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kenshiluvr · 6 months

Text

guard dog

bi-han/reader

summary: your husband doesn’t like when other men flirt with you.

tags: established relationship, fluff, protective! bi-han, sunshine/moody duo bc i live for this

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.❅.* :☆ﾟ. ───

“I’m telling you,” Johnny runs a hand through chestnut hair. “You’re drop-dead gorgeous! You could seriously be a model!” He gushes, giving a grin to you. You chuckle softly, waving him off. “I dunno about that, but thank you.” You respond calmly. A chill washes over the two of you, cold fingers curling into your waist. Bi-Han, your husband, glares at Johnny over your shoulder. “Hey, man- convince your wife to become a model for me.” The actor chuckles. “I wanna see her on Vogue!”

Bi-Han growls softly, pulling you a little closer. “She’s off-limits, Cage.” He grumbles. You simply laugh, patting your husband’s strong forearm. “Relax, hun. It’s fine.” You assure him. Bi-Han gives Johnny a wary look, but when he looks at you, that coldness melts. “Come. We should start preparations for our evening early.” He nudges your side gently, guiding you away from Cage. The ninja gives Johnny a pointed glare over his shoulder, a silent warning to back off from his wife. Johnny snorts with amusement, shaking his head as he chuckles.

—

Sitting at his side, like always, you put your fork down gently, finishing with your meal. Dinner was always nice. The atmosphere was always so calm, a hint of normalcy to this crazy life your lover’s dragged you into. A foot nudges yours beneath the table, and you look up. Raiden gives a shy smile, and you smile back. “How have you been, my lady?” He asks politely. “Well. How about you?” Your response has your husband glancing to you, then to Raiden.

Bi-Han grips his glass, raising it to his lips to sip his water. His brown eyes scan over Raiden, who keeps talking to you. What are his motives..? Bi-Han thinks to himself. Clearing his throat, his fingers thread through yours, squeezing gently; just to bring your attention to him a little. Smiling at your lover, you squeeze back, warm palm sitting in his. Bi-Han smiles slightly at you, a rare sight. You return to your conversation with Raiden, and as Bi-Han listens, he figures out that the young man is just being friendly. It’s nothing to work himself up over, Raiden isn’t like Cage. Speaking of… his eyes scan across the table, spotting Johnny flirting with someone else. Rolling his eyes, Bi-Han returns to his meal, not letting go of your hand.

—

Reading is a calming activity. Bi-Han is busy training across the yard, you’ve chosen to sit beneath a tree, book in hand. It’s idyllic, soothing. You hear boots crunching on leaves, approaching you. “Hello.” A voice greets, and you look up. Tomas, always nice company. “Tomas,” you smile in greeting, letting him sit beside you. “How’s my brother been treating you? Good?” Tomas asks softly, smiling back. His mask is down around his neck, so you can see his face.

“Of course.” You nod. “That’s good,” your friend responds, glancing to the book you hold. “Catching up on your reading?” Tomas chuckles, still smiling at you. “Finally, yes.” You share his soft laugh. “I want to ask… would you accompany me to lunch tomorrow?” He asks, leaning a little closer. Thinking nothing of his offer, you nod. “Of course. I’d love to.” You reply, smiling at him. “Great,” Tomas smiles back. “I think you deserve a better man than my brother… he can be really cold.” He murmurs, fingers moving up to gently touch your cheek. You chuckle, shaking your head in amusement. “Nonsense, Tomas. Bi-Han treats me well.” You respond to him, letting him touch you.

Boots storm over, a rough hand snatching Tomas harshly, tugging him up and slamming him to the tree. “Tomas-“ Bi-Han growls, not appreciating his adoptive brother’s attempts at wiping his wife. “Relax.” Tomas responds smoothly, resting a hand on his brother’s strong forearm. “Just offering lunch.” He smirks at his brother. Tomas has always been mischievous, he loves getting under his brothers’ skin. Eyes filled with anger, Bi-Han lands a harsh punch to Tomas’ jaw. “Bi-Han..!” your eyes widen, getting up to grab your husband’s arm before he could hit his brother again. “Unhand me.” Bi-Han growls, but he doesn’t tug against you, letting you pull him away from Tomas. “No- stop it. You can’t just punch him!” You frown, squeezing your husband’s arm. He scowls, frost biting at his fingers, ready to hurt Tomas again. “Leave my wife alone.” He commands, dismissing his little brother.

Sighing, you let go of Bi-Han’s arm, watching Tomas chuckle and leave. “Bi-Han.” You speak, but he cuts you off. “Don’t,” he growls, pulling you to his chest. “You’re mine. No more flirting with him.” The tall man scowls. “I wasn’t-“ he grasps your jaw, gently, tilting your head to steal a kiss to silence you. “I saw him touching you. I know he thinks I’m not enough for you,” Bi-Han grumbles, fingers gently squeezing your cheeks. “You are my wife. I am the one who married you. I don’t appreciate him thinking he can steal you away from me…” he whispers, kissing you again. “No one’s stealing me,” you giggle softly, shaking your head. “I’m yours.” You add on, hands moving to rest on his sides. Bi-Han hums, satisfied with your response. “Good. I won’t let any man flirt with you.” He murmurs, squeezing you close to the flat plane of his chest. “Mhm. I know.” You chuckle, letting his forehead rest to yours.

#mk1 2023 #mk1 x reader #bi-han x reader #bi han #bi-han #bi han x reader #bi han sub zero #bi han x you #| kenshiluvr

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icallhimjoey · 6 months

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everyone is talking about Tupperware joe or ciabatta roll joe but what about lost-the-bet (won the bet?) joe? We still never got our epilogue where her dream came true and she could ogle at him in peace 😆

okay well shit, all this fuckery about rumours has resulted in this bullshit, are you happy now?!

Wordcount: 3K

—-

Blind Bargain

(read Double or Nothing here)

"You look... um, windswept?"

Izzy passed you a drink she'd been holding onto you for, and she was right. There was a rosy tinge to your cheeks, your hair a bit messy and you looked rushed.

Because you had been rushing.

"Oh, is my, is my mascara running?"

Izzy leant closer and squinted, "Yea, a little. Wait, here," and with a finger wet from her beer glass, she carefully wiped under one of your eyes. "It's not that windy though, is it? Did you run over here?" she gave you a suspicious look and you instinctively went for a sip of your drink to evade her question. To hide half your face.

"Hey, did Joe say he was coming?" one of your friends asked the group, and before anyone could answer, someone spotted him walking in.

Too soon, Joe.

That was too quick after you had walked in, God, what an idiot. You'd gone over this!

Calmly smoke the rest of your cigarette. Don't rush it. Make no one suspect anything had just happened mere minutes ago.

Everyone greeted Joe like normal and for a moment you were convinced it was just you who was making things weird.

"Hi,"

Why were you blushing?

"Hey,"

You knew why. Saw Joe's little smirk and, fuck, it made you want to squish his cheeks together to make his lips go funny.

You exchanged polite smiles instead, pretended to not have seen each other in at least a week, and cheersed drinks once Joe got given one by another friend.

When you turned back to Izzy, she was still sort of squinting at you.

"What?"

"Nothing," Izzy immediately raised her eyebrows but then kept looking at you. "Did you work from home today?"

Now it was your turn to squint at Izzy, suspicious as to why she wanted to know. "Yea, why?"

Fuck. What if she was onto you?

She might be closer to the truth than she thought, but you were not sharing your secrets. Not today.

You and Joe were sneaking around.

No one needed to know.

Just like during the bet, no one needed to know what was really going on behind closed doors. Difference being that now, the frightening parts weren't there anymore. You didn't like lying to Izzy, but, it was no longer scary, which was good.

Before, you were scared that if someone, specifically Izzy, were to find out about what Joe was doing to you on a daily basis, you'd lose him as a friend.

You weren't quite sure how one and one made two there, but that's exactly what you'd thought.

Now, if someone were to find out about what you and Joe were doing to each other on an almost daily basis, then they'd just know and it wouldn't really change much.

You just didn't want to be the one to tell anyone. Use words to explain anything. And neither did Joe. So, it remained a secret.

So far, you'd been resourceful in your ways.

Avoided Izzy like she was the plague.

She'd nearly caught you that one time she came home in the middle of the day whilst you and Joe were in the shower.

"Showering on company time?" she'd shouted from the hallway, and you'd stammered, "I worked through lunch time," as an excuse before whispering, "Did you leave your shoes by the door?" to Joe who was pressed into the corner of the shower with his shoulders hunched up, eyes wide and both hands covering his penis as he nodded.

"Shit."

Izzy hadn't seen the shoes.

Or, if she had, she hadn't mentioned them.

She had also once so very nearly caught sight of your text chain.

It was just a continuous thread of times followed by places. The bet had ended just over a month ago, but if someone was to go just by your texts, you knew you'd be able to convince them it was an ongoing thing still.

You'd been able to throw your phone into your lap face down just before Izzy had passed you a mug of tea. Just in time.

"Can people not just know?" Joe had asked once when you were in the middle of throwing every last item of clothing his way whilst he got dressed in a hurry. Izzy texted she was on her way and if you needed anything from the corner shop.

"Sure they can," you said, hitting him in the head with a sock. "Will you tell her?"

Joe scoffed, gave a soft frustrated, "No," and made a face as if he was making fun of his mum when she asked him a ridiculous question.

"Yea, didn't think so, hurry up," you rushed out of your bedroom to find Joe's shoes, held his coat so he could slide in and be quick out the door.

But there Joe had paused, right on the threshold.

"What if she..." Joe stalked closer and pushed himself right up against you. "Just walked up, right now, and happened to catch me do this?"

Fingers curled around your neck and were used to pull you in just enough for your lips to collide. Joe felt how just for a second or two, you turned boneless in his hands.

"Saw me touch you here?"

His other hand found the hem of your shirt to slip under, and you so very wanted to get lost in all of it again. You did.

But then you heard the lift go, and it startled you enough to squeeze a laugh out of Joe.

"Stairs!" you hissed, "Go, go! Stairs, now. Quick!" you shoved him towards the stairs, chuckling man easily moved by your hands. First step down, he leant back and, you obliged, gave a last quick kiss before he scurried down. You'd closed the front door to your flat just in time.

Yea.

It was definitely still a secret. One you wouldn't mind leaking, not at all. But you weren't the one who was going to say anything. And neither was Joe.

So at the pub, you pretended and tried your best to act the way you acted before any of this started. Before the bet had even become a thing.

Joe would still be flirty, but just a little flirty. Flirty like he had been flirty before.

Like when he'd see a random guy trying to make conversation when you went to get drinks, he would afterwards pretend you had an eyelash stuck under your eye and lean in real close to get it. Would make you make a wish as you blew nothing from his finger tip.

Tonight felt extra risky though.

You had worked from home. Izzy was right.

What Izzy didn't know is that Joe had spent half the day on your sofa, and he'd decided that, just before you were heading off to meet everyone at the pub, his eyes had had enough of just looking at you all day. His fingers were jealous. Mouth envious.

As a joke he'd nearly walked you into Izzy's room. You'd shrieked and laughed and oh my God, could he please never even try to joke about that again?

All right, Joe thought. Instead he'd fucked you right up against her door.

Risky business.

You didn't know if Izzy was going to come home first, but when you walked in and saw her in her full office attire, you secretly sighed a small breath of relief.

You fell into easy conversation that night. Avoided Joe until you couldn't after a dance of people getting drinks and going to the toilet, you ended up next to him at a table.

Joe didn't waste any time getting a hand on your thigh.

Your brain only stuttered for a second.

You were good at this. Kept up the conversation you had with the friend opposite, and Joe joined in the casual chat as his fingers squeezed and inched closer to where it was warm.

You squeezed your legs together in warning.

It did nothing.

Joe's hand stayed in place, fingers playing where they wanted to play.

Suddenly, someone who thought they were being real funny, asked about your luck on the apps. You hadn't taken a guy over to Friday night drinks at the pub for a bit now.

"I'm off the apps, actually," you shared. "So far it's been really unsuccessful, so I decided to just delete everything—"

"Don't lie," Izzy spat, interrupting you.

You felt Joe squeeze tighter before he removed his hand. Too many eyes on you now.

"I'm not lying!" you scoffed. "I'm not on the apps anymo—"

"I hear you sneaking guys in all the fucking time,"

Shit.

This got everyone's attention quick enough. Good thing Joe got both his hands above the table just in time.

"You sneaking guys in?" another smiley friend asked, bumping you with his shoulder. "You little minx!"

You were at loss of what to say, scoffing with your mouth open, you didn't know if you were better off denying everything, or coming up with another weird lie to save yourself from this situation.

"It's erm," you played with your drink a second, slowly spun it 'round on the table in front of you. "It's recent, this being off the apps thing,"

Izzy frowned.

"So you deleted them yesterday?"

So she'd heard you and Joe two days ago. Neat.

"Yep. Deleted them yesterday."

You didn't like how Izzy was pushing this, but you didn't really have another choice but to just go with it.

Izzy seemed annoyed and hostile and, you got it, sort of. You were best friends. No need to lie. You'd never lied about bringing guys over to the flat ever before.

Some of your other friends fell into a conversation about dating apps. About how none of them really work, how they barely know any people who've been on them and who are still in successful relationships. You leant back a little to listen along, had a slow sip of your drink and tried to ignore Izzy staring at you from across the table.

When you did look her way and made eye-contact, her features instantly softened and she leant closer over the table as she mouthed, "Why?"

You frowned, unsure of what she meant.

"What do you mean, why?" you mouthed back, and in a crossfire of conversation, Izzy pushed another friend out of his seat to sit directly opposite you.

"Why are you off the apps?"

Joe tuned in. Couldn't not. The two of you were right there next to him, blocking him from joining the conversation on the other side of the table.

You repeated what you'd said earlier. Added, "They're a bit shit really, aren't they?" to which you knew she'd agree.

And Izzy did agree.

But you also saw her worry lines work.

"I don't— we're on different pages," Izzy started, a little louder now as she sat back. "Different books even."

"What do you mean?" Joe asked, tried to make it sound like he wasn't incredibly invested in whatever this conversation was between you and your flat mate. Best friend. The one person who you'd been actively hiding from for over a month now.

"I know the difference between a fake orgasm and a real one," Izzy said, voice flat and loud enough for the whole table and then probably also the three closest to you to hear.

You choked on your drink before Izzy carried on. Coughed right into your glass and got beer all down your chin.

"These guys are—" Izzy shifted from talking to Joe to talking to you, "I don't know what they're doing to you, but they're good."

This got whoops - loud ones. Ones that made people across the pub turn their heads to see what the commotion was about.

"Okay!" you immediately tried to make everyone tone it down, one of your arms stretched over the table. "All right, I need some— some fresh air? A drink. I'm gonna get— does anyone else want to do a drink over a tenner? Gin tonic? Let me just—"

You stumbled through an excuse to escape everyone whilst simultaneously ignoring every question that was thrown at you by your friends.

"Guys? These are plural men?"

"Is that why you're off the apps? Found the right bloke who does it for you?"

