dearinno

[dearinno]

Embrace the cringe.

Write weird fanfic.

Read weird fanfic.

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EAT AT BARATIE! I 1.05 ONE PIECE (2023)

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RHAENYRA TARGARYEN in House of The Dragon 01.10

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Isabel Allende, from The House of The Spirits

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Sylvia Plath, from The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

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✎ MOG — twenty-one, she/her, romantic

everyone is welcome here! please heed warnings and stay polite

masterlist, wips, my rec blog

[dearinno]

𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: thranduil x fem!reader | 2.2k

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: thranduil sat up, still holding your hand, and leant back against the wooden headboard of the bed. he hummed to himself and blinked away his fatigue. “adjective, verb, or noun?” he asked.

you thought for a moment before responding, “noun.”

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: fluff, mentioned nudity, soft (probably ooc) thranduil

Morning broke over Mirkwood the same as always, yet it was never any less phenomenal. Small cracks on sunlight slipped through the gaps in the branches and shone over the stone floors of the forest kingdom. It was summer, so the morning broke early, at an unreasonable time for anyone to be awake, but Mirkwood had started moving before this glimmer of light, this community didn’t stop.

As light started to peek through the window of the bedroom you shared with your husband, a word came to mind. It brought a smile to you, and though you knew it wasn’t a particularly important word, it was a word that would be the most precious thing of the day.

Beside you, your husband began to stir, the sun breaking his deep sleep. You rolled over to look at him. His pale hair wasn’t messy, but it wasn’t as polished as usual, several strands out of place and bunched between his head and the pillow. It was your favourite style of his. When he shifted, you could spy the small braid you’d made at the back of his hair, decorated with a thin strand of vine from an ivy. He’d let you make this braid the night of your wedding, a way to show your union even when apart. Of course, you’d re-braided it several times since, but it was always there.

He stirred further until his eyes opened. He looked upon you and smiled softly, his piercing blue gaze melting at the sight of you.

“Good morning, my dear.” Thranduil said quietly, not to disrupt the gentle atmosphere of the room.

“Good morning,” you replied, taking his hand in yours.

He cleared his throat and fidgeted on the bed, clearly wanting to get up soon and start the day, but he kept hold of your hand and squeezed it fondly. He rearranged his hair behind him to lie more comfortably. “Have you a word for today?”

You grinned, “I do. Though I don’t think it’ll compare to yours yesterday.” You admitted, thinking back to the previous day in which you had been completely stumped. You’d submitted every word you could think of until three minutes before midnight when you’d given up.

He had laughed at the frustrated scrunch of your nose and gave you the answer: celeg, hasty.

It was a fun little game the two of you played. After almost seven hundred years of marriage, you’d found much pleasure in games. Every day one of you would pick a word, any random word, and the other had the day to guess it. Sometimes it was easy, only taking a few guesses, and sometimes the day would end in complete failure. It kept you on your toes and wasn’t too distracting from your duties.

Thranduil sat up, still holding your hand, and leant back against the wooden headboard of the bed. He hummed to himself and blinked away his fatigue. “Adjective, verb, or noun?” He asked.

You thought for a moment before responding, “Noun.”

He hummed again before getting out of bed, his hand slipping from your hold, and striding across the room. Even in his night clothes he looked magnificent, like a king. He knocked twice on the door, indicating to the guards outside that he was ready for servants to enter.

“Haust.” His first guess.

You grinned. “No.”

He sighed to himself as elves began to enter the bedroom. Several carried in Thranduil’s garments for the day, while others carried in pails of water to fill the bath. Your own lady-in-waiting brought in your dress.

“Soth?” Was his second guess.

You got out of bed and followed your lady-in-waiting to your dressing room, calling out a quick “No!” as you left the room. 

Today would be fun for you and long for your husband.

*

In the mornings you walked the length of Mirkwood, seeing if anything had changed since the previous day. Fresh flowers bloomed, leaves fell from the trees; the seasons were changing, and you longed to capture every single difference.

Walking with your handmaidens was always pleasant, they were such varied elves with such varied lives, and they never ran out of gossip to share. Your lady-in-waiting, Sílrien, had recently gotten engaged and the whole group was bustling with excitement and plans.

“And what will you wear?” Asked one handmaiden.

Sílrien grinned widely, “My mother is giving me the robes she wore to her wedding! They’re so beautiful, I wish I could show you all this second!”

As you went down the steps to your private garden, loud and heavy footsteps could be heard approaching, joined by heavy panting. Your handmaids turned to face the elf who was fast approaching, giving way for you to see him. The young elf crouched as he panted, trying to get himself together before speaking to you.

He stood up straight and said, “Corch?”

The group of you stood bewildered, staring questioningly at the elf, until you worked it out. He had been sent by your husband.

“Oh!” you laughed when you got it, “I’m sorry but no.”

The young elf winced to himself as covertly as he could before bowing and rushing off back to Thranduil.

The handmaidens laughed. “Your game again, my lady?”

“What else? Let’s continue.” You linked arms fondly with Sílrien and led the group down to your garden.

“What is your word today?” One of the younger maidens asked.

You scrunch your nose playfully at her, “Oh, I could hardly say, who knows who’s listening.” You whisper, embellishing your words with secrecy.

The girls laughed and buzzed with questions about your game with your husband, pretending he could be anywhere.

*

You sat at a grand table with several plates before you, each covered with fine foods prepared for your lunch. You sat alone until your husband strolled in, his morning already weighing on his shoulders.

“Good afternoon my dear,” he greeted, leaning down to kiss the top of your head.

“Good afternoon,” you smiled back.

Thranduil paused in sitting down, he peered at you. “Lothlas?” He scoffed when you shook your head. “I don’t like this game.”

“You always say that when it’s your turn to guess.”

“And I always mean it.”

He held his head a little higher when he made you laugh.

The two of you ate together and chatted. The days tended to be long for the King, he heard so many things and made so many decisions that these meals were a respite. A meal with one’s spouse was the finest gift, a prize which was often undervalued, but the King felt he couldn’t have it enough. Daily meals with you weren’t enough for him, he couldn’t seek you out enough.

The meal was shared alongside conversation with the occasional sprinkling in of random Sindarin words as his guesses for the day, followed by your laughter when he got it very wrong. His stubborn brow would furrow every time and was accompanied by the muttering of curses.

The hour ended faster than either of you wished. Servants came in to take your plates and you both stood from the table.

“Have a good afternoon my dear,” you said, holding his hand until the last second. “We shall see each other in the evening.”

Thranduil sighed and tugged you closer gently, pressing your fronts together and softly touching foreheads. “It’s too long, mell, come with me.” He pleaded.

You smiled and pressed your hands flat on his chest. “I have duties, as do you nîn meleth, we must see to them.”

He sighed again and closed his eyes, letting his forehead rest against yours. A few moments passed.

