#but also. i do love the wonderful ambiguity of just. 'there is so much more to live. so much more to do.'

[kiwisbell]

helen ; chapter five

be seeing you

Si vis pacem, para bellum. Or, the choice.

series masterlist | my masterlist pairing: joel miller x f!reader tags/warnings: 18+ (MDNI), john wick AU, hitman!joel, husband!joel, established relationship, artist!reader, love as worship, sacrilege in the name of romance, flashbacks, graphic violence, guns, blood + injuries, tess cameo, childhood/religious trauma, criminal underworld, secrecy/lies, betrayal, ANGST, bamf miller bros, smut, fingering, joel is an emotional munch, shower sex, unprotected PIV, handjob, male whimpering, conflicting emotions, orgasms aplenty, Big Angst and Big Sad but also Big Epiphanies, ambiguous ending, i'm getting emotional writing these tags, it feels so final, the typical alcohol/smoking/profanity, dividers by @/saradika word count: ~ 9.3k a/n: hi, friends. i can't believe we're already at the end of the main story, and tbh if i think about it too much i'll probably cry. i want to thank @cavillscurls for beta reading this chapter as always and giving me the guidance and support i need. we'll have an epilogue after this chapter, so there's still more to look forward to, but nonetheless, i hope you enjoy and thank you so so much for reading. xoxo prev | next

Her eyes are so sad, you think, stepping back to take in the full scope of the canvas. It’s doused in paint from corner to corner, still wet to the touch, the woman and her lover intertwined so thoroughly that it’s difficult to tell where they both end. It’s in shades of glum blue and flecks of angry red and brown where his eye watches you. But it’s her eyes that cannot lift to meet yours. It’s her lashes that fan across her cheeks as she casts her gaze toward the bottom edge where the canvas is wrapped taut around the wood. 

The sun will soon rise, but you haven’t slept. The contours of the sky are washed in a haze of greys and pale blues and light pink and the air smells warm, heavy—a storm about to roll in. The clouds on the horizon are thick with a blackening rage. You sit in the alcove by the window and put your temple to the cool glass. You yawn. Joel does not come back.

“Do you think it's true,” you asked him one night, your head on his chest, hand on his heart, “that art makes nothing happen?”

Joel, drawing shapes on your back, dozing off in the golden light of the sunrise, frowned. “Someone tell you that?”

“It's something my art teacher used to say,” you told him. “No matter how much it moves people, it doesn't do anything.”

“Your art teacher sounds like a fuckin’ downer.”

You laughed, hiking your thigh up over his hip and playfully biting his jaw. “So it's bullshit?”

“I think,” said Joel, tucking his chin to kiss the top of your head, “that your art makes people feel. It brings ‘em together. It's important because it's yours.”

You propped your head up on his chest and threaded your fingers through his too-long hair, overdue for a trim. A curl draped over his forehead, his beard patchy and soft under the pads of your fingers. “Sometimes I wonder why you chose me,” you said. “I wonder why the universe brought you to me.”

Joel shook his head, guiding his rough, callused fingers up your arm, curling them around your wrist, gently prodding your veins. “Wasn't the universe,” he said quietly. “Wasn’t a choice. I was yours the second I saw you. So, I guess it's your fault.”

You just rolled your eyes and kissed him, mouth to smiling mouth. 

Your paintings may be yours, made with life and energy and colour, but when they are finished, they don’t move. They are stagnant as a heavy rock beneath a cliffside, washed over and over again by the cresting waves, its salt stolen for the water, eternal damnation to a fate of non-movement. And sometimes an artist will walk under the cliff, shove their easel into the fleshy ground the way a man erects his country’s flag in the earth he has stolen, and paint the rock. The artist is moved by the breathtaking colours of the shore and the way the wind flutters through the grass. But the rock does not budge. It never will. 

Your art will never erupt from the boundaries of the canvas and tell you what it means. The lovers in your painting will not tear open their mouths like the seams holding a wound together. They will not tell you what they want, need, crave. They are you, and that is what you hate—because dimpled flesh and lustful fingers and the press of his mouth to her throat cannot tell you what you’re supposed to do. 

You had become complacent in his love for you. You had let him press his worn hands to your body and pull your soul out through his mouth and you had been a wife, while all the time there was a stranger who occupied his heart, a spirit in an abandoned body. All the time, he'd been haunted. And although you had loved him, your love had not been enough to exorcise the guilt and trauma, pecking at him, an eagle at his liver. 

Crossing the room and sitting back down in front of the easel, you press your fingers to the corner of the canvas. The paint is cool to the touch, and you leave behind fingerprints where your signature should be. Pulling your hand back, you examine the accumulation of colour, the blues and reds swirling into the deep purple of a bruise, the bodies on a canvas that may only ever mean something to you, and you wonder, Is this all I am? A cautionary tale, a love lost? A fucking footnote at the end of a clause that reads: “See, for example, the one who never loved deeply enough to make it count”?

You bring your hand to your face to wipe away the tears beneath your eyes and blink hard at the sting, realising you’ve smeared paint across your cheekbones. 

In the bathroom, you scrub furiously, the cloying scent of it clinging to your throat and your tear ducts, washing away the evidence of their entwined bodies, their love, your pain. 

Once, you tried to get Joel to paint. You sat behind him on your bench, your legs bracketing his hips, your paintbrush in his hand. 

“I don’t know where to start,” he said.

Your lips brushed the shell of his ear as you spoke. “There’s no rulebook.”

He tried to turn his head and kiss you, but you nipped his ear in reproach. “Remember when you took me out driving at the airstrip because you wanted me to feel the road? Think of this like feeling the canvas. Go on, cowboy. Make nothing happen.”

Joel’s painting still hangs over your shared bed. The intruders never found it, or never cared enough to destroy it. It’s a candle, just a candle, its lines imprecise, the paint unevenly applied in places, the shine of the flame more orange than yellow. But it’s a painting, so the candle always burns. He titled it Love. 

The pain still sits low in your chest, pulling down your heart as if tied to it by a string. But Joel is still out there, fighting his way back to you, the way he always has, always will. You look down at your left hand, clutching the edge of the marble vanity, and decide to clean your wedding ring. 

“I’m sorry, brother,” says Tommy, turning the gun on Joel. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” growls Joel, struggling against his bonds. The clip rattles faintly in his brother’s hand as a tremor courses through him. 

“He’s following my orders,” says Cabrera, clapping his hand down on Tommy’s shoulder. “Fascinating what a man will do when he must consider his family’s well-being.”

Joel sucks on his teeth, his eyes not once leaving his brother. 

“It's my son,” Tommy says through his teeth. “It's Maria. If I don't do this—”

“Yeah? You gonna kill me, Tommy? Is that why your hand’s shakin’?”

“Shut your goddamn mouth,” his brother snaps. “You think I want to do this? I gotta save my family, Joel. You know what that's like.”

“All I’ve done for you,” says Joel, his hands curling into fists behind his back, “and you put a bullet in my head?”

“Not just your head, Joel,” says Cabrera. “When we're done with you, we’ll take your pretty girl as payment for my son’s life.”

Joel growls like a dog, blood roaring in his ears. “Kill me yourself, you goddamned coward. Kill me yourself and don’t you mention my wife again, or I swear to Christ—”

“You take His name in vain a lot for a nonbeliever,” says Cabrera, pulling his sleeves through his coat and setting his teeth as he looks toward Tommy once more. “Do it.”

“Yeah, brother,” Joel says darkly, “do it.”

Tommy nods once, planting his foot and pivoting. Five distinct sounds of handguns cocking echo throughout the warehouse as Tommy points the barrel between Manuel Cabrera’s eyes.

“Now that I’ve got a gun to your head,” he says evenly, “you can go ahead and pull that contract.”

Joel at last twists his wrists free of the ropes that bind them and shucks down the sleeves of his jacket to rub the raw skin. Not one soul does a goddamn thing to stop him as he rises to his feet. His chest heaves, his open lungs coarse and wet with a brittle rage, his exposed heart throbbing red, transparent as the stained glass windows of the church.

God does not tolerate anger, said the Sisters, again and again, bringing down the whip across his back. Sinew and bone and skin peeling back to lay bare some tender part of him they sought to rot out. Put your energy into His worship.

Slowly, Cabrera lifts his hands, sneering. “Your wife,” he warns, “and your unborn son—”

“Are family,” says Tommy. “Just like my brother. Now tell your guys to put down their guns and I won't kill you where you stand.”

Joel joins Tommy at his side. “Took you long enough,” he says under his breath. 

“Got held up,” he says. “Your wife’s a good artist.”

“Yeah, whatever. You bring me a gun?”

“I’m sure you can find one yourself.”

“Jesus, Tommy. I’m too old for this.” Joel turns to Cabrera and glares at the same stubborn arrogance that once gleamed in his son’s eye. “You pull the contract, and I’ll leave for good.”

Cabrera’s laugh weans out in the air like rings of smoke. “You think you can really leave, Joel? You think that there won't be consequences for what you've done to my son?”

“Yeah,” says Joel, “I think I’ll take my chances.”

“And you?” Cabrera’s lip curls up at Tommy, whose gun no longer wavers in his grasp. “I promised your wife and child security. You’re willing to throw that away?”

“My wife and child are safe because I don’t take deals from men like you,” says Tommy. “You trusted a Miller to turn on his own blood, Manuel. That was stupid. Now pull the contract.”

“So this is your great suicide mission.” Cabrera smiles, a man who knows he has lost or a man who still expects not to. “A man who has seen Hell does not willingly descend back into its depths—not unless he likes the taste.”

Joel feels the corner of his mouth twitch, a wound on his cheek reopening. “Maybe I do,” he says plainly. “Maybe it’ll taste even better when I take you down with me.”

The gleam in Cabrera’s eye shifts as his gaze flickers behind Tommy. Night has since descended, and yet the predator’s eye glints in anticipation of the hunt. Joel turns and shoves his brother out of the way—just as the shot rings out. 

He hears Tommy’s breath punch out of him as they both hit the concrete hard. Joel tears the handgun from his brother’s grasp and puts a bullet between each of the two men behind them. He rolls behind one of the hulking bodies and holds up his weight as a shield against the incoming bullets. Tommy takes the dead man’s gun and fires at the remaining three assailants. Only one shot misses, but Joel sends his brother a look anyway and finishes the job. 

“Rusty,” grunts Tommy, pushing himself to his feet. 

Joel grimaces as he accepts his brother’s outstretched hand, his wrists bleeding from the relentless rub of the ropes. “He ran,” he says, grinding his teeth. “Goddamn coward. Just like his son.”

“Yeah, you’re welcome, by the way,” says Tommy, giving Joel the dead man’s gun and snatching back his own. “Saved your ass.”

“And he got away.” Joel kicks his chair, and the clattering echo of metal reverberates like a choir off the cavernous walls. His hands flex, open, closed, open, closed, until they make tight fists and he can see nothing but red and the silver moon mocking him through the broken windows high above. 

“Joel…”

For a moment, he hears the young boy his brother once was, whispering across their shared bedroom to him in the middle of the night when they were both meant to be asleep. 

Joel… Are we going to be okay?

“I gotta finish it, Tommy,” he says quietly, his hands shaking loose. Parts of him bite and sting, touched by new and old wounds alike, and he wants to come crawling home to you. He wants to curl into your side and wash away the blood in your cleansing pool, daisy and honeysuckle, some faraway field where you are the warden, where he knocks on the door to be let in, to be gathered, covered in white, buried, unearthed. 

“Was he right?” asks Tommy. “Do you… enjoy this?”

Joel casts his eyes toward the ground, his trembling hand, the gleaming band on his ring finger, his skin speckled with blood but the metal pristine. “I don’t know,” he says. 

This is who you are, Cabrera would tell him. The Sisters: Your place is here, under God, under His word. And God Himself, silent as the air, the ringing in his ears only ever quieted by the soft brush of your knuckle across his cheek, the whisper of My Joel in his ear. 

“Think hard on it,” says Tommy, “because you may like it, but you’ve gotta consider if your revenge is worth more than what you’ve already got. And if you choose wrong, Joel, you’re gonna lose no matter what.”

A figure leans stone-still against the wall by the hotel room door, the gleam of a blade in the soft light the only indication that it is not a mere shadow. 

“Hey, kid,” says the apparition. 

Joel nods in greeting. “Tess. Could get in trouble with that knife out in the open.”

“You expect me to keep your girl safe with just my fists?”

“You make it sound like you couldn’t.” Tess snorts, and Joel places fifteen gold coins in her waiting palm. “I appreciate you doing this.”

Tess peels away from the wall. “You and your brother are paying me good money to babysit a door. I think I can live without the thanks.”

“Still,” he says, “you did us a solid.”

Tess, who itches at the prospect of gratitude as much as any other gun-for-hire, shrugs. “Everyone’s saying you’re coming back. That true?”

“Just visiting,” says Joel. “On my way out soon.”

Tess flips one of the coins and turns it over and over across her knuckles, evidence of a restless energy that’s always made Joel’s eye twitch. “One way or another, huh?” she says.

“One way or another.” He shakes her hand and watches her retreat down the hall, still twirling the godforsaken coin, before he turns toward the door. Joel presses his forehead briefly to the cool wood and turns the key to seek the field that awaits him.

A key rustles in the door and Joel steps through, closing it gently behind him. Judging by the quiet click of the lock, he expects you to be asleep, but you jolt upright from your seat in the alcove and cross the room toward him.

He meets you halfway, his right hand flexing at his side. You inspect him: the gash on his cheek, the bruise on his jaw, the blood splattered on his white shirt. He makes no footfalls as he walks but you can hear every stride like thunder between your ears. You feel his hand at the back of your neck, cool from the night air, rough as the underside of a shark’s belly.

The moment coils taut between you as your hand reaches up to grab the lapel of his jacket, and he smells of iron, cologne, Joel, some paint. Maybe that smell is you, stuck underneath your fingernails, embedded in your blood. Maybe this is a mistake, maybe you could never help but fall, maybe it never mattered anyway, and you’re already snipping the final thread, unwinding the spool, and kissing Joel Miller like it’s the first time. 

He let out a small groan, tasting the first drop of water in a drought, steadying you with his arm around your waist, his hand cradling your head. He’s gentle, exploratory, careful not to jostle, to shock you out of it. You feel his heartbeat thud, strong, calm, steady behind his clothing and skin and muscle, and your body caves.

It’s coming home, you realise, your arms snaking around his neck, fingers tousling the messy curls on his head. It's the warm press of his hand to your spine where it begins to curve inward. It's a soft mouth, a plush lower lip, made for slow mornings and black coffee, for the aching release of a thumb pressing deep into a muscle knot, a wound. Old aches soothed in the space where bodies meet, beginning to colour the slate-grey world. 

It’s the exchange of gasping breaths when you pull apart, his mouth still vaguely chasing yours, opposite charge. 

You hold him tighter, swallowing the lump in your throat, your hands squeezing his shoulders. "Are you…"

Joel inclines his head. "Yeah."

"Did he..."

"Yeah."

Need pulses. Supernova. Bright as the moment of obliteration. "Can you—"

He nods vigorously. "Yeah."

Joel’s kisses are like raindrops: velvet-soft to the touch—his hands bringing the hem of your shirt up over your head, his fingertips scorching, branding, grazing the supple swells of your breasts—before the crescendo roars in your ears and he loses himself to the storm. He always does. 

There is nothing reserved about the way he shows his love. Lightning crackles across your skin where he touches you, baring you to him, his lips making a map of you, mouthing at your jaw, your throat. You hear yourself hum at the press of his lips to the spot beneath your ear, detaching from your own body, absconding with the pleasure of being close to him and leaving the fucking world behind. 

Joel staggers forward so he can press you to the wall and begins to sink to his knees. Your breath catches as he pulls down your ratty bottoms, your cotton panties, his mouth burning into your hips and your belly and the ring on your finger. 

“Joel,” you say brokenly as he clutches your fingers. Tears prickle, pressure building behind your nose, and he shakes his head, unfurling your palm like a bud in bloom and kissing its heel. Wordlessly, you watch him, your eyes shuttering, blood singing. 

Don't hurt me again. 

He understands even though the words cannot come alive on your tongue. He squeezes your hips, his thumbs dumpling your flesh, his forehead falling to your belly. 

“I’m yours,” he says. “I’m whatever you want.”

Your legs haven't forgotten the way they part so easily for him, one thigh on his shoulder, opening the core of you to his waiting mouth. His lips part, his tongue wetting them, glistening, and your stomach tightens at the sight of his eyes so black. 

You could easily cower. His hands are stained with blood. His knuckles are split. But your terror has become an arid thing, no kindling to burn, no oil to ignite. Watching him now, as eager to please as he always has been or maybe more so, on his knees like a supplicant, the hairs on your arms do not rise in apprehension. Your body does not squirm in fear. You see a broad horizon, the sun outside spilling its golden blood over the city, and you see all of him in a way you never did before. 

He’s Joel, who grew up in darkness, lashed and beaten for not believing in a false god. He’s a man who has lied and killed and yet he is no liar, no killer. He holds you as he always has, your body liquid in his hands, your mouth proclaiming the word he will follow. You're the truth he's always told. 

It still unsettles you to see the dark eclipse that warm brown, to watch his desire consume the hypnotic shapes in his irises, and wonder if that cavernous black was the last thing so many men saw before he snuffed out their lives. But there's nothing of the death shudder in the way you guide your fingers through his hair and beg him—

“Please.”

He brings his mouth to your core and parts your folds with his thumbs, slowly gliding his warm, wet tongue through your slit. You die a hundred little deaths in the split-second of that first touch, that first agony.

You sigh, your head thudding against the wall as he licks through you, his hands holding your hips in place, keeping you from writhing. Joel flicks his tongue over the sensitive pearl of your clit, the pleasure searing, and you tug at his curls to push him away even as you cry out, More, please, please. God, I need more.

He obeys you as easily as breathing, though you suspect he can barely hear your pleas, opening his mouth and flattening his hot tongue to your clit. You gasp, your core pulling taut, your eyes locking with his as the muscle undulates over, over, and over again. 

“Oh,” you whimper, your hips bucking to meet his face. He groans, his mouth working your clit, closing his lips over it and sucking. You cry out, your leg kicking, the sounds of the world muffled in his stifling closeness. Your thighs begin to ache, tensing and relaxing a hundred times over in the throes of his attention. 

