#this is the least withered I have ever drawn her | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

yandere-daydreams · 3 months

Text

Title: Escapism.

Commissioned by the very lovely @twst-ophelia.

Pairing: Yandere!Dorm Leaders x Reader (TWST).

Word Count: 4.0k.

TW: Fem!Reader, Non/Con, Dub/Con, Prolonged Imprisonment, Physical/Psychological Abuse, Slight Marking, Disassociation, and Possessive Behavior.

The mirror would be ready to use, by now.

Really, that’d been your first mistake – forgetting what you’d learned during your first months in this strange new place, having enough faith in the friends you’d made and your own middling abilities to tell anyone and everyone you could find that you were finally going home. You’d been over-eager, blinded by joy, and within a week of Crowly admitting that he’d found a way to return you to your own world using the Magic Mirror, it’d been common knowledge across all of Twisted Wonderland that it’d only be a few more weeks before you were returned to your own world. Ace teased you for being so eager to drop out halfway through your third year and Grim stuck to your side with twice his usual clinginess, and despite the bittersweetness of knowing you’d likely never be able to come back, you were happy. You were alright with leaving them, so long as it meant you could go home.

And you did leave them, in a way. If you looked at it from a certain angle.

You just didn’t get to go home.

There was a wet, slick noise, then a pang of pure agony racing from your cunt to your core. Involuntarily, you jerked away from the painful sensation, but it was an effort made in vain. The heavy arm wrapped around your waist only coiled tighter, your back soon drawn flush against a broad chest. Leona’s tail swatted contentedly at the down-stuffed mattress as he let out a low, airy chuckle. “Not gonna get away that easily,” he muttered, his breath ghosting over the shell of your ear. “Remember what happened last time you tried to act-up? I don’t think the basement’s gotten any warmer.”

Basement. Calling it a basement would be like calling him a housecat. You’d been locked in that dark, frigid dungeon of a cellar for days before Azul – because he was the one you scratched, the one who got to decide how cruel your punishment was going to be – let you out, and even then, it’d taken another week of huddling by barely-smoldering fireplaces and wrapping yourself in any shred of fabric you could find to shake the chill that’d lodged itself underneath your skin. You stopped trying to lash out at them, after that. As much as their so-call ‘affection’ scared you, their anger scared you that much more.

You couldn’t be sure how they’d gotten their hands on a place like this – ancient and only a step above decrepit. Their means weren’t exactly limited, not with a prince and the heir to a fortune that might as well have made him royalty funding their little venture, but it was still hard to imagine the people you’d gone to school with keeping you locked inside of an abandoned castle, surrounded only by more woodland than you could ever hope to walk through. It might’ve been more enjoyable (or, bearable, at least) if your captors had taken a more absentee approach, if they’d given you time to adjust to being in the middle of a never-ending forest with only stone walls and dust-covered furniture for company, but no, at least one of them always seemed to be at no more than arm’s length, there to remind you exactly why you’d been relegated to the role of princess, trapped in her tower. You’d never been able to call any of them your friends, and yet, the betrayal still stung.

“Would you keep your mouth shut?” Vil mumbled, with a particularly sharp movement of his wrist. The heel of his palm ground into your clit, and against your better judgement, you withered into Leona – the sound of your pulse beating in your ears deafening, but still not enough to mask the deep, self-satisfied purr rising from his chest. “You’re frightening the poor thing. Look at her eyes – they’re practically glazed over.”

“Is she scared, or just bored half-to-death by your shitty excuse for a handjob?” He bowed his head, nipping playfully at the corner of your jaw. Of all your captors, he was the most fond of marking what he considered to be his property – even more so if he had a captive audience. “If I was the one between her legs, she’d be feelin’ too good to think about anything else. She’d already be fucked good n’ dumb.”

“That’s not—” The air caught in your throat as Vil spread his fingers apart, but you fought to go one. “I don’t feel anything when you—”

Vil pulled out of you entirely, only for his hand to come down on your pussy with a harsh, slick crack. You couldn’t swallow back your pained cry, couldn’t stop yourself from shrinking further into Leona. “No lying, now, darling. You know how easy it is to hurt his feelings.” He paused, then glanced over his shoulders. Blearily, your attention drifted to the doorway of your bedroom – to Riddle, standing stiffly on the other side other side of the threshold. You stiffened, but Vil didn’t seem surprised. “Going to watch today, Rosehearts?”

Obviously. As complicit as they all seemed with your imprisonment, there were a few – Riddle, Idia, Azul – that withheld from treating your prolonged abuse like a group project. You’d been surprised, at first, that Vil wasn’t a part of that collective, but his tendency towards exhibitionism made sense. He couldn’t love what he couldn’t flaunt, even if his audience was limited to a handful of former classmates.

“O-of course not,” Riddle stuttered out, predictably. His pale face was tinted a nearly violent shade of red. “I just wanted to make sure you two weren’t hurting her.”

You felt Leona’s grin against your throat. “Hear that, pretty girl? He thinks we’d hurt you.” The space Vil left vacant was quickly filled – three of his calloused fingers soon filling your drenched pussy. You clenched your eyes shut, grit your teeth, but that did little to stop him from burrowing his claws into your side and tearing a little, cracked whimper through your sealed lips. “Don’t see him doing much to stop us, though.”

Vil only offered an unimpressed shake of his head, but Riddle straightened. “Are you implying that I couldn’t—”

“I’m saying that you won’t.” Leona cut him off swiftly, the edge in his tone sharped and playful. “Not if you want the next turn.”

For a moment, Riddle didn’t say anything, didn’t do anything.

Then, with a pointed glare, he turned on his heel and abandoned your bedroom altogether, likely dedicating himself to finding another part of this terrible castle to wait Leona out in.

As soon as his footsteps faded out of earshot, Leona’s teeth were buried in the curve of your throat – drawing blood in an instant.

Out of all your captors, it was Kalim who’d disappointed you the most.

You hadn’t expected this from the others, but in hindsight, you wouldn’t put it above them, either. Azul had never been able to draw a line between what he wanted and what he could have, Riddle had never been able to keep his base impulses at bay for very long, and Leona… well, Leona couldn’t be bothered to pretend he was interested in things like your ‘autonomy’ or ‘independence’. Kalim, though – he’d always been nice to you. Not overly kind, but nice, and in a place like NRC, that was something you’d been able to appreciate.

It almost didn’t make sense to see him in a place like this, to connect his presence here with the looming fact of your continual imprisonment. It didn’t make sense that the boy who’d once thrown a parade to celebrate you finally accepting an invitation to one of his banquets would be resting his hands on your shoulders, his eyes fixed on your reflection in a pearl-lined vanity as he pulled what felt like the hundredth gem-studded necklace into place at the base of your throat. You didn’t need jewelry. They rarely gave you anything to wear outside of loose-fitting, sheer dresses and the occasional piece of lingerie, but Kalim would’ve plucked the moon from the sky if it meant he could give it to you in a velvet-lined box. That was what he’d told you, at least, the first time you’d turned him down.

Actually, maybe you didn’t deserve to feign surprise. They’d all tried to do it the right way before their graduations, whether it was Vil beckoning you to sit on his lap during a dorm leader meeting or Riddle turning a dozen shades of pink as he asked if you’d care to attend an Unbirthday Party as his guest, sometime. You’d turned them all down, batting Leona’s hand away before it could settle on your shoulder, telling Azul you wouldn’t trust him as a business partner, let alone a boyfriend. Between school and a new apocalypse-scenario every other week, you never had the time (let alone the energy or desire) to date, as idiotic as it sounded to suggest that any of this could’ve started with a handful of schoolyard crushes. Maybe, if you’d given them a chance to see that it wouldn’t have worked out on their own terms, it wouldn’t have come to this. Maybe, you would’ve gotten to go home.

Or, maybe, you just would’ve been snatched up before that thread of hope could ever be dangled in front of you. Either way, a preferable alternative.

“The sapphires were a better fit,” Azul chimed in as Kalim pulled the next necklace into place – a loose riviere studded with rubies. It was the fifth of as many variants, only differentiated by the color of the jewel. Kalim claimed that he’d only meant to get you one, but ever the glutton, he hadn’t been able to choose. “Red is such a garish color. Our little princess deserves to feel as royal as we treat her, doesn’t she?”

If Kalim noticed the barb, he didn’t seem to mind. “I think you look beautiful in red,” he said, leaning down to push a kiss into your temple. His smile was as bright as it’d ever been, and you hated him that much more for it. “Then again, you look beautiful in everything. Why don’t you keep them all?”

You opened your mouth, ready to tell him where he could shove his jewelry, but you were cut off by the shutter of a camera, the hint of a flash in your peripheral. You glanced towards Azul, who only shrugged in response., sinking further into his armchair “For Idia. He’s going to be tied up with a research project for another week or so, and for whatever reason, it’s fallen on my shoulders to make sure that he doesn’t completely succumb to his self-pity and throw the gates of Tartarus open.” He thought, for a moment. “For a second time, I mean.”

You couldn’t be sure why you said it. It was an instinct, a knee-jerk reaction to grab the first blade you saw and twist it. Idia was, by far, the most distant of your captors, and when he did show his face, he barely spoke and never touched you. Even in a castle of rapists and kidnappers, he’d found a way to make himself an outsider.

“Azul?” You made a point of keeping your eyes on your reflection as you went on. “Could you tell Idia I want to see him again? When he has time, I mean.”

There was a beat of silence, then another.

Finally, Kalim forced out an only partially strained laugh, squeezing your shoulders with just a little too much force. “Is something wrong? If you want to ask for something, you don’t have to wait for Idia.”

You didn’t bother trying to respond to him. “Please, Azul?”

From the corner of your eye, you watched him glance between you and Kalim. Eventually, he let out an airy sigh and nodded. “Of course, sweetheart. Although, I do have to wonder what you’re getting up to.”

Your only answer came in the form of a tight smile, a slight shrug. Kalim didn’t waste time taking up the next necklace: a choker of braided strands of pure, glittering gold. This time, he fastened it tightly enough to bruise.

You almost felt bad for Idia, when you let yourself think about what you were doing.

Almost.

The bare skin of his chest was warm under your palm, the flames of his hair tinted a deep pink - a color you might’ve found charming, in any other situation. He was beneath you, currently, his face half-buried in a pillow while you rolled your hips idly against his, your pace slow and careless. He wasn’t as authoritative as Leona, as demanding as Riddle, and you liked that about him. But, his submissiveness meant you had to do most of the work, which you liked less.

At least he tried to pretend that he didn’t like it. Bias caused conflict, and his occasional encounters with the others wilted before shriveling into complete nonexistence shortly after you declared him your unlikely favorite. Even now, he kept his eyes clenched shut, his bottom lip caught between his pointed teeth as your pussy clenched around him. You’d gone numb to pleasure in the first weeks of your captivity, but any amount of physical contact seemed to overwhelm him. It might’ve been refreshing, if you hadn’t been so, so exhausted.

Gradually, your movements slowed, your body stilling on top of his. A second passed before he opened one of his eyes, his kiss-swollen lips quirking downward in mixed disappointment and frustration. “W-Why did you stop?”

With an exaggerated sigh, you collapsed onto him, slotting your chest against his and propping your chin on his collarbone. “I never made it to graduate,” you said, absentmindedly, relying on the haze of lust to hide just how flat your voice was. “Never got to say goodbye to anyone, either, but that was never going to happen. The other are too mean to me for that.”

His expression took on a somber lull. It might’ve been more believable if you hadn’t been able to feel his cock twitching inside of you. “I… I’m sorry. I wanted to wait, but Azul said— and Leona—”

“I know, I know.” You kissed his cheek, then the corner of his mouth. “It’s not your fault. I just—”

You cut yourself off with another sigh, just as unbelievable as the first. Thankfully, Idia was eager to take the bait. “Whatever it is, I can do it for you. I’d do anything for you.” His shaking hands found their way to your waist. “I love you.”

“I want to see Ramshackle again,” you said, without hesitation. Immediately, you felt him stiffen against you, and let your tone drag into something desperate, something pleading. “Just this once. I won’t even go inside, and Night Raven’s on break, right now. No one’s going to be on campus.” You paused, pecked the corner of his lips. “Please, Idia. Nobody else has to know.”

He still looked skeptical, but he was going to break your heart, he wasn’t going to do it while his cock was still pulsing inside of you. After only a moment of hesitation, he let out a shallow breath and nodded hastily. “One trip. And the other never find out.”

Instantly, you brightened, beaming as you pulled him into a deep, lasting kiss – a proper kiss, this time, something you’d never willingly imitated with any of your captors. He would know that. He wasn’t the most domineering, but if the hidden cameras dotted across your bedroom were anything to go by, he had his own kind of competitive streak.

A hitched moan reverberated against your mouth. With your arms still wrapped around his neck, your chest still pressed into his, he started to move on his own – his fingers digging into your hips as he thrust into you from below. His pace was unsteady, his rhythm nonexistent, but your clit scraped against the flattened plane of his pubic bone and however meager it might’ve been, there was just enough stimulation to melt into. Vaguely, you were aware of a distant whimpering, of Idia’s face buried in the crook of your neck, but you let it fade into the background – into the constant fog of static that’d been cast over your conscious mind since you woke up in this terrible place.

When you felt his teeth scrape over the curve of your throat, it was all you could do to close your eyes and think of home.

“It’s a pretty basic teleportation scheme,” he’d explained, as he led you through the castle’s entryway after pulling you out of your bed in the middle of the night. The winter air cut through your thin dress without mercy, but you’d fought not to shiver, not to give him a reason to second-guess if he should be doing this. Right now, he was convinced he loved you more than he feared letting you get away, and you couldn’t do anything to break that delusion. “Ortho handled most of the hardware, but he was following my designs. The NRC waypoint was supposed to be a limited-time mechanic, but I never cut it out of the system. It should still work – for a couple trips, at least.”

You’d let him ramble about how many hours it’d taken to put together, nodded enthusiastically as he described all the effort he’d poured into ruining your life. He kept his hand locked around yours as he led you onto a shining, steel platform, only letting go to punch the coordinates into his tablet. There was a flash of light, a slight buzzing in your ears, and then, you were standing in front of the gates to Night Raven College, already open and waiting for your arrival.

You didn’t wait for Idia to move, to say anything. Rather, you let the gem shard (pilfered from one of Kalim’s more recent attempts to win back your attention; the jewel in its entirety had been larger than your balled fist) that you’d stowed away in your sleeve fall into your hand and stabbed the jagged end into his back. You didn’t wait to see if the wound took before breaking into a sprint towards the Hall of Mirrors.

You’d be able to see, later on, that it was far from the best idea you’d ever had. There was a good chance Crowley abandoned any work he might’ve started as soon as you went missing, if he really had found a way to send you hope at all. The injury you’d dealt to Idia was far from fatal, and you’d be in for more than just a few days in the cellar if they caught you, but the desire to get out of here, to go home drowned out your better judgement – leaving your tired mind empty and your body dependent on pure, unadulterated desperation as you ran towards the familiar, pitch-black dome on the outskirts of campus. Your skirt snagged on roots and twigs, your bare feet numb and aching in-turns, but you didn’t dare to slow down, to look behind you. By the time you reached the Hall of Mirrors, your throat was dry, your heart beating in your ears. Thankfully, the door had been left unlocked, and you shouldered your way inside.

The Magic Mirror stood, dark and stoic, in the center of the room. You allowed yourself a single breath of relief, a moment to let the past few months— no, the past three years of your life melt away before moving toward it.

You made it all of two, three steps before something sprung from the darkness and wrapped around your ankle – cutting into your flesh and, with a sudden jerk, dragging you to the floor. You stifled a scream, reflexively moving to tear at your new restraints, but froze when you saw exactly what you were caught in.

A thick braid of vines wrapped around your leg – except they weren’t vines, not really.

They were briars.

Rows upon rows of hooked thorns were embedded into the skin of your calf, drawing blood wherever they made contact. The pain was instant, searing, but you didn’t care – tearing at your bondage even as the thorns bit into your hands, as the rope of briars drew that much tighter. Tears blurred your vision, and so distracted by your own misery and panic, you almost didn’t notice the sound of clipped heels against marble floors, the dark shadow that soon blocked out what little light you had. You didn’t have to look at him. You already knew who it was.

In the end, though, you weren’t given much of a choice.

You really should’ve been more used to that, by now.

A gloved hand caught you by the chin, forcing you to tilt your head back and meet Malleus’ expectant, prying stare. He took a moment to evaluate your ragged dress, the bruising and love-bites painted down your neck before a small smile came to rest over his lips; the barest hint of pointed teeth catching in the moonlight. “And to think, I thought it was only nostalgia drawing me back to this lonely place.” He spared a glance toward the mirror. “And I suppose you plan to use that ancient thing to return to your own world?”

“Malleus,” you gasped his name, hoping that would be enough to communicate the depths of your despair. “I don’t have a lot of time, I— They’re coming for me, and—” You cut yourself off, swallowing harshly. “I want to go home.”

His only response came in the form of a low hum, dull and dismissive. All it took was a snap of his fingers, a certain glint in his narrowed eyes, and the mirror shattered into more pieces than you could ever hope to put back together.

This time, you couldn’t swallow back the ragged sob that tore past your lips, the pathetic noise echoing off the stone walls. You tried to crawl towards the fractured pieces, but Malleus kneeled to your height, letting out a patronizing coo as he wrapped an arm around your midriff, pulling you against his chest and suffocating any possible hope you might’ve had for escape. Distantly, you were aware of a rush of footsteps, of a collar (as heavy as it was useless) snapping shut around your neck, but Malleus didn’t falter. With your limp body in his arms, he pushed himself to his feet, turning to face your captors where they’d clustered in the entryway.

It was Leona who spoke first, predictably. He never could let anyone else be the center of attention. “What do you want, Draconia?”

Malleus, on the other hand, was in no rush, letting his gaze fall back to you. “I was surprised, when I heard of her disappearance. I know how fragile mortal lives could be, but I thought, surely, a human who’d befriended so many powerful mages ought to be a little more enduring.”

After he finished, silence hung heavy in the air. Vil summoned his spell book, and Kalim’s fists clenched at his sides, his jealousy threatening to outweigh his pacifistic nature. None of it would’ve made a difference. If Malleus wanted to, he could reduce them all to ash with little more than a wayward thought. If Malleus wanted to, he wouldn’t need five other conspirators to have you at his mercy.

And yet, he only let out a breath of a laugh, holding you that much closer to his chest. “Then again, if I’d known those powerful mages would struggle to keep watch of such a precious item, I might’ve been less generous.”

“Get to the point.”

This time, he chose to obey. “It seems,” he started, bowing his head and letting his lips brush against your cheek. “As if you’re having trouble keeping this little one in line.”

His grin was wider and more satisfied than you’d ever seen it, before. Looking at him, you could only wonder how you have bothered trying to survive in a world that so clearly wasn’t meant for you.

“Would you consider making use of another pair of hands?”

2K notes · View notes

erotica-hooligan · 4 months

Text

Etienne Telling's 2023 Fic Roundup

All fics on AO3 are well tagged or have end notes with more details. Fics below contain everything from soft kink to noncon, so mind the tags and endnotes before reading.

114,307 words this year! Mostly CQL/MDZS, one original, and one A League of Nobleman.

In order of publication:

Brat, NieYao, Rated E, 3.4K.

Meng Yao comes home and ends up with an unexpected reward.

This Heavy Joy, Jadecest, Rated E, 22.6K

Xichen is determined not to allow Wangji to wither in isolation in the aftermath of his punishment. Xichen’s care draws the Twin Jades closer than ever and reveals old wounds alongside the new. As they struggle in recovery, Lan Yuan teaches them how to play pretend, and the Twin Jades redefine what it is to be a family.

Intricate, Wen Ning/Lan Xichen, Wangxian, Wangningxian, other implied ships, Rated E, 2.5K

Wen Ning walks in on Lan Huan dick out on his sofa, listening to Lan Zhan and Wei Ying fucking in the other room and takes charge of the situation.

Good Girls Don't, Xiyao/Jin Ling, Rated E, 5.3K

Jin Ling has a rape fantasy. Jin Guangyao doesn't trust just anyone to take care of her.

Grateful, A League of Nobleman, Lan Jue/Wang Yan, Rated E, 1.1K

"I wasn't even gone a week." How many more times will this scene play out between them? This is at least the third, and Mowen knows it won't be the last. He can only hope they'll keep happening, with Peizhi managing to escape from a mess of his own making by the skin of his teeth.

First, Jadecest, Rated E, 2.9K ⚠️Rape/Noncon, Underage

A teenage prank goes wrong and Lan Xichen finds himself the age he was when he lost his virginity.

Ask, Jadecest, Rated E, 5.8K

In which Wangji and Xichen play a cat and mouse game over Xichen's spanking kink.

drag it from the inside (like we're young again), Jadecest and Wangxian, Rated E, 6.6K

In which Wangji decides how to help his brother, with a little help from Wei Ying. A slice of Wangji POV from if you tell them where to begin. Not a standalone.

10/07/07 2:13 PM with @iamwestiec, Xizhui, Rated E, 24.2K

Introduced to a kink on ff.net, a teenage Lan Yuan stumbles into an ageplay forum in an attempt to learn more. With a new name (sizhui1987), false birth year, different gender, and insatiable curiosity, Sizhui makes friends with the forum's owner, shuoyue_writer. Drawn together by shared identities and caregiving preferences, Shuoyue changes Sizhui's life. Except… Shuoyue is Sizhui's Uncle Xichen, and eventually, the truth of who Sizhui is comes out and crashes down on the both of them. TL:DR: Sizhui Catfishes his Uncle Xichen, circa 2006-2008. A story told in AIM transcripts, emails, and vignettes

Home, Xiyao, Rated E, 4.9K

Xichen comes home to Meng Yao; he comes home to his mama.

Seventeen Minutes, Jin Gaungyao/Lan Sizhui (kinda), Rated E, 1.5K

The way of the Cloud Recesses is that a dominant must intimately understand what they are doing to their submissive. To understand, they must experience. It would be foolish not to accept a masterclass from Lianfang-zun, even if it means Sizhui's limits will be putty in Lianfang-zun's hands

Well Bred, 3zun/Qin Su, Rated E, 1.9K

The one where Qin Su gets fucked by her husband's beloved pony. And his boyfriend.

love is the voice under all silences, Xiyao, Rated E, 5.2K

The one where Jin Gaungyao allows Lan Xichen to whisk him away to happiness.

Recognition, Xiayo, Rated E, 17.2k ⚠️Rape (Xichen/Others)

Meng Yao rescues the first Jade of Lan and takes him into his home, becoming far more involved than ever anticipated.

strength and softness, Yu Ziyuan/Jiang Yanli, Rated E, 2.5K

Yanli has always been weak, but the truth of her weakness is a carefully guarded secret. It is not an easy life, yet with all of Yanli's secrets, she has one she treasures: there is a side of her mother that she is the only one in the world allowed to see. Or, the one where Yanli has a curse where she needs physical contact to live.

The Lemon House, Original, Nonbinary/Genderqueer, Rated E, 5.7K

A Day in the Life of a House Submissive for a Housing Cooperative in a BDSM AU setting. Wren’s second favorite thing about mornings is the satisfaction of giving its housemates a warm start to the morning. That their day will be a little nicer because of Wren. No matter how shitty its housemates’ days may be, Wren started them right. It will wait for them when they get home, bookmarking their days with warmth and affection.

#my fic

7 notes · View notes

mamamittens · 1 year

Note

Oh man your asks must be jumping! Jumping! Well I want in on the bouncy house.

Lemme get uhhhmmm

Caramel chocolate with pop rocks and candy corn, a water with strawberries with a shot of mind eraser and to wash it down a hot damn. All for me, because soy goloso:3 with Eustass Kid from one piece. I'm M!Afab and femme presenting and like to explore with alt fashion. I'd like to add I'm dark skinned and a have my curves but have a bit of a tummy and stretch marks. Do with that as you like

Can't wait to see what work of art you come up with!

Well, I hope you have fun on your date! (Hope this is what you had in mind lol)

Date Night Event!

Warnings: Aggressive, horny behavior from Kid. Arranged marriage. Accidental misgendering at the start. Clothed grinding against a door, degradation, praise kink, (bonus) oral sex, table sex, and possibly a marriage kink in there somewhere. Implied sex as a behavior reward.

Word Count: 3,014

Kid couldn’t help the sneer on his lips at the overly polished, glitz and glam of the upscale restaurant he had to visit. Unfortunately, this was non-negotiable as it would be his first time meeting his fiancée. Hardly his decision or idea—why the fuck would he ever want to get married to anyone let alone a stranger—but he was stuck with it. So he had to sit still and try not to rip up the expensive suit he would have sworn he never owned before tonight.

“Eustass, I assume?” A soft voice called from his side. Kid jolted in revulsion for a moment—no one called him that under threat of death what the hell—before his attention was immediately drawn to her. His fiancée.

He hated how damn good she looked.

Dark pantsuit that hugged her curves, modest enough to pass muster in this uppity hell hole but with an edge. Red accents in her heels and makeup that Kid almost wished he knew was on purpose because fuck was that his color. And hers, clearly. Hair pinned back with a few strands brushing her dark skin. She looked fine as hell.

Like sin in a business meeting and if this was any other moment or place he’d make it personal.

Instead he has to deal with the fact that he doesn’t want to fucking be here, he didn’t choose to be here, and this is all obligation. He likes to fuck for fun but damnit at least they both want it when he does.

No way in hell would this hot piece of ass be here if it wasn’t for obligation.

“Just Kid is fine.” He huffed, shifting in his seat to relieve the pressure on his erection. “Let’s get this over with.” He snarled, tipping his chin towards the menus laid out on the table. She looked a little startled at his brisk attitude and he couldn’t help but take satisfaction from it.

He wasn’t nice on a good day. Better to get used to it before they’re married so that maybe they won’t be totally fucking miserable together.

