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babyjakes · 6 months

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in the middle of the night. [blurb.]

〈 disclaimer: this blog posts content not suitable for individuals under the age of 18. minors are strictly prohibited from viewing, sharing, or interacting with this blog. for more information on this blog's commitment to protecting minors, read our full statement here. 〉

event | kinkmas 2023

prompt | somnophilia

pairing | dark!stepdad!pete brenner x reader

warnings | stepcest (stepdad!pete is sooo sleazy.) soft dark!pete. reader is giving innocent vibes. noncon + somnophilia (reader is asleep.) age gap (reader is college age, pete is 40+.) slight daddy kink (pete refers to himself as such.) nipple play. fingering. oral (f receiving.) forced orgasm. squirting.

word count | 913

an | this is my first time writing pete brenner so please be nice!! i hope you all enjoy <33 he's so sleeeazzy, i need him :'))) also i'm just making as many taylor references as i can at this point, im not sorry about it lol

Eyes trailing up your unmoving form, Pete forced himself to swallow down the low groan building in his throat. The pale moonlight pouring in your bedside window was just bright enough to give view to your perfect figure. Taking in the delicate features of your resting face, the older man swore he was laying over a sleeping angel.

He knew what he was doing would be considered wrong by most. But Pete never had too much trouble ignoring his decayed conscience. When the opportunity had presented itself, it was just too good to pass up. You were home from college for the weekend, and your mother was away on a business trip. That left you alone with plenty of time to bond with your affable new stepdad, who you had no idea was such a raging pervert beneath his friendly smile and easy-going temperament.

The man tried to keep his hands steady as he dared to pull aside the fluffy white blanket covering your unconscious frame. When he saw what you were wearing: a skimpy satin nightgown with lacey straps and little bows along the seams, Pete cursed your unfeigned innocence, "Shit, babydoll. You're not makin' this any easier for yourself."

You were a heavy sleeper; that much he knew. He had seen it firsthand a few times when you had dozed off during movie nights with your mom. He brought a careful hand up to test out the waters, gently pawing at your breast as it rose and fell with your elongated breaths. Receiving no reaction, Pete smiled. He grew a bit bolder, gently teasing his fingertips over the slight tent in the fabric where your unguarded nipple lay. The removal of the blanket was already causing a shift in your body heat, both of your tiny pebbles growing semi-hardened at the drop in temperature.

Your body twitched, your plump lips letting out a quiet sigh as his even hand moved in circles over the stiffening nub. "There. That's nice, isn't it, angel?" he hummed, his other hand venturing to the hem of your nightgown's skirt. As lightly as he could manage, he pushed the fabric up to bunch over your tummy, his eyes widening at the sight of your lacey white panties. "Oh sweetheart," he sighed, his cock throbbing in his boxers at the sight of your clothed mound, "you have no fuckin' idea what you're doing to me."

Your slumbering body was cooperative as he eased your legs apart, scooting himself up a bit as he lay flat on his stomach, his head easing up between your bare thighs. Seeing you shiver slightly, he rubbed a large hand over your legs to warm you up. "Don't worry, baby. Daddy'll take care of you. You just lie there and keep lookin' pretty." The man was practically drooling as he peeled the strip of fabric covering your precious petals away, pushing it carefully to the side. At the sight of your little cunt glistening with the smallest bit of wetness, Pete let out a muffled chuckle. "My naughty girl," he cooed, rolling your nipple a bit more forcefully now between his thumb and finger.

Your little body was rocking gently, pulses of pleasure coursing through your limbs despite your deep state of unconsciousness. Licking his lips, Pete brought both hands down to gently part your folds, exposing your leaky hole to his hungry eyes. "Oh princess," he murmured lovingly, gently prodding the tip of a finger against your itty bitty opening, "so tight down here, aren't you? Daddy'll have to be careful with you, huh baby? Be nice and gentle for my girl."

He dipped his head down, teasing the tip of his tongue in place of his finger. The taste of your sweet, slippery juices only worsened his raging hard-on. Dragging his tongue up to your tiny clit, he traced the little nub in gentle circles, his elbows coming to rest over your thighs as your hips began to buck softly. "That's it, angel. So sweet for me," his hum was slurred as he gently slipped his finger inside you before wrapping his lips around your twitching button.

He pumped his digit in and out at a steady pace, finding your tender ceiling with ease as he nursed your clit. He could feel your core warming beneath him, your poor legs starting to shake weakly as you were worked up to an orgasm in the midst of your unwavering sleep. Soft little whines began rising in your throat as you were brought to the edge by your sinful stepfather's efforts. Seeing your climax approaching, Pete pulled his lips away from your burning nub, replacing them with his thumb. He wanted to see your precious little face as you came; he wanted to watch as your orgasm was forced out of you.

