welcome, darling ♡ ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝
to a small, wandering writing corner of dreams, frost withering away in lace, and strange histories.
꒰𐔌 this is a space for hetalia writing (with occasional harry potter crosswinds) —
where timelines tangle and emotions run deep, often within unconventional settings. expect themes such as ;;
➟ chronically ill / disabled / different reader explorations
➟ queerplatonic bonds and the sharpest edges of intimacy
➟ the psyche of nations, and what lies beneath their immortality across centuries
➟ yandere! interpretations along with unsettling tenderness
➟ historical realism, especially of the WWII ╱ cold war ;; grounded in the grit of realpolitik and domesticity
the more elaborate and layered, the better.
requests are always open, and all strange little ideas are welcome here ♡
⁀જ➣ 𓂃✍︎ ⏱ current projects & links ⏱
(click titles to explore!)
➣ estranged flowers of time
WIP — a historically accurate, emotionally grueling exploration of the European / Japanese theatre of WWII, through the eyes of a reader who finds herself entangled in it all.
historical hetalia / brutal political & imperialist realism / slow psychological unraveling
꒰ঌ𑜷 a little note Ꮺ꒱
this... corner is nurtured by someone who is chronically ill and uses a wheelchair — updates may come slowly or inconsistently, but each piece is crafted with myriad of care, love, and endless joy.
thank you sincerely for your patience and kindness ♡
𓉸ྀི feel free to stay, wander, and whisper into the dark.
this space is always lit for those seeking something a little strange, a cozily warm, and very much so real.
unique hetalia requests, please? gorgeous art & detailed, textured writing with proper characterisation included ♡
time to pick up forgotten manuscripts . . .
(especially appreciated within historical setting + disabled / less represented! reader ♡ )
― author of this haunted parlour is very much alive! ♡
heartfelt apologies for absence due to severe illness !
hey hi! Can you do yandere France x reader? Thanks, ((also, btw your blog is super pretty!!))
yandere! france x reader / intro
୨୧ ˖˚ nota bene - before you read ˚˖ ୨୧
ʚ frilly lace veil pages, bloodied by mortar ash.
⊱ bombed out crater in the middle of the cobblestone streets, carriage of broken metal & pair of terrified eyes, glimmering with tears ❤︎
ʚɞ ꒰ thank you so much, darling! within loss of humanity, hearts shatter the most ♡₊˚ ꒱
୨୧ reader discretion is strongly advised. proceed gently —
this piece is undiluted potrayal of war realities & related issues.
⊱ album of literary vignettes in the 'estranged flowers of time' style ❤︎꒰ alternate version⊱ luna is essence, meant to be you ❤︎
themes include:
⊱ disability / chronic illness / scarcity & make-mend-do survival tactics
⊱ historically accurate characterisation
⊱ set in summer of 1940, during fall of france
ʚ graphic depictions of armed conflict, gestapo & such
⊱ a once-refined man with the remnants of powdered elegance, now soaked in grime and grief
The air always — always— smelled like damp rust and basil.
Because there was a single potted plant on the pantry shelf — tiny, roundest thing, kept alive with drops of water and sunlit wishes. Francis named it — ‘Liberté / Freedom’
Luna conversed often, pouring heartfelt worries to him.
It wilted, but it never died — from the sheer will to live under the most terrible circumstances.
Just couple of bruised, tender souls underground — twistedly sacred— where beauty does not just survive war — but defies it.
There were only three spoons in the house — if it could be even called that — two bowls.
One teacup — another one shattered against the concrete, days prior.
Rotated like a sacrament.
Francis cooked with stubborn care — bouillon cubes, bread crusts soaked soft in milk, a fried egg when he could barter a favor from the boy who ran pigeons through the quarter.
Everything came on a tray — insisted. Tray service, even in a cellar.
She had to eat like a lady.
Simplest of manners refused to rot, even if entire cultures were erased, massacred and rewritten under the regime's fingertips.
The wheelchair came next — wobbly contraption, but created with much love as possible to muster.
Made it in pieces — over the course of days, between bombing runs.
There was no blueprint — memory.
He had seen one — only once, in Reims, years ago.
So, in all make-shift planning — redrew it in chalk on the stone wall of the cellar, full scale; took measurements with a spool of thread.
Smoothed out, sanded down jagged pipe ends by hand — wrapped the hand-rims in stitched leather cut from his old boots — make, mend, do.
When the front caster wheel did not turn well — creaking horribly; the swivel mount was built out of wine corks, wire, and melted-down tin by the fireplace.
The seat?
A cushion from an abandoned brothel lounge chair, still red velvet beneath the dust; fabric scrubbed until the color came back.
When it was done — finally, Francis brought it to her as a knight — no semblance to smile, only tragic reverence.
‘It’s haunted’ — rasped out words; girl blinking at the mess of welded parts.
Oh, the poor soul looked utterly, profoundly offended, in that very peculiar French way — hand to chest, brow furrowed.
‘Beautiful’ — kneeling down besides.
‘It’s the first ever throne I made with my hands’
She blinked again, unsettled by confusion.
‘A… throne?’ — unsure whether to laugh or cry.
‘I made you a way to move’
Too long-stretching pause followed by the awkward shuffle of shoulders with a sigh of purest disappointment.
‘Same thing, really’
And this is how things went.
Once per week — exactly, when everything fell quiet outside; with kindest devotion, Francis travelled together through the ruins of their block. Always at night, through alleyways.
Luna draped in scavenged, faded shawls and scarves — him in an old overcoat, kept from the Great War, collar turned up.
Pointing to ruined buildings, signs wallowing in dust.
‘Here was a bakery, lived a kind man…’
‘So sad… the children used to play here, at this playground, it was one of the best’
‘Oh, neighbourhood cat is gone… tragic’
Voice cracked sharply, as a screeching violin — tears washed to the pavement.
Other days, they read—
Books smuggled from the Sorbonne underground — classics; Francis would sit on the floor, close — to provide the slightest note of warmth — reading aloud, in French first— translating softly to English moments later.
‘You must learn both’ — warned, once.
‘If you’re going to carry the world on your shoulders’
And the lines between softest worship and war-induced-tragedy-madness, shattering of the soul — kept blurring.
In the still evenings, if any remained — would brush porcelain locks — scrubbed gently, cleansing them raw in the rusty bathtub — too long or kiss her wrist too softly.
Whisper promises in French she did not always understand.
‘Je t’enfermerai dans la beauté pour te sauver du monde / I will lock you in beauty to save you from the world’
And each night, without a break — curled besides the wheelchair akin to guarding an altar; fingers always touching, ghosting some part of the old blanket.
So the fractured vessel of the heart would know if she disappeared.
It started wrong — not with the muffled sound of footsteps beneath concrete or jolting bang.
But with the flicker of dust in the trapdoor’s frame, like it had shifted — just a hair
— tad too fast; shivers crawling down the skin.
Luna felt it, the way air changed — silence full with poison; already reaching for the drawer; revolver laid in—
Francis had just stepped out — five minutes.
Merely to gather rations or exchange intel.
Or to breathe air that did not smell like rot beneath the lungs, resembling a flicker of falsified peace.
Creaking wood — a boot.
Two boots.
German — too clean, practiced — routine.
One word repeated as a threat.
‘Durchsuchen / Search’
2 seconds until hell erupted; fingers frantically rummaging across empty drawer—
Checking over and over and over—
Shit, shit, shit—
The trapdoor flung open with sickening — thud; flashlight beam, breath freezing in the throat.
Could not run or scream — or even reach the pan by the stove.
The sharp light hit horrified face; hearing stomach-dropping, defiling smirk—
A chuckle, tap of the lips.
‘Was ist das— / What is that—’
Oh, and then— then—
The moment, split second, spent sigh — where past poetry breaks down into violence, and the beautiful ruins are no longer enough to cage the ancient empire France always has been.
Bang — one shot.
Another, reverberating straight across.
Sick, grotesque — deserved sound of a man collapsing down wooden steps, body tumbling, hitting like meat, a scream cut off mid-shattering spine.
Twitching body slammed the pantry shelf — Liberté, the smallest darling — crashed to the floor, soil spilled, mourning.
France.
Hair windblown, sticking to dampness of the neck — mouth smeared with crimson from clenching the barrel of the pistol, as if metal was held between the teeth.
Face contorted — wrath of ancient, divine and cursed all-at-once, roaring behind his eyes — the same nation, which clawed through Roman blood, bathed in endless lovers, crowned emperors, and burned a thousand peasants for the sin of forgetting his name.
And twisted beneath— a revolver.
Came the other one within spit second — younger, eager, less calculated — too quick on the draw.
Luna screeched lungs out, tried to crawl — useless, useless, spine dragging like dead weight—
‘FRANCIS!’