And his fingers are gliding across your hip, seeking the warmth between your legs. You gasp his name, your hips flexing, as he collects your wetness on two fingers. 

“Let me in, baby,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to your puffy clit. It relaxes you enough to welcome the press of his fingers inside you, sinking to the knuckle, curling up against the spot he would know in his sleep. 

You whine, your body keening toward him, tugging his face back toward your pussy. He obliges with a quiet moan, and you think he needs this just as badly. 

The obscene squelch of his fingers inside you rings in your ears as he licks and sucks at your clit, his free hand grabbing desperately at your ass to keep you fixed to him. You’re crying, “Yesyesyes, Joel, please—fuck, that's it,” the pleasure stuck in the grooves of your brain. Absentmindedly, you reach for his hand and clasp it tight, your engagement ring digging into his palm. He holds you with the same fervour as he coaxes you higher, his face buried in your pussy. He grunts and groans like it's his own pleasure he seeks, his battered knuckles stinging. 

“Joel… Joel, oh, I’m…”

He knows, of course, from the telltale squeeze of your thighs around his head, the relentless crushing of his fingers in your own, your body tightening for him, cavitating, unwinding—

You come with a shout, your throat raw, writhing in his grasp as he keeps sucking, keeps licking, rubbing, pressing. You're dizzy by the time your head lolls to the side, your muscles twitching, eyes glazed, and Joel is there, pulling his fingers out just to place them on his tongue and swallow you down. 

Your breath rattles through your lungs. Joel presses his lips to your inner thigh, beard soaked in your arousal, moustache glistening. His mouth soothes your sore muscles and your eyes begin to droop. 

“You need a shower,” you say, your tongue like lead in your mouth. You gently pass your thumb over a cut on his cheek and frown. “You're all bloody.”

He nuzzles his face against your thigh, inhaling you. “I know.”

“You were gone so long.” Your voice quivers, pressure prickling behind the bridge of your nose. “I thought…”

Joel rises to his feet, his hands cradling your face. “I’m all right,” he says. “I’m here, and I’m safe, and I’m so goddamn sorry.”

You shake your head, pressing your lips together so the sob will not escape. Tracing his face with your fingers, broken in places, healing in others, you see the echo of a boy who didn't know his place in the world. You see the haunt of days gone by. A ghost still occupies the cage of his ribs. 

“I think you should tell the little boy that still lives here,” you say, putting your hand on his chest. “Tell him he’s alive. Tell him that he made it.”

Joel lowers his head, watching the way your fingers splay over his heart. He puts his hand on yours and pushes, and you feel the strong thump-thump-thump of his heartbeat. 

“He knows.”

You lean forward and put your mouth to his temple. “Shower, Joel,” comes your whisper in his ear. 

He nods, wrapping his arm around your waist and guiding you into the bathroom. The water hits you both true, scalding, the drain circled with red. He’s naked, his back to you as he sets his hair and lets his wounds bleed what they need to. 

You lift your hands and trail them down his broad shoulders, your forehead dropping between his shoulder blades where your name is inked into his back. Joel’s muscles idly flex, his palm flat against the shower wall. His body shudders when you press your lips to the name on his back. 

Wordlessly, you bring your arms around him, caressing his side, careful of the new bruises. Your other hand drops to his steel-hard cock and you begin to slowly stroke him. The noise that wrenches free from his throat is half pleasure, half agony, his hips bucking into your fist. You bump your nose against his back, your years-old sign to Just relax, and Joel hides his face in his bicep as you work your hand over him.

“G—fuck,” he grunts. “Goddamn… honey, I—”

You squeeze him at the base and twist your hand up and down the length of him, the weight warm and heavy, your thumb coaxing out a bead of precum. Your cheek is warm on his back, your arm struggling to reach around the width of him, your chest humming at the sound of his gruff moans. 

“Let me…” He cuts himself off as you speed up your strokes, and you can feel his abdomen tense. “Fuck, let me make you feel good. Shit… let me…”

“Joel,” you say, “for once, stop trying to be my hero.”

His head falls back and you press your lips to his throat, nibbling the sensitive spot behind his ear: the old scar, that tiny circle, that hairless patch. He groans your name, and you’re smiling despite yourself, your mouth curling against his warm, tender skin. 

“Inside me,” you whisper, the pace of your fingers over his length slowing to a crawl. “Remind me how it feels.”

He turns his head to look into your eyes, his lashes dewy, blinking hard to flick away the water, brow furrowed. His moustache bristles as his lips part in a question he does not (or maybe cannot) articulate, and you’re fractured into pieces by the intricate curve of his nose, the freckles on his jaw, the silver strands in his beard. A rough hand cups the back of your neck and another takes you by the waist, and you’re flattened to the wall, your hand braced on the glass next to you as he kisses you deeply. 

Consuming, heady, warm—you give in, your hands avoiding the delicate skin of his wrists where he’s been bound, helpless. Sighing softly into his mouth, you let his kiss humble the part of you that still needs the walls you’ve built from the marrow of your anger. It circles the drain, lead-filled paint, as you remember under his hands how it feels to live.

You reach between your bodies, your leg wrapping around his waist, and slide the head of his cock through your weeping slit. Joel sucks in air through his teeth, the water lashing his back like a whip, and he surges forward, grasping you by the waist and sinking his cock into your tight hole. 

You cry out his name, burying your face in his throat and baring your teeth. Your name leaves his mouth in kind, an apparition, sounds you barely recognise anymore. As you take him inside you, the memory of who you were with him pounds at your ribcage, begging to be let out. And you covet them, selfish as you are now for fucking him this way, needy and impatient, your fingers tugging his wet locks. 

You see no point in scooping out the marrow; there is still sweetness stuck to the bones of your old life with him. Instead, you coat your teeth in this, the slow drag of his cock, the depths he reaches so easily, so knowingly. His fingers prod the bruised flesh of your hurt and yet you still guide him inside. You still pull his hair and kiss his throat where his Adam’s apple bobs and you still let him hold you close enough to splinter. 

He’s grabbing fistfuls of your ass and sucking on your throat, his thrusts sloppy as he tries to hold back, to make you come first, but you tighten, clenching down on him, making his groans pitch up into whines. 

“Joel,” you gasp, your needy fingers prickling his scalp where you pull his hair. His teeth graze your throat and you want him to bite, you want him to sink in deep, you want his jaws to latch onto your skin. You want him never to leave again. 

He comes hard. His hips buck, pushing so deep he disappears into your body, and you see the blues, browns, reds of your painting as he empties all he has left inside you. 

Panting, he drops his head to your breast, his open mouth still scattering weak, worn kisses over your skin. Your lungs expand under his palms, fingers stuck in the grooves between your ribs, his body an offshoot of yours, not the other way around. In the ringing afterlife of your pleasure, you vaguely feel him mouthing words you cannot hear. You run your fingers through his hair and enjoy the battering of the scorching water as it melts you both into one.

Later, in the sticky, humid silence of the bathroom, steam still swirling around your heads, fogging the glass, you trim Joel’s hair.

"Do you ever get scared?" you ask him, the shhhick of the scissors gliding across a chunk of his hair. "Do you ever go out on a job and think to yourself, What if I slip? What if this is it?"

Joel huffs. "It's not so much about myself as making sure the other guy goes down first."

“I think I’d be scared.” You twirl a lock of hair around your finger and let it fall over his forehead. “I don’t think I’d be able to look into someone’s eyes and take their life.”

He casts his eyes to his lap, flicking off some hair from his thigh. “One time, I thought it was over. I wasn’t quite seventeen yet, runnin’ drugs for some gangster. He sent me to El Sauzal to discreetly transport a couple kilos out of the city; someone had snitched and he didn’t want any rival gangs to find his stash. But the people there, they… They didn’t know any better. There were mothers, kids. Innocent people, y’know? Just strays. I decided I’d come back for ‘em.”

Your stomach twists. “What happened?”

A muscle in his jaw ticks. “I was too late. By the time I got back, the whole goddamn city was on fire. The people were either dead in the streets or close to it. They didn’t do anythin’ wrong. They didn’t ask for any of it. But they were weaker, slower. I couldn’t walk ten feet without seein’ some kid wrapped up his mother’s arms, burned to a fucking crisp. So, I came back with weapons, marched into the gang’s territory, and I killed ‘em all.”

Days ago, you’d be afraid of the man whose back warms your belly where you stand just behind him. You would hesitate to reach out and put your hand on his shoulder the way you do now. But you curl your fingers over the muscled curve of his arm and his head falls back against you, spidering open, his gooey molten centre bared for you.

Joel. Just Joel. 

“Did you see the painting?” you ask him quietly. 

“I see everything you do,” he says. “It's beautiful, baby.”

You drop your gaze from his face in the mirror and set down the scissors on the vanity. “I can't pretend to understand what you've been through, Joel, and that makes things even harder. All I've ever wanted is to love you, to take your pain, and all this time there's been so much I never even knew about. And I’m sorry.”

Joel’s hand comes to cover yours, clasping your fingers. They’re warm, rough, but you do not sense the phantom blood. “If I’d told you from the beginning,” he says, “maybe I never would've hurt you in the first place. All those years I thought I was protecting you from myself, I was hurting you—the one thing I swore I would never fuckin’ do.”

“Joel…”

“Baby, don't apologise to me,” he says firmly, putting his lips to your knuckles. “Never apologise to me. And don't you let me off easy.”

“Have I ever?” you say with a halfhearted smile. 

“Yeah,” he says, “the day you let me marry you.”

You scoff. “Oh, please. Wedding planning was hell on earth for you.”

“Just because I didn't like the photographer—”

“You didn't not like the photographer, Joel. You wanted to draw and quarter the photographer.” 

He huffs like an angry dog, frowning at you in the mirror. “He kept puttin’ his goddamn hands on you.”

You laugh, brushing your thumb over the patch in his beard to indicate you're finished. “He was posing us, cowboy.”

Joel rises to his feet and closes the scissors away inside the drawer. “Posin’ you, sure.”

“He was afraid to touch you. Probably thought you’d take off his hand. And the pictures turned out great.”

“Yeah,” he says, a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Way the sunlight caught in your hair, your eyes… I don't know. Beautiful.”

He was so shy the first time you kissed him. Cheeks flushed, eyes cast toward the ground, the wind ruffling his curls where it blew over the water. He was made in an artist’s image, you thought that night, the details pored over like paperwork, the sparkle in his eyes something the painter covets. But the portrait has never wilted in the years you've known him. It's grown older, sure, but it is not old. He's still shy sometimes; he still looks down when he smiles, and he still turns his cheek when you tell him he's beautiful. 

“Do you…” He rubs his palms over his thighs, looking up at you through his lashes. “Do you wish you could go back?”

It's your turn to sit. You drop into his chair, your arms curling over the back of the seat, and watch him on his journey to his knees. “I don't know, Joel,” you tell him. “I think about that day and part of me wants the magic of it back. I want the breeze and the sun and the white canopy and I want you sliding this ring on my finger. But knowing what I know now…”

“You wouldn't have married me,” he says like it's the only answer. His eyes are wet and sad and they sparkle so bright in the day. 

“I wish I’d known,” you say plainly, bringing his hand to your cheek and resting it over the cool wedding band. “I wish you would have told me everything. I wish you didn't make me question your love, even for a second. I wish you could have spared me all this anger I have—all this pain.”

He’s stone-still, a figure in a portrait, and you brush your fingers across his cheek. “But killing isn't what you are, Joel. It’s what you do. And I’m so tired of being angry.”

You say it fiercely, your tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth, your throat tightening. You swipe your thumbs under your eyes and meet your husband’s eye. “I love you more than my anger and my hurt have room for. And if I can love you this hard, if I can feel all this pain and still be that same girl who fell for the guy from the restaurant, then I can let myself get hurt all over again.”

Joel shakes his head, cupping your face in his hands as his eyes brim with tears. “Oh, baby…” 

“I know it's never been an easy marriage,” you say, your voice breaking, “and I’m always travelling, and I know that I can get snippy and we bicker, but I wouldn't go back to that day, Joel, because I wouldn't change anything. Even if I have to feel all of this again, I wouldn't take it all back.”

His inhale shudders through him and your heart lurches out of your chest. “I don’t deserve that,” he whispers, his thumb stroking your cheek, catching a tear that falls. “I’ve hurt you too much to ever be worthy of what you've given me, sweetheart. I ain't a good man, or even a decent one. But fuck, if I can be good for you, I’ll pray to whatever God they want me to. I’ll scrape my knees and put my hands together and fake it ‘til I’m someone you want. I swear it, baby.”

“Joel.” You gently pry his hands away. “The life you've lived, the things you've been through… I can't change any of it. I can't be what you need all the time, and fuck, I want to be. I do, Joel. But this life is something you have to figure out yourself. Nobody should force you to believe in something that's only ever caused you pain.”

He never told you about the tattoo; you had to find it yourself. Shucking the hem of his shirt up over his head, two weeks separating the last time you’d been able to indulge in his body, you trailed your fingers up his back and paused at the sound of him hissing through his teeth. 

“Easy, cowboy,” you cooed. “Are you all right?”

Wordlessly, he turned, taking your hand and lifting it to the reddish skin around the black ink. You gasped, your fingers jolting backward as if struck by a feeler of lightning. 

“Joel,” you said tremulously, “please don't tell me you were drunk and this was an impulse decision.”

“Guys in the Marines would get tattoos that meant somethin’ to them. Easier to carry around with you when you're away.” Joel met your gaze again, your tearful eyes, and brought your knuckles to his mouth. “Tell me you want it gone, and it's gone.”

You shook your head, a laugh snaking past the lump in your throat. “Selfishly, I think it’s very sexy.”

He chuckled, kissing the breath from your lungs. 

The memory is heavy in your stomach. It's something you'll have to roll around in your mouth a thousand times before the taste begins to dissolve. 

“I need time, Joel,” you tell him. “I need to wrap my head around things. I… I can't be the girl you want right now.”

Joel brushes his thumb over your chin. “You have always been the girl I want,” he says. “If you need time, you have it. If you need a warm body, you have it. I’m whoever you want me to be. And if it ain't a husband, then… then that's okay. But I can’t promise you that I won't stop tryin’ to get my wife back. That’s not who I am.”

You sniffle, twirling the ring on his finger. “You’ll get sick of it. The waiting.”

He smiles so softly that you can feel a bud begin to bloom in the core of you, nourished by the way he keeps his hand on your thigh, absently rubbing the sore muscles there.  “I waited my whole life for someone like you to come along—someone who could give me the purpose I’d been lookin’ for. I can wait another lifetime. I can wait a thousand.” 

“You’ll resent me. You’ll start to hate me.” You don't know why it comes pouring out of you, but the gates are brittle wood and they snapped in the torrent. “I’m an angry drunk. I smell like paint half the time. I travel for work.”

Joel just studies your face, some inexplicable calm etching out the agony. “You take your coffee with milk and sugar and you can't stand it black, but you make it that way for me anyway. You sleep until noon when you're jet lagged and I sit up in bed just to watch you dream. You lie in my arms on the couch at home and ask me about my day even when you're noddin’ off. You dreamed about love when you were a little girl, the way it happens in books. You told me in your wedding vows that you'd found it with me. You think I could resent a girl like that?”

He smiles like it hurts and heals all at once, like it's a foregone conclusion, like you were meant to be loved by him. 

“Time doesn't mean a goddamn thing. I know the girl I see in front of me now. Time won't change how much I love her.”

Flipping through the list of potential venues, Joel tucked into your side, you said, “We’ll have an outdoor ceremony. No churches.”

“Baby, I won't burst into flames if I step inside a church.” Joel playfully flicked his tongue over your nipple, obscured by his T-shirt. “Tommy, on the other hand… things he's done…”

You laughed, gently pushing at his head. “No churches,” you said again. “I don't care how much more we’ll have to pay or travel to get around it. You're my husband. You're my comfort, and I want to be what's comfortable for you. Understood?”

He looked up at you, his lips parted as if on the precipice of speech. You beamed, bringing his face to yours and kissing him deeply. 

“But if the wind knocks over the gazebo, you're not getting your dick inside me on our wedding night,” you said against his mouth. Joel shook his head, yanking you on top of him and tearing the shirt from your body. Your binder landed with a flutter of loose pages to the floor. 

“You didn't kill Cabrera.”

Joel lowers his eyes. “No. He got away.”

“So there's still a contract on your head.”

“For now.”

“So,” you say with a sigh, crossing the room and digging through your bag, “you have to go.”

“I have to go,” he echoes, following you like a shadow. “No matter what… I’m finishing it. Tonight.”

You pull the switchblade from your bag, open Joel’s fist, and place the cool wood hilt in his palm. 

“Goddammit, Tommy,” he says under his breath. “He shouldn't have…”

“But he did,” you say. “He said I should be the one to have it. I think it should be yours.”

He curls his fingers over the hilt and flicks open the blade. It's light, but it seems to weigh him down. You rest your hand over his. 

“Do what you need to do.”

He drops his forehead to yours and closes his eyes, soaking in this final breath exchanged between your silent bodies, dipping his fingers in the sanctified waters and coming out unscalded. 

Bill calls Joel not a moment after he steps onto the street outside the Continental. 

“That's a heavy price on your head.”

“Yeah, Bill, I know.” He breathes in the cool air, like cigarette smoke, his nostrils stinging. Trash and a new, fresh breeze carried into the city. Nothing that stays here ever thrives. “Stayed alive so far.”

“So I hear,” grunts the Manager, “and leaving behind a hell of a lot of cleanup.”

“I won't stick you with the check,” says Joel. “It's my business.”

“I don't conduct business inside this hotel,” says Bill, “which is why I won't tell you that a certain helicopter at a certain helipad is refuelling as we speak.”

Joel smirks, flicking out his cuff to check the time. “Any reason why you aren't tellin’ me this?”

“I like you, Joel. Despite myself.” 

Silent, he waits for more. 

“Besides,” Bill continues, “we live and die by honour. And you've saved my ass more than once.”

Joel snorts. “Which time are you thankin’ me for?”

“Just take my goddamn advice and leave this world. For good this time.”

“I will,” says Joel. “One way or another. Thanks, Bill.”

