#frosted cups blank

[charliemwrites]

Part 7

Content: Injury and Recovery, Care, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Washing, Self-Blame/Self-Hatred, Codependency

Hell, Nikto thinks, is not punishment for sin. Not a lake of fire or eternal torture for earthly misconduct.

No.

Hell, he’s just discovered, is the absence of god. It’s the black, empty space where the divine used to shine.

It’s your blood soaking his gloves. The scent of your fear creeping past his mask. The single diamond tear that slipped down your scraped cheek when you told him you’d be okay. Your labored breathing and cracked voice. The scream that echoed, echoed, echoed through the stairwell and into his useless skull, rattling against bone walls and too-fresh memories.

Hell has become a hospital room with blank walls and shiny tile. How does that story go — that the deepest layer of hell is frigid? This hospital may not be dusted in frost, but it’s cold enough. You look small and chilly on the thin cot, entangled in wires.

Alive, despite everything.

You don’t feel alive to Nikto.

You’re too still, too washed out. Even when you nap with him, you tend to twitch, eyes flickering beneath your lids. Flushed with warmth in sleep and peaceful-looking. But you don’t move now; barely look better than you did fresh off the helo, unconscious and still bleeding, bleeding, bleeding—

It’s Nikto’s blood in your veins now. His unworthy, corrupted blood turned holy in the chambers of your heart. It wasn’t possession that made him offer his own arm for the transfusion, but rather atonement. The bare minimum he could repent for his utter failure. To offer up even a fraction of his own life in exchange for yours.

He’s been holding vigil by your side ever since, even if he doubts his place there. Waiting for your awakening to decide. Waiting for your judgment. Like a sinner at confessional, though he knows no Hail Mary will cleanse him.

He’s not even sure if you can this time. Not when it’s you he’s wronged.

The change in your breathing is what alerts him.

His eyes have hardly left you since they let him in. Even when his weak body surrendered to sleep, he would face you, so that you would always be the first thing he laid eyes on. Now, though, he searches your face with earnest, searching for any signs of consciousness.

The squeeze of your eyelids. A light furrow in your brow. Your mouth twists as you groan a bit, head drifting before you get control of your neck muscles.

Your eyes blink open slowly, flinchingly. He gives half a mind to breaking one of the overhead bulbs to ease the glare. But he would never risk the shattered glass over your head, or startling you with the noise. So he shifts and waits desperately for you to adjust.

Then you take a deep breath and focus on the ceiling. Seem to take stock for a moment, confusion smoothing into recognition, remembrance.

You tilt your head and meet his eyes.

“Nikto,” you breathe. The long, long hours of unconsciousness have taken a toll though, and even that causes you to cough. You wince a bit at the pain in your side while he reaches for the little plastic cup of water a nurse left. His name alone has brought you pain. It aches through his bones like condemnation.

You make a breathy noise, struggling to sit up. So he eases closer, supports your back to help you sip little doses from the full cup. It’s room temperature, but he knows from experience it’s better that way.

You don’t fuss when he regretfully has to pull it away, mindful of the instructions the nurses left him with. Lays you back as gently as he knows how as you sigh in relief.

He doesn’t feel worthy of touching you and tries to pull away. But you twitch, catch his wrist with the arm attached to an IV. He freezes.

“Nikto.”

There’s voice to the word this time, not just a dry puff of air. It takes Herculean effort to drag his eyes up to yours.

You look tired.

Tired, but all too aware, all too knowing. Sniper he may be, he knows better than to try to wait you out.

“I’m sorry.”

A thousand unspoken apologies crowd on his tongue. All the remorse he never felt compounded onto this one monumental failure.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Your brow furrows but you don’t interrupt. Don’t try to stop him. Just tug him in to huddle against your uninjured side. Let him prostrate himself over your bed, forehead pressed to your hip.

“I’m sorry,” he babbles, “I should have been better. I should have protected you. I almost— I almost…”

The words jam in his throat and then evaporate. No combination of syllables or sounds will be adequate.

Your nails draw gentle circles on his shoulder, then draw in towards his neck. Slip your hand under the collar of his shirt and jacket, just beneath the various trappings that hide his identity. You find skin. The vulnerable, damp nape of his neck. You lay your hand there, cool and dry.

“I forgive you, Nikto.”

“Y-you—”

“I do,” you affirm, giving him a little squeeze. “And it’s my choice to do so.”

He can barely pull himself away, but he has to see your face. Has to know what unconditional forgiveness looks like.

You’re half-lidded, soft. Eyes warm, blinking slow. You’re relaxed, understanding in every curve of your features. For all the world you could be divinity in repose instead of frightfully human, injured and frail.

“Punishing yourself from now on wouldn’t be noble,” you continue, tilting your head knowingly, “it would be martyrdom. And you are not my martyr, Nikto.”

He has not cried in… well. Long before his mind was torn apart and stitched back together wrong. Doubts he even knows how to, now. But his eyes burn as he presses his face into your hip again and shudders hard.

How foolish. To think he had any grasp of what forgiveness is. To think he understood what atonement was. When the only one who could set the bounds for damnation is you.

“I almost left you.”

“‘Almost’ and ‘would have’ are poison. You can’t convict on an almost. An almost is a warning, nothing to hang yourself for.”

You squeeze his neck again, unfailingly gentle. Unfalteringly steady.

“You stayed. I’m alive. Let’s focus on recovery now.”

He nods, hands clenched tight in the once-smooth fabric of the hospital sheets. It comes away wrinkled, but still clean.

—

You’re released from hospital two days later.

The wound, while dangerous in the moment, was a relatively easy fix once you had medical care. A clean shot, only just chipping off a bit of rib and grazing your large intestine. Everything is sewn and medicated and healing now. You’re uncomfortable, but KorTac isn’t as stingy with pain management as a normal military outfit — especially not with Nikto looming over your shoulder.

And you, his precious angel, are an absolute trooper.

You let the medical staff poke and prod and peal your bandages without fuss. Sit up with little more than a grimace and a hiss. In good spirits, all around.

Nikto carves your care instructions into the walls of his mind, a New Testament — temporary though it may be. The nurses send you in a wheelchair down to the ground floor, but after that, you’re allowed to walk.

Nikto doesn’t like it. He’d carry you to the edge of the Earth if necessary. But you just wave away his concern and grab onto his hovering arm for stability as you stand. A bit unsteady, terribly uncomfortable, but determined.

He gets you back to the barracks, you cursing with every movement that’s not a smooth step on even ground. Nikto lets you lean most of your weight into him and tries to keep his aching heart steady.

You sigh when you reach the barracks. Let him lay you down and get you comfortable before giving you another dose of pain meds. He busies himself collecting things and rearranging the room.

Making sure there’s not so much as a sock between you and the restroom. Getting your computer, phone, and respective chargers within easy reach. Filling a cup with water and arranging your soft blankets over your legs.

He’s just finished with that when there’s a knock at the door. Konig, delivering a meal. Not just any meal — takeout from your favorite little restaurant in town. Complete with sweets.

You call a thank you to the Austrian, who expresses his best wishes, and then Nikto shuts out the rest of the world again to let you rest. You don’t seem to mind, beckoning him back to your side.

Sharing the food, the blankets and pillows. Get him to set up your laptop with a movie — the meds kick in halfway through, leave you drooling a bit against his sleeve.

Nikto does not care. You may have forgiven him, and therefore it is not his place to repent for this anymore. But caring for you has never been atonement. It is his reward for putting his loyalty where it belongs.

—

The next day is worse. Your mood has dipped a bit, the soreness catching up. Not that you snap at Nikto or anything of the sort. But he knows you, and can tell from the tension in your body and wincing expressions when you think he isn’t looking.

You brighten a bit when he finally remembers to take his mask off. He even lets you babble when the meds make you fuzzy and overly-complimentary. Nearly falls asleep to you absently mapping the ugly scars that score deep into his hairline.

At some point though, the misery seems to catch up to you.

“It wouldn’t be so bad if I could just… wash up, I guess,” you grumble, looking ready to throw something.

The nurses did what they could, of course, but their focus had been on fixing you and then keeping your wounds clean. Enough hygiene to avoid infection. But you’re still grimy in uncomfortable places and you hate being in bed feeling “icky.”

Nikto instantly sets to work correcting that. He digs out one of his clean shirts, your favorite sweatpants, a soft pair of underwear. You watch him curiously as he takes it all into the restroom. The shower is standing room only, unfortunately — and besides, you can’t get your stitches wet for a while still. But he can at least help you freshen up.

“Come here.”

You take his arm, let him sit you up and then guide you to the restroom. When you see the cloth on the edge of the sink you get a bit misty-eyed. He lets you sniffle for a moment, patient while you wipe your eyes and mumble a “thank you.”

Then he helps you strip to your underwear and sits you on the towel he’s placed on the toilet lid. He kneels and starts from the top, a little dollop of soap on the facecloth and hot water.

You offer up an arm, careful not to overextend, palm up and fingers lax. Nikto works from your shoulder down to your fingertips. Smoothing over bruised muscle, stale sweat, scrubbing away dirt and crusted blood at the nail beds. Rinses the cloth, wipes away the excess soap, and repeats the process on the other arm.

The bathroom is silent save for the falling water and your shared breaths. You tilt your head to let him caress over your neck, down to your chest. He pauses, unsure of his welcome here, but you mumble that it’s fine either way. His touch is perfunctory but careful over your breasts, though he marvels privately at the plushness, the warmth. Politely ignores the way your nipples harden as the water cools in the air. Even if he’s so… so tempted to provide care in other ways.

You don’t so much as twitch; he can feel your gaze upon him from above. Yet he cannot force his eyes away from his work. Each gentle sweep of the cloth feels like restoring a temple, like holy work. Like paying his dues more directly than any church’s offering plate. You are such delicate work, his attention cannot afford to waver.

At your ribs, he starts on your uninjured side. Counts as his fingertips bump along them. You hum when he reaches the soft tissue of your stomach, a little shudder going through you.

“Ticklish,” you explain when his hand jerks back. “I’m alright.”

He feels one side of his mouth tug when he dips the cloth into your navel and you snort a bit. The other side of you is still bandaged, clean and white. No damning spots of red. He avoids the medical tape to get what he can and then continues down.

More bitten off giggles at your hips. He indulges in arching his bare thumb over the bone, just to feel the warmth and silk of your skin. Then continues his work.

He braces your foot on his thigh as he swipes the cloth over yours, minding the pressure on the sensitive inner skin. Over your knee, down to the ankle before switching to the other leg. You lean back and sigh, knock your knee gently into his ribs. When he glances up to see if you need anything, you just smile. Soft and a bit drowsy.

Only then does he scrub your feet, making you twitch and laugh a bit, complaining that he’s doing it on purpose. He’s not, but he likes the sound of your laughter; he thought he’d never hear it again.

He washes the cloth out one more time and helps you stand, lathering circles into your back while you press into him.

You take over when he’s finished. This time he does turn away, though he aches to do so. But your hand is still on his back, using him for support while you finish cleaning up intimate areas.

“Done,” you murmur. He unfolds a towel and turns, keeping his eyes above your head as he wraps it around you from behind.

You hold it up while he pats over you, soaking up any droplets that haven’t dried yet.

Warm and clean(er), your mood seems much improved. He kneels again to help you into a new pair of panties, realizes he’s an absolute fool to put himself so close when you smell only faintly like the shared soap. The rest is you, and you smell delicious.

He swallows thickly and eases you into your sweatpants, split between longing and relief when he stands to put you in the shirt. If you notice the bulge in his own lounge pants, you say nothing — though he doubts you do. You’re nearly asleep standing, almost stumbling as he takes you back to bed. You reach for him weakly and urge him in with you.

“Thank you, Nikto,” you murmur into his shoulder. “Love you.”

And you’ve forgiven him, despite everything. So he allows himself just this one thing — and presses his lips to your temple.

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Masterlist

[allukaed]

𝘽𝙄𝙍𝙏𝙃𝘿𝘼𝙔 𝙒𝙄𝙎𝙃 — 𝘼𝙄𝙕𝘼𝙒𝘼 𝙎𝙃𝙊𝙏𝘼

synopsis - it was his 30th birthday celebration, and you both intended to celebrate it only with you, him, and your precious cat.

cw - fluff, angst, loneliness

a/n - i tried to explore aizawa's character in depth, but i really have this plot in my mind. i couldnt just resist how it played in my head. but im gonna go into detail for the next part. 𝚎𝚗𝚓𝚘𝚢! . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

November 8.

You were to celebrate and say I love you.

In the four tight corners. Front of the glass window that reaches the ceiling down to the floor that overlooks the rest of a busy city. Bodies are set on the soft and big bean couch. With a cute black-coated bento cake in your hands, your cat Noir purring in the middle of your crossed legs. Candle lit, and the minimal words of “Hot and Thriving 30” decorated atop the frosting and all.

Gleaming a smile, you sang – a cross between passion and mechanical – a silly rendition of your little happy birthday song towards him. He was smiling warmly, and he never looked happier than in his whole life. Other than the fact that he thinks the message written on the cake is ridiculous he lets it gnaw its way through his smile.

“Sweet,” his endearing nickname always makes your cheeks flushed, “thank you.” He said after your little song.

“Blow a wish.” You airily muttered, cupping the lit candle against the sheer motion of some wind. “It’s your birthday after all.”

He glanced at you for a long time before his velvety voice echoed throughout the room, "Do I need to?" he raked a hand through Noir's fur, "I have everything I could wish for."

You felt your heartstrings tugged, earning a giggle from you. “C’mon, just make a wish!” You urged playfully, affection seeping into your nudge of his knee. “My hands are getting sore holding this cake.”

He smiled small, as he usually does. He never frowned at you, at least during the whole length of your relationship, it was all a blank slate of a face that could lead to a tiny smile or sarcasm, but he never made you feel wrong or sad with his signature grimace that was reserved for his friends or students.

“Alright.” He scoffed like a princess.

“1..2..3,” then he blew his candle.

“What did you wish for?” You probed cheekily, smearing a dark chocolate frosting on his cheek which he groaned for, swatting your hand away in the process. You put down the cake beneath you and started to cut four equal slices as it was just cutely sized. He wiped away the chocolate from his face while watching you do your ceremony.

Before buying the said birthday token, you already kept in mind that he wouldn't like it if you went out of your way to buy him any grandiose gifts, plus only the two of you were celebrating, so you settled for a bento cake instead. Although, he isn’t that much of a fan of sweets than you are.

“Won’t say or it won’t come true.” He grumbled, grabbing Noir who was trudging near the box of cake once it was alerted of the food’s presence, cradling the cat in his arms instead. He lightly tapped the cat’s head, "Bad for you." He told the cat, rubbing the pads of its paws, something the cat finds soothing.

You pouted. “Why? I should be an exception!” You insisted, rolling your eyes defiantly. “C’mooooooon, handsome! Don’t be unfair.” You dragged, bumping your head on his shoulder repeatedly.

