#and making hers look glossy in comparison...

[bluespiritshonour]

The amount of labour rendering Mai's hair takes is not worker friendly.

[starkeyisthelastname]

I feel like trailer park rafe would be so mean if reader was like bratty or pouting too much for his liking about something that “isn’t a big deal”, would end with her getting stuffed and pounded into.

omg yes he would be so mean!!! get ready for the dirty talk 😵‍💫😭

“Sit your pretty ass on the couch babydoll. You don’t need to go.” Rafe grumbled, patting his worn jeans down for his truck keys. He spotted them on the coffee table and grabbed them in rough hands. “I’ll be right back. Stop fuckin’ poutin. I’m not in the mood for that shit.” He said, blue eyes looking at you as you sat with your arms crossed on the ratty couch. You didn’t care if he was just running up the road to get cigarettes, you wanted to go with him and he wasn’t letting you. You tried not to act like a brat, but sometimes you were just overly clingy with him.

“But… can I please go?” You pleaded, glossy lips pouty and thick lashes fluttering. You loved to ride in his truck and go places with him. When he shook his head, you let out a bratty huff and stomped your feet. “But whyyy?” You whined, standing up as if you were going to follow him anyway. You knew he hated attitude, but you wanted his attention and were gonna get it.

His striking eyes narrowed at you, watching your small frame look tiny in comparison to his tall height. Your pout didn’t leave, and arms were still crossed over your chest as you looked up at him as if you were trying to intimidate him. He couldn't help but let out an amused laugh, his rough hand coming up to grip your jaw. “I know I didn't fuckin’ stutter. Drop the goddamn attitude or I’ll fuck it out of you.” He spoke lowly, watching as you raised an eyebrow to challenge him. Oh weren’t you getting a little feisty with him. He definitely needed to remind you who was in charge.

“What’d I tell you about questioning me, huh? Wanna act like a fuckin’ brat when I’ll be right back.” Rafe snorted. His free hand turned you around, shoving you towards the torn couch where he made sure your face was buried in the tattered fabric. “You remember whose goddamn trailer you’re in? Think it’s cute actin’ like a brat?” He said, pulling down your cute panties underneath the pink dress you wore.

Your delicate hands held onto the scratchy material of the couch, hearing the audible zip of Rafe’s jeans being pulled down. Your poor cunt fluttered, almost regretting acting up as his two massive palms spread your fleshy ass cheeks. You barely had time to react when you felt his fat cock shove itself in your tight hole without warning. Your pretty mouth fell open in a silent moan, his huge length making your tummy clench in pleasure as he pushed himself in.

“That make you shut the fuck up? Get your hole stuffed and pounded by a big dick.” His raspy tone gritted out, reaching up to grip your hair in his fist. He used your thick locks as a rein, his toned hips slapping against your round ass as he thrusted into your creamy little cunt. He couldn’t help but watch your smaller body below him just taking his monster pipe like you had no choice since you acted the way you did.. “All because you can’t go with me down the fuckin’ road.” He scoffed, trying to hold back as his nut as you squeezed his slick cock.

You were so full, a whiny mess for a completely different reason now. You could feel that funny feeling wash over you, your flushed cheek rubbing against the couch as he continually fucked your pretty cunt from behind. You couldn’t even get any words out, Rafe quite literally pounding the brat out of you. Even if it wasn’t a complete meltdown, he still didn’t put up with any kind of drama or attitude.

“I’m gonna stuff you full slut, then make you fuckin’ sit here still and think about the next time you wanna act like a brat.” His dirty words, always making a precious moan from you echo off the trailer walls.

[starogeorgina]

𝐌𝐚𝐝𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬

Paring: Jacaerys Targaryen x reader

Warnings: Swearing, smut

1.01

“His heart beats for blood. Blood and fire.”

Jacaerys stares at his betrothed from across the room, watching as she mumbles to herself while flicking through the same book he’s seen her read many times, her heavy-looking eyes often fixated on the same page for a long period of time. He was informed the library and Sept were the only places she would visit outside her private chambers since Aemond killed his brother.

The last time Jace’s family were all together, in King’s landing, King Viserys declared his youngest daughter and eldest grandson were to be wed, with the intention of mending the rift between House Targaryen once and for all.

But that wasn’t what happened.

His betrothed was visibly happy and very vocal about how excited she was to start planning the wedding with his mother. Then his grandsire died, his mother’s throne was usurped, and his unborn sister died. Since returning from Winterfell Jacaerys, the princess hasn’t even glanced in his direction; she was avoiding him, which stung. Jace had never felt so alone; he always had Lucerys by his side before. Perhaps the princess was hiding herself away out of fear of being treated badly for what her brothers, mother, and grandsire had done to his family.

Not that he thought of her any differently; if anything, the young prince pitted her.

Jacaerys watches her for a few moments longer then decides it’s best to leave the princess be; no point in disturbing someone who is seeking isolation.

—

You stop making alterations to the tunic you were embroidering when you hear the door to the chambers you were currently occupying being opened; without looking back, you know who it is. When the footsteps don’t go any further than the doorway, you start threading the needle again.

Every corner you turn, you feel dark eyes burning a hole into you. Nothing that you could say would undo the pain inflicted already. Your mind begins to wonder again, and you don’t notice Jace moving until he’s sitting next to you at the wooden desk. He was looking directly at you, but you avoided meeting his gaze.

“My Prince.”

He takes a sharp intake of breath, “I hold no ill will towards you.”

The funeral for Lucerys was held earlier that day, just before the sun began to set. You watched from afar as Rhaenyra crumpled to pieces, and the rest of her family sobbed, mourning the loss of such a sweet boy. It would have been wrong for you to join them when someone you cared for dearly caused them so much pain.

“How can you not? My twin is the reason you won’t get to see Luke again.”

Jacaerys says nothing to your response. What could he say? You sit in silence, watching Jace’s finger trace over the outline of a dragon on the tunic. “It’s unfinished; it was meant to be a gift for after the wedding.”

A small smile pulls on his lips. “It’s Vermax.”

Regardless of the awful things that had happened, you wanted to remain on Dragonstone but doubted you’d be able to stay long. You were nothing but a reminder of what Aemond had done.

“What’s on your mind?”

You finally looked up and met his eyes, which are glossy from holding back tears. In comparison, your own issues seem minuscule, but you share what’s bothering you anyway. “I don’t want to go back home.”

“This is your home.”

“I’m afraid.”

Giving you a sympathetic look, Jace uses the pad of his thumb to rub circles on the back of your hand. Comforting touches weren’t something you were familiar with, but you liked the warmth coming from his hand.

“You’re safe inside these walls. I won’t let anybody come in here and hurt you.”

“I’m afraid of Dae—”

You’re cut off when there’s a knock at the door and Rhaenyra’s handmaiden, Elinda, walks into the room. You expected Jace to remove his thumb, but instead he squeezed your hand.

Elinda greets you both, “Princess, the queen wishes to speak with you.”

—

Staring into Rhaenyra's eyes was like staring down a dragon. Her fury was evident the moment you entered her quarters; you had seen Daemon storming in the opposite direction and presumed he had something to do with the queen's foul mood. You were thankful when she went to stand by the window.

“I believe my son was in your bedchamber when I sent for you. Is that correct?”

“No, I mean—“ you begin to stumble over your words. “Yes, he was there, Prince Jacaerys came to speak with me.”

“Nothing that could have waited until the morrow, I’m sure.”

Her expression was hard to read. Although she didn’t say anything else, you felt the need to explain further. “I told him I didn’t want to go back to King's Landing, and he told me this was my home. He said, I'm safe here.”

“Why would you believe any differently?”

“Nowhere is safe.”

Rhaenyra uncrosses her arms, her expression softening. “Nobody under my rule will harm you, but I must share this with you.”

Elinda hands you a scroll. Confused, you take it from her, “I don’t understand why someone would write to me.”

You open it nervously and read it. Your lips parted slightly; Rhaenyra asks what it says, but you’re unable to answer her. Elinda looks at it and lets out a small gasp, “It’s from Aegon. He’s demanding the princess return to King’s Landing at once.”

You take the scroll and toss it into the fireplace. “It may have my brother’s signature, but that is my grandsire and mother talking.”

“Elinda, leave us for a moment.” Rhaenyra lets out a frustrated sigh. When it’s just the two of you, she asks, “Do you wish to stay here, on Dragonstone?”

“Yes,” you say, taking a step towards her. “I understand if you want me to leave, but please don’t make me go back to them.”

Seeing the desperation in your eyes, she nods. “We may not be close, but you are my youngest sister. I know you are innocent.”

“I miss Helaena and her sweet children.” You begin to sob, “I was so quick to leave with you for Dragonstone that I never went and saw father before I left. I never said goodbye to him.”

“Neither of us knew what would happen.” Rhaenyra caresses your cheek in a motherly manner. “Jacaerys is right, you are safe here.”

—

Dragonstone was much darker and colder than what you were used to; your hair always feels damp even when it’s dry. You found the sounds of waves crashing around the island comforting.

But not as comforting as being held by Jacaerys.

You expected the prince to have returned to his own quarters, but he was waiting on you to return. You were sitting on the edge of the table with your legs dangling over the edge, Jacaerys forehead pressed against your own while he held you close.

The both of you were lonely, hurt, and scared.

“Won’t you get in trouble for being here so late?”

“We will be married soon,” Jacaerys says, stepping back. “Will we share a room when we are married?”

“I was told that women only lay with their husbands for a couple of nights a month, but everyone who I know who does it seems unhappy. Would you want us to always share a bedchamber?”

“Yes.”

Smiling, you peck him on the lips. “Sorry, that was inappropriate of me.”

“It’s okay.” He closes his eyes. “I hope the war ends soon so my mother can sit on her throne, and you can be my wife.”

You chuckle slightly. “As happy as I am to be your wife, I’m scared for our wedding night. My mother told me sex is painful for a woman.”

“It’s not always.”

“Wait, have you...” You don’t finish the question; the thought of him bedding someone else made you feel sick.

“No, but my stepfather is Daemon Targaryen,” he chuckles. “He always told me it was important for everyone involved to feel pleasure.”

“I was just told to grip the sheets while waiting for it to be over and that only men feel good.”

Jace’s lips ghost your own, his breath warm on your face. “Have you ever felt pleasure before?”

“Yes… kind of, have you.”

Jacaerys cheeks flush red as he nods.

“I touched myself once, but I didn’t put my fingers inside.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a sin for a woman to touch themselves for desire. I went to the sept immediately afterwards and didn’t do it again.”

“Sweet girl,” Jace kisses your cheek. “I’ll never touch you anymore than you want me to.”

You hug again, but this time Jace’s head is pressed against the side of your neck. You still like that in a comfortable silence until you feel him lightly kissing your neck. He pauses waiting for your reaction; a moan slips from your mouth, and you tighten your grip, going around Jace’s back, encouraging him. “Do it again, please.”

Jacaerys starts kissing up your neck until he reaches your jawline. Lifting his head, your noses brush together, “Can I make you feel good now?”

You take Jacaerys hand and guide it underneath your skirts, helping him find the sensitive spot that brings you such pleasure.

“Oh fuck!”

Jace shushes you with a kiss, “We need to be quiet.”

You hold onto his shoulders tightly as he rubs circles on your clit until you climax.

Smiling Jacaerys kisses you again, “It’s late; we should get some rest; the morrow will come soon enough.”

“Can you stay a little longer?”

He takes your hand and helps you off the table. “Yes, but I’ll need to go before the handmaidens come in the morning.”

[elliespassagerprincess]

Idk if you're taking requests but if so can you write a kinda angsty fanfic where the reader is insecure asf about her looks and is jealous of bestfriend!Ellie because Ellie is so pretty. And as she's gotten older the reader has learned to be less jealous (or just suppressed the feeling) but like one day her jealousy is revealed when her and Ellie are drinking together and like ellie is shocked because she's always found the reader cute. THANK YOU FOR YOUR TIME 😋

Drunk Words, Sober Eyes - ellie williams x reader

Hi anon!! this idea sounds so cool!! i went back and forth between giving it a happy ending or a sad one. I wanted to kill off a character honestly. But on this rare occasion, let me write something happy lmao. lmk if you want another version:)

Pairing: ellie x fem!reader

requests are open! send me your silly thoughts

Warning: a little angst

Summary: in which you confessed

materlist

You’d never really hated Ellie.

But sometimes, being next to her felt like standing beside a lit match—close enough to burn, too far to be warm.

She was everything you weren’t. Confident. Effortless. The kind of pretty that people noticed without her trying. When you walked into a room together, you disappeared behind her glow like a shadow behind sunlight.

She didn’t mean to make you feel small.

But she did.

“God, you’re so dramatic,” Ellie laughed, flopping back on the couch with her third drink in hand. “I did not flirt with that guy.”

You rolled your eyes and took a long sip. Your face burned. “He literally tripped over his words when he saw you. I don’t blame him.”

Ellie raised a brow, cheeks flushed. “You’re being weird tonight.”

You forced a smile, eyes on the floor. “Just tired.”

That was a lie. You weren’t tired—you were cracking.

Cracking under years of silent comparison.

Of wondering if she ever looked at you the way you looked at her.

Of trying to be fine with being the best friend.

Three drinks turned into five.

And five drinks turned into the kind of honesty that stung more than alcohol ever could.

You were lying on Ellie’s floor, legs tangled in a blanket, the moonlight filtering through the half-open curtains. She was beside you, laughing at something stupid, lips glossy with whiskey and chapstick.

You watched her laugh and felt it again—that ache.

And this time, it didn’t stay quiet.

“You ever get tired of being... the pretty one?” you slurred, staring at the ceiling.

Ellie blinked. “What?”

You swallowed hard. The words came like a flood.

“I mean, I don’t blame anyone. You’re fucking gorgeous, Ellie. Always have been. It’s just—"

You choked out a laugh, bitter and small. "It’s hard sometimes. Being the... invisible one next to you.”

The room fell dead silent.

You didn’t dare look at her.

Ellie sat up slowly.

“You think you’re invisible?” she said quietly.

You shrugged. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t ask to be… perfect.”

“Jesus, I’m not perfect—”

“But you don’t get it,” you snapped. “You’ve always been the one people see. Even when you’re quiet, they feel you. I’ve spent years trying to be okay with being the second choice. The backup. The ugly friend.”

You buried your face in your hands. “God, I can’t believe I said that out loud.”

Ellie didn’t respond for a long moment.

And then—gently, almost shakily—she said, “You really think I don’t see you?”

You looked up, eyes rimmed with salt.

Ellie was staring at you like she’d never really looked before.

“I’ve had a crush on you since we were seventeen,” she said flatly.

Your heart stopped.

“What?” you breathed.

“I thought I was being subtle. I figured you weren’t into girls, or you just didn’t see me like that, so I never said anything.”

You stared at her, stunned. “Ellie…”

Her voice dropped, softer. “You’ve got this way of... pretending you’re fine even when you're screaming inside. You think no one notices, but I do. I see every flinch. Every forced smile. And I think you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever known.”

Your eyes welled up again—but this time, not from jealousy.

From shock. From relief. From finally being seen.

The next morning, your head throbbed, but your heart felt light.

Ellie made you coffee. She was quiet, her usual sarcastic wall softened.

“Do you remember what you said?” she asked, gently, sliding you a mug.

“Every word,” you admitted, clutching the cup. “I’ve never felt so stupid.”

She tilted her head. “Why?”

“Because it’s embarrassing to want something you thought you could never have.”

Ellie walked around the table and crouched beside you, hand on your knee.

“You already have it,” she said softly. “You just didn’t know.”

You blinked at her. And then—finally—you let yourself believe it.

It wasn’t all easy after that. You still had bad days. Still saw someone in the mirror who didn’t feel enough.

But Ellie never let you spiral alone.

She kissed your forehead when you hated your body. Held your hand when you felt like disappearing. Told you she loved your laugh, your eyes, your stupid sarcasm.

And every time she did, you started to believe her.

Little by little. Step by step.

Until the mirror didn’t feel so cruel anymore.

Until “pretty” didn’t have to mean her instead of you.

Until you stopped being jealous of Ellie…

And started being in love with her instead.

<3

[thbbie]

༄ mommy!suguru x f!reader

suguru would like to say it caught him off guard thought that would be an utter lie. the build up was there. gradual.

it started off as something silly, something lighthearted. suguru had been nagging you about carelessness when it comes to you own wellbeing, something you had done — or rather something you hadn't.

rolling your eyes at him you say in passing, "you're not my mom suguru." a faint smile playing at your lips. teasing.

making him quirk a thin brow in annoyance, he is still very much peeved at you, at your carelessness when it comes to your own wellbeing. his voice stiff by comparison to your light teasing pitch, "i might as well be."

"oh yea? then suguru, should i call you mommy ♡?"

god you're such a tease.

that's all it was, and since, you've been saying it more often; with enough ease to say it came naturally but a lightness that says you're only teasing. maybe a bit of both.

"remember to take a jacket." "sure thing mommy."

"have you eaten yet." "yes mommy, though i wish it was your cooking :3"

"shh sh darling you've been at your desk all day, come. take a break." "hmm.. a break? is mommy flirting with me??"

it didn't bother him, he didnt pay it any mind; you mean nothing by it after all. or that's what he thought until he had you layed out beneath him, drippy and desperate. his poor darling must've been so neglected to have acted out and been such a brat. (okay so mayybe he was playing into the mommy bit a little more than originally thought. what about it?)

"mmhm yes~ , punish me for being a brat sugu-. punish me for being a brat mommy~." you whined out that word. stretching it and wrapping each of the syllables tenderly in a pink silken ribbon. mischievous and taunting, how far could you take this? how far will he let you take it?

"please mommy, i've been so bad." you make your eyes as wide as possible when looking at him in false innocence, glossy and glittering. "i deserve it mommy, i'll take it like a good girl!"

"you haven't been acting like one." he states it plainly, like he isn't affected by you in the slightest. "mhmhm i know, that's of course why you have to punish me. come onn~~ i know you can do it mommy, i just wanna be good for you. slap my cunt, make me be good for you mommy. i'll be your best ever girl i promise you ♡."

now that, that was something. it stirs something in suguru (and his pants) something that been laying dormant and undetected by him for a long time.

suguru relents if a punishment is what his darling brat desires, then a punishment she'll get. slap your cunt you say? he won't have it be told twice.

you're about to start another round of trying to coax him into it, spreading your bare thighs wider and fluttering your pretty eyes at him, "momm- oh!" ha harsh slap landed on your inner thigh, so damn close to where you need it, and he swears the wetness dripping from you increased tenfold. "there you are baby, mommy's gonna take such good care of his stupid brat, just lay still now, alright."

it wasn't a question in the slightest. merely a statement, a warning of what coming your way. in the coming moments, three more harsh slaps are delivered, right to your poor neglected clit. your through your head back in the utter pleasure, a low moan coming from deep inside you. it hurts but it's soo good.

suguru holds your waist tight in one of his hands when you start to writhe, his strong finger's digging into your skin to keep you still, "shush now darling, mommy can't have his girl running away from him now. that's not would girls do, you're a good girl aren't you baby?"

"mhmhmnmhmhnm~ imagoodgirlimagoodgirl. for you, all for you ahh~ for you. you mm-mommy"

his other hand (the one that's gotten familiar with slapping your cunt) smooths of the skin, rubbing it in the palm of his hand while he kisses your soft tears away. "that's a good girl, crying so pretty for her mommy. hmm, your being so nice to me now that your all drippy and swollen.-" he smiles to himself.

oh this is so fun. a bittersweet kind of fun, because he'd like to spoil his girl! he wants to give her all that she deserves but for you could be such a brat, begging and pleading to be treated like one, but even then — even now as he's punishing you, he can't help but be so delicate in handling you.

"maybe i should keep you like this forever ♡. i'd bet you'd like that, wouldn't you darling."

your about to answer him when he lands another two against you poor fluttering hole, cruelly cutting you off mid sentence. suguru's trying not to laugh at the way your juices splashed against his hand, you seem to be enjoying your punishment ~

your body twitches away at his touch when he returns to rub your little nub softly with his thumb, bracing yourself for the impact that doesn't come. the graceful tip of his index finger tracing around your entrance and teasing the skin of its entourage.

his hands don't stop, caressing you softly when he leans in over you, kissing his way up your neck, to you lips, the rest of your face and finally, licking away your salty tears. he pulls away, eye level with you now, he looks completely unfazed if it weren't for the heavy tent in his pants and blush covering his ears that give him away. suguru's panting a little too, he's enjoying this so much and it makes you impossibly wetter, the embarrassment of it all settling deep in your bones

"how many was that baby?" "i-i. i wasn't counting. su-mommy i-i didn't know i should"

quickly correcting your own 'mistake' of his title without a word from in him fear of more punishment, you were only teasing him to see if he could take it but you aren't sure that you can.

suguru thinks he's gonna be mean to you now, look at you, it's so tempting! "you weren't counting for me? awh, and just when i thought i finally got back my good girl." he tuts, shaking his head in faux disappointment, hands still tracing over the lines of your sobbing pussy, they begin to slow. and you begin to panic. "nono please. please. mommy p-please. i am your good girl. please, i-i. please" it nearly comes out as a broken sob, your words less and less coherent

"are you sure? then you'll take anything i give you? "

"mmhph~ yes, yes . anything, anything at all."

his grin widens impossibly, wolfish and cruel and you know you are doomed.

his hands stop their movements at your cunt, abruptly pulling away entirely. " that's my good girl. but unfortunately this punishment feels less and less like a punishment and more like a reward doesn't it little dove. you're having so much fun, and while i'd like to give you everything you could ever want baby, i would hate for my darling sweetheart to end up rotten by my own hand."

that soft, pretty grin takes over his face. the one that could convince any one to do anything; probably gentle enough to make the religious and the atheist alike join hands in accepting his cult along with whatever teachings he may preach, all nodding along mindlessly in hopes of seeing him smile at that way once more.

but as gentle as suguru could be, he is equally capable in cruelty.

" 'm thinking i'll leave you here as punishment instead. to think about why can't have everything you want always. about why you've made me do this at all. i'll be back soon my love, have something nice prepared for me okay ♡"

that's it? with a final pat on your cute cunt and a kiss to your temple he takes of, ever so casually.

he's really leaving? ruining you completely and stepping away like it was nothing? you scramble, "sug- wait, wait suguru i-"

"ah ah, now don't argue. you should know that mommy knows best, oh silly girl, everyone knows that!"

"i'm counting on you to do well for me, be my best ever girl now won't you~"

and that was all, that was the end of it. he's leaving you there, ruined and at the edge of what could've have possibly been the greatest orgasm ever. your twitchy entrance still swollen and wet at the thought, winking cutely like it'll get his attention.

god he's such a tease.

[citrustan]

dating girl (jjk) #2.1

pairing: jungkook x reader (hoseok x reader too kinda)

summary: you try to convince yourself that you're really okay with 'casually dating' your crush.

genre & note: college au, fwb kinda thing but more than that ygm? angst! again hehe and uhh this is a follow-up, here's the original drabble.

Jung Hoseok's a nice guy. He's beautiful and intelligent. A dancer. The kindest man you've ever met.

He's the kind of guy who holds the elevator door for you even when he's running late. The kind who offers you his charger even when his phone's lower on battery because you're a woman who needs a functioning device more than he does, just in case. He's the one everyone secretly craves.