"How often do you hear her, Izzy?"

"Give us a name!"

You awkwardly climbed from your seat and disappeared on your way to the bar.

Fuck.

You'd been so convinced Izzy didn't know, or hadn't heard. She never said anything.

She didn't know it was Joe though.

She'd said guys.

Thought you were bringing home guys from the apps to spend some spicy time with in your closed of bedroom. Snuck them in and snuck them out.

Sure.

Slut era.

You could pretend that this was the actual truth and go with it for however long you needed to.

"Hey,"

You thought maybe Izzy would follow you, but instead, Joe placed a hand on your shoulder as you waited for your turn at the bar.

"I um— I hear that someone is, um—" Joe couldn't help the smile he was sporting. "Being real nice to you."

You smiled through a scoff.

"Don't,"

"I'm not doing anything, I just..." you felt a warm hand spread its fingers over your bum. "It's not gone down, yet," Joe whispered right into your ear.

It made you lean back to scan his face a second as you frowned with confusion. His mouth made it back to your ear, "Here, it's been— I've been walking around with this since we left yours," below the bar, Joe's hand found yours and moved it over to his crotch.

"Jesus Christ, Joe," you hissed, panicked eyes darting around to see if anyone else had just witnessed that.

"I told her."

What?!

You couldn't fucking believe what you were hearing.

"You told Izzy about your semi?"

"Um, have a proper feel, this isn't a—"

"What can I get you?"

"A dirty bucket of gin, side of tonic," you huffed before Joe interjected, ordering three regular sized gin and tonics. One for you, one for Joe and presumably one for Izzy, for the traumatising.

"I told her it's me,"

You laughed. Bursted right into it, puffed out cheeks releasing air before it stuttered into giggles.

"No, you didn't— listen, I'm going to down my drink and leave, I'll text you when—"

His mouth found your ear again as he leant into you, spoke right into your ear again, voice low and husky, "I told her. Izzy knows now."

"What— what did you say?"

"I went," Joe started and made exaggerated facial expressions, raised eyebrows and big eyes. Then he smiled and pointed a finger at himself and nodded as his grin grew. "And then she went," Joe mimicked Izzy's reaction, surprise and frowned shock before adding, "And then she said she fucking knew it, that she'd known all along."

Oh.

Okay.

What now...

You didn't know what to do next.

Was Izzy mad?

You'd lied to her for ages.

Joe paid for the gin and you took a glass to immediately take large gulps of, stepping back just enough to catch sight of your table of friends.

They were all talking. Izzy included. Didn't seem bothered that you weren't there. Just a normal group of people talking about their week. All commotion from before gone, which, good. That was good.

You still didn't really want to go back over.

Then Izzy looked over and caught your eye. Your breath stopped for a second as you froze, afraid Izzy would let you see her anger and annoyance and frustration, because why had you lied for so long? Why had you not just told her?

But then, instead, Izzy smiled, pointed a finger at you with a scrunched up face and winked.

Izzy was a good friend.

"This is for Izzy," Joe pressed a second gin and tonic into your hands, already halfway through his own, just like you.

"Could you go— I don't, we have to— you know,"

You suppressed a smile.

"Ugh," you groaned with faux annoyance. "You're hard, we get it."

Before stepping away from him to bring Izzy your drink, Joe took hold of you by a bicep and pulled you close once more. "You say that like it isn't you fault."

It was weird and a little scary being out in the open, in public, with Joe like this, but you guessed that now, you could just... do that?

Wild.

You pulled back a little, smiled and raised your eyebrows at him.

"You say that like I'm not going to take care of it,"

You bumped your hip into him, and Joe had to close his eyes for a second. Bite down a groan and take deep breaths through flared nostrils for a second. You left him there as you quickly took Izzy's drink over to the table before turning around and beelining it back.

There was no way you were going to say anything. Invite comments or questions or even the odd facial expression.

You got them anyway.

"Bye,"

"Enjoy!"

"Have fun!"

"Hey, tell Joe to tuck it away already, we've been making jokes behind his back all night,"

"Bye babe,"

And with a laugh, you shook your head as you walked back over to Joe, both downed the rest of your drinks, drinks that Joe paid far too much for to down within a minute, interlaced fingers and left the pub together.

Joe got into a bet with you weeks ago, all for a week of fun he knew he was going to have with you, win or lose.

Had wanted to have with you, since, like, forever.

He'd never expected the outcome to be better than what he could've predicted.

He'd never even expected you to jump into this bet with him in the first place.

A sight-unseen transaction.

A true blind bargain.

One that panned out fucking perfect.

the end

---

The Taglisted

@adoreyouusugar, @alana4610, @ali-in-w0nderland, @alwayslindie, @babybluebex, @barfightzanddiscolightz, @bettyfrommars, @cancankiki, @capricornrisingsstuff, @chaoticgood-munson, @choke-me-eddie, @demonsanddemogorgons, @did-it-work, @dirtyeddietini, @dylanmunson, @eddies-puppet, @electricmunson, @emma77645, @emmamooney, @everythinghasafacee, @figmentofquinn, @frogers, @frootvelvet, @ghost-proofbaby, @ghostinthebackofyourhead, @harringtonfan4, @haylaansmi, @jasminearondottir, @jewellethief, @joesquinns, @kellyxo1, @kennedy-brooke, @lovelyblueness, @manda-panda-monium, @miserybeans, @nadixq, @notverywise, @paola-carter, @pepperstories, @phyllosilicate-s, @roosterisdaddy36, @sherrylyn628, @sidthedollface2, @thebellenouvelle, @thewondernanazombie, @tlclick73, @werepartnersnow, @winterwakesthewolf, @witchwolflea, @yelyahcardella

taglist currently full, sorry

#Joe Quinn #Joseph Quinn #Joe Quinn x You #Joseph Quinn x You #Joe Quinn x Reader #Joseph Quinn x Reader #Joe Quinn Fanfic #Joe Quinn fanfiction #Joseph Quinn Fanfic #Joseph Quinn Fanfiction #joe quinn x y/n #joseph quinn x y/n #rpf #icallhimjoey #double or nothing #blind bargain

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honeybeezgobzzzzz · 6 months

Text

🗡️ Something Dread, Something Red: Chapter Three

Something Dread, Something Red: Stuck in a proposal to a Marine Commodore, you escape minutes before your wedding in one last ditch effort to avoid getting married to a tyrant. Barely making it to the port of your town, you stumble across a ship just starting to leave and beg for passage off the island. You fail to notice that the people you beg for help, are pirates.

Warnings: Domestic Violence.

To Note: “Red Haired” Shanks x FemReader

Word Count: ~2.8k

Previous | Masterlist | Next

5 years prior

The lilac dress you wore flowed around your carefully crafted body in effortless waves. It was made from a chiffon fabric you had begged your mother for nearly six months to have. Your usual attire consisted of heavy satin and lace and for your eighteenth birthday, you just wanted to be happy and light for once. It had taken much convincing, but eventually your mother had caved. She needed you to be happy and was willing to give you this one. But that didn’t mean she hadn’t gone all out on you chiffon lavender dress.

The color matched your hair perfectly, the stitching was made from the best silver thread Berry could buy, and the ribbon wrapping your waist came from a silk farm known to be the best in all the Blues. You thought it was too much for just a simple birthday, but your mother did what she wanted. Events like this gave you time to yourself because she was far too busy to monitor your every move.

So you were currently sneaking off to the library to get some reading time in. Your mother always berated you on your habit of keeping your nose in a book, telling you that ladies don’t read, they play music and host tea parties and other social events. While you had been trained in such things, you didn’t find the same pleasure in them as you did with reading. There was something about hosting tea parties and socials with the older noble population whom you were not friends with. You didn’t have any friends became your mother didn’t allow you any.

“So controlling,” You muttered to yourself, pushing the door to the great Bonn family library. There was every kind of book you could want in this library, your father was a collector of sorts. With his connections in the merchant guild he often made trade deals involving rare books and encyclopedias. Venturing to the nearest aisle, you ran your fingers over leather-bound book spines. “What should I read this time? It is my birthday so maybe something special…”

You further wandered, heading in the direction of the books that your mother disapproved of you reading. It was mostly books on sea navigation, sailing, and ship building. All information your mother deemed irrelevant in your education. Reaching a section that held a multitude of maps your father was fond of reviewing to find more ports to add to the Bonn empire, you picked up a few scrolls and curiously looked at them.

One of the maps was of the Gecko Islands, Syrup Village was circled and the familiar scrawls of your father’s handwriting dotted the area around it. From the brief glances you had gotten of documents and the conversations you’d overheard, Syrup Village was where all the ships in the Bonn Chestnut Trade Company came from. The ships were well built and lasted through the weather of every Blue they crossed. Abandoning the maps, you picked up a random book and opened it. You were greeted with words and depictions of the construction of a lace factory. You closed that book while making a face and returned it to its place on the shelf.

“Rather not,” You commented, moving on in hopes of a more interesting book to read. A few more minutes of wandering and you found a book that certainly piqued your interest. It was a book on the politics of the marines, and more specifically, pirates. Your eyebrows rose in interest and you plucked it from the shelf.

You’d never really been informed about pirates, your mother called them scum and your father claimed that they were bad for business and nothing but conniving scoundrels. So you grew up knowing next to nothing about pirates. Walking towards the sitting area within the library, you opened the book to a random page which held a long list of pirates the marines were keeping track of at the time of the print. The main name that stood out, and that was at the top of the list, was Gol D. Rodger. But the little symbol next to his name was clearly a mark of death.

“He certainly appears to be important,” You murmured to yourself, looking further down the list of names. You didn’t recognize any of them, not that you were well informed, but still, your mother got the paper every morning and tutted over the news. You occasionally picked up the same names repeated over and over throughout the years. Pausing in step, you turned the page and just caught the words ‘Warlords’ and Emperor’s’, when footsteps had you on high alert. You snapped the book shut and held it behind you as your father appeared, a parchment in hand. He paused in step upon seeing you.

“Linaria, your mother is looking for you,” He spoke before eyeing the hands you held behind your back. The book now seemed like it was made of lead. “Can I presume that the book you were hiding is not one your mother would approve of?”

“It’s just a book,” You argued, arms dropping to your sides. “How exactly is that dangerous to me?”

“Your mother’s decision is your mother’s decision, Linaria,” Your father said, not question his wife’s authority when it came to your upbringing. “Hand it over, your mother is expecting you in the tea room.” With a grudging sigh, you did as he asked and headed for the exit. Your mother was waiting for you in the tea room? Last you knew, there weren’t any events on this day that involved the tea room. Perhaps she had added an extra item to the agenda. At least you could have your favorite tea since it was your birthday.

Walking swiftly towards the tea parlor, you breezed by several maids and butlers that curtsied and bowed to you as you passed. Before entering the tea parlor, you paused to collect yourself. Then, taking a deep breath and straitening your posture, you entered the room. Your mother was sitting on one of the couches, tea cup in hand.

“Father said you were looking for me, mother?” You softly spoke, for ladies never raised their voices. She didn’t turn her head to look at you.

“We have a guest, Linaria,” A guest? Your eyes followed your mother’s gaze to see a marine sitting on the couch opposite to your mother. What was a marine doing at the manor? And one so high ranking! “Greet our guest,” Your mother hissed to you. You cleared your throat and turned to the marine.

“Forgive me for not doing so earlier, I am Linaria, welcome to the manor,” you greeted like the perfect daughter your mother wanted you to be.

“Thomas Collins, my fair lady, Commodore of the Marines on Kuri Island.” The man, Thomas, answered. “May I offer you a happy birthday? Your mother has sang praises of you and is very excited of this cornerstone in your life.” Your mother was telling praises of you? A shocking thought as she had been nothing but critical of you as of late, but this wasn’t a time you could question her motives. Thomas rose from his seat and strode over to you, his figure towering over your small frame.

“Oh, thank you, I am very excited to see where my life takes me,” You told him, your fingers coming together in front of you and winding together in a nervous habit.

“It would be rude of me to drop by without a gift for such a lovely young woman, and took it upon myself to prepare something I thought would be fitting for a woman as beautiful as you.” Thomas continued, reaching into his coat and pulling out a slim box.

“Oh, sir, you didn’t need to prepare such a thing,” You said, almost stuttering over your words in surprise. You could feel your mother’s eyes glaring daggers into you for even thinking of refusing such a thing. Nonetheless you took the slim box from gloved fingers.

“You are to be the next Lady of the Bonn Chestnut Trade Company, I think you are deserving of your first piece of jewelry.” You opened the box to reveal a delicate bracelet with flowers and gems that sparkled. It really was a lovely piece, if the flowers hadn’t been roses. You forced your face into one of happiness and thanked him.

“It is absolutely beautiful, thank you for picking such a wondrous piece,” You replied in faux happiness, fluttering your eyelashes and plastering a smile you’d perfected over the years. He looked pleased, very pleased by your reaction and gestured towards the bracelet.

“May I?” He pressed, you of course relented, allowing the strange Commodore to carefully wrap the beautiful bracelet around your wrist. Not much was said after that, as the Thomas indicated that he had to return to duty and bid his farewell. You didn’t dare speak until you were sure that he was long gone.

“Mother, who was that and why was he here?” You questioned, turning to your mother still sipping tea. She sighed and lowered the tea to the table in front of her before rising from her seat. Striding over to you, her cold eyes scanned you.

“That was Commodore Thomas Collins, he is in charge of the marine base on Kuri Island and the surrounding archipelago.” She informed you, mouth pressed in a tight line. “And you are to be his bride.”

“Bride,” You repeated incredulously, thinking for a moment that you had misheard her. “Mother what are you speaking of, I do not remember him proposing to me!”

“Of course not you silly girl, it is an arranged marriage to ensure the success and power of our family and business.” Your jaw nearly dropped open.

“You can’t just make decisions about my life like that,” You exclaimed, your voice raised and eyes flashing in anger. “I’m not going to marry a man I don’t know and certainly not because you tell me to!”

Your head was whipping to the side and you were taking a stumbling step backwards before you even knew what happened. Rising a hand to your stinging cheek, you let out gasp at the sharp pain radiating across your face. You looked at your mother, eyes filled with hurt and anger. She pointed her finger at you.

“You are to do exactly as I tell you Linaria.” Your mother growled to you, seizing your chin and forcing you to look in her cold eyes. “And that means you will marry.”

Present Day

Sitting on one of the stacked crates, you stared at the little bracelet hanging from your wrist while feeling sick from just looking at it. Your other hand reached for the delicate chain and you harshly pulled on what felt like a shackle until it snapped. Then you threw it as hard as you could over the side of the ship you had escaped Kuri Island on. Your wrist hurt from the metal digging into your skin, but at the same time you felt like a huge weight had been lifted from your shoulders.

The ship gently rocked as it sailed, but you found the sway almost comforting while you held yourself and looked out across the water. This was the farthest you’d ever been from your home and the salt air was an entirely new experience. Turning your head away from the pristine waters, you found several of the men staring at you. Right, you begged your way onto this ship, might as well compensate them for the trouble. So you reached back and undid the clasp to your neck, and held it out.