Soon it was, and it hit you with more force than he was expecting. As your cunt contracted helplessly around his single finger, a wave of glistening juices sprayed out onto your printed sheets. The man's grin only widened as he carried you through your high, not slowing his ministrations until your shaking died down. Breaths staggering, you were somehow still fast asleep, pussy dripping shamelessly onto Pete's fingers and the bed below.

Exiting you slowly, he brought his drenched digit up to savor your juices as his greedy gaze remained locked on you. "Oh pretty girl," he murmured with a breathy laugh, "the fun I'm gonna have with you..."

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bluemerakis · 5 months

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┌── ˚*❀*̥˚ ─── ˚*̥❀*˚ ──┐

✐ᝰ bluemerakis

┗━━• ❃ ° •° ❀ °• ° ❃ •━━┛

❝ paper trails ❞

⤷ Word count: 2.5k

Pookies it was my birthday yesterday, so in honour of that, I wanted to write a lil something something with coryo 🤭 not anything grand, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless

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WARNINGS:

Implied smut ig, teensy bit fluffy, just coryo being the cutest little gentleman ever (outside the bedroom)

SYNOPSIS:

There was nobody else that Coriolanus trusted more with his cherished garden of roses than you. You were the keeper of his flowers, tending to them with a delicacy that only you were capable of. He’d always admired that about you—how your green fingers always seemed to yield a larger bloom rate than his own ever did.

You’d always thought that you were nothing more than a district eleven nobody gardener to Coriolanus, but little did you know that he knew pretty much everything (however little) there was to know about your history, including your birthday. He gives you a gift of his own, an invitation he’s hoping you’ll accept so that he may celebrate your birthday with you—Coriolanus Snow style.

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Crouched low to the ground, you bit back a hiss of pain as a thorn pricked the tip of your index finger, withdrawing your hand to wipe away the welling drop of red at your fingertip. You fashioned more conscious caution as you returned your hand to the culprit rose and gingerly bent the stem towards you, your other hand gripping a pair of garden scissors. You nipped the stem below the dying rose head, the decayed, featherlight petals drifting to the ground to form a scattered painting of a crime scene.

Each time you were forced to cut away the wilted flowers, a piece of your heart ached. It was a necessary practice in order to keep the bush healthy and set it up for a successful next season, but it didn’t hurt any less to know that you’d once poured as much effort into preserving that very flower, and now you would lay it to rest simply because it had lost all grace and beauty—and hence value. Funny, really, how much that concept seemed to equate to the real world.

Overhead, the sun seared on, taking full responsibility for the beads of sweat that now dribbled down your temples. You dropped your scissors to the ground, it’s fall cushioned by the decayed bodies of your rose victims, and wiped your dirt-strewn hand across your forehead with a sigh. You took a moment to glance around the garden of the Snow estate, your chest prickling with a sense of pride at the perfect order you’d managed to bring it to.

Coriolanus Snow didn’t much trust anyone to tinker with his garden, it was one of his most prized possessions—a symbol of sorts that only he knew the meaning of. No matter, he’d taken you in from the districts and trusted you enough with the duty of being his gardener, and he was a very generous host in return. You stayed on the property—in this very garden, in fact, in your own little rustic cottage. He didn’t often make a stop there, mostly tending to his own business, but there were a few occasions where he did manage to pass-by and would check in with you.

The last thing you’d expected him to be was generous—and kind. It was practically an unspoken rule in the Capitol for the higher classes to spit on and degrade anybody from the districts, merely because your lesser existence was offensive to their way of living. You had to admit that you didn’t much hold any love for the Capitol citizens, either, but you thought that your dislike of them was far more justifiable and valid.

But there was an air around Coriolanus Snow, not exactly the most humble, but he was far from boasting his wealth and luxury of a lifestyle from the rooftops of Panem. It was almost as though he were too afraid to, as though this life would and could be robbed from him in an instant. It gave you the impression that he was not like most other Capitol-born citizens—perhaps he’d known what poverty was like, whether it was him or someone he knew that had endured it. Maybe that was why he’d taken pity on your life in the district and offered you this opportunity to come and live with him in return for your services.

There were many possibilities at play, but because Coriolanus Snow was such an enigma of a man, there wasn’t much hope of closure. As if the mere thought of him was a summons, you heard footsteps clatter down the bricked walkway winding through the gardens, turning your head just in time to glimpse that signature red ensemble of the man who’d been plaguing your thoughts for the last hour or so.