“You won’t be able to read my mind like that.”

“A few seconds more; I’ve almost got the word.”

“Guess then.”

“Calan?”

“No, but you’re close!”

“Rhaich!”

*

Night came over Mirkwood, clutching at the leaves and wrapping itself around the trees. Nightfall was different to the day but never unwelcome. The evenings tended to be slow for you, spending your time bathing, reading, and calming yourself. It was preferred to spend this time with your husband, but these days he was so busy with his kingdom that he worked late into the night. Often time you were asleep by the time he returned, and sometimes he would pass through quickly to say goodnight before continuing his duties.

It was a fleeting moment to show he thought of you. You couldn’t appreciate it more.

Tomorrow was fast approaching, and your bath was beginning to chill when Thranduil came into your shared quarters. The day clearly weighed on his shoulders, his posture was slouched, and the bottom of his robes trailed the floor behind him. He rolled his shoulders as he turned to look at you, and a fatigued smile graced his lips.

“Good evening,” he said, slipping off his robes. “How are you?”

“Tired, yourself?”

“Exhausted.”

He leant down and kissed you, his lips a gentle touch against your own. “Can I join you?”

“The water’s cold.” You sighed and grabbed the sides of the bath to help you in standing up. In this moment you stood higher than him, so you leant forward and rested your hands on his shoulders. “And I’d hate for you to catch a chill.”

He thought for a second before offering, “Helch?”

You shook your head, to which he gave a defeated laugh. With his arms wrapped around your waist he lifted you from the bath and wrapped you in a towel, drying you off carefully. “Afarch?”

You slipped on your nightwear, “Nope, you’re getting further from it.”

“You’re enjoying this too much melethril.”

“Enjoying it as much as you were yesterday. Keep guessing, you have twenty minutes left my love.”

He groaned loudly.

*

Your husband sat at the vanity, and you knelt behind him on a stool to brush through his hair. His crown of leaves and twigs sat on the table before you both, sitting with an air of ego and rule, yet the man before you displayed very little of that. Perhaps it was the length of the day, or perhaps it was the company he was in, but the King of Mirkwood now had his eyes closed and his guard dropped, feeling little but the brush of your fingertips against his skin.

You had thought more than once that he had fallen asleep like this, sat upright and relaxed, but he proved differently when breaking the silence of the room to offer you a random word, still participating in your silly little game even though on the brink of sleep. He produced words from melph to tân, neither being correct. Each false answer made him scrunch his face, a great crease appearing between his dark brows.

The braid you had sewn into his hair on your wedding night brushed your fingers, and you held it in your hand gently. It was loosening but there was time before you’d have to re-braid it.

Thranduil had opened his eyes, watching you examine his patterned hair. He still felt you creating this braid for the first time, taking each strand with care, and folding it together with a line of ivy. He remembered the concentration on your face, how it had been framed by your veil and made even more beautiful by the white robes you had worn that day. He remembered every second from that day, yet the tying of his braid was the most pronounced memory.

“Best?”

You looked at his reflection and a hum for him to repeat himself.

“The word, is it best?”

You smiled and pinched the braid between two fingers. “Very romantic, but no. I told you you’d been close earlier.”

“Close with calan?”

“Yes,” you said as you slipped from the stool and into bed. Your husband followed. You continued blearily, “Close with calan.”

He considered your clue and spoke his process aloud. “Daylight? Ast? Glîn?”

“Very close with glîn.”

He repeated your response in a mutter to himself. He looked out the window across the room, it was pitch black outside, and he was tired. Midnight was creeping up behind him, partnered with his desire to concede. Kings rarely concede, admit defeat, but he was happy to announce his surrender to you. You who laid beside him dosing, holding the fabric of the pillow in your left hand and the rich cloth of his nightwear in your weight. He was determined now to yield so he could see you smile before he went to sleep beside you.

“Alright mell, you’ve beat me. What was the word?”

You grinned cheekily through the haze of sleep, “Glawar.”

The answer trampled Thranduil like a herd of deer. Glawar? He had been so close when guessing calan. The tranquillity of the bedroom was interrupted by Thranduil’s rage at the end of this game, though you were none the wiser, he burned in silence.

“Brilliant, my dear, a good word.” He applauded you with a stale voice. The burn of anger was quickly shifting into a numb defeat. He knew this was a small game that didn’t matter, and no one would hear of this, yet in this moment this loss was the worst he’d ever endure.

“Like your hair.”

“Yes, very much like my hair.”

“I thought of it when I saw your hair look so beautiful this morning.” You explained, oblivious to the dead tone of his voice.

“Thank you, melethril.”

“I look forward to your word tomorrow my dear. I really enjoy this game. Good night.” With that, you rolled onto your side and fell asleep, unaware of the brewing plan of revenge behind you.

“Good night meleth.”

He was already considering the hardest possible words for tomorrow. He hated this game.

[dearinno]

Sylvia Plath

[dearinno]

𝐝𝐚𝐟𝐟𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐥𝐬

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: father paul hill x gn!reader | 965

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: through the wall, father paul had to stop himself from snorting. he’d been a priest a long time, much longer than most, and heard several hundred confessions through the years, but never anything involving daffodils. never anything so emotional about daffodils. he collected himself.

“while i appreciate your honesty,” he started, “that’s not technically a sin.”

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: fluff, out of context bible verses, reader cries

“Forgive me Father for I have sinned. It’s been three months since my last confession.”

There was a pause. A familiar hum in the air as a confession was anticipating. The sting of sin of the tip of your tongue fizzled through the wall partition.

“You see Father,” you paused and collected yourself. “I lost my daffodils. I planted the bulbs correctly and watered them as I was meant to. But I forgot to cover them. It was the crows. They dug up my bulbs and ruined them, so they won’t ever grow now. I failed, Father.”

Through the wall, Father Paul had to stop himself from snorting. He’d been a priest a long time, much longer than most, and heard several hundred confessions through the years, but never anything involving daffodils. Never anything so emotional about daffodils. He collected himself.

“While I appreciate your honesty,” he started, “that’s not technically a sin.”

He heard a deep inhale through the wall. “But I feel so terrible.” This response was heavily spoken, like a towel drenched in water. It meant something as it hung in the air between the two of you.

Paul fidgeted in his seat and figured out his response. “It’s perfectly natural to feel upset over losing something. It’s a shame you didn’t get to see your daffodils bloom, I’m sure they’d have been beautiful, but it’s nothing to confess over. You haven’t sinned, child.”

A sob filled the air. An inhale of air so passionate it had its own life. It became a person standing in that box with you, caving you into the uncomfortable wooden bench you sat on. This inhale watched as you cried messily into your hands. You didn’t have a tissue. The tears going down your face were instead collected with your hands.