“Compensation,” You spoke, offering the glimmering jewelry piece to them. “It’s worth a lot, that I know.”

“We don’t want your jewelry, madam,” The red haired captain, the one who’d effortlessly tossed over his shoulder and carried you away, spoke. You were pretty sure the others had been calling him Shanks. “But we would like to know what had you fleeing from your own wedding.”

“It was arranged,” You answered, chewing on your lip and twisting your hands together. “I didn’t get a say in it, mother organized the whole thing to ensure the family business would remain successful and in power.”

“You must be a Bonn then,” Shanks commented, thinking over who had the most power on Kuri Island. The Bonn’s. “Who’d she want you to marry?”

“The Commodore,” Several of the pirates let out whistles and shook their heads.

“Don’t blame ya’ for runnin’,” One even commented. “That is one crooked marine.” You rubbed your tired eyes and sighed.

“I do not wish for you to get wrapped up in my personal business, you can drop me off at the next island. I don’t want to be a burden to you.”

“You are hardly a burden,” Shanks corrected you, eyes scanning your figure more thoroughly now that you weren’t trembling violently from fear. It was clear that you’d been running for a while when you approach him, but now he could see little nicks and cuts on your skin and smell the metallic tang of blood clinging to your body. “I think you’ve had a long day, you could do for some rest.”

“It’s not even half past ten,” His eyebrow rose at you and he nodded his chin.

“And you might look the picture of perfection, but even I can tell that you are exhausted. We shall talk more of this tonight, in the mean time you should get some rest and get out of that dress, it’s very…” Shanks struggled to come up with a word to describe someone as beautiful as you, ye so out of place.

“Ostentatious?” You offered lightly. “You should have seen me with the train. My mother tried to drown me in lace.” Your light jab at your own outfit brought out a couple chuckles and the men were glad to see the brief smile upon your face. It was much preferred to your distress.

Shanks had directed you to his own room, for it was the best furnished for a lady such as yourself and you could have privacy there. After changing out of your dress you could get some much needed sleep and then finally the full picture of the woman he’d helped could be rendered. So as you clutched your arms to your chest and looked around the cabin in curiosity, Shanks dug through a chest of spare clothing to find something your size.

You knew he was the captain, but he didn’t stand up to the stereotype you had pictured in your head about what a captain was supposed to be like. The space was sparsely furnished but was homely. Maps, artworks, and a few weapons you had never seen before dotted the walls, and the quilt thrown over the hanging bed in the corner looked handmade and well used. For some reason, the sight of a threadbare and well used homemade quilt comforted you.

“I’m afraid I don’t have much but spare tunics and pants,” Shanks spoke, taking the clothes from his trunk and turning around. He paused in place, staring at the dirt riddled and crusty wound on your shoulder. He’d been so shocked by your appearance and beauty he’d overlooked something so critical. “We need to take care of that,”

“Take care of what?” You questioned, half turning in place with a quizzical look on your face. Shanks set the clothes on a nearby table and nodded to your shoulder.

“You have quite the nasty wound on your shoulder, madam,” Shanks spoke while inspecting torn skin littered with dirt, rocks, and grass. “You must have been running on adrenaline to not be feeling this.”

“I was in a hurry,” You meekly spoke, trying not to shiver as soft and gentle fingers prodded broken skin.

“I can imagine,” He replied, brows scrunching together. “I don’t think you need stitches, it’s not to deep. But you are going to need it cleaned before it get’s infected.”

“Very well,” You sighed. “Thank you for informing me I will take care of that.” Shanks couldn’t help but snort at your words.

“And how do you plan on tending to it yourself?” The scathing look you shot over your shoulder made Shanks smile widen for he doubted you even realized you were giving him such a look.

“I am already intruding as it were,” You snipped out, crossing your arms.

“And you are my guest,” Shanks enunciated. “As long as you are on my ship you shall be treated as such. Now please, take a seat this won’t take long.”

You really didn’t want to, for you already felt like you were intruding enough just by asking for passage off Kuri Island… but gentle brown eyes were insistent. But not in a bad way. So your protest died down on your tongue and did as he so gently asked.

Date Published: 11/19/23

Last Edit: 11/19/23

Previous | Masterlist | Next

#one piece shanks #one piece #opla #opla shanks #shanks x y/n #shanks x reader #red haired shanks #shanks x you

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scuderiadream · 7 months

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invisible string

reader x charles leclerc

⊹ ࣪ ˖ summary : the expression "invisible string" alludes to a traditional chinese tale about a crimson thread of destiny binding two people together, this recounts the beginning of reader and charles' love affair, which saw them go from being complete strangers to falling in love and discovering that they were connected by an invisible string

⊹ ࣪ ˖ faceclaim : gracie abrams

⊹ ࣪ ˖ author note : this might be kinda? long idk? but yea please enjoy!! sorry if this is just flopping and ou if u have any reqs dont be shy and request! bcos i'm kinda running out of idea here ahah 🥹

ᝰ masterlist

y/n and charles love story begin back then during the 2022 monaco grand prix, they were a complete stranger until one day y/n's father decided to held a very fancy gala in monaco just before the race day. charles leclerc was one of the many millionaires and celebrities her father invited to his gala. charles politely accepted the invitation, and when he showed up at the gala, he was astounded by y/n's appearance in general. naturally, one thing led to another, and they eventually went on dates and invited y/n to his races, which resulted in their most romantic relationship ever.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆

liked by charles_leclerc, username and 7.739 others f1wagshq y/n and charles spotted toegether in monaco! the couple looks like they spent an amazing day together <3

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username ugh they look SOOO good together

username not charles liking this..i need his level of selfishness

username i want her to step on me tbh

⤷ charles_leclerc woah, back off mate

⤷ username HELPP THE JEALOUSY

username i wanna have that y/n and charles kinda love

charles_leclerc added to their story!

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆

after their romantic stroll around the city of monaco, y/n and charles enjoyed each other's company as they talk about their childhood or thier past life.

y/n pov :

i can feel his warmth body wrapping around mine as i linked my arm around his, walking through the city of monaco. i confessed to him about my childhood and how awesome it was. i told him that i remembered i was sitting on a grass, reading a book at the centennial park i used to think i would meet somebody there and how stupid it sounds.

he made an eye smile as his face lit up like a clueless little kid. "what's wrong? you're smiling like crazy" i said while i tilt my head a little to the side in confusion. as it turns out, he confessed to me that he was there too while on his vacation with his family, he was wearing a teal shirt when.

somehow we ended up laughing and giggling like a crazy person. its amazing how our stories just simply connect, were there clues i didn't see? as if all along there's some invisible string tying him to me?

charles pov :

after a few hours had passed, we continued to talk about our own experiences and how they always connected. i chuckle at how ridiculously foolish it sounds, but i feel like we were meant to be. it's funny how we went from being complete strangers to developing this devoted bond that i never imagined we would, she's what i've always been wanting for.

she sees me for who i am, as if i'm perfect. she opened the door to my heart that i couldn't open for a long time as i feel proud to call her as mine, my girl, mon amour.

liked by charles_leclerc, maxverstappen1, pierregasly and 357.889 others

yourusername one single thread of gold tied me to you

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username deserves a couple of the year

charles_leclerc you make me un poco loco

⤷ yourusername ??? thanks i guess ??

pierregasly you're doing amazing sweetie

⤷ yourusername pls bringover kika next time we're hanging out

⤷ pierregasly on it ma'am 🫡

username THESE BABY PICS MY GOD THEYRE SO ADORABLE😭

username this is the cutest shit i've ever seen

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multifairyus · 11 months

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Hobie and Grandma Brown Headcannons

Shout out to @brown-spider for their recent post on Hobie’s family and Grandma headcannon. These are questions that need answers and it’s been stewing in my mind so here goes my first contribution to the fandom:

I personally headcannon Hobie to be Jamaican British. The silly reason is cuz Bree Runway's ATM works with it, the interesting reason is him knowing/speaking Patois to a select few of the resistance members...the language was made in resistance, so it makes sense to me thematically?

Anyway his Grandma (or another older woman he is protective of but I want him to have familial community) is somewhere relatively safe in his universe. And he stops by to drop off groceries, check in and get a plate since she couldn't eat it all himself and he's still too skinny!

I like the idea that Grandma is aware and accepting of his alternative look. Maybe one of the few from his family/culture who does.

If she's SUPER cool then she deffo made him one of those crochet crop tops oh what a SLAY??

Imagine him swinging in a fight with the Arachkids in summer or something in a punk crochet fit?! "oh this? Grahhny made it for me. She even put a 'lil spider in there too. Special innit??" And he is just CHEESING

Though, I do also like the idea of Hobie taking out a few of his piercings when he goes to see her, out of respect. Mans does not do authority, or consistency, or respectability politics….but that's his Grandma mate!! She’d have a heart attack if she saw all that, what do you want from him?!

(Side note on alternative Hobie accessories… Hobie with glasses, reading some Audrey Lorde..? Just thought I'd drop that gem for the fan artists to consider)

But he more so “tones down” his look cuz doesn't want his sharp edges and lose ends of his get up to mess with the litter of fiber arts works she has in her tiny flat.

As a punk Hobie's no stranger to DIY and crafting. Wouldn't be surprised if the rebellious attitude was handed down alongside the thread and needles.

I think him having an ongoing project he works on with her with her like a quilt would be SO sweet 🥹 The telly droning about the “Spider-Punk' fellow but neither of them listening, just absorbed in their work and the other's company ❤️

#Hobie brown #hobie brown headcanons #spider punk #spider-punk #atsv headcanons #atsv #heyyyy astv nation #if you’re reading tags hello please be my friend :)#I’m a headcannons and playlist girlie #and fandom community is so great so don’t be shy #especially if you’re Black 🖤✊🏾😊

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midnightshade · 2 months

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🏮 𝐀 𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐒𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐞 🏮 | Kenjaku's reaction to seeing you in lingerie

𖤐 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2,603

𖤐 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Female Reader, Reader has a pussy, Third-Person POV, not beta read, biting to draw blood, creampie, light choking, slight breeding kink

𖤐 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: N/A

𖤐 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

"I'll be back soon."

A lone woman walked through the streets of Tokyo, tucking her phone back into her pocket as the call ended. To anyone else on the street, she was a normal woman. In reality, she was anything but.

She was centuries old despite her youthful appearance, but then, this wasn't her original body. Coming from the Kamakura era, she had only managed to cheat death with the aid of one man.

Kenjaku.

Ever since the two of them met, she had been faithfully serving as his assistant. He liked her enough to continue bringing her back from death, using the bodies of others as suitable vessels.

It never bothered her, knowing that someone else had to die for her to come back. She refused to feel guilty about living and she was thankful to Kenjaku for the continued gift of life.

For centuries, she had been loyal to him, not out of obligation, but out of want. He made life interesting; she enjoyed his company.

She loved him.

Staying with Kenjaku, making him happy – It was enough for her.

The crowd carried her with them through the busy streets like the current of a river, and she allowed herself to be pulled along. She took the time to sightsee, looking around at all the different shops and stalls from clothing stores to arcades and food stands.

Occasionally, she would pop in and browse the selections, but none seemed to catch her eye today. . .except for one.

She stumbled over her own feet, nearly colliding with a man in front of her. Quickly regaining her balance, she pushed her way out of the crowd and towards the shop.

It was small and easy to miss, tucked away between two larger buildings. The face of the building was styled like a traditional Japanese minka house, and the sign was written in ink calligraphy, broadcasting its primary wares: lingerie.

The juxtaposition between this traditional style and the items being sold immediately piqued her interest. She stepped inside, finding the theming on the outside to be consistent with the interior. The shop was designed like a tea room, with clean tatami mats.

She took her shoes off, spotting a place to leave them before continuing inside. There were a variety of different mannequins dressed up in different styles of lingerie.

A worker spotted her, coming over to greet her and welcome her into the store with a polite bow. "Hello! May I help you today? Looking for anything in particular?"

As she examined the store, a mischievous idea began to form in her mind. She walked over to one of the mannequins, examining the high quality material it was dressed in.

"Yes, please. I would appreciate the help."

──────

An artificial night had fallen within Dagon's Domain. The ocean waves lapped at the shore, creating a tranquil atmosphere that stretched towards the Tiki Hut sitting just beyond the treeline.

The building was of modest make, containing only two bedrooms, a kitchenette, and a shower. Curses may not need to sleep or eat, but their human allies did.

One of whom stood within the master bedroom, adjusting her new outfit in front of a full-length mirror.

She admired her form, running her hands up her body and over the red rope that mapped itself across her skin. The lingerie was styled after shibari, made of soft threaded rope that allowed easy access to her bare chest and pussy.

The only thing keeping her modesty was a silken robe overtop, styled loosely after a yukata. It was black with a red floral pattern. Red lace adorned the front, along with red stitching on the seams.

This type of luxury was a rarity for her to indulge in, but it had been a while since she and Kenjaku did something like this. This was as much a surprise gift for him as it had been for her.

The thought of that made her heart skip a beat. Even after centuries spent at his side, it was still so easy to feel like a lovestruck teenager doing these types of things.

The ivory sheets felt cool to the touch as she climbed into the master bed. She closed her eyes, breathing out slowly as she moved her hands down her body, relaxing against the plush surface.

Kenjaku would be back any minute now. His face would be priceless, she was sure of it. She suppressed a giggle, imagining it, as her hands moved down to the in-between on her thighs.

Her giggles died down, turning into soft moans as she spread her folds apart with her fingers. Her cunt clenched around nothing and she bit her lip, already imagining Kenjaku on top of her.

"Fuck. . .Kenjaku," she moaned out, her now trembling fingers beginning to rub at her throbbing clit.

She dipped her fingers down, collecting some of the slick that was beginning to build as her arousal grew, but she didn't get far before she heard the sound of footsteps approaching.

Kenjaku was home.

For a moment, she found herself conflicted. Should she stop now or should she keep going and let him watch?

Reluctantly, she pulled her hand away from her core, sitting up and adjusting her robe so that she was properly covered. Shs was just in time, as the door opened with a silent 'click' just as she finished adjusting her robe.

Kenjaku walked in through the bedroom door. Unlike usual, he was not wearing his Gojo-kesa, instead opting for a pair of black pants and a black shirt.

It's not like it mattered. The vessel he was in now, Suguru Geto, was more than handsome enough to pull off just about any look. Kenjaku's confidence always helped as well.

He paused in the doorway, his eyes immediately landing on her form, sprawled out seductively on the bed.

"Welcome home," she purred. Her voice was dripping in amusement as she watched Kenjaku. She would be lying if she said she didn't feel the slightest bit proud of herself for managing to catch him off guard.

Any trace of surprise was quickly wiped from his face, replaced with his typical self-assured smile that she'd come to love so much.

He walked over to the bed, his eyes never once leaving hers. He stopped in front of her, and his hand came to rest against her cheek. She closed her eyes, immediately leaning into his touch.

"Isn't this a pleasant surprise," he soothed. "What's the occasion?"

At his question, she chuckled and kissed his palm. "Do I need an occasion to surprise you? Maybe I just wanted to show my appreciation."