You instinctively rose to full height to offer him a modest bow of greeting upon his arrival. It was a gesture he’d insisted on neglecting for the first few days of your presence here, but he’d soon after given up on the matter when he realised that you would not listen. Now, going off of the sheer delight that seemed to glint in those deep blue eyes, you thought he rather enjoyed the importance that your greeting seemed to imply.

“Mr. Snow,” you offered a formal greeting, feeling suddenly conscious at how ragged and sweat-stained your gardening dress had become under this hot weather. Quite frankly, you hadn’t expected him to pay a visit today, given the scorching weather. You only wished that you could have presented yourself in a better manner.

Coriolanus stood towering before you, his chin tilted down to glance you over as he merely said, “Coriolanus, please.”

You were hesitant at his correction, before offering a slight nod of acknowledgment. “Coriolanus,” you repeated softly, feeling out each syllable of his name. It felt odd to use his first name outside of your thoughts, but even then, you almost always addressed him by full name.

You noticed the way Coriolanus’ eyes had lowered down your figure, and the self-consciousness only seemed to worsen at the idea that he may be judging your appearance. But you were taken aback as he leaned forward to take your hands into his, his thumbs ghosting over the back of your hands before he turned them over to survey your palms. The way he cupped your hands in his felt far too intimate, and you hoped by the grace of all the Gods that the dirt plastered to your face was mask enough to hide the colour inevitably warming the apples of your cheeks.

“Have you not been using those gardening gloves I gave you?” Coriolanus asked as he trailed his thumb over the cuts littered around your palm and across your fingers. He lifted his eyes to yours, they were shaped with genuine concern.

You were taken aback at how blatantly careless he was in his handling of you, and for a second you almost felt like an equal in status. Capitol-born rarely laid their hands on district occupants, as though they feared the poverty and dirt they carried were a plague to be avoided at all costs.

It took you a few seconds to find your tongue. “No, I haven’t,” you admitted, then quickly added, “not for lack of trying, though. I’ve never used gloves, even back in the districts—they make it difficult to grab ahold of the stems, and I find that my cut becomes rather clumsy with them on. I prefer the unveiled contact with my greenery.”

The white-haired man seemed to nod with understanding, a faint smile stretching his full and soft lips. “I guessed as much,” he responded. The confusion that swept across your face prompted him to explain. “I never developed a taste for gloves, either. When I inherited this estate, the garden was in a ghastly state. No matter how many gardeners I managed to enlist, none of them could bring my roses to justice. For a while, I did all of the work myself, and the garden thrived.” He paused with a sudden and wistful look. “But as it seems, my time wore thin with all my newly acquired responsibilities, so I turned to the districts in hopes of finding a suitable gardener to continue my work.” He paused as his eyes lowered down to your hands once more. “And then I found you.”

Your heart lurched at the way Coriolanus’ fingers began to caress the curves of your palms. You felt that somewhere along the line, you had missed the part of the story where the two of you had grown close enough for this sort of intimacy. But even then, you didn’t find yourself withdrawing from his touch. It felt oddly soothing, the way he dragged a constant, rhythmic pressure across your torn and aching skin.

“Why did you choose me?” You asked suddenly, causing Coriolanus to lift his head with that lopsided smile.

“I just knew you were right for me,” he responded levelly. “When I found your stall, I watched you for a while—the way you tended the flowers and assembled the bouquets for that Capitol celebration order. I thought the work looked familiar, I’ve seen it decorating most—if not all of the foyers of the upper-class Capitol buildings. The bouquets have always had a signature crown to them—one flower in the centre that sits a little taller than the rest of them, like a king that gazes down across his people. I saw you do the very same thing with all of your orders, and I knew then that you were the popular artist whose flowers haunt me wherever I walk.”

You let slip a giggle at his last words, not caring for etiquette at this point. You thought that you’d long since left formalities behind when Coriolanus had taken up your hands.

“I was unaware of just how much of a fan you were, Mr. Snow,” you teased, instantly catching your fault and correcting yourself. “Coriolanus.”

“Involuntarily,” he chuckled, his smile quieting as his eyes flickered across your face rather intensely. You would have cowered away from his stare, had it been casted under a different circumstance. “In any case, I knew I had to have you. Your talent and potential would have been laid to waste crafting posies and ensembles for sanctimonious Capitol parties. I doubt either one of them could properly recognise and appreciate the true effort imbued into their side-piece decorations.”