High above the ground, sitting in the alcove by the window, you watch storm clouds gather over the city, darkening the sky, the sun, and your Joel, so far away, slouching calmly toward whatever end he will choose. 

It's raining. 

The first time you kissed him, a downpour suddenly swept up the both of you and you'd scrambled underneath a bridge by the water. You both laughed until your ribs were sore, holding hands as you ran, a soaking wet playbill above each of your heads for cover. 

“At least the show was good,” you shouted over the roar of the rainfall. 

Joel was mesmerised into stillness by the colours of the traffic lights in your eyes, how they shifted over the planes of your face. Starting to think like an artist, you'd tease, and he'd lean into it, a planet circling its sun. 

“It was all right,” he said, taking the playbill from your hand. “You could catch a cold. We should get a cab.”

“Always my hero.” You grinned up at him, your eyes scanning his face in that particular way they did, as if ingesting the sight of him to later put the lines to a canvas. “Did you have a good time, Joel? I mean, really. You won't offend me.”

He grimaced. “I, uh… well, see, I’m not the best judge, and… I guess—”

“Joel.”

There was a gleam in your eyes that could have been amusement or could have been hunger. He doesn't remember. He only saw you tilt your chin and lower your eyes to his mouth, to that one place the Sisters always called vulgar, obscene, a place meant only for His word—

“Can I kiss you, Joel Miller, or will you keep being all heroic?”

It was soft, gentle, exploratory. Your mouth opened his like a wound, setting the scorching blade of your lips to the gash, staunching the blood. You healed and burned him, one hand on his back beneath his jacket, the other cupping his face. It reminded him of the statue that lived in the theatre underneath the church where all the boys and girls trained. An angel cast in white marble, cradling the face of Saint Eustace. The statue was chipped where his eye was meant to be. 

He remembers the way he shuddered when you touched him like that. He remembers the chill that started in his feet and crept up his spine. Something like coming alive, settling back into his own body—no longer a spirit haunting the shell of a home but a man. 

You pulled back, but Joel curled his hand around the back of your neck and kissed you again, deeper, maybe a little too eager, too inexperienced—but you gasped, fingers curling in his hair, your body curving into his. Your noses bumped when you separated, and he remembers laughing. 

The rain is nothing like that night. It's the lash of a whip across his face, seeping colour from the world instead of infusing it with light and movement. The water by the docks slaps against the concrete and boats rock and groan against their mooring. The lights of the city are distant now. 

Joel steps out of the car. 

He marches toward his target, cocking the pistol in his hand, and calls out a name. It gets lost in the roll of thunder across the sky and lodges in his chest. 

Cabrera waits on the landing pad, looking wraithlike in a long black coat and a pair of leather gloves. His pilot fuels the helicopter nearby. Neither of them hear Joel’s voice in the air. The rising sun is what gives him away—or maybe the gunshot, as he lifts his arm and pulls the trigger. 

It does not pierce flesh. It ricochets off one of the rotor blades. He had aimed slightly to the left. 

The pilot scampers off into hiding, but the slash of the bullet through the rainfall is enough to get the attention Joel wants. Cabrera reaches inside the lining of his jacket and fires a single shot. Joel can feel it tear through skin and muscle, but it doesn't hurt. 

“Joel,” greets Cabrera. 

“Manuel.” 

His chest heaves, his jacket soaked through, the cold sinking bone-deep. 

“Let's finish this.”

The glimmer in those depthless black eyes is the panther at the hunt, relentless in its hunger, licking its chops at the sight of a challenge. For all the coward’s blood in his veins, it still pulses at the prospect of winning. 

“Like men,” says Cabrera, tossing his gun aside at the same time Joel does. “With honour. No more guns.”

And it's laughable: the thought that there is any honour left in a world like this. A world where children are beaten and lashed and trained to hold a weapon too big for their hands. A world that burns villages, butchers families, and still claims that without rules, we live with the animals. 

A world as unruly as this cannot be ruled. He never truly considered it until he saw the sad gleam in your eye, felt the empathetic touch of your hand on his face, and began to realise that maybe he should be furious. 

But because he already knows he's going to win, Joel lets his opponent land the first blow. 

The blood is tangy, near-sweet, as he swipes his forearm over his mouth and smears crimson on his shirtsleeve. It tingles faintly on his lips and crackles, warm as the melt from a late-winter snow. He feels it settle in the grooves of his palms, the hairs of his beard. He’s drowning in it. 

Cabrera hits hard, but he’s slow. He’ll take five punches in the time it takes to wind up for one. Joel brings his arm up to block the next and delivers a blow to the sternum with his knee as his opponent’s guard drops. Wide open, Cabrera stumbles a few steps back, choking down the telltale wheeze of being winded. Joel marches forward, relentless in his crusade, grasping him by the scruff of his neck, teeth bared like a mad wild dog, and bears his skull down on the side of the railing. Around them, the wind howls and lashes at his clothes, but he still hears the pained scream as if it were poured into his ears. 

Cabrera drops to his knees, and Joel grabs him again, bashing his head repeatedly against the steel bar, the lapel of an Italian leather coat bunching between his fingers, tainted by rainwater and the fist of the man who's come to take his life. 

And fuck, Joel wants to make it last. 

But there's a knife in his opponent’s hand, conjured from the darkness of his coat pocket, and Joel must release him to avoid the lethal slash of the blade. Blinking blood and lashing rain from his eyes, the man lunges with a snarl, and Joel recovers from his lost victory, stopping him with his fingers curled around his opponent’s wrist. He brings his hand to the crook of Cabrera’s elbow and uses his leverage to snap the bone.

Yowling, Cabrera drops to his haunches, the knife clattering to the ground. Joel, chest heaving, stands over him, flexing his fingers as he readies his fist for the killing blow.

His name leaves Cabrera’s bloodied mouth, accompanied by a mouthful of crimson-tainted saliva spat on the ground at Joel’s feet. 

“Joel…” He lifts his head, cradling his broken arm, and sneers. There’s a chilling glow of satisfaction in it. “Did you get your perfect life, Joel? Do you really think you’ve won? It won’t ever stop. Not after you’ve killed me, not after you’ve killed all of them. Is that what you’re going to do? Kill them all?”

He could. He has done far worse. He has spilled blood for gold coins and superficial alliances and someone else's revenge. He has stalked, stolen, lied, killed, and he could finish this now, so easily, with the flick of a blade. 

But the song of death does not call to him now. 

For so long he had trudged, unmoored, through heavy crimson blood. Like pulling at the seams of velvet, he'd sewn more lives into the sea of red and he never looked behind him to see the souls trying to pull him down at the ankles. He didn't know purpose until he saw the way the candlelight flickered in your eyes, until he tilted his head to the side and realised your smile was a new kind of beautiful from each angle. 

The rain sticks to his lashes and he thinks of an old song of prayer the Sisters used to chant. He remembers curling his fingers around one of the rosaries that hung from the large cross in the cathedral and wincing in anticipation. He thought he would burn—that the metal would leave a red stain on his palm. It never did. 

Maybe that's why he never believed. Surely, if there was a God, Joel Miller would have burned by now. 

He thinks of shopping for furniture and date nights and lazy mornings, tangled in bedsheets. Your mouth, smiling against his, whispering I love you across the breakfast table. Dancing—or swaying, more like—under the kitchen light. Loving easily, never feeling as if he must grab hold of the cross and burn himself upon it just to feel. 

Joel turns the switchblade in his hand, lurches forward, and plunges the knife into Cabrera’s chest. 

There is no noise but a faint gurgle from his mouth, his hand weakly rising to grasp the hilt. Joel drops to his knees and fishes Cabrera’s cell phone from his pocket. 

“The blade is stuck in your aorta,” he says. “If you pull it out, you’ll bleed out and die.” He puts the rain-slick screen in front of Cabrera’s face. “Pull the contract.”

A few feeble taps are all it takes, and Joel Miller is no longer a target. His name glares back at him on the screen, from two million to nothing, not the boogeyman any longer but something akin to a civilian. Joel tosses the phone into the water and turns to leave. 

“See you in hell, Joel,” Cabrera chokes, still grasping the shiny wooden hilt of the blade.

He barely hauls himself into the car, which chokes to a rumbling start. There's blood seeping through his shirt where Cabrera shot him, and his fingers shake as they pull away from the wound, the red so bright, so alive. Joel grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut. 

If there’s a God, he thinks, I hope you fucking hear me now. 

Tell me that we don’t get what we deserve. Because there is nothing I deserve in this world if I cannot keep what I’ve found.

His fingers trembling, smearing blood across the screen, he makes a call. 

And your voice on the line, soft, sticky with sleep, whispering his name—just his name: Joel?—is what wrenches the first sob from his throat. 

Joel, you say, like it means something, like it's precious. A jewel pressed from dusty black coal. Come back to me. Come home. 

So he does. 

[katierosefun]

my cancelled-able trait from the queer community would be that i really apparently love messy endings. i love u happy endings and i also love u such sad, messy, ambiguous endings . . . i love u endings where u have this weird pit in the bottom of your stomach because you know that there's love here but u have no idea what to do with it and u just have to deal with the fact that someone is profoundly affecting your life and you're not gonna get closure from it anytime soon . . . i love u queer love stories where it's really just "u don't always get to see the sunshine and rainbows at the end of it . . . sometimes all that's left is just one big question mark and the quiet hope that they get their shit together" . . .

[teamatsumu]

L&DS BOYS - LOVE LANGUAGES

content warnings: fem!reader, fluff, sfw headcanons

XAVIER - PHYSICAL TOUCH

Xavier knows he is smart, and witty enough. But when things get a little too real, he finds it hard to express himself.

And the feelings he has for you are the most genuine ones he has felt in his long, long life.

While he might not be someone who can wax poetic about his affection for you, he shows it in other ways, and physical touch in his favorite way to get his feelings across.

When you walk next to each other, he sticks close, arm brushing against yours. Occasionally, the back of his hand makes contact with your own. It's almost as if the tension builds and builds, until he finally connects your fingers, either intertwining your hands together or linking his pinkie with yours. No words leave his mouth. His touch says enough.

If the train is too crowded, he will pull you closer to him with a firm touch on the small of your back, making sure you don’t receive any unwanted bumps from strangers.

For a few weeks in your relationship, he developed a strange habit of pinching your cheeks and lightly pulling on them. You let him do it, knowing he would eventually move on and find some other part of you to focus on. Though the action did make your face heat up.

Another weird hyperfixation he has is nibbling at your fingertips absentmindedly. He plays with them often, but when he is distracted by a movie you two are watching, he will bite at them every so often. Sometimes, he is so focused on the screen that you doubt he even realizes what he is doing.

(He realizes. He just thinks every part of you deserves love. Don’t question it. It makes sense in his head.)

Cuddling with him is the perfect gift for your senses, stimulating you wonderfully.

Small nips on your skin, little lingering touches. He traces your skin with eager yet gentle hands, as if trying to memorize every curve and dip.

He buries his face in your neck and breathes in deep, and in that moment, bodies tangled with each other and the sheets, vulnerable and open, he will whisper, “I love you”.

It’s an affirmation more than a revelation, since his actions up until this point have all shown you that he really, truly does love you. So you whisper it back, trying to pour all your love into it, before slotting your lips together and using physical touch to convey your feelings right back.

RAFAYEL - WORDS OF AFFIRMATION

Rafayel is, in the simplest of terms, a yapper.

This man could talk for hours if you don’t stop him. About his art, about the meaning of life, about his experiences. He can express so much while also having an impeccable talent of being completely vague. Sometimes, you don’t even understand the things he says. And you’ve given up trying to decipher his every word.

But when Rafayel is talking about you, he makes himself abundantly clear. There’s no ambiguity about it; he loves you. And he will say it a million different times in a million different ways. Whether it be a bold declaration of how much his heart yearns for you, or endless teasing that is meant to rile you up and get a reaction out of you.

“I don’t think your talent lies in art, babe. It’s a good thing you’re a walking art piece yourself. No wonder I’m in love with you.”

“You’re leaving so soon? But I don’t think I’ve admired you enough for today. Don’t leave me!”

I’m impressed, Miss Bodyguard. You’re talented, and easy on the eyes. No wonder you captivated me from that very first day we met.”

Expect to wake up with a lot of voice notes on your phone. Minutes long. Sometimes rambling, sometimes actual ideas for new pieces that he wants to run by you. You better reply to all of them individually.

When you cuddle at night, you can talk for hours. No topic on earth is off limits with him. He will lay you down on a blanket on the beach, and as you watch the stars, he will tell you stories from olden times about star crossed lovers and tragic fairy tales. And he will turn to you, tell you how beautiful you are, how ardently he loves you, how he will never forget any moment he spends with you.

It’s almost like you can tell the exact moment he falls in love with you. Because he tells you. He never stops telling you. He voices his fears of you leaving him, he makes you promise you will never go away. He is clingy and he is whiny, and he is so endearing.

It’s hard to dismiss him when he is so loud about his love. And it’s hard to not fall for him just as he falls for you.

ZAYNE - ACTS OF SERVICE

This is an indisputable fact. Dr Zayne shows his love through acts of service.

He is intensely aware of your needs, and is miles ahead of you in determining what you require at any given moment.

It’s his way of showing you that he cares. He worries for you, and born from that worry is the urge to take care of you.

If you have had a long day, you will come home to a text from him saying he has ordered takeout and it will arrive at your house shortly, since he knows you are too exhausted to cook anything. It is always something different, but it is always food that he knows you enjoy. He will mix it with some healthy options too.

If you ever crash at his place, you will wake up to a tall glass of water and two aspirin on the side table, along with a note in his neat handwriting telling you that there is fresh cooked breakfast in the oven (he made it before he left for work).

Once you two are in a steady relationship, he keeps his house stocked with products you use. A spare shampoo and conditioner, toothbrush, a bathrobe of your size, a hair brush, you name it.

When you mumble something about the hand cream in your purse that is nearly running out, you will find a brand new tube next time you open the purse, and there is no need to even ask. You know Zayne put it there.

He is intensely observant. Even after knowing him for so long, it catches you off guard. He knows which of your clothes need to be dry cleaned and which ones are good for the washing machine. He knows which scents you use. Which products are harsher on your skin. He knows that contacts irritate your eyes after long hours of wearing them, so he keeps a small bottle of eye drops in your side table for that very purpose.

He scolds you for neglecting yourself, and he won’t hold back the harsh tone if he thinks your behavior is particularly destructive. To him, the best way to show love is to make sure your beloved is living the best life they can.

It is the littlest things, the tiniest details. And it shocks you, even after so long.

[dragonseeds]

do you have any thoughts on daenys the dreamer?

extremely fun and obvious play on the cassandra figure. a version where her family not only believes her but venerates her visions and prophecies—like, she saves them and a handful of dragons and, in doing so, the world, but it also curses her bloodline. the thing that once saved them becomes an obsession that consumes them literally in wildfire. the idea that you can be doomed by believing in and actively trying to fulfill a prophecy (aegon v at summerhall, melisandre and stannis) just as easily as others are doomed by their disbelief or their attempts to circumvent fate (cersei echoing my buddy king laius)—like that’s so, so cool to me. i love the ambiguity between fate and choice, the way grrm takes the whole trope apart and plays with all the individual components.

also very interested in the line running from daenys to daenerys, and i always wonder if daenys saw her too and if so, how much of her life daenys saw and was able to contextualize? did she see clear images like melisandre and bran or more metaphorical ones, like jojen or dany in the house of the undying? something like… a dragon with three heads fighting in a frozen wasteland lol?

considering the the loss of female power in house targaryen is so deeply entwined with the dying of the dragons, underneath all of that for me is aemon’s line in affc and the context that follows it:

what were they translating?? were some of the documents in other languages? it couldn’t have all been daenys’ works because aemon says they’ve been wrong for a thousand years. this prophecy has been a motivating factor for the targaryens (and valyrians?) for a thousand years, but i wonder at what point the translation error actually crept in? daenys was valyrian and that would’ve been her primary language—i like to think she would’ve understood the nature of the dragon in a way her male descendents couldn’t. no one ever looked for a girl, but it was always a girl. not men in a patriarchal feudalist society reducing women to their reproductive capabilities (rhaella’s miserable life being one of the most egregious examples of this) and then being surprised when a woman is needed to rebirth the dragons lol.

this got away from me because i think the (deconstruction of the) use of prophecy in asoiaf is fascinating and everything we know about daenys is tied up in that. cutting myself off before i start talking about gender as it relates to this prophecy. beyond that, i’m really not interested in interpretations of daenys where she’s catatonic or broken by what she’s seen any more than i am in interpretations of dany where she goes mad, just because i’m sick of the seeing the general victimization of women in asoiaf taken to such an extreme that they’re defined by it—with whoever suffers most ecstatically being the least problematic to stan, especially when the women in question are from/associated with house targaryen.

[cu7ie]

what do you think toman boys are like in relationships like loyal or nah

content: discussions of cheating, general relationship head canons and love language discussion towards the end.

I think Mikey doesn't cheat because he's lazy. The kinds of relationships he likes are ones of great emotional depth and the actual physical steps required to find someone suitable, hide it from you or eventually break it off is too much. Doesn't have the mental capacity for that level of espionage, the emotional strength to lie to someone's face like that. Toman Mikey does not have that dog in him, Draken has taught him too well. Bonten Mikey has no problem fucking other people however! Not a sad thought in his mind or tear in his eye, might even think about you while he's going at it and wonder if you'd notice the taste of someone else on his lips when he gets back to ya. Sanzu seems like a hopeless romantic with obsessive and possessive tendencies. I don't think he'd cheat but he also has high expectations and probably strict rules for a partner. Doesn't like overly friendly touches and certain attitudes.

Respectfully, I think Bonten Sanzu fucks other people and will laugh in your face about it. But his inclination to do it more rests solely on the idea of it bothering you; he likes making you upset and to some extent grows irritated with the idea he's so invested in you emotionally that a chunk of his pleasure is derived with tormenting you in such a way, but it's a vicious cycle... He finds a soft body to indulge in, but can't help but think of you while doing it.

Nahoya fucks man. I mean.. like I don't think he really pursues concrete relationships in the first place. He likes something ambiguous he can't put a name to, the fun of it is the attention, you know? It's the assurance of something he can come back to, because if nothing ever starts it can't end.

