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#embroidered sheer curtains
decorhomeau · 11 months
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Hang Curtains | Embroidered Sheer Curtains
Minimalist Embroidered Sheer Curtains - Home Deocr
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For any budget and taste, we have the perfect hang curtains for you!
From basic solid-color curtains to delicate, exquisitely patterned curtains and luxurious premium curtains, we have it all to easily upgrade your home décor.
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michelle-anadytop · 1 year
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These pink flower window sheers are very vibrant colors, good quality, well-crafted, suit for your bedroom, living room etc., allow sunlight in and lend you enough privacy.
Shop now -> https://bit.ly/3hIHr5q
Light Green Leaf Pink Floral Embroidered Sheer Curtain Panels
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leastworstthing · 1 year
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workin on my room :)
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zebaworld1 · 6 months
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namelessghoulette626 · 9 months
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prompt 8: "is that my hoodie?"
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8. “Is that my hoodie?”
“Don’t get into too much trouble,” you mumbled, having just woken up as Miguel left for work. His cologne permeated throughout the room, freshly sprayed, and you felt yourself begin to doze off because of the comforting smell. 
“You know I can’t promise that, love,” he chuckled, giving you a quick kiss on your cheek before leaving your room, the door clicking quietly as he shut it. A few moments later you heard the front door shut, and the unmistakable sound of a multi-dimensional portal being opened. 
And then there was silence. 
The lack of sound always disturbed you, making you feel like something terrible was waiting around every possible corner. Huffing, you realized you weren’t going to be able to sleep without hearing Miguel’s breathing and movement beside you. Sitting up, you felt the heavy duvet pile in your lap and rubbed the sleep from your eyes. 
Sunlight streamed into the room, unobstructed by the sheer curtains decorating your window. As you looked around, you noticed a familiar black fabric draped over the dresser. Getting out of bed, you softly crept over to the dresser and picked up the piece of clothing. 
Your suspicions were correct; Miguel had left his favorite hoodie at home. 
For the last two-and-a-half years that you’d been dating, he never, not once, didn’t bring his hoodie to work with him. Even during the scorching summer heat, he would bring it with him, insisting that he would end up needing it during the day.
You examined it, having not seen it since the day you gifted it to him. During your first couple of dates together, he’d mentioned how he didn’t own a hoodie because none of them fit, so, for a gift, you bought him a black hoodie that was tailored to his proportions. Nothing fancy, but he loved it.
It hadn’t changed much over the years, just slightly worn with a few strings fraying at the sleeves. The hoodie was significantly larger than any you owned, and when you held it up to your body in the mirror, it looked like you were wearing a dress. 
Now, you had two choices here. You could call him, tell him he left it at home. Or you could keep it and wear it, at least until he came back. Feeling particularly selfish, you decided to put it on, a little secret just for you, and only for today. 
You were practically drowning in the material when it was fully on your body, the sleeves falling way past your hands, and the waistband meeting your knees. Wearing this really put into perspective just how large Miguel was. Rolling up the sleeves so you could actually function, you noticed how the right sleeve felt slightly different than the left. Looking at it, you realized that it had been ripped, hastily sewn up with a blue thread. At the cuff, where the rip had ended, was a small spider embroidered into the material. You felt yourself smiling as you tried to imagine Miguel sewing, and then feeling adventurous enough to try his hand at embroidering. 
When you brought the hood over your head, you were bombarded with the smell of him: light amber with undertones of mahogany and vanilla. Like with the cologne, you felt safe, and sleepiness began to take hold of you. You shook yourself out of it, wanting to somewhat function today. Although today was your day off work, you wanted to be productive. Leaving the cozy space of your bedroom, you head to your home office.
A few hours later, you had gotten a lot done,  and your to-do list was growing shorter and shorter with each passing minute. It was about 2 o’clock, and you had lost the motivation to continue working. So, you got up, groaning as you stretched out your unused muscles. You loved your days off, but you hated not having anything to do. 
Flopping onto your couch dramatically, you debated calling up one of your friends to go do something, but you really didn’t feel like leaving the house today, especially now that you were wearing Miguel’s hoodie. Turning on the TV, you mindlessly scrolled through the channels until you found something that slightly interested you.
After about an hour, you lost interest in the TV, and so you shut it off, boredom driving you crazy. You walked back to your bedroom, pacing a bit until you saw your game console, sitting on the dresser where the hoodie was, the TV hanging on the wall above it. Grabbing the controller, you booted it up, feeling a newfound energy surge in your veins. 
That didn’t last long.
People are assholes online. 
After a few matches, you felt yourself lose faith in the human race, which was your indication that it was time to stop playing games for today. Lightly tossing the controller further away on your bed, you flopped back, your arms and legs stretched out like a starfish. Glancing over at the clock, it said 5:39. You couldn’t think of anything else to do, so what better thing to do when you’re bored than to nap? Snuggling under the blankets, you closed your eyes, eventually falling into a light slumber.
A while later, when you heard that unmistakable sound again, you woke up, feeling more tired than you were before the nap. Apparently, you hadn’t woken all the way up, and you fell back asleep until you felt the blankets being ripped off your body. You let out a cry as Miguel laughed, already changed into his pajamas, and he crawled on top of you, peppering kisses across your face. He was about to roll over before you watched him look down at your body, his smile growing even wider at what you were wearing, a slight pink hue dusting his cheeks. 
“Is that my hoodie?” he asked, tugging lightly at the hoodie strings, causing the hood to tighten slightly around your face, but it still managed to cover your eyes completely.
You hummed yes, and you pushed the hood back to look at him. “I was wondering where it was,” he murmured. “I was getting scared that I lost it.”
“If you did, I just would’ve gotten you a new one,” you said, but Miguel just shook his head.
“It wouldn’t be the same, unfortunately.”
A piece of hair fell in front of Miguel’s face, and so you gently brushed it back, earning a small kiss on the inside of your wrist. As you brought your hand back, you inquired about the hoodie some more. “How come you always take it with you? I can’t imagine you’re wearing it all the time?”
For the first time during that conversation, his eyes cast downwards, avoiding contact as he explained. “I bring it with me because it reminds me that I have something to come home to. It reminds me that there is someone out there who cares about me, someone who would go out of their way to fix a problem I mentioned offhandedly. It reminds me not to be too reckless out there, to always come back to you, no matter what.” When his eyes came back up, he was met with your wet eyes, emotion overtaking you. You cupped the side of his face, bringing him closer to you until your lips joined together. 
“God, I fucking love you,” you murmured into the kiss, and you felt his hands slowly creep up your body, the hoodie bunching up at your waist. 
For a second, he moved away, whispering a quick “I love you,” before returning his lips to yours. “You should wear my clothes more often,” he continued after a few seconds. 
“If it always ends like this, then I think I will.” “What makes you think it’s ended, cariño?”
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whisperingmidnights · 6 months
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Lovely Things
Pairing: Court of Nightmares AU dark!Feysand x f!reader
Summary: Touch as a form of possession.
Prompt: lingerie
Word count: 2,191
Warnings: D/s dynamics, biting, blood drinking, venom as a sort of aphrodisiac
     The lace resting against my skin was a shade deeper than the blood that had glistened on the ballroom floor. I trailed the tip of my nail along the curves of the dark, thorned vines embroidered across the sheer, delicate fabric covering my torso and tried to forget the burgundy wine splattered across the front of my champagne gown, and the way that male’s head rolled across the marble. I’d always known there was an innate violence to being desired like this, to be so thoroughly consumed, but I had surrendered to it anyway.
     And tonight it cost someone their life, but I can’t dwell on that now. Not when I have my own role to play. Rapturous desire will always have a steep price, and I will always pay it like the desperate, hungry creature I am.
     I turn before the large, ornate mirror affixed to the wall, admiring the way the blood rubies at the neckline glitter in the glow from the candlesticks anchored in the tall iron candelabras. Would she want me stretched across their bed? My eyes flick to the gauzy, black curtains drawn around the bed, aimlessly fluttering in the breeze that persistently winds through the halls of this cavernous city, even this deep within the heart of the mountain. No, if she wanted me there, the curtains would be tied back. Kneeling near the door, perhaps? No, there’s normally a cushion there to protect my knees from the unforgiving stone floor, at least at first.
     “You’re thinking entirely too hard.” I swallow hard at the melodic voice floating to me on that breeze. It’s like a knife wrapped in velvet, the cruelty of it barely suppressed, and I fight to keep my eyes open as my Lady materializes from one of the pockets of darkness that cloak the room like cobwebs. Before she became High Lady, she was known as the Huntress, and I never can tell which of them is going to step into the room with me. Her hand slides around my neck as she steps up behind me, and I note the white tips of extended fangs in her smile before those sharp, black-tipped nails dig into the soft skin of my throat. “You’re already exactly where I want you, pet.”
     Her quicksilver eyes dilate as she watches the droplets of blood trail my skin. I don’t flinch when the tip of her tongue darts out to catch them before they tarnish the jewels. The quick lick devolves to hungry lapping at the wounds she inflicted while those deft, knowing hands trace the curves of my body. I tilt my head a little more, granting her further access to my throat, and her palms skate against the underside of my breasts.
     “Delicious,” the High Lady murmurs against my skin. Her lips trace a pattern of her own design up to the tender flesh beneath my ear, where she suckles eagerly until I whimper, unable to take my eyes from her reflection in the mirror. Her dress is made of little more than spiraling, black spidersilk cobwebs, they do nothing to hide the generous line of her body, half hidden behind mine as it is. She is resplendent, this Lady of the Night, and she looks at me as though she might devour me whole.
     Mother above, do I want her to. More than anything, more than air, more than life-
     “Be careful what you wish for, my darling,” she croons, gently plucking at my nipples through the fabric of my bodysuit. She pinches and rolls the delicate buds until they’re unbearably stiff between her fingertips, and I can do little more than will my legs to hold me upright and try to hide the hitch in my breathing. “I can take the breath from your lungs in more ways than one, and make you thank me for it when I do. In fact, I do believe I’m stealing it now, aren’t I?”
     “Y-yes, Lady,” I whisper, running my tongue along my lower lip to wet it. Her foot knocks against my ankle, spreading my legs wider as she continues her assault on my breasts, kneading and pinching until I whine, unable to squeeze my thighs together to grant myself some relief.
     “Are you alright, my darling?” she whispers, lightly nuzzling the space behind my ear before her teeth nick the skin, drawing a line of blood for her to lick at. “You had a bit of a fright tonight.”
     “I’m fine,” I whisper, shivering at the way my nipples tighten further beneath her ministrations. The stimulation is almost painful, the arousal beginning to soak into the fabric of my lingerie a testament to how much I love it. “He didn’t touch me, Lady, the spymaster saw to that.”
     I’m convinced he sees everything that happens beneath this mountain.
     “Don’t think of it now,” she murmurs, squeezing my breast until I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out. “Don’t think of anyone else now, not when I’m doing this to you.”
     Her fangs flash again before she sinks them into my flesh and I feel the slow, steady burn of her venom spreading through my veins. I had worried, at first, what nightwraith venom might do to me long-term, if I would develop a dangerous craving for it the way those who haunted the alleys beneath my window often had, eager to sell whatever bits of themselves they could bargain away for just a taste of it. But that was the venom of ordinary wraiths.
     My lady is no ordinary wraith.
     She is the High Lady, she’s so much worse.
     She has never allowed me to go hungry, though.
     Heat rushes through my body and with it comes a desperate pang I’m too familiar with, a consuming need I’ll never recover from. My stomach flutters as she trails one hand down my abdomen, stopping just above where the vines meet over my empty, aching cunt. I need her to touch me, to stroke and tease me until I fall apart, to fuck me until all I know is the slide of her body against my own. I want her to fill me however she sees fit: those wicked hands, that creeping darkness holding my ankles apart like ice-cold manacles, or perhaps, if I’m very lucky, she’ll take a male form again…well, at least part of her. She’d been so deliciously thick, I could have come from the stretch of her alone.
     “Did you like the way I took you, pet?” she whispers, following at the line of my desperate thoughts with a smirk as the tip of her middle finger just barely grazes my hard, pulsing clit. “Bent over the back of the sofa like a common whore? You begged me so prettily to fill you, do you remember? I do, I think of it often when we’re away from you.”
     “I loved it,” I whine, daring to rest my head against her thin, delicate shoulder. It’s an illusion, of course, like she was built for deceit. Her cruel smile turns smug as she rewards me with one firm stroke, rolling my nipple with her free hand until my hips roll in a silent plea for friction. “You felt incredible, Lady, you always do. Please, please-”
     “And you always want more, correct?”
     “Yes, my lady, if it pleases you.”
     “Oh,” she chuckles, rewarding me with a delighted, open-mouthed kiss that tastes like blood and sweet, dark berry wine. “You’re such a well-trained pet when you want to be, my little mouse.”
     She swallows the moan passing between my lips and rewards me with a slightly firmer touch.
     “This is very pretty,” the High Lady continues as she traces the delicate lacework covering my skin. High on her venom, I want to kiss and lick at the column of her throat. I know without her permission I can do neither of those things. I meet her gaze in the mirror instead and watch her languorously stroke and pet my body everywhere but where I want her most. “You weren’t wearing it tonight, we would have noticed it beneath your gown.”
     “No,” I mumble as the hand on my breast trails along the rubies around my neck to graze the ribbon of crimson silk tied at the back of my neck. “It was for you, only for you.”
     “Only for me?” she croons, nipping at the shell of my ear as her finger slides along the gusset of the bodysuit to draw a whimper from my throat. “And not for your High Lord?”
     “H-he can watch.” The laugh that rumbles from the shadows would have made my knees buckle if some strange, invisible force hadn’t wrapped around my limbs to support my weight. I might occasionally beg him for pleasure and he may grant it, but I cannot pretend the High lord does not terrify me to my core.
     “He can scent your fear, you know,” the High Lady whispers. “It twines so deliciously with your desire, my sweet. An irresistible lure. I don’t know how he stays away. I certainly couldn’t, not after I’d had a taste of you.”
     “O-oh,” I gasp, a shiver rolling down my spine as clever, invisible fingers trail along my slit over and over in a firm line, eliciting little whimpers and moans that make my High Lady’s eyes dance with delight. I lose myself in those eyes as she palms my breasts and a gush of slick seeps into the delicate fabric, drawn by the phantom touch of the monstrous High Lord still hidden in the shadows. I dare a glance in the mirror to see a set of glowing, violet eyes watching hungrily from the shadows. “P-please.”