“I failed Father! I wanted them so badly, but I failed! I always cover my flowers overnight, always, always. I don’t understand why I forgot this time and I don’t understand why those wretched birds had to destroy those bulbs!”

There was a tickle in the back of Paul’s head which told him that this reaction was about more than the bulbs, but he pushed it back. You needed help for the daffodils now. He wouldn’t dig deeper (unlike those crows).

A piece of fabric poked through one of the holes in the wicker divider between the two of you. It pushed through and tried to wiggle further. You took the small amount of fabric between your index finger and thumb and pulled. More fabric same through. The whistle of friction between the fabric and wicker filled the air. It was a handkerchief, grey after many years of use with blue thread around its border.

“It’s clean. You sounded like you needed it.” Was Father Paul’s explanation.

“Thank you.”

Paul tried to order his thoughts. Many wouldn’t think it, but he was a man of improvisation. His sermons were usually off the top of his head. He was blessed enough to know the bible back to front (and blessed again to have been reunited with his memory) so utilising the verse which suited his rambles was a stroke of luck, of inspiration. Bev Keane would have a stroke to know this. To know that not every sermon was meticulously planned out, but she still clung to every word.

Blind faith was a mystery. Even Moreso to a man who bled words at random.

“I don’t think you failed. I think you were just up against nature.” He spoke surely, grasping each word with a firm hand and praying you did the same. He knew how much what he said now would matter. He hoped you’d hold them close. “Sometimes we forget that nature is everything around us. It’s the grass, the ocean, and the sky. The bulbs you planted and loved were a part of nature, as are the birds. Nature has its cycles which we must follow because we can’t change them, no matter how much it upsets us. Yes, the crows destroyed your daffodils, but you also fed the crows. You helped nature without intending to and that’s equally lovely.

“Even if things did not go the way you intended, God will not let your efforts be in vain. Replant the daffodils, and maybe leave something out for the crows, it’ll be beautiful like the first try.”

You hesitate. His words ring true, and you know they’re right, Father Paul is hardly a man who is often found incorrect, but you can’t help the small tingle of anxiety in the pit of your stomach and the centre of your chest.

“But what if I fail again?”

“Failure is a part of who we are, it’s a part of our nature. The same as the birds and the bulbs we will often fail. James 1:3 says, ‘For you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness.’ Have faith and you will be rewarded, not just faith in the Lord, but faith in yourself and nature. I’m sure you’ll be rewarded the most beautiful daffodils in the spring.”

There’s a security in his words. As if he knows without a doubt that what he says will come to fruition. He puts these words into existence and commands them to be true and loyal. It’s calming, these words are a warm hand on your back, pushing you to try again.

You sniff and wipe the remaining tears from your cheeks. “Thank you Father. I’ll try again.”

He smiles, and though you cannot see it, you can feel it.

“You’re welcome. You need not ask for forgiveness, only strength from the Lord. I look forward to seeing your flowers.”

You leave St. Patrick’s with his handkerchief clenched in your hands, rubbing slowly at the loved fabric.

[dearinno]

𓍊𓋼𓍊 lilacshrike's masterlist 𓍊𓋼𓍊

ఇ Anime ఇ

⟡AOT⟡

Eren Jaeger

After That Happened

Erwin Smith

His Pride

𖦹HQ!!𖦹

Tendou Satori

Hands, Eyes, Chocolate

⋮JJK⋮

Gojo Satoru

Oh, It's Raining

Itadori Yuuji

Spoilt Palette

૮BNHA૮

Bakugo Katsuki

Katsuki’s Sunday

⿻TV/Film⿻

𑁍Midnight Mass𑁍

Father Paul Hill/ Monsignor John Pruitt

Daffodils

ওThe Hobbitও

Thranduil

Gold Light

[dearinno]

𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬, 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬, 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: tendou satori x fem!reader | 2.5k

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: chocolate is intricate to make. his hands are burned, fingers seared and rough to touch. his many years in this service made their marks on his pale skin, makes his little finger tremor continuously, and yet he carries on.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: fluff, cafe au, pining Heavy pining

Chocolate is intricate to make. His hands are burned, fingers seared and rough to touch. His many years in this service made their marks on his pale skin, makes his little finger tremor continuously, and yet he carries on.

The kitchen is hot, Satori’s forehead sweats beneath the white toque atop his shaved head, and the chocolate on the table prepares itself to be moulded under his touch. It was going to be tall, official, and beautiful as his work always was. His delicate hands were popular and sought after for events, parties, weddings, and the like – but he stayed here in a little café on the building’s corner.

The little café belonged to an old woman with a sweet tooth who always complimented him on whatever he made. Small treats and large displays were always met with the same sweet, winkled smile and a pat on the back of his hand. “So lovely Satori,” she would say, “you’ve truly outdone yourself.” No matter how many times he heard her say it, his chest would always warm, and his ankles would tingle. The perfect compliment for him.

He worked at the café for a year before you arrived. Soft hands opening the door and tying an apron around your waist with intricacy – the same exact bow behind you every time. Satori couldn’t help but watch as you tied it, mesmerised by the loops and knots that you carved with brilliance that he could not replicate. His bows were always messy, one loop bigger than the other and the knot always slightly too tight so he’d have to try again. You did it once everyday without issue or notice.

You were sweet. Smiling at him when you came into work, dipping your fingers into the bowls of syrup and winking when the other chefs scolded you for it. Your cheekiness could not be insulted or changed, it was harmless to everyone but him who would always blush and hear his heartbeat in his head. He couldn’t count the times he’d overdone the chocolate while watching you.

Autumn was creeping in steadily, your coat had started appearing in the mornings and you would put it on the hanger you kept your apron on, trading them smoothly before stepping out onto the café floor and greeting the early patrons.

Satori was in a daze as you flowed through the kitchen, his mouth agape and eyes fuzzy. The other chefs tended to laugh at him for it, nudging his sides with their elbows until they got his attention again and teasing him when he came back to earth.

“Pick up your jaw Tendou!”

“You should say something to her!”

“Tell her or we’ll do it for you!”

Their taunts were harmless, the red cheeked men always prodding each other with little quips to fill the kitchen air, but Satori couldn’t help but worry about them. He was going to be the one to say something, of course he was, he was the one who would pronounce his adoration to you. When that would be was very much still in discussion however, his evenings were full of his arguing with himself as to when he would ask you on a date.

He wanted to do it on valentine’s day, but you hadn’t worked that day. He’d made chocolates and everything. It wasn’t anyone’s fault – he shouldn’t have assumed without checking the schedule, and the café owner enjoyed the chocolates anyway, so they weren’t wasted.

Then he wanted to try on your birthday, but he was just a ditsy coward. You’d been so happy all day, your co-workers all bringing you presents and begging you to come out for drinks until you’d agreed. The smile on your face hadn’t faltered for a single second and he was worried to interrupt, worried that his gangly frame and buggy eyes would ruin the day. He’d made you chocolates again on your birthday but trudged around the kitchen with them when you left work. The other chefs patted his back and ate the chocolate.

