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nakedberries · 6 months
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nakedberries · 6 months
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need a vacation of 463829 days fr
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nakedberries · 6 months
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its so fucking embarrassing joining a discord server like hii im a random asshole and heres my stupid attempt at assimilating into possibly years of injokes and personalities that i have to blind read and hope i mesh well with but for now ill just fucking talk to myself publicly in front of everyone i guess because nobody cares about what i have to say
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nakedberries · 6 months
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the 5 love languages: song recommendations, parallel play, talking about The Character, offering to kill each other’s parents, gifting little trinkets
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nakedberries · 6 months
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THE WITCH'S SONG - part one knight!osamu/witch!reader tags: fem!reader, royalty!au, supernatural!au, witchcraft, enemies to lovers, mentions of violence/illness/death, persecution and oppression, tw blood, please read the tags on each chapter as updated and minors do not interact.
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The night air is sweet. 
It’s still early summer, where the days are warm and bright before giving way to cool evenings, and the smell spring unfurled with its budding leaves continues to linger long after the sun sets. The aroma is fresh and green, not yet turned to the heady fragrance of singed grass and warmed earth which will slowly seep in as the days grow longer and the sun ever-brighter overhead.
There’s something captivating about this time of year; not quite the lush, blooming spring, nor the scorching, unforgiving summer, but a deliriously pleasant in-between that keeps the best of both.
On a tall hill, overlooking the rocky coast and a quiet village in the distance, sits a small stone cottage. Ivy crawls along the rows of uneven bricks that give the home its shape, having long settled and slanted in the time since it was built, each vine curling in long stems around four-pane windows and up towards the thatched roof. 
In front of the house sits a garden, full of every plant anyone could possibly desire to find in the given climate; vegetables, fruits and unusual herbs abound. The rich earth that surrounds the cottage is fertile and generous—with a careful hand to till and tend it, there’s little it can't sprout. The gardens are still not quite at their peak for the season, the plants low to the ground but flourishing as they patiently wait for a few more sun-filled days to truly blossom into their prime. 
Along the western side of the property, nearest to the towering forest’s edge, sits a greenhouse connected to a shabby little shed that greatly resembles the cottage in its quaint, unassuming construction. It’s there, in the dead of this cool summer night, that you—the owner of the cottage—toil.
Your fingers hold a glass vial over a small open flame atop the work station with a set of silver pincers. Your keen, well-trained eyes watch attentively as the fire licks up along the edges of the glass, heating the contents within. A breeze, northeasterly with a faint taste of salt air that creeps in with the nearby waves, whisks through the room and a shiver accompanies it in turn. 
A soft sigh slips through your parted lips and your eyes, previously fixed on the tincture held over the flame, lift towards the door. 
You aren’t startled when you see him standing there, though you barely contain the sound of annoyance that threatens to leave you; the momentary glance is the only acknowledgement you make to his (notably unwelcome) appearance as his figure darkens your doorway. You return your gaze to the solution you’re in the midst of preparing—a careful balance of valerian, mugwort, and poppy heads for a woman in the nearby village who has been unable to sleep restfully since the untimely death of her husband.
“Good evenin’,” he says to you once he realizes that you will not be the first to speak. He punctuates the greeting with a light clearing of his throat.
“Is it?” you reply, removing the slender vial from the flame and swirling its contents. You closely examine the colour and viscosity of the liquid, returning it to the heat for a few moments more after some consideration. 
“Sorry to show up unannounced,” the young man’s own tone is rather tight and clipped as he speaks the words–obviously equally unhappy with the turn of events that had led him to your cottage this evening, though resolute to maintain some level of decorum. 
“And yet,”—you finally look up at him, meeting his gaze with a firm and unwavering stare that you have up until this point denied him—“here you are.” 
Finally satisfied with the tincture, you set about pressing a stopper into the tube. You reach over and pluck up a burning taper from the candleholder resting nearby on your worktop, tipping it forward over the still blisteringly-hot glass to seal the cork. A rivulet of molten wax runs from the candlestick in a slow drizzle, and you carefully turn the thin vial to coat the border where glass and cork marry evenly. A piece of blue ribbon is then carefully wound around the warm wax before it has fully hardened, sealing the small vessel shut. 
The man watches silently as you slip the vial into a velvet pouch, tying the strings together tightly to draw it closed, and then you tuck the pouch safely away in the pocket of your flowing skirt—out of sight from where your visitor stands in the doorway to the greenhouse. Your eyes scan over the bench for a moment before you extinguish the oil burner you’d been using, turning the small knob at the base until the flame shrinks down to nothingness. 