The man garbled incoherently, raised the rifle—
And the poor girl — trembling, bleeding, desperate, threw something nearby.
Metal caught light mid-air.
A fireplace poker.
The other man — barely drew breath before it caved in his jaw.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Screaming in French, not just curses of mortals —
Bourbons might have used them, soaked in royalist poison.
‘Enfoiré d’assassin! Fils de putain Nazi! T’approches pas d’elle, j’te détruis, j’te déchire—! / You murderer! You Nazi bastard! Don't you dare go near her, or I'll destroy you, I'll tear you apart—’
Blood cascaded, splattering — teeth bounced across the floor; man struggling to writhe away.
Not the gentleman Luna knew, or flirt — or, jokingly — the bon vivant society was aware of.
This was not the France who served wine with breakfast and offered sincere smiles; on the piles of bones, this was the France who had bled half of Europe into the Seine.
The Empire, spoken in hushed whispers, laced in fear.
Did not poison French.
Used Latin — expression, older than gods, instead.
‘Per sanguinem regnabo / Through blood, I shall reign’
Struck once, calculated— the soldier had no time to beg for forgiveness; neck snapped too fast.
One twist, one thrust.
‘Quod possideo, protegam / What I possess, I protect’
Words burned into the stone as a sinful sacrament of God’s will.
And... silence.
Watched him kneel; legs buckling underneath; soaked in the blood of two men.
And he smiled, panting — the ecstasy of murder had released something long hidden, tucked away since Interwar — as murder was merely a blissful cleansing ritual for the sanctity of the state.
Gazed upon — eyes glistening, made of dying stars.
‘You see now, don’t you?’
Stood slowly, dragging the poker across the floor to hang it — metal scraped, singing in agony.
‘You thought I was charming. French. Libertine'
‘No, chérie; that’s not how reality works. I’m the reason monarchs feared mirrors’
Luna trembled — eyes darting between the man in front of her and two bodies sprawled across.
Frozen, horrified; heart drumming away, ears sickeningly ringing.
‘They’ll come again’
A creak.
‘They’ll keep coming’
Jarring scrape.
‘Because they can smell what you are. And I cannot let them take you’
Clink — of the rod showed into the place a little too fast, cooling on the flagstone.
The stuffy air still reeked of gunpowder and sickeningly cracked marrow.
He stepped close; running smeared, trembling hands through disheveled curls.
‘So I’ll keep killing the rats, doing favour to the republic— one by one, until none’s left. Until you understand something very simple—’
Francis lowered, kneeling — tenderly, face to hers; hands twitching with too much energy, still ecstatic from the kill.
‘I’m doing this to protect you’
She should have been horrified — screaming, sobbing eyes out—
but these were difficult times and morals trampled underfoot routinely—
But Luna — slumped against the wall, lips pale, breath ragged — voice finally found.
‘…it was never going to end, was it?’ — hoarse whisper.
Eyelashes fluttered, brows knitting in confusion.
‘France always bleeds. That's how he remembers who he is, destined to be’
It was not right — neither laid corpses meters away; or people hunted for sport in the streets; neither forbidden prophecy in works, spoken by a girl with twisted form; or a broken man — holding into rough remnants of eroded pride.
She looked up at him, eyes glassy — body still folded wrong, broken spine.
Half, in shock; mumbled — reciting a truth from an abandoned scripture, not knowing such truths were fatal.
‘You’re not… a man. You’re a memory. The blood is your language. You're not supposed to be soft’
‘They don’t make men like you. Not anymore’
Voice cracked by the end, but it was too late.
And for the first time in six hundred years — he did not know if he was supposed to kneel, or let tears dictate the judgement, or drive the blade across her heart.
Nations did not die — made to suffer as eternal punishment and consequence, in such.
Her face… it was wrong for this century.
Soft, too innocent.
Divine in that way that terrified monarchs.
The kind of expression ancient kings saw just before giving up crowns; wrapped in a blanket, hazy, largest eyes, tucked into the corner — forced to look away.
The bodies were gone, hastily dragged.
Somewhere beneath the boards, where the sewers could carry out the rot in anonymity.
The poker was back on the hook — blood on the stone had been meticulously scrubbed with a worn linen, tossed out the window as if it were nothing more than spilled wine.
Outside, a scream echoed, far off.
A boy, perhaps. Or an order being barked.
Behind him, Luna sat — or laid, splayed out. It was difficult to tell.
White hair — last frost on ash-covered ground, matted slightly where the head had hit the stone.
Merely observing.
‘They tore my name from my spine; told me I was nothing’ — absent confession.
‘And then I started remembering’
There it was — not a nation, or an empire.
But the ghost of a consequence;
born not from borders, but from the ashes of too many wrong wars;
a curse — stands still in the aftermath, not mortal either, not anymore.
Forgotten, or perhaps deliberately misplaced by history.
Hi! I've seen what you've done so far and I love your writing! I was wondering if I could request for yandere russia? He's my favorite😌. I'd love to see what you do with him he's such a lonely and complex character.
yandere! russia x reader / intro
୨୧ ˖˚ nota bene - before you read ˚˖ ୨୧
⊱ last, brazen sunlight reaching hidden corners of the moscow's horizons within late afternoon, along with exhausted soul, which yearned for a break ❤︎
ʚɞ ꒰ from the bottom of my small heart, thank you ever so much, sweetheart! (ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)₊˚ෆ
I hope this piece brings you something gentle, aching, and a little bit lovely ♡₊˚ enjoy! ꒱
⊱ literary vignette, in the style of vasily zhukovsky's poetry ❤︎
⊱ luna is essence, meant to be you ❤︎
✦ ࣪ .˚₊ themes include:
⊱ historically accurate characterisation + soft allusions to visible disability
⊱ setting is the post-war soviet union, spanning the late 1940s / early 1950s
⊱ vanya and luna are two broken things trying to fit where they never asked to belong, someone please hug them
It’s late afternoon – one of many, in the myriad of blurring days to follow.
The sky above Moscow blossomed into soft shades of magenta, orange, blurring into vermillion. Beautifully so. Entire surroundings, halls, pavements – horizons were bustling with students and party officials; conversations blending into a dull hum of activity. Kiosks, ever-traditionally, lining the cobbled streets around proud, unyielding walls of university – served steaming cups of coffee, small pastries to follow; filled with occasional kind smiles from the vendors.
It was a world, even for a brief moment of solace, which ought to feel – both oppressive and electric, so vivid; freezing and yet – strangely warm; depending on one’s perspective.
Luna.
In her whimsical manner; never quite fitted into the fixed backdrop of drab, washed-out coats and terribly somber faces; being very own – unapologetic splash of eccentricity against the horizons of Soviet conformity — too-many-layered skirts swishing; glistening locks decorated with tiny, impeccible stars and delicate crystals, catching, melting into the fading sunlight’s oceans.
With wobbly step and cane in hold, within smooth motion – seated by a tiny coffee kiosk, her walking companion resting against edge of the table; steaming, fresh cup of coffee splayed in fragile, trembling fingers. Gaze, seemingly distant, dreamy; lost in the plethora of thought oceans, as if… waiting for the stars to speak.
Vanya; in his own manner, was merely passing through after a formal meeting about economic developments in the highest chambers of the Kremlin. Heavy, woolen coat – steeped in practicality and tradition – along with treasured scarf bloomed him an imposing presence – paired with… sheer size of his frame – sight to behold.
Mind, still terribly pre-occupied with matters of state — grain quotas, industrial output, and the subtle tug-of-war between soulful, very human yearning for warmth and the cold, calculated duties that weigh on somberities of the conscious.
Exhausted, torn soul was not used, neither ever expected such moment of levity.
Slowly, precisely, sharply – decades of military training reflected in the very way he carried himself with poise – he approached the kiosk; perhaps to get a cup of tea himself, any sort of relief being very welcomed; tension… lingering in the blades of burdensome shoulders.
In the corner of the eye – Luna’s attention shifts to him.
Blink. Stare.
Long pause; whirlwind of new; strangest emotions cascading over arches of ribs, reverently.
Softest cheeks catching… inferno.
Something – peculiarly – about very grace he excluded; or how… properly he held his regards paired with pale… almost, melancholic complexion – the twisted way Ivan seemed so deeply out of place drew… her soul as moth to a flame. Magnetic, almost, as if.
Every note of intuition screeching in the quietest whispers – his existence is to be regarded of importance to her own… very soul.
Shaky step; swish – shuffle.
‘Вы когда-нибудь думали о том, как звезды смотрят на нашу экономику? / Do you ever think about how the stars would view our economy?’
Ivan stopped in his tracks; ashy eyelashes fluttering – him utterly puzzled – amused? – by the absurdity of the question.