You pursed your lips at those last words, feeling rather propelled by a sense of pride at his praise and recognition of your hard work. “Putting aside the “sidepiece decorations”—could you, Coriolanus, properly appreciate my work?”

“If you have to ask that, I’m afraid I’ve been too subtle in my efforts,” he responded. Your lips quirked at that, only to gape in slight shock as Coriolanus lifted both of your hands to his lips, and in elegant sequence, placed a tender kiss onto your knuckles.

You swore that the very skin of your hands shrank away from the feel of his soft lips, an explosion of shivers sent along your rigid arms. “Coriolanus—” you started softly, but he cut you off.

“I chose you because of what your potential had to offer me,” he said, slowly releasing your hands to return back to your sides, and there they quivered as he went on. “But also because I knew what I could offer you. Nobody understands the scars of labour more than I do—don’t forget that I’ve been kneeling in your place, doing your job, long before I brought you here. Gardening, it isn’t just an industry—it’s an art, one that very few can appreciate, letalone master. But you—you’ve perfected it. I’ve never seen flowers so full and abundant in bloom.”

“You’re being too generous.”

“No,” he politely disagreed, a faint smile trailing after. “I’m simply giving credit where it’s due. Please, allow me to commemorate your hard work.” Your lips parted to question what he meant by those words, but you were silenced by the shuffling of his hands as he reached into his crimson blazer and pulled a white rose from concealment. “Take this.” He offered you the rose, and you gingerly accepted it.

Upon closer inspection, you noticed that it wasn’t a real rose at all—not all of it, at least, but one whose petals were expertly shaped from paper. The stem of it was real, but the thorns had been carefully carved away, the leaves left behind already starting to wither at the edges.

“Coriolanus,” you breathed, tilting the paper rose in every direction to marvel at its beauty. “This is so beautiful. I never pegged you for an arts and crafts guy,” you added with a chuckle.

“Neither did I,” he admitted. “It was one of the ways Tigris and I used to pass time as kids.”

You glanced up in faint surprise at the mention of Tigris. When Coriolanus had risen to power and status, shorty after inheriting the Plinth fortune, it was very difficult for his history to remain private. Everybody—even the districts, knew that Tigris was his older cousin, and that their relationship following his newly acquired fortune had since been estranged. After all, it was difficult to conceal the fact that his cousin no longer partook in his life, staying separated in her living quarters as well as neglecting the courtesy of attending his events of honour to show support.

You wondered whether Coriolanus ever regretted growing so distant with Tigris, but as you silently gazed at him, his expression let on not even the slightest hint of his thoughts or feelings on the matter. He was fashioned from composure, the only way to truly get an answer would be to hear it straight from his lips. But you wouldn’t pick at that particular scab, not when you had hardly known each other for more than a month—or spoken for more than a few minutes.

“Well, it’s beautiful,” you told him, gently clasping the stem between your fingers. “Thank you. I’ll cherish it forever.”

“I’m afraid you won’t have the opportunity,” Coriolanus said. You furrowed your brows. He made a slight gesture of his chin toward the rose, his hands sliding into the pockets of his trousers. “I left some notes on the petals. Feel free to read it once I’ve taken my leave.”

Your tilted down to the rose, your eyes narrowing in an effort to spot said note on the paper petals. After twirling the rose around for quite a bit, you managed to find the neat scribble of his handwriting nestled into the middle ring of petals. Before you had the chance to read the first word, Coriolanus’ voice stirred your focus.

“I’ll be seeing you,” he said before offering a smile and turning to take his leave from the garden.

You lifted your head and watched him disappear around a winding corner. “Goodbye!” You called after him, not sure he’d heard you at all. You turned your attention back to the rose and manoeuvred your fingers between the various paper petals, managing to find the beginning of the note. You push down the first petal and began reading it’s contents:

Your breath hitched in your throat at that last sentence. Coriolanus Snow, you little flirt, you thought, but you couldn’t deny the flush of your cheeks as you entertained that possibility. You pushed the thought away as you continued reading:

You chuckled at that statement. You weren’t going to be the one to say it. You bent down the last petal, the writing a lot less than the last few notes.

You averted your attention to the pathway that Coriolanus had long since disappeared along, your heart brimming with a sudden warmth. Nobody, other than your now deceased family, knew of your birthday. It had never been anything special, only a grim tally of your miserable years in the district.

You wondered how he’d come to obtain this information, and you realised then just how true to his word he’d been—he very likely did know every single thing about you. But you hated being perceived, especially by somebody you knew nothing about. So you decided then and there that you would take up his offer on tonight’s dinner,

And then, you intended to find out his every secret.