His nose crunched, the idea of you pestering him to spill was somehow annoying but still endearing. It was just another trait of you that he has the patience to stand for, but couldn’t for others. If another person did this to him, he might strangle them with his scarf.

Still absentmindedly playing the cat, “Fine, just stop doing that.” He groaned, and your eyes twinkled elated. “Don’t say a word though.”

“Why?” You pondered.

“You find everything funny.” He deadpanned.

You were trying to stop a grin form on your face, and although you wanted to, you pursed your lips instead. “I won’t.” Your curiosity alive was barely able to hold back from your chest. You motioned a cross over your heart to symbolize a silent promise.

He took a brief look at you before he sighed, running his hands through Noir’s black fur, soft paps on its stomach. His brows furrowed slightly and his eyes darted away from you. It wasn’t like he was shy or hesitating, no, but for some reason, he was thoroughly contemplating whether he should say it out loud or rather keep it to himself. Decisiveness wavered him, he thought you deserved to know, and that his fickle musings were out of the ordinary.

His arm reached to you, locking you in a semi-embrace, the feline was surprised by the gesture and it meowed from your sudden weight, subsequently taking its leave from the man’s lap, leaving you two to your own devices.

“My only wish is,” he began, dipping his face into the top of your head and gripping your body closer to his, “for us to stay together.”

Your breath hitched, his musky notes percolating through your senses, and you found yourself dizzy from his words, his smell, his warmth, his embrace, and everything. You buried yourself further in his frame.

“No matter what happens, I will be with you, and you will be with me.” His voice was low and steady, and you hung onto the timbre of it. “I just want to be with you, for as long as possible, and I hope you do too.”

It rained.

Was it an outburst of happy tears, or was it actually drizzling outside your apartment complex? You couldn't care less, because what he was telling you was way way better than any tears of joy or rainfall. He doesn't have the luxury of being an open book, unlike you whose vulnerability always showcases, so hearing those words coming from his mouth was like a messiah preaching to his crestfallen student. It was comforting, exhilarating, a rush — but out of it all, it was love.

Gentle drizzle, like a lover’s kiss, fell upon the parched earth. Four tight corners conformed the two of you fondly. Two bodies coalesced, with you listening to every jump and thump of his heartbeat rhythmically. You clutched onto him firmly, more than ever, as if you don’t want to let go. You love him more than a story could write itself.

“Sweet,” he held your face, tilting you upward, “I’m not a man of a lot of words, but I always love you, even if you don’t hear it often.” He chuckled, emphasizing on the ‘always’. You stared at him with glossy eyes, tears forming on the edge of your lids, and you had no words to say. It was all surprising, yes, you sure were expecting something, but not an overwhelming whirlpool of emotions.

“I…” you mumbled, but your words trailed off. You couldn’t figure out the right words to say. No coherent string of words can muster up the feelings you were processing right now. “I love you too.”

He wiped the forming tears away, “Cat got your tongue?” he teased, a sly smirk tugged his lips.

Noir meowed on the floor.

“No… I..” You blushed, meekly shoving him away from you, avoiding his intense gaze. “I didn’t expect that at all… especially from you.” you protested. If a thousand shades of red were a person, it was you as of the moment.

“Really?” He arched an eyebrow, “You underestimate me, Sweet.” He grabbed your hand and lingered a few light kisses against your knuckles. His stubble unkempt, albeit it adds to his manly charm, was tickling your skin.

Your smile reached your eyes. “Maybe I do,” you giggled, “show me this side of you more often.” Your heart was still racing yet it dwindled every second that passed. With a vacant hand, you gently brushed a few black strands out of his face. He faintly leaned onto the back of your moving hand.

“I’ll try.” He held the hand he was peppering with kisses, intertwining with his. You smiled warmly, and all you could hear was his soft hums and the fireplace crackling. Casting a warm soft glow of his backlight, inviting a cozy sensation to the living room.

“Cake?” You suggested. Seeing how your cat was taking its chances to steal a bite, which you declared inedible to it a lot of times through a series of ‘no-no’ and head shakes.

“I’ll only take a bite of yours, I know that’s all yours to eat.” He shrugged, hinting at your sweet tooth.

“Rude!” You exclaimed while Noir meowed like it agreed with what he joked about. You gasped, glaring at the cat. “No treats for you.”

With a few I love yous exchanged, a lovingly tender interior, and a small tribute of a happy birthday. You celebrated your man’s thirtieth birthday.

November 8.

It was raining.

You were supposed to celebrate and say I love you.

In the wide corners. Grey filled the vast space of the apartment. Darkness enveloped the atmosphere, and you’ve realized that it was no four tight corners. The walls were continuous in many corners you haven’t counted. The whole house was massive, recognizing that it was never actually small in the first place. The duplex was quite big for a single person, and you have never felt lonelier than you ever did before.

A glass window engraved bottom to the ceiling shows that the heavens wept, their tears washing away any plans or events of the people scattered along the city. Were they happy or were they sad because of the rain? Nevertheless, you couldn't say the same sentiment applied to you. Matter of fact, it wasn’t the clouds’ fault but you have been crying along with the skies since then.

Everything felt dull. No rush, no comfort, no exhilaration, and most of all — there was no love to be found. Only you who was sat on a big bean couch that was meant for two people, emptily staring ahead the window, observing the monsoon rain unleashing its despair in the city.

Ever since he left, the welcoming warmth of your — used to be, both of your — house turned to an unbidden coldness. The air was thick and damp, clinging to your skin like a wet blanket. You hugged your knees close to your chest, restraining the shivers escaping you. It was incredibly silent in a way you can hear your staggered lament and muffled chokes, truly an epitome of discomfort. A tremendous display of consequences after all of what happened.

Your cat announced its presence, jumped up to you with its chubby legs, and let out a meow beside you, purring incessantly. You sniffled, hiccups taking turns, not even bothering to look at the feline (which it isn’t amused of, by the way).

“No happy birthdays for now, Noir.”

There was a lighter within your hand and you fiddled with its flame. This was the lighter you used to light a certain man’s birthday cake. How could you forget? There was no way you could ever forget. Your thumb pressed and pulled away from the button over and over, warm hue flickering on and on. On and off and on and off and on and off and on and off. You mindlessly played it.

Until you click on the final pressure against the button.

“Guess it didn’t come true, Shota.”

You blew the flame but you didn’t let go.

[zorosdimples]

UNDER HIS THUMB ꒰ uraume x reader x sukuna ꒱

minors and blank/ageless blogs do not interact—i will block you. cw: suggestive content. nonconsensual nudity. dubious touching. brief descriptions of cannibalism and violence. suicide mention. reader is referred to as “bride” and “wife.” reader has breasts. wc: 1053. notes: uraume ily—please ditch shitkuna for me <3 (based on this idea)

A fire blazes in the yawning hearth, bathing your bedchamber in a warm titian. The shadows of flames leap and dance across the cragged stone walls—a solar flare—a cosmic spectacle. Logs and branches resembling human bones sputter and spark, crackling in your ears. You shift in your seat. 

The diaphanous veil remains pinned to your crown as Uraume’s fingers move deftly through your locks, the sweeping gossamer that brushes your ankles now pooling on the floor. They unravel the intricate updo they crafted for the ceremony, your hair a glowing halo in the firelight, head bowed in gentle subservience. The pins that bite at your scalp are crusted in blood; the sharp pain has long-since softened into a dull throb.

“I hate him,” you announce. 

(It’s how you cope with your precarious situation: burying your fears beneath carefully woven layers of disdain.) 

Barren aside from a bed, a wardrobe, and an armchair, your threadbare accommodations are as cozy as a dungeon. No torch, tapestry, or looking glass adorns the walls. Your companion’s expression is hidden as they continue their work atop your head.

Uraume chastises you after a few beats, affectation frigid as ice. “You shouldn’t speak of your husband in such a manner.” 

You snort. This one-sided union will only further scar the ugly face of matrimony; looking upon your captor with respect or affection is as likely as you kissing the cheek of your slain mother a final time. “My ‘husband’ for all of ten minutes.”

“And still your husband, nonetheless.”

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” you snap. 

Uraume pushes you to your feet and fluffs the veil with a hum. They circle you, appraising your body—the flimsy, silken robe that ripples across your curves hides nothing from their piercing stare—then, for what must be the fifth time, they adjust the knot that holds the garment together. When their eyes meet yours, you find yourself falling for the ruse, plucking fresh buds from a field of fuchsia.

How you wish their gaze held more than cool indifference.

Ever perceptive, they reach out to gingerly tuck a wayward strand behind your ear; if you close your eyes and still your heaving chest, you can pretend that it’s an intimate gesture—the touch of a lover. “Rarely do we have a say in our own fates,” Uraume muses. 

Fidgeting with your fingers, you quell the urge to embrace your attendant. (It’s a disgraceful thought for a newlywed. But you can’t spool in the words that unfurl from your lips, the edges raw, frayed with longing.)

“I would have taken my life if it hadn’t been for you, Uraume. I can’t stand him.” 

“Master Sukuna would never allow you to harm yourself.” 

“Tch—that vile brute cares little for my well being.” Hatred flares within your chest, your once-blooming heart now withered with rot. Tears of anguish blur your vision and make each syllable tremble. “If he didn’t want to harm me, he wouldn’t have murdered and feasted on my family.” 

A smile tucks itself in the corners of Uraume’s lips like a secret, though you miss it—misty-eyed and waist-deep in a deluge of painful memories. “You seem to forget that I prepared their flesh at my lord’s behest.” 

“I can’t fault you for being trapped under his thumb; you’re kinder than you give yourself credit for, anyhow.” 

They chuckle darkly. “And what leads you to believe that?” 

It doesn’t occur to you until this moment that you’ve edged closer to Uraume. If you leaned forward, you would smell the frost on their porcelain skin, taste the mint on their breath. Despite yourself, you reach out, cupping their cheek. 

“You’ve been my devoted caretaker since I arrived, patient and helpful at every turn. Your presence is the only constant here—my sole comfort.”

“Oh? Is my blushing bride ready to consummate our unholy union?” A rumbling voice cracks the tense air open like a bone, marrow seeping out, juices staining the tender earth. 

Your neck snaps to the doorway. Your monster of a husband nearly blots out the frame with his inhuman physique, clothed in nothing but a simple pair of black trousers, both sets of arms crossed. Disgust pinches your brow and purses your lips; you sneer. 

“With you? Never.”

Amused by your vehemence, the King of Curses approaches you, both mouths curled into wolfish grins. Uraume bows as Sukuna invades your space, two clawed hands wrapping around your waist, the other two cradling your skull. He demands your attention, irises a wine-dark sea of skeletons and ichor. A cursed siren urges you to plunge into its depths. End your suffering.

“Uraume—has my wife been inappropriate with you in my absence?” 

Without hesitation, they answer: “Yes, my lord.” 

Several sets of eyes—one belonging to Uraume, the others to Sukuna—gorge on your discomfort. You bristle under their scrutiny, and fruitlessly attempt to rip yourself from your husband’s grasp, nails scratching angry lines across his tattooed forearms. 

He clicks his tongue. “My naughty little bride.”  

Bile burns your throat at the mock-endearment, bitterness coating your tongue. For as resolved as you’ve been, you shake with rage, the hulking beast before you stoking the embers of your wrath. He smiles something sharp and wicked before releasing you. You stumble backwards, limp as a ragdoll. 

“Uraume,” Sukuna commands. 

There’s an unspoken agreement between master and servant. When Uraume steps forward and swiftly unties your robes, you shriek, the fabric slipping open to expose your nude form. They proceed to rip the garment from your body; it falls to the floor in wispy shreds. 

Attempting to preserve your dignity, you scramble to wrap an arm around your chest and press a palm between your legs. “This hardly seems proper,” you pant. 

Sukuna snickers as he sits at the foot of your bed, spreading his legs. “How else is a ‘vile brute’ supposed to learn the intricacies of his little wife’s body if not through careful examination?” 

As much as you want to spew poison at him, you gasp when Uraume’s chilly lips graze the arch of your neck, their delicate hands slipping up to caress the swell of your breasts. Unable to stifle the moan that warbles past your lips, you make the sinister decision to revel in this pleasure—no matter how short-lived, underhanded, or wrong it may be.

[airbendertendou]

CHERRY TiNTED! ♡ chifuyu matsuno

synopsis : timeskip!chifuyu learns something about you from the past... it changes things.

cw : non-sexual bathing together , mutual pining but theyre both DUMB

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"It's too bad," Hinata speaks as she picks at the frosting on her cake. Her lips poke out absentmindedly as she scoops a glob onto her fork. Takemichi tilts his head with a tap to her shoe — Hinata jumps, as if remembering he was with her. "That [Name] is leaving. That Chifuyu never felt the same. We became close friends and now..."

Takemichi blinks, memories that don't feel like his racing into his head. Flashes of you — a friend of a friend that Kazutora vouched for — and the pinkened, lovey-dovey eyes you always had set on Chifuyu popped into his mind. Along with the pining — from the other side, it seemed. "What do you mean?"

Hinata takes a sip of her drink. "[Name] never made a move because Chifuyu was always going on dates with other people. Took the hint, you know?”

"There was a chance," Takemichi blinks dumbly. Hinata sits up in her chair. leaning closer as her own eyes widen. "Chifuyu has a crush on [Name]. Always has."

The red-head sits frozen for a second before she sinks into her seat, closing her eyes in defeat. "What idiots."

——♡——

Bloody, bruised knuckles greet Takemichi when he comes back. He's panting and staring up at the sky, then at Chifuyu. The blond holds his hand out, pulling Takemichi up with a grunt. "All good?"

"Yeah," Takemichi breathes. His memories come back with a blink — past him decided to run his mouth again and couldn't put up a fight. "Thanks. Did I win?"

"Oh, yeah," Smiley pops up. His grin seems to widen — Takemichi thinks he's laughing at him. "Won big time. Always do."

Chifuyu clicks his tongue, looking away before slinging an arm around the timeleaper. "Let's get patched up. See you later!"

It's with alcohol stinging his cuts and a cold, pre-boiled egg on his eye that Takemichi remembers. There was a drink — your favorite that Chifuyu always brought home ; there was an ice cream — one that matched the color of your eyes.

You — he couldn't fight well, but maybe he could change your future. Make sure your heart is accepted ; your pining and Chifuyu's finished.

“Chifuyu.” Takemichi holds onto his shoulders. The blond blinks, eyes wide and confused. Michi sighs, “you have a chance with your roommate. You always have.”

He walks away, leaving Chifuyu confused. “Roommate…?” Something must’ve happened in the future, he thinks with a finger held to his chin. Chifuyu nods to himself, I’ll stop it!

——♡——

The shower is running when Chifuyu finishes getting ready. He waits on the spritz of his favorite cologne — he waits, for what, he's not sure. His shoes stay by the door — socks fresh on his feet as he runs a hand through his hair.

"[Name]?" He taps on the bathroom door softly with his knuckles. "I'm heading out now."