Eyebrows furrowed slightly in; lilac orbs narrowing, him sparing a look… towards direction of voice.
What… he absolutely did not expect to find was… tiniest bundle of knit, trembling – seemingly due to the gust of wind; with too-obnoxiously over-sized scarf; with even more absurd philosophies entertained.
‘Звезды? / The stars?’
‘Конечно / Of course’ – lips quirked into something… closely resembling a faint smile.
‘Думаю, они сочтут это увлекательным - как мы торгуем такими вещами, как зерно и сталь, в то время как их волнуют только свет и гравитация. Тебе не кажется странным, что мы так озабочены вещами, которые ничего не значат для вселенной? // I think they’d find it fascinating — how we trade things like grain and steel when all they care about are things like light and gravity. Don’t you think it’s strange, that we’re so concerned with things that mean nothing to the universe?’
For a moment – as if – eternity of galaxies – for the first time in centuries – Ivan has absolutely no idea how to respond. Feeling absolutely bamboozled. In the rigid, fixed fashion – he is accustomed to serious discussions; to people speaking to him with implied – or explicit – fear or deference, not… this.
Not someone – ever-so-casually weaving stars and… economics into the same sentence.
‘Я думаю / I think…’ – soft, thoughtful silence followed.
‘Звездам совершенно все равно / the stars do not care at all’
Response… was blunt – maybe too straighfoward, given the circumstances, but… soft, musical laughter notes indulged the space around them – as though his seriousness is the funniest thing she heard all day. Maybe, just maybe, it ought to be.
‘Может, и нет, но в этом-то и заключается вся прелесть, не так ли? Мы так заботимся о вещах, которые они даже не замечают. Это и делает нас людьми // Maybe not – but that’s the beauty of it, isn’t it? We care so much about things that they don’t even notice. That’s what makes us human’
Ivan laughed; however… joy did not reach scattered tragic reflections within his eyes, but something… about her words… lingers.
They are both – peculiarly strange – in their own unique ways — she, accidental part of his soul, already in making – with her whimsical musings, and layered skirts.
And him… – with his quiet, somber loneliness; complimented by the heaviness of his position.
Vanya found himself lingering longer than he intended… the scent of freshly-brewed tea and pastries melting in crispy air surrounding them.
‘Ты всегда задаешь такие странные вопросы незнакомым людям? / Do you always ask such strange questions to strangers?’
‘Только самые интересные / Only the (most) interesting ones’
‘А вы, сэр, похоже, нуждаетесь сегодня в интересном вопросе / And you, sir, look like you needed an interesting question today’
And this was the start of uneasy, yet blossoming friendship.
୨୧ ˖˚ nota bene - before you read ˚˖ ୨୧
these pages bleed softly; within. love turned vine and vice.
curated selection of literary vignettes ❤︎
in the wobbly-tiled garden of warmest wishes, and, terribly humorously ― with one stuck wheel, heart of rome fell into ❤︎
⊱ luna is essence, meant to be you ♥︎
reader discretion is strongly advised. proceed gently —
this piece is intended as psychological horror and critique of the staled relationship societal implications within nation-hood mechanic.
themes include:
⊱ disability / chronic illness / institutional ableism
⊱ fluffiest italian depictions of everyday life
─ painfully realistic & domestic reflection of everyday affairs (everyone is exhausted)
⊱ institutional violence in velvet & the rot of a love too loyal to let go
⊱ allusions to self-harm / suicidal ideation + medical trauma
⊱ power dynamics steeped in italian catholic guilt, nationalism, rococo dresses & decay
Oh, you were sent to Rome to recover — after a sickness or injury, one of the best places to be, after all.
It was supposed to be safe — neutral, calm, diplomatic.
Just a whimsical, clever girl lost in Rome, too full of dreams for a place built on dead empires.
Rome had been a dream.
One of those badly translated ones — blurry around the edges, a touch too bright, sold in travel pamphlets with stock photo smiles.
She would wanted art, romance, something ancient pressed under her heart.
But it turned out horribly.
All the sanatorium could offer in pity-marked-parade and charade of missing documents, along with a crumbled visa — was a half-moldy hotel room (bathroom upstairs — no lift) and cheap airport biscotti, eaten cold with vending machine tea.
Spine screamed with every stone jolt of the city’s terrain — so, codeine it was.
Too much in the first few days.
Girl alone in the Villa Doria Pamphilj — birds flickering between blooming leaves, sickeningly warm sunlight shining from above.
The park was sprawling, shaded by overgrown pines, full of classical echoes and sun-bleached reflections of marble.
No guide or proper map, just upside-down journal in her lap with scribbled up margins in confused English and chipped petals between her fingers. Wheelchair caught in cobblestone near the fountain, back wheels wobbling in protest; hem of way-too-flowy skirt for the occasion getting stuck and cheeks pink with stubborn pride.
Luna laughed at first, awkwardly.
Then tried again — and again to no avail. Hands trembling, ache flaring down the neck.
There was no one nearby.
Never-ending stream of indignacies follow — sounding like diluted poetry.
She sat — helpless, tiny, small.
And quietly cried into the sleeve after the remainder of anger fizzled out.
He was not supposed to be there — as a afflicted official, was on diplomatic leave — meant to meet someone deemed important at a gallery, sipping a macchiato and pretending he still mattered in a crumbling European economy.
But, alas, something pulled.
Maybe wracking anxiety in the deepest pits of the stomach or terribly humid, stuffy air.
Feli saw a poor soul from across the garden.
A girl in a wheelchair, hunched and trembling, white skirt bunched like wilting petals. He ran— ran, heaving — and nearly tripped over himself kneeling at the side.
‘Signorina, Dio mio— / Good God, are you alright? Please, don’t move— can I—’
White shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, tie hanging terribly askew — curl unceremoniously floating.
‘I— I think I took the wrong path. The sign was faded, and the stones… they’re horribly old, I’m sorry–’
But Feliciano was already smoothing fabric down, inspecting the wheel for any damage; darting around for help that would never arrive. His hands were so gentle.
Oh, tonality of voice, velvet.
‘Ai, Rome has never been kind to wheels. May I?’ — melodic laughter followed, bubbling up tears wiped with the corner of the palm; it was unclear whether it would be better to cry or laugh given the situation.
Prettiest Italian, saving a cripple of a girl in the middle of the city, as a prince? Hilarious.
Pathetic.
Heartbreaking.
Gut-wrenching guilt.
‘Good heavens, you don't have to—’
‘But I want to–…’
Freeing the frame of a wheel carefully, dusts his palms off, and walks besides like a pilgrim, pushing Luna over the softness of the grass.
Tells her about Bernini’s angels, the way Italian stone always remembers footsteps.
He is not a tourist — very heart and soul Italy blossomed from — belonging to the rot of Rome.
And now — he yearns her soul would belong to him, too.
Just to preserve something lovingly soft in a cruel world.
Feli insisted with terribly wonky charm of his—
‘You must let me buy you a proper coffee! And have you seen the Colosseum–! Also–’
Luna agreed from the confused guilt. She should not have.
Or maybe.
They went across wobbly, winded streets to a quiet cafe tucked away in Trastevere.
Somewhere warm, blooming flowers draping in vivid hues.
She rambled — soft, silly things — about rococo dresses and her university thesis on weird Italian bureaucracy.
And then it happened.
Luna mentioned the hotel, some forgotten name — little room. How it was… ‘not great, but I make-do’
Did not realise she mentioned it, as a passing thought.
But Feliciano went quiet — as a funeral.
She excused herself to the bathroom. When returned, he was pale — espresso untouched.
It was supposed to be temporary.
An ‘accommodation’, they said.
A rushed offer from a sanatorium that had no room for disabled foreign girls with limited means and too much fragility to be dealt with… properly.
‘It’s not so bad! I’ve stayed in worse! It’s just a little dusty—’
Luna was trying to make it easier; sheepish smile offered, hands flailing in bone-deep awkwardness.
Alas, Feliciano did not fucking smile.
And when he saw it— smelled horribly familiar—
That dampness in the air; crackling, beige paint — tiny fan in place of AC; folded, rough towel beneath the barely-holding window — thick layer of dust scattered all across interior.
The single, uneven bed.
Cracked, uneven tiles — tiniest bathroom nearby resembling one-way funeral with steep sill under — lightbulb flickering once-in-a-while.
Something inside finally, after hours of unspoken exhaustion, boiled over.
Quietly, viciously — eyebrows knitting; face painted with terrible expression.
‘You are ill— in pain. You are living like this?? This is— this is cruelty. Who let you come here alone??’
‘I’m fine’ — she mumbled, curling inwards into already tiny wheelchair, wishing to disappear.