Fuck does it burn that the only way he’d bag her is through an arranged marriage. He can’t take satisfaction in anything knowing neither one of them meant to be here.

“Are we ready to order?” A waiter asked, startling Kid a bit. He bit out his order of steak and wine. Hopeful that the booze will take off the edge of his temper.

It wouldn’t but it never stopped him from trying before. His fiancée ordered in turn, a fancy pasta with shrimp and wine. The waiter nodded his head before excusing himself.

“So, tell me about yourself.” She asked with a polite smile that pissed him off with how pretty and cloying it felt. Like she gave a shit.

“Well, for starters I hate nosy bitches.” Kid snapped, glaring at her.

Instead of withering under his gaze like he expected, her dark eyes narrowed as her painted lips pursed slightly. She looked pissed and Kid was pissed off at how even slight anger looked good on her. He wanted to reach over and smear her lipstick. Smudge the kohl around her eyes and pull her hair.

Find something—some expression or disarray that she wouldn’t look like his wet dream in.

And Kid suspected—seething at the unfairness of it all—that he would fail miserably like the sad, horny bastard he is.

“Well, I’m not signing a piece of paper tying myself to a man when I don’t even know his favorite color. So, you better learn to put up with a nosy bitch and pull the stick out of your ass.” Kid wished he had sat for a fitting in his suit. Maybe then the inseam would allow for the raging hard on. As sudden as it happened, her sneer turned into that polite smile as the waiter brought their wine. “Thank you. Leave the bottle, please. I suspect I’ll need it.”

“Better bring another.” Kid snapped, receiving a stern look from his fiancée for his terse treatment of the poor waiter.

He wasn’t sure if it was his inherent desire to defy authority or his horny ass desire for his fiancée that led him to wonder if she could keep up that look if he fucked her over the table. He hadn’t even sipped at his wine and he already was dangerously close to an act of public indecency. The sheer, dark promise of satisfaction sank deep into his chest. They’d have to consummate the marriage eventually. And when they did, Kid was fucking ready to show her something more than obligation. Until she begged for it, even.

They were stuck in this shitty ass situation but he’d be damned if he didn’t to bend her over at least once.

Until then, he’d just have to bite back the heavy weight of blue balls.

“We’ve only been here ten minutes and you’re already such an insufferable dick, Kid.” She sighed, taking a long sip of wine. Kid slammed back his, not even tasting the expensive booze. “Are you going to be like this all the time? Is this what I have to look forward to?” She smacked his hand when he reached for the bottle just as the waiter brought Kid his own.

She pulled out a crisp hundred and handed it to the surprised waiter.

“Oh. Are you already leaving, miss?” He asked, “I’ll get the check.”

“No, no. This is an advance on my tip for dealing with him. This is going to be rough for both of us.” She commiserated with a soft smile as the waiter smiled back awkwardly, pocketing the money.

Oh, he’d fucking show her rough—

Kid sneered and started drinking straight from the bottle. He didn’t give a shit anymore. If he didn’t get buzzed fast, he was going to personally ruin that makeup and tight pantsuit. Right here in the uppity restaurant.

Kid refrained from speaking anymore, distantly aware that he’d embarrass the fuck out of himself if he opened his mouth for anything other than more wine. Either by reflexively snipping at his fiancée to hide his carnal desire or being patronized for his behavior. She simply sat back and took small sips from her wine, glaring at him from across the table—literally doing nothing but making him more aggressively horny.

The food was both a welcome distraction and a horrifying realization that soon every dinner would be like this.

Husband and wife, sitting across a table and pissed to be there.

The food was fucking delicious but biting into the high-quality steak did little to help him restrain himself. It melted on his tongue, parting for his fork without even using a knife. Seasoned to perfection, Kid bitterly wished he could enjoy it.

And normally he would.

But right now? Right now, he needed something tougher to sink his teeth into. A distraction from how poised his fiancée looked swirling up steaming hot pasta and eating without smearing her lipstick. The pleased sound that made Kid wonder if she’d make the same noise if he was between her thick thighs. She’d probably taste even better than the damn steak.

Maybe having horny thoughts about eating out his fiancée while actually eating a steak so soft it falls apart on his tongue wasn’t helping his erection. Just maybe. Could also be the wine at this point. Whisky made him a rough fuck but wine… well, wine made him get lost in his bed partner until they cried for his cock.

“At least you’re enjoying something tonight.” Kid snarked. She gave him an unimpressed look, swirling up another wad of pasta and tangled up shrimp.

“Well, I can’t really enjoy the company, can I?” She said.

“Like you wanted to be here to begin with.” Kid drank heavily from the bottle. “But guess what, sweet cheeks? This is only the start! Guess you’ll just have to get used to this as my future wife, won’t you?” Kid raised his bottle, aware he was being a massive asshole.

“To miserable company.” Then he slammed it back until it was empty. When he sat the bottle down, gasping for air, he sputtered. Wine thrown at him.

Snarling, he was shocked to find his fiancée standing up from the table. Sneering at him.

“I guess it was too much to expect my future husband to not be such a miserable fucking bastard. We’re well-matched at least, in our disappointment with our partners. I wanted to know the man I’d marry would be my partner. My equal, if nothing else. But you’re just a drunk prick.” She huffed. “And you won’t have a wife at all, for all that you clearly didn’t want one. At least have the courtesy to not be a complete dick and call me what I am. Your future husband. Have a good day, Kid.” She slammed down money and stormed off. Leaving Kid spiraling.

Dazed, he flagged down the waiter and added his own money to the table for the mess and show he helped create. Tipping generously after being given a towel to wipe his face.

When the cool night air hit him, his phone was in hand instantly.

“Killer… I fucked up. Do you know where my fiancé lives?” The startled grunt was all he needed. “Great. Give me a ride. I’m buzzed as hell.”

He absolutely deserved the look Killer gave him when he picked him up.

The loft apartment was nice. The doorman judgmental as hell in a way that he wouldn’t tolerate if he wasn’t still reeling from being reamed in the restaurant. It really shouldn’t have been such a turn on but he was rapidly coming to term with the facts of life. His fiancé just did it for him. All the time, it seems.

His fist was heavy as it slammed into the door, his blood buzzing with arousal and expensive wine.

She—He opened the door, hair still pinned back but suit jacket removed. Silk red camisole displaying his shoulders and the swell of his breasts beautifully.

“Kid?! What the hell are you doing—”

“You’ve got balls talking to me like that.” Kid snarled, bullying his way into the room, pinning his fiancé to the door. “Maybe there’s hope for us after all. I needed that. I was a dick to you.” Kid could smell the intoxicating mix of expensive perfume and a natural spice.

“W-Well, I’m glad we can come to an agreement about that.” He stammered, shocked by his behavior. Kid couldn’t blame him.

“Fuck, I should have bought flowers… do you like flowers?” Kid shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. “Red.”

He looked as confused as Kid felt.

“What?”

“My favorite color is red. The shade doesn’t matter but right now I’m partial to the shade on your lips. I wear makeup usually but decided not to scandalize the staff… think I could wear that shade?” Kid leaned down, pressing his forehead against his fiancé’s. Their eyes were wide.

“Uhm… sure. I can… let you borrow mine. You’d look good in it, I think. It doesn’t smudge when it sets, so you’ll need makeup remover for it.” He helpfully explained. Kid grinned.

“So, what I’m hearing is that I better put some fucking effort in if I want it on my skin?” Kid’s voice dropped low and intimate. “I’ll have to kiss you hard to transfer it to my lips? Let me try it. I want to see how good it is.” Kid murmured, slowly moving and allowing his fiancé to decide.

“If you think that weak ass apology is good enough, you better think again. That’s not nearly good enough for the attitude you’ve had all night.” He smirked, hand resting over Kid’s erection. “Is this the root of the problem? All that huffing and snarling because you’ve got blue balls?”

Kid grabbed his thick thighs and lifted his fiancé against the door, pressing between them with a smirk of his own. Rocking against the door in a slow, dry fuck.

“How can I not get bricked up when you came in looking so fucking good?” Kid grumbled, staring into his eyes. “Fine. I’m sorry I was too busy imaging your makeup running when you introduced yourself to be a gentleman. I’m sorry I drank a whole bottle of wine so I wouldn’t bend you over the table. I’m so fucking sorry all I can think of when I look at you is how fucking beautiful my future husband is.”

Kid kissed him then, lips pressing hard against the soft red as he ground his cock against his fiancé’s body. Groaning when he felt a hot tongue slip into his mouth. He was sorry, but he sure as fuck wasn’t going to fold when his fiancé was the one getting dry fucked against his front door. Kid pressed his tongue back and took control of the kiss. Wet and filthy, Kid soaked up the weak, mewling moans and how hot his dick was. Pressed against slick fabric that he wanted to rip open like a gift.

Finally, he jerked away, panting and snarling when he found his fiancé was right. The lipstick didn’t even smear a little the entire time. He’d need to give them a different kind. One that leaves marks everywhere. Makes sex so much better to see afterwards where those sexy lips have been. On his lips. His chest. His cock. Everywhere.

“You’re not sorry. If you were, you wouldn’t be teasing me like this. What kind of gentleman fucks against a door?” Kid smiled.

“You’re so fucking right. I’m sorry, husband.” Kid pulled away from the door, still holding his fiancé against his body. He glanced around and spotted the kitchen table. “A real gentleman fucks his husband on a table.”

Kid slammed him onto the table and yanked off both their pants.

“Fuck!” He cursed as Kid tore open the camisole with his bare hands.

Breasts and body finally fully bared for Kid, he grinned down at his fiancé.

“Finally.” Kid licked down their body, fully tasking his skin and testing the softness of his fiancé’s breasts with his teeth and tongue. Hands firm as they gripped thick, supple thighs as he panted over their cunt. “Some good fucking food.”

Softer than a wet dream, Kid groaned at the sweet fluttering against his tongue. Cute clit begging for his attention as the wine fully settled in his system. Sure, his lipstick didn’t smudge, but maybe the mascara would? Goal affirmed, Kid set to work. Fully indulging in the soaking wet cunt as his fiancé cried out, wriggling against his face.

Hands carded through his hair as Kid wound them up. Tasting deeply as they sobbed, twitching around his tongue and fingers.

“O-Oh! Kid! Fuck! Yes!”

“S-So good… Ahnnn~! Oh! Oh! R-Right there!”

Praise rained down onto Kid’s shoulders, going right to his cock as he drove his tongue in deep. Spreading his fingers out as cream poured onto the table. Kid wanted to fucking ruin his fiancé. Make a mess to bad he’d slip when Kid fucked him properly over the table later.

When he begged for it.

“S-Shit! Kid! O-Ohhhhnnnggghh~! Ah! K-Kid y-yes!”

He trembled around Kid, thighs quivering as he came again.

“P-Please! Fuck me! Fuck me oh~! Fuck me please~!” Kid ripped himself away so fast his head spun. Lungs burning as he panted, eagerly slamming in his cock so fast there was a startled scream.

Kid fucked him hard. So close to cumming already, he throbbed as he saw the dirty tear tracks running down his fiancé’s face.

“This good enough? You like that? Slut.” Kid grinned, watching his tits bounce with every hard thrust. Grip on his ass firm as the puddle on the table made him slip away. “Look at my pretty baby, ruined on my cock. Good think you’re going to wear my ring, I want to break you every night.”

“K-Kid~!”

“That’s right.” Kid leaned over and licked at the sweat dripping down his chest. “That’s the name of your future husband. Am I still a fucking rude dick? Go on. Tell me if I still need to kiss and make it better~” Kid teased, railing into him so hard the table rocked back.

“S-So rude! A-Ahn~! F-Fuck!” He raked his nails down Kid’s back as he cried out. “N-Not even married yet!” Kid clicked his tongue and chuckled.

“You’re so fucking right. We aren’t husbands yet.” Kid agreed. “But you’ll cum for me like you are anyway, won’t you, slut?” He jerked under Kid’s thrusts, squeezing down harder.

“Yes!” He threw his head back and Kid took advantage. Kissing and sucking a bruise into the skin even though he couldn’t see it. His fiancé cried out, practically wailing as he came on Kid’s cock.

“Yeah, that’s right. So fucking tight! Every time I’ve got an attitude, are you going to spread for me? Let me take it out on your wet cunt?” Kid asked, going slower so he could press in deeper. “Might finally start acting right with a pussy this sweet for me, husband.” Kid smothered his panting fiancé’s lips with a groan as he came.

He shivered, pulling out as his fiancé gasped for air. They trembled hard as Kid’s cock slipped out.

They smiled in a daze, looking up at him through their lashes. Kissing him softly, they caressed his face.

“If it makes you sweet, I just might let you take your attitude out on me like this.” Kid smirked, thrusting back in with a wet smack. His fiancé moaned in surprise.

“Whoops.” Kid said dryly, grinning. “I think I still feel like a complete bastard. Better start working on that.”

To no one’s surprise, Kid did not stop being a dick when he felt like it… but he did feel more incentivized to be polite when his husband gave him a look. Matching bands on their fingers gleaming in the light.

#one piece smut #one piece #eustass kid #eustass x reader #longer than expected but I think it turned out good!#Hope so at least lol #Date Night

15 notes · View notes

creation-help · 1 year

Note

the first two are clementine pre n post wither storm n the third is an oc ive just been calling [DATA EXPUNGED]

theyre both pokemon ocs, w clem specifically being a mash up of being a minecraft storymode oc and a pokemon oc

[DATA EXPUNGED] is the Champion of Arceus n is v ? theatrical ? fancy ? either way he speaks like its the early 1800s, i also dont have much of a backstory for him since i created him like, 4 days ago n im VERY slow at giving ocs backstories

clementine on the other hand ive been making a backstory for several months so i have a lot to say but i wont so to sum up her backstory (in a way thats prolly shit ngl) its:

clem n her (still unnamed n undeveloped) friends go to a con, they win, they go to a post con festival, clem meets some guy, the same guy clem meets makes the wither storm, she defeats it but is v traumatized from it, she becomes a mayor of a town at some point but she ends up running away from kalos to kanto

[Is not familiar with the Pokémon storylines you're talking about and thus has nothing to comment on it, so apologies if that is relevant to the review]

I'm assuming [DATA EXPUNGED] isn't, at least in the current state of things, related to Clementines story at all?

I'll tackle [DATA EXPUNGED] first!

Very solid color scheme, I think the dark skin tone fits perfectly with black white and gold, especially since the shirt (top?) is white. The accessories and face patterns really give off a fancy, perhaps priest like aesthetic and it makes the whole collective come across as very distinguished. Supernatural too, considering the one white eye and again, face patterns, although it leaves some ambiguity since this could also just be a very fancy cultural getup. I have to say though, I'd probably have made the roses some other color: though the black is strong and very cool, you can't really see them from the black hair and thus it sorta muddies the effect and makes it look more like the character is wearing some headgarment rather than a rose crown. Unfortunately, since this is a picrew, i can't say much for more core aspects of the design like the shape of the face, eyes and nose, which I consider very essential aspects of designing human characters. This is no fault of yours, as I said, picrews can be limiting in this aspect.

Judging by the art style though I'm going to guess this character is meant to have a strong angular face and jawline with a straight, square nose. Strong but elegant brows, I assume? The beauty mark on his jaw though is a very nice touch! Gives some uniqueness and personality to the otherwise very conformed, untouched image the character has.

The character strikes me as a very learned, wise personality who knows things beyond this world, and I can definitely see that he'd speak more theatrically, like a preacher or professor (the book and quill help this).

If the character ever ends up drawn by free hand, here's things I'd suggest adjusting or adding to [DATA EXPUNGED]: Facial traits. I think a strong nose with a bit of a greek shape would do wonders for a theatrical, regal looking character like him, and if the angular jawline is intended, keep that!! Depending on age (or how dramatic you want him to look), I'd also suggest more visible cheekbones perhaps? Strong brows and serious eyes would contribute to this vibe but depending on of course where you take this character, you can change things to suit that! For what I'm suggesting here, the character feels like a sort of apocalypse preacher person who is more interested in studies and has a tendency to push people away. However you could also easily go a softer route with him as well but I think, if you do, I'd still keep the angular dramatic facial features. The rest of my suggestions would just be to add maybe the smallest bit more decoration or jewelry, maybe something with a more personal touch? Earrings, rings, ect. I feel like he'd be the type to carry around some very sentimental piece of jewelry or other item, something he holds in great value. He doesn't seem like he'd pretty up just for appearance sake. Also I feel like sideburns or some stray hair whispies would add a fun little touch that could divert from the more serious groomed image the character gives, just something to create uniqueness in general. Doesn't have to be those exact things I suggested.

Then Clementine!

Design is simple but functional. Personally I think she could also use a bit more to make her less generic ykno? To be fair this could also be a fault of whatever you used to make these images (not sure if that's a picrew or some other dollmaker thing). I like the amount of change you have between the before and after states, especially liking the touch of her expression changing, even though its not related to design here lol. The first one with the simple, a bit girlish and old timey dress works well with the half up hairstyle and simplistic outfit to establish a younger character who's out to see the world. The two things diverting from this image are the sword and maybe(?) her being barefoot. The sword evokes imagery of either someone who seems more innocent or naive but turns out to also have sharp, honed skills. OR a strapping enthusiast who is looking for adventure and her place in the world, with only the clothes on her back and this sword she found (lighthearted tone). The barefoot aspect also gives a bit of a rural vibe, of being more in touch with nature. Which is something the After™ version contrasts, with a more modern feeling outfit, and the loss of the sword.

I really like her having a longer hairstyle in the latter one, with the braids/dreads. Hairstyle changes are a great way to communicate something in a character so it fits! It feels more subdued mature while still keeping a bit of that openness and freedom, with the dreads hanging freely, and hey, still being in a half up style! Good one!

I'd suggest maybe adding more signs of experience or wear on the latter version, just to communicate her having gone through something major, even traumatic. Scars or something like more visible eyebags, or something to show a more scuffed up appearance ykno? You could also make her more stocky and built, or maybe a bit chubbier in the latter, bc to me it feels like a slightly older version of the character and so, getting more built feels appropriate for that.

Overall just add more simple, small touches to communicate personality more. I think the latter one is good at that but the first one feels more generic. If it's meant to be simple though, I understand! But still. Doesn't have to be anything major, could just be things like small accessories or things she's personalized for herself. Maybe In the first version she could have a little patched up clothing to show her outdoorsy lifestyle? If not, you could add something else, just a suggestion.

From a purely visual standpoint, [DATA EXPUNGED]'s design is lots more interesting and distinct looking, and I'd only really adjust the person under the clothing and accessories. For Clementine, I feel that she could use to stand out just a tad more. However I hugely appreciate them both being poc and also having natural hairstyles (both having dreads at some point) to it! Definitely helps make them more diverse, which is always a design plus!

#Ask #Oc review #Character design review #Character design #To be fair to you this was submitted before I made the guideline post #I didn't expect people to jump on it so quickly #I decided not to have a number rank but overall decent functional character designs #You're free to take my words however you most see fit I'm only throwing ideas at you based on what I'd think fits

8 notes · View notes

hellsitesonlybookclub · 1 year

Text

Little Women, Louisa May Alcott

Chapter 7-8

VII.

AMY'S VALLEY OF HUMILIATION.

"That boy is a perfect Cyclops, isn't he?" said Amy, one day, as Laurie clattered by on horseback, with a flourish of his whip as he passed.

"How dare you say so, when he's got both his eyes? and very handsome ones they are, too," cried Jo, who resented any slighting remarks about her friend.

"I didn't say anything about his eyes, and I don't see why you need fire up when I admire his riding."

"Oh, my goodness! that little goose means a centaur, and she called him a Cyclops," exclaimed Jo, with a burst of laughter.

"You needn't be so rude; it's only a 'lapse of lingy,' as Mr. Davis says," retorted Amy, finishing Jo with her Latin. "I just wish I had a little of the money Laurie spends on that horse," she added, as if to herself, yet hoping her sisters would hear.

"Why?" asked Meg kindly, for Jo had gone off in another laugh at Amy's second blunder.

"I need it so much; I'm dreadfully in debt, and it won't be my turn to have the rag-money for a month."

83 "In debt, Amy? What do you mean?" and Meg looked sober.

"Why, I owe at least a dozen pickled limes, and I can't pay them, you know, till I have money, for Marmee forbade my having anything charged at the shop."

"Tell me all about it. Are limes the fashion now? It used to be pricking bits of rubber to make balls;" and Meg tried to keep her countenance, Amy looked so grave and important.

"Why, you see, the girls are always buying them, and unless you want to be thought mean, you must do it, too. It's nothing but limes now, for every one is sucking them in their desks in school-time, and trading them off for pencils, bead-rings, paper dolls, or something else, at recess. If one girl likes another, she gives her a lime; if she's mad with her, she eats one before her face, and don't offer even a suck. They treat by turns; and I've had ever so many, but haven't returned them; and I ought, for they are debts of honor, you know."

"How much will pay them off, and restore your credit?" asked Meg, taking out her purse.

"A quarter would more than do it, and leave a few cents over for a treat for you. Don't you like limes?"

"Not much; you may have my share. Here's the money. Make it last as long as you can, for it isn't very plenty, you know."

"Oh, thank you! It must be so nice to have pocket-money! I'll have a grand feast, for I haven't tasted a lime this week. I felt delicate about taking any, as I couldn't return them, and I'm actually suffering for one."

Next day Amy was rather late at school; but could not resist the temptation of displaying, with pardonable pride, a moist brown-paper parcel, before she consigned it to the inmost recesses of her desk. During the next few minutes the rumor that Amy March had got twenty-four delicious limes (she ate one on the way), and was going to treat, circulated through her "set," and the attentions of her friends became quite overwhelming. Katy Brown invited her to her next party on the spot; Mary Kingsley insisted on lending her her watch till recess; and Jenny Snow, a satirical young lady, who had basely twitted Amy upon her limeless state, promptly buried the hatchet, 84 and offered to furnish answers to certain appalling sums. But Amy had not forgotten Miss Snow's cutting remarks about "some persons whose noses were not too flat to smell other people's limes, and stuck-up people, who were not too proud to ask for them;" and she instantly crushed "that Snow girl's" hopes by the withering telegram, "You needn't be so polite all of a sudden, for you won't get any."

A distinguished personage happened to visit the school that morning, and Amy's beautifully drawn maps received praise, which honor to her foe rankled in the soul of Miss Snow, and caused Miss March to assume the airs of a studious young peacock. But, alas, alas! pride goes before a fall, and the revengeful Snow turned the tables with disastrous success. No sooner had the guest paid the usual stale compliments, and bowed himself out, than Jenny, under pretence of asking an important question, informed Mr. Davis, the teacher, that Amy March had pickled limes in her desk.

Now Mr. Davis had declared limes a contraband article, and solemnly vowed to publicly ferrule the first person who was found breaking the law. This much-enduring man had succeeded in banishing chewing-gum after a long and stormy war, had made a bonfire of the confiscated novels and newspapers, had suppressed a private post-office, had forbidden distortions of the face, nicknames, and caricatures, and done all that one man could do to keep half a hundred rebellious girls in order. Boys are trying enough to human patience, goodness knows! but girls are infinitely more so, especially to nervous gentlemen, with tyrannical tempers, and no more talent for teaching than Dr. Blimber. Mr. Davis knew any quantity of Greek, Latin, Algebra, and ologies of all sorts, so he was called a fine teacher; and manners, morals, feelings, and examples were not considered of any particular importance. It was a most unfortunate moment for denouncing Amy, and Jenny knew it. Mr. Davis had evidently taken his coffee too strong that morning; there was an east wind, which always affected his neuralgia; and his pupils had not done him the credit which he felt he deserved: therefore, to use the expressive, if not elegant, language of a school-girl, "he was as nervous as a witch and as cross as a bear." The word "limes" was like fire to 85 powder; his yellow face flushed, and he rapped on his desk with an energy which made Jenny skip to her seat with unusual rapidity.

"Young ladies, attention, if you please!"

At the stern order the buzz ceased, and fifty pairs of blue, black, gray, and brown eyes were obediently fixed upon his awful countenance.

"Miss March, come to the desk."

Amy rose to comply with outward composure, but a secret fear oppressed her, for the limes weighed upon her conscience.

"Bring with you the limes you have in your desk," was the unexpected command which arrested her before she got out of her seat.

"Don't take all," whispered her neighbor, a young lady of great presence of mind.

Amy hastily shook out half a dozen, and laid the rest down before Mr. Davis, feeling that any man possessing a human heart would relent when that delicious perfume met his nose. Unfortunately, Mr. Davis particularly detested the odor of the fashionable pickle, and disgust added to his wrath.

"Is that all?"

"Not quite," stammered Amy.

"Bring the rest immediately."

With a despairing glance at her set, she obeyed.

"You are sure there are no more?"

"I never lie, sir."

"So I see. Now take these disgusting things two by two, and throw them out of the window."

There was a simultaneous sigh, which created quite a little gust, as the last hope fled, and the treat was ravished from their longing lips. Scarlet with shame and anger, Amy went to and fro six dreadful times; and as each doomed couple—looking oh! so plump and juicy—fell from her reluctant hands, a shout from the street completed the anguish of the girls, for it told them that their feast was being exulted over by the little Irish children, who were their sworn foes. This—this was too much; all flashed indignant or appealing glances at the inexorable Davis, and one passionate lime-lover burst into tears.

As Amy returned from her last trip, Mr. Davis gave a portentous "Hem!" and said, in his most impressive manner,—

86 "Young ladies, you remember what I said to you a week ago. I am sorry this has happened, but I never allow my rules to be infringed, and I never break my word. Miss March, hold out your hand."

