to be unbound; to let it pool over their bodies as they made love. Afterwards the boy smiled softly in the moonlight, blue eyes aglow, and nuzzled into the nest of Halsin’s hair before settling against his chest and counting their shared heartbeats.

Netashe would tease him from below his window, ask him to let the long tresses flow down like a princess in a storybook. They'd gather it up in clever fingers and kiss those waves until he was red-faced and stammering, and tease him more. They'd taken a lock of it bound in green ribbon with them when they left to see the world. It was what inspired him to make his own journey.

◈━◈━◈━◈━◈ 

Halsin lay on the cold chamber floor, his voice lost to tears, his mind lost to the warm haze of memories

His neck felt cold, the goosebumps prickling along his bruised arms. They bade him rise, jabbed him with the butt of their spears when he didn't. He finally managed to drag himself to his feet, eyes cast away so he didn't have to see his kin, his history, his life cut from him and left on the floor for someone to sweep up and burn. 

"What do I do with this?" someone asked as he was escorted from the room.

"Ugh, get rid of it. Ugly thing," someone else said. "Who keeps an old rusted knife, anyway?"

He was never going home. He knew that now. No one was coming for him, and now he'd been cut from the only thread to his life under the sun, as easily as if the Matron had cut his throat. A part of him wished she had.

He was going to stay hers, until she tired of him, or needed to use him for some advantage, and then he'd be sacrificed to their vile goddess. Enemies could come and kill him in the night, the collar keeping him from defending himself. Or one of the Matron's daughters would succeed and he'd be quietly gotten rid of -- sold to another House or offered to one of the lower city brothels, perhaps. 

No matter what, he was going to die down here, away from the forest and the sun and Thaniel. All the colors of his world would be taken from him, one by one -- sunlight yellow and sky blue and rose red and violet eyes like gemstones.

There was nothing else left, now, but the memories. Intangible to the touch, unreachable and torturous. But they were all he had. Dayan had been wrong.

But Silvanus save him, Halsin so desperately wished he'd been right.

◈━◈━◈━◈━◈

[seleneprince]

Neris' daughters are named Sylvie and Gwyneth (yes, like Gwyn, one of Nesta's best friends), and they look like the perfect mix between their parents.

Sylvie is the firstborn, arriving four minutes earlier than her twin, something she playfully reminds her of quite often. She has bicolor hair, which its red from roots to the middle and gradually turns golden-brown towards the tips, and her mother's grey eyes. It's long enough to reach her waist, so she usually holds it out of the way with elegant braids or other hairstyles Nesta taught her. She has her mother's temper and her father's silver tongue. She loves animals, specially dogs because she's grown up with her Eris' hounds, and learning all she can about battle strategy. She's a great fighter, particularly talented with knives, and at fourteen she's known in court for defeating everyone that challenges her (and scarring people permanently for wronging her or her family). As Eris' heir, she's expected to command Autumn's tropes one day, so she has to train and study a lot. She's more than willing to kill for her loved ones. She can summon fire and her flames are reddish-orange. A daddy's girl through and through.

Gwyneth (called Neth or Nethie for short), has the same hair design but reversed. Instead, hers it's golden-brown from the roots and turns red to the tips, which she usually keeps shoulder-lenght, and Eris' amber eyes. She's shorter than her twin and looks like a sweeter, meek version of her (people foolishy understimate her for this and forget who raised her). She's more a diplomatic than a fighter, although she's trained in combat too just in case. She got her father's smooth, courtier personality, but in everything else she takes after her mother. She loves music, books and dance. She grew up watching her parents have duets whenever they pleased and she was enamoured by such art. She practices with them both, but its Nesta who teaches her the most. She's meant to become her twin's right hand in the future, so she's interested in politics and even becomes an ambassador for Autumn. Her weapon of choice are her words, but mind you, she can also burn you with her silver flames if you push her enough. She's a completely mommy's girl instead and, as a child, she was glued to Nesta's hips.

Both sisters are fiery in their own way, deadly protective of her loved ones and forces to be reckoned with. They're nicknamed "Autumn's Flames" because that's how strong their presence is. Sylvie is a warrior and a full-on strategist, while Neth is a diplomat and values discretion over open battles. They make the other courts shake in their boots, specially Night.