“It’ll work out soon.” They’d spoke.

Satori shook his head, his toque wilting on his head. “It won’t, it’s just not meant to.”

The chefs all crossed their arms, their muscles trapped in the white fabric of the uniforms. Satori was by far the tallest chef in the kitchen, but the others were far sturdier than him with wide shoulders, stone hips and heavy feet. Maybe that’s why you didn’t like him; he wasn’t your type. He had never been most people’s type. When he’d brought up that idea to the others he’d gotten smacked on the back of the head.

Head chef Hiro scoffed, “You’re wrong Tendou, she’s a smart girl that sees people, not how they look.”

“But my eyes are strange – too big and usually puffy,” Satori wallowed, “and my hands are all burnt.” He’d stared down at his hands, swollen red and covered in plasters. Chocolate was difficult to make, and he’d learnt that so many times.

“That doesn’t matter Tendou,” said Matthew, the pastry chef, “you just need to be confident with her. She’s not scary.”

Satori had mumbled in opposition.

·

The morning patrons had all left for work or school, and you were left cleaning the tables and setting the chairs into the right place. The café door was open, letting a cold breeze into the room which made you shiver occasionally, goosebumps quickly rose under your sleeves.

You never liked it quiet in the café, which it was often bound to be, because when it was quiet it was too quiet. You could hear the rumble of cars outside, the hum of the music played in the academy a block away and the general hubbub from the kitchen. The kitchen had always been too hot for you, while the breeze was cold you could stand it, but the heat always got to you. Dizziness set in too quickly in the kitchen which is why you tended to rush through while putting your apron on.

Someone yelped in the kitchen, pulling up your head from the vase on table 3. Going into the back and pushing open the door, you tilted your head in – already being hit with humidity and steam.

“Are you ok?” you’d asked the man who was clutching his hand close to him.

He’d looked up at you like you were a pair of headlights, alarmed and still like a deer in the road. It wasn’t the first time you’d seen him, the chef with a red, fuzzy hair that was shaved close to his scalp and big shiny eyes. His name was Tendou – his first name escaped you though – and he’d been here longer than you. You saw him every morning as you walked through and your co-workers all seemed to like him, but you’d never been able to get to know him as well as the others.

The two of you stared at each other for a few moments until someone coughed loudly and forcefully, which seemed to wake up the tall man.

“Oh! Yes, I’m fine, chocolate gets hot.” He nodded, almost yelling at you, and painted on a smile which wrinkled almost his entire face.

It was an awkward smile that made you cringe a bit, but also made your chest heat up steadily – like a teapot coming to the boil.

Your brows furrowed through your feelings. “Did you hurt your hand?”

The chocolatier tilted his head from side to side, almost like he was sure, but lifted up his hand and wiggled his long, bony fingers at you. The skin was irritated and hot, the shape of a scald starting to show on the side of the heel. “I’m used to it now – it’s ok!”

You pursed your lips and pulled your head back, intending to go back to the tables but suddenly popped your head back in. “Do you need a plaster or anything?”

“No, it’s ok, thank you.”

This time you went back to the tables with a slight ringing in your chest. You could still feel his smile.

·

In the kitchen, Luther stopped making his cakes and sauntered over to Satori, glaring at the red head as he put on a plaster.

Pinned down under the stare, Satori asked nervously, “What?”

“’Chocolate gets hot’. Nice one.”

Satori could have screamed.

·

The café had closed for the night, and you counted the mugs, making sure they were all the in the right place for your co-workers tomorrow. You didn’t work tomorrow, so you wanted to make it easy for them.

There were a few rattles from the kitchen, the chefs cleaning up after themselves following a long day of work – they would often peer through the door to say goodnight to you before leaving.

Head chef Hiro opened the door, “Goodnight!” He called to you which you returned, he turned to leave but quickly said, “Tendou is still here.”

You smiled at him, “Ok, goodnight Hiro.”

“Goodnight.” He disappeared back into the kitchen.

Nerves set in, a premonition of the possible awkwardness that would undoubtedly happen if you’re suddenly in company. Especially if it’s Tendou – since he smiled strangely at you in the kitchen you’ve felt a bit unwell, unwell in a good way if there is such a thing. You weren’t sure, but you did know that Tendou seemed sweet in a gangly way. Arguably that wasn’t a compliment but for now you’d keep it to yourself.

A few minutes later Tendou walked in, without his uniform and instead dressed casually, thick trousers and a jacket to compensate for the colder weather. Staring at Tendou was strangely fulfilling, his dark red eyes were downturned, they would make him seem sleepy if it wasn’t for his innate alertness, and his lips seemed to be constantly smirking – the corners peaking upwards - and you doubted he even knew how to frown with them.

He seemed flustered, gripping the straps of his backpack, and staring at the ground, big eyes darting around but never meeting or looking at you.

“You’re done Tendou?” you asked him, silently begging for some sort of noise to fill the space.

He nodded and finally looked at you, giving another awkward smile. “Yep; all cleared up.” There was something slightly shaky about his voice, different to the voice you’d always heard yelling in the kitchen.

“Is your hand better now?”

He lifted his hand to show you a bright blue plaster cupping the curve of his hand, “All better!” He proclaimed, a bit too loudly, before shoving his hand into the pocket of his jacket.

You smiled, “Good.” You spoke. “Are you going straight home?”

He rattled his head as he thought about it. “Might stop for some tea, but yeah, probably straight home – I have a lot of reading to catch up on.”

“I didn’t know you like to read,” you hummed before scrunching up your face. “You work in a café but you’re stopping off for tea? There’s no point, sit down I’ll make you some.” Before he could say anything you were already boiling water and grabbing a mug. This sudden forcefulness was unlike you, especially with someone you didn’t know well, but you couldn’t stop now.

Satori had wanted to brush off your offer, but he immediately realised it wasn’t an offer and rushed over to sit on a stool in front of the counter, shucking off his backpack and putting it on the seat next to him. He waited patiently for his unordered drink and fought back the urge to hunch in the seat. The other chefs had stopped him from hunching over three months into his employment, saying it was bad for him. (At the time he had fought back by referring to himself as a retired athlete, but they ignored him and pinched him every time he slouched for the next month and a half).

“Here you go,” you placed the mug in front of him, “I like this blend.”

·

The two of you were quiet as Satori drank his tea, occasionally commenting to each other about random things that weren’t of consequence. Nothing important.

Satori sipped heavily at the remaining tea before continuing what he was saying, “But you see; she actually was Anastasia, and Dmitri worked it out even before the opera!”

You couldn’t help but laugh, “I feel like you’ve told this story in the wrong order, since when were they going to the opera?”