‘You are not fine! You— your legs, your spine—this is no place for you, bella—’
And she cried, then.
Ugly, truly — lungs split open, throat constricting.
Not from pain or scarcity.
But from the twisted guilt — from being seen first time in lifetime.
Beyond pitied stares or bureaucratic incompetency.
As a suffering person with incurable illness.
‘Mi dispiace, signore, non è il nostro standard abituale— / I’m sorry, sir, it is not our usual standard—’
The clerk barely finished, stammering — before Feliciano — not the bumbling, silly Feli — taken for a fool – but the nation beneath — stepped forward.
Poor soul wished it started praying for Vatican's blessing this morning.
She wheeled beside him — terrified — gently, too gently placed — fragile bones creaking from effort, dressed in the palest pink cardigan of something once regal.
Her head bows, apologetic — existence, pathetic.
The clerk, twenty-something and already tired of bureaucracy, looks up; expecting usual routine of visitors—
When—
Barely finished, stammering — before Feliciano — not the bumbling, silly Feli — taken for a fool – but the nation beneath — stepped forward.
There was no mistaking the voice — dropped low — not angry in tone, per say.
But in depth — came from his ribs, from centuries.
Hands slammed down, digging into the worn-down edge of the table; entire reception rattling.
Girl squeaks, terrified.
‘I-It was fine, really, the sheets are sort of clean and— Feli, please—’
‘You fucking slept here. With your spine— your lungs— your joints this stupidly bad—’
‘Chi ha firmato questo? Chi ha dato il permesso? / Who signed this? Under whose authorisation was this done?’
Clerk fumbles over his words in sheer panic.
‘Signore, normalmente non forniamo— / Sir, we don’t normally provide—’
‘Stampa. Tutti i registri. Adesso. / Print. Every record. Now’
Poor officer turned pale, unruly sweat trickling his brow; fingers scrambling across the keyboard, muddling through the records; ancient printer barely spewing out papers— this abandoned hell of the place was in the deep; money secretly laundered through back-end and if someone found out—
Made cooperation much easier.
‘I’m afraid it was the hospital— / Temo che fosse l'ospedale—’
‘Paura?? Avrebbe potuto morire in questa stanza! / Afraid?? She could have died in this room!’
A leather wallet — out comes the Italian government ID — the one they are not supposed to see; embossed with the golden seal — dangles from his fingers.
‘Voglio il nome del direttore che ha approvato l'assegnazione della stanza a questo paziente. Questo cittadino di uno Stato partner Schengen. Disabile. Con problemi di salute. Solo— / I want the name of the director who signed off on the room assignment for this patient. This citizen of a Schengen-partner state. Disabled. Medically compromised. Alone—’
Tone tears into the air — clinical, sharp, precise.
‘Dammi il timestamp, la firma di autorizzazione, la maledetta traccia di controllo / Give me the timestamp, the authorizing signature, the goddamned audit trail’
‘O me ne vado con i documenti, oppure torno con gli ispettori e tre giornalisti del Corriere della Sera / Either I leave with records, or I return with inspection officers and three reporters from Il Corriere della Sera [most read Italian newspaper]’
Someone visibly pales; stench of anxiety prominent in the already stuffy air.
‘E voglio i documenti assicurativi dell'ospedale. Adesso– / And I want the hospital’s insurance documents. Now–’
‘Signore, é riservato / that’s confidential—’
‘Allora voglio il nome del tuo supervisore. Subito– / Then I want the name of your supervisor. Right now–’
‘Non sono presenti— / They’re not in—’
‘Chiamali. Oppure chiamerò io stesso il ministero / Call them. Or I’ll call the ministry myself’
Girl, observing the breakdown of all decency & etiquette norms going down the drain in front of her; crossed herself in salvation, muttering known prayers, not comprehending a single word.
Jesus Christ.
‘Feli, please—’
And he turns, jaw creaking tight, eyes blown wide with fury.
Not at her— never her— but at the system that leaves souls in mildew and oppressive silence — somewhere between neglected government oversight and thin charity funds.
Two printed forms were immediately handed over with shaking hands, barely holding papers intact, snatched immediately — as indulgence offering.
‘Invia il conto al Ministero della Salute o a me— In entrambi i casi, non la rivedrai mai più / Send the bill to the Ministry of Health, or to me— Either way—you’re never seeing her again’
Door slammed shut with deafening — wham; loose hanger holding poster, clattering down to the concrete floor.
Faint rosemary floating in the air.
Wood polish, scattered with dust.
Every object is painfully beautiful, but cracked — a Rococo mirror with silver flaking, velvet cushions that smell faintly of mold — were replaced days later with embroidered, frilled pillows over ‘allergies’ and ‘ai, ai, you sneeze too much’
First fragile morning after —
The kettle clicks shut, placed — radiator hisses a little too loud. Pressure is off, probably.
He should fix that, noting it far away in the tucked away corner of the mind.
Humming something — faint, off-key. A war lullaby from a time no one remembers.
Luna’s dress is folded on the armrest, neatly, precisely — pressed.
She wears a linen nightshirt, fabric draping over. Not hers - his.
The bathroom light is still on — from the excruciating bath yesterday. Wounds ache, reminding.
The evening before, she was half-asleep, slouched in a tiny car — stuck in never-ending traffic at the peak hour with too much beeping, curses — and purest exhaustion taking over — merely passing out.
Not until the body shut down, salt-damp from fever, in cleanest sheets – smelling faintly of lavender, not meant for guests.
Until—
‘I should go’ — thought passes absent.
‘I need to check in. And the hotel— my chair— where is—’
‘I already called the authorities. They didn’t clean the room — abused the rights of the civilian and such, all taken care of’
Porcelain eyelashes fluttered once. Twice. Three times over.
Lips opened and closed shut.
What.
He is stirring sugar into a tiny ceramic cup — with unforeseen tenderness, as nothing happened.
‘They said they’d refund you partially. But it’s not a place someone like you — so sick — should’ve been. Mold. Rusted hinges on the window. Water stains above the bed. I—’
‘…I couldn’t leave you there, basic human decency’
Throat tightens, heavy lump forming — hand clutches the fabric at her hip, crinkling underneath.
‘You barely know me’
‘Does that matter?’ — he looks over, concern etched in.
‘You needed help. It doesn’t take a fool to see that’
The silence hums, a little too loud — Rome outside stirs awake.
A siren, far out, echoes — church bells announce the beginning of the day.
‘You can’t— just— I don't know... fix? people’
‘Not trying to do that’— a little too fast; words stumbling, garbled.
Unspoken shame of the actions settling in.
‘I just—’
He swallows – tries to — thoughts are slow, slurred, heavy — sticking to the back of the throat.
‘I couldn’t stand seeing you in that room. Abandoned, with bruises’
Pallid hands twitch in lap; fabric scrunched until deep wrinkles.
‘I fall, a lot. I have— this condition. I’m not heal—’
‘I know, looked it up last night’
The exact girl moment freezes into a marble statue; eyes wide as saucer plates, looking through very air itself.
The look — this exact one — on top of already melancholic exhaustion cracks something ancient in him. Something that smells of burning olive groves and sun-bleached parchment.
Of times, when gladiators saw their mothers before the blade went in.
Terror — not just of him.
Of need. Of what comes next.
Voice softens; fingers pressed to the bridge of his nose, exhausted.
‘Scusa… / I’m sorry…’
‘I’m sorry if I… if I overstepped, haven’t slept properly in a week. The embassy’s behind schedule. There’s a summit in Palermo. But—…’
A pause, gentle still; petals in the balcony flutter by.
‘—I saw you. And you reminded me of—’
Does not dare to finish.
‘I’ll take you wherever you want—…’
‘Hotel, airport — anywhere. Just say the word’
Not sure if this had any meaning inflicted behind it at all.
Luna nods slowly — does not dare to ask for the way back.
After drama unveiling yesterday and shameful, shameful gratitude beyond measure.
Because she remembers, terrified: the flickering light, damp bedsheets, dismissive concierge.
The way the shower sputtered, groaned, protested and gave nothing, but brown water.
Instead;
‘…May I stay one more night? Just until the refund clears’
‘Of course’ — almost too gently.
‘All the time you need’
And he turns back to the coffee.
Tears simmer in the corner of glassy eyes — warm embrace, despite it all.
She stops answering after that.
Her eyes flutter hazily, sleep pulls exhausted form under — soft, sweet, hopeless rest.
The kind transcending into when fighting has become too heavy.
When you are sick of being upright, of being dignified — of trying.
But she is his guest.
And that is close enough for now.
‘Bella…’ — softest whisper, long after breathing evens out into something palpable.
Feli just closes his eyes, holds scattered fragility tighter and… the city keeps breathing for the both of them.