[liyawritesss]

ꜱʜᴜʀɪ ᴜᴅᴀᴋᴜ ʜᴇᴀᴅᴄᴀɴᴏɴꜱ

Character: MCU!Shuri Udaku

Type: Headcanons

Synopsis: Some general headcanons of mine for MCU’s Shuri Udaku!

Warnings: Some BLACK PANTHER: WAKANDA FOREVER spoilers if you haven't watched the movie

A/N: Before I drop my Shuri fic on Friday, I think it'd only wise I share my headcanons for our queen <3 These headcanons will cover Black Panther 1 and 2 with hints to events such as the Blip since I haven’t seen that movie.

Black Panther…

In BP1, we see Shuri has a playful, mischievous, know-it-all aura around her. She isn’t afraid to let people know what she’s thinking, and takes fun in pulling pranks on her older brother and close friends (excluding Okoye. NEVER Okoye. She learned that the hard way).

She has basic defense and offense training, as she’s able to wield a spear and hold her on in sparring. However, she doesn’t like the spear as she doesn’t see it as versatile enough, which has led her to start tinkering in the realm of weapons. She’s always trying to pitch new weapon ideas to Okoye, but she always shoots them down with a history lesson on why the spears are important to the Dora Milaje. Though that hasn’t and will not stop Shuri from trying to change the General’s mind.

Shuri wasn’t always a morning person. In her youth, she hated getting up super early for training practice and family matters. But by persuasion from her father, T’Chaka, she slowly started to come around to the idea of being an early bird. The deal was if she woke up she’d be able to fiddle around in the science lab before her training. Now, even though her training is not required anymore, she’ll still wake up at the ass crack of dawn to get her day started.

She has a playlist for everything, but she has one specifically tailored to when she’s in the lab, and also what projects she’s working on at the moment. It’s loaded with hella afro beats, some just instruments, others songs from artists like Burna Boy, Koffee, WizKid, Tems, and more. The beats help her focus and act as guides for how she moves around the lab.

Whenever she’s in America with T’Challa, she’s always dragging him to the nearest name brand store like Adidas, Nike, Snipes, etc. Not even to buy things sometimes, it’ll just be to critique the style of clothing, and how she could definitely design better (though T’Challa does end up carrying a bag for her with some shoes, because she always has to get a new pair of kicks when they land in the states.

Even though she’s older and can do her hair on her own, she loves to let her mother do her hair. Ramonda playfully complains that she’s getting older and her hands can’t braid like they used to, but she agrees anyway as it’s one of the times they can actually sit and bond outside of their royal statuses. Shuri puts on some music or an American movie she likes, and they sit and talk and catch up on things they missed while being away from each other.

Black Panther: Wakanda Forever…

It’s no secret that T’Challa’s death had changed Shuri forever. She’s much quieter than before, living in her head, reminiscing the days that her brother was still beside her.

She retreats to her lab more than ever, subjecting herself to long hours and little sleep, trying to distract herself from the truth. To keep her hands and her mind busy meant she didn’t have to close her eyes and see her brother’s face.

Much of her time is spent researching the heart shaped herb. She analyzes the remains of roots that were salvaged from the fire, pairing them with the samples of the herb within T’Challa’s DNA, but it barely gets her half way there to completing the synthesization of the herb. Unfortunately, her frustrations are taken out on the laboratory staff, and while she does apologize profusely to them, it’s become common knowledge to stay clear of the Princess when they see the holographic screen of the heart shaped herb in view.

Sometimes, Shuri will go and sit in his room, touch the items left behind, imagine that he’s still there. The first few months after his death, Ramonda has caught her sleeping in his room, surrounded in his covers, his pillows, dawning one of his sweatshirts, curled up in fetal position. She had no doubt Shuri had cried herself to sleep there. And Ramonda could not blame her as she too spent time in that room remembering her son. Sometimes she’ll leave the princess be, but on a few occasions, she’s slept in there with her.

If T’Challa’s death had Shuri feeling too much, her mother’s death had her feeling nothing. Numb. All her emotions were buried with the last person who truly knew her.