The Halloween costume party was today.

You agreed to go with Hoseok the day after you saw Jungkook with the leggy blonde. When he never bothered to respond to your previous messages, you figured it was for the better.

Hoseok briefly met your mother when she hand delivered your costume. He loved your matching outfit idea but arranged for his own.

The entire time she was there, your mother kept making eyes at the two of you. She saw the way he cared for you; how he sliced your apples and made you cinnamon toast.

Every time he left the room, your mother squealed and slapped your arm in excitement.

You think that was her way of trying to get you excited about Hobi.

Hoseok is the one you want to want. But your mind always wanders back to that other man. The same man who ghosted you for a week.

Hoseok may buy you apples and slice them for you, but Jungkook peels them. Hoseok makes toast but Jungkook bakes fresh bread.

It's not a fair comparison, not at all. But you're smitten with the man.

Jungkook just... does these things. When you're together, it's fireworks and blooming flowers. The chemistry you and Jungkook have is unmatched. And he knows it.

Perhaps that's what scares him so much?

At the last minute, you decide to add some rhinestones on the bridge of your nose to make yourself look more ethereal and sprinkle some glitter on your bare arms and legs. (_____ from the following morning says she hates you btw.)

If it weren't for your glitter-dusted tooth-stick and your diamond and tooth-encrusted tiara, you'd look like an angel. You're pretty pleased with your execution though.

Hoseok told you he'd meet you at the party directly because he ran into some stuff that needed to be handled last minute. Which was alright because the venue was a ten-minute walk from your place.

Your wings were perked, your mini skirt poofed, and your lips glossy.

The skin-tight lace top was a good idea because it let your skin breathe, you definitely would not run hot in this outfit.

You stuck a few bills in your garter. There was space for your phone too for when you're at the party.

As much as you'd have liked to have the sexiest, highest heels on, you weren't built for it. Kitten heels were more your style anyway.

On your way to the hall, you had come across plenty of other partygoers: Light & Misa, Cinderella, a hospital patient with an open gown, a termite? All very creative. You almost felt basic.

You scan the area for Hoseok.

Finally spotting him not too far from the velvet ropes, you scurry over to him. He waves with both hands like he’s genuinely relieved to see you.

“Wow,” he says as you approach, taking in your cute outfit and wings. “The tooth fairy herself. I feel honoured.”

You laugh, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “And you’re the dentist who makes it rain teeth. Nice stethoscope, it looks... real.” You didn't think dentists used them.

Hoseok smiles, holding it up like a prize, "Yeah, it's my roommates'. He let me borrow it for a night. Says I owe him candy now."

"Hm. Shouldn't you be warning him against that?"

"Huh... I guess I do." He chuckled.

You wave your tooth wand at him and wink.

You lift your skirt a little to access your little garter purse and tuck your phone in it. Hoseok looks away to give you your privacy.

"All done." You shyly smile. You take a second to fix your skirt.

The two of you linger outside for a moment longer, watching as groups of people filter into the hall.

Hoseok turns to you, “You ready?”

You nod, and he offers you his arm to hold onto.

Hoseok prepaid for your tickets so you could skip the queue.

Linking your arm with his, you walk inside together.

The venue is already overwhelmingly loud and the decorations are over the top.

As usual, the student body had outdone themselves. They probably bought out all the tinsel in the neighbouring cities.

"Woah." You hear Hoseok exclaim softly. You hum in agreement.

Almost instantly, you find yourself scanning the crowd before you even realise what you’re doing.

And then your eyes fall on him.

He’s standing by one of the drink tables, dressed in black leather pants with buckles on them and a leather jacket that went with it.

What's he even supposed to be?

And then you see it. The same leggy blonde from the cafe.

She clips something on his hair--- devil horns. Of course. That definitely suits him. His hair is styled messily, the way you’ve always thought suited him best, and a faint dusting of glitter catches the light every time he moves.

You realize, too late, that you’ve been staring.

“You okay?” Hoseok's voice cuts through the fog in your mind. He’s still smiling, but there’s a flicker of concern in his eyes.

“Yeah,” you say quickly, tearing your gaze away from Jungkook. “Just... taking it all in.”

Hoseok's not completely oblivious. He knows about you and Jungkook. You've been very transparent with him.

He doesn’t press, instead guiding you toward the drinks table.

You smile softly at him. You can't help but feel a pang of guilt because Hoseok deserved your full attention tonight.

He deserves someone who isn’t busy looking for someone else.

But before you can dwell on it, Jungkook notices you. His dark eyes lock onto yours, and for a moment, everything else fades almost cinematically; the music, the lights, the people, even Hoseok's and the blonde's presence.

His gaze flickers briefly to Hoseok, and something unreadable passes over his face. Then he smirks, before turning back to the girl beside him.

Your stomach twists. What the hell?

You felt lightheaded and frail.

A simple GLANCE does this to you?

You were paper, you'd have folded in a second. You felt weak and pathetic all over again.

You're so beautiful tonight, you don't deserve to go through this tiring cycle again.

Hoseok hands you a fruity looking drink, “Here." His warm smile comforts you, "Non-alcoholic, just in case the tooth fairy needs to fly home later.”

You force out a little snicker, "Thank you, Hobi."

You clink your glass against his, doing your best to ignore Jungkook on the other side of the table.

You’ve made your choice tonight. And it’s not Jungkook.

At least, that’s what you keep telling yourself.

Jungkook was beating himself up internally.

Was it really worth it to procrastinate on responding to your text? You look so lovely tonight and it sucks that it's all for someone else.

He could see you made an effort to dress for the theme, unlike himself who slapped on the only somewhat dressy clothing he had. It was either this or a groom. And he'd rather not give Yeona any ideas.

By the stealthy glances he threw your way, Jungkook figured that Hoseok wanted to take you to the dance floor.

"I see Hobi. Let's say hi?" He asks his date. Yeona doesn't have a chance to agree because he's already grabbing her hand and tugging her with him.

Before Hoseok could whisk you away, Jungkook swiftly approached you two.

The first thing you notice is the blonde holding onto him.

"Hoseok hyung, I didn't think I'd see you here!"

"Ahh, JK, how's it going?" He gave him a side hug.

"Great." Jungkook smiles back. Then looks at you, "Hey."

It’s casual, like he’s just bumped into you in class, not walked up to you at a party with another woman on his arm. You nod in response.

Yeona’s gaze flickers to your costume, her face polite but confused. “Oh... are you supposed to be an angel?”

You blink, caught off guard.

Before you can answer, Hoseok steps in, voice light and cheerful, “Not quite. She’s the tooth fairy. I’m her dentist.” He gestures to his stethoscope like it’s his badge of honour.

“Oh,” Yeona says, a little sheepishly. “That’s cute.”

Well, yeah! It was cute. Unlike whatever they were.

And what even were they?

Jungkook bad stupid devil horns and Yeona adorned a floor-length, red gown. She looked regal.

You tilt your head, narrowing your eyes slightly, “And you two are...?”

Jungkook answers this time, “Hades and Persephone.” His tone was pointed.

You stare at them for a moment, taking in the obviousness of it all. Of course. He's Hades incarnate alright.

Then you let out a dry, unimpressed, “Huh. Groundbreaking.”

Jungkook’s eyes snap to yours with something sharp flickering across them, like you’ve just crossed a line or something. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Hoseok looks a little taken aback as well.

Ok, you did not mean to sound so bitchy. You couldn't help it.

You shrug, feigning innocence, “Nothing!" But then demon _____ arises, "Just... not very original, is it?”

Yeona glances between the two of you, clearly picking up on the tension but unsure of what to do with it. “It’s a classic,” she says quietly, her voice kind but hesitant.

You smile slightly. “Sure,” you reply, your tone bordering on dismissive. “If you like classics.”

Jungkook’s jaw tightens just slightly, “Wow. Is the attitude part of the costume or is that just for me?"

Hoseok clears his throat beside you, sensing the shift in energy, but you ignore him.

Your eyes stay on Jungkook, challenging. “Didn’t realize you knew what an attitude looked like."

Subtle, _____.

You refuse to backtrack, "I wasn't trying to be rude. I guess I was just never a fan of the whole... king of darkness look.”

He smirks, though there’s no humour in it. “Could’ve fooled me. You’ve been staring since you walked in."

.

.

Oh, my God. JERK.

You wish you could punch him in the face.

Your cheeks heat, but you refuse to look away. Your tone falters a little though, “D-don't flatter yourself.”

Jungkook knew he had you then.

Yeona shifts uncomfortably, her hand tugging lightly on Jungkook’s arm. “Jungkook, we should-” - “Yeah,” he cuts her off, still looking at you, “We should.”

There’s a pause. He lingers, staring you down, like he’s waiting for you to say something--- anything. You don’t.

You just hold your ground, fingers tightening around your cup.

“See you around,” Jungkook mutters finally, allowing Yeona to pull him away. She gives you a little scowl before whisking him away. You deserve that.

You're too embarrassed to even look at your date now. He has probably changed his mind about you now that he's seen you and Jungkook in full action.

You just watch them go, feeling Hoseok’s eyes on you as the crowd swallows them up.

After a beat, he speaks cautiously, “So... you really don’t like Hades and Persephone, huh?”

You let out a shaky breath, yet again forcing another small smile, “Guess I’m more of a tooth fairy kind of girl.”

That didn't even make sense but it was ok. Hoseok didn't push any further. Because HE is an angel.

Hoseok laughs softly, draping his arm around your shoulder, “Come on, fairy. Let’s get you another drink before you start a fight with anyone else.” You nod.

You down the drink he hands you in seconds and shake your head. Ok. Everything's fine.

Hoseok spots another friend of his and allows you a minute by yourself to re-centre.

The music shifts to something slower when Hoseok makes his way back to you. He steps closer, offering a hand, “Dance with me? Forget about it for a while.”

You look at his outstretched hand and take it without any consideration. If Jungkook is able to do this, you must be too.

Hoseok leads you, past many swaying couples, to the middle of the dance floor.

After a minute of awkwardness, you fall into a rhythm, holding onto his shoulders as he wrapped his arms around your waist. He was warm and you felt wanted. You lay your cheek on his chest and sway with him.

Yet again, your thoughts wander to Jungkook. You keep remembering the way he looked at you. He was so focused on you. That couldn't have been your imagination. He was such a dick though.

How could he just talk to you as if he hasn't ignored you for a week? Your brows furrow unknowingly.

Like clockwork, your eyes find Jungkook and his date. It's like a knife in your chest.

You're fucking jealous. He's holding her close and they're gazing into each other's eyes. This isn't a fucking wedding. What are they doing?

You can't stand them. They're actually just obnoxious at this point.

He's whispering things to her. You don't ever want to know what.

She has her arms placed around his neck; an action you unintentionally follow with Hoseok.

Speaking of Hoseok--- “Hey,” Hoseok says, leaning down a little so you can hear him over the music. “You’re not still thinking about him, are you?”

You blink, startled, and pull back just enough to meet his eyes. “What?”

He grins, his eyes twinkling with mischief, “I can tell. You’ve been quieter than usual. He’s not worth it, you know.”

Your lips twitch, “Who? Jungkook?”

His smile widens, “Yeah. I mean, you could do better honestly.”

Hoseok's the best date ever. If you were in his shoes, you'd have left.

"I'm not..." You trail off. "Sorry. This must be the worst date ever for you."

When he didn't refute, you felt worse. "Hobi, I'm so sorry."

"Hey, I knew what I was getting into." He rubs your back. "Listen. If this is too much for you, maybe we should..." He trails off. Hoseok didn't really have a solution in mind. He looked to you for one.

You begin thinking out loud when you're interrupted by Hoseok who puts a finger up asking you to hold your thought.

You feel Hoseok’s hand slip from your waist as he pulls out his phone from his pocket.

He glances at the screen, his eyes squinting slightly before a soft sigh escapes him.

“Sorry,” he lowers the phone, “I’ve got to take care of something. My roommate just broke the new stethoscope he bought, and he wants the old one back before it gets ruined too."

"Ah. Okay. Yeah, that's fine, let's just go." You nod along.

"No, you stay. I'll just be a few minutes, alright?" He stops from walking away with him, "20 minutes tops."

"Oh, ok. Alright, I'll wait." You agree.

Hoseok gives you a little side hug before scurrying off. As he leaves he hurriedly speaks, "Thank you, _____. I won't take too long! Call me if anything happens, okay?"

You nod once again, "Okay! Don't worry about me."

While you know that Hoseok didn't actually leave you, you still feel lonely.

What you don't realise is how Jungkook has been keeping track of your every move.

the next installment: dating girl (jjk) #2.2

note: it was way too long for me, so i'll divide it into two parts. please, please, please lmk what ou think of this!

[eowynstwin]

blackbird, fly - iii.

Cowboy Gaz x mail order bride—only, not his. After exchanging letters for half a year with ranching man Hans König, you finally travel out west to marry him. . You wonder if this is how lambs feel, when shorn for the first time. . content warning for marital rape after the second break. . ao3

previous

“Come,” says Hans, tugging on your arm, “let’s get you ready for the ceremony.”

Your husband-to-be leads you up the porch steps and into the house, long legs carrying him ahead so fast you must practically jog to keep up with him. You stumble when you enter the house—the interior is fantastically well-appointed, with papered walls and carved wood furniture, framed photos hanging beside paintings, pressed flowers, hunting trophies, rifles and knives and old farm equipment. The floor beneath your feet is polished and smooth, spread over in places with thick, fringed rugs. You don’t see much more of it after your initial impression; Hans pulls you along at a clip.

Even such a brief glimpse, though, proves your long-held assumptions about Hans and his livelihood; his family has done well for itself, over the years. The kitchen, dining room, and sitting room are all separate from each other, and the manor’s first floor alone is larger than the small farmhouse you grew up in. Your family always made an effort to present a comfortable, clean home, but it seems downright drab in memory now in comparison to this.

There’s a bit of a bustle going on as Hans tugs you along—you hear movement in the kitchen, punctuated by the clang of dishes moving to and fro. A rough voice grinds out something short, and a couple of cowboys emerge with covered dishes that they set on the dining table before they return back into the fray. In the sitting room, an older woman with short, sandy brown hair sits at a desk, spectacles perched on the end of her nose. She glances up at you, betrays no interest, and then ignores you.

“You’ll meet everyone at the ceremony,” Hans says. He directs you up the stairs. “Right now you need something nice to wear.”

“O-oh,” you say, lifting the hem of your skirt as you climb the steps. The fabric, purchased at a discount after you’d saved pennies and nickels for months, suddenly feels thin and insubstantial between your fingers.

Hans brings you into the main bedroom, equally well-designed with molded wood paneling and brass lanterns on the walls, where he goes to a chest at the foot of the massive bed four-poster bed. Everything you’ve seen so far in this house is much finer than what even the most well-to-do farmers back home could display; you used to imagine that wealth like this could only be within the reach of select few businessmen on the east coast. You never imagined you’d have the chance to marry into it.

“I think this should suit you,” says Hans, turning to you with a stack of clothing in one hand.

You take it from him when he proffers it—a skirt, blouse, and jacket, you find. The fabric is silky in your hands, glossy and cool to the touch and very fine. You shake out the skirt; yards of bustled fabric tumble open to reveal pleated gathers, elegant bows, and velvet trim. The paired jacket is much the same, with pearl buttons down the front, and the accompanying blouse is a weave of tight, delicate lace.

Your earlier fears are soundly confirmed; you are in no way dressed for a wedding to Hans König. Gaz had only been trying to be kind; being here, now, seeing the kind of splendor Hans lived with every day, no one could make the mistake that you could measure up on your own.

“Thank you, Hans,” you say, face warming with embarrassment.

“Think nothing of it,” says Hans, looking you up and down expectantly. “Go on.”

You blink. “Ex—excuse me?”

Hans raises his brows as if it should be obvious. “Why, let’s see you in it, dear girl.”

You blanch. Surely he isn’t suggesting…“But—well, Hans, we aren’t—we haven’t—”

“My dear, I’ve already promised to marry you. Why would I go to such expense on a wedding merely to fool you into showing me your underthings?”

You drop your gaze to the floor, cheeks burning. “It’s not proper.”

“Bah,” says Hans. He takes the clothes back from you, tosses them onto the bed, and brings his hands to the buttons down your front. “It’s not like I won’t see this again in a few hours.”

You are rooted to the spot. He unbuttons your dress with an alacrity that startles you; in a few short moments, he makes an opening wide enough to slip over your shoulders, and unceremoniously he pushes the collar open and lets the dress drop to the floor.

You blink several times. You wonder if this is how lambs feel, when shorn for the first time; do they feel suddenly like they’ve been skinned? Does the air suddenly feel much closer, more real than it had before? You remember shearing season on a neighbor’s farm, the angular planes of shortened fleece cropped close to twitching flesh. The sheep had looked unfinished after the deed was done—like wooden figurines only partly whittled.

When you look to Hans’ face, you find him gazing at the tight space where your chemise tucks into the line of your corset. Then, as if in a dream, he reaches out with one huge hand and cups the mound of one breast.

The air vacates your lungs. It’s the first time a man has ever touched you this way.

When young ladies of a certain age gather to socialize, matters of discussion inevitably tend toward the prurient. Your peers delighted in sharing the wealth of erotic experience they’d accrued; trysts in larders, late graveyard meetings, dizzying accounts of hands and mouths in places that sent shame pumping hot and curious through your veins. You lived vicariously through their adventures; opportunities for your own, with three older brothers and a protective father, were nonexistent.

The embarrassing fact is that in matters of your marital duties, you received no practical education.

The one time your mother, a modest woman, saw fit to tutor you, she’d taken you out to the small enclosure in which the family goats were kept. The animals were useful for milk and occasionally meat, so there was always a breeding pair at hand. This occasion, they served the additional use of instruction; the male was rutting.

Your mother had made you watch as the billy mounted the nanny, and shoved its little goat prick into her hindquarters. The billy seemed mindless with want, ferocious, gyrating its hips uncomfortably, which the nanny took with what seemed like resigned patience, if it was paying attention at all. Once the billy finished, it dismounted, chewed its cud a little bit, and walked off. The nanny seemed unperturbed, rather detached from the whole thing, and similarly continued with whatever it had been doing before.

“It’s about like that,” said your mother, unable to look you in the eye.

So you have little knowledge of the matter.

And you have no idea what to do now, as your husband-to-be fondles you and stares down at you with what seems like only idle interest. Hans’ thumb brushes over the space where your nipple would be, hot even through layers of cotton and whalebone. The fine hairs on your arms raise, standing straight up.

What are you supposed to do now? Touch him back? Your stomach turns over at the thought. Even if you wanted to, you have no idea how. Hans is touching you so casually, as if you’ve been his wife for years, but you are as poor in wifely instinct as you are in everything else.

“Lovely,” he says, eyes locked on the place where your chest is rapidly rising and falling.

You inhale shakily. This is fine. He wouldn’t do this if it wasn’t—of course it’s all right, you’re to be married within the hour. It’s only your breast, and only his hand, and it’s over your clothes. It’s fine.

“May—” your voice comes out dry. You clear your throat. “May I dress now, Hans?”

He smiles. You note that he has a thin-lipped smile, and his eyes do not crinkle at the corners. “Of course.”

When the guests have all arrived, when the world around you is bathed in the orange-gold light of the setting sun, and when the mandolin plays the bridal chorus, you join Hans König under an archway of lupine and Indian paintbrush. Evening gives way to night as the last day of your old life comes to a close, ending as you say the words that until now you’ve only whispered in the night at your bedside.

For better—for worse—as long as you both shall live. Over and over again, until your tongue recognized the shape of them like the Lord’s Prayer. As if practicing them enough would speed the hour to you all the sooner in which their vow became real.

Hans kisses you for the second time, and then together, arm in arm, you turn to face the congregation’s applause.

Stars begin peeking white faces through the dimming sky as the band strikes up a tune, and as the reception commences, you must shake hands with the whole county. The priest John MacTavish insists upon introducing himself first—a younger man, with vivid blue eyes and an unusual haircut, gives his congratulations in a husky Scottish brogue entirely inappropriate for a man of the cloth. He’s followed by the sheriff, Simon Riley, who practically chases him off—another tall man, near to your husband’s height, and twice as broad. Curiously, he wears a bandanna across the lower half of his face. His greeting to you is gruff, short—polite in a way that seems unnatural for him.

Next is a slightly older woman, splendidly dressed in lace-trimmed taffeta. She comes over to kiss your cheeks in the French style. Hans ducks his head as she smiles at you; you can’t help but feel similar trepidation. She is terribly striking, with delicate creases on either side of her mouth and a mysterious twinkle in her eye.

“The hotel in town is my establishment,” she tells you. “The bath house, as well.”

“Oh,” you say, “how lovely.”

Her smile quirks at the corners; she looks at Hans, then back to you, and softly chucks your chin. “You’re a pretty thing, aren’t you, darling?”

“Yes, Madame, thank you,” your husband says quickly as your face sets to blazing. “I believe others would like to speak to us, as well, if you don’t mind.”

She gives you another enigmatic smile, tightens the light chiffon wrap around her shoulders, and leaves you to the banker and his wife, who both eagerly step up to talk your ear off.

Farmers, other ranchers, ramblers and gamblers and trappers; it seems everyone in the state has come to pay you their respects, and they all want to meet you at the exact same time. The rough voice you heard in the kitchen manifests itself in the form of a burly man with mutton chops, who introduces himself as John Price the saloon owner. A young woman with an unsmiling face named Ms. Boucher tells you your first purchase at her dry goods store will be discounted by five percent, as a welcome gift from her to you. She punctuates the statement with a narrow-eyed look at your husband, but you have no time to wonder at it before the next guests capture your attention.

A whole line of Hans’ cowboys, headed by the woman you saw working at the writing desk when you arrived, form up to tell you their names and pledge you their loyalty, still dressed in their wrangling leathers but bathed and combed and polished for the occasion nonetheless. The woman introduces herself as Kate Laswell, the foreman.

“I took care of the accounting after Anna passed,” Laswell says to you. “Tomorrow I’ll go through the books with you. It’ll be your job from now on.”

“Now, Kate, you shouldn’t discuss business at my wedding,” says Hans, politely, but somewhat terse. “And besides, that would be far too much for my new bride.”

“Hans, I told you,” you say earnestly, referencing a summer letter, “I want to be a part of things.”

He smiles genially at you—but the expression seems tight. “Of course, dear.”

“Tomorrow,” Kate says to you. Curiously, she looks you up and down. Then, “You’ll need to see the tailor, as well, I think.”

Her words are not said unkindly, but they shame you anyway, reminding you just how poorly matched as yet you are to this life. When you’d put the dress on earlier, it had been immediately clear to you that it was not made to your measurements, but you hadn’t thought it would be so obvious to anyone else. Only Hans’ cowboys proceeding to introduce themselves saves you from having to respond.

One is conspicuously absent.

Unexpectedly, it hurts. Even though it shouldn’t. Gaz had only driven you here, after all. You’ve known him less than a day. It shouldn’t disappoint you, as you keep your eyes on the moving line, that he does not come forward, but it does.