His hand moved down from her cheek to wrap around her throat. His grip was firm, but not enough to harm her. She gasped, pupils dilating as her skin prickled with anticipation.

He made her look at him, and she clenched her thighs together when she saw his gaze clouded with lust.

"Who am I to deny you, then? If you're so eager to offer yourself up to me, I think I'd like to unwrap my gift."

She breathed out, already feeling heady with anticipation. All she could manage was a small nod, which seemed to be enough as Kenjaku firmly pushed her back against the bed.

The bed sank as Kenjaku climbed into bed with her, not bothering with his own clothing as he loomed over her. He leaned down to catch her lips in a kiss, squeezing a little more firmly as he did.

Kissing Kenjaku was always an event. Whether he was being rough or slow, his kisses were always hungry and filled with passion. He bit at her bottom lip, hard enough to draw blood. The sting of pain was welcome, and she opened her mouth to him, allowing his tongue to slip inside her mouth without argument.

As Kenjaku kissed her, his hands began to roam up and down her body, feeling the lace of her robe and groping at her tits through the fabric. She held his face in her palms as she kissed him back with equal passion, moaning even as she tasted her own blood. She nipped playfully at his tongue, arching her back to be closer to him.

Kenjaku began to grind himself against her, and she could feel how hard he was getting already just by kissing her. Feeling coy, she removed one of her hands from his face, rubbing at his clothed erection.

He growled against her lips, breaking the kiss. He stared down at her, lips bruised and bleeding from his bite. His own cheeks were flushed slightly.

He grabbed her wrist, pulling it away from his aching cock. When she whined, he grinned down at her.

"Needy, aren't we? You never were very patient," he teased

She pouted at the accusation. "You're not much better right now. You look like you're about to cum in your pants."

Kenjaku laughed, releasing her wrist. "Maybe we're both a little pent up. These last few weeks have been busy."

He wasn't wrong. With their plans finally so close to starting, the last several weeks had been a whirlwind of activity just ensuring everything would run smoothly. It was as exciting as it was stressful.

They hardly had a moment to themselves anymore.

Her gaze softened slightly as she sat up, reaching to kiss the stitches along his forehead. No matter what body he was in, she only loved him.

"Then use me however you'd like tonight," she whispered, pressing more gentle kisses against the stitching.

Kenjaku shivered at her touch, suppressing a breathy moan. His stitches were always a sensitive spot for him, and the offer of doing whatever he wanted was just too good. His dick throbbed painfully in anticipation.

His eyes immediately went back to her robe, admiring the outfit as he traced the red lace. "This suits you. You should dress like this more often."

She smiled at the compliment, directing his hand to the sash that kept the robe closed. "You haven't even seen the actual outfit yet. I picked it out just for you."

Kenjaku moved her back against the bed, letting her settle down before he finally pulled the knot. He opened the robe, admiring the sight laid out before him.

"Beautiful," he groaned, tracing his hand over her bare skin. He watched as her skin prickled under his touch, as if every cell in her body rose with anticipation to be touched by him.

He looked down, seeing her petals were dripping with her arousal and her cunt was clenching around nothing, desperate to be fucked.

She looked up at him in anticipation, but before Kenjaku gave her what she wanted, he grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it off, exposing his muscular chest. The X-shaped scar across his Vessel's chest always caught her eye, and she couldn't help but to reach up and trace it.

Kenjaku hummed at the touch, allowing her to smooth her hand over his skin while he pulled his cock free from the confines of his pants. He sighed in relief as his dick sprung loose, hard and throbbing.

Suguru's body certainly didn't disappoint. The man was a work of art; lithe and muscular like a wild cat with that long, silky black hair she could spend hours playing with. His cock was long and thick, curving gently up with a supple head.

"You really are needy," she teased, watching as pearls of pre-cum dripped down the side of his shaft.

"You're no better," he responded, quickly folding her legs back as he mounted her.

She felt his cockhead nudge against her entrance and she relaxed, feeling him begin to push his way inside of her. Both of them groaned as he slotted himself inside, her velvety soft walls gripping his shaft and sucking him in deeper.

His pelvis met her own when he finally sheathed himself fully inside. Time stood still as they savored this moment, adjusting to the blissful embrace of each other's bodies.

"You always feel so good for me," he said, leaning in and pressing his forehead against hers. "No matter what vessel. This pussy of yours takes me so well."

She grinned shakily, pecking at his lips. "So glad I can make myself useful."

As Kenjaku began to rock his hips, starting a steady rhythm, he hummed and closed his eyes, savoring each blissful drag of her walls against his cock.

"No one else," he muttered, his voice trailing off as he failed to finish the thought, choosing instead to focus on kissing and nipping at her jaw.

She moaned as he began to fuck into her, the room quickly filling with the sounds of skin slapping against skin. Her thoughts began to grow fuzzy, lost in the feelings of pleasure he was giving her.

Kenjaku's expression was beautiful, and it struck her that she was the only one lucky enough to see him like this regularly. Mouth parted, eyebrows furrowed, and his pale face dusted a pretty shade of pink.

She would gladly sacrifice her body to him like this any time he asked. This was all she wanted in return – to bring him pleasure and comfort.

Kenjaku's hands held her thighs back against her chest as he properly mounted her, getting more aggressive with his thrusts as his pleasure began to climb.

He smothered her cries with a hungry kiss, forcing his tongue back inside her mouth as he began to jackhammer his hips into hers. His touch was no longer just firm, it was rough.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, gasping into his mouth as his dick throbbed deep inside of her, desperate to fill her with his seed.

His fat cockhead pounded against her cervix as he violently bucked into her, his hips colliding with hers and leaving bruises, proof of his love for her.

Kenjaku's fat balls smacked rhythmically with his thrusts, each time sending sparks of pleasure careening through his body. He moaned, grinding into her with every thrust.

"I should have put a baby in you years ago," he panted against her lips. "I'll have to make up for lost time."

She clenched hard around his shaft, gasping in delight at the thought. Her nails dug into his back as she cried out. "Please! Kenjaku, please. Don't pull out."

He grinned, moving one hand away from her thigh to pull her hair, forcing her to bare her throat. He bit down harshly, leaving a mark as he growled out, "Everyone will know you're mine."

The pleasure reached a fever pitch as they both reached their climax. Her body locked and spasmed as she pulsed around him, sucking him in deeper. Kenjaku breathed in sharply, emptying his balls deep inside of her.

She could feel his dick twitching with every pulse, painting her insides white, and for several moments, they stayed like that, enjoying the comfort of each other's bodies.

When Kenjaku finally let her thighs down, she collapsed onto the bed, totally spent. Her chest heaved with effort, but her entire body felt heavy and relaxed.

Kenjaku didn't pull out, instead opting to pull her on top of him as he laid back against the cool sheets. He pressed soft kisses against her face, petting her hair as he basked in the afterglow.

He rubbed his hand down her back, taking another opportunity to admire the lingerie she had gotten just for him.

He smiled, pulling her closer as she began to drift off, his cock still snuggly slotted inside of her.

"Thank you for this gift."

©Midnightshade. All rights reserved. Do NOT repost, reupload, or modify my works. Do not translate my works, do not link to them or recommend them on other websites, and do not use them for AI training

#kenjaku x reader #jjk reader insert #reader insert #female reader #midnight's grimoire #sin of lust

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necronatural · 8 months

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Project Moon Discourse part 6: It's Over (It's Never Over)

My project moon tag is dedicated exclusively for details on this situation make of that what you will

Last time on Project Moon: Geonggi Youth Union and Project Moon User Association (protesting fans faction) gets a legal threat from a an actual legal firm (none of them say as much, but the contents appear to be specified to the Youth Union, so likely a copy-pasted message). PMUA were asked to not ragepost until the Youth Union finished talks with Project Moon, but THAT completely fell through, so they just post it with a translated reply. Kim Jihoon gets MAD mad and says that the Geonggi Youth Union were going after PM to promote their campaign standing! Youth Union says what the fuck are you talking about, how would we do this when it was being handled internally and the public would only see us apologizing? The crux of all this legal threatening is because Vellmori resigned, therefore it wasn't 'unlawful dismissal'.

And now some new updates:

IT union vice chairman Hwanmin Kim realizes that on September 8 the Limbus Company Twitter sent him a cease and desist. Over Twitter DMs. I'm not kidding

A user has translated Hwanmin Kim's explanation of why talks broke down with the Geonggi Youth Union in this Twitter thread. In short: unless Vellmori expresses a desire to be reinstated their hands are tied, as the laws don't adequately protect workers. It seems the "political motivations" accusation is rooted in the fact that the YU is respecting that they can't represent Vellmori's worker rights unless she asks, yet are still campaigning against PM regardless.

The surrounding climate of Korean gaming companies policing women's speech and how the PM case blew up because of that climate has been recorded in a news article that tracks situations as recent as the whole PM/YU/PMUA showdown. You can read it here. They reached Monggeu (the artist for Leviathan) for comment, and Monggeu noted "they asked me not to say anything too 'PC' when I was hired". Another staff member said PM treats workers 'not as people, but as parts'.

HamHamPangPang addresses a rumour that fan gifts are being thrown out, saying the stored items were damaged. Main response has been "with no notice though?" and "how the fuck did that happen?" with some gift-givers noting they have photo evidence of their goods being stored safely. Most people are actually rather forgiving of the manager (HHPP has been totally exempt from all the blowback towards PM's mismanagement thus far) and are casting suspicion on Kim Jihoon.

Most importantly of all, Kim Jihoon posts an apology on the Limbus Company twitter, which is a hell of a thing after the Notes App Ragepost. He far more cordially explains that he says he posted a notice with 'vague wordings', despite the fact that it very explicitly stated 'she violated our rules, and thus we won't be working with her in the future' - the only vague aspect was how Vellmori left the company. I suppose this is a polite way to say 'we fucked her over in hopes the DCInsiders would feel they successfully drew blood and leave the company alone'. At no point does he specify the original DCInside harassment beyond 'the artist was free to go after them legally', just as Hwanmin Kim mentioned.

Also this:

LMAO

It's actually an otherwise reasonable apology and I think it's encouraging that he will finally work with his employees when they come to him with harassment, but he at no point is clear on why on earth it required international protest for him to do so.

But he had time to interject that he wants the Geonggi Youth Union, Hwanmin Kim, and the PMUA annihalated. OK dude

Personally, I support further protest and not spending money on Project Moon titles, this time strictly over refusal to denounce anti-feminist harassment or comment on their mismanagement. Also it's all but explicit the offer PM gave was "either resign and escape by letting DCInside feel they won or stay on and sue them by yourself, we don't want to rock the boat by helping you" and I'm pissed

#project moon #it never ends.

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milramemo · 2 months

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Some lore rambling. I copied this from my twitter thread so the continuity might be a bit weird pspsps:

This is mainly going to be about Noelle and Caiden's story which is kinda like a prequel to Fallout New Vegas, spaning around 2278-2282 I'll try to stick to the details that are already confirmed but some pieces might still shift.

It was inspired by (aka rewritten from) one of her old alt routes where she went AWOL and became a fugitive. Both Noelle and Caiden started out as NCR soldiers from different units Noelle was a First Recon sergeant and a famous war hero who was used as a political puppet.

Meanwhile Caiden was part of the NCR black op unit, which is a headcanon detail we added. They utilize a lot of stealth gear including salvaged stealth boys and Hei Gui stealth armors. An internal party attempted to assassinate Noelle and Caiden who had been on edge with his superior for a while betrayed his unit and helped her escape. However her "death" was still made public as a propaganda move. Her memorial can be found around the NCR camps.

Most people believed Noelle actually died, including Manny and Boone who were her closest friends at the time. She couldn't contact them because there were influential folks in the NCR still actively hunting for her and Caiden.

o support themselves while keeping their low profile, the duo started working with a merc company at an HQ located not far from Freeside gate. If you remember the Colleague OCs from last timeline, they are the proprietor of this establishment.

Noelle and Caiden's main goal is to clear their names while trying to decide what they want to do with their lives, and over time they just became inseparable. The story still has some serious part but since it spans over a few years there are also a lot of relaxed time.

I still wanna make comic for this one but I'm planning to do more like separated one-shots or miniseries from different points of their journey, as well as our usual silly skits. ♡

Going back to Manny and Boone a bit. The three were best friends back in the service and also part of the same team and will meet again later by chance in Novac around 2280. I love this trio so much. I really want to draw them again both in wholesome and angst moments.

Like other worlds, in Fallout Caiden and Claire are also half-siblings. They share the same mother. Claire was experimented on which resulted in her mutation. She later teamed up with Quantum and their adventure circulates around the east coast. But that's for another time.

I'm still working on a proper introduction for the Fallout version of my OCs. This is more like a rambling thread lol. Still thank you everyone for reading! I'll be going back to work now. 🫡

#noelle rutherford #caiden jade #ramble

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possessingtheproperspirit · 11 months

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It's @mppmaraudergirl's birthday! In celebration, have this random load of nonsense: sixth year Jily flirting by the lake.

“Ah, June.”

She doesn’t lift her gaze from the book in her lap, although she can’t seem to stop the smile already tugging at her lips.

He is not discouraged by her lack of response. “To be young and in love in June,” he sighs, and flops down next to her. He smells like mint and pine and sweat. Not that she notices that sort of thing. “How can you bear it, Evans?”

“What, June?” she asks, still not looking up. Over the course of their sixth year at Hogwarts, she’s become used to his meandering threads of conversation: his mind works in mysterious and, yes, amazing ways. Now that they’re friends, she’s more attuned to it than ever. “One day at a time, Potter. Just me and my will to survive.”

He snorts and her smile strengthens; finally, she allows herself to look up, squinting in the sunshine as she takes him in. His tie has long since been abandoned, his hair its usual dishevelled mess. His legs are stretched out in front of him, and he rests back on his elbows, a louche sort of insouciance that, again, she wishes she didn’t find as charming as she does.

“Not June,” he corrects her, and nods towards the lake. From their vantagepoint, under the shade of an ancient willow tree, they have the perfect view of two fourth years, flirting for Britain in the shallows. “Love’s young dream over there. It’s a bit much, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” she wonders. She recognises the boy—he’s a Hufflepuff prefect. Seems nice enough. “All they’re doing is standing there.”

“Standing there,” he repeats dryly. She can tell that he’s enjoying himself, that he’s committing to this train of thought even if he doesn’t really care. Sometimes he says things and he means them; sometimes he says things and he’s looking to have some fun. She likes both versions equally. “Flaunting their happiness in front of us!”

She turns to look at James, biting her lip as her smile threatens to overwhelm. “Oh, I’m sorry, Potter,” she says, and he meets her gaze, his own grin blooming. “I didn’t realise you were suffering so.”

“Being single,” he shrugs, waving an airy hand in the direction of the lake. “The secret sadness, even on a sunny day.” He glances down at her book. “Even in your fine company. Even though you’d rather be reading—what is that?”

“Pride and Prejudice,” she replies, showing him the cover. “It’s a classic.”