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This was so fun and refreshing to write. I’ve got about 7 unfinished drafts sitting around that I’ve been working on now and again, but I’ve been itching to get something complete and posted—so although this is something small, at least it’s something lmao. Sorry to disappoint y’all smut lovers, but I’ve got to keep it clean now and again.

Anyways, I just turned 19 yesterday, which feels surreal because I’m literally just a 17 year old teenage girl. I don’t think I’ll ever feel grown up. Every birthday is a goddamn existential crisis 😭

I hope you enjoyed this, likes and reblogs are always appreciated. Mwah!

𝔁𝓸𝔁𝓸

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reveristmikoto · 1 month

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(reposting + back [first image] and front cover [second image] bcs why not)

Decaying Rose Petals

Lucille: Decaying Rose Petals, the title of the story. One half is colored yellow, whereas the other is colored green.

Amara Schulze, an ambitious and charismatic squid (she/her). She tries her best to prevent bad things from happening.

Siegfried Dietrich, an affectionate and caring Darnwyvan (he/him) and the older brother of Sieglinde. Tough on the outside and soft on the inside, his love will never die.

Sieglinde Dietrich, a calm and reserved Darnwyvan (she/her) and the younger sister of Siegfried. Great at connecting the dots, she often picks up on little hints that might be of use.

Hold my hand, fellow Spectral, and let's go through their story together—shall we?

read chapters of Decaying Rose Petals here

#artworkoto🖌️#digital art #ibispaint art #ibispaintx #writeblr #writers on tumblr #writers of tumblr #book cover #fantasy #decaying rose petals

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decaying-rose-petals · 5 months

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writeblr intro!

hiya! mikoto back at it again! your nothing-out-of-the-ordinary neighbor who's mentally fine, indeed.

about this blog!

this is a blog reserved for chapters of my wip, decaying rose petals. this book has been in my head for two years yet i can't finish it for some stupid reason a few parts might've gone unedited so please ignore that.

i will sometimes post oc facts, albeit it might be too much (imagine having your own writing as your special interest, totally not me haha uhh).

i'll also share some of my writing playlists (if i can).

synopsis!

"I won't allow myself to be afraid anymore."

What does it take to become a Spiritual? Of course, one would have to fulfill their rose before they turn 15. Along the road of flames, they might have some fun and exciting adventures!

In the town of Crostwitz, there lives a squid named Amara Schulze. With a heart full of ambition and a delicate psyche, she strives to fulfill her rose, in which she has to protect her loved ones without any of them dying.

Even if she loses something little by little, Amara promises 'herself' to never stay a bystander and will do her best to prevent horrid incidents from happening.

genres!

fantasy

psychological

comedy

drama

coming-of-age

ya (young adult)

credits + main blog!

dividers credit: @animatedglittergraphics-n-more

main blog: @reveristmikoto

disclaimers!

i didn't mention this in my main blog, but i have mood swings and i don't get jokes easily. use tone-tags if you're talking to me (moots and friends are exceptions).

#writeblr #fantasy #writers on tumblr #writeblr intro #writers of tumblr #decaying rose petals

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team-iceflower · 19 days

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*Nora and Weiss imprisoned at Salem's castle*

Nora: What is it, what's wrong?

Weiss: *holding a decayed rose petal* I... I miss my wife.

#rwby #ruby rose #weiss schnee #whiterose #incorrect quotes #incorrect rwby quotes #incorrect whiterose quotes #rwby memes #nora valkyire #inspiration: Invincible #nora valkyrie

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ohnococo · 4 months

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brumalis | hades!sukuna x persephone!reader

minors and ageless blogs will be blocked

It’s an odd thing, to feel so full and yet so empty at the same time.

Even when you retreat to the space your husband has created for you, and your ears are no longer subjected to the endless cacophony of screaming souls begging to be sent back up the river from whence they came, the emptiness remains.

Even when Sukuna fills your chambers with feasts of fruit and honey-hued silks to alleviate the unending cold that permeates this realm, the emptiness remains.

Even when those who fail to pay tribute to your name as they have to his are doomed to an eternity of his cold indifference, the emptiness remains.

Though your chalice is filled, for a moment, when he comes to your bed, holding you in his arms, breathing your name into the churning ether of life itself. When he gazes up at you with the thousands of years of devotion others had poured into his likenesses. Promising you death, promising you decay, in your name as his wife - his Goddess. But for you it is also a promise of mourning, of an end you can’t help dreading year after year. You swallow it, with a lump in your throat, because it is all he has to give, and it is his everything.