"Sure you don't want to join me first?"

It's something you always say — sly, flirty invites that he always denies. Chifuyu smirks, tugging on the sleeves of his shirt. Little did Chifuyu know, the sound of the shower muffled your sniffles and hiccups. He didn’t know then, but now—

Takemichi’s voice echoes in his head.

Turning on his heel, Chifuyu welcomes himself into the warm, steamy bathroom.

The curtain slides open, revealing you with your mouth agape, staring in shock. Chifuyu slots right under the shower, the water drenching him and his clothes. He lets out a sigh, cupping your cheek. “Why are you crying?”

“I’m not,” you deny. Your nose scrunches as you sniffle, “s’the water. Why are you in here with your clothes on?”

Reddened, lithe fingers shake as they unbutton the top he’s wearing, slinging it onto the bathroom floor with a plop! His pants and underwear go next — you avert your eyes quickly. Chifuyu chuckles, “why are you so shy now?”

“Didn’t think you’d actually get in here,” you mumble. Blinking as his hands latch onto your hips, you frown. “What about your date?”

Chifuyu doesn’t think as he says, “want you more.” He’s fighting the urge to bury himself into your neck and take a nibble — your body wash smells so good and you look divine.

“What?”

“[Name].” It’s said with a loud, exasperated laugh as Chifuyu’s head falls back. “Do I have to spell it out for you?” One hand shoots to your cheeks, gripping them softly as he connects your eyes. “I like you — so much. I want to share a room and go on grocery store dates and get so lovesick it’s annoying. Got it?”

Your eyes are wide and almost pink as you speak through puffed cheeks. “Got it.”

——♡——

something short nd silly to post!! thank you for reading ♡ if youd like to b tagged / untagged in any tokyorev content, let me know! ♡

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[lundenloves]

𝐏𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐑𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥

{✧} effectively a part two to when it rains it pours, written through the godsend time passage that are seasons.

↳ no warnings | 3.4k | f!oc

part one | masterlist | taglist | request info

{✧} i’m on a mad writers block atm. if this seems off and you’re thinking, yeah i can fucking tell, don’t tell me or i’ll digest acid. thanks. it’s also unedited so i’ll just see myself out if that’s alright? it’s been good, cheers guys.

Winter 

A long, sharp and cold exhale was taken by the winter breeze. Frosting mid air into an icy vapor and Simon rubbed his hands together to no avail, brushing the uneven snowfall off his broad shoulders before entering the moodily lit coffee shop. Four in the afternoon had never been so dark. Eclectic lights strewn from the ceiling and above the counter, doing their best at creating an ambience that almost irked him. 

He shrugged the feeling off, rolling his shoulders habitually and walking to the counter where he received a hearty, “I’ll be with you in just a moment.” The voice was warm, intertwined with genuine sincerity which seemed rare these days. Simon shoved a hand in his pocket, reaching for his wallet in preparation. “What can I get you?” The genuineness sounded and he looked up, locking eyes with her.  

The tips of his ears grew red and he wiped at the side of his nose in subconscious anxiety. He was the first to notice, of course, eyes glued to her, frozen in his position with no words available to roll off his tongue. “Just—“ He cleared his throat. “A coffee, yeah? Black.” 

Thea hadn’t recognised him at first. Taking his card payment with ease, and turning around to start his drink with practiced finesse. It was too busy for her to think about his gruff accent, the familiarity of it pushed too far back in her head. Even still, his physique hadn’t dared to haunt her mind ever since that one night two weeks ago. Simon stood, hands in pockets, eyes averted to the floor in his best attempts to remain inconspicuous. 

Although that act was shot down point blank with three words. “Order for Simon.” Thea had shouted, pushing the sleeved takeaway cup across the counter. “Enjoy.” She followed, locking eyes with him when he had cringed at her acknowledgement. His otherwise unused first name dampened to the same depths of his callsign. One a killer, the other a cold heart. The difference was uncanny. 

He gave nothing back, taking the cup and turning his back on her, walking away out the door without so much as a look back. “Christ.” Came a mutter, cigarette stuck to his lip with long stomps through the street. He began to wonder why he was short on luck, and just who he pissed off to reward bad karma. Never once had he come across the same girl twice after taking her home. It wasn’t because he was a sleaze, it was because he was too busy and slept with too few people. The paper cup in his hand was small against his palms, rolling it across them to catch sight of sharpie on the inner sleeve. 

The smoke tumbled from his lip haphazardly with both hands occupied, cigarette clung solely to his bottom lip and locked with his top. The sleeve slipped off easily, his brows furrowed upon ripping it to see the inside. Ten digits. Her fucking number. Scribbled loosely with the words, ‘You better call’ Simon’s shoulders lifted for a brief second of amusement, shoving it into his pocket without a second thought. 

It was only when he was home, folding his pockets inside out that the paper sleeve grabbed his attention fully. Eyes narrowed at the lone sight of it, twirling it around his fingers before reluctantly pushing the digits into his phone. 

Spring 

Days, weeks and months had gone by. The number sat untouched in his phone, his steps avoided the coffee shop like the fucking plague, and his eyes squeezed shut to forget about her touch. Even worse, she was all he could think about. And it royally pissed him off. It had been one night. One night, not years. So why did the glass in his hand push a frown across his brow, sliding it to the back of the cupboard with a sigh. 

The phone felt like a weight when he had taken it from his pocket, placing it face down on the counter. There wasn’t any particular reason why she had been on his mind so often, no reason why his phone should be an offensive thing to look at. But it was. Somehow. Even after months. 

He blinked down at it, the vibrate pinging off to indicate a silenced call. A noise between a sigh and a laugh left his mouth, the screen headed by an unknown number. 

Simon’s own reflection was caught in the phone screen, dark circles under his eyes indicative of the unstructured time off. The phone rang out and he blew a raspberry to himself, sliding it across the counter to the other side before reaching to pick it back up seconds later. 

The coffee sleeve was scrunched up in his right fist, dropped back to the counter in its near ripped glory. The only journey it knew was from drawer to counter, counter to drawer. And now — it stayed on the marble, spread wide by his left hand as his right punched the number to create a contact rather than a lone number. “Right.” He said through an exhale, dropping the phone back down and taking a few spacing steps backward as if it were an explosive. “Right.” It was repeated, this time with more assurance, his shoulders rolled backward in attempts to alleviate whatever imaginary stress was on them. 

He typed many words, deleting every one, determined to concoct the perfect introduction for several minutes until falling back to a measly, ‘Hello.’ And even then, as soon as his thumb had tapped send, he wanted to delete it. And he would’ve, could’ve even — if only a reply hadn’t came within fucking seconds. 

Two words. ‘Hi, Simon.’ 

His jaw tightened at the bubbles indicative of her typing, watching with red ears as they grew in size, falling and restarting all over again. His knuckles tapped the marble in anxious wait, locking his ankles together. 

‘You alright?’ 

A divot appeared in his brow at the words, leaning forward to type a reasonable, ‘I’m fine.’ Although it didn’t quite make it when he had jammed the backspace button, restarting his sentence. ‘Yeah. Are you?’ Phone dropped, hands massaging across his temples in a futile effort to rub out the building tension behind his eyes. 

‘Can you phone?’ 

The question didn’t give any time before her name had appeared atop the screen, his new contact in digital evidence. Simon steeled himself before accepting the call, pressing it onto speaker and leaning his palms down on the counter. 

“Didn’t think you’d text.” Her voice echoed through the phone, simultaneously collapsing and flaring any doubt in him. 

“Didn’t think I would either.” 

Summer 

Three confident knocks penetrated Simon’s silence. Only a brief pause before they had pecked once more, knocking in a continuing succession before he had grunted in response. “Right, fucking hell.” It was two in the morning, not a respectable time to be bashing on doors — then again, nor was any time a good one to be doing as such.

The hard wrapping of the door was only cut short after he had swung it open, eyes squinting at the bright hall light. Simon puffed out his chest, ready to give whomever had nearly woken up the whole building a telling before his eyes fell onto her. Her once again. Swaying and lazily smiling up at him, her hands flat against his broad chest.

“Thea.” His voice was quiet, taking her hands from his chest and dropping them back to scantily dressed sides. “What are you—“

“I wanted to see you.” She slurred, walking past him into the flat and smiling widely. “I missed you. You— big, broody man.” Her head shook with each word, almost punctuating herself, watching intently as he shut the door and pressed his back against it. Eyes red with lack of sleep, his chest bare from the contradicting evidence of rest attempts. 

“You’re drunk.” He stated obviously, reasserting his composure before walking to the sink and grabbing her a glass of water. “Have that, yeah? Stay here.” His hand grazed her hip upon walking past, looking backward over his shoulder before wandering back into his room to make the bed. 

Thea followed him instead, glass left on the table as her feet stumbled behind him to the familiar room. “You don’t need to make it.” She was sure to announce her presence before touching him, hand rubbing his shoulder. 

Simon ignored her, unintentionally shrugging her touch off and rounding the bed to shake the duvet and puff it up. He was silent in his activities, grabbing clothes from a drawer and shoving them onto the bed, blinking twice at her. “Put them on. Give me that.” He nodded toward her dress. 

“Can you—“ 

His hand was a gentle touch on her back, eyes refusing hers that were staring up at him as he reached for the zip. Thea slipped out of the dress entirely, bare chest now pressed against him to gain his warmth. “Sorry.” He mumbled, attempting to take a backward step and gathering her dress in his hands. “I’ll leave this here, yeah?”

She cocked her head, staring at the clothes he had left for her. “Where are you going?” Her words dragged, body suddenly feeling heavy on her feet. 

“Nowhere.” He then left the room, leaving Thea to pick up his clothes, eyeing each garment and marveling at how big they were against her. She slipped the t-shirt on and Simon padded back through, pushing a hand through his hair. “Tell me if you’re going to be sick.” He said it bluntly. “I’ll just be in the other room.” 

“Doing what?” She challenged, sitting on the bed and looking up at him as he pulled a hoodie on. His tattoo disappearing under the fabric, her eyes dropped to her feet. 

Simon shifted, blatantly ignoring her question. “Tell me if you need anything.” He left the door open, leaving her to fall back onto the bed with a sigh, then a giggle, followed by another one. 

They had been talking on the phone for months, only seeing one another in person once more since that night. Aside from that, Simon actively avoided seeing her in person — he wasn’t against it, just, insecure of the whole thing. So now, as she had showed up to his flat arse-drunk in the middle of the night, a responsibility waved over him and he wasn’t sure whether to like it or hate it. Hence his distance. 

Thea on the other hand, majorly enjoyed the fact she was wound up in his sheets, the masculine smell surrounding her as she pulled the duvet up, basking in his scent. 

She didn’t remember falling asleep, nor did she remember the bed dipping at some point during the night, but evidently it had. Simon was next to her. Fully asleep and fucking snoring, it was what had woken her up. That and the pounding headache that was seeping through the back of her skull, sitting up with a mighty frown. 

It would’ve been a sight for sore eyes, her sat up in his bed, brows knitted tightly together while she felt around for her dress. “You alright?” Simon mumbled from beside her, his tone coated in sleep from the rasp. Thea had zero recollection of what had happened last night, how she ended up here most of all. It was supposed to be work drinks.

“Did we fuck?” Her arms dropped in exaggeration, although instantly regretting it when her head exploded in pain. Simon shook his head, turning onto his back and sighing in tiredness. 

“You showed up.” He cleared his throat, attempting to eliminate the croak of his morning voice. “Drunk.”

“And you put me to bed?” She turned to him, catching his squint from the sun reflection. He had caught colour across his nose and cheeks from the last day of good weather, even his neck was tanned considering he rarely showed that much skin. 

“You put yourself to bed.” 

“What time?”

“Three.”

“Three? Fuck I am sorry.” Thea would’ve laughed at herself had the headache not continued its rage. “Must’ve wanted to see you.” The laugh came anyway, turning on her side to face him. Simon shrugged, eyes roaming across her features. 

“You did say so.” His brow ticked upward teasingly. 

“Well, you’re lying here with me by choice so you must’ve missed me. Actually.” She smiled the best she could given the awful hangover and Simon’s eyes landed on her lips. 

“I’m here so you didn’t choke to death.” Her scoff forced a slight smile from him, one so minute you could easily blink and miss it. “On your own sick.”

“Yeah I got that part. Thanks.” A beat. “I wasn’t sick though, was I?” 

“You were. Everywhere.” His tone was light, turning onto his back and smiling to himself. 

“You bastard. No I wasn’t.” She sat up, leaning over his chest to look him in the eye when his smile had turned downward into a boyish one. “Exactly. You’re here because you wanted to be here.” She playfully nudged his shoulder, Simon’s eyes remained on her lips, only leaving to find her own stare. There was pristine silent communication between them, Thea pressing a kiss to his cheek before he had taken her jaw and gently guided it so he could kiss her properly. 

It was soft, and tender but most of all safe. She pressed her forehead against his, the sound of them pulling apart felt sweet. “Can you get me paracetamol?” She stifled a laugh. 

Autumn

“You say that like you’re not here all the time.” Simon grumbled, his eyes falling above her and to the organised chaos of his living room. Thea had pretty much commanded the space, strewn with all of her things and comforts. Something that happened gradually, because she really was here all the time. 

“I’m not. I work.” She said, pushing herself backward via two hands on his chest. “Like, all the time.” It wasn’t too far from the truth, though the way Simon stifled a laugh forced one from herself. 

“Where do you sleep?” His brow quirked, turning to continue cleaning the dishes that were discarded. 

Thea scoffed, “That’s— no. That’s because my flat is years away from the shop. Yours is convenient.” She punctuated the end of her sentence by clicking her tongue. 

“It’s convenient eh?” He dropped a palm onto the counter, looking down at her. “You send parcels here too.” The slight curve of his lip was one that she scrunched her nose up at, shrugging and leaning past him to reach for a mug. 

“Like I said. Convenient.” She nodded her head with each action that went into making tea. Flicking the kettle on and swiping a teabag from the cupboard beside him, eventually standing against the counter with her arms crossed. “You know?”

“Oh I know.” Simon teased, gesturing toward the stacked up parcels on the counter she had gathered to open. “I’ve signed for about ninety.”

“Have you fuck ninety.” She looked up at him with an amused smile, tilting her head. “There’s only eight. Could’ve been worse.” Simon held a knife out for her to open the boxes with, turning around to watch the destruction haul commence. “There’s actually one or two things for you,” Her hands shook a box. “I think.”

“Happy days.” He said flatly, locking eyes with her after she had scoffed. “I don’t need anything.” Came a shrug. 

“You need everything.”

He shook his head, squeezing his opposite bicep and resting a hand against his cheek. 

Thea cut the first box open, dumping the clothes from it before tossing it to the counter next to Simon. “I’ll try it all on later.” She said while pulling a new hoodie over herself, “Yeah, it’ll probably all fit.” The pile was shoved to the side to make room for another box. 