“I wouldn’t’ve come if it weren’t important,” the young man’s tone has softened slightly into something closer to a mumble, weary from his journey and seemingly in grave need of something he could only seek from you. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days, with grim shadows under his eyes and a pallor to his skin that doesn’t suit him.
“Now that I do believe,” you remark, almost drolly, picking up your oil lamp and crossing the room towards where he stands. He stiffens a little as you approach, as though bracing himself against a threat, but you merely slip soundlessly past him, stepping out into the dark night. 
Behind you, the man sighs.
He follows.
The two of you cross the yard, a few paces separating you throughout the silent trek, with the lamp you hold in hand the only light to lead the way. You tread carefully through the well-tended garden, careful but familiar motions deciding where each foot falls, and you sense without turning that he’s following your path as you move towards the stone cottage on the other side of the property—ensuring his own steps follow your footprints precisely. There are candles burning inside your cottage up ahead, their warm glow visible through the windows, and smoke curls steadily from the chimney and into the brisk night air. The smoke is perfumed with herbs, and the scent only grows stronger the nearer you get to your home.
You wonder if he notices.
“That’s far enough.”
You pause in your stride as you reach the stout stone wall that circles your cottage in a knee-high ring, resting with your feet together at the place where a gate might be were there any need for it. Behind you, the man falters to his own stop, surprised by your sudden halt and your sharp words.
“I need yer help,” he sounds confused, and frustrated—impatience creeping into his tone again. There’s a sharpness to it, like he’s forced each word out from between clenched teeth. You don’t look back to verify your suspicion. 
Another cold wind blows from the direction of the sea, and the budding leaves of the garden’s plants around you rustle as it passes, whispering amongst themselves as they spectate your exchange.
“I care very little for what you need, Miya Osamu,”—you glance at him over your shoulder, and see the way the distant light from your windows dances in his eyes—“and it will be a cold day in hell before I help a royal knight.”
The garden seems to still in the wake of your low-spoken words, the breeze dying out like the temporary peace ahead of a storm’s rage.
Before you, Osamu’s eyes have hardened. The lines of his sharp jaw set underneath his skin.
“Ya know me.”
“I know of you,” you correct him flatly. “Fortunately, our paths have never crossed.”
Until now.
Osamu’s nostrils flare, then he swallows.
“How?” he asks, his voice low and deceptively even.
“One of the king’s most trusted knights tearing through the outskirts of the kingdom in search of a healer is news powerful enough to reach even my ears, Miya.” Your lamplight dims slightly as you hold it aloft in your hand, the flame beneath the glass slowly shrinking. The oil is burning low. “I knew it was only a matter of time before you got desperate and I got unlucky.”
He flinches, his lashes fluttering slightly like he’s fighting back a more violent reaction. Like he’s accepting a blow he could easily return but chooses not to. The knight's gaze casts down to his feet as his fingers curl into fists at his sides.
“My brother's ill,” he says quietly, his voice heavy with an anxiety that rolls off of him in waves. “My twin.”
“Atsumu,” you specify, since he did not. His gaze snaps up to meet yours, and there’s a spark of something new behind it. Something more volatile. He looks angry that you’ve taken it upon yourself to speak his brother’s name.
“I know what you are,” he says slowly, wielding his next words like a blade and aiming to kill.
“Oh?” You tilt your head to the side in a show of guilelessness. 
“Yer a witch,” he continues, overlooking your feigned ignorance. 
“There are no witches in this kingdom,” you reply. “The crown you’ve sworn your life to saw to that.”
“Our king h—“
“Your king,” you interrupt him. The unexpected interjection seems to shock him, and his shoulders square indignantly.
“Yer also a subject of this kingdom,” he counters, and your distaste is made perfectly evident in your responding sneer. 
“I’m governed by no monarch, and certainly by no man.”
Osamu’s hands are still held in tightly-clenched fists at his side, the lines of his body as clear an indicator as any to his palpable anger. “You’d admit to treason before a knight?” 
“You’ve already accused me of witchcraft,” you spit, your teeth gnashing together as you force the words out. “What’s another crime to be burned for?”
You know all too well the end that awaits a woman accused of such a crime.
It’s the fate your mother met before your very eyes, after all.
Seconds stretch between you in the garden—sticky, and uncomfortable, and polluted with the animosity you feel for each other. It takes root in distrust and blossoms into something ugly, like a weed.
Osamu takes a breath, letting his head hang forward. His shoulders slump.
 “An old man two towns west from here told me a young woman in this cottage once cured his ailing wife in her final hours, and she lived a decade more. That she was brought back from the brink of death thanks to the woman’s care.” He looks up at you again, and his stare is insistent. Beseeching.