Still, he reminds you that you are his everything now too, and if it is life that you want, it is life you will have, because you remind him that creation comes from all hands, even his which have only ever presided over the death which was meant to be his from the start.

So he tries his hand at it, at things he had long ago thought were only meant for others, because he would challenge all the Gods in this world and the next on your behalf, so creation should not be such a hurdle if it were to result in the light he craved, pouring from you eyes, your smile, and right into him.

He kneels at your feet, the only time his knees would bless the ground, kissing at your hands, kissing at your thighs, whispers between them lost as his worship is conveyed directly to silken folds with his tongue. He prays between those sacred thighs, faced lovingly with his own paradise - soft and wet and gracious enough to cradle his face and and bless it with a nectar he would never tire of.

You pray as well, for more of him, all of him, which he gives without hesitation. It’s the only time he would be above you in his own mind, tasked to have you falling to the most precious pieces beneath him as he splits you open and fills you with his love. Time is endless like this, until, for the first time, he is the one to put an end to it. Not because he has had enough - for you have been assured again and again that such a time will never come - but because he has something more for you.

When he lifts you from his bed, you can see the pride welling up within him for what he has made. As it is unveiled, in a room meant just for you, it is so like your old home, but so like him as well.

Roses, not climbing, not raised high to the sun, but clinging to what you had thought to be barren soil. Port-wine hued with speckles of gold at their centres, cushioned in deep green leaves that sprawl out beneath, a carpet of barely wrought life - but life nonetheless.

In all your time above this place you’ve never known roses to grow without sun, without nutrients, without the warmth of summer and spring - but these are different from the soft petals and prickling thorns of the meadows above. They are changed by Sukuna’s hand, as he has been changed by yours. A testament to his devotion, to you, and to the life you bring.

They were made for you, as you were made for him, as he was made for you too. A cycle that he reminds you of with every hushed prayer at your feet.

Reminding you that you are not a passive role in this world. You fill him with a life he never thought necessary, you take his death and build a world anew. This thorny patch is a testament to that.

In time cries of anguish turn to choruses of praise. The chill of death becomes the warm embrace of suffering’s end. Your light takes its place in his realm, where he is convinced it was always meant to be. The world is a better place for your love, he is a better man for it as well.

#reminder minors and ageless blogs get blocked #my writing #vday event #sukuna #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna x reader

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lostelfwriting · 3 months

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Bury Me with a Rose, We Both Have Thorns (Prologue)

Rating: Explicit

AO3 Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Death & Dream, Dream & Hob, Dream/Hob Gadling

Characters: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Death of the Endless, Hob Gadling, Jessamy, Matthew, Corinthian, Lucienne

Additional Tags: NO Major Character Death, Hanahaki Disease, Terminal Illnesses, Thoughts about death and dying, Decaying Health, Refusing Treatment, Strong Language, Unrequited Love, Enemies to ?, Past Minor Characters Death(s), Protective Death of the Endless, Doctor Human!Death of the Endless, Alternate Universe - Human, Tattoo Artist Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Flower Shop Owner Hob Gadling, Blood, Angst with a Happy Ending

Word count: 32k

I'm posting the whole work here on the 1st of March, but I strongly reccommend you read it on AO3, where I will be posting one chapter per day. Either way, click Read More or go to AO3 to read the Prologue!

Written for the event @the-centennial-husbands-bigbang. With beautiful art by @five-and-dimes!

It is a slow day at the studio, so while he is waiting for his next appointment, Dream is – like he does almost all of his free time – sketching new tattoo designs to add to his portfolio and listening to music loud enough to completely shut out his own thoughts. He is sketching a snake, having no doubt that it will catch someone’s eye. There is always someone who wants a tattoo of a snake. He pauses to look at his progress and ends up snorting in disbelief.

The drawing is truly a snake, but the reptile is weaving among the stems of flowers instead of a dead branch like Dream had intended. And they are ugly flowers at that. He is pretty sure that he gave a pot of those flowers to his secondary school teacher, who always called him Murphy, even though he hated that nickname. He can’t resist snapping a picture of the flowers with his phone and trying to look up what they are, but once he finds the name – cyclamen – he refuses to look up their meaning. It would surely be something stupid, like forbidden love, or maybe hopelessness.

