#{ ;;verse - LITTLE MISFORTUNE - She's a Little LADY You Know }

[isekaioracle]

Tag Drop 2!

#{ ;;verse - LEGEND OF ZELDA - Yahaha! } #{ ;;verse - LITTLE MISFORTUNE - She's a Little LADY You Know } #{ ;;verse - LITTLE NIGHTMARES - Dive Into the Madness! } #{ ;;verse - NARUTO - Ninjas are Sneaky-Beaky! } #{ ;;verse - OKAGE SHADOW KING - Shadow of a Different Color! } #{ ;;verse - ONE PIECE - Crazy Crazy Rainbow Star } #{ ;;verse - THE OWL HOUSE - Witch Way? That Way! } #{ ;;verse - RESIDENT EVIL - Infection Spreads Like Wildfire } #{ ;;verse - Rurouni Kenshin - I Brush Against the Freckles That I Hated So... } #{ ;;verse - RISING OF THE SHIELD HERO - Innocent Until Proven Guilty! } #{ ;;verse - RWBY - Mirror Mirror .. } #{ ;;verse - SOUL EATER - Black is Such a Pretty Color... } #{ ;;verse - SILENT HILL - There Was a Hole Here. It's Gone Now. } #{ ;;verse - STEVEN UNIVERSE - We! Are the Crystal Gems! } #{ ;;verse - TEEN TITANS - Let's Go! } #{ ;;verse - THE DARK CRYSTAL - By Gelfling Hand or Else by NONE. } #{ ;;verse - THE LAST OF US - Endure and Survive } #{ ;;verse - THE WALKING DEAD - Look at it... All Gnawed On... } #{ ;;verse - WOLF AMONG US - You're Not as Bad as Everyone Says You Are } #{ ;;verse - YUGIOH - Time to Duel!! }

[moonfurthetemmie]

Unlucky Meeting of the DS Verses

There is Yet Another

No warnings, other than Mentioned Karen Encounter and also delusion is trying to help and doesn’t realize that actually he is. not

Previous | Next

Blue was exhausted. He’d had the misfortune to stop in a the produce aisle, off to the side out of the way, near a Karen, and had to spend half an hour trying to escape her wrath. 

Okay, it probably wasn’t really half an hour, but it sure felt like it. He just wanted to get some carrots and celery for his soup and go home, he wasn’t trying to block her from her pre-cut mixed fruit platter for her kid’s party. He didn’t care; he just wanted to get his groceries and go home, and this lady had decided she needed to drag him through the dirt for stopping his cart in front of the fruit for sixty seconds.

He got it. He really did. He didn’t have the energy to cut up fruit most of the time, and those pre-sliced fruit things were a godsend. But dear lord. 

He finally managed to get out of the store with all of his groceries, and had even made it to his Outertale timeline and was walking home when he heard the familiar woosh of a portal opening overhead.

He glanced up, expecting a traveling bird monster or something, but instead finding Dream gliding over the empty streets of the small town. 

He nearly dropped his eggs when Dream spotted him and made his way down, landing in front of him and spreading his wings majestically. Only the did Blue realize this wasn’t the Dream he knew. He was...orange. Way too orange. He held himself more like a lord, and his face was almost perfectly void of emotion, other than a hint of a content smile, and some mild curiosity. And his wings were shedding at…a rather alarming rate. Was he sick? Dream’s wings didn’t shed like that. 

“You seem to be having some trouble.”

Blue blinked. “Wh-what? Oh! No, I’m fine, thank you.” He tried for a smile and readjusted his grip on the bag with the eggs. “Er, sorry, but- who are you?”

The strange Dream tilted his head down slightly. “Ah, my apologies. I am Dream, head of Justice Reigns, though judging by your reaction, I take it you know me.” That content smile grew ever so slightly into a dryer one. “Or, at the very least, some variation of me.” He glanced around, as if surveying the area, before looking back to Blue. “Would I be correct in assuming your name is Blue?”

Blue swallowed. “Um…yes. You know some…alternate of me, then?”

‘Dream’ hummed in thought. “Yes…I encountered odd versions of a trio that my organization is attempting to arrest, and I assumed that I had found myself in another multiverse. I attempted to return to mine, but, as you can see, that didn’t quite work out.”

Blue resisted the urge to back up. Despite the soft, comforting feelings the radiant’s aura generated, there was something about this guy that was just a little off. 

Blue chuckled nervously. “Well, I think the JR and Dream in this multiverse would be happy to…assist…you…”

The new Dream was giving him a strange look, and Blue trailed off slowly.

“…Are you alright?” ‘Dream’ asked. “You seemed stressed. Is something bothering you?”

“A-ah. I…may have irritated an entitled middle-aged white woman in the grocery store a bit earlier,” Blue said. “I’m just a bit…tired.”

‘Dream’s eyes were piercing. Blue swallowed nervously. He really wanted to get home. 

The winged man lowered his voice. “I’m concerned you might be in some sort of trouble. Would you mind if I came with you to make sure you make it home safely?”

Blue felt a lump form in his throat. He did not want this guy to follow him home. He was afraid that he’d follow him even if he said no, though. 

The strange Dream noticed his hesitation and said, very gently, “I understand if you’re wary of taking a stranger to your house, but I only wish to help.”

“I…Alright.” Blue swallowed. “It’s, um, just down the street.”

‘Dream’ gave him a slight smile. He offered to help carry some of Blue’s groceries, which was nervously accepted.  

As they walked, Blue mentally berated himself. Why on earth did he agree? He wasn’t that stupid, was he? God, he hoped this guy would leave him alone afterwards. He knew better than to bring strangers home. 

The strange clone of Dream seemed to enjoy the otherwise peaceful walk. 

“Do you…um…” Blue tried to ignore the feeling that the stranger man’s eyes were boring into his soul. “Do you have…friends, who might also have been brought here?”

The other Dream hummed. “Not that I’m aware,” he said passively. “It’s possible, I suppose. I’m not certain.” His wings twitched. “I should probably visit this multiverse’s Justice Reigns, and ask your Dream if he’s heard anything.”

“I hope anyone that did end up here are alright,” Blue said. 

“…Forgive me for the personal question, but do you live with family?”

Blue hesitated. “Er…Yeah. I live with my…sister.” He said, like a liar. “She’s at work currently.” Please don’t ask me what her name is.

“I see…” ‘Dream’ didn’t say anything for the rest of the walk. Blue breathed a sigh of relief.

They reached Blue’s house, without any of the trouble that ‘Dream’ had been afraid of. Blue unlocked the door and turned to the strange Dream. “Thank you for helping with the groceries.” He tried for a smile. It wasn’t as forced as it had been before; probably because he’d been hanging around in the man’s positive aura for a while. “I hope you get home safely.”

‘Dream’ didn’t smile this time. “Thank you. You still seem very anxious, though.” He handed Blue the rest of the groceries. “Would you like someone to stay with you?”

Blue’s throat went dry. He really, really didn’t. 

“I-I’ll be fine. Thank you, though.” He went to hurry inside, but felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, that wasn’t as comforting as it was supposed to be.

The winged man didn’t move. “I would hate to leave and find out you got hurt because you were alone.”

Blue laughed nervously. “Well, as far as I know, no one’s after me. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

“I’d feel better knowing there was someone keeping an eye on you,” ‘Dream’ said. “At least until your sister gets home.”

The slightest raised eyebrow, and Blue felt his heart sink. 

He never had been a good liar…

#Horror!DS #Dreamswap Blue #H!DS Delusion #fun fact! If Delusion had pressed for the name of Blue's 'sister' he probably would've panicked and said 'Error' #and she totally would've found out #'You told the delusion Dream with a murder aura that i was your sister.' #'i'm sorry i panicked' #'do you even have siblings' #'anyway so what's this about alternate me that won't leave your house' #don't worry about it error. #on the flip side Delusion is genuinely trying to help #and had no idea that Blue is afraid of HIM #i mean why would he be ahahah #he's a benevolent god Blue has nothing to be afraid of <33 #anyway. might end badly for blue's mental health

[divineslcyer]

A lady had arrived on the gloomy island and Birdie, like a little star, brightened up her surroundings with her chipper attitude. In an attempt to make friends with the really cool-lookin' lady, Birdie held out a bunch of carrots from the stem towards her in a peace offering. "For you, Miss! I grew these myself!" Under Mihawk's instruction, of course. A large smile was plastered across her face, "I'm Birdie. I hope we can be friends!" [in her Little Hawk verse]

Random Prompt (Always Accepting) ; @muselexum​ (Birdie)

Mihawk had given her a rough explanation to their newest resident, and couldn’t help having teased the man for his curious adoption methods.

‘You taking in strays Mihawk? My my, what will people say?’, He’d given her an annoyed look, huffing, ‘She’s outside.’

Naturally, he’d claim it as a coincidence or deny it all together--stubborn as he is but as honorable as ever, in his way... but if the girl was from a slave ship then there was no place safer then Mihawk’s castle---no one dared to pursue a man like him lightly. That was assuming they even knew the girls whereabouts or thought her to be dead. She perched herself onto one of the stone ledges, leg dangling precariously and the other propped up to rest her arm as she observed the scenery. The garden was coming along nicely, and it looked like the little one was helping.

Mishil felt a twinge of... something. Not pity. Not regret. A feeling she couldn’t place after summarizing the girl’s misfortune and luck. To lose family and home all at once... It struck a chord of familiarity. She hadn’t expected the girl to approach her first, let alone appear so energetic. Her smile certainly was sincere enough... But she looked like she still needed more feeding and growing to do.

❝ Birdie huh? Thanks, we can get Mihawk to make stew later with them.❞ She studied the vegetables, nose twitching as she sniffed. ❝ Nice and strong, hm. ❞ She didn’t look afraid of her--most were wary but maybe that was the benefit of being young. ❝ I’m-- ❞ She hesitated a moment, sighing before easing down her hood. Dark, scarlet hair spilled from over her shoulders and her gold eyes glinted. ❝ Mishil. Call me that. Now, I take it you’ve been helping Mihawk around huh? Noticed he’s a big ‘ol softy under all that grizzly bear growling? ❞

The girl giggled, no doubt imagining the fearsome man as the bear Mishil conjured. She gestured a mocking claw, until the girl laughed out loud. Mishil raised her hand, and lightly patted the top of the young girl’s head. ❝ Ah, there’s a good lass. Laughing and makin’ merry is how it should be at your age. ❞

❝ Do you know Mister Mihawk well? ❞

Mishil wrinkled her nose playfully,  then gestured the girl to lean closer. ❝ I know his secret--and that is that he is.. ❞ She could hear the familiar steps of said man, as she grinned and whispered into the girl’s ear. ❝ Surprisingly ticklish. ❞ She caught Mihawk’s gaze over the girl’s head, catching the way he narrowed his gaze at her. Mishil blinked with mock innocence as the girl gasped in delight and covered her mouth. ❝ Really? ❞  

❝ Mishil. ❞ She laughed at the low, warning drawl of her name. ❝ What? We’re bonding here Carina~! Lil’ Birdie here’s just showing off her carrots, good for some stew hm? ❞ He rolled his eyes, giving his head a shake. He made a gesture for them to follow, Mishil nudged Birdie ahead. ❝ Go take those into the kitchen for a wash, hm? ❞

❝ Yes’m. ❞ Birdie picked up her small basket of carrots and rushed inside with the energy and enthusiasm expected of a child her age. Boundless energy. Mishil fell into step beside him, and felt his fingers playfully tug at the length of her hair. His mouth brushed her ear, breath warm. ❝ Last I checked, you’re the ticklish one here. ❞ Skilled finger’s danced along her side and she inhaled sharply, quickly snatching his hand as she stifled a laugh. ❝ Dracule. ❞ He tickled her again until she squeaked and jolted against him. Mihawk dipped his head, stealing a kiss. ❝ Minx. Keep misbehaving and being ticklish will be the least of your worries. ❞ 

She thumped his chest lightly, ❝ Promises promises---but you’ve got to make dinner first, don’t keep the child waiting. ❞ Still, she did pause to squeeze his hand, her expression softening. ❝ Hey... It was good of you to save her. She’s a good kid. ❞  

❝ Hm, you like her too? ❞

Mishil cleared her throat, veiling her own embarrassment. ❝ She’s very... Cheery... And sweet. ❞ And she liked this side of him... Not that she’d admit it.. yet. ❝ Now shoo, go prepare some delicious dinner while I get the table ready. ❞ He scoffed, ❝ Ordering me in my own castle? ❞

She passed him with a playful wink, ❝ Of course. I’m a pirate after all. ❞

#tw length #✝ ⌈ General ⏌ ― answered #muselexum #✝ ⌈ Romance ⏌ ― Mihawk #the beginning of a family dynamic here #birdie is so cute tho #lil bird under the care of two notorious af lethal people

[toothblushes]

for the self ship questions: pre realtionship -- 1 & 3. general -- 3. love -- 1, 2, 11, 12. domestic life -- 1, 2, 3, 4, 8, 9.

Ooh! You're getting lots of lore! :D

This will be long, so I'll put it under the cut ^_^

🖤Pre Relationship🖤

1. It's an interesting story!

There was a sort of urban legend that was passed around the town of a terrifying ghost that haunted the Misfortune Forest. Anyone who ventured into it, would surely meet their demise. In unexplainable ways at that! Supposedly, one poor soul who dared enter was crushed by a piano that had fallen from seemingly nowhere!

Boris wanders into the woods one day (for some reason. I haven't figured that out yet 😂) He stumbles upon the ""ghost's"" old cottage and, being the curious man he is, knocks on the door. He can hear something moving on the other side of the door, but whatever it is doesn't answer him.

Over the course of a few weeks, he visits the old cottage, chatting through the door and sometimes leaving gifts on the doorstep (they're gone when he comes the next day)

He had assumed that the mysterious being on the other side of the door would be a weary old lady or something. Very storybook like.

So when the ""ghost"" finally opened the door one day, he was just like 😳 "oh..."

And that's how they met! :)

3. Well, both of them are on bad terms with/are cut off from their parents, so they didn't have any say in it.

As far as friends go, she didn't have any friends since she had locked herself away from the world for so long.

He also was a bit of a loner for some time, but Pabit was his biggest hype man!

🖤General🖤

3. Um...a bit awkward, to be honest 😅

She had never done it, and he had only ever kissed a flower...

It was nervous and quick. Rest assured though, the fireworks were there and in full force :)

🖤Love🖤

1. He did :)

He was barely able to choke it out, but he managed.

2. He's a fan of all of them, but if he had to choose, it would be physical touch. He's just a very cuddly lovey man! That said, she's very apprehensive about touch from anyone else, but with him she loves it :)

She's more of a Quality time/acts of service kind of lady. She tends to get painfully flustered, so expressing her affection physically or verbally is difficult for her. (This isn't the case when they're alone though 💕)

11. There are a couple of songs I associate with them, one of which is "Home in the West" from the game's soundtrack.

For music outside of the game, I don't really have a whole lot, since I'm not very well versed in music (I always appreciate suggestions!) but I do associate a lot of Jack Stauber's songs with them, especially Buttercup! The reasoning behind this is because I discovered him around the same time I first fell for...you know...my f/o 💦

12. Oh goodness, nicknames are his specialty! 😂

His pet names for her are basically anything flower related. Flower, rosebud, little blossom, sweet pea, just to name a few. His favorite is his little moonbeam! (There were moonbeam flowers growing around her cottage where they first met! It's also what type of flower the hair clip he gave her is!)

Also probably a lot of cute names in Russian. I don't know any specific ones because, well...I don't speak the language 😅

Her names for him are very much things Morticia and Gomez Addams would call each other 😂

My darling, my light, my treasure, etc... Every once in a while though, she'll slip and call him something exceptionally mushy like my sweet pumpkin pie <3

🖤Domestic Life🖤

1. He does <3

It happens in winter, on the anniversary of the day they first met :)

2. The wedding takes place in the woods, during a gentle snowfall. They both wear warm, fancy outfits (hers has a long hooded cloak with faux fur trim and a hand muffler :)

Only their close friends that they made since they've been together (also his adopted mom who is my dear friend's s/I 💕 Yes, they adopted a full grown man) attend. They wanted something small since she (and honestly him as well) would be nervous with a big audience

3. They have two daughters! They're twins named Lily and Daisy :)

Lily is bubbly and cheerful, while Daisy is more reserved and quiet :)

4. Does Pabit count? 😂

Really though, I like to pretend we have the pets that I have. Two cats (I know Lilies are really dangerous for cats, but it's my daydream world and I can do what I want) and a bearded dragon :)

8. Oh my gosh.

They go ALL OUT

Him especially.

Neither of them got to celebrate much when they were younger, so they're making up for that 😂

9. She is.

She's a very sleepy lady, and seeing her all snuggled up and drowsy just melts his heart! How could he possibly leave his sweet little moonbeam to be all by herself!?

And there we go!!

A big ol lore sundae for you!! ^_^

#somethingscarlet13 #thank you for the ask! ^ ^ #❔ask game❔ #self ship #self ship community #f/o #sweet tooth ☘️🦷 #self shipping #selfshipdom

[convxction]

[ play ] / modern verse ;v;/

prompts make u go 👀| feel free to send | @lacedmagic

[ PLAY ]: while sitting together, the sender absently lifts the receiver’s hand, idly running their fingertips across the lines of their palms, mapping out every inch of their hand with slow, lazy touches.

Files were scattered here and there through his apartment. Case files of the newly case he was tasked with--Sakurai’s case. Despite that he was not very keen on being involved with a retired idol, he was dutiful man. It is a case and justice needs to be served.

Though that maybe the case, there was another reason he wanted this case to be solved. Well, he may not entirely fathom the reason, yet but he would like to support this young lady. She had been through so much and the least he could do is give her some peace of mind by arresting whoever is disrupted her life.