She spun it round, taking the knife and gasping. “This is your one. Like, all of it.” The cardboard was shoved toward him and she leant her elbows on the counter to stare. A brow of uncertainty was lifted, cutting the tape and unenthusiastically pulling out three shirts. 

“Open them.” She bit on her bottom lip with a smile, reaching out for one of three. “They’re like— standard. But that good material you like, let me feel.” She pulled the packet open, nodding at the quality. “Try it on.”

“It’s just a shirt.” He said although complied instantaneously, discarding his current shirt. “How much was it?” Thea moved to stand closer to him, her arm touching against his bare chest upon reaching for the tag. “Forty-odd?”

“Around there.” She watched as he pulled it on, her hands reaching to smooth it out across his shoulders. “It’s nice.”

“I didn’t need it.”

“Yeah, thanks Thea,” She imitated his gruff voice. “And I say, you’re welcome Simon.” Her smile opened an opportunity for his own, leaning back from the counter to inspect the shirts further. 

Winter

Their second Winter was early dominated by arguments over Christmas decorations. Simon had never once put up or even had such things, for a number of reasons. One being, he was rarely here for Christmas — opting to spend it on voluntary deployment or training of new recruits so as to not be alone. Two, he didn’t even like them. It felt and looked like clutter. Not to mention the effort of putting them all up just to inevitably take them down a month later. 

He didn’t and point blank refused to see the point. 

Of course, until Thea had almost fell headfirst into the flat door trying to knock on it. A huge plastic box labeled ‘Xmas’ was by her feet, face red from lifting it up three flights of stairs. “If I took all of this up them stairs and you say no, i’ll kick off, Simon Riley.” 

He silently picked the box up, shutting the door with a nudge of his foot and dropping it with a thud to the livingroom floor. “It’s not going up.” Though his words lacked certainty, knowing that the woman opposite him would stop at nothing. 

“Oh, but it is.” She nodded sarcastically, falling to her knees before the box and pulling various ornaments out. 

Then there was the new year. And that was another battle, not necessarily an argument but a protest of sorts. One that Simon refused to concede to when Thea had said she was going out on the lash. “Well what’re you gonna do then?” She laughed, leaning on the doorframe. 

“Sleep.” He answered as though it were the most obvious thing in the world, “It’s just another night.” His nonchalance sometimes felt like a weapon.

Thea nodded slowly, taking her step backward out the door. “Yeah alright, see you later yeah?” Her laugh came when he had shook his head, closing the step between them to kiss her cheek and ruffle her hair that had taken an hour to do. “Oh nevermind,” She pushed him back. “You won’t make it out the fucking door after doing that.” 

However, of course, he had shown up to the bar she was at only two hours later. Begrudgingly shrugging his jacket off and making a beeline for her amidst the crowd of people she was with. 

“Oh, oh my god.” Thea had drunkenly slurred and cackled at the sight of him, immediately sticking to his side and looking up at him. “I told you, I told you— that you would come.” Her finger pointed toward his face and he pushed it away, sliding an arm around her shoulder to steady her swaying. “Try this.” Her drink was shoved to his lip. 

“What is it?” He took the glass, instinctively grimacing at the clear liquid. 

“Try it.” She leant her forehead on his shoulder for all of two seconds before looking up to see his reaction. A squint. At best. “You don’t like it? It’s nice—“

“Awful.” He slid the glass back across the bar and took the offered water. “Have that instead, yeah?”

“Oh shit,” Her hand tapped his cheek twice, gesturing he leaned downward before she had managed to lock her lips on his. Simon hummed against the kiss, pulling back and pressing his thumb to her jaw. “It’s new year! You’re my kiss. Fucking— we missed it, you missed it.” 

“Just another day to me.” 

this is literally just no plot written life shit. wait there a second while i let out a guttural scream.

simon ‘ghost’ riley taglist: @vamppxncess @crowbird @misshoneypaper @tallrock35 @fluffmonster @islanderr @blueoorchid @lea3773 @coldflapjack @rayhawk05 @han11dh @liishook @melovetitties @fallonx @rvjaa @fuckmelifesucks @bhayatsara @takeomisbitch @local-spidey @konigsblog @penutjuice @babychoi03 @sheluvzeren @sparklingtragedy @maviee @wiserebelpartypie @daddylorianisastateofmind @bhayatsara @mistydeyes @writingmysanity @johfaam0 @idkjoequinn @gressseyy @fwibblefwobble @shibble @maladaptivedaydreamingbum @airghostlyfox

when it rains, it pours enjoyers (hello): @sofasoap @illyanam1011 @lez-zuha @ipoopedmypants47 @queen-ilmaree @yellowscuderia @luvfromkat

i couldn't tag like ten people overall, i apologise. as always, if you would like to be removed from the taglist dm me! reblogs and comments are very much appreciated, if no one pats me on the head every now and then i'll sit in a hole.

[plutopitou]

Frosting ~ keigo takami x reader

Your boyfriend, the number two hero, is a good man. He’s kind enough to spare the innocent if he can take out that frustration on your pretty self.

warnings: throatfucking again oops, daddy kink, degradation, slapping, he’s an asshole in this but he makes u wet i dont make the rules MDNI

Gagging on your knees wasn’t in your plan for the night before Keigo’s birthday.

Takami Keigo is a good man.

He arrived home unexpectedly.

Your head snaps at the slam of the door to see his tired body, eyebrows tensely pulled together as he lazily pulls off his gloves. His jacket littered with smears of dirt and his golden soft hair a little more ruffled than when he left.

More importantly, he arrived with a tinge of something different in his demeanor, something more.. threatening.

You rush over pulling off his heavy leather coat, greeting him as your hang it up for him swiftly. You stand off by the door fiddling with your fingers in sudden anxiety, watching his every move.

He was irritated.

“Come here.”

Immediately you pace to his side in the messy kitchen, decorated with fallen flour and dirty bowls stained with pink frosting and cake mix residue.

Keigo is leaning over the counter, rubbing his forehead in frustration.

“What did I tell you about the messes you make, baby?”

He doesn’t even look in your direction as he continues to stare forward with a blank look on his face, dragging his hand along his cheek and tense jaw in aggrivation.

Your stomach churned.

“I was going to clean it up-“

Words are left unsaid as your head snaps to the side, filling with a stinging sensation. Tears bubble beneath your lashes, you wanted him to know you were going to be good like he wished and clean up after yourself.

“Y’know all the shit I had to deal with today?” He mutters rhetorically. “Dumbasses trying to rob some phones, villains tryin to blow up a highway,” After every word listed, he sets you up to make one more mess of the day. “..the commission.”

You can feel the bruises forming being pushed on your knees with an ache on the crown of your head from Keigo’s harsh grip.

“Baby, you’re supposed to be the one to not cause any problems, remember?” The accusatory tone in his voice is enough to make your lip tremble and eyes leak in shame, you must make it up to him.

“Now you’re gonna let me take it out on you, right?” Your mind is on autopilot. Nodding as you rustle to unbuckle his pants, eager to fill your mouth with cock and make up for your stupid wrongdoings. To let Keigo use your throat like a personal bitch until his night is better.

It’s like he always said: you’re special because you let him take out his frustrations on you instead of letting him redirect it elsewhere.

Your boyfriend is a good man, he is good to you.

He lets you adjust to his thick cock, carefully letting you slick him up, right before he cups your silky soft throat and pushes your head right up to his pelvic. The sounds of your gagging fuel his arousel as he holds the back of your head till he can’t take no more, taking breaks to let you breathe then swiftly take your breath away again.

“You wanna make so many messes you gotta be the one to clean it up..”

The aching sting on your cheek has long past, focusing on your leaking pussy from the compromising situation you found yourself in from the hands of your handler.

You cleaned up every string of precum leaking from his cock before forcing yourself to take it to the brim. His choked gasps send kisses to your wet pussy as he sensitivity heightens, orgasm drawing near.

“You’re gonna let me come on your face, right? Hm?” He coos, rubbing your cheek of stray tears as you continue to bob yourself on his hard dick.

You give a strained hum, letting Keigo spit out profanities and lewd accusations to your vulnerable position.

Every rough thrust into your mouth was an direct hit at every annoyance in his day; it was all going to be taken out on you. And God, you’d just let him

Keigo holds his release back, relishing in the feeling of your throat squelching with saliva trying to push him out as he rams back in.

You panic as he pinches your nose; no access to air, you hit his thighs in signal you can’t breathe.

“Fuck..”

Air fills back into your lungs as he pulls out, immediately pumping his angry red cock to spurt shots of cum with the strings of saliva messily on your face. He gasps, his abs flexing to make you as vulgar as possible.

The silence is loud as you both take a minute to catch your breath, looking up at his lean body wiping his sheen forehead. There isn’t a word released from his mouth to you.

You waste no time for your apology. “I’m really sorry, Daddy..” You whisper on your knees in humiliation.

Keigo pushes back his hair, sighing in exasperation.

He doesn’t accept your apology.

Instead quirking an eyebrow at you, lazily pointing to the still messy kitchen. “Make sure you clean all this shit up.” He says uncaring, before walking away to the shower.

You hear the door to the bathroom slam and the water turn on.

Your mind and body are still hazy as you lift yourself off the floor

You open the fridge and blankly stare.

Would he still appreciate the little cake you made for him?

This was made so quickly i love rotting this man with obscene traits he’s literally such a sweetheart, just has a bit of mommy and daddy issues ~ reposted with more content

[writersmacchiato]

family ties | Gerard Pitts

warning but not really; mentions/alludes to bad home life for reader :(((( but it’s honestly nothing explicitly stated <3 not proof read!!

sidenote: for everyone in the winter season (happy first day of winter btw!!!), I so recommend finding a sunny spot outside and sitting out there with a blanket and a hot drink and soak in the sun.

. . .

Gerard Pitts happens to stumble upon you while you’re sitting on the back steps of the school. A warm blanket draped over you shoulders and protecting you from the chill. The sunlight washes over you in a glow and his heart skips a beat at the beauty you are.

A steaming cup of something rests in your hands, your eyes transfixed on nothing in particular but the cloudless blue sky above you.

Your face is blank, giving nothing away.

Well, to anyone that wasn’t him but he knows you, doesn’t he?

He notices the slump of your shoulders, marring your usual prefect posture. The slight down curve of your lips, the slightest of tension between your brows.

You’re upset and stewing in it.

“Good morning.” He approaches loudly, steps crunching on gravel to announce his presence first.

“Good morning, Pitts.” To your credit, your small smile seems genuine enough so he takes a seat beside you. Arms almost touching, but he doesn’t close the distance. Not yet.

“Lovely morning.” He says, cupping his hands to blow hot air into them. It is very chilly, but the frost covering the ground and trees was beautiful. He could see why you came here often.

You hum in agreement, otherwise motionless from the small sips from your cup.

“How is the family?” He decides to stop beating around the bush.

It’s not a secret, at least to him, that you struggle with the time spent with your family. And that you had a dinner with them yesterday.

You make a noise, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “Oh, just the usual dinner and show.”

“And, your sister?”

At the mention of her, you slump against his side, head leaning on his shoulder. Letting out a long groan that makes him laugh.

“The usual, then?” He supplies when you take to silence once more.

He knows that you sit with your thoughts and feelings too much, let them fester within unspoken until it becomes too much. He’s also learning how to slowly creep out the feelings, how to spin the words out. Knows that you trust him in a way you haven’t had before.

“The fucking usual.” You pause, before the words spill out in a sudden rush. “She’s just so… mean! She’s mean all the time! And if I ever try to say anything, she gets mad at me. It’s exhausting being around her because I never know if she will strike out or be nice.”

Pitts moves his arm to wrap around you, in a one sided hug. He’s met your sister and knows how cruel she can be, both intentionally and unintentionally.

“And, then winter break is coming up and I don’t want to be home at all. I hate it there. My parents are already so… them. And my sister is in an extra horrible mood. It will be torture.”

“You know, you’re always welcome to come home with me.” To me.

You allow yourself to indulge the fantasy. Having been to his family’s estate many times before. His mother is very welcoming and kind, his father is somewhat aloof and awkward but in a charming way.

The kitchen would smell like freshly baked cookies, the scent wafting through the house. You could curl up by the fireplace, reading anything you desired from their extensive library.

Traipsing through the woods around the estate, freshly fallen snow making it a winter wonderland. Building snowpeople and and trying to sneak a ball of snow down his coat. Hoping for the coldest temperatures so the pond will freeze frostily for ice-skating, hands numb from cold except where his hands hold yours.

Looking through his wardrobe, selecting his coziest sweaters to wear to bed. Running through the halls in wool socks and seeing who can slide the furthest.

Warm dinners with his family, gathered together. Watching the way the candlelight flickers over his face, sneaking glances and smiling when you catch him doing the same.

Maybe he would kiss you under the mistletoe. Because his family is the type to hang up mistletoe and he would pretend to be oblivious to the fact that he hung up the very plant you now stand under together and you would let him.

“I would like that very much, Gerard Pitts.”

[be-the-glenn-to-my-maggie]

Happy end of the holiday season, here is the Spider Hallmark Christmas Movie. Sorry it ended up way more serious than I meant for it too, it was supposed to be silly and fluffy. I will take criticism to make it fluffy:

-Spider used to live with his foster family next to the Sully's. The MsCoskers weren't great to him, and definitely never saw him as one of their own, but things were good. They never really cared where he was, and he spent all his time in the woods with the Sully kids, climbing trees and building treehouses and pretending to be forest people. He would help Kiri rescue baby birds that had fallen out of nests, and race Lo'ak up the tallest trees they could find until the branches get thin and breakable. Sometimes he would just sit and talk with Neteyam, about anything and everything. Neteyam always insisted on being the king of the forest, meaning Kiri and Lo'ak were the prince and the princess, but Spider was never quite sure what he was in the kingdom.

-He's been gone for a long time, after his dad got out of prison and got custody of him and took him far away to some military base out of the country. It wasn't good, and now that his dad is back in prison Spider has one year left before he turns eighteen and he's not quite sure where he'll end up. But, it's December and he's back and he's meeting his new foster family out in god knows where and through some insane fucked up version of fate it's the Sully's.

-They bring him to a new, smaller home than he grew up in, this one by the ocean and closer to other homes than the big forest properties from their childhood. But it turns out Lo'ak is good at surfing now, just like he used to be good at climbing trees, and Kiri likes to go protect turtle nests at night. Things are different but also the same.

-Tuk makes him decorate the entire house with her. Neytiri is not good at decorating, Christmas is not her thing, but it's not Spider's either. Santa never brought him things like he does for Tuk. They kind of let Jake and Tuk direct them into activities. Picking the tree is a very serious process, because it has to be one Lo'ak has climbed, but also can fit in the house. According to Kiri it gets harder every year. Kiri (and Neytiri) teach him how to bake sugar cookies, and Tuk teaches him how to decorate them to a nearly inedible result. Lo'ak takes him beach sledding, which is an activity his new girlfriend taught him. Jake makes him watch Die Hard four times.