In public, she has to keep up a straight face, but in private, she’s hysterical. She doesn’t know whether to laugh, cry, lash out, curl into a ball, burn everything within sight. Anything and everything is an enemy to her when she’s in this state, and she will not hesitate to treat an unsuspecting palace staff member or Dora Milaje warrior as such. It’s best when the princess has returned to her chambers, to leave her there, and under no circumstances, disrupt her.

It’s only after hearing her mothers voice again, during her fight with Namour, that Shuri begins to have some semblance of a healing journey. In seeing N’Jadaka in the Ancestral Plane, her rage was validated by her deceased cousin, of which bore a similar pain. It was only when she came to terms with her rage and anger, that she could then begin to move forward, and in turn, offer Namour the option of surrender instead of killing him.

The world had taken too much from her for Shuri to be considered a child. No, she was a woman, queen-presumptive of Wakanda, and through the death of her family, she has learned many things.

It’s been advised that Shuri develops a relationship with Bast, as she is the new Black Panther, and would need guidance from the past mantle-holders in order to be the best possible protector Wakanda needs. She isn’t sure if she can - unsure if practicing a faith she had been estranged to since childhood and her livelihood as a scientist can coexist harmoniously. But for her people, her friends, and herself, she has to try.

And Beyond…

As queen-presumptive, Shuri spends a lot of time in preparation for her coronation. She appoints M’Baku as interim ruler in the meantime, to not leave the throne empty and also as a way to integrate the Jabari tribe back into Wakanda. She understands that she isn’t in the right mental state to rule, and M’Baku, despite his brutish demeanor, only cares for what’s best for Shuri.

In her time away from the throne she often visits her nephew in Haiti, developing a relationship with him, telling him stories of his father and grandparents, and it’s through him that Shuri slowly but surely returns to her old self again. Toussaint brings the light back into her eyes, and solidifies the belief of her people that death is never the end. Because whenever she looks at Toussaint, she sees her brother.

Shuri keeps in contact with Riri via a discrete version of the kimoyo beads, disguised in a silver band that she gave the younger scientist before she left Wakanda. They talk frequently about the projects they are working on, and Shuri has even given advice to Riri for rebuilding her Ironheart suit since the original still sits in the lab.

Shuri takes time throughout the week to visit the people of the capitol. They know her as the genius princess who has developed everything they use in daily life, but Shuri wants her people to know her on a more personal level. She’ll go out to the market, visit schools, and even holds virtual tours of her lab for aspiring scientists.

When she finds herself down, Shuri takes walks. Doesn’t matter where, doesn’t matter when, she’ll just walk to clear her head. Around the palace, around the lab, up Mt. Bashenga, through the city streets. It makes for a hard time for Okoye to keep track of her.

Besides Toussaint, Nakia, Okoye, Riri, those within her most inner circle, Shuri tends to keep new relationships at an arm's length. It’s a defense mechanism - she doesn’t want to get hurt again if someone new comes along in her life and ends up leaving. It’s something she’s working on. But through time, patience and understanding, Shuri will open up. Just be there for her. That’s all she really needs right now.

If you enjoyed, please leave a like, comment, and reblog for others to see! And don’t be shy to send in a request!

[animatorweirdo]

Imagine being a force wielder and crash landing into Middle Earth.

(I’m just gonna throw some star war in here. This is almost similar with the last post, except I decided go with male romantic interest. I hope you enjoy.)

Warnings: mentions of a war, violence, crash landing, injuries, some romantic fluff, marriage. 

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

-You were flying away on your ship. The battle raged around you as ships got blown apart and fighter jets flew around, trying to kill everyone from the opposite sides. 

-You were locked in a hectic chase with your opponent. The left wing of your fighter was on fire, so you were trying to retreat to the destroyer because it was too risky to fight with a burning ship. 

-However, your opponent was determined to take you down – making it difficult to get back to safety, so you flew, avoiding the lasers shot at you and trying to avoid getting killed. 

-Anger and frustration filled your veins like fire as you wanted nothing more than to blow your opponent apart. 

-You tried requesting backup, but your opponent was good. They avoided shots and jets thrown at them and proceeded to chase you. 