With time, the two were almost inseparable. That after that misfortunate event back at her own apartment. Which is why Chrom had to do something it might be out of his comfort zone by having her stay in his own apartment. To be clear, he usually here when he wants to think about a case and work on it so he is not here all the time; which is why it is a good place for a young lady like her to ..feel comfortable living in. He gave her a separate key, made sure to ring before he comes in and most of all tightened the security in his apartment--cameras and the like. Only a fool would try to break into a police officer’s apartment. Plus, for a safety measure he handed her a stun gun in case ..something happened. Though she said she prefer not to use it, he insisted she keeps it.

That aside, Chrom was home today to look through some files he left in his apartment. He usually stays some nights and the others he would head back to the family house. As much as Lissa begged to have Lacie stay in the family mansion, Chrom couldn’t let that happen. To be honest, Lacie was against it fearing for his sisters’ lives so Chrom had to step in and serve as the bad big bro who does not want let his little sister befriend her favorite idol. It is better than to hear Lacie’s refusal. Softie. what can he do? 

“Sigh...” he rubbed the bridge of his nose before stretching and laying his body against the table, and stretching his legs underneath the table. Soon, familiar footsteps approached him. Lacie had made some warm tea for him to drink and sat the tray down, pushing away the files and papers. “Wh--hey! --!!” but before he could protest, she pressed an index against his forehead and pushed him to the back while telling him that he needs a break. “Er...um... thank you.”

The two quietly sipped at the tea. It was honestly awkward at first but it was a situation he must get used to it. Frankly, even though he ‘thinks’ he is not used to it, he became accustomed to her shenanigans around his apartment--sometimes surprising him with a baked cake, delicious food, and even of her walking around in one of his shirts because the laundry delivery did not arrive yet. Giving him slight heart attacks here and there made him grow some immune to her. Maybe. Who knows.

The faint cars noises outside filled the empty space between them before he felt something grab hold of his hand. “?” looking down at his hand, he spotted Lacie laying on the table, on her left arm and with her right hand toying with his own. Her soft hand giving him fuzzy and warm feeling inside of his chest. Watching her was amusing, she fiddled with his hand like it was some sort of a puzzle piece--flipping it over and tracing the lines on his hand, digits going over his knuckles like a child’s curiosity. She had even pressed her palm against his to measure how bigger his hand compared to her, slipping a soft giggling there effectively chocking him on his breath. 

His face gradually getting warmer and redder to her uncalculated and slow touches. Before long, he had to close his hand over hers, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Are you done playing?” offering a half smile before reaching with his free hand to brush one of her silky locks away from her face. “As much as I enjoy this, I have some files to look at. If you still want to hold my hand hostage, give me your other hand to flip through the files. One hand can’t do much.” 

#lacedmagic #⚔verse.⚔ (tears of themis) #⚔ic.⚔ (let my action prove my worth) #⚔answer.⚔ (final answer) #[[break dance this is late offers cookies and milk!!!!! #[[gives u diabetes for the horknee u give me

[darkdevasofdestruction]

Sheepless Sheep Girl ~Yin Zhi x Reader

Yin Zhi, the 3rd Prince, was a mystery for everyone living in the Palace, no matter their age, gender or even if they were his own relatives. He was truly an enigma that, no matter how much you’d try to decipher, you couldn’t. He was unique, a thorough individualist, and all he’d ever want to do is practice archery, study, read diverse literature books and enjoy a secluded life somewhere beautiful, all alone...Or perhaps, with someone by his side to understand him...

But he’s a weirdo, by everyone’s stuck up and closed-minded views, so he doubts he’d ever find anyone to actually get him and who he is.

He’s the 3rd Prince, after all, and since the 1st Prince died young, and the Crown Prince is a fuckass that everyone hates, people look at him to take up the reigns and become the best candidate to lead.

What a joke.

He couldn’t care less about trivial things like these - Being an Emperor is too much hassle than it’s worth. Too many responsibilities, too many people to hear and please, and way too many women and heirs needed...Too much socialisation, too many voices, lies, gossips, snakes and threats to deprive him of the peaceful life he always dreamt of.

Life, however, is an unexpected turn of events, and what was supposed to be just some basic archery training in some far away forest, and somehow, he ended up heavily injured, his horse running away, and he was barely able to keep himself standing.

He was beginning to hate himself for not telling anyone - Not even his eunuch - About his adventurous trip, so nobody would be looking for him any time soon...And maybe, by the time he is found, he will already be animal food, or dead from this wound overbleeding.

Perhaps sleeping at the base of this old oak tree wouldn’t be such a bad idea...

When he next opened his eyes, however, instead of feeling the hard bark of the tree he was leaning on, he felt himself in a weirdly comfortable...Bed? This couldn’t be...How COULD this be?

He shot up in a wild panic, only to feel a pair of hands on his bare, bandaged chest, pushing him gently back down on the bed. It was a beautiful girl with a gentle, yet exhausted complexion, eyes resembling those of a baby fawn, sweet and wet, filled with a myriad of emotions, and her hair looked shiny, long, let down, reaching below the waist, mimicking a gorgeous cascade.

“Please, don’t move too much. Your injuries were pretty grave. I disinfected and stitched them while you were unconscious, dressed them and...You risk ripping them and overbleeding.” she explained, gently brushing her fingers through his hair, getting it away from his face. “Who are you...? And how did you find me?” Yin Zhi asked in a tired, hoarse voice. “I am just a sheep girl. I found you by the Oak tree when I went out looking for mushrooms. I couldn’t possibly let an injured being die out there, helpless, could I?” she spoke with an amused smile...Her voice was so light and warming...What was so different about this woman that made her stand out so much? She’s no noble lady, she’s just some...Sheep girl, living alone, in the middle of the woods. “And how can a Sheep Girl treat such life-threatening wounds anyway?” his sharp eyes peered into hers, analysing her every single move and reaction. “My parents and I used to be the village’s physicians, so any little health issue would come our way. I may be young, but I have enough experience to treat such basic wounds like yours.” she got up, putting some more wood into the heater and stirring into the pot on the oven a few more times, she put stew in a bowl and taking a spoon, came back to sit by his side. “Then why do you live so far away from the village?” he murmured, getting in a sitting position with the help of the girl. “My...My parents died because of a new disease that struck the village. Many died...And while in that terrible state, my parents begged me to experiment on them to find an antidote...Which I did. It’s just...I got blamed for the deaths, so I was shunned. And here I am. Living out here, away from any problem, worry and annoying, stuck up people.” she shrugged simply, clearly used to the idea and the tragedy that befell her. “I see. I’m sorry to hear that.” the prince muttered, not knowing what to say in such a situation. “Don’t be. That’s how life is...Although, sometimes I miss socialising with actual people, not just with sheep.” she chuckled awkwardly, looking away. “It’s a peaceful place you’ve got here. I wish I could live in a secluded place, away from all the nosy and incompetent people out there.” Yin Zhi spoke out, almost without realising. “Would you mind sharing your story with someone you’ll never meet again, stranger whose name I don’t know?” she took the bowl away from him as soon as he finished eating. “Only if you vow to treat me the same as before.” his look changed into one of warning, but she was not intimidated in the least. “I’ve been away from socialising for a long time. Forgive my lack of manners, but I’ll behave with you the same way no matter the status you hold.” she shot right back, which made him smirk in delight. “My name is Yin Zhi, the Emperor’s 3rd Prince. And what is yours, mysterious physician?” he asked, waiting to hear the name of the brilliant woman taking care of him. “Y/N. Nice to meet you, Yin Zhi.”

Due to the gravity of the injuries, he had to stay for two weeks to recover, and in this time, he was able to discover who this girl really was, from her kindness, to her intelligence, her points of view, her choices in books, in literature, how versed she in sciences, in herbalism and many more.

Not to mention, despite his amusement about the 3 animals, grew fond of the family of sheep. Only one ram, one sheep, and a little lamb, all the named after her and her family.  The lamb, especially, was incredibly playful and affectionate with him, and would always try to stay around him, poking his cheeks with her wet nose, jumping on his lap, running around his legs and many more, which, for some reason, amused the man greatly.

He had so much to learn from this lone woman - In fact, so much more than many of the scholars, teachers, physicians and eunuchs in the Palace could offer him - And so, he didn’t think of his hunting accident as a misfortune, but as as grace from fate.

These two weeks in this place were truly all he ever dreamt of, and more, should he not have been in pain from his wounds, but by now, he was fully recovered, and as a thank you, he properly taught her how to use a bow and arrow, to protect herself and her sheep family from any potential predators, and more, he helped her build a better shelter for them.

However, like all beautiful dreams, one must wake up, and thus, he was forced to return to the Palace, with the promise of visiting again, and also, to help her with anything she needed, no matter the cost.

Yin Zhi cursed how dull Palace life was, and truly, he felt more all here, constantly surrounded by thousands of people, than away n the woods, with Y/N, so he did what he always did to escape reality - Succumb himself into studying and reading, and clearly, staying as far away from people as possible.

Days passed, then weeks, months, and his mind kept flying off to that great, peaceful time when he was all alone, just with her, some animals, away into the forest, and he could read at leisure without being interrupted by these annoying pests.

He almost wasn’t sure how much time passed, until he received a letter from his trusted Eunuch, from someone calling themselves “The Sheepless Sheep Girl” and worry started harbouring in his heart, as he began reading her words.

As stated, some thieves came by while she was away, picking berries from the forest, and killed her sheep, destroyed the crops and stole everything she had, and now she’s helpless, scared and has no clue what to do.

Darkness and anger flooded him for the first time in ages, realising that, to save her, he needed to get her into the Palace, maybe saying she was his new Head Maiden... What a difficult situation they both found themselves into.

Well, why should he care what anyone else thinks, anyway? He’s not going to be an Emperor, so he doesn’t need to be surrounded by concubines, consorts and whatever other useless women or different statuses and ranks that they did nothing to earn, so why shouldn’t she just be given the title of Imperial Physician?...HIS Personal, Imperial Physician?

Sure, only men have the privilege of having this title given, but she’s talented, well-versed and knowledgeable, so there’s no reason why she shouldn’t be able to be HIS Physician, right? She already saved him once, anyway. It’s not like the Emperor could deny or complain about it, considering he never asked for anything, and used his own power and knowledge to achieve everything he wanted.

She won’t even have to leave his Palace, if she doesn’t want to. She is a timid little doe who has no idea of Palace mannerisms, or how cruel everyone in this forsaken place is, and truly, the last thing he wants is to break her soul and taint her bright innocence and purity with the evil hanging around this polluted air.

Nonetheless, she needed to be taken care of, and so she will be, under his wing, without anyone interfering.

As soon as he got back to her place, Yin Zhi noticed how the house was in a terrible state, and she...Her face...It was obvious that she was exhausted. She was barely able to keep herself standing, she was weak, and her face was pink from the crying... This deteriorated state of her made his own heart ache, and that’s when he realised that he wanted nothing more than to protect her and her precious smile. He wanted her happy, by his side. It didn’t matter if she loved him or not, he just wanted her to shine brightly again, just as before.

He had his Eunuch find the best maid for her to attend her every need, and he found some petite girl called Shi Lian, with a soft voice, but very friendly, and with that, at least, he was content.

“Thank you...You did more than I asked you to...How can I ever repay you, Your Grace?” Y/N bowed her head down, speaking in a broken voice, almost as if feeling herself unworthy to be looked at by someone like him. “First of all, never call me that again. It’s only my name, for you, understood? Secondly, look at me, just like you used to. I won’t allow anything bad to come upon you ever again, I promise you. You saved me once...Let me save you now, Y/N.” he extended his hand for her to hold, as a way of asking if she trusts him. “...If it’s not asking for too much...Please take care of me, Yin Zhi. I trust you.” she gingerly held his hand in both of hers, raising it to her face, placing a soft kiss as a thank you. He realised that, compared to all the women in the Palace, her hands weren’t as soft and delicate, but more on the rough said, from all the hard work she had to put into taking care of herself. That’s a truly reliable woman, he thought, as he vowed to make sure she’s pampered at all times. “Anything for you.” his voice came barely above a whisper as he kissed her forehead, hoping she wouldn’t hear his heart’s confession...And yet, the soft blush on her face proved otherwise.

With each day passing, he could see her skin glowing, her eyes sparkling with life whenever she’d lay down at the base of the willow next to the pond as she would read one of the books he had in his library, her smile, dazzling as before, whenever some stray cat would get in his Palace garden and she would play with it, feed it, and somehow end up adopting it...Them...For there were many cats now in his garden, but it’s not like he could complain. He wasn’t the one doing the cleaning in his Palace, and he was content enough with seeing her happy.

She would sometimes play the flute while he was reading outside, or would pick up flowers from the field and make flower crowns for her and Shi Lian...And yet, on one occasion, she put one on his head while he was too absorbed in his reading to notice.

She wasn’t afraid to ask him for help to understand things she didn’t know from books he had that she wasn’t familiar with, and somehow, he never felt irritated by her - In fact, he actually felt his heart warm whenever he had to explain things to her - And the same went the other way around, when it came to science.

Not to mention how thrilled she was when she found out she was allowed to be a physician once again, just like long ago, and even more, she was bold enough to throw her arms around him, pulling him into a hug, that shocked him beyond belief.

And so, one day, when he came home, he brought a little gift for her... A little lamb that he named after her, to remind her of her little sheep family from before.

It made Y/N laugh with happy tears in her eyes, as she started playing around and cuddling the little lamb, even going as far as to let the baby lamb sleep in her own bed with her, and truly, Yin Zhi didn’t think it could get any better.

His life was finally beginning to shift in the right direction, the one he’s always dreamt of...Especially after one night, she lead him up the hill to watch the beautiful moon and the fireflies, holding hands as they lay on the soft grass and observing the stars, pointing out constellations, telling little legends, myths and stories about random things. He couldn’t help but admire her beauty highlighted by the silver light of Mother Moon, and how she looked like a dryad in that flowy, light green dress, and the fact that she looked ethereal without having to wear make up truly made it obvious how she was above them all without even trying.

For the first time in his life he felt completely enamoured, his heart was captured by this unique woman and he couldn’t help but put his hands on her delicate cheeks and kiss her pink lips that resembled the petals of the softest, most beautiful rose. He was never interested in love or women, he preferred to enrich his boundaries and knowledge, but this one...This one was truly something else. She was special, and he was making him feel special without even trying.

There was no doubt about it - She was truly the one. 

And he couldn’t be happier.

It felt like he was living in a fairy tale, the Prince and the Princess, having their happily ever after.

But like any fairy tale, there must always be something bad happening to the Princess.

He wasn’t expecting anything like that to happen - He was sure she barely left his Palace and nobody held any grudge against her. It’s not like she was trying to get up the ranks, or get the Emperor’s favour, she was just a simple girl enjoying the simple life he was offering her.

As he got back home, pissed off for having had to meet up with a neighbouring Princess for the 10th time this week, or, rather said, her father alone, for some reason - Princess that the Empress wanted him to marry, he got in the house, expecting to be greeted by his brilliant lover and her little lamb, or her adopted cats and dogs...But he wasn’t. Instead, he was greeted by a trail of blood that led out in the garden, and to his horror, the girl he held so dear to his heart was sprawled on the ground, he arm extended towards the pond water...

He ran to her, held her in his arms, checking for a pulse, that was faint, but at least there, so yelling for his Eunuch to call for the Imperial Physician, he was able to pronounce that she was poisoned, based on the tea served in the Palace’s tea house, and now, the question came - Who poisoned her?

Of course, the main suspect was her Handmaid, poor Shi Lian, but something in his gut told him that this girl was innocent. Perhaps he wanted to trust her innocence, for it resembled that of Y/N, or maybe he just wanted to trust Y/N’s own trust in her.

Every day and every night, he would be restless, unable to sleep, so he would hold her hand, caressing it, kissing it, kissing her forehead, wiping away the sweat from her face, making sure she’s comfortable, despite the state of agony her unconscious self is in.

“Ricin...” Yin Zhi heard a soft, barely audible voice, struggling to mumble coherently. “Ricin?” he asked again, louder and clear, hoping he didn’t mishear or hallucinate. “Nails...Tea...” she continued, as tears kept streaming down her face, as she was finally able to open her eyes, her breath ragged, as she was fighting with her own body to keep herself awake and coherent. “Ricin...Nails...Tea...So the culprit put Ricin poison in your tea...With their nails? Does that mean it was Ricin powder hidden in their nails, so when they went to help prepare the tea, they mixed it in your cup, correct?” he asked, hoping for an affirmative answer, which is confirmed with a slow nod. “Who was it, darling? Do you remember? A name, a gender, some distinguishing appearance traits?” he pressed again, feeling adrenaline surge through his veins. “Princess...Jealous...Yin Zhi...” she started coughing blood again, clinging on his arm to keep herself grounded, as he helped her drink a glass of water. “A jealous Princess...I know just who you are talking to. Don’t worry, darling, I will solve this and make sure she pays for her sins. Nobody dares harm my beloved dove and gets away with this.” it was obvious he was angry, and rightfully so, and yet, she held onto his arm, not wanting him to leave. “Don’t go...Please...” she whispered, looking up at him with tired, fawn eyes, that melted his rage away. “I will be here until you fall asleep, my dear. I promise.” he kissed her softly, and stroked her hair until she fell asleep with a smile on her face.

He had to deal with this bitch Princess, but he couldn’t just rat her out without being petty and have his revenge. He had to get his physician to prove she had ricin powder in her nails. He could only guess it must have been in her pockets, because a sachet would have been too obvious, so with more help from his darling Y/N, he found out she was wearing a yellow and pink dress with only one pocket on the right, so with the help of his spies, he stole that dress, and his physician found the powder right there.

He won, once again.

And now, it was time for the grand finale, before this stupid Princess would leave. He was going to marry Y/N even if it was the last thing he’d ever do in his life, no matter how angry and disapproving his father would be, or how much the Empress would be against it, since the Princess is from her own family.

So, as soon as Y/N was back in full health again, and discussed things with her, so she wouldn’t feel uncomfortable or surprised at what was going to happen, and so, he took her with him in front of the Emperor and the Empress, along with the Princess and her father, to present his case.