Souya is the complete opposite of his brother. Sometimes he can put in a lot of faith in little time, and he can turn up with the shit of the stick right - and it's the worst, because he can't help but be so genuine. He's just not a liar, doesn't have it in him really.

I think Draken is very loyal. I don't think he'd cheat like cheating on Emma with you or vice versa.

He's very reliable, he's sticking around just because he thinks it's the proper thing to do. Even if he was in love with someone else entirely, if he has an obligation to a partner he will honor that first and foremost.

I think that Baji is… questionable? It's not emotional cheating he'd participate in, I just feel like he's a simple-minded, high sex drive kinda guy. He'll feel... bad about hurting you so much, but also has trouble comprehending why it might hurt. He loves you, isn't that more important? If you don't care that he has sex with other people, y'all should be cool.

Kazutora is possessive above all. I think he considers you less and more about how he needs to keep you close to him more, and he really does like you, just works harder and not smarter.

I think takemitchy is very loyal.. but idk .... I feel like ....

He's only loyal to Hina because she's the only girl interested in him. I feel like if he had Catherine situation - like there was a girl trying to seduce him away from Hina, he'd eat some shit like that up. He's brainless. Not entirely a dick-thinker but he doesn't always use the right head you know???

Mitsuya and Chifuyu are pretty straight laced. Their dedication to people is obvious in canon relationships and I don't think much changes beyond that! I think they differ in their demonstrations of affection, however:

Mitsuya performs acts of service and is a huge gift giver, especially after he gets into design and fashion in his later years. Too often though, sometimes he can neglect a good old fashioned 'i love you' in favor of grandeur and extravagance. He hopes that in any case, you'll love the things he gives you - knowing he didn't get gifts a lot growing up, it's more important to him than you'd think.

Chifuyu is an opposite to him. He is very open with saying I love you to the point where he'll say it in front of other people and follow it up with a kiss (or six), and most regularly he can be overbearing with his PDA - forgoing gifts to emphasize spending time with you and physically being there for you.

[precious-little-scoundrel]

Dear John || Pt.1

Masters of the Air Fanfiction

Requested: ☑️ My sweet Bri begged for a love-letter-centric Egan fic and with her wonderfully infectious ideas this was produced, the first part of many.

Summary: Major John Egan wasn’t the pen-pal sort but a couple of hours into a dark night full of writing condolence letters, he finds himself wondering why he never tried his hand at the nicer forms of correspondence. Who better to reanimate his numb inspiration than the glamorous Miss Lana Tierney? -the army’s girl next door, the pinup so prolific she was practically a wall paper print and Bucky’s long-standing cinematic crush. It’s not like she’ll read it anyways, tucked up in luxury in Beverly Hills with carts of tedious fanmail burned in her back yard each day, his letter will get lost in the mix. It’s harmless. That thought -and the booze- may loosen his pen a little too much but it’s alright, it’s not like she’ll read it. Right? Right.

It was specified in the request to use or create some of those old WWII dirty acronyms, so in here you have Bucky making up his own for his starlet crush (acorn). I’m ripping off a few ladies here, Lana Turner, Betty Grable, Hedy Lamarr to name a few -the moodbaord is for general aesthetics, I try to keep my fem!readers and oc’s as ambiguous physically as possible. (Besides the fact Johnny Egan finds you mouthwatering, which -be honest with yourself here sweet thing!!- he would.

Rating: 18+ this is the letter writing, vintage form of sexting. i kid you not, this man swings wildly from sweet as pie to downright filthy and vintage slang for anatomical parts is used freely. This would make a better shameful diary entry than a letter but he’s a rogue and he’s in a war, cut him some slack.

Fun game: how many times can Major Egan manage to mention Buck in a horny fan letter to his crush?

Dear A.C.O.R.N.

It is highly unlikely that you remember me, but, all the same, we have met. Now, hear me out, I’m sure fellas say that to you all the time but my point still stands and to match them I’ll do you one better, seeing as how I am not buttering you up for something in return -I have met you, yes, but I have also sung to you.

There. Said it.

Not that you’d recall that either, but then again maybe you would, but either way it doesn’t matter as the entire reason I am writing to you is because it is entirely unlikely you will ever open this god-awful endeavor made of pen and ink.

I am quite drunk, you see.

A necessary medicine. And they do make good whiskey here, one of the few joys they haven’t rationed yet. It’s got me wondering what’s your poison of choice. Something fruity? Or are you an olive sucker? Like that salt on the rim? Or maybe you go for somethin’ silky and warm goin’ down your throat? Which-ever it is, I bet you’d be a surprise, sweet ACORN, I just know it. You were a surprise at the canteen. Back in Jersey? Before shipping out? I know you were on a whole tour and kisses were goin’ for dollars but still, you were a surprise.

A lovely one, really. And that’s the point of this letter. To tell you that you're lovely and while I’m not the pen-pal sort, I’ve written home 80 letters tonight to families whose boys I was supposed to bring home. It got me thinking: Bucky, why the hell don’t you write nice letters? Whyd you only write ‘em now that you gotta? And it occurred to me then that the one silver lining in this whole Air Exec job is the desk, the lamp and the office.

I could write anybody from here. I could write you.

And you wouldn't read it so I could write anything. And it could be a nice letter. ‘Cause I don’t know anybody of yours to tell you anythin’ sad about them and you don’t know me except that I’m alive and drunk. Which is better than those poor eighty two bastards. Which reminds me, I’ve still got two more but maybe Buck will take those, he took seventeen off to his bunk to write from there. Buck doesn't have a desk because he’s not as important as me and he has all the luck.

You’ve met Buck, too, Acorn. He was the appalled pretty one with the straw colored hair pulling me off you after we had our duet. He objects to your nickname, see, even though you didn’t seem to mind. You were lovely, A.C.O.R.N. And I’d not wanna ruin this letter by telling you what it means, not now that I’m actually writing to you and determined to be nice but Buck knows and while he agrees with me as much as any man in the nation that you’ve got the most robust rack on the silver screen -he has objections, you see. So it wasn’t the song or the canoodling he didn’t like, and I still say, he broke up a little love affair that night. Bastard. So I’m writing to you now because as the acronym suggests, I’ve got a goal in my mind in regards to you. I tell myself -Bucky, there’s reasons to make it back.

Reasons, Bucky, reasons. Like Acorn and her halo of gorgeous hair that smelled like coconuts and the way she thought my new lyrics were pretty clever. That’s what you said, acorn, you said they were pretty clever. Now I may have been a little drunk then, too, but I think you might’ve been tipsy, that coke smelled too strong to be straight. I still have the straw you gave me, it’s bent to hell but I’ve taken it up each mission. I’m not counting on it for luck so much as a reminder of the aforementioned reasons. To come back. Your lipstick has mostly worn off but I figure it’s still the same.

You had your precious lips around it. That’s what matters.

And that’s the sorta sentence that makes Buck think I shouldn’t write letters.

But what he can’t accuse me of is being dishonest or vague. I’m being straight with you. You deserve that much, you were lovely and very straight shootin’ yourself, dear little girl. I could pinch your cheeks right now, you’re so sweet. And don’t think me a coward for sayin’ all this under assumption that you won’t read it. I hope you don’t since it’s not worth your time and if you do I wish I’d written less about me and more about you but I need you to know if we were face to face I’d say the same:

You were lovely, you ARE lovely!!!! and I think all your work for us boys is swell and you’ve got the bestest set of knockers any of us have ever seen and I’m stayin’ alive in hopes to see ‘em again some day and while the girls here are swell and sweet they aren’t zippy like you. At least not the ones who’ve put out so far. And if I had you face to face, I’d find a way to make you laugh again and I’d tell you to your face you’re lovely and if I’d been David Nivin in Love Trap with you, I’d have stayed in that little kitchen with you and ate all your burnt flapjacks and watched you in your apron and made babies with you till we were old.

Anyway. It needed saying. And maybe I’ll say it to your face given the chance again. I was working my way up to a proposition for burgers and milkshakes when Buck ruined it. But maybe you’ll tour? Here!! Over here. In England or maybe in Europe once we kick the Nazis bastards out.

Now that’s motivation. That’s a reason! -clear out a nice little swath of land through fortress europe so Miss Lana Tierney can sing in the city of lights surrounded by nothin’ but wine and good food and a buncha boys who love and appreciate her.

Because we do, ma’am. We do.

And make no mistake, I do this to keep the country safe and try to bring as many boys home as I can but every second I also think - it’s where you are too, and so I must continue keeping it safe.

If you, by some godawful chance, do read this letter, please don’t feel pressed to respond or pull out a restraining order. Think of it this way, it’d just be one more “Dear John” letter and the system is clogged as it is. You just deserve a nice letter and my wrist is past sore, one more doesn't matter. And being unable to deliver nice, I’ve written this.

~ I am ever your respectful (and hammered) admirer, Maj. John Egan

P.S. if you do happen to read this I’m sorry. Buck told me not to do this but I just had to Acorn. You’re just too swell and I really have got to get myself to a theater before long, I miss your Angel face.

Masterlist

Thank you for reading! This was entirely out of my usual comfort zone but I’ve had fun writing it and I’m trying to tune my ear to pick up his voice, that’s been stretching. This series will have many letters in it but there will also be fic, so fear not. I’ve got some plans already figured out for this series but I do love a suggestion or ten so have at the inbox with what you’d like to see play out.

Hope you enjoyed, if you’d like to be tagged in future MOTA fics, drop a note below.

[lilacsareinbloomagain]

Heyo! May I request platonic yandere chain with reader? But instead of isekai like normal the reader is actually a destructive spirit or deity that was reawakened by either Dark Link or Ganon? Anywhoooo I hope you’re having a great week- mine was filled with exams lmfaooooo

Thanks for requesting anon! I really hope you had good results from those exams!

Notes: My week was okay, thank you for asking!!

I really let out my imagination out on this one, hope you'll like it.

BTW, take this as a part on the back for getting through your week.

I feel like I made the yandereness on this one so light, I'm sorry

-> Reader can't bring themselves to remember anyone's names so just remembers their most striking characteristics in their opinion.

-> It's been a while since I've read the comic, so Time keeping FD's mask on his belt for safety measures (since it's the most dangerous one and he can't lose it) is merely a headcanon of mine.

-> Reader is a menace who has questionable intellect (AKA a chaotic, pyromaniac, destructive entity being forced to be nice to others by the good guys™).

-> I left the end ambiguous, so you guys can decide if reader was either truly tamed or is still a menace who Time has to keep on check so they won't be too cruel on their "pranks".

-> Reader also magically rearranged Time's ocarina so each hole would play different a different sound at some point, so he literally had to re-learn where each note was so that he could go back to playing his songs again.

-> Reader slept for more than Time and Wild both and doesn't know a thing about the Zelda lore other than the Golden goddesses.

TWs: Light platonic yanderism, mention of burns, mentions of fire and arson, mentions of loud noises, basically just reader being an absolute hazard to anyone and everyone.

Platonic yandere! Chain x Reader

Debt to pay.

People from your time used to say that one could sooner move a mountain from it's resting place rather than tame your natural ways.

You wouldn't say you were a deity, per say, you thrived on chaos and setbacks, a living annoyance to the poor living things that breathed the same air as you, and roamed the earth by the same time you did.

It was in your nature to be destructive, yes, but you never wanted destruction, at least not full extinction. The darkness and the light were both two sides of the same rupee, they were one just like the other, beings of both sides would react the exact identical way to having their butts lit on fire. So, of course, you weren't one to pick and choose who you'd go after each day.

Thing is, most people didn't understand that —if anyone at all— so everyone just assumed you were a being of pure darkness, even if you actually saw yourself as more of a dark gray entity from a moral chart perspective.

And that was how you got yourself “killed”, if that's even the right thing to call it.

Somehow, no one seemed to care much when you lit whole villages on fire and made all of the walls of full-on castles start dissing out pure electricity, but they almost dislocated their jaws the moment you decided to do a silly trick and turn all of their lovely goddesses statues upside down for a day.

As if those same goddesses hadn't just ignored all of their prayers in the last hundreds of years you spent freely making their lives miserable.

You were stored in a vase. Not even a cool cool one. A plain clay vase deep within a temple under the ground. If you could choose, you'd have preferred something more majestic and up to the level of your power, but then again, it wasn't like you were in place to say anything in your defense.

Sometimes you just wondered how your small group of worshipers were. They probably weren't the best people out there, if you could say so yourself, but you were still curious if they ended up having similar fates to yours.

A long, long time later, you were "revived", for the same reason you were "killed".

Not the best choice on the part of whoever went through the trouble of doing all that, but who were you to judge? Or even to complain?

From what you could get from the boring evil monologue the guy in front of you was giving after having just woken you up from the longest nap you've ever had —since you couldn't really die— the guy wanted you to aid him in his quest to kill some other guys and take over the world or some boring nefarious plan like that.

You couldn't recall any of the names he just said, though, so you could only guess that you had either slept for a pretty damn long time, or you were in an entirely different world on itself.

Before you could fully decide on one of the two possibilities, the red guy sent you to fight against that group of guys he was talking about, seven men with varying shades of blonde hair along with two guys who weren't blond at all.

Perhaps you could have admired the strength of the red guy's magic, to just bring you out of your sleep like that and already straight up teleport you.

Thing is, you didn't really care enough to do that, you just did whatever you wanted the moment you realized you were fully conscious and in a physical body once again.

Were you chaotic and very much possibly evil? Yes. Were you stupid, however? Kinda No.

So the moment the opportunity presented itself, you followed those guys around, gathering information. Taking notice also of that one shadow looking dude, who was following them around just like you, seemingly with the intention of making their lives hell.

Maybe he'd be an interesting being to interact with, if he wasn't as prickly as a damn cactus. You swore you couldn't even approach the guy without him reacting like a startled cat, pointing his flimsy sword straight to your face. You swore to yourself you'd break that thing in half one of these days.

And so you set your sights fully on the blond —and the not so blond— guys, taking your time to also play around with the villages they went to and toy with the monster camps they passed by.

Of course, you couldn't just ignore the massively ominous aura drifting from the masks that one of the taller blondies carried around. Your hands itched to get a grasp on those things, whatever was sealed inside it was magical and possibly powerful, and the possibilities sent your mind on quite a dangerous frenzy.

The thing that made you a bit disappointed, however, was how long it took for them to notice your presence.

At some point you decided to start giving them some more obvious hints that what was following them wasn't friendly.

They seemed to really like bomb bags, which wasn't exactly safe for them when you could randomly activate those at will.

Also, you couldn't control the rain or storms, of course, but you definitely could attract lightning, especially since they all seemed to enjoy carrying around those identical metal swords.

Sometimes you just liked to pull on their hair and make knots on them, given that some had really long hair.

The wolf guy had a horse, one you could just startle really easily. Although you didn't have the result you wanted, since the wolf guy wasn't sent flying the moment his horse went crazy.

You caught him later, though. Making loud, high pitched noises to absolutely blow away his senses the moment he turned into a wolf to try and chase you down.

The fire that the short guy was using to mend a weapon randomly became overly strong, enough to have burned his whole arm, if he hadn't pulled away quick enough.

The scarf of the other one just one day became a bit too hard around his neck. It's a good thing for him that he was quick enough to pull it off his neck before he suffocated.

You watched as the one with pink hair almost had a breakdown, as all his colorful, shiny little trinkets and accessories having become dulled, turning completely pitch black, no traces of their original colors or magic left.

The kid tried to control the wind, only to have it blown straight back to his face, bringing leaves and sand with it.

You made sure their cook accidentally poured a bit too much pepper in their food, or salt, even sugar, if you felt like it.

The brown haired one suddenly lost control of his magic, what was supposed to heal their wounds ended up dyeing their hair blue for days on end.

That other guy who always overslept felt his pillow being pulled from under his head at random times through his nights.

And the tall guy's masks have all suddenly decided to disappear.

“Okay. Something is going on here. And it's not something natural.” Time sighed, looking around the camp, tired and worried, concerned.

Wild’s hair was an absolute mess and seemed to have caught on fire at some point, Warriors was glaring at his scarf, keeping it as far from his —almost purple— neck as possible. Wind had his hair almost as messy as Wild's, full of leaves and dirt, he was pretty sure there were also some bugs around it, his cheek had a thin cut from a sharp little rock.

Twilight was occupied comforting Epona, although the both of them seemed quite shaken up by something.

Four had some burns around the tips of his fingers, his hair usual blond hair now stained with blue, Hyrule sitting beside him with a frown, bandaging his hands rather than using his healing magic like he normally would.

Sky wasn't far from the two, almost dozing off despite the migraine that had settled behinds his eyes, which were now dotted with heavy bags from sleepless nights. Legend's terrible mood did not seem to disturb his need for a nap.

“Oh, really?” Legend almost growled back, positively fuming with barely contained rage gleaming in his eyes.

“Vet, I am not your enemy here, but once we find out who is doing this, you can direct your anger towards whoever they are.” Time shot a look to the other.

“That is, if it's even a person doing this. It might be some kind of monster.” Warriors commented.

“One thing we're sure of is that there's magic involved in this.” Hyrule spoke up, finished with the bandaging.

“I don't even know why you're so mad, Leg, you were possibly the least affected by this.” Four complained, eyebrows furrowed with stress. Even as a blacksmith, he was never a fan of getting burned, especially not being caught off guard like that!

“Agreed.” Wild was the next to speak, not bothering to brush the soot out of his hair. It wasn't quite the first time he almost been exploded, after all, even though the experience didn't get any better no matter how many times he went through it.

“You're really saying that, even though the kid only got a burst of wind to the face.”

“Ay! Mind your own business, Legend!” Wind sprung up in defense of himself, already looking to be tense prior to the attack, as the two began arguing.

While the group was in quite the mess, you took your chances to go ahead and approach stealthily to attempt to take the mask you were so curious about. Said mask being the last one you hadn't stolen borrowed yet, since the tall guy seemed to have noticed his other masks disappearances and decided to take extra means of protection towards that one.

In your opinion, your risks were all carefully thought out and calculated, however, you seemed to have completely forgotten about a certain wolf guy at the edge of the camp, standing beside his horse and looking straight at you.

You managed to grab the mask from the taller guy's belt! But at what price..?

Before you could even manage to turn around and run away with it, a hand shot out, hooking on the back of the collar of your shirt, pushing you to the ground in a second. And in another second, there was a blade shoved right in front of your face.