Amy started, and put both hands behind her, turning on him an imploring look which pleaded for her better than the words she could not utter. She was rather a favorite with "old Davis," as, of course, he was called, and it's my private belief that he would have broken his word if the indignation of one irrepressible young lady had not found vent in a hiss. That hiss, faint as it was, irritated the irascible gentleman, and sealed the culprit's fate.

"Your hand, Miss March!" was the only answer her mute appeal received; and, too proud to cry or beseech, Amy set her teeth, 87 threw back her head defiantly, and bore without flinching several tingling blows on her little palm. They were neither many nor heavy, but that made no difference to her. For the first time in her life she had been struck; and the disgrace, in her eyes, was as deep as if he had knocked her down.

"You will now stand on the platform till recess," said Mr. Davis, resolved to do the thing thoroughly, since he had begun.

That was dreadful. It would have been bad enough to go to her seat, and see the pitying faces of her friends, or the satisfied ones of her few enemies; but to face the whole school, with that shame fresh upon her, seemed impossible, and for a second she felt as if she could only drop down where she stood, and break her heart with crying. A bitter sense of wrong, and the thought of Jenny Snow, helped her to bear it; and, taking the ignominious place, she fixed her eyes on the stove-funnel above what now seemed a sea of faces, and stood there, so motionless and white that the girls found it very hard to study, with that pathetic figure before them.

During the fifteen minutes that followed, the proud and sensitive little girl suffered a shame and pain which she never forgot. To others it might seem a ludicrous or trivial affair, but to her it was a hard experience; for during the twelve years of her life she had been governed by love alone, and a blow of that sort had never touched her before. The smart of her hand and the ache of her heart were forgotten in the sting of the thought,—

"I shall have to tell at home, and they will be so disappointed in me!"

The fifteen minutes seemed an hour; but they came to an end at last, and the word "Recess!" had never seemed so welcome to her before.

"You can go, Miss March," said Mr. Davis, looking, as he felt, uncomfortable.

He did not soon forget the reproachful glance Amy gave him, as she went, without a word to any one, straight into the ante-room, snatched her things, and left the place "forever," as she passionately declared to herself. She was in a sad state when she got home; and when the older girls arrived, some time later, an indignation meeting was 88 held at once. Mrs. March did not say much, but looked disturbed, and comforted her afflicted little daughter in her tenderest manner. Meg bathed the insulted hand with glycerine and tears; Beth felt that even her beloved kittens would fail as a balm for griefs like this; Jo wrathfully proposed that Mr. Davis be arrested without delay; and Hannah shook her fist at the "villain," and pounded potatoes for dinner as if she had him under her pestle.

No notice was taken of Amy's flight, except by her mates; but the sharp-eyed demoiselles discovered that Mr. Davis was quite benignant in the afternoon, also unusually nervous. Just before school closed, Jo appeared, wearing a grim expression, as she stalked up to the desk, and delivered a letter from her mother; then collected Amy's property, and departed, carefully scraping the mud from her boots on the door-mat, as if she shook the dust of the place off her feet.

"Yes, you can have a vacation from school, but I want you to study a little every day, with Beth," said Mrs. March, that evening. "I don't approve of corporal punishment, especially for girls. I dislike Mr. Davis's manner of teaching, and don't think the girls you associate with are doing you any good, so I shall ask your father's advice before I send you anywhere else."

"That's good! I wish all the girls would leave, and spoil his old school. It's perfectly maddening to think of those lovely limes," sighed Amy, with the air of a martyr.

"I am not sorry you lost them, for you broke the rules, and deserved some punishment for disobedience," was the severe reply, which rather disappointed the young lady, who expected nothing but sympathy.

"Do you mean you are glad I was disgraced before the whole school?" cried Amy.

"I should not have chosen that way of mending a fault," replied her mother; "but I'm not sure that it won't do you more good than a milder method. You are getting to be rather conceited, my dear, and it is quite time you set about correcting it. You have a good many little gifts and virtues, but there is no need of parading them, for conceit spoils the finest genius. There is not much danger that real talent or goodness will be overlooked long; even if it is, the 89 consciousness of possessing and using it well should satisfy one, and the great charm of all power is modesty."

"So it is!" cried Laurie, who was playing chess in a corner with Jo. "I knew a girl, once, who had a really remarkable talent for music, and she didn't know it; never guessed what sweet little things she composed when she was alone, and wouldn't have believed it if any one had told her."

"I wish I'd known that nice girl; maybe she would have helped me, I'm so stupid," said Beth, who stood beside him, listening eagerly.

"You do know her, and she helps you better than any one else could," answered Laurie, looking at her with such mischievous meaning in his merry black eyes, that Beth suddenly turned very red, and hid her face in the sofa-cushion, quite overcome by such an unexpected discovery.

Jo let Laurie win the game, to pay for that praise of her Beth, who 90 could not be prevailed upon to play for them after her compliment. So Laurie did his best, and sung delightfully, being in a particularly lively humor, for to the Marches he seldom showed the moody side of his character. When he was gone, Amy, who had been pensive all the evening, said suddenly, as if busy over some new idea,—

"Is Laurie an accomplished boy?"

"Yes; he has had an excellent education, and has much talent; he will make a fine man, if not spoilt by petting," replied her mother.

"And he isn't conceited, is he?" asked Amy.

"Not in the least; that is why he is so charming, and we all like him so much."

"I see; it's nice to have accomplishments, and be elegant; but not to show off, or get perked up," said Amy thoughtfully.

"These things are always seen and felt in a person's manner and conversation, if modestly used; but it is not necessary to display them," said Mrs. March.

"Any more than it's proper to wear all your bonnets and gowns and ribbons at once, that folks may know you've got them," added Jo; and the lecture ended in a laugh.

VIII. Jo Meets Apollyon.

VIII.

JO MEETS APOLLYON.

"Girls, where are you going?" asked Amy, coming into their room one Saturday afternoon, and finding them getting ready to go out, with an air of secrecy which excited her curiosity.

"Never mind; little girls shouldn't ask questions," returned Jo sharply.

Now if there is anything mortifying to our feelings, when we are young, it is to be told that; and to be bidden to "run away, dear," is still more trying to us. Amy bridled up at this insult, and determined to find out the secret, if she teased for an hour. Turning to Meg, who never refused her anything very long, she said coaxingly, "Do tell me! I should think you might let me go, too; for Beth is 92 fussing over her piano, and I haven't got anything to do, and am so lonely."

"I can't, dear, because you aren't invited," began Meg; but Jo broke in impatiently, "Now, Meg, be quiet, or you will spoil it all. You can't go, Amy; so don't be a baby, and whine about it."

"You are going somewhere with Laurie, I know you are; you were whispering and laughing together, on the sofa, last night, and you stopped when I came in. Aren't you going with him?"

"Yes, we are; now do be still, and stop bothering."

Amy held her tongue, but used her eyes, and saw Meg slip a fan into her pocket.

"I know! I know! you're going to the theatre to see the 'Seven Castles!'" she cried; adding resolutely, "and I shall go, for mother said I might see it; and I've got my rag-money, and it was mean not to tell me in time."

"Just listen to me a minute, and be a good child," said Meg soothingly. "Mother doesn't wish you to go this week, because your eyes are not well enough yet to bear the light of this fairy piece. Next week you can go with Beth and Hannah, and have a nice time."

"I don't like that half as well as going with you and Laurie. Please let me; I've been sick with this cold so long, and shut up, I'm dying for some fun. Do, Meg! I'll be ever so good," pleaded Amy, looking as pathetic as she could.

"Suppose we take her. I don't believe mother would mind, if we bundle her up well," began Meg.

"If she goes I sha'n't; and if I don't, Laurie won't like it; and it will be very rude, after he invited only us, to go and drag in Amy. I should think she'd hate to poke herself where she isn't wanted," said Jo crossly, for she disliked the trouble of overseeing a fidgety child, when she wanted to enjoy herself.

Her tone and manner angered Amy, who began to put her boots on, saying, in her most aggravating way, "I shall go; Meg says I may; and if I pay for myself, Laurie hasn't anything to do with it."

"You can't sit with us, for our seats are reserved, and you mustn't sit alone; so Laurie will give you his place, and that will spoil our 93 pleasure; or he'll get another seat for you, and that isn't proper, when you weren't asked. You sha'n't stir a step; so you may just stay where you are," scolded Jo, crosser than ever, having just pricked her finger in her hurry.

Sitting on the floor, with one boot on, Amy began to cry, and Meg to reason with her, when Laurie called from below, and the two girls hurried down, leaving their sister wailing; for now and then she forgot her grown-up ways, and acted like a spoilt child. Just as the party was setting out, Amy called over the banisters, in a threatening tone, "You'll be sorry for this, Jo March; see if you ain't."

"Fiddlesticks!" returned Jo, slamming the door.

They had a charming time, for "The Seven Castles of the Diamond Lake" were as brilliant and wonderful as heart could wish. But, in spite of the comical red imps, sparkling elves, and gorgeous princes and princesses, Jo's pleasure had a drop of bitterness in it; the fairy queen's yellow curls reminded her of Amy; and between the acts she amused herself with wondering what her sister would do to make her "sorry for it." She and Amy had had many lively skirmishes in the course of their lives, for both had quick tempers, and were apt to be violent when fairly roused. Amy teased Jo, and Jo irritated Amy, and semi-occasional explosions occurred, of which both were much ashamed afterward. Although the oldest, Jo had the least self-control, and had hard times trying to curb the fiery spirit which was continually getting her into trouble; her anger never lasted long, and, having humbly confessed her fault, she sincerely repented, and tried to do better. Her sisters used to say that they rather liked to get Jo into a fury, because she was such an angel afterward. Poor Jo tried desperately to be good, but her bosom enemy was always ready to flame up and defeat her; and it took years of patient effort to subdue it.

When they got home, they found Amy reading in the parlor. She assumed an injured air as they came in; never lifted her eyes from her book, or asked a single question. Perhaps curiosity might have conquered resentment, if Beth had not been there to inquire, and receive a glowing description of the play. On going up to put away her best hat, Jo's first look was toward the bureau; for, in their last 94 quarrel, Amy had soothed her feelings by turning Jo's top drawer upside down on the floor. Everything was in its place, however; and after a hasty glance into her various closets, bags, and boxes, Jo decided that Amy had forgiven and forgotten her wrongs.

There Jo was mistaken; for next day she made a discovery which produced a tempest. Meg, Beth, and Amy were sitting together, late in the afternoon, when Jo burst into the room, looking excited, and demanding breathlessly, "Has any one taken my book?"

Meg and Beth said "No," at once, and looked surprised; Amy poked the fire, and said nothing. Jo saw her color rise, and was down upon her in a minute.

"Amy, you've got it?"

"No, I haven't."

"You know where it is, then?"

"No, I don't."

"That's a fib!" cried Jo, taking her by the shoulders, and looking fierce enough to frighten a much braver child than Amy.

"It isn't. I haven't got it, don't know where it is now, and don't care."

"You know something about it, and you'd better tell at once, or I'll make you," and Jo gave her a slight shake.

"Scold as much as you like, you'll never see your silly old book again," cried Amy, getting excited in her turn.

"Why not?"

"I burnt it up."

"What! my little book I was so fond of, and worked over, and meant to finish before father got home? Have you really burnt it?" said Jo, turning very pale, while her eyes kindled and her hands clutched Amy nervously.

"Yes, I did! I told you I'd make you pay for being so cross yesterday, and I have, so—"

Amy got no farther, for Jo's hot temper mastered her, and she shook Amy till her teeth chattered in her head; crying, in a passion of grief and anger,—

"You wicked, wicked girl! I never can write it again, and I'll never forgive you as long as I live."

95 Meg flew to rescue Amy, and Beth to pacify Jo, but Jo was quite beside herself; and, with a parting box on her sister's ear, she rushed out of the room up to the old sofa in the garret, and finished her fight alone.

The storm cleared up below, for Mrs. March came home, and, having heard the story, soon brought Amy to a sense of the wrong she had done her sister. Jo's book was the pride of her heart, and was regarded by her family as a literary sprout of great promise. It was only half a dozen little fairy tales, but Jo had worked over them patiently, putting her whole heart into her work, hoping to make something good enough to print. She had just copied them with great care, and had destroyed the old manuscript, so that Amy's bonfire had consumed the loving work of several years. It seemed 96 a small loss to others, but to Jo it was a dreadful calamity, and she felt that it never could be made up to her. Beth mourned as for a departed kitten, and Meg refused to defend her pet; Mrs. March looked grave and grieved, and Amy felt that no one would love her till she had asked pardon for the act which she now regretted more than any of them.

When the tea-bell rung, Jo appeared, looking so grim and unapproachable that it took all Amy's courage to say meekly,—

"Please forgive me, Jo; I'm very, very sorry."

"I never shall forgive you," was Jo's stern answer; and, from that moment, she ignored Amy entirely.

No one spoke of the great trouble,—not even Mrs. March,—for all had learned by experience that when Jo was in that mood words were wasted; and the wisest course was to wait till some little accident, or her own generous nature, softened Jo's resentment, and healed the breach. It was not a happy evening; for, though they sewed as usual, while their mother read aloud from Bremer, Scott, or Edgeworth, something was wanting, and the sweet home-peace was disturbed. They felt this most when singing-time came; for Beth could only play, Jo stood dumb as a stone, and Amy broke down, so Meg and mother sung alone. But, in spite of their efforts to be as cheery as larks, the flute-like voices did not seem to chord as well as usual, and all felt out of tune.

As Jo received her good-night kiss, Mrs. March whispered gently,—

"My dear, don't let the sun go down upon your anger; forgive each other, help each other, and begin again to-morrow."

Jo wanted to lay her head down on that motherly bosom, and cry her grief and anger all away; but tears were an unmanly weakness, and she felt so deeply injured that she really couldn't quite forgive yet. So she winked hard, shook her head, and said, gruffly because Amy was listening,—

"It was an abominable thing, and she don't deserve to be forgiven."

With that she marched off to bed, and there was no merry or confidential gossip that night.

97 Amy was much offended that her overtures of peace had been repulsed, and began to wish she had not humbled herself, to feel more injured than ever, and to plume herself on her superior virtue in a way which was particularly exasperating. Jo still looked like a thunder-cloud, and nothing went well all day. It was bitter cold in the morning; she dropped her precious turn-over in the gutter, Aunt March had an attack of fidgets, Meg was pensive, Beth would look grieved and wistful when she got home, and Amy kept making remarks about people who were always talking about being good, and yet wouldn't try, when other people set them a virtuous example.

"Everybody is so hateful, I'll ask Laurie to go skating. He is always kind and jolly, and will put me to rights, I know," said Jo to herself, and off she went.

Amy heard the clash of skates, and looked out with an impatient exclamation,—

"There! she promised I should go next time, for this is the last ice we shall have. But it's no use to ask such a cross-patch to take me."

"Don't say that; you were very naughty, and it is hard to forgive the loss of her precious little book; but I think she might do it now, and I guess she will, if you try her at the right minute," said Meg. "Go after them; don't say anything till Jo has got good-natured with Laurie, then take a quiet minute, and just kiss her, or do some kind thing, and I'm sure she'll be friends again, with all her heart."

"I'll try," said Amy, for the advice suited her; and, after a flurry to get ready, she ran after the friends, who were just disappearing over the hill.

It was not far to the river, but both were ready before Amy reached them. Jo saw her coming, and turned her back; Laurie did not see, for he was carefully skating along the shore, sounding the ice, for a warm spell had preceded the cold snap.

"I'll go on to the first bend, and see if it's all right, before we begin to race," Amy heard him say, as he shot away, looking like a young Russian, in his fur-trimmed coat and cap.

98 Jo heard Amy panting after her run, stamping her feet and blowing her fingers, as she tried to put her skates on; but Jo never turned, and went slowly zigzagging down the river, taking a bitter, unhappy sort of satisfaction in her sister's troubles. She had cherished her anger till it grew strong, and took possession of her, as evil thoughts and feelings always do, unless cast out at once. As Laurie turned the bend, he shouted back,—

"Keep near the shore; it isn't safe in the middle."

Jo heard, but Amy was just struggling to her feet, and did not catch a word. Jo glanced over her shoulder, and the little demon she was harboring said in her ear,—

"No matter whether she heard or not, let her take care of herself."

Laurie had vanished round the bend; Jo was just at the turn, and Amy, far behind, striking out toward the smoother ice in the middle of the river. For a minute Jo stood still, with a strange feeling at her heart; then she resolved to go on, but something held and turned her round, just in time to see Amy throw up her hands and go down, with the sudden crash of rotten ice, the splash of water, and a cry that made Jo's heart stand still with fear. She tried to call Laurie, but her voice was gone; she tried to rush forward, but her feet seemed to have no strength in them; and, for a second, she could only stand motionless, staring, with a terror-stricken face, at the little blue hood above the black water. Something rushed swiftly by her, and Laurie's voice cried out,—

"Bring a rail; quick, quick!"

How she did it, she never knew; but for the next few minutes she worked as if possessed, blindly obeying Laurie, who was quite self-possessed, and, lying flat, held Amy up by his arm and hockey till Jo dragged a rail from the fence, and together they got the child out, more frightened than hurt.

"Now then, we must walk her home as fast as we can; pile our things on her, while I get off these confounded skates," cried Laurie, wrapping his coat round Amy, and tugging away at the straps, which never seemed so intricate before.

Shivering, dripping, and crying, they got Amy home; and, after 99 an exciting time of it, she fell asleep, rolled in blankets, before a hot fire. During the bustle Jo had scarcely spoken; but flown about, looking pale and wild, with her things half off, her dress torn, and her hands cut and bruised by ice and rails, and refractory buckles. When Amy was comfortably asleep, the house quiet, and Mrs. March sitting by the bed, she called Jo to her, and began to bind up the hurt hands.

"Are you sure she is safe?" whispered Jo, looking remorsefully at the golden head, which might have been swept away from her sight forever under the treacherous ice.

"Quite safe, dear; she is not hurt, and won't even take cold, I think, you were so sensible in covering and getting her home quickly," replied her mother cheerfully.

"Laurie did it all; I only let her go. Mother, if she should die, it would be my fault"; and Jo dropped down beside the bed, in a passion of penitent tears, telling all that had happened, bitterly condemning 100 her hardness of heart, and sobbing out her gratitude for being spared the heavy punishment which might have come upon her.

"It's my dreadful temper! I try to cure it; I think I have, and then it breaks out worse than ever. O mother, what shall I do? what shall I do?" cried poor Jo, in despair.

"Watch and pray, dear; never get tired of trying; and never think it is impossible to conquer your fault," said Mrs. March, drawing the blowzy head to her shoulder, and kissing the wet cheek so tenderly that Jo cried harder than ever.

"You don't know, you can't guess how bad it is! It seems as if I could do anything when I'm in a passion; I get so savage, I could hurt any one, and enjoy it. I'm afraid I shall do something dreadful some day, and spoil my life, and make everybody hate me. O mother, help me, do help me!"

"I will, my child, I will. Don't cry so bitterly, but remember this day, and resolve, with all your soul, that you will never know another like it. Jo, dear, we all have our temptations, some far greater than yours, and it often takes us all our lives to conquer them. You think your temper is the worst in the world; but mine used to be just like it."

"Yours, mother? Why, you are never angry!" and, for the moment, Jo forgot remorse in surprise.

"I've been trying to cure it for forty years, and have only succeeded in controlling it. I am angry nearly every day of my life, Jo; but I have learned not to show it; and I still hope to learn not to feel it, though it may take me another forty years to do so."

The patience and the humility of the face she loved so well was a better lesson to Jo than the wisest lecture, the sharpest reproof. She felt comforted at once by the sympathy and confidence given her; the knowledge that her mother had a fault like hers, and tried to mend it, made her own easier to bear and strengthened her resolution to cure it; though forty years seemed rather a long time to watch and pray, to a girl of fifteen.

"Mother, are you angry when you fold your lips tight together, and go out of the room sometimes, when Aunt March scolds, or 101 people worry you?" asked Jo, feeling nearer and dearer to her mother than ever before.

"Yes, I've learned to check the hasty words that rise to my lips; and when I feel that they mean to break out against my will, I just go away a minute, and give myself a little shake, for being so weak and wicked," answered Mrs. March, with a sigh and a smile, as she smoothed and fastened up Jo's dishevelled hair.

"How did you learn to keep still? That is what troubles me—for the sharp words fly out before I know what I'm about; and the more I say the worse I get, till it's a pleasure to hurt people's feelings, and say dreadful things. Tell me how you do it, Marmee dear."

"My good mother used to help me—"

"As you do us—" interrupted Jo, with a grateful kiss.

"But I lost her when I was a little older than you are, and for years had to struggle on alone, for I was too proud to confess my weakness to any one else. I had a hard time, Jo, and shed a good many bitter tears over my failures; for, in spite of my efforts, I never seemed to get on. Then your father came, and I was so happy that I found it easy to be good. But by and by, when I had four little daughters round me, and we were poor, then the old trouble began again; for I am not patient by nature, and it tried me very much to see my children wanting anything."

"Poor mother! what helped you then?"

"Your father, Jo. He never loses patience,—never doubts or complains,—but always hopes, and works and waits so cheerfully, that one is ashamed to do otherwise before him. He helped and comforted me, and showed me that I must try to practise all the virtues I would have my little girls possess, for I was their example. It was easier to try for your sakes than for my own; a startled or surprised look from one of you, when I spoke sharply, rebuked me more than any words could have done; and the love, respect, and confidence of my children was the sweetest reward I could receive for my efforts to be the woman I would have them copy."

"O mother, if I'm ever half as good as you, I shall be satisfied," cried Jo, much touched.

102 "I hope you will be a great deal better, dear; but you must keep watch over your 'bosom enemy,' as father calls it, or it may sadden, if not spoil your life. You have had a warning; remember it, and try with heart and soul to master this quick temper, before it brings you greater sorrow and regret than you have known to-day."

"I will try, mother; I truly will. But you must help me, remind me, and keep me from flying out. I used to see father sometimes put his finger on his lips, and look at you with a very kind, but sober face, and you always folded your lips tight or went away: was he reminding you then?" asked Jo softly.

"Yes; I asked him to help me so, and he never forgot it, but saved me from many a sharp word by that little gesture and kind look."

Jo saw that her mother's eyes filled and her lips trembled, as she spoke; and, fearing that she had said too much, she whispered anxiously, "Was it wrong to watch you, and to speak of it? I didn't mean to be rude, but it's so comfortable to say all I think to you, and feel so safe and happy here."

"My Jo, you may say anything to your mother, for it is my greatest happiness and pride to feel that my girls confide in me, and know how much I love them."

"I thought I'd grieved you."

"No, dear; but speaking of father reminded me how much I miss him, how much I owe him, and how faithfully I should watch and work to keep his little daughters safe and good for him."

"Yet you told him to go, mother, and didn't cry when he went, and never complain now, or seem as if you needed any help," said Jo, wondering.

"I gave my best to the country I love, and kept my tears till he was gone. Why should I complain, when we both have merely done our duty and will surely be the happier for it in the end? If I don't seem to need help, it is because I have a better friend, even than father, to comfort and sustain me. My child, the troubles and temptations of your life are beginning, and may be many; but you can overcome and outlive them all if you learn to feel the strength and tenderness of your Heavenly Father as you do that of your earthly 103 one. The more you love and trust Him, the nearer you will feel to Him, and the less you will depend on human power and wisdom. His love and care never tire or change, can never be taken from you, but may become the source of life-long peace, happiness, and strength. Believe this heartily, and go to God with all your little cares, and hopes, and sins, and sorrows, as freely and confidingly as you come to your mother."

Jo's only answer was to hold her mother close, and, in the silence which followed, the sincerest prayer she had ever prayed left her heart without words; for in that sad, yet happy hour, she had learned not only the bitterness of remorse and despair, but the sweetness of self-denial and self-control; and, led by her mother's hand, she had drawn nearer to the Friend who welcomes every child with a love stronger than that of any father, tenderer than that of any mother.

Amy stirred, and sighed in her sleep; and, as if eager to begin at once to mend her fault, Jo looked up with an expression on her face which it had never worn before.

"I let the sun go down on my anger; I wouldn't forgive her, and to-day, if it hadn't been for Laurie, it might have been too late! How could I be so wicked?" said Jo, half aloud, as she leaned over her sister, softly stroking the wet hair scattered on the pillow.

As if she heard, Amy opened her eyes, and held out her arms, with a smile that went straight to Jo's heart. Neither said a word, but they hugged one another close, in spite of the blankets, and everything was forgiven and forgotten in one hearty kiss.

#hellsitesonlybookclub #Alcott #bookblr #Little Women

1 note · View note

toffeegist · 2 years

Text

The Most Beautiful Thing

Beauty they say, lies in the eyes of the beholder. Beauty comes from the openness of the mind to be able to see. Life itself is beautiful, nature, humans, everything occupying the earth is beautiful and most amazing of them all is Love.

Love; It's a pure feeling that comes from an unseen place, but expressed through seeable actions. It's an aura that oozes out of every creation be it human or animals, it's uncontrollable and endless. Love plays a beautiful part of life, that is super unique to human nature. Life throws so many challenges, beauty rises from the most broken and wrecked situations. It's an unimaginable expression, that is extremely overwhelming. Every individual has been blessed with this unique beauty, however, it takes a pure soul to be able to channel it in the right way.

