#while also being a THREAT and a MENACE

[callmeravenking]

I feel like this pic shows the current version of my Eadwynn makeup better!

Keep in mind that this pic was taken the morning of day 3, and during the heat of a long-ass season finale-style battle!

Eadwynn held her own in the fight! Even going toe to toe with the bbeg a few times! And one of those times, she didn't even die!

Favorite moment from this battle:

BBEG: *makes it so that he can't be hit or affected by anything, but has to hold still to do so*

Eadwynn: *keeps hitting him with her magic glaive*

Other adventurer: "that's not gonna do anything, he's immune right now"

Eadwynn: "I know, but I'm gonna annoy him out of it" *turns back to keep bopping*

BBEG: *leaps out of the stance and immediately kills Eadwynn*

Pic of me getting absolutely bodied by that bbeg! (Don't worry, I survived)

[kedsandtubesocks]

Chrysalis Heart

Din Djarin x Naboo Queen!Reader

summary: as queen you can handle many things (like the assassination attempts threatening your life) but the alluring mandalorian hired to protect you might be your heart’s biggest threat

word count: 9.2k (i’m sorry)

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY MDNI. post season 3, royal & bodyguard AU, use of gendered language, threats & moments of violence, reader wears makeup/gowns/headpieces but has no physical description, hidden identity, protective!Din, discussions of marriage, forced proximity, the starfighter can fit two people in the cockpit no matter the size (canon can fight me), competency kink, major yearning, spicy themes, good sweet fluff

a/n: this is my entry for the WIRED4YOU challenge [Din + Butterflies by Kacey Mushraves] huge thanks to @chaotic-mystery for hosting & letting me join! This is also a mini love letter to “the phantom menace” & “attack of the clones” because I believe we deserve our queen moment too lol, dividers thanks & credit to the ever talented @saradika-graphics

Assassination attempts on your life are, unfortunately, not new. In this final year of your reign, the threats have recently doubled though, which surprises you.

But finding out a mandalorian is now assigned to your personal guard surprises you even more.

While sitting in the throne room surveying him, you admire the striking warrior. Sleek in his ancestor armor, unwavering in his presence, you stay composed as possible but…

Curiosity blooms fast, already wondering about this new guard.

“Captain Teva highly recommended this bounty hunter.” Your head advisor, Hildegard, explains dutifully.

A bounty hunter? That’s even more interesting.

“We are glad to have you here, mandalorian.” Senator Trystan adds brightly. He starts rambling like the politician he is, and you tune him out, especially as your focus remains on the mandalorian.

“Your majesty,” the timbre of his voice is striking like a steady river. “I vow to keep you safe until the assassin is caught.”

Hiding your voice within the composed steady tone the Queen of Naboo is known for, you thank him.

With a final nod, the warrior departs.

You notice a brown satchel slung at his hip half hidden under his cloak. You swear the minute the mandalorian leaves the room, a small tiny green clawed hand crawls out from the bag.

—

“I bet he’s ugly”

“No, I’m sure he’s handsome.” You and your handmaidens have discussed the new mandalorian guard for weeks now.

He’s a rather elusive figure. Silently moving around the castle, he reminds you of a sleek phantom just out of reach. When the mandalorian does accompany you anywhere, he remains silent. You simply amount it to the warrior doing his job diligently, which you greatly appreciate.

His presence alone seems to deter any more attempts. The tension in the palace already has eased greatly. So much you now roam without any supervision along the grand lakeside today.

The glory of Naboo is one you take pride in, from the illustrious buildings, to the underwater depths of the Gungan city. You savor these moments when you can freely walk among the splendor of your planet.

There’s a secluded, normally untouched, lake villa near this area you enjoy visiting from time to time.

Until you discover it’s no longer abandoned.

The sight stops you frozen in your tracks. By the edge of the lake, under the soft shade of the looming trees, stands the mandalorian. But he is not alone.

A wonderfully tiny and precious green creature waddles around through the grass.

Both of them turn towards you. It feels like you’ve just stumbled upon an ancient secret.

“Handmaiden.” The mandalorian greets you steady, cautious.

For a split moment, you had forgotten you’re in these robes.

“Mandalorian.” You greet back, thankful you don’t have to hide your voice.

Being under the guise of a handmaid offers you this freedom.

“And may I ask, who is this little one?” You smile and kneel down to the height of the small creature staring up with starry curious eyes.

A moment passes.

“He…is my son.” His words hit you like a blaster shot.

“Your son?” The monarch mentality leaks out momentarily as your voice jumps. You never would’ve hired this hunter knowing he has a child who could be put in harm's way.

“Yes.” The mandalorian nods.

“I’ve never seen him around before.” His little hand must have been the one you saw that first day in the throne room.

The mandalorian’s son curiously shuffles to you. You don’t miss his father’s fists clenching tense, hesitant and cautious, worried about this interaction.

“I…was not sure the queen would allow him to accompany me. So I keep him hidden.”

The baby is adorable with shimmering eager eyes. He rests his tiny hands against your robes. You can hear all your advisors screaming at you to consider releasing this hunter from your duty.

But you can’t now. Not when you tickle his son’s chin and the little one giggles sweet like a bell.

“Don’t worry,” you tell the mandalorian confidently. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“And besides,” you add casually. “Between you and me…The Queen won’t mind. She has a soft spot for little ones.”

You smile as the baby, now deeming you worthy, starts climbing onto your knee.

“What’s his name?” You ask.

“…Grogu.” The mandalorian answers.

As if on cue, Grogu chirps hearing his name and you laugh.

“Well it’s nice to meet you Grogu.” You nod then gently poke his tiny nose.

Infectious giggles greet you.

You then officially introduce yourself to the youngling, and in turn his father, freely giving your name.

Again you can almost hear all your advisors' horrified screams. Of all the things sacred and needed to be hidden, your name is the most important.

Even though the crown keeps you protected under an alias, it doesn’t mean your true identity is forever safe.

But you believe you can trust this warrior.

Or you hope so.

The University’s belltower rings off in the distance. You didn’t realize how late it got. You’d need to head back soon.

Grogu chirps confused when you softly place him back on the grass. His bright moon eyes almost make you stay longer.

“It was wonderful meeting you Grogu. I hope I can see you again soon.” You truthfully tell the little one.

Then you glance at his father.

You knew enough about mandalorian culture to understand how precious children are to them and how protective they are of their own.

Grateful for this moment, you thank the mandalorian for allowing you to meet his son.

Without another word, the warrior silently nods.

This strong hunter with the most adorable son plagues your mind the rest of the day. So much that you rearrange your calendar so you’re available to walk along the lake again.

You continue sneaking back to the lake home as much as you can.

The moments here away from the palace, from the politics and headache, are a precious respite. Currently Grogu watches enraptured by the butterflies fluttering in the air.

You glance back at the lake house secluded in the lush countryside and how it perfectly fits a mandalorian.

“Is this where you’re staying?” You ask.

“Yes. Unless I’m needed at the palace.” The mandalorian answers.

“Thankfully it’s been rather quiet again since you’ve arrived. So I’m grateful for that.” You speak as both handmaid and queen.

“I…” the warrior begins then stops, as if realizing he shouldn’t be saying much.

“You can talk freely. Trust me, whatever you say the queen probably already knows.” You almost dryly laugh at your own joke.

The hunter nods.

“I believe the threat is still at large. Simply hiding and waiting for the right time.” He admits strained.

You agree. It’s what everyone close to you believes as well.

There have been whispers, rumors, of a darkness looming among the edges of space. Now it seems to be slithering into your home.

But for now, you simply hold onto these glimmers of peace - like watching Grogu chase after the butterflies among the field.

His little claws reach for the soft colored creatures, and you think of your own childhood days where you chased after them too. You remember the trick your old tutor taught you when you were little.

So holding out your finger, you wait. Patience pays off. A lone butterfly flutters to land on your finger believing it to be a branch.

Grogu instantly notices, makes a noise of surprise, and scurries over.

But his fast movement scares the butterfly, and it rapidly flies away. The sad confused noise Grogu gives breaks your heart.

“It’s alright, they just get frightened easily.” You explain.

So again you hold your finger out, a welcoming rest spot. This time you place it closer to the baby.

Another butterfly thankfully floats down on your finger.

“Bweh!” Grogu shrieks giddy.

Very steadily, you move your finger closer to Grogu trying not to scare the bug.

“Here… can I see your hand, little one?” You softly ask.

The mandalorian helps his son out, raising Grogu’s little claw besides yours.

The butterfly gently wanders from your finger to Grogu’s hand, and the sweet baby giggles in pure joy.

The bug of course doesn’t stay long and flutters away. But it brings enough excitement to Grougu. He’s completely taken over by twinkling giggles the rest of the time, eagerly chasing after more butterflies.

“Are you often away from the queen for this long?” The mandalorian’s sudden curious question takes you by surprise.

“As long as one handmaiden is with the queen, no protocol is broken.” You effortlessly recite the mandate.

“Besides, we all deserve a bit of fresh air and some time alone.” You add.

From the corner of your eye, the mandalorian nods.

Then, the belltower rings signaling your return.

Grogu, now in his fathers arms, waves at you goodbye then yawns.

Wishing the little one good night you, you then bid the same goodbye to his father.

“Take care, mandalorian.”

“…Din...”

The phrase stills you.

“My name is Din.” He reveals. “Seems only fair since you gave me yours.”

Din, it fits him beautifully.

“Until next time, Din.” A grateful glow swirls in you knowing his name.

You vow to keep it sealed safe in your heart. You wouldn’t be able to use his name while wearing the crown anyway. Faintly, it reminds you how in the same way the mandalorian, Din, would never know your true name as queen.

That realization digs a hollow hole into your heart.

—

Peace doesn’t last long.

The assassin fires shots from one of the high towers near the capitol. Chaos erupts wild and dizzying, sending everyone into a panic.

Except the mandalorian, Din.

Effortlessly he jumps in front of you blocking the second blaster shot with his armor, a literal shield before you.

Once you’re secured safely, your eyes widen witnessing Din in action, flying up to the tower.

Even with the distance, you catch glimpses of the mandalorian fighting before you’re escorted away.

And he’s marvelous.

There’s a swift deadly power to him, a legend of myth right before your eyes.

Then he’s by your side again.

“Are you alright?” He immediately asks returning to you breathless.

You want to ask if he’s the one alright, if Grogu is with him. Instead all you can do is nod, earnestly thanking him.

“He’s doing his job, m’lady.” Hildegard jokes.

But it’s true.

You’re getting tangled in a web of emotions over a man who will vanish from your life once the threats are eradicated.

Yet it still doesn’t stop you from visiting him again. It takes more convincing this time to sneak away, but you’re thankful you still can.

Worried you’ll miss seeing Din and his son, you rush to the lakeside. But you forget how hot the handmaiden robes can get, and exhaustion hits.

Your heart drops seeing the field vacant.

Guess you were too late.

Exhausted and annoyed at yourself, you rip back the robe’s hood allowing yourself a relief of air before you dejectedly walk back to the palace.

Someone says your name, your true name.

Din steps out from the villa, a sleek beautiful hunter emerging from the shadows.

Soon he stands frozen, his sleek helmet focused on you. A moment passes, an awkward stand off of you and him simply staring at each other.

Petrified, you suddenly realize you’re facing the mandalorian without any cover or protection of the robe’s hood.

“Sorry, you must be busy.” You blurt, ready to turn around and scurry away.

Din again says your name.

“It’s fine. I was just gathering my things.” He explains.

“Oh?” The confusion in your voice or on your face must be embarrassingly blatant for him to explain.

“I’ll be staying at the palace full time after today.”

Oh… so you’ll be seeing him more.

“You were amazing today.” Admiration flows from you.

He thanks you with a hesitant mumble, vaguely shy.

“Are you alright? Is Grogu okay?” You immediately ask, knowing those questions have been bothering you since this morning.

“We’re both fine. You should be worried about the Queen.” Din replies firm.

“The queen’s fine.” You snort, hoping he doesn’t notice your dryly amused tone.

“There was an amazing mandalorian that made sure everyone was safe after all.” You mean those words.

Din stays quiet keeping his helmet directed on you. A dread sets in, worried if you’ve overstepped or said something you shouldn’t have.

The sun has just set over the horizon casting an illuminating glow on the planet. It paints the mandalorian a shining warrior bathed in golden glory.

You wonder if you’re staring at him too much.

A familiar coo arrives, and soon after Grogu waddles out of the villa. Witnessing this armored warrior move to cradle his son, who snuggles into his father’s arms, unfolds a warm wave in you.

“I’ll let you two get back to your evening,” you smile gentle as Grogu yawns adorably in agreement.

“And I guess I’ll be seeing you around more.” You half joke with Din.

He dryly chuckles, and the sound is a gift.

“If you’re heading back to the palace I can return with you. So that you’re not walking alone.” He offers and your eyes go wide.

You immediately accept his offer.

With a nudge of his helmet you follow him inside the cabin. The layout is similar to all the other lake homes, except a cluster of weapons sit on the table. You’re in awe knowing he knows how to handle so many of these.

Grogu now wiggles fussy in Din’s hold.

“Here, I can take him.” You offer.

Hearing your words immediately Grogu lifts his little arms towards you ready to be carried.

“Kid,” Din dully sighs.

You reassure Din and happily scoop the baby up. Feeling him snuggle against your shoulder is a precious thing

Din goes silent and returns to gathering his belongings.

Now the night sky casts a blanket of midnight blue over the lake.

Out of the villa, a gleam of silver draws your attention. You inhale sharp but try staying quiet with Grogu sleeping peacefully in your arms.

“Is that a N-1 Starfighter?” Your voice, even whispering, jumps shocked. The familiar bright yellow coating has been stripped, but you could recognize that ship anywhere.

Din chuckles beside you.

“You know your ships.” He sounds impressed.

You didn’t. You just know that one.

You remember seeing the starfighters in your history lessons. They looked like beautiful sea creatures soaring among the clouds. You were heartbroken finding out they were retired.

You even tell all of this to Din.

A humorous thought emerges. You wonder if one dramatic last act as Queen could be you reinstating the starfighters.

“How does it fly?” You ask Din curiously.

“Like a dream.” His wistful voice lets your mind soar into a daydream wondering what it would be like to witness the N1.

“Maybe one day you’ll see it fly.” Din offers and you turn to him, grinning.

“Now that would be a dream.” You warmly mirror his phrase.

If you manage to make it through your final days as Queen, maybe you could beg the mandalorian to let you see the ship in action.

The walk to the palace is peaceful among the lake. You treasure Grogu snoring soundly in your arms, and you’re thankful Din allows you to hold his son.

But approaching the palace, you return the baby back to his father to hide him, just in case.

Your instincts are right. At the very edge of the palace steps, all your advisors, along with the senator and his aids, wait anxiously.

You stayed out too late.

Immediately they spot you with the mandalorian, and the reactions are mixed. You’re however more worried when Din reacts.

“Seems you were needed.” He comments.

“I stayed out later than planned, that’s all.” You half lie.

“Guess I’ll see you tomorrow.” You joke again, and he nods.

Even though you made the joke, you do end up seeing Din much more.

Except as the Queen of Naboo.

He stays in your personal guard close to the head captain. Even when you return to your private study, you’re surprised Din stays, truly acting as a loyal personal guard.

While overlooking legislation orders, a rustling comes. Off to the side, the mandalorian fidgets with his satchel.

Grogu.

“Mandalorian,” you speak in your composed tone. “Are you alright?”

“Yes.” He huffs, trying to sound calm himself.

But it’s too late. One of Grogu’s adorable ears pops out from the satchel. And despite his father’s best attempts to settle him, the baby pokes his entire head out.

Two of your handmaidens gasp excited.

“I apologize.” Din quickly stammers.

You don’t even hide the grin on your face seeing the baby.

“No need to apologize. I’m quite fond of little ones.” You assure Din, remembering what you told him previously.

“Mweh.” Grogu squeaks glancing around at the new room with sparkling curious eyes.

Your handmaidens are already smitten, trying not to rush over to him.

“Is it a pet?” One asks eager.

“No.” Din bluntly answers, and you even feel a bit insulted for him.

Ever the trouble maker, Grogu climbs out of the bag and starts waddling around exploring with ease.

“Kid.” Din sighs, a frustrated parent, and your handmaidens giggle amused.

“It’s fine, mandalorian.” You again reassure him.

Grogu turns to blink curiously up at you. Under the thick ceremonial makeup, wearing your ornate headpiece, you understand how strange you must look to a child.

Instantly he scurries towards you, little clawed hands grabbing the air signaling he wants to be picked up.

Panic seizes your breath.

There’s no way Grogu could recognize you. You rationalize that this is simply him finding your Queen persona interesting.

Din moves to snag Grogu, even saying his name sharp and reprimanding.

But you chuckle swooping down to the little creature first. Your gown today weighs heavier, yet you don’t mind knowing Grogu gets to settle in your arms.

His sweet eyes search your face. You smile politely and gentle. Then his tiny hands press against your cheeks, and a bright smile lights up his face.

And you can’t help it, you smile back.

The curious eyes of your handmaidens burn holes into your face. They whisper like a pack of loth cats plotting their next attack. So diverting their attention you place Grogu back down on the ground letting him roam.

Immediately your handmaids rush kneeling at the baby’s level, completely captivated by the new arrival.

“He seems to enjoy the attention.” You tell Din.

The mandalorian simply hums, an agreeing sound.

You wonder if he’s upset or possibly nervous about all of this.

“Please know he is safe here and free to roam.” You say encouraging, hoping to soothe the tension.

“Thank you…m’lady.” Din replies low, and your heart trips over itself.

It’s the first time he’s ever addressed you by the proper title, and his voice sparks a wildfire.

After this introduction, Grogu happily now enjoys being carried in the arms of your handmaidens or resting openly in Din’s satchel. A little wave of jealousy rises when the baby plays with one of your handmaids during a council meeting. You ache to trade places with her more than ever.

Seeing his son giggle freely unhidden relaxed Din more. He starts walking besides the captain of your guard and chatting with her, the two of them now easy comrades.

Now Din steps in pace right behind you, a beskar coated shadow you think of often.

During a particularly rainy day, you accidentally slip among the sleek stair tiles.

Immediately Din grabs you fast, steadying you from falling. His hand, unwavering and strong, holds you. Your heart thrashes furiously hearing his magnetic voice so close asking if you’re alright.

This unfortunate infatuation towards the mandalorian blooms a wicked weed digging its roots into your heart, and it’s become more unbearable.

Thankfully, your final months as Queen help keep your mind mostly occupied.

After meeting with the current Gungan Boss, you sigh exhausted.

Glancing at the wall, the portraits of monarchs past loom watching you, waiting to see what you do next.

“Many of the queens seem… younger than you.” Din suddenly comments observing the previous rulers.

“Are you calling me old, mandalorian?” You tease as much as your steeled composed tone allows.

“I…” he’s stunned, taken off guard for a minute. It’s adorable. For a split moment you smirk, keeping a laugh firmly locked away.

“I jest.” You recover quickly.

You explain how customarily many of the previous rulers were chosen at a young age, some even children. The belief was that those who possessed a child like wonder and wisdom should rule. Of course, that slowly faded away over time.

“And when the empire arrived?” Din asks.

When the Moff assigned to Naboo arrived, dark days followed. Terror seemed to choke your planet. You quietly tell Din of this.

“I…understand. I’ve seen the damage that can be done because of a Moff’s rule.” An ancient sorrow hangs within his voice.

Your eyes flicker to the shining warrior besides you. Din is striking, incredibly so. A selfish desire grows wishing to know him more, to know the face of the man taking residence in your heart.

Until another asassination attempt reminds you danger persistently lurks ready to steal your peace.

One of the food testers in the kitchen has a dangerous reaction to your meal. Thankfully she is tended to in time and will make it. But these threats grow deadlier.

“This might be … when we should start considering you going into hiding, m’lady.” One of your advisors suggests.

Those words hang over you an ominous storm.

After the recent attempt, you hide in handmaiden robes more.

You shouldn’t be wandering around this late in the night among the hallways, but you can’t sleep.

Turning the corner, you stumble upon Din standing by the hallway’s edge. He focuses on his transmitter, reading a holo message.

Ever a warrior, his keen senses notice someone else is here and he looks up. Not wanting to startle him, you pull back the robe’s hood to reveal yourself.

He exhales your name, and it flutters into your heart.

“It’s been a while.” You sleepily grin.

“Indeed.” He nods, and his voice sounds warmer.

“Been a bit busy around here.” You joke, but a somberness hangs.

“It has.” Even his reply mirrors the underlying tension.