Even the snake’s scales seem to actually be made of flower petals, and Dream rolls his eyes as he flips the page of his sketchbook. The downside to trying to tune his mind out is that he doesn’t notice when his subconsciousness begins to interfere with his process, and it has led to many flowery paintings in the past months. With a sigh, he starts copying the usable parts of the design onto another page until an insistent thought makes him pause mid-movement.

Just a few weeks ago, he would have been furious if this had happened. He used to tear those ruined sketches to pieces and then go outside into the late winter chill and glare at every passing person who dared to look his way. He wished they all felt as bad as he did, and most of all, his neighbour with his shop opposite Dream’s studio, with its bright, flowery logo.

Today’s drawing incident feels like just a small inconvenience. He feels zero anger, though he might still opt to destroy the sketch later, just for the miniscule satisfaction that the action will bring him. Or maybe he will keep it. Pin it to the wall next to his bed and look at it every night. He will look at the ugly flowers and realise with wry amusement and aching hollowness that he has finally accepted his fate.

He, Morpheus Endeles, is going to die.

He thinks about it and waits for anger or grief to appear, but they don’t. Good. He was getting sick of the self-pity. It has been months since he noticed the first symptom – the occasional cough – as something seemed to tickle his throat, easily blamed on a bit of dust. And then, a bit later, when he lay awake late at night and everything around him was quiet, he heard the soft rustle of leaves as he breathed. He didn’t need a doctor to tell him that he had the Hanahaki Disease. He tears the ruined sketch out and shreds it into tiny pieces, enjoying the bit of satisfaction that it brings him. Maybe he is still harbouring some badly suppressed anger. He doesn’t need a fortune teller to tell him that he has no chance of getting affection from the person he hopelessly loves. Because it is his neighbour, the owner of The White Rose, Robert Gadling, a straight man who rightfully dislikes Dream.

+*+*+*+*+

Cyclamen: resignation and good-bye

#my writing #bury me with a rose #centennial husbands big bang #dreamling #hanahaki disease #angst #happy ending

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nekoumeowncy · 4 months

Text

Take my hand, don't let me go.

Featuring. Kanata Yatonokami, Nayuta Yatonokami, Kei Miyama, Shion Kaida x GN! Reader.

What does it feel like, to hold his hand?

Tags: romantic fluff, headcanons.

♡ KANATA YATONOKAMI

— His hands are considerably svelte, despite the roughness and calluses brought by a life of hardships.

— Just as the rest of him, he really doesn’t pay much attention to them, and yet it’s undeniable they are pretty.

— You wonder, how come his skin is always silky smooth when he doesn’t bother with hand creams and has no qualms with getting his hands dirty to protect the ones he loves (read, you and Nayuta) or get his job done.

— You pout as you ask him exactly that, as you walk hand in hand through the cluttered neighborhood in the slums; the last rays of crepuscular light filter through the buildings, clothes hanging on a drying thread decadently beautiful when they sway on the wind.

— Kanata was always beautiful, but, in this light, he looks nothing short of an angel. A fallen angel, discarded by lady luck and the fates, now descended into your arms, his decaying tainted wings soaring to sunnier skies by your side.

— “Not fair… Why are your hands so soft?” You ask, lips scrunched up as you come to a stop and slot your fingers between his.

— Cozmez’s elder blushes at the contact of your two palms.

— “Adorable.” You think, closing your fingers around his.

— “It’s not like they’re that soft.” He grumbles, looking to the side, locks of silver lilac blooms merging with the dusk sky.

— “They’re pretty too…” You trail off, gently grasping one of his hands in between your two, as you tenderly caress the protruding tendons and veins.

— “H-hey, stop it!” Your boyfriend wails, face not unlike the ruddy hue of the setting sun.

— You smile softly, putting his warm palm against your cheek.

— “Your hands are so pretty, Kanata… Just as you are.” You mumble, leaving a kiss to the inner side of his wrist.

— And because Yatonokami Kanata was easily flustered, despite the frown he showed the world, he takes the back of your head and leans you close to his chest.

— His heartbeat is wild, much in the way he is, a rose with steel thorns and midnight petals, some of them wilted; yet to those who approach it with care and true love in their hearts, it awards them with the sweetest scent and a whimsical view.

— You’re never letting go.

♡ NAYUTA YATONOKAMI

— Like Kanata, has naturally pretty hands.

— Slender than Kanata’s, with veins slightly more marked in color, the blue hue reminding you of the skies he called “not as beautiful as you.”

— Sometimes, you give him your bow hair tie to keep it for you. And of course, your lover likes wearing it around his wrist. You can’t resist holding hands with him when he does that, swinging them happily as you walk. It’s adorable how he chuckles every time his eyes inevitably focus on your smile.