-Neteyam hovers at the back of every activity in a way Spider isn't used to. He's usually right in the center of every activity, in Spider's memory. The king of the forest. Well, if Spider has to be involved then so does Neteyam.

-When Tuk directs Spider to put lights on the porch railings, he hands Neteyam a strand. When Kiri asks him to measure the flour, he asks Neteyam where the cups are. When Tuk goes to get the frosting for decorating, he gives Neteyam a blank canvas cookie snowman of his own to decorate. Spider does not let Neteyam leave him to go beach sledding with Lo'ak and Tsireya alone, and Neteyam watched Die Hard at least twice.

-On Christmas Eve, the family go with Kiri to check her turtle nests again. Neteyam is hovering in the back, not checking a nest, and it's just so weird Spider finds himself walking over and questioning him about it. What happened to the king of the forest that was always the center of everything going on?

-Neteyam says there isn't a forest here, and ever since they moved there, he hasn't been the center of much. He doesn't fit in here anymore. Well, that's just fine for Spider, he wasn't sure where he fit in in the forest, even if he loved it. He can't just not be involved at all. They can just not fit in together.

-And maybe, that is where they do fit in. Together.

[corpsebasil]

Tea and Spices - Chapter 2

She knew what he'd come for.

She had seen him eyeing the collection of scales she had lying casually on her desk on her ship, the Lady Anne, the boat was named, and he'd immediately gawked. She sat at her desk, free of makeup, and was sorting through her papers when Sturmhond walked into her office.

"Good morning." She said, watching him take in every inch of the opulent room. He would never admit it, but her ship was much grander than his.

"Hello, Victoria." He greeted, eyes still eating up every inch of the space, before settling on the scales. Grisha would pay a ridiculous amount of money for those amplifiers, and she simply had tossed them onto the desk. "So. Sleep well?"

"What do you want with the scales?" She asked, picking one up. It was a beautiful thing, truly. Her brothers had gone into that cave and, ten minutes later, slain the monster inside. Maybe she'd have the gorgeous material crafted into jewelry or melded onto her sword hilt. "Pretty, though. Maybe if you grovel enough I'll give you one."

"You—" he paused, glancing from them to her. "Your makeup. Why do you do it like that?"

"Is this your form of begging, Captain?"

"No." He smirked, eyeing her with new interest. "But I can assure you, Captain, if I was begging, you'd know." A smirk appeared on her face too, and damn him if she wasn't one of the most stunning women he'd laid eyes upon. He wondered absently what it would like to bed her, then dashed away the thought. "Perhaps we could strike a bargain for one."

"You don't have anything I want, and your coin doesn't matter to me. I have all the money I could want." She told him point blank, but shrugged. "Sit down."

He seemed to balk for a moment at being so casually ordered around, but did, marveling at the comfortable feel of her expensive chair. Her ship seemed like the queen of the sea, compared to his. It stung more than he'd like.

"What about a trade—?" He started, but she waved him off before he could continue.

"Tea first." She said, and rose from her desk.

He watched a she walked past and began fiddling with a pot and cups, fine china that would make his own court weep at its magnificent. Once she'd poured and brought him a cup, a plate now resting in front of hm with pastries that gleamed with frosting and dotted with fruit, he spoke.

"I've been living off pickles the past few weeks." He confessed, picking one up and examining it. "What is this, anyway?"

"A scone." She said. "Blueberry. And yes, your friends told us last night how horrifying your diet has been." She shivered comically. "You pirates have the oddest tendencies."

"Privateer," he corrected, rolling his eyes at her amused look before he bit into the scone. He moaned out loud and her eyebrows shot up. "Saints this is good."

She stared at him for a long beat before she poured the tea, preparing his cup with sugar and milk herself, and he was thrown back by her instant hospitality. He'd known plenty of captains in his life, people of power, and they'd never have poured tea for their guests, themselves. When he took a sip, once again blown away by the deliciousness of the food, she picked up a fascinating device off its holster on her desk and punched around on it for a moment.

"Winston," she said into the device and he stared in surprise. What was that thing? "Have Harry prepare a full English breakfast for the young captain's crew and himself. They've been eating like savages for far too long." She smiled when he stared, eyes wide, and she waited before speaking again. "Yes. Make sure the captain has extra bacon and sausages. Thank you."

When she set the device down back into its place he gestured to it, then picked it up and glanced around it's entirety when she pushed it towards him.

"It's a telephone." She said, cocking that pretty head. Without the wig, her strawberry blonde hair caught the morning sunshine and sparkled over her shoulders. "Don't you have those when you're...in...where are you from?"

"Ravka." He mumbled around a bite, already chugging down his second cup of tea. She offered him a second scone and he devoured it happily. "It's very—good god, woman." He gasped when the door opened and Harry walked in, his appearance much more boyish without makeup than Nikolai had expected, carrying a large tray.

The captain's brother smiled warmly before setting the tray on the desk. For Victoria, he'd made a simple omelette with a side of fruits, and for Nikolai..,.eggs, sausages, beans, bacon, toast, tomatoes...he could've kissed the boy right there, but Harry just mumbled a good morning and left the room.

"I'm going to marry you." He informed her, completely serious, and a loud laugh burst from her mouth at his statement. Everything tasted delicious and once he was done, she offered him some of her own breakfast, as well.

"How kind." She said, raising one brow. "Breakfast in exchange for a marriage proposal? What will you give me for the scales?"

"Anything. All of Ravka." He said, leaning his head back with a sigh.

His eyes were shut, so he didn't see when she picked up three of the scales and set them in front of him, crossing her legs under the table. His eyes were wide as he picked one up, then shot back to her.

"I don't need them all." She purred, voice coy, and he genuinely considered leaning across the table and kissing her. "Don't look at me like that. I'm not interested."

"You are—" he shook his head. "I don't know what to say to you."

"How about 'thanks'?" She offered, reaching over to flick his cheek. "You're welcome to stay with us for a bit until you're ready to leave. God knows the three of us are getting sick of each other. It's like living with our parents again."

"That'd be—" he sighed. "We're kind of in a time crunch, but one night would be very appreciated."

"Good." She smiled, standing, then squeezed his shoulder as she passed. "You can pay me for the scales by entertaining me tonight."

When she'd walked completely away, and he got a full view of the back of her, he was very, very sure he could find a way to keep the captain entertained.

Once again make sure to read on wattpad and like and reblog my posts for more content!!

[creativwit]

AO3 Masterlist

This is my AO3 masterlist! You can find my AO3 here under CreativWit! I currently have 71 works on there, so this post is going to be a loooong work in progress until I can get all of those put together. So consider this post as "Under Construction" for a while!

Spy x Family Works

Floodgates - (WIP)

Cowritten with @rachellysebrook / @rlbbackup Pairing(s): Loid Forger/Yor Forger, Franky Franklin/OC Rating: Mature Trigger Warnings: angst, temporary character death, self-harm, suicidal thoughts/actions, mental breakdowns, mental health issues (depression, anxiety, PTSD, paranoia), starvation, injury/injury recovery, jealousy, assassination/assassination attempts Summary:

Unlike most other jobs, Franky’s didn’t come with a contract when he first signed up. Then again, Franky’s job isn’t like other jobs. It didn’t come with a comprehensive list of responsibilities, health insurance, a set wage, or a boss to report to. At the end of the day, no matter how many people he keeps in contact with, Franky has to deal with his own issues on his lonesome.

Twilight more than proved that to him.

Hold Onto Me (I'm A Little Unsteady) - (Completed)

Pairing(s): Loid Forger/Franky Franklin, background Loid Forger/Franky Franklin/Yor Forger/Fiona Frost Rating: Teen Trigger Warnings: implied/referenced child abuse, implied/referenced human experimentation, child experimentation Summary: (Part of the Spy x Family Rare Pair Server's Rare Pair Week Event!)

Franky rolls his neck, trying to relieve the tension building up from Loid’s insistence. Dropping his offered hand, Franky asks, “Why isn't going to bed without me an option?”

Loid frowns. He doesn’t respond right away, choosing to stand up. He sways with exhaustion, and Franky quickly sets his cup on the coffee table, prepared to steady Loid if he needs to. Loid pays him no mind, placing his hands over Franky’s tie and undoing the knot. Franky raises an eyebrow, but he lets Loid pull off the tie and push off Franky’s suspenders.

“If we’re gonna have a late night talk,” Loid mumbles, words nearly slurring, “then we’re gonna get comfortable.”

I Do It All For You - (Completed)

Pairing(s): Loid Forger/Fiona Frost/Yor Briar Forger/Franky Franklin Rating: Teen Trigger Warnings: canon-typical violence, mental health issues, references to depression, suicidal thoughts/actions, self-sacrificing actions, self-worth issues, gunshot wounds, near-death experiences Summary: (Part of the Spy x Family Rare Pair Server's Rare Pair Week Event!)

Franky huffs, shaking his head. “Conflict. So pointless.”

Nightfall looks at Franky with a blank expression, but she can’t help the curiosity. “I take it you’re not one for violence.”

“No,” Franky snorts. “I’ll leave that to you lunatics.” Then, Franky eyes the folders, frowning slightly. “Seriously, sweetheart…be careful. The people you’re dealing with are no joke. They’ve taken out WISE agents in the past.”

Nightfall’s attention snaps back to Franky, suddenly losing all humor. “How many?”

“Too many,” Franky responds, giving her a chaste kiss on the cheek. “Please…don’t make it another.”

Symbol Of My Devotion - (Completed)

Pairing(s): Camilla/Dominic Rating: Teen Trigger Warnings: arguing, implied/referenced child abuse, implied/referenced child neglect, implied/referenced self-hard, self-esteem issues/self-hatred, self-doubt, secondhand embarrassment, implied/referenced eating disorder Summary: (Part of the Spy x Family Rare Pair Server's Rare Pair Week Event!)

The past few months have been…difficult to say the least. More than once, she met with the office ladies at a bar, drinking herself stupid as she lamented her woes. She’s seen their looks: Sharon’s exasperation, Yor’s pity, and Millie’s annoyance. Camilla figures they’re getting tired of hearing the same spiel, but how can she help herself? After over a decade of dating Dominic, and over six years of living together, she figures they would have had their dream wedding already. Since she was only a teenager, young and kicking her feet in bed over her first date with Dominic, Camilla has planned every detail, from her perfect dress down to the grain of the venue’s wooden floorboards. Dominic, on the other hand…he hasn’t quite been as open about his preferences for their wedding or honeymoon since the very beginning.

Part of Camilla wonders if he wants to marry her at all.

To Wash Away My Pain - (Completed)

Pairing(s): Loid Forger/Yor Briar Forger/Franky Franklin Rating: Explicit (sexual content) Trigger Warnings: self-esteem issues, self-doubt, chronic pain Summary: (Part of the Spy x Family Rare Pair Server's Rare Pair Week Event!)

“You know, love…orgasms are known to help women with menstrual pain.”

Loid opens his eyes to stare at her. “Are you…asking for sex because you’re on your cycle?”

Yor laughs, her eyes crinkling in delight, and the sight makes Loid’s stomach flip. “No. I’m talking about you.”

“He doesn’t get periods, Yor.” Leave it to Franky to state the obvious.

Shaking her head, Yor finally explains herself, “What I’m trying to say is that if orgasms can help menstrual pain…” Yor’s eyes suddenly flicker with excitement. “Isn’t it worth seeing if it can help with chronic pain as well?”

Push My Luck - (Completed)

Pairing(s): Yuri Briar/State Security Service First Lieutenant Rating: Mature (implied sexual content) Trigger Warnings: chronic pain Summary: (Part of the Spy x Family Rare Pair Server's Rare Pair Week Event!)

“Oh, is that the only thing that’s stopping you?” Yuri presses, his tone suddenly switching from his innocent facade to something low-tinged and dangerous. “Meaning that if we could, that if we could get away with it, you’d do it?”

“Yuri-”

“Because let’s get one thing straight, Lieutenant,” Yuri continues, tongue darting out to lick his lips, “I’d do it in a heartbeat, whether we could or couldn’t.”

My Advice? Just Shut Up and Kiss Me - (Completed)

Pairing(s): Loid Forger/Franky Franklin, background Loid Forger/Franky Franklin/Yor Briar Forger Rating: Teen Trigger Warnings: self-esteem issues, self-doubt, voyeurism Summary: (Part of the Spy x Family Rare Pair Server's Rare Pair Week Event!)

He can practically hear Franky rolling his eyes. “I’m pretty sure this is a trial-and-error type of deal.” Franky snaps his fingers. “Trial by fire, that’s the term.”

“Less fires, the better.”

“Well, yeah,” Franky snorts, and Loid can hear him balancing precariously on two legs of his chair. The urge to push him over and teach him a lesson is almost too strong to ignore. “Think about it, though. How many people actually read up on relationship advice these days?”

“How would I know?” Loid sighs heavily, closing his eyes as he gathers the remaining dregs of his quickly fading patience. “I’ve never done this before.”

“Well, I have-”

“And how did that work out for you?”

“Terribly, actually. Thanks for asking."

And The Memories Bring Back You - (Completed)

Pairing(s): Loid Forger/Franky Franklin/Yor Briar Forger, Franky Franklin & Anya Forger Rating: Teen Trigger Warnings: PTSD, grief/mourning, implied/referenced minor character death, past character death, repressed memories, past trauma, self-esteem issues Summary:

“Papa Scruffy,” she starts, her tone lilting up as she prepares to ask him a question. Franky gives her his attention, but his fingers continue to play the lullaby. “Can you teach Anya to play?”

At that, Franky’s heart swells, and a bright smile crosses his face. “Of course.”

~~~~~~~

Franky teaches Anya how to play guitar, and maybe he remembers some important memories along the way.

I'll Give You Shelter - (Completed)

Pairing(s): Loid Forger/Yor Briar Forger Rating: Teen Trigger Warnings: self-esteem issues, injury/injury recovery, implied/referenced PTSD, canon-typical violence, stabbing, near-death experiences, blood and injury Summary:

“Stay…away…from my…husband,” she snarls.

Against his training, Loid’s instincts overwhelm him. He recoils away from Yor. No…that’s not Yor. The low-pitched voice, the all-too-familiar promise of death lacing her words. She speaks in a tone heard from very few people, all of whom Loid steadfastly avoids. Loid doesn’t know who the woman in front of him is, but she is not his wife.

The S-Classes That I Raised Works

These Lines Pain a Picture (A Picture of my Pain) - (Completed)

Pairing(s): Han Yoohyun & Han Yoojin, Han Yoojin & Bak Yerim Rating: Teen Trigger Warnings: implied/referenced self-harm, scars, suicidal thoughts, depression, recovery, implied/referenced suicidal actions Summary:

Regressing five years instead of the entire eight years leaves behind its scars and not just the mental ones. At night, he dreams of his brother’s corpse in his arms, tossing and turning in bed as though his physical efforts could ever prevent the pain that haunts his every waking step. He hopes daylight will bring new solace, praying that the sun will burn away the lingering shadows at the edges of his vision. But then the light catches on the silvery parts of his wrists, and he falls into the depths once again.

Batman Works

If You're Going To Break My Heart, Lie Instead - (Completed)

Pairing(s): Tim Drake/OC, Past Tim Drake/OC, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson & Jason Todd & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne Rating: Teen Trigger Warnings: cheating, failed relationships, abandonment issues, references to depression, drinking to cope, self-esteem issues, self-confidence issues, coping Summary:

Throughout the whole performance - if Tim could even call it that, considering how often Henry blatantly missed notes – Claire never took her eyes off the damn guitarist.

And Tim was starting to wonder if he was losing a competition he hadn’t known he was competing in."