“It’s also been difficult trying to figure out which handmaiden you are.” Din says, as if trying to break the thick tense clouds.

You laugh, and it’s freeing.

“That means it’s working.” You snicker. “No one should know who a handmaid is, much less what they look like.”

Each handmaiden was handpicked because of how similarly they fit your height and vaguely your appearance.

Handmaids are the silent heroes of the crown, quiet protectors ready to step in and surround you any given moment. Guilt festers in you knowing their lives are at risk too.

“And yet… you let me see you.” Din curiously notes, and your chest tightens.

“Well, I trust you.” You tell him simply. And you do, completely and irrevocably.

“Besides, if you decide to do anything suspicious the Queen would be the first to know.” You jest, enjoying the double meaning.

“Never.” He shakes his head earnest.

Under the lowlights of the hallway, Din steps closer. Your fingers itch to touch his beskar, to run the cool armor beneath your touch.

You wonder every night what color his eyes are.

The sound of glass shattering erupts, and suddenly the world blurs. You’re in Din’s arms falling to the floor.

His hand cradles your head from colliding on the hard marble floor. But you don’t have time to process that. Instantly you reach for the small blade hidden in your robes.

“Are you alright?” Din rapidly asks, and you nod stunned.

Someone shot at you through the window.

Someone knows who you are.

—

“You must go into hiding,” Hildegard, ever your most trusted and wise advisor, urges begging now.

Stubborn, feeling raw, exposed, you sit in angered silence. No makeup on, no crown, just a simple soul at the mercy of fate.

“Maybe we should keep the queen here?” Senator Trystan suggests.

“Because…to me, it seems like the Mandalorian isn’t quite living up to the legends told of his people.” He adds dangerously untrusting.

A blazing fury bursts in you.

“I’m alive because of him.” You snap glaring at the senator.

“And he is the only one I’ll trust accompanying me if I must go into hiding.” Your declaration rings absolute, the voice of a ruler.

Yet that night you can’t sleep. Neither can your handmaidens, especially with how curious they are.

“So…are you going to tell us what you were doing with Mando in the hallway?” One of them asks curiously.

Partially lying, you say how you couldn’t sleep and simply ran into him.

“Are you having secret rendezvous meetings with the mandalorian and haven’t been telling us?!” Another handmaiden shrieks giddy, and you rapidly deny.

But it’s hard when the fluttering feelings in your stomach now thrash wanting to fully take flight and escape, revealing your truth.

As playfully pestering as they are, this time with your handmaidens lightens your spirits immensely.

Because you know the looming decision.

The spring equinox here on Naboo will be your official final outing as ruler. That day, you’ll give your final address to the planet, sign your final law into action at the gala, then step down in the eyes of the New Republic.

It will be a momentous day.

For one month until then… you’ll be in hiding.

One moon cycle away from Naboo.

But as declared, you’ll be departing alone with the mandalorian.

A war rages in your heart as you clutch your small pack.

You wish to stay and fight, stand your ground. Yet you understand the danger that will come if you stay.

So walking into the darkness alone, you find a gleaming warrior among it.

A curt nod is how he greets you.

Din has been quiet since your identity was revealed. You wonder if he’s disappointed or angry knowing who you are.

But all the emotions get shoved aside when you see your mode of transportation.

The starfighter gleams glorious under the moonlight.

“Will we fit?” You wonder aloud a bit hesitant.

“Might be a tight squeeze, but we’ll make it. The trip is not too far.” Din answers and his voice again does strange things to your heart.

He wasn’t lying about the tight fit.

You’re practically slotted between his legs in the compact pilot’s seat. His arms reach around you effortlessly readying the systems. Your mind goes over boring litigations and mandates trying not to let it wander into dangerous territory.

Then, the ship bolts to life airborne.

Immediately your gaze flickers back to your home planet watching it drift further away in the night sky.

“Don’t worry,” Din suddenly mutters, comforting. “Everyone will be fine.”

You swallow hard and nod.

The atmosphere dissipates all around until you’re among a sea of stars.

“So…you’re Queen of Naboo.” Din speaks first. It feels like a peace offering.

Your lips twitch back a laugh.

“Apparently.” You joke.

His chuckle lightens the ache trying to consume you.

The trip, as promised, isn’t far.

Nevarro resides in the outer rim. Even though Naboo is considered mid-rim, its bordering location is close to the outer rim, so you know of Nevarro. The planet’s growth and evolution has been admirable to witness.

You find it’s easy to settle in and embrace the planet wholeheartedly.

Or… you embrace Din’s world wholeheartedly.

His home sits peaceful at the edge of the lava flats. You begged him to let you stay at an inn in town so you wouldn’t be a bother. He adamantly shut that option down.

“Being here means I can keep you safe.” He explained.

So now you take the spare room in Din’s abode. The spartan walls, bare minimum furniture, they all strangely perfectly reflect Din. But you enjoy spotting the various stuffed toys littering the floors.

Grogu enjoys being back at home, showing you the pond he loves chasing creatures around.

Suddenly he magically lifts a small frog into the air and you gasp. These abilities…

In secret, you briefly had studied the Jedi, the ways of the force, and knew of the strange abilities that came with it.

“He can use the force?!” You squak, turning to Din.

The mandalorian simply tells you it’s complicated. You don’t press the topic. Yet it makes sense now remembering how Grogu was able to notice you single you out even in your makeup.

He really is a special star. His giggles brighten the home, a joyous little light.

Currently he sleeps peacefully in your arms, belly full from the dinner you cooked.

“A queen who knows how to cook?” Din had joked earlier when went into the market to grab supplies.

“I haven’t always been queen.” You huffed back.

You had a life before your crown, but now you wonder how it will look after.

“What was it like before you were queen?” Sitting besides you outside on the porch, you’re surprised Din is this curious.

This spot here is quickly becoming a favorite of yours. The warm Nevarro air floats thicker than Naboo, yet there’s a gentle comfort to it.

You tell Din of your early university days, secretly holding a dream of abandoning everything to become a rebel spy.

“A spy?” His voice curls amused, and you wish you could see his face.

“I read too many adventure romance tales.” You shrug.

You used to dream of meeting a handsome rebel pilot while fighting for your home planet and then falling in love.

Now your dreams only contain a warrior clad in beskar.

“Were you always a bounty hunter?” You now question Din about his life as much as you can.

You treasure all he gives you, telling you about days hunting bounties across the galaxy until he stumbled upon a certain little green creature.

The mudhorn, the empire hunting Grogu, the days they spent apart from each other… It all led to Din gaining a son. And it’s all because of that single bounty.

“Your job led you to a wonderful gift.” You fondly praise while Grogu snores peacefully against your shoulder.

“Yes...” Din agrees, yet his voice seems to trail off.

“After you step down, what will happen to you?” He softly changes the subject, pressing another question.

One that strikes deep.

“There are two recommended options…” you mutter.

The first choice is to marry a noble and stay within the royal sphere.

The other option is becoming a senator.

For some reason, your heart doesn’t feel compelled thinking of either option.

You aren’t attracted to any of the nobles trying to court you. And the role of a senator is demanding. You already feel frustrated with the state of politics and after being around it for this long…you wish for quieter days.

“What if you don’t want either?” Din sounds somber, yet inquisitive.

You suppose you could simply walk away from everything, slip into the galaxy to become another soul simply passing through.

You’ve never given that option much thought.

“You could stay here.” Din says, and a burst of light crashes into your chest.

Here? With him?

“Nevarro has good housing options. You would always be welcomed here.”

Then his second comment, more formal in tone, becomes a splash of water immediately diminishing any hope wanting to ignite you. You weakly grin.

“You just want me nearby for the free babysitting services.” You joke hoping to quell the heartbreak trying to leak in.

He chuckles amused.

You still earnestly thank him for the offer. But now, the future looms more nebulous than ever.

—

Through secret comlinks and encrypted messages, you discover another assassin tried striking the palace.

“You think it’s a group at work?” You ask Din, sounding more like the concerned ruler you are.

“No, it feels too planned, like the culprit is trying to mislead us or lure you back.” And he sounds like the sharp skilled hunter he is.

“May I ask… why does someone want you dead?” He questions hesitant.

You sigh.

The last law you want to sign into action would undo a final decree the Moff put into order. You want all traces of that evil gone.

“It could be an old sympathizer wanting to stop you.” Din immediately concludes.

That doesn’t narrow down any choices. But you suspect the assassin is connected to someone within your circle since they knew when to attack you even as a handmaid.

Paranoia has you restless, on edge. It’s why you return to your blade.

The familiar self defense moves flow through you. Simple, effective, enough to strike before you can try making an escape.

“Your arms need to move faster.”

You swore Din had been working on the starfighter and with Grogu down for the night, you took the alone time to practice among the fading twilight.

Now he saunters to you eased.

“Your arms have the right motion. They just aren’t steady.” He instructs.

“Well it would be different if someone was attacking me.” You scoff.

“Alright then,” something excited sparks in Din’s voice. “Spar with me.”

You think you misheard him. Then Din pulls out a seasoned, rather deadly looking, vibroblade and stands at the ready.

You stammer out excuses. There’s no way you can fight a mandalorian.

Suddenly he strikes first. Din rushes fast, darting forward and swinging his blade to swipe at you.

It becomes a fast dance, evading and dodging as Din attacks unrelentlessly.

“You haven’t tried striking me.” He doesn’t even sound tired while you’re barely hanging on.

“Because I have a mandalorian after me!” You wheeze frantic, and he chuckles.

Din stops his offensive and places his blade away.

“The way I moved is how you should.”

“I’m not a trained warrior.” You huff catching your breath. Even without seeing his eyes, the way his helmet tilts you know he’s rolling his eyes.

Gently, his gloved hands slide to your arms, and you freeze. Your mind momentarily shutting down. He touches you gingerly, delicate. Then he begins maneuvering you into the same stance he was in.

In a steady patient voice, Din explains every move and guides you through them. The close position, feeling his sturdy build pressing against you, the way his voice oozes with a gentle dominance, it overwhelms you.

Din makes you go through the motions repeatedly, a patient teacher.

“Your stance is good. You were taught well.” He admires, and you shakily thank him.

“Had to be ready as both queen and handmaid just in case.” You say lighthearted trying to battle the raging emotions swirling like a dangerous riptide.

“At first I didn’t understand your guard system or the handmaidens.” Din explains.

“Now I see why you go to great lengths to hide your identity. It reminds me of mandalorian tradition and why we hide our faces.” Din’s voice floats out kind and gentle.

The realization unfurls in you quietly that you almost miss it. You and him have run parallel in different ways, wearing masks to protect yourself and your people.

You’re grateful the force brought you to this man, one you will always hold in your heart even when fate decides to take him away.

You and him practice late into the night. He even lets you spar with his blade. Surprisingly, you take to it well, and Din even notices.

“Keep it.”

You gawk, stunned at his words. Immediately panicking, you tell Din you could never take a weapon from a mandalorian.

“I have another. And trust me, it will be useful if…I’m not around.”

His somber words dig into you, another sharpened knife, one you wish he could take back.

—

Your final week on Nevarro approaches and sorrow tangles itself around you constricting. You’ve grown attached to this planet. You’ve made friends with the floral shop keeper. The merchant who sells your favorite dried fruits now jokes with Din wondering how a grumpy mandalorian snagged someone as lovely as you.

You laugh weakly at the jokes, yet Din stays silent.

The silence has multiplied between you and Din, creating a terrifying canyon separating you from him.

Grogu senses it. Whimpering, he stubbornly tries hanging onto both you and Din more.

You shove away tears at night.

This dream, this carved out home you’ve started settling into…you knew it was going to end eventually. You just became so foolish hoping it wouldn’t.

Slowly, you start packing, childishly dragging your feet as if it will prolong your stay.

A knock arrives at your door, and it slides open.

“Can I show you something?” Din’s voice, hesitant and cautious, snaps your spine straight.

You agree without hesitation.

With Grogu currently enjoying a play date with one of the children in town, it’s just you and Din together for the day.

But you regret your choice of not accompanying the baby when you realize you’ll be jumping back into the starfighter.

Having Din’s arms enclosed around you, his strong chest pressing against your back, all the close proximity heats your skin, a reminder of what you’ll be losing in just a few days.

“You said you wanted to one day see how she flies.” Din says soft.

You technically had seen her fly when Din brought you here. Unfortunately your mind was so foggy you honestly couldn’t savor the journey.

“You didn’t get to see much last time. So…Let’s stretch out her legs.” Din’s voice holds a proud smile.

Your eyes widen. He remembered. Before you can say anything else, you become one with the wind.

Din was right. The N1 soars like a dream. She glides gracefully among the craters and canyons, dipping low among the lava flats and zooming with ease past the town.

But you also realize, Din is an amazing pilot. He effortlessly maneuvers the ship with a fluid flow and striking awareness. As if you couldn’t be anymore attracted to him, knowing he’s not just an amazing warrior but an incredible pilot makes your blood hum.

“You’re amazing.” You tell him earnest and true.

You swear his arms curl around you tighter.

“Ready to see the best part.” He purrs, sounding eager.

“Wait, best part?” You can’t imagine what’s next.

He points to a switch and when he hits it, you fly out of your body reaching a speed you never expected.

And it’s dazzling.

You laugh bright and alive. The weightless sensation overflows into your bones.

The atmosphere melts away as Din pushes the ship to the very edges of the planet.

The stars float just out of your reach, twinkling with knowing eyes.

Suddenly, Din lets the ship drop. The N1 plummets into a free fall that has your stomach jumping into your mouth. You almost scream.

In the descent, Din quickly spins the starfighter swiftly, a dramatic turn that sends it flying fast in a new direction. The move is a trick, one he seems to be showing off proudly.

You laugh breathlessly relieved.

“You know I’m still queen. I can punish you for that!” You wheeze.

“I’d like to see you try, m’lady.” He challenges back amused. You grin wild and greedy hearing the title.

The flight, the exhilaration, it dissipates the tension of this week, almost purifying you. Because now you notice… you’ve fully melted against Din’s chest.

Your head even leans back to rest against his helmet.

Yet Din hasn’t moved you.

The silence thickens as he flies the ship back towards town.

“Thank you for showing me this.” You mutter, barely able to get those words out.

Din’s helmet nods moving against the side of your head. One of his hands leaves the control panel and gently rests against your thigh.

You and him remain this close the rest of the flight.

The next time you’re in the N1 -

You’re flying home to Naboo.

The entire flight is silent.

You sit as furthest away from him as physically possible within the cramped space. Din maneuvers the controls and trying to keep yourself steeled, composed, your eyes focus on his movements.

That’s when you catch it.

His gloves shift and a sliver of his skin is exposed.

Sun kissed and beautiful, you think you just imagined it. Until you notice it again when Din steers the ship out of the atmosphere.

Countless nights you thought about what he looked like under his helmet, wondering how his lips would feel against yours. Now you’re allowed this one small peek at the man beneath the armor, and a dangerous greed immediately slithers in.

Your lips ache to kiss that spot, that glimmer of Din unmasked.

Greed morphs into a deadly lust. You imagine yourself, if you were braver, grabbing his wrist and lifting it to your lips to kiss him, taste him, at least once.

How would he react if you did that? Embrace you? Reprimand you?

Punish you in a way that turns filthy…

You wonder how extra tight this cramped space would be trying to ride him in, to feel the heat between you and him build into a blazing cloud. Even now, if you concentrate hard enough in this terrifyingly quiet flight, you can hear his soft breathing, his gentle exhales modulated through the helmet.

Your mind melts thinking of him whispering deep against your ear as he thrusts up into you-

Instantly your mouth goes dry at the erotic thought and you close your eyes, trying to reset yourself.

When you open your eyes, Naboo approaches fast, a gorgeous gemstone among the stars. Your dreams and lustful wishes shatter like broken titles leaving you feeling empty to pick up the pieces.

—

Your final gown as Queen gleams stitched with a final goodbye. It’s glorious, dripping in grandeur and beauty. Wearing it, clusters of emotions clash with each other. You’ve allowed yourself a minute alone just to compose yourself. Giving one final glance at a mirror, you silently bid farewell to this piece of you.

A knock comes, and one of your handmaid's pops her head into the room.

“Senator Trystan wishes to speak with you.”

Of course you let him in.

The familiar face beams at you proud.

“You look splendid, m’lady.” The senator bows his head, and you thank him.

He updates you on the various monarchs and other planetary senators who have arrived. Your mind unfortunately only thinks of one beskar wearing guest.

Tonight is your last night with Din. Once the grand event finishes and if you remain safe, he would receive his hefty sum. Your paths will seperate.

He hasn’t spoken more than five words to you since you’ve returned. You’ve barely seen Grogu either.

You understand the rush of trying to prepare for everything has kept you busy. But you catch the looks your handmaidens give you of heartbroken understanding as though they can sense the turmoil in you.

Your mind, even now, feels like it could burst holding so many thoughts.

Then footsteps stamped forward.

The senator, blade in hand, lunges at you.

A surprised scream escapes you before you swiftly move, jumping into action.

Pulling out your vibroblade, Din’s blade, you swipe at the traitor.

The moves Din taught, his weapon, they become your saving grace.

You keep the attacker on his toes. But Senator Trystan acts fast stepping on your gown causing you to trip before you can run to the door.

You fall hard onto the floor. Hissing in pain, your eyes close.

Move, a voice in your head sounding intensely like Din, urges you to react.

Then a thundering collision crashes into your chambers, and your eyes snap open.

One moment the senator stands poised above you, blade in hand ready to attack. The next he’s gone.

Scrambling up, you discover Din wrestling Senator Trystan onto the floor.

“The Moff was right!” The traitor screams in anger trying hard to thrash against Din’s hold.

“You’re pathetic!” You snarl back.

“You are ruining our world!” Sentaro Trystan screeches staring you down. “Long live the empire-”

Din aggressively knocks the raging senator unconscious.

Immediately your handmaidens and a few healers rush to your side tending to you, trying to calm you down.

A thick haze swirls in your mind. Senator Trystan was the one behind the assassinations. Why hadn’t you noticed it?

Suddenly a warm gloved hand grabs yours and squeezes. Blinking out of the mental haze, Din now kneels before you. The stark black visor of his helmet stares unwavering.

He whispers your name.

Tiny little hands climb their way up your gown. Glancing down, you find Grogu staring up and whimpering worried. You stroke his soft head and it eases you and him both.

“Are you alright, m’lady?” Din asks cautious, concerned.

You nod still slightly overwhelmed.

“I owe you my life, mandalorian.” You tell him through a shaking voice.

Din doesn't reply, instead squeezes your hand tighter. The exhaustion slowly creeping into your body begs you to lean forward, to rest against Din’s shoulder. But you don’t know how he’ll react.

And even if you did try to lean on him, you noticed your grand headpiece would’ve gotten in the way of you moving closer to Din, a literal barrier reminding you of the truth.

New Republic officers along with the rest of your advisors and guards storm in.

You’re grateful the threat is over, eternally in debt to Din. But the truth settles in cold and bleak. Your time is up. The mandalorian will be leaving you.

“Your reward will be doubled.” Hildegard says grateful through tears patting Din on the shoulder.

“I was just…doing my job.” He nods curt.

A job, that’s all you are.

You eventually hand Grogu to one of your handmaidens. This night will be busy. Din however refuses to leave your side.

“She needs to rest.” Din orders sharp after realizing you’re still attending the gala.

“I can rest once this is all over.” Your monarch's voice, the voice of a queen, slips in.

Din remains silent.

Even though you feel caught in the waves of a turbulent sea, a queen must bottle all those things and store them away.

So wearing your crown proudly, you sign your final law into motion and hold your head high.

The previous queens still alive arrive at your side. You kneel, and their hands lift the weight of a planet from you.

Queen no more.

Among the roar of applause, among the illustrious crowd, your eyes only seek out one guest.

Din leans against a column, hands crossed over his chest sticking out a sore thumb. And he’s beautiful.

“I suppose you want this back.” You hold out his blade waiting for him to take it.

His helmet shakes an adamant no.

“I told you, it’s yours now. Knowing it kept you safe is even more reason for you to keep it.”

A thick sorrow and adoration, the strangest mixture, shred your heart wide open. But under the glimmering lights, along the magnificent marble ballroom, you have to seal everything away tight.

The Gala is a gorgeous celebration, the triumph of Naboo slowly returning to its beauty. The Gungan Boss teases how his nephew would make a fine match now that you’re available for marriage. He isn’t the only one making suggestions.

Many suitors from noble families blatantly make their courting intentions known. You smile with as much grace as you can.

One of the noblemen, a man you vaguely remember from your university days, even gets bold and places a kiss on your hand when he bids you farewell.