“The 3rd Prince summoned us here for a reason, correct? It is not often that you choose to be surrounded by so many people.” the Empress pointed out with a pleased expression, thinking she knew what was going on. “Your Highness, the Empress chose Princess Ruong Xian to be my bride, for she is of noble birth...Her own bloodline. I do not doubt that she is a capable woman with many attributes...One of this attributes being poisoning and deceiving a harmless, innocent woman, because of her burning jealousy. I do not think someone like her should be the wife of the Emperor’s son.” his voice was as cold and harsh as usual, despite his politeness, which created chaos among everyone. “Poison?! Me?! How DARE you accuse me of something so vile? I’m a woman, I do not study plants and poisons, that’s the work of a physician! And what do I have to be jealous of? This ugly, no name who’s nothing more than a hand maid? She has no way of competing with me!” the Princess’ passive voice twisted into a hideous glare, pointing accusatory at the sheep girl who was awkwardly standing right behind him, fidgeting with her fingers and looking down as to not attract too much attention to herself...More than she already did, that is. “My son, that is a grave accusation you are telling us. Knowing you, however, I do believe you have some kind of proof to prove it. I am listening.” the Emperor spoke calmly, knowing very well to trust his intelligent son who never crosses boundaries, breaks rules or does things for the sake of it. “Physician Li, bring forth the dress. Father, this woman I brought home, Y/N, was poisoned recently, and it was proved that the poison was in the tea. Ricin powder. Barely detectable, unless you are incredibly knowledgeable and used to working with plants and medicine, like Y/N, who was brought up in a Physician home, and continued the tradition. The only way Ricin powder could have been put in her tea was through powder brought on her nails, most likely brought in a pocket, for a pouch would be too obvious.” Yin Zhi explained the theory, which made both the Princess and her father yell at him for the disrespect brought. “You have no proof, 3rd Prince! How dare you accuse my daughter of something so evil? You are tarnishing not only our name, but the Empress’ as well!” her father scowled at him, and he could only give him a cocky smirk. “Your Highness, this dress is the one the Princess wore on the day of the poisoning. If we get it inside out, we can still see some powder inside, that on further examining, proved to be ricin powder, which completely proves the theory the Prince explained.” the physician spoke out, showing everyone the proof, and suddenly, the Palace of Mental Cultivation became quiet as a graveyard. “To think that the Empress’ own blood would dare do such criminal acts in my own palace! This woman, Y/N, has been nothing but helpful for the kingdom and our Imperial Physicians, and you dared attempt to kill her? That simply cannot go unpunished! Guards! Take the Princess and her Father to the Hard Labour Camp and give them 50 canes!” the Emperor rose from his throne, his voice loud and angry, not even blinking from the bloodcurling pitched shrieks of the Princess that were imploring the Prince to save her, nor of her father’s. “Yin Zhi! My darling, please, save me! Please, my beloved! You deserve someone pretty! Someone of high rank! Not some filthy shepard girl! Yin Zhi! My Prince! Please, have mercy! Pleaseeee!” she kept shrieking as she was dragged away, only for the Prince to not even spare her another chance. “As sharp and intuitive as always, my son. I’m proud of you and your choices. I am sure you would make for a great Emperor someday...And yet, I know that is not your wish, nor ambition, unfortunately.” the old man’s voice became more fatherly and nostalgic as he looked at his son. “Father, I thank you for your praises, but I am undeserving. I will be forever grateful for you accepting my decisions, and I hope today you will stand by it once again, for I want to marry Y/N. I know she’s of no royal blood, but since I won’t be an Emperor, I believe she would be the best person for this Kingdom. She is kind, incredibly smart, studies all the time, is well-versed in multiple subjects, including science, healing, poetry and music, she is altruistic and helpful to all people, and, as you said, she has been an incredible asset for the Physicians, and was the one to realise it was ricin powder in her tea, even in her delusional fever-induced state. I only ask for your blessings, father, so please, take everything into consideration when you give your answer.” the Prince spoke up in a bold and firm voice, which made the girl standing next to him blush furiously, as she wasn’t used to so many compliments, as Yin Zhi was one to show his affections indirectly, most of the time, not through words, but with actions. “I see...I can see you are smitten with this girl, and rightfully so. I believe she truly is the perfect choice for you, but with her status, she cannot marry a prince.” the Emperor began, making his son frown, only for the man to continue speaking right away. “That is why, for the marriage to take place, I shall give Y/N the title of Lady Shuyu, the title given to Wise and Virtuous women of the Palace, and I will officially give her the post of the Chief Imperial Physician, specifically your personal Physician, my son. Is that to your liking?” the Emperor’s eyes sparkled with amusement as he saw both his son and the girl next to him looking at him with shock in their eyes. “Thank you so much for allowing our love to continue, Your Highness. You are most merciful and benevolent.” the girl immediately knelt, obviously bewildered at what just happened. “Thank you, Father. You have our eternal gratitude.” he couldn’t speak much from the shock, as he also knelt as a thank you. “You have my blessings, my children. You deserve to be happy.” he smiled kindly, seeing as the left the Palace, holding hands.

Out of the Palace, the girl jumped in his arms, as he held her tightly, kissing the top of her head, finally feeling content and at peace with what was going on. They could finally live together, without anyone daring to utter a word against her, or try to sabotage her. Their life together in partial solitude could finally be a dream come true, as they could have a little house somewhere in the woods, back there where she used to live, if they ever want to escape this royal chaos they had to live in, and even better, they could live with all the pets they wanted, go out together in the dark, watch the fireflies, go for a swim in the lake, read together, practice archery together, all while facing no scrutiny or complaint.

They could finally live the dream life their heart yearned for all this time.

#legend of the phoenix #legend of the phoenix imagine #legend of the phoenix headcanons #legend of the phoenix x reader #yin zhi #yin zhi x reader #yin zhi imagine #3rd prince #yin zhen #crown prince #emperor #empress #china #qing dinasty #imperial china

[serpentcrown]

( 31. Revolter. Owner of the Rosewood Maiden. Nobility. Shit-stirrer. )

Zoya Nathair, daughter of the Duke of Serpents, born Zoya Casimira Lucem Zilvinas Nathair. Spawned a ghost story known as the Gaunter of Hightown in her youth. Known informally as the Prince of Snakes – an insult coined by her Lowtown cohorts, turned pet name & warning with time.

FULL APP / PLAYLIST / PINTEREST / SKELETON

( tw mentions of death; implied body horror; implications of negative views regarding gender roles/misgendering – Zoya often wears tailored men’s clothing and people likely have some Thoughts on that + her title as the Prince of Snakes partially stemming from this; not quite transphobia / misgendering but seemed pertinent to mention! )

It is an open secret in court, how something occurred with the Duke’s only daughter: nary a glimpse had been seen of her, the girl sick since birth. In what would have been her fifteenth and last year alive, the Nathairs retreated to their ancestral estate in the countryside near the Volkan to be with their youngest on her deathbed… only to return a scant few months later with a girl so vibrantly alive it seemed a scandal.

Rumours abounded: Vitalus! Conspiracy! … Necromancy? But if so, who? Certain threads of the truth followed them, sticking to the narrative like burrs to linen. The girl truly had been ill, and deathly so. A guest had come calling while out in the countryside. The Duke had begun frequenting Wyrmwood’s on a twice-monthly schedule, or rather, had sent a servant there.

No matter the tall tale, Zoya Nathair was undeniably alive – teetering between vivacious and vicious; a girl with a silver tongue that could cut like a dagger. Though seemingly cut from the same wolven pelt as the rest of the Nathair bloodline, she courted trouble and consequence like a cat intent on testing its nine lives – and lo, she’s always landed on her feet, no lives lost… yet. Since taking her proper place among the Tyrholm nobility, Lady Nathair has only seemed to escalate the amount of hubbub she can cause in a year. It took a sharp turn for the immediate worse when she won a tavern-cum-brothel in a game of cards at age 25, and has only gone downhill from there.

Somehow, the woman has found a way into the pockets of a good few families of noble standing – and yet no proof has been found yet that might send her to the gaol or gallows. Not even the way she so boldly teeters towards treason has gained her any consequence, much to the annoyance of a good few who would see her gone. That she has accrued such favour with the commoners does not help, either, as mere association with Lowtown drivel is cause for any sensible noble to turn their nose up.

Somewhere along the line, whispers of the Prince of Snakes made their way to Hightown and the castle. Supposedly, it began as an insult – the girl was certainly as arrogant as a princeling; the cut of her habitual uniform of expensively tailored men’s clothing rendering her an odd yet attractive figure… but in time, it had become a pet name. A title. A song had even made its way out of Lowtown, its very first verse sparked by common delight at noble misfortune–

Duke of Serpents, Prince of Snakes, king of liars, thieves and rakes– ruby, diamond, pearl and stone: rob you blind of blood and bone.

Stranger words still reached noble ears: that she had her hands in more sinister dealings than mere theft. That if there had ever been a Nathair wolf that hungered, it was her. Strangest of all was the notion that the Prince of Snakes truly had a serpent’s eye, and those in court more inclined to gossip and tall tales swear they’ve seen it – that in certain angles of light, there’s a glint of unnatural amber round the rim of her right iris, yellow as a snake’s.

Zoya does not mind it – the nobles can say whatever they like; she’ll take what she wants in due time. But the truth is this: she did die, that year. A guest did come calling, one whose hands counted only eight fingers, and her right eye is not only serpent’s yellow, but a cursed thing, a twisted blessing. Whether the hunger in her was simply latent, or a consequence of resurrection, she does not know. 

What began as a game for her own amusement – Zoya wilfully testing the limits of courtly patience just to see – has since become less playful and more serious. She cannot deny the delight she feels in the chaos she causes, nor that power has a certain intoxicating scent – but there are other concerns she does not speak. For now, she bides her time. Things are afoot in Tyrholm. She had best stay ahead of the pack.

MISCELLANEOUS PLOT POINTS

PURVEYOR OF SUNDRY GOODS–– if you need something, especially something Not Meant For Public Knowledge, chances are she can get it – for the right price. This does not necessarily mean gold: she has other ways of obtaining that, and secrets pay dividends. Illegal objects, illicit substances – fantasy smuggling, babey! let’s go

THE LOYALTY OF WOLVES–– she takes care of her own, which in Zoya’s case has rapidly become the lowest-of-Lowtown side of things. This would likely be information that finds its way to people with direct ties of their own to the less well-lit streets of Lowtown: she curries Lowtown favour in what should be described as a fantasy mobster’s version of taking care of the neighborhood. Will she swear up and down that this is a way of accruing power? Yes. (Is that solely it? No.) Cause for concern for some, perhaps, or point of intrigue for others!

FAITH IS A FLICKER–– though perhaps not traditionally devout, her resurrection brought out an unsettling feeling in her – a cross between curiosity and a distinct need for answers. She keeps a little shrine to the Undying in her home, and will sometimes be found in the Sanctum; off-hours, mostly, gazing at the reliefs and stained glass with a troubled – troubling – look in her eyes. This could be the cause for conversations of massive deflection – or perhaps you catch her in a moment of weakness and pull the truth from her tongue.

DEATH CAME CALLING AND THE UNDYING ANSWERED–– Zoya essentially eked out life where there was none for years, courtesy of her father’s coffers keeping her in Vitalus visits and medicine. The cost of resurrecting her left a metaphorical scar: I’m toying with the notion of necromancers being able to sense it on her, if you will, inklings of the sheer cost of what was done. Her right eye is not only serpent’s yellow – kept at bay by eye drops special-ordered from Wyrmwood’s – but she sees things if she doesn’t keep up with the chemical solution, or otherwise cover her eye up. Strange silhouettes, figures shifting at the periphery. Did her resurrection wake something latent within her, or is it a remnant? Who Can Say.

( will be habitually updated once I can think of more! )

#possum made me this graphic as a gift #and i feel Blessed #santa possum came early this year #;u; #prince of snakes. #lore. #shipper

[obscure-sentimentalist]

73, dealer's choice merlyn boys au, dealer's choice characters

[I’d just like to remind you that you’re the one who made a monster out of this. ;-) And I thank you for it.]

Prompt from the drabble challenge list

Part I to an as-yet-untitled obligatory college AU, which finds our favorite twins meeting a few years earlier than in the Old enough ‘verse. Featuring an appearance by the biggest eyesore of a haircut, and a nod to the fact that Connor Rhodes grew up in Chicago in the ‘90s, and would have attended a very particular Stranger Danger assembly.

Harvard, October 2003

“Um,” Connor starts, politely averting his eyes from the curly-haired brunette making very scant use of his comforter. “Is there a reason you’re naked in my bed?”

“Oh, Tommy,” she sighs, somehow making it sound both scolding and sultry. “Is that any way to accept a surprise?” She shifts on the bed, sheets slipping down even further. “I wasn’t sure where you were in the dorms, but I’d seen you out with your roommate enough to recognize him, and he was more than happy to let me in and leave us be for a while.”

As much as that is to unpack (he’ll really need to have a chat with Charlie about letting in strange girls—or anyone, really—claiming to know and wanting to surprise him), there’s one key part of her explanation that sends Connor’s face into his palms with a beleaguered groan.

Really, this again?

“Okay,” he starts, dragging his hands down his face but still keeping his eyes closed. “I’m going to put this as nicely as I can: I have no idea who you are…”

“I’m Jen,” she cuts in, in a questionably helpful way. Good to put a name to the, uh… face in his dorm-supplied twin bed, but her tone is already heated enough to indicate that this isn’t supposed to be a pleasant reminder.

“Great, Jen, then,” Connor acknowledges, then dives back in. “Please listen when I tell you that I did not know your name until you just told me, because we have never met before now. I have no idea why you think it’s acceptable to sneak into someone’s dorm room as an… unwrapped gift at,” he cracks one eye open to squint at his watch, “3:52 on a Wednesday afternoon, but I’m sure this ‘Tommy’ you think I am won’t particularly appreciate it either.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence at that, and Connor, with his eyes still dutifully closed, can’t get a clear read of the room. Still, he hopes that just maybe this will be the time someone actually listens to him and…

“Ugh, I should have known you were actually that much of a bad-boy jerk,” Jen snaps, violently throwing off the covers entirely as they land with a heavy thump on the floor. There’s hasty shuffling like she’s now out of the bed and throwing her clothes back on, all the while ranting, “Saying that you’re not Tommy, oh, that’s rich. Like I don’t know exactly how you look, and that this is some sort of mistaken identity situation.”

Figuring that this disappointing (yet not surprising) reaction means that Jen is decent enough that it won’t be impolite to do so, Connor’s eyes snap back open. “Because that’s exactly what’s happeni—”

Aaaaaaand there’s the slap.

“If you’re not actually interested, don’t lead a girl on and then act like you don’t know her!” Jen calls angrily as she stomps towards the door. It bangs against the wall as she yanks it open—the vibration sending Connor’s small tower of CDs clattering to the wood floor—and just as violently slams shut upon her departure.

Rubbing his stinging left cheek, Connor finally gives in and drops down to the large area rug with an exasperated exhale, flopping onto his back with the limpness of a dead fish. If this keeps happening, he’s going to have a permanent hand-shaped bruise on his face—that’ll be a barrel of fun to explain.

He gets but a few moments to bemoan this continued streak of inexplicable misfortune by himself, before the latch clicks and the door cracks back open.

“I just got settled into one of the comfiest sections of the common area before I was loudly alerted that I no longer needed to be there,” Charlie greets, snapping his Intro to Psych textbook closed and padding the rest of the way into their room. “You know, that girl has a set of lungs on her. Also, a very extensive vocabulary. Is she a theater major?”

“I think I have an evil twin,” Connor admits feebly, not even bothering to address the question. “One who’s very popular with the ladies, yet somehow makes himself scarce when they come calling. Which means I’m the one who gets my soul sucked out through a passionate lip-lock, or my ass smacked while walking through the Yard, or an unclothed guest in my bed. And subsequently gets slapped for kindly telling them that they have the wrong guy.”

“Sure,” Charlie snorts, disbelieving, as he carefully steps over Connor and plops onto his bed. “This ‘evil twin’ want to own up for running in nothing but boxers past the art museum last Thursday night?”

Connor sits bolt-upright at that. “Wait, you’ve seen him? And he did what?”

That just earns him a pillow swatted to the face. “Dude, if you lost a bet or that was some pre-med hazing ritual, I’m not gonna judge you. I will, though, if you keep pretending that wasn’t you.”

“Because it wasn’t…” Connor starts, highly offended, before he gives up and drops bonelessly back down. “Fine, whatever. Clearly it’s more believable that I’m meeting people and doing things about which I later lie and claim I don’t remember, rather than the increasingly probable doppelgänger theory.”

Charlie just rolls his eyes, yanking his pillow away from Connor’s face and propping it up behind his head as he sinks back on the bed. “Come on, you actually think you’re unlucky enough to have ended up at the exact same college as someone who looks completely identical to you and has a wild social life, the consequences of which have been doled out to you?” He pulls a dubious face. “Seems like a stretch to me.”

Connor just rolls over and screams his frustration into the rug.

. . .

“Okay, your conjecture might hold a little water,” Charlie admits the following Monday, watching the latest woman scorned sashay away, ponytail swinging. “You’re not even taking an Econ class, and wouldn’t have any reason to lie to her about it to get her to study with you.”

“That’s the detail that convinced you?” Connor grits out, trying very hard to remain upright (if doubled-over) and not topple to the ground in agony. People are already staring with varying degrees of curiosity and unadulterated amusement—no need to further draw their attention. “Not the fact that she called me by a completely different name?”

Charlie just shrugs, patting Connor pityingly on the back before looping one arm around him to help out. “People make mistakes. And how am I to know that you don’t moonlight under a fake name to pick up girls?”

“Exactly what is your understanding of me as a person?” Connor asks, utterly dumbfounded by the suggestion as the two of them carefully stagger down the sidewalk. Hysteria rising to distract from the pain, he cries, “I have spent the last three weekends studying at the library! I don’t even have my own college social life, and certainly not one built entirely on lies under an alias like ‘Tommy’!”

“Hey, I’m just saying. You do seem like a guy who’d enjoy a relationship where he regularly gets his ass handed to him, and, well, that’s a viable method for testing those waters.”