Hauwa had been given out to Afuwape by her parents as a bride, due to their inability to pay the debts they owed. She had fought tooth and nail rejecting the proposal, she wanted to go to school or at least learn a trade. The need to be independent nagged at her conscience so bad. However, the path her parents chose for her seemed not to go in her favour. She had nowhere or anyone to run to accepting her fate was the only option left. She wouldn't give in to a man in his middle age with wives old enough to be her mother. She was seventeen, to them she was overripe for marriage. Marriage wasn't what they did, she was gifted away. Nights after nights, she rejected him until he forced himself on her amidst punching here and there. She got pregnant and gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. Three years passed the little boy couldn't function like the rest of his mates, only to discover he was autistic. Afuwape wouldn't hear of an imbecile in his household, he sent her packing claiming she must have gotten herself pregnant by someone else. Returning to her parents house, their attitude kept her away from them. Her best friend told her to get rid of the baby and move on with her life, after all she was still very young and beautiful. "How about my baby?" She had asked. "Throw him away." They had said. One afternoon, she had been running errands to make ends meet, got home to see her brother beating her child, "what did he do?" She queried. "He peed on himself, messing the whole room up. I think you should get him far away from you. How would you get anyone to be with you when you have an imbecile. For your information, no one here would look after him." Her brother told her blankly. "Don't be like that, he isn't useless." Her mother interfered giving her a pity look, she wish she could help, but was powerless. She lifted her child and was drawn to tears by the innocence on his face. He didn't choose to be here, if only they both had a choice.

Hauwa packed her bags strapping her child to her back, leaving home to search for a better life for her child. When asked why she would like to work as a cleaner in an autistic school for free, she said for her son. Not thinking of how much hurt she had face and would still face for birthing him, she was determined to dedicate her life to her son. The first time her son spoke and called her mother. She smiled, saying,"that there is my present and future." The love she had for the child was overwhelming, despite her tribulations she found joy in her child's happiness.

Right there is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, "A MOTHER'S LOVE."

Every woman has gone through pain, tears, depression and hurt. Carry scars that would never heal. But they strive on for the sake of their children.

A mother's love never withers, it stays till kingdom come.

The pains of the child is felt, the heart feels when the child is in trouble.

A mother's love sustain the child till the very end, when the whole world turns their back and say, "toss him or her away." Or "this child would never amount to nothing." The mother stands tall and say "my child is a survivor!"

A mother's love strive through thick and thin for her fruits. Night vigils aren't new to them, it had been since the very day a life grew inside of them.

A love that never fades even when hurt and neglected. Instead it prays and seeks for the peace of their loved ones.

How else does one prove love aside giving one's life. The love a mother has is enough to keep the whole world alive.

A heart that aches when it's loved ones are in pain, they would rather lack than have their offsprings begging.

She would walk a thousand miles to reach her children. She would run through the traffic to sell in the scorching sun and pelting rain to provide food for her children. She would hawk the whole streets of the state to ensure they don't go hungry.

She would beg strangers to help feed her child, she would fast for days for the greatness of her fruit. She would fight with the last drop of her blood against anyone who stood in her child's way. A mother would die a hundred times than watch her child die. She would walk bare footed on hot coal to keep her child alive. She would be crucified, beaten and disgraced but never falter as long as her child was okay.

Every mother is a warrior. Life is easy when there is a mother to turn to.

For me nothing is more beautiful than "A MOTHER'S LOVE." Its the only beautiful thing that lives on till eternity.

#mother's love #beauty #sacrifice #truelove #essence #living

1 note · View note

anakinisvaderisanakin · 3 years

Text

Impasse - A Vaderdala Oneshot

“You forget something, Lord Vader.”

Vader flinched, the voice as clear as a bell yet as foreign as the icy vacuum of space. He found himself frozen in place, the bulk of his hefty frame suddenly unbearable. Inside his chest, he felt the searing fingers of remorse and the scalding flames of rage warring for control.

Against better judgment, he shifted to turn around. Against better judgment, he let down his guard and ignored unclipping his lightsaber. He knew the face he would find before he saw it, but he was still not prepared for the wave of emotion that spilled forth as he came face to face with his own ghosts. This one, he had expected long dead and buried.

“Padmé,” he gasped, but the voice that came out was blunt and deep and void of affection.

Still, the shock bled through. Padmé was as beautiful as the day he’d last seen her. Eyes fierce and determined, dark hair coming loose from her neatly tied bun. Her face was set in a scowl, blaster drawn and aiming straight for the chest panel on Vader’s chest as if it were a marked target meant for practice and precision fire. The air had shifted, the tension thick and heavy and oppressive as they stared each other down. No, more accurately Padmé’s intense, fiery glare was bearing down on Vader. Vader felt his anger dissipate the moment he met that stare; the ice cold regret and guilt crippling him inside out as it won the impasse.

“You said you had come to destroy the Rebellion. I am the last leader standing here. I alone. Will you destroy me now?” Padmé hissed through a clenched jaw, cheeks flushed but her hands steady.

Vader was familiar with the vow he had made, but now it seemed an impossible lie. Before his mind’s eye, he had envisioned old men and snot nosed kids. Politicians and traitors and cowards, incapable of accepting the Emperor’s grand design and his expert vision. The future was bright, the Sith had reclaimed their natural state in the circle of life - atop the ladder. Only fools and children would oppose such an evident supply of unlimited power. Yet, Padmé seemed to care for none of these things. Time had not slowed her down, it had not thawed the ice built in her heart - the ice Vader himself had put there.

“Well?” she pressed, voice tight, calm and collected.

The words escaped before Vader had any chance to rein himself in. Perhaps he never intended to.

“No.”

“No?” she repeated, as if mocking him but her expression revealed surprise and disbelief.

“Aren’t you here to execute your Rebel traitors?”

Vader said nothing, instead he reached for the saber strapped to his belt. He watched Padmé tense, watched her shoulder come up and the finger on the trigger twitch. In what might have been a gesture of surrender, he simply tossed his weapon between them. The gesture was barely a flick of his wrist, but it sent the hilt skidding across the smooth floors until it came to an premeditated gentle stop at Padmé’s feet. She glanced down to regard the token, an unreadable tinge of something somber gleaming in her eyes for a split second. When she looked back up, Vader had not moved. He stood with his hands at his sides, the bombardment outside the underground bunker shaking its hull; straining the already flickering lights.

“I will not fight you,” said Vader finally, as if that would be enough to soothe the woman’s stubborn spirits.

She furrowed her brow, the corner of her lips curling into a half sneer of disgust. It stung, and Vader might have recoiled from that alone had he not been the man he was. Changed, remolded and retooled. His heart had been ripped out once, and still Padmé’s presence willed its withered carcass to beat and blossom. At the same time, she tore it to shreds once more with the disdain her face held for him. He sensed it inside her, swirling and expanding into a palpable loathing. It cloaked her, surrounded her like a cloud. It reeked of pain, sorrow, and betrayal.

“You don’t know me. If you won’t fight, I will,” she said, every word calculated and sincere.

“‘Aggressive negotiations’.”

It was merely a statement, but its meaning rang true. Padmé straightened up, eyes suddenly wide as a ghost of horrified recognition filtered past her defenses. it was gone in the blink of an eye, but the colour that had drained from her already pale face was harder to conceal.

“Who told you?” she snarled, shifting the aim of her blaster towards Vader’s heart - knowing it would do no harm, but the gesture hit him like a slap across the face either way.

She was questioning how he had learned about her and The Jedi. Anakin Skywalker, her husband. Perhaps she had her sneaking suspicions, she must. But her aura betrayed none of it, it remained outraged and unsettled and adamant in her quest.

“You did.”

Padmé opened her mouth to deliver another scathing retort, but she snapped it close again. A tremor passed her slight frame, and it did not go unnoticed. Her resolve was faltering and waning, the lie she had convinced herself to believe no less a stretch of the imagination than the mental gymnastics Vader himself had been performing for the past four years. Ever since Mustafar, ever since he lost everything. Now, that very everything lost stood before him. Now, she was once more within his reach.

“I’m sorry. I tried,” he heard himself say, a feeble apology not nearly sufficient to excuse the heinous acts he had committed.

The voice was still not his own, but the words were earnest. Padmé lowered her blaster in slow, jerky motions but her eyes were transfixed on his. At the very least, Vader felt their gaze burn straight into his soul; into the furnace of his heart that had frozen over a million times.

“You’re safe.”

It was a ridiculous profession, Padmé’s very existence as part of the Rebellion was a death sentence. But she was alive, she was well and healthy and stable and here. She had not died. He had failed her, but she had lived. He took one step towards her, feeling just as wary and insecure as she looked. She blinked rapidly, shaking her head in a tiny micromovement. She mouthed something, but there was no sound accompanying the motion. Vader understood her fear, yet it pained him to no end. He was unrecognizable, locked within this jettblack prison of durasteel, cybernetics and synth flesh. There was so little left of his physical body, and even less of the man Padmé had once loved.

“It can’t be…” she whispered, hoarse as the tendons at the sides of her neck strained.

Vader felt the urge to cry, an urge so overpowering. An urge that had not found him since Mustafar, since the fall of the Jedi and the Republic. He had no tears to cry, no measure to shed tears by. His retinas, his tear ducts were long since eaten away by flames and embers. Still, his eyes stung. A warmth pressed behind them, a heaviness bearing down on his chest like a fist squeezing the air out of his lungs. Lungs he no longer had.

“Do what you must. I am not afraid to die.”

Padmé’s eyes widened, mouth falling open as realization dawned upon her. She understood. Vader expected her to back away, expected her to cry, to yell, to fire. Anything. Instead, she stood stone faced. As frail as porcelain, yet as sturdy as the brightest star in the Galaxy. Now, she took a step towards him. Then another. Closing the gap, inch by inch, foot by foot. She tipped her head back, never once drawing her eyes from the opaque crimson lenses of Vader’s eyes that substituted eyes. They served for the damaged, half blind eyes hidden behind.

“What have they done to you?” Padmé’s resolute voice murmured; full of compassion and love, emotions that seemed to have sprung out of the ether.

Yet, what she really meant was; what have you done to yourself?

Vader did not falter as she stopped but a breath away. Her trembling, slender fingers reached for his face plate. Her tiny hand brushed over the mouthpiece, running over the sharp angles and the netted grill. A breath was forced through it, with a loud hiss and the smell of sanitizer and bacta fluids followed it. Padmé’s eyes were round, warm, and mournful. They were glassy, her cheeks flushed but it was Vader who wished more than ever that he might shed a tear. If she were to strike him down, he deserved it. He would allow it. He would let her.

“Anakin.”

It was not a question. She knew, it was evident in the pitiful, feeble smile of shock and relief alike that grazed her lips. It was gone in an instant, but it had said enough. So used to denouncing his name, denouncing himself and all he was and had been - Vader found himself unable to deflect her. She was right. He had been wrong for so long, choosing to live in darkness and denial. No more.

“Yes.”

Anakin meant it.

****

Have a short Vaderdala AU.

161 notes · View notes

hlizr50 · 3 years

Text

Update: The Raven and the Songbird

Chapter 6

A little pain relief for everything I've put you through

Read on AO3

When Azriel landed in the training ring he shook his head, exasperated with himself. Now that he was here, what exactly did he plan to do? He couldn’t very well find Gwyn’s room, shake her awake, and beg her to forgive him.

He took a moment to survey the ring, racks of wooden weapons, steel, shields. The Valkyries had grown from desperation to get Nesta on the right track to three females surviving the Blood Rite to a small legion of Illyrians, priestesses, and other fae. They would be outgrowing the space soon, and he pondered that as the stone glowed blue in the moonlight.

Gwyn had never spoken much about the Blood Rite, not that he could blame her. The Illyrian tradition was barbaric under normal circumstances, and much more so with Briallyn’s meddling – with the intention of killing all three of the females. Azriel couldn’t help but grin to himself.

How spectacularly had her plan backfired.

He had not admitted that Cassian was not the only one sleepless and mortified that week, but where the general was a barely-contained force of will and expression Azriel was schooled in hiding his emotion. He’d had to stay stoic – to find Briallyn and Koschei, to support his brother while his mate fought for her life. But his relationship with Gwyn had begun to develop by then, as well. Slowly. It was all he could do some days not to fly in and destroy them all. She had already suffered unspeakable horrors, and the possibility that she had been at the mercy of Illyrian males – bred with a thirst for blood and flesh – had been nearly unbearable.

When that general is finished hurting her she has to feel the soul-crushing terror of watching the next soldier take his place because you don’t come to save her.

He ran a hand through his onyx hair, remembering Nesta’s words. His shadows seemed to wither around him, drooping over his shoulders and wings. How had it come to this?

The shadowsinger sat himself down on the ground, knees drawn up. He rested his forearms on them and gazed at the ink-dark sky painted with stars. Much like his High Lord, seeing the stars had always been a comfort to Azriel – a reminder that he was free from the prison of his upbringing, that he had escaped and had replaced his father and brothers with a family that cared for him and showed him what love and brotherhood really meant.

His found family had grown so much in such a short time. He was grateful for that, for so many reasons. Rhys had emerged from Under the Mountain a broken male and Feyre had helped piece him back together. She had quickly become a glue for all of them, holding them tight and treating them with such love that Azriel was often awed by it. It wasn’t hard defending her, being dedicated to her safety as High Lady. She was far more than a monarch to him.

Then came Nesta and Elain, and what a storm that had been. Cassian and Nesta were meant to be since the beginning, but that path had been long and painful, and not just for his ears and the new… sanitation concerns for public living spaces in the house. Sometimes he was surprised that he counted Nesta as his friend. She had been intentionally hurtful so many times. How often had he seen the pain in his brother’s countenance because of something she had said or done? And yet now he understood her, maybe more than he cared to admit. She had been hurting and afraid and overflowing with self-loathing.

He had hurt Gwyn for those very reasons.

Gwyn.

He felt his shoulders and wings sag with the weight of Nesta’s questions tonight. Accusations thinly veiled as questions, and each one like a carefully crafted throwing knife plunged into his gut. He’d made her cry for at least the third time in as many weeks. Training and working to exhaustion, and not being able to sleep because of the worsening nightmares – nightmares that had cruelly transformed to remind her that he had abandoned her.

Even his shadows felt heavy.

The spymaster hung his head, shame like a blanket smothering him in summer heat. How could he ever forgive himself for causing that pain? It was a fate he had personally prevented, and now she was forced to experience it in her dreams. Because of him. Because he was a coward.

Azriel let his eyes drift closed and focused on his breathing. Sleep would not be an option tonight, and he could only pray that the priestess was sound asleep in the house, getting the rest she so desperately needed. Training didn’t seem to be in the cards either, as he sifted through the torrent of thoughts and emotions. He just needed to sit and think. And in the morning, he would speak with Gwyn as soon as he could. He would fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness if he had to.

“Azriel?”

The inky tendrils flitted to life around him at the sound of that voice. Cauldron damn him, of course she would find him now. But part of him was relieved to be able to talk to her so soon – that she was even here.

“Azriel, are you alright?” His heart squeezed at the softness of Gwyn’s voice, music to his ears – a sweet melody with harmonies of concern and kindness. How could she still be so kind to him?

“I don’t deserve to be asked that. Especially not by you,” he murmured, staring down at the stone between his feet.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Azriel.” Her soft footsteps seemed to echo in his head, a ringing alarm that she was coming closer. He didn’t want to run from her, but his heart was still racing. How could he face her inevitable rejection? He noticed her shadow fall over the space between his legs and when he looked up she was crouching in front of him, eyes shining with sincerity. “You deserve for people to care about you. And I do. I won’t just leave you out here alone when anyone could see the weight of the world pressing down on you.”

Gods, but wasn’t that exactly what he had done to her?

The shadowsinger had no air in his chest as he studied her. The expression on her face was difficult to describe – caring and teasing and scolding all rolled into glittering ocean eyes and the slightest quirk of her full lips. She rose and his gaze followed as she held her hand out to him, beckoning him to stand with her. It took more courage than he cared to admit to place his violence-scarred hands in hers, but their warmth spread through him like sunshine warming his bones as she helped him to his feet.

She didn’t let go, and that gave him the strength he needed.

“Nesta found me at the river house tonight. She had… a lot to say,” Azriel began as he saw color bloom on Gwyn’s cheeks. She looked down to their hands.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for her to –“ He squeezed her hands and she snapped her head back up to meet his gaze.

“I deserved every single bit of venom she threw at me, Gwyn. Do not apologize.” The shadowsinger looked down, then, unsure how to move forward or which of his many transgressions he should address first. So he asked, “Is it true? About the nightmares? That… that I don’t come for you?” He could feel the emotion catching in his throat, cracking his voice. His eyes burned as he looked back to the priestess. Her lips were pressed together as she tried to keep the silver lining her eyes from spilling down over her cheeks.

“Yes,” she whispered, lashes lowering as the silent tears fell. Each droplet was a nick in his heart, the guilt and pain salting those wounds. How could she be so strong, to endure this agony and yet hold the hands that caused it? He released one of the hands and lifted it to her face, hesitating with his fingers a breath away from her cheek. Azriel had his mouth open to ask if he could touch her when she leaned her face into his palm. He brushed at her tears with his thumb before bringing up his other hand, cupping her jaw.

“Gwyn,” he breathed, pleading silently for her to look at him. The shining pools that opened to him were so enthralling, depths shimmering with trepidation. Gods, what he would do to bring back the joy in those eyes. “I will always come for you. No matter what. And I will never be able to forgive myself that there might be any part of your mind or your heart or your soul that could believe otherwise.” He watched as she took a shuddering breath, but her eyes held his and he was emboldened.

“I’m so sorry, Gwyn. For all of this. I was a fool and a coward and I let my guilt and my fear own me. And it only hurt you.”

Gwyn’s hands covered the scars on his own as she pulled them away from her face, returning them to their place entwined between them. Azriel stayed silent and her head tilted as she studied him.

“What could you possibly be afraid of?” she released a hoarse, hiccupped laugh. The shadowsinger could only gulp down a breath and look toward the stars.

“I… I was afraid of the feelings I was developing for you. And of the pain I would feel when you would see all the things I have done and the monster that I am and run away from me. Or that you would be hurt because of this darkness inside of me.” His eyes had returned to hers and, while he saw understanding swimming there, her expression was uncompromising.

“Have I not been hurt already?” Her bluntness shocked him, and he felt the slightest twinge of panic that told him to run. Her fingers tightened like a vice around his hands and he saw her eyes darken, as if she knew what he was thinking. “Don’t you dare even think about running away, Azriel. Not now. I deserve better from you.” Even his shadows seemed focused on where their hands touched, intent on keeping them tied together.

She did. She deserved so much better. Better than what he’d done. Shame washed over him that he could have thought to flee from her. Again. He had already wronged her… too many times. But he had come here determined to right those wrongs. Azriel wasn’t sure if he would ever be able to give her what she deserved, if he would ever be good enough for her. But he sure as fuck was going to try.

“You’re right,” he conceded, that panic replaced by resolution and a faint, foolish glimmer of hope. “I’m not going anywhere.” She grinned softly and he thought his chest would burst from relief. They were still here, together, talking. They were going to figure this out.

“Why did you run, Azriel? If you care for me, like you say,” she demanded, that sea-deep stare piercing straight into his soul. “Why? Why are you afraid of me seeing who you are?”

He should have known that she would demand an explanation. Gwyn was strong and confident. She knew her worth and what she deserved, and him sharing the story behind all of his idiotic decisions was the very least of that. But he was not prepared, and he didn’t want to. He never wanted to darken others’ lives with his history.

“That’s… a long story, Gwyn,” he huffed, hoping that might be the end of it. But he saw her eyes, determination and challenge and fire blazing blue in the moonlight.

“We have all night.” She released his hands and gestured to the darkness around them. She would not be deterred, would not back down until she accomplished her goal. It was one of the many things he admired so much about her. “Should we sit?”

Azriel found himself smiling as he nodded, sitting cross-legged on the stone. Even though the impending admissions rang as a death knell in his mind, it warmed his heart to know that she cared so deeply – that she wanted to know the worst of him.

He had put her through enough, and he could relive his pain and push out his fear for this night, if only for her.

“I don’t know where to start.” He scratched the back of his neck, a nervous tick he was usually good at hiding. But then Gwyn – that sweet, incredible, special female – gathered his other hand with those long, pale, graceful fingers and he felt the tension ease. He looked at her, taking in the beauty and serenity of her features. Freckles were scattered over cheeks stained pink, an encouraging smile crinkling the corners of her eyes.

“The beginning seems like a good place, don’t you think?”