“It seems royal marriage is what everyone wants for you.” Din comments stiffly.

You stay quiet, numb.

“What do you want?” He asks.

Your eyes return to him, his glorious helmet, and you wish more than ever to know his eyes.

“What I want doesn’t matter.” You reply just as stiff.

“But it does. You deserve to make that decision.” He argues low, deadly, reminding you of the bounty hunter he is.

“Maybe who I want doesn’t want me back.” Your words strike sharp under your breath.

“Who…who do you want?”

Terror barrels in hearing Din’s question. You didn’t even realize you had said who.

Din’s stare, even without seeing his eyes, is unflinching.

An overwhelming panic overtakes you like a feral rancor.

So you flee, scurrying away fast.

Immediately you tell your advisors and handmaidens you need to be excused, saying how the rush of the night has finally caught up to you.

Understanding, everyone allows you to slip away from the gala’s ballroom towards the palace.

But ever the persistent shadow, Din stays close behind.

“I don’t need your services anymore, mandalorian.” You snap, refusing to turn around to him.

“I’m your guard until the night ends.” He growls back.

“I thought our agreement was fulfilled when the threat was discovered. Besides, my crown is gone. You can leave Din Djarin.” Your voice bounces off the empty hallways like an angered ghost.

Earlier, the new republic officers had scanned his chaincode and when you heard his full name, it felt like a final goodbye.

“Is that what you want? For me to leave?” Din’s tone cuts deadly, stopping you in the middle of the hallway.

You don’t want him to go. You never want to leave him.

Din says your name, pleading.

“It doesn’t matter what I want. Leave.” You robotically order, except your voice cracks, and you regret speaking.

You force yourself to move forward.

He doesn’t follow, and your footsteps echo alone in the hallway.

Arriving at your chambers, your hands shake as you wipe away tears.

Queen no more, now all alone.

A solid knock arrives at your door making you jump out of your skin.

Still worried from earlier, you cautiously open the door, holding Din’s blade at the ready.

Then you slide it open fully and let the weapon drop instantly.

Din stands in the doorway.

“Tell me what you want, who it is you want. And then you will never see me again.” A plea aches in the mandalorian’s voice.

“It’s you, Din…” you sob, unable to hold it in anymore. “I want you, you ridiculously stubborn man-”

His warmth is engulfing. His strong arms wrap around you tight with the promise of never letting go. Beskar presses hard and unyielding, but you welcome it.

Your arms wrap around him just as tight.

“When I thought you were just a handmaid, I searched for you every time and I felt guilty. I knew my loyalty needed to be with the queen, when all I wanted to do was protect you.” His voice whispers soft, tender, soaking into your bones.

“It was only until I realized… I’ve been protecting you this entire time.” He squeezes you tighter.

Gravity shifts. Your orbit now becomes tied to this warrior.

Gently, you lean out of his embrace to stare at him. Placing your hand against his helmet, imagining his cheek below your palm, you reverently stroke the sacred beskar.

“My future is with you, whatever it is. I want it to be with you, Din.” You tell him through watery croaks.

A gloved hand now holds your face. Din exhales your name, delicate and reverent. Then he moves forward.

His helmet leans against your forehead, a holy act that makes your eyes close. The cool beskar against your skin feels like a sealed vow, the promise of a kiss and the hope of many to come.

Now, no crown keeps you from him.

—

Sunlight gently wakes you.

Your mind groggily starts thinking over the things you have to do today. An exasperated sigh escapes you.

The bed is cozy. You don’t want to leave, but you need to. So wearily you wiggle to slip out from the covers.

Until a solid sturdy arm drags you back into the blankets, pulling you against a warm broad bare chest.

“You can’t keep me in bed all day.” You mutter half asleep, half amused.

“We’re on our honeymoon. We’re allowed to stay in bed all day.” Din’s voice, unmodulated and thick with sleep, drips with pure delicious decadence.

Soft kisses pepper your bare shoulder. The soft scrape of his facial hair, the tickle of his mustache, feel glorious.

“We did that yesterday. And the day before that.” You remind him amused.

“Then today should be our final time.” Din smirks, nipping at your shoulder while his hands map out your skin.

“There’s still things I need to do for the coronation.” You try sounding determined, but your voice instead is a dreamy sigh, blissed in pure newlywed reverie.

“A queen’s job is never finished.” He teases letting his lips kiss across your jaw lazyly.

“Not a queen anymore.” You cheekily remind him, and your hand reaches back to run into his soft curls.

You’re a wife now, a title you cherish just as much as Queen.

“Always will be a queen to me… m’lady.” He mutters into your skin.

Immediately his words make you twist in his arms. You take a quick glance at your husband - your incredible husband with the most gorgeous rich soil soulful eyes. Then you lean forward to kiss him fierce.

Din meets your frenzy passion with a steadiness that disarms you. He kisses you slowly, unworried, like he plans to savor every moment, and you become a cloud ready to float into his atmosphere.

Then a small crash comes from the living room. An amused little giggle reveals the culprit.

You and Din now sigh for another reason.

“We should have let your handmaids keep him another day.” Din mumbles.

You laugh swatting at his shoulder.

With a final playful kiss, you grab your robe and slip out of bed.

Grogu squeals excitedly seeing you. Scooping him up into your arms, you kiss his sweet adorable cheeks.

“You adorable little trouble maker.” You snicker ticking his tummy.

You don’t even mind that Grogu knocked over the lovely congratulations bouquet the gungan boss sent. Your son’s giggles are worth it.

The morning sun dances beautifully across the grand Naboo lake. Sitting among the lush grass, you now watch Grogu once again chase after the fluttering butterflies.

Heavy boots crunch approaching. Then Din presses against you. You snuggle closer to lean against his paladin covered shoulder. His arm slides to curl you even closer into his side.

“Always hoped we would get to come back here.” Din admits.

You did too. It’s why when the coronation for the next Queen of Naboo arrived, coincidentally taking place just a month after your wedding, you eagerly convinced Din to take a break from Nevarro to return to this special place.

“Thank you for bringing us back.” You tell him grateful, pressing a kiss to his beskar.

“No, thank you for suggesting this.” You knew Din was kind hearted before. But now, as your husband, he shows you a pure adoration that doesn’t feel real at times.

“They will need you at the palace soon.” Your mandalorian reminds you gently.

He’s right of course. So many events, things to plan, all wait for you.

But for a few more moments, you stay within the golden glow of your little family…simply letting the butterflies dance all around.

[fayes-fics]

Mirror, Mirror

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: When Benedict's wife tries on his clothes, things happen...

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, cross-dressing, clothing kink, light biting, breast play, a smidge of intercrural sex, very mild exhibitionism, mirror sex, vaginal sex.

Word Count: 2.2k

Authors Note: Request fill for @d-caryophyllus (HERE) about Benedict being aroused by his wife dressing up in his clothing. I hope this fits what you were hoping for, my dear. Thanks as ever to @colettebronte for the beta read. Yes, the title is a nod to Season 3, lol. Err, enjoy! <3

It’s early in the morning on a mundane Thursday when a somewhat daring idea forms in your mind. 

Fresh out of your morning bath, you dismiss your maid quietly when usually she would assist you with dressing for the day. As the double doors click closed discreetly behind her, you glance through the open archway into your bedroom; heavy curtains still drawn there, obscuring the sunlight. In the darkness, you can just decipher the outline of your husband sleeping soundly after a late night of carousing with his brothers.

With a little secret smile, you decide that, yes, now is the perfect time. He is asleep, and you have a few hours to spare until your first social engagement - a ladies' luncheon - so why not use the time to satisfy your curiosity?

You stride to your husband's side of the dressing room, opening his wardrobe doors and running your fingers over the items within—a symphony of wools, silks and cotton, all luxurious to the touch. While he is arguably one of the more flamboyantly dressed men of the Ton, with eye-catching jewel-toned waistcoats and colourful cravats, the basics of his outfit are mostly the same every time: dark trousers and a white shirt. A large part of you is envious of that easier choice. Sometimes, it feels like a veritable minefield being a woman during the social season, the looming threat of an unintended fashion faux pas simply by wearing the wrong colour to the wrong event.

Upon a chair, you spy the outfit he discarded when he came home in the early hours, not yet tidied away by your staff. You decide this shall be your choice, a frisson that they are already worn.

Dropping your bathrobe from your shoulders, you grab the pair of his trousers and pull them on. The finely woven wool feels plush on your skin, and there is an undeniable novelty in having fabric between your thighs. They are, however, almost comically long for you, and you have to bend to roll them up a few times around your ankles. Bemused, you briefly catch sight of your reflection in the full-length dressing room mirror, topless in oversized trousers. 

You snatch his white shirt and pull it on, pausing to tug the ruffled lapels up to your face and inhale deeply, enjoying the flood of scent there. His woodsy citrus cologne, yes, but also that undercurrent that is all him. That tang you cannot help but bury your face into, be it upon his pillow when he is away or his body while you cling to him, moving together in ecstasy. 

You fasten a few buttons, then tuck the shirt into the trousers and loop the braces hanging loose around your hips up onto your shoulders, once again inspecting your reflection in the mirror with a wry smile, twisting this way and that, admiring how different you look dressed in his clothing.

“Wife, what are you doing?” 

You almost jump out of your skin as that velvet tone, slightly roughened by sleep, calls out from across the room. You twist to see Benedict leaning casually upon the archway into the dressing room, shooting you a look that is pure menacing intrigue while looking like sin himself—all riotous bedhead, and, as your eyes slip further down, gloriously naked. It makes you swallow hard.

“I… I was trying on your clothes,” you stumble sheepishly, a blush creeping over your cheeks being caught doing something perhaps rather bizarre. 

“Any reason?” he queries, bemused, that crooked smile claiming his features.

“They just seem so much more practical and comfortable—especially trousers. I would like to wear such things…” you confess, turning back to the mirror to appraise your appearance again, watching him prowl towards you in the reflection. “Are… are you vexed with me, husband? For taking such liberties?” Your words petering out, mildly abashed.

A large, warm hand wraps around your shoulder, yanking you back almost roughly, making you gasp as your shoulder blades collide with his chest.

“The precise opposite,” he rumbles, his eyes meeting yours in the mirror, a sudden burning intensity that makes your lungs feel tight. 

Long fingers spider down his brocade brace, draped down your chest, lingering where the strap rests over your nipple, swiping his thumb in a deliberate tease, his face triumphant as you swoon back into him from just this simple touch. 

“My clothes look much better upon you than me,” he opines duskily, his lips tracing your temple as his fingertips push the brace aside to capture your nipple through the thin cotton shirt, making you inhale sharply. “Perhaps we should attend a party with you dressed like this?”

“That would be a scandal!” 

There is a vault in your stomach at the idea of attending a social event dressed in his clothes, even as you melt under his questing touch.

“Not in the more… bohemian… circles that I know of…” he contends; his breath is a warm gust in your ear as his other hand does the same, fondling both nipples now.

He waits until you meet his gaze in the mirror again, then lowers his lips to your neck and bites gently. His incisors a faint scrape, immediately soothed by a wide, wet lathe of his tongue. A little crest of victory as something sizeable stirs against the cleft of your bottom. 

“If I were dressed as you, then what would you wear, husband?” 

“Whatever you would like, my darling,” he offers between soft, damp kisses, a tingle running up your neck from his lips to the top of your scalp. “I could wear your clothing should you wish it. Or perhaps just your corset and underwear?” He nuzzles into you, taking a deep breath. “Our little secret…”

Something about his tone, the images he concocts, makes your blood run warm, your hand reaching up and diving into his luscious hair, tugging gently upon his roots so again he feels compelled to use his teeth, a groan bubbling up from within as he does. With a flick of his wrists, the braces fall from your shoulders, and he cups your breasts through his thin cotton shirt. It makes you sigh his name, asking for more, arousal coursing thickly through your veins—a yen to be taken right away. 

“The thought arouses you, does it not?” he correctly surmises, trailing his touch down over the shirt, brushing your ribs and belly to the fastening on the trousers, making short work of the buttons.

You nod demurely, biting your lip as you watch his dextrous hands in the mirror, his arms encircling you; it is almost as if he is removing them from himself. The air feels heady as he pushes the loosened fabric from around your frame, and it hits the rug with an audible thump.

Standing before him in just his ruffled white shirt with only a few buttons fastened, you feel his weighted stare in the mirror, lingering on the patch of hair at the apex of your thighs peeking out between the shirt sides.

“I shall prefer you keep this on…” he asserts, popping open a button over your chest so the fabric opens enough for him to slide a hand inside, tweaking your nipple and pulling you back into his frame, rutting his now solid cock against your bottom.

You turn your head to press your lips to his, imploring for more of his touch in a fervent whisper before seeking a kiss. His mouth is hot on yours, rolling his tongue with yours, endless caresses of your breasts as you burn so hot you rub your thighs together in delicious anticipation of more, already more than ready for him, your clit pulsing with each tease of his tongue.

“Here?”

You know what he is asking—if you wish to have sex right where you stand, in front of your dressing mirror, his shirt loose around your body, him naked behind you.

“Yes. Yes please…” you murmur into his mouth, rolling your body against him, telegraphing unmistakable need.

“The window is open,” he points out with a smirk, nodding towards a high window that allows in light to the dressing room but affords you not to be seen; it is open this morning to let in the summer breeze. “What if we are heard?”

“I care not,” you confess, exhaling jaggedly, knowing he likes you in this state, desperate and debauched, uncaring if you may be overheard in your pursuit of pleasure. 

Rubbing yourself upon him akin to a feline in heat, moving so his cock passes teasingly between your thighs now as you writhe. He groans and tells you not to stop, hissing his approval. So you squeeze your legs together tightly, allowing him to rut between them, the pass of his cock glancing maddeningly over your engorged clit.

His touch becomes heavier, hands mapping your body as his hips surge, and you see the red, weeping tip of his cock emerging and disappearing in the mirror, an intoxicating sight. You moan lightly with every pass, a tantalising swipe, not enough to bring you real pleasure, just notching your want higher.

He finally takes pity upon you, angling his hips differently and driving into you; you, moaning at the invasion so deep and encompassing, rocked up onto your tiptoes. Every time he has entered your body, it's always the same: a force that steals your breath and makes your eyes roll. His hands are a firm grip around your waist as he withdraws slowly back, then surges in again, capturing your earlobe in his teeth as he does.

As your eyes meet in the mirror, you idly wonder how many other wives are watching themselves being fucked by a handsome husband like this; a bright weekday morning, birdsong wafting in on the scented breeze, body wrapped only in his shirt. You suspect none are quite so lucky.

You moan his name and arch back against him, wrapping your hands around his neck and watching yourself being taken, relying on him to keep your stance steady as he starts to fuck into you in earnest, large hands sliding up to cup your breasts, engulfing them in his warm palms.

Unable to stop the noises you make, each pass hitting all the spots inside that make your toes curl into the thick pile of the rug beneath your feet, your pussy clenching around his invasion, making him growl and move faster, taking you harsher, an onslaught that is as pleasurable as it is powerful.

His mouth is a breathy litany of praise into your cheekbone, your eyes fluttering closed to focus on the carnal moment - the sweat, the skin, the ragged breaths, the meeting of your bodies so primal and glorious, but he has other ideas.

“Look at yourself,” he purrs dulcetly, your eyes reopening to do as he asks, to watch this unrestrained moment of passion, to see the little marks blooming on your body from where his fingers dig into your flesh as he pounds into you now, a flourish of colour on your neck from his thorough attention.

You plead for more throatily, pushing back as best you can against his thrusts, wanting him to make you scream, uncaring of any audience inside or outside your townhouse, only craving the sweet, blissful release he always provides.

Abruptly, he wrenches open the shirt you wear, one button pinging forward and tinking against the mirror before skittering across the floor, your naked body framed by his crisp white shirt, the ruffled lapels tickling the sides of your breasts, catching sight of his handsome face in the mirror contorted in a passionate tempest.

Then one hand slides down your front, you feeling it rippling in your belly and seeing it in your reflection before you until those fingers slide between your legs and hook over your clit with a force that steals the air from your lungs, a sharp stab of pleasure that makes your knees buckle, him pausing in his motions briefly to brace your weight, keep you upright.

Then it is a blur as he restarts his motion, his fingers dance on your swollen pearl, slipping silkily over his touch as he grunts encouragements. It feels like you are circling for so long, so close to something mind-blowing, but then he flicks harshly with his fingernail and bites your neck, and you are hurtling. Everything is loud and quiet at once, no doubt your voice calling his name as you tumble over the edge, clenching hard around him as your whole body shatters and rebuilds in a blissful puzzle. Dimly, as you float, you feel his entire body tense, and with a roar, he follows you over, a warmth blooming inside you as he reaches completion. 

There are a few moments of panted breaths as you both recover from the intensity before he spins you around and sweeps you into his arms, carrying you back to bed. There, he lays you down gently and proceeds to turn you into a molten, quivering pile, mapping your body with his lips and fingers until you are begging for him again, which he more than obliges. So much so you are almost late for your social engagement.

If there are a few derogatory looks as you swan into the ladies' luncheon with a blissful smile and a burgeoning mark on your neck from your husband's amorous intentions, well, so be it. You wouldn't change it for the world.

And it is also most definitely not the last time you dress up in his clothes…

Benedict taglist pt 1: @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @sya-skies

[leriexoxo]

SKZ HEADCANONS

Stray Kids And Their Styles Of Dominance (OT8)

SUBMISSION>>

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

🔥 Chan – The Overwhelming One

Type: Control freak in the bedroom. He’s the type to whisper “Don’t hold back, baby. Let me hear everything.”

Kinks: Praise, edging, light bondage (especially with your wrists tied above your head), overstimulation, heavy eye contact.

Energy: Sweaty, breathy, emotional sex. Will ruin you gently over hours and then apologize with a kiss and go again.

Power Move: Pulls your legs over his shoulders and says, “You can take one more for me, right?”—even when you’re already shaking.

🔥 Lee Know – The Mean Tease

Type: Sarcastic, controlled, cruel with love. He likes seeing you squirm, blush, beg.

Kinks: Degradation (light to medium), orgasm denial, spanking, mirror sex, pet names used mockingly —“Good girl? You think that was good?”.

Energy: Slow and precise. The kind of man who’ll edge you for an hour and finish in 5 minutes just to make a point.

Power Move: Makes you say exactly what you want, in humiliating detail, before giving it to you—if at all.

🔥 Changbin – The Powerhouse

Type: Cocky and physical. Wants to wreck you but also make you feel worshipped while doing it.

Kinks: Breeding kink, hair pulling, size kink (he knows), possessive dirty talk.

Energy: Grunts in your ear and pins your wrists above your head while whispering, “Who’s making you feel this good, huh?”

Power Move: Picking you up mid-thrust and fucking you against a wall like it’s nothing.

🔥 Hyunjin – The Sensual Sadist

Type: Loves slow, passionate teasing—then suddenly flips the switch. Touch-starved, but dangerous.

Kinks: Sensory play (ice, silk, blindfolds), choking, begging, body worship (both ways).

Energy: Eye contact that makes you melt. He’ll cry during sex and still wreck your soul.

Power Move: Makes you cry from a mix of pleasure and overstimulation, then kisses your tears away while still inside you.

🔥 Han Jisung – The Filthy Flirt

Type: Playful, chaotic, dangerously quick to turn serious. Always ready. Talks dirty like he was born for it.

Kinks: Exhibitionism, roleplay, oral fixation, mutual masturbation, audio/phone sex.

Energy: Gets off on how loud you get, how messy it becomes. Laughs while fucking you like a demon.

Power Move: Makes you come in public—without touching you—by whispering exactly what he’ll do later.

🔥 Felix – The Quiet Menace

Type: Soft voice, not soft in bed. Looks sweet while being filthy. Low-voiced dirty talk will destroy you.

Kinks: Voice kink (his and yours), praise, cockwarming, thigh riding, lowkey dom aftercare.

Energy: Says “You’re doing so well for me, sweetheart” while ruining you from behind, hand in your hair.

Power Move: Makes you ride him while he leans back, hands behind his head, smirking like the devil.

🔥 Seungmin – The Sarcastic Threat

Type: Cold, slow-burning dominance. Mean, dry humor during sex. Gets meaner when he’s horny.

Kinks: Brat taming, overstimulation, verbal degradation, rough missionary, hand over your mouth.

Energy: “Were you this needy earlier when you were pretending not to care?” before fucking the attitude out of you.

Power Move: Laughs at how loud you’re getting, then says “Guess I’ll have to go deeper, huh?”