“You are a terrible, terrible friend,” is all Connor manages to groan back, refusing to acknowledge how close to target that assessment hits.

. . .

Having endured nearly two full months of painful cases of mistaken identity and no sign of the elusive Econ course-taking, multiple romantic interest-making “Tommy,” Connor has fully accepted that this is to be his campus life moving forward. He still tries—futile as it’s proven time and again—to explain each time that he’s not the boy they’re looking for, if only because it’s the polite thing to do.

(Others’ responses to the revelation, on the other hand, have yet to meet him halfway on that front.)

It would make sense, at this point, to actively start seeking out this apparent look-alike, but even with leads like a first name and enrollment in an intro-level economics course, that’s still too broad a suspect pool. Much as the mystery gnaws at him (and results in various slaps, tellings-off, strikes to more vulnerable parts…), Connor can’t justify putting his already limited free time towards tracking someone down for the sole purpose of proving their existence.

And so, he’s contented—in a very loose sense of the word—himself simply with the knowledge that he has a double somewhere on the Harvard campus, and instead focused his efforts on excelling in this next quarter’s classes.

This goal is what finds him tucked away in the undergraduate library the night before Halloween, bent over books and notepad with an unnecessary sort of concentration for the silence and lack of students in the immediate area. Thursdays usually brought in a decent-sized crowd for a pre-weekend night, but this time, it seems like most are out getting a start on the holiday.

The particular combination of focus and quiet is what alerts Connor so pointedly to the shuffle of feet down one of the aisles to his right, then the sudden halt and hushed backtrack. Whoever else is haunting the stacks tonight seems to be startled to find Connor as well, and isn’t being discreet about how he’s drawn their attention, if the eyes boring into his turned-down skull are any indication.

“Can I help you?” Connor finally prompts, not looking up but speaking clearly enough to address the lurker directly. “Or can we both just go about our evenings without bothering each oth—”

“Yeah, actually,” a male voice interrupts, moving closer with the footsteps until their owner yanks back the chair directly opposite Connor’s and plunks down. He audibly hedges a moment, before amending, “Well, more like I can help you.”

“You don’t say,” Connor says dryly, finally giving his uninvited guest a pointed look up from his books. Doing so reveals a sandy blond-haired guy with what has to be the sleaziest haircut for someone their age, and an expression that wouldn’t look out-of-place on a true crime documentary.

“You’re… Connor, aren’t you?” he starts, smiling in a way that he must think is friendly (or akin enough to it, since he doesn’t seem all that thrilled about this meeting either).

Before he can think better of it, Connor huffs out a bitter laugh at that. “Wow, first time a stranger’s actually called me by that name,” he notes, before making a point of turning back to his work and away from the conversation.

Unfortunately, that doesn’t dissuade the other guy—who Connor feels inclined to call Serial Killer Haircut, given his questionable style and mannerisms. “So it’s been happening to you, too.”

That sufficiently draws Connor’s attention back, almost fast enough to give him whiplash from jerking his head up. Probably not the best move, he realizes after a moment, as it’s given too much away, and there isn’t anything close to a resemblance between the two of them.

The dubiety must be sharp on Connor’s face, as Serial Killer Haircut backs up. “No, no, I’m not… it’s my best friend.” His face falls a bit at that, eyes canting to the side with a rising uncertainty—reluctance, even. It lasts for one extended moment, before he finally turns back to Connor and sighs, “And after seeing you… I think you need to meet each other.”

Well, this has certainly taken a turn.

“That uncanny, huh?” Connor murmurs, finally accepting that he’s not getting any more work done until this is over and snapping his textbook closed to give Serial Killer Haircut his full investment in this matter. The guy still skeeves him out a bit—certainly enough that, under any other circumstances, Connor would be throwing his wallet one way and running the other direction—but that hesitation says something about the sincerity of the claim. If this is a prank, there’d be no reason for the blond to sound like making the claim to Connor is the last thing he personally wants to do, but knows it’s the right thing.

Serial Killer Haircut laughs weakly, ducking his head as he gives it a small shake. “I’ve honestly known him my entire life. Even though I knew where he was, when I first walked by,” he lifts his head back up and leans back in the chair, giving Connor a quick once-over, “you actually got me for a second.”

“The fact that you figured it out sets you apart from everyone else.” Connor’s feeling just generous enough to give Serial Killer Haircut that point. “What gave me away?”

“Besides the fact that you must be enough of a nerd to be the only one studying here?” He cracks a grin that’s more than a little sharp and mean—almost like it’s a last-minute reminder to both Connor and himself that they’re not friends—but after a moment, his shoulders drop into an easy shrug. “I don’t know, I just… could tell the difference.”

Connor’s expression sours at the jab, and the unclear explanation only earns a flat hum of acknowledgement. They’ve reached something of a standstill here, and Serial Killer Haircut is starting to wear out his welcome, but Connor doesn’t want to lose this one solid lead to the elusive “Tommy.”

“Well, could you tell me how I can get in contact with him?” Connor finally prompts, reaching for his notebook and pen to jot the information down. The sooner he gets it, the sooner the two of them will be out of the other’s (in certain cases, humanity-affronting) hair. “That way we can find a time to meet up, if he wants to.”

Connor glances up just in time to catch Serial Killer Haircut looking at him as if Connor’s the one who should be posing for a mugshot.

“He was already supposed to meet me after I, uh, found something I thought I left in the stacks earlier, and we were going to go for some pizza,” Serial Killer Haircut admits. “If I don’t bring you with and Tommy finds out I met you, I’m going to wake up tomorrow morning duct-taped to our dorm room ceiling or something.”

Connor finds himself unable to do anything but sputter at that, glancing frantically at the pile of study materials in front of him before managing a strangled “Now?”

As desperately as he now wants the answers that have been teased—as to exactly how similar he looks to Tommy, what that means, why Tommy has so many women looking to slap the living daylights out of him—going from concrete confirmation of Tommy’s existence to actually meeting him is a big jump in such a short time. This is not how Connor expected to be spending his evening.

Alas, Serial Killer Haircut shows no empathy for Connor’s plight (but that was a long-shot, anyway). “It’s not like you have anything better to do—and no, the studying doesn’t count,” he clarifies, glaring at the books before Connor can say anything. “I refuse to be duct tape-waxed—again—when you could have prevented it from happening.”

Tempting as it may be to leave Serial Killer Haircut to his fate, Connor figures that it’s probably better to keep their relationship at a thus-far mild dislike rather than accelerating straight for enemy territory. He gets the impression that the other guy could easily live up to his nickname if pushed the wrong way.

“You’d think I’d know better by now than to be enticed into heading to a secondary location,” Connor cracks as he finally gives in and shoves his books into his bag.

“What?” There’s that look again, the pot calling the kettle certifiable, yet Serial Killer Haircut still gets up from the table and waits for Connor to finish gathering his things.

Connor waves it off, slinging his bag over his shoulder and following the blond out towards the exit.

Time to see if those answers are worth bucking the rules of street smarts.

. . .

The payoff starts to roll out the second they step outside the library and into the late fall air, when another figure falls into step on Serial Killer Haircut’s other side and exaggeratedly bumps shoulders with him.

“You took your time,” the newcomer greets, and Connor almost trips over his own feet at the voice. That sounds a little too familiar to his ears, as if it should be originating from his own throat.

Serial Killer Haircut sighs, turning his head and angling his body in just a way that it blocks Connor’s view of Tommy (because that’s surely Tommy) and vice-versa. “I got held up,” he says, and instead of leading into the promised introduction with which he’d persuaded Connor to come along, he just… leaves it at that.

Alright, that’s strike one for Connor going against his better judgement and trusting this guy.

“‘Held up’, huh?” Tommy asks, definitely not buying into the explanation. “Who’s even here the night before Halloween?”

Connor most certainly doesn’t miss the scheming glance Serial Killer Haircut gives him out of the corner of his eye before replying, “You know pre-meds. No social life whatsoever, so they take to hiding out in the library.”

Strike two.

Given Serial Killer Haircut’s mean streak and the claim that he’d known Tommy since birth, Connor braces himself for a returning dig from his unseen doppelgänger. He almost stumbles in surprise again, though, when there instead comes a pitiful groan.

“Yes, I now know more pre-meds than I should, all because they keep accosting me and calling me ‘Connor’ and asking for lab notes that I don’t have and wanting to walk with me to lectures I’m not taking,” Tommy rattles off, voice going tight from the lack of air between words, yet heat never seeps into his tone. He finally gulps in a breath, only to immediately jump back in. “And it… I don’t know, kind of makes me jealous? That there are people out there thinking I’m someone else, and who actually want to find him because he’s great at something, and I ju-…”

The word snaps off so suddenly that Connor unconsciously screeches to a halt in order to crane his head around Serial Killer Hair—disregarding whatever game he’s playing with acting as a human blinder—and find out what interrupted Tommy.

It’s a pretty clear answer when Connor turns to find that Serial Killer Hair has his head tossed back, cackling, a few yards behind them, and Tommy is staring straight at Connor with an utterly dumbstruck expression.

One that Connor is certain that he now mirrors exactly, because there’s looking pretty similar to someone, and then there’s being identical.

“Well,” he starts weakly, looking Tommy straight in the eye, “I can assure you, you’ve been in high demand too.”

#obscure-sentimentalist writes sometimes #connor rhodes #tommy merlyn #merlyn boys #ft. asshole Ollie Queen #oh so it turns out that if you make ANY sort of edit after you've already slotted in a Read More #it completely throws off the placement and puts the ENTIRE response under the Read More instead of breaking off where it was intended to #sorry about that folks

[wackygoofball]

Gwenspiration: The Wacky Version Vol. 1 - The Fanfics

As threatened/promised, I am tooting the horn in a number of posts, following the most kind call of @jaimebrienneonline.

I decided to begin with fanfic as JB fanfiction was my way into the fandom when a kind voice, long time ago, lured me over to the wonderful world which is JBO. And ever since that day I found both my home and my people. 

I am not going in a particular order because like my non-existent children, I kind of love and love to hate all of my fics equally.

But, for matters of scrolling convenience, I will put this list below a cut:

Childhood Friends has a special place in my heart because it is one of the two fics that got me into the fandom, and it is of the rare species of completed Wacky WIPs. The story marked my first tender steps in the canon as I was still catching up on show and book knowledge but got instantly hooked on the JB dynamic and just *had* to write fanfiction about them, albeit not yet knowing just what the frack Westeros even looked like on a map. I simply was intrigued by the idea of how the lives of our OTP may have played out differently if only they had met at a younger age, only to run into one another time and time again over the years, until at last, the circumstances seem to be in their favor. Writing that fic was a challenge because, for one, it got finished, which is incredibly hard for me to to do, and it is a coming of age story of sorts, which is not necessarily what I am used to writing. Nonetheless, it was a project that got me firmly into the fandom, which is why I am always remembering the process (and the writer’s panic) somewhat fondly, and always smile like an idiot when someone finds that old fic of mine and leaves a kudo or even a comment, reminding me of those early beginnings of my JB shipping career.

Choices likely has to be mentioned in the same vein, despite its crucial difference being that it went on a very, very, veeeeeery long hiatus and yet has to awaken (some prince wanting to give it a smooch to maybe bring it back to life? Would be much appreciated!). It was born out of the wish of exploring the infamous what if of Jaime and Brienne already getting intimate while on the road back to King’s Landing - as a matter of necessity/convenience, only for the misfortunate/very fortunate circumstance that Brienne winds up pregnant after their one time together. I enjoyed/would very much to enjoy again to write the character studies on how they deal not just with the issue of parenthood but also with their insecurities regarding their feelings for one another, which inspires more than one ill-made choice (*roll credits*) for either one of them as neither one dares to call love what actually is just that, hiding instead behind missions and honor, parenthood and duty, and fractured pasts that leave them wondering just who they became thanks to each other.

Colour Verses is a series that was born out of my first ever (I believe) JB Appreciation Week. OMG, it’s been so long. The theme of colors really had me inspired, which is why those pieces, which can be read in succession and independently, have a soft spot in my Wacky heart.

The Shredding Project, I believe, deserves an honorary mention despite its utter lack of completion for some of its parts and a happy ending for some of the tales shredded in this part of the fandom. I have a great passion for fairytales and deconstructing them, which inspired this undertaking of twisting and turning aka shredding all those stories into new models to fit Jaime and Brienne into. In fact, the Shredding Project is much larger than it currently is on AO3, as most of the shredded stories still reside in a large, very large Word file on my computer (42 shreddings up to date with a total of 414k words *whispers* 414k mkaaaay, yes I *am* obsessed), and can be found in the respective thread on JBO, where one can read perhaps not an eloquently put-together retelling of favorite fairytales (and some Disney movies) but at least find a conclusion to every story and thus a happy ending, as befits a fairytale.

Bow Down is another story I would mean to include in this list. It came to mean a lot to me personally because I worked my way through it at a time when I was not really having the time of my life for a number of reasons. Thus, finishing that fic did a lot of things for me - and hopefully also with my oh so patient readers. The basic premise is how things would have developed, had Brienne failed to find Sansa and thus fully dedicate herself to the cause of the Blackfish during the Riverrun Siege whose bitterness is clouding his judgment, leaving Jaime in a tough position to choose between his family and the mannish woman he can’t help but care about as much as he does.

A Tale of Spring is one of those fics I wish to include in that already way too long tooting because a) it is a finished story, which is always a rarity in my Wacky world, and b) it is still a kind of headcanon I would have loved to come about in some capacity, as it leaves room for not just happy endings while at the same time giving space for futures to grow for JB as they are cautious to dream of their future past the Long Night, edging on a Dream of Spring.

Paths is one of those stories I am, yet again, very desperate to get back on track with (I mean, it is supposed to lead somewhere, title has it). This story means a lot to me because I just have so much in my head for how this is meant to conclude and just have to get over that one edge to finally ebb into the narrative direction I need this to go (aka follow the path *badum tssssss*). I suppose the story was very much fuelled by my love for G.I. Jane and the dynamic between Jordan O'Neil and John James Urgayle (and Viggo in those short shorts... way too short shorts... damn). At the same time, my aim with this fic is to show not just how tough JB can be and how much ass they can kick together but also how insecure they are beneath the tough surface and how they actually long for something way outside the line of fire.

Train Acquaintances, by contrast, is a rather self-indulgent fic I started to write and was surprised to have found an audience rather fast. I just really liked the theme of trains as a way for two people to meet while at the same time playing with the overly romanticized notion of trains and deconstructing it somewhat. They are a curious means of transportation, to put it mildly. And to then throw in Jaime trying to act smoothly when he is just acting like a dork most of his time was just too delicious to resist. While it’s been a long time (because my computer ate part of a chapter I found really important and that has frustrated me so much, I can’t even tell you), I remain intrigued writing this story because it has a rather distinct mood from what I normally tend to write. And awkward Jaime is just so much fun to write.

Washed Away is one of those fics I am so desperate to get back to that you woudln’t even believe - because it is the one fic most closely tied to the book canon. Its premise is the Lady Stoneheart situation yet to be resolved, wherein Brienne makes a dangerous gamble to save the man she knows is not guilty of the crimes Lady Stoneheart accuses him of, leaving them both to wrestle not just with the dilemmas of this overall situation but also their conflicting vows and feelings for one another.

In the Eyes of the Seven is one of those fics I am yet again very desperate to get back to (yes, I realize I type this sentence far too often, but it is the truth!) but have not yet found a way to bridge between two important plot points, currently creating a gap that keeps me from moving on to the next chapters. It is one of those narrative places where I nerd around freely and explore some mad medley of historical fiction inserted into the history of Westeros, taking up on the runaway nuns of the Reformation period and re-applying it to the Westerosi context by making it about septons and septas instead. While perhaps not a particularly popular story of mine, it is a story I very much enjoy writing as it gives opportunity for lots of introspection, insecurities, and the wish of both characters to break out of the boundaries of the norms set by a static system leaving no room for the likes of the Kingslayer and a woman fancying herself a sword as much as a book or a dress. In general, there are just so many ideas for it inside my head that I really hope to get back on track with that story because there is just so much more I want to tell the readers about in this strange tale.

May the Norns Bind Their Fate strikes a similar tune for me, as I get to gush about my mediocre-at-best knowledge of Norse mythology (albeit a great interest) and yet again change Westeros to my liking to insert the political system of the Viking era into this society (or rather my wacky interpretation thereof). For me, it is both an experiment in terms of perhaps (big perhaps) turning things a bit more heated than I am used to (for Wacky writes no smut, unless it is a literal accident, which only happened, like, once) and diving deep into aspects such as trauma and grief as well as fate and determinacy, since the idea of seers knowing your future has a very distinct appeal in my view, and how knowing one’s “fate” may affect the outcomes of the events. Thus, taking up on the challenge to deal with that in this fic still has me hooked - and I hope I am not the only one.

Last but not least...

An Honorable Man and a Just Woman is a story I am happy to have found an audience because it really gives me something personally to write it. Considering how sadly things played out in the show, I was in dire need of my own little fix-it and have since taken up on the challenge to entertain those questions of what would have changed had Jaime survived, what would be if he were declared King of the Six Kingdoms. Not only does that leave a humbled Jaime trying to find his place in a world he never thought he would see, having seen his ending long before he rode away from Winterfell, but it also leaves him and Brienne with the reality of what it is like to survive when so many died, and how to cope with how they parted and why. And while there are still so many things left unsaid and feelings left unexpressed, one can only hope that those two honorable and just people will eventually find their way around in the new world they are meant to build.

So yeah, I tooted a lot, and I still left out a whole bunch of my weird fanfic children, but those are the ones I feel a great deal of dedication to, even if, admittedly, a lot of them haven’t seen an update in ages. But rest assured, anyone reading this who dared to jump the Wacky train and read along, knowing very well that this strange woman struggles finishing a WIP most of her days, that I am still dedicated to each of those stories (as I am to any story I write). There are simply technicalities and real life not letting me dedicate as much of my time to it as I would need to finally get that final push ahead on a lot of them.