So that’s where he began.

~~~

Azriel was not proud that he could not find the strength to look at Gwyn as he walked her through his story, but he could still hear and feel her reactions. And he dared a glance at her from time to time, trying to read everything her eyes were saying. He told her about the cell he was kept in as a child, how little touch or affection or love he had experienced, and how the shadows around him seemed to move and react and speak. She clutched his hand tighter when he told her about what had happened to them, that his brothers had set fire to them to see how he would heal. She hadn’t said a word, but he smelled the salt from tears and felt impossibly soft strokes of her thumbs over those scars.

He explained his time in Illyria and the fearsome reputation he and Cassian had to maintain, simply to make up for the circumstances of their birth. And while Cassian had been brute force and power, Azriel was deadly calm, precision, intellect, terror. He admitted to her how he had hoped to find validation in his role as spymaster under Rhysand’s father, and that he could truly revel in his duties under the right circumstances.

“Those soldiers I killed in Sangravah,” he told her. “I would have enjoyed dragging out their deaths as long as possible for what they did to you.”

Gwyn’s hands were so gentle around his as he told her how much the death and darkness grated against his soul, and how he’d had nothing to tether him to the light. He talked to her about Mor, a waste of literal centuries. And then, somehow, he told her about Elain. Not that he’d loved her, because he never had. But that he’d felt entitled to her, like he deserved what his brothers had found with the other two sisters. That he was the third brother and she was the third sister and that was all that mattered. His entitlement, his lust and desire for the bond - as opposed to love for the person - just another ugly facet of his true self.

“So I suppose that brings me to you, to these past few weeks.” Azriel made sure to meet her gaze for this. “I panicked after the necklace, because I wasn’t prepared for what it would do to me to see that hurt in your eyes. And when I told you things would go back to normal I still didn’t know what to do. I thought distance would be best between us, because I knew you would be able to draw me out of myself. And that was dangerous.”

The shadowsinger’s throat burned with emotion when Gwyn smiled softly. He could see so much roaring in her gaze, but there was no sign of pity or disgust or fear. Azriel ran his free hand through his hair before resting it atop their other clasped hands. Wetness burned his eyes, but he didn’t care.

“When I found you in the rain that night, I could smell your tears and I saw your hands – split knuckles and bruised, swollen fingers. And,” he choked down his feelings even as the tears began their descent, “and I was torn apart with the guilt. It was my fault that you were doing that to yourself. I might has well have put those marks on you with my own two vile hands.” Azriel closed his eyes and let the tears fall – not many, but enough. The silence rang through his ears, his history hanging between them. He waited for the fear, the rejection, especially when she drew her hands away from his. But his eyes snapped open when delicate calloused fingers stroked his cheeks. Gwyn had risen to her knees to dry the wetness on them, her stare a storm of trust and understanding... and compassion.

“Thank you for telling me your story, Azriel,” she whispered. “I see you. You have nothing to fear. I’m still right here.” Then she smiled brightly, and he unraveled.

“Gwyn, I don’t know if you can ever forgive me – I wouldn’t blame you if you couldn’t. But I care for you as more than a teacher, more than a friend. You are a light in my dark life and these past few weeks have been miserable without you in them.” Her smile widened slightly and he reached out a thumb to catch a stray tear that had fallen from those precious, beautiful eyes. He felt his own grin pushing his cheeks against her warm hands.

“I care for you, too, Azriel. As more than a friend.”

He held that watery stare until she released his face. She stood up, brushing off her knees before reaching her hands to him again to help him to his feet. He tilted his head curiously at the determination flashing in her eyes.

“Here is what’s going to happen,” she began, looking down at her hands in his. “Before we pursue anything… romantically, I need to be sure that this isn’t something that will happen again.”

He opened his mouth to speak but she pressed her fingers against his lips. “We both have darkness and fear and I understand that. But if you feel it taking over, I need you to come to me, to talk to me. Because if I open my heart to you and this happens again – if you insist on shutting yourself off from me or deciding for me what I deserve or want – I will be heartbroken.” The confession left Azriel raw.

“What can I do, Gwyn? How can I reassure you?” He could hear the desperation in his own voice, but he couldn’t find it in him to care.

“We are going to go back to how things were before this mess.” She had returned her hand to his and gave both a squeeze. A shadow darted down around them, as if to approve of the contact. “The way it was that led us to realize that we feel the way we do. And you are going to prove to me that we can have what we had before I found out about that stupid, lovely necklace. Do you think you can do that?” He could have fallen to his knees seeing the hope in those ocean eyes, mirroring the spark of hope inside of him. It was something he hadn’t dared to let himself fully feel with her.

“I will.” Azriel’s voice was low and rough. “I swear it.”

“And then we can decide what comes next. And I can prove to you that your hands and your darkness are just as important to me as the rest of you.”

He was grinning like a fool, he knew. He still had a chance, because Gwyneth Berdara was the definition of grace and love. And by the Mother he would not screw this up.

He felt more than saw her wrap her arms around his back, pulling herself into him. For a moment he was frozen by the intimacy of it – shocked by her initiation of it – but he quickly let his arms settle around her waist. He breathed in, pulling her tighter, and leaned his cheek on the crown of her head.

“Don’t let me down, Shadowsinger,” she muttered into his chest. He chuckled and dared to move one hand to comb through her hair. “I want to see… what comes next.” He wanted to see, too. He wanted to know what it was like to look to the future and see more than dread and loneliness and exhaustion. He could see it with her.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Berdara.”

Tag List: @tealnymph-writes @trashforazriel @secretlovelybeauty @meher-sumedha @imsointobooks @flora-shadowshine @positivewitch @tanvee1231 @imwritingthesewords @camreadsum @vikingmagic33 @shisingh @gwynrielsupremacist @sagureads @katiebellf @deedz-thrillerkilller16 @sv0430

Slide into those DMs or reply to this post if you’d like to be added to the tag list!

#gwynriel fanfiction #gwynriel fic #gwynriel #gwynriel supremacy #gwyneth berdara #azriel shadowsinger #acotar fic #gwyn x azriel #azwyn #azriel x gwyn #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #fanfiction

73 notes · View notes

gaiuswrites · 3 years

Text

King of Cups || Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Page of Swords

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | three

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: You attempt a new skill. Mando attempts to teach you.

Word count: 4.7k~

Rating: Mature

Warnings/tags: gun usage/mentioning throughout, mature language, pining, more dirty thots-ish, angst because why not, does this count as fluff? sure, gun kink if you squint w/o your glasses

Notes: As the reader (you/us) begins to become more familiar with Mando, his perspective starts bleeding in to the narrative, without a blocked off POV. Also, the reader’s past will start weaving (incoherently?) into the story as well. The large italicized chunks denote past tense interactions (which is probably obvious but who knows any more). Cheers x (gif credit: @djarinsgf)

A shot rings out.

Birds explode from the canopy with offended squawks, squalling in a winged flurry to scatter every which way until they recede again into the green, disappearing back into their hiding places. You groan. You thought you’d be better at this.

It’s not that you thought you were some sort of savant, you just didn’t expect to be this bad. Honestly, it’s embarrassing—you’re embarrassingly terrible— like statistically, you should have hit something by now, but you just keep missing—a crowded tree line in front of you, and not a scratch in sight—nary a singed branch nor a bullet holed trunk. It’s almost impressive how poor of a shot you are—and you would be, if you weren’t so damn exasperated with the whole affair. With a frustrated grunt, you throw your hands up, brandishing the weapon haphazardly.

“Careful,” Mando warns slyly, “you could hurt someone with that thing.”

“Yeah, well at least I’d hit something,” you grumble.

The kid had been fussy - almost unbearably so - in the weeks that followed your short stint on Bajic, and your party was itching for some time off the Razor Crest. After his third tantrum in a day, Mando decided to land on some unknown planet you couldn’t even spell to stretch your legs and take a breather.

You had almost sobbed when you saw him drag his menagerie of weaponry over. You knew what this meant, you knew what came next—his weekly, routine buff.

You think he’s doing it on purpose.

Ever since the first time, when you damn near had a conniption ogling him, you swear it’s like he’s doing it just to mess with you. He isn’t—of course he isn’t, rationally you knew that, in fact there was plenty of evidence to the contrary. He’s a Mandalorian—weapons are apart of his religion for kriff’s sake—but Maker does it seem intentional. Premeditated. It’s like you can feel the blistering ray of his gaze on you as he takes his time, roving a leathered hand over the bulge of the shaft—greasing it, stripping it, part by metal part…

It’s all in your head, you told yourself. It’s all in your fucking head and you need to get a grip.

Immediately you sprang into action, busying yourself with anything you could get your stupid, little hands on—in this case, being one of his many blasters.

“I wanna give it a go,” you said.

He let you, surprisingly. He hesitated, at first, his helmet tipping at a disbelieving angle. But he gave in—it took less effort on your part than you’d figured—and Mando conceded. He obliged.

How hard could it be? You thought.

Famous last words.

He’s parked there, settled on a throne of crates pushed flush to the Crest, slouched against the outer hull of the ship as he cleans, from the looks of it, every item in his arsenal—a front row seat to your pathetic endeavor and you’re failing—epically, ridiculously—shot after errant shot.

You line yourself up, scrunching your face in concentration as you bare the blaster in your hands. Maybe this time…

You fire off a round and an animal scampers scared in the thicket. Nothing. Another sublime miss.

You hear a noise come from Mando’s direction, something subtle like a blip of static through his helmet - Maker, he’s laughing at you - and you pivot around to him.

“What,” you ask, although it's less of a question and more of a griping pout. He replies with silence, that fickle language he's mastered to perfection all on his own, his focus pitched down to the bristled rod he’s driving in and out of his rifle, scouring out the residue from the inner barrel. “Ugh, what Mando?” you say, just shy of a whine, one hand slotted on your hip, the other dangling by your side, the pistol foreign and cumbersome in your grasp.

“Didn’t say anything,” he replies with a half shrug, his pauldrons shifting so imperceptibly you almost miss it. You pause, hurling him a look that misses him completely before you heave a frustrated sound.

“Fine, you show me how it’s done then.”

The T of his visor finds you. Its cold and unknowable as he rolls his helmet, tilting it up to you, hands slowing their ministrations to a rest. He’s wears a glare, carved into the steel hollow of the plates—unamused and smoldering—and with it, you feel small; microscopic and withering under his pointed gaze— suddenly too exposed in the open patch of jungled wilderness they’ve landed in and your mouth tweaks, teeth grazing the plush there. You assume he won’t do it. There’s no way he’ll rise to such obvious of a challenge, but he’s sighing—you can see it in the slant of his armor—and marching towards you before you can take it back, drawing closer and closer until Mando’s slated in front of you, expectant and postured and you forget— like the skip of a record, you forget why he’s even there— not a foot before you— and your eyes dance across his helm, flickering back and forth.

“May I?” he nods down to the pistol in your hand and you start - oh, shit - and offer it to him clumsily.

Mando squares off against the untamed green. The air lays hot and sticky around them. There is no trace of wind, no glimmer of breeze, and his cape hangs mute down his back. You’d never seen him fire his weapon. He surrounded himself with them, sure, always had at least two strapped to him at all times— probably even slept with one, you reckon— but you’ve never seen him use one.

With one solid movement, he cranes his arm, taking aim.

Now, you aren’t one to condone violence, but he just looks right doing it; an extension of himself with how natural it is, how innate— an added appendage, born unto him. The pistol looks good in his fist, like it couldn’t possibly belong anywhere else, the orange tips of his glove curling around the hilt, looping over that sensitive release.

He has practiced hands. Methodical. Sturdy. It’s sensual, to watch him like this. Pornographic even— sacrilege in a way. A part of you wants to look away and turn your gaze, grant him privacy as he handles the blaster— delicately, confidently. It’s intimate.

The pistol croons in his palm. She bends, supple and lilting. He knows just where to touch, where to stroke— she does anything he tells her. She melts for him.

Warmth pools in your mouth. Mando pulls the trigger.

He lands an impressive shot onto an impossibly narrow tree trunk nestled further in, and your features contort with amazement. Maybe you want to see it again—like a nosy neighbor peeping in through drawn curtains. Maybe you’re being reckless and smarmy, and maybe you know it. A Mandalorian’s got a gun in his hand and you’re prodding him - brilliant strategy, top marks - but your adrenaline is pumping something fierce and you feel yourself grow bold with each seize of your heart.

“Lucky shot,” you huff.

He pans to you, lolling his head, visor locked onto your face. Without flinching, without gracing you with a remark, he raises his arm and fires— doesn’t even have to kriffing look. The scorch mark sizzles - haughtily, jeering - no more than a few inches away from the first. You nearly choke on the arrogance of it— the lazy, smug performance— like he can’t be bothered with any of it, as if your taunts are all so beneath him.

You have to bite down on your lip to stop it from snaking into a wicked grin.

Mando offers the pistol back to you, flipping it grip-side up in a fancy flourish before striding - strutting - back to his post. You shake your head, a determined set to your jaw and you retake your aim, squinting in the hazy afternoon light, pulling the trigger— and nothing happens.

Again, click. Nothing, click after fruitless click. You make a face, pinching—

“Safety’s on.”

You flush, thanking the Maker that your back is towards him, and switch it down with your thumb. “Right,” you mumble sheepishly, wetting your lip. You align your sights, bracing yourself for the impact—

“It’s your stance.”

Three words.

Three words, the only solace Mando provides before devoutly returning to his work.

You wait for him to elaborate, to edify you— for any manner of sage advice— but the explanation never comes; he leaves you like this, marooned with three fucking words and you have to screw your eyes shut. This man is baffling— maddeningly unhelpful— infuriatingly sparse. It makes you want to howl and rip your hair out— and you whip around violently.

“What about my st-”

Your question comes scampering to a halt, tail between your legs, throat gone dry. Mando has planted himself directly behind you— standing so close you can see your reflection in his beskar, see the blush blurring your cheek under the alien sun.

“What uh, what about my stance?” you ask, mousier now, swallowed up by the sheer size of him so near to you.

“It’s not wide enough.”

You glance down at your feet before looking back up to him. “What do you mean?”

“Turn around,” he says.

You quirk your brow at him before he repeats himself. “Turn around and spread your legs. Hips distance apart.”

Fuck, he has no business sounding like that— like bourbon and smoke and iron tang—but you do as he says. You’re shakier than you want to be— you wish you could be cool and collected but you’re not. You’re anything but, and you’re nervous. Maker, Mando makes you nervous— it’s not just the weapon in your hand, it’s him— setting you off and giving you butterflies like you’re some sort of forlorn schoolgirl. You’re a grown woman, and this is what he’s rendered you to— jittery, molten mush. It’s embarrassing. Fucking mortifying.

You guess it’s the day for it.

He doesn’t touch you, but it hardly matters; you can sense him there all the same, a shadow in your peripheral. He leaves a thick breath of space between your bodies and with your back towards him, you can feel the waves of heat radiate off the bounty hunter, pulsing out out out from him and it’s almost intolerable— as if you’ve flown too close to the sun, waxed wings melting in pearled streaks down your spine.

You scuttle your feet open, parting just outside your hips.

“Arms up,” he says, and you hoist them into position. You’re sure you look as awkward as you feel, if not more, all the angles of your body feeling perfectly wrong and misplaced. “Relax your elbows,” he adds, and you do— you try to, at least.

“Too much. Somewhere in between.”

You try again, strengthening through your triceps and down your forearms.

“Better,” Mando gives. You think you feel him nodding approvingly behind you. “The important-”

Kriff, you panic.

You spin towards him, dropping your form and cutting him off with a humbled, worried look, throwing up barricades and hurdles— landmines for him to dodge. Or step on.

“Wait hey Mando, you don’t- I don’t want to take up your time,” you begin.

“You aren’t.”

“I’m serious, I don’t want to bother you with this.”

“You’re not.”

You blink.

“If you’re going to do this, you’re going to do it right.”

He speaks so plainly, unvarnished and matte— unflinchingly earnest in a way that gives you pause. It leaves no wiggle room for interpretation and you sigh, defeated, shoulders slumping as you haul yourself back around.

“Arms up,” he reiterates, but there’s no malice there; he sounds kind— untroubled. It always surprises you how mild he can be— Mando should be anything but, he’d have every reason to, but he’s calm. Patient. You wonder if he even realizes it, if he even recognizes the tenor of his own voice— how gentle it can be— under the helmet. Despite it.

“Think of your posture as firm, without tensing,” Mando explains. “Soften your knees, don’t lock them— same goes for your arms— don’t stiffen against the recoil, let your body absorb it.”

You mirror what he coaches, shooting him a curious, hopeful look over your shoulder.

“There. Good,” he says. “Now, which is your dominant eye?”

Your arms fall down to your sides. “My what?”

“Dominant eye.”

You give him a baffled look like he’s speaking another language - in all fairness, he is - and Mando emits another puff of air through his modulator, chortling.

“Eye dominance. We’re all either right handed or left handed. Eyes work the same— right eyed or left eyed. We favor one or the other— you’ll focus that one to aim.”

Oh, huh.

You still appreciatively, basking in the novelty of the information. “Really? I didn’t know that. That’s- that’s actually pretty interesting,” you muse. “Brains and brawn, huh?” You flash a cheeky grin back at him.

Mando grunts, nondescript and unaffected and robotic but he swears he can feel pink creep over his clavicle, tainting the tan of his skin concealed there.

He fits his gloved hand over yours, if only for a second, and you do your best to ignore the rough patch of his leather grazing against the thin flesh there. You try to ignore the chill that sweeps across the curve of your waist, how the peach fuzz prickles up, electrified and magnetized, as he unfurls your fingers from the gun, letting it slip from your grasp. He tucks it under his arm, keeping it pinned there with his bicep.

“Hold your hands out like this.” Mando shows you, creating an oval with his fingers— like a view finder or a scope. You mimic him, feeling like every bit of an idiot, but you don’t contradict him— you do as he does. “Now, set your focus out on a fixed point through your hands,” he instructs and you do, setting your sights on a gnarled tree branch.

“Got it?” he asks.

“Got it,” you respond.

“Now alternate closing each eye. The image should stay in the frame with one, and then shift out of it with the other.”

You frown, concentrating, and close the right before blinking over to the left— kriff, he’s right.

“Oh shit,” you mumble. “My left. It’s my left eye.”

“You sure?”

You check again, squinting through either eye, the tree bouncing in and out of the frame of your fingers. “Mhm. Yeah, my left eye keeps it centered.”

He makes a thoughtful sound. “Left eyed but right handed. Interesting,” Mando murmurs.

You glance up to him, dropping your hands. “Why is that interesting?”

“Not common. The brain’s typically wired the same way all the way down— one side of the body will be dominant. It’s not usually split.”

“You telling me my brain doesn’t work properly, Mando?” you quip dryly.

“You said it, not me.”

He holds the blaster out to you and you swipe it from him with a huffed snort, returning towards the tree line and stars your face hurts. Your face hurts and it’s burning with this asinine smile that’s digging mercilessly into your cheeks. It makes you want to massage your jaw, get the damn thing to relax. Honestly, it makes you want to give yourself a slap.

“Make sure to cross your center with it. Line it up towards the left.”

“Maker, do you think about all this every time you shoot?” you ask, mystified, as you fix your aim.

“Muscle memory takes over eventually. You’ll get there with enough practice.” Mando replies gruffly and you guffaw, loud and wonderfully ugly. You seriously doubt it.

After a series of very near misses— you are getting closer, you’ll give yourself that— your arms grow tired; the joints and muscles protest as you extend them out from your body, taut and tense— the gun dead weight in your wobbly hands.

Your shoulder smarts where you injured the tendon in the explosion. You roll it out, earning snaps and pops as it notches over the bone there. They told you you were lucky. They congratulated you - it’s not a complete tear! - and it’s on the mend well enough, but it’s weak. It doesn’t matter the weight of the object.

The longer you hold anything, the heavier it feels.

You suppose you could throw in the towel at any point, but the fact of the matter— as terrible and true as it may be— is you want to impress him. That awful, nagging feeling— you want to impress the Mandalorian. You want him proud of you— you want to be nice and shiny for him to admire, like one of the guns he polishes until it’s sparkling, until he can mount it on display and show it off. It’s absolutely nauseating— but you couldn’t stop it even if you wanted to, and you don’t. You don’t want to.

He isn’t blind to it. He sees the exertion, the tax— how beads of sweat congress around your temples, dampening the base of your scalp, butterfly kissing your skin with a sheen. A trail of wet salt, one lone pilgrim, ventures down the back of your neck, wandering lower and lower, past the hem of your shirt, disappearing into the soft valley of your spine where Mando can’t follow. His throat bobs rough against his cowl.

Transferring the pistol into one hand, you shake out the other, flexing through it and relaxing your grip.

“Wait,” he says and you cock your head back at him. Mando’s retreating to his pile of guns, rifling through the metal anthill before selecting something sleek and chrome. “Here,” you exchange pistols, giving him back the bulkier of the two. Immediately you feel the relief of this new one— it’s lighter and smaller, slighter in your grasp, too— and you turn it over in your hands, noting the way the nozzlelike barrel glitters in the sun.

You’d almost consider it pretty if it weren’t a literal killing machine.

“That’s a CDEF model. Lightweight, reliable, Dedlanite casing, standard issue for CorSec officers.”

You nod along, as if you have any clue what he’s talking about— you don’t. You really, truly don’t.

“Should be easier.”

“Mm,” you hum out in ignorant agreement, slotting your arms back up into position.

“Don’t put your finger on the trigger until you’re ready to fire.” You rest it against the slide of the barrel, hovering nearby.

Mando shifts closer towards you, the grass grinding under his feet as he takes a half step in to your backside.

“Breathe. Don’t hold it in. Let me hear it.”

Fuck, this feels like a sin; this small gap of distance he’s erected between you as tense, as strained and feverish, as whispered confessions in the dark. Like sneaking back into your parent’s house late at night— the morning moon peering down at you with a heavy lidded gaze— knowing, knowing, keeping your secrets to herself, pressing them to her chest, winking sleepily.

It would be so much easier, so much simpler, if he just put his hands on you. Placed your body where he knows it should be, force you into the shapes and positions he’s so intimate with himself, but he doesn’t. He draws it out. He respects your space and autonomy and it makes it worse. Your imagination fills the void separating you two, and it’s running wild and rampant and depraved and—

“Focus,” he utters, his voice no louder than a purr. You’ve never heard something so mechanical make a sound so deliriously smooth, and you have to suppress a nervous scoff. Focus, he says, as if he isn’t suffocating you with how close he’s standing— as if you aren’t enjoying it— as if you aren’t vibrating down to your very bones at the proximity of the bounty hunter—so close, you bet he can hear them, rattling and slapping against each other deep beneath your skin.

“Remember what I said about your posture,” he suggests quiet-like and murmured, without a trace of condescension there—a harmless reminder. You make the adjustment, fixing your shoulders down your back, and release the stress in your arms.

“Firm without tensing,” you respond under your breath—more for your sake than his— striking it from your mental checklist.

“‘Atta girl.”

No.

No no no, Maker, you feel it. You can fucking feel it—how something low and resonant spasms beyond your belly, the clench of your empty cunt at the encouragement—the heady praise of it all.

Atta girl.

He said it softly - rudely husky - just above a whisper, something tailored specifically for you—almost like it slipped from his lips and he didn’t even notice its passing. It meandered out of him, so easy—too easy. It practically sauntered.

You’re trembling— stars, you hope Mando doesn’t see it. It’s humid and muggy and yet you’re shaking as if it’s freezing, as if you’ve got icicled snot dripping from your nose, and your nerves go haywire, fraying in every direction as you sip in a whistled breath.

You can do this. You can do this. Focus.

“Take the shot,” he orders.

Focus.

Pressing into the slope of the trigger, you fire.

You gasp excitedly— a surprised, whooping laugh tearing through you and you whip around, giddy and beaming - bright, beautiful - a lock of hair sticking to your lip. It’s the youngest, the freest, Mando’s ever seen you; maybe the happiest, too, and his stomach twists at the sight, a tourniquet cinching around him, winding and coiling until he’s convinced it’ll burst. His fingers twitch, every instinct begging him— demanding him— to reach out and return the stray strand behind your ear alongside the others but you beat him to it. Deftly, you flit it away yourself instead, and he’s relieved.

Devastated, too. Gutted.

“Did you see that?” you ask, gleeful as a child.

He pries himself off you, dragging his gaze over your shoulder to where you struck the trunk, a coaled mark charred there into the bark, before returning his attention back to you. You meet his eyes, despite the blackness of his helm— you hold them, for a breathless, ageless moment, you hold him there.

“Not bad.”

He can’t muffle the jolt of his heart as it rumbles through his chest, breaking his mouth wide open into an aching smirk. He doesn’t know if you hear it. He fears you might.

He prays you do.

///

“Cooling vents,”

Metal scrapes against the table as you place the delicate bits down, deconstructing the blaster. The Mandalorian nods, silent as a specter.

“Gas refill valve,”

Another clunk.

“Actuating blaster…” You turn over a particularly knobby bulb before peeking up at Mando through your lashes, a wry grin tugging rosy and coy at your lips. “… thing-”

“Module,” Din corrects.

“Module, right, that’s what I said.”

He sits across the galley from you, arms folded over his chest as he eases back against the hull of the ship, overseeing as you take apart the blaster, the slender little thing he gave to you - he rarely uses it anyways - as you name the pieces and parts just like he’s taught you.

“Keep it,” he told you.

You resisted. You fought it, laughed it off incredulously— stubborn to the end— argued you wouldn’t even have a need for it.

“What am I gonna do with a gun, Mando?” you balked, and Maker he’d hoped you’d never have to use it, would never have to see a firefight in your damn life let alone be in the middle of one, but he wants you to have it— have a part of him, strapped to your hip— the closest he’ll get.

He’s selfish. Din is a greedy, selfish man. He wants to see himself on you, wants you to carry him around like a souvenir from something unforgettable— something irreplaceable— a memory like warm bathwater you dip into long after it passes, and he’ll take whatever he can get— just like you, hungry for anything you’re gracious enough to feed him. And fuck, if he doesn’t hate it— doesn’t want to bury that feeling, cold and lifeless, six feet under the earth. No ceremony. No elegies. Dead and gone, returning to the dust from whence it came, crawling back into the ribcage it sprung from.

Din said your name. Firm— gentle, too.

“Keep it.”

They’ve been at this ever since you managed to hit the target that first time. Hours have passed, dawdling by on the fat little legs of a toddler, plodding and slow. The sun had set, and winged bugs the length of your palm had taken up residency in the dark rainforest, making themselves known with a haunting tune, screeching and singing into the lush wood. After the child had tried making a pass at one, no doubt in the mood for a quick snack - isn’t he always - you had agreed to retire back inside the Crest.

You were so excited, your whole face lit up— like fireworks he remembered once, through the eyes of a boy in the summered night— and you wanted more; like a sponge, sopping up all you could, sucking Din in and ringing him out for it and fuck, he couldn’t say no.

He can’t say no to you.

You start prattling out questions about everything and nothing - what blaster do you prefer, do you have a favorite rifle, what’s the difference between plasma and gas charges, you have a flamethrower on your wrist? - and before long you get him lecturing, going on about weapon safety and trigger discipline and slide bites and ammunition rounds and gun brands and serial numbers and Din knows this isn’t you. You’re a borderline pacifist for kriff’s sake— he’s almost certain that if push came to shove, you’d rather lay down your life than take one. You’re no gunslinger, and you don’t hold any aspirations to become one.

But here you are, fist tucked under your chin and leaning in to him, hanging off his every word.

You have no personal interest in weapons. Frankly you’d be pleased if you never held a gun again in your life. No, and whether Mando realizes it or not, you want to know because it’s him. You want to know him. And maybe it’s because its the most he’s given to you since you stepped foot aboard the Razor Crest— almost a month, and what you’ve gotten from him today alone has been more than he’s given in weeks— not a door so much as it is a window into his life, an allowance, a glimpse behind the beskar. Its more attention, more words and insights, more tiny gestures and maybe you’ve been a little starved for it— maybe you’ll eat up any scraps Mando tosses with a calloused glove, molded and rotting, from his plate.

Even if it’s this, even if its fucking firearms.

You want to know.

It’s who you are: it doesn’t matter what someone’s passionate about, you’re interested in their interests. You care what they care about. If they matter, then it matters. It’s who you are, webbed and weaved into the innermost fabric of your being, and you can’t pretend to be anything else; you don’t know how to unbecome.

You’re splayed before him— a bleating heart, kaleidoscoping and blooming and twisting in his hands. If only you could pry open your chest— turn yourself inside out at the seams, spill yourself to splatter, sanguined and slippery right there on the deck. You’d do it, if you could.

Am I loving enough Am I giving enough Have I paid my debts Am I worth this now, finally— Worth that which I offer, have I earned it back

So effortless, this vignette, seated here in his galley, dismembering a blaster and labeling the parts, terminology klutzy on your tongue— tripping over yourself just to get it out— looking to him for hints and clues, fluttering your doe eyes with cartoonish bats.

He answers. You laugh. He smiles.

The kid is in his pram, entranced by all the shiny baubles and bobbins just out of his reach - thank the Maker - and giggles at their little game— happy, for once, just to watch.

You and me both kid, Din thinks. You and me both.

209 notes · View notes

theshelbyclan · 4 years

Text

Angel

Summary: You cross paths with famous Thomas Shelby after killing someone he wanted dead, and you can’t help but recognise so much of yourself in this man

(Gif by @nofckingfighting) A/N: The ever-lovely @psych0crybaby requested: good evening my dear. i saw that your request are open again. Could i ask for some Tommy with a total badass reader? Maybe where she saves their asses and no one knows where she is( and she just walks away) and then they see her again and ada explains to them that she mostly kills rapists and guys who harass woman because someone did the same to her when she was in the war? if you are comfortable with, if not have a good evening or day 🌺 I remember the first time I read this request and immediately being drawn to it. I did however want to do it right, you know? Like I really wanted to think about it, so I have. This comes with a warning for anyone familiar with PTSD, and some sexual abuse and assault is mentioned: this may be triggering. Sorry that it took a while to get this out, but I hope you like the result! Words: 4370 *** Breathe in. Look. See. Focus. Remember. Breath out. Throw. The first knife whooshed passed your face and hit the wall opposite you. The second followed quickly, almost magnetically. The third came after a small pause, the silence in which people feel a false sense of safety, and hit the target right in its middle.

“You’re too pretty to be out here in the mud.” “Again,” you told yourself, “there’s four of them”. Everything comes in four, good or bad. So you moved suddenly, ducked and threw three more knives, previously hidden in your sleeves.

“You know you want it.” Like a cat you jumped up onto a roof and mid-air threw three more, taken from your pockets. But the hardest was yet to come. The last man was always hidden, always late, like that last knife. He too swished and betrayed. So from your boots, you took another knife, jumped down suddenly and planted it in the back of the invisible assailant. “Good girl…” The job was done. Now for the real work. “What happened to you?” And you told yourself, “I’m ready.” ***