🔥 Jeongin – The Hidden Weapon

Type: Sweet-smiling menace. Doesn’t seem dangerous—until he’s got you pinned and crying.

Kinks: Power play, teasing dom, face fucking, manhandling, thigh grabbing, jealousy sex.

Energy: The kind of guy who’ll gently push your head down, say “You wanted this, right?” then wreck your throat.

Power Move: Pulls out halfway just to watch you beg for it again—and laughs while doing it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Requests for ONLY headcanons are open for now. Please note that I prefer to respond to non anonymous requests, cause I’m pretty serious about minors not interacting with me 🧡

Taglist: @tsunderelino @innieandsungielover @inlovewithstraykids @reignessance @jeonismm @sttnficrecs @herejusttemporary @krssliu @kenia4 @miilquetoast @thackery-blinks @leeminho-hall @suga-is-bae @butterflydemons @inejghafawifesblog @malunar28replies @minchanlimbo @mal-lunar-28 @breakmeofftbr @itvenorica124 @slut4junho @deepblueocean97 @thequibbie @yaorzu-blog @imagine-all-the-imagines @just-bria @mischievousleeknow @ifyxu @melanctton @thelostprincessofasgard @binniebb @sillylittlecat1 @darkwitchoferie @m-325 @headfirstfortoro @imseungminsgf @ihrtlix @vernorica123 @hwangjoanna @swordswallower2000 @niki007 @yxna-bliss @firelordtsuki @justwonder113 @mbioooo0000 @sammhisphere @nebugalaxy @cutecucumberkimberly @chancloud8 @sunflwerstar

[winxanity-ii]

FIRST [1/?]

ship: virgin!telemachus x fem!virgin!brothel worker!reader warnings: explicit ( oral f. receiving only / mutual virginity / heavy fanservice / soft dominance ) word count: 6.3k (strap up, babes, this is a long one~) a/n: y'all i don't know why but i've been SO embarrassed about this lil fic just sitting in my docs 😭😭 like i fully forgot i'm grown (20) and can post what i want??? even then i guess it's just the lil-nerd in me who just giggles/squirms when faced with my own smut 💀💀 but yeah this is a oneshot that started as a silly thought (aka virgin!telemachus with virgin!reader and then turned into a whole thing and now i'm in love with telemachus and maybe crying a little?? anyway. pls enjoy this soft, heated, reverent mess of a fic. (also someone come get Peisistratus for being a menace) 💀🩷✨✨ idk might do part 2 if i can get over this block 😭😭

★·.·´🇪‌🇵‌🇮‌🇨‌: 🇹‌🇭‌🇪‌ 🇲‌🇺‌🇸‌🇮‌🇨‌🇦‌🇱‌ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

The tavern was too loud for a place still mourning.

Laughter clanged like armor. Mugs slammed against wood. Someone was playing a lyre too fast, too off-key, but the crowd didn't care—they were drunk on peace, drunk on wine, drunk on finally.

And maybe Telemachus should've been, too.

He sat at the far end of the long table, boots planted, tunic a little looser than usual. There was still a sword at his hip—habit, not threat—but he hadn't had to reach for it in weeks. The suitors were gone. His father had returned. His mother no longer cried into candlelight. Ithaca breathed again.

So why couldn't he?

"Drink," said Peisistratus, pushing a cup toward him. "If you're going to stare like that, at least look mysterious while doing it."

Telemachus blinked. "I wasn't—"

"Yes, you were," his friend grinned. "Whole brooding prince thing? Very effective. That barmaid's been eyeing you since we walked in."

Telemachus turned, just in time to see her saunter off after dropping another round of drinks. She had smiled at him, he thought. Maybe lingered. He hadn't noticed.

He glanced back at Peisistratus, sheepish. "She was just being polite."

"She was being polite with her chest, my guy."

Telemachus sputtered into his wine.

Peisistratus leaned back with the smugness only the youngest son of a king could afford. "Gods, you're hopeless. What do they do in Ithaca, anyway? Stitch tapestries? Pray? Practice self-restraint until you die untouched?"

"We defend our homes," Telemachus said, wiping his mouth. "We hold our families together. I didn't exactly have time to entertain women while men ate my mother's food and planned to take her bed."

Peisistratus groaned. "Still reciting war monologues, huh? Your house is intact, your mom's safe, your dad's alive, and you—you've still never—"

"Don't." Telemachus glanced around, lowering his voice. "You don't have to announce it."

"Then deny it."

He said nothing.

Peisistratus stared. "Telemachus."

Still silence.

The prince of Pylos let out the most exaggerated gasp Telemachus had ever heard. "You are—!"

"I never had time, okay?" Telemachus snapped, heat rushing to his cheeks. "And it's not like I—like anyone—I mean, I could have, maybe, once or twice, but—"

"Spare me." Peisistratus slammed the mug down. "You've been home for weeks. Women all over the castle smiling like doves in heat. And you've done nothing?"

Telemachus opened his mouth. Closed it.

"...You're impossible."

"I'm cautious," he rebuttled.

"You're cursed."

Telemachus rolled his eyes. "You said we were celebrating your last night in Ithaca, not my alleged virginity."

"And we are." Peisistratus stood up suddenly. "Which is why we're fixing that."

Telemachus tensed. "What are you doing?"

"Getting you out of your own head." The younger prince grabbed his wrist. "Come on."

"Wait—"

"I know a place."

"Peisistratus—"

"You trust me, don't you?"

"I—That's not the point—!"

"It is exactly the point." Peisistratus grinned, half-dragging him through the tavern door, past the lyre, past the wine, into the soft night where stars bloomed and scandal lurked.

Telemachus' stomach dropped. He wasn't sure if it was the alcohol, the nerves, or the fact that for the first time in years... he didn't know what came next.

☆

☆

The wash water stung your hands. Not from heat, but from the way your fingers had cracked again—tiny splits in your skin from scrubbing too long, too often, with too little rest between. But you didn't stop. You couldn't stop. If you could just finish this last basin, you could dry your hands by the fire and maybe—

"Hey." You flinched.

One of the older girls leaned into the doorway, silk slipping off her shoulder, perfume following behind her like smoke. She was smiling—but not in that fake, flirty way they did for customers. This was different. Kind. Almost... pitying.

"You're up."

"...Up?" you echoed, straightening too fast.

"First client. Just got called in. He's a special one, too. Big spender."

Your mouth went dry. "I—I thought—"

"I know. You've been doing laundry for weeks. Earning your keep. But tonight's different."

She crossed the room, gently took the basin from your hands, and set it down. The water sloshed over the sides. You stared at it like it might pull you under.

"I'm not ready."

"No one ever is," she said softly. "Come on. We'll help you."

Moments later, you sat like a doll in a chair that wasn't yours, surrounded by girls whose hands moved too fast for you to follow.

One was curling your hair with a hot iron pin, another was dabbing rose oil on your wrists. Someone else adjusted the straps on a dress that dipped too low, hugged too tight. You barely recognized yourself in the mirror. Cheeks smooth in oil. Lips bitten raw. Cleavage you'd never seen before.

"You're shaking," said one girl, brushing powder across your collarbone.

"I-I'm fine," you lied.

"She's nervous," another grinned. "That's cute."

"She's lucky," said the girl with the perfume. "First time, and she gets him."

You finally gain the courage to speak. "...Who?"

The girls exchanged a look.

"I heard he's a prince," someone whispered. "Or close to it. Tall. Polite. Kind eyes. Might not even make you do anything."

You swallowed hard.

"Just remember," said the first girl, crouching in front of you, voice low. "Pretend you've done this before. That you're in charge. Even if you're not. Men like that."

Her hand touched yours. Warm. Grounding.

"You'll be okay."

.☆.      .✩.           .☆.

You followed the madam up the stairs like you were walking to your own execution.

Each step felt louder than it should've. Your heartbeat was pounding in your throat. She stopped in front of a thick wooden door, glanced over her shoulder, and whispered, "He's already inside."

Then she was gone.

Just like that.

You stood there for a second, alone in the silence, hands slick with sweat, chest so tight it hurt. You almost turned and ran. Almost knocked on the madam's office and begged to go back to your linens, to the hot sting of soapwater, to the safety of anonymity. Almost.

But you didn't.

You opened the door.

He stood near the window, back turned, silhouetted by moonlight.

His posture was perfect—hands clasped behind his back, chin slightly tilted, like he was measuring the stars. His cloak was folded neatly on the chair beside him. His boots, still dusty from the road. He didn't turn at the sound of the door closing.

Your fingers clenched at your sides. You tried to remember what the girls said.

Pretend I've done this before. That I'm in charge.

You took one step. Then another.

Your voice came out soft—too soft. "You can sit down... if you'd like."

He turned.

And you forgot how to breathe.

Not just because he was handsome—though gods, he was. Soft brown curls that caught the light. Broad shoulders. Eyes like calm earth after rain. But what stunned you wasn't his looks.

It was the way he looked at you.

Like you were real.

Like he hadn't expected someone nervous, someone trembling in silk like she was being sacrificed.

Like... he saw it.

He stepped forward, slower than you expected.

You reached up—mechanically—like you'd practiced. Fingers brushing his jaw. His skin was warm. Clean-shaven. You smiled, or tried to, coy and low-lidded like the others had shown you.

But when he raised a hand—slowly, carefully, like he was asking permission—and touched your cheek...

You flinched.

Your whole body jolted. Just slightly. But enough.

He froze. His palm still hovered, but he didn't push.

You dropped your gaze. "I'm sorry. Forgive me. I just—I've never—" The words got caught. Your throat burned.

He stepped back. Not in shame. Just to give you space.

"...Me neither," he said quietly.

There was a silence after he spoke. Not an awkward one. Not really. More like a stillness—a moment suspended in the air between two strangers who had no idea what to do now that the truth had been said aloud.

You weren't sure who sat down first. Maybe you did. Maybe he followed. But somehow you both ended up on the edge of the bed, not touching, facing slightly different directions like you were afraid of spooking each other.

You stared at your hands in your lap. "I didn't think... you'd be nervous."

He gave a soft huff, not quite a laugh. "Why not?"

"Because when I walked in here, you turned around like... like you weren't afraid of anything."

That made him pause.

He looked at you—just looked—eyes dark and unreadable, like he was weighing whether to say the truth or something easier.

Then, slowly, his mouth curved into a faint, crooked smile. "Looks can be deceiving." He held out his hand. "I'm Telemachus."

You blinked.

The name struck something deep in your chest. You're not sure why, but it sounded really familiar. Still, you reached out, slipping your fingers into his before the silence stretched too long. "I'm ____."

He held your hand a second longer than he had to.

" ____." he said softly, like he was tasting it. "That's... a beautiful name."

He repeated it again, slower this time. More careful. Like he was folding it into memory.

You looked away first. But only for a second. When you turned back, he was already watching you—shoulders drawn in a little, face unreadable.

He blinked, startled at being caught, and looked away quickly, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. His ears were flushed.

"Sorry," he muttered. "I'm not... I didn't come here planning to do anything like this. My friend—he pushed. I didn't even mean to follow him in, but I—I don't know."

He sighed through a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, shoulders rising and falling under the weight of his own honesty.

"I've fought men twice my size. Led ships through storms. Stared down men who wanted to kill me in my own hall," he said. Then turned his head to you, eyes meeting yours. "None of that was as terrifying as opening that door."

You blinked at him. "...Why?"

He looked away again, and you could tell he was choosing his words.

"...Because if I went through with this," he said slowly, "I'd never be able to go back."

That confused you. "Back?"

"To the boy who never did," he murmured. "To the version of me who still hadn't. I spent so long carrying him around, pretending he didn't matter. But I think he does. And if I let him go—" he paused, "—I want it to be for something real."

You swallowed.

Telemachus glanced at you, half-smiling. "Sorry. That was a bit heavy."

"No, it wasn't," you said, surprising yourself. "I... understand."

He tilted his head. "Do you?"

You nodded. "I gave my first kiss to a coin."

He blinked.

You flushed. "I mean—! I didn't—I meant—" You exhaled, collecting yourself. "I gave it to the idea of a coin. A better life. A trade. I thought I could handle it. That if I said yes to this place, I could keep my soul out of it."

He was quiet.

You laughed, bitter. "But I think it got in anyway."

When you looked up, his expression had changed. Something had softened in him—not out of pity. Not out of guilt. But recognition. He knew that feeling. That ache behind your voice.

"I was scared," you whispered. "I still am."

Telemachus leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze steady. "What are you scared of?"

"That it'll hurt," you said. "That it'll be awful. That I'll do something wrong."

"It's not something you can do wrong," he said quietly. "Not when you mean it."

"...Do you?"

His breath caught. You didn't mean to ask it like that. Like it was a challenge. But it hung there.

He nodded. "I... I think I do. Now."

Another long pause. But something shifted in it—something warmer.

You both smiled, small and unsure.

He turned slightly toward you. "Would it be alright if... if I... kissed you?"

You nodded.

The kiss wasn't perfect. It wasn't practiced or smooth or clever. It was a little too hesitant. A little too careful. His lips were warm but tentative, like he didn't want to overwhelm you. Your fingers curled in his tunic, clutching the fabric, not pulling—just holding. His hand touched your cheek again, and this time, you didn't flinch.

It deepened. Slowly. You tilted your head. He let out a breath.

When you finally parted, you were both smiling now, a little dazed.

"I don't want to do anything that scares you," he murmured.

"That's the thing," you said softly. "It still scares me. But... not as much."

He leaned back slightly, just enough to see your face. "Do you want to stop?"

You hesitated, and then, with the tiniest breath, you said, "No."

You moved first this time—your hand trembling slightly, brushing the inside of his knee and then higher, testing the waters. He inhaled sharply, but didn't stop you—his gaze locked on yours like he was waiting to see what you'd do next.

He didn't move.

Didn't push.

Didn't take.

He just watched you, like you were a storm rolling in, and he was the only man foolish enough to stand beneath the thunder. But then you moved again. Just a shift, just closer. And something in you said: Try it. So you did.

You leaned in and kissed him.

The moment your lips touched his, Telemachus melted into it—no hesitation, no second-guessing. His hand cupped the back of your neck like it was instinct, holding you steady, and then—

His mouth opened, his tongue slid against yours, and you gasped.

A startled, breathy sound that you couldn't bite back. It caught in your throat like a held-back whimper, made your lashes flutter. You weren't expecting that—how warm he was, how eager. He kissed like someone starved. Like someone who'd read about it, dreamed about it, but never had permission to try.

And gods, once he had it... he took it.

His arms wrapped around you without thought, strong and sure. In one smooth motion, he pulled you forward, shifting until you were straddling his lap, your knees against the bed, your body pressed flush to his. His hands didn't just rest at your back—they curled, palms dragging up your spine like he was learning the shape of you by feel alone.

Your mind raced.

He's strong. He's so strong. This is going so fast—but I don't want it to stop.

You barely remembered to breathe.

His hands spread wide against your ribs, holding you in place like he was afraid you'd vanish. His tongue moved against yours again, this time slower—more deliberate. Testing. Teasing. Tasting.

You whimpered, and his grip tightened.

Some small, silly part of your brain sparked to life, voice hushed but not gone:

If this is what all the customers are like... maybe working at the brothel won't be so bad.

But the thought barely had time to settle before memory returned, sharper now—the voices of the girls who'd painted your lips and whispered in your ear before the door opened.

"Touch his chest. Men love that."

"Use your hips—grind just a little, then stop."

"Fake moan. Even if you don't mean it. They eat that up."

The words came in flashes.

You tried to recall what you were supposed to do next. How you were supposed to arch your back or roll your hips or do that breathy little laugh one girl had demonstrated by the mirror.

But none of it came naturally.

Not when his hands felt so real. Not when his lips were shaking slightly against yours. Not when he kissed you like you were something he didn't think he'd ever get again.

You clutched his shoulders instead.

Not because someone told you to, but because you didn't know how else to keep yourself from falling apart.

Your lips finally broke from his, breath catching as you pulled back just enough to see him.

And gods—Telemachus looked wrecked.

His cheeks were flushed pink, almost feverish. A single curl clung to his forehead, damp with sweat, while the rest of his hair had fallen wildly out of place, soft spirals tousled from where your fingers had tugged them. His mouth hung open slightly, lips swollen and red, wet where he'd kissed you too long and too hard and too much—not that you'd wanted him to stop.

His eyes, though...they were the worst part.

Wide. Glassy. A little dazed.

And so hungry.

Not like a man ready to devour—but like a boy starved of softness, blinking up at you like you'd just fed him something he never knew he needed.

You sat on his lap still, panting softly, your chest rising against his.

Your hand moved before you could think. Fingers brushing his jaw, then up along his cheek. You cupped his face, thumb tracing just beneath his eye like you were trying to remember every line of him.

He's handsome, you thought, breathless.Too handsome to be here. Too gentle to want someone like me.

Telemachus leaned into your touch like it was instinct. Like it was safe.

You stared at him.

And then... you moved.

Slowly, you slid from his lap, your knees hitting the floor one after the other. Your hands rested on his thighs, steadying yourself. You leaned forward, eyes cast down, heartbeat loud in your ears.

This was what the other girls said men wanted.

This was what they told you would happen eventually.

Maybe if you did it well, he'd want to come back. Maybe he'd ask for you again. Maybe—

But your fingers had barely reached for the tie of his tunic before—

He stopped you.

Gently.

Firmly.

Telemachus' hands curled around your waist again—not desperate, not panicked, but certain. Like he'd been waiting to stop you from this.

You didn't even get to ask why before he was lifting you. Effortless.

He picked you up like it was nothing, like you weighed less than the breath in his lungs. Before you could protest, he'd turned and settled you back on the bed—this time seated lower, your legs tucked beside you. You stared up at him, startled, breath still ragged.

His hands didn't leave your hips. But they didn't move either. Just stayed there. Warm. Steady. Present.

You swallowed. "Why...?"

He crouched slightly, bringing himself to eye level, voice soft.

"I'm not here to take from you," he murmured. "I... I don't want that to be your first memory."

You blinked. Tried to read his face. His voice hadn't changed. There was no judgment in it. No shame. Just... truth.

He touched your knee—light, barely a brush.

"But... I want to give you something... If you'll let me."

It didn't take long for the truth of it to click into place.

Your breath caught in your throat, your heart lurching as it settled in.

He was telling you—right now, in this quiet moment with your hands still trembling in your lap—he wanted to give, and he wanted nothing in return.

The realization made your stomach twist in a way you didn't have a name for.

Before you could find your voice—before you could tell him, you don't have to, I didn't mean for this—

Telemachus moved.

He dropped to one knee—not with dramatics, not like some chivalrous knight, but like something in him had simply given way. Like his body understood before his mind did that this was where he belonged.

Not beneath you. But before you.

His shoulders bowed, his head dipping slightly as his gaze stayed locked on yours. His hands hovered over your thighs—not touching, just there. Waiting. Asking without words.

He didn't blink. Didn't flinch.

"You don't have to do anything," he whispered. His voice was so low it felt like a secret passed between breaths. "Just let me take care of you."

Your lips parted, but you didn't speak.

He continued—voice steady, but laced with something softer. Something closer to awe.

"I've thought about this moment," he admitted. "Not like this, not here—but... about what it would feel like. To be trusted with someone. By someone."

His fingers finally moved—just enough to ghost over your knees. Then higher. Sliding along your thighs, slow and warm and so careful.

He didn't press them apart.

He didn't ask for more.

He just waited.

And the way he looked at you—gods, it was unbearable. His eyes didn't flick down to your chest. Didn't scan your body like a thing bought and paid for. They were locked on yours. Unblinking. Steady. Patient.

You didn't think you'd ever been looked at like that.

Like your nervousness was sacred. Like your silence was allowed. Like you were the sky and he'd found a place in it.

Your hands curled into the sheets.

And then—

You nodded.

And everything stilled.

Not the air. Not the quiet creak of the floorboards beneath the bed. But him. Telemachus didn't surge forward. Didn't pounce. He waited one heartbeat—two—just to be sure. Just to give you the chance to change your mind. And when you didn't, he moved.

The first press of his lips to your inner knee was enough to break you. You inhaled sharply, your thighs twitching from how careful he was being. As if he thought you might shatter. As if he'd fall apart too, if he touched you wrong.

His hands were warm against your calves, large and steady, sliding beneath your legs to part them—not forcing. Guiding. Creating space. Creating breath.

You couldn't look at him. Could only stare at the ceiling as the fabric of your dress shifted—bunched higher and higher as his hands pushed it past your knees, your thighs, up over your hips. Each inch of exposure made your skin burn. Not from embarrassment. From realization.

From how huge his hands felt.