     “Please?” the High Lady purrs, grazing the tender skin of my neck with her fangs once more. I only need her to bite me again or slide her hand beneath the fabric and touch me where I need her most to slide headfirst into ecstasy. “Please what, pet?”
     “Let- oh,” I shudder as those invisible fingers grow more insistent, beckoning me towards the orgasm I’m trying to beg my lady for. “Please let me come, please.”
     “I don’t believe it’s up to me,” she says nonchalantly, her mouth twisting into a wicked grin as she watches my reflection. “Your High Lord seems to be insistent upon it. What do you think, darling? Should she be allowed to come?”
     “She has been good, hasn’t she?” Even spoken gently, the words sound like a threat when falling from his lips. I moan at the promise in it, drawing cruel laughter from the both of them. “Listen to her lovely little noises, darling. See how wet she is?”
     “Soaked. The lace is ruined.”
     “A pity. It was so lovely,” he muses, like my orgasm is something inconsequential in the face of a bit of ruined lace. “Look in the mirror, little fawn. Watch.”
     The pressure between my legs builds until I’m a trembling mess, those phantom fingers growing more and more insistent until I’m a whimpering, trembling mess sagging against the High Lady. Her lips press against my heated skin in wet, open-mouthed kisses until she reaches the juncture of my neck and shoulder. I feel the sharp slide of her fangs into the muscle and the bite of pain is quickly followed by a flood of hot venom.
     Pleasure breaks over me the way the rushing river overtakes its banks, pulling me along in its current until I’m dragged beneath the waves. My eyes fall shut, but even then I can still see the High Lord’s violet stare burning from the darkest corner of the room, his own desire no more than a whisper on the air. I feel a pull at the ribbon at my neck, then the fabric peels away from my overheated skin and slides down my thighs to pool at my feet.
     “We’ll have another made,” the High Lady purrs, gathering me into her slender arms like I weigh no more than a weak, trembling fawn. “Perhaps two. I would like to ruin you in it myself at least once.”
     “Oh,” I mumble as she lays me on their bed, tucking the blankets around me with a sort of care she only demonstrates here, when the doors are locked against the rest of the world. I feel her nestle in behind me and I manage a bleary, slow blink as her arm snakes around my waist, tugging my body flush against her own before a sudden gust extinguishes the candlelight, plunging the room into darkness.
     Then, and only then, I hear the soft whisper of footsteps on the floor and the creak of the mattress as the High Lord settles at her back. The weight of his arm draping over us is impossibly heavy, anchoring me to the bed as the venom takes hold of my mind. Without another thought, I slip into the brightest, most vivid dreams of a palace of moonstone stretching beneath the open expanse of the night sky and a cool breeze fluttering over my skin like a light, sweet kiss.
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prophetic-hijinks · 1 year
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Princessa ( a Luisa drabble)
“OOH that slit goes high!” Isabella declared in a mock scandalized tone. As Dolores squeaked and blushed, flashing her leg out from one of Elena’s lounge dresses a few inches too short on the bottom. Enjoying the tinkling sound of crystal beads colliding only audible to her. As the excited sounds of Mirabel’s voice echoed from the closet into the cave-like antechamber of Bruno and Elena’s bedroom.
Elena giggled from her place on the loveseat next to Luisa, as Mirabel brought a handful of dresses to lay on the bed. The trio cooed over the glamorous styles. Deciding which dress would fit whom, and who was going to go next. Of course, these styles are not ones any of the girls would ever wear in the Encanto. But a throwaway statement of the girls being welcome to borrow any dress had a very pregnant Elena nearly dragged to Bruno’s tower to play dress-up. Meanwhile, the seer decided to make himself scarce to ask Antonio how to mediate a serious conflict among the rats.
Luisa and Elena watched the happy proceedings as Mirabel disappeared behind the screen to try on a velvet green dress with faux pearls hanging on the shoulder. The dress she wore the first night Bruno saw her, and her life changed. Instinctively she brought her hand to her swollen belly, happy as can be. She would be unlikely to fit those dresses again, but it was more than a fair trade.
“Whoo!”, Elena exclaimed as she felt a kick. Luisa flinching at her side, immediately reacting with protective concern. Hands at the ready to help where no help could be given.
“It’s alright, I think their ears were burning. I was thinking about them.”
Then another kick gave her a start, and Luisa reflexively checked on Elena again. “Should I get Mom?”
“I’m fine Lu. I think the armistice is over. The twins are taking turns trading fire as wombmates”. The pun perhaps not hitting, as Luisa’s brown eyes didn’t drop a smidgen of concern after the joke.
“I’m really ok, I promise.”
“Sorry, I know it is normal it's just… you’re just so small”. Luisa trailed off almost apologetically, she had been reacting strongly to every kick all morning. Elena put a reassuring hand on her arm, as she leaned back to take pressure off her spine.
“No smaller than Alma was I have been told, and she had three. Besides we know for a fact everything will be ok”. Elena said gently waving to the glowing green tablet of her future family framed above the bed. A rectangle piece of emerald glass save for a small corner cut out to make their wedding rings. A promise for a future that was almost here.
Satisfied Luisa smiled, and they both looked back at the three girls. Mirabel was trying her signature dancing twirl, but the too-tight dress was not willing to accommodate. A clever seamstress, Mirabel on her own embroidered skirt dropped the waist to capture maximum twirl. Obviously glitz and glitter had downsides.
“I’m sorry I’m too short for you to wear my dresses,” Elena offered as she thought about the contents of her closet, and if anything could be used to help her share in this moment. But her mind was drawing a blank.
“It’s alright, I like my practical clothes.” Luisa countered, but Elena didn’t quite believe it.
Luisa’s room at the beginning portion functioned like a gym. A room full of weights and dumbbells that would make Hugo jealous. The balcony like entry, opening up to a beautiful vista of rocky mountains as strong and imposing as her exterior. But like Luisa, her true nature was hidden deeper. A childlike sweetness of a woman denied a proper childhood. Her bedroom full of soft fuzzy rugs, flower linens, family photos and drawings collected on the walls, sheer curtains hanging over her bed, and a pile of stuffed animals she was gifted over the years. Of all his daughters, and despite all appearances, Luisa was Agustin’s little princess.
‘Oh that’s it!’ Elena thought with excitement as she swung her legs up, using the momentum to vault her and her rotund belly forward out of the chair. The sudden motion caught Luisa at such a surprise, she didn’t have a chance to help the petite songbird stand before she was waddling like a petite penguin to her cavernous closet.
“Now it’s not ‘practical’ mind you,” Elena called loudly from the magical closet that was bigger on the inside. Before emerging with a green velvet box. “But I have something perfect for you.”
“When I was young I used to do birthday parties during the day, and lounge at night.” Elena said with a sheepish smile, As she opened the lid. "The dresses are gone, but I couldn’t get rid of this.” With a flourish, she revealed a shimmering costume princess crown. Delighted to see Luisa’s eyes widen at the treasure. “I am a little bit of a pack rat.” Elena said as she gently fixed the crown onto Luisa’s head, pulling her braid to cover the sides. “But perhaps that is why your uncle loves me?”, she joked.
“So beautiful,” Elena said stepping back to admire her lovely sobrina. “It’s yours if you want it.”
The quickness a teary-eyed Luisa stood to tower over Elena to envelope her in one of her signature bear hugs, did give Elena pause as to whether she would pop under that affection. But ever conscious of her strength, Luisa adjusted quickly and gently enfolded her tia in thanks. Before excitedly going to admire herself in the long mirror, the trio of girls chorusing “oohs and awws” as Luisa joined them.
With very little grace, Elena gingerly sat down to watch the proceedings. A tiny oof as she settled into place with a pillow shoved behind her spine.
“I wonder, do I have a little princess of my own?” Elena asked quietly, but a smiling glance from Dolores told her it was still heard.
A tiny kick came in response and Elena leaned back happily.
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Close To Thy Heart
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Warning: the following contains themes of love-sickness, captivity, obsession, and possessiveness. The content below does not reflect the opinions of the writer nor does the writer condone the depicted behaviour. Content is fictional. Viewer discretion is advised.
The music box wound down, the last notes fading into the silence of the bedroom while the marionette made deft steps towards the canopy bed. Pushing aside one of the flower embroidered sheer curtains, a smile spread on his face as he admired your sleeping form.
His sleeping beauty.
What were you dreaming of? Of your future together? You must be! Even though he didn't need sleep like you did, he was dreaming of it too! You would have a beautiful future together! One of eternal happiness!
There was of course the slight issue of your homesickness, but that would be taken care of. He would make you forget all about your sadness! Then nothing would be holding you back anymore from fully loving him. Or worse, keep you away from him.
But this story would have a happy ending, a beautiful ending. Like that of a fairytale. The two of you in your happily-ever-after. In eachother's embrace under the gazebo, listening to the sweep of the wind over the sea of roses. Surely that must be the ending the Dramaturge had written out.
Pulling out an ornate pair of scissors, the red cabochons on the embossed sides were gleaming like the Decadent Dreamer's eyes. His slender fingers carefully picked up a tress from the back of your head. It felt so soft to the touch. Soft, shiny, just like your smile. Snipping off the lock of hair, he inhaled its scent and imagined the two of you dancing in the ballroom; the skirt of your wedding dress billowing while you were looking at him with such ardent love. The image held him in its thrall, making him pirouette through the bedroom with eyes shut. A soft moan of ecstasy escaped his mouth as he rubbed the lock of hair against his porcelain smooth cheek. Very soon all your sadness would be gone, and all your days would be filled with happiness. Happy to stay with him, forever.
With swaying steps, he exited the bedroom and entered his own dressing room, where he placed the lock of hair on the vanity. Once he sat down on the stool, he began plaiting the lock; the joints in his digits clicking with each strand weaving in and out, swiftly, intricately, until it was a perfect circle. He then pulled the top right drawer open, reached inside, and withdrew a brass locket brooch. In a careful fashion the lock of hair was placed under the glass and the locket was then clicked shut. The Decadent Dreamer held the brooch to where his heart should be. You, close to him. As it should be. His muse – his Juliet – his beloved darling. He would do whatever he had to do, for their love.
(Marionette Enmu AU belongs to @venompeach)
Taglist: @ink-the-squid-gremlin, @babykirara, @yandere-wishes
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vodika-vibes · 6 months
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The Hand You're Dealt
Summary: After your parents surprise you with a betrothal that you didn't know about, you decided to take your fate into your own hands. Jesse comes and finds you years later.
Pairing: Knight!Jesse x Princess!Reader
Word Count: 3123
Warnings: Some angst
Divider by saradika
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“Your Highness,” You don’t start at the sudden voice behind you, instead you choose to keep your gaze locked out the window, looking over the garden your father put in for you when you were born. “Your Highness, are you feeling well?”
Jesse, your personal bodyguard, and your closest friend, stands at attention near the door, not coming any closer as your handmaids scurry around the room, packing your belongings.
“I’m fine, Jesse,” You reply quietly, a frown crossing your face as one of the handmaidens gently urges you away from the window so she can pack the curtains.
You are to be wed in three weeks, and you’re meant to leave for your future husband’s kingdom the very following day. But you don’t want to. The very idea of marriage to a stranger makes your stomach churn uncomfortably and your hands shake.
Though you seem to be the only person who has a problem with the upcoming wedding. Everyone else is celebrating.
You thought - hoped - that Jesse would have a problem with the wedding, but he’s been nothing but cheerful since the news of the wedding came out. And it’s taken every ounce of your training to hide your true feelings from him.
You always thought that you would marry for love…not political gain. You didn’t know about the betrothal agreement your parents signed when you were a toddler. And they didn’t tell you until recently.
You keep your face placid as the sheer injustice burns in your chest. It’s not fair. You never wanted this. But this is the hand that life dealt you, and it’s a hand you have to play.
Of course, there’s no rules in saying that you can’t change the game midhand, and that’s what your plan is. You just have to get through the evening, that’s all.
“Your Highness,” You turn to your old Nanny who favors you with a shaky smile, “Would you like us to pack your bedding?”
You pause, and glance at your bed. Your bed still looked like it belonged to a teenager, with stars and moons embroidered on the dark blue comforter. “Yes, please.” You reply after considering for a moment.
“A fine idea,” Your mother’s handmaiden chirps from where she was stripping the bed, “You can pass them on to any children you have.”
You manage to hide the revulsion on your face through sheer force of will, and just release a non-committal hum. You have no intention of having children with your soon to be husband, that’s for damn sure.
You cast your gaze back out the window, and focus your attention on the tree your mother planted when you were born. The leaves are still green, and the blossoms won’t bloom until after your wedding. A shame. You love your tree.
Too quickly, your room is bare of anything that once marked it as yours. The bed stripped down to the mattress, the vibrate carpet that had been a 13th birthday present from Princess Aayla of Ryloth tightly rolled and taped for ease of transport, and the dozens of pictures that once covered your walls stored in boxes.
It was almost as if you never existed.
“I’m going for a walk in the garden,” You say quietly to Jesse as you step out of your bedroom for the last time.
He shifts, like he’s uncomfortable, “Forgive me, your highness, but His Majesty has planned a massive Pre-Wedding Banquet for you, and it begins shortly.”
You sigh silently, “Very well then,” you answer, “I assume it’s set up in the main Ballroom?”
“Yes ma’am,” He falls into step just behind you, and is quiet for a moment, “You must be excited,” He says casually, “Moving to a new country, a wedding-”
“Oh. Yes. I am, of course.” You’re not. You’re so not. You want to cry. To scream. To throw up. But you just smile gently. 
“I’m sorry I can’t go with you,” Jesse adds after a moment of silence, “You’re going to just have to break in a new guard.”
“Yes, well. Father was never going to surrender any of his ARCs, Jesse. We both know that.” You reply easily as you sedately walk through the empty halls.
“I suppose that is true,” Jesse pauses, and you can feel his gaze on the back of your head for a moment, “I have a present for you.” He blurts.
You pause mid-step and turn to look up at him, “A present?”
“A…a wedding present.” He explains awkwardly, as he presses a rectangular box into your hands. You glance at him, and then slowly open it, and then your gaze snaps up to him in surprise, “I won’t be there to keep you safe, so I thought you could use that to protect yourself, if you have to.” He explains.