— You find it so cute how Nayuta’s hands get easily red with the cold.

— And because he definitely has a mischievous side, he always adored holding your face when his skin was freezing.

— You gasp, a whine of “Nayuuutaa!” escaping you, his cute laughter enough to make you think you would let him put his freezing hands beneath your shirt.

— “You always warm up my heart and my hands. You’re cute.” He says, effectively leaving you speechless.

— Your face buries in your boyfriend’s chest at the remark, he really is going to be the death of you.

— Other times, when you two are just hanging out on the rooftop, you love seeing his fingers splayed out against the bright blue sky.

— As if reaching out, hoping to catch a drifting dream, you love to stretch out your own hand next to his, pinkies touching.

— It’s funny, how the gesture is enough to make your own heart flutter, when you’re the one who initiated it.

— Your cheeks burn, not unlike the blinding sunshine above, when you realize Nayuta’s lavender gaze is set on you.

— Because who cared about blue skies and sunny days when he had you by his side?

— Not him, that’s for sure, the moment his lips tease the corner of yours.

♡ KEI MIYAMA

— All of him is the embodiment of perfection; a picture perfect angel, seemingly descended upon this earth just to grace you with his candid light.

— And the way he holds you is no exception.

— His hands are soft, gentle; the hands of a man born to create melodies, light dancing at the tip of his fingertips with every added note.

— You adore his svelte fingers entwined with yours, the memory of wintry leaves swaying across a sunny sky so vivid when his hands hold yours.

— The way his phantometal bracelet envelops his wrist makes you jealous at times, prompting you to slip your fingers beneath it, caressing his peachy skin in that area.

— Your lover’s reactions are demure, elegant, much like everything he does, but you never miss the rosy blooms flowering on his cheeks when you two are intimate like this.

— It’s undeniable 1Nm8’s leader has beautiful hands, and you love making him try on your own accessories.

— Maybe you’re a fool, but you can’t take your eyes off his slim fingers when you put one of your silver rings on them; you hope one day, you’ll wear matching ones.

— “My love? Is there anything wrong?” He asks, when you fall silent, those slate eyes framed by the rays of sunrise searching for your gaze in concern.

— You start, hand squeezing his with tenderness.

— “Nothing, nothing…” You trail off, a subtle smile tugging at your lips. “Just thinking about the future I suppose.”

— He returns the smile, turning your hand around in his soft grasp.

— “I hope you saw me in it.” He utters, thumb running over the back of your hand.

— You wonder how someone's touch can be so affectionate and leave your stomach all knotted up, the trajectory of butterflies over aurora skies aflutter up your heart.

— You finally nod, playing with your ring still around his finger.

♡ SHION KAIDA

— Mans is canonically attractive; let’s not forget he seduces men and women of all ages.

— And, of course, he will use his hands to charm you, among other things.

— You were drawn in by his otherworldly aura at first, that ruby gaze fixated on you, half-lidded, as if you were the only one that existed to him in that moment.

— And well, how could you resist him? Not when his tall frame slightly bends over to whisper in your ear how pretty you are; not when his voice lures you in like a siren’s song.

— Not when his manicured hand trails over the edge of your jawline, dark polished index nail delicately tracing the edge of your painted lips.

— You know he is danger spelled in shades of moonlight over pomegranate seeds. And yet, you can’t resist his pull.

— The way his hands, lean, yet stronger than they look, hold your waist while his lips fervently lock with yours drives you crazy.

— You love trailing the contours of his sculpted bones when you two are just relaxing, the phantometal piece he wears on his left pinky hypnotizing you.

— And not only that, but on occasions like this, he often manages to leave you flustered; sometimes it’s him tucking a piece of hair behind your ear, fingertips lingering on your cheek for longer than necessary; other times it’s him putting his claw-like ring on your middle finger, whispering “for my rose” as he leaves a kiss behind your ear.

— Your favorite, however, are the tranquil nights in which you can relax together, his more vulnerable and sensitive side coming out in deep conversation while you paint his nails.

— A starry sky awaits for you just outside the window, but you’d rather lose yourself in the moonstone hue of his long fingers and the constellations he strings together with the emotions only you are privy to.

#paradox live #paradox live x reader #paradox live imagines #paradox live the animation #paralive #paralive imagines #paralive x reader #kanata yatonokami #nayuta yatonokami #kei miyama #shion kaida #kanata yatonokami x reader #nayuta yatonokami x reader #shion x reader #kei x reader #fluff #hailey writes

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