Goddammit.

You barely paid any attention to all the yelling, too occupied hugging your newly acquired possession tightly to your chest.

“Hand me that mask. Now.” A voice right behind you demanded, yet you still didn't move.

“No.”

The sword in front of you seemed to inch just slightly closer to your neck.

“At least tell me what it is, first!” You asked, a bit more squirmy, not at all comfortable with the vulnerability you had right now, since it seemed like that long sleep left you with a bit less power than you used to have, clearly a precaution, should you ever gain you body back. It was smart from your captors, but very much annoying for you.

“None of your business, now give me back my mask!” The tall guy —now in front of you— stressed. You could tell that his restlessness was hinting towards just how near he was to the end of his wits.

“If this piece of porcelain is as powerful as it seems, then yes, yes it is my business!”

It wasn't, not really, but you were too curious to just give up on information just like that.

The tall guy went quiet for a second before he finally replied, going with a question instead of actually giving you an answer like you were expecting from him.

“How do you know how powerful it is?”

“None of your business.” You threw his own words back at him and now the dull side of the sword was suddenly pressing up pretty uncomfortably against your skin, burning you. “Okay, fine, I'll tell you.”

And that was how you met the Links, and also how you became chained to them, unable to leave. After all, you did have to pay them back for all that you did to every single one of them.

But, for some reason, that simple dept seemed to only to get bigger the longer you spent time with them, despite the fact you weren't doing anything entirely wrong…

At least, that was the excuse they gave to you, yet something in you made you feel like that wasn't the full truth.

Extra (This happened)

Time: give me back my shit

Reader: nuh-uh

Time: fym nuh-uh

[i-heart-hxh]

is Killua truly jealous of Palm?

Yes, I absolutely think he is!

It's never explicitly stated, but the subtext is so in your face in a few different ways that it's essentially not even subtext any more.

Togashi could have chosen so many different ways to portray the way Killua feels about the Gon/Palm date subplot, but making it clear over and over again how bothered Killua is by the whole situation absolutely reads as jealousy, especially within the larger context of the arc. Look at these especially!

Togashi puts so much emphasis on Killua's expressions and distress throughout the whole subplot. Of course it's partly intended to be comedic, but this situation with Gon and Palm does have serious emotional weight for Killua as well--pulling out the needle, his breakdown in front of Palm, what she ends up saying to him after that, etc. I do think the exaggerated and extreme ways Togashi expresses Killua's feelings are intended to make the audience go, "Oh, he's really jealous, isn't he?"

People can argue Killua's reactions are just because of who Gon is on a date with (someone unhinged/violent and much older than him), or that it's just "concern" about Gon because of his nen situation, and those are both definitely aspects of what's going on here--but to reduce it down to only that ignores those deeper emotional impacts it has on Killua. I think the protectiveness aspect is something Killua uses to veil some of the other things he's feeling about it even though of course he is legitimately protective of Gon in this situation (and he has good reasons to be so). I also think Togashi himself uses the ambiguity to his advantage here, because if he put in romantic jealousy that was any clearer, would Jump allow it?

The way Killua goes immediately from the topic of going on dates/being freaked out about the prospect of Gon having been on dates before to feeling heartbroken because he wants to be with Gon forever the next panel is telling, in my opinion... (The English translation is a little vague, seems like it was intentionally toned down. In the original Japanese version he says he wanted to be with Gon forever.)

Here's a post where @tjlnn22 and I discuss this weightlifting scene in more detail.

I firmly believe that a big part of Palm's role as a character is to get the audience to question the nature of Killua's feelings for Gon. Without considering this context, the way her character is set up from the beginning and what role she's intended to play in Chimera Ant Arc is confusing. But when if you look at her character as having been built for that role, suddenly her entire character and subplot makes sense. Here's an older post where OP talks about some of the framing of Palm's character, and then I talk in more depth about why Palm is written the way she is.

It especially makes sense when you consider that the date with Palm is one of the factors that destabilizes Killua's faith in his relationship with Gon, leading to him wondering if they're acting together as friends or just as teammates. Here's an awesome post @tjlnn22 put together and submitted to me on this topic, with specific details supporting this argument. I think this is an important part of the arc that gets overlooked, and I love how clearly it's laid out in the linked post.

Killua also acts dismissive of Gon worrying about Palm to the point where other characters comment on his behavior, which to me seems like another sign of jealousy and bitterness on Killua's part. Then when he encounters Palm again after her transformation, this is how he behaves towards her:

Hands on his hips, full sass mode here. Again with the jealousy...

...And then shortly after this he proceeds to have a total emotional breakdown when he admits to himself that he thinks maybe Gon cares more about Palm than him, and that Palm might be the only one who can help Gon, rather than Killua. Of course there are more factors than this behind his breakdown, including him getting pushed away by Gon prior, but this is DIRECTLY the thought that leads him to start crying and then sobbing on the ground.

The Palm subplot is one of the biggest things in the series that makes me confident that the romantic subtext around Killua's feelings is completely and utterly intentional. The way the whole subplot is constructed, the decisions Togashi makes around Palm and how she's presented as a character, the way Killua's reactions and emotions are emphasized with regards to it, and the significance of this subplot in the greater arc of Killua's character all show a great deal of thought and care, and it's hard to come to any other conclusion when looking at it carefully.

Thank you for asking!

[thebottomfromhell]

Can I request the upper moon (+ enmu and Muzan if it's not too much trouble) yandere, with a female reader who can travel between universes, so it's sooo easy for her to escape and not come back?. I love your writing, you are in my top 3 of my fav writers 🤍

Thank you for the compliment.

I didn't know what kind of "travel between universes" you meant. Like... multiverse, different fandom worlds, isekai type. Also traveling like a magical girl? Science-fic tech? I decided to focus more in the yandere-ish characters post-Carmen (my reference to the Opera), I was listening Habanera Carmen while writting.

Female Interdimensional traveler reader scaping Yandere! Uppermoon (+ Enmu and Muzan)

Warnings: Mamga spoilers, Yandere character, Excesive use of violence, Threats to reader, Mentioned non-character demon death, One-sided feelings (not from reader), No happy ending for demons, Reader is moraly ambiguous.

Enmu:

Sleep. You should sleep, dream by his side so he can build a paradaise all for you. He can't understand why you fight him, but Enmu is willing to try as long as you give yourself to him. "I promise to be nice, you will have everything you could want and I will have your body well taken care of. Why would you deny us both such a wonderful future? Can't you see everything about me aches for you?" He doesn't shut up, sometimes you wonder if he just loves the sound of his own voice. Anyway, you were planning to leave already, so you reach out to open a portal to- "Sleep."

You manage to open the portal before the sound finishes to reach your ears, making you fall through the interdimentional leak as you close your eyes. Emnu can only look at the scene, not fully understanding what is hoing on as your body fades into... something, and that something dissapears the second you crossed it. Taking you. "Hey... Y/N.... my lovely girl this is not funny." He tries to reach you nerviously.... you are asleep, he himself made you sleep, yet he can't feel you. Wherever you are, he can't get you.

"You have to be kidding me. What is this? Some kind of nightmare?" He has a nervious smile that becomes everytime more forced, wrenched, to every second it passes and he can't even feel you. Are you awake? Are you dead? Where? If anything had to happen to you he wanted to be there! Now you are gone! "Y/N.... Y/N, darling? C'mon, don't do this to me. I love you...." but you are gone.... are you planning to come back for him?

Gyutaro (ft. Daki):

You left.... you fucking left... you fu- "Onii-chan?" Fuckfuckfu- he can't. He has to control himself, he can't show Daki how bad he is feeling, how desesperate. But you were just there, he was watching you and now you are gone. Were you burned? Why would you be burned? Why is that the first thing he- "Onii-chan!" He hugs his sister, burrying his face in her shoulder. He is not crying, no tears shed from his eyes, but he is sobbing hard. You are gone, you are gone!

Of course you are gone, anywhere else better than with a freak with him, right? You never wanted him! You nev- "Gyutaro?" Shut up shut up shut up SHUT UP SHUT UP- "GET LOST YOU STUPID WHORE! GET AWAY FROM MY ONII-CHAN! HE DOESN'T WANT YOU!" But you know that is a lie, Gyutaro does want you, right now he is breaking up, shattering down, just for you. "Gyutaro?" You repeat softer, getting closer to the demon almost squirming into his sister's, his everything, the girl who sees him almost as a father, embrace. Obi sashes come out her back, moving threateningly, as she hugs her brother protectively, hatred in her eyes as she looks for you.

In the end, he speaks before you or Daki can. "GO AWAY! FUCKING GO AWAY! YOU WILL LEAVE ANYWAY! LEAVE ME ALONE! DON'T- DON'T FUCKING COME TO ME ONLY TO ABANDON ME LATER!" You are too much, you have already taken his heart and head. What else could you possible want? He can't stop thinking about you, wanting you close, obssesed with the idea to be yours when you will only leave. He sobs harder as you step closer, get out of him! GET OUT! GETOUTGETOUTGET- "DON'T YOU DARE!" You fade into a portal, the same which you always use, before Daki can hurt you, leaving her to patch together her brother, again, only to ruin him when you come back, AGAIN. "Onii-chan...."

Gyokko:

You absolutely have no taste, you would stay if you did. Who gave you permission to leave?! You should adore having Gyokko's attention, for hin to share his art with you... and yet you don't appreciate him. Not enough, you should love him more. Wouldn't that be more fair? He loves you too much for you to not love him back, don't be so selfish- "Would you stop that! You are getting on my nerves!" You have been trying to enjoy this universe, but Gyokko has been harrasing you non-stop.

Showing you desfigurated human bodies, telling you what you should and shouldn't want, getting angry on the slightlest of things. Really, why have you not left yet? "I'M getting on your nerves? You have no idea with how patient I have been with you. You should be thanking me for taking my precious time on you, only for you to be such an ungrateful brat?" Really, what is wrong with him. "You know what, I'm leaving. I'm done." You reach out to open the portal and just stop having to tolerate Gyokko. He tries to stop you, tries to hurt you, but summoned too late the pot. Much less the attack.

The face twists in rage due the humiliation, HOW DARE YOU?! YOU WRENCHED WOMAN! The next time he'll see you he will kill you, you won't even have the pleasure of being a work of art! He will just rip your eyes and tongue off to burry them into the mud! He will stab and poke you again and again and again, letting you starve until you kill yourself of the pain! A death with no beauty or dignity! The death of a witch! ..... that if you ever come back, because right now, you are just enjoying the jump in between universes.

Hantengu Clones:

"SHE IS MINE, YOU PIECES OF SHIT! BACK OFF!" "NO FAIR! I SAW HER FIRST! SHE IS MINE!" Sekido and Urogi are fighting each other, citting and stabbing limbs, using their powers on each other, Karaku being the only one sane for once in his life, trying to stop them. He is the least jealous of the clones, probably the only one who doesn't mind sharing. "GUYS! YOU ARE NOTHING BUT SCARING HER OFF! Y/N IS GOING TO GET AWAY IF YOU KEEP LIKE THIS! That or Aizetsu is going to get her first..." Yes, Aizetsu is alredy into it, using his body to block your path away.

"Y/N, please. Don't leave. That will make Sekido mad and Urogi feral, they will take it out on me. Please don't that to me, you're making me sad." He looks scared, miserable, he doesn't want you to leave. But he is also using that to try and manipulate you, he is doing it on purpose. You know it and honestly, you are getting tired of their little scenes, their jealousy, their violence, their delusions, their tricks... You. Are. Done. You were about to open the portal when you feel two hands, one on each wrist, from behind with a breath on your neck. "C'mon, pretty thing~. Don't be like that, I know some of us can be scary, but we can all make you feel good, even if the others don't look like it."

The breathing stops when Sekido staff stabs him through the skull, forcing him on the ground. You were startled by the splash of blood over you, but you take the chace to run as you open the portal. "AIZETSU! DON'T LET HER SCAPE!" The sad clone does try to stop you, but it's too late, you are already gone. ". . . ." "AIZETSU, YOU USELESS PIECE OF SHIT! WHY DID YOU LET HER GET AWAY?!" "Y/N! Y/N! WHERE IS SHE?! WHY DID SHE LEAVE?! I MISS HER SO MUCH ALREADY!" "PLEASE STOP SCREAMING AT ME! CAN'T YOU SEE I'M SAD?!" "..... I hate being the sane one...."

Nakime:

How? Just how? Nakime has been looking for you, but you are nowhere in the Infinity Castle. You are not in any room, in any corridor, any fall.... it's impossible for anyone got get out without her noticing, then why are you not here? She even looked outside her fortress, nothing, "Nakime-chan!" Nothing until you decide there is something interesting around.

Nakime just looks at you, not knowing well how to start, she spends a time like this, and you have no idea if it's more creepy like this or it would would be worst if her hair wasn't covering her face, you can feel her stare on you neither way. "How did you do that?" Is the first thing she says, going to the point, not caring for formalities. "Do what?" You tease, you know well what she is asking, she can tail, so she doesn't insist, doesn't give you what you want, making you pout a bit. "You are a grown woman that managed to scape my Demon Blood Art, and yet you pout in front of me." She is angry. What are you doing? How are you doing it? Why does she lose control when it comes about you? Her interdimentional realm.... is it even anything for you?

But she must have you, she must. Her whole body aches for you, or is it just because of what you can do? She can't stop thinking about it, wanting you caged in her corridors and rooms, not letting go, so you are hers and hers alone. She.... likes you, a lot more than she ever liked any man. "Nakime-chan, I will leave if I get too bored." She plays her Biwa, knowing it's useless to use her powers on you, she just plays to entertain you until she figures something out, if there is anything to figure out.

Akaza:

Please don't leave. Please, don't leave him, he can't- if you leave- you have to stay. Stay, please. "Please, I'm begging you. Stay. I.... I will protect you, I will take care od you, promise. I pro- please, please, don't do this to me." Akaza begs, grabbing you by the waist, holding you tight, digging fingers into your clothes. It's taking a lot of him to not cry. Why do you want to leave? Did he do something wrong? Is he not strong enough? "I promise to get stronger! To be there! To protect... I want to protect you, please..."

If he is not there what will happen to you? Hung by the neck. Poison in the well. Death death DEATH. What will happen to him? There is nothing left he doesn't care, just needs to get stronger because if he was strong enough to begin with it wouldn't have happened. Why are you always trying to leave? He sobs as you pull alway but lets you move him at will. He wants you to be safe, to be happy, to be healthy. He wants a life with his wife, the life he was promised! Where is that girl he loves with his whole heart?! A part of you can feel Akaza, while obessed with you, with the idea to protect you and take care of you, has already given his heart to someone else, a woman that it's not you.

You are nobody's second choise or consolation prize, you can't take him and don't want to. "I'm sorry." It's the only thing you say, feeling nothing but pity for him, as you open the portal and leave. He just lost another woman in his life a woman he didn't get to have as his wife. What is it left, why nobody he cares about ever stays for him? Everyone always leaves! "... Hah-...." Can you hear it? He is screaming at the top of his lungs, voice cracking and breaking as the sound of the pain of a 18 year old man who lost everything but his fists twice explodes into self-loathing and anger for the world, just wanting to be found again.... can you hear it?

Douma:

It's odd, very odd, how you can just dissapear the way you do. What is more odd is that Douma usually likes odd things, viewing them as entretaintment, but now... he doesn't like it. He can tell that much. It's very weird how his stomach twists, his chest compress in itself, his throat tights up and his head hurts everytime he thinks on the fact that you left somewhere he can't find you, and he can't do anything about it. Why? He really can't understand it, but he is not enjoying it, you should stay besides him forever, so his body can behave the same as always.

"Y/N! I see you are back! How have you been? Come here, tell me everything. I am a good listener, I'm sure you will feel comfortable." He is not hiding it, what is there to hide? He justs knows he wants you, the rest is... unkown, and it doesn't really matter, it never did. He can't feel anything, but right know he knows he needs you with him. Maybe he should eat you? You are quite a beautiful lady, he bets your flesh would be tender and tasty against his mouth, and in your stomach you would be always with him. But he would miss a lot if he did it now, seeing your faces, hearing your voice, touching your skin or clothes, smelling your scent. It would be a waste but didn't he think that same with her?

He will find a way, eventually, to keep you around. Now he can only show appreciation for the fact that you came to visit. The fact that you are still coming back to him. He will give you all of his attention, find your weakness and get what he wants. He may not look like it, but he can be patient when it matters. It just has never mattered before, maybe it doesn't even matter now. "It was fun to see you again. Bye, Douma!" You fade away and he can only stare.... that portal should have been his stomach.

Kokushibou:

You are finally out of his life, THE WHY ARE YOU STILL IN HIS HEAD?! WHY? It's been a while since you just... evaporized of this world, he knows.Kokushibou has been looking for you, actually looking for you, not the "I'm searching" he always gives Muzan off, but actually tried to follow you like he tried to follow his brother, no wonder he also failed this time. GET OUT OF HIS HEAD! HE DOESN'T WANT TO THINK ABOUT YOU! HE WANTS TO FORGET YOU! You are gone and that is good, out of his life, out of his system, out of his internal demons, out of his- "Koku, is that you?" ...... he turns around slowly to find you standing there....

No.... no, why are you here? This... is this some illusion? A dream? A nightmare? Why are you getting closer to him? Why are you trying to talk to him? Can't you see he doesn't want anything to do with you? "Why, as talktative as always!" You shouldn't be here. You shouldn't be talking over him, as if you were another man instead of a woman. His wife never did such a thing, she was quiet, elegant, filial and dutiful and yet he left her like you will leave him. Is this his karma, then?

He can't react, in any way possible. His breathing stops, his heart races, his head and chest hurts because of you. He wants to walk away, to be the one to leave you and reject you instead of the other way around. To save pride? His mind? Why were you even born?! He hates you! Hates you so much! "So, how have you been?" But he can't bring himself to walk away until you fade again.... he hates you so much, you have become everything to him. Like Yoriichi.

Muzan:

Another demon just died, their own body attacking them. It's not weird, Muzan doesn't even like most of his demons anyways, so more often than not he kills some of the lowlives around when he is having a tantrum sensitive moment. "Why haven't you found her already?!" He asks Nakime, who only sighs before getting the Uppermoons inside the castle, not yet here, and shrugs a little. She doesn't understand it neither, he send his most powerful demon, including her, to look for some human. A woman with scent, identity, living in his memories, unlike the flower.... why has nobody found you already?