Inside the box is a hunting knife. And when you carefully pull the knife out of the sheathe, you notice his designation number is carefully carved into the blade itself. “This is yours, though?”
“And now it’s yours.” Jesse says with a shrug.
You curl your hands around the sheathe, and smile at him. “Thank you, Jesse. I’ll treasure it.” You slide the blade up the sleeve of your gown, “We should probably keep moving though.”
Jesse stares at you for just a moment, and then he drops his gaze, “As you say, my princess.”
You turn and continue your sedate pace towards the ballroom, wanting to drag out the amount of time you’re spending with Jesse, even if he’s not saying anything and is just watching you.
All too soon you’re at the ballroom, and Jesse excuses himself to go and take his position with the rest of the Arcs, and you…well, you plaster a smile on your face, and glide over to your parents, who greet you with beaming smiles. 
The banquet lasts the majority of the night, with people drinking and eating and just making merry. The people, your people, are happy to have the chance to celebrate the wedding, since the majority won’t be able to make the wedding.
And when the party finally ends and your father kisses your cheek, and your mother hugs you, you almost - almost- feel bad for what you’re about to put them through. And your twin escorts you to the guest room, since you no longer have a room of your own, and he hugs you so tightly that he squeezes the breath right out of you.
And then you’re alone in the temporary quarters. You open the curtains and window, and turn off the lights, and, for a moment, you just breathe. And then, once your heart and mind are settled, you start enacting the plan.
You reach behind the armoire and grab your go bag. And then you slowly, methodically, start stripping off anything that might mark you as a member of royalty.
Your heels, gown, stockings, and slip end up in a pile next to the bed, replaced with a dark blue tunic, dark brown trousers, and heavy work boots. You strap Jesse’s blade to your hip and hide it with your tunic.
Your rings, earrings, bracelets, necklace, and circlet end up on a tray next to the bed, replaced with a simple jacket, designed for warmth rather than aesthetic. 
And then you look at yourself in the mirror, and you lift your chin. You grab the scissors you hide in your bag and bring it to your hair, and you cut, cut, cut…until your long hair barely brushes your chin.
You don’t bother cleaning up the fallen hair, instead you kneel and pull a longbow and quiver of arrows out from under the bed, and you strap the quiver to your hip, and sling the bow over your shoulders. 
The very last thing you do is wash the make-up off of your face. And when you look at yourself in the mirror, you don’t recognize the woman looking back at you. You pull the hood of your cloak up over your head, and silently you slip out the window.
When you were a child, you begged your father for ARC training, saying it wasn’t fair that your own twin could train with your ARCs but you couldn’t, and he gave into your incessant begging.
You wonder if he’ll come to regret that in the coming weeks and months. But, as you effortlessly scale the stone walls surrounding the palace, you can’t bring yourself to care.
Fate decided to deal you a bad hand, so you changed the game.
********
It takes you months until you decide that you’re far enough away from your own kingdom that no one will recognize you. You learn how to repair clothing, and you learn how to cook over campfires, and you make friends from all walks of life, from bandits, who teach you how to pickpockets when you need more credits, to fletchers, who teach you how to make better arrows, to weapon smiths, who trade you armor and weapons in exchange for several days of work.
And you thrive.
Of course, you still pay attention to the news.
‘The Lost Princess’ becomes a popular story told at bars and taverns, and the theories people have bounce from the totally mundane (“ran away to marry for love, I bet. How romantic~”) to the wild, (“I heard that the Princess was actually a dragon in disguise, and she had to run before anyone found out her secret.”).
And you love hearing all of those stories, sometimes you even add to them (“Maybe the Princess never really existed?” You say to a group of drunk merchants, “I mean, did you ever meet her?”).
And, before you know it, two years have passed by and you’re a well-respected, if not well-known, hunter in a small village, and while you don’t have any family, you’re still happy with your decision.
It’s nearing summer when your past comes back to haunt you.
You don’t think much of it, at first. Over the years, ARCs from your home nation have, in fact, made it this far out while searching for you, but at the time you just made yourself scarce or they just don’t recognize you.
You love your father, but if he had any sense, he would have sent Jesse.
So when you hear rumors of an ARC wandering around, you just shake your head, and go back to your work.
You can’t help but think that, as much as it has everything to do with it, it doesn’t actually have anything to do with you. It’s been two years after all. So you put it out of your mind, and focus on training your apprentice and doing your job.
It’s a week later when you realize that, maybe, you should have been paying attention.
You’re watching your apprentice practice her falls, a training that you hated at her age, but she seems to love, when you hear heavy footsteps approaching.
“She’s good,” You hear a voice, deep and familiar, from the treeline, “It took you a lot longer to learn how to fall safely.”
You turn and regard the man standing there silently for a moment. Jesse looks the same, and he’s leaning against a tree with a look on his face daring you to try and tell him that you’re not who he says you are. You don’t bother, “I never liked heights,” You counter, as you turn back to your apprentice, who lets out a delighted laugh as she topples off the log and lands, safely, on the thick mats beneath her.
He sits next to you on the log that you use as a bench when you’re teaching, and he watches the child for a moment. “So…this is what you’ve been doing for the last two years?” 
You consider his words for a moment, “The kid is new as of the last 6 months,” You finally admit, before you whistle sharply, “Alright, ad! You’re done for the day!”
“Aww…But I wanna keep going!” The child runs over to you and looks up at you with wide eyes, “Please, Miss Sarad?”
“Too much of a good thing is bad for you, kiddo. Besides, you’re going to be late for your fletching lessons.” You remind gently.
The little girl gasps, and spins on her heels, she grabs her child sized bow and runs into the forest, leaving you alone with Jesse.
You stand, and turn to focus your attention on Jesse, “Would you like some tea? Or caf?” Your smile is slightly wry, “I assume we need to talk.”
“That’s putting it mildly.” Now that you don’t have an audience, his voice is tight, and you grimace. He’s furious.
You lead him into your home, it’s small and simple, but it’s home. You can’t help but notice that Jesse is taking stock of everything around him, you and your home, before he sits at the kitchen table. 
You pretend not to notice the way his eyes linger on the blade hanging at your hip, the blade that he gave you. Though, as you place a mug of hot caf in front of him, he lightly taps the sheath. “I’m surprised you kept this. You tossed everything else from your life.” His voice is surprisingly bitter.
“It was a gift,” You counter as you sit across from him, “A gift and the only thing that I considered valuable.” You lean back in your seat and fold your arms, “Lay it on me, Jesse.”
“You left. You just left and you didn’t even tell anyone-” He exhales sharply, “How long had you been planning on running away?” Jesse demands as he curls his hands around the mug.
You take a sip of your cold tea, “Since the day father told me about the betrothal.” You admit, “And, Jesse, if you’re here to drag me back-”
“Why didn’t you tell me!?” He interrupts, “I would have helped!”
“Why would I have believed that?” You ask, “Everyone, including you, seemed so happy to marry me off to a man 20 years my senior.” You scoff, “It was always, ‘wow, you’re so lucky princess!’ and ‘You must be excited for your wedding, princess!’ and it was never, ‘do you want to do this?’ or ‘are you okay?’.”
“I was trying to be happy for you!” Jesse snaps.
“I spent the last month in the palace crying myself to sleep because no one cared!” You snap right back. You look away from him for a moment, and inhale slowly, “I’m not going back. You can’t make me.”
Jesse tightens his grip around his mug, “Do you really think so little of me?”
“I never thought that you’d be okay with me getting married off, but I guess I don’t know you all that well.” You mutter.
He swears under his breath, “Didn’t have a problem with it? I had all of the problems with it! But you’re a princess and you never showed that you were unhappy, so I kept my damned mouth shut!”
You tilt your head but say nothing.
“You always deserved to marry for love. I always wanted you to be happy, and I thought you were! Right up until you ran away.” Jesse continues, “I’m not a fucking mind reader, cyare!”
“Neither am I,” You point out quietly, “You could have talked to me, Jesse.”
He slams his hand on the table, “You’re a fucking Princess.” He hisses, “Whatever I might want doesn’t matter because I’m just a Knight.”
“I have never treated you as ‘just a knight’.” You counter, as you glare at him.
“Fine! You want to know the truth? The truth is that I love you!” You blink at him in surprise, but Jesse continues, “I’ve been in love with you since we were teenagers, and you managed to flip me over your shoulder during training. And then I was assigned to be your bodyguard, and you were always just out of reach! And you would smile at me and make me feel like I’m the only man in the world, and you would kiss my cheek at the end of everyday, and it took everything in my power to not just kiss you! That’s the truth, princess.”
You stare at him, “Stars above, Jesse.” You finally blurt, “Did you think I was doing those things by accident?”
“...what?”
You shake your head, “I could not make the first move. Ever. The power disparity between the pair of us…” You shake your head again, “It had to be you making the first step. But you never did.”
Jesse stares at you, and then he utters a curse, “Are you telling me that this whole mess  could have been avoided if we just learned to fucking talk to each other?”
You shrug, “I mean, I probably would have still run. But I would have brought you with me, rather than running on my own.”
He closes his eyes for a moment, “We’re so fucking stupid, cyare.”
“We were young, it excuses a lot of things.” You reply with a shrug. “But yeah, we were pretty stupid.” You absently twist your mug between your hands, “So…what happens now?”
Jesse leans back in his seat, “Technically, I should let someone know that I found you. But…I’m not.” He smiles wryly, “You have a kid and a life, and I have a feeling you’ll fight tooth and nail to keep it.”
“You’re not wrong,” You murmur quietly.
Jesse is quiet for a moment, “Do you have room for someone else?”
“...what?” Your head snaps up and you stare at Jesse.
“I just found you and I’m not leaving.” Jesse replies with a stubborn set to his jaw.
“You’re an ARC, people will miss you-” You start to say.
“People missed you,” He points out, “I’m not leaving.” Jesse repeats.
You sigh and shake your head, “Okay. If that’s what you really want.”
“It is.” He replies, and then he stands and walks over to you, and he crouches next to you, “So, now that you’re not a princess and I’m not your bodyguard, does this mean I can kiss you?”
You just laugh, and lean over and kiss him. Your intention is to keep the kiss gentle, but Jesse disagrees as he deepens the kiss and tugs you off your chair so that you both topple to the ground, with you laying on top of him.
His hands glide up your back and tangle in your short hair, and he breaks the kiss for a moment, “When will your kid come back?”
“Not for a few hours.” You reply against his lips.
“Good,” He pulls you back into the deep kiss, tugging you as close as possible.
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sotwk · 1 year
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The Crown (Thranduil x OC Wife fanfic)
Summary: On the evening of his coronation, a heavy-hearted Thranduil prepares for the ceremony with the help of his wife. Takes place in SA 3441, seven years after Oropher's death and shortly after the end of the War of the Last Alliance.
Pairing: Thranduil x FemOC (2nd Person POV is Maereth, his OC wife in my "Sons of the Woodland King" series.)
Word count: 2.5k
Content: Grief/comfort, romance, marriage, angry/protective Thranduil
Warnings: None
To Read on AO3: Link
A/N: If you would like to be tagged in future Thranduil fics, please just say so in comments/reblog/DM!
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Shortly before sunset they all sweep into your chambers, bearing trunks of regalia and armfuls of fabric. No less than a dozen attendants, most faces familiar and a few less so, work in movements so organized and efficient that amid their whirlwind of activity, the room remains respectfully quiet. Unmoved is the somber stillness that has blanketed it over the long nights past.
When the last clasp on your gown has been fastened and the final stroke of the brush has run through your hair, the elleths who attend you curtsy simultaneously. "My Queen," murmurs Caethel, your own sweet handmaid. You give her a gracious smile but shake your head. "Thank you," you whisper. "But no. Not yet.”
After they leave, you walk over to the open double doors that lead out to the balcony, lingering behind the sheer white curtains to breathe in the crisp autumn air and feel the sun’s fading rays on your face. This evening, your life changes drastically, setting you on a road of so many possibilities not even your foresight can offer the comfort of certainty. 
It frightens you, this new role and unfamiliar future that you never, in the long years of your youth, desired for yourself. But you desired him. From the moment you crossed paths with Thranduil Oropherion, you lost your heart and your choice. 
You turn away from the balcony view and back to matters at hand. Across the chamber, the last two remaining servants hover about the feet of your husband, one working the straps of his tall boots, the other standing back to survey the overall effect. You had worked closely with the palace tailors to oversee the making of his coronation robes, and the final product they presented pleased you. Whatever Thranduil thinks of them, however, remains unclear. You watch as he stands still, eerily like a statue of cold marble, while they adjust the long ends of heavily embroidered fabric around his booted legs. 
Finally, they turn their attention to his hair. The head valet, the late king’s personal own, reaches up to tug the loose silver locks away from his ears, and you see it. A barely perceptible grimace flickers over Thranduil’s face. The sight calls out to you, and you take one unbidden step forward.
He hears your movement. His eyes suddenly rise and carry his gaze across the room to where you stand, a silent, tearless cry that stabs your own heart in shared grief. 
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“Let me,” you call out, gliding swiftly to your husband’s side. The valet blinks at you in confusion, so you clarify. “I shall take it from here. Thank you for all you have done.”
He hesitates with a hand still resting over the cascade of Thranduil’s hair. “Would you like me to show you how, my lady?”
You shake your head and answer simply. “I will see it done.”
He senses your intention and is determined enough to try and object. “But Princess--”
“She said it will be done!” Thranduil cuts him off sharply. “And you are finished here. Leave us.” Robes swirling in his wake, he storms to the bedroom chamber, where none but you would dare follow. 
You do not undermine your husband by apologizing on his behalf, but you thank the servants again as you see them out the door. Then entering your bedroom, you find Thranduil glaring at his reflection in a gilded mirror on the wall, a wine goblet in his hand. 
“They want your ceremony executed properly, down to the last detail, so it may have the dignity it deserves. That is all.”
He remains silent and does not even look at you until you come up to him. You take the empty goblet from his hand and replace it with your own. A gentle squeeze of your palm brings his eyes on you, and in their blue depths you finally catch a glimmer of something other than pain. 
“You are so beautiful,” he whispers. 
“Melmenya…” You hold your intertwined fingers to your cheek. “It is you who matters tonight, and only you. Let us finish getting you ready.”