Be it as it may, in the spirit of Glorious Gwendoline Christie, here’s to my shameless self-promotion!

Stay tuned for the next post about the wackiest of Wacky’s wacky creations.

Until then...

Much love! ♥♥♥

#jaime x brienne #jaime lannister #brienne of tarth #gwenspiration #wacky writes fanfic #wacky promotes fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #yadda #and I love me mah tags

[yourclonazepamgeneric-blog]

You Are Going to Do Bad Things to Children

I watch her. I watch her. Advise my sibling and sister to watch out of the other vehicle window. I think they are playing some game. I believe that they think this is a game. They're too youthful to even consider understanding. My mom is on a crucial. She is searching for my dad. She thinks he is having an unsanctioned romance. She faces him in the parking area. He says nothing. It isn't as though he doesn't have a clue where to look yet I realize that it isn't valid. Not father. Not my dad. She is shouting at Clonazepam Generic him now. I don't realize whether individuals are looking presently, taking a gander at both of them, at this scene being happened before their eyes or turning away. I pulverize my youth journal when we get at home. I am a youngster. I am injured now forever. I don't have a clue what to do. So this is my main event. I remove page by page. I fix passages. You don't see the amount I cherished this book, this diary however I don't see yet how to communicate my sentiments, my creative mind. My dad gave me this book. Consistently he has given me a journal in January. 'This is yours. This is your diary.' And I grin up at him, and with this book in my grasp I can compose anything I need. Who do I accept? I am my dad's girl. I appear as though him. I don't look anything like her, my mom. I realize she despises me. Maybe they will isolate. Maybe they will get a separation. They commute home in isolated vehicles. I am numb, struck stupid. I don't utter a word. My mom is driving excessively quick. It is not normal for her. Her dress is over her knees. Is this what love is? Human instinct is human instinct. 'Daddy,' I state later. 'I don't believe she's your perfect partner. I don't believe you're intended for one another.' But he says nothing, he just winks.

 Sex, that exchange, lovemaking for me was constantly messy. I needed to stay a virgin everlastingly, unadulterated. I needed to be a sister. I realized I must be rebuffed since the beginning, make penances, consistently sport dark, and bow when I needed to supplicate however I was not Catholic. Be that as it may, my mom set that thought on the right track out of my head. She revealed to me that there were no nuns any longer and afterward I needed to be a cleric however everyone knows how degenerate church pioneers are. I realized that I felt harmed, deprived, and forlorn even as a youngster so I discovered solace in books. In any event, when I became more established and watched films where young ladies would evacuate their pieces of clothing viewed by a stirred more seasoned man I would feel nothing. Literally nothing. Possibly it originated from adolescence. The climax in both the male and the female disturbed me possibly it originated from the way that I despised my mom who I thought had been so off-base, so inconsistent with my dad (whatever had they spoken about when he charmed her I surely don't have a clue. He was refined and taught, he had a degree and she could type thirty-five words per moment and she had a confirmation) yet I cherished my dad and venerated him. What's more, for my entire life I have needed an ideal love and not a physical love. For my entire life I have needed to be shielded from the entirety of life's tempests, other ladies, more youthful ladies, young ladies, I needed to be given a haven to compose and as a grown-up I would watch the glinting pictures of erotic entertainment quietly shouting with chuckling inside. So this is the thing that people would do to consider kids, their brilliant holy messengers, and beneficiaries to positions of authority of fixation, substance misuse and abusive behavior at home. There would be practically zero exchange. I would get either madly envious of their idiotic voices despite the fact that I knew each seemingly insignificant detail from the props to the bed was phony. For what reason would I be able? What was so amiss with me? After all they were just on-screen characters acting, doing what they were advised to do, presented, coordinated, and anticipating. I was exhausted with everything and pondered where my head was at. Of affection and sex I knew literally nothing by any stretch of the imagination. It exhausted me however not the romantic tale, not the misfortune, the reject or dismissal, the darling male or female leaving. Little skank, little prostitute, those weren't words that exhausted me, that annoyed me. What's more, as I grew up the young lady in me kicked the bucket when my mom mentioned to me what occurs right now, is said right now in the house. I grew up rapidly. Misuse will do that to you. Maltreatment on account of your mom, aunties (her sisters, her sister-in-law) the Johannesburg individuals, menaces on the play area, pompous male educators, and your first sweetheart when you are away from home, ten years more seasoned than you. Did he drive me to do things I would not like to do? It hurt. They state it generally does the first run through round. I kept in touch with him letters however I was not in affection with him. The picture I had of my folks watching two exposed young ladies swimming, kissing with tongue, feeling each astonishingly out of the water, contacting one another, finishing each other here and there, stroking their arms, their bodies. They sunbathed naked. It was the first occasion when I had seen bosoms, the curve of a lady's figure and full frontal nakedness. What's more, something within me, a little voice said that my future life as a girl who adored both her mom and father and a future life as spouse, darling and mother had not exclusively been disrupted at the end of the day decimated until the end of time. I was only a kid who ought to have been sleeping in bed dreaming. Endeavored suicide is finished with the two eyes shut. This isn't my time. No passage of white light. Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton. The confession booth writers. Sylvia, Abigail the invigorated crazies. Take a gander at me. The South African repulsiveness story. A scene made of bars at the window, specialists, and therapists.

 The mental meltdown, bipolar, dysfunctional behavior, insane, crazy, lunacy isn't composed on the body except if you tattoo it on your arm with an extremely sharp edge or cutting. You can be the ideal kid yet can your mom splendidly love you in an imperfect world, in her defective world. She didn't need me with my easy merits, my stage plays and practices, my accounts, God help us, she particularly would not like to peruse my accounts. 'Leave it alongside my bed.' She said. 'I'll peruse it before I nod off.' And I did yet she had progressively significant work to do. Shower, dress, make morning meals, and go to work. 'Gracious, I'll read it later.' She said at whatever point I stood up to her about it. She was doing even considerably more significant work at that point. Watching her drama with her stockinged feet up on the couch seat, her impact points by it with her eyes half-shut, marvelous, Hitler however without the mustache and the mass of oppression. 'Kiss me.' She requested from my asthmatic sibling wearing his cowhand cap pulling his wagon around the family room. Also, I made unlimited cups of tea. Also, as I made each cup my heart would load up with trust that she would state, 'My shrewd young lady. You're growing up so quick.' But obviously she never did. We were foragers. We ate what we could discover in the kitchen and if daddy wasn't meditative he would go out and get us something to eat for dinner. My dad would cry a great deal and I would put my arm around his shoulder, scarcely arrive at it however and ask him, 'Would you like to discuss it?' yet that simply made him cry more diligently and it was much increasingly hard to make him stop. I was constantly close to the highest point of my group however there were issues, harms. They were continually battling.

 'Great night mummy. Rest tight. Sweet dreams. I love you.' No answer consequently and it skips off dividers. I am turning thirty-five verging on thirty-six. It will be my birthday in two months. Valium close by (in every case close), Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke beside my bed, Poems by Sylvia Plath Chosen via Carol Ann Duffy, Poet Laureate. Untainted in a grown-up world. The main world where I have a place is media, that and the nearby Olympic-sized pool. Stopped up in a confined youth proceeded, sentences butchered by chuckling, hacking, a closeted assortment of books (course books, verse and short story compilations, a string of J.M. Coetzee's books line a rack, The Childhood of Jesus the most recent), obscurity, traffic fills within me that was consistently the trade. I can just nod off with a bunch of resting pills. I take long snoozes toward the evening and wake up in close murkiness. Pills. Pills. Pills. Pax. Epilizine. Eltroxin. Melatonin. Clonazepam Generic. Ativan. I have no tendency to go to Paris. Rilke abhorred it there however then again Hemingway appeared to have taken to it like water away from a duck. In any case I experience the ill effects of vertigo. For the most part individuals go to Paris since it is sentimental. Isn't the Eiffel tower sentimental? You won't get me up there. I am a masochist and become restless as damnation when I am acquainted with novel individuals and spots. It alarms me. What a snicker? Did she applaud? Is it true that she was applauding? Is it accurate to say that she is glad for the way that I am a storyteller and an artist, not a government official, not a legislator's significant other or anyone's better half so far as that is concerned and not the writer or narrative movie producer I needed to be in secondary school? At the point when she sat down in the auditorium was she pleased, was she radiating from ear to ear like the Cheshire feline. Gloom is exhausting. Be that as it may, I'm utilized to it now. Like clockwork I'm transported off for a week or so to a clinic to recuperate from psychosis, mind flights. What an outing for my conscience? I can't rest. I can't eat. My sister never drops by. She doesn't live here right now, this hellhole any longer. She lives in Johannesburg. My magnificence days are finished. I'm apprehensive they've gone dead simply like all the men throughout my life. The main thing that is waited is my continuous flow composing, my journaling and my easy chair voyaging and the individuals that I love the most on the planet kicking the bucket on me when I wouldn't dare hoping anymore disregarding me to now hit the dance floor with the bold, swim with the fishes, eat dangerous sardines on toast that have an aftertaste like salt and light. The rooms are vaporous in the house. I need to make sure to take in when I return home from the emergency clinic. There's not a lot of they can accomplish for me there but rather hang tight for the fantasies, the psychosis to pass however the a sleeping disorder remains with me, winter's unresolved issue me home. I'm a claustrophobe in the word related room. They leave m

[elhoimleafar]

The devil of witchcraft in the Amazonas. #Lucifer #Satanas

Unlike many other similar posts that you may have read on the internet before, if you already know my work as a writer and blogger, you know that I do not summarize what others write, there are others writing about it, I prefer to focus on writing about what I know, and that implies (most of the time) that many other authors and writers are going to completely disagree with me, but that's what my blog has always been about, writing from my perspective and experience, even when this It sounds a bit arrogant on my part, but I think the diversity of views is important in these issues.

Already after rambling a bit to introduce you to the topic (something silly but necessary), now to return here to the topic we came to, several months ago I posted a very silly phrase on my twitter account due to an entirely personal situation, the tweet read the following:

“In my culture, we do not venerate the devil and in my family, we never discuss if it exists or not, but if he goes around I think he owes me a couple of favors 🤔 where are my devil?”.

And as expected, he receives more questions and doubts than he expected, and it is understandable, in this modern hodgepodge of witchcraft / Wicca / paganism, where everything seems to enter but nothing can come out, and everything ends up transforming into something much in there. more ethnic and weird, and that really doesn't bother me at all, this only seems to piss off some 'pseudo-keyboard activists' who fight “at heart” against something they call cultural appropriation.

The topic to be discussed here is about the devil's belief in witchcraft, although I recognize that I am not the most qualified to talk about the subject, I am sure that this will help as support material for others in the future, at least as a reference, Maybe because of my origin and ethnicity.

The devil, this charismatic, eccentric, witty and vivacious Christian folklore character who seems to earnestly gain more followers than his apparent creator and father, is today (and perhaps always has been, I don't know that) one of the most common characters in folklore linked to witchcraft and magic.

Something that I understand, admire and respect greatly, is that many modern wizards and pagans come from the Catholic religion, and many of them for that reason tend to include the belief in this 'malevolent' character as part of their practice, which although not It seems to correspond to them, in a way it has been linked to the witches since the time of the persecution, if my mother said "it is totally absurd to persecute someone for venerating something they do not believe", I also understand that persecutors of witches accused them of venerating the devil for being what they identified with evil, especially because certain verses of the Old Testament promote the taking of immoral actions against witches, which he repeatedly calls " Demon lovers. ”

Perhaps for practitioners of black magic and other forms of dark arts, I am referring here to true practitioners who perform rituals and invocations, not those who read hundreds of books and do not practice anything (usually they know much less than they believe ), these in their practice venerate the figure of evil in the form of the devil, and the few that I have known in my personal life, assure me that they believe in the devil and venerate him in different ways, not publicly (or attending any church), and they claim to receive huge favors, benefits, and powers from this character.

Now, in my case and from my point of view, the first time I remember hearing that word "devil", I remember that I was 10 years old, I was waiting for my mother outside of school, she arrived entirely dressed in white, because she was at that time living her stage of 'iyaworaje' as a follower of Santería, and I clearly remember that Professor Lucía Ramírez, commented to another of the representatives “oh yes, that is the lady who is diabolic”, I I kept quiet and when I got in the car, I asked my Mom, she only replied “oh, the devil is the one to blame for everything”, she has always been very crude to answer about these types of issues, not telling me nothing else, I waited until I got home and asked the same question to my sisters, one of them 'Neyiber' replied that the devil was a kind of dark god that “certain people” revere and others are afraid of, and every time someone does something wrong, or something bad happens and the reasons are not understood, they simply blame him.

I continued with the doubt for some time, perhaps because I have never been very sociable, especially in school so I did not ask anyone, on the contrary, I waited until I got some books and a dictionary to inform me about the subject, and although with the passing of I have continued to have many doubts about this, at least I have informed myself much more and a broader view on the subject.

"There are no devils in witchcraft and magic" ...

So says an old saying that many preach and I believe in him, but I understand that this is a matter of perspective that plays with the beliefs of the origin of each individual, some believe that the devil is the one who gives his powers to the witches, others think that he works directly with the witches who seek to do evil, and not with other witches, the Wiccans see it as something alien to their practice, pagan wizards mostly refuse to believe in it, I personally see it as one of many myth-surviving gods, as a kind of dark god, a trickster like Loki, and from what I have read I understand that he was a beautiful and wise angel of light who was in a way, punished for believing himself as great as his creator, I see him as a representation of rebellion and freedom, an archetype of the rebellious and tempting god that you can find in all myths, and obviously an ingenious master of sorcery.

My experience in the Amazon.

If you have the opportunity to visit the Amazon, and if you can visit the Wayuu and Caribbean tribes, you will understand that the devil is a belief entirely alien to them, they do not understand it for different reasons, mostly because the beliefs of origin teach them that gods are unequivocally flat, the gods of light only give children of light and the gods and dark spirits only bring darkness, but it is difficult for them to understand that a god of light has a perfect child and it is revealed.

Most of the Amazonian folklore is recorded in old books that are contained in the national public library of Venezuela, and which, unfortunately, on issues of Economy and Government, have not had the opportunity to be digitized, so what many of us know, We know really very little, in the vicinity of the Orinoco River some healers of the old school call it “awujii” (the one that was brought), referring to the Amazonian legend that tells the arrival of some clouds over the blue sea, and in whose clouds full of iron men came a spirit of redemption and light, and a dark spirit that would bring misfortunes, temptations and death to the tribes.

For them clearly the devil is something completely alien to their faith, but if you visit those aboriginal peoples that survive in the vicinity of the border with Colombia, where the Catholic faith has mixed and diversified with the native pagan faith, where the Cults of the different gods, the devil is known as "the pinzao" a horrendous demon with burned skin, four eyes without pupils on the face and bat wings, the size of a dog that moves among the trees and deceives the who get lost at night, take the form of the deceased and give sweet gifts to children and treasures to adult men and women in exchange for serving them for life, these men, women, and children who fall under their influence become sorcerers who fly at night and transform into all kinds of animals, and this character "the pinzao" can possess their bodies to walk in the human world and have sex.

Now, the indigenous indigenous groups of the Yaracuy state, the caquetíos, gayones and jiraxaras, see the devil as an annoying "pixie" that grants all kinds of wishes in exchange for granting him three favors, one at dawn, one at sunset and one at midnight, that pixie seems to have many names for them, but they all clearly describe him always with the same characteristics, a dwarf man with very dark purple skin, pointed ears, always naked and with six fingers on each hand.

In the Amazonian folklore there is also the figure of “Aworie”, described with all the characteristics of a faun, a bearded man of short stature with animal legs and horns on his head, this character “Aworie” has an iron crown around of his horns which he decorates with precious stones, he is the king of the women who leave the tribe to not marry and he, grants them powers and gifts, these women then do not age and do not know the disease, can see at night and speak The tongue of all animals, these women give birth to the children of Aworie every eight moons and these children, who look like men with horns, have powers to cause disease and call thunderstorms.

Now, although I usually mention having worked with the magic books of the old school "the grimoire of Solomon", "the book of St. Cyprian" and similar ones where they always mention the character, I have never worked with him and never I have had the need to do it, clearly that is not my way, but I invite you to answer below if you have any personal experience or anecdote about it.

Hugs and lots of light...

#devil #devils #lucifer #satanas #amazonía #amazonas #tribe #native #magic #magick #wicca #wiccan #pagan #pagans #paganism #witches #witches of tumblr #wiccans of tumblr #pagans of tumblr

[asarsgyan]

WITHOUT TITS THERES NO PARADISE: “The Love Killer” - Pelambrés View

1

On the cold floor of Café Salento, curled up, as if hiding the pain of its failure, lies a woman's corpse, pierced by four projectiles poisoned by oblivion: one that broke her ambition, another that erased her ignorance, one that broke her vanity and, the most certain, the one that killed her dreams.

Next to the deceased, amid exaggerated shouting and as witnesses to the chaos, there remain several tilted chairs, some 38 caliber bullet casings, half a dozen employees running from one side to the other, like ants at the end In the fall, two inexperienced researchers and an open Bible underlined with red marker in Chapter 23, Verse 43, of the Book of Saint Luke.

“Countless gossipers, including me, the murderer, let us take a look at the scene.” I came to take a photo of the deceased that Mrs. Catalina asked me as proof the day we agreed to the crime. While I prepare the camera I think that this is a sublime moment, because if someone in this dunghill called world deserved death it was she, Yésica. They called her La Diabla for a reason. She was the worst human being who gave birth to hell. That is why when Mrs. Catalina told me that she wanted to see her dead, I didn't hesitate for a second and offered to kill her. Partly because she offered me her love in return, something that I have longed for since I was the wife of my employer, and partly because, because of that demon, Don Marcial became blinded and took the inheritance from Mrs. Catalina and the employeed me. Although I die for a kiss from my mistress, I would have killed Yésica for free and even paid to acquire the privilege of disappearing her. I hate her even when she's dead and I must admit that her spilled blood doesn't hurt. At the scene of the just crime, among so many astonished faces, mine stands out, which cannot hide a wicked smirk, the kind that goes with one to the grave. I will call Dona Catalina again to tell her that her worst enemy, the one who took her husband and the good life, no longer exists.