“That’s what girls want, is it?” he smirks. “Regency romance, contained desire and declarations of love at a polite distance?”

“Well,” she considers. “That, and paddling about in a lake.”

James’ laugh warms her, and she follows his gaze back out to the flirting pair nearby. “Maybe that’s where I’m going wrong.”

“Or maybe,” she says, and she’s not sure why, because it makes her stomach feel like it’s turning inside out, “you’re not going as wrong as you think you are.”

He looks round again, an intrigued eyebrow raised. For a moment, no comment, and she thinks she’s messed this up. They were having a rambling joking conversation, and she made it into something real.

But then he smiles again, and says, “We’re often our own harshest critic, aren’t we?” A pause, then, “Most of us, anyway. Sirius thinks he’s the bee’s knees.”

“But that’s only because he is,” Lily replies. Her heartbeat is returning to a normal rate. “Ignore the lake lovebirds. Lie back and I’ll read you some of my book.”

He chuckles, but does as he is asked, settling comfortably back against the grass. “Can I try to guess the ending?” he asks. “Who dies first, pride or prejudice? My money’s on prejudice.”

“James,” she says patiently, opening her book up again. “Shut up and listen.”

“Harsh,” he murmurs, and grins up at her. “But fair.”

And that was where they stayed, until the sun started to set over the lake.

#jily #jple #birthday!#mpp #fic #writing

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asecretvice · 4 months

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Hey. I just really want to thank you for “And This, Your Living Kiss”. I’m guessing you may be a bit tired hearing us talk about it, what, 4, 5 years after you published it? I just need to express some gratitude. Your poem “Perfect” was probably the first poem ever to make cry, and I still read it occasionally when I’m down. It’s honestly probably my favorite poem ever. For me it captures this delicate, still very anchored kind of happiness that just hits so deep. Kind of like the opposite of melancholia. I hope you get what I’m saying and that I’m not just talking out of my ass, and if I am, I was hoping you’d share some of your thoughts about this poem?

Also, this story is truly my favorite story ever. Has been for a very long time. A question I have for you is, is there any place where we can read more of your poetry? And if not, I was also wondering if you’d be willing to share with us some of your favorite poets/poems?

Firstly, thank you for your patience; sometimes it takes me a while to get to asks.

But mostly, thank you so much for these kind words. Do not ever doubt yourself when taking the time to extend your positivity to others; I—and I daresay the vast majority of people—do not get tired of receiving these small kindnesses. It’s a reminder that life can be full of connection, a reminder that when I send a little bit of my heart out into our raging, grief-filled world, there are those who accept and understand and, hopefully, keep passing that love forward. And thusly we make the world a better place. So please receive my gratitude for reaching out.

That you love “Perfection” means so much to me. It was the first piece of the fic I wrote, you know, and pretty much became the basis for who Dean is in the fic thereafter. I don’t feel you’re talking out of your ass at all. Dean is such a complex character, and I think that’s why so many of us relate to him; we see our own complexity and contradictions reflected back at us through him. There is of course happiness there among the rest—a boy/man who is at his happiest when with his family (blood or no). Underneath it all is that deep thread of love we (and Cas!) admire and strive toward within ourselves.

Unfortunately I don’t have poetry published anywhere else. Maybe someday.

Several of my fav poets/poems appear in the fic already, though they’re among many others. However because I’ve been thinking about her lately, I hope you’ll indulge me if I talk about Elizabeth Barrett Browning and her masterpiece Sonnets from the Portuguese.

In the modern day EBB’s words most often show up in the guise of “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.” It sounds a bit hokey, doesn’t it? I know I always thought so; especially to my teenage ear it was sickly sweet if not downright simpering. Spoiler: I was wrong. Context changes everything.

Do you believe that some books or stories come into your life at just the right time? Fast forward to when I’m 18 or 19. I’m in a town I’ve never been to before, visiting people I barely know. My host needs to work and offers to drop me off in the town center to explore. I agree because the weather’s fair and I’m desperate for a break from polite company, as it were. Happily it’s a pleasant area, full of green and not far from a large canal. After wandering along its edge for a while I aim back toward the local stores and window-shop up and down the streets. At last I stumble upon a used bookstore right next to a gelateria! Well you couldn’t have put two things together that more matched my taste if you tried. Naturally, I resolve to find a book and then go next door for some gelato and spend my time enjoying them both.

The bookstore is in an older building, for sure, with hardwood floors and the type of wainscoting that make me think it’s from the early 20th century at least. It’s split into multiple rooms and connected by open doorways; I wonder if it used to be a home. Many, though not all of the bookshelves are built into the walls and painted a pleasant white, stuffed to the gills with books in every color. The only other soul in the building is the man behind the front counter, and aside from a swift exchange of polite smiles I am left alone. I start by going to the left and poking around the shop and its little book-filled rooms counterclockwise, determined to choose at least one thing before I leave. What type, what genre? What length, what mood? I don’t know, but am sure I’ll know it when I see it. I’m free to choose whatever I like, you understand, because rarely had an English teacher in my past convinced me I couldn’t teach myself better, and I’d resolved never to take a class in the English department in college if I could help it (and for better or worse, I never did).

I take my time twisting in and out of the treasure-filled corners, no rush and no fuss. Yet no book sings to me. At length I near the back of the shop; on the far side beneath a window is a short, two-shelf bookcase. With waning hope I crouch in front of the shelf and begin reading spines. Aha! It’s filled with poetry. Perhaps there is some hope after all…then there it is: Sonnets from the Portuguese. Definitely faux-fancy binding, but still pretty. It looks like this:

I flip through, and every sonnet is accompanied by a different piece of silhouette art. It’s lovely, and it sings to me. A small pencil mark on the inside indicates it only costs a couple bucks, so I rummage in my wallet, stop by the front desk, and leave the store with the book clutched in my hands. With the rest of my cash I go to the gelateria next door and pick a couple of unusual flavors and again, alone, I choose a rickety metal table outside and sit with nothing but birds and sunshine for company. I skip the introduction and open the book immediately to the first sonnet:

I thought once how Theocritus had sung Of the sweet years, the dear and wished for years, Who each one in a gracious hand appears To bear a gift for mortals, old or young: And, as I mused it in his antique tongue, I saw, in gradual vision through my tears, The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years, Those of my own life, who by turns had flung A shadow across me. Straightway I was ’ware, So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair, And a voice said in mastery while I strove, . . 'Guess now who holds thee?'—'Death,' I said, But, there, The silver answer rang . . 'Not Death, but Love.'

What do you glean from the poem? It is slow and sad, a bright mythologized ideal set against a woman sunk deep in dark grief, a darkness that swiftly shifts into horror as a Shape appears behind her, physically pulls her from her weeping, and demands a response. She is so sure that her own death has at last come upon her, except what’s appeared…is love? Love, of all things? Love?

This is not at all what I am expecting to read. I fill up with another spoonful of gelato and eagerly turn the page.

And turn, and turn—Reader, I’m hooked. I’m strapped into a rollercoaster and freefalling down the first slope, on a wild ride built by a woman who’s been chronically ill since childhood, who’s lived through the death of her mother and beloved brother, whose father keeps her in his house and firmly under his thumb even long into her thirties, who still manages to write and get published and yet still lives lonely in her dark room…Sonnets from the Portuguese is an epic journey via the most astonishing set of 44 sonnets about how love completely changed her life, sonnets which her husband later touted to be the best in English since Shakespeare (and I agree). If you haven’t read the sonnets I encourage you to do so before reading on, link here, but if you’d rather I walk you through…

Even reading them again now I am in awe. How baldly and boldly she talks about how she and Robert, because of course it’s about her famous courtship with Robert Browning, are not meant to be. Not just her circumstances at home, not just her poor health, not just the fact that she thinks herself so below him and his worth, but also her grief. The darkness that lives in her! So many lines from these poems are woven into the tapestry of my life, like from sonnet V: Behold and see / What a great heap of grief lay hid in me. She warns that it could ruin him. Stand further off then! go! it ends.

And yet the next one (VI) begins: Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand / Henceforward in thy shadow. It is too late. She’s already been changed. The world and her perception of it are already shifting. Read how the beginning of VII illustrates this:

The face of all the world is changed, I think, Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul Move still, oh, still, beside me, as they stole Betwixt me and the dreadful outer brink Of obvious death, where I, who thought to sink, Was caught up into love, and taught the whole Of life in a new rhythm. The cup of dole God gave for baptism, I am fain to drink, And praise its sweetness, Sweet, with thee anear.

She was sinking into oblivion, death her companion, until he stood between them and she was caught up into love, no longer to go through her days sitting simple and still in her room, content to wallow in the sorrow she’d been given. Yet…that still doesn’t matter, because how can she reciprocate? And, crucially, does it make her a bad person that she can’t?

am I cold, Ungrateful, that for these most manifold High gifts, I render nothing back at all? Not so; not cold,—but very poor instead. (VIII)

Have you ever been there? Found yourself wondering if you’re even capable of love and kindness toward others given all you’ve been through, and how horrible it feels to think that ability’s been stolen from you? Is what little you can eke out even worth anything in comparison? Beloved, I only love thee! let it pass. (IX)

But she continues turning the idea of love over in her mind. Could it be that love is fully worthy, no matter where it comes from? There’s nothing low / In love, she reasons, when love the lowest (X). Still it does not seem that she herself could be worthy—and if this is worthy love, anyway, would she have even known how to do it if she’d not first been shown by him?

And thus, I cannot speak Of love even, as a good thing of my own: Thy soul hath snatched up mine all faint and weak, And placed it by thee on a golden throne,— And that I love (O soul, we must be meek!) Is by thee only, whom I love alone. (XII)

It seems that Robert persists in his own love, because then an earnest plea: that he love her for love’s sake, because people change in time. She herself is changing now because of him! Do not even love her because he loves taking care of and comforting her, because his love could lessen her need for that comfort! (XIV)

Regardless she is not without feeling, as sad and calm as she outwardly seems. She’s just not like him. But…could his love and his will be strong enough to overcome all these obstacles? Why, conquering / May prove as lordly and complete a thing / In lifting upward, as in crushing low! With such success, she says, I at last record, / Here ends my strife. (XVI)

But of course, nothing can be quite so simple. Her first question is how she can be useful to him. This does not feel like a full partnership:

How, Dearest, wilt thou have me for most use? A hope, to sing by gladly? or a fine Sad memory, with thy songs to interfuse? A shade, in which to sing—of palm or pine? A grave, on which to rest from singing? Choose. (XVII)

That theme of death, too, is still ever-present. Even as the next couple of sonnets talk about how they’ve exchanged locks of hair she speaks of it. In XX a sea-change is further revealed, however, when she compares her life before Robert to the one after knowing him, how link by link, [I] Went counting all my chains but now, in contrast to VII’s cup of dole, she drinks from life’s great cup of wonder! She begs him to keep saying that he loves her (XXI), continuing the theme that his love will teach her, lift her, allay her many fears. But the next again ends with the death-hour rounding it.

Robert’s response? That her death would harm him. She admits to marveling at this revelation. If it is to be believed,

Then my soul, instead Of dreams of death, resumes life’s lower range. Then, love me, Love! look on me—breathe on me! As brighter ladies do not count it strange, For love, to give up acres and degree, I yield the grave for thy sake, and exchange My near sweet view of heaven, for earth with thee! (XXIII)

So first we learn that it is Love, not Death that has grabbed her; then we know that she feels Robert’s soul has slipped between her and the brink of death and thus she begins to question her constant sorrow; she is changing by his love; she will stop worrying about her worthiness and be of use to him and bask in what love he is willing to give her; but only now, finally, does she give up death itself in order to live her life. She is choosing to live!

The next few sonnets double down on this, about how all her hope had become despair, about how for so long she only had visions for company, and didn’t know they were mere shades in comparison to a reality of actually living, how Love, as strong as Death, retrieves as well. Also important? His saving kiss (XXVII).

We’ve come far, but progress isn’t an even trajectory. The rollercoaster dips again: now that she wishes to live, she wishes to live in his presence. She is both touch-starved and starved for company. Because their letters—one of, if not the most famous set of love letters in the English language—are to her all dead paper, mute and white! She speaks of how they fixed a day in spring / To come and touch my hand…a simple thing, / Yet I wept for it! (XXVIII) So we got the first mention in the last sonnet of his kissing her, and now a memory of when he first touched her hand. She goes on to write about how thinking of him is no longer enough; she needs to be near him. She then wonders, when he is gone, if she has embellished his feelings for her. Can you blame her? I certainly can’t. Her dark thoughts are now manifesting in these doubts about her perception, rather than her abilities.

But upon his next visit, she admits, I erred / In that last doubt! (XXXI). His presences reassures that all is real, not dream. And while she has always found it unlikely that their bond could have formed so fast (Quick-loving hearts, I thought, may quickly loathe, XXXII), now that she knows him she knows it was wrong to think that of him. She then brings up her childhood and draws parallels between the bright happy love she felt then with the love she feels now…even though, given the life she’s lived, the love she feels really can’t be the same. Her thoughts are no longer that of a child’s, which can be lightly turned aside, but for him she can and will turn from her dark, lonely thoughts when called.

This all decided, that their love is deep and true and as real as the loves she used to feel, and that she wants to be with him, an important question remains: If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange / And be all to me? Simply reading the poems and knowing their time period (Victorian) it could be enough to assume that it’s a regular leaving of your childhood home to create your own. But remember what I said at the beginning? The control her father exerts over her? She knows he would never approve. Hell, it was difficult enough for her siblings to make lives for themselves within his shadow. Going with Robert would mean truly leaving everything. She knows it won’t be easy: For grief indeed is love and grief beside (XXXV).

This great fear invites more doubt. She admits she has grown stronger and more confident, but that doesn’t make her troubles disappear. She knows she does their love a disservice in so doubting and in so fearing, but she can’t help it. But then…she returns to the physical, to his presence. In XXXVIII she speaks of their first three kisses: the first on her hand, the second for her forehead, but half-landed on her hair, and the third upon my lips was folded down / In perfect, purple state; since when, indeed / I have been proud and said, “My love, my own.”

She goes on in the next sonnets to say how grateful she is that he truly sees her and knows her beyond all the layers of sorrow and sickness she labors under. It should also be noted that, uncommonly for their time, he at 33 or so was courting her at 39/40. And so she is grateful, too, that he thinks it soon when others cry “Too late.” (XL). She then thanks all who had ever loved or listened, but again thanks Robert for listening to her even when it was difficult. She doubles down, now, on her decision to live:

I seek no copy now of life’s first half: Leave here the pages with long musing curled, And write me new my future’s epigraph, New angel mine, unhoped for in the world! (XLII)

And then—only now, as the rollercoaster shoots us upward and onward in joy and hope for a good, loving future—does she begin sonnet XLIII with How do I love thee? She asks this, not as some young girl with no life experience about a boy she’s seen across the room (I mean, how else was I supposed to interpret it, given how it’s used in the modern age?). She asks this as a woman full four decades into her life, a life full of chronic illness, an authoritarian home, and familial grief. She asks this after months of courtship during which she fought for every inch of belief, and hope, and joy. Where she at last came to know her own strength of heart and of will. Because she does leave her home, dear Reader. She elopes with Robert Browning, gets married in France, and lives out the rest of her life in Italy, where death finally catches up to her at 55. Keep all this in mind, as you read the sonnet in full:

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of everyday’s Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints,—I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.