His eyes dart back to the mirror. “Those braids,” he mutters. “Such a trivial thing. Such a small, trivial, foolish matter to have ever quarreled about.”
Thranduil has never been one to weep, and the death of his father did not change that. But his clear eyes, distant manner, and brusque comments cannot mask his sorrow from you. You do not press him for anything, but you simply listen to him grieve in his own way. 
You wonder how Oropher’s personal valet could have missed the significance of hair braids in the late king’s tumultuous relationship with his only child. Perhaps the father and son had succeeded in concealing the tides of their estrangement from those close to them. But over the course of the two millenia you have known Thranduil, you became his most intimate confidante, and by the time you were married, you had heard the story behind every single deep-seated grievance your husband carried against his sire. 
All his life, Oropher regarded braided hair as a sign of Elven refinement. A lord of old traditions, he braided his waist-length hair, a crowning glory of silver among the Silvans he ruled, in an elaborate and precise style that he considered the hallmark of his kingly visage. Hair ornamentation was neither the first nor most contentious matter Thranduil and Oropher disagreed on. But it was the first dissension that the prince actually expressed, which then emboldened him to start speaking his mind against every decreed formality or royal practice he did not wish to observe. And there were many. 
By his account, Thranduil started rejecting the tying back of his hair as soon as he left the care of a nursemaid. His father tolerated this childish rebellion only by the intercession of his wife. But after this gentle mediator was lost to them both in the destruction of Doriath, the young Thranduil who had barely come of age only grew more determined to exert his independence from Oropher. 
As wild as one of Araw’s Kine, Oropher had grumbled regarding your husband, when you once asked what he had been like in his youth. And as stubborn as the whole herd.
Reflecting on all this, you comb your fingers repeatedly through the silken strands that flow freely down Thranduil’s shoulder to his chest. 
“We shall not braid or tie your hair,” you declare. “It is a practice that has no bearing on your ability to rule, and you have always sought to be a king of your own mind, your own customs. Let this be the first official departure from protocol towards your own image.”
“As you say, my love.” Thranduil takes your hand to press kisses on your palm before resting it against his chest. You feel the strong and steady beating of his heart, and once again feel weak with relief that he had not been among those lost upon the plains of Mordor. 
“Despite his shortcomings as a father, he was a good king.” The slightest quiver in his voice betrays him. “A great king, where it mattered. He earned and deserved the people’s love and loyalty.” 
“And so shall you.” You cradle his anguished face between your hands, wishing desperately for the power to heal him of his emotional wounds as well. “Your father rode to battle in confidence and in peace, knowing he had a worthy successor in place.”
“Successors.”
You smile at this correction and gentle reminder of your young son. “Yes. But tonight, only one of you shall be crowned.”
You brush a kiss on his lips before walking away to the dressing room once more. You fetch the gilded coffer that had been delivered to you earlier that day and set it on a table before your husband. He stares silently at the seal worked in gold upon the lid, the seal of the Crown Prince, now the seal of the Elvenking.  
His lack of response disappoints you. “Do you not wish to see it?”
He shakes his head and raises his eyes from the box to meet your gaze. “I wish for you to do it.”
It takes you a moment to discern his meaning, and then you stammer through a protest. “I-I cannot. I must not. That honor has been reserved for Silevion.” 
A scowl darkens his face. “That craven deserves no honors.”
In the past, Thranduil’s incorrigible disdain of politics had led him to mark himself as unfit to be king. He refused to employ his natural charisma to gain the friendship of Oropher’s councilors, instead amusing himself by subtly mocking them to their unknowing faces. But over time, once he had fully accepted his role as heir to the throne, he formed amicable relationships with all the key lords of Greenwood. Except one.  
In the woodlands north of the Emyn Duir, Lord Silevion governs the largest province in the kingdom. He has held his seat since the foundation of the realm, which in his mind--as well as of the general populace--makes him the second highest authority in the land. 
So great is Silevion’s accorded power that he had been permitted to stay behind while both King and Prince marched to battle, and safeguard the realm in the Crown’s stead. Rule the elflord did, warming the throne for seven years after Oropher was entombed and while Thranduil remained with the half-decimated Woodland forces to finish the war. 
You cannot blame your husband for his grudges. You harbor your own private distrust of the elflord and his brazen ambition, but Thranduil’s enmity needs tempering, not fuel.
“It was your father’s expressed will that the chief councilor crown you when your time comes.” You move close and run your hands up his chest, hoping your touch can make the words easier to accept. “Let us not attempt to overturn decisions that were made long ago.”
Thranduil leans into your caresses, but a smirk lifts the corner of his mouth. “If there is one lesson my father made clear, there is nothing decided in this realm that its king cannot overturn.” His arms around your waist suddenly tighten. “I want you, my wife. My Queen. Their Queen.”
His abrupt change in tone makes you recoil, as it dawns on you what is truly bothering him. “Thranduil, no…"
"Yes." His nostrils flare and his jaw trembles as he chokes a roar back into a snarl. “Yes.”
He is still so angry, after all these years. Years of seemingly endless debates, arguments, negotiations, threats and entreaties. Finally, at your behest, he had conceded to the Council’s ruling, burying his outrage at the choice forced on him. It is a fury you know he would never be able to extinguish.
The Crown Prince may marry the Noldor Exile, she who is of Kinslayer blood. She may bear and raise his heirs, who will join the line of succession. When the Prince inherits the throne and the title of King, she will be given the title of Queen, a title that carries prestige, but no rule or regency. Thranduil’s Queen shall not govern alongside her King, but shall serve under him. In matters brought before the crown, she shall have no voice, and no power shall be exercised by her unless granted by the unanimous vote of the King’s Council. 
“Am I to stand by as they continue to insult my wife,” Thranduil fumes. “Let them again proclaim you an outsider, call attention to your lineage to goad our people’s suspicions and distrust?”
A prick of your own hurt at the memory threatens to surface, but you push it away. “Their edict did not poison the people against me when you made me your princess. It will be no different when you make me your queen.” 
He barks a cold, humorless laugh. “Whenever they may permit me to crown you! A queen’s crown which, by their perversion, is no more than a shiny trinket.” 
"That is mere posturing,” you say calmly. “I am mother to the Crown Prince, and wife to a King who respects me as his partner and equal. That is great power only I can hold and can never be taken from me. Your councilors may tell the people whatever they wish about me, so long as it is the truth. And you must allow it, as you had agreed to long ago.”
You can see your reasoning piercing through his wrath. But he holds you tight, as though pleading for permission to succumb to his impulses. “You deserve far better than this. I should have fought for it then, and I should demand it now.”
“I beg you, husband.” You grasp his arms firmly. “Do not take your focus away from what truly matters. Tonight you rise to your father’s place, and you will at last be king. My king, as much as the people’s. My devotion to you shall be as subject as well as wife. And know this without doubt, Thranduil Oropherion. It shall be my proudest honor to serve you. For I know no greater Elvenking shall ever walk upon Middle-earth.”
Your words rob him of speech, momentarily even of his breath. You extricate yourself from his arms and return to the gilded coffer. You undo the latch and lift the lid to extract the treasure within. 
In making the new King’s crown, you sought guidance from your nephew, the son of your beloved late brother and inheritor of his father’s craft. Olondir lent his knowledge in working the pieces of oak branches into the precise shape and measurements, but the long months of troublesome design and delicate labor had been mostly yours. 
The hours spent battling frustration and sore, bleeding fingers vanish from memory when you see the wonder light Thranduil’s face. Silently, he sinks down on one knee, so that his head comes at level to your shoulders. You slip the tall, intricate crown over his silver hair, and the entwined lengths of wood fit neatly around his ears and frame the strong lines of his cheekbones. 
“It is living and breathing oak given by one of our own trees,” you say softly, brushing your fingertip along the orange autumn foliage sprouting from the wooden weaves. At your touch, the small leaves seem to shift and grow fuller and brighter in hue. “It will change and flourish with the woodlands over the seasons of your rule.”
He tilts his face up to you, love and worship pouring from his gaze, but also renewed strength and determination. Pride swells in your heart at the majestic vision of him, a dream that had graced you long, long ago and has finally come to life before your eyes. In this private moment, you vow to yourself that you would fear no darkness or uncertainty ever again, not while your lord husband held reign over the kingdom. 
“On your feet, my King Thranduil,” you command him for the last time. “From this night forward, you kneel to no one.” 
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A/N ::: @katkitkats and I talked about this about a week ago. I'm sorry this took me so long, Kat. I know it's a lot shorter than what I was anticipating. Ha, isn't that some shit. I DIDN'T write something freakishly long. Jesus. How weird. Anyway, I hope you like it, Kat. <3 As always, thanks for discussing your ideas with me
C/W ::: Timeskip Hanma x depressed F.reader, talk of feeling worthless, mention of leaving - I don't mean suicide, I just mean like, literally going away/leaving.
Hanma is uncharacteristically sweet and compassionate in this piece. Do I think he could ever be capable of such feelings? Honestly? I can see it happening but he's got a lot of growing up to do first.
WC ::: 1,284
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Cry Until You Laugh
For Kat
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The light from outside was an assault on your eyes that you would not soon forget. Or forgive, for that matter. Hanma pulled back the blackout curtains in favor of the light yellow embroidered sheers to filter the world from your sensitive disposition.
"It looks like it's going to be a warm day. What do you think about going for a rid-" You met his question with a loud groan and rolled over, pulling his pillow over your face. "Ok. So no ride along the coast. Noted. But you know you should at least-" He started again.
"Try to get outside. Yes, Shuji. I know. Thank you." You said softly, despite interrupting him. You knew that he was only trying to do his best for you. For the both of you. "But I think I'd like to stay in. You know how I feel about that fiery fucking thing in the sky. I hate it."
That drew a soft laugh from him. "Hana, what am I going to do with you." You knew what he meant but you just couldn't help yourself.
"It's recycling day, is it not? Just put something decent on me and sit me at the curb. Let the city handle the rest."
"Han- hana. Don't talk like that. Please? I'm never going to ... to do whatever the fuck you're talking about. Now come please. I have to get you up and running and then we’re going out. What sounds good for breakfast?"
You pulled the pillow the rest of the way from your face and flipped it behind your head, sitting at a comfortable incline. The look on Hanma's face was absolutely heartbreaking. He shouldn't have to be dealing with this shit. With you. It made you feel bad, knowing you were such a burden on everyone that has stuck by you up to this point.
Normally, you'd make some offhand comment about how a bowl of shredded glass and bleach would be all you'd need for the morning. But there was a noticeable sadness that was almost heavier in Hanma's eyes than in your own. It made you want to cry. But then that would only make him feel bad. And that was just one more thing you never wanted for him. You were sad enough for the both of you.
"Hana ... please? I know you feel like there are better things to do, but it's important to take care of yourself, baby. Don't you want to show the world how beautiful you are." He chuckles as he says the last part. "Eh, I know you don't care. I know you don't."
Hanma helps you up off of the bed and helps you walk to the bathroom. He lifts you up and sets you on top of the counter and pulls out the brush to run it through your hair. It's been hard for him, this experience with you. He loves you with every piece of himself. But sometimes he doesn't know how to act around you. You're a loose canon sometimes and if he says or does something that can set you off, there's no telling how long you'll be on that downward spiral.
"Hey... Look at me. It's going to be okay. We'll take some time just for us today." He tips your face up so you're looking at him. His amber eyes are glowing in the morning sunlight.
How, you wonder, can one person be everything when you are nothing.
He manages to take care of things and makes sure you do the bare minimum on top of everything else. It's so fucking exhausting being you.
Sometimes you play the "If I just left" game. But you would never leave him like that. You don't think, anyway.
"Look at me." His tone shifted from soft to commanding. "I mornings are hard for you. I know this morning is hard for you." As he notices you're not responding, he brings his face close, and caresses your cheeks, to make you see him as he stares at you sharply. 
His reassurances are your downfall. You can tell him no over and over again. Tell him to fuck off until you're blue in the face. But he'd only tell you that blue looks really pretty on you.
"I love you." You break down in tears.
He holds you tightly, shushing you softly. "I'm here. I'm here, baby. I'm not leaving. I promise. I'll stay as long as you want me to stay. I'm not going anywhere." He whispers softly to you as he gently runs his fingers through your hair. "It's going to be okay."
You feel so stupid and vulnerable right now. You just want to crawl in a hole and disappear. But Hanma won't let that happen.
He helps you get ready for the day and takes you to the kitchen for breakfast. You hate it when he cooks for you. It makes you feel like a child. But he insists and you're just too fucking tired to argue.
After you eat, he helps you put on your shoes and a light jacket before grabbing his keys and wallet. He opens the front door and lets you walk out first before following behind you.
The sunlight was damn near blinding. You hadn't been outside in weeks and the fresh air felt foreign.
Hanma takes your hand and leads you to his car. You can already feel the anxiety starting to shake loose in your chest. It's been so long since you've been out in public. You just hope that no one you know sees you.
The ride to the park is a quiet one. You're still upset and you're trying not to cry again.
When you finally reach the park, Hanma parks the car and comes around to open your door. He offers his hand and you take it.
You walk in silence through the park. The only sound is the crunch of the leaves beneath your feet.
As you're walking, you notice Hanma taking pictures of you. You don't like it but you don't say anything. You know he's just trying to make you feel better.
You both stop at a bench and sit down. Hanma wraps his arm around your shoulder and pulls you close. "How are you feeling, hana? It's been some time since you've been out like this." He says softly.
"I'm alright." You respond quietly.
"You don't have to pretend with me, baby." He says as he caresses your cheek. "It's okay to not be okay."
"I just... I just don't know what to do anymore. I can't stand how I feel like this. I hate that I'm not able to be normal anymore." You sigh as you lean into his touch.
"You're doing the best you can, sweetheart. You're so brave and so beautiful." He presses a soft kiss to your temple.
"You don't have to keep doing this, you know." You say quietly. "You don't have to keep putting up with me. You can leave if you want."
"I'm not going anywhere, hana. I'm here for you. I love you and I'm not leaving you."
You lean against him as tears start to well up in your eyes. "I don't deserve you."
He stretched his arms above his head. "I know." He whispers as he gently strokes your hair. "Everything in the world, hana. You're worth it. I'll never leave you."
