#and his enigmatic spoon.

[shivroy]

jeremy strong and his enigmatic spoon and beautiful spirit

[ozzgin]

Yandere! Edward Scissorhands x Reader

On her quest to make at least one sale for the day, Avon lady Peg cautiously steps into the eerie mansion of a known inventor. She soon learns that it has long been devoid of life, with the exception of Edward, a synthetic human creation left unfinished. She returns to the bright suburbs accompanied by the poor young man, earning the curious stares of the bystanders. Among the colorful houses, however, Edward spots a gloomy dwelling that the neighbors seem to avoid. Who is the mysterious occupant?

Winner of the Halloween Poll! A short gothic romance in the style of Tim Burton, where two outsiders find solace in each other.

[Horror Masterlist]

The light yellow car slows down as it reaches the driveway and the engine stops. Peg makes her way out and hurries over to the passenger side, keys dangling between her fingers. She helps Edward out once she sees him awkwardly shuffling in the seat, unsure of his next step.

"You'll love it here. I just know it."

The woman hastily closes the door behind the tall, peculiar visitor. She places a gentle hand on his back and guides him down the asphalted path. 

Edward's gaze briefly wanders further into the street. The houses are slithering along neatly, their vivid colors somewhat tiring to his unaccustomed eyes. Yet one of them sticks out. Strangely enough, it reminds him of home. A rusty iron fence surrounds the property, and patches of lush, unkempt vegetation creep through the bars. The walls are dark and crooked and the black tiled roof casts a shadow over the entire abode.  

"Who lives there?" The question escapes his lips almost unconsciously. 

Peg follows his gaze, eager to introduce the area to him. Once she settles on the source of his inquiry, her smile falters for a second.

"Oh, my. That's, well..." she lets out a forced laugh and encourages him to continue walking. "I'm glad you're already so curious, Edward dear. You'll get to know everyone soon, don't worry about it."

One more push and the guest has securely entered the house. As she prepares to twist the knob into a lock, she peeks out for the last time, surveying the surroundings with mild worry. A neighbor is walking their dog, whistling in the distance. As they approach the mysterious building, the animal begins to bark and the owner scurries to the other side of the street. 

"He's so...strange!" one housewife exclaims, sipping on her lemonade.

Joyce is biting the temple tips of her sunglasses as she carefully inspects the dark haired man, currently using his sharp, spear fingers as barbecue skewers. She's batting her long eyelashes, entranced. She does like her men on the enigmatic side. In fact, she might just have a word with him. She folds the sunglasses and hangs them by the collar of her low-cut blouse. Of course, she doesn't forget her famous ambrosia salad as she departs from the rest of the fidgeting women. 

"Ed, darling. You must try out my signature dish!" she daintily holds up a spoon and attempts to feed the pale newcomer. 

He cautiously opens his mouth, unsure of how else to respond to the gesture. He tries to find Peg within the crowd, hoping she'll give him a new task away from this uncomfortably touchy person. And as luck would have it, his savior has come to the rescue. Peg doesn't hesitate to pull Edward away, cheerfully mumbling a domestic excuse. 

Once freed from the shackles of awkward social interactions, the man tiptoes his way out of the yard and down the street. He doesn't like the constant murmur of people talking. He doesn't understand the jokes, the loud laughs, the complicit slaps on the back. He feels as if he's on the other side of a glass window, separated from an audience demanding cooperation despite him only being able to discern muffled, discontinued meaning. 

None of this was mentioned in the Etiquette book. Or perhaps it has always been there, and the Inventor never got to the specific chapter. Died lamentably before he could explain how one navigates neighborhood BBQ parties.

Edward's step is clumsy and he doesn't have a particular direction in mind. In his scattered daze he nearly trips over something and turns around apologetically. You're sitting on the ground, resting against the fence. The book you were reading is now thrown aside, as you're too busy massaging the ankle that just got kicked by the sudden intruder. You look up, ready to scold the responsible airhead, but your eyes stop on an eccentric feature that catches your attention. 

"What happened to your hands?"

You're a little embarrassed by your unexpected, tactless curiosity. The man seems entirely unfazed, however.

"They weren't finished. I'm incomplete."

"Hmm. Isn't everyone?" 

Edward considers the question and recalls the people he's met so far. Peg and her husband. Joyce. The children. 

"But they don't look unfinished. They have all the body parts."

You chuckle slightly at the literal observation. 

"Well, you can't check them on the inside, can you? Most people have missing parts. Or broken ones."

"Where would you get it fixed, then?" Edward is startled by this new discovery. 

"You learn to fix it yourself. Otherwise it just stays like that, maybe forever."

He lifts his hands and stares at them. Is he going to be like this forever, too? He hasn't pondered the concept of time much before Peg had found him. Yet now, 'forever' feels unsettling. 

"Do your hands bother you that much?"

Edward doesn't know how to reply. He wishes he could resemble everyone else, that much is true. Then people wouldn't stare. And they wouldn't be afraid. As he mulls over the right words, he suddenly becomes aware of his surroundings. It's the house he noticed earlier, when he first arrived here. Which means...

He examines the person before him. They, too, look complete. So why?

"Why does everyone avoid this place?" He remembers the gathering he just left. "You weren't at the neighborhood party either. I thought all neighbors will show up."

"I was never invited."

"Why?"

You shrug.

"You're also not currently attending, are you? Otherwise you wouldn't be here."

"I took a break. It's too loud. Can I sit here?"

Before you can answer, he drops himself next to you with a thud. His fingers swish together as he adjusts his posture. 

"Oh, sorry, I forgot. What is your name? I'm Edward."

"Uhh... (Y/N)." You mutter, taken aback by his direct approach. What an odd fellow, you think to yourself.

"Nice to meet you, (Y/N)." As he scans your features again, he feels compelled to add, "You look rather pretty."

A faint blush takes over your face and you twirl your hair in an attempt to hide it. Is he mocking you? You genuinely can't read his intentions. 

"You don't look too bad yourself, Edward. I think the hands add to your charm." You eventually find the confidence to blurt it out, quickly following up with a laugh.

His heart tightens and he almost forgets about his hazardous extremities, having to stop himself from touching his now throbbing chest. He's never malfunctioned before. It doesn't feel like anything is wrong, either. Your comment, for some reason, made him very happy. 

(Y/N). Looking back to everything that happened, he's glad. Maybe he should thank Joyce next time he sees her. He wouldn't have met you otherwise. 

As the sun begins to set, you remind Edward that it's impolite to leave a party for too long. He protests, stating he prefers your company. As flattered as you are, you rephrase it as Peg being worried about his sudden disappearance and he feels bad enough to agree on his early retirement. On the condition he can hang out with you again. Once you guarantee a reunion, he makes his way back home. 

As he lays on Kim's bizarrely fluid mattress, tucked into the layered pastel sheets, Edward is overwhelmed by a strange, unfamiliar warmth. A wide, childish smile is plastered on his face and won't go away. Each time he closes his eyes to fall asleep, he pictures the encounter. (Y/N). It's a nice name, isn't it? He finds it particularly charming. He whispers it out loud in the dark room, as if making sure it's real. Reminding himself you're real. 

He can't properly explain it. It's the same thick window that stands between him and the world, but you're next to him. An outsider. A rejection. The idea that someone else out there shares his struggle has cleansed him of any longing for acceptance. Why bother with a sea of foreign, smudged faces? Peg becomes Joyce, and Joyce fades into Marge, and they all become a generic crowd of smiling pleasantries. It's a funny thing, being among humans. Once he left his old mansion behind, he realized how truly alone he had been. Still, being surrounded by people he could not comprehend made him feel even more lonely. That is the tragedy; sitting at the grand table, empty handed, unseen, unheard. Misunderstood. No one's fault, really. It just happens. But every now and then, if fate so allows, one might just find another starved attendant. With the same glint in their eyes, of someone not belonging. 

Oh, he can't wait to see you again.

It's unusually noisy outside for a late evening and you can't help but glance out the window. That's when you notice the roaring crowd, trampling in a hysterical march of unknown purpose. You have a bad feeling about it. The horned moon leers down at you like a bad omen and you quickly throw a jacket on, sprinting into the street. 

"What's this all about?" you shyly ask the nearest group. 

"Witch!" Esmeralda scowls at you with a pointing finger. 

Peg notices the commotion and runs towards you, completely disregarding the prophetic warnings of the woman. 

"Oh, (Y/N). It's Edward. They..." she sighs, frustrated. "I know I don't have the right to ask you this, but you're his friend. Could you please make sure he's alright?" Her voice is pleading and regretful. 

You nod without saying anything else. Before you turn to leave, you swiftly gesture to Esmeralda, raising your index fingers up and mimicking a devilish look. She gasps and throws her hands together in prayer.

It had to be done. 

Meanwhile, Edward has reached his old mansion and just now stopped in the entrance hall, panting anxiously. He feels nauseous and helpless. It's not that he's being chased by the enraged members of the neighborhood that alarms him. He cannot stand the possibility of not being in your presence ever again. How frightful, how agonizing! He claws at a nearby column in turmoil. 

It can't be, it won't happen. He'll tear his way through the masses if he has to. Oh, what a terrible thought. His Inventor would roll in the grave if he knew the violent ruminations that plague him right now. But if he has no other choice...Would he go as far as taking someone's life if it was for your sake? Well, technically speaking, his sake, really. He wants to see you. He needs to.

Panic slowly creeps through his body. The thoughts are piling up in an erratic hum and he can't find his focus again. He paces back and forth, attempting to recollect himself, but there's an urgency that drowns him in cold sweat. 

"Edward?"

The ringing stops. A switch has been flipped and he snaps his head in the direction of the voice. It's you. Completely spellbound, he extends his hand to touch your face, verifying whether you might be an illusion of his feverish desires instead. The blade pierces your skin, leaving a bright red trail behind. 

"I'm so sorry-" he cries out, realizing his act. 

You softly lower his hand with a reassuring smile. 

"It's just a small cut. Don't worry about it. I think we have more important matters at hand, won't you agree?" you joke as you nudge your head towards the window. 

"I spoke to the police officer on the way here, so we shouldn't have any surprise guests." 

You remove your jacket and throw it over some dusty furniture before climbing up the stairs. Halfway through you briefly stop and urge Edward to join you. He simply nods.

When the issue is settled and everything has been said and done, will you return to your miserable exile? Won't the neighbors become suspicious if you're frequently seen sneaking up the hill? Perhaps even the utmost secrecy won't prolong the visits much. 

And then what?

As he considers the potential scenarios, he becomes increasingly impatient. The joy of your return has been tainted by the impending doom of abandonment. He wishes you'd just stay with him here, forever. 

Once the conclusion has been reached, he lets out a quiet apology. Maybe to you, maybe to the beloved Inventor, maybe even to himself. He inserts a finger into the entrance lock and silently twists it. 

You must forgive him. Or at least try to understand him. He just loves you too much, (Y/N). Is it truly such a hideous crime? To want to keep you safe? If so, he will live with the guilt. But not without you. 

You're home. 

[milky-aeons]

𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐍

౨ৎ . . . the ways in which DAZAI OSAMU and CHUUYA NAKAHARA express their more gentle nature, but only when it comes to you.

warnings: established relationship, fem!reader, swearing, suggestive talking, crowd-anxiety, mentions of depression, w.c 696

♪ . . . ˗ˏˋ ꒰ gravity — susanne sundfør ꒱ ˎˊ-

𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐔𝐘𝐀 𝐍𝐀𝐊𝐀𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀 . . .

For a terrifying mafia crook, your Nakahara Chuuya definitely took being well mannered to an entire new level. But perhaps, that side of him was only reserved for you.

Even before you inevitably became an item — the infamous General and you, a private mafia secretary — you noticed how he never forgot the nuances. Whenever you both walked together in the same hallway; he'd always make sure to hold the door open for you. And if you were too far behind, he'd wait, holding the doorframe ajar with his long leather-bound fingers. He'd never bark at you to hurry the fuck up, like you've heard him quip at some of his underlings. He was patient. And in those moments, secretly, you took your time — stretching the precious encounter out for as long as possible.

Of course, you had no idea he was doing the exact same thing.

And when you did start dating, Chuuya picked the lavish, most impressive restaurants to take you to. He pulled up and got out of the driver-seat door first, only to saunter around to your side and open the car door for you. He always offered his arm. He always whispered in your ear how beautiful you looked and that he had the best seat in the house waiting for you.

Chuuya liked to spoil you, you had noticed quite quickly. But even above that, the mafia General liked to make you feel special a whole lot more. Loved, cherished, like you were the only girl in the entire world. And in that restaurant where he reserved the best seat in the house, Chuuya circled around until he stood behind you and pulled out your chair. He was being a gentleman, of course, but he also leaned over to whisper against the shell of your sensitive ear:

"But I think you'd look even more beautiful with that dress off of ya. But let's get dinner first, hm? You'll need your energy."

𝐃𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐈 𝐎𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐔 . . .

The first thing you learned about Armed Detective Agent Dazai Osamu — he was a womaniser. And a damn good sweet-talker. And had large, mocha-coloured eyes that shifted between ochre and gold in the sunshine.

You never really stood a chance.

The first thing Dazai learned about you, was that you took your coffee with three spoonful's of sugar. That you bit the sides of your nails while concentrating. But your expressions — they always reminded him of crystal glass. You were so transparent, so easy to look through, to judge. But in that transparency lay a type of genuineness. In a world where Dazai struggled to belong, he found you. You did not give him a reason to live — but you held his sinful, blood-stained hands without flinching and reminded him to eat his meals on time.

He never really stood a chance, either.

You hated crowds.

Dazai felt your entire body tense when you both rounded the corner of the Agency's building, only to be greeted by a gaggle of excited reporters. The ADA had recently cleared a high-profile case involving a Gifted government official — and although Director Fukuzawa had warned about the potential backlash from the media; it was still a surprise. The blood drained from your face at the sight of so many people; swarming you, suffocating you. There was too many — you couldn't escape, how would you—

Then, there was something warm and firm; flattening against the small of your back. You gasped out of the stupor, eyes flying up to Dazai gazing down at you.

"I'm here," Was all he said, his voice a soothing velvet. "Don't concentrate on anything else."

The soft-spoken order was a lullaby, a balm to your erratic heart. Owlishly, you nodded your head once, surrendering your trust to this enigmatic man and all that you loved about him. And so he took your other hand and began to lead you forward — the entire time, listening to his musical humming vibrating in his chest that sometimes lifted to say;

"Now, now, I know you are all excited — but please direct all your queries to our media consultant Kunikida Doppo-kun! Me and my colleague are simple office workers, after all~"

✎ . . . requested by lovely nonnie!

WRITING REQUESTS

[grxmreaperx]

TEDDY BEAR HOFFMAN OH MY GOD on lazy Sunday morning’s he just buries himself into your side. His hair is all mused and he has his whole body wrapped around you. He’s needy, he’s sleepy, I want to scream into my pillow at the thought.

AHHH this is so adorable!! teddy bear hoffman has my whole heart!!

Pairing: Mark Hoffman x (gn!) reader

Word count: 550

Warnings: none, this is super fluffy

Summary: A sleepy morning with your boyfriend <3

You slowly opened your eyes, blinking at the morning light peeking in through the blinds. You groaned softly, stretching your limbs. You made to slide out of bed, ready to make your morning coffee, when you felt a strong arm wrap around your waist, pulling you back.

“Where you going?” Mark’s sleepy voice asked.

You chuckled slightly. “Well, I was going to make us some coffee.”

He pulled you closer, your back against his chest. “Not yet.”

It was one of Mark’s few days off, one of the only days he had nothing to do. Except focus on you.

He buried his face in your neck, letting out a small sigh. You gently pulled away, just enough to turn over to face your boyfriend.

His neat hair was tousled, small pieces sticking up. His eyes, still filled with sleep, stared into your own. His arm found it’s way back to your waist, gently rubbing circles on your hip.

“Stay in bed,” he groaned, burrowing his face in the crook of your neck.

You couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face. You and Mark had been together a couple of years now, and it had taken a while to get him to show this part of himself. When he first began spending the night with you, he would hold you when you asked him to, but he had preferred to stay on his side of the bed, holding you until you fell asleep before moving to his own space.

After your first year together, he became more open, more touchy. He would pull you to him, wrapping an arm around your waist when you were in public, always looking forward to lying down with you at the end of the day.

Once you moved in together, he became the biggest teddy bear you had ever met.

He always had to be touching you, even in small ways. A hand on the small of your back, holding his arm out for you to cling to. But once you were both home for the night, lying together in bed, he had to be pressed up against you. He loved pulling you close, setting your head on his chest, or wrapping his arms around you while you spooned. He loved the feeling of your chest rising and falling as he held you, knowing that you were safe and taken care of.

He placed soft kisses along your collarbone, drawing you out of your thoughts. “Just lay here a little longer.” His arms tightened around you, running his hands across your back.

Your hands found their way to the back of his neck, running your fingers through his rustled hair. He let out a soft sigh. You ran a hand across his shoulders, gently rubbing to ease the tension he held there.

“I’m staying like this all day,” he muttered.

You laughed. “All day?”

He nodded. “I’m not moving.”

“Are you going to let me move?”

He shook his head.

You let out a contented sigh. “Love you, dumbass.”

He placed a kiss on your shoulder. “Love you too, bitch.”

tag list: @bee-who-isnt-french, @enigmatic-blues, @kujofam, @aliengutzstuff, @mysunfishpeedinmyroom, @slut4hoffman, @schrodingersjigsaw, @hoffmansnightmare, @karmaswitch, @mrs-hotforhoffman, @librababe99, @returntodustsblog, @capan-deveraux2, @switchbabeeexo

(if y'all want a smutty version, let me know👀)

[sodamnradd]

4 times Draco & Hermione flirt with other people + 1 time they admit it’s driving them spare.

So Draco’s flirting with some hyper-blonde at the bar. So she’s draped all over him. So he just checked out her tits—Literally nobody could care less than Hermione does.

“It’s fine,” she says, steering Ginny to the opposite side of the bar. “We hooked up once. It wasn’t serious.”

“Yeah, but we all thought he was obsessed with you.” Ginny scowls in Malfoy’s direction. “Harry says he can’t shut up about you…” Her voice falters, and Hermione follows Ginny’s gaze to where Draco’s unlatching the woman’s arms from around his neck. His eyes are locked firmly on Hermione.

“Granger.” He slips beside her moments later, casting a swift kiss on her cheek. “You came.”

He laces their fingers together, pressing his chest to her spine, and whispers into her ear, “Dance with me,” breath tinged with firewhisky.

Ginny rolls her eyes as Hermione downs a quick shot of tequila and lets Malfoy lure her away.

Hermione shrugs and mouths, “We’re having fun.”

“Isn’t that wanker fifty or some shite?” Draco lowers his spoon, watching Hermione on the opposite side of the canteen, giggling like she’s drunk on Amortentia.

Harry says, “Apparently the term is ‘Silver Fox’. Something to look forward to in a few decades, I suppose.”

“I didn’t realize that’s what Granger’s into.” Draco pushes his tray back, appetite gone.

Harry snorts.

“What?”

“She’s into you, you know.”

He’s desperate to prod Potter for more information, but he’s only slept with Granger twice, so they’re not serious. Explosive doesn’t mean serious, right? That’s what makes it explosive. That enigmatic ‘what if?’ hanging in the air during each encounter.

Draco looks on dejectedly, wondering if he’d prefer exclusive over explosive.

Seven times.

They have slept together seven times, and Draco is still acting like a total wanker, training that new Auror like it’s perfectly dignified to put his hands on her waist to adjust her posture. The girl is blushing so hard Hermione’s suffering from second-hand embarrassment just witnessing it.

Who can blame her? She knows how it feels to be trapped beneath the weight of that intense gaze. She also knows what they look like at the peak of climax. He looks at Hermione with more heat. But there’s no denying the glimmer of interest as he teaches the trainee basic self-defence charms. Damn him.

She slams the gymnasium door shut without looking back.

You can’t have breakup sex if you were never even together, right? But Draco swears there was something final about their last time.

Granger’s face is usually brimming with emotion, but once he helps her off the kitchen island, she goes cold. Detached. All the fire from their eighth time vanishes, and Draco is left wishing for something he thought he already had.

The next evening, she shows up to Potter’s birthday clutching Goldstein’s arm.

What the actual fuck? Is she sleeping with him, too? On the grand spectrum of Ministry blonds, what a prosaic downgrade.

Their eyes meet across the dinner table.

‘Meet me upstairs?’ mouths Draco, gut twisted a hundred times over.

Hermione hops onto the bathroom counter as Draco locks the door behind them.

“Why are you here with another bloke?” He crosses his arms, leaning against the door.

“Why are you flirting with trainees?” she fires back.

“Why are you chasing Silver Foxes?”

Heat crawls up Hermione’s neck. “Who taught you that?”

“Am I not good enough or something?”

“Clearly it’s the other way around.”

“What the hell are you on about?” Draco straightens out. “I can’t get enough of you, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Yes, but I’m not the only one.”

“But you are.”

Hermione pauses, flabbergasted. “You’ve been flirting with other people while you’ve been sleeping with me.”

“So have you.”

“Only because you were.”

“Because you were.”

“Oh my Gods.” Hermione huffs out an exaggerated sigh. “This is going absolutely nowhere.”

“You’re right,” Draco replies. “We’re making no progress, you and me.”

Hermione nods, sadness creeping into her eyes. “I guess that’s that.”

“What? No.” Draco steps forward, blanching. “Do you really mean that?”

“I don’t know. What else is there?”

“Exclusivity,” suggests Draco, point-blank.

“You don’t want that.”

“Says who?”

“Your reputation.”

“I’m pretty sure the entire office thinks I’m obsessed with you.” When Hermione doesn’t respond, having heard that rumour herself, Draco clears his throat and adds, “They might not be wrong.”

“Were you really only flirting with other people because I was because you were?”

He takes a second to reflect, but ultimately shakes his head. “I have no idea what you just said, but how about it? You and me. No trainees. No silver foxes.”

“No hyper-blondes at bars.”

“Course not,” he replies, pretending like he knows what she means. “And no dirty blonds at dinner parties.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.” Draco grins, stepping forward to seal the deal.

Later, Draco’s relieved to discover exclusivity is just as explosive as the enigmatic ‘what if?’ Better even, because Granger is finally, without an inkling of doubt, his.

(854 words, cross-posted from twitter)

[emjayewrites]

Private Landing (Lewis Hamilton Fanfic)(1/?)

SUMMARY: In the high-speed world of Formula One, Lewis Hamilton subtly introduces a mysterious partner via Instagram after a slight mishap during an interview. Sparking media intrigue, everyone wants to know: who is the enigmatic figure that calls herself Mrs. Hamilton?

INSPO: this post

PAIRINGS: Sir Lewis Hamilton x Aurora "Rorie" Phillips-Hamilton (faceclaim is Justine Skye)

WARNINGS: drama, angst, sexual content, formula one b.s., pre-established relationship (with flashbacks). RATED M (18+)

TAGLIST: @queenshikongo3 @cocobutterqwueen @httpsserene @mauvecherie-writes @galatially @pausmoon @a-moment-captured @nikki01234 @yeea-nah @sirlew44 @melodichaeuxx-lacritquexx @weetjy @lewisroscoelove @hxneyclouds @questionable-behaviour @marzzrambles @lovebittenbyevans @tian-monique @alika-4466 @saintslewis

A/N: Please let me know if you want to be added/removed from the taglist. The headers/dividers are by @inklore

CHAPTER 1: Loose Lips, Sink Ships

Rorie was surrounded by the familiar hustle and bustle of her morning routine. Her 10-month-old son sat contently in his highchair as she carefully prepared his breakfast. The scent of freshly chopped fruit mixed with the soft hum of bubbling porridge on the stove, creating a cozy and comforting atmosphere. She turned off the heat with a smooth flick of her wrist and poured the thick mixture into a small bowl for her baby, gently blowing on it to cool it down.

At the sight of this, her son began to fuss and was on the verge of throwing a tantrum. His whimpers turned into soft cries and from his corner of the room, Roscoe trotted over to investigate the commotion.

"Just a minute, peanut," she cooed while stirring the cooling porridge, but like his father, her son was always impatient. Deciding that the porridge was ready, she spooned some freshly cut fruit into the bowl before sprinkling cinnamon on top and placing it in front of the fussy infant. "You and your Daddy need to work on that," she chuckled, speaking in a low, baby-like voice. "You're just like him, aren't you?"

Rorie's son, with his chubby cheeks and bright brown eyes, looked nearly identical to his father. The resemblance was uncanny, from his curly hair plaited in baby braids to the mischievous glimmer in his eyes when he was up to something. Yet, there was one striking difference that set him apart – his skin color matched Rorie's, which was a deep sable.

She couldn't help but marvel at how the little one inherited both her nurturing determination and Lewis' unwavering impatience. It was as if their contrasting qualities were interwoven seamlessly in their child's very being. She watched as tiny hands reached out for the bowl of porridge, smearing it across his chubby cheeks and button nose. Roscoe edged closer with his wagging short tail, hoping for a taste of the gooey treat.

"Don't even think about it, Roscoe," Rorie warned with a playful scowl. "This is for baby boy only."

Roscoe gave her a sly look, tilting his head to the side as if considering whether or not to listen. But ultimately, he let out a soft whine and plopped down on his haunches.

Glancing up at the television mounted in their cozy kitchen nook, Rorie spotted her husband, Lewis. Her stomach tightened with a familiar mix of excitement and nerves as she watched him being interviewed. With practiced skill, he deflected questions about their personal life and redirected the focus to his upcoming race.

One reporter called out to Lewis, "Can you address the rumors about your family?"

Another chimed in, "You've mentioned having a wife and kids before. Can you tell us more about them?"

Lewis' smile faltered for a moment, but he quickly regained his composure. "My priority right now is winning this race," he stated confidently, his voice cutting through the clamor of voices. "That's all I'm focused on."

As a public figure, Lewis was well aware that every aspect of his life was under intense scrutiny from the media. Despite this, he always held on to the importance of keeping certain aspects private - especially when it came to his family. He had never mentioned them in interviews, until one slip-up after the Miami Grand Prix.

The public was taken aback when they discovered he was married, and even more so when he posted an anniversary message for his wife on Instagram. His media and talent manager, Penni Thow, felt it was necessary to give the public a glimpse into his personal life before things escalated further. Though it went against his principles, the plan proved successful - yet now it seemed like everyone was invested in him and his family, leaving Lewis and Rorie unsure of how to handle it all.

As luck would have it, their home was only a few miles away from Lewis and the drive to the main street where the Monaco Grand Prix took place was less than five minutes. As she gathered their son's belongings for their visit to the paddock, Rorie couldn't shake off a feeling of unease. It wasn't that she didn't enjoy spending time with Lewis, quite the opposite in fact, yet with all the media attention on their family now, she did not enjoy the feeling of being under a microscope.

Rorie finished feeding their son and cleaned up his messy face then she got herself ready before walking to her car. She strapped their son into his car seat and loaded up the stroller and diaper bag before heading out to meet Lewis. As she drove through the winding roads of Monaco, Rorie marveled at how different her life was now compared to just a few short years ago.

Growing up in a small town in Pennsylvania, Rorie never imagined herself marrying an F1 driver and living a jet-setting lifestyle. But after meeting Lewis at a bar in New York City, things changed quickly for her. She had been enjoying a drink after a stressful business meeting when they crossed paths. They hit it off immediately and before long, she found herself whisked away to Monaco where Lewis was based.

As she pulled into the paddock entrance, Rorie tried to push aside her anxiety and focus on enjoying the day with her husband and son. After parking her car, she unloaded everything and headed towards Lewis' team's hospitality area.

His dark hair, styled in his usual signature braids, caught her attention immediately as she scanned the group. His piercings and tattoos were on full display, and he seemed relaxed and confident surrounded by his team, discussing cars and racing strategies. Her smile widened as their eyes met, causing him to pause briefly in conversation with George and Toto. The other two men turned to look at her as well, but Rorie couldn't make out Toto's words from the distance.

With about an hour before the race, she knew Lewis needed a break to calm his nerves. This was nothing new for her; discreetly slipping away, Rorie headed towards Lewis' motorhome. To anyone else, she would have appeared like any other attendee, dressed casually in jeans and a knit bodysuit top. She never wanted to draw attention to herself when attending Lewis' races, but secretly she longed to be front and center in the pit area cheering him on like any other WAG. However, until she felt ready for that kind of exposure, this was how she preferred things.

Lewis respected their decision to keep their son out of the public eye, but when it came to Rorie? He wanted to shout his love for her from the rooftops. Yet he could never be upset with her desire for a quiet life, and he respected her decision. But when the time came and Rorie was ready for more, his fans would be inundated with posts about her day and night - that much was certain.

Minutes after Rorie, Lewis entered the motorhome. "Hey gorgeous," Lewis greeted with a warm smile. "You made it just in time."

Rorie smiled back at her husband, enjoying this brief moment of tranquility before the race began. "Hey yourself," she responded, leaning in for a kiss.

"How was the drive?" Lewis asked as he pulled her into a hug.

"Not too bad," Rorie shrugged as they settled on the couch. "Traffic wasn't too terrible."

"Good," Lewis nodded as Rorie handed him their son, who cooed happily at seeing his father after being away due to his busy racing schedule. "Hey, little man," he cooed at his mini-me. "How's my boy? How're you, Lyric?"

Lyric giggled and reached for Lewis' braided hair, causing both parents to laugh. Lyric Apollo was the apple of his parents' eye and he knew it. Despite their busy lives, they always made time for their son and he was always surrounded by love.

Rorie couldn't help but admire the sight in front of her. Her two boys, both with their matching dimpled smiles and hair, looked content and happy together. It was a scene she never thought she'd have the privilege of witnessing, but here they were.

"Can you believe how big he's getting?" Lewis said proudly as he bounced Lyric on his lap.

Rorie smiled fondly at them. "I know, right? It feels like just yesterday we were bringing him home from the hospital."

Lewis kissed Lyric's forehead before turning to Rorie with a mischievous grin. "Remember how scared we were? We had no idea what we were doing."

Rorie rolled her eyes playfully. "Speak for yourself; I had it all under control."

"Oh really?" Lewis raised an eyebrow in jest.

"Yeah," Rorie replied assuredly. "I mean, I did read every parenting book out there."

Lewis chuckled at her response before leaning in to kiss her cheek. "You're amazing," he whispered. "I wish I could spend more time with you guys, but the race season is just so hectic."

"I know," Rorie replied with a hint of sadness in her voice. She understood that racing was Lewis' passion and career, but she couldn't help feeling a bit lonely when he was away.

Lewis sighed and looked into Rorie's eyes. "Hey, don't worry about it too much," he reassured her. "After this race, we have a few days off before the next one. We can plan something fun for our little family then."

Rorie smiled at his words and leaned in for another kiss.

The sound of an alarm suddenly broke the peaceful moment as Lewis' timer informed him that it was almost time to head out for the grid.

"It happens all the time," he joked, taking out his phone to turn off the annoying shrill. Lewis handed Lyric back to Rorie before getting up from the couch where they had been sitting.

"Good luck out there today," Rorie said with a loving smile as she stood up as well.

"Thanks, babe," Lewis replied. "I'll see you after the race."

"Go kick some ass," Rorie said with a playful smirk.

"I will," he responded confidently. "Oh, Miles is here with Spinz if you want to head up to the paddock club."

"Do you really think I should go, Lewis?" asked a worried Rorie. "You know how chaotic it's been lately."

"There are no reporters up there and you know all the back entrances to be discreet," he reassured her. He took a step closer to her and let out a sigh. "I just want you to have some fun and enjoy yourself for a little while, okay? And Nina is coming, right?"

Nina was their nanny. Rorie nodded. "Yeah, she should be here any minute."

"Great, so just relax, have some drinks, and do whatever you want," he encouraged her. "Let your hair down. You've been taking excellent care of Lyric, Roscoe, and me, but mummy needs some time for herself too."

Rorie smiled at Lewis' words, knowing she needed to take some time for herself and have a little fun. It had been a while since she had the chance to let loose.

He kissed her on the lips before bidding her farewell.

Soon after, Nina arrived and Rorie smiled warmly as she handed over Lyric to her. As the Hamilton family's trusted nanny since Lyric was just a few months old, Nina was an older woman with wiry gray hair neatly tied up in a bun. Her olive skin was flawless and her bright blue eyes exuded warmth and compassion. She spoke with a soothing French accent, her words gentle and affectionate towards Lyric, like a sweet lullaby.

"Has he taken his nap?" asked Nina eagerly.

"No, but I've changed and fed him, so he's definitely tired," Rorie informed her. "I'm heading out now, please call if—"

"We'll manage just fine, Aurora," Nina interrupted.

"Merci." Rorie smiled gratefully at Nina before heading out to the paddock club. As she entered, the noise and energy of the crowd hit her. She felt a little overwhelmed, but also excited to be in this exclusive area where only sponsors and VIP guests were allowed. She made her way upstairs to the terrace, keeping an eye out for Miles and Spinz. It didn't take long for her to spot them at a table near the bar.

"Hey Rorie!" Miles called out as he noticed her approaching.

"Hi guys," Rorie said with a smile as she joined them at the table. "Thanks for inviting me to join y'all."

"You know we always got your back," Spinz said with a grin before taking a sip of his drink.

Rorie thanked him as she took a seat next to Miles. "When did you get here, Miles?"

"I got here yesterday afternoon," Miles answered in his British lilt, his brown eyes sparkling with excitement. He was dressed in a crisp white shirt and a tailored pink suit. "I would've swung by, but I figured you guys were sleeping by the time I was free. I had to handle some things before spending some time with Lew."

Rorie shook her head with a chuckle. "Yeah, we were probably in bed by then."

"Right, because taking care of a toddler is so easy," Spinz joked, earning a playful punch from her.

"I'm just glad you guys are here," she said sincerely. "It's nice to have some familiar faces in this sea of strangers."

"We wouldn't miss this for the world," Miles said with a grin. "You know we got to support our bro."

Rorie found herself having a great time with Miles and Spinz. She sipped on a glass of champagne, enjoying the cool breeze and the stunning views of the racetrack below.

"How's our nephew doing?" Miles suddenly asked, breaking the comfortable silence between them. "I saw some pictures of him and I swear to God he looks more and more like Lew every single day. That baby stole his whole face."

Rorie couldn't help but smile at Miles' words. "He's doing great," she said proudly. "Growing so fast, just like you said he would."

"I can't wait to see him again," Spinz chimed in. "Is he going to be 'round later?"

"Yes," Rorie replied, "if he's not asleep by then, of course."

"How is Lew handling being away from him?" Miles asked with concern.

"It's been tough for both of us," Rorie confessed, taking another sip of her drink. "But we make it work with video calls every night before bedtime."

Rorie couldn't help but feel grateful for their friends, who had always been there and supported her and Lewis through thick and thin.

Rorie politely excused herself to take a call from Nina, regarding Lyric. It was nothing serious, just a minor issue that needed immediate attention. Lost in her thoughts, Rorie was unaware of the figure approaching her until a deep, melodious voice broke through her reverie. Startled, she turned to find herself face-to-face with a captivating stranger. He had tall, broad shoulders that spoke of strength and confidence, and his deep brown eyes sparkled like pools of melted chocolate below a mess of messy curls.

The stranger approached Rorie with a charming smile, his voice smooth and polished like silk. "Excuse me, miss," he said, his eyes fixed on her from across the terrace. "I couldn't help but notice you. What's a gorgeous woman like yourself doing all alone?"

Rorie offered him a polite smile, but inside she was already feeling uncomfortable. "Thank you for the compliment, but I'm not available for conversation right now."

Undeterred, the stranger leaned against the railing and continued to gaze at Rorie. "Ah, I see. Well, I must say, I usually don't take 'no' for an answer."

She thought it was weird and creepy for him to say that. Rorie's smile faltered, her façade starting to wear thin as she looked around for someone to save her from this persistent stranger.

Just when she was about to make a quick exit, Miles arrived, bringing a sense of relief with him. Rorie felt a wave of gratitude wash over her as he approached.

"Hey man," Miles greeted the stranger with a friendly tone, but also a hint of suspicion. "Do we know you?"

The stranger straightened up and maintained his confident smile. "I don't believe we've met," he replied smoothly before extending his hand towards Miles. "My name is Alexander."

Miles shook his hand cautiously before turning to Rorie with questioning eyes. She shook her head slightly, indicating that she also did not know this man.

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Alexander," Miles said politely. "But as you can see, the lady wants to be left alone."

Alexander's smile faltered at Miles' firm tone, but he quickly recovered. "My apologies," he said smoothly. "I simply couldn't resist."

Rorie rolled her eyes at Alexander's persistence and had no interest in entertaining him any longer.

"Excuse us." She looped her arm with Miles' and he led her away.

Once they were out of earshot, Miles turned to Rorie with a concerned expression. "Are you okay?" he asked quietly.

Rorie let out a sigh of relief and leaned against the railing next to him. "Yeah, I'm fine," she replied with a small smile. "Thanks for coming when you did."

Miles nodded understandingly and gave her an apologetic look. "Sorry I couldn't get here sooner," he said regretfully.

"No worries," she assured him. "You were here when it mattered most. Besides, I can handle myself. But seriously, who was that guy?"

Miles shook his head. "No clue. Never seen him before. But he gave off a weird vibe, didn't he?"

Rorie nodded, her mind still reeling from the encounter. "Definitely. It's like he appeared out of nowhere and just wouldn't take no for an answer."

Despite his disappointment after losing the race, Lewis was determined to let go of his frustration and attend Justin and Hailey Bieber's yacht afterparty. Rorie sent a text to Nina, asking her to take Lyric home, and joined Lewis at the party. Though he couldn't shake off the thought of finishing in fourth place, Lewis stayed positive when he was with his wife.

The afterparty was in full swing when Rorie and Lewis arrived. The music was blaring and the yacht was packed with people dancing, drinking, and mingling.

She followed Lewis as he made his way through the crowd, greeting familiar faces and introducing his wife to new ones.

They made their way to the bar, where Lewis ordered her a drink while Rorie took in their surroundings. The party was filled with models, actors, and other high-profile individuals. It was clear that Justin and Hailey Bieber's connections ran deep.

She sipped on her martini as she noticed Justin making his way towards them with Hailey by his side. Justin and his wife Hailey, close friends of the couple, greeted Lewis and Rorie with warm embraces. "Hey man, sorry 'bout the race," Justin said sympathetically before turning to Rorie. "Hey Rorie, how's it going?"

Rorie smiled back at him. "I'm doing well, thanks for asking."

"Good to hear," Justin replied eagerly. "We should definitely catch up tonight, it's been too long since we've seen you guys."

Hailey chimed in from beside her husband, her eyes lighting up. "Yes, let's celebrate! How about coming back to our place for an after-after party?"

Rorie glanced at Lewis uncertainly, but he shrugged nonchalantly. "Sounds like a plan," he said with a grin.

"Lyric's with the nanny anyways, so we're good," she added.

Hailey's smile widened at the mention of their son. "I can't believe he's almost one already!"

"Time flies," laughed Rorie. "He's doing great, trying to walk and getting into everything at home."

Both Lewis and Rorie had a good time hanging out with their friends, which was a rarity since becoming parents. Whilst Lewis stayed sober, Rorie had the time of her life and was feeling the effects of consuming too much alcohol. They made their way home at around three in the morning and Lewis slowly lead his beautiful intoxicated wife inside their home.

She managed to not bump into anything until she tripped over her own two feet as she took a step down into the sunken living room, exploding into fits of giggles as she landed onto the rug-covered floor with a thud.

"Fuck, are you okay, love?" Lewis questioned, suppressing his laughs. He instantly made his way to her to help her stand. "C'mon, let's get you some water and into bed."

"Are you trying to seduce me?" chortled Rorie as Lewis walked her into the kitchen. "That's how we became pregnant last time, 'member? You got me drunk one night and then...poof...pregnant."

He settled her at the kitchen nook as he filled a glass with water. Rolling his eyes in mock annoyance, he let out a scoff. "It didn't happen like that, baby."

"Mmmhmm," she added with a small hiccup.

"Come on, come on, let's hydrate you," said Lewis as he held a glass of water to her lips.

Lewis helped Rorie drink the water and then led her into their bedroom. He helped her change into her pajamas and tucked her into bed. She let out a content sigh as she snuggled under the covers.

"You know, I think I might still be a little tipsy," she slurred with a sleepy smile.

"I have no doubt about that," Lewis chuckled as he stripped down to his boxer briefs and slid into bed next to her. "But it's okay, you had a good time tonight."

Rorie snuggled closer to him, feeling warm and happy. "I did. I miss hanging out with our friends like this."

"We'll have to do it more often," promised Lewis, kissing her forehead.

"I love you," murmured Rorie, already starting to drift off to sleep.

"I love you too," whispered Lewis, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her closer as they both fell asleep.

The next morning, Rorie woke up with a slight headache but overall feeling okay. She smiled as she remembered the fun night they had with their friends. She turned over in bed and was greeted by Lewis' sleeping face.

He looked so peaceful and handsome, even in his sleep. She traced his jawline lightly with her fingers before planting a soft kiss on his lips.

"Mmm, good morning," he mumbled against her lips before opening his eyes.

"Good morning indeed," giggled Rorie.

"How are you feeling?" asked Lewis, sitting up slightly and rubbing his eyes.

"Surprisingly not too bad," replied Rorie. "I guess drinking lots of water last night helped."

"Well, that's good to hear." Lewis leaned in for another kiss before getting out of bed to start the day.

As they went about their morning routine of getting dressed and making breakfast together as a family, they chatted about their plans for the day. Rorie suggested taking their son to the park for some quality family time, and Lewis eagerly agreed.

They sat down at the breakfast table, ready to enjoy a delicious homemade meal of fluffy vegan pancakes, fresh fruit, and freshly squeezed orange juice. Lyric sat in his mother's lap, chewing happily as Rorie fed him.

Just as they were about to dig into their mouthwatering breakfast, a familiar ringtone broke the tranquility of the morning. Penni's name flashed on Lewis' phone screen. With a sigh, he picked up the call and put it on speaker.

"Hey, Penni," Lewis greeted, trying to sound nonchalant. "What's up?"

"Morning, lovebirds," Penni sang. "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but a tabloid got hold of a picture from last night at the Bieber yacht party, and they're planning to post it online by early afternoon."

Rorie's fork clattered onto her plate, her eyes widening in surprise. Lewis felt his heart sink.

"Are you fucking serious?" Rorie exclaimed, frustration evident in her voice.

"I wish I was kidding," replied Penni. "But the paparazzi are ruthless, and they're always on the lookout for anything that would make them money."

"The picture showed up on their radar and now they're going to exploit it," added Lewis, feeling a mix of anger and helplessness.

"What are we going to do?" asked Rorie, her mind racing with possible solutions.

"We could try to get ahead of the story and release a picture ourselves," suggested Penni. "But we have to act fast before it goes viral. I hate to ask this again but—"

"Penni, we can't keep playing this tit-for-tat game with them," Lewis argued. "I'm tired of putting my family in this bullshit."

"It's just me, right?" piped Rorie.

"Yes," answered Penni. "We've been scrubbing the Internet and there's no pictures of Lyric. There are actually laws in place that protect his privacy against the media. Unfortunately, it's a different story for adults. I suggest maybe a recent photo and a cute caption."

"Until how long though?" grumbled Lewis. "This is a never-ending situation unless we...goodness I can't believe I'm even thinking of this."

"What's going on, Lewis?" Penni couldn't help but wonder what was happening.

Rorie, on the other hand, immediately understood the situation. She and her husband had always been in sync, and this time was no different. It could be seen as a blessing or a curse, but they had a certain synergy about them.

"You can't keep me hidden forever, honey," she said in a soft voice. "We knew this would happen sooner rather than later. I have to go public now, unfortunately."

After five years of avoiding the limelight and the constant intrusion of paparazzi, Rorie finally had to make her debut into the world of celebrity. Hopefully, everyone would calm down soon, but she couldn't trust the media too much. While she did have an Instagram presence, it was small compared to her husband's and was set to private, but all of that had to change now. It was a sacrifice she was willing to make for her family. Rorie wasn't exactly shy - if anything, she exuded cool confidence - but that didn't mean she enjoyed being in the spotlight. But it was something she had to come to accept.

"Fine," Lewis reluctantly agreed. "Just give us ten minutes, Penni, and we'll post it."

Even though he wanted to show off his beautiful wife all over social media, he didn't want it to happen like this - he wanted Rorie to decide on her own terms without any pressure.

"Are you sure, baby?"

"Yes," Rorie affirmed. "I mean, what else are we going to do?"

TO BE CONTINUED...

[chuuyanakaharalegalwife]

Negotiation (Dazai x Reader)

Pushing the chubby Dazai agenda, he's so cute! Look at his little belly, im gonna cry it's so cute!! Missing him terribly.

In which we bribe him with affection and feed him

Read my other dazai oneshots here & here This has been in my draft for soo long, but I got a job and forgot about it. Happy late Diwali!

Bye now - Mars ♡

Out of everything you saw yourself doing this year, dating an overdramatic enigmatic manchild who whines like a baby was not one of them.

How did you get here? You started officially dating Dazai a few months ago, you two were exclusive. Before that you probably fooled around for a year, flirting here and there, and going on dates, random hook ups but somewhere along the way, you fell for each other. Hard.

It did have a trial and error period and you did have to set some firm boundaries, because as much as fooling around with him was fun, you craved the security of knowing this wasn’t some meaningless fling to him.

Fast forward to being exclusive with Dazai, he’s an amazing partner. His genius brain is quick to pick up on even the smallest changes and he reads you like an open book. He’s affectionate and he always finds money, granted never his own, to spend on you. He’s great in bed and he’s sweet with words. The list goes on. He’s almost perfect.

However, he’s not the best at opening up, he can talk your ear off without revealing a single thing about his mind. His heart. He also tends to neglect himself very much, at first you thought it was just temporary work stress but even when he’s away from work he does it.

At first you noticed how he only puts in efforts when you’re around, and the longer your relationship went on, the less effort he made. The biggest issue you have is how he so carelessly skips meals. It makes you angry but after some thoughts and rants to your cat, you’ve decided to bribe him.

You wanted to be subtle about it but honestly, he probably already picked up on it. You’re convinced he just allows you to do what you want.

You started off small and your plan was to gradually build him up to regular meals.

The first time you did it, it was as simple as feeding him a bite from your snack. A simple yogurt bowl with fruits and a “Mm, try this, it’s good” and stuffing his mouth with a spoonful of yogurt and berries.

That became a regular habit you did, giving him small bites of your snacks whether that be protein bars, cookies, chocolates. This then transferred into your meals, purposefully adding more to your plate so you can whine about not finishing it and offering the rest to him so he can.

That didn’t last long, he quickly caught on your little act and urge you to feed it to your cat instead.

Then the brilliant idea of bribing him with kisses and affection to eat came about. It started with an argument and then you two not speaking for two days. Angry as you were, you decided to deny him of your hugs and you two slept with you backs to each other, you slept at least. Dazai stayed up and drank his feelings. The second night he didn’t even come home, God knows where he were.

The third day you two resolved your little conflict and with some probing, sweet words, kissing and negotiation you got Dazai to eat at least one full meal a day.

You both agreed on that. Baby steps, one meal a day, it’s better than drinking alcohol and eating tinned crab almost every day.

Right now, you were both on the couch, you on his lap with his arms lazily slung around you. You had a small bowl of rice and stir-fried vegetables along with some eggs.

You held the chopsticks up to his lips and looks at him in his eyes, “Please” you looked down at his lips, “For me” you watched as he hesitantly opened his mouth and took the food and chewed and swallowed.

Placing a kiss on his forehead you praised him for his first bite.

Then you repeated that until the bowl of food was almost finished, feeding him, kissing him, praising him.

After he managed to finish, you placed the bowl down and caress his cheeks, “You did so good, m’proud” you mumbled and kisses him. Your hands cupped his face, lips brushing against his cheeks, the tip of his nose, the crease of his brows, his temple, his jawline. Just anywhere your lips found, you placed sweet kisses.

He smiled and you felt like you’d melt away and fall off the couch if it weren’t for his arms around you. “Thank you, Bella” He mumbles quietly, and you can’t help but capture his lips in another sweet kiss. You feel his hands squeeze your waist, pulling you closer to him as he desperately returns your kiss.

He pulls away from you, his brows furrowed, and he belched and it catches you off guard. Dazai looks at you, awaiting your reaction and when he saw your smile and heard a little giggle, it triggered his own smile.

“I really am proud of you, Osamu”

[andypantsx3]

Andie send help. I'm a Nanami stan through and through (Or so I thought...) but with the new jjk season and everyone talking about him, I fear my weak heart can't resist Gojo anymore... OTL

So defeated and ashamed I come to you: do you by any chance have any Gojo x reader fic recs?

Thank you ❤️

Lmfaoooo Gojo is inevitable!! I do have a couple Gojo recs off the top of my head although I am certain I am forgetting some. I will try to come back and add more as I remember them!!

First of all I recommend anything by the ult Gojo simp @stellamancer. Niku has several really good ones, some ongoing, and they are all super different premises but all of them perfectly capture Gojo's annoying enigmatic-ness. Niku also has this really heartfelt style of storytelling; you will eat her fics up with a spoon.

For me, @petrichorium's usurper!Gojo series was like the gateway into Gojo simpery. This is one of my fave series ever, and again Pluvi captures his character so well, he's so dangerous and cocky and yet so soft and careful with the things he really cares about. I want to lick his boots. :/ (Total perfection.)

I recently reblogged @lorelune's fic dawn instinct and I cannot recommend enough. It's purportedly smut but Lore does like insane levels of character work throughout and it's so completely, masterfully executed. I haven't read all their other stuff yet but I added like everything to my TBR, they're so good.

I also recently reblogged @mintmatcha's vignettes in cerulean and hoooly shit. It's short but it's so impactful. Mint's writing is somehow very focused and cerebral and I found myself thinking about this one for days and days after. I think it will stick with you too.

I also have to recommend @yeowchies' whet your appetite fic too. This one literally gave me butterflies. Gojo is so fucking sexy and obnoxious here and I wanted to climb into the fic and beat his ass!! You will love love love his characterization here.

And no Gojo list would be complete without @hawnks's first law of motion!! Mint is one of the most reliable writers in our niche and one thing I love about her fics is how the love interest usually falls fast, and soooo hard! If you want to feel loved and cared for, read this. This one is lengthier too so you will have plenty to simp over!!

Also I haven't read it yet but @seoafin's rip 2 my youth is on my TBR!! It's a Gojo x Reader x Getou fic, and it looks so fucking good. I have seen multiple people dissolving into puddles over this fic, so you know it has to be good. I'm so excited!!

I also haven't read this one yet but I have @shibaraki's the white rabbit on my TBR too!! Monty has the most creative concepts in this entire niche and this one features courtesan Gojo and I am certain it is gonna be both nuanced and sexy as hell hehehe.

Lastly, this isn't an x Reader, but if you are willing to read Gojo x canon characters, I'm absolutely obsessed with this gojohime writer on ao3 called unpetitlapin. Her Gojo is unbearably obnoxious but so good and flawed and so multidimensional kjsfjshdkfjshdkgl. I love it.

Anyway that's what I can think of for now, although I am certain there are ones from earlier in 2022-2021 that I will need to track down and add here. But in the meantime, happy reading!!

[spadecentral]

🧁 Cupcake Catastrophe | Trey Clover x Reader

>> commissioned!: by an unnamed commissioner >> a/n: yay it's my first trey work :3 i hope this isn't too ooc!!

>> masterlist: here!! >> summary: you and trey bake together! >> reader prns: they/them >> warning(s): nickname 'hon'

You were so glad that your boyfriend, Trey, was there to help you bake things when you didn’t want to be baking alone. Which, to be honest, was all the time. The kitchen seemed so much brighter to you when Trey was in the kitchen alongside you. As Trey mixed together the wet ingredients–eggs, milk, vanilla extract, and butter–with a spatula, you used the automatic mixer to blend the dry ingredients–sugar, flour, and baking powder–together. It was calm and perfect.

“I’m done with the wets,” Trey calls to you over the sound of the mixer running.

“Alright, bring them over so we can mix them together, then!” you smile at him. Unfortunately you weren’t looking at the dial while trying to turn the mixer off. So instead of turning it down to slow it, you turned it up, causing the side of your face and torso to be completely covered with little particles of cupcake ingredients. 

At first, your face was one of shock. And then it turned into misery. But before long, you were giggling and laughing at the explosion of powder. Trey couldn’t help but join in with your laughter, even though he was trying to clean you up by getting a damp washcloth to wipe down your face.

“You would think that after being here so much with you,” you said between giggles, “I wouldn’t make such a rookie mistake!”

“There’s a first time for everything, I suppose.” Trey finished wiping your face down and gave you a quick kiss on the cheek. “I guess you’ve proved your own incompetence for today.”

“Aww no!! It was only a little spill,” you pouted.

“I’ll finish up the baking,” he shook his head and directed you to a barstool. “We can’t have you spilling anything else.”

“Fine,” you sighed. “But only if I get to lick the spoon!”

“You’d get to do that anyway,” he smirked as he finished cleaning up the counter. “But yes, if you sit there and watch, you can lick the spoon while we’re waiting for the cupcakes to bake.”

“Yesss,” you murmured, content with your false victory.

Soon enough, Trey was finished baking by himself and the cupcakes were cooling down.

“I’m gonna have one,” you declared, deciding that they had cooled for long enough and you couldn’t care enough to wait to make the icing.

“Split one with me, then.” Trey said as he watched you walk over to the cooling tray.

“Alright,” you smiled, picking up a cupcake and cutting it down the middle with a knife. “Here you go!”

“Thank you, hon,” he said as he took the half from your hand. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” you smiled, tapping your own half against his.

>> twst taglist: @tulipluvlettr | @strawberry-hyacinth | @oseathepebble | @wisteriainslumber | @villaim | @pastelmages | @xphantasmagoriax | @atlasnessie | @divinesapph | @ze-maki-nin | @silly-ez | @l1vyatan | @savanaclaw1996 | @enigmatic-pers | @queerlordsimon | @kyraxiyn | @rayisalive | @ravenlking

[yoonavii]

𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒

Regency Era! Law x F! reader

Description: Lady Y/N defies societal norms with her down-to-earth nature, setting her apart from other noble ladies. During her debut, she captures the attention of numerous suitors, but her heart is unexpectedly drawn to Lord Trafalgar Law, a brooding and mysterious Duke known for his coldness towards women. As their relationship develops, they face the challenges of unraveling Lord Trafalgar’s enigmatic nature and navigating their contrasting personalities amidst societal expectations. Will their connection withstand the obstacles they encounter? or will it crumble?

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄

As the day of the grand gala finally dawns, anticipation courses through your veins, filling you with a mix of excitement and nervousness. Sneaking into the bustling kitchen, you marvel at the scene before you—the skilled chefs working their culinary magic, the intoxicating aromas that waft through the air, and the meticulous organization orchestrated by the lady housekeeper. Your eyes dance around the room, taking in the sight of the maids and male servants lined up, awaiting their instructions. Among them, you catch sight of Emily, who meets your gaze and smiles, a flicker of camaraderie passing between you. But before you can exchange words, the housekeeper’s sharp voice pierces the air, reprimanding Emily for a momentary lapse in attention. A stifled laugh escapes you at the sight, but you quickly quieten, not wanting to draw unwanted attention.

Amidst the flurry of activity, your attention is captured by the figure of Crosby Pine, the head chef. His family has faithfully served your family for generations, their loyalty and culinary expertise intertwined with the very fabric of your estate. Crosby, a man both kind and professional, occasionally reveals his down-to-earth nature, making him a cherished presence in the kitchen. Spotting you amidst the commotion, Crosby’s eyes light up, and he greets you warmly. “Ah, Lady Y/n, it’s a pleasure to see you,” he says with genuine warmth. His offer to be his taste tester for a moment piques your interest, and without hesitation, you agree, eager to explore the culinary delights created for the gala.

Following Crosby to a table laden with an array of dishes, he begins listing them off, his voice laced with pride and excitement. You listen intently, your senses enlivened by the descriptions of flavors and ingredients. And then, your eyes settle on a pot dish that exudes an unfamiliar yet enticing richness of color. Intrigued, you interrupt Crosby, your curiosity getting the better of you. “What is this dish?” you inquire, your voice tinged with anticipation. Crosby’s face lights up as he replies, “Ah, that’s the Albondigas, a Spanish delicacy. It’s a hearty meatball stew that’s quite popular in the town of Dressrosa.” He goes on to describe the ingredients he used, painting a vivid picture of the dish’s complex flavors.

He adds, a note of significance in his voice, “And you know, Lady Y/n, I made it because it happens to be the Duke’s favorite.” Your heart skips a beat, your mind racing to process this unexpected revelation. The Duke, whose encounter you had on the countryside ride, would be attending the gala. The realization leaves you flabbergasted, a mix of emotions swirling within you. As if sensing your astonishment, Crosby dips a spoon into the Albondigas and lifts it to your lips. You take a tentative taste, and the explosion of flavors dances across your palate, leaving you utterly amazed. The dish is a symphony of savory notes, a perfect blend of spices and textures. “Magnificent,” you breathe, a spark of delight igniting in your eyes. The Duke’s favorite dish has captivated your taste buds, further heightening the intrigue surrounding his presence at the upcoming event.

As you savor the Albondigas, its exquisite flavors lingering on your tongue, you can’t help but wonder what the gala holds in store. The path ahead seems entwined with the unexpected, promising a night of revelry, secrets, and the unfolding of potential  destinies. With each bite, you become even more captivated by the tantalizing mysteries that await you at the grand gala.

———

As your stepmother awakens in her lover’s estate, a soft smile dances upon her lips as she gazes at her paramour’s peaceful slumber. She rises from the bed, the sheets cascading around her graceful figure, and with a sense of quiet satisfaction, she summons the maids of the estate. The maids, well-versed in attending to your stepmother’s every need, promptly respond to her summons. They enter the room, their presence a mix of deference and efficiency, ready to assist her in preparing for the day. With meticulous care, the maids select a selection of garments befitting the stepmother’s elevated status. They delicately dress her in elegant attire, the fabrics cascading around her form, accentuating her grace and sophistication.

As the stepmother’s transformation unfolds, she exudes an air of confidence and allure. Each touch of the maids’ hands serves to enhance her natural beauty, highlighting her features and ensuring that she radiates a regal presence. Once she is fully dressed, your stepmother casts a final glance at her lover, the hint of a secret shared between them lingering in the air. Her smile deepens as she appreciates the moment, knowing that the world beyond this private sanctuary awaits her return. With her preparations complete, the stepmother bids farewell to her lover’s estate, her steps marked by a mix of satisfaction and anticipation. The maids, their duty fulfilled, quietly retreat, leaving her to navigate the complexities of her double life with poise and discretion. As she departs, she carries with her the memories of stolen moments and whispered promises, bound by the intoxicating allure of her clandestine affair. The weight of her secrets and the thrill of her hidden desires fuel her journey back to her own home, where the façade of a dutiful wife and stepmother awaits her return.

As the stepmother settles into the plush carriage, the soft rustle of her gown accompanies her every move. With an air of authority, she turns to her trusted head maid, a beacon of loyalty and discretion. “Tell me, has everything been prepared for Y/n’s social debut?” she inquires, her voice tinged with a blend of curiosity and satisfaction.

The head maid nods, her expression displaying a mix of respect and competence. “Yes, my Lady,” she replies, her tone filled with confidence. “All the necessary arrangements have been made, ensuring that Lady Y/n will be presented in the most favorable light.” A small smile curves the stepmother’s lips, her eyes glinting with a hint of intrigue. She delicately unfolds a hand-held fan, using it to gently alleviate the heat of the day as she contemplates her next move. “Excellent,” she murmurs, her voice carrying a note of satisfaction. “Now, my dear, I want you to spread a particular rumor throughout the social circles.” The head maid’s eyes widened slightly, her attention fully captured by her stepmother’s command. “What rumor would that be, my Lady?” she inquires, her voice a whisper of anticipation.

The stepmother leans in closer, her words laced with a calculated determination. “Spread the word that Lady Y/n is now available for courting,” she instructs, her tone betraying a touch of mischief. “Let it be known that she is ready to embark on the path of courtship and find a suitable match among the eligible gentlemen of our society.” The head maid’s brows furrow slightly, a momentary pause reflecting the weight of the task at hand. But with a nod of understanding, she acquiesces. “Consider it done, my Lady,” she replies, her voice a whisper of commitment. “I shall discreetly disseminate the rumor, ensuring that Lady Y/n’s availability becomes the talk of the town.”

A sense of satisfaction settles over your stepmother as she gazes out the window, her mind already weaving the web of possibilities that this newfound rumor will bring. She envisions the social events, the whispered conversations, and the eager suitors vying for your attention. It is a strategic move, a means to further the family’s interests and solidify their standing within the intricate dance of high society. As the carriage glides through the streets, your stepmother’s plans unfold, a carefully orchestrated symphony of ambition and manipulation. She is poised and ready to navigate the treacherous waters of courtship, her every move guided by calculated intent.

Little does she know, however, that the seeds she sows may yield unexpected consequences, intertwining the fates of those involved in ways she cannot foresee. The realm of romance and courtship holds both promise and peril, and as the rumor spreads, it sets in motion a chain of events that will shape the destinies of all involved.

——-

The Viscount’s brows furrow deeply as he listens to the maid’s words, his heart sinking with each revelation. His voice trembles slightly as he struggles to process the weight of the news. “How could she? How could the Viscountess betray our family in such a way?” he exclaims, a mix of shock and anguish coloring his tone. “Tell me, Margaret, where is she? What is the meaning of this?”

Margaret, the maid who had once been a trusted member of the household, lowers her gaze, a mix of guilt and trepidation etched upon her features. “I… I’m sorry, my Lord,” she stammers, her voice quivering with unease. “I have witnessed the Viscountess in the company of another man. They have been meeting in secret, and I felt it was my duty to inform you.” The Viscount’s heart clenches as the weight of his wife’s betrayal settles upon him. The foundation of trust upon which their marriage was built crumbles in an instant, leaving behind a void of hurt and confusion. “Where is she now?” he demands, his voice sharp with a mixture of anger and pain. “Tell me, Margaret. Do not hide anything from me.”

Margaret’s eyes meet the Viscount’s gaze, and in that moment, she recognizes the depths of his anguish. “She is at her lover’s estate, my Lord,” she reveals, her voice laden with remorse. “I have witnessed her depart several times to meet him there.” The Viscount’s jaw tightens as the reality of his wife’s infidelity settles upon him. Anguish and betrayal intertwine within him, threatening to engulf him in a storm of emotions. He paces the room, his mind racing with questions, trying to make sense of the shattered illusion of marital fidelity. “How could I have been so blind?” he mutters, his voice filled with a mix of self-doubt and frustration. “I loved her, and Yet she chose to deceive me.” Margaret watches as the Viscount struggles to come to terms with the truth, her heart aching for the pain he must endure. She can only offer a sympathetic gaze, silently acknowledging the depth of his hurt. With a heavy sigh, the Viscount gathers his composure, steeling himself for the difficult conversations and decisions that lie ahead. He must confront his wife, face the painful truth, and determine the course of action that will safeguard his family’s reputation and future.

“Thank you, Margaret,” he says quietly, his voice tinged with a mix of gratitude and resignation. “You have done your duty by informing me. Please continue to keep a watchful eye, but let this be our secret for now. I need time to contemplate my next steps.” Margaret nods, her expression filled with empathy and understanding. She retreats, leaving the Viscount to grapple with the weight of his wife’s betrayal. As he sinks into a chair, his mind churns with conflicting emotions and the realization that his somewhat blissful marriage has been shattered by the painful truth of infidelity.

———-

As the Viscountess steps through the threshold of her home, the familiar embrace of its walls fails to offer solace or comfort. The maids, ever diligent in their duties, attempt to greet her with their customary deference, only to be met with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Where is she?” the Viscountess demands, her voice dripping with impatience and frustration. Her eyes dart around the room, searching for any sign of her daughter, her impatience growing with each passing moment.

The maids exchange uneasy glances, their trepidation palpable in the air. They are slow to respond, their hesitation borne from fear of their mistress’s sharp temper. With a gulp, one of the maids musters the courage to step forward. “Milady, Lady Y/n is currently in the kitchen,” the maid stammers, her voice trembling slightly. “She is assisting with the preparations for the gala this evening.”

The Viscountess’s eyes narrow, her disappointment mingled with a tinge of annoyance. “Why was I not informed of this?” she snaps, her tone laced with frustration. “Is it too much to ask for a timely update on the whereabouts of my own daughter?” The maid shrinks back, her eyes downcast, feeling the sting of the Viscountess’s reproach. “Forgive us, Milady,” she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper. “We did not anticipate your return at this exact moment. We are doing our best to attend to our duties.”

A flicker of anger passes over the Viscountess’s face as she considers the maid’s response. She takes a deep breath, attempting to regain her composure, but the frustration simmers beneath the surface. “Ensure that Lady Y/n is summoned immediately,” she declares, her voice now tinged with a hint of command. “I have matters to discuss with her, and I will not be kept waiting any longer.” The maids scurry to fulfill their mistress’s order, their steps quickened by a sense of urgency and the desire to avoid further reprimand. With each step, the Viscountess’s presence looms over the maids, sending ripples of unease through their ranks. Her swift and purposeful stride resonates with a hint of authority, evoking a sense of trepidation among those who cross her path. The mere sight of her sends shivers down their spines, a silent reminder of her formidable presence.

As she passes each maid, a wave of tension fills the air. Their gazes instinctively drop to the floor, their movements cautious and measured, as they strive to avoid any misstep that might draw her attention. The Viscountess, lost in her own thoughts, seems oblivious to the palpable discomfort she instills in those around her.

The maids exchange wary glances as she proceeds, a shared understanding passing between them. Each knows the consequences of arousing the Viscountess’s wrath, and they hasten to complete their tasks with meticulous precision, hoping to avoid any unnecessary encounters. Whispers of her footsteps reverberate through the corridors, amplifying the tension that accompanies her progress. The once-familiar hallways seem to shrink in her presence, their walls closing in as the maids take care to remain unseen, blending into the backdrop of the estate.

Finally, the Viscountess reaches the tea room, the anticipation of her arrival preceding her. The maids who had been preparing the room for her entrance now stand at attention, their expressions a careful mask of servitude. With an imperious air, the Viscountess enters the room, her gaze sweeping across the surroundings with a sharp intensity. The tension in the air is palpable, as if the very atmosphere holds its breath, awaiting her next move.

As she settles into her seat, the maids silently arrange themselves nearby, their eyes averted, not daring to meet her gaze. The room becomes a tableau of subservience, each maid acutely aware of the formidable presence before them. In this atmosphere of trepidation, the Viscountess exudes a power that commands attention, her every action laden with an unspoken expectation. As she awaits the arrival of her daughter, her mind teems with thoughts of control, consequence, and the determination to maintain her influence over the unfolding events.

As you emerge from the bustling kitchen, your mind still intoxicated by the tantalizing flavors, you notice an unusual unease among the maids who approach you. Their anxious expressions raise your concern, prompting you to inquire about the matter. “What’s wrong?” you ask, your voice filled with genuine curiosity. “Why do you all seem so troubled?”

The maids exchange nervous glances, their eyes darting anxiously before one of them gathers the courage to speak. Her voice trembles slightly as she delivers the news.

“Lady Y/n, the Viscountess has summoned you to the tea room,” she whispers, her words tinged with apprehension. “There is a sense of urgency, and we fear that something important awaits you.” Your heart skips a beat at the unexpected summons, and a mixture of anticipation and apprehension fills your being. What could have transpired in your absence? What pressing matters could your mother wish to discuss? Offering the maids a reassuring smile, you express your gratitude for their concern. “Thank you for informing me,” you reply, your voice steady despite the flutter of nerves within you. “I will make my way to the tea room as requested.”

The maids disperse, their worried glances lingering for a moment before they return to their tasks. Taking a deep breath, you mentally prepare yourself for the forthcoming encounter, aware that this summons may hold significant implications for your future.

As you navigate the hallways, each step feels heavier, and your thoughts race with uncertainty. Questions swirl in your mind, demanding answers that remain elusive. What could your mother want to discuss? How might this conversation shape your aspirations and desires? With determination and a touch of apprehension, you enter the tea room, locking eyes with your resolute mother. The atmosphere crackles with unspoken tension, setting the stage for a pivotal conversation that may redefine your relationship and steer the course of your future. The door closes behind you, enveloping you in a confined space with your mother, as if the weight of the world rests upon this encounter. You brace yourself, steeling your nerves, ready to face the challenges and revelations that await you in the tea room. It is here, in this moment, that the trajectory of your life may be forever altered, as you stand on the precipice of transformation and uncertainty.

As you settle into your seat, the delicate porcelain cup cradled in your hands, a maid swiftly approaches, pouring steaming tea into the delicate china. The aroma of the warm brew wafts through the air, momentarily soothing your nerves as you prepare yourself for the conversation ahead. Your mother’s voice cuts through the silence, her tone a mixture of curiosity and reproach. “Where did you go last night?” she asks, her eyes narrowing slightly, searching for any signs of deception. Without missing a beat, you respond, a hint of defiance in your voice, “Nowhere, Mother. I simply stayed within the estate.”

However, your attempt to deflect her inquiry falls flat, and your mother’s gaze hardens, her eyes brimming with suspicion. “Do not take me for a fool, Y/n,” she retorts sharply, her words dripping with disappointment and frustration. “I am well aware of the truth. Do not think you can deceive me so easily.” You swallow hard, the weight of her disapproval pressing upon you. In a brave yet futile attempt, you summon the courage to defend yourself. “Mother, I assure you, I went nowhere of consequence. I simply sought solace in the gardens,” you explain, your voice tinged with frustration and a desire to be understood.

But your words only seem to fuel her ire, and she dismisses your explanation with a wave of her hand. “Solace in the gardens?” she scoffs, her voice laced with disdain. “Do you think I am blind to your antics, Y/n? Your restlessness and desire for independence are no secret to me.” You bristle at her words, the sting of her accusations piercing your heart. You long for the chance to express yourself, to make her understand your aspirations and dreams. Yet, you find your voice muffled by the weight of tradition and societal expectations.

The conversation takes a sudden turn as your mother transitions to another topic, her tone shifting to one of business and practicality. She informs you that two modistes have been arranged to dress you for the upcoming gala at the Claydall estate. Her words are filled with an air of authority, as if the matter has already been decided. Your eyes roll involuntarily, a gesture of silent dissent, as you ponder the extravagance and the waste of resources. You find it difficult to reconcile the frivolousness of such decisions with the realities of the world beyond the opulent walls of the estate.

Internally, you wrestle with a myriad of emotions – frustration, longing, and a growing sense of rebellion. Your desires and aspirations remain obscured, overshadowed by the expectations placed upon you. The Claydall estate, with its grandeur and lavishness, becomes a symbol of the constraints that confine you. Silently, you sip your tea, the bitterness of disappointment mingling with the warmth of the liquid. The conversation with your mother serves as a stark reminder of the delicate balancing act you must perform, navigating the expectations of society while yearning for personal fulfillment.

In this moment, you contemplate the choices that lie before you, seeking a way to carve out your own path amidst the constraints of tradition and duty. The forthcoming gala at the Claydall estate becomes a metaphor for the complex dance you must navigate, as you strive to find your own sense of purpose and identity amidst the opulence and expectations that surround you.  “I will find a suitable gentleman to court you,” your mother declares, her tone firm and unyielding. As you watch your mother then take a sip of her tea, the delicate porcelain cup quivering slightly in her grip, a surge of determination courses through your veins. You know that your defiance will likely ignite her anger, but you cannot stand idly by, surrendering your right to choose your own path.

“No, Mother,” you assert, your voice steady and unwavering. “I will not allow you to choose my partner for me. I deserve the freedom to make my own decisions and follow my own heart.” The words hang in the air, a palpable tension radiating between you. Your mother’s eyes narrow, her face contorting with an amalgamation of fury and disbelief.

“How dare you defy me!” she erupts, her voice booming with a mix of anger and frustration. “You are my daughter, and it is my duty to ensure your future is secure. I will not let you jeopardize it with your foolish whims!” The fire within you burns brightly, fueling your courage as you stand your ground. “Mother, I respect your concern for my future,” you reply, your voice steady but tinged with a hint of defiance. “But I believe in my own ability to make the right choices for myself. I deserve a partner who truly understands and values me, and I will not settle for anything less.”

Your mother’s face turns a shade of crimson, her voice trembling with anger as she lashes out, hurling insults and accusations at you. But you refuse to cower beneath the weight of her words. Instead, you summon every ounce of strength within you, defending your right to choose your own path. “I am not a pawn to be moved at your will, Mother.” you retort, your voice cutting through the tension-filled air. “I am an individual with my own dreams, desires, and aspirations. I will not let them be silenced or suppressed.”

The maids, who have been witness to this unprecedented confrontation, look on with wide-eyed astonishment. The air crackles with an electricity they have rarely seen, as you assert your agency in the face of authority.

With your head held high, you rise from your seat, your gaze locking definitely with your mother’s. Her tirade continues, but you have made your choice. You turn away, determined to leave behind the suffocating walls of her control. As you walk out of the room, the resounding slam of the door echoes your determination. The sound reverberates through the halls, a powerful punctuation to your declaration of independence. Your heart pounds with a mix of uncertainty and liberation, knowing that you have taken the first step towards carving out your own destiny.

The echoes of your mother’s anger fade into the background, drowned out by the resolute beat of your own heart. In this moment, you embrace the newfound strength that courses through your veins, ready to face the challenges that lie ahead and to shape your own future on your own terms.

———-

As you step out of the carriage, you are swiftly guided into the grand halls of the Claydall estate. The anticipation in the air is palpable, as the bustling of staff and the murmurs of guests create a vibrant energy. Inside the estate, you are greeted by the two modistes, who are revealed to be twins. They stand side by side, their eyes filled with a keen sense of professionalism and artistic flair. The sight of their identical features creates a sense of intrigue and fascination.

wasting a moment, the modistes spring into action, their nimble fingers deftly working to enhance your natural beauty. They assess your figure, your complexion, and your unique features, determining the perfect ensemble to accentuate your elegance and grace. As they begin their work, maids scurry around you, carefully styling your hair with intricate braids and delicate curls. The gentle touch of their hands and the sound of their whispers create a soothing ambiance amidst the flurry of activity.

The modistes skilled hands glide over your gown, carefully fitting and adjusting each detail with precision. The fabric cascades around you, enhancing your silhouette and capturing the essence of regal refinement. Throughout the process, the modistes and maids exchange whispers and small nods of approval, each contributing to the transformative journey. Their collective efforts converge, harmonizing to create a stunning portrayal of your inner radiance and strength.

As the final touches are added, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. The reflection that stares back at you is a vision of elegance and confidence, a testament to the artistry and craftsmanship of the modistes and maids who have worked tirelessly to bring your beauty to life. With a newfound sense of poise, you take a moment to absorb the transformation. The soft glow of the chandeliers illuminates the room, casting a mesmerizing aura upon your ethereal appearance. You are now ready to step into the gala, radiating a captivating presence that mirrors the grace and beauty of the Claydall estate itself.

———-

As the carriage glides along the winding road, the duke finds himself lost in the beauty of the setting sun. The vibrant hues of orange and gold paint the sky, casting a warm glow over the world below. Dressed in the finest garments befitting his noble status, the duke exudes an air of regal elegance.

Seated across from him is his childhood friend, Ace, the son of a baron. Clad in his own distinguished attire, adorned with military accouterments, Ace radiates an aura of confidence and charm. The camaraderie between the two is evident, a bond forged through shared experiences and a deep understanding. With a mischievous glint in his eyes, Ace turns his attention to the duke, a playful grin spreading across his face. “So, my dear friend, have you been smitten by a fair lady?” he teases, his voice tinged with amusement.

The duke’s expression remains stoic, yet a hint of a smile plays at the corners of his lips. “You know better than to pry into such matters, Ace,” he retorts, a note of warning lacing his voice. But Ace, undeterred by the duke’s attempt to deflect the conversation, leans closer, his voice filled with mock excitement. “Come on, you can’t keep it a secret forever. We’ve been friends long enough for me to know when you’ve met someone who has captured your attention.” The duke’s gaze softens for a moment as he recalls the encounter with the spirited lady during his ride. “She is an intriguing young woman,” he concedes, his tone betraying a hint of admiration. “But that is all I will say for now.”

Ace grins triumphantly, relishing in the small victory. “Ah, the Duke of Dressrosa, taken aback by a lady’s charms. Who would have thought?” he jests, the playful banter bringing a lightheartedness to their conversation. The duke chuckles, a rare sound that escapes his lips. “Rest assured, Ace, I am not easily swayed,” he asserts, his voice laced with a mixture of pride and conviction. “But I will admit, there is something captivating about her.” Their playful exchange continues as the carriage continues its journey towards the gala, the lighthearted banter offering a reprieve from the weight of their responsibilities. The duke, despite his stoic demeanor, finds solace in the presence of his childhood friend, knowing that amidst the grandeur and expectations of the evening, their bond remains unbreakable.

As the sun dips below the horizon, casting the world into twilight, the duke and Ace find comfort in the camaraderie they share, ready to face the gala and all the possibilities it holds. With a shared smile and a final jest, they brace themselves for the night ahead, where the mysteries of the heart and the allure of the unknown await them both.

©𝐘𝐀𝐘𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐀— Any sign/evidence of plagiarism made from outside this name will be dealt with by whatever means necessary. Legal action may occur if non fanfiction works are plagiarized.

[shivroy]

my favorite image ever in the entire world #kendalling

available as a print on my INPRNT if you love jeremy strong and his enigmatic spoon and beautiful spirit as much as i do ❤️

[sixx6secs2love]

DATING CHINO MORENO

word count: 408

warnings: drugs mentioned at the end, uhh nothing else i think

hes an enigmatic introvert.

Chino would be a man of few words, often lost in his thoughts. His silence would intrigue you, and you’d spend hours deciphering the emotions hidden behind those dark eyes.

He’d express his feelings through music—lyrics that cut through your soul, melodies that linger long after the song ends.

Chino would be all for cuddling, especially after a long day.

Chino's favorite cuddling positions would likely include:

The classic spooning, with him as the big spoon, enveloping you in his arms, providing a sense of security and warmth.

Lying face-to-face, sharing whispers and soft kisses, enjoying the closeness and the opportunity to gaze into each other's eyes.

Him lying on his back with you resting your head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, while he runs his fingers through your hair, creating a soothing, tranquil moment.

Chino would enjoy using nicknames as a way to express affection and add a personal touch to your relationship. He might come up with unique ones based on inside jokes, your personality traits, or even alterations of your name that only he uses. These nicknames would be a mix of sweet, playful, and even a little quirky.

chino's love language would likely be a mix of Quality Time and Physical Touch. He'd cherish those moments spent together, whether it's diving deep into conversations about music, art, and life, or simply enjoying each other's company in silence. The physical connection would be important to him as well—hugs, kisses, and, of course, cuddling. These gestures show his affection and create a deeper bond between you two. Sharing experiences and physical closeness would be his way of saying "I love you" without always using words.

On a scale of 1 to 10, Chino's level of jealousy would probably hover around a 3. He's confident and secure in himself and his relationships. While he might feel a twinge of jealousy on rare occasions, he trusts you and values open communication over suspicion. He understands the importance of individuality and freedom in a relationship, opting for mutual respect and trust over possessiveness. His laid-back and understanding nature helps maintain a healthy, balanced relationship.

Chino’s struggles with drugs would be a constant backdrop. You’d witness the highs and lows—the euphoria of creativity fueled by substances and the crashing comedowns.

Arguments would flare up, fueled by passion and intensity. But somehow, you’d always find your way back to each other

YOU GUYS WANNA KNOW A SILLY FACT? CHINO LIKES WEARING HIS SOCKS INSIDE OUT BECAUSE THEY FEEL MORE COMFORTABLE TO HIM. HES SUCH A CUTIE.

[serenefify]

Hi👋

May I request an interaction with the new character?

I know that dragon boy ain't out yet, but I would like to have your own take about him .

🐰🥕anon.

Synopsis: A quick meal after another fatiguing travel, wouldn't hurt much, right?

{{What in 'hell' is bad?} Pair: Gamigin/You

{{Potential}} Trigger Warning: Religious/Biblical reference, OOC (man isn't out yet)

🎗️Author's note: Opening the Tumblr and seeing the new character and the the request, shot me a sudden boast of motivation to do this. Also, he seems like a funky guy with a little enigmatic atmosphere around but hey, he's a dragon so 🤷 I also like the thought of him, calling us master idk.

"You're the infamous descendant of Solomon, right?"

A breeze suddenly passed by, causing you to pause your current action and lower the spoon, turning to look at the person standing before you.

Somehow and somewhere, you always manage to attract a few eyes on your whatever or whenever you go, even here. Followed by numerous devils stalking you, growing bolder and even daring to approach you. You weren't surprised anymore, but you couldn't intently say that you were pleased with the outcome. You had come to that realization the moment you step at the ground of this hellish world, that being a descendant of a long-lost, yet beloved figure could potentially bring consequences, whether deemed to be good or bad.

Paradise Lost, at least from your perspective, seemed far more subdued than the rest of places in Hell. The majority of the devils here appeared calmer, though 'depressed' and 'gloomy' were more fitting descriptions for them, rarely exhibiting erratic behavior on a daily basis or just from mundane actions. You had thought the moment of respite would finally bestow to you.

But, oh boy, you should really stop wishing at this point.

In this situation, you weren't sure if it was the latter or the former.

A staff was suddenly slammed onto your table, causing your food to rattle to the ground. Following this, a man leaned down, invading your vision with a grin as he propped his elbow on the table and rested his head. His crystal eyes roamed over your figure, taking in every inch before releasing a boisterous laugh. "Wow, you're far smaller than I originally imagined!" he continued to cackle loudly, earning a few odd glances from nearby patrons and passersby. It almost seemed like he was mocking you, if it weren't for the genuine sound of his laughter. However, you weren't pleased with the sudden attention being brought upon you.

Feeling a mixture of annoyance and discomfort, you resisted the urge to react impulsively. Instead, you maintained your composure, meeting his gaze with a cool stare. Ignoring the man's laughter, you inquired him if there was something he needed, or simply here to disrupt your meal.

His laughter subsided slightly as he straightened up, his grin fading into a smirk. "Just curious, that's all," he replied, his tone tinged with amusement. "I've heard quite a bit about you, descendant of Solomon. Thought I'd see for myself what all the fuss is about." You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed by his attempt at conversation. In the corner of your vision, you swear, you catch a scaly appendage wagging behind his legs. But it's probably just your eyes, playing with you...

Well, now he has seen you. If he excuses himself, you'd like to finish your meal in peace.

With a dismissive wave of your hand, you turned your attention back to your food, hoping the man would take the hint and leave you alone. However, judging by the mischievous glint in his eyes, it seemed unlikely that he would give up that easily.

As you resumed eating, you couldn't shake off the feeling of being scrutinized. The presence of the man lingered like an unwelcome shadow, casting a pall over what should have been a peaceful meal.

Just as you were starting to relax again, you felt a tap on your shoulder. Sighing inwardly, you turned to face the man once more, only to find him standing uncomfortably close, his grin wider than before. "Sorry to interrupt your meal again," he said, though his tone betrayed no hint of genuine remorse. "But I couldn't help but notice your lack of 'energy'. Are you always this aloof, or is it just with me?"

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. Dealing with this persistent stranger was proving to be more tiresome than you had anticipated. You prefer to keep to yourself. your words were curt and dry. Hoping to prevent any further conversation. To your dismay, the man seemed undeterred. Leaning in even closer, he lowered his voice to a whisper. His large earrings make a light jiggling sound "I understand. But you might find it beneficial to have allies in a place like this. After all, you never know when you might need someone to watch your back."

You regarded him with perplexity and annoyance, unsure of his motives. Despite his seemingly friendly demeanor, there was something about him that set off alarm bells in your mind. But before you could respond, he straightened up and flashed you another grin.

"Well, I'll leave you to enjoy your meal in peace," he said, though his departure seemed more like a temporary than a permanent. With a final nod, he scattered off, leaving you to ponder his cryptic words and-

Wait....

...He left his staff behind

[paperbackribs]

A Tarnished Copper Boy (8)

Previous | Next | Ao3 Last chapter, Eddie was finally able to make sure Steve wasn't bleeding out and the two of them came to the agreement that Steve would stay at Eddie's trailer (and in his bed) until this time travel business is resolved.

Chapter 8: Because It's Love

It had been a week since Steve appeared in Eddie’s living room, mouth full of toothpaste and not bleeding out onto the ground as he had feared, and they were settling into a routine. Eddie away at school for most of the day, Steve healing at home, evenings filled with soft laughter, and nights of Eddie determinedly scooted over to the far edge of his side of the bed.

Steve hadn’t said anything, but Eddie caught him eyeing him a couple of times before he settled in under the covers. Eddie hadn’t been able to interpret the enigmatic expression on Steve’s face; he just hopes he doesn’t think sharing a bed with Eddie is too weird.

He had skipped school the first day Steve was there, over his protests. Eddie saying he wanted to just hang out, with the unspoken message that it was in case Steve disappeared once again. But he hadn’t, his body staying firmly within the Munson residence. Sprawled out on the bed, idly flipping through D&D magazines while Eddie had completed his homework; a compromise for ditching that Steve had been oddly firm about.

Wayne came home from his shift at the plant and, if he was suspicious about a boy exiting Eddie’s bedroom while wearing his clothes, his uncle hadn’t said anything directly about it. Eddie had haltingly tried to explain the situation without giving away the truth of it all.

“He’s in a bit of a bind,” Eddie said, shifting on his feet while Wayne made himself a box of macaroni and cheese. Wayne pensively stirred the increasingly gooey contents in the pot over their stove top, its unmistakable buttery richness wafting through the air. “He’s a good guy, I promise. And if he had anywhere else to go, he’d probably be there, but it’s just this weird thing and I’d like to help him out while I can. Is it okay?”

Eddie had stuffed the nail of his thumb in his mouth before he let any more words spill from his mouth, nervously chewing on the cuticle. Wayne continued stirring before finally looking at Eddie through the corner of his eye, one bushy eyebrow raised in question. “And his parents?”

“Not on the scene,” Eddie said truthfully, spitting out a piece of skin. His face twisted in a grimace, “I don’t think they’re really around normally or… the sort of people he can trust or turn to.”

Eddie may have laid it on a little thick, but the thing is — Wayne is infuriatingly good at sniffing out Eddie’s lies, and he nodded in a way that made Eddie think that his words may ring with a deeper level of belief based on observations and half-formed suspicions. He’d flashed back to Steve, concussed and swaying in his arms: no hospital and, later, no one to call.

Eddie may finally end up in jail one day for any multitude of sins, but at least he knows that Wayne will always take his phone call.

Wayne had switched the stove off and, bending down below the counter cupboard that Eddie was perched at, brought up three bowls. The amber dishes glinted in the kitchen lights as Wayne spooned the little elbow noodles evenly amongst them. “Just make sure he cleans up after himself.” And with little fanfare, Wayne had given his blessing and taken his dinner away to eat on the couch.

Eddie however enjoys a little pomp to his ceremony, so as the older man had settled his weight onto the seat Eddie darted forward and pressed a kiss of gratitude against those salt and pepper whiskers. “Thanks, Uncle Wayne.”

Wayne had grunted in response. Ostensibly ignoring his nephew to flick on the television with the remote, but in his faint nod, Eddie could tell that he was pleased.

“So, we’ve just passed Thanksgiving, then?” Steve asks now, throwing a baseball into the air and catching it again in a rhythmic thud, swish, thud. Eddie has no idea where he’d gotten it from.

It’s Monday evening, Wayne has the late shift, and Eddie is technically drafting an outline about the use of German propaganda in World War II, but the subject had spurred a campaign idea about a lord turning the people against their stalwart heroes. Jeff’s elf and Gareth’s half-orc are going to find it hard to persuade the locals for information or help, while Sarah’s human fighter and Randy’s human mage will enjoy a warm welcome. Their new guy, Dougie, was coming with his character on the day, so Eddie would wing it for him.

“Thursday before last,” Eddie confirms, shading in a dastardly moustache in the little figure he’d drawn on the margin. He pushes down a twinge of guilt for not doing his work by concentrating on drawing a fantastic representation of his new villain.

“Huh,” says Steve. “Did you watch the Cowboys win?”

Eddie shoots a dry look over his shoulder, “Do I look like a balls guy.”

Steve snorts and mutters something under his breath. Eddie squints at him, suspiciously “What?”

“Nothing,” Steve shakes his head with an innocent smile before returning to the baseball in his hand. Thud, swish, thud. “You do much?” he asks. Sprawled across the brown couch, his back against the arm Steve looks relaxed and carefree. A week of doing nothing much but vegging in front of the television, catching up on sleep, and generally healing has done him a world of good. He idly scratches over his clothes, targeting the irritation of his healing stitches.

As Steve had promised, he runs hot and, even in the chill of early December, his feet are bare. He wears a pair of grey jeans with a black Metallica tee, across it Kill ‘Em All For One is splashed across a red outline of America. Eddie hadn’t been able to go to the concert, but he’d traded a few party favours to Randy for the shirt. The jeans are one of his looser pants, but Steve’s thighs bulge within them, and his bubble butt fills out the backside in a way that Eddie’s flat ass has no hope of ever doing.

Steve had taken to switching between this outfit and the sweats/Dio combo and Eddie can't figure out which one makes him want to lose his mind more. It depends on the day, Eddie decides, and whether Steve is bending over to pick up anything off of the floor.

Eddie hums a negative about their activities over the holiday, “We don’t have much attachment to it, no. But now that you mention it, Wayne may have been excited over his game.” He adds reluctantly. “But I’m pretty sure it’s the Hooters that he roots for.”

“Hoosiers,” Steve corrects with a laugh. Thud. Swish. Thud.

“That sort of sounds like a cowboy,” Eddie offers carelessly, not having a real solid idea about the meaning behind the word. “It’s not,” Steve says dryly, looking at Eddie with pity.

Eddie shrugs, “Other than that, I just messed around. Ate turkey sandwiches and pumpkin pie — homemade this year, courtesy of Miss Catherine.”

Steve grins over at him, having been told all the gossip about reticent Uncle Wayne and their sharp neighbour. He lets out a little oooo like a child taunting a girl and boy holding hands at school. Eddie snorts: watching Wayne blush his way around Catherine while doing absolutely nothing in response does feel about as raunchy as watching first love innocently bloom.

“What about you?” Eddie asks. “Would you normally be doing anything?”

The sound of the falling ball stops, and Steve looks down at the white leather contemplatively. “Let’s see,” he muses. “1984… We’ll fly out to Chicago for the annual family dinner at great-grandfather Kingsley’s home. There will be bland conversation and even blander food. Uncle Robert will once again share his theory that immigrants are ruining this country, which Aunt Linda will object to for appearance's sake even while her husband will lean over to agree with Robert. Cousin Chester will point out that, no, clearly, it’s the gays since they’re being punished by God for their deviant ways.

“Then, just as everyone is nice and sloshed, trading catty barbs about who’s doing the worst in their career or their inability to pop out babies, my father’s mistress will arrive with the news that she is pregnant.”

Eddie has felt his mouth steadily drop and has no qualms about showing Steve how batshit insane he thinks his family is. Steve looks over, correctly interpreting his expression and nods with a wry smile and raised eyebrow like can you believe this shit. “Oh, you just wait, there’s more. Tears are shed. Voices are raised. But we can all calm down because abortion is only a sin unless it is in this very specific circumstance.”

“Steve, your family is nuts,” Eddie chokes out. And he had thought that the pinnacle of family drama was Millie burning her cheating husband’s clothes over their grill in the front yard.

“No, no, no,” Steve tuts while wagging his finger, sounding like he’s mimicking an older woman, “Crazy is for the poor, spirited is the term you’re looking for.”

He rolls his eyes heavenward, “That was only surpassed by Christmas ‘85 when Cousin Chester is outed by his girlfriend in a martini-fuelled breakdown over where she saw him last month and with who. Turns out being gay is also a sin — unless you have a passing fancy to stick your tongue down another man’s throat.”

He makes a tired rolling gesture with his wrists, “Followed by heartfelt promises to put a ring on it and never let himself be tempted by the devil again.” Steve pauses, shaking his head in disgust, “He runs for City Council Member the following year. Prick gets it too.”

Icy fingers run down Eddie’s spine at the disdain in Steve’s voice as he talks about his cousin. Is his dislike for Chester because his cousin is a bigoted hypocrite or because he likes to kiss men? Contemplating that the answer may be both, Eddie’s gaze drops to stare down at his crude caricature of an evil aristocrat. If he curves the brows towards the middle of the eyes then the little lord will seem even more malevolent.

As if he senses his drop in mood, Steve pauses and calls Eddie’s name questioningly, but Eddie is focused on his drawing. Erasing the slashes on the forehead, he keeps his gaze down, wondering whether it’s worth shattering his expectations about Steve to ask and potentially get the answer that he dreads.

He thinks about it, letting his mind roll out the scenarios. Don’t ask Steve but know that he probably hates gays; feel disappointed, but perhaps not surprised, never, ever, ever show Steve that part of himself ever. Add another drop in the bucket titled coward.

Or maybe he asks, and Steve tells him outright that it’s a sin: of course Chester is going to hell. And, never, ever, ever show Steve the greedy shadows inside him that don’t just want other men but want Steve specifically. Overflow that bucket, drop a fat stone of self-loathing in it named spinelessness.

“Eddie, hey. You’re going to rub a hole through the paper if you keep doing that.” Steve gently plucks the eraser attached to the end of a pencil from Eddie��s grip. Eddie’s hands drop, the spread of his palms flat on the paper echoed in those icy fingers inching at the base of his throat, readying to strangle him.

Finally, because curiosity—whether for better or worse—will always prod at Eddie, he asks quietly, “Is it because he’s gay? That you don’t like him.”

He continues to stare at his spread fingers, unable to look up and see the confirmation flashing across Steve’s face. But he hears him huff out a breath.

“No, I don’t like him because he used to trip me at the bottom of the stairs when I was six and he was twelve. I think he’s ignorant because he sees the height of sophistication in a blonde girlfriend and an expensive watch. I believe he’s on the path to being an outright evil bastard because, even limited, he has power; he’s in charge of money that could help the people in his community, but he’ll either send funds on to friends for infrastructure works or he’ll disguise policies as family-friendly, but that actually means kill em’ all.”

Eddie’s eyes flick to Steve’s shirt before slowly rising to his face. It’s angry, red rising in his cheeks and eyes, “Chester has resources at his fingertips to tackle AIDs at a community level, but he won’t. And, okay, he’s obviously going through something if he’s sneaking off to kiss guys and I could empathise with that if he weren’t also a hypocrite complicit in literal deaths.”

Eddie remembers feeling a similar sentiment towards Tommy and wonders whether Steve has ever considered his former best friend in the same light. Whether he has an inkling of the torch that Tommy obviously carries for him.

“So, you don’t think he’s a deviant?” Eddie asks, hope warming him through and pushing those cold tendrils away.

“Better a deviant than a complicit prick,” Steve says hotly. He pauses before adding, “And just for the record it’s not deviant, it’s not a sin. It’s love. And that’s better than what those assholes at Thanksgiving could manage.”

Eddie smiles down at his hands, it’s love echoing in his heart and head.

He swallows down the swell of emotion that wants to pour forward, to take another risk and ask Steve if that acceptance extends to the person sitting in front of him. But this is enough for now because it’s love rings through Eddie, giving him hope of being seen and loved himself.

Even if it’s never Steve, maybe romance and affection aren’t outside the grasp of a tarnished copper boy. Perhaps there will be kisses and hand holding and more, that Eddie has only been able to half dream of because it’s love. Because the opposite of deviance is normal, it’s okay, it’s right and true, and it’s because it’s love.

Eddie plucks the pencil/eraser from Steve’s fingers and starts to draw a hero who will cut down the evil lord at his knees, freeing the people from his suffocating reign.

“Okay, then,” Eddie challenges, “What other stories you got?”

Steve laughs, lounging back on the couch and tells him. Thud, swish, thud.

💚💫💚

Eddie rolls off the couch with an exaggerated oomph, letting his limbs splay out, face pressed into the brown and white shag carpet. It’s musty but smells miles better after Steve’s regular jaunts at vacuuming. He hears more than sees Steve turn towards him from the cupboard. “You all right there, bud?”

Sabbath quietly roars in the background, telling him— no, compelling him to embrace the thrill of the night and Steve Harrington is calling him cutesy names like a toddler being picked up from kindergarten. Abruptly, Eddie becomes aware of how much flatter his ass must look in this position and he quickly rolls over, dark hair flopping over half his face.

Steve’s long body appears above him, looking down at Eddie with a quizzical expression and an unflattering double chin. Eddie hails the divine favour that blesses him at that moment, showing him that the world is full of more than only injustice: even Steve has an unflattering angle.

He’s holding an armful of freshly washed and dried bedding along with Wayne’s shirts and Eddie’s jeans; Eddie doggedly ignores the plaid red boxers sticking out between them. There’s no point in being embarrassed at Steve cleaning his unmentionables when they’re sharing anyway.

He blows at the curls that had clung to the bridge of his nose, “Why is life one long exercise in eating, cleaning, shitting out said eating, and then doing it all over again?” He squints his eyes up at Steve like he’s accusing him of being responsible for the natural order of the world, “I am ouroboros eating its tail, fallen into a cycle of life, death, and rebirth.”

Steve’s face crinkles in amusement before juggling the washing onto the lounge table they had pushed to the side. He starts to placidly fold Wayne’s shirts, “Right. I’m not sure what the oreo is, but I’m getting the feeling that you don’t feel up to making dinner tonight.”

“Sandwiches okay?” Eddie tilts his chin up to follow Steve’s movements, his neck pulling taut in a satisfying reach.

Steve’s eyes flicker as he watches Eddie stretch before he looks away, “We still have those eggs and the bacon? I’ll make pasta.” He leaves to shelve the folded clothes, Eddie’s head rotating as he watches that butt bounce away. He sighs up at the ceiling, Steve may have one unflattering angle, but he makes up for it in square footage. Maybe life is unfair after all.

Eddie hears Steve make a soft exclamation, “Oh, you kept it.” He looks over to see him pull out the bomber jacket that he’d been wearing when he first arrived, the tactical vest falling heavily to the ground after it.

“Oh, yeah. Shit, I forgot,” Eddie apologises. “I was able to wipe down those two, but the pants were infused with what smelled like gasoline, so I binned them.” He points a hand behind Steve, “The boots are in the back.” Steve has literally not left the trailer since he’d arrived nearly two weeks ago—as they agreed would be best—and it hadn’t occurred to Eddie to offer shoes.

Steve contemplates the vest fallen at his feet for a moment before shrugging, stuffing his clothes back into the cupboard followed by storing Wayne’s in a far neater manner. “That’s okay, not like I’ve needed them so far. But it’s good to know that I’ve got them.” Shortly after, the sound of the fridge door and the clang of a pan tells Eddie that Steve has started in on dinner.

Around them, curling in the air like smoke broken from a crystal ball, the music loses its urgency, rolling out into a steady, heavy pulse. Eddie taps one long finger in appreciation for the beat, mouthing along with the beast is free to wander, but never is seen again. He wonders if Steve would appreciate the measured, deep rock of Led Zepplin.

He'd taken one look at Steve’s face while playing Motörhead and decided to slow-roll the guy into the harder genres of metal. If he has enough taste to appreciate Bowie then psychedelic rock probably isn’t too far behind, which really is just a hop, skip and jump to the masters Eddie loves. Christmas is coming, maybe he’ll get Steve Van Halen’s latest. They’ve moved in the direction of synth which has Eddie’s lip curling automatically, but he thinks Steve would like it.

The idea of it takes hold of him and Eddie imagines Steve over Christmas time, paper hat askew over thick locks and a pile of ripped paper at his crossed ankles. Eddie rolls, hauling himself upright to amble over to the kitchen counter. “Christmas is approaching, the fair jingle of bells and clanging of hooves exciting all the boys and girls.”

Steve huffs out a breath. “Yay,” he deadpans, “Let all the boys and girls rejoice amongst themselves then.”

“Steve!” Eddie exclaims, splaying his palms on the counter across from him, leaning in with intensity, “That is the holy holiday you are talking about.”

Steve eyes him over the onion fumes, lashes only slightly damp. “You were just telling me that Thanksgiving isn’t worth celebrating.”

“But it’s Christmas,” Eddie whines, melodramatically dropping his arms to hang off the counter. Spreading his body in abject despair, he peeks through his hair to watch for Steve’s reaction. His lips twitch, but he remains unwavering in the face of Eddie’s completely real and justified distress.

Steve flicks a curl off of the wooden cutting board before starting to mash the garlic with the flat of his knife, “I don’t know what to tell you, man. You’ve already heard all the stories — if I could avoid the holidays, I would.”

“That’s sad, Steve,” Eddie says more seriously, straightening, “Just because your Aunt Margaret nearly drowned when she went face down in potato mash doesn’t mean that Christmas isn’t a time of delight.”

“Yeah, you’re obviously a fan.” Steve prompts him as he turns to adjust the stove top temperature, water boiling in the pot as he adds a clutch of long pasta. He doesn’t break it like Eddie would, to save time; instead, he pokes at the softening strands until they’re all safely tucked under the bubbling surface.

“It’s fun,” Eddie shrugs, watching Steve’s hands flex and confidently move. “Mama used to put up tinsels and decorations; so many different colours that it probably looked tacky to adults, but I loved it. She’d play Bobby Helms and dance with me under the lights. I’d look up and it was like the stars of the night exploding with fireworks, just for us.”

Eddie sighs wistfully as the cascade of images falls gently, flipping through his mind with the soft brightness that only comes from fond, faded memories. “Her fruitcake was the best.”

Steve’s face twists into a dubious cast, “I’ve never come across fruit cake that wasn’t a combination of cardboard and brick.”

“Well, you haven’t had my mama’s then,” Eddie retorts.

Breaking eggs apart into a bowl, Steve’s smile is small and enigmatic as he concentrates on separating the yolk. “No, I haven’t,” he agrees warmly.

Eddie sighs, “And when she died…”

Steve’s eyes flicker up, his body stilling. Eddie has the sense that he could unfold every tired secret from his past right now and Steve would sit for as long as it takes, listen with a kind ear, and perhaps even help heal a sliver of Eddie’s heart in the process. Instead, he says simply, “Let’s just say Pop didn’t think putting in the effort to decorate was a very manly endeavour.”

“Ah,” Steve says, understanding etched over his features.

Shaking off old aches, Eddie grins brightly, “But Wayne! Now, he’s a gentleman of discernment. Every year, he drags out his kitschy collection of mugs, plates, and cutlery designated for Christmas, along with a specific baseball hat usually stored away with his book of Christmas recipes — for all that he never uses it. And, on the twenty-sixth, everything is cleaned, dried, and packed away. He’s very particular about it.” Eddie winks, “I tell him that I get my weird from him, but he refuses to believe me.”

Steve laughs lightly as he drains the pasta. Once done, he turns to add the garlic and onions to the heated pan, the combination erupting with a violent hiss as the vegetables meet the hot oil. “Sounds nice, sounds like what family should be,” he admits.

Eddie hums in agreement, watching Steve deftly add, stir, and flip the ingredients. A clatter at the door has him glancing over to see Wayne walk into the trailer, he nods at the two of them in the kitchen before bending over to toe off his boots.

“Well timed, grubs up,” Steve says, smiling tentatively.

Wayne appreciatively sniffs the air as he hangs up his worn flannel jacket, “Smells good, let me just clean up.”

Steve ducks his head as Wayne walks past, concentrating on mixing the pasta and sauce and then plating it onto the bowls that he had prepared. Eddie has noticed a certain reticence about Steve in the face of his uncle and, at first, he had worried that Steve disliked Wayne. The more often he saw the wariness in Steve’s eyes though, the more Eddie’s become convinced that the cause is something different.

He’s not sure, but he doesn’t know how to ask either. Somehow do you have a problem with my uncle doesn’t feel right. The tone of it aggressive and ill-fitting between them. And, after he had assumed the worse of Steve and his attitude towards his cousin, Eddie has felt the unexpected urge to give Steve space and time to tell him what he’s feeling without Eddie pushing and prodding it out of him.

With a flourish, Steve grinds pepper over the tops of the pasta and pushes two servings into Eddie’s hands. They sit on the couch, the slight sag in the middle pulling them together. Flicking on the television, Eddie passes over the extra bowl to Wayne as he walks past. A metal hinge squeaks as he settles heavily into the armchair, letting out a tired sigh.

The sound of studio laughter rings out when Mork lets out an exuberant na-nu na-nu and Wayne chuckles too as Mindy’s father falls into a musical battle of piano versus keyboard with his mother-in-law. Steve’s eyes flicker to Wayne at the noise, but he remains silent, steadily nibbling away at his dinner.

The uncertainty of it all fills Eddie with a swelling tension. Rather than letting loose the giggle that tickles at the back of his throat, he hums exuberantly around a big mouthful of creamy noodles. “This is delicious.”

Wayne glances over at Eddie’s enthusiasm with a raised brow, but he doubles down. “Best pasta we’ve had in a while, right, Wayne?” Steve turns to look at Wayne and Eddie rises a brow right back at his uncle, staring meaningfully over the back of Steve’s shoulder.

Wayne’s eyes fill with a subtle humour before gradually nodding, “Much better than most of what you cook.” Eddie huffs indignantly: he’s trying to open the channels of communication not open himself up to potshots. “I think I remember someone burning eggs the other day — that takes real skill.”

Steve snorts, quickly looking down at his bowl as if to hide his reaction.

Wayne warningly points a fork at Eddie, “Watch it. I’ve seen you manage to cut yourself open while eating an apple, you’ve no room to talk.”

“I’m happy to keep cooking,” Steve interrupts, finally raising his head to glance between them and looking strangely hopeful. “It’s the least I can do while you put me up.”

“It’s a kindness,” Wayne says with an approving nod. “Nice coming home to a hot plate.”

“I cook!” Eddie cries, embarrassment riding high in the reds of his cheeks.

“You make sandwiches,” Wayne pointedly observes.

“Yeah, well—” Eddie squints accusingly as he waves a miffed fork above him. Steve ducks before it gets stuck in his hair, eyes gleaming in amusement as Eddie continues to protest, “You’re the one who taught me. Those in glass houses, old man.”

“My house is just fine, Eds. But, yes,” Wayne finally agrees, tipping the bowl forward to show it half-eaten, “This is the best pasta we’ve had in a while, bar Catherine’s lasagne, of course.” Of course, Eddie mimics in his head and rolls his eyes, the man’s head over heels and can’t even admit it.

“A dash of parmesan would make it better, so it’s a little plain,” Steve offers, smiling slightly like he’s pleased with their reactions.

Wayne pauses before saying, “Give me a list and I’ll make sure to get you what you need.”

Steve nods a little stiltedly, but the tension that had filled Eddie steadily leaks away, allowing him to breathe more fully. The air is clear and all three men grin or chuckle as Mindy assertively dips Mork, passionately kissing him.

Accordingly, Eddie doesn’t think much of it when he walks in on Steve the next day talking quietly to Wayne, not since he hands over what is clearly a shopping list. And coming home from school the next two days is a delight as Steve serves beef burgers and then meatloaf. If asked, Eddie would normally say that home smells like a combination of Winstons and Wayne’s aftershave, but now he mentally tallies in the aroma of Steve's cooking.

Steve laughs later as Eddie says as much, casually slotting the leftovers of the meatloaf and salad into the fridge. “Half the time it’s just the onion and garlic you’re smelling, Eddie.”

Eddie bites down on his lip in happiness as he heads to the bathroom to brush his teeth, feeling delightfully full of a satisfyingly hot meal and giddy at listening to Steve’s laughter. He sticks his head out the door, calling out teasingly, “But it’s what you do with it, Steve-o. It’s divine.”

“I think we should take your magnificent talents out onto the road,” Eddie continues, speaking around a mouthful of minty foam. He turns into the kitchen, “I’m not saying we’ll sell your body, just your hands…”

The fridge door is hanging open and the kitchen is empty, electricity humming steadily in the background. An awfully familiar feeling runs through Eddie as he dully watches the light inside switch off with an absent clicking sound. Carefully shutting the white appliance, he leans over the sink to spit out the building saliva in his mouth.

Eddie leans against the counter, the hard slab digging into his lower back but also acting as a needed support. “Steve,” Eddie calls out listlessly, already knowing that he won’t hear an answer.

There is none and Eddie nods to himself.

Right, Steve’s gone but he’s come back before. This was his third visit and a fourth is more than likely. This time too, Eddie won’t have to uselessly fret at the idea of Steve hurt and bleeding out. Maybe a couple of weeks will pass for Eddie, but from Steve’s perspective seconds will pass and then he’ll drop onto Eddie’s floor once more.

In time for Christmas too, Eddie determinedly decides.

It’s only been three times but, so far, the pattern has shown Steve staying longer and taking less time to come back to him. Christmas is three weeks away and the longest stretch of absence was four weeks; therefore, it’s reasonable to expect him to fall through his portal with an oomph and ready to celebrate the holidays with the Munsons.

He’ll make it a good one, too. Eddie will replace memories of drunk Aunt Marge and asshole Cousin Chester and Steve will laugh at Wayne’s Rudolph plates and pinken in delight at Eddie’s gift.

He believes it with firm resolution while in the heart of Hawkins Records on Main Street, Eddie handing over the cash to pay for Van Halen’s 1984. Tucking the cassette away into the pockets of his leather jacket with a faint pat for protection.

He knows it to be true in the school cafeteria, the tables buzzing with students more than ready for a holiday away from homework, tests, and the drama that comes with shoving a few hundred kids together in one small space. Gareth passes over his banana to Jeff, even as the latter bemoans sharing a car backseat with his sisters for their coming road trip. Eddie grins at him in sympathy while also swearing that this is the one Christmas Steve won’t have to travel to cold Chicago.

Wayne finally declares a week before the day that it’s time to put up the Christmas tree. Eddie had told him that Steve needed to leave suddenly, but that he would be back. Not saying much of anything about it, Wayne had simply nodded his acceptance and let Eddie put off decorating until the last minute. But he’d clasped Eddie to his chest with one arm around his shoulders, thawing a little of that cold fear inching towards Eddie’s heart.

Later, as he stares down at the yeti tree topper that he thinks Steve will get a kick out of, his uncle clasps a warm palm to his shoulder and shoves a hot chocolate into his hand. Eddie takes it with an appreciative sip, smiling in thanks and getting back to making the tree look perfect.

The balloon of faith holds all the way to Christmas Eve, sitting cross-legged on his bed and carefully running his hands over Steve’s gift, making sure that the sharp corners of the plastic case hasn’t torn at the cheerful red and white paper dotted with stockings and candy canes. But it’s as the weak morning sun starts to shift and fill his bedroom the next day that Eddie lets that balloon deflate, a gradual surrender.

He chews at his lip, not even annoyed with letting himself hold onto hope because it had given him purpose. It had allowed him moments of anticipation which helped fill the Steve-shaped space that Eddie has rapidly come to expect next to him.

He is an old hand at losing the battle for the war and this is just a blip. So what Steve isn’t here today? It’s just another day and Eddie will see him soon again.

Eddie rolls out of bed with renewed determination, hair bushy and strides sure.

He and Wayne will cheerfully celebrate Christmas today and Eddie will tease Steve about all that he missed. Riling him up into a cute pout until finally handing over the gift that will just have to sit unopened for a little longer. Then Steve will listen to the music, humming along, and tell him that it was a perfect choice.

“Come on, old man, time for the magic of Christmas,” Eddie shakes the blanket burrito wrapped atop the couch bed. A disgruntled sound comes from within its centre. “Eds, just one Christmas, for the sake of Christ and all that is holy on His day — let me sleep in.”

“Never,” Eddie sings, gaze snagging on the yeti tree topper. He looks away. “Come on,” he says, shaking what he thinks is Wayne’s shoulder, “I’ll make the annual Christmas pancakes, green dye included, and you…” Eddie takes pity on his hardworking uncle, “Take your time, but get up. For real.”

Later, bed folded away, pancakes consumed, and Brenda Lee rollicking on in the background, Eddie hands over his gift to Wayne: a wide-lipped red mug with love thy neighbour scrawled in cursive across it. Wayne huffs in amusement as he unwraps it before handing over his offering.

Eddie tears off the green paper with white reindeers in his usual savage exuberance. He’d opened his present from Wayne in a similar manner that first year together and it elicited such a genuine laugh of amusement from him that Eddie had been helpless to open a present in any other way since.

Beneath the festive wrapping is a cozy, grey, thick-knitted jumper, soft enough that it won’t irritate Eddie’s sensitive skin. Grateful, Eddie leans over to plant a loud, smacking kiss on Wayne’s whiskery cheek. Wayne serenely pats his shoulder in response, sipping from his new mug that’s already full of coffee.

Eddie is gathering the discarded paper torn to pieces around him when Wayne clears his throat. He holds another green-wrapped gift in his hand; curiously, the creases and folds reveal a thick round silhouette held tight against a circular backdrop.

Wayne pushes it into Eddie’s hand, saying gruffly, “He mentioned that he may not be able to make it. Didn’t have much choice from the sounds of it, but he wanted to leave something behind just in case.”

Looking down at the heavy package in his hands, something wobbles, tipping to the side within Eddie. In all his hopes and planning, he hadn’t considered that Steve would want to celebrate with them. Not after his clear expression of dislike for the holidays.

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Eddie slowly unwraps the paper, sliding his nail under the plastic tape and neatly folding the wrapping beside his knee. As he unveils the gift, a medley of brandy and spice rises to Eddie’s nose and, in the centre of a familiar Reindeer plate, sits a fruit cake.

Slightly burnt on one side with a crack running through its middle, Eddie feels safe to guess that Steve had made it. Likely thinking of Eddie and the fond memories he still carries in his heart, sharing them with Steve who, in turn, returned the memories back through a thoughtful gift. On top of the uneven glaze, in Steve’s neat handwriting is a slip of paper that says Merry Christmas, Eddie.

Eddie’s smile bobs and dips before shining again; even falling through time, Steve is still with him.

If you liked anything, please consider leaving a comment over on Ao3 :-) It would make my day!

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[bluewaltz]

“Have we met?” “In another life, perhaps.”

🍁 — [ C: Kaedehara Kazuha. ] 👤 — [ R: gender neutral reader. ] 🏷️ — [ T: fluff, reincarnation, soulmates. ] 📜 — [ T: fic. ]

You first meet Kazuha at a farmer's market, perhaps. It's not really clear. He has his very own shop, with jars and jars of bottled honey shimmering like gold in the sunshine. Maybe you didn't actually need or want honey, but he smiles at you, something ethereal lined in the faint crow's feet by his eyes, and you gravitate to his stall.

"There's a lot of bees here." You observe.

Large honeybees loop almost drunkenly through the air, crawl around on the jars, and a few of them nudge gently at Kazuha's shoulders.

"They know me." Kazuha said, a laugh woven into his voice. "Perhaps they want to know if their honey is selling well."

He opens a jar of honey labelled as samples and dips a spoon in, pouring the golden liquid over his fingers. The bees flock to them, and he smiles at you.

"Curious little things, honeybees." Kazuha says mildly, brushing his fingers across his faded red scarf. "They're harmless, really, but everyone thinks they're scary."

-

The second time you see Kazuha is in a park. He's feeding the ducks, sitting on a park bench with a beam of sunlight slanting almost perfectly onto him. The ducks swarm around him, and you take a seat beside him. He silently hands you a crust of bread, and you scatter it among the birds.

"It's supposed to be cloudy outside." You say. The sun glows above you. There is a cool wind blowing.

"It is." Kazuha agrees mildly. "The weather is particularly fickle."

You laugh. "You talk like you're not human."

"Do I look human?"

You look at Kazuha. Honestly, truly looked at him. He didn't seem to exude an otherworldly aura, but the way his hair glowed in the sun, turning into a fuzzy, white-gold halo around his head certainly made him look ethereal. His eyes were curved into crescent moons, and he had a gentle smile on his face.

"You look ethereal."

"And you look lovely as well, my dear."

-

The third time, Kazuha was working in a cat cafe. He practically materialises beside you, looking inside where he had been a second ago.

"Hello again." He smiles, soft and secretive. All of his smiles were as enigmatic as the Mona Lisa.

"Hi, Kazuha. Change of careers again?"

He shrugs. "They were going to close down. All of these cats with nowhere to go… I couldn't stand by and let that happen."

"I suppose I must contribute."

Kazuha nods, his smile widening into something more genuine. "I suppose you must. We make a delightful black tea here, if you'd like. Or one of the house specials?"

"I'll defer to your judgement, Kazuha."

-

The first time you met Kazuha—the real first time—was in a meadow in Inazuma. On the outskirts of Ritou, where the wood smoke dissipated into something sweeter and the crickets chirped duets with the wind.

Kazuha looked different than he looked now. He was more carefree. His hair was longer, brushing his waist, and he was dressed in autumn. Reds, browns, brilliant orange against a backdrop of white.

"Hello." You greeted him. He nods at you and offers you a sweet smile.

That was how all your meetings went. He would walk with you the moment you stepped out of Ritou, and follow you all the way to Inazuma City. There, he would wave you goodbye, and by night, he would be there again, forever dressed in autumn.

"Aren't you cold?" You asked him. Kazuha looked taken aback for a moment before he shook his head. He always seemed to be untouched by the elements, his robes always a pristine white.

Well, that wouldn't do.

You find him at his usual spot, five days later. He was seated on a rock, coaxing a melody out of a flute that he had definitely whittled. His eyes followed you around like a curious animal, and he blinked slowly when you stepped closer.

"Here. I made this for you." You unfold the scarf carefully and wrap it around his neck, knotting it neatly and standing back to admire it.

Kazuha touched the scarf gently and then smiled. "There's a loose thread here."

"Oh, really? I must have missed it when I was making it." You watched as Kazuha teased it out and tied it around his pinky. He beckoned you forward and looped the end of the thread around your pinky, tying it off with a flourish.

"A red string of fate, made by you and me." Kazuha laid his hand over yours and smiled. "So that we will find each other in every lifetime."

-

The fifth (thousandth) time you met Kazuha, it was on the beach. The sea rushed to shore, only to retreat from Kazuha's feet like he was an untouchable god.

"All these years… you've been waiting for me, haven't you?" You said.

Kazuha smiled. "I didn't want to rush you, my dear. I've lived hundreds of lives, and in each one, I made sure you savoured your life."

"I'm here now." You lifted his hand and pressed a kiss to his pinky, the same one that tied him to you so many years ago.

[daphnefisherofficial]

bugna: TAKIPSILIM | destiny's twilight

CHAPTER FIVE

Pairing: MCU Moon Knight System (Marc/Jake/Steven) x Avatar Fem!Reader

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CHAPTER FIVE - TIES AND STRINGS THAT BIND.

The late afternoon sun painted long shadows across the cityscape, casting an amber glow over the bustling streets of London. After his peculiar encounter with the enigmatic Mira Batala-Carter, Marc Spector finally returned to his apartment located just a bus ride away from Trafalgar Square. He staggered into the dimly lit unit marked 502 on the fifth floor, his footsteps echoing in the silence of their cozy living space. The long flight had left him weary, jetlag gnawing at his bones from all the excitement that unfolded. 

Marc let out a deep sigh as he glanced over at Steven Grant’s reflection looking at him from the nearby mirror. 

"You've had enough of the spotlight for one day, huh?" Marc’s alter grinned, his arms folded as he watched his head mate push the luggage beside their wooden cabinet with his right foot, not even bothering to unpack.

"Yeah, I need a break”, Marc chuckled weakly, feeling the weight of the day pressing down on him. “You go ahead and be the life of the party"

Immediately surrendering control, Steven took the reins as he was already bustling around the apartment, completely at ease. Ignoring the chaotic mess that is his study and bedroom, he deposited his duffle bag on the couch. 

Wait until Mira sees this mess of an apartment, Marc piped into their headspace once more. You should send her a picture.

Steven flipped a bird at Marc’s direction in the mirror reflection, which was uncharacteristic of his British upbringing yet his teasing reaction was expected. Shrugging off his charcoal-gray suit with slow, deliberate movements, he changed into a crisp white t-shirt before slipping into a pair of dark pants. His stomach then growled in mild hunger, prompting him to pad into the kitchen for a light meal, selecting a bowl for what would soon become a delightful reprieve from the day's fatigue.

Vegan cereal filled the ceramic vessel, and he poured fresh almond milk over the golden clusters, watching them slowly soften as they embraced the creamy liquid. It was simple, yet comforting, and he savored every spoonful. But it wasn't long before Steven’s thoughts wandered to the sweet delicacies Mira had generously shared with him and Marc back at the airport. Her exciting recommendation weighed on his mind, and curiosity got the better of him.

He retrieved the ziplock bag of treats from their duffle bag and perused the contents, the vibrant colors and exotic flavors beckoning him. With a grin, he decided to involve Marc in the tasting adventure. 

“What do you reckon we should try first?” Steven spoke excitedly as Marc's eyes widened from his silver spoon reflection.

“You’re vegan, right?”, Marc replied as he surveyed the array of options before them. “I think you should go for the dried mangoes first”

Steven, ever conscious of his vegan lifestyle, appreciated that Marc’s particular choice aligned with his dietary preferences. With eager anticipation, he plucked a slice and bit into the chewy fruit. The taste sensation was an unexpected revelation. The dried mangoes burst forth with a symphony of flavors—sweet, tangy, and slightly chewy. Steven's eyes widened, and he exchanged an amazed glance with Marc. It was as if a tropical paradise had been captured in a single, delectable bite. The decadence of this newfound treat made their eyes twinkle with delight, and they couldn't resist reaching for more, savoring the afternoon's unexpected adventure into the world of exotic flavors.

Like night and day, the two of them had developed a remarkable understanding over the past few weeks, unlike the first few months when they were still sharing lives apart from each other. Marc’s life was a whirlwind of chaos and unpredictability, and every time he thought he had found some semblance of stability, it slipped through his fingers like sand. 

Steven, on the other hand, was the steady anchor in Marc's turbulent life. He was the one who managed the day-to-day affairs, kept their finances in check, and ensured that Marc didn't do anything too reckless. He was also the one who helped Marc cope with his dissociative identity disorder, a condition that had plagued them both for years.

After finishing the bowl of cereal and putting it away in the dishwasher, the full force of jet lag clung to them like a heavy shroud. Without further ado, Steven (and Marc) finally retired to their bedroom, taking the former’s previous precautions of taping their door, spreading sand around their bed and tying their foot to the wall post to prevent sleepwalking. Against their will, it had become a shared routine born of necessity.

Marc and Steven knew that they weren’t alone in the body. Their last battle as Moon Knight in the streets of Cairo cemented that fact as the unknown third alter made his unexpected appearance. While the two of them and Layla were on the doors of death at the hands of Arthur Harrow’s newfound power, the mysterious entity acted on his role as the body’s protector and saved them all from a sure demise. 

You’re thinking about him again, aren’t you? Marc spoke gently in Steven’s head as the latter finally collapsed into their bed.

“Can’t help it”, Steven sighed, remembering the night Khonshu freed them from their servitude to the moon god. “It would’ve been nice if we knew who really saved us that night”

I’m not really sure if I would want to know. Marc murmured, slowly blinking his eyes closed as he and Steven slowly succumbed to their well deserved respite. Determined to not think too much about the events of the past month, their shared consciousness slowly drifted to their encounter with Mira Batala-Carter instead. They collectively recalled her with fondness - her graceful presence, her captivating beauty, the way she had intrigued them both – these thoughts brought a soft, endearing smile to their faces, even as sleep began to claim them.

The next morning, however, would bring a new twist to the tale. Marc awoke to the soft chime of his phone. He reached over to his bedside table and groggily picked up his phone, flipping it open and squinting at the bright screen. It was a text message from Layla, his ex-wife.

I’m back in Cairo. Hope you got home safe.

His mood immediately sombered, his emotions shifting as though he'd been doused in cold water. It had only been a day after his divorce was finalized for Christ’s sake, and the idea of entering another relationship shouldn't even begin to cross his mind. Yet the high walls he built within himself were effortlessly brought down by Mira - the very woman who he recently met on the plane from last night and shouldn��t even be the sole, primary occupant of his head. 

Marc, what's wrong? Steven called out in their headspace, sensing Marc’s ongoing turmoil. He was briefly puzzled on why Mira was currently on the forefront of their shared thoughts, until his eyes finally caught Layla’s latest correspondence on their phone. Ever the perceptive one, Steven started to piece together his alter’s current dilemma.

You know, Marc, sometimes we can't help how we feel. Steven spoke softly, ever empathetic as he offered his counsel. It's okay to be drawn to someone. You don't have to beat yourself up about it.

"It shouldn’t even happen in the first place”, Marc ran a hand through his disheveled hair and sighed. “Our mind’s all over the place already. I don’t need to drag her into our collective shit”

I mean, you don't have to dive headfirst into anything. Steven’s voice was calm and understanding. You can take your time, get to know her as a friend first. If it's meant to be, it'll happen naturally.

“No, Steven”, Marc softly shook his head, cursing himself for falling so easily for Mira's charms. He couldn't help it; her beauty and intelligence were truly captivating. "I need to keep my distance. Hell, I should be better than this”

I think you’re being too hard on yourself. Steven nodded, his eyes filled with empathy. You deserve happiness and companionship just like anyone else. 

“I don't need that”, Marc shook his head, his frustration evident. "I need to get our life together, and I can't afford to get involved with someone right now, especially with our current circumstances"

Steven nodded in understanding, although wishing that Marc would have a different perspective. He knew that Marc's fear of being rejected due to his condition was a powerful motivator for his self-imposed emotional distance. 

We'll take it one step at a time, lad. Steven continued to reassure. Just remember that you don't have to go through this alone, I’m here for you.

But Marc’s resolved hardened, very determined to protect his fragile heart. He couldn't afford to get too close to anyone and let his guard down. Keeping his new acquaintance, Mira, at arm's length is becoming an evident solution to his problem. Friendship would be the only connection he will allow to develop between them, no matter how much his heart might yearn for more.

That morning, Steven took the reins of their shared life to hopefully keep Marc’s stormy thoughts at bay. He started to go about his normal routine, dutifully feeding their pet goldfishes, Gus II and Fig. Settling down before the office desk, he opened his laptop and started to work on his CV. He started updating the details regarding his work experience and past education, and the possibility of securing the tour guide position that Mira potentially offered for the British Museum was becoming too enticing of an opportunity to pass up.  

As Steven typed away, he couldn't help but think about Mira. Her passion for her work and her kindness had left a quite deep impression on both him and Marc, and the prospect of working closely with her was both exciting and intimidating. He knew he had to be at his best to secure the job, so he plans to put his best foot forward.

After a few revisions, Steven finally keyed in Mira’s email address from the calling card she gave to Marc and clicked send to his composed email introduction. He can only hope that this upcoming job opportunity would allow him to see you more often and get to know you better.

Meanwhile in a bustling corner of London, you were deeply absorbed in your role as the curator of the British Museum. The burst of caffeine energy you received from your morning coffee was deeply focused on receiving and cataloging the latest shipment of Egyptian artifacts and relics, which was a crucial addition to the upcoming Ennead exhibit scheduled to open next week. 

Your passion for your work was evident in the way you handled each artifact with care, your fingers tracing the intricate details of ancient history. You couldn't wait to share them with the world.

Most of the artifacts for the Ennead exhibit had been recovered by the Scarlet Scarab - a mysterious figure known to the people of Egypt and the antiquities community. Albeit anonymously, you had received emails from the enigmatic vigilante, explaining that it was her way of returning "stolen goods" to their rightful owners and ensuring they were used for the benefit of the community. It was a curious and unexpected turn of events, but one that filled you with gratitude.

Taking a brief break, you leaned back in your office chair and let your thoughts wander. The museum had always been your sanctuary, a place where you felt most connected to the past. But lately, it seemed that your world was expanding to include new acquaintances like Marc Spector and Steven Grant. 

Your laptop chimed with a new email notification, pulling you out of your reverie. With a curious smile, you opened the email and the sender's name immediately caught your attention.

Subject: Application for Museum Tour Guide Position - Ennead Exhibition

Dear Mira,

I hope this email finds you well. I am writing to express my keen interest in the Museum Tour Guide position for the upcoming Ennead exhibition at the British Museum. As a passionate advocate for Egyptian culture and history, I am excited about the opportunity to contribute to the visitor experience and help bring this extraordinary exhibition to life.

I’ve worked previously with the National Art Gallery, where I have developed a deep appreciation for the cultural significance and historical context of artifacts. I am confident that my ability to communicate complex ideas in an accessible and engaging manner, combined with my enthusiasm for the subject matter, makes me a strong candidate for this role.

Please find my attached CV providing more details about my qualifications and experience. I look forward to meeting you this Saturday to discuss the job opportunity further. If you could kindly disclose the dress code for that occasion, I highly appreciate it.

Thank you for considering my application. 

Sincerely,

Steven Grant

You promptly composed a response, a smile tugging at your lips as your fingers danced across the keyboard. As you hit send, a flutter of anticipation you haven’t experienced in a long time coursed through you.

Subject: Application for Museum Tour Guide Position - Ennead Exhibition

Hello Steven,

I’m delighted to receive your application. Please come to the British Museum after lunch at 1PM for the museum tour guide interview. The dress code for this occasion is business smart-casual.

I look forward to meeting you this Saturday.

Sincerely,

Mira Batala-Carter

The days passed quickly, and Saturday finally arrived with a sense of anticipation. As the curator, you were tasked with welcoming the final batch of tour guide applicants. You stood in the grand entrance hall of the British Museum, where a diverse group of eager tour guide aspirants began to gather before you, their eyes filled with anticipation and enthusiasm.

They all had a common dream – to become a tour guide at one of the most prestigious museums in the world.

You had meticulously prepared for a mini-program before you got into the actual process of the job interviews, where you would briefly introduce yourself and explain the application process to the attendees.

“May I have everyone’s attention, please?” you politely called out to everyone in the vicinity. “We will start the program in about ten minutes. Thank you all for your patience”

You ended with a quick smile, walking away briefly towards the double door entrance on your way out to the nearest cafe to grab some much needed caffeine. But before you could even take the next step, a strong body unwittingly collided against your own, prompting you and the culprit to fall down together on the cement stairway.

“Oh, bugger! I am so sorry”, a soft, British accent greeted your ears before muttering under his breath. “I’m such a plonker, I should’ve looked where I was going”

“It’s alright, don’t worry about it”, you said breathlessly, brushing off dust from your beige pencil skirt as you felt muscular arms slowly hoisting you up. A shock of unruly dark hair greeted your vision, with but a few curly strands framed carefully over his forehead. Your eyes trailed down to finally meet his familiar striking brown eyes surrounded by a subtle network of laugh lines. 

“Marc?” you gasped at the eerily familiar man before you, his shoulders hunched low as his own eyes widened in recognition. 

“Not him, sorry”, his British speaking voice startled you once more as he spoke, and you were definitely puzzled by the way he’s carried himself right now. “Although, he has told me a great deal about you” 

Your eyes then flickered with recognition, as if two puzzle pieces were finally solved together. The resemblance between him and Marc Spector is quite uncanny, as if they were just one and the same person.

“Steven Grant?” you muttered, prompting the man before you to let out an apologetic smile, looking slightly disheveled in comparison to his twin brother.

“Spelled with a V, yes. It’s nice to finally meet you, Mira”.

END OF CHAPTER FIVE.

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