There is one more sonnet, where she brings back flowers, a motif I didn’t spend time on in this post, to talk about how their souls are intertwined down to their roots. I bring it up now not just because flowers end this glorious cycle of forty-four poems, but because I think of her grave.

A year or two after I fell in love with these poems I was lucky enough to be in Italy myself. Some friends and I were walking around Florence and I insisted we had to find the English cemetery. I remember it as being this island of a hill in the middle of some busy streets, all fenced in with a little building at the entrance. When we scurried across the street and inside, there was a nun there who greeted us warmly. I told her I was looking for Elizabeth Barrett Browning and she lit up. She motioned for us to follow as she told me that they do their best to take care of her grave, and have always done so (I don’t know if she means just those who work there or Italians in general, as EBB was loved by Florence in her time). But, she said, they did not look kindly upon Robert, because he spent all this money on a beautiful tomb but he never, ever came to visit. She said this with the authority of someone who had witnessed it herself, though of course that was impossible. This was clearly a story deemed important enough—or perhaps simply so full of strong feeling—to stand the test of time.

The tomb is indeed beautiful. The pictures when I did a quick lookup on the internet do not do it justice; forgive me for not having the energy now to dig up where I’ve saved the old files of the pictures I took myself. At the time it was absolutely surrounded by tall, enormous roses, deep red in color. After I had my fill the nun was kind enough to take us on a tour of the rest of the cemetery, which was lovely. But I’ve never been able to shake the memory of that story, the one where the nuns lived and died resentful of an absent Robert.

It wasn’t until about a year and a half ago, when I read Fiona Sampson’s recent biography Two-Way Mirror: The Life of Elizabeth Barrett Browning that it finally made sense. Robert often avoided grief in this way, it seems, afraid to travel back to England when family members were ailing until it was too late. Whether you agree with his actions or not, his absence we can at least hope is from his great love turned to great grief, rather than a lack of feeling on his part. He himself died in Venice; their only child died in Italy also. Robert is, however, still separated from Elizabeth in death: he is buried in Poet’s Corner, Westminster Abbey, London.

If you’re hoping for a neat bow on the end of this post, there isn’t. I think of her often not just because I love her poetry but, I suppose, because each year is slowly, inexorably bringing me closer to the age she was when she decided she would live her life again, and though I haven’t found a soul-shaking love like she has, I am trying, trying, trying to live, too.

#opal replies #living kiss #anonymous #poetry #elizabeth barrett browning

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kingorqueenofnarnia · 7 days

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Stay With Me Forever

I'm in a Caspeter brainrot. I found the ship less than two days ago and if anyone tries anything against it I shall kill everyone in this world and then myself. Anyways, have a happy ending:

Caspian is in the Astronomy Tower.

He stands with his hands braced on the railings, looking down on the castle as the sun climbs higher in the Narnian sky— it will be noon in an hour, and the castle is full of hustle and bustle. The coronation was yesterday, and the messes are being cleaned and Narnians are finally coming out of the woodwork to assimilate into Telmarine society. He can see a Telmarine soldier speaking to Greenbriar the centaur near the gate, both of them with smiles on their faces, and lets his pleased smile grow over his lips.

Surprisingly, the Telmarines have had very few qualms about Narnian Animals roaming free. It bodes well for the challenges Caspian faces as the newly-crowned king in Narnia.

One of the doors in the courtyard are thrown open, and Caspian's eyes get drawn to the forceful movement.

"Helena!" High King Peter's loud voice echoes through the castle as he strides forward, and Caspian cannot help but follow him with his eyes.

The High King is dressed in Old Narnian royal garments, which Caspian has no doubt he grabbed from the treasury in Cair Paravel. Black linen trousers hug his powerful legs, and a short white tunic with laces instead of buttons and long flowy sleeves covers his torso. Caspian sees the sunlight glint off the cloth, and realises that there is gold thread embroidered into the cuffs and the neckline. His golden hair is longer than it was four months ago when they first met— it reaches his shoulders now, and he wears it in a dozen tiny braids interwoven with golden ribbons; no doubt Lucy's doing.

"Helena," High King Peter calls again as he reaches the other side of the courtyard, and Caspian watches as a maid hurries towards him and bows. Then, the ensuing conversation cannot be heard, for they disappear through the doors.

Caspian didn't know Peter knew any servants by name. He sighs and leans forward, elbow on the railing and chin on his palm, staring at the door through which Peter disappeared.

Aslan came, an hour ago. Caspian saw him walking with Lucy, Edmund, Susan and Peter, and while he was not invited to the discussion, he has an inkling as to what the talk was about.

Caspian knows that the Kings and Queens of Old came from somewhere not in this world. He has heard the siblings talk about going back home in soft voices that conveyed just how much they hated the idea of it. He has heard them talk about how it is bound to happen now, because it happened the last time. And now, now that he is King and Narnia is safe and the Narnians have their freedom back and there are no wars to fight, Aslan has come to take them back.

Caspian feels his throat constrict.

He thinks about staying in this Castle, with none of the four siblings to keep him company. He thinks of the talks on politics and law making with Edmund as they kept watch together. He thinks of reading poetry with Lucy, and small competitions in archery against Susan that he kept losing much to his annoyance and Susan's smugness.

Most of all, however, he thinks about Peter.

High King Peter, a boy who looks Caspian's age with eyes so blue it makes one think of the summer sky and hair so golden it seems to be spun of sunlight. Peter, with his terrifying scowls and loud laughs, who talks freely and kindly with the Narnians at one moment and turns into an experienced and ruthless War General at the next. High King Peter, who fought— and won— a duel to the death in Caspian's honour while wearing a bracelet that Caspian tied around his wrist.

High King Peter, whom he nearly kissed last night.

Caspian's cheeks burn at the memory, and he steps out the balcony into the room with the hope that no one noticed him.

The coronation celebrations were in full swing, and Caspian was slightly drunk, and found Peter in one of the balconies away from the throne room. They got to talking as they were wont to do, slowly stepping closer and closer until their noses were a hair's breadth from each other.

And then Peter turned around and left him standing there with a thundering heart and eyes burning with tears he refused to let fall.

By the Lion, Caspian is such an idiot.

Of course Peter would not like him. Why would he? He is High King above all Kings in Narnia, a legendary War General with a lethal sword and a powerful presence, who dragged Narnia into the Golden Age with his siblings out of sheer stubbornness and determination. He is High King, about him ballads have been made and books have been written and on whose name people take solemn oaths.

Caspian, on the other hand, is a young King with no experience who did not even fight his own duel. He has accomplished nothing in his nineteen years of life, while Peter fought his first battle at the age of thirteen and emerged victorious against the White Witch. By the time Peter was nineteen the first time in Narnia, he had fought and won thirteen wars.

Caspian is nothing compared to Peter. Of course Peter does not like him, not the same way he likes Peter.

WHAM!

Caspian whips around, hand flying to his sword as the doors are flung open so violently they slam against the wall and rebound. Peter, he realises a second later, and lets go of his sword's hilt.

The High King moves towards him with long, powerful strides, Rhindon clinking at his waist and boots clicking against the stone floor, a look of singular focus in his eyes.

"High King Peter," Caspian says, standing up straight as the man grows closer, "what—"

Peter kisses him.

A hand cups his cheeks and an arm wraps around his waist, and then he is dragged flush against Peter as his plump lips work insistently against Caspian's own.

Caspian gasps, and Peter takes the chance to slip his tongue into his mouth, running it over the back of his teeth and dragging it over the roof of his mouth, pulling a surprised whimper from his throat. Caspian gives in, lifting his arms to wrap them around Peter's shoulders, and opens his mouth wider to let the man do whatever he wishes.

He moves his lips against Peter's as best as he can, but Peter's touch is scorching where his palm is pressed into his lower back and his fingers are firm yet gentle where they grip his chin and his teeth send a shiver up his spine when they sink into his lower lip and his shoulders are broad and muscled under his hands and oh—

Caspian pulls back with a loud gasp, chest heaving with ragged breaths and blood roaring in his ears. He feels his pulse in his temples and the heat in his bright red cheeks, and he opens his eyes to stare in astonishment at Peter.

Fuck, Peter.

His lips are swollen and pink with the kiss, braided hair just a little out of order, and his eyes shine like jewels as he stared back at Caspian with the widest smile Caspian has ever seen on his face.

"I'm staying," he says breathlessly.

Caspian's heart stops.

"I'm staying," Peter repeats, wrapping both arms around Caspian and shaking him to let the point sink in. "I'm staying, forever. I'm not leaving Narnia, Caspian. I'm staying."

Caspian stares at him with wide eyes, almost afraid of believing what he's saying.

Peter laughs, loud and elated, and surges forward to press a quick, feather-light kiss to his lips. Caspian's cheeks burn hotter, and Peter laughs again.

"I'm staying here, in Narnia, forever," he whispers, leaning forward to press his forehead against Caspian's. "And I am free, now, to ask you this: King Caspian, will you do me the honour and bestow upon me the pleasure of allowing me to court you?"

Caspian squeaks.

"Me?" He says faintly, fingers still gripping Peter's shoulders tight. "You want to court me?"

"Verily, my heart cannot stop wanting you, Caspian," he says earnestly. "You are one of the best people I have ever had the good fortune of meeting. You are kind and smart and loyal and you care about my Narnians and I..." Peter exhales, a soft smile growing on his lips.

"I couldn't help it," he whispers. "Falling for you was so very easy, and it scared me, because I'd left Narnia before and I did not want to go through a second time of leaving love behind and come back to find them dead for thirteen hundred years. I- I did not want to do that again, Caspian."

Caspian lifts a hand to cup Peter's cheek, unable to find the words for the things he wants to say. "Peter..."

"But now," Peter says, and his smile is coming back, bright and wide and oh so beautiful, "now we can stay in Narnia for the rest of our lives if we so wish. For Edmund, Lucy and Susan, they would choose Narnia without hesitation."

Caspian's heart is hammering against his ribs, and he can feel the slow smile that curves up the corners of his lips as the pieces start connecting in his mind.

"And you?" he asks, unable to breathe all of a sudden, "what did you choose?"

Peter leans forward to touch his forehead to Caspian's, a long sigh slipping out between his lips. "You," he whispers. "I chose you."

Caspian cannot help it: he tackles Peter to the floor, desperate lips finding Peter's and prying them open to shove his tongue into his mouth, dragging a hoarse moan from the depths of his chest. Peter's arms tighten around him, and suddenly he is on his back on the floor with a hand under his head and an arm wrapped around his waist, Peter's weight pinning him down and a leg shoving its way between his thighs.

Caspian throws his head back and moans at the sensation, and Peter immediately latches onto the skin above his collarbone with his teeth. Caspian gasps, back arching and hands flying up to grip Peter's hair, but Peter is rolling his skin between his teeth and he cannot think.

"Peter," he whines, tugging on a fistful of braided golden hair, and Peter flicks out his tongue to lick over the bite mark. Caspian hitches out a moan, and he feels Peter grin against his skin.

"Yes, Caspian?"

Caspian tugs on his hair again, whining when Peter moves to the other collarbone and digs his teeth in, sending sparks skittering up Caspian's spine.

"You're staying," he gasps, and Peter laughs.

"I'm staying," he says against Caspian's skin, delight visible all over his face. Caspian surges up to press his lips against that plump, red mouth, and Peter kisses back enthusiastically, plundering Caspian's mouth with his tongue till he is whimpering. "I'm staying, and I'm not leaving you. Ever."

"You have my permission, High King Peter," Caspian whispers when they part, heart feeling like it could burst right out of his chest with how hard it was beating. "I give you permission: court me."

Peter's visage lights up with a brilliant smile, and Caspian loses his breath all over again at the gleam in those blue, blue eyes. Now he understands why the High King is called Magnificent.

"Thank you, Caspian. I love you."

"I love you too," he murmurs, dragging Peter down into another kiss.

Background: Peter had a wife and a husband back during the Golden Age. Also, this is very definitely Caspian's first kiss.

#narnia #the chronicles of narnia #amrut writes about narnia #peter pevensie #caspian the tenth #prince caspian #caspian x #peter x caspian #caspian x peter #caspeter #narnia fanfic #narnia fanfiction #caspeter fanfic #caspeter fanfiction #pevensie siblings #pevensies

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zeciex · 7 months

Text

A Vow of Blood

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Daenera Velaryon returns to King’s Landing with the intention of bolstering her mother’s position and reminding both the Greens and nobility that Rhaenyra is the rightful heir to the throne. She has a specific goal in mind: to be a constant source of annoyance to the Greens and is willing to play the political game without hesitation.

However, what catches her off guard is the way Aemond gazes at her and seems to relish in her suffering. He openly expresses his desire to bring about her downfall, her ruination.

This situation leads to a tense game of cat and mouse, with each move escalating the already high stakes. Will their precarious situation crumble as the dragons soar above, or will fate intervene?

After all, love often demands the sacrifice of duty, just as duty can sometimes lead to the demise of love. Characters: Aemond Targaryen X OC, HOTD characters.

Chapter 7: Gossip and Needlepoint

AO3 - Masterlist

Tris Caswell had joined Daenera in her chambers, the two sitting beside each other with their needlework in front of them, the sun streaming in from the windows and balcony, bathing the room in a warm light.

“I thank you for the invitation, Princess Daenera,” Tris spoke quietly, her fingers untangling a piece of string with skilled precision.

“I should be thanking you for your company and willingness to help me improve my needlepoint. Though, I fear you’ll be rather disappointed in my abilities as a student,” Daenera mused with a sly smile on her lips, pressing the needle into the fabric, starting the work on what was supposed to become a snapdragon. It might have been an overachievement on her part.

“I’m sure it won't be that bad,” Tris laughed, working the blue thread into the needle before she began her own work on a whole image of flowers. It was a piece she had been working on for some time. With blue forget-me-nots and red roses, with a bird swooping down to catch the worm wiggling among the soil. It was quite stunning.

“I assure you it is,” Daenera promised. “I must admit that it isn’t the only reason why I’ve asked you to join me, though.”

“Oh?”

“You see, I believe needlepoint isn’t your only skill,” Daenera continued coyly. “A quiet girl such as yourself must be privy to quite a lot of gossip.”

Tris made a face, an upside down smile, delight shining in her eyes. “‘A girl such as myself’... by that you mean easily overlooked and discounted?”

“The quiet ones are often the most dangerous. They see, they hear, and they gather. I’m sure you have a lot of interesting tales to talk about.” Gossip and rumors thrived within the walls of the Red Keep. They were like the gardens, well kept and sustained each time they got told. Gossip watered by rumors, rumors fed by speech, the two growing, living, thriving. To dismiss gossip as baseless talk was to do it a disservice. Gossip and rumors were a great weapon to be wielded, and could often give a glimpse into the character of a person. It was a thing to behold as much as it was a thing to be weary of.