Two minutes ago I called her and she didn't answer. Maybe you have regrets. I will tell you that you can breathe without fear, that we can start a new life far from here and, why not, if you want, you can use my being and my love to be happy.

One last look. I shoot her again: this time four photographs, but none to the face because she is still upside down. I wait patiently, listening to gossip comments, until finally a Forensic Medicine official, one of those who count holes in the shot dead, turns the corpse over. I feel it strange. In a mechanical motion, they remove the hair from her face and cleans her face. As I portray the moment in amazement.

Something bad happens. God! The sun goes out. My illusions collapse in an instant. The woman lying on the ground is not Yésica. It is not the Devil.

The dead woman is my lady Catalina, of all souls. This Can not be!

What happened?

What did I do?

Everything is confusing. I cry my misfortune.

I have murdered the woman I love.

I glance at her purple lips and moan. I watchher and I look pale and I want them. Her little hands, no longer strong, hold a mobile phone and a red ink pen with which she crossed out the verse that narrates the moment in which Jesus tells the evildoers who accompany him on Mount Calvary: Truly I tell you that today they will be with me in paradise. That verse is crossed out with an inscription that sums up what was the ill-fated life of Doña Catalina: "LIES, WITHOUT TITS THERE IS NO PARADISE." And the poor woman was not lacking in reason. When she had them, the world fell at her feet. When she lost them, the world turned their back on her. At least from her point of view, that was her painful reality.

Shattered by the disappearance of the only woman I have ever loved in silence, I try to reconstruct the facts in my weary head and do not understand the deception. She told me that Yésica was going to be sitting at that table, with that white jacket, with that pink scarf, with that Bible that is lying on the floor with its pages played in the wind, at this very hour. But she lied to me. She put herself in La Diabla's place so that my assassins would kill her. Coward, she cheated on me. She played with the goodness that was born from my love. She laughed at me. I know that this pain will accompany me to the grave because the days I have left will not be enough to mourn it enough. I loved her more than my mother.

The stream of blood that comes out of Dona Catalina's stubborn head runs under the tables, cautiously descends to the sidewalk, as if she fears something worse, and walks slowly along the edge of the street, avoiding the feet of some onlookers and the front wheels of two Police patrol cars. I don't move my feet. I let the blood brush my shoes and reach down to touch it. I bring the sample collected with the tip of my index finger to my mouth and close my eyes, savoring the only little part of Dona Catalina that I can carry inside of me.

The stream, still warm, wriggles through the dust and dodges or drags some leaves that have fallen from the trees until it is lost inside a drain grate, a block below. Inside that sewer she mixes with the shit of the rich, the shit of the poor, the piss of both, and she begins to travel the city in a kind of macabre dismissal.

And, like the yellow water of Los Toreros Muertos, it goes under the houses of the bad guys who think they are good, goes under the houses of the good guys who think they're bad, goes under the worst, those who they do not believe one thing or the other. Finally, it falls over the waters of a stream that empties into the river where, kilometers and days later, it finds its outlet at the opening of the aqueduct in the city where Catalina's mother lives.

Without any foreboding, because her intuition dried up months ago, Dona Hilda picks up some water from the kitchen tap without imagining that it might contain some tiny particle of her dead daughter's soul. Sh drinks it with her eyes closed and exclaims:

"Thank you, God, for the holy water you give us."

If Catalina’s life was a monument to waste, her burial was an apology for sadness. After enjoying the pleasures of life in the best restaurants, in the most brutal sports cars, in the most luxurious estates, in the hotels with the most stars, one Thursday, three weeks after his death, on the edge of the Four o'clock in the afternoon, inside a very poor coffin, without ironwork like the ones she used in her expensive bags, nor velvet like the curtains of her mansion, under the frozen threads of an inconsequential drizzle, her body was buried in the Ce - Central chin with my unique and distant presence.

The men of Forensic Medicine deposited her corpse in a common grave with the ease of someone who throws some leftovers in the garbage can. Without a prayer and not a flower on her grave, my lady's human remains were thrown into nothingness. I watched them from a distance with a sting that burned my throat. I had an uncontrollable urge to get into the ground with her, but bullies are cowards. We like to disconnect lives, but we fear death.

When the men finished their work I approached fearfully, took some dirt from their new and gloomy home and put it in my pocket after extracting from their entrails a couple of fat, white, disgusting worms, of those diners of human flesh that they are in charge of reminding us that we are all the same. I still have that handful of dirt. On my knees I asked my mistress for forgiveness for having killed her, for loving her so much, and I lay down on her homeland to receive the water from heaven on my face. I am not good at making claims to God, but my silence was enough to make that man understand that he was not happy with him.

There, on that land that covers her poor remains, caring for her, reproaching her for her deception, swearing my infinite love, I fell asleep, seized by frost but with more pain than cold. I didn't hear from me again until a day later, when the same men who buried Catalina threw a corpse at me. I woke up scared, but my disgusted face let them know that I was not dead, although very dead if I was inside.

One of them managed to run screaming that I had resuscitated, but he soon realized his exaggeration and was teased by his friends. When they discovered that I was the mourner of the woman buried the day before, they lamented the mistake and offered me apologies that I had no qualms about accepting. I put on the grave of my beloved a cross made with shacks of trees and flowers of other deceased and I left thinking about how my life would be without her beautiful smile.

[k-renne]

Summary: The Nightshade Witch of Ren, a name that brings fear. Harbinger of revenge and corrupt justice, he’s the number one target of The Church. You are an average young woman of the village, trying to escape your strict parents and The Church. Fate has it that your paths are intrinsically linked, to the disdain of well…everyone.

Kylo Ren was working on requests, when Armitage Hux entered his shop. He sold unspeakable things, magic that was widely used but left unacknowledged. He observed the man with narrowed eyes; watching as a sinister spirit seemed to swirl around him.

“Hux, what do you want?” This wasn’t his first time as a customer, Hux wasn’t afraid to abuse his wealth to attain power. He was quite well versed in the occult, to the misfortune of his enemies.

“I have a sea serpent’s scale and many moonberries, along with 50 golden coins. It’s more than necessary, but I have a feeling you won’t like what I‘m about to ask.” Hux lays his pay on the table for Kylo to examine.

“I need to know what you’re asking before I consider this.”

Hux pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, “There’s this maiden,” He starts. Kylo raises his brows; he could tell already he wasn’t going to like this. “She is to be my betrothed, well supposed to be. Y/N L/N, I’ve been courting her for years.”

“Get to the point,” Kylo rolls his eyes.

“I want you to hex her, that little witch…”

“I’m amused that you use witch as an insult,” Kylo chuckles.

“Right, my apologies. But I’d like you to hex her, the woman has tricked me, making me think that she would marry me, taking my gifts and money, only to refuse my proposal!” Hux complains angrily.

“So you want me to hex a woman because she rejected you? Sounds like a personal problem.”

“If you don’t do it I’ll just go to someone else, it doesn’t matter who,” Hux threatens. The problem was that it did matter, people would call Kylo cruel but there were others that would torture people just for their own amusement and that mean that you would end up truly hurt.

“Give me some time to think about it.”

“Fine, but tomorrow you better have an answer.” Hux points. He leaves with his money and treasures, leaving Kylo to make a decision.

Kylo decided to consult his well of wills, to get some insight on who you were to help in making his decision. He places his palms flat atop of the black water and closes his eyes, taking a deep breath.

He sees a basket, full with various berries. Not far away is you, sitting near a bush and picking berries, piling them into your apron. Your hair is down, and you smile briefly as you’re imagining something happy. You look to see if anyone is watching, before taking some a strawberry and popping it into your mouth. Kylo takes a gulp of air as he breaks away from the trance.

There was absolutely no way that he could fill Hux’s request. You were a vision of beauty and kindness; you would never harm another soul. Kylo wouldn’t be able to sleep at night if he hurt you, sure he could be a monster but only to those who he felt deserved it. Especially with this feeling in his chest he had at the sight of you, which made him feel warm and all tingly over, he had to make sure that you wouldn’t get hurt.

The first place he looked was the field, that he saw in his vision. Luckily you were still there, laying in the grass and enjoying the sun on your face. Kylo doesn’t know how to approach you, he might seem terrifying to you, dressed in black, his under eyes where even lined with khol. He didn’t belong in such bright light, he belonged to the shadows. He reminded himself that thsi was for a worthy cause and began to walk towards you.

You didn’t hear him, but when it seemed like a dark cloud blocked out the sun you looked up, only to see a man. He looked regal...perhaps he was a prince, a dark prince that is. He wore a long black cape that blew with the breeze, big black feathers covering his shoulders. His nose was particularly striking, standing proud against his face. His lips, pink against the contrast of his pale skin, probably from very little sun. They looked so pouty, kissable almost. Oh christ you were staring.

“Excuse me, sorry to bother you Lady L/N, but there’s something I must tell you,” Kylo addresses you. You sit up and get ready to stand, but he quickly kneels to your level. “No need to get uncomfortable,” He explains.

“I’m sorry but I don’t even know who you are?” You ask.

“You may call me Kylo, and that’s all,” He gestures with a wave of the hand.

“Okay Kylo, what have you got to tell me?” You asked. It was quite strange for a man to come up to you like this, normally you were always alone here. If your parents knew that you were alone, with a man, you certainly wouldn’t be allowed to return by yourself. Even if you felt yourself to be a perfectly capable young woman. They would find some way to interfere in your business. Enough of them, you needed to give this ethereal man your attention.

“It’s not pleasant, but someone has come to me with the intention to hex you, I’m sure you know him. Hux?” You roll your eyes at that name.

“Unfortunately, and did you say hex?”

“Yes, I am a witch if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Wow, how lovely! I’ve never met a witch before.” You had always been curious about witches, wanted to know if they were like what your parents said or the same as the books you read. Kylo observes this little sparkle in your eye when you say that, funnily you completely ignore the part where he said he was going to almost hex you. How cute.

“More importantly you have a man who wishes to do you ill intent, and since I plan on refusing him tomorrow it will mean that he will go to someone far worse than myself.”

“What do I even do about that, I don’t know anyone who could help me.” Normally most people would have a witch they could go for stuff like this, but growing up under The Church meant you were forbidden from even talking with one. Of course, at this point in your independence you could care less about such a silly rule that you didn’t believe.

“I can help you, that’s why I came here.” Kylo tells you.

“How kind of you, what do you need me to do?”

“We need to go to your home,” He explains. You must not know who he is, to trust him so blindly. He could tell that you were somewhat naïve, of course that only made him feel more strongly about you. He followed you to your house, helping to carry some of the berries you just picked. Seeing you in person was much different than his vision, in real life he could smell you and sense your energy. Both of which made you all the more enticing to him, he took a deep breath and got a whiff of your scent, which almost made him moan.

Everything about you was arousing...from your seeming innocence to the way your blouse hugged your breasts, Kylo was enraptured. He’d seduce you, but your safety was much more important for now. However in the future...it could certainly happen, and Kylo’s mind quickly wandered to what that might be like.

He’d imagine that you’d be incredibly soft in comparison to him, how lovely it would feel to press you against the mattress and spread you wide….Stop being a deviant! Damn he made himself hard, luckily it was easily to conceal under his thick robes. It was already serving difficult not to think such things around you, true though it had been a while for him, it was no excuse. But he couldn’t help it when your smile called to him like a siren, he was already lost to you.

“Kylo, you can walk besides me you know,” You look back at him.

“Yes, I’m just trying to look out for you.” Not just stare at your backside, a woman wearing pants was a lovely sight. You shake your head.

“Perhaps, but I’d like to converse with you and it’s annoying to keep craning my neck,” You quip.

“Alright, I suppose I can look out from here.” He strides to meet you in two steps.

“That’s better now I feel much safer.” You tease, making Kylo laugh.

It had been a while since he had interacted with anyone besides a customer, and you reminded him that not everyone was horrible. Some people were actually enjoyable to talk to, especially you. Kylo hoped that this wouldn’t be the last time that he’d see you, though he would probably find some excuse to visit you at some point. “So, what kind of things do you do as a witch?” You interrupt his thoughts.

“There’s no easy answer for that, I do many things,” He answers vaguely.

“Yeah but like what?” You want to hear more about the world that had always been hidden from you.

“You really don’t know much about magic do you?”

“No, but I’d like to learn.” You shrug.

“Someday I’ll tell you, but not now okay?” Kylo promises. You nod to him.

“This is it,” You point to your cottage. Kylo smiles, there are flowers all around, vines growing on the walls, it’s small but charming like he’d imagine it. He wondered how you ended up living here by yourself.

Kylo places charms and protectants around the perimeter of your home, and also gives you a charm to wear. “Here, this is my most powerful charm, it should keep you safe,” He hands you the charm. It’s a family heirloom, passed down from his grandmother, a simple white stone with pattern carved into it.

“Thank you Kylo, would you like to stay for tea?” You offer. Kylo considers it, he’d like nothing more than to stay but he knows that if he does he’d do something foolish like try to kiss you. He already felt like he had overstayed his welcome and he wasn’t ready to answer more of your questions, “I’m sorry I must go, I have some work to do.” He says.

“That’s perfectly alright, it was nice meeting you Kylo,” You smile warmly at him.

Kylo takes your hand, bringing your knuckles to his lips to leave a soft kiss. “Enchanté my dear, may we meet again.”

The next morning you go out to fetch some water from the stream nearby, there and old woman gives you a gift that you cannot refuse. It’s a single rose and it reads as an omen. You’re hand moves before you can control it, taking it from the old woman’s hand. The thorns prick your fingers when you pick it up, the tiny prick of pain flooding your senses. The old woman flashes you a smile, and you’re filled with dread.

This girl, she’s pure

Bring lots of pain

A sprinkle of nightmares

And a dash of blood

Take her future away

The curse was set, laughter could be heard in the distance.

#kylo ren x reader #kylo ren #witch!kylo #light of mine #renne writes #kylo fanfic

[sunken-standard]

Hey! Since you are still taking prompts, here it goes: 2. We’re going to freeze to death and 70. Call me that one more time, see what happens. Please!

So it’s not the funniest thing I’ve ever done, but there might be a laugh or two buried in there somewhere.  Set in the Vegas!Married ‘verse.

“We’re going to freeze to death”/ “Call me that one more time, see what happens”

“Loch Ness?”

Honestly, he didn’t know why sheinsisted on repeating everything in the form of a question.  "Yes.“

"Did they hire you to find themonster?”

Sherlock gave her the blankest oflooks.  "An operator of one of the tour companies hired me toprevent a saboteur.  They’ve been having trouble all around the Lochand this one has a film crew booked for next week.“

"Oh.”  She soundeddisappointed.  

“So, what do you say, thirdhoneymoon?”  Maybe the third time would be the charm and they’dactually get to consummate the marriage this time.  He suspected shewas holding out on him because he had yet to get her stupid carfixed; she didn’t seem to realize how delicate negotiations offavours could be sometimes.  That, and the one mechanic who owed himsomething had gone to Bermuda a month ago and hadn’t been heard fromsince.  He couldn’t tell her that, though; she’d probably think he’dgot swallowed up by the Bermuda Triangle or some other nonsense.  Fora scientist, she was rather prone to delusion, their one… encounterin Nevada notwithstanding.

“Shh!”  She looked around tomake sure none of the lab techs heard.

“Oh right, it’s a secret,”Sherlock said, flaring his hands and bouncing around and making hiseyes wide.  With any other man she’d be parading around, Oh, look,I have a boyfriend, isn’t he so great and I’m Molly Hooper,completely and utterly not single, totally off the market becauseI’ve got a boyfriend and we’re having all the sex ever invented. Mrs. Hudson was right about marriage changing people.

She gave him a Look and he rolled hiseyes, but didn’t say anything else because he’d made his point. Maybe he’d start wearing his wedding ring just to aggravate her.  Thecontact dermatitis would be worth it.

“And John can’t go because of thebaby?”

“No, he just hates Scotland.”

“Ah.  Well, who doesn’t?  Even theScottish think it’s miserable.”

*

“I don’t think I’ve ever been on aplane that small before.  Was it built by the Wright Brothers?”she grumbled, dragging her suitcase behind her.  She stopped shortand he almost tripped over her, busy as he was cancelling theirreturn flight and securing a spot on the Caledonian Sleeper for thetrip home.  White-knuckling it in a crop-duster was not the kind ofdanger he enjoyed, thank you.  "Tell me that’s not our driver.“

"I can, though I personally thinka marriage is built on a strong foundation of trust, the cornerstoneof which is honesty in all things,” he said, taking in theclient—or whomever the client had sent—standing in front of a vanwith a cartoon Loch Ness Monster on the side holding a ripped pieceof cardboard that said SURELOCK HOOMES on it.  

Eh.  He’d seen worse.  Usually only oncoffee cups from Starbucks.

“He looks like GroundskeeperWilly.  You think he brought us a haggis?”

“Hope not.  I’d murder for a friedMars Bar, though.”

*

“Oh, and do keep an eye out forthe White Lady.  They say misfortune befalls whoever hears ‘erwails,” the innkeeper said, handing over the room key.

He made a mental note to check the roomfor hidden speakers, blacklights, and poorly-disguised secretpassages.

“Is the ghost included in the roomfee, or is something we have to pay extra for?”  He gave thewoman behind the desk one of his plastic smiles and didn’t wait foran answer before picking up his suitcase and heading for the stairs.

“Londoners.  And they say we’recheap,” he heard her grumble as they walked away.

*

“Molly, quit moaning,” hesaid, groping behind himself to give her a shake or a poke orsomething to wake her up.  Honestly, he felt no sympathy for her, hetold her not to eat that second mutton pie.  His hand came intocontact with her bum, and oh, that was nice.

“Get my car fixed first,” shegrumbled sleepily, the last word overlapping with another moan thatmost certainly didn’t come from her.  "Did you just…?“

"Wasn’t me,” he said,supremely annoyed that he’d missed something in his search.  