Stillness of the morning — the kind where nothing shatters — except the will to keep existing.
Pain has been a constant hum lately, louder than any possible declaration of love.
Silk gowns and rococo dresses do not matter anymore, because the bones inside her skin are cracking quietly.
The cup is chipped; at the frilled edges. From all the love and use porcelain endured through many years.
The coffee is cold; it has been for a while.
But she holds it like it is a crucifix, fingers trembling, knuckles sickly white.
Below — the street vendors are just setting up for the day ahead, the cries echo faintly.
Fresh tomatoes. Cigarettes. Cheap souvenirs.
Life goes on, endless and uncaring — it always did.
She does not want to die.
Not exactly, as per say.
Heart-wrenching dream, yearning of pause in suffering.
To step out of the body for a good while —- stop dragging this heavy shell of pain, where each joint feels like rusted iron and the base of the cursed spine burns with every breath.
The wind tugs, bunches at the hem of ivory, embroidered robe — smells like a sickly familiar mix of basil and car exhaust.
Resting her cheek on the stone balcony rail, breath fogging faintly — fading into faintest hues of the dawn.
The city is gold — yet, the truest essence of girl is terribly, terribly grey.
Inside, Feliciano stirs, bedsheets rustling — but she does not call him.
Because she knows how it will go.
In his sweet kindness, he will crouch besides, honey in his voice, tears already forming — say he built the world around her, name like the scripture.
‘You’re my painting, mia stella / my sunlight. My miracle, ai, my saint…’
But he will not know that so-called miracle is being able to hold her bladder for another hour, or bathroom becoming best friend more often than not.
That painted sainthood is silent endurance of fire in the hips and legs that won’t lift, won’t bend, won’t obey.
Oh, how badly she wanted to study.
To wear dresses without singing his name as a prayer for help.
To be a person.
Now — a doll of handed pills from the pastel pink box and padded cushions.
Feliciano spilled praises — of how beautiful she is when she cries.
He says God gave her to him because he knows, as a son of God, how to carry broken things.
But the girl refused to be a burden to worship in the twisted fashion — to be someone real.
Sipping cooled espresso away, pallid lip cracks on the ceramic edge.
‘Maybe… I should’ve let go a long time ago…’
The wind carries the words away.
Inside, floorboards shift; properly – this time.
The closet creaks.
Probably, Feli was getting dressed for work once again.
At the restaurant, several winded streets away.
Another new dress hung — still with the price tag.
Imported, or hand-made. Probably took half the down payment again.
But suffering does not care if it is wrapped in velvet.
Shame does not lessen because someone blesses.
Poor soul is exhausted beyond measure — of being seen like a relic and martyr and porcelain saint.
Tired of love that cages.
But nothing to do about it.
Stay on the street or in moldy, tiniest apartment with one bare-bones window and frayed sheets, with slanted doorway, where poor wheels would get stuck every single time passing?
Everybody in the course of life plays their own role — this was merely a price to pay.
Rome is quiet at night.
It always is when it rains — hues bleeding into hazy, diluted sights; heavy drops blur the amber streetlights.
Luna — at the window, lit up in that peculiarly ghostly way, pale hair pinned — slouchy cardigan over a frilled nightgown, lace spilling down over useless knees.
Reflection looks older than remembered, distorted by the downpour in a mockery.
She looks like a portrait.
Like something nobody dares to hang in the foyer anymore.
Behind, Feliciano lights a cigarette with a smooth click.
Does not indulge; just holds it in his fingers, letting the ash build — smoke wisping away into damp air.
Honey-sweet gaze pours over as worshipping a ruined statue from the mausoleum.
Something antique — priceless.
‘You… you know people stare’
‘I mean, when we go out. Like you’re dragging a relic behind you’
'Like the bloody Mary in a busted wheelchair which is too fancy either way — a pity painting—’
— gestures travelling grandiose over in all possible directions from the sheer frustration building up.
Such words should sound dramatic, reserved for the poetry plays — they do not — instead, like something said too often in practice.
Luna sharply turned; wheels squeaking slightly — his eyelid twitching up several times from the idiocracy of spilled statements.
‘Who would want me, huh? Who would love— this?
She motions — sharply, jaggedly — to her legs.
‘Modern men don’t fall in love with haunted girls in braces. They want girls who can run, Feliciano. Who can dance–!’
He walks over, smoothly slow; crushing the remainder of the filter into the over-filled ash-tray.
‘They don’t deserve you — none of them—…’
‘They’re scared because they see how precious you are and they know they’d break you’
He cups her face — tenderly, too tenderly with the implication hanging stale in the air.
‘So I broke first, so you wouldn’t have to, ever again–’
Porcelain eyelashes flutter close, girl leaning into the warmth; strange of guilt swirling beneath arches of ribs.
Moments later, lips linger too long on the crown of the head — a seal, sureness, weight.
‘Do you think any of them would have learned how to bathe you? How to clean blood off all the lace you wear?’
‘Do you think, really— anyone else would wake up every time you scream in your sleep, whispering prayers until you stop? You know how much it hurts me?’
canada + sleepy reader
oh, dearest darling, sleep has not been your friend recently, has it?
it has been one of many early mornings, when your bleak, sleepless eyes stared at the damned ceiling for the nth time.
too many thoughts ran in your mind, being about everything your brain could muster up just to keep you awake.
and it succesfully did.
you tossed and turned, not finding space for yourself, blankets not being in the right way; you feeling too cold or too hot, or pyjamas you wore rubbed your skin just in the most irritating fashion possible -- no matter the reason, you could not find solace.
dark bags already formed under your eyes, being prominent, very much seen.
as physical expression of your restless mind, and past sins haunting, justling memories awake.
felt like terrible turn of faith; even like a punishment at times, insomnia even-more-so unbearably difficult.
birds started to gently chirp away, early morning hours approaching you, as they did.
maybe a little walk wouldn't hurt, you thought.
slowly, sleepy mind working not as they should, you slid off the blankets, cringing from at how cold room felt.
drowsily, you moved towards the closet, sliding out one of your worse coats, meant specifically for the 'lunatic' walks, when your mind got the best of your soul.
clumsily putting it on; you checked the keys and phone, heading out after locking the door.
crispy, cold air hit your lungs like a blessing; mind feeling immediately clearer, as you did. heavy sigh escaped your lips; steps echoing on the empty, frozen pavement.
streets were seemingly abanoned, isolated. very few windows glowed at such unholy hour. you were left alone with your own thoughts and realisations, gazing up at the faded sky.
several stars met your vision, cold breath fading out into hues of early sunset, as seemingly you.
there wasn't much thought behind where and why you headed somewhere, yet your mind led you to the familiar doors several blocks away.
your shaky hands carefully knocked on the front door, as if expecting (but not really) some sort of answer.
yet doors opened, familiar string of curls and soft, sleepy expression meeting your view.
'ma chérie [my darling}, you cannot fall asleep…?', mattieu spoke gently, almost whispering.
just a little nod from you; messy hair and dark circles told more than you could muster at the moment.
mattieu wrapped his hand around girl's smaller shoulders, shooing her inside.
it was too cold outside anyways.
familiar canadian tea filled arches of lungs with special kind of warmth, which you could not find anywhere else.
girl took a last sip, placing porcelain cup carefully down on the table, quietly sighing.
it was quite familiar routine, as mattieu was already comfortably laying on the bed; patting the spot nearby him.
and who you were not to join him?
girl scurried quickly under the warm blankets, laying on mattieu's chest, getting comfortable.
boy ran his soft hands through girl's hair, smooching girl's forehead ever-so-gently.
yandere! theodore nott x reader
୨୧ ˖˚ nota bene - before you read ˚˖ ୨୧
ʚ burnt edges of lost letters, spilled ink all over ୨୧
⊱ desolate evening within haunted library corridors & wrong soul, lost in melancholic, tragic time ❤︎
୨୧ reader discretion is strongly advised. not all pretty things are safe —
this piece is undiluted potrayal of second wizarding war realities & related issues.
themes include:
⊱ theodore, with all silk smiles, walks the line between possessive affection & something much darker
⊱ implications to theodore having connections to pure-blood supremacists + questionable power dynamics
⊱ allusions to darker sensuality; whispered between lace curtains
⊱ lack of clarified consent, lost in poisonous suspension
Library has been… strangely quiet.
Hushing of students passing around; along with flickers of old pages filled space around with some sort of noise; faded whispers filling space with unexplainable longing – sense of calmness, one could say.
However, impending news titles splashed across first pages of the the Daily Prophet did not bear any good circumstances . . . everyone understanding You-Know-Who has (probably) returned – albeit, Ministry kept denying such claims as ‘hoax’.