“I have heard some talk about Lord Redwyne’s second daughter has been quite taken with a certain Kingsguard,” Tris Caswell said bemused.

“Oh has she now,” Daenera engaged, not really interested in the crush of a second born daughter. “Which Kingsguard might that be?”

“Ser Criston Cole,” Tris squealed at the thought of it. Daenera blinked, not expecting that particular Kingsguard to get involved in such debasing matters.

“Has anything come of it?”

“No,” Tris sighed. “The knight is quite devoted to the queen and his vows. The last time I heard him involved in anything was…”

Tris looked over at Daenera with uncertainty and discomfort, unsure of whether to continue or keep quiet. Daenera already knew of what she was speaking. It was an old rumor, nothing to be proven and quite frankly sounded more like a way to dig at her mother than anything else.

“Do you think there’s more to the queen's relationship with her sworn protector?” Daenera inquired, eyes cast to her embroidery piece as to not make Tris more uncomfortable. Her tone was simple, as if the question had no certain meaning or use.

Tris shifted, the fabric of her dress scratching at the wooden seat. Her lips had pursed in thought. “I’ve heard no such thing. The queen isn’t likely to abandon her vows to the king. She’s quite devoted.”

Daenera hummed dissatisfied. If there had been an inkling towards a relationship between the Queen and the Kingsguard, then perhaps there were something to it. But as it stood, there was no such thing. And without the mere suggestion of a rumor, Daenera couldn’t very well use it to her advantage.

“I’ve heard that other Kingsguards are less devoted to their vows than Ser Criston is,” Tris continued, fixing another string to the needle, this one brown instead of blue. “Ser Willis Fell is said to frequent the brothels.”

Of course the Kingsguard’s knights frequented brothels and whores. Their vow’s may say that they should take no wives nor father no children, that didn’t mean they werent inclined to spend a few coins on a good fuck. And Daenera was sure that there were a couple of bastards in Flea Bottom that derived from one such union.

“But you’ll find that a lot of the Ladies at court are swooning over Ser Criston and the twins.”

“I can understand the appeal of the twins, but I’ve yet to understand why anyone would ‘swoon’ over Ser Criston. With his history of violence, I would have thought that he’d have been thrown out of the Kingsguard long ago. I mean, he did beat someone to death at a royal feast.” Daenera jabbed the needle through the fabric unceremoniously and was subsequently pricked by it. Her whole body jerked and she waved her hand in the air and then watched a drop of blood well up. She brought her finger to her lip and thought about the witch.

“I suppose the Queen influenced that decision,” Tris said, head lolling to the side as she surveyed her art piece. Then she turned to Daenera with a wicked grin on her face. “Do you think the twins are identical everywhere ?”

Daenera couldn’t keep the amusement from her face. “They are identical, are they not?”

“One of my maids said she once saw Ser Erryk Cargyll in full,” Tris chuckled, a red tint upon her cheeks. “Said he was well endowed, she did.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Daenera admitted.

“Do you think… that maybe, perhaps, as they are identical twins, that they share the same… women?”

“Tris!” Daenera squealed in outrage, Tris laughed, hiding her face behind her embroidery. The two laughed together. “It really is the quiet ones!”

“What?! I can assure you, I am not the only one that has been wondering. It has been brought up many a time in my embroidery circle,” Tris defended herself.

“What embroidery circle is that? Full of wide eyed maids, bored wives and old crones?”

“Pretty much.”

Daenera shook her head. She hadn’t expected Tris to be so obscene. It was quite refreshing. “You and I are bound to be fast friends.”

“Friends? Truly?” Tris sounded astonished, as if she couldn’t really believe it.

“Of course,” Daenera said. “I’m in need of friends and would count myself lucky to call you one.”

A soft smile graced Tris’s face, her cheeks still red, eyes big and wide under heavy eyelids. “I’d like that very much.”

They sat for some time, sharing stories and gossip, all the while working on their embroidery pieces. To say that Daenera had a knack for it, was to spit in the face of The Mother and lie about it. Even Tris’s expert advice couldn’t save the misshapen snapdragon. It was a disaster and half-way through, Daenera decided to give up her attempt and instead just littered the fabric with lines and x’s, just to give her hands something to do.

“You’ve told me most of the court gossip about all the lords and ladies,” Daenera ventured, putting her embroidery down to pick up the cup of tea that stood on the small table, blowing at the steam before taking a sip. “But you have yet to tell me about any of the princes.”

Tris glanced around, eyes searching for prying eyes or ears. Anxiety rippled from her, the possibility of getting caught gossiping about one of the princes, enough to cause such a reaction. Daenera understood what it was she was asking. It was one thing to gossip about Lords and Ladies, another thing entirely to do it about royalty. If only the rumors of her own parentage and her mothers supposed debauchery were treated with the same degree of concern.

“I’m sure you’ve heard things,” Daenera pressed. “Princes are not likely to keep out of trouble.”

“It is not that,” Tris muttered, leaning in closer to Daenera, the expression on her face one of concern and apprehension. “I should not speak ill of the princes, my Lady Princess.”

Daenera put her hands on Tris’, hoping to invoke some comfort and a sort of confidence in her own ability to keep quiet. “I only wish to know what I am dealing with.”

Tris swallowed, keeping her voice low and conspiratorial. “I’ve heard rumors, Princess… Of Aegon leaving the castle at night, slipping away from his guards, only to turn up in Flea Bottom.”

Daenera nodded, keeping her face reassuring.

“It is said that he has a taste for wine and women. That he frequents the brothels.” Tris continued, licking her lips nervously and inching closer to Daenera, her hand warm and sweaty. “It is said that he’s indulging in all things debauched… And here, at the castle, he’s known to terrorize the serving girls and maids. The queen keeps it quiet, but the servants are afraid of him. That is why they often avert their gaze and avoid being alone in the room with him. You must have wondered why the servants always walk in twos.”

“ Is he…?” Daenera didn’t speak the words, but the two women knew exactly what she was referring to.

“No,” Tris said, chuckling uncomfortably as she dismissed Daenera’s wonderings with the wave of a hand. “No, he wouldn’t. He’s the prince… He can get handsy, but I don’t believe he’s as shameless as that.”

And the Queen’s influence was clear. Even with the rumors of Aegon’s proclivities, she still managed to keep the worst of him hidden. Daenera couldn’t be sure of course, but that didn’t make her any less suspicious. Aegon had always delighted in making people cower, especially when he had power over them. A boy without control in his own life, seeking the control he sorely lacks in taking other peoples away from them.

“And what of Aemond?” What could that son of a whore have hidden in his closet? Was he as depraved as his brother?

“Aemond?” Tris hummed, the tension easing from her shoulders. “Aemond is the perfect prince. He’s what the Queen wishes her firstborn was. He spends his days training with the sword or hiding away in the library, reading history and philosophy. Aemond is off-putting though. He’s quite intense and doesn’t say much, but I’ve heard he can be pleasant and even charming if he wishes to be.”

Pleasant and charming , weren't words Daenera would use to describe him. Instead she found the words volatile , insulting and vulgar more fitting. Her thumb grazed over the gauze that covered the sore, still blistered spot underneath. She remembered his iron grip, the way he had forced her hand to the candle, the burning maliciousness in his eye.

“Aemond is unlike his brother. He seems to have no interest in women, nor does he indulge himself in wine. However, he is known to lurk about in the castle like a ghost.” Tris looked around Daenera’s quarters. There was no one else but them and the older maid, Joyce, who was cleaning the mantle piece. Daenera looked around as well, unsure whether she’d find Aemond materialized in the shadows. He wasn’t. But she wouldn’t put it past him.

“Does he visit the Sept often?”

“The Sept?” Tris echoed, brows furrowing in thought. “No, I don’t believe so. Why?”

Dark curls bounced as Daenera shook her head, shrugging the question off.

“I must admit, Prince Aemond is a mystery. One that I’m not likely, nor inclined to unravel,” Tris continued. “He terrifies me. The scar may add to the mystery, but it’s disturbing to say the least. And…” Tris hesitated, eyes darting up to meet Daeneras. “I’ve only heard tales of what happened. No one will speak of it.”

“That may be for the best,” Daenera said, dismissing the inquiring tone. “It is in the past.”

Daenera reached over for Tris’s hands that lay neatly folded in her lap, her eyes reassuring and imploring, a soft genuine smile tugging at her lips. “Will you keep me informed, were you to happen upon some… interesting gossip or rumors?”

Tris patted Daenera’s hands. “It will be my pleasure to keep you informed… I must warn you though. The Queen has a dutiful servant in Larys Strong. He’s the Lord Confessor and has an extended web of informants all over the court and city. It is not likely that I will bring you news before the Queen knows.”

Larys Strong was the Lord Confessor. That little morsel of information was new to her, and she wasn’t entirely sure what to make of it. Did he know that his brother was her true father? Did he hold some sort of ill will towards her? Did he blame her for his fathers and brother's death?

“I will not ask you to be as proficient as the Master of Whispers,” Daenera reassured her. “All I ask is that you give me the gossip and the rumors that keep the court well fed. And should you stumble over a… juicy piece of information, I will be extremely grateful if you bring it to me as fast as you can.”

Tris agreed.

She wouldn’t be a Lord Confessor, she lacked the extended web of informants for that, but she would do fine bringing Daenera the news going around the court. And gathering gossip was a specialty of hers.

A few days prior Jelissa had been sent out with the task of bringing back a bunch of roses, no less than ten. She had bribed one of the gardeners with a smile and the flutter of her eyelashes, and he had willingly handed over the flowers. She had asked Daenera what use she had for the flowers, when the Princess placed them in a dark place for them to wither and die but Daenera had just smiled slyly with mischief.

Now, Daenera was cutting up the bulb of the rose with great care, her tongue darting out over her lip in concentration, while Jelissa watched over her shoulder with a confused expression upon her face. Joyce was preparing some boiled water.

“What are you doing?” Jelissa asked, her golden hair grazing Daenera’s shoulder.

“I’m removing the cythilicus,” Daenera answered, carefully picking up the little white tut of fluff that had grown within the bulb of the rose. It wasn’t a lot, but there were more roses to cut up. The cythilicus was then placed in a small ceramic bowl. Daenera began cutting up the next bulb.

“The what?” Jelissa picked up the ceramic bowl, holding it up close to her face, studying it.

“Don’t touch it,” Daenera hurriedly said, stopping the maid from picking it up. “It will make you itch an awful lot.”

Jelissa’s eyes widened and she quickly placed the bowl back onto the table. Daenera put the next two cythilicus tuffs into the bowl. When the roses had all been cut up and their centers removed, Daenera brushed it all aside for Jelissa to clean up. Joyce came over with a bowl of boiling water, putting it under a small makeshift tent Daenera had made out of a piece of embroidery cloth, her half finished snapdragon-monster displayed in all its skill less glory. Even Tris Caswell could not deny her lack of skill with an embroidery needle.

The steam from the boiled water was to activate the itchy properties of the fluff. Daenera kept an eye on it, ensuring that the cythilicus didn’t become wet and the bowl that contained it didn’t get dewy. Eventually Daenera decided that it was enough and she removed the bowl from the tent, putting it by the window to dry out.

While it did that, she began working on the accompanying oil she’d make. She cut up some of the herbs she stole from the infirmary, putting it in the boiling pot of water above the fire and had Joyce stir it while she cleaned her work desk.

Joyce was used to helping the princess with her remedies, potions and teas. She had been with Daenera since she was a child, and had watched her grow up. The older maid was one of the few people who truly understood her.

“What is this for, exactly?” Jelissa asked.

“Ask and you shall know. Know and you’re an accomplice,” Joyce warned the girl.

“What does that mean?” Jelissa gaped. “Are you going to commit a crime?”

Daenera chuckled. “No, not exactly. I’m going repay someone for their kindness.”

The princess moved her wounded hand, feeling the skin tug underneath the bindings. It hadn’t fully healed yet, but it didn’t burn anymore and the ointment helped a great deal with the swelling and itchiness.

“Is everything ready for the morrow?” Daenera asked, crushing a couple of berries to get to the seeds within.

“Yes, we sent out word a fortnight ago and as I’ve heard it, the taverns are stock full of artisans and musicians.”

“Good,” Daenera said simply.

“Why have you suddenly become interested in singers and musicians?” Jelissa was as clueless to this as she was about the reason for the roses.

“Stop pestering the princess with your questions, Jelissa,” Joyce chided from her seat by the fireplace. Jelissa pursed her lips like a petulant child, which was exactly what she was. A girl of five and ten, she had only been with the princess for a fall and winter. And she was utterly in the dark with anything regarding courtlife. In time she’d learn. For now, her loyalty was enough, and that Daenera had secured long ago.

“I’m sure they’re all gathering outside of the gate as we speak,” Joyce added.

“We shall see if it’s worth it.”

Morning became noon, and Daenera had finished her little vile of vengeance. With that in hand, hidden by her large sleeves, she headed out of her room, followed by Jelissa and Ser Fenrick. They were heading towards the tiltyard, the air fresh and warm as they stepped out of the Keep and to the parapet overlooking the training area. Jelissa had gotten especially familiar with Aemond’s schedule of when and where he was training.

Aemond came out into the tiltyard moments after Daenera, walking over the muddy ground and placing his sword by the table of weapons, before approaching Ser Criston Cole, the two of them striking up conversation with two other Kingsguard. It would seem that a group of them would be training this day. Not that it hindered her plan in the slightest.

“Jelissa,” Daenera said, reaching for the young maids hand, holding it in her own. Jelissa looked up at her in question, those blue bordering on gray eyes of hers inquisitive and uncertain. Daenera placed the vile into Jelissa’s palm. “Take this to Aemond’s sword by the weapons display. Put a good three drops of it on the hilt, then come back to me.”

“M-my Lady, I-I-,”

Daenera shushed the sputtering girl. “There are many people in the yard, you will go unnoticed. Just put a few drops on the hilt, look at the weapons and come back to me.”

For a moment, Daenera wondered whether she had the wrong girl for the job. But then Jelissa got a determinant, though unsure, look on her face and she hitched up her dress and skipped down the stairs. Daenera watched from the parapet as Jelissa made her way through the yard, eyes distinctly not on the group of Kingsguards and the prince talking. A few servants and nobles were surveying the weapons display, talking between themselves.

Jelissa stood before Aemond’s sword, quickly glancing up at her Lady for confirmation. Her brow furrowed in concentration and even from Daenera’s vantagepoint she could see the girl shaking.

“Is this a good idea?” Fenrick questioned quietly, her sworn sword watching the same thing she did.

“Properly not,” Daenera admitted. “But that just makes it more fun.”

“You should have gone to the King with the grievance, not engage in childish acts.”

“If I remember correctly, you wanted to cut off the princes’ hands. Not only would he be half blind, he’d be handless.” Fenrick tried and failed to stifle the smile on his face at the reminder. Daenera continued. “ This will make him wish he had his hands cut off.”