The way his palms wrapped around you so easily. How his thumbs brushed along the softest parts of your inner thighs. How your skin tingled wherever he touched—like his fingertips were ink, and you were being written on.

His lips followed.

He kissed higher.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Like each inch of skin was a vow.

He paused between each kiss like he needed permission from your skin to keep going. And when he reached the place right at the intersection of your thighs—he paused again, and the heat of his breath made you jerk.

Your voice came out soft. Fragile. "Telemachus..."

His head tilted up.

You expected hunger. Or urgency.

But his eyes..

Gods, his eyes.

They were soft. Dazed. Like he was seeing something divine.

You could feel his breath there—there—hot and reverent, like prayer pressed to skin. It burned in the most delicate way. A kiss without contact.

And then—

His mouth covered you.

You jerked.

A small, startled squeak caught in your throat as your hips lifted off the bed, back arching on instinct. The heat of his mouth was searing—not rough, not greedy, just everywhere. Warm and wet and real.

"T-Telemachus—!" you gasped, the sound breaking halfway through as his tongue moved. You clutched at his hair—those soft brown curls that caught your eye the moment you saw him—and whimpered as the pressure began to build.

It was clumsy at first. Careful. Testing. But gods, he was trying—tongue flicking and tasting and exploring in slow, cautious strokes that grew bolder every time you whimpered.

Every sound you made pulled something new from him.

You couldn't see his face, but you felt him—his hands gripping your thighs tighter, holding you open, his mouth pressing against you like he was trying to learn you by muscle memory. Like he didn't want to miss a single reaction.

You weren't trying to say his name, not really, but it kept falling from your lips like a prayer—"Telemachus, Telemachus, Telemachus—" and every time you said it, his grip on your thighs tightened, his tongue slowed, focused, like the sound fed him.

He moaned into you once—just once—and the vibration made you cry out, thighs twitching around his head. Your fingers tangled in the sheets. You couldn't stop moving, couldn't stop trembling. Every time you cried out—every little "ah," every breathless "oh gods"—he shook with need.

"Please," you whispered, not even knowing what you were asking for.

His hands slid further beneath you, thumbs hooking under your thighs as he lifted your legs—gently, reverently—and pulled them over his shoulders, like this was where he'd wanted to be all night.

He didn't stop.

He couldn't stop.

His fingers pressed into your hips, holding you still when you started to squirm, when your legs tried to close. You didn't want to push him away—you just didn't know what to do with all of it.

The pressure. The heat. The way he was everywhere.

And when you came—

Gods, when it hit—

You didn't scream. You didn't cry.

You breathed—one long, shaking exhale as your whole body went tense, then soft. Your thighs locked around his head, your back bowed, and your fingers slipped from his hair to your own lips, muffling the sound that rose from deep inside your chest.

And he didn't stop.

Not right away.

Telemachus kissed you through it—tongue gentle again now, coaxing you down with slow, soft laps that made your thighs tremble and your lungs shudder. Like he couldn't bear to let you go yet. Like he wanted to catch every last wave of your pleasure and hold it in his mouth.

Only when your hips twitched from the overstimulation and you sagged against the pillows like a storm passing, then—and only then—did he lift his head.

He looked... wrecked.

His face was flushed. Lips wet. Hair mussed from where your fingers had accidentally tangled in it. He looked like a boy who'd just touched divinity and barely survived.

For a while, neither of you moved.

Your legs had gone loose. Your chest rose and fell like it had been emptied of every secret you'd ever tried to carry. And him—Telemachus just stayed there. Sitting on the floor beside the bed, head resting against the mattress, eyes closed like he was memorizing the sound of your breathing.

He hadn't touched you since. Not in that way. Not even to kiss you again. He just sat there, reverent and flushed and so very still, as if breaking the silence might ruin it.

Eventually, you found your voice.

"Should I... should I... help you?"

He let out a breathless laugh. "No. I'm... I'm alright."

You looked at him, eyes flicking downward.

He was obviously not alright.

But he only smiled—softer this time, a little crooked.

"That was enough," he said. "More than enough." Now it's his turn to question you. "Was it... Was that—?" he started, then cut himself off, unsure.

Your hand reached for him, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth, catching the last trace of yourself there.

"That was..." you couldn't even finish. Your voice cracked, but you smiled. And that was enough.

His breath hitched, just for a second. Then, gently, he asked, "Can... Can I lie beside you?"

You nodded.

He stood and climbed onto the bed with a quiet grace that didn't match how tightly his body must've been wound. He slid in behind you—not too close. Not assuming. But when you shifted—just a little—and your back brushed his chest, he went still.

You felt his arm ghost toward your waist. Waiting. Always waiting.

You let him.

He exhaled as he wrapped around you, chest pressed against your spine, his breath steady against your hair.

And gods... it felt like safety.

Not heat. Not hunger. Just warmth.

You'd never been touched like that before.

Never felt like that before.

And the craziest part?

Neither had he.

You whispered, "...You're still hard."

You felt him laugh, muffled against the back of your neck. "I know."

"I can—"

"No," he said softly. "Not tonight."

You turned your head just enough to glimpse him over your shoulder. "Then... what do we do now?"

He smiled. Sleepy. Adoring. Infatuated in a way that made your heart ache.

"Now?" he murmured. "Now we stay."

And so you did.

With his arm draped over your waist, his nose tucked behind your ear, and your breath starting to slow to match his, you let yourself fall asleep.

Just this once, in someone else's arms.

Just this once, without fear.

☆

☆

You woke to the smell of lavender soap and old wood.

For a moment, your eyes stayed closed. You didn't want to risk opening them—afraid that the night before had been a dream spun from nerves and exhaustion. Afraid that if you looked beside you, he'd be gone. Or worse... that he'd still be there, and it wouldn't mean anything.

But you didn't need to open your eyes to know he was still behind you.

You could feel him.

Telemachus' chest was warm against your spine, one arm draped lazily over your waist. His fingers twitched in his sleep, like he was still holding on to something. His breath was slow. Even. Peaceful.

You tried not to move. Tried to hold still like maybe if you stayed quiet enough, time would pause. But it didn't. You felt the moment start to shift—the softness fraying at the edges, reality creeping in.

You turned your head slightly. Just enough to whisper, "Are you awake?"

His breath caught. And then, softly. "Yeah."

You rolled onto your back, eyes meeting his.

He looked ruined. Hair tousled. Eyes a little puffy. Lips still flushed from where you'd kissed him. But gods, if he didn't look at you like you were something he was scared to blink at.

"Hi," you whispered.

He smiled. "Hi."

Neither of you moved.

You weren't sure what to say. Should you say anything? Ask if he'd be back? If it meant something? If he'd still want you when the sun was high and the world was loud again?

But then he reached up, fingertips barely brushing your cheek, and said, "I've got to leave soon."

Your stomach dropped. You nodded, trying not to let it show.

"But," he added quickly, "that doesn't mean this... have to end."

You looked at him.

He smiled—soft, boyish, crooked. "I don't think I could forget you if I tried."

You didn't believe him. Not really. But part of you wanted to. And maybe that was enough for now.

You sat up, pulled the sheet around you. "I should get dressed before everyone wakes and the girls start talking."

"They'll talk anyway," he muttered.

You looked over your shoulder. "Oh?"

He smirked faintly. "They were whispering when I came in last night. Half the brothel knew where I was going."

That made your cheeks burn.

You stood, tried to tame your hair, tried to smooth the wrinkles out of the dress you'd been poured into. You felt his eyes on you the whole time. Not leering. Just... watching.

Like he still couldn't believe you were real.

"I'll send for you," he said suddenly.

You turned. "What?"

"I mean—" he sat up, voice softer now, more careful. "If... If you want your actual first time to be... different... I could find a way."

Your throat tightened. "You don't have to—"

"I want to."

You blinked.

He stood. Stepped close. Tucked a piece of your hair behind your ear and whispered, "If last night was your first... then I want the second to be mine, too."

And then he was gone.

.☆.      .✩.          .☆.

You were back in the laundry room before the others, sleeves rolled to your elbows, sleeves that still smelled faintly like him. You kept your head down, folding quietly, avoiding the curious glances and the not-so-subtle giggles from the other girls.

"Did he kiss you?"

"Did you touch him?"

"How big was his dick?"

You ignored them.

The madam approached mid-morning. You braced yourself for orders—new clients, more linen, someone drunk puking on the rugs again. But she only said. "You're off the floor."

You blinked. "What?"

"No clients. No touch work. From today on, you stay with the laundry."

Your lips parted. "Why?"

She didn't answer at first, just tucked a folded piece of parchment into your palm. A receipt. A payment.

"He bought it. Your virginity." she said simply. "The prince. Paid enough to take you off rotation."

Your mouth dropped. "Prince??"

She snorted—an unladylike sound for a woman who wore perfume and lace—and kept walking, her heels clacking across the wooden floor as she called out something about clean towels to the other girls.

You scrambled after her, nearly tripping on the hem of your skirt. "Wait—wait! What do you mean a prince?! Why would a prince buy me? When would he—does he come back? Will he come back tonight?!"

The brothel was already alive with its usual morning rhythm—cleaning cloths flapping out windows, perfume bottles clinking onto vanities, girls slipping between one another to straighten bedding and fluff pillows. A few early clients sat in the lounge area downstairs, their voices low and lazy, nursing watered-down wine while waiting for their favorites to appear from behind silk curtains.

You chased the madam past them all, dodging a tray of breakfast figs and a girl giggling down the hall with her corset still half-undone. You reached the hallway leading back toward the laundry room when she suddenly spun around to face you—and you stumbled to a stop with a squeak.

She didn't speak at first.

Just looked at you. Looked through you.

Then—tap.

Two fingers to the center of your forehead.

"Honestly," she sighed. "And here I thought you were one of the smart ones."

You blinked, wide-eyed. "I—I am!"

She gave you a flat look. "You keep the ledgers balanced. You talk back to the bookkeeper without blinking. You know which clients are late on payment before they sit down. Hell, you taught Clio how to read last week—and you fixed the squeaky back door with an oil rag and string."

Your face flushed. "Then why—"

"Because, darling," she said, tone sharp but not cruel, "you're acting like a little airhead this morning, and it's beneath you."

You shrank in on yourself slightly. "I just... I don't understand."

She sighed again and pinched the bridge of her nose. "The man you were with last night—"

"Telemachus," you said quickly, almost breathless. Just hearing his name made your chest pull tight.

The madam's lips pursed.

Tap.

She poked your forehead again, this time more pointed.

"That's Prince Telemachus," she corrected. "Don't forget who you're talking about."

You blinked. "But I thought—he never told me—"

She raised a brow. "Of course he didn't. Nobles never do. Not when they want to see how you treat them before the title gets in the way. That's why you listen to the whispers that goes through here. I'm positive someone let it loose."

Your mouth opened, but no words came out.

She continued walking, and you had to trot after her again.

"Anywho, the prince of Pylos—Peisistratus, the youngest of King Menelaus' sons—he came in just after dusk last night. Said he needed someone untouched. Said it was a gift, of sorts, for the prince of Ithaca. And the moment I thought of someone who might actually look him in the eye and not fall apart..." She gave you a sideways glance. "So I sent for you."

You gawked. "But I—I flinched. I almost cried!"

"Yes, precisely why I chose you," she said dryly, "and yet he bought your virginity the moment he left. Paid triple what we charge."

You stopped walking.

The hallway around you blurred—sunlight spilling through stained glass, footsteps echoing above, voices below, the brothel alive in every direction.

You stood frozen in the middle of it.

Prince Telemachus bought my virginity.

You touched your lips.

They still tingled.

Even then, all you could be stuck on was the fact that Telemachus was a prince.

And suddenly—everything clicked. Like someone had thrown a torch into the back of your mind and lit up the whole kingdom map.

You recalled the whispers in town. The parade of ships. The late-night feasts held at the palace people like you weren't invited to. The rising hum of change in every corner of Ithaca.

The return of King Odysseus.

And that boy—the one who kissed you like the world was ending—

"Prince Telemachus?!" you squawked again, way too loud this time.

But the madam was already halfway down the hall, waving a rag at the kitchen girl and calling for someone to bring fresh honey-water to room six.

You stood frozen, still clutching the folded parchment like it might burn you.

You looked down at it again.

The ink hadn't changed. His name was still there. The number. The seal.

All real.

And your chest—your whole body—went still.

"...So I'm free?!?" you shouted down the hall after her.

The madam didn't stop walking.

She just gave a half-smile, scoffing like you'd just asked if pigs could read.

"No one's free here, girl," she called over her shoulder. "But you're his now."

And with that, she disappeared into the steam of the bath corridor, barking something about soap and firewood.

You looked back down at the parchment.

Your fingers were shaking a little, but only because they felt lighter somehow. Like for the first time in weeks, you were holding something that might mean more than just survival.

And then—just barely—you smiled.

Because he didn't take you.

He chose you.

And maybe, just maybe...

He'd choose you again.

[m00nkeiki]

Remember in those romance books where the male main character growls "touch her and die." How would you feel about the monster trio (and Law) saying "touch her and die" but they growl while they say it?

H0i!!! Congrats on being my first anon!  This was really fun to think about! I will be honest, I barely dip my toes in romance books, buuut I do love me some protective blorbos who care for you lots!  I feel like in terms of playing the trope straight, it would definitely fit Luffy and Zoro. Meanwhile, Sanji and Law would word and say it differently, but they’ll still have the grit in the voice and say the classic phrase in a manner that fits them. Hence, I’ve varied the scenarios and dialogue a bit to match each character, but made sure they work in the vein of the trope~

Request: Touch Her and Die Featuring: Luffy, Zoro, Sanji, and Law; Fem Reader Content Warning: mildly violent diction, implied kidnapping/capture in Luffy's and Law's section (but can be interpretated otherwise), stalking/harassment in Sanji’s section (but he saves you dw).

Luffy

I think he would definitely say this with so much earnestness. Luffy cares for his loved ones so much that he would always rush to violence if there was the prospect of them getting hurt. If he holds these feelings for the friends he cares and cherishes for, imagine what he’d do for a lover.

Despite his brash mind, Luffy does not take the concept of death lightly: after all, it’s not in his nature to easily take a life as he prefers to disarm then defeat an opponent. Hence, if it meant protecting you, it would mean having to forgo his usual rule.

Before Luffy comes to your rescue, all hope seemed lost, as if you could have been swallowed in a pool of despair and darkness. Then, like daybreak, the Straw Hat Pirate arrives. He kneels down on you, to check if you’re okay. His expression is a blank kind of warmth, the one where he is trying to hold his emotions back to focus on ensuring your safety. You’ll know he’ll smile when the coast is clear and everyone is alright. No, not now. Not when you’re vulnerable like this.

After reassuring himself that you were safe, you could see how his usually bright wide eyes tense up, as if his irises are a blank dot in each of eyes. 

Then he turns his head to his opponent, marching forward as a humming grrrr emanates from his lungs. Luffy grits his teeth, his hands forming into fists that were sure to land a painfully harsh blow.

“You bastard.”

Luffy was trembling; not out of fear, but the forewarning that he could burst into a pour of punches that would break every bone in one’s body. The moment he speaks and growls, it’s gritty and low, a looming punishment for the enemy who could have hurt you.

“Touch her, and die.”

Zoro

He’s not training to be the greatest swordsman only because swordsmandry is his passion, but also because he wants to protect the friends who were precious to him, especially you. If he failed that promise, he would beat himself down for it. But Zoro cannot afford to fall into this pitfall. No, he’s got to keep training, keep fighting, keep pushing. If he reaches his limits, he’ll crack them open and surpass them. 

Even if he was well aware you too were a capable fighter, Zoro cannot help but have this little voice inside of him: what if he was too late? Thus, he promises that he will be there to shield you with his sword.

So when you were about to be the victim to an enemy’s lethal blow. Swift like the wind, Zoro deflects the incoming attack, glancing back to ensure you were alright. After creating a forceful X with his katanas as the enemy backs off, Zoro brandishes them, steel sharpening against steel to create a menacing threat.

Zoro is a demon: the kind you are grateful that you were his ally, friend, lover—instead of an fiend who would shed no mercy or forgiveness. You trusted that he was strong enough, that he would protect you at all costs even if the ends turn out ghastly and gory. 

One you heeded Zoro's yell to focus on getting to safety, you watched from afar to see him turn into the feared swordsman, the way he lets out a ghastly snarl as he became like a tiger, swords as claws about to prance.

“Oi, touch her…”

And in the next moment, he brandishes two of his katanas, a pierce of red from his open eye glaring into the person who dared hurt you. Growling like an oni boiling with fury, Zoro was determined to slash and slice the enemy who, if he had not come in the right moment, could have ended your life.

“and die.”

Sanji

Sanji will never stand for anyone laying a finger on his beloved. He always believed in kindness, to treat others right and to have empathy when they make difficult choices. But there were some acts that were simply unforgivable—especially if they were targeting you.

The blond cook, who always promised to safeguard you from all harms through the power of his martial kicks, sighted you one day as you were chased by a lecherous man. With the way you had forced your pace and let out anxious breaths, he could not stand for this. Nobody deserved this horrifying experience, for the lack of respect that came with stalking and harassment was disgusting in Sanji’s eyes, with the way his curled eyebrows furrowed. 

A knight in a tailored suit, Sanji dashes to your aid, running in kicks as he apprehends your stalker: It was one of the rare times he uses his hands as a threat—the way he grips the shoulder of your harasser, squeezing them tight as if he were to crack and break their flesh open. If not, he’ll kick upwards with his powerful legs to split their body in vertical halves.

At this moment, Sanji wishes he could instead rush past and hold you tight, to protect you from such cruelty of the world and whisper affirmations of safety. But first, he’s going to give your stalker an admonish.

“You shitty asshole. How dare you try to touch her…”

Sanji spat, with his voice evolving into a dark gritty tone as if he had smoked a hundred cigarettes beforehand. His grip tightening, you know he’ll keep his promise as your guardian and lover, and to the person who harassed you, a painful kickdown.

“And if you take one step further, you die.”

Law

Law has always been protective of you. He cares for you and your individual, and if you are adjacent to any kind of danger he will worry gravely. Law feels the utmost responsibility to keep you safe, because if there was even the slightest scratch on you, or a sense of unforgotten horror in your eyes, he will never forgive himself.

He also does not say the word “die” lightly. Following a doctor’s code, all life is sacred, and even with his callous streak when it comes to tormenting enemies, Law does not have it in him to kill. But when push comes to shove, when his loved one is in danger… Law may have to break that personal code.

Before anything, he has to prioritize saving you first. Once you hear him yell “Room!” then “Shambles!” you find yourself swiftly teleported to Law’s side, and you see how he was straining himself in his stance: the inked fingers of his right hand curled, the dark circles growing larger around his eyes… He’ll exhaust himself first before anything can happen to you.

Then he faces his opponent, the one who could have hurt you if Law was even a second late. Before the confrontation, Law tells you to get away from the battle before things get ugly. 

Law enjoys playing and messing around with his opponents, but not this time. Grabbing the hilt of Kikoku and ready to unsheathe it at any moment, Law gives the enemy an ultimatum.

“I’ll give you a choice. You can walk away right now, and I won’t mess with you.”

Then, his golden eyes seem to flash, a premonition of what will come if his advice is not followed.