You sniffle as you try to hold back the tears. "I just want to be normal again."
Hanma sighs softly. "I know, hana. But what's the fun in that?"
He looks down and smiles at you.
And for the first time in a long time, you smile.
Really smile.
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Taglist ::: @darkstarlight82 @viburnt @arlerts-angel @kazutora-kurokawa
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writeformesinpie · 2 years
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Pink Swirls
Hyunjin x Fem!Reader 
Summary - Hyunjin’s an artist, your body is his canvas. 
Genre - Smut 
Warnings - Smut, unprotected sex - Reader beware! Per my beta reader artist Hyunjin is too powerful! Read at your own risk! 
Word Count - 1.7k 
A/N - This is a drabble request for my impromptu 1500 follower celebration.
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   Hyunjin’s an artist.
   Today you’re his muse.
   Clothes and paint litter the floor as he paces back and forth mumbling under his breath. His brow is furrowed in concentration as a soft breeze ruffles his silver hair that is pulled up into a loose ponytail. Stray strands sweep across his face and flutter against his neck, desperate to escape the tiny black hair tie imprisoning the rest of his silky locks.
   Something’s wrong.
   Wind creeps in through the open window, nudging at the sheer curtains. The embroidered fabric licks at the half-finished canvases strewn across the other side of the room. You shiver but stay still, afraid any movement will distract him further. Even so, his eyes dart toward you for a moment, the sapphire blue contacts temporarily hidden by his dark expression before he walks over to the canvas and throws it against the wall.
   “It’s not right,” he says pacing in front of the abandoned half-finished paintings. Then his eyes widen. A flash of a smile appears and this time instead of placing another canvas on the easel he grabs a clean palette and fills it with fresh paint. “It wasn’t the idea but the medium.”
   Icy blue eyes catch yours as he stalks toward you, each step deliberate, his gaze wandering across your naked body. Balancing the palette in his left hand and a digital camera in the left he inches closer, a look of triumph lighting up his face.
   “What–”
   His index snaps up and shakes back and forth in front of his lips before he kneels down next to the couch you are sprawled across. Placing the palette and camera on the side table, he holds out his hands mere inches from your skin, intense fire burning from behind his eyes as he scrunches up his hands and turns them back and forth as if trying to mold you like putty with his mind. Your breath hitches in excitement. He hasn’t even touched you, yet adrenaline soars throughout your body as you picture his fingers deep within your core.
   Glancing around the room, you try to avoid looking directly at him, try to calm yourself down. It’s a photoshoot now. You’ve been turned into a model and even if all you want to do is cover yourself, experience has taught you not to bother. After all, what Hyunjin wants, Hyunjin gets.
   “It’s you,” he says and his fingertips graze your skin, causing a shiver to vibrate down your spine. “You’re the canvas.”
   Before you can ask him what he means he is grabbing the palette, dipping his fingers into the paint and tapping patterns across your stomach. Hyunjin wants to paint you on this couch; if it had been anyone else it might have been cliche, but somehow everything the man touches turns to gold. He can do no wrong. He has that magic touch.
   The first touch is cold; the purple paint is both slippery and hard, and it absorbs your moisture as it tickles your skin, already trying to dry. Hyunjin’s eyes are furrowed as his hands scurry across your body with inhuman speed. He dips into the blue and flings his fingers down your legs all while ignoring your gasps. The jarring cool temperature of the paint quickly fades as the heat of his skin against yours begins to char your body. Licking his lips, he dips into the last colour.
   Cold eyes steal your breath as his fingertips trace pink swirls from your nipple out to the edge of your breast. Arching up, you beg with your body to be touched. Ignoring your pleas, he instead continues to trace pink swirls on your other breast, up over your neck towards your jaw. Painfully sweet.
   “Stay like that! Don’t move,” he says, wiping his hands on a discarded cloth. He grabs his camera from the table and starts clicking with furious abandon, turning the device back and forth. Heat spreads from your face down to your chest and circles the rest of your body. You want to turn away. “No, don’t get shy now. Look at me. That’s it. Imagine my hands gliding across your skin. My lips touching yours. My tongue discovering every inch of your body.”
   Predator and prey. Piercing blue eyes bore into your soul and you don’t want to look away anymore. Your toes curl as you pant, the crafted image etched in your mind. Hyunjin. Touching, tasting and devouring every inch of your skin.
   “Please.”
   “That’s it baby, beg,” he practically purrs the words as he continues to capture you from different angles. “Tell me what you want me to do.”
   “Touch. Touch me, Hyunjin.”
   “Where sweetheart?”
   “Everywhere,” you whine, squeezing your legs together. Your head lulls to the side and you beseech him with your eyes, trying both to demand and seduce.
   “So greedy.” He chuckles, his slender fingers caressing the camera as if it’s a piece of treasure and you can’t help but feel jealous.
   “Please, Hyunjin.”
   This time you start to shake your body back and forth. He lowers the camera long enough to slide his hand behind your neck, tangling his fingers in your hair to yank your head back. Rippling pleasure rolls down your body from the sudden movement.
   “Impatient,” he tuts, easing himself onto the couch, positioning his knees outside your thighs. He hovers above you. The grin on his lips is quickly hidden by the camera as he raises it up once more. “Insatiable.”
   Close enough to touch, yet you know better than to interrupt the master as he works. Does he want you in pain? Why would he leave you to writhe like this? He knows what you want. He knows. Doesn’t he want it too?
   “Don’t you want me?” The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them.
   “Hmm? Should I want you?” He chuckles once more, continuing to click that ridiculous little button. Your hands ball up into little fists. He leans closer, resting his lower body against your lap to get the perfect shot. “That’s it, baby. Show me how you feel.”
   “Fuck you,” you whisper, turning your head to the side in a pathetic attempt to obscure the tears that threaten the rim of your lids.
   That’s when you feel it: his cock, hard against your pussy, bulging tight against his jeans. Wide eyes turn to look up at the camera. The movement was enough for the building water to erupt and tears flow down your cheeks. Somehow the insane amount of clicking increases.
   “God, that’s hot,” he groans, rubbing his hips against yours. Your ears are hot as sparks ignite from within your core. Even though you’re still angry, you want him. No, you don’t just want him, your body is ablaze with need for him, as if you haven’t had anything to drink in weeks and he is the mystic stream hidden in a long forgotten forest. He’s the only drink you want and you’re thirsty. The grin that spreads across his face says he knows what you want.
   “I can’t wait anymore.”
   “Can’t?” he asks, lowering his camera, his left eyebrow raised.
   “I won’t!” Glaring up at him as he takes a few more photos, you jab him in the chest with the heel of your fist until he finally puts the camera back on the side table.
   Provoking him may have been a mistake.
   Hyunjin doesn’t look like the strong type – you’ve always thought of him as having an air of mystery and pure allure – yet somehow both of your hands are pinned behind you on the arm of the couch as his legs force yours together. He’s immobilized you. He’s staring down at you, or rather he’s appraising you, even without his camera. A masterpiece before him; you have become his art.
   “Hyunjin,” you whimper, twisting mere millimeters back and forth. “Don’t make me beg.”
   “But you’re so beautiful when you beg.” Icy blue eyes burn with such intensity and a flicker of a smile crosses his face before his lips claim yours. First he pecks softly at the edges and dabs at your parted lips with his tongue. Whining, you try to move out of his grip but the cage doesn’t budge. He laughs as he continues, this time nipping at your trembling lips. “What do you want me to do, baby?”
   “Kiss me like you mean it!”
   “You don’t like my kisses?”
   “I love your kisses, but I need more,” you say, the words guttural and raw from your throat. “Stop teasing me.”
   “Be careful what you wish for.” His eyes darken, a sinister flash glimmering across his face that disappears as quickly as it came. He’s hiding a piece of himself away. Something dangerous. “Tell me exactly what you want me to do.”
   “Just fuck me already.” Biting your bottom lip, you lift your hips up, close your eyes and moan as you feel his hold loosening. His swollen cock wants it as much as you do. “Let that big dick of yours out already.”
   He smirks, letting your arms go to unbuckle his jeans, jeans now covered in pink and purple paint. Sliding your fingers across his chest and around to his back, you pull his shirt over his head which he quickly discards behind him along with his jeans and boxer briefs. If you weren’t so desperate to have him inside you, you might have regretted not drawing out the scene before you, to take in the beauty of his naked body on display. But not today.
   “Don’t bother,” you whimper weakly when his fingers travel down your body. At the quirk of his brow, you continue, “I can’t wait anymore. Just stick it in. I can’t wait any longer.”
   He chuckles, positioning himself at your entrance, waiting a moment to glance down at you, restless and impatient as you squirm beneath him. Then just as you’re about to plead again he glides into your wet pussy inch by glorious inch. Jolts of pleasure sputter out with every movement as you finally feel a sense of relief. He’s inside you. He’s right where he belongs.
Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed this content! If you did, please consider liking, commenting, reblogging and/or following, and check out my masterlist for similar content. Have a great day!
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michelle-anadytop · 1 year
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Luxurious Embroidered Flower Blue Sheer Curtains for Sitting Room
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helloescapist · 9 months
Text
Bento Confessionals | Fat Gum
Word Count: 3960
Setting: early established relationship; Fat Gum x gn!reader; SFW, short
Content Warning(s): brief hint of assault, hint of objectification
Summary: being in a relationship with a pro-hero is something that happens over time, and as work picks up for Fat Gum following the Shie Hassaikai Incident, you reminisce of your time together, determined to do everything you can to support him.
A/N: just me considering a whole bento confessionals series... 🫣
[not my art, credit goes to the artist!]
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Sunlight filtered through the room, glanced pass sheer white curtains that smelled of the breeze that dared to drift through the open window. Its warmth danced across the humble balcony into your small one-bedroom apartment. The distant sound of the hustle and bustle of the day, gentle and unassuming. At one time, the hush tones of the market had been quite the adjustment when you had relocated to Esuha City.
The almost serene atmosphere having given rise to a nameless anxiety, and practically convinced you that there must be something lurking within the shadows. The peaceful abode a stark contrast from the hectic life you had lived in Tokyo, you reminisced as you maneuvered your small section of your loft apartment dedicated to the kitchen. The small number of necessities for life alone cleanly put away, and the trace of chocolate ivy dangling from the top shelf; it was a humble kitchen, one your parents had openly scoffed at, but it was your kitchen. The only other tenant the occasional house plant you had impulsively brought along to make the space feel more inviting, less alone. Their presence warmed the lower white counters nestled against a simple fridge, and wood counter tops, as you adjusted the faucet’s water levels. The slightest hint of chocolate ivy from the plant who had made its home at the top of the highest cabinet tickled your nose as you folded over the daikon, cleansing it from any soil or pest that might have snuck aboard its leaves. Their yellow bright amongst the blanched background, reminding you of the day you had first met him.
Boxes piled on boxes, chairs resting on tables to leave the floor beneath exposed, packaging delicately removed to reveal glassware, you had just moved from Tokyo in nothing short of a fit of rage and humiliation. The mere idea of your employer suggesting you relocate from your hard-earned role as the restaurant’s Sous Chef and abandon any claim of climbing the kitchen hierarchy to be… a mascot? Oh, the rage that had coursed through your trembling body, the curse words you had bellowed in the short man’s face as you fumbled to untie your apron, smacking it into his tacky mustache with all the might you could muster. His muttering of utilizing quirks as his excuse to depose of you, for the good of the health of the business. Stating that your quirk and pretty face made for the perfect opportunity to boost morale and draw in consumers. Oh you had seethed from every pore of your being, your face redder than the tomatoes you had tossed in his face when the word slipped past his thin, rat lips. Mascot. MASCOT. Fought to free yourself of the buttons of your double-breasted jacket, willing to expose yourself to the whole staff—the patisserie had certain caught a glimpse, but whatever it took to rid you of the fine cuisine’s establishment embroidered on your breast. Trampling the material in one final attempt to swing at the executive chef, the saucier having blocked your route, having simple to settle for being hoisted out of the restaurant by the chef de cuisine alongside a few of the waiting staff. When the news broke to your family, things had only grown more turbulent (and provided fuel to your fire) as they struggled to comprehend your refusal of “promotion”. Reminiscent of the days preceding your graduation--- the shades of red your father had turned when you retired your hero license in pursuit of a life of merit. Except, this time had been worse, and left a permanent mark on your already tense relationship. You, unwilling to compromise your beliefs, and your family concerned that you had selected to live life on the difficulty setting. So. You said goodbye. Well, not a permanent goodbye, but, you did welcomed the space and freedom to spread your wings. Waved fair well to the crowded metropolis, packed away all of your belongings in whatever you could find, found a listing online, signed what could have easily been questionable loan opportunities (thank goodness for your older brother’s guidance and generosity), and escaped to the Kansai region of Japan.
                The café space was smaller than you had expected, perhaps far too familiar with those provided by the Tokyo experience. With a small eating set up—by obviously you meant a single table with two chairs nestled outside of the loft building, and a few opportunities in doors. The window framing the occupied space in aging stonework. Old dusty lanterns left by the former owner clung to the ceiling, a select few booths with seats that would need replacing, each booth composed of a small intimate screen, and a counter pace with seats close to the kitchens in need of maintenance of their own. The overwhelming amount of work beckoning your attention, and earning a remorseful laugh from your older sibling all the exhaustion of the move running through his mind as he placed the last moving box down on a dusty, wobbly table. “[F/N]? You okay?” His eyes wandering the silhouette of your back as you gazed around the location. “H-hey,” he had muttered before wrapping a warm hand on your shoulder. Only to be met with the look of determination flickering in your eyes before a confident smile crawled across his lips. To you, this building all though in desperate need of care, it represented a world of opportunities. A real chance to thrive, and to earn your own place in this world, from your own hands rather than your face, or quirk. “Just promise me, you won’t open a cat café,” he teased before bidding you farewell, home bound to Tokyo, and likely your parents’ restless inquiries, as you rolled up your sleeves and set to work.
                The demands of the job hand been more than you had initially expected—your fine dining experience had certainly familiarized you with heaving garbage (at the executive chef’s horror, the notion of a beautiful face wasting away in the recycling, but never before had you been on the ground floor, building a business. The long hours of cleaning and preparing for opening day had claimed most of your senses. On the last day of preparation is when you had met him.