“What is your concern, Tommy?” “The one minute. The soldier’s minute. In battle it’s all you get.” Thomas Shelby lived his life looking over his shoulder, but when he turned, there was nothing there. You see it happening, everything at once and there’s no avoiding it. It’s always there, right behind you. Like running through a house with the devil hot on your heels, finally finding the way out, but when you step into the garden, it starts all over again: you’re back at your starting point. You see, your body may be outside in the sunlight, but your mind is back at the house. That’s what it felt like, every day. “We live somewhere between life and death.” This is what existing is: always living somewhere between life and death, between sleep and awake. And the nightmares, they bled into the days, taking over slowly. “Is it another war you’re looking for, Tommy?” There was supposed to be one war, to end all wars. But instead, kids were sent out to die in the mud, and for what? All that blood, smoke, tears, sweat and carnage. Men blowing the whistles, boys praying and crying. Was he looking for another war? That would imply the first one had ended. “I’ll remember everything and forget nothing. I’m thinking ahead, thinking of every possibility, remembering everything that is happening…” As if he could forget. The smallest things could trigger his memories, taking him right back. When John was little, he used to be scared of a monster. Ada had told him that: that there was a witch living in the walls that you could only see in the mirrors. John didn’t sleep for weeks after her little story. And now, the monster turned out to be real, except no one believed in it anymore. Still, it was everywhere and you had to be constantly on your guard. Because it’s not just in the walls and mirrors; it’s always right behind you, creeping, slithering, crawling it’s way up your spine… And so he became a machine, no longer a human being, fuelled by whiskey and cigarettes only, always plotting. “Thomas Shelby against the whole bloody world, right?” And so he wrote, “My name is Thomas Shelby and today, I’m going to kill a man.” *** There had been five of you at home. And home was in Small Heath, though you moved house all the time. When the poverty got bad, the family was split up and you and mother went into a boarding house for women, while father and the oldest brothers went into a boarding house for men. You were alright with this, because father was a bad man, but you feared for your brothers. Mother was the sweetest woman to ever live, always making sure you ate before she did. You never noticed her withering away before it was too late. At twelve, you started working. Walking the docks and shipyards was dangerous, so your brothers tried their best to prepare you. They weren’t like the other men in Small Heath. “Take this,” one brother told you on the morning of your first shift, “Hide it, in those boots.” You’d gotten charity boots, the first one in the family! But walking in them still felt uneasy, and now he expected you to slide in a small knife as well? “When someone comes,” he continued, urging you with his fiery eyes, “you stick ‘m. Don’t wait, don’t hesitate and don’t ask any questions. When he comes, you stick ‘m and you keep on sticking ‘m!” This was the first lesson you’d been taught. Four brothers all taught their little sister and each had but one objective: keeping you safe. One gave you the knife, the other taught you how to fight and the third took the beatings your drunk father had intended for you. The fourth hadn’t any strength or knowledge to share, so he kept close. Wherever you went, he followed in the shadows, and it was like having your own guardian angel, made up of filth and smoke. When the war came, they all enlisted. Of course they did: they were good, strong and brave men. You saw them off, one by one, and after waving goodbye to your guardian angel, something inside you snapped. Inspired by their love and courage, you became a nurse and took up a post at the front. You became a guardian angel yourself. *** Tommy was looking for a war. After France, they’d taken over the Shelby enterprise again and he had ambitions of expansion. Still, there were those in Small Heath who’d forgotten about the Shelby’s and he had to re-establish their reputation. “It’s happened again, Tommy,” John said sombrely, during a family meeting. Tommy sighed and dipped his head forwards, “Will he live?” “Yeah,” his brother replied, “but what are we going to do about this?” Polly, the voice of reason, said, “You need to make an example of him, Thomas. Show him who’s in charge. We can’t have a few Irish rebels killing and beating up our runner-boys. It’s bad for business.” Tommy nodded slowly and was formulating a plan as they spoke, “He drinks at the Horse’s Head. That’s where we’ll get him.” “Are you mad?” Arthur questioned, “On any given night there’s at least fifty Irish in there. It’s like a bloody army!” “We’re not scared of some fucking Irish,” John spat. “We’re not,” Tommy looked at his aunt with whom he shared his strategic skills, “but we need to be smart about this.” “Smoke him out,” Polly added, knowing her nephew’s mind so well. “We need an incentive.” Everything was all planned out. Tommy had an explosion, a staged fight and the rum in place. The men would scatter, the police would be elsewhere and their target would run. As the pub would be set on fire, he would literally be smoked out. That’s where they would be. The plan was good, well thought out and each eventually had been dealt with.

When the night came, the first part worked like a well-oiled machine. A small explosion in the shipyards, John’s, had drawn the police away. It would take them a while too, seeing as the Communists held their meetings there. Danny Whizz-bang would be inside the pub, looking both menacingly and vulnerable enough to not attract attention among the rebels. He was doing good tonight; he’d be able to light the fire. Tommy, Arthur and a few other blinders were waiting in the alleyways. Smoke started emerging from the pub and Tommy’s head shot up at the shouts of men. As he was getting ready mentally, he thought: some day, I won’t be the one doing this work. As men started fighting and chaos ensued, he followed one insignificant figure with his eyes. This man ran, frantically, into the protection of one of the dark alleys. Tommy followed and shouted his name. The man turned and his face fell as he recognised the Shelby. He in turn grabbed his gun and pointed it at him, saying, “Don’t fuck with the Peaky Blinders.” But as Tommy was about to pull the trigger, the man fell forwards. The irritation of an eventuality not anticipated shot through Tommy and as he walked forwards, he saw a small knife sticking out of the Irish’ neck. He died on the spot. His first thought was if he could still pass this off as a killing by the Peaky Blinders, because Polly had been right: they needed to make a statement. Of course he could. His second thought lasted a lot longer and actually drove him to action: who’d done this? The angle of the knife made him look up, towards the roofs. No one was there, but Tommy still ran. As a kid, he used to climb roofs. As an adult, he dug tunnels. It’s funny how both came back to him now. Fearing whomever it was he couldn’t see, he chased the murderer. Once up, he could easily recognise the signs: someone had been on the roofs. There were bits of dust where bricks had been falling, flecks of ash where someone had been smoking and the smell of soap where someone had been waiting. Still, the killer was long gone. *** You weren’t sleeping, but sort of dreaming with one eye open. You did that a lot. Nightmares kept you vigilant, even at night. The boarding house you were living at was positively Dickensian, but you didn’t mind. You came from nothing and had little trouble going back to it. Besides, there was no money coming in at the moment, so you didn’t have the funds for any proper room.

In the dark, you thought of the men on your list. One of the best things about the boarding house was its anonymity. People who lived here were the poorest of the poorest, only surpassed by those on the streets and the working houses. No one asked any questions, no one looked at each other and shame drove people into hiding. The large room was separated into small spaces by a few curtains only, but still, there was some sense of privacy. In the darkness, you could think. The worst thing about the boarding house was the sound. It wasn’t the crying babies, children whining for food or people fighting each other, but the sound of pain. Some women wailed in their sleep and it shook you to your core every time. Your mother had sounded like that. You had too, you knew it. Early in the morning, you left. “Where are you off to, eh?” the old lady who slept next to you asked. In some ways, she was the pauper’s queen and she got away with prying. “Work,” you replied shortly. The old woman laughed a hoarse laugh, “You’re not fooling no one, dearie…” As soon as you walked onto the streets, a calmness came over you. Poverty was familiar, but it frightened you too. It was like a hand around your throat, always squeezing just a little but more. Inside, especially, it was like drowning. In Small Heath, some women had started their first shifts at the factories already and men were shovelling coal into the big machines. Sparks flew and fizzled out in your hair. Soot clung to your already filthy clothing. In other words, nothing about you looked out of the ordinary. The rest of the day was filled with you practising two skills: observing and vanishing. You listened in on conversations everywhere, while timidly looking away when anyone did notice you. Men boasted of their achievements and women complained everywhere. But you listened for any signs of cruelty and found it easily. See, in a city forgotten by civilisation, no one notices cruelty anymore. It’s part of everyday life. You, however, had decided to change that. This was your revenge, or atonement, whichever way you looked at it. One man in particular stood out to you. His eyes were cold and his shoulders broad, and when his wife came to him during his break, he slapped her without warning. Sometimes menace leaves a certain aura and you could sense it in him. When a filthy child came from the factory as well, also on a short break, you motioned the child to come over. “Hey, love,” you said softly. The child didn’t trust you, but his sunken eyes still pleaded, “What?” “Here,” you offered him a bun you’d just stolen, “I need your help.” He hadn’t eaten in days, that much was clear, and with his mouth full of crumbs, he said, “Wiff whaff?” “I’m new here in Birmingham. Where can I get a job?” He pointed, “Ask the foreman.” You smiled gently, “Thanks, love.” “Where’d you get the bun?” he inquired, less shy with each bite. “My husband bought it for me.” “You not hungry?” This child was sweet, so he’d know, “No, you have it. We got more at home.” “Okay,” and he continued absolutely devouring the pastry. Just before he walked off again, you asked him, off-handedly, “That man, over there?” you pointed at the man with stony eyes, “You know him?” The boy fell still, “Yeah. He works here.” “What’s his name?” “Don’t know,” he whispered, “But mum told us to stay away.” “Why?” The kid shrugged, “He’s a bad man I suppose.” “Like those Shelby’s,” you tried, knowing the kid would know them like everyone around here did. It worked. “Nah,” he laughed, “the Shelby’s would never touch a woman!” “Does he?” you asked, eyes narrowing. “Mum says so. Mum says women are scared of him, because he hurts them. All of them.” You nodded slowly, “Why don’t the Peaky Blinders take care of him?” He shrugged again, “Miss? Thanks for the bun, but I really need to get back. I need my job.” “I know,” you urged him, “Go.” In France, you helped the sick and dying. This is what you had come for and you’d given up everything to do it. With the telegram of each brother found dead, you became more focussed on the work. It was like you turned into a machine, running only on adrenaline. Sometimes you would work shifts of 48 hours, simply because the other nurse had collapsed, or because the bodies wouldn’t stop coming in. Fear became second nature and fatigue had to be ignored. But being tired also made vulnerable: you learned this when one of the superior officers followed you into the halls of the makeshift hospital. Remaining on your feet after working for so long was easy, as long as you kept on moving. But when he grabbed you and you paused, your knees started buckling. Maybe it’d been the fear, maybe it was his rank and maybe it was purely that fucking bloody war, but there was no fight left in you in that moment. He had his way with you and you just… froze. Shame and guilt drove you back to England and back into the shadows you retreated. And then, shame and guilt turned into anger and the guardian angel became an avenging angel. You didn’t have to wait long. After his work was done, you followed the man with the cold eyes, watching his every move. All your fears and the kid’s warnings were confirmed in a dark corner of a filthy street. The woman never stood a chance. And so you vowed: you would end him. *** “What’s up with you?” Ada asked pointedly. Tommy’s head shot up and he stared at his sister with vacant eyes. “Thomas Shelby, the man who never eats. A rare biological mystery, he is,” Ada commented sarcastically. He grabbed a fork and picked up a potato, “I eat.” “Hardly,” Polly commented. “I have work to do, so if you ladies don’t mind…” But Ada wasn’t finished, “You’ve been lost in thought all day. Mind sharing it with us?” “No really.”

“Because we’re just women or…”

“Ada!” Tommy sighed, “Something… happened. Something unexpected and I can’t figure out how.”

“And this bothers you.”

There was something deeply infuriating about having a sister who was reading the newspaper, right next to you, but never made eye contact, and still she was absolutely right about everything. So Tommy threw his head back and admitted defeat, “Someone killed a man.”

“It’s Small Heath.”

“Someone I wanted dead, but he got there before me.”

Polly sat back down and leaned forwards, “The Irish? I though we did that.”

“Yes, that is what I had people believe.”

Ada suddenly looked up, “How?”

“I failed to take it into my calculations…”

“No. How was the Irish killed?”

Tommy blinked a few times, “A knife. Thrown from the roof.”

His sister smiled faintly, didn’t say a word and then went back to her newspaper.

“Ada…” Tommy growled, “If you know something, tell me.”

“Why? I thought you boys were taking care of business now.”

He looked at his aunt for support, almost desperate, but saw from her face that he could hope for little sympathy there.

“Fine, what do you want,” he demanded.

“Respect,” Ada said coldly.

“You have my respect.”

“Good,” she slowly flipped the page, “Now tell me you need me.”

Polly’s smirk grew into a grin and Tommy cursed all women, right there and then.

So he cleared his throat, “Ada, please, tell me.”

“It’s almost like it’s physically painful for him, isn’t it?” Polly said conversationally to Ada.

“Fucking hell…” Tommy groaned, “Ada, I fucking need your help. Please just tell me what you know!”

“Fine,” she abruptly closed the newspaper, “You need to go to that pub in Digbeth.”

“The one by the water?” Tommy frowned.

“That’s the one. Next to that boarding house that should’ve been closed years ago. That’s where you’ll find your killer.”

Immediately, he stood up. Because even though he thought he’d been subtle about it, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the incident for days now. The killer, whoever he was, had taken over his thoughts entirely. It was dark outside already, but still early enough for the pubs to be open. He’d go there at once.

“Tell her I said ‘hi’,” Ada called after him as he left.

And Tommy retraced his steps slowly, “‘Her’?”

“Her.”

He paused for a second, but when nothing else came, “You know they don’t allow women in pubs.”

“They do her,” Ada chuckled.

“Ada, stop playing these fucking games!” he shouted, as he threw down his cap in anger.

She, however, didn’t even blink and repeated, “Her. It’s a woman who killed your Irishman. All the women here know her; she takes care of a certain kind of man for us. She doesn’t want it known and she rids the world of bastards, so we leave her be. It all works out.”

Tommy turned to Polly, “Did you know of this?”

“I’ve heard of her, yes.”

“Then why the fuck has no one told me before?”

Polly sent a stern gaze at her nephew from over her teacup, “I thought you weren’t interested in women’s business.”

***

When you walked into the pub, a small nod to the man behind the bar was all that was needed. Dressing like a man had many advantages and this was definitely one of them. Still, he knew you were a woman, but after helping him out one night, you were allowed in. So you sat in the corner and became one with the furniture, drinking your whiskey in silence.

And then it happened. One man, who had no business being here, walked in. Thomas Shelby of the Peaky Blinders was considered royalty in Small Heath, so why would he be here, in this grimy little cellar pub?

The thought that he came looking for you never even crossed you mind at first. He leaned over the bar and ordered whiskey, asking a few more questions you couldn’t hear. You tried to listen more closely, but the more you did so, the more inaudible his words seemed to become.

Suddenly, he turned and looked you right in the eyes. Without a second thought, you jumped up, kicked the table towards him and made your way to the door.

“Fuck,” you heard him ground out, but still he was quick. In a flash, he had the door barricaded and a gun pointed at your head.

“Out!” he commanded everyone but you.

You felt for the reassuring blades under your clothes and relaxed a little.

“Now, Miss…” he started after everyone had left.

But you didn’t plan on being interrogated, so the first knife whooshed passed his head: a warning.

Thomas Shelby froze. Then it was like an animal awoke in him and he lunged forwards, tackling you down with him. While you were struggling, you tried to plant a second knife into his leg, but he rolled away just in time. With big eyes he stared at the weapon now stuck in the floor.

And so you were standing opposite each other, weapons of choice pointed at each other’s heads.

“Alright,” he said after a while, holding up his hands in a pacifying manner, “There’s no need to fight.”

“Spoken by a man who knows he will lose,” you replied, without missing a beat.

“You want a fight?” Tommy said quickly, “Then fight me like a man. No gun, no fucking knives. If my sister is right about you, you’ll fight me like a man.”

With that you scoffed and threw away the knives, right next to his head, into the door. It gave you such pleasure to see him shudder with each one, but your face betrayed nothing.

“Now what?” you asked.

“You tell me.”

“Fine,” you sighed and punched him in the face, hard.

As his head shot back, you noticed a flicker of surprise in his features, but he quickly recovered and his face turned emotionless yet again.

Your triumph didn’t last long. If anything, you arrogance had distracted you, so the three blows that followed from his fists came out of nowhere. One to the nose, one to the chin and the last one square in the jaw. Thank God you weren’t vain.

You took a breath in, made yourself focus and quickly jabbed him two times, before hitting him right in the eye with a mean left hook.

“Jesus Christ…” he muttered, “Who the fuck taught you how to fight like that?”

“My brothers,” you replied, before you could stop yourself.

Tommy held up his hands and his two punches to your gut literally took your breath away. Meanwhile, he said, “Why aren’t they here to defend you now, eh?”

“Do I look like I need to be fucking defended?” With a sudden kick you were certain you cracked at least on of his ribs.

Wheezing, he leaned over, but managed to grab your leg in the process and flipped you over onto the ground, “Brothers still do.”

“They’re dead,” you said from the floor, “the Somme,” and with one quick motion, you’d tackled him with your legs, “What about you?”

“The Somme too. Verdun…”

Before he could recover, you climbed on top of him and started pounding his pretty face with your fists. Unfortunately, he quickly bucked you off and hit you with a nasty uppercut, which made you wonder about your teeth.

You crawled back a little and felt with a hand at your mouth: blood. Tommy leaned against the wall and was still panting, lightly tracing a hand over his ribs. The chaos subdued and you both rested.

“Are we done?” he growled.

You stared at him with a look that told him you could go on for hours like this, “What is it that you want?”

“I just want to talk.”

Quickly, you started thinking out your options. Clearly, he knew who you were and evidently, you’d killed the wrong person this time. Really, it was bound to happen at some point.

“Who was it?” you asked, “the one you didn’t want dead.”

“I did want him dead,” he said as he slowly lifted his cigarette case from his pocket.

“Then what’s the problem?”

He smiled a little and the gesture was so unexpected that the feeling it gave you caught you completely off-guard, “I wanted to be the one to kill him.”

You furrowed your brows, thought back and suddenly nodded slowly, “The Irishman.”

He pointed at you with his cigarette in hand, “That’s the one.”

In the silence that followed, you watched this man, this broken boy. His eyes started glazing over and you knew he drifted off to placed in the distant past. As he smoked slowly, you recognised the signs of a flashback so well and you suddenly became more curious than ever about this man.

He saw the same thing in you evidently, because out of the blue he said, “You and me. I think we understand each other.”

“Do we?” you said in a voice that demanded distance.

He nodded a little, “We kill.”

You laughed a cold laugh, “Are you insane like me?”

“Maybe I am…”

“Or just in pain like me?” you added.

He didn’t speak for a long time, like he was thinking what to say next, but then, suddenly, he broke the pregnant silence. “Who hurt you?” he asked, in a voice so low it was almost inaudible.

You leaned forwards and locked eyes with him, fire burning inside them, “Everyone.”

Tommy sat back and offered you a cigarette, but soon realised you wouldn’t take it from his hands without expecting abuse from them. So he threw it your way and you grabbed it gratefully. When you lit it, the two of you leaned against the wall in the same manner, postures similar.

“It’s time,” he announced, looking up at the ceiling.

You cocked one eyebrow, “Is it?”

“The minute is almost up.”

“And how does it end?”

He sighed, “With names. You’ve beaten me. I’m no longer Mr. Thomas Shelby. It’s Tommy now.”

And you smiled at him softly and replied with your own vulnerability, “Y/N.”

***

Masterlist

#Thomas shelby #tommy shelby #thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby x reader #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders headcanon #peaky blinders fanfiction #peaky blinders #ada shelby #ada thorne #polly gray #polly shelby #peaky blinders x reader #peaky blinders angst

805 notes · View notes

someonestolemyshoes · 3 years

Text

Come to Me

This is my submission for @levihan-drabbles Trope Tuesday - I jumped firmly on the bandwagon and went with prompt #4: Injured/hurt Levi & caring Hange. Juuuust eeked inside the max word count, but I’ll take it!

Warnings: This fic does contain some depictions of injury, nothing too graphic, but be aware if this is something that bothers you!

“Who was it this time?”

Hange expected no answer. As such, they were unsurprised at receiving nothing but a grunt and a hiss as they pressed an alcohol-soaked swab to the apple of Levi’s cheek, where the flesh, feverishly red and swollen now, had split like a burst seam.

Only rarely did Levi disclose the particulars of his adventures, and never when prompted. Hange knew better than to press. It wasn’t their role to ask questions, but the silence quickly grew oppressive when left unattended, and Hange would much rather listen to the sound of their own voice than the stifling quiet.

“Do they at least look worse off than you do?” They asked, tilting Levi’s bruised jaw to angle him better beneath the hanging bulb. Levi gave another noncommittal grunt, this one accompanied by a shrug of his shoulder and a grimace that tugged at his bust lip. The forming scab cracked open, and a thin trail of blood dripped towards his chin.

He was quiet, tonight. Moreso than usual. It wasn't in Levi’s nature to divulge too much of anything, but he could be vocal, in his own way. Hange’s poking and prodding was most often met with a grumbled ‘mind your damn business’ or ‘keep your nose out of my shit’ and occasionally, when Hange was in a particularly obnoxious mood, ‘quit jamming your finger into my ribcage’.

There was none of that now. Levi remained perplexingly silent while Hange disinfected the open wounds on his face and knuckles, cleaning smeared blood and palpating the joints, checking the swollen flesh for signs of damage they couldn't hope to fix in their parents' tool shed.

This had been their routine for a little while, a semi-regular occurrence since the first night Hange had found him crumpled over a bench in the park, sucking wet breaths through his teeth and trying in vain to stem the blood flow from a yawning gash on his arm. He had colourfully refused Hange’s offer of calling him an ambulance, and had vehemently denied that he needed to see a doctor, but he had eventually resigned himself to at least allowing Hange to help however they could with the first aid kit in their kitchen and what little medical knowledge they had absorbed from their mothers medical journals.

He had been a relative stranger to Hange, then. They’d seen him around sometimes, in school corridors between classes, or in the lunch hall, or around the back of the science block, where Hange had caught glimpses of him sparking up or stubbing out a cigarette, but besides these sporadic sightings, Hange's knowledge of Levi came only from whispered rumours.

The rumours, more than anything, made Hange worry that this was not a solitary incident.

“Just come to me,” Hange had said, as they'd finished wrapping the bandage around his wounds. “If you need help again. I kinda like my evening walks, and I think it’d ruin my night if I found you dead next time.”

In truth, Hange hadn’t expected him to take their offer seriously at all. Shocked as they were to see him turn up bloody and bruised at their window, they had stayed true to their word. Levi had tolerated their needling questions with surprising resilience, but eventually acquiesced to give some vague answers when Hange had suggested that he might be involved in something highly illegal.

“You’re in a gang,” they’d said.

“Like hell.”

“Selling drugs?”

“You think I’m stupid?”

“I got it—human trafficking."

“For fucks sake, four-eyes! I’m not—no, what the hell is wrong with you?”

Hange had accused him of every offense under the sun, but as it had turned out, there was nothing so terrible, nor so immoral or unlawful, about Levi’s affairs.

“I just get in fights, sometimes. I live in a rough neighbourhood. Tensions are high, people snap easy.”

“Do you? Snap easily, I mean.” Levi had given her a noncommittal shrug.

“Depends,” he had said. “Whether something’s worth snapping over.”

Hange had never asked what held that kind of wealth, for Levi. He had a deceptively calm aura about him whenever Hange saw him in passing; a little grumpy perhaps, with his thin eyes and drawn brows and pouted lips, but he never exuded the crackling energy of a bomb ready to explode.

Now, though, he seemed stormy. There was an intermittent twitch in his jaw where the muscle bunched and flexed. Despite Hange's close proximity, sitting with their knees tucked between his splayed legs, his gaze remained resolutely fixed somewhere over their shoulder. His freshly bandaged fists rested clenched atop his thighs. There was a pallor to his skin, the sickly hue of it exacerbated by the fluorescent glow from above them; the angle of the light deepened the shadows beneath his eyes and in the hollows of his cheeks. He looked, if possible, more sullen than Hange had ever seen him.

Perhaps more tenderly than intended, Hange smoothed their thumb over the last steristrip on Levi's cheek. Something in the softness of the action must have caught his attention, for he drew his gaze towards Hange's face for the first time since turning up tonight. Hange tilted their head at him.

"Are you okay?"

Levi scoffed. "Do I look okay?"

No, Hange thought. You never do. "You've looked better."

"I'm fine."

Hange fought the urge to roll their eyes.

"Like pulling teeth," they mumbled. Levi shot them a look, something petulant and withering. Hange poked their tongue out at him, and winced when he aimed a kick at their ankle.

"Stop being difficult," Levi said. Hange looked at him incredulously, chest swelling and cheeks puffing with indignation. Levi was watching them calmly now, his brow quirked, and Hange felt the futility of arguing with him before they even began. Instead, they blew out a long, calming breath, and began packing the first aid supplies back into the kit.

Silence swelled between them, broken only by the crinkle of plastic as Hange, perhaps with more force than necessary, jammed spare wipes, swabs and bandages into place.

For once, Levi broke it.

"Oi, Hange."

Hange, not looking up from repacking their first aid kit, huffed loudly, and tried their best to ignore him. In the end, though, curiosity won out. "Mm?"

"If—" Levi began, then cut himself off with a harsh huff, and ticked his tongue against his teeth. "If anyone bothers you. Come to me, okay?"

Hange looked up at him, surprised. Levi wasn't looking at them, head turned away and eyes cast down towards the floor.

They weren't friends, exactly. Outside of their strange arrangement, they never really spoke to one another. Hange had, once or twice, caught Levi watching them with a curious expression on his face, but he never spoke to them in public. Hange was mostly at ease with the whole thing. There was an itch of intrigue they longed to scratch, but Levi's responsiveness to questioning had already made itself well known. Excluding their meeting in the park, they had never shared a single word with one another beyond the confines of the tool shed. Why, then, would Levi expect Hange to approach him anywhere else?

"Why would anyone bother me?" It was an earnest question, but Levi met their questioning gaze with a scowl. He opened his mouth with the kind of frustrated ferocity that preceded an argument, then closed it again, and huffed through his nose.

"I heard some things," he said. Hange said nothing, only blinked openly at him, and Levi was pressed to fill the silence. "Someone saying shit. About you."

Hange's brows lifted towards their hairline. "Oh?"

Levi scuffed the toe of his boot over the floor, face twisted in a sneer. Hange found it difficult to tell where his disgust was aimed; at whatever conversation he had overheard, or at himself for bringing it up.

Hange shuffled forward in their chair, one of their knees bumping against the inside of Levi's thigh. His eyes flickered down to the point of contact, then up to Hange's face. Hange nudged his leg harder.

"C'mon, you can't say that and not tell me."

When Levi showed no signs of budging, Hange sat up straighter and folded their arms over their chest. "At least tell me who."

Levi rolled his tongue between his cheeks, deliberating. His gaze flitted over Hange's face as though he was hoping he might find something reflected in it. Whether he found what he wanted Hange didn't know, but after a long moment, he slumped back in his chair and crossed his arms to match Hange, and said, with no absence of venom, "Zeke."

Ah. That at least explained some of Levi's seething. He and Zeke had a history. Hange was unclear on the details, and much of the story was based on rumours passed down in hushed whispers, morphing with each new retelling, but what was clear enough was that the two disliked one another. On Levi's part, it was all clenched fists and frosty glances, while Zeke carried himself with a mix of smug satisfaction and barely restrained resentment.

Still, Hange found it hard to believe that Zeke would have anything too terrible to say about them. Their communication had been inconsequential at best—he had an air of self importance that Hange found a little grating, and an overconfidence in his own opinions, but the handful of instances in which they'd spoken to one another hadn't been unpleasant. Hange told Levi so, and watched with interest as a hint of colour rose in his cheeks and his frown deepened.

"He's a creep," Levi said. Hange's brows arched even higher.

"What, did he threaten me?"

Levi said nothing.

"Is he gonna beat me up?" Still nothing. "Did he call me ugly? Say I smell bad?"

"You do smell bad."

"Did he perv on me?"

Levi's response was both fascinating and telling. He tensed visibly, spine snapping straight, fingers curling tight into his palms—even his thigh, still resting against Hange's knee, clenched hard. Hange's grin widened.

"Jackpot," they said. Levi curled his lip

"Well, I'm honoured by your chivalry, Levi. But you didn't have to pick a fight with him just because he thinks I'm hot. It's kinda flattering, you know?"

"He doesn't even mean it," Levi said harshly. "He's just saying it because I—" but Levi cut himself off again, sharply, and pressed his lips into a thin line. The forming scab tugged, threatening to tear anew.

"Because you what?"

But Levi had had enough. He stood quickly, barely avoiding the low hanging bulb, his chair scraping back with a clatter. The new angle of the light cast his nose and brow into deep shadow, and illuminated his cheeks with a bright glow—despite the washed out look the light gave his skin, Hange could see twin strips of pink on either cheek.

"Thanks," he said. Hange blinked owlishly up at him, their mouth open. They wanted to press him, demand he finish saying what he'd started—and perhaps they would have, perhaps this time, curiosity would win out, and Hange would succeed in wrestling an answer from him for once, but he didn't give them the chance.

He ducked around the bulb and moved to brush past Hange's chair and out the door. Beside them, he stuttered in step and paused; Hange thought—hoped—that perhaps he might be debating telling them the full story. He opened his mouth, and closed it again, opened, and snorted quietly to himself.

Then he raised a bandaged hand, and ruffled it into the messy hair atop Hange's head.

"Thanks," he said.

And before Hange could speak, could move, could do much of anything but stare ahead in shock, Levi had gone.

If, come the following morning, Hange was at all surprised to see the cuts and bruises colouring Zeke's face—a rather delightful collage of red and purple, black, and blue—they hid it very well.

Levi's self-satisfied smirk was far less subtle.

#levihan #screams in exhausted #my schedule the last two days has not been conducive to writing anything ghjhg #they're supposed to be in like high school but I do not have the brain power to make it more obvious #snk #my writing

118 notes · View notes

veiledsilver · 3 years

Text

What Your Favorite Black Bull Says About You

I’m sure this list has been made already, but has a list been made with these sizzling hot takes that are specifically mine? Doubt it. Before you go in, this list was made for fun and not an actual attack on your character lol

Asta: You don't have the patience for this wizardry book nonsense, not when all you need is your huge muscles and willingness to throw hands. Essentially you're this post:

Noelle: It doesn't matter whether you love or loathe her siblings, you all want them to be punished on such a grand scale it resets the karmic balance forevermore, preferably in a hilarious fashion. You also think her next few outfit spells should include pants and a sports bra so Tabata can't traumatize you ever again.

Magna: You like delinquent tough guys with hearts of gold, or you like underdogs who never actually get a mysterious powerup that make them strong- or both! In any case, Magna is your special little boy and when he did THAT in the manga you damn near exploded. If you haven't seen it yet... I guarantee you will.

Luck: You like characters that act all bright and cutesy but... deep inside their hearts... they harbor d̵͍̲͑ä̴̜̻́͝ṛ̷̗̑̇k̶̟̿͘n̵̮͈͑ẻ̴̥ş̸̪̐͊s̴̙̀̐. To be fair Luck does not hide his feral energy deep within his heart but you still like the contrast between his cute :D face and the way he causes bodily harm. His backstory spoke to you in some way.

Finral: Hm. I would say you relate to his struggles as the least favorite kid in the family, or feel like you can't keep up with your peers in general... but it's actually his dyed tips isn't it. Also you have to deal with people being like "but isn't he a pervert?!" like ALL the time even though he's trying to be better. My heart goes out to you.

Gauche: I don't know if you guys actually exist, but if you do, you probably have to deal with people being like "but doesn't he nosebleed over his sister?!" like ALL the time even though he also kills people for her. You wish he had more moments where he's cool and strong and not nosebleeding.

Charmy: You saw Charmy going around eating food to her heart's content and wearing a cute sweatshirt instead of participating in the stupid male gaze and said "oh, I respect that." You like the rare fictional women who participate in traditionally female roles like cooking but can also be terrifying on command.

Henry: Henry is your poor little meowmeow and you want to snuggle him and feed him soup. Like, I may be exaggerating, but am I wrong? You may also like how cool his magic is- I mean, rearranging buildings is a pretty slapping power- and that he can still play a role in fights without his disability magically being cured or handwaved away.

Zora: You want the heroes to destroy the system that thrives on classism and corruption, and are disappointed that Zora kind of stopped doing that. Sorry, bro, but this is a shounen, and 2/3rds of the Big Three ended with the corrupt system not being destroyed, so. I think you listen to songs about bringing down the Man and not wanting to be an American.

Secre: Let me guess, you watched Princess Tutu. Well, if you didn't, Secre fans, I suggest you do. You think you're emo and want to drown in those moody feelings because you like it or your crush turned out to be dating someone already. Do you make those artsy monochrome edits of anime characters with kpop idols because I always see Secre on there.

Vanessa: Look into my (metaphorical) eyes. Do you have a complicated relationship with your mother? Hm... I see... really?... ok... well, I'm glad we had this talk! Anyway I'm guessing you really, really like women. I think that should be our topic of conversation next time. Just make sure you look respectfully.

Gordon: You probably also have that problem where people can't hear you and they're like "SPEAK UP I CAN'T HEAR YOU" until you give up. I can relate. You... also... (mumble mumble mumble mumble mumble mumble mumble mumble. Mumble mumble mumble mumble).

Gray: You think shapeshifters are really cool and probably headcanon Gray as Not Cis in some way, which is extremely valid. You are proud of her for how she's starting to speak up and stand up for herself, although you might (like me) think she's way too good for Gauche. Sorry, Gauche fans. But she really is.

Yami: Quick! Close your eyes and visualize Yami! You didn't actually see Yami, did you. Only the wide expanse of his very defined abs. You either don't like Charlotte for being a homewrecker or you relate to her strongly. I don't think I've met even one Yami fan who hadn't been drawn to him for his tits you can crack walnuts in.

Nacht: If you went one anime generation back, you would be into Sasuke. I've never seen the show about Boruto's dad but I know this to be the case. They're both edgy, have dark powers, and have a tragic backstory involving their brothers. You want a significant other who's mean to everyone but you, but let's face it. Nacht will also be mean to you.

Morgen*: You want the illusion of the same thing, but you also actually want to be treated nicely instead of nitpicked for your flaws at all times. I know you have a fanfic of him not dying somewhere in your writing medium of choice. Come on, show it to us, don't be shy haha. Your fellow Morgen stans are withering away...

*I know he's a Grey Deer but I needed the joke to set up properly. Let me live