“But if you are still thinking about touching her, even in the slightest…”

Then with a growl, he affirms: 

“then die.”

~~~

I hope you enjoyed anon! Until then—see ya!

For more works: First hug from the Monster Trio First hug from Ace, Sabo, and Law

[kxsagi]

its may 1st for me so. wlw bluelock 🤤🤤

heh. guess who’s the wlw anon!!! definitely not me i say as my pants burst into flames

any characters, but i’d enjoy aiku, shidou, reo, chigiri and hiori the most!!!! ill feel greedy if i req karasu otoya and yukimiya too 😞 GOD I LOVE TOO MANY CHARACTERS BRO do what you want though :) ANYWYAYY

how bllk girls would react to some creepy guy going like “you’re a lesbian? i can change you.” or something to their gf!!! i need them to be protective of their gf in some way!! and maybe them comforting her afterwards :) im a firm butch aiku believer so do with that what you will!!!!! have a nice day thank you and take your time of course!!!!

i need to shut up but butch chigiri good lird

“𝐞𝐰, 𝐦𝐞𝐧.”

a/n: HELP NOT THE “not me i say as my pants burst into flames” THAT TOOK ME OUT 💀💀💀

also this is my first time writing for fem lock so i tried my best here, but i changed their pronouns to she/her and go by their last names

have a nice day too love!

ft. aiku oliver, shidou ryusei, mikage reo, chigiri hyoma, hiori yo, karasu tabito, otoya eita, yukimiya kenyu

aiku oliver (tall, tatted, gym tank, looks like she plays basketball and heartbreak) 

when that guy hits on you, you don’t even have to react. aiku steps in front of you like a human wall. folds her arms. looks him up and down. 

“nah. she’s got taste. and clearly, it’s not you.” 

the guy tries to act tough, until aiku tilts her head and goes, “you ever been benched? want me to show you how it feels?” 

he backs off fast. afterwards, she turns to you with soft eyes and rests her forehead on yours. 

“people like that don’t deserve a second of your energy. let me carry it for you, baby.” 

she’ll get you a drink, tuck you under her arm like you’re made of glass, and glare at anyone who even thinks of looking your way again. 

shidou ryusei (dyed mullet, nose ring, menace to society) 

she grins. oh, it’s over for that guy. 

“you can change her? that’s adorable. i can change your jaw alignment.” 

immediately steps between you two like a rabid dog guarding its favorite bone 

wraps an arm around your shoulder and stares him down like she’s manifesting violence. 

“say that again. i dare you.” 

afterwards, she’s surprisingly gentle with you. presses her forehead to yours and mumbles, “sorry you had to deal with that. but hey… thanks for being into scary girls like me.” 

she kisses your knuckles like she’s making a blood pact. 

mikage reo (your sugar mama with a y2k wardrobe and a black card, she’s giving barbie with a vengeance) 

the second the guy opens his mouth and hits you with that gross, smug tone, reo steps in like: “you wish you had the income to change me, sweetheart.” 

but she’s smiling like she’s networking at a brunch. meanwhile, her hand is firmly around your waist. he tries again, and she goes, “what’s it like waking up every day and choosing delusion?” 

afterwards, she cups your face and checks you over like you just got hit by a truck. kisses your forehead, buys you something dumb and shiny, and whispers, “no man on earth could make me leave you. not even timothée chalamet. and he’s the only exception i would’ve considered.” 

chigiri hyoma (androgynous model vibes, combat boots and a blade-sharp glare) 

as soon as that guy says it, she literally steps in front of you and goes, “you can try. just know i run faster, hit harder, and she chose me.” 

deadpan, but her tone slices through the air like a whip. she’s not loud about it, just scary-level confident. when he sputters some reply, she doesn’t even look at him. she just walks you away. 

later, she sits you down, pulls you into her lap, and runs her fingers through your hair. “you okay?” 

you nod, and she kisses your temple. 

“i’m never letting anyone talk to you like that again. not while i’m around.” 

(you’re pretty sure she meant it as a threat to the universe.) 

hiori yo (soft girl but will shatter you) 

she hears that guy’s comment and her entire face changes. she grabs your hand and very calmly says, “we’re leaving.” 

and you think that’s it, until she turns back around and roasts him so clinically it’s surgical. 

“do you always open with jokes, or was that your genuine personality?” 

she’ll be shaking a little when you’re out of the situation, because confrontation isn’t her thing, but she’s more worried about you. she’ll hold your hand all the way home, rub soothing circles into your palm, and whisper, “you don’t have to laugh it off next time. i’ll always be there. okay?” 

karasu tabito (smirking, sarcastic, black eyeliner and silver rings)

“‘i can change you’?” karasu laughs. like mocking laughter. 

“bro, she’s dating me. you think you’ve got better rizz?” 

walks circles around the guy like he’s a sad art piece in a museum. “you’re gonna need a time machine, a personality transplant, and probably a lobotomy. then we’ll maybe talk.” 

he leaves. she turns to you, raises a brow. “you good, baby?” 

wraps her hoodie around you even if you’re not cold and tells you to let her know if you ever want someone publicly embarrassed again. 

otoya eita (pink streaks, tongue piercing, looks like your favorite e-girl streamer) 

he says the line and otoya just blinks. 

“you can change her? okay, lemme guess. with what?” 

then she goes full chaotic energy: “you got a spell book? a magic wand? you gonna build her a new sexuality in your mom’s basement?” 

wraps both arms around you like a clingy koala and presses kisses to your cheek just to spite the guy. 

“she’s taken. so taken. like, multiple-orgasms-on-a-weekday-taken.” 

once he leaves, she lets you bury your face in her chest. strokes your back and whispers, “no one gets to make you feel gross. ever. you hear me?” 

yukimiya kenyu (aesthetic queen, probably went viral for skincare routines and a deep, sultry voice) 

smiles like she’s about to ask for his zodiac sign, then completely annihilates him. 

“you think you can change me? baby, i don’t even take product recommendations from men.” 

he stammers. she tilts her head, still smiling. 

“now apologize to my girlfriend. she deserves better than to be spoken to by walking insecurity.” 

once you’re alone, she dabs a tissue to your lip gloss, brushes hair from your face, and says, “you’re so beautiful. people like him don’t deserve to breathe the same air as you.” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[libraford]

The saga of the turkey continues.

After menacing me for 5 minutes while I was out servicing the trail, the turkey went on to run through a couple neighborhoods.

And people are weird about wildlife here.

So there are posts in the Facebook group about her, very much freaking out that Thanksgiving dinner is walking around. They called the wildlife department, who said they can't intervene because the animal is not in distress.

The people who do not know animals are saying 'clearly she is in distress, she's running around in the streets!'

'Animal in distress' in this context refers to injury or immediate threat to life. A hen on her normal migration pattern is not in distress. She's just on a walk, she's not doing threat displays. If she really feels threatened, she'll get big and fly away.

What is bugging me about the conversation is that people who don't know animals very well are assuming that they're being chased out by the construction happening. While it's not impossible, it's also worth noting that we live north of a very large bird sanctuary home to a flock of about 20 turkeys.

It's normal to see solitary hens in spring. This is the time they search for nests and forage for food. We've had turkeys here for quite some time on both sides of town.

Since the construction, people are noticing more wildlife in the area. But the wildlife was already there-and has been for some time. They just notice it more because they're mad about the construction and make assumptions about wildlife.

It's somewhat frustrating to me that we intentionally built wild patches in our parks to assist wildlife migration so that there would be more wildlife in the area, and then people see the wildlife and have a negative reaction to it.

I'm trying to use this as an opportunity to educate, but I'm finding that it's difficult to do that when there's so many emotions wrapped up in that plot of land.

[yuriosakawa]

You know what would be insane? Dan Phantom in the Suicide Squad or Creature Commandos. He would be an absolute menace, even with Waller keeping him on a leash. His raw power alone would make him one of the deadliest members of the team, but his sheer malice and intellect would make him just as much a threat to his own squad as to their enemies. Here's how it could play out:  

Amanda Waller, being the ultimate schemer, somehow manages to trap and subdue Dan Phantom—likely using a combination of high-tech ghost containment devices, magical wards, and someone like Doctor Fate or John Constantine to help keep him locked down. She then fits him with a ghost-proof nano-bomb that prevents him from phasing out of it, forcing him to comply.  

Dan, obviously pissed, would test every loophole he could find. But Waller, always three steps ahead, makes it very clear that any attempt to rebel, even slightly, will result in his instant obliteration. Begrudgingly, he plays along—but only until he finds a way out.  

Dan would be the squad’s nuclear option—the guy they deploy when things need to be completely annihilated. With his reality-warping Ghostly Wail, time manipulation, and sheer brute strength, he could level entire cities if he wanted to. The team would hate working with him because he’s sadistic, arrogant, and always looking for ways to manipulate them. But he’d also be effective as hell.  

Someone like King Shark or Frankenstein from the Creature Commandos might try to challenge him, only to get wrecked in seconds. He’d probably mock Peacemaker for his "pathetic morality" or play mind games with Harley Quinn just for fun. The only ones who might keep him in check would be either a magic user (like Enchantress) or a strategic mastermind (like Waller or Rick Flag).  

Even though Waller keeps him on a tight leash, Dan loves finding ways to bend the rules. If they’re sent to take down a dictator, he won’t just kill them—he’ll raze the whole country. If they’re supposed to steal something, he might obliterate it just to be spiteful. The squad constantly has to work around his unpredictability.  

And unlike other Suicide Squad members who just want freedom or a reduced sentence, Dan wants revenge. The entire time he’s on the team, he’s secretly plotting how to break free, disable the nano-bomb, and make Waller pay. Maybe he allies himself with a more mystical squad member or finds a way to corrupt Waller’s technology with ghost energy.  

The only possibles outcomes I can see is that Dan betrays the Squad. At some point, he figures out how to remove the bomb and goes rogue. Maybe he even possesses Waller temporarily to issue false orders, sending Task Force X into a suicide mission while he disappears. Or Waller, always having a backup plan, activates a secret failsafe that permanently seals Dan in some hellish ghost dimension if he ever gets out of line. But Dan being Dan, he will be back.  

Dan Phantom in the Suicide Squad would be pure chaos; an unpredictable force of destruction that even Amanda Waller would struggle to control. It’d be a terrifying but fascinating dynamic, especially with him constantly looking for ways to turn the tables.

[tumbleofdorks]

Okay, Cardassia, Soviet Union, 90's cultural relevance, here we go.

*deep breath*

The late 80's into the 90's was a super weird time, in general, but it was especially weird for the Soviet Union/Russia, and it all happened quite publicly, globally speaking. This absolutely and clearly influenced the creation of the Cardassians, and even more so their arc throughout Deep Space Nine. First, we gotta go back further for some context though, come on, take my hand.

Ah, here we are.

Right, so the primary writers for DS9 were mostly in their 30s and 40s when the show started (Ira Steven Behr was 39 for example), which means the looming threat of the Red Menace was omnipresent in the American psyche their whole lives. I cannot emphasize enough how much space the USSR took up, rent free, in the minds of Americans throughout the many decades of the Cold War.

Every spy novel, comic book series, and action movie had to have a Russian-accented baddie for the noble American hero to fight against. A quick aside, this is why Chekov being on the bridge in TOS was a Big Deal. Roddenberry was basically saying, "Someday all humanity will be working together in harmony, yes, even the Russians." Anyway, my point is, Russian villains saturated the media that the DS9 writers would have grown up with.

While the fiction was popping off, the real stories of life in the USSR from defectors were being consistently drip-fed to the outside world. Stories of dramatic show trials, where the guilt was already determined and the whole trial was just a display to sway public opinion. Stories of prodigious propaganda on every street corner, in every newspaper, and on every TV and radio. Stories of forced labor in gulags in the many USSR occupied territories. And oh yes, let's not forget the NUMEROUS stories of the Secret Police, the most infamous of which was the Committee for State Security, the dreaded and powerful KGB. A spy agency, full of sleeper agents behind enemy lines, experts in deception, espionage and assassination. Hm, now, where have we seen such things?

Also, let us be frank, we have the Romulan empire, the Klingon empire, the Terran empire, lots of empires, but Cardassia and its occupied territories are the Cardassian UNION? C'mon.

Okay, but then we get to the 90's and DS9, and this is where it gets REALLY juicy, so bear with me here.

In January of 1991, the Next Generation episode "The Wounded" introduced us to the Cardassians, and "Ensign Ro" in October set up the Bajoran occupation. While they didn't have the accents, they had a few likenesses to the American idea of Russian authoritarianism, a brutal military, religious suppression, gulag labor camps, strange torture methods, but it was still vague at best.

However, in December of that same year the USSR collapsed, the Soviet Union was no more, and it was WIDELY televised. The Western world watched on in various degrees of shock, joy, and trepidation as the seemingly invincible Soviet Union broke apart. The formerly occupied regions declared their independence, and the Russian central command (seemingly) withdrew all of their forces and government operatives quite suddenly back to Moscow.

Half a year later, in the Summer of 1992, Deep Space Nine began pre-production, and the Cardassians were chosen as the primary initial antagonists and the abandonment of Bajor as our backdrop. Through DS9 Cardassians gained a notable spy agency, the Obsidian Order, and a reputation of beuracratic record keeping and efficiency (the USSR was famously meticulous in its record keeping and "at least the trains/shuttles ran on time"). We explored their kangaroo courts, the friction between their military leadership and their civilian leadership (Stalin taking over from Lenin, anybody?), the consequences of rapid withdrawal of a controlling force, and the effects of economic instability on a super power. Mere months after the real collapse and withdrawal of the USSR, the DS9 writers choose to make the collapse and withdrawal of an authoritarian Union the driving plot point of their new show?

The writers, as they developed the show, were clearly exploring the themes that were playing out in the world around them. To the folks watching at home these would have been immediately recognizable, something that could be connected to contemporary events, as well as the lifetime of USSR figures in media that they were accustomed to. It was a familiar string to pull on and draw the audience in.

Ahem, so as you can see, the depiction of the Cardassian Union not only parallels the Soviet Union, but was uniquely relevant to an audience in the 90's that was watching the collapse of the USSR in real time on the nightly news.

However, it wasn't all the standard anti-soviet themes one would expect, which is how we ended up with Garak. The ways the writers used him thematically were so fascinating and so uniquely Star Trek. He LOVES his planet and his people, he's almost a spiritual successor to Chekov in that way: blindly loving of his home, claiming it is the best in all things. In the face of decades of anti-soviet media Garak was depicted as a morally-gray spy, yes, but in classic Star Trek fashion also fiercely loyal, noble, loving and multi-faceted. An enemy that can be made a friend if one tries hard enough, as long as there is a kernel of "humanity" within you both.

Star Trek hopecore is present even in the darkest of the TNG sibling shows.

[jweekgoji]

yan! hiccup/reader/yan! dagur

I'm on season 4 of RTTE but I just can't help but think how interesting the dynamic between Yan!hiccup and Yan!dagur would be.

tw: yandere, yandere rivals, mentions of attempts of kidnapping, slightly stalk-ish hiccup (?), overprotective Dragur, possessiveness

Dagur is already such a troublesome and unbearable person. sorry not sorry, but seriously, that guy toyed with Hiccup and almost drowned him? such a menace but that's why we love him, haha.

pre RTTE is probably one of the wildest times for you to be in this love triangle. while it is actually so nice to be around Hiccup, discussing every simple thing you two enjoy together like drawing or inventing (of course, not without him awkwardly standing next to you, almost stuttering every now and then); Dagur is the one who mostly talks. He would drag you around the island, yelling about how you two would be unstoppable together as dragon hunters and eventually you two might succeed in killing THE night fury! well, he would be the one who did all the job because it's him, obviously 🙄but you were here too, I guess...doing somethin very very important…

Even though Dagur gets a «bit» too crazy during dragon hunting, he still pays a good amount of attention to you. He would constantly make sure you stay NEAR him ALL the time, if you just made a few steps away, he would not bother casually taking your hand and be like 'nuh-uh, you're not going anywhere ☝️' with that calm voice of his, as if he's talking to some reckless little thing like you, who totally needs to be looked after by him. Dagur likes physical touch, he also loves the attention, giving and receiving it at the same time. If something or someone poses a threat to you, he would not hesitate to pull you behind him and deal with it himself.

Hiccup can't be as bold as Dagur though. He's shy, awkward and just doesn't have any experience at all. I'm not sure if Dagur has any experience too, but he's at least confident in what he does. Unlike Dagur, Hiccup is not as strong as him, and most of the time, it makes him frustrated and feel less of himself. He already experienced constant bullying by people on his own island, including his father and he judges himself too. But with Toothless around, he feels less powerless and more hopeful. If he is sure you're fine with dragons, he would find it as a reason to get closer to you. You want to find a dragon friend? Good for you, Hiccup is the best dragon trainer around. If you have your own dragon, it's just more perfect for him, because he would now use the opportunity to show his skills to you and maybe prove that he's actually more than everyone thinks of him? If he's very awkward with you on the ground, eye to eye, he's less tense around you now that he has his best friend around him. After all, it doesn't feel as scary as before.

Dealing with both Dagur and Hiccup would not be easy. Because if they both have a massive crush on you, it's just a matter of time before one finds out about the other. I feel like Dagur might get suspicious at first, because he doesn't care if you like him or someone else, he will be around you. Hold his hands around your waist, shoulders, constantly whining if you just stop paying attention to him as if his life depends on it. If someone approaches you, like Snotlout, he just can't help but show how annoyed he is. Dagur is not shy about making it obvious how the presence of others irritates him.

Hiccup has to be concerned about the dragons' safety, the safety of Berk, Dagur and now yours safety too. If you're not from Berserker Island but from Berk, Dagur doesn't want to part ways at all. He puts his eye on you, and he just can't let you slip away like that. He might just put you over his shoulder and get you on his ship when it's time to go— but thankfully, Hiccup notices this at the right time and saves you from the fate of being stuck with this madman.

If Dagur treats everyone as a possible rival, Hiccup is not that comfortable expressing his feelings yet. I mean, of course he likes you, he would constantly daydream about you like a normal teenage boy, sketching you in his book so many times that even Toothless can replicate it with a stick between his teeth. Well, maybe just a bit more than just a typical teenage boy crush. He knows he can't be like Dagur who can just express his love to you whenever the young Berserker chief sees you, but he shows it in every small but meaningful way he can. Hiccup would find out what you're interested in, what you like, and every small little fact he can memorize, but he would put it like it's just all an accident and pretend like he didn't know anything about it. good for you to have a friend like him?

When things get more heated between you three, Dagur is more protective, he's not that dumb, actually, and he perfectly sees how his bro gets a bit too friendly with you. He really, really tries to think it's just because his two favorite people are being nice to each other and nothing more, but jealousy...! I don't think he would be as violent towards Hiccup as to other people, before «betrayal» he actually thought of the poor boy as the only person he can trust.

«I just HATE how every time I try to get close to [them], someone always appears out of nowhere and takes [their] attention from ME! I mean, [they're] obviously mine, right? You wouldn't try to steal [them] from me too, yes, Hiccup? 🤨 Haha! Of course, you wouldn't, it's not like [they] interested in you anyway ☺️»

«...Right. 👀»

After the fight between the two when it gets revealed about the dragons, Dagur is practically furious. More than usual this time, since he is forced to leave, and he can't see your pretty face again now :((

But good news, it makes you and Hiccup closer now! Whether you want it or not, you were close to Dagur for a good amount of time, you might consider him even some kind of friend of yours. Someone might get a little suspicious of you, because maybe you accidentally took some bits of craziness from Dagur too, but eventually, Hiccup, being the sweet trustful sweetheart would make sure you feel as comfortable as possible. He stays longer than usual, asks if maybe you need a nice quiet ride with him and Toothless just to clear your mind off the recent incident, would always be the one who checks on you every day. He really, really wants to do more, but expressing his true feelings is still so hard for him. It was said that Hiccup is a good gift maker, so expect to receive some small gifts next to your door out of nowhere.