In between meeting the county folk, you manage to get a few bites of the wedding feast—prime rib, lamb chowder, baked fish, seasoned potatoes, collard greens, fried tomatoes, sourdough biscuits, and three different fruit cobblers still somehow steaming from the oven. You and Hans cut the bride’s cake, an impressive sheet of angel food and ivory buttercream that he must have procured at outrageous cost; you are not embarrassed to wolf it down in front of Hans’ guests. It’s the sweetest, softest thing you’ve ever eaten, more delicate than you ever could have imagined any food could be.

As the sky darkens overhead, the faint cloud of the milky way coalesces in the light of the waxing moon, and the band takes up a lively jig as the wedding party sallies forth to the clearing to dance arm in arm. Your husband whirls you along with them, arm around your waist, and then you’re dancing, too, and the familiar two-step lifts your flagging spirits as the cool night air runs quick, soft fingers across your burning cheeks.

So what if some cowboy hadn’t made it to your wedding? You’re dancing with your husband, after months of longing for him; everything and everyone else is inconsequential laid up against this triumph.

Faces blur in the lamplight the night falls indigo around you, and as the music changes Hans twirls you into a new set of arms in a jaunt that has everyone exchanging partners. They hold you only briefly before the music changes again, and off you bounce to another, the world spinning around you faster and faster, jubilant and surreal, and then another—

Suddenly you are in Kyle Garrick’s arms.

He catches you like lassoing a runaway horse, taking your momentum into the pillar of his body as he winds you in close. One of his hands spreads warm across your back, fingers spanning what feels like the entire breadth of your waist. His other cradles your own in his palm, long fingers folded around it like an envelope. You fit against him easily, perfectly, like a couple illustrated in a storybook.

“Mr. Garrick,” you gasp.

“Mrs. König,” he says.

Suddenly you realize you’re out of breath. You take deep gulps of air, and Gaz’s scent permeates your lungs. Lavender soap and bay rum, polished leather, sweet hay. The soft, dense curls of his hair are combed and parted a little, and the short stubble he’d greeted you with on the train platform is tonsured down flush to his jaw.

He leans in closer to you, hovers his lips near to one ear. “You changed your dress.”

He doesn’t keep pace with the other dancers, or swing you around in time with the music; he lets the world slow around you both, the music falling away as he brings the pace of your heart down with soft line of his mouth and the steady, still look in his dark eyes. His hand on your back radiates so much warmth that it cuts through the evening chill just beginning to set in, as if his palm is directly against your naked skin.

You smile meekly. “It wasn’t appropriate for a wedding.”

His dark brows pull together; his hands tighten their purchase on you. You watch him avert his eyes from you, take a great breath in through flared nostrils.

“Mr. Garrick,” you say, feeling too honest, “do you disapprove of me?”

He snaps his gaze back to you. “Why would you think that?”

You swallow. “You don’t seem very pleased, whenever we talk, is all.”

Suddenly Gaz smiles—lets out a short, sharp laugh that bares his even teeth, shows the points of his canines. “That’s not your fault. I promise you.”

“Then what is it?”

He gazes at you. Lamplight casts the angles of his face in shadow, deepens the darkness of his eyes. His shoulder is solid beneath where your hand rests, shaped hard by a life on the range; you could lay the entirety of your weight against him, you think, and he wouldn’t even sway with holding you up. There’s something very present about Kyle Garrick. Something real. It draws you in like the earth draws the moon into its orbit.

“Do you really want this?” he asks you.

You blink. “Of course I do.”

“You hardly know him.”

“I’ve known him for half a year, Mr. Garrick,” you say, somewhat unsure how much explanation you owe this cowboy. After all, you’d vowed to earn his trust, as his employer’s new wife. “I know you might have some reservations about me. I understand, really.”

“No,” says Gaz immediately, dark brows low and serious over his eyes. “Not about you.”

“Mrs. König!” an accented voice calls.

Immediately the world speeds up around you again, music crashing back into your ears, wedding guests spinning and leaping around you, and you turn to see your husband standing at the edge of the clearing.

The dancing comes to a halt at the sound of his voice; Hans outstretches one hand toward you.

“I believe it is time for us to retire,” he says.

Gaz’s hands tighten on you again. You feel the eyes of the other dancers on the two of you, tight lines of attention between you and them.

You have felt it all evening, really—the undercurrent lining every conversation, the askance looks tossed at you and your husband when no one thought you’d notice. The pervading sense of some drama playing out just outside of your comprehension.

You turn to look back at Gaz. His mouth is pressed into a hard line. The wells of his eyes are ink-dark, opaque, eclipsed by something of a shape beyond your knowing. He says nothing as he holds your gaze, only watches you with an expectation so stoic, so resigned, that you feel almost guilty for releasing him.

He lets you go as if his grasp wasn’t even tight in the first place. You turn away from him, from the stone-hard expression on his face, and go to slide your fingers into your husband’s waiting hand.

Wolf-whistles populate the night air as he smiles approvingly, nods, and leads you away. Short bursts of knowing applause behind you draw your shoulders tight together.

“Ignore them,” says Hans, tucking your hand into the crook of his arm. “They’re just fools.”

You look back over your shoulder. Gaz still stands amid the dancers, a wide berth around him. His eyes have not left you; they pierce you in the night, sharp even as the distance between you grows.

You have only one other point of reference, aside from your mother’s tutelage, for how the end of this evening might go. A topaz glimmering in the folds of your memory.

Years ago, before the shine had worn off as it usually does with older siblings, you’d worshiped your oldest brother like he was Jesus Christ returned. You’d trailed after him like a newborn pup, dogging his every step, hoping your devotion would earn you even the smallest scraps of his affection. You’d watched his comings and goings like you could divine the mysteries of God from the merest angle of his movements.

One night, far past the time when everyone should be asleep, he’d slipped out of the small three-room house your family shared. You knew, because you slept closest to the door, and by then could recognize him by the rhythm of his footsteps. Like any nosy little sibling, you’d followed him out once you were sure he couldn’t hear you behind him.

He’d made his creeping way toward the barn, his path and yours lit only by a waxing moon. You remember, sneaking along after him, noticing a dim glow emanating from the cracks in the hayloft door, and guessed that your brother had realized he’d forgotten to snuff a lantern before going to bed—and now he was going to put it out, rather than leave a hay fire to chance.

He went inside. You were about to follow (no sibling, however divine, was exempt from a good ribbing, and nearly burning down the barn was excellent blackmail fodder)—when you heard another voice.

A female voice. Soft, and sweet, and welcoming.

Very little preamble separated that revelation from the next, and what you heard in the following moments rooted you there in place; movement. Rustling. For the span of a few heartbeats, nothing except for the crickets in the fields—and then, like the moon rising on a cloudless night—a growing chorus, voices high and low, moaning together in staccato.

You’d stood there, frozen absolutely solid, as it went on. The high voice lifted higher, and higher, carried on frantic, rapid breaths, until it cut off with a shriek that muffled so fast you knew your brother had covered the girl’s mouth.

Then—quiet, shared laughter.

So you know a little more than what the goats taught you.

Hans leads you back inside the house, where the lanterns have been turned to low, orange specks of light. You fix your eyes on the nape of his neck ahead of you as the two of you climb the stairs, making your way back to the master bedroom. The cacophony of the wedding celebration is far away; he opens the door, draws you inside, and shuts it behind him.

You stand in the middle of the room, looking at him. This whole evening has felt like a dream, but as you gaze at your husband, you suddenly feel like you’re waking up. You have not been alone with Hans since you met him, not really, and you realize he hasn’t felt quite real to you because of it. You almost feel as if you can see him, for the first time, see the words that have made him up in your memory coalesce into the flesh-and-blood man standing before you.

This is him. This is Hans. This is the man you love.

Softly, you approach him. Reach up with two hands to take his face in them; press your lips, shyly, unpracticed, to his.

“Hans,” you say, more softly than you have ever said anyone’s name in your life, looking into the pale blue of his eyes.

He gazes down at you. “Let’s get undressed,” he says.

It’s the moment you expected, but it daunts you nonetheless. You nod, step away from your husband, and he sets to the task—he shucks his coat, dropping it on the floor, and unhooks his suspenders. Swiftly you turn away from him when he begins unbuttoning his shirt, face blazing—of course, you’ve seen men undress before, you have three brothers, but this—this—

The reality of what you are about to do douses you all at once, soaking you to the bone. When you bring your hands up to the buttons of your bodice, they are trembling; you can barely get the tiny pearls between your fingers to undo them. You hear more clothes land on the floor behind you as you struggle, and then nothing. Stillness.

His eyes are heavy on your back. He is silent as you finally get the jacket off, and the blouse along with it; he is silent as you push the skirt down over your hips, the garment piling on the floor.

Your whole body is shaking by the time you’re down only to your chemise, shivering like a foal on new legs as you bare your shoulders. You close your eyes. There’s no need to be afraid as you shuffle the garment down your back. It’s only your husband behind you, looking at you as you bare your buttocks, as you step out of the split shorts, as the cool night air caresses your naked belly.

“That’s enough,” Hans says behind you when your hands go to the ties on your stockings.

You go still.

“Get on the bed, now.”

You focus on your breathing. Long breaths, in and out, as you crawl belly-first onto the mattress, which sinks luxuriously under your weight, softer than any bed you’ve lain on in your life. Suddenly, before you have time to adjust, the mattress sinks even more under you, and an envelope of heat and weight looms over you, pressing hard onto you, bare skin and the smell of sweat and the sound of another person’s breathing over you invading your senses.

Then there’s something blunt nudging at the entrance of your sex. A hand on your hip, gripping tight. The blunt thing circles briefly, parting your folds, and then is pressing into you. Pressing in somewhere tight, somewhere that doesn’t want to open to let it in. You hold your breath. It presses harder, fighting the resistance, and then finally gets past it, just a half inch or so—and suddenly it hurts.

“Hans,” you whisper.

He hasn’t seem to have heard you. He pushes harder, just a bit further. There’s another wall of resistance, this one needling and far more solid. You gasp sharply at the dryness of it, the way his member seems to want to push your own folds up into you as it tries to get in, shoving, bludgeoning, and then, mercifully, Hans pulls away.

It’s on the tip of your tongue to suggest that maybe the two of you try this later. Clearly there is something about you that’s not ready for it—but then his hand is between your legs, smearing something slippery around, and just briefly he touches something that pulses with interest. You jolt as little sparks of pleasure dance through you but quickly burn out, and then, the blunt head of his cock is back, pushing in, much faster, much smoother, huge and hard—

Suddenly it is sharp inside you, razor sharp, paralyzing. You shriek in pain, tears welling acidic in your eyes, shocked, betrayed, and he keeps coming, an endless length of him forcing inside, making room where there is none, going somewhere it clearly must not belong—and then he groans, loud and guttural, and begins to pull out.

You don’t have enough time to mistake this for the end of it. He pulls out halfway and then rams back in, slamming against your body, punching what must be the very limit of the space he can make for himself in your body. Pain roars to life around his cock, radiating outward, a ripping and shredding that grows as he forces himself into you again, and then again, and then it’s happening for real, he’s begins thrusting so fast it knocks the breath from your lungs, slapping his hips against your backside as he grunts and groans behind you like a dumb animal. He batters some nexus of agony that sends you screaming, shrieking with every jerk of his hips, tears streaming down your face as you grip the blanket in clawed fingers.

“Please, Hans, stop, please!”you wail. “Stop, stop, stop—”

His hand grips back of your head, turning your face downward—pressing it against the bed, muffling your mouth and nose and eyes into the blanket—

He jerks against you as agony writes itself into your bone marrow. Your hands circle in on themselves so tightly you feel your fingernails bite into your palms. Any memory of laughter you ever had abandons you.

Then, suddenly, mercifully, he’s forcing himself into you as deeply as he can, groaning loud, and something warm blooms in you, squelches out warm and sticky as he pulls in and out a few more times. He stills then from his furious rutting, hanging over you, panting.

Then he pulls out. Your husband lets you go and rolls over, breathing hard on the bed. You lay absolutely dead still, shaking violently, every muscle in your body tensed up painfully tight.

“Hans,” you whimper, “Hans.”

“Mm-hm,” he hums.

“Hans.” Every nerve is vibrating with pain. “Hans, that hurt.”

There is a long silence after. So long, you start to believe that he won’t say anything; that perhaps, even, he’s fallen asleep, and your words have dropped like flies from the air between you before they reached him.

But he hasn’t fallen asleep. Your husband shuffles off the bed, lifts the linen, and shuffles back into it. The lantern light is dim in the bedroom, but light enough that you can see the nonplussed expression on his face.

“Anna got used to it,” he says finally, eyes closing. “You will too.”

And he turns on his side and says no more to you.

You lay there aching. When you drag your fingers through the slick mess between your thighs, streaks of red intermingle with the clear and the white.

Suddenly you want this day to be over. You want to close your eyes and dream that it never happened—or maybe, if you go to sleep, you’ll awaken to find that it was all a dream after all, and you’re still home, your mother cooking just outside the bedroom door. Slowly, you inch off the bed, finding the floor with your stockinged feet, and go to douse the lanterns.

The room is cold and silvery without their light. Darkness gathers in the corners, around the weak glow of moonlight failing to fully penetrate the curtains over the window. You gingerly swipe the cloth from a nearby washbasin between your legs, cleaning up the remnants of your husband’s pleasure, and then, with nowhere else to go, you return to the empty side of the bed and crawl stiffly under the covers.

He does not stir as you settle in beside him. You lay your head on the pillow next to his and fold your hands over your stomach.

Outside and far away, you think you can hear the band still merrily playing. The darkness deepens, and deepens, until you can’t tell where it ends and you begin.

next

[swetblom]

hii can u make doll reader x dexter

didn’t really have anything set in mind right now soo i just decided on canons!

᧔•᧓

⊹. DOLL READER thinks he’s shy — quiet and thoughtful with that crooked little smile she adores. he thinks she’s unreal — a walking bubblegum fantasy who floats through his darkness without even noticing it.

⊹. DOLL! READER who holds his hand with both of hers, swinging them as they walk, talking about the way the clouds looked like marshmallows this morning. dexter listens, hums sometimes, and she thinks that means he’s really engaged. but he’s trying to figure her out. how someone so open, so soft, hasn’t been broken by the world yet.

⊹. DOLL! READER who takes pictures of their shoes side by side and captions it “me n my mysterious cutie <3”.

⊹. DOLL! READER thinks his silence is sweet. he thinks her voice could drown out every dark thought he’s ever had.

⊹. DOLL! READER who shows up at Miami Metro with an iced coffee in each hand — one with extra whipped cream and vanilla drizzle, and one just black, no sugar, because “you like your coffee like your shirts, baby. boring.” and she giggles like it’s the funniest thing ever.

⊹. DOLL! READER lounges across his couch in short shorts and tank, her phone full of photos of him looking away or blinking — the only pictures he’ll allow. she drapes her legs over his lap and hums, “you’d look sooo cute in pastels, y’know. like lavender or baby blue.”

DEXTER, who’s elbow-deep in blood reports and ritual crime scenes, just glances at her and says, “you’d look cuter in anything.” she gasps. “you’re getting soooo good at compliments! I’m a good influence.” and she is. without trying.

⊹. DOLL! READER who thinks it’s adorable when he zones out, not realizing he’s mentally cataloguing dismemberment patterns. she taps his nose and says, “hellooo? earth to dexter,” and he snaps back to her like she’s the only real thing in the room. and maybe she is. maybe she’s the only thing keeping him grounded in the present, in normalcy, in something that feels close to good.

⊹. DOLL! READER traces his knuckles with her glossy fingertips and says, “you’ve got the hands of someone who builds things.” he doesn’t. but he doesn’t tell her that. he lets her believe it. lets her create a world where he’s a little shy, a little awkward, a little hers (he’s a lot hers)

⊹. DOLL! READER gets defensive fast if someone talks about dexter like he’s odd. “he’s just quiet!” she chirps, wide-eyed and sunny. “quiet boys are hot, actually.” (someone mutters, “that guy gives me the creeps,” and she just goes, “well, i think he’s sweet and he always opens doors for me, sooo.”)

⊹. DOLL! READER always brings up dexter in comparisons. “that guy was so rude—dexter would never.” “ugh, this weather makes me miss dexter’s car. it always smells like clean laundry.” “they didn’t even double-check the file—dexter would’ve.” he’s her gold standard and she says it with her whole chest, every time.

⊹. DEXTER doesn’t touch people. but she touches him constantly and he lets her. an arm looped through his. a kiss on his cheek. a soft pat to his chest when he makes her laugh. even uses him like a wall. resting her chin on his shoulder when she’s sleepy. she acts like he’s her built-in shelter, and weirdly… he kind of is.

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

All Things End

Pairing: Osferth (The Last Kingdom) x f!reader Warnings: Angst, smut. Word count: ~2.7k

Summary: Based on this request. Life has been blissful for Osferth since finding love with a Christian woman from Alton. However, he cannot shake the thought that she deserves better; if he loves her, he should want her to be happy, even if that happiness is not found with him...

Author's note: No tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

Her breaths come in ragged pants that fan hotly against the sweat soaked skin of Osferth’s neck. She is pliant beneath him, thighs wrapped tightly around his waist, mirroring the spasming grip of her warm, wet walls, pulling him towards his end as she reaches her own. The pressure that has steadily been building at the base of his spine explodes in white hot intensity, and he screws his eyes shut as he pushes back into her with a final, deep thrust, spilling himself inside of her.

Inside of her.

He freezes as the sensation fades away, eyes snapping back open in stark realisation. He pulls back, breathing heavily, panic not allowing his heart rate to slow.

“I–I did not mean to…I’m sorry. That was careless of me, please forgive me, I–”

She places a palm against his cheek, caressing his face gently, halting his rambled apologies. Her expression is calm, though her eyes are glossy, lips parted as the afterglow of their tryst suffuses through her flesh.

“It is fine, my love, we will take care of it.”

He knows all too well what she means when she says that. She will take care of it. It would not be the first time that she has had to.

It has been a year since they shared their first night together, and they have enjoyed many more since then, under the cover of stars, or on the straw stuffed mattresses of the various ale reeking inns that they find themselves in when they have enough coin to seek proper shelter on their travels. Osferth is usually always careful, pulling out and coating her thighs, lower back or belly with his spend. However, there have been two occasions when he has gotten lost in her warmth, the intoxicating scent of her, and forgotten himself, finishing inside of her as he ascends to the height of bliss, before the gravity of his carelessness plummets him back to earth with horrifying cognizance. Tonight is the third time that this has happened.

His expression is sullen as he sits by the campfire the following morning, watching her brew the pungent roots and herbs in a steaming pot of water. The acrid stench makes his nostrils twitch in disgust, but he refuses to move or look away. She is the one that has to drink the noxious liquid, suffering the smell of it pales in comparison, and does little to assuage the guilt that weighs heavily upon his chest.

She grimaces as she gulps it down, brow furrowed as she struggles not to retch at the taste, and he swears silently to himself that this is a torment that he will never allow her to suffer again. She deserves better, he must be better for her.

The frightened young woman he had met in Alton has come a long way since he had rescued her. She is no longer shy and fearful and, though still steadfast in her faith, she shares herself with him freely and without shame. She drinks ale, laughs heartily at Finan’s dirty jokes and no longer displays any apprehension at interacting with Uhtred and the others. His heart swells with warmth and affection for the woman he has fallen in love with, she is truly the light of his life. Though in moments such as these he is left to ponder on how exactly he has changed hers, and if it is for the better.

He has basked in her warmth on chilly evenings, enjoyed the sinful pleasures of her flesh, found comfort and joy in the unconditional love that she showers him with, but what can he possibly offer her in return?

Osferth is her protector, but would she need that protection at all if she were not travelling with Uhtred and his men? He is the blade against the harm that he directly places her in the way of every time they prepare for battle. They have no home, no money, nothing but what they carry upon their horses. He loves her more than he ever thought himself capable of loving another person, but love alone will not provide for her.

The thoughts consume him as they ride south, towards the next village, and he clings tightly to her as she leans back against him in the saddle, as though he can feel the very essence of her slipping through his fingers. A man less selfish would simply let her go, but he cannot fathom a life without her. Deep down, despite trying his best, he knows he will never get it right.

Beocca and Æthelwold are awaiting them when they arrive, and she leaves him with a cheerful smile and a soft kiss on the lips, explaining that she wishes to explore, a polite means to excuse herself from the discussion that she knows does not concern her. He is ever grateful for her intuitive nature, but once more left disheartened that she is placed in that position to begin with.

He is barely able to focus as Beocca relays Alfred’s demands to Uhtred. There is a dawning sense of finality settling in the pit of his stomach, causing cold tendrils of dread to spread throughout his body, and it does not come from the news of the King’s order of one hundred pieces of wergild and an oath sworn to his son, Edward. There is a price he knows he will have to pay sooner rather than later, and it will come at a greater cost to him than any fealty sworn to a future ruler.

Osferth watches as she laughs breathlessly, the sound carrying softly on the breeze. The children scurry around her skirts, rosy faced and grinning, eager to play. She had obliged and agreed to join in on their game of chase when they had invited her, excited at having new people arrive in the village. Her playing with them feels effortless, natural even, and he thinks about how easily she would adapt to motherhood, to have a babe of her own to hold in her arms. It causes a lump in his throat, his gaze growing misty as his mouth tugs downward, knowing that’s something he will never be able to give her.

He is a bastard. He will not pass that curse on by marriage or parentage, that will die with him.

But what of her wants and needs? He is depriving her of the opportunity to be a wife, a mother. He can no longer subject her to a life of vagrancy and uncertainty, simply because of his heedless desire to have her at his side. She did not ask for this, it has been thrust upon her without her say so. Her life cannot truly begin until the one she leads with him comes to an end. With a heavy heart, he decides that when they reach the next town he will travel on without her.

The village they currently occupy seems too small, too dirty, not vibrant enough for her to call home, he reasons, she deserves to live somewhere bigger and as filled with exuberant life as she is. He knows he is lying to himself, he is simply unprepared to let her go, he is not ready. He is not sure he ever will be, but he will have to be for both of their sakes.

Over the coming days, he keeps her close, committing to memory the softness of her hair between his fingers and the way the sunlight dapples upon it like fresh spun silk. He inhales the fragrant scent of her skin every time he holds her close, as though trying to permanently imprint the faint floral smell upon his mind.

The way her eyes light up whenever she smiles is the sight he will miss most of all. He wishes for that to be the only expression he ever sees upon her beautiful face. He cannot bear the thought of parting ways and seeing the heartbreak in her eyes, or the tears that might fill them. It is craven, but he knows the only way he will ever be able to leave her is if he slips away without telling her.

His heart sits like a stone within his chest when they eventually arrive at the next town. He knows that when he departs it will no longer be in tact, torn asunder as he leaves half of it behind. He can see his future darkening as he looks into her eyes, knowing it may be the final time he ever gets the opportunity to do so.

Osferth makes love to her that night, his pace unhurried, every thrust drawn out slowly, memorising the subtle movements of her hips and each soft sigh that passes her lips. His hands stroke through her hair, caressing her face, before dragging over her curves. If this is to be his final time with her then he wants it to last, wants her to feel just how much she means to him, and to be left with the memory of how utterly divine she had felt pressed against him.

“I love you,” he whispers to her, as she cuddles against his chest afterwards.

“And I love you.”

Those simple words cause his throat to tighten, knowing he will never hear her utter them again.

It is for the best, he thinks sadly as he watches her sleep peacefully next to him. She deserves the opportunity to settle down, to get married, to have a family. She deserves everything he will never be able to give her.