Trying to get rid sense of ever-longing anxiety swelling somewhere within throat; girl scrumpled parchment within trembling fingers; gaze fixating somewhere on the ceiling. Intricate patterns adorned the surface, latin incantations of spells adorning in swirling patterns; repeating countless times to fill up the space.
Some of the phrases were well-known, such as ‘expecto patronum’ – others, not so much. Clicking away thought to research some of the more fascinating ones into the so-called stash of ‘mental checklist’.
Gaze shifted away across the window, thick droplets drumming with unpredictability – storm raging outside; another flash of lighting reverbarating from old tapestries. Blue skies mixed with cursed heavens above, signaling subtly about certain . . . individuals written down in the neat cursive.
Bleak eyes scanned down the blank, correcting little informality by crossing it out – it should have been ‘Mr. Malfoy’, not lowercase intended. Most probably unspoken exhaustion was blurring clear consciousness, girl once more reading carefully throughout the letter, making sure the wording was appropriate, correct. Moments after, paper was folded with great attention to detail; all edges matching – cream envelope to match. It would be addressed slightly later . . . mind wandering into silly nargles floating above hair.
They shifted, floated – leaving a trail of golden glitter, albeit, invisible to most. Eyes sparkled with wander, dainty finger reaching out to pet the fluffy fuzzball, it purring in response; when everything went… deathly quiet.
Thick goosebumps covered the skin; shivers etching themselves until narrow of bones – nargles vanishing into nothingness; terror settling within depths of the soul.
Dementors . . . ?
No matter how vicious creatures they have been, they never harbored within Hogwarts inner grounds, no matter the circumstances. Unconsciously, shaky hand started to reach out for the wand; figure finding herself cornered close to the windowpane; the edge digging into the hipbone uncomfortably.
Alas, it was least of the worries at the given moment; candles suspiciously flickering with strange intention? Books shifting just slightly to unsettle most primal part of the human conscious.
Unfortunately, letter found its’ away on the cherry carpet, staying.
Another loud, grimacing flash of thunder passed the skies; windows rattling with intensifying storm outside. Broad, shadow figure faded into view, stepping slightly closer – just enough to illicit heart beating under ribcage faster.
‘You seem to be involved in spaces you shouldn’t been’
Velvety voice, smooth – yet, a easily discernible edge of danger lingered within spoken words; girl stepping closer into the corner (if that was even physically possible) between wide windowpane and cold, concrete wall; trembling hand clutching wand further.
‘I– What sort of nonsense are you talking about?’ -- voice sounded visibly shaky.
‘Rumours float around the dormitories, the halls, the lessons… that you ought to possess what Potter would seem as valuable’ -- another step followed – heels clacking off in a muffled manner; closer.
‘Me? A mere student – excuse me, but I think you are mixing up people; there are plenty of students at Hogwarts’ -- girl tried to raise her voice to no avail; breath hitching into dreaded lump between chest bones; settling in.
‘Of course, there are many – I am not denying that . . .’
Thick silence followed; covering every single surface with heavy, unspoken layer of never-ending dust. Heart aching to escape within prison of ribs; aching to jump out than to suffer inflicted terror of the unknown. The worst kind – the kind which is primal, encoded in our very nature to behold.
‘But it is impossible not to notice white streaks within your hair – as banal as it sounds – they set you apart… well, visually’
Heart rolled into the ground with this statement; mystery emerging from the shadows – lanky, tall build and these curiously dark eyes paired with familiarly emerald robes –
‘Theodore . . .?’
Why him out of all students would torment her? As far as girl was concerned – he seemed to be quiet individual, usually keeping to himself, causing no trouble. None of this made any sense; and there was no time to figure out interior motives.
His name rolled off with more anxiety behind it than intended; wand stashed somewhere in the deep pocket of the skirt – understanding this won’t be necessary (…hopefully). Gulping away myriad of emotions, she finally looked.
Looked properly; with attention. Intent.
Dreamy, round gaze – albeit, flickers of fear lingered.
‘It seems I finally managed to properly capture your attention, yes?’
Subtle nod.
Calculated step forward; unclear want dancing within eyes.
‘Please understand that . . .’ -- he stood silent for a brief while, collecting further thoughts into comprehensible speech.
‘I mean no harm, no matter how unorthodox my actions may seem’
Before these words could fully sink into crevices of mind, dawning so-needed realisation – ominous eyes directly floated above the sights; her figure cornered. He moved smoothly, velvet-y, gracefully – slithering throughout corners with such innate ease.
‘W-what are your intentions here –’ -- yet her body seemed utterly frozen once more; limbs stuck in motion.
Theodore carefully leaned over; whispering silencing charm around them – there was no need for a third party interference, after all.
‘You’ll figure out soon enough, I hope’
Warm breath tickled into the skin, it covering once more (out of pure reflex) with thick goosebumps.
Yet . . . these seemed to appear out of not necessarily . . . fear, more of the feeling of implied danger. Venom.
Soft curls tickled the side of the neck at once, one of the hands sliding to the small of the back; another one delicately wrapping around the nape; girl attempting to struggle away muistering – behaviour met with tightening of force around the neck as a clear sign.
‘I-I! Let me go, you bloody brute!–’
‘If I were you, I would stop this nonsense of yours’
While grip remained firm, it somewhat loosened; in turn soft kiss pressed against sensitive skin.
Once.
Twice.
Sprinkling across the collarbones like stars, black bruises mornings to follow after.
Do you do headcanons? Cause if so i'd like some yandere viking trio headcanons. 🤭
yandere! viking trio x reader - sweden
─── notes
➤ reader is implied to being in late teenager years / young adult + for ease of enjoyment -- ‘luna’ is placeholder for the reader’s name ;w;
➤ allusion to reader being on the aro/ace spectrum remain, however, this may be interpreted openly!
➤ long post ahead! rest of allies / viking trio should be coming in february!
─── warnings
➤ historically accurate characterisation (based upon estranged flowers of time) / manipulation / questionable power dynamics / darker sensuality / controlling behaviour / isolation.
björn bernwald oxenstierna / kingdom of sweden
Centuries may have passed across their lands; naturally, outside society following through radical shift of values & ideals – however, this could not be the case regarding any of the Nordics – especially ones, who grew up – breathed, represented old, fixed notions.
Any deviation from the norm would be betrayal to their forefathers, who brought their lands into existence. For centuries, millenia – viking traditions kept society afloat, proper, functioning.
He was not sure what sort of devil made mortals crawl backwards, in all possible manners into this reverse-role circus, but one thing was certain – he shall not entertain this personally, nor his own family would.
➤ Within their circle – for centuries, Bernwald carried the role of unspoken leader, steadfast pillar of the home, grounded provider – all of the roles blossoming as a matter of course across harsh, historical landscape. Who would protect his own brothers-in-arms during Kalmar Union, when Denmark – monarchs, leaders of the time – Mathias himself – in all possible ways yearned to imply utter loyalty by any cost over the rest of Scandinavia?
➤ This… young woman – Luna – within their home – brought in by kindness of his husband – Tino – piqued his curiosity in the softest manner – calculated, measured gaze slipping away from the ever-looming stack of Swedish military documents. The way bright, gentle laughter filled the space with such-needed positivity, or… the way holding their sons – came so naturally to her – realisation trickling throughout the course of several weeks.
This is the part their home was missing.
➤ In all honesty – ideal fixture of relationship within dream landscape – quiet, domestic life within marriage could not… be realised, however – it could be improvised to the best of his abilities.
➤ Shadow of the man, masquerading into… fixtures of ceilings, bleeding over shadows, dancing into hazy flickers on the walls followed – Luna merely brushing uneasiness creeping up over certain parts of the home just as a simple, mundane anxiety, while trying best to adjust after moving in – gratitude to the Mathias’ silver tongue, honey-sweet charm.
➤ At first, it started within tiny details – such as a cup of favourite tea lingering on the night-stand after a tedious study session; or a fascinating history guide about Swedish history conveniently placed close-by.
Quiet, measured, gentle ways of affection – to see how his soon-wife-to-be would react to such advances.
➤ Luna was surprised… dainty fingers flickering across old pages – by sheer quality of the book – thick, velvet cover; incredibly detailed illustrations – golden motifs pressed intricately, all-around – it felt more of centuries old family testimony, than a simple edition. Little, seemingly inconvenient piece of paper slipped out, pointing at a very specific chapter – Oxenstierna.
➤ Neat, sharp - cursive – clearly Bernwald’s – he must have misplaced it.
Luna hesitated, a web of guilt snaring around hollows of the ribs for unclear reasons; a girl standing just inside the doorframe of the study – clutching the Swedish history guide until knuckles went white. She had only meant to return it — a seemingly simple task.