Aemond turned away from the gathering, rolling his shoulders and neck, preparing for the day's training. Ser Criston followed him, patting the prince on the back and uttering encouraging words. Daenera half regretted not asking Jelissa to put the itch-water on all of the weapons.

Jelissa returned, red cheeked and wide eyed. “So, I meant to put only a few drops on the hilt but then a man knocked into me and I almost dropped the vile and I spilled almost everything on the sword, and please don’t be mad, I didn’t mean to-,”

Daenera cupped Jelissa’s shaking hands in her own, trying to calm the child that was only a few years younger than her. “How much of it is left?”

Jelissa pressed the vile into Daenera’s hand, revealing only an inch of liquid left in the vile. Daenera almost burst out laughing, but she reined it in, not wanting to spook the girl. “It’s fine. He’ll just have a bigger reaction. Did you get any of it on you?”

Jelissa shook her head wildly.

They turned their attention back on Aemond, who had by then unsheathed the sword and was twirling it in his hand, widening his stance as he prepared for Ser Criston’s attack. Daenera dismissed Jelissa, feeling that the girl would rather be anywhere but there. She scurried off like a guilty mouse. One of these days, she’d have to grow a bit of a spine. Otherwise Daenera would need a new maid sooner rather than later.

“How long does it take to work?” Fenrick asked almost excitedly.

Daenera grinned. “Give it a little time.”

Ser Criston made the first attack, trying to surprise the prince with his move. Aemond didn’t take the bait. He let his sword meet Ser Cristons, the metal clashing together, scraping against one another. Aemond pushed Cole away from him, a hard edge to his brow, lips just as sharp. He twirled the sword in his hand, as if he couldn’t find the right grip.

Aemond went in for the attack, going wide and then pressing in. Ser Criston managed to protect himself, answering with an attack of his own. It seemed like Aemond tried to keep his grip on the sword, tried to get a hold of it properly, but eventually Ser Criston Cole managed to beat the sword out of his hand. Aemond stared at his red palm, small blisters already forming. It would itch and sting like hell.

And Daenera couldn’t help but feel satisfied with the confused frown on his face.

Ser Criston Cole came up to him, gripping the prince's wrist to get him to show what was wrong. Ser Criston scowled. “You’ve been poisoned, my prince. Send for the Maesters!”

His yell stirred everyone in the courtyard, sending a servant up the stairs by the parapet, running towards the infirmary to get one of the Maesters. Ser Criston looked around as if it would conjure up the assailant.

Aemond too looked around. His eye landed on her and Daenera smirked as she held up her own wounded hand, rolling the wrist he had clutched, and shrugging. His eye burned with the same fury she had felt. He tried to wipe his hand on his doublet, but it would only cause further itching.

Daenera wouldn’t remain to watch the stir. She just laughed and headed back towards her rooms, well satisfied by a perfectly executed plan.

#aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #aemond one eye #aemond x reader #aemond fanfiction #aemond smut #hotd fanfic #hotd #A Vow of Blood #my fanfiction

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blondietalks · 7 months

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Is blogging still relevant in the age of TikToks and Instagram?

Hi, it’s blondietalks here! On this week of my Digital Communities thread, I will be exploring the topic of blogging and its relevance in the current Internet atmosphere.

In my opinion, blogging is still relevant in some ways. However, it is incomparable to the relevance of TikTok and Instagram as the public spheres on these platforms are getting more engagement by the day.

The Pilot episode of the Internet: Blogging

Blogging was the foundation of the rise of the Internet. Blog websites – formerly known as weblogs, created the first public sphere for people all over the world to come together online. Before blogging, traditional websites that were set up by big companies did not allow a two-way communication system for the readers to interact with (Duermyer 2022). Blogs have become a public sphere by allowing equal participation for the users and the sharing of public opinion.

Knowing this it is no surprise that a large chunk of users still use the Internet to blog as their way to embody their online presence. Being a part of the blogging community – for example, being a member of a subgroup on Reddit – gives people a sense of community and support from the peers whom they interact with. In all its glory, people still blog because there are others who still demand for it and engage with it, in turn making it somewhat relevant.

The Relevance of Blogging

When people search on Google “why does my Epson printer won’t go online”, they most likely wouldn’t want to watch a whole video explaining why. This is where blog posts come in handy when people are searching for content that they can glance through quickly. Blog posts are still mainly the first result that appears when you search for a topic on Google. The Google algorithm that prevails blog websites on their platform is what keeps these blogs around.

Some people turn to blogging because it gives them a sense of anonymity. For people outside of my circle, you wouldn’t know who I am writing this blog post on Tumblr. People feel more comfortable writing their thoughts online instead of recording a video of themselves talking on media-based platforms. Based on an article on BBC (2021), online anonymity helps people to openly speak up about their concerns while protecting their privacy. Using platforms that focus on pieces of writing instead of media that might expose their identity allows the participation of anonymous users.

Blogging vs. TikTok and Instagram

So how does blogging fit in the current rise of TikTok and Instagram?

Blogs are getting less engagement these days because people are more attracted to fast-paced content. As the attention span of social media users get shorter and shorter, content that are digestible and easy to follow will get the engagement that they strive for.

An example of how Instagram can be used to capture the attention of social media users is the phenomenon of spreading political and environmental education with the use of infographics. Instead of reading through lengthy blogs about a chosen topic, resourceful accounts such as the Instagram account below make information more digestible and attainable for people.

@/impact on Instagram posting an infographic about the history of slavery. Link: https://www.instagram.com/p/CwS5HGGu1wH/?hl=en&img_index=1

People also prefer TikTok and Instagram over blog websites because of the intelligent algorithms that these applications offer. These platforms can learn a user’s interest just by their engagement and activity on the application. According to Huang (2022), generation Z are using TikTok as their search engine because of its powerful algorithm that makes searching for information more convenient. TikTok is constantly learning the user’s behaviour and presenting them with content that is in their favour.

Video-based platforms give people an enriched experience with visual stimulation compared to blog websites. Based on Huang (2022), a TikTok user stated that a restaurant review on the application feels more genuine based on watching the reviewer’s facial expressions. People use TikTok to obtain product and establishment reviews because they can observe it first-hand through video recording.

The conclusion

So, in conclusion, just because blogging is not trending through the charts anymore, that doesn't mean that it’s completely irrelevant. I believe that blogging is still relevant as ever because people will go back and forth between platforms and in ways of expressing themselves on the Internet. Some days they feel like hopping onto TikTok trends – and another day they might write up their opinion on Tumblr under a hashtag that no one else is reading through.

That's all for this week, catch up with you guys soon :)

List of references Duermyer, R 2022, ‘What is blogging?’, The Balance, 29 November, viewed 1 October 2023, <https://www.thebalancemoney.com/blogging-what-is-it-1794405>. Huang, K 2022, ‘For Gen Z, TikTok is the new search engine’, The New York Times, 16 September, viewed 1 October 2023, <https://www.nytimes.com/2022/09/16/technology/gen-z-tiktok-search-engine.html>. BBC 2021, ‘Social media: should people be allowed to be anonymous online?’, BBC, 26 February, viewed 1 October 2023, <https://www.bbc.co.uk/newsround/56114122 >.

#MDA20009 #Week4

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puckish-rogue · 1 month

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Lore Dump: The Chairmen

Note: The Chairmen is a concept that I've been playing around with in my head for some time now, and was made in order to expand on my own interpretation of the SR universe given that the original series has been done with for some time now. I would also like to clarify that while this is going to be a somewhat brief summary and work off of vague ideas, please expect this post to be expanded upon at some point in the future once I've fleshed out more ideas. Additionally, I would also like to encourage anyone reading this, who may be interested in having crossover threads with The Boss and my version of SR, to incorporate The Chairmen in one way or another if that's something that happens to interest you. All I ask is for you to talk to me about these ideas, and to just have fun with it.

Many decades ago, during what some may consider the golden age of organized crime, a handful of gang leader's—all fairly powerful in their own right—had come together inside of a bar in order to discuss growing concerns they had over the state of the criminal underworld. Not only had it become quite hard to maintain their respective businesses, what with the increased presence of law enforcement cracking down on seemingly anything they did. But the need to adapt to an ever-changing world had led to many of them questioning just how long they could keep their very young empires afloat.

So, after what seemed to be hours worth of discussions, and several rounds of drinks, these men had all come to the conclusion that if any of them were to pursue their lofty ambitions, it would be wise of them to set aside whatever differences they may have and work together. This would prove itself to be mutually beneficial not only in the sense of strength by numbers, but connections, profits, and most of all an increase in power would skyrocket as well.

The Chairmen is what they would name themselves later on in life as they began to amass more and more into their fold. To the point where, if you truly wanted to let the world know how big of a deal you were, then you'd do best to get yourself an invitation to their Board of Directors. Something which only the most noteworthy of gang leader's even have the slightest change of making it on to.

While The Chairmen aren't considered a group that oversees the entirety of the criminal underworld and all who operate within it. They are quite the dominant force, with connections deep within certain spaces such as politics, business, law enforcement, and so on. Most people on the board will do just about anything to expand the legacy they have built off of from decades prior. Others are simply happy to be in a comfortable position that allows them to play around with the power they wield. In any case, they are an extremely dangerous faction with the resources to back them up. And if you were to somehow interfere with their work, well, let's just say it wouldn't be the first time they've completely erased a person's existence in the world.

A Few Facts about The Chairmen:

They are structured similarly to the way a conglomerate is. At the very top are the Board of Directors, which consists of every major gang leader who has proven themselves and earned a seat on the board. Each member of the Board has their gang act as a parent company, which brings in revenue from whatever businesses are done under it. Below the parent companies are small gangs that are considered subsidiaries. They are heavily monitored and must pay a large tribute in order to remain within The Chairmen's proverbial safety net.

Subsidiaries have the potential to earn a seat on the Board in several different ways. The following are just some; impressing the Board of Directors, replacing a previous member of the Board either by their firing or total destruction, arguing for a position, and so on.

The Board of Directors are, more or less, in a neutral alliance with one another. No member will interfere with the work of another unless it is to provide assistance of some kind. However, provided assistance must be repaid at some point or another. Failure to do so will result in the member who had requested the help to be punished in some fashion.

Bi monthly "business retreats" are the main way in which The Chairmen gather together as a whole in order to discuss what may be going on in their respective ventures, and with the world at large. Outside of that, they are more than welcome to keep in contact with anyone they wish to.

The current iteration of the Board of Directors is more than 5 but less than 15.

Members of the Board reside from different parts of the world and are wildly different than what the group considers their "founding fathers".

Some have kept up with the antics of the 3rd Street Saints for far longer than The Boss currently realizes.

#Lore Dump ⚜#The Illest Villain ⚜︎ { Main Verse }

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inaturalist-propaganda · 11 months

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Pinned post.

The iNaturalist staff have decided to prove, the day before Pride month begins, that iNaturalist's proclaimed acceptance of Queer people is just as performative as any other corporate that pridewashes.

They banned me from the forum for asking not to be misgendered by someone who is purposefully misgendering me and literally admitted that she knows it's wrong but she's going to do it okay.

The staff have done nothing but victim blame, tone police, and punish everyone for the bigotry of two people, which they refuse to remove from the thread.

Meanwhile, they've hidden posts by Trans and ally users who have called out the bigotry and criticized their reaction, and have, from their very first response, been treating our reaction to the bigotry as more aggressive and offensive and inappriate than the bigotry itself.

They literally are leaving the posts where I am purposefully misgendered up, but have hidden and removed my posts as well as the posts of other trans and ally users who have been criticizing their abhorrant behavior and asking for an apology.

According to the iNaturalist staff, asking someone not to misgender you is hate speech, but purposefully misgendering someone is not

= = =

Read this shit for yourself:

The original thread for LGBTQIA+ people:

"https://forum.inaturalist.org/t/lgbtqia-and-inaturalist/23565"

The thread the staff created to hide the responses and criticism many trans people and our allies who criticized their first response:

“https://forum.inaturalist.org/t/moderation-decisions-about-several-posts-in-the-lgbtqia-thread/42122/56”

Ways you can help:

[Ways you can help]

You can send the parent company a message on Facebook here:

“https://www.facebook.com/calacademy/”

And you can share your feedback with the parent company through google:

“https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSdoaW33mQfJgl9pEIo9aUoDQ-nKFVYvvcXM0pbOBNvkt5PAog/viewform”

Call iNaturalist's parent company, and/or send them a direct email:

The phone number for the California Academy of Sciences is:

1 415 379 8000

Their email is:

[email protected]

Be nice to the person who answer the phone! I just called, and I was told that the number for the academy is not the correct place to call about concerns with bigotry --

However!

That is exactly why you should call this number. Be nice. Be polite. Explain that you found this number online and wanted to contact the company because you have serious concerns about bigotry being done by paid staff members of iNaturalist.org.

Again. Be fucking nice to the person on the phone. They will redirect you to send concerns to [email protected], which you should then do so.

But calling this number and being redirected is going to make these people extremely aware of the problem, and make it that much more urgent when they've got dozens of people calling them about this as well as sending feedback through google forms and the Facebook page.

I highly recommend that any written messages you send, you type out ahead of time in a word document that you make sure to save in case the site glitches and eats it somehow! I am also saving all the messages I have sent for accountability purposes, so that no one can claim they didn't receive anything, as well as making sure that my words are not misquoted or purposefully taken out of context.

I hope that's just unecessary paranoia but I literally was expecting the iNaturalist staff to do the right thing, and instead we're in this nightmare now.

Take a Survey:

[Plain text: "Take a Survey:". End plain text.]

You can now take one of two surveys I created. When at least 20 responses are given for each, I will begin emailing the results to the California Academy of Sciences.

Survey for those who already have an iNaturalist account already:

"https://forms.gle/YsAcaVpzS2AbWkmJ7"

Survey for those who do not have an iNaturalist account:

"https://forms.gle/YUyhzpxETLqWiCJq6"

I will be encouraging the California Academy of Sciences to create and distribute their own official surveys for iNaturalist users and potential users.

= = =

Here’s the parent company’s About Us section about diversity and inclusion so you can see for yourself that they're claiming to support Queer people and inclusivity:

“https://www.calacademy.org/diversity-equity-inclusion-access”

If you have an iNaturalist account you can comment on the forums directly.

They literally just said that if we don’t want to be misgendered we can just leave.

Archived link because I know they’re gonna delete my response like they’re deleting all the posts that criticize them.

If you don't want to make any posts or send any messages, please signal boost this post and share it on literally any social media you want. You don't even have to screenshot it, you can copy and paste the whole thing and just put it in quotation marks.

If you care about trans people, please help us call out this blatant bigotry on the part of the iNaturalist staff. Either by sending a message to the parent company, posting to the iNaturalist forum, sharing this post elsewhere on social media, or reblogging it here on tumblr!

Thank you, and have a happy wrath month.

= = =

#iNaturalist #trans #transgender #nonbinary #xenogender #pride #pride month #Queer #queer pride #wildlife #ititspronouns #itisantagonism #transmisia #wrath month #Queer wrath #trans wrath #nonbinary wrath #it wrath

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