#black clover #asta #noelle silva

52 notes · View notes

thequeensbastardenglish · 3 years

Text

of whisky, witchcraft and what lies between

When Lena walked into Peggy's bar she'd been ready to tear shreds from her. Elizabeth Walsh was out of Peggy's reach, there was no way for her to pay for what she'd done, she she'd been prepared to hae the daughter pay for the sins of the mother.

But Lena just looks too sad. A couple of drinks couldn't hurt or lead to something more, could it?

read on A03 or please continue...

There was a momentary sense of satisfaction to popping that entitled rich bitch’s idea of her fairytail reunion with her mother’s memory. But it had only lasted a brief moment. Five minutes after Lena Luthor had left the regret had set in. The feeling of unease lying heavy in her gut and the second guessing rattling around in her mind. Now Peggy was pulling pints and serving customers with a churning stomach and knowing that she’d never get the chance to apologise for her harsh words.

Not that she would apologise. Elizabeth Walsh had been rotten to her core and it was better for the Luthor woman to know that then continue to believe her mother was a saint. But she still felt bad. That was her own mother’s fault for raising her to be empathetic. Still. The guilt was eased by the knowledge that someone with Lena Luthor’s money would likely be sleeping on the finest cotton sheets and returning to her life of wealth and luxury. She’d hurt for a bit but what did someone of her stature know about real suffering? So Peggy continued to work and tried to put it out of her mind. It wasn’t like she was ever going to see her again.

Life sure did like its little jokes.

It was later in the evening when Lena Luthor walked back in.

Peggy dropped her bar towel across her shoulder and placed her hands on her hips and watched as Lena approached the bar meekly. Her head lowered, shoulders up, and a definite drag to her steps. For someone so neatly put together she looked a mess.

“Ya look like yer’ve seen some stuff.” It was impossible to hide the nasty satisfaction. Her dear departed mother would be so disappointed. She didn’t remember him well, but she knew her father could hold a grudge, and well, maybe the vindictiveness came form him.

Lena stopped at the bar and placed her arms across the top. She raised her head and it was immediately apparent that she’d been crying. Peggy fought down the urge to immediately try and soothe her.

“You could say that,” Lena said then laughed wetly. She wiped her hand under one eye. “Sorry, I don’t usually — no. Actually I cry a lot these days.”

“Really? Doesn’t come across when I see ya on TV.”

“Public persona’s aren’t real. They’re just carefully crafted fantasy.” She drew in several shaky breaths and finally, once satisfied that she was under control, looked up to meet Peggy’s eye. “I’m surprised you’re not kicking me out.”

Peggy smirked. So, whatever it was Lena had found out it had corroborated what Peggy had told her. That was satisfying. But Peggy wasn’t one to gloat. She could be magnanimous in her grim satisfaction.

“You got cash?”

“More then I know what to do with.”

“Then you can buy yourself a drink. I’m not gonna kick ya out.” Peggy cursed her dear old dead mum and her stringent teaching on hospitality. It’s old magic Peggy, there are rules. Peggy barely resisted the urge to huff in annoyance. “Whisky neat?” she guessed.

Actually…” Lena stared at the pumps. “I’m trying to be better about drinking and wallowing. Whisky is too contemplative. What beer would your recommend for someone who rarely drinks it?”

“YellowBelly’s Fighting Irish is the most popular.”

“That is…” Lena blew out a breath eyeing the pump warily. “Strangely apt. I’ll have that.”

Lena took her half of ale and retreated to the far corner, sliding into a booth and pulling out her phone to make a call. Peggy went about her work. She served customers, took orders, piled dirty glasses into the drawer for the wash, and wiped down tables. Lena remained at her table slowly sipping her beer and talking softly on the phone.

Peggy resolved to ignore her but her eyes were continually drawn to the woman in the corner. She hadn’t even taken her coat off. She sat stiffly, chin tight and head held high. She cut a strange and lonely figure. Dark coat and dark hair stark against her pale skin. She must have burn on overcast days with a complexion like that. She looked smaller in person than she did on television. Maybe it was standing next to Supergirl that made her look taller, more in control, maybe it was just camera trickery and a great stylist team. Whatever it was, Lena Luthor hadn’t brought it with her. SHe looked tired and defeated.

Her call finished her phone lay on the table before her and her glass was finally empty. Peggy walked over.

“Another?” she indicated to the empty glass.

“I’ll take that whisky now please.”

“Thought ya didn’t want to wallow.” Peggy picked up the empty glass and stared down at Lena. She looked tired, and not just the usual jet lagged tired that tourists did around here but a bone deep tired hat she’d be carrying about for the rest of her life. Weary with life as her dear departed mum would say.

“I didn’t but I just chickened out on a phone call so now I do want to wallow.” She smiled sardonically and rolled her eyes. “A bit of whisky to help with the self-deprecation.”

“You rich folk have it so rough.” Peggy marched to the bar and poured Lena her drink, making it a double because she looked like she needed it. On a whim she poured herself one. It was coming up to the end of her shift and she didn’t need to be the one to close up. Perks of being the boss. She went back to Lena’s table where the woman was staring down at her phone as she picked at her finger nail.

Peggy clunked both glasses down loudly and Lena jumped. She stared wide eyed as Peggy sat opposite her and slid her drink across the tale to her. She sipped her own.

“What are you..?” Lena trailed off. Then she closed her eyes and exhaled heavily. When she opened her eyes again her gaze had hardened. “I’m not in the mood for a fight.”

“Yer sure? Yer look like ya gearing up for one.”

The muscle along Lena’s jaw twitched. She had a hell of a jawline on her. One that could probably cut steel. That maniac of brother of hers must have been right jealous. He was clearly hiding a weak chin beneath his beard.

“I’m being neighbourly. Didn’t want ya drinking alone.”

Lena finally picked up her whisky and took a sip. She put the glass back down and murmured a thank you.

“Saw yer on the phone before. Take it that wasn’t the phone call ya chickened out on.”

“No. That was my friend Andrea. She’s been instrumental in my taking this journey or self discovery.” She rolled her eyes again.

“Then who yer trying to call? “

“Just… A friend. A former, well…” She exhaled, her jaw working. She rubbed her finger against the wooden table top, following the pattern of the grain. Finally she looked up. “She is a friend but for a time I wasn’t a very good friend to her. We fell out. And I did some awful, terrible, arguably unforgivable things to her.”

“But she still calls yer a friend?”

“She’s very understanding. Even to those who least deserve it.”

“Then why aren’t ya calling her? Sounds like if she forgave yer after all that then the least ya could do is call her.”

Lena’s eyes flickered fearfully towards her phone.

“It feels selfish to waste her time with my worries,” she said. She licked her lips nervously. Peggy followed the movement of her tongue and took a long, slow sip of her whisky. She set her glass down gently.

“Sounds more selfish to not call her.” She tapped her fingers against the side of the glass. Lena’s eyes widened and she drew back. Her pale skin going whiter by the second. She was the spitting image of her mother and it made Peggy’s blood boil. She was staring into the face of her father’s murderer and offering her friendly advice when she should have been throwing her drink in her face and cursing her out. “She cares about yer as much as yer make it sound then ya should call her. She’d want to hear how it’s going.”

“You’re right.” Lena picked up her phone and stood up. She stepped out from the booth, paused, turned and grabbed her whisky. She downed it in one swift gulp, lips twisting at the taste. It was a sipping whisky and that was a waste. She wanted to do that then Peggy had some cheap shit behind the bar she could have given her. Lena set the glass down and hurried outside, thumb already moving across her phone.

Peggy sipped her own whisky. With a huff she stood up, took Lena’s empty glass to the bar and refilled it, bringing it back.

From what Lena had told her it sounded like the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree. Elizabeth had been a terrible friend as well. She’d abandoned Peggy’s mother when she’d needed her the most. Left her to shoulder the looks of pity and incrimination. Peggy had been forced to watch her mother wither under the stress of what had happened to her husband, under the guilt, until she hadn’t been able to stand it anymore and she had given up. She had as good as killed Margaret Bishop as she had her husband.

She swirled her whisky. It wasn’t true what they said, children were stained by the sins of their parents. Elizabeth’s Walsh’s selfishness was written deep into Lena Luthor’s blood. That was also old magic.

She looked up from her drink as Lena returned, shoulders still hunched and her coat still on. She paused when she reached the table, no doubt surprised that Peggy was still there.

“Well. Don’t keep me in suspense.” Peggy raised both brows at Lena. Slowly Lena slid back into the booth. She placed her phone down on the table.

“She was busy. But I gave her a quick rundown of what I’d found out.”

That her long thought exalted mother was a liar, a murderer and a gold digger. She’d probably already known the last one, being the product of an affair and all.

“And?”

Lena looked uncomfortable. “And she was happy that I was getting answers. But she was busy and couldn’t talk for long.”

Maybe Lena wasn’t quite as forgiven as she’d thought.

“Honestly, I’m amazed she’s taking my calls at all.” Lena smiled sadly. She picked up her glass and took a sip. “Thank you. I think after this I’ll try and find somewhere to stay. If anywhere will have me.”

“Might have to go a few towns over.” Elizabeth’s crimes were well known in the area. “Didn’t think you’d be staying.”

“There’s some more questions I want to ask Florence,” Lena said.

Peggy slammed her hand down on the table top. “Y’what?”

Lena had found Florence Abbott. She’d found the other witch that had made up her mother’s coven. Who had left her mother to die.

“I — I have more questions for Florence. Assuming she’s willing to answer them.”

Peggy dragged her nails across the table top. All these years. All these years and Florence had apparently just been hanging around waiting for Lena Luthor to show up. Where the hell had she been Peggy’s entire life? She remembered her vaguely from when she was a child. That she’d been kind, a little stern, tutting when Peggy had begged for sweets but giving her them regardless. She’d left after her father’s funeral. Left rather than face justice.

There were so many things she wanted to say to Florence Abbott and every single one of them would be far harsher then what she’d thrown at Lena.

“Peggy?”

She looked up at Lena’s curious watery gaze. This woman cried at the drop of a hat.

“Enjoy yer drink.” Peggy pushed her half finished drink towards Lena and stood up. She stalked back towards the bar and went back to work guilrt replaced by the old familiar burning twist of anger.

More fool her for ever speaking to Lena Luthor again.

Last orders came and went and Lena Luthor was still at her booth only just finishing off her whisky. Peggy stomped over and stood by the booth, fists on her hips.

“Drink up, settle up and get out.”

“Right.” Lena startled. She slung back the last dregs of her whisky and stood, following Peggy to the bar. She dropped her card on the bar top and Peggy ignored the name of the bank printed on it as she swiped it. To her immense surprise and annoyance Lena dropped a hundred dollar tip.

“Yer driver waiting outside?” Peggy asked. She didn’t really care but it was a force of habit to make sure her patrons made it home safe.

“He’s back at the B&B. He was tired so I told him to get some rest. Use the room I was meant to be staying in.”

“Sounds real smart. Guess that’s why you’re the scientist and I’m just pulling pints. Where you sleeping, genius?”

Lena smiled and shrugged. “I’ll work something out. It’s a nice night for a walk.”

She left. Not that Peggy cared where she slept. It was none of her business. City girl wanted to curl up beneath a tree then more power to her. She had an alien who could fly on her frequent called log, she’d be okay. She probably had the keys to a spaceship in her pocket.

Peggy cashed up, wiped down the bar, said goodbye to her staff and stepped out front to lock up. As she was turning the key she felt the prickle on the back of her neck, the fine hairs rising.

“I’m gonna tell yer now, attacking me would be a serious mistake.” Her voice didn’t tremble. Her fingers tips did. The magic humming beneath her skin.

“Good job that’s not what I’m doing then.”

Peggy spun round. Sure enough Lena Luthor was waiting for her, eyes bright in the light from the bar. “What is it yer want?”

“To talk.”

“Think we talked enough. I’m going home to get some sleep.” She stomped down the steps and brushed past Lena. She was rounding the corner of the bar to the steps for her apartment when Lena called out.

“Florence Abbott had a lot of interesting things to say. Some of them corroborated what you told me.”

“Oh, aye?” Peggy turned. Jaw clenched and fingers curling to fists. “What was it old Florence had to say?”

“Much the same you did. Witchcraft and cauldrons. Hopping over brooms and running naked in the moonlight,” Lena sneered. “I’ve seen a lot of strange things. Even what aliens have passed off as magic but there always a scientific explanation.” She took a step towards Peggy. “What I find interesting is that you believe in it. Even with Supergirl and Superman flying around you still get those that deny the existence of aliens. Why would you ever believe that your mother and mine were witches? Unless…”

“You’re chatty. Where was all this when we were enjoying our drink?”

“I’ve…” Lena tipped her head side to side, wrinkling her nose in thought. “I’ve had time to contemplate. To put some things together.”

Peggy tilted her head back and stared up at the night sky. It was a small town with little light pollution so she could see the stars. For all of her guilt and shame, for all of the blame she took on herself and allowed to grind her down, her mother had always preached kindness.

“Damn ye mum,” she hissed at the stars. She dropped her head, sighing loudly. “Where yer staying tonight?”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on. The couch is a pull-out.” Peggy turned and went to the stairs leading up to her apartment. She didn’t look back but knew that Lena was following. She put her keys in the door and unlocked it. Behind her she could hear Lena breathing heavily, her teeth nearly chattering even though it wasn’t all that cold. She pushed the door open and stepped in, flicking the light on and kicking off her boots. “Shoes,” she told Lena not waiting to see if she complied.

She walked through to the kitchen and turned on the lights there as well. Lena wandered in after her, looking about the small apartment. She froze in the kitchen door way, her eyes widening.

“You have children,” She said. Peggy followed her gaze to the toys that had been left on the floor.

“Two boys,” she answered. She filled the kettle and placed it on the stove not lighting it yet. “Don’t worry. It’s the holidays and they’re with their father. Tea?”.

“Yes, please.” Lena finally stepped inside the kitchen. “You have a very nice home.”

Peggy snorted. “Ya taught to say that at yer fancy schools?”

“Yes.” Lena unbuttoned her coat, slipped it off revealing a black blouse. She hunger the coat across the back of one of the kitchen tables before pulling it out and sitting down. She rested her forearms on the table, fingers lacing together.

“What did Florence tell ya?”

Lena met her gaze steadily. “That she and my mother and yours were witches.”

“You believe her?”

“I believe what I can see.”

“Can’t see atoms but you believe in them.”

“You can see — of course you can seem atoms.” Lena screwed her brows up, confused. Peggy had never claimed to be good at science. It was one of those subjects that had never clicked for her. “You can’t see magic.”

“You feel magic,” Peggy told her. “Why are yer here?”

“Because.” Lena heaved in a breath. “Because Florence says that I have my mother’s…” her lips twisted into a sneer. “Gift.”

She made the word sound dirty rather than something to cherish. Like it was a shackle she would have to bear always chafing at her flesh. Irritation flashed white hot through Peggy. This woman. With all her money and her airs, with her super powered friends, was looking down on one of the last connections Peggy had to her mother. She saw it as best a joke and worst something to turn her nose up at.

“Doesn’t explain why yer’ve come crawling to me.” She crossed her arms, glared at Lena. “I don’t have answers for ya.”

“Sounds like this ‘gift’ is hereditary.”

“So yer wondering if I have it? Even though you don’t believe in magic.”

“I’m not going to believe in something without evidence.”

She should kick her out. Tell her not to darken her doorstep ever again. Instead without breaking eye contact, Peggy turned the gas on for the stove top and put her finger to the ring. Lena’s brows drew down, her lips parting. It took so little effort. No will at all. Just the barest hint of a tingle in her fingertips. It was more a parlour trick than real magic. A small flame flickered from Peggy’s fingertip lighting the gas.

Lena twitched but to her credit didn’t leap from her seat. Didn’t start screeching for the villagers to get their pitchforks. She raised her eyes to meet Peggy’s and exhaled slowly.

“I suspected,” she breathed. “It passes from mother to daughter?”

“Not always. It’s dying out, there aren’t enough of us left.”

Lena nodded, absorbing the information. “I don’t want it,” she said finally.

“Tough shit.” Peggy turned to her cupboards and pulled out two mugs. She set about preparing the tea pot as the kettle on the stove started boiling.

“I won’t do anything with it. It doesn’t matter if it’s… there. I don’t want it and I won’t use it.”

The kettle boiled and Peggy poured the water into the waiting pot. She set it down on the table before Lena, ignoring the frown and pout she was sporting. She pushed one mug towards Lena and kept the other for herself.

“I don’t have any fancy china to break out for ya,” she explained. Lena curled her long fingers around the empty mug, seemingly not caring that it was chipped. “Good news for yer is that it’s probably too late for ya t’learn. Normally mother teaches daughter. That usually happens young. Yer mother not being here, yer age, well…” She shrugged. “You might have the gift but I doubt you’ll ever learn to use it.”

Not more then cheap tricks anyway. Very few learnt instinctively and without a teacher Lena’s power, whatever it might be, would eventually wither.

Lena seemed troubled at the news. She shrunk down, shoulders up again and head lowering. Biting back the umpteenth sigh for the night, Peggy poured both their teas. Much like Peggy, the gift was probably Lena’s only real connection to her mother. Her real mother, not the Luthor matriarch who spoke in syrupy sweet tones on the television but couldn’t hide the cold contempt in her eyes.

Peggy poured them both half a cup of tea. Lena lifted it and inhaled the aroma, closing her eyes.

“Its fennel and ginger,” Peggy said. “It’ll soothe ya and help ya sleep. Good for the bowels too.”

“Thank you.” Lena smiled at her over the top of her mug. The stress lines around her eyes melted away, the hardened edge of her lips softened, and she looked like she should. A beautiful young woman. One who likely shouldn’t be looking like she was trying to carry the weight of the world on her shoulder.

“You got no luggage?”

“I left it in the car,” Lena admitted. Her smile turned a little sheepish as she tucked her hair behind her ear.

They sat in a not completely uncomfortable silence drinking their tea. Finally Peggy drained the last of her mug and stood up.

“I’ll lend ya a shirt or something.” She quickly cleaned up. Pointed Lena in the direction of the bathroom while she went to the den and pulled out the couch and found some blankets that didn’t smell too fusty. She’d just finished making up the couch when Lean reappeared, her face freshly washed and hair out of it’s neat braid.

Without the make up she looked softer. Younger. Less fake and more like a real person. Even more like her mother. She favoured the Luthor’s colouring but the eyes and the jaw line were all Elizabeth.

Peggy hated her.

Lena pulled at her own fingers as she approached. “Thank you for this. It means a lot to me.”

Peggy pulled a shaky breath in through her nose and held it.

Magic was a strange and unpredictable thing. Peggy hadn’t always been the best student of the craft, her mother had only shared enough so Peggy wouldn’t hurt herself, and anything else Peggy had taught herself through painful trial and error. But she knew that when magic called you answered. And she was drawn to Lena. Felt it in every moment where she’d wanted to turn her away but had pulled her in. Had anted to cast her out but invited her into her home. Served her tea and invoked old magic that meant she couldn’t kick her out.

Her eyes dropped to Lena’s parted lips.

“Fuck.”

Lena’s eyes widened a fraction just before Peggy kissed her. Her lips were soft. They parted further, a surprised “oh,” breathed against Peggy’s mouth. She stumbled back, her fingers going to her mouth.

Peggy’s heart was thundering. What was she thinking? What the actual fuck was she thinking? This woman was everything she despised and yet Peggy wanted her.

Lena stepped back into her and pressed her lips to Peggy’s. They stood in the low light of the den, hands y their sides, bodies apart, but leaning into one another, lips moving against and with one another. Lena tasted like her tea and whisky, with a hint of mint that suggested she’d slipped a mint at some point. Peggy brushed her tongue against Lena’s and the small whimper that Lena emitted made her break the kiss.

She stared into Lena’s eye. The faded moss green of one and the gentle washed out blue of the other.

“This way.” Peggy walked past her, not waiting for a response. Lena followed behind her as she led her to the bedroom.

Peggy switched on the bedside lamp and pushed the door closed behind Lena. She didn’t reach for her but she turned, stepping back till her knees met the edge of her bed. Lena swallowed, eyes tracking over Peggy.

It wasn’t about romance. Certainly not about love. It was something older and more primal than that. It was about the pull that Peggy felt and that she was sure Lena felt too. Old magic drawing them to one another.

She didn’t go to Lena and Lena didn’t come to her. They stood apart and each stripped off their own clothes dropping them to the floor until they were both bare and only then did they close the gap between them. Only then did Peggy curl her hand around the back of Lena’s neck and draw her towards her, capturing her lips in a heated kiss.

She pressed Lena down atop the sheets on her bed. Kissed her as she cupped her breasts, thumbs skimming over already stiffened nipples.

Part of her wanted to wrap her hands around Lena’s exquisite neck. To throttle her the way someone should have done her mother. But Lena gasped and trembled beneath her like it had been age since she’d been touched with anything resembling kindness so the urge was smothered. It had been a long time for Peggy as well. Not for the kindness, but the gratification of sex. So she kissed Lena and let her hands roam over soft skin, she rolled her hips and moaned at the feel of long strong fingers exploring the length of her body. They gasped wetly into one another mouths, legs twisted together as their hands delved between on anothers legs.

Then it was a race to the finish. They breathed hot and wet, fingers pressing, hips pushing. Messy and beautiful and heart pounding.

Lena came first. Her hips shuddering against Peggy’s hand and letting out a small broken cry. She shook, twitching away from Peggy’s touch. She gulped down several breaths. Just as Peggy was starting to suspect she was going to have to finish herself off, Lena rolled her over to her back, lowered her head and took a nipple in her mouth. She pressed two finger inside her and ground down on her clit with the heel of her hand and — <em>oh!</em> — She had impressively long fingers.

Peggy’s orgasm was almost overwhelming. It rolled white hot through her, liquid heat and all those over used flowery imagery, with stars bursting behind her eyelids. Really she came so fucking hard that she yelled and slicked wetly against Lena’s hand.

When she opened her eyes Lena was leaning over her. Eyes wide and shining, red blooming in her cheeks and chest, her hair in disarray.

She was beautiful. And broken. Peggy could see the cracks running though her and the way she was desperately trying to hold onto herself.

“Well that was something.” Peggy wiped her own hand down her stomach and settled back on the pillows.

Lena laughed. The smile curling a the edge of her lips a little shy. She dropped onto the bed next to Peggy and stared up at the ceiling.

“This wasn’t what I was expecting when I followed you home,” she admitted.

If she had a better understanding of her gift then she would have seen that it was inevitable.

“Come with me to see Florence tomorrow,” Lena said.

Peggy shook her head. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. Maybe one day she would be ready to face that woman but she refused to be part of it now.

“I’ll just get in the way,” she said. She turned her head so she could watch Lena, took in the frown pulling at her lips. She wanted her again. To touch her. To taste her. Sex was a kind of magic in it’s own way. People never really understood how much of themselves they gave away in the act.

“Right.” Lena licked her lips. She sat up, swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

“Stay,” Peggy said. Lena looked back at her, surprised. Like she thought Peggy would kick her out. Which to be fair was probably exactly what she was used to in these situations. She knew nothing of the old ways. Peggy reached out and trailed a finger down her spine. “Stay and make me come like that again. I’ll make ya breakfast in the morning.”

The smile that broke across Lena’s face was the best yet. Her cheeks dimpled and eyes squinted closed. She turned and leaned over Peggy, buried her face to her exposed throat and pressed her lips to her pulse.

She wouldn’t go with Lena to see Florence. She already knew this was a fleeting moment not meant to last. That Lena would leave, go back to her friend whom she had hurt and work on her forgiving herself. Likely she would rarely think of Peggy.

She didn’t know it but she had smoothed the jagged edges of Peggy’s hurt. Made the ache where she kept the memory of her mother that little bit less.

But it didn’t hurt to hope that Lena might think of her again one day.

#lena luthor #peggy bishop #supergirl #fic #you ever write something that you know noone is going to read?#I do it all the time!#hoo boy do I hate this witch business #witchcorp?#pegcorp?#I refuse to write out that accent phonetically #femslash

24 notes · View notes

pillage-and-lute · 3 years

Text

In All that I Have Done

Sad. I recommend listening to Arvo P ärt’s Spiegel im Spiegel while reading. Very, very sad, cannot stress this enough. Non-explicit major character death. (Happens of old age but still)

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

More than forty years after the fall of Cintra one Professor Pankratz put down his pen. In the last ten years his hands had lost some of their surety, but his quill didn’t shake when he put it down.

He ran one hand down his face. His beard had started going silver just after he’d adopted the style, but both it and his hair were now fully steel grey, with not even a hint of their former color. He adjusted his spectacles, tweaked the fashionable, but less than flamboyant hem of his doublet, and began to read what he’d written.

The last will and testament of Professor Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove.

I am writing this, sure and sound of mind, if not of body, in the event of my death. For many years I had a living, de facto will, that is, who ever found me dead by the roadside could loot my body for what they wished. As I got older and my body forced my errant heart to settle down I realized that this could no longer be the case. I fear I have put this off much too long, but happily, it seems I was not too late.

To my remaining family, my baby brother Alfons and his wife Iwona, I leave the rights to my songs and other works, and the royalties to them. Have fun. Alfons, Iwona is a beautiful woman and I would have wooed her, but that you were so in love I couldn’t bring myself to steal her away. I write this with a chuckle, Iwona my dear, because if you’ll remember we met first, and I introduced you to my brother only after you’d hit me in the head with a frying pan for flirting.

I have also set up a trust, a portion of the royalties will be funneled into it for your son, Mikolaj, although he is a strapping young man who may never need it because he is a fine craftsman, as these spectacles he made me can attest. With luck he may spend it on marriage, should he ever woo that baker lad who made those charming blackberry tarts.

To the grandson of my friend Priscilla, Gaj. You have just been born and are a wonder beyond belief. Your parents are lovely people and you are lucky to have them. They should feel lucky to read this since I fear I shall be long dead before you learn your letters. However; there are times I wish I had fathered children. There are also times I remember what those who do go through and am thankful I did not, but you are a miracle. In the hope that you are given the very best of education, I have put in a word with the university. Should you choose, you will have the best schooling the Continent can offer, free of charge, with the compliments of Oxenfurt. Just, when you are someday a raging young student, sloppy drunk on a night out, think of me, if you can think at all.

As I have of late stayed in quarters provided for me by the university and their gracious staff, I shall relinquish it all in return, as well as whatever items are held within not listed here. There shall be money in the vase by the fireplace for my funeral, as well as a generous tip for the maids, who have been wonderful and kind to an often forgetful and frail old man who is too much in his feelings.

My wardrobe I leave to whoever wants it, apart from my best blue doublet. (The sky blue one, which brings out my eyes) I should hope to be buried in it.

And finally, to my dearest and truest friend, Geralt of Rivia I leave a note, a song, and a gift.

Jaskier once again scrubbed his hand over his face. His study held a chill, despite the fine summer day, or perhaps it was just him. He got cold so easily these days. His breath rattled a little as he took a deep breath and hauled himself out of his comfortable chair. Melitele’s great gorgeous thighs, but his knees ached today. Jaskier paused at the mirror to tease his hair into place, advancing years never having divested him of his style. He flashed a wink into the mirror and shoveled a little coal into the small fireplace.

He settled again at his desk, a different paper in hand, separate from the will, and began to look it over. This letter held none of the fine penmanship of the other, instead the letters were blocky and easy to read, better for the eyes that may have gained much in a mutation but skipped lightly over letters and switched them about.

My dear Geralt, it read. In all that I have done, I have had but one masterpiece. Critics may disagree on my greatest work, but I know it exactly, and have since the day of it’s birth. My opus was not Toss a Coin, or even the rehabilitation of yours- and all witchers- reputations. My masterpiece was my relationship with you, a wonderful and awful secret masterpiece of the heart, mind, and soul.

I know you do not dally about with words, but lest you misunderstand this last, most important of missives, we must discuss them. The word awful is now so said as to mean the same as terrible, but this cannot be true at all. Terrible is that which inspires terror or creates fear. Awful, or aweful, if you will, is to inspire awe. To be full of it. Sometimes that awe is fearful, sometimes reverential, perhaps a condemnation and sometimes a blessing. You, my friend, inspire awe. And in me you inspired something much greater than that. In all my years, which are so few compared to yours, nothing has so inspired love in me, as you. It has been my life’s greatest blessing.

When this letter comes to you, regardless of how it comes, it means I am gone from this world. I fear it shall indeed be soon, but I do not fear death. Weep not for me, my friend, instead let me bury in this parchment what there is left for me to say.

More than forty years ago I asked you to come away with me. All these decades later I still dream that you would, yet, I understand why you did not, and why you pushed me away. I offered you my heart that day, but it was the heart of a being you would watch wither away, as I’ll admit I have done. You could not be my forever, knowing that I cannot also be yours. There is no apology, no tears, no explanation needed there.

Indeed, even for casting me away I need no words, and you have always had few to give, my friend. You didn’t keep me away for long, after all. I am like a magnet, drawn to you. Even now I feel your pull, like the tide to the gentle lady moon, but I cannot follow.

After the mountain we met up again and again, our lives orbiting eachvother like planets, but we never clung so close as those first twenty years. That is the fault of Dame Time, a tricky mistress, as she collected her dues for twenty years of hard travel and ill care on my body.

I wish I could have given you more of my years. I find I am angry, and yet not so. At once, I could have had more time beside you, had somehow things been otherwise, but I know I had more time with you than might have been, perhaps more than I could reasonably expect. Someone, some goddess, or Life, Time, Destiny, or Fate, gave me enough time to finish the masterpiece that is my love for you, and that is enough.

You read here the ramblings of an old man, but I shall burden you with a few more sentences.

You may recognize the case to which this letter is attached. Inside is my lute, as given to me by Filavandrel. I wish you to have it. I know you have never been musically inclined, but to me this instrument means so much more than music. This is the physical being of us, and all that may entail. I hope that you keep it, and treasure it how you will. If ever there comes such a person that you wish to play it, for whatever reason, gift it to them, but I beg you, tell them to whom it belonged, and how it came to belong to you.

And finally, I leave you with a few unsung verses that I feel someone ought to read.

To the edge of the world May this letter be born That it comfort and heals you Although it brings you to mourn

I wrote every song And traveled along For my faith in a witcher and my friend before all

I hope you be blessed and continue your quest To be a friend of humanity As I go to rest

That's our epic tale My champion prevailed Defeated every villain And continues the tale

Toss a coin to my witcher, O valley of plenty...

love, Jaskier.

Professor Pankratz carefully rolled up the parchment and slipped inside a waterproofed tube, tying it with a blue ribbon that would likely only be lost in the parcel’s travels. He did it anyway, then he trailed his fingers over the finest instrument he’d ever played. Hand tremors meant it had sat silent for many months, but he plucked a few, slightly out of tune strings in a familiar tune. Then he put Filavandrel’s lute away, slipping the note in it’s packaging into the outer pocket of the case.

There was a funny feeling, he felt as he sat back in his large desk chair, to completing your greatest work, but he knew at least one being would remember it forever. He took off his spectacles and leaned back in his chair, the fire in the grate convincing him to doze. His eyes slid shut, and Jaskier greeted eternity with open arms.

#hurt no comfort #some closure though #tw major character death #post mountain #geraskier #you can read it as platonic #but he says the word love #jaskier #julian alfred pankratz #geralt of rivia #angst #sad #really really sad #i cried #why did I write this

139 notes · View notes

starcloud-nova · 3 years

Note

Favorite fics by some of your buddies on Tumblr and Discord?

God nonnie. You fucked up big time. You underestimated just how hard I can appreciate my friends. I’d like to formally apologize for how long and in-depth this got, but I would pick a stopping point and then go ‘oh! but i cant leave out so-and-so’ and then this got mega out of hand.

Organized by author and not genre! And if I didn’t include any of your works (or I did and it was not the one you wanted), please, don’t take it personally. I am trusting everyone who comes across this post to read the tags themselves, but for two of the fics I have left TWs in front of them.

Cassia’s fics:

Internet Enemies by @cassiopeia721 (x)

At school, Midoriya Izuku is ignored at best. At home, he's raised by a single mother who seems to be always taking night shifts, and who he communicates with almost exclusively through notes on lunch boxes and texts lying about his location. As such, Midoriya Izuku turns to the internet— or more specifically, an All Might fan server on discord— for companionship. Like most things in his life, it goes wrong eventually. It just takes longer than usual.

hypnic jump

Izuku finds himself somewhere he doesn't recognize in an oversized green jumpsuit with a hero he's never seen at his back. He's pretty sure he's dreaming, and subsequent events only solidify that theory into rock-solid certainty.

Paradigm Shift (Harry Potter)

Harry undergoes a paradigm shift at the beginning of his fifth year. (Slytherin Harry)