The study was quiet – the kind of calm, which carried an undercurrent of purpose, statement. The flickering of a single candle on the desk illuminated stacks of papers, open ledgers, and the unmistakable, heavy presence of Bernwald himself – him merely correcting another figure on the national budget draft. Pen moved with precision, and the soft scratch of ink against paper was the only sound echoing across vacant walls.
The soft rustling of documents across space was interrupted only by the occasional swirl of amber in his glass. Of course, by all means – he was not a man of virtues to indulge too often, but tonight… Tonight, it seemed necessary. The familiar burn down his throat was comforting, grounding from the plethora of thoughts that had been swirling in horizons of mind, long after the paperwork should have been finished.
Should have.
He leaned back in the chair, calloused fingertips ghosting above the edge of the glass, a deep breath escaping the note of heaviness anchored between lungs. It was just one of those nights where everything felt a bit heavier. The weight of leadership, responsibility… and perhaps something else. Something hidden beneath the layers of stoicism, a yearning that had always been with him.
Doors were opened with a smooth click, tuft of hair peeking through.
"It’s late’ – he merely gestured; shifting the stack of the documents, setting them aside – a shimmering glass of whiskey nearby.
‘I’m sorry, but I was about to return… this’ – she replied, holding up the guide as a sort-of peace offering, a sheepish smile blossoming across soft features, as if adding sincerity to an already awkward situation.
Book found its way, gliding across the wooden surface with a soft thud; him fixating on the cover, which carried centuries of family’s heritage, atmosphere… shifting into something darker – albeit, maybe exactly noticeable at first; hold lingering… on the glass a little too long, liquid oozing down his throat as a mere distraction from plethora of thoughts,
‘Stay’ – tone crackled with unwanted notes of vulnerability, expression shifting into something between contempt, mixed with… restraint.
Phrases shifted into hazy words, tangled concepts, intricate web of lies – neat paperwork scattering in fluidity of motion – threats blossoming naturally, as a mere part of the dialogue.
"You’ve c’me so far’ – fingertips gently tracing the edge of fabric, ghosting above softness of the hip – making it seem as though it were an extension of their shared life.
"Do you rem’mber how I pulled yer out of that mount’in of student debt? How I m’de sure yer had the opp’rtunity to att’nd the finest university in St’ckholm? You w’uld have n’ver had the ch’nce to b’ild a fut’re on your own with’t that’
"Bernwald, I—"
In the kindest way – she had never would have dared to entertain this thought – it was utter opposite of the values Nordics cherished – naturally, had always viewed his help as kindness, warm hospitality, even love.
Within soft gesture – fingers tenderly, too tenderly – cupped edge of jawline, ever-so-tense, digging in just enough to elicit sharp breath, tilting head up to meet his gaze. Sweetness swirling behind intention was soft, almost too soft - in retrospective.
'Don’t mis’nderst’nd me, älskade // beloved //.
I don’t wish to h’rt you. But I think.. . . you und’rst’nd what I’m saying. Your succ’ss, your comf’rt—it all comes from me. I am the pr’vider, the one who ensures you have ev’r’thin’ you c’uld ev’r need. You know, bett’r than anyone, that this life you’ve c’me to enjoy c’uld slip away just as eas’ly as it was giv’n’
"You don’t have to pr’ve anythin’ to me, Luna’ –
‘J’st accept the life I’ve giv’n you. ‘ccept the fut’re I’m offerin’. It’s all yours… l’ng as you stay wit’ me, as l’ng as yer honour the roles we’ve est’blished. The contr’ct is simply a refl’ction of that — nothin’ more’
Details of the study bled into hazy hues; familiar sounds seemingly so far away – muffled – Luna could not register pen between ridges of hand, or neat cursive unraveling her name on the form.
‘Mm… v’ry well’ – whisper sounded rougher than intended, with blended out notes of whiskey, but it was still so undeniably… commanding. Calloused, heavy palms dug slightly into beige fabric, drawing shapes over softness of hips as such affection – would anchor heaviness of thought.
Bernwald merely tilted head slightly, scanning down the entirety of the situation – albeit, more slowly – deliberately – lips brushing against the nook of the shoulder.
hii, i would love to see your take of a fem aroace!reader with the allies 🙏🙏
yandere! allies x aro/ace! reader - england & america
─── notes
➤ reader is implied to have disability for realism purposes, being late teenager / young adult + for ease of enjoyment -- ‘luna’ is placeholder for the reader’s name ;w; thank you so much for such lovely request! remaining allies are coming in the following days! long post ahead!
─── warnings
➤ abuse of political power / manipulation / questionable power dynamics / darker sensuality / controlling behaviour / isolation amongst others.
arthur o'neil kirkland / england
Arthur deemed himself as someone proud – man of the culture, wisdom and fixed values. As a reverent kingdom and empire of the past – certain notions never left his heart.
Oh, you were his favourite, apple of the eye – even if did not dare to admit such reverence out loud.
If circumstances should be different – of course, without hesitation, he would find himself steering away from any closer, more intimate relationships with mortals.
Their lifetime was bound by fixed laws and mechanics, while land transcended centuries to behold. It was simply easier to avoid entertaining the heart-ache; sorrow – by circumventing
such situations at all.
But… how could he resist?
ᯓ★
Porcelain tea-cup clicked smoothly against the table, adorned with intricate, vintage floral patterns – from much older, chaotic times. By kindness of his truly.
Faded, green eyes fixated for a brief on thoughtful expression etched into her gentle features.
Something was going on – unspoken tension lingering for weeks now. Irony laid open – hoping that maybe, in a way – his sweetheart could trust him enough to reveal… specifics.
‘Arthur, darling… it is just I’ve been terribly unlucky with people around me… well…’ – oh, how her heart yearned to find enough bravery to gather thoughts fully into something comprehensible, but, alas. Her friend was much better at such a state of affairs than she could ever be.
‘Luna, what is going on? I am worried for you, and it deeply saddens me’
‘It is just… people around me find themselves very happy in romantics, so easily. As if it was somehow universally understood, I don’t know…’ – dainty fingers trembled under the weight of never-ending accusations of mind; steady hands wrapping around shakiness as if to provide the slightest bit of comfort.
‘I really tried my best! I did! – and he seemed really kind, or I thought so… how could I have been so blind? Arthur, he merely entertained his own needs, physical ones–’
‘Y-you warned me… I should’ve listened, I-I–’ – thought wavered over silence; tiny hiccups filling up the space with peculiar sorrow.
Pure, unbridled vermillion blossomed in sight, reality spinning.
Good heavens, help his soul. He was too old for this.
Knuckles tightened until whites over the poor edge of the table, almost tipping it over – the girl ushered into a hug immediately.
There were traditional, fixed ideals of what constituted a good and proper image of human interaction – especially, between opposite genders. Femininity consisted of warmth, grace – and fragility, intertwined with the need of masculine notions to protect, cherish, love its' existence. Such values, deeply ingrained in margins of consciousness, never wavered – and this went against everything Arthur could hold dear. That is, his darling.
And if others would not conform to this – he would.
However, this little… the issue would have to be solved quietly. No inference was necessary.
Few days passed – the soul disappearing into silence; under charges of treason and conspiracy against the United kingdom and surrounding territories. He was ended switfly after.
ᯓ★ headcanons!
Darling, sweetheart, apple of his eye – you were absolutely his favourite – through and through. outside, arthur would be an ideal image of gentleman – from tactful behaviour to the very last word – all orchestrated, calculated, measured. Millenia of existence gave enough tools and time to perfect the art.
That is not to misunderstand, he loved her – truly. Maybe in a more sentimental way – finding comfort in the very traditional dynamic of being the provider, the pillar of the home. Any attempt to carry more weight than the subtle role provided would be met with sweet-honey words of manipulation – immediately stopping any possibility of rebellion.
Physical manifestation of darling’s disability would become the greatest tool of social isolation – were people not staring enough, talking behind your back in the study halls, speaking rumoured whispers – so… why should Luna entertain such ruckus, if she could be perfectly content with being his sweetheart?
The queerplatonic relationship concept in itself – was not something old, reverent ways ought to be understood, but as long this dynamic remained – he would be more than happy to entertain such an idea.
You had no idea what sort of sweet-honey trap you have gotten yourself into.
alfred franklin jones / america
Soft, hazy lights filled up cozy space – Alfred shifting to be slightly closer, ghosting hand above small of the waist, not daring… to hold on, yet. Just yet.
Every single conversation like this grated at the very last remnants of already frayed nerves.
‘Pfft, again? People have nothing better to do nowadays, really’ – he merely snickered, pinching the edge of his nose out of new-found frustration. These stories were starting to get hold of his psyche.
‘So, wait, what happened between Gabriel and Samantha?’