“No, no, they went to the ballet not the opera!” Satori’s grin exploded further when you threw your head back laughing.

It was strange to him to think that he’d opened up so quickly – not that he was a shy person because he most definitely wasn’t, anyone from high school would tell you that, but because it was you. You who made him quake in his silly little kitchen shoes and made all his insecurities come back (though he couldn't blame you for that since they never really left), and you who made him go cross eyed and ditsy.

“God, I have to see this film,” you sighed, taking the mug, and putting it in the space for dirty cups – your co-workers could handle it in the morning.

Nodding headily in his seat, Satori agreed, “It’s a must see, though you might not need to ‘cus I just explained the entire thing.” He shrugged to himself and starting to grab his backpack, faltering slightly at the thought that this would be over and probably wouldn’t happen again. That one hurt. “I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

You shook your head and his heart shuddered. “I’m off tomorrow, but I’m in on Friday.”

But that was two whole days away.

“Ah,” he couldn’t help but sigh a bit, “well I’ll see you then, then!” He tried to be cheery, but he was basically transparent.

You smiled warmly, softly, intricately. “See you then.”

He went to the door, throwing on his backpack, and felt dramatic. He’d see you again on Friday and neither of you were likely to die between then. He’d freaked himself out with that.

“If-” his breathe caught in his throat and he had to cough. You watched with a slightly disturbed expression. He took a second before saying what he wanted; what he had to say. “If I made you chocolates, would you want them? Would you like them?”

His heart catapulted out of his chest when you nodded quickly with a flustered furrow of the brows and quirk of your lips.

“Yes! As long as you don’t burn your hands making them!” You exclaimed, unintentionally throwing a promise into the air.

One he very much promised to fulfil.

“Definitely! I definitely won’t burn them!” He waved his arms, as if he would catch your words in the air. “I’ll see you on Friday then!”

“With my chocolates?”

He couldn’t help an excited shriek from escaping him. “With your chocolates!”

Chocolate is intricate to make. His hands are burned, fingers seared and rough to touch. His many years in this service made their marks on his pale skin, makes his little finger tremor continuously, and yet he carries on. He carries on making chocolate because he knows your favourites and is determined to feed you until you’re sick of it.

(Though you’ll never tell him when that is).

[dearinno]

𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐥𝐭 𝐩𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: itadori yuuji x fem!reader | 2k

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: the times you were safe with yuuji and the time you weren't.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: fluff and angst, implied/referenced character death, nudity without description

Yuuji tends to flop into your bed. He relaxes every part of his body until he just plops down next to you on the bed, exhaling so hard the bed could shake. It makes you laugh every time, pulling him in closer to you and breathing him in.

He worries a lot these days, not that he’d ever let it show as he didn’t want to make you upset, but he had a lot to think about. Dying was on his mind constantly - the death he could have as a sorcerer or the death from Sukuna, either way he was stuck in the middle between two unfortunate ways for his life to end. Thinking about that made him think about his grandfather, the man who told him to have a ‘proper death’ - whatever that was anymore.

Experience changed things. It changed the way he got out of bed in the morning and how he spoke to people. It mostly changed how he thought of a ‘proper death’. He didn’t know how to think about it anymore because it had changed since he last spoke to his grandfather. He’d met so many people and grown alongside them that he couldn’t remember what he first thought a ‘proper death’ was.

You could always see when he was thinking too hard. The space between his eyebrows became so creased that it took the top of his nose with it. He was lying flat on his front, his head on your pillow facing you. You took his hand and brought it up to your lips, he watched you kiss the back of his hand with wide eyes, the creases on his face fizzling out and the pretty lines of a smile taking their place.

“How was your day, Yuuji?” You asked, making your voice as soft as you could.

His gaze melted, and he readjusted himself to pull you closer, entangling his legs with yours. “Good now.”

He laced your fingers with his and tugged them towards his face, kissing your hand the way you did his. His lips were dry, but you relished in the way his eyes squeezed shut as he pressed a hard kiss to your skin. Pulling back just so he could rapidly kiss your hand and opening his eyes to see you smile.

Yuuji slung his arm over your waist and tugged you closer, resting his chin on the top of your head and hearing you sigh calmly. Your hands were still linked between your bodies, his thick thumb started rubbing the side of your index finger slowly and gently, until he felt you relax into him even more.

He started thinking again. Maybe he didn’t have to think so hard about death, since he was content being alive with you. What’s a ‘proper death’ to a proper life? * It had started raining suddenly and harshly.

You had looked out the cafe window when it first started drizzling and said, “I hope it doesn’t rain too hard.”

Yuuji had waved his hand at you through a mouthful of chocolate cake. “It won’t - ’s not supposed to rain today.”

It was raining today. And the two of you were trapped in the cafe without an umbrella.

“‘It’s not gonna rain today’,” you teased him with a glare and a waggle of your head.

Yuuji laughed and rubbed the back of his neck, “My bad!”

You poked his side to make him jump and looked out the window, seeing how forcefully the rain was coming down and sighing. You checked the time on your phone and sighed even harder. “We’re gonna miss the film if it doesn’t stop soon.”

Your boyfriend clicked his tongue and shook his head, “We’ll get there if we leave now.” Before you could argue back, he took off his green coat and plopped it over your head, adjusting it tightly before starting to push you out the door. He called a quick “Thank you!” Over his shoulder to the cafe employees before ushering you both into the rain.

A shriek escaped you when the rain hit the coat on your head, the sound blaring in your ears. You looked up to Yuuji who grinned broadly at you, his hair had already gone darker from the water and small drops were sliding down the bridge of his nose. He was so beautiful.

Yuuji wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you along, hurriedly pacing in the direction of the cinema. You struggled to keep up with his pace, but he held you so tightly there was no chance of you falling. When you tried to loosen his grip to go around a puddle he wouldn’t let you go which made your feet fuss in their stride.

“Yuuji, there’s a puddle!”

“It’s fine! Over you go!”

He lifted you over the puddle, it was just a small hop, but you couldn’t help but laugh. He spun you around in a circle so he could lift you over again and started laughing with you. His laugh was the type that took over his entire body, his hand periodically squeezed your waist, and his second pair of eyes were a collection of squished wrinkles.

You missed the film. He carried you over every puddle (dropping you into one accidently) and made you laugh so hard you had to crouch on the ground to keep your balance. All of the kisses you shared had the small barrier of raindrops and his coat eventually slipped off of your head, but it was alright. Gripping each other tightly in the rain was a different kind of content. A cold and soaked content - but content, nonetheless. * More often than not, Yuuji’s body is sore. It’s tough being borderline superhuman and pushing his body so hard he can barely feel his arms. It never used to hurt this badly but since starting jujutsu it hurts a lot. It might be the additional cursed spirit he’s carrying around that makes him hurt so much but that’s just a guess. Or maybe he just likes blaming things on Sukuna - like when he dropped his pen the other day and cussed at the curse until he felt better.