~~~~~~~

Or, alternatively, Tim is in a happy relationship with a girl he loves, until he finds out that maybe this relationship isn't as two-sided as it may seem.

Porcelain Tomb - (Completed)

Pairing(s): Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne Rating: Teen Trigger Warnings: implied/referenced child abuse, implied/referenced child neglect, generational trauma, childhood trauma, mirroring Summary:

Bruce visibly chewed the inside of his cheek, mulling over his words. When he spoke, he did so slowly, as if being cautious with his words. “You were starting to worry me.”

The sudden incredulity makes Tim scoff lightly. “I- how?”

“You reminded me too much of Janet Drake.”

In the Name of Love - (Completed)

Pairing(s): Tim Drake & Dick Grayson Rating: General Trigger Warnings: implied/referenced child abuse, implied/referenced child neglect, generational trauma, childhood trauma, past minor character death, implied/referenced murder Summary:

“Mom and dad never loved me, did they?”

The question comes so out of the blue that Dick feels justified in his reaction of choking on the steaming tea Alfred had delivered to him only moments ago. His eyes swivel to meet Tim’s, but his little brother isn’t looking at him. The far-off look in Tim’s eyes tugs at that old ache in Dick’s chest.

It’s going to be one of those nights, isn’t it?

[charles-and-camilla-fanfictions]

All The Time in the World - Chapter 1

Part 1 Devoir

Birkhall, January 2020

I wake with the howling of the wind and curl so that every part of me is cocooned in the warmth of the blankets but my nose is exposed and complains about the temperature. Reaching my hand across, I can feel that the other side of the bed is empty, although the compression of the pillows tells me that my husband came to bed last night. Sometimes he falls asleep at his desk and that leaves him with pain in his back and a niggling disposition best avoided. I grimace as the wind fights its way into the house and I hear the lash of rain against the window panes belabouring them. Today will be difficult. He acts like the incarceration in the house is the fault of everyone around him rather than the inclement weather. I settle back into the covers and shut my eyes to postpone commencing the day.

“Your Royal Highness, Ma’am?” The knock against the door is tentative. I hate being disturbed prematurely and this house is meant to be where we take our holidays, not where I should be harassed at indecorous hours of the morning. “Why are you in my room, waking me up?” “So sorry, Ma’am, His Royal Highness, The Prince of Wales has asked for you.” “The sun hasn’t risen. He knows not to wake me before then.” I’m being petulant. The sun never rises early at this time of year and certainly not this far north. “Sorry Ma’am, he asked for you.”

The initial irritation dissolves into unease. “Fine.” I wriggle out of the covers and prop myself up on the pillows. The air cools through my nightdress and brushes my bare shoulders like frost, making me shiver. Almost immediately, the lamps are switched on in the room and I find a thick cardigan placed around me, a cup of black tea in my hands, warming them. “Tell me, Martin, what exactly is wrong with my husband?” “He’s most perturbed, Ma’am.” “Meaning?” Martin colours most magnificently when he’s embarrassed. Watching the shade of his cheeks, I can sometimes work out the truth before he’s admitted to it. He doesn’t look at me and I repeat my question with a Grandmotherly sternness I know works well with him. “He’s striding around his office, shouting at anyone who enters.” “What’s happened?” “I think The Prince would want to tell you himself, Ma’am.” As I raise my eyebrows at him slightly, I see his endeavour to remain loyal to my husband waiver at my expression. I just need to probe correctly to break him. “Is it that Chinese virus?” “That what, Ma’am?” “Corona Virus?” His blank face tells me it’s not. “Harry then?” I watch his face rouge, not able to lie to me and then crumple as he folds. “You need your iPad. There’s a message on Instagram.” “Tell me. I don’t know where my glasses are. I don’t even know how to work Insta-whatever-it-is, I just scroll through the pretty pictures.” “It’s Their Royal Highnesses, The Duke and Duchess of Sussex. They have announced they’re stepping back from the position of Senior Royals.” “Get me the iPad.”

It’s a strange emotion that hits my stomach. The anger is instant and prickles my skin, and the grief for my husband settles down in my heart as an old companion. Swallowing, I attempt to rid my mind of any unfavourable comparison but my stomach is churning, a contorted mixture of unease born of wounds from long ago, and guilt from what feels like a different age, salted in a deep-set resentment. I feel leaden as I read the message four, five times over, memorising it before removing my reading glasses to look at Martin. He’s worried about my reaction but I’m not my husband. I sigh heavily, not wanting to get up, but one benefit of my position is that someone will aid me with everything, especially when my bones are too old to move quickly at this time of day. “Send for Emma.” My poor husband. Anger laps at me but I know I have to be calm, even as my stomach pangs. I bet Charles hasn’t eaten yet. “And tea for his office…” “Yes, Ma’am.” “And something sweet.” “What sort…” “...Duchy biscuits are fine,” I snap, then pause to correct myself and continue with a more neutral tone, “Ready for when I get there. And toast and honey. Send Emma up now.”

Dismissing him, I breathe in deeply, feeling the air inflate my lungs, feeling my blood disseminate the oxygen around my body, to my tired muscles, calming me, preparing me for my job, my vocation. The lifetime I’ve spent talking gently to my husband, teasing him, bullying him, calming him down. There is never the time to process each new disaster with his family and sometimes I feel reminiscent of a firefighter, faithfully attempting to extinguish one crisis as several others ignite around me, but it seems churlish to complain when we’ve spent so many years striving for what we have now.

~*~*~*~*~*~

2000, Highgrove

We turn on the television to listen to Big Ben, to hear the countdown and watch the fireworks and I feel his hand reaching for mine. I clasp it firmly. The camera pans onto a closeup of his mother’s face and I smirk. Sat there with the Prime Minister, she looks as pissed off as her public persona allows. He kisses my cheek and I know he’s noted my expression. “She looks happy.” That makes me chuckle and I pull away from the screen and turn to face him. The hubbub around us is quieting now to the hush which always accompanies this precise moment in time, that pause before the countdown to the New Year begins. “I wonder if the telly’s going to crash at the stroke of midnight?” “Perhaps everything will go down?” “Your mother will be trapped in the dark.” “That would be funny.” “Do you think the little bug thing will crawl out and take over, reign over us?” That makes him chuckle and he reaches down to kiss me. “Last kiss this year.” “Last kiss this century.” “Hold my hand. I want to enter the new millennium with you.” The countdown starts but I’m looking into his eyes. I want his eyes to be the first thing I see. Or the last, if the world does indeed come to an end in five seconds time. But, of course, it doesn’t and I’ve almost completed saying the obligatory blessing before he kisses me again, then presses his forehead against mine. I can hear the celebrations around me. The corks popping and the choruses of ‘Happy New Year!’ We’re jolted slightly from side to side as our friends turn and greet in the new year in the time old fashion but I can’t draw away from him. Not until I feel people tugging me, grasping for my hand and then the spell is broken and I’m back on earth, singing along with all our friends, laughing with them, bouncing our arms to the beat of the song, grimacing at the sound of my voice as I warble along with them.

The deep boom of fireworks exploding outside sets off an excited chatter and I find myself hastily bundled into a coat, his coat. My nose burrows to inhale the scent but I’m manhandled outside and his arms hold me to him as I try to watch the display. “Start as we mean to go on.” “Being shoved outside, you mean?” I hear him chuckle against my ear and then his lips against my neck make me giggle. “Resolutions, Darling.” “Oh, I’m dreadful at these. I always say the same things. I’ll give up smoking. I won’t drink as much… One week of January and the sheer tedium of the month bores me straight back to my old habits.” “That’s because you had no intention of ever giving them up and you’ve said it for show.” “Probably.” “My resolution is to be with you.” “You are with me, Darling.” “To fight for you until there’s no longer any need.” That makes me smile. It will be another millennium before people accept our relationship. “What’s my resolution, Darling?” “You’ve got to make it. I can’t tell you what your resolution will be.” I feel his fingers poking in my side to tickle me and smile. “I resolve to love you through everything.” “You can’t resolve to love me! You’re meant to already love me!” “I do ‘already’ love you.” I turn my head to kiss him, to reassure him and manage to find his chin. It’s rough against my lips. “I said I will love you through everything. Through everything that hits you, hurts you, damages you. I will love you through every crisis. That’s the resolution.” “I think I’m getting the better deal.” “You most certainly are. You need to up the stakes with yours.” “I can’t. The only thing you want, I’ve done for the past thirty years, regardless.” “What do I want?” “You want to be loved and to feel loved. I can’t resolve that I’ll always love you. It’s just a part of who I am. I’m far too old to change now.” “Don’t change.” “When have you ever known me to change?” “Well then you best make up for the discrepancies in our resolutions!” “I will make you my Queen, Camilla.” “Whether I want it or not?” “Something like that.” “Sounds like a threat.” “It’s meant to be an honour.” “Let’s just concentrate on the moment. The bug hasn’t taken over, has it?” I turn in his arms so I’m facing him and bat my eyes at him, making him laugh. “Don’t sound so hopeful!”

His eyes sparkle at me but even my joke can’t distract from what he’s just said to me. The crowd around us seems to me to be separated from us by an invisible force, hushing the noise, and I feel like we’re suddenly so far away from the rest of the world. “Your resolution isn’t about me. It’s about what you want.” “It’s also about you being treated with the respect you deserve.” “That isn’t important to me.” “Only because you’ve learnt to live without it. It is still important.” “I’d prefer to be with you than to be ‘respected’.” “I want you to have both.” I know he does. I won’t let him shatter traditions and demand it happen now; I’m not sure that would even work. But I know he means it and once he makes a decision, he sticks with it. “It would be nice to not be the most hated woman in the world…” “I wish people could meet you. Then they’d love you as much as I do.” “This is the perfect time for wishes. Make them to your heart’s content and then hold onto me tightly and just savour that we’re here together.”

I hardly dare allow myself to wish for anything. It feels like tempting fate. Turning my face towards the spectacle in the heavens above me, I push my head back against him and wish for time together. Just us. But even as I wish for it, I know it will never happen. Ironically, we saw far more of each other when we were married to other people, almost a different lifetime ago, when we both had fewer scars, before the trauma of the past few years. I’ve got a better wish. My wish is that I can make him happy, that I’ll be allowed to do that. At the moment, everything is an uphill battle for acceptance, dodging the grenades thrown at us from his own family, riding the wave of public contempt. I don’t desire to be a part of the Royal Family, I never have; I would happily flee the country and live out the rest of my life with him. A simpler life. No responsibilities. But it would break him and put the responsibility onto his son’s shoulders, shoulders far too young for that weight. So perhaps, instead, my wish is for the strength I’m going to need in order to make him happy when the world is desperate for us to be ripped apart. They don’t realise it’s far too late for that. We won’t be parted from each other now. I wrap my arms around him and pull him close to me. We are starting the new millennium as we mean to go on. Together.

~*~*~*~*~*~

1970, London

His body tenses as I wrap my arms around him but I ignore it and I feel his hands gently pat my back. “Do people not usually hug you, Sir?” I pull away, my eyes grinning at him. He is bright red, his cheeks so flushed they match the rouge of the wallpaper behind him. “Usually I initiate it. People don’t tend to assume they can hug me.” “How dull.” That makes him laugh, a little giggle which sets his face alight. This has been my challenge all evening, to see if I can make this very serious young man loosen up a little. The giggle is almost apologetic and he brings his hand up to his face to hide behind. I want him to laugh openly with me. I’m not sure why. Objectively, he’s very attractive, if you’re into princes. He’s got the education, certainly, some of the topics of conversation have tested me to my limits tonight but he seems to have enjoyed himself and he appears to have been a very good distraction from the mess my love life is currently in with my on-off boyfriend Andrew and his various conquests. Lucia, our mutual friend, was naughty but right to introduce us and her little soiree has been an unmitigated success.

“Careful you two,” Lucia draws on her cigarette to drastic effect, “you have genetic antecedence…” She blows the smoke out to form a perfect smoke ring and I’m more than a little impressed. “Sorry?” He’s really sweet when he’s confused. “I think, Sir, she was referring to the fact that my Great Grandmother was your Great-Great Grandfather’s Mistress…” That makes him blush, from his cheeks and up his ears. “He had a great many mistresses, which particular one are you referring to?” “Alice Keppel.” “Oh… That one. She was considerably more than just his mistress, wouldn’t you say?” “I suppose…” “According to my sources, she was the love of his life. You certainly had best watch out. I apologise in advance if I fall in love with you. I won’t be able to help it, you see. Genetic antecedence.” “She was also meant to be exceptionally good in bed.” Lucia’s drawl makes me cough out my own inhalation of smoke and turns his cheeks a deeper rose colour, although his eyes are sparkling at me. “Is that genetic too?” I laugh and watch his face break into a great smile. “Would you like to know? Or are you destined to be a virgin until you’re married?” “There are no rules about me being a virgin.” “How unfair.” “I guess it is, rather. Tell me this, Miss Shand, how is it that you are single when you talk such tantalising talk?” “Apparently others find me less attractive. Perhaps it’s all a facade and I become boring the more time you spend with me? Then you require more variety?” “Somehow I doubt you’re ever boring. Andrew’s an idiot, by the way. My sister is a wonderful woman but she will drop him like a stone when she’s finished with him.” The fact that he knows about me and Andrew shocks me but I don’t let it show on my face. Perhaps Lucia has told him. The other, inconvenient truth being that Andrew’s current squeeze is Princess Anne, is evidently public knowledge and I ignore the pang of pain which goes through me. “Oh, I’m quite sure he’ll survive. If he doesn’t already have someone else on the go, I’d be really surprised.” “Then it appears I meet you at a fortuitous time.” “How’s that?” “Well I take it that you’re very much ‘off’ with Andrew?” “Very much so.” “Hence the fortuity.” “Oh, well, I only had eyes for him and he only had eyes for everyone…” “That explains why you fell over a cliff.” I look at him, recognising the line and seeing his eyes looking at me, anxiously willing me to laugh, “You rotten swine, you!” “You have deaded me!” That does make me laugh. “Foiled by President Fred!” “Quick, get behind the screen, Gladys.” His mimicry is so on point, he leaves me with tears rolling from my eyes and I’m doubled over with laughter as he recites line after line of my favourite radio show with perfect accuracy. In the end, I have to stop him, to allow myself space to breathe and just looking at him sets us both off again, laughing all my makeup off. Neither of us noticed Lucia disappearing and it’s only her reappearance later which switches our conversation to something else.