He slips out of the bed as dawn breaks, casting a dusky orange glow through the gap in the threadbare curtains. The loss of her warmth is intensified by the knowledge that this is his final time experiencing it, the sensation of parting from her akin to being plunged into icy water. He has to force himself to look away from her in order to gather up his clothes and get dressed, careful not to disturb her.

Hovering by the door, he hesitates a moment, staring at her as she slumbers. If this is the right thing to do, then why does it feel so painful? His love for her is unconditional, however, and he longs for her to find happiness, even if that means he is not a part of it.

He hates the thought of her waking up alone, the inevitable betrayal she will feel when she realises what he has done, and it tempts him to stay, to continue to pretend that he could ever be enough for her. But he knows those feelings will pass for her, and when they do she will meet the man who will marry her and father children with her, a man who does not carry the curse of bastardry.

“There is a woman in the room upstairs,” he tells the innkeeper on his way out, handing him a coin purse containing all of the money that Osferth has to his name. “Please ensure she is well taken care of.”

His hands shake as he saddles up his horse, the void she has left behind seeming as though it will swallow him whole. He is incomplete without her, destined to go through life feeling like half of a person.

Finan raises an eyebrow at Osferth, as he tends to his own mount, eyeing him with suspicion. “She not coming with us?”

Osferth swallows thickly, an attempt to keep the emotion from his voice, as he keeps his eyes focused on the straps he buckles. “No.”

“Yes, I am!” She cries out, hurrying towards them, a bewildered look upon her face. Her hair is still tousled from sleep, suggesting she had dressed in a hurry to catch them up. “Osferth, why did you not wake me?”

His heart sinks, tears prickling his eyes as he turns to look at her, knowing he will now have to have the conversation he had been wanting to avoid all along. Finan clears his throat, looking between the two of them, before moving away towards where Uhtred and Sihtric are readying to leave.

“You are to stay here,” he says in a trembling voice, “I have left coin with the innkeeper to take care of you.”

“For how long?” She asks, brow furrowing in confusion.

He lowers his gaze, guilt pooling in his gut, unsure of how to word his response. There is no kind way to say “forever” in this instance.

“For how long, Osferth?!” She asks again, her voice wavering as it raises an octave.

His eyes are sad and filled with remorse as he looks back up at her, nausea swirling in his stomach as he watches a tear slip down her cheek. His fingers twitch uselessly by his sides with the urge to wipe it away.

“Do you not want me anymore?” 

Her voice is barely above a whisper as she asks this, and it feels as though a dagger has been twisted into Osferth’s heart. How could she possibly ever believe he didn’t want her? She means everything to him.

He shakes his head, the words feeling as though they will choke him as his vision blurs. “I will never stop wanting you,” he confesses, “but that is precisely the problem. You deserve better than the life I can provide for you. I will never be able to give you children, or marry you. I am trying to do what is best for you. I want you to be happy.”

“You make me happy, you bloody fool!” She cries, the slightest hint of anger creeping into her tone. “And it is not for you to decide what is best for me. Why did you not tell me that this was how you were feeling?”

“I could not bear to have a conversation that I knew would break both of our hearts. I know that is cowardice, but I knew you would never agree to leave, and I cannot continue to hold you back from the life you deserve.”

He stares miserably at her, feeling the wetness of his tears upon his face as she swipes angrily at her own. This is not how this was supposed to go. He does not want this to be how they remember each other.

“You are right,” she says defiantly, “I would not have agreed to go. If a husband and children were what I wanted then I would have parted ways with you long ago. I am not the scared little girl you found a year ago. I make my own choices.” 

His lips part involuntarily, eyes widening slightly. “How can this possibly be the life that you would choose for yourself? How could I ever be enough?”

She sighs, reaching for his hand, clasping his fingers tightly in his. The gesture spreads warmth from the tips of his toes all the way to the top of his head.

“I love you, Osferth. You are enough for me. The life we have is enough for me. I do not wish to risk my life in childbirth, or spend my days tending to the needs of a husband who views me as something to be possessed. I want a life that is filled with adventure, I want to fall asleep under the stars, and I want to do it all with you at my side.”

A small, yet hopeful smile tugs at the corners of his mouth as he steps closer, tenderly wiping away the wetness beneath her eyes with his thumb. “Are you sure?”

She nods. “God brought us together for a reason. All things must end, I know this, but not what we have, just the foolish way in which you perceive it.”

He rests his forehead against hers, relief and embarrassment flushing his cheeks. “I have been so stupid, can you ever forgive me? I do not know how to even begin to apologise.”

She leans in, pressing her lips to his, allowing them to linger for a moment before pulling away with a slight grin. “Save your apologies. You will need them for the innkeeper when you ask for your money back.”

He smiles. There is comfort in knowing that everything ends, because within it they have been given the opportunity to begin again.

Part two | Series masterlist

[littlemissmentallyunstable]

title: look after my heart

pairing: nash hawthorne x (first person) reader

synopsis: you and nash have been together for a long while now and you’re insanely in love, but circumstance forces you apart

warnings:

a/n: nash is so underrated 🤍🤍 thanks for reading

tag list: @tornqdowarnings @whatsamongus @wish-i-were-heather @inmyheaddd @never-enough-novels @peterlcsingwendy @lxvebelle @xoxo-vee @emelia07 @f4iry-bell @zaraaaabear @thoughtdaughter3 @benny1989fredd @elysianwayy77

We agreed to meet up at 10 o’clock but I was there at half past nine. I needed that time to put things into perspectives, the analyse all the what-if scenario is one by one. Nash was my everything. And my everything might be taken away from me. Nash was a Hawthorne, a grandson to a very rich and powerful man, an heir, if you will, to a fortune. And I was nothing in comparison. I was a normal girl, living in a pretty regular house, with nothing too special or extraordinary about her. You can see how it might’ve gone down when he revealed to his family that we were together. At 10 o’clock tonight everything would change. For better or for worse I didn’t know. And I wish I’d never have found out.

I noticed a figure approaching. I could tell by the way he walked that it was him right away. I stood up under the lamp post and waited until he reached me. He came into the light and I saw it in his face before he even opened his mouth. My heart slowly sank in my chest and the lump grew quickly in my throat.

“It’s okay,” I said softly, taking a step towards him.

I knew it was anything but okay. But I had to say something. He shook his head. He couldn’t meet my eye. I waited silently until he was ready. He looked at me, his hazel eyes full of the most gut-wrenching pain. I couldn’t bear to stare at them but I forced myself to. I had to be strong. For Nash.

“My grandfather made it you or my family,” he told me, his voice was hoarse and taut, it was unfamiliar for me to hear him like this, “I either run from it all with you and stay and never see you again.”

“It’s okay,” I repeated, taking his hands into mine. He grasped them so tightly, his knuckles went white and my hands filled with blood.

“I can’t leave my brothers, I can’t walk out and leave them with what I had to deal with,” he said, his voice breaking, “no one deserves to deal with that.”

I nodded, swallowing back the tears. I kept reminding myself the same few words. I had to stay strong. For Nash. If I cried then it would make it even harder and that just wasn’t fair. He didn’t need me to make this any harder than it already was.

“But I can’t leave you,” he choked out, “because I don’t think I’ve ever loved anything more than I love you. It would be like someone ripping a chunk of my heart out.”

“Oh Nash,” I murmured, my voice growing a little shaky.

“It’s an impossible decision,” he said, the strain in his voice tugging at my heartstrings.

“That’s why I’m making it for you,” I said, biting the inside of my cheek, “you need to stay with you brothers, you need to forget about me, let go and move on.”

“No,” he shook his head, glossy eyed, “no I’m finding another way.”

“We both know,” I murmured softly, “that there isn’t another way.”

There was a beat. The truth had been spoken and both of us hated it. But neither of us could change it.

“I can’t leave you,” he insisted, letting a single tear roll down his cheek, “I can’t.”

“You have to,” I sniff, my fingers trembling.

There was a deathly silence and each fraction of each moment killed me softly. Torturing my already wounded heart. I didn’t understand why the world was so cruel, who gave it the right? I didn’t understand why for once things couldn’t go my way. I finally had found someone who loved me like no one had ever loved me before and now it was being robbed from me too. Those thoughts made me feel so selfish, so conflicted, but how could I not be? My bones began to ache as the wind began to whistle and the silence was not so silent anymore.

“You’re not angry at me,” he said, “why aren’t you angry at me?”

“How could I be angry at something that’s out of your hands?” I asked him gently.

“I don’t want to do this but…” he trailed off, unable to carry on, his voice too unsteady, too broken.

“You have to, for the sake of your brothers, I know,” I attempted to comfort him.

“I-“ he went to say something but can’t get his words out. His face contorts into a look of agony and he began to sob. There were very few times I’d seen Nash cry and when he had it had never been like this. I wrapped my arms around his shaking body and guided him to where I’d previously been sitting. I held him closely and let him break down in my arms. That was the most heart breaking thing I’ve ever had to do. I couldn’t amend his agony because I was the cause.

It was like I felt his pain running through me. It hurt me to see him this hurt. Every time his body shook, my chest constricted. Tears freely now ran down my face. I had to be strong but this was what strong was at the moment. Sometimes letting yourself fall apart is strong.

“I understand Nash, really I do,” I whispered, playing with strands on his hair to distract my sorrowful mind.

He didn’t reply and I had a chance to wipe my eyes and pull myself together a little so Nash couldn’t see that if fallen apart too. After a few moments he sat up, tear stained face, eyes red and puffy. He looked so unlike the strong Nash I knew and yet I fell in love all over again in the same moment. My heart was tied to his.

“I never deserved you, not for a second,” he shook his head, eyes connected to mine.

“No,” I shook my head, my voice thick with emotion, “that’s not true.”

“I’m sorry, I wish there was a way,” he rasped.

“It’s not your fault,” I said. His eyes immediately hit the floor, guilty practically flooded out of him.

“Hey,” I snapped, “Nash. Look at me.”

His eyes met mine. Sparks ignited all the way through my body.

“It’s not your fault,” I told him firmly.

Nash blamed himself for most things, I knew that better than anyone. He needed someone to really drill it in to him for him to believe it. And even after that, more often than not he still would blame himself. It was the way that stupid grandfather of his had brought him up to believe. I often used to wonder how someone so kind hearted, so loving could have been raised by someone so cruel.

“I don’t want to do this to you,” he told me, cupping my face in his palms.

His touch is killing me and he doesn’t know it. I know he’s never going to touch me like this again. I know I’ll never feel the comfort of his gentle hands grazing my face. But I have to stay strong. For Nash.

“You don’t have that kind of choice and I know that,” I said, drawing soft spirals across his face

“He shouldn’t have this much power,” he practically growls, taking his hands from my face and throwing them down, clasping them anxiously within each other.

“But he does and neither of us can help that, there’s no point in getting angry over things we can’t control, okay?” I soothed, rubbing the top of his arms.

“Okay,” he blew a breath out, “…okay.”

He looked as if he wanted to stay something else but couldn’t quite get the words out. He attempted to pull himself together but I could see it broke him further. Silent tears rolled down his face, the lamplight making them glisten in a horribly beautiful way.

“You don’t need to find any more words,” I told him, “I promise you, I understand.”

I cupped his face in my hands and wiped away his tears gently with my thumb. He looks into my eyes, pain shining through his.

“I love you,” he whispered, his lips quivering a little.

“I love you too,” I replied.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, “I’m so awfully sorry.”

“Shhhh stop apologising, you dont need to apologise,” I smiled through my pain, placing a finger on his lips. They’re velvety soft as always. I took in the moment and memorised that feeling and held onto it in my heart.

He stood up, causing my hand to drop. He extended a hand and guided me up with him. His hands coiled around the small of my waist. And I think in that moment he was the only thing holding me together.

He kissed me softly. Tenderly. Passionately.

We both knew how sacred these last moments were. We’d have to leave on another soon. His lips were so natural on mine. I closed my eyes, making it last a long as I could. Painting a memory in my mind, and burning it into the side of my brain to be sure I would never forget. Never forget these feelings, these kisses… I didn’t want to stop. Ever. I could feel the love radiating off of us each time our lips touched.

“I will never forget you,” Nash mumbled between kisses.

I breathed out shakily and stopped the kissing for a second. I stared dead into his sparkling hazel eyes and told him, “one day you’re going to find another girl, someone who is so beautiful and sweet and funny who you love more than anything, and you’re going to marry her and she’ll have your babies and your grandfather won’t be able to keep you apart.”

“I thought that girl was you,” he choked, emotion ripping back through his voice.

“Not in this story,” I shook my head, biting my lip to stop the tears from falling.

“Then one day you’ll find a boy who can give you everything I couldn’t, who treats you like you’re his whole world and more,” he said to me, hands tightening on my waist.

“You already did that for me,” I whimpered, my bottom lip trying not to tremble and failing.

“If I had, then why are we here?” he asked.

“Unfortunate circumstance,” I explained, tears freely rolling down my cheeks. My strength was wavering, my agony was winning and I couldn’t hold my pain in anymore, “maybe we weren’t meant to be.”

“You don’t mean that,” Nash said.

He knew me too well.

“No I don’t,” I agreed, “but it’s more comforting to think of it like that.”

His pressed his forehead onto mine. Our eyes were glued to each other and I wished I could’ve paralysed time, like time paralysed my ability to love after that. I wished I could’ve frozen us there and then so nothing ever changed. But that was not possible.

“I will never stop loving you,” he said, raw passion in the back of his voice.

“I will never stop loving you too,” I told him.

“This is where we let go,” he murmured.

“This is where we let go,” I confirmed.

“Goodbye,” he whispered, placing one last kiss on my lips. The sweetest kiss, laced with salty tears.

“Goodbye,” I said, in barely a whisper. It was all I could muster, all I had left.

I nodded at him softly, telling him it was time and he slowly turned his back on me. He walked away into the darkness of the night, looking back over his shoulder at me just standing there. Every cell in my body screamed for me to run towards him, fling my arms around him and beg for him to stay. But I didn’t. Because that would’ve broken him even more than he’s already been broken. And he does not deserve that.

“Look after my heart Nash Westbrook Hawthorne,” I whispered into the nothingness, the wind carrying my forgotten words to some far off place, where they’d probably never be heard.

a/n: credit to @sister-lucifer for the divider

TIG masterlist

[vikwrites]

Money, Money, Money - Tony Stark

CHAPTER 1 Summary ➣ Starting off as simple, transactional love during the height of Tony’s alcoholism, devolves into something real. Pairing ➣ Tony Stark x Reader Word Count ➣ 1.2k words Warnings ➣ Slow Burn, Power Imbalance, Enemies to Lovers, Large age gap, Mildly Pretentious Narrator. Author's Notes ➣  The first, full-fledged Tony Stark series, so excited for this! I've always wanted to write a Materialistic!Reader so here it is! Happy readings <3

On the 86th floor of Stark Tower, atop a mini-bar, sat a delicate glass of Vodka Martini, 3 fluid-ounce Yamazaki, 1 fluid-ounce dry vermouth, with 3 small olives minutely pierced onto a thin gold-plated skewer. 

The thin stem of the crystal glass was passed to your gauzy, manicured fingers, in exchange for a crisp stack of ten dollar bills surrendered to the bartender, you didn’t bother to count. 

The plump skewer of olives swirled freely in your nearly full martini; minute drops threatened to spill over the edge of its fine rim. Luckily, you had caught the droplets before they had been discarded onto the carpeted floor.

Figures adorned in hues of gold and silver flitted about the lavish parlor, each mirrored the twinkling lights of the Manhattan skyline outside in their respective shimmering gowns, each one more expensive than the last. 

The atmosphere was lively, yet the main attraction has yet to arrive. You had heard mentions of the infamous Stark around; his name carried a certain mystique, spoken under hushed whispers amongst the attendees. You had never really met him face-to-face, considering he was the CEO of the company, but your position at Stark Industries held up a pretty good reputation, earning you enough, and granting you an invite to the party.

“Do you think he’s seeing anyone?” You picked up on the conversation between a few women sitting next to you on the barstools. The woman in question, doused in the overwhelming scent of Chanel No. 5, was dressed in a form-fitting Valentino dress. Her voice carried through the air with a thick New-Yorkean accent, a bleak resemblance to her flashy, ostentatious appearance. 

“Quit it, stop trying to get into Stark’s pants. You never will.” The blonde next to you responded, patting the other on the shoulder playfully. You caught a glimpse of her manicured nails, adorned with a glossy velvet finish in a similar fashion to your own. However, unlike yours—which were neatly trimmed, the cuticles of her nails were a bit messy. A detail that wouldn't normally matter, but for some reason stood out to you in that moment.

Is she wearing a Cartier bracelet? Your jaw clenched at the sight of her bracelet, sparkling with diamonds and catching the light in a way that made your own bracelet pale in comparison, it was obviously more expensive than yours. The fact alone pissed you off. 

The room was filled with a swarm of pretentious individuals, each one flaunting their wealth and superiority. It was suffocating, being surrounded by so many egotistical assholes with their holier-than-thou attitudes. They may have money, but it didn't make them any less shallow or arrogant. You had this sixth-sense of being able to tell how much of an asshole specifically by what adorned their money-laced wrists—whether or not they wore a Patek Phillipe or a Jaeger was enough insight into their entire persona. 

“I’ve got a better chance than you at least, Stark would love me!” The first woman's voice snapped like a taut wire, dripping with disdain. Her eyes narrowed and glinted with malice as she shot dirty looks at the others, her loathing almost palpable.

Holier-than-thou attitude, as you had said.

You thought their behavior immature, not wanting to pay attention anymore to such infantile arguments. Fighting over some uber-rich billionaire who could give less of a shit who you are after you had warmed his bed for a single night? 

Pfft, fuck no, you were just here for the cocktails.

You brought the crystal glass to your lips, and took your first sip. The alcohol burnt as it cascaded down your throat, leaving your mouth with a spicy aftertaste, you could never really get used to a Martini. 

A part of you was contemplating asking for more, but the sensible side knew that ending up slobbering drunk at a party and waking up at the ungodly hour of 2pm with missing jewelry and a killer hangover was not exactly your idea of a good time.

The smooth sip of your drink is abruptly halted by the sharp sound of glass shattering, followed by the shrill voices of the ladies engaged in a vicious argument. Their heated words and swinging arms in-turn send glasses crashing to the ground, littering the once-pristine carpet with sparkling shards of broken glass. 

“Did you just call me a bitch?” The blonde's voice rose to a screeching crescendo as she yelled, her face flushed with anger. With a loud thud, she slammed her purse onto the table.

“Yeah, I did—bitch!” Another responded, her voice a bit more high pitched than the other, yet still carrying the same sanctimonious attitude, standing up and facing her with a smug smirk on their face. 

“Now, ladies. Must we really be resorting to calling each other names?” A voice echoed from atop the stairwell. The women’s dispute had been abruptly quelled, the whole room seemed silenced, and all eyes seemed to be glued onto the figure.

There stood Tony Stark, dressed in a perfectly-styled, deep-burgundy suit, no doubt Tom Ford, the barchetta pocket gave it away. His hair was styled in his signature quiff, slicked back to a T. And of course, he topped off the ensemble with a pair of red sunglasses, which you’d always found amusing since he'd wear them indoors. 

“Welcome, everybody. I would introduce myself, but it seems that you know who I am.” Each step he takes down the glass staircase, each time his Louboutin boots hit the glass stairs, resulted in a loud, echoed clap, which resonated across the room. “I’d personally like to thank all of you for attending. As you know, it happens to be my anniversaire today, so I thought to myself, why not throw a party?”

"What's with all the staring, is my suit on backwards?" Tony joked, his eyes scanning the room as he flashed his signature smirk. You knew, however, he thrived on attention, as if it were fuel for his larger-than-life persona. Flamboyant was practically his middle name; Tony Flamboyant Stark does have a nice ring to it, you chuckled.

"Jarvis," Tony’s voice carried a hint of excitement as he spoke to his AI, "let's crank up the music and get this party started." The monotone response did as so. 

After Tony made his grandeur entrance, you retreated to your lone seat at the bar, grateful for the temporary escape from the chaos. The previously bickering women had vanished, leaving a few neighboring barstools conveniently open for your solitude. You took a deep breath and savored the cool air conditioning and the soft murmur of conversation floating around you.

But just when you thought you had some peace and quiet, you heard the shuffling of a chair being pulled out next to you. Expecting one of the argumentative ladies to return, you turned to find Tony  Stark himself settling into the seat beside you, nonchalantly pulling out his wallet and fishing out a few bills.

"So, could I buy you a drink?" 

⎊ back to masterlist

[bitterrfruit]

you invite him inside

It's Summer 2007, and you're on your way home from a party in Edinburgh. You encounter an exceptionally forward Scottish stranger with a buzzed head and a brow ring, calling himself Soap - you roll the dice, and let him walk you home.

18+ MDNI - cw: reader is drunk - 5k words

tags: Indie Sleaze(!!) Johnny 'Soap' Mactavish x f!Reader, teasing & denial, flirting & banter

a/n: this is (some) of the first chapter of my longfic Trainspotting on A03, bitterfruit. I thought I'd share on here since I'm working on a part 2!! ♡

You carve through the beating crowd of the house party; sloshing drinks and drunken hands intercept you as you attempt to navigate your way to the front door. MGMT’s Kids thunders from the speakers in the hallway, its deafening volume only exacerbated by the passionate chanting of the dancers that hover around it.

Control yourself! Take only what you neeeed from it!

Your friend Katie, who had brought you as a plus-one, had long disappeared with some boy she had been all over - taking your coat with her - leaving you to make your way home in nothing but your needlessly skimpy playboy bunny costume.

Finally stumbling out of the dense jungle of partygoers, you burst through the front door as if you’d just been birthed, sweaty and panting. 

Just a fifteen-minute walk.

With your arms crossed, you trudge down the steps in the stiletto pumps you had borrowed from Katie – glossy, sharp, and a size too small. Fuck, they ache. Before you even make it past the gate, you throw in the towel and unstuff your feet from their latex trappings; holding the shoes with two fingers hooked at the heels, doing your best to avoid stepping on the broken glass on the footpath.

As your distance from the house party grows and the echoes of Paper Planes begin to fade, it dawns on you that you’re far drunker than you had believed yourself to be. Being surrounded by students two boxes and three pingers deep has the tendency to make you feel staunchly sober by comparison.

Still, you feel the slabs of concrete wobbling beneath your feet, your head starts to spin like you’ve stepped off a carousel if you shut your eyes for too long. The streets are utterly quiet, devoid of cars or people, despite the neighbourhood’s proximity to the CBD. You may well have found it off-putting if you were sober, but in truth, you’re just thanking Christ there’s nobody around to see you trotting down the road in nothing but a bodysuit and fishnets. You imagine a car might pull up alongside you, rolling slowly on its wheels as the driver asks through his window, “how much for an hour?”

And that would almost be preferable to what you actually encounter once you’re halfway home – crossing the street, stumbling in your bare feet as you walk past shops with steel shutters blocking their doors and windows.

You hear the distinctive thuds of sprinting feet from far behind you; the soles of sneakers slamming hard on the footpath, in a rapid enough pace that the person might as well be an Olympian runner. As they get louder, closer, your first instinct is to flee – but before you even have the chance to turn to look over your shoulder, the sprinter has come to a screeching halt beside you, tearing off their jacket and tossing it over your shoulders as if it were a cape.