You’d told him that a bath always helped you feel better when your body hurt, and your body hurts often due to your technique, so he tried a long bath. Usually his baths were quick, just cleaning his body and getting out as fast as he got in, but this time he had to slow himself down. The water was lobster boiling hot and he had to admit that he was calm. He’d exhaled heavily, closed his eyes and tried to relax his body, just letting himself sit for a while.

He heard the front door open and you calling out his name. “Bathroom!” He’d called back, resting his head back on the wall behind him. He heard you come in, the sound of your bare feet padding on the tiles was the only noise other than the occasional drip from the tap. Cracking an eye open, Yuuji watched you shrug off your uniform jacket and pull a stool over to sit next to him.

“Long day, baby?” He asked, closing his eye again.

You hummed and dipped the tips of your fingers into the bathwater, swirling the water between your digits. “Not long; just slow.”

“Those are the same thing!” He retorted and received a flick of water to his face.

“Since when did you become so smart?”

He giggled to himself and scrunched his nose, “I’ve hit my head so many times I have to be smart by now.”

Your laugh echoed around the room, “Double negative?”

Yuuji started properly laughing with you, his stomach creased as he sat up straight in the water. He opened his eyes to watch you, the way your shoulders shook and the width of your smile. It was undeniable that you looked tired, long days with other sorcerers were obviously taking a lot out of you. You were getting enough sleep, he made sure of it, but the savagery of your cursed technique left an undeniable mark. Your eyes were dim and slightly bloodshot from strain, your hands shook at random intervals, and it took you a while to stand up on bad days. He couldn’t help but wish you didn’t have to work so hard.

He couldn’t help but wish the both of you didn’t have to work hard.

Exhaustion didn’t suit either of you or Yuuji would rather neither of you had to go through it.

“When’s your next day off? We should go somewhere.” Yuuji dampened his hair when he ran his hand through the pink strands.

You shrugged, “Probably not for a while.”

He reached a wet hand out and squeezed your cheeks with the tips of his fingers. “Then we’ll make time off! We deserve it!”

That made you smile again, the creases of your lips fought against the pressure of his fingers. “Are you saying we should skive?”

“Yeah, who cares?” His tone got higher as his excitement rose.

“Lots of people!”

“That’s not our fault!”

You threw your head back with a laugh, your cheeks escaping his grasp, then leant forward and pressed your forehead to the side of the bath.

“Going away sounds nice.” You said in a happy whisper.

He held the back of your head gently. “We’ll go soon.” He assured confidently.

“Yeah, soon.” * Breathing was torture. Moving your hands burned. Hearing was borderline impossible.

Being thrown like a ragdoll was never good but landing like a pile of bricks was worse.

You couldn’t feel any part of you unless that part was in excruciating pain - for now those parts were your hands, knees, ribs, and collarbone. Your breaths were wheezes interlaced with whines of pain; you’d quickly realised that you couldn’t get rid of the pain without stopping breathing. Couldn’t have one without the other - and that made it hurt more.

In your little heap on the ground, you were alone. You couldn’t remember where the others had gone, you couldn’t hear them - you couldn’t hear anything without that high pitched scream ricocheting through your skull.

Maki, Nobara, Megumi - they were all lost from you.

Yuuji was lost too. But you knew where he was. You knew where his body was.

It was swaggering towards you with heavy yet lazy steps. His wrists were painted with black rings and his face was marked in a way that meant you weren’t getting out of here alive. His energy changed, his face changed - even his smell changed - and you had watched as he became someone else. Someone who hated you, thought you were an object and respected you less than he would an object.

Ryomen sukuna squatted next to your head and clicked his fingers in front of your face to focus you. The thick fingers, the ones you’d memorised yet were unfamiliar now, pinched your nose harshly and tugged your head to look at him, his long dark nails piercing the skin of both your cheeks.

“That brat is an idiot.” He’d stated, his voice deep - so deep you almost couldn’t hear him. “How he could ever think you were on the same level as me,” he scoffed, “just shows he’s a fucking fool.”

A particularly hard wheeze from you caught his attention and he slapped your forehead for it. Your head was forced an inch into the concrete beneath you. Dizziness began rotting your brain and your mouth tasted your blood.

“Don’t interrupt.” He spat, all four of his eyes narrowing.

“I heard all the times he said you’d go away together. Revolting stuff, I’m not surprised he came up with it. But it was a lie.” He held his arms out at his sides to present himself, “It was always going to be this - I was always going to happen.”

Sukuna stood up and nudged your ribs with his foot, producing a hollow and pathetic screech from the bottom of your throat.

“I won’t bother to remember your weakness.” He sneered, creasing his nose in a way you’d seen thousands of times but now didn’t fail to burn you.

He left you there. You didn’t know where he was going but you wouldn’t be able to stop him from going.

Sukuna left you there and took Yuuji with him.

You couldn’t feel anything now, not even your breathing. Because it had stopped now.

[dearinno]

𝗸𝗮𝘁𝘀𝘂𝗸𝗶’𝘀 𝘀𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗮𝘆

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: bakugo katsuki x fem!reader | 798

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you and katsuki have very different sundays but he's willing to wait for his.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: fluff!, deaf!bakugo

Strangely enough, Sundays were the busiest day of the week for you. It was a day for chores that you’d never be able to do during the week. You’d clean the flat from floor to ceiling; put every bit of fabric you could see into the wash; water all the plants and prepare meals for the upcoming week. You were very busy on Sundays.

Katsuki, however, was not busy on Sundays.

He’d spent the whole week, including Saturday, working himself to exhaustion so Sunday was the only chance he got to move as little as possible. He wanted to stay in bed all day on Sunday, wake up next to you and just stare while you slept, get up slowly for breakfast and return to bed as quickly as possible.

Unfortunately, his version of Sunday didn’t tend to happen which was fine for him, he understood you were busy and even though it annoyed him thoroughly, he respected it. But it created his least favourite version of himself - clingy Katsuki.

You would flit around the flat cleaning with Katsuki attached to you, he’d hold on to the back of your shirt or wrap his arms around your waist so tight you’d have to drag him around. Occasionally he’d attempt to weigh you down, pulling you towards the sofa or the bed until you both flopped onto it. It would make you laugh every time - that was part of the reason why he did it - and you’d wiggle around trying to stand up again like a turtle that had fallen on its back. He’d let you back up eventually, after he’d had a moment to hold you fully, and continue following you.

Sunday was the day he went without his hearing aids. You never spoke much when you were cleaning so he didn’t need to wear them (he also hates the sound of the hoover but he doesn’t like to talk about it). He’d hold your phone as you worked, feeling the bass of the music on your cleaning playlist, the slight vibrations from the speakers helped him calm down from his stressful week.