"Hey, Muzan!" You appear out of nowhere, making both Nakime and Muzan turn around, shocked. This is Nakime's special dimention, how are you here? Why are you here? Can't you see what you are doing to the Demon King? Can't you see how your actions affect the people around him? Do you even care? It's just one small world between the amount of universes you have traveled through. "Y/N. Where were you?" His voice sounds kind, if not slightly irritated, he hates not being in control, loathes it. And he can't control you, yet, he tells himself. But he will.

Maybe that is why you came, to tease him, because it's fun, because you think he deserves it. "You know. Over here, over there, a lot of places. I just came by to say "hi"." Nakime looks nervious, looking at her master, wondering if she will be instructed to cage you. "Well, that doesn't matter. You are here now. Why don't you stay-" You don't. You leave as he speaks, dissapearing in front of his eyes. You can see his false calmness twist into rage, frustration, desesperation as you go away. Isn't it fun to make interdimentional trips with between yandere?

[comradekatara]

It’s me again, and I’ve got another ask for ya @comradekatara

And no stupid pol meme’s that I gave only a cursory glance too and stupidly screenshotted this time!

I’ve seen a few of your post (at least I think it was your’s) about LOK. So I was wondering. In regard to the main villains, who is your least favorite/most disliked?

And what would you change about their motivations and perhaps their “villainous” means to make them a more compelling and/or sympathetic character?

lol this is a pretty big ask. i mean basically every villain in lok is completely incoherent thematically, politically, ideologically. people will call amon a communist but he doesn’t actually give a shit about economics or class in any capacity. people call unalaq a theocrat but as far as im aware he isn’t exploiting people’s spiritual faith to gain power, (maybe that’s what he was doing at first, but) he literally wants to submerge the world into “darkness” for one million years for… reasons and purposes. unalaq/vaatu is by far the worst lok villain, but that’s not even saying much because it’s so patently ridiculous and cartoonish. the red lotus are actually compelling but they also love chaos for the sake of chaos (because anarchism!) and want to violently murder a teenage girl and hold a genocided people hostage to do so (despite zaheer’s supposed respect for air nomads). and kuvira is an ethnonationalist who declares herself emperor, so i guess she’s at least a somewhat coherent portrait of a real type of person who actually exists, but the fact that the fascist despot is the ONLY character who points out that republic city was built on colonized earth kingdom land is um….. not a great look?

and then side characters like tarrlok, hiroshi, varrick, queen hou-ting, suyin(???), wu(???) who aren’t really the primary villains even though in many ways they’re more ideologically coherent, are just also kind of weird for their ambiguous framing. like hou-ting is literally kidnapping airbenders and putting them in underground labor camps where they’re tortured and ruthlessly trained into forming an army, which is something that chaisee does in the yangchen novels and is regarded as utterly reprehensible and heinous for it (because it is), whereas we’re supposed to feel bad for hou-ting when she dies because murder is bad uwu. and we’re supposed to forgive hiroshi for [checks notes] attempted filicide. and varrick is just some fun wacky little guy who is a ruthlessly amoral capitalist but also he does the charleston! and isn’t him marrying his overworked, exploited assistant cute?? and not at all grossly misogynistic and horrifying???? LOL!

so i don’t think going through every villain and antagonist individually and imbuing them with depth is really a worthy use of time, since the show largely suffers from incoherence due to the fact that it isn’t cohesive at all. besides korra’s character development (which is excellent), there’s no real central idea that ties every season together. take atla instead: it’s a very linear narrative, with an established goal that is always being worked towards and once it’s ultimately completed, the show ends. lok has no idea what that central goal is. so instead of trying to fix every character, it’s better to work from the center out and first simply define that goal. the central political tension in lok is, fundamentally, a question of whether it is better to alter the status quo in various radical ways, or whether it is better to maintain the violently upheld hegemonic norm by virtue of it being the status quo (and spoiler alert, it’s the latter!). and these radical ways, whether it be the terrorist movement of a fraudulent right wing populist dictator, or the terrorist movement of a bunch of commies, is always presented as equally dangerous and in need of korra’s gaggle of cops, liberals, and capitalists to suppress. what a great show.

however, the lok that lives in my head does away with most of that, and simply focalizes the conflict between the white lotus and the red lotus as diametrically opposing forces both vying to control korra’s position in the world as avatar and reconstitute her legacy on their terms. because korra’s arc is fundamentally about learning to define her selfhood and her role in the world on her own terms, and the one commonality between every villain is that they’re trying to suppress or control her identity in some way. because it’s also, incidentally, a show primarily concerned with the value of identity politics, and doesn’t actually give a shit about any of the class struggles that underpin the show’s worldbuilding and inform so many of its primary characters. so while i’m not opposed to korra’s struggle of identity, and in fact appreciate it a lot and find it personally affirming in multiple ways, korra deserves a show that is actually worthy of her brilliance as a character.

it’s not that korra shouldn’t struggle to establish her identity on her own terms, but that the politics through which they attempt to communicate this struggle are incoherent. so i would simply reframe the conflict as one primarily between the white lotus, who are reformist liberals at best, and neoconservative reactionaries at worst. we see the best of the white lotus in atla (arguably), and the worst of the white lotus in the yangchen novels (which are fascinating and excellent and everyone should read them). xai bau is only ever mentioned in a single exposition dump (in one of the only truly great episodes of lok, i might add), but his philosophy and role in the narrative is nonetheless fascinating to me. the idea that the white lotus becomes more public facing after the war, leading to its detractors also growing more vocal, is genuinely interesting. the conflicts established between the white and red lotuses are genuinely compelling (to a point). but they never truly address how the white lotus kept korra locked away in a compound for the first 17 years of her life, they never meaningfully address the harm the white lotus has done to her and to the world.

like, of course korra couldn’t master airbending, the element of freedom, if she’s never been truly free. korra spent her entire life in a gilded cage, her role in the world and legacy defined for her by liberals who wanted her to be some kind of supercop instead of a genuine spiritual leader. it’s not korra’s fault that spirituality and harmony and meditation are difficult for her, she was literally denied those facets of herself for her entire adolescence. the white lotus constitute a microcosm of the ruthless neoliberal society korra encounters when first arriving in republic city. the white lotus are a metonym for the liberal identity politics centrist reformist vision of the world that lok uncritically presents as the ideal. in a better show, korra would question those systems, disavow them, and even perhaps attempt to dismantle them. korra would define her freedom of self on her own terms by realizing the ways in which the white lotus and their broader ideology has harmed her.

that said, the red lotus is also flawed. and i don’t just mean because they’re chaos-hungry terrorists who love to murder with impunity, but because they’re in the business of denying korra’s agency as a human being and not simply as the avatar. they want korra dead because they don’t believe in the role she embodies. and you know, they can want that for understandable political reasons without being completely evil about it, but obviously in a show as facile and shallow as lok, no they can’t. i think that korra’s brief pause in considering zaheer’s point of view should have lasted longer. i think that korra should have become disillusioned by the white lotus and the stipulations of capitalism (as early as book 1, frankly), and she should have genuinely considered joining them. and once she does eventually disavow them too, it’s not because of their evil commie politics, but because they’re also in the business of dictating her role in the world, and korra can’t stand to be boxed in by anyone, certainly not from people who claim to be in the business of dissolving borders.

so pretty much every villain in lok would fall under either the umbrella of white lotus operatives (whether direct or indirect) or red lotus (whether direct or indirect). people who want korra to be the world’s ultimate cop who upholds the systems that benefit them, or people who think that the avatar has no place in a truly just world, for (honestly) kind of valid reasons. the red lotus would be antagonists who work against korra’s arc of establishing her own freedom and agency, but the white lotus would be the “villains.” and the capitalist juggernauts who mistreat and exploit their workers (and their assistants and their daughters etc etc) would not be let off the hook so easily either. the neocolonial tensions in republic city wouldn’t be framed as an issue of the distant past. the issues of class and colonialism would be foregrounded alongside korra’s struggle to establish her identity. and then, perhaps, the narrative would finally cohere.

[honeybeefae]

Pretty Little Tears (Rhysand x Reader)

KINKTOBER DAY NINE: TEARS

Summary// He knew you could take him deeper. You were doing so well. It was taking all of your strength not to throw up as Rhys forced himself down your throat more and more, but when those tears started to roll down your face, smearing your makeup, he felt something primal stir deep inside of him. And he wanted more.

(This is definitely one of the shorter fics for Kinktober as well as ending in an ambiguous way, I hope you guys still like it. I’m not 100% confident with it but I’ve edited it to hell and back so I think this is the best I am going to get. Enjoy! :))

WARNINGS:  18+, Smut, Degradation, Crying Kink, rough BJ, gagging

Your mate had been staring at you all night, the risque dress you were dawning barely leaving anything to the imagination. It was something you saved only for your visits to the Hewn City as it helped you get into your role of the wife of Rhysand, ruler of the Court of Nightmares. 

It was a part you were new to, trying your best to match Rhys’s mask. The hardest thing was watching, and sometimes participating, in dueling out punishments for the wicked people that resided here. A part of you would feel guilty hearing their pleas and cries but knowing what they did, the innocent people who they tortured or hurt, made it easier to swallow.

Tonight was no different, though you had not heard any report of trouble so far. Everyone was dining and dancing in somewhat peace. Mor was off to the side with Cassian chatting about something, Azriel dwelling in the shadows, while you danced within the arms of one of your cousins as your mate watched from his throne above.

“You look lovely tonight, Y/N.” Your cousin, Dephren, commented. He was a head taller than you, with hair just like yours, but as wicked as they came. You would even say he could rival Mor’s father, Keir, in his attempts to gain power in the court. “I am glad to see our High Lord is keeping you in good health.”

“As am I.” You said curtly, glancing at Rhys briefly as you twirled across the floor. “I have much to be grateful for from him.”

“That you do, cousin. I must ask, though, are you sure you are satisfying him?” He asked, his eyes full of cruel mirth. “I would never insult you but I do worry about my Lord, and I as well as many others truly wonder if you are the right person for him.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed the other vultures of the court leering at you and eavesdropping on the conversation. It must have been talked about beforehand as someone had called away Rhys so that he was not within earshot to hear the slander they were saying.

You suddenly found yourself floundering like a fish out of water, the facade you put up cracking just the slightest bit, as Dephren spun you round and round.

“I will take your silence as answer enough.” He smirked, tightening his grasp on your hands as the music finally came to a stop. Everyone started politely clapping, gearing up for another song as your cousin bowed mockingly in your direction. “I think Remia would be a better fit for him, she certainly seems to be able to keep his attention.”

Remia was the daughter of one of Keir’s closest allies and a great beauty in the Hewn City. She was also as vicious and hungry as the rest of them, willing to follow whatever orders it took to rise above and look down on the people below. You knew your family was bitter about your new life, about how their weakest child found herself mated to the High Lord himself and cut all ties to her family. 

However, you didn’t expect them to try and cast you aside so brazenly. It had you cursing at how naive you were, how you thought there was no threat to you anymore now that you were happy and loved. 

His words cut through your skin like a knife as you turned to look at your mate, mouth tightening at the egregious display of affection Remia was showering him with. Mor and Cassian had picked up that something was amiss, picking up the tail end of your cousin's words and following your eyes to Rhys.

Before you could turn around and say anything to him, Mor was at your side with a glare that could turn a man to stone. “How bold of you to say the things you do about Rhysand’s mate, Dephren.” She hissed, placing herself in front of you. “Perhaps you would like to speak louder for him to hear?”

“Mor.” He nodded, forcing a polite smile. “I meant no to disrespect to Y/N, I assure you. I was simply pointing out a concern most of us have, isn’t that one of her duties?”

She opened her mouth to lay in on him but you put a hand on her shoulder, squaring your shoulders and stepping around her to stand toe to toe with him. You could sense Rhysand in your mind wondering what had drawn the crowd but you shut him out. This was something you needed to handle yourself. 

What you said next, how you handled this test of disrespect, would dictate how everyone saw you. You needed to be equally as fearsome as your mate if you were going to rule beside him. 

“My duty, Dephren, is not for you to question.” You challenged loudly, your voice echoing off of the mountain walls for the entire court to hear. “I can assure you that your High Lord is very satisfied with the way I fuck him. Not that it is any of your business nor whatever whore you’ve sent his way to try and distract him.”

Rhysand appeared behind you, darkness surrounding him as Dephren shrunk back in fear. You smirked as one of his hands slunk around your waist and pulled you into his side, his nose dipping into your hair as you refused to break eye contact.

You had everyone's attention now and while as before you would have shrunk back from it, now you wore it like a crown. They should be the scared ones and from the looks on their faces, it seemed that they realized what monster they awoke.

As you stood straighter and held your higher you could feel your mate's approval. Not only was he proud of you but you could feel his caress in the back of your mind, and could hear the lustful thoughts that flickered through his mind as you took a couple of steps forward. He liked this version of you.

“I find it funny cousin that you call my relationship into question when I highly doubt your wife could say the same about your performance, don’t you think?” You taunted, raising your eyebrow as his face turned a fierce shade of red. 

The people behind him started to whisper and chuckle while his wife took a huge gulp of wine, trying to remain invisible. You weren’t done humiliating him though, he needed to be an example to the rest of them.

“What’s the nickname she gives you to her friends? Minute man?”  The question was rhetorical as your smirk grew, hearing Rhys’s voice in the back of your mind.

I didn’t know you could be so cruel, Y/N. This poor man is about to throw himself down the side of the mountain if you continue any longer.

Hopefully, the lesson is almost learned then. I would hate to have to repeat myself.

His fingers tightened on your hip in approval, satisfied to watch you work. Dephren was a shadow of the man he was ten minutes earlier as you left your mate’s hold to stand over him. It shouldn’t have felt as good as it did but you didn’t want to feel guilty now. He deserved it.

“Kneel.” You commanded, voice velvety smooth. It was only one word but it held so much power and control you couldn’t help but feel drunk off of it. “Kneel and apologize and I might forget this conversation ever happened.”

And to your surprise, he wasted no time in complying with your request. His knees hit the floor hard as he knelt at your feet, lowering his head in submission. 

“Please, Y/N, forgive me.” Dephren squeaked. “I beg of you.”

You turned to Rhysand, tilting your head in question to see what he thought. He gestured towards you before crossing his arms over his chest and smiling darkly, enjoying the show. 

“Just remember, my dear Dephren, who I am.” You warned, your voice like ice as you glanced around at the rest of the spectators. “As shall the rest of you. I do not forget and the next person I hear, or even think, of such slander, I shall have their tongues and their minds.” 

Your skirts swished around your feet as your turned and grabbed Rhys’s hand, letting him lead you to the throne and adorn his lap as Dephren swiftly stood and disappeared into the background. There was a beat of silence before the music started back up and everyone returned to their respective places. 

It was taking all of your concentration to control your breathing and not break out in a sweat as your adrenaline came crashing down. You didn’t recognize the woman saying those things as you replayed it over and over in your mind. It was as if you had been possessed by someone else.

You were wonderful, Y/N. You had me utterly entranced with your performance.

His hands grazed up your bare legs, catching on the sheer fabric as he reached the crest of your hips. It was a delicate touch that sent the filthiest thoughts into your head. You craved more, your breathing evening out as he went higher and higher until he caressed the side of your breast. 

Goosebumps erupted across your skin as you turned to look into his violet eyes, your face flushed with desire. You were as bewitched by him as he was with you, licking your lips hungrily as he scowled at Keir who was waiting for the two of you to notice him.

“What is it now?” Rhysand snapped, holding you tighter as you began to kiss up his neck. You usually weren’t one for huge public displays of affection but with what happened tonight, it was like you were a new woman. 

A hungry, aching woman.

As Keir began his question about one of the other people in the room you tuned him out, your sex slickening as you began to grow impatient at Rhys’s lack of attention toward you. His hand still rested on your hip, rubbing small, enticing circles as he droned on and on.

It was only after a few minutes you decided to take matters into your own hand. You did not know if you were feeding off the raw power you had just realized you held or if it was simply adrenaline, but whatever it was it had you worked into a frenzy. 

Rhys…

Though his eyes never left Keir's, he tensed ever so slightly under your touch. You knew you had his full attention. While maintaining a bored expression on your face, you began to show him all the multiple times you had pleased him. It started off with just small glimpses of skin and soft moans but as your impatience grew, you sent him much more vulgar things.

And when you whispered into his mind just how wet you were with the picture of you exploring yourself, you felt his resolve snap underneath you like a twig.

“Do I not have you here to maintain order while I am away, Keir? Are you not able to handle things?” Rhysand snarked, raising an eyebrow as you both stood abruptly. “You bore myself and Y/N with these meaningless conflicts. If you cannot control them by yourself perhaps your leadership needs to be questioned.”

Keir immediately bowed his head while muttering apology after apology. “I did not mean to bore, my lord, nor Lady Y/N. I was simply-”

Rhys clicked his tongue, silencing the steward swiftly. “And yet you continue to do so. We will be taking our leave now but I will be returning within the next few days. I suggest you make sure everyone is on their best behavior…otherwise you might find yourself on the edge of the sword.”

“Yes, of course.” He replied with gritted teeth. Mor, Azriel, and Cassian were already gone by the time you were leaving the grand room. You smiled coyly at your mate, licking your lips as he pulled you flush against his body.

“Do not play modest with me, darling. I saw every single thought in that pretty, filthy head of yours.” Rhys smirked, already half hard from just remembering them. “If you think you are getting off easy tonight you are sadly mistaken.”

“I don’t want you to be easy tonight.” You cooed, gazing at him through your lashes. “I want you to make me scream so loud that everyone in the Hewn City knows who was right tonight.”

His eyes darkened and before you could blink you were plunged into darkness, appearing in your shared bedroom moments later. You gasped when you were shoved roughly against the door but his lips smothered yours before you could say anything else.

You melted into him, your tongue dancing with his while your hands found purchase in his hair. It was soft against your fingers, which tightened into fists when he wedged his thigh between your legs. The friction was heavenly as you had soaked through your panties, your dress allowing him easy access.