~~~

Kestrel’s fics:

Compass by @autisticmidoriyas (x)

Midoriya Izuku never had the chance to become a hero—or even to grow up. Fifteen years after his death, Akatani Izuku tries to save the life of a dying hero and in return receives a target painted on his back and a power humming in his bones.

All Might, Sir Nighteye, Ground Zero, Suneater, and Skyquake are left scrambling in the wake of Lemillion’s death to figure out who now holds One For All.

Intertwined with all this, the League of Villains’ war against Japan burns on. With the loss of Lemillion, the advantage is now theirs, and with the loss of One For All, victory is all-but-assured.

(What the villains don’t know is that One For All lives on in the blood of a boy who was always meant to be a hero.)

triskelion

A few seconds, and their lives—their life—is changed forever. Where three people used to exist, there is now only one.

While visiting the mall with their class, Izuku, Katsuki, and Shouto are the victims of someone whose quirk can fuse together objects … and people.

Permanently.

Facing down the fact that they may never be unfused, a long adjustment period lies ahead of them as they learn how to be themself and figure out where they fit into their families, their class, and their world.

the meaning of hope

One day, the smoke will reach its end. They hold out hope for that. Even with quirks, fires cannot burn forever. They will consume all their fuel, until there is nothing left, and they will wither and die.

~~~

Lilly’s fics:

Rise of the Rat Finks by Authoress_Lilly

“You're not in trouble Neito. You’ve been tapped to join The Rats.”

The boy blinks. “The what?”

Vlad opens up a folder and hands Monoma a flyer and a small pin in the shape of a rat. “It’s a sort of secret society here at UA.

Or: an excuse to put Monoma and Midoriya together in way too many words 😅

The Root to Villainy

Prompt: Izuku doesn't realize how fucked up his past was until Aizawa does an immersive class on villain origins.

Whoops?

~~~

Dance’s fics:

Never Take Your Problem Children To Costco by DanceInTheKitchen

“SECURE THE EGGS! I REPEAT SECURE THE EGGS!” Bakugou bellowed.

“YES SIR! AYE AYE SIR!” Izuku saluted.

Shouta is staring at his students, one of whom seems to be reenacting the Lion King with a carton of eggs while the other salutes him, and wonders. What the hell did he do in his past life to deserve this?? Past him must have committed some great sin, like putting sugar in his coffee, or being a dog person.

Or, Aizawa, Bakugou and Midoriya walk into a Costco.

grow as we go

The dorms were silent, but out here in the open air, she felt both isolated and free. Isolated from the world, but free from the responsibility crushing her, isolated from her friends and family, but free from judgement. Up here, with only the stars and Iida as company, Momo felt like she could breathe.

They sat next to each other in silence, watching the stars silently crawl their way across the sky. Iida doesn’t break the silence, but he also doesn’t leave. It’s a silent promise, to listen if she needs it, or to keep her company if she doesn’t want to speak. It’s comforting.

She’s not sure when she speaks, it’s somewhere between staring up at the stars, and looking at the shiny dew covering the grass of the hills behind UA.

“I’m not ready.”

Or, with graduation right around the corner, Momo has a conversation with Iida about what growing up means.

~~~

Azure’s fics:

A Helping Hand for All by azureskyy

Izuku doesn't know why everyone's talking about a certain hero analyst online. He's tried browsing through the forums and other sites, but he just can't find the person they're talking about.

Maybe he'll ask them later. For now, he has some analysis to do.

Or: Izuku is a well-known hero and quirk analyst across multiple social media platforms.

Not that he's aware of it, of course.

A Missed Chance

Two paths cross then diverge. In another universe, perhaps, they could have walked on the same path; they could have talked for the second time that day, and Izuku could have been given an opportunity that could change his entire life. And maybe, just maybe, he would have taken it.

But this isn’t that universe.

Or: What if All Might wasn't able to find Izuku after the Sludge Villain Incident?

~~~

Alice’s fics:

A Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day by @makeitbluue (x)

“Did you think you’d be safe from me forever? That you could chip away at my power base and I would not care or try to hunt you down?” The man asks as he steps forwards.

Izuku scrambles backwards in his bed, searching the covers as he goes for his phone. If he can get a text off to All Might or Aizawa-sensei he can alert people to the potential danger.

But even as he moves, something in the back of his mind tells him he had heard this voice before. A different time, a different context, but the same voice.

~~~

Ely’s fics:

bend and break by @queenangst (x)

In a world where you can feel your soulmate's pain, Eijirou spends a lot of his life up until meeting his soulmate hurting.

draw and quarter

In District Twelve, no one volunteers.

When Aizawa Shouta’s name is called, no one says a word. He stands there for a moment, feeling all the world slow around him, and then he straightens his shoulders and walks to his death.

He will die fighting. At the very least, Shouta can promise that.

Shouta's name is drawn for the Hunger Games, alongside Shirakumo Oboro. No one from their district has ever won.

damage control

After All for One's defeat, Aizawa Shouta is grasping for ways to protect his students. At the same time, a discrepancy in Midoriya's behavior leads Shouta down a dangerous line of investigation and to a single question: if Midoriya is the U.A. traitor.

Between the Wind and the Water

Staying at U.A. for winter break, Izuku hopes it'll be a quiet chance to spend the holidays with Todoroki and supervising teachers All Might and Aizawa-sensei.

It's just his luck a gift-shopping trip turns into a gift from a villain, and Izuku's new Half-Cold, Half-Hot Quirk is not so easy to control. Neither are the secrets he's been carefully keeping.

a glimpse of tomorrow (looking back)

Subject: Aldera Time Capsule Ceremony Forwarded Message— This year marks ten years for the Aldera Middle School graduating class of 20XX.To celebrate, we would like to invite pro heroes Kingpin and Deku, Aldera alumni, to participate in a public time-capsule opening. We are incredibly proud to have helped them on their journeys to becoming heroes, and would be most honored to receive them as guests and for them to speak at the ceremony. [...]

"Well," Deku says, leaning over to turn the monitor towards him. His eyes flick over the contents of the email one more time. "If they haven't changed, then I guess we could return the favor."

Ten years down the line, Bakugou and Midoriya are invited to a time capsule ceremony at their middle school to read letters from their past selves, and look back on their past and how it shaped their future. For anyone else, it would have been a celebration.

For the two of them, it's an opportunity.

A look into Bakugou and Midoriya's past—through a future neither of them imagined—as pro heroes, agency partners, and friends.

of the mighty heart

It was just complicated. Kacchan had changed. Izuku had changed. What was between them was constant—Kacchan was always there—but even constants, Izuku supposed, could change, too.

...You saved me, sometimes you say Deku and it doesn’t sound so much like an insult, you say it like you mean it, you say it like you mean me.

After the war ends and the dust settles, Izuku is left in pain and feeling useless. There's still so much to do and people to save, and it's just... too much for one person.

And then there's Kacchan.

~~~

Fawn’s fics:

Bough Breaks by @fawnvelveteen (x) (trigger warning for discussion of rape/noncon)

In life, nothing is certain. Pro-heroes aren’t always the good guys. Children are not spared from the darkest realms of humanity. Izuku isn't acting like his normal self at school lately, and his homeroom teacher has taken notice. After learning about the mother’s new, unwelcomed boyfriend, Aizawa’s concern shifts into dread. He’ll do whatever it takes to keep his student away from harm.

Almost Moon (trigger warning for suicide) (Black Clover)

It was always at night. One of Noelle's squadmates, apparently, believes it's a good idea to walk across the rooftop, directly over her head while she is trying to get some sleep. Finally, she decides to confront the nighttime nuisance. What she discovers is something she never expected, nor did she wish to see.

~~~

Nez’s fics:

The True Successor by @neko-nez (x)

Toshinori is caught in a time loop.

~~~

Aodh’s fics:

new game + (the pros of being over-leveled, the catharsis of finally beating That One Boss, and a bonus social link) by @takeyamayuu (x)

Izuku hasn’t been noticed yet, being as far from the fight as he is. Or if he has, they’re dismissing him in favor of the larger threat of Aizawa-sensei. As they should, since he takes out the last one with a well placed kick, turning to face Shigaraki,

Izuku tenses, this is-

This is where his teacher’s arm is injured and then-

The Nomu.

One for All spikes to around fifty percent, his muscles stinging, bones creaking as Izuku darts forward, aiming for Shigaraki’s head with an axe-kick.

Second year Midoriya Izuku gets hit with a Quirk, skids into the USJ, and learns a little about self-care along the way.

~~~

Ghost’s fics:

fingerpaint bruises and a kick in the teeth by @ghoststrawberries (x)

There’s a sour taste in Shouta’s mouth as he stares at Jackrabbit’s bright smile. The smile he’s wearing in every clear photo of him. It somewhat reminds Shouta of All Might’s smile.

Jackrabbit might be a menace to the Commission, but there’s no way Shouta can believe that a man with that smile is anything less than good to his core.

“And I’m your last resort to handle this quietly.” He says knowingly, keeping his thoughts to himself.

“Precisely.”

Shouta’s gut response is to refuse.

The words “I don’t kill.” are halfway up his throat before they become stuck.

As an underground hero, sometimes Shouta Aizawa is called upon to do darker jobs than one might expect a hero to have to do. This time, when he's tasked with taking out a vigilante who's managed to bother the Hero Public Safety Commission one too many times, he's not sure he'll be able to follow through.

~~~

Amira’s fics:

And Now I See Daylight by @awake-my-oceans (x)

AnalysisOverload Current mood: HERO CON HERO CON HERO CON HERO CON

AnalysisOverload reblogged AnalysisOverload Okay, let’s talk HeroCon.

Look around, and you’ll see a lot of discrimination—against people whose Quirk is debilitating, against people whose Quirks scare us, against people who have trouble controlling their Quirk, against people who don’t have a Quirk at all. It’s easy to feel alone in a sea of discrimination.

Enter HeroCon:X.

A social media fic following Deku post-graduation.

The chaotic neutral’s guide to time travel

“You claim you are from the future,” Nedzu said, hopping onto his desk. “Do you have anything to prove this?”

Hitoshi fished around in his pocket. “Here’s my hero license,” he said, holding it up.

Nedzu opened his mouth, but Hitoshi kept right on going, producing a handful of odds and ends from his pocket. “Also a movie ticket, some dryer lint, some, uh, didn’t know I still had that but it’s old gum—“

That was when Aizawa walked in, capture weapon floating around him. “What’s the emergency?” he asked, clipped, as he kicked open the door.

“—and the left arm of a Deku plushie,” Hitoshi finished, unruffled. “My cat ate the rest.”

~~~

Aaaaaand that’s all I got. Thanks for making it to the end!

#bnha #bnha fic #fic rec #fic rec list #fic rec masterpost #nova talks #all my friends in one post. sniffle #most of em anyway #not sure what to tag this so. ill hit send!#forgot too tag this as an ask rip #anonymous #ask

42 notes · View notes