While being away from you, Dagur thinks only about these three things. Night Fury. Hiccup. You. 🔁

His ego hurts, his heart aches, and it doesn't help that he gets even more violent towards others. Every time he tries to attack the riders, he hopes to see you too. When he spots you on your dragon with other riders, he is happy. But you are with dragon riders, so he quickly loses his temper, screaming orders about how his people should focus on capturing you and night fury, the others don't really matter to him.

You just can't help but notice how the fights between the two get more serious with each time now that you're the main target. Dagur would make it one of his personal goals to drag you back to his ship, meanwhile Hiccup would do everything to not get you on Dagur's ship. And that just repeats over and over again, at this point it's just something deeply personal you three have. Meanwhile, the others are left all confused and lost. The time Dagur spent in prison is probably not for the best, isn't it?

[luvly-writer]

Bliss: Ridoc's Revenge

Xaden Riorson x Gamlyn! Reader

Masterlist

It had happened after Xaden had come back from a diplomatic trip to Poromiel.

Their kisses were slow and endless, the kind that said I missed you and I’m never letting you go again. Y/n was half in Xaden’s lap, straddling the sheets while his hand gently cupped the back of her neck, guiding her deeper into him like he could kiss away the last of the ache.

She tasted like warmth and honey, like the home he never thought he’d get to keep.

They weren’t in a rush. There was no meeting to debrief today, no immediate threat knocking at the door—just the hush of their shared bedroom, golden morning light, and hearts beating in sync once again.

Until—

BANG.

“Y/N GAMLYN RIORSON, HAVE YOU EATEN YET OR DO I NEED TO FORCE-FEED YOU—”

Ridoc’s voice hit them like a flashbomb, echoing into the room as the door swung open with no mercy.

Y/n and Xaden both froze, still wrapped up in each other like a painting of devotion. Her curls were wild from sleep and kisses, his shirt was somewhere lost under the blankets, and her legs were tangled in his.

Ridoc stopped mid-sentence.

His eyes widened in full horror. “OH FOR THE LOVE OF AMARI.”

Y/n buried her face in Xaden’s neck, laughing uncontrollably.

Ridoc turned so fast, shielding his eyes like he had just witnessed a crime. “You know they’re really back together when they stop having ANY CONCERN FOR MY SANITY!”

Xaden smirked over Y/n’s shoulder. “Next time, knock.”

“I DID! I KNOCKED WITH PURPOSE!”

“You kicked the door open like the dramatic menace you are,” Y/n mumbled between giggles.

Still turned away, Ridoc flailed a hand dramatically. “I swear to the gods, I’m putting a bell on you. Or a curfew. Or a privacy ward! I am traumatized!”

Y/n, tears in her eyes from laughing, finally peeked out from the crook of Xaden’s neck. “You walked into our room, genius.”

“You’re married unfortunately, which means I’m burning this memory from my brain,” he wailed, already backing out the door. “Just—just eat something soon, okay?! I’ll be in the kitchens. Alone. Crying.”

The door slammed shut behind him.

A beat of silence passed before Xaden leaned in to murmur against her jaw, “Think that counts as him finally accepting we’re married?”

Y/n laughed again, full and bright, tugging him back toward her lips. “Let’s keep traumatizing him until it sticks.”

Ridoc sat at the kitchen table with a dramatic pout, stirring his tea like it had personally offended him. His hair was a mess from stress, his shirt was half tucked, and he muttered things under his breath like “My eyes… my poor, innocent twin-seeing eyes…”

Sawyer walked in first, casually grabbing an apple. “What’s with the storm cloud?”

Ridoc groaned, dramatically throwing an arm over his eyes. “I walked in on Y/n and Xaden. In bed. Tangled.”

Sawyer blinked. “So… married people? Being married?”

Rhiannon followed behind, pouring herself a mug of coffee. “Ridoc, they’ve been married for two years. They dated for three before that. You’re still surprised they’re down bad for each other?”

“She’s my sister!” Ridoc snapped, clutching at his chest like he’d been stabbed.

“And he’s your brother-in-law,” Violet added, striding in with a smirk. “And they’re still embarrassingly in love. You’re just mad you forgot to knock.”

“I did knock!” Ridoc cried, tossing his hands in the air. “I knocked with conviction! I just also… opened the door.”

Bodhi leaned against the counter, amused. “You opened it like a battering ram. Face it, Ridoc. You played yourself.”

Sawyer grinned. “You should’ve learned from the last time you walked in on them kissing behind the war room.”

“That was different!” Ridoc snapped. “She had her shirt half off this time!”

Rhiannon took a slow sip of her coffee. “It’s almost like… married people sleep together.”

“SHUT UP, ALL OF YOU.”

Everyone burst into laughter.

Ridoc slumped over the table in defeat, groaning into his arms. “I’m installing a bell. I swear.”

Violet patted his back, barely holding back a grin. “And yet, you love them both.”

He peeked up with a grumble. “Of course I do. I just… don’t need visual confirmation of their love.”

Sawyer tossed him a roll. “Eat something. You’ll need the strength for the next time you forget how doors work.”

“I hate you all.”

They just grinned, laughter echoing through the kitchen—the Iron Squad, as chaotic and loyal as ever.

The morning sun was just beginning to pour through the windows of the common kitchen, catching in the gold of Y/n’s earrings as she padded in barefoot, curls wild but still elegantly pinned half-up, half-down. Her outfit?

Xaden’s black shirt. It hit mid-thigh, sleeves rolled up, clearly not hers.

She was glowing. A soft flush on her cheeks, lips a little too bitten, the pearly choker still perfectly in place around her neck. She looked relaxed. Radiant. Wifeed-up.

Ridoc nearly dropped his fork. “No. No, absolutely not.”

“Morning,” Y/n said cheerily, pouring herself tea.

Sawyer blinked at her, then at the shirt. “Is that—”

“Yes, Sawyer,” Ridoc groaned, slumping forward with a dramatic moan. “That is my twin sister in Riorson’s shirt. My actual nightmare.”

The squad barely had a second to recover when Xaden walked in right behind her, equally barefoot and very much shirtless, his sweatpants hanging a little too low on his hips.

The entire squad turned in slow motion.

And there they were.

Nail marks. Down his back.

Very faint, but clearly there.

Rhiannon gasped like she’d been given life. “Oh my gods.”

Sawyer choked on his orange juice. “Did y’all—”

“Sawyer no,” Ridoc cut in. “Do not finish that sentence. Do not give it power.”

Violet just grinned behind her mug, smirking like a cat who’d seen this all before.

Y/n sat down next to Ridoc, sipping her tea sweetly. “How’s your morning, twin?”

“My sanity is hanging on by a thread, Y/n.” He gestured wildly between the two of them. “You’re in his shirt. He’s shirtless. He has battle damage.”

“I like your shirt,” Rhiannon said innocently to Xaden.

“I hate all of you,” Ridoc muttered.

Bodhi clapped him on the back. “It’s okay, man. Just remember, they’re married. And that means this is going to keep happening.”

“Someone pass me the coffee,” Ridoc groaned.

Y/n leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Love you.”

“I’ll love you more when you wear your own clothes.”

Xaden smirked as he reached for his tea, catching the way everyone’s eyes lingered on the marks. “What?” he said, entirely unbothered. “We’re making up for lost time.”

The squad howled.

The sounds of bustling soldiers and merchants filled the air as Yn walked through the courtyard, her stride confident, the soft rustle of her Tyrish silk ribbons in her hair catching the wind. She was already in a better mood after a morning spent lounging in Xaden’s presence, their usual teasing and laughter filling their shared moments.

“Riorson!” someone called, clearly seeing her from across the way.

Y/n turned, smiling at the familiar face calling her. “Yes?” she asked, perfectly poised and every bit the lady of the house she was meant to be.

Before she could take another step, Ridoc’s voice rang out behind her. "Nope."

Y/n blinked in surprise as Ridoc stomped toward her, throwing his hands up dramatically like someone had just skewered him with an arrow. "No! No ‘Riorson.’ You are a Gamlyn first."

“Ridoc—” Y/n began, laughing already.

“Nope. I’m not listening.” Ridoc dramatically clutched his chest, wincing like he’d just taken the blow of a lifetime. “I don’t care that she’s married, Xaden. You know that, right? You can’t steal her name like that. She’s not a Riorson. She’s a Gamlyn. Always has been, always will be. No offense, but it’s my name too.”

Xaden was lounging against a nearby pillar, hands in his pockets, utterly amused. He raised an eyebrow but didn’t budge. “You know I can’t help it if I married a woman who owns my last name.”

“You forced her to take your name, you charmer,” Ridoc retorted, glaring at Xaden. “She’s a Gamlyn, and I’ll keep calling her that.”

Y/n burst into laughter, unable to contain herself anymore. “Ridoc, it’s fine,” she said between chuckles. “I’m still me—whether I’m a Gamlyn or a Riorson.”

“No,” Ridoc said, glaring at his twin like she’d betrayed him. “No ‘Riorson.’ You will always be a Gamlyn first, and no matter what title you take on, my dear twin sister.”

Xaden just grinned. “She is my wife. And I’ll call her whatever I want.”

Ridoc turned on Xaden with a look of mock horror. “You don’t get to change her identity like that, Riorson. That’s our thing, okay? I’m her twin brother. I’m the one that gets to mess with her name. Not you.”

“Maybe we should change her name to ‘Queen of Both Names,’” Violet teased from across the courtyard, clearly enjoying Ridoc’s dramatic rant.

Y/n laughed even harder, wrapping an arm around Ridoc. “Don’t worry, Ridoc. You’ll always be my Gamlyn first, no matter how many Riorsons I’ve added to my life.”

Ridoc sighed dramatically, but when he saw Y/n’s playful smile, he sighed again, though this time with fondness. “You’re impossible, you know that? But you’re still my twin.”

Xaden chuckled from the sidelines. “You know, I think this means I’m married to a Gamlyn and a Riorson now. I’m very lucky.”

Ridoc shook his head, turning to Xaden. “Yeah, yeah, lucky, lucky. You’ll see how much fun it is when my name’s the one she keeps close.”

Y/n looked between the two of them, shaking her head with a grin. “Honestly, you both are insane.”

It was a beautiful morning at the estate, sunlight filtering through the windows as the squad gathered in the spacious dining room. The chatter of their voices filled the air, and the smell of fresh bread and baked pastries wafted from the kitchen.

Y/n walked in, as usual, barefoot and wrapped in Xaden’s oversized shirt—her pajamas for the past several days. The shirt was far too big for her, and the sleeves hung past her hands, while the hem brushed the tops of her thighs. Her hair was still a bit tousled, wild curls falling around her shoulders in a way that was undeniably cute.

Ridoc turned, eyes widening in mock horror as she entered. “Really? Again?!” He threw his hands in the air like he was witnessing the fall of civilization. “You used to have decorum, Y/n. You had style, even in your pajamas. Is this who we’ve become? Is this the level of decadence we’ve sunk to?!” He gestured wildly at her clothes, which, by all standards, were still Xaden's.

Y/n just grinned, completely unapologetic. “Good morning, Ridoc. You know, if I didn’t have Xaden’s clothes, I’d be walking around in my clothes, which is not a fun option.” She plopped down at the table beside Xaden, who was already grinning at her, utterly unaffected by her choice of attire.

“Ridoc, don’t be such a drama queen,” Violet teased from her seat, leaning back as she sipped her coffee. “Honestly, the man should be used to this by now.”

“Tell that to my sanity,” Ridoc muttered, crossing his arms dramatically as he stared at Y/n in mock disbelief.

“Ridoc, you’re just jealous,” Rhiannon chimed in, her voice light with amusement. “We all know how much you secretly want to wear Xaden’s clothes too.”

“Shut it, Rhiannon,” Ridoc growled, his face twitching as he glared at her. “I’m just trying to preserve some respect for my sister’s fashion sense.”

Y/n just shrugged, looking completely at ease. “I mean, Xaden's shirt is comfy.”

“Really? So, Xaden’s big-ass shirt is now your go-to fashion choice?” Ridoc grumbled, rubbing his temples. “Where’s the elegance? Where’s the mystique? You used to walk in here with some grace—now you look like you’re in a permanent state of ‘I’m married and I couldn’t care less.’”

Xaden snorted, clearly finding Ridoc’s theatrics funny. “She’s right, though,” he said, smiling at Y/n as he casually reached for her hand. “I mean, who needs fancy clothes when my wife is this stunning?”

Y/n gave him a playful smirk as she leaned toward him, but before their lips could meet, Ridoc shot out a hand—grabbing a piece of bread from the table and tossing it at them. The roll hit Xaden square in the chest. “I swear to the gods, you two—I'm trying to eat breakfast!”

Y/n burst into laughter, trying to stifle it but clearly amused by Ridoc's antics. Xaden chuckled too, unaffected by the bread attack, and pulled Y/n closer, locking eyes with her, still grinning.

“You can't kiss her right now,” Ridoc protested, throwing another piece of bread—this one sailing directly past Xaden’s head and hitting the wall.

“Ridoc,” Xaden said, trying (and failing) to hide his amusement, “you’re going to run out of bread soon, and then what?”

“I don’t care,” Ridoc snapped, “the point is, I’m eating breakfast in peace. You two—” He waved a hand in frustration, “You two cannot be like this every day. Honestly, I need a breather from the constant smothering.”

Rhiannon burst out laughing. “No one is making you sit next to them, Ridoc.”

“And no one is making you throw bread at us,” Xaden retorted with a smirk, pulling Y/n closer, much to Ridoc's evident dismay.

Y/n, unable to hold back, kissed Xaden softly on the cheek. “I can’t help it if I like him.”

Ridoc groaned dramatically, leaning back in his chair, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity. “This is absolutely ridiculous. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you two were infuriatingly in love or something.”

“Well, I don’t know,” Y/n said, her tone teasing, “it’s not like we’ve been married for two years or anything, Ridoc. Maybe you’re just getting used to it.”

“Don’t make me start on your gamlyn-ness again,” Ridoc warned, shaking his head and looking away, muttering under his breath.

Y/n couldn’t help but laugh, turning to Xaden as Ridoc muttered on. “He’s not going to get used to this, is he?”

Xaden leaned in to kiss her this time, ignoring Ridoc’s protests entirely. “Nope. But I’m not planning on stopping either.”

Ridoc, now fully defeated, buried his face in his hands. “I hate you both.”

The squad continued to laugh, their laughter filling the room as Ridoc slouched in his chair, thoroughly exasperated by the lovebirds in his life.

It was late afternoon, golden light spilling through the curtains of their room in the Riorson estate. Inside, tangled in the warmth of each other beneath the sheets, Xaden and Y/n were thoroughly ignoring the rest of the world. The door was locked, the world be damned, and for once—just once—they had a quiet moment to themselves.

Xaden was murmuring something low into her neck, voice husky and playful, hands skimming her waist, when—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Y/n groaned, head falling back into the pillow. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Xaden froze, eyes narrowing as his expression morphed into something dark and deeply unimpressed. “No. Nope. Not today.”

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“Riorson!” someone sing-songed from the other side—Ridoc, most likely, though it could very well be Sawyer being unbearably cheerful. “Are you guys decent? Probably not, but this is important!”

Xaden slowly pulled away, not bothering to cover the irritation laced in every movement. Y/n just buried her face into the pillow with a muffled “don’t kill them” as he got out of bed, not even bothering to grab a shirt. His tone when he opened the door?

Pure death.

He yanked the door open and glared, shirtless, hair a little messy, clearly busy. “What,” he growled, “the actual fuck do you want?”

Sawyer stood there, halfway through raising his hand for another knock. Behind him, Ridoc was leaning against the wall, entirely too smug.

“Oh,” Sawyer blinked, cheeks already turning red, “so... you weren’t decent.”

“No,” Xaden said, dry and biting. “Do I look decent to you?”

Ridoc snorted, clearly enjoying himself. “Well, your wife sounds alive, so I figured all was well. But,” he raised a hand, “the council is asking for an update on the status of the patrol schedules and—”

Xaden’s jaw clenched. “You interrupted that—” he pointed toward the bed where Y/n was currently hiding under the sheets with a half-laughing, half-mortified groan, “—for schedules?”

“We’re soldiers, Xaden,” Ridoc said, all mock-serious. “Also, I didn’t expect you two to be doing the horizontal swordplay at three in the afternoon.”

“It’s our room. It’s our afternoon.” He stepped forward just enough that both of them took a precautionary step back. “If any of you knock again before dinner, I swear by every storm-wielding god in existence, I will bury you in reports so fast your grandchildren will feel it.”

He slammed the door.

Y/n was shaking with laughter when he turned around. “I love how eloquent you are when you’re pissed.”

Xaden muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "traitors, the lot of them," before crawling back into bed, dragging her under him again. “Now, where were we—before someone decided to test my self-restraint?”

Y/n pulled him in by the collar and kissed him. “Picking up exactly where we left off.”

The next morning, a thick envelope stamped with Iron Squad’s seal was slipped under their bedroom door.

Y/n was still curled against Xaden, his arm looped protectively around her waist as soft morning light drifted in. He groaned at the sound of paper scraping the floor. “I swear, if this is another interruption—”

Y/n sat up, the covers falling slightly off her shoulders, and padded over to pick it up, still wearing yet another one of Xaden’s shirts. She opened the envelope, pulling out a document with a smirk already forming.

Xaden raised a brow. “What is it?”

Y/n started reading aloud, barely containing her amusement.

"To: General Riorson & Duchess Gamlyn Riorson (ahem) From: The Only Reason This Place Still Has Order aka Ridoc Gamlyn Re: Urgent Tactical Operations & Civil Order Maintenance Per your passionate rejection of our perfectly timed attempt at duty-related discussion yesterday (see Exhibit A: the verbal assault received at 1600 hours), I’ve taken the liberty of drafting an updated report. Please find below:

Y/n flipped to the next page to reveal a stick-figure drawing of a very buff Xaden, shirtless and frowning, complete with devil horns and “GET OUT” in a speech bubble. There were also two cowering stick figures labeled “Sawyer (Regretful)” and “Ridoc (Emotionally Scarred)”.

Y/n was wheezing with laughter by now.

She continued:

Sincerely, The emotionally exhausted brother of the duchess. P.S. Xaden, if you try to intimidate me again, I will fill your drawers with glitter. Consider this a declaration of war."

Xaden took the letter, read it, and let out a long, suffering sigh. “He’s insufferable.”

Y/n, still giggling, kissed his cheek. “You married into it.”

He groaned. “I married you. The rest was a package deal.”

From outside, faintly through the wall, they heard Ridoc yell: “AND YOU’RE WELCOME.”

Operation "No Privacy, No Peace"

Y/n had finally managed to get Xaden alone. The door was locked. The candles were lit. His shirt was already halfway off, and her hands were in his hair.

Cue a knock.

Knock knock knock.

Xaden let out a growl. “I swear to all the gods—”

From outside: “Sorry! Emergency!” It was Sawyer.

Xaden glared at the door. “If someone’s not dying, I’m going to make you wish you were.”

“I can’t find my left boot,” Sawyer said, sounding genuinely distressed. “Have you seen it? It’s the comfy one.”

Y/n, flushed and flustered, buried her face in Xaden’s chest. “I’m going to kill them.”

The next night, just as Y/n was climbing into Xaden’s lap and he was murmuring something sinful against her neck—

“DUCHESS!”

The window opened.

She shrieked and grabbed a sheet.

Ridoc stood there, perched like a deranged cat. “Xaden, if you continue to defile my sister with reckless abandon, I will make you drink glitter-infused protein powder for a week.”

Xaden stared in disbelief. “Why are you in the window?”

“Because the door is locked!”

“AS IT SHOULD BE!” Y/n yelled.

Xaden woke up determined. Today, nothing would stop him. He had already locked the door, double-checked the windows, and shoved a chair under the handle.

Y/n, hair tousled, shirt askew, was straddling his lap, fingers tracing his collarbone—

Suddenly, a loud trumpet blast echoed from outside their door.

They both froze.

Sawyer’s voice: “Good morning, lovebirds! We composed a little tune titled ‘Please Stop, I Can Hear Everything.’”

A badly played harmonica joined in.

Then Ridoc sang, “THE DUCHESS MAY BE HOT, BUT I’M HER BROTHER, STOP THIS THOTTERY.”

Y/n screamed into a pillow. Xaden cursed them to the depths of Tyrrendor’s hells.

Later that week, Y/n cornered them both outside the war room.

Her curls were in disarray. Her jaw was tense. Her glare was lethal.

“You,” she said, pointing at Ridoc. “And you.” Now Sawyer. “Are on thin ice. If I find a single glitter bomb, a harmonica, or hear one more verse of whatever that was—you’ll be the first to test Damien’s new sleeping potions. I’m not afraid to drug you.”

Ridoc put both hands up. “I’m just saying, I’m traumatized.”

Sawyer added, “It’s not our fault you’re both horndogs.”

Xaden stepped behind her, arms around her waist, his voice low and dangerous: “You have two options: leave us alone… or die tired.”

Ridoc blinked. “Are you threatening your brother-in-law?”

“Gladly.”

Sawyer just nodded and backed away slowly.

Y/n slammed her mug down on the table harder than necessary. The ceramic clink echoed across the breakfast hall, making Violet raise her brows and Rhiannon gently nudge her elbow in silent solidarity.

Her curls were in a messy bun that screamed I gave up, and she wore one of Xaden’s oversized hoodies, sleeves covering her hands. There were faint dark circles under her eyes — not from nightmares, not from war briefings, but from sexual frustration.

Xaden, seated beside her, trying to look unbothered and even if he was mildly amused as he sipped his tea. But one glance at his slightly swollen lips and the matching mark just below his jaw told the real story: interrupted. Again.