                Deep in the final box of your belongings, you had missed the initial ding of the front door opening. So early in the morning, you hadn’t considered yourself at risk of pedestrians wandering in from the sidewalks. He had made his way in, his body tired from the long hours of patrol, and full intending to go home, having pulled an all-nighter, a snack and bed sounded divine, but the distant glow of your business had drawn him in. The cute trees that you had watered beginning to bloom in the weeks of your preparation. The store front hadn’t seen life in some time, and it had been a while since he could see through the windows, something about it the atmosphere seemed comforting and enticed him to push open the front door. “Hello?” He had called out, the giant smile encompassing all of his features, his round shadow drifting into your view. Causing you a shock as you popped up. “Is anyone here?”
                “I- Oh, um, we’re n-not open yet!” you sputtered, your wide eyes meeting his own. An uncomfortable smile spreading across your features, before slapping your mouth over it to conceal it. Too late, you thought, practically drowning in the misery of realization. He had seen you. The way his cheeks burned through his black mask despite the way it cupped his cheeks, drawing back pass his forehead. The hood of his costume bright despite the faint light of the morning hours. A giant F followed by a capital G, and what you assumed was an inverted F printed alongside the other letters, his grin evident and rosy.
                “Oh, no, no,” he reassured, waving his hands at you. The grin growing steadily, and a cheery disposition forming over him, “I’m sorry. I just wanted to welcome you to Esuha City!” His voice was practically booming, optimistic and bright as the morning sun as he bent forward, bending as well as he could with his round body. “Welcome!” Accidentally plopping into the furniture as he did so, the embarrassment evident in the way he rebounded, his hand on the back of his head as he forced out a laugh. As he ran through the introductions, you rushed to right yourself, quickly concealing your features with a black mask. This was your fault, you thought with a sigh. The  rosy complexion and affectionate way he regarded you. You had been so diligent since your arrival to the area, made sure to keep mouth covered despite the inquiries the grannies in the neighborhood had made, and now that you thought about it, they had spoken warmly about the pro-hero that stood before you.  The distinct rumbling breaking his rambling introduction, what you had believed to be the result of your quirk, Allure. His direct exposure to your smile, albeit an awkward one had ensnared him, and it would be a few hours before he recovered, drew your attention. “A-Ah, well,” he laughed, “I’ll have to stop by when your open, thank you for your time ma’am.” Surprisingly deft on his foot as he twirled from you, tripping over a table that he hadn’t seen in his peripheral vision. His forehead popping into the grain of the wood, and leaving a noticeable mark as he turned his head at you. Another awkward chuckle, and big smile. One that formed one behind your mask.
                “Please, sit,” you instructed. It was the least you could do, you had concluded, and despite his reassurance that he was okay, you had pushed menus into his hands, offering a vague request to fold them before setting to work. Your prep for the day to come had made assembling breakfast effortless for you, and when you placed your well thought out apology meal before him, you could see his smile glow with joy. Because of this quirk, you thought sadly, careful to avoid his eye. You were familiar enough with the pro-hero, Fat Gum, not so much as you were with Endeavor or All Might, but his accomplishments were known to cross newsfeeds from time to time, especially now that you were in Esuha City, he was essentially the pride and joy of the community, and you grasped the base concept of calorie intake in relation to his quirk. His eyes glistening at the spread before him. Mentions of it wasn’t necessary, and sorry for the inconvenience, things like that, that you quickly dismissed, “for folding the menus.” His enthusiastic praise over every dish, tearing at your heart. Was it your quirk, or did he actually enjoy the kabocha miso soup? Did he even like the natto—it was kind of an acquired taste. The takuan, picked daikon as yellow as his shirt bit down quickly, followed after a bite of tamagoyaki, as he hummed over the sizzling mackerel. The growing sense of melancholy ebbing at your belly, as you listened to him fill the air with cheerful chatter.
                If only you had known at that time he had in fact, not seen your smile. No, upon entering the Kappa Kitchen, he had only heard your soft hums, a song, one he wasn’t yet familiar with, and when you shyly peeked from behind the counter, he had only seen the filter of morning light reflected in your eyes. Sparkling and dazling in a way he couldn’t quite put his finger on, something warm like hot chocolate, or as comforting as nikujaga on a winter day, or perhaps the allure of takoyaki under festival lanterns. The charm of something familiar and charming sending his heart into a small strum.
The giggle of the memory of his stumbling along the small restaurant formed on your tongue, and shaded your cheeks. He had been so sweet, that you had been convinced that initial reaction had been coerced. As you diligently layered protection over a chicken cutlet. Before skillfully wielding your mallet, reminiscing over the weeks that had followed. Upon the opening of the shop, Kappa Kitchen officially in business, you thankfully had your hands full—and no more mask slips either! The flow of costumers was steady some brought on by curiosity, there were those excited to experience home cooking on the go, and goodness knows that the onslaught of students during lunch and after school hours were enough to fit the utilities. It was in fact, none other than your present-day boyfriend who had shared rave reviews for anyone who would listen, mostly because his stomach was next to his heart, but he did in fact care about the financial wellness of everyone under his car. It was during this time; you would often see him pass the shop on patrol. Some days, he would peek into the window, an evident grin despite the fact that he was in fact, very much visible (to the chiding of the grannies in the neighborhood). A few times, he had successfully blended in with the crowd, taking advantage with your familiarity with only his alias. Other times, he would send a hero in training to retrieve a pick-up order. To the obvious dismay of the chittering older women who frequently stopped by, eager to see how your relationship developed, and the poor intern as well, who would sputter through the interaction, and read a joke off a script Fat Gum had provided. In time, he would slowly level up from casual greetings while you were out shopping to picking up orders himself, to indoor dining, to the daring requests for you to sit across from him at the end of the day’s work as your last customer for the day. It was all puzzling to you… your quirk had never extended pass six hours; why he acted as though he were still enamored was beyond you, but it was on one of those rare nights that he had arrived especially late that you saw a new side of the Pro-Hero.
The light had long since evaded the night, the later hour evident by the absence of by the lack of foot traffic outside. The quiet ticking away of the frog shaped clock giving away the time as you fiddled with the hem of your apron. The little frog motifs adorable despite your low mood. Your brows wrinkled as you hesitantly looked at the packed order before you, too embarrassed to admit that you had assumed your frequent costumer would stop by. You weren’t aware of all the specifics, he had only shared that he would be working with the police, but offered nothing more nor did you dare press for specifics. The information was shared over one of his late nights, and you had grown accustomed to his drop ins, and dare you admit… welcomed them. So much so that before you rested a bento packed with cutesy bear shaped onigiri, chicken katsu, a variety of vegetables you had painstakingly sliced into… hearts. Oh god, your hand met your eyes, shielding you from the carefully wrapped meal. Your cheeks burned, was it from the reality of how deep your emotions had delved over the past few weeks, the fact that you had longed to see his smile at the end of the day, or the fact that you were crushed with disappointment. Biting your lip, and releasing a sigh, you pulled yourself from your seat. Peeling your eyes away from the packed food, you had decided that you would leave it until the morning. Maybe some part of you just didn’t want to deal with it because in some way, having to dispose of it meant having to face your own blooming affections, and the fact that tears threatened to spill down your cheeks. Maybe some part of you, wanted to believe that he was just running late, and would collect the box after you had gone to bed. Whatever the motivation for procrastination, you left it there as well as the door unlocked. Numbly turning off the light in the dining room before dragging yourself to the kitchen to clean up from a day’s work.
That night had been the driving point in your relationship, you mused to yourself as you carefully mixed together the flour and cornstarch. Draining the chicken from the marinade as you thoroughly allowed it resist before beginning to drudge it. Yes, that night had been the true starting point although you didn’t like to think about it.
You were careless, and way too trusting. You had left the door open in the hopes that Fat Gum may stop by, never considering someone else would have taken advantage of the opportunity, and if he hadn’t arrived in time, things could have ended far worse than thrown glasses, a torn mask and a bruised cheek. You had seen a new side of him that night too, well actually two of them. You had been introduced to Toyomitsu Taishiro, a well muscular man with quite the temper on him, and no holds barred against your would-be assailant. His late nights with the police having drained his fat deposits, revealing a man who shared a beautiful, gentle smile the same Fat Gum adorned, one hand pressed to your quickly bruising cheek where the man had slapped. Delicately checking you over, whispering reassuring words as the realization of what had happened flooded through you tears that fell, and crushed you into a hug. His eyes falling on the scatter ingredients of a bento littered across the floor. Little heart shaped carrots scattered around, and the conclusion that he didn’t ever want to see your tears again.
                Shortly after, he would treat you to a festival date. Blonde hair that glistened under the festival lanterns, eyes as beautiful as the purest daffodil that wandered the stalls in amazement. The opportunity to indulge in the wide variety of treats, full of wonder and excitement, but what stuck with you was how good it felt for his large hand to be clasped around your own. And how away from prying eyes under the glow of summer fireworks, he had delicately removed your mask. Slowly and tenderly, cautious to be sure he had your consent. The evidence he would withdraw should you show the slightest hint of discomfort. An indescribable heat that burned in his eyes as he slowly slipped the thin fabric pass your nose, exposing your lips to the night air before pressing his forehead against your own. The pounding of your heart as his hand clasped the back of your neck, the tickle of his breathe against your cheek before you daringly tilted your head forward, pressing your lips against his own. The soft hum of content that radiated from him, and how your heart felt as though it had joined with his own.
                Because the truth was, your quirk had no affect on those who loved you.
The distinct sizzle of the oil when the chopstick pressed into the pot before quietly adding the breaded chicken cutlet to the frying pan lead you into the next part of your task. Determination captivating you. It had to taste amazing, it needed to be perfect. Among all of the usual demands Taishiro endured, something had happened in the past few days. Something that had set off a wave of fires so to speak, lit up news stations, captivated newsfeeds, and flooded social media sites, and from what had happened the night before, you suspected had involved your pro-hero, personally.
It was late. Very late, but you had known he wasn’t intending to stop by for his usual order. In fact, he had mentioned work had picked up, and he would be busy over the next few days. You had grown accustomed to the vague exchange of information, such was the duties of a hero, and the burden of loving one was yours to bare. At the time, something about it had sat hollow in your stomach. Bubbled quiet doubts, an odd ebbing feeling that had nagged at you over the past few days since your departure. You were used to his long, odd hours. Familiar with absent periods, and even unsightly marring across him from unfortunate scuffles. Didn’t share a moment of doubt over his need to pack on extra calories, of course he did, but it was something about the way he had left you. Pressing his forehead against your own, his amber eyes gazing into your own. Something about the long pause, and deep breath he had contained when he held you. As though he were doing everything within his power to memorize your shape, the way you fit in his arms, the languid fresh scent of miso that hung to your hair. Craved your touch, and hesitated to leave… that wasn’t him. He had always been optimistic, confident that he would return. Always kissed your forehead before, sensually uttering, “I’ll be home soon,” in your ear. But not this time. Forehead pressed against your own, a soft smile as he gazed into your eyes. Instead of his usual farewell, “I love you.”
                Something wasn’t right, you knew it. Every fiber of your being planted seeds of anxiety, betrayed your sanity, and had you resting against the bed, a pillow wrapped in his sweeter breast against your beast. Tucked under your chin as you traced the floor, telling yourself to trust him. To believe in him. He would come back. He would, but the shatter of silence of the front door opening about broke you. He had come home, but not all in one piece. Taunt muscles, all of his excess adipose storage burned through. Lesions scattered throughout his frame, and even his uniform in shreds, Taishiro looked exhausted. His body heavy, his eyes obviously full of concern and the shadow of things he would rather you never witness evident before collapsing in your arms. He had shared things with you, things you hadn’t expected. Whispered things about Hassaikai, uttered conditions of his interns through broken speech before exhaustion had finally snubbed him out. Collapsed in a heap in your arms, sound asleep from fatigue that robbed him of his awareness, locked in your arms and weight pressed against you as you ran your fingers through his hair.
What had happened, was slowly but surely becoming known, and you suspected he had done his best to shield you from the situation, afraid of worrying you, but much like the circumstances that lead you to moving to the Kansai region, it did the opposite. It fueled you. Determination had flooded you, and consumed you as you carefully placed each ingredient with intention in the bento. Placing bear shaped onigiri snuggly in the corner, followed by a powerful salad packed with every vitamin, and antioxidants you could google, chicken kaarage decorating the side. A slice of lemon, a  sprinkle of katsuobushi, and the addition of fully garnished takoyaki artistically placed in the bento before you closed the container. Laying out a pink flower printed fabric, you paid close attention to centering the lunch box in the center, bringing corners together to knot it securely together. Uttering a protection prayer as you did so, your heart focused on Taishiro. Bidding farewell to the house plants as you locked the door securely behind you, departing on to the street. Destination: Fat Gum Agency. Sure, there were fears, such were the relationship hazards of dating a pro-hero, but more than that was determination and adoration.
                You would do everything to support the man you love.
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pedroswhore · 2 years
Text
To Break Old Oaths
Hi, guys things are getting a little spicier in this chapter a whole lot of jealous mando and angst. Hope you enjoy it and as always it was fun writing this.
xoxoxo
pedroswhore
TW: Rated mature, profanity, slight smut, possessive mando, jealous mando, slight dirty talk
Chapter 4
The mechanic
His bounty is insistent and uncharacteristically sweet when she presents him with the idea. To her delight, they’re stranded, and she tells him how the temperatures drop at night. With the shields down, they have no real protection. Grogu will have a real bed that is warm and comfortable, as well as a soothing bowl of bone broth in his belly.
 He ignores her at first as she follows him around Grogu on her hip, as always. He wonders how her arms don’t tire she talks endlessly, as he tries to figure out what went wrong with his ship. He ignores her, but he finds himself smiling sometimes under his helmet when she sits perched on the crate as he works, bouncing the kid on her knee feeding him pieces of a ration bar.
 "Be rational mandalorian,"
"I can feed the kid fresh meals every day. He can sleep in a soft cradle. "The temperatures here at night are those of Hoth,"
 The child babbles. She looks down at him, nodding her head. "See, Grogu agrees." Grogu affirms her statement by nodding vigorously with whatever she’s said.
 "Ooh, and we can go to the market for the things you need for the ship and I can buy grocery clothes-"
"Fine," he cuts her off.