Sunday was also the day when his voice was scratchy, and his throat hurt. He’d spent all week yelling and screaming at villains and anyone else who annoyed him. When he got to the apartment on Saturday night he’d barely managed to say, “I’m home”, and when he finally got the words out they were grinding and made him cough. You’d popped a cough sweet into his mouth and ushered him to bed.

He knelt behind you as you scrubbed the bathtub, his arms wrapped around you and his head leaning on your shoulder. He knew you were trying to be gentle, not jostle him as much but the task called for his head to bounce on your shoulder. It was ok though; you cleaned the bath every week so it didn’t take too long. He could handle a little bouncing for you.

You’d tapped his arm when you needed to stand up again, both of you getting up in practiced unison, and he started focussing for the next job. He always paid attention when you refilled your pills. He watched as you put a pill in every section for every day of the week, taking note if you were running out. It was a methodical part of your routine; one he kept a close eye on. Your health was important to him, and he knew that sometimes you’d forget to take your pills, so he kept a close eye on this process.

You always finished your chores at three in the afternoon on the dot. Standing in the living room with your hands on your hips as you did a big sigh to show you’d finished. The bedsheets were changed, your clothes and Katuski’s hero costume were all clean, food plans were made, and the plants had had a drink. You were done. And now it was time for Katsuki’s Sunday.

He’d take your hand and tug you towards the sofa, lying on his back and pulling you to lie on top of him. He held you so tightly, so gently, pressing a kiss to the top of your head and breathing you in. His big hands would stroke your back and occasionally give the back of your thigh a little squeeze. You were pulled into his warmth and not let go until the sun went down and that was perfectly fine with you.

The two of you would lie together, your cleaning playlist would finish, and it would be warm. The end of Sunday was quiet, soft, and clean. You would wait for the day to end with him and prepare for Monday to start with him. He was calm, breathing in bliss.

[dearinno]

𝐨𝐡, 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: gojo satoru x fem!reader | 1.5k

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: a rainy shopping day ends with a dance in the rain.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: fluff!

It had done nothing but rain for the last two days, and while you’d rather stay dry in the safety of your flat, shopping had to be done. The empty cupboards in the kitchen meant that you couldn’t put it off any longer - you’d have to brave the rain.

The broken umbrella that rested by the front door made you hesitant, it was part of the reason you’d procrastinated going out until now. The last time it had rained this long it had been extremely windy which folded your umbrella inside out. It was completely broken, and you’d forgotten to buy a new one - of course, you’d remembered when it started raining, kicking yourself with a sigh.

Putting on a raincoat and your most waterproof shoes, you left the flat with a different kind of determination. The determination to avoid every single raindrop, in the back of your mind you knew it was a stupid thing, but you couldn’t help but try to dodge every drop.

It was a cold rain. The seasons were on the cusp of changing, spring clambering into the spotlight and pushing winter out of the way. Spring was always a slow starter, the little bit of heat which came with it was overshadowed by the cold wind and the sun failing to break through the clouds. It was a slow process but worth it. The flowers always bloomed in the spring.

The supermarket was cold which didn’t help in the slightest. Your skin tingled with every step, hands shaking as you reached out for a punnet of fruit. The frozen aisles were hellish as always, your toes were completely unresponsive, and your lips had gone dry.

The sweets aisle was a haven, you’d walked under a heater as you entered, and a sudden bliss washed over. You could spend hours in the candy section, the bright wrappers all catching your attention and the memory of a white-haired man appeared in your head. This aisle always made you think of him. His sweet tooth was the reason you could waste your days away in this aisle. He’d talk you through every treat, explaining why he liked it and why it should go into the basket.

When you first started shopping together you’d put a limit on how many sweets he could buy, only being able to afford a few alongside the other things you had to buy. That started the mini debates in the candy aisle; he’d put something into the basket then pull it out, talking through his thought process as he switched it for another. Sometimes he’d end up in an endless loop of ‘actually no’s, changing his mind before he could ever make a concrete decision.

He wasn’t usually an indecisive person but that changed in the sugary treats aisle.

You put a few colourful packets in the basket for him. You hadn’t seen him in a while because he was working, and you knew he’d appreciate them when he got back.

It was still raining when you finished, and you had to take a deep breath before going back out into it. The handles of the shopping bags dug into your fingers which you’d have to readjust ever so often, slowing you down as you walked back home. Feeling positively soggy, you turned the corner approaching your building - and someone called your name.

You looked up to see him. He waved his arms wildly to get your attention, a wide grin on his face which creased the bottom of his blindfold.

“Satoru!”

You ran to him, a sudden rush pumping through you. When you were close enough you dropped the bags to wrap your arms around him. The hood of your raincoat had fallen down but it didn’t matter; Satoru was home.

“I missed you, you were gone for so long,” you said, looking at the black cloth which hid his eyes.

He stroked your head and scrunched his nose teasingly. “I’ll be quicker next time; you won’t have to wait so long.”

Breathless from running and the relief of seeing Satoru, you held his hands as they moved to cup your face. “We should go inside - have to get the shopping in.” The canvas bags on the ground were soaking up the puddles you’d dropped them in. You moved to pick up the bags, but he held your arm to keep you in front of him.

“Dance with me.” He demanded.

“What?”

“Isn’t it romantic?” He wiggled childishly in place, “dancing in the rain with me, your love, your lov-er, i think that’s fantastic.” As he spoke he unzipped your raincoat and pulled it down your arms, dropping it without a care. Your white shirt - which he suspected was his - becoming drenched instantly, he could see the tops of your shoulders through the fabric.

Satoru picked you up and put your feet on top of his. He began to sway dramatically from side to side, lifting his legs randomly to move around. Your legs went with his, making you laugh, lifting up and down without a hint of rhythm.

“Don’t drop me! Satoru!”

“Don’t worry baby, I’m the strongest.” He relished in the way your laughter turned into a screech when he said his cheesy line.

It hadn’t yet occurred to you that he wasn’t getting wet, the raindrops slipped around his infinity without the slightest notion of touching him. If you realised you’d probably smack his arm, he knew, and part of him couldn’t wait for you to notice. He didn’t want to break from this moment, he watched as you laughed so hard you choked for air, gripping his jacket tightly to keep him glued to you.

He also couldn’t wait to get inside with you, he knew you’d catch a cold from this dance. He couldn’t wait to tease you by pinching your nose with a tissue in his hand, and he was itching to cuddle you when the medicine made you drowsy, encased in a warm cocoon of blankets.

But that would have to hold off. For now, he was bathing in the glory that was seeing raindrops slide off your jaw and the tip of your nose, and a smile on your face so wide it must have hurt.

Those other things could wait, he wanted to stay here for a while.