“Is that all for me?” Rhys purred into your ear, biting down on your lobe before kissing and nipping his way back to your lips. You nodded, too out of breath to say anything, to which he smiled devilishly. “I’ve barely even touched you and you’re already speechless.”

The air around you was thick with need as you grabbed one of his hands and placed it on your breast, your hips rutting against his leg. “Are you just going to talk or will I see any action from you, my lord?”

Rhysand couldn’t help but grin at your words. Even pinned against the wall, pussy dripping for him, you found a way to smart off to him. It was one of the things he loved you for, the fire within you.

With one push off the wall, he separated your bodies and crossed his arms over his chest. “Take it off. Now.”

Your heart fluttered at his change of tone, fingers trembling in excitement as you started to pull down the straps of your dress. You knew that your words had awoken that dark, sadistic streak he kept carefully locked away. It was something you didn’t get to see often but tonight you wanted it. 

You wanted him to use you for pleasure, to let him so thoroughly fuck you that there was no doubt left that only you could bring him to that level of ecstasy. It seemed that Dephren’s words had indeed got under your skin but hopefully this would ease it.

Rhysand knew it as well. He had wanted to torture the greasy, traitorous man as soon as he pieced together what happened but you took over effortlessly, showing everyone in that room who you could be even though his words made you question.

His cock throbbed at the memory of you standing over Dephren, at just how utterly sexy you were at that moment. 

As you let the dress fall into a pool of silk at your feet, the cool breeze making goosebumps rise on your arms and your nipples harden, the wetness between your legs only grew. It felt like it was dripping down at this point.

“Kneel.” He commanded, beginning to undo the strings of his pants while you immediately sunk to your knees. You bit down on your lip as he put two fingers under your chin, tilting it up upwards at him. “Such a good girl.”

One of his hands gripped his thick, heavy cock while the other gathered your hair into his fist. You swallowed in anticipation, both of your hands on your thighs as you opened your mouth wide for him. Just as he liked it.

Rhys growled as he slapped the head of his dick on your tongue, coating your lips with the precum that had already gathered at the tip before he thrust into your mouth with no warning. You instinctively gagged, your throat tightening around him while your hands flew to his thighs to steady yourself.

“Just like that, darling.” He grunted as he slowly fucked your mouth, his balls hitting your chin with every thrust. 

You followed his lead as much as you could, your scalp burning as he tugged and pushed as he pleased. His cock was hard to fit fully in your mouth but you did your best, licking the underside every time he pulled out to drive him crazy. 

Drool was escaping the seal of your lips around him, running down your chin and onto your bare chest. The moonlight shone against it, catching his attention and spurring him on even more as he truly used you to get off.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it Y/N?” Rhys taunted, his pupils blown wide in lust as you gargled around his length. “You crave to be used like this, for my pleasure. You want me to treat you like the secret whore you are.”

A nod was all you could muster as he pushed further and further into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat and cutting off your airway. It made you lightheaded which only seemed to enhance your feelings, one of your hands dropping to your cunt so you could thrust two fingers inside.

He laughed deeply at your desperation, enjoying the way you struggled to breathe from how far his cock was in your mouth. It was almost all the way in when you started to push against his leg in a warning. You were going to have to come up for air soon.

However, he knew you could take him deeper. You were doing so well. It was taking all of your strength not to throw up as Rhys forced himself down your throat more and more, but when those tears started to roll down your face, smearing your makeup, he felt something primal stir deep inside of him. And he wanted more.

With an audible pop, he pulled himself out, your lungs burning as you coughed and sputtered. You were still slightly dizzy from the lack of oxygen when two hands hoisted you up and turned you so that you were facing your mate.

“Look at you…” Rhysand praised, smearing your mascara underneath his thumb as another tear ran down your face. “Perfectly ruined, all for me.”

“Only for you.” You whispered hoarsely, closing your eyes when his hand curled around your throat assertively. 

The sight of you teary-eyed and wrecked almost made him cum in his pants. You were wrapped around his finger, ready to give him whatever he wanted without realizing that the only thing he did want was you.

“Let’s see if we can wreck you even further. Can you do that for me? Can you take more?” He asked you, wanting to make sure you were okay even if he was about to bust at the seams.

You kissed him softly while grabbing his free hand and guiding it towards your sex, jumping when he brushed against your clit before pulling back so that you were looking into his eyes. 

“I told you I wanted you to make me scream so loud they could hear me in the Hewn City. My mind hasn’t changed, Rhysand.” You smirked, letting him sprawl you out on the bed behind you and spread your legs impossibly wide. 

Rhys crawled on top of you, kissing your forehead once, before making his way down your body. “Darling, I’m going to make you cry until the skies themselves begin to weep.”

And with one last smirk, he began to feast on your body until the very ground shook from your screams of pleasure.  

[moodymisty]

hi! i hope you feel better soon!

i was wondering if you plans for continuing your ‘legions reacting to their primarch’s partner’ series ?

have a good one :) 🐊

Part 1, Part 2

Author's Note: Sure, here's the rest of them :3

Relationships: Implied Leman Russ/Reader, AlphariusOmegon/Reader, Sanguinius/Reader, Lorgar/Reader, Ferrus Manus/Reader, Mortarion/Reader, Jaghatai Khan/Reader, Horus/Reader, Fulgrim/Reader, Corvus Corax/Reader (A NOTE: almost all of these are gender neutral, but a few might have the term mother or another female term in it, so fair warning)

Warnings: None really

➧ Space Wolves:

Pretty average. They're definitely one of the better legions to be around if you're a baseline human, as they're not only pretty chill, but actually somewhat... nice? By Astartes standards.

You enjoy listening to them tell battle stories around the bonfire or whatever you're all camped around, and they like how easy it is to impress you with their feats of strength. Evenings can quickly devolve into one on one duels if you're around, and there's enough Mjød involved. Impressing Wolf Mother with your spur of the moment honor duel is the height of accomplishment, for a hammered Space Wolf.

You would hope Russ would stop these shenanigans, but you’ll find yourself disappointed when he joins in, brawling his own Astartes for your attention that he already has.

They also all find it absolutely hilarious when you use one of their tamed Fenrisian wolves as a mount, as it puts you at eye level with them.

➧ Alpha Legion:

Your relationship with Alpharius & Omegon is as ambiguous as how the Alpha Legion Astartes feel about you.

They don't like the twins having a potential weak spot that can be exploited by enemies, and their myriad of plans and spiderweb of secrets could get easily unraveled; But if the twins brought you into the inner circle, they’ll place trust that they did it for a reason.

It's just a bit, disorienting having so many men- some of which look very similar- coming in and out of your life. The twins know that you can tell them apart from their legion lookalikes (somehow and it pisses them off), but they still find it funny to try and slip things past you.

➧ Blood Angels:

As one of the kinder chapters, you being brought into the fold is of little resistance, largely because they see how happy Sanguinius is when you're around. They may be battle hardened warriors, but they find it difficult to express their worries when their Primarch has never looked happier holding your much tinier hand.

However the Blood Angels already have a protective (border-lining on obsessive) nature with their Primarch, and that is something that now extends in fold to anyone Sanguinius is close to. Being you.

Do not expect to go anywhere with any less than three fully armored Blood Angels. They will glare at anyone who comes close, they will scold anyone who speaks to you without proper prose, and you will have to deal with it. Some may have a developing soft spot for their kind Legion Mother which allows you to order them around, but they are very strict in this regard.

And Sanguinius will not stop it; Because he feels the same way as them, he's just better at hiding it.

➧ Word Bearers:

Largely neutral at first, but over time they begin to warm up to you as Lorgar's loving gazes and borderline worshipping talk wears on them. It also helps that they have some non-violent experience with other humans.

There are some however who don't approve of your closeness to Lorgar; Especially as it becomes more obvious that Lorgar's priorities are changing, and his distractions are getting worse. You becoming the idée fixe of Lorgar's mind is more than a bit concerning for some members of the legion, particularly ones touched by Kor Phaeron.

They hold their tongues, but you know they don't like whenever the two of you are alone. You've heard the word 'temptress' uttered more than once.

➧ Iron Hands:

Extremely blunt, and to the point. like the Imperial Fists, but without the protective streak. Iron Hand brutal efficacy doesn't exactly mix with the slow nurturing of what one could consider romance.

But you show genuine interest in the practices of the legion and don't impede on their chapter traditions, so the Iron Hands suppose it could be worse. They'd much rather their Primarch not be distracted however, and that is a theme that will remain present in any conversation regarding you for a long while. Expect them to basically ignore you for the first portion of your relationship with Ferrus.

Rude...

➧ Death Guard:

The Death Guard are one of the legions that is definitely more conflicted about the whole thing.

On one hand they say that he will end up distracted, eyes pulled away from his crusade to more frivolous things like romance. But on the other hand, if it does away with some of Mortarion's depressive moue, then they can bite their tongues about it. Either way, they definitely aren't fans of it, and you'll more than hear about it.

Legion meetings are, more than a bit stressful. Mortarion often times comes back ragged and angry after being told he should be rid of you.

Things are strained. You hope they'll level out with time.

➧ White Scars:

Probably one of the better legions to be in. Helps that they don't despise baseline humans, and actually know how to smile sometimes.

It's refreshing to be around Astartes who are a little less, stuck up, something you say under your breath not long after being officially introduced to them. They find it absolutely hilarious.

You have a few Astartes you're a bit more familiar with that Jaghatai trusts to be your personal guard, in the rare moments he isn't close. Pretty chill all around.

Unless there's about seven of them all eagerly surrounding you trying to teach you different Chogoran words, then it's significantly less chill.

Also jetbike rides sound rad af

➧ Luna Wolves:

They have their doubts as all legions do, but given Horus' charisma it isn't long before they toss those doubts aside, and quickly welcome you into the fold at Horus' side.

Also similar to the Blood Angels in that they get near feral protecting their genefather's beloved. It's like his obsessive nature somehow has somehow manifested or has been genetically implanted in them. Horus always makes sure you have a guard at your side, no matter where you go.

It was all fine at first, but now you're beginning to feel a bit like a prisoner.

➧ Raven Guard:

The Raven Guard are pretty tame all things considered. While conversations tend to be respectfully brief, you've noticed overtime that it's less so disinterest, and more a so near nervous formality. It's almost like they don't know how to talk to a baseline human woman for more than a few moments. It's, cute.

Nykona doesn't seem to mind you though; Largely because he overheard you mumble that you think his armor is the most impressive out of all of the Raven Guard Astartes during a sparring session between him and Corax.

Overall, they’re happy Corvus is happy, and as long as his main mission isn’t compromised, they’re content to have you here.

While most legions say ‘Legion Mother’ however, the Raven Guard tend to use the title ‘Raven Mother’ instead when being formal. When they started saying that instead of just legion mother, you noticed how it intertwines with how they refer to Corvus.

Once you realized you got a little bit too excited they’d finally started accepting you, and scared the shit out of no less than three guards by abruptly crying.

➧ The Emperor's Children:

They do enjoy being around humans that can appreciate the arts, and they don't hold much ill will towards you as the jewel of their Primarch's eye. If anything, they seem almost pleased their Primarch is able to pursue such things. You're welcomed into the fold with little fanfare, and Legion business continues on with nary a peep about Fulgrim's new wife.

Many of them create things for you, which while incredibly sweet, makes Fulgrim a little miffed if you show too much joy about it. He just gets a bit jealous, but it's harmless. You find it kind of cute.

[crow-stars]

❝ONCE UPON A DREAM❞

❦summary; dreams are wonderful things, the thing we escape to when the waking world gets to burdensome. some dreams, however, give us hints in the future ♪the characters in this story; prefect!gn!reader, malleus draconia ✎word count; 809 ❀what do the ghosts say?; ambiguous, lots of dream talk, very short i won't lie, kind of rushed, reader appears at the end ☛the author's notes; i haven't written in a bit and then suddenly decide to do inktober i am the perfect writer ever /hj ☪look at the catalogue?

Malleus didn’t often have the time to engage in things other than what he was told to do. Stuck in a castle all the time left him with little to do, and what he was able to find interest in would sometimes become a bore soon enough. 

So, when the fae prince fell asleep, dreams tended to be his only escape. Of course, most of these dreams were either nonsensical or unable to be deciphered once he woke up. But it didn’t matter when many of the feelings from said dreams carried on after Malleus woke up. 

One of the types of dreams that would stick out to him were the familiar ones. Not ones that retold the events of the day, but the ones that he barely remembers when he wakes up. It’s the ones that he only remembers when in the waking world, the ones that make him pause and feel like he’s lived through these events before. At first, it was weird for Malleus, and he wanted to find an explanation for this weird occurrence. 

Though there was only so much Malleus could do before he would be pulled back into the duties of studying and learning. With those obstacles in the way, Malleus eventually relented with just allowing his dreams to be. Whenever he got that familiar sense of deja vu, Malleus would pocket the event away in his mind and carry on with what he was doing. 

However, there was this one dream that Malleus could never forget and always left him yearning for more, even when he was younger. A dream with someone that he could barely remember, but could make his heart feel both heavy and full once he woke up. It was the type of dream that made Malleus yearn for something that he couldn’t reach for, or maybe haven’t experienced yet.

The dream would always start somewhere warm, filled with sun, somewhere that was beautiful and made Malleus feel so at peace. Then he would wander around for a bit before meeting with someone and wandering around with that person. Sometimes they would talk about things he doesn’t remember, sometimes they would sit together and do activities. The dream would end with a scene where he was standing somewhere cold, yet could only feel happy. Then Malleus would wake up and the images his head had built would fade away. 

Malleus would only continue to have dreams such as this until he slowly stopped having dreams. Lilia had told him it was a consequence of growing up, slowly not being able to have dreams anymore. It made Malleus aghast at such a thing and he hated it, oh he hated it. But he had to accept it eventually, as the dreams that he loved having so much slowly began to disappear from Malleus’ nights, especially that warm dream that Malleus held so close to his heart. That too soon faded away like dust and left Malleus only with the emotions he could cling to. 

After that, dreams would be a rare occurrence for the fae, if any happened at all. They were fleeting and barely able to grasp. The dreams that felt familiar to Malleus were also rare as well and only the ones of the past stayed to be fulfilled. Except that one dream. 

It wasn’t until Malleus became a junior at Night Raven College that the last dream could come to fruition. 

On a particular night, when Malleus was out wandering during the night and aiming to explore his favorite abandoned building, instead of serene silence and the feeling of solitude, there was a human there, standing outside of the building that once was a dorm, looking up at the stars with an almost solemn expression. 

At first, they didn’t notice him, just staring up into the starry sky. When they did, however, they jumped in surprise with a shocked cry leaving past their lips. It almost gave Malleus a chuckle. He inquired about why a human was at the abandoned building and getting the answer that they were living there. Pity. It was one of his favorite spots to explore. The human then asked about Malleus’ identity, a light smile on their lips as they awaited his answer. 

It gave Malleus pause, seeing the sight before him. 

It was cold, yet... there was a sense of warmth that bloomed in his chest. He had to pause for a moment, think for a bit, before he responded. He told the human to call him what they wish, and lamenting just a bit about how the dorm they lived in could no longer be called abandoned before disappearing in a flurry of fireflies. 

It was a night cut short for Malleus, unfortunately. But, that sense of deja vu washed over him. And that night, for once, Malleus dreamed again.

[thevirtualvalentine]

005. ONE PIECE, VINSMOKE SANJI.

content warnings: readers gender isn’t specified but they are wearing a dress, terrible tooth rotting fluff (author is in love with sanji), morticia and gomez energy, smut author writes fluff (rough).

plot: it’s your anniversary with Sanji and it appears he has something to tell you.

authors note: me x sanji but in the form of x reader fanfic. this is how he confessed to me btw if u even care. Also, the accompanying song is Mio Amore by the Flamingos.

Such beautiful days on the water, it’s been a few months with him already; he only makes your experiences feel that much more sublime. You admit it was risky having relations on a sea bound ship, but you could tell Sanji was different. Not like men who only valued your physical attributes, but one who sees you for your most bare and essential parts.

He asked that you meet him in the kitchen tonight, just the two of you. You expected a fancy dinner and to most likely be interrupted by your Captain who was going to inevitably be hungry and plead with your date to make him a third dinner. However, that was not what you were met with exactly.

Stepping into the kitchen there he was, clad in a black suit with a button up in your favorite color. Pots simmered on the stove as the kitchen was shrouded in ambient light with low jazz filling every corner of the space. The dining table only set for two with bouquets of fresh flowers, where could he have even gotten those? You’ve been at sea for two weeks without stopping at an island.

He turns to you, dropping his knife before cleaning his hands on a towel. “And don’t you look beautiful,” he says, taking your hand while guiding you deeper in his set up for your anniversary date.

“Sanji, what’s all this?” He’s always like this, overly romantic in his affections for you. It’s like he’s never heard of the word subtle. Honestly, it’s what you love about him. His extreme attention to detail over you, the dedication it shows. No one in your life has ever been so thoughtful.

He doesn’t find your words to be critical, learning early on in your relationship that you’re eerily similar to him; posing questions as a means of guarding your own heart. “For you my sweet, happy anniversary.” He places your hand over his heart, allowing you to understand exactly how he feels in this moment. Nervous but calm, excited to be with you anywhere.

“Oh! Before dinner, I wanted to do something.” When he begins to speak, his heart rate picks up the slightest bit. His hand that was placed over yours let’s go before he’s swiveling on the heel of his foot over to where the record was playing. “There’s this song, it reminds me of you,” only softness is found in his voice as he tries to give context to his actions.

The music he listens to always brings a grin to your face, Sanji is quiet the romantic you’ve come to find out. Despite his womanizing first impression, you’ve learned that above all he loves with every fiber of his being; down to his finger tips and toes. He loves his crew, he loves his mom and sister, he loves the Baratie, he loves his true dreams; but you’ve wondered, does he love you?

When he places the needle down on the disc, an old sounding tune fills the air. He rushes back to you asking, “May I?” Ambiguous. You’re unsure what he means but you just nod. You’d give him anything he asked of you.

“𝐌𝐢𝐨 𝐀𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞. 𝐓𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦.”

As the song begins to play he plants a soft and sweet kiss to your lips, pulling away all too soon before taking your hands in his.

The dress you’re wearing matches the setting so well, of course it would be like him to ask to dance. You can’t help but smile. It’s one that lights up every corner of your face, showing all the care you have for him in your heart. A small laugh escapes you as your eyes meet his.