“What the fu–” You yelp, hastily cut short.

“Shh – shut up, pretend y’know me.”

A man, and a local, evidently – the kind of Scottish accent so thick you can barely distinguish the beginning of one word from the end of another. 

“Get away fr–”

He interrupts you once again, tossing an arm over your shoulder as he walks alongside you, shoving his other fist into the pocket of his loose black jeans. “Please, lassie, do me a favour and just go with it.”

Amidst his breathlessness he sounds quite desperate – voice deep and warm, oozing sincerity despite the edge in his tone. So you weigh your options, whether or not to trust him, or to help him, or to scream and flee. You tilt your head just enough to take a peek at him; he hunches over, shoulders shrugging high as if keeping his neck warm, head low like it might hide his buzzcut from whoever may be chasing him.

You quickly discover that there are, in fact, people chasing him – more echoes from further down the road of multiple sets of running feet. You hear an enraged roar from a man behind you; your body tenses on instinct, head twisting further in the hopes of checking how close they are to you.

“Don’t look at ‘em,” he instructs you pointedly, under his breath.

More indistinguishable yelling erupts from his pursuers, though they no longer seem to be approaching. “Cheap fucken’ trick, ye fucken’ coward!”

“Keep walkin’ with me,” he mutters, tugging you along with his heaving arm draped around the back of your neck, forcing you to accelerate so that you can keep up with him.

Adrenaline throbbing hotly in your ears, you try to steal glances at the controlling stranger, not able to see much of him in your periphery. You realise now that the gifting of his jacket was not a chivalrous gesture, but a failed attempt to trick his pursuers. “Sounds like they’ve spotted you,” you whisper-yell, facing ahead.  

“Aye,” he grunts, “but they won’t touch me if there’s a witness.”

“I don’t want to be a witness,” you squeak, nervous terror in your throat.

He chuckles breathily, gives a single shake of his head. “Too late.”

“Next time I see ye, yer a fucken’ dead man, hear me? With or without yer hoor!”

The stranger groans as he scoops you around a corner, keeping a hurried pace, shooting looks over his shoulder to ensure he’s no longer being followed. Fortunately – or, unfortunately – this was the corner you would have taken anyway.

“Did he just call me a whore?” You whisper, still in shock.

He chortles at you again, sliding his weighty arm from your shoulders and releasing you at long last. “Ignore ‘em. Fucken' wankers.”

You finally have the opportunity to turn around fully to check behind you, seeing only empty, silent street.

“They won’t follow us,” he assures you, still walking alongside you, arrogant in his assumption that you won’t tell him to fuck off.

But you don’t, not yet. “Why – why were they chasing you?”

“Nosy wee thing, aren’t ye?” He smiles, crossing his arms, and you finally get a good look at him.

Hair buzzed short, the sort of job he likely did himself over his sink with an electric clipper plugged into the wall. A curved barbel pierces through the tail of his left eyebrow, almost as flashy as the sharp grey eyes pointing down at you from beneath it. His grin pushes dimples into his densely stubbled cheeks, revealing charmingly crooked teeth, and a golden crown on his right canine.

There’s something tired, jaded about him, dark eyes and low brows; face speckled with a variety of little scars, one white slash through his right eyebrow, a few pink lines carving over his temple and through his shaven scalp.

You blink, reminding yourself to speak.

“Nosy?” You snap, “you brought me into this!”

He tilts his head, appearing to acquiesce. “Aye, true. They’re just mad ‘cos I short-changed ‘em.”

As he shrugs, the hem of his cropped t-shirt tugs up on his stomach, revealing the hem of plaid boxers sticking out from his baggy trousers, a sliver of firm abdomen, a dusting of curly hair trailing down from his navel. You swallow.

“Hm. For what?” You pester.

“Now yer bein’ nosy.”

You huff, crossing your arms underneath the cape of his jacket, checking over your shoulder one last time to be certain you’re no longer being stalked.

“Fine,” you pout. After a beat of silence, you decide to add; “I’m not a prostitute, by the way.”

He snickers hoarsely, “’course not. Prostitutes are much more subtle. You’d be the first I’ve ever seen dressed as a – a what, a bunny?”

He reaches behind you, the cocky prick, lifting the back of his cloaking jacket and flicking the puffball pinned to your ass. You gawk at him, a surge of adrenaline buzzing within your chest – curious, that it’s not out of fear but fascination.

“See a lot of prostitutes, do you?” You sneer, noting how briefly his gaze lingers on your backside before it flits to your face.

“Not ‘round this side of town,” he chortles. You suspect he’s joking, but who’s to say? “So… why a bunny?”

“Playboy bunny,” you correct him, turning your head to glance at him; he just looks bewildered. “Pimps and hoes party.”

He laughs, richly, lurching forward as he does. “Ha! Had no idea they still did those.”

“Sure do,” you say, failing to suppress your grin. “Too old for them, are you?”

“Aye, for house parties full o’ students,” he admits, “but not too old to party. M’only twenty-six.”

You smile. “Good for you.”

“Got no girlie-mates to walk ye home?” He changes the subject.

Peeking at him, you squint. “You’re not supposed to ask a girl if she’s alone, you know.” 

“Oh,” he frowns, “why’s that?”

“Like, stranger danger.”

“Yeah?” He chuckles deeply. “Do you think I’m dangerous?”

You turn to look at him, running your eyes from his cocksure grin, down to his Chucks and back again. He certainly looks the part. Rough around the edges. You wonder if you would have avoided him, had he not approached you so blithely.

“Very,” you nod. “Plus, you’re following me.”

“Am I?” He jibes, “well, love, if ye want me to leave y’alone, tell me and I’ll try to leave ye be.”

Your pout shifts into a girlish smirk despite your dire efforts to contain it. “You’ll try?”

“Mm. Might be easier said than done,” he ribs, leering down at you. Your quiet titter only serves to embolden him. “It’s probably for the best that I found ye.”

“You reckon?”

“Mm. Not very bright o’ye to be walking home by yerself at this hour. And in that.”

You click your tongue impatiently. “You sound like my mum.”

“Then she’s a smart woman,” he says, with a sternness that leaves you taken aback.

You peer up at him, scrutinising. For fuck’s sake, you curse at yourself, get a grip. All better judgement, your guardian angel, screams at you to stop flirting with this bizarre studded stranger and hurry your ass home. But the little devil on your other shoulder is far more interested in seeing how this unusual interaction plays out.

“You gonna protect me, are ya?” You probe.

“Naturally,” he chuffs.

“Walking me home, then?”

A devilish grin stretches in his lips. “Happily.”

“Promise you’re not a psychopath or something?”

He inhales deeply, blowing a raspberry as he puts his hands on his hips. “No promises.”

“Mm. Well, I shouldn’t be surprised,” you say, “only psychopaths would roam the streets at three-a.m.”

“Yeah? What does that make you?”

You giggle. “Shit. You got me.”

“You bet I do. What kind of psycho wears a fucken’ outfit like that ‘on the streets at 3-a.m.’?”

Taking a peek down at yourself, you’re confronted immediately by your obnoxious cleavage, unsure how you could have forgotten it was there. You decide to slip your arms into the roomy sleeves of his jacket, wearing it properly rather than as a cloak – much warmer.

“What’s wrong with it?” You wonder in jest, feigning offence.

“Yer jokin’.” He scoffs.

“What?” You gaze at him, with a cock of your brow; he unashamedly glowers at you, vibrantly grey eyes raking from your lips to your feet before climbing back to your stare.

He huffs petulantly. “I could see yer tits from across the street,” he murmurs, “don’t make me say something about the stockings.”

You laugh coyly, feeling your cheeks burn hot and red. Seems like you got the answer you wanted. “S’that why you ran up to me, huh?”

He shakes his head. “Nae. That was just dumb luck.”

“Ah. Lucky you.”

“Mhm,” he rumbles, voice low, “very lucky.”

Why is your heart fluttering? Why are you suddenly hanging on his every word like a fucking teenage girl? You blame the cherry-flavoured RTDs you were knocking back every ten minutes while you were at that party. They’ve made your cheeks all pink and your tongue all wet.

Yet in the current quiet, strolling nonchalantly down an empty street at half-past three in the morning, you don’t feel any awkwardness in the silence. You just smile at your feet like an idiot.

“What’s yer name, then?” He asks casually, both fists in his pockets.

You hum in thought, “hmm. I can’t tell you that.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“You’re a stranger, remember?”

“So?” He disputes, grinning and playfully biting his bottom lip with his top teeth, brandishing that glistening golden canine.

You shake your head. “Who knows what you could do with my name! You could be a stalker for all I know,” you explain defensively, “you might find out where I work on MySpace, or something.”

He snickers. “Wouldn’t need MySpace to figure that out, lass.”

Frowning, you give him a disapproving smirk. “You’re proving my point.”

“Ye really won’t tell me?”

“Nope.”

He huffs disappointedly. “Alright, then, I’ll just have to call ye the bunny I found on the street.”

“Fine by me,” you declare proudly. “What can I call you, then? The playboy?”

With a chuckle, he purses his lips in contemplation. “The playboy to yer bunny, I like that,” he says. “But, pals call me Soap.”

“Soap?” You question incredulously, “seriously?”

“Aye. If I can’t have yer name, y'can’t have mine.”

You snort. “Is it meant to be ironic?”

“Can’t be,” he refutes, quick to detect your insult, “I’m clean as a whistle.”

As you open your mouth to offer back some snippy response, you spot your mailbox, number eighteen, three terraced townhouses down – you had lost track of how long the walk was, your charming stranger having sponged up every last drop of your attention.  

You find yourself disappointed, unjustifiably; you even consider, briefly, not mentioning that you had arrived home just so you can keep walking with him. God, you’re pathetic.

But imagining yourself having to eventually turn around, having to admit that you purposefully missed your stop – you begrudgingly decide to be a good girl and put yourself to bed.

“This is me,” you say flatly, slowing your steps before you come to a stop.

“Ah,” he stops beside you and rocks on the balls of his feet. “Bugger.”

“Yeah,” you sigh, mindlessly slipping your hands into the pockets of his jacket, preceding a reluctant silence. “Well, um... thanks for walking me home. Who knows what danger I could’ve gotten into.”

He waves away your jocose gratitude. “Oh, ‘course,” he says, “had to make sure ye didn’t get tricked into a chase by some strange gadgie.”

You snicker. “Oh, yeah. That would be terrifying.”

Crossing his arms, her gives you a wide but wistful grin. “Alright. I’ll leave you to it, hen.”

“Okay,” you nod, chewing your lip, you feel something in his pocket – rolling it between your fingers, feels like a wad of paper. Cash? A receipt? You start to wonder what he might have ‘short-changed’ those thugs for. Don’t be nosy. “Oh – your jacket.”

As you slip it off your shoulders, he disputes; “don’t wanna keep it as a memento?”

You chuckle, frowning, shaking your head in bemusement. Memento? What a peculiar bloke. “No. It sorta smells.”

“Bollocks,” he retorts, reaching to take the jacket from you – a brown leather bomber, now that you can see it properly. “I smell divine.”

God, he does. Like patchouli and sweat and leather; some sort of earthy masculine concoction, the kind of scent that’s probably entirely accidental – underpinned, you note, by something strangely chemical, like he had just taken a walk through a hospital. Still, so delightfully distinct from the stench of Axe body spray that the boys at your university gassed themselves with daily.

You pass him the bomber, shivering once your scantily clad body is once again exposed to the chilly air of the night. He’s quite shameless, this stranger, eyes almost bulging as they comb brazenly over you – legs, hips, tits – finally getting a good look at you, he takes his time.

“Eyes up here, playboy,” you chide.

He smirks, piercing gaze jumping to yours while his head remains tilted down; you’re almost intimidated the intensity of his eye contact from under his brow. “Aye. They’re just as pretty.”

“Alright, alright,” you giggle, face glowing hot. “I’d better turn in.”

“Yes, you’d better.”

Before you bring yourself to turn around, his hand reaches toward you, plucking the bunny-eared headband from the top of your head.

“Oi!” You bark, smoothing your disturbed hair; watching in confusion as he meticulously sits them on his head, flicking one of the fuzzy white ears with a pleased grin stretched in his lips.

“I want a memento,” he explains boldly. “Never know when I'm dreamin’ these days.”

You stare at him in bewilderment, amused and oddly endeared. He slips on his jacket, stuffing his hands into his pockets and shrugging it over his shoulders.

“Fine, all yours,” you capitulate, smiling meekly, once again letting a pregnant silence linger while you resist a goodbye. “Um. Alright. Goodnight. Soap.”

He nods. “G’night, wee bunny.”

You nod, too, finally turning on your bare feet and walking up the stairs of your flat’s brick stoop. Fumbling around in your handbag, you pluck out your keys – jingling loudly with all of your various keychains as you unlock the painted white door.

You hear his footsteps as he strolls away, slowly, growing duller as the distance grows. You find yourself frozen in the open doorway, staring into the dark abyss of your foyer, facing solitude. Bouncing in dispute with yourself, you exert all strength to bite your tongue. Don’t be stupid, don’t be stupid, don’t be stupid.

He starts to whistle, some obscure tune from just down the street, as if he is purposefully reminding you he’s still in earshot – a smug little prompt.

Fuck it.

Spinning around to face the road, you lean out of the door, and call out; “Hey!”

As though he had expected it, he stops in his tracks, twirling on his heel to face you with his hands still in his pockets. Had lit himself a cigarette already, in the thirty seconds since you had bid him farewell.

“Hm? Want the ears back after all?”

“Um–” You scramble to come up with an excuse. “Those guys won’t be looking for you, will they?”

He grins. “Oh, they could well be.”

“What’ll they do if they find you?”

“Who knows,” he huffs. “Probably kill me. Might gimme one o’ those Glasgow smiles.”

“That would be pretty terrible,” you remark solemnly.

“Aye. It sure would.”

You chew the inside of your cheek, battling with your drunken little demon. “Maybe you should hide out here for the night.” You daft bitch.

“Hm,” he ponders aloud, sauntering slowly back towards your stairs, squinting in thought. “Sounds like a bad idea.”

“How come?” You challenge, tapping the inside of the doorframe with shy fingers.

He creeps up your short footpath. “Never know what might happen.”

Your lips curl into an impish smirk. “That’s the best part.”

He laughs, plucking the cigarette from his teeth, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. “How drunk are ye. On a scale one-through-ten.”

“Um,” you muse, biting your lip. “I’m not that drunk.”

“Well, hen, you must be steamed. ‘Cos that’s not a number.”

You snicker, then groan impatiently. “Four.”

“Only four, eh?” He asks dubiously, standing at the base of your stairs, he gazes up at you devilishly. “You gonna remember in the mornin’ that you asked me to come in?”

“’Course,” you say. “I want you to come inside.”

He sneers. Filthy boy. “Don’t wanna get in trouble,” he refutes.

“I want you to come in,” you insist, correcting your wording just slightly.

He hums, feigning deep thought, as if he hasn’t been hoping you’d ask. “Alright,” he surrenders. “Why not.”

You do your best to conceal your glee, nodding, grinning, you turn to step inside and you hear him follow you.

“Ye live alone?” He asks, as he looks around the empty hallway, shrouded in darkness.

Shutting the door behind you and locking it, you tut at him. “Still shouldn’t ask that.”  

“You’ve already invited me in,” he jeers, “if you’re worried I’ll hurt ye, you’ve made it well easy for me.”

“I s’pose so,” you admit, smiling sheepishly as you go to switch on the light hanging in the centre of the foyer. Christ, it’s a tip – you and Katie are equally dishevelled, leaving shoes and lip gloss and hair ties and clothes in your wake wherever you venture. “Can’t be too careful,” you add – very aware of how uncareful you are being.

“Do I scare ye?” He asks coyly, taking a raffish drag of his cigarette.

“I dunno,” you answer frankly, leaning bashfully against your front door with your hands tucked behind you. “Should I be scared of you?”

“Mm,” he shrugs, “probably.”

You purse your lips and nod. “Stranger danger,” you remind yourself.

“I reckon you’re a lot more dangerous than me,” he grins.

You frown. “Why’s that?”

He puts his cigarette between his lips, holding it with a pinch, taking a puff as he eyes you scrupulously. “Look at you.”

You suck your bottom lip between your teeth. Fucking hell.

“I have a flatmate,” you finally answer his initial question, and change the subject. “But she’s not home tonight.”

“Good,” he says, milky smoke spilling from his smile.

“Um,” you make noises to fill your flustered silence. “Want to go upstairs?”

He cocks his eyebrows. “Lead the way.”

Pushing yourself from the door, you slip past him and trot up the staircase that sits flush with the panelled wall. The old oak creaks and moans under the weight of his heavy steps, he follows you steadily.

Rushing to get to your room before he can see it, you scuttle across to your bedroom door from the landing, hoping he ignores the kaleidoscope of peeling stickers you’ve tacked above the handle. You shove it open, quickly kicking aside a pair of twisted up panties you had left on your red shag rug.

In a blink he’s behind you, standing in the doorframe, a terrifyingly tall and bulky silhouette against the dim glow emerging from downstairs – made uniquely funny by the rabbit ears sticking up from his head.

You step over the piles of discarded outfit options and switch on the lamp by your bed; the yellow bulb glows coral pink from behind the vintage fabric lampshade. Looking back at him, he’s already perusing your room like it’s a museum.

He picks up and analyses the assortment of trinkets on your shelves and chest-of-drawers (old jewellery, empty lighters, some strange ceramic babies you once picked up at a flea market), and admires the mosaic of posters on your wall (Gorillaz, Feist, The Killers, MGMT,  Arcade Fire, The Strokes, Peter Bjorn and John – careful cherry-picks of your favourite bands, in the hopes you’d one day impress some hot guy with taste as good as yours).

“Bit of an artiste, are ye?” He queries, nodding at the easel against your wall – housing a half-finished and long-hated painting of yours, an attempt at a masterwork copy of Monet; sitting amongst a bombsite of palettes, brushes in dirty cups, and curled-up tubes of oil paint.

“Guess so,” you answer. “It’s my degree.”

He leans into your hideous painting, taking a drag but careful not to stain the canvas with the smoke. “Still studying, then?”

“Yeah, uh, my Master’s.”

He nods. “If you’re already this good, what does a Master’s in painting get ye?”

You snort. “Good fuckin’ question.”

Feeling suddenly shy, you venture to busy yourself, electing to pull the curtains shut over your window.

You hear him chuckle while you aren’t looking. “What’s this?”

“What’s what?”

You spin on the ball of your foot, and freeze instantly – stare caught on your grape-coloured vibrator, held comfortably in the palm of his hand, he tosses it and catches it again. You had left it on your bed, a rookie mistake. You fucking idiot!

Your hand shoots to cover your mouth, fire burns white-hot behind your cheeks; but you can only giggle, humiliated. “Put that down,” you plead into your palm.

Ignoring you, he inspects it, quickly finding the button to turn it on; its buzzing rings out obnoxiously loud into the cripplingly awkward silence, forcing you to grimace. He doesn’t seem to find it awkward at all, holding the end of the purple rod into his other hand, curling his lips in disapproval as he evidently evaluates the vibration against his skin.

“Never understood why you girls like these things,” he remarks insouciantly.

“Please put it down,” you cry, staring at the ceiling as if it might hide you from the embarrassment.

He only sniggers. “Cannae compare to the real thing.”

You cover your eyes. “It fills the void,” you quietly admit.

He finally switches it off, but continues to fiddle with it as he ambles towards you. “Mustn’t do a very good job o’ that.”

Uncovering your face, finally, you jolt when you see how close he is to you – only a foot between you, you can feel the heat of him from where you stand. You do your utter best to prevent your eyes from jumping to the vibrator in his grip, but he still toys with it, as if just to taunt you.

“What makes you say that?”

He gazes down at you, lips stretched into a smug grin. “Why’d you invite me in, eh?”

You swallow, stifling a giggle – you look around capriciously, anywhere but his drilling stare. “Just wanted to help you out.”

“Help me out?” He interrogates you, inching forward, forcing you to step onto your back foot.

You’re suddenly short of breath. “I didn’t want you to get stabbed.”

He gleams that cheshire smile, suddenly his canines seem sharper. “You’re a bad liar, wee bunny.”

“Am I?” You utter, shambling back further has he continues to encroach.

“Took me to yer bedroom straight away… didn’t even offer me a drink…” he teases, “I’m thinkin’ ye want me to help you out.”

You feel a sudden bump as your back hits the door of your cupboard, shrinking as he leans over you, closing the gap. Your eyes catch on his lips as he again places his cigarette in between them, its smoke drifting softly over your face, your stare lingers.

“Dunno where you got that idea,” you breathe, entranced by the cloud that’s left in his mouth once he tugs the roll out again.

Don’t be stupid. Don’t be stupid. Don’t be stupid.

Ignoring any remaining shred of common sense, you step up on your tiptoes to slam your lips against his, sucking down the smoke lingering behind his teeth deep into your chest. He matches you with no hint of hesitation, leaning into you with the full weight of his body, you hear him finally drop the vibrator as it lands on the carpet with a dull thud.

Fuck, his tongue tastes good – like tobacco and peppermint chewing gum, soft and hungry as it writhes against yours. He does what he can with his one free hand, starting tastefully with a cup of your cheek, then a hold of the side of your neck, down to your shoulder – before plunging into a greedy handful of your breast, kneading it like dough.

His wet and eager lips drag along from yours, taking soft bites out of your cheek, hot tongue licking from your jaw to your neck, where he burrows his teeth. You let out a breathy whimper, fervid fingers clutch and claw at his chest through his t-shirt, using the fabric to pull him closer. His busy hand ventures along your waist, taking a palmful of your hip and tugging it only slightly towards him.

Impatient, ravenous, your fingers slither down his firm stomach to the waistband of his jeans, fumbling to get his button undone; you feel him smile against your skin, a breathy chuckle, before his other hand moves to stop you with a hold of your wrist.

He releases your neck from his maw, standing upright with a fucking cocky and self-satisfied grin plastered on his face. You let go of his button and return your hands to your sides, worried you’d been too eager, put him off with your fervour.

“Glad to know it’s this easy to get ye hot n’ bothered,” he drawls, taking another drag of what is now nearly just the butt.

“No idea what you mean,” you pant, utterly breathless, you sweep some stray hair from your forehead with your palm.  “I’m not hot and bothered.”

“Aren’t you?” He goads, and the hand that clutches your hip sneaks towards your centre, prompting you to hold your breath; he snakes it over your mound, gliding it brazenly between your closed legs.

His shrewd eyes watch you, arrogantly, as he palms your aching pussy through the thin fabric of your bodysuit – under which you wore no panties, you wonder if he can feel how damp it is. He pushes a coaxing pressure against your covered clit with the heel of his palm, forcing you to whine in desperation; your insatiable hands return to his chest, balling the fabric of his t-shirt into your fists – and he only chortles.

“I could fry an egg on that,” he says.

And suddenly you snort, breaking into cackling laughter as you shove him away with both hands. “God, you’re disgusting!”

He laughs with you, proud of himself, he finally takes off the fucking bunny ears.

“I could hang a towel on that,” you jab, eyes suddenly caught on the frightening tent pitched in his roomy trousers. That can’t be real.

“You could hang a lot on it,” he agrees rakishly, chuckling, palming the length under his pants to tuck it away.