 She shot up with the baby, excited, talking to him about how he'd love the cradle she has at home.
 He felt guilty at how little it took to make her so forgiving, how her face lit up with delight. He thought of telling her the truth, but he never been a good man. He thought of his lust and greed and the way he still felt under all his Beskar he was still a man despite it all. And yet he was dishonouring himself by taking her. It would be her choice.
Whether he could bring himself to leave her at the mercy of other hunters was uncertain. Stopping himself from touching her made him irritable. His only moment of relief was in the fresher in the dark corners of his bunk spent fantasising about fucking her up against the wall, taking his weeping cock out and lifting that sheer tattered dress she was wearing. He knew she would let him gasp softly and open her legs, arching her back like she had when he had given in and felt the weight of her breasts.
It'd be her choice, and if she let him in, he'd stay inside her warm himself up. In the cockpit, in his bunk against the walls of the crest. Everywhere he could, he’d have his fill.
 The walk to her home is noisy, her and the kid chattering away, while he lingers behind them silent, on edge.
 She insisted on eating together, putting him to work, making him chop firewood. He had caught her staring through the curtains, and he found himself smirking as he brought the axe down.
 "Women", he muttered to himself whilst Grogu watched him in his cradle at a safe distance, clapping his hands every time a log broke clean.
 She called them in after a while. She had changed into a little dress just below her mid-thigh. He never paid attention to what people wore and their hair, their maker damned eyes, but he could not bring himself to be indifferent to the blue flowers embroidered around her plunging neckline or her sleeve that had fallen so softly off her shoulders. Her hair clipped up tendrils framing her face. The apples of her cheek flushed red from the warmth of her stove.
 She did not smile at him, all her warmth and affection for the kid who cooed at her from his father's arms.
 The aroma of the stews and the fresh bread that lined the table his stomach whined in hunger. It had been so long since he had had a meal. That was not cold broth or ration bars.
 "Sit," she instructed trying to restrain Grogu from pouncing on the food.
 "I can’t take my helmet off," he told her,
She sighed "I know Madalorian." She took her chair and turned it around. I will not look; I don’t want to.”
 She sat down with her back to her impossibly straight Grogu on her lap, peering at his father over her shoulder. "You can eat, hunter; I won't look."
Din considered what she was saying, what she was asking of him, and how unpredictable she was despite her words. But he was hungry and tired, so he took off his helmet, the low hiss making her gasp. A part him knowing he could trust her.
 "If you look, I will have to kill you. This is the way."
 "How many times shall I say this mando "I do not care enough to give up my life to know the colour your eyes are," she tells him, feeding Grogu.
 He bit his lip to avoid an indulgent chuckle instead indulged himself with the food. He was ready to make vows over the first bite of food, promise warriors promise himself. The meat was so fragrant it fell apart on his tongue. They did not talk as they ate; he was too lost in his meal, eating like a man starved.
As soon as he shoved the last piece of bread in his mouth, he put his helmet back on.
 "Are you decent?" she muttered amusement in her tone.
 "Yes," he said as she turned around, prying her hair out of Grogu’s fist, his cheek flat against the swell of her breast ."Here," she said tiredly, "take your son."
He sat back, allowing her to walk into the space between his knees, widening his legs.His gaze fixed her breasts spilling from her dress, and he shifted on the chair, his arms raising on their own accord as he attempted to take Grogu from her.
 His kid just clung to her until she winced his little hand still fisted into her hair. He stood up, untangling her hair from his Grogu’s grip, and took him. The child protested a little, but his exhaustion won.
 "Good night, sweet pea," she whispered, kissing his cheek as the mandalorian took him into his arms, holding him on his shoulder.
 He couldn’t stop himself as he pulled the clip from her hair, watching it fall down her back in shimmering chestnut waves. Her eyes were wide cast down when he held the side of her face, moving strands away from her face.
 "Mando," she faltered , her voice coming out as a whisper. He said nothing, just bent down, swiping his thumb over her lips.
 "It’s getting late," she breathed, moving out of his grasp. He let her. She swiped the imaginary sweat from her brow, her cheeks flushed. As she picked up the plates and fretted about
 He put Grogu down in his cradle and thought about helping her, but the woman was muttering to herself, so he decided against it and settled on one of the armchairs she had crowded up the place.
 Her home was full of trinkets, cushions, blankets, a stack of firewood, and clutter in every corner, which she so clearly loved.
 She came before him, tugging her apron off her eyes at half mast, exhausted from the day from running after Grogu and quickly baby-proofing her house. But he could not want her more like this, tired and soft. Her feet bare the chimes of her anklets, filling the silence when the words were lost.
 She stood awkwardly, unsure of her arms as she wrapped them around her.
 "Um, there’s one room," she began, and he swore to the maker that his cock jumped at what she was beginning to imply.
 "And" his voice was rougher then he expected it to be like he’d spent the day thirsting under the Tatoonie suns without
 "So um, either you can sleep here or you can take the floor."
 "I will take the bed."
 "I did not offer the bed," she narrowed her eyes.
 "There are probably hunters stalking you right now. You really want to play those odds, girl."
 "I’ll take my odds either sleeping on the floor or outside." She hissed.
 He slapped his hands on his thighs before getting up, determined that he knew he’d not be sleeping anywhere but next to her.
 He stalked closer and she fidgeted. He liked that she was shorter; it was so easy to tower over her and watch how her cheeks tinged red the shades of scarlet she wore when he touched her when he spoke to her.
 When her rage became her, "Let me hold you through the night. I can keep you safer than the knife on your thigh." He pulled off his glove and lifted her dress, warm fingers digging into the giving flesh, searching for the blade.
 She ripped it out of his hands, "Somehow, Mandalorian, your hands always end up underneath my dress. I can recommend some popular brothels far into the city. I’ll watch the kid“
 "In the time it would take for you to get to your little knife, you would already be dead." He dismissed her lifting up Grogu’s cradle before he walked up the stairs.
 …
 She nearly screamed in frustration, picking up the cushion he was leaning against and throwing it. Before stomping up the stairs to find the mandalorian on her side of the bed. His pauldrons and chest plate were nearly placed in a corner, his vambraces were still on, and the rest of his armour still on him.
 She met what she assumed was his gaze, trying to read him only seeing his arrogance, splayed out on her bed. It was odd seeing the Mandalorians with such little armour wearing socks.
 She could feel him smirking, his smugness radiating off him, the way his head rested on his arms. He wanted to play dirty, he’d get dirty.
 She glided past him, pulling out a silk nightgown from her chest of drawers, bundling it at her side. She smirked to herself, as she sauntered out of the room, replacing her dress for an even shorter nightgown.
 A shade of sage green trimmed with pink lace, she walked back into the room, head held high. His helm followed her, his body rigid.
 She sat in front of her vanity her legs gracefully crossed like she was a princess of Alderaan ignoring the mandalorian and the hunger he omitted, from the way he shifted again and again the bread creaking under his weight. The irritated breaths of air, she got up putting her leg on the bed and applying her lotion on. It had her body smelling like lillies all day.
 "Go and change," he barked, sitting upright, his casual arrogance disappearing
 She smiled, "depravity doesn’t look good on you, Mando"
 "You said to yourself that it’s cold at night. I don’t want to have to look after you."
 "I don't understand your concern hunter. When I will be exchanged for credits regardless of whether I have a fever," she chastised as she screwed the lid back on. She crawled on to the bed, indulging him in something she knew would make his skin run hot. It was foul play, but he deserved it. As long as she remembered, he was still skin and bones under the armour.
"I won’t get paid, girl," he forced out, looking straight ahead, refusing to look at her. She lay on her side, aware that her nightgown had ridden up in a game she knew she couldn't win. And yet he had no right to touch her, to feel the smooth expanse of her skin under those work-hardened hands.
 "Good," she muttered, closing her eyes and enjoying the way her skin felt against the crisp linen of her warm bed. Yet the man beside her did not settle. He did not settle through the night. His movements were painful. Irritating her too, he was either too hot or too cold, muttering under his breath or breathing too deeply before giving up and leaving.
She was not someone who enjoyed sunrises or sunbeams coming through open curtains. But today she did not complain when the sun woke her. She smiled when she saw the empty space next to her, panicked when she saw the empty cradle.
 She rushed out of her room and there they were: the hunter, sprawled out on her dark green sofa, his legs hanging off his body too wide to be comfortable. His head propped up on his arm, his tiny green son splayed on his father's chest. His other arm held him to her chest, drool dripping from his mouth.
 She bit her lip, trying not to smile too widely, reminding herself that the baby's father was her captor. Her frown returned not long after she put her hair up and started on breakfast. The baby needed something nice and healthy. She went to her garden used to the morning frost, finding it woke her before caf got her ready for the day.
She foraged for tomatoes for some herbs and made her way back.
 The bread was perfect, golden and soft. The eggs were seasoned lightly and with some herbs, she’d go to the market today. The crest was old and it’d take a while for it to be up and kicking.
 She leant over the mandalorian, unsure of how to take the baby without waking the hunter up. But his hand had already shot to her wrist whilst she was contemplating her technique. "Breakfast," she said, her voice deliberately chirpy.
 She heard the faintest growl of annoyance before he handed the baby to her and got up.
 The mandalorian was in a foul mood, probably due to the sleepless night, yet his eyes still lingered on her. When she flitted about serving him a plate on the table, she turned her back to him as she fed Grogu, letting the mandalorian eat. But he did not speak, stewing in silence. Once she had fed Grogu and cleaned his face, he was back in the hunter's lap.
 She went off to change, thinking about how she could irritate him, whether it would be a light blue or a soft green.
 Soft green, it was a dress coming up to her knees, the sleeves long and the neckline low. Her hair in a plait down her back fastened with a ribbon. A cardigan she had croched two winters ago was warming her.
 "I need to go to the market mando." She stood strong as he lets grogu chew on his arm.
 "No"
 "I wasn’t asking"
 "I am not the only hunter looking for you."
 He does not raise his helmet directing his attention on the kid.
 "We will be here quite some time and I need to stock up on food mandalorian."
 "You will not leave, little girl," he says as he pulls Grogu off him and places him on the floor before getting up and ascending the stairs.
Dismissing the conversation
 ‘Little’ is new and degrading, and she bites her tongue to keep anything venomous at bay. She follows him up taking Grogu with her.
 "I have been running for a long time, mandalorian from men like you. Don’t think so little of me," she spits
 He starts with his pauldrons and then his chest plate before he checks his weapons. He doesn’t look at her. "I found you, girl, and that is telling enough."
 Fury laces her veins, "if a hunter finds me, maybe they’ll kill me and I’ll finally be free of you."
 He sighs in annoyance , grabbing her arm, pulling her back, "What do you need?"
 "For you to fuck off," she growls, tugging her arm free. He looked her over, and she wished she could read his face to know what he was thinking. But his body language was expressive. The way he holds her arm, his hand encircling her biceps, digging into her skin.
 "What do you need?" He asked again, his voice a little less tolerant.
 "You won’t know what a parsnip is if it looks you in the eye." Irked at his hands and the way he thinks he can just order her around. The expectation that she would obey him like some bitch.
 He alternates between the names he gives her, hardly using her own "I’ll take you."
 "Oh thank you. I wasn’t going to be able to make it to the market of the village I’ve lived in for three years. How can you ever repay me?" she muttered as he let her go.
 "You can put some clothes on at night."
 "I didn’t tell you to sleep in my room. You invaded my privacy and now expect me to cover up. Because you can't control your c-cock," she hadn't used the word so openly before and felt a flush creep up her neck, but it made her point.
 "Shut up," he growled.
 The villagers looked at her as if she was a reckoning. The man beside her was damning her. He stood over them, tall and armoured. She muttered under her breath, his hand not straying from the small of her back. She could feel him breathing down her neck the way his footsteps deliberately lagged behind hers and the way he did not speak a word.
 They looked on terrified apprehensive when she approached, so she quickly called out of their favour. Her face was burning. Her scowl taking residence on her lips. Grogu was restless in her arms, demanding his independence. To explore, to join the children playing in the streets.
 "Grogu!" She scolded when he tugged at her hair to get her attention, "If you do not hold still, I’ll make your daddy hold you." She threatened, he did not relent, squirming in her arms. She felt inexperienced and embarrassed at the way she may have been perceived a disgruntled girl losing against a green toddler. And then there was the stoic android beside her, refusing to step in.
 "That’s it!" She pulled Grogu off her, pressing him into his father's arms.
 "I don’t need you to navigate for me, mandalorian," she snarled, shrugging off his gloved hand. Instead, he took to her waist, ignoring her and reprimanding his son instead.
 "Don’t hurt her again, you understand?" His voice was stern not to be messed with Grogu let out a whimper, and her heart ached. "I didn’t tell you to terrify him." She said as Grogu’s ears drooped. Followed by his signature pout.
 The mandalorian’s helmet shot up. "You’re spoiling him, girl," he muttered, holding a settled Grogu to his chest, his head on his father's shoulder sulking.
 The vendors were still sweet to her, offering her kind smiles as she stocked up, filling the mandalorians' arms, making use of him. Putting Grogu on her hip when she needed his other arm.
 They made small talk, but their eyes remained on the mandalorian. They asked her how she was limiting their inquisition to her, her alone. Not the strange green baby or the hulking mass of armour next to her.
 The blonde-haired mechanic was the first to stop her. "Lilly," he called her, the smile on his face so bright she couldn’t help but smile back. He opened up his arms and she returned his hug. "I thought we would never hear from you again." He beamed, his smile wide. The mandalorian next to her was deathly quiet as he pulled her out of the mechanics' embrace, standing in front of her.
 "Don’t mind him, Silas, he’s programmed to do that," she said, dismissing him, biting her lip to stop herself from laughing. The mandalorian did not find it funny his blaster ready in his hand
 She moved past him, standing in front of the poor mechanic. "The Mandalorian’s ship is having issues. I was wondering if you could have a look at it. I’d be happy to watch the boys," she said sweetly. He beamed at her, but his eyes hardened as he looked at the mandalorian.
 "I do not need your services," the mandalorian ground out. She nudged him irritated. Silas looked to her for an answer. "He’s just not slept well. The sofa was too small for him." she told him, lips quirking upwards.
 I’ll come around then in the morning," Silas said, not raising his head to look at the mandalorian, a few inches taller than him but taller nonetheless.