“Do you think it’s the WhiteLady?” she asked, pushing herself up on her elbows.

“Honestly Molly, you’re woman ofscience.”

“'There are more things in Heavenand Earth—’”

“Yes, yes, thank you Hamlet.” The moaning turned to weeping.  "Right, that’s it,“ hesaid, throwing back the covers.  

"What are you doing?”

“Finding those damn speakers.  Andthen I’m taking them down to the front desk.”

Molly groaned and flopped back onto herstomach, covering her head with the pillow.

*

“Oh!  I see something! Binoculars!”  Molly said, yanking him along with the binocularsaround his neck closer to the side of the boat.  They were supposedto be looking for places the saboteurs could moor a boat, but Mollyhad other ideas.

“Driftwood or wave?” heasked, bending closer than was strictly necessary to give the strapof the binoculars enough slack to let him breathe; he was sorelytempted to slip an arm around her waist under the pretence of helpingher maintain her balance on the rolling seas (which, truthfully, wasabout as choppy as a bathtub).

“Driftwood,” she saiddisappointedly after a few moments, letting the binoculars thud backagainst his chest.

He surreptitiously made another tickmark in his notebook as he gave the top of her head a little pat toconsole her.

Driftwood ||||

Wave ||

Reflection/ trick of light |||| ||

Animal |

Maybe she’d get lucky and spot a deadbody; at least that would be interesting.

*

“So I guess I can cross 'low speedboat chase’ off the bucket list,” Molly joked, hunkered behindone of the vinyl-upholstered bench seats.

“Just keep your head down,darling. Don’t give them a target,” Sherlock said, pulling herhead against his chest.  It wasn’t strictly necessary, but at leastthis way they wouldn’t get a look at her face if they had binoculars.

“Why did you call me darling?  Younever call me darling.  Is that some kind of code?”

Of course she’d have to ask stupidquestions.  "It’s a term of endearment.  Mary calls Johndarling.“

"And we are not Mary and John.”

“The dynamic is close enough.  I’mthe smart, deadly one and you’re the short, doctor-y one.”

“I can think of at least sixdifferent ways to kill you in the next 24 hours that no one wouldever question as murder,” she said.  "And at least a dozenmore when we get home.“

"Now’s not really the time forforeplay, darling.”

“Call me that one more time, seewhat happens,” she gritted out.

“Is that a threat or a promise,dar—” he didn’t get to finish the thought as a stray shotapparently hit just the right spot on the tour boat’s gas tank tomake it explode.

*

“We’re going to freeze to death,”Molly after they’d struggled ashore.  "Hypothermia, just likeDyatlov Pass.  It’s like some kind of crypid-hunter curse. Paradoxical undressing, you’re doing it already!“

"Nothing paradoxical about it, mycoat weighs more than you do now.  Probably want to get rid of thatjumper, yourse—”

“Do you hear that?” Mollyfroze.

Oh shit.  He looked around forsomewhere to take cover; their would-be killers were coming back tofinish the job.  

“Over there!”  He pointed towhat looked to be an archway carved into the bedrock under thecastle, long over-grown with vines and brush.

*

Molly shouted as two red eyes glintedat them from the darkness.  "It’s real, I told you it’s real,“she said, clinging onto his arm while leaning closer to get a betterlook.  He got the feeling it was less out of fear and more becauseshe was ready to use him as a human shield/ monster snack if she hadto.

"It’s a prop,” he said,holding the lighter (next time she complained about his smoking, heneed only remind her that carrying it had saved her life) higher toreveal the faint outline of a metal framework with a (rather crudely)sculpted head.

“Is that a… submarine?”Molly asked, looking at the rusted heap at the centre of the cavern.

“Hardly surprising, consideringthe tourist industry,” he murmured, noticing the moulderingskeleton wearing what looked to be an old Royal Navy uniform in thedriver’s seat.  Oh, what he wouldn’t give to have a proper torch anddry clothing…  He’d simply have to come back later.  "Come on,I think that’s probably a stairway that leads up to the castle.“

*

"You were wrong.  We’re not goingto freeze to death, we’re going to die in a labyrinth underneath acastle in the Highlands,” he said, completely unimpressed whilelooking at the point where the passage split in three directions. They all looked equally disused, no wear patterns on the floor ordrafts or other signs to indicate which one led to the surface.

“Oh no, we’ll still die ofhypothermia long before hunger, thirst, or lack of oxygen gets us,”Molly said.  Stripping to their pants hadn’t done much to providewarmth, but at least they were drier now.  "If video games havetaught me anything, one way leads to treasure, one way ends in a pitof certain death, and one is a shortcut to the surface.  Go left.“

"Left.”

“People always go right becauseeveryone’s right-handed—”

“John—”

“Is a freak of nature.  Peoplealways go right, so that one is the death pit, and the middle oneseems like it would be too easy, so they ignore it because reversepsychology works, so it has to be the treasure.  We go left and weget to the surface,” she said, tugging him forward towards theleft-hand path.

“I think my brain’s alreadyshutting down because that actually made some kind of sense,” hesaid, then stopped when something wedged in a crack in the stonecaught his eye.  

*

“If only I had a working cameraright now,” Molly said, looking him up and down.  On one hand,it was rather good luck they’d surfaced in the back of a storeroomunderneath the castle’s gift shop, because that meant they didn’thave to wait any longer for warm, dry things to put on.

On the other hand, it was a gift shopin the Scottish Highlands, so those warm, dry things consistedof argyle socks, kilts, Fair Isle jumpers and, of course, theubiquitous novelty t-shirts.  At least, for him; Molly was too smallfor most of what they had to offer, so she ended up in a plushone-piece Nessie pyjama-costume-thing.  She wasn’t the only one thatwished for a working camera.

At least they didn’t actually have topay for it; the head of the museum seemed rather excited about thering he’d found, something about the Knights Templar or somesuch,went on about it the whole way back to the inn as she gave them alift.

*

“Am I supposed to pee in this now,or once I’m in the water?” Molly asked, doing a weird kind ofinterpretive dance, presumably to make the wetsuit more comfortable.

“Don’t pee in it at all, it’s ahire,” he said.  With any luck, he’d be the only one in thewater this time; hers was just a precaution against another possiblecase of hypothermia.  Not that he hadn’t enjoyed sharing a tepidshower with her or the naked cuddle under the electric blanket thatfollowed, but he’d rather repeat those experiences when they weren’tflirting with multiple organ failure.  And maybe when his externalgenitalia didn’t look like someone had aimed a cartoon shrink-ray atit.

*

“Well, I think that should aboutdo it,” he said once he’d removed the mouthpiece and taken offthe mask.  The saboteurs would be in for a nasty surprise when theytried to abscond in their boat come the dawn, and they’d be met witha fleet of the remaining tour boats if they tried to swim for it. The mastermind of the original insurance scam was already in policecustody.

Molly started the boat (and really,he’d have to find out where, exactly, she’d learned how to handleone, probably from an ex-boyfriend or something tedious, consideringshe’d grown up inland) and he began to get himself out of the scubaapparatus.  A soft splash off to his right caught his attention andhe turned his head, already on guard in case they weren’t as in theclear as he thought they’d been.

He blinked, his brain obviously notcorrectly processing the information his eyes were sending it.  Along, slender neck with a head the size of a rugby ball rose from thewater at the side of the boat; it turned its face first one way, thenthe other to look at him.  The glowing red eyes on either side of itshead were like a rabbit and probably afforded it both low-light andpanoramic visio—what was he saying?!  It was obviously anotherprop, one of the other boat captains taking the piss, probablytesting something for the film crew that was due to show in a fewdays’ time.  He took a step closer and peered at it, trying todetermine if it was made of foam rubber or silicone, where themechanical points of articulation were, listening for hidden motors;truly, it looked to be a marvel of craftmanship even in the low lightof dusk.  It even smelled like an animal.  

He reached out to touch it and itreared back, nearly tipping the boat and sending him sprawling in theprocess.  He looked to Molly, clinging desperately to the wheelinside the cabin, then sprang up to look around for evidence ofanother submersible.  

“Just a wave,” he said outloud, trying to reassure Molly.  Well, mostly himself.

*

“Thought you were dying for one ofthese,” Molly said from where she was reclined on the bed injust a dressing gown.  She held the fried Mars Bar out to him when hesat next to her to take off his shoes.

“Not feeling very hungry, thankyou,” he said, taking note of the pale expanse of her thigh, butstill too shaken by the experience on the boat to attempt anything.

“Didn’t think you were the type toget seasick,” she remarked before taking another bite, thenmaking a noise as warm chocolate and nougat dribbled onto her chin.

He ignored it, and the way she gatheredit with her fingertip and sucked it into her mouth.  "You reallydidn’t see anything?“ he hedged.

"No!  For the last time, I didn’tdrive us into a rock or a log or whatever it is you keep implying.  Imean, I appreciate that you’re trying to be nicer about thingsbecause we’re married and… staying that way… but really,it’s the same as making an accusation, so next time you might as welljust come out and say it.”

He opened his mouth to refute herstatement, but thought better of it; probably best to keep to himselfwhat he’d seen.  She’d most likely want to check his head for lumpsor worse, start moping because she hadn’t seen it.  He would have hiscrisis of logic all on his own, quietly, in the shower.  It was justa Baskerville situation; the explanation was there, he just needed tothink through it.

Of course, no explanation wasforthcoming; nothing had shown on the sonar and there had been nobubbles or other signs of… anything.  

He stared at the ceiling long afterMolly draped her very naked self over him and fell asleep (and hereally wasn’t sure which of them was more disappointed in hisapparent lack of interest, but he was going to assume that he couldback-burner getting her car fixed as a priority, now); the Loch NessMonster wasn’t real.  And neither were ghosts, even if he hadn’tfound the damn speakers or the hidden projector that made theflickering woman by the window.

One thing was for certain: he was nevertaking another case in Scotland.  And he was never taking Molly onanother honeymoon.

#biroba #drabble ask meme round 3 #sherlolly #sunken's secret stash

[kusunogatari-a]

[ Songbird ] [ @masterofwar ] [ Uchiha Madara, Suigin Ryū ] [ Death mention, blood mention ] [ Verse: TBA ]

“We'll be within sight of the mainland by week's end, m'lady.”

From her position at the railing, Ryū turns to the crewman and gives him a hint of a smile. “Thank you – I'm glad for the news.”

When he shuffles aside, she returns her gaze to the horizon, bare of landmarks save for the setting of the sun. A streak of the ocean alights with orange and red, a path of fire to the edge of the world. Pale fingers curl along the aged wood of her chartered vessel. A sort of melancholy rings like a bell in her heart. Behind them, the isles of her home have long faded from sight. Trapped in the middle, she can see neither shoreline – only endless azure, a watery purgatory.

The letter beckoning her to the capital was one she could not refuse. A painful ultimatum that resulted in packing everything into the prow of a ship, all to be delivered alongside herself to an empty house not far from the royal grounds. With the noble family expecting a baby for the first time in a generation, it's she asked to oversee the birth...just as her mother did before her.

A white brow wilts over orbs of silver, colorless mane throw askance at the ocean breeze that fills the sails. The sudden lurch of her life is one she's expected...and yet dreaded.

But worrying will do her little good. The expanse of sapphire has faded to inky black, no moon to light a second road.

Or the shadow looming up behind them as night blankets their eyes.

Fingertips slowly drag from the railing, abandoning her post and heading toward the cabin of the vessel. The journey itself is nearly a killer – left with nothing but waiting, extending her agony before she faces finality. Sleep is a blessing, passing hours at a time in nary a blink.

The rocking of the prow is oddly comforting, ushering her under within minutes.

And, in what seems like minutes, she's jolted from it by a crash and a cry.

“PIRATES!”

The entire ship shudders, nearly throwing her from her cot as it lurches. Struggling to find her feet, Ryū foregoes the tedious task of dressing to throw open the cabin doors in her nightgown.

Alongside their vessel, now blocking her view of the water's edge, is a frigate of dark woods and crimson sails. Wicked hooks have gripped the railing, pulling the ships side by side and allowing the brigands to board.

Eyes widening, Ryū slams the door shut, bolting its locks and looking about the room for something, anything of use.

There's nothing, of course – she's hundreds of miles from any land, awash in the middle of the ocean. No escape. All she can do is pray that her hired crew can combat their contenders.

With only moments to herself to spare, she struggles into a gown – nothing of note, just something to stand between herself and the world. She can hardly take the time to bother with layers and corsets now.

A fist pounds at the door, and as she turns, a bullet crashes through the wood in a shower of splinters that graze her cheek, followed shortly by a bayonet. With nowhere to run and nothing to wield, Ryū ignores the pounding of her heart and stands resolute in the rear of the room.

Boots wallop at the knob before the lock gives way, throwing the double doors askew from their hinges. A pair of men blockade the doorway, blood and soot on their faces. For a moment there's a standstill, each side sizing up the other. But as one, the men move forward. One grips her forearm, spinning her about before pinning her limbs at her back. The other begins rifling through her things.

“Let go of me!” Pushing back with her heels, Ryū finds herself briefly airborne in her struggles against his hold. But her weight alone is no match for the pirate's brawn, hauling her out into the morning light. Around them, the last dredges of the crew kneel before a whooping crowd of cutthroats, bodies bleeding against the deck.

“Well well...seems we've a hen among the cockerels...”

With a shove, Ryū finds her knees upon the deck, the warmth of the blood of the corpse beside her soaking into her gown. A slew of fingers buries in her hair, wrenching her face upright and baring the plane of her throat.

Against the sun, little more than a silhouette, stands a man of broad shoulders and barrel chest. Arms cross atop his coat, but she can see little else beyond his outline as she squints in his shadow.

“And what would a lovely bird be doing awash upon the waves...?”

“Leave the lady out of this, you scum-sucking -!”

With a slick sound, steel buries into the heart of the crewman who dares to speak, cutting him off with a grunt of pain. The body soon slumps against his comrades still lined along the deck.

“I don't remember asking for commentary,” the captain rebukes. “I believe the lass can speak for herself...”

“...what business is it of yours?” Ryū dares to ask.

“Given that I now command what remains of this vessel...I say it's very much my business to know who stays aboard it, and why.” A hand reaches and takes her chin, tightening as she resists. “Looking for a change of venue...? An awful lot of furniture below deck. Sadly...not many pretty pennies.”

“Map shows a course plotted for the capital,” the second man reports, pockets laden with her treasures. “From the isles back to the north.”

“Hm...an expensive change of venue,” the captain muses. “Must explain your lack of pennies, pretty bird.”

Ryū simply stares.

“Not in the mood to sing me your songs...? A pity.”

“This was amongst her belongings, sir.”

Watching the pirate's hand, the woman stiffens, seeing her letter.

The gesture doesn't go unnoticed. Pausing to glance to her, the captain smirks. “Hm...” His free hand unfurls the parchment, reading silently. “...royal midwife...? Impressive. You've a knack for medicines, then?” He stuffs the letter into the pocket of his coat. “I wonder if the queen would shell out her coppers to get you back?”

Offering no reply, Ryū contemplates her options. If the pirates believe she's worth something...they'll keep her alive. But surely she's far from the only midwife – important enough to move across the sea...but bow to the whims of pirates, so hated by the establishment? Something tells her it's doubtful.

But she's not about to admit as much.

“...keep searching the ship. Bring on what you find. I think for now...I'll put this little songbird in a cage to stare upon at my leisure.” The captain pulls her to her feet with surprising ease. “Come along, then. It will do you little good to remain.”

Resisting halfheartedly, Ryū gives a sorrowful glance to the crew. Like a burlap sack, she's drawn aboard the brigands' ship, turning in time to see the captain follow after. Hauling himself up by the rigging, he's finally lit by the sun at his front.

A mane of black locks run unhindered along his back, matching tones to the orbs of his eyes. Fair skin contrasts to the dark of his clothing, black bordered with crimson along the bulk of his form. There's a refined look to his face, as though he'd been – at a point – of noble breeding.

One might dare to call him handsome. Startling so...especially for a pirate.

Catching her gaze, he gives a smug smile. “What do you think, songbird? A fair share above your chartered vessel, I'd wager. You'd be surprised what the king's coffers can buy, when pilfered.”

She offers no reply.

“Oh, come now...no need to look so dour. And what can be said of a songbird with no songs...?”

“I've nothing to say to you.”

“No insults? Oaths? Curses to sink me to the bottom of the sea? Color me disappointed...”

Ignoring his quips, she instead inquires, “...I'm not to be harmed...?”

“Well...I could bind you in chains and throw you below deck if you'd prefer the proper pirate treatment,” he drawls. “...or...you give me a reason to let you flit about the deck, give you run of my quarters...”

Distaste colors her gaze. “I am not one of your pier-dwelling harlots...!”

“Never said you were. I'd settle for a smile and a batting of your lashes, to start,” he retorts. “There are some days a man likes a woman to play coy and hard to get. The thrill of a hunt over the ease of an unabashed offering...”

“You'll find neither here.”

“Mm...we'll see.” His lips curl, appearing to enjoy the banter. “You might be worth your weight as you are, you know...I've no hurt for coin at the moment. But a spirited lass is something I find myself in short supply of...”

“I thought it ill-luck to keep a woman aboard a sailing ship.”

“I've already had my share of misfortune. I fear it no longer. Besides...what's the fun in running without risks...? The ocean's a dull place without a ship to sink or a trove to traipse. I think it might be a worthy investment.”

Her heart sinks. Ransom had been an unlikely means of rescue...but now even than appears doubtful. “...you would...trap me here...?”

“I have my flights of fancy. I suppose it depends on the worth you exude.” Taking a wave of white in his fingers, he twirls it in thought. “...if you prove uninteresting...I can always tip you over the railing...”

With the bounties collected and crewmen reclaimed, the frigate begins to pull away. Turning to watch, Ryū stiffens as flames build along the smaller vessel's deck.

“Things I find useless, I rid myself of. I've no time for that which serves no purpose.” His voice draws her gaze, finding his own boring into her. “...as I said...what's the worth of a songbird with no songs...?”