You try to contain your giggles as you push yourself upright, attempting to un-fluster yourself by smoothing your hair and wiping the dampness of his saliva from your neck. You feel the slippery wetness of your cunt with a step. “You’re evil,” you spit, still throbbing from his attention.

“Cannae fuck you yet,” he declares bluntly, turning to dump the end of his cigarette into your paintbrush cup full of brown water.

“Why not?” You pout, whingeing like a spoilt brat.

He returns with a debonair grin. “Gotta give you a reason to see me again.”

[trancylovecraft]

(KNY) YANDERE PLATONIC! KOKUSHIBO x SISTER READER: You, Shibou. I, Kokoro (CHAPTER SIXTEEN)

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CHAPTER SIXTEEN: "You crave the applause yet hate the attention Then miss it"

Many people associate the appearance of butterflies with messages beyond death. The significance of butterflies as signs of life after death is a worldwide belief.

Many people believe that butterflies are messengers sent by loved ones who have died. There are many cultures that ascribe meanings to specific interactions with butterflies as well as the meaning of colors and their messages to those grieving.

Feet pattered against the floor, Tapping in rapid succession.

Breaths were pushed forth like waves sloshing against the shore, Drawing back just as quick and returning to sea. When she hurried past, Bystanders were almost swept off their feet from the sheer wind made by her scarper, Yelling out their irritated warnings to the girl who continued to sprint down the streets.

She called out her apologies as she went. Houses rushed past her as she navigated through the village streets, Completely focused on her quickly approaching destination. Her thick braids swaying behind her run, Glad they were tied back so they wouldn't get in the way of her sight.

The warm sun was raised high within the watercolour sky, Porcelain clouds drifted aimless throughout their seas. The tinge of pollen stung at noses and the buzz of their consumer being simply background noise to anyone in here.

A beautiful day, That's for sure. The girl knew all too well as she had been running under it's mother, The sun, For at least a few hours now. She had been there when the sky was still navy, When the squawk of roosters called out from their coops.

Mitsuri, Her eyes caught onto those gates, The ones she was very familiar with.

She smiled, Rosy cheeks reddening at the sight. She had ran here as fast as she could, All the way from a town she had been searching down south. Mitsuri almost cursed herself once she felt the burning of her lungs, She really needed to stop running to and from places without breaks!

"I'm here!" Mitsuri squealed once she burst open through the gates, Their heft being compared to paperweights under her strength. Mitsuri grinned, Huffing only slightly as sweat trickled down her brow.

The Butterfly Mansion, Already rife with activity as she could hear the hearty chatter echo outside from the open windows. Even spotting a few Kakushi roaming about, Even spotting Aoi bustling throughout the house with folded laundry piled in her arms.

But her chartreuse eyes caught onto something else, Onto the woman sat perched upon the steps of the mansion. Glossy eyes caught onto Mitsuri's, Her patron smile coming upon her face.

"Ah! Mitsuri-chan! So glad you could finally make it!" Shinobu called out to her, Soft voice lilting as her vision caught onto Mitsuri's. She was dressed in her full slayer uniform, Delicate winged haori and all in comparison to Mitsuri and her candy-coloured kimono.

Mitsuri suddenly felt seen, Pulling a rather apologetic expression once she met with Shinobu.

"Ehe..! I'm so sorry, Shinobu-chan! I was all the way down in Otsu when I got your message! But I made sure to start sprinting as soon as I read it, I hope I didn't show up too late, Did I..?" Mitsuri asked, Scratching the back of her head awkwardly.

Shinobu shook her head lightly, Hands finding their way to the deck she sat on before pushing her up to her feet.

"No need to apologise! I asked you to come as soon as possible and you did as I asked! Besides.. This is all on such short notice~! So I suppose it is me who needs to say sorry for asking you to come so quickly.." Shinobu said as she dusted herself off, Turning up to look at Mitsuri.

"Oh, No! It's really okay, But um.. I kinda forgot why you asked me to come here in the first place..? I sorta just starting running and it just slipped by me, You know? Mind if you tell me why you asked me here..?" Mitsuri chuckled nervously, Still a bit out of breath from her continuous jog here.

Shinobu hummed, Stretching her ankle before she took a generous step forward towards Mitsuri.

"Oh, Don't worry! I didn't actually specify the reason I called you here! I didn't want any physical evidence linking to what we'll be discuss here today" Shinobu laughed airily as she began to pace forward, Strutting past Mitsuri.

Mitsuri smiled in relief, Shoulders lowering.

"Aha! I guess that makes sense-!" Mitsuri stopped. Blinking once, Her smile dropped as she jerked her head around to look at Shinobu.

Wait..

Evidence..?!

"S-Shinobu-chan! What do you mean by Evidence..?!" Mitsuri gasped as she eyed the shorter woman, Almost if she had asked Mitsuri to help her bury a body. Which, For Shinobu, Oddly didn't seem too far fetched.

Shinobu's back faced her, Front pointed towards the bust open gate. Her delicate winged haori floating in the soft wind, All before her head tilted to the side to let her glossy eyes meet with Mitsuri.

She smiled, Sharply.

"I'll explain soon enough~! But for now, Please follow me. We have another guest waiting for us, After all!" Shinobu called out as she swiftly turned on her heel, Beginning to trail off down one of the branching pathways in the mansion.

Mitsuri blinked, Mouth still agape as she watched the shorter woman saunter down the pathway.

"Ah- Hey! Wait up, Shinobu-chan!" She finally called out as Mitsuri realised she was falling behind, Swiftly dusting off the front of her taffy kimono before hurriedly rushing to catch up to Shinobu. Sandals clacking, Hitting against the dust as she called for Shinobu to slow down.

☆♡☆

Swords clashed, Hitting against each other.

Wood on blood-pulp iron, Blades of different makings but both did their best to pry an opening in their opponents stance.

Both were fast, Swift as they drew down their blades so powerful that they could slice the wind around them. Knuckles near popped at the iron-grip [F/N] had on the hilt of her training sword. The timber of her weapon was blunt, But the gaze she had on her adversary was piercing.

She ran, The pads of her feet ran quickly towards the demon. His six narrowed eyes watched her rapidly approach him, His stance still as his hand lazed upon the hilt of his katana.

"Your form.. It's lacking, Are you really putting in any effort at all..?"

[F/N] gritted her teeth as the soles of her bare feet landed back onto the ground, Body skittering back from the force into a sliding kneel.

Her hands gripped at the smooth dirt of the courtyard, Sweat dribbling down her brow as she tried to calculate her next move. His words, They sounded as smug as they always did when he beat her down. When he insulted her sword work.

Fuck.. Her lungs burned.

They always did when this happened, Along with the cuts and the bruises that would accompany her. When he came back from whatever he did during the night, [F/N] knew that she would be sure to bleed.

And his words were just the cherry on top, Ironically just as sour as one too.

But, It didn't hurt this time.

No, It didn't. [F/N] heaved, Her knees starting to shake. His words usually stung the most, Even though [F/N] felt ichor drip down from her nose onto her lips, Even though she felt her insides stir in her cage. Unusually, His words weren't the worst of it anymore.

"..I'm trying my best." [F/N] breathed out, Humid air expelling from her mouth. The grip she had on her training sword near made her skin break, She swashed it behind her as she warily eyed her adversary before her.

As always, Kokushibo rumbled.

He stood there as solemn as ever, As stoic as he usually was. His sickly golden eyes flickered over her bruised and battered body with a sharp frown, Kokushibo's form in comparison was completely unharmed.

His nose twitched, Only slightly.

"Throughout our time sparring.. You have not been able to land a single good cut on me.. Your footwork is sub-par and you have made no work to improve it.. Your best is most certainly not enough." Kokushibo finalised as the disgusting blade in his hand was finally raised and subsequently slotted back into its sheathe.

[F/N] heaved, Watching him almost disappointedly turn away and shake his head. His ebony hair blowing lightly in the breeze as he turned to march off, He didn't need to say that this session was over for it to finish, His actions spoke enough words.

[F/N] gritted her teeth, Watching as he headed for the door.

His words, They didn't hurt her because she knew why he was doing this, Sparring with her everyday.

In his own cold dead heart, Some part of him wanted to spend time with her and he only knew how to do that through bloodshed. In his own twisted, Morally unethical way, He wanted to bond.

[F/N] gagged in her mouth, Supressing a roll of her eyes and an accompanying scoff. Bond, That was a word she used too lightly. It was more like he wanted to draw her closer, For that possessive desire he had over her.

Gods knew why.. But, [F/N] supposed after her wreckage of the altar they weren't an option to consult anymore.

But as she watched him walk away, A noticeable lack of strength in his gait, [F/N] knew that he was ready to give up. All this time the only thing she had been doing was acting mild just so she wouldn't have to deal with him, That or hissing insults.

Not like he didn't deserve it, But..

If he gave up then what way could she possibly have to escape? To lull him into some false sense of trust with her.

She couldn't let him give up, Not now. If she wanted to get out of here, She needed to play nice.

Kokushibo reached the wide double doors to leave the welcoming courtyard, His pale hand reached out towards the doorknob with feline claws glistening in the near natural light. And just as they curled around the silver handle-

"Then show me..!"

Kokushibo paused.

He took a moment, All six of his eyes lain dead on his own hand tightly gripping onto the doorknob. It took a few seconds for him to finally turn his head around, To eye her from only one side of his face.

His eyes, Piercing.

"..What?"

[F/N] breathed in and out as she wiped the drool from her lips, Shaking off the sweat in one single motion, She raised to her full height.

Her hand, Still gripping the training sword.

"Over and over again.. You've been telling me my footwork is wrong for months now.. So show me how to make it right." [F/N] called out to him, A sort of spark in her usually dull eyes. Like a sudden explosion of fireworks, Flames appeared in her sclera.

Kokushibo just stood there.

His hand was still gripped tightly on the doorknob and his eyes were still fixated on her, Like a screw jammed into a wall.

His expression, It didn't change as the wind continued to dance through his hair, His hakama and kimono. Neither did it change when [F/N] continued to meet his gaze, For the first time, Even though she could barely compress a shake of her lip.

Was there something on her face, Did he get suspicious? Every inch of her body wanted to break down under his blazing glare, Feeling so scorching, So scrutinizing. It made her want to crumble into dust, Fall apart like a house of cards.

Though, He just stared, His face showing nothing except for that resting contempt it always had. His body made no tick, No twitch visible or any break in the working machine that he appeared to be. But his eyes, [F/N] could swear they widened.

Only a little bit.

"..Very well." Kokushibo finally said, And [F/N] almost let out the biggest sigh in her life as she watched him move away from the door, Hand slipping off the doorknob. "If you insist on me correcting your stance.. I will do as such."

Kokushibo waltzed over to the middle of the courtyard, Slowly, Just to the point where he was perched directly under the scattered shadow of the hulking tree in the middle. [F/N] watched as he raised a hand, Making one gesture to beckon her over.

[F/N] bit her tongue, The one that wanted to call him out for treating her like a child as she started to stumble over to him.

Warily, [F/N] kept her eyes on him the entire time as she put one foot in front of the other. It was almost like a fly prancing on a Venus flytrap, Careful as it went forward, Almost as if the walls around her would snap shut on her.

She breathed out, Her throat becoming increasingly drier by the second as she approached.

[F/N] needed to play nice.

[F/N] needed to get out of here.

☆♡☆

"..Ah- Himejima-san? I didn't expect you to be here.. I had just assumed it would be me and Shinobu-chan!"

The breeze was warm, Soft as it made the silk-like blinds dance like ribbons in the air. The amicable heat flooded into the wide-open room, The storm surge of its delicate wind made the fabrics and fibres on the top of heads start to sway.

Outside the sonorous sound of the birds could be heard, Singing from atop their perches in the spring tree's outside. The rustle of the plant pots growing various herbs gently swayed in the wind.

Spirulina and Sage, Even herbs that were not native to the area were in bloom. Their use not just medical as their amorous aroma flooded through the room, Mixing and swirling with the natural scents.

Mitsuri stood at the first end of the centre table, Where the light struck right in the middle, Where a small china tea-set painted with pretty little flowers steamed with freshly made tea. A beautiful set-up, Mitsuri could even smell the earthy aroma of the English blend flooding through her nose.

Shinobu sat to the side, Back facing the gentle light of the window as her finger circled the rim of her teacup. Her glossy eyes seemingly enraptured in her own reflection, The one appearing on the beige liquid that she seemed so interested in.

Gyomei, Who had picked up his own tiny teacup into his almost comically large hands, Had finally set it back down onto the table, Where he sat at the opposite head of. Both dressed in their own slayer uniforms, It made Mitsuri feel just a tiny bit more awkward as she shuffled in her taffy kimono.

Gyomei picked up a napkin, Softly dabbing the tea's residue from his lips.

"..I had assumed it would just be Kocho-san and I, I had no idea that you were invited as well.." He replied as he neatly placed the napkin back onto the table, Folding the slightly damp paper as he spoke.

Mitsuri smiled. That ever present rosy blush still visible on her cheeks as she turned to Shinobu, Of whom was still looking dead into the little tarn of her teacup.

Mitsuri hummed.

"..Shinobu-chan, I don't mean to be so insistent you know..! Do you mind if you tell us why we're here? I'm kinda worried, The message I got from your crow seemed kinda urgent!" Mitsuri chuckled though a little nervously, Recalling back to how the crow had interrupted her on her mission.

Shinobu blinked, Eyes widening as she realised she had let her mind drift off.

"Ah.. Yes, I apologise for worrying you, Mitsuri-chan!" Shinobu said as she lifted her head, A bright smile appearing on her lips despite her face dusted in gentle shadow. "As I explained to Himejima-san yesterday, I invited you here to discuss a possible scouting mission.."

Mitsuri made a slight 'Oh' sound from her lips, Smile dropping slightly.

But it reappeared just as quickly, Just much more nervous this time like she was trying to find the right words to tell devastating news.

She twiddled her fingers on her lap, Prying her pursed lips open.

"A mission..? I'm not sure, Shinobu-chan..!" Mitsuri exclaimed as she tilted her head to the side. "You know I'd love to help you, I really would but.. You also know I've got my own mission I'm focused on, Right..?"

Shinobu took a second, Blinked, Then nodded.

She knew exactly what Mitsuri was talking about.

Late at night, Her ribbon-blade had flowed like running water as it slashed into the necks of demons with a finesse only she could produce. Those demons, The ones Mitsuri had slain and the ones she had defeated while a crow had landed on her shoulder.

It squawked, Though information sparse Mitsuri could tell that it was vital. Not that it needed to be, Mitsuri would've came either way, Though she would've appreciated at least a reason for her being here.

Especially with how busy she was, Tirelessly questioning demons and searching leads for [F/N] location took up a lot of her time slots.

And hell, Would she not let anything trivial take up that time.

"I understand, I know how busy you've been working to find [F/N]-chan." Shinobu announced, Much more open than Mitsuri was expecting, Making her eyes widen. "It is also the reason I have asked you both here, As I believe this could be very beneficial to our search.."

Gyomei's brows lowered, Lips thinning.

"Yes.. The one concerning Fujimori [F/N].." He spoke, Fully understanding what Shinobu had meant yet that puzzled expression still lay dormant on his face. "I understand inviting Kanroji-san here.. Fujimori-san considered her to be her best friend.."

He turned his head to the direction of Shinobu, Who stared back with only slightly parted lips on her smile.

"-Why is it that I was selected to come here..? Regrettably, I was not too friendly with Fujimori-san.. So I assume there would've been a better choice to invite.." Gyomei lamented, Recalling back to the days that could've only been yesterday in his mind.

His frown thickened, The tears running down his face seemed just a little quicker. The days where him and [F/N] had a rather unsavoury yet unspoken rivalry now had a horrid taste on his tongue.

Passive-aggressive insults, Hidden jabs at his work ethic. He had always taken them in stride, An unbothered grin on that old fox mask as he waltzed away. It had always left Gyomei with a sense of ashamed responsibility for [F/N]'s actions, Or lack there of.

But if Gyomei had known back then what he knew now..

Shinobu's parted lips reformed back into that usual smile, The advertisement kind of smile she usually wore. Almost apologetically she shook her head before clearing her throat.

She chuckled, No matter how awkwardly.

"..Ah, Well excuse my rudeness but I was listening into your conversation back at the Hashira meeting!" Shinobu exclaimed with an innocent smile, Hands pressing together in some vague gesture of apology.

Gyomei's breath hitched in his throat, A startled expression on his face.

"Whaaat..~?!" Mitsuri gasped as she near jumped up from her kneel, Hands slamming down onto the table making a tiny shake, Eyes agape in an overdramatic display as she stared at Shinobu.

Shinobu chuckled slightly. She gently placed a hand upon Mitsuri's shoulder, Lightly guiding her back down onto her knees.

Mitsuri only looked back and forth the other two with wide eyes, From Gyomei to Shinobu until she was finally placed back down onto her knees at her end of the table. Back at the Hashira meeting, Shinobu had been listening..?!

"I had meant to discuss matters with Mitsuri-chan, But I ended up overhearing you both speak!" Shinobu explained. "Mostly about Himejima-san's Tsuguko, His name slips from my mind but the important bit I heard was that you were willing to help in the search for [F/N]-chan."

Shinobu breathed out, Eyes lowering on Gyomei.

"I asked you here because of the matters we discussed yesterday involving Upper Two." Shinobu started to explain, Her expression turning much more serious, Smile turning into a little frown.

"As well as exterminating another Demon moon. If I am remembering correctly.. [F/N] was reportedly kidnapped by Upper One. Now, I believe that if we are to get any information on [F/N]'s whereabouts, Then Upper Two would be a good start.. Don't you think?" Shinobu asked softly, Tilting her head towards Gyomei as if to prompt an answer.

The birds crooning their serenade outside sounded all the more louder, The near silent rustle of the plants outside to follow.

SLAM!

Shinobu froze slightly, Suddenly feeling the jolting shake of two hands slamming down onto the table. Tea sloshed around in their porcelain cups, Spits and drops falling over their rims at the rumbling sensation.

The porcelain clacked together like heels on a tiled floor, Only settling once the pair of hands had stood stagnant on the table. Gyomei too seemed to tense up, Visible on his muscles once they both realised that Mitsuri had been the one to do it.

"I'm so sorry but.. Uhm.." Mitsuri said, Looking only a little startled as she seemed to find the words to say.

Her eyes widened, A slight gasp before she spoke.

"Upper two? What have I missed! Have I really turned up so late..?! Shouldn't we be reporting this to Oyataka-sama?!" Mitsuri suddenly exclaimed, Eyes wide as she almost jumped up from her seat on the floor. "Why are we not discussing this at a meeting..?! We should be selecting people to g-"

Suddenly, Mitsuri stopped.

Shinobu, Had reached out and gently yet firmly closed Mitsuri jaw, Her movements paused along with her speech, Almost processing what had happened.

Gyomei just sat there, Unaware yet intently listening to what happened. Shinobu hummed as she removed her hand from Mitsuri's chin, Sitting herself back onto her seat before fixing her uniform.

"I understand you would want to tell Oyataka-sama, But please, Let me explain! I suppose I should let you read the letter I had received a few days ago, I believe it should catch you up to speed!" Shinobu smiled.

The hand that had been cupping Mitsuri's jaw only moments ago lunged into the pocket of her butterfly haori, Hands rummaging around inside the inner pockets before fishing something out from inside and holding it high.

It was a piece of paper, Rumpled yet neatly folded. Mitsuri could tell that it was stained and most certainly written on scraps, Even the edge that the light rolled off of seemed to be dim. Especially once the hand lowered and was presented to her, Mitsuri could tell it was not of good quality.

Mitsuri blinked, Shoulders relaxing as she finally realised where she was.

"R-Right.. I'm sorry for my outburst, I was just a bit surprised..!" Mitsuri giggled awkwardly once she took the paper into her hands. Shinobu nodded, Mumbling her own form of acceptance before sitting back down onto her seat, Intently watching Mitsuri and her actions.

Mitsuri felt the fibre in her hands, The coarse texture running through her fingertips. Leave it to her to overreact, Never to conceal her inner emotions. Mitsuri frowned as she started to unfold the paper. But it was Upper Two, How could she not overreact when such a big title was thrown around so casually?

Mitsuri pursed her lips, Starting to read.

☆♡☆

Hands ran down the dull blade of the training sword, A featherlight touch grazing the katana's guard like a summer breeze or a lovers lingering touch.

Yet his shadow loomed over her like dripping icicles in winter, His heaving breath causing vapour in the rather tender courtyard. [F/N] felt the chilling sweat run down her brow, Eyes wide and alert as if preparing herself for a fight.

"Your footwork.. The issue is rather simple to solve.." Kokushibo's solemn voice ruminated from behind her, Like distant thunder and she a petrified dog. A single clawed hand was placed upon hers, Gripping the hands that were squeezing her sword hilt tight.

His acuate, Gelid claws might as well have been wringing her neck. [F/N] could barely stop herself from shaking as she felt his artic cold grip on her. He stood right behind her, So close that she could feel the graze of his kimono's fabric against her back.

He was lowered, One hand gripping hers on the hilt of the sword to guide her placement. His other hand was placed on her shoulder, Gripping it tightly, So much so that the ebony claws dug into her skin through her Samue.

[F/N] did not expect this, This sort of proximity to one and other. She bit her tongue, Trying to conceal the sheer distaste flowing through her. [F/N] didn't dare to turn her head, Not wanting to see his monstrous visage. He had no body heat, No sort of signal to say that he was alive.

Kokushibo's grip on her tightened, Her muscles tensing as she squeezed her shoulder hard.

"From what I have seen.. You are used to operating in a mans body while fighting. You have became use to fighting with a much heavier body weight than what you have now.. Much taller and muscular than you are.." Kokushibo spoke, Eyeing her physique up and down.

It took everything [F/N] had not to shiver under his acidic stare, Everything not to give it up.

"It is why your movements are incorrect.. Your muscles memory is use to a much larger form.. Making your footwork much more forceful.." Kokushibo said as his hand began to position hers, Raising her trembling hands higher.

"R-Right.." [F/N] breathed.

"Now.. I want you to try and attack me, Behead me if you can.." His hands started to slip, Both from her shoulder and her hands. A lingering frost on her shoulders, [F/N] could barely appreciate their separation before he ambled in front of her, Slowly, Moving like a predator.

[F/N] swallowed back the bile in her throat, So acidulent as she watched him stop in front of her only a few metres away. Sword still raised high, They both stared back at each other below the leaves of the towering tree.

Only now once they stood in audible silence could she really feel the warmth of the courtyard, Hear the rustle of the leaves, Smell the ocean air drifting in from outside. But she knew her scenery was just a distraction from her task, The one seeming so herculean.

[F/N] barely contained a scoff. She didn't need him to adjust her stance or her sword, It's not like this meant much anyways. It was just some sparring session he insisted on, Only realising it was actually to "bond", Her footwork was careless for a reason.

"Come on now, Girl.. Wasn't it you that wanted to correct your mistakes..?" Kokushibo rasped as he watched her stagnant form with narrowed eyes.

[F/N]'s eyes widened.

"Right.." She muttered, Grip shaking as she realised she had been stood still this entire time.

[F/N] breathed, A foot slamming down behind her.

In only a moment and in a slice of wind, She was off.

Feet pattering rapidly against the ground, Her sword gripped with both hands as she rushed towards her opponent.