 It was fun, antagonising the hunter, who was too possessive for a man who was nothing to her. "Thank you, Silas, see you tomorrow," she said, kissing his cheek in goodbye. The mechanic's eyes widened, a small smile playing on his lips, as he left before turning to look at her.
 The mandalorian had taken her arm and led her further into the market. "Who is he to you?" the hunter could not help himself.
 "It doesn’t concern you, mandalorian," she said, taking Grogu from him, holding him on her hip before finding a vendor selling children’s clothes.
 "It does, girl," he bit out, taking her arm once more and drawing her gaze to him.
"Listen to me, mandalorian "I am nothing to you except a means of credit," she sighed, tired of the mandalorians' pride.
 "You are mine, girl, mine to give, mine to take," he growled at her, tightening his grip on her.
 "You're so sweet for using me as currency, but I'd appreciate it if you'd let me go; you've given me enough bruises these past few days, hunter," she glared up at him.
 He released her and she returned to what she was doing, ignoring the mandalorian’s looming presence. He didn’t realise how strong his grip was, how hands that were trained with blasters were not gentle. Her pride, his possessiveness, confused her. It made her uneasy. She would have been more relieved if he was indifferent to her skin to the eyes of other men. It was what she expected.
But she did not expect this. This is not how bounty hunters acted . All the men before him were ready to shoot at her legs and arms to maim and torture her. Bring her forward with only the breath in her body.
 The hunter currently watching over her was merciful, a trait bounty hunters usually did not possess.
 It made her seethe, making her grind her teeth so hard she felt her teeth chip. Even the sound of his low modulated breaths were irritating. She wanted to turn around and punch him directly in between his eyes, break his nose, and make him bleed. But she knew she was no match for Beskar.
His jealousy had stirred feelings of want. It made her want to be taken to some dirty alley. She wanted those strong tan hands to leave an imprint on her for days wanted to wear his claim on her neck, her thighs. He made her desperate for touch, for a rougher hand. But even when lust was taking root in her, she could not bring herself to ignore the inevitability of his conquest. If he had her take his fill, he’d still take the credits on her head.
What would be left of her?
 Still, her mind wanders to the mandalorian and his capable hands. She had been running from being owned. Yet the hunters' gun-ready hands had her believing if she were to be possessed, she’d rather it be him.
 Their meal was eaten in silence, with the exception of Grogus's excited chatter. They followed the same routine. The hunter sat on the head of the table, his helmet beside him, his back to them both.
 He had left after the evening meal to go to work on his ship whilst there was still light outside. For a moment, the thought crossed her mind that she could just take grogu and run. She was good at it. Had been doing it for years, she had enough credits to pay her fare. Somewhere further in the galaxy harder to find.
 But she could not subject Grogu to a life like that of hunger of scrubbing cantina floors for half a meal. Maybe she could leave him alone, but it was not safe. She could not bring herself to do it.
 So she sat at the table watching Grogu play, not nearly tired enough to force him to sleep.
 She sighed as she closed the windows. Maybe he was right if he had found her here. Maybe other hunters had too, but they would not be as merciful as him.
 Lillia lit candles and slipped on her night gown, throwing on a cardigan to fight the chill as the fire died out. She braided her hair, her cup of tea at her side, Grogu nestled in her lap as she told him a story, coaxing him to sleep. Her eyes were fixed on the door, wondering when the mandalorian would come back and the feeling of safety would return.
 
 
He'd need the mechanic after all, no matter how angry he was, he couldn't get the crest running without assistance. The mechanic was no threat, but she could see him.
 See the way he smiled at her, the way his eyes followed her, see the blue of his eyes and the gold of his hair. She did not know that he looked at her with the same desire as the mechanic, how nothing went unnoticed by him.
 The way she would scrunch her nose after she sneezed, the way she would twist her hair into a clip, saving it from Grogu's persistent hands. She would always smile at his kid , no matter what he did. Her anger, her joy, he witnessed it all.
 His infatuation knew no bounds when he would listen to her speak to Grogu, wiping away at his face like a mother did. She would wipe away his tears with her sleeve and kiss his nose when he would smile at her. He craved this domesticity, this quiet familiarity, the home the mechanic could give her.
It made his jaw tick the idea of Lillia preparing a meal for the mechanic like she did for him. She bought him a cup of caff before making her own. The mechanic give her the life he wanted to give her. The years of isolation, the nights blurred into days, the last time he felt the sun on his face. The feeling of raindrops on his hands It had all caught up with him. The comfortable silence he was accustomed to was filled by her. He wanted her noise, her whimpers, the way her voice begins to break when she’s angry; he wanted it all. For the first time, his helm felt like a burden rather than a crown.
But he could not. She would never agree to bind herself to him. To leave the soft life she had made for herself to go crusading in the stars for the uncertainty of patching up old wounds.
 The crest being fixed was a reckoning that he’d be a better man. He’d give her a choice.
 The room was basking in the warm candlelight. Her voice was carried by the walls, tired as she told her son a story. He was not a good man. The way lust ravaged him, he thought only of taking her and ploughing into her. He was pushing up that silky little thing she wore and having his way.
 His chest was tight as he warred with his body at how quickly she evoked a reaction from him His heart raced as he willed himself to be calm. He felt like ripping off his gloves and soothing the way she made him ache.
 She jumped instantly, holding Grogu close to her chest, "you can’t just spring up on me like that." Her voice was still high as she recovered from the fright he gave her.
 "First you made me paranoid and now you’re walking around like a goddess dammed ghost," she said.
 He did not apologise, his eyes trained on her cleavage Grogus's cheek against her breast, a little drool glistening against her skin.
 She got up, flustered by his silence. "Fine," she said to herself under her breath, but he heard it. She did not meet his gaze. Instead, he just took Grogu from her and laid him down on the sofa.
 She turned to leave the tell-tale sign of frustration in her exasperated sigh. He grabbed her waist as she tried to walk past him, her braid swinging around her hips.
 He crowded her against the wall, helmet tilted down, saying all that needed to be said. She looked down. Her hands were fidgeting by her side.
 "Look at me, Lillia."
 She did, and he was mesmerised by her eyes, grey like the storm clouds that filled Hoth's sky. Striking yet softened with dark eye lashes; there were speckles of blue in her irises. The calm before the storm,
 He could tell that she was exhausted by the way she did not put up a fight when he tilted her jaw up.
 "Say yes"
 "To what?" she asked
He was trying to be gentle, but when he released her jaw, he left white indents on her skin.
 "Close your eyes, girl"
 "Why mando?" she questioned
She was stubborn it was never blind obedience with her. He pulled off the scarf she had used to keep her hair out of her eyes, freeing tendrils to frame her face.
 He undid the knot she had tied.
 "Mando!" she asked again, her hands coming to stop him.
 As he placed the scarf over her eyes, "only for a moment," he reassured her. She let her hands fall to her side.
 Blind trust
 He took off his helmet, putting it on the table, and pulled off his gloves too. Before returning to her, the candlelight made her skin glow, still porcelain under the light.
Her back was to the wall impatient hands returned to her waist, holding her there. He could feel her heart racing as her lips parted rosy from being bitten.He bent down. She was so damn light too light that he lifted her up effortlessly. She wrapped her legs around him instinctively.
 "Mando," she whispered, her worry evident in her hands coming to his chest, holding him there.
 "I won’t fuck you." She flinched at his crassness.
"Not like this," he swore.
 His reassurance was enough. Her hands travelled to his face. He let her explore. Her fingers traced over the bridge of his nose and fuck he had vowed but she was making it difficult. He wanted to lean in to her touch and beg her to never stop touching him. Her fingers continued tentatively in their exploration. Her thumb traced the scar down his bottom lip, and he jerked, so sensitive to her touch that she snatched her hand away.
He took her hands in his and bought it back to his face. "It’s okay," he murmured as his blood grew hot rushing south. His pants stretched over his crotch painfully hard just from being touched by her. The wild innocence, the hesitant touches, made him yearn for her, for her softness.
She was still hesitant even when she caressed his jaw.
"You have a beard?"
 He swallowed
 "Almost," he replied, and her lips quirked upwards
 "And a moustache," she observed
 "Hm," he nearly grunted, trying to stop his hips from grinding against her for some maker damned relief.
 He brought his face closer to hers and brushed his nose against hers. Her hands returned to his chest. He kissed the corner of her mouth, tasting a little of her bottom lip. He groaned into her skin before his lips travelled down her jaw, feather light.
 He could lose himself in her soft skin, in its warmth, in the scent of lilies. He kisses the skin on her neck, delicate and blooming pink. His kisses are rougher and she lets out a quiet moan, hands threading into his hair as his teeth break skin. As he leaves little violet marks on her neck, her jaw, her collarbone, she whimpers when his lips move to her breasts, his tongue hot over the fabric, leaving her gown damp. As he grinds against her.
He knows he’s too far gone, his hips meeting hers instinctively. He looks up at her; her cheeks are flushed red. Her lips were swollen from the way she bit into them to keep herself quiet.
 He’s sloppy, uncontrolled in his thrusts in his kisses, too fervent to be methodical. She brings out the creature in him. The creature who tells him to bury himself to the bone in order to stay inside of her until her hips widen and her breasts fill.
 He said he would be a better man he growls in frustration and anger as his hips come to a halt, forgoing relief. He would not ruin her like this. He wouldn’t stain his pants like a boy. But his work is done. He does not regret the marks he left on her skin, the redness of his kiss, his grazes tinging violet.
He takes her lips between his teeth, she squirms in his arms, exhausted by his ministrations.
 "You said you wouldn’t forgive me," he says, into her skin. She clutches his shoulder for purchase.
 "My forgiveness does not mean anything to you, mandalorian." She’s still breathing heavily. Her tongue swiping over dry lips.
 "When I fuck you, I won’t ask for forgiveness."
 He says as he holds on to her, her legs releasing his waist as she slides back down the wall.
 "It will be penance." He pulls on his helmet, wanting to see the fire in her eyes.
 He removes the scarf; her eyes have darkened and glitter in the light, her brows are furrowed, her hair is wild the braid coming loose.
 Dark tendrils flutter about her face, lips ripe and bruised by him.
 He takes her hand in his own, so much smaller than his own, and brings it to his clothed cock, straining under his pants. Her face flushes eyes widening before she looks away, trying to pull her hand back.
 "You don't know about penance, girl, this is far from it," he says, dragging her hand along his length building a steady rythem.
 He doesn’t know where these words are coming from or why they are coming to his tongue so naturally. His sentences are usually short concise there is often little to say. The time he spends in silence in his own thoughts only make his tongue a liability.
But with her, his mind was at ease, despite how his body raged, how his cock twitched just from the heat of her hands. He’s made his point letting her hand go before he makes a mess of himself.
 "I know what penance is letting you touch me is penance, when I know how you will use me, when I know that you will not look back once you take your bounty." She says softly, exhausted at this game. She brings her hand to her chest, letting it rest there as if the next words are too painful for her to say.
"You know, Madalorian, I was loved once," he notices the shift in her eyes, the fire dying out as they gloss over like heavy, burdened rain clouds.
 “I remember it. I remember the feeling. I try not to forget. Nothing would be left of me if I forgot. And I don’t think I can do it again. I can’t deal with the burden of it. Don’t touch me like this mando, don’t touch me like you mean it, I’m not someone who's warm just for one night. Don’t be kind to me when it won’t end in kindness. " Her voice breaks, but she’s resilient, and she steps away from him.
The guilt consumes him and he wills himself to speak, to tell her that he won’t but he cannot lose her so quickly. She’s asked so little, he cannot afford her that liberty. She’s unpredictable. She’d take her first chance and run, getting herself killed. He tells himself he’s being rational, rather than his covetousness being the reason he takes so long to answer.
 "You think I don't mean it, girl," he says as she walks away from him,
" you don't mandalorian, you just want to find some relief inside me."
 He takes her arm, pressing his helmet to her forehead to make her understand without words, without fucking up trying to string them together. "Mando'a was so much easier; the words flowed; only a few needed to tell her that she wasn’t his relief; she was the closest semblance to home."
 "I mean it."
 "You understand?"
 She nods, her eyes faraway glassy as he lets her go. She picks up Grogu and carries him upstairs. The mandalorian follows her, and he knows his time with her is short.
Previous - Chapter Three
Next - Chapter 5
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arctic-hands · 7 days
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[Image Description: a rookie-level embroidered patch made of a light gray gauzy fabric, cut into the shape of an uneven heart. The heart is outlined in black and has a black fishnet pattern unevenly stitched within it. Off center in the heart is a cross-stitched Palestinian flag (three horizontal stripes of black, white, and green, with a red triangle facing right on the left side). The proportions aren't prefect, but it's recognizable for what it is. At the top of the patch is a simple safety pin going through it. End I.D]
Finally finished this patch for @thetabirb that took like three weeks after hospitalizations and headaches kept getting in the way. I wasn't sure about sharing it bc I don't want it to seem like I'm capitalizing likes for doing so, but I've also seen and heard people affirm that support for Palestine needs to be visible, so I figure I'd share. I'm going to paint my own pin later on, as I'm running out of black embroidery floss.
The original plan was to buy kufiyas from Hirbawi, but I missed their last stock before they sold out again, and it didn't feel right to just keep waiting to make our support visible. I did the fishnet background in an attempt to honor the traditional Palestinian kufiya. Hirbawi and a few other sources say the pattern is to honor the fishing community that keeps Palestine–especially Gaza–fed. I hope that's okay, esp since it didn't come out exactly like the fishnet pattern on the kufiya.
(Ignorable complaints on the actual creative proccess: naturally everything went wrong at the very end after three weeks. It wasn't until I had most of the green down that I realized how askew the red triangle is and how it messed with the amount of green relative to the white, so I had to go back and go over some of the white with the green. Nothing I could do to fix the red tho. Then when cutting it down to size the gauzy fabric–part of an old curtain that was too sheer but was the only white fabric I have–started to unravel fast after threatening to fray away the entire time it was in the embroidery hoop, so I had to quickly glue it down to another, studier piece of fabric. But then the glue I used–Arleen's Fabric Fusion–said it would dry clear and just... didn't. The fabric was originally bright white but now it's gray 😮‍💨)
Oh and if anyone's concerned this is just a hollow gesture, both of us have donated repeatedly to buy esims for Gaza.
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