-You considered ramming your ship into your opponent, but when you received an order to retreat – you had to leave that thought behind. 

-You calibrated your ship for a jump. It was risky with a malfunctioning ship, but you had faith your jet would withstand the hyperspace travel long enough to take you away from the battle. 

-When you were about to jump, your opponent did what you planned on doing and rammed against your ship. You did not see it coming, and when your jet jumped. It took you and your opponent with it. 

-The ramming caused several malfunctions, and your navigation trailed off from its course, making you and your opponent spin violently in hyperspace. 

-You tried taking control, but there was nothing you could do till you managed to jump out of hyperspace and fly to the nearest planet. 

-You held onto the control wheels as your ship burned through the atmosphere, falling toward the ground below. The fire upon your wing became bigger, causing your whole jet to be on fire. 

- Alarms and buttons were screaming and shining with red light. Your hands began to burn as the metal inside your ship began to heat up to an unbearable level. You were burning. 

-You cursed your opponent and everything that led you into this situation. 

-It made you angry because there were many things you wanted to achieve in life, yet your life was being cut short. 

-You began to feel sadness and regret when you saw the ground getting closer. Your master did not know what happened to you, and you would not be able to tell them about it because there was a nil chance you would survive the crash. 

-You closed your eyes, ready to join the force as your ship hit the ground and everything became black. 

-You expected to die. 

-You did not expect to wake up on a soft bed and find yourself covered in bandages and ointment that eased the pain in your burns. It took you a moment to realize you were alive and still breathing. 

-You were left confused and disoriented. 

-You found your clothes folded upon a cabinet along with your armor and lightsaber, so you felt relieved to see your weapon nearby.

-Your mouth felt dry, and your stomach felt empty. You were not sure how long you had been unconscious, but since your stomach was screaming for food. It must have been quite some time. 

-You prepared to pull your lightsaber to you when you saw someone walk through the door, holding a tray full of food. 

-You stared at them with caution. Your hand was ready to reach out for your weapon as you waited for the stranger to do something out of line. 

-The stranger was beautiful, to say at least. He had long lovely braided hair, and his skin seemed to glow with light. His ears were oddly pointy, so you had a feeling he was not a human. 

-He gently ushered you to rest when you moved. He set the tray next to your bed and tried to assure you he meant no harm since you were watching him like a hawk. 

-He was gentle. You allowed him to change your bandages and add ointment to your burns while he explained how he found you near a crashed metal vessel, which got destroyed upon impact. He did not know how you survived, but you were lucky. 

-Unfortunately, you will live with scars for the rest of your life. 

-When you concluded he was not a threat, you spoke with him, and he told you many things about what happened before and after your crash landing. He also revealed where exactly you had landed. 

-You weren’t familiar with a planet called 'Middle Earth' or elves, but you were grateful as your host looked after you, bringing you food and caring for your injuries. 

-You grew to enjoy his company and learning about him and his people. 

-When you asked some questions about space – it was clear they had no idea about the force, the war between the Jedis and the Sith, or anything about the galaxy. 

-When you were well enough to stand again, you often walked around his home, taking in the scenery and learning about the world around you. 

-You enjoyed the peacefulness and fun twist of fate. You fell in love with your elven host after living together for a while. 

-He felt the same, and you eventually married against all odds. 

-Your master would have been furious to find out you married and grew an attachment since it was dangerous to marry during wartime. 

-You honestly did not care. You have always been rebellious by nature. 

-You also never liked following the code or the rules that restricted many things in life from you. You enjoyed the freedom you had now. 

-You also enjoyed how you did not need to join in life-threatening missions anymore. You could finally have a peaceful life – away from the war between the Jedis and the Sith. 

-You learned a lot of new things with your beloved and found hobbies you enjoyed. 

-You kept your past away from your husband. If he knew, he would have frowned and possibly left you, which you did not want. You have decided to leave your past behind, letting go of old ambitions and embracing a new life filled with love and peace. 

-You never knew you wanted such a thing, but you wouldn’t change it for anything else. 

-You sometimes look back and hold your lightsaber, which now resides in a cabinet – waiting for the time when it was needed once more, which you hoped never had to come.