Ridoc walked in, way too chipper for dawn, plopping down beside his sister. “Morning, sunbeam!” he chirped. “Sleep well?”

Y/n glared over her mug. “You’re not funny.”

He grinned. “I’m hilarious. I bring light and joy wherever I go.”

“More like glitter bombs and cockblocking.”

Sawyer, on cue, slid into his seat across from them with a wolfish grin. “You have to admit,” he said between bites of toast, “you two have never had to work so hard for privacy. Builds character.”

Xaden didn’t even look up. “I’m building a grave.”

Y/n growled, snatching another slice of toast. “If one more harmonica wakes me up, I swear to the gods—”

“Wait,” Ridoc cut in with mock innocence. “You were awake when we played last night? Weird. Thought you’d be...busy.”

She kicked him under the table so hard he yelped.

Violet leaned in, her voice soft. “You know, we can start sabotaging their dates for a little revenge.”

Rhiannon added, “Or slip truth serum into their tea. Watch them confess everything. I’ve got vials.”

Y/n looked at them with the eyes of a woman on the brink. “I just want one uninterrupted night with my husband. Is that too much to ask?”

Ridoc tossed a grape into his mouth and said around it, “Kinda, yeah.”

Sawyer gave her a wink. “We’re just trying to protect your virtue, Duchess.”

“I’ve been married for two years,” she deadpanned. “There’s no virtue left to protect.”

Xaden, calm as ever, reached for her hand under the table. “I’ll lock the door. Reinforce it with shadows. Maybe lookd for a repelling rune. Or poison.”

She squeezed his hand, then glared at her brother and his partner in crime. “I hope you both get so attached to someone, and right as you’re about to kiss them, a marching band walks in.”

“Worth it,” Ridoc said cheerfully.

Sawyer raised his cup. “To chaos.”

Rhiannon and Violet clinked their mugs to Y/n's, already with a plan in mind.

“To revenge.”

Taglist: @eepyfaerie @dreamdragonkadia @hiraethjules @nikfigueiredo @galaxystern08 @taleiaargenis @minidemont @poeticbookwormcat @eternallyrosefire @shadowhuntyi @messageforthesmallestman @iheartshopping @fangirling-galore @nesiris21 @itsbeenmyhonor @stelena-klayley @littlemissperfecttt @lagrandeourse @readinf @barbreadsbooks @profoundpizzasong @optimisticsoulstarfish @locatinginspo @lxnvmvrzx @im-a-weirdo-for-life @laterria201 @bestillmystuckyheart @casiiopea2 @ineednewdaggers @fictionalrelapse @smileysunshinesworld

[centrally-unplanned]

Recently I have heard a bunch of people discussing Sarah Paine, a professor at the US Naval War College. Dwarkesh Patel uploaded a bunch of her lectures to his YouTube, Noah Smith (jokingly) referred to her as the One Good Historian, etc. She appeals to, in particular, the "neo hawk" camp around rising competition with China.

She had a video on Japan in WW2 which, given that that is my area of expertise, I thought I would watch...and it is weird, man. She has the cultural bent to her analysis - she approaches analyzing Japan's strategic decision-making from in part their cultural obsessions with bushido, the imperial system, etc. This is an "old guard" approach that modern historiography tends to downplay - for example, interviews with captured POWs (who didn't surrender) during the war generally showed not that they were motivated by a deep code of honor (though ofc it was there), but by propaganda from their own government that if captured the US would torture and execute them. Bansai charging makes a bit more sense now, right? But Paine isn't dogmatic about it, and it isn't like the cultural factors played no role in Japan's thinking, so this is a matter of taste.

But much more off-putting are these sort of "communist menace" vibes that run through it, where she portrays Japan as inordinately concerned with the communist forces in China as some sort of big threat. That just is not true, they did not consider them very relevant, and it leads to a bunch of weird statements. Like okay, ~27 minutes in, we have this quote:

[China in the 1930's] is a mess. It is coalescing into a bilateral competition between the Nationalists under Chiang Kai Shek and the Communists under Mao Zedong, fighting with increasing dosages of Soviet aid. And the Japanese are appalled with all of this, and so it is time to surprise everybody again in 1937 - when they invade all the way down the Chinese coast.

Essentially pitching a narrative of growing communist/nationalist civil war provoking Japan into action to intervene. Which, I am sorry, what? This is a map of China in 1937

With Nationalist China/The KMT ruling most of the country in some form and the Communist forces ruling a rump state fortress in the mountains. By 1934 the civil war was pretty much on a standstill, and in 1936 (involving a kidnapping of Chiang, diplomacy baby!) they even signed a ceasefire to unite against the Japanese. And while she can weasel-word her way out of this, most people's read of that phrasing of "Soviet aid" would think it was going to the Communist forces to help them, right? But that isn't true! The Soviets in the 1930's were giving far more aid to the Nationalists, backing them as the obvious winners and hoping to court them as an ally against Japan.

There was no rising communist threat in China in the 1930's - instead there was a growing unity in China under the KMT to oppose the Japanese that was causing Japanese military planners to fret. Which would justify Japan's "surprise intervention"...if they did that intentionally, but they didn't! The war was started essentially by mistake, and Japan (and China) both tried to negotiate a ceasefire multiple times before it spiraled out of control due to aggressive local commanders.

(This also is the case for Japan's "other" surprise she mentions, the invasion of Manchuria - it was a strategic ploy to expand the empire, yes, but by the local 'Kwangtung Army' in open defiance of the government's orders! Not exactly 'high strategy'.)

In isolation any one of these - and other examples in the video - could just be awkward phrasings or interpretive differences, but in aggregate I think this is a level of revisionism that I can't stomach as being in good faith. It is just one video but these are pretty basic mistakes to be making. I don't think this person is a good historian, which definitely makes me question her expertise on the present-day CCP.

[demie90s]

Kahleah Cooper x younger or rookie reader they are dating, where reader is being a brat on court, they are on opposite teams and she’s sayijg slick comments and fouling kahleah, they meet up at half time and k threaten her but reader doesn’t take her serious and continues and basically kahleah js handles that after the game

Bet.

Kahleah Copper x fem!reader

MASTERLIST | MORE

Summary: I was talkin’ slick, fouling her, doing the most all game. K pulled me aside at halftime like, “Keep playing with me.” I did.

Warnings: Bratty behavior, light fouling, tension, dominance, post-game consequences

Word count: ~ 1.2k

There’s confidence… and then there’s me.

Rookie season. Nationally televised game. Bright lights, packed arena, and guess who they let guard Kahleah Copper? Me. Now, did I behave? Absolutely not. Did I try? Also no.

First possession, she blew past me so clean I had to foul her just to save face. But I smiled while doing it. Reached out, tapped her hip, and said with a grin, “You almost had me.”

Kahleah just blinked down at me like I was a minor inconvenience. Didn’t even answer. Just jogged off to the line with that calm, seasoned walk, the one that says I’ve been here too long to entertain you.

So of course, I got worse. Next play, I whispered something stupid in her ear. I won’t repeat it—just know it rhymed with “I bet you like fouls rough.” She paused, shot me a look, and kept walking.

Third possession, I gave her a soft bump in transition and mouthed, “Oops.”

Still nothing. Just a smirk and a shake of her head like she knew she was dealing with a child. That only made me louder.

By the end of the first quarter, I’d hit two threes and fouled her twice. She was still calm, still composed. Meanwhile, I was skipping up the court, grinning like a menace, throwing looks at the bench and mouthing “Tell her guard me.”

Then I pushed it. We both reached for a loose ball, hands clashed, and I leaned in close. “Girl, you moving slow today. You tired? Need me to stretch you out?”

That’s when she turned her whole body to face me, eyes sharp, smile gone.

“You think I won’t handle you?”

I tilted my head and shrugged. “I think you talk a lot.”

Buzzers blared. Timeout. We headed to the benches. At halftime, I should’ve gone straight to the locker room.

Instead, I posted up in the tunnel with my water bottle, leaning back on the wall like I didn’t have a single care in the world.

She walked past me—sweaty, tall, mad as hell—and I smiled right at her. “Hey, girl.”

Kahleah stopped, slow, like she didn’t believe I said it again.

“Girl?” she echoed. “Who the fuck—bet.”

She didn’t wait for a response. Just turned on her heel and walked off like the decision had already been made. I grinned to myself. That was cute. But the second half? Oh baby.

She didn’t say a word. Didn’t foul me. Didn’t smile. Just played. Clamped me up on defense. Took me to the rim on offense. Scored twice in my face and stared me down after both buckets.

I still mouthed off. Still tapped her ass on one play, just to be a brat. Still whispered, “You mad or you flustered?” She didn’t answer. Which is how I knew I was cooked.

———

Final buzzer hits and I’m just standing there. Heart racing, sweat soaking through my jersey, and everybody’s screaming—but I can’t even hear what they’re saying. I don’t know who won. I don’t know the score. I don’t even know where Kahleah is.

All I know is she’s gone.

Not “walked back to the locker room” gone. No high-five, no eye contact, no cool little shoulder tap after a game full of tension and fouls and me running my damn mouth. She’s just… missing. Like the court swallowed her up the second that clock hit zero.

I’m halfway through grabbing my towel when I check my phone. One notification. One message.

Come here.

No explanation. No punctuation. Just that. And I know exactly where she is.

Basement level of the arena. Private player parking. Black Escalade with the lights off and the engine low. Sitting in the shadows like a threat. Like something I should run from, but I won’t. Because now I’m nervous. But I’m excited. But also? Nervous.

Because this ain’t one of those “I’ll talk to you later” texts. No. This was a decision. A verdict. And I already knew the sentence.

Still, I shower slow. On purpose. Scrub a little extra. Condition twice. Stretch in front of the mirror even though I know damn well I’m not doing post-game yoga. I move through the locker room like I got all the time in the world, like I’m not lowkey dragging my feet because I’m scared of what she’s about to do to me.

And not scared like I wanna run. Scared like I know I’m gonna love it.

I get dressed real casual. Big hoodie, loose sweats. Hoodie string double-knotted. Lip balm, no gloss. Hair slicked back, breath mint in. I’m ready. But not really.

By the time I get to the parking level, my legs feel weak and not from the game. The Escalade is sitting in the corner, black on black, windows dark like it’s judging me. The passenger side clicks open without her even looking up. Just that subtle little unlock like, “Get in.”

I slide inside and it’s quiet. Real quiet. The kind of quiet that presses on your chest. Her hands are on the wheel, nails done, rings catching the dim overhead lights. She’s not looking at me. She’s just sitting there, eyes ahead, jaw tight, breathing slow. Like she’s trying to not say what she wants to say.

I open my mouth. Just to ease the tension. Maybe a joke. Maybe a “You drove off fast, Casper.” But I don’t get the chance.

Her voice cuts through the silence, low and calm. “You been loud all game. Real brave.”

I try to grin. “I was just having fun—”

“That wasn’t fun. That was stupid.” Her grip on the wheel tightens. “You called me girl.”

I blink. “I call everybody girl—”

“Yeah, but you don’t fuck everybody, do you?”

Silence. My heart thuds. I glance at her. She finally looks back at me. And her eyes? Dark. Hungry. Dead serious.

Real sexy. My bad continue.

“You been beggin’ all night. Touchin’ me, talkin’ slick, actin’ like I won’t do nothing.” She shifts gears, puts the car in drive, and pulls out smooth. “So now I’m gonna do something.”

We don’t head toward the hotel. She doesn’t say where we’re going. She just drives. Quick turns. No music. Just tension. Heat. My thighs clenching every time she switches lanes too fast.

———

She ain’t even speedin’. She’s just drivin’ fast enough for the tension to feel heavy. That type of silence where you can hear your own damn heartbeat. One hand on the wheel, the other resting on the console like it wants to do damage but hasn’t moved—yet.

She pull off the freeway like she not pressed, turn signal on like she just tryna take in the night air.

But the second she finds that empty lot, that dark corner behind the abandoned gas station—she parks. Doesn’t say a word. Car still on. Music still off. She just… sits.

I turn my head slowly, nerves buzzing, but still tryna act cute. “What we parked for, Leah?”

She don’t answer. She don’t move.

Just keeps looking forward like she gotta calm herself down before she touches me. And that’s when I feel it—that shift in the air. That pull. Like something real about to happen.

“K?” I whisper, mouth dry now.

She finally looks at me, slow as hell, eyes dragging across my face, jaw, chest, thighs. Her gaze alone make my pussy twitch. And I hate that shit. ‘Cause I know she know. I ain’t hiding nothing.

“You think I’m playin’ with you?” she asks, voice soft but serious.

I lick my lips. Try to joke. “I mean… if you was, you good at it.”

Wrong.

Next thing I know, she unbuckles my seatbelt. One click. That’s it. And before I can blink, her hand snakes up, firm and fast, and wraps around my throat like she been waitin’ to do it all damn game.

She leans in real slow, thumb under my jaw, not squeezing, just holding. Controlling. Testing how long I’ll run my mouth now.

“I said… you think I’m playin’?” And that’s when it happens.

Like, heavy. That deep pulse. The kind that lets you know you wet before you even check. My thighs clench out of instinct, and she smirks. She ain’t even touched me down there. But she knows. She fucking knows.

My breath comes shaky. Voice a whisper. “I’m not playin’ either.”

She tilts her head, like bet. Then she lets go of my neck. Not because I passed. But because she’s ready.

“Get those sweats off.” I blink.

“Huh?”

Her voice sharper now. “I said, take. That. Shit. Off.”

(Ushers….lock them doors…I said close the door)

—————

She don’t wait for me to finish pulling the sweats down. She helps. One hand yanks the waistband low, the other planted right on my thigh, firm, like she owns it. Like it’s hers. Her fingers graze my skin and I swear I almost melt. Just a soft drag. Lazy. Casual. Dangerous.

And her hands?

Yeah. They big. Warm. Veiny. Real nice to look at, but even better between my legs.

She slides two fingers up—barely. Just enough pressure to feel it. To let me know she knows exactly where I’m aching. I shift. Gasp. Try to rock my hips into her hand.

She doesn’t let me. She pulls back. Deadpan. Like she ain’t just touch me like that.

“Kahleah—”

“You said I wouldn’t do nothin’. I’m just proving your point, right?”

I blink at her, breathing hard already. “You play too much—“

That’s when she leans forward and presses. One full palm, right over the throbbing heat of it, not moving. Just holding me there.

I whine. That shit hurts. In the best way. Pressure. Heat. My pussy clenches like it’s begging for more.

She smiles. “Already wet. Off a stare and a hand. That’s crazy.”

And just when I think she’s gonna slide inside— She doesn’t. She pulls away.

Moves back into her seat. Starts the car. Like she ain’t just have me panting and twitching in the damn front seat. I sit there, jaw dropped, legs wide, heart pounding. Pussy damn near crying.

She glances over like it’s nothing.

“You good?”

I glare. “No, I’m not good—”

She just hums. “You said I wasn’t gon’ do nothin’. Guess you were right.”

Then she puts the car in drive, hands back on the wheel, calm as hell while my whole body’s shaking. And that’s when I realize—She’s just getting started.

@xxsnowxx213 @draculara-Vonvamp @kcannon-1436-blog @zizi-bee-yapping @kaliblazin @perksofbeingatrex @soapyonaropey

[teecupangel]

hi, i just thought of something, i want to hear your thoughts on it

time travel, Desmond stumbles out of a golden portal in the middle of masyaf and says "hi grandpa" to Altaïr before a frantic chase ensues. everyone is panicking, Desmond is a menace to society at his worst, and time travel seems like a freacking joke, especially when it's hard to doubt

Altaïr is trying to figure out which of his sons found a woman capable of creating such a walking nightmare

Malick cynically says that Altaïr is the only one to blame, and there's no point in blaming his sons' prospective wives

It would be funny if Desmond is notified where he’s being transported.

A week before Altaïr, Maria and Darim leave to assassinate Genghis Khan.

So he makes a grand entrance (in reality: he rolls out of th golden portal and ends up tripping some poor random Assassin before he could stop) and immediately clocks in Altaïr, greeting with a “Hi, grandpa!” because, wow, Altaïr has white in his hair AND beard.

Of course he remembered watching it as he relived Ezio’s memories but it hits differently now that he’s seeing it in ‘real time’.

Then he noticed Abbas and points at him and immediately went “He’s planning a coup! He’s been planning for years!”

And that’s where the chaos emerges.

Some random man who looks too much like Altaïr saying that Abbas is planning a coup?

Some weight is definitely there in his words because of his appearance and how he appeared.

The threat of Genghis Khan was pushed back because of these allegations.

Then…

The unknown man that goes by the name Desmond escapes his confinement (it wasn’t prison, more like… house arrest) with a letter saying “I’ll take care of Genghis Khan so don’t leave Masyaf, Altaïr!” and that’s when chaos truly ensured.

They start receiving reports of an Assassin joining up with the Mongolian Assassins and how he’s not just preparing to assassinate Genghis Khan but also helping the Mongolian Assassins… ‘upgrade’ their skills and weaponry.

There’s a lot of praises concerning Desmond and… words hiding the fact that the Mongolian Assassins believe Desmond to be Altaïr’s secret son… from another woman.

Maria laughs it off while Altaïr gets a headache.

All the while, the Brotherhood is doing an unscheduled spring cleaning because Desmond’s words forced them to check Abbas and oh boy.

That man was planning for quite a long time and he definitely has allies in the Brotherhood, that’s for sure.

This kind of chaos is definitely the work of Altaïr’s bloodline, as far as Malik is concerned. Not to mention, Sef’s wife is a sweet gentle woman. The very opposite of the chaotic grandson that left Masyaf in this state.

.

On the other side of this situation…

“He’s definitely your son.”

“I’m offended you would think that………… But I can’t say I blame you. You will die alone, after all.”

“Do you think if I cut your balls, he’ll disappear?”

“My wife will skin you alive. She loves my bal-”

“SEF!”

[frutigerfischl]

How about Sevika x Reader with Sevika being protective? Thank you :D

⌗ TITLE┆SHE REALLY LOVES ME┆song: drink ★ ₊ ˚⟡

⌗ TAGS┆gn reader, protective sevika, hcs, slightly ooc, based on s1 because I haven't watched s2 yet so idk how she acts there ★ ₊ ˚⟡

⌗ NOTE┆hey, I love this idea but didn't know if you wanted a oneshot or hcs since you didn't specify but I decided to do hcs since I don't usually do then and wanted to practice! If you wanted a oneshot you can inbox me and I'll write one, also if you're wondering my format has slightly changed ★ ₊ ˚⟡

⊹₊⟡⋆ TRUST

Sevika is suspicious of you at first. She doesn’t trust easily—not in Zaun, not with the life she’s lived. “People look out for themselves,” she tells you, a note of warning in her voice. “Don’t expect me to save your ass if you can’t hold your own.”

Except she does save you—over and over. The first time, it’s instinct: her blade catching a would-be attacker’s throat mid-swing. The second time, it’s with a grimace and a sharp, “Don’t make a habit of this.” But by the fifth? She doesn’t even bother pretending it’s a chore. She just growls, “Stay behind me,” as she steps into the fray, all muscle and menace.

⊹₊⟡⋆ PROTECTION

Sevika’s protection isn’t loud or showy. She’s not the type to shout declarations or pick you up over her shoulder in some grand display. No, her protection is quieter, more calculated—shadows moving on the periphery, her watchful gaze tracking the room while she leans back in her chair, exhaling smoke. You think she’s distracted, but you notice the subtle shift of her cybernetic arm whenever someone steps too close. One wrong move from them, and she’ll put them on the ground before you can blink.

You’re not sure when it starts, but Sevika always seems to know where you are. Whether you’re in the Last Drop nursing a drink or wandering the back alleys of Zaun, you’ll feel the weight of her gaze. At first, it’s unnerving—her sharp eyes tracking your every movement like you’re a potential threat. But over time, the edge softens. You catch her watching you with something warmer, something quieter. She’ll look away when you notice, muttering something about needing to “keep tabs on trouble.”

Despite her gruff demeanor, Sevika always insists on walking you home. “Zaun isn’t kind to people who walk alone,” she says, her tone leaving no room for argument. If you protest, she’ll just cross her arms and arch a brow. “What? You think I’ve got better things to do?”

⊹₊⟡⋆ AFFECTION

Sevika isn’t the kind of person who says what she feels, but her actions speak louder than words. She’ll shove a bowl of stew into your hands after a long day, grumbling something about “keeping your strength up.” If you don’t eat it fast enough, she’ll gruffly ask, “What, it’s not good enough for you?” even though you can tell she’s genuinely worried.

Her jacket? It’s yours now. You didn’t ask for it—she just draped it over your shoulders one night when the Zaun air turned cold. “Don’t read into it,” she snapped when you thanked her, but the warmth in her tone betrayed her.

There are nights when the weight of Zaun, of Silco’s war, of everything she’s done to survive, catches up to her. She won’t talk about it, but you can see it in the way her shoulders sag, in the way she stares at her drink like it holds all the answers. You don’t push her to open up—you just sit beside her, your presence quiet and steady. After a while, she’ll sigh and lean into you, her head resting against your shoulder. She won’t say anything, but the way her fingers brush against yours says enough.

Once, after a particularly close call, Sevika cups your face in her hand—her real hand, rough and calloused. “Don’t do that again,” she says, her voice low and raw. “I can’t…” She doesn’t finish the sentence, but the way her thumb traces over your cheek makes your heart ache.