“𝐓𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦.”

He’s nervous, you can tell in the tension in his shoulders that his posture is abnormally rigid. You’re both keenly aware of each other, intuition a gift and curse you both were blessed with. “You’re sweet dear, this is perfect.” You try to encourage him, settle any anxieties he may have about this whole set up. “No one’s ever done something like this for me.”

He can’t tell you just how much he likes hearing those words come from your mouth. Something instinctively within him wants to be your first for many things. He wants to show you a world where you’re the sun he revolves around, yet that you can also depend on him with any worry or qualm you may have.

“𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬, 𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞.”

You’re both now swaying on the wood floors, the occasional creak of the Thousand Sunny’s can be heard as your heels clatter against it. “Everything for you, always.” It sounds like a promise, something similar to a code he means to live by. A set of values that he refuses to break as his tone is serious.

“𝐓𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐬, 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮.”

“Sanji…” you say softly, he always manages to make butterflies erupt within you. Your hands are placed on his shoulders while his find your waist.

“𝐓𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬, 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐲𝐨𝐮.”

Your head is tucked into his chest as he holds you close. You can hear the erratic beat of his heart clearly. “I mean it. I would kill for you, I would die for you, do you understand that? I would give up the all blue in your name if you asked me to.” At that you gaze into his eyes, they always seem to tell a depth of truth about him that words can’t. The intensity you’re met with is almost frightening, dark eyes that refuse to waiver. His words go against all that you know. His loyalty to his crew should be first, not to you…

“𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞.”

“Anything you could ever want, I would do my best to give it to you.” It’s tender and raw, his feelings always end up that way. You’re all he’s ever wanted and he’ll be damned if you don’t end up the person he wakes up to every day.

“But Sanji, why? What about everything you stand for?” You can’t help the rise of anger in your voice, he’s prone to sweet talking but this is flat out too much.

His face is unreadable, you’re looking for something; anything that could explain his irrational thinking right now. “Because, I’m in love with you.”

“𝐎𝐡 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐧’𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐞𝐞? 𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞.”

Well, that could definitely explain his ‘irrational thinking.’ Your face screams “what” as your jaw is left agape. “I’ve been in love with you.” He corrects himself. “It feels like I was made for you, and you for me.”

His confession leaves you speechless. Stunned that a man could have such profound things to say about his feelings.

“𝐎𝐡, 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐞.”

He drops to one knee in front of you, taking your smaller hand in his while his thumb rubs against your knuckles. “I promise you that y/n,” he leaves a kiss on them while awaiting your response.

“𝐓𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥.”

Those damn eyes, the ones that see you for who you truly are. The ones that rip you to bits and can pick apart your essence, almost as if he can see past your physical being and into something more.

It’s trust that he places in you, handing his fragile and vulnerable heart on a silver platter that you could break into tiny pieces. He’d glue them back together and still love you. He’d rather be a fool that doesn’t learn his lesson than turn away from you.

“𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐮𝐧 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐝.”

Sweeping his blond hair that covers half his face, you’re met with a man who wants nothing more than to love you and to be loved by you. Down to his core, that’s all he could ever ask from you.

“I love you Sanji, more and more every day.” Bringing yourself down to his height, you kiss his forehead, holding his face within your hands.

You swear you could hear him gasp in surprise. Whether it be your confession or action, he wasn’t prepared for it to be reciprocated in the same way. Just as you’ve never had someone to care this much, the same goes for Sanji. While he’s had Zeff, this is far different. A love that is romantic and unconditionally given, all consuming and devoted. You are better than anything he’s ever lusted after, and now that he has you he will continue to make you his.

“𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞.”

He stands back up to wrap his arms around you, dragging you into a bear hug with a swirling storm of kisses that don’t seem to stop. “I’m yours, always,” he says to you. Carding his hands in your curls as he tries to meld your forms into one. “Yours, yours, yours,” he repeats. In the way that you need him, he needs you.

If it wasn’t for the food continuing to cook, you could have stayed right there with him forever.

[ohraicodoll]

i need more tommy x red content, i feel like all of their interactions would be so unintentionally funny, like red is trying her hardest to be nice and tommy is just so scared of her. however i can actually see tommy being one of the first people outside of the ellie and joel that red warms up to. but whenever joel and tommy gets into a little brotherly spat she can get a little mean with him.

😂 I'm doing this headcanon style just because I feel this would have to encompass a lot of different moments lol

Tommy doesn't realize what Joel means by Red being a little wild until a week into their settling down in Jackson because he makes the mistake of grabbing her backpack (mind you, he was just going to hand it to her, but he didn't know how she would react)

Instantly, she's stepping towards him and rationality is gone from her eyes making him drop the bag immediately as Joel steps between them with hands raised. His eyebrows are in his hairline as he watches his older brother try to placate her. He damn near feels like bolting when she moves around him and snatches her bag from the floor beside him, giving him a glare

It takes a good few drinks and forcing his brother to sit down and tell him who the fuck he brought into his town before Joel gives him her full story

She's not just rough around the edges, like he had gauged during that first meal when he met her. He had thought she was quiet, antisocial maybe. No, she's full on raised-by-wolves wild.

He avoids telling Maria for another week to keep from stressing her out. He wonders how the hell his brother found this woman.

This becomes unavoidable when the problems start. She almost breaks a guy's wrist when he puts his hand on her shoulder. Ellie is yelling at people in her defense. Grant comes back from their first patrol together, without Joel, beat to shit for flirting with her. She keeps pulling weapons out on people.

He knows Joel likes her. Hell, he thinks the man even loves her despite his grumblings, ambiguity, and avoidance of the topic. So he's stuck between caring for his brother and his town/wife's wishes.

He tries to bridge the barrier during family dinners and gets nothing at first. It takes a few dinners and a couple of hints from Ellie (who is so much like Sarah sometimes it hurts) before he manages to get her to talk about music. And for a while, she doesn't seem so bad as he watches her warm up and relax and look a little bit more human.

He brings up seeing concerts growing up with Joel before serving in the Army and when he tells her Springsteen was a better show than Johnny Cash, somehow it's like she's a different person as she debates with him.

"You're fucking out of your mind. You saw Cash and you thought Springsteen was better?" "Hey, I didn't say it was bad-" "Springsteen?" "Are you going to kill me if I said I also liked Bon Jovi more?" "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Lighter, quicker in her replies, more at ease. No stutters, no hesitancy. He can see what Joel means about those hints of her former self and he doesn't miss the smirk on his brother's face, even if Tommy is worried she's gonna kill him.

Things get tense when there is discussion of Red getting kicked out. He's the one that has to break it to Joel.

Maria is stressed after more incidents with Red and he's quick to suggest a different job. Less people, something she'd be more at ease with. The kennels were usually run by Jamie, the towns most experienced vet who was having to split time between the dogs and the horses and the farm animals. She's more than willing to have Red help.

Red takes to it quickly and Tommy can't help but feel proud of himself for the suggestion. Joel tells him he talked to her and she's trying even if it looks like torture for her. The incidents go down with the exception of the Harper problem. He makes it extremely clear to her she's to keep away from Red after Joel tells him what happened.

Red does well enough in the kennels that Maria thinks she's good to stay in their commune. The worry eases a bit and he can breathe.

Tommy often finds her there, sitting with the dogs, reading whatever books she can on training and caring for them. Jamie leaves some of her veterinarian texts for her to study and she's quick to focus on that. Joel tells him that when she has a goal, a job, she goes all in and it seems the dogs are her focus now.

He catches her there one day when he's returning Bailey back to her pen after a patrol. Usually they nod at each other and that's that, but he's almost startled out of his skin when she appears right behind him. He hadn't heard her at all. Sometimes she scares the shit out of him and he wonders if his brother has a death wish.

But she looks nervous and Tommy tries to be patient as she stutters out a sentence, almost looking frustrated at herself, "Um...it's getting colder...and, um, the puppies..." She takes a deep breath with clenched teeth and continues more evenly, "I don't want the pups to die and it's, um, too cold. Joel said I had to ask you."

He doesn't interrupt, tries to piece together what exactly she's asking and act like this was a normal situation, "You wantin' a heater installed in here for the dogs?"

She nods firmly before jumping to add (making him slightly flinch), "And the older dogs. The cold isn't good for their joints."

Maybe because he's trying to make an effort or because she doesn't ask for anything ever, but he's quick to agree even though it means arguing with the electrical team. He gets the heaters installed for her that week and even installs some insulation to help.

She seems a little less scary after that.

He's the one to find her when one of the senior dogs passes. She doesn't cry, but clings to his fur, laying on the ground, as if her warmth could bring him back. Part of him wants to go get Joel, but doesn't want to leave her alone. So he sits beside her, resting a hand on her back, and stays.

He helps her bury him and when she goes back to the pen, silent and closed off, then he goes and gets Joel. She stays there for a week until his brother manages to coax her back home.

It seems to break down some sort of wall between them. Even if she isn't exactly warm to him, he can tell there's less tension. He sees more hints of how she is with Joel and Ellie. She gets through a family dinner at his house and even throws a few more digs at his music tastes. When they're on patrol with Joel, she proves she is a much better shot than him and even laughs when he misses their designated target. Joel mutters "half a mile, my ass."

Old habits die hard. Joel was always the one to take charge, to tell him what to do. Now that Tommy is more in the leadership role they butt heads like before. They're arguing over construction plans and Joel is frustrated with Daniel, the man in charge of the project.

He knows Joel has more experience, but Maria had put Daniel in the head role and he wasn't going to undermine her. But his brother is on a rant about all the things the man is doing wrong and he's having to defend Maria's decision.

When things get more heated, Red is there. She doesn't say anything to him, but it's like having a live wolf in the room. He freezes at the way her eyes are blank, hollow, cold. One wrong move and she'd be on him, it didn't matter who he was. The argument ends if only so Joel can keep her from killing him over a dumb fight.

The line is clear. She'll protect her own against anyone. It terrifies him but he also respects it. Joel needs someone to watch his back.

Tommy doesn't realize how much she begins to grow on him until he happens upon her at the wood mill. The men are leering and one is giving her a hard time, obviously coming on to her. He knows she's trying. Trying to be less aggressive and reactionary, trying to keep her head down. But it's him that reacts when the guy grabs her arm firmly and doesn't let go. When she tries to shake him off and he spits out, "Maybe someone just needs to break you in, wild thing."

He doesn't think, old traits flaring back to life. Tommy socks the guy in the face. Hard.

The man hits the ground on his back hard and he just stands over him next to Red who looks unsure and a little surprised, a first for him to witness. But Tommy shakes his hand and hisses at the man, "Don't you lay a hand on anyone like that again, understood? Don't you even look at her ever or I'll break your fucking jaw. You can tell your buddies the same."

The rest of them don't say anything and he helps her grab what she needs before they leave.

They're walking back to Joel's house, his hand smarting a little and her holding the wood pieces she had gone to collect. They're almost at the house when she looks at him like she's trying to dissect every piece of him, split him open and analyze what makes him tick. It's uncomfortable but he stares back with what he hopes is an easy smile.

"You didn't have to do that," she mutters with a hard frown but he can hear the underlining words. Joel always said she has a hard time saying what she means. That you have to peek underneath what she's saying. You helped me, you came to my defense, why why why?

Tommy huffs and smiles a bit wider before patting her on the back. She doesn't flinch.

"I was just lookin' out for family, that's all."

[obeyme-and-myfics]

Prompt: Y/N had a nightmare and asks comfort

Characters: Barbatos, Diavolo, Simeon, and Solomon

✨🌸Fluff🌸✨

Y/N is going to be gender neutral to the best of my abilities. They/Them Pronouns, and I’m going to try and avoid gendered descriptors <3 Also tysm for all the love on the last post! I really appreciate it and I'm glad I could feed my fellow simps (✿◡‿◡)

I'm also gonna apologize now for possibly being out of character for anyone and also not adding Mephisto, Thirteen or Raphael. I Haven't met them yet so I don't want to write for them just yet but I will in the future. Anyway onwards to the story (╯▽╰ )

TW/CW: Not describing what was in the nightmare but if that ambiguity bothers you and makes your mind spiral please don’t read and have a wonderful night, 

Part 1 | Part 2(here)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Y/N jolted upright, holding their chest as it felt as if their heart would run away. They tried to calm their breathing and their thoughts, unable to shake the horrors their subconscious cruelly subjected them to. They took some deep breaths and manage to calm themself enough to look at the time. They squinted as their D.D.D lights up and the numbers display on the screen. It was late. They wondered if it may be too late to ask for comfort from someone. Taking another deep breath both to sooth their shaky hands and for some courage, they opened their contacts to make a phone call.

Diavolo

Y/N stared at Diavolo's contact for a moment. Sure he certainly wouldn't mind comforting them in this time of need, in fact he'd be eager to help his human but the real problem came with his royalty status. He was a very important man and they didn't want to stop him from performing his royal duties. They bit their lip and breathed in before clicking the call button. The phone rings for a bit before he picked up.

"Y/N!" his voice raspy and tired like he had just woken up, yet still sounding excited as he spoke, "what are you doing up so late? Is there something you need?"

"Yeah it is late," Y/N laughed a little, "I was wondering if you could stay on the phone for a bit," they made their quiet request shyly.

"Might I ask why?" Dia questioned, now intrigued by such a simple request.

"I had a nightmare and I really don't want to be alone," they felt their cheeks heating up with embarrassment as the demon prince let out a soft chuckle.

"Of course I can do that for you. Are you sure you just want me to stay on the phone? It would be much easier to comfort you in person," his voice softened, taking on a loving tone with not a trace of mockery.

"I mean yeah but I don't want to bother you too much. You probably have more important things to attend to."

"In this moment, you're the most important thing I have to tend to. I'll be there momentarily, be patient for me, okay?" he hung up, and left Y/N a bit flustered.

They rushed down the halls, and to the front door. Y/N paced around impatiently unlike what Diavolo had requested of them. They were excited yet anxious, worried about possibly making Dia lose sleep but happy to be held. Diavolo soon walked in, a grin decorating his features. Their worries washed away the instant their eyes met his.

He spoke up in a cheerful yet hushed tone as he shut the door as to not wake the rest of the dormitory, "Y/N, Thank you for being patient. I'll make sure you're comfortable and back to bed in an instant."

Barbatos

Y/N hesitated before calling the demon butler, unsure of whether or not he'd appreciate them being even more work for him. Barbatos had a lot of responsibility and little time to rest, seeing as he was the butler of the next king of Devildom. They sighed and internally gave themself a little pep talk before calling his number. The phone was ringing for only a second before Barbatos picked up.

"Good evening Y/N," he greeted, formal as ever with all my adoration of course, "is there a reason you're calling so late?"

"Yeah there is a reason.. I just need someone to talk to, I don't want to be alone right now," they mumbled out, "sorry for bothering you, you don't have to obviously."

"You're hardly a bother, I'd be happy to assist you," his calm voice reassured them that they were in fact safe, "shall I stay on the phone while I make my way to you?"

"Come to me?!" they blurted out loudly in a panic but quickly lowering their voice, "don't you have to be at Diavolo's side at all times or something?"

"Not necessarily, however my plan was to return to the castle with you.. Is it that you don't wish for my physical presence?"

"Well, no, I do.. I just-"

"Like I've stated before you are far from a bother, the young master is sleeping so all should be well. I'll send a message to Lucifer so he knows your whereabouts," he chuckled as Y/N sighs in defeat.

"Alright as long as its not an issue.." a small smile formed as they got themself ready.

"It is truly a pleasure to make you feel safe."

Simeon

Y/N tapped on Simeon's name, confident he wouldn't mind them bothering him. They didn't expect him to come over all the way from purgatory hall of course. They really just wanted him to talk to them for a while until they calmed down at the very least. The phone rings for a minute before Simeon picked up.

"Good morning, Y/N," he yawned out, "what are you doing up so early?"

"Well.. I'm not really up by choice,"

"Oh? Did something happen or is Asmo pestering you?" he chuckled a little, "though.. if it was just that you wouldn't have called me."

"I guess you could say something happened," they sighed softly, "this is really embarrassing.." They felt the heat rise to their cheeks

"Don't be, I won't judge you even if I think its something small," Simeon now sounded fairly awake and more serious than before

"I had a nightmare, I just don't want to be alone right now... I'm sorry," their voice quivered, threatening to crack and give away the fact there were tears trying to escape their eyes

"I see. I'll be over as soon as I write a note for Luke," they heard Simeon shuffle out of his bed.

"You don't have to come Simeon,"

"I know but I want to help you, Y/N,"

They grew quiet for a moment, "can you stay on the phone until you get here?"

"Of course I can. I'll care for you for as long as you need."

Solomon

Y/N didn't hesitate to call Solomon, full well knowing that he was up most nights. They waited impatiently, growing more anxious as the phone continued ringing. There was no answer, "Maybe he'd actually asleep for once..." they thought to themself, putting the phone down and rolling over. Y/N closed their eyes, trying to rest once more but was unsuccessful.

They sniffled softly before being startled by their phone ringing. Peaking at the screen, they smiled a little at Solomon's name being displayed. They answered after swiftly grabbing their phone once again.

"Sorry for not answering, I was busy with one of my projects and didn't hear the phone," he laughed a little bit, "but why are you up so late?"

"Oh. If you're busy its okay.. I just had a really bad nightmare."

"I see. That's unfortunate," he states the obvious, "What do you need from me to help?"

“Well I don’t know.. I just thought we’d talk and hang out on the phone, but-“

“No buts from you. I can do that but I think it would be much easier if I came to you,” he laughed.

“What’s so funny?” they pouted as if he could see them through the phone.

“I actually just finished something to help with this exact situation,” Solomon sounded excited, “how convenient! I’ll be over soon,”

Solomon hung up the phone, leaving Y/N alone again. They sighed, getting up and ready to greet him at the door. They wished he would’ve stayed on the phone but he was a bit oblivious when it came to social situations same Solomon same but they wouldn’t want him any other way. It was endearing in his own way how he got so excited at times that he forgot how to read a room affectionately of course. They waited patiently at the front door for Solomon to arrive. Solomon opened the door with a small smile.

“Solomon!” Y/N hugged him tightly

“Good evening,” he hugs back with one arm, pulling a potion out of his pocket with his free hand, “now let’s get you back to bed”