Ryū clenches her jaw against her fear. “...and to whom exactly would I sing...?”

“Myself alone. I'm not sure if you noticed...but I'm not keen to share what I fancy. Many hands will soil anything they touch. I prefer my trinkets pristine.” He smiles that dastardly smile, and something in her chest flutters. She decides to call it fear. “So...will you croon me sweet tunes? Or will you fill those lungs with brine...?”

“...do I have any choice...?”

“None without tragedy.” He moves to turn, but stops as she hesitates.

“...what were you before...you ran yourself with such a lot?”

“Why do you ask?”

Another pause. “...you seem...too high-bred for a pirate's drivel.”

He considers her, expression hinted to be troubled. “...I was an admiral in the royal navy.”

Shock stiffens her spine. “Y...you're joking...!”

“Not in the least. Hence my...amusement to your attachments to the crown.” His lips twitch. “...perhaps, in a way, I'm being petty. Perhaps part of me covets you only because it will be his loss. A small victory...but a victory nonetheless.”

“...that's why you have this ship. You took it and your rank with you...”

“Indeed.”

“...what is your name?”

“And you were guessing so well. But I can hardly fault you.” Arms folding, he offers, “Madara. Uchiha.”

Ryū finds herself reeling. The Uchiha are well-known friends of the crown, of the Senju. “...then you...?”

“This line of conversation bores me,” Madara cuts in with a wave of his hand. “I didn't bring you here to rehash my checkered past. Perhaps another time. For now...” He glances to the blood on her gown. “... I had your things brought aboard. We'll find something better for you to wear. I want my songbird garbed in pleasant plumage if I'm to look upon her often.”

With that, he turns his back, clearly expecting her to follow.

Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, she does so in silence.

The vessel's cabin is spacious, lined with glass and filled with trinkets. A cartography table shows a map of the ocean and nearby lands, marked with notations she has no care to read. True to his word, her chests sit in one corner.

Madara collapses into a chair, lounging and looking to her airily. “...pick one.”

“...do you expect me to undress?”

“I see no other way to rid yourself of that bloodstain. It's dry, now – no salvaging it.”

Glancing to the red upon her gown, Ryū considers it a long moment before gathering her skirt. With a tug, she tears the fabric, pulling until the new hem brushes her knees all the way round.

Madara seems to pause, staring at her shins for a long moment before giving a barking laugh. “...I will admit...you have me there, songbird. But you can hardly walk about in so short a skirt...?”

She gives a huff. “...I've a name, you know.”

“I do. I saw it on your letter. Songbird suits you better.”

“Does it? Or do you prefer to objectify me further by refusing my name?”

A pause. “...Ryū.”

“Thank you,” she sniffs.

“...we've still the matter at hand, however.”

Ryū's posture stiffens. She can think of no further ways to weasel out of it. Looking to the trunk, she briefly fishes around before finding a gown of deep violet. Setting it aside, she turns her back, refusing to cater to him to any length beyond the necessary. The remains of her first are thrown over her head, tossed aside before fetching the replacement. Pulling it over her hips, she fetches her hair from beneath its collar before freezing.

At her back, calloused hands begin to lace up the bindings.

Heart leapt to her throat, Ryū remains motionless, waves still held aloft and out of his way. Her breath quickens, shortens, eyes wide and staring at the wall as her throat dries.

“...put it down.”

Hesitating, she releases her locks as his grip shifts to the dip of her waist.

“Turn.”

One hand pushing as the other pulls, he urges her about, giving the garment an evaluating rove of his eyes, quite obviously lingering at its neckline.

“...much better.”

Fighting not to tremble, Ryū finally manages to swallow. “It's a step up from bloodstained or torn.”

“Indeed.” Boots scuff the floor as he moves back to his seat, remaining upright. “One more turn. From a distance.”

Silvers stare for a moment before begrudgingly acquiescing.

“...it will do. Now...I've a helm to take.” He gives a beckoning curl of his fingers.

She follows.

Beyond the cabin, the wind snares at gown and locks alike. Eyes follow her movements, and to her displeasure, Ryū finds herself closing the gap between herself and Madara in a search of safety.

“...where are we headed?”

“A port to the west, before we stumbled upon you. I've a delivery to make.” Taking the wheel, he gives her a glance that ends up lingering.

“...what?”

“I can't decide if your hair is more akin to white-capped waves, or moonlight on still water. I've never seen its like on a lass your age.”

The quip takes her by surprise.

“The eyes are easy – silver coins. Or...perhaps the clouds of a squall. Given your spirit.”

“...yours too are simple. Both black as coal.”

“Mm...give it some flame, and you'd be right.”

Eyeing him warily, Ryū eventually turns her attentions to the forefront. “...I hate sailing. Dull as dirt.”

“You'll not think so when we hit thunderheads.”

“...dull, or deadly.”

“The ocean's a fickle mistress. But once you fall for her...there's no letting her go.”

“Such fond words for a body of water.”

Madara casts her a glance before reaching a hand. “You'll see what I mean.” With a tug, he puts her at the helm, barred between them by arms. “Go on – take it.”

Stiffened, Ryū hesitantly grips spokes of the wheel. As Madara releases his own, it jolts in her hands. “Wh-!”

“She's stronger than she looks. Let her win, we'll lose our course.” The captain retakes his hold atop her hands. “She'll fight you – stubborn thing.”

Flushing at both his grip and his stance at her back, Ryū can hardly escape.

“...she dances under our feet. Tugs at the prow and the rudder. She's a siren, the ocean...trying to lure you down in her depths. You've got to tread just out of reach – enough to garner passage, but not too deep as to let her pull you in.”

“You wax rather poetic about...her.”

“A life on the water will do that to a man.”

Still trapped, Ryū can do little more than listen and watch. She still can't see the allure – she'd much rather have feet on solid ground. But there's little helping it now. Nor is there any knowing the next time she'll touch it.

The thought is a gateway to other, darker musings. The lives lost of the crewmen, her freedom clipped like feathered wings, and the countless gallons of blood on the hands of the man behind her – the hands that now envelope her own.

Her selfishness at living while others lose their lives.

Altogether, they're nearly dizzying.

...the purpose of life is to live. Make your way through this...you might be free again.

“You've gone awfully quiet, little songbird...”

“...tired.”

“Did we cut into your beauty sleep...?” Madara peers around her shoulder.

“Mm...”

The Uchiha seems to hesitate, catching her shift in moods. “...then we'll rest.” A nod to his first mate shifts control of the helm again, freeing her for the moment.

He receives a questioning glance.

“He knows well where we're going. I'm not the only one who can bear the wheel. Besides...raids leave me lethargic. I think I'll lie at my leisure...take in the sights for a time.” Another flash of his smirk, though it feels...lighter somehow.

Still wary, Ryū considers him a moment as he takes his leave. There's no command to follow...but the thought of staying upon the deck with so many roving eyes makes her nervous.

Once she steps through the cabin doors, she jumps as they close behind her, Madara revealed with a palm against the wood grain. His jesting expression is replaced by an austere air.

The bird in the cage of her ribs gives a flutter.

“...is the surprise wearing off...?” Abandoning the doorway, Madara slowly circles. “I think you've realized the severity of the situation...”

Wordless, she watches, not daring to take her eyes from his own.

“This is not some luxury cruise paid by coins of the king. This is a rogue vessel...and everything about it – every nail, every string of rigging, every man aboard it – belongs to me.” A pause to let his words settle. “...and as I'm sure you well know, I am not a good man. I am not a kind man.”

His spiral begins to close, and soon Madara is only a breath from her front. For a moment he seems to study her.

“...I am not often easy to please. But I will make this simple for you, songbird.” For the second time, he takes her chin in a gloved hand, lifting her face to the downward tilt of his own. “...be obedient – give me no reason to rile my temper – and I can quite easily tell you, you won't be harmed. I have no intention to ruin what I expect to find amusement in. Besides...you'll not be quite the pleasure in a constant state of tears, with bruises marring that ivory skin of yours. It, therefore, is a simple matter of you toeing a line...and I daresay you might not be utterly miserable in my company.”

One corner of his mouth lifts. “You'll see little harm in me garbing you as I please...or when I feel the need to bare you to better suit my fancy. I take good care of my trinkets...and you will be no different, so long as you give me no reason to ensure your cooperation through force.”

Ryū shakes, but holds his gaze all the same. When he gives no more words, she realizes he expects a response. Wetting her lips, she manages a jerking nod. “...understood.”

“...then we've nothing left to discuss.” His grip drops, though he stares a long moment longer before turning his back. “...I'm weary. And there's no better perch for a weary man's head than the lap of an obliging lass.”

Still struggling to find her bearings, Ryū represses a shiver and follows to a worn settee within the cabin. As Madara gestures, she first takes her seat, flinching as he sprawls atop it and her skirts. Lids fall closed, arms tucked beneath his mane.

She sits stiffly, not sure what else to do.

“...so, does this little songbird know any ditties...?”

A jolt. “...a few.”

“Let's hear one, then. And perhaps give your fingers something to do.”

Her brow furrows in question, caught as he opens an eye expectantly.

“I've not seen a comb since this morning. You'll make a suitable substitute.”

Hesitant, but knowing she can't disobey, Ryū lifts a tentative hand before sorting fingers through his tresses, half-expecting to pull away covered in grime. She is, however, pleasantly surprised.

“...now, a tune...if you would.”

Wracking a brain wiped clean by circumstance, Ryū eventually settles upon one and struggles to clear a dry throat.

“...of all the money...that e'er I had...

I spent it in...good company...”

Her tone starts with shaking, often pausing to gather her bearings. But eventually she reaches the final line, and settles back to tense silence.

“...not bad. I'll forgive the nerves. You'll shape up in time.”

Staring out straight ahead, Ryū gives no reply, twitching as she feels a tug at her hair. Greys glance to see a curl looped through the pirate's fingers, expression contemplative and bordering on drowsy. She watches him warily as the waves seem to lull him.

“...wake me in an hour. I'd like not to idle too long.”

“...as you wish.”

Abandoning his hold, Madara resettles himself with a sigh, going still against her skirts.

Fingers still woven in his mane, Ryū decides to keep up her attentions, having not been ordered to stop. As she does, her eyes roam the cabin, little else to do pinned beneath him.

...so it begins...

     Nothat’snotalinktoVocaroointhoselyricsIdon’tknowwhatyou’retalkingabout.       ...*ahem*      I...don’t know where this came from. I got a random glimpse of Pirate!Mads in my head and it wOULD NOT LEAVE. So I forced it out by indulging in YET ANOTHER DRABBLE *jazzhands*      ...the cover is really bad, okay. I did it on my ipod, and I’ll just pretend the shakiness is because Ryū is supposed to be nervous. But since I was listening to Assassin Creed 4′s OST as I wrote this...because pirates...I knew that had to be the song she sung. Was gonna just link the game version, but I was like HECK IT on a whim and just...did the thing. I’ve wanted to do Ryū covers for a while anyway, I just...don’t have a good mic. And I’m a shy as heck bean. But there you go.      ANYWAY. I dunno. Random urge. I’m still working on that longer one - it’s not cooperating with me the way I want. Sooo...we’ll have to see how that goes. BUT IT’S STILL A THING. Just not...done lol      ...pirate!Mads may have to become a regular thing.      *throws at Phoenix and runs away*

#masterofwar #uchiha madara #suigin ryū #death mention #blood mention #verse: tba

[towncalledkingdom]

My eyes have been glued to monitor number one for nearly an hour. Nothing is really happening on screen yet, but the King’s Council is not scheduled to meet until 9 A.M. A dozen empty chairs have been tucked in around a long table. Gram Hilda, overseer of the Apothequarium and Kingdom’s oldest living resident, has been sitting at the table since I sat down with my coffee this morning. She has not spoken. She has not eaten. I watched her go an entire five minutes without blinking.

Gram Hilda has been an integral piece of Kingdom’s history for nearly a century. She probably remembers my father as a child. She was there to see Eleanor as a terrified young woman pulling her three confused children into Town Square. She met my mother. I’ve read her records.

Gram Hilda’s family came from somewhere outside of America. They found their way into Tennessee from some distant country, and had the misfortune of trapping themselves in Kingdom when Gram was a teenager. Gram’s father viewed Kingdom’s fields and open land as an opportunity at a successful new life. He spoke endlessly of what a blessing it was to have found their way here. Gram’s mother, however, panicked at the sudden confinement. She mourned her inability to return home, knowing that she and her family would be dead to all who loved them. She hung herself in a barn when Gram was seventeen.

Goaded by the death of their mother, Gram and her sister spiraled into a life of violent rebellion. Together they gathered a group of unscrupulous denizens and formed the most notorious gang in Kingdom: The Lesovik. For four decades the Lesovik terrorized the wealthy citizens, plundering their storehouses and hiding out in nearly unreachable treetop outposts. When the Privateers finally rounded up the gang and arrested them en masse, Gram’s sister was nowhere to be found. Gram served twenty years in The Dungeon before my father announced that her sentence had been completed and released her.

During her stay in The Dungeon, Gram had become a sort of celebrity. Self-taught using rain water and cool man-made wells, Gram was well versed in the art of aquatic healing, and was given a temporary position at the Apothequarium. Gram’s skill, determination, and leadership ability eventually led her to take over as head of the institution when the previous head stepped down.

It’s as if Gram Hilda is replaying the years moment by moment in her head. The rest of the King’s Council has nearly arrived. Caracal, dressed in slacks and a sharp jacket with the sleeves pulled back to reveal bandaged fists, marches in to sit beside Gram. Drs. Elwick and Todrick Leifson, co-principals of Smoke University, carry a wide chair between them, pushing others aside to make room for theirs before dropping into it in unison. “Hello, ladies!” they say, smiling together as they greet Gram and Caracal. Caracal manages a short nod. Gram ignores them.

A young black man in glasses enters the room, a book open in his hand. He stops halfway toward his seat. “Did I sit here last time?” he wonders aloud.

“Over there!” reply Elwick and Todrick, pointing to the seat across from Caracal.

“And where will I sit today?” he asks, closing his book.

“Sit on floor if you have to, Esmur. Too many questions,” says Gram, speaking for the first time.

Esmur smiles. “Disdain for questions is a sure sign of secrets.”

“Talk to me again and I’ll take book from hands,” Gram grumbles. Her mouth scowls but her eyes smile.

Every inch of the conference room is visible on my screens. The Watchman old-guard had felt that if we were to only document one thing it should be the King’s Council. It’s where decisions were made, battles began, and technology was revealed. Fates were decided here and rulers were ousted in that very room.

Esmur sits down a couple of seats up from Caracal, tilting his head to the side and looking at her as he scoots forward. “New Alpha, unexpected Beta, eminent target of Eleanor’s rage,” he says. “You didn’t kill her, did you?”

Caracal scoffs, “I’m not sure that I could kill Mantis. Not while she’s awake, anyway.”

“A dangerous confession,” says Esmur, raising his eyebrows.

The remaining two leaders of the Church of M are in the midst of a heated debate as they walk through the door. Jericho, Grand Reformer of the Penitent and Dorcas O'Donahue, Defender of the Servants, end their argument abruptly as they take their seats. Jericho gives a sweeping wave to the gathered Council. O'Donahue greets everyone by name and asks them how they’ve been before sinking into a chair between Esmur and Caracal.

Morty, Dean of Morty’s Middlegarten, saunters in, hands deep in his pockets. Whispers of dark, bouncing curls wave from the side of his head as he walks. He chews on his bottom lip. His eyes are distant. “Hey everybody,” he says, clearing his throat several times.

“Need more coffee, boy,” says Gram.

Morty smiles. “Probably so, Gram. Probably so.”

Caracal’s eyes are fixed on Jericho, burning into him as he feigns ignorance. She grinds her teeth. Esmur murmurs quietly with O'Donahue as they wait for the last Council member to arrive. Morty peers into a camera hidden in the table edge. “Hey Watchman!” he whispers. “It doesn’t count if I talk through one of these, right?”

“Hey Morty,” I say, knowing that he can’t hear me.

I’ve noticed a strange sort of reverence in the people of Kingdom. Many of them gesture toward places they know the cameras are hiding. Some speak to me in secret, telling me their plans and dreams. Others are forever trying to hide from the cameras, covering them with clothing or standing at the edges of the frame. Such attempts are futile, of course, due to the sheer number of them hiding in every corner of the town. Whoever had installed them had foreseen this reaction. Children in the dorm at Morty’s Middlegarten have built little shrines in some places, booths to speak with me as if in prayer. But I can’t answer their prayers. Nothing pains me as much as the voice of a child yearning for a home they’ll never return to.

…

The Council waits for over an hour before Eleanor strides in. “Wait by the door, Matthew,” she orders, leaving a young Privateer stationed just outside the room.

Gram Hilda scowls. “No one outside door, woman.”

Eleanor rolls her eyes and calls, “Dismissed, private.” Matthew’s footsteps echo down the corridor.

The room is deathly silent as Eleanor walks toward the table. Caracal, Morty, and Gram do nothing to hide their hatred for her. Dorcas O'Donahue stares into her lap as Esmur’s hands fold into his. Even Elwick and Todrick stare into space, unwilling to meet Eleanor’s gaze. Only Jericho nods in greeting. Even he remains wary.

My chest tightens as I see her. Waves of exhaustion gather behind my eyes and at the base of my neck. A thousand terrifying memories begin playing themselves unbidden before my eyes. Eleanor shoving my brother’s head beneath the water of an aquarium. The crack of a belt across Madison’s exposed legs and back. A hole punched in Roland’s wall. Five shivering children huddling together outside one winter’s night. Thousands and thousands of holes dug by a child’s torn hands. I shudder and try to focus on the screen.

Eleanor’s smile would be winsome had any of the Council been meeting her for the first time. She moved with an air of authority, spoke with the expectation of obedience. “It seems we need to address a few things,” she says, still standing. She locks eyes with Caracal. “Let’s start with Phylla’s blatant disregard for Kingdom Law.”

#chapter 5 #kings council #watchman #eleanorsucks #phylla #caracal #gram Hilda