I like the way he looks at me as if he’s searching for my approval when he speaks, checking that I agree before continuing. I can’t quite believe how funny he is and how interesting his stories are. I could listen to his soothing voice for hours. Not that I’d admit that. The time dissolves whilst we talk and I don’t notice the fading of the light, nor the various candles which appear around the room until we run out of time and Lucia shows us out of her flat. We saunter down one flight of stairs together. “Goodnight, Miss Shand.” That makes me giggle; it’s so antiquated and suits him to a tee. Now I can feel myself flirting with him. “Goodnight, Sir.” “I’ll walk you home.” “It’s just down the corridor. I can surely manage.” “I’ll walk you anyway.” “Then you’ll know where I live.” “Yes, I will.” “I’m not sure that’s entirely suitable.”

I can’t stop myself from flirting with him, batting my eyelashes, glancing at him sidewards, ensuring he sees that I’m looking. The darkness of the hall is illuminated by the glow from the moon as all the lights have gone out in the power cut, a sign of the times which is usually irritating, but today seems romantic. It makes his skin glow with a silver sheen and I want to reach up and touch his face. I don’t, of course. Instead, we linger by my door, leaning against the wall, talking, giggling quietly as I unsuccessfully attempt to desist with the flirting. “Can I kiss you goodnight?” “Of course not.” His question shocks me and I kick myself for my immediate knee jerk answer. “Well, would you come dancing with me?” “You’re a Prince. Can’t you just order me.” “Possibly. I’d prefer you not to come by force, however.” “Would take some of the fun out of it…” He giggles, nervously, and it makes me smile. I pretend to consider, my eyes meeting his and seeing the fear in them. “Not tonight.” “No, of course not. Tomorrow?” That makes me chuckle and I nod, turning the key in my door. “When shall I pick you up?” I shrug and slip into my flat. “Seven thirty?” “Yes.” “I’ll see you tomorrow.” I close the door in his face and smile to myself. I feel slightly giddy at the thought of him calling on me. This should be fun.

[laurancezvahlslefteyebrow]

In the End

Part 2

The ending to the first part of ‘what would happen to the shadow knights when shad dies’

Read the first part before this if you didn’t, it won’t make sense otherwise

Sorry for any mistakes, enjoy :D

————————————————————————————

His head was pounding, almost as hard as his heart. A feeling he hadn’t felt since his time in the Nether. He was groggy, confused, and had no clue where he was or what was happening. It had been like this for a while now, off and on. Every time his consciousness returned, it was this. He tried to open his eyes, but they’d only open a slit. The world was dark for him, grey and foggy. He could hardly see, and that scared him. He shivered harshly, his bones shaking at the sudden cold. Though despite feeling like frost were biting him everywhere all at once, the sweat dripped from his forehead into his hardly open eyes. It burned. He tried to make a noise. Tried to call out for someone, anyone, but all that came out was a pathetic whine.

“No, no no. Shh shh. It’s alright. You’re ok Laurance. I’m here. I’m right here. I got you.” the voice of an angel filled his mind, despite sounding muffled and far away. Aphmau was there. Aph was with him, and she was calm. That’s all he needed to know. He felt a warm hand suddenly cup his cheek and wipe away some sweat or maybe they were tears. He basked in it. But just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone, replaced with a damp and freezing rag. Laurance gasped weakly, tipping his head to the side, trying to avoid the onslaught of cold. “I know I know! I’m sorry, but you’re burning up! We need to cool you down.” Aphmau’s voice was full of sorrow. Even with his eyes open more, he could not see her. She was nothing but a blurry shadow over him now. That’s all he wanted to do. To look into her beautiful amber eyes just to know that everything would be ok. Laurance tried in vein to sit up, but his body was not ready. Suddenly his mind was blank once more and he was lost of consciousness.

When the time finally came for Laurance to try to get up, he was ecstatic. Finally! He was so tired of feeling trapped in this bed. Trapped in his body. He thought he was finally rid of that when Shad died, but turns out, that only made matters worse.

With the help of both Aphmau and Garroth, and about a million strength potions, Laurance managed to sit up and swing his legs over the side of his bed. He hated how much it took out of him. Apparently he’d been unconscious for weeks. Unable to eat or drink. And with his Shadow Knight abilities gone, he became malnourished and weak. He hadn’t been this skinny since he was a kid living on the streets of Meteli. He could see again, though not much better. Things became blurrier the further away they got, as well as everything appearing dark around the edges. But right now, he could see their faces. The pitiful expressions they gave him. He hated it. “Are you ready?” Garroth broke the heavy silence, offering an arm to help steady Laurance with. Laurance gave him a nod in return, huffing as he attempted to get on his feet. Garroth helped him hoist himself up and take a few good steps, before Laurance’s knees buckled and he crashed to the ground with a small yelp. “Shit!” Garroth wasn’t usually one to swear, but now felt like as good a time as any. Garroth sighed and helped Laurance get back to his bed. “I think.. you may need crutches.” Garroth suggested. “Or maybe a cane.?” Aphmau replied, trying in vein to be helpful. Laurance sighed, burying his face in his hands. “…I hate this…. I hate being so helpless and.. and useless,” his voice was hoarse and the lump forming in his throat was starting to hurt, “I’m… sorry to put you all through this..” “Laurance, none of this is your fault!” Aphmau half yelled, though he knew it wasn’t aimed towards him. “We’ll get you through this. All of you..” Garroth trailed off, seeming to regret that last statement. ‘All of you’.. Laurance was the only former Shadow Knight to regain conciseness since that night. At first this was extremely puzzling, for everyone. But sooner or later the reason made itself known. Laurance was the only one here that never actually died. Vylad and Eseryt.. They may never wake.. That thought alone haunted Laurance. How could that possibly be fair? How?!

Lucinda’s potions were helping a lot. In fact, if it weren’t for her potions of strength and healing, Laurance may have never walked again. He made his way to the tavern with Aphmau. They were both tense, but slowly he was beginning to become himself again. He was even smiling for the first time in a while. It was nice. It was nice…. One of Laurance’s crutches caught on a rock poking out of the ground and it sent him falling towards the dirt. He tried to brace himself but it was for naught. He hit the ground with a hard thud and a ‘AGH’. Aphmau rushed to his side, helping him sit back up. Laurance’s face was beet red. “Are you alright?! I swear.. The ground has it out for you or something..” Laurance froze, looking up at Aphmau slowly, eyebrows furrowed and eye wide, as if to say ‘Did you seriously just say that to the half blind guy on crutches?!’ “ha.. hahahaHAHAHAHA Ha haha… phew.. That’s- That’s not funny, Aph.. eheh..” a single tear fell from his cheek, Aphmau brushing her thumb against it to wipe it away, before kissing his forehead and helping him to his feet. “Shall we try that again?” “Yeah.. Yeah. I’ll.. Watch the ground better this time.” Laurance chuckled a bit before they continued towards the tavern.

It was just before noon, Laurance was sitting on his bed reading a book that Garroth had brought him from the local library. Just has he turned to the next page, he heard the door to the infirmary creak open. He listened intently, only hearing hushed whispers and giggling. “Laurance?” Aph’s voice called out. “Yes.?” He called in the return, a grin pulling at his lips. “I have a little surprise for you! I had Katelyn pick he- IT up! Close your eyes!” Laurance sighed dramatically, covering his eyes with his hand. He could hear even more whispers and giggles, and it took everything in him not to open his eyes early. What in the Six could this be? “Ok.. Open!” He opened his eyes slowly, allowing them to readjust to the bright sunlight beaming in through the open window. When he saw it, his mouth fell open and a small gasp escaped his lungs. In front of him sat a small girl. Black hair, tan skin, and green eyes. She almost looked like a smaller version of Aphmau. She was giggling up a storm, holding a small plush rabbit. “Is this..?” “Laurance, I would like to formally introduce you to little miss Lina Zvahl. Your daughter.” Aphmau was absolutely beaming. Tears began to form in his eyes, making them even more blurry than they were before. He chuckled a few times from pure shock. “Hi Lina… I’m your dad.” The smile on Laurance’s face was one he hadn’t worn in a long time. “Hi daddy!” Laurance reached forward to hug his girl, and she hugged him right back. He hadn’t expected her to be so.. ok.. with him this quickly. Perhaps Aphmau told her about him already? She must have. Laurance tried not to, but he couldn’t hold in his sobs. “What’s wrong??” Lina asked innocently, her voice muffled through the hug. Laurance pulled away and held her face in his hands. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I’m just so happy to finally be able to meet you, my Lina.”

————————————————————————————

@cinnamontoastcroonch i would never allow that

[i-am-baechu]

♡ Summary: Hoseok knew what he was getting into when he started dating Y/N but sometimes he just wants to be selfish and keep her to himself. 

♡ Paring: Established relationship; Jung Hoseok x Ghost seeing! Reader

♡ Rating: Pg- 14

♡ Genre: Established relationship, angst, jealousy, miscommunication and fluff 

♡ Based on the one-shot; I See You!

Hoseok loves Y/N, he loved her since he saw her. Being with her for two years, it's been perfect. Well, semi perfect. He’s been with her on almost all her ghost adventures and he understood why she needed to do it but it gets too much sometimes. There were times that he didn’t see her or heard from her for months. She always came back unharmed but that didn’t make him feel better. He never brought it up to her because he didn’t know how to explain it, “I’m jealous of the fucking ghosts.” It's laughable really. 

It's been three weeks since Y/N has been working on this ghost case and he was feeling lonely. He sat at Jimin’s house with Yoongi sitting next to him and they all looked at him with worried eyes. This was the fifth drink he had tonight. Hoseok usually doesn’t drink when he hangs out with them but tonight he needed to feel the warmth that he missed. 

He brought the glass to his lips until Yoongi took the cup out of his hand, “I think you should chill out.” 

“Just let me drink...I need it.”

Jimin walked in with Namjoon trailing behind him, “Is it Y/N?”

Hoseok glanced at Jimin and looked at Jungkook who was looking at him with wide eyes, “Did noona do something?” 

“Technically...she did.” 

Taehyung rolled his eyes and placed his glass down, “Dude just tell us.” 

Hoseok sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, “It’s stupid...”

Namjoon shook his head at this and took the glass out of Yoongi’s hand, “If it makes you feel bad then it’s not stupid.” 

He glanced at Namjoon and then looked back at the coffee table with a frown, “It’s her ghost job.”

Jimin sat in his chair and looked at him with a raised eyebrow, “What about it?” 

“That’s all she’s been doing...she puts all her focus on the case that she's on. She barely talks to me and when she's done with the case, she acts like she hasn’t been busy. I just...fuck, I just want to be selfish and tell her to be with me. Stop focusing on the ghosts and focus on me. I’m fucking jealous of a ghost.” 

He leaned back and stared at the ceiling with a blank face as his friends sent sympathy. Jungkook let out a small cough and glanced down to his glass, “H-Have you told her this?” 

“No, I haven’t.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes and gently nudged his shoulder, “That’s the problem, you need to tell her this.” 

Hoseok rolled his eyes and looked at Yoongi with a “fuck off” look, “Why would I tell her that? It’s stupid.” 

“Hobi, it’s your feelings. Just talk to her, you're acting like a guy.”

“Shut up Taehyung...” Hoseok felt his phone vibrate in his pocket and he took it out. His annoyed face quickly disappeared when he saw that Y/N messaged him. The text message just simply said, “I’m home, I miss you :( .”

Jungkook looked over his shoulder and smiled, “See hyung, she misses you.” 

“You need to talk to her.”

Hoseok looked at Jin who was giving him a stern look and he quickly looked away, “Fine...I’ll talk to her.” 

That drive home was filled with Jin and Namjoon scolding him for keeping his feelings from his friends and Y/N. Hoseok didn’t want to hear it, especially when it was his car they were driving. He hated that they lived in the same apartment complex as him. He texted Y/N that he was home and didn’t bother to say his byes to his friend. He didn’t want to hear their voices anymore. When he opened the door and arms were wrapped around his waist. The scent of flowers and frosting hit his nose and he knew he was home. 

He wrapped his arms around her waist as she nuzzled her face into his chest, “I missed you Hobi.”

He kissed the top of her head and hugged her tighter, “I missed you more princess.” 

When they backed away, she tilted her head at him and he raised his eyebrow at her, “Jimin said you needed to tell me something.” 

That bastard, “Ah, did he.” He walked past her and went into the kitchen to get a drink but Y/N followed. He felt her stare on his back as he continued to look through the fridge. He grabbed a water bottle and went to leave the kitchen but she stood in the way, “Nah, tell me.” 

“Aren’t you busy?”

She shook her head at him, “I finished my case.”  He accidentally rolled his eyes and she looked at him with a confused look, “Why did you roll your eyes?” 

Fuck, “I didn’t mean too.” 

“Hoseok, just tell me.” 

He sighed and looked away from her worried eyes, “Let’s sit down.” 

She grabbed his wrist and they walked back into the living room with him feeling nervous. They sat on the couch and Y/N intertwined their fingers together, “Please tell me...it has to be serious if Jimin told me.”

He nodded his head and set the bottle on the table, “ I love you-”

“Oh my god, are you breaking up with me?”

He snapped his head and his eyes widened, “What!? How could you ever think that?” 

“I don’t know, my mouth moved faster than I could think. Sorry.” 

He rubbed his thumb on her knuckles and leaned forward placing a kiss on her cheek, “Don’t ever think that.” 

“Okay...”

“I want to be selfish.” 

She looked up at him and nodded his head, “Being selfish is good sometimes, why do you want to be selfish?”

He sighed and looked away from her, “I’m jealous of how much you do ghost cases and I want to spend more time with you...” 

“Jung Hoseok, why didn’t you tell me!?” 

 “Because its stupid...I’m jealous about a fucking ghost.” 

She shook her head and with her free head she flicked his forehead causing him to moan, “It’s not stupid. How long have you been feeling this?” 

“For about four months...”

“YAY! THAT’S SO LONG!” 

Hoseok grimaced at her volume and looked at her with a frown, “I-I didn’t want you getting upset.”

“Hoseok I’m upset now because you didn’t tell me.” 

“Yeah, hyung said you would react like that.” 

She shook her head and leaned forward placing a quick kiss on his lips, “Talk to me. I won’t do a ghost case for a month.” 

His eyes widened at this and looked at her, “Y-You won’t get mad?” 

She shook her head and smiled at him, “In all honesty, I missed you too.”

“So...since you missed me can we fuck?” 

“Take me to dinner first and then I’ll think about it.” 