You know the man he speaks of, and his gentle, lovely wife. It was half a century ago now since you’d first met them, and you’ve heard the old man has gone a bit senile in his old age. You doubt he meant you any harm in his revelation, regardless of the trouble it’s come to cause.
“I’m nothing but a humble herbalist.” Your hand sweeps out in gesture to your garden, but the man before you is unmoved.
“Who’s been a young woman for fifty years.”
Even the distant sea seems to have stilled as the tension intensifies between you, the waves falling silent to make room for the hostility that spreads with every passing moment.
Osamu swallows. “They say witches have powerful healin’ abilities. That you can make potions that’ll revive a man half-dead.”
“It’s folklore,” you reply dismissively.
“It’s fact,” Osamu snaps. "I know it is."
“And what else do you claim to know of these so-called witches?” you deride, and you don’t miss the way his eyes seem to quickly trace you.
He squares his shoulders, then he meets your gaze. “They say ya maintain yer beauty and youth by devourin’ the hearts of good men.”
“Is that so?” you muse, though you seek no sincere elaboration. You look to your left, east towards the sea, and then sweep your gaze across the expanse of your garden to the right. You meet his dark eyes again after surveying your surroundings. “Well, I see no good men nearby, so I believe you should be safe.”
In the dim light, you swear you see something throb at the corner of his tense jaw.
“There’s not a healer in the royal court who’s been able to cure my brother,” Osamu’s voice breaks, taking a step towards you. “I’ve come here unarmed, and mean no harm to ya.”
Your upper lip curls at the lie and his proximity, baring your teeth.
No man has ever once approached a witch with pure intentions.
The seek only their beauty, their power, or their beating, bloody hearts.
Your mother’s screams ring suddenly through your ears, piercing and agonized. The memory makes gooseflesh raise along your skin. Makes the back of your tongue taste sour. You squeeze your eyes shut as though to quell it, but this only seems to trap the sound in the recesses on your brain. They grow louder, and harder to forget. 
You see your mother on a wooden stage constructed in the town square before a crowd of horrified spectators, the gnarled boards underfoot already stained in scarlet.
The white linen shift they’d forced her to wear, and the way the thin material flowed away from her frame in the breeze.
The glittering hilt of the jewelled knife that carved out her heart, with the sigil of the king etched into its blade.
The crackling flames that consumed her as she wailed.
A witch can live without her heart, you see, so long as it’s kept close to her. Your mother wasn’t spared a second of the misery of being burned alive. She was granted no mercy in the final terrifying moments of her life.
You open your eyes and the dark sky above you seems to hang closer overhead, as though it’s more suffocatingly near than it was before. The garden around you suddenly feels colder.
Osamu’s eyes widen, like he feels it too.
Your dying lamp burns out.
“Leave this place,” you say to him, low and warning. Your voice rings clear in the unearthly still night. “And if you value your life, never come back here again.”
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nakedberries · 7 months
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oh hozier the man you are
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nakedberries · 7 months
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king kamo choso who helps you dress in the morning because heavens forbid someone else places their hands upon your skin. who helps you undress, too, and kisses your neck and spine and where your rib cage resides, protecting your heart. grips your hips when you lower yourself on his cock and worships every inch of your body before fucking you until it’s spilling out.
and king kamo choso who only gets on his knees for you — to eat you out or beg for whatever it may be.
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nakedberries · 7 months
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diluc is taking you to the seaside cottage for a few weeks for your constitution. as adelinde is helping him pack, she’s giving him reminders. pick up bread from the store and serve it with every meal. soups are good for the heart. turn down her bed for her at night. make it for her in the morning. be sure her clothes are hung up when you arrive. take care of her.
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nakedberries · 7 months
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hardcore porn: massaging his scalp until he falls asleep in my arms
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nakedberries · 7 months
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Wake up it's time to get blocked and reported
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nakedberries · 7 months
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AI art and humanity
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nakedberries · 7 months
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need to be fucked by a big rough scarred knight who holds my face down into a pillow and coos and growls about how soft i am and calls me ‘my lady’ or other such titles whilst he treats me so filthily i forget all of my court manners
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nakedberries · 7 months
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making out with osamu with you on his lap and he’s whining into your mouth. takes your hips and pushes you further against him for more friction as his patience runs thin. “come on, baby. fuck me. fuck me.”
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nakedberries · 7 months
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source
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nakedberries · 7 months
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date night in with nanami doing a mini iron chef competition between the two of you instead of just making dinner
(he always says you win)
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nakedberries · 7 months
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Guy who worships you and feels honored to be able to touch you absolutely losing it while fucking you
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nakedberries · 7 months
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this for real
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