‘As I was saying, Alfie – it was very sudden! One second they were in love in our class, another – screaming at once, another as the switch flipped over. As I was a friend of his – just a good acquaintance, you know – he asked for a favour, obviously’ – soft laugh filled the room, girl swatting imaginary nargles; expression full of sincerity.
Way-too-happy girl was picked up with such ease, him merely nuzzling close, getting a few more giggles out. As affection could infer into deeper sources of the mind; dragging hidden, secluded parts into light.
‘Oh, you’re too sweet, ahahah!’
‘It is the least I can do, darlin’, go on, I'm listening! You gotta tell me! Your little legs, careful!’
What favour? Nothing about this entirety of story played to be good-willing act of service. Pathetic, to say the least – eye twitching, jaw tensing up until teeth grated against each other in disastrous symphony; slender fingers digging just a little too much into the softness of her hip. Smiling until cheeks bled dry with falsified semblance.
‘Oh, yeah, thaaat! So, there was this kind of silly party last weekend, which we went together because he asked to get this revenge thingy going on, you see?’
‘That’s great! How did it go? Must’ve been a blast!’ – plentitude of soft kisses peppered across rosy cheeks, as the girl swaddled him away in the most tender fashion; feeling… how pliant form became under hold, finding himself… just a bit closer.
‘Totally! Yeah, we might have gotten a bit… drunk, but it was all in good fun!’
‘Yeah, sweets, in good fun’ – all it took – a few moments – Luna toppled over with such ease; his wrists holding his sunshine down – even if ache gnawed between arches of ribs through guilt.
‘What’s that? Huh? I thought I meant something for you?’ – with calculated, gentle touch fingertip ghosted above the collarbone, over faint marks. This entire situation blossomed into full circus with additional flair to follow… and it shall not be entertained any longer.
‘Do you even remember anything, mm?’ – little prefix as if flaunting clear mockery.
‘We just crashed at his place, nothing happened, Al! You know how clumsy I can be with my cane, you’re being ridiculous!’
“I dunno, angel, bruises on neck don’t kinda magically happen overnight… and we’re very sure you don’t recall shit. So… this leaves only one conclusion’ – starry, ocean blue eyes.
These eyes, impossibly livid, entrancing with hypnotic dance of reverent hues. Glittering, sparkling, floating.
‘I-I- I’ve been–’ – Luna choked, world dizzyingly nauseous too suddenly, tears simmering in waterfalls over honest accusation of truth, entire frame wracked by sobs – enveloped in dizzyingly addicting warmth.
Unconsciously, instinctively the entire form arched for him, for him only so prettily – as always meant to be – mere intention making his head spin with desire, want, need – to end this theatrics there and now – to claim, to devour, to make his sunshine happy.
‘Shh, I’ve got you…’
ᯓ★ headcanons!
Brighter than the sun – burning brighter than stars above heavens – america himself, independent and fierce– this is who alfred represented – force, larger than life itself; reflected from golden strands shimmering in the light until boundless positivity, seeping from every hug – every little affection he was entitled, privileged to give. You were his sunshine, his beloved! With beautiful energy and softness, meant only for him to indulge in – it was a life worth living!
His beloved was a blessing from the gods, even if her love expression, or affection ways were different – yet, unspoken naivety, trust – it was a steep price to pay. It was impossible to understand – where friendship bounds ended or dark, obsessive devotion began.
Of course, humans needed one another – it was an essential part of our being, ingrained into very core, into bones and narrows of the flesh – isolating fragility beyond promises could not be optional, but it could be beautifully contained.
Nothing… nothing few nights of forgetful sleep, with skillful essence blossoming under hazy, sweet tea – and pliant, gentle form could not fix. There was no need to poison essences of mind with CIA agents, reverberating screams across walls or legal procedures, after all.
Everything was provided, handed on the golden platter – most gorgeous of dresses, art supplies, position in the best of the universities – best healthcare – all hidden between gentlest hugs, softest cuddles and lingering kisses on the forehead.
His sunshine looked incredibly beautiful as a little bird in a golden cage.
warnings ;
manipulation; questionable power dynamics; 'luna' is a placeholder for the reader's name.
very fluffy otherwise <3
how did he meet you . . . ?
it was a beautifully arranged library meeting -- meticulously placed decorations with various literary characters; adding into atmosphere of immersion. dainty fingers ghosted above titles, each one more fascinating than the last -- unsure where to start, or even begin.
'ah, may I help you? -- smooth, soft tone inquired; as gently slender fingers graspled with a particularly intriguing cover, handing it to the the girl.
'oh my god, this seems perfect -- I had no idea this even existed, really- thank you!' -- she smiled; flipping across pages carefully, nodding.
'you're welcome' -- seemingly mysterious figure smoothly faded back to the crowd, leaving faint note of intrigue -- amaranthine eyes studying every single little movement further out; helping others with their concerns.
yet something about . . . you.
certain kindness; peculiar gratitude -- made lukas very interested.
it was another day -- seemingly so. bland in the never-ending existence of routines, diplomacies and documents.
with a smooth, calculated step -- tino approached one of his favourite coffee shops in stockholm -- cozy, quiet place for work. glass doors opened -- him merely stepping inside, when a particular individual caught his attention.
her.
soft, tiny form -- hunched over scattered notes, trying utterly best to decipher complicated material. it must have been challenging -- judging by how intense expression blossomed.
lukas definitely mentioned someone over usual rambles on the newspaper-written politics.
tino was a known fan of his coffees -- but in much sweeter way -- just like him -- latte with whipped cream and if he was feeling extra fancy that day – with various syrups, and other variety of assortiments.
in the silliest way -- sticker-decorated laptop made him raise his eyebrow -- how entire rainbow of certain hobbies were represented.
this little declaration sparked curious interest in that particular someone; yet his eyes kept darting away -- obvious shyness taking better of him; considering how focused girl looked.
with a smooth click -- tino settled down porcelain cup with cherry drink, clearing his throat -- carefully approaching.
he really, really put uttermost effort to be seen as an gentleman -- embarassment betraying the best of odds, in a way.
girl gazed up -- flushing in an instant due to entire absurdness of the situation. a young guy, with softest, sincere expression actually paying attention?
of course -- she deemed to possess such strange, out-of-the-box personality (or any other questionable qualities) -- this interaction... feeling unreal.
‘hello, um...-- well... this character looks really cool-– if i may ask, where did you find stickers for your laptop?’
how did you get woven into nordics . . .?
in all honesty -- after a kind, pleasant conversation in the coffee shop -- tino happily invited luna into their inner circle -- to spend a peaceful evening amongst... his friends.
'oh, yeah, of course! this sounds lovely -- next tuesday, 6 pm -- right?'
'ah, niin // yes, of course // -- you may have my phone number -- call us anytime!'
'i will! have a lovely day!'
luna happily waved away, leaving coffee shop; soft smile blossoming upon champagne lips.
;;
'so... you have 4 roomates? what- how does it work... exactly?'
'luna, well, it is complicated, you see--' -- before tino could flaunt a sheepish smile, looking for the explanation, leading girl through the corridor, his hand ghosting above the waist as a mere precaution... door flied upon with unflauntible wham -- way-too-happy mathias budging in the doorframe.
'look, what the have here! our cutie patootie -- lukas has been talking about you non-stop! c'mere!' -- luna giggled, picked up ever-so-easy into way-too-loving bear hug, carried away.
'o-oh, stop! ahahah! bollocks -- hahaha!' -- soft giggles echoed across apartment; as tino smoothly closed the door -- kicking shoes a bit too hastily -- coat left over on the rack.
'mathias! helvetti! // hell // you don't treat our friend like that! fuck-'
bernwald merely raised his eyebrow at the noise -- returning to fill out related government papers; clicking study shut.
ruckus was not entertaining.
this is going to be a long evening.
;;
bitter coffee notes blossomed, filling up the air with false sense of decency -- luna comfortably settled down close to the mathias.
'wait... it is actually really nice to have... relationship like that, or something along those lines. well, I am not lucky as you all' -- unspoken sadness swirled between irises; as floor would provide any sense of comfort.
'hey... what do you mean? you can talk to me, y'know' -- he scooted closer; wrapping hand around in such unspoken gentleness, as if provide comfort.
'I live alone, uh... I may only dream of something like . . . that' -- she gestured; bitersweet laugh following.
'This is pathetic, why am I even--' -- unwanted tears simmered; expression knitting over inner turmoil.
'And what if I told, darlin'... that maybe you could stay? I like you, Tino also does -- and we have a spare room to follow -- what about that?' -- honey-sweet words with even sweeter embrace; tears wracking entire body in the chaos of the feelings.
'Shh... it's okay, I'm here, you're safe...'
you did not even realise how deeply your soul intertwined with theirs at that very moment.