[boleynqueenes]

👁️🐙🧢

👁 share a snippet where the character is very visually engaged/a snippet with description

Elizabeth finds her mother beautiful, for she makes sense of her visage by comparing all its aspects to much of the beauty in her small world: her features, sharp as those of the fox she once saw frolicking the edges of Eltham's glade, her complexion, radiant as the honey spooned onto her morning bread, hair and eyes iridescent like the dark wine she watches servants pour into Lady Bryan's cup, mouth like one of the roses of the gardens where she took her first foal steps, where she practiced them until she had mastered the glissade of her lord father and lady mother....

🐙 share a snippet where the character is being a brat/smartass

"It is a most strange and unusual proceeding," Chapuys protests, a sniffle sounding from his nose, chilled red by his residency's frost-nipped climes. "We recall," the King returns, nocking his arrow, "this is how you once referred to her being housed with her own family: namely, her sister, the Princess."

He gives the envoy space to deny this (that he said so, or the title, either will serve), catching the flush of his complexion rise, then subdue, rinsed once again with blank diplomacy, as he draws the feather along the bow.

"Now it is how you refer to her being housed with ours. Thus, it would seem there is not very much that Your Excellency finds...'usual'." Loosed, the arrow does not find its target, but his words do:

"All respect, Majesty, but they are not your family, such estate is in the keeping of the Boleyns, only, which—" "Our brother-in-law is not our family? Apparently we should just let the Princess Dowager fend for herself, then, on your counsel. We are not sure that your master would entirely agree."

🧢 share a snippet about clothes

Anne surveys the gown with a circumspect eye: grey damask trimmed with cloth of silver, its high square neckline, its extra panel, rather early for her present size...it will serve. She will not wear her hair unbound, as is her right, she shall have it plaited and pinned underneath this veil of cloth of silver, to the small of her shoulders, the part covered by the quilted, matching gablehood, trimmed with pearls.

[butternuggets-blog]

FOR WANT OF A NAIL

@baldwin-montclair @adowobsessed @sylverdeclermont @nicki-mac-me @thereadersmuse @kynthiamoon @wheresthesunshinesblog @adowbaldwin @beautifulsoulsublime @lady-lazarus-declermont @adarafaelbarba-blog @dogblessyoutascha

Part Fifty

Summary:  Baldwin Montclair had a string of ex girlfriends, a single child, and a  lifetime longer than most people could dream of to make all kinds of  mistakes. His family knew one which kept coming out of the woodwork to  irritate him every other century

Also on AO3

Yvette felt hands gently shaking her awake.

'We are almost to Sept Tours, dereling.'

She yawned and blinked, peeking through the carriage flap into the blue dawn.

Snow drifts lined the sides of the road, which had been cleared in anticipation of their arrival. The crunch of wooden wheels on frost cracked back to her from the trees, slick black spindles pointing sharply to the cloudy sky. Mist had gathered in the night and was wafting up from the ground, promising a relatively warm, sunny day.

Yvette twitched the flap open further, letting in a sudden gust of sharp air. She coughed, and gathered her bundle of sleeping furs around her. Beyond the crooked trees she could see a towering pyramid of buildings in the distance, shadowed by mountains behind them. A blank curve at the base of the image hinted at city walls.

'Is that Sept Tours?' Yvette pointed.

'Well spotted' Martin sat down behind her and passed her a hot cup of watered-down wine. She sipped it slowly, and nibbled at the platter of cheese, bread and sweet meats that Martin had prepared for her.

****

Entering the town was similar to leaving home. The entourage crossed over the eel-filled moat via a drawbridge, laughing children dodging around the carriages, dogs barking at their heels. Their parents waved respectfully from doorways and windows, then cheered as Martin directed the servants to hand out glass trinkets, food baskets and other gifts to everyone.

Yvette's friends had tumbled after the entourage, calling farewell and waving as Yvette waved back. They had followed along to the city gate and Yvette had watched them shrink further and further into the background as Dôle rose up around them.

Nobody had noticed the man peeling potatoes in the mouth of an alley as he pretended not to watch the procession put his knife down and run off after the carriages passed.

'Where will I sleep?' Yvette asked.

'For now, with me in the guest quarters.' Martin settled back in his seat. 'Come the new year you will move into the servant's quarters with the rest of the staff.'

Fostering had a long and proud tradition among aristocratic families as a way of forging links between families and educating their children. Boys served as pages for knights and lords, learning horse riding, hunting, swordcraft, and war. Girls learnt what it took to run a household; how to balance accounts, how to manage servants, hosting, hoarding, and preparing for disasters.

Martin's lands were split: Beaune and the rest of the Duchy of Burgundy granted him close ties to the French royal court, while his grip on Dôle and the Kingdom of Burgundy gave him inroads into the inner workings of the Holy Roman Empire.

Yvette had the pick of the bunch; her Aunt Blanda was building community ties in Belgium, and Aunt Merula's court was the wrong side of the political sphere, so she had settled on France.

You want to go to Sept Tours?

You have always said that Rome will crumble sooner or later, and France is stable, apart from the war.

The war. Posturing and tit-for-tat from both sides had erupted into full-blown conflict, but they were in the frenzied lull before the first battle as England and France summoned troops and raised funds to support their respective armies.

'Look!' Martin pointed. 'Almost there now!'

The carriage climbed steadily up the hill and Yvette got her first proper look at Sept Tours.

As its name suggested there were seven towers, spread out in a rough circle and made of buff and rose stone. A familiar black flag with a silver ouroboros was flapping in the breeze above the bannerments, and as they got closer to the main stretch of cobblestone before the front gate chestnut trees marked every street corner.

'They have one fewer tower than we do' Yvette commented, as the carriage rolled through into the main courtyard.

'As your uncle never fails to remind me,' Martin muttered. 'Baldwin is convinced that I am overcompensating.'

The carriage lurched to a stop and a beaming Marthe pulled open the door with a curtsey.

'Welcome to Sept Tours!'

Yvette sprang from the carriage with a grin and hugged her, then let Marthe lead her over to where the rest of the family were waiting.

Baldwin subtly nudged Matthew out of the way and gathered Yvette up in a bear hug; after giving and receiving hugs from everyone she knew, Ysabeau placed a hand on Yvette's shoulder and introduced her to two people she didn't.

'Yvette, this is your aunt Louisa-'

Yvette bobbed, eyes on the floor.

Never let yourself be alone with Louisa. She is dangerous.

Louisa looked at her disdainfully, an insincere, simpering smile plastered on her face that didn't reach her eyes. She was beautiful, her raven black hair twisted up and caged in a pearl and gold thread made from the same emerald silk as her dress.

'- and this is your uncle Louis.'

'M'lady' Louis bowed deeply, with a flamboyant twist of his hand. He was wearing a green silk tunic with gold thread, hemmed by pearls and red lace. In his left hand was an intricately carved marionette; it was shaped like a jester, with tiny silver bells sewn to its hat and the end of its shoes.

Louis made the puppet bow. Yvette giggled and bowed, then gasped in delighted surprise when Louis made the puppet walk up to her and slipped the controller into her hand.

'Merry Christmas!' Louis smiled. Louisa barely restrained herself from rolling her eyes.

****

Mass dragged, as it always did, but Yvette kept herself entertained by admiring the frescoes and carvings climbing the walls. One of the monks at the door had been handing out burlap masks to the children; Yvette's mask was a lamb, wool stitched into the seams at the edge so that it cushioned and framed her face.

She joined in enthusiastically with the Gregorian chanting, piping voice mixing sweetly with the choir. The energy of the room picked up a little with the celebration of the eucharist, and by the end of the mass there was an excited buzz to the crowd.

'Here you are!' Baldwin pulled a chair out for Yvette beside him, and helped her pile her plate high with gingerbread, mince pies, and thin slivers of jellied eel.

'What are your plans for the day?'

'I am going out to play!' Yvette grinned.

'Good!' Baldwin smiled, gently bumping her shoulder with his arm.

'With anyone in particular?' Martin asked. Yvette pointed, then waved, at several other children; they smiled and waved back, ducking shyly as Martin glanced their way.

'Be back in time for the evening feast. Do not go anywhere you are not supposed to, and do not go swimming in the moat' Martin kissed the end of Yvette's nose, making her giggle. 'You have very tasty toes and the eels are hungry.'

'But they deserve a Christmas feast too, père!'

'No!' Martin and Baldwin said firmly, and Yvette giggled again.

****

There were mummers and troubadors roving the streets, playing instruments and singing. Yvette chased her new friends as they slipped past a group warbling loudly, a hurdy-gurdy cranking out a lively tune. One of the girls paused, scraped through the snow in the corner of a doorway and flung a half-hard lump of slush towards the troubadors, then turn on her heels and fled. She missed by a mile but the act sparked the rest of the children to chase her, throwing their own slapdash snowballs at her back as she ran.

More children, and a handful of adults, got swept up in the madness and for half an hour war raged up and down a fourway intersection and across a square. Yvette climbed up the side of a shop and onto the roof, hoisting a bucket full of slurry up with her that she quickly moulded and threw at the people below her. She took a few hits and gave some; after she had nailed a pair of twins in the face, one hit a piece, they joined her on the roof, taking it in turns to drop down to the ground to refill the bucket.

Lunch was more jellied eel, and fruit pies, ginger biscuits and a small cup of hot mead. Yvette bumped into Fernando and Matthew, who took her down to the stables to say hello to the horses and ride on Fernando's new horse Sturdy.

As the temperature dropped and night fell, Yvette rushed up to her rooms to prepare for the Christmas feast.

'Oh, you look beautiful!' Yvette gasped, as she opened the bedroom door.

'Thank you, miss' Joan had taken over as Yvette's nurse and, later, lady's maid, when Loyse had decided to quit. She was wearing the same drab servant garb as normal, but she had a cascade of multicoloured ribbons braided through her hair.

'Come, it is time for your bath'

'May I have ribbons in my hair too, please?' Yvette asked, as Joan scrubbed her down.

Joan smiled. 'Of course. What colour?'

'Hmm..' Yvette leaned past her so she could see which outfit had been set out for her. A green wool cotehardie patterned with silver lions lay on her bed; beside it was a red wool cotehardie patterned with green creeping ivy and silver thread.

'I think I would like to wear my green cotehardie, so...silver and red ribbons please.'

'And would you prefer your hair braided up or down?' Joan asked, piling Yvette's hair up on top of her head and letting it fall down over her eyes. Yvette laughed, suddenly blind.

'Down please!'

Joan nodded, too busy laughing at Yvette trying to blow her hair out of her eyes to say anthing.

****

A single plait braided with ribbons was a mark of the Devil so Yvette had two, hanging in front of her ears and down over her shoulders. Baldwin squeezed her hand as she passed behind him on her way to her seat. Since the banquet was a formal occasion she was at the end, sandwiched between her father and Fernando.

'You look lovely' Fernando whispered to her as the Philippe gave a welcome speech. 'Did you do those yourself?'

Yvette shook her head. 'Jane made them for me'

Everybody clapped as Philippe's speech came to a close, and the servants came out with trays of beef, roast boar, pheasant, smoked fish, and stuffed geese. Tumblers and jugglers performed while they ate; Yvette noticed Fernando flinch at the fire eaters and distracted him by telling him all about her snowball fight.

Desert was pastries, fruit, nuts, berries, and sweet wine. Yvette sampled a little of everything, but her favourite dish, marzipan cakes topped with powdered sugar, walnuts and cherries, was hand-delivered to her by Philippe, with a wink.

The night wore on and Yvette struggled to keep her eyes open. Marthe volunteered to escort her back to her room; she hummed a songless tune as they climbed through the castle together, helping Yvette out of her gown and into a nightdress before tucking her into bed.

As Yvette snuggled further into the sheets, she contemplated what was ahead. In less than a month she would be seven, a servant instead of a master, with her father and familiar surroundings hundreds of miles away. The thought made her feel both excited and nervous.

But that would come later. Here and now the snow was falling on the windowsill and the fields and forest beyond, and the coals were cracking in the grate, and all was well.

Author's Notes

Fostering has been documented reasonably well, but specifically for boys. Records about the fostering of girls is practically non-existant, so Yvette's experiance will be tailored around a boy's experiance, and what I think the De Clermonts would have taught her.

Ysabeau also wrote Martin a letter gently "suggesting" that he think about sending Yvette to foster with them at Sept Tours.

The chestnut trees were my nod to the description of Sept Tours from the books. I don't think they exist in the tv show.

Château de Beaune had seven towers originally, and Martin only added the eighth tower because he needed to for Yvette.

Escoffion - "a piece of female medieval headwear which was popular during the Late Middle Ages (1250–1500). It originated and was popular in European countries such as England, France and Germany, and other Balkan states. The headpiece was made out of a thick, circular roll of material like wool, felt or silk. The material was shaped, by sewing or starching, into a double-horned configuration, with each horn sometimes being up to a yard long. Over the headdress, gauze or silk was sometimes draped for weight distribution or aesthetic purposes. The escoffion style was a sub-branch of a popular style of headwear called hennin." (Wikipedia)

The celebration of the eucharist - the moment of the mass when everyone partakes of bread and wine

Sturdy was apparently a popular medieval name for a pet dog!

Lady's maids are allowed to call their employer 'miss', and are usually referred to by their employer by their last name.

Loyse accompanied the household to Dôle when Yvette was younger and had fallen in love with the place. She hesitated to terminate her job, but ultimately wound up leaving Martin's employ to open her own shop. He gives her a stipend when they are back in town for Jaquob to play with Yvette; although they are entitled to the money, Martin knows that they would be good friends to himself and his daughter regardless.

A single braid with ribbons wasn’t technically the mark of the Devil, just a woman with "loose morals" who would tempt others to sin. So you know, ✨️close enough✨️ 😒

[astronicht]

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haha, i don't think i've posted this snippet anywhere, so here's some jonsa wip just for you:

There was something flushed and bright about the false spring of a littlesummer that made Sansa catch her breath in the courtyard. It fogged in front of her; she had been drinking such hot tea that of course it did. Now the trembling of her chest could be blamed on the strength of the tea. Little dots of colour sparked in her vision, like sun-dogs nipping the heels of a winter sun. In Sansa's headache eyes they were not little thumbprint rainbows on the arch of the sky, but down here with her: smearing glittering across the stables, the thick mud, Jon’s wide sad shoulders.

Jon did not speak first. Of course he did not. Sansa thought of what she had done when she first saw him, how she had called him ‘cousin’ aloud, how she had cupped the small of his back with her hand. How much in shock she had been was clear now; that had been such a show of wildness. Everything had slipped into a perfectly clear set of priorities in an otherwise blank mind. She had been able to do impossible things.

The moment seemed to have passed. She could not imagine putting a hand on him anywhere. The small of his back, covered now by a cloak of Robb’s, seemed more intimate even than touching another man’s face, or his cock, or the backs of his thighs. It was where all one’s sorrow and exhaustion went home to live, the small of the back. A touch to her own might unmake her.

In silence they climbed the frost-rimed steps, the remains of nighttime hail crunching like honeycandy beneath their buckskin boots.