[dearinno]

𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐝

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: eren jaegar x fem!reader | 853

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: following the what happened in marley, you had tried to avoid him. you didn't want to see him. but questions burned on the tip of your tongue and anger singed your insides. you went to see him in the prison.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: angst, season 4 pt 1 spoilers

When Hange told you he was down in the prison, your heart lurched to your throat. It made sense for them to keep him down there after what had happened in Marley. The thing was that you hadn’t asked. You hadn’t gone to Hange asking where he was, they’d gone out of their way to tell you.

Maybe you were a bad person for not asking; and maybe you were even worse for the rage circling in your stomach.

You’d given Hange your best smile and thanked them. They could tell it was insincere, you had never been good at hiding your feelings and pretending you were fine - and Hange could read you better than anyone.

Standing at the door of the prison you swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing back the vomit rising from the pit of your stomach. It had taken you fifteen minutes to convince yourself to start walking down the stairs, your heart burning hotter with every step closer to him. Now facing the door, the flame burnt so fiercely it was hard to breathe.

You didn’t want to see him - not at all. You should want to see him but you don’t.

There was time to turn back around, pretend you hadn’t even tried and carry on until you’re forced to see him. But you were already so close. And a voice in the back of your head told you he could smell you.

With sweaty hands, you opened the heavy wooden door and walked on shaking legs to his cell. When you saw him sitting on his bed, glaring at the wall, you couldn’t breathe. And when he looked at you, tears sprung into your eyes.

Eren gazed at you with bland eyes and said your name hollowly, the same dead drawl he’d used with Levi. He leant forward, “My wife.”

Unable to say anything to him, you sat in the chair opposite the cell, and he stood up to hold into the rusty prison bars.

“I expected you to come sooner,” he mused, flicking the hair away from his eyes. “Haven’t seen you since the airship.”

You shrugged tightly, shoulders jumping up harshly due to your tense muscles. “I just needed time to myself.”

Eren hummed, eyeing you like a wolf would its prey. Maybe that's all you were to him now - prey expected to submit. He’d already declared himself a dominating force in Marley, perhaps he expected you to cower before him as well. That’s possibly what he expected all of the scouts to do now, all of Paradis.

The thought of what happened in Marley made your face scrunch up, the tears you hadn’t let fall now slipping down your cheeks and cupping your jaw. A headache was already in motion, and your nausea only continued to grow.

“Why-” you started, having to stop to swallow your thickening saliva. “Why did you do that in Marley?”

Eren didn’t immediately answer, you knew he wasn’t thinking about his answer and he wasn’t even pretending to. It was like he was trying to extend these moments, staring at your wet face with nothing alive behind his eyes. Extending the moments that you were in pain.

“It had to be done.” He finally said. No remorse. No apology. He just said it.

You were supposed to take that simple answer because he said it with unwavering certainty.

Your tears became thicker and your throat closed up, a strange sound escaped you as you gasped for air through your grief. “And Sasha?” Unable to muster the energy to glare at him, you just stared desperately. “Did Sasha have to-” you couldn’t say it, voice wetly crackling off to save you from speaking aloud what happened to your beloved friend.

Eren didn’t say anything. He just watched you cry. Sobbing into the sleeves of your shirt, your voice occasionally breaking through with a wail. You guessed he felt nothing watching this.

“I hadn��t wanted you so close to everything. You should have stayed on the airship instead of being with the others.”

“Because that would have been better?” You snapped quickly, the nausea you felt had begun twisting into rage. “Connie said that you laughed when you heard about Sasha, is that true?”

“I would have preferred my wife to be away from that much fighting.”

“Did you laugh?”

Two separate conversations were taking place, his calm responses clashed with your biting demands. He didn’t respond to your questions, you watched his unwavering face choose to not answer.

It was getting too much. Your blood raced through your veins, heartbeat pounding your ears as a hammer would an anvil. The headache was boiling your brain.

Abruptly standing, you turned to leave him alone in the prison. Sudden words from Eren stopped you.

“You’ll leave your husband down here so soon?”

Everything suddenly slowed, your breathing eased and your head cleared to allow you this moment. Your response crackled on the tip of your tongue.

“I don't want you to be my husband anymore. I can’t be married to a monster.”

Your headache came back, and you left him.

[dearinno]

𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐞

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: erwin smith x fem!reader | 556

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: erwin sees himself in the hero of the book you're reading to him.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: fluff! i’m forcing jane austen into aot canon

“Are you ready?”

“Yes, please start.”

With a hand in his hair, you started reading. “‘It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.’”

Erwin’s eyes closed as soon as you started. He was so tired. Planning the next expedition outside the walls was exhausting, constantly fighting with higher ups was exhausting, preparing to watch his comrades be murdered was exhausting. He was completely shattered, from things he had done, things he was doing and things that are going to happen.

Hearing you read was a temporary bliss. He would lay his head on your lap, and you’d stroke through his hair until his body had completely relaxed. Sometimes he’d fall asleep, you could always tell he was dreaming because the constant crease between his thick eyebrows would disappear. His face would settle, and his hands would stop fidgeting - he’d be gone to the world.

He could hear you while he slept. Your voice never faltered, remaining steady as you smuggled your ways into his dreams. It was often a pain when this happened, he’d imagine parts of the book that hadn’t happened, or your voice would mute for a moment as he fell into an even deeper sleep. He’d never ask you to repeat the parts he’d missed though, never wanting to delay you or stall the next book.

Tonight, he didn’t fall asleep but the serene look on his face could have tricked you, if not for his reactions to the text. Occasionally his brows would furrow, or his lips would purse, sometimes he’d huff a small laugh. He was quite animated tonight. When you had to turn the page, he’d chase your hand, tilting his head up until he felt your touch again. You weren’t sure if he knew he was doing it or not, but it was sweet, very sweet.

“Do you think I’m like Mr Darcy?” He asked, his eyes still closed. He’d heard the majority of the text by now, but this was the first question he’d asked.

You had to think for a moment, humming as you flicked the previous pages. “Not really, there are little things you both have in common but you’re not the same.”

A small smile graced his face, “What do we have in common?”

“You both have a lot of pride,” you started, squinting as you tried to put your words together. “But your pride doesn’t hurt you in the same way it hurts Darcy.”

“What do you mean?”

You had to readjust yourself on the bed. “Darcy’s pride causes Elizabeth to hate him, but your pride is part of what i love about you.”

Erwin opened his eyes to gaze at your face, examining your features for the millionth time. It was a dreamy look that he reserved for you; one he knew flustered you beyond belief, but he couldn’t stop himself.

“You love my pride?”

You hummed in agreement; you hand never stopping in his hair. “your pride is your strength, for Darcy it’s a flaw he has to overcome.”

He was quite content with your answer, settling back into your lap and closing his eyes again. You continued reading.

“‘My affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence me on this subject forever.”