Eyes were locked onto him, Honed like a hawk as she quickly gained momentum. He had told her that her footwork was forceful, That she was use to fighting in a mans body. [F/N] couldn't care less of what he thought.

But if she wanted to make him think she cared..

CLASH!

A sword connected, Splinters exploding from the contact. [F/N] spun back in the air, Controlling her movements as she landed and skittered back on the floor.

Her muscles tense, Aching in her neck as she gripped the hilt of a sword weighing much lighter than it did before. Eyes watery from the dust made by her skidding back, Making it all the more tougher to see when she hauled up her head.

The sword hilt she had grasped in her hand was just that, A hilt. The fibre blade had exploded into thousands of splinters, Ones that had scattered across the floor like shattered glass.

"Congratulations.. You were able to land your first hit on my shoulder blade.."

His voice rung out, Deep and gravelly as she saw him looking down at her.

Despite his congratulary words, His face had no expression as it always did. Still like a marble statue. Yet his eyes like fireflies darted back and forth, Looking from the shattered wood to her prostrated kneel.

[F/N] blinked, Lips slightly parted as she saw no visible injury on him.

"You have taken my advice into account.. Your footwork has improved much. Now, Perhaps one day I may get to see your breathing style up close.." Kokushibo said, Eyes gleaming with oppertunity.

He turned on his heel, Mechanically like a machine. Kokushibo didn't take one look back at her as he began to march out of the room, His expression motionless, His sword sheathed in it's lock.

[F/N] watched him go, Stalking off towards the exit of the courtyard once more, This time she knew that there was no stopping him. Despite her inner joy at him leaving, Her tongue spoke for her.

"..Where are you going?" She rasped out as she watched him reach the door, Eyes never leaving his back for a single moment.

Kokushibo didn't glance back at her as he wrapped his talons around the silver shine of the doorknob. His muscles as rigid as always, Voice as usually humbling as it always was as he spoke.

"We are finished here for today.. And I have worked up an appetite.." Those were his only words before the doorknob turned open with a squeak much louder than it should have been, Heave the door open with no difficulty and step back inside to the cold embrace of the shrine.

[F/N] blinked, Hearing as the door clicked shut against the frame.

It took a few seconds to feel his aura, That disgusting, Wretched aura. The one that smelt like sulphur and brimstone, The kind that left a horrid taste in her mouth. [F/N] felt as it faded away, Dissolved until it was no longer near, Leaving nothing but a nauseating aftertaste.

It left [F/N] prostrated on the courtyard floor, The fractured hilt still clenched so tight that veins appeared in her wrist. The rustle of the leaves above her still rang out and the faraway swash of the water outside still remained.

[F/N] softened her grip, The hilt slipping from her hand before clattering on the floor beside her. This had not gone well, That [F/N] had decided in her mind without second thought or jury to confer to.

Despite her first ever hit on him, Kokushibo hadn't changed his demeanour even a bit. He didn't crack, Didn't show no emotion on his face like always. [F/N] knew it was stupid to think that she'd instantly find a way to break through his cold exterior on first try.

But it still irked her.

Maybe it was because she didn't like the prospect of getting closer to him, Maybe it was because of how long it would surely took. Was there even anything [F/N] could use to gain his trust?

Sure, He had some vile obsession over her, But that was starting to become hard to weaponize. And despite hailing from a deity associated with the performing arts, [F/N] wasn't a particularly good actor.

Whatever, It wasn't like Inari was gonna do all the work for her.

Inari wasn't real, Nor were any other of the gods. She had finalised that with the destruction of the altar, Something that [F/N] had become numb to looking back. [F/N] had no one to pray to except herself, No one to fix her problems but her.

She would think over it later, Right now, [F/N] was already exhausted despite waking up only a few hours ago and was ready to go to bed. Still, That horrid aftertaste of his aura still lingered on the tip of her tongue. Amplified by the knowledge she had looming over her like a storm cloud.

Kokushibo hadn't even unsheathed his sword, He had gone easy on her.

[F/N] snarled.

☆♡☆

Dear whoever this may concern. If you're reading this, Please, Send help.

My location is in the village of Hiyohara, Not too far off Fukushima. I don't have much time to write this, Nor do I know if I'll even finish writing this message before they find me. But I need to try.

For the majority of my life I have been involved in a religious convent, I have grown up there my entire life alongside my brothers. My parents abandoned us at a young age, So we had grown up close within the religion.

It happened only a few weeks ago when I woke up and found that my brothers had gone missing, Both of them. I had originally thought that they had just went to the bathroom, However when morning came I had found that neither had returned.

I tried to consult the monks, They keep telling me that they had caught them running away during the night, But I know the truth.

My brothers would never leave without me, I know they would've at least told me goodbye before they went. Especially with the upcoming Ascension, They would never have left beforehand. Not without telling me.

I have tried to bring this up to our founder but he has said that he has no idea of what is going on. I don't know where they went, But I have an idea. And it was only made more plausible once I had snuck into the kitchen a few days ago.

I think the monks done something to my brothers.

I hear them talking at night now, Things I don't understand. Words such as bodies, Upper Two, Absorption. I don't know if they mean anything to you, But if they do, Please get here faster.

I know who you are and I know what kind of crow this is, My father use to be one of you before he abandoned us and we were brought to the convent. I think there is a monster among our convent, And I think it killed my brothers.

Please- I don't know how long I have left. They took my brothers and I know they're going for me next. I don't know where my brothers went but I don't want to end up like them.

Please, Help me.

-Teiji

Hands gripped the paper tight, So hard it almost tore apart.

"That poor man.. Just the idea of such a powerful demon killing his siblings! My heart aches for him and his brothers!" Mitsuri gasped as her eyes finally finished reading the ink blotted on the paper, Wide and suprised as she looked up towards the other two.

Shinobu settled her teacup back onto the little side plate it came with, Residue lingering in the inner lines as china clinked against each other. Gyomei on the other hand had already finished, His teacup shuffled off to the side.

By now the tea in the pot had grown lukewarm, That gentle saccharine aroma had grown faint. The luminous daylight outside was still potent, Still early in the day. Yet the sun had still moved a few inches, Almost breaking afternoon.

Shinobu hummed, Dabbing her mouth with a napkin.

"You must understand that I don't plan on going to Oyataka-sama for a reason." She said as she turned to look at Mitsuri with that same smile. "Please, Do not get me wrong, I care and respect our master from the bottom of my heart but I need you both to know that I think it would be better if we conducted this privately.."

Gyomei's eyes lowered, Lips thinning.

"You have yet to explain why, For what reason do you suggest this?" He asked lowly, A sort of puzzled expression appearing on his features.

Shinobu's eyes darted over to him, Satiny irises shining under the dim sunlight streaming through the window. If seen under better light, Perhaps you may have been able to see a slight tick from her lip.

"..Because if we inform Oyataka-sama, I'm afraid that I may be left out." Shinobu admitted as her expression started to morph into a frown. Gyomei knitted his brows together, Mitsuri tilting her head almost as if asking her to go on.

She sighed softly.

"..If we inform him that a sighting of Upper moon two has been reported, He is sure to send out the strongest among the Hashira. With [F/N]-chan currently missing, That would mean he would send you, Himejima-san along with Shinazugawa and Mitsuri-chan.." Shinobu spoke as she slightly nodded to him.

Gyomei hummed low, Quiet as he thought over her words.

The current top three in the Hashira. Him, Sanemi then Mitsuri. With a possible Upper Two sighting, It was no doubt that Oyataka-sama would send at the very least one of them to scout it out.

But why Shinobu wanted to be included, Why she'd go as far as to keep this under their beloved masters nose..

It eluded him.

"Uppermoon two.. The fact that we have another sighting of a demon moon. You think they're hiding within this religion? As a monk? As a follower? A leader?" Mitsuri put in, Eyes filled with worry as she thought over the options.

Shinobu hummed.

"I'm not sure, I haven't had the chance to head to Hiyohara and check it out. Actually, It is why I wanted you two here in the first place.." She explained. That smile she usually wore like shoes started to shift, Turning down into a frown, Something much more serious than before.

Shinobu took a deep breath.

"For the past few centuries, Slayers have been on the defensive. Never purposefully seeking out the demon moons, Only coming when called.." Shinobu spoke low, Her eyebrows starting to knit together.

"This time, I suggest we go on the offensive. After scouting, I want to infiltrate into the cult to find out the location and the identity of Upper Two. We'll behead him, Give the demons another hit in their ranks." Shinobu said finally, Serious as ever as her eyes darted back and forth between Mitsuri and Gyomei.

Neither spoke.

She sighed.

Shinobu reached over the table, Delicate hands wrapping around the porcelain handle of the teapot. She did it like it was nothing, Like she just hadn't proposed a madman's plot. Smile reappearing on her face as she started to carefully pour herself a new cup of lukewarm tea.

"And you think you can pull this off?" Gyomei asked, Incredulous in tone as he turned towards her.

Shinobu hummed, Raising her teacup before she took a sip.

"..Truthfully, I don't know." She admitted, Lowering the cup from her lips. "Which is why I suggest we head off tonight to scout it out. If this cult has been hidden from us all this time, I doubt our crows would do any good of a job snooping around. Therefore, It must be on foot."

Gyomei sat there, Blanked eyes widened to their very brims as he turned towards Shinobu's direction. Was she crazy? Was she insane? Had the years of working in the corps finally caught up to her?

Or was it him who was simply suprised? This side of her never seen before. The side that had already formulated a plan, Unlike him.

"Are you sure, Shinobu-chan..?" Mitsuri asked, Worry written all over her face with a quirked lip. "I still think that we should tell someone, At least some of our fellow Hashira! Telling them where we're going would be a good idea, Right..?"

Mitsuri looked at Shinobu, An anxious gleam in her eyes that almost begged Shinobu to tell her she had a plan. An upturned lip while she fiddled with her fingers under the table they sat at.

It was a look Shinobu was familiar with, Mitsuri always wearing her emotions on her sleeve, It was easy to recognise.

Shinobu's smile ticked, Just turning up into a smile.

"Don't worry, Mitsuri-chan. If we get the chance to scout out Hiyohara, I plan on asking several trusted slayers to join us. Both Hashira and not." Shinobu assured as she turned back towards her teacup, Raising close towards her lips.

Mitsuri watched as Shinobu pressed the rim of the cup towards her rosy lips, Parting them slightly as she started to sip at the lukewarm liquid. Everything on the outside seemed fine, Her smile still the same, Every mannerism on the usual.

But for some reason, Something told her that this was wrong. That there was just something off about her, Nothing on the outside but something much more hidden. But that was always how Shinobu was, Wasn't it?

Mitsuri could sense it was more potent now, However, Her lips thinning.

Was she really going to take any chances? Especially after..

Shinobu's eyes darted over towards Mitsuri, The teacup tilting down as she finished her swig. They narrowed in on her, Exactly on her expression.

"..I want to come along because I know this is a chance to save [F/N]-chan." Shinobu spoke as she settled her teacup back onto her plate. "I want to help, [F/N]-chan is one of my dearest friends and I know I would be left out of the mission if I told Oyataka-sama.."

Shinobu turned to Mitsuri, Finally answering that unsure look in Mitsuri's eyes with the most sure expression she had ever seen.

"[F/N] was kidnapped by Upper One, Yes? Then it wouldn't be so bizarre to say that Upper Two might have some information on her whereabouts. We get his information then slay him, Then we'll figure it out from there. Even if he doesn't have any knowledge, It still gives us a chance to make a dent in the demons ranks." Shinobu spoke, Calmer than she ever had.

Her smile softened, Much more.. Genuine than it was before.

"..I told you. One day, We will avenge her. And this is our chance."

Mitsuri's eyes widened, Light shining off the breath-taking green of her irises. That day back in her house, When Mitsuri was at her very worst. The promise Shinobu had made to her that had ultimately pulled Mitsuri out of the murky pits of her own misery.

She said that one day they'd avenge her.

Avenge [F/N].

A shine started to appear in Mitsuri's eyes, Alight like a flame amongst a blizzard. Mitsuri didn't understand what it was. The way she spoke, Maybe the look they shared with one and other.

Whatever it was, It was breathtakingly assuring.

"Alright."

Both Mitsuri and Shinobu's eyes darted to the other side of the table, Hearing the low and mournful voice of Gyomei ring out.

Once their eyes landed on him, They saw an expression much more sure than it was before. A sudden change, A suprising one at that.

"What..?" Mitsuri asked, Almost double taking.

"Tonight we will head off to the village of Hiyohara, We shall scout out the area for any signs of Upper Moon activity then figure out our next course of action." Gyomei explained in a steady tone, Hands pressed into his usual prayer, Beads rattling against each other.

Shinobu's lips parted, Almost seeming suprised by his answer, Having to look him up and down to make sure that this wasn't some out-of-character joke.

She blinked, Realising that he was deadly serious.

Shinobu beamed.

"So it's settled then? We set off at night to Hiyohara on our own private mission, Scout out the area then infiltrate into their cult?" Shinobu asked as she turned over to Mitsuri, The only undecided party at the table.

"Tonight!" Mitsuri cheered, The rosy blush on her cheeks set ablaze as she grinned. "We'll go out and slay them, Upper rank two!"

Shinobu giggled slightly, Hand raising to cover her mouth.

"Aha.. Don't get so carried away now, Mitsuri-chan!" She chided softly as she chuckled at Mitsuri's flushed expression.

"As long as you keep your word of scouting this area out first, Then summoning other slayers as back up.. I will not say a word to Oyataka-sama, Not for now.." Gyomei nodded, Confirming his alliance.

"Well.. I suppose that is it then!" Shinobu cheered lightly, Her hands moving down to the small tatami mat on the floor before using them to push her up to her feet. She steadied herself, Dusting off her uniform.

"Ah.. Where are you going, Shinobu-chan! Aren't you gonna finish your tea?" Mitsuri asked, Tilting her head slightly as she gestured to the half-drunken tea out of her cup.

Shinobu shook her head.

"..I have a lot of duties to tend to before we leave tonight! Please, Help yourself to the rest of the brew here, It's of my own making." Shinobu said, Bowing slightly towards each of them "If you get hungry, Do not be afraid to ask Kanzaki-san for a meal! You are both my treasured guests after all.."

Shinobu spun on her heel, Bidding her goodbyes to both Mitsuri and Gyomei before prancing off along the tatami mat onto the polished mahogany floor. She looked carefree, Relaxed as she strutted off towards the main door of the room.

Mitsuri watched her go, The kick in her step evident as she watched her exit through the polished door of the dining room. Her eyes remained until the door shut with a soft click, That smile on Mitsuri's face remaining even once Shinobu had left.

Mitsuri had always known that it was simply a matter of time until they had found a lead, Found something that could bring them to [F/N]. Her patience had finally paid off, With a tip off to Uppermoon Two to boot!

But her smile shifted only a little bit, Especially once she spotted the rather conflicted expression appearing on her peer.

Gyomei seemed to be in his own world, Thinking over the interaction they had all shared. Mitsuri couldn't even begin to think of what was happening in his head, Despite her general empathy, She was not very good of a telepath.

Shinobu, She seemed happy as usual. She seemed just as kind, Polite and calm as she always was. Nothing particularly stuck out to Mitsuri, Nothing that told her that anything was wrong with Shinobu.

But that feeling in Mitsuri's gut told her otherwise, Told her to look again. That this was not something she could afford to overlook.

And the last time she had took that risk..

Mitsuri frowned. There was definetly something wrong and Mitsuri was going to find out what it was, What was going on with her friend.

Mitsuri would make sure of it, So determined to figure it out.

So much so that she didn't see the girl with mousy blonde hair peek through the crack in the door, Having barely avoided the woman walking out before.

☆♡☆

The sound of a quiet door scraping, Sliding open as carefully as it could.

Everything was silent, Nothing dared to speak or make a single sound. The tiny spiders didn't dare scuttle about, The structure of the shrine didn't even try to creak. Not when he was in the area, The air almost stilling in his presence.

He took a step forward, The floorboards depressing under his weight. The cold air nipped at his skin yet he didn't flinch, Nor did he at the miserable sight of the room. The darkness enveloping the place doing nothing to conceal the sheer mess of the place.

A few bowls of cutlery were strewn about on both the dresser and the nightstand. Some eaten, Some not. But they were building up all the same, Along with the cobwebs and the dust gathering across furniture.

He didn't feel disgusted by it, No, Not at all. It barely scraped the surface of what rancid surroundings he had withstood before, The smell of rot being nothing to him at all.

His six eyes droned onto the figure lain huddled under the sheets of the bed, The one positioned at the other end of the room.

The sheets themselves were half-hanging off the bed and one of the twin pillows were laying upon the floorboards. The other one assumedly being used by his younger sister, Hugged close to her chest while resting her head all the same.

His eyes narrowed in on her, Barely seeing the top of her scalp peeking out from under her covers. She was exhausted, Always was when he was around. His blank face almost produced a scowl.

He stepped closer to her once more, Despite his weight the noise was made minimal, Kokushibo carefully choosing which boards to step on as he strayed closer to her slumbering form.

[F/N] was out cold, Her muscles were so relaxed that they'd certainly feel numb as soon as she awoke. Kokushibo could hear her breaths, Slow as her chest rose up and down from under her thick duvets.

He approached, Closer and closer until his shadow loomed over her. Him casting a bold shadow from the soft ultramarine light flooding in from the doorway. His eyes radiated within the dark, Rich gold examining every inch of the girl sleeping before him.

He had an object clutched tightly in his hand, The surface of which being caressed by his claws.

Kokushibo turned towards the desk, Viewing the old Tupperware building up on the side, He could barely conceal a scoff. Reaching out his spare hand, He sluggishly pushed the bowls and plates away to the side to make room, Careful not to make any sound.

[F/N] was still out cold as he placed down the object in place of the object, Laying it atop the wooden nightstand. She only turned lightly, Stirring once or twice upon her mattress, Completely unaware of the intruder only a few feet away from her.

His eyes dulled once they layed upon [F/N].

He breathed out, Mist appearing in the frigid conditions. His clawed hands moved, Slow and meticulous, Almost as if testing the waters in the shadows of the room as it went towards her scalp.

It was only once he felt the fibres of her hair did he finally feel safe to do this, Did he finally start to entwine his fingers into her locks. Gradually, Methodically slow so that she wouldn't wake up.

His fingers rested against her scalp, Her body heat starting to warm up the deathly cold palm of his hand. Kokushibo's expression almost started to shift once he felt the soft yet choppy locks of her hair.

A normal occurrence for him, To interact with her while she slept.

She didn't even stir, Didn't even react to such physical touch. But he could almost swear that she breathed lighter now under his touch. Kokushibo breathed out, That piercing glare in his eye still present yet it seemed much more subdued now.

It glanced back over to her nightstand, A sort of sapphire shimmer catching his eyes under the ultramarine light. The claw of his thumb began to softly card through her hair, Softly, Almost admiringly.

It was her hairpin, The bejewelled clip nestled within the discarded Tupperware with it's glistening pearls laying like sleeping snakes. Kokushibo's eyes narrowed on the little accessory, The hand not caressing [F/N]'s hair reached out.

His rough finger grasped the pin into his hand, He took it off the desk and brought it closer to him

The pin itself was.. Dirtied.

The nichirin silver was coated in a patchy brown stain, Almost like it was rusting yet the smell was much too metallic for that. Kokushibo's lips thinned as he brought it closer to him, Up to his nose before taking a deep breath in.

His eyes sharpened.

Blood, It was dried blood.

Kokushibo's eyes widened.

For a moment his eyes darted back towards [F/N], Still peacefully asleep under the covers of her bed. Kokushibo stared at her, Pin almost crushed in one hand, The other entwined within her hair.

He stayed like that for what seemed like hours, Just staring down at her while one of his hands slowly carded through her hair. The cat-like cuts in his eyes were as shill and narrow as they ever were.

But he finally breathed out, The grip he had on the bloody pin was finally released.

Kokushibo flicked the pin like a butterfly knife, The pin stuck out like a blade before he lowered it down to her scalp.

The pin easily entwined within her hair. Almost reluctantly, Kokushibo took great caution as he removed his own hand from within her locks. He fastened the clip to her hair, Snapping the pin together on it's clasp make sure it didn't fall out.

Kokushibo took one final look at her, Looked at the way she slept soundly on the bed. Watched as her eyes were rested shut, Watched as her chest rose up and down as he heard the softness of her breath.

It didn't last long, Not even a minute before he turned around again.

Kokushibo stalked his way out of the room, Towards the shoji door that he had left wide open. His hair swayed back and forth, The spines of his ebony hair illuminated in the chromatic glow of light outside.

Once he reached the doorway, He gazed back at her, If only for a second. His golden eyes laid upon her, What could've possibly be going through his mind at that moment gone unquestioned to the unconscious woman slumbering on her bed.

He turned away, His hand gripping the shoji door began to pull it over. Sliding it along the doorframe, Watching as the aquamarine light began to grow dimmer and dimmer inside the room before the door shut over entirely.

☆♡☆

"Ah.. And you, I see.. What was your name again? I so sincerely apologise but I don't think I can recall..!"

It was hard to describe.. But it smelt of mourning.

The kind of flower blossomed only to celebrate the wilted. Pungent, Fresh air seeming to roll off the petals yet the entire place reeked of beautiful death. Lotuses, Their dove feather petals shone under the candlelight.

The pristine ivory flowers drifted by atop the water ponds lining the hallway, Rocking back and forth on the miniature waves. He peered beside him, Watching as another floated by on the thin water strip leading up to the centrepiece of the room.

The entire room was only lit by several dozen votives, The room alight in a dark orange hue from their whisping embers, Flickering with each drift of the inside wind. On candle holders, Candelabras they were everywhere.

He could see several monks stood off to the side, Lingering around the lumber archways lining the hallway like a catholic church. He could see them peering over at him, Hidden in their little nooks as they dissected him with their beady eyes.

They were all dressed head to toe in that same purified white, The exact same shade of the lotuses that festered around them.

"Ah.. Yes, I remember you now! Teiji, Was it~?"

A voice reverberated out from within the hallway, One that Teiji was all too familiar with.

It seemed much bigger than the expanse of the room itself, Yet the voice was soft and playful. It was cheerful and in the right context could even be described as calming. Even so, Teiji couldn't relax in his prescense.

"Y-Yes.. That is my name, Your grace." He answered, Head bowed as low as it could be, Almost pressing against the reflective floorboards. An acknowledging hum came back to him, Echoing throughout the long hall. Teiji felt the cold run of sweat start to trickle down his brow, Unable to see the glory of the prophet before him.

His lazing figure was only illuminated by the moonlight streaming in from the high window behind him. He sat down, His legs basketed on a rather large pillow. Twin war fans of equal golden shimmer started to glisten in the moonlight, Light rolling off them as they fluttered.

Chromatic eyes, Irises of every colour from red to blue stared down at the prostrated man. His figure knelt, Head pressed against the ground in a show of respect.

A sharp glint in the prophets eyes started to appear.

"Now, Now.. There isn't any reason to be so tense there, We're all comfortable here, Aren't we~?"

Teiji was the very definition of uncomfortable, Being dragged out of bed in the middle of the night. Told he had a summoning with his grace before being thrown rather roughly before him.

None of it helped to make him feel safe.

"Ah.. You must be wondering why you were brought here tonight, I assure you.. It's nothing to worry about!" The prophet mused as his fan fluttered against his face, Cool air hitting his skin. "Just a simple question.."

"Of course.. Your grace." Teiji replied once more, His heart in his throat and dripping in his own lather.

The candlelight flickered, Dark orange hues blinking back and forth under the heavy weight of the room. Despite the sweltering heat from the fire and the glares he felt, It was almost as if time froze.

Almost dragging along, Waiting and watching.

"Perfect." The prophet mused with a grin. "Now as I've been told.. You have been behaving rather off recently, Haven't you? Some of your peers have come to me with their concerns, Saying that you haven't been participating in social activities, Ever since the recent festival in the village!"

A chill ran down Teiji's spine like frigid water, His jaw wound shut like a mechanical doll. Damn them, His peers. Teiji should've known that they would've gone to the monks about his behaviour, They told them everything after all.

Even after everything, Every event he participated in just to seem as regular as he usually was and acting like his brothers weren't gone. Someone had noticed, Someone had ratted him out.

The prophet frowned.

"Of course I worry for all of my followers, Your happiness here is my most important priority!" He fretted, Shaking his head as his fan continued to flitter. "So it saddens me to hear that one of you have become distant. Please, Don't be afraid to tell me what's wrong..~!"

Teiji swallowed, His mouth pooling in his own saliva. Could he really tell the founder? The man who had lead him and his flock through unnavigable storms, Who only weeks ago had told him that he had no idea where his brothers went?

The monks, The ones lingering by the votives pyre. They stared at him with an equally burning gaze, Their robes the colour of doves being unstained. They were listening to them, To their conversation.

The ones most certainly responsible for the disappearance of his siblings, No doubt.

Voicing his allegations, His accusations towards the monks in front of them could prove fatal. But would he really have any other chance to do so? The way they dissected him like a frog by their eyes, Teiji knew they'd do something even if he didn't speak his worries.

"Y-Your grace.. I must admit I am just a bit afraid." Teiji could barely contain his stammer through his grimace. "I am rather hesitant to say in front of so many, Perhaps it would be better to speak to you in private..?"

His grace hummed.

"Everyone here I trust from the bottom of my heart, I assure you that nothing spoken in here will leave this room!" He assured, Almost leaning forward on the large cushion he lazed upon. "I can make sure of that.."

Teiji's breath hitched.

He had to try.

He breathed out.

"..My brothers." He started, Eyes darting back and forth as if trying to find the words to say. "I-I came to you a few weeks ago about their disappearance, I was informed that they had ran away during the night but.. I'm having trouble believing that."

"Oh?" The prophet prompted, Raising a brow.

"..I believe that there may have been- And forgive me if I mispeak here, Your grace.. But, I believe there might have been some foul play." Teiji finally finished, The bead of sweat dripping down his brow finally dropped to the floor. His breath going stagnant with it.

The room fell silent, Much more than it was before.

Even the settling of the main hall felt deathly quiet, Nothing moving even an inch.

The monks gathering under the archways especially, Some going rigidly still. The bolder ones, However, Started to dart their eyes back and forth. From Teiji to their founder sat crowned at the top, Almost waiting for commands.

The sway of his fan, It paused mid-flutter. His graces gaze lowered as he looked at Teiji, Examining him just like the monks did only a few moments ago. Teiji could feel his stare burn onto the top of his head, The one pressed directly onto the floor.

"Aha.."

Teiji's lips thinned, Eyes widening as he heard it.

Could he have imagined it?

Then another came, And then another.

"Aha! I understand now! You're upset about your brothers leaving, Yes?" The prophet laughed, Almost relieved. "You must be wondering where they went. You must feel so horrible for them abandoning you.. Perhaps even betrayed? No wonder you suspect such a silly thing like foul play! You must want to find them, Yes?" The prophet asked, Smile widening.

Teiji gulped, Finally hauling his shaky head up to meet the visage of his founder. Eyes connecting only for a moment as Teiji slowly nodded, Confirming His Grace's words with the gesture.

The prophet hummed. The fan flicked to cover the wild grin appearing on the bottom of his face like a butterfly knife, The gold shimmer shining under the streaming moonlight. Just looking at the man before him..

Of course, He had been aware of what this one had been doing in his free time. His loyal disciples doing their job so wonderfully well, Reporting the ebony crow flying off into the air with a scroll tied up on it's necklace.

The prophet breathed out, His smile broadened to their very limits.

"I'm sure I can reunite you all very soon."

Next Chapter

[yuesya]

I’m glad there’s SOMEONE in the Gojo Clan in the Cursed Twin au that is horrified by what they did to Shiki, AKA Shiki and Satoru’s mom.

What happened to her in this AU, if I may ask?

Muneyoshi tries to delude himself he did the right thing and before finding about the situation in one of your shorts, he is proud because Satoru is an outstanding genius and thinks they all did the right thing, but how did his wife - who actually loved Shiki and was horrified by this filicide - act towards Satoru throughout the years? Does she learn of Shiki before Muneyoshi does? Does she help Satoru hide Shiki from her husband in the early years? Did she eventually give up and also quietly followed the Gojo’s actions in raising Satoru as the genius Six Eyes? She dead?

I know this AU isn’t exactly the AU for fluff and unicorns, but is there absolutely no ray of sunlight in the shithole that was the Gojo Clan?

Gojo Hina knew her role:

To be the model wife of Gojo Muneyoshi, and the perfect mother to their future children. As far as marriages went, Muneyoshi wasn't the worst man she could've married. Sachie's husband was a high-ranked clan member with a penchant for drinking, and she's seen the bruises that Midori's husband left on the unfortunate girl's body. Even helped Midori apply herbal ointments, and bandage the worst of the injuries.

In comparison, even though Muneyoshi came off as cold and was a quietly reserved man, he was always unfailingly polite and treated her respectfully. He made an effort to portion out time for them to share their meals together, no matter how busy his schedule became.

Hina didn't love him, but she thinks that she could learn to, someday.

Would they finally become a true, loving family? ... It was something that Hina had never dared to hope for, even as a young girl. Her father's position in the main family ensured that Hina and her sisters would be bargained away in arranged marriages that would be advantageous for him. Hina's own mother walked the halls with empty steps and soulless eyes, and the girl dearly feared that would turn out to be her own future, one day.

Otherwise she would... she would...!

...

Fortunately, fate smiled upon her; Muneyoshi was a good man, and Hina was... content.

The first year of their marriage was a series of careful overtures, discrete glances, and all the things that one might expect to see in romantic stories of courtship, except their rushed political marriage had skipped over entirely.

The second year, Hina became pregnant.

Who would the little one look like? she marveled, one hand coming to a gentle rest atop her stomach. Would their child have Muneyoshi's dark ebon hair, glossy like the wings of ravens? Or would they have the lighter shade of Hina's own?

Would they be a boy, or a girl? The Gojo Clan insisted on being traditional, so instead of getting proper checkups and scans at a hospital, women were forced to rely on the clan's healers and midwives instead. Who were skilled in their own rights, to be fair, except it also meant that there was no way of knowing an unborn child's gender for sure.

In a soft voice, Muneyoshi asks her if she would like to name their child. For a moment, Hina's voice catches in her throat.

"'Satoru,' for a boy," she says. The character for enlightenment, and understanding, because Hina dearly hopes for her child to be able to look past the outdated ways of the clan and become someone capable and intelligent in their own right. Able to think for themselves, instead of mindlessly swallowing the views and beliefs of others. "And... 'Shiki,' for a girl."

Yes. The character for awareness and realization, to be discerning.

"Those are lovely names," Muneyoshi's voice is gentle. The way he looks at her is feather-soft, and it makes her cheeks warm with a faint blush.

Then, he tells her about his own childhood. How his father had always, always passed over him in favor of his more talented brothers, how the only time the man had even looked at him was on their wedding day, when their marriage finally brought the man the advantage that he needed to curtail his rival, Takatomi.

"When our child is born," he says, quiet and determined, "It doesn't matter if they're a boy or a girl. It doesn't matter how many more children we have in the future. I... want to nurture them. I won't be like my father. I'll give them all the attention they deserve. The proper resources that they need to grow into strong, capable individuals. I won't let anything obstruct them, or pull them down."

Hina falls in love just a bit more with her husband, at that declaration.

Yes, she's sure of it. Their child will be loved.

"Hear that, little one?" Hina says to her bloated stomach with a smile. "Your father and I are looking forward to meeting you."

There's a responding light kick beneath the palm of her hand. Hina's heart melts with the surge of warmth that rises in her chest, accompanying her child's movement.

Part of her is scared and nervous, because what if she's not a good mother? She doesn't know how to be a mother! And Hina is sure that her own mother is not a role model to emulate for motherhood. Should she just try to do the opposite?

But Muneyoshi will be with her, and his heart is in the right place. Both of them are determined to do right by their child, and Hina will-

Hina will-

"Twins! The girl's having twins, someone call-"

"That's a bad omen, isn't it? The main family isn't going to be very happy that-"

"Blood, she's losing blood, hand me the-"

"Oh my god. The boy. Look at the boy's eyes!"

"That's-?! Report this to the elders! It's the Six Eyes! Finally, another child has been born with the Six Eyes, how many generations has it been since-"

"Don't start celebrating too early, we still don't know if-"

"Wait, what about the girl? The... twin..."

...

Twins are cursed. Better to give birth to a stillborn than a pair of twins, or so the saying went. Because twins come from one entity in the mother's womb, and so they steal from each other. Fight with each other. Twins are cursed, because neither will ever realize their full potential, because they're incomplete on their own.

Hina. Doesn't. Care!

Her children are promptly taken away from her, as soon as they are born. Hina is left struggling weakly on the bloodied bed, to no avail, and the following days are nerve-wracking.

Your son is born with the Six Eyes.

It is confirmed. Your son possesses Limitless! Six Eyes, and Limitless! At long last, the Honored One is returned-

Part of Hina lights up with fierce joy and pride, upon hearing the news. Her son has inherited the prized cursed technique and ocular curse of the Gojo Clan! The first in hundreds of years!

Another part of her remains trembling with fearful trepidation. What about my daughter? What about Shiki?

...

Shiki is dead.

Muneyoshi killed her.

“... Muneyoshi, what did you do?! You monster, you wretched excuse of a husband, give me back my dAuGHTER-!”

How could he?! Hadn't he been the one who'd said that he would protect and cherish his children? To nurture them? To ensure that nothing would... obstruct or... drag... them... down...

Ah.

Is this how it's going to be, then? Satoru was his son, but Shiki wasn't his daughter?

...

Hina walks through the halls of her own home, feeling like a stranger. Rooms that are full of sunlight are now cold and dim. Walking into the nursery room that she and Muneyoshi had prepared for their child feels like stepping into a grave.

Shiki doesn't have a grave. They didn't even have the decency to write her name down in the clan registry! Instead, they just swept her infant daughter's corpse under the rug because they wanted to deny that she ever even existed-

Hina can't-

Hina can't-

She can't live like this.

One night, with shaking hands, Hina forms a noose out of her bedsheets, and throws it over the rafters. Steps on the edge of her bed. Closes her eyes, raises her neck and-

-falls.

Hina tumbles roughly to the ground with a startled gasp, because the bed had moved. Why? How?! She's not drunk, and there's no way that inanimate furniture just moves-

-on its own-

... oh.

Hina stares. A formless cloud of darkness dives under her skewed bedframe before she's able to get a clear view of it, but Hina can... Hina can feel it. There's a connection, from her to this odd cursed spirit -and there's no doubt that it is a cursed spirit; Hina might not be a sorcerer, but she grew up in a sorcery clan. Speaking of, how in the world was there a cursed spirit in the Gojo Clan? To be fair, it had a weak presence and Hina barely sensed any resentment from it, but that still didn't explain...

Hina slowly lowers herself in a crouch, cautiously peering towards the cursed spirit from where it's hiding under the bed. It shrinks in on itself, hiding from her with a wail-

An infant's cry-

Intuition clicks, and the pieces fall together in her mind. Hina trembles. "... Shiki?"

Her daughter. That's her daughter, turned into a cursed spirit by unjust murder at the hands of her father, that's her daughter-

Tears stream down Hina's cheeks as she finally reaches for her child. There's a faint air of confusion that Hina can sense emanating from her, which makes her cry even harder.

But, there's no time to lose.

She doesn't know how Shiki has been able to go unnoticed all this time, but this definitely won't last. The Gojo Clan is a clan of sorcerers, and it won't be long before her lingering presence is discovered, and the last traces of Shiki are erased. And even if a miracle happened and no one found her -how long would it last, once Satoru started training to become a sorcerer? If one day Satoru came back and found a cursed spirit in his home, wouldn't he exorcise it without a second thought? He wouldn't even know that he'd be killing-

Wait.

Satoru.

Satoru.

... Hina knows what to do.

For the first time, Hina holds her child in her arms. Shiki is oddly docile -can she sense the same connection that Hina feels? The bond between a mother and her newborn child that somehow transcends even death? Hina croons softly to the formless mass of darkness, where the silhouette of something that vaguely resembles a fetus can be glimpsed in its center.

She picks up a knife, and brings Shiki to Satoru's nursery room.

... Satoru is asleep. Of course he is, it's the middle of the night. Shiki stirs curiously, hesitantly lifting a messy tendril to reach for her brother, and Hina feels her heart break all over again.

In another world, if we didn't belong to the Gojo Clan. Would the four of us have been... happy?

Hina shakes her head roughly. Now is not the time for any doubts -and so she steels her will.

... Hina is not a sorcerer. However, her family comes from a long line of powerful sorcerers -one of her ancestors had, in fact, been an honored sorcerer who'd possessed both Six Eyes and Limitless. The very same one who'd died fighting the Zenin clan head at the time, one who'd inherited his clan's Ten Shadows... which then led to the family's difficulties within the Gojo Clan for several generations afterwards.

Her family had nursed a grudge against the Zenins. Decided to investigate the Ten Shadows, not only in terms of the shikigami that could be summoned... but also the particulars of shikigami binding. Which, coincidentally, was also related to the binding of cursed spirits.

"Shhh, be good, Shiki," she whispers to her daughter. "Satoru's cursed energy will be enough to mask your presence. Shadows are fragile, and this won't hold forever, but for now... Protect each other. Go, and stay safe in your brother's shadow."

Ten Shadows allowed a sorcerer to call upon their shikigami with no need for any preparations. Other shikigami users needed to pay a price, in order to bind their familiars. As for what Hina was attempting...

Ritualistic sacrifice. It was only fitting. Now, in order to complete this binding, there was only one thing left to do.

Hina tips her head back and slashes her knife across her throat.

[luvtak]

of weepy afternoons, lhc

❀ pairing lee haechan x afab!reader

❀ tw/genre est. relationship, super fluff, domestic, crying, reader’s on their period, reader is referred to as ‘girl’ a couple times and her cheeks are described to be red once :/, criminal amount of references to the movie enchanted

❀ a/n i wrote this in like an hour so it could be real rough haha, inspired by my very real need to watch enchanted when im on my period. i wrote this with this couple in mind <3 hope you enjoy it and happy august!!

❀ w/c 1058

When Haechan got home, he didn’t expect you to look so sad. There are so many ways he can envision your welcome, anywhere from loud laughing to big bear hugs, but he would never expect you to be bent over and shaking.

When he left this morning, you were buzzing with energy, telling him about all your plans for the day and how excited you were for him to be back with you. Now, you were sat on the couch sniffling into a throw pillow—making no moves to acknowledge his arrival, shoulders shaking with your cries. In the back of his mind, he can hear the TV slowly letting out noise, but with your crushed look, eyes finally raising to meet his he ignores it, and slowly approaches, as if you were a wounded animal: and you might as well be with your glossy eyes and red cheeks, you look so small: his usually tough girl tiny by comparison.

“What’s wrong, honey? He asks when he finally gets to you, lowering himself to be eye level with you, “What happened, huh?” His head is turning like a confused puppy, looking at you with so much worry and affection you can’t help but cry more. You cry because he’s home and you missed him, you cry because the house is a mess and you promised you’d clean up, but most of all you cry because he’s being dumb and it’s obvious why you’re upset (or so you think).

“I—I don’t know, just my heart hurts for them you know?” Your voice is scratchy, showing him that you really must have been breaking down for quite a while. He wonders who you’re talking about, if he’s forgetting something about one of your friends or wasn’t listening when you told him something important, but nothing comes to mind.

“Who, baby? Who’s hurting?” At his confusion all you feel is annoyance, it’s obvious whose hurting, it would be right in front of his face if he just looked.

“Them! Hyuck look at the TV! this is so sad, they’re just so in love, but they can’t be.” And he does look, but all he sees is Enchanted playing on the television. Combined with your sobs is the soft playing of ‘So close’ as Giselle and Robert dance around the ballroom—and suddenly everything begins to make sense.

From the very beginning of your relationship, every time you’ve gotten your period you’ve been drawn to Enchanted like a moth to a flame. Needing to watch the love story and cry your eyes out, as he has to unfortunately watch. He can’t count how many times you’ve sadly announced it’s your time of the month and then promptly turned on the movie.

While he could be annoyed or bitter at the constant playing of sing-alongs, all he feels is endeared, so he quickly cuddles into your shaking figure. Hugging you with both arms and legs like a koala, hoping that his affection will somehow cure your blues. He gives you a series of wet kisses, laughing and cooing at how sweet you are to be a grown girl and still crying at Disney films.

“Oh, my baby, why didn’t you call me earlier? I would’ve come home to you.” And you know he’s telling the truth, if he had even a whiff of you being sad and alone and hurting, he would’ve rushed back with ice cream and flowers galore. He knows millions of people go through this every month, but he can’t stomach the thought of his Honey in pain—all alone with nothing and nobody but Disney plus to comfort you.

“I didn’t want to bother you, you’re so busy and I can watch this all by myself.” You’re putting on a front, looking bravely at him even as the tears flow freely from your eyes. Inside, you know that half the reason you’re crying is because you missed him. Usually, he’d be there to sit with you, laughing and cuddling you at all the right times, and if you were lucky and he was in a good mood he’d sing along to the music like a lullaby.

However, you understand he is a busy boy—his schedule filled up with several commitments that he can’t just walk out on, even if he would. There’s too many people relying on him, and you can’t call him every time your tummy hurts, and your hormones go crazy (even if the hurt feels like a knife repeatedly stabbing you all over your lower body and then laughing at you).

“My silly silly girl, I’m never too busy for you. I know I can’t do much but I’m sure cuddling you and remembering to bring you your pain killers is enough, right?” and it is. There’s something so lovely about him, even if it’s the bare minimum. Your boyfriend never shies away from these conversations, he thinks it’s important that he knows and appreciates everything about you. Even if he can’t fully understand—especially if he can’t understand.

Donghyuck’s love language is really just being obsessed with you, knowing the ins and outs of your everyday life, and loving you more for it. As he sits with you now, he can see fully what he missed before—the telltale signs of your period running its course—the pinch in your forehead and the deep eyebags, and parts of him do feel ashamed he’s only now picking up on it.

“I’m sorry your body and your heart hurts, my honey bear, let’s start the movie over and take a nap, huh? How does that sound?” and even though your nose scrunches at his cheesy nickname, and you know the movie will just make you cry again—you look at him and agree.

He's wrapped around you, and he smiles, hoping your body will benefit from his body heat pressing into yours, smacking kisses all over your face until you’re laughing, and his gentle pecks begin to miss. And you know He’ll hold you tight all day, warming you up from the inside. He’ll tell you he loves you; he’ll tell you over and over again if it helps the pain wash away. And you know if you ask to watch Enchanted again, he’ll put it on with no complaints and sing along with you.

© luvtak

[sloshed-cinema]

Emilia Pérez (2024)

Because this movie has enjoyed a bafflingly successful awards season from Cannes onward, it’s no surprise that this film is a complete disaster. This moves beyond simple Oscar bait to become truly audacious in just how comprehensively it fails to do anything that it sets out to achieve. There should be consequences for subjecting audiences to this. The lowest hanging fruit and greatest crime is that Emilia Pérez is a musical. There are songs. And a lot of them. So many. So many bad ones. Why this decision was made confuses me. The music and lyrics aren’t even worthy of a regional tour of a failed Off-Off-Off Broadway play. Lines repeat endlessly, pointlessly. Words stress and strain to rhyme with one another. Most songs follow a similar call and response type structure, a declarative comparison and contrast of ideas which emphasize the characters’ challenges with this corrupt world of criminal cartels and corrupt politicians. But the songs don’t accomplish anything. No action moves forward during any songs, and the audience do not understand the emotions of any characters any better from start to end. Each song, whether describing a manipulated court case’s outcome or the malaise of a drug kingpin’s wife, becomes a simple “I want” type of song. It’s difficult to describe bad lyrics, but the best I can say is that I felt embarrassed for anyone who had to sing or rap in this film. Extras rush in to add a half-hearted attempt at color and pizzazz to big numbers, but the rigid choreography and baffling production design choices hamper any clarity. Selena Gomez runs from her bedroom to a strange black void where Stomp dancers are gyrating or sings karaoke in front of a screen copying images into infinity. Zoe Saldaña slinks among the tables of elite donors at a benefit, clambering on tables and rubbing fake wig hair on her crotch. There are too many terrible songs in the first act, and then practically none in the end, which is almost a blessing in disguise but for the fact that everything that follows is so preposterous that all of the kidnappings and mutilations and in-fighting would almost make more sense if done in song. 2021’s Annette looks like a Sondheim-tier masterpiece by comparison. I guess Leos Carax is less of a degenerate than Jacques Audiard. Now there's an "achievement."

But everything else in this film is so troubling, too. Drug kingpin Manitas desires to transition and restart her life as she feels most fitting. Living now as Emilia Pérez, she begins to find a new calling in an NGO which helps bring closure to the families of victims of cartel-related violence while also trying to stay close to her former spouse and children. It’s a have your cake and eat it too situation with the family, as Emilia wants to keep her past a secret from her family, all while exerting control over her children as this newfound “aunt” and lying to her wife Jessi about her identity all while taking a new lover in Epifanía. Privacy and identity are complicated matters, but presented as such Emilia becomes something of a hypocrite. Is the transition an affirmation, or an alibi? Why the fuck should I be asking these questions in an empowerment movie, and what does that say about how disgusting is the subtext of this film? The NGO angle leaves a bad taste in the mouth, too. Emilia feels guilt over her criminal actions and uses her dirty money and dodgy connections to found this organization. It’s performative caring, all expensive fundraisers and glossy advertisements which reek of throwing money at an issue to bandage the problem for one’s own ego. Neither of these ideas are treated with any real nuance or respect, trans identity and the effects of cartel crime on communities used as window dressing for some shitty musical. Watching scores of Mexican civilians in a spotlight of constellations singing that they are here, whether to heal their families or to make right for their past, is so exquisitely embarrassing for the filmmakers that I hope they feel some shame for such shoddy filmmaking, but I doubt that is possible. Just throw it on the dumpster. Or give it every fucking award possible.

THE RULES

SIP

A song begins.

Location establishing text.

A song repeats the same lyric two or more times in a row.

Auntie is really honing in on things.

BIG DRINK

Endless crossfading of images.

That weird fucking vocoder sting happens as the camera sweeps over a landscape.

Any time you need it.

DRINK WATER

Any time you need it. Please. Take care of